Sea of Glass (Valancourt 20th Century Classics) (12 page)

‘. . . You know the bit about “eye of newt and toe of frog”, those witches couldn’t have taught Serafina anything. Thank God eighty per cent of the population are strict Sunnis who’d as soon take medicine from a woman as out of a dog’s mouth; otherwise she’d kill someone, because she dearly loves a body to practise on. I stick to that, Mother, even though I now have to admit that her methods do come off at times. Well, about six on the second day the little girl was having a terrible struggle to breathe. There were black veins in her face as if the blood had gone stagnant like a pond, and with every gasp a big yellowish bubble came out of the side of her mouth. I’d seen a good many hop it in recent weeks and I knew that complexion and those bubbles showed that they were well on the road.

‘I sat by the bed feeling sorry for poor little Varvara. But you know how it is, you cannot hold it, unless you are a saint or something and before long I’d slid off into feeling sorry for myself. There I am, I thought, getting on in life, no son, soon not even a daughter by the look of it. In theory I suppose I might have other children, but Serafina seems to have lost the trick of it. I am too sensitive that way, the thought of not leaving any children makes me feel Time blowing down my neck. Of course, as you know, Mother, I have had one or two little accidents, and very good you were about them in spite of all the damned fuss Father made,
but you cannot really count little accidents like your own children. . .
 .’

The italics of course are mine. At the risk of labouring the point, I would draw attention to the clear distinction which he draws between the by-blows of his youthful adventures and his child by Serafina. I don’t know what weight a Court would have attached to the statement. Some certainly; but it would have been far from conclusive. For it might have been that Fulk merely meant that Varvara was the only child whom he acknowledged; or even that he was lying about her status to spare his mother’s feelings.

I think the story of Varvara’s illness is worth completing.

‘. . . Presently it seemed to get very quiet except for the child’s breathing and I realized that the women had stopped their row. I’d been down and had a look at them in the cookhouse and you never saw such a sight, the daughters of the Prophet banging their heads in the muck and one queer little heathen from the Altai nursing a woollen idol in front of a charcoal fire. I do not hold with all this mourning, when we die, we die and there is no sense in making a song of it, but I will say this, they love that child as if she were their own.

‘Anyhow I thought they’d given up hope, and Serafina like the rest. But suddenly she came in. She had old Daina with her and she was carrying a little earthen pot that gave off as foul a smell as I have ever smelt. They paid no attention to me, but Serafina got behind the bed and lifted the kid, and Daina from the front forced back her head and jerked the stuff down her throat. Damn me, Mother, if I have ever seen the like! After a couple of seconds that child sat up as if they’d put a thousand volts through her. You could hear her teeth rattle and her eyes opened and the eyeballs turned up till you could only see the whites looking like a couple of blood-alley marbles. That’s done it, I thought, that’s hastened the end. But as soon as I opened my mouth they both set on me and turned me out. . . .’

The upshot was that when he came back several hours later, Varvara was in a normal sleep and the strangling accumulation of mucus in her lungs had begun to dry up.

At the end of the letter he adds: ‘So it seems I may have to go on supporting your granddaughter indefinitely. She is not a bad little thing, only a bit crazy. I bought the servants a fat sheep, but I let them know that they hadn’t taken me in with their faked lamentations.’

Neither of the two letters from which I have so far quoted contained any enclosure. But there were photographs in several of the later ones. At first it surprised me that the necessary equipment should be available in the wilds of Sinkiang. But the more I learnt about Doljuk, the more I realized how unpredictably the amenities were distributed there. Almost anything could be obtained, provided that it was specially bespoken and the buyer did not mind waiting: ultimately the goods would trickle in by railway as far as Lanchow and thereafter by bullock cart through Kansu and the desert.

Similarly, traffic in the reverse direction was slow but fairly sure. The steady continuity of Fulk’s letters showed a transport system which continued to function even during rebellions. To judge from internal evidence, not more than two or three could have gone astray in the whole twelve years.

The pictures had evidently been taken with a good camera, but the development and printing were amateurish. The fading of the surface had a paradoxical effect in improving the portrait of Fulk, for it restored a dark, yellowish tinge which was near to the natural colour of his hair and his short wiry moustache. He was a big man, about six feet three inches, and he looked much as I had expected, bold, handsome, reckless, except that there was less good humour and more sensibility in his face. His appearance did not quite square up with the rollicking extrovert of the letters. He was neither a
poseur
nor yet the rumbustious ox which he sometimes pretended. I think, however, that he was well aware of his own image and when he looked in the glass he liked to see a rugged adventurer.

The photograph which I preferred showed him standing beside a pony, wearing a buttonless blouse with a high neck and a small fur hat. Behind him were some ruins stretching away into a waste of sand. His expression was watchful and slightly suspicious—the counterpart of one which I had several times seen on his daughter’s face.

There were also a number of pictures of Varvara as a child and of Serafina Filipovna. Despite her beauty the latter did not photograph well, principally, I thought, because the photographer never managed to catch her with her mouth shut.

7

After several more excursions with Andrew, Varvara received her new clothes. She came down to breakfast one morning in a frock which would have looked very well at the smarter sort of Chelsea cocktail party.

The fashions of that period did not favour large well-developed girls. Skirts were longer than a few years before and breasts and bottoms had made a tentative reappearance, but the basic design of most dresses still assumed a flat, epicene figure. However carefully Varvara put on her smart garments she always looked as if she had burst her way forcibly into them and was about to attempt an equally violent exit. Nevertheless she was improved by conforming with ordinary standards. Once the impression of eccentricity was removed people could concentrate on her basic natural advantages. She belonged to that small class of women who merit the description Junoesque, which is much abused by those who forget that it was not Jove’s wife but one of his mistresses who turned into a cow.

Andrew’s friend, Pam Kerrison, showed herself a shrewd or at any rate a well-advised woman. When Mrs. Ellison saw the new outfit she immediately insisted on paying for every stitch of it. So far from pluming herself on her generosity she was stricken with remorse because she had not thought of re-equipping Varvara before.

The feathers also reacted on the bird inside them. It seemed to me that from the moment when Varvara first outwardly approximated to a rich upper-class girl there was a noticeable change in her speech. She made a conscious effort to acquire the fashionable catch-phrases. Sometimes they floated strangely on the surface of archaism and formality which would take another year to eliminate. Not that I personally was anxious for that day, but Andrew clearly wished to hasten it on. One afternoon he came to tea at Aynho Terrace and spent most of the time urbanely correcting her on little points of idiom. What exasperated me was the submissiveness with which she received his instructions. Rather childishly I took advantage of superior academic knowledge to refute several of his remarks about the English language. The atmosphere was cool when Varvara received a message that her grandmother wanted to see her.

Andrew and myself eyed each other in silence for several seconds. Then with the absence of malice which was one of his more admirable traits he tried to re-establish good relations.

‘Extraordinary life she must have led before she came here! She’s told me some things that fair curled my hair.’

It was not a very fortunate opening. However absurdly, I had come to regard Doljuk as my own property and the news that Varvara discussed it with other people made me more jealous than any sexual rebuff. My reaction was to try to show Andrew how much better I was informed about the place than he. He listened politely for a while, then broke in:

‘You know, David, I can see that this really means something to you. You’re one of those chaps who has a feeling for the East.’

‘Perhaps,’ I said, simpering slightly.

‘You ought to get into some sort of practical contact with it.’

‘I can’t spend my vacs in Turkestan.’

‘No, but there are a lot more places in that direction which have a bit of the old magic about them. . . . India, for instance.’

I thought he was suggesting that I should visit my uncle and aunt and I started to explain that it would be ruled out by expense. But he waved this aside.

‘There’s no need to go there, when so many of them come over here.’

‘Who do?’

‘Indians.’

‘I know a couple at Cambridge,’ I said.

My lack of enthusiasm was not due to race-prejudice, but to the fact that my acquaintances had more affinity with Bloomsbury than Doljuk.

Suddenly Andrew said: ‘But do you know any Indian women?’

‘No. Do you?’

‘Since you ask me, yes. Actually she’s only half-Indian. She’s damned good value, David—ready for anything. Dentist’s receptionist, but definitely a cultured girl.’

‘Very nice,’ I said.

‘I wondered if you’d like me to introduce you?’

‘Andrew,’ I said, looking pointedly at Varvara’s empty place, ‘there wouldn’t be any motive behind your offer to pimp for me?’

‘Nobody but a cad would look at it in that way,’ he muttered sulkily.

I believe that Andrew is now in command of his father’s empire, and that he has made the historic transition from Income to Expenses with great adroitness. But in those days he still had something to learn about the art of negotiation.

Varvara and I had fallen into a routine of limited love-making.

We never indulged in any familiarity during the day, but most nights we went upstairs together at bedtime and I entered her room ‘to say good night’—a process which sometimes extended to early morning. We kissed and . . . But those dots mean nothing spicy, they merely indicate uncertainty about the word to use. Nobody could pet with Catherine the Great or neck Boadicea. Whatever their actual physique, their characters loom too massive in the mind. It was the same with Varvara. On the whole I think that the best term is the neutral ‘embrace’—though once again I must emphasize that it does not carry its more drastic sense.

She attracted me strongly in her courage and bodily sweetness and emotional violence. The last, however, also inspired me with a salutary caution. I had enough sense to see that anybody who stirred her deeply would be caught up by a temperamental cyclone in which discretion and propriety would vanish like two straws. I had no wish to be accused of repaying Mrs. Ellison’s kindness by seducing her granddaughter.

Though I was no Casanova, I had more experience than she. And it was just as well. Varvara’s idea of self-control was like that of a man who drives at sixty miles an hour straight for a brick wall, relying on his brakes to stop him in the last ten feet. She had her own method of halting the runaway machine. Sometimes she would leap out of the armchair or off the bed and fling herself on her knees and pray audibly for purity. I suppose it was all frightfully bad taste, but at the time I found it romantic and exciting. I had also discovered there was nothing like amorous byplay for bringing out reminiscences of Doljuk.

I think that the same sort of familiarities probably went on with Andrew. Varvara was not essentially promiscuous, but she was an Ellison; as a family they wanted the best, and none of them would have thought it anything but common sense to explore the markets before deciding where to sell their goods.

I had tacitly assumed that contact with me and my cool British outlook would gradually wean Varvara away from her violent and melodramatic ideas. In fact the opposite began to happen. Continual exposure to a character like a superheated furnace was raising my emotional temperature to a point where fever distorted my judgment. I no longer thought it odd or unlikely that a conspiracy should be perpetually raging in the background of life; people put off their drab coverings and emerged as monsters or holy saints. I mention this because it helps to explain some of my more curious actions, and the slight fog which still hangs over my own and other people’s motives.

My obsession with Doljuk and the close idle existence of almost dreamlike luxury which I enjoyed no doubt contributed to my mental state. There was every temptation to lead a second life when the real one demanded so little effort. I felt like a fish in an aquarium. For a while it seemed as if the only threat, the big pike, whose shadow had once stirred our tank to alertness, was going to fade away completely.

For over a fortnight Cedric did not come near the house, and from Turpin I learnt that he was ill.

‘What’s the matter with him?’ I asked.

‘The usual, I s’pose.’

‘He has some complaint?’

‘Swimming in the ’ead,’ said Turpin vaguely. ‘Since a boy. That’s what they call it. ’s my belief, though, ’e goes proper queer at times. All of a sudden ’is mind gets a straight look at ’is nature and can’t stand it.’

‘Do you really mean that he has fits when he’s . . . not responsible?’

‘Well, sir, what d’you make of this? Many’s the time I’ve come quiet into a room when ’e thought ’e was alone. ’E’d be walking up and down talking to ’imself. And
about
’imself, like ’e was another party. “Steady, Ellison,” I’d hear ’im say. “Steady. We’ve got to think this out. You weren’t given a first-class brain for nothing.” Then ’e turn round, so to speak, and be someone else praising up Mr. Bloody Cedric. “Reliable chap, Ellison, very sound. You always get a balanced view from Ellison.” ’

I am sure Turpin did not invent the habit. It chimed too well with Cedric’s obsessive self-absorption. Besides I did not need this evidence to believe that he was slightly mad. But whatever his precise affliction it did not last very long. Within a few days of this conversation his visits had recommenced. I returned from an afternoon walk to find Turpin in the hall, dabbing disgustedly at the hatrack with a housemaid’s brush.

‘What on earth are you up to?’

‘Oo sweeps a floor

As for God’s Law

Makes that and the action fine,’

said Turpin—‘I don’t bloody think!’ Without a pause he continued. ‘What do you s’pose? Mr. Bloody C. of course! Comes in ’ere and says the place is filthy and he’ll see ’is ma gets value out of keeping a pack of idle, greedy lackeys. I tell ’im I’m not a ruddy skiv . . .’

It was nevertheless noticeable that Turpin had not positively refused to obey the order. Yet he was a tough and independent old warrior. The fact reminded me that, despite various set-backs, Cedric wielded many of the powers of a master at Aynho Terrace.

Changing in irony to his society voice, Turpin continued: ‘Furthermore, sir, you are ’ighly privileged today. The old block ’as graciously brought ’is bloody chip along with ’im.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Miss Deirdre ’as bin released from the cotton-wool in order that she may pay us a call.’

‘To see her grandmother I suppose,’ I said indifferently.

‘She’s come round to make the acquaintance of ’er little cousin,’ said Turpin, mincing the words ferociously, ‘which will be so naice for them both—like ’Ell! One thing, the Bud isn’t ’aving any. ’E sent me up to fetch ’er from ’er room, but Ai regret to say she ’as locked ’erself in the convenience.’

I found the pair of them in the morning-room. Deirdre Ellison impressed me less unfavourably than I had expected. She was a tall girl with a face whose structure tapered down from a broad forehead to a pointed chin. She had striking eyes, between hazel and green in colour, and her mouth was conspicuously well-shaped. This was as well, for she wore it in a demure simper which could have been very unattractive. She did not approach the classic nobility of Varvara’s features, but I could imagine some men thinking her more sexually desirable. She was the younger of the two by about a year and a half.

‘Ah,’ said Cedric, ‘this is my young friend David Lindley, who occupies an indeterminate but comfortable position in the household. . . .’

No doubt he knew through Nurse Fillis that I had had something to do with the affair of the green writing-case. His remark was deliberately intended to make me feel a sponger.

A few minutes later he tried to be nasty again. I had politely given him a cigarette; after which I offered my case to the girl.

‘I’m afraid David’s ideas are a bit too emancipated for us,’ he said. ‘Where we simple, old-fashioned people come from young ladies of seventeen don’t smoke. Do they, Deirdre?’

‘No, Father,’ she said with toneless humility.

Besides his annoyance with myself, I could see that Cedric was in a raging temper over the snub from Varvara.

‘Sit up straight, Deirdre. You’re lolling like an old sack.’

‘Yes, Father. Is this better?’

‘Have you left school?’ I asked her, to make conversation.

‘I never went.’

Cedric intervened: ‘Deirdre has been delicate and I have had her taught at home—in my opinion the best sort of education for a young woman, at any rate from the point of view of a responsible parent.’

He gave me a glance of mingled suspicion and lubricity, contriving to suggest that I wanted to bundle his lamb into some vicious Parisian establishment.

It was a parting shot. Within a few moments he announced that he had business with Mrs. Ellison and was going to her bedroom.

As soon as his back was turned Deirdre said:

‘Now give me a cigarette.’

‘But I thought you didn’t smoke.’

‘Then you must have believed I was a pretty fair little . . .’

The timbre of her voice had changed entirely. Now it was rough and contemptuous. But what shook me was her choice of the final word. She let the obscenity drop with studied satisfaction.

‘I beg your pardon,’ I said.

‘Don’t sound so scared, I was only relieving my feelings.’

‘You do it pretty drastically for a girl who’s not allowed to risk the corrupting influence of school.’

‘That crap!’ she said. ‘Father knows best—but he doesn’t know what some of his selections as governesses were really like. One bitch who taught me German had been on the streets in Hamburg.’ She narrowed her eyes and smiled in a way which was not wholly unattractive. ‘But perhaps Father
did
know after all.’

‘Steady on,’ I said, really shocked by the innuendo. ‘You’re only doing this to get your own back for being continually bossed.’

‘That’s not a very brilliant discovery. . . . Father says you’re frightfully conceited—always putting up mature attitudes and imagining you’re impressing people. But don’t worry: he says as bad or worse about everyone behind their backs.’

‘It’s a pity,’ I said, ‘he doesn’t realize how generally that’s known.’

She was silent for some seconds, puffing at her cigarette. From her amateur style of smoking it did not look as if her outbreaks of defiance were as many as she implied.

Then she said: ‘It’s my cousin who brings out the worst in him. The things I’ve had to listen to about her!’

‘What?’ I said, curious despite myself.

‘Well . . . about how she’s an adventuress like my Uncle Fulk who stole money . . . and how she bullies Grandma—Father says he wouldn’t be surprised if she did the old girl in.’

‘Nonsense!’

‘Just what I think,’ said Deirdre, enjoying herself. ‘You see I can’t help noticing that one moment poor Varvara is supposed to be an arch-fiend and the next she’s a poor sucker in grave moral danger . . .’

‘Who from?’

‘Why, you, of course! Father says you want to compromise her so that she has to marry you and then you hope you’ll get a whack at the Ellison money.’

‘By God,’ I said, ‘what a family you are!’

Deirdre nodded without resentment. She made me feel slightly sick, but I could not dislike her. There was something pathetic and vaguely courageous about her awful malapert defiance: something for which the term resistance-movement was coined years later.

Much to my surprise Varvara stalked in.

(I heard afterwards what had happened. Cedric had made a complaint to his mother. One of the few things which Mrs. Ellison would not tolerate, at any rate in her own sex, was overt bad manners. She had sent up her personal maid to knock on the lavatory door and express the strong hope that Miss Varvara would shortly be down to meet her cousin.)

‘I’ve been longing to meet you for ages,’ said Deirdre.

‘Not so,’ replied Varvara cryptically.