Eustace and Hilda

by L. P. Hartley

  Eustace could read no poetry in the daylight’s cynical acceptance of everything it revealed—the waiting tram-lines all ready to grind and squeak, the off-white shops and houses now wearily astir, the shutters opening to expose a hand and an arm, and then perhaps a small, seedy figure in shirt-sleeves and black waistcoat. He could not feel interested in what lay behind those windows. As to his companions of the sea-change, their clothes were shapeless and dripping, or creased and sandy; their shoes needed shining; they dragged their feet and shuffled; their hair was tousled; their hats were out of shape; their voices sounded cross and snappy or dull and flat. And how short they were, almost pygmies!

  Even the prospect of Venice, which now began to open out before them across the water, the Dogana, the Salute, the islands, the wonderful hollow curve of the riva and the public gardens, looked spiritless and ordinary in the thick, pale, level light. Nothing stood out, nothing asserted itself. Beholding these sorry stage properties, Eustace could not recall the glamour of the night.

  And how was he to get back? The landing-stage was thick with people, far too many for the drab flotilla of small black boats, not a gondola amongst them, moored in clusters under the sea-wall. He would have to wait, perhaps an hour or more, for the first steamer. Feeling very tired, he walked to the bank and stood listlessly watching the lucky owners of boats clambering down the side into their craft. If only he had resisted his humanitarian scruples and kept the gondola! Silvestro and Erminio wouldn’t have minded: waiting was their métier. How splendid his departure would have been, a kingfisher flash among these dingy boats-of-all-work! The necessity to do as everyone else did struck him like a blow.

  A boat was filling up just below him. The youngish man who had got in first took off his shabby coat and made a few preparatory dispositions with the oars, then turned to the bank and stretched out his arms. Like everyone that morning he was very plain in both senses of the word; his sallow skin was porous, his chin stubbly, his black eyes had black smudges under them. A woman on the bank offered him a small child, heavy with sleep, which he took carefully but without enthusiasm. Next the mother availed herself of his arm, then an older woman, bareheaded like the first, but dressed in black and with a black shawl round her shoulders. Her hair was grizzled and as springy and stiff as wire, her eyes were hard. When they had settled themselves into the seat, from which the black leather lining was peeling off, an elderly man, grey-headed and collarless and stiff in his joints, got in with them, and after a short altercation with the younger man sat down on the seat in front. Eustace was thinking how overloaded the boat looked when the younger man, who was standing poised to row, suddenly turned to him and said:

  “Piazza San Marco?”

  Overjoyed to be leaving Lethe’s wharf, Eustace boarded the boat, half expecting it to sink; but it seemed to have the unlimited capacity of all Venetian boats. There was nowhere to sit until, after another brief altercation, the older man resigned his seat and withdrew to the poop. Eustace was distressed, but they all seemed to think it quite natural, and the young man, spreading his coat on the vacant seat, requested Eustace to accommodate himself. Eustace was touched by this attention, though the coat was hardly cleaner than the bench. He sat crouched forward like a figurehead, and even so the young man’s hands, as he came forward on his stroke, almost scraped the back of his neck.

  Though there was very little wind there was a good deal of motion on the water, and Eustace, tired and empty, soon began to feel it. He stole a look at the other passengers to see how much sympathy he might expect from them should he be sea-sick. The mother was bending over her child. It stirred fretfully and cried, and the older woman made as though to take it from her, but she resisted and their eyes clashed almost angrily. The old man was leaning on his elbow sucking a cigarette, and occasionally spitting; the young man stared ahead of him. They were all absorbed in their own concerns. Warning signals flashed along Eustace’s exhausted nerves. They were passing the Armenian monastery; he would fix his mind on that, and on Byron who had surely never been sea-sick when he rowed out there to write. But somehow the monastery seemed a building like any other, and its pink walls, that reminded him of blotting-paper, were no antidote to a queasy stomach. But with his eyes unoccupied, his stomach certainly fared worse; he would hold out till he got to the next landmark, the island monastery of San Servolo. How cleverly the architect had adapted his design to the shape of the island! But the biscuit-coloured walls were lustreless, the windows monotonously regular and sometimes barred: Eustace’s eye slid along them without finding relief. The boatman stopped rowing and stretched out his hand towards the building.

  “Manicomio,” he remarked with a smile of amusement. “Pazzi,” he added, when Eustace showed no sign of understanding. Seeing that Eustace was still in the dark, he made the international gesture of tapping his forehead. The decorative island of San Servolo was a lunatic asylum.

  The discovery increased Eustace’s malaise, and he looked round desperately for some new object on which to concentrate. There were a great many to choose from, for he was now riding the waters of the Bacino in the heart of picturesque Venice—the extremely agitated waters, and it behoved him to act quickly. But all the buildings were so off colour he did not know which to look at—literally off colour, for under the hard, thick glare the pinks and greys, scarcely distinguishable from each other, had the same monotonous message for his mind. The sighings and subsidings within him grew more imperative and told him his time was short. The rose-brown campanile of San Giorgio Maggiore was as dumb as the shut, pallid face of the church it guarded. From the great blank oblong of the Doge’s palace the pink lozenges had faded altogether. A colourless Venice! Fortune’s ball, topping the Dogana, looked a tedious nought, an empty O, a mere dull round, robbed of its gold-green patina. Nothing could injure the shape of the Salute, but even it seemed less impressive, a uniform lifeless grey, a few tones darker than the sky, but made of the same substance.

  And how must he appear, thought Eustace suddenly, to all these glorious buildings, the delight and despair of Guardi, Canaletto, Marieschi, Turner, Sargent, and how many more? What must they think of this poor creature huddled in his overcoat, tossing up and down in a dirty little black boat, his unshaven face green with nausea, his companions the refuse of the Venetian populace?

  Desperately he looked for comfort outside the charmed circle of architectural aristocrats. As sickly as the rest of him, his eyes travelled slowly across the heaving water of the Giudecca Canal and rested on the austere geometry of the Redentore Church. He had forgotten it. It still drew his eyes with its mysterious apartness, its proud isolation. Eustace fancied that unlike the circle of notables it had not suffered a sea-change, it had not shed its glory of the night before. The controlled strength and the call to discipline in that stern regard were just the tonic he needed.

  Drawing a less hazardous breath he instinctively turned round. But the dews of sickness had come out on his brow and his companions in the boat imagined him worse than he was. Far from being horrified or shocked they were all sympathy. Cries of ‘Ahi, poveretto!’ rang out; even the baby roused itself and smiled at him as if this was something it thoroughly understood. Silencing a buzz of advice and counter-advice the young man, to Eustace’s dismay, held his forehead with one hand while with the other he pressed to his lips a flagon of red wine that had been conjured out of the bottom of the boat. The wine was sour and rough, but most reviving. But the time they reached the Piazzetta, Eustace was feeling nearly well. Only in body, however. His spirits had again sunk to zero. He had remembered to bring so many things for the expedition: a book in case he should be bored, two handkerchiefs in case he lost one, a bottle of aspirin, and of course his brandy flask, which he had forgotten to use. But no money. He was so used to being paid for he had forgotten to bring any. Until the young man gave him the wine, the question of payment had not occurred to Eustace. But it must have occurred to the young man; indeed, it must have been his rea
son for offering Eustace the lift.

  Eustace rehearsed the sentences which were to make his position clear—the shame he felt, the kindness he could never acknowledge, the rich reward waiting at the Palazzo Sfortunato. But hardly had he begun, “Scusi, signore——,” when the young man, backed up by all his relations, passionately disclaimed any wish to be repaid. He smiled; they all smiled; they diffused the dignity and reserve of people whose lives are spent in bestowing unrequited favours; they seemed to be, for the first time that morning, enjoying themselves. Nothing had been a trouble, everything had been a pleasure, might they all soon meet again.

  With his own hand lifted in salute Eustace turned away from the fluttering hands in Charon’s boat. Twenty minutes later, crossing the traghetto, he saw the boat again, and waved, but the family did not see him so absorbed were they in a dispute with another boat, or if they did see him, they preferred not to recognise him. At other times their changed demeanour would have pained Eustace; this morning he thought, people are like that: happy and pleasant one moment, cross and disagreeable the next. One must accept it, and like them in moderation all the time—not so much as when they are smiling, or so little as when they are quarrelling. He would not worry because he had no money to pay the gondolier at the traghetto. The gondolier knew him, and another time would do. “Un altra volta.” At the old formula the man shrugged his shoulders and raised the ghost of a smile—very different from the delighted grins he was wont to bestow on Eustace. But again Eustace did not mind. Who was he to be a ray of happiness? Seen without it people were more themselves, just as Venice was perhaps more itself seen through this blanket of dense white light. Kindness did not disappear because crossness was its near neighbour; the beauty of Venice would return, even if to-day it was eclipsed. The great thing was to be interested, and not to let interest be affected too much by one’s joys and desires. ‘Binding with briers my joys and desires.’ The fact that Venice could be ugly was interesting; the fact that people could be unpleasant was interesting; let us leave it at that.

  Eustace’s steps came slower—the reaction, he supposed, from having felt so much better directly after the deplorable incident in the Bacino. Basin, well named. He smiled wryly to think how nearly he had disgraced himself under the very noses of all the grandes-dames, the Lady Nellys of the architectural world. Still, the thing would have been worse had it happened under Lady Nelly’s own nose, as it easily might have done, as it probably would do. But perhaps she wouldn’t mind, for of all lapses, those of the body, Eustace thought, were the easiest to forgive.

  Turning from the narrow calle into the main S. Polo artery, he found himself in a crowd of workmen hurrying to their daily jobs. Their faces showed signs of wear, but were not exhausted like those of his friends in the boat. One of them stooped down and picked up something which he showed to Eustace. It was a fragment of twisted metal, and seemed to amuse the man very much, for he thrust it into Eustace’s hands and laughed and hastened on. Eustace did not know what the relic was, but true to his hoarding instinct did not like to throw it away, and was still dutifully carrying it when he reached the doorway of the Sfortunato.

  On the threshold he nearly collided with Silvestro, who was torpedoing outwards with an oar over his shoulder.

  “Ben tornato, signorino!” the gondolier exclaimed. He stopped and peered into Eustace’s face, his own meanwhile taking on an expression of the utmost concern. “Ma come è pallido!” he continued. “E ammalato?”

  This was obviously one of the days when Eustace could not understand a word of Italian. Silvestro repeated the question still more urgently, and when Eustace did not answer Erminio put his head over the parapet and said:

  “He asks if you are heel.”

  “Oh no, not ill,” said Eustace, “just a little tired, that’s all. Stanco.”

  But Silvestro would not accept this understatement.

  “Stanco niente,” he said, subjecting Eustace’s face to a still more searching scrutiny. “E grigio, verde.”

  “He says you are grey-green,” said Erminio inexorably from the parapet.

  Between the two fires Eustace began to feel exceedingly unwell.

  “Ha fatto male di prendere quel bagno,” declared Silvestro. “E perisoloso. Ogni anno ci sono molte vittime—ma moltissime, ce ne sono.”

  Eustace was now too worried about his health even to try to understand what Silvestro said. But Erminio was not going to let him off.

  “He says you have done ill to take that bath, hit is dangerous. Every year there are many victims—but very many.”

  “Yers,” said Silvestro, surprisingly, in English.

  “But you see I am not drowned,” said Eustace as gaily as he could.

  Erminio translated for Silvestro’s benefit.

  Silvestro admitted rather grudgingly that Eustace was not drowned. “Ma ci sono altri disastri,” he went on darkly. “Forse peggio che quello.”

  “He says there are hother misfortunes worse than to be drowned,” Erminio gasped out.

  What could they be? Eustace wondered. But he didn’t feel strong enough to stand the shock of being told, so to change the subject he asked Silvestro what was this piece of metal he was carrying in his hand.

  Never loath to give information, Silvestro embarked on a long discourse, while Erminio, watching vulture-like Eustace’s bewilderment, waited to pounce. But for once his verbal memory failed him, and when his turn came all he could say was:

  “He says hit is a pyrotechnic hiron that was shot last night at the Feast of the Redentore. He says that the hiron is twisted so great is the force. He says that it is a common thing, and this morning they are heverywhere in Venice. He says they are no use to anyone.”

  “Taci, tu!” cried Silvestro, who felt that his assistant had occupied the stage long enough.

  On Lady Nelly’s advice, Eustace rested most of the day, only coming down to dinner, where he had to undergo a long cross-examination from Lord Morecambe on the nature and consequences of a ritual bath. How did he feel before, during, and after the ordeal? They could all see a change in him, but were not sure it was a change for the better. It was generally agreed that he must be spiritually very sensitive, or sadly in need of a wash, to have taken the experience so hard. He did not tell them about the incident in the Bacino. Lady Morecambe said it must have been wonderful, and she would never forgive herself for missing it. Lady Nelly said that next year she might go if she liked, but that Eustace wouldn’t be allowed to. The implication in this sent Eustace very happy to bed.

  7. THE SPEAKING LIKENESS

  THREE letters appeared with his morning coffee, one addressed in Barbara’s exuberant handwriting. After some cogitation he decided to read hers first.

  As he opened the envelope a newspaper cutting fell out. It appeared to be an advertisement, very intimately worded, of a patent medicine for indigestion. He did not know whether Barbara’s sense of humour had prompted the enclosure, or her concern for his gastronomic welfare; but decided it could wait.

  Dear Old Boy [she began],

  The address I’m writing from will give you something of a shock! so prepare yourself. I’m going to put it on the next page, to save you from having a heart attack. But the doctor says I haven’t been very well lately [I hadn’t noticed it] and a breath of sea-air would do me good. So Jimmy and I put our heads together, and we thought, and we wrote, and the net result is, we are HERE!!

  Eustace turned the page and read:

  CAMBO,

  NORWICH SQUARE,

  NEW ANCHORSTONE,

  NORFOLK.

  Don’t say you’re not surprised!

  Eustace was surprised—so surprised he could hardly take in the meaning of what he saw. Barbara back at Cambo! His mind wouldn’t focus it, would hardly tell him whether he felt pleased or sorry.

  It was such a stroke of luck. We just wrote on the chance, and the house simply fell into our hands. Of course I don’t remember it. I was only about four when we left, a
nd I expect the place has bucked up a good deal since then! I know it has a cinema, for I’ve just seen The Orphans of the Storm. Gee, what a thrill! How I dote on Lilian Gish! That rosebud mouth! I suppose Hilda is just as pretty really, and of course we’re all orphans, but I don’t see us being carried down cataracts and rescued by the skin of our teeth. What else can I tell you about Anchorstone? There’s actually a ‘Palais de Danse’—it’s too sweet—but unfortunately I’m not encouraged to dance. And Jimmy is in Ousemouth most of the day, and I don’t know what he’d say if I picked up a boy-friend!

  He thought I should be lonely, so guess who’s come to stay with us—Minney! You were always her favourite, but I think she feels a little sentimental about me, especially now. You’ll wonder why Aunt Sarah isn’t here to hold my hand. Well, thereby hangs a tale.

  They didn’t mean to tell you, thinking you might worry, and of course there’s nothing to worry about, but Hilda’s been a bit off colour. What a pair we are. She actually had a bilious attack, that’s how it started—fancy our Hilda, a bilious attack!—and the doctor at the clinic advised her to REST! Of course she refused, saying the clinic would go to pieces if she did, but finally Aunt Sarah persuaded her to go to Willesden. She’s much better, but she’s still there, or was when I left. I saw her before I came away, looking like a caged lion! And what surprised me much more, wearing such beautiful clothes! I asked her where she got them from, and she said at Worth’s, and that you had helped her to choose them, to wear at that smart party you took her to at Anchorstone Hall. I was amused. The things you can make people do when you try!

  She told us a little about the party one evening not so long ago when Mr. Hilliard came to dinner. In my opinion he’s her beau, or would like to be if she gave him a chance.

  I haven’t met many men of his type, but they’re all alike really, and you can tell by the way he looks at her. She gave him the most terrific snubs, but perhaps that’s a kind of playfulness and he didn’t seem to mind. Aunt Sarah was quite excited underneath all that whalebone. What an old match-maker she is! Perhaps we all are. You didn’t exactly show your teeth at Jimmy, and do you know, he’s quite touchingly grateful to you, poor sweet, and longs to have you down here, but he’s afraid to ask you. He said, Is it likely he’d want to stay with us when he can stay with the Staveleys at Anchorstone Hall, but I told him you were not a snob!!!