disciplined Bolshevik party had driven through
these idealists like a tank through a mist was no wonder. I admitted, however, that, properly handled, they might yet have power to blind the driver.
When we had nearly finished, Elisa swept in, accompanied by Osterling and two strangers. One was nothing but moustache and dark glasses; the other was a tall man of splendidly wiry physique,
dressed dashingly and purposefully in jacket, boots and breeches. He had a bony, Baltic head, and I put him down—correctly—as a Pole. Elisa was smouldering with annoyance, and looked
it. I was selfish enough to adore that touch of humanity. A fit of the sulks upon my coolly radiant goddess had hitherto been unthinkable.
Osterling jumped up as I passed their table, and asked me to wait for them at my bungalow. They would all come round, he said, and crack a bottle. He had the irresponsible cheerfulness of an
accomplished diplomat, and I was far from guessing his real intent. He sounded as eager and innocent as if he were suggesting that I should lay on a champagne supper for the two of us and a couple
of Viennese cabaret stars.
I strolled back through the delicious June night, and waited for Elisa and her party outside the door. The scattered houses between my own and the rest of the colony were not yet ready for
occupation, and the network of paths was deserted. Starlight and faint voices reminded me of loneliness in some hut above a mountain village.
Elisa, when she arrived, still seemed embarrassed and inaccessible, but Osterling was most genial. He introduced the Pole as Mr. Gisorius and the man in the dark glasses by some temporary
name I have forgotten. He then produced a syphon and bottle of whisky. The rule of consuming only local drinks did not, he said, apply to respectable ex-statesmen in their hungry sixties.
As soon as we had settled down, Osterling remarked, with his delightful smile, that Elisa had been telling them about my amœba. I disclaimed any copyright in the metaphor.
‘But the trouble is,’ he said, ‘that she seems to have shown it to you in too many typical environments.’
I became aware that I was alone, facing Elisa and the three men. Our seating had, accidentally but too plainly changed to that of the accused before his judges. Osterling at once moved with
complete naturalness to an easy chair more or less by my side.
‘Have a cigar?’ he offered.
Elisa began to prowl about under the window with tightly-clenched fists. I thanked him, and lit up an exquisite Havana.
‘I expect,’ I said, ‘that you all have the same respect for Elisa Cantemir’s judgment that I have.’
I met Gisorius’ analytical eye. It was not wholly hostile; it held indeed the grim humour of a man entirely confident in himself and his sense of justice. His head was ridged and faceted
as an animal’s skull.
‘A profound respect,’ he answered, ‘for her judgment in cold blood.’
Elisa smothered the opening syllables of something that sounded as if it would be perilously near abuse. I kept quiet, for Osterling had already started to deal with Gisorius.
‘My experience of human beings,’ he said gracefully, ‘persuades me that their judgment is more affected by what they want than by what they have. And in any case
Elisa’s instinct is that of the immortals, neither cold nor hot nor logical, but invariably right. No, no, I shouldn’t dream of questioning it. Our problem, Amberson, is not whether
Elisa is right, but whether
we
can afford to be wrong. Do you see what I mean?’
‘Perfectly,’ I replied. ‘On the other hand, she said you needed me. I don’t know why. But obviously you have to take a risk with someone. And you had better ensure, as
she did, that he’s in full sympathy.’
‘In full sympathy?’ asked Gisorius. ‘An ordinary business man?’
His tone was matter-of-fact rather than offensive, but he had touched a sensitive spot. I told him—and I must have sounded sincere,
these idealists like a tank through a mist was no wonder. I admitted, however, that, properly handled, they might yet have power to blind the driver.
When we had nearly finished, Elisa swept in, accompanied by Osterling and two strangers. One was nothing but moustache and dark glasses; the other was a tall man of splendidly wiry physique,
dressed dashingly and purposefully in jacket, boots and breeches. He had a bony, Baltic head, and I put him down—correctly—as a Pole. Elisa was smouldering with annoyance, and looked
it. I was selfish enough to adore that touch of humanity. A fit of the sulks upon my coolly radiant goddess had hitherto been unthinkable.
Osterling jumped up as I passed their table, and asked me to wait for them at my bungalow. They would all come round, he said, and crack a bottle. He had the irresponsible cheerfulness of an
accomplished diplomat, and I was far from guessing his real intent. He sounded as eager and innocent as if he were suggesting that I should lay on a champagne supper for the two of us and a couple
of Viennese cabaret stars.
I strolled back through the delicious June night, and waited for Elisa and her party outside the door. The scattered houses between my own and the rest of the colony were not yet ready for
occupation, and the network of paths was deserted. Starlight and faint voices reminded me of loneliness in some hut above a mountain village.
Elisa, when she arrived, still seemed embarrassed and inaccessible, but Osterling was most genial. He introduced the Pole as Mr. Gisorius and the man in the dark glasses by some temporary
name I have forgotten. He then produced a syphon and bottle of whisky. The rule of consuming only local drinks did not, he said, apply to respectable ex-statesmen in their hungry sixties.
As soon as we had settled down, Osterling remarked, with his delightful smile, that Elisa had been telling them about my amœba. I disclaimed any copyright in the metaphor.
‘But the trouble is,’ he said, ‘that she seems to have shown it to you in too many typical environments.’
I became aware that I was alone, facing Elisa and the three men. Our seating had, accidentally but too plainly changed to that of the accused before his judges. Osterling at once moved with
complete naturalness to an easy chair more or less by my side.
‘Have a cigar?’ he offered.
Elisa began to prowl about under the window with tightly-clenched fists. I thanked him, and lit up an exquisite Havana.
‘I expect,’ I said, ‘that you all have the same respect for Elisa Cantemir’s judgment that I have.’
I met Gisorius’ analytical eye. It was not wholly hostile; it held indeed the grim humour of a man entirely confident in himself and his sense of justice. His head was ridged and faceted
as an animal’s skull.
‘A profound respect,’ he answered, ‘for her judgment in cold blood.’
Elisa smothered the opening syllables of something that sounded as if it would be perilously near abuse. I kept quiet, for Osterling had already started to deal with Gisorius.
‘My experience of human beings,’ he said gracefully, ‘persuades me that their judgment is more affected by what they want than by what they have. And in any case
Elisa’s instinct is that of the immortals, neither cold nor hot nor logical, but invariably right. No, no, I shouldn’t dream of questioning it. Our problem, Amberson, is not whether
Elisa is right, but whether
we
can afford to be wrong. Do you see what I mean?’
‘Perfectly,’ I replied. ‘On the other hand, she said you needed me. I don’t know why. But obviously you have to take a risk with someone. And you had better ensure, as
she did, that he’s in full sympathy.’
‘In full sympathy?’ asked Gisorius. ‘An ordinary business man?’
His tone was matter-of-fact rather than offensive, but he had touched a sensitive spot. I told him—and I must have sounded sincere,
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