‘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 ta
ke 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 revulsion 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.
‘I don’t want to do that,’ I said.
‘Why not?’ he asked, sharp, looking green. He had planned it all out.
‘No, I don’t want to.’
‘Oh, but I can’t remain here as I am. I’ve got no clothes – I’ve got nothing to wear. I must have my things from the monastery. What can I do? What can I do? I came to you, if it hadn’t been for you I should have gone to Rome. I came to you – Oh yes, you will go. You will go, won’t you? You will go to the monastery for my things?’ And again he put his hand on my arm, and the tears began to fall from his upturned eyes. I turned my head aside. Never had the Ionian sea looked so sickening to me.
‘I don’t want to,’ said I.
‘But you will! You will! You will go to the monastery for me, won’t you? Everything else is no good if you won’t. I’ve nothing to wear. I haven’t got my manuscripts to work on, I can’t do the things I am doing. Here I live in a sweat of anxiety. I try to work, and I can’t settle. I can’t do anything. It’s dreadful. I shan’t have a minute’s peace till I have got those things from the monastery, till I know they can’t get at my priv
ate papers. You will do this for me! You will, won’t you? Please do! Oh please do!’ And again tears.
And I with my bowels full of bitterness, loathing the thought of that journey there and back, on such an errand. Yet not quite sure that I ought to refuse. And he pleaded and struggled, and tried to bully me with tears and entreaty and reproach, to do his will. And I couldn’t quite refuse. But neither could I agree.
At last I said:
‘I don’t want to go, and I tell you. I won’t promise to go. And I won’t say that I will not go. I won’t say until tomorrow. Tomorrow I will tell you. Don’t come to the house. I will be in the Corso at ten o’clock.’
‘I didn’t doubt for a minute you would do this for me,’ he said. ‘Otherwise I should never have come to Taormina.’ As if he had done me an honour in coming to Taormina; and as if I had betrayed him.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘If you make these messes you’ll have to get out of them yourself. I don’t know why you are in such a mess.’
‘Any man may make a mistake,’ he said sharply, as if correcting me.
‘Yes, a mistake!’ said I. ‘If it’s a question of a mistake.’
So once more he went, humbly, beseechingly, and yet, one could not help but feel, with all that terrible insolence of the humble. It is the humble, the wistful, the would-be-loving souls today who bully us with their charity-demanding insolence. They just make up their minds, these needful sympathetic souls, that one is there to do their will. Very good.
I decided in the day I would not go. Without reasoning it out, I knew I really didn’t want to go. I plainly didn’t want it. So I wouldn’t go.
The morning came again hot and lovely. I set off to the village. But there was M— watching for me on the path beyond the valley. He came forward and took my hand warmly, clingingly. I turned back, to remain in the country. We talked for a minute of his leaving the hotel – he was going that afternoon, he had asked for his bill. But he was waiting for the other answer.
Life with a Capital L Page 14
