The Polyglots

by William Gerhardie

  The Russian national cause had swayed to and fro with the territory held, the champions of that cause, irrespective of the fortunes of war, losing increasingly national colour through support by foreign troops, and the champions of the Revolution gaining it by their defence of the centre, the historic citadels of real Russia against foreign ‘invaders’; in addition, they had the revolutionary cause undisputed. And one began to ask: Who are the Russians? The masses outnumbered their ancient leaders. They had their own leaders. The ancient leaders found that they had no one to lead. Their Russian national cause was now a void cause: its Russian nationalism having deserted to the enemy with the ground itself, leaving a labelled carcass. The ancient leaders became crusaders on the coast: their cause was a lost cause, in addition to which it became a personal cause and an international militarist cause. It was, I think one may safely say, a hopeless cause, with the bottom knocked out of it. The tug-of-war was a rout. The revolutionaries had won the national Russian cause in addition to their own revolutionary one.

  It is like this that the Russian Revolution presents itself today. But at the time of happening it was a conglomeration of disorderly incidents, of vile crimes and arbitrary acts, of petty vanities and senseless cruelties, of good intentions frequently misplaced and more frequently misunderstood, and people meaning often the same thing mutually intent on murder. It was thus that the Revolution affected Dr. Murgatroyd and many others of his outlook; and for the disorderly clamour of long-suppressed urgencies and the growing chaos in the economic life they refused to recognize this tempestuous movement as at all inevitable, but ascribed it to the follies of this or that politician, to the work of German or Jewish ‘agitators’, or regarded it as a bad joke.

  Dr. Murgatroyd had been a busy figure in those days at Omsk. He had conducted, with considerable vehemence, an anti-Bolshevik propaganda, and in his zeal and fervour had overstrained his object. He had painted the Bolsheviks in colours at once so black and lurid, made their atrocities appear so extravagant and flamboyant in their ghastliness, that when the Siberian soldiers, whom it was his task to whip up into a fight against the Soviets, beheld the pamphlets which Dr. Murgatroyd turned out for their consumption, they were seized by a panic. ‘No! if they’re as bad as that,’ said they, ‘we’re off’—and deserted in battalions. Dr. Murgatroyd had made the Kolchak cause his own. At that most critical time, when the fate of Omsk hung in the balance, he was invited to attend an extraordinary sitting of the Council of Ministers in order to take part in the debate as to the possible evacuation of the city, and Dr. Murgatroyd, not a military gentleman, had made a speech in Russian, drawing the attention of the ministers to the lamentable condition of the city gardens, and suggesting that the British representatives might be approached in order that a few experts in garden-planning might be dispatched without delay from England—a country which, as Dr. Murgatroyd explained, excelled in that particular art. His untimely solicitude on behalf of the city in process of evacuation was not fully appreciated by the members of the council, for it appeared they had some difficulty in understanding his Russian, so much so, that when at the close of this memorable sitting he walked up to a venerable grey-haired general to ask him what he thought of the speech which he, Dr. Murgatroyd, had made in Russian the venerable general, with a charming smile, expressed regret at having in his youth neglected the study of the English tongue, in consequence of which he was rather at a loss to catch the meaning of everything that Dr. Murgatroyd had, no doubt, so wisely and admirably expressed.

  ‘I want to give up journalism,’ said Dr. Murgatroyd, ‘and go into politics seriously, on my return to England.’

  I said nothing. I thought: in so large, clumsy, inaccurate, uncertain, fumbling, blundering, blustering a body as politics, one fool more or less does not matter.

  ‘And what will you do after the war now that you are grown up, Alexander?’ Sylvia asked.

  ‘What would you like me to do?’

  She thought for a while. ‘You don’t like militarism. Well, in that case I should like you to go into the Navy.’

  ‘Of course there’s the uniform—travels in foreign parts—dances—flagships—eguilettes. But to think of it, that a man should go to the trouble of being born, reared, educated, for one sole purpose in life: to drive a hole in another people’s vessel and send it to the bottom of the sea. In anticipation of that task he reads and writes, plays and loves, but all this is merely an interlude, a diversion in which he indulges till comes the grand proud moment of his life: he drives a hole in some other people’s vessel and sends it to the bottom of the sea.’

  ‘You are angry,’ she said.

  I was angry: I visualized ‘le sabre de mon père’, and then I looked at Gustave. Why did I let another have her? Terrestrial love is not for ever—perhaps once in all eternity. I suddenly began to think: she is disgusted with me because I did not ignore, did not overrule her problem of deciding between happiness and sacrifice by simply taking her away. If not for this dilemma, these subversive solaces, I could have sat now beside her who was my love. What hypocrisy my pretending I was debarred from acting thus by considerations of my aunt. Why was I not of the Stone Age when I could have clubbed my aunt and carried Sylvia away? I had given up my precious claim—I who could have moulded her to my will. She was like wax—and like wax she had been moulded by what?—by the sloppy selfishness of Aunt Teresa! Oh, it was not easily to be borne. It was not to be borne!

  Love is kindled by the wind of the imagination, blazed into a consuming flame by these trivial, unreasoning, and utterly contemptible twin-brothers—regret and jealousy—who are yet stronger than the human will. Stronger because they have secured an unfair leverage upon it. As a child can lead a bull by the ring in his nostrils, so they, too, fasten to the nerve centres, as it were, of human happiness and pain—and conquer shamelessly. It isn’t strength of will, nor the visible amount of damage wrought in you; it’s the particular leverage by which pain digs up your soul that matters. And the leverage by which I was made to suffer out of all proportion to my loss was the thought that it had been entirely my fault that there was any loss at all. So far our relations had been as simple as those of a cock and his consort. All I did was to say: ‘Cock-cock-cock-cockoricoo!’ And Sylvia after me: ‘Cock-cock-cock-cockoricoo!’The same trait I observed in Harry and Nora. What he said, she said. And even when I quoted something like:

  The Spanish Fleet thou canst not see, because

  It is not yet in sight.

  Sylvia, though she neither knew nor cared whence this quotation came, would echo gladly:

  The Spanish Fleet thou canst not see, because

  Ha-ha-ha-ha … not yet in sight.

  I hungered for her being. I was jealous of myself, of the days when I strutted about like a cock and she followed me like a pet hen and echoed all my sounds. And the thought occurred to me: that in eternal hell nothing but our memory will be left us to tease us over that which we had wilfully denied ourselves in life.

  ‘Bitter!’ shouted the General.

  They kissed. The band played a flourish.

  Beastly and Brown, who sat side by side, were boasting, it seemed, for all they were worth.

  ‘Gently! Gently!’ I prompted.

  ‘That’s all right,’ he guffawed. ‘I believe in talking to an American in his own language! Ha! Ha! Ha!’

  As the dinner progressed, Beastly and Brown grew more and more tender and brotherly. Captain Negodyaev, on my left, soulful from drink, nudged my arm, and looking at Beastly said: ‘I am a captain, he is a major. But we have no majors any more. A Russian staff-captain is equal to your captain, and a Russian captain to your major. So he is a major, and I am a captain, and we are brothers-in-arms, and I want to give him something. Wait, I want to give him something, because he is a major and I am a captain, and we are brothers-in-arms. I want to give him something. Tell him so.’

  ‘What?’

  He took off his badge. ‘This is my regimental badge
,’ he said. ‘I want to give him this because it’s my dearest possession, and he is a major and I am a captain, and we are brothers-in-arms. Tell him so, will you.’

  I nudged Beastly’s arm, but he was busy talking to Brown and only said: ‘Half a mo.’

  ‘He is busy,’ I said.

  ‘Tell him that it’s my dearest possession. I had it on my breast when the bullet struck it and so saved my life. I swore then I would never part with it, but would hand it on to my daughters and their children. But to-night I want to give it to him because, as I say, he is a major and I am a captain, and we are equal in rank and brothers-in-arms, and it’s the most precious thing that I have. I want him to value it. Tell him so, tell him.’

  ‘Half a mo,’ Beastly said, as I nudged his arm, and went on saying to Brown, looking at him with dim, soft eyes:

  ‘You’re a jolly good fellow, old Philip, and I don’t mind the United States joining the British Empire any day—any day.’

  ‘Gee! You’re a swell guy, Percy,’ said Brown, ‘and we’ll join your empire the day you transfer the capital to Washington.’

  ‘Look here, Beastly,’ I said. ‘Negodyaev——’

  ‘One man at a time, one man at a time.’

  ‘Tell him,’ Captain Negodyaev urged, ‘how dear it is to me.’

  ‘Oh, God, wait a little, man!’ snarled Beastly. ‘I can’t talk to two men at a time.’

  Captain Negodyaev expostulated vociferously.

  ‘Just you dry up, ole man! Don’t you get too excited,’ said Beastly, turning to him with dull eyes.

  ‘But he wants to give you his badge,’ I explained.

  Captain Negodyaev gave me his badge, which I handed over to Beastly.

  ‘That’s all right, old bean,’ he said to the Russian, pocketing the badge, ‘but I can’t talk to everyone at once, can I?’ And he turned back to Brown.

  ‘Did you tell him? Did you explain to him?’ Captain Negodyaev accosted me. ‘Will he value it?’

  ‘Oh yes, he’ll value it all right.’

  ‘But he didn’t say anything.’

  ‘He was busy talking to Brown.’

  ‘But this is my dearest possession.’

  For the rest of the meal Captain Negodyaev was taciturn. He was no longer soulful but speechless, as if mortally hurt. But I had my own worries, and I could not be bothered with his. People, objects, conversations were the ‘atmosphere’ charge with my love. There was only one thing—my jealous love, and all the other things claimed my attention and added to my suffering. I saw her sitting in the evening, the soft lamplight on her dark head. I heard her laugh, or play the Four Seasons of the Year: the tune which made you want to cry. To be running with her in a field, to tramp the down with her in the rain, to dream of her as she sat at dinner one night in her champagne georgette, looking the tenderest of fairies, her dark velvety eyes blinking bashfully, softly. And then one wakes—she is not there. I fancied writing to her from afar: ‘It’s now past midnight. I’ve just come back from a dinner where I’d heard someone say “Sylvia”—and the thought of you went through my heart like an arrow. I couldn’t hear what my neighbour was saying; I listened politely, but my soul was with you, thousands of miles away. Where are you, Sylvia-Ninon?

  Frisch weht der Wind

  Der Heimat zu:

  Mein irisch Kind,

  Wo weilest du?

  ‘And I think: perhaps she will get this letter as she is dining out with Gustave, and will read it to him in cold blood, like that letter from the man in the rubber trade which she once read out to me. I can see you so clearly before me. I can’t forget those eyes, those luminous, lustrous eyes, that soft cooing voice: “Alexander, listen. You never listen when I speak to you, just like water on a duck’s back” (oh, wouldn’t I listen now!), and those soft kisses, and our love.’

  I remembered suddenly that the only thing that I had ever said to her that was at all encouraging, the only thing which showed any other than a sexual interest, was: ‘You shouldn’t eat so many chocolates; it’s bad for your teeth.’ And this, after having reluctantly bought her a box of Gala Peter—at five shillings a pound.

  Love is like a match lit in the dark: it illumines all the lurking sensibilities for pain—your own and hers. How senseless, how unstable! Gustave looked triumphant at the end of satisfied achievement. And swiftly I conceived a situation typical of the incongruity of life. A plot for a short story. While one man was down and out, another, who has succeeded, was holding forth on the glory of struggle!

  I felt a surface unhappiness which dominated the depths of my real happiness; I fretted, but all the time I felt that I was fretting over things not worth the pain. We were so earnest, so unforgiving, exacting, intense; we were shouting ourselves hoarse till we were deaf to the real inner voice which even in moments of peace seemed scarcely resolute enough to make itself heard; and beneath it all was the sense that all this, as it were borrowed emotion, though consuming and painful enough, was trivial and unnecessary.

  ‘Champagne! Champagne!’ The sound of flying corks, the sparkling wine, voices, music … I felt sorry for myself, jealous of my former casual self whom she had loved, of the thought that she had loved me when I was not worthy of her love, and that now I could have kissed her feet she should care for me no more. And as I watched her tears came to my eyes.

  Dinner over, I was invited to play, literally dragged to the piano. I played that voluptuous bit from Tristan, but it aroused no enthusiasm. I was dishonoured. Dr. Murgatroyd gave us a comic song, which must have been a modern comic song about the time of Joseph Chamberlain. Mr. Walton, the British diplomatic representative, who, according to Who’s Who, was ‘privately educated’, had been instructed in the art of playing the piano, and urged by the military (who looked upon this distinguished civilian as withal a good fellow), took his position at the much tried upright piano, while we others, linking up in a brotherly trellis-work of interlocked hands, made a large circle: General ‘Pshe-Pshe’ standing by Uncle Emmanuel, Beastly by General ‘Pshe-Pshe’, Colonel Ishibaiashi by Beastly, I by Colonel Ishibaiashi, the French Colonel by me, and as the music began, shaking our crossed hands with more and more emphasis to the slow deliberate rhythm of the Auld Lang Syne, our shining faces as we sang out expressing beatitude and loyalty everlasting. Having completed the song, Mr. Walton repeated it with more precision and deliberation, Percy Beastly stressing the handshake which, as it were, determined that the word of Britain was as good in peace as in war. The Italian did not lag behind in warmth. Little Uncle Emmanuel, by the gravity with which he kept up the rhythm, showed that he had given his all, and had nothing more to give. Captain Negodyaev, probably still thinking of Percy Beastly’s boorishness, looked gloom itself, and, even as his country, stood aloof and only shared half-heartedly in the triumph of the Allied arms. Brown’s attitude, in its frank bright smile, betrayed the thought that though, to a Yank, foreigners all of us, we were a decent bunch, and that ‘better late than never’ was, after all, worth something to us, conceal it as we may. And the Frenchman in his cool but amiable detachment showed that he did his level best to recollect that France had had some small assistance from outside in winning her victorious war. On and on, on and on, our eyes shining, the sweat running down our faces, our clasped hands came down with a deadening thud to the ever-slackening pace, but gathering emphasis, of the song. If this was not the high climax of victory, the last pitch of the paroxysm of rejoicing, the apotheosis of triumph, the Allied cause victorious in excelsis, then there was no Allied cause. Mr. Walton, as if feeling that it was the Allied cause in excelsis, interjected between each bar of quavers two semi-quavers with his left hand low down on the scales, the effect of which can be imagined. Beastly stressed more and more violently, till one felt that one’s hands would drop off; the Jap sang louder and louder. Victory was ours. The enemy lay prostrate. Heaven had triumphed.

  As the time of jollity came to an end and we were dancing in one another’s caps in the corr
idor (General ‘Pshe-Pshe’ in Colonel Ishibaiashi’s, I in the Italian Major’s, the French Colonel in mine, Beastly in the Czech’s, the Jap in the Yank’s, and so forth) suddenly I noticed Captain Negodyaev’s badge on a table in the hall. I picked it up quickly and went into the dining-room where he stood by the fire-place, brooding, and handed it back to him. ‘There.’

  He took it darkly. Then, suddenly, he flung the badge into the fire, which, however—it being spring—was laid but not lit. ‘Well, that’s his affair,’ I thought, and went out into the hall to see the guests out.

  When I returned to the dining-room I saw Vladislav crouching at the fire-place, and Captain Negodyaev standing over him, saying:

  ‘You blithering idiot! What are you squatting and staring at me for? Look for the damned thing! Look for it!’

  44

  Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth:

  For thy love is better than wine.

  ‘SADIE.’

  ‘Yes. Sadie. I am afraid I shall always have that name now.’

  The evening sun pressed through the window, over the carpet, over the silk chair. The flies raced like mad round the globe. They seemed to make this their headquarters—a meeting-place. And a wasp, too, was not long in coming. For a moment, we were alone.

  ‘What can I say? What is there to say?’ My words choked in my throat.

  ‘Little Prince, you cannot be as lonely as I am.’

  The sun vanished, vanished from the carpet, from the silk chair. The flies dispersed to the windows and walls. It had become difficult to breathe. The clouds gathered more and more ominous. A sudden gust; the garden gate slammed. Then a few large and warm drops pelted the hard dusty road, and at once there was the sound of fine rain on the leaves and the hum, long and loud, in the air. And from afar rolled the dim basso of thunder. Already the lightning zigzagged once or twice, in front of your very brows, it seemed. The rain was one mass of grey vertical mist. We stood at the window, inhaling the fresh breezy boon. How long would it last?