John Dos Passos
American novelist and artist
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Narrated by Patrick Lawlor
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He slammed the door behind him and threw himself on the bed.
When Andrews awoke next morning, his first thought was how long he
had to wait that day to see Genevieve. Then he remembered their
talk of the day before. Was it worth while going to see her at
all, he asked himself. And very gradually he felt cold despair
taking hold of him. He felt for a moment that he was the only
living thing in a world of dead machines; the toad hopping across
the road in front of a steam roller. Suddenly he thought of
Jeanne. He remembered her grimy, overworked fingers lying in her
lap. He pictured her walking up and down in front of the Cafe de
Rohan one Wednesday night, waiting for him. In the place of
Genevieve, what would Jeanne have done? Yet people were always
alone, really; however much they loved each other, there could be
no real union. Those who rode in the great car could never feel as
the others felt; the toads hopping across the road. He felt no
rancour against Genevieve.
These thoughts slipped from him while he was drinking the coffee
and eating the dry bread that made his breakfast; and afterwards,
walking back and forth along the river bank, he felt his mind and
body becoming as if fluid, and supple, trembling, bent in the rush
of his music like a poplar tree bent in a wind. He sharpened a
pencil and went up to his room again.
The sky was cloudless that day. As he sat at his table the square
of blue through the window and the hills topped by their windmill
and the silver-blue of the river, were constantly in his eyes.
Sometimes he wrote notes down fast, thinking nothing, feeling
nothing, seeing nothing; other times he sat for long periods
staring at the sky and at the windmill vaguely happy, playing with
unexpected thoughts that came and vanished, as now and then a moth
fluttered in the window to blunder about the ceiling beams, and,
at last, to disappear without his knowing how.
When the clock struck twelve, he found he was very hungry. For two
days he had eaten nothing but bread, sausage and cheese. Finding
Madame Boncour behind the bar downstairs, polishing glasses, he
ordered dinner of her. She brought him a stew and a bottle of wine
at once, and stood over him watching him eat it, her arms akimbo
and the dimples showing in her huge red cheeks.
"Monsieur eats less than any young man I ever saw," she said.
"I'm working hard," said Andrews, flushing.
"But when you work you have to eat a great deal, a great deal."
"And if the money is short?" asked Andrews with a smile.
Something in the steely searching look that passed over her eyes
for a minute startled him.
"There are not many people here now, Monsieur, but you should see
it on a market day.... Monsieur will take some dessert?"
"Cheese and coffee."
"Nothing more? It's the season of strawberries."
"Nothing more, thank you."
When Madame Boncour came back with the cheese, she said:
"I had Americans here once, Monsieur. A pretty time I had with
them, too. They were deserters. They went away without paying,
with the gendarmes after them I hope they were caught and sent to
the front, those good-for-nothings."
"There are all sorts of Americans," said Andrews in a low voice.
He was angry with himself because his heart beat so.
"Well, I'm going for a little walk. Au revoir, Madame."
"Monsieur is going for a little walk. Amusez-vous bien, Monsieur.
Au revoir, Monsieur," Madame Boncour's singsong tones followed him
A little before four Andrews knocked at the front door of the
Rods' house. He could hear Santo, the little black and tan,
barking inside. Madame Rod opened the door for him herself.
"Oh, here you are," she said. "Come and have some tea. Did the
work go well to-day?"
"And Genevieve?" stammered Andrews.
"She went out motoring with some friends. She left a note for you.
It's on the tea-table."
He found himself talking, making questions and answers, drinking
tea, putting cakes into his mouth, all through a white dead mist.
Genevieve's note said:
"Jean:—I'm thinking of ways and means. You must get away to a
neutral country. Why couldn't you have talked it over with me
first, before cutting off every chance of going back. I'll be in
tomorrow at the same time.
"Bien a vous.
"Would it disturb you if I played the piano a few minutes, Madame
Rod?" Andrews found himself asking all at once.
"No, go ahead. We'll come in later and listen to you."
It was only as he left the room that he realized he had been
talking to the two cousins as well as to Madame Rod.
At the piano he forgot everything and regained his mood of vague
joyousness. He found paper and a pencil in his pocket, and played
the theme that had come to him while he had been washing windows
at the top: of a step-ladder at training camp arranging it,
modelling it, forgetting everything, absorbed in his rhythms and
cadences. When he stopped work it was nearly dark. Genevieve Rod,
a veil round her head, stood in the French window that led to the
"I heard you," she said. "Go on."
"I'm through. How was your motor ride?"
"I loved it. It's not often I get a chance to go motoring."
"Nor is it often I get a chance to talk to you alone," cried
"You seem to feel you have rights of ownership over me. I resent
it. No one has rights over me." She spoke as if it were not the
first time she had thought of the phrase.
He walked over and leaned against the window beside her.
"Has it made such a difference to you, Genevieve, finding out that
I am a deserter?"
"No, of course not," she said hastily.
"I think it has, Genevieve.... What do you want me to do? Do you
think I should give myself up? A man I knew in Paris has given
himself up, but he hadn't taken his uniform off. It seems that
makes a difference. He was a nice fellow. His name was Al, he was
from San Francisco. He had nerve, for he amputated his own little
finger when his hand was crushed by a freight car."
"Oh, no, no. Oh, this is so frightful. And you would have been a
great composer. I feel sure of it."
"Why, would have been? The stuff I'm doing now's better than any
of the dribbling things I've done before, I know that."
"Oh, yes, but you'll need to study, to get yourself known."
"If I can pull through six months, I'm safe. The army will have
gone. I don't believe they extradite deserters."
"Yes, but the shame of it, the danger of being found out all the
"I am ashamed of many things in my life, Genevieve. I'm rather
proud of this."
"But can't you understand that other people haven't your notions
of individual liberty?"
"I must go, Genevieve."
"You must come in again soon."
"One of these days."
And he was out in the road in the windy twilight, with his music
papers crumpled in his hand. The sky was full of tempestuous
purple clouds; between them were spaces of clear claret-colored
light, and here and there a gleam of opal. There were a few drops
of rain in the wind that rustled the broad leaves of the lindens
and filled the wheat fields with waves like the sea, and made the
river very dark between rosy sand banks. It began to rain. Andrews
hurried home so as not to drench his only suit. Once in his room
he lit four candles and placed them at the corners of his table. A
little cold crimson light still filtered in through the rain from
the afterglow, giving the candles a ghostly glimmer. Then he lay
on his bed, and staring up at the flickering light on the ceiling,
tried to think.
"Well, you're alone now, John Andrews," he said aloud, after a
half-hour, and jumped jauntily to his feet. He stretched himself
and yawned. Outside the rain pattered loudly and steadily. "Let's
have a general accounting," he said to himself. "It'll be easily a
month before I hear from old Howe in America, and longer before I
hear from Henslowe, and already I've spent twenty francs on food.
Can't make it this way. Then, in real possessions, I have one
volume of Villon, a green book on counterpoint, a map of France
torn in two, and a moderately well-stocked mind."
He put the two books on the middle of the table before him, on top
of his disorderly bundle of music papers and notebooks. Then he
went on, piling his possessions there as he thought of them. Three
pencils, a fountain pen. Automatically he reached for his watch,
but he remembered he'd given it to Al to pawn in case he didn't
decide to give himself up, and needed money. A toothbrush. A
shaving set. A piece of soap. A hairbrush and a broken comb.
Anything else? He groped in the musette that hung on the foot of
the bed. A box of matches. A knife with one blade missing, and a
mashed cigarette. Amusement growing on him every minute, he
contemplated the pile. Then, in the drawer, he remembered, was a
clean shirt and two pairs of soiled socks. And that was all,
absolutely all. Nothing saleable there. Except Genevieve's
revolver. He pulled it out of his pocket. The candlelight flashed
on the bright nickel. No, he might need that; it was too valuable
to sell. He pointed it towards himself. Under the chin was said to
be the best place. He wondered if he would pull the trigger when
the barrel was pressed against his chin. No, when his money gave
out he'd sell the revolver. An expensive death for a starving man.
He sat on the edge of the bed and laughed.
Then he discovered he was very hungry. Two meals in one day;
shocking! He said to himself. Whistling joyfully, like a
schoolboy, he strode down the rickety stairs to order a meal of
It was with a strange start that he noticed that the tune he was
"John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave,
But his soul goes marching on."
The lindens were in bloom. From a tree beside the house great
gusts of fragrance, heavy as incense, came in through the open
window. Andrews lay across the table with his eyes closed and his
cheek in a mass of ruled papers. He was very tired. The first
movement of the "Soul and Body of John Brown" was down on paper.
The village clock struck two. He got to his feet and stood a
moment looking absently out of the window. It was a sultry
afternoon of swollen clouds that hung low over the river. The
windmill on the hilltop opposite was motionless. He seemed to hear
Genevieve's voice the last time he had seen her, so long ago. "You
would have been a great composer." He walked over to the table and
turned over some sheets without looking at them. "Would have
been!" He shrugged his shoulders. So you couldn't be a great
composer and a deserter too in the year 1919. Probably Genevieve
was right. But he must have something to eat.
"But how late it is," expostulated Madame Boncour, when he asked
"I know it's very late. I have just finished a third of the work
"And do you get paid a great deal, when that is finished?" asked
Madame Boncour, the dimples appearing in her broad cheeks.
"Some day, perhaps."
"You will be lonely now that the Rods have left."
"Have they left?"
"Didn't you know? Didn't you go to say goodby? They've gone to
the seashore.... But I'll make you a little omelette."
When Madame Boncour cams back with the omelette and fried
potatoes, she said to him in a mysterious voice:
"You didn't go to see the Rods as often these last weeks."
Madame Boncour stood staring at him, with her red arms folded
round her breasts, shaking her head.
When he got up to go upstairs again, she suddenly shouted:
"And when are you going to pay me? It's two weeks since you have
"But, Madame Boncour, I told you I had no money. If you wait a day
or two, I'm sure to get some in the mail. It can't be more than a
day or two."
"I've heard that story before."
"I've even tried to get work at several farms round here."
Madame Boncour threw back her head and laughed, showing the
blackened teeth of her lower jaw.
"Look here," she said at length, "after this week, it's finished.
You either pay me, or...And I sleep very lightly, Monsieur."
Her voice took on suddenly its usual sleek singsong tone.
Andrews broke away and ran upstairs to his room.
"I must fly the coop tonight," he said to himself. But suppose
then letters came with money the next day. He writhed in
indecision all the afternoon.
That evening he took a long walk. In passing the Rods' house he
saw that the shutters were closed. It gave him a sort of relief to
know that Genevieve no longer lived near him. His solitude was
And why, instead of writing music that would have been worth while
if he hadn't been a deserter, he kept asking himself, hadn't he
tried long ago to act, to make a gesture, however feeble, however
forlorn, for other people's freedom? Half by accident he had
managed to free himself from the treadmill. Couldn't he have
helped others? If he only had his life to live over again. No; he
had not lived up to the name of John Brown.
It was dark when he got back to the village. He had decided to
wait one more day.
The next morning he started working on the second movement. The
lack of a piano made it very difficult to get ahead, yet he said
to himself that he should put down what he could, as it would be
long before he found leisure again.
One night he had blown out his candle and stood at the window
watching the glint of the moon on the river. He heard a soft heavy
step on the landing outside his room. A floorboard creaked, and
the key turned in the lock. The step was heard again on the
stairs. John Andrews laughed aloud. The window was only twenty
feet from the ground, and there was a trellis. He got into bed
contentedly. He must sleep well, for tomorrow night he would slip
out of the window and make for Bordeaux.
Another morning. A brisk wind blew, fluttering Andrews's papers as
he worked. Outside the river was streaked blue and silver and
slate-colored. The windmill's arms waved fast against the piled
clouds. The scent of the lindens came only intermittently on the
sharp wind. In spite of himself, the tune of "John Brown's Body"
had crept in among his ideas. Andrews sat with a pencil at his
lips, whistling softly, while in the back of his mind a vast
chorus seemed singing:
"John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave,
But his soul goes marching on.
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
But his soul goes marching on."
If one could only find freedom by marching for it, came the
All at once he became rigid, his hands clutched the table edge.
There was an American voice under his window:
"D'you think she's kiddin' us, Charley?"
Andrews was blinded, falling from a dizzy height. God, could
things repeat themselves like that? Would everything be repeated?
And he seemed to hear voices whisper in his ears: "One of you men
teach him how to salute."
He jumped to his feet and pulled open the drawer. It was empty.
The woman had taken the revolver. "It's all planned, then. She
knew," he said aloud in a low voice.
He became suddenly calm.
A man in a boat was passing down the river. The boat was painted
bright green; the man wore a curious jacket of a burnt-brown
color, and held a fishing pole.
Andrews sat in his chair again. The boat was out of sight now, but
there was the windmill turning, turning against the piled white
There were steps on the stairs.
Two swallows, twittering, curved past the window, very near, so
that Andrews could make out the marking on their wings and the way
they folded their legs against their pale-grey bellies.
There was a knock.
"Come in," said Andrews firmly.
"I beg yer pardon," said a soldier with his hat, that had a band,
in his hand. "Are you the American?"
"Well, the woman down there said she thought your papers wasn't in
very good order." The man stammered with embarrassment.
Their eyes met.
"No, I'm a deserter," said Andrews.
The M. P. snatched for his whistle and blew it hard. There was an
answering whistle from outside the window.
"Get your stuff together."
"I have nothing."
"All right, walk downstairs slowly in front of me."
Outside the windmill was turning, turning, against the piled white
clouds of the sky.
Andrews turned his eyes towards the door. The M. P. closed the
door after them, and followed on his heels down the steps.
On John Andrews's writing table the brisk wind rustled among the
broad sheets of paper. First one sheet, then another, blew off the
table, until the floor was littered with them.
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