The Cardboard Crown

by Martin Boyd

  ‘1 Octobre. Dimanche. S. Rémy. Went to the High Mass at St Peter’s. They all went in procession. There was a Cardinal in a beautiful cope of gold embroidery on petunia silk, but it clashed in colour with his scarlet train. Many Canons in purple with fur. Sistine choir singing Palestrina. The sunlight coming in misty shafts through high windows touched the whole atmosphere with gold and caught bits of gilded carving on the walls. The brilliant colour of the procession coming down the vast church was very impressive. When I came out I was astonished to see A.T. in the small crowd of people. I was also delighted and showed it perhaps too clearly. It is the only time I have met him unexpectedly, except at the meet at Boyton, and as then, I had a feeling of intense pleasure, which I cannot believe he did not share. He said that as I had told him I was going to St Peter’s he had come to meet me. I told him how beautiful the Mass had been, and asked why he did not come. He said: “I thought you might prefer to be alone.” I replied that he made everything in Rome more enjoyable. I thought it permissible to say this. He said: “But in church it is better to be alone.” I thought this a strange remark, as I like to have my friends with me. It was a fine morning and the air had that soft clear quality which it seems only to have in southern countries. The piazza looked so light and spacious, with the little redwheeled carriages and the sunlight on the fountains. I said it was like a Canaletto and he turned to me with the quick smile he gives when I say something he likes.

  ‘In the afternoon we went to S. Maria in Aracoeli, I saw the first Christian altar in Rome, and a miraculous Bambino, and some huge marble popes. Afterwards we sat in the sun at the top of that great flight of steps. It was hot but I had my parasol, the one lined with Brussels lace. A. is more unconventional now than he used to be, which I like. He used not to sit about on steps or anywhere as he does now. Also he does not seem to care so much for society. He has not taken me anywhere to meet people, as he did before. Again this pleases me, as I would far rather talk with him than with Italian dukes. We did meet a contessa somebody in the Corso this afternoon and he introduced me, but not as his sister-inlaw. He may think that at our age this sop to the conventions is no longer necessary. It became too hot on the steps and we went through the church again on to the shady steps on the other side. The view was very fine, over the arches and ruined temples and pine trees to the distant blue of the Alban Hills. I said how fortunate he was to live in the most beautiful city in the world. He said: “Yes, but then if one is depressed there is nowhere else to go.” He sounded a little unhappy. Perhaps he is lonely. He has never married. I must not get ridiculous ideas into my head.

  ‘2 Octobre. Lundi. S.S. Anges Gard. This morning we went to the Borghese palace. We sat in the gardens first as it was such a beautiful morning. We were so interested talking that we did not notice the passage of time, and when we stood up to go into the palace, we found it was time to return for luncheon. I did not mind as I really prefer talking to A. to anything. He shows everything in a more interesting and truer light. I don’t only mean statues in Rome, but things like one’s attitude to other people. We were very amused when we found that we had been so interested in our conversation that we had not noticed the time, also because we were quite satisfied that it should be so. We came back to the hotel. He has not asked me to a meal in his apartment. He says he has not a good cook, but I went there to tea this afternoon. It is not as magnificent as my memory of it, but I have seen so many palaces and fine houses since, and then I was new to Italy, and the grandeur of Rome. There were not so many servants. The only one I saw was a boy of sixteen in a footman’s livery too big for him, who brought in the tea. The pictures also are not the masterpieces I had imagined. I liked them, but they are by unknown seventeenth century painters. I had thought they were by Titian and Veronese, though of course they couldn’t have been, though Lady Dilton told me that A. had a large fortune from his uncle. All the same the rooms themselves are magnificent. I suppose the quality of his mind has improved and he feels less need for outward show. It makes us more at ease with each other. In the evening we went to a concert. The last piece was the Siegfried Idyll. After the concert, although it was very late, we went again on to the Pincio. A. said something like this: “There is a chord which continues all the time, the eternal music of humanity. Our lives break out of it and form different patterns of sound—they may be the motif of a single life, or the richer harmonies when two lives intermingle. Then they subside and are drawn into the eternal chord, as all the motives are drawn into the long chord at the end of the Siegfried Idyll.” The pine trees in the Medici Gardens filled the air with their scent. It is now after 2 a.m. but I find it hard to stop writing about these wonderful days. He is calling for me at 10.30 tomorrow morning.

  ‘3 Octobre. Mardi. S. Trophima. I know it is foolish at my age, but I felt my heart beating rapidly this morning when I was expecting A. He was a few minutes late and I felt some apprehension. I shall have to stop this sort of thing or I shall become ridiculous. Perhaps it is worthwhile being ridiculous to be happy. One is only not ridiculous for the benefit of other people. The happiness one feels oneself. When he arrived he was preoccupied, almost impatient. He was quite polite of course and explained that he had to reply to an urgent letter from England. He said at once that I ought to see the Borghese palace and I felt that he was blaming me for yesterday morning, when we dawdled in the gardens. That was one of the happiest mornings I have spent for years, so it was particularly wounding to me to feel that he repudiated it. This may all be absurd, and I may be building up a situation out of nothing, but I do not think I imagined it. One is always more sensitive to a person’s manner than to what he actually says. The palace was beautiful, particularly the entrance hall, and I saw some pictures I have long wanted to see, but I did not enjoy it. A. who so far has made me feel keenly the beauty of anything we have seen together, this morning seemed to blind me to it, and I might as well have been walking through Paddington railway station. He brought me back to the hotel and I thought he was going to leave me, but I asked him to stay to luncheon. He accepted, but in a faintly surprised way, as if I had thought of a nice idea, not as if it were a matter-of-course that we should lunch together, as we have done every day since I have been here. I ordered some rather expensive wine which he had recommended and he was pleased at this. His mood changed and he became as gentle and cheerful as I have always seen him. We walked a little way from the hotel and went into the cloister of a church, one of those odd, delightful corners of Rome, of which he knows so many. There were orange trees and a fountain in the middle. The line of columns was very dignified, and the sunlight was reflected up into the clean, simple vaulting. I said how pleasant it was to be able casually to stroll into places like that—that in Australia if there were just one such place people would travel a thousand miles to see it. He asked me for the first time with real interest if I liked living in Australia. I told him that for some things I liked it very much, for my friends there, and the climate and the scenery, which round Westhill is far more spectacular than round Waterpark, though the latter has more quiet charm. When I talked to him about these things I had that strange feeling one sometimes has that it had all happened before. We talked about the effect of all this classical art on one’s mind, and he quoted a little poem about Greece and Rome, which began:

  Helen thy beauty is to me

  As those Nicean barks of yore …

  ‘He went on to say that every good thing must have traces of past good things in it. “Arabs” he said “are the best coffee-makers. They leave the grounds of the last brew in the pot, and make the fresh coffee on top. In Europe we have all the grounds from the beginning, especially in Rome.” He paused, and then he said: “Friendship is best when it contains the traces of early love.”

  ‘I felt that he meant this to apply to us, and also that it was exactly the right expression of our relationship. He so often hits on this true note, which makes it such a pleasure to listen to him. He said that it must be di
sintegrating to be drawn in two across the globe, and that I should integrate myself in Rome. On the way back to the hotel we passed a shop with some Russian wooden toys. There were some little figures that came in half, with a smaller one inside, and others inside that, six in all. I bought one for Diana’s little girl. In the evening he had to dine with some people. He did not want to go, and said he would have put it off if he could. I had just come up from dinner when a waiter brought me a bouquet of yellow roses and an envelope from Aubrey. It contained only these verses:

  Alice, your beauty is to me

  As those strange Russian wooden toys

  Which come in half, and then we see

  A smaller size of painted boys.

  For with my mind I can discern,

  Beneath your stately woman’s guise,

  That other who my heart made burn

  With light you kindled from your eyes.

  And so I have two friends in one,

  First love within the friend I see.

  And no one knows, but I alone

  How doubly dear you are to me.’

  Between the leaves of Alice’s diary for this day were some silky brown petals. There is no further entry until:

  ‘6 Octobre. Vendredi. S. Bruno. I have neglected my diary for the last few days as there was nothing to write. I do not mean that I have been dull. I have been so happy that there was nothing to say except to state the fact. It seems to me that we have reached exactly the right degree of friendship. A.’s quaint little poem expresses it perfectly. We have gone about together with complete mutual understanding of the nature of our friendship. It is cool and sensible, and yet it is richer because of our former feelings. I am writing this tonight because I want to remember what A. said this afternoon. We were sitting in the Medici gardens at the end of one of those long box alleys. He was talking about limitation and freedom in love and friendship. He said first of all that love should not be labelled. He said it was right that we should love our husbands, parents, children, etc., but that modern society had laid down too exact rules as to the degree to which we should love them. It said that we should love most those most closely related to us. It might work like that, but it might not. If one’s love of a friend enhanced the quality of one’s life, that was enough justification. There was no need to label it. Too many things were labelled, especially in human relationships. He went on to speak of the proper physical expression for different kinds of affection. For some a handshake is sufficient, for others a linking of arms, and so on through varying degrees of demonstration to complete intimacy. I think that he was trying to reassure me about the propriety of our being together, and to emphasise that he would not destroy the balance of our relationship by pushing it too far. He certainly does enhance the quality of my life. I hope I do the same for him. I think I must or he would not want to spend so much time in my company.

  ‘9 Octobre. Mercredi. S. Denis. We had arranged not to meet until luncheon today, but I went out to do some shopping and ran into him unexpectedly, coming out of the Bank of Rome. He was looking rather serious, but when he saw me ses yeux étaient pleins de joie, et pour moi les étoiles chantaient.’ Here Alice’s writing becomes much smaller. ‘I don’t know whether I have suddenly gone off my head. If I look in the glass it ought to restore me to sanity. I have five grandchildren. But I almost feel that the situation of twenty years ago still exists. It is natural that I should have the same feelings for him. He is nicer than ever—a little grey and lined, but with so much kindness and intelligence in his eyes. And yet I feel that he is sad. Could it be because of me that he has not married? Or am I crazy? These things do happen. Why did he come to meet me at St Peter’s? Why does he fill my room with roses? Why does he talk so much about love and friendship? I know it is possible to mistake mere good nature for something more, but I must believe the evidence of my senses. I must also remember that there’s no fool like an old fool. Whatever I feel I must behave with dignity. I feel as if I were in a wonderful dream. Had a letter from the secretary of the Commercial Bank saying my £900 would be available in November.

  ‘11 Octobre. Lundi. S. Julien. Aubrey had to go to Florence today to see Mrs Dane, I think on some business matter. I was not dull, knowing he is coming back tomorrow. I went to the Baths of Caracalla to see if I could find the mosaic pattern which Lady Langton had copied and worked for her dining-room chairs, but could not find it.

  ‘12 Octobre. Jeudi. S. Donatien. The situation is the same as it was twenty years ago. My reason tells me it is impossible, but my heart denies my reason. What can I do? Nothing of course. Imagine what all the family would say, with their strong sense of the ridiculous, if I were to elope again, thirtythree years later. I have no intention of doing so, yet I cannot deny that if A. asked me to, it would not be easy to refuse. I am sure I would refuse. I am not a fool. I am a fool in my mind. And yet how can I say I am a fool when, because of my feelings, every moment of the day brings me intense delight! Theosophists or some people of that kind, say that when two people are strongly attracted they have met in a previous existence and have been looking for each other ever since. It is like that with A. The moment I saw him, over twenty years ago in the Campo Santo in Pisa, I was aware of him, and again at the meet at Boyton immediately I saw him the day seemed brighter. How can I express properly sentiments which would only be decent in someone thirty years younger? What would I think if I heard that, say, Hetty Dell had emotions like mine? I would recoil in contempt and derision. (Perhaps she may have!) I am sure that A. is very fond of me but his emotions are not stirred like mine, that is because he is still an attractive man and I am a middle-aged woman. It would not be natural for him to feel for me what I feel for him. Everything he says emphasises the proper degree for a friendship like ours. Even his quaint little poem, delightful as it was, was cool in tone. It spoke of past love. I have only a few days longer in Rome, during which I should be able to conceal my feelings, and at any rate they need not be labelled. Si je pleure dans ma chambre, personne le sait.

  ‘13 Octobre. Vendredi. S. Géraud. Late this afternoon we were walking along the Via Babuini when we saw in an antique shop a little marble statuette of two cupids struggling over a heart, one trying to stamp on it, the other to prevent him. I admired it and A. went in and bought it for me. He said it was a farewell present as I leave on Monday. I am delighted with it. He told the man to send it at once, and it is standing on my table now. We went on up the Spanish Steps to Trinita dei Monti, where we sat on the balustrade, and looked down on the golden mists of the evening, rising round the domes. He likes sitting up on places like this. So do I. He recited a few lines of some poem which begins: “When the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles …” He asked why need I go so soon. Couldn’t I stay another week? His tone was different from usual. I was sure that he was going to make some proposition. I wanted him to do it and at the same time was nervous lest he should. I said that I had many things to see to, and I mentioned for the first time that we had lost a great deal of money. He stared at me and then he laughed. I was very surprised and hurt. He immediately apologised and was very contrite. He said: “Please forgive me. I was not laughing at your loss. It was at something quite different that occurred to me at the same time. You know I would not dream of laughing at your misfortune. I would rather never laugh again.” He was still smiling faintly, but he was so concerned that I forgave him. He came back to dine with me. At the hotel I found a telegram from Diana saying that Laura’s baby was ill, and she wants me to return to Lucerne tomorrow, so I shall leave by the mid-day train. After that A. was très très gentil. At dinner he said quiet funny things to amuse me. It was very peaceful being with him, and yet I felt that something had happened, like a change of temperature. After dinner we went round to his apartment. He sat down at the piano and played a few things. He stopped for a moment. Then he looked at me with a smile of greater affection than I have ever seen, and he played the Chopin Prelude in G. I could not help the tears coming t
o my eyes, but I was very happy, as I knew that we had reached perfect understanding. We did not speak much after that. He walked back with me to the hotel and said: “Goodnight dear Alice. I’ll collect you in the morning.”