He lectured for an hour and twenty minutes. His face was imperturbably solemn throughout — except that twice he made a grotesque donnish pun, and gave a shy smile. At that sign, the whole room rocked with laughter, as though he had revealed a ray of humour of the most divine subtlety. When he frowned, they shook their heads. When he sounded triumphant, they nodded in unison.
Even those who could understand his English must have been very little the wiser. For he was analysing some esoteric problems about words that he had just discovered; they were in a dialect of Soghdian which he was the only man in the world to have unravelled. To add a final touch of fantasy, he quoted long passages of Soghdian: so that much of the lecture seemed to be taking place in Soghdian itself.
He would recite from memory sentence after sentence in this language, completely incomprehensible to anyone but himself. The strange sounds finished up as though he had asked a question. Roy proceeded to answer it himself.
“Just so,” he said firmly, and then went on in Soghdian to what appeared to be the negative view. That passage came to an end, and Roy at once commented on it in a stern tone. “Not a bit of it,” he said.
I was sitting with a handkerchief pressed to my mouth. It was the most elaborate, the most ludicrous, the most recherché, of all his tricks: it was pure “old-brandy”, to use a private phrase. He knew that, if one had an air of solemn certainty and a mesmerising eye, they would never dare to say that it was too difficult for them. None of these learned men would dare to say that he had not understood a word.
An hour went by. I wondered when he was going to end. But he had set himself five words to discuss, and even when he arrived at the fifth he was not going to leave his linguistic speculations unsaid. He finished strongly in a wave of Soghdian, swelled by remarks in the later forms of the language, with illustrations from all over the Middle East. Then he said, very modestly and unassumingly: “I expect you may think that I have been too bold and slapdash in some of my conclusions. I have not had time to give you all the evidence, but I think I can present it. I very much hope that if any of my colleagues can show me where I have been too superficial, he will please do so now.”
Roy slid quietly into his seat. There was a little stupefied applause, which became louder and clearer. The clapping went on.
Ammatter got up and asked for contributions and questions. There was a long stupefied silence. Then someone rose. He was an eminent philologist, possibly the only person present who had profited by the lecture. He spoke in halting, correct English: “These pieces of analysis are most deep and convincing, if I may say so. I have one thing to suggest about your word—”
He made his suggestion which was complex and technical, and sounded very ingenious. At once Roy jumped up to reply — and replied at length in German. In fluent, easy, racy German. Then I heard the one complaint of the afternoon. Two faces in the row in front of me turned to each other. One asked why he had not lectured in German. The other could not understand.
Roy’s discussion with the philologist went on. It was not a controversy; they were agreeing over a new possibility, which Roy promised to investigate (it appeared later as a paragraph in one of his books). The Rector made a speech to thank Roy for his lecture. Ammatter supported him. There was more applause, and Roy thanked the meeting in a few demure and solemn words.
Before we departed from the lecture theatre, Ammatter went up to Roy in order to shake hands before parting for the day. He was smiling knowingly, but as he gazed at Roy I caught an expression of sheer, bemused, complete bewilderment.
Roy and I went out into the Linden. It was late afternoon.
“Well,” said Roy, “I thought the house was a bit cold towards the middle. But I got a good hand at the end, didn’t I?”
I had nothing to say. I took him to the nearest café and stood him a drink.
That afternoon brought back the past. I hoped that it might buoy him up, but soon he was quiet again and stayed so till we said goodbye at the railway station.
He was quiet even at Romantowski’s party. This happened the night before I left, and many people in the house were invited, as well as friends from outside. Romantowski and his patron lived in two rooms at the top of the house, just under the little dancer’s attic. It was getting late, the party was noisy, when Roy and I climbed up.
The rooms were poor, there was linoleum on the floor, the guests were drinking out of cups. Somehow Romantowski’s patron had managed to buy several bottles of spirits. How he had afforded it, Roy could not guess. Presumably he was being madly extravagant in order to please the young man. Poor devil, I said to Roy. For it looked as though Romantowski had demanded the party in order to hook a different fish. There were several youngish men round him, randy and perverted.
I asked what Schäder and his colleagues would think of this sight. “Schäder would be shocked,” said Roy. “He’s a bit of a prude. But he needn’t mind. Most of these people will fight — they’ll fight better than respectable men.”
That reminded him of war, and his face darkened. We were standing by the window over the street: we looked inwards to the shouting, hilarious, rackety crowd.
“If there is a war,” said Roy, “what can I do?”
He was seared by the thought. Living in others, he was seared by his affections in England, his affections here. He said: “There doesn’t seem to be a place for me, does there?”
The little dancer joined us, lapping up her drink, cheerful, lively, bright-eyed.
“How are you, Ursula?” said Roy.
“I think I am better,” she said, with her unquenchable hope. “Soon it will be good weather.”
“Really better?” said Roy. He had still not contrived a plan for sending her to the mountains: he did not dare talk to her direct.
“In the summer I shall be well.”
She laughed at him, she laughed at both of us, she had a bright cheeky wit. I thought again, how gallant-hearted she was.
Then Romantowski came mincing up. He offered me a cigarette, but I said I did not smoke. “Poor you!” said Willy Romantowski, using his only English phrase, picked up heaven knows how. He spoke to Roy in his brisk Berlin twang, of which I could scarcely make out a word. I noticed Roy mimic him as he replied. Romantowski gave a pert grin. Again he asked something. Roy nodded, and the young man went away.
“Roy, you should not!” cried Ursula. “You should not give him money! He treats poor Hans” (Hans was the clerk, the “black avised”) “so badly. He is cruel to poor Hans. He will take your money and buy clothes — so as to interest these little gentlemen.” She nodded scornfully, tolerantly, towards the knot in the middle of the room. “It is not sensible to give him money.”
“Too old to be sensible.” Roy smiled at her. “Ursula, if I don’t give him money, he will take it from poor Hans. Poor Hans will have to find it from somewhere. He is spending too much money. I’m frightened that we shall have Hans in trouble.”