Theophilus North (27 page)

“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 d
é
mand
é
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 Protestant 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?”

“I suggest tonight or tomorrow night at the bar of the Muenchinger-King at six-fifteen.”

“Good!—Tonight at the ‘M-K' at six-fifteen.”

Mr. Granberry was about thirty-five, young for Newport. He belonged to the category that journalists like Flora Deland call “sportsmen and men-about-town.” Like many others of his kind he had a face that was handsome but wrinkled, even strangely ridged. I first thought this condition was the result of exposure to wind and wave in early youth—yacht races, Bermuda Cup trials, and so on; but later decided it was acquired on dry land and indoors. He had been designed to be a likable fellow, but idleness and aimlessness are erosive too. I received the impression that this interview with a “professor” was discomfiting, perhaps intimidating, and that he had been drinking. He offered me a drink. I accepted Bevo and we withdrew to the window-seat overlooking Bellevue Avenue and the Reading Rooms.

“Mr. North, my wife Myra is the brightest girl in the world. Quick as a whip. She can talk rings about anybody, see what I mean? But when she was a young girl she had an accident. Fell off a horse. She missed some years of schooling. Schoolteachers came to the house and taught her—terrible bores; you know what schoolteachers are like.—Where was I? Oh, yes: as a result of all this she hates reading a book. The way she puts it, she can't stand nonsense—
The Three Musketeers
and Shakespeare and all that. She's a very realistic girl. But she likes being read to, for a while. I've tried to read aloud to her, and her nurse, Mrs. Cummings, reads aloud to her, but after ten minutes she says she'd rather talk instead. Well—where was I? One of the results of this interruption in her education is that sometimes in general conversation she doesn't do credit to herself. You know that ‘I-hate-Shakespeare' stuff and ‘Poetry is for sheep.' . . . Newport's full of us Granberrys who think all that's just bad education and middle-western yap. It's a little embarrassing for me and my mother and all those cousins I have around. . . . As I told you, just now she's something of an invalid. She's pretty well got over that fall from the horse, but she's had two miscarriages. We're expecting a child again in about six months. The doctors have ordered her to get a little exercise in the morning and she's allowed to go out to dinner several evenings in the week, but all the afternoon she's got to spend resting on a sofa. Naturally she gets pretty bored. She has a bridge teacher twice a week, but she doesn't enjoy that . . . and a French teacher.”