Esprit de Corps by Lawrence Durrell

Author:Lawrence Durrell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media

7

Drage’s Divine Discontent

“Did I ever tell you about the time when Drage, the Embassy butler, began to suffer from visions? No? Well, it was dashed awkward for all concerned and Polk-Mowbray was almost forced to Take Steps at the end.

“You probably remember Drage quite well: a strange, craggy Welsh Baptist with long curving arms as hairy as a Black Widow. A moody sort of chap. He had a strange way of gnashing his dentures when he spoke on religious matters until flecks of foam appeared at the corners of his mouth. For many years he had been a fairly devout fellow and always took a prominent part in things like servants’ prayers. He also played the harmonium by ear at the English church—a performance to be carefully avoided on Sundays. For the rest one always found him hunched over a penny Bible in the buttery when he should have been cleaning the M. of W. silver. His lips moved and he made a deep purring sound in his throat as he read. We were all, frankly, rather scared of Drage.

“The awful thing about him was that he wore a wig so obvious that he gave one the impression of having just stepped off the stage after a successful performance as Caliban. It was an indeterminate badger-grey affair which left a startling pink line across his forehead. The gum-like colour of the integument simply didn’t match the rocky blueish skin of his face. Everyone knew it was a wig. Nobody ever dared to say so or allude to it.

“As for the visions, he confessed later that they had been gaining on him for some considerable time, and if he never mentioned them before it was because he felt that once we all recognized him as the Lord’s Anointed we might give him the sack, or at least ask him to step down in favour of Bertram the footman. As you see, there were flashes of reason in the man. But all this intense Bible-squeezing could not help but have an effect on him, and one night at a party given for the Dutch Ambassador he dropped his tray and pointed with shaking finger at the wall behind Polk-Mowbray’s head, crying in the parched voice of an early desert father: ‘Here they come, sor, in all their glory! Just behind you, sor, Elijah up, as sure as I’m standing here!’ He then covered his eyes as if blinded by the vision and fell mumbling to his knees.

“While in one sense one felt privileged to be present at Drage’s Ascension into Heaven by fiery chariot, nevertheless his timing seemed inconsiderate. First of all poor Polk-Mowbray sprang to his feet and overturned his chair. Our guests were startled. Then to make things worse the Naval Attaché who dabbled in the occult and who hated to be left out of anything pretended to share Drage’s vision. I think he had been drinking pink gins. He pointed his finger and echoed the butler. ‘There they go!’ he said in cavernous tones.

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