Olympy and Maria “came with” the villa my wife and I rented on Cap d’Antibes. Maria was a deep-bosomed, large-waisted woman, as persistently pleasant as Riviera weather in a good season; no mistral ever blew in the even climate of her temperament. She must have been more than forty-five but she was as strong as a root; once when I had trouble getting a tough cork out of a wine bottle she took hold and whisked it out as if it had been a maidenhair fern. On Sundays her son came over from the barracks in Antibes and we all had a glass of white Bordeaux together, sometimes the Sementzoffs’ wine, sometimes our own. Her son was eighteen and a member of the Sixth Regiment of Chasseurs Alpins, a tall, somber boy, handsome in his uniform and cape. He was an enfant du premier lit, as the French say. Maria made her first bed with a sergeant of the army who was cordonnier for his regiment during the war and seemed somehow to have laid by quite a little money. After the war the sergeant-shoemaker resigned from the army, put his money in investments of some profoundly mysterious nature in Indo-China, and lost it all. “Il est mort,” Maria told us, “de chagrin.” Grief over his ill-fortune brought on a decline; the chagrin, Maria said, finally reached his brain, and he died at the age of thirty-eight. Maria had to sell their house to pay the taxes, and go to work.
Olympy Sementzoff, Maria’s second husband, was shy, not very tall, and wore a beard; in his working clothes you didn’t notice much more than that. When he was dressed for Sunday—he wore a fine double-breasted jacket—you observed that his mouth was sensitive, his eyes attractively sad, and that he wore his shyness with a certain air. He worked in a boat factory over near Cannes—Maria said that he was a spécialiste de bateaux; odd jobs about the villa grounds he did on his off days. It was scarcely light when he got up in the morning, for he had to be at work at seven; it was almost dark when he got home. He was paid an incredibly small amount for what he did at the factory and a handful of sous each month for what he did about the grounds. When I gave him a hundred francs for some work he had done for me in the house—he could repair anything from a drain to a watch—he said, “Oh, monsieur, c’est trop!” “Mais non, monsieur,” said I. “Ce n’est pas beaucoup.” He took it finally, after an exchange of bows and compliments.
The elderly wife of the Frenchman from whom we rented the villa told us, in a dark whisper, that Olympy was a White Russian and that there was perhaps a petit mystère about him, but we figured this as her own fanciful bourgeois alarm. Maria did not make a mystery out of her husband. There was the Revolution, most of Olympy’s brothers and sisters were killed—one knew how that was—and he escaped. He was, of course, an exile and must not go back. If she knew just who he was in Russia and what he had done, she didn’t make it very clear. He was in Russia and he escaped; she had married him thirteen years before; et puis, voilà! It would have been nice to believe that there was the blood of the Czars in Olympy, but if there was anything to the ancient legend that all the stray members of the Imperial House took easily and naturally to driving a taxi, that let Olympy out. He was not a born chauffeur, as I found out the day I came back from our automobile ride on foot and—unhappily for Maria—alone.
Olympy Sementzoff rode to and from his work in one of those bastard agglomerations of wheels, motor and superstructure that one saw only in France. It looked at first glance like the cockpit of a cracked-up plane. Then you saw that there were two wheels in front and a single wheel in back. Except for the engine—which Maria said was a “Morgan moteur”—and the wheels and tires, it was handmade. Olympy’s boss at the boat factory had made most of it, but Olympy himself had put on the ailes, or fenders, which were made of some kind of wood. The strange canopy that served as a top was Maria’s proud handiwork; it seemed to have been made of canvas and kitchen aprons. The thing had a right-hand drive. When the conducteur was in his seat he was very low to the ground: you had to bend down to talk to him. There was a small space beside the driver in which another person could sit, or crouch. The whole affair was not much larger than an overturned cabinet victrola. It got bouncingly under way with all the racket of a dog fight and in full swing was capable of perhaps thirty miles an hour. The contraption had cost Olympy three thousand francs, or about a hundred dollars. He had driven it for three years and was hand in glove with its mysterious mechanism. The gadgets on the dash and on the floorboard, which he pulled or pushed to make the thing go, seemed to include fire tongs, spoons, and doorknobs. Maria miraculously managed to squeeze into the seat beside the driver in an emergency, but I could understand why she didn’t want to drive to the Nice Carnival in the “Morgan.” It was because she didn’t that I suggested Olympy should take her over one day in my Ford sedan. Maria had given us to understand that her mari could drive any car—he could be a chauffeur if he wanted to, a bon chauffeur. All I would have to do, voyez-vous, was to take Olympy for a turn around the Cap so that he could get the hang of the big car. Thus it was that one day after lunch we set off.
Half a mile out of Antibes on the shore road, I stopped the car and changed places with Olympy, letting the engine run. Leaning forward, he took a tense grip on a steering wheel much larger than he was used to and too far away from him. I could see that he was nervous. He put his foot on the clutch, tentatively, and said, “Embrayage?” He had me there. My knowledge of French automotive terms is inadequate and volatile. I was forced to say I didn’t know. I couldn’t remember the word for clutch in any of the three languages, French, Italian and German, in which it was given in my “Motorist’s Guide” (which was back at the villa). Somehow “embrayage” didn’t sound right for clutch (it is, though). I knew it wouldn’t do any good for an American writer to explain in French to a Russian boat specialist the purpose that particular pedal served; furthermore, I didn’t really know. I compromised by putting my left foot on the brake. “Erein,” I said. “Ah,” said Olympy, unhappily. This method of indicating what something might be by demonstrating what it wasn’t had a disturbing effect. I shifted my foot to the accelerator—or rather pointed my toe at it—and suddenly the word for that, even the French for gasoline, left me. I was growing a little nervous myself. “Benzina,” I said, in Italian, finally. “Ah?” said Olympy. Whereas we had been one remove from reality to begin with, we were now two, or perhaps three, removes. A polyglot approach to the fine precision of a gas engine is roundabout and dangerous. We both lost a little confidence in each other. I suppose we should have given up right then, but we didn’t.
Olympy decided the extra pedal was the embrayage, shifted into low from neutral, and the next thing I knew we were making a series of short forward bounds like a rabbit leaping out of a wheat field to see where he is. This form of locomotion takes a lot out of man and car. The engine complained in loud, rhythmic whines. And then Olympy somehow got his left foot on the starter and there was a familiar undertone of protest; this set his right foot to palpitating on the accelerator and the rabbit-jumps increased in scope. Abandoning my search for the word for starter, I grabbed his left knee and shouted “Ça commence!” Just what was commencing Olympy naturally couldn’t figure—probably some habitual and ominous idiosyncrasy of the machinery. He gave me a quick, pale look. I shut off the ignition, and we discussed the starter situation, breathing a little heavily. He understood what it was, finally, and presently we were lurching ahead again, Olympy holding her in low gear, like a wrestler in a clinch, afraid to risk shifting into second. He tried it at last and with a jamming jolt and a roar we went into reverse: the car writhed like a tortured leopard and the engine quit.
I was puzzled and scared, and so was Olympy. Only a foolish pride in masculine fortitude kept us going. I showed him the little jog to the right you have to make to shift into second and he started the engine and we were off again, jolting and lurching. He made the shift, finally, with a noise like lightning striking a foundry—and veered swoopingly to the right. We barely missed a series of staunch granite blocks, set in concrete, that mark ditches and soft shoulders. We whisked past a pole. The leaves of a vine h
anging on a wall slapped at me through the window. My voice left me. I was fascinated and paralyzed by the swift passes disaster was making at my head. At length I was able to grope blindly toward the ignition switch, but got my wrist on the klaxon button. When I jerked my arm away, Olympy began obediently sounding the horn. We were riding on the edge of a ditch. I managed somehow to shut off the ignition and we rolled to a stop. Olympy, unused to a left-hand drive, had forgotten there was a large portion of the car to his right, with me in it. I told him, “A gauche, à gauche, toujours à gauche!” “Ah,” said Olympy, but there was no comprehension in him. I could see he didn’t know we had been up against the vines of villa walls: intent on the dark problem of gearshifting, he had been oblivious of where the car and I had been. There was a glint in his eye now. He was determined to get the thing into high on his next attempt; we had come about half a mile in the lower gears.
The road curved downhill as it passed Eden Roc and it was here that an elderly English couple, unaware of the fact that hell was loose on the highway, were walking. Olympy was in second again, leaning forward like a racing bicycle rider. I shouted at him to look out, he said “Oui”—and we grazed the old man and his wife. I glanced back in horror: they were staring at us, mouths and eyes wide, unable to move or make a sound. Olympy raced on to a new peril: a descending hairpin curve, which he negotiated in some far-fetched manner, with me hanging onto the emergency brake. The road straightened out, I let go the brake, and Olympy slammed into high with the desperate gesture of a man trying to clap his hat over a poised butterfly. We began to whiz: Olympy hadn’t counted on a fast pickup. He whirled around a car in front of us with a foot to spare. “Lentement!” I shouted, and then “Gauche!” as I began to get again the whimper of poles and walls in my ears. “Ça va mieux, maintenant,” said Olympy, quietly. A wild thought ran through my head that maybe this was the way they used to drive in Russia in the old days.
Ahead of us now was one of the most treacherous curves on the Cap. The road narrowed and bent, like a croquet wicket, around a high stone wall that shut off your view of what was coming. What was coming was usually on the wrong side of the road, so it wouldn’t do to shout “Gauche!” now. We made the turn all right. There was a car coming, but it was well over on its own side. Olympy apparently didn’t think so. He whirled the wheel to the right, didn’t take up the play fast enough in whirling it back, and there was a tremendous banging crash, like a bronze monument falling. I had a glimpse of Olympy’s right hand waving around like the hand of a man hunting for something under a table. I didn’t know what his feet were doing. We were still moving, heavily, with a ripping noise and a loud roar. “Poussez le phare!” I shouted, which means “push the headlight!” “Ah-h-h-h,” said Olympy. I shut off the ignition and pulled on the hand brake, but we had already stopped. We got out and looked at the pole we had sideswiped and at the car. The right front fender was crumpled and torn and the right back one banged up, but nothing else had been hurt. Olympy’s face was so stricken when he looked at me that I felt I had to cheer him up. “Il fait beau,” I announced, which is to say that the weather is fine. It was all I could think of.
I started for a garage that Olympy knew about. At the first street we came to he said “Gauche” and I turned left. “Ah, non,” said Olympy. “Gauche,” and he pointed the other way. “You mean droit?” I asked, just that way. “Ah!” said Olympy. “C’est bien ça!” It was as if he had thought of something he hadn’t been able to remember for days. That explained a great deal.
I left Olympy and the car at the garage; he said he would walk back. One of the garage men drove me into Juan-les-Pins and I walked home from there—and into a look of wild dismay in Maria’s eyes. I hadn’t thought about that: she had seen us drive away together and here I was, alone. “Où est votre mari?” I asked her, hurriedly. It was something of a failure as a reassuring beginning. I had taken the question out of her own mouth, so I answered it. “He has gone for a walk,” I told her. Then I tried to say that her husband was bon, but I pronounced it beau, so that what I actually said was that her husband was handsome. She must have figured that he was not only dead but laid out. There was a mauvais quart d’heure for both of us before the drooping figure of Olympy finally appeared. He explained sadly to Maria that the mechanism of the Ford is strange and curious compared to the mechanism of the Morgan. I agreed with him. Of course, he protested, he would pay for the repairs to the car, but Maria and I both put down that suggestion. Maria’s idea of my work was that I was paid by the City of New York and enjoyed a tremendous allowance. Olympy got forty francs a day at the boat factory.
That night, at dinner, Maria told us that her mari was pacing up and down in their little bedroom at the rear of the house. He was in a state. I didn’t want an attack of chagrin to come on him as it had on the cordonnier and perhaps reach his brain. When Maria was ready to go we gave her a handful of cigarettes for Olympy and a glass of Bénédictine. The next day, at dawn, I heard the familiar tintamarre and hurlement and brouhaha of Olympy’s wonderful contraption getting under way once more. He was off to the boat factory and his forty francs a day, his dollar and thirty cents. It would have cost him two weeks’ salary to pay for the fenders, but he would have managed it somehow. When I went down to breakfast, Maria came in from the kitchen with a large volume, well fingered and full of loose pages, which she handed to me. It was called Le Musée d’Art and subtitled Galerie des Chefs-d’œuvre et Précis de l’Histoire de l’Art au XIXe Siècle, en France et à l’Etranger (1000 gravures, 58 planches hors texte). A present to Monsieur from Olympy Sementzoff, with his compliments. The incident of the automobile was thus properly rounded off with an exchange of presents: cigarettes, Béné-dictine, and Le Musée d’Art. It seemed to me the way such things should always end, but perhaps Olympy and I were ahead of our day—or behind it.
FROM
MEN, WOMEN AND DOGS
“It’s a naïve domestic Burgundy without any breeding, but I think you’ll be amused by its presumption.”
“You’re going a bit far, Miss Blanchard.”
“You gah dam pussy cats!”
“It’s Lida Bascom’s husband—he’s frightfully unhappy.”
“Touché!”
“There’s no use you trying to save me, my good man.”
“I come from haunts of coot and hern!”
“They’re going to put you away if you don’t quit acting like this.”
“You and your premonitions!”
“You were wonderful at the Gardners’ last night, Fred, when you turned on the charm.”
“Here! Here! There’s a place for that, sir!”
“What have you done with Dr. Millmoss?”
“One of you men in the kitchen give the officer another drink!”
“For Heaven’s sake, why don’t you go outdoors and trace something?”
“I think of you as being enormously alive.”
“If you can keep a secret, I’ll tell you how my husband died.”
“He’s been like this ever since Munich.”
“Why did I ever marry below my emotional level!”
“I’d feel a great deal easier if her husband hadn’t gone to bed.”
“And this is Tom Weatherby, an old beau of your mother’s. He never got to first base.”
“Darling, I seem to have this rabbit.”
“I don’t know them either, dear, but there may be some very simple explanation.”
“I love the idea of there being two sexes, don’t you?”
“Well, I’m disenchanted, too. We’re all disenchanted.”
“I don’t want him to be comfortable if he’s going to look too funny.”
“This is like that awful afternoon we telephoned Mencken.”
“Unhappy woman!”
“I wouldn’t rent this room to everybody, Mr. Spencer. This is where my husband lost his mind.”
“I brought a couple of midgets—do you min
d?”
“This gentleman was kind enough to see me home, darling.”
“You said a moment ago that everybody you look at seems to be a rabbit. Now just what do you mean by that, Mrs. Sprague?”
“Well, who made the magic go out of our marriage—you or me?”
“Well, if I called the wrong number, why did you answer the phone?”
“Now I’m going to go in over your horns!”
“Which you am I talking to now?”
“The party’s breaking up, darling.”
“Look out, Harry!”