Complete Works of Ford Madox Ford, page 722
It was upon that that Wanda had pitched as an excuse for breaking with him. She had said that if he had followed the writing career he had first professed to desire, or that of a painter into which she had tried to urge him, the idea of breaking with him would never have occurred to her. Henry Martin had reminded her that there had been a war and that he had been a soldier. The war indeed was still in being and he still in the service. It was the period of the Armistice and he was doing commissariat work for such American troops as remained in Paris, escort work for funerals or at state appearances of diplomats. It was not glorious employment, but, such as it was, it was his duty to see it through. He was at the moment engaged on a laborious correspondence between the Army Department and the French Authorities as to payment for the sewing machines and typewriters that had filled the hold and cabins of the transport in which he had come over. Mr. Leopold Kuhn had indeed turned up again looking extraordinarily slim, athletic and graceful in a handsome, modified, staff-officer’s uniform. It had by now reached Henry Martin’s intelligence that his presence on board that vessel had been far more connected with seeing these munitions of war through the European Customs Houses — where, of course, they paid no duty - than with the supply of cigarettes and coca cola and stationery to the unfortunate troops. He was now interested in making the French authorities pay for them, but in the meantime found plenty of leisure for compiling a work on copper as employed in German industries....
To the various excuses that he got out of his present occupations, Wanda blazing in the bright room had replied merely that she had been shocked.... She pronounced it: ‘Stchocked!’ from which he gathered that she was actually feeling some emotion. When she was quite calm she watched her English accent very carefully.
She had been shocked by the nature of his arguments in his letters. When he had replied to his father’s statements that he would be unable to support her properly he had never once mentioned his pen or his brush. He had proposed to keep her out of his four or five thousand dollars a year. For what did he take her? She was an actress in demand. Perfectly well able to support herself with considerable luxury, but perfectly ready to leave the stage had Henry Martin’s career as either artist or writer needed that she should remain beside him. But she was not ready to sit at his side in an apartment in the Bronx or a suburb of Christiania. Nor yet whilst he pursued the career of a stockbroker.
She had gone out several times during her long harangue or his interruptions to place her husband in different positions — against the wall, against the banisters, or on the stairs.
She said that if Henry Martin had proposed to follow an artist’s life - in a garret, a cottage in the wood or beside a glacier - she would contentedly have followed him. She would even, if the necessaries of life had proved lacking, have returned temporarily to the stage to keep them going for a period.
She broke off to go and fetch in her husband whom she deposited in a roundbacked armchair. He was an extraordinarily emaciated fellow. He came back to Henry Martin as having had whitish rings round soot-black eyes. He stood apparently for the arts and looked very nasty, sunk down in his chair, his hands incessantly drumming on its legs as they drooped beside them. A violinist he was. A marvellous violinist. And doped to the eyelids.
She appeared to have brought him there as an exhibit. Exhibit A. The sort of man a woman ought to devote herself to. He, Henry Martin, was Exhibit B - the sort of man to whom a woman ought not to devote herself.
It seemed queer to Henry Martin. There he was: free, male and twenty-one. Six feet in his stockings. The picture of health and moderation. He had indeed been thinking of taking up athletics again and had lately visited several training places in Paris.
The other fellow just gibbered, leaning forward in his chair, smiling as if with intense friendliness at the rest and making gay remarks in an entirely unknown tongue.
It was no doubt the mothering instinct in Wanda.
She had eventually removed her husband and Henry Martin had understood that the separation was to be final.
He had not even had time to make a remark to the completely silent Alice. She had gone on laying and relaying the table. During the intervals of Wanda’s apostrophes he had been conscious of her moving a tablespoon or putting the jug of yellow flowers in another place on the table. With an abstracted manner, as if she had been reflecting deeply upon the pattern made by the table service or weighing in her mind the arguments put forward by Wanda.
They would no doubt have talked. But before the sound of Wanda’s voice was quite out of Henry Martin’s ears the door which she had left ajar was pushed open by the shoulder of Henry Martin’s father.
He stood in the doorway, a round, Dutch-looking pillow of tightly encased flesh. His eyes rolled. He was exceedingly out of breath. At last he brought out triumphantly the words:
‘Another star!’
Henry Martin had never made up his mind whether by that father had meant that Henry Martin would now be pressed to find another star or that in Alice he had found one.... He stayed to lunch, lumping down into the chair that had been vacated by Wanda’s husband and wolfing down great quantities of the blanquette de veau à l’ancienne that had been admirably made by the Jemme de ménage.... Henry Martin had to attend a parade at the Arc de Triomphe at two. He went, leaving the old man with Alice.
He had by then been promoted to the rank of top-sergeant, but, since he had great difficulty in remembering which was his right hand and which was his left, appearances on parades — which at that time were rather frequent as A.E.F. troops were returned home - were rather disagreeable to him.
The old man spent nearly two months in Paris. He had seemed to have the time of his life which, for a Luxemburger in Paris, was not difficult. There he had a rustic air which was not noticeable in Springfield, Ohio. He looked like an enriched farmer from one of the French northern departments and he showed — for a gentleman who had not seen Europe for over thirty years - an astonishing knowledge of how to amuse himself in Paris.
The mainsprings of his character had remained enigmatic to Henry Martin in spite of that period during which they were together for large parts of the day. His father and Alice were alone together even more often, but Henry Martin never quite knew, either, how they got on. They visited museums, galleries, theatres, operas, variety shows. When Henry Martin could get leave for sufficiently long they hired motors and visited such of the battlefields as were then visible. Those of the Argonne where the A.E.F. had been so mercilessly hammered were not available, Henry Martin believing till the present moment that the French wanted to clear up those spots a little so that Americans should not too plainly discern how remorselessly Mangin had used up their troops. So Henry Martin never saw scenes of patriotic interest to him. But they got once as far as Luxemburg, a queer, suburban principality that very little stirred the pulses of Henry Martin. His father - and indeed Alice - had nevertheless what his father called a high old time there amongst the friends of his boyhood and their sons and daughters.
Sister Carrie came into the town to see them. Her husband, because of a presumably too great toleration of the occupation of the Grand Duchy by the late enemy, was not encouraged to visit the capital of a state that was now enthusiastically pro-Ally. On the other hand, as an American, Sister Carrie did not seem to have had too good a time, at any rate after the United States had declared war. She appeared worried, or at least abstracted. But, if she confided in her father, he did not transfer her confidences to Henry Martin. She was beginning to acquire the European veneer of the great lady that was afterwards for a time to make her seem disagreeable to Henry Martin.
In the Grand Duchy Alice was accepted as - or at any rate presumed to be - the fiancée of Henry Martin.
What the old man thought about it there was no knowing. After his first visit to the apartment in the rue des Saints Pères he had never come there again. They on the other hand never penetrated further than the entrance hall of a magnificent hotel in the Champs Élysées where the old man installed himself. It was rather presumed by Alice and Henry Martin that he had there found some sort of feminine companionship. There seemed to be no reason why he should not have. He led a lonely enough life in Springfield. Once, from the promenade of the Folies Bergères they saw him in a box in company with a platinum-haired blonde who was covered with diamonds. He began to grow obviously tired and to talk of Springfield with some complacency....
CHAPTER III.
It had flashed suddenly through Henry Martin’s mind that the fortunate young man was the Lieutenant Smith who had interrogated him outside the regimental clink.
... That, then, was why his thoughts had taken their tone of wartime reminiscence.... The curves of his features must have awakened them.
Henry Martin’s definite wish that he could become that accomplished and elegant fellow redoubled itself. He at least had knowledge of the world, assurance, and, in the companionship of Gloria Sorenson, indisputable good fortune. How differently he could look around the room and how differently the room with its bright papery decorations and shining floor must seem to him! Worry - more particularly financial worry - and the curse of ineffectiveness can take the brightness out of any colours. To the other Smith the scarlets of the Japanese paper umbrellas and the Chinese lanterns must be a blaze - a gay, vivifying blaze.
And Gloria Sorenson... the idol of a dozen capitals!... By the quick pang at his heart every time he caught sight of her without having looked for her, he knew that Wanda, in his memory, had lost none of her physical glow. He had been astonished by that unsuspected constancy in himself. It pleased him momentarily because he thought it must make him an interesting figure. He had apparently cherished a passion for twelve - nearly thirteen - years.... But he should not have been pleased. It was nothing to write home about. It was merely that the four or five women with whom he had more or less transitorily to do since then had been mentally and physically mediocre. Except perhaps Mrs. Percival.... But he had never...’enjoyed her favours,’ was the phrase. She might have married him, though,... if Anacondas had stopped say at 75....
But mediocre persons would be his lot, drifting into bored or warmed-up adultery because it was the fashion of the times. Passion... that was not for him or for his day.
That fellow Smith... Molesworth Smith... Moulton Smith... no, it was Monckton Smith because he was connected with the Shreiner-Monckton aero-engines... Monckton Smith had always for Henry Martin gone about in an atmosphere of awe....
A draught from a wind-fan raised the fellow’s brown hair from his tanned right brow. There was the jagged weal of an old wound.... It immediately brought back to Henry Martin the Cockney pronounced words: ‘E’ll come into er million an a arf, E will. What price our chanstesses of a million an er arf?’
Evans, one of his fellow clerks in the battalion orderly room had said those words and they had, even then, filled Henry Martin with envy. They had been looking at Monckton Smith sitting at the adjutant’s table with his elbows on the grey blanket that covered it. His fingers were pushed into his hair. He had been frowning over some incomprehensible order from headquarters.
... The jagged scar had become visible.
‘Bloomin’ Fortunatus!’ the clerk Evans had said. ‘Some’as hall the luck.’
‘A million an er arf’ represented at that date seven and a half million dollars. Father had told Henry Martin that he never expected to cut up for more than a million and a half at his death.... Not more than five hundred thousand apiece for Sister Carrie, Brother Hal and himeself. Even if they got it!... And the Monckton engines had gone ahead like blazes since that day.... They had extended most extraordinarily in times when nothing else had. The extremely wealthy put down their Packards and Napiers. And bought Moncktons.... When all the world... all the bloody world... dreaded starvation, that fellow was scooping in more millions.... What a hope!
Some’as indeed hall the luck! That fellow had had the luck to go out with the first battalion of the regiment, to distinguish himself in the petty little war of movements that began the game. And to have a piece of his skull clipped off by a cavalry sabre. Nothing less! Other men had to be hit by pieces of shell or old tin. That fellow could be incapacitated after a month or two of fun in fine weather. By a sword wound.... Gallantry and romance! With three or four ribbons, bright on his tunic. And the sword wound to give him for ever the chance that women would say of him:
‘One of the Old Contemptibles, my dear. One of the Old Contemptibles.’
That was the swanky title that those fellows gave to themselves who had gone out with the first hundred thousand British troops. Because the enemy leader had called them in the earliest days: ‘The contemptible little British army.’ He should not of course have done it. It gave them a chance of exciting awe. Even Henry Martin felt a certain awe as he looked at Monckton Smith!
It was awe, of course, not for that military achievement but for that amazing continuance of good fortune. From a sword-cut on the Marne to the bed of Gloria Sorenson.... And who knew how many others! An immensely powerful God must be behind that fellow. If you came within his sphere you might be under the cognizance of that tremendous Power. For good or ill!...
He himself had come into the town that night which was to be his last night on earth with the hope of some of the glory that attached to sharing the bed of someone with some of Gloria Sorenson’s blazing flesh. For her flesh seemed to give off lights of its own. And no doubt incandescent heat and perfume. As Wanda’s had done. She was extraordinarily like Wanda. Larger as it were, in the way that in ancient hieratic pictures the important personages were represented as large, the less important as exactly the same shape but smaller.
Wanda’s fate had been even similar, if smaller, too. From paragraphs or inspired articles in entertainment columns during her rare visits to Paris Henry Martin had gathered that she made starring tours in Scandinavian, Dutch, or North German towns and in the smaller cities of the United States where the populations were mainly German or Scandinavian. She travelled with her husband, the distinguished violinist called Pipperogios or something like it. Apparently a Greek. Apparently he conducted the small travelling orchestra that she took about with her. Sometimes he played solos between her turns. The French papers said that she was noted for the ‘seriousness’ of her conduct, her avoidance of the fashionable world and the devotion to her career that her husband, Mr. Pipperogios, displayed. According to the photographs she had become astonishingly more beautiful.... She had danced... had given pleasure.
— .It was he that was to be dead.
The last time he had seen her she had come bearing white flowers because she thought he was dead. Well, he hadn’t been. He had tried to see her after that. On the stage of a theatre on the outer boulevards when she was being unusually successful. Presumably because she was so sérieuse, avoided the fashionable world and no doubt because of her husband, Paris had never taken to her like Berlin or Copenhagen or, say, Chesterton, Indiana.... He had not been able to go and see her. Alice had been away visiting. But the woman to whom he had been temporarily attached had taken grippe and he had taken it from her. That was the sort of thing that would have happened to him. But never to Monckton!...
He examined critically the poule at his side. She had a cold. That was all you could say about her.... There were much better looking girls in the room. Dark creatures with high colours and hat-brims that hid flashing eyes. If you wanted to go out in a blaze of sexual glory you could have taken one of them. At least he supposed you could have. He was really unacquainted with the etiquette of the place. They were perhaps only dancing partners. He didn’t know. In New York he had once penetrated into a public dancing hall on the corner of Twenty-Third Street and Sixth Avenue. They had handed you out rolls of strip tickets at a quarter apiece. Each ticket gave you the right to dance with a girl for three minutes. Or to sit out and treat her to soft drinks for three. He did not exactly know. He had danced with a rather pretty, fairish girl in a pink dress, though he could not remember how it had been cut. Only it was pink. Or perhaps mauve. Apparently he had not given much pleasure to her with his dancing. Because, after a couple of turns they had sat at a table for a long time and talked.... About Estonia. She was an Estonian by birth. In Estonia she had had a swing that her father had put up between two fir trees. And a cat called something or other. He could not remember what. It was a peculiar name. After he had talked with her for some time about Estonia he had handed her his roll of strip tickets. It had cost four dollars. He had expected her to take what she was entitled to, but she had put the roll into her bag and gone away without thanking him. Four times four were sixteen. He did not think he had talked about Estonia for forty-eight minutes. At any rate he still did not know where Estonia was. Somewhere in the north of Europe, very likely. He didn’t equally know whether he was expected to invite the lady home with him.
He didn’t even know whether the present poule wanted him to go home with her. He had given her drinks and danced desultorily with her two or three times already. That was his luck. He didn’t know that world any more than he knew the world of lower Sixth Avenue dancing saloons. He did know that she was the last person in it that he would want to go home with. But he began to think that he knew nothing in the world about anything - or at least about life. People’s lives. How did they live?... Even where! He was pretty sure he had given up the novel he had once begun because of that. He could imagine characters but not how they lived. He could not imagine their surroundings at home. Of course the novel had been about the war. And if you write a novel about the war there will have to be lots of characters in it. But he didn’t know anything about the war. From the inside. He had seen nothing of it.
