possible before talking to him about both subjects. My diligence, I was sure, would please him.
I left Crace dozing and enjoyed a lunch of salami, bread and tomatoes, reading Aretino’s Selected Letters as I ate. Afterward, I went back to the study and worked on the correspondence. I sifted through the pile looking for the telltale handwriting on the envelopes—one style elegant and learned, the other childlike and primitive. As I sorted, placing the letters that I had examined to my left, I thought about Crace and the mysteries of his past.
For all his oddness—well, perhaps, precisely because of it—he was a fascinating man. No wonder there was so much interest in him. Despite what Lavinia Maddon said about using Crace’s story as a metaphor for fame and failure or whatever it was, it was clear she was interested in the story of his life, especially this incident in 1967. And what kind of hold did this half-educated woman from Dorset have over him? Crace had told me that he no longer wrote, but I had no idea why he had decided to stop.
Before I went any further, I thought it was probably worthwhile to try and find out a little more so that when I did take the letters to Crace, I would understand what he told me. I stood up and looked around the room, listening for Crace’s approach. It was all part of my job, it was research. He’d thank me for it once he knew the circumstances. To be on the safe side, I left the study, walked through his bedroom, back down the portego toward the drawing room and peeked around the double doors. Crace was still in his chair, asleep, his eyes fluttering like butterflies on a pair of withered leaves.
Back in the study, I started to check the shelves of his bookcase. Many of the books—dusty volumes with red spines, Dante, Petrarch, Spenser, Donne, Byron—looked as if they had been published a couple of centuries ago. I couldn’t see a single title dated later than the 1920s or 1930s and certainly no copies of Crace’s own novel.
I turned back to the desk and started to search the small drawers situated in its upper section. In one there were a couple of tiny gold keys that looked like they might unlock a suitcase or a valise. In another there was an envelope, held together by string twined around a button fastening. I looked at the door. No one there. I slowly uncurled the string, winding it out in an ever-increasing circle until the envelope opened. Inside was a smaller square, buff-colored envelope, the kind young boys used to keep stamps or coins in. It looked as though it had been sealed, although one of its corners curled back, revealing its underlip. I hesitated for no more than a second before delicately easing it apart. At first I thought there was nothing in it, but then I realized that there was something camouflaged, nestling at the bottom. A crescent-moon-shaped locket of hair, flaxen. I pushed my fingers into the envelope and pulled it out. It felt brittle and old, as if it had been snatched from the head of a porcelain-faced, Victorian doll.
Over the course of the next few days, whenever I had a spare moment, I searched the palazzo for a copy of The Debating Society. I scanned the shelves, pulling out volumes hidden two or three deep, but still nothing. It was if he had tried to erase every trace of his past success.
I was forbidden to ask about his writing, yet I needed a little background so as to know how best to respond to those two letters, how best to protect him. If I could just find out a few hard facts that would help fill in the blanks about his life, then I would feel more confident about knowing what to do and what to say. I would then be in a better position to help.
The opportunity came one day when I realized we were running out of coffee. Just after starting the job, I had done an enormous shop, buying, on Crace’s instructions, excessive quantities of food for the store cupboard. Crace hated me leaving him for any length of time—the few
I left Crace dozing and enjoyed a lunch of salami, bread and tomatoes, reading Aretino’s Selected Letters as I ate. Afterward, I went back to the study and worked on the correspondence. I sifted through the pile looking for the telltale handwriting on the envelopes—one style elegant and learned, the other childlike and primitive. As I sorted, placing the letters that I had examined to my left, I thought about Crace and the mysteries of his past.
For all his oddness—well, perhaps, precisely because of it—he was a fascinating man. No wonder there was so much interest in him. Despite what Lavinia Maddon said about using Crace’s story as a metaphor for fame and failure or whatever it was, it was clear she was interested in the story of his life, especially this incident in 1967. And what kind of hold did this half-educated woman from Dorset have over him? Crace had told me that he no longer wrote, but I had no idea why he had decided to stop.
Before I went any further, I thought it was probably worthwhile to try and find out a little more so that when I did take the letters to Crace, I would understand what he told me. I stood up and looked around the room, listening for Crace’s approach. It was all part of my job, it was research. He’d thank me for it once he knew the circumstances. To be on the safe side, I left the study, walked through his bedroom, back down the portego toward the drawing room and peeked around the double doors. Crace was still in his chair, asleep, his eyes fluttering like butterflies on a pair of withered leaves.
Back in the study, I started to check the shelves of his bookcase. Many of the books—dusty volumes with red spines, Dante, Petrarch, Spenser, Donne, Byron—looked as if they had been published a couple of centuries ago. I couldn’t see a single title dated later than the 1920s or 1930s and certainly no copies of Crace’s own novel.
I turned back to the desk and started to search the small drawers situated in its upper section. In one there were a couple of tiny gold keys that looked like they might unlock a suitcase or a valise. In another there was an envelope, held together by string twined around a button fastening. I looked at the door. No one there. I slowly uncurled the string, winding it out in an ever-increasing circle until the envelope opened. Inside was a smaller square, buff-colored envelope, the kind young boys used to keep stamps or coins in. It looked as though it had been sealed, although one of its corners curled back, revealing its underlip. I hesitated for no more than a second before delicately easing it apart. At first I thought there was nothing in it, but then I realized that there was something camouflaged, nestling at the bottom. A crescent-moon-shaped locket of hair, flaxen. I pushed my fingers into the envelope and pulled it out. It felt brittle and old, as if it had been snatched from the head of a porcelain-faced, Victorian doll.
Over the course of the next few days, whenever I had a spare moment, I searched the palazzo for a copy of The Debating Society. I scanned the shelves, pulling out volumes hidden two or three deep, but still nothing. It was if he had tried to erase every trace of his past success.
I was forbidden to ask about his writing, yet I needed a little background so as to know how best to respond to those two letters, how best to protect him. If I could just find out a few hard facts that would help fill in the blanks about his life, then I would feel more confident about knowing what to do and what to say. I would then be in a better position to help.
The opportunity came one day when I realized we were running out of coffee. Just after starting the job, I had done an enormous shop, buying, on Crace’s instructions, excessive quantities of food for the store cupboard. Crace hated me leaving him for any length of time—the few
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