by Nigel Dennis
*
Once free of his first marriage, Divver was ready to make a start in life. Science and marriage, he felt, had combined to teach him the nature of mental and physical responsibility: the lessons had been painful, but so was all growth into maturity. What remained now was to broaden his scope, to learn to apply his experience in a wider field, to stop being dependent on an allowance from his provincial father. The following summer he took a vacation-cruise to Italy. It was his first professional venture, because although he paid his own way, the kindly liberal editor of Mrs. Morgan’s weekly had promised to try and use any reports on Fascism that Divver might write. “Of course you’re untrained,” said the editor honestly, “but often that kind of freshness receives impressions that we old-timers can’t register any more.” When the boat left New York harbour, for the first time in his life Divver experienced that piercing sense of freedom that penetrates Americans when they watch the Statue of Liberty fade from sight. In Divver’s case it also seemed like a sign from Heaven that his maturity must be devoted to foreign affairs—the kind of feeling St. Boniface had when he left his native Devonshire to Christianize the Germans.
During his first week abroad Divver never ceased to be astonished by the conjunction of himself and Italy. The first time he entered a café and observed two men chatting over coffee, he was swept by a sense of the miraculous. It seemed astonishing, when he came to think of it, that these men actually should be Italians, natives of this land; that the language they were speaking was their natural mother-tongue; that they knew no way to behave, to be, other than their way; that they found it absolutely natural to be Italians, and never found it surprising that there should be a country named Italy. After wondering over this for a day or so, Divver went to work in a determined way. First, he did something that seemed a little ridiculous even to himself: he wrote a dignified note to Mussolini, requesting an interview. Then he walked the streets of Rome with a notebook in which he put down any unusual forms that caught his eye; there were a great many. He was shocked by the immoral libretto of the opera he saw, for instance; partly, no doubt, because he was going through the stage of rigid puritanism common to men who have just abandoned their wives. But he knew that these jottings were not enough to make articles, and he also had a shrewd idea that if he were to justify his freshness he must be receptive to more significant things. Soon his notes reflected his deeper penetration:
“Evidence of strain visible in faces of people. How this strain differs from ordinary people’s strains (in democracy): another kind of strain altogether: democratic worker, even bourgeois, shows strain essentially of domestic, immediate kind (result possibly overwork, no work, marital problems, etc.): under Fascism totally different: strain reflects desperation (i.e., lack of hope) regarding entire set-up, shot through with centuries historical pessimism—Italians never had a chance. But warn that if U.S.A. continues in reactionary path, no reason why they too won’t express similar strain in visages as years pass.
“Compare Des Moines soda-jerker (Billy, at Werthheim’s? or Frank?) with pizzeria man on Via Romana. What is Billy’s faith? On surface, none—because need not show on surface, i.e., underneath more genuine (NB). State nature, why. (Frank better, probably.)
“Thanksgiving with the Lukes.
“How must woman react to Fascist husband? Suggest how life turned upside down, distortion of values, etc. Nature of man (and woman) not a fixed thing; at mercy of historical framework. Describe everyday life in everyday Fascist home—find one—(where husband a party member—find?) start article with this.
“Children never problems, only parents—ergo, under Fascism child doomed become problem-child. Explain why. Also, marriage never a problem, only system that governs it.
“No such thing as man.
“Man only an attitude (of the State).
“Story of Signor Troiano and bath business. What it suggests in broader sense. On surface merely comical, dig to the roots find it tragic. Troiano always polite, friendly, financially honest, but this due to fact of state suppression of natural instincts (normal and abnormal) not result of training in objectivity, social analysis, etc.
“Love of rich pastry. Indicative? Consider.
“Nature of Opera (describe evening). Opera composer views life from standpoint at odds with history. Knows work is artificial, ludicrous, does not care, or cannot help self. No opera in democracies—wrong to assume this due only to lack of musical power. Opera irresponsible—forced to be so, since sole function is to distract, gloss over unpleasantness. Opera gives frank delusion of world—nevertheless pretends it is the world (opera houses built to resemble globe—democratic theatre square—hypocrisy, of course, but still, closer to reality than globe). Italian sees self magnified, like tenor, irresponsible, knows it is all a fake, but pressure too much. This does not mean all opera wrong, could be right. Describe hysteria of audience. Soviet love of ballet quite different—freedom of movement, jumping, aspiring, etc. Probably otherwise under Czar.
“Hard to tell prostitutes from ordinary women in Rome. Does not mean prostitute’s life easier now, means ordinary women’s life harder.
“Opera is not folk-music.”
Divver had filled pages with these notes and was trying to picture the kind of article in which there would be room for all of them when he was awarded the finest bit of luck of his career. He returned to his hotel one noon, tired after a conducted tour of the Vatican, to find the hotel employees intensely excited and staring at him with peculiar admiration. He was handed a large white envelope, which had just been left at the desk by a uniformed State Messenger and contained a highly impressive card, topped by gilt fasces, requesting him to appear for his interview at three o’clock, entering by such-and-such a door in such-and-such a wing of a particular building. Immediately, he fell into a shocking state of weakness; his legs quivered, his heart flew into hysterical drumming, he turned as white as paper. In his room he drank two stiff slugs of cognac, looked ecstatically at the ceiling and praised God, fell on the bed, got up again at once, walked round and round the room, kept burning his fingers with cigarettes, stared at the view of the city from his window and felt it was his sole property, spoke aloud snatches of his imagined discourse with Mussolini, feebly tried to note down the questions he would ask.
At this point a frightful panic came over him: he had no idea what questions to ask. It appalled him to picture himself sitting in a chair opposite so important a man and having absolutely nothing to say: for the moment, he completely forgot that Mussolini was the creature he most detested in the world, and when he recalled this fact he felt more horrified than ever, because the only questions that could be put to such a creature were of so insulting a kind that Divver’s sense of politeness was shocked by them. He turned the pages of his notebook, but could not find in them a single point that had anything to do with the approaching situation. He tried to recall interesting points in articles that had appeared in Mrs. Morgan’s Forward: it was as though the articles had never been wrtten. By the time he had washed and shaved for the second time, the truth was before his eyes: he knew that the only thing he knew was that he vigorously disapproved of Mussolini. If he said so, and Mussolini asked why—what would he answer? And what in God’s name would he do if Mussolini began to question him? It would not be too bad if Mussolini asked him to define the nature of man, but what if he preferred to stick, say, to trade statistics, or Italian history, or asked for Divver’s detailed arguments on some political point?
Divver found a cab, which drove him to his destination in half a second; he produced his card and was instantly shown into a small empty room without a chair: it was like a cell, and he spent a half-hour in it, praying to God, wishing he had never been born, and groaning to himself until he wanted to burst into tears. He took one glimpse at his twenty-six years of life and they looked as bare and senseless as his notebooks—which he had forgotten to bring. He also had no handkerchief, and he was afraid to smoke. Then an
official led him down an immense corridor, decorated with indecent murals, and left him at a doorway with an old gentleman in a splendid uniform, who examined Divver’s card and bowed politely. Then he suddenly unbent and whispered kindly to Divver in excellent English: “You have nothing to be afraid of. Il Duce will not devour you.” He then ushered Divver into a large waiting room, full of people.
But the old gentleman’s remark had struck Divver to the heart. Instead of confidence, he felt shame at having so conducted himself that his cowardice and ignorance had been visible to a stranger, and an undemocratic stranger at that: he began to tremble with resentment. He felt more ridiculous and furious when he saw that his grandiose picture of a tête-à-tête was nonsense: a door had opened at the other end of the room and the fifty odd people, most of them looking shoddy as scarecrows, were filing through it. Divver was almost the last man through: he found himself in the rear of four ranks of reporters, who whispered in any language but English. A thick red cord held the ranks into the back part of the room, which looked like a long office and had a large desk at the opposite end, where a secretary in a morning-coat was doodling on a pad with a gold fountain pen, to make sure the ink was running. There was no sign of Mussolini; all the windows were closed; a hot sun poured on to the lemon parquet floor and bounced off it into the reporters’ eyes.
Divver stood there, cramped and uncomfortable, for a long time. He wavered between anger and misery. He wished he had never left his wife; he thought of how wonderful women were, really. He wondered what an earth he was doing in this ridiculous country and why he had ever gone to New York in the first place; above all, he was overcome by the belief that not one thing he had ever learned had any meaning whatever. I’m a fool, an imbecile, a moron, he kept saying to himself: the sweat began to run down his trousers: I am like someone in an opera. This thought was the cruellest of all; he swayed against the man beside him, who without any hesitation placed the flat of his hand against Divver’s ribs and sharply pushed him upright again. Divver said, “Hey, you!” gruffly, and smacked away the man’s hand with his fist. At once, with a noise like a barrage of airguns, the fifty seedy reporters turned in Divver’s direction and hissed. One man fell half over the red cord and was pushed up again by a uniformed attendant; the distant secretary stared in amazement, arching his neck like a giraffe. “No!” said Divver, addressing everyone. The attendant—a big man with huge moustaches—at once turned in Divver’s direction; his eyes flashed, he singled Divver out instantly and began to climb over the cord toward him. At that moment the door behind the desk opened. In came two soldiers in green uniforms who stood one on each side of the desk. Then Mussolini, dressed in black, entered the room, gave a friendly nod in the direction of the reporters and sat down to the desk, where he too at once began to doodle with the golden fountain-pen.
The secretary began reading in a sonorous voice from a long scroll of paper. Divver was annoyed to find that he read in Italian. But he had hardly had time to resent this when he felt his arm grasped, and saw to his astonishment that an usher was on either side of him and that the reporters had somehow managed so to squeeze themselves together that Divver was no longer part of the cosy crowd. The man who had grasped his wrist was the ferocious attendant, who now, without uttering a word, glowered at Divver from under a massive pair of eyebrows and vulgarly jerked a thumb toward the exit. The secretary read on; Mussolini rested his chin on his knuckles; there was no sound but the voice of the reader and the scratching of reporters’ pencils. The usher on Divver’s right began to nudge him with one elbow; then he leaned the whole side of his body against Divver, and heaved. Simultaneously the usher on the other side gripped Divver’s sleeve and pulled. The fierce attendant, who was now red in the face, began jerking his thumb so fast that it shot back and forth like a shuttle. Divver tried to pay no attention; he fixed his eyes firmly on Mussolini and strained every pound of his body to keep from being budged. Silly protests, such as: “I’ve paid my fare; I’ve a right to this seat.” “This is a free country,” and so on, snapped through his mind. He and the ushers and the attendant—who had now begun to push Divver in the stomach—all began to breathe heavily; little grunts were heard; Divver yielded a step; the three men pushed harder—and suddenly all four were whirling toward the door. “I will not go!” exclaimed Divver. “I was invited!” He felt a hand over his mouth; he became furious; as the door opened he was twirled around like a top and his last glimpse of the room included the black-coated figure at the desk, who was looking vexed. “You too!” shouted Divver, managing to shake one fist. Then he was shot into the waiting-room.
Here, three policemen appeared, and Divver was led into another room, where a wall-eyed man slapped his pockets and nipped the seams of his jacket. Divver’s trouser cuffs were turned down and found to be full of grey fluff, and bird-seed that had fallen there when he fed the pigeons outside the Vatican. His passport and wallet were examined, and after some conference Divver was asked to wait quietly for half an hour, which he did, since there was nothing else to do. Then he was escorted to the railroad station in a sedan with smoked windows and put on the train to Genoa. Just before the train pulled out a man appeared at the compartment with Divver’s suitcases, which had been beautifully packed, as by a valet, and even contained things which were not Divver’s but the hotel’s. The notebook, with Divver’s reflections on man, was the only thing missing: presumably it was now being checked by a skilled translator. Two detectives, two soldiers of an Alpine regiment, and a policeman travelled with Divver to Genoa.
At Genoa, Divver was taken straight to the quay and put aboard a slow Italian fruit ship that was leaving for New York in a few hours. Everything had been done so quietly and efficiently that at first the only evidence to leak out of Italy was a photograph that an American camera reporter in Genoa managed to make as Divver was approaching the gangplank. Radioed to New York, this photograph gave merely the customary furry outlines of the figures involved: but in its true glory—as it reached America by fast boat a few days before Divver—it told a story that was heroic and tinged with bitterness for anyone who was predisposed so to read it. It showed four Italian policemen, with the degraded faces of hirelings, walking stiffly toward the gangplank; also walking, in the centre, was Divver, his head bent and a frowning, dogged expression on his face. Compared with the policemen’s, his clothes looked loose and untidy, but in a freeish sort of way; his walk was more an idealist’s trudge than a criminal’s slouch. Off to one side of the picture (this was specially admired) was an Italian match-seller—a fat old lady with a black, sequined shawl, who was looking at Divver with an expression that was pained and maternal, but otherwise vague enough to be interpreted in a variety of ways (“She is 2,000 years of history” was one comment). In the background was the Genoa customs-house, a Romanesque structure.
Divver knew nothing about the photograph until he reached New York. The trip on the old boat took two weeks, and for the first few days Divver was too seasick to talk even to himself. He spent the rest of the voyage in miserable humiliation. His week in Rome already stood out in his mind too clearly to be faced; he gnashed his teeth over what seemed to him now his juvenile antics. He could hardly bear to think of the things he had written in his notebook; he could only thank God that it had fallen into the hands of foreigners. Wherever he was, alone in his cabin or walking the little deck, he blushed to his ears when he thought of how dreadful it would be if any of his friends should get wind of what had happened. Even at school, he had never put himself into the childish position of having to be ejected for silliness. What must the reporters have thought? What must Mussolini have thought? What would the sneering youths of his college days think? How would he explain his returning after only a week abroad? One thing, he decided, was certain: he could never again face the editor who had trusted him so generously and believed in his future as a thoughtful man. From there, Divver’s thoughts flew in all directions: since it was a mistake for him ever to have bee
n educated, he would not even stop over in New York, but would go straight home and settle down quietly in his native suburb, and devote his life to the simplest forms of social help, as a doctor, a fruit-grower, or a labourer on the railroad; anything crude through which he might achieve wisdom without the risk of ridicule. Then, halfway across the Atlantic, the obvious course suddenly became apparent: he would become a schoolteacher.
At New York harbour, the skyscrapers awaited him like Supreme Court judges. Divver was shakily packing away his razor and toothbrush, and sighing as he gave a last look around the dirty little cabin, when his shoulder was tapped and a smiling young man appeared at his side. Next moment, there was a rumbling noise down the passage and a lot of other men, panting, appeared, all of whom shook Divver’s hand and gave quick winks and twitched the corners of their mouths, as though they appreciated a secret. One of them said: “Let’s get him out of here—can’t do a damn thing in this mousetrap.”
They removed Divver to the deck, where they noted down his age, place of birth, name of father, profession of father, profession of Divver, etc., just as though they were obtaining a vault in a good cemetery for him. “Did any of your forbears fight in the Revolution?” one of them asked, and Divver was able to recall a corporal on his mother’s side, who seemed to be just what the reporters had expected. “Our man in Rome, Mr. Divver,” said another reporter, “an Italian, tells us you called the old duck a ‘toot.’ What is a toot, Mr. Divver?” Divver said he didn’t know. “Something like a coot, eh?” said the man, and when Divver gave a pale smile everybody laughed and wrote down: “called M. a coot,” and Divver received friendly nudges and had his arm pinched above the elbow. He noticed that the more embarrassed he became, the more fidgety as to the accuracy of the growing story, the more frequent and friendly the nudges and pinches became; this heartened him a little because he had pictured such a bare future for himself, but it frightened him too. When he was asked: “Could you sum up your feelings about democracy in a few words?” he felt so conscience-stricken that he replied frankly: “A few words is just about all I know”—at which the reporters all relapsed into intense silence and their faces jellied into something like maternal ecstasy. Some flash bulbs went off and a halo circled Divver’s head. Then suddenly they all ran away and jumped overboard.
