‘
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 picture 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.’
In this page of Alice’s diary is a slip of paper on which is written ‘Chopin—Prelude in G. Op. 28’. The handwriting is curious and at first glance suggests that it is not in European characters, but though decorative, it is easy to read. She continues:
‘I must learn to play it when I get back. I see that I have unconsciously written “when I get back”. Mr T. then said that we should pay a visit to the Fountain of Trevi, for me to throw in the coin which brings one back to Rome, and which must be thrown in by moonlight. It is only a short distance from his apartment, and as I had brought a simple dark cloak, we agreed to walk. When we came to the fountain we sat on the rough-hewn stones at the side. Behind us giant statues loomed staringly white from the black shadows made by the high moon. The perpetual noise of that silver sheet of falling water made it easier to talk. At times, since I have been in his
company, I have felt that our minds are absolutely in accord, that we see everything in the same light. This gives me a sense of security of a kind I have not known before. It was very strong last night. I could not bear the idea of leaving Rome, and in one way Mr T. is Rome to me. I was silent, thinking about this. He must have thought I wanted to return to the hotel, as he stood up and said: “Well, now you must throw in the coin.” I did not move, but said: “Even if I don’t want to leave Rome?” There must have been something in my voice which contained not more than I felt, but more than I wanted to reveal. He started and turning towards me, took both my hands, and exclaimed softly: “Alice!” It is the first time he has called me Alice. At that moment I knew that his feelings for me were the same as mine for him. His voice was so
kind.
I thought that he was going to make some further gesture, to say something which showed his feelings, but when he had raised me to my feet a kind of diffidence came over him, as if he was not certain how I would receive any declaration. “In any case,” he said, “you had better throw in the coin, to be on the safe side.” He handed me a lire which I tried to throw into the centre basin, but it only fell into the wide pool below, and made a tiny silver splash in the moonlight. We walked back together to the hotel where he left me. When he said goodbye he again kissed my hand, and he gave me a long look into my eyes. I am certain now that I have the choice. He would have spoken tonight but he was taken by surprise. At the next opportunity he will speak. I do not think that I have the power to refuse him. I cannot turn away from a region which, the moment I entered it, I knew was the home of my spirit. This opening to a new world has come at a moment when my
old world has utterly failed me, when I found that it had never been mine. I cannot feel that I owe any duty to Austin when he has ignored his to me from the very beginning. The children will be mine. That will have to be arranged. They will be better off here. They will have more opportunities, they will be free from the shameful association with the Dells, and they will not have that restlessness which comes of having two countries, which has been so bad for all of us. I have to deny a whole side of my nature and my life, to end some of my closest friendships if I stay in Europe, but I have to deny my life itself if I leave Rome.’
And then in tiny writing, not perhaps so that it would be illegible, but to minimise its importance, she wrote:
‘Je ne suis pas toute contente.’
‘
17 October
. This morning a letter from Mr Tunstall came up with my breakfast. I knew it was from him because of his writing down for me the number of the Chopin Prelude, and no one else knows that I am here. I thought that he had written what he had hesitated to say by the fountain and my heart beat violently as I opened it. I destroyed it because I could not bear to keep such a souvenir. But I remember every word. He wrote: “I must go away for a while. Do not think it is because my regard for you is any less. It is because it is greater. Rome, my Rome at any rate, would be a drug to you. You are worthy of more nourishing food. I am immune to the drug, or perhaps it is all I can thrive on. Do not stay in Rome, but come back to it. Please forgive me for everything and remember what I told you about the Tunstalls. Do not blame Arthur for Damaris. With all the love of which I am capable, which is great enough to care most for
your good, Aubrey.” I have not been out all day. I cannot think.’
There is a gap of a fortnight before the next entry, which is as follows:
‘
2 November.
We are back at Waterpark. I shall never forget the last two weeks, but I shall write down what happened in case in years to come my memory distorts it. I stayed two days in the hotel in Rome. I could not bear to go out as every street and stone made me think of A. T. Nor could my mind turn in any direction. It was like the suffocation of my spirit, as bad as the day when I discovered about Austin and Hetty. I tried to think of Westhill and the children to heal myself, but my heart was numbed. On the third morning I was in my room, which was still full of the flowers that A. T. had given me. They were wilting but I could not bring myself to throw them away. A waiter came to tell me that a signore was downstairs, asking to see me. I was sure that it was A. T. returned. I did not see how it could be anyone else, as only he knew I was here, excepting a few people like M. de C. who would hardly be likely to call on me without his wife, and in the morning. I was filled with the greatest joy I have ever known, not the deepest or most enduring, but the most sudden and excessive. I went to the looking-glass to see that I was tidy before going down, and I was astonished at the expression of my eyes.