In the earlier lessons, I used restraint in upsetting his modesty during those conversational twenty minutes—though I became increasingly exacting during the grammatical grind—to which he responded admirably.
“Charles, what are these odd-looking kiosks in the streets called—these constructions for the convenience of men only?”
He had some difficulty in recalling the word “pissoirs.”
“Yes, they also go by a more elegant and more interesting name vespasiennes, after the Roman emperor to whom we are indebted for the happy idea. Now that you’re older and will be circulating more with maturer persons over there you will be astonished at the lack of embarrassment with which ladies and gentlemen of even the most refined sort refer to such matters. So be prepared for that, will you?”
“Yes, sir.” . . .
“Charles, I hope that you will be a student in Paris in your twenties, as I was. We were all poor, but we had a lot of fun. Be sure that you live on the Left Bank, and pretend that you’re poor. Don’t drink too much Pernod; the only time that I was ever beastly drunk was on Pernod—watch that, will you? What times we had! I’ll tell you a story—it’s a little risqué, but you don’t mind a bit of that when it’s not disgusting, do you? . . . To save money we used to press our pants by putting them under our mattresses; that gave them a razor-edge crease, see? Well, my roommate was a music student and one afternoon his professor invited us both to his home for tea with his wife and daughter—delightful people. And Madame Bergeron commented on the elegance of his clothing and especially that brilliant crease. ‘Thank you, madame,’ he said, ‘Monsieur North and I have a secret about that. Every night we put our trousers under our maîtresses.’ Madame Bergeron, laughing heartily, waved her hands in the air, and then politely and smilingly corrected him.”
That was a dynamite word. Charles was so stunned that it took him ten minutes to think it over. Maybe it was on that occasion that for the first time I saw the ghost of a smile on his face.
One morning Charles brought me a message from his mother. She invited me to an informal Sunday supper with the family at the end of the week.
“Charles, that is very kind of your mother and of you all. I shall write her a note. I shall have to explain that I’d made a rule to accept no invitation whatever. I want you to read the note I shall write to her and I know you both will understand. But it’s very hard to refuse this kindness from your mother. May I tell you in confidence, Charles, that my work carries me into many cottages in Newport and I’ve met a number of the admired hostesses in this town. In confidence, not one can hold a candle to your mother for distinction and charm and what the French call race. I’d always heard that the ladies of Baltimore belonged to a class apart and now I know it to be true.” I struck his elbow. “You’re a lucky man, Charles. I hope you live up to that privilege. I like to think of you finding a hundred delicate ways of expressing not only your affection, but your admiration and gratitude to so remarkable a mother—as all French sons do, and—I’m sorry to say—all American sons don’t. You do, don’t you, Charles?”
“Oui . . . oui, monsieur le professeur.”
“I must say I’m glad that this kind invitation wasn’t brought to me—face to face—by Eloise. The man hasn’t been born who could refuse a request from Eloise.” I added in English, “Do you understand what I mean?”
He returned my deep glance into his eyes—“Yes,” he said, and for the first time he laughed deeply. He understood.
But there was still much work to be done.
“Bonjour, Charles.”
“Bonjour, monsieur le professeur.”
“Today we’re going to work with the conditional mood, with verbs ending in ir, and with the second person singular tu. You use tu to children, to your very old friends, and to members of your family, though I’ve been told that until about 1914 even husbands and wives addressed one another as vous. You notice that I always address you as vous; if we haven’t quarreled in the meantime, I might address you as tu five years from now. Often in French, and always in Spanish, God is addressed as Tu, capital T. Of course, lovers call each other tu; all such conversations in bed are in this second person singular.”
Up ran the scarlet flag.
Forty minutes of grammar drill.
Then at ten minutes past nine: “Now for some practice in conversation. Today we’re going to have some man-to-man conversation. We’d better move to that table in the corner where we won’t be overheard.”
He looked at me in alarm and we moved to the corner. “Charles, you’ve been in Paris. After dark you must have often seen certain women of the street strolling singly or in couples. Or you’ve heard them addressing passing gentlemen in a low voice from doorways and alleys—what do they usually say?”
The scarlet flag was high on the mast. I waited. At last he murmured, strangulatedly, “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?”
“Good! Since you’re very young, they may say, ‘Tu es seul, mon petit? Veux-tu que je t’accompagne?’ Or you’re sitting alone at a bar and one of these petites dames slides up beside you and puts her arm through yours : ‘Tu veux m’offrir un verre?’ How do you answer these questions, Charles? You’re an American and a gentleman and you’ve had some experience with these encounters.”
Charles was in a crimson agony. I waited. Finally he ventured, “Non, mademoiselle . . . merci.” Then added generously, “Pas ce soir.”
“Très bien, Charles! Could you make it a little more easy and charming? These poor souls are earning their living. They’re not exactly beggars, are they? They have something to sell. They’re not contemptible—not in France, they aren’t. Can you try again?”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
“At the school where I’ve been teaching there’s a master who teaches French. He loves France and goes to France every summer. He hates women and is afraid of them. He prides himself on his virtue and righteousness and he’s a really dreadful man. In Paris he goes for strolls in the evening just so that he can humiliate these women. He told the story to us fellow-masters to illustrate what a tower of Christian morality he was. When he’s spoken to by one of these women he turns on her and says, ‘Vous me faites ch——!’ That’s a very vulgar expression; it’s far worse than saying ‘You make me vomit.’ He told us that the girl or girls sprang back from him aghast crying, ‘Pourquoi? Pourquoi?’ He’d had his little triumph. What do you think of that?”
“It’s . . . awful.”
“One of the most attractive aspects of France is the universal respect for women at every level of society. At home and in public restaurants a Frenchman smiles at the waitress who’s serving him, looks her right in the eye when he thanks her. There’s an undertone of respectful flirtation between every man and woman in France—even when she’s a woman of ninety, even when she’s a prostitute.—Now let’s act a little one-act play. You go out of the room and come in the door as though you were strolling in one of those streets behind the Opéra. I’m going to pretend I’m one of those girls.”
He did as he was told. He approached me as though he were entering a cage of tigers.
“Bonsoir, mon chou.”
“Bonsoir, mademoiselle.”
“Tu es seul? Veux-tu t’amuser un peu?”
“Je suis occupé ce soir. . . . Merci!”
He threw a wild glance in my direction and added, “Peut-être une autre fois. Tu es charmante.”
“A-o-o! A-o-o! . . . Dis donc: une demi-heure, chéri. J’ai une jolie chambre avec tout confort américain. On s’amusera à la folie!”
He turned to me and asked in English, “How do I get out of this?”
“I suggest you make your departure quick, short, but cordial: ‘Mademoiselle, je suis en retard. Il faut que je file. Mais au revoir.’ And here you pat her elbow or shoulder, smile, and say, ‘Bonne chance, chère amie!’ ”
He repeated this several times, elaborating on it. Presently he was laughing.
Make-believe is
like dreams—escape, release.
I came to notice that on the days when the lessons began with heavy skirmishing in the “mine-field” area my pupil’s memory and resource were quicker. He could laugh; he could skate over depth-bombs, and he could make conversation from recollections of his own past. Besides, he was working hard on his grammar exercises between classes—and his complexion was clearing up.
Another session from the following week, after we’d had a smart run-through of the gender and plural of three hundred nouns in frequent use:
“Now we’re going to have another one-act play. The scene is laid in one of the great restaurants of Paris, Le Grand-Véfour. Charles, France is a republic. What became of the royal and imperial families—the Bourbons and the Bonapartes? . . . Oh, yes, they’re around still. . . . What name do they give to the real King of France who is not permitted to use that title and to wear his crown?—He is called the Pretender, the Prétendant. In English that means an impostor; not in France, where it means merely claimant. He calls himself the Comte de Paris. In this play you are he. You are addressed as Monseigneur or as Votre Altesse. In your veins flows the blood of Saint Louis, king and saint, and of Charlemagne—your own name Carolus Magnus—and of all those Louis’s and those Henris.”
His face was getting very red.
“Your secretary has made a reservation for dinner. You arrive exactly on time—punctuality is called ‘the courtesy of kings.’ Your three guests have arrived before you—that is etiquette and woe to the guest who’s late. You’re very handsome and you carry yourself with extraordinary ease. Naturally the staff of the restaurant is at the highest pitch of excitement. I shall play the proprietor—let’s call him Monsieur Véfour. I am waiting at the door. The porter is standing in the street and gives a secret signal when your car is seen approaching at exactly eight o’clock. Now you go out the door and come in.”
He did. He was like a person dazed.
I bowed and murmured, “Bonsoir, Monseigneur. Vous nous faites un très grand honneur.”
Charles, alarmed, was at his loftiest. He responded with a slight nod. “Bonsoir, monsieur . . . merci.”
“One moment, Charles. The greatest noblemen and many of the kings have long established a tone of easy familiarity that would surprise even the President of the United States. Over there the greater the social status, the greater the democratic manner. The French have a word for cold, condescending self-importance: morgue. You would be horrified if you thought your subjects, the great French people, attributed that quality to you. Now let’s do it again.” Like a stage director I whispered some suggestions to him—some business, some lines. Then we did it again. He began to add some ideas of his own.
“Do you want to try it again? Let’s go! Do anything that occurs to you, as long as you remember that you’re the King of France. By the way when you meet me, you don’t shake hands, you pat me on the shoulder; but when you meet my son you shake his hand. Allons!”
He entered the restaurant, wreathed in smiles; he handed his imaginary cape and top hat to an imaginary attendant, saying, “Bonsoir, mademoiselle. Tout va bien?”
I bowed and said, “Bonsoir, Monseigneur. Votre Altesse nous fait un très grand honneur.”
“Ah, Henri-Paul, comment allez-vous?”
“Très bien, Monseigneur, merci.”
“Et madame votre femme, comment va-t-elle?”
“Très bien, Monseigneur, elle vous remercie.”
“Et les chers enfants?”
“Très bien, Monseigneur, merci.”
“Tiens! C’est votre fils? . . . Comment vous appelez-vous, monsieur? Frédéric? Comme votre grand-père! Mon grand-père aimait bien votre grand-père.—Dites, Henri-Paul, j’ai démandé des couverts pour trois personnes. Serait-ce encore possible d’ajouter un quatrième? J’ai invité Monsieur de Montmorency. Ça vous gênerait beaucoup?”
“Pas du tout, Monseigneur. Monsieur le Duc est arrivé et Vous attend. Si Votre Altesse aura la bonté de me suivre.”
Charles was agitated; he was blushing but with a different kind of blush. “Monsieur le professeur . . . can we ask Eloise over to see it? She’s sitting there, waiting to go home.”
“Yes, indeed! Let me invite her.—Give it the works, Charles! Hoke it up! . . . Eloise, we’re doing a little one-act play. Would you like to be our audience?”
I explained the scene, the plot, and the characters.
Charles surpassed himself. With his hand on my shoulder he told me how his mother had first brought him to this restaurant at the age of twelve. Was it true that I served a dish named after his mother? On his way to the table he recognized a friend (Eloise) among the guests. “Ah, Madame la Marquise . . . chère cousine!”
Eloise made a deep curtsy, murmuring, “Mon Prince!” He raised her up and kissed her hand.
At his table he apologized to his guests for being late. “Mes amis, les rues sont si bondées; c’est la fin du monde.”
The Duc de Montmorency (myself) assured him that he had arrived exactly on time. And so our entertainment came to an end. Eloise had watched it in open-eyed wonder. To her there was nothing funny about it. She rose slowly, the tears pouring down her face. She threw her arms around her brother and kissed him with poignant intensity. All I got was a look from her, over his shoulder, but what a look! She couldn’t see me, but I could see her.
“Charles,” I said, “at our next class I’m going to give you the examination for those who have completed three years of French. I’m sure you’ll pass it splendidly and our lessons will be over.”
“Over!”
“Yes. Teachers are like birds. The moment comes when they must push the young out of the nest. Now you must give your time to American history and physics which I can’t teach you.”
On the following Friday I met Eloise for our visit to the tea room. On this morning she was neither the ten-year-old nor the Countess of Aquidneck and the Adjacent Isles. She was dressed all in white, not the white of the tennis courts but the white of snow. She was someone else—not Juliet, not Viola, not Beatrice—perhaps Imogen, perhaps Isabella. She did not put her hand in mine but she left no doubt that we were true friends. She walked with lowered eyes. We sat down at our removed table.
She murmured, “I’ll have tea this morning.”
I ordered tea for her and coffee for myself. Silence with Eloise was as rewarding as conversation. I left it to her.
“Last night there were no guests. At table Charles brushed away Mario and held the chair for Mother. He kissed her on the forehead.” She looked at me with a deep smile. “When he sat down he said, ‘Papa, tell me about your father and mother and about when you were a boy.’ ”
“Eloise! And you were all ready to tell them about the Eskimos.”
“No, I was all ready to ask them about the Fenwicks and the Conovers.”
We both burst out laughing.
“Oh, Eloise, you are a child of Heaven!”
She looked at me wide-eyed. “Why did you say that?”
“It just sprang to my lips.”
We drank our tea and coffee in silence for a few minutes and then I asked, “Eloise, how do you see your life as it lies before you?”
Again she looked at me wonderingly. “You’re very strange this morning, Mr. North.”
“Oh no, I’m not. I’m the same old friend.”
She reflected a moment and then said, “I’m going to answer your question. But you must promise not to say one word about it to anyone.”
“I promise, Eloise Fenwick.”
She put her arms on the table and, looking straight into my eyes, said: “I want to be a religious, a nun.”
I held my breath.
She answered my unspoken question. “I’m so grateful to God for my father and mother . . . and brother, for the sun and the sea, and for Newport, that I want to give my life to Him. He will show me what I must do.”
I returned her solemn gaze.
“Eloise, I’m just an old Pro
testant on both sides of my family. Forgive me if I ask you this: couldn’t you express your gratitude to God while living a life outside the religious orders?”
“I love my parents so much . . . and I love Charles so much, that I feel that those loves would come between me and God. I want to love Him above all and I want to love everybody on earth as much as I love my family. I love them too much.”
And the tears rolled down her cheeks.
I did not stir.
“Father Walsh knows. He tells me to wait; in fact I must wait for three years. Mr. North, this is the last time we’ll meet here. I am learning how to pray and wherever I am in the world I shall be praying for Papa and Mama and Charles and for you and”—she pointed to the guests in the tea room—“for as many of the children of Heaven as I can hold in my mind and heart.”
During the rest of the summer our paths crossed frequently. She was disattaching herself from love of her family—and naturally from friendship—in order to encompass us all in a great offering that I could not understand.
Myra
One day toward the middle of July—shortly before I was able to take possession of my apartment—I was called to the telephone at the “Y.”
“Mr. North?”
“This is Mr. North speaking.”
“My name is George Granberry. I should say George Francis Granberry because I have a cousin in town named George Herbert Granberry.”
“Yes, Mr. Granberry.”
“I’m told that you read aloud in English—English literature and all that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“I’d like to make an appointment with you to discuss reading aloud some books to my wife. My wife’s a sort of invalid this summer, and it would . . . sort of . . . help her pass the time. Where could we meet and talk about it?”
Theophilus North Page 20
