The Quest for Corvo: An Experiment in Biography (Valancourt eClassics)

by A. J. A. Symons

  My appetite had been whetted by Hadrian; these hints of pleasures to come were a fresh incitement to my unsatisfied zest. I turned to the final cuttings of Millard’s little collection for further light. The most substantial was an extremely ably written Times Literary Supplement review of a new edition of Rolfe’s Toto stories, to which Mr Leslie’s article had been prefixed as introduction. The critic praised Rolfe’s work, in which, he predicted, ‘the unhappy Catholic vagabond will live, and perhaps increase in fame. Caviare, like Huysmans, he must always be, but so rich a dish will not be left untasted. A man who can lay bare his soul as Rolfe did in the opening chapters of Hadrian the Seventh need not fear for readers.’ This article, evoked by Mr Leslie’s introduction, had in its turn provoked correspondence, which Millard, in his usual methodical manner, had kept. On 25 December 1924, Mr Harry Pirie-Gordon wrote to the editor:

  Sir,

  In last week’s review of In His Own Image, by Frederick Baron Corvo, mention is made of some of that writer’s other books. There are, however, two more to be added to the list, books which he wrote in collaboration. One of these, called The Weird of the Wanderer, was published in 1912 as being by ‘Prospero and Caliban’; the other, called Hubert’s Arthur, dealing with a wholly imaginary career ascribed to Arthur, Duke of Brittany, was in manuscript at the time of Rolfe’s death. It was entrusted to the kindly Anglican clergyman who befriended him during the last weeks of his life in Venice; and it is in the hope of getting into touch with this last of the many who tried to be benefactors to Frederick Rolfe that I ask you to publish this.

  Harry Pirie-Gordon

  A week later another letter appeared in The Times, this time from Mr Frank Swinnerton:

  Sir,

  Mr Harry Pirie-Gordon refers to an unpublished novel by Frederick Rolfe entitled Hubert’s Arthur. I at one time saw the manuscript of this piece of virtuosity; and I also saw a complete novel (written earlier) which had the title A Romance of Modern Venice; or the Desire and Pursuit of the Whole. The latter work was in the hands of Mr Ongania,the bookseller, of Venice. It was a very beautiful and absorbing story. Unfortunately, according to my memory, which is vague after the ten or more years which have elapsed since I read the book, this Romance of Modern Venice contained a good deal of matter that was possibly libellous, regarding persons whose books Frederick Rolfe claimed to have written for them. But if there is to be any research into the unpublished manuscripts of Rolfe, it would be well that this book should not be overlooked.

  Yours faithfully

  Frank Swinnerton

  When I had read these letters, a resolution which had been latent in my mind ever since my introduction to Hadrian took definite shape. I would find these lost manuscripts, and write a Life of Frederick Rolfe.

  *

  At once I began to write letters in all directions. I wrote to Mr Swinnerton, enclosing a letter for transmission to Ongania, to Millard, asking him to procure me Rolfe’s other books, to Mr Leslie, to Mr Pirie-Gordon, and to Mr Charles Kains-Jackson (this last, according to Millard, one of Rolfe’s personal friends). Then, quite happy, I sat down to await events. The first of my correspondents to answer was Mr Swinnerton:

  Dear Sir,

  I wish very much that I could help you; but I’m afraid I can’t do so. In the first place, I do not know the present address of Mr Ongania, the Venetian bookseller. I am therefore compelled to return to you the letter which you addressed to him. My impression is that Mr Ongania is dead; but I am not sure. Further, I ought to explain how it came about that I ever saw any manuscripts by Fr. Rolfe, and why I wrote to The Times Literary Supplement. I will do so.

  I acted from 1910 until 1925 as ‘reader’ to the firm of Chatto and Windus. During the early part of that period, two manuscripts at least by Fr. Rolfe were submitted to Chatto and Windus, and declined by them. It is my belief that these manuscripts (they were actually in the author’s handwriting) were both sent to the firm by Mr Ongania, with whom they had been lodged by Fr. Rolfe as security for money lent. The first of these, unless I am mistaken, was The Desire and Pursuit of the Whole, a beautiful but very lengthy and libellous book (libellous, at least, in my opinion, because Rolfe described his central male character as having written the work for which several lightly-described persons had received credit – as a ‘ghost’, in fact). It could not be published because of this implication. The second was a pseudo-historical novel called Hubert’s Arthur, which purported to tell the true story of the pretended blinding of Arthur by Hubert. The manuscript of this book was sent, I understood, by the author’s authority, to an American gentleman, in whose possession it presumably still is. That was the extent of my knowledge, and it was merely with the wish to place upon record that these manuscripts had at one time existed that I wrote to The Times Literary Supplement.

  Subsequent to the publication of my letter, I received a postcard from an Italian gentleman who informed me that he believed some of Rolfe’s manuscripts had been in the possession of a lady now dead. He asked for further information, which I could not give. I also had a long letter from a brother of Fr. Rolfe – an Australian schoolmaster – who said that when Rolfe died he was unable to execute the will owing, I believe, to the fact that to do so was to accept debts which he found himself unable to liquidate. He invited me to do anything possible to discover the manuscripts of Rolfe, in order that he might now benefit under the will. Messrs Chatto and Windus, at my instigation, made further inquiries, and it was discovered that other rights, specific or implied, existed. It proved impossible – or seemed to be impossible – to ascertain exactly who owned the rights in Rolfe’s unpublished works; and the matter was thereupon allowed to drop. I no longer have the Australian Mr Rolfe’s letter. I believe that in addition to this Mr Rolfe there is another brother, a barrister, who is at present in England. But just how you could get into touch with either brother, and what useful purpose would be served supposing you succeeded in doing so, I am unable to suggest. You might possibly ask Chatto and Windus if they could assist you at all; but that is the only course which occurs to me.

  I knew nothing personally of Fr. Rolfe. I once caught a glimpse of him, but no more. Nor do I know of anybody who had any acquaintance with him. Messrs Chatto and Windus published two of his novels – Don Tarquinio and Hadrian the Seventh – but this was before I began to ‘read’ for them. All I can tell you is that The Desire and Pursuit of the Whole and Hubert’s Arthur have existed in manuscript; and this, from my letter to The Times Literary Supplement, if not otherwise, you already knew. It would have been a great pleasure to me to place at your disposal any information which might have helped in the making of what I am sure will be a valuable and interesting book, and I greatly regret that I cannot do so.

  With regrets, therefore, that I should be so helpless.

  I am, Yours faithfully,

  Frank Swinnerton

  This letter, it will be seen, gave me several new lines of exploration. It seemed fairly clear that Messrs Chatto and Windus must know something; and I therefore called upon Mr C. H. C. Prentice, a partner, with whom I had a slight but agreeable acquaintance. Mr Prentice was disposed to help, though dubious of his power. The firm’s correspondence with Rolfe had long before been destroyed, and none of the present members had ever met him. On the other hand, I learned, to my great astonishment, that the manuscript of The Desire and Pursuit of the Whole lay at that moment in Messrs Chatto’s safe; had lain there forgotten, in fact, since the time of Rolfe’s death. All eagerness, I asked to be allowed to read it; but here the traditional caution of the publisher stood in my way. Prentice, too, had observed Mr Swinnerton’s letter to The Times, with its references to libels; and he was in consequence unwilling to show the manuscript without authority. What authority he would accept was not clear. Rolfe’s barrister brother, he told me, was alive and in London; but there was great uncertainty as to whether he or that Anglican clergyman to whom Mr Pirie-Gordon had referred owned the rights of the long-forgotten
book. He advised me, and I determined, to seek Mr Herbert Rolfe. I wrote at once; and the passage of a few posts brought me the following:

  Dear Sir,

  I am not unwilling to give you facts relating to my brother Frederick William Rolfe, but I fear I cannot spare much time for the purpose. I am certainly anxious that whatever may be written about him may be correct. You might perhaps send me a list of the facts you require. Or would you prefer to see me in chambers here? If so please come before term begins. An appointment could be arranged by telephone. I shall probably be in from about 11.30 to 4.0 p.m. most ensuing days. I presume you would let me see a proof of whatever you may write. Did you know my brother personally?

  I should warn you that I may not be able to furnish you with precise dates for each of his movements.

  Yours faithfully,

  Herbert Rolfe

  Before I could reply to Mr Rolfe’s guarded offer, however, another letter arrived:

  Dear Sir,

  My brother opened your letter by mistake, and has only just forwarded it. I put all I could collect about Baron Corvo into a Mercury article illustrated by his writings. His novel Hadrian the Seventh was discovered by R. H. Benson, and had a great influence on us at Cambridge twenty years ago. I was entirely carried away by his tyrianthine style. Grant Richards had a book of letters of Corvo. After the failure of his firm it passed to More and Co., who showed me stacks of coloured script. Apply to Grant Richards, who published the Borgia book for Rolfe. You will have to get his leave to use the letters.

  Yours sincerely

  Shane Leslie

  I wrote forthwith to ‘More and Co.’, whom I had no difficulty in identifying as the De la More Press, publishers of a series of King’s Classics which had been very familiar to my boyhood. While I was waiting for a reply, yet another avenue was disclosed to me:

  Dear Sir,

  If you will let me know what day will suit, I will call upon you at 5 p.m. on that day to talk about Baron Corvo.

  Yours faithfully

  Harry Pirie-Gordon

  Looking back, I find in each of these letters a reflection of its writer, from the legal caution of Mr Rolfe, the ready helpfulness of Mr Swinnerton, Mr Leslie’s use of the word ‘tyrianthine’, Mr Pirie-Gordon’s brevity. The most urgent letter seemed to be Mr Rolfe’s; and, obeying his instruction, I telephoned to fix an appointment next day. But meanwhile a new woodcock fell to my springe: Mr Kains-Jackson was announced. He had answered my letter promptly and in person.

  *

  My white-haired visitor had a very interesting story to tell; for he had known Rolfe intimately, and, as I found later, nearly everyone who knew Rolfe thought him the most remarkable man of his acquaintance. This particular connection came about by chance in the very early ’nineties, when Mr Jackson, then a City solicitor, was taking a customary holiday at Christchurch in Hampshire, at that time a quiet village quite separated from Bournemouth, much patronized in the summer by the artistic. For both personal and business reasons Mr Jackson had called on a local client, the late Gleeson White, then well known as an art critic; and in Gleeson White’s house he encountered a slim, clean-shaven, slightly clerical man who was introduced as the Baron Corvo. Baron Corvo, despite his foreign name, did not affect Italian blood. He proclaimed himself an Englishman and an artist. On closer knowledge he proved to have many gifts: to be an excellent sculler, swimmer and fisherman, a skilful musician, photographer and scribe, a man of taste with a pleasant turn of the tongue. Gleeson White was a good talker, even for those days, when conversation was practised as an amusement; but when he fell silent the Baron was always ready with a topic, and he could hold the company with tales of Italy and England, even better than his host’s. Corvo owed his title, or said that he owed it, to an elderly English lady, the Duchess Sforza-Cesarini, like himself a convert to Catholicism, who had met him in Italy, more or less adopted him as a grandson, and bestowed on him a small estate carrying the baronial title much as certain English properties carry the privilege of being Lord of the Manor. There seemed no reason to doubt his claims. He certainly received remittances from the Duchess in Italy, for Mr Jackson could remember cashing her lira cheques, which the Baron received more or less monthly. Corvo was living in a house let out in apartments by a retired butler; he had made a studio on the first floor, and was usually busily engaged with his art. The local Catholic church had been liberally adorned by his brush in a fresco of figures still to be seen by the curious, and it was said that churches elsewhere also rejoiced in his work. Perhaps the oddest thing about the Baron as he lived and worked at Christchurch was his method of painting. Conscious of a weakness in figure drawing, it was his custom to photograph his models, make lantern slides from the photographs, and then project the image on to the painting area so that he could sketch in an outline. The Byzantine eikon was his ideal, and some of his oil-paintings were enhanced with needlework, and spangled with sequins. Corvo appeared to be a very pious Catholic, who required his brushes to be blessed before he used them. His subjects were almost invariably ecclesiastical, and Mr Jackson delighted and diverted me with a reproduction of one of Rolfe’s more ambitious pictures. Some years afterwards I showed a head of St William of Norwich, painted by Corvo, to Rickets and Shannon, who thought it showed an interesting touch. The fresco at St Michael’s, Christchurch, though damaged by damp, is still, in its way, impressive.

  I was surprised to find that in these early days Rolfe was not in the least regarded as a writer: he gave himself out, and was accepted, as a painter; indeed, it was his promise in that art which had persuaded the Duchess to support him. He did, however, write occasional verses, mostly inspired by his own pictures.

  The Baron continued for some time to enjoy the pleasures of local society, to take part in the picnics of others, and to return this modest form of hospitality. But his growing friendship with Mr Jackson, who found the companionship more and more inspiring, was broken off by an unfortunate transaction which ended Corvo’s Christchurch stay. Gleeson White was the owner of a stationers’ business and lending library, occupying two freehold premises known as Caxton House; and these the Baron proposed to buy. It became Mr Jackson’s duty to act for White; and in his professional capacity he could not help becoming aware that Baron Corvo’s finances were overstrained.

  Rolfe also was represented by a solicitor, whom he summoned in unusual fashion. Hearing that John Withers was a good lawyer, he despatched a telegram to the effect: ‘Please come to Christchurch Hampshire immediately for important conveyancing transaction. You will be met at station by barouche with white horse. Baron Corvo.’ The young solicitor hurried off with visions of an important client, but his illusions were dispelled when he found that the ‘barouche with white horse’ was only the station fly drawn by a fleabitten grey hack.

  Corvo had proposed to complete the purchase by the sale of his own properties at Bristol and Oxford; but these proved to be already mortgaged to the hilt; and so the deal was off. Moreover, rumour began to be busy with the Baron’s name. His debts to local tradesmen were mounting skywards; the Duchess’s allowance ceased; and it was said that Baron Corvo was not a Baron at all, but only Frederick Rolfe. The gossip thickened; and some time between December 1891 and June 1892 ‘Baron Corvo’ vanished from Hampshire, leaving his paintings, his brushes, and his debts to look after themselves.

  Nevertheless the Baron regarded himself as the injured party. The last that Mr Jackson heard of him was an extract from a letter to a friend, written by Rolfe ten years later:

  If you are writing to K-J, you should say this: he made a ghastly blunder; and there is no evidence before me that he ever has attempted or desired to set it right. Were I aware of any such disposition on his part, I hope I am not ungenerous enough to withstand him. But at present he appears to me as an avoidable person, expressing opinions based on no sure warranty and obviously false to facts. I much regret it; for, though I owe my ten years’ hell to him, I like his personality. Please do no
t give him the slightest unnecessary information about me or my doings.

  This Christchurch story was disturbing in its implications. Mr Jackson seemed to have no doubt that Rolfe’s plan had not been an honest one; and mentioned that he had thought it necessary to warn his friends against any financial dealings with ‘the Baron’. Still, I had heard one side of the story only; I needed further material for any judgement. The material was at hand. From the file in which he had kept Corvo’s letters, Mr Jackson produced two long newspaper cuttings, dated 1898, taken from the Aberdeen Free Press. He had noticed them at the time of their appearance, and kept them as curiosities. To me they were almost as engrossing as Millard’s Venice letters: a wonderful piece of luck at the outset of my labours. Here was a detailed account, seen through the eyes of an enemy, of the early adventures of the erratic being whose life I had set myself to trace. As I read it, I began to understand Rolfe’s embittered later years, to glimpse the inner misery of his life.

  CHAPTER 3: THE NEWSPAPER ATTACK

  The ostensible cause of the articles which Mr Jackson left with me for study was a pseudo-reminiscence by Rolfe, published in the Wide World Magazine, a monthly that for a short time, and very rashly, guaranteed the veracity of its contributors. The tall stories of Louis de Rougemont which appeared in its pages brought, however, so much ridicule upon its assertion that it provided nothing but the truth that the claim was speedily withdrawn. In the last number to carry the short-lived guarantee there appeared the harmless and entertaining fiction, to which I shall refer later, which afforded Rolfe’s enemy his opening point.