of Tennyson.â
âBloomsbury?â I said, sneaking a look at my watch. Please God, I said to myself irreverently, donât make whatever he plans to say about Bloomsbury important; I was too tired. But tired or not, it was clear Rick was getting to the heart of the matter, and I had better pay attention. I signaled the waiter for coffee, and looked at Rick with what I hoped would pass for eager anticipation.
âDecaf ?â the waiter asked, responding to my summons.
âCertainly not,â I barked at the poor man. âPerhaps you can double the caffeine.â
âGetting sleepy?â Rick asked, not quite mockingly. Thanking what powers there be that I hadnât drunk much, I denied this charge with vigor, and urged him on to explain what he meant by Bloomsbury.
âThey were a group of clever peopleâgeniuses, some of themâin England between the wars. Who they were doesnât matter. Virginia Woolf was perhaps the most important. She and her sister Vanessa Bell, an artist, and various relatives and friends, liked to put on plays. Virginia wrote them, Vanessa designed them, and they were produced in Vanessaâs studio. The cast of this particular play included Duncan Grant, who was an artist, Vanessaâs longtime lover, a homosexual, and the father of Angelica, Vanessaâs daughter, who was in the play, together with Vanessaâs son Julian, by Clive Bell, her husband, and Virginiaâs nieces, the daughters of her brother Adrian.â
My eyes were rolling. Perhaps I had overlooked a few of his drinks. âWere these people in the English department?â I asked.
âYou havenât been listening carefully,â Rick said, sounding not the least drunk. âAlthough I admit it is confusing at first.â
âI should think it would be confusing forever,â I said nastily.
âNever mind all that. Iâm telling you about Bloomsbury, which included the aforementioned as well as others. They didnât go in for conventional sexual morality, but thatâs not the point right now. The point is that this group put on a play called
Freshwater
, which had Tennyson in it as a character, mockedâlovingly mocked, but mocked. Virginia had grown up with âMaud,â and was only joshing at what she loved, but Haycock could hardly be expected to understand that. It increased his hatred of Antonia and her part in the play, and everything and everyone she touched.â
âWho is Maud?â I said, though I hardly dared to ask.
âOh, Jesus,â Rick criedâa name I never evoke in anger. Iâm not religious, but there is such a thing as respect. I frowned.
âSorry,â Rick said. â
âMaudâ
is a poem by Tennyson; a famous poem: âCome into the garden, Maud, / For the black bat, night, has flown, / Come into the garden, Maud, / I am here at the gate alone.â Those are the lines quoted in the play. Antonia and Catherine and Frank and I put it on once, for an audience of friends; we had a few others in the cast, of course.â
âOf course,â I said.
âDonât you even know
âAliceâ
?â he asked, as though suddenly considering whether or not he had been wasting his time, and whether the people who hired me ought to have their heads examined. â âSheâs coming! cried the Larkspur, I hear her footstep, thump, thump, thump, along the gravel walk,â â he quoted happily.
âRick,â I said. âCould we put this into context for a simple soul like me? Itâs getting late, and we should think of leaving. Could we sum it all up?â The great thing about New York restaurants is that people go on eating all evening, the later the better, so the waiters donât start glaring at you if you stay awhile. Theyâd like new customers and new tips, but when leaving a tip I always take into account how long Iâve been hanging around taking up
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