Katherine Keenum (7 page)

“Consider them marked.”

“Where were we?”

“Back in the Old World. Perhaps at La Scala or the Prado.”

“Or the Louvre. Painting. Painting requires what?—paint,” said Theodore, resuming his mock lecturing style. “Pigments, dyestuffs, pharmaceuticals. Once upon a time, they were all the same thing. The family craft. Murers have pounded botanicals in mortars and ground minerals for generation upon generation. They still do, but on an ever larger scale. A chemist in England tries to make quinine and discovers mauveine. All Europe dyes itself purple, and in Baden the Murers take notice. These aniline dyes and synthetic drugs, Edward, they are leading to whole new industries.”

“So Young Paul said. Repeatedly.” The previous year, when their cousin Paul Murer’s son had paid an extended visit to Cincinnati to learn American business methods under Theodore’s tutelage, he had boasted endlessly about the new chemical plant his father was building in Freiburg-im-Breisgau.

“Is a return visit not in order? I want Carl to spend some time in Freiburg at Cousin Paul’s new dye works and bring us up to date, maybe take a course at a
technische Hochschule
.”

“
Hochschule
? Carl should go east to college, Theodore. If the future lies in America, send him to Yale or Harvard. You’re a university man yourself, and he’s a bright boy.”

“Bright, but lazy. He gets by on easy comprehension and charm. Maybe if he sees what ambitious young men his age are doing abroad, his zeal will increase. Munich, Zürich, Freiburg. As for you, Edward, you are older and a cooler hand. I should be interested in what you have to say about what you see there, too.

“But first, we make it a vacation, eh? We all go. We shall start in Paris. My Sophie will buy the prettiest dresses at the fashion houses and promenade on the Champs-Élysées; we shall hear opera in the splendors of Garnier’s Opera House; we shall go to the World’s Fair and see what every nation on earth is bragging about in commerce and art. And then when we have taken our pleasure, you and Carl will set off on your inspections.”

“I still don’t understand, Theodore. Why me? Why not take him yourself?”

“Because I do not have the time.”

“And I do.”

“You could. Listen, Hans is too ambitious to remain a clerk forever. Take advantage: Make him the manager; we’ll sell him a share in the store. Real wealth is moving out from downtown, but Over-the-Rhine will be crowded for a long time. Let the boy sweep with his new broom—put in an ice-cream soda fountain if he wants. They are all the rage.”

“There isn’t room.”

“
Ach!
You see? You hold him back! And you! It’s time to brush the cobwebs out of your brain, Edward. If you still want to be a pharmacist when you return, we can open a new branch of Murer Brothers here on the north side.”

“But I won’t want to.”

“No, you won’t.”

They were silent again. After a while, Theodore mused, “As long as that man Bismarck is alive, I will not set foot in Germany. An empire for the Prussian Kaiser.” He shook his head. “Forty-Eight was not your war, but it
was
mine. Maybe I have not forgotten, after all. But I am not so stubborn that I cut off my son from opportunities. You speak German and French; you can help Carl. And the two of you—you will enjoy each other. You are younger than I am. Old enough to temper his callow youth, but young enough to make him feel free away from his aged Papa.”

You are younger than I am, thought Edward, studying his brother. Yet oddly enough, although he recognized in Theodore a stronger life force, more worldly success, and the greater capacity for spontaneous enthusiasm, inside Edward a tiny, persistent pride insisted that his own yearnings were turned toward finer things, that he felt more acutely and saw more clearly than Theodore. In all the years of his suffering, he had never seriously thought of suicide. Many times he longed not to wake to yet another day in the prison camp or to the barrenness of life after the war, but instinct rejected the violence of a gun to the head or the outrage of poison administered by his own hand. And somewhere something green lay dormant among his dry sticks.

“Are you sending me to look after Carl, or Carl to look after me?”

“Maybe a little of both, Edward; I am an economical man.”

CHAPTER SIX

Arrival in Paris

A
t first, neither Mrs. Palmer nor Mrs. Hendrick gave any credence to the idea that Jeanette and Effie might go to Paris. Nevertheless, when Jeanette insisted that her father would at least allow her to consult with Mr. Sartain, Sarah Palmer had to agree. She went with her. Taking it for granted that Mrs. Palmer wanted her daughter to have further lessons, Mr. Sartain addressed most of his remarks to her. He professed admiration for Jeanette’s samples, pointing out particular felicities; he regretted that his own class was full but named some other masters in New York who taught privately.

“A Miss Whitmore recommended the Académie Julian in Paris,” put in Jeanette.

“Is that a possibility? It’s an excellent school.”

“It would take thought,” said Mrs. Palmer, slowly.

Sensing a weakening in her mother’s resistance, Jeanette went on. “When would a French school term begin?”

“In the fall, but a great advantage of Julian’s is that you can join a class at any time.”

On the way home, Sarah Palmer was thoughtful. She drew Jeanette’s arm through hers and said, “Well, I admit I was proud to hear his praise. Now don’t draw hasty conclusions, Jeanette!” she added, aware that Jeanette was exulting. “I must write your father.”

So must I, thought Jeanette. So must I!

Then it was Aunt Maude’s turn to take umbrage when she realized that her unpaid housekeeper had meant what she said. “Out of the question, Effie! Jeanette would have to be overseas for a year or two, and it would not be convenient to have you gone that long.”

“But, Maude, you often point out that you can run the house perfectly well yourself,” said Effie, “and, of course, you can. I mean, you
do
. And now with the children all grown up and gone, and Jeanette’s education to be thought of—”

“My girls never had any such education. Besides, what, may I ask, would you expect to live on?”

“Well, you know Papa left me a small income—”

“Pin money and a dress allowance.”

“Yes, but dear Polycarpus put me in his will, too, before he was killed, and Matthew has been investing my little nest egg all these years. I think there would be quite enough. I mean, I know it: Matthew has been giving me quarterly statements.”

“Quite right,” said Mr. Hendrick. “Our little Effie is a woman of independent means, Maude. She could indeed get by entirely on her own.”

“In reduced circumstances, I have no doubt.”

“Much reduced. Genteel poverty, you might say, but perfectly respectable. Paris, Effie? Paris, Jeanette?
Ooh là là!
”

It was the respectability, not the
ooh là là
, that reconciled Mrs. Palmer to the plan, despite her continued misgivings. To say that Jeanette would be accompanying an older relative to Europe was the sort of story that would arouse little more than conventional interest in Circleville, or perhaps even a touch of envy. More important, Judge Palmer came around and took over. A man given to bursts of enthusiasm followed by forecasts of ruin, and vice versa, he had been proud of his daughter’s early successes at Vassar, wounded by her delinquency, and impressed by the encouragement she was given by Professor von Ingen and those in New York whom she consulted. Once into the planning stages, moreover, he became openhanded and sent Matthew Hendrick a sum to fold into Effie’s capital.
Let our young women have visions and us old men dream dreams!
he proclaimed. As for Aunt Maude, once she knew she was bested, she predicted a cold, stormy passage in April: “But you’d better go soon while hotel rooms and
pensions
are still available in Paris; there’s a World’s Fair on, you know.” And so Judge Palmer ordered that tickets be purchased for an early crossing.
And damn the expense, safety first. Take a Cunarder.

He also wrote Jeanette an earnest letter.
Every father wishes to give his children the best in life, and every man learns to his sorrow the need for second chances. I am blessed with the means to give you yours, Jeanette, but it comes with conditions. I had expected to pay for two more years at Vassar College. In the coming twelve months, after you reach Paris, I shall send you an allowance in four quarterly installments equal to the tuition and living expenses I would have paid in your junior year. If at the end of your first year you can convince me that another year of study is required and that you have deserved it, you shall have it. But two years is my limit. There are your sisters to consider, if nothing else, and I will not have you make yourself into a dilettante. Go with my love, and come home prepared to demonstrate that your calling is as true as your eloquent pleas have claimed.

*   *   *

In the middle of April, Jeanette leaned against the rail of an English Channel ferry boat. Around her, every stretch of canvas, coil of rope, wooden plank, or metal surface was pearled with moisture. So was the ancient woolen overcoat Uncle Matthew had given her to ward off salt spray and steamer soot. Under an overcast sky, even sea water was drained of color. For twelve days, the Atlantic Ocean had offered an infinitely subtle range of bright blue, slate blue, jade green, purple; of fire and gold at sunset; of pewter and silver at dusk. Not so this last leg of the journey, notable largely for dingy whitecaps; but now the channel’s choppiness was giving way to a slow heave and roll. Against the harsh grind of the boat’s engine and buffeting wind, the shrill squeals of seagulls could be heard. A blur like a cloud bank along the horizon took on contours and gradually began to separate into undulating shades of green over a band of lighter tan. Jeanette stood eagerly on tiptoe and leaned out over the water. A white V in the chalk cliffs marked the entrance to Dieppe harbor.

She ran to the ladies’ saloon to fetch Cousin Effie, who insisted on folding up her knitting properly and putting on her mackintosh. When at last the two of them returned to the rail, the bluffs of the Norman coast were clearly visible. As the ferry turned out of the open channel into the long harbor basin, the scent of the open sea was replaced by the more pungent smells of a seaport with an active fishing fleet. The French tricolors fluttered lightly on flagpoles along the quays and some of the buildings opposite—limestone town buildings, block after block of them, three, four, and five stories high, with gabled windows in their mansard roofs and tall painted shutters at the windows.

“Why, it’s downright quaint,” said Effie, “or really I should say elegant.”

“Too beautiful for this!” To embrace her new life, Jeanette doffed Uncle Matthew’s coat and flung it onto a bench alongside the wall of the cabin.

“I’ve been thinking. We might want to make a lap robe out of that,” said Effie.

“Too late! If it makes some other shivering passenger happy, so much the better, but you won’t catch me entering France in anything that hideous. Cousin Effie, we’re in
France
!”

*   *   *

On the quay, they joined a cluster of passengers gathered around a cheerful Englishman holding up a sign:
Thomas Cook Travel Agency
. He directed them to the nearby train station, where they would have time for a bite of something to eat in the station buffet.

“And you’re sure that our checked luggage . . .” said Effie.

“All part of the package, madam, part of the package. It will be waiting for you—”

“—when we’ve been through customs in Paris,” said Effie with him, nodding her head. She had read and reread the company’s instructions.

While they were talking, Jeanette tried to take in everything. It seemed impossible that she could simply walk across the stone paving and be in the streets of Dieppe, but there were no barriers, no fences, nothing to stop her. Other passengers from the ferry were walking off or entering the train station as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Oh, look at the coffee shop, Cousin Effie! I wish we had time. And the
bakery
. Come on, we do have time for that. Adeline’s centimes!”

“We’ll spend those in the station. No, wait, Jeanette! Come back! We’re supposed to eat at the buffet!”

But Jeanette had dashed across the cobblestones toward a row of small ground-floor shops. A bell above the door of the patisserie jingled as she entered. In a glass display case were trays of pastries, glistening with apricot glazes or filled by swirls of piped cream, each with its white card marking the price in a Continental hand. They were like nothing Jeanette had ever seen in America. Behind the counter stood a woman, wearing a fichu.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle.”

“Bonjour, madame!”

The hard line of the woman’s mouth softened slightly, but her very direct, superior look made Jeanette burn to appear as if she knew what she was doing. A tray marked
tartes d’amandes, 10 c
, caught her eye. They looked solid, rather like a macaroon; they might break in her handbag, but they wouldn’t smear everything with pastry cream or jam. She asked for two.

As she stepped back out onto the street, her elbow was caught by Cousin Effie, who had been nervously watching the Thomas Cook party disappear through a door. “Never run off like that again, Jeanette, never, ever!” she scolded, as she hurried them across the cobblestones to catch up with their group.

Jeanette was impenitent. “We’re not lost, and we won’t miss the train.”

Inside the station, some of their fellow passengers grumbled about station food, but not Jeanette and Effie. Their thrifty choice of an oyster stew
Dieppoise
was enriched with spring cream and served with crusty baguettes. The white linen napkins were generous, the flatware heavy; and the practiced flourish of their unsmiling waiter when he served them strong, black coffee from a long-handled pot so delighted them that they splurged and ordered apple compote to go with it.

Effie splurged again when she spotted a rack of English-language books at a stall in the main waiting room. “Just the thing for the train,” she said, happily, procuring a cheap edition of
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
.

“You should read it in French.”

“I can’t.”

“Not yet. Oh, I’ll tell you what: I’ll buy this and you can practice on it later.”

Jeanette picked up the current issue of a glamorous-looking magazine called
La Vie Parisienne
. Adeline could have told her that it was too frivolous and sophisticated for a nice girl from Ohio, but Adeline was an ocean away.

The Thomas Cook agent secured second-class compartments for his charges. “Now, the train will be picking up additional passengers in Rouen, ladies,” he said to Jeanette and Effie, as he handed them up into an empty one, “but first come, first served—you’ve nabbed the window seats.”

Effie immediately took the one that would have her riding backward.

“Are you sure?” asked Jeanette.

“Yes, indeed. I’m going to read.” Effie settled down with her Victor Hugo, adopting the absorbed concentration that discourages other travelers from choosing the adjacent seat.

Jeanette did not even pretend to look at her magazine but watched every movement on the platform. The elements of the scene were the same as those at an American depot—the parallel sets of iron rails, gravel, signal posts, black snouts and flared chimneys of locomotives—yet everything was different. Not only were the signs in French, but the cars were built differently; even the freight yard, as they slowly pulled past, had a look of its own—while beyond the tracks lay Dieppe. And then the town disappeared. The train plunged into the blackness of a long tunnel, and at the other end were no outlying buildings, no tree stumps, no raggedy scrum; they had passed abruptly and totally into the countryside.

Jeanette had never seen farmland so densely cultivated nor so tidily beautiful. First came walled gardens with feathery squares of new-sprouting carrots or radishes, then sheep and herds of small cattle wandering in among the trees of well-pruned orchards. Neither the English watercolors she had seen at Vassar nor the Barbizon landscapes for sale in New York had prepared her for the fairy-tale quality of Norman farmhouses and folds of hills, of crooked roads and red-twigged coppices on riverbanks. She tried to note down a few details in her pocket sketchbook; but even for single lines, her hand jiggled too much. She gave it up.

An hour later, the modern world began to intrude again in the form of large, smokestacked industrial mills on the riverbank as they approached Rouen. A ten-minute stop gave them a chance to stretch. They left magazine and book on their seats, and Effie brought down a carpetbag from the overhead rack to put on the seat beside hers. “I knew we should have kept Matthew’s coat,” she said.

When they returned, five more of the eight seats were taken, but book, magazine, and bag had been respected. “
Ah! par-donny mwa!
” exclaimed Effie, pretending surprise to find her carpetbag on the seat. She lifted it toward the luggage racks, which were now full, shrugged an apology that could have fooled no one, and put it back on the seat. She winked at Jeanette.

Jeanette shrank into the corner of her seat. Luckily for her peace of mind, the limits of Effie’s French constrained her from trying to strike up conversation. She merely perused each of their new companions and returned to her book. Jeanette kept her head bent over and stared fixedly at a paragraph of gossip from the
beau monde
of the Jockey Club, which seemed to have nothing to do with racing. At a jerk when the train started again, she involuntarily looked out the window. Effie caught her movement. “Off again. Gay Paree, here we come!” she said, brightly. Jeanette made as repressive a noise of agreement as she dared. Once everyone was settled and the iron wheels were clacking rhythmically over rail joints again, she went back to watching steadily out the window.