Invisible. Jonathan Buckley
until long after Lily had died, when the Oak reopened and this room was restored, that he knew for a fact which of the girls had been Lily. And of course it turned out to be the serving girl he’d picked out with his torch.’
Mr Morton opens his eyes, blinking as if emerging from a daydream. ‘So she must have been in her nineties, when Jack was a boy?’
‘A month short of her hundredth birthday when she died in 1949. The farm was down on the Bath Road, a couple of miles from here. There’s a supermarket on the site now, and a DIY superstore.’
Facing the glass wall, Mr Morton raises his eyebrows as though at a screen on which a film had just been shown. ‘Quite a tale,’ he comments.
‘One I’ve told many times, as you’ll have gathered. But not always at such length. Sorry. I went on a bit.’
‘Not at all. Not at all,’ Mr Morton assures him. A smile begins to form and then melts, and his expression settles into thoughtful composure as he ponders the tale of Randall and Lily Corbin and Jack Naylor.
‘I’ll leave you to your music.’
His lips form an unspoken word, then he says: ‘Not music. Homework.’ Smiling, he places the machine on the arm of the chair. With a finger poised above the Play button, he asks: ‘Would you like to hear?’
‘By all means,’ he replies, and a woman’s voice comes out of the machine, speaking Italian. In a wistful lilt the voice recites four or five lines that sound like poetry, lines in which can be heard words that must mean ‘sun’ and ‘herb’ and ‘rose’.
Mr Morton turns off the tape and smiles in the way one would smile at a souvenir that has awakened ambivalent memories. ‘“La donzelletta vien dalla campagna, | In sul calar del sole,”’ he repeats. ‘“Col suo fascio dell’erba, e reca in mano| Un mazzolin di rose e di viole,| Onde, siccome suole,| Ornare ella si appresta | Dimani, al dì di festa, il petto e il crine.”’ Solemnly, holding the recorder between his palms, he translates: ‘“The girl strolls homeward from the fields|As the sun is setting, | With a sheaf of grass and, in her hand, | A posy of roses and violets | With which, tomorrow, | As every Sunday, she will adorn | Her bodice and her hair.” A poem,’ he explains, ‘by Giacomo Leopardi,’ and continues, intuiting the response: ‘An Italian poet, a great poet, but in Britain hardly known. Hence my vainglorious mission to translate his poems into English.’
‘You’re a translator?’
‘But not of poetry. More prosaic material, usually: essays, sleeve notes, memoirs, guidebooks, brochures, anything that’ll pay the bills. Leopardi is a private project.’
‘No one’s translated him before?’
‘There’s always room for more. Not that my versions will be better than anyone else’s. They’ll miss the target too, but differently. I miss, we all miss, but every missed shot is useful. Like arrows peppering the bull’s-eye. The poem is the shape in the middle,’ says Mr Morton, his fingers forming a circle of arrow shafts in the air.
‘What were the lines again?’
Evidently expecting the request, Mr Morton repeats promptly, with exactly the same intonation as before, ‘“La donzelletta vien dalla campagna, | In sul calar del sole, | Col suo fascio dell’erba, e reca in mano | Un mazzolin di rose e di viole, | Onde, siccome suole, | Ornare ella si appresta | Dimani, al dì di festa, il petto e il crine.”’ He rewinds the tape and plays it again, and the female voice recites the words, the same words, but in her voice they are changed, sounding not like a report, as they sounded when Mr Morton spoke them, but rather like a confession whispered in the dark, to herself.
‘Beautiful,’ he responds, and Mr Morton nods, gravely, as if this were not a fatuous thing to have said. ‘When was he born?’
‘Around the same time as your hotel. Born 1798, died 1837.’
‘A short life.’
‘Short and miserable. He was never a happy man, but he had a lot to be unhappy about. With Leopardi you get the full panoply of romantic suffering: poor health, unrequited love – though I have to say that he tended to fall in love after the event, as it were, or with women he knew would not reciprocate. I think his infatuations were essentially literary. There’s something artificial about them, something willed. For his poetry he needed to be unloved. And women weren’t the worst of his troubles.’
‘The worst being –?’
‘His body.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘His appearance was unprepossessing, to say the least. In Naples he was nicknamed “o ranavuottolo”, the little toad. He was very small, with a large head, and his upper body was badly twisted. His digestive system didn’t function properly. He was asthmatic. He had chronic bronchitis. The deformity of his spine and ribcage was so bad that it damaged his lungs and heart. Fatally damaged them. And as if that weren’t enough,’ Mr Morton goes on, ‘he was raised in a moribund little town, in thrall to the pious tyranny of his mother. Imagine this,’ he enjoins. ‘Giacomo is barely four years old. An infant. He enters the great room of the Palazzo Leopardi, the salone. In the centre there is a huge table, decked in red velvet. Giacomo crosses the room. He pulls himself up to peep over the top of the table. And what does he discover? The body of his little brother, laid out on a velvet bed. And how does his mother comfort him? She tells him that she is rejoicing in the boy’s death. She is rejoicing because his death has sent another soul to the ranks of the blessed.’ Incredulous, indignant, Mr Morton cites other instances of the Contessa’s pitiless devotion to God, of her severity towards Giacomo and towards her husband, the proud and ineffectual and kindly Count Monaldo, who once gave his trousers to a beggar and hobbled home wrapped in his cloak, terrified lest his wife discover his act of charity, and towards her daughter, Paolina, who was forbidden to meet her penfriends when they came to Recanati from Bologna, because her mother regarded friendship as a contamination of one’s love of the Almighty. ‘And yet,’ Mr Morton sighs, raising his hands, acceding to the argument of an imaginary opponent, ‘when Giacomo at last escapes from the prison of Recanati he is no happier. For the first time in his life he is free of his family. He is free of the backwater in which it was his misfortune to be born. For six days his carriage rumbles across Italy, and what does he do? He reads his books, barely glancing out of the window.’ He shakes his head with indulgent perplexity, as if he were a travelling companion of Leopardi, observing the eccentric young man seated opposite him. ‘Giacomo goes to Rome,’ he continues, ‘and finds the big city no more to his liking than life in the provinces. Unimpressed by the great monuments, unmoved by its ruins, irked by the people he has to mix with, he claims to find pleasure only in one small corner of the city, one tiny enclave of pleasurable misery: the tomb of Torquato Tasso, in the church of Sant’Onofrio, where he wept for the poor mad poet. In Pisa too he finds a refuge from the vexations of city life, not a chapel or a tomb on this occasion, but a simple lane, a spot that becomes dear to him because – wait for it – it reminds him of Recanati, his birthplace, the town in which he had passed his youth, a period he has now come to regard as his single fleeting episode of true contentment. An impossible person. Precious and self-centred. A dilettante. An inveterate adolescent,’ Mr Morton pronounces, pausing to flop his hands apart in exasperation. ‘And yet, and yet. Adolescents are very often right. And his voice is wonderful. Wonderful,’ he repeats, his eyes following a scribble in the air, as though tracking the flight of a butterfly. ‘So simple, so clear.’
He listens, a little unnerved by Mr Morton’s flittering gaze and by the urgency of his speech. ‘Like a fantastically wealthy man who has taken a vow of poverty,’ says Mr Morton, but the disturbance created by Stephanie, which had abated for as long as the story of Lily and William Randall lasted, has returned now, and become so obtrusive that the voice of his daughter and the voice of Mr Morton are clashing, the one extolling the virtues of an unknown poet, the other berating a woman he no longer knows. Over Mr Morton’s shoulder he looks askance at the garden, weakly ashamed of his inattention, and then, not without a sense of relief,