John Passos - 1919

“That’s a very cynical remark,” said the California woman. “This isn’t any time to be cynical.”

“This is a time,” said Robbins, “when if we weren’t cynical we’d shoot ourselves.”

In March Eveline’s two week leave came around. Eleanor was going to make a trip to Rome to help wind up the affairs of the office there, so they decided they’d go down on the train together and spend a few days in Nice. They needed to get the damp cold of Paris out of their bones. Eveline felt as excited as a child the afternoon when they were all packed and ready to go and had bought wagon lit reservations and gotten their transport orders signed.

Mr. Rasmussen insisted on seeing her off and ordered up a big dinner in the restaurant at the Gare de Lyon that Eveline was too excited to eat, what with the smell of the coalsmoke and the thought of waking up where it would be sunny and warm. Paul Johnson appeared when they were about half through, saying he’d come to help them with their bags. He’d lost one of the buttons off his uniform and he looked gloomy and mussed up. He said he wouldn’t eat anything but nervously drank down several glasses of wine. Both he and Mr. Rasmussen looked like thunderclouds when Jerry Burnham appeared drunk as a lord carrying a large bouquet of roses. “Won’t that be taking coals to Newcastle, Jerry?” said Eveline. “You don’t know Nice… you’ll probably have skating down there… beautiful figure eights on the ice.” “Jerry,” said Eleanor in her chilly little voice, “you’re thinking of St. Moritz.” “You’ll be thinking of it too,” said Jerry, “when you feel that cold wind.”

Meanwhile Paul and Mr. Rasmussen had picked up their bags. “Honestly, we’d better make tracks,” said Paul, nervously jiggling Eveline’s suitcase. “It’s about traintime.” They all scampered through the station. Jerry Burnham had forgotten to buy a ticket and couldn’t go out on the platform; they left him arguing with the officials and searching his pockets for his presscard. Paul put the bags in the compartment and shook hands hurriedly with Eleanor. Eveline found his eyes in hers serious and hurt like a dog’s eyes.

“You won’t stay too long, will you? There’s not much time left,” he said. Eveline felt she’d like to kiss him, but the train was starting. Paul scrambled off. All Mr. Rasmussen could do was hand some papers and Jerry’s roses through the window and wave his hat mournfully from the platform. It was a relief the train had started. Eleanor was leaning back against the cushions laughing and laughing.

“I declare, Eveline. You’re too funny with your Romeos.” Eveline couldn’t help laughing herself. She leaned over and patted Eleanor on the shoulder. “Let’s just have a wonderful time,” she said.

Next morning early when Eveline woke up and looked out they were in the station at Marseilles. It gave her a funny feeling because she’d wanted to stop off there and see the town, but Eleanor had insisted on going straight to Nice, she hated the sordidness of seaports she’d said. But later when they had their coffee in the diner, looking out at the pines and the dry hills and headlands cutting out blue patches of the Mediterranean, Eveline felt excited and happy again.

They got a good room in a hotel and walked through the streets in the cool sunshine among the wounded soldiers and officers of all the allied armies and strolled along the Promenade des Anglais under the grey palmtrees and gradually Eveline began to feel a chilly feeling of disappointment coming over her. Here was her two weeks leave and she was going to waste it at Nice. Eleanor kept on being crisp and cheerful and suggested they sit down in the big café on the square where a brass band was playing and have a little dubonnet before lunch. After they’d sat there for some time, looking at the uniforms and the quantities of overdressed women who were no better than they should be, Eveline leaned back in her chair and said, “And now that we’re here, darling, what on earth shall we do?”

The next morning Eveline woke late; she almost hated to get up as she couldn’t imagine how she was going to pass the time all day. As she lay there looking at the stripes of sunlight on the wall that came through the shutters, she heard a man’s voice in the adjoining room, that was Eleanor’s. Eveline stiffened and listened. It was J.W.’s voice. When she got up and dressed she found her heart was pounding. She was pulling on her best pair of transparent black silk stockings when Eleanor came in, “Who do you think’s turned up? J.W. just motored down to see me off to Italy… He said it was getting too stuffy for him around the Peace Conference and he had to get a change of air… Come on in, Eveline, dear, and have some coffee with us.”

She can’t keep the triumph out of her voice, aren’t women silly, thought Eveline. “That’s lovely, I’ll be right in, darling,” she said in he most musical tones.

J.W. had on a light grey flannel suit and a bright blue necktie and his face was pink from the long ride. He was in fine spirits. He’d driven down from Paris in fifteen hours with only four hours sleep after dinner in Lyons. They all drank a great deal of bitter coffee with hot milk and planned out a ride.

It was a fine day. The big Packard car rolled them smoothly along the Corniche. They lunched at Monte Carlo, took a look at the casino in the afternoon and went on and had tea in an English tearoom in Mentone. Next day they went up to Grasse and saw the perfume factories, and the day after they put Eleanor on the rapide for Rome. J.W. was to leave immediately afterwards to go back to Paris. Eleanor’s thin white face looked a little forlorn Eveline thought, looking out at them through the window of the wagonlit. When the train pulled out Eveline and J.W. stood on the platform in the empty station with the smoke swirling milky with sunlight under the glass roof overhead and looked at each other with a certain amount of constraint. “She’s a great little girl,” said J.W. “I’m very fond of her,” said Eveline. Her voice rang false in her ears. “I wish we were going with her.”

They walked back out to the car. “Where can I take you, Eveline, before I pull out, back to the hotel?” Eveline’s heart was pounding again. “Suppose we have a little lunch before you go, let me invite you to lunch.” “That’s very nice of you… well, I suppose I might as well, I’ve got to lunch somewhere. And there’s no place fit for a white man between here and Lyons.”

They lunched at the casino over the water. The sea was very blue. Outside there were three sailboats with lateen sails making for the entrance to the port. It was warm and jolly, smelt of wine and food sizzled in butter in the glassedin restaurant. Eveline began to like it in Nice.

J.W. drank more wine than he usually did. He began to talk about his boyhood in Wilmington and even hummed a little of a song he’d written in the old days. Eveline was thrilled. Then he began to tell her about Pittsburgh and his ideas about capital and labor. For dessert they had peaches flambé with rum; Eveline recklessly ordered a bottle of champagne. They were getting along famously.

They began to talk about Eleanor. Eveline told about how she’d met Eleanor in the Art Institute and how Eleanor had meant everything to her in Chicago, the only girl she’d ever met who was really interested in the things she was interested in, and how much talent Eleanor had, and how much business ability. J.W. told about how much she’d meant to him during the trying years with his second wife Gertrude in New York, and how people had misunderstood their beautiful friendship that had been always free from the sensual and the degrading.

“Really,” said Eveline, looking J.W. suddenly straight in the eye, “I’d always thought you and Eleanor were lovers.” J.W. blushed. For a second Eveline was afraid she’d shocked him. He wrinkled up the skin around his eyes in a comical boyish way. “No, honestly not… I’ve been too busy working all my life ever to develop that side of my nature… People think differently about those things than they did.” Eveline nodded. The deep flush on his face seemed to have set her cheeks on fire. “And now,” J.W. went on, shaking his head gloomily, “I’m in my forties and it’s too late.”