‘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 Grenadier
…’ 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!
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!’
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.