My Uncle Oswald

23

FROM VIENNA we drove north in the pale autumn sunshine to Berlin. The war had been over for only eleven months and the city was bleak and dreary, but we had two important persons to visit here and I was determined to collar them. The first was Mr. Albert Einstein, and at his house at Haberlandstrasse 9 Yasmin had a pleasant and successful encounter with this amazing fellow.

“How was it?” I said, asking her the usual question in the car.

“He had a great time,” she said.

“Didn’t you?”

“Not really,” she said. “He’s all brains and no body. Give me Puccini any day.”

“Will you please try to forget that Italian Romeo?”

“Yes, Oswald, I will. But I’ll tell you what’s odd. The brainy ones, the great intellects behave quite differently from the artistic ones when the Beetle hits them.”

“How?”

“The brainy ones stop and think. They try to figure out what on earth has happened to them and why it’s happened. The artists just take it for granted and plunge right in.”

“What was Einstein’s reaction?”

“He couldn’t believe it,” she said. “In fact he smelled a rat. He’s the very first one who has ever suspected us of jiggery-pokery. Shows how bright he is.”

“What did he say?”

“He stood there and looked at me from under those bushy eyebrows and he said, ‘There is something extremely fishy here, fräulein. This is not my normal reaction to a pretty visitor.’

“‘Doesn’t that depend on how pretty she is?’ I said. “‘No, fräulein, it does not,’ he said. ‘Was that an ordinary chocolate you gave me?’

“‘Perfectly ordinary,’ I said, quaking a bit. ‘I had one myself.’

“The little chap was strongly hotted up by the Beetle, Oswald, but like old Freud, he managed to hold off in the beginning. He paced up and down the room muttering, “What is happening to me? This is not natural. . . . There is something wrong. . . . I would never allow this. . . .’

“I was draped all over the sofa in a seductive attitude waiting for him to get on with it, but no, Oswald, absolutely not. For about five whole minutes his thinking processes completely blocked out his carnal desires or whatever you call them. I could almost hear the old brain whizzing round as he tried to puzzle it out.

“‘Mr. Einstein,’ I said, ‘relax.’

“You were dealing with the greatest intellect in the world,” I said. “The man has supernatural powers of reasoning. Try to understand what he says about relativity and you’ll see what I mean.”

“We’d be finished if someone twigged what we were doing.”

“No one will,” I said. “There’s only one Einstein.”

Our second important donor in Berlin was Mr. Thomas Mann. Yasmin reported that he was pleasant but uninspiring.

“Like his books,” I said.

“Then why did you choose him?”

“He’s done some fine work. I think his name is going to live.”

My travelling liquid nitrogen suitcase was now crammed full of straws. I had Clemenceau, Foch, Ravel, Puccini, Rachmaninoff, Strauss, Freud, Einstein, and Mann. So once again we rushed back to Cambridge with our precious cargo.

A. R. Woresley was ecstatic. He knew damn well we were onto something big now. All three of us were ecstatic, but I was in no mood to waste time yet with celebrations. “While we’re here,” I said, “we’ll polish off some of the English lads. We’ll start tomorrow.”

Joseph Conrad was possibly the most important of these, so we took him first. Capel House, Orlestone, Kent was his address and we drove down there in mid-November. To be precise, it was November 16th, 1919. I have already said that I am not keen to give a detailed description of too many of our visits for fear of becoming repetitious. I will not break this rule again unless something juicy or amusing comes along. Our visit to Mr. Conrad was neither juicy nor amusing. It was routine, although Yasmin did comment afterwards that he was one of the nicest men she had met so far.

From Kent we drove to Crowborough in Sussex where we nobbled Mr. H. G. Wells. “Not a bad sort of egg,” Yasmin said when she came out. “Rather portly and pontificating, but quite pleasant. It’s an odd thing about great writers,” she added. “They look so ordinary. There’s nothing about them that gives you the slightest clue to their greatness, as there is with painters. A great painter somehow looks like a great painter. But the great writer usually looks like the wages clerk in a cheese factory.”

From Crowborough we drove on to Rottingdean, also in Sussex, to call on Mr. Rudyard Kipling. “Bristly little bugger,” was Yasmin’s only comment on that one. Fifty straws from Kipling.

We were very much in the rhythm now, and the next day in the same county of Sussex we picked off Sir Arthur Conan Doyle as easily as picking a cherry. Yasmin simply rang the doorbell and told the maid who answered it that she was from his publishers and had important papers to deliver to him. She was at once shown into his study.

“What did you think of Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” I asked her.

“Nothing special,” she said. “Just another writer with a thin pencil.”

“Wait,” I said. “The next on the list is also a writer, but I doubt you’ll find this one boring.”

“Who is he?”

“Mr. Bernard Shaw.”

We had to drive through London to get to Ayot St. Lawrence in Hertfordshire where Shaw lived, and on the way I told Yasmin something about this smug literary clown. “First of all,” I said, “he’s a rabid vegetarian. He eats only raw vegetables and fruit and cereal. So I doubt he’ll accept the chocolate.”

“What do we do, give it to him in a carrot?”

“What about a radish?” I suggested.

“Will he eat it?”

“Probably not,” I said. “So it had better be a grape. We’ll get a good bunch of grapes in London and doctor one of them with the powder.”

“That’Il work,” Yasmin said.

“It’s got to work,” I said. “This lad won’t do it without the Beetle.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Nobody quite knows.”

“Doesn’t he practice the noble art?”

“No,” I said. “He’s not interested in sex. He appears to be a sort of capon.”

“Oh hell.”

“He’s a lanky, garrulous old capon with an overwhelming conceit.”

“Are you suggesting his machinery is out of order?” Yasmin asked.

“I’m not sure. He’s sixty-three. He married at forty-two, a marriage of companionship and convenience. No sex.”

“How do you know that?”

“I don’t. But that’s the general opinion. He himself has stated that ‘I had no adventures of a sexual kind until I was twenty-nine.’”

“A bit retarded.”

“I doubt he’s had any at all,” I said. “Many famous women have pursued him without success. Mrs. Pat Campbell, gorgeous actress, said, ‘He’s all hen and no cock.’”

“I like that.”

“His diet,” I said, “is deliberately aimed at mental efficiency. ‘I flatly declare,’ he once wrote, ‘that a man fed on whiskey and dead bodies cannot possibly do good work.’”

“As opposed to whiskey and live bodies, I suppose.”

Pretty quick our Yasmin was. “He’s a Marxist Socialist,” I added. “He thinks the State should run everything.”

“Then he’s an even bigger ass than I thought,” Yasmin said. “I can’t wait to see his face when the old Beetle strikes.”

On the way through London, we bought a bunch of superb hothouse muscatel grapes from Jackson’s in Piccadilly. They were very costly, very pale yellowish-green, and very large. North of London, we stopped on the side of the road and got out the tin of Blister Beetle powder.

“Shall we give him a double shot?” I asked.

“Triple,” Yasmin said.

“D’you think that’s safe?”

“If what you say about him is true, he’s going to need half the tin.”

“Very well, then,” I said. “Triple it is.”

We chose the grape that was hanging at the lowest point of the bunch and carefully made a nick in its skin with a knife. I scooped out a little of the inside and then inserted a triple dose of powder, pushing the stuff well into the grape with a pin. Then we continued on to Ayot St. Lawrence.

“You do realize,” I said, “that this will be the first time anyone’s had a triple dose?”

“I’m not worried,” Yasmin said. “The man’s obviously wildly undersexed. I wonder if he’s a eunuch. Does he have a high voice?”

“I don’t know.”

“Bloody writers,” Yasmin said. She settled herself deeper into the seat and kept a grumpy silence for the rest of the trip.

The house, known as Shaw’s Corner, was a large, unremarkable brick pile with a good garden. The time, as I pulled up outside, was four twenty in the afternoon.

“What do I do?” Yasmin asked.

“You walk round to the back of the house and all the way down to the bottom of the garden,” I said. “There, you will find a small wooden shed with a sloping roof. That’s where he works. He’s certain to be in it now. Just barge in and give him the usual patter.”

“What if the wife sees me?”

“That’s a chance you’ll have to take,” I said. “You’ll probably make it. And tell him that you’re a vegetarian. He’ll like that.”

“What are the names of his plays?”

“Man and Superman,” I said. “The Doctor’s Dilemma, Major Barbara, Caesar and Cleopatra, Androcles and the Lion, Pygmalion.”

“He’ll ask me which I like best.”

“Say Pygmalion.”

“All right, I’ll say Pygmalion.”

“Flatter him. Tell him he is not only the greatest playwright but also the greatest music critic that ever lived. You don’t have to worry. He’ll do the talking.”

Yasmin stepped out of the car and walked with a firm step through the gate into Shaw’s garden. I watched her until she had disappeared around the back of the house, then I drove up the road and booked a room in a pub called The Waggon and Horses. Up in the room, I laid out my equipment and got everything ready for the rapid conversion of Shaw’s semen into frozen straws. An hour later, I returned to Shaw’s Corner to wait for Yasmin. I didn’t wait long, but I am not going to tell you what happened next until you have heard what happened first. Such things are better in their right order.

“I walked down the garden,” Yasmin told me afterwards in the pub over an excellent steak and kidney pudding and a bottle of reasonable Beaune. “I walked down the garden and I saw the hut. I walked quickly towards it. I was expecting any moment to hear Mrs. Shaw’s voice behind me shouting ‘Halt!’ But no one saw me. I opened the door of the hut and looked in. It was empty. There was a cane armchair, a plain table covered with sheets of paper, and a Spartan atmosphere. But no Shaw. Well, that’s it, I thought. Better get out. Back to Oswald. Total failure. I banged the door shut.

“‘Who is there?’ shouted a voice from behind the hut. It was a male voice, but high-pitched and almost squeaky. Oh, my God, I thought, the man is a eunuch after all.

“‘Is that you, Charlotte?’ the squeaky voice demanded. “What effect, I wondered, would the Beetle have upon a one hundred per cent eunuch?

“‘Charlotte!’ he called. ‘What are you doing?’

“Then a tall bony creature with an enormous beard came round the corner of the hut holding a pair of garden clippers in one hand. ‘Who, may I enquire, are you?’ he demanded. ‘This is private property.’

“‘I’m looking for the public lavatory,’ I said.

“‘What is your business, young lady?’ he demanded, pointing the clippers at me like a pistol. ‘You went into my hut. What have you stolen?’

‘I haven’t stolen a damn thing,’ I said. ‘I came, if you want to know, to bring you a present.’

“‘A present, eh?’ he said, softening a little.

“I lifted the fine bunch of grapes out of the bag and held it up by the stem.

“‘And what have I done to deserve such munificence?’ he said.

“‘You have given me a terrific amount of pleasure at the theatre,’ I said. ‘So I thought it would be nice if I gave you something in return. That’s all there is to it. I have no other motive. Here, try one.’ I picked off the bottom grape and offered it to him. ‘They’re really awfully good.’

“He stepped forward and took the grape and pushed it through all those whiskers into his mouth.

“‘Excellent,’ he said, chewing away. ‘A muscat.’ He glared at me under those beetley brows. ‘It is fortunate for you, young lady, that I wasn’t working or I’d have kicked you out, grapes or no grapes. As it happens, I was pruning my roses.’

“‘I apologize for barging in,’ I said. ‘Will you forgive me?’

“‘I will forgive you when I am convinced that your motives are pure,’ he said.

“‘As pure as the Virgin Mary,’ I said.

“‘I doubt it,’ he said. ‘A woman never pays a visit to a man unless she is seeking some advantage. I have made that point many times in my plays. The female, madam, is a predatory animal. She preys upon men.’

“‘What a damn stupid thing to say,’ I told him. ‘man is the hunter.’

“‘I have never hunted a woman in my life,’ he said. ‘Women hunt me. And I flee like a fox with a pack of hounds at his heels. Rapacious creatures,’ he added, spitting out a seed from the grape. ‘Rapacious, predatory, alldevouring animals.’

“‘Oh, come on,’ I said. ‘Everyone hunts a bit now and again. Women hunt men for marriage and what’s wrong with that? But men hunt women because they want to get into bed with them. Where shall I put these grapes?’

“‘We’ll put them in the hut,’ he said, taking them from me. He went into the hut and I followed. I was praying for the nine minutes to pass quickly. He sat down in his cane armchair and stared at me under great bushy eyebrows. I quickly sat myself on the only other chair in the place.

“‘You are a spirited young lady,’ he said. ‘I admire spirit.’

“‘And you talk a lot of bosh about women,’ I said. ‘I don’t believe you know the first thing about them. Have you ever fallen passionately in love?’

“‘A typical woman’s question,’ he said. ‘For me, there is only one kind of passion. Intelligence is passion. The activity of the intellect is the keenest passion I can experience.’

“‘What about physical passion?’ I asked. ‘Isn’t that in the running?’

“‘No, madam, it is not. Descartes got far more passion and pleasure out of life than Casanova.’

“‘What about Romeo and Juliet?’

“‘Puppy love,’ he said. ‘Superficial tosh.’

“‘Are you saying that your Caesar and Cleopatra is a greater play than Romeo and Juliet?’

“‘Without a doubt,’ he said.

“‘Boy, you’ve got a nerve, Mr. Shaw.’

“‘So have you, young lady.’ He picked up a sheet of paper from the table. ‘Listen to this,’ he said and he started to read aloud in that squeaky voice of his, ‘. . . the body always ends by being a bore. Nothing remains beautiful and interesting except thought, because thought is life. . . .’

“‘Of course it ends by being a bore,’ I said. ‘That’s a pretty obvious remark. But it isn’t a bore at my age. It’s a juicy fruit. What’s the play?’

“‘It’s about Methuselah,’ he said. ‘And now I must ask you to leave me in peace. You are pert and pretty but that does not entitle you to take up my time. I thank you for the grapes.’

“I glanced at my watch. Just over a minute to go. I had to keep talking. ‘I’ll be off then,’ I said. ‘But in exchange for my grapes I’d love it if you gave me your autograph on one of your famous postcards.’

“He reached for a postcard and signed it. ‘Now be off with you,’ he said. ‘You have wasted enough of my time.’

“‘I’m going,’ I said, fumbling about and trying to string out the seconds. The nine minutes were up now. Oh Beetle, lovely Beetle, kind Beetle, where are you? Why have you deserted me?”

“A bit dicey, that,” I said.

“I was desperate, Oswald. It had never happened before.

“‘Mr. Shaw,’ I said, pausing by the door, searching for a time killer, ‘I promised my dear old mother who thinks you are God the Father himself to be sure to ask you one question... .’

“‘You are a pest, madam!’ he barked.

“‘I know I am, I know, I know, but please answer it for her. Here’s the question. Is it really true that you disapprove of all artists who create works of art for purely aesthetic reasons?’

“‘I do, madam.’

“‘You mean pure beauty is not enough?’

“‘It is not,’ he said. ‘Art should always be didactic, serving a social purpose.’

“‘Did Beethoven serve a social purpose, or Van Gogh?’

“‘Get out of here!’ he roared. ‘I have no wish to bandy words—’ He stopped in mid-sentence. For at that moment, Oswald, heaven be praised, the Beetle struck.”

“Hooray. Did it hit him hard?”

“This was a triple dose, remember”

“I know. So what happened?”

“I don’t think it’s safe to give triples, Oswald. I’m not going to do it again.”

“Rocked him a bit, did it?”

“Phase one was devastating,” Yasmin said. “It was as if he were sitting in an electric chair and someone had pulled the switch and jolted him with a million volts.”

“Bad as that?”

“Listen, his whole body rose up off the chair and there it hung, in mid-air, rigid, quivering, the eyes popping, the face all twisted.”

“Oh dear.”

“Rattled me.”

“I’ll bet.”

“What do we do now, I thought. Artificial respiration, oxygen, what?”

“You’re not exaggerating, are you, Yasmin?”

“God no. The man was contorted. He was paralyzed. He was garrotted. He couldn’t speak.”

“Was he conscious?”

“Who knows?”

“Did you think he might kick the bucket?”

“I reckoned it was about even money.”

“You really thought that?”

“You only had to look at him.”

“Christ, Yasmin.”

“I stood there by the door and I remember thinking, well whatever happens this old buzzard’s written his last play. ‘Hello there, Mr. Shaw,’ I said. ‘Wakey wakey.’”

“Could he hear you?”

“I doubt it. And through his whiskers I could see white stuff, like brine, forming on his lips.”

“How long did all this last?”

“A couple of minutes. And on top of everything else I began worrying about his heart.”

“Why his heart, for God’s sake?”

“He was going purple in the face. I could see his skin going purple.”

“Asphyxia?”

“Something like that,” Yasmin said. “Isn’t this steak and kidney delicious?”

“It’s very good.”

“Then all of a sudden he came back to earth. He blinked his eyes, took one look at me, gave a sort of Indian whoop, leaped out of his chair, and started tearing off his clothes.

“‘The Irish are coming!’ he yelled. ‘Gird up your loins, madam! Gird up your loins and prepare for battle!’

“Not exactly a eunuch then.”

“It didn’t look like it.”

“How did you manage to roll the old rubbery thing on him?”

“There’s only one way when they get violent,” Yasmin said. “I grabbed hold of his snozzberry and hung onto it like grim death and gave it a twist or two to make him hold still.”

“Ow.”

“Very effective.”

“I’ll bet it is.”

“You can lead them around anywhere you want like that.”

“I’m sure.”

“It’s like putting a twitch on a horse.”

I took a mouthful of Beaune, tasting it with care. It had been shipped by Louis Latour and it was really very fair. One was fortunate to find something like that in a country pub. “So then what?” I said.

“Chaos. Wooden floor. Horrible bruises. The lot. But I’ll tell you what’s interesting, Oswald. He didn’t know quite what to do. I had to show him.”

“So he was a virgin?”

“Must’ve been. But a damn quick learner. I’ve never seen such energy in a man of sixty-three.”

“That’s the vegetarian diet.”

“It could be,” Yasmin said, spearing a piece of kidney with her fork and popping it into her mouth. “But don’t forget he had a brand-new engine.”

“A what?”

“A new engine. Most men of that age are more or less worn out by then. Their equipment, I mean. It’s done so much mileage things are beginning to rattle.”

“You mean the fact that he was a virgin . . .”

“Precisely, Oswald. The engine was brand-new, completely unused. Therefore no wear and tear.”

“Had to run it in a bit though, didn’t he?”

“No,” she said. “He just let her rip. Flat out all the time. Full throttle. And when he’d got the hang of it he shouted, ‘Now I see what Mrs. Pat Campbell was on about!’”

“I suppose in the end you had to get out the old hatpin?”

“Of course. But you know something, Oswald? With a triple dose they’re so far gone they don’t feel a thing. I might’ve been tickling his arse with a feather for all the good it did.”

“How many jabs?”

“Till my arm got tired.”

“So what then?”

“There are other ways,” Yasmin said darkly.

“Ow again,” I said. I was remembering what Yasmin had once done to A. R. Woresley in the lab to get away from him. “Did he jump?”

“About a yard straight up,” she said. “And that gave me just enough time to grab the spoils and dash for the door.”

“Lucky you kept your clothes on.”

“I had to,” she said. “Whenever we give an extra dose it’s always a sprint to get away.”

So that was Yasmin’s story. But let me now take it up from there myself and go back to where I was sitting quietly in my motor car outside Shaw’s Corner in the gathering dusk while all this was going on. Suddenly out came Yasmin at the gallop, flying down the garden path with her hair streaming out behind her, and I quickly opened the passenger door for her to jump in. But she didn’t jump in. She ran to the front of the car and grabbed the starting handle. No self-starters in those days, remember. “Switch on, Oswald!” she shouted. “Switch on! He’s coming after me!” I switched on the ignition. Yasmin cranked the handle. The motor started first kick. Yasmin dashed back and jumped into the seat next to me, yelling, “Go man, go! Full speed ahead!” But before I could get the gear lever properly engaged, I heard a yell from the garden and in the half-darkness I saw this tall, ghostlike, whitebearded figure charging down upon us stark naked and yelling, “Come back, you strumpet! I haven’t finished with you yet!”

“Go!” Yasmin shouted. I got the car into gear and let out the clutch and off we went.

There was a street lamp outside the Shaw house, and when I glanced back I saw Mr. Shaw capering about on the sidewalk under the gaslight, white-skinned all over save for a pair of socks on his feet, bearded above and bearded below as well, with his massive pink member protruding like a sawn-off shotgun from the lower beard. It was a sight I shall not readily forget, this mighty and supercilious playwright who had always mocked the passions of the flesh, himself impaled now upon the sword of lust and screaming for Yasmin to come back. Cantharis vesicatoria sudanii, I reflected, could make a monkey out of the Messiah.