David Jackson
THE ENGLISH GARDENS
Despite the shabby black tight suit, octagonal rimmed
spectacles, and bent stove pipe hat, the fact remained that
Meredith Wilder was a handsome young man.
As usual, his tallness, his fine light eyes under dark brows, a
strength about
him
had made him welcome in every group of the
crowded Munich
Fasching
party. He seldom had much to say.
His
voice being deep and pleasant made up for that. Everyone
knew Meredith as an American poet, and his appearance, in the
costume of Spitzweg's painting, "The Poor Poet," was sufficient
indication to all the Germans there that he had wit-if of a
concealed, American, Abraham Lincoln variety.
Suddenly,
his
quota of drinks reached, Meredith surprised
them all-their standards perhaps lowered by .alcohol-by
throwing off his reserve, pulling a red drapery around
him,
and
launching into Escamillo's
(CSi tu m' aimes, Carmen, tu pourras
rout
Ii
l'heure etre /iere de moil"
Whereupon Munich's great
mezzo, flinging herself into his arms, sang back,
(CAh je t'aime, et
que je meure
si
j'ai jamais aime quelqu'un autant que toil"
And
they were immediately surrounded by an admiring circle. Mere–
dith flushed attractively with pleasure. Several hours later, the
Princess von P.... , an editor and translator, rewarded him for
his
gallantries. She drew her lips from his, as they were saying
goodnight, and echoed Carmen's words.
He started home, rosily, in the grey dawn of Ash Wednes–
day along Munich's Ludwigstrasse toward the arch of Siegestur.
He
hunched
his
shoulders under a black wool cape, for the
