The Polyglots Read online

  PRAISE FOR WILLIAM GERHARDIE AND THE POLYGLOTS

  “None of his novels display with more dazzling skill and vitality than The Polyglots the peculiar inclusiveness of his philosophy, and no happier narrator ever adopted the first person singular … Original and unmistakable.”

  —MICHAEL HOLROYD, AUTHOR OF BERNARD SHAW

  “The most influential English novel of the twentieth century … Wonderfully eccentric, funny and beguilingly melancholic. Gerhardie’s masterpiece.”

  —WILLIAM BOYD, AUTHOR OF ANY HUMAN HEART

  “On first reading, The Polyglots seemed immensely enjoyable. I have returned to it many times … and the book has lost none of its freshness. A classic.”

  —ANTHONY POWELL, AUTHOR OF A DANCE TO THE MUSIC OF TIME

  “Gerhardie deserves readers … maybe this time William Gerhardie will join Dawn Powell and Zora Neale Hurston in staying rediscovered.”

  —MICHAEL DIRDA, WASHINGTON POST

  “I have talent, but he has genius.”

  —EVELYN WAUGH

  “Gerhardie’s work left an indelible impression … To those of my generation he was the most important new novelist to appear in our young life. We were proud of his early and immediate success, like men who have spotted the right horse.”

  —GRAHAM GREENE

  “The humour of life, the poetry of death, the release of the spirit—these things Gerhardie describes as no prose writer has done before him … William Gerhardie is our Gogol’s ‘Overcoat.’ We all came out of him.”

  —OLIVIA MANNING, AUTHOR OF FORTUNES OF WAR: THE BALKAN TRILOGY

  “He is a comic writer of genius … but his art is profoundly serious: underneath the shamelessness and farce, his themes are the great ones, of love, grief and death, of intimations of joy and our imprisonment in the world of flesh and time.”

  —C.P. SNOW, AUTHOR OF THE TWO CULTURES

  “One of the funniest writers of the twentieth century.”

  —PHILIP TOYNBEE, AUTHOR OF END OF A JOURNEY: AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL JOURNAL

  THE POLYGLOTS

  WILLIAM GERHARDIE (1895–1977) was born Gerhardi—he added the final “e” late in life—in St. Petersburg, Russia, the son of British parents who owned a cotton mill there. At 17 they sent him to a British vocational college to prepare him for joining the family business. However, Gerhardie disliked school and, at the outbreak of World War I, enlisted instead. His language skills led to assignment to the British Mission in Siberia, to work on a propaganda campaign aimed at disrupting the Bolshevik take-over of the country after the Russian Revolution (which had ruined his family and forced them to flee the country). Gerhardie’s work earned him an Order of the British Empire at age 24. Upon his return to England, he enrolled at Oxford and soon produced his first novel, Futility, based on his recent experience in Russia. The book won praise from Evelyn Waugh, H.G. Wells, George Bernard Shaw, Edith Wharton, Graham Greene and others—yet did not sell well. While still at school he wrote a critical biography of Chekhov, the first such appreciation of the writer in English, and still cited by scholars as one of the most perceptive. Several critically praised novels followed, including The Polyglots, Doom, and Pending Heaven, and he became the toast of literary London. He was especially doted upon by press magnate Lord Beaverbrook, who tried, unsuccessfully, to increase Gerhardie’s sales by serializing his books in his newspapers. In 1939 Gerhardie stopped publishing, although for the rest of his life he told friends he was working on a novel called This Present Breath, a tetralogy in one volume. Falling into poverty, he rarely left his London apartment, and when he died there in 1977, no trace of This Present Breath was found.

  MICHAEL HOLROYD is the author of biographies of Lytton Strachey, Augustus John, and George Bernard Shaw. He has long been a champion of Gerhardie’s work, and he edited his posthumous book, God’s Fifth Column.

  THE NEVERSINK LIBRARY

  I was by no means the only reader of books on board the Neversink. Several other sailors were diligent readers, though their studies did not lie in the way of belles-lettres. Their favourite authors were such as you may find at the book-stalls around Fulton Market; they were slightly physiological in their nature. My book experiences on board of the frigate proved an example of a fact which every book-lover must have experienced before me, namely, that though public libraries have an imposing air, and doubtless contain invaluable volumes, yet, somehow, the books that prove most agreeable, grateful, and companionable, are those we pick up by chance here and there; those which seem put into our hands by Providence; those which pretend to little, but abound in much. —HERMAN MELVILLE, WHITE JACKET

  THE POLYGLOTS

  Originally published in 1925 by Richard Cobden-Sanderson, London

  © William Gerhardie 1925

  Introduction © Michael Holroyd, 1983

  First Melville House printing: December 2012

  Melville House Publishing

  145 Plymouth Street

  Brooklyn, NY 11201

  www.mhpbooks.com

  eISBN: 978-1-61219-189-8

  A catalog record for this title is available from the Library of Congress

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  INTRODUCTION

  BY MICHAEL HOLROYD

  William Gerhardie was twenty-nine when The Polyglots was first published in 1925. Like his first novel Futility, it draws largely on personal experiences. The son of a successful British industrialist living in St Petersburg, and his Yorkshire wife, Gerhardie had been considered the dunce of the family and was sent to England in his late teens to be trained for what was loosely called ‘a commercial career’—that is, to acquire some financial acumen or, in default, marry a rich bride. But he detested commerce and dreamed only of the dramatic triumphs with which he hoped to take the London theatres by storm. To improve his English style he was studying Wilde; and an elegant cane, long locks and a languid expression were parts of his literary makeup at this time.

  During the war he was posted to the staff of the British Military Attaché at Petrograd and, arriving there with an enormous sword bought second-hand in the Charing Cross Road (‘le sabre de mon pèrc—a long clumsy thing in a leather scabbard’ that makes a momentary appearance in Uncle Lucy’s funeral procession in The Polyglots), he was welcomed as an
old campaigner. The Russian Revolution (which ruined his father who owed his life to having been mistaken for the British socialist Keir Hardie) sent Gerhardie back to England. But in 1918 he set out again, and after crossing America and Japan reached Vladivostok, where the British Military Mission had established itself. After two years in Siberia, mostly in the company of generals, he left the army with an OBE and two foreign decorations, sailing home by way of Singapore, Colombo and Port Said—a journey that forms the closing chapters of The Polyglots.

  The Polyglots is the narrative of a high-spirited egocentric young officer who comes across a Belgian family, rich in eccentrics, to whom he is related and with whom he lives while on a military mission to the Far East. There are obvious parallels here with Gerhardie’s own life. His impressions of the First and Second Revolution in Petrograd and the Allied Intervention in Russia of 1918–20, of the whole business of interfering on an international scale in other people’s affairs, are recorded here and in Futility. He draws, too, upon his own family. His aunt Mary is the prototype for the extraordinary Aunt Teresa; his uncle Willy was the model for Uncle Lucy, that unfortunate gentleman who hangs himself in his sister’s knickers; while the beautiful nincompoop Sylvia is based on a girl Gerhardie met in Westbourne Grove. Gerhardie makes them not into comic Russian stereotypes but universal characters, each in his or her way a corrective to the other. They are ourselves and the people we meet every day. ‘There, but for the grace of God, goes H. G. Wells,’ remarked H. G. Wells of that amorous knight of the bedchamber, Uncle Emmanuel.

  On returning to England, Gerhardie went to Worcester College, Oxford. Though he was responsive to the beauty of Oxford, his opinion of academic life was not high and is probably reflected in the Johnsonian statement of the narrator in this novel: ‘There are as many fools at a university as elsewhere … but their folly, I admit, has a certain stamp—the stamp of university training, if you like. It is trained folly.’

  On leaving Oxford, Gerhardie wrote much of The Polyglots at Innsbruck. He completed it under difficult conditions while his father was dying. His mother would read out pages from the manuscript to the old man ‘to kill time’, and for the most part he listened uncomplainingly and without comment, though occasionally pronouncing some passage to be ‘instructive’. But when she came to the sea-burial of Natàsha, she began to cry, and this bothered him. ‘Don’t cry,’ he urged. ‘It’s not real. Willy has invented it.’

  The narrator in The Polyglots has by the end of the novel decided to write the novel we are reading. ‘I have already written the title-page,’ he announces in answer to his Aunt Teresa’s query as to what they are going to do for money. “ ‘Is it going to sell well?” ’ she demands; and the narrator notes, ‘I was silent.’

  On The Polyglots were pinned the family’s hopes of remaking the family fortune, but Gerhardie’s father died a few months before publication. The book did make Gerhardie’s name as a novelist; but as to fortune, he later calculated that, contrary to expectation, it had brought in ‘something equivalent, in terms of royalties, to nothing’.

  In later years Gerhardie was to adopt as his colophon the ampersand. None of his novels display with more dazzling skill and vitality than The Polyglots the peculiar inclusiveness of his philosophy, and no happier narrator ever adopted the first person singular. Captain Georges Hamlet Alexander Diabologh is a young man with literary aspirations. He labours intermittently at a work whose title, Record of the Stages in the Evolution of an Attitude, suggests the theme (‘the central thing round which the world revolved’) of The Polyglots. Our attitude to life, Gerhardie implies, is the same as our attitude to fiction which is born of our experience of life. When Sylvia, on board the Rhinoceros as it moves through the Red Sea, wants to know what will happen after they get back to Europe, the narrator replies that he has noticed, with regret, ‘the same morbid and unhealthy appetite in the readers of novels’. And later, now the author of this novel, he asks us to co-operate with him—financially (by buying several copies to help the fortunes of the characters about whom we have been reading) and imaginatively ‘in a spirit of good will’. The book stands, the readers evolve.

  Our emotions in relation to time past, present and future are seen to guide our method of making the most of life—which itself, in ironic counterpoint, keeps interrupting the philosophical discussions which chart the evolution of the characters’ attitude to it. After listening to Wagner, the narrator reflects that music understands what words and thoughts cannot analyse. Inanimate Nature behaves as if we were not here and life exists irrespective of our reasoning about it. Therefore life is wiser than reason which, being only the partial discovery of life, is merely inquisitive. By the same token Gerhardie believed that no intellectual credo was demanded of the poet-novelist whose stereoscopic vision saw through everyday happenings to a world of dreams, mystery and immortality. Here the comic and the tragic are not alternative or successive attitudes but deeply intermingled, so that every event—Uncle Lucy’s suicide, Sylvia’s unexpected wedding night, the Russian Revolution itself with its consequences, after the cherry orchard has been cut down, on this miscellany of unwilling refugees moving westwards—contains both sadness and humour.

  It is in the orchestration of contradictory moods and attitudes that The Polyglots excels. Though it owes something to Chekhov (about whom Gerhardie wrote a brilliant little book at Oxford), the tone is original and unmistakable: ‘personal, light and glancing, often lyrical but always self-deflating’ as Walter Allen described it. Believing that the invention of psychologically convincing characters and artful well-balanced plots was a mistaken ambition for the novelist in that it cut across the grain of his natural material and ignored the plots that already exist in life, Gerhardie introduces his people and lets them, as it were, carry the event-plot along for him. In Futility and The Polyglots he brought something new to fiction. The characters, or at least the social personalities they have developed, are suggested very simply with recurring patterns of words: Uncle Emmanuel’s ‘Que voulez-vous?’ ‘C’est la vie’ and ‘Courage! Courage!’; Gustave’s cough and adjustment of his Adam’s apple; Georges Diabologh’s repeated admission, unintelligible to the others, that ‘I’m good-looking … You think I’m conceited? I think not’; Sylvia’s quotations from the Daily Mail; the ‘stinks’ of Major Beastly, the insensitive man with the sensitive skin; Captain Negodyaev whose attitude to life was a dark smile; and overseeing them all the indomitable hypochondriac Aunt Teresa, who can stand anything except disagreement and whose presidential attitude to everyone successfully moves her family and its dependants round the world in the midst of ‘the greatest war the world has ever seen’. As Georges Diabologh comments: ‘All is in the Hands of God—and Aunt Teresa.’

  Living alongside this amorphous agglutinated mass of helpless humanity that trails back and forth across Gerhardie’s pages, are the children. They are handled with extraordinary dexterity and in a manner for which it is difficult to find a parallel in other novels. They are observed with passion yet without sentimentality, accurately yet with the dimension of pathos in that they are surrounded by a ludicrous world into which they must grow up. Except Natàsha. Her burial at sea is an anguish of the heart, an involvement in grief chronicled with rigorous detachment. We see the yellow moustache of her father ceaselessly twitching; the curiosity of the passengers on the upper deck; the Captain’s awareness of his gala uniform and the ship’s inflexible routine; the obsolete Russian tricolour; the surgeon puffing at his cigarette; everywhere the atmosphere of unreality surrounding the blunt fact of death that must be faced yet may not be understood, Natàsha having gone unharmed through two revolutions, five sieges, two seasons of famine and pestilence to die in plenty and quietude on the tropical ocean.

  ‘It was a cloudless morning of extreme heat and stuffiness and damp, and the decks were crowded, noisy and indifferent, and I thought that suffering and death should be in the wind and cold of winter, in the slough and drowsiness o
f autumn, but not in summer—oh, not in summer … The sea went out in large ripples. The gulls flew screaming and wheeling above them … The ship had been brought to as near standstill as possible; barely perceptibly she slid along on the deep. deep, flapping sea. The plank was on ropes, like a swing: a seaman on each side—Uncle Tom and a young one. Below loomed the Indian Ocean, stretching out its white paws of froth—like a big cat … The mother was held up by her husband and Berthe. She looked pale, pasty, she looked awful. Swiftly the flag was pulled off. Then they swung it—once our way, once to the sea. Natàsha slid off, and describing a curve in the air splashed into the water. A few seconds—and she disappeared beneath the foam … the liner, stealthily, relentlessly, like life itself, went on.’

  Gerhardie’s writing at its best is simple but suggests a widening circle of lyrical and ironic possibilities. He used increasingly the delaying phrase and clause within a sentence, measuring the length of procrastination while declaring the power of time regained. It is this tension that helps to hold in equilibrium the incongruity of lite as he presents it to us. ‘To maintain a position is to maintain a false position,’ he writes. In The Polyglots the search for an attitude excludes no attitude: the lies we tell ourselves are part of the truth we live. Gerhardie’s success, as in an artistic conjuring trick, is convincingly to maintain what is intellectually the untenable position.

  Beneath the compulsory conviviality of wartime party-going runs a current of melancholy, and this, together with many farcical episodes and philosophical speculations, is interwoven with a number of powerful anti-war passages. ‘No one wanted the war,’ he writes; ‘no one with the exception of a score of imbeciles, and suddenly all those who did not want a war turned imbecile and obeyed the score of imbeciles who had made it …’ The eccentrics and lunatics who surround the narrator are, we see, no madder than those who run the world and make its wars. There is a strong parallel here, as Anthony Powell has pointed out, between The Polyglots and The Enormous Room, e. e. cummings’s account of being incarcerated for ‘careless talk’ by the French authorities, which was published in 1922.