“Oh, all right,” said Cantrip.
Terrace of the Cytherea.
Nearly lunch-time on Wednesday.
It has been known in times past, Selena, when others have spoken disparagingly of men, suggesting that they are as a sex altogether worthless and contemptible, for me to offer a word or two in their defence. I have been heard to say tolerantly that some of my best friends are men, though if I had a daughter I might not wish her to marry one. Not any more, Selena. Henceforth, when the subject of men arises, look for me among those most absolute in condemnation. They are a deplorable sex. Let me tell you what happened on the excursion to Verona; and what happened afterwards.
Graziella, for some reason, was not available to accompany the excursion: we were dependent for guidance on the coach driver, who did not feel the same anxiety for our intellectual improvement: he confined himself, in each of the places we visited, to setting us down in the main square and telling us at what hour he intended to take us up again.
It fell to me, in these circumstances, to act as interpreter for Ned and the Major, neither of whom speaks any Italian. I myself am not the linguist you are kind enough to think me; but I can ask the way with reasonable conviction and usually understand at least some of the answer. Moreover, by the grace of Ragwort, I was in possession of guide books to all the towns we were to visit, so that I was also able to act as guide.
At Asolo I did rather well. The foreign Art Lovers, despite the heat, went rushing off up the hill to look at the Castle; but I, from my perusal of the guide book, was able to tell my companions that we were already in the very square in which the poet Browning had been inspired to write his celebrated poem “Pippa Passes”—the one, if my memory serves me, in which there was joy in the morning.
“This charming and picturesque little town,” I said, “due, no doubt, to being built on a steep hillside, has evidently escaped the attention of developers since the Middle Ages. We may safely assume it to be much as it was in Browning’s day. It seems probable, therefore, that he wrote the poem to which I have referred on the terrace of that rather attractive cafe, refreshing his Muse, I expect, with a Campari soda or something like that. By doing likewise, we may be able to recreate something of the experience which inspired his immortal lines.” In Vicenza I did rather badly. If you ever happen, Selena, to be in the main square of Vicenza and want to get from there to the Olympic Theatre, final masterpiece of the architect Palladio, do not rely on Ragwort’s guide book. If you do, you will find yourself, before you discover your mistake, halfway down the road to Milan, trying to explain what it was about the Church of Saints Felix and Fortunate that made you think it worth a detour. You will also find yourself having to walk two miles back in the blazing heat to get to the Theatre. If you were not an Art Lover, you might decide at that stage to give the Theatre a miss; but my conscience would not stretch so far — besides, I had told them we were going there.
“My guide books,” said Ragwort, driving his fork rather crossly into one of the scampi which the airport restaurant had obligingly just unfrozen for him, “all contain excellent maps, all perfectly clear and accurate and straightforward. If Julia can’t tell the difference between left and right—”
“No, of course not,” said Selena kindly, “not your fault in the least, Ragwort.”
After all this, the enchanting Ned refused to be pleased with the Theatre. It is a most attractive building, designed with great ingenuity to persuade one, when in the auditorium, that one is in an open air theatre somewhere in ancient Greece. I invited my companions to admire this masterpiece of deception. Ned declined.
“I don’t like it,” he said. “I don’t like looking down streets that aren’t there. I don’t like looking at the ceiling and thinking it’s the sky. I don’t like all this make-believe.” There is no pleasing some people.
In Verona I did superbly. By that time I had worked out the strategy for the successful guide. It’s no use looking through the guide book for something interesting and then trying to get there: it may turn out to be miles away. No, the thing to do is to discover where one is to start with and then find something in the guide book which says that it’s interesting — much inconvenience may thus be avoided.
By looking round a bit during lunch I established that we were in a restaurant near the corner of the Via Oberdan. Identifying the place on the map, I was pleased to see that there were several blobs of brown colouring in close proximity: brown blobs indicate artistic significance. There were, it is true, other blobs of brown some inches away. Pursuant, however, to the policy mentioned above, I ignored them.
After lunch, therefore, I was able with perfect confidence to lead my companions to the Piazza dei Signori and the Piazza dell” Erbe and to point out to them those architectural features of the Palazzo del Capitano and the Palazzo dei Ragione which the guide book considered deserving of attention. The information I gave them may not, I admit, have been in every detail entirely accurate, for the guide book was in Italian: my knowledge of Italian architectural terms is sketchy, you might say nonexistent, as is also indeed my knowledge of English architectural terms. My translation was therefore a trifle emancipated.
We continued to the Cathedral, where I had a further inspiration. Verona lies in a more or less semi-circular loop of river and we had set out from the approximate centre — from the point, I mean, equidistant from each point on the bank: according to the laws of geometry, it seemed to me, we should be able, by walking along the bank and taking, when we chose to do so, a turning perpendicular to it, to return, without retracing our steps, to our point of departure.
Knowing how infrequently in the real world things obey the laws of mathematics or any other logical system, I would not, perhaps, but for the wine we had drunk at lunch, have ventured to put this theory to any empirical test; but Verona showed a proper respect for the laws of geometry.
Leaving the Cathedral, we walked some distance along the bank, observing on our left the grandeur of the view across the river and on our right a row of antique shops, of professional interest to the Major; then, turning off at right angles to the river, we proceeded, so far as possible, in a straight line; and found ourselves, just as Euclid would have expected, back in the main square.
I was astonished at my success. I had taken my companions on exactly the tour I had planned and had thrown in for good measure the Churches of Saint Anastasia and Saint Nicholas, which had presented themselves in our path. In the latter, I had even managed to identify the Madonna and Child by Tiepolo, highly spoken of by the guide book, but treated by the Church with a rather cavalier lack of distinction. It seemed unwise to attempt to improve on my achievement.
“You will observe,” I said, “that this spacious and elegant square is amply furnished with open-air cafes, in which the traveller may find rest and refreshment. Shall we avail ourselves of this circumstance?”
“If you’ll excuse me, m’dear,” said the Major, “I think I’ll just pop back and have another shufti at those antique shops.”
“Are you sure you won’t get lost?” I asked. Much as I would have liked to lose the Major, I felt responsible for him.
“Trust an old campaigner to get back to base,” said the Major cheerfully.
And off he went, leaving me alone with Ned. We sat down together, under the shade of an awning, in one of the cafes previously mentioned.
The time had come, I felt, to talk about Catullus: Verona, you will recall, is the poet’s birthplace. If I could not manage, by judicious quotation from the most ardent of lyric poets, to indicate the warmth of my feelings, there was, I thought, no hope for me. With no need on this subject to resort to the guide book — his work was the chief comfort of my susceptible adolescence — I spoke sympathetically of his attachment to Clodia, severely of her unkindness. Ned chose to defend her.
“I don’t see why you think,” he said, “that she ought to have been so grateful for having all this poetry written to her. I expect your friend Catullus got more fun out of writing it than she did out of reading it — she’d probably rather have been taken out to dinner or something.” And more to the like effect.
“Ah, well,” I said at last. “It is natural that you should take her side. Your own experience, no doubt, is all of being the object of passion, rather than of suffering it.”
“I don’t know why you suppose,” he said, looking down demurely in such a manner as to display the full luxury of his lovely eyelashes, “that I am the object of so much admiration. Or that I am always indifferent to it.”
The reappearance at this stage of the Major, who could perfectly well have gone on wandering round antique shops for another half-hour, seemed singularly ill-timed. If the maps he had purchased, supposed to be of antiquarian interest, turned out to be fakes, it would be, I felt, a deserved consequence of his over-hasty
