Now, anyone who studies, keeps or, most important, breeds, rare animals knows how important sex is, and the study of sexual impulses in an animal which can talk and write of its experiences and feelings — the human animal, man — is of enormous help in the study of the less articulate members of the animal kingdom. Though I possessed a fairly extensive library on the subject of human sex, it was lacking one master work for which I had been searching for some time — the classic Havelock Ellis, to a large extent now superseded by modern research but still an important early study on that subject, and certainly a wealth of information.
The young lady who helped me carry the books downstairs obviously thought that a man of my age should not be buying nine volumes on the subject of sex. John Ruston, the owner of the shop who had known me for a good many years, was more sympathetic.
“Yes,” he said, swaying to and fro like a dancing bear. “Yes, Ellis. We don’t get him in often.”
“I’ve been trying to find him for ages,” I replied. “I’m delighted.”
“It’s a nice, clean copy,” said John, with unconscious humour, picking up the volume dealing with homosexuality and examining it.
So my Havelock Ellis was packed up, together with a few last-minute purchases (who, with red blood in his veins, could resist The Speech of Monkey ; or A Slave Trader’s Journal or The Patagonians ?), and John Ruston had me driven round to the hotel where, for the next week, I devoted myself almost exclusively to Havelock, carrying him around, a volume at a time, and marking with a pencil those parts which I thought applicable to animal breeding generally. What I didn’t realize was that, at mid-winter in a nearly deserted hotel, my movements were studied by the staff about as carefully as I studied my own animals. What they saw was me deeply absorbed in a book (since all the volumes looked much the same), in which I kept marking passages as I drifted from cocktail bar to restaurant, from restaurant to deserted lounge. When they brought up my breakfast at seven-thirty, I was lying in bed reading Havelock and the night porters would find me still engrossed in him at two o’clock in the morning. Obviously there must be something about the book that kept me riveted and silent for such long periods.
I was totally unaware of the interest that my absorption with Havelock was arousing, until Luigi, the Italian barman, said to me:
“That seems to be a very interesting book you are reading, Mr Durrell.”
“It is,” I said vaguely. “ Havelock Ellis.”
He said no more, not wishing to confess that he did not know who Havelock Ellis was. Then Stephen Grump, the Viennese Under-Manager, said to me:
“That seems to be an interesting book you are reading.”
“Yes,” I said. “ Havelock Ellis.”
He, too, not wishing to appear ignorant, merely nodded his head wisely.
So enchanted was I, not only by the research work that Havelock had done, but by the character that seemed to emerge from his prose — earnest, pedantic, humourless, as only Americans can be when they take a subject seriously; an omelette made up of the meticulousness of a Prussian officer, the earnestness of a Swedish artist, and the cautiousness of a Swiss banker — that I was oblivious of the fact that all around there were people who were dying to know what I was reading. The dull red cover, the almost undecipherable title, gave them no clue. Then one day, quite by accident, my secret was out, and immediately pandemonium broke loose on a scale that I had rarely seen equalled. It all happened quite innocently in the restaurant, where I was reading Havelock as I demolished an avocado pear and an excellent lasagne (for the restaurant was exclusively run by Italians though some of the kitchen staff were English). In between mouthfuls of pasta heavily laced with Parmesan cheese, I was reading Havelock on the different aspects of beauty in women, and what attracts and does not attract in different parts of the world. I came to a phrase used in Sicily which I suspected would provide much food for thought if only I had the remotest idea what it meant.
Irritatingly, Havelock assumed that everyone spoke fluent Italian and so there was no footnote with a translation. I puzzled over the phrase for a moment and then recalled that the head waiter, Innocenzo, was from Sicily . Little realizing I was setting alight the fuse that led to a powder keg, I called him over to my table.
“Is everything all right?” he enquired, his large hazel eyes flashing round the table to make sure.
“Delicious,” I said. “But that’s not what I called you for. You said you came from Sicily, didn’t you?”
“Yes, from Sicily,” he nodded.
“Well, can you just translate that for me?” I asked, pointing to the relevant passage.
It had a curious and quite unprecedented effect on him. His eyes widened unbelievingly as he read. Then he glanced at me, walked away from the table a few steps in embarrassment, came back, read the passage again, looked at me, and retreated from the table as though I had suddenly grown another head.
“What is that book?” he asked me.
“ Havelock Ellis. The Psychology of Sex. ”
“You read it now for one week,” he said accusingly, as though he’d caught me in some underhand dealing.
“Well, there are nine volumes,” I protested.
“Nine?” he exclaimed. “Nine ? All on sex?”
“Yes. It’s a big subject. But what I’m interested in is whether this is true. Is this what you say about women in Sicily ?”
“Me? No, no !” said Innocenzo, hurriedly, living up to his name. “Me, I never say that,”
“Never?” I asked, disappointed,
“Maybe sometimes my grandfather may have said it,” said Innocenzo, “but not now. Oh, no, no! Not now .” He gazed at the books fascinated. “You say this man write nine books?” he asked again. “All on the sex?”
“Yes,” I said. “Every aspect of it.”
“And this is what you are reading all this week?”
“Yes.”
“So now you are an expert,” he said, laughing embarrassedly.
“No, he’s the expert. I’m just learning.”
“Nine books,” he repeated wonderingly, and then dragged his mind back to his job. “You want some cheese, Mr Durrell?”
“No, thank you,” I said. “Just some more wine.”
He brought a bottle, uncorked it, and poured out a drop for me to taste, his eyes fixed fascinatedly on the book. I approved the wine, and he poured it out.
“Nine books,” he mused, carefully untwisting the cork from the corkscrew. “Nine books on sex. Mama Mia! ”
“Yes,” I concluded. “ Havelock did the job properly.” Innocenzo left me, and I returned to Havelock, earnest and meticulous in his investigations among the hot-blooded Sicilians. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, my hot-blooded Sicilian had passed on to the waiters the news that Mr Durrell possessed nine volumes on sex, surely a record for any hotel guest. The news spread through the hotel like fire through summer gorse-land. When I returned from a shopping expedition that afternoon, two of the porters rushed to open the doors of the hotel for me, and behind the desk not one but four receptionists blinded me with their smiles, their faces as pretty as a flower-bed. I was somewhat startled by all this sudden enthusiasm, but, in my innocence, did not connect it with my owning Havelock Ellis. I went up to my room, ordered some tea, and lay on the bed reading. Presently, my tea was brought to me by the floor waiter, Gavin, a tall, slender boy with a delicate profile, a mop of blond hair like the unkempt mane of a Palomino, and large blue eyes.
“Afternoon,” he said, his eyes fixed on my book.
“Good afternoon, Gavin,” I said. “Just bung it on the table, will you?”