William Gerhardie - The Polyglots

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 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.