Francoise B.’ I enquired whether it was his wife. It turned out to be his mother. Touching, but it does not allay my suspicions. I am as determined as ever to take independent readings of our course every three hours, even though it means that I have to get up twice during the night. Of course, while we are sailing through the Suez Canal this might seem a little excessive, but I do not wish to lose my proficiency in handling the sextant.
I have more than enough time at my disposal and apart from the writing of letters my leisure hours are filled by observing the Vanity Fair which surrounds me on all sides. Among this gallery of human types there are some who are most amusing. I have already written to you about the others, but yesterday a new face appeared in our salon.
He is Russian - can you imagine that? His name is Erast Fandorin.
You are aware, Emily, of my feelings regarding Russia, that misshapen excrescence that has extended over half of Europe and a third of Asia.
Russia seeks to disseminate its own parody of the Christian religion and its own barbarous customs throughout the entire world, and Albion stands as the only barrier in the path of these new Huns. If not for the resolute position adopted by Her Majesty’s government in the current eastern crisis, Tsar Alexander would have raked in the Balkans with his bear’s claws, and …
But I have already written to you about that and I do not wish to repeat myself. And in any case, thinking about politics has rather a bad effect on my nerves. It is now four minutes to eight. As I have already informed you, life on the Leviathan is conducted according to British time as far as Aden, so that it is already dark here at eight o’clock. I shall go and take readings of the longitude and latitude, then take dinner and continue with my letter.
16 minutes after ten
I see that I did not finish writing about Mr Fandorin. I do believe that I like him, despite his nationality. Good manners, reticent, knows how to listen. He must be a member of that estate referred to in Russia by the Italian word intelligenzia, which I believe denotes the educated European class. You must admit, dear Emily, that a society in which the European class is separated off into a distinct stratum of the population and abo referred to by a foreign word can hardly be ranked among the civilized nations. I can imagine what a gulf separates a civilized human being like Mr Fandorin from some bearded Kossack or muzhik, who make up 90 per cent of the population of that Tartarian-Byzantine empire. On the other hand, a distance of such magnitude must elevate and ennoble an educated and thinking man to an exceptional degree, a point that I shall have to ponder at greater length.
I liked the elegant way in which Mr Fandorin (by the way, it seems he is a diplomat, which explains a great deal) put down that intolerable yokel Gauche, who claims to be a rentier, although it is clear from a mile away that the fellow is involved in some grubby little business or other. I should not be surprised if he is on his way to the East to purchase opium and exotic dancers for Parisian dens of vice. [The last phrase has been scratched out.] I know, my darling Emily, that you are a real lady and will not attempt to read what has been crossed out here. I got a little carried away and wrote something unworthy for your chaste eyes to read.
And so, back to today’s dinner. The French bourgeois, who just recently has grown bold and become quite terribly talkative, began discoursing with a self-satisfied air on the advantages of age over youth. I am older than anyone else here,’ he said condescendingly, a la Socrates. ‘Grey-haired, bloated and decidedly not good-looking, but you needn’t go thinking, ladies and gentlemen, that papa Gauche would agree to change places with you. When I see the arrogance of youth, flaunting its beauty and strength, its health, in the face of age, I do not feel envious in the least. Why, I think, that’s no great trick, I was like that myself once. But you, my fine fellow, still do not know if you will live to my 62 years. I am twice as happy as you are at 30, because I have been fortunate enough to live in this world for twice as long.’ And he sipped at his wine, very proud of the originality of his thought and his seemingly unimpeachable logic. Then Mr Fandorin, who had so far not said a word, suddenly remarked with a very serious air: ‘That is undoubtedly the case, M. Gauche, if one takes the oriental viewpoint on life, as existence at a single point of reality in an eternal present. But there is also another way of reasoning which regards a man’s life as a unified work which can only be judged when the final page has been read. Moreover, this work may be as long as a tetralogy or as short as a novella. And yet who would undertake to assert that a fat, vulgar novel is necessarily of greater value than a short, beautiful poem?’ The funniest thing of all was that our rentier, who is indeed both fat and vulgar, did not even understand the reference to himself. Even when Miss Stamp (by no means stupid, but a strange creature) giggled and I gave a rather loud snort, the Frenchie failed to catch on and stuck with his own opinion, for which all credit to him.
It is true, however, that in the conversation that followed over dessert, M. Gauche demonstrated a degree of common sense that quite amazed me. There are, after all, certain advantages in not having a regular education: a mind unfettered by authorities is sometimes capable of making interesting and accurate observations.
Judge for yourself. The amoeba-like Mrs Truffo, the wife of our muttonhead of a doctor, started up again with her mindless prattle about the joy and delight Mme Kleber will bring to her banker with her ‘tiny tot’ and ‘little angel’. Since Mrs Truffo does not speak French, the task of translating her sickly sentiments on the subject of family happiness being inconceivable without ‘baby babble’, fell to her unfortunate husband. Gauche huffed and puffed and then suddenly declared: ‘I cannot agree with you, madam. A genuinely happy married couple have no need whatsoever of children, for husband and wife are perfectly sufficient for each other. Man and woman are like two uneven surfaces, each with bumps and indentations. If the surfaces do not fit tightly against each other, then glue is required, otherwise the structure - in other words the family - cannot be preserved. Children are that selfsame glue. If, however, the surfaces form a perfect fit, bump to indentation, then no glue is required. Take me and my Blanche, if you like. Thirty-three years we’ve lived in perfect harmony. Why would we want children? Life is splendid without them.’ I am sure you can imagine, dear Emily, the tidal wave of righteous indignation that came crashing down on the head of this subverter of eternal values. The most zealous accuser of all was Mme Kleber, who is carrying the little Swiss in her womb. The sight of her neat little belly so carefully exhibited at every opportunity sets me writhing. I can just see the miniature banker nestled inside with his curly moustache and puffy little cheeks. In time the Klebers will no doubt produce an entire battalion of Swiss Guards.