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My father had doted on
automobiles all of his
life. So when the next
summer he invited me to
fly to England I was hardly
surprised to be met at
Heathrow by an elegant
Hispano-Suiza. I think
it was a phaeton town
car, but in any case the
driver had to have a
raincoat because there
was no roof over the
driver’s seat. Father’s
driver was named Plumb.
He was a most engaging
fellow. If it wasn’t
raining I spent a lot
of time beside him in
the car, enjoying his
endless stories about
England and the noble
families for whom he had
driven. In London we
put up at the little
Burlington Hotel which
is at the end of the
Burlington Arcade, where
I had bought lead soldiers
of the British regiments
when I was a child. I
knew I was in London
when early next morning
father came in with a
bag of strawberries
(English strawberries are
the sweetest in the world)
that he had gotten from
a street vendor. There
were many things to do in
London. Among the most
important, to my father,
was to get me measured in
sports coat and flannels
by his tailor in Sackville
Street. I love to walk the
streets of London; history
is at every turn from
Buckingham Palace where
the guardsmen stand as
motionless as statues to
Tyburn, where in olden
times unfortunates were
hung for stealing a sheep.
My father was not keen on
picture galleries but I
visited the National and
the Tate. Nor did he care
much for ballet but that
summer great stars such as
Danilova, Toumanova, Massine,
and Riaboushinska were dancing
at Covent Garden where I
lured my father for several,
to me, memorable evenings.

When I sensed that he had
had his full of culture
we headed north, with Plumb
at the wheel, for the golf
courses of Scotland.
We played the famous St.
Andrews tournament course
which seemed to me rather
antiquated in its layout,
and several times at
Pitlochry and Gleneagles,
which pleased me aesthetically
because they made me feel
that I was walking over the
Scottish moors. There were
sheep grazing in the roughs,
tended by venerable shepherds,
who looked worn but wise.
After Gleneagles we headed
south through the borderlands
to play the courses along
the edge of the Irish Sea.

Back in London and then Plumb
put the Hispano-Suiza on the
ferry to go with it to France.
The star of the French visit
was a French lady in her
early forties named Geneviève
de Hautecoeur. I don’t know
how my father had met her but
it was a strong attachment.
She was from Provence but had
had an English governess so
she spoke flawless English.
But she let me practice my
schoolboy French by talking
bad French to her. She was a
lovely creature, blonde and
beautiful and intelligent.
She could recite the poems
of the poets of the Pléiade
by heart. I suppose there must
have been a husband at some
point but she never spoke of
him. In Paris we put up at
the Hotel Pont Royale
on the Left Bank. It was
near Geneviève’s apartment
where often my father lingered
late. She knew all the best
restaurants and we ate royally,
the food accompanied by my
father’s favourite vintage of
Corton. Our favourite restaurant
was the Grand Véfours in the
arcade of the Palais Royal,
it’s decor, a painted eighteenth
century ceiling, as remarkable
as the food and the service;
the waiters seemed to be dancing
when they served us, and on
the back of each banquette
there was a little bronze
plaque that gave the name
of a famous person who once
sat there.

Most of my time in Paris
was spent touring the art
museums, or scanning the
stalls of the second-hand
booksellers on the avenue
beside the Seine, or exploring
parts of the city I didn’t
know. To reach them I’d
take the Metro to a distant
station, and get off there to
walk around. The names of
the streets were full of
history. Once day I went out
with father and Geneviève
to the racing at Chantilly.
I saw at once that the
spectators were more interested
in walking around below the
grandstand, greeting each
other and showing off
their dressy clothes than
they were in paying attention
to the horses. Geneviève had
an extraordinary hat for the
races. It was like a round
satin dish on which several
kinds of small birds appeared
to be feeding. It was much
admired. My father was elegant
in conventional garb: a light
gray cutaway dress outfit
with a folded cravat and a
gray topper to match. He
placed a few bets but his
luck that day was in enjoying
the company of Geneviève, as
did I, rather than on the
horses. She was an exquisite
woman and she talked well.
Before we left Paris my
father took me with him to
Cartier’s to pick out a gift
for her. Such baubles. We
looked at tray after tray
but chose for her a modest
sapphire ring with a flawless
stone that seemed to flash
in the sunlight.

After Paris we headed north
to Deauville on the Channel
for the beach and casino.
The Hotel de la Mer, right on
the beach, was a stuffy
overdecorated place mostly
full of fat bourgeois and
their fat wives but the
food was edible. I didn’t
accompany my father to the
casino, it made me nervous
to watch him risking fairly
large sums at chemin de fer
(he didn’t like roulette)
but Geneviève went with him
in the evenings, when I
was laboriously working
my way through Proust’s
Ombre des jeunes fl//es
en fleurs in French. My
father golfed in the
afternoons, but I preferred
the beach, swimming and
sitting with Geneviève
under her pink beach umbrella.
She never went in the water.
We talked about everything
but mostly I drew on her
knowledge of French literature.
It was she who first put me
onto the incomparable love
sonnets of Louise Labé and
the contemporary poetry of
Paul Eluard and Max Jacob.
In the Hispano-Suiza, with
Plumb still at the wheel, we
made excursions to visit
the cathedrals of Reims and
Amiens, glorious structures
with fine medieval sculpture
which had not been damaged
in the war. When it came
time to return to the States
there was a lachrymose
parting with Geneviève.
Young as I was, I had
fallen in love with her.

In the following years there
was no noticeable improvement
in my father’s mental health,
though sometimes there were
brief interludes of normalcy
between the down-swing and the
up-swing. In one of these
I persuaded him to go to
Pittsburgh, reminding him
that he had a wife there and
another son. He went and
stayed for about a month
with them at the Woodland
Road house but it didn’t
work out. They got on each
other’s nerves and there
was no renewal of the love
that had first drawn them
together. It annoyed my
father that my mother made
him go to church and that,
at home she kept badgering
him to kneel down to pray
with her for his recovery.
My brother was ashamed of
father’s illness; he was
hostile in various small
but annoying ways.

So, when he was entering
the manic phase, my father
took off again for Florida.
When he had me down to
visit
him we had another great
trip in the Sarsho,
going all the way down to
Key West. I should add
that in a later year he
had the boat trucked to
New Orleans. We went for
several days through the
spooky bayous, then
turned around and went
north on the Mississippi
as far as Natchez to see
the splendid ante-bellum
mansions of the planters.
When he was low he took
refuge with his sister.
When he was high it was
back to Europe, golfing
in Scotland and a long
visit with Geneviève.
Then fate struck a cruel
and mortal blow. Walking
across the busy Place
de la Concorde in Paris
Geneviève was hit by a
car that was out of
control and killed. My
father was never able to
forget her or bring himself
to return to France.