OF TIME AND THE RIVER

by Thomas Wolfe

  She was waiting for them, erect and smiling, as they entered the great salon, a magnificent room at least forty feet in length, warmly, luxuriously, yet plainly furnished, and with nothing cold or repellent in its grand proportions. She greeted the Countess immediately and cordially, extending her plump little white hand in a friendly greeting, and bending and kissing the little wren-like woman on her withered cheek. La Marquise, in deference to her young American guest, spoke English from the beginning. And her English, like everything else about her, was plain, forceful, and direct, completely fluent, although marked with a heavy accent.

  "'Ow are you, my dear?" La Marquise said, as she kissed the other woman on the cheek. "It is good to see you again after these so many years. 'Ow long 'as it been since you were last at Mornaye?"

  "Almost seven years, Marquise," the Countess answered eagerly. "The last time--do you remember?--was in the spring of 1918."

  "Ah, yes," the other answered benevolently. "Now I can remember. You were here when many of our so brave Américains were quartered here at Mornaye--Monsieur," she said, using this reference as an introduction, and turning to the boy with her plump little hand extended in a movement of kindly greeting, "I am delighted. I meck apologies for my son. I know he will so much regret not seeing you."

  He flushed, and stammered out his thanks: she seemed to take no notice of his embarrassment and, having completed her friendly welcome, she turned smilingly to the Countess again, and said:

  "And 'ow 'ave you been, my dear? You are looking very well," she said approvingly, "and no older dan you were de lest time you were here. I s'ink," she said smilingly, including the young man now in her friendly humour--"I s'ink la Comtesse must 'ave discover--wat you call it, eh?" she shrugged--"ze se-cret of ze fountain of yout', eh?"

  "Ah, Marquise," the Countess fawned greedily upon the grand woman, obviously elated by these signs of intimacy--"ah--hah--hah! it is so kind of you to say so--but I fear I have grown much older since I saw you last. I have known great trouble," she said sadly, "and, as you know, Marquise, my health has not been good."

  "Non?" the other said with an air of solicitous inquiry. "I am so sor-ree," she continued in a tone of unimpeachable regret, which nevertheless showed that the Countess's health or lack of it was really of no moment to her whatever. "Perhaps, my dear, it is ze wretchet cleemat here. I s'ink perhaps you should go Sout' in vintaire--ah, monsieur," she continued regretfully, turning to the youth, "you see Mornaye at a bat season of ze year--I fear you may be disappointed by our coun-tree. I 'ope you vill come beck some time in sprink. Zen, I s'ink you vill agree la France is beautiful."

  "I should like to," he replied.

  "But oh, zis vintaire! Zis vintaire!" La Marquise cried with passionate distaste, folding her arms and drawing herself together in a movement of chilled ardour as she looked through a tall French door across one of those magnificent and opulent vistas that one finds in France, an architecture of proud, comely space into whose proportionate dimensions even nature herself has been compelled. It was a tremendous sweep of velvet sward, that faded into misty distances and that was cut cleanly on each side by the smoky denseness of her forest parks. Her shrewd eyes ranged across this noble prospect for a moment in an expression of chilled distaste. Then, with a slight contracted shudder of her folded arms, she turned, and said wearily:

  "Ah, zis vintaire! Zis vintaire! Sometimes I s'ink it vill nevaire end. Every day," she went on indignantly, "it rain, rain, rain! All vintaire lonk I see noz-zing but rain! I get up in ze mornink and look out--and it rain! I turn my beck and zen look out again--it rain! I take a nep, I get up, I go to bet--always it rain!" She shrugged her shoulders comically and turning to the boy with a glint of shrewdly cynical humour, she said, "I s'ink if it keep on ve 'ave again--vat you call it?--Noah's Floot, eh?"

  The Countess clucked sympathetically at this watery chronicle of woe, and said:

  "But have you been here by yourself all winter? I should think you would get awfully lonely, my dear," she went on in a tone of ingratiating commiseration. "I know how you must miss your son."

  "No. I vas in Paris for two veeks in Decembaire," said La Marquise. "But it rain zere too," she said, with another shrug of comic despair, and then added vigorously, "No! I do not get lonely if it do not rain. But ven it rains--zen it is tereeble. . . . Come," she said brusquely, almost curtly, turning away from the grey prospect through the window, "let us seet here vere eet ees varm." Still clasping her arms across her breast, she led them towards a coal fire which was crackling cheerfully in a hearth at one end of the great room; they seated themselves comfortably around the fire, La Marquise rang a bell, and spoke a few words to a butler, and presently he returned, bringing glasses and a decanter of old sherry on a tray.

  They sat talking amiably then of many things. La Marquise questioned the boy about America, his stay in France, the places he had seen, referred regretfully again to the absence of her son and of the great friendship he cherished for America and Americans as a result of his travels there with Marshal Foch. And from time to time, the Countess, with a cunning that was comically naïve in its barefaced self-exposure, would prod him with a skinny finger, and whisper hoarsely:

  "Ask her some questions, my dear. You should ask her more questions and write more in your little book. It will make a good impression."

  And although he saw from the glint of shrewd humour in the sharp eyes of La Marquise that none of this clumsy by-play had been lost on her, and that the other woman's design was perfectly apparent to her, he responded dutifully, if awkwardly, asking respectful questions about the age and history of the château, the extent of its estate, and so on. At length, emboldened by the modest success of these beginnings and feeling that a clever young journalist should display an intelligent curiosity about the current affairs of the nation to which he is a visitor, he asked a question about the government of the period, of which Herriot was the leader and which was dominantly socialist.

  It was, he saw, an unfortunate move; the Countess poked him sharply with a warning finger, but it was too late. He saw instantly that his question had produced a bad impression on La Marquise: for the first time, her manner of amiable and cordial friendliness vanished, her face hardened, there was an angry glint in her shrewd eyes, and in a moment she said harshly, and in a tone of arrogant impatience:

  "I know nozzing about zose pipple! I pay no attention to anys'ing zey say! Zey are fools! fools!" she cried violently. "You must not believe anys'ing zey say! Zose men are traitors! . . . Charlatans! . . . Zey are ze pipple who have ruined and betrayed France!" In her agitation she got up and walked across the room. "Here!" she cried, picking up a newspaper on a table and returning with it. "Here is what you should reat if you want ze trut!" She thrust a copy of L'Action Française into his hands. "Zat paper--and zat alone--will tell you ze trut about ze way s'ings are in France today. Ah, monsieur!" she cried earnestly, "you do not know--ze world does not know--no one outside of France can know ze trut, because zese wretched men control ze press--and make it print vatever lies zey tell it to. But you reat zis, monsieur--you reat zis," she struck the paper with the back of her hand as she spoke, "and you will get ze trut! Ah, zat man!" she said with a grim chuckle of admiration. "Ze rédacteur--ze--vat you say?--ze editor of zat paper, Léon Daudet--ah, zat man is right!" she said with a chuckle of satisfaction. "Zat man is sometimes coarse--he call zem bat names--he is not always très gentil--but," again she chuckled grimly, "he iss right! He tells ze trut--he calls zem vat zey are--ze traitors and creeminals who 'ave ruined France." She was silent for a moment, and then in a voice harsh with passion, she said violently: "La France, monsieur, is a royaume--a--vat you call it?--a monarchy--a kinkdom. Ze French people must have a kink--zey are lost vitout a kink--zey cannot govern zemselves vitout a kink! . . . Zere can be no France, monsieur, vitout a kink!" she almost shouted. "Zere has been no France since ze monarchy vas destroyed by zese scélérats who 'ave betrayed La France--zere vill never be
a France until ze kink is restored to his rightful office and zese creeminals and traitors 'ave been sent to ze guillotine vere zey belonk. . . . So do not ask me anys'ink about zese men, monsieur," she said with arrogant passion. "I know nozzing about zem. I pay no attention to zem! Zey are fools . . . traitors . . . creeminals," she shouted. "You reat zat paper, you vill get ze trut."

  She was breathing hoarsely and her eyes glinted with hard fires of passion. At this moment, fortunately, the butler entered, bowed, and, speaking in a quiet voice, informed his mistress that luncheon was served. The words recalled the angry woman to her duties as a hostess: with an almost comical suddenness she assumed her former manner of gracious cordiality, smiled amiably at her guests, and saying with benevolent good-nature, "After our lonk journey and our so much talk, ve are 'ongry--yes?" led the way into the dining-room.

  As they went in, the little old Countess nudged her young companion again with a stealthy warning, and whispered with nervous reproach:

  "You should not have asked her that, my dear. Please do not say anything more to her about the government."

  The dining-room of the château was another magnificent chamber, like everything else about the château, nobly harmonious with those elements of strength and grace, splendour and simplicity, warmth and delicacy, united with princely dignity, which are the triumphs of this period of French architecture. In spite of the chill air of the room--for it was poorly heated--one felt its living and noble warmth immediately.

  The boy, who had looked forward to this meeting with considerable awe and apprehension, now felt himself completely at home, stirred by a profound, tranquil and lovely joy at the noble beauty and simplicity of the château. Even in the sense of retrenchment, the worn uniforms of the servants, the knowledge that they served their mistress in various offices, there was something pleasant, homely, and familiar; he discovered, to his surprise, that he now felt none of the constraint and uneasiness which he experienced when Joel Pierce had taken him to his great estate upon the Hudson River and he had for the first time seen the lives of the great American millionaires.

  With La Marquise de Mornaye he was not conscious of that exactly mannered style--most mannered in its very affectation of simplicity--that vulgar arrogance which he had felt among the rich Americans of Joel Pierce's class. La Marquise was plain as an old shoe, vigorous and lusty as a peasant, and completely an aristocrat--magnificently herself, without an ounce of affectation--a woman Joel Pierce's people would have fawned upon and to whom they would have given a king's ransom if by so doing they could have bought for son or daughter an alliance with her family.

  La Marquise seated him beside her, the Countess opposite her, and at once they began to eat. The food was magnificent, there was a different wine of royal vintage (brought up from the famous cellar of the château) with every course. La Marquise left no doubt at all about the robust nature of her appetite, and by everything she did and was--the plain shrewdness, warmth, and sensible humanity of her nature--she made it plain that she expected her guests to eat heartily also, and not to be too nice and dainty about it either.

  "Ven vun is younk as you are," she said, turning with a smile to her young guest, "he is 'ongry often--non?" she inquired. She put her soup-spoon to her mouth, swallowed some soup, and smacking her lips with an air of relish, turned to the youth again, and said plainly and positively:

  "Eet ees good! Oui! I s'ink you will like it, too." Turning to the Countess, who had tasted nothing, she said severely:

  "Vy do you vait, my dear? Are you not 'ongry? You must eat."

  "Ah--hah--hah!" the Countess said with a little undecided laugh, her eyes greedily fixed upon the smoking soup. "--You know, my dear, I am on a diet by the doctor's orders--sang de cheval, you know," she chattered in a distracted tone as her greedy eyes went ravenously along the table--"I eat almost nothing--really, my dear, I don't think I should." She snatched up a piece of bread in one greedy little claw, broke it with an appetizing crackle, and began to cram it into her mouth like a starved animal--"Ah--hah--hah!" The poor starved old woman laughed with almost hysterical delight, and tried to speak with a mouth full of bread--"I know I shouldn't--but you always have such delicious food, my dear." She lifted the soup-spoon, and drew in with a long slobbering suction. "Ah, mon Dieu! mon Dieu!" she gurgled rapturously--"quel potage!"

  And so the meal progressed. With such a lusty trencher-woman as La Marquise beside one, it was not hard to follow suit; they polished off the soup, which was a delicious, savoury, peasant-like brew, in record time, and, as if their hunger mounted from the delicious food it fed on, they turned then to the chicken. The chicken, which was almost all fat and juicy breast, was so young, crisp, tender, plump and succulent that it seemed almost to melt in the mouth, the boy took two or three rhapsodic swallows and the chicken was gone, at which La Marquise, lifting her voice over his feeble and half-hearted protests, said to the butler: "Encore du poulet pour Monsieur."

  A second chicken, even plumper, crisper and more tender than the first, was instantly provided, after which the roast and vegetables were served. He had never tasted better food in his life--everything, haricots, peas, beef, seemed to melt like an ambrosial ether the moment that he put it in his mouth; there was a new wine with every course, each wine rarer, older, richer and more delicious than the last, the butler kept filling up their glasses, and he kept drinking the grand wine until heart, mind, and soul, and every conduit of his life seemed infused by its glorious warmth and fragrance. They talked little as they ate: for some time there were no sounds except the crisp crackle of the bread, the ring of heavy silver, the sound of wine gulped down, the delicate chime of glasses, and the low, quiet orders of the butler speaking to his helper, as swiftly, expertly, and noiselessly they moved round the table, seeming to be there at one's elbow and to read the gastronomic hopes and wishes of each guest before he had time to open his mouth and utter them.

  La Marquise ate with robust concentration, putting down her knife from time to time to pick up her wine-glass and take a generous swallow, after which she would put the glass down and wipe a napkin deliberately across her mouth and pause, for a moment, breathing a little heavily, with an air of hearty satisfaction.

  As for the Countess, she ate like a famished wolf: where the movements of La Marquise were hearty and deliberate, those of the Countess were almost frantically swift and eager. Her sharp and greedy little eyes glittered with an almost delirious joy, she would seize a glass of wine and drain it in one greedy gulp; at times she was so excited by the variety and abundance of the dishes that she seemed unable to decide what to reach for next. She reached out greedily in all directions, her eyes darting avaricious glances to and fro; chicken, meat, vegetables, salad, wine disappeared as if by magic, and were replenished, and all the time the poor old woman chuckled craftily to herself and muttered to herself in broken monologue:

  "Ah--hah--hah!"--crunch, crunch, crunch! And away went the chicken. "Mon Dieu!--but it's good!--Ah--hah--hah!" gulp, gulp, gulp! down would go the wine. "Mon Dieu! mon Dieu! Such food! Such wine!--Mais oui! Mais oui! . . . Un peu encore, s'il vous plaît! Quel bœuf! Quel bœuf!"

  At which La Marquise would put down her glass, wipe her mouth, look across the table at the Countess, and say:

  "'Ow you like, eh? Good? Mais oui! Il faut manger," she said coarsely, and applied herself again to knife and fork.

  By the time they got down to the cheese--which was a ripe, delicious Brie--La Marquise de Mornaye was at last fortified for conversation. Putting down her empty wine-glass with a deliberate movement, she straightened in her chair, wiped her mouth, sat upright for a moment in an attitude of solid satisfaction, and then, turning to her American guest, said:

  "Do you know Patterson T. Jones--eh? 'E is an officer--a vat you call it?--a major in ze Américain army." She pronounced these words with an air of naïve confidence, as if Patterson T. Jones must be a name instantly familiar to every American. When the boy told her, however, that he
did not know Major Patterson T. Jones and confessed, further, that he had never heard of him, La Marquise looked slightly astonished and disappointed; and in a moment, her shrewd eyes narrowing slightly as she spoke, she said rather grimly:

  "I should like verree verree motch to see zat gentleman again. I should like verree verree motch to know vere he now iss. . . . Attendez!" she said sharply, as inspiration struck her. "Perhaps if I show you this--vat you say?--his photographie--you will know ze man. . . . Guillaume!" she raised her voice a little in command. "Apportez-moi les photographies des officiers américains."

  "Oui, madame," the butler answered, and went swiftly and silently out of the room.

  "Yes," La Marquise continued with an air of grim meditation, "I should verree verree motch like to know vere Major Patterson T. Jones iss to be found."

  The butler returned with several large square photographs, bowed, and gave them to his mistress.

  "'Ere, you see," she said, taking one of them and pointing with her finger, "zis vas taken here--in zis verree room at a great banquet vitch I have made for ze Américains in 1918. Zis," she said proudly, and pointing with a plump white finger--"zis is me--c'est moi, La Marquise!" she cried in a jolly tone, and laughed with satisfaction as she pointed to her own beaming likeness at the head of a long table, sumptuously adorned with fine silver, china, linen, and a forest thicket of dark, crusty-looking bottles of old wine--obviously the relics of a memorable feast. "And zis," La Marquise said more grimly, pointing again with her plump white finger, "zis is Major Patterson T. Jones--You know him, eh?" she said.

  The boy looked at the picture for a moment and then handed it back to La Marquise, telling her that he did not recognize the face of Patterson T. Jones.