Michael Dibdin: A Rich Full Death

Upon the table lay two very different objects. The more immediately striking was a golden locket in the shape of a heart. It was open, revealing an incised inscription consisting of the letters O, V, and A, almost hidden amidst a profusion of curlicues and tendrils, like the figure in a carpet. Beside the locket lay an object as different from it in every respect as can well be imagined-yet if anything even more interesting. It was a dirty, crumpled, torn scrap of cheap paper, bearing the name Joseph Ernest Eakin in a well-formed flowing hand.

At that moment we heard a sound of footsteps and voices on the stairs, and to my astonishment Browning picked up the scrap of paper and put it in his pocket. The next instant the door was opened, and in walked a group of three men, headed by the dapper melancholy little figure of Antonio Talenti.

The worst of it was that he did not even seem particularly surprised to find us there, merely nodding familiarly at my companion in a way that seemed to say, ‘Ah, so you’re in this, are you? I thought as much’. For some reason I found this infinitely more disturbing than any amount of histrionics.

Browning, however, was no whit abashed-on the contrary! Totally ignoring the policeman, he greeted the other two men-the British charge d’affaires, Mr Scarlett, and one of his assistants-and explained our presence there. Having thus established the free and easy terms on which he stood with the diplomats, he then turned to the Italian and greeted him elaborately, as though remarking his existence for the first time.

‘I’m so glad to see that you are putting your considerable talents’-emphasising the word humorously-‘to some worthwhile use at last,’ he continued. ‘It is of the highest importance that no mistake is made in this matter. Mr DeVere was of course an accredited representative of the British Crown, and should any irregularity occur our Lord Palmerston is quite capable of sending a gun-boat up the Arno, shelling the Pitti Palace, and then sending the Grand Duke a bill for the costs of the operation. Thank heavens that such an awful responsibility rests in hands no less sure than yours, Signor Talenti.’

With which he made a slight bow, and with a ‘Come, Mr Booth!’ swept me from the room. And all with that vital piece of evidence burning a hole in his pocket the while! What a man!

Outside in the street one of the frequent showers was in full spate, and it was clear that in a few moments we would be as effectively soaked as if someone had thrown a bucket of water over us. It was imperative to seek shelter at the first opportunity, which as it happened was afforded by the porch of a nearby church. Here we stood shivering for several minutes, at which point, the downpour showing no signs of moderating, Browning suggested that we go inside and sit down.

I was surprised to notice Mr Browning make the sign of the cross as we entered, and remarked that I had had no idea he was a Catholic.

‘I am not,’ he replied, ‘but the church is, and I like to respect the forms. Do you know that story of the English aristocrat on the Grand Tour, who found himself in a church in Venice during Mass? At the elevation of the host the entire congregation knelt, all except our staunch Protestant. “Kneel down!” hissed the man beside him. “I do not believe in the Real Presence,” returned the Englishman. “No more do I,” the Venetian retorted immediately, “but either kneel down or get out of the church!” That’s the spirit! But perhaps I shock your principles, Mr Booth. You Bostonians can be very strict, I believe.’

‘You cannot shock my principles, for I have none,’ I returned, without thinking.

Browning shot me a look of horror. ‘No principles! Ah, then you must be a prodigy indeed! A man without principles-what a terrifying idea! Let us thank God it can be nothing more. But all you mean, of course, is that you have no fixed principles in regard to the forms of religious observance-or, perhaps, that they are none of my business-and thus I am rightly punished for my inquisitiveness.’

One of the ideas which had flitted, fugitive-like, through my mind since meeting Robert Browning was that I might one day write a memoir of the man-put my humble talents to some good use and become his Boswell! This being the case, I realise that I must become adept at fishing out his ideas as they casually arise in the stream of conversation, and stretching them out in cold black ink at the earliest possible opportunity, all nice and fresh. How else, I would like to know, are collections of aphorisms, obiter dicta , etc., assembled?

While we are on the subject, another volume I have thought of publishing one day is a small manual entitled The Whole Art and Secret of Conversational Success , It would certainly make my fortune overnight, for the method it would elaborate has contributed in no small measure to my rapid ascent into the better strata of society here. The entire work would consist of but two words: Ask Questions.

I see you smile cynically, but try it some time! The secret of its invariable efficacy is simple: everyone-rich and poor, famous and unknown-would rather talk than listen, rather answer than ask, rather entertain than be entertained, rather bore than be bored. Give them the opportunity to do so, and they will always invite you back. With a Robert Browning there is of course no fear of being bored-but the trick works just the same.

‘All I meant was that I have no prejudices in religious matters,’ I commented. ‘My parents brought me up as a Quaker, but I have long since ceased to know what I believe, if anything. But do you not think it possible that a man without any principles might nevertheless exist-at least in principle?’

I underlined my little jest with a smile; but Browning was all high seriousness.

‘Never! The idea contains a contradiction. What is a man but a bundle of principles? Poor principles, often, to be sure. Weak principles, wrong principles; mad, sad or bad principles. But principles there must be, all the same-just as this stone, this wood all around us cannot exist without the great Principle which holds its atoms together, binding them irrevocably into the nature of wood or stone. Why, just imagine this …’-he produced a handkerchief from his pocket-’imagine this little piece of cloth totally released, unpacked and liberated from all restraints! Imagine that hurricane of energy blasting half Florence into instant ruin! The human counterpart of that apocalyptic explosion would be the man without principles. But he cannot appear until the day matter casts off its bonds, and that cannot happen until he appears-and we know when that will be, and who he is: the Anti-Christ! Until then, thank God, we have only mundane wickedness, ignorance and sin to contend with. And we should get on with it, no doubt, instead of philosophising on ultimate things in this fashion.’

I was, in fact, thinking less of what he was saying than of the handkerchief he was waving in front of my eyes. It was of lace, like those the huckster had been selling by the Cathedral the night before. I observed now that a feature of the pattern embroidered on it was a bold letter B in each of the four corners. At first I thought of his own name, then of the maiden name of his wife, and lastly of the pet name by which he calls her: Ba. So the purchase had been innocent enough, after all.

I enquired where we should go to discuss what had happened-half-hoping that he might invite me back to Casa Guidi, which lay at the end of the street, almost in sight of the church. But he merely asked why we should not stay where we were.

‘In a church?’ I enquired. ‘Is it a fit place to speak of such things?’

Browning looked at me keenly.

‘Are you afraid we may shock God?’ he asked.