14

Next day, or the day after the next, the entire family was having high tea in the garden. Ada, on the grass, kept trying to make an anadem of marguerites for the dog while Lucette looked on, munching a crumpet. Marina remained for almost a minute wordlessly stretching across the table her husband’s straw hat in his direction; finally he shook his head, glared at the sun that glared back and retired with his cup and the Toulouse Enquirer to a rustic seat on the other side of the lawn under an immense elm.

“I ask myself who can that be,” murmured Mlle Larivière from behind the samovar (which expressed fragments of its surroundings in demented fantasies of a primitive genre) as she slitted her eyes at a part of the drive visible between the pilasters of an open-work gallery. Van, lying prone behind Ada, lifted his eyes from his book (Ada’s copy of Atala).

A tall rosy-faced youngster in smart riding breeches dismounted from a black pony.

“It’s Greg’s beautiful new pony,” said Ada.

Greg, with a well-bred boy’s easy apologies, had brought Marina’s platinum lighter which his aunt had discovered in her own bag.

“Goodness, I’ve not even had time to miss it. How is Ruth?”

Greg said that both Aunt Ruth and Grace were laid up with acute indigestion—“not because of your wonderful sandwiches,” he hastened to add, “but because of all those burnberries they picked in the bushes.”

Marina was about to jingle a bronze bell for the footman to bring some more toast, but Greg said he was on his way to a party at the Countess de Prey’s.

“Rather soon (skorovato) she consoled herself,” remarked Marina, alluding to the death of the Count killed in a pistol duel on Boston Common a couple of years ago.

“She’s a very jolly and handsome woman,” said Greg.

“And ten years older than me,” said Marina.

Now Lucette demanded her mother’s attention.

“What are Jews?” she asked.

“Dissident Christians,” answered Marina.

“Why is Greg a Jew?” asked Lucette.

“Why-why!” said Marina; “because his parents are Jews.”

“And his grandparents? His arrière grandparents?”

“I really wouldn’t know, my dear. Were your ancestors Jews, Greg?”

“Well, I’m not sure,” said Greg. “Hebrews, yes—but not Jews in quotes—I mean, not comic characters or Christian businessmen. They came from Tartary to England five centuries ago. My mother’s grandfather, though, was a French marquis who, I know, belonged to the Roman faith and was crazy about banks and stocks and jewels, so I imagine people may have called him un juif.”

“It’s not a very old religion, anyway, as religions go, is it?” said Marina (turning to Van and vaguely planning to steer the chat to India where she had been a dancing girl long before Moses or anybody was born in the lotus swamp).

“Who cares—” said Van.

“And Belle” (Lucette’s name for her governess), “is she also a dizzy Christian?”

“Who cares,” cried Van, “who cares about all those stale myths, what does it matter—Jove or Jehovah, spire or cupola, mosques in Moscow, or bronzes and bonzes, and clerics, and relics, and deserts with bleached camel ribs? They are merely the dust and mirages of the communal mind.”

“How did this idiotic conversation start in the first place?” Ada wished to be told, cocking her head at the partly ornamented dackel or taksik.

“Mea culpa” Mlle Larivière explained with offended dignity. “All I said, at the picnic, was that Greg might not care for ham sandwiches, because Jews and Tartars do not eat pork.”

“The Romans,” said Greg, “the Roman colonists, who crucified Christian Jews and Barabbits, and other unfortunate people in the old days, did not touch pork either, but I certainly do and so did my grandparents.”

Lucette was puzzled by a verb Greg had used. To illustrate it for her, Van joined his ankles, spread both arms horizontally, and rolled up his eyes.

“When I was a little girl,” said Marina crossly, “Mesopotamian history was taught practically in the nursery.”

“Not all little girls can learn what they are taught,” observed Ada.

“Are we Mesopotamians?” asked Lucette.

“We are Hippopotamians,” said Van. “Come,” he added, “we have not yet ploughed today.”

A day or two before, Lucette had demanded that she be taught to hand-walk. Van gripped her by her ankles while she slowly progressed on her little red palms, sometimes falling with a grunt on her face or pausing to nibble a daisy. Dack barked in strident protest.

“Et pourtant,” said the sound-sensitive governess, wincing, “I read to her twice Ségur’s adaptation in fable form of Shakespeare’s play about the wicked usurer.”

“She also knows my revised monologue of his mad king,” said Ada:

“Oh, that’s good,” exclaimed Greg with a veritable sob of admiration.

“Not so energichno, children!” cried Marina in Van- and-Lucette’s direction.

“Elle devient pourpre, she is getting crimson,” commented the governess. “I sustain that these indecent gymnastics are no good for her.”

Van, his eyes smiling, his angel-strong hands holding the child’s cold-carrot-soup legs just above the insteps, was “ploughing around” with Lucette acting the sullow. Her bright hair hung over her face, her panties showed from under the hem of her skirt, yet she still urged the ploughboy on.

“Budet, budet, that’ll do,” said Marina to the plough team.

Van gently let her legs down and straightened her dress. She lay for a moment, panting.

“I mean, I would love lending him to you for a ride any time. For any amount of time. Will you? Besides, I have another black.”

But she shook her head, she shook her bent head, while still twisting and twining her daisies.

“Well,” he said, getting up, “I must be going. Good-bye, everybody. Good-bye, Ada. I guess it’s your father under that oak, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s an elm,” said Ada.

Van looked across the lawn and said as if musing—perhaps with just a faint touch of boyish show-off:

“I’d like to see that Two-Lice sheet too when Uncle is through with it. I was supposed to play for my school in yesterday’s cricket game. Veen sick, unable to bat, Riverlane humbled.