a bridge, or a view of another bridge, or a campanile, or a hand flinging open a shutter. There was no way to make a list. It was all a jumble.
While the water rose and rose, Dorothea Wellesley had been out shopping. Now she lay on her bed, her galoshes draining on the hot-air register. She was talking on the phone, complaining to an old school friend in Boston. "It's perfectly disgraceful. After a thousand years, wouldn't you think this city would know how to deal with the water of the Adriatic? And the predictions for November are simply appalling."
"But, Dottie, why don't you come home?" Francie's voice was perfectly clear, having whizzed up from Mount Vernon Street to a satellite poised over the Atlantic, then ricocheted down to the Salizada del Pignater. "Now that dear Giorgio is gone, why should you stay in Italy a moment longer?"
"Oh, Francie, you don't understand. I have a sacred trust. Dear Henrietta's poor child, little Ursula. She's a disobedient, fractious and willful little girl, thoroughly spoiled by her father. She needs my loving discipline. And what's more"—Dorothea's voice sank to a melodramatic whisper, faithfully transmitted by the satellite—"who knows, Francie, what might go on in this house, if I were not here to preserve a wholesome family atmosphere?"
She could hear Francie's horrified intake of breath. "Oh, Dottie, you don't mean that your son-in-law—?"
"I do indeed," said Dorothea.
*16*
Homer enjoyed the company of Samuele Bell. He sensed in Sam a nature severer than his own. Sam was at the same time amused, self-effacing, and contemptuous. The contempt wasn't out of malice. It was disappointment in a world that should have been better, that knew perfectly well how to be better, but stubbornly refused to improve. The only way to survive in such a world was to laugh at it, and Sam did.
But it was odd about Sam. In some mysterious way he was different from the man Homer had met in Massachusetts, more reckless and impulsive. Well, it took one to know one. Homer was reckless and impulsive himself.
It was clear that Sam's recklessness was increasing. Lately, just for the last few days, there had been a crescendo of wild wit in his talk, as though he were throwing up a dazzling mist over something pent-up and excruciating. A powerful set of pincers was wrenching at Sam's gizzard, but what it might be, Homer didn't have a clue.
They were relaxing in Sam's beautiful sitting room after an exhausting day of listening to scholarly papers by conference participants. "I've got two lists," said Sam, leaning back in his chair, sipping orange juice. "A list of Bores—that's Bores with a capital B—and a list of bastards."
Homer's orange juice had gin in it. "Bastards! Also with a capital B? Would you like suggestions for new members? "
They settled down to a discussion of candidates. Some of the conference participants came immediately to mind. There were various levels of bores, Sam explained, including Bores Third Class, Second Class, and First Class, and then a pinnacle class at the top, the Supreme Bore of the World.
"What about bastards?" said Homer. "Are they in categories too? "
"Not yet. Bastardi are—what do you call it?—generic. They're all ghastly to the same degree."
"What about Professor Himmelfahrt?" suggested Homer. "Oh, God, Sam, I could have told you to turn his paper down. I know him of old. Talk about bores."
Sam gazed at the ceiling and narrowed his eyes and considered. "I'd rate him Bore First Class, I think, no more."
"We ought to hand out certificates on the last day of the conference," said Homer, pouring himself another drink.
At that moment the door opened and Mrs. Wellesley walked in. She smiled brilliantly at Homer and extended her hand. There was something grandiose in the gesture, as if she expected him to kiss it. He shook it clumsily. "Oh, Professor Kelly, what do you think of my new work? It's just been delivered by the frame shop." She giggled. "I
While the water rose and rose, Dorothea Wellesley had been out shopping. Now she lay on her bed, her galoshes draining on the hot-air register. She was talking on the phone, complaining to an old school friend in Boston. "It's perfectly disgraceful. After a thousand years, wouldn't you think this city would know how to deal with the water of the Adriatic? And the predictions for November are simply appalling."
"But, Dottie, why don't you come home?" Francie's voice was perfectly clear, having whizzed up from Mount Vernon Street to a satellite poised over the Atlantic, then ricocheted down to the Salizada del Pignater. "Now that dear Giorgio is gone, why should you stay in Italy a moment longer?"
"Oh, Francie, you don't understand. I have a sacred trust. Dear Henrietta's poor child, little Ursula. She's a disobedient, fractious and willful little girl, thoroughly spoiled by her father. She needs my loving discipline. And what's more"—Dorothea's voice sank to a melodramatic whisper, faithfully transmitted by the satellite—"who knows, Francie, what might go on in this house, if I were not here to preserve a wholesome family atmosphere?"
She could hear Francie's horrified intake of breath. "Oh, Dottie, you don't mean that your son-in-law—?"
"I do indeed," said Dorothea.
*16*
Homer enjoyed the company of Samuele Bell. He sensed in Sam a nature severer than his own. Sam was at the same time amused, self-effacing, and contemptuous. The contempt wasn't out of malice. It was disappointment in a world that should have been better, that knew perfectly well how to be better, but stubbornly refused to improve. The only way to survive in such a world was to laugh at it, and Sam did.
But it was odd about Sam. In some mysterious way he was different from the man Homer had met in Massachusetts, more reckless and impulsive. Well, it took one to know one. Homer was reckless and impulsive himself.
It was clear that Sam's recklessness was increasing. Lately, just for the last few days, there had been a crescendo of wild wit in his talk, as though he were throwing up a dazzling mist over something pent-up and excruciating. A powerful set of pincers was wrenching at Sam's gizzard, but what it might be, Homer didn't have a clue.
They were relaxing in Sam's beautiful sitting room after an exhausting day of listening to scholarly papers by conference participants. "I've got two lists," said Sam, leaning back in his chair, sipping orange juice. "A list of Bores—that's Bores with a capital B—and a list of bastards."
Homer's orange juice had gin in it. "Bastards! Also with a capital B? Would you like suggestions for new members? "
They settled down to a discussion of candidates. Some of the conference participants came immediately to mind. There were various levels of bores, Sam explained, including Bores Third Class, Second Class, and First Class, and then a pinnacle class at the top, the Supreme Bore of the World.
"What about bastards?" said Homer. "Are they in categories too? "
"Not yet. Bastardi are—what do you call it?—generic. They're all ghastly to the same degree."
"What about Professor Himmelfahrt?" suggested Homer. "Oh, God, Sam, I could have told you to turn his paper down. I know him of old. Talk about bores."
Sam gazed at the ceiling and narrowed his eyes and considered. "I'd rate him Bore First Class, I think, no more."
"We ought to hand out certificates on the last day of the conference," said Homer, pouring himself another drink.
At that moment the door opened and Mrs. Wellesley walked in. She smiled brilliantly at Homer and extended her hand. There was something grandiose in the gesture, as if she expected him to kiss it. He shook it clumsily. "Oh, Professor Kelly, what do you think of my new work? It's just been delivered by the frame shop." She giggled. "I
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