Monsieur spoke sanitary English, as I have said.
“What is your name?”—“Edward E. Cummings.”
—“Your second name?”—“E-s-t-l-i-n,” I spelled it for him.—“How do you say that?”—I didn’t understand.—“How do you say your name?”—“Oh,” I said; and pronounced it. He explained in French to the moustache that my first name was Edouard, my second “A-s-tay-l-ee-n,” and my third “Kay-umm-ee-n-gay-s”—and the moustache wrote it all down. Monsieur then turned to me once more:
“You are Irish?”—“No,” I said, “American.”—“You are Irish by family?”—“No, Scotch.”—“You are sure that there was never an Irishman in your parents?”—“So far as I know,” I said, “there never was an Irishman there.”—“Perhaps a hundred years back?” he insisted.—“Not a chance,” I said decisively. But Monsieur was not to be denied: “Your name it is Irish?”—“Cummings is a very old Scotch name,” I told him fluently, “it used to be Comyn. A Scotchman named The Red Comyn was killed by Robert Bruce in a church. He was my ancestor and a very well-known man.”—“But your second name, where have you got that?”—“From an Englishman, a friend of my father.” This statement seemed to produce a very favorable impression in the case of the rosette, who murmured: “Un ami de son père, un Anglais, bon!” several times. Monsieur, quite evidently disappointed, told the moustache in French to write down that I denied my Irish parentage; which the moustache did.
“What does your father in America?”—“He is a minister of the gospel,” I answered. “Which church?”—“Unitarian.” This puzzled him. After a moment he had an inspiration: “That is the same as a Free Thinker?”—I explained in French that it wasn’t and that mon père was a holy man. At last Monsieur told the moustache to write: Protestant; and the moustache obediently did so.
From this point on our conversation was carried on in French, somewhat to the chagrin of Monsieur, but to the joy of the rosette and with the approval of the moustache. In answer to questions, I informed them that I was a student for five years at Harvard (expressing great surprise that they had never heard of Harvard), that I had come to New York and studied painting, that I had enlisted in New York as conducteur volontaire, embarking for France shortly after, about the middle of April.
Monsieur asked: “You met B—— on the paquebot?” I said I did.
Monsieur glanced significantly around. The rosette nodded a number of times. The moustache rang.
I understood that these kind people were planning to make me out the innocent victim of a wily villain, and could not forbear a smile. C’est rigolo, I said to myself; they’ll have a great time doing it.
“You and your friend were together in Paris?” I said “yes.” “How long?” “A month, while we were waiting for our uniforms.”