The Enchanted April Read online

  Chapter 8

  Presently, when Mrs. Wilkins and Mrs. Arbuthnot, unhampered byany duties, wandered out and down the worn stone steps and under thepergola into the lower garden, Mrs. Wilkins said to Mrs. Arbuthnot, whoseemed pensive, "Don't you see that if somebody else does the orderingit frees us?"

  Mrs. Arbuthnot said she did see, but nevertheless she thought itrather silly to have everything taken out of their hands.

  "I love things to be taken out of my hands," said Mrs. Wilkins.

  "But we found San Salvatore," said Mrs. Arbuthnot, "and it israther silly that Mrs. Fisher should behave as if it belonged only toher."

  "What is rather silly," said Mrs. Wilkins with much serenity, "isto mind. I can't see the least point in being in authority at theprice of one's liberty."

  Mrs. Arbuthnot said nothing to that for two reasons--first,because she was struck by the remarkable and growing calm of thehitherto incoherent and excited Lotty, and secondly because what shewas looking at was so very beautiful.

  All down the stone steps on either side were periwinkles in fullflower, and she could now see what it was that had caught at her thenight before and brushed, wet and scented, across her face. It waswistaria. Wistaria and sunshine . . . she remembered theadvertisement. Here indeed were both in profusion. The wistaria wastumbling over itself in its excess of life, its prodigality offlowering; and where the pergola ended the sun blazed on scarletgeraniums, bushes of them, and nasturtiums in great heaps, andmarigolds so brilliant that they seemed to be burning, and red and pinksnapdragons, all outdoing each other in bright, fierce colour. Theground behind these flaming things dropped away in terraces to the sea,each terrace a little orchard, where among the olives grew vines ontrellises, and fig-trees, and peach-trees, and cherry-trees. Thecherry-trees and peach-trees were in blossom--lovely showers of whiteand deep rose-colour among the trembling delicacy of the olives; thefig-leaves were just big enough to smell of figs, the vine-buds wereonly beginning to show. And beneath these trees were groups of blueand purple irises, and bushes of lavender, and grey, sharp cactuses,and the grass was thick with dandelions and daisies, and right down atthe bottom was the sea. Colour seemed flung down anyhow, anywhere;every sort of colour, piled up in heaps, pouring along in rivers--theperiwinkles looked exactly as if they were being poured down each sideof the steps--and flowers that grow only in borders in England, proudflowers keeping themselves to themselves over there, such as the greatblue irises and the lavender, were being jostled by small, shiningcommon things like dandelions and daisies and the white bells of thewild onion, and only seemed the better and the more exuberant for it.

  They stood looking at this crowd of loveliness, this happyjumble, in silence. No, it didn't matter what Mrs. Fisher did; nothere; not in such beauty. Mrs. Arbuthnot's discomposure melted out ofher. In the warmth and light of what she was looking at, of what toher was a manifestation, and entirely new side of God, how could one bediscomposed? If only Frederick were with her, seeing it too, seeing ashe would have seen it when first they were lovers, in the days when hesaw what she saw and loved what she loved. . .

  She sighed.

  "You mustn't sigh in heaven," said Mrs. Wilkins. "One doesn't."

  "I was thinking how one longs to share this with those oneloves," said Mrs. Arbuthnot.

  "You mustn't long in heaven," said Mrs. Wilkins. "You'resupposed to be quite complete there. And it is heaven, isn't it, Rose?See how everything has been let in together--the dandelions and theirises, the vulgar and the superior, me and Mrs. Fisher--all welcome,all mixed up anyhow, and all so visibly happy and enjoying ourselves."

  "Mrs. Fisher doesn't seem happy--not visibly, anyhow," said Mrs.Arbuthnot, smiling.

  "She'll begin soon, you'll see."

  Mrs. Arbuthnot said she didn't believe that after a certain agepeople began anything.

  Mrs. Wilkins said she was sure no one, however old and tough,could resist the effects of perfect beauty. Before many days, perhapsonly hours, they would see Mrs. Fisher bursting out into every kind ofexuberance. "I'm quite sure," said Mrs. Wilkins, "that we've got toheaven, and once Mrs. Fisher realizes that that's where she is, she'sbound to be different. You'll see. She'll leave off being ossified,and go all soft and able to stretch, and we shall get quite--why, Ishouldn't be surprised if we get quite fond of her."

  The idea of Mrs. Fisher bursting out into anything, she whoseemed so particularly firmly fixed inside her buttons, made Mrs.Arbuthnot laugh. She condoned Lotty's loose way of talking of heaven,because in such a place, on such a morning, condonation was in the veryair. Besides, what an excuse there was.

  And Lady Caroline, sitting where they had left her beforebreakfast on the wall, peeped over when she heard laughter, and sawthem standing on the path below, and thought what a mercy it was theywere laughing down there and had not come up and done it round her.She disliked jokes at all times, but in the morning she hated them;especially close up; especially crowding in her ears. She hoped theoriginals were on their way out for a walk, and not on their way backfrom one. They were laughing more and more. What could they possiblyfind to laugh at?

  She looked down on the tops of their heads with a very seriousface, for the thought of spending a month with laughers was a graveone, and they, as though they felt her eyes, turned suddenly and lookedup.

  The dreadful geniality of those women. . .

  She shrank away from their smiles and wavings, but she could notshrink out of sight without falling into the lilies. She neithersmiled nor waved back, and turning her eyes to the more distantmountains surveyed them carefully till the two, tired of waving, movedaway along the path and turned the corner and disappeared.

  This time they both did notice that they had been met with, atleast, unresponsiveness.

  "If we weren't in heaven," said Mrs. Wilkins serenely, "I shouldsay we had been snubbed, but as nobody snubs anybody there of course wecan't have been."

  "Perhaps she is unhappy," said Mrs. Arbuthnot.

  "Whatever it is she is she'll get over it here," said Mrs.Wilkins with conviction.

  "We must try and help her," said Mrs. Arbuthnot.

  "Oh, but nobody helps anybody in heaven. That's finished with.You don't try to be, or do. You simply are."

  Well, Mrs. Arbuthnot wouldn't go into that--not here, not to-day.The vicar, she knew, would have called Lotty's talk levity, if notprofanity. How old he seemed from here; an old, old vicar.

  They left the path, and clambered down the olive terraces, downand down, to where at the bottom the warm, sleepy sea heaved gentlyamong the rocks. There a pine-tree grew close to the water, and theysat under it, and a few yards away was a fishing-boat lying motionlessand green-bellied on the water. The ripples of the sea made littlegurgling noises at their feet. They screwed up their eyes to be ableto look into the blaze of light beyond the shade of their tree. Thehot smell from the pine-needles and from the cushions of wild thymethat padded the spaces between the rocks, and sometimes a smell of purehoney from a clump of warm irises up behind them in the sun, puffedacross their faces. Very soon Mrs. Wilkins took her shoes and stockingsoff, and let her feet hang in the water. After watching her a minuteMrs. Arbuthnot did the same. Their happiness was then complete. Theirhusbands would not have known them. They left off talking. Theyceased to mention heaven. They were just cups of acceptance.

  Meanwhile Lady Caroline, on her wall, was considering her position.The garden on the top of the wall was a delicious garden, but itssituation made it insecure and exposed to interruptions. At any momentthe others might come and want to use it, because both the hall and thedining-room had doors opening straight into it. Perhaps, thought LadyCaroline, she could arrange that it should be solely hers. Mrs. Fisherhad the battlements, delightful with flowers, and a watch-tower all toherself, besides having snatched the one really nice room in the house.There were plenty of places the originals could go to--she had herselfseen at least two other little gardens, while the hill
the castle stoodon was itself a garden, with walks and seats. Why should not this onespot be kept exclusively for her? She liked it; she liked it best ofall. It had the Judas tree and an umbrella pine, it had the freesiasand the lilies, it had a tamarisk beginning to flush pink, it had theconvenient low wall to sit on, it had from each of its three sides themost amazing views--to the east the bay and mountains, to the norththe village across the tranquil clear green water of the little harbourand the hills dotted with white houses and orange groves, and to thewest was the thin thread of land by which San Salvatore was tied tothe mainland, and then the open sea and the coast line beyond Genoareaching away into the blue dimness of France. Yes, she would say shewanted to have this entirely to herself. How obviously sensible ifeach of them had their own special place to sit in apart. It wasessential to her comfort that she should be able to be apart, leftalone, not talked to. The others ought to like it best too. Whyherd? One had enough of that in England, with one's relations andfriends--oh, the numbers of them!--pressing on one continually.Having successfully escaped them for four weeks why continue, andwith persons having no earthly claim on one, to herd?

  She lit a cigarette. She began to feel secure. Those two hadgone for a walk. There was no sign of Mrs. Fisher. How very pleasantthis was.

  Somebody came out through the glass doors, just as she wasdrawing a deep breath of security. Surely it couldn't be Mrs. Fisher,wanting to sit with her? Mrs. Fisher had her battlements. She oughtto stay on them, having snatched them. It would be too tiresome if shewouldn't, and wanted not only to have them and her sitting-room but toestablish herself in this garden as well.

  No; it wasn't Mrs. Fisher, it was the cook.

  She frowned. Was she going to have to go on ordering the food?Surely one or other of those two waving women would do that now.

  The cook, who had been waiting in increasing agitation in thekitchen, watching the clock getting nearer to lunch--time while shestill was without knowledge of what lunch was to consist of, had goneat last to Mrs. Fisher, who had immediately waved her away. She thenwandered about the house seeking a mistress, any mistress, who wouldtell her what to cook, and finding none; and at last, directed byFrancesca, who always knew where everybody was, came out to LadyCaroline.

  Dominica had provided this cook. She was Costanza, the sister ofthat one of his cousins who kept a restaurant down on the piazza. Shehelped her brother in his cooking when she had no other job, and knewevery sort of fat, mysterious Italian dish such as the workmen ofCastagneto, who crowded the restaurant at midday, and the inhabitantsof Mezzago when they came over on Sundays, loved to eat. She was afleshless spinster of fifty, grey-haired, nimble, rich of speech, andthought Lady Caroline more beautiful than anyone she had ever seen; andso did Domenico; and so did the boy Giuseppe who helped Domenico andwas, besides, his nephew; and so did the girl Angela who helpedFrancesca and was, besides, Domenico's niece; and so did Francescaherself. Domenico and Francesca, the only two who had seen them,thought the two ladies who arrived last very beautiful, but compared tothe fair young lady who arrived first they were as candles to theelectric light that had lately been installed, and as the tin tubs inthe bedrooms to the wonderful new bathroom their master had hadarranged on his last visit.

  Lady Caroline scowled at the cook. The scowl, as usual, wastransformed on the way into what appeared to be an intent and beautifulgravity, and Costanza threw up her hands and took the saints aloud towitness that here was the very picture of the Mother of God.

  Lady Caroline asked her crossly what she wanted, and Costanza'shead went on one side with delight at the sheer music of her voice.She said, after waiting a moment in case the music was going tocontinue, for she didn't wish to miss any of it, that she wantedorders; she had been to the Signorina's mother, but in vain.

  "She is not my mother," repudiated Lady Caroline angrily; and heranger sounded like the regretful wail of a melodious orphan.

  Costanza poured forth pity. She too, she explained, had nomother--

  Lady Caroline interrupted with the curt information that hermother was alive and in London.

  Costanza praised God and the saints that the young lady did notyet know what it was like to be without a mother. Quickly enough didmisfortunes overtake one; no doubt the young lady already had ahusband.

  "No," said Lady Caroline icily. Worse than jokes in the morningdid she hate the idea of husbands. And everybody was always trying topress them on her--all her relations, all her friends, all the eveningpapers. After all, she could only marry one, anyhow; but you wouldthink from the way everybody talked, and especially those persons whowanted to be husbands, that she could marry at least a dozen.

  Her soft, pathetic "No" made Costanza, who was standing close toher, well with sympathy.

  "Poor little one," said Costanza, moved actually to pat herencouragingly on the shoulder, "take hope. There is still time."

  "For lunch," said Lady Caroline freezingly, marveling as shespoke that she should be patted, she who had taken so much trouble tocome to a place, remote and hidden, where she could be sure that amongother things of a like oppressive nature pattings also were not, "wewill have--"

  Costanza became business-like. She interrupted with suggestions,and her suggestions were all admirable and all expensive.

  Lady Caroline did not know they were expensive, and fell in withthem at once. They sounded very nice. Every sort of young vegetablesand fruits came into them, and much butter and a great deal of creamand incredible numbers of eggs. Costanza said enthusiastically at theend, as a tribute to this acquiescence, that of the many ladies andgentlemen she had worked for on temporary jobs such as this shepreferred the English ladies and gentlemen. She more than preferredthem--they roused devotion in her. For they knew what to order; theydid not skimp; they refrained from grinding down the faces of the poor.

  From this Lady Caroline concluded that she had been extravagant,and promptly countermanded the cream.

  Costanza's face fell, for she had a cousin who had a cow, and thecream was to have come from them both.

  "And perhaps we had better not have chickens," said LadyCaroline.

  Costanza's face fell more, for her brother at the restaurant keptchickens in his back-yard, and many of them were ready for killing.

  "Also do not order strawberries till I have consulted with theother ladies," said Lady Caroline, remembering that it was only thefirst of April, and that perhaps people who lived in Hampstead might bepoor; indeed, must be poor, or why live in Hampstead? "It is not I whoam mistress here."

  "Is it the old one?" asked Costanza, her face very long.

  "No," said Lady Caroline.

  "Which of the other two ladies is it?"

  "Neither," said Lady Caroline.

  Then Costanza's smiles returned, for the young lady was havingfun with her and making jokes. She told her so, in her friendlyItalian way, and was genuinely delighted.

  "I never make jokes," said Lady Caroline briefly. "You hadbetter go, or lunch will certainly not be ready by half-past twelve."

  And these curt words came out sounding so sweet that Costanzafelt as if kind compliments were being paid her, and forgot herdisappointment about the cream and the chickens, and went away allgratitude and smiles.

  "This," thought Lady Caroline, "will never do. I haven't comehere to housekeep, and I won't."

  She called Costanza back. Costanza came running. The sound ofher name in that voice enchanted her.

  "I have ordered the lunch for to-day," said Lady Caroline, withthe serious angel face that was hers when she was annoyed, "and I havealso ordered the dinner, but from now on you will go to one of theother ladies for orders. I give no more."

  The idea that she would go on giving orders was too absurd. Shenever gave orders at home. Nobody there dreamed of asking her to doanything. That such a very tiresome activity should be thrust upon herhere, simply because she happened to be able to talk Italian, wasridiculous. Let the originals give or
ders if Mrs. Fisher refused to.Mrs. Fisher, of course, was the one Nature intended for such a purpose.She had the very air of a competent housekeeper. Her clothes were theclothes of a housekeeper, and so was the way she did her hair.

  Having delivered herself of her ultimatum with an acerbity thatturned sweet on the way, and accompanied it by a peremptory gesture ofdismissal that had the grace and loving-kindness of a benediction, itwas annoying that Costanza should only stand still with her head on oneside gazing at her in obvious delight.

  "Oh, go away!" exclaimed Lady Caroline in English, suddenlyexasperated.

  There had been a fly in her bedroom that morning which had stuckjust as Costanza was sticking; only one, but it might have been amyriad it was so tiresome from daylight on. It was determined tosettle on her face, and she was determined it should not. Itspersistence was uncanny. It woke her, and would not let her go tosleep again. She hit at it, and it eluded her without fuss or effortand with an almost visible blandness, and she had only hit herself. Itcame back again instantly, and with a loud buzz alighted on her cheek.She hit at it again and hurt herself, while it skimmed gracefully away.She lost her temper, and sat up in bed and waited, watching to hit atit and kill it. She kept on hitting at it at last with fury and withall her strength, as if it were a real enemy deliberately trying tomadden her; and it elegantly skimmed in and out of her blows, not evenangry, to be back again the next instant. It succeeded every time ingetting on to her face, and was quite indifferent how often it wasdriven away. That was why she had dressed and come out so early.Francesca had already been told to put a net over her bed, for she wasnot going to allow herself to be annoyed twice like that. People wereexactly like flies. She wished there were nets for keeping them offtoo. She hit at them with words and frowns, and like the fly theyslipped between her blows and were untouched. Worse than the fly, theyseemed unaware that she had even tried to hit them. The fly at leastdid for a moment go away. With human beings the only way to get rid ofthem was to go away herself. That was what, so tired, she had donethis April; and having got here, having got close up to the details oflife at San Salvatore, it appeared that here, too, she was not to belet alone.

  Viewed from London there had seemed to be no details. SanSalvatore from there seemed to be an empty, a delicious blank. Yet,after only twenty-four hours of it, she was discovering that it was nota blank at all, and that she was having to ward off as actively asever. Already she had been much stuck to. Mrs. Fisher had stucknearly the whole of the day before, and this morning there had been nopeace, not ten minutes uninterruptedly alone.

  Costanza of course had finally to go because she had to cook, buthardly had she gone before Domenico came. He came to water and tie up.That was natural, since he was the gardener, but he watered and tied upall the things that were nearest to her; he hovered closer and closer;he watered to excess; he tied plants that were as straight and steadyas arrows. Well, at least he was a man, and therefore not quite soannoying, and his smiling good-morning was received with an answeringsmile; upon which Domenico forgot his family, his wife, his mother, hisgrown-up children and all his duties, and only wanted to kiss the younglady's feet.

  He could not do that, unfortunately, but he could talk while heworked, and talk he did; voluminously; pouring out every kind ofinformation, illustrating what he said with gestures so lively that hehad to put down the watering-pot, and thus delay the end of thewatering.

  Lady Caroline bore it for a time but presently was unable to bearit, and as he would not go, and she could not tell him to, seeing thathe was engaged in his proper work, once again it was she who had to.

  She got off the wall and moved to the other side of the garden,where in a wooden shed were some comfortable low cane chairs. All shewanted was to turn one of these round with its back to Domenico and itsfront to the sea towards Genoa. Such a little thing to want. Onewould have thought she might have been allowed to do that unmolested.But he, who watched her every movement, when he saw her approaching thechairs darted after her and seized one and asked to be told where toput it.

  Would she never get away from being waited on, being madecomfortable, being asked where she wanted things put, having to saythank you? She was short with Domenico, who instantly concluded thesun had given her a headache, and ran in and fetched her a sunshade anda cushion and a footstool, and was skilful, and was wonderful, and wasone of Nature's gentlemen.

  She shut her eyes in a heavy resignation. She could not beunkind to Domenico. She could not get up and walk indoors as she wouldhave done if it had been one of the others. Domenico was intelligentand very competent. She had at once discovered that it was he whoreally ran the house, who really did everything. And his manners weredefinitely delightful, and he undoubtedly was a charming person. Itwas only that she did so much long to be let alone. If only, only shecould be left quite quiet for this one month, she felt that she mightperhaps make something of herself after all.

  She kept her eyes shut, because then he would think she wanted tosleep and would go away.

  Domenico's romantic Italian soul melted within him at the sight,for having her eyes shut was extraordinarily becoming to her. He stoodentranced, quite still, and she thought he had stolen away, so sheopened them again.

  No; there he was, staring at her. Even he. There was no gettingaway from being stared at.

  "I have a headache," she said, shutting them again.

  "It is the sun," said Domenico, "and sitting on the wall withouta hat."

  "I wish to sleep."

  "Si signorina," he said sympathetically; and went softly away.

  She opened her eyes with a sigh of relief. The gentle closing ofthe glass doors showed her that he had not only gone quite away but hadshut her out in the garden so that she should be undisturbed. Nowperhaps she would be alone till lunch-time.

  It was very curious, and no one in the world could have been moresurprised than she herself, but she wanted to think. She had neverwanted to do that before. Everything else that it is possible to dowithout too much inconvenience she had either wanted to do or had doneat one period or another of her life, but not before had she wanted tothink. She had come to San Salvatore with the single intention oflying comatose for four weeks in the sun, somewhere where her parentsand friends were not, lapped in forgetfulness, stirring herself only tobe fed, and she had not been there more than a few hours when thisstrange new desire took hold of her.

  There had been wonderful stars the evening before, and she hadgone out into the top garden after dinner, leaving Mrs. Fisher aloneover her nuts and wine, and, sitting on the wall at the place where thelilies crowded their ghost heads, she had looked out into the gulf ofthe night, and it had suddenly seemed as if her life had been a noiseall about nothing.

  She had been intensely surprised. She knew stars and darknessdid produce unusual emotions because, in others, she had seen thembeing produced, but they had not before done it in herself. A noiseall about nothing. Could she be quite well? She had wondered. For along while past she had been aware that her life was a noise, but ithad seemed to be very much about something; a noise, indeed, about somuch that she felt she must get out of earshot for a little or shewould be completely, and perhaps permanently, deafened. But suppose itwas only a noise about nothing?

  She had not had a question like that in her mind before. It hadmade her feel lonely. She wanted to be alone, but not lonely. Thatwas very different; that was something that ached and hurt dreadfullyright inside one. It was what one dreaded most. It was what made onego to so many parties; and lately even the parties had seemed once ortwice not to be a perfectly certain protection. Was it possible thatloneliness had nothing to do with circumstances, but only with the wayone met them? Perhaps, she had thought, she had better go to bed. Shecouldn't be very well.

  She went to bed; and in the morning, after she had escaped the fly andhad her breakfast and got out again into the garden, there was thissame feeling again, and in broad
daylight. Once more she had thatreally rather disgusting suspicion that her life till now had notonly been loud but empty. Well, if that were so, and if her firsttwenty-eight years--the best ones--had gone just in meaningless noise,she had better stop a moment and look round her; pause, as theysaid in tiresome novels, and consider. She hadn't got many sets oftwenty-eight years. One more would see her growing very like Mrs.Fisher. Two more-- She averted her eyes.

  Her mother would have been concerned if she had known. Hermother doted. Her father would have been concerned too, for he alsodoted. Everybody doted. And when, melodiously obstinate, she hadinsisted on going off to entomb herself in Italy for a whole month withqueer people she had got out of an advertisement, refusing even to takeher maid, the only explanation her friends could imagine was that poorScrap--such was her name among them--had overdone it and was feeling alittle nervy.

  Her mother had been distressed at her departure. It was such anodd thing to do, such a sign of disappointment. She encouraged thegeneral idea of the verge of a nervous breakdown. If she could haveseen her adored Scrap, more delightful to look upon than any othermother's daughter had ever yet been, the object of her utmostpride, the source of all her fondest hopes, sitting staring at theempty noonday Mediterranean considering her three possible sets oftwenty-eight years, she would have been miserable. To go away alonewas bad; to think was worse. No good could come out of the thinkingof a beautiful young woman. Complications could come out of it inprofusion, but no good. The thinking of the beautiful was bound toresult in hesitations, in reluctances, in unhappiness all round. Andhere, if she could have seen her, sat her Scrap thinking quite hard.And such things. Such old things. Things nobody ever began to thinktill they were at least forty.