The Hesitant Hero

by Gilbert, Morris

  When word finally came that land was in sight, the passengers crowded around the railings to watch The Flying Eagle approach Le Havre. Tyler was one of the first passengers to disembark, and as he passed through customs, he enjoyed hearing the musical sounds of people speaking French. He had studied French in college and quickly discovered that he could speak the language better than he could understand it. He wanted to ask everybody to slow down, but he knew that he was the one who would have to change. He determined to avoid speaking English as much as he could and to try to speak French at all times.

  Anxious to get to Paris, Tyler went at once to the railroad station and bought a ticket to Paris. He found that the train was leaving in three hours, and since he was not at all sleepy, he bought a good meal at a restaurant and sat at the table listening to the babble of voices.

  The train pulled out of Le Havre exactly on time, and Tyler found himself in a car with only four other people. The young couple who looked to be in their early twenties were totally involved with each other and ignored the rest of the passengers. A tall older man with white hair and something of a military bearing sat beside the window staring out and saying nothing, and a talkative Frenchman who spoke very good English and looked every inch a businessman sat beside Tyler.

  He had a sallow face and a pair of eyes that seemed to pop out of his head, and he spoke almost explosively. He also had the irritating habit of knowing more about any subject than anyone. The man had first tried to engage the silent man sitting across from him but got limited responses. He then turned his artillery of words on Tyler. He inquired into Tyler’s reason for coming to France and determined the part of the United States he came from, and when he learned that Tyler had been raised in Africa, he proceeded to give a lecture on Africa’s role in the world economy.

  When the businessman finally fell silent, perhaps to gasp for air, Tyler asked, “What do you think of this war?”

  “Ah, the war. It will come to nothing.”

  Tyler stared at him. “Come to nothing? How can you say that, sir? It’s already come to something. Hitler’s already taken big chunks out of Europe, like Czechoslovakia and Poland.”

  “He’s a bad man, but he’s not a stupid man. He has taken territory, but he knows that if he tries to take any more, France will stop him.”

  “They haven’t done much in that line so far,” Tyler remarked.

  Tyler’s words seemed to irritate the businessman. “You do not understand, sir. You are not European. Hitler is an astute man. He knows that if the British joined with France, they would stop him in a minute. Believe me, he will take no more territory.”

  “You are a fool!” exploded the older man by the window in heavily accented English.

  Both Tyler and the businessman and even the young couple turned swiftly to look at the man.

  “Do you speak to me?” the businessman asked. “You call me a fool?”

  “Yes. You are a fool. So is anyone a fool who believes Hitler will stop. The Boche will never stop. He will take all of Europe before he’s stopped, and even then he will attack Russia.”

  “But France and England—”

  “France has no army. All it has is a dream.”

  “A dream, sir! What do you mean?” the businessman demanded.

  “The generals put their trust in the Maginot Line. They are trying to prepare as if this war will be like the last one, but it will not be.”

  “You were in the Great War, I take it, sir?” Tyler asked quietly.

  “Yes, I was.” He was silent for a minute and then said, “I saw men die until it became sickening. Then it was trench warfare. I remember battle after battle where we would lose hundreds or even thousands of men to gain a hundred yards of ground—and then lose it the next day.” He seemed to sag. “But this war. It will not be fought in trenches. If you read the papers, you know how mobile the Germans are.”

  “The Maginot Line is impregnable, sir, I assure you,” the businessman said. He seemed irritated and his voice took on a high-pitched angry tone. “It cannot be pierced, I tell you.”

  “Apparently you cannot read. The Germans have no attention of attacking the Line. They will simply go around it or over it. Something that could not be done in the Great War, but now the Germans are using the blitzkrieg, the lightning war. They will overleap our defenses as they have already done with smaller nations. They will pay no attention to the line but will crush all opposition with their air power and their tanks and artillery.”

  “Do you really think there’s no hope, sir?” Tyler asked.

  “There’s hope only in a miracle, and miracles have become rather uncommon in our world.” The man turned to look out the window again, and the businessman began to speak loudly, as if by volume he could overcome the old soldier’s arguments.

  As the train approached Paris, Tyler wondered how much of what the old man had said was true. It sounded ominous, and he filed his thoughts away, determined to ask more about the military dangers in which France seemed to be engulfed.

  ****

  After Tyler got a room in Paris, finding it was somewhat more expensive than he had expected, he wrote at once to Caroline and to his parents. His letter was full of enthusiasm and excitement, for he felt that his luck had to change. He was determined to make it as an artist and said so in the letters. He wasn’t sure how to close his letter to Caroline. He knew that her feelings for him were much deeper than his for her, but it was her money and advice and help that had brought him this far and given him a second chance. So he ended the letter warmly and promised to write regularly.

  For the next week Tyler roamed the streets of Paris. There was so much to see, and he was determined to see it all. By the end of the week he had found that he could make himself understood to most people, though with some difficulty. Give me six months, and I’ll speak like a native. He did not make this boast aloud, but he did constantly try to improve his French.

  He spent several days going to the art museums and was stunned by the magnificence of the Louvre. Day after day he would stand before the masterpieces of the ages in awed silence. One day he studied a single painting by Rembrandt for almost two hours, unable to take his eyes off it.

  A guard had watched him for a long time and finally said, “I trust you’re not planning to steal it, monsieur?”

  Tyler grinned. “No, though I’d like to.”

  “Many people would. Are you an artist yourself?”

  “Well, to tell the truth, I thought I was. But now looking at these masterpieces, I think I’m just a dabbler.”

  “You must take heart,” the guard said, smiling with encouragement. “All these artists, they had to begin somewhere.”

  “But all of them had genius in them. I’m not sure I have that.”

  The guard offered a few more encouraging words, and when Tyler finally moved on, he thought, Not everybody will be as encouraging as he was.

  ****

  The weather was not much different than it had been in New York. It snowed several nights in a row, but by midmorning the snow had been churned into a slush by the thousands of automobiles and trucks that plowed through the city. More than once, despite the cold weather, Tyler saw artists out braving the frigid air to paint on the street. He would inevitably stop and watch, and sometimes he would strike up a conversation. He found that some artists were almost sullen and would not return more than a monosyllable, but others were quite open with their views.

  One Thursday afternoon, he stopped near a young woman who was painting a picture of the Arc de Triomphe. He stood off to one side and did not bother her, and finally she turned and caught his eye.

  “L’aimez-vous?” she asked with a smile. She was a pretty girl who looked to be in her midtwenties with cheeks whitened by the cold.

  “Yes, I do like it,” he answered in French. “Have you been painting long?”

  “I can’t remember when I wasn’t painting. You are what, English?”

  “No, I’m an A
merican. I was raised in Kenya but went to college in New York.”

  “Oh, I’ve always wanted to go to America.”

  “Well, I always wanted to come to France,” he said, “and I made it. So maybe you’ll make it to America someday too.” He was starting to tell her about New York when a man wearing a uniform approached them and she introduced him as her husband.

  “Your wife paints better than most of the painters who are actually making a living at their work in America.”

  “That is good to hear,” the man replied.

  “You’re in the army, I see. What’s the situation?”

  A cloud crossed the soldier’s face. “It is not good. You have come to France at the wrong time, sir.”

  As always, Tyler got what information he could, which was not a great deal. The soldier and his wife were happy, but there was a cloud over them, he saw.

  ****

  The art institute that Tyler ended up enrolling in was not particularly well known. With so many art schools in Paris, he simply chose the one closest to his room in the heart of the city. It was housed in an ancient brick building with tall windows to allow as much light as possible. Tyler went there on the twentieth of January to enroll. He found himself speaking to a small man wearing a gray suit and a gleaming white shirt. His name was Dever, and he seemed preoccupied and irritable. He had Tyler fill out several papers, which he glanced over with a frown on his face.

  “You have samples of your work?”

  “As a matter of fact I don’t, Monsieur Dever. I didn’t have room to bring them with my luggage.”

  “We do not take people without talent.”

  “I hope I have a little of that.”

  “It takes more than talent. It takes devotion, dedication.”

  “Well, I trust I have a little of that too, monsieur.”

  “I will allow you to enter on probation, Monsieur Winslow.”

  Tyler gave the man a check for the tuition, and then Monsieur Dever said, “I will assign you to one of our instructors. You will be here Monday morning at eight o’clock.”

  “Certainly, sir. I trust I will be able to meet your standards.”

  Dever’s look said, I doubt it, but he refrained from saying anything.

  As Tyler left, he thought, They need a better recruiter here. Quite a cold welcome.

  On Monday morning he was at the school on time and found his instructor was quite different from Dever. His last name was Genis, and he was a huge bear of a man with fingers like bananas, and already, although it was early, he had spots of paint on his hands. He had a loud roar of a voice and seemed to shout everything. The teacher showed Tyler where the supplies were and got him set up by the window.

  “Come let me know when you have something for me to look at.”

  Somewhat intimidated by Genis, Tyler began work at once. He decided that painting a still life might be the safest thing to do, so he gathered a few props that were sitting on the counter. He arranged a teapot, teacup, and saucer on a white tablecloth that he folded in waves. A number of other students were coming in, but no one stopped to talk with him.

  He worked as quickly as he could, but it took him two days before he finally got the effect he wanted. He was nervous, but he went to Genis and said, “Monsieur Genis, would you look at my work?”

  The man grunted and walked over to the easel without speaking. He examined the still life but still did not speak, which made Tyler’s nervousness increase.

  Finally the instructor said loudly, “If this is the best you can do, you need to go someplace else. This school is for those who have achieved a certain level, which you have not.”

  Genis’s voice was loud enough so that everyone in the large room heard it. There were at least ten other artists at work, and Tyler felt that every one of them was looking at him, hiding smiles. He stood there as Genis pointed out the flaws of his painting, and finally the man said, “I will have Monsieur Dever refund your tuition.”

  “You won’t let me try?”

  “You are not ready to try here. Go learn some fundamentals. Come back in a year and we’ll see.” He lowered his voice then and stepped closer. In a hoarse whisper he said, “You would be wasting your time if you stayed here, Winslow. There are numerous other schools that will teach you the basics. Monsieur Dever can give you the addresses of some of these.”

  “Thank you,” Tyler said quietly. He waited until Genis left to begin putting his supplies away. He knew his face was flushed, and when he left the room, every student was taking pains not to look at him. In humiliation, he stopped by Monsieur Dever’s office to collect his refund, but he was too discouraged to ask the man for the names of other art schools he might recommend.

  ****

  The shame of being dismissed from the art institute ate at Tyler, and after depositing his still-wet painting in his room, he went out and walked the streets. He did not feel the cold air; all he could feel was the deep embarrassment of being rejected. It had never occurred to him that he would be turned away like this, and after a time he stopped at a bar. Several women approached him while he drank, but he gave them no encouragement. Finally he went back to his room, undressed, and got under the covers. Even in his numbed state, he couldn’t forget that he had failed in France just as certainly as he had failed in New York. Finally he fell into a restless sleep, but he woke up several times during the night hearing the voice of Genis, saying, “Go learn some fundamentals. Come back in a year and we’ll see.”

  He rose early and spent another day roaming the city. This time he went to art shops and studied the paintings that were for sale. There seemed to be hundreds of small shops selling art of all kinds. He recognized that most of the paintings were far better than anything he had ever done. Totally depressed, he did not eat again until late that night, and again he drank more than he should.

  “I’ve got to do something,” he muttered, “but what?”

  ****

  On Thursday morning Tyler got up, his head throbbing, and when he looked at himself in the mirror, he saw a bum. He had not shaved for three days, his hair sprang in every direction, and his eyes were bloodshot.

  “I’ve got to do something,” he told himself loudly for the umpteenth time that week. He knew he should enroll at one of the schools whose standards were not as high as the one that had refused him, but somehow he could not force himself to do it.

  “Clean yourself up and do something—anything,” he told himself sternly. “You cannot continue to wander the streets of Paris without a plan.” He wet his hair down and combed it into place and then got out his razor. As he pulled the blade across his chin, he thought of Jolie Vernay. She had no idea that he was in France, for he had not written to her for several months. Why not go visit her now? I’ll go there and get a place, and I’ll learn to paint better. Then I’ll come back and enroll in a different school here.

  It might not have made complete sense, but at least it was a plan, and he threw himself into it. He spent the morning buying art supplies, for he wasn’t sure if he would be able to find any in Ambert, the village where Jolie lived, and then bought a train ticket.

  He found one of the last vacant seats in the car and settled in. He said not a word to anyone but was occupied with his own doubts. It began snowing shortly after the train left, and he sat there looking out at the signs beside the small villages. The names of the towns meant nothing to him, but once when the train stopped for some time at a small village called Moulins, it required all of his strength not to get off the train. What am I going to see Jolie for? What can she do? The question penetrated his dark thoughts, and he almost got off and headed back to Le Havre and a ship to take him back to America.

  But there was nothing to go back to, so he remained in his seat. Finally he put his head back and dozed off and then later, when he woke up, he saw that they were pulling into a small village. When he saw that the sign said Ambert, he got up at once and grabbed his luggage.

  He was the on
ly person who had disembarked there. He went over to an elderly man who was sitting on a bench. “Can you tell me, sir, where a family named Vernay lives? Mademoiselle Jolie Vernay?”

  “But of course, the doctor. You take this road until you come to a big white house with turrets. Turn left and go until you see a small house set off to the right. It is green. That is where Mademoiselle Vernay lives with her mother. You are English?”

  “No. American.”

  “You come to France at a bad time.” He shrugged before continuing. “Madame Vernay, the doctor’s mother, works at a watchmaker’s shop. It is right down that street, you see. She might still be there if you care to see her before going to the house, although it may be a little late,” he said as he looked at his pocket watch. “You have business with the Vernays?”

  “Yes.” Tyler did not feel like divulging his business with this man or with anyone else, so he picked up his luggage and trudged away. He felt the man’s eyes on him as he left, and with great misgiving started down the street, wishing desperately he had never come to France in the first place.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A Birthday Party

  The shrill wind howled as Jolie Vernay made her way toward the green house set back off the road. She had to lean against the strong wind while sleet bit at her cheeks. It was about a kilometer from the orphanage to the house, and she normally enjoyed the walk, but today her feet and cheeks, and even her hands, despite the wool gloves, were growing numb.

  The sleet swept over the street, and as Jolie turned off the main road and walked quickly toward the house, she looked forward to the evening ahead—good food, warmth, and rest. She had returned from the United States too late to start an internship immediately, but she would begin the following fall at the hospital in Clermont-Ferrand, a city not far from the village where she had lived most of her life.