Postscript
Esprit d'escalier
P. J. Kavanagh
when we are young we are used to the sudden, inexplicable, verbal vio- lences of grown-ups — the swearing park- attendant, who thinks we are uprooting his bushes when we are only looking for a ball, the snarling schoolmaster who, a moment before, had seemed good-humoured. As we grow older (and, God willing, a little more prosperous) the experiences of direct rudeness grow fewer. Indeed, we probably take more care to avoid them, pussy- footing round the possibility, than we would like to admit. When they do occur it is usually when we are travelling, or in some other way uncertain of our surround- ings. The problem is — how to react? when we are young we are used to the sudden, inexplicable, verbal vio- lences of grown-ups — the swearing park- attendant, who thinks we are uprooting his bushes when we are only looking for a ball, the snarling schoolmaster who, a moment before, had seemed good-humoured. As we grow older (and, God willing, a little more prosperous) the experiences of direct rudeness grow fewer. Indeed, we probably take more care to avoid them, pussy- footing round the possibility, than we would like to admit. When they do occur it is usually when we are travelling, or in some other way uncertain of our surround- ings. The problem is — how to react?
Once, after walking all day and too long in the Dordogne, a hotel, the last one possible, put out its lights and locked its doors the moment we arrived outside it. Incredulity was succeeded by conscious- ness of the soreness of our feet. As the triumphant hotel-keeper stuck his head out of an upper window in order to shout Termer my companion, ga-ga with in- dignation, shouted back, `Vous etes fres gentil, monsieur!' It was an irony so En- glish, so fatuous, and so obviously wasted on the gleeful excluder, that I realised I was not the only man in the world unable to find a way properly to respond on such occasions. Surely, a smiling, humorous gentlemanli- ness is the answer, but how difficult to achieve if all you initially feel is the astonishment of one who has received a supermarket trolley in the stomach. You feel just like spluttering, which is useless. The best I can do is walk away, reminding myself that this is how some people are treated all the time, and trying to think what I should have said: esprit d'escalier. I was walking down an escalier very recently, in Italy. We were staying at the villa of friends, which is set in the cliff face and only attainable by some steep stone stairs which are also a public path. They had told us of a short-cut, belonging to their neighbour who had invited them and their guests to use it. It was extremely hot, it was August, and there were many steps. We took the short-cut and a man in shorts obstructed our path. 'This is private. You cannot come this way,' he said in English. I explained that we were staying with his neighbours, who had told us, etc. 'I don't care who you are staying with. This is private!' It was the supermarket trolley and I turned on my heel and walked back up and round, the long public way. My sons, more used to grown-up obstructionism, lingered; I heard him mutter 'Well, just this time' and, slightly to my disappoint- ment, they shuffled through. Left alone on my climb and re-descent a different way I was fuming, as well as sweating. My contemptuous turn on the heel, so well (I assured myself) managed, had probably seemed to him like flight. I must say something to the fellow, I couldn't just let him get away with it. The only phrase that came to mind was 'please mend your manners' which lacked esprit but expressed my mood and, armed with this thunderbolt, I broke into a run in order to deliver it. But I was too late; he had gone. I resolved to say nothing to my kind and gentle hosts. The worst legacy a guest can leave is a reason for coolness with a neighbour. Nevertheless I felt baulked of revenge. However, all was revealed. The neighbour rang up our hosts to apologise for his rudeness to their guests; he had been upset, had had a dreadful day, strangers wandering onto his terrace, and so on; would we please all come down to lunch the next day. But somehow I could not bring myself to go. I was accused of pride, 'one of the Seven Deadly Sins' reminded an offspring. But I wasn't upset because / had been treated like that but that anyone should be. Besides, I was probably grateful for the respite. Family holidays are unmitigatedly delightful of course but a change is as good as a feast. So, for a change, I walked into town and treated myself to a lone feast anyway, during which I wrote this to explain why this column did not have lunch with Franco Zeffirelli.
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