Boys and Girls Come Out to Play

by Nigel Dennis

  The Hamsunite looked at Divver with contempt; the Rumanians turned their eyes away as if a foolish thing had followed them to the altar. Mr. Grieg began to cough, cautiously and at length, into his clean handkerchief. Then there was silence; it stretched and stretched until every ear was carefully tuned to the noises outside the window, every eye looking into the corners of the room. All at once, the secretary became brisk:

  “If you will kindly name the books you wish Mr. Grieg to sign …”

  The Rumanians chose Collected Poems; the Norwegian, Peasants Cry; Divver asked for Spartacus and His Revolt, Mr. Grieg’s story of his rebellious student years. The secretary slid open the side of what looked like a wooden grain bin, packed with translations of Grieg, the top carved with Adam, Eve, the Serpent, and the Tree of Knowledge. He took out the books, opened each one at the flyleaf and laid it on Mr. Grieg’s marbled blotter. Then he dipped a quill into an inkwell shaped like Michaelangelo’s Slave, and handed the pen to the old man, who went to work vigorously: “My cordial greetings to a welcome visitor, Melmoth Grieg, Mell, ’39.” While he scrawled, one of the Rumanians pulled out some paper money, and the secretary, shocked, waved his long fingers. “Please, not here; downstairs.”

  They all shook hands gently with Mr. Grieg and walked down the old stone stairs into the hallway. The Rumanians pulled out their money again and paid for their books. Morgan stood wondering whether so brief an interview would justify his telling people that he “knew” or had “met” Melmoth Grieg.

  “Did you pay for our lunch?” whispered Divver.

  “I think so. Why?”

  Divver was scrambling through his pockets. “I think I’ve been robbed.”

  The Norwegian paid, and departed. Morgan and Divver were left with the secretary, who smiled suspiciously in a friendly way.

  “Look in your breast pocket,” said Morgan.

  “I always keep it in my hip.”

  “Well, let me pay.”

  “That’s not the point: someone’s stolen my wallet.”

  “You had some before, didn’t you?”

  “Only loose change.”

  “Well, take mine.”

  But Divver, suddenly red and stubborn, approached the secretary and said, “My wallet’s been stolen.”

  “How unfortunate,” said the secretary. “The police must surely be informed.”

  “I’ll give you my room number and name,” said Divver, and Morgan, looking at his guardian’s set face, knew that Divver had got some bug into him and was better left alone. “I am not a tourist,” Divver went on, repeating the fruitless movements through his pockets and dropping Spartacus and His Revolt from under his arm. The secretary picked it up, and said: “The hotel is only across the square. Shall I keep the book until you come back?”

  Morgan turned his face away.

  Divver said: “You mean that if I don’t come back you can sell the signature to someone else?”

  “Really, sir!” cried the secretary, clasping the book.

  “You phoney!” said Divver, stepping up to him. “You and him—both of you goddam phonies! I didn’t expect to have to pay my way in the first place.”

  “Pay way?” exclaimed the poor secretary.

  “Robbery!” said Divver, and made for the door. Morgan, who was trembling with shame, longed to turn his head and flash suggestions of temporary insanity at the secretary. It was too late; the man was stiffly climbing the stairs. Divver burst out of the door, blinked in the sun for a moment and then raced toward the hotel. Morgan followed, cursing, red to the ears. For the first time in his life he knew what it was to be in a strange country with a friend who does the wrong things: a national vanity that he had never suspected writhed painfully inside him; he was terribly humiliated.

  Sweat was pouring down Divver’s dark cheeks: he walked at a frantic pace, furious with himself and with his enemies.

  “I didn’t leave my wife and child and come four thousand miles, approximately, to sit on my arse in the sun and get gypped … You get busy finding yourself something to do: I don’t mind sleeping in this dump, but I’m goddamned if I’m going to waste my days in it … Especially when I think of what’s going on only a few miles from here, in Danzig … I admit I behaved like a boy from Iowa, but I’d thought Grieg was a real person … And the trouble is, I really do want to get that book.”

  People stared as they swept through the crowded lobby and up to the desk, Divver trembling with anger, Morgan cursing his misfortune. Divver drew some money from the safe and spoke to the manager about Spartacus and His Revolt.

  “Perhaps a boy could go over?”

  “Why certainly, Mr. Divver.” The manager took the bills Divver handed him, crooked a finger, and a page came running.

  “I have reasons for not going myself,” said Divver, looking the manager strongly between the eyes.

  “Of course.” The manager smiled in his customary vague way with guests, and directed the page.

  “I left the book. Now I find I need it.”

  “No need to apologize, Mr. Divver.”

  “I don’t apologize; I explain,” snapped Divver.

  “As you wish,” replied the manager, still smiling but seeing Divver for the first time.

  “… which is quite a different matter,” said Divver, drumming his fingers on the edge of the desk.

  “Different as the waters of Elbe and Vistula,” said the manager, throwing little bows and smiles at passing guests in a haunted way.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Just one of our little folk-sayings … Good evening to you, Miss Schultz. How is Mr. Schultz’s ankle?”

  “Well, he’ll bring up the book, eh?” asked Divver. “Up, to my room, that is, I mean.”

  “Up, indeed, sir, without question.”

  For a few seconds Divver seemed to have steadied himself; then, the resentful look came back into his face, and he went on in the same angry tone: “Yes, and one more thing, if you please: when does the mail leave? The U.S. mail?”

  “Why, twice a day, Mr. Divver: 10 a.m. and 7 p.m.: the fact is inscribed on our post-box.”

  “I mean not the mail that comes from America. I mean the mail that goes to America—the U.S.A.”

  “To America, Mr. Divver, I quite understand. Of course; 10 a.m. and 7 p.m.”

  “Well, it’s often not a question of ‘of course’ at all,” said Divver, “or otherwise I wouldn’t have thought of asking.”

  They flew apart, mutually humiliated and despising one another.

  Soon, I’ll be ashamed to show my face, Morgan thought miserably.

  They went upstairs.

  Divver’s wallet lay on his dresser. He snatched it up and thrust it into his pocket indignantly. Then he said sharply to Morgan: “You’d better lie down and take a rest or you won’t be fit for human society.”

  Why, you so-and-so! Morgan said to himself. And to think I once respected you.

  Divver entered his own room and closed the communicating door. Soon, his muffled steps sounded through it, as he paced the carpet.

  Mother was right for once, Morgan thought. Smart of her.

  He lay down, and his glance fell on his bottle of white pills. At once, he started up again from the bed, grasping the bottle tightly in his hand. Like a conspirator, he cocked his head toward Divver’s door, cautiously weighing the sound of the pacing feet as they passed back and forth in a monotonous, shuffling beat. He felt that if he obeyed his impulse and got rid of the pills immediately, he would at once rise into a world that was beyond reach of annoyance by anyone as small as Divver; but it humiliated him to think of wasting so grand a gesture on so small a matter, and he was also ashamed to find that although he was surrounded by the greatest good fortune he was capable of feeling sulky, spiteful depression when the smallest thing went wrong. The more he thought this over, the more astonishment he felt at his own smallness and childishness: here was an act of destruction which was planned to change the whole course of his life—an
d he was ready to throw it away on getting even with a moment’s brusqueness. He looked at the walls of the room and the strange furniture, and said to himself with sternness and amazement: Have you forgotten where you are? Don’t you know what all these things mean to you? At once, the trim hotel carpet and oyster-white walls took on a heavenly sheen, and hs spirits flew up in enthusiasm and thankfulness.

  At that moment he heard a trumpet in the square, sounding a fanfare of loud, slow notes. Dropping the pills, he flew to the window and threw it up.

  The procession was about to begin. All the Poland’s front windows were wide open: as far as Morgan could see from side to side there were tourists’ elbows and faces: everyone looked pleased and ready to be amused, and easy acquaintances were being started on the spot from window to window. Three very young Americans, in bouncing good humour, were lying backward out of the window next to Morgan’s and trying to catch the attentions of three American girls in one of the top windows. The spokesman for the young men shouted “Hi! Hi there! Won’t you look down, please, girls? Please look down, ladies!”—and though all the other faces in the Poland’s windows smiled and cocked an eye at the top floor, the three girls seemed to hear nothing; they were talking very seriously. “Altogether now!” cried the spokesman, and he and his chums shouted at the tops of their voices: “Hi there! Please look down!” All at once, the girls did so, with a show of delicate surprise. “May we ring your bell afterwards?” cried the spokesman; “soon as the procession’s over? O.K., we ring your bell?” The girls looked shocked; they turned to each other with cool, knowing looks, as if they had guessed all along that Europe was going to be full of bandits; they then found it necessary to stare down at the young men with half-puzzled, half-disdainful smiles, in which adequate invitation was well hedged around with clauses of neither yes nor no. They did this flirtation so neatly that half the heads in the Poland’s windows broke into admiring grins, which the girls acknowledged by assuming very modest expressions and looking into the distance at some birds. “It’s in the bag, children,” said the male spokesman to his companions; “but let me do the talking, O.K.?” They then turned their bodies right side up and began violently throwing confetti into the square. Morgan’s heart beat faster; he stared at the self-assured spokesman and envied him from the bottom of his heart.

  More heads and elbows showed in the windows of the pensions on the square; most of the faces were topped with paper hats. The crossed rows of flags now had numerous, coloured, paper streamers hanging over them: from time to time someone would draw back into his room to get arm-space and hurl another flying streamer through the air.

  The debris fell on the inhabitants of Mell, who stood, staring upward at the staring-downers, in two banks, on either side of the route of the procession. Most of them were wearing black clothes. In front of the banks were little girls in white dresses, holding gilded prayer books. There were four policemen, in full dress, with capes; they gestured royally with the backs of their hands whenever the banks bulged forward. In the centre of the route stood the proud trumpeter, dressed like the jack of diamonds.

  The mannikins hobbled out on to the cathedral balcony. The Devil gave off four ringing strokes.

  Morgan remembered Divver. He ran to Divver’s door and called: “Time for the procession, Max.”

  Divver shouted back: “When you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.”

  “What?”

  “I said, when you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all.”

  “Aren’t you going to see it, then?” screamed Morgan.

  “You go on and see it, for Christ’s sake!” Divver bellowed back.

  Silly bastard, thought Morgan, running back to the window; he’s worse than I was; sulking like a kid. At this recognition of Divver’s smallness, a quick trickle of self-satisfaction ran through him; he peered out of the window with great elation.

  He couldn’t see the base of the cathedral, but he knew the big doors had been thrown open because there was the sudden rising, circling blast of escaping organ music. Then came the sound of motors starting; the sharp burst of the automobiles, the rumbling of the charabancs. With a sudden exasperation and excitement Morgan ran to Divver’s door and banged on it.

  “It’s started!” he shouted: “It’s actually started!”

  “Go on! —— off!” Divver shouted.

  And —— you too, said Morgan silently, dashing back to the window.

  The trumpeter blew a last, tremendous peal, and scuttled out of the roadway.

  The procession passed through the square in this order:

  The choir, in white linen, chanting

  A float, mounted on a disguised truck, carrying George Washington and St. Bertha; they bounced a good deal because of the cobbles, but otherwise remained absolutely still, clasping each other’s hands symbolically

  The ancient, high-backed green car, with the surly mechanic, in livery, at the trembling wheel; and on the maroon back seat, hardly visible through hoops of wisteria, the smiling bishop and mayor of Mell

  Golden images of human beings and animals, arranged on floats by the goldsmiths

  Peasant dancers, jigging, skipping, rattling bits of wood

  A male and female chorus, wearing the various peasant costumes of Tutin province, singing the songs of Turin province

  Private cars: a few chauffeured limousines, a great many old wrecks

  A tail of huge buses, crammed to the roofs with screaming, waving people, dribbling out a mist of Diesel fumes

  Local adolescents, cavorting on rusty bicycles

  A policeman released the processional cord, the crowd of locals and visitors broke away in a mob and joined the tail of the procession, en route to the lakeside, where there was to be dancing and a feast. Remembering his promise, Morgan called: “I’m joining the procession, Max. Be back soon.” Next minute he was down the stairs, and racing along the road, hearing just ahead of him the exhilarating shouts of the trippers and the lively, incomprehensible chorus of the peasant singers. Half the town and, indeed, half the population of Europe and America, seemed to be running with him, shouting, laughing, panting for breath: when he had caught up with the main body, Morgan had thought neither for Divver’s surliness nor his own hopes and achievements; he joined with the rest in a happy, brainless orgy of pleasure, and positively danced his way to the lake.

  *

  It was seven o’clock when he returned to the Poland, sweaty and dusty but still filled with exuberance. Divver was reading in his own chair, but he had left open the door into Morgan’s room. He at once began to explain his reason for doing so.

  “I thought perhaps the boy might knock on your door by mistake when he brought up my book, and I wouldn’t hear him.”

  “Sure. Did you get the book?”

  Divver waved Spartacus and His Revolt. He looked at Morgan in a half-friendly, half-troubled way, as though, as before at the café table, he had something to say. He spoke politely, in a tired way, but said nothing important. “It would have been silly to miss the book after so much furore.”

  “You bet,” said Morgan, wondering why Divver should explain so much. He began to take off his clothes.

  “Going to take a bath?” Divver asked. “When you’re through, would you like to eat up here?”

  Morgan would have preferred the excitement of the big dining-room, but he agreed politely. He knew now, without the least doubt, that there was something wrong with Divver, something that he himself was probably too young to understand. He felt sorry for Divver, and awkward with him, because there was nothing he could do but be polite. He was also determined to enjoy himself, and saw no reason why he should share Divver’s discomfort if Divver wasn’t going to share his enthusiasm. He whistled in his bath, and argued that at his age he was entitled to a good deal of selfishness and happiness: everyone expected a very young man to be callous and impatient with middle-aged miseries. Divver must certainly have been like that too at the age of eighteen. It was a natu
ral law. To a young man a middle-aged man is bound to be either a hero or a bore.

  The rather strained atmosphere in the two rooms was not noticed by the waiter, who was brisk and full of smiles, and swept in with a tray of silver-plated tureens and hot-plates balancing jauntily on his fingertips. “You gentlemen have a beautiful day?” he said, certain of the answer, flipping at bits of nothing with a starched napkin. “Yes, thank you,” said Divver, baring his teeth. “Thass right!” cried the waiter: “for me—o-wee—worst busy day: for you, a nice relax. You enjoy the procession?” “Very much, thank you.” “Thass right! Thass why you come so far, to see. For me, no such luck—all day in kitchens—work, work, work till I drop: but O.K. if makes you feel relax, happy.” “I’ve known mothers like that,” Divver said as the beaming masochist tottered off to his next labour. Divver raised the top off a dish and peered in. But he had hardly spread his napkin before he went into his bedroom and came back with Spartacus, which he opened at random and wedged, with exclamations of impatience, in a vice of silver cruets. Munching hard, he began to read.

  Divver read Mr. Grieg’s memoirs with intense concentration, which showed in his expression even when he began to give sardonic snorts and shake his head wearily. To Morgan, in the light of his discovery that perhaps his guardian was an invalid, it seemed that in this devouring of a book by a man whom he despised, Divver was determined not to miss a drop of disgust and disillusionment, to make completely sure that he stood four-square up to his neck in human muck. “Read this, if you don’t mind, from here—to there,” said Divver, suddenly pushing over the book: “Just read it and tell me what you think.”

  The pages indicated contained a graphic memory of one of Mr. Grieg’s adventures at the University of Warsaw, shortly after the Franco-Prussian war:

  “In the lecture room that morning the rumour is heard that General Tolboys has been appointed Chief of Police! Our faces flush with indignation: we bend over our desks and appear to concentrate, but a rising mutter passes from one to another; we shake our heads, and each assures himself resolutely: ‘Never! Never!’ Suddenly, my friend, the poet Bernstein Hoffman, leaps to his feet; with scant regard for the professor, he cries: ‘No more! Away with this dead trash!’ and hurls his lexicon to the floor. Instantly we follow his example; like thunderbolts our despised texts shake the ground; in a moment we pour from the hall, leaving our mentor scandalized and solitary. Outside, the cry goes up: ‘Where to?’ and for a second we hesitate, having not paused to consider this question. But Hoffman, his face deathly pale, his eyes burning, hesitates not a moment. ‘To the Centre!’ he commands us, and all around his cry is echoed by scores of vigorous young voices: ‘To the Centre! To the Centre!’ Almost in the same breath, it seems, we are marching down the Parade, our heads held high, our visored caps audaciously askew. Someone has procured the banner of the Students’ League; its orange folds float above us as we march proudly on. From the pavements passers-by regard us with no little amazement; some shake their fists disapprovingly, but we are in no wise daunted. Soon we are approaching the dreaded Centre; its massive flight of marble steps (seemingly as spatially infinite as metaphysics itself) Stretches ahead of us in the June sunshine. The attendant cavalry, in white buckskin, silver breastplate, and plumed with the gold of Phoebus Apollo, sit their mounts without a tremour; not for them to disperse us. For suddenly, as we commence to desecrate with our shabby footwear the first of the immaculate marble stages, the cry resounds: ‘The Police!’ and, turning, we perceive the agents of the detested Chief advancing on us from below. A few of us, panic-stricken, flee; but the remainder, a goodly number, led by the disdainful Hoffman, continue to mount the palace steps. To our surprise the police do not hasten to detain us; but, too late, we perceive that their tolerance is part of an ingenious trap. A scant twenty feet from the threshold of the palace, the great, gilded doors fly open and a cohort of hidden police storms down upon us—at which signal their sly confederates below cast off the deceptive mantle of Maximus Cunctator, and race upon us from the rear! We are as in a vice! But even at this overwhelming moment Hoffman, our poet and leader, is unabashed. Nimbly he dodges the stolid officers who are bearing down on him, races like a Diana to the golden porticoes, and hurls our banner of independence into the very heart of the autocratic sanctuary. Next moment, as the golden doors swing to, his struggling form disappears from our sight, while we, now in total disorder, our inspiration gone, are relentlessly hustled to the foot of the steps. Here, each of us is required to give his name, the address of his lodgings and of his parents (how I shudder to envisage my worthy mother’s disconsolate face; my father’s, so often kindly but soon to be given over wholly to shame and sternness at this intelligence of his son’s latest escapade!). Then we disperse morosely, to assemble later at our favoured Centimetre café. But no joy, no triumph sits with us; we respond not at all to the applauding looks of our less audacious fellows—for have we not lost our pride, our spinner of visions, our Ulysses, our Hoffman? We talk in low tones, chins in hands, and assuredly our every word is a tribute to that generous spirit, now, alas! confined where it can never soar.