The Complete Short Stories of L.P. Hartley

by Leslie Poles Hartley

  He it was who drew together the tent-flaps and tied them with gay bows of scarlet ribbon: if the tents were not mosquito-proof, as he suspected, they looked as if they were, which was a great thing: he could relax, he needn’t flap and flip, and screw his face up, or make other uncivilized gestures of the mosquito-ridden. Outside, no doubt, the creatures hummed, they must, for at both ends of the sala the windows stood wide open, and with two glittering chandeliers to guide them they couldn’t miss their way. No, it wasn’t too bad. The muslin kept out some of the air, of course, but how clever of Loredana to have thought of it all! She had turned those twin plagues, the heat and the mosquitoes, neither of which was funny in itself, into a joke. She had converted them into a social asset, she had countered them with a creation that was beautiful and strange. The party would be long remembered.

  Fuddled though he was, and ready to accept unreality, Henry began to wonder where, in what muslin arbours, Annette and Maureen had taken shelter. The first question was quickly answered. Faintly, from below, came the strains of a dance-band.

  ‘You didn’t know?’ said someone. ‘They’re coming in after dinner to dance, a whole crowd of them. It’s we old-stagers who are sitting up here.’ He was an Italian and vecchietti was the word he used: ‘a little old’, such a nice word, there was no equivalent for it in English, we were less considerate to old age. Henry didn’t mind being a vecchietto. So Annette was accounted for: she would be downstairs dancing with a Nino, or a Nini, a Gigio or a Gigi. She would be sure to be enjoying herself.

  But Maureen? He looked about him. Even here where the light from the chandelier was fairly strong, you couldn’t very well see through the muslin; you could see the shadowy shapes of other tents, but you couldn’t tell who was inside them; in the case of those farther away, nearer the windows, you couldn’t tell if anyone was inside them. Maureen was so efficient, so practised socially; she would have found her niche—not with the bridge-players, for she wasn’t one, not—he smiled to himself—in one of the temples d’amour, for that didn’t interest her—she would be taking part in another conversation-piece, perhaps next door to his. While with the surface of his mind he gossiped with his fellow guests his inner ear was alert for the inflexions of Maureen’s voice; and so intent was he on listening that he didn’t see the figure that more than once passed by his curtain wall, stopping and peering in and circling round; and it was one of the others who first saw her and said, ‘Guardi, Enrico, isn’t that your wife who goes in search of you?’ At once Henry jumped up and excusing himself untied the ribbons and let himself out into the air.

  ‘What is it?’ he said, moving with her into a space between the tents that was out of earshot. ‘Anything I can do?’

  ‘Darling, I’ve got a splitting headache,’ she answered. ‘I really think I must go back. It came on suddenly—it’s the heat, I suppose. But I don’t want to spoil Annette’s fun, she’s having the time of her life, and I don’t want Loredana to know, she has so much on her hands already. So I’ll just slip out—she’ll never notice—and Luigi and Emilio can take me back to the hotel.’

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ Henry said.

  ‘No, darling, don’t do that. What I should like you to do, if you don’t mind, is to wait for Annette and bring her home. When you go you can explain to Loredana and make my apologies. I know it’s a frightful bore and you’re not feeling well either—but just this once! It really wouldn’t do to let Annette go back alone, we know she can be trusted but people would talk about it. I hate to ask you to, but it won’t be for long—what time is it?’

  ‘Just twelve,’ said Henry. ‘There’s the Marangona.’

  They listened, and above the hubbub of voices and dance music they heard the solemn sound of the great bell tolling midnight.

  ‘I won’t tell Annette that I’m going,’ Maureen said, ‘and don’t you tell her either; it might spoil her fun. I’ll send the gondoliers straight back and tell them to wait for you. Now we mustn’t be seen talking together any more or it will look odd.’ Before Henry could speak she had turned away, and with slight inclinations of her head to left and right was making for the staircase.

  Henry made a movement to follow her and then turned back. She knew her own mind, no one better. But what should he do? Irresolutely he looked towards the tent he had left—but was it the same tent? He couldn’t be sure, and anyhow another man had taken his place, leaving the flap open. Several of the tents had their flaps open, the occupants preferring air and light to freedom from mosquitoes. He picked his way among the tents. Which one should he invade? They all seemed full. Even the bowers of love, which were more opaque than the others, had darker shadows in them. He was shut out! For a moment he felt as a wandering Arab might, whose tribe had exiled him. But he mustn’t stand there moping: he would go down and watch the dancers.

  Plenty of other guests were doing the same: on gilt chairs and settees they lined the walls; behind them the crimson brocade stretched upwards to the ceiling of painted beams; pictures and mirrors hung above them. His tired mind could not synthesize the scene. Better try to find Annette—ah, here she was, on the arm, or in the arms, of a young man. Her face was rapt and expressionless: she passed within a foot of Henry without seeing him. She was in another world, a world of youth into which he could not penetrate—a world which jealously guarded its own feelings, especially from lonely wallflower fathers. The music whined and groaned and thumped and stammered. Where was she now? There were other rooms, rooms for sitting out in, that led off the sala. He mustn’t seem curious about her, he mustn’t feel curious about her, she didn’t belong to him, she belonged to all those young men, the Nino’s, Nini’s, Gigio’s and Gigi’s, and the emotions they aroused in her: emotions which sometimes made her youthful face look stern.

  Here she was again, on another arm, this time; and this time her face was not so much rapt as set, and in the lines of her body there was the tautness of strain, such as you see in a plant that is being forced to grow in a shape it doesn’t like. Was she a captive? He thought her eyes met his: he longed to say, ‘Oh, please come here and talk to me a moment!’ But he must not; if she had been in another continent she could not have been farther from him.

  At most times she could see a joke as well as anyone, indeed she often laughed when he saw nothing to laugh at. But where her young men were concerned she was, it seemed to him, as impervious both to humour and to reason as her mother was in matters of social etiquette and observance. She took it all with deadly seriousness, even when she was laughing and flirting with her swains; and she resented any comment on her conduct, however sympathetic and well meant.

  Does she really know what she is doing?’ he had once asked her mother. ‘She seems to think that love to-day is different from love at any other time.’

  ‘Oh, Annette’s all right,’ Maureen replied. ‘Besides, there’s safety in numbers. We mustn’t interfere, we must let her find her feet. If she was really serious about anyone, I should know.’

  ‘Yes, but this isn’t England,’ Henry said. ‘Autres pays, autres mœurs.’

  Maureen shook her head. ‘We mustn’t spoil her fun,’ she said. It had become a slogan.

  Henry did not like watching people dance, it pricked him with nostalgia and a sense of guilt that he, too, was not dancing; so after a while he went upstairs again. This time he spied a breach in one of the muslin fortresses: it widened, a head emerged and a voice urged him to come in. He obeyed. The flap was folded to, the bows were tied, the outside world withdrew. But it was only a brief respite. The other man of the trio looked at his watch: “Why, it’s two o’clock,’ he said. ‘Dobbiamo filare—we must be off!’ The warmth and graciousness of their farewells made Henry feel more lonely than before. Again he descended to the ballroom, this time he would risk Annette’s displeasure, beard the Nino’s and the Gigio’s and beg her to come back. ‘Your mother isn’t well!’—that should be his plea. But this time he couldn’t see her in the milling throng; she h
ad vanished: face after beautiful face looked blankly down at his. Perhaps Loredana knows where she is, he thought, and diffidently approached his hostess where, fresh and animated as five hours ago, she sat, magnetizing the men on either side of her: but just out of range of her conscious glance he stopped. With a hundred or more guests about her, how could she know where Annette was? And it would be a clumsy, tactless question anyway; how Annette would hate the notion of a search-party, of being run to earth! And he might have to explain, prematurely, about Maureen, too. So he waved to his hostess as gaily as he could, and she shouted something out to him: Venetians always shouted at you—in ballrooms as well as from bridges—something he couldn’t catch: was it good night? Did she think he was taking his leave? Making it as inconspicuous as possible? He couldn’t tell, and slowly, availing himself of the silken rope, he climbed to the upper gallery.

  It was in semi-darkness; in the splendid chandeliers only a few lights sparkled. Had all the non-dancing guests, the vecchietti, departed? The encampment hadn’t been dismantled; nothing had been put straight: the servants had left the task of tidying till the morning. Peering in, he saw the cards scattered on the card-tables. The more distant tents, the bowers of love, he could hardly see, still less tell whether they were tenanted. He passed by them towards the windows and saw, with a sudden rush of longing, the two tents set apart for the misanthropes. Either would be a refuge. He chose the farther one, in the darker corner; once inside, he felt rather than saw that he was its first occupant. Draw the flaps and make them fast; let the mosquitoes sing outside! Dimly the thud and whine of the music reached him; it had no power to disturb him now: it was a lullaby. Soon he fell asleep.

  He dreamed and in his dream he was still looking for someone, but it wasn’t here, it was in the bright sunshine among the bathing-huts and cabins of the Lido. The search was most embarrassing, for all the cabins had their blinds drawn down, and every time he knocked an angry voice said, ‘Who’s that? You can’t come in.’ ‘I’m looking for my daughter, Annette,’ he explained. ‘She’s a tall girl, dark, and rather pretty. I want to take her home. Have you seen her?’ ‘We have seen her,’ the voice replied, ‘but she doesn’t want to go home, and she’ll be angry if you try to find her. Nino and Nini and Gigio and Gigi are looking after her. She has her own life to live, you know.’ ‘Yes,’ said Henry, ‘but her mother is anxious about her. She doesn’t want her to go home alone—it wouldn’t do. People would talk about her. Please tell me where she is.’ ‘She’s somewhere here,’ the voice said grudgingly, ‘but you won’t be able to get in because the door’s locked. This is a temple d’amour, so please leave us in peace.’

  Oddly enough Henry knew at once which door the speaker meant and went straight to it. But now he was carrying some flowers, flowers he had bought in the Campo San Stefano that morning, and he was glad of this because they gave him an excuse. He knocked and said very humbly, ‘Please let me in, Annette, and don’t be angry with me: I’ve only come to give you these flowers—you can wear them in your hair or anywhere you like, but you needn’t wear them at all if you don’t want to. Not everyone likes flowers.’ But though he knew she was inside she didn’t answer, and he saw that the flowers were withering in his hands.

  He wasn’t really asleep, he was only dozing, and the dream kept repeating itself in other sets of circumstances which were much less clear than they had been in the first one, until at last the visual aspects of the dream grew indistinct and only the sense of frustrated search remained.

  When he awoke he thought he was in bed, his own bed with die mosquito-curtains round him. Gradually he remembered, and his first sensation was one of relief: he had outwitted Time and all those boring hours of waiting, they had slipped past his tired consciousness and now Annette would be ready and perhaps waiting to be taken home—and not best pleased at being kept waiting. He must go to her at once. For a moment that seemed as easy as it would have in a dream: then full awareness of his situation dawned on him. He was here in the Palazzo Bembo and it was quite dark: too dark to see his wrist-watch. He struck a match: it showed a quarter to five. He let himself out into the open, and as his eyes got used to the darkness saw around him the ghostly forms of the encampment, looking strangely large and solid. No sound came from any part of the building. He had been forgotten, that was it. The ball was over and in the general concourse of good-byes his absence had been overlooked. Someone would have taken Annette back; it only remained for him to go back too.

  All this was something to be thankful for. But when he began to think about his situation, it didn’t seem so simple. To begin with, how was he to get out of the house? And how, if discovered, would he explain himself? Would he be mistaken for a burglar? And how would he get home? Annette would have taken the gondola. He would have to walk, and he wasn’t sure he knew the way.

  He went to the window and leaned out. It looked on to a garden, a square garden, quite large, one of the few gardens in Venice. Dawn was not far away: he could see the Renaissance pavilion at the end, the shadows of night still dark between its columns. Nothing stirred, though he could hear the plash of the fountain in the centre. Would he have to go through the garden to get out? He had never approached the Palazzo Bembo on foot. Somewhere, he supposed, there must be a narrow calle, an alleyway that led to the main street. But where?’

  Baffled, he turned away from the window and, treading cautiously between the tents—afraid of catching his foot in one and tearing it down—he made his way to the other end of the great sala. Light met him as he went, the accumulated radiance of the lamps of the Grand Canal. He leaned out of the window, and drank in the familiar scene. How beautiful it was—Venice asleep! Perhaps this was the only hour out of the twenty-four when no one was abroad.

  His roving, loving eye at last looked downwards. Moored to the blue pali, which looked curiously foreshortened from above, was a gondola. The gondoliers, in their white ducks and blue sashes, were asleep: one curled up on the poop, the other stretched out in the hold: each was using his curved arm as a pillow. Whose gondola could it be? Why, it was his—his gondola, with Luigi and Emilio in it. But why were they there, why hadn’t they gone home to bed?

  A solution occurred to rum. If they had taken Annette to the hotel, as they must have, probably accompanied by some cavalier—Annette’s young men always accepted a lift—she might have sent them back to fetch her father. She would have looked for him, no doubt, before she left. But would she? Assuming she had remembered him at all, would she not have concluded that he had left the party earlier, with her mother, and dismissed the gondola when she reached the hotel? Or could it be that the party wasn’t really over and she was still somewhere about?

  He stole downstairs into the lower sala. All was in darkness there, but he sensed its disarray—the debris of the party without the party spirit. His flesh creeping as if from contact with something dirty, he returned to the upper sala, and on an impulse shouted down the palace wall, as loudly as any Venetian could have:

  ‘Luigi!’

  When he had repeated it a few times there was a movement in the boat, and with sighs of escaping sleep, almost as loud as steam, the gondoliers rose to their feet and looked incredulously upwards.

  ‘Have you seen the signorina?’ he shouted in Italian.

  ‘Nossignore.’

  ‘Didn’t you take her home?’

  ‘Nossignore.’

  ‘How did she go home then?’

  ‘She must have gone on foot.’

  She might have done, but was it likely? Telling the gondoliers to wait—for waiting, even more than rowing, was their métier—he tried to work it out. She might have thought it fun to walk, but would she have forgotten the gondola? Except where her boy-friends were concerned, Annette wasn’t inconsiderate. It would have been very inconsiderate to leave Emilio and Luigi out all night.

  His musing steps had brought him back to the encampment. Unwillingly he re-entered its precincts. How alien it was. Like something
conjured up by an enchanter—purposeless, yet with a potent personality of its own, and not a pleasant one: a personality that recalled the lawless deeds of desert warfare. He was careful not to brush against the muslin fabrics. Each tent had its flap ajar—all the birds had flown. But no, one tent was shut. As though by compulsion he approached it. It was shut, and there were two other odd things about it. The tent was laced as tightly as a shoe, but the scarlet bows were tied on the outside, not the inside; and its pennon had been torn off, torn roughly off, for where the join had been a dark rent showed, and if he peeped through it——

  He didn’t peep but stood at gaze obsessed more deeply every moment, by a sense of momentousness that was totally devoid of meaning. If, as he felt it might, the secret, the solution, lay inside the tent——

  It did lie inside, sprawled over the two chairs, but he would not let himself believe, and here the darkness helped him; for it wasn’t growing lighter with the opening day, it was going back to night. Needing air and a moment to confirm his unbelief he staggered to the window, the one that overlooked the garden, and there he saw the massy thundercloud piled high against the light and heard without heeding it the rumble of the storm that was to end the heat-wave. The lightning flashed and flashed again; the mirrors on the walls reflected it; a sudden gust blew in—a solid wall of wind that struck the tents and bent them all one way, like spectres fleeing. A flash lit up the whole length of the sala. He could not shirk his duty any longer, his duty as a man and as a father. Something might still be done to help, to reanimate, to bring back—— But nothing could be done; around the darkening neck the scarlet fork-tailed pennon had been tied too tight. Another flash told him no more than he knew already: but the next lit up the legend on the noose. Two words were missing, hidden by the strangler’s knot, but the operative word was there, the last one, and his memory supplied the rest: Per far l’amore, to make love.