Herma

by MacDonald Harris

  “It’s in the Symposium. Once mankind was one, Plato tells us, and there was only a single sex. The two that we have now were joined together in a single being, in perpetual bliss. But, not content with their mortal happiness, these creatures attempted to climb into Heaven and lay hands on the gods. As a punishment, Zeus had them cut in two and banished to the opposite corners of the earth. Since then the halves have been separated, each wandering over the earth looking for the other.”

  “‘And when one of them meets with his other half,’” he went on, falling into his theatrical reading voice and evidently quoting from memory, “‘the actual half of himself, whether he be a youth or a lover of another sort, the pair are lost in amazement of love and friendship and intimacy, and will not be out of the other’s sight even for a moment; these are the people who pass their whole lives together, yet they could not explain what they desire of the other.’”

  He paused to see if she had some comment, but she said nothing.

  “I have looked high for my other half, and I have looked low,” he went on in his ordinary voice. “But I have not found him.” (The French was ambiguous—“Je ne l’ai pas trouvé”—it could be either him or her.) “Once I almost found him but he slipped away. Now I’ve despaired of finding him. And so I am as you see me. J’en suis malade—I am sick of this disease.”

  “You have asthma. That can happen to anybody.”

  “No. I am not speaking of that. The disease I am speaking of is love. I mean even in the purest of its forms, the love of the mind. The other thing—more concupiscence—may be an evil. But love is a disease, and that is far worse.”

  He had kept his eyes intently on her all along. But here he paused and seemed to stare at her even more fixedly, a restrained smile at the corners of his mouth. “As I told you once, I am very observant. That is my métier. And I have observed something about you that no one else has noticed.”

  She waited.

  “It is that no one has ever seen you together.”

  “Marcel …”

  “So I have guessed your secret. No, it is not that the two are one. It is that it is this other that you love—the other that is yourself. An other who will always elude you, even though you may go seeking him eternally over the face of the earth. Because you are reaching for a person who can never be grasped, who will always elude you. And who will reach for you too in vain, in just the same way.”

  She looked back at him quite calmly, still saying nothing.

  “In general, people should beware of telling their secrets to novelists. Because the novelists will always reveal them, even though they swear not to. In most cases, this is why people tell the secrets—because they secretly want them to be revealed.”

  “I don’t.”

  “I know. And you needn’t worry, I will never reveal yours, because it is too strange for any story. No one would believe it. Even when I tell my own secret in my book, it will be carefully concealed so that no one will recognize it.”

  “So it is not asthma then. You are sick of your secret.”

  He nodded.

  “But I am not.”

  “Are you so sure?” He waited, and when she said nothing he went on. “We are more alike than you think. We have committed the Sin Against the Holy Ghost, the sin for which there is no forgiveness—that of loving no one but one’s own self. And the punishment for that is first loneliness and then death.”

  “I am not lonely, and I …”

  She stopped. For a long moment they regarded each other.

  “Let me embrace you, my dear. It is a long time since I have embraced a young girl.”

  She went forward to the bed and bent down. The arms in their layers of damp clothing, thin but surprisingly strong, held and pressed her. And she too clasped the thin torso in her own arms. The untidy black beard, surprisingly soft, brushed against her cheek. There was a strong odor of camphor, of perspiration, and of the sickroom. Then he released her and she stood before the bed.

  “Good-bye, Marcel.”

  “Usually, in French, when we part we say au revoir.”

  “Yes, you do,” said Herma. “But now I am saying good-bye.”

  She turned and fled, while he watched—a pale, dark-eyed, faintly smiling sibyl.

  16.

  To get from Paris to Luxeuil-les-Bains you took the night train from the Gare de l’Est to Lure in the Franche-Comté, only about fifty kilometers from the point where the French, Swiss, and German borders came together at Basel. The train ran only at night because beyond Belfort some trains had been attacked in the daytime by German aviation. Ordinarily the trip would have taken only about five hours, but because of the long delays for troop trains and the general confusion of the war it was noon the next day before Fred got off at Lure with his baggage. He had a sandwich and a glass of beer in the station buffet, and then he looked around for the car that was supposed to take him to Luxeuil.

  He found it waiting in the mall of leafless elm trees on the other side of the station. It was a smart Packard touring car, painted khaki but except for that in excellent civilian condition, with everything polished and the leather seats glowing. The driver, limping around the car, helped him pile the bags into the rear seat. There were quite a few of them but the driver made no comment.

  “You’ve ’ad a bite to eat, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  Fred took another look at him. He was a small man with a red face, dressed in civilian clothing except for a French army tunic that was too large for him and a military fatigue cap without insignia.

  “You’re British?”

  “Yes sir.” He was very loquacious. He volunteered everything in a cheerful voice without being asked. “You see, I was ’it up on the Somme. A Blighty wound they call it. That’s one good enough to ’ave you sent back to merry old England. Wot everybody’s looking, you know sir. But first they sent me’ere to the hospital at Luxool, and when I was well enough to travel, I decided to stay put. I’ve got no one at ’ome, you see sir. It’s a pleasant spot at Luxool and I can’elp out a bit with the war, even with my leg. So they made me steward and batman for the Yanks. Splendid chaps they are. Full of fun. I never knew much about Yanks. But these chaps are the salt of the earth. They know ’ow to ’ave a good time, I can tell you. Eat well too, better than us. A cushy berth I’ve got. I don’t ask for better. And I’m ’elping out with the war too, you see sir.”

  “Yes,” said Fred. “What did you say your name was?”

  “They call me Tiffin, they do, cause that’s not my name. They’re full of jokes. And you’re Leftenant ’Ite.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  Fred looked out through the windshield at the long khaki hood with a nickel-plated hinge running along the center of it. “This is quite a car.”

  “This ’ere is Leftenant Prince’s car, sir. They send it to Lure for the new chaps, cause it’s more elegant than them Fiat lorries we ’ave.”

  It was eighteen kilometers to Luxeuil. The big touring car ran smoothly along a paved road between rows of poplars. There was no sign of the war here, even though the front was only fifty kilometers away. It was not an active front, at least not on the ground. Tiffin slowed down for an occasional village, or a herd of dairy cows being shooed along by a boy with a stick. It was a pleasant pastoral landscape. The weather was still uncertain, with rain clouds lurking along the horizon to the west, but the sun was shining down thinly on the damp fields.

  “Going to join the squadron, are you sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “Salt of the earth, those chaps are.” He glanced sideways at Fred. “Flyer, are you sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “Younger than most.” He looked at him again, a little more carefully this time.

  “I’m twenty-eight.”

  “Wouldn’t’ave thought it.”

  He had nothing more to say for a while. They went through a town called St.-Sauveur and Fred co
uld see a big aerodrome over on the left. He didn’t have a map but they weren’t very far from Luxeuil. There were a few houses scattered along the road now. A mile or so out of town Tiffin pulled the Packard over to the side of the road with its engine idling.

  A company of troops in column of four was coming toward them along the road ahead. The road was narrow and the car had to pull over to let them by. They were good-looking troops, well equipped and evidently in good shape, although perhaps a little thin and pale. Some of them seemed very young. Their dish-shaped helmets were tipped at various angles, and they carried their rifles slung with their thumbs in the slings. Their boots thudded rhythmically on the paved road. They had all sorts of gear—canteens, bayonets, bedrolls, trenching tools, musette bags, gas masks, bandoliers—draped on them and hanging from all sides. A lieutenant who seemed hardly more than a boy followed along in the ditch by the side. On the other side was a corporal yelling “Hep!” at every fourth pace. A heavy odor of sweat came up from the marching column. As they passed the Packard some of them broke out into a ragged song. They didn’t sing very well and most of them couldn’t strike a note. They yelled out the tune in a way that seemed to be their custom, leaving a pause of eight paces between the lines.

  “Mademoiselle from Armenteers, parleevoo …”

  The eight paces were marked off by the corporal’s even “Hep! … hep …”

  “Mademoiselle from Armenteers, parleevoo …”

  Another pause. As they passed the Packard some of them looked to the side and grinned. The boy lieutenant went by without turning his head.

  “Mademoiselle from Armenteers,

  She asn’t been fucked in forty years,

  Inky dinky par-lee voo.”

  The last of them went by. Tiffin started the Packard again. “East Surrey Regiment. Them chaps’as been in the rest camp’ere at Luxool. Now they’re going back in the line.” The company, with full gear, was marching the eighteen kilometers to Lure to be loaded onto trains.

  “They seem cheerful enough.”

  “Most of them lads will never see ’ome again. The average survival in the trenches is three weeks, they say.”

  After that he had nothing much more to say. He went back to his driving. The Surrey company had almost disappeared down the curve of the road. Behind him Fred heard a distant yell.

  “She won the Palm and the Croix de Guerre

  For washing soldiers’ underwear …

  Inky dinky par-lee voo.”

  Tiffin drove the Packard up and stopped it in the grass by the hangar. “You want to talk to Captain Theenel, you do, sir. We’ll leave the bags in the car for the time.”

  Fred got out and looked around. The field was a big grassy meadow with only a few bumps and low swellings. The prevailing wind was from the west. There were some trees to the east, but they were not very high and there was a gap in them you could land through. Down the field, in front of a row of newly erected hangars, were a number of Sopwith bombers, big blue machines with red, white, and blue British roundels on the fuselages. Nearer, lined up in a ragged row by the Escadrille hangar, were the Nieuport 17’s with Indian-head cockades on the sides and French roundels on the wings. The Indian heads were rather crudely painted and were imitated, he recognized, from the trademark on the Savage Ammunition crate. At the end of the line a Nieuport was being wheeled around on the field with four or five mechanics holding up the tail. From somewhere in the distance, probably from the British hangars down the field, there was the ragged blat of an engine being tuned.

  He went into the Escadrille hangar. It was a large one, dim and shadowy inside, and at first he couldn’t see much. There were several of the older Nieuport 11’s in various stages of dismemberment, and a single Nieuport 17 with the tail propped up on a dolly and the engine pulled, the disassembled engine lying on a platform in front of it. Two officers were standing in front of the platform discussing the engine with a mechanic. They turned and glanced at Fred briefly and then went back to their conversation. Their clothing was a little bizarre. One was wearing a fur coat over a smartly tailored French uniform, and the other a faded Foreign Legion uniform with flared breeches, although he had replaced the puttees with hunting boots. Fred asked a mechanic for Captain Thénault. The man pointed to a small dusty office off in one corner of the hangar.

  Thénault was about Fred’s age. He was a St.-Cyr graduate and a military professional, and he took the war seriously as he did everything else. He was slightly smaller than the average man, quiet and compactly built. He wore a neatly pressed cavalry uniform and a blue képi without insignia of rank. He stood up and shook hands stiffly in the French manner. Then he sat down behind the table again and motioned to the chair for Fred.

  “They said in Paris to report to you. I thought the Escadrille were all Americans.”

  “They are,” said Thénault, “but someone has to be in charge of this menagerie, and unfortunately I have the job.”

  “Yes, I saw some rather odd uniforms out in the hangar.”

  Thénault smiled. “You mean Prince’s fur coat. At first I tried to enforce a little discipline. But then I threw up the job and now I just let them fly. Most of them are from well-to-do families and they’re used to doing as they please. Americans are different anyhow. They don’t like discipline. They’re excellent flyers, most of them. If they aren’t they don’t last long. It’s a good squadron.”

  He spoke English perfectly with only a slight accent. He was the only Frenchman Fred had ever met who could pronoimce the th.

  “I’m happy to be a part of it.”

  “You’re not a member of the squadron yet, you know.”

  “I thought …”

  “Let’s go outside.”

  Thénault got up and took an officer’s baton from the table. He led the way through the hangar and out into the sunshine, slapping the baton against his riding breeches.

  “You’re the one who hasn’t been to the school at Pau?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Yes. Lieutenant Prince said you were to be treated specially.”

  This with a slight edge to the tone, although he was not unfriendly. They went up to the first Nieuport on the line. It seemed to be brand new. It was a beautiful aeroplane. It had the new 110-horsepower Le Rhône, and the Vickers gun mounted on the cowl was synchronized to fire through the propeller. The fuselage was short and stubby and the wings braced with a strong vee-strut; it had a businesslike look to it. The landing gear with its disk wheels was at the very front, almost under the engine.

  Thénault beckoned to a mechanic, who came out at a half run.

  “This machine is fueled?”

  “C’est plein, mon capitaine.”

  “Good.”

  He bent down under the Nieuport and set his baton on the grass exactly between the wheels.

  He said to Fred, “Go up and do a slow roll over the field, then climb to twelve hundred, and do a vrille to the left and a vrille to the right and recover. When you come back in, bring it up and stop it right where it is now, with the baton between the wheels.”

  Fred nodded. The two officers, he noticed, had come out of the hangar and were standing by the big open doorway watching. The mechanics who had been wheeling around the Nieuport had stopped too to watch. One of them came up with a fur-lined combination and flying boots, and Fred took off his coat and put them on. The mechanic handed him the helmet and goggles. The leather shock helmet went on over the goggles. It took him a while to get this straight because usually the helmet went on first and then the goggles. The shock helmet looked something like a leather football helmet with a padded ring around the rim of it. He didn’t like it because it was tight and it made his head feel heavy. He got it on, and the mechanic showed him how to arrange the strap to push the goggles up on the helmet.

  He set his boot into the step cut into the side of the fuselage, pulled himself up, and dropped into the cockpit. There was a smell of gasoline, castor oil, and fresh dope. H
e fastened his harness and looked around at the unfamiliar instruments. There was a compass, an altimeter, a rev counter, an oil pulsator to show that oil was flowing, and a small clock. The stick had a handle like a shovel on top of it, with a small button in the middle marked M.6. He kept his thumb carefully away from this, even though the gun wasn’t charged. He waggled the controls and looked around to see if the surfaces were responding. Then he gestured with his thumb up to the mechanic standing out in front of the propeller.

  “Plein gaz,” the mechanic called.

  Fred found the fuel cock just under the panel on the right-hand side and opened it. He pulled the goggles down over his face and adjusted them with both hands.

  The mechanic swung the prop around while the Le Rhône wheezed and coughed. There was a stronger smell of raw gasoline.

  “Contact.”

  He flipped up the magneto switch. “Contact.”

  It started on the second swing. After that nothing could be heard above the brassy barking roar of the Le Rhône. He pushed forward on the throttle and at the same time kicked the rudder bar. The Nieuport moved out from the line and turned onto the pasture, kicking up leaves and dust behind it.

  As he taxied out, Fred noticed a shallow depression in the center of the field, a few yards long and perhaps a foot deep. It was almost invisible from the distance because the grass was growing in it. He made a mental note of this. There was no trouble in taking off a little to one side of it, but when you came back in you would have to touch down almost on the hole because of the gap in the trees to the east. Thénault hadn’t mentioned this. Perhaps he was waiting for him to find it for himself. At the end of the field he saw that the small cluster of figures in front of the hangar was still watching him.

  He kicked the Nieuport around with the skid tearing up grass. He glanced at the rev counter; it was steady, indicating that the engine was warm. He pushed the throttle wide open.

  With the skid on the ground he could see almost nothing to the front. He had to crane his head around the cowl to see what was going on in front of the aeroplane. But when the skid came up there was a quick and rising sense of exhilaration. Everything was clear, he could see in all directions, the cumbersome machine acquired sensitivity and became an extension of his body. The Nieuport gathered speed rapidly, pulled by the powerful and reliable Le Rhône. He pulled back slightly on the stick. The bumping underneath stopped and the Nieuport rose gracefully, tilted only a little to the right. He corrected, crossed the end of the field, and went into a climbing turn to the east.