The Land of Summer (16 page)

‘I have, thank you,’ Emmaline replied, with a small look backwards at the science shelves as they started to leave. ‘Yes, I have for the moment,
thank
you. Now I dare say you wish to return to your business, Julius?’

She gave him a pointed look, a look that said, ‘If I may not come to your offices, then you may not chaperon me in a bookshop.’

The look worked its own stern magic. Julius made her a little bow and left the shop, and Emmaline went in search of the owner.

‘Mr Hunt.’

‘Mrs
Aubrey
.’ Mr Hunt gave Emmaline a calm, avuncular look, the sort of look that could as well have been a reassuring hand on her arm. ‘One of the grand aspects about owning a bookshop,’ he continued, ‘is that one gets to know the most interesting people, and sometimes those people have need of discretion. All my customers know they can rely upon my complete discretion, Mrs Aubrey. Now, this volume I was recommending to you …’

After her narrow escape Emmaline made no immediate attempt to return to the shop, not only afraid that Julius might bump into her again and this time catch her red-handed with a volume that he would consider to be completely unsuitable for a well-brought-up young lady, but worried too that despite Mr Hunt’s undoubted kindness (why else would he have rescued her from her dire situation?) she might be trespassing upon his good nature if she reappeared in his shop demanding to buy some sort of educational textbook on that most sensitive of all subjects – biology.

The real problem for Emmaline was that Mr Hunt’s very kindness might set up some sort of conspiratorial relationship between them, and if Julius, who would not even countenance her receiving ladies’ calls, chanced upon his wife and Arthur Hunt together a second time, he might well jump to an entirely wrong conclusion.

Despite realising that she might be making dramas where there were none, Emmaline decided it was better to play safe and eschew the bookshop until some time had passed. Besides, she had a feeling that she might have come up with a better idea, for while they had been in the bookshop together she had become aware that they shared an interest in poetry, a rapport out of which perhaps some sort of emotional contact might be made. It was of course possible that she was clutching at all too famous straws, but she decided to try to continue their poetry discussion at home, knowing that the more interests they found in common, the greater chance she had of founding a true relationship with Julius, of the tall figure and the thick dark hair, of the sudden bright gaze, and the elusive ways.

So while Julius was away on business, planning the redecoration and refurnishing of some neglected castle on the Scottish borders, Emmaline plunged herself into reading everything by Browning and as much as she could about Browning, starting with
The Ring and the Book
. She soon discovered that it seemed to be a sort of
epic
poem, not at all the kind of verse that she had somehow expected.

Confused, and feeling foolish, no matter which way she approached the work Emmaline could find no easy way into understanding it. She tried reading it aloud, she tried copying out passages – an old device much used by her governess when she was trying to get across some point – but still the meaning remained all too obscure.

It was a great disappointment to her. She longed to find that elusive key to Julius’s personality, a key that she knew once found must open the door to his heart. Browning was a poet he obviously admired, but who was very new to her. The page was a blank to her, just as her lack of knowledge of fundamental biology was also a blank. Yet again she had to bring herself to realise that she needed help, and where better to seek assistance in deciphering Robert Browning than the place where she bought her very first volume of the poet’s verses, Mr Hunt’s bookshop in True Street? At last she determined to put aside any trepidation she might feel about returning there. The matter was too important. At least, since Julius was away, she would not be running the risk of his suddenly reappearing, even though this time she would be clutching the right kind of volume, and not a book of biology, with illustrations.

‘Of course I would like to help you, Mrs Aubrey,’ Mr Hunt assured her when she reappeared in his busy bookshop. ‘The trouble is I am not quite as well versed as I pretend to be,
my
main concern being the recommendation and selling of books rather than their finer innermost meanings. However, do not despair – I can see from that pretty young face of yours that you are beginning to imagine your quest is hopeless, but it is not. For here within my own portals I have a young assistant, a graduate of Oxford no less, who is really quite brilliant when it comes to the illumination of modern poetry. Of all poetry in fact – it was and of course still is his subject. Naturally, a young man of such brilliance is only working here to pay his way while he tries to make his own name as a poet. If you like I can call him across and he will enlighten you about Robert Browning, and any other poets you might choose to try.’

‘That would be very kind of you, Mr Hunt,’ Emmaline replied. ‘But are you sure he would not find it a burden? On top of all the work he has to do? I could perhaps pay him, of course—’

‘Mrs Aubrey,’ Mr Hunt cut in, holding up a hand to stop her. ‘I shall introduce you to the young man and you may ask him whatever questions you need to ask about the poet and the verse. After all, that is what he is here for, that is what
I
pay him for. When a book is purchased here in my shop, I like to think that I and my assistants give our customers the very best attention, not only while they are thinking of buying it, but after they have done so. I make this a boast of mine, that my bookshop provides a unique service in this way. I doubt if you will find
many
other booksellers, if in fact
any
others, who adopt this philosophy.’

Leaving the acquiescent Emmaline by his desk, the courtly Mr Hunt went to find the person for whom he was looking, returning shortly afterwards with a fresh-faced young man, good-looking in a traditional Anglo-Saxon way, with curly flaxen hair and large inquisitive hazel eyes. He was tall and well proportioned, although not as tall as Julius, and Emmaline’s first impression as she shook one strong hand was that his looks were more akin to those of a sportsman than a poet.

‘May I present Mr Bray Ashcombe to you, Mrs Aubrey,’ Mr Hunt was saying as Emmaline shook his hand, already aware of the bright hazel eyes trying to sum her up. ‘Mr Ashcombe, this is Mrs Aubrey, and she is most anxious to learn to appreciate Mr Robert Browning’s poetry.’

Bray Ashcombe looked at the pretty face staring up at him with such innocence of expression, and wondered at it.

‘Are you a native of Bamford, Mr Ashcombe?’ Emmaline enquired, much taken by the young man’s open expression as well as the definite touch of mischief about his eyes.

‘Most certainly, madam,’ Bray replied. ‘While I would guess that you are a long way from your home, which I think might be … in or near Boston.’

‘Why, Mr Ashcombe!’ Emmaline exclaimed, in mock surprise. ‘How very clever of you. Have you been to America?’

‘Sadly, no, Mrs Aubrey.’ Bray smiled. ‘I had a great friend at Oxford who was – well, he still is, actually, an American and a very fine mimic of accents from all parts of the world, especially his native country. We’d often pass the time doing accents. I taught him some English regional ones and he taught me to recognise various American ones. It’s a bit of a party trick.’

‘Yes, now, well, this is all very sociable, I’m sure.’ Mr Hunt laughed. ‘But our customer is here on a mission, young man. She wants a tutorial on Robert Browning. One of your own personal favourites, is he not?’

‘Indeed he is, sir,’ Bray replied, his eyes still on Emmaline. ‘What in particular do you need to know, madam? How may I help you? Are you reading anything in particular?’

‘
The Ring and the Book
, as it happens,’ Emmaline replied. ‘I purchased it here only the other day.’

‘Yes, of course, I remember seeing you come in. You were wearing a dark red coat, and a fur hat. You reminded me of a painting I had just seen in London, by Mr Sargent, also an American.’

‘I did? Are you sure?’ Emmaline asked in some surprise, and she coloured a little at the idea that anyone could have noticed her at all.

‘Indeed I do. Although my recollection is of the lady in dark red browsing in the science section rather than the poetry shelves.’

‘I was looking for all sorts of books,’ Emmaline said quickly. ‘I like to read on many different subjects. I have a catholic attitude to knowledge.’

‘As do I,’ Bray agreed. ‘I just don’t have the time I need at my disposal.’ He smiled at her, as if expecting her to say something, but Emmaline stayed silent, not wanting to seem too forward, while at the same time becoming all too aware that Mr Ashcombe’s bright eyes were the twin beacons of perhaps a truly fine intelligence, and his attractive appearance was somehow the more startling for his standing in a bookshop discussing poetry.

‘Very well,’ Bray said, pulling a chair out for Emmaline to sit at one side of the desk. ‘Please allow me. Nothing will give me greater pleasure than to help you to an understanding of Robert Browning. The distinguishing feature of Browning’s poetry, the way he differs from his peers and predecessors, Mrs Aubrey, is that his style is to write mainly in monologues, not only so that he may best convey the setting and the dramatic action, but also to demonstrate the protagonist’s character.’

‘It is, I confess, not at all the sort of style I have been used to reading, Mr Ashcombe,’ Emmaline told him, looking at him a little apologetically. ‘I suppose I’m more accustomed to epic and narrative poetry, and this is where my difficulty seems to lie. I am trying to see him in a particular way and failing, and I know that, and yet I still founder, truly I do.’

‘There’s no need to founder, truly there is no need,’ Bray assured her. ‘We must still think of Browning as a Romantic poet, even though his
style
seems quite at odds with what we have become accustomed to see as Romantic poetry. If I may go on a little?’ Emmaline nodded her consent, attending closely, loving as always to listen and learn. ‘Many of these poems, not particularly the one before us, but much of Browning’s verse, seem like soliloquies but this is just not so, believe me, and the deeper you journey into Browning the more you will understand this. Unlike normal soliloquies, the meaning of what Browning says in his
dramatic monologues
– which is how I like to describe them – is not what his protagonist actually seems to be saying, but often lies in what his subject reveals
involuntarily –
sometimes when trying to explain away something in the past, or to justify what he believes is the rightness of his actions. It’s rather like sitting and listening in a court of law, which is where we come to the poem you are reading now – we hear Browning’s character composing his defence, which we as his readers are challenged to accept or throw out of court, if you like. You’ll find he chooses some pretty odd characters as his protagonists, Mrs Aubrey. No easy path for Browning – no handsome, heartbroken, dashing heroes in these pages. No, in his poems you will find some very debased characters, debauchees, perhaps even those who seem to be murderers.’ Emmaline put a hand to her mouth and widened her eyes at the thought of reading about such characters in verse, the form of writing she had always taken to be the most romantic of all.

Seeing this Bray smiled, and nodded before continuing in his rich, light baritone. ‘Have you read “My Last Duchess” for example, Mrs Aubrey?’ When Emmaline shook her head, he went on, ‘Then you will be in for a great surprise when you do, I promise you. It is written in a very sophisticated and cultivated rhetoric to suit the Duke, who is narrating it, yet it contains passages of sheer unadulterated horror, a depiction of someone losing their mind entirely, even though the lunacy is so eloquently expressed. Within the verses we learn that the duchess, the eponymous “last duchess”, was murdered not because she was unfaithful or because she had no respect for her position, but merely because she enjoyed simple everyday things and habits and customs, which did not fit in with the mad Duke’s scheme of things at all – while in the poem you are endeavouring to fathom Browning has written what may be described as a modern epic in which he tries to justify the ways of God to us, the readers, the jurors if you like, through twelve long monologues written in blank verse, all of them uttered by a group of people who are standing trial for murder. So you can see, if you will, that Browning is asking questions of his readers. He wants us to take an entirely different journey in poetry from the ones we have taken previously, and if we can learn his ways and accept his forms, then we shall see things in an entirely new light.’

‘Thank you, Mr Ashcombe,’ Emmaline said, after the short silence that followed when he had
finished
. ‘I know that I could never, ever have arrived at such an erudite explanation.’ She shook her head. ‘He is obviously very demanding, is he not? Mr Robert Browning, a very demanding poet, possibly even a very demanding man, but then a man of genius, which justifies his poetic stance, does it not? Thank you so much for your exposition.’

‘No need, no need at all, and you must remember, however much one is brought to
appreciate
verse, one can’t be made to
like
it,’ he said. ‘Nothing and no one can make you like the poem other than yourself. We can admire the structure, the conception, the skill – but finally it has to involve us emotionally or intellectually. So if you are asking me to help you
like
this poet because you think you ought to, then there is no point, because that will not be the result. As is the way with so many wretched schoolchildren, who end up hating Shakespeare precisely because they have been taught to like him, instead of being taught to
understand
him while being allowed to form their own opinion.’

Bray’s expression was so intense, his emotion so honest and so real, that Emmaline felt herself unusually affected. It was as if by sitting beside him she had drawn a chair up to a warm fire. His personality seemed to be radiating an impetuous vigour, a delightful determination to engage.