Screenland (Sept 1922–Feb 1923)

H^ix^oi SCREENLAND MY TRIP ABROAD IHEN I understand. The host is about to toast me. He does it in very bad English, though his gestures and tone make it most graceful. He is inclined to be somewhat pedantic and whenever he cannot think of the proper English word he uses its German equivalent. As the various courses come the toasts are many. I am always about two bites late in getting to my feet with my glass. After I have been toasted about four times, Mrs. Kaufman leans over and whispers, "You should toast back again to the host and say. something nice about his brideto-be." I am almost gagged with the stage fright that grips me. It is the custom to toast back to the host and here I have been gulping down all kinds of toasts without a word. And he had been sitting there waiting for me. I rise and hesitate. "Mr. " I feel a kick on the shins and I hear Mrs. Kaufman whisper hoarsely : "Herr." I think she means the bride-to bc. "Mrs. " No she isn't that yet. Heavens, this is terrible. I plunge in fast and furious. "My very best respects to your future wife." As I speak I look at a young girl at the head of the table who I thought was the lucky woman. I am all wrong. I sit, conscious of some horrible mistake. He bows and thanks me. Mrs. Kaufman scowls and says, "That's not the woman. It's the one on the other side." I have a suppressed convulsion and alniost die. and as she points out the real bride-to-be I find myself laughing hysterically into my soup. Rita Kaufman is laughing with me. Thank heaven for a sense of humor. I am so weak and nervous that I am almost tempted to leave at once. The bride-to-be is reaching for her glass to return my salute, though unless she thinks I am cross-eyed I don't see how she knows I said anything nice to her. But she gets no chance to speak. There is launched a long (Continued from Page 48) winded pedantic speech from the host, who says that on such rare occasions as this it is customary to uncork the best in the cellar. This point gets over in great shape and everybody is smiling. I even feel myself growing radiant. I was under the impression that the best had already been served. Didn't know he was holding back anything. With the promise of better wine I am tempted to try another toast to the bride-to-be. The first night in Paris after our return from Germany we dined at Pioccardi's, then walked up to the arches of the old gates of Paris. Our intention was to visit the Louvre and see the statue of Venus de Milo. but it only got as far as intention. We drifted into the Montmartre district and stopped in Le Rat Mort, one of its most famous restaurants. As it is very early in the evening, there arc very few people about, one reason why I picked out this place, which later in the night becomes the center of hectic revelry. PASSING our table is a striking-looking girl with bobbed blond hair, shadowing beautiful, delicate features of pale coloring and soft, strange eyes of a violet blue. Her passing is momentary, but she is the most striking-looking girl I have seen in Europe. Although there are but few people here. I am soon recognized. The French are so demonstrative. They wave. "Hello, Chariot !" 1 am indifferent. I smile mechanically. I am tired. I shall go to bed early. I order champagne. The bobbed-hair one is sitting at a table near us. She interests me. But she doesn't turn so that I can see -her face. She is sitting facing her friend, a dark Spanishlooking girl. I wish she'd turn. She has a beautiful profile, but I would like to see her full face again. She looked so lovely when she passed me. I recall that ghost of a smile that hovered near her mouth, showing just a bit of beautiful, even, white teeth. The orchestra is starting and dancers are swinging onto the floor. The two girls rise and join the dance. I will watch closely now and perhaps get another flash at her when she whirls by. There is something refined and distinguished about the little girl. She is different. Doesn't belong here. I am watching her very closely, though she has never once looked my way. I like this touch of the unusual in Montmartre. Still she may be just clever. She is passing me in the dance and I get a full view of her face. One of real beauty, with a sensitive mouth, smiling at her friend and giving a complete view of the beautiful teeth. Her face is most expressive. The music stops and they sit at their table. I notice that there is nothing on their table. They are not drinking. This is strange, here. Nor are there sandwiches or coffee. I wonder who they are. That girl is somebody. I know it. She gets up as the orchestra plays a few strains of a plaintive Russian thing. She is singing the song. Fascinating! An artist! Why is she here? I must know her. The song itself is plaintive, elemental, with the insinuating nuances that are vital to Russian music. The orchestra, with the violins and cellos predominant, is playing hauntingly, weaving a foreign exotic spell. She has poise, grace and is compelling attention even in this place. There comes a bit of melancholy in the song and she sings it as one possessed, giving it drama, pathos. Suddenly there is a change. The music leaps to wild abandon. She is with it. She tosses her head like a wild Hungarian gypsy and gives fire to every note. But almost as it began, the abandon is over. WTith wistful sweetness, she is singing plaintively again. C ^HE is touching every human emotion in her song. At times she is tossing away~ care, the** gently wooing, an elusive strain that is almost fairylike, that crescendos into tragedy, going into a crashing climax that diminishes ( Continued on Page 58)