‘All the rest of that day, until dinner-time, Antonio was charming—so attentive, he couldn’t do enough for me. It seemed as though he could hardly get used to the idea that I was back and had a fresh shock of pleasure every time he saw me. I have never been able to find the same thing more than once, but he seemed able to rediscover me many times. That is all very well, I thought; but how do I know that this mood is more genuine than the other? How do I know that it isn’t the brandy he is rediscovering, not me? So I turned a rather glum face to his smiles. But I didn’t take any further steps and didn’t mean to take any, so that when the storm burst it took me completely by surprise.

‘It happened while he was laying the table for dinner. In my old flat he always laid the table. He had his own way of doing it, which was not quite orthodox by English or indeed by Italian standards; and Giuseppina, in pointing this out to me, also observed that she was accustomed to doing it herself. I said that perhaps later on I would tell him not to bother with the table. But I didn’t mean to, knowing it would hurt his feelings.

‘Yet when he burst into my sitting-room with a face twisted and black with rage, my first thought was that it must have something to do with this dispute, this “questione” about the table-laying. Then I saw the brandy-bottle; he was not carrying it delicately in the palm of his large hand, he was grasping it by the neck and looked as if he meant to hit me with it: perhaps I was lucky that he didn’t. I jumped up and said:

‘ “What’s the matter, Antonio?”

‘He came towards me and thrust the bottle under my eyes.

‘ “Who did this?” he demanded in (I don’t exaggerate) a strangled voice.

‘I saw the accusing black line across the label.

‘ “I did,” I said. It was the easiest thing to say, the truth would have involved too many explanations which would, in any case, have been lost upon his fury. Besides, I was to blame for the line being there.

‘ “Does it mean that you have wished to suspect me——?” he began in the same choking voice.

‘Suddenly I saw red. I wasn’t sure that his anger was genuine. I thought he might be putting it on, using his bad temper as a weapon to terrorize me and bounce me into believing he was innocent; and this made me still more angry. I took a long breath.

‘ “I don’t know whom to suspect,” I said. “Tutti gli Italiani sono ladri, specialmente i gondolieri”—“all Italians are thieves, especially gondoliers.”

‘I shouldn’t have said it, of course, but at the moment I was glad to have said it, I wanted to do him the greatest injury I could. I might have stuck a dagger into his heart if I had had one, and felt the same satisfaction.

‘Antonio went as white as a sheet—the only time I have seen him without colour. His normal complexion was a shade darker than brick-red. I remember his once saying to me, alluding to his complexion, “I am red, I have always been red, and when I am dead I shall still be red.”

‘A moment later he was red again, redder than I have ever seen him. He looked away from me, dashed the bottle down on the mosaic terrazzo, squared his shoulders, turned round, and walked out of the room stiffly, like a soldier.

‘I sat down and laughed weakly. In doing so I too was putting on an act, but to impress myself, not someone else. How long I sat there I don’t know, but suddenly I noticed a strong smell and, looking down, I saw a long rivulet of brandy curling round my feet. Dark fragments of broken glass littered the terrazzo, which I now saw was slightly splintered where the bottle had struck it. What would Giuseppina say to all this? I went to look for her and found her in the kitchen, placidly beating up a zabaione.

‘ “Where is Antonio?” I asked.

‘Her face became expressionless, as it always did when I mentioned his name.

‘ “Isn’t he in the dining-room?” she said, as if the dining-room would be contaminated by his presence.

‘But he wasn’t. The oval dining-table was half laid, the door of the cellarette, from which Antonio had been getting out the drinks, stood open. The room had a provisional, expectant air like a child abandoned in the middle of being dressed.

‘I knew Antonio’s tantrums well. He had always had these moods of being what he called “nero”—“black”—and was rather proud of them. They were manifestations of his proper pride, the “amor proprio” so dear to the Italian heart; they showed that he knew his own value and was not going to be put upon. They lasted sometimes for a day or even two days, after which, and without apology or explanation, he would come out of them and be his sanguine, sunny self again. They must have cost him something, for during these times he ate but little and spoke hardly at all; they were a kind of possession. I used to wonder how his wife, who was devoted to him, stood them; they had a very upsetting effect on me. But perhaps like most Italian women she liked a man to be a man and respected his displays of temperament.

‘To Giuseppina’s unconcealed displeasure—she said she would have much preferred to do it herself—he had decided to wait on me at meals. After the first explosion, when he generally absented himself for a time, he never let his tempers interfere with the performance of what he considered his duties, and I fully expected he would come back to help me through dinner.

‘But he didn’t. Giuseppina served me; she made no comment on Antonio’s absence but stood watching me. Any emotional upset affects my digestion, that is why I avoid them whenever I can, and have got the reputation, no doubt, of being an icicle. If I had given way to all the annoyance I have felt during the last twelve years I should long ago have been riddled with gastric ulcers. Oh yes, I should have, Arthur; you needn’t look sceptical. I should have been well advised that evening to have eaten nothing; but how could I, I ask you, with Giuseppina watching my every mouthful? She was determined I should do her cooking justice, and she never took her eyes off me, or stopped talking, except between the courses. At last I could not help speaking of the subject uppermost in my mind, and asked her where she thought Antonio had gone.

‘ “Oh, him,” she said, and made no other comment.

‘By bedtime the nerves of my stomach were thoroughly demoralized and I knew I was in for a bad night. By half-past five in the morning, with the first summons of the Ave Mary bell, I knew that I was in for fever, too. I kept going over in my mind phrases of forgiveness which should also make it clear that there was nothing to forgive, for I did not doubt that Antonio would come in the morning. But instead it was Giuseppina who called me, bringing my tea-tray but no bottle of brandy. She looked more cheerful than I had ever seen her, and I, misinterpreting the signs, asked her if she had seen Antonio.

‘ “Yes,” she said, “he came at seven o’clock and took the gondola away.”

‘ “Took the gondola away?” I echoed.

‘ “Yes, signore, he said he was not going to serve you any more.”

‘ “Did he say why?” I asked.

‘She hesitated a moment and then said, “He said it was because you would not pay him enough.”

‘My illness was sharp and what was more it was recurrent. It was one of those gastric disorders that visitors to Venice sometimes get, and I expect I should have had it anyway: the row with Antonio only aggravated it. But I had never had it before and didn’t quite know what was going to happen. I didn’t call in a doctor because every day Giuseppina assured me I was better, and in the end she proved to be right. But it did for me what an illness so often does, it changed the orientation of my thoughts. The needle of anxiety pointed to myself, not to Antonio. I could think of him without agitation and without working myself into a state.

‘I thought of him a good deal and remembered his many virtues. What patience he had! He never minded how long he was kept waiting. One of the grand ladies who used to employ him before he came to me, once forgot about him, went home another way, and left him out all night: but he didn’t hold it against her—he thought it reflected credit on her, and was the way a great lady should behave.