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Title: Beau Sjour
   [The second story in Lewis's 1927 collection The Wild Body:
   A Soldier of Humour and Other Stories]
Author: Lewis, Percy Wyndham (1882-1957)
Date of first publication: 1927
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1928
Date first posted: 11 December 2010
Date last updated: 11 December 2010
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #673

This ebook was produced by Barbara Watson
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net

This ebook was produced from images generously made
available by the Internet Archive




BEAU SEJOUR

by Wyndham Lewis




On arrival at _Beau Sjour_, in the country between Roznon and the
littoral, I was taken by the proprietress, Mademoiselle Pronnette, for
a 'Pole.'[1] She received my first payment with a smile. At the time I
did not understand it. I believe that she was preparing to make a great
favourite of me.

[Footnote 1: An account of the 'Pole' will be found at the end of this
story. The 'Pole' is a national variety of Pension-sponger, confined as
far as I know to France, and to the period preceding the Russian
Revolution.]

The 'Poles,' who in this case were mostly Little Russians, Finns and
Germans, sat at the table d'hte, at the head of the table. They smoked
large pipes and were served first. They took the lion's share. If it was
a chicken they stripped it, and left only the legs and bones for the
rest of the company. This was a turbulent community. The quarrels of the
permanent boarders with Mademoiselle Pronnette affected the quality of
the food that came to the table.

The master-spirit was a man named Zoborov. This is probably not the way
to spell it. I never saw it written. That is what I called him, and he
answered to it when I said it. So the sound must have been true enough,
though as I have written it down possibly no russian eye would recognize
it.

This man was a discontented 'Pole.' He always spoke against the
'Polonais,' I noticed, I could not make out why. Especially to me he
would speak with great contempt of all people of that sort. But he also
spoke harshly of Mademoiselle Pronnette and her less important partner,
Mademoiselle Maraude. He was constantly stirring up his fellow
pensionnaires against them.

Zoborov at first sight was a perfect 'Pole.' He was exceedingly quiet.
He wandered stealthily about and yawned as a cat does. Sometimes he
would get up with an abrupt intensity, like a cat, and walk steadily,
strongly and rhythmically away out of sight. He may have had a date with
another 'Pole,' of course, or have wanted exercise. But he certainly did
succeed in conveying in a truly polesque manner that it was a more
mysterious thing that had disturbed him. Every one has experienced those
attractive calls that lead people to make impulsive visits, which result
in some occurrence or meeting that, looking back on it, seems to have
lain behind the impulse. Scenes and places, at least other things than
men, an empty seashore, an old horse tethered in a field, some cavernous
armorican lane, under some special aspect and mood, had perhaps the
power of drawing these strange creatures towards it, as though it had
something to impart. Yet as far as Zoborov was concerned, although
certainly he succeeded in conveying the correct sensation at the time,
when you thought about it afterwards you felt you had been deceived. The
date or exercise seemed more likely in retrospect than the mysterious
messages from arrangements of objects, or the attractive electrical
dreaming of landscapes. In the truth-telling mind of after-the-event
this crafty and turbulent personage was more readily associated with
man-traps and human interests than with natural magic.

Zoborov was touchy, and he affected to be more so and in a different
sense than actually he was. He wished you to receive a very powerful
impression of his _independence_. To effect this he put himself to some
pains. First he attempted to hypnotize you with his isolation. Yet
everything about him proved 'the need of a world of men' for him. Are
not people more apt to bestow things on a person who is likely to spurn
them? you suspected him of reflecting: his gesture of spurning imaginary
things recurred very often. So you gradually would get a notion of the
sort of advantageous position he coveted in your mind.

After dinner in conversing with you he always spoke in a hoarse whisper,
or muttered in an affected bass. He scarcely parted his lips, often
whistling his words through his teeth inside them. Whether he were
telling you what a hypocrite Mademoiselle Pronnette was, or, to give
you a bit of romance and savagery, were describing how the Caucasians
ride standing on their horses, and become so exultant that they fling
their knives up in the air and catch them--he never became audible to
any one but you. He had a shock of dark hair, was dark-skinned, his eyes
seemed to indicate drugs and advertised a profound exhaustion. He had
the smell of a tropical plant; the vegetation of his body was probably
strong and rank. Through affecting not to notice people, to be absorbed
in his own very important thoughts, or the paper or the book he was
reading, the contraction of his eyebrows had become permanent. He
squinted slightly. He had bow-legs and protruding ears and informed me
that he suffered from haemorrhoids. His breath stank; but as he never
opened his mouth more than he could help, this concerned only himself.

He was a great raconteur. He had a strongly marked habit of imitating
his own imitations. In telling a story in which he figured (his stories
were all designed to prove his independence) he had a colourless formula
for his interlocutor. A gruff, half-blustering tone was always used to
represent himself. Gradually these two voices had coalesced and had
become his normal conversational voice. He was short, thick-set and
muscular. His physical strength must have been considerable. He
exploited it in various ways. It was a confirmation of his independence.
His 'inferiority complex' brought forward his tremendous chest, when
threatened, with above it his cat-like face seeming to quizz, threaten
and go to sleep all at once, with his mouth drawn to a point, in a
purring position. His opponent would be in doubt as to whether he was
going to hit him, laugh or sneeze.

French visitors he always made up to. Seeing him with the friend of the
moment, talking confidentially apart, making signs to him at table, you
would have supposed him an exclusive, solitary man, who 'did not make
friends easily.' Aloofness towards the rest of the company was always
maintained. You would not guess that he knew them except to nod to. When
about to take up with a new-comer, his manner became more severe than
ever, his aloofness deepened. As he passed the salt to him, he scarcely
showed any sign of realizing what he was doing, or that he had a
neighbour at all. His voice became gruffer. As though forcing himself to
come out of himself and behave with decent neighbourliness, he would
show the new guest a stiff politeness.

He was from twenty-five to thirty years old. In women he took no
interest, I think, and disliked exceedingly Mademoiselle Pronnette and
Mademoiselle Maraude. I thought he was a eunuch. No homosexuality was
evident. He often spoke of a friend of his, a Russian like himself. This
man was exceedingly independent; he was also prodigiously strong; far
stronger than Zoborov. This person's qualities he regarded as his own,
however, and he used them as such. The shadowy figure of this gigantic
friend seemed indeed superimposed upon Zoborov's own form and spirit.
You divined an eighth of an inch on all sides of the contour of his
biceps and pectorals, another contour--the visionary contour of this
friend's even larger muscles. And beyond even the sublime and frowning
pinnacles of his own independence, the still loftier summits of his
friend's pride, of a piece with his.

His friend was in the Foreign Legion. In recent fighting with the Moors
he had displayed unusual powers of resistance. Because of his
extraordinary strength he was compelled on the march to carry several of
his comrades' rifles in addition to his own. Zoborov would read his
african letters apart, with an air of absorbed and tender communion,
seeking to awaken one's jealousy. He repeated long dialogues between his
friend and himself. When it came to his friend's turn to speak, he would
puff his chest out, and draw himself up, until the penumbra of visionary
and supernatural flesh that always accompanied him was almost filled by
his own dilated person. He would assume a debonair recklessness of
manner, his moustaches would flaunt upwards over his laughing mouth,
and even the sombre character of his teeth and his strong breath would
be momentarily forgotten. His gestures would be those of an open-handed
and condescending prince. He would ostentatiously make use of the
personal pronoun 'thou' (in his french it had a finicky lisping sound),
to make one eager to get on such terms with him oneself.

I never got on those terms with him. One day he remained at table after
the others had left. He was waiting to be asked to go for a walk. Off my
guard, I betrayed the fact that I had noticed this. Several such
incidents occurred, and he became less friendly.

Many of Zoborov's tales had to do with Jews. The word 'juif' with him
appeared as a long, juicy sound, 'jouiive,' into which, sleepily
blinking his eyes, he injected much indolent contempt. When he used it
he made a particular face--sleepy, far-away, heavy-lidded, allowing his
almost immobile mouth to flower rather dirtily, drawn down to a
peculiarly feline point. He mentioned Jews so often that I wondered if
he were perhaps a Jew. On this point I never came to any definite
conclusion.

My second night at _Beau Sjour_ there was a scene outside my room,
which I witnessed. My bedroom was opposite that of Mademoiselle
Pronnette. Hearing the shattering report of a door and sounds of heavy
breathing, I got up and looked out.

'Va-t'en! Tu n'es-qu'un vaurien! Va-t'en! Tu m'entends? Tu m'agaes!
Va-t'en!'

The voice of the proprietress clappered behind her locked door. A long
white black-topped lathe was contorted against it. It was the most
spoilt of all our 'Poles,' a german giant, now quite naked. With his
bare arms and shoulders he strained against the wood. As I appeared he
turned round enquiring breathlessly with farcical fierceness:

'Faurien! Faurien! Elle m'abelle faurien!'

His eyes blazed above a black-bearded grin, with clownesque
incandescence. He was black and white, dazzling skin and black patches
of hair alternating. His thin knees were unsteady, his hands were
hanging in limp expostulation, his grin of protest wandered in an
aimless circle, with me for centre.

'Faurien,' he repeated.

'Veux-tu t'en aller? Je te dfends de faire un scandale, tu entends,
Charles? Va-t'en!' The voice of the proprietress energetically rattled
on the other side of the door.

'Sgantal?' he asked helplessly and incredulously, passing one hand
slowly in front of his body, with heavy facetious prudery. The floor
boards groaned to the right, a stumpy figure in stocking feet, but
otherwise clothed, emerged in assyrian profile, in a wrestling attitude,
flat hands extended, rolling with professional hesitation, with
factitious rudeness seized the emaciated nudity of the german giant
beneath the waist, then disappeared with him bodily down the passage to
the left. It was Zoborov in action. The word 'faurien' came escaping out
of the dark in a muzzy whistle, while the thump thump of the stocking
feet receded. I closed the door.

This gave me an insight at once into the inner social workings of the
Pension. Carl had slept with the proprietress from the start, but that
was not among Zoborov's accomplishments. He intrigued in complete
detachment. Carl and he never clashed, they both sucked up to each
other.

Next morning I had a look at Carl. He was about six foot two, with a
high, narrow, baldish black head and long black beard. His clothes hung
like a sack on his thin body. He gave me an acid grin. Zoborov frowned,
blinked stupidly in front of him, and swallowed his coffee with loud,
deep-chested relish. He then wiped his moustache slowly, rose, and
stamped heavily out into the garden in his sabots, rolling, husky
peasant fashion, from side to side. Carl's lank black hair curled in a
ridge low on his neck: a deep smooth brow surmounted the settled
unintelligent mockery of the rest of his face. The general effect was
that of an exotic, oily, south-german Royal Academician. He had an
italian name. Essaying a little conversation, I found him surly.

A week later Zoborov, sitting in the orchard with his back against a
tree, whittling a stick, obliged me with his views of Carl.

'Where did you take him?' I said, referring to the night scene.

Zoborov knitted his brows and muttered in his most rough and blustering
voice:

'Oh, he was drunk. I just threw him on his bed, and told him to shut his
head and go to sleep. He bores me, Carl does.'

'He's on good terms with Mademoiselle Pronnette?'

'Is he? I don't know if he is now. He was. She was angry with him that
night because she'd found him with the bonne, in the bonne's room.
That's why Maria left--the little bonne that waited at table when you
came. He sleeps with all the bonnes.'

'I slept with the new one last night,' I said.

He looked up quickly, wrinkling his eyes and puffed out in his
sturdiest, heartiest bass, puffed through his closed teeth, that is, in
his spluttering buzz:

'Did you? With Antoinette? She's rather a pretty girl. But all bonnes
are dirty!' He expressed distaste with his lips. 'A girl who works as a
bonne never has time to wash. Maria _stank_. There's no harm in his
sleeping with the bonnes. But truly he gets so drunk, too drunk--all the
time. He's engaged to Mademoiselle Pronnette, you know.' He laughed
softly, gently fluttering his moustaches, heaving up his square
protruding chest, and making a gruff rumble in it.

'Engaged--what is that?'

'Why, engaged to be married.' He laughed, throwing his eyes coquettishly
up. 'He _was_. I don't know if they're still supposed to be. _He_ says
she's always trying to marry him. Last year she lent him some money and
they became engaged.' He never raised his eyes, except to laugh, and
went on whittling the stick.

'She paid him for the engagement?' I said at last.

'Ye-es!' he drawled, with soft shaking chuckles. 'And that's all she'll
ever get out of old Carl!--But I don't think she wants to marry him now.
I think she wants the money back. I wish he'd take himself off!' He
frowned and became gruff. 'He's a good fellow all right, but he's always
making scandals. I _think_--he wants her to lend him more money. That's
what I think he wants. All these scandals--they disgust me, both of
them. I'd leave here tomorrow if I had any money to get out with.'

He hooked his eyebrows down in a calm and formal frown, and surveyed his
finger nails. They were short and thick. Putting down the stick he
turned his attention to them. He chipped indolently at their edges, then
bit the corners off.

I was frequently the witness of quarrels between Carl and Mademoiselle
Pronnette. A few days after my conversation in the orchard I entered
the kitchen of the Pension, but noticing that Carl was holding
Mademoiselle Pronnette by the throat, and was banging her head on the
kitchen table, I withdrew. As I closed the door I heard Mademoiselle
Pronnette, as I supposed, crash upon the kitchen floor. Dull sounds
that were probably kicks followed, and I could hear Carl roaring,
'Gourte! Zale gourte!' When enraged he always made use of the word
_gourte_. It was, I think, a corruption of the french word _gourde_,
which means a calabash.

As I was leaving Antoinette's bedroom one night I thought I noticed
something pale moving in the shadow of the staircase. Five minutes
afterwards I returned to her room to remind her to wake me early, and as
I got outside I heard voices. She was saying, 'Allez-vous-en, Charles!
Non, je ne _veux_ pas! J'ai sommeil! Laisse-moi tranquille. Non!' There
was a scuffling and creaking of the bed, accompanied by a persuasive and
wheedling rumble that I recognized as belonging to Carl.

Then suddenly there was a violent commotion, Antoinette's voice exploded
in harsh breton-french:

'Sacr _gars_, fiche-moi donc la paix, veux-tu! _Laisse_-moi tranquille,
nom de dieu de dieu----'

The door flew open and Carl, quite naked again, came hotly flopping into
my arms, his usual grin opening his beard and suffusing his eyes. He lay
in my arms a moment grinning, then stood up.

'Nothing doing tonight?' I said. I was going back to my room when a
furious form brushed past me, and I heard a violent slap, followed by
the screaming voice of our proprietress:

'Ah, satyr, tu couches avec les bonnes? Tu ne peux pas laisser les
femmes tranquilles la nuit, sale bte? C'est ainsi que tu crois toujours
dbaucher les bonnes aprs avoir trahi la patronne, espce de salopris!
Prends a pour ton rhume--et a. Fumier! Oui, sauve-toi, sale bte!'

The doors began opening along the passage: a few timid little slav
pensionnaires and a couple of Parisians began appearing in their
openings; I could see the unsteady nudity of Carl staggering beneath
slaps that resounded in him, as though she had been striking a hollow
column. I hastened to my room. A moment later the precipitate tread of
Zoborov passed my door _en route_ for the scene of the encounter. The
screaming voice of Antoinette then made itself heard amongst the others.
I went to my door: I was glad to hear that Antoinette was giving
Mademoiselle Pronnette more than she was receiving, delivering herself
of some trenchant reflections on the standard of the _moeurs_ obtaining
in the _Beau Sjour_, on employers that it was impossible to respect,
seeing that they were not respectable, and I then once more closed my
door. A few moments later Mademoiselle Pronnette's door crashed, the
other doors quietly closed, the returning tread of Zoborov passed my
wall. So that night's events terminated.

The two Parisians on our landing left next morning to seek more
respectable quarters, and Antoinette the same. Carl was at breakfast as
usual. He grinned at me when I sat down. Zoborov frowned at the table,
drank his coffee loudly, rose, pushing his chair back and standing for a
moment in a twisted overbalanced posture, then, his sabots falling
heavily on the parquet floor, his body rolling with the movement of a
husky peasant, he went out of the window into the garden. The food grew
worse. Two days later I told the proprietress that I was leaving.

Next night I was sitting in the kitchen reading _l'Eclair de l'Ouest_.
Mademoiselle Pronnette and Mademoiselle Maraude were sitting near the
lamp on the kitchen table and mending the socks of several
pensionnaires, when Carl came in at the door, shouted:

'Gourte! Brend za bour don rhume!' . . . and fired three shots from a
large revolver at Mademoiselle Pronnette. Two prolonged screams rose
from the women, rising and falling through a diapason at each fresh
shot. Mademoiselle Pronnette fell to the floor. Carl withdrew.
Mademoiselle Pronnette slowly rose from the floor, her hands trembling,
and burst into tears. A little Pole who had been curled up asleep on the
bench by the fire, and who no doubt had escaped Carl's notice, got up,
and limped towards the table. He had been hit in the calf by a bullet.
The women had not been hit, and they rolled up his trousers with
execrations of the 'bandit,' Carl, and washed and dressed the wound,
which was superficial. I went to look for Zoborov, whose presence I
thought was probably required. I found him at the bottom of the orchard
with two other 'Poles,' in the moonlight, playing a flute. As he lifted
his little finger from a stop and released a shrill squeak, he raised
one eyebrow, which he lowered again when, raising another finger, he
produced a lower note. I sat down beside them. Zoborov finished the tune
he was playing. His companions lay at right angles to each other, their
heads propped on their bent forearms.

'Carl has broken out,' I said.

'Ah. He is always doing that,' Zoborov said.

'He's been firing a pistol at the proprietress.'

Zoborov lifted one eyebrow, as he had when he released the squeak on the
flute.

'That doesn't surprise me,' he said.

'No one was hurt except a pensionnaire, who was asleep at the time. He
hit him in the calf.'

'Who was it?'

'I don't know his name.'

Zoborov turned in my direction, and falling down on his side, propped
his head like the other two 'Poles,' on his bent forearm, while he
puffed out his heavy chest. His voice became rough and deep.

'Ecoutez!' he began, with the sound like a voice blowing in a comb
covered with tissue paper. 'Ecoutez, mon ami.--This Pension will never
be quiet until that imbecile Carl leaves. He's not a bad fellow (il
n'est pas mauvais camarade), he's a bad hat (il est mauvais sujet). You
understand, he's not straight about money. He's a chap with money, his
father's a rich brewer. A brewer, yes, my friend, you may laugh! It's
not without its humour. He'd have to brew a lot to satisfy old Carl! He
is an inveterate boozer. Why? Why does a man drink so much as that?
Why?' His voice assumed the russian sing-song of pathetic enquiry, the
fine gnat-like voice rapidly ascending and dropping again in an
exhausted complaint. 'Because he is a german brute! That is the reason.
He thinks because his father is a rich brewer that people should give
him drink for nothing--it is a strange form of reasoning! He is always
dissatisfied.--Now he has shot a pensionnaire. It is not the first time
that he has fired at Mademoiselle Pronnette. But he never hits her! He
doesn't want to hit her. He just fires off his revolver to make her
excited! Then he tries to borrow more money!'

The three of them now remained quite immobile, stretched out on the dewy
grass in different directions. I got up. With a gruff and blustering
sign, Zoborov exclaimed:

'Ah yes, my friend, that is how it is!'

I walked back to the house. As I passed the kitchen, I heard a great
deal of noise, and went in.

The little shot pensionnaire was once more back on the bench, by the
fire, with his bare leg, bandaged, stretched out horizontally in front
of him, his two hands behind his head. At the table sat Carl, his face
buried in a large handkerchief, which he held against his forehead, his
shoulders heaving. A great volume of sound rose from him, a rhythmical
bellowing of grief.

Mademoiselle Pronnette was standing a few yards away from him, a
denunciatory forefinger stabbing the air in the direction of his
convulsions.

'There he sits, the wretch. Mon dieu, he is a pretty sight! And to
reflect that that is a fellow of good family, who comes from a home
cracking with every luxury! a fait piti!--Is there anything I haven't
done for you, Charles? Say, Charles, can you deny I have done all a
woman can?' she vociferated. 'I have given you my youth' (tremblingly
and tenderly), 'my beauty!--I have shamed myself. I have offered myself
to the saucy scorn of mere bonnes, I have made every sacrifice a woman
can make! With what result I should like to know? Ah yes, you may well
hide your face! You outrage me at every moment, you take my last
halfpenny, and when you have soaked yourself in a neighbouring saloon,
you come back here and debauch my bonnes! Any dirty peasant girl serves
your turn. Is not that true, Charles? Answer! Deny it if you dare! That
is what you do! That is how you repay all my kindness!'

Observing my presence, she turned expansively towards me.

'Tenez, ce monsieur-l peut te le dire, il a t le tmoin de tes
indignes caprices.--Had you not, sir, occasion to observe this ruffian,
as naked as he came into the world, issuing from the bedroom of the
good-for-nothing harlot, Antoinette? Is not that the case, sir? Without
a stitch of clothing, this incontinent ruffian----'

The french tongue, with its prolix dignity for such occasions, clamoured
on. As I was drawn into the discussion, a section of Carl's face
appeared from behind the handkerchief, enough to free the tail of his
eye for an examination of that part of the kitchen that was behind him.
Our boche exhibitionist ascertained who it was had witnessed his last
nocturnal contretemps. He thrust his head back deeper into the
handkerchief. A roar of mingled disapproval and grief broke from him.

'Ah yes, now you suffer! But you never consider how you have made me
suffer!'

But her discourse now took a new direction.

'I don't say, Charles, that you are alone--there are others who are even
more guilty than you. I could name them if I wished! There is that dirty
sneaking individual Zoborov, for instance. Ah, how he irritates me, that
man! He is an extremely treacherous personage, that! _I_ have heard the
things he says about me. He thinks I don't know. I know very well. I am
informed of all his manoeuvres. _That_ is the guilty party in this
affair. He is the person who poisons the air of this establishment! I
would get rid of him tomorrow if I could! Yes, Charles, I know that you,
in comparison with such a crapulous individual as that Zoborov, are at
least frank. At least you are a gentleman, a man of good family,
accustomed to live in ease--what do I say, in luxury: and your faults
are the faults of your station. _Tu es un fils  papa_, mon pauvre
garon--you are a spoilt darling. You are not a _dirty moujik_, like
that Zoborov!'

I noticed at this point, the face of Zoborov peering in at the window
with his gascon frown, his one hooked-down and angrily-anchored eyebrow,
and fluffy cavalier moustache, above his steady inscrutable feline pout.
Mademoiselle Pronnette observed him at the same moment.

'Yes, I see you, sir! _Toujours aux coutes!_ Always eavesdropping! What
eavesdroppers hear of themselves they deserve to hear. I hope you are
satisfied, that's all I can say!'

'La ferme! La ferme!' Zoborov's gruff railing voice puffed in at the
window. He made his hand into a duck's bill, and worked it up and down
to make it quack, as he turned away.

'He insults me, you know, that dirty _type_, he treats me as though I
were the last of creatures! Yet what is he? He is nothing but a dirty
moujik! He actually boasts of it. He's not a credit to the house--you
should see the Parisians looking at him. He has driven pensionnaires
away with his rudeness--and his dirt! He doesn't mind what he says. Then
he abuses me to _everybody_, from morning till night. C'est une mauvaise
langue!'

'En effet!' Mademoiselle Maraude agreed. 'He has a bad tongue. He does
this house no good.'

The 'Pole' with the bandaged leg began giggling. The two women turned to
him.

'What is it, mon petit? Is your leg hurting you?'

Carl's head had sunk upon the table. The heat inside the handkerchief,
the effects of the brandy he had been drinking, and the constant music
of Mademoiselle Pronnette's voice, had overcome him. Now prolonged and
congested snores rose from him, one especially vicious and intense
crescendo making Mademoiselle Pronnette, who was examining the bandage
on the leg of the pensionnaire, jump.

'Mon dieu!' she said. 'I wondered whatever it was.' The door opened, and
Zoborov entered, advancing down the kitchen with as much noise as he
could extract from his weight, his clumsiness, and the size of his
sabots.

As he came, expanding his chest and speaking in his deepest voice, he
said, bluff and 'proletarian':

'Ecoutez, Mademoiselle Pronnette! I don't like the way you talk about
me. You are absurd! What have I done to cause you to speak about me like
that? I spend half my time keeping the peace between you and Carl; and
when anything happens you turn on me! You are not reasonable!'

He spoke in an indolent sing-song, his eyes half closed, scarcely
moving his lips, and talking through his teeth. He knelt down beside his
wounded compatriot and put his hand gently upon his bandaged leg,
speaking to him in russian.

'I only say what I know, sir!' Mademoiselle Pronnette hotly replied.

Zoborov continued speaking in russian to the injured pensionnaire, who
replied in accents of mild musical protest.

'Your intrigues are notorious! You are always making mischief. I detest
you, and wish you had never entered this house!'

Zoborov had unwound the bandage. He rose with a face of frowning
indignation.

'Ecoutez, Mademoiselle! If instead of amusing yourself by blowing off
steam in that way, you did something for this poor chap who has just
been injured through no fault of his own, you would be showing yourself
more humane, yes, more humane! Why have you not at once put him to bed?
He should see a doctor. His wound is in a dangerous condition! If it is
not attended to blood-poisoning will set in.'

Mademoiselle Pronnette faced him, eye flashing; Mademoiselle Maraude
had risen and moved towards the injured figure.

'It isn't true!' Mademoiselle Maraude said. 'He is not seriously
hurt----'

'No, you are lying, Zoborov! He has been attended to,' Mademoiselle
Pronnette said. 'It doesn't hurt, does it, mon petit?' she appealed
coaxingly. 'It was nothing but a scratch, was it?--No. It was nothing
but a scratch.'

'For a scratch there's a good deal of blood,' Zoborov said. 'Fetch a
basin and some hot water. I will go for a doctor.'

The women looked at each other.

'A doctor? Why? You must be off your head! There's no occasion for a
doctor! Do you wish for a doctor, mon petit?'

The injured pensionnaire smiled indulgently, with an amused expression,
as though an elder taking part in a children's game, and shook his head.

'No. He does not wish for a doctor. Of course he doesn't! He ought to
know best himself.'

'Ecoutez!' said Zoborov sleepily. 'It's for your sake, Mademoiselle
Pronnette, as much as his---- You don't want anything to happen to him?
No. These wounds are dangerous. You should get a doctor.'

Mademoiselle Pronnette stared at him in impotent hatred. She turned
quickly to Mademoiselle Maraude, and said:

'Run quickly, Marie, and get some ice--down at Cornic's.'

Zoborov started rolling with ungainly speed towards the door, saying
over his shoulder, 'I will go. I shall be back in a few minutes. Bathe
his leg.'

As the door closed Mademoiselle Pronnette stared glassily at
Mademoiselle Maraude.

'Quel homme! Quel homme! Mon dieu, quel malhonnte individu que
celui-l! You saw how he put the blame on us? Any one would think that
we had neglected this poor boy here. My god, what a man!'

An obscene and penetrating trumpeting rose from the prostrate Carl--it
rose shrieking and strong, sank to a purr, then rose again louder and
stronger, sank to a gurgling purr again, then rose to a brazen crow,
higher and higher.

Mademoiselle Pronnette put her fingers in her ears. 'My god, my god! As
though it were not enough to have caused all this trouble----'

She sprang over, and seizing Carl by the shoulders shook him nervously.

'Go and sleep off your booze somewhere else--do you hear? Be off! Get
out! Allez--vite! Marchez! Assez, assez! Fiche-moi la paix! _Enfin!_'

Carl rose unsteadily, a malevolent eye fixed on Mademoiselle Pronnette,
and staggered out of the room. Mademoiselle Pronnette drew Mademoiselle
Maraude aside, and began whispering energetically to her. I withdrew.

That night the bedroom door of the proprietress opened and shut it
seemed incessantly. Between four and five, as it was getting light, I
woke and heard a scuffle in the passage. The voice of Mademoiselle
Pronnette insisted in a juicy whisper:

'Dis, Charles, tu m'aimes? M'aimes-tu, chri? Dis!'

A sickly rumble came in response. Then more scuffling. Sucking and
patting sounds and the signs of disordered respiration, with occasional
rumbles, continued for some time. I got down to the bottom of the bed
and turned the key in the door. I expected our german exhibitionist to
enter my room at any moment with the nude form of Mademoiselle
Pronnette in his arms, and perhaps edify me with the final phases of
his heavy adieus. The sound of the key in the lock cut short whatever it
was, and gradually the sounds ceased.

Next evening, at the request of Carl, we all collected in the kitchen
for a little celebration. Whether it was to mark the rupture of the
engagement, an approaching marriage, or what, was not made clear to us.
Carl, with the courtliness of the South of Germany, his thin academic
black locks and lengthy beard conferring the air of a function upon the
scene, was very attentive to Mademoiselle Pronnette.

Zoborov was the gallant moujik. He toasted, with rough plebeian humour,
the happy couple.

'Aux deux tourtereaux!' he rolled bluffly out, lifting his glass, and
rolling the r's of 'tourtereau' with a rich russian intensity. Placing
his heavy sinewy brown hand before his mouth he whispered to me:

'Old Carl has relieved her of a bit more of her dough!' He shook his
shoulders and gurgled in the bass.

'Do you think that's it?'

'_Zurement!_' he lisped. 'He's got the secret of the safe! He knows the
combination!' He chuckled, bawdy and bluff. 'Old Carl will clean her
out, you see.'

'He's an exceedingly noisy burglar. He woke me up last night in the
course of his operations.'

Zoborov chuckled contentedly.

'He's mad!' he said. 'Still, he gets what he goes for. Good luck to him,
I say.'

'Is Mademoiselle Pronnette rich?' I asked him. He squinted and hooked
his left eyebrow down, then burst out laughing and looked in my face.

'I don't know,' he said. 'I shouldn't think so. Have you seen the safe?'
he laughed again.

'No.'

'She has the safe in her bedroom. Carl rattles it when he's very
screwed. Once he tried to carry it out of the room.' Zoborov laughed
with his sly shaking of his big diaphragm. The recollection of this
event tickled him. Then he said to me: 'If you ask me, all she's got is
in that safe, that's what I think.'

A piano had been brought in. A pensionnaire was playing the 'Blue
Danube.'

Carl and Mademoiselle Pronnette danced. She was a big woman, about
thirty. Her empty energetic face was pretty, but rather dully and evenly
laid out. Her back when _en fte_ was a long serpentine blank with an
embroidered spine. When she got up to dance she held herself forward,
bare arms hanging on either side, two big meaty handles, and she
undulated her _nuque_ and back while she drew her mouth down into the
tense bow of an affected kiss. While she held her croupe out stiffly in
the rear, in muscular prominence, her eyes burnt at you with traditional
gallic gallantry, her eyebrows arched in bland acceptance (a static
'_Mais oui, si vous voulez!_') of french sex-convention, the general
effect intended to be 'witty' and suggestive, without vulgarity. I was
very much disgusted by her for my part: what she suggested to me was
something like a mad butcher, who had put a piece of bright material
over a carcase of pork or mutton, and then started to ogle his
customers, owing to a sudden shuffling in his mind of the respective
appetites. Carl on this occasion behaved like the hallucinated customer
of such a pantomime, who, come into the shop, had entered into the
spirit of the demented butcher, and proceeded to waltz with his
sex-promoted food. The stupid madness, or commonplace wildness, that
always shone in his eyes was at full blast as he jolted uncouthly hither
and thither, while the proprietress undulated and crackled in complete
independence, held roughly in place merely by his two tentacles.

With the exception of Mademoiselle Maraude and the bonne amie of a
parisian schoolmaster on his vacation, all the guests were men. They
danced together timidly and clumsily; Zoborov, frowning and squinting,
stamped over to the schoolmaster's girl, and with a cross gruff hauteur
invited her to dance. He rolled his painful proletarian weight once or
twice round the room. The 'Blue Danube' rolled on; Carl poured
appreciative oily light into Mademoiselle Pronnette's eyes, she
redoubled her lascivious fluxions, until Carl, having exhausted all the
superlatives of the language of the eyes, cut short their rhythmical
advance and, becoming immobile in the middle of the room, clasped her in
his arms, where she hung like a dying wasp, Carl devouring with much
movement the lower part of her face, canted up with abandon. The
pensionnaire at the piano broke into a cossack dance. Zoborov, who had
handed the lady back to her schoolmaster again, with ceremony, and had
returned to sit at my side, now rose and performed a series of
gargantuan movements up and down the kitchen (flinging the less weighty
couples to left and right) studiously devoid of any element of grace or
skill. At regular intervals he stamped in his sabots and uttered a few
gruff cries, while the pianist trumped upon the piano. Then, head back
and his little moustache waving above his mouth, he trundled down the
room, with a knees-up gymnastic movement. Satisfied that he had betrayed
nothing but the completest barbaric uncouthness, he resumed his seat,
grinning gravely at me.

His compatriots applauded, the piano stopped.

'That is a _typical_ dance, mon ami, of the Don Cossacks!' he said,
puffing a little. '_Typical_' (Tee-peek!), in his slow mincing french.
In using this word his attitude was that I had a well-known curiosity
about everything cossack, and that now, by the purest chance, I had
heard a characteristic Don dance, and seen it interpreted with a racy
savagery that only a Cossack could convey: and that, at the same time,
he, Zoborov, had been astonished, he was bound to admit, at this
happening in such an informative way as it had. In fine, I was lucky.

'Typical!' he said again. 'But I am out of practice.' Then he dropped
the subject. The piano struck up again, with a contemporary Berlin
dance-tune, and the floor was soon full of bobbing shapes, attempting to
time their feet to the music. Long before the end the forms of Carl and
Mademoiselle Pronnette, head and shoulders above the rest of the
company, were transfixed in the centre of the room, Carl like a lanky
black spider, always devouring but never making an end of his meal
provided by the palpitating wasp in his arms while the others bobbed on
gently around them.

Zoborov fixed his frown of quizzical reproof upon them, and stuttered
thickly in the beard that was not there:

'Les deux tourrterreaux!'

The cider was of good quality, and it was plentiful, being drawn from a
large cask. Carl and Mademoiselle Pronnette in the intervals of the
music remained in a deep embrace by the side of the fire. At length,
when the fte had been in progress for perhaps half an hour, they
withdrew, so coiled about one another that they experienced some
difficulty in getting out of the door.

Zoborov drew my attention to their departure.

'The two doves are going to their nest to lie down for a little while!'
he remarked, with the bluff rolling jocosity of Zoborov celebrating.

Zoborov now took charge, and the party became all-russian. He fetched
his flute and another pensionnaire had an accordion: a concert of
russian popular music began. The Volga Boat Song was chorally rendered,
with Zoborov beating time.

At the end of a quarter of an hour Mademoiselle Pronnette and Carl
reappeared. Carl was pale and Mademoiselle Pronnette very red. She
affected to fan herself. Carl's monotonous grin attached itself to the
faces of the company with its unfailing brutal confession, hang-dog to
stress its obscene message, while his sleek and shining black hair
curled venerably behind, where a hasty brush and comb had arranged it.

'Qu'il fait _chaud_!' exclaimed Mademoiselle Pronnette, and drew down a
window.

Zoborov took no notice of the reappearance of the turtle doves, but
continued his concert. After a while Mademoiselle Pronnette showed
signs of impatience. She got up, and advancing towards her choir of
pensionnaires, who were gathered round the fire in a half-circle, she
exclaimed:

'What do you say to another dance, now, my friends? Let somebody play
the piano. Your russian music is very pretty but it is so sad. It always
makes me sad. Let us have something more cheerful.'

A pensionnaire got up and went to the piano. Zoborov remained near the
fire. The dance began half-heartedly. Zoborov went on playing the flute
to himself, his little peaked mouth drawn down to the mouthpiece, his
little finger remaining erect while he sampled the feeble sound.

The 'Poles' of the Pension sat and gazed, like a group of monks bowed
down with many vows, at their proprietress and her german lover, while
one of their number made music for this voluptuous couple, so strangely
different from them. Their leader, Zoborov, continued to draw a few
notes out of his flute, the skeleton of a melancholy air. Then two or
three rose and embraced each other awkwardly, and began to move round
the room, shuffling their feet, out of consideration for their worldly
hostess. The parisian schoolmaster and his bonne amie also accommodated.

The kitchen door opened and a group of eleven Russians entered, friends
of Zoborov, whom he had invited. They had come over from a neighbouring
Pension. He rose and greeted them in impressive gutturals, lurching
huskily about. They moved to the bottom of the kitchen, were provided
with cups, and drew cider from the barrel. There were now about thirty
Russians in the room. A few were dancing languidly. Mademoiselle
Pronnette and Carl were indulging in a deep kiss midway in their
career. Zoborov, when his visitors had refreshed themselves, crossed the
kitchen with them and they left. He was going to show them over the
establishment.

'I ask you!' said Mademoiselle Pronnette to Mademoiselle Maraude. 'Quel
toupet, quand mme!'

Mademoiselle Maraude, to whom I had been talking, gazed after Zoborov.

'En effet!' she said.

'One would think that the house belonged to him!' exclaimed Mademoiselle
Pronnette. 'He brings a band of strangers in here---- I might not exist
at all, for all I am consulted! What an ill-mannered individual!'

'C'est un paysan, quoi!' Mademoiselle Maraude folded her hands in her
lap with dignified deliberation. Carl grinned at both of them in turn.
Zoborov returned with his friends. Mademoiselle Pronnette burst out:

'Monsieur! One would say that you have forgotten to whom this house
belongs! You bring your friends in here and take no more notice of me
than if I were the bonne. I am the proprietress of this establishment,
gentlemen, and this,' turning to Carl, 'my fianc, is now my partner.'

Zoborov advanced sleepily towards Mademoiselle Pronnette, a blustering
complaint blowing from his mouth as he came, rolling and blowing lazily
before him.

'But, Mademoiselle Pronnette, I don't understand you, really. You asked
us to invite anybody we liked.--These are good friends of mine. I have
just shown them over the house out of kindness to _you_. I was
advertising your Pension!'

'I'm quite capable of doing that myself, Monsieur Zoborov!'

'You can't have too much advertisement!' said Zoborov genially.

Carl, who had stood with his dark sheepish grin on his face, gave a loud
and unexpected laugh. Quickly raising his arm, he brought his hand down
on Zoborov's back. He then kneaded with his long white fingers Zoborov's
muscular shoulder.

'Zagr Zoborov!' he exclaimed, shaking with guttural mirth, 'that's
capital! I and my partner appoint you as our agent!'

Rolling gently in contact with the hearty mannerisms of his german
friend, glancing up quickly with shrewd conciliation, Zoborov blustered
out pleasantly:

'Good! I'll be your factor. That's fixed.--Congratulations, old fellow,
on your promotion!--What is my salary?'

'We pay by results!' grinned Carl.

'Well, here is one gentleman already who wishes to come round and reside
here.'

He pointed to a ragged figure lurking absent-mindedly in the rear of the
group. 'I shall expect my commission when he moves in.'

Mademoiselle did not like this conversation, and now said:

'I've got quite enough Russians here already. I should be more obliged
to you if you found a few Parisians or Americans. That's what I should
like.'

'En effet!' said Mademoiselle Maraude distinctly, under her breath.

The tactful pensionnaire at the piano began playing a viennese waltz.
Mademoiselle Pronnette, still boiling, drew Carl away, saying:

'C'est trop fort! How that man irritates me, how he irritates me! He's
_malin_, also, he is treacherous! He always has an answer, have you
noticed? He's never without an answer. He's as rus as a peasant--but,
anyhow, he _is_ a peasant, so that's to be expected. How he irritates
me!'

Carl rumbled along incoherently beside her, bending down, his arms
dangling, his stoop accentuated.

'Oh, he means no harm!' he said.

'Not so. He's a treacherous individual, I tell you!'

Carl put his arm around her waist, and kicking his large flat feet about
for a few moments, jerked her into a brisk dance, which with reluctant
and angry undulations she followed. As they flew round, in angular
sweeps, describing a series of rough squares, a discontented clamour
still escaped from her.

A little later the Russians began singing the Volga Boat Song, at the
bottom of the room, Zoborov again acting as conductor. Mademoiselle
Pronnette put her fingers in her ears.

'Mon dieu, quelle vilaine musique que celle-l!' she exclaimed.

'En effet!' said Mademoiselle Maraude, 'elle n'est pas bien belle!'

'En effet!' said Mademoiselle Pronnette.

Carl was pouring himself out a cognac, and in a blunt and booming bass
was intoning the air with the others. Mademoiselle Pronnette left the
room. After an interval Carl followed her.

I went over and talked by the fire to the pensionnaire who usually
played the piano. Zoborov came up, his chest protruding, and his eyes
almost closed, and sat down heavily beside us.

'Well, my friend, what do you think of Mademoiselle Pronnette's new
_partner_?' he laughed with a gruff gentle rattle.

'Carl, do you mean?'

'Why yes, Carl!' he again gave way to soft rumbling laughter. 'I wish
them luck of their partnership. They are a likely pair, I am bound to
say!'

The pianist gazed into the fire.

'What time do you leave in the morning?' he asked.

'At ten.' We talked about Vannes, to which I was going first. He seemed
to know Brittany very well. He gave several yawns, gazing over towards
his animated crowd of compatriots.

'It's time we went to bed. I shall get rid of this lot,' he said,
getting up. 'Come along, my children,' he exclaimed. 'To bed! We're
going to bed!'

Several hurried up to him excitedly. They talked for some minutes in
russian. Again he raised his voice.

'Let's go to bed, my friends! It's late.'

Mademoiselle Pronnette entered the kitchen. Zoborov, without looking in
her direction, put out his hand and switched off the lights. A roar of
surprise, laughter and scuffling ensued. The fire lighted up the faces
of those sitting near us, and a restless mass beyond.

'Will you be so kind, Monsieur Zoborov, as to put on the lights at
once!' the voice of Mademoiselle Pronnette clamoured. 'Monsieur
Zoborov, do you hear me? Put on the lights immediately!' Suddenly the
lights were switched on again. Mademoiselle Pronnette had done it
herself.

'Will you allow me, Monsieur Zoborov, to manage my own house? At last I
have had enough of your ways! You are an insolent personage. You are an
ill-conditioned individual!'

Zoborov's eyes were now completely closed, apparently with sleep that
could not be put off. He blustered plaintively back without opening
them:

'But, Mademoiselle! I thought you'd gone to bed! Some one had to get
all these people out! I don't understand you. Truly I don't understand
you at all! Still, now that you're here I can go to bed! I'm dropping
with sleep! Good-night! Good-night!' he sang gruffly as he rolled out,
raising his brawny paw several times in farewell.

'Quel homme que celui-l! Quel homme!' said Mademoiselle Pronnette,
gazing into the eyes of Mademoiselle Maraude, who had come up.

'En effet!' said Mademoiselle Maraude. 'For a pensionnaire who never
pays his "pension," he is a cool hand!'

That night the new partners had their first business disagreement in the
bedroom of the proprietress. I heard their voices booming and rattling
for a long time before the door opened. It burst open at last.
Mademoiselle Pronnette shouted:

'Bring me the fifteen thousand francs you have stolen from me, you
indelicate personage, and I will then return you your papers. If your
father knew of your conduct what would he think? Do you suppose he would
like to think that he had a son who was nothing but a crook? Yes, crook!
Our partnership begins from the moment of the first _versement_ that you
have promised, do you understand? And I require the money at once, you
hear? At once!'

A furious rumble came from outside my door.

'No, I have heard that before! Enough! I will hear no more.'

A second rumble answered.

'What, you accuse me of that? You ungrateful individual, you have the
face to----'

A long explanatory muted rumble followed.

'Never!' she screamed. 'Never, while I live! I will sign nothing! That's
flat! I would never have believed it possible----'

A rumble came from a certain distance down the passage.

'Yes, you had better go! You do well to slink away! But I'll see you
don't get far, my bird. You will be held for _escroquerie_, yes,
_escroquerie_! at the nearest commissariat! Don't make any mistake!'

A distant note sounded, like the brief flatulence of an elephant. I took
it to be 'Gourte!'

'Ah yes, my pretty bird!' vociferated Mademoiselle Pronnette. 'Wait a
bit! You may vilify me now. That is the sort of person you are! That I
should have expected! But we shall see! We shall see!'

There was no answer. There was a short silence. Mademoiselle
Pronnette's door crashed to.

The next morning I left at ten.

A year later I went to the Pardon at Rot. I was sitting amongst the
masses of black-clothed figures at a minor wedding, when I saw a figure
approaching that appeared familiar. Five peasants were rolling along in
their best sabots and finest flat black hats, one in the middle holding
the rest with some story he was telling, with heavy dare-devil gestures,
as they closed in deferentially upon him as they walked. In the middle
one I recognized Zoborov. He was now dressed completely as a breton
peasant, in black cloth a half-inch thick, of the costliest manufacture.
He rocked from side to side, stumbling at any largish cobble, chest up
and out, a double chin descending spoon-shaped and hard beneath upon his
short neck, formed as a consequence of the muscular arrangements for the
production of his deep bass. His mouth protruded like the mouths of
stone masks used for fountains.

As he shouldered his way impressively forward, he made gestures of
condescending recognition to left and right, as he caught sight of
somebody he knew. His fellow peasants responded with eager salutes or
flattering obeisances.

As he caught sight of me he stumbled heartily towards me, his mouth
belled out, as though mildly roaring, one large rough hand held back in
readiness to grasp mine.

'Why, so you are back again in this part of the country, are you? I am
glad to see you! How are you?' he said. 'Come inside, I know the
patronne here. I'll get her to give us some good cider.'

We all went in. The patronne saw us and made her way through the crowd
at once to Zoborov. Her malignant white face, bald at the sides, as
usual with the breton woman, shone with sweat; she came up whining
deferentially. With his smiling frown, and the gruff caress of his
artificial roar, Zoborov greeted her, and went with her into a parlour
next to the kitchen. We followed.

'Bring us three bottles of the best cider, Madame Mordouan,' he said.

'Why yes, Monsieur Zoborov, certainly, immediately,' she said, and
obsequiously withdrew.

Zoborov was fatter. The great thickness of the new suiting made him
appear very big indeed. The newness and stiffness of the breton fancy
dress, the shining broadcloth and velvet, combined with the noticeable
filling out of his face, resulted in a disagreeable impression of an
obese doll or gigantic barber's block.

'You look prosperous,' I said.

'Do you think so? I'm _en breton_ now, you see! When are you coming over
to see us at _Beau Sjour_? This gentleman was at _Beau Sjour_,' he
said, turning to his friends. 'Are you stopping in the neighbourhood?
I'll send the trap over for you.'

'The trap? Have they a trap now?'

'A trap? Why yes, my friend. There have been great changes since you
were at _Beau Sjour_!'

'Indeed. Of what kind?'

'Of _every_ kind, my friend!'

'How is Mademoiselle Pronnette?'

'Oh, she's gone, long ago!'

'Indeed!'

'Why yes, she and old Carl left soon after you.' He paused a moment. 'I
am the proprietor now!'

'You!'

'Why yes, my friend, me! Mademoiselle Pronnette went bust. _Beau
Sjour_ was sold at auction as it stood. It was not expensive. I took
the place on.--Mais oui, mon ami, je suis maintenant le propritaire!'
He seized me by the shoulder, then lightly tapped me there. 'C'est
drle, n'est-ce pas?'

I seemed to hear the voice of Mademoiselle Maraude replying, 'En effet.'

'En effet!' I said.

He offered himself banteringly as the comic proprietor. Fancy Zoborov
being the proprietor of a french hotel! He turned, frowning menacingly,
however, towards the peasants, and raised his glass with solemn eye. I
raised mine. They raised their glasses like a peasant chorus.

'What has become of Carl?' I asked.

'Carl? Oh I don't know what's become of Carl! He's gone to the devil, I
should think!'

I saw that I was obtruding other histories upon the same footing with
his, into a new world where they had no place. They were a part of the
old bad days.

'How are the Russians, "les Polonais"?'

He looked at me for a moment, his eyes closing in his peculiar
withdrawal or sleep.

'Oh, I've cleared all that rubbish out! I've got a chic hotel now! It is
really quite comfortable. You should come over. I have several
Americans, there's an Englishman, Kenyon, do you know him? His father is
a celebrated architect.--I only have three Russians there now. I kept
them on, poor devils. They help me with the work. Two act as valets.--I
know what Russians are, being one myself, you see! I have no wish to go
bankrupt like Mademoiselle Pronnette.'

I was rather richly dressed at the time, and I was glad. I ordered for
the great 'peasant' and his satellites another bottle of the ceremonious
cider.


THE POLE

In pre-war Europe, which was also even more the Europe of before the
Russian Revolution, a curious sect was established in the
watering-places of Brittany. Its members were generally known by the
peasants as 'Poles.' The so-called 'Pole' was a russian exile or
wandering student, often coming from Poland. The sort that collected in
such great numbers in Brittany were probably not politicians, except in
the sentimental manner in which all educated Russians before the
Revolution were 'radical' and revolutionary. They had banished
themselves, for purely literary political reasons, it is likely, rather
than been banished. Brittany became a heavenly Siberia for masses of
middle-class russian men and women who made 'art' the excuse for a
never-ending holiday. They insensibly became a gentle and delightful
parasite upon the French. Since the Revolution (it being obvious that
they cannot have vast and lucrative estates, which before the Revolution
it was easy for them to claim) they have mostly been compelled to work.
The Paris taxi-driver of today, lolling on the seat of his vehicle,
cigarette in mouth, who, without turning round, swiftly moves away when
a fare enters his cab, is what in the ancien rgime would have been a
'Pole.' If there is a communist revolution in France, this sort of new
nomad will move down into Spain perhaps. He provides for the countries
of Europe on a very insignificant scale a new version, today, of the
'jewish problem.' His indolence, not his activity, of course, makes him
a 'problem.'

The pre-war method of migration was this. A 'Pole' in his home in Russia
would save up or borrow about ten pounds. He then left his native land
for ever, taking a third-class ticket to Brest. This must have become an
almost instinctive proceeding. At Brest he was in the heart of the
promised land. He would then make the best of his way to a Pension de
Famille, already occupied by a phalanstery of 'Poles.' There he would
have happily remained until the crack of doom, but for the Bolshevik
Revolution. He had reckoned without Lenin, so to speak.

He was usually a 'noble,' very soberly but tactfully dressed. He wore
sude gloves: his manners were graceful. The proprietress had probably
been warned of his arrival and he was welcome. His first action would be
to pay three months' board and lodging in advance; that would also be
his last action of that sort. With a simple dignity that was the secret
of the 'Pole,' at the end of the trimestre, he remained as the guest of
the proprietress. His hostess took this as a matter of course. He
henceforth became the regular, unobtrusive, respected inhabitant of the
house.

If the proprietress of a Pension de Famille removed her establishment
from one part of the country to another, took a larger house, perhaps
(to make room for more 'Poles'), her 'Poles' went with her without
comment or change in their habits. Just before the war, Mademoiselle T.
still sheltered in her magnificent hotel, frequented by wealthy
Americans, some of these quiet 'Poles,' who had been with her since the
day when she first began hotel-keeping in a small wayside inn. Lunching
there you could observe at the foot of the table a group of men of a
monastic simplicity of dress and manner, all middle-aged by that time,
indeed even venerable in several instances, talking among themselves in
a strange and attractive tongue. Mademoiselle T. was an amiable old
lady, and these were her domestic gods. Any one treating them with
disrespect would have seen the rough side of Mademoiselle T.'s tongue.

Their hosts, I believe, so practical in other ways, became superstitious
about these pensive inhabitants of their houses. Some I know would no
more have turned out an old and ailing 'Pole' who owed them thirty
years' board and lodging, than many people would get rid of an aged and
feeble cat.

For the breton peasant, 'Polonais' or 'Pole' sufficed to describe the
member of any nation whom he observed leading anything that resembled
the unaccountable life of the true slav parasite with which he had
originally familiarized himself under the name of 'Pole.'

Few 'Poles,' I think, ever saw the colour of money once this initial
pin-money that they brought from Russia was spent. One 'Pole' of my
acquaintance did get hold of three pounds by some means, and went to
spend a month in Paris. After this outing, his prestige considerably
enhanced, he came back and resumed his regular life, glad to be again
away from the _sicle_ and its metropolitan degradation. In pre-war
Paris, 'Poles' were to be met, very much _de passage_, seeing some old
friends (_en route_ for Brest) for the last time.

A woman opened a smart hotel of about thirty beds not far from _Beau
Sjour_. I was going over to see it. She advertised that any artist who
would at once take up his quarters there would receive his first six
months gratis. Referring to this interesting event in the hearing of a
'Pole,' he told me he had been over there the previous day. He had found
no less than twelve 'Poles' already installed, and there was a
considerable waiting list. 'If you like to pay you can go there all
right,' he said, laughing.

The general explanation given by the 'Pole' of the position in which he
found himself, was that his hosts, after six or nine months, were afraid
to let him go, for fear of losing their money. He would add that he
could confidently rely on more and more deference the longer he stopped,
and the larger the amount that he represented in consequence. Ordinary
boarders, he would tell you, could count on nothing like so much
attention as he could.

That such a state of affairs should ever have occurred, was partly due
perhaps to the patriarchal circumstances of the breton agricultural
life. This new domestic animal was able to insinuate himself into its
midst because of the existence of so many there already. Rich peasants,
and this applied to the proprietors of country inns, were accustomed in
their households to suffer the presence of a number of poor familiars,
cousinly paupers, supernumeraries doing odd jobs on the farm or in the
stables. The people not precisely servants who found a place at their
hearth were not all members of the immediate family of the master.

But there was another factor favouring the development of the 'Pole.'
This was that many of them were described as painters. They seldom of
course were able to practise that expensive art, for they could not buy
colours or canvases: in their visitors' bulletins, however, they
generally figured as that. But after the death of Gauguin, the dealer,
Vollard, and others, came down from Paris. They ransacked the country
for forgotten canvases: when they found one they paid to the astonished
peasants, in the heat of competition, very considerable sums. Past hosts
of the great french romantic had confiscated paintings in lieu of rent.
The least sketch had its price. The sight of these breathless
collectors, and the rumours of the sums paid, made a deep impression on
the local people. The 'Poles' on their side were very persuasive. They
assured their hosts that Gauguin was a mere cipher compared to
them.--These circumstances told in favour of the 'Pole.'

But no such explanations can really account for the founding of this
charming and whimsical order. Whether there are still a few 'Poles'
surviving in Brittany or not, I have no means of knowing. In the larger
centres of _villgiature_ the _sicle_ was already paramount before the
war.

The Russian with whom translations of the russian books of tsarist
Russia familiarized the West was an excited and unstable child. We have
seen this society massacred in millions without astonishment. The
russian books prepared every Western European for that consummation. All
the cast of the _Cherry Orchard_ could be massacred easily by a single
determined gunman. This defencelessness of the essential Slav can, under
certain circumstances, become an asset. Especially perhaps the French
would find themselves victims of such a harmless parasite, so different
in his nature to themselves. A more energetic parasite would always fail
with the gallic nature, unless very resolute.




TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE

Minor variations in spelling and punctuation have been preserved.




[End of Beau Sjour, by Wyndham Lewis]
