V
From Aleppo we went on by boat to Greece, stopping at various ports on the way. I remember best going ashore with Max at Mersin, and spending a happy day on the beach, bathing in a glorious warm sea. It was on that day that he picked me enormous quantities of yellow marigolds. I made them into a chain and he hung them around my neck, and we had a picnic lunch in the midst of a great sea of yellow marigolds.
I was looking forward enormously to seeing Delphi with the Woolleys; they spoke of it with such lyric rapture. They had insisted that I was to be their guest there, which I thought extremely kind of them. I have rarely felt so happy and full of anticipation as when we arrived at Athens.
But things come always at the moment one does not expect them.
I can remember, standing at the hotel desk and being handed my mail, on top of it a pile of telegrams. The moment I saw them a sharp agony seized me, because seven telegrams could mean nothing but bad news.
We had been out of touch for the last fortnight at least, and now bad news had caught up with me. I opened one telegrama€“but the first was actually the last. I put them into order. They told me that Rosalind was very ill with pneumonia. My sister had taken the responsibility of removing her from school and motoring her up to Cheshire. Further ones reported her condition as serious. The last one, the one I had opened first, stated that her condition was slightly better.
Nowadays, of course, one could have been home in less than twelve hours, with air services going from the Piraeus every day, but then, in 1930, there were no such facilities. At the very earliest, if I could book a seat, the next Orient Express, would not get me to London for four days.
My three friends all reacted to my bad news with the utmost kindness.
Len laid aside what he was doing and went out to contact travel agencies and find the earliest seat that could be booked. Katharine spoke with deep sympathy. Max said little, but he, too, went out with Len to the travel agency.
Walking along the street, half dazed with shock, I put my foot into one of those square holes in which trees seemed eternally to be being planted in the streets of Athens. I sprained my ankle badly, and was unable to walk. Sitting in the hotel, receiving the commiserations of Len and Katharine, I wondered where Max was. Presently he came in. With him he had two good solid crepe bandages and an elastoplast. Then, he explained quietly that he would be able to look after me on the journey home and help me with my ankle.
a€?But you are going up to the Temple of Bassae,a€I said. a€?Werena€?t you meeting somebody?a€?
a€?Oh, Ia€?ve changed my plans,a€he said. a€?I think I really ought to get home, so I will be able to travel with you. I can help you along to the dining-car or bring meals along to you, and get things done for you.a€?
It seemed too marvellous to be true. I thought then, and indeed have thought ever since, what a wonderful person Max is. He is so quiet, so sparing with words of commiseration. He does things. He does just the things you want done and that consoles you more than anything else could. He didna€?t condole with me over Rosalind or say she would be all right and that I mustna€?t worry. He just accepted that I was in for a bad time. There were no sulpha drugs then, and pneumonia was a real menace.
Max and I left the next evening. On our journey he talked to me a great deal about his own family, his brothers, his mother, who was French and very artistic and keen on painting, and his father, who sounded a little like my brother Montya€“only fortunately more stable financially.
At Milan we had an adventure. The train was late. We got out I could limp about now, my ankle supported by elastoplasta€“and asked the wagon lit conductor how long the wait would be. a€?Twenty minutes,a€he said. Max suggested we should go and buy some oranges-so we walked along to a fruit-stall, then walked back to the platform again.
I suppose about five minutes had elapsed, but there was no train at the platform. We were told it had left.
a€?LeftI thought it waited here twenty minutes,a€I said.
a€?Ah yes, Signora, but it was very much in latenessa€“it waited only a short time.a€?
We looked at each other in dismay. A senior railway official then came to our aid. He suggested that we hire a powerful car and race the train.
He thought we would have a sporting chance of catching it at Domodossola.
A journey rather like one on the cinema then began. First we were ahead of the train, then the train was ahead of us. Now we felt despair, the next moment we felt comfortably superior, as we went through the mountain roads and the train popped in and out of tunnels, either ahead of or behind us. Finally we reached Domodossola about three minutes after the train. All the passengers it seemed, were leaning out of the windowsa€“certainly all in our own wagon lit coacha€“to see whether we had arrived.
a€?Ah, Madame,a€said an elderly Frenchman as he helped me into the train. a€?Que vous avez d???prouver des ??motions?a€The French have a wonderful way of putting things.
As a result of hiring this excessively expensive car, about which we had no time to bargain, Max and I had practically no money left. Maxa€?s mother was meeting him in Paris, and he suggested hopefully I should be able to borrow money from her. I have often wondered what my future mother-in-law thought of the young woman who jumped out of the train with her son, and after the briefest of greetings borrowed practically every sou she happened to have on her. There was little time to explain because I had to take the train on to England, so with confused apologies I vanished, clutching the money I had extracted from her. It cannot, I think, have prejudiced her in my favour.
I remember little of that journey with Max except his extraordinary kindness, tact, and sympathy. He managed to distract me by talking a good deal about his own doings and thoughts. He bandaged my ankle repeatedly, and helped me along to the dining-car, which I do not think I could have reached by myself, especially with the jolting of the Orient Express as it gathered strength and speed. One remark I do remember.
We had been running alongside the sea on the Italian Riviera. I had been half asleep, sitting back in my corner, and Max had come into my carriage and sitting opposite me. I woke up and found him studying me, thoughtfully.
a€?I think,a€he said, a€?that you really have a noble face.a€This so astonished me that I woke up a little more. It was a way I should never have thought of describing myselfa€“certainly nobody else had ever done so.
A noble facea€“had IIt seemed unlikely. Then a thought occurred to me.
a€?I suppose,a€I said, a€?that is because I have rather a Roman nose.a€Yes, I thought, a Roman nose. That would give me a slightly noble profile.
I was not quite sure that I liked the idea. It was the kind of thing that was difficult to live up to. I am many things: good-tempered, exuberant, scatty, forgetful, shy, affectionate, completely lacking in self-confidence, moderately unselfish; but noblea€“no, I cana€?t see myself as noble. However, I relapsed into sleep, rearranging my Roman nose to look its besta€“full-face, rather than profile.