Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  Esk sipped, went on: ‘I think I can claim the honour of having introduced something like democracy into the British Army at last. You didn’t have to be a gentleman to hold rank . . . or rather to assume it. You didn’t have to be white to have command of coloured troops in your own coloured country. Of course there was a lot of heart-burning over it. I was accused of being a Bolshevik . . . I’d had a strong hand in withdrawing our Army of Intervention from Russia. I was accused of giving the Empire away . . . when I was only honouring the promises made to Indian leaders for more say in the running of their own country for dedication of their services to us in our travail.’

  Another swig. ‘I’ve told you much of this already, Jeremy . . . I mean what I’ve been doing in my job. But I’ve never told you why I did it . . . hence the repetition. The fact was that disillusionment, or disappointment, in marriage. Rather like your own case, as I say. I was tending to do all the things that Pamela stood against. One does those things, believing one has a pure motive. As I’ve said, it’s hard to judge what’s made in Heaven and what’s perhaps even the product of the other place. This, of course, alienated me utterly from Pamela. But we English aren’t as honest as you. The pretence had to be kept up. I went home on all the special occasions. Even hunted with her and her family . . . although I’m sure they’d have been much happier baggin’ me than the fox, the stag, or the grouse.’

  Jeremy chuckled. Esk was evidently encouraged, changed his position, now leaning forward, elbow on knee, hand cupping chin, as if coming to the gist of the thing he had to say: ‘There was young Lydy, of course. Always a strong bond between us. She never knew of the estrangement, at least not as a child . . . although no doubt she felt it. Our reunions made the concessions to convention bearable. I didn’t see so much of her. She was pretty soon away at school. But there were grand occasions together . . . London, when I’d come home from somewhere, doing the rounds of the bun shops and the cinemas. A trip to Paris . . . another to Rome. The relationship was frowned on at first by Pamela, who natually wanted her daughter to share the Dukely ermine. However, as Lyd showed more and more of a tendency to have more of the Lily-liver than the blue blood, she let her go, concentrating her efforts on helping down-at-heel Russian aristocrats with their futile litigations against the Soviet, helping organise British Union, oppose the Balfour Agreement on Jewish rehabilitation, and all the misanthropic rest of it that goes with the fight to retain power and privilege. By the time Lyd left school she was as much estranged with her mother as I.’

  Esk paused, and when Jeremy glanced at him, added: ‘D’you know, dear boy . . . I believe the same sort of thing would’ve happened to you, if you’d had a daughter?’

  It was half a question. Jeremy turned his head away from it.

  Esk leaned back now, sighed, put hands behind head and crossed his knees, looking up again. ‘After that, Lydia was with me all the time. I took her away on all official trips. But for the . . . um . . . well, the horrible consequences, it was the happiest period of my life. I’d tried to solace myself with other women. There are always women for solace, of course . . . they’re seeking it themselves in some way. But solace isn’t love. Love is the identification of yourself with someone. What closer identification can one have than with one’s own daughter? The honeymoon is perpetual, because there’s no satiety to it. The relationship is pure because there is no ulterior motive. It is simple, pure, unadulterated love.’ Esk dropped his arms, and head, to meet Jeremy’s eyes. His tone became sharp as he added: ‘Love, I said . . . because that’s what it is . . . love between a man and woman. One imagines oneself safe from the suggestion of abnormal relationship, because it’s unthinkable to oneself.’

  Jeremy removed his eyes from those hard-staring blue ones. Esk took a drink before going on: ‘The truth was brought home to me in Palestine, where I had her with me to begin with. There was a young subaltern pursuing her . . . cheeky young pup. She didn’t encourage young men, except of such a type that she could help, mother as it were . . . the weaker ones. These she brought to me . . . for me to help them. This fellow was quite different. He wanted no help. He wanted her . . . and the aristocratic connexions that went with her. He made no bones about it. First he told her that she was virtually my tart . . . and then when I dressed him down for it, he called me a Dirty Old Man.’

  Jeremy shot a glance at the stiff face. Esk added, in the same sharp tone: ‘Yes . . . a Dirty Old Man . . . keeping my daughter to myself . . . like Dirty Old Lot, he added, very aptly, in the circumstances, because at the time we were living very close to the Bible. Of course you know the story of Lot and his daughters. Hardly nice is it. But one tends to blame Lot rather than the daughters, because he did remove them from other men.’

  Another swift exchange of glances. Both drank. Esk went on: ‘That young puppy saved me a lot of embarrassment by asking to be relieved of his duties immediately, and to be sent home. I also have cause to be grateful to him for advising me, as he left me, to read Freud. I did. But whereas Freud was plain enough speaking about unconscious incest, he had nothing to say about how one who has indulged in it should handle the situation he has created when he becomes aware of it. In my ignorance, I simply packed Lydia off home. Well . . . it was hardly simple. Naturally, I didn’t confess my guilt to her. I simply withdrew. In fact, to discourage her, I took a Jewish mistress . . . not a young one, but a very capable woman, name of Leah, who rather forthrightly told the poor kid to go get a man of her own, when she showed signs of struggling for me. Poor Lydy rushed off home to Mumma then . . . and quickly became everything Mumma was, and more, in her vengeance as a woman scorned. No . . . first she took to a fast crowd of aristocratic youngsters, drank, drugged, raced about in sports cars . . . till she ended up in a smash that cleaned up everybody except herself. It was after that she settled down to the true ruthless patricianhood, in which you saw her. But, I understand, as in your own case, she never got over the affair with Daddy. Do they ever?’

  Jeremy shifted uncomfortably. Esk emptied his glass. He continued: ‘I’ve naturally paid a lot of attention to the Elektra Complex, as it’s called . . . the father-daughter relationship when it gets out of hand. I’ve observed that it’s always the man unhappily married and with one daughter, who falls into it. Old Lot had two, or course . . . but those were the days of multiplicity of wives.’

  Esk paused, with so much significance that Jeremy met his eyes again. Esk added: ‘I’d say the essential difference between a man and an ape is his capacity to give his daughters to other men. I think the Sororate, the primitive social system of sister-exchange in marriage, was probably the first law men made. Out of it came the cessation of the rutting battle and the saving of all that energy for mental development. So up the scale we came, making more and more laws about sex. The man who lies with his daughter is classed as a degenerate. Even where his incest is unconscious he is a Dirty Old Man.’ Another significant pause, fetching another swift glance. ‘Perhaps even where the girl isn’t related to the man, but young enough to be his daughter, it’s something similar. Speaking of Jews again . . . in my experience it’s rare if not impossible, for an old Jew to take a young wife or mistress. Whether there is any law about it, or it’s simply a matter of Jewish wisdom, I don’t know. The wisdom of it is plain to see in Asia Minor, in the comparison between the rich old Jew who is content with his old wife, living out his age in dignity, and the high-caste Mohammedan, with his young wives and concubines, holding his power by means of violence and treachery, while becoming more and more a travesty of a man the longer he lives. For that matter, you don’t have to look beyond our own society . . . at the bloated capitalist with his young mistresses, paying only lip service to any kind of morality, and his opposites, the scholars, the scientists, the men of dedication to the species and true dignity in age.’ Esk paused, to add: ‘I’ve thought that my Lydia’s break with old Alfred was brought about much less by her seeming wilfulness than his shrewdness . . . for old Alfred is
n’t wanting in dignity, you know, however much you have cause to hate him otherwise.’ He paused again. ‘I suppose true dignity in age is really the reward for having gone through the perils of living . . . would you say?’

  The question was put with a deliberateness that demanded an answer. Jeremy was slow with it, his tone somewhat husky: ‘What do you mean by Dignity?’

  ‘Well, surely . . .’ Esk stopped. ‘Sorry . . . I was forgetting that words mean a lot to you.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t they . . . to everybody who uses them?’

  ‘Of course. I expect I’ve got the word wrong. Will you be so kind as to define it for me?’

  ‘It’s a misused word, of course. I’m prejudiced against it, because of its use by the Imperium to dominate my country . . . Our Sovereign Lord, the King, his Peace and Dignity. Don’t forget I’ve also seen your Mohammedan sheiks and satraps . . . and dignity, the pomp and ceremony, the sun-canopy, the slave with the fly-whisk and the fan, were the last word with them . . . as the Orb and Sceptre are with His Imperial Majesty, your Boss. I don’t see that as any reward except for a rogue or half-wit.’

  Still Esk smiled. He said gently, ‘What I really meant was Integrity, Jeremy . . . something I think you have in greater quantity than any other man I’ve ever known.’ He rose, stepped up to Jeremy, who had reddened now. ‘May I take your hand on that, to show you how much I mean it?’

  Somewhat awkwardly, Jeremy rose and gave his hand.

  ‘Thanks, old man,’ said Esk, wringing the hand. ‘Thanks for everything. Knowing you has been a great privilege. I only hope this won’t be the end of our association.’ Releasing the hand, he said, ‘Well . . . I’ll toddle. Goodnight, dear boy!’

  Jeremy replied thickly, ‘Goodnight . . . Mark.’

  Esk paused at the door, to look back and wave. Then he was gone. Jeremy stood staring. A slight sound at the window caused him to turn to look. Nothing to be seen save the sparkle of the moonlight on the fluted glass of the louvres. He sighed and sat down.

  There was nothing to be seen out there, because the cause of the sound, Fergus, was gone, slipping along in the shadow of the southern wall, making for the eastern end of the annexe. He turned the corner into moonlight, swiftly, as if fearing to be seen from the Big House, hurried into the shadow of the garage, then across to the mangoes. He stood looking at the Big House, in darkness, except for the moonlight. Then he started to head for it directly, strolling, as if just returning from a walk. As he emerged from the shadows, there appeared out of the eastern door of the annexe another figure, its identity unmistakable by the glint of copper hair. She looked towards him, but with the blaze in her eyes must have missed seeing him. Then she slipped round the annexe the way he had come. He halted momentarily, broke into a run.

  Rifkah, now to be seen heading across the yard, heard him, light as his running was, whirled about and stared, but only for a moment. She turned away again, hurrying now. He caught her before she could reach the kitchen door. She hissed in protest at his grabbing her hand, ‘Pliss, pliss!’

  ‘I want to talk to you.’

  ‘I can’t talk to you here . . . tomorrow.’

  ‘No . . . come for a little walk.’

  ‘No . . . no . . . pliss, Fergus!’

  ‘It’s important. It’s urgent. Round here, then.’ He pulled her round to the shadowy western side, under the trellis. He went on: ‘Did you hear what they were saying over there? Old Whiskers wants to get rid of you, you know. I’ve heard him talking to Malters . . . about you and the Mullaka . . .’

  ‘Pliss, Fergus . . . I vont to go to bed.’

  ‘Tell me what happened when you were out walking with the old blokes . . . No, I’m not going to let you go. You’re in trouble . . . and I want to help you.’

  She sighed: ‘You cannot help.’

  ‘Yes I can. The only way Esk can get you is through your lack of citizenship. I can fix that in two ups by marrying you.’

  ‘I tell you and tell you, I do not vont to marry you.’

  ‘Well, how’re you going to get out of it?’ When she was silent, he went on: ‘I saw you come running home. I was having a walk. I was going over to the annexe to ask you what was wrong, when I saw Whiskers coming back, too. I thought he was following you. I went to listen. But you dodged him, didn’t you? I waited for you to come out. But I reckoned that you’d got out the back way . . . and I’d missed you.’

  Still she was silent. He asked, ‘You know he reckons you’re Commos . . . you and Kurt . . . and the others?’

  ‘Ve talk in the morning.’

  ‘Okay. You’re coming with me to Town, don’t forget.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You promised.’

  ‘Now it is different.’

  ‘Why is it?’

  ‘Let me go . . . pliss. Ve talk in morning.’

  ‘Give me a goodnight kiss, I’ll let you go.’

  She gave her cheek. ‘That’s no good.’ He pulled her round to him. She gave her lips. He took them as if to possess them permanently, clasping her close, gripping one of her hands when she tried to fight free, twisted it. In her pain she got her mouth free, uttered a sharp cry. He silenced her with his mouth again. She got rid of him only by bringing her knee up into his crotch. He gasped, ‘Ow!’ . . . staggering back. ‘You bitch!’

  Panting, she turned towards the outside stairway, but stopped at the clatter of footsteps coming down. A male figure in pyjamas leapt down to the quartz gravel. The voice of Clancy rasped, ‘Hey . . . what’s he doing . . . molesting you?’

  ‘Pliss . . . it is nuzzing,’ she gasped.

  ‘It’s something, all right. That dingo’s been dogging you all night. I been watching him.’ He addressed Fergus, who was straightened up and glaring: ‘You lay hands on this girl again, you bunny-lip mongrel, I’ll tear the tripes out o’ you.’

  Fergus exploded: ‘You will, eh?’

  ‘Yeah . . . I will!’

  ‘Try it now, you cow-dung plodder . . .’

  ‘Right . . . cop this!’

  They leapt at each other, banging, bumping, wrestling, hissing, equals in ineptitude if not in build, hence able to hurt each other equally. Blood was soon spurting, dripping on the quartz gravel that flew like hail to their wild footwork. Rifkah whirled about them, but apparently without even being seen by them. She herself was so preoccupied that she didn’t see the intrusion of others, till these leapt into the fray and stopped it, hurling the combatants apart.

  Jeremy demanded of the slavering, bleeding, heaving pair, ‘What’s all this about?’

  As if it were necessary to ask. Jeremy cut short their babbling: ‘Shut up!’ He turned to Rifkah. ‘Did anyone molest you?’

  Weeping softly, she shook her head.

  ‘That’s not true!’ panted Clancy. ‘I . . .’

  ‘Shut up!’ roared Jeremy. ‘Don’t add to your loutishness by calling the lady a liar.’

  Jeremy turned to Nan. ‘Take her inside . . . and make some tea.’ Then he looked at the other intruders on the hostilities: ‘If you gentlemen don’t mind retiring . . . I’ll handle this. Goodnight!’

  In a moment they were all gone, except Prindy, lurking at the corner.

  The belligerents started up again to explain themselves. Again Jeremy silenced them. ‘Now, listen. Neither one of you is a formally invited guest. But that doesn’t mean you’re not entitled to the hospitality of the place . . . until you abuse it with bad behaviour. You’ve been doing that for some days. Now you’ve forfeited it completely with behaviour that’d get you kicked out of a back-street bar. You,’ he said to Fergus, ‘once told me that at places you go where you feel you’re not welcome, you camp in your aeroplane. You can feel like that right now. You’re welcome to come back for breakfast.’ He spoke to Clancy: ‘And you . . . you don’t live that far away that you’ll be inconvenienced getting along back there without delay. It’s a good night for driving. Matter of fact, by the look of the weather, it could be the last night for d
riving for the season. So take advantage of it. Right . . . get going. Both of you.’ He swung away, motioning to Prindy, then swung back. ‘If you feel like finishing that billy-goats’ brawl of yours, do it well out of hearing of this place . . . or you’ll have me to deal with . . . and when you’ve picked yourselves up, you might know a bit more about how to use yourselves than you do now. Goodnight!’

  Rifkah was seated at the big table in the kitchen, bright head lying on arms curled on the linoleum cover. Nan was at the range, with the tea-pot, waiting on the kettle already singing on the stirred-up fire. Jeremy sat down opposite the girl, Prindy beside her. Jeremy reached and touched a slim tear-wet hand.