I now found myself thinking constantly of women. I recalled Daphne and Angela, Emily Pine, Diana Tree and the girl with the rhinestone choker. I considered Mrs Quayle and Sally Marr. I even dreamed of The Rajah’s Recreations. Moreover, I had noticed a plump, black-eyed girl who often walked alone on the Promenade past our pension. She wore white trousers that were extremely tight: I had never seen such magnificent contours. She seemed always lost in thought. Was she merely shy? When we passed she kept her eyes fixed straight before her or looked the other way.
She must be either a Scandinavian, a Turk, or a Jewess—and, as such, unassailable, I thought—and I decided to leave her in peace.
But her image would not do as much for me. I found myself dreaming now of those contours in their prison of white duck. I asked myself angrily: if she doesn’t care to be approached, can’t she at least wear a skirt?
Bob and Graeme had also noticed her.
‘She’s almost too young for any of us,’ said Graeme thoughtfully, ‘and, I’m afraid, much too innocent.’
‘Rats,’ said Bob, ‘don’t let that puppy-fat fool you. She’s been around.’
‘How can you tell?’ I asked.
‘From her quality, her air, the way she looks at you. But you’d better forget that little tart. She’s trouble, I’m warning you. Better stick to your meemoirs. Have you got anything I can send to Ezra yet? The second chapter won’t do, it’s too long and scrappy, and nobody’s interested in that old fart George Moore.’
I typed out Chapter 3 in the evening, the one about Daphne and Angela. He read it through with his lipless grin. ‘This is the stuff,’ he said, ‘it has the real juvenile quality. Ezra will take this. We’ll show it to Ethel Moorhead tomorrow too. It will give her a laugh, bless her old heart.’
The bus ride to Monte Carlo along the Grande Corniche, with its plunging view of red rocks washed by white breakers and the crenellated bays lapped by the blue ocean, was enchanting, even better than Dufy. But the town itself was disappointing: it was too full of elderly English and gave an impression of heavy meals, eczema, and too much money.
Ethel Moorhead’s house on the Descente de Larvotto was the dream-house of an English spinster. Inside it was furnished like a Sussex cottage, with chintz, brass and family portraits—except for two entire walls of bookcases full of avant-garde books. Her desk, facing a fine view of the sea, was piled with manuscripts, drawings and galley proofs, and bore a typewriter that must have been made around 1910.
She herself was tall, lean and angular, and was dressed in an ankle-length skirt and shirtwaist; her lustreless brown hair framed her face in an ugly amorphous bob, and her cheeks, lightly dusted with white face-powder, still kept their girlish contours. She was incredibly shy and immeasurably shrewd. She blushed constantly, yet maintained a soldierly and uncompromising air. I remembered Bob saying her father had been the military governor of Mauritius.
Small glasses of sweet vermouth were served and we sat and talked. She was as little like the indomitable editor of This Quarter as one could imagine. It was hard to believe that this diffident, maidenly woman, who spoke so little and listened with such attention, had made literary history as the first publisher of almost every first-rate writer in the past five years; that she had discovered Hemingway, Kay Boyle, and Paul Bowles, defended Joyce and denounced Pound. She had also, it was true, published some of the worst rubbish I had ever read. But after meeting her I wondered whether she had not done so simply to give her magazine its inimitable blend of absurdity and brilliance: there was a mysterious feline humour in her eyes.
This Quarter, as I knew from Bob, was not, like The Dial, Poetry, or transition, the creation of a wealthy individual. Ethel Moorhead had very modest means and gave a great deal in private and anonymous charity—mainly to writers.
It did not matter whether they were good or only promising writers, it was enough for her if they were sick, starving, or discouraged; in fact she felt an even greater sympathy and compassion for bad writers. If literature ever has any collective voice in presenting candidates for canonization, I would propose Ethel Moorhead as its natural nominee—even at the risk of affronting her severely agnostic shade. Her goodness was so apparent it seemed to shine around her.
Bob gave her the third chapter of my book. To my embarrassment she began reading it on the spot with incredible speed, turning over the pages every fifteen or twenty seconds, her smile broadening.
‘It’s jolly good,’ she said. ‘Congratulations, young man. You’ve skirted vulgarity with great cleverness. Robert, did you say you were going to send this to the man Poond?’
‘Unless you want it for your summer number.’
‘There will be no summer number. I am discontinuing my magazine.’
‘Hey, you can’t do that,’ said Bob. ‘What’s going to happen to English literature?’
‘It will manage. I think Mr Titus may take over my magazine. But if he does not, there’s always the man Poond, with his Exile, to keep things moving.’
‘Rats, he doesn’t know how to edit a magazine. Are you serious?’
‘Yes. You see, Robert, I have always thought it a good policy to stop anything just before it seems necessary to stop. It applies to gambling, exercise and eating—so why not to editing?’
It was clear her mind was made up. I did not know then that she was still grief-stricken over the death of the poet Ernest Walsh, and the idea of carrying on a work in which he had been so closely associated was unspeakably painful to her. She told me some weeks later that the very words ‘This Quarter’, with their recollections of his presence, moved her to tears.
‘If this is the last number,’ said Bob thoughtfully, ‘I’ll send you an extract from my new book, The Politics of Existence.’
‘Robert, I am grateful.’ The curious feline humour shone in her eyes for an instant. ‘Even though it is like all your other recent work, I promise to print it.’
‘What else have you got?’
‘Some young men. Dahlberg, Joseph Vogel, Paul Bowles, Archie Craig, and of course more of Carnevali’s Journal.’
‘Oh God. That poor bum. How is he, by the way?’
‘I don’t think he is long for this world. He sends you his love and gratitude from the nursing home in Bassano.’
‘Ethel,’ said Bob, ‘you can’t turn your magazine into a home for waifs and strays. Carnevali’s no good, all he has is that mendicant, Mediterranean quality. He thinks he’s a troubadour, but he’s just an organ-grinder and the monkey too. Oh all right, his Journal has a few bright spots, I grant you, but most of the time he’s just so damned busy being sorry for himself.’
‘You think he has no reason to be, Robert?’
‘Of course he has,’ he said roughly. ‘He knows he’s going to die pretty soon. Have you got any whisky?’
‘Why yes, Robert, I always keep some Johnnie Walker.’
I only learned much later that Bob had been helping her support Carnevali, who was in an advanced encephalitic condition, for the past two years. There were facets of Bob’s character that he kept carefully concealed.
He had reduced the level in the square bottle by almost a quarter before it was time for dinner.
‘Let me take you all to Villefranche for dinner,’ said Ethel Moorhead. ‘It’s much nicer there.’ She turned to me with a twinkle. ‘And there is said to be a colony of inverted young women there too, I believe.’
We took a taxi to Villefranche and walked down the shallow steps of the street to the little harbour. The evening was already cool and the stars were just coming out. The three or four cafés threw their lighted reflections on the water, accordion music was coming from somewhere overhead; farther out, in the bay itself, the triangle of lights on an American battleship sketched the outline of a gigantic sailboat. Ethel Moorhead had reserved the best table at the Auberge des Palmiers, looking directly out over the water; she had also ordered oysters, bouillabaisse with rice and three bottles of chilled Moselle.
‘I know your favourite wine, Robert,’ she said. ‘And as you told me your young friends enjoy these little octopuses, I ordered plenty of them mixed in with our fish stew. But no more whisky.’
The oysters were so fresh they quivered when touched with the fork, the rolled and buttered wafers of brown bread were light and nutty, the bouillabaisse was like a glowing eclogue.
The conversation was neither profound nor frivolous. Ethel Moor-head managed it so adeptly one was not even conscious of her doing so. We all talked about ourselves in turn—always an irresistible subject—and over our dessert of a small open apple tart she herself spoke of her experiences in the suffragette movement, when as a girl she had been among those who chained themselves to the iron railings outside the House of Commons.
‘Then,’ she said, ‘they put us all in jail for about a week. There was even some public agitation to have us birched! And such common, brutal women the wardresses were! They would have loved to do it, I’m sure.’ She paused, blushing slightly. ‘But Miss Pankhurst never lost heart. “Girls,” she said, “if they should inflict this indignity on you, remember it is only another chance for you to show your loyalty to the cause of woman’s suffrage.” Ah, she was a heroine, a saint and a true English gentlewoman. And I don’t use those terms lightly.’
A yellow moon was now shining on the sea and there was a faint sound of mandolins from nearby. Ethel Moorhead sighed as she looked out into the night. ‘I have had many friends,’ she said, ‘but none better than Miss Pankhurst and her little band of girls back in those days. It was a privilege to serve with them. And we conquered, after all, didn’t we? Yes, we beat that man Winston Churchill!’ She paused, savouring her triumph rather sadly for a moment. ‘But come, let’s all go to the Casino for a half-hour or so. I understand neither of you young men has yet been there, and you mustn’t miss the experience.’
‘It’s a dump,’ said Bob. ‘But perhaps these kids will get a kick out of it.’
We climbed the steps of the street to the highway. I would rather have stayed where we were and enjoyed the quiet dream-like beauty of Villefranche than go into a gambling saloon; but I sensed it was our hostess herself who really wanted to stake a few hundred francs, according to what Bob had told us was her nightly habit. It was not therefore a great disappointment to find, when we arrived at the doors of the Casino, that I was refused entrance.
‘Madame Moorhead,’ said the smiling dinner-coated man behind the desk. ‘I am sorry—but we have our little rules.’
‘My dear Monsieur Locatelli,’ she said, ‘he is young naturally, but I can vouch for the ripeness of his intelligence and judgement. Years are not to be counted by the calendar.’
‘Alas, the Casino knows no other way. Everything here is mathematical, as you know. If the gentleman would, however, let me glance at his passport...’
‘There is no need,’ I said. ‘I am only eighteen.’
‘How I envy you!’ exclaimed Locatelli, raising his eyes ecstatically to the ceiling. ‘A golden age indeed. Come now, Madame, put yourself in my place. You understand my position as a functionary.’
‘This is absurd,’ said Ethel Moorhead, drawing herself up. ‘Very well, then none of us shall go in.’
‘But I don’t care for gambling at all,’ I said. ‘I’d much rather sit outside and wait for you. I’ve never been at the Café de Paris over there and I’d like to sit and soak up the atmosphere. But I wish you’d put fifty francs on the sixth transversal for me and we’ll split the gain or loss.’
Her eyes lit up. I could see she was now doubly anxious to get to the tables. ‘The sixth transversal, you say?’
‘Sixteen to eighteen.’
‘The golden age,’ murmured Monsieur Locatelli, taking her entrance money.
They all went in and I strolled over to the Café de Paris, telling myself that Graeme, with his fine novelist’s eye, would be able to describe the decoration of the Casino just as well as if I’d been there myself. Then I saw the girl of the white trousers sitting at a table all by herself.
I bowed to her and sat down at the next table. I noticed she was nursing a bock and ordered one myself. The situation seemed to call for a certain boldness and I said in French, ‘We are both quite far from home, mademoiselle, aren’t we?’
She tossed her head irritably. ‘Je ne parle pas français.’
Her accent, with its flat mouthed vowels, was unmistakably North American.
‘Excuse me,’ I said in English, ‘I was saying we were some way from home. I didn’t realize it was more than 3,000 miles.’
She looked startled, then a timid smile broke over her face.
‘I’ve been trying to speak to you for the past two weeks,’ I went on. ‘I’d like to be friends with you.’
She said nothing. I looked at her deep black eyes, the plump curve of her cheek, the small blue-white teeth, the sulky preRaphaelite mouth. Before I could continue, however, her whole personality almost visibly altered: she was suddenly someone else—younger, more defenceless.
‘I’m in a bad temper tonight. I’m sorry.’
‘Let’s have another bock. And would you like a cigarette?’
‘Please.’
‘Here we are in Monte Carlo, the haunt of vice and sophistication, the world of E. Phillips Oppenheim. Let’s pretend we’re two old Riviera hands. Beer, cigarettes, the Café de Paris, a summer night—’
‘Sure. Damn the expense. Give the canary another seed.’
‘No wisecracks. We don’t have to do that—with the Mediterranean sky, these lights and the moon. Think, at this moment we could be creating memories to last us for the rest of our lives. Or if you want to, look at the famous Casino: isn’t it like a yellow Easter egg tied up with plaster ribbons?’
Her voice broke suddenly. ‘I came all the way here from Nice and they wouldn’t let me in. The little bastard at the door said I was too young.’
‘He told me the same thing.’
‘No! Then we’re in the same boat.’
‘Tell me your name.’
‘I’m Stanley Dahl. A Canadian. From Winnipeg.’
‘I’m Canadian, too. From Montreal.’
‘I thought you were a Scandinavian—so tall and so fair.’
We sat in a rapturous silence looking at the moon. Behind us the string orchestra was playing something by Kreisler. I had the feeling of having picked up a stray kitten which I already loved and could not bear to part with.
‘Here’s your party,’ she said. ‘Go back to your table now.’
‘Come and meet them.’
Ethel Moorhead and Stanley liked each other at once. Their mutual attraction must have been due to a common shyness and sincerity, for there was nothing else to unite them. Ethel was also in high good humour from her success at the roulette-table: she had won heavily but did not say how much.
‘We were both lucky tonight,’ she said to me. ‘Your sixth transversal paid off on the second roll. That means I owe you 275 francs.’
‘But you weren’t supposed to try it twice for me. I really owe you twenty-five francs.’
‘I’ve already deducted that from your share of the six hundred I won,’ she said firmly, pushing the money at me. ‘And now all of you have just time to take me home, have a nightcap there and catch the last bus to Nice.’
Bob fell asleep on the bus and I held Stanley’s hand all the way back to Nice. The bus dipped and rose as we hurled onwards in the darkness. The Mediterranean, glimpsed every now and then, was dashed with yellow moonlight. Stanley’s rough hand rested in mine like a small antediluvian sea-shell. When I kissed her, just as we lurched around the Quai de Beauté in the old port, I thought she was sleeping and insensible, but the cool ring of her lips was no less beautiful for being unresponsive.