«Yes. I'll meditate on that. Good night. Perhaps she'll come back in the morning.»
«Perhaps you'll be happy this time tomorrow.»
The morning brought the crisis of my life. But it was not anything that I could have conceived of in my wildest imaginings.
«Wake up, wake up, Brad, here's a letter.»
I sat up in bed. Francis was thrusting at me a letter in an unfamiliar hand. It had a French stamp. I knew that it could only be from her. «Go, go, and close the door.» He went. I opened the letter, shuddering, almost weeping with hope and fear. It read as follows.
Please please don't feel badly about me, don't be too sad or cross with me either. Forgive my ignorance of myself, forgive my worthless empty selfish youth. I can't quite now believe that you absolutely loved me, how could you have done. A mature woman would attract you much more deeply. I think that men like «youthful bloom» and so on but perhaps they don't really distinguish young girls much from one another and quite rightly, one is so unformed. I hope you don't think I behaved like a «loose woman.» I felt great feelings and at every moment I did what seemed unavoidable. I don't regret anything unless I hurt you and you won't forgive me. I must stop this letter, I keep saying the same things over and over again, you must be quite fed up. I am so very sorry that I went without saying good-bye. (I got a lift back to London quite easily, by the way. I'd never hitch-hiked before.) I felt I had to go, though I didn't think anything else just then, and since then it has seemed more sensible to keep on with that course rather than make more muddle and misery for everybody, though I terribly terribly want to see you. We will meet again, won't we, later on perhaps, after some time, and try to be friends, when I am a little more mature. That will be something new and valuable too. I feel now, especially as we go farther and farther south, that life is full of all kinds of possibilities. I do hope I shall manage with the Italian! Oh forgive me, Bradley, forgive me. I expect by now you just feel that you have had an odd dream. I hope it has been a good dream. Mine was. Oh I do feel so unhappy though, I feel all topsy-turvy. I don't know when I've cried so much. I have been so stupid and thoughtless. I love you with real love. It was a revelation. I don't unsay anything. But it wasn't part of any life we could have lived.
Julian
«Brad, may I come in?»
I was dressing.
«Is it good news, Brad?»
«She's in Italy,» I said. «I'm going after her. She's in Venice.»
The letter had, of course, been written for Arnold's eye. The bit about his «providing the stamp» made that plain. The girl was being supervised, virtually a prisoner. Of course she couldn't, as she said, «explain clearly.» She had continued writing a vague repetitive effusion, in the hope of being able to put in a real message at the last moment, hence the references to «not being able to end.» That had proved impossible. Doubtless Arnold arrived, read the letter and told her to complete it. Then he took it away and posted it. He would see to it that she had no money to buy stamps herself. However she had managed to tell me that she was writing under duress. She had also managed to convey her destination. «Snow and ice,» to which she had drawn attention, patently meant Venice. The Italian for «snow» is «neve,» and together with the reference to «Italian words,» the anagram was obvious. And in «topsy-turvy» language a little place in the mountains clearly meant a large place by the sea. And Arnold had mentioned Venice, though then to mislead me. Names are not uttered at random.
«Are you going to Venice today?» said Francis, as I was getting into my trousers.
«Yes. At once.»
«Do you know where she is?»
«No. The letter's in code. She's staying with a fan of Arnold's, I don't know who.»
I thought for a moment. «All right. You might be useful.»
«Oh good! Shall I go now and get the tickets? You should stay here, you know. She might telephone or you might get a message or something.»
«All right.» That made sense. I sat down on the bed. I was feeling rather faint again.
