The Polyglots Read online

  ‘What is this for?’ Nora asked. What Harry said Nora said; what Harry did Nora did.

  ‘Daddy has one like these,’ Harry said, fingering my braces.

  ‘Daddy has one like these,’ Nora said.

  ‘Only better ones,’ said Harry.

  ‘Only batter ones,’ said Nora.

  ‘Who’s better, Nora or Natàsha?’ I asked.

  ‘Myself,’ he answered.

  The act of dressing, I noticed, conduces to a peculiarly primitive mood of jocoseness, and I continued asking silly questions. ‘Whom shall I drown?’ I presently asked. ‘You or Nora?’

  ‘Drown yourself,’ he said.

  ‘Drown yourself,’ said Nora.

  ‘Come on,’ I cried, suddenly assuming a forbidding look on my face as I walked up to him and took him by the sleeve. He sidestepped and considered a moment, and—‘Go to hell!’ he said.

  ‘Harry!’

  ‘Go to hal,’ said Nora.

  ‘Who has taught you such dreadful language?’

  ‘Daddy,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, pour some on me, pour some on me—some of that hair stuff,’ he pleaded, watching me. I poured some on his head, rather lavishly. He stood very still, with the same beatific look in his forget-me-not eyes. But when it ran down his cheeks he closed his eyes with a grimace.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘It bited,’ he said.

  ‘Now pour some on Nora.’

  These interruptions of my morning toilet considerably retarded my routine. Life, I observed, was not worth living: by the time I had risen, shaved, washed, bathed, dressed myself, and so on, the day was gone, and it was time to go to bed. This was our life. A large family in a small flat—all doing this all day long. The activity was all directed towards getting clean—during which process they all got dirty again. The atmosphere of the place was sleepy and conducive to day-dreaming. Dusk fell soon in the winter. The heavy curtains were drawn, shutting out the icy-cold dusty snowless streets of Harbin, with the brilliantly illuminated windows of the shops closing down one by one as the town sank deeper into twilight, and we dwelt in the warm nicely heated rooms with the sumptuous leather sofas and chairs and the shaded lights behind silk Chinese screens embroidered with flowers and birds. The Chinese boys moved like ghosts, noiseless, in soft satin slippers on carpeted floors, listless shapes in long spotless white gowns. There was repose, soft, sumptuous repose writ large over the quiet interior; but when you entered Aunt Teresa’s rose-coloured bedroom, and saw her in bed, about half-past five in the evening, among medicine bottles, family photos, especially those of her son, books, cushions, cosmetics, a writing-pad, a red leather buvard, screens on all sides, the rose-shaded light burning behind her, the scent of Mon Boudoir perfume lying in wait for you and stealing insidiously over your senses, you trod more softly than ever, you spoke in a whisper, you yawned, stretched, and yearned to wrap the quilt around yourself and yield to happy dreams.

  Only the children were somewhat at variance with the atmosphere of rest. Nora would fall down suddenly from the most unlikely places. Once she fell from the top of the stairs, landing forthwith, without touching any intermediate steps, seated upright, on to the bottom step—palpably against all the essential propositions of the law of gravity. ‘I did get a fright,’ she said. The small children now had their meals before ours, and having finished theirs, would come into the dining-room and watch us eat—whereat Nora always begged for ‘brad’. But Harry, more reserved, only looked on from afar as we were eating (when there was something to be got he always went off and looked on from a distance), and when asked what he wanted would say, with some feeling: ‘I’m not asking for anything.’

  Nora was always eating, and when she wasn’t eating she was drinking, and Harry was delegated by his mother to unbutton and button up his little sister’s knickers—a duty which, in view of her phenomenal appetite and thirst, made a heavy demand on his time throughout the day. When there was any commotion or any unusual activity anywhere, there invariably came Nora’s voice from afar, ‘S’all right: I’m coming!’ and there would come the uncertain hoof-clatter of her small feet, and the mushroom would toddle up on the scene of activity. Her name was Nora; nevertheless, she had light flaxen hair combed and cut evenly over the forehead.

  Natàsha and Harry liked playing at mummy and daddy together, Nora being the baby. But Nora did not care for the game, because they put her to bed, and she had to lie very still all the time; her part, in fact, differing so little from what she was in real life—‘only a baby’. Whereas she wanted to run round the rooms stamping her feet, or to stand on one leg and make very deliberate movements with her arms as though trying to fly. But the three of them played together and developed a sort of tongue of their own, half-way between English and Russian, and there was, at first, a lot of ‘vish!—bish!’ about Natàsha’s torrential English in which accuracy and everything else was sacrificed to speed. And it seemed as though this new language appealed to Harry and Nora, for when they spoke English they now purposely twisted the words as if for Natàsha’s peculiar requirements. ‘Give back, or no give back?’ they would ask when accepting a gift. And when Natàsha spoke Russian to them she twisted her Russian as if to oblige them. They collected rubbish—all of them did. Harry took everything that Natàsha discarded, and Bubby took what Harry discarded. And what was no good at all for Bubby, Nora took. For a child coming from a Communist country, Natàsha displayed an astounding sense of property—even in rubbish, her rights over which she asserted with a vehement ‘S’mine!’ A claim to property sometimes disputed by the others with an equally determined ‘S’mine!’ And Harry would make off with some piece of rubbish of questionable ownership, when you would hear Natàsha’s cries: ‘What for you doing! What for you doing, Harry!’ And rushing after him and being the stronger of the two by reason of age, she would snatch the thing from him—whereon Harry would give vent to his despair in Russian as he cried: ‘Ne nado! Ne nado!—This is ours!’—he had turned to me. ‘Tell ’er it is ours. Tell ’er.’

  Whereat Aunt Molly and Captain Negodyaev, having been attracted by the noise, smacked their respective offspring without investigation—mainly to oblige each other.

  32

  THE VIRGIN

  OUR WEDDING WAS ACCORDINGLY PUT OFF TILL after Christmas, Sylvia the while looking after Don or playing the Four Seasons of the Year. One of them—Winter, I believe—was so sad that as I listened tears came to my eyes, and I thought: how long? how much more? and, if one thinks into it deeply, really what for? The evening was in its full glory, perhaps a tarnished glory, a dying beauty cavernous with melancholy, as we went out. Uncle Emmanuel, who held a modest post in the Yugo-Slavian or some such Allied consulate, had made up a sort of uniform—it looked like nothing on earth, but it passed off as ‘Allied’—and strode about in it seeking whom he might devour. Occasionally he would wear a monocle, but he complained that as he was short-sighted with both eyes the monocle was but a partial remedy. ‘Wear two monocles then, one in each eye,’ I advised. But he would have none of it. Uncle Emmanuel was anything but handsome and, to be exact, one-third my size, but imagined that he was irresistible to women, and now wore this home-made uniform in order, as he thought, to attract them the more. It is not easy to write of him. I can even think of a few people among my own acquaintances who would consider the revelation of these indiscretions as something, something—to use a strong term—not quite nice. I have a maiden aunt who would look upon all this as painful reading. But what do you and I care about such superstitions? It would be ungracious to condemn Uncle Emmanuel without trying to understand his nature. He had a passion for life, which to him was identified with the intimate charm of the feminine form in its greatest variety; and so he spent his days in quest of the red light. He was untrue to Aunt Teresa within the first week of their honeymoon, because he was a man who loved a lot. Uncle Emmanuel’s good nature implied a belief in other people’s good nature that sometimes was
a little naïve. That night he booked a double bedroom at the hotel, for himself and his new friend—a charming brunette. But on the following morning when he intimated the desire to prolong his stay over the week-end he was informed that as the hotel was undergoing repair he must vacate his room by 1 p.m. that day. My uncle caused at once enquiries to be pushed, and was informed that if he travelled up three versts or so by rail he would be certain to obtain a room at a family pension—whither he and the brunette immediately repaired. The pension by its originality and charm exceeded all his expectations. Uncle Emmanuel explained that he was an Allied officer who had come out to help the Russian national cause. The nice old landlady—a Lutheran from the Baltic Provinces, a kind, God-fearing soul—was all wreathes and smiles. She understood the situation: an elderly military, a loyal Ally, just wedded to a young Russian wife—and naturally impatient. She would see that his honeymoon was as pleasant as can be. She understood. She had once herself been young and had married a much younger man than herself of whom she had retained the tenderest memories. She would go all out to make my uncle’s honeymoon (as she imagined) a success. She took him to her heart: yes, she had had a husband once: a little man—she showed from the ground—just like my uncle.

  ‘Ah, oui! Charmé,’ Uncle Emmanuel said curtly.

  An ardent lover nevertheless, it seemed. She cherished his memory. I translated this too to my uncle, who stood, a little impatient, with the tall brunette on his arm.

  ‘Ah, oui! C’est ça,’ he said, somewhat indifferently.

  But he was dead, she confided.

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Je regrette,’ he said.

  Her watery old eyes looked at him tenderly. ‘The gentleman bears his age lightly,’ she said, by way of a compliment.

  I translated this too.

  It did not please him. It did not please him at all. Age! ‘Enfin,’ he said, ‘we cannot spend all our life standing here. Can madame give us a room?’

  Yes, she would give him a room, one of the best rooms, to be sure. But her daughter had frank laughing brown eyes that pierced Uncle Emmanuel’s soul, as he was signing the register. We at once ascended to the second floor where a tall, lofty, blue-papered room was assigned to my uncle, on the walls of which hung framed mottoes in German: ‘Cleave unto the Lord’; ‘God is our Refuge’; and ‘Kept by the power of God’. She assigned for their exclusive use her private sitting-room, in which she sought to leave the newly-married couple, shielded from the glances of the curious, to their hearts’ desire, and she undercharged them quite ridiculously for the food they consumed.

  But just because she was good-natured, my uncle, a poor enough psychologist at the best of times, concluded that her good nature knew no bounds; and two weeks had not elapsed when he appeared again before the same (now somewhat grave) God-fearing dame, a little blonde, this time, upon his gallant arm, a rakish, cheery air about his face, as if to say:

  ‘And here we are again!’

  A veil over my uncle’s doings.

  On Saturday night there was a ‘Gala Social-Democratic Ball’ at the late Officers’ Assembly building, and as Sylvia did not feel very well I had arranged to take my red-haired cousin. I was engaged to Sylvia—and this was as far as it went. The incredible tedium of our relation at this stationary point in our romance became intolerable. After a day spent side by side in Aunt Teresa’s drawing-room one longed to shoot oneself. To account for my impending absence in the evening, I told Sylvia that I was dining with a General. She said nothing—looked sad.

  In the afternoon on our way home to tea I bought a box of chocolates for my red-haired cousin, and another box for Sylvia who had come into the shop with me. ‘This is for you.’

  ‘And who’s this other box for?’

  ‘This other? For the General,’ I said.

  She said nothing, only looked wretchedly sad.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ she sighed.

  (She already knew all about the red-haired cousin.) But she took the chocolates—and sadly, sorrowfully, went her way.

  And as my red-haired cousin and I ensconced ourselves in the cab that evening, Sylvia, who had a sneezing cold, came out on to the balcony in her great coat—with the dark-brown curls dropping on her shoulder and the swollen upper lip she looked unkissable and unkempt—and watched us drive away.

  The ‘Social-Democratic Soirée’ turned out a little ‘too democratic’ for the liking of my red-haired cousin. As we walked together in the ball-room, sunflower seed shells and orange peels were being dropped on us from the gallery, as a matter of course, and soldiers and sailors elbowed their way through the thronged space of the vast assembly-rooms.

  ‘Who’s that tall man with the long beard, who looks like Tirpitz, talking to the British Consul?’ asked my red-haired cousin.

  ‘That’s the famous General Horvat.’

  ‘What a beard!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Yes. There is an anecdote attached to it. Some Allied diplomat had asked his wife: “How does your husband sleep: with his beard over or under the blanket?” “That depends upon the season,” she is said to have replied. “In the summer, when it’s warm, he likes to air his beard by keeping it above the blanket. But in winter, to keep himself warm, he tucks his beard under the blanket.” ’

  She laughed at that, a little insincerely, as if mainly for my sake.

  As the ‘soirée’ wore on, incidents occurred. Somebody had hit somebody else over the head with a beer bottle. Somebody had shot himself. Some officer had challenged some other to a duel—over nothing. To our surprise, we fell across Uncle Emmanuel—in somewhat doubtful company, I fear, comprising a notorious card-sharper, a secret service spy, and a young woman of the demi-monde.

  ‘May I introduce you to the mistress of my brother?’ said the card-sharper, as I approached. ‘But I must warn you—and our friend here (he pointed to the spy) will confirm it—General Pshemòvich-Pshevìtski is her lover.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ said the lady. ‘He only says this to ward you off. You don’t know him. He is madly jealous of me.’ She turned to Uncle Emmanuel and whacked him with her fan across the arm. ‘Why are you so serious? Look at me, I am so gay, I’m always laughing. Ha, ha, ha!’ Which sent a chill of gloom through our souls—and no one spoke.

  ‘I hope you don’t believe a word of it,’ she turned again to Uncle Emmanuel. ‘He’s always telling awful things about me because he wants to ward you off and keep me to himself. That’s why I do not love him. I can only love one who himself is pure. How I wish, Serge,’ she turned to the card-sharper, ‘that you were pure.’

  ‘You ought not to wish that, my dear.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You ought to love your equals.’

  ‘What’s this?’ asked Uncle Emmanuel, and smiled sardonically when it was translated to him.

  ‘What!’ she turned on him. ‘How dare you! Oh! Oh! Oh!’

  She raised a desperate, terrific hue and cry.

  ‘Madame, I assure you. I assure you, madame,’ blubbered my uncle. But she continued screaming; and people rushed towards us and surrounded us, while she shouted something incoherent about a medical certificate—and then fainted.

  ‘Come away,’ I whispered to my uncle. ‘For God’s sake come away!’ And having reclaimed my red-haired cousin from her dancing partner, we all left by a side entrance.

  My red-haired cousin once escorted to the door-step, my uncle turned to me and timidly suggested going to the baths. I knew what these baths were like, and hesitated.

  ‘You’re married,’ I reproached him.

  ‘Well, and what of it? Can’t I dine once in a while at a restaurant just because I have a kitchen at home?’

  The contention seemed too reasonable to be disputed.

  Dawn was just breaking as we set out for the baths. My uncle looked elated and pleased with himself, and sang (as if by way of adding zest to our adventure): ‘Nach Frankreich zogen zwei Gren
adier …’ He had been a German scholar in his day, which language he had studied with an eye on future military requirements, and he was fond of trotting out his knowledge on occasion. When I walked side by side with Uncle Emmanuel I took longer strides than I am accustomed to—in order as it were to humiliate my uncle. He was a little man—one-third my size—and ran beside me like a small fox-terrier, while I barged forward steadily like a big ship at the side of a tug endeavouring to puff up steam.

  At the baths we were escorted into separate but adjacent ‘numbers’, each consisting of a dressing-room and bathroom, from where steam rose as if from the funnels of a railway engine.

  Presently the Chink attendant came into the room.

  ‘Soap?’ be asked. And I translated for my uncle.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Loofa?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Towels?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Birch-twigs?’

  My uncle considered.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Nothing else?’

  My uncle nodded.

  ‘Japanese?’

  My uncle shook his head.

  ‘Russian?’

  My uncle nodded.

  The Chink went out, slamming the door, and his steps on the stone floor resounded loud and sharp in the hollow corridor. We sat silent, our hearts thumping. Uncle Emmanuel, a little shamefacedly, played with his watch-chain. It was stifling hot. Then he heaved a half sigh of relief, and said timidly: ‘Que voulez-vous?’

  It was equally hot in my ‘number’. Beads of perspiration ran down my face, and lingered on the tip of my nose as, crouching, I peeped through the keyhole into my uncle’s domain.

  Presently the door opened. Some lithe thing in a black hat and black silk stockings flitted past the keyhole and obscured my view. The black hat came off.… There was a rustle of crisp garments …

  I do not know how all this strikes you. I am a serious young man, an intellectual, a purist, and disapprove of Uncle Emmanuel’s sedate irregularities. A veil over my uncle’s doings!