The Polyglots (35 page)

Then I craved for sleep. Sneaking thoughts kept creeping in, that it would be nice to have a bed to yourself and to go to sleep in it royally, as last night and all the nights before to-night. I wanted to sleep diagonally, crumpled up as I always sleep, and her presence across my path annoyed me a little. Then suddenly I began to laugh.

‘What are you laughing at?’ Sylvia looked up, surprised.

‘Because this reminds me of my grandfather when, having just joined up in the war, I visited him at Colchester, just before his death. I wanted him to notice me in my uniform, but he would talk of nothing else but his dead father and how he had fought at Waterloo—and never took any notice of my uniform.’—At which I laughed again.

‘Why are you laughing?’

‘Well, you see, there were only two beds in the house: my grandfather’s and my aunt’s. As it was contrary to custom that I should share a bed with my maiden aunt, I had perforce to share it with my maternal grandfather.’

‘But why are you telling me all that, darling?’

‘Well, because, you see, he rolled himself round twice in all the available blankets—just like you now, in fact—monopolizing the whole of the bed, so that I had to lie on the iron side-bar—just like now, in fact—and “Keep warm, George,” he said; “ah! there is nothing like keeping warm!” He died a week later. He was ninety-two, good old chap!’

Sylvia tickled me.

‘Go to sleep,’ I said tenderly.

‘Kiss me good night.’

I kissed her tenderly on the left eye. Beautiful, beautiful eye!

‘You are leaving tomorrow,’ she said woefully.

I kissed her again, close on the mouth, with considerable passion, and then said:

‘Go to sleep.’

And she purred as she curled up close to my side:

‘Mrr-mrr-mrr …’

The light was out. My thoughts went out to some imaginary girl, stranger and less obvious than Sylvia—some other girl in some other stranger and remoted place, some other place where I could lose this thing, this cursed thing, my soul. The clock on the table at my side ticked away the æons. It was dark, and I could hear the measured rhythm of Sylvia’s breathing. A black mosquito, like a black shark, swam up in the air and attacked me with a pertinacity astonishing in one so frail. But he had forgotten to silence his engine, and his buzzing announced his approach at my ear with the blare of a brass trumpet; which proved his undoing. In a flash I dispatched him back to his forefathers! Then, unnoticed, I lapsed into sleep. I dreamt that my old teacher of mathematics, whom I had hated at school, was trying to sell me a number of
Corona
typewriters, and that though I already had one I was constrained into buying another—and suffered deeply. If we can suffer thus in sleep—meaninglessly and unnecessarily—perhaps in life we also suffer meaninglessly and unnecessarily. And as I was suffering thus in my sleep, bemoaning the expense of a superfluous
Corona
, suddenly I must have jumped clean out of bed.

‘Oh, darling, I’m sorry I frightened you,’ I heard Sylvia’s voice as if coming from another world.

‘What! Where! What!’ Then, still in a trance, I got back into bed and at once fell into a sound dreamless sleep.

To wake in the morning and to see her profile; a head framed in dark locks, all locks to the shoulder, a delightful nose, ever so slightly
retroussé
, her eyes closed, clearly defined, thin, as if pencilled black brows; her dark head thrown into relief by the white pillow on which it rests sideways—these are the sweets of life. To hold a fragrant lovely warm body in your arms, to inhale the delicious scent of
Cœur de Jeanette
, to murmur sweet, tender, whispered things, and to know all the time that she is yours, your Sylvia-Ninon—oh, it was good to be born, good to be born, good to be born! Those pursed red lips, her face against your face, and when she winks you feel the impish movement of her lashes on your cheek, and without seeing it you feel her smile—oh, what a fund of secret gladnesses, of intimate delights! You roll over and kiss her closed eyes, and she, half reluctantly—for she is awfully sleepy, awfully hard to wake—smiles at you, purring the while like a kitten: ‘Mrr-mrr-mrr …’ This is meet, this is meet, I say, even for an intellectual. And her nose! That exquisitely shaped little nosy! The lovely outline of her nose as her head rests sideways on the pillow. How is it that I did not notice it before? If you cannot catch my exultation, if you needs must present a cold front of indifference, it is, I
know
, because not having seen it you do not know. I know: because I’ve seen it. (It is absolutely necessary that we should understand each other on this point before we can go any farther.) It was like a fairy-tale, and Sylvia, with her locks and childish face, was like a fairy child. And I felt a pang of pity at the thought that I shouldn’t have perceived its charm till that last morning when I was leaving her for ever: that the first time must needs also be the last.

But indeed Sylvia is hard to wake. Every time I touched her arm she drew it away with a drowsy frown. ‘Darling,’ I whispered,
‘it’s the last morning: I am leaving today—soon.’ She only murmured into her pillow, ‘I want to sleep.’

‘But you will be able to sleep for the rest of your natural life: I am leaving in a few hours!’ I wailed in tones of anguish. She only purred in answer: ‘Mrr-mrr-mrr …’ Sleeping apparently was more important. Sometimes I despair of life.

‘I dreamt,’ I said, ‘I dreamt of a beautiful girl in ballet dress, who kissed me, and my heart was full of love. And now she’s gone.’

‘Oh!’ she said, quickly awakening. ‘Oh!’

‘But, darling, she was fair. You’re dark—and she was fair. I can love you both, can’t I?’

‘All the same,’ she replied, not as perturbed as she might be. But she turned her back to me.

‘Wake up! It was only a dream.’

‘All the same, you shouldn’t have dreamt it.’

‘I couldn’t help it!’

‘I’m glad I frightened you now.’

‘Frightened me?’

‘Don’t you remember?’

‘No.’

‘I heard an awful noise outside
—maman
calling out “Berthe!” Then Berthe’s
pantoufles
. I leaned over to the little table at your side to strike a match, and you were so frightened you jumped straight out of bed.’

‘I didn’t!’

‘You did!’

‘Did I say anything?’

‘You said “Hell!” ’

‘I didn’t!’

‘You
did
! You said it five times—like this! “Hell! Hell! Hell! Hell! Hell!” ’

‘How queer! I don’t remember a thing. Only being a little frightened in my sleep, perhaps.’

And when afterwards I saw her take her little toothbrush, the sight of it, dilapidated and red-stained, and of her pathetic
squeezed-out toothpaste tube, made me feel sad. Why? Since surely she would be able to afford to buy herself another. Nevertheless, with a heartfelt pang, I said:

‘Oh, that little brush …’

‘Why, darling?’

‘And your teeth and all. Is
he
to take care of you?’

‘All this should have been for you.’

‘It should, it
should
.—But should it?’

I looked at the clock, at her sad look. The boat sails, your feet sail, your chest with your heart remains—you topple over. Unhappiness!

‘This little brush … So pathetic … I see you use red toothpaste.’

‘Yes.’

‘Carbolic?’

‘Yes. Why?’ Sylvia is always suspicious of me.

‘Just so. I use white—Pepsodent.’

‘Yes,’ she said. She always says ‘Yes’—softly, whisperingly.

‘Sylvia, darling!’

A kiss.

‘Sylvia-Ninon!’

A kiss again.

‘You little … prince.’

Twenty-four kisses, mostly in one.

‘Ha-ha! I’ve been trying to screw your top on to my toothpaste!’ she laughed.

‘Dearest,’ I whispered, ‘I love you as ever, and more than ever—fervently, passionately. I love your frankness, your kindness of heart, your trustfulness. I love these eyes, these curls, your movements. I love you, oh! how I love you—with my soul—with my soul …’

‘Darling,’ she said, ‘go and turn the tap on for me in the bathroom.’

IT WAS THE 29TH OF APRIL, BUT ALREADY SUNNY AND warm. Spring was beginning in real earnest. I broke my front collar-stud, and therefore was later than usual for breakfast. To my surprise, I found Aunt Teresa already dressed and heading the breakfast-table. Usually she took breakfast in bed. And I appreciated the compliment. It was because I could not bear to see Sylvia in the podgy freckled hands of Gustave that I was leaving this Sunday, though the boat on which I had booked my passage did not leave Shanghai till ten days hence, and my plan was to spend a week travelling through China.

‘Today it’s warm, hot,’ said Aunt Teresa, ‘you can sleep with the windows open.’

‘Did you,
ma tante
?’

‘I didn’t sleep at all.’

‘I heard an awful noise in the night,
maman
, and your crying “Berthe! Berthe!” ’ said Sylvia.

‘Well you might!’ she groaned.

No
! Emphatically she would not stand this any longer—for the love of
anyone
. (And at her words it was as if a hand of ice was laid on my heart. Could it be that Aunt Teresa knew about us?) She would put up with it no longer, unless we wished to see her go clean out of her mind! Suddenly in the middle of the night she woke. The door she had shut was half-open. It seemed as if somebody in a white gown had entered the room, holding a candle. She was too frightened to cry out. The light had vanished. But somebody stood at her bedside breathing on her. She stretched her hand for the matches, and as she did so a box was handed to her in the dark. Who did it? She lit the candle on the table at her side: and there was no one there. A picture postcard stood on edge. Who made it stand? Who kept it in that position?

It was clear enough. She was haunted by him. He lay beneath the sill, with the weight of a massive tombstone upon him. Yet
apparently it was not enough. She had burnt her camisole, her knickers, her silk stockings, garters, and the boudoir cap, but it wasn’t any use. He brought them back to her in her dreams. She developed an aversion to
all
knickers, camisoles and even combinations, whether new or old; she had a secret fear lest in some mysterious way they were
all
contaminated. She knew not what to do. Give up wearing them? Was it either just or fair? Always she would dream the same awful dream: Uncle Lucy returning to her again and again, showing his teeth (as he had done when listening, without comment, to the local intellectuals), with that last strange grin on his face, intimating by what he carried in his hands that no matter how many camisoles and knickers she might burn, whatever new and different ones she might purchase, they were still the same—the
original
ones. It was as if he brought them back to her each time out of the flames. Each morning, on waking, they were there across the back of the chair. She didn’t like to touch them. True, she marked every fresh pair she bought in variegated thread. Yet he may have replaced them in the night
with the identical marking
. She never knew what he might not be up to. Besides, she really could not go on for ever purchasing new underlinen. The moral was: she must leave the haunted house.

It is well known that far-reaching, lasting decisions are nearly always taken in a whim or mood that will not last.

‘Emmanuel!’ she said. ‘We are going back.’

‘Going back where, my dear?’

‘To Belgium.’

‘But,
ma tante——
’ I chided in.

‘No, George, no!’ She was determined to go, whatever the difficulties. She could not stop here another week. Uncle Lucy had breathed on her; she was certain of it.

I did not oppose.

‘It won’t take long to pack. We must all help. I shall write out the labels.’

I grew alarmed, however, when she turned to me and said: ‘When is the next boat?’

‘Which boat,
ma tante
?’

‘The boat sailing for Europe—leaving Shanghai.’

‘Oh—well—God only knows. My boat—the
Rhinoceros
—sails Wednesday week.’ She considered.

‘Why not,’ she asked, ‘sail on the
Rhinoceros
?’

‘So soon?’ said Uncle Emmanuel.

‘But he
breathed
on me! I can’t stay here!
mon Dieu
!’

‘Perhaps change the room?’

‘He will come to the other room—I am sure of it.’

‘But the fare, my dear?’

She considered.

‘Gustave will have to get us a loan at the bank.’

The door opened and Gustave, with a red rose in his buttonhole and two bouquets in his hand—one for his mother-in-law and one for his bride—entered. And I surveyed him with a feeling of double curiosity.

‘Gustave,’ she said, accepting the flowers without comment, ‘we are leaving.’

‘Leaving where,
maman
?’

‘For Europe—for Belgium.’

‘When?’

‘Soon. At once.’

He looked first at her, then at his bride.

‘Poor child, she will feel the parting.’

Aunt Teresa looked at him vaguely. ‘Sylvia, oh, she is coming with us, of course.’

‘But—my wife——’ he stammered. ‘She must stay with me.’

‘Gustave,’ she said very quietly, ‘stop it. I can stand a good deal. But there is one thing I simply cannot stand at all—anyone disagreeing with me. Stop it. Stop it! For
God’s
sake.’

‘But—she—she’s my wife.’

My aunt gave him one furtive look.

‘You want to
kill
me?’ she asked.

Gustave said never another word.

‘Today is Sunday. We leave on Wednesday,’ ordered my aunt.

‘But all the packing,’ Berthe wailed. ‘And all the thousand and one little things we leave unsettled.’

‘Gustave can wind up our affairs.’

Gustave sat silent, as if a little dejected.

‘Gustave!’ said my aunt. ‘You must try and obtain a transfer to Brussels as soon as you can—and, to start with, a long annual leave.’

Gustave only smiled, and showed a black tooth at either corner of his mouth, and there was perhaps an indication in his faintly sardonic nod that Gustave regarded such a contingency a remote one.