Theophilus North (26 page)

She looked about confusedly for her children, but Eloise and Charles had been watching us and hurried forward. Eloise said, “Mr. North won't let me come to the classes, too; but I forgive him.” Then she turned and threw her arms about her brother's stomach and said, “I'm so glad Charles is going to have them.”

Charles, standing very straight above his sister's shining head, said,
“Au revoir, monsieur le professeur!”

Mrs. Fenwick stared at her children with a distraught air and said, “Are you ready to go to the car, dears?” and led them off.

Two days later Eloise approached me at the close of the last of my tennis classes and gave me a note from her mother. I put it in my pocket.

“Aren't you going to read it?”

“I'll wait. Just now I'd rather take you to the La Forge Tea Rooms for a hot fudge sundae. . . . Do you think this note engages me or dismisses me?”

Eloise possessed three forms of laughter. I now heard the long low dove's ripple. “I shan't tell you,” she said, having told me. This morning she had chosen to be all of twenty years old but she slipped her hand into mine—in full view of Bellevue Avenue, astonishing the horses, shocking the old ladies in their electric phaetons, and very definitely opening the summer season.

“Oh, Mr. North, is this really our last class? Shall I never see you again?”

We didn't sit on high stools before the soda fountain, as once before, but at a table in the furthest corner. “I was hoping that you'd have a hot fudge sundae with me every Friday morning at exactly this time—just when I finish my lesson with Charles.” We were hungry after all that exercise and addressed ourselves to our sundaes with a will.

“You really do know a lot about what's been going on, don't you, Eloise?”

“Well, no one ever tells a young girl anything so she has to be a sort of witch. She has to learn to read people's thoughts, doesn't she? When I was a little girl I used to listen at doors, but I don't do that any more. . . . You grown-ups suddenly woke up about Charles. You saw that he was all caught in . . . a sort of spider's web; he was afraid of everything. You must have told Mother something that made her frightened, too. Did you tell her to ask Father Walsh to dinner?” I remained silent. “He came to dinner last night and after dinner Charles and I were sent upstairs, and they went into the library and had a council of war. And way upstairs, miles away, we could hear Father Walsh laughing. Mother's voice sounded as though she had been crying, but Father Walsh kept shouting with laughter.—Please read the letter, Mr. North—not to
me
, of course, but to yourself.”

I read:
“Dear Mr. North, Reverend Father says to tell you that when he was young he had worked as a counselor at a boys' camp, too. He told me to tell you to go ahead—that he'll do the praying and you do the work. It comforts me to think of the lady in Salzburg for whom things worked out so well. Sincerely, Millicent Fenwick.”

I don't believe in unnecessarily hiding things from young people. “Eloise, read the letter, but don't ask me to explain it to you yet.”

She read it. “Thank you,” she said and thought a moment. “Wasn't Beethoven born in Salzburg? We went there when I was about ten and visited his house.”

“Is it hard to be a witch, Eloise? I mean: does it make living harder?”

“No! It keeps you so busy. You have to be on your toes. . . . It keeps you from growing stale.”

“Oh, is that one of your worries?”

“Well, isn't it everybody's?”

“Not when you're around.—Eloise, I always like to ask my young friends what they've been reading lately. And you?”

“Well, I've been reading the
Encyclopaedia Britannica
—I discovered it when I wanted to read about Héloïse and Abelard. Then I read about George Eliot and Jane Austen and Florence Nightingale.”

“Some day turn to
B
and read about Bishop Berkeley, who lived in Newport, and go and visit his house. Turn to
M
and read about Mozart, who was born in Salzburg.”

She slapped her hand to her mouth. “Oh, how boring it must be for you to talk to young girls who are so ignorant!”

I burst out laughing. “Let me be the judge of that, Eloise. Please go on about the
Encyclopaedia
.”

“For another reason I read about Buddhism and glaciers and lots of other things.”

“Forgive me asking so many questions, but why do you read about Buddhism and glaciers?”

She blushed a little, glancing at me shyly. “So that I'll have something to talk about at table. When Papa and Mama give luncheons or dinner parties Charles and I eat upstairs. When relatives or old friends are invited we are invited, too; but Charles
never
comes to table if anyone else is there—except Father Walsh, of course. When just the four of us are there he comes to table but he scarcely says a word. . . . Mr. North, I'm going to tell you a secret: Charles thinks he's an orphan; he thinks Papa and Mama adopted him. I don't think he really believes that, but that's what he says.” She lowered her voice. “He thinks he is a prince from another country—like Poland or Hungary or even France.”

“And you're the only one who knows that?”

She nodded. “So you see how hard it is for Papa and Mama to make conversation—and in front of the servants!—with a person who acts as though he were so far away from them.”

“Does he think that you are of royal birth also?”

She answered sharply. “I don't let him.”

“So at mealtimes you fill in about Buddhism and glaciers and Florence Nightingale?”

“Yes . . . and I tell them the things you've told me. About the school you went to in China. That filled a whole lunchtime—I embroidered it a little. Do you always tell the truth, Mr. North?”

“I do to you. It's so boring to tell the truth to people who'd rather hear the other thing.”

“I told how in Naples the girls thought you had the Evil Eye. I made it funny and Mario had to leave the room he was laughing so.”

“Now I'm going to tell you something. Dear Eloise, if you see that Charles is cutting his way out of that spider's web a little, you can tell yourself that it's all due to you.” She looked at me in wonder. “Because when you love someone you communicate your love of life; you keep the faith; you scare away dragons.”

“Why, Mr. North—there are tears in your eyes!”

“Happy tears.”

So I met Charles at eight-thirty on the following Monday. In the intervening time he had relapsed somewhat into his haughty distrust; but he deigned to sit in his chair facing me. He was like a fox watching a hunter from behind a screen of foliage.

My Journal does not contain an account of our successive lessons, but I find, pinned into it, an almost illegible schema of our progress—the day's syntactical problem and the “dynamite words” at my disposal: auxiliary verbs, the subjunctive, the four past tenses, and so on;
derrière, coucher, cabinet
, and so on. I find no notations for my campaign against snobbery, but it was never long absent from my mind. The day usually began with a little shocker, then went on to forty minutes of pure grammatical grind, concluding with free practice in conversational French. The entire lesson was conducted in French which—for the most part—I shall translate here. (Every now and then I'll give the reader a little run for his money.)

In the earlier lessons, I used restraint in upsetting his modesty during those conversational twenty minutes—though I became increasingly exacting during the grammatical grind—to which he responded admirably.

“Charles, what are these odd-looking kiosks in the streets called—these constructions for the convenience of men only?”

He had some difficulty in recalling the word
“pissoirs.”

“Yes, they also go by a more elegant and more interesting name
vespasiennes
, after the Roman emperor to whom we are indebted for the happy idea. Now that you're older and will be circulating more with maturer persons over there you will be astonished at the lack of embarrassment with which ladies and gentlemen of even the most refined sort refer to such matters. So be prepared for that, will you?”

“Yes, sir.” . . .

“Charles, I hope that you will be a student in Paris in your twenties, as I was. We were all poor, but we had a lot of fun. Be sure that you live on the Left Bank, and
pretend
that you're poor. Don't drink too much Pernod; the only time that I was ever beastly drunk was on Pernod—watch that, will you? What times we had! I'll tell you a story—it's a little risqué, but you don't mind a bit of that when it's not disgusting, do you? . . . To save money we used to press our pants by putting them under our mattresses; that gave them a razor-edge crease, see? Well, my roommate was a music student and one afternoon his professor invited us both to his home for tea with his wife and daughter—delightful people. And Madame Bergeron commented on the elegance of his clothing and especially that brilliant crease. ‘Thank you, madame,' he said, ‘Monsieur North and I have a secret about that. Every night we put our trousers under our
maîtresses
.' Madame Bergeron, laughing heartily, waved her hands in the air, and then politely and smilingly corrected him.”

That was a dynamite word. Charles was so stunned that it took him ten minutes to think it over. Maybe it was on that occasion that for the first time I saw the ghost of a smile on his face.

One morning Charles brought me a message from his mother. She invited me to an informal Sunday supper with the family at the end of the week.

“Charles, that is very kind of your mother and of you all. I shall write her a note. I shall have to explain that I'd made a rule to accept no invitation whatever. I want you to read the note I shall write to her and I know you both will understand. But it's very hard to refuse this kindness from your mother. May I tell you in confidence, Charles, that my work carries me into many cottages in Newport and I've met a number of the admired hostesses in this town.
In confidence
, not
one
can hold a candle to your mother for distinction and charm and what the French call
race
. I'd always heard that the ladies of Baltimore belonged to a class apart and now I know it to be true.” I struck his elbow. “You're a lucky man, Charles. I hope you live up to that privilege. I like to think of you finding a hundred delicate ways of expressing not only your affection, but your admiration and gratitude to so remarkable a mother—as all French sons do, and—I'm sorry to say—all American sons don't. You do, don't you, Charles?”

“Oui . . . oui, monsieur le professeur.”

“I must say I'm glad that this kind invitation wasn't brought to me—face to face—by Eloise. The man hasn't been born who could refuse a request from Eloise.” I added in English, “Do you understand what I mean?”

He returned my deep glance into his eyes—“Yes,” he said, and for the first time he laughed deeply. He understood.

But there was still much work to be done.

“Bonjour, Charles.”

“Bonjour, monsieur le professeur.”

“Today we're going to work with the conditional mood, with verbs ending in
ir
, and with the second person singular
tu
. You use
tu
to children, to your very old friends, and to members of your family, though I've been told that until about 1914 even husbands and wives addressed one another as
vous
. You notice that I always address you as
vous;
if we haven't quarreled in the meantime, I might address you as
tu
five years from now. Often in French, and always in Spanish, God is addressed as
Tu
, capital
T
. Of course, lovers call each other
tu;
all such conversations in bed are in this second person singular.”

Up ran the scarlet flag.

Forty minutes of grammar drill.

Then at ten minutes past nine: “Now for some practice in conversation. Today we're going to have some man-to-man conversation. We'd better move to that table in the corner where we won't be overheard.”

He looked at me in alarm and we moved to the corner. “Charles, you've been in Paris. After dark you must have often seen certain women of the street strolling singly or in couples. Or you've heard them addressing passing gentlemen in a low voice from doorways and alleys—what do they usually say?”

The scarlet flag was high on the mast. I waited. At last he murmured, strangulatedly,
“Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?”

“Good! Since you're very young, they may say,
‘Tu es seul, mon petit? Veux-tu que je t'accompagne?'
Or you're sitting alone at a bar and one of these
petites dames
slides up beside you and puts her arm through yours :
‘Tu veux m'offrir un verre?'
How do you answer these questions, Charles? You're an American and a gentleman and you've had some experience with these encounters.”

Charles was in a crimson agony. I waited. Finally he ventured,
“Non, mademoiselle . . . merci.”
Then added generously,
“Pas ce soir.”

“
Très bien
, Charles! Could you make it a little more easy and charming? These poor souls are earning their living. They're not exactly beggars, are they? They have something to sell. They're not contemptible—not in France, they aren't. Can you try again?”

“I . . . I don't know.”

“At the school where I've been teaching there's a master who teaches French. He loves France and goes to France every summer. He hates women and is afraid of them. He prides himself on his virtue and righteousness and he's a really dreadful man. In Paris he goes for strolls in the evening just so that he can humiliate these women. He told the story to us fellow-masters to illustrate what a tower of Christian morality he was. When he's spoken to by one of these women he turns on her and says, ‘
Vous me faites ch——!
' That's a very vulgar expression; it's far worse than saying ‘You make me vomit.' He told us that the girl or girls sprang back from him aghast crying,
‘Pourquoi? Pourquoi?'
He'd had his little triumph. What do you think of that?”