Mr. Bridge had never been greatly interested in art, but if this was how she wanted to spend their final day in Paris it was all right with him. Some of the pictures in the book stalls he did rather like; then, too, it was a warm sunny afternoon near the end of August and he was pleased, and he made up his mind to buy her a painting. He said nothing, but he began to pay more attention, and near the cathedral of Notre Dame she paused to admire a watercolor of the city.
“Parlez-vous Anglais?” Mrs. Bridge politely inquired of the old gentleman who sat beside the stall in a canvas chair. He shook his head and went on smoking his pipe.
“Well, combien?” she asked, pointing to the one that struck her fancy.
“Vingt mille,” he answered without looking around, and continued smoking.
“Vingt mille,” she repeated, for she had been listening closely, knowing he would speak in French. “Now, let’s see. Vingt is twenty, I believe. And mille is thousand. Well, that sounds like a lot/* Whereupon she opened her handbag and took out a little booklet which equated American money with virtually everything on earth. Having learned how much it would cost in dollars, she exclaimed, “Oh, I’m afraid that’s much too much,” and shook her head and regretfully moved along, remarking to her husband, “I’m sure he’s spotted us as tourists.”
Mr. Bridge took a long, shrewd look at the picture so as not to forget it. He did not think it was very good in fact he was of the opinion that Ruth had done better paintings when she was in high school but he seldom offered an opinion on a subject with which he was not familiar. Later that afternoon, back at their hotel on the Champs Elys^es, while she was packing the suitcases, he went out, hired a taxi, and drove to the quay, where he bought the painting and arranged to have it shipped to Kansas City. The next day as they were getting settled on the train for the trip to the Riviera he observed rather dryly that he thought he knew how the Parisian artists kept from starving, but since she had no idea he had bought the painting for her this remark meant nothing, and she replied as she took off her hat that she supposed they must manage some way.
76. Telegram
A telegram was waiting for them in Monte Carlo. Douglas, knowing the date of his parents’ wedding anniversary, sent this message: MAY I TAKE THE OPPORTUNITY EXTEND FELICI-TATIONS UPON MEMORABLE OCCASION AND IN BEHALF ENTIRE COMPANY EXPRESS HOPE YOUR CONTINUED SUCCESS.
Mrs. Bridge was touched by his thoughtfulness and wrote to him, “It was awfully sweet to hear from you on our anniversary, but I do think the American Express company must have gotten their messages mixed up….”
77. Beautiful Luggage
Before leaving on the trip she had checked over the luggage in the attic and concluded they did not have enough, so she had gone downtown and bought three elegant, darkly burnished leather suitcases. They were so beautiful that she was easily persuaded by the salesman to buy a set of canvas covers to protect the leather. These covers, to be sure, were ugly as coarse as Boy Scout pup tents but she bought them and had them fitted onto the suitcases. The covers remained on the suitcases while they were aboard ship, and as they had been in each city only a few days she had not bothered to remove them, but now she decided to see if the leather was being protected. She unfastened one of the canvas jackets, peeled it halfway off, and there as beautiful as though still on display the leather gleamed. Well pleased, she buttoned on the cover.
78. Mirror
Mrs. Bridge slept later than she intended to the second morning in Monte Carlo; they had visited the casino the previous night, and while she had not gambled she had found it nonetheless a rather strenuous experience. Her husband was gone when she finally awoke, but this was not surprising because he had gotten so accustomed to rising early in order to put in a full day at the office that he was no longer able to lie in bed past seven o’clock. Probably he was walking briskly around town, and no doubt he would be waiting to check on the Italian reservations as soon as the travel agency opened its doors for the day. She often wondered where he found so much energy.
The clock on the night table told her it was almost noon. She felt a trifle guilty. And yet it was delicious to lie in bed and to feel on her cheek and on her arms the mild breezes drifting up the hillside from the Mediterranean. A few minutes more, she thought, then she really must get tip. And so, with eyes half open, she lay motionless and knew how fortunate she was. And she inquired of herself what she had done to deserve all this. There was no answer. All at once she perceived something so obvious and vulgar that she could not imagine why it had failed to escape her attention. She could see herself in the mirror on the wall, the mirror faced the bed, and she had suddenly realized that in every one of their European hotel rooms a large mirror had faced the bed. At the significance of this her blue eyes opened wide and she quickly turned her head on the pillow. In Paris a beautiful ornate Louis Quatorze mirror had frankly revealed her intimacy with her husband, and In London, too, now that she thought about it, they had been mirrored.
Deeply troubled, puzzled, no longer thankful, Mrs. Bridge lay in bed with an expression of listless despair and gazed through the opened doors of the balcony, through the iron grillwork to the distant sea, to the purple clarity and the white sails.
79. Psst!
Wherever they went they were promptly identified as American tourists. From every side street some young man would come gliding, a hand in his coat pocket, murmuring in broken English that he had a diamond ring for sale, a fountain pen, a Swiss watch.
“Psstl Hey, mister,” he would begin.
“How on earth do they always know we’re Americans?” Mrs. Bridge inquired.
It was not mysterious to Mr. Bridge, who, however, chose to reply bitterly, for the trip was costing twice what he had estimated, “Europeans can smell a dollar a mile away.”
80. Peculiar Roman
In Rome their hotel was situated near the Via Veneto, which the desk clerk, who had never been to America but who had a second cousin in Manhattan, insisted was the Broadway of Europe. Neither Mr. or Mrs. Bridge was inclined to dispute him, the principal reason being that the day was overcast and the humidity so high it was difficult to breathe.
“Goodness, this is certainly different from the Riviera/ 1 Mrs. Bridge remarked as they were unpacking in their room. It had been hot in Monte Carlo at least the temperature had been high but in the shadows of the stone buildings it was usually cool, and even in the direct sunlight they had not been uncomfortable.
“This really is awfully muggy/’ she said, looking through the blinds at the dank, motionless clouds. “I certainly miss that breeze from the Mediterranean/’
They showered, changed into their lightest clothing, and decided to sit at a cafe on the Via Veneto. A weak, hot rain had begun to fall and they selected a table with an umbrella. At the next table sat an Italian man in a white suit and white perforated shoes who soon addressed them in perfect English.
“You are Americans, are you not?”
Mrs. Bridge said they were, again amazed at such prompt identification.
“And how do you find Italy? Do you enjoy yourselves?”
“Well, it’s awfully warm/’ she said hesitantly, not wanting to be ungracious, and was relieved when he was not offended* So many Europeans were excitable.