by Martin Boyd
The Misses Urquhart were both over forty and Alice was not yet thirty, so that although she was married they were more in the position of chaperone. Alice said that she wanted to do a little shopping and to see Paris more thoroughly.
‘I hope that Mr Langton will not be vexed at our coming home without you.’ These mild words were uttered in such a vicious tone that Alice realised her conduct was thought exceedingly unconventional. With a curious mixture of reticence and impertinence the two ladies managed to convey to her that she of all people should be careful, as her elopement was not forgotten, while her mother’s behaviour in Sydney could not be forgotten, as it was perennial. These references and the disapproval which they emitted as they said goodbye left Alice in greater depression then ever. She took it as a foretaste of what would happen if there were any break between herself and Austin. She would lose not only her husband but the complete trust of her friends. She nearly changed her mind and followed them by the next train. She felt intolerably lonely and prepared to forgive anything if she could return to the security of affectionate family life. But that sense of justice which was so strongly developed in her, would not allow her to do it. She could not return to something which she now thought had never existed, except in her own imagination. She had been cheated and she could not acquiesce in that. There would have to be some adjustment, and half of her wretchedness came from her inability to see how this could possibly come about. She could not help being aware of the benefits the Langtons had from her. Austin had a marriage settlement of £1,000 a year. She had lent Lady Langton money to furnish her house in London, and again to return to Australia after the death of Damaris. She had lent money to Mrs Mayhew when the dean died, and even to Owen Dell when he was in difficulty. Some of these loans turned out to be gifts. She did not think that she had done anything excessive, but when she found that in return she had not even the fidelity of her husband, the channel through which these benefits flowed, she felt that she had been exploited. This suggests that she was confusing her finances with the feelings of her heart, but it was not so. She simply believed that it was only honourable to accept gifts from those for whom one had completely loyal affections. She felt that she had been a party to dishonourable transactions. I do not want to pretend that Alice had no faults. She had to deal so much with money, and was responsible for the security of so many people that she may have treated it with more respect than most women. If she had not done so, she would soon have had none.
She stayed for two or three days alone in Paris. She went sightseeing to the Louvre, to Versailles, but found that after staring at some of the most famous pictures in the world, she had then turned away without the faintest idea of what she had been looking at. Suddenly she decided to go to Italy. She did not expect to enjoy it, but she had always wanted to go there and she thought she might as well snatch this one ambition from the wreckage of her world. Also it would provide a non-commital excuse for not returning at once to Waterpark. She wrote to Mrs Thomas Langton and said that as her time in Europe was short, she was taking this opportunity of visiting Rome. She still did not write to Austin.
I have now come to the entries in Alice’s diaries which I discovered on the night when I discussed with Julian the possibilities of this book, when we had examined the portraits of Alice and Austin in the lobby. They are the entries which decided me to write it. I already knew about Austin and Hetty, but it had never occurred to me as the subject of a novel, partly because I first heard of it from Arthur at a time when it would have been impossible to write about it. Hetty herself was then living. Now thirty years have removed the survivors of one, and the whole of the succeeding generation, and only the ghosts can be grieved at my disclosures.
Alice had intended to go first to Florence, but on the afternoon of the second day, as the train was approaching Pisa, she caught sight of the leaning tower. To come unexpectedly on a world-famous curiosity was exciting, especially to an Australian who had seen few of them. She left the train at Pisa station, drove to an hotel, and then, glad to be free of the train, walked briskly along to the Campo Santo. As she passed along the river bank, with the solid line of renaissance palaces on her right, for the first time since she left London she felt a faint gleam of pleasure and of hope. It may have been largely due to her physical relief from the cramped space of the train. She puts it down to a liberation of the spirit brought about by her first glimpse of the Renaissance, but she wrote all this in the evening before going to bed, and this feeling may not have awakened until she reached the cathedral and may have been due to something quite different. The marble of the three lovely buildings, the cathedral, the baptistery and the tower, mellowed with age to a golden tint, was bathed in the evening sunlight. Beyond the walls of the Campo Santo was a line of distant purple hills, which might easily have been the background of a cinquecento painting. Within sight there was nothing of the modern world. She writes that she had the feeling that the centuries between herself and Giorgione and Perugino had been swept away.
She walked slowly across the grass to see the buildings from the other side. As she turned the corner of the cathedral she came upon a man who was standing looking at the baptistery, which was behind her, so that for a moment he glanced straight into her eyes. He immediately looked away, and with a kind of impersonal courtesy, moved out of her path. She thought he must be an Englishman, but his face and manner were more sensitive than those of the fox-hunting neighbours at Waterpark. He disappeared round the building, the way she had come, but for the rest of the time she was in the Campo Santo, she was aware of this slight encounter and pleased by it.
In her hotel when she came down to dinner, she saw this man seated at a table near her own. She felt that he was aware of her, but he made no sign of recognition. He finished his dinner before she did, and he had to pass her table to leave the room. She was prepared to bow to him, as she was sure that he was English, but he did not look in her direction. She was disappointed as she was longing to talk to almost anybody.
The next morning at the railway station, she was having some difficulty with the porter about her luggage, when this man again appeared. He came along the platform and asked if he could be of any help. She explained which things she wanted with her in the carriage. He addressed the porter in fluent Italian and there was no further trouble. She noticed that he scrutinised her luggage with particular interest, and she thought it strange in a man who otherwise appeared so well bred. Then he said that he could not help noticing that, on her trunks were some labels: ‘Langton, Frome, G.W.R.’ and added:
‘Surely you must be one of the Langtons of Waterpark?’
‘My husband is a cousin of Mr Thomas Langton’s,’ said Alice. ‘We are Australians.’
‘Are you Mrs Austin Langton?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ said Alice, ‘but how do you know my name?’
‘I am Aubrey Tunstall. My sister Damaris married your brother-in-law.’
‘Oh!’ Alice paused, a brief acknowledgment of the tragic aspect of the connection between them. ‘How extraordinary that we should meet here!’
‘It’s more natural for us to meet here than at Dilton, I’m afraid,’ he said smilingly. ‘I’m hardly ever in England.’
Alice had an idea that the Tunstalls might hold the Langtons to be in some way responsible for the death of Damaris, but there was no suggestion of this in his reference to it. He asked if he might travel to Florence with her, if that was her destination. She said that she intended to spend a few days there on her way to Rome. She told him that Austin was hunting at Waterpark, that she did not hunt, and that she was taking advantage of this to see what she could of Italy. She said that she had not very long as they probably would soon have to return to Australia.
‘When you see Arthur Langton, give him my kindest regards,’ he said. ‘I feel that we might have been very great friends if he had stayed in Europe.’ He said that he had a little painting that Arthur had given him. She was surprised, as Arthur had
never mentioned his friendship with Aubrey Tunstall. From the way he spoke it was clear that he regarded Arthur as quite free from any share of responsibility for the tragedy. He even remarked that Damaris had a very difficult temperament.
He asked her where she intended to stay in Florence, and when she said that she did not know, he recommended an hotel. He said that he was going to stay a few days with his sister, Ariadne Dane, who had a villa up towards Fiesole. He also lived in Italy and had an apartment in Rome.
‘Yes, I know that,’ said Alice. She told him of the strong impression made on her by the three beautiful buildings in the Campo Santo and that she had not really meant to stop at Pisa, but had been unable to resist the glimpse of the leaning tower. He seemed very pleased by her enthusiasm, especially when she said that she would prefer the leaning tower if it were straight.
‘It is such an exquisite thing in itself,’ she said, ‘that it ought to be admired for its beauty, rather than its oddity.’ He gave her a glance of warm approval, and she felt that there was already a basis of friendship between them.
At the station in Florence, he saw to her luggage and engaged a cab for her, which he directed to the hotel he had named. His own things were put into a carriage which had been sent to meet him. He gave a hint of surprise that Alice was travelling without a maid, and she told him that Australians were self-reliant. When her cab stopped at the hotel, his carriage drew up behind it. He alighted and came into the hotel with her. He spoke to the manager, who treated him with deference, and evidently told him that Alice was someone who must be shown great consideration. Alice thanked him for what he had done and he said:
‘It is the least I could do for a neighbour who is almost a relative. I am much more indebted to you for making what might have been a tiresome journey delightful.’ He shook hands and said goodbye.
The rest of the day was very dull to Alice. All her problems which she had forgotten while she was talking to him in the train, returned to distress her. She thought the English were strange and unfriendly, judging as people are apt to do, a whole nation by one man. She was sure that an Australian, after all the pleasant intercourse of the journey, would not say goodbye in that final manner. In the evening she wrote in her diary, after the long description of her encounter with Aubrey Tunstall:
‘I should remember what Lady Langton says about periods of misfortune—that it is foolish at these times to attempt to seek any pleasure or happiness. I should not have come on to Italy, but have returned with Miss Urquhart. Tonight I feel dreadfully lonely. I wish I were at Westhill with my darling children. How lovely it would be to stand on the hill looking across the bay, and to smell the gum leaves, and to hear the children shout in the evening air.’
The next afternoon, Mrs Dane left a card and a note for her. The note invited her to luncheon on the following day and apologised for the short notice but the writer understood that Alice was only in Florence for a limited time. If Alice was able to come a carriage would be sent for her. Mrs Dane excused herself for writing by mentioning that their families were neighbours in Somerset, but she did not refer to Arthur or Damaris. Alice was excited by this invitation, as she had heard at Waterpark that Mrs Dane was both beautiful and cultivated, though not entirely approved of by her relatives. Also she was longing for some human contact. In the afternoon she went to the Uffizi and she deliberately noted certain pictures so that she could discuss them with Mr Tunstall.
Mrs Dane’s villa had none of the associations of that word in Alice’s mind, which were purely suburban. It was a villa in the Vergilian or Renaissance sense of the word. She had been in some fine country houses near Waterpark but never in anything comparable with the magnificence of this. She was led down a colonnade which made her think of a Fra Angelico Annunciation, into a very large drawing-room. On the yellow brocade walls were paintings which appeared to be by those masters whose works she had seen yesterday in the Uffizi, and on the domed ceiling were painted gods and amorini revelling in sunset splendour. There were about a dozen other guests and Alice was the last to arrive, not by her own arrangement as she could not come before the carriage was sent for her. Amongst these people were a young Italian tenor, a Roman principessa, a Royal Academician, a French duke and duchess and an English lady novelist, festive with orchids and jewelry, whom, it was said later, Mrs Dane had horsewhipped for stealing her lover. Alice thought Mrs Dane extremely distinguished in appearance and like her mother whose portrait she had seen at Dilton. Caroline O’Hara, Lord Dilton’s second wife and as I have mentioned the granddaughter of the duque de Teba, was the mother of Aubrey, Damaris and Ariadne Tunstall. She was a famous beauty, a poetess and amateur actress in whom the Regency tradition lingered well into the Victorian era. I also have seen this portrait. It shows her to have had one of those passionate chiselled faces, and an immensely emotional mouth. I also when a boy saw Mrs Dane, then very old. I shall not describe her here, except to say that she terrified me. Even when Alice saw her, I think her beauty must have been more of bones than of flesh. Alice wrote:
‘She is very animated in conversation and has fine eyes. When I was announced she gave me a second’s scrutiny, but then seemed satisfied with my appearance. I think she may have arranged for me to arrive last, so that she could warn the others that an Australian was coming. When she introduced me she said that I was almost a relative, though she had made no reference to this in her note.’
They went into a long dining-room, even more splendid than the room they had left. There was a footman in blue livery behind every chair. There was also a vaulted ceiling and it was rather like having luncheon in a luxurious church.
As I had said to Julian, the Langtons were witty, quickminded but rather shallow in their perceptions. They had to see the funny side of everything, which did not make for any great depth of culture, but they were by far the most cultivated people whom Alice had known hitherto. With this limited experience perhaps she was unduly impressed by Mrs Dane and her circle. She writes that she had never heard such brilliant conversation as at this luncheon. There was hardly any subject which Mrs Dane could not discuss with apparent competence, though she spoke mostly of art and music. She gave Alice interested and almost affectionate glances down the table. Much of the conversation was in French and occasionally in Italian. Alice could understand the Italian, but did not attempt to speak it because of her accent. She spoke in French however to the Duc de C., who was on her left. When Mrs Dane saw that she was talking quite fluently and intelligently her eyes lighted with pleasure. Back in the drawing-room she fastened on her and asked her how long she was staying in Florence. Mr Tunstall came and stood beside them.
‘Only a few days,’ said Alice.
‘But you can’t stay only a few days in Florence!’ cried Mrs Dane. She made a despairing gesture with her long thin hand. ‘Listen. Why don’t you come here? It’s absurd for you to be staying at that hotel when you’re really a relative. I’ll show you all Florence—everything that’s worth seeing—even Mr Browning.’
‘Mrs Langton only has a very little time in Italy,’ said Mr Tunstall, ‘and she must go to Rome.’
‘Now Aubrey, don’t be tiresome,’ said his sister, and she gave him a quite vicious glance from her dark emotional eyes.
Alice was very flattered by this invitation. It opened up to her a world she had never dreamed of entering, where people with charming manners, whose names, like those of the duc and the principessa, are read in St Simon or Roman history, were absorbed above all things in art and literature and the cultivation of the spirit. At luncheon, Mrs Dane did not hesitate to quote with eyes magnificently aflame those lines of poetry which most stirred her heart and mind. This appeared to Alice the very highest level of civilisation and she would have liked to remain on it forever. Their standards of reference dazzled her, but they were not altogether beyond her understanding. She thought it would be well worth sacrificing a few weeks in Rome as a sightseer, to stay in Florence in this society. It would
also, she thought, dispel a little her terrible feeling of insecurity. To stay here would be considered quite normal by the people at Waterpark, whereas every day that she spent wandering alone and aimless on the Continent widened the breach between herself and Austin, which she longed to heal.
Mr Tunstall looked irritated. She felt that he did not want her to accept his sister’s invitation, and as it was through him that she had come to the villa, she thought that it would be in bad taste to do so. She explained that she had such a short time in Italy, and Mrs Dane did not press her further.
‘It’s a great shame,’ she said rather petulantly. ‘It’s all Aubrey’s fault.’ She drifted off to talk to the young tenor.
‘I really think that you ought to see Rome,’ said Mr Tunstall quietly, as if he admitted the responsibility for her refusing Mrs Dane. ‘Before you go, perhaps you would let me show you some of my favourite parts of Florence.’ Alice said she would like it very much, and they arranged to meet the next afternoon.
Mrs Dane announced that the young tenor was going to sing. They moved into another yet more palatial room, where in addition to a grand piano there was a harp, at which she seated herself. Alice felt a little uncomfortable as she watched her hostess’s long thin hands plucking almost convulsively at the wires, accompanying the throbbing passion of the young tenor’s song. When Alice left she said:
‘You won’t like Rome at all. It is dark and full of enormous marble popes that loom up at one everywhere. Rome has always been a pure expression of megalomania. You will soon sigh for our light and golden Tuscany, our beloved flower town, and don’t forget that when you do, you must stay here. Aubrey has been very tiresome indeed.’
Alice enjoyed very much her afternoon’s sightseeing with Aubrey Tunstall. He did not take her to large and obvious things like the Bargello, but into some small out-of-the- way place to see a Mino da Fiesole altarpiece or an iron well-head in a cloister. In the late afternoon they drove up to San Miniato, and stood at the edge of the terrace, looking down to where Giotto’s tower rose through the strata of golden mist. She told him that he had taught her how to see a city.
