‘I think it my duty to tell you that from my knowledge of Lucy — —’
‘Your knowledge of Lucy! What is it compared to mine, I should like to know?’
‘Please listen to me. It’s most important. From my knowledge of her, I’m quite sure she hasn’t the staying power of Vera.’
It was now his turn to stare. She was facing him, very pale, with shining, intrepid eyes. He had got her in her vulnerable spot he could see, or she wouldn’t be so white, but she was going to do her utmost to annoy him up to the last.
‘The staying power of —— ?’ he repeated.
‘I’m sure of it. And you must be wise, you must positively have the wisdom to take care of your own happiness — —’
‘Oh good God, you preaching woman!’ he burst out. ‘How dare you stand there in my own house talking to me of Vera?’
‘Hush,’ said Miss Entwhistle, her eyes shining brighter and brighter in her white face. ‘Listen to me. It’s atrocious that I should have to, but nobody ever seems to have told you a single thing in your life. You don’t seem to know anything at all about women, anything at all about human beings. How could you bring a girl like Lucy — any young wife — to this house? But here she is, and it still may be all right because she loves you so, if you take care, if you are tender and kind. I assure you it is nothing to me how angry you are with me, or how completely you separate me from Lucy, if only you are kind to her. Don’t you realise, Everard, that she may soon begin to have a baby, and that then she — —’
‘You indelicate woman! You incredibly indecent, improper — —’
‘I don’t in the least mind what you say to me, but I tell you that unless you take care, unless you’re kinder than you’re being at this moment, it won’t be anything like fifteen years this time.’
He repeated, staring, ‘Fifteen years this time?’
‘Yes. Good-bye.’
And she was gone, and had shut the door behind her before her monstrous meaning dawned on him.
Then, when it did, he strode out of the room after her.
She was going up the stairs very slowly.
‘Come down,’ he said.
She went on as if she hadn’t heard him.
‘Come down. If you don’t come down at once I’ll fetch you.’
This, through all her wretchedness, through all her horror, for beating in her ears were two words over and over again, Lucy, Vera — Lucy, Vera struck her as so absurd, the vision of herself, more naturally nimble, going on up the stairs just out of Wemyss’s reach, with him heavily pursuing her, till among the attics at the top he couldn’t but run her to earth in a cistern, that she had great difficulty in not spilling over into a ridiculous, hysterical laugh.
‘Very well then,’ she said, stopping and speaking in a low voice so that Lucy shouldn’t be disturbed by unusual sounds, ‘I’ll come down.’ And shining, quivering with indomitableness, she did.
She arrived at the bottom of the stairs where he was standing and faced him. What was he going to do? Take her by the shoulders and turn her out? Not a sign, not the smallest sign of distress or fear should he get out of her. Fear of him in relation to herself was the last thing she would condescend to feel, but fear for Lucy — for Lucy.... She could very easily have cried out because of Lucy, entreated to be allowed to see her sometimes, humbled herself, if she hadn’t gripped hold of the conviction of his delight if she broke down, of his delight at having broken her down, at refusing. The thought froze her serene.
‘You will now leave my house,’ said Wemyss through his teeth.
‘Without my hat, Everard?’ she inquired mildly.
He didn’t answer. He would gladly at that moment have killed her, for he thought he saw she was laughing at him. Not openly. Her face was serious and her voice polite; but he thought he saw she was laughing at him, and beyond anything that could happen to him he hated being defied.
He walked to the front door, reached up and undid the top bolt, stooped down and undid the bottom bolt, turned the key, took the chain off, pulled the door open, and said, ‘There now. Go. And let this be a lesson to you.’
‘I am glad to see,’ said Miss Entwhistle, going out on to the steps with dignity, and surveying the stars with detachment, ‘that it is a fine night.’
He shut and bolted and locked and chained her out, and as soon as he had done, and she heard his footsteps going away, and her eyes were a little accustomed to the darkness, she went round to the back entrance, rang the bell, and asked the astonished tweeny, who presently appeared, to send Lizzie to her; and when Lizzie came, also astonished, she asked her to be so kind as to go up to her room and put her things in her bag and bring her her hat and cloak and purse.
‘I’ll wait here in the garden,’ said Miss Entwhistle, ‘and it would be most kind, Lizzie, if you were rather quick.’
Then, when she had got her belongings, and Lizzie had put her cloak round her shoulders and tried to express, by smoothings and brushings of it, her understanding and sympathy, for it was clear to Lizzie and to all the servants that Miss Entwhistle was being turned out, she went away; she went away past the silent house, through the white gate, up through the darkness of the sunken oozy lane, out on to the road where the stars gave light, across the bridge, into the village, along the road to the station, to wait for whatever train should come.
She walked slower and slower.
She was extraordinarily tired.
XXXII
Wemyss went back into the library, and seeing his coffee still on the chimney-piece he drank it, and then sat down in the chair Miss Entwhistle had just left, and smoked.
He wouldn’t go up to Lucy yet; not till he was sure the woman wasn’t going to try any tricks of knocking at the front door or ringing bells. He actually, so inaccurate was his perception of Miss Entwhistle’s character and methods, he actually thought she might perhaps throw stones at the windows, and he decided to remain downstairs guarding his premises till this possibility became, with the lapse of time, more remote.
Meanwhile the fury of his indignation at the things she had said was immensely tempered by the real satisfaction he felt in having turned her out. That was the way to show people who was master, and meant to be master, in his own house. She had supposed she could do as she liked with him, use his house, be waited on by his servants, waste his electric light, interfere between him and his wife, say what she chose, lecture him, stand there and insult him, and he had showed her very quickly and clearly that she couldn’t. As to her final monstrous suggestion, it merely proved how completely he had got her, how accurately he had hit on the punishment she felt most, that she should have indulged in such ravings. The ravings of impotence, that’s what that was. For the rest of his life, he supposed, whenever people couldn’t get their own way with him, were baffled by his steadfastness and consequently became vindictive, they would throw that old story up against him. Let them. It wouldn’t make him budge, not a hair’s-breadth, in any direction he didn’t choose. Master in his own house, — that’s what he was.
Curious how women invariably started by thinking they could do as they liked with him. Vera had thought so, and behaved accordingly; and she had been quite surprised, and even injured, when she discovered she couldn’t. No doubt this woman was feeling considerably surprised too now; no doubt she never dreamt he would turn her out. Women never believed he would do the simple, obvious thing. And even when he warned them that he would, as he could remember on several occasions having warned Vera — indeed, it was recorded in his diary — they still didn’t believe it. Daunted themselves by convention and the fear of what people might think, they imagined that he would be daunted too. Then, when he wasn’t, and it happened, they were surprised; and they never seemed to see that they had only themselves to thank.
He sat smoking and thinking a long time, one ear attentive to any sounds which might indicate that Miss Entwhistle was approaching hostilely from outside. Chesterton found him sitting like that
when she came in to remove the coffee cup, and she found him still sitting like that when she came in an hour later with his whisky.
It was nearly eleven before he decided that the danger of attack was probably over; but still, before he went upstairs, he thought it prudent to open the window and step over the sill on to the terrace and just look round.
All was as quiet as the grave. It was so quiet that he could hear a little ripple where the water was split by a dead branch as the river slid gently along. There were stars, so that it was not quite dark; and although the April air was moist it was dry under foot. A pleasant night for a walk. Well, he would not grudge her that.
He went along the terrace, and round the clump of laurustinus bushes which cloaked the servants’ entrance, to the front of the house.
Empty. Nobody still lingering on the steps.
He then proceeded as far as the white gate, holding her capable of having left it open on purpose,— ‘In order to aggravate me,’ as he put it to himself.
It was shut.
He stood leaning on it a minute listening, in case she should be lurking in the lane.
Not a sound.
Satisfied that she had really gone, he returned to the terrace and re-entered the library, fastening the window carefully and pulling down the blind.
What a relief, what an extraordinary relief, to have got rid of her; and not just for this once, but for good. Also she was Lucy’s only relation, so there were no more of them to come and try to interfere between man and wife. He was very glad she had behaved so outrageously at the end saying that about Vera, for it justified him completely in what he had done. A little less bad behaviour, and she would have had to be allowed to stay the night; still a little less, and she would have had to come to The Willows again, let alone having a free hand in London to influence Lucy when he was at his club playing bridge and unable to look after her. Yes; it was very satisfactory, and well worth coming down day earlier for.
He wound up his watch, standing before the last glimmerings of the fire, and felt quite good-humoured again. More than good-humoured, — refreshed and exhilarated, as though he had had a cold bath and a thorough rub-down. Now for bed and his little Love. What simple things a man wanted, — only his woman and peace.
Wemyss finished winding his watch, stretched himself, yawned, and then went slowly upstairs, switching off the lights as he went.
In the bedroom there was a night-light burning, and Lucy had fallen asleep, tired of waiting for Aunt Dot to come and say good-night, but she woke when he came in.
‘Is that you, Aunt Dot?’ she murmured, even through her sleepiness sure it must be, for Everard would have turned on the light.
Wemyss, however, didn’t want her to wake up and begin asking questions, so he refrained from turning on the light.
‘No, it’s your Everard,’ he said, moving about on tiptoe. ‘Sh-sh, now. Go to sleep again like a good little girl.’
Through her sleepiness she knew that voice of his; it meant one of his pleased moods. How sweet of him to be taking such care not to disturb her ... dear Everard ... he and Aunt Dot must have made friends then ... how glad she was ... wonderful little Aunt Dot ... before dinner he was angry, and she had been so afraid ... afraid ... what a relief ... how glad....
But Lucy was asleep again, and the next thing she knew was Everard’s arm being slid under her shoulders and she being drawn across the bed and gathered to his breast.
‘Who’s my very own baby?’ she heard him saying; and she woke up just enough sleepily to return his kiss.
THE END
THE ENCHANTED APRIL
This novel was released to the public by Macmillan on 31 October, 1922. Overall it was well received by critics as a charming tale, but more “heavyweight” intellectuals, like Rebecca West, declared that in this story, von Arnim “writes like a humbug”. Nevertheless, its lightness of tone and sensuous backdrop were popular with her readers and it remains one of her most read stories in the present day and was appealing enough to warrant a number of adaptations, including feature films (1935, 1992), a radio play for BBC Radio Four (2015) and a musical play (2010). The novel reached number 3 in the American best seller lists for 1923. Much of the descriptive writing here reflects von Arnim’s own character and preferences; her natural zest for life, her optimism and love of gardens and flowers.
Von Arnim is credited with having made Portofino, on the Italian Riviera, a fashionable resort, through her descriptions in this novel and its apparent effect on those that stay there. She was staying in the fifteenth century Castello Brown as she wrote the story and the castello is the model for the castle in the story. It is tempting to see shades of the last love affair in von Arnim’s life in the lightness of tone in the narrative; her lover, Alexander Frere, a British publisher thirty years her junior, was already in her life as she wrote the novel and it was with him alone that she chose to celebrate its publication by going out to dinner. Some commentators have also suggested that he was the model for the character Mr. Briggs.
The story opens with a strong contrast – the miserable weather of London in February, the “horrible sooty rain” falling interminably as opposed to the prospect of a month’s stay in April at a small Italian castle for “those who appreciate wisteria and sunshine”, as advertised in The Times. Lottie Wilkins, the disappointed wife of a dreary, penny-pinching solicitor, sees the advertisement, but feels too insignificant to take up such an adventure. Lottie is a woman “who is not noticed at parties” and whose husband treats her as if she is somewhat backward (which she is not, only gauche).
Across the room at the ladies club where Lottie is spending the afternoon, is the devout Rose Arbuthnot. They had never spoken, despite both being members not only of the same club, but the same church — the hub of Rose’s many “good deeds” for the poor. Rose has a sadness about her despite her charitable works, as if to be active in the community was her way of trying to dispel some depression or disappointment. The reader finds out later on what the source of her disappointment is. To Lottie’s amazement, she sees Rose looking intently at the same advert and plucks up the courage to engage her in conversation. Desperate to take a break from her increasingly unsatisfactory marriage, Lottie suggests to Rose that they rent the castle together, on the grounds of shared cost and that if they go away, they will come back refreshed and “so much nicer”.
It now remains to find other similar ladies to help further reduce the shared costs of renting San Salvadore and an advertisement was placed in The Times. Two come forward — the superlatively well-connected, elderly, widow, Mrs Fisher and the beautiful Lady Caroline Dester who seems to be “escaping” from the vacuous social set in which she circulated following the death of her beloved in the First World War.
Rose meets with the owner of the castle, a Mr Briggs, to finalise arrangements and after a tense and uncertain month or so, the women travel to their Italian castle. Gathered together in this enchanting but alien environment, they soon realise that they are very different characters. Mrs Fisher is a dominating personality and starts by behaving as if the castle is hers and the other three women, her guests. Lady Caroline is patronising and aloof and vies with Mrs Fisher to appropriate the best rooms for her personal use. Inevitably, tensions arise from the little frictions and clashes of will, but gradually the magic of the place starts to work on the four women. Then one day, Lottie astonishes her companions by announcing she will invite her husband to spend the rest of the holiday there with her. She is feeling guilty that she is so happy whilst he languishes in rain-soaked England and hopes the castle and its fabulous gardens will have an enlivening effect on him too. Will he accept and what will the arrival of a dull husband in their midst do to the atmosphere?
The four women experience continuing interpersonal tensions but eventually come together at the castle and find rejuvenation in the tranquil beauty of their surroundings, rediscovering hope and a lightness of heart. This charming novel is the equivalent of
modern “chicklit” in its light-hearted tone and uplifting storyline, both of which contributed greatly to its success. Lottie is a delightful character, disingenuous and charming, outspoken yet with an appealing innocence and the other three women contrast well with her; the descriptions of the garden and its surroundings are wonderfully vivid and make one wish one was there!
However, there is another theme within it that would have resonated strongly with contemporary readers – independent women. Early on in the story, the owner of the castle assumes that Rose and Lottie are war widows and that is why they are going abroad unchaperoned; women had also just emerged from the First World War having contributed in a significant way to the war effort both at home and on the war front and had relished their new-found independence. In both groups of women, it was becoming increasingly common to find women living and travelling together, or moving in all-female circles. The war was also a destabilising factor in many marriages, which had their continuity and routine disrupted by absence, wartime romances and new experiences of life both in Britain and abroad, leaving both men and women dissatisfied with their pre-war lot in life. The post war “surplus” of eligible women and widows and professional women such as teachers who often were not able to marry as they would be forced to resign, was a familiar sight and in the early 1920’s, such women were a minority that were regarded sympathetically, a response that unfortunately became increasingly hostile as the inter-war years advanced, as accusations of lesbianism became confused with platonic house sharing and same sex friendships. Von Arnim’s knack of creating stories that can read on more than one level is one of her greatest appeals and along with very strong characterisation in this novel, it is little wonder it is one of her most enduring works.
The first edition
Portofino, a northern Italian fishing village and holiday resort famous for its picturesque harbour and historical association with celebrity and artistic visitors
Delphi Collected Works of Elizabeth von Arnim (Illustrated) Page 266