Читать книгу Harper of Heaven - Robert William Service - Страница 6

Table of Contents

My departure from Bucharest was by way of being an escape. Sir Pelham and his Princess were threatening to bore me, so one morning I strapped my suitcases and left without a word of farewell. Unfortunately the railway clerk sold me a third-class ticket by mistake, and I had not the gumption to go into the first and pay the difference. Thus I travelled with a peasant family consisting of the grand-parents, the father and mother and three children. Indeed, I thought it might be a good idea to contact the common people and contrast them with the sophisticates of the Palace Hotel.

But my proletarian plunge was little to my liking. I was penned in a narrow compartment with seven scions of the soil, and though I may sing of honest sweat I hate to inhale it—especially if it is mingled with an odour of garlic and unwashed garments. But over all there was one smell that simply appalled me—a rancid corruption that suggested decay and death and seemed to emanate from the ancient couple.... The youngest child was unweaned. This I discovered as the mother, who sat opposite me, let out several buttons of her tunic and applied the infant to one of the monstrous mammals that immediately protruded. Modestly I tried to avert my eyes from that snowy circumference, but as she seemed proud of those twin mounts of milky nourishment I finally came to gaze unabashed. Between that and the scenery I divided my attention.

By and by they brought from the basket a roast goose and proceeded to dismember it, offering me a drumstick which I gracefully refused. Then, with garlic and dry bread, they scraped its bones and threw them under the seat. Finally they produced a tiny vase de nuit on which they sat Katinka, a child of about four, watching anxiously and going Ka! ... Ka! ... till I felt like joining in their inspiring but unavailing efforts.

Still, I was glad to study a people so natural and unspoiled. I was particularly attracted by Katinka who had the face of a cherub. Such blue eyes and blond curls Correggio might have delighted to paint. Her innocence was adorable and I watched her prattle and play with something like joy. I was pleased when after a while she overcame her shyness and stood by my knee. I let her toy with my wrist watch, taking it off so that she might hear it tick. Rarely have I seen such an angel child. Yet she was laughing up at me when suddenly I saw her face change. Into those big blue eyes came a look I could only describe as divine discontent. Then the shadow passed and she was gay again.

Suddenly I saw the family gazing at me with horror. Then the mother grabbed her and pulled her into the corridor. The whole family followed, leaving me alone. I cannot say I was sorry. I took up my Daily Mail and settled comfortably to read. We passed several small stations where people got in but no one seemed inclined to disturb my privacy. Very considerate of them, I thought. They looked—then backed away. I flattered myself that it was out of respect for me, a distinguished foreigner, and I was smugly grateful. But as more passengers stopped, stared and shied away I began to wonder if I was not some kind of a pariah. Was there something the matter with me?

Then I happened to look down.... I understood! Oh, that angel child! That look of divine discontent! Clutching my Daily Mail I dashed to the men’s haven with it where it served a purpose for which it was never intended. And for the rest of the trip I stood in the corridor, glued to the open window.... But the point I want to make is that the seven smells pervading that compartment were so welded into an invincible whole that an extra one was undetectable.

At Budapest I tried to take a taxi, but the porter said he would carry my baggage to an hotel for half the cab fare, so I foolishly agreed. It took longer then I reckoned and he had to rest several times before we finally arrived. I felt so sorry for the poor devil that I paid him the cost of two cab fares. Then I registered, saw my bags to my room and went out to explore the city. Wandering around haphazardly I found a big café where a tzigane orchestra was playing, and so much was the entertainment to my taste I lingered till quite late. When at last I rose I found I had forgotten the name of my hotel.

How awkward! It was a smallish hotel, one of a score in the neighbourhood, and I had left my key in the office. All I could remember was that the reception clerk had a wen on his nose. So I wandered up and down, peering into hotel lobbies and looking for a fat man with a wen. Finally I returned to the station and tried to retrace the way I had come, but it was too intricate. It was near midnight now, and I was more than a little tired. What to do? Again I sought the station but my porter was no longer on duty. I was in despair when I was accosted in English by a cab driver. I explained to him what had happened and he said he would drive me to a score of the most likely hotels. He did so while I continued my search for a clerk with a wen on his nose. I was lucky, for at the fifth descent I found my man, and glad was I to claim my key and mount to the warmth of my room.

The most remarkable feature of my stay in Budapest was that, apart from the few words necessary to supply my needs, I did not speak to a soul during the month I remained in the city. And how I enjoyed my silence! I glutted my hunger for obscurity. I realised how self-obliteration was a passion with me. Content to observe the life about me I dreamfully absorbed my impressions. Dear to me was my shabby room, one corner of which was the yellow-tiled wall of the huge stove. It was always so gratefully warm, for the season was Christmastide, and comfort was kindly to mind and body. And how happy I was hunting cheap restaurants in back streets, where I ate the rich greasy food of the people! Again I realised there was something common, even vulgar, in my nature that made me prefer the poor to the rich and the slums to the sleek boulevards.

But after a month of monologue even Buda began to pall, so I decided to shove on to Vienna. Here, however, destiny and a cabman who thought all Americans were millionaires conducted me to Sachei’s Hotel where the first person I met was Sir Pelham Pelham. I was not quite pleased, for when I thought of the Princess my cheek still burned, but I was flattered by his lack of disinterest in me. On the first night we dined together I ventured to ask him his age. “Seventy-four,” he told me, “but I feel like a four-year-old.” Then thoughtfully polishing his monocle his gaze went round the room till it rested on a dark lady of no uncertain charm. “Another Princess?” I ventured. “No, a Spanish Countess.” “Anyway, she’s mighty handy with her toothpick,” I said, “She uses it between every course.” “A Castilian custom,” said Sir Pelham loftily, feeling no doubt he must defend his caste.

I was impressed. I have a surreptitious weakness for toothpicks, but so far I had concealed it in the interest of good form. Now, however, I could claim Castilian etiquette as my sanction. “Well, I’ll say she’s an elegant eyeful,” I admitted. “But, of course you know her?” “Unfortunately no. I do not believe the lady understands English. However, in the language of love do we not all speak Esperanto?”

“Good gracious! You’re not thinking of making love to her?”

“My love making days are not over,” said Sir Pelham proudly.

I looked at him with admiration. What a buck he must have been at his best! “Well, if you can’t be good, be careful,” I said. “Don’t go biting the Spanish Countess on the neck.”

He adjusted his monocle and gave me a cool stare. “Will you bet ten pounds I won’t bite the Spanish Countess on the neck?”

“I wouldn’t be a party to such an outrage.”

“Don’t worry about the outrage part. That’s my affair. Will you wager I won’t bite the Castilian Countess on the neck?”

“I’ll take you,” I said reluctantly. “But when are you going to bring off this cave man stunt?”

“On the first opportunity. You shall see me do it.”

“Oh no,” I said uneasily, “I’ll take your word for it.”

“It’s only fair you should have a show for your money. You shall be a witness—unseen.”

“Of course you’ll get to know the lady first,” I said. Sir Pelham looked down his high-bridged nose with asperity. “If I knew the lady do you think I would allow you to witness so intimate an act? No, Sir. She shall remain the utter stranger she is to me at present. That is—until the thing is accomplished. After that ...”

He shrugged his slim shoulders with an air of Fate and at that moment the lady passed out of the dining-room. “She looked at you as if you were invisible,” I remarked.

“She’ll look at me in quite another way before long,” said Sir Pelham gnawing his moustache.

That evening I was in my room when a page boy handed me a note: Am in lounge with Donna Margarita. Get concierge out of way and watch events at discreet distance. P. P. So I hurried down to the hall which at this hour was deserted but for the concierge. I asked to have a bottle of Vichy served in my room and he departed to give the order. Peering through the doorway of the lounge I saw it was deserted but for two people—Sir Pelham and the Countess. She was writing at a little table and he stood by another table covered with periodicals. He seemed to turn them over idly but under his eyebrows he looked towards the door where peered my plebeian mug. He nodded faintly and I nodded back to show the coast was clear.

The moment had come and my heart beat faster. With popping eyes I watched Sir Pelham cross the room. There was the Countess scribbling busily. A gorgeous shawl lay over the back of her chair and from a bodice of black silk her dazzling shoulders emerged superbly. In its milky smoothness and grace of curve her neck was swanlike. Surely, I thought, the brute will not dare to fix his fangs in an object so exquisite. But Sir Pelham did dare. Behold, he was gliding across the carpet; now he stood behind the unconscious lady; now he swooped down ... There! he had done it.

What followed must be described rapidly, as rapid events ought to be described. First the lady sprang up as if she had been stung, which was exactly what I expected her to do. Then she swung round with fear in her face (all according to Hoyle). Then—and this was not at all consistent with the logic of the situation—with a glad cry she flung her arms around Sir Pelham’s neck. Feebly trying to disengage those clinging arms he staggered back. His monocle dropped, his mouth gaped, his eyes bulged. Indeed, his entire face expressed consternation.

But I saw nothing further for at that moment the concierge returned and, with commendable loyalty, I took the man by the arm and conducted him to the door where I invited him to admire the moon. Then when I had exhausted my stock of lunar conversation I turned and saw that the lounge was deserted.

It was about eleven that evening when I knocked at the Baronet’s door. He was in a dressing gown, reading the Morning Post. He greeted me with suave courtesy. We discussed the uppishness of the Labour Party, the Royal Family and other subjects dear to the hearts of Englishmen, when he remarked casually: “By the way, what do you know about duelling? I may be obliged to ask you to act as my second. I’m afraid I’ve got myself into a devil of a scrape.”

“There! I knew you would,” I said with rising indignation. “I’m sorry I ever had anything to do with it. It was perfectly outrageous.”

“Well, it’s too late to regret it. And by Gad! I don’t know that I do. For I never nibbled a more enchanting neck. But did you see the whole show? Ah! you missed the denouement. Take a cigar and I’ll tell you about it.... You see, when I made that bet I had a plan. Concealed in my hand was a dead wasp. My idea was to stoop quickly and pinch her neck lightly with my teeth, then when she swung around on me I would proudly exhibit the insect, tell her I had seen it crawling on the nape of her neck and nipped it off with my fingers. Ingenious, wasn’t it? ... But it didn’t work. It seemed I had reckoned without my own fatal charm. Anyhow the lady, instead of excoriating me, wound her arms round me and fell on my chest. It was quite a minute before I succeeded in disentangling myself. ‘Calm yourself, Madame!’ I cried. ‘I will explain.’ ”

“To my amazement she replied in English: ‘But there is nothing to explain. You love me. I have seen it. But you were too timid to speak. Then your passion overcame you. Oh, how glad I am! You know, I was just waiting for you to do something like that.’

“ ‘Like what?’ I said with pretended innocence. Then, remembering my wasp, I held it up triumphantly. ‘Behold, Madame, the cause of my impetuous action. I was calmly reading when I saw this dreadful thing parading on your neck. There was not a moment to lose. Quick as thought I sprang forward, pinched it up and crushed it between my fingers.’

“She looked at me doubtfully, and I could see she wasn’t at all pleased. But she was so beautiful in her petulance I was sorry I had made my explanation. However, it was too late to retract, so I persisted in my story. As she went to a mirror and examined her neck I could see she was wavering. But when she turned to me again her brow was dark with wrath. ‘Look at that!’ she hissed.

“Then to my horror I saw on her ivory skin the marks of my front teeth. ‘What have you to say now?’ she blazed at me. ‘Do you mean to tell me your fingers made these marks?’

“ ‘I have very small hands,’ I said, rather taken aback, ‘and my nails are in proportion. That’s just the kind of mark they would make.’

“I saw she was half convinced, when suddenly she began to cry. ‘How am I going to make my husband believe it was your nails?’ she sobbed. ‘And he comes in a few hours. That mark will be there. I can never hide it from him. He is a passionate man and of a furious jealousy. He will kill me.’

“She wept so bitterly I was greatly distressed, especially as I saw that she had good reason for her fears. On her alabaster skin the mark showed like an angry scar. In my excitement I must have bitten harder than I intended. I did my best to comfort her. ‘I’m dreadfully sorry, dear Countess, to have innocently brought this trouble upon you. All I can suggest is that you should tell your husband the truth. Then, if he does not believe it refer him to me.’

“ ‘You do not know him. He would never believe it. He is a famous duellist and he would kill you.... No, leave me to face him. But you—fly while there is yet time.’

“ ‘A Pelham never flies,’ I told her haughtily. ‘I will face the music. If your husband does not choose to accept my explanation I will give him all the satisfaction he desires. I will stand by you, Countess, in your hour of peril.’

“She dried her tears. ‘And if he should divorce me will you marry me?’

“ ‘That, Madame,’ I said, ‘I would do only too gladly, but for one reason: there is a perfectly sweet old lady who has been my wife for fifty years. I am a great grandfather.’

“She stamped her foot with such an air of huff that I was not sorry to see her disappear up the lift. She didn’t even say good-night.... Well, that’s all. Only now I suppose I have to deal with her fire-eater of a husband. I expect he’s a blood-thirsty devil with a blue-black Spanish face and the deadly ferocity of a toreador. He will spit me like a frog. It had better be pistols, I think.”

Sir Pelham wistfully polished his monocle and I gazed at him glumly. “I don’t believe in duels,” I said, “but as the challenged party you have the choice of weapons. Couldn’t you suggest feet? The one who could kick the other’s fanny the hardest ...”

“I am a man of honour,” said Sir Pelham coldly; and I answered: “Well, I’m glad I’m not. But if the worst comes to the worst you can depend on me.”

The following morning we met. “I have passed a wretched night,” said Sir Pelham. “Dreadful dreams! Thought a ferocious fellow with the dash of a matador was perforating me in the tummy with a beastly rapier. And this morning the concierge informed me that in the early hours a Spanish nobleman had arrived to join his wife. I wonder what’s going to happen?”

But nothing particular happened except that the Countess did not appear at lunch, and in answer to discreet enquiries we were informed that she had motored to Semmering. With her husband, of course.

It was at dinner when the Countess reappeared. We were half-way through the fish course when she sailed triumphantly into the room. She had the most wonderful Spanish shawl in the world, and her blue-black hair was brilliantly arranged. Never did she look so beautiful. But behind her waddled a fat little man with a bald head and a wavy moustache. Was this the famous fire-eater—the deadly duellist? Sir Pelham sighed with relief. Then instinctively our eyes went to the lady’s neck and we saw that she was wearing one of those dog collars one associates with duchesses. Behind that barricade of pearls no one could see any tell-tale tooth marks.

“That must be Don Alphonso,” I said. “I wonder if he knows?”

“He doesn’t look as if he was worrying,” said Sir Pelham. “He gobbles his dinner like a duck.”

And indeed the attention of the Count seemed focused on his food, so that he had no eyes for the radiant beauty beyond it. But the Countess paused in the picking of her teeth to flash Sir Pelham a dazzling smile. We lingered over our coffee and, as the couple made their exit, she cast the now emboldened baronet a still more bewitching glance.

“I can’t understand it,” said he. “They’ve gone to the lounge. Let’s barge in and find out something. This uncertainty is getting on my nerves.”

We found them installed on a big divan, and with his chubby hands clasped over his fat stomach Don Alphonso snored audibly. The Countess was smoking a cigarette and glancing at Vogue, but she beckoned Sir Pelham to approach.

“When my husband wakes I’ll introduce you,” she told him.

“But you said he was jealous.”

“Not of great grandfathers. But do sit down. I know you are dying of curiosity and I’m going to tell you what happened. Don’t be afraid—he doesn’t understand a word of English.”

So this is what she told him and what he told me. She would, she decided, receive her husband in the dark. She would plead a headache and ask him not to turn on the light. Perhaps by morning the incriminating marks would have disappeared. So it came about that he undressed in the drawing-room of their suite and joined her without getting a good look at her.

“Then (and here it is necessary to go with some delicacy) one may assume there followed the caresses and cajolings that might be expected of a Spanish husband who has not seen his young and beautiful wife for months. And in the midst of it the Countess had a brilliant idea. Gently but firmly she pressed her neck against the marcelled moustache of Don Alphonso, just where I’d bitten her. Whether he, too, bit or not I don’t know, but she gave a tiny scream and pretended he had. I’ve no doubt she called him a naughty, nice name, told him he’d hurt her, that she liked to be hurt, but that he must not do it again. Then in the morning she showed him the mark—my mark—and told him it was his. Well, the poor fellow was so contrite he drove her to Semmering and bought her that pearl necklace to conceal it.

“And the result is that I am invited to their castle in Andalusia for the autumn shooting. Will I go? I don’t think so. You see, it might be dangerous—even though I am a great grandfather.”

“Are you scared you might bite her neck again?” I asked.

“No,” said Sir Pelham wistfully. “What I am afraid of is that she might bite mine.”

Next day the Countess and her husband vanished, and on the following Sir Pelham bade me adieu. I was sorry to see him go for he had been mighty decent to me, tolerant of my uncouthness and my slang. On the other hand I had derived much entertainment from his English mannerisms. I was inclined to think, however, that most of his conquests existed in his imagination. I was not to meet him again for a number of years, but even then he was to appear in the character of a cardboard Casanova.

What I did as soon as he left was to go to a cheaper hotel. I hated this international atmosphere, and wanted to be in touch with the people. So I found a small room behind St. Stephen’s Cathedral and resumed my grubby poking amid mean streets, getting the local colour that most appealed to me. I found life incredibly cheap, for I was putting myself on the same plane as a student or a shopman. I wrote assiduously and received by mail a cheque for three hundred dollars in payment for four articles. It would go a long way here and it pleased me to pretend I was a poor scribbler making my living precariously. It’s fun pretending one is poor when one isn’t—and it saves a lot of money.

I often wish I had preserved the work I wrote with such effortless facility in those days, for some of it, I suspect, was fairly decent. But when I saw it in print I would not be bothered reading it. Writing it exhausted my interest. As to my book royalties—I ignored them utterly. They were paid into my bank and sometimes I received statements, but more often not. In money matters I was careless and casual. Crabbed figures in a tiny book gave me no thrill. I could scarcely realise that they meant real cash.

Meantime in my shabby room I scratched my flea bites, bathed in my wash basin and scribbled contentedly. It tickled me to think that while I lived on a dollar a day I was making ten times that amount. So I took long walks, returning cheerfully tired and brimming over with health. I had a delightful time and felt one with the simple folk about me. In after years when asked what city I most loved in pre-war Europe I answered Vienna. But that was after I had tired of Paris. For fifteen years Paris was to be my only love, and it was now to this golden goal I turned my eyes.