“The Hospodars,” she was saying.
“Yes yes, the Hospodars. I will write to the Sultan Selim and bid him drive out the Hospodars from Wallachia. And what sort of Russians are the Hospodars?”
“Just holy Russians living in Wallachia,” she smiled.
“Bon. Being holy Russians, O Father of the Faithful, they will destroy your mosques in the name of their spurious Christianity, to them the very name of Mussulman is an abomination. Strike now, spit on the treacherous Serbians, march upon Choczim, butcher the—”
“Hospodars.”
“Bon, bon. In the name of Allah, who is the Lord of all, I write to you as your dear and faithful and loving friend. Set the Balkans ablaze with the vengeful sword of Islam. There,” he smiled. “I do this for Poland.” And he kissed her heartily. “Then,” he said, and his great eyes burned a huge map on the snow, “Persia. What shall we say to the Shah?”
“To the Shah say—let me see. Something about Allah again.” It was mad, it was glorious. Love and snow and Poland and Islam. It was poetry.
“Ah, I will write this. The Russian infidel reels under the blows of your faithful friends of Frankistan, and the Ottoman Porte hacks him with the vengeful sword of Islam—”
“You have already used that phrase.”
“Yes, but to the Sublime Porte, not to the Divine Shah. Perhaps the vengeful scimitar might be better.”
“Bon, bon.”
“Ah, listen to this. Fortuné has removed the bandage from her own eyes and placed them about the eyes of our common enemy. There is a power—God or Allah, but there is no God but Allah—who hovers over me, bidding me conquer in the name of Truth and Goodness, who sees the time as propitious for the new promotion of Persian Glory, and who smiles on the Empire of the Ottoman Porte. Three empires, dedicated to the spread of the Divine Word—let us go forward together.”
“You go too far, I think.”
“Forward together!”
“Too far!”
They tore at each other’s furs, laughing, then tumbled out of the horse-sleigh, over and over in the gorgeous snow. The coachman drove on impassive, cracking his whip, not looking back, and disappeared over the ridge where bare blackthorns stood under the scimitar moon. Where they made love—
“Forward together!”
“Too fast!”
– naked, the snow melted and steamed. They lay side by side naked under the velvet heavens, and he said:
“What is that constellation?”
“Cassiopeia. My family initial.”
“Not only yours.” He grew gloomy and began to sweat. They were indoors, lying in a hot snow-tumble of sheets and blankets. Roustam came in and salaamed grinning at their nudity, then recharged the vast fire with fresh pine logs. “Too hot,” his master complained, but Roustam turned and said: “Cadeaux islamiques.”
“God,” he said, ignoring that, “how I hate the English.”
“That’s not very complimentary,” pouted naked Betsy. He turned in shock to see that it was indeed she he had been riding, no more than a child, and said:
“You shouldn’t be here, who let you in, who allowed me to—”
“Like all men, take what you want, and then say you hate me.”
“But I don’t hate, I love, I love—”
“Sweetheart,” she said, bringing her thin whiteness closer to his fat, “remember what you said about gardens, hm? Well, we’re a garden, you know, and we have our spades ready to stick into intruders.”
“Quite right, quite right.” He sighed heavily and looked down at his heaviness (that belly, the size of it). “But you should have left my garden alone.”
“You should have left other people’s gardens alone.”
“But they weren’t real gardens, they were more like wildernesses, a duty to reclaim, you know, and if they were gardens they were very badly kept gardens. God, it’s so hot in here. God, I’m so thirsty.”
“Oh, don’t be so selfish all the time. Come on, do it again, I want it, you dig so vigorously, komm’ Süsser, wieder wieder.”
“Now you’re being like her. God, the thirst.”
Roustam, who had silently and invisibly gone out, came in again by a different door. He was dressed as an English gentleman, a sort of pump-room beau, and he raised a disdainful quizzing-glass. “The friendship,” he said haughtily, “subsisting between the Islamic peoples and the British is not to be broken by the clumsy machinations of a mere Corsican adventurer. You spoke of thirst. You require water? Note, in my language, the Cassiopeian initial. Water you shall have.” He clapped his hands, as if about to announce a quadrille, and yet another door opened. Through it, whooping and whooshing and growling but undeniably very wet water, came the sea. “Drink that,” said Beau Roustam. But the man who had called himself his master, by a supreme effort of the will of a sick man, manfully recollected his manly duty to resist, so, turning the water into Cassiopeia, he split it at its superior angle, so that the W fell apart into two V’s, and a V thrust on either side of him as he lay otherwise helpless on his bed, piercing the wall behind in two separate places but entirely failing to transfix himself. That was the secret then, so simple once one had learned it. One V, of course, was quite enough. He smiled, but he was still thirsty. Roustam exploded with Britannico-Islamic rage.
“Let him drink that,” said Dr. Arnott. “It is cow’s milk. Highly nutritious, also refreshing.” And he indicated smiling the crock to his medical colleague Antommarchi. But the latter did not smile; rather his face was full of thunder. He said:
“I must oppose most resolutely the proposal that he imbibe a beverage so heavy and indigestible. He requires a very much lighter diet. Even when he was in reasonably tolerable health he was unable to digest with any ease any species of milk—cow’s, goat’s, sheep’s. Now to offer him milk would infallibly excite grave stomachic distress.”
“But you do not quite understand,” smiled Dr. Arnott. “It was Sir Hudson Lowe himself who suggested that he be given cow’s milk. Sir Hudson ordered milk to be obtained and recommended its immediate ingestion.”
“It would,” cried the other, “be altogether characteristic of Sir Lowe to wish to cause the hero whom he hates and who now seems to lie totally at his mercy maximal pain and suffering. That is, naturally, presuming that Sir Lowe has sufficient medical knowledge to be aware of the ghastly consequences of lactary imbibition in the state to which the patient has, partially through Sir Lowe’s own malice, been brought. It would, of course, be more charitable to see in this proposal, however misguided, a change of heart, a relenting, the blooming of an unwonted and uncharacteristic compassion. But his gift must be rejected. The patient may be given when he wakes a little orange-flower water mixed with ordinary water and sugar.”
“You still do not seem to understand,” still, though somewhat uneasily now, smiled Dr. Arnott. “It is Sir Hudson Lowe himself, the Governor of St. Helena, who makes both the recommendation and the offering. You see it here.” And he once more indicated the crock. “Milk. The milk of a cow. Pure. Good. Nourishing. The milk of Sir Hudson Lowe.”
“It would seem to me, sir,” frowned Dr. Antommarchi, “that your clinical knowledge as well as your normal endowment of human compassion are alike being clouded by sycophancy. If Sir Lowe recommended and offered rosbif you would doubtless wish to force it down the throat of the sufferer. In order, if you understand me, that you reinforce Sir Lowe’s good opinion of himself, both as a man of knowledge and a creature of compassion, and through that good opinion of yourself, his good opinion of you, who, against your better medical judgment, are totally prepared to corroborate that good opinion.”
“Which good opinion?” smiled Dr. Arnott more uneasily still. “Of himself or of myself?”
“They are hardly extricable one from the other,” cried Dr. Antommarchi. “It is all a matter of good opinions and not at all of what is clinically fitting.”
“I do not think you have understood at all what I have been say
ing,” said Dr. Arnott, with an easier smile. “Nor do you seem to appreciate the significance of this er present proffer. Here” he smiled, indicating the crock and its snowy content, “is cow’s milk. Milk, a lactic or lactal substance obtained from the mammary glands of er vaccine quadrupeds. Forgive me if my technical terms are inept or inaccurate. I have been in this medical business a very long time and hence am become possibly somewhat ignorant. This is milk from Sir Hudson himself. It is for our patient. It is nourishing and highly digestible. Also refreshing.” And he indicated once more the snowily brimming crock. “Let him therefore drink it.”
“Must I reiterate yet again,” cried Dr. Antommarchi, “my abhorrence of what is either calculated Britannic villainy or else uncalculated Britannic stupidity but, whatever its quiddity, most certainly reflects adversely to a degree hardly computable on the ethics and even professional qualifications of one whom I had deemed, perhaps, as I begin to see now, misguidedly, at least a disinterested colleague, but of whom I now, I must confess, entertain very considerable doubts.”
“Ah,” smiled Dr. Arnott, “that seems a little more reasonable. So I suggest we pour some into a glass or a cup, I leave the choice of the vessel of er imbibition entirely to you, and then wake the patient or prisoner or both, prisoner-patient really I suppose, make him imbibe the er beverage, sit back while he does so, and watch its immediate er beneficial er effects.” He indicated the snow-white contents of the crock.
“No, sir,” thundered Dr. Antommarchi, “we will do nothing of the kind, since as I have already said with, I should have presumed, sufficient clarity, that substance, however fit it may be for the digestive systems of British infants, is totally unsuitable for our patient in his present state. It is heavy and indigestible and will cause grave enteric distress.”
“But,” smiled Dr. Arnott, somewhat uneasily now, “this is proffered on the recommendation of Sir Hudson Lowe. Doubtless, though a foreigner here, you will have some notion of who Sir Hudson Lowe is. He is Governor of this island where our prisoner is a patient or, if you prefer, patient a prisoner. Now milk, as Sir Hudson considers, is an admirable and totally un-solid food, easily imbibed, supremely nourishing, bland to the inner organs and refreshing to the taste, also altogether digestible. And so he may, of his goodness and condescension, be regarded as the fount and original of this present er proffer.” And he indicated with a smile the crock snowily brimming.
“It seems to me,” cried the other, “that I must repeatedly raise my voice in opposition to a proposal that is redolent of most unprofessional malice or else nescience or even conceivably, since the British temperament is illogical enough to embrace totally incompatible elements, a combination of both. This lac vaccae is totally unsuitable for the patient in his present enfeebled state, and, even were he less enfeebled, were he, indeed, in normal health, it would be a totally inappropriate nutritive. More, it seems to me, I can hardly say.”
“I am altogether delighted,” smiled Dr. Arnott, “that you now propose to withdraw your admittedly eloquent but hardly rationally inferred opposition to the er galactic, meaning milky I believe, proffer of Sir Hudson. See it here,” he smiled, indicating the niveal content of the crock. “Cow-milk, or as you somewhat polysyllabically put it vac er laccae, a candidly incolorated nutritive of gust inexpressibly bland, and all a freely and, may I say, magnanimously donated eleemosynous contribution of Sir Hudson Lowe, expressive of gubernatorial concern, towards the invalid diet of our er invalid.” And he smilingly indicated. “Or perhaps you would like other opinions? Other opinions are, as you will be aware, freely available. Let us by all means call in other opinions.”
“You know full well,” responded the other in Corsico-Franco-Italianate gloom, “that they will be Britannic opinions, and that I shall hence be in the ignominious and impotent state of being in a minority of one. I protest most forcibly against the injustice of the arrangement. I consider that I, who more than any have the welfare of our imperial patient at heart—”
“As for the imperial epithet,” smiled Dr. Arnott, “that has no significance as far as myself and my colleagues are concerned, nor, indeed, does it much signify in relation to his invalid status, since the organs of the human body are the same for all human bodies, for emperor and clown indeed, and the myth of the blue blood has, I fancy, been long exploded. So shall we, without more ado, and without feeling ourselves called upon to call on other opinions, help him imbibe of the gubernatorial eleemosynous—” And he smilingly.
“And that I have been regularly and exemplarily treated with the most scrupulous unfairness. This I regard, along with my imperial patient and master, alas alas moribund, I weep and will weep more, as very typical of Britannic hypocrisy and injustice, and I protest to posterity with every breath in my—”
“Ah, moribund, as you say,” smiled the smiling British smiler, “and therefore it is a matter of little consequence whether or not he be fed with the gubernatorial gift, though the odds are that it might greatly nourish his moribundity, so let us therefore—” And he.
The moribund patient, from near-coma, smiled on marking the word moribund. The new device which enabled him to hear with exceptional clarity the conferences of the enemy was informing him of stupidity and strategic division and consequent paralysis. Of V on the morrow there could be no doubt.
From bivouac to bivouac to bivouac to bivouac to bivouac and all the way it was torches held aloft with Long Live The Emperor and It Is The Anniversary Of His Crowning and God Bless You Sire, rough soldiers in tears of love and joy as he walked, with straw torches blazing all about, from bivouac to bivouac to bivouac. He waved his hand in thanks, tears in his own eyes, God Bless You My Children, and came to the bivouacs of the artillery. Thank You Thank You he cried almost weeping at the soldiers’ tears and the fiery blessing and then:
“Keep those fucking torches away from the artillery caissons.”
Milk indeed, the very notion of feeding him milk. He dined with his officers on fried potatoes and onions, and there was good talk and much laughter.
“A fine phrase, Sire, that in the peroration of your Order of the Day.”
“You could almost set it to music, Sire, ha ha, a new kind of hymn of hate.”
“Ah, it is they who do the hating,” he smilingly said, forkful of fried onion and potato ready for his lips. “For them we need have nothing but pity. Still,” chewing hard and then gulping, and not even the promise of a stab of pain, “there’s something in what you say. I fancied myself once, you know, in my distant youth—”
“Ha ha, Sire.”
“—As something of a song-maker. Let us try, and then you can all join in.” He raised his voice in a tuneful improvisation:
“England! England!
The paid lackeys of England!
Alas, gentlemen, I can for the present go no further. But perhaps it will serve. Come then. I will give you the recitative and then you will come in with the chorus.
Let every man be filled with the thought
That it is vitally necessary to overcome
These paid lackeys of—”.
And over the camp the lusty song, of the Emperor’s own making, boomed and rebounded, so that doubtless the engloomed enemy heard and trembled:
“England! England!
The paid lackeys of England!
A long incineration
For those who hate our nation.
England! England—”
It was the kind of song that could go on indefinitely, especially as the Emperor had not contrived a tonic ending, but he himself grew weary of it and talked of the East.
“The lure of Egypt, gentlemen, and the greater exotic lure of the lands beyond. The East—does not our way lie there? Europe shall, after tomorrow, be wholly ours. We do not wish America or Africa, shapeless savage continents with no future. But ah, the East. India, China, fabulous Japan. And, of course,” with a fierce savagery replacing the mystic look, “we have the mission of striking at the enemy of
mankind in that very East where he has so precarious a toehold—”
Some of the younger officers thought this was a cue for a reprise, so they lustily bellowed:
“England! England!
The paid lackeys of England!”
“Yes yes,” said the Emperor sourly, “that will do very well.” Then he brightened and said: “I hear that a comet—you know, a traveling star with a tail—has been seen over Paris. Any of you heard about that?”
“Sire.”
“Sire.”
“A good omen for the morrow, gentlemen, I have no doubt. Does it not presage the fall of princes? Well, they will fall—emperors of the blood, ha!—Russia and Austria, lackeys of—No, no, no,” getting it in quickly. “No need to sing. Well,” briskly, “we can’t sit here all night chatting of orientology and astrology and the like, nor are we a musical society. There are things to be done. Any news yet of Marshal Davout’s division?” Sad round eyes looked at him, heads gently signaled the negative. “Still on his way from Vienna, then. He’ll be here, I doubt not, before dawn breaks.”
“Sire.”
He toured in torchlight, inspecting, inspecting. Long Live The Emperor It Is The Anniversary Of. “Thank you, men, and God bless you all. See,” keenly looking south, “there are many enemy campfires around Augezd. I think, Savary, that a forward reconnaissance is called for. Find out their strength around Augezd.”
“Sire. Sire, Marshal Davout has sent on ahead a report of his imminent arrival. Would you wish to see his dispatch rider?”
“I think not. I will see Davout himself when he comes. Now find out the strength round Augezd. I’d guess, hm, a whole corps.”
“Sire.”
“I’m going back to my quarters. An hour’s rest is called for, Savary.” And off he went, God Bless You Sire and so on, torches torches. Before he could lie down in the straw of the hut where he was lodged, Davout at last arrived, dusty, tired.
“How well you look, Davout, not an ounce of fatigue in your whole body I can see, you’re remarkable, astonishing, eager for the fray, eh? Good, good. You know the position.” He thumped the map in lantern-light. “You’re on the right there. How soon can you be set up?”
Napoleon Symphony: A Novel in Four Movements Page 34
