U.S.A_ - John Dos Passos [347]
"But I declare I think I'd kinda like a husband and a baby . . . if you were the husband and the baby was yours."
"I can't do it . . . I couldn't afford it . . . They won't let you get married in the army."
"That's not so, Dick," she said slowly.
They stood a long time side by side without looking at each other, looking at the rain over the dark roofs and the faint phosphorescent streaks of the streets. She spoke
-388-in a trembly frail voice, "You mean you don't love me anymore."
"Of course I do, I don't know what love is . . . I suppose I love any lovely girl . . . and especial y you, sweetheart." Dick heard his own voice, like somebody else's voice in his ears. "We've had some fine times to-gether." She was kissing him al around his neck above the stiff col ar of the tunic. "But, darling, can't you un-derstand I can't support a child until I have some definite career, and I've got my mother to support; Henry's so irresponsible I can't expect anything from him. But I've got to take you home; it's getting late."
When they got down into the street the rain had let up again. Al the waterspouts were gurgling and water
glinted in the gutters under the street lamps. She sud-denly slapped him, shouted you're it, and ran down the street. He had to chase her, swearing under his breath. He lost her in a smal square and was getting ready to give her up and go home when she jumped out at him
from behind a stone phoenix on the edge of a fountain. He grabbed her by the arm,
"Don't be so damn kitten-ish," he said nastily. "Can't you see I'm worried sick." She began to cry.
When they got to her door she suddenly turned to him and said seriously, "Look, Dick, maybe we'l put off the baby . . . I'l try horseback riding. Everybody says that works. I'l write you . . . honestly, I wouldn't hamper your career in any way . . . and I know you ought to have time for your poetry . . . You've got a big future, boy, I know it . . . if we got married I'd work too."
" Anne Elizabeth, you're a wonderful girl, maybe if we didn't have the baby we might wangle it somehow." He took her by the shoulders and kissed her on the forehead. Suddenly she started jumping up and down, chanting
like a child, "Goody, goody, goody, we're going to get married."
-389-"Oh, do be serious, kid."
"I am . . . unto death," she said slowly. "Look, don't come to see me tomorrow . . . I have a lot of supplies to check up. I'l write you to Paris."
Back at the hotel it gave him a curious feeling putting on his pyjamas and getting alone into the bed where he and Anne Elizabeth had been together that afternoon. There were bedbugs and the room smelt and he spent a miserable night.
Al the way down to Paris on the train, Ed kept mak-ing him drink and talking about the revolution, saying he had it on good authority the syndicates were going to seize the factories in Italy the first of May. Hungary had gone red and Bavaria, next it would be Austria, then Italy, then Prussia and France; the American troops sent against the Russians in Archangel had mutinied: "It's the world revolution, a goddam swel time to be alive, and we'l be goddam lucky if we come out of it with whole skins." Dick said grumpily that he didn't think so; the Al ies had things wel in hand. "But, Dick, I thought you were al for the revolution, it's the only possible way to end this cockeyed war.""The war's over now and al these revolutions are just the war turned inside out . . . You can't stop war by shooting al your opponents. That's just more war." They got sore and argued Savagely. Dick was glad they were alone in the compartment. "But I thought you were a royalist, Ed.""I was . . . but since seeing the King of Italy I've changed my mind
. . . I guess I'm for a dictator, the man on the white horse." They settled to sleep on either side of the compartment, sore and drunk. In the morning they staggered out with headaches into the crisp air of a frontier station and drank steaming hot chocolate