The Quest for Corvo: An Experiment in Biography (Valancourt eClassics) (24 page)

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 see 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 made 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.)

Autumn 1909, and winter, I lived on the open landing of a servant’s stair, chopping and carrying firewood and doing a fattorini’s job. And I managed to write another book. This I offered to assign to Barbieri (to the amount of my debt) if he’d give me any sort of refuge where I could work. The sneers and insults I endure are indescribable. I live in a dark den on the floor of the narrow side-alley, where no sun has ever been, where I have trapped 61 rats since June, served after servants, and without a soul to speak to, and with clothes unchanged since Aug. 1908. And so on. But you act, not in cold blood, but in anger. Oh, my God! Hostile? No: I am not hostile to anyone who has not robbed me of my work, of my means of living, of my tools of trade. Olive-branch? No: if I offer olive-branches, I label myself as a conquered coward, a sucker-up, a toad-eater, the potential spunger you think me. So I wait for olive-branches to be offered to me. It’s no good writing any more. I shall never make you understand. You had a chance of making an equal and a friend. And you threw it away. We were both losers. But I’m the one who suffered.

R.

Weeks and months wore away; the winter of 1910, Rolfe’s third in Venice, passed; and at the end of January 1911 he was again turned out of the hotel. Again he fell ill, but recovered without hospital treatment. On the occasion of his former collapse it happened that Queen Alexandra visited Venice and the Hospital where he lay, and spoke soothing words to the apparently dying man. Moved by Rolfe’s second expulsion, the Italian hotel-secretary wrote to ‘beg Your Majesty to grant Her interest to the English writer, Mr Rolfe, who after being unable to satisfy his living expenses since last Spring is now wandering homeless on the Lido island in this piercing cold’. The kind-hearted Queen sent £10 through the English consul, who thought it well not to let the haggard beneficiary know the source from whence it came. Summer returned, and he was still alive.

During the next few months he seems to have lived on pride and quarrels and sheer determination not to die. Writing from a garret or a gondola, he organized his insults, and showed himself more than ever a master of derogatory nuance. ‘You must not be offended’, he wrote ironically to Mr Taylor, ‘when I say that I could not have believed that a responsible firm of solicitors could have made so meek and ridiculous an admission of failure to act in their client’s interests as your letter of vii June – for which I thank you.’ Later, ‘This is a more formal letter than the one which indignation at your stupidity and my sense of the ridiculous extorted from me yesterday’. To Pirie-Gordon he wrote indignantly, ‘Have I got a job? No. And won’t. How can I get a job in tatters and slippers and no pocket-handkerchiefs? It was your business to get me a job months ago.’ Then it was Mr Taylor’s turn again: ‘The line of unsupported assertion and attempted bluff which you are so misjudged as to use to me only serves to define your unfitness in more glaring colour.’ Sometimes he used a more elaborate sarcasm: ‘As a blameless Erastian and the most blameless of agents you may not know that the Doctor Saint Alphonsus Ligorius lays down in his
Moral Theology
this axiom . . .’ What he wrote to Benson can only be guessed! Sometimes he varied the note by trying to move Pirie-Gordon to reconciliation: