by E. F. Benson
They had strolled out into the garden, awaiting tea, and looked into the greenhouse where the peach trees were covered with setting fruit. Lucia looked wistfully at the potato and asparagus beds.
“More treasures to be unearthed some time, I hope,” she said with really unparalleled nerve. “But at present my hands are so full: my organ, my little investments, Georgie just dines quietly with me or I with him, and we make music or read. Happy busy days!”
Really she was quite maddening, thought Diva, pretending like this to be totally unaware of the earthquake which had laid in ruins the social life of Tilling. On she went.
“Otherwise I’ve seen no one but Irene, and just a glimpse of dear Contessa Faraglione, and we had a refreshing chat in Italian. I found I was terribly rusty. She told me that it was just a flying visit.”
“Yes, she’s gone,” said Diva.
“Such a pity: I should have liked to get up an evening with un po’ di musica for her,” said Lucia, who had heard from Georgie, who had it from the Padre, all about her monstrously immoral views and her maniac laughter. “Ah, tea ready, Grosvenor? Tell me more Tilling news, Diva.”
“But there isn’t any,” said Diva, “and there won’t be unless you do something for us.”
“I?” asked Lucia. “Little hermit I?”
Diva could have smacked her for her lofty unconsciousness, but in view of her mission had to check that genial impulse.
“Yes, you, of course,” she said. “We’ve all been quarrelling. Never knew anything so acute. We shall never get together again, unless you come to the rescue.”
Lucia sighed.
“Dear Diva, how you all work me, and come to me when there’s trouble. But I’m very obedient. Tell me what you want me to do. Give one of my simple little parties, al fresco, here some evening?”
“Oh, do!” said Diva.
“Nothing easier. I’m afraid I’ve been terribly remiss, thinking of nothing but my busy fragrant life. Very naughty of me. And if, as you say, it will help to patch up some of your funny little disagreements between yourselves, of which I know nothing at all, so much the better. Let’s settle a night at once. My engagement-book, Grosvenor.”
Grosvenor brought it her. There were no evening engagements at all in the future, and slightly tipping it up, so that Diva could not see the fair white pages, she turned over a leaf or two.
“This week, impossible, I’m afraid,” she said, with a noble disregard of her own admission that she and Georgie dined quietly together every night. “But how about Wednesday next week? Let me think—yes, that’s all right. And whom am I to ask? All our little circle?”
“Oh do!” said Diva. “Start us again. Break the ice. Put out the fire. They’ll all come.”
Diva was right: even Elizabeth who had warned her that such an invitation would only lead to disappointment accepted with pleasure, and Lucia made the most tactful arrangements for this agapé. Grosvenor was instructed to start every dish at Mrs. Mapp-Flint, and to offer barley-water as well as wine to all the guests. They assembled before dinner in the garden-room, and there, on the top of the piano, compelling notice, were the bowl and saucer of Samian ware. Mr. Wyse, with his keen perception for the beautiful, instantly enquired what they were.
“Just some fragments of Roman pottery,” said Lucia casually. “So glad you admire them. They are pretty, but, alas, the bowl as you see is incomplete.”
Evie gave a squeal of satisfaction: she had always believed in Lucia’s excavations.
“Oh, look, Kenneth,” she said to her husband, “Fancy finding those lovely things in an empty potato-patch.”
“Begorra, Mistress Lucia,” said he, “‘twas worth digging up a whole garden entoirely.”
Elizabeth cast a despairing glance at this convincing evidence, and dinner was announced.
Conversation was a little difficult at first; for there were so many dangerous topics to avoid that to carry it on was like crossing a quaking bog and jumping from one firm tussock to another over soft and mossy places. But Elizabeth’s wintriness thawed, when she found that not only was she placed on Georgie’s right hand who was acting as host, but that every dish was started with her, and she even asked Irene if she had been painting any of her sweet pictures lately. Dubious topics and those allied to them were quite avoided, and before the end of dinner, if Lucia had proposed that they should sing “Auld Lang Syne,” there would not have been a silent voice. Bridge, of so friendly a kind that it was almost insipid, followed, and it was past midnight before anyone could suppose that it was half-past ten. Then most cordial partings took place in the hall: Susan was loaded with her furs, Diva dropped a shilling and was distracted. Benjy found a clandestine opportunity to drink a strong whisky and soda, Irene clung passionately to Lucia, as if she would never finish saying good night, the Royce sawed to and fro before it could turn and set forth on its journey of one hundred yards, and the serene orbs of heaven twinkled benignly over a peaceful Tilling. This happy result (all but the stars) was Lucia’s achievement: she had gone skimming up the pinnacle of social pre-eminence till she was almost among the stars herself.
CHAPTER X
Naturally nobody was foolish enough to expect that such idyllic harmony would be of long duration, for in this highly alert and critical society, with Elizabeth lynx-eyed to see what was done amiss, and Lucia, as was soon obvious, so intolerably conscious of the unique service she had done Tilling in having reconciled all those “funny little quarrels” of which she pretended to be quite unaware, discord was sure to develop before long; but at any rate tea-parties for Bridge were in full swing by the time strawberries were really cheap, and before they were over came the ceremony of the dedication of Lucia’s organ.
She had said from the first that her whole function (and that a privilege) was to have made this little contribution to the beauty of the church services: that was all, and she began and ended there. But in a quiet talk with the Padre she suggested that the day of its dedication might be made to coincide with the annual confirmation of the young folk of the parish. The Bishop, perhaps, when his laying on of hands was done, would come to lunch at Mallards and take part in the other ceremony in the afternoon. The Padre thought that an excellent notion, and in due course the Bishop accepted Lucia’s invitation and would be happy (D.V.) to dedicate the organ and give a short address.
Lucia had got her start: now like a great liner she cast off her tugs and began to move out under her own steam. There was another quiet talk in the garden-room.
“You know how I hate all fuss, dear Padre,” she said, “but I do think, don’t you, that Tilling would wish for a little pomp and ceremony. An idea occurred to me: the Mayor and Corporation perhaps might like to escort the Bishop in procession from here to the church after lunch. If that is their wish, I should not dream of opposing it. Maces, scarlet robes; there would be picturesqueness about it which would be suitable on such an occasion. Of course I couldn’t suggest it myself, but, as Vicar, you might ascertain what they felt.”
“‘Twould be a gran’ sight,” said the Padre, quite distinctly seeing himself in the procession.
“I think Tilling would appreciate it,” said Lucia thoughtfully. “Then about the service: one does not want it too long. A few prayers, a Psalm, such as ‘I was glad when they said unto me’: a lesson, and then, don’t you think, as we shall be dedicating my organ, some anthem in praise of music? I had thought of that last chorus in Parry’s setting of Milton’s Ode on St. Cecilia’s Day, ‘Blest Pair of Syrens’. Of course my organ would accompany the psalm and the anthem, but, as I seem to see it, unofficially incognito. After that, the Bishop’s address: so sweet of him to suggest that.”
“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 tu
ba, 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. R.S.V.P.; 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 Mr. 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?”
“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 gia
rdino 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 barmaid. 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.”