mine. It was too inhumanly strange, and I longed for what I had left. Then I felt I wanted to cry, cry for what they had done to my soul.…
‘Rum-looking place,’ I said. ‘Rum-looking girls.’
‘
Que voulez-vous
?’ he said. ‘
C’est la vie
!’
At this point the hostess came up to us with a book and, pointing at it, exhorted us to register. ‘Police,’ she said, ‘police.’
‘Any name will do,’ said Uncle Emmanuel lightly. But I refused emphatically, and after trying vainly to persuade me to put down my name, the hostess sent for an interpreter—a youth who presently appeared but whose command of our tongue did not appreciably extend over her own. He pointed at the register and said: ‘Ha! Police—zzz—police. Ha!—zzz——’
‘Ha!’ said the hostess.
But I ‘wouldn’t have any’.
They looked at each other, and decided I was mad. But I seized the opportunity as an excuse for going, pretending I had been provoked, and, accompanied downstairs by their propitiatory smiles and bows, and restored once more into my boots, I got into the rickshaw and drove off, and waited for my uncle a few doors away, where I was immediately surrounded by a swarm of street urchins begging alms. The rickshaw coolie greeted me with a happy grin as if to say ‘Ee! the young gentleman has been amusing himself!’
‘Very good?’ he asked, turning round in the shafts and grinning at me broadly.
I shook my head. ‘No good. Girls very bad. Why so bad?’
‘This bad Yoshiwara,’ said the rickshaw man comprehendingly. ‘No good. Good Yoshiwara very good.’
‘Really good?’
‘Ha! Very good.’
‘Why didn’t you take us to good Yoshiwara?’
‘Good Yoshiwara far, far, very far—three hours far.’
At last Uncle Emmanuel was ushered down the steps. He got into his rickshaw, and we drove off. Uncle Emmanuel, as we drove home, held forth to me upon the sanctity of the family, the family hearth, ‘
le
’ome’, as he put it in English, and on the duty of keeping clean at home and of not mixing the two lives.
I returned to the hotel in the early hours. I had a bath in tepid water and went to bed under the white mosquito curtain. I could not sleep; all night I heard the whistling and screeching of the trains passing and halting near by. I lay sleepless, images now of Sylvia, now of the rickshaw man saying: ‘Good Yoshiwara far, far, very far—three hours far’ floating in and out of my brain, with the trains screeching and whizzing through in the night. In the end, sleep had taken its own. I dreamt that I was playing dominoes with Sylvia while a U.S. citizen was fighting with a Jap over the sleeper, and when the train stopped we had arrived in Oxford, which was being ‘opened’ by my mother and Lord Haig. Here there was much noise, like at the Palm Week bazaars to which we went as children in Russia. And suddenly I was confronted by an enormous frog. I am a trainer in a zoo. I am frightened, but they ask me: ‘Can’t you manage a frog better than that?’
‘What must I do?’ I ask.
‘Shoot at it out of this.’
And I am handed a toy gun shooting cranberries.
If we are not a bit surprised at the inconsistencies, the incongruities, the rank ludicrousness of our dreams, perhaps we shall not be any more surprised if we discover that our life beyond the grave has similar surprises in store for us. It will all fall into place, and will not seem strange but inevitable, as our wakeful life ofbroken images, for some strange reason, even as the strangest of dreams, seems not the least strange but inevitable.
‘Perhaps,’ I said, on wakening with these pictures fresh but quickly fading from my memory, ‘our instruments of measure are illusions, like the rest …’
I had a lavish breakfast, the pleasure of which was enhanced by the thought that the War Office was paying for it.
10
IT WAS EVENING. I PLAYED THAT VOLUPTUOUS BIT from the
Liebestod
in
Tristan
, and Sylvia sat by and listened,
‘Rum-looking place,’ I said. ‘Rum-looking girls.’
‘
Que voulez-vous
?’ he said. ‘
C’est la vie
!’
At this point the hostess came up to us with a book and, pointing at it, exhorted us to register. ‘Police,’ she said, ‘police.’
‘Any name will do,’ said Uncle Emmanuel lightly. But I refused emphatically, and after trying vainly to persuade me to put down my name, the hostess sent for an interpreter—a youth who presently appeared but whose command of our tongue did not appreciably extend over her own. He pointed at the register and said: ‘Ha! Police—zzz—police. Ha!—zzz——’
‘Ha!’ said the hostess.
But I ‘wouldn’t have any’.
They looked at each other, and decided I was mad. But I seized the opportunity as an excuse for going, pretending I had been provoked, and, accompanied downstairs by their propitiatory smiles and bows, and restored once more into my boots, I got into the rickshaw and drove off, and waited for my uncle a few doors away, where I was immediately surrounded by a swarm of street urchins begging alms. The rickshaw coolie greeted me with a happy grin as if to say ‘Ee! the young gentleman has been amusing himself!’
‘Very good?’ he asked, turning round in the shafts and grinning at me broadly.
I shook my head. ‘No good. Girls very bad. Why so bad?’
‘This bad Yoshiwara,’ said the rickshaw man comprehendingly. ‘No good. Good Yoshiwara very good.’
‘Really good?’
‘Ha! Very good.’
‘Why didn’t you take us to good Yoshiwara?’
‘Good Yoshiwara far, far, very far—three hours far.’
At last Uncle Emmanuel was ushered down the steps. He got into his rickshaw, and we drove off. Uncle Emmanuel, as we drove home, held forth to me upon the sanctity of the family, the family hearth, ‘
le
’ome’, as he put it in English, and on the duty of keeping clean at home and of not mixing the two lives.
I returned to the hotel in the early hours. I had a bath in tepid water and went to bed under the white mosquito curtain. I could not sleep; all night I heard the whistling and screeching of the trains passing and halting near by. I lay sleepless, images now of Sylvia, now of the rickshaw man saying: ‘Good Yoshiwara far, far, very far—three hours far’ floating in and out of my brain, with the trains screeching and whizzing through in the night. In the end, sleep had taken its own. I dreamt that I was playing dominoes with Sylvia while a U.S. citizen was fighting with a Jap over the sleeper, and when the train stopped we had arrived in Oxford, which was being ‘opened’ by my mother and Lord Haig. Here there was much noise, like at the Palm Week bazaars to which we went as children in Russia. And suddenly I was confronted by an enormous frog. I am a trainer in a zoo. I am frightened, but they ask me: ‘Can’t you manage a frog better than that?’
‘What must I do?’ I ask.
‘Shoot at it out of this.’
And I am handed a toy gun shooting cranberries.
If we are not a bit surprised at the inconsistencies, the incongruities, the rank ludicrousness of our dreams, perhaps we shall not be any more surprised if we discover that our life beyond the grave has similar surprises in store for us. It will all fall into place, and will not seem strange but inevitable, as our wakeful life ofbroken images, for some strange reason, even as the strangest of dreams, seems not the least strange but inevitable.
‘Perhaps,’ I said, on wakening with these pictures fresh but quickly fading from my memory, ‘our instruments of measure are illusions, like the rest …’
I had a lavish breakfast, the pleasure of which was enhanced by the thought that the War Office was paying for it.
10
IT WAS EVENING. I PLAYED THAT VOLUPTUOUS BIT from the
Liebestod
in
Tristan
, and Sylvia sat by and listened,
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