by Martin Boyd
‘May I teach you how to see Rome?’ he said.
She hesitated and asked if he were going to Rome soon. He said he was going there in two days time. Alice still hesitated and he said:
‘You should allow me to perform the duties of a relative.’
‘It would be very kind of you to spare me some of your time in Rome,’ Alice replied. ‘It would certainly make a great difference to my appreciation of it.’
‘It is a great pleasure to show the things one loves to someone who can enjoy them,’ he said. ‘Ariadne is an enthusiast for Florence. I am a Roman. She was annoyed at the victory of the rival city.’
‘Is her husband alive?’ Alice enquired.
‘Yes. He lives in Meath. I’m afraid the Tunstalls are not good at happy marriages.’
‘Are you not married?’ asked Alice diffidently.
When he said no she was a little relieved. She thought that somehow it made it slightly more conventional for her to go about with him if he were unmarried. He asked if he might accompany her on the journey to Rome. She thought it would be foolish to refuse this, and they arranged to meet at the railway station, two days ahead. In spite of this he turned up at her hotel early on the following afternoon, and asked if she would care to drive with him to the Certosa.
The journey to Rome was as pleasant as that from Pisa. There was a carriage waiting for him at the railway station, and he drove Alice to a hotel nearby, and again gave instructions for her comfort. He said that he expected she would want to rest after her journey, but that on the following afternoon he would call if he might, and begin to teach her to see Rome.
Alice felt a little flat, but she was beginning to see that these postponements and formal arrangements were part of his style of living and did not mean to show any unfriendliness. She thought they were very English. An Australian would say: ‘Well, I’ll just take my bags along, and then I’ll come back and see how you are.’ Mr Tunstall’s way was a little chilling, but when their friendly meetings were separated by this external frame of formality, it gave them a special value. In the morning she did not go far from her hotel, partly because she did not want to go to see anything which he might be intending to show her. She began on this day to adjust her plans to suit his movements.
Up to this point Alice’s diary from the time of her meeting with Aubrey Tunstall is written with a good deal of telegraphic abbreviation, so I have transposed it into narrative form, though without any embroidery. I was able to give an idea of Mrs Dane’s villa from my own memory. But as Alice is the only authority I have for what happened while she was in Rome, and as she wrote about it at much greater length than she gave to her other entries, it seems best to let the account stand in her own words. It has been rather difficult to join it all up in its right order, as she wrote far more than would go into the space allotted by the printer for each day, and so continued her entries on back pages which she had not filled, turning the book upside down and writing from the bottom of the page.
On the first afternoon when she had arranged to meet Aubrey, he took her for a drive to give her a general idea of the city, before showing her individual sights. In the evening, after writing some of her impressions of Rome, she added: ‘He is certainly a very cultivated man and I am most fortunate to have met him.’ Then, as throughout all the diaries there comes the sign that her emotions are affected, either painfully or otherwise. She writes in French: ‘Il m’a fait oublier un peu ma grande peine.’
In a few days she begins to write almost entirely in French, which I am translating, except for a few short passages, written with evident intensity of feeling but in a kind of flowery language which might sound ridiculous in English. It is only decent to allow Alice this slight amount of concealment. For some reason it seems permissible to me to reveal her grief but not her joy. On 3 October she wrote:
‘This morning I did a little shopping. It would be foolish to go sightseeing by myself when it is so much more interesting with Mr Tunstall. I bought some pictures of Rome and posted them to Sarah to give to the children, the Spanish Steps for Steven, the Temple of Vesta for Mildred, and some pretty little putti for the others. I think they should be made aware of Europe from the beginning. I do not want them to suffer any disadvantage from being Australians, and to grow up unfit to mix with people like Mr Tunstall or with those whom I met at Mrs Dane’s villa. They should be able to enter the best society that is open to them. If Austin inherits Waterpark, there is no reason why they should not have a wide choice of friends of the best kind. The problem of Austin tonight seems less urgent to me. I am becoming averse to the idea of an open break. It would be a purely negative action and harmful to everyone, especially the children. I feel that already Rome has given me a wider and more generous outlook—perhaps even a more worldly view.
‘After luncheon Mr Tunstall called for me and drove me out beyond the Porta Ostiense to S. Paolo. On the way, he asked me about Australia, but I do not think that he is really interested in any country but Italy, not even in the beautiful countryside around Dilton. It was strange to tell him about our little Westhill when I thought of Dilton, even more in comparison with Mrs Dane’s wonderful villa near Fiesole. It made me feel rather sad and protective towards the children, and determined that they should not be deprived of any good thing if I could help it. By good things I do not mean what can be bought. He asked me about our friends in Melbourne and I mentioned the Bynghams. He said he believed that he had some relatives of that name, but did not know them personally. This struck me as an odd coincidence, that he and therefore Damaris should be a connection of the Bynghams. I do not think Arthur knew that.
‘4 October. Today I lunched with Mr Tunstall at his apartment. M. and Mme de C., whom I met in Florence, were there. Mr Tunstall introducing me said: “You remember ma belle-soeur whom you met at Ariadne’s.” I had the feeling that he had asked French people, as they were unlikely to know how slender is our relationship. I expect it is very unconventional of me to be so much in his company. It certainly would be very marked in Melbourne. His apartment is in a sixteenth-century palace, and the rooms, if anything are even more splendid than in Mrs Dane’s villa. The conversation was in French, which I could follow easily and join in without too much discredit. It was pleasant, but quite simple, and did not seem to me to have the brilliance and culture which impressed me so much at Mrs Dane’s. I think Mr Tunstall is simpler than his sister. I like him for that. After luncheon he took us into a small room, a kind of study, in which he keeps his more personal possessions. Over the writing table in an old gilded frame is the painting Arthur gave him. It is quite small, of a winged boy, naked in a figtree. An unusual subject, but it struck me as being very well done, much better than anything I have seen of Arthur’s. I was surprised and pleased that Mr Tunstall thought it good enough to hang in an apartment where there are some fine old masters. He drew Madame de C.’s attention to it, partly I think to draw her attention as well to our “relationship” mentioning that the painting was by my brother-in-law. We had not planned to make any excursion this afternoon, and as soon as the duchess rose to leave I followed her example, so that she would not think that I was staying with Mr Tunstall. I was quite contented for the rest of the afternoon to stroll alone to the Spanish Steps and mount up into the sunshine where I sat for an hour. This evening I wrote to Lady Langton and told her I had seen Sir William’s grave, which we visited yesterday on the way back from S. Paolo. I did not hint at any rift between Austin and me, though I fear she will think it peculiar for me to be travelling alone.
‘7 October. Mr Tunstall is really a wonderful courier. He never crowds too many things into one day, and he alternates some major visit, as to the Vatican, with a country excursion. If we go to see something that is not tiring, we may go out both in the morning and the afternoon. He never lets me see more than two churches, and a limited number of pictures in one day so my appetite is always keen. It is exceedingly kind of him to give me so much time, but he says
that my appreciation revives his own, and I can understand this. I enjoy best the drives and little excursions outside the walls. In this rich autumnal season, I am seeing Italy at its best. The vines are hung with ripening purple grapes. In places I have seen them trailing over the olive trees making a beautiful combination of colours, and it is like a dream to stand on Monti Pincio and look over the domes of this noble city. I said to Mr Tunstall that I had no conception of what beautiful places there were in the world until I came to Italy. I have read of them and seen pictures but they did not convey the reality. Of course there is very striking scenery in Australia, and the view even from Westhill is magnificent, but it has not the same connection with humanity. If on a fine day, I can see a tiny ship in the far distance, moving down the bay, and know that it is setting out for Europe, that association in some way enriches the scene. Mr Tunstall said: “You love Italy because Italy is humanity. It provides the pattern of life for the whole Western world.” I told him of the feeling I had as soon as I came into the Campo Santo at Pisa, that it was the scene of some life I had known before, and I said I had this feeling even more strongly in Rome. He looked at me with great understanding and kindness and said: “Then you feel as I do.”
‘12 October. I have not written in my diary for the last few days because as soon as I took up my pen I did not know what to write. I have not dared to write what I felt. We have been for some beautiful drives, and I must keep a record of what we have done as I do not want to forget such remarkable experiences. We went for a whole wonderful day to Tivoli. The day was still and full of sunlight, but down amongst those fountains and waterfalls it was a mysterious fairyland. Driving back through the golden evening we passed some blue carts laden with grapes, and some singing peasants who had been gathering the vintage. I thought one or two of them were tipsy, but Mr Tunstall said this was not so. They were only a very happy people. Of course they could not become intoxicated with fresh grapes. This was two days ago. Yesterday we did not go out in the afternoon as we were going to the Opera in the evening. The opera was Figaro and Mr Tunstall sent me a beautiful bouquet of yellow roses. The Opera House was crowded with distinguished looking people, the women with magnificent jewels. Mr Tunstall pointed out to me the Colonnas, a Russian grand duke who is in Rome, some Sforzas, and others with famous names. I have been to Covent Garden when the Prince and Princess of Wales were there, but the audience did not seem as brilliant to me as last night’s. There is so much vitality in the Italians. Figaro has always been one of my favourite operas, for the music, but last night I became fully aware of the plot. I really hated it for its treatment of love as if it were only a matter for silly and sordid intrigue. I felt dreadfully confused and unhappy. It made me think of A. and H. and I felt myself mixed up in it too. In the interval Mr Tunstall introduced me to a number of people, always saying that I was his sister-in-law, Mrs Langton of Waterpark, as if Waterpark were a kind of title. I think that he did this so that my position should not be in any way equivocal. Normally, I should have enjoyed this exceedingly, but I felt wretched, and in this splendid scene, amongst all those grand people, I only longed to be back at Westhill. In anyone else such an exhibition of poor spirit would have angered me, and I only hope that I did not show it.
‘After the opera, Mr Tunstall asked if I would go to supper with him at his apartment. I did not know whether it was to be a party, or whether we would be alone together, but whichever it was I did not feel that I could refuse without vulgarity, seeing that he has always behaved towards me with absolute courtesy. The supper was laid in his huge diningroom and we were waited on by two Italian footmen, in addition to the butler; this absence of any attempt to create an intimate atmosphere again showed his respect for me. At the end of supper the servants went out, but we sat on over the table. He asked me in a friendly but disinterested voice, so that it did not sound impertinent, if I was happy. I said that there had been times in this past week when I thought I had not been so happy for years. He said: “Yes, but I mean generally happy in your life.” I could not answer for a while. I did not know what to say, as before I came to Italy I had been almost in despair, but I could not tell him that. Then I thought that he was so kind and honourable that I could trust him entirely, and I said: “I have not been happy.” He said: “If you don’t want to tell me, of course you mustn’t speak of it, but I thought it might be a relief to you to tell me, as you seem very much alone.” So then I told him about A. and H. how it had begun long ago, and how I had discovered it. When I had finished he was silent for awhile. At last he said: “I was hoping it was something in which I could help you, but in this matter I don’t see how I can. All the same, I hope you won’t mind having told me.” I said that I was glad I had told him, that it was a relief. Then I rose to leave, as I was upset, and did not want to embarrass him. I think that all his actions are very considered. When he left me at the hotel he kissed my hand. That is usual here but it is the first time he has done it. When I saw him kissing the hands of the Italian ladies at the opera, I was a little jealous. Je crois que je l’aime. Je l’aime. Je l’aime.’
Between the leaves of Alice’s diary for this day are some silky brown petals, pressed for three quarters of a century, which may have been those of yellow roses. The next entry is in tiny writing, which I had to read with a magnifying glass, and which I have not the heart to translate.
Je sais que je l’aime. Je ne sais pas s’il m’aime. Depuis le soir de Figaro il m’a envoyé tant de belles fleurs. Ma chambre est comme un jardin, mais dans ce jardin je suis une prisonnière, ne sachant pas que faire. Je ne sais pas si je suis mauvaise, si je suis folle. Quand je pense à mes enfants à Westhill, je pourrais le croire, mais quand je pense à lui je ne me sens qu’heureuse. Et pourtant je doute encore. Malgré les fleurs, il ne se comporte que comme un frère aîné et bien gentil. Dois-je l’encourager? Peut-être est-il trop délicat pour me parler d’amour si le signe ne vient pas de moi. Je me tourmente parce-que je ne sais pas ce que je veux. Quelquefois il me semble que la porte du paradis est ouverte, rester toujours dans cette ville merveilleuse avec cet homme le plus sympathique, le plus spirituel que j’ai jamais connu. Si je peux obtenir de divorcer avec A. et ensuite m’épouser avec M. Tunstall, je crois que les enfants seraient encore à moi. Mais à Rome, dans son palais magnifique, ce n’est pas une chose que je peux envisager. Ma chambre aux fleurs est devenue une chambre de torture. Je dois être deux femmes, pouvante habiter deux mondes.’
The next entry is also in French but in her ordinary handwriting. Apparently it was only at times of intense feeling that she wrote in that minute style.
‘16 October. Last night I dined at his apartment. He did not say whether it was to be a party, but that is his manner, not to be very communicative about his arrangements. I made a rather grande toilette, in case it was a party, but there were only the two of us. The same three men waited on us as on the night after the opera. All his appointments are beautiful, gold filigree Venetian glass, and gold or silver-gilt candlesticks, salt cellars, etc. I imagine he dines like this every night, even when alone, as there was a sort of simple routine about it. It gave me an odd feeling of unreality to dine in such state when I was so emotionally disturbed. The ceiling is high with heavy rafters, painted in rich designs. The walls are covered with a soft blue velvet, which looks darkish in the candlelight. It is faded unevenly so that it looked as if the great room beyond the little golden island of our table was enclosed by mysterious clouds from the sea. It is far more splendid than anything I am used to. Waterpark is a cottage to it, and even the few great houses I have been to in England still have a feeling of domesticity about them. But Mr Tunstall’s apartment is full of the ghosts of cardinals and princes. At dinner he was very friendly and natural, and yet I felt that this grandeur of Roman life, which at first fascinated me, and still does, was something separating us rather than bringing us together. One could not imagine there the children coming in for dessert. It seemed to me that he made his life a p
icture rather than a natural growth, or that he had created for himself a setting so perfect that it restricted the fullness of his life. Or was this setting for himself? Wasn’t it for some long dead cardinal? This did not lessen my regard for him. It may even have increased it by making me aware that he was not entirely contented with the circumstances to which he had been born. He is perhaps in something the same position in Italy as I am in England. We may both be said to be living outside the countries where we were born a little “above our station in life”. For just as Waterpark is above Westhill, so is Mr Tunstall’s palace in the princely style of life which it suggests, above Dilton. This makes for a sense of artificiality in his life, though he himself is in no way artificial.
‘After dinner we went into the drawing-room. He sat down at the piano and asked me if I would sing. I do sing a little, but I was nervous of doing so before him and I refused. I had a feeling that he would be impatient of anything not of the very finest quality. At the opera he made subtle criticisms which would have escaped me. I too like the best that can be had, in music, in art, in society, but I think this can be a danger to one’s love of one’s friends, which is the most valuable of all things. When I said I would not sing, he played a Chopin prelude, while I stood looking down from the window. It was a beautiful warm night and I could almost have read by the moonlight. The buildings were very distinct but softened. The statue of the Virgin in a niche opposite looked almost alive against the darkness behind it. One cannot move in Rome without seeing on every corner, through every archway, some evidence of the genius and the faith of the people. After a while Mr Tunstall left the piano and stood beside me. I asked him what he had been playing, as it condensed for me all the beauty of this wonderful night. He said it was a Chopin prelude and he wrote down the number for me on a piece of paper.’