She arrived by the Nord Express on a winter day, without the slightest warning, and sent a curt note asking to see her son. My father was away in the country on a bear-hunt; so my mother quietly took Sebastian to the Hotel d’Europe where Virginia had put up for a single afternoon. There, in the hall, she saw her husband’s first wife, a slim, slightly angular woman, with a small quivering face under a huge black hat. She had raised her veil above her lips to kiss the boy, and no sooner had she touched him than she burst into tears, as if Sebastian’s warm tender temple was the very source and satiety of her sorrow. Immediately afterwards she put on her gloves and started to tell my mother in bad French a pointless and quite irrelevant story about a Polish woman who had attempted to steal her vanity-bag in the dining-car. Then she thrust into Sebastian’s hand a small parcel of sugar-coated violets, gave my mother a nervous smile and followed the porter who was carrying out her luggage. This was all, and next year she died.
It is known from a cousin of hers, H. F. Stainton, that during the last months of her life she roamed all over the South of France, staying for a day or two at small hot provincial towns, rarely visited by tourists – feverish, alone (she had abandoned her lover) and probably very unhappy. One might think she was fleeing from someone or something, as she doubled and re-crossed her tracks; on the other hand, to anyone who knew her moods, that hectic dashing might seem but a final exaggeration of her usual restlessness. She died of heart-failure (Lehmann’s disease) at the little town of Roquebrune, in the summer of 1909. There was some difficulty in getting the body dispatched to England; her people had died some time before; Mr Stain ton alone attended her burial in London.
My parents lived happily. It was a quiet and tender union, unmarred by the ugly gossip of certain relatives of ours who whispered that my father, although a loving husband, was attracted now and then by other women. One day, about Christmas, 1912, an acquaintance of his, a very charming and thoughtless girl, happened to mention as they walked down the Nevsky, that her sister’s fiancй, a certain Palchin, had known his first wife. My father said he remembered the man – they had met at Biarritz about ten years ago, or was it nine….
‘Oh, but he knew her later too,’ said the girl, ‘you see he confessed to my sister that he had lived with Virginia after you paned…. Then she dropped him somewhere in Switzerland…. Funny, nobody knew.’
‘Well,’ said my father quietly, ‘if it has not leaked out before, there is no reason for people to start prattling ten years later.’
By a very grim coincidence, on the very next day, a good friend of our family, Captain Belov, casually asked my father whether it was true that his first wife came from Australia – he, the Captain, had always thought she was English. My father replied that, as far as he knew, her parents had lived for some time in Melbourne, but that she had been born in Kent.
‘…What makes you ask me that?’ he added.
The Captain answered evasively that his wife had been at a party or something where somebody had said something
‘Some things will have to stop, I’m afraid,’ said my father.
Next morning he called upon Palchin, who received him with a greater show of geniality than was necessary. He had spent many years abroad, he said, and was glad to meet old friends.
‘There is a certain dirty lie being spread,’ said my father without sitting down, ‘and I think you know what it is.’
‘Look here, my dear fellow,’ said Palchin, ‘no use my pretending I don’t see what you are driving at. I am sorry people have been talking, but really there is no reason to lose our tempers…. It is nobody’s fault that you and I were in the same boat once.’
‘In that case, Sir,’ said my father, ‘my seconds will call on you.’
Palchin was a fool and a cad, this much at least I gathered from the story my mother told me (and which in her telling had assumed the vivid direct form I have tried to retain here). But just because Palchin was a fool and a cad, it is hard for me to understand why a man of my father’s worth should have risked his life to satisfy – what? Virginia’s honour? His own desire of revenge? But just as Virginia’s honour had been irredeemably forfeited by the very fact of her flight, so all ideas of vengeance ought to have long lost their bitter lust in the happy years of my father’s second marriage. Or was it merely the naming of a name, the seeing of a face, the sudden grotesque sight of an individual stamp upon what had been a tame faceless ghost? And taken all in all was it, this echo of a distant past (and echoes are seldom more than a bark, no matter how pure-voiced the caller), was it worth the ruin of our home and the grief of my mother?
The duel was fought in a snow-storm on the bank of a frozen brook. Two shots were exchanged before my father fell face downwards on a blue-grey army cloak spread on the snow. Palchin, his hands trembling, lit a cigarette. Captain Belov hailed the coachmen who were humbly waiting some distance away on the snow-swept road. The whole beastly affair had lasted three minutes.
In Lost Property Sebastian gives his own impressions of that lugubrious January day. ‘Neither my stepmother’, he writes, ‘nor anyone of the household knew of the pending affair. On the eve, at dinner, my father threw bread-pellets at me across the table: I had been sulking all day because of some fiendish woollies which the doctor had insisted upon my wearing, and he was trying to cheer me up; but I frowned and blushed and turned away. After dinner we sat in his study, he sipping his coffee and listening to my stepmother’s account of the noxious way Mademoiselle had of giving my small half-brother sweets after putting him to bed; and I, at the far end of the room, on the sofa, turning the pages of Chums: «Look out for the next instalment of this rattling yarn.» Jokes at the bottom of the large thin pages. «The guest of honour had been shown over the School: What struck you most? – A pea from a pea-shooter.» Express-trains roaring through the night. The cricket Blue who fielded the knife thrown by a vicious Malay at the cricketer’s friend…. That «uproarious» serial featuring three boys, one of whom was a contortionist who could make his nose spin, the second a conjurer, the third a ventriloquist…. A horseman leaping over a racing car….
‘Next morning at school, I made a bad mess of the geometrical problem which in our slang we termed «Pythagoras’ Pants». The morning was so dark that the lights were turned on in the classroom and this always gave me a nasty buzzing in the head. I came home about half past three in the afternoon with that sticky sense of uncleanliness which I always brought back from school and which was now enhanced by ticklish underclothes. My father’s orderly was sobbing in the hall.’
2
In his slapdash and very misleading book, Mr Goodman paints in a few ill-chosen sentences a ridiculously wrong picture of Sebastian Knight’s childhood. It is one thing to be an author’s secretary, it is quite another to set down an author’s life; and if such a task is prompted by the desire to get one’s book into the market while the flowers on a fresh grave may still be watered with profit, it is still another matter to try to combine commercial haste with exhaustive research, fairness and wisdom. I am not out to damage anybody’s reputation. There is no libel in asserting that alone the impetus of a clicking typewriter could enable Mr Goodman to remark that ‘a Russian education was forced upon a small boy always conscious of the rich English strain in his blood’. This foreign influence, Mr Goodman goes on, ‘brought acute suffering to the child, so that in his riper years it was with a shudder that he recalled the bearded moujiks, the ikons, the drone of balalaikas, all of which displaced a healthy English upbringing’.
It is hardly worth while pointing out that Mr Goodman’s concept of Russian surroundings is no truer to nature than, say, a Kalmuk’s notion of England as a dark place where small boys are flogged to death by red-whiskered schoolmasters. What should be really stressed is the fact that Sebastian was brought up in an atmosphere of intellectual refinement, blending the spiritual grace of a Russian household with the very best treasures of European culture, and that whatever Sebastian’s own reaction to his Russian memories, its complex and special
