A knowledge of the circumstances of Rolfe’s life is in itself almost sufficient to rescind any cynicism concerning human nature and its tendency to benevolence. Continually throughout his career he was aided by those on whom he had no call beyond that of obvious misery and suffering, and the impression of brilliant ability in distress. It was so now. The charitable Dr van Someren listened with horror to Rolfe’s story of his wanderings and homelessness, and instantly decided that it was his duty to relieve both; accordingly, he insisted that, a few days later, when a room had been prepared for him, the outcast author should come to live in his house. Actually, such an arrangement was more than normally inconvenient, since Mrs van Someren was in child-bed at that time, with attendant nurses who strained the accommodation available to the limit. Rolfe was given the large first floor landing of the marble staircase which had been partitioned in by a previous tenant; and here, though his room had no fireplace, and could only be heated by scaldino, Rolfe was made more comfortable than, perhaps, he had ever expected to be again.
Reassured by a roof over his head, indeed, the outcast became charming: Dr and Mrs van Someren found his company a continual source of pleasure. Time had added new strings to his conversational bow. ‘Have you ever seen serpents sliding out of the eye-holes of skulls?’ was one of his openings, derived from his explorations among the islands, one of which he had found to be littered with the whitening bones of Austrians heaped there at the end of the war of liberation. He talked of the violet evenings and rapid dawns which he had observed from his boat, and had many stories of the quaint behaviour of his young gondoliers, one of whom he frequently described as ‘a tiger with a simper’. There was a story, too, of a dark night when his miserable meditations had been interrupted by arrest as a spy. But these conversational flights were, in the main, confined to mealtimes. Otherwise he remained for hours on end quietly in his room, working busily on a new book, the subject of which he preferred not to disclose till it was finished. Though still fastidious in little things, he gave no trouble; and when, after the birth of Dr van Someren’s daughter, it was thought wise for the mother to be taken for a holiday change of scene, Rolfe was left behind with the servants.
Alone in this unexpected apartment of the vast Palazzo Mocenigo-Corner, whose walls of rusticated stone three feet thick recalled its condottiere-builder and the days of the Borgia, Rolfe picked up again the threads of his life; that is to say, his quarrels, and his incessant search for a financial partner. So far as he could, he made his ‘enemies’ suffer. Benson was denounced to his bishop, Mr Taylor to the Law Society, Pirie-Gordon to the Publishers’ Association. But simple denunciations did not satisfy his rage for long, and heavier weapons were called into action. All those friendly neighbours he had met at Gwernvale, for instance, were astonished by letters of which this is a specimen.
Private and Personal
Palazzo Mocenigo-Corner
Venice
Dear Mr Somerset,
I can’t claim to know you well enough to justify me in asking your friendly intervention: but I should be more than grateful if you could see your way to cough efficaciously at your churchwarden, E. Pirie-Gordon, and his son, regarding their questionable conduct towards me. E. P. G. is fully cognisant of his son’s behaviour; and apparently consents to it. C. H. Pirie-Gordon arbitrarily embroiled me with my agents in England a year ago, so that they stopped communications and with-held my publishers’ accounts of the last three years. Consequently I became stranded here. I have had no change of clothes since August 1908. I live and sleep in the open landing of a stair in this barrack of a palace. I have walked the city many nights, wet and fine, before I found this refuge – have been six consecutive days without food, half-starved for weeks together on two rolls (at three centesimi each) a day, and endured all extremes of penury short of prison and the Asili dei Senza Tetto. All my pawn-tickets of the Monte di Pieta have expired, save one. Now and then I contrive to get a job as a private gondogliere: at present I chop and saw and carry logs, work a cream-separator, light fires, and fill boilers. My mother in England works for a living at 75: my sister has become blind; and we have not met for three years. Meanwhile, the Pirie-Gordons sulk in silence, having flatly refused to send me the things which I left at Gwernvale in August 1908 unless I pay carriage. My goods detained at Gwernvale are clothes, tools of trade, heaps of unfinished work – all I have in the world – which I might have turned into money long ago. And, considering what I have done for the Pirie-Gordons in the past – I need only mention C. H. P.-G’s Innocent the Great, dictated from a short rejected essay, revised, edited, typed and seen through the press by me – I am utterly at a loss to understand what good reason they dare allege for (first) ruining me so that I cannot pay carriage of my goods, and (then) refusing me the use of my own life-work, manuscripts and materials, whereby I might have refunded cost of their carriage and retrieved my position long ago. I don’t want to interfere between your friendly relations with the Pirie-Gordons: but, if an official word of reproof could goad them (even moderately) into a sense of decency, I should be vastly served.
Faithfully yours
Fr. Rolfe
Even this did not suffice, and he announced his intention of producing a pornographic work in Italian, French, and English, to be published at Paris for 50 francs, with the initials R. H. B. on the title-page, the Pirie-Gordon arms on the cover, and a notice within that the book was produced by the authority of that Order of Sanctissima Sophia which he had helped to found in happier days at Gwernvale. The van Somerens returned from their holiday, and found their unobtrusive guest still busy at his work; they little guessed what queer web Fr. Rolfe was quietly weaving.
It was at this period that he began that correspondence with a friend in England (now dead, who shall be nameless) which so much amazed me when Millard first introduced me to Rolfe’s work. Now, when I re-read those frightening letters in the light of my later knowledge, it still seemed to me that he never sank lower than in writing them. His ingratitude to those who helped him, his objurgations against his friends, even his vindictive attempts to secure such revenge as lay in his power against those who, in his fancy, had injured him, can be explained and almost excused. He had some ground for a grudge against a world in which he found himself so misplaced, which offered such slight rewards for his gifts, and the books in which they were manifested. There was some ground for his grudge against Benson. But, if these dark letters are to be believed, he had embarked in Venice on a course of life which not even well-founded wrongs, even by his own standard, could justify. It was not only that he stood self-revealed as a patron of that homosexual underworld which exists in every city. He had become a habitual corrupter of youth, a seducer of innocence, and he asked his wealthy accomplice for money, first that he might use it as a temptation, to buy bait for the boys whom he misled, and secondly so that he might efficiently act as pander when his friend revisited Venice. Neither scruple nor remorse was expressed or implied in these long accounts of his sexual exploits and enjoyments, which were so definite in their descriptions that he was forced, in sending them by post, so to fold them that only blank paper showed through the thin foreign envelopes.
Despite that precaution, however, this side of his life was no longer completely unsuspected. Various watermen warned Mrs van Someren that her guest bore a bad character; and rumours from other quarters reached the Doctor’s ears. But Rolfe behaved with such discretion and aloofness that his hosts, disbelieving the reports, regarded him as a maligned man; Dr van Someren even agreed to allow him a small sum weekly for stamps and tobacco. As the winter wore away Rolfe was still working indefatigably at his new book. He had taken up his residence at the Palazzo Mocenigo in the July of 1909; the spring of 1910 found him still there. And then, in an unlucky moment for himself, Rolfe was moved by natural author’s vanity to satisfy Mrs van Someren’s equally natural curiosity.
She had made numerous vain efforts to persuade him into allowing her to se
e the manuscript on which he was working, efforts which he had politely withstood. Unexpectedly, however, one afternoon he yielded, and placed in her hands a bulky bundle of closely written sheets, the first part of his book, exacting only the condition that she would say nothing of what it contained to her husband. The condition was granted; but as Mrs van Someren read she soon saw that it must be retracted: for, as she turned the manuscript pages written in vermilion ink, she recognized first one and then another and then another of her friends and acquaintances, pitilessly lampooned in this ‘Romance of Modern Venice’, The Desire and Pursuit of the Whole. With perverse and brilliant ingenuity, Rolfe had woven his life and letters into this story of himself (as Nicholas Crabbe, the hero) pursued and thwarted by the members of the English colony. The book was not completed; and, rancid with libel; as it was, might never be published; but it was clearly impossible for the friend of Lady Layard, Canon Ragg, Horatio Brown and the rest of the English residents to share responsibility for it by sheltering the author while he finished it. So Mrs van Someren instantly told Rolfe, adding that she must let her husband decide what action should be taken. The Doctor, when he learned how his long hospitality had been requited, issued an ultimatum: the manuscript must be abandoned, or its author must leave the house. Rolfe was equally prompt in his decision: next morning he took his few belongings and his cherished romance to the Bucintoro Club; that night he walked the streets. It was early March and bitterly cold. A month later he collapsed, and was taken to that Hospital which, in his libellous book, he had so bitterly attacked. Exposure and insufficient food had induced pneumonia. He was given the Last Sacraments; but he did not die.
CHAPTER 17: THE FINAL BENEFACTOR
The reader will probably wonder how I obtained so many details of Rolfe’s life in Venice. It will perhaps be a sufficient answer that Professor Dawkins, Mrs van Someren, Canon Ragg and others who are mentioned are still alive; and that, with greater or less difficulty, I traced them all and received, from each, fragments of the puzzle which, in the two preceding chapters, I have put together to the best of my ability. In addition, however, I had another and more important source of information.
It may be remembered that Mr Pirie-Gordon’s letter to The Times Literary Supplement, which had been one of the starting points of my Quest, mentioned the lost manuscript of Hubert’s Arthur as having passed into the possession of an unnamed cleric who had befriended Rolfe; and that subsequently Messrs Chatto and Windus had declined to show me Rolfe’s Venetian romance without his authority. Even at that early date I made such efforts as I could to trace this gentleman, who was, I gathered, living. I derived his name, with some difficulty, from Mr Herbert Rolfe, and wrote to ask for information and an interview. But, though for months I bombarded him with letters, my applications elicited no answer; and I learned from Messrs Chatto that they too had experienced a similar silence in regard to business letters. It appeared that Rolfe’s name was not a password to the attention of the Rev. Stephen Justin, and I resolved to take other measures. I wrote to announce my imminent arrival at his Rectory, a hundred and fifty miles from London; and this did bring me a response, to the effect that the day I proposed was unsuitable. Further correspondence seemed to bring us no nearer a meeting; finally I sent a telegram, ‘Arriving at noon’, and left before my intention could be countermanded.
My pertinacity was richly rewarded. The Rector’s reluctance to discuss Rolfe and his affairs vanished in my presence; and after lunch I assisted him to bring down from a lumber room, where they had rested undisturbed for thirteen years, the literary remains of Fr. Rolfe. It can be imagined what a breathless hour I spent in turning over the letters, notebooks, manuscripts and memoranda which my host had preserved without examination. I gathered the reasons for his indifference.
Mr Justin met Rolfe in the autumn of 1910 in the Hôtel Belle Vue. How Rolfe had secured reinstatement under Signor Barbieri’s roof was for long a problem to me; and even now I am uncertain. It seems probable, however, that after his illness a subscription was organized for his benefit and return to England, to which most of those who were pilloried in his unpublished book gladly contributed. By this account, which I do not assert with certainty, Rolfe accepted the surplus cash but declined the railway ticket, and returned to the Hôtel Belle Vue. However it was managed, there is no doubt that Rolfe’s fiftieth birthday found him back at the Belle Vue, as usual deeply occupied with pen and book, and, as usual, involved in various and vitriolic correspondence. His favourite image for himself was the crab, which beneath its hard crust has a very tender core, which approaches its objective by oblique movements, and, when roused, pinches and rends with its enormous claws; but the tarantula spider seems an apter comparison for him as he watched and waited, expectant of the next benefactor. Unsuspecting, Mr Justin walked into his web.
This time the friendship did not follow quite its usual course. Rolfe made no direct request for help. Perhaps past experience had taught him that precipitate methods failed. But he talked at length of his certainty of success if he were not hamstrung by the assignment to Mr Taylor; and, for perhaps the only time in his life, he was listened to without the faintest tinge of disbelief. Mr Justin was one of those men whose acquaintance with business is nil, and who have not been taught by bitter experience to suspect the financial suggestions of their fellow men. If all that was needed to set Rolfe on his feet was a financial partner prepared to invest a small sum and wait a few years for an augmented return, then the problem seemed a simple one. Rolfe entirely agreed that in theory the matter was one of extreme simplicity. Complication only arose from the un-christian unwillingness of most men with money to take the slightest risk, even though by doing so they could benefit themselves and save infinite pain to a distressed fellow creature. And here he played a forcing card.
Earlier in the year, just before Rolfe’s breakdown, Messrs Rider and Co. had written offering to publish The Weird of the Wanderer, one of the two books written in collaboration with Pirie-Gordon, on very reasonable royalty terms. Rolfe’s share was assigned to Mr Taylor, and he therefore refused the offer. A larger one was made, and in turn refused. Thereupon the firm returned the manuscript, ‘though we do so reluctantly’, and suggested he should state ‘the terms you would agree for us to publish [on]’. To this Rolfe, who was determined that if he could not benefit by his books no one else should, assignment or no assignment, had not replied. But, as he pointed out to Mr Justin, what a pity that such chances should go begging!
After several conversations of this sort, Mr Justin almost timidly suggested that as he was likely to have a spare sum for investment in the near future, he might well benefit both of them by becoming the looked-for partner. Need I say with what alacrity Rolfe accepted this happy thought? It was agreed that on his return to England Mr Justin should see Mr Taylor and discover what sum he would accept in discharge of Rolfe’s indebtedness.
With this handsome iron in the fire, and the increased personal comfort derived from his return to the Belle Vue (which no longer exists: it was an excellent small hotel, well situated on the Piazza of St Mark), Fr. Rolfe became less acid in his letters to England. He wrote to Mr Taylor, who had complained of the ‘tone’ of his letters:
Dear and Reverend Sir,
I have just received an offer from an English publisher for immediate publication of The Weird of the Wanderer, which work (you will remember) stands denounced by me to the Publishers’ Association, as having been stolen from me by your client, Mr H. Pirie-Gordon. I think it right to mention this, as I know of no reason at present for the lifting of my prohibition. I sincerely trust that the ‘tone’ of this communication will obtain your valued approbation.
Faithfully yours
Fr. Rolfe
He also wrote a letter, remarkable even for him, to Professor Dawkins, who in answer to a previous letter had written:
Dear Rolfe,
Returning from a journey I found your last letter. The ‘return’ which you have mad
e me for helping you has been to write me violent letters, and when Pirie-Gordon asked me to help you and I sent him money, you accused me of conspiring with him against you. I do not desire servility; but this ‘return’ is not what one expects, and the answer as to whether I have acted in cold blood, is that I have acted in anger. I have I believe received all your letters, and the camera, the return of which I thought I had acknowledged with thanks. This last letter of yours, seemed a shade less hostile; if it was at all an olive-branch I take it very gladly as such. I am yours sincerely
R. M. Dawkins
Rolfe did not ignore, or could not resist, this opening; he must have felt, when he penned his answer, the joy that John Holden noted in him at Holywell when he sat down to ‘flick that gentleman with my satire’:
My dear Dawkins,
I don’t for the life of me know what to say to yours of the 24th ult. My pneumonia, caused by walking about frosty nights on the Lido shore last March, has done me more harm than I thought. And I have had an unspeakably awful time these last 21 months, which shows no sign of lifting. My difficulty is that I can’t imagine a way of writing to you without offence, and without seeming to ask for your friendship and your money, both of which I want, but will not touch – with tongs – unless voluntarily and spontaneously pressed on me. I am glad to know that you acted in anger. Doest thou well to be angry? I quite fail to remember that I ever asked you to help me – excepting when, face to face, I asked you to start me here as a gondogliere in Sept. 1908. As for the sums you sent between Sept. and Nov. 1908, I swear that I never imagined you to be looking for a ‘return’. You see, I have always got my own pleasure out of giving; and ‘return’, of words, conduct, money, has been the annulment of my pleasure. I’ve been doing you the injustice of bringing you down to my own eccentric level; and regret it. Regarding Pirie-Gordon’s petition, do try to understand the circumstances. Benson and Pirie-Gordon were supposed to be my two best friends, rich, influential, and devoted. My agent, Taylor, had assignments of all my book-rights and my life-policy of £450, in return for his promise to provide me with an income. December 1908 I wanted money. Pirie-Gordon said he’d make Taylor do his duty. Taylor knew me for a literary hack who can be plundered with impunity. Benson was using his spiritual power to coerce me to write the major part of a book (of which he was to pose as sole author) on the same terms arranged for writing a third of it in open collaboration. P.-G. possessed all my clothes, books, tools of trade, notes of a life, 4 half-finished mss, and the mss of two collaborated books, 9/10 mine, 1/10 his. Instead of making my agent toe the line, instead of negotiating these two completed books (2 years’ work of mine) he appealed to you and to Benson, without my knowledge or consent, to make me an object of charity and to keep me impotent here. And he employed my agent over my head to administer your unwelcome subscriptions. Now, do you wonder that, when I knew, I rejected the thing with the ‘violence’ of which you complain? I suppose I was violent: but I don’t feel a bit sorry for that – though I regret hurting people’s feelings, perhaps. Anyhow, the thing was impossible . . . Please, consider how I was – friendless, stripped, penniless. (You complain of the word ‘conspiracy’. I’m sorry I used it. But it was Pirie-Gordon who used it first to describe your union with him and Benson and Taylor.) Well, then, I took to living in a sandalo, starving without food for 6 days at a stretch, pawning every blessed thing left, and lying like a good ’un to conceal my plight from Venetians. Do you wonder that I was, and am, in a blazing rage with all of you, who, with roofs above your heads and beds to sleep in and regular meals could desert me and leave me to the horribly offensive torments which naturally fell to me – could, in your circumstances, pit yourselves against me, in mine. (It’s a consolation to know that you, Dawkins, acted in anger. I’m glad that I’ve done you no harm, as I should have done if I thought that you had acted in cold blood – as Benson acted, whom I’ve denounced to his archbishop and prejudiced him for ever – as Pirie-Gordon acted, whose theft of my work I’ve denounced to the Publishers’ Association, etc., – as Taylor acted, whom I’ve denounced to the Law Society and the Prudential Assurance Company.)
The Quest for Corvo: An Experiment in Biography (Valancourt eClassics) Page 24