The Green Hour
At the dawn of the twentieth century, around the time the British crown passed from Edward VII to his son, George V, with the horrors of the First World War nearly a decade in the future, life in the bucolic English village of Baron's Woods can best be described as serene. This might be an admirable attribute if someone was looking to get away from the hustle and bustle of London, to enjoy the peace and quiet of country living. However, for those who have yet to experience what life has to offer, the tranquil village imparted little beyond a tedious, uneventful existence.
Matthew Gibbon was the only child of the church organist, an elderly widower who also taught music at Seaton Academy, a nearby private school for the sons of aristocrats and wealthy merchants. As the offspring of a teacher, Matthew received a free education not only in music but also in mathematics, science, literature and French. Given these early advantages, the young man might have gone on to Cambridge or Oxford, studied law or medicine or even stood for Parliament. However, he did not see himself as a barrister or a physician, nor did he have any desire to serve in the House of Commons. As his childhood came to an end and he was faced with having to decide on a profession, it was the love of music he had inherited from his father that steered him toward his path in life.
Although Rudyard Gibbon had hoped for more for his only child, he could not fault the boy for his choice.
"I followed my heart when I was your age," the father admitted. "I didn't do too badly. Music put food on our table and a roof over our heads, so I can't complain. I think you will make a fine instructor."
"I may teach for a while," Matthew said, "but that's not my long-range goal. I hope to someday study at either the Royal Academy of Music or the Conservatoire de Paris."
Rudyard smiled indulgently at his son. The boy certainly had big dreams.
"London and Paris are not like Baron's Woods," the father said. "Do you think you'll like living in a big city?"
"I don't see why I wouldn't."
"And what about Judith Cowell? Do you think she would be willing to leave her home and family?"
Matthew frowned. Why did everyone he knew automatically assume that he would marry Judith? She had a pretty smile—he had to admit that—but her comely mouth was placed on a rather unremarkable face. While looks were not everything, her personality did little to compensate for the lack of them. She was by nature a rather docile, unimaginative girl, one who hardly inspired passion. Although Matthew had spent time with her in the past—time most people erroneously attributed to "courting"—it was mainly because she was one of only a handful of single girls his age in Baron's Woods. He had little doubt that in London and Paris there would be a much greater selection of women.
Sadly, less than a month after completing his education at Seaton Academy, Matthew lost his father to a sudden bout of pneumonia. After Rudyard Gibbon's body was interred in the Baron's Woods churchyard, his son entered the home where he had been born and raised and walked through the eerily silent rooms.
I suppose this place is mine now, he thought, still feeling only the numbness of disbelieve at his father's unexpected passing.
Like a ghost haunting his own domicile, he shuffled down the hall and into his father's bedroom. With its sparse furnishings, the room resembled a monk's cell rather than the sleeping quarters of a schoolteacher. In the center of the room was a double bed, one Rudyard had once shared with his late wife. It was where his only child was brought into the world. Placed against the opposite wall was the second piece of furniture in the room: a three-drawer dresser in which the teacher's few items of clothing were kept. On top of the dresser was Rudyard's most treasured possession: a photographic portrait of his wife taken on the day of their wedding.
As Matthew looked down at his mother's picture, he had a premonition of what his life would be like. He would live in this house, teach music at Seaton Academy and play the organ in the Baron's Woods Church. Judith Cowell's framed photograph would be on the dresser next to that of his mother, and their children would be born in that same double bed.
And I will lie in Baron's Woods churchyard just like my father, he thought with despair. I'll die without ever having really lived.
"I'm sorry," he said to the pretty young woman in the framed photograph atop the dresser. "I know what you and Father would have wanted me to do, what type of man you would have wanted me to become, but I just can't stay here."
His decision thus hastily made, Matthew Gibbon went to his own bedroom, packed a suitcase and walked to the Baron's Woods station where he boarded a train for London.
* * *
Once his father's estate was settled and his house sold, Matthew found himself in possession of a tidy sum of money. He was by no means independently wealthy, but he could support himself while he attended music school—provided he practice frugality. Before making any decisions concerning where to study, he decided to see what life was like in Paris as compared to London. Only then would he be able to choose between the Royal Academy and the Conservatoire.
Within days of arriving in Paris, after a month-long sojourn in Britain's capital, he made friends with Horace Philbrick, a fellow British musician who helped Matthew find an inexpensive room in Montmartre and a job playing in one of the district's cabarets. He was not in the city long when he discovered that Paris was as different from London as London was from Baron's Woods. Living and working in the heart of the bohemian breeding ground, he soon became acquainted with painters, poets, writers and all other manner of artists.
One night after his band's final number, Matthew left the cabaret and encountered Horace hurrying along the Boulevard de Clichy.
"Where are you going at such a rush at this hour?" Matthew called.
"To a party at Anatole's flat," Horace replied. "Want to come along?"
"I suppose I could stop by for a little while."
Anatole was a poet, but judging from the apartment he lived in, not a very successful one. The one-room dwelling was not much larger than the average bathroom.
"Is there room for two more?" Philbrick called when he opened the front door.
"We can always find room for two more handsome young men."
Matthew followed the sound of the voice and saw an exotic-looking beauty with a mass of strawberry blond hair piled atop her head in a stylish chignon.
"Hello," he introduced himself. "My name is Matthew Gibbon."
"Oh, great! Another bloody Englishman. This is Paris! Where are all the Frenchmen?"
It was obvious from her accent that she was an American.
"What's the matter? Don't you like the British?"
"I did when I was in London. Now I'm in France. I've been in the country two whole days and have yet to be kissed by a Frenchman. I might as well have stayed in New York."
"What about Anatole, our host? Surely, he's French."
"Yes, but he prefers men to women. My name is Veronica, by the way. I won't bore you with my last name. It will only conjure up images of vast wealth and the worst aspects of American capitalism."
"Well, I'm pleased to meet you, Veronica with no surname."
The captivating young heiress stood up, looked once around the room and announced, "Since there is a decided shortage of handsome natives, I suppose you will have to be my date for the evening. Come along. Let's leave this place before I melt from the heat."
There was never a question of Matthew's accompanying her. She had issued a command, and he obeyed. He did not even think to ask where they were going.
* * *
During the next two weeks, Matthew Gibbon spent the majority of his free time with Veronica. The young heiress was travelling under the supervision of a widowed aunt, who was by no means a strict chaperone. Insisting money was no object, the beautiful blonde introduced him to a Paris most people in his social class never experienced. They dined at the finest restaurants, after which they enjoyed the most expensive entertainments. As far as Matthew was concerned, however, he would have been just as happy strolling along the Champs-Élysées as long as Veronica was at his side. Much to his dismay, however, her stay in Paris was drawing to an end.
"Before I go back to the States," she told him, "I must get some new clothes. I know. We can have lunch together, and then you can go shopping with me. I'll need someone to carry my bags."
Matthew did not mind being treated as a servant as much as he did waking up before noon after having partied late the previous night. He was a working man, after all, and he needed to get some sleep. However, Veronica was about to walk out of his life in less than a week, and he wanted to spend as much time with her as possible.
When the driver arrived at Rue de la Paix, Matthew escorted the American woman into the Maison de Couture where she perused the latest fashions the House of Paquin had to offer. After choosing the outfits she liked best, Veronica next visited the House of Worth where she purchased additional apparel.
"Next, we'll go to ...."
"Wait," Matthew interrupted her. "I don't think I can carry anything else."
"But I simply must buy one of Paul Poiret's coats."
"If you do, you had better be prepared to wear it on your back or carry the box yourself."
"Very well," she conceded with a delightful pout. "I can always get one tomorrow or the day after."
The couple returned to the Hôtel Ritz where Veronica carelessly piled her packages on the floor of her suite's sitting room, knowing her maid would tend to them before she returned.
"Where's your aunt?" her companion inquired.
"She's taking a nap in her room. It's bound to be another late night for her. She's going to the opera with some penniless marquis or comte."
Since Matthew did not have to work that night, the two of them could spend the entire evening together.
"Oh, look at the time!" Veronica exclaimed when she glanced at the clock on the dresser. "We've got to hurry."
Matthew noted that it was only ten after four, way too early for the evening meal. He could not imagine what the American woman had planned for them.
"Where are we going?" he asked, as they left the hotel.
"I discovered this wonderful little café not far from the Louvre. If we hurry we can get there by five o'clock."
"Why the rush? Surely this café isn't about to close yet."
"Because we don't want to miss the green hour."
Even though Matthew had resided in Montmartre since arriving in Paris, he had yet to be introduced to l'heure verte, the green hour. Not wanting to appear ignorant of the local social custom, he did not ask for an explanation.
Although the café was crowded, a table was quickly found for the wealthy American. There was no need to place an order; the staff knew what Veronica had come for. Minutes after she and Matthew sat at their table, a waiter placed two empty glasses and a bottle of absinthe in front of them. Then he produced two rather ornate, flat slotted spoons, a small dish of sugar cubes and a pitcher of iced cold water.
"Would the gentleman care to do the honors or shall I?" the waiter asked in thickly accented English.
"By all means, go ahead," Matthew replied, having no idea how to prepare the drink.
The waiter opened the bottle of absinthe and poured a small amount into the two glasses. Then he placed a slotted spoon across the top of each glass and put a sugar cube on top. Lastly, he slowly poured cold water over the cubes, dissolving the sugar and diluting the absinthe. The waiter stood patiently by as Matthew lifted the glass to his lips.
"Is it to the gentleman's liking?"
"Oui. Merci," Matthew replied in his best British schoolboy French.
He took another taste of the cloudy beverage. It reminded him of licorice.
"Mmm. This is pretty good."
"Don't tell me you've never had absinthe before!" Veronica cried with surprise.
"It's probably too expensive for my pockets."
"On the contrary, it's actually inexpensive. I'm surprised you never had it before. It's quite popular with the Montmartre crowd. Toulouse-Lautrec, Vincent van Gogh and even Oscar Wilde were well-known absinthe drinkers in their day."
"I can see why," Matthew said, finishing his drink and then pouring himself another, repeating the steps the waiter had taken.
"Be careful," Veronica warned after he finished his second glass and poured a third. "This isn't wine or brandy. It's much more potent."
Before the evening was out, Matthew was to find out just how strong a spirit the deceptively sweet green drink really was.
* * *
When Matthew first woke up the following afternoon, he had no idea where he was or how he got there. It took him several minutes to realize he was in his own apartment.
"I don't remember coming home last night," he said to the empty room.
"I'm not surprised," a voice replied from the kitchen. "You were under the influence of la fée verte."
"La fée what?" he asked Veronica when she walked into his bedroom, carrying a cup of coffee and a chunk of bread.
"La fée verte, the green fairy. It's a nickname for absinthe."
"I remember we went to a café by the Louvre," Matthew said, trying to clear the haze from his brain. "I had three—no, four—glasses of absinthe. That's all I can remember."
"I told you to be careful, but you didn't listen. I had to have two waiters carry you out of the café so that I could take you home."
"That was thoughtful of you."
"You were in no condition to walk. Had I gone back to my hotel and left you there, no doubt someone would have had to fish your body out of the Seine this morning."
Once Matthew had finished his coffee, Veronica felt he was well enough to be left alone.
"I've got to go finish my shopping," she announced, retrieving her handbag from the kitchen. "I set sail in three days, and I haven't bought my Poiret coat yet."
"I wish I could go with you, but I have to work today."
"Don't worry. I'll find someone else to carry my bags."
Her casual remark, although said in jest, caused him pain. Despite his intentions to the contrary, he had grown very fond of the zany American since meeting her at Anatole's party. He condemned himself for his foolishness. Veronica was a wealthy tourist. There was never the slightest possibility that their relationship would last beyond her stay in Paris. In all probability her family had already selected a potential husband for her: some multimillionaire with a last name and net family worth as impressive as her own.
"Will I see you before you go?" he asked.
"That would be nice. Maybe we can go to the Moulin Rouge and see Mistinguett perform. I hear she's the rage of Paris."
Knowing it was their last evening together put a damper on what normally would have been an enjoyable outing for Matthew. Not even Mistinguett's somewhat risqué performance could improve his mood. At the end of the evening, as the couple walked out the door beneath the red windmill of the Moulin Rouge, he was reluctant to say goodbye.
"Why don't we have a final drink together," he suggested. "Even though it's not five o'clock, I'm sure we can find a place that serves absinthe."
"I think you should stay away from that stuff," Veronica laughed.
"A glass of wine then."
"I'd better not," she replied after several moments of contemplation. "I have to leave early tomorrow to travel to Le Havre."
Matthew remained silent during the ride back to the Hôtel Ritz, dreading the moment when they must part forever.
"New York seems so far away, but maybe ...," he said, letting the last word hang in the air.
"No," she declared, surmising his train of thought and not wanting to give him false hope. "I enjoyed our time together, but it's come to an end."
The two parted in the hotel lobby. Wanting to get to bed early, Veronica did not invite him up to her suite. After one last tender kiss, they said their final farewells. Matthew watched her walk away, trying to commit her image to his memory, remaining motionless until the elevator doors closed shut behind her.
Not long after the sun came up the next morning, a hotel porter helped load Veronica's and her aunt's luggage into the back of a wagon. Handing the driver the necessary paperwork, he instructed the man to take the bags and trunks to the Gare d'Orsay station and to put them on the next train to La Havre. Half an hour later, a taxi pulled up and the two ladies maids got inside.
Matthew, who had remained outside the hotel the entire night, was watching from across the street as the two American socialites finally emerged from the Ritz. Veronica was an absolute vision in a lime green silk dress. Her reddish blond locks were tucked beneath an elaborate green hat, decked out with plumes and artificial flowers. He fought the urge to cross the street, take her in his arms and beg her to remain in Paris.
"I can't wait to get back to New York," she haughtily remarked to her aunt as they waited for the chauffeur to open the car doors for them. "I'm getting so bored with all these foreigners."
"I know what you mean," the older woman replied. "European men try so hard to please us wealthy American women. It is downright humiliating sometimes."
The women's words stunned Matthew, who agonizingly realized that he meant nothing to Veronica.
I was just someone to escort her to dinner or to the theater, a handy person to carry her bags when she went shopping.
When the car drove off, taking the woman he loved away from him forever, the morose musician slowly made his way back to his Montmartre rooms.
* * *
With Veronica gone, Paris lost most of its dazzle. In the days immediately following her departure, Matthew stuck to his usual routine, but he took no joy in life. Not even music, which had inspired, motivated and comforted him since he was a child, offered him any degree of solace. His plans to attend the Conservatoire de Paris were abandoned.
Horace Philbrick, believing the best cure for his friend's melancholy was to date another pretty girl, invited Matthew out for a night on the town.
"I want you to meet Violette's friend. She dances at the Folies Bergère."
"The last thing I want to do is get involved with another woman."
"What are you going to do then? Join the church and become a monk?"
It's better than suffering from another broken heart, Matthew thought but eventually gave in to his friend's persuasion.
The girl that Horace introduced him to was indeed attractive, but she could not hold a candle to Veronica.
At the end of the evening, the four young people stopped at a cabaret for a late night drink.
"I'll have absinthe," Matthew told the waiter after his three companions ordered wine.
"Absinthe?" Horace laughed. "One glass and you'll be reciting Rimbaud and Verlaine."
"I like it," his heartbroken friend replied defensively.
For the remainder of the night, his mood improved to the point that he actually smiled and laughed, something he had not done since the morning he glimpsed Veronica and her aunt in front of the Ritz. Horace attributed his friend's good humor to the female company, but Matthew knew it was the alcohol. The absinthe alone had succeeded in temporarily dulling his pain.
What began as a social custom soon developed into a case of substance abuse. Matthew no longer bothered to go to cafés or cabarets to order his drinks. Instead, he purchased absinthe by the bottle and took it back to his rooms where he had his own slotted spoon and a supply of sugar cubes. Like many an alcoholic or drug addict, his consumption increased over time. On the night he drank an entire bottle in one sitting, he unwittingly crossed a threshold into a world no other absinthe drinker had ever entered.
As he slumped over onto the table in a drunken stupor, the empty glass fell from his hand and smashed on the tiled floor. He would probably have remained there until morning had it not been for an eerie green light that suddenly appeared in the kitchen doorway. Not bothering to raise his head, he opened his eyes and stared at the glowing figure of a woman.
"Who ...?"
In his inebriated state, one syllable was all he could manage to utter.
It must be the celebrated green fairy, he thought, but noticed she had no wings.
The woman drew nearer, stopping within inches of the table. She was clothed in a diaphanous gown that revealed more than it covered. Matthew's gaze might have lingered on her physical perfection had not his eyes seen the face framed by a massive head of green-tinted curls.
"Veronica," he groaned.
The sight of the beautiful American seemed to have a miraculous sobering effect on him. Without any difficulty, he stood up, walked toward her and took her in his arms.
When he awoke the next morning, still sprawled over the kitchen table, he came to the unhappy conclusion that his night of passion had been nothing more than a dream. Of course, that didn't stop him from purchasing another bottle of absinthe and imbibing later that night.
Again, once he swallowed the last drop in his glass—careful this time to place it in the center of the table where it would not get broken—the eerie green light appeared in his kitchen doorway. Although he knew Veronica was an illusion, it was one he could not resist.
Night after night he remained in his apartment, drinking himself senseless at his kitchen table. Everything and everyone else in his life took a back seat to la fée verte. As he spiraled further down into the vortex of alcoholism, he lost his job and was subsequently evicted from his rooms by his landlord. In his debauched frame of mind, the only downside he saw in the fact that he was homeless and out of work was that his dwindling finances might soon prevent him from buying his daily bottle of absinthe.
Finally, after waking up in the gutter surrounded by rotting garbage after a night with his green paramour, Matthew admitted to himself that he had hit rock bottom.
What has happened to me? he wondered. How could I have let myself sink so low?
As his eyes focused on the Eiffel Tower that dominated the Paris skyline, he comprehended that his only hope for a life of fulfillment and purpose lay back in England in Baron's Woods.
* * *
When Matthew Gibbon woke up in the same bed where he had been born more than two decades earlier, he smelled breakfast cooking. He smiled—not with joy but with contentment.
"It's time to get up," his wife called.
Although the sun had just risen, he got up from bed, put on a robe and headed toward the kitchen.
"How are you feeling this morning?" he asked Judith after giving her an affectionate peck on the cheek.
"Tired," she replied, her hand going to her bulging abdomen. "I think the baby was doing the can-can last night."
Mention of the popular French dance reminded Matthew of his time in Paris. Since settling into a life of domestic comfort, he was no longer tortured by those memories. Moving into his parents' old house. A job teaching music at Seaton Academy. Marriage to Judith Cowell. A child on the way. Playing the organ at the Baron's Woods Church. He had envisioned such a life the day his father was buried. It was ironic that at that time such a prospect made him escape to London, and yet it had eventually become his salvation.
He finished his breakfast, went to the bedroom and got dressed for work.
"I'll be home at the usual time," he announced.
"Good. I'm making a shepherd's pie for supper."
After kissing his wife again—this time on the lips—Matthew walked out the door, whistling a cheerful melody.
Sadly, the young English music teacher had no idea that his idyllic life in Baron's Woods was no more real than his absinthe-induced hallucinations of the passion-filled nights with Veronica. Matthew Gibbon never returned to England, never left France, for the green fairy that he had once found so tantalizing had left him in a comatose state in a Paris gutter. Unable to break the invisible chains that held his mind captive, he was committed to the Asylum de Bicêtre in the suburbs of Paris where he remained in a dream state for the rest of his days.
Salem insists he was the inspiration for Lucid absinthe. I tend to agree with him since he's been driving me to drink for 300 years!
