Much like those safety instruction manuals in an airplane, Edith Templeton's The Surprise of Cremona was a book I saw many times but never actually read. Its elegant, glossy black spine would edge forwards on the library shelf, offering itself to me in a rather pushy and shameless manner, and I would linger there, vaguely intrigued by the title, but quickly move on to something professional and dry by Norman Douglas or Jan Morris instead of the society lady's Italian impressions.
The Surprise of Cremona didn't give a withered fig, of course. It always knew that I would love its Medusa's sense of humor and acidic charm when I finally did borrow it, on that vexatious day when there would be no other reasonable book left to choose from off that particular library shelf. And it knew that I would turn the last page with regret, thinking to myself: "I can't believe I never read that before"; mistakenly, prejudicially, and fortuitously, saving the best for last. My humblest apologies, Madame Templeton, for ever doubting you. The Surprise of Cremona, indeed!
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