I had various letters from M—. He had told me to go to Girgenti. But I arrived in Girgenti when there was a strike of sulphur-miners, and they threw stones. So I did not want to live in Girgenti. M— hated Taormina – he had been everywhere, tried everywhere, and was not, I found, in any good odour in most places. He wrote however saying he hoped I would like it. And later he sent the Legion manuscript. I thought it was good, and told him so. It was offered to publishers in London, but rejected.
In early April I went with my wife to Syracuse for a few days: lovely, lovely days, with the purple anemones blowing in the Sicilian fields, and Adonis-blood red on the little ledges, and the corn rising strong and green in the magical, malarial places, and Etna flowing now to the northward, still with her crown of snow. The lovely, lovely journey from Catania to Syracuse, in spring, winding round the blueness of that sea, where the tall pink asphodel was dying, and the yellow asphodel like a lily showing her silk. Lovely, lovely Sicily, the dawn-place, Europe’s dawn, with Odysseus pushing his ship out of the shadows into the blue. Whatever had died for me, Sicily had then not died: dawn-lovely Sicily, and the Ionian sea.
We came back, and the world was lovely: our own house above the almond trees, and the sea in the cove below. Calabria glimmering like a changing opal away to the left, across the blue, bright straits and all the great blueness of the lovely dawn-sea in front, where the sun rose with a splendour like trumpets every morning, and me rejoicing like a madness in this dawn, day-dawn, life-dawn, the dawn which is Greece, which is me.
Well, into this lyricism suddenly crept the serpent. It was a lovely morning, still early. I heard a noise on the stairs from the lower terrace, and went to look. M— on the stairs, looking up at me with a frightened face.
‘Why!’ I said. ‘Is it you?’
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘A terrible thing has happened.’
He waited on the stairs, and I went down. Rather unwillingly, because I detest terrible things, and the people to whom they happen. So we leaned on the creeper-covered rail of the terrace, under festoons of creamy bignonia flowers, and looked at the pale blue, ethereal sea.
‘When did you get back?’ said he.
‘Last evening.’
‘Oh! I came before. The contadini said they thought you would come yesterday evening. I’ve been here several days.’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘At the San Domenico.’
The San Domenico being then the most expensive hotel here, I thought he must have money. But I knew he wanted something of me.
‘And are you staying some time?’
He paused a moment, and looked round cautiously.
‘Is your wife there?’ he asked, sotto voce.
‘Yes, she’s upstairs.’
‘Is there anyone who can hear?’
‘No – only old Grazia down below, and she can’t understand anyhow.’
‘Well,’ he said, stammering. ‘Let me tell you what’s happened. I had to escape from the monastery. Don Bernardo had a telephone message from the town below, that the carabinieri were looking for an Americano – my name – Of course you can guess how I felt, up there! Awful! Well – ! I had to fly at a moment’s notice. I just put two shirts in a handbag and went. I slipped down a path – or rather, it isn’t a path – down the back of the hill. Ten minutes after Don Bernardo had the message I was running down the hill.’
‘But what did they want you for?’ I asked dismayed.
‘Well,’ he faltered. ‘I told you about the cheque at Anzio, didn’t I? Well it seems the hotel people applied to the police. Anyhow,’ he added hastily, ‘I couldn’t let myself be arrested up there, could I? So awful for the monastery!’
‘Did they know then that you were in trouble?’ I asked.
‘Don Bernardo knew I had no money,’ he said. ‘Of course he had to know. Yes – he knew I was in difficulty. But, of course, he didn’t know – well – everything.’ He laughed a little, comical laugh over the everything, as if he was just a little bit naughtily proud of it: most ruefully also.
‘No,’ he continued, ‘that’s what I’m most afraid of – that they’ll find out everything at the monastery. Of course it’s dreadful – the Americano, been staying there for months, and everything so nice and –, well you know how they are, they imagine every American is a millionaire, if not a multi-millionaire. And suddenly to be wanted by the police! Of course it’s dreadful ! Anything rather than a scandal at the monastery – anything. Oh, how awful it was! I can tell you, in that quarter of an hour, I sweated blood. Don Bernardo lent me two hundred lire of the monastery money – which he’d no business to do. And I escaped down the back of the hill, I walked to the next station up the line, and took the next train – the slow train – a few stations up towards Rome. And there I changed and caught the diretto for Sicily. I came straight to you – Of course I was in agony : imagine it! I spent most of the time as far as Naples in the lavatory.’ He laughed his little jerky laugh.
‘What class did you travel?’
‘Second. All through the night. I arrived more dead than alive, not having had a meal for two days – only some sandwich stuff I bought on the platform.’
‘When did you come then?’
‘I arrived on Saturday evening. I came out here on Sunday morning, and they told me you were away. Of course, imagine what it’s like! I’m in torture every minute, in torture, of course. Why just imagine!’ And he laughed his little laugh.
‘But how much money have you got?’
‘Oh – I’ve just got twenty-five francs and five soldi.’ He laughed as if it was rather a naughty joke.
‘But,’ I said, ‘if you’ve got no money, why do you go to the San Domenico? How much do you pay there?’
‘Fifty lire a day. Of course it’s ruinous –’
‘But at the Bristol you only pay twenty-five – and at Fichera’s only twenty.’
‘Yes, I know you do,’ he said. ‘But I stayed at the Bristol once, and I loathed the place. Such an offensive manager. And I couldn’t touch the food at Fichera’s.’
‘But who’s going to pay for the San Domenico, then?’ I asked.
‘Well, I thought,’ he said, ‘you know all those manuscripts of mine? Well, you think they’re some good, don’t you? Well, I thought if I made them over to you, and you did what you could with them and just kept me going till I can get a new start – or till I can get away –’
I looked across the sea: the lovely morning-blue sea towards Greece.
‘Where do you want to get away to?’ I said.
‘To Egypt. I know a man in Alexandria who owns newspapers there. I’m sure if I could get over there he’d give me an editorship or something. And of course money will come. I’ve written to —, who was my greatest friend, in London. He will send me something –’
‘And what else do you expect?’
‘Oh, my article on the monastery was accepted by Land and Water – thanks to you and your kindness, of course. I thought if I might stay very quietly with you, for a time, and write some things I’m wanting to do, and collect a little money – and then get away to Egypt –’
He looked up into my face, as if he were trying all he could on me. First thing I knew was that I could not have him in the house with me: and even if I could have done it, my wife never could.
‘You’ve got a lovely place here, perfectly beautiful,’ he said. ‘Of course, if it had to be Taormina, you’ve chosen far the best place here. I like this side so much better than the Etna side. Etna always there and people raving about it gets on my nerves. And a charming house, charming.’
He looked round the loggia and along the other terrace.
‘Is it all yours?’ he said.
‘We don’t use the ground floor. Come in here.’
So we went into the salotta.
‘Oh, what a beautiful room,’ he cried. ‘But perfectly palatial. Charming! Charming! Much the nicest house in Taormina.’
‘No,
’ I said, ‘as a house it isn’t very grand, though I like it for myself. It’s just what I want. And I love the situation. But I’ll go and tell my wife you are here.’
‘Will you?’ he said, bridling nervously. ‘Of course I’ve never met your wife.’ And he laughed the nervous, naughty, jokey little laugh.
I left him, and ran upstairs to the kitchen. There was my wife, with wide eyes. She had been listening to catch the conversation. But M—’s voice was too hushed.
‘M—!’ said I softly. ‘The carabinieri wanted to arrest him at the monastery, so he has escaped here, and wants me to be responsible for him.’
‘Arrest him what for?’
‘Debts, I suppose. Will you come down and speak to him?’
M— of course was very charming with my wife. He kissed her hand humbly, in the correct German fashion, and spoke with an air of reverence that infallibly gets a woman.
‘Such a beautiful place you have here,’ he said, glancing through the open doors of the room, at the sea beyond. ‘So clever of you to find it.’
‘Lawrence found it,’ said she. ‘Well, and you are in all kinds of difficulty!’
‘Yes, isn’t it terrible!’ he said, laughing as if it were a joke – rather a wry joke. ‘I felt dreadful at the monastery. So dreadful for them, if there was any sort of scandal. And after I’d been so well received there – and so much the Signor Americano – Dreadful, don’t you think?’ He laughed again, like a naughty boy.
We had an engagement to lunch that morning. My wife was dressed, so I went to get ready. Then we told M— we must go out, and he accompanied us to the village. I gave him just the hundred francs I had in my pocket, and he said could he come and see me that evening? I asked him to come next morning.
‘You’re so awfully kind,’ he said, simpering a little.
But by this time I wasn’t feeling kind.
‘He’s quite nice,’ said my wife. ‘But he’s rather an impossible little person. And you’ll see, he’ll be a nuisance. Whatever do you pick up such dreadful people for?’
‘Nay,’ I said. ‘You can’t accuse me of picking up dreadful people. He’s the first. And even he isn’t dreadful.’
The next morning came a letter from Don Bernardo addressed to me, but only enclosing a letter to M—. So he was using my address. At ten o’clock he punctually appeared: slipping in as if to avoid notice. My wife would not see him, so I took him out on the terrace again.
‘Isn’t it beautiful here!’ he said. ‘Oh, so beautiful! If only I had peace of mind. Of course I sweat blood every time anybody comes through the door. You are splendidly private out here.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But M—, there isn’t a room for you in the house. There isn’t a spare room anyway. You’d better think of getting something cheaper in the village.’
‘But what can I get?’ he snapped.
That rather took my breath away. Myself, I had never been near the San Domenico hotel. I knew I simply could not afford it.
‘What made you go to the San Domenico in the first place?’ I said. ‘The most expensive hotel in the place!’
‘Oh, I’d stayed there for two months, and they knew me, and I knew they’d ask no questions. I knew they wouldn’t ask for a deposit or anything.’
‘But nobody dreams of asking for a deposit,’ I said.
‘Anyhow I shan’t take my meals there. I shall just take coffee in the morning. I’ve had to eat there so far, because I was starved to death, and had no money to go out. But I had two meals in that little restaurant yesterday; disgusting food.’
‘And how much did that cost?’
‘Oh fourteen francs and fifteen francs, with a quarter of wine – and such a poor meal!’
Now I was annoyed, knowing that I myself should have bought bread and cheese for one franc, and eaten it in my room. But also I realized that the modern creed says, if you sponge, sponge thoroughly: and also that every man has a ‘right to live,’ and that if he can manage to live well, no matter at whose expense, all credit to him. This is the kind of talk one accepts in one’s slipshod moments; now it was actually tried on me, I didn’t like it at all.
‘But who’s going to pay your bill at the San Domenico?’ I said.
‘I thought you’d advance me the money on those manuscripts.’
‘It’s no good talking about the money on the manuscripts,’ I said. ‘I should have to give it to you. And as a matter of fact, I’ve got just sixty pounds in the bank in England, and about fifteen hundred lire here. My wife and I have got to live on that. We don’t spend as much in a week as you spend in three days at the San Domenico. It’s no good your thinking I can advance money on the manuscripts. I can’t. If I was rich, I’d give you money. But I’ve got no money, and never have had any. Have you nobody you can go to?’
‘I’m waiting to hear from —. When I go back into the village, I’ll telegraph to him,’ replied M—, a little crestfallen. ‘Of course I’m in torture night and day, or I wouldn’t appeal to you like this. I know it’s unpleasant for you –’ and he put his hand on my arm and looked up beseechingly. ‘But what am I to do?’
‘You must get out of the San Domenico,’ I said. ‘That’s the first thing.’
‘Yes,’ he said, a little piqued now. ‘I know it is. I’m going to ask Pancrazio Melenga to let me have a room in his house. He knows me quite well – he’s an awfully nice fellow. He’ll do anything for me – anything. I was just going there yesterday afternoon when you were coming from Timeo. He was out, so I left word with his wife, who is a charming little person. If he has a room to spare, I know he will let me have it. And he’s a splendid cook – splendid. By far the nicest food in Taormina.’
‘Well,’ I said. ‘If you settle with Melenga, I will pay your bill at the San Domenico, but I can’t do any more. I simply can’t.’
‘But what am I to do ?’ he snapped.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘You must think.’
‘I came here,’ he said, ‘thinking you would help me. What am I to do, if you won’t? I shouldn’t have come to Taormina at all, save for you. Don’t be unkind to me – don’t speak so coldly to me –’ He put his hand on my arm, and looked up at me with tears swimming in his eyes. Then he turned aside his face, overcome with tears. I looked away at the Ionian sea, feeling my blood turn to ice and the sea go black. I loathe scenes such as this.
‘Did you telegraph to —?’ I said.
‘Yes. I have no answer yet. I hope you don’t mind – I gave your address for a reply.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘There’s a letter for you from Don Bernardo.’
He went pale. I was angry at his having used my address in this manner.
‘Nothing further has happened at the monastery,’ he said. ‘They rang up from the Questura, from the police station, and Don Bernardo answered that the Americano had left for Rome. Of course I did take the train for Rome. And Don Bernardo wanted me to go to Rome. He advised me to do so. I didn’t tell him I was here till I had got here. He thought I should have had more resources in Rome, and of course I should. I should certainly have gone there, if it hadn’t been for you here –’
Well, I was getting tired and angry. I would not give him any more money at the moment. I promised, if he would leave the hotel I would pay his bill, but he must leave it at once. He went off to settle with Melenga. He asked again if he could come in the afternoon: I said I was going out.
He came nevertheless while I was out. This time my wife found him on the stairs. She was for hating him, of course. So she stood immovable on the top stair, and he stood two stairs lower, and he kissed her hand in utter humility. And he pleaded with her, and as he looked up to her on the stairs the tears ran down his face and he trembled with distress. And her spine crept up and down with distaste and discomfort. But he broke into a few phrases of touching German, and I know he broke down her reserve and she promised him all he wanted. This part she would never confess, though. Only she was shivering with revul
sion and excitement and even a sense of power, when I came home.
That was why M— appeared more impertinent than ever, next morning. He had arranged to go to Melenga’s house the following day, and to pay ten francs a day for his room, his meals extra. So that was something. He made a long tale about not eating any of his meals in the hotel now, but pretending he was invited out, and eating in the little restaurants where the food was so bad. And he had now only fifteen lire left in his pocket. But I was cold, and wouldn’t give him any more. I said I would give him money next day, for his bill.
He had now another request, and a new tone.
‘Won’t you do one more thing for me?’ he said. ‘Oh do! Do do this one thing for me. I want you to go to the monastery and bring away my important papers and some clothes and my important trinkets. I have made a list of the things here – and where you’ll find them in my writing-table and in the chest of drawers. I don’t think you’ll have any trouble. Don Bernardo has the keys. He will open everything for you. And I beg you, in the name of God, don’t let anybody else see the things. Not even Don Bernardo. Don’t, whatever you do, let him see the papers and manuscripts you are bringing. If he sees them, there’s an end to me at the monastery. I can never go back there. I am ruined in their eyes for ever. As it is – although Don Bernardo is the best person in the world and my dearest friend, still – you know what people are – especially monks. A little curious, don’t you know, a little inquisitive. Well, let us hope for the best as far as that goes. But you will do this for me, won’t you? I shall be so eternally grateful.’
Now a journey to the monastery meant a terrible twenty hours in the train each way – all that awful journey through Calabria to Naples and northwards. It meant mixing myself up in this man’s affairs. It meant appearing as his accomplice at the monastery. It meant travelling with all his ‘compromising’ papers and his valuables. And all this time, I never knew what mischiefs he had really been up to, and I didn’t trust him, not for one single second. He would tell me nothing save that Anzio hotel cheque. I knew that wasn’t all, by any means. So I mistrusted him. And with a feeling of utter mistrust goes a feeling of contempt and dislike – And finally, it would have cost me at least ten pounds sterling, which I simply did not want to spend in waste.
The Bad Side of Books Page 14
