Chapter IX

In 1918 Teixeira’s health had so much improved that he was able to dispense with all violent and disabling cures.

This was the period when he was, socially, in greatest request. I introduced him, in the spring, to Mr. and Mrs. Asquith, who shewed him much hospitality and great kindness from this time until his death. His leaves were now usually spent with them at Sutton Courtney; but, since he required to take little or no sick-leave, the number of letters exchanged in this year is small.

At the armistice, he left the Intelligence Section to become secretary to the department; and, though we worked in the same building for two or three months more, I naturally saw less of him than when we shared the same table. The last communication that passed between us as colleagues, like the first, written three years before, contained an invitation. Its form must be explained by reference to Stevenson’s and Osborne’s _Wrong Box_. Rudyard Kipling has mentioned, in _A Diversity of Creatures_, the sublime brotherhood to whom this book is a second Bible.

“I remembered,” [he writes in _The Vortex_], “a certain Joseph
Finsbury who delighted the Tregonwell Arms ... with nine ...
versions of a single income of two hundred pounds, placing the
imaginary person in—but I could not recall the list of towns
further than ‘London, Paris, Bagdad, and Spitzbergen.’ This
last I must have murmured aloud, for the Agent-General suddenly
became human and went on: ‘Bussoran, Heligoland, and the Scilly
Islands’—‘What?’ growled Penfentenyou. ‘Nothing,’ said the
Agent-General, squeezing my hand affectionately. ‘Only we have
just found out that we are brothers.... I’ve got it. Brighton,
Cincinnati and Nijni-Novgorod!’ God bless R. L. S.[7]...” One
of the greatest living authorities on _The Wrong Box_ was a
member of the Reform Club; and, on joining, Teixeira found it
necessary to his self-protection to study the most aptly-quoted
work in the world.

My invitation was couched in the cryptic terms of the
brotherhood:

_MATTOS. Alexander William de Bent Teixeira,
if this should meet the eye of, he
will hear something to his advantage
by lunching with me to-day at the far
end of Waterloo Station (Departure
Platform) or even at Lincoln’s Inn._

_War Trade Intelligence Department._

_30 December, 1918._

On leaving the department early in 1919, I saw and heard little of Teixeira until he invited me to collaborate in the translation of _The Tour_. Occasional divergencies of opinion about translating Latin words in the English rendering of a Dutch novel had the very desirable result of making Teixeira set out some few of the principles which he followed.

_Couperus sends me this postcard, ~he writes, 29.4.18~:_

_“Amice,_

_“You are of course at liberty to act according to your taste
and judgement. I do not however understand the thing: in every
novel treating of antiquity the classical word sometimes gives
a nuance to the untranslatable local colour. And every novelist
feels this: See ~Quo Vadis~, in Jeremiah Curtius’ translation.
However, do as you think proper._

_“Yours,_
_“L. C.”_

_He has us on the hip with his Jeremiah Curtius. And I feel
more than ever that you were too drastic in your views and I
too weak in yielding to them...._

_We should always guard ourselves against the bees in our
bonnets. When I produced Zola’s ~Heirs of Rabourdin~, the
stage-manager said his play-actors couldn’t pronounce Monsieur,
Madame and Mademoiselle to his liking: might he try how it
would sound with Mr., Mrs., and Miss Rabourdin? He tried!_

_If your principle were carried to any length, you would
have to call a pagoda a tower, a jinrickshaw a buggy,
a café a coffee-house, a gendarme a policeman (i.e. a
~sergent-de-ville~), a toga a cloak, a gondola a wherry, an
Alpenstock an Alpine stick, a ski a snowshoe: one could go on
for ever!_

_Yet I am ever yours,_

_Tex._

In the spring and summer of 1919 our letters became more frequent. Though Teixeira spent most of his time in his department, I employed the first months of liberation in staying with friends. The translation of _The Tour_ went on apace; and arrangements were made for the English publication of _Old People and the Things That Pass_. If he had given his readers no other book by Couperus or by any other writer, he would still have established two reputations with this.

_It’s a funny thing, ~he writes~, 21.5.19; 4:57 a.m.; but I
find that I can no longer trs. Latin, even with a dictionary.
I suppose it’s because I can’t construe it. Would you mind
putting a line-and-a-bit of Ovid into English for me? Here it
is:_

Materian superabat opus, nam Mulciber illic
Æquora celarat.

_... My intentions are to go down to I. for 5 or 6 days on the
5th of June and to join my wife at Bexhill on or about the 18th
for 3 or 4 weeks._

_“Bexhill-on-Sea_
_Is the haven for me,”_

_sang Clement Scott in a visitors’-book discovered by Max
Beerbohm, who tore him to pieces for it in the ~Saturday~, in
an article signed “Max.” Scott, pretending not to know who Max
was, flew to the ~Era~ and wrote his famous absurdity, “Come
out of your hole, rat!” Gad, how we used to laugh in those
days!..._

My reply began:

_I resent your practice of heading your letters with the
unseemly time at which you leave a warm and comfortable bed.
~And I dated my own~: 22 May, 1919. Cocktail-time. What would
you think of me if I headed my letters with the equally
unseemly time at which I sometimes go to bed? I have been
working so late one or two nights last week and this that the
times would coincide, and you might bid me good-morning as I
bade you good-night...._

_I went ... to a musical party.... I felt that it was incumbent
upon me to see whether you had done anything in the matter of
the Belgian quartette.[8] You will be shocked to hear that the
quartette is not only still in existence, but has added a
supernumerary to turn over the music of the pianist...._

_~On 7.6.19, he wrote from Somersetshire~: You are—it is borne
in upon me that you must be—a secret autograph-hunter. Here am
I, hoping to do nothing but sleep 26 hours out of the 24, to
do nothing ever, to the great ever; and here come you, hoping
for a letter, lest you be pained. A scripsomaniac, my poor
Stephen, a scripsomaniac you will surely be, if you do not
check yourself in time._

_Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes! I know that I am Satan rebuking sin;
but was Satan ever better employed? Far rather would I see him
rebuking sin than prompting letters for idle hands to write._

_Well, I know that I am staying in Somersetshire with I., who
is at this moment speeding towards the Hôtel du Vieux Doelen
at the Hague, to nurse a sick friend. Ker pongsay voo der sah?
And I am happy as the day is long, petted and coddled by his
delightful mother, lolling from the morning unto the evening in
the open air and doing not one stroke of work. And utterly at
my ease, not even blushing when my brother cuckoo mocks me from
the tree-top, as he does sixty times to the minute._

_I return on the 12th; on the 13th I go cuckooing at the Wharf,
returning on the 16th; ... on the 18th I join my wife at
Bexhill; how, I ask you, can I come a-cuckooing in Lincoln’s
Inn?_

_Nor do see any chance of touching ~The Tour~ while I am here.
I am really too busy to do aught but play the sedulous cuckoo
in Cockayne. So let my visit to you be a pleasure (to both of
us) postponed...._

_~To this I replied, 14.7.19~: I lunched yesterday with one
Butterworth, who is opening up a publisher’s business. In the
course of conversation I mentioned to him your translation of
~Old People and the Things that Pass~. More than that, I took
upon myself to lend him my copy of the American edition so that
he might have an opportunity of forming his own opinion of it.
You may, if you like, call me interfering and presumptuous,
but I have not committed you in any way to anything, and
yesterday’s transaction may be regarded as no more than the
loan of a book from one person to another. I, as you know, feel
it a reproach that that book is still unpublished in England,
and, if Butterworth thinks fit to make you a good offer, no one
will be better pleased than me...._

_~On 26.7.19 he wrote from Bexhill~: If it comes on to rain
as it threatens daily, I shall be returning ~The Tour~ to you
quite soon; and in any case it will go back to you before I
leave here on the 15th of July: I must reduce the weight of my
luggage; I had to run all over the town to find two stalwart
ruffians to carry it to the attic where I sleep._

_You need not look at it before we meet unless you wish; but
you may like to do Cora’s song[9] in your sleep meanwhile; and
my additional comments and queries are few._

_I am leading here that methodical humdrum life which alone
makes time fly. When I return to town you shall see me
occasionally at the opera, but not oftener than twice a
week. You will have to look for me, however, for I shall be
stalking behind pillars, cloaked in black, like Lucien de
What’s-his-name, hiding from my black beast, Lady...._

_P.S. Can you tell me if Beecham intends to do any light operas
at Drury Lane in addition to that tinkly, overrated ~Fille de
Madame Angot~? I am dying to hear the whole Offenbach series
before I die._

A letter from Bexhill, dated 2.7.19, touches on one general principle of translating:

_... With all deference, a translator’s first duty is not to
translate. His first duty is to love God, honour the king
and hate the Germans. His next duty is to produce a version
corresponding as near as may be with what an English original
writer, if he were writing that particular book, would set
down. His last duty is to translate every blessed word of the
original...._

Next day he wrote:

_~T. B. [Thornton Butterworth]~ is taking “O. P.” ~[Old
People]~ and coming down here to see me on Saturday._

_Ever so many thanks for your generous offices in the
matter...._

On Peace Day, in a letter dated from Finsbury Circus, Teixeira writes:

_Here sit I, putting in four or five hours before a train
leaves to take me to Herbert George and Jane Wells at Easton
Glebe and reading ~Quo Vadis~. Already, in 99 pages, I have
discovered 21 expressions which you would undoubtedly have
condemned in ~The Tour~._

_... This is interesting: ~[the author]~ says that in Nero’s
day it was already becoming a stunt among the Romans to call
the gods by their Greek Names. Tiberius was not so much
earlier—was he?—than Nero that the practice might not have
begun even then. If so, we can let Couperus have his way and
retain those few names. They are very few, I think. I can
remember at the moment only Aphrodite and Zeus and possibly
Eros. It may be that Juno is mentioned as Hera, but I doubt it._

_There is a charming garden, with a most beautifully kept lawn.
The flowers ... consist entirely of the only three that I
dislike: fuchsias, begonias and red geraniums._

_Still ..._

_I hope that you are spending the day as peacefully and that
this will find you well and happy...._

_Two east-end Jews within hail of me are talking Yiddish and
sharing a Daily Snail between them. There is a cat. There is or
am I. And there are those fuchsias._

On 18.8.19, I wrote:

_The North of Ireland seems beating up for a storm, does not
it? I suppose there is no point in my reminding you that a
perfect gentleman would not fail to present himself at Euston
next Friday at 8.10 p.m. to tuck me into my sleeper and see
me safely off? My address in Ireland from Aug. 23rd to 31st
is (in the care of Sir John Leslie, Baronet) Glaslough, Co.
Monaghan...._

_At 8.10 on Friday, ~he replied, 20.8.19~, this perfect
gentleman will be eating his melon at Huntercombe Manor House,
Henley-on-Thames (in the care of Squire Nevile Foster), but
for which he would undoubtedly come to see you oft in the
stilly night. I wish you safely through the war-zone, happy
and interested in this, your first visit to Ireland and
prosperously home again. Now do not write and answer that you
have paid eighteen visits to Ireland before: those eighteen
visits have always been and always will be to my mind as
mythical as the travels of Mungo Park or Mendes Pinto...._

Feeling that I must acquaint Teixeira with my safe arrival in Ireland, I wrote, 28.8.19:

_Glaslough, Co. Monaghan._

_... I am here; yes, but how did I get here? I am here; yes,
but shall I ever get away? I left London on Friday with my
young and very lovely charge, encountered engine-trouble and
reached Holyhead an hour late. I sat on the boat-deck with
her (but without an overcoat), watching the dawn until I
was chilled to the marrow and any other man would have been
delirious with pneumonia. The breakfast-car train had left, so
we took a later one from Dublin. Being faced with the prospect
of waiting 2½ hours at Clones, I got out at Drogheda to send
a telegram to the Leslies, begging them to meet us there by
car. Unhappily, the train went on without me, bearing away my
young and very lovely charge, my suit-case, my despatch-box, my
umbrella and my hat. I was left with a pair of gloves and my
charge’s ticket.... I bought myself a cap of 4/6 and a clean
collar for /4d, and spent the day writing letters, contriving
epigrams and lunching off scrambled eggs and Irish whiskey._

_I have been taken to the McKenna grave at Donagh and
presented—by Shane—to the clan as its head, which I am
not. The recognition of Odysseus by his old nurse was
eclipsed by the recognition accorded me by an old woman who
remembered—unprompted—my coming to Glaslough twelve years ago
and thanked God that she had been spared to see me again. It is
a very lovely place that the Leslies have taken from us._

_But how to leave it? It is Horse Show week, and every sleeper
has been booked for three weeks. I shall have to cross from
Belfast to Liverpool, I think, and try to get my sleeping done
on the boat. And that means that I shall not be home till
Tuesday. Can’t be helped._

On 31.8.19 Teixeira wrote to greet me on my return from Ireland:

_After your preliminary wanderings, my dear Stephen O’Dysseus,
welcome home again! You were always the worst courier in the
world; I’ve not ever known you to bring one of your young and
very lovely charges to her destination without encountering
cataclysmal adventures on the road.... Still, would that I had
known that you can buy collars, clean and therefore presumably
new collars, at Drogheda for fourpence apiece. Yesterday I paid
fifteen shillings for a dozen...._

On 21.12.19 he writes to offer me good wishes for Christmas:

_The one and only thing that the Fortunate Youth appeared to
me not to possess will reach you in a little registered packet
to-morrow evening.... You are to accept it as a token of the
happiness which I wish you during this Christmas and the whole
of the coming year._

_That was a very jolly party on Wednesday: I enjoyed
everything: the gay and kindly company, the admirable
foodstuffs, even the music; and, if it be true, as I told you,
that Covent Garden has shrunk in size since my young days, I am
compelled to confess that your box was a larger than I ever saw
before._

_At this season of excess, ~he writes on Christmas Day~, I am
allowed to indulge my passion for chocolates, but not to buy
any for myself; and it was most thoughtful of you to pander to
my taste. Thank you ever so much. And thank you also for your
good wishes...._

_I must be off to mass, but not without first begging you to
hand your mother and sister my best wishes for a happy New
Year. As to you, I shall see or talk to you before then.... My
young Sinn Feiner has written a novel[10] which to my mind is
a most remarkable production and which will have to be read by
you at all costs. It is published in Dublin; and it is doubtful
whether a single other copy will find its way to this foreign
land._

In April Teixeira and his wife went to Hove: and on 27.4.20 he writes:

_It is blowing what-you-may-call-it here: ’arf a mo’, ’arf a
brick, half a gale. Apart from that, we are well and send our
love._

Commenting on a house-party which I had described, he adds:

_All we can do, my dear Stephen, is to ask you to remember the
old adage:_

_Birds of a feather flock together;_

_and the modern variants:_

_Birds of a beak meet twice a week;_
_Birds of a voice share a Rolls-Royce;_
_Birds of a kidney are Alf and Sydney;_
_Birds of a tail are hail-fellow-hail;_
_Birds of a crest are twins of the best;_
_Birds of a gizzard are witch and wizzard;_
_Birds of a chirrup are treacle and syrup;_
_The hawk and the owl sit cheek by jowl._

_Yours ever,
Alexander and Lily Tex._

The next letter was from his wife and brought the news that Teixeira’s health had taken an unexpected turn for the worse. His life was not in immediate danger, but henceforward he must regard himself as an invalid and must work under the conditions imposed by his doctor.