«Yes. Happiness must exist. It can't all be made of pain. But what is happiness made of? All right, all right, Francis, I'll go to bed. What's the worst image of suffering you can think of?»
«A concentration camp.»
«Yes. I'll meditate on that. Good night. Perhaps she'll come back in the morning.»
«Perhaps you'll be happy this time tomorrow.»
The morning brought the crisis of my life. But it was not anything that I could have conceived of in my wildest imaginings.
«Wake up, wake up, Brad, here's a letter.»
I sat up in bed. Francis was thrusting at me a letter in an unfamiliar hand. It had a French stamp. I knew that it could only be from her. «Go, go, and close the door.» He went. I opened the letter, shuddering, almost weeping with hope and fear. It read as follows.
Please please don't feel badly about me, don't be too sad or cross with me either. Forgive my ignorance of myself, forgive my worthless empty selfish youth. I can't quite now believe that you absolutely loved me, how could you have done. A mature woman would attract you much more deeply. I think that men like «youthful bloom» and so on but perhaps they don't really distinguish young girls much from one another and quite rightly, one is so unformed. I hope you don't think I behaved like a «loose woman.» I felt great feelings and at every moment I did what seemed unavoidable. I don't regret anything unless I hurt you and you won't forgive me. I must stop this letter, I keep saying the same things over and over again, you must be quite fed up. I am so very sorry that I went without saying good-bye. (I got a lift back to London quite easily, by the way. I'd never hitch-hiked before.) I felt I had to go, though I didn't think anything else just then, and since then it has seemed more sensible to keep on with that course rather than make more muddle and misery for everybody, though I terribly terribly want to see you. We will meet again, won't we, later on perhaps, after some time, and try to be friends, when I am a little more mature. That will be something new and valuable too. I feel now, especially as we go farther and farther south, that life is full of all kinds of possibilities. I do hope I shall manage with the Italian! Oh forgive me, Bradley, forgive me. I expect by now you just feel that you have had an odd dream. I hope it has been a good dream. Mine was. Oh I do feel so unhappy though, I feel all topsy-turvy. I don't know when I've cried so much. I have been so stupid and thoughtless. I love you with real love. It was a revelation. I don't unsay anything. But it wasn't part of any life we could have lived.
Julian
«Brad, may I come in?»
I was dressing.
«Is it good news, Brad?»
«She's in Italy,» I said. «I'm going after her. She's in Venice.»
The letter had, of course, been written for Arnold's eye. The bit about his «providing the stamp» made that plain. The girl was being supervised, virtually a prisoner. Of course she couldn't, as she said, «explain clearly.» She had continued writing a vague repetitive effusion, in the hope of being able to put in a real message at the last moment, hence the references to «not being able to end.» That had proved impossible. Doubtless Arnold arrived, read the letter and told her to complete it. Then he took it away and posted it. He would see to it that she had no money to buy stamps herself. However she had managed to tell me that she was writing under duress. She had also managed to convey her destination. «Snow and ice,» to which she had drawn attention, patently meant Venice. The Italian for «snow» is «neve,» and together with the reference to «Italian words,» the anagram was obvious. And in «topsy-turvy» language a little place in the mountains clearly meant a large place by the sea. And Arnold had mentioned Venice, though then to mislead me. Names are not uttered at random.
«Are you going to Venice today?» said Francis, as I was getting into my trousers.
«Yes. At once.»
«Do you know where she is?»
«No. The letter's in code. She's staying with a fan of Arnold's, I don't know who.»
I thought for a moment. «All right. You might be useful.»
«Oh good! Shall I go now and get the tickets? You should stay here, you know. She might telephone or you might get a message or something.»
«All right.» That made sense. I sat down on the bed. I was feeling rather faint again.
«And-I say, Brad, shall I do some detective work? I could go to Arnold's publisher and find out who his Venice admirer is.»
«How?» I said. The flashing lights were coming back and I saw Francis's face, all plumped out with eagerness, surrounded by a cascade of stars, like a divine visitation in a picture.
«I'll pretend to be writing a book about how different nationalities see Arnold's work. I'll ask if they can put me in touch with his Italian admirers. They might have the address, it's worth trying.»
«It's a brainwave,» I said. «It's an idea of genius.»
«And Brad, I'll need some money. I'll book us to Venice then.»
«There may be no direct flight at once, if there isn't book us through Milan.»
«And I'll get some maps and guide-books, we'll need a map of the city, won't we?»
«Yes, yes.»
«Make me a cheque then, Brad. Here's your cheque book. Make it out to 'bearer' and I can take it to your bank. Make it a big one, Brad, so I can book us the best way. And Brad, would you mind, I haven't any clothes, it'll be hot there, won't it, do you mind if I buy some summer clothes, I haven't a thing?»
«Yes. Buy anything. Buy the guides and a map, that's a good idea. And go to the publisher. Yes, yes.»
«Can I buy you some things, you know, a sun hat or a dictionary or anything?»
«No. Go quickly. Here.» I gave him a large cheque.
«Oh thanks, Brad! You stay here and rest. I'll be back. Oh how exciting! Brad, do you know, I've never been to Italy, ever at all!»
When he had gone I went into the sitting-room. I had a blessed purpose now, an objective, a place in the world where she might be. I ought to be packing a suitcase. I felt incapable of doing so. Francis would pack my case. I felt faint with longing for Julian. I still held her letter in my hand.
In the bureau bookcase opposite to me were the love poems of Dante. I pulled them out. And as I touched the book I felt, so strange is the chemistry of love, that my embroiled heart was furthering its history. I felt love now in the form of a sort of divine anger. What I was suffering for that girl. Of course I would love my pain. But there is a rich anger which is bred so, and which is of the purest stuff that love is ever made of. Dante, who spoke his name so often and suffered so at his hands, knew that.
S'io avessi le belle trecce press, che fatte son per me scudiscio e ferza, pigliandole anzi terza, con esse passerei vespero e squille: e non sarei pietoso ne cortese, ami farei com' orso quando scherza; e se Amor me ne sferza, io mi vendicherei di piu di mille.
Ancor ne It occhi, and' escon le faville che m'infiammono il cor, ch'io porto anciso, guarderei presso e fiso, per vendicar lo fuggir che mi face: e poi le renderei con Amor pace.
I was lying face downwards on the floor, holding Julian's letter and the Rime together against my heart, when the telephone rang. I staggered up amid black constellations and got to the instrument. I heard Julian's voice.
No, it was not her voice, it was Rachel's. Only Rachel's voice, in emotion, horribly recalling that of her daughter.
«Oh-« I said, «Oh-«, holding the telephone away from me. I saw Julian in that second in a jagged explosion of vision, in her black tights and her black jerkin and her white shirt, holding the sheep's skull up before my face.
«What is it, Rachel, I can't hear?»
«Bradley, could you come round at once.»
«I'm just leaving London.»
«Please could you come round at once, it's very, very urgent.»
«Can't you come here!»
«No. Bradley, you must come, I beg you. Please come, it's something about Julian.»
«Rachel, she is in Venice, isn't she? Do you know her address?
I've had a letter from her. She's staying with a fan of Arnold's. Do you know? Have you got an address book of Arnold's you could look it up in?»