William Gerhardie - The Polyglots

‘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!’

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.