#58 ANOTHER SAD ROMANCE

There once was a lovely girl named Florence whose father was a well-known author and taught a university course called Philosophical Deference Its Meanings and Its Manifestations. It was a popular course and the professor was considered to be erudite, wise and on rare occasions, humorous. He was also known for being overbearing, arrogant and unwilling to listen to another opinion or give way on any topic whether it be the choice of car he drove or the platitudes of Plato--the professor did not capitulate.

Florence, as a young girl she was enthralled by her famous father and never denied for a moment he was right on all things, she never questioned him or disobeyed and thus they carried on a life of circumscribed domesticity with nights spent reading by the fire when her father was not out or working on his books.

Florence had no call for concern and enjoyed her childhood although she was mostly alone as her father thought other children a bad influence on his demur daughter and hoped to avoid the complications a teenager could bring into a peaceful home. He taught her all she needed to know, he would often point out, though hired a tutor for subjects he was not as knowledgeable or as interested in. As such, Florence had not seen much of the world nor had she many friends but she was very well-read, informed on subjects beyond her age and eager to placate those who visited the house.

Florence was growing up but the professor did not seem to notice. He did not give Florence her due, and hampered her freedom, her very autonomy at every turn. She was dying to get away and try some things on her own. She wanted to shop for her own clothes, have her hair cut, ride a motor scooter or go to a dance. Florence had a lively imagination. Her father thought her helpless and would not let her go out alone or even with other girls.

What the professor could not stand was any man leering at his daughter, or even get close to her on a bus or in trains. He knew what men were about and he was fearful for his daughter. There are terrible men in the world and they would be attracted to a lovely girl like his Florence, named after her parent's honeymoon site, a child born of romance no longer in evidence, Florence’s mother long gone, unable to live in a cocoon without freedom of movement or thought and soon tired of the professor’s commanding control.

Florence had no complaints in general and wanted to reassure her father that she did not care for the men she saw, she was much more fond of dogs and wanted to run with them to the faraway woods. But the father only saw the mother and remembered how far she had fallen. He had to protect Florence even though she was only ten when she asked to take the dogs to the woods.

Florence grew up and was enrolled in the university and the professor hoped his daughter would become a writer and stay at home with him always. One day a young man named Vincent came to call on Florence. He met her in the class she least liked, the one the professor insisted his daughter take, assuring her she would need to know something of medieval history to be a good writer. Vincent was instantly smitten with the professor’s daughter and wondered why such a beautiful girl was always alone but recognized that it gave him an advantage. They took long walks along the river between classes and Vincent kissed Florence, at first surreptitiously, later with more latitude. They visited the Victoria and Albert Museum, finding stimulation and romance in its gracious rooms. They vowed to marry after graduation.

The professor was a little put out at admitting a stranger into his home; decided the intruder unworthy of his esteem. Vincent was a business major, a course the professor considered one of low calling. After that first meeting, Vincent left the imposing home of his beloved not certain if he’d had any success but still undaunted. Girls, he knew, went their own way in time; he would wait until graduation and then ask for Florence’s hand in marriage. Meanwhile he would get his degree, go for his master’s and be able to provide well for Florence. Her father would have to respect that.

Florence continued taking classes, all approved by the professor, and eventually graduated with a degree in English literature. Vincent graduated with a degree in business and planned to go for his MBA starting with summer courses. He was on a fast-track, anxious to begin his life. He and Florence decided to wait until he had gotten this degree before approaching her father but he hoped she would move out of her father’s house and live on her own before settling down. He had never known anyone quite so hampered in her movements. They had only been on one date; when her father was away at a seminar last winter. Other than that, Florence seemed unable to ask him for so much as a night out with a curfew. What a strange family, he thought. He asked Florence where her mother was and Florence told him she died when she was two years old and that was why her father was so protective.

Vincent would on occasion, drop in on the professor’s home, his only way to be with Florence. The professor was all but indifferent and Vincent began to dislike him. He felt he had been judged and had not stood up to the test. Vincent considered himself an amiable fellow, he had principles, no bad habits, respected women, drove within the speed limits and was dedicated to his studies. What more could the professor hope for in a suitor for his daughter? Vincent knew full well what other boys were about; did the professor want one of those cads visiting his daughter?

One evening Vincent worked up enough nerve to ask the professor some of what was on his mind and the professor sat starring at Vincent for a time, then turned his back on him, swiveled in his chair and began looking out the window that overlooked a small courtyard with a row of cedar trees on the far end. There was a wooden bench underneath them that Vincent and Florence sometimes sat on when the professor was not at home. It was a very pleasant place to sit in the spring, feeling the first warmth of the sun after the long winter.

The professor was peeved being put on the spot by this young man who meant nothing at all to him and had the idea of telling him to get lost, he owed no explanation. If he didn’t want his presence in his own home he had a right to that proclivity, didn’t he? The idea that he had to explain himself to this student, not one of his own students but one from another department altogether, was unheard of. He looked at Vincent and replied, “I do not know you, I do not wish to know you, I don’t know what you want from me, from my daughter and have nothing to say to any of your inquiries.”

Vincent was so put off by this arrogance he reacted badly and said in a hissing voice, “I want to marry your daughter, that is what I want.” He had not meant to broach the subject at this time or in this way but the old man had a way of bringing out the belligerence in young men. He was well-known for this also.

The professor was stunned, the blood was rushing to his head. The nerve! To come in here and let it be known that he wanted to hustle his beloved daughter from him was too much. He could barely think of a thing to say. He could not imagine where this upstart got the idea that he could marry Florence. Surely she did not let him think there was a possibility? Florence was not meant for marriage. Florence was a jeune fille. Not some party girl willing to run away with the first jackass to come along. His daughter was made of much finer material. He should have stopped these visits when they started. What was he thinking? He continued to stare at Vincent unable to imagine how he would address such an impertinence. “My good man, surely you don’t think my daughter is ready to marry, why she has a career to think of, she will be a writer, she has a gift?”

“That may be, Professor, but that does not preclude her marrying. In fact, she has already agreed to marry me but we will wait until I have my degree and am settled in a position. I plan to go into banking. I will be able to provide for her and I suspect we will settle in London.”

The professor gaped at Vincent unable to believe what he was hearing. Settled? Why, Florence had no need to settle, she had a home, a very fine home. He couldn’t imagine her conjuring up these radical plans without his knowledge. When had it happened? “I don’t know what you have planned, my boy, but I am sure Florence has not agreed to them. Florence has a home, she is not looking for another. I don’t know what has got into your head but you need to know that you are delusional. My Florence would not want to leave her home and settle anywhere. She is only a child.”

“With all due respect, sir, she is soon to be twenty-one. That is not a child at all. It is young to marry, perhaps, but Florence has no desire to live as a single girl. She is not that type. She needs someone to care for her and provide for her.” He was more brash than he intended but now he would not back down.

The professor almost choked on this retort and poured himself a glass of water from a decanter on his desk. “ Provided for? Cared for? What has been my role for these twenty years do you suppose? She is very well cared for, if you don’t mind. You have a lot of nerve to come in here imply that my daughter needs caring for. I have never for a day not cared for her or provided for her. That has been my life since my wife ran away shortly after she was born. A trollop.” He was turning red and slammed his glass of water on the desk, it splashed out onto a stack of papers but the professor did not notice so agitated was he.

Vincent, too was agitated and began to run his hands through his hair, black hair that had a tendency to fall over his left eye. He thought the professor’s position absurd, as if a girl would stay at home forever. It was perverse to think he owned his daughter and could dictate her life. And he did not like the implication that he was somehow suspect, that he was wanting in some way, that was enough of an insult, but Vincent was appalled that the old man thought his daughter was his property, that she was pledged to him, a prisoner.

The room began to feel overly heated, stifling, and Vincent could have used a glass of water himself but dared not make any sort of request. Should he continue this discussion that had taken on an odious dimension? It was reprehensible. This was not the seventeenth century. It was not the Victorian age. It was 1957, for God’s sake. It was positively medieval. He began to speak calmly, to conceal his vehemence. “Sir, I understand you love your daughter, you want what’s best for her, but you can’t expect her to live under your roof forever. Girls grow up. They marry and establish their own home. They have children.”
The professor, not at all calm said, “Not Florence. She is a child, I tell you. I should have you arrested for corrupting the morals of a young girl!”

Vincent was pacing in front of the massive desk. His nettle was up. How do you reason with such unreason? “If you have something against me, sir, you should come out with it. I will listen to what you might have to say about me. If you know or suspect something disreputable concerning me, speak now. Let me defend myself.”

“I know nothing of you, I care nothing about you, I do not wish to know anything more of you, do you understand me? Furthermore, I do not wish my daughter to know you. Kindly leave my home and do not return. My door is not open to you. It should never have been. In good faith I let you escort my daughter from school, return her to her proper home. I thought you would understand that she is not available to you, you seemed like a bright boy. I was certain she would let you know that herself. I had faith in her. You have broken my faith. I did not think her capable of such treachery.” The professor took another gulp of water and spilled some on his shirt. His hands were shaking. “I cannot bear what you are thinking of in regards my daughter. Your filthy thoughts, your grasping hands…I cannot, will not allow you to so much as touch her hair, do you understand? He was now shrieking and spittle had formed on his beard. His eyes blazed and for a moment Vincent thought he may attack him but he only again slammed his water glass on the table and they both noted briefly that there was a diagonal crack the length of the glass.

Vincent could only stare in disbelief. It came over him that the man did not have anything against himself but instead had a bit of madness about him. He was deranged; Vincent could see it in his eyes. And he was quick to note what he said about his wife: she was not dead, she bolted. She was probably alive somewhere. What a cruel thing to have told Florence that her mother was dead if she wasn’t. No matter how disreputable she might be, she was a mother to a beautiful girl who had a right to know her mother existed. The treachery is in that lie.

Vincent shook his head and tried to quiet his mind. The professor continued looking at him but his eyes no longer connected. He was somewhere else and Vincent thought this might be the point to end this futile conversation. He had not gained anything by it. It never should have happened. He promised Florence he would not speak of it until he had his MBA and they were ready to marry. But why? What was so wrong with announcing that they were engaged? They were, weren’t they?

He left the professor’s house without seeing Florence but he planned to call her as soon as he got to a telephone. He had to think about what he’d heard, how much to tell her. He wondered what her father would say to her. Florence mentioned that they would be having dinner and even implied that maybe he could join them. He’d never been invited to dinner by Florence and he had been looking forward to it. He hoped she would understand his hasty departure. He would have been unable to sit down with the professor after what had taken place. All he wanted to do was make sure Florence was not upset with him.

He was sweating violently by the time he exited the trolley and made his way to the small apartment he shared with another student. He was choked up and thought he might need a drink though he rarely drank. He wanted someone to talk to, someone who could advise him. He wanted Florence to know he did not mean to start something so hateful with her father. And he really wanted to tell her about her mother but dare he? He was a mass of confusion and laid down on his bed to think for a bit, to compose himself before he called Florence. He wanted to take her from that house, get her away before...before he lost her altogether. Surely she must be aware, have some inkling of her father’s warped views. Oh, how could he tell her any of it? For the first time in Vincent’s life he was at a complete loss. The equation did not make sense and he did not have the mind for abstraction or psychological analysis. His columns always added up. He had no knowledge of philosophical deference its meanings or its manifestations.

Florence, alone in her room, upset, shaken had heard the abject words of her father and Vincent. She did not know why Vincent should visit her father in his study. She and Vincent were going to sit in the front parlor and talk and when her father appeared she was going to ask if Vincent could stay for dinner. She had never done this before but felt it was time. She only wanted a sociable meal with Vincent and her father, surely no confrontations or demands. She was terrified by what she had heard. Her father was so cross but Vincent should not have spoken; should not have entered his private room. It was the tutor’s fault for detaining her. Vincent should not have been kept waiting for her. Now everything was spoiled. She had so hoped they could keep their engagement secret for a while longer. She had no problem seeing Vincent in strictly prescribed circumstances. She was not used to freedom. She was now graduated and had less freedom than before but she was going to suggest a study program at the library, approved by her father. There she could meet Vincent every day. They could eat lunch together when he was free. Now she was not sure she could confront her father at all; he was so angry.

The tidbit of information about her mother was not entirely unforeseen, that she was probably not dead, but had instead left them. Though it had never been spoken of before, Florence suspected this all along but kept with the notion that her mother was dead because that was the way her father wanted it. She played along with this fiction for his sake and had, for many years believed it. But when she was fourteen years old a woman had come to the house driving a sports car. Florence was intrigued by this visitor. The woman was very pretty, dressed in an elaborate coat with ostrich plumes and a fanciful hat. Florence wanted at once to go to the door, to greet such a woman but she heard her father’s valet tell the woman that the professor was not in, nor the young lady. Florence wanted to run down and say she was most certainly in, but something held her back. Her father would hear of it and she would have a lecture, her beloved father would speak to her in his stern voice, the voice that filled her with dread. It was not that she was afraid of him, but that she did not like to be spoken to in a voice that held such acrimony. She was timid, she knew. Her father rarely spoke harshly to her but on the few occasions he had, over some misdeed, she had sunk into a ball of shame in her bedroom and could barely bring herself to come down to dinner. When she did, her father was kindness itself, pouring her water for her, cutting up her meat, allowing her a taste of wine. His voice was sweet and deferential and Florence thought she would need to keep him like this, could never do anything to bring out his ire, she could not bear it. That had been years ago and she thought twice before doing anything that might annoy him.

No, she did not go to the woman in the car but only watched from the window. The woman looked up and caught her face in the glass, looking down. The woman waved to her; Florence did not know how she recognized it, how that small discreet wave made her aware, but she knew somehow by osmosis that the woman was her mother. Perhaps she had seen a picture though she could not exactly remember any pictures. She once asked if she could visit her mother’s grave but her father was so taken aback and flustered by the request she dropped it. He said it was too cold this winter and quickly changed the subject. She once thought of asking her tutor if it were possible to know of the whereabouts of a grave if one had no information but a name but she didn’t for some reason. After the woman in the hat waved to her, she suspected she had no reason to look for a gravestone. That was seven years ago. She hoped the woman would come back; the next time Florence thought she would go to the door no matter what the outcome might be but the woman had never returned.

And now she knew for certain that her mother was not dead. What this information meant to her daily life she wasn’t sure. And Vincent now knew also. Would they talk about it? Should they? She wasn’t certain of anything and began to weep. Her father was unreasonable, she felt but what could she do? He did not brook disobedience, she could not disobey him. She did not want to lose Vincent, had made a promise to him but could see no future for their luncheons, their walks in the park and along the river bank. Her father was on his guard. He would prevent it now. She stood by the window as if looking for a answer, for a fairy godmother to save her. She stood there for an hour, getting colder, feeling weak. She changed for dinner and with a desultory look in the mirror, she went to the dining room.

Her father had not yet arrived and she stood looking out on the courtyard waiting for him. Waiting for what, she did not know but wished he would not come in at all. She did not know what to say to him now, she had not formulated her thoughts to a coherent pattern. She wished Vincent would be dining with them, that the last hour could be erased and he would be joining them as she had planned. She had Mrs. Haldon, their housekeeper, prepare his favorite food, now they would eat it without him. Her father would not know he was eating a meal prepared for Vincent with whom he was so irked. She would have to get through the dinner without crying, he would not like tears at the dinner table, would frown and gulp his wine. This is how he behaved when she was a child and she became petulant over some restriction he placed on her. Later she learned never to display this petulance, it only made matters worse and for years, father and daughter lived in harmony by Florence’s discretionary measures. She was always happy when he invited his colleagues or favorite students to dinner and he had someone to focus on other than her. She grew weary of his focus as she got older but hadn’t realized until tonight how weary.

She often thought of her mother at these times. Once she knew her mother was not dead, a certain distance crept into her relationship with her father. He never noticed, she made certain but it was there in her heart. When she met Vincent, her heart felt lighter, her future seemed more open to possibility. Now that was in all probability, ruined. She would be a captive. No one would want to save her so much they would expose themselves to her father’s demeaning interrogations, to his utter disregard. That is what it amounted to. She would be having dinner with her father forever, in this cold dining room with only the occasional guest for company. He would not invite anyone younger to look at his daughter, indeed, had already stopped.

Her father entered the dining room and Florence tried to smile but was quite unable. The professor, still unsettled by his argument with Vincent, did not notice. Both sat down to eat with little conversation or eye contact. A brooding mood permeated the dining room and Mrs. Haldon sensed all was not well. She too had overheard the arguing and noted the pale, listless demeanor of Florence, usually so cheerful, so bright. Poor girl, cooped up with her father, no friends and finally a nice young man ready and able to give her a future. She doubted Florence would stand up to her father. She wished she could advise the girl but would not feel it her place. She also knew the girl’s mother was still alive and had always thought Florence should be told but that too, was not her decision. She left the room--she had her own problems these days and needed to keep her spirit up.

After much dishing out from the various platters and bowls, the professor broke the ice by saying, “What do you think of going abroad this summer, Florence? You’ve never been to France or Italy, maybe Vienna or Berlin? We’ve never taken a trip like that together, perhaps we should before you continue your studies further. A writer needs experience not always found in books, I reckon. Why don’t you send for some brochures and we can begin making plans? You look a little pale. The sunshine in Rome would perk you up and I could use some movement myself. What do you say?”

Florence, who had always hoped to see more of Europe had nothing to say. She was thinking of Vincent and how he was feeling. Was he thinking of her? He left so abruptly, probably annoyed with her, maybe he would not even want to see her again. At that thought her heart sank and she had to keep from showing tears. “I’m…I…well…” She was stalling for time, she had no words for her father, she wanted to leave the table and think. She did not even have Vincent’s phone number. She chastised herself for such unworldliness. That’s what she was; a hopeless child who could not even conduct a relationship with a man, a man she loved, could not call him on the telephone. She did not know where he lived except that it was on Piccadilly near the park. She would have to find the address. If he did not call her, she would have to go to him and beg him not to let her father’s harsh words spoil his feelings for her. She would plead. But what then could she do? If her father forbid her to marry, what would she do. She had never considered doing anything without her father’s approval. How could she remain so ignorant, so useless?

She excused herself immediately after dinner and her father’s only reaction was “See you get those brochures from the travel agent, dear. We’ll have to make reservations quickly.” Florence left the room though not before the tears began to flow. All she could do tonight was wait and worry. What if he never called again?

Vincent did not call that night; he meant to but his flat mate, Harry, arrived home and they had a few drinks while Vincent spewed on about the professor. After a time, they felt hungry so they went out to a cafe to eat. Vincent did not get home until past ten and thought it too late to call Florence. He would call her first thing in the morning or go to her house. He hardly slept, not used to alcohol or emotional turmoil. He vowed he would right things in the morning and eventually fell asleep. He dreamed the professor took over the business school and ordered Vincent to leave, he would be given no degrees or honors. He awoke in a state of nerves. He had a bath and dressed and once the morning air hit him, he felt some renewal. He walked through Hyde Park and stopped for breakfast in a café where he ordered coffee, something else he rarely drank. He felt flushed and nervous and did not know it was a simple hangover. He thought he was coming down with the flu. It was Saturday so he decided he could not risk a visit to Florence; the professor would be home. He called but was told Florence was walking her dog and would be in shortly. Mrs. Haldon was adamant that he call back within the hour. She implied Florence would be expecting his call.

He was walking back to his flat when a group of friends from school approached him. They were on their way to Kent for a house party. They insisted he join them. He tried to beg off but they would not let him and forced him into a car, teasing and cajoling him for his unsociable nature. Before he knew it he was in a large country house with dogs, children, tennis, swimming and numerous cocktails. Vincent fell in with it all, happy to escape his ominous dream and his dread of ever meeting the professor again--he was spooked by him. In between sets of tennis, he thought of Florence, imprisoned in that gloomy house with a dotty old father. He thought of who her mother could be and wondered if it would be possible to contact her. He felt guilty for having fun without her. All of these thoughts rambled around in his head and the weekend continued on in a hilarious romp with scads of people coming and going, bent on frivolous pleasure. Vincent did not know if he approved or disapproved. He did not understand his own position.

Florence, upon hearing Vincent had called could only lament that she had been out. So foolish, she thought, to be waiting for a call and then miss it. Mrs. Haldon could feel her anxiety but was unaware of a way to assure the girl. She could only offer tea and scones, Florence’s favorite, and hoped she would not have to wait for long. “I’m certain he will call right back, dear, I told him you would be in shortly. He promised to call back.” Florence drank her tea but could not eat anything. She sat near the phone and waited impatiently. She had dark thoughts; she was sure something had gone terribly wrong. Her father asked her again about the travel brochures and in a consolatory voice asked what country she might wish to visit. She had no reply. She did not care to visit any country but thought she might be waiting by the phone for the rest of her life. The phone that did not ring that morning, or for the rest of the day.

She was fortunate that her father had a dinner engagement and she did not have to endure another meal in his presence. She went to her room at six and stayed for the evening. The house was silent except for a wind that began to rattle the panes about half past ten. Somewhere she heard a faint sound of music, probably Mrs. Haldon’s radio, she thought, though she had never heard it before. The night was long, she slept intermittently and by morning, was exhausted with the gravity of her thoughts.

Vincent also slept intermittently but it was not due to the gravity of his thinking but because a girl, Maude, who had been paying him special attention all day came scampering into his room at half past ten. Vincent was startled by this aggressive move but she was a playful type and would not leave him alone. She kissed him in a teasing way that caused his blood to stir. She put his hand under his shirt and blew in his ear. Vincent did not have much experience with women. They carried on in this playful fashion throughout the night. By morning, she acted as if Vincent were her betrothed and he had no strength to shun her even though he did not really like her that much. He was unaccustomed to this sort of girl and it was all too much for his untried sensibilities. The next day she never left his side nor would she let him catch the train to London as he begged to be allowed. No excuse he came up with worked. He now knew for certain what a hangover was; from alcohol and shame. Maude appeared to possess him and since the others went along with her, he had no way out.

Florence did not receive a call all weekend and by Monday she went about her routine as usual, albeit, without enthusiasm. She thought she might have the flu. As she passed the travel agent she went in with no real interest but at least she would be able to show her father the brochures. She looked at them without curiosity. That evening when her father asked about the planning, she handed him the brochures and said nothing. “Why so glum? I should think you would be excited. There is so much to see, so much history to explore. What do you think about Italy? You must see the Renaissance works first I think. Let’s plan the trip around that period, shall we? I’ve been thinking of it all day and that is what we should do. We’ll go to Rome, Florence and Venice and maybe even the Tuscan hill towns. Oh what a time we’ll have.” Florence did not say anything but nodded her head to appease her father. She went to bed early in case she was coming down with something.

Vincent never made the call and Florence and her father left for Italy at the end of the month. When they returned, Florence was almost back to her old self, placating her father, entertaining a menagerie of guests he regularly invited to dinner. Florence did not go to the library much but stayed at home. She did not become a writer nor pursue any career. She never rode on a motor scooter or went to a dance.

When she was thirty, her father died and she was left alone in the large house although a cousin came to live with her while attending school. Florence then began to tutor students who were having difficulty. She never socialized or dated but sometimes went to the movies with her cousin and some of her friends. Shortly after her father’s death, her mother made an appearance: smoking one cigarette after another, rattling her bangle bracelets, she pleaded for understanding but she and Florence had little in common and nothing to talk about. She was living in America and had been married three times.

Vincent married Maude when she announced she was pregnant. She led him around like a puppy dog, everyone said with a chortle. They had a daughter and later, a son. Vincent worked in her father’s insurance company. He could not be said to be happy nor especially unhappy. He lived his life placating his wife, her family and his children. Sometimes he didn’t really know who he was but had no talent for self-analysis. Maude accused him of being a brooder.

One day he happened to see Florence in a coffee shop. She was more than a decade older and he almost did not recognize her. She was quiet, composed and pale. Her hair was long and pulled into a tight knot at her neck. Her clothing was plain, without embellishment or style. She did not look like the fashionable women he and Maude socialized with. He approached her with an excited air; very glad to see her. “Why look who I should happen into,” he said boisterously. “Florence, it’s so good to see you.” She looked startled when he said her name. He tried to talk to her in the old way; lighthearted, congenial, filled with hope, but she remained unavailable to him. “I heard about your father’s death, terribly sorry…” was all he could mutter.
She answered politely and only said, "I heard about your marriage." She averted her eyes and he could do nothing but shake her hand and walk away.

How beautiful she still was, he thought. Such grace. How unlike Maude with her jangled nerves, artifice and cackling modernism. He wondered what his life would be like if he had married Florence and felt an irrevocable loss somewhere in his chest. He left the coffee shop slightly bereft and remained moody and unresponsive to his family for the rest of the weekend. Florence slept badly that night and never visited the coffee shop again.