The Cardboard Crown (21 page)

In the first half of October, Alice’s diaries are in French, but mostly not in very small writing. It has been a little difficult to disentangle as when she has filled the space allotted for the day she goes over onto the memorandum pages, or back to the days in February which she did not fill in, when presumably she was having the treatment by the masseuse. Where she uses some phrase which might sound too baldly sentimental in English, I have left it in French. She begins on:

‘
28 Septembre
. Jeudi. S. Exupère: A. T. met me at the station. Although, except for the meet at Boyton, it is over twenty years since we have seen each other, there was no constraint. He appeared exceedingly pleased to see me, as I
was to see him. I felt that it was as if we had both accumulated a great deal to share with each other. He had a carriage to drive me to the hotel, and on the way he said: “It is wonderful to have you here,” and then he gave a curious little laugh and said: “I expect it was the Fountain of Trevi.” I laughed too, and for the first time since that terrible morning when I was last in Rome, the pain it left, like a little dry stone in my heart, was completely dissolved. For long years I was not conscious of it, but by thinking I could always feel it. Now I knew I would never feel it again. What pleased me about our meeting was that it was so light-hearted. It might have been embarrassing with both of us trying to conceal that the feelings of twenty years ago were dead, or else if they were not, aware of their unsuitability today. He had engaged some rooms at the hotel, with a private sitting-room, rather expensive, but I don’t suppose it will matter for a week or two. I am not going to think of money while I am here. I shall draw a cheque on Frome. My rooms were full of beautiful roses, a sort of tawny pink with a delicious scent.
The same kind that I left here withered!
When I was going up to change A. asked: “What do you want to do this evening? Are you tired after the journey? Perhaps you want to rest.” He looked as if he would be disappointed if I wanted to rest, which I said I did not. He suggested we should dine together somewhere, not at his apartment as he had not ordered dinner there. I invited him to dine here. He was very pleased at my invitation. It is extraordinary, but we seem to know each other better now than we did before. Then there was the constraint between us, which comes with uncertainty as to another’s feelings. Then he arranged things for me, very kindly, but without quite letting
me know what was going to happen. Now he is as simple and friendly as a schoolboy, asking me what I would like to do. After dinner we walked along to the Spanish Steps and up on to the Pincio. When we passed Keats’s house he said: “He could have been saved if his trustees had sent him his money. Trustees are horrid people.” We walked along the Pincio, and leaned against the balustrade, looking down over Rome. There was no moon, but the sky was full of brilliant stars, and the dark-leaved trees were mysterious in the starlight. Below us were the domes of those twin churches, but we could not see much beyond them. It reminded me of that evening at San Miniato, when we stood looking down over Florence, and he asked me if he might show me Rome. There are certain incidents in our lives, casual questions or remarks which sound unimportant at the time, but which we never forget. That was one of them. I don’t think that I shall ever forget tonight either. He went on talking about Keats, and he said that a great civilisation resulted only when the aristocracy and the artist worked fruitfully together, that this co-operation had produced Rome. He said that was why he lived in Italy. That in England since the eighteenth century there had been none of this co-operation. I was very interested in what he said, and in the whole style of his conversation, which is far more cultivated than that I am used to. I thought this before, but now he is much more mature, as well as less reserved in his manner. He walked back with me to the hotel, and said: “What time shall I call for you tomorrow?” as if there was no doubt that I am going to spend my whole time in Rome in his company. So I asked him to come at half-past ten. He is very nice.

‘
29 Septembre
. Vendredi. S. Michel. This morning I said that I would like to walk about and renew my impressions of Rome itself, rather than go to see any particular place. We went first to Trevi. The little square and the great fountain which I had last seen looming mysteriously in the moonlight, were now all clear in the morning sun. This seemed to me symbolic of my relationship to A.T. The sheet of falling water, then black and silver, was now all sparkling diamonds. How unhappy we make ourselves when we are young. I was going to throw in another coin, but A. said: “Not yet. You must do it by moonlight.” I said there was no moon. Being with him makes me notice things so much more. If I had been with anyone else last night, I would not have remembered today that there was no moon. He said: “There will be before you leave.” So we shall have to come to the fountain again one moonlight night before I go. From there we walked slowly up to the Quirinale, and sat on a marble seat in the piazza. There is something quite unique and delightful in walking about with him in this leisurely fashion, and sitting down in odd places in this wonderful city, where there is always some evidence of faith or genius before one’s eyes. My other sightseeing has been more conscientious, but never in the company of anyone with so much knowledge, though I never feel that A. is deliberately instructing me. It is simply that I feel the atmosphere of the place more when I am in his company. I said that he made sightseeing a pure pleasure. He said: “But what is it for if it is not for pleasure? It’s not a duty. You don’t feed the poor by looking at a picture. Not long ago a woman asked me what she ought to admire. There’s no “ought” about it. One goes to look at Praxiteles’s faun, because there
one sees the spring-time of the world, all the unconscious careless impudence of the young male expressed in a single beautiful body. It makes one laugh with pleasure. One goes to see it to laugh with pleasure. One goes to see Michael Angelo’s Pieta to weep. If you don’t laugh or weep at these things there’s no virtue in going to see them. But if you are filled with laughter and pleasure when you see the Praxiteles faun, you have increased your understanding, and that, as Blake says, brings you to Heaven. We shall go to see it this afternoon.” I said: “I expect I shall laugh from nervousness.” That amused him very much. After luncheon we went to the Capitoline Museum to see the faun. He would not let me look at anything else, but led me straight to it. It is very beautiful, but though it seems a shocking thing to admit, it reminded me of Austin when I first knew him, and I felt a curious emotion, and my eyes were a little moist. A.T. is very sensitive about other people, and when we walked away he said: “Well, I suppose any emotional response will do, as long as you’re not academic.” He talks a great deal like that, half-serious and half-amusing, and yet one never feels that he is really flippant about serious things. I can understand his being friendly with Arthur when they met, all those years ago, as they have much the same attitude, though A.T. has more knowledge than Arthur. I was looking forward to being with him in Rome, but had not anticipated this maturity of his mind, combined with his greater ease of manner. It is an added pleasure. Sometimes I feel he is chaffing me, as about the faun. I should have thought that I would have disliked this, but I rather enjoy it. He also assumes that my mind has developed along the same lines as his own. No man has ever
spoken to me assuming such a high level of intelligence, and this is very flattering. When we returned I said that I was a little tired, which was true, and that I would write letters this evening and go to bed early. I don’t want to make myself a nuisance to him. I don’t know whether he was glad or sorry when I said this. He looked at me with a kind of quizzical expression. He certainly felt
something
about it. He was not just indifferent. Wrote to the lawyers agreeing to let Maclean off all debts and to let him have the Bourke Street property on a new lease at £3000 a year, as Austin recommends. Wrote to the Commercial Bank asking when my £900 would be available. Sent Steven a cheque for £105 on the Bank of Australasia. The £5 for the baby.

‘
1 Octobre
. Dimanche. S. Rémy. Went to the High Mass at St Peter’s. They all went in procession. There was a Cardinal in a beautiful cope of gold embroidery on petunia silk, but it clashed in colour with his scarlet train. Many Canons in purple with fur. Sistine choir singing Palestrina. The sunlight coming in misty shafts through high windows touched the whole atmosphere with gold and caught bits of gilded carving on the walls. The brilliant colour of the procession coming down the vast church was very impressive. When I came out I was astonished to see A.T. in the small crowd of people. I was also delighted and showed it perhaps too clearly. It is the only time I have met him unexpectedly, except at the meet at Boyton, and as then, I had a feeling of intense pleasure, which I cannot believe he did not share. He said that as I had told him I was going to St Peter’s he had come to meet me. I told him how beautiful the Mass had been, and asked why he did not come. He said: “I thought
you might prefer to be alone.” I replied that he made everything in Rome more enjoyable. I thought it permissible to say this. He said: “But in church it is better to be alone.” I thought this a strange remark, as I like to have my friends with me. It was a fine morning and the air had that soft clear quality which it seems only to have in southern countries. The piazza looked so light and spacious, with the little redwheeled carriages and the sunlight on the fountains. I said it was like a Canaletto and he turned to me with the quick smile he gives when I say something he likes.

‘In the afternoon we went to S. Maria in Aracoeli, I saw the first Christian altar in Rome, and a miraculous Bambino, and some huge marble popes. Afterwards we sat in the sun at the top of that great flight of steps. It was hot but I had my parasol, the one lined with Brussels lace. A. is more unconventional now than he used to be, which I like. He used not to sit about on steps or anywhere as he does now. Also he does not seem to care so much for society. He has not taken me anywhere to meet people, as he did before. Again this pleases me, as I would far rather talk with him than with Italian dukes. We did meet a contessa somebody in the Corso this afternoon and he introduced me, but not as his sister-inlaw. He may think that at our age this sop to the conventions is no longer necessary. It became too hot on the steps and we went through the church again on to the shady steps on the other side. The view was very fine, over the arches and ruined temples and pine trees to the distant blue of the Alban Hills. I said how fortunate he was to live in the most beautiful city in the world. He said: “Yes, but then if one is depressed there is nowhere else to go.” He sounded a little unhappy. Perhaps he
is lonely. He has never married. I must not get ridiculous ideas into my head.

‘
2 Octobre
. Lundi. S.S.
Anges Gard
. This morning we went to the Borghese palace. We sat in the gardens first as it was such a beautiful morning. We were so interested talking that we did not notice the passage of time, and when we stood up to go into the palace, we found it was time to return for luncheon. I did not mind as I really prefer talking to A. to anything. He shows everything in a more interesting and truer light. I don’t only mean statues in Rome, but things like one’s attitude to other people. We were very amused when we found that we had been so interested in our conversation that we had not noticed the time, also because we were quite satisfied that it should be so. We came back to the hotel. He has not asked me to a meal in his apartment. He says he has not a good cook, but I went there to tea this afternoon. It is not as magnificent as my memory of it, but I have seen so many palaces and fine houses since, and then I was new to Italy, and the grandeur of Rome. There were not so many servants. The only one I saw was a boy of sixteen in a footman’s livery too big for him, who brought in the tea. The pictures also are not the masterpieces I had imagined. I liked them, but they are by unknown seventeenth century painters. I had thought they were by Titian and Veronese, though of course they couldn’t have been, though Lady Dilton told me that A. had a large fortune from his uncle. All the same the rooms themselves are magnificent. I suppose the quality of his mind has improved and he feels less need for outward show. It makes us more at ease with each other. In the evening we went to a concert. The last piece was the
Siegfried Idyll.
After the concert, although
it was very late, we went again on to the Pincio. A. said something like this: “There is a chord which continues all the time, the eternal music of humanity. Our lives break out of it and form different patterns of sound—they may be the motif of a single life, or the richer harmonies when two lives intermingle. Then they subside and are drawn into the eternal chord, as all the motives are drawn into the long chord at the end of the
Siegfried Idyll.
” The pine trees in the Medici Gardens filled the air with their scent. It is now after 2 a.m. but I find it hard to stop writing about these wonderful days. He is calling for me at 10.30 tomorrow morning.

‘
3 Octobre
. Mardi. S. Trophima. I know it is foolish at my age, but I felt my heart beating rapidly this morning when I was expecting A. He was a few minutes late and I felt some apprehension. I shall have to stop this sort of thing or I shall become ridiculous. Perhaps it is worthwhile being ridiculous to be happy. One is only
not
ridiculous for the benefit of other people. The happiness one feels oneself. When he arrived he was preoccupied, almost impatient. He was quite polite of course and explained that he had to reply to an urgent letter from England. He said at once that I ought to see the Borghese palace and I felt that he was blaming me for yesterday morning, when we dawdled in the gardens. That was one of the happiest mornings I have spent for years, so it was particularly wounding to me to feel that he repudiated it. This may all be absurd, and I may be building up a situation out of nothing, but I do not think I imagined it. One is always more sensitive to a person’s manner than to what he actually says. The palace was beautiful, particularly the entrance hall, and I saw some pictures I
have long wanted to see, but I did not enjoy it. A. who so far has made me feel keenly the beauty of anything we have seen together, this morning seemed to blind me to it, and I might as well have been walking through Paddington railway station. He brought me back to the hotel and I thought he was going to leave me, but I asked him to stay to luncheon. He accepted, but in a faintly surprised way, as if I had thought of a nice idea, not as if it were a matter-of-course that we should lunch together, as we have done every day since I have been here. I ordered some rather expensive wine which he had recommended and he was pleased at this. His mood changed and he became as gentle and cheerful as I have always seen him. We walked a little way from the hotel and went into the cloister of a church, one of those odd, delightful corners of Rome, of which he knows so many. There were orange trees and a fountain in the middle. The line of columns was very dignified, and the sunlight was reflected up into the clean, simple vaulting. I said how pleasant it was to be able casually to stroll into places like that—that in Australia if there were just one such place people would travel a thousand miles to see it. He asked me for the first time with real interest if I liked living in Australia. I told him that for some things I liked it very much, for my friends there, and the climate and the scenery, which round Westhill is far more spectacular than round Waterpark, though the latter has more quiet charm. When I talked to him about these things I had that strange feeling one sometimes has that it had all happened before. We talked about the effect of all this classical art on one’s mind, and he quoted a little poem about Greece and Rome, which began: