by Jack Vance
At Innsbruck, taking local advice, we boarded a strange little trolley which reminded us of the Toonerville Trolley, and rode fifteen miles south into the Alps to a picturesque mountain village, Fulpmes. There was nothing much here except the Hotel Lutz, a shop or two, and a few houses built in the traditional Tyrolean style of bare evergreen boards, so that the village smelled of fresh pine and fir. We adopted en pension accommodations at the Lutz and were accorded a room on the second floor with a balcony. I remember this balcony well; it became my habit to sit in the sunlight on it while I wrote. One day a bee stung me.
We remained at Fulpmes a month or so while I completed several novelettes and started Vandals of the Void, a boys’ book commissioned by Winston Publishing. At last we thought that the time had come to move on, so we returned via the funny old trolley to Innsbruck, boarded a bus and rode to Salzburg, where we spent a night or two in an inn once patronized by Mozart, then continued on into Vienna.
In Vienna we heard no music, however we rode the ferris wheel in the Prater amusement park, dined in the Rathauskeller, this being a restaurant in the basement of the Rathaus, or city hall. We visited Schönbrunn, the Habsburg Palace, notable for a great deal of chinoiserie.
We spent three weeks in Vienna. One day, when I was dressed in what little finery I had brought with me—namely gray flannel slacks and a dark blue coat—Norma took my picture. This picture is not in our photograph album. It shows me smiling placidly into the camera, while the photograph reveals that my fly was unzipped. Sic transit gloria mundi. This phrase is perhaps not totally appropriate, but it will serve. In any case, we presently departed Vienna by train, heading south toward Venice.
At Klagenfurt we failed to change trains as we were supposed to do, in order to avoid being swept south to Trieste and beyond into the wilds of Croatia. At the last minute we discovered our mistake, and with suitcases in both hands we leapt from the moving train and managed to catch the proper train into Venice, which we found beautiful beyond even the rhapsodies of the tourist brochures.
Leaving Venice, we rode south through Florence, Rome and into Naples where we met Gwen and Tony Griffiths and Gordon Tongue, whom, so it later turned out, we would know for years to come through many adventures and vicissitudes. They were typical of the English vagabonds who, on small fixed incomes, roamed the continent seeking out romantic places where the sun was warm, the atmosphere cosmopolitan, and the wine inexpensive*.
Norma and I revealed to our new friends that we were on our way south to Sicily. They told us that they had been living in Positano, which they described as a picturesque fishing village eleven miles down the coast from Sorrento. They spoke of it in such terms that we were induced to visit Positano ourselves.
Boarding a bus, we were conveyed south around the Bay of Naples, past Vesuvius and the isle of Capri, past Sorrento, and eleven miles south along the Amalfi road to a wide amphitheater sloping down to the beach with pink, green, blue, and white houses festooning the sides. On the beach was a hotel, Bocca di Bacco, at which we subsequently lunched from time to time, whenever we could afford to do so.
Norma and I were instantly charmed, found ourselves an apartment, and went to work, continuing with Vandals of the Void. I must again emphasize that in this work Norma was indispensable, and that she worked as hard as I did in producing this literature, if I may call it such*.
About the time we had completed Vandals of the Void, Gordon, Gwen and Tony left Positano for the Channel Islands, and Norma and I decided to join them there.
Arriving in St. Helier on the isle of Jersey, we took lodging at the Sandranne Bed & Breakfast. Gordon worked at a pub near the Gorey Castle. We took a photograph of Gordon jumping off a six-foot wall, and the camera caught him in mid-air, his legs splayed, his arms outspread, his coattails flapping, his face set in a grimace of anticipation of the shock to come. This is a fine photograph that makes me laugh every time I think of it.
At the center of St. Helier is the Star Hotel. This is a rambling old Tudor structure, housing a venerable pub. One afternoon I chanced inside, where I found Gordon. He introduced me to a Mr. Lightbody, a gentleman of obvious distinction, whose varsity accent and tweed jacket identified him as a member of the British upper classes. He was blond, fair, blue-eyed, and almost handsome; his expression was bland and droll, and he might well have served as the model for Dorothy Sayers’ Lord Peter Wimsey. Later I learned from Gordon that Mr. Lightbody was a fellow of Oxford, where, to use a British idiom, he had read literature, the classics and sociology.
At the moment of my arrival, however, Gordon and Mr. Lightbody had been engaged in a somewhat less scholarly exchange: namely, that of naughty limericks.
I tried to join their exposition of this noble art form, but my sparse repertory was soon exhausted, and I could only sit fascinated as Mr. Lightbody described the young man from Derwent, then next told of the daring musician named Bratt, to be followed by Gordon’s reminiscences regarding the young lady in France.
Gordon and Mr. Lightbody ultimately paused for breath. In the general conversation that followed, Gordon mentioned to Mr. Lightbody that I was a writer, which prompted Mr. Lightbody to describe his doctoral thesis. This he described as an analysis of British society with specific emphasis on propriety, manners, decorum and all the aspects of conduct which controlled every phase of British existence. I expressed interest in the topic, and Mr. Lightbody expanded somewhat on the nature of this work. Here I will try to reproduce the thrust of his remarks as best as my memory serves me to do.
“The ordinary Englishman,” said Mr. Lightbody, “is controlled by convention almost from the instant of his birth. This control becomes more rigorous as the years proceed. As a child he learns to use his table instruments not as bayonets or tomahawks, but with delicacy and finesse. He is taught to leave a bit of food on his plate ‘for Mr. Manners’. And so it goes. But despite all, certain solecisms remain. He notices how his parents will use their forks upside-down and pile food on them in a great mound, only to convey this loaded fork to their faces. Yet it is to be hoped that a properly reared person will learn to avoid this particular habit, and in due course acquire mastery of all the intricacies of etiquette, so that finally when he reaches his majority he has become a standard Englishman.”
In a rather wry voice, Mr. Lightbody went on to say that he might, at some future date, expand his thesis into a full-fledged book on the subject, not merely as a catalogue of these conventions, but as a practical guide to help the individual use the quirks and unpredictabilities of proper conduct to his advantage.
I never saw Mr. Lightbody’s thesis, nor do I know if his book ever materialized; but while writing this memoir, and thinking back on the Oxonian gentleman with the taste for dirty limericks, I was overtaken by a sudden impulse to compose my own modest example of what might have been. The result (I don’t know what to call it—essay? vignette? article of fiction?) conjectures what perhaps we would have found in Mr. Lighbody’s seminal work, supposing he had shared it with us that afternoon at the Star Hotel pub. I include it, perhaps improperly, in this, my autobiography, although it is completely imaginary and does not relate to any real events in my life. Still, I cannot resist.
Mr. Lightbody rifled through the manuscript for several moments, his slender aristocratic fingers ultimately alighting upon a page perhaps halfway through.
“Ah, yes,” he said. “This section concerns the conventions of dress—which, I may say, are extremely rigid. For instance, it is considered extremely gauche for a dedicated pacifist to wear a regimental necktie; and the cad who sports white socks with black shoes may not be horsewhipped on the steps of his club, but still he will be considered a damned outsider. Again, only a Martian fresh from a flying saucer would don anything but a topper at Ascot.”
Mr. Lightbody pushed the pages across the table. “Look these over, if you’re of a mind to do so.”
He busied himself with his tankard of ale while I glanced over his notes. I came up
on some sheets entitled:
The Pervasive Influence of Protocol,
Propriety and Politesse in the British Isles,
and How Best to Use Them to Enhance Social Status
(A Practical Guide)
by Arthur M. Lightbody
I read through the text at first casually, then with increasing attention, and finally with the wonder of a chemist who has suddenly come upon a molecule of water with the formula HO2. Here, of course, I exaggerate, but the reader must decide as to how much and to what degree.
Naturally, I cannot reproduce Mr. Lightbody’s words with full exactitude, but I suspect that the gist of his advice will be clear enough. If among my readers are persons of extraordinary innocence or sensitivity, I suggest that they read only Divisions I and II, but avoid Division III. However, should they choose to read the entire section, I suspect that they will incur no lasting psychological damage.
Division I. In this section, Mr. Lightbody discussed first the black tie supper, then the more formal white tie dinner party, and the subtle distinctions between the two rituals, and also the quaint if somewhat old-fashioned tradition of the ladies rising from the table at some signal from the hostess while the gentlemen remain to smoke cigars and drink port and perhaps indulge in risqué anecdotes.
Division II. Here Mr. Lightbody discussed cutlery, napery, crystal and other items of table service, and how they are to be used. Great importance was attached to the proper handling of the ordinary dinner fork versus that of a fish fork, salad fork or cake fork; the correct and appropriate use of other utensils was likewise stressed. “The poor fellow who uses his butter knife to bisect his Filet de Sole à la Vassant,” Lightbody cautioned, “will discover that he has been roundly snubbed as a consequence.”
Division III: Social dilemmas, solecisms and their most appropriate mitigations. “Now,” wrote Lightbody, “we must address a problem which at some time or another has been a source of distress for us all. I refer to the gradual accumulation of gas in the abdomen which induces an ever-increasing discomfort. Eventually, and despite alterations of posture and ever more intense muscular effort, a powerful impulse occurs destroying all restraint, so that a flatulence ensues, often with a trombone-like sonority.
“This, then, is the situation. How best to deal with it? First, the person under discussion—let us call him ‘Mr. A’—must by some means attempt to mitigate the solecism. An attempt at facetiousness, such as a gay and giddy laugh and a cry of ‘Whoops—hahaaah!’ cannot be recommended, since it will only cause Mr. A further embarrassment. A more subtle system of dealing with the predicament must be employed.
“Luckily, there is such a system, but it requires rigorous self-discipline.
“Mr. A must sit absolutely motionless for five seconds, with a mild, slightly rueful expression upon his face. Then, with eyebrows raised a trifle, he glances sidelong at the person seated immediately to his right, but for one or two seconds only. Then he returns to as he was before. This bit of by-play, needless to say, will not go unnoticed—and, if nothing else, will at least cause puzzlement and doubt among the other dinner guests. The person seated at Mr. A’s right hand will also notice these circumstances, but now, taken off-guard, can only sit in a state of inanition, the expression on his or her face a frozen mask concealing fury, embarrassment and a sense of helpless futility. Other guests, motivated by sympathy and decorum, will now resume their interrupted conversations and presently all will flow as before. Mr. A will find that his solecism has now been ignored and that all is well—except that he will find that any cordiality which may have existed between himself and the person at his right no longer exists.”
I had hoped to profit from a few more of Mr. Lightbody’s elucidations, but the gentleman looked at his watch and exclaimed that he was late for an appointment. Rising to his feet, he gathered up his manuscript, dropped it into his briefcase and departed, coattails flapping, leaving Gordon and me to sit drinking beer and discussing Mr. Lightbody’s remarkable work.
There is no question but that Mr. Lightbody was an extraordinary person. The next day he left Jersey, and Gordon and I never learned what had become of him.
It was time for Norma and me to resume our homeward journey. We took leave of the Sandranne Bed & Breakfast, Gordon, Mr. Lightbody and the Star Hotel in Jersey, and traveled to Paris, where we would spend two or three days before taking the boat train to Le Havre. We thought to look up Stefan, the painter we had met in Positano, and learned that he was ill in the hospital. We rushed to visit him, and found him recuperating from a kidney stone operation. He insisted that we go to his studio and inspect his work, which was being assembled in preparation for a show. He gave us the address and telephone number of his patroness, who agreed to meet us at the studio and show us the paintings. We followed these instructions, took ourselves to this address, rang the bell, and the door was opened by a middle-aged lady, nicely dressed, gray-haired, who welcomed us into the studio and showed us the paintings. Then she served us tea. This was Stefan’s patroness. Her name was the Baroness de Rothschild!
It now amuses me to mention that while we were in Paris for a few days, we only met one person there.
“Oh?” comes the question, “Who was that?”
“Didn’t I say? It was the Baroness de Rothschild.”
So then—never mind the raised eyebrows, nor the sidelong looks of incredulity; these are the bare cold facts.
We had arrived in Paris practically broke, with only enough money to keep us alive and take us to the boat train. Stefan’s girlfriend, Claire, insisted on showing us the Parisian night life, a plan to which we were forced to accede. She took us to a cabaret where we were obliged to buy brandies, thereby using the money we had reserved for our meals. Thus thanks to Claire’s hospitality we nearly starved during the rest of our stay in Paris. On the transatlantic voyage back to the States, we had no choice but to slink off the ship without tipping the stewards and waiters, who doubtless must have pegged me for a cheap SOB.
We checked into the Royalton Hotel opposite the Algonquin, where we scraped together enough money to buy ourselves beer at the bar. We dined on the free peanuts. Next morning we went to the office of Scott Meredith, my agent, where we were happy to learn that there was money waiting for us, as well as an offer of new work. Euphoria! I was sent to the office of Olga Druce, television producer.
Chapter 6
You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;
To-morrow ‘ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year;
Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day,
For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.
Tennyson
Olga Druce would play a large part in our lives for the next year or two. She was about forty, of middle size, dark hair, not bad-looking, with a perpetually cagey expression. She was obviously a woman who knew what she wanted. Currently she was the producer of a television serial known as Captain Video and the Video Rangers. She was not happy with her current crop of writers and was looking for an infusion of style and dash, so Scott Meredith sent over some science fiction writers, myself included.
When I arrived at her office in New York, I found myself part of a group which included Robert Sheckley, Arthur C. Clarke and a few others. Robert S. Richardson, a notable astronomer from Palomar Observatory in southern California, would later participate in the program, but was not yet on hand.
Arthur Clarke, so it developed, was uninterested in television scripts, and in the end, only Bob Sheckley and I joined the Captain Video team. The pay for an episode was $1,500, which at that time was quite a bit of money.
Norma and I rented an apartment and I set myself to writing Captain Video scripts. My first one was a great success; Olga Druce was delighted. I don’t know how Sheckley made out. Incidentally, Sheckley is a first-class writer; he used to live up in Seattle, but I haven’t seen much of him over the years.
It was summer, and the heat was fearful. Finally, after two months of suffering, I arranged with Olga that we should return to California and continue writing scripts from there. After shopping around, I bought a Willys Jeepster, a sporty little jeep convertible, and Norma and I drove back to California through Canada. We visited the Banff Hotel at Lake Louise, then drove south through Idaho, Nevada, and into southern California, through San Bernardino and Colton, and up Grand Terrace to the home of Norma’s family. Here we expected to find our magnificent Packard awaiting us. We drove up the hill and into the driveway, and there, sure enough, under the pepper tree, was the Packard. Or was it the Packard? There was something there, no question about it, and it rather resembled the automobile we had left behind, in the care of Norma’s father, but at the same time it looked like nothing we had ever seen before. The body was all dents, windows were broken, the tires were flat. Closer scrutiny did reveal that it was a depredated version of a once-beautiful Packard. Clearly, Norma’s father had allowed her brothers to vandalize our beautiful car until finally it gave up the ghost. Norma, of course, was frozen in outrage, and she let everyone know about it. I was utterly shocked, but I restrained my emotions and said nothing whatever. Oddly enough, none of the miscreants mentioned the situation, much less apologized. The atmosphere remained chilly and we left Colton on the following day.
Norma and I visited my mother in Berkeley, then explored the countryside, and finally settled into an old farmhouse in the hills near the town Kenwood. I set myself to producing Captain Video scripts.
