Bye Bye
Ever yours
Pansy (new name).
There followed a lot of crosses, big and small and of medium size.
21
AUNT TERESA WROTE THAT SHE HAD DULY CROSS-examined Captain Negodyaev (who was about to move over to them when Mme Vanderphant and her two girls vacated the rooms, probably about the middle of June), that Captain Negodyaev had in her presence cross-examined his man Vladislav, who told them that in France such a thing would have been impossible, that Vladislav had cross-examined all the requisite railway officials on the subject of the lost fur caps, and that the unanimous opinion seemed to be that the caps could not be traced in Harbin, or it would seem anywhere else, and that in the circumstances of the case Uncle Emmanuel recommended courage and patience. Uncle Lucy had still not remitted the money, nor had Major Beastly yet reported the result of his démarches. Did I think that the British Mission might help them, seeing that they were Belgians who had suffered in the war and that the English had helped the Belgians before, as a matter of course, and seemed to have thought nothing of it then? So why not now again? This was Uncle Emmanuel’s idea. She herself was, moreover, directly entitled to such aid, having, as I knew, been born in Manchester of an English father born in London.
That day Sir Hugo called me in and said:
‘And where are the caps?’
I explained to him that enquiries were still pending. And he said:
‘In that case you had better go back for the caps.’
I could ask for nothing better.
The very next morning I left for Harbin.
22
IT WAS MIDSUMMER NOW, AND HARBIN LOOKED green, fully dressed. My arrival synchronized with the departure of Mme Vanderphant and her two girls. The lady, dressed up for the journey, with a veil over her beak (it was of a somewhat smaller dimension than Berthe’s and was tanned rather than red), had come into Aunt Teresa’s pink bedroom to say good-bye just as I came in to greet her.
‘Adieu, madame.’
‘Adieu, ma pauvre Mathilde!’ sighed my aunt from her pillows. ‘God bless you.’ They embraced. ‘You won’t see me again. Ah! With my poor miserable health—’ She sobbed softly into her lace handkerchief, petulantly, like a child. ‘Pity me! Pity me!.. The money you lent us,’ she said, her sobs having suddenly ceased, ‘will be remitted to you direct to Dixmude as soon as Lucy sends me the dividend.’
Mme Vanderphant stood still for a moment, sad and mute. ‘How strange: people meet, and then part, then write letters, grow tired of that, forget — and then die.’ She looked at her sister. ‘Ma pauvre Berthe! When shall we see each other again?’
‘Adieu, Madeleine. Adieu, Marie.’
‘Adieu, madame!’ they curtsied.
The door closed after them.
‘I am quite alone in the house,’ said my aunt, ‘Emmanuel!’ she called out.
“Yes, my darling?’ He stood in the doorway.
‘You will stay at home with me.’
‘Yes, my angel.’
‘Sylvia has gone to her piano lesson. I had to let Berthe go to the station to see them off.’
‘Berthe is stopping, then?’ I asked.
‘Yes, she could not leave me, in my poor miserable state of health, with no one, alas! to look after me in my sad exile! She will stay till we can arrange for Constance to come over from Belgium.’
‘This is awfully kind of her, isn’t it — stopping behind for your sake, while her people are going home to Europe? Isn’t Berthe awfully good to you?’
“Yes, but she is rather abrupt and sometimes she has such a temper! such a temper! This morning she said to me while making my compress: “I am tired out after packing all night for them — tired out.” Just like this: “Tired out!” It quite upset my poor nerves. Queer! as if I were to blame for her having to pack for them! She is very abrupt. But I never say anything. It is not my nature. Other people like Berthe and Mme Vanderphant always allow their anger to get the better of them. They let it out and are free. But I keep it all to myself, never complain, and suffer in silence!’
‘I suppose she does get tired.’
‘But she ought to remember that I’m a helpless poor invalid and can do nothing! This had such an effect on my poor nerves that, alas! I couldn’t sleep all day after it!’
‘But, after all, she is not a paid nurse.’
My aunt looked as me as if to say: What do you know about it? ‘Ach, if I only had Constance here!’ she sighed.
When Berthe, with tear-stained eyes, came back from the station, Aunt Teresa called out:
‘Berthe! Berthe!’
‘Yes?’
‘Give me a pyramidon, will you? Insufferable head-splitting migraine!’
‘One moment.’
Berthe looked very sombre and somewhat bedraggled, perhaps unnerved at her sacrifice.
‘Oh, my God! Pyramidon! This is aspirin, which is fatal for my heart! Ach! if only I had Constance here to look after me!’
‘I am tired out to-day … tired out,’ muttered Berthe. ‘Packing all night, never had a wink of sleep.’
‘How unkind!’
Berthe looked very sombre.
‘Oh, not so much water, Berthe! I’ve told you!’
‘Oh, please, Thérèse; really!’
‘Ah … Constance …!’ she sighed dismally.
In the dining-room I came across Berthe. She stood close to the window. She was crying.
Uncle Emmanuel, passing by, noticed her crying.
‘Orphan … I feel like an orphan,’ she said.
‘Ah, c’est la vie,’ said my uncle facilely.
23
IN THE MIDDLE OF JULY AN OPERA COMPANY WHICH had been touring the Far East halted in Harbin, and we went to the theatre twice — the first time to Faust, and the second to Aida. As we listened, to the recitations, explanations, vows, entreaties of the musical love-dialogue, and as the lovers’ singing protestations accompanied by florid gestures were at their very strongest, Philip Brown’s Anglo-Saxon sense of humour was tickled and he winked at Sylvia.
Oui, c’est toi! je t’aime!
Oui, c’est toi! je t’aime!
Les fers, la mort même
Ne me font plus peur …
Faust and Marguerite argued, argued at cross-purposes, it seemed, and with a self-sufficient detachment as though wilfully ignoring each other but competing for attention at the hands of the audience. Aunt Teresa liked the music of Gounod. It reminded her of Nice and Biarritz, Petersburg and Paris, Lucerne and Karlsbad, Geneva, Venice, Cannes, and all the places where she had heard these melodies before. She knew them, and now, as she leaned back in the red-plush box, she looked at Berthe and nodded at her with glances of sad and intimate reminiscence, and Berthe, though she could not have divined all the places that Aunt Teresa had in mind, nodded back at her with that same air of delicate and memorable experiences — for ever gone, and never to return. There was no disturbing passion, no intensity about this sort of music: Aunt Teresa had only to sit back in her chair, and the orchestra and singer combined to do the rest: Fai — tes-lui mes aveux, portez mes vœux!..’ Aunt Teresa liked sitting out in the public parks, on the Terrasse at Monte Carlo, or on the Promenade des Anglais at Nice, surveying the passing people through her gold-rimmed lorgnon, and listening to just this kind of music, pots-pourris from Verdi and Gounod — so unstrenuous! It claimed so little of one. Really nice of the composers to acknowledge music was not all. Nice men they must have been. She would have liked to ask Gounod to tea had he been alive: she was sure he would not stay too long.