John Passos - 1919

“You pick out a nice Burgundy, Jerry, to warm us up a little…. But you wrote an article about J.W. yourself… I saw it reprinted in that column in the Herald. ”

“Go ahead, rub it in… Christ, I swear, Eveline, I’m going to get out of this lousy trade and… that was all plain oldfashioned bushwa and I thought you’d have had the sense to see it. Gee, this is good sole.”

“Delicious… but Jerry, you’re the one ought to have more sense.”

“I dunno I thought you were different from other upperclass women, made your own living and all that.”

“Let’s not wrangle, Jerry, let’s have some fun, here we are in Paris and the war’s over and it’s a fine wintry day and everybody’s here….”

“War over, my eye,” said Jerry rudely. Eveline thought he was just too tiresome, and looked out the window at the ruddy winter sunlight and the old Medici fountain and the delicate violet lacework of the bare trees behind the high iron fence of the Luxemburg Garden. Then she looked at Jerry’s red intense face with the turnedup nose and the crisp boyishly curly hair that was beginning to turn a little grey; she leaned over and gave the back of his hand a couple of little pats.

“I understand, Jerry, you’ve seen things that I haven’t imagined… I guess it’s the corrupting influence of the Red Cross.”

He smiled and poured her out some more wine and said with a sigh:

“You’re the most damnably attractive woman I ever met, Eveline… but like all women what you worship is power, when money’s the main thing it’s money, when it’s fame it’s fame, when it’s art, you’re a goddamned artlover… I guess I’m the same, only I kid myself more.”

Eveline pressed her lips together and didn’t say anything. She suddenly felt cold and frightened and lonely and couldn’t think of anything to say. Jerry gulped down a glass of wine and started talking about throwing up his job and going to Spain to write a book. He said he didn’t pretend to have any selfrespect, but that being a newspaper correspondent was too damn much nowadays. Eveline said she never wanted to go back to America, she felt life would be just too tiresome there after the war.

When they’d had their coffee they walked through the gardens. Near the senate chamber some old gentlemen were playing croquet in the last purplish patch of afternoon sunlight. “Oh, I think the French are wonderful,” said Eveline. “Second childhood,” growled Jerry. They rambled aimlessly round the streets, reading palegreen yellow and pink theatre notices on kiosks, looking into windows of antique-shops. “We ought both to be at our offices,” said Jerry. “I’m not going back,” said Eveline, “I’ll call up and say I have a cold and have gone home to bed… I think I’ll do that anyway.” “Don’t do that, let’s play hookey and have a swell time.” They went to the café opposite St. Germain-des-Prés. When Eveline came back from phoning, Jerry had bought her a bunch of violets and ordered cognac and seltzer. “Eveline, let’s celebrate,” he said, “I think I’ll cable the sonsobitches and tell ’em I’ve resigned.” “Do you think you ought to do that, Jerry? After all it’s a wonderful opportunity to see the peace conference and everything.”

After a few minutes she left him and walked home. She wouldn’t let him come with her. As she passed the window where they’d been sitting she looked in; he was ordering another drink.

On the rue de Bussy the market was very jolly under the gaslights. It all smelt of fresh greens, and butter and cheese. She bought some rolls for breakfast and a few little cakes in case somebody came in to tea. It was cosy in her little pink and white salon with the fire of brickettes going in the grate. Eveline wrapped herself up in a steamerrug and lay down on the couch.

She was asleep when her bell jingled. It was Eleanor and J.W. come to inquire how she was. J.W. was free tonight and wanted them to come to the opera with him to see Castor and Pollux. Eveline said she was feeling terrible but she thought she’d go just the same. She put on some tea for them and ran into her bedroom to dress. She felt so happy she couldn’t help humming as she sat at her dressingtable looking at herself in the glass. Her skin looked very white and her face had a quiet mysterious look she liked. She carefully put on very little lipstick and drew her hair back to a knot behind; her hair worried her, it wasn’t curly and didn’t have any particular color: for a moment she thought she wouldn’t go. Then Eleanor came in with a cup of tea in her hand telling her to hurry because they had to go down and wait while she dressed herself and that the opera started early. Eveline didn’t have any real evening wrap so she had to wear an old rabbitfur coat over her eveningdress. At Eleanor’s they found Robbins waiting; he wore a tuxedo that looked a little the worse for wear. J.W. was in the uniform of a Red Cross major. Eveline thought he must have been exercising, because his jowl didn’t curve out from the tight high collar as much as it had formerly.

They ate in a hurry at Poccardi’s and drank a lot of badly made Martinis. Robbins and J.W. were in fine feather, and kept them laughing all the time. Eveline understood now why they worked together so well. At the opera, where they arrived late, it was wonderful, glittering with chandeliers and uniforms. Miss Williams, J.W.’s secretary, was already in the box. Eveline thought how nice he must be to work for, and for a moment bitterly envied Miss Williams, even to her peroxide hair and her brisk chilly manner of talking. Miss Williams leaned back and said they’d missed it, that President and Mrs. Wilson had just come in and had been received with a great ovation, and Marshal Foch was there and she thought President Poincaré.

Between the acts they worked their way as best they could into the crowded lobby. Eveline found herself walking up and down with Robbins, every now and then she’d catch sight of Eleanor with J.W. and feel a little envious.

“They put on a better show out here than they do on the stage,” said Robbins.

“Don’t you like the production…. I think it’s a magnificent production.”

“Well, I suppose looked at from the professional point of view….”

Eveline was watching Eleanor, she was being introduced to a French general in red pants; she looked handsome this evening in her hard chilly way. Robbins tried to pilot them in through the crowd to the little bar, but they gave it up, there were too many people ahead of them. Robbins started all at once to talk about Baku and the oil business. “It’s funny as a crutch,” he kept saying, “while we sit here wrangling under schoolmaster Wilson, John Bull’s putting his hands on all the world’s future supplies of oil… just to keep it from bolos. They’ve got Persia and the messpot and now I’ll be damned if they don’t want Baku.” Eveline was bored and thinking to herself that Robbins had been in his cups too much again, when the bell rang.

When they got back to their box a leanfaced man who wasn’t in evening clothes was sitting in the back talking to J.W. in a low voice. Eleanor leaned over to Eveline and whispered in her ear, “That was General Gouraud.” The lights went out; Eveline found she was forgetting herself in the deep stateliness of the music. At the next intermission she leaned over to J.W. and asked him how he liked it. “Magnificent,” he said, and she saw to her surprise that he had tears in his eyes. She found herself talking about the music with J.W. and the man without a dress suit, whose name was Rasmussen.

It was hot and crowded in the tall overdecorated lobby. Mr. Rasmussen managed to get a window open and they went out on the balcony that opened on the serried lights that dimmed down the avenue into a reddish glow of fog.