Lucia Victrix

by E. F. Benson

  Ever yours,

  Diva

  ‘Poor dear, ridiculous little Diva!’ said Lucia, handing Georgie this artless epistle. ‘So ambitious and so pathetic! And now I shall hurry off to begin my sketch of the dahlias. I will not be interrupted by any further public business this morning. I must have a little time to myself – What’s that?’

  Again the metallic clang from the letter-box, and Lucia, consumed with curiosity, again peeped out from a corner of the window and saw Mr Wyse with his malacca cane and his Panama hat and his black velveteen coat, walking briskly away.

  ‘Just an answer to my invitation for to-morrow, I expect,’ she said. ‘Susan probably doesn’t feel up to writing after the loss of her budgerigar. She had a sodden and battered look this morning, didn’t you think, like a cardboard box that has been out in the rain. Flaccid. No resilience.’

  Lucia had taken Mr Wyse’s letter from the post-box, as she made these tonic remarks. She glanced through it, her mouth falling wider and wider open.

  ‘Listen, Georgie!’ she said:

  Dear and Worshipful Mayor-Elect,

  It has reached my ears (Dame Rumour) that during the coming year, when you have so self-sacrificingly consented to fill the highest office which our dear little Tilling can bestow, thereby honouring itself so far more than you, you will need some partner to assist you in your arduous duties. From little unconscious signs, little involuntary self-betrayals that I have observed in my dear Susan, I think I may encourage you to hope that she might be persuaded to honour herself and you by accepting the onerous post which I hear is yet unfilled. I have not had any word with her on the subject. Nor is she aware that I am writing to you. As you know, she has sustained a severe bereavement in the sudden death of her little winged companion. But I have ventured to say to her, ‘Carissima sposa, you must buck up. You must not let a dead bird, however dear, stand between you and the duties and opportunities of life which may present themselves to you.’ And she answered (whether she guessed the purport of my exhortation, I cannot say), ‘I will make an effort, Algernon.’ I augur favourably from that.

  Of the distinction which renders her so suitable for the post of Mayoress I need not speak, for you know her character so well. I might remind you, however, that our late beloved Sovereign himself bestowed on her the insignia of the Order of Member of the British Empire, and that she would therefore bring to her new office a cachet unshared by any of the otherwise estimable ladies of Tilling. And in this distressing estrangement which now exists between the kingdoms of England and Italy, the fact that my dear Susan is sister-in-law to my dear sister Amelia, Contessa di Faraglione, might help to heal the differences between the countries. In conclusion, dear lady, I do not think you could do better than to offer my Susan the post for which her distinction and abilities so eminently fit her, and you may be sure that I shall use my influence with her to get her to accept it.

  A rivederci, illustrissima Signora, ed anche presto!

  Algernon Wyse

  PS: I will come round at any moment to confer with you.

  PPS: I reopen this to add that Susan has just received your amiable invitation for to-morrow, which we shall both be honoured to accept.

  Lucia and Georgie looked at each other in silence at the end of the reading of this elegant epistle.

  ‘Beautifully expressed, I must allow,’ she said. ‘Oh, Georgie, it is a frightful responsibility to have patronage of this crucial kind in one’s gift! It is mine to confer not only an honour but an influence for good of a most far-reaching sort. A line from me and Susan is my Mayoress. But good Susan has not the energy, the decision which I should look for. I could not rely on her judgment.’

  ‘She put Algernon up to writing that lovely letter,’ said Georgie. ‘How they’re all struggling to be Mayoress!’

  ‘I am not surprised, dear, at that,’ said Lucia, with dignity. ‘No doubt also Evie got the Padre to recommend her –’

  ‘And Diva recommended herself,’ remarked Georgie, ‘as she hadn’t got anyone to do it for her.’

  ‘And Major Benjy was certainly going to say a word for Elizabeth, if I hadn’t cut him short,’ said Lucia. ‘I find it all rather ugly, though, poor things, I sympathize with their ambitions which in themselves are noble. I shall have to draft two very tactful letters to Diva and Mr Wyse, before Mrs Simpson comes to-morrow. What a good thing I told her to come at half-past nine. But just for the present I shall dismiss it all from my mind, and seek an hour’s peace with my paint-box and my belli fiori. What are you going to do till lunch?’

  ‘It’s my day for cleaning my bibelots,’ said Georgie. ‘What a rush it all is!’

  Georgie went to his sitting-room and got busy. Soon he thought he heard another metallic clang from the post-box, and hurrying to the window, he saw Major Benjy walking briskly away from the door.

  ‘That’ll be another formal application, I expect,’ he said to himself, and went downstairs to see, with his wash-leather in his hand. There was a letter in the post-box, but to his surprise it was addressed not to Lucia, but himself. It ran:

  My Dear Pillson,

  My wife has just received Her Worship’s most amiable invitation that we should dine chez vous to-morrow. I was on the point of writing to you in any case, so she begs me to say we shall be charmed.

  Now, my dear old man (if you’ll permit me to call you so) I’ve a word to say to you. Best always, isn’t it, to be frank and open. At least that’s my experience in my twenty-five years of service in the King’s (God bless him) army. So listen. Re Mayoress. It will be a tremendous asset to your wife’s success in her most distinguished post, if she can get a wise and levelling character, big-minded enough to disregard the little flurries and disturbances of her office, and above all one who has tact, and would never make mischief. Some of our mutual friends I mention no names – are only too apt to scheme and intrigue and indulge in gossip and tittle-tattle. I can only put my finger on one who is entirely free from such failings, and that is my dear Elizabeth. I can’t answer for her accepting the post. It’s a lot to ask of any woman, but in my private opinion, if your wife approached Elizabeth in a proper spirit, making it clear how inestimable a help she (Elizabeth) would be to her (the Mayor), I think we might hope for a favourable reply. Perhaps to-morrow evening I might have a quiet word with you.

  Sincerely yours,

  Benjamin Mapp-Flint (Major)

  Georgie with his wash-leather hurried out to the giardino segreto where Lucia was drawing dahlias. He held the letter out to her, but she scarcely turned her head.

  ‘No need to tell me, dear, that your letter is on behalf of another applicant. Elizabeth Mapp-Flint, I believe. Read it me while I go on drawing. Such exquisite shapes: we do not look at flowers closely enough.’

  As Georgie read it she plied a steady pencil, but when he came to the sentence about approaching Elizabeth in a proper spirit, her hand gave a violent jerk.

  ‘Georgie, it isn’t true!’ she cried. ‘Show me … Yes. My india-rubber? Ah, there it is.’

  Georgie finished the letter, and Lucia, having rubbed out the random line her pencil had made, continued to draw dahlias with concentrated attention.

  ‘Lucia, it’s too ridiculous of you to pretend to be absorbed in your sketch,’ he said impatiently. ‘What are you going to do?’

  Lucia appeared to recall herself from the realms of peace and beauty.

  ‘Elizabeth will be my Mayoress,’ she said calmly. ‘Don’t you see, dear, she would be infinitely more tiresome if she wasn’t? As Mayoress, she will be muzzled, so to speak. Officially, she will have to perform the tasks I allot to her. She will come to heel, and that will be very good for her. Besides, who else is there? Diva with her tea-shop? Poor Susan? Little mouse-like Evie Bartlett?’

  ‘But can you see yourself approaching Elizabeth in a proper spirit?’ he asked.

  Lucia gave a gay trill of laughter.

  ‘Certainly I cannot. I shall wait for her to approach
me. She will have to come and implore me. I shall do nothing till then.’

  Georgie pondered on this extraordinary decision.

  ‘I think you’re being very rash,’ he said. ‘And you and Elizabeth hate each other like poison –’

  ‘Emphatically no,’ said Lucia. ‘I have had occasion sometimes to take her down a peg or two. I have sometimes felt it necessary to thwart her. But hate? Never. Dismiss that from your mind. And don’t be afraid that I shall approach her in any spirit at all.’

  ‘But what am I to say to Benjy when he asks me for a few private words to-morrow night?’

  Lucia laughed again.

  ‘My dear, they’ll all ask you for a few private words to-morrow night. There’s the Padre running poor little Evie. There’s Mr Wyse running Susan. They’ll all want to know whom I’m likely to choose, and to secure your influence with me. Be like Mr Baldwin and say your lips are sealed, or like some other Prime Minister, wasn’t it? who said “Wait and see.” Counting Diva, there are four applicants now – remind me to tell Mrs Simpson to enter them all – and I think the list may be considered closed. Leave it to me; be discreet … And the more I think of it, the more clearly I perceive that Elizabeth Mapp-Flint must be my Mayoress. It is far better to have her on a lead, bound to me by ties of gratitude than skulking about like a pariah dog, snapping at me. True, she may not be capable of gratitude, but I always prefer to look for the best in people, like Mr Somerset Maugham in his delightful stories.’

  Mrs Simpson arriving at half-past nine next morning had to wait a considerable time for Lucia’s tactful letters to Diva and Mr Wyse; she and Georgie sat long after breakfast scribbling and erasing on half-sheets and envelopes turned inside out till they got thoroughly tactful drafts. Lucia did not want to tell Diva point-blank that she could not dream of asking her to be Mayoress, but she did not want to raise false hopes. All she could do was to thank her warmly for her offers of help (‘So like you, dear Diva!’) and to assure her that she would not hesitate to take advantage of them should occasion arise. To Mr Wyse she said that no one had a keener appreciation of Susan’s great gifts (so rightly recognized by the King) than she; no one more deplored the unhappy international relations between England and Italy … Georgie briefly acknowledged Major Benjy’s letter and said he had communicated its contents to his wife, who was greatly touched. Lucia thought that these letters had better not reach their recipients till after her party, and Mrs Simpson posted them later in the day.

  Lucia was quite right about the husbands of expectant Mayoresses wanting a private word with Georgie that evening. Major Benjy and Elizabeth arrived first, a full ten minutes before dinner-time and explained to Foljambe that their clocks were fast, while Georgie in his new red velvet suit was putting the menu cards which Mrs Simpson had typed on the dinner-table. He incautiously put his head out of the dining-room door, while this explanation was going on, and Benjy spied him.

  ‘Ha, a word with you, my dear old man,’ he exclaimed, and joined Georgie, while Elizabeth was taken to the garden-room to wait for Lucia.

  ‘’Pon my soul, amazingly stupid of us to have come so early,’ he said, closing the dining-room door behind him. ‘I told Liz we should be too early – ah, our clocks were fast. Don’t let me interrupt you; charming flowers, and, dear me, what a handsome suit. Just the colour of my wife’s dress. However, that’s neither here nor there. What I should like to urge on you is to persuade your wife to take advantage of Elizabeth’s willingness to become Mayoress, for the good of the town. She’s willing, I gather, to sacrifice her time and her leisure for that. Mrs Pillson and Mrs Mapp-Flint would be an alliance indeed. But Elizabeth feels that her offer can’t remain open indefinitely, and she rather expected to have heard from your wife to-day.’

  ‘But didn’t you tell me, Major,’ asked Georgie, ‘that your wife knew nothing about your letter to me? I understood that it was only your opinion that if properly approached –’

  There was a tap at the door, and Mr Wyse entered. He was dressed in a brand new suit, never before seen in Tilling, of sapphire blue velvet, with a soft pleated shirt, a sapphire solitaire and bright blue socks. The two looked like two middle-aged male mannequins.

  Mr Wyse began bowing.

  ‘Mr Georgie!’ he said. ‘Major Benjy! The noise of voices. It occurred to me that perhaps we men were assembling here according to that pretty Italian custom, for a glass of vermouth, so my wife went straight out to the garden-room. I am afraid we are some minutes early. The Royce makes nothing of the steep hill from Starling Cottage.’

  Georgie was disappointed at the ruby velvet not being the only sartorial sensation of the evening, but he took it very well.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘Well, I do call that a lovely suit. I was just finishing the flowers, when Major Benjy popped in. Let us go out to the garden-room, where we shall find some sherry.’

  Once again the door opened.

  ‘Eh, here be all the laddies,’ said the Padre. ‘Mr Wyse; a handsome costume, sir. Just the colour of the dress wee wifie’s donned for this evening. She’s ganged awa’ to the garden-room. I wanted a bit word wi’ ye, Mr Pillson, and your parlourmaid told me you were here.’

  ‘I’m afraid we must go out now to the garden-room, Padre,’ said Georgie, rather fussed. ‘They’ll all be waiting for us.’

  It was difficult to get them to move, for each of the men stood aside to let the others pass, and thus secure a word with Georgie. Eventually the Church unwillingly headed the procession, followed by the Army, lured by the thought of sherry, and Mr Wyse deftly closed the dining-room door again and stood in front of it.

  ‘A word, Mr Georgie,’ he said. ‘I had the honour yesterday to write a note to your wife about a private matter – not private from you, of course – and I wondered whether she had spoken to you about it. I have since ascertained from my dear Susan –’

  The door opened again, and bumped against his heels and the back of his head with a dull thud. Foljambe’s face looked in.

  ‘Beg your pardon, sir,’ she said. ‘Thought I heard you go.’

  ‘We must follow the others,’ said Georgie. ‘Lucia will wonder what’s happened to us.’

  The wives looked inquiringly into the faces of their husbands as they filed into the garden-room to see if there was any news. Georgie shook hands with the women and Lucia with the men. He saw how well his suit matched Elizabeth’s gown, and Mr Wyse’s might have been cut from the same piece as that of the Padre’s wife. Another brilliant point of colour was furnished by Susan Wyse’s budgerigar. The wing that had been flipped off yesterday had been re-stitched, and the head, as Diva had predicted, had been stuffed and completed the bird. She wore this notable decoration as a centrepiece on her ample bosom. Would it be tactful, wondered Georgie, to admire it, or would it be tearing open old wounds again? But surely when Susan displayed her wound so conspicuously, she would be disappointed if he appeared not to see it. He gave her a glass of sherry and moved aside with her.

  ‘Perfectly charming, Mrs Wyse,’ he said, looking pointedly at it. ‘Lovely! Most successful!’

  He had done right; Susan’s great watery smile spread across her face.

  ‘So glad you like it,’ she said, ‘and since I’ve worn it, Mr Georgie, I’ve felt comforted for Blue Birdie. He seems to be with me still. A very strong impression. Quite psychical.’

  ‘Very interesting and touching,’ said Georgie sympathetically.

  ‘Is it not? I am hoping to get into rapport with him again. His pretty sweet ways! And may I congratulate you, too? Such a lovely suit!’

  ‘Lucia’s present to me,’ said Georgie, ‘though I chose it.’

  ‘What a coincidence!’ said Susan. ‘Algernon’s new suit is my present to him and he chose it. There are brain-waves everywhere, Mr Georgie, beyond the farthest stars.’

  Foljambe announced dinner. Never before had conversation, even at Lucia’s table, maintained so serious and solid a tone. The ladies in particular
, though the word Mayoress was never mentioned, vied with each other in weighty observations bearing on municipal matters, in order to show the deep interest they took in them. It was as if they even engaged on a self-imposed viva voce examination to exhibit their qualifications for the unmentioned post. They addressed their answers to Lucia and of each other they were highly critical.

  ‘No, dear Evie,’ said Elizabeth, ‘I cannot share your views about girl-guides. Boy-scouts I whole-heartedly support. All that drill teaches them discipline, but the best discipline for girls is to help mother at home. Cooking, housework, lighting the fire, father’s slippers. Don’t you agree, dear hostess?’

  ‘Eh, Mistress Mapp-Flint,’ said the Padre, strongly upholding his wife. ‘Ye havena’ the tithe of my Evie’s experience among the bairns of the parish. Half the ailments o’ the lassies come from being kept at home without enough exercise and air and chance to fend for themselves. Easy to have too much of mother’s apron-strings, and as fur father’s slippers I disapprove of corporal punishment for the young of whatever sex.’

  ‘Oh, Padre, how could you think I meant that!’ exclaimed Elizabeth.

  ‘And as for letting a child light a fire,’ put in Susan, ‘that’s most dangerous. No match-box should ever be allowed within a child’s reach. I must say too, that I wish the fire-brigade in Tilling was better organized and more efficient. If once a fire broke out here the whole town would be burned to the ground.’