A Parody Outline of History

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CUSTER'S LAST STAND

  In the Manner of Edith Wharton

  It was already late afternoon and the gas street lamps of the Boul'Mich' were being lighted for Paris, or at least for Paris in summer, bya somewhat frigid looking allumeur, when Philip Custer came to theend of his letter. He hesitated for an instant, wrote "Your----," thencrossed that out and substituted "Sincerely." No, decidedly the firstending, with its, as is, or, rather, as ordinarily is, the case inhymeneal epistles, somewhat possessive sense, would no longer suffice."Yours truly"--perhaps; "sincerely"--better; but certainly not "Yourhusband." He was done, thank God, with presences.

  Philip sipped his absinthe and gazed for an instant through the Cafewindow; a solitary fiacre rattled by; he picked up the result of hisafternoon's labor, wearily.

  "Dear Mary," he read, "When I told you that my employers were sendingme to Paris, I lied to you. It was, perhaps, the first direct lie that Iever told you; it was, I know now, the last. But a falsehood by word ofmouth mattered really very little in comparison with the enormous liethat my life with you had become."

  Philip paused and smiled, somewhat bitterly, at that point in theletter. Mary, with her American woman's intuition, would undoubtedlysurmise that he had run off with Mrs. Everett; there was a certainironical humor in the fact that Mary's mistaken guess would be sadlyindicative of her whole failure to understand what her husband was, touse a slang expression, "driving at."

  "I hope that you will believe me when I say that I came to Paris topaint. In the past four years the desire to do that has grown steadilyuntil it has mastered me. You do not understand. I found no one inAmerica who did. I think my mother might have, had she lived; certainlyit is utterly incomprehensible to father."

  Philip stopped. Ay, there was the rub--General Custer, and all that hestood for. Philip glimpsed momentarily those early boyhood days with hisfather, spent mainly in army posts; the boy's cavalry uniform, in whichhe had ridden old Bess about the camp, waving his miniature sabre; theday he had been thrown to the ground by a strange horse which he haddisobediently mounted, just as his father arrived on the scene.Philip had never forgotten his father's words that day. "Don't crawl,son,--don't whine. It was your fault this time and you deserved what yougot. Lots of times it won't be your fault, but you'll have to takeyour licking anyway. But remember this, son--take your medicine like aman--always."

  Philip groaned; he knew what the general would say when the news of hisson's desertion of his wife and four year old boy reached him. He knewthat he never could explain to his father the absolute torture of thelast four years of enervating domesticity and business mediocrity--thetorture of the Beauty within him crying for expression, half satisfiedby the stolen evenings at the art school but constantly growing strongerin its all-consuming appeal. No, life to his father was a simple problemin army ethics--a problem in which duty was "a", one of the knownfactors; "x," the unknown, was either "bravery" or "cowardice" whenbrought in contact with "a". Having solved this problem, his fatherhad closed the book; of the higher mathematics, and especially of thosecomplex problems to which no living man knew the final answer, he had noconception. And yet----

  Philip resumed his reading to avoid the old endless maze of subtleties.

  "It is not that I did not--or do not--love you. It is, rather, thatsomething within me is crying out--something which is stronger thanI, and which I cannot resist. I have waited two years to be sure.Yesterday, as soon as I reached here, I took my work to the man who isconsidered the finest art critic in Paris. He told me that there was aquality to my painting which he had seen in that of no living artist; hetold me that in five years of hard work I should be able to produce workwhich Botticelli would be proud to have done. Do you understand that,Mary--Botticelli!

  "But no, forgive me. My paean of joy comes strangely in a letter whichshould be of abject humility for what must seem to you, to father, andto all, a cowardly, selfish act of desertion--a whining failure to facelife. Oh dear, dear Mary if you could but understand what a hell I havebeen through--"

  Philip took his pen and crossed out the last line so that no one couldread what had been there.

  "Materially, of course, you and little George will be better off; thefoolish pride with which I refused to let your parents help us nowno longer stands in their way. You should have no difficulty about adivorce.

  "You can dispose of my things as you see fit; there is nothing I careabout keeping which I did not bring.

  "Again, Mary, I cannot ask you to forgive, or even to understand, but Ido hope that you will believe me when I say that this act of mine isthe most honest thing I have ever done, and that to have acted out thetragi-comedy in the part of a happy contented husband would have made ofboth of our lives a bitter useless farce. Sincerely, Philip."

  He folded the pages and addressed the envelope.

  "Pardon, Monsieur"--a whiff of sulphur came to his nose as the waiterbent over the table to light the gas above him. "Would Monsieur liketo see the journal? There is a most amusing story about---- The bill,Monsieur? Yes--in a moment."

  Philip glanced nervously through the pages of the Temps. He was anxiousto get the letter to the post--to have done with indecision and worry.It would be a blessed relief when the thing was finally done beyondchance of recall; why couldn't that stupid waiter hurry?

  On the last page of the newspaper was an item headlined "Recent Newsfrom America." Below was a sub-heading "Horrible Massacre of Soldiers byIndians--Brave Stand of American Troopers." He caught the name "Custer"and read:

  "And by his brave death at the hands of the Indians, this gallantAmerican general has made the name of Custer one which will forever beassociated with courage of the highest type."

  He read it all through again and sat quietly as the hand of Polyphemusclosed over him. He even smiled a little--a weary, ironic smile.

  "Monsieur desires something more, perhaps"--the waiter held out thebill.

  Philip smiled. "No--Monsieur has finished--there is nothing more."

  Then he repeated slowly, "There is nothing more."

  * * * * *

  Philip watched his son George blow out the twelve candles on hisbirthday cake.

  "Mother," said George, "when I get to be eighteen, can I be a soldierjust like grandfather up there?" He pointed to the portrait of Philip'sfather in uniform which hung in the dining room.

  "Of course you can, dear," said his mother. "But you must be a braveboy".

  "Grandfather was awful brave, wasn't he father?" This from little Marybetween mouthfuls of cake.

  "Yes, Mary," Philip answered. "He was very, very brave."

  "Of course he was," said George. "He was an American."

  "Yes," answered Philip, "That explains it.--he was an American."

  Mrs. Custer looked up at the portrait of her distinguishedfather-in-law.

  "You know Philip, I think it must be quite nice to be able to paint apicture like that. I've often wondered why you never kept up your art."