The Polyglots (37 page)

‘A penny for your thoughts,’ she said.

‘Never mind my thoughts.’

I looked out of the window. The green fields were whirling round; a few trees glimpsed; a forest flew by.

‘Look at the spring!’

Nora looked, and saw gee-gees and moo-cows and ba-lambs and nanny-goats. The train raced on as before. Sylvia sat facing me, in her big velvet black hat, her wide-awake eyes sparkling in the morning sun. And looking at the window, with an unending smile on her face, ‘Are you frightened of bulls?’ she asked.

‘Very.’

I thought: she is mine, mine for ever. And my heart gave a pang for Gustave. I wanted to speak to her, urgently, privately. I made signs to her to come into the corridor. She turned her head away from the sun, and looked at me with her dark velvety eyes, shook her head, and looked back at the window, smiling away in the sun.

‘
Yes
,’ I insisted.

She did not respond.

I wrote on a slip:

She wrote in answer:

From under her broad-brimmed black hat she looked out with her enormous eyes at the sunny fields and smiled to herself without cease.

At one o’clock we took lunch in the restaurant-car. The train went on—puff-puff-puff. The field, drenched, seemed to sink in the river, and dark stems of trees showed out of the water in all indecent nakedness. Spring was beginning. Then over half the globe spring was beginning, as we rolled through an unsettled country that had been in a better way before we tackled it. Moods, reminiscences pressed into my heart. Once on just such a day, in just such a mood, at Oxford and in spring, I had gone to Magdalen citadel encompassed by a Chinese wall and steeped in tender foliage, and from an open window came a phrase of Chopin like a question addressed to the hollow blue. Oxford now would be a mass of green, white, tender pinks, tremulous like the sea. The green elms stretched out their arms to the sky. Why? Because, like us, they were thirsting for things outside themselves. Their own beauty was lost on them, wasted. But when the rain came the drenched birches drooped their glittering limbs and cried. Because, having quenched their thirst, there was nothing left them—nothing left outside the anguish of desire! And now, as we rattled past on our way, the tall pines roared and the slim young birches lashed together in the wind; prisoners rooted to the ground, they stood there and deplored their cruel fate. Later, in the tinge of evening, they shook their heads, looked older, wiser and resigned—but sad, sad.

There was more dignity in their vague dreams than in all our farcical preoccupations. For it is the vagueness of a dormant world that lies behind our subtle thoughts as, maturing, they shrink into precise expressions. And so, perhaps, these beeches,
dreaming, do not seek to apprehend and, not seeking, apprehend in full.

‘The logical conclusion of life,’ said Captain Negodyaev, ‘of all joy, sorrow, suffering, exaltation, consciousness; in a word, of being—is not being.’

‘But dreaming?’

‘No.’

‘What is the meaning of life?’

‘Life is meaningless. Perhaps it is there to give meaning to death. After life we are content with death.’

‘I don’t believe it. If the whole world be unreal, then where is the real world? (This, by the way, is not a question but a statement, an assertion that the only reality is
I
.) And when I want to die, to be extinct into nothing, I only mean I am tired and want a pillowed sleep with happy dreams. The thought of death—of the complete annihilation of my
I
is as unnatural and impossible as eating myself up and leaving no crumbs behind.’

‘Darling, do talk of something more interesting—something which is easier to understand,’ Sylvia demurred.

‘You believe in immortality?’ he asked.

‘I have not sufficient data not to believe in it. It is no less a miracle that I should exist in a body than that I should exist without one.’

‘I don’t believe in things of which I have no tangible proof,’ he said.

‘Which means you disbelieve in everything except your limitations.

‘How so?’

‘Your limited knowledge stops short this side of death, and you give your verdict in favour of this knowledge. But for me to believe that death is the end is like giving a verdict in the absence of innumerable witnesses to the contrary who had been prevented from appearing by some flood or fire. The unexplored possibilities of what
might
happen after death are so incalculable in the face of our provisional assumption to the contrary that as well we may
deny the future generations inventions and discoveries of which we have no knowledge.’ I sighed.

‘What is it, darling?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ I said—and thought: ‘
Pauvre Gustave
.’

An hour later we stopped at a country-side by the river. How quiet, how idyllic.

Then we went on. The blinds in the train turned pink from the sunset. The grinding and clanking subdued: we rushed into a tunnel. Again we rushed out, polluting the air of the hill-side.

By order of the General we had the special train, but no sooner did he leave us than they began unhooking one coach after another, till we were left with half. ‘
Le sabre de mon père
’ was in Aunt Teresa’s case with her umbrellas, and my eloquence proved helpless against the villainy of local station-masters. For lack of space I went in with Aunt Teresa, Aunt Molly, Berthe, Sylvia, Uncle Emmanuel, and Harry. In the adjoining coupé were ensconced the Negodyaev family, Bubby, Nora, and Nurse. In the third compartment, Beastly, Philip Brown, and several strangers.

‘Give your
maman
the corner seat,
chérie
,’ said Aunt Teresa. This roused my dormant sense of gallantry. I surrendered my cherished corner seat to Aunt Molly, perceiving in advance that I would be rewarded for my sacrifice; for I was now by Sylvia’s side. Our women were chattering like birds. Presently they got Uncle Emmanuel and myself to haul down a heavy supper-basket of immense proportions and dug into it. Tea, coffee, fruit, cakes, biscuits, sandwiches, and such-like luggage made its appearance. At wayside stations I had to run out to buy bananas, soda-water, and so forth. The evening sun, showing through the cream-coloured blinds, cast a pink light over Sylvia at my side. The train rattled on. Berthe and my aunts were still chattering. Their talk was boisterous and easy. Berthe was relating how when, many years ago, she travelled with her father there was a young man in the compartment with them who, in the process of settling down for the night, was taking off innumerable articles of underclothing, of which, however, there really seemed to be no visible end. They
laughed. But Aunt Molly was silent. Looking through the window, I saw our train overtake a peasant driving in a cart. For a moment I could see him clearly to the minutest detail of his podgy face and cap, and I endeavoured to imagine the real ‘I’ of that man as if it had been myself sitting in that jolting cart; then the road which had been running alongside our track began to drift, and swiftly our ways parted, parted beyond sight and recall and remembrance. So it is in life, I thought, and I could see myself, a little light, a bundle of experiences, boring my way through timespace, past other bundles, bleak faces, eyes like lighted windows, all hurrying through what trance, what world of appearance, to what purpose, what goal? On, on, and on. The lights were being lit, the train hurried southwards. As Berthe and my aunts began to settle down for the night, they did strange things with their hands beneath their blouses, and their waists expanded automatically, and the creatures became flabby and unattractive, like empty sacks of oats. Sylvia alone did nothing to prepare herself for sleep. When night came, the shades were drawn over the electric globe and the window-screens lowered. The train rushed and roared through the dark. I stood for a while in the swaying corridor and looked through the wide black panes at the string of lights. What a lot of houses they have built: how they plod and multiply, these human beings! As we had settled down to sleep, the train, on the contrary, seemed to have grown more lively, and gathered speed, caring apparently nothing for darkness or sleep, and raced on with light-hearted gaiety, while we could only stretch our aching limbs and sigh. Sylvia was asleep. Through all the grinding and clanking, what sweet dreams would she be dreaming … perhaps of me? She had lain in my arms as the night drew out and the morning hours crept in sulkily, one by one. And now, like an angel child, she was asleep. These lines from Maupassant came back into my mind:

It was interminable night. Carefully I moved my foot to hers and felt her ankle. She never stirred. Yes, she was asleep and leaning on my shoulder.

Presently she sighed, tried to readjust her head upon the pillow, then gave it up as a bad job, opening her eyes.

‘Put your pillow on my knees.’

She did. ‘Better now.’ She closed her eyes. I looked at my watch. It was past 3 a.m. All were sleeping. Then Harry, who had been sleeping with his head on Berthe’s lap, woke up. He muttered: ‘Yesterday the train went; today it’s stopped.’

‘Sleep, my little one,’ Berthe whispered, ‘sleep, my darling. You’ve woken in the middle of the night. The train went yesterday and today too; it has only stopped for a few minutes and will go on directly. Sleep, my darling.’ She kissed him on the forehead. ‘Sleep, my little one. There.’

He shut his eyes, but opened them again after awhile with the remark, ‘Where’s Nora’s monkey?’

Berthe tucked the cloth monkey in the front of his coat; he shut his eyes. But soon afterwards he woke again, announcing his intention to hang the monkey.

This roused the rest of us, and no one any longer tried to sleep. I raised the window-screen. The grey dawn, showing feebly through the rain-stained window, mocked at the electric light. The air in the coupé was heavy. Uncle Emmanuel yawned into his hand and opened the door into the corridor. It was chilly. The ladies bucked up. Powder-puffs, hand-mirrors, and the like came into play; hands and eyes got busy; coiffure and complexion was remedied; scent poured out galore. And not a drop of water all the time. Water was not mentioned. Water was not thought of! Sylvia had a tiny orange-coloured crêpe-de-Chine ‘hanky’—that was all she used by way of toilet. It seemed to me touching. But had
she used a bath-towel or nothing at all, it would have appeared to me—for such is the nature of love—equally touching.

The train raced towards Changchu. Another train hove in sight, and the two trains raced side by side: now one was ahead, now the other; till their ways took them asunder and the other train raced away out of sight.

At ten o’clock in the morning the train, exhausted, pulled up at Changchu. I looked out. Silence. Dusty foliage. Chinks squatting on the ground and staring at the train. Lemonade and oranges on sale on the platform. Sunshine. What a country! Peace. Relaxation. It goes on in that benevolent, watching, smiling sunshine. We got out and repaired to the hotel for lunch.

Before lunch Aunt Teresa drank a cocktail with a cherry on a matchstick. It was a lovely day in spring. We sat on the open veranda and talked.

‘Now do we live after death?’ asked my aunt.

‘The answer,’ said I, ‘is in the affirmative.’

‘How can we know?’ Captain Negodyaev interjected. ‘We have so little to go upon.’

‘A plain reason for not going upon it. Seeing that, when all is said, life is a miracle, it would be a miracle indeed if the miraculous never occurred.’

‘But you seem certain.’

‘There are umpteen ways of being alive, but there is only one way of being dead. It follows than the chances of life after death are umpteen to one.’

‘When you come to think,’ chimed in Captain Negodyaev, ‘what can we know! If I trust my inspired moments I say, yes, death is not the end. If I trust my stock moods, I say, probably it is.’

‘And you, George?’ asked my aunt. ‘How do you really
feel
about it?’

I sighed.

‘As George Hamlet Alexander Diabologh, author, I shall bow
my
adieux
and never emerge after death; but as rightful shareholder in
Life
I am immutable, and will go on till the Universe perish with me. Perhaps as one on the board of directors of
Cosmos, Unlimited
. Perhaps—since I’m a holder of preference shares—as some sort of joint chairman with God. But perish I shall not: since, like any another, I am a holder of shares in the cosmic concern.’

Aunt Teresa sighed with relief. ‘Ah, if it were so!’

‘It
is
so. You may take my word for it,
ma tante
.’

‘No death?’

‘Never.’

Captain Negodyaev shook his head.

My aunt looked at him. ‘Why should we live so little,’ she asked, ‘and be dead such a time? Why?’

‘No reason at all,’ said my uncle.

‘So perhaps Anatole is alive.’

‘You bet he is! More alive than before.’

‘But does he remember? Does he remember me?’

‘He doesn’t remember a damned thing.’

‘Oh!’

‘We are but vessels of past memories,’ said Captain Negodyaev. ‘When I think of the living things around me which are to me as something that has never been, I am conscious of the nature of obliteration, of the seeds of death I already carry in me. A little more—and death will be complete.’

‘So you think,’ I said. ‘Unthinkingly. It is not the memory that lives on in you, it’s that little voice, that little lamp which is immortal. You may lose your memory forthwith and be none the worse for it; you would still go on feeling your
I
to be you and none else, as you do through every dream and nightmare: because this
I
is lit at the immortal altar of all life, and so remains immortal, may it immerse in whatever worlds, it is
you
, a world in itself and for ever.’