An Englishman's Home

Within a swooning, wistaria-strangled suburb
Of an Italian art-city,
Where the huge wings of the dust —
That glittering, enormous summer bird —
Beat on large empty spaces or
Sparkle in the sun like chain armor,
Lord Richard had built himself a miniature castle of plaster
Colored and divided by lines to represent red brick.
Within its puny boundaries he confined himself,
For when he stepped beyond them,
He was sure to be recognized, and to hear one man remark to another,
“Ecco il Milordo Inglese!”
So his house was to him a refuge he hardly ever left

Even to walk in the umbrageous garden,
Dark on the lightest day,
A-rattle in any wind,
With large, dry, dusty leaves,
Defended by strong iron grilles.
His miniature castle was even more heavily fortified
Against the invasive present-day
Than against roaming burglars.

When you arrived and rang the bell
You could hear other bells sound threateningly near and far
On different floors, in different rooms;
The door was bolted in ten places,
And only unbarred after a footman
Had scanned your face and the horizon
Through a slot in the door
(This modern inquisitor’s anonymous gaze was disconcerting,
For you seemed locked out; he did not act as one locked in):
Then would follow the creak and banging of moving iron
And you would be admitted By two retainers, dressed as wrestlers, in bright striped jerseys,
Who threw open the doors, and led the way.

Once you were allowed to enter, you were lost in a dark, gleaming forest
Of golden pillars; a herald’s paradise;
There were many little rooms, studded with coats of arms:
But though it was an ingenious, confusing forest, with reflections everywhere in mirrors,
It was yet a work of artifice, not a work of art.
There was one room, copper-sheeted,
Which blushed to rose when the light was turned on,
And another in which the walls
Were sheets of transparent glass —
I thought it might be to remind him not to throw stones
But he explained:
“I wanted to see what it would be like, dear boy,
To live in a room with no walls.”

In every room there was a writing desk,
And on each would lie
A page or two of the letter he posted every morning
To Lady Billingcourt, his great friend
Who, in return, wrote daily,
Though they had not met for thirty or forty years;
What could they find to say?