Poor Julia, reaching
that time of life,
remembered the beads
in Mummy’s fingers,
the bleeding brows
under the nasty crown
in Nanny’s bedsitter. Tossed
in that Catholic teapot,
hanging on for dear lust,
suddenly she renounced
her lover and all his works
amorous and artistic.
And indeed, a dull dog he was,
not worth the loss of her pass
to a possible heaven.
He left, morose, no doubt
relieved to be off the hook
of desire over-fulfilled,
however grieved to forfeit
entrée to that stupendous
place that would harrow
his heart through a long war.
Now, over land, over sea,
fans of the TV series hasten
to stand before Castle Howard
in snobbish ecstasy. Surely,
they sigh, Julia repents
of her piety? Charles reclaims
his paramour and her pad?
But Waugh knew well
what he wanted: the True Faith
punishing the illicit pair.
Only by being damned
do Paolo and
Francesca live
in Dante’s lines, forever
circling the black air of hell.
Sweet endings slip like the beads
through Mummy’s hands, like drops
of titillating gore from under
the thorny headband. Still,
reading the book we are spared
the sneer of William Buckley
showing his teeth at the end
of each installment. Deo gratias.