“M’en fous, c’est mon métier,” interrupted Henslowe.
The train pulled out of the station.
III
Henslowe poured wine from a brown earthen crock into the glasses, where it shimmered a bright thin red, the color of currants. Andrews leaned back in his chair and looked through half-closed eyes at the table with its white cloth and little burnt umber loaves of bread, and out of the window at the square dimly lit by lemon-yellow gas lamps and at the dark gables of the little houses that huddled round it.
At a table against the wall opposite a lame boy, with white beardless face and gentle violet-colored eyes, sat very close to the bareheaded girl who was with him and who never took her eyes off his face, leaning on his crutch all the while. A stove hummed faintly in the middle of the room, and from the half-open kitchen door came ruddy light and the sound of something frying. On the wall, in brownish colors that seemed to have taken warmth from all the rich scents of food they had absorbed since the day of their painting, were scenes of the Butte as it was fancied to have once been, with windmills and wide fields.
“I want to travel,” Henslowe was saying, dragging out his words drowsily. “Abyssinia, Patagonia, Turkestan, the Caucasus, anywhere and everywhere. What do you say you and I go out to New Zealand and raise sheep?”
“But why not stay here? There can’t be anywhere as wonderful as this.”
“Then I’ll put off starting for New Guinea for a week. But hell, I’d go crazy staying anywhere after this. It’s got into my blood … all this murder. It’s made a wanderer of me, that’s what it’s done. I’m an adventurer.”
“God, I wish it had made me into anything so interesting.”
“Tie a rock on to your scruples and throw ’em off the Pont Neuf and set out. … O boy, this is the golden age for living by your wits.”
“You’re not out of the army yet.”
“I should worry. … I’ll join the Red Cross.”
“How?”
“I’ve got a tip about it.”
A girl with oval face and faint black down on her upper lip brought them soup, a thick greenish colored soup, that steamed richly into their faces.
“If you tell me how I can get out of the army you’ll probably save my life,” said Andrews seriously.
“There are two ways … Oh, but let me tell you later. Let’s talk about something worth while … So you write music do you?”
Andrews nodded.
An omelet lay between them, pale golden-yellow with flecks of green; a few amber bubbles of burnt butter still clustered round the edges.
“Talk about tone-poems,” said Henslowe.
“But, if you are an adventurer and have no scruples, how is it you are still a private?”
Henslowe took a gulp of wine and laughed uproariously.
“That’s the joke.”
They ate in silence for a little while. They could hear the couple opposite them talking in low soft voices. The stove purred, and from the kitchen came a sound of something being beaten in a bowl. Andrews leaned back in his chair.
“This is so wonderfully quiet and mellow,” he said. … “It is so easy to forget that there’s any joy at all in life.”
“Rot … It’s a circus parade.”
“Have you ever seen anything drearier than a circus parade? One of those jokes that aren’t funny.”
“Justine, encore du vin,” called Henslowe.
“So you know her name?”
“I live here. … The Butte is the boss on the middle of the shield. It’s the axle of the wheel. That’s why it’s so quiet, like the centre of a cyclone, of a vast whirling rotary circus parade!”
Justine, with her red hands that had washed so many dishes off which other people had dined well, put down between them a scarlet langouste, of which claws and feelers sprawled over the table-cloth that already had a few purplish stains of wine. The sauce was yellow and fluffy like the breast of a canary bird.
“D’you know,” said Andrews suddenly talking fast and excitedly while he brushed the straggling yellow hair off his forehead, “I’d almost be willing to be shot at the end of a year if I could live up here all that time with a piano and a million sheets of music paper … It would be worth it.”
“But this is a place to come back to. Imagine coming back here after the highlands of Thibet, where you’ld nearly got drowned and scalped and had made love to the daughter of an Afghan chief … who had red lips smeared with loukoumi so that the sweet taste stayed in your mouth.” Henslowe stroked softly his little brown mustache.
“But what’s the use of just seeing and feeling things if you can’t express them?”
“What’s the use of living at all? For the fun of it, man; damn ends.”
“But the only profound fun I ever have is that …” Andrews’s voice broke. “O God, I would give up every joy in the world if I could turn out one page that I felt was adequate. … D’you know it’s years since I’ve talked to anybody?”
They both stared silently out of the window at the fog that was packed tightly against it like cotton wool, only softer, and a greenish-gold color.
“The M.P.’s sure won’t get us tonight,” said Henslowe, banging his fist jauntily on the table. “I’ve a great mind to go to Rue St. Anne and leave my card on the Provost Marshal. … God damn! D’you remember that man who took the bite out of our wine-bottle … He didn’t give a hoot in hell, did he? Talk about expression. Why don’t you express that? I think that’s the turning point of your career. That’s what made you come to Paris; you can’t deny it.”
They both laughed loudly rolling about on their chairs. Andrews caught glints of contagion in the pale violet eyes of the lame boy and in the dark eyes of the girl.
“Let’s tell them about it,” he said still laughing, with his face, bloodless after the months in hospital, suddenly flushed.
“Salut,” said Henslowe turning round and elevating his glass. “Nous rions parceque nous sommes gris de vin gris.” Then he told them about the man who ate glass. He got to his feet and recounted slowly in his drawling voice, with gestures. Justine stood by with a dish full of stuffed tomatoes of which the red skins showed vaguely through a mantle of dark brown sauce. When she smiled her cheeks puffed out and gave her face a little of the look of a white cat’s.
“And you live here?” asked Andrews after they had all laughed.
“Always. It is not often that I go down to town. … It’s so difficult. … I have a withered leg.” He smiled brilliantly like a child telling about a new toy.
“And you?”
“How could I be anywhere else?” answered the girl. “It’s a misfortune, but there it is.” She tapped with the crutch on the floor, making a sound like someone walking with it. The boy laughed and tightened his arm round her shoulder.
“I should like to live here,” said Andrews simply.
“Why don’t you?”
“But don’t you see he’s a soldier,” whispered the girl hurriedly.
A frown wrinkled the boy’s forehead.
“Well, it wasn’t by choice, I suppose,” he said.
Andrews was silent. Unaccountable shame took possession of him before these people who had never been soldiers, who would never be soldiers.
“The Greeks used to say,” he said bitterly, using a phrase that had been a long time on his mind, “that when a man became a slave, on the first day he lost one-half of his virtue.”
“When a man becomes a slave,” repeated the lame boy softly, “on the first day he loses one-half of his virtue.”
“What’s the use of virtue? It is love you need,” said the girl.
“I’ve eaten your tomato, friend Andrews,” said Henslowe. “Justine will get us some more.” He poured out the last of the wine that half filled each of the glasses with its thin sparkle, the color of red currants.
Outside the fog had blotted everything out in even darkness which grew vaguely yellow and red near the sparsely scattered stree
t lamps. Andrews and Henslowe felt their way blindly down the long gleaming flights of steps that led from the quiet darkness of the Butte towards the confused lights and noises of more crowded streets. The fog caught in their throats and tingled in their noses and brushed against their cheeks like moist hands.
“Why did we go away from that restaurant? I’d like to have talked to those people some more,” said Andrews.
“We haven’t had any coffee either. … But, man, we’re in Paris. We’re not going to be here long. We can’t afford to stay all the time in one place. … It’s nearly closing time already. …”
“The boy was a painter. He said he lived by making toys; he whittles out wooden elephants and camels for Noah’s Arks. … Did you hear that?”
They were walking fast down a straight, sloping street. Below them already appeared the golden glare of a boulevard.
Andrews went on talking, almost to himself.
“What a wonderful life that would be to live up here in a small room that would overlook the great rosy grey expanse of the city, to have some absurd work like that to live on, and to spend all your spare time working and going to concerts. … A quiet mellow existence. … Think of my life beside it. Slaving in that iron, metallic, brazen New York to write ineptitudes about music in the Sunday paper. God! And this.”
They were sitting down at a table in a noisy café, full of yellow light flashing in eyes and on glasses and bottles, of red lips crushed against the thin hard rims of glasses.
“Wouldn’t you like to just rip it off?” Andrews jerked at his tunic with both hands where it bulged out over his chest. “Oh, I’d like to make the buttons fly all over the café, smashing the liqueur glasses, snapping in the faces of all those dandified French officers who look so proud of themselves that they survived long enough to be victorious.”
“The coffee’s famous here,” said Henslowe. “The only place I ever had it better was at a bistro in Nice on this last permission.”
“Somewhere else again!”
“That’s it. … For ever and ever, somewhere else! Let’s have some prunelle. Before the war prunelle.”
The waiter was a solemn man, with a beard cut like a prime minis-ter’s. He came with the bottle held out before him, religiously lifted. His lips pursed with an air of intense application, while he poured the white glinting liquid into the glasses. When he had finished he held the bottle upside down with a tragic gesture; not a drop came out.
“It is the end of the good old times,” he said.
“Damnation to the good old times,” said Henslowe. “Here’s to the good old new roughhousy circus parades.”
“I wonder how many people they are good for, those circus parades of yours,” said Andrews.
“Where are you going to spend the night?” said Henslowe.
“I don’t know. … I suppose I can find a hotel or something.”
“Why don’t you come with me and see Berthe; she probably has friends.”
“I want to wander about alone, not that I scorn Berthe’s friends,” said Andrews. … “But I am so greedy for solitude.”
John Andrews was walking alone down streets full of drifting fog. Now and then a taxi dashed past him and clattered off into the obscurity. Scattered groups of people, their footsteps hollow in the muffling fog, floated about him. He did not care which way he walked, but went on and on, crossing large crowded avenues where the lights embroidered patterns of gold and orange on the fog, rolling in wide deserted squares, diving into narrow streets where other steps sounded sharply for a second now and then and faded leaving nothing in his ears when he stopped still to listen but the city’s distant muffled breathing. At last he came out along the river, where the fog was densest and coldest and where he could hear faintly the sound of water gurgling past the piers of bridges. The glow of the lights glared and dimmed, glared and dimmed, as he walked along, and sometimes he could make out the bare branches of trees blurred across the halos of the lamps. The fog caressed him sooth-ingly and shadows kept flicking past him, giving him glimpses of smooth curves of cheeks and glints of eyes bright from the mist and darkness. Friendly, familiar people seemed to fill the fog just out of his sight. The muffled murmur of the city stirred him like the sound of the voices of friends.
From the girl at the cross-roads singing under her street-lamp to the patrician pulling roses to pieces from the height of her litter … all the imagining of your desire. …
The murmur of life about him kept forming itself into long modulated sentences in his ears,—sentences that gave him by their form a sense of quiet well-being as if he were looking at a low relief of people dancing, carved out of Parian in some workshop in Attica.
Once he stopped and leaned for a long while against the moisture-beaded stem of a street-lamp. Two shadows defined, as they strolled towards him, into the forms of a pale boy and a bareheaded girl, walking tightly laced in each other’s arms. The boy limped a little and his violet eyes were contracted to wistfulness. John Andrews was suddenly filled with throbbing expectation, as if those two would come up to him and put their hands on his arms and make some revelation of vast import to his life. But when they reached the full glow of the lamp, Andrews saw that he was mistaken. They were not the boy and girl he had talked to on the Butte.
He walked off hurriedly and plunged again into tortuous streets, where he strode over the cobblestone pavements, stopping now and then to peer through the window of a shop at the light in the rear where a group of people sat quietly about a table under a light, or into a bar where a tired little boy with heavy eyelids and sleeves rolled up from thin grey arms was washing glasses, or an old woman, a shapeless bundle of black clothes, was swabbing the floor. From doorways he heard talking and soft laughs. Upper windows sent yellow rays of light across the fog.
In one doorway the vague light from a lamp bracketed in the wall showed two figures, pressed into one by their close embrace. As Andrews walked past, his heavy army boots clattering loud on the wet pavement, they lifted their heads slowly. The boy had violet eyes and pale beardless cheeks; the girl was bareheaded and kept her brown eyes fixed on the boy’s face. Andrews’s heart thumped within him. At last he had found them. He made a step towards them, and then strode on losing himself fast in the cool effacing fog. Again he had been mistaken. The fog swirled about him, hiding wistful friendly faces, hands ready to meet his hands, eyes ready to take fire with his glance, lips cold with the mist, to be crushed under his lips. From the girl at the cross-roads singing under her street-lamp …
And he walked on alone through the drifting fog.
IV
Andrews left the station reluctantly, shivering in the raw grey mist under which the houses of the village street and the rows of motor trucks and the few figures of French soldiers swathed in long formless coats, showed as vague dark blurs in the confused dawnlight. His body felt flushed and sticky from a night spent huddled in the warm fetid air of an overcrowded compartment. He yawned and stretched himself and stood irresolutely in the middle of the street with his pack biting into his shoulders. Out of sight, behind the dark mass, in which a few ruddy lights glowed, of the station buildings, the engine whistled and the train clanked off into the distance. Andrews listened to its faint reverberation through the mist with a sick feeling of despair. It was the train that had brought him from Paris back to his division.
As he stood shivering in the grey mist he remembered the curious despairing reluctance he used to suffer when he went back to boarding school after a holiday. How he used to go from the station to the school by the longest road possible, taking frantic account of every moment of liberty left him. Today his feet had the same leaden reluctance as when they used to all but refuse to take him up the long sandy hill to the school.
He wandered aimlessly for a while about the silent village hoping to find a café where he could sit for a few minutes to take a last look at himself before plunging again into the grovelling promiscuity of the army. Not a light show
ed. All the shutters of the shabby little brick and plaster houses were closed. With dull springless steps he walked down the road they had pointed out to him from the R. T. O.
Overhead the sky was brightening giving the mist that clung to the earth in every direction ruddy billowing outlines. The frozen road gave out a faint hard resonance under his footsteps. Occasionally the silhouette of a tree by the roadside loomed up in the mist ahead, its uppermost branches clear and ruddy with sunlight.
Andrews was telling himself that the war was over, and that in a few months he would be free in any case. What did a few months more or less matter? But the sane thoughts were swept recklessly away in the blind panic that was like a stampede of wild steers within him. There was no arguing. His spirit was contorted with revolt so that his flesh twitched and dark splotches danced before his eyes. He wondered vaguely whether he had gone mad. Enormous plans kept rising up out of the tumult of his mind and dissolving suddenly like smoke in a high wind. He would run away and if they caught him, kill himself. He would start a mutiny in his company, he would lash all these men to frenzy by his words, so that they too should refuse to form into Guns, so that they should laugh when the officers got red in the face shouting orders at them, so that the whole division should march off over the frosty hills, without arms, without flags, calling all the men of all the armies to join them, to march on singing, to laugh the nightmare out of their blood. Would not some lightning flash of vision sear people’s consciousness into life again? What was the good of stopping the war if the armies continued?
But that was just rhetoric. His mind was flooding itself with rhetoric that it might keep its sanity. His mind was squeezing out rhetoric like a sponge that he might not see dry madness face to face.
And all the while his hard footsteps along the frozen road beat in his ears bringing him nearer to the village where the division was quartered. He was climbing a long hill. The mist thinned about him and became brilliant with sunlight. Then he was walking in the full sun over the crest of a hill with pale blue sky above his head. Behind him and before him were mist-filled valleys and beyond other ranges of long hills, with reddish-violet patches of woodland, glowing faintly in the sunlight. In the valley at his feet he could see, in the shadow of the hill he stood on, a church tower and a few roofs rising out of the mist, as out of water.