Lucia Victrix

by E. F. Benson

  ‘Very menseful of him,’ said the Padre.

  ‘Then,’ said Lucia, waving the Samian bowl, ‘then there would follow the dedication of my organ, and its official appearance. An organ recital – not long – by our admirable organist to show the paces, the powers of the new instrument. Its scope. The tuba, the vox humana and the cor anglais: just a few of the new stops. Afterwards, I shall have a party in the garden here. It might give pleasure to those who have never seen it. Our dear Elizabeth, as you know, did not entertain much.’

  The Mayor and Corporation welcomed the idea of attending the dedication of the new organ in state, and of coming to Mallards just before the service and conducting the Bishop in procession to the church. So that was settled, and Lucia, now full steam ahead, got to work on the organist. She told him, very diffidently, that her friends thought it would be most appropriate if, before his official recital (how she was looking forward to it!), she herself, as donor, just ran her hands, so to speak, over the keys. Mr Georgie Pillson, who was really a wonderful performer on the pedals, would help her, and it so happened that she had just finished arranging the first movement of Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight’ Sonata for the organ. She was personally very unwilling to play at all, and in spite of all this pressure she had refused to promise to do so. But now as he added his voice to the general feeling she felt she must overcome her hesitation. It mustn’t be mentioned at all: she wanted it to come as a little surprise to everybody. Then would follow the real, the skilled recital by him. She hoped he would then give them Falberg’s famous ‘Storm at Sea’, that marvellous tone-poem with thunder on the pedals, and lightning on the diocton, and the choir of voices singing on the vox humana as the storm subsided. Terribly difficult, of course, but she knew he would play it superbly, and she sent him round a copy of that remarkable composition.

  The day arrived, a hot and glorious morning, just as if Lucia had ordered it. The lunch at Mallards for the Bishop was very intime: just the Padre and his wife and the Bishop and his chaplain. Not even Georgie was asked, who, as a matter of fact, was in such a state of nerves over his approaching performance of the pedal part of the ‘Moonlight’ that he could not have eaten a morsel, and took several aspirin tablets instead. But Lucia had issued invitations broadcast for the garden-party afterwards, to the church choir, the Mayor and Corporation, and all her friends to meet the Bishop. RSVP; and there was not a single refusal. Tea for sixty.

  The procession to church was magnificent, the sun poured down on maces and scarlet robes and on the Bishop, profusely perspiring, in his cope and mitre. Lucia had considered whether she should take part in the procession herself, but her hatred of putting herself forward in any way had caused her to abandon the idea of even walking behind the Bishop, and she followed at such a distance that not even those most critical of her conduct could possibly have accused her of belonging to the pageant, herself rather nervous, and playing triplets in the air to get her fingers supple. She took her seat close to the organ beside Georgie, so that they could slip into their places on the organ-bench while the Bishop was returning from the pulpit after his sermon. A tremendous bank of cloud had risen in the north, promising storm: it was lucky that it had held off till now, for umbrellas would certainly have spoiled the splendour of the procession.

  The choir gave a beautiful rendering of the last chorus in ‘Blest Pair of Sirens’, and the Bishop a beautiful address. He made a very charming allusion to the patroness of organs, St Cecilia, and immediately afterwards spoke of the donor ‘your distinguished citizeness’ almost as if Lucia and that sainted musician were one. A slight stir went through the pews containing her more intimate friends: they had not thought of her like that, and Elizabeth murmured ‘St Lucecilia’ to herself for future use. During the address the church grew exceedingly dark, and the gloom was momentarily shattered by several vivid flashes of lightning followed by the mutter of thunder. Then standing opposite the organ, pastoral staff in hand, the Bishop solemnly dedicated it, and, as he went back to his seat in the chancel, Lucia and Georgie, like another blest pair of sirens, slid on to the organ-seat, unobserved in the gathering gloom, and were screened from sight by the curtain behind it. There was a momentary pause, the electric light in the church was switched on, and the first piece of the organ recital began. Though Lucia’s friends had not heard it for some time, it was familiar to them and Diva and Elizabeth looked at each other, puzzled at first, but soon picking up the scent, as it were, of old associations. The scent grew hotter, and each inwardly visualized the picture of Lucia sitting at her piano with her face in profile against a dark curtain, and her fingers dripping with slow triplets: surely this was the same piece. Sacred edifice or not, these frightful suspicions had to be settled, and Elizabeth quietly rose and stood on tiptoe. She saw, quite distinctly, the top of Georgie’s head and of Lucia’s remarkable new hat. She sat down again, and in a hissing whisper said to Diva, ‘So we’ve all been asked to come to church to hear Lucia and Georgie practise.’ … Diva only shook her head sadly. On the slow movement went, its monotonous course relieved just once by a frightful squeal from the great organ as Georgie, turning over, put his finger on one of the top notes, and wailed itself away. The blest pair of sirens tiptoed round the curtain again, thereby completely disclosing themselves, and sank into their seats.

  Then to show off the scope of the organ there followed Falberg’s famous tone-poem, ‘Storm at Sea’. The ship evidently was having a beautiful calm voyage but then the wind began to whistle on swiftly ascending chromatic scales, thunder muttered on the pedals, and the diocton contributed some flashes of forked lightning. Louder grew the thunder, more vivid the lightning as the storm waxed fiercer. Then came a perfectly appalling crash, and the Bishop, who was perhaps dozing a little after his labours and his lunch, started in his seat and put his mitre straight. Diva clutched at Elizabeth, Evie gave a mouse-like squeal of admiring dismay, for never had anybody heard so powerful an instrument. Bang, it went again and then it dawned on the more perceptive that Nature herself was assisting at the dedication of Lucia’s organ with two claps of thunder immediately overhead at precisely the right moment. Lucia herself sat with her music-face on, gazing dreamily at the vaulting of the church, as if her organ was doing it all. Then the storm at sea (organ solo without Nature) died away and a chorus presumably of sailors and passengers (vox humana) sang a soft chorale of thanksgiving. Diva gave a swift suspicious glance at the choir to make sure this was not another trick, but this time it was the organ. Calm broad chords, like sunshine on the sea, succeeded the chorale, and Elizabeth writhing in impotent jealousy called Diva’s attention to the serene shafts of real sunshine that were now streaming through Elijah going up to heaven and the Witch of Endor.

  Indeed it was scarcely fair. Not content with supplying that stupendous obbligato to the storm at sea, Nature had now caused the sun to burst brilliantly forth again, in order to make Lucia’s garden-party as great a success as her organ, unless by chance the grass was too wet for it. But during the solemn melody which succeeded, the sun continued to shine resplendently, and the lawn at Mallards was scarcely damp. There was Lucia receiving her guests and their compliments: the Mayor in his scarlet robe and chain of office was talking to her as Elizabeth stepped into what she still thought of as her own garden.

  ‘Magnificent instrument, Mrs Lucas,’ he was saying. ‘That storm at sea was very grand.’

  Elizabeth was afraid that he thought the organ had done it all, but she could hardly tell him his mistake.

  ‘Dear Lucia,’ she said. ‘How I enjoyed that sweet old tune you’ve so often played to us. Some of your new stops a little harsh in tone, don’t you think? No doubt they will mellow. Oh, how sadly burned up my dear garden is looking!’

  Lucia turned to the Mayor again.

  ‘So glad you think my little gift will add to the beauty of our services,’ she said. ‘You must tell me, Mr Mayor, what next Dear Diva, so pleased to see you. You liked my organ?’

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sp; ‘Yes, and wasn’t the real thunderstorm a bit of luck?’ said Diva. ‘Did Mr Georgie play the pedals in the Beethoven? I heard him turn over.’

  Lucia swerved again.

  ‘Good of you to look in, Major Benjy,’ she said. ‘You’ll find tea in the marquee, and other drinks in the giardino segreto.’

  That was clever: Benjy ambled off in an absent-minded way towards the place of other drinks, and Elizabeth, whom Lucia wanted to get rid of, ambled after him, and towed him towards the less alcoholic marquee. Lucia went on ennobling herself to the Mayor.

  ‘The unemployed,’ she said. ‘They are much and often on my mind. And the hospital. I’m told it is in sad need of new equipments. Really it will be a privilege to do something more before very long for our dear Tilling. You must spare me half an hour sometime and talk to me about its needs.’

  Lucia gave her most silvery laugh.

  ‘Dear me, what a snub I got over the election to the Town Council,’ she said. ‘But nothing discourages me, Mr Mayor … Now I think all my guests have come, so let us go and have a cup of tea. I am quite ashamed of my lawn to-day, but not long ago I had an entertainment for the school-children and games and races, and they kicked it up sadly, dear mites.’

  As they walked towards the marquee, the Mayor seemed to Lucia to have a slight bias (like a bowl) towards the giardino segreto and she tactfully adapted herself to this change of direction. There were many varieties of sumptuous intoxicants, cocktails and sherry and whisky and hock-cup. Grosvenor was serving, but just now she had a flinty face, for a member of the Corporation had been addressing her as ‘Miss’, as if she was a bar-maid. Then Major Benjy joined Grosvenor’s group, having given Elizabeth the slip while she was talking to the Bishop, and drank a couple of cocktails in a great hurry before she noticed his disappearance. Lucia was specially attentive to members of the Corporation, making, however, a few slight errors, such as recommending her greengrocer the strawberries she had bought from him, and her wine merchant his own sherry, for that was bringing shop into private life. Then Elizabeth appeared with the Bishop in the doorway of the giardino segreto, and with a wistful face she pointed out to him this favourite spot in her ancestral home: but she caught sight of Benjy at the bar and her wistfulness vanished, for she had found something of her own again. Firmly she convoyed him to the less alcoholic garden, and Lucia took the Bishop, who was interested in Roman antiquities, to see the pieces of Samian ware in the garden-room and the scene of her late excavations. ‘Too sad,’ she said, ‘to have had to fill up my trenches again, but digging was terribly expensive, and the organ must come first.’

  A group was posed for a photograph: Lucia stood between the Mayor and the Bishop, and afterwards she was more than affable to the reporter for the Hastings Chronicle, whose account of her excavations had already made such a stir in Tilling. She gave him hock-cup and strawberries, and sitting with him in a corner of the garden, let him take down all she said in shorthand. Yes: it was she who had played the opening piece at the recital (the first movement of the sonata in C sharp minor by Beethoven, usually called the ‘Moonlight’). She had arranged it herself for the organ (‘Another glass of hock-cup, Mr Meriton?’) and hoped that he did not think it a vandalism to adapt the Master. The Bishop had lunched with her, and had been delighted with her little Queen Anne house and thought very highly of her Roman antiquities. Her future movements this summer? Ah, she could not tell him for certain. She would like to get a short holiday, but they worked her very hard in Tilling. She had been having a little chat with the Mayor about some schemes for the future, but it would be premature to divulge them yet … Elizabeth standing near and straining her ears, heard most of this frightful conversation and was petrified with disgust. The next number of the Hastings Chronicle would be even more sickening than the excavation number. She could bear it no longer and went home with Benjy, ordering a copy in advance on her way.

  The number, when it appeared, justified her gloomiest anticipations. The Bishop’s address about the munificent citizeness was given very fully, and there was as well a whole column almost entirely about Lucia. With qualms of nausea Elizabeth read about Mrs Lucas’s beautiful family home that dated from the reign of Queen Anne, its panelled parlours, its garden-room containing its positively Bodleian library and rare specimens of Samian ware which she had found in the excavations in her old-world garden. About the lawn with the scars imprinted on its velvet surface by the happy heels of the school-children whom she had entertained for an afternoon of tea and frolics. About the Office with its ledgers and strip of noiseless india-rubber by the door, where the châtelaine of Mallards conducted her financial operations. About the secret garden (Mrs Lucas who spoke Italian with the same ease and purity as English referred to it as ‘mio giardino segreto’) in which she meditated every morning. About the splendour of the procession from Mallards to the church with the Mayor and the maces and the mitre and the cope of the Lord Bishop, who had lunched privately with Mrs Lucas. About the masterly arrangement for the organ of the first movement of Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight’ Sonata, made by Mrs Lucas, and her superb performance of the same. About her princely entertainment of the local magnates. About her hat and her hock-cup.

  ‘I wonder how much she paid for that,’ said Elizabeth, tossing the foul sheet across to Benjy as they sat at breakfast. It fell on his poached egg, in which he had just made a major incision, and smeared yolk on the clean tablecloth. She took up the Daily Mirror, and there was the picture of Lucia standing between the Mayor and the Bishop. She took up the Financial Gazette, and Siriami had slumped another shilling.

  It was not only Elizabeth who was ill pleased with this sycophantic column. Georgie had ordered a copy, which he first skimmed swiftly for the name of Mr G. Pillson: a more careful reading of it showed him that there was not the smallest allusion to his having played the pedals in the ‘Moonlight’. Rather mean of Lucia; she certainly ought to have mentioned that, for, indeed, without the pedals it would have been a very thin performance. ‘I don’t mind for myself,’ thought Georgie, ‘for what good does it do me to have my name in a squalid provincial rag, but I’m afraid she’s getting grabby. She wants to have it all. She wants to be on the top with nobody else in sight. Her masterly arrangement of the ‘Moonlight’? Rubbish! She just played the triplets with one hand and the air with the other, while I did the bass on the pedals. And her family house! It’s been in her family (only she hasn’t got one) since April. Her Italian, too! And the Samian ware from her excavations! That’s a whopper. All she got from her excavations was three-quarters of an Apollinaris bottle. If she had asked my advice, I should have told her that it was wiser to let sleeping dogs lie! … So instead of popping into Mallards and congratulating her on her marvellous press, Georgie went straight down to the High Street in a condition known as dudgeon. He saw the back of Lucia’s head in the Office, and almost hoped she would disregard Mammoncash’s advice and make some unwise investment.

  There was a little group of friends at the corner, Diva and Elizabeth and Evie. They all hailed him: it was as if they were waiting for him, as indeed they were.

  ‘Have you read it, Mr Georgie?’ asked Diva. (There was no need to specify what.)

  ‘Her family home,’ interrupted Elizabeth musingly. ‘And this is my family market-basket. It came into my family when I bought it the day before yesterday and it’s one of my most cherished heirlooms. Did you ever Mr Georgie? It’s worse than her article about the Roman Forum, in the potato-bed.’

  ‘And scarcely a word about Kenneth,’ interrupted Evie. ‘I always thought he was Vicar of Tilling –’

  ‘No, dear, we live and learn when we come up against the châtelaine of Mallards,’ said Elizabeth.

  ‘After all, you and the Padre went to lunch, Evie,’ said Diva who never let resentment entirely obliterate her sense of fairness. ‘But I think it’s so mean of her not to say that Mr Georgie played the pedals for her. I enjoyed them much more than the triplets.’
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br />   ‘What I can’t understand is that she never mentioned the real thunderstorm,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I expected her to say she’d ordered it. Surely she did, didn’t she? Such a beauty, too: she might well be prouder of it than of her hat.’

  Georgie’s dudgeon began to evaporate in these withering blasts of satire. They were ungrateful. Only a few weeks ago Lucia had welded together the fragments of Tilling society, which had been smashed up in the first instance by the tipsiness of Benjy. Nobody could have done it except her, strawberry-time would have gone by without those luscious and inexpensive teas and now they were all biting the hand that had caused them to be fed. It was bright-green jealousy, just because none of them had ever had a line in any paper about their exploits, let alone a column. And who, after all, had spent a thousand pounds on an organ for Tilling, and got a Bishop to dedicate it, and ordered a thunderstorm, and asked them all to a garden-party afterwards? They snatched at the benefits of their patroness, and then complained that they were being patronized. Of course her superior airs and her fibs could be maddening sometimes, but even if she did let a reporter think that she spoke Italian as naturally as English and had dug up Samian ware in her garden, it was ‘pretty Fanny’s way’, and they must put up with it. His really legitimate grievance about his beautiful pedalling vanished.

  ‘Well, I thought it was a wonderful day,’ he said. ‘She’s more on a pinnacle than ever. Oh, look: here she comes.’

  Indeed she did, tripping gaily down the hill with a telegraph form in her hand.

  ‘Buon giorno a tutti,’ she said. ‘Such a nuisance: my telephone is out of order and I must go to the post-office. A curious situation in dollars and francs. I’ve been puzzling over it.’