Reflecting on the curious conduct of the Major, justly condemned by Cantrip as unbecoming to an officer and gentleman, we made our way to the airport restaurant and there ordered lunch. Selena, as she had promised, read to us the most recent letter from Julia.
My room at the Cytherea.
Monday night.
Dearest Selena,
I do not for a moment question the excellence of your advice — it is as religion with me. I do rather wish, however, that I had asked you just how long one is supposed to keep up this hopes, dreams and aspirations business. You will recall that I have, effectively, only eight days in Venice, of which four have now elapsed. Should it turn out that the process of lulling into a false sense of security requires a minimum of a fortnight — but no, if it were so, you would have told me.
What I mean is that a point presumably arrives at which one stops admiring the young man’s fine soul and noble intellect — or rather, of course, still admires them tremendously, but admits that one’s admiration is tinged with just the faintest soupçon of carnality. And the question which perplexes me is how I am to know, in relation to the enchanting Ned, when that point has been reached.
The trouble is that in spite of my efforts I feel he may already have some suspicion of the nature of my interest in him. He will have become accustomed, in the course of his distasteful employment, to thinking the worst of everyone. It would, moreover, be typical of the practice of the Revenue to let me spend a great deal of time and effort admiring his soul and intellect without intending it to do me any ultimate good. If my fears on this point were to be well-founded, then, it seems to me, I might as well abandon subtlety altogether and adopt the more forthright and vigorous approach recommended by the dramatist Shakespeare. On the other hand, I would not wish to prejudice, by precipitate action, any good I may already have done myself by my restraint.
This morning I began to wonder if it might not be sensible, rather than spend a holiday altogether unenlivened by the pleasures of the flesh, to try my luck with the quite pretty waiter who brings my breakfast. There is something in his manner which suggests that his favours would be less hard to come by than those of the enchanting Ned: one would not, I think, have to talk much about his soul.
And yet afterwards, as we travelled peacefully along the Brenta towards Padua, with the wake of the boat tumbling the reeds at the waterside, I was so moved by the beauty of the surroundings and of Ned’s profile that I felt I would willingly devote the whole week, even if in vain, to undivided pursuit of him. Well, Selena, you will mock me again for being incurably sentimental.
The purpose of the excursion down the Brenta, from the point of view of the Art Lover, is to observe and appreciate the development of the Palladian villa. In the sixteenth century, it seems, all the Venetians decided to go and live in the country. This was due, I suppose, to the republication, as part of the Renaissance, of Horace’s Epistles, in which the poet speaks highly of the simple rustic life. Feeling that if they were going to live the simple life they ought to do the thing properly, the Venetians looked round for someone to build them villas as similar as possible to that occupied by Horace. Andrea Palladio, therefore, then a rising young architect, went out and bought a book by the Roman author Vitruvius, also republished as part of the Renaissance, and read the chapter on building villas. That, at least, is what he meant to read: as it happens, misled by the obscurity of the Latin, he actually read the chapter on building temples. This explains why the Veneto is full of villas looking more or less like the Parthenon, with the addition of the usual domestic offices.
From what one might call the social point of view, the day was not a success. Whenever I managed to draw Ned away from the main body of Art Lovers, with a view to admiring his soul and intellect, the Major would appear suddenly out of nowhere, crying “Jumping Jiminy, this place is quite something, isn’t it?” In the end I abandoned the unequal struggle.
Marylou’s husband still regards me with an unfriendly eye and seemed to be steering her away from me — I was hardly able to talk to her at all. I was obliged, on the other hand, to talk a great deal to Eleanor, who still has hopes of having a row with Graziella. She had two complaints about the excursion: first, that we had not visited enough villas; second, that we had arrived too late in Padua to appreciate the artistic glories of that city. I pointed out in vain that to remedy either of these shortcomings would of necessity aggravate the other. To distract her from any direct conflict with Graziella, I had to keep talking about the Trade Descriptions Act all the way back to Venice. This was rather wearing: it might have been less so if I actually knew anything about the Trade Descriptions Act.
The Major’s conversation at dinner followed, to begin with, its usual pattern, save that his anecdotes tend now to be couched in the form of useful advice, designed to assist me in various difficult situations: “The thing to do, if you’re stranded on shore after hours in Valletta—” “What you want to remember, if you’re running low on water in the Western Desert and Johnny Arab’s getting a bit edgy—” I attended as little as possible, and went back to worrying about Desdemona. In certain predicaments, I may well regret this.
Towards the end of the meal, however, he raised an entirely different subject. Leaning towards me and shielding his mouth, as one wishing to speak in confidence, he asked me if I remembered the French chappie Graziella had been talking about. He proved to be alluding to the late King Henri III of France, mentioned by Graziella as having visited the Villa Malcontenta on his return from Poland in 1583. She had further mentioned that his reign had been of short duration, attributing this to the aversion felt by his subjects to his effeminate habits.
“Don’t know if you followed,” said the Major, “what she said about his effeminate habits?”
“I gathered,” I said, “that the practices which attracted an unfavourable press consisted of something more than an excessive use of eau de Cologne on the handkerchief.”
“Well—” the Major appeared embarrassed. “Word to the wise and so forth. Nod’s as good as a wink. No names, no pack drill.”
“Yes?” I said, trying to be helpful.
“Saw quite a lot of that sort of thing in the Army, I’m afraid. Courts Martial and so forth. Got to know the signs. Well — just between you and me and the gatepost, m’dear, I wouldn’t be surprised if young Ned over there was a bit that way. No names, no pack drill — don’t want to say anything against the lad. Just — not the sort of chap I’d want to share a tent with. Hope you don’t mind my mentioning it, m’dear.”
I was not unduly surprised by this suggestion: it is almost invariably the first thing said about men with profiles by men without profiles. Indeed, it is a benevolent dispensation of Providence that those who express most dread of an unorthodox advance are usually those whom Nature has most effectively protected from any risk of one. Still, the remark placed me in a dilemma. Principle required me to say that it was, if true, no matter for criticism; expediency, on the other hand, urged me to impress on the Major my invincible prudishness. Seeking an answer which should reconcile the two:
“Unless you suppose me,” I said coldly, “to have designs of some sort on the young man, I cannot imagine why you should think the question of any interest to me. I would very much prefer not to discuss the matter.”
“Sorry, m’dear,” said the Major. “Just thought — well, thought you might be getting a bit smitten with him. Wouldn’t like to see you pick a wrong ’un.”
“My dear Bob,” I said, raising a Ragwort-like eyebrow, “I am most obliged to you for your concern. But I am not a swooning adolescent — I am a grown-up woman in practice at the English Bar.”
I was rather pleased with this, since there is, after all, a sense in which it is actually true. The Major was abject in his apologies. Allowing myself to be only somewhat mollified, I excused myself from coffee and came back to my room, to enjoy in privacy the pleasures of writing to you. The others having already withdrawn, the Major was left to entertain Eleanor Frostfield. You may think this a bit hard on Eleanor; but if she ever finds herself running low on water in the Western Desert, at least it won’t be my fault if she doesn’t know what to do about it.
I shall not post this tomorrow morning but shall wait to see if anything of interest occurs during the excursion to Verona. We had the choice between the full day excursion tomorrow, which includes Asolo and Vicenza, and the afternoon excursion on Friday. Hearing Ned sign on for the longer one, I naturally did likewise. Unfortunately, the Major has done the same. Still, perhaps the Major will miss the coach somewhere and be left stranded. Or perhaps Ned and I will both miss the coach somewhere and be left stranded together — that would be even better.
“I say,” said Cantrip, “you don’t think the Revenue chap made a pass at the Major and the Major, in defence of his honour—”
“No,” said Ragwort.
“Oh, all right,” said Cantrip.
Terrace of the Cytherea.
Nearly lunch-time on Wednesday.
It has been known in times past, Selena, when others have spoken disparagingly of men, suggesting that they are as a sex altogether worthless and contemptible, for me to offer a word or two in their defence. I have been heard to say tolerantly that some of my best friends are men, though if I had a daughter I might not wish her to marry one. Not any more, Selena. Henceforth, when the subject of men arises, look for me among those most absolute in condemnation. They are a deplorable sex. Let me tell you what happened on the excursion to Verona; and what happened afterwards.
Graziella, for some reason, was not available to accompany the excursion: we were dependent for guidance on the coach driver, who did not feel the same anxiety for our intellectual improvement: he confined himself, in each of the places we visited, to setting us down in the main square and telling us at what hour he intended to take us up again.
It fell to me, in these circumstances, to act as interpreter for Ned and the Major, neither of whom speaks any Italian. I myself am not the linguist you are kind enough to think me; but I can ask the way with reasonable conviction and usually understand at least some of the answer. Moreover, by the grace of Ragwort, I was in possession of guide books to all the towns we were to visit, so that I was also able to act as guide.
At Asolo I did rather well. The foreign Art Lovers, despite the heat, went rushing off up the hill to look at the Castle; but I, from my perusal of the guide book, was able to tell my companions that we were already in the very square in which the poet Browning had been inspired to write his celebrated poem “Pippa Passes”—the one, if my memory serves me, in which there was joy in the morning.
“This charming and picturesque little town,” I said, “due, no doubt, to being built on a steep hillside, has evidently escaped the attention of developers since the Middle Ages. We may safely assume it to be much as it was in Browning’s day. It seems probable, therefore, that he wrote the poem to which I have referred on the terrace of that rather attractive café, refreshing his Muse, I expect, with a Campari soda or something like that. By doing likewise, we may be able to recreate something of the experience which inspired his immortal lines.” In Vicenza I did rather badly. If you ever happen, Selena, to be in the main square of Vicenza and want to get from there to the Olympic Theatre, final masterpiece of the architect Palladio, do not rely on Ragwort’s guide book. If you do, you will find yourself, before you discover your mistake, halfway down the road to Milan, trying to explain what it was about the Church of Saints Felix and Fortunate that made you think it worth a detour. You will also find yourself having to walk two miles back in the blazing heat to get to the Theatre. If you were not an Art Lover, you might decide at that stage to give the Theatre a miss; but my conscience would not stretch so far — besides, I had told them we were going there.
“My guide books,” said Ragwort, driving his fork rather crossly into one of the scampi which the airport restaurant had obligingly just unfrozen for him, “all contain excellent maps, all perfectly clear and accurate and straightforward. If Julia can’t tell the difference between left and right—”
“No, of course not,” said Selena kindly, “not your fault in the least, Ragwort.”
After all this, the enchanting Ned refused to be pleased with the Theatre. It is a most attractive building, designed with great ingenuity to persuade one, when in the auditorium, that one is in an open air theatre somewhere in ancient Greece. I invited my companions to admire this masterpiece of deception. Ned declined.
“I don’t like it,” he said. “I don’t like looking down streets that aren’t there. I don’t like looking at the ceiling and thinking it’s the sky. I don’t like all this make-believe.” There is no pleasing some people.
In Verona I did superbly. By that time I had worked out the strategy for the successful guide. It’s no use looking through the guide book for something interesting and then trying to get there: it may turn out to be miles away. No, the thing to do is to discover where one is to start with and then find something in the guide book which says that it’s interesting — much inconvenience may thus be avoided.
By looking round a bit during lunch I established that we were in a restaurant near the corner of the Via Oberdan. Identifying the place on the map, I was pleased to see that there were several blobs of brown colouring in close proximity: brown blobs indicate artistic significance. There were, it is true, other blobs of brown some inches away. Pursuant, however, to the policy mentioned above, I ignored them.
After lunch, therefore, I was able with perfect confidence to lead my companions to the Piazza dei Signori and the Piazza dell” Erbe and to point out to them those architectural features of the Palazzo del Capitano and the Palazzo dei Ragione which the guide book considered deserving of attention. The information I gave them may not, I admit, have been in every detail entirely accurate, for the guide book was in Italian: my knowledge of Italian architectural terms is sketchy, you might say nonexistent, as is also indeed my knowledge of English architectural terms. My translation was therefore a trifle emancipated.
We continued to the Cathedral, where I had a further inspiration. Verona lies in a more or less semi-circular loop of river and we had set out from the approximate centre — from the point, I mean, equidistant from each point on the bank: according to the laws of geometry, it seemed to me, we should be able, by walking along the bank and taking, when we chose to do so, a turning perpendicular to it, to return, without retracing our steps, to our point of departure.
Knowing how infrequently in the real world things obey the laws of mathematics or any other logical system, I would not, perhaps, but for the wine we had drunk at lunch, have ventured to put this theory to any empirical test; but Verona showed a proper respect for the laws of geometry.
Leaving the Cathedral, we walked some distance along the bank, observing on our left the grandeur of the view across the river and on our right a row of antique shops, of professional interest to the Major; then, turning off at right angles to the river, we proceeded, so far as possible, in a straight line; and found ourselves, just as Euclid would have expected, back in the main square.
I was astonished at my success. I had taken my companions on exactly the tour I had planned and had thrown in for good measure the Churches of Saint Anastasia and Saint Nicholas, which had presented themselves in our path. In the latter, I had even managed to identify the Madonna and Child by Tiepolo, highly spoken of by the guide book, but treated by the Church with a rather cavalier lack of distinction. It seemed unwise to attempt to improve on my achievement.
“You will observe,” I said, “that this spacious and elegant square is amply furnished with open-air cafés, in which the traveller may find rest and refreshment. Shall we avail ourselves of this circumstance?”
“If you’ll excuse me, m’dear,” said the Major, “I think I’ll just pop back and have another shufti at those antique shops.”
“Are you sure you won’t get lost?” I asked. Much as I would have liked to lose the Major, I felt responsible for him.
“Trust an old campaigner to get back to base,” said the Major cheerfully.
And off he went, leaving me alone with Ned. We sat down together, under the shade of an awning, in one of the cafés previously mentioned.
The time had come, I felt, to talk about Catullus: Verona, you will recall, is the poet’s birthplace. If I could not manage, by judicious quotation from the most ardent of lyric poets, to indicate the warmth of my feelings, there was, I thought, no hope for me. With no need on this subject to resort to the guide book — his work was the chief comfort of my susceptible adolescence — I spoke sympathetically of his attachment to Clodia, severely of her unkindness. Ned chose to defend her.
“I don’t see why you think,” he said, “that she ought to have been so grateful for having all this poetry written to her. I expect your friend Catullus got more fun out of writing it than she did out of reading it — she’d probably rather have been taken out to dinner or something.” And more to the like effect.
“Ah, well,” I said at last. “It is natural that you should take her side. Your own experience, no doubt, is all of being the object of passion, rather than of suffering it.”
“I don’t know why you suppose,” he said, looking down demurely in such a manner as to display the full luxury of his lovely eyelashes, “that I am the object of so much admiration. Or that I am always indifferent to it.”
The reappearance at this stage of the Major, who could perfectly well have gone on wandering round antique shops for another half-hour, seemed singularly ill-timed. If the maps he had purchased, supposed to be of antiquarian interest, turned out to be fakes, it would be, I felt, a deserved consequence of his over-hasty selection.
“Don’t let me interrupt,” said the Major. “Can see you two were having a good old chin-wag.”
“I was complaining,” I said, “of the way I am treated by the Inland Revenue.”
“Julia doesn’t think,” said Ned, “that we are fair to her.”
“Oh no,” I said, “I didn’t say that. I could never say, Ned, that you were anything but fair. What I am complaining of is not your fairness: it is your coldness, your lack of feeling, your indifference to human suffering.”
“Ah well,” said the Major, “only doing your job, of course. I’m sure the little lady doesn’t mean it personally, do you, m’dear?”
“I’m afraid she does,” said Ned. “But I hope to persuade her to think more kindly of us.”
My confidence in Catullus seemed vindicated, for this was not a remark, you will surely agree, Selena, which a well-brought-up young man could make without intending some encouragement. Nor, as you shall hear, was this the only cause given me for optimism.
We continued to sit in the café, reviving ourselves with coffee for our homeward journey. The Major was greatly pleased with his maps, and would have liked to show them to us; but they had been carefully rolled and wrapped and he felt it unwise to undo them. Fearing that the maps would put him in mind of some incident in his military career, I agreed hastily that it would be most imprudent.
“Julia,” asked Ned, after a few minutes, “did you know you had a smudge of ash on your cheek?”
“I didn’t know,” I answered. “But I readily believe it.” If one smokes French cigarettes, it is usual, after an hour or two, to get a certain amount of ash on one’s face.
“If you’ll excuse me—” he said. He rose from his chair and took a clean handkerchief from his pocket. Then he leant over me, and, resting his left hand lightly on my shoulder, gently brushed the ash from my cheek.
This produced in me, as you will imagine, Selena, a passionate agitation, gravely affecting my breathing and heart beat. Yet it was of the most pleasant and hopeful kind, for I could not suppose that any young man, unless utterly heartless and lost to all sense of shame, could conduct himself in such a way towards a woman whose advances were unacceptable.
“Excuse me, m’dear,” said the Major. “Just off to inspect the jolly old ablutions.”
“When we get back to Venice,” I said, taking advantage of his temporary absence, “instead of paying the exorbitant prices which they charge in the bar of the Cytherea, why don’t you come and have an aperitif in my room? I’ve got some brandy I bought in the duty-free shop.” If I had misconstrued his behaviour, I thought, he could always say that he didn’t like brandy before dinner.
“I’d love to,” answered Ned. “How kind of you, Julia.”
You will imagine with what impatience I now looked forward to our return; how bitterly, though silently, I cursed the late arrival of the coach driver; with what equal fervour, though in equal silence, I urged him to drive back at all speed along the autostrada. Nor, during the drive to Venice or our brief journey by boat to our hotel, was there anything in Ned’s smiles or amiable manner to warn me of the unspeakable treachery he was proposing to commit.
We arrived at the landing stage of the Cytherea.
“How about a snifter in the bar?” said the Major.
“You’re forgetting, Bob,” said the enchanting Ned, sharing between us a smile of angelic sweetness, “Julia has kindly invited us to drink brandy in her room.”
O Perfidy, thy name is man. They are, as I have said, a deplorable sex, and never again shall you hear me speak well of them. If I could think kindly of one, it would be of a young man of obliging disposition, such as Cantrip. Cantrip, you may say, has his faults; but at least he can be prevailed on to engage in a health-giving frolic without expecting one to talk for weeks on end about his soul. Cantrip, so far as I am aware, has never claimed to have such a thing.
“I jolly well do have a soul,” said Cantrip.
“Well, don’t tell Julia,” said Selena. “It’ll only upset her.”
I am old enough, I hope, to bear philosophically a reverse in the lists of Aphrodite; but to be obliged, in addition, to offer the Major the hospitality of my room, not to speak of large quantities of my duty-free brandy, was more than I could easily endure. By the time the long day was over, I was too shattered in spirit to take up my pen to write to you: I sought consolation in the Finances Act.
After a morning of looking at churches, I have returned to the Cytherea for lunch. I shall have the company, it seems, of the beautiful but perfidious Ned — I have just seen him coming across the bridge from the annexe. Let him not look to me for kind words or compliments — I shall upbraid him for every infamy committed by his Department since the institution of income tax.
In a mood, as I have indicated, of the most bitter misandry, this leaves me
Yours, as always, Julia.
“Julia is being unreasonable,” said Ragwort. “The young man gave her no encouragement beyond mere civility.”
“There is,” said Selena, “a postscript.”
Wednesday evening.
The deed is done — Clarissa lives. No time to write more.
Yours, as always, Julia.
“Who,” said Cantrip, “is Clarissa?”
“Clarissa,” said Ragwort sadly, “is the eponymous heroine of the celebrated novel by Mr. Richardson. The phrase used by Julia is that, if my recollection serves me, in which the villain Lovelace announces his conquest of her long-defended virtue.”
“I say,” said Cantrip, “do you mean Julia’s scored with the man from the Revenue?”
“It would seem so,” said Timothy. “I hope that’s not going to complicate things. They’re calling my flight — I’d better go. I’ll ring you tomorrow, Selena, as soon as I know anything definite.”
I hope my farewells to Timothy did not seem unduly off-hand. All my goodwill went with him; but I was a little preoccupied — I had remembered something curious about the news from Italy.