Mamusia was very much the high-born hostess, as she understood the role, and wanted to talk to our guests about the University and what they did there. Darcourt’s work she could understand; he taught priests, like himself. He tried to explain that he was not a priest in quite the meaning of that word known to Mamusia and Yerko.
“I am an Anglican, you see,” he said at one point, “and therefore although I am unquestionably a priest, I suppose I might say I am a priest in a Pickwickian sense, if you know what I mean.”
They did not know what he meant. “But you love the Bebby Jesus?” said Yerko.
“Oh, yes indeed. Just as much, I assure you, as our brethren at Rome. Or, for that matter, in the Orthodox Church.”
Hollier had, at his first visit, explained to Mamusia what his work was; he enlarged on that, without suggesting that he regarded her as a cultural fossil, or a possessor of the Wild Mind. “I look into the past,” he said.
“Oho, so do I!” said Mamusia. “All we Romany women can look into the past. Does it give you a pain? When I have looked backward sometimes I have a very bad pain in my women’s parts, if I may speak of such things. But we are not children here. Except for my daughter. Maria, go to the kitchen and see what Rosa is doing. Tell her if she chips one of those plates I will cut out her heart. Now, dear Hollier, you teach looking into the past. Do you teach that to my daughter, eh?”
“Maria is busy studying a remarkable man of past times, one François Rabelais. He was a great humorist, I suppose one might say.”
“What is that?”
“He was a man of great wisdom, but he expressed his wisdom in wild jokes and fantasies.”
“Jokes? Like riddles, you mean?”
“I suppose every joke is a riddle, because it says one thing and means another.”
“I know some good riddles,” said Yerko. “Mostly not riddles I could ask in front of the Bebby Jesus. But can you guess this one? Now listen good. What big, laughing fellow can go into the queen’s bedroom—yes even the Queen of England—without knocking on the door?”
There was the usual embarrassing silence that always follows a riddle, while people pretend to search for the answer, but are really waiting for the asker to tell them.
“You can’t guess? A big, laughing, hot fellow, he even maybe lets himself down on the queen’s bed and sees through her peignoir? Hey?—You don’t know such a fellow?—Oh, yes you do.—The Sun, that’s who! Ah, priest Simon, you thought I meant for dirty, eh?” And Yerko laughed loudly and showed the inside of his mouth right back to the pillars of his throat, in enjoyment of his joke.
“I know a better riddle than that,” said Mamusia. “Now pay attention to what I say, or you will never guess.—It is a thing, you understand? And this thing was made by a man who sold it to a man who didn’t want it; the man who used it didn’t know he was using it. Now, what is it?—Think very hard.”
They thought very hard, or seemed to do so. Mamusia slapped the table emphatically and said, “A coffin!—A good joke for a priest, eh?”
“You must tell me more Gypsy riddles, Madame,” said Hollier; “for me such things are like a wonderful long look into the far past. And everything that can be recovered from the past throws light on our time, and guides us towards the future.”
“Oh, we could tell secrets,” said Yerko. “Gypsies have lots of secrets. That’s what makes them so powerful. Look—I’ll tell you a Gypsy secret, worth a thousand dollars to anybody. Your dog gets into a fight see; both dogs trying to kill other dog—Rowf-rowf! Grrrrr!—you can’t get your dog away. Kick him! Pull his tail! No good! He wants to kill. So what you do? You lick the long finger good—make it good and wet—then you run up and you shove your finger up the arse-hole of one dog—not matter whether your dog or not. Shove up as far as you can. Wiggle it good. Dog surprised. What the hell! he think. He let go, and you kick him good so no more fight.—You got a good dog?”
“My mother has a very old Peke,” said Hollier.
“Well, you do that next time he fight. Show who’s master.—You got a horse?”
Neither of the professors had a horse.
“Too bad. I could tell you how to make any horse yours forever. I tell you anyway. Just whisper up his nose. What you whisper? Whisper your secret name—the name only you and your mother know. Right up his nose, both nose-holes. Yours forever. Leave anybody he living with when you do it, and follow you. Spit in my face if I lie.”
“You see my daughter’s hair is uncovered,” said Mamusia to Darcourt. “That means, you know, that she is without a husband—not even spoken for, though she has a wonderful dowry. And a good girl. Nobody lay a finger on her. Gypsy girls are very particular about that. No funny business, like these shameless gadji girls. What I have heard! You wouldn’t believe! No better than putani. But not Maria.”
“I am sure she is unmarried by her own choice,” said Darcourt. “Such a beauty!”
“Aha, you like the women, though you are a priest. Oh but yes, you priests marry like the Orthodox.”
“Not quite like the Orthodox. They may marry, but they must never hope to become bishops if they do. Our bishops are usually married men.”
“Much, much better! Keeps them out of scandals. You know what I mean,” Mamusia scowled. “Boysss!”
“Well, yes, I suppose so. But bishops have so much of other people’s scandals I don’t think they would care greatly for that sort of thing, even if they weren’t married.”
“Will you be a Bishop, Father Simon?”
“Very unlikely, I assure you.”
“You don’t know. You look just right for a Bishop. A Bishop should be a fine man, with a fine voice. Don’t you want to know?”
“Could you tell him?” said Hollier.
“Oh, he doesn’t care. And I could not tell him, not on a full stomach.”
Cunning Mamusia! Slowly, but not too slowly, Hollier persuaded her to look into the future. The apricot brandy had been going round the table and Hollier was more persuasive, Mamusia more flirtatious, and Darcourt, though he protested, was anxious to see what would happen.
“Bring the cards, Yerko,” she said.
The cards were on the top of a cabinet, because nothing in the room was ever to rest higher than they, and Yerko lifted them down with proper reverence.
“Maybe I should cover up Bebby Jesus?”
“Is Bebby Jesus a parrot, to be put under a cloth? Shame on you, brother! Anything I can see in the future, He knows already,” said Mamusia.
“Sister, I know what! You read the cards, and we tell Bebby Jesus it is a birthday gift to him, and that way there can be no trouble, you see.”
“That is an inspired thought, Yerko,” said Darcourt. “Offer up the splendid talent as a gift. I had not thought of that.”
“Everybody owes a gift to Bebby Jesus,” said Yerko. “Even kings. Look, here are the kings; I made the crowns myself. You know what they bring?”
“The first brings a gift of Gold,” said Darcourt, turning towards the crèche.
“Yes, Gold; and you must give my sister money—not much, maybe a quarter, or the cards will not fall right. But Gold was not all. The other kings bring Frank Innocence and Mirth.”
Darcourt was startled, then delighted. “That is very fine, Yerko; is it your own?”
“No, it is in the story. I saw it in New York. The kings say, We bring you Gold, Frank Innocence, and Mirth.”
“Sancta simplicitas,” said Darcourt, raising his eyes to mine. “If only there were more Mirth in the message He has left to us. We miss it sadly, in the world we have made. And Frank Innocence. Oh, Yerko, you dear man.”
Was it just the apricot brandy, or had the room taken on a golden glow? The candles were burning down, and all the dishes except for plates of chocolates, nougat, and preserved fruits had been removed to the kitchen by me. These trifles were, Mamusia said, to seal up our stomachs, to signal to our digestions and guts, of whatever length, that there would be no more tonight.