The Polyglots Page 17

  And now the Chink came into my room. ‘Soap?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Loofa?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Towels?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Birch-twigs?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  But I fear I am diverting from the purpose of my story. I came out feeling clean, pure, sanctified, as I rejoined my uncle. Such an uncle! He put his finger to his lips as we paced home through the slippery, frosty streets:

  ‘Silence, mon ami!’

  I was silent enough; and he held forth, as if in self-excuse:

  ‘What I always say is this: outside, do as you like, it harms no one. But chez soi, dans la famille, which is the pillar of society, the sacred hearth, le ’ome … ah! that’s another matter. On that point I am adamant. Évidemment, some husbands are not very sérieux nowadays and allow themselves des bêtises with the chambermaids or—enfin with the cook. I never! Jamais de la vie!’

  I was a little angry with my uncle—and said nothing.

  ‘This,’ he said, ‘seems to me a very interesting building.’

  ‘It only seems so.’

  ‘Still, I think——’

  ‘There’s nothing to think.’

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ he asked.

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘Enfin! you are not even polite today.’

  I looked at him with hatred. ‘Uncle though you be to me, I curse you!’

  For a moment Uncle Emmanuel appeared to be a little staggered—but recovering, retorted: ‘And I curse you, too!’

  33

  A NICE LESSON FOR A PURIST

  NEXT DAY—A SUNDAY—BEING AUNT TERESA’S BIRTHDAY, Uncle Emmanuel, following a long-established custom with him, recited two stanzas of verse of his own composition (but with a strong flavour of Musset) which he had prepared upon returning from the baths, comparing his old bride with birds and flowers, stellar brightness, and the pale beauty of the moon—while Aunt Teresa complained a little more than usual of her nerves that day. The General, his aide-de-camp son, Dr. Murgatroyd, and a few others—of the local ‘diplomatic corps’—had called on her that morning to tender their devoted homage. My aunt believed that it was only natural (since I was her nephew) that I should hold a high, exalted post, and to please her, I styled myself the ‘British Military Ambassador’. And she considered that as I was the ‘British Military Ambassador’ our flat enjoyed extra-territorial rights and was in fact British soil (though being up on the fourth floor of a house owned by a private Russian citizen it didn’t of necessity touch any soil at all). That claim was further strengthened in her view by the fact that she herself was born in Manchester. This impression grew so firm in the minds of all who dwelt in our flat that one day when the postwoman barged in rather clumsily and was abused by Vladislav, and, provoked, began to shout at him: ‘Ach, you yellow-haired devil, you!’ etc., Vladislav silenced her with a terrific ‘S-s-s-s! You ugly, cross-eyed old hag: this is not your Russia here to shout in; this is England, understand!’

  For lunch there was a special menu, and as asparagus au sauce mousseline was just being served, there was a ring at the bell and Vladislav came in to say that a lady wished to see Uncle Emmanuel. He rose, and some little time afterwards he sent for me. The lady was the lady of the social-democratic ball. Being interviewed by me, she explained that she considered Uncle Emmanuel implicated in the question of her personal honour, he having laughed improperly at the insinuation questioning her purity, which she now wished to vindicate. It was a delicate situation. The lady pointed out that she had already gone to the expense of obtaining a Russian medical certificate, and now demanded a Belgian document to the same effect.

  I hate sordid details (I am by temperament a romantic), but I translated to my uncle, who stood there, the colour flushing to his cheeks, his hands in his trouser pockets, an indignant man, a family man whose sanctum has been rudely invaded. ‘Ah mais! Ce n’est pas un hôpital, par exemple!’

  I translated: ‘My uncle says this is not a hospital.’

  ‘Quite. I want,’ she said, ‘a medical certificate.’

  ‘Madam, I am not a doctor,’ I protested.

  ‘Madame, nous sommes des militaires et point des docteurs.’

  ‘Quite,’ she said, ‘but you must have a Belgian doctor.’

  ‘Ah, mais c’est une … une légation, quoi!’

  ‘This is a military mission—an embassy,’ I translated.

  ‘Strange—an embassy and no doctor!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Enfin, madame, ce n’est pas très délicat.’

  ‘This is not very delicate of you, madam, my uncle says,’ I translated.

  ‘But I want to see your doctor,’ she looked at me.

  ‘Madam, I’m not a doctor, I am … a censor.’

  ‘But you must have a doctor.’

  ‘Je vous demande pardon, madame, we haven’t got one,’ said Uncle Emmanuel.

  ‘But it is nonsense, you must have one!’

  ‘Ah, je vous demande pardon, madame, it is not nonsense.’

  Vladislav expressed the wish to chuck the lady out. But Uncle Emmanuel, whose motto was ‘Live and let live’, protested: ‘Oh, no, why? Why have a row? This is not a public bar, this is un ’ome, no scandale here, no, no!’ In fact, he was not against meeting her outside—but never in the home! For in her own way, let me confess, the lady was not ill-looking. But he was diffident about making an appointment with her in my presence. I was courteous and patient, remembering that I was, after all, the ‘Military Ambassador’. She too calmed down, but seemed to gain in muddleheadedness.

  ‘You understand,’ I said, ‘that this is the British Mission, not a hospital.’

  ‘Aha! I understand … I understand. In that case I’ll come again tomorrow.’

  ‘No, madam, you’ve come to the wrong place!’

  She considered.

  ‘Aha. In that case,’ she said, ‘I can bring my passport and my birth certificate.’

  We sighed and then stood speechless, gathering breath.

  ‘This, madam, is no doctor for you; this is the Military Ambassador, the military embassy,’ said Vladislav, with an impatient air, as if he thought we were incapable of driving this piece of information into her.

  ‘Where then is the other embassy?’ she asked.

  ‘The Consulate,’ I said—by way of getting rid of her.

  ‘Aha,’ she said, ‘in that case give me an introduction to the Consulate.’

  ‘Get out!’ said Vladislav impatiently.

  ‘In that case,’ said she, ‘I’ll come again tomorrow.’

  He closed the door on her, and sighed.

  ‘In France,’ said he, ‘they wouldn’t have listened to her.’

  No sooner had the lady gone than Vladislav handed me a card from an unknown lady with the words ‘Daughter of an Actual-State’s-Councillor’ engraved beneath her name. Asked what I could do for her, the lady said she wished to thank me—generally.

  ‘Generally? For nothing in particular?’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ she said eagerly, smiling beatifically. Yes—and to present me with a pamphlet written by herself on the subject of phonetic spelling. I promised to peruse the document with care, but she continued calling on me several times a week to impress upon me that the problem of the abolition of the letter yat as well as the hard sign was of a magnitude and urgency such as the Allies in their task of reconstruction could not conveniently ignore. Till, thoroughly exhausted by the lady’s pertinacity, I recommended her to the attention of my American colleague—and wished him joy of her. But he retaliated on me with a lunatic who claimed to be none other than the Emperor Francis Joseph desirous of being restored to his original position, and who henceforth petitioned me to that effect. One day, worn out by visits from the Austrian monarch and the daughter of the actual-state’s-councillor, I dispatched them both together to my U.S. colleague, in a car, and wished him joy
of both.

  ‘This is terrible,’ said Aunt Teresa, as I came into the dining-room.

  ‘What is terrible?’

  ‘Stepàn has come back again.’

  ‘H’m.’

  Stepàn was our coachman. Aunt Teresa with her delicate health could not walk much but had to take the fresh air, and so a carriage with two meagre mares and the bearded, disreputable-looking Stepàn was kept for her use, at the side of whom on the soft, sumptuous box Vladislav sat dressed up in a second-hand livery. Stepan was a fatalist, and to all questions, including those of apprehension at his driving, would say: ‘All is possible.’ His attitude to life, if indeed he had one, was one of abject resignation. And of late Stepàn had taken to drink and had spilt Aunt Teresa. When she warned him not to upset her again, he said: ‘All is possible’—and indeed spilt her again. After which she dismissed him. Two months ago she had dismissed him, but he remained in his bunk, taciturn and resigned, and nothing, it seemed, would dislodge him. For half an hour, perhaps, he would go out in the night and then come back to his bunk.

  ‘Why not lock the door of his bunk while he is out?’

  ‘There is no lock,’ she replied.

  ‘H’m.’

  I spoke to him. Vladislav spoke to him. Uncle Lucy, too, spoke to him. We all spoke to him, and I got Captain Negodyaev to speak to him. But Stepàn would not budge from his bunk.

  One day it seemed as if Stepàn had gone, and Vladislav, reporting the news, crossed himself with relief. But in the morning he informed us that Stepàn had come back in the night.

  ‘Send for the General,’ at last said Aunt Teresa.

  The General arrived soon after three o’clock. ‘I’ll talk to him. I’ll manage him, rest assured,’ he said when he had had his overcoat removed, and rubbing his hands, proceeded to the drawing-room, ‘I’ll tackle the skunk. Bring him in here.’

  ‘He won’t come here,’ said Aunt Teresa. ‘The trouble is that he won’t go anywhere. He won’t go away.’

  ‘I’ll go to him. I’ll talk to him. I’ll manage the skunk, never you fear.’

  We followed the General into the stable, above which the coachman Stepàn had his abode. The General kicked open the door of Stepàn’s den without undue ceremony. An incredibly odious smell let loose on us, like a wild beast, so that for a moment we were, despite ourselves, forced back into the passage and the General pulled out his scented handkerchief and applied it to his nostrils. But Stepàn sat listless in his bunk, with a queer, peculiarly enervating look of complacent sullenness in his face, and never uttered a word. ‘The skunk!’ said the General, and at once began threatening the man. But Stepàn never uttered a word.

  ‘I give you three minutes in which to clear out, do you hear, you skunk?’ shouted the General. ‘I’ll this—I’ll that—and I’ll the other thing——’

  But Stepàn never moved or uttered a word.

  ‘You skunk!’ shouted the General. ‘Ach, you bad subject! Why, I’ll take and hang you by the nose on the nearest fence, you bestia! You grovelling reptile! You crocodile!’

  But Stepàn never moved or uttered a word.

  The General spared no pains. ‘Am I talking to you or am I talking to this wall, you incredible blackguard?’ he shouted again. And he cursed him, and he cursed him, and he cursed him, up and down, this way and that way, lengthwise and sidewise and crosswise and roundabout: ‘Ach, you son of this, and you son of that, and you son of the other thing.’

  No good: Stepàn did not stir.

  The General resumed with added zest, with renewed vigour, with incredible gusto. After a time he stopped, to take breath and to examine the effect which his threat had had on the man. It seemed as though it had had none.

  ‘Tough stuff, these people,’ the General said, and wiped his moist brow. ‘Ugh! I’ve even perspired. I once had a batman—Private Solovyov. I was talking to him, do you know, as though he were a human being like myself—talking, you understand. His look was a blank—less intelligent than a cow’s. Only when I began using strong adjectives, dragged in a few choice epithets bearing directly on his family tree, made mention of his mother, and so on, all in the recognized old way—“Ach, you son of a——” and that sort of thing, don’t you know, well, then, and then only, his face began to light up as though after all there was a glimmering spark of reason lingering somewhere in that skull, and then, by shades, by grades, as I persisted with my adjectives, would you believe it, he almost became human; and actually said: “Quite so, your Excellency.” This is the material we’ve got to deal with. Yes … Here nothing is possible. Nothing can be done with this canaille. And how are you?’ he turned to Aunt Teresa. He looked at her tenderly. The sun played on his wrinkled brown eyes.

  ‘I’m—as always. But this coachman, really——’

  ‘Where does he come from?’ he asked.

  ‘Little Russia, I think.’

  ‘Nothing to be done. Nothing to be done with that race! And what have you been doing with yourself all this time?’

  ‘I suppose we’ll have to keep him?’ she sighed with dismay, her look betraying the suspicion that she no longer hoped great things from the General and thought that his bark was rather worse than his bite.

  The General sighed and looked pensive. ‘He may take to heart what I told him and go. I’ll come again tomorrow, anyhow, and see.’

  It was all of no avail. The coachman came back the same night. The General called the next day as he had promised. ‘Tough stuff, these people,’ he sighed when he heard the news from Aunt Teresa. ‘As I told you, I had a batman once, Private Solovyov—a hard case, but in the end I managed to knock a spark of reason out of that skull. But this——’ He sighed. ‘Here … nothing is possible.’

  34

  Green grow the leaves on the old oak tree …

  AS CHRISTMAS APPROACHED THE CHILDREN BEGAN to think of presents. The Russian Christmas was thirteen days later than ours, the reason being, according to Natàsha, that Father Christmas could not possibly be in two places at the same time. The children liked going to the big shop in the Kitaiskaya where, besides the splendid Christmas display, there was a man dressed up as old Father Christmas, who had to shake hands all day long with all the children who came to the shop in a long stream; and he seemed very angry and irritable, being more than fed up with his job. But the children revelled in him, such as he was. Berthe had bought a pair of scarlet felt slippers for Nora with scarlet pompons, and was knitting a little striped jumper to button her in, while Uncle Lucy was making three little chairs for the three little bears to sit on. Harry and Nora had no doubt in their mind as to what they wanted, and at night, before going to bed, spoke up the chimney: ‘A peddling-motor, please.’—‘A perambulator and a doll, please.’

  ‘What would you rather have: a little horse or a little doll?’ I asked Bubby.

  ‘A little horse and a little doll.’

  ‘And you, Nora?’

  ‘Sometime when you have a specially lot of money——’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘A rittle house.’

  ‘A doll’s house?’

  ‘Yesh.’

  ‘And what is Father Christmas bringing you?’

  ‘A perambulator and a doll.’

  ‘Both at once?’

  ‘I ’hink so,’ she said.

  On the afternoon of the 24th a parcel arrived, with a card from General Pshemòvich-Pshevìtski, addressed to Aunt Teresa and Sylvia, which, being opened, turned out to contain two sets of crêpe-de-Chine camisoles and knickers of Japanese make; Sylvia’s being pink with little Chinamen stitched out by hand all along the border.

  ‘Oh! how beauty! Oh! what a lovely!’ Natàsha exclaimed as Sylvia held them up for inspection. Aunt Teresa’s were green but without Chinamen. She was both confused and yet, I think, secretly flattered by the gift. It seemed too impudent for words—if the General had had any kind of … suggestion in mind. That he had coupled her with her daughter seemed reassuring. And yet, could he ha
ve had any thought of Sylvia’s wearing them?—that alone was too impudent—and she even felt jealous. How tactless the man was, to be sure—the tall man with the stiff black moustache and the closely-cropped hair turning grey. Much, of course, must be forgiven him, since he had risen from a plain policeman! And, after all, he had just been over to Japan, and anything in silk was a natural gift in the circumstances. That was the trend of the innuendoes that she had exchanged with Berthe. But the knickers were nice and reminded her of her youth—though in her youth they didn’t wear such knickers.

  The whole week before Christmas had seemed unusually dull. Melancholy life. When I was a child home for the holidays, I sat on the hat rack and imagined I was a bird. The passing of the day, twilight—just like now in the Far East. And ‘Far East’ suggested that we were far away. But far from what?—the world after all was round.—A dreary day. You stand still, your nose pressed against the cold pane, and watch the movement in the street: life is passing swiftly. You are bored by life, but it is passing much too quickly: worse, you stand here at the window in Harbin and you think you ought to be somewhere in Adrianople. And it would seem that whatever you did—if you were to run out into the street, shout, dance, work, forget, go on a voyage, engage in politics, drink, marry, love—it would slip away even more quickly while you did not reflect; and the moment you tried to envisage it you would be leading again a still life.

  Christmas Day was a cold but snowless and sunny day, and I was wakened early by Harry, who had come in for his present.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  He smiled his old man’s smile, a little confused. ‘I’m not asking for anything,’ he said.

  There was another shuffle at the door.

  ‘Ah, Nora in her pom-poms!’ said he.

  She came up, a little mushroom, smiling all over, in her red shoes and striped jumper.

  ‘Have you bought me something?’ she said.

  ‘You mustn’t ask,’ he whispered in her ear, stooping to do so. And both stood waiting. When they had got their presents they at once ran away with them.