Hikohoki seemed reluctant to go. His face had lost something of its unevealing calm, and his eyes were puzzled.
‘I have heard that your friend Miss Kuo is a politician,’ he said.
‘She has some political interests. Many people have nowadays.’
‘Ii is bad for business,’ said Hikohoki, ‘and in this country it is sometimes dangerous. I think you should not be a politician yourself.’
When Hikohoki had gone, Juan put the bamboo on a small table beside a very handsome bowl of Satsuma ware, and lay comfortably on a broad couch. He soon fell asleep, for after an emotional night be had had a strenuous morning and a heavy lunch. He slept soundly for a couple of hours, and woke to find the Sisters Karamazov looking down at him.
‘Zdrástvitye!’ they cried. ‘How do you do, Mr Motley? We are so glad to see you again.’
‘This is quite like old times,’ said Juan.
‘When we came to wake you up in that house in the Rue des Andoallies,’ added Masha.
‘Do not let us speak about that unrespectable place,’ said Varya.
‘It was a rather nice comfortable house.’
‘But not at all suitable for people like us.’
‘She is getting very refined,’ said Masha.
‘You’re both looking very well,’ said Juan.
They were smartly dressed in what were evidently new clothes, and their maquillage was skilfully designed to represent a healthy complexion not wholly unaccustomed to the open air. Their appearance was much less exotic than when Juan had last seen them, but their new conventionality threw into higher relief their essential anomaly. In dressing-gowns and the lavish rouge of night-club fashion their unnatural juncture had seemed little more than the device of some ingenious regisseur. They had the look of people in a cabaret, and a cabaret is not expected to agree with the appearance and behaviour of everyday. Their nonconformity was extreme, but not really incongruous. Their new clothes, however, had made a great difference, and the compagination of two girls so respectable, even dignified as they now appeared, was very impressive.
Juan now felt somewhat in awe of them; as though their double respectability must roughly equal the legendary respectability of a Victorian duchess. But they were infinitely more attractive than any duchess since Charles II chose his own, and if Hikohoki thought their figures needed improvement – even for a French audience – then he was more critical than Juan.
They sat down, very neatly, on the couch where he had lately been sleeping, and he carefully arranged cushions to suit their comfort. Varya accepted these attentions with an air of having long been accustomed to such politeness, and was not satisfied till Juan had brought other cushions and redisposed every one according to her liking; but Masha was all against putting him to any trouble, and begged him not to bother.
‘I hear that you’re having a very busy time,’ said Juan.
‘We are continuing our education,’ said Varya. ‘It is most interesting.’
‘It is a beastly nuisance,’ said Masha, ‘I am being bored to tears.’
‘I have always been very fond of culture, Mr Motley. Have you been reading many books lately?’
‘I’m afraid I haven’t.’
‘We are also learning to fence. That is a very graceful exercise.’
‘And my God!’ exclaimed Masha. ‘We are having exercises to increase our busts. Do you think that is necessary?’
‘Hush, Masha!’
‘Why should I hush? I am asking Mr Motley if he does not think that our busts are already O.K.’
‘I do indeed.’
‘Do you hear that, Varya? I shall tell Hikohoki that Mr Motley has a very high esteem for our busts without further alteration.’
‘The subject,’ said Varya primly, ‘is not well suited for general conversation.’
‘Tell me about your singing lessons,’ said Juan.
‘I do not mind being taught how to sing,’ said Masha, ‘but I do not wish to have any disturbance about my bust.’
‘The singing lessons,’ said Varya loudly, ‘are most instructive. We are beginning again from the bottom.’
‘Hikohoki is discontented with every part of us,’ said Masha. ‘He says we cannot sing, and that we have inferior bosoms.’
‘He has a great admiration for you,’ said Juan. ‘He’s not only extremely fond of you both, but he’s quite sure that as soon as you’ve finished your training you’re going to have a triumphal career.’
‘He is very appreciative,’ said Varya. ‘Come now, Masha, you cannot deny that he has gone to much trouble for our happiness.’
Before Masha could reply, a servant came in with a double-decked wagon of decanters, bottles, cocktail-shakers, glasses, and ice. Varya, with the elegant despotism of a born hostess, told him where to put it, told him to turn out the overhead lights, to bring a table lamp, and put a log on the fire. Then she asked Juan if he would be so kind as to shake a cocktail for them.
‘You are giving him too much trouble,’ said Masha. ‘Get up, Varya, and I shall do it. Get up, you lazy thing!’
‘Not at all,’ said Varya firmly. ‘Mr Motley can prepare a cocktail much better than you.’
‘She is putting on airs,’ Masha explained.
‘You do not know how to behave, Masha.’
Hurriedly Juan inquired what sort of a cocktail they would like, and without waiting for them to decide, began to shake up a mixture of gin, vermouth, orange-juice, curacao, bacardi rum, broken ice, and everything else that came handy.
‘I like a dash of absinth in mine,’ said Varya languidly.
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ said Juan, and added wormwood to the mixture.
Its eventual colour was a pale and murky puce, and its flavour was deceptively mild. Varya offered her congratulations, Masha made room for Juan to sit beside her, and for half an hour conversation flowed without break or difficulty. Then Varya said they must go and dress for dinner, and though Masha protested and Juan said he proposed, for the best reason in the world, to dine in jodhpurs, she insisted on the convention and finally had her way.
Her back, as she left the room, was the very picture of a dignified and social back; but Masha looked over her shoulder and kissed her hand.
Chapter 17
It was, thought Juan, a difficult situation. It was the very devil of situation. To decline an appeal to gallantry was humiliating, but one’s own humiliation could be borne. A certain degree of resilience, something of the quality of a duck’s back, a properly reticulated memory, an objective intelligence – any one of these was a good enough safeguard against undue mortification. So that was all right. But only so far as he himself was concerned. He did not know if Masha had equally sound defences.
He must not hurt her feelings. That was quite clear. But to refuse a young woman’s offer of love, without wounding her self-esteem, was at all times a difficult operation, and in the present case the difficulty was very curiously aggravated.
In Masha’s eyes the situation was ideal. Bacchus had removed all competition, and love might frolic as it pleased. Varya had dined a trifle too liberally, and so there would be no protest, comment, or interference from her. But to Juan the spectacle of Varya’s narcosis was strangely inhibitory. He could not make love to Masha while her adjacent sister lay in a post-prandial trance, but neither could he explain his reluctance without aspersing their twin condition. And that would hurt her feelings even more than a blunt refusal of affection. It was confoundedly difficult. For ten minutes he had been talking as well as he could, but Masha was weary of talk and wanted more substantial entertainment. It was about as unmanageable a situation as he had ever been in.
The twins had come down to dinner in white evening frocks of the most sophisticated simplicity. Slim and supple in the chaste candour of their gowns, they had entered the room like a pair of swans, like tall lilies that no rude earth had smutched, like schooners immaculate on the bright ocean-edge of a dream. To call them lovely would
be the most miserly of statements. A barebone parsimonious statement that did neither of them justice, and for the pair of them was pitifully inadequate. As the beauty of the Taj Mahal is by a miracle doubled in the long lagoon that lies in front of it, so was Varya reflected in Masha, and the perfection of Masha made doubly evident in Varya. Whoso looks at the Taj, in the clear coolness of an Indian morning – in that air that tells sweetly of green things, youth, and the springtime of desire – will of a certainty find in his heart a divine adultery, being now in spirit wedded to the white marble dome that floats in thin blue air, and a moment later enamoured of its sister dome that swims in cold green water. So, looking from Varya to Masha – like as two swans in a lake, save that Masha’s hair was the mild gold of an old spade-guinea, Varya’s bright as a new penny – juan perceived that fidelity to either implied a bigamous devotion to her sister, and faith unfaithful would keep him doubly true.
Or, to be more accurate, it would if he were in a mood for so heroic a consummation. But to admit a new affection, even a single one, after having just said good-bye to Harriet, would be grossly ungentle. It was, indeed, unthinkable. It was more remote from possibility than squaring the circle or arson in the Thames. He was going to be a stranger to emotional adventures for a very long time to come. That was quite certain, and even such duplicated loveliness as the Karamazov sisters’ would not make him break faith with his latest memory.
They went in to dinner, and Juan, despite his conviction of fidelity, could not help wishing that a greater interval of time had separated his leave-taking from Harriet and his meeting with the twins. They were beauty and its mirror; beauty underlined by its lovely equal; and to escape the lambency of Masha’s eyes was to encounter the soft brilliance of Varya’s.
Their behaviour, fortunately, fell short of the perfection of their appearance. Varya’s temper had again been ruffled, and Masha did nothing to improve it by declaring that her ill-humour was due to the redundancy of her underwear.
‘She is now become so very refined,’ she said, ‘that she is wearing knickers. And naturally, in a smart gown like this, they make some wrinkles.’
‘It is not possible to be truly fashionable unless you are proper underneath,’ said Varya.
‘You are now talking like a snob,’ said Masha.
‘And you are a sans culotte!’
‘She will soon be telling you,’ said Masha, ‘that our Uncle Georgy had once the honour of being addressed by the Grand Duke Nicholas. The Grand Duke said, “Get out of my way, old man.”’
‘Masha,’ said Varya, ‘is at heart quite a Bolshevik.’
‘Let us avoid politics,’ said Juan, ‘especially at the dinner table. I would sooner be a dog snarling over a bone than talk politics at dinner. Tell me instead about Hikohoki or your Uncle Georgy. The best of all conversation is gossip, don’t you think?’
The atmosphere soon became friendlier, and argument was amiably reduced to the exchanging of anecdotes. In several ways, however, Varya continued to reveal her social aspirations and her affinity with the upper classes.
‘In Russia, before the Revolution,’ she said, ‘the wealthy people were much addicted to wine. It is also a great favourite with me.’
She substantiated this proud utterance with sherry, hock, champagne, and brandy, and towards the end of dinner she wore a sleepy whimsical little smile. She mentioned the interesting fact that in the eighteenth century one of the most generous benefactors of the Bogoroditski Convent, in Kazan, had been a Count Karamazov. An ancestor, of course. Thereafter she contributed nothing to the conversation, except to give instructions that the brandy should be taken through to the drawing-room. But from her dreamy smile and the far-away happy look in her eyes, it was easy to deduce that she was enjoying very good company in the most superior kind of environment.
In the drawing-room, on the broad couch beside her sister, she fell fast asleep. But even in slumber her demeanour was admirable. Her head drooped a little, but she retained her smile and her breathing was gentle as a child’s. Her behaviour, though admittedly negative, was otherwise beyond criticism.
Masha’s behaviour, on the other hand, was regrettably positive. She wanted Juan to make love to her, and she made no bones about saying so. And Juan, for one reason or another, found the situation little to his liking and difficult to manage.
He discovered the solution almost by accident. Helping himself to a little more brandy, he inadvertently poured far too much into the large round glass, and was perturbed by the thought of wasting it. Then it occurred to him that the generous surplus might be put to a good and proper use, and with a sigh he said to Masha: ‘I suppose you’re fend of gambling?’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I will make bets and wagers on anything at all.’
‘I bet you ten dollars you can’t drink this brandy at a gulp.’
Masha looked at it doubtfully.
‘I’ll make it twenty dollars.’
Masha still hesitated.
‘I thought so,’ said Juan. ‘You’re not really a gambler. You’re only pretending to be one. I wish Varya was awake. She could do it.’
‘I am a much better gambler than Varya.’
‘It doesn’t look like it.’
‘Give me the glass.’
She drank it easily enough, gasped a little, and wiped a tear from her eye. ‘There!’ she said, triumphantly.
‘That was very clever,’ said Juan, and gave her two ten-dollar notes. He stooped and kissed her lightly on the forehead. It was a valedictory kiss.
With a trifling excuse he left the room, and when he returned, ten minutes later, he found Masha also sleeping. It was a shame, he admitted, but she would be none the worse except for a slight headache in the morning. And a headache was better than wounded vanity.
He thought he had better make the unconscious twins more comfortable, for Masha lay somewhat clumsily against her sister. Putting his hands under her shoulders he tried to thrust her farther on to the couch, but she slid down again. Then he attempted to lift her from the knees, but it was difficult to maintain his balance, and Masha rolled somewhat heavily towards Varya. This unfortunate mischance dislodged Varya, who began to slip, quite gently, from her nest of cushions. Juan made a hurried grab at her, but by a piece of undeserved ill-luck her descent was suddenly accelerated, and his hand caught the top of her dress and ripped it open from bosom to waist. The two sisters now lay on the floor, but their fall had not wakened them. They stirred a little; Varya smiled, and Masha blew the prettiest little bubble imaginable; and heavy slumber again descended on them.
It was now comparatively easy to arrange them in a comfortable position, and having straightened them out, Juan put cushions under their heads and covered them with a convenient piece of brocade. Lying there together, so lovely and so innocent, they reminded him of a pantomime he had seen at the age of six or thereabouts. He and his brother Noel and his sister Rhea and his mother had sat together in a box, and Noel and Rhea, though both were older than he, had barely concealed their tears when the Babes in the Wood resigned themselves to the mercy of the elements. To Juan their emotion had seemed ridiculous, but the spectacle of Varya and Masha made him remember it with lenience.
It was a pity that Varya’s dress had been torn. It had probably cost a lot and Hikohoki might not be too pleased by the necessity of buying her a new one. Hikohoki…
‘My God!’ said Juan.
He had suddenly perceived the awkwardness of his position. It was worse, much worse, than his earlier predicament. It was an appalling situation, and the prospect of explaining it to Hikohoki was enough to daunt anyone. It completely daunted Juan. He had been left alone with the sisters – those bundles of charm, twin apples of Hikohoki’s doting eyes, and his most expensive investment – and the result of their evening together was that Varya and Masha lay unconscious, Varya’s dress was torn to the waist, and tightly clutched in Masha’s hand were two ten-dollar notes.
‘Oh, my God!’ re
peated Juan.
The knowledge that his conduct had been scrupulously honourable did little to comfort him. There was nothing in the evidence to suggest honourable behaviour, and the infatuated Hikohoki could not be expected to disregard all he saw for the sake of what, by patient listening, he might ultimately hear. There was only one thing to do, and that was to clear out immediately. It would be easy enough to explain everything in a letter, and meanwhile Hikohoki must think what he liked.
It was fortunate that Juan had made inquiries about the situation of the house and its relative position to the main road from Shanghai. He knew how to get back, and though he did not relish the thought of walking seven or eight miles in the dark, when the whole neighbourhood was suffering from the disturbing effects of war, he preferred the slight possibility of other danger to the certain embarrassment of facing Hikohoki.
He pushed another cushion or two under the twins, and tucked the brocade more securely round them. Then, very quietly, he opened a window and dropped into the garden. The night was dark, but not impenetrably dark.
He moved slowly and cautiously towards the gate, fearing that one of the soldiers might be on guard. But a careful reconnaissance showed that the coast was clear, and with great relief lie got on to the road and began to walk briskly in the direction of Shanghai.
Chapter 18
The dark road was deserted, and the loneliness of his journey was uninterrupted save by two motor-cars. Warned by their headlights and fearing each time that Hikohoki might be the driver, Juan crouched in a ditch till they had passed. He saw nothing else. No bandits, footpads, or marauding soldiers interfered with him. The night was frosty, and little ridges of frozen mud crackled under his feet. A stinking hamlet through which he passed was empty as a buried city. Not even a dog came out to bark at him. The strength of the wine he had drunk at dinner was soon spent, and he felt very tired. He grew somewhat depressed, and thought, not of the twins, but of Harriet. The road was long, and when he grew weary of thinking about Harriet he considered the tediousness of walking. It was a poor alternative, and he came to the conclusion that he had probably drunk too much.
Juan in China Page 22
