Abroad with the Jimmies Part 4

"And one afternoon at the Louvre to see the Venus and the Victory--" I pleaded.

"And the Father Tiber--" added Jimmie, waxing enthusiastic.

"Yes, and one dinner at the Pavilion d'Armenonville to hear the Tziganes--" said Bee.

"And one afternoon on the Seine to go to St. Cloud to see the brides dance at the Pavilion Bleu, and a supper afterward in the open to have a _poulet_ and a _peche flambee_."

Jimmie by this time was wriggling in ecstasy.

"And just time to order two or three gowns apiece and have one look at hats," added Mrs. Jimmie, complacently.

"'Two or three gowns apiece and one look at hats,'" cried Jimmie. "And how long will that take? We agreed on two days, and you never said a word about clothes. That means a whole week!"

"Not at all, Jimmie," said Bee. "It's too late to do anything to-night.

To-morrow morning we'll go and look. In the afternoon we'll think it over while we're doing the Louvre. It is always cool and quiet there, and looking at statuary always helps me to make up my mind about clothes. The next morning we'll go and order. In the afternoon we'll buy our hats, and with one day more for the first fittings, I believe we might manage and have the things sent after us to Baden-Baden."

"Not at all," put in Mrs. Jimmie. "They will never be satisfactory unless we put our minds on the subject and give them plenty of time. We must stay at least two days more. Give us four days, Jimmie."

I had to laugh at Jimmie's rueful face. He was about to remonstrate, but Bee switched him off diplomatically by saying, in her most deferential manner:

"What hotel have you decided on, Jimmie? It's such a comfort to be getting to a Paris hotel. What one do you think would be best?"

Bee's tone was so flattering that Jimmie forgot clothes and said:

"Well, you know at the Binda you can get corn on the cob and American griddle cakes--"

"Oh, but the rooms are so small and dark, and we could go there for luncheon to get those things," said his wife.

"Do let's go to the Hotel Vouillemont," I begged. "We won't see any Americans there, and it is so lovely and old and French, and so heavenly quiet."

"But then there is the new elysee Palace," said Bee. "We haven't seen that."

"And they say it's finer than the Waldorf," said Mrs. Jimmie.

Jimmie and I looked at each other in comical despair.

"Let 'em have their own way, Jimmie," I whispered in his ear, "while we're in their country. They know that we are going to make 'em dodge Switzerland and go up in the Austrian Tyrol and perhaps even get them to Russia, so we'll be obliged to give them their head part of the way.

Let's be handsome about it."

We went to the elysee Palace, and we spent two weeks in Paris. Part of this time we were fashionable with Mrs. Jimmie and Bee, and part of the time they were Latin Quartery with us. We made them go to the Concert Rouge and to the Restaurant Foyot, and occasionally even to sit on the sidewalk at one of the little tables at Scossa's, where you have _dejeuner au choix_ for one franc fifty, including wine, and which they couldn't help enjoying in spite of pretending to despise it and us, while occasionally we went with them to call on the grand and distinguished personages to whom they had letters. But it remained for the last days of our stay for us to have our experiences. The first came about in this wise.

I had brought a letter to Max Nordau from America, but I heard after I got to Paris that he was so fierce a woman hater, that I determined not to present it. I read it over every once in awhile, but failed to screw my courage to the sticking point, until one day I mentioned that I had this letter, and Jimmie to my surprise threw up both hands, exclaiming:

"A letter to Max Nordau! Why, it is like owning a gold mine! Present it by all means, and then tell us what he is like."

Afraid to present it in person, I sent it by mail, saying that I had heard that he hated women and that I was scared to death of him, but if he had a day in the near future on which he felt less fierce than usual, I would come to see him, and I asked permission to bring a friend. By "friend" I meant Jimmie.

The most charming note came in answer that a polished man of the world could write--not in the least like the bear I had imagined him to be, but courteous and even merry. In it he said he should feel honoured if I would visit his poor abode, and he seemed to have read my books and knew all about me, so with very mixed feelings Jimmie and I called at the hour he named.

He lives in one of the regulation apartment houses of Paris, of the meaner sort--by no means as fine as those in the American quarter. The most horrible odour of German cookery--cauliflower and boiled cabbage and vinegar and all that--floated out when the door opened. The room--a sort of living-room--into which we were ushered was a mixture of all sorts of furniture, black haircloth, dingy and old, with here and there a good picture or one fine chair, which I imagined had been presented to him.

Jimmie was much excited at the idea of meeting him. Max Nordau is one of his idols,--Nordau's horrible power of invective fully meeting Jimmie's ideas of the way crimes of the b.e.s.t.i.a.l sort should be treated. Jimmie is often a surprise to me in his beliefs and ideals, but when Doctor Nordau entered the room I forgot Jimmie and everything else in the world except this one man.

I can see him now as he stood before me--a thick-set man with a magnificent torso, but with legs which ought to have been longer. For that body he ought to have been six feet tall. When he is seated he appears to be a very large man. You would know that he was a physician from the way he shakes hands--even from the touch of his hand, which seems to be in itself a soothing of pain.

He was exquisitely clean. Indeed he seemed, after one look into his face, to be one of the cleanest men I ever had seen. And to look into the face of a man in Paris and to be able to say that, _means_ something.

His eyes were gray blue--very clear in colour. Their whites were really white--not bloodshot nor yellow. His skin was the clear, beautiful colour which you sometimes see in a young and handsome Jew. There was the same clear red and white. This distinguishing quality of clearness was noticeable too in his lips, for his short white moustache shows them to be full, very red, and with the line where the red joins the white extremely clear cut. His teeth were large, full, even, and white, like those of a primitive man, who tore his rare meat with those same white teeth, and who never heard of a dentist. His hair was short, white, and bristling. He seemed to have some Jewish blood in him, but he seemed more than all to be perfectly well, perfectly normal, filled to the brim with abounding life. It was like a draught from the Elixir of Life to be in his presence. What a man!

All at once the whole of "Degeneration" was made clear to me. How could any man as sane, as normal, as superbly health-loving and health-bestowing keep from writing such a book! I never met any one who so impressed me with his knowledge. Not pedantry, but with the deep-lying fundamental truth that humanity ought to know. His sympathies are so broad, his intuitions so keen, his understanding so subtle.

He asked us at once into his study--a small room, lined with books bound in calf. Both the chair and his couch had burst out beneath, showing broken springs and general dilapidation. He speaks many languages, and his English is very pure and beautiful.

Like all great men, his manner was extremely simple. He did not pose.

He was interested in me, in my work, in my ambitions, hopes, and aims.

He seemed to have no overpoweringly high idea of himself, nor of what he had achieved. He was thoroughly at home in French, German, English, Scandinavian, and Russian literature. He read them in the originals, and his knowledge of the cla.s.sics seemed to be equally complete. The well-worn books upon his shelves testified to this.

I asked him if he intended to come to America in the near future. To which he replied:

"Unhappily I cannot tell. I should like to go. I consider America the country of the world at present. Whether we admit it or not, all nations are watching you. The rest of the world cannot live without you. Russia is the only country in the world which could go to war without your a.s.sistance. You must feed Europe. Your men are the financiers of the world and your women rule and educate and are the saviours of the men.

Therefore to my mind the greatest factor in the world's civilisation to-day is the great body of the American women. You little know your power. _You_ seem to have got the ear of the American woman, and the only advice I have to give you is to be more bold. Don't be afraid of being too pedantic. You are too subtle. You bury your truths sometimes too deeply. The busy are too busy to dig for it, and the stupid do not know it is there."

"I think 'Degeneration' is the most wonderful book ever written," Jimmie broke in at this point as if unable to keep silent any longer. Then he looked deeply embarra.s.sed at Doctor Nordau's hearty laughter.

"Thank you a thousand times," he said; "such a decided opinion I seldom hear. Your great country was the first to appreciate and read it. I have many friends there whom I never saw but who love me and whom I love.

They often write to me."

"And beg autographs and photographs of you," I said.

"Oh, yes, but it is very easy to do what they ask. But one curious thing strikes me about America. See, here on my book shelves I have books written explaining the government of all countries in all languages--all countries, that is to say, except America. Why has no one ever written such an one about the United States?"

Jimmie p.r.i.c.ked up his ears as this phase of the conversation came home to him. He forgot his awe and said:

"What's the matter with Bryce?"

Doctor Nordau looked puzzled. He is a practising physician.

"'What's the matter with Bryce?'" he repeated.

Jimmie blushed.

"Haven't you read 'Bryce's Commonwealth?'" I broke in, to give Jimmie time to get on his legs again.

"Is there a book on American government by an American that I never heard of?" asked Nordau of Jimmie.

"Well, Bryce is an Englishman, but he knows more about America than any American I know," answered Jimmie. "I'll send you the book if you would like to read it."

Doctor Nordau thanked him and said he would be delighted to have it.

While Jimmie was making a note of this, Doctor Nordau looked quizzically at me and said: