‘… We are such a family – I am concerned little with politics only so much as I have to…’ She had not been listening. ‘Naturally I must think when it concerns our property. Also I can look about and see what is not right with Italy, with Rome – but I am not eager so much to do something. For a time, yes. Perhaps at twenty, twenty-one … I thought also that when I should become Marchese I would then do such and such – but now I’m not certain. It is laziness perhaps, who knows? But to have been in a war, there is a great tiredness after. You understand?’
Her rogue thoughts. She could not control them. Her mind wandered, her eyes. She wished now that she had accepted a drink. At the next table the two men had left, replaced by a family : unhappy. The son had said something wrong and was sulking. The father, his elbow taking up too much of the small round table, had turned his head away. The mother was trying to make peace; her hand stroked compulsively the thick tablecloth.
‘Yes,’ and ‘No,’ she said to Stefano’s remarks, wanting now to be alone to think. Why should I mind exile, she thought, since I belong nowhere now? It felt almost as if she had to decide, this moment, here in the Caffè Greco. (And the ghost of Ben?)
‘I am not sure just now the way they build Rome – In England, also Berlin, you have – garden city, is it? Perhaps we also should do something of this. Outside Rome we have country which is not touched. Here they can put first tramlines. Then casette. So each have his own house. Then when they are content, they don’t open the ear to this Lenin…’
Edwina asked some questions about the villages outside Rome, the conditions there. He seemed surprised, and then when she spoke almost passionately, a little uneasy. She said : ‘I saw that time we drove – all those little children playing in the mud in the middle of the main street. I thought they were just making mud pies, but Taddeo said it was a sewer…’
‘I hope you don’t have strong ideas? You are not-political?’
‘Not at all. But,’ she said it with energy, ‘if I wanted to be no one would stop me – ’
‘It is not necessary. It’s quite simply man’s work, and so – man’s worry. It is of course to protect women that I make such a remark.’
(Why are we bound to deny ourselves? We are bound to deny ourselves because our natural inclinations are prone to evil from our very childhood; and if not corrected they will certainly carry us to hell.)
‘You allow me to order you more coffee? I think also there are paintings here by Angelica Kauffmann – Frederick has said something, but I don’t know where I must find them– ’
He broke off suddenly. As he looked up and away from her, she turned and saw that a man had stopped at their table. Very tall, dark, hair smooth and polished, his manner rather stiff as, bowing slightly from the waist : ‘Excuse me –and I do apologize if I’m mistaken – it’s – it is Miss Illing-worth?’
‘Yes, of course, but – ’ And then : Oh, but how could she have failed to recognize him, that wooden soldier of her dancing-class days. So tall, he had grown so tall. ‘Laurence! Laurence, oh, but what a wonderful thing-what are you doing, why are you – ’ she broke off, and then still excited : ‘However did you recognize me?’
It was then she noticed Stefano’s face. It had altered, closed up completely, a veil almost over the eyes. His cold anger came over in waves as she tried, hurriedly, to make everything right :
‘Laurence, you see, was at these dancing classes …’ Introductions must be effected at once. She said lamely, ‘I haven’t seen him since I was eight. He’s – ’
‘But you haven’t changed at all. I kept looking from the back there, I wanted to make absolutely sure – It’s – not a situation where one wants to make a fool of oneself – ’
‘Perhaps you have in fact done so?’ suggested Stefano, eyebrows raised. There was no hint of a joke, even in bad taste. His voice was cold.
‘I beg your pardon?’ She had not imagined Laurence either so cold.
‘Perhaps, I suggest perhaps that you do not realize – there has been no invitation, I think, to join us?’
‘Indeed not,’ Laurence said. She was stricken dumb, unable to intervene. ‘Probably I have said enough.’ He added : ‘Certainly you have – ’ He was white with anger. ‘You will excuse me, I am sure?’ He turned slightly, didn’t meet her eyes. ‘Edwina also?’
Gone. Her gaze followed him, her mouth slightly open, the saliva dried. Why don’t I get up and run after him? Such years of being told how to conduct myself, she thought, that now I can do it no other way. She contented herself with saying, into the silence : ‘How dare you behave like that?’
He seemed genuinely surprised. ‘But I behave as I wish. You are in my company, it is for me to choose with whom we speak.’ He paused : ‘It is nothing. It is how I felt.’
‘You’ve no business then, feeling like that. He’s my friend and I’ve lost him.’
She was so angry that it was a pleasure almost; she was surprised at the feelings aroused as she belaboured him with words. He shrugged his shoulders only. ‘What a nonsense,’ he said. Then he refused to speak at all. She knew then that she wanted to hit him, that words were not enough. But fists were a forbidden language, and since she might not speak it, she too for the rest of the outing kept an angry silence.
In her room that night, standing in front of the flowered wash-bowl, squeezing the tube of toothpaste – its moustachioed effigy of Capit. Dott. Cicciarelli gazing back at her-she felt through her still-present anger a sudden sense of belonging. The next afternoon Stefano brought her a present, a de luxe edition of Chopin’s Mazurkas. For the remainder of the day he paid her marked attention.
And the old Marchesa watched.
Oh Uncle Frederick, where have you gone, why have you gone? Only to Florence, home, only a few hours away. But I never realized I would be so frightened. Tossed this way and that on the sea – the sea you used to tell me about. I’m not twenty any more but eight nine ten, and when I go to bed at night I cannot sleep unless your arms come round me. ‘Ach Bächlein, liebes Bächlein, so singe nur zu…’ In the evenings you sang-it didn’t matter that she played for you – in the evenings you sang and I hid outside to listen. It was so simple. I wanted only you-and music. Now I know nothing about anything. I would like to love God.
‘Ach Bächlein, liebes Bächlein, du meinst so gut;
Ack Bächlein, aber weisst du, wie Liebe tut?’
Because it was morning the doors were open right through so that the vista of rooms seemed endless. It had in its own way some of the same beauty as when in the carriage or motor they drove from the Corso to the Piazza del Popolo, the way stretching out before in a great sweeping rise and fall, something always beyond and beyond.
But today the journey was only indoors, and only towards a piano. The old Marchesa had mentioned this one as having been once the best and had sent a message that it had been seen to by master craftsmen, and was once again-the best.
For several days now the old Marchesa had been confined to her room with a chill and Edwina hadn’t seen her. She was surprised at how much she missed the visits. They had become part of her life. A life which was in such confusion that she wished only – nothing had been said – that she could be asked outright, by either of them, by both of them, so that she would be forced to say ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Daily, nightly, ‘yes’ grew nearer. Perhaps it was that she feared.
Sunlight fell in a great shaft across an onyx table. Busts, always with that slightly forward bowing look, stared at her. All of them had been people once. She came out into a corridor : I hope I can remember the way – She thought it wasn’t far now, she could relate it to where the old Marchesa’s apartment was. Ahead of her a sofa and two chairs, covered in velvet, an onyx table in front. As she came by a door just near opened and Eugenio came out. He was in a dressing-gown – a silk affair with the tie insecurely fastened and trailing. At first he didn’t see her, then as her steps came behind he must have heard and turned. His hair looked wet, plaste
red damply to his head.
‘Good morning,’ he announced loudly. He was frowning, brows knit angrily, as if perhaps she shouldn’t be there. She returned his greeting quickly, smiling at him. She was about to move on when suddenly his hand shot out, barring her way. ‘Go,’ he said. ‘You come.’ Both commands were equally definite. But he was staying her with the full force of his arm. He made a deep, throaty sound, seizing one of her hands. His was damp and a little cool.
She said : ‘I’m just on my way to play the piano. Music, Eugenio.’ With her free hand she mimed. But he made another queer noise, more of a moan this time, and then, lowering his head, he butted her in the chest. She moved to get away but his arms had gone round her : his head banged, butting still against her breasts. Grunting, breathing heavily : ‘Nice. Nice. I like.’
Her silk blouse felt wet. ‘Yes, yes, that’s nice, Eugenio. Enough though. Basta!’ she said sharply. He stopped. But then looking up, he grabbed her head roughly and pushed it to and fro, his hands fat and damp, pulling at her hair. She could scarcely move. She thought that she mustn’t call out.
‘No,’ she said, teeth chattering. ‘No. Not nice, Eugenio…’ He let go then, but almost immediately pulled with one hand at her blouse, wrenching it from her skirt. His dressing-gown had fallen open. As he moved back she saw long combinations, half buttoned. When he lunged forward, gripping her in a bear hug, she could feel the warm flab against her stomach, her sore breasts. He smelt of eau de Cologne and sweat. ‘Nice,’ he said again, into her ear, the sound almost blasting her.
From nowhere there was a sudden banging. His name spoken, harsh, peremptory. ‘Eugenio!’ He moved back. The Marchesa Vittoria, approaching, leaning on her stick, said severely, ‘Ma cosa fai?’ He made no effort to get away. Edwina, shaking, slipped down on to the sofa. The Marchesa, leaning for support on the back of the chair, said angrily, ‘Vestiti – ora!’ Then as he pulled the gown round, looking down for the cord, she lifted her stick and struck him-the head, the shoulders. Surely something would be broken?
‘Eh, eh, eh…’ He had put up his hands. ‘Don’t,’ Edwina pleaded, ‘it was only – ’ but the Marchesa ignored her.
Then stopping as suddenly as she’d begun, ‘Vai!’ she said, shaking the stick in the air, ‘vai, vai…’ Eugenio, fumbling with the heavy door knob, disappeared to where he had come from. The old Marchesa, without turning to look at Edwina, without showing by any action or gesture that she knew she was there, leaning again on her stick, walked away.
Edwina began to go after her. And then she thought, if she’d wanted to speak to me, she would have done. She realized suddenly what her appearance must be and,’turning, made her way back to her room. She met no one on the way.
‘My dear, I’m delighted to see you again, though a little surprised we haven’t met sooner. (I really must lower my voice-the dear Duchessa’s At Home isn’t the jolliest of evenings… but then no doubt you are under the wing…) My dear, I must tell you of the most amazing coincidence. I was talking last night – quite the dullest reception, the Favellis’ again-to the most charming English boy-at the Embassy here, and quite by chance he told me of a little upset during his very first week. My dear, I whooped with delight. “I can help you,” I said, “I know all the English in Rome.” Auntie Dora to the rescue. “And don’t worry,” I told him, “I know your Roman, I know your aristocrat, they don’t mean it…” He was so solemn, my dear. “If you hope to be a diplomat, you will have to do better,” I said. He had a bad time in Mespot, you know, and then too quickly through wartime Oxford. The lamb. He reminded me in a well-bred way of one of my Tommies…
‘Now, tell me – have you found poor, dear little Keats?’
The flowers on the stall were massed – serried ranks of colour, today they seemed all roses and lilies : over all a big white sunshade. She was thirsty and thought of stopping at one of the bibitan for fresh lemon juice. But after standing a moment, she changed her mind, walking out of the square. Out alone, she felt uncertainly free.
It was quiet, early in the afternoon. A wine-cart, black-hooded, rattled past. A dog lay asleep by the barrels. The driver brandished his whip above the mule, calling out the same word over and over again. The building she was approaching looked like a school. A piano was playing in one of the upper rooms. It stopped, and then as she came nearer began again. Haltingly, tenderly, through the open window, Brahms’s ‘Variations on an Original Theme’.
She had only to walk by. How could it be that she wanted it to stop, and yet could not countenance, believe, accept that it might ever end? The player had gained confidence. She felt the notes now in her own fingers. Standing there on the pavement, out of the sun : correcting, hastening, drawing out, she was at once listener and performer.
And certainly she could not bear it. The familiar dull ache of the poorly mended heart. It was all impossible. Impossible, improbable to stand alone in a Roman street mourning someone who would never return. She could hear ‘Ben’s Air’ still when half-walking, half-running she found herself out of the narrow street, a short turning now away from the Tiber. The tears coursed down her cheeks.
She leaned for a moment against a tree. ‘Signorina – ‘ A woman touched her shoulder, concerned, but she shook her head. ‘ Va bene, grazie…’ The tree was heavy with blossom (was it lime?) scattered on the ground around. As she stood there some fell, fluttered down-a little gust of wind-it covered her hair, fell on her hands. Her face, her eyes, in her mouth even. Monstrous confetti.
Half of me still crying for Ben. And the other half? I should have been up in that schoolroom. Where else should I ever be but at the piano? Her hands ached. What have I been thinking of? What can I have been thinking of?
The tea-room was on the left of the foyer and had a pink and red carpet. Inside, the clink of teacups, waiters gliding by. She saw Fanny at once, at a table just near the entrance column.
‘Isn’t this fast, don’t you feel fast, being here like this?’ Excited, animated and, Edwina thought, very pleased with herself.
‘Fanny, your hair– ’
‘I did it. Walked into a hairdresser’s – of course you can’t see properly with the hat, but the relief, my dear, when the scissors went snip snip… whyever I put up with it for so long– ’
‘You were going to be a nun,’ Edwina said. ‘And also, it was so lovely. Not like my bushy tangle. The old Marchesa is getting someone to do something about that.’
‘You’re brave … I must eat, we don’t usually have anything till about ten. Tea, toast? The tea won’t taste quite like English but what matter when one’s sipping it in the Excelsior : She looked about her. ‘That man with the monocle – he’s eyeing you, and that quite disgusting woman with him –the sort that if she were English would say “how deevy” – she’s seen him looking.’
Everything was wonderful, she told Edwina. The house, the people, the atmosphere. ‘I’m so free – it’s really quite the bohemian life, you’ve no idea.’
‘I meant to see you earlier,’ Edwina said. ‘The time’s gone so quickly. And of course I play – ’
‘Music, I wish they’d have some music, I’m sure there was music in here when I came the other day. I’m doing a lot of painting now – you never took my painting seriously, did you – Portraits I’m doing. Not just faces but the whole person. Everyone who’ll sit. I’m doing one of the aunt which is absolutely tops, everything drapes on her wonderfully – great heavy jowls in the face. Wonderful. And I’m doing one-of Stefano.’ She paused.
‘Of Stefano?’
‘Well, whyever not? You’ve only to look at him the tiniest bit carefully to see his face is just made to be drawn, painted.’
At the next table a woman had a small white poodle on her lap. She was feeding it with snippets of buttered toast. Edwina said, ‘Perhaps if it’s really good it’ll be hung up in the gallery with Pope Paschal – ’
‘Indeed,’ Fanny said. ‘Who knows?’ She paused, hesitated, then stared straight
at Edwina. ‘In fact, in the circumstances, I should think it would be the natural, the obvious thing to do.’
‘Oh,’ said Edwina. ‘Oh,’ not understanding.
Fanny lowered her voice, first looking around her carefully. ‘The whole matter of Stefano and me – it’s very serious.’
Edwina said, in a stupid voice, ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean-that I haven’t just been drawing him, painting.
He’s-you must have guessed that he was iterested.’ She glanced around her again. The poodle had jumped down from its owner’s lap and was running in fussy circles. ‘We arranged this because it makes a good cover really for-He loves me passionately. He’s in it very deep, he says-I can’t tell you the things he says, but when I said to you I wanted-that time I said men were the thing – it’s all that and better too. He says he’s never known anyone like me.’
Their tea, their toast waited untouched. ‘Of course I’m very careful, it’s plain what he wants, what could happen if I didn’t know exactly how to behave. He’s so urgent, so – not like boys, men, I’ve known – he can’t think how he lived before he met me. I’ve altered his whole life. His passion – sometimes it frightens me. But it can only be a matter of days before he proposes – some of the things he’s said already!’ She leaned back. ‘It’s a better life than cleaning sheep’s hooves. And you can see why I wanted to stay on …’
Lips moist and parted, eyes alive, it was the Fanny of a thousand confidences. And yet it was not. Edwina felt only the most wonderful relief – as if, about to cross a river in torrent, she had seen that it was not that way she must take at all. She found herself praying, blaspheming almost, words of profound letting go, it’s all right. It’s all right.
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