William Gerhardie - The Polyglots

It was difficult to know what Sylvia thought of it. Unlike myself, Gustave was not handsome. He had small podgy hands covered with freckles, and an absurd canary moustache. His large head had a bald patch on the crown which he vainly tried to cover up with what little hair he had left, and his teeth were ridiculously small considering the width of his chin. Gustave was a confirmed bachelor, and probably he did not favour the impending marriage. But it was difficult to know what Gustave really thought of it. It was difficult to know what Gustave thought of anything. For Gustave never said anything. He only stroked his chin with his two fingers and smiled. And each time he smiled he revealed a black tooth at each corner of his mouth.

I thought: We have lived our days carefully, sparingly, grudgingly. We have been cowards, preferring our life as a drab, moderate compromise rather than coloured in vivid stripes of joys and griefs. And now, she, my aunt, who has lived fully and recklessly and has landed on the rocks, wants to thrive upon the little savings of our happiness. — No more of it! No!

‘No more of it!’ I said.

‘No, darling.’

‘No what?’ I asked, knowing that Sylvia, who hated trouble, was unduly acquiescent.

‘No — what you mean,’ she replied, blinking.

She looked as though she had something up her sleeve. But this, I knew, was merely an endeavour on her part to conceal her attitude of having nothing up her sleeve, of which she was ashamed. She acted almost without motive, following the line of least resistance, but feeling that in civilized society it was expected of one to be able to produce a reasoned motive for each action, she invented motives — sometimes after the event.

‘No parting?’

‘No, darling.’

‘What is it all about then?’

‘ Maman ,’ she said — and was silent. ‘Wants to part us?’

‘Yes, darling.’

‘Sixteen thousand miles apart.’

‘So cruel!’ she said.

‘But do you want to marry him?’

‘Darling, I’m so easily persuaded.’

She looked at me doubtfully, expecting a lead.

‘Then let us run away together to England,’ I said — rather uncertainly. I thought of the cost of the passage: my grandfather stirred in his grave.

She looked at me dumbly, her head bent, blinking.

‘Shall we?’

‘We can’t, darling. Maman .’

She looked as if she wanted me to overrule her meek objection by a stronger motive, but I accepted it as valid, and she looked pained.

‘Then what had we better do? Shall we marry — marry and separate? Marry and, for the time being, you remain and I go?’

She looked at me shyly: ‘Just as you like, darling.’

‘But — but what’s the good if your mother will never let you go? What’s the good? Besides, she might marry you off in my absence. No, she can’t do that, but still, what’s the use? Darling, answer me.’

‘I don’t care. Oh, it’s going to rain. I must shut the window. What a wind! I don’t care, darling.’

‘But I do. And I’m damned if I’ll do anything of the sort.’ I smarted under Aunt Teresa’s selfishness. I felt we were the victims of a crying wrong. ‘Either we are to be married at once and you sail with me, or — or it’s good-bye for ever.’

She was mute, very sad, and then said:

‘Darling, I can’t.’

‘You must!’

‘No, darling, I can’t.’

‘Yes, that’s settled now. We leave together.’ And even as I spoke the words I felt a pang for Aunt Teresa who had already lost her only son — and now her only daughter.

‘No, no; it will make maman so sad.’

‘Damn your maman ! Damn all mamans !’

‘Oh, what’s the use of cursing? We’ve got to make the best of things, that’s all.’

‘We can only make the best of things by cursing.’

‘Don’t be nasty to me, darling.’

‘I’m not nasty.’

‘Be nice to me.’

‘I am nice. And your maman would be a very nice person — if it weren’t for her deceitfulness, dishonesty, meanness, and utter selfishness.’ But because I knew full well the indecisions that really held me back, and was angry at my indecisions, I now transferred, with glee, my anger to my aunt, and my soul quailed under the weight of wrong, so that I nearly cried aloud for grief.

‘We’ve got to make the best of things,’ she said. ‘Yes, darling, it’s the only thing to do.’

It was not the only thing to do; but I could not do — whatever it was that wanted doing — and my heart felt sick.

‘We shall meet again, we can think of each other,’ she said.

‘We shall most likely never see each other again.’

‘Oh, don’t; you make me so sad, darling.’ She paused, and then said: ‘I shall be true to you. We shall meet again somehow, I feel we shall. And don’t flirt with anyone meanwhile, will you?’

I sighed. ‘Well, I suppose we must make the best of things, that’s evident. But — oh—’

‘Never mind, darling.’

‘Of course — it may even be for the best — who knows?’ I said cheerily.

‘Yes, never mind, darling.’

‘We might not have been happy together after all — so cheer up!—’

She listened, blinking.

‘Quarrelled, perhaps divorced later on — But why are you crying then?’

‘I cry,’ she sobbed, ‘because it hurts me.’

She was on my neck, her wet cheek against mine, and I spoke tender foolish words: ‘Oh, my little mouse, my little kitten, my little birdie, my little chicken!’

She stifled a sob. ‘Not chicken.’

‘Lovie-dovie-cats’-eyes.’

‘Now, darling, don’t be soppy.’

‘But I’m so — for you,’ I replied.

‘No, darling, I don’t like this soppy stuff.’

‘Oh, well—’

She laughed her dingling silvery laughter which was a lovely thing.

Our spacious pessimism, what is it? The squeal of a puppy. Life hurts, and then the night is starless, the world a desolating void where the wind groans and mutters and complains in our echo. But we go on, amazed, a little puzzled, inert, day-dreaming and unquestioning. In the twilight of the drawing-room General ‘Pshe-Pshe’ was sitting at the side of Aunt Teresa, saying: ‘My wife and I do not get on together well. My children, too, are not what they should be. But here with you I feel at home.’ He kissed her hand. ‘Here my soul rests.’ He kissed her hand once more. ‘This … my spiritual home!’ Again he kissed her hand. ‘When I go home, half of my soul remains here in this flat. Oh, my beautiful woman!’ He kissed her hand. Aunt Teresa looked to heaven, as if pleading that this was a strain on her, the ailing delicate woman that she was.

‘I see things through you and your being. If I hear a song that I think you have never heard it hurts me to think that it should have been in vain. If I hear a tune or see a picture, or anything like that, that is familiar to you, it hurts me equally, it hurts me more, to think that it has captured your attention, if even for a moment, perhaps your affection, your love, and that I–I—I–I couldn’t, couldn’t … nothing but blind indifference.’ He could not speak. He was rent by self-pity; his heart was weeping tears. She looked to heaven, invoking strength to bear this — but not altogether displeased.

Harry stood in the doorway.

‘What is it?’ she asked, feeling foolish at his seeing her side by side with ‘Pshe-Pshe’ on the sofa.

‘Nuffink. I’m not asking for anything.’