Читать книгу A voyage to Pagany - William Carlos Williams - Страница 8

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The third day of his stay in the French capital Evans called, as he would think of it in the following weeks, just Paris. He had had a wildly sleepless night. But in the morning he received a note he had been expecting. It read: Arrived safely. All set. Wednesday evening at the Quai d’Orsay. Signed, Lou.

All right. America to the fore. And with that he put all trouble behind him, arose and went out into the air.

This was the night for which Jack had promised him the literary banquet. At noon he was to lunch with his sister and their aunt. Now he went for a stroll toward the Champs Elysées.

As he crossed the river before the Chambre des Députés he leaned to watch more closely the fish-catching. The poles were so long, the men so staid-looking, the fish so bright and shiny and so small that he could not but laugh.

Again as he walked he saw men and women greeting each other familiarly with kisses on the street. It was the Paris that charmed him. Just the sense one had of being here—just Paris. But it seemed absurd that the greatest thrill he had that morning was when, still early, he stumbled by chance upon the place François Premier.

This tiny gray plaza, but a step from the great Arc de Triomphe, did for him exactly what he wanted France that day to do. Standing there he found himself all unconsciously addressing the low gray houses, with the small plot of grass around the statue in the center, as if it were a person.—Where did you come from, you beautiful creature “with the cross between your horns”?—Thrills coursed up and down his spine, tears came to his eyes as if he had been a starved man looking upon a fruitful oasis. It seemed ridiculous even to him to be thus standing there crying; he looked around hurriedly to see if there were any from whom he should hide his tears. But the cobbled streets abutting upon the little symmetrical place were all empty.

And still he stood and looked at the low gray houses ranged around in an hexagonal symmetry and, feeling broken down, low, peasant-plain, he put a pear, which he had just bought, again to his lips like a country bumpkin and looked, asking himself what it was all about. Was it just an asile, an escape from roar to quietude and symmetry? This did not seem quite enough. As far as he could tell, it said Braque. It linked completely with the modern spirit. It was France, cold, gray, dextrous, multiform, and yet gracious—its smallness, in this case, endeared it to him. It came all pressed up ready to understand, to be understood, to carry away like the bundles they handed you so graciously in the department stores.

He walked thoughtfully on, eating his pear.

But at the bridgehead facing the École Militaire, he stopped again at a piece of brilliance unequalled in his experience: there passed a high-powered motor car, a limousine of great size and most immaculate blackness, with two men in staid untrimmed livery on the front seat. But the car shone, the glass flashed brilliantly as if specially polished, and inside Evans saw two boys about twelve and fourteen years of age, blossoms of a stagnant birth rate, males exquisitely finished, sitting in position on the back seat with eyes as brightly burning as the car was brightly polished, but restrained, symmetrical, one like the other: design, intelligence and a cold fire.

At noon he went to keep his engagement with his family, when, with their “Auntie” at the famous Tour d’Argent, his sister and he attacked without relish the well-known canard pressé. At the same time it must be added that though the duck at the old hostelry was far too bloody a morsel for these two plain-eating Americans, yet the bottle of Corton they had before it Evans remembered as one of those significant minor events which by being perfectly appropriate to the moment remain forever memorable. And here they arranged the trip Bess and he were to take “together”—feeling somewhat subdued and mean about it all.

At four, leaving the others, Evans went to the Dome as agreed the day before. Jack was there with Salter and his lovely wife. Jack at a table next to the open sidewalk beckoned and Dev sat down. The tables were crowded. Jack said little but pinched his thin lips up once or twice and sipped his whisky. People were jammed in, one on top of another, it being a fine p.m. Three “girls,” arm in arm, were talking earnestly together at the curb before the tables: Kiki, Zaza and a little Polish model. Jack began pointing out the celebrities, Russian, English, French and American of various degrees of distinction, success, despondency; rich, starving, lewd or whatever it might be. There was a certain type of international Dome face one might have detected in them all, a sort of wary face, a little on parade. There was little vivacity apparent in anyone. Occasionally some woman would come up and be kissed by a man, her husband watching or not as it might be. She would sit then with a little group, a man here or there moving a few inches to give her place. People got up and wandered off. The waiters moved about with glasses. It was as if each group was more or less in its own rooms. One was walked upon without resentment—unless it suited. Some avoided the eyes of others. Occasionally two would look, whisper and stare. All seemed waiting. Not all, for some, inside the windows, were playing chess in what appeared to be complete absorption. Women wandered about. A man would stand in the door staring off down the street.

How is your baby? asked a wealthy married woman of the little Polish model who had come up to greet her.

Very well, now, and how is your baby?

In general, it was a well dressed crowd. There is Léger. Evans saw this one, that one. Presently George Andrews came up, then Mary Lloyd and her beautiful daughter. All sat and drank, the women painted their lips.

It was fun. Joyce did not come here. But many Evans had known, whose work he had admired, whether in writing, painting, music, sculpture, seemed to be here or had been here or must be coming here soon.

It was decidedly an atmosphere where conversation could take place. It was an atmosphere, liberal, phoenix young or old, like a park or a place in the woods, or it had an air of isolation, indifference, about it that might have been the atmosphere of a wild tribal village—without the danger of attack. A prince here or there, a prominent figure from some last year’s show in New York. All came up to the level of the Dome. One left behind all his “side.” One was, at least for the sitting at a table and drinking, equal to any other, while no one presumed to believe it so. One came and went and looked or did not look. One talked. Ah, there’s so and so.

Let’s get out of this, Jack said suddenly in his usual abrupt manner.

They got up and hailed a taxi.

At the Trianon, where Jack had arranged for the supper, the regular patrons of the little restaurant with the strong cellar smell in the entrance corridor, were departing. In the back room six or eight small tables were placed end to end before the upholstered wallbench to one side and in a moment eight or ten of the guests arrived. Others followed—more than were invited for this is the custom, it seems, in Paris. These were mostly English and Americans who Jack thought might be interested in Evans; at least, he wanted to honor Evans by having them meet him. For the few things Dev had contributed now and again to the lesser known literary papers had been frequently admired.

Evans was a man who enjoyed writing. He wrote because he loved it and he wrote eagerly, to be doing well something which he had a taste for, and for this only did he write. As far as wishing to advance his acquaintanceship by his writing, or to advance himself, it never entered his mind. If they liked it, he was entranced; if not, he didn’t blame them. So that now he felt uneasy. But none let him be so for long.

With the American cocktails the conversation became general and before many minutes it became uproarious. Evans need not have worried about himself. They asked him for a speech, which he could not make. He said something stupid in his embarrassment, however—something he never forgave himself for saying, and Jack heard it. Something about the honor that is done corpses in Paris—where all men on the street doff their hats when a funeral is passing.

But it was a magnificent dinner, wine flowed fast and expensively. Jack sang Bolliky Bill. Others sang. H. tried vainly to shout a sailor story across the table. Some ate for the week, perhaps. But some were silent and looking.

Evans drank. Some one kissed him. He grasped the arm. He was being swallowed. He playfully nipped the tender skin of his admirer below the elbow with his teeth—Is not this what is required?

But he knew Jack was watching him.

To him it all meant nothing, something that might be for some one else; he drank, he was restless. He was glad it was over.

Back to the Dome went many of the guests, others turning home early. For the former, after several high-balls, taxis were chartered when out they all piled at a nigger joint on the other side of the river.

Jack forgot everyone and stood from then on at the bar. He drank.

Evans drank and danced with Delise whom they had picked up at the Dome. He had at once formed a passionate attachment for this sleek-haired American woman. The minute he had looked at her clear eyes, Evans had determined to keep close to her. She was wildly hilarious that night. Before many minutes she was on the table taking off her stockings. One foot at a time she held in the air removing the shoe, then the stocking, then putting back the shoe she repeated the process with the other leg. Dev was jammed in between two others on the cushion side of the table next the wall. Delise jumped down forcing herself next to him and turning at once looked full into his eyes while the others, seeing how things stood, found other interests. They two became oblivious to everyone as he began to kiss her again and again.

No one paid any attention.

Delise jumped to her feet in another instant and seeing Jack at the bar, she ran over and grabbed him by the hand. Out into the middle of the floor she drew him and there they danced—wildly. Several well-groomed men at another table applauded her loudly. She danced like mad, her bare legs flying. Jack followed her as a foil till he was tired and went back to the bar.

Dev, slightly drunk, could not get up and go, he could not. He looked and admired her. One of the gentlemen outside the party got up. Delise accepted his offer. They danced to the nigger jazz all over the place. An American sailor and a French girl now got on the floor; this was the girl Dev knew was going to the tuberculosis sanatorium in the morning.

Delise left the floor and acknowledging the gentleman’s bow carelessly she came back to Dev’s table, panting, placing her arms out flat on the cold surface and her head over them, panting. Dev stroked her hair.

Dev thoughtfully kissed the back of her neck, tenderly, lovingly—with greatest admiration and tenderness.

What a delightful thing—drunkenness. He grew furious at the damned stupidity of his people. Whose people? Look, he thought, at this beautiful girl, this armed, able woman. Look! compare her with that, that God damned hell hole of a country.—He wanted to be profane. Instead he kissed her arms, admiringly, tenderly again, with intensity, with peculiar heat such as he knew, he knew—but who else would understand it in him? He was a timid fool—not at all; only he knew, or could ever know.

He kissed her drunkenly. But she looked up with an understanding smile and taking him with her they were on the floor together, nobody watching them.

But Evans was a poor dancer. The fire was not in him for that. Maybe it was his age. Once he had danced. Delise soon left him and then all moved out once more to the taxis. It was three a.m. Where shall we go now? To the Dingo.

There, there was a crowd at the bar. They sat, Dev and Delise, to themselves in a corner and Dev patted her face between his hands, the drink bothered him a little but it gave, it gave much. There was an English woman in the corner gathering up her man, her man in a dress suit, silly, paralyzed, helpless, drunk. But Dev shook his own head a little to clear his vision and—caressed Delise. She was quiet.

Why are there not more men like you, dear? she said. He looked hard at her clear eyes. You are tender, kind. Nobody else knows how to be so kind.—Dev only kissed her. She leaned over the table into his arms; tenderly he held her as if it were the whole world he were holding. Amazed, puzzled, wishing nothing else, knowing it was nothing.

Leaning closer she confided to him her jealousy over Garda. Her feeling that when Maurice smiled at her, at Garda, that she, Delise, couldn’t bear it. Why are you so good, why are you so good? Why do I tell you this? she kept saying. You ask for nothing.—She leaned over and nipped the graying hair at his temples with her sharp white teeth. You don’t ask for anything. What is it?

Dev felt—as he always felt: what? And that’s all he could say. What? What? I love you. I love to kiss you, dearest. But what? What?

Then he drank, drank and slept with his head on his arm. Delise had gone to another table and was leaning upon another’s shoulders. Later, all went out to a little place near the Gare Montparnasse. They had fried eggs with the laborers who came there for breakfast.

Jack didn’t eat. He was drunker than Evans. He was peevish.

They left the others and walked home in the dawn. Jack felt quarrelsome.

The trouble with you, Dev, he said, is that you’re a damned fool. Didn’t know you were so soft.

Yes.—But it cut deep. The whole thing was clear to Evans. The assinine attempt at a speech, and so forth, and so forth, and so forth. Anyhow, he felt that way. To hell with all of them then.

Why don’t you do something?—and there were worse things said.