The Enchanted April Read online

  E-text prepared by Manette Rothermel

  THE ENCHANTED APRIL

  by

  ELIZABETH VON ARNIM

  It began in a Woman's Club in London on a February afternoon--anuncomfortable club, and a miserable afternoon--when Mrs. Wilkins, whohad come down from Hampstead to shop and had lunched at her club, tookup The Times from the table in the smoking-room, and running herlistless eye down the Agony Column saw this:

  To Those Who Appreciate Wistaria and Sunshine. Small mediaeval ItalianCastle on the shores of the Mediterranean to be Let furnished for themonth of April. Necessary servants remain. Z, Box 1000, The Times.

  That was its conception yet, as in the case of many another, theconceiver was unaware of it at the moment.

  So entirely unaware was Mrs. Wilkins that her April for that yearhad then and there been settled for her that she dropped the newspaperwith a gesture that was both irritated and resigned, and went over tothe window and stared drearily out at the dripping street.

  Not for her were mediaeval castles, even those that are speciallydescribed as small. Not for her the shores in April of theMediterranean, and the wisteria and sunshine. Such delights were onlyfor the rich. Yet the advertisement had been addressed to persons whoappreciate these things, so that it had been, anyhow addressed too toher, for she certainly appreciated them; more than anybody knew; morethan she had ever told. But she was poor. In the whole world shepossessed of her very own only ninety pounds, saved from year to year,put by carefully pound by pound, out of her dress allowance. She hadscraped this sum together at the suggestion of her husband as a shieldand refuge against a rainy day. Her dress allowance, given her by herfather, was L100 a year, so that Mrs. Wilkins's clothes were what herhusband, urging her to save, called modest and becoming, and heracquaintance to each other, when they spoke of her at all, which wasseldom for she was very negligible, called a perfect sight.

  Mr. Wilkins, a solicitor, encouraged thrift, except that branchof it which got into his food. He did not call that thrift, he calledit bad housekeeping. But for the thrift which, like moth, penetratedinto Mrs. Wilkins's clothes and spoilt them, he had much praise. "Younever know," he said, "when there will be a rainy day, and you may bevery glad to find you have a nest-egg. Indeed we both may."

  Looking out of the club window into Shaftesbury Avenue--hers wasan economical club, but convenient for Hampstead, where she lived, andfor Shoolbred's, where she shopped--Mrs. Wilkins, having stood theresome time very drearily, her mind's eye on the Mediterranean in April,and the wisteria, and the enviable opportunities of the rich, while herbodily eye watched the really extremely horrible sooty rain fallingsteadily on the hurrying umbrellas and splashing omnibuses, suddenlywondered whether perhaps this was not the rainy day Mellersh--Mellershwas Mr. Wilkins--had so often encouraged her to prepare for, andwhether to get out of such a climate and into the small mediaevalcastle wasn't perhaps what Providence had all along intended her to dowith her savings. Part of her savings, of course; perhaps quite asmall part. The castle, being mediaeval, might also be dilapidated,and dilapidations were surely cheap. She wouldn't in the least mind afew of them, because you didn't pay for dilapidations which werealready there, on the contrary--by reducing the price you had to paythey really paid you. But what nonsense to think of it . . .

  She turned away from the window with the same gesture of mingledirritation and resignation with which she had laid down The Times, andcrossed the room towards the door with the intention of getting hermackintosh and umbrella and fighting her way into one of theovercrowded omnibuses and going to Shoolbred's on her way home andbuying some soles for Mellersh's dinner--Mellersh was difficult withfish and liked only soles, except salmon--when she beheld Mrs.Arbuthnot, a woman she knew by sight as also living in Hampstead andbelonging to the club, sitting at the table in the middle of the roomon which the newspapers and magazines were kept, absorbed, in her turn,in the first page of The Times.

  Mrs. Wilkins had never yet spoken to Mrs. Arbuthnot, who belongedto one of the various church sets, and who analysed, classified,divided and registered the poor; whereas she and Mellersh, when theydid go out, went to the parties of impressionist painters, of whom inHampstead there were many. Mellersh had a sister who had married oneof them and lived up on the Heath, and because of this alliance Mrs.Wilkins was drawn into a circle which was highly unnatural to her, andshe had learned to dread pictures. She had to say things about them,and she didn't know what to say. She used to murmur, "marvelous," andfeel that it was not enough. But nobody minded. Nobody listened.Nobody took any notice of Mrs. Wilkins. She was the kind of person whois not noticed at parties. Her clothes, infested by thrift, made herpractically invisible; her face was non-arresting; her conversation wasreluctant; she was shy. And if one's clothes and face and conversationare all negligible, thought Mrs. Wilkins, who recognized herdisabilities, what, at parties, is there left of one?

  Also she was always with Wilkins, that clean-shaven, fine-lookingman, who gave a party, merely by coming to it, a great air. Wilkinswas very respectable. He was known to be highly thought of by hissenior partners. His sister's circle admired him. He pronouncedadequately intelligent judgments on art and artists. He was pithy; hewas prudent; he never said a word too much, nor, on the other had, didhe ever say a word too little. He produced the impression of keepingcopies of everything he said; and he was so obviously reliable that itoften happened that people who met him at these parties becamediscontented with their own solicitors, and after a period ofrestlessness extricated themselves and went to Wilkins.

  Naturally Mrs. Wilkins was blotted out. "She," said his sister, withsomething herself of the judicial, the digested, and the final in hermanner, "should stay at home." But Wilkins could not leave his wifeat home. He was a family solicitor, and all such have wives and showthem. With his in the week he went to parties, and with his on Sundayshe went to church. Being still fairly young--he was thirty-nine--andambitious of old ladies, of whom he had not yet acquired in hispractice a sufficient number, he could not afford to miss church,and it was there that Mrs. Wilkins became familiar, though neverthrough words, with Mrs. Arbuthnot.

  She saw her marshalling the children of the poor into pews. Shewould come in at the head of the procession from the Sunday Schoolexactly five minutes before the choir, and get her boys and girlsneatly fitted into their allotted seats, and down on their little kneesin their preliminary prayer, and up again on their feet just as, to theswelling organ, the vestry door opened, and the choir and clergy, bigwith the litanies and commandments they were presently to roll out,emerged. She had a sad face, yet she was evidently efficient. Thecombination used to make Mrs. Wilkins wonder, for she had been told byMellersh, on days when she had only been able to get plaice, that ifone were efficient one wouldn't be depressed, and that if one doesone's job well one becomes automatically bright and brisk.

  About Mrs. Arbuthnot there was nothing bright and brisk, thoughmuch in her way with the Sunday School children that was automatic; butwhen Mrs. Wilkins, turning from the window, caught sight of her in theclub she was not being automatic at all, but was looking fixedly at oneportion of the first page of The Times, holding the paper quite still,her eyes not moving. She was just staring; and her face, as usual, wasthe face of a patient and disappointed Madonna.

  Mrs. Wilkins watched her a minute, trying to screw up courage tospeak to her. She wanted to ask her if she had seen the advertisement.She did not know why she wanted to ask her this, but she wanted to.How stupid not to be able to speak to her. She looked so kind. Shelooked so unhappy. Why couldn't two unhappy people refresh eachother on their way through this dusty business of life by a littletalk--real, natural talk, about what they felt, what t
hey would haveliked, what they still tried to hope? And she could not help thinkingthat Mrs. Arbuthnot, too, was reading that very same advertisement.Her eyes were on the very part of the paper. Was she, too, picturingwhat it would be like--the colour, the fragrance, the light, the softlapping of the sea among little hot rocks? Colour, fragrance, light,sea; instead of Shaftesbury Avenue, and the wet omnibuses, and the fishdepartment at Shoolbred's, and the Tube to Hampstead, and dinner, andto-morrow the same and the day after the same and always the same . . .

  Suddenly Mrs. Wilkins found herself leaning across the table."Are you reading about the mediaeval castle and the wisteria?" sheheard herself asking.

  Naturally Mrs. Arbuthnot was surprised; but she was not half somuch surprised as Mrs. Wilkins was at herself for asking.

  Mrs. Arbuthnot had not yet to her knowledge set eyes on theshabby, lank, loosely-put-together figure sitting opposite her, withits small freckled face and big grey eyes almost disappearing under asmashed-down wet-weather hat, and she gazed at her a moment withoutanswering. She was reading about the mediaeval castle and thewisteria, or rather had read about it ten minutes before, and sincethen had been lost in dreams--of light, of colour, of fragrance, of thesoft lapping of the sea among little hot rocks . . .

  "Why do you ask me that?" she said in her grave voice, for hertraining of and by the poor had made her grave and patient.

  Mrs. Wilkins flushed and looked excessively shy and frightened."Oh, only because I saw it too, and I thought perhaps--I thoughtsomehow--" she stammered.

  Whereupon Mrs. Arbuthnot, her mind being used to getting peopleinto lists and divisions, from habit considered, as she gazedthoughtfully at Mrs. Wilkins, under what heading, supposing she had toclassify her, she could most properly be put.

  "And I know you by sight," went on Mrs. Wilkins, who, like allthe shy, once she was started; lunged on, frightening herself to moreand more speech by the sheer sound of what she had said last in herears. "Every Sunday--I see you every Sunday in church--"

  "In church?" echoed Mrs. Arbuthnot.

  "And this seems such a wonderful thing--this advertisement aboutthe wisteria--and--"

  Mrs. Wilkins, who must have been at least thirty, broke off andwriggled in her chair with the movement of an awkward and embarrassedschoolgirl.

  "It seems so wonderful," she went on in a kind of burst, "and--itis such a miserable day . . ."

  And then she sat looking at Mrs. Arbuthnot with the eyes of animprisoned dog.

  "This poor thing," thought Mrs. Arbuthnot, whose life was spentin helping and alleviating, "needs advice."

  She accordingly prepared herself patiently to give it.

  "If you see me in church," she said, kindly and attentively, "Isuppose you live in Hampstead too?"

  "Oh yes," said Mrs. Wilkins. And she repeated, her head on itslong thin neck drooping a little as if the recollection of Hampsteadbowed her, "Oh yes."

  "Where?" asked Mrs. Arbuthnot, who, when advice was needed,naturally first proceeded to collect the facts.

  But Mrs. Wilkins, laying her hand softly and caressingly on thepart of The Times where the advertisement was, as though the mereprinted words of it were precious, only said, "Perhaps that is why thisseems so wonderful."

  "No--I think that's wonderful anyhow," said Mrs. Arbuthnot,forgetting facts and faintly sighing.

  "Then you were reading it?"

  "Yes," said Mrs. Arbuthnot, her eyes going dreamy again.

  "Wouldn't it be wonderful?" murmured Mrs. Wilkins.

  "Wonderful," said Mrs. Arbuthnot. Her face, which had lit up,faded into patience again. "Very wonderful," she said. "But it's nouse wasting one's time thinking of such things."

  "Oh, but it is," was Mrs. Wilkins's quick, surprising reply;surprising because it was so much unlike the rest of her--thecharacterless coat and skirt, the crumpled hat, the undecided wisp ofhair straggling out, "And just the considering of them is worth whilein itself--such a change from Hampstead--and sometimes I believe--Ireally do believe--if one considers hard enough one gets things."

  Mrs. Arbuthnot observed her patiently. In what category wouldshe, supposing she had to, put her?

  "Perhaps," she said, leaning forward a little, "you will tell meyour name. If we are to be friends"--she smiled her grave smile--"as Ihope we are, we had better begin at the beginning."

  "Oh yes--how kind of you. I'm Mrs. Wilkins," said Mrs. Wilkins."I don't expect," she added, flushing, as Mrs. Arbuthnot said nothing,"that it conveys anything to you. Sometimes it--it doesn't seem toconvey anything to me either. But"--she looked round with a movementof seeking help--"I am Mrs. Wilkins."

  She did not like her name. It was a mean, small name, with akind of facetious twist, she thought, about its end like the upwardcurve of a pugdog's tail. There it was, however. There was no doinganything with it. Wilkins she was and Wilkins she would remain; andthough her husband encouraged her to give it on all occasions as Mrs.Mellersh-Wilkins she only did that when he was within earshot, for shethought Mellersh made Wilkins worse, emphasizing it in the wayChatsworth on the gate-posts of a villa emphasizes the villa.

  When first he suggested she should add Mellersh she had objectedfor the above reason, and after a pause--Mellersh was much too prudentto speak except after a pause, during which presumably he was taking acareful mental copy of his coming observation--he said, muchdispleased, "But I am not a villa," and looked at her as he looks whohopes, for perhaps the hundredth time, that he may not have married afool.

  Of course he was not a villa, Mrs. Wilkins assured him; she hadnever supposed he was; she had not dreamed of meaning . . . she wasonly just thinking . . .

  The more she explained the more earnest became Mellersh's hope,familiar to him by this time, for he had then been a husband for twoyears, that he might not by any chance have married a fool; and theyhad a prolonged quarrel, if that can be called a quarrel which isconducted with dignified silence on one side and earnest apology on theother, as to whether or no Mrs. Wilkins had intended to suggest thatMr. Wilkins was a villa.

  "I believe," she had thought when it was at last over--it took along while--"that anybody would quarrel about anything when they've notleft off being together for a single day for two whole years. What weboth need is a holiday."

  "My husband," went on Mrs. Wilkins to Mrs. Arbuthnot, trying tothrow some light on herself, "is a solicitor. He--" She cast about forsomething she could say elucidatory of Mellersh, and found: "He's veryhandsome."

  "Well," said Mrs. Arbuthnot kindly, "that must be a greatpleasure to you."

  "Why?" asked Mrs. Wilkins.

  "Because," said Mrs. Arbuthnot, a little taken aback, forconstant intercourse with the poor had accustomed her to have herpronouncements accepted without question, "because beauty--handsomeness--is a gift like any other, and if it is properly used--"

  She trailed off into silence. Mrs. Wilkins's great grey eyeswere fixed on her, and it seemed suddenly to Mrs. Arbuthnot thatperhaps she was becoming crystallized into a habit of exposition, andof exposition after the manner of nursemaids, through having anaudience that couldn't but agree, that would be afraid, if it wished,to interrupt, that didn't know, that was, in fact, at her mercy.

  But Mrs. Wilkins was not listening; for just then, absurd as itseemed, a picture had flashed across her brain, and there were twofigures in it sitting together under a great trailing wisteria thatstretched across the branches of a tree she didn't know, and it washerself and Mrs. Arbuthnot--she saw them--she saw them. And behindthem, bright in sunshine, were old grey walls--the mediaeval castle--she saw it--they were there . . .

  She therefore stared at Mrs. Arbuthnot and did not hear a wordshe said. And Mrs. Arbuthnot stared too at Mrs. Wilkins, arrested bythe expression on her face, which was swept by the excitement of whatshe saw, and was as luminous and tremulous under it as water insunlight when it is ruffled by a gust of wind. At this moment, if shehad been at a party, Mrs. Wilkins would have been looked at withinterest.


  They stared at each other; Mrs. Arbuthnot surprised, inquiringly,Mrs. Wilkins with the eyes of some one who has had a revelation. Ofcourse. That was how it could be done. She herself, she by herself,couldn't afford it, and wouldn't be able, even if she could afford it,to go there all alone; but she and Mrs. Arbuthnot together . . .

  She leaned across the table, "Why don't we try and get it?" shewhispered.

  Mrs. Arbuthnot became even more wide-eyed. "Get it?" sherepeated.

  "Yes," said Mrs. Wilkins, still as though she were afraid ofbeing overheard. "Not just sit here and say How wonderful, and then gohome to Hampstead without having put out a finger--go home just as usualand see about the dinner and the fish just as we've been doing foryears and years and will go on doing for years and years. In fact,"said Mrs. Wilkins, flushing to the roots of her hair, for the sound ofwhat she was saying, of what was coming pouring out, frightened her,and yet she couldn't stop, "I see no end to it. There is no end to it.So that there ought to be a break, there ought to be intervals--ineverybody's interests. Why, it would really be being unselfish to goaway and be happy for a little, because we would come back so muchnicer. You see, after a bit everybody needs a holiday."

  "But--how do you mean, get it?" asked Mrs. Arbuthnot.

  "Take it," said Mrs. Wilkins.

  "Take it?"

  "Rent it. Hire it. Have it."

  "But--do you mean you and I?"

  "Yes. Between us. Share. Then it would only cost half, and youlook so--you look exactly as if you wanted it just as much as I do--asif you ought to have a rest--have something happy happen to you."

  "Why, but we don't know each other."

  "But just think how well we would if we went away together for amonth! And I've saved for a rainy day--look at it--"

  "She is unbalanced," thought Mrs. Arbuthnot; yet she feltstrangely stirred.

  "Think of getting away for a whole month--from everything--toheaven--"

  "She shouldn't say things like that," thought Mrs. Arbuthnot. "Thevicar--" Yet she felt strangely stirred. It would indeed be wonderfulto have a rest, a cessation.

  Habit, however, steadied her again; and years of intercourse withthe poor made her say, with the slight though sympathetic superiorityof the explainer, "But then, you see, heaven isn't somewhere else. Itis here and now. We are told so."

  She became very earnest, just as she did when trying patiently tohelp and enlighten the poor. "Heaven is within us," she said in hergentle low voice. "We are told that on the very highest authority.And you know the lines about the kindred points, don't you--"

  "Oh yes, I know them," interrupted Mrs. Wilkins impatiently.

  "The kindred points of heaven and home," continued Mrs.Arbuthnot, who was used to finishing her sentences. "Heaven is in ourhome."

  "It isn't," said Mrs. Wilkins, again surprisingly.

  Mrs. Arbuthnot was taken aback. Then she said gently, "Oh, butit is. It is there if we choose, if we make it."

  "I do choose, and I do make it, and it isn't," said Mrs. Wilkins.

  Then Mrs. Arbuthnot was silent, for she too sometimes had doubtsabout homes. She sat and looked uneasily at Mrs. Wilkins, feeling moreand more the urgent need to getting her classified. If she could onlyclassify Mrs. Wilkins, get her safely under her proper heading, shefelt that she herself would regain her balance, which did seem verystrangely to be slipping all to one side. For neither had she had aholiday for years, and the advertisement when she saw it had set herdreaming, and Mrs. Wilkins's excitement about it was infectious, andshe had the sensation, as she listened to her impetuous, odd talk andwatched her lit-up face, that she was being stirred out of sleep.

  Clearly Mrs. Wilkins was unbalanced, but Mrs. Arbuthnot had metthe unbalanced before--indeed she was always meeting them--and they hadno effect on her own stability at all; whereas this one was making herfeel quite wobbly, quite as though to be off and away, away from hercompass points of God, Husband, Home and Duty--she didn't feel as ifMrs. Wilkins intended Mr. Wilkins to come too--and just for once behappy, would be both good and desirable. Which of course it wasn't;which certainly of course it wasn't. She, also, had a nest-egg,invested gradually in the Post Office Savings Bank, but to suppose thatshe would ever forget her duty to the extent of drawing it out andspending it on herself was surely absurd. Surely she couldn't, shewouldn't ever do such a thing? Surely she wouldn't, she couldn't everforget her poor, forget misery and sickness as completely as that? Nodoubt a trip to Italy would be extraordinarily delightful, but therewere many delightful things one would like to do, and what was strengthgiven to one for except to help one not to do them?

  Steadfast as the points of the compass to Mrs. Arbuthnot were thegreat four facts of life: God, Husband, Home, Duty. She had gone tosleep on these facts years ago, after a period of much misery, her headresting on them as on a pillow; and she had a great dread of beingawakened out of so simple and untroublesome a condition. Therefore itwas that she searched with earnestness for a heading under which to putMrs. Wilkins, and in this way illumine and steady her own mind; andsitting there looking at her uneasily after her last remark, andfeeling herself becoming more and more unbalanced and infected, shedecided pro tem, as the vicar said at meetings, to put her under theheading Nerves. It was just possible that she ought to go straightinto the category Hysteria, which was often only the antechamber toLunacy, but Mrs. Arbuthnot had learned not to hurry people into theirfinal categories, having on more than one occasion discovered withdismay that she had made a mistake; and how difficult it had been toget them out again, and how crushed she had been with the most terribleremorse.

  Yes. Nerves. Probably she had no regular work for others,thought Mrs. Arbuthnot; no work that would take her outside herself.Evidently she was rudderless--blown about by gusts, by impulses. Nerveswas almost certainly her category, or would be quite soon if no onehelped her. Poor little thing, thought Mrs. Arbuthnot, her own balancereturning hand in hand with her compassion, and unable, because of thetable, to see the length of Mrs. Wilkins's legs. All she saw was hersmall, eager, shy face, and her thin shoulders, and the look ofchildish longing in her eyes for something that she was sure was goingto make her happy. No; such things didn't make people happy, suchfleeting things. Mrs. Arbuthnot had learned in her long life withFrederick--he was her husband, and she had married him at twenty and wasnot thirty-three--where alone true joys are to be found. They are to befound, she now knew, only in daily, in hourly, living for others; theyare to be found only--hadn't she over and over again taken herdisappointments and discouragements there, and come away comforted?--atthe feet of God.

  Frederick had been the kind of husband whose wife betakes herselfearly to the feet of God. From him to them had been a short thoughpainful step. It seemed short to her in retrospect, but it had reallytaken the whole of the first year of their marriage, and every inch ofthe way had been a struggle, and every inch of it was stained, she feltat the time, with her heart's blood. All that was over now. She hadlong since found peace. And Frederick, from her passionately lovedbridegroom, from her worshipped young husband, had become second onlyto God on her list of duties and forbearances. There he hung, thesecond in importance, a bloodless thing bled white by her prayers. Foryears she had been able to be happy only by forgetting happiness. Shewanted to stay like that. She wanted to shut out everything that wouldremind her of beautiful things, that might set her off again long,desiring . . .

  "I'd like so much to be friends," she said earnestly. "Won't youcome and see me, or let me come to you sometimes? Whenever you feel asif you wanted to talk. I'll give you my address"--she searched in herhandbag--"and then you won't forget." And she found a card and heldit out.

  Mrs. Wilkins ignored the card.

  "It's so funny," said Mrs. Wilkins, just as if she had not heardher, "But I see us both--you and me--this April in the mediaevalcastle."

  Mrs. Arbuthnot relapsed into uneasiness. "Do you?" she said,making an effort
to stay balanced under the visionary gaze of theshining grey eyes. "Do you?"

  "Don't you ever see things in a kind of flash before theyhappen?" asked Mrs. Wilkins.

  "Never," said Mrs. Arbuthnot.

  She tried to smile; she tried to smile the sympathetic yet wiseand tolerant smile with which she was accustomed to listen to thenecessarily biased and incomplete view of the poor. She didn'tsucceed. The smile trembled out.

  "Of course," she said in a low voice, almost as if she wereafraid the vicar and the Savings Bank were listening, "it would be mostbeautiful--most beautiful--"

  "Even if it were wrong," said Mrs. Wilkins, "it would only be fora month."

  "That--" began Mrs. Arbuthnot, quite clear as to thereprehensibleness of such a point of view; but Mrs. Wilkins stopped herbefore she could finish.

  "Anyhow," said Mrs. Wilkins, stopping her, "I'm sure it's wrongto go on being good for too long, till one gets miserable. And I cansee you've been good for years and years, because you look so unhappy"--Mrs. Arbuthnot opened her mouth to protest--"and I--I've done nothingbut duties, things for other people, ever since I was a girl, and Idon't believe anybody loves me a bit--a bit--the b-better--and I long--oh, I long--for something else--something else--"

  Was she going to cry? Mrs. Arbuthnot became acutelyuncomfortable and sympathetic. She hoped she wasn't going to cry. Notthere. Not in that unfriendly room, with strangers coming and going.

  But Mrs. Wilkins, after tugging agitatedly at a handkerchief thatwouldn't come out of her pocket, did succeed at last in merelyapparently blowing her nose with it, and then, blinking her eyes veryquickly once or twice, looked at Mrs. Arbuthnot with a quivering air ofhalf humble, half frightened apology, and smiled.

  "Will you believe," she whispered, trying to steady her mouth,evidently dreadfully ashamed of herself, "that I've never spoken to anyone before in my life like this? I can't think, I simply don't know,what has come over me."

  "It's the advertisement," said Mrs. Arbuthnot, nodding gravely.

  "Yes," said Mrs. Wilkins, dabbing furtively at her eyes, "and usboth being so--"--she blew her nose again a little--"miserable."