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Authors: Stephen Wade
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knee. ‘Picked it up as I came in … Smythe said it had just arrived.’
‘Oh, it’s what I expected!’
‘Why aren’t you playing billiards in there George? Young Tabby Culhorn’s taking on all-comers at a fiver a go and you could beat him surely?’ Harry asked, as his friend opened the letter, read it, and then put it away in an inside pocket.
‘Something wrong, you great skulking aristocrat?’
George took a cigarette from its case and waited until it was lit before replying. ‘Sit down, Harry, if you have a while to listen.’
‘Of course. Whatever’s the matter?’
When Harry was settled and attentive, George gave a deep sigh and said, ‘An affair of the heart, Harry.’
‘Well, that’s nothing new for you old boy … only last January you were pursuing that horse-riding woman back in Lincolnshire.’
‘Oh Harry, that was a jeu d’esprit … a trifle. This is the real thing. You have brought me a note from Irina Danova. Need I say more? Your copious memory will recall I have spoken of her before.’ His friend’s face was blank. ‘Very well, you have forgotten. Well, I met Irina when I was in Persia back in ’85. God, Harry, she took my soul away! Now here she is in London, five years later, inviting me to a recital. She’s singing classical lieder at the Steinway Hall tomorrow evening.’
‘Well George, that’s a fine thing, surely? I can hum along with Arthur’s tunes at The Savoy every day of the week, but lieder … that’s another thing!’
‘Really Harry, enough about the damned lieder ! Oh, I’m sorry. Keep to your sonnets and your odes, Harry. Love is not in your vocabulary is it? Have you ever felt the pain of the kind of love that eats at you? I’ve tried to forget her and failed miserably. My mind is constantly of her … I feel her close to me, sense her perfume, merely talking of her to you now. Now here she is, on my doorstep, as it were.’
‘You couldn’t be more wrong old man. I may be the ageing bachelor today, but I was once engaged to be wed … some years ago now. I never told you.’
George suddenly sat forward, stubbed out his cigarette and gave Harry a little punch on the shoulder. ‘Well, you old critic, you – you’re a dark horse. What happened … she got bored of your lectures on Sir Philip Sidney?’
‘She died. Pneumonia.’
George was shocked and struggled for words, such was the shame rising in him. ‘I’m so sorry, Harry, I had no idea.’
‘Well how could you? Enough said. Tell me about this Irina will you.’
‘Even better … read this while I go and challenge our Tabby Culhorn, the brazen little beggar. Look at the pages for June 1885. No one else has ever seen this, Harry. But I know that you will understand, that you will respond with feeling and integrity.’ He tossed the book onto Harry’s knee. It was a leather-bound travel journal, with Lord Lenham-Cawde: Journal 1883-6 written in longhand on the cover panel. ‘I was young and foolish then, Harry, but my emotions were sure, and they never took the world lightly.’
The book had clearly been on its travels: it was stained with unspeakable colours of revolting origin; the corners were dog-eared, and there were ink-blots evident everywhere, but he found the right page and read:
June 2 1885, Tehran
Being still suffering from the knife wound to my thigh on the last Sudan assignment, I have to spend some time here, and God is smiling on me in that delay. Irina is here, having three weeks’ stay with M. Couron, the French ambassador. She has agreed to sing in a series of concerts for the Pasha, but has ample time for recreation. We have renewed our acquaintance, as I met her in Paris last year.
My heart leapt to see her. Memories of our time in Paris came flooding back, filling my imagination with scenes of sheer joy. To think that Carstairs and the other officers are all up in Afghanistan while I linger here, enjoying what some would call the dalliance of the young
‘Oh, it’s what I expected!’
‘Why aren’t you playing billiards in there George? Young Tabby Culhorn’s taking on all-comers at a fiver a go and you could beat him surely?’ Harry asked, as his friend opened the letter, read it, and then put it away in an inside pocket.
‘Something wrong, you great skulking aristocrat?’
George took a cigarette from its case and waited until it was lit before replying. ‘Sit down, Harry, if you have a while to listen.’
‘Of course. Whatever’s the matter?’
When Harry was settled and attentive, George gave a deep sigh and said, ‘An affair of the heart, Harry.’
‘Well, that’s nothing new for you old boy … only last January you were pursuing that horse-riding woman back in Lincolnshire.’
‘Oh Harry, that was a jeu d’esprit … a trifle. This is the real thing. You have brought me a note from Irina Danova. Need I say more? Your copious memory will recall I have spoken of her before.’ His friend’s face was blank. ‘Very well, you have forgotten. Well, I met Irina when I was in Persia back in ’85. God, Harry, she took my soul away! Now here she is in London, five years later, inviting me to a recital. She’s singing classical lieder at the Steinway Hall tomorrow evening.’
‘Well George, that’s a fine thing, surely? I can hum along with Arthur’s tunes at The Savoy every day of the week, but lieder … that’s another thing!’
‘Really Harry, enough about the damned lieder ! Oh, I’m sorry. Keep to your sonnets and your odes, Harry. Love is not in your vocabulary is it? Have you ever felt the pain of the kind of love that eats at you? I’ve tried to forget her and failed miserably. My mind is constantly of her … I feel her close to me, sense her perfume, merely talking of her to you now. Now here she is, on my doorstep, as it were.’
‘You couldn’t be more wrong old man. I may be the ageing bachelor today, but I was once engaged to be wed … some years ago now. I never told you.’
George suddenly sat forward, stubbed out his cigarette and gave Harry a little punch on the shoulder. ‘Well, you old critic, you – you’re a dark horse. What happened … she got bored of your lectures on Sir Philip Sidney?’
‘She died. Pneumonia.’
George was shocked and struggled for words, such was the shame rising in him. ‘I’m so sorry, Harry, I had no idea.’
‘Well how could you? Enough said. Tell me about this Irina will you.’
‘Even better … read this while I go and challenge our Tabby Culhorn, the brazen little beggar. Look at the pages for June 1885. No one else has ever seen this, Harry. But I know that you will understand, that you will respond with feeling and integrity.’ He tossed the book onto Harry’s knee. It was a leather-bound travel journal, with Lord Lenham-Cawde: Journal 1883-6 written in longhand on the cover panel. ‘I was young and foolish then, Harry, but my emotions were sure, and they never took the world lightly.’
The book had clearly been on its travels: it was stained with unspeakable colours of revolting origin; the corners were dog-eared, and there were ink-blots evident everywhere, but he found the right page and read:
June 2 1885, Tehran
Being still suffering from the knife wound to my thigh on the last Sudan assignment, I have to spend some time here, and God is smiling on me in that delay. Irina is here, having three weeks’ stay with M. Couron, the French ambassador. She has agreed to sing in a series of concerts for the Pasha, but has ample time for recreation. We have renewed our acquaintance, as I met her in Paris last year.
My heart leapt to see her. Memories of our time in Paris came flooding back, filling my imagination with scenes of sheer joy. To think that Carstairs and the other officers are all up in Afghanistan while I linger here, enjoying what some would call the dalliance of the young
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