The Lorimer Legacy

by Anne Melville

  That evening, just before sunset, it began to rain with a noise and unexpectedness which drew Margaret on to the verandah to watch. Even the worst thunderstorm she could remember in England had never been as forceful as this – the water seemed to be not so much falling to the ground as propelled to it under pressure. As densely as fog it obliterated the hills; as viciously as a bad-tempered child it bent the leaves of trees and climbing vines downwards and battered their blossoms to the ground. It drummed on the roof of the verandah and poured off it in a cascade to flood the ground below. It turned the main track along the valley into a river and surged down it like a tidal wave. Margaret found the sight frightening until she realized that the people of Hope Valley had had years enough to learn what precautions to take. This was why the church stood on its raised platform. This was why every house, from the meanest to the most substantial, was lifted from the ground on piles of bricks or rocks. This was why each one had a steeply pitched roof of corrugated iron to divert any cloudburst to the ground.

  The sound of the beating rain softened for a moment as though the downpour had exhausted its energy. But then for a second time it hurled itself downwards, this time splashing into the verandah so that Margaret was forced to step backwards. Marvelling that Ralph and Lydia should not find such violence extraordinary, she went back into the house and, long after the rain had stopped, lay awake listening to the dripping of water off leaves and roofs. Yet next morning she awoke to sunshine again. The ground was steaming and the humidity so high that each breath seemed an effort; but the new day’s blossoms were as bright as though there had been no massacre in the darkness and the trees and shrubs were bright with health. The valley had used the rain and already had forgotten it. A new day had begun.

  Sun after storm; it was a contrast typical of the island. Margaret felt something of the same guilt which had prompted Ralph to devote his life to these people whose ancestors had been chained by early Lorimers and their captains into the reeking holds of the Middle Passage. To find the people of the valley still sullen and resentful in their dealings with white men would not have surprised but rather satisfied her, giving her the excuse to feel vicariously apologetic. But men and women alike were friendly, always smiling. Ralph criticized them for laziness, but to Margaret it was a miracle that they should be happy against the heritage of their history. She was as little able as Lydia to share Ralph’s dogmatic beliefs, but if the Christian faith were responsible for this sunny contentment of spirit, the pastor had reason to be satisfied with his work.

  On her first Sunday in the village Margaret put on her best clothes for church and found that everyone else had done the same. The number of men in the congregation was not great, but every woman in the valley must have been there, each wearing a severe straw hat and a cotton jacket and skirt laundered to crisp cleanliness. The children, too, had been scrubbed until they shone. Small boys who tumbled about all week almost naked were transformed by shirts and shorts into little black angels, whilst their sisters wore frilly white dresses and sashes, with ribbons in their frizzy hair. The hymn tunes were new to Margaret, although the words were in many cases familiar, but they were sung so beautifully that she was content to listen and to marvel at the sweet sadness of the harmonies.

  To hear Ralph preach was another surprise. In England she had known him best in his moments of doubt and unhappiness. But the confidence which he felt in his life here tumbled out in words which were shouted rather than spoken. Margaret remembered that Lydia had recognized in her husband the man who might have been a businessman like his father, but she herself was suddenly reminded of the way in which John Junius, at the time of family prayers, had been accustomed to give God his orders for the day. Ralph – though ostensibly acting as a channel in the other direction, transmitting the word of the Lord to his hearers – was his father’s son in this way as well.

  Margaret allowed the words of the sermon to resound against her eardrums without greatly exercising her mind. There were too many quotations from the Bible for her liking, used as though they were bound to have significance merely because they had authority. If she tried to think about their meaning, it often had little relationship to the argument, so after a while she ceased to trouble herself with the effort.

  Instead, she let her memory slip back over the years since her father had died. If he could see his children now, she wondered, what would he think of them all? William had behaved as a Lorimer elder son should do, but John Junius would have been startled to find Ralph administering an agricultural community on a tropical island. He would have been even more astonished to learn that Margaret was accustomed at any one time to take responsibility for the health and even lives of thirty mothers and babies, while also supervising the studies of an increasing number of female medical students – a species which hardly existed during his lifetime.

  As for his other daughter – well, it might not have surprised him to know that she had grown to be one of the most beautiful women in Europe, but could he have anticipated that she would be a prima donna while still in her twenties? The thought of Alexa distracted Margaret’s thoughts still further. She smiled to herself as she studied her own present surroundings and contrasted them with the dazzle of operatic life. Last night Alexa would have been singing in some opera house, greeted almost certainly with bravos and flowers, and carried off for a rich dinner in glittering surroundings by one of her admirers. To judge by the subject of the sermon, Ralph would not have approved. Margaret did not precisely approve herself, but she had learned to accept the news which Alexa regularly sent her and tried not to distress herself with moral judgements when they could be of no effect. She did her best to remember, as the congregation rose with relief and energy to sing a hymn, exactly where in Europe Alexa was at this moment, but failed to find the answer.

  5

  Spring comes to Paris in the style of the Impressionists. Sitting on the bank of the Seine, Matthew Lorimer did his best to capture in paint the energy of trees whose new leaves swelled inside their buds and broke through, stretching their fingers almost fast enough to be seen.

  Artists commonly disparage that part of their achievement which causes them the least effort, although others may think it their best work. Matthew could have been the most fashionable portrait painter in Paris if he had set his mind to it. He had a genius for catching a likeness and a facility for adding an extra touch of beauty with such subtlety that everyone who saw the sitter after studying her portrait found her even lovelier than before.

  This ability, because it came so easily, seemed to him to be of little value. Three or four times a year he would accept a commission to paint a rich man’s wife or mistress – but only in order to buy the paints and canvases which he needed for his real work, and to keep himself alive while he did it. In the nine and a half years since he left his comfortable home in Bristol he had become thin and shabby, but remained young. At the age of twenty-two he had been a shy and serious young man; now, although he had entered his thirties, he was as light-hearted as a schoolboy. Paris was a city bubbling with artistic excitement, the Mecca for young artists from all over the world. They were all as poor as he, and their poverty united them in high-spirited companionship. The excitement came from their experiments in style. Although Matthew had learned his craft from the example of the Impressionists, by now he was moving in a different direction, exploring subjects far removed from faces and flowers. But just as an occasional portrait served to pay the bills, so the dazzle of sunshine on water and the freshness of spring blossom brought a holiday temptation, with all the pleasures of truancy from more serious purpose.

  As he strode home at the end of the day, Matthew sang aloud. Passers-by turned to look at him and smiled, sharing his good humour. Approaching the Opera he sang even more loudly, as though auditioning to be employed there. Suddenly he broke off in mid-phrase. A row of posters advertised the evening’s performance. He had never heard of the opera: Salome. Even the composer’s name was
unfamiliar – who was Richard Strauss? But one name was familiar enough: Alexa Reni.

  That she should use the surname Reni instead of Lorimer did not confuse him. He knew that opera singers frequently tried to appear Italian even when they were not. In this case, he remembered Alexa telling him that her mother was Italian – and the Christian name by itself was sufficiently distinctive. For a long time he stood and stared at the poster. When he resumed his walk back to Montmartre it was in a slower and more thoughtful mood.

  Matthew had long ago severed all links with his parents. For some months after he left England they had professed themselves ready to forgive him; but once they understood that he never intended to return, their anger had become hysterical. William had taken a spiteful pleasure in letting him know that he could no longer expect to inherit any part of the fortune built up by the Lorimer Line. It was possible that both his parents still expected him to be starved out of his chosen career, but that was a pleasure he did not intend to allow them.

  With his aunt, however, he had kept in touch by letter. Since babyhood he had felt a special affection for her. From Margaret he had learned of Alexa’s disappearance from England and, later, of her training and first steps towards an operatic career. More recently she had ceased to mention Alexa’s name in her letters, perhaps assuming that Matthew had no special interest in someone he had not seen for so many years.

  Matthew’s feelings about Alexa were in fact very complicated. Foremost amongst them was the memory of guilt. Alexa had loved him and he had deserted her. At the time he had hoped she might understand how important it was that he should enjoy at least a taste of freedom before submitting to the bondage of his father’s business for the rest of his life. But her refusal to answer his letter even with a reproach had made it clear how much his selfishness had hurt her. He had not deserved forgiveness, and he had not received it.

  All this had happened a long time ago, but there was an important sense in which his love for Alexa had never changed. If he had stayed in Bristol, he might one day have grown to blame her for all the chances he had sacrificed: by leaving, he had been able to preserve unchanged for almost ten years his picture of a beautiful and innocent young girl. For a moment now he was tempted not to challenge his memories to the test of time, not to expose himself to coldness or angry recrimination. But in practice it was impossible to know that Alexa was in Paris and not to see her.

  He watched the opera that evening from the gods, so far above the expensive seats in which more fashionable opera-goers displayed themselves that he could hardly distinguish Alexa’s features. In spite of that, her acting at once enthralled and horrified him. He went to the opera as often as he could afford and was accustomed to listen to the warblings of heroines who were either noble or unfortunate: this heroine, if the word could be applied to her, was lustful and vengeful. He took it for granted that young girls in the last stages of consumption should be portrayed by stout middle-aged matrons; but the glimpses of Alexa’s slim body as she cast away each of the seven veils in turn while she danced made it seem natural that the officers of Herod’s court should desire her. On this same stage he had seen Melba, whose reputation for acting was almost as high as for singing – but even Melba rarely did more than raise one majestic arm as a sign of emotion, or both arms at once to indicate uncontrollable passion. Alexa, by contrast, was Salome.

  When the performance was over and the stage was littered with the flowers thrown by the audience, he jostled his way down to street level and went round to the stage door. He was known there, for he had several times been invited to attend rehearsals, making sketches which could be used to embellish the printed programmes: the guardian of the door turned a blind eye as he went inside.

  The gentlemen who had been more generous with their bribes than himself were already crowded round the door of Alexa’s dressing room, anxious to heap her with compliments or more flowers. None of them, Matthew noticed, was admitted; although he could guess from their expressions that they were rewarded with smiles. For his own part, he waited in a dark corner of the corridor until they had all at last departed.

  The dresser opened the door to his knock. He handed her a sheet of paper. On it – before leaving for the opera – he had painted a picture of a rose and signed it with his name.

  The door closed. It was opened again by Alexa herself. ‘Matthew! Matthew!’ she said – and then, it seemed, could say nothing more. Matthew for his part swallowed hard and clenched his fists, reminding himself that he had no right to embrace her.

  ‘A painted rose was all I could afford,’ he said, trying to keep his voice light.

  ‘It’s very beautiful. And it won’t fade. Come in, Matthew.’

  He followed her into the untidy room. Her dresser moved about, putting flowers into water. Then she picked up an armful of clothes and disappeared, leaving Matthew alone with Alexa. The charged silence between them lengthened unbearably, until Alexa at last broke it with a laugh.

  ‘So often I’ve wondered whether we should ever meet again. And now that we do, I can think of nothing to say.’

  Matthew found his tongue at last. To him, after all, the meeting had not come as a surprise. He congratulated her on her performance and on the success she had won in her career. ‘We have both achieved our ambitions,’ he said.

  ‘You earn your living as an artist, then?’ After her first emotional reaction to the shock of seeing him, she had steadied her voice into one of polite coolness.

  ‘Yes. And I never hoped or expected to be a famous one.’

  ‘You found New York uncongenial, I suppose. Paris certainly has the reputation of being the most stimulating city for a painter.’

  ‘New York?’ he queried, not understanding what she meant.

  ‘When you left Bristol, it was to go to New York, was it not?’

  ‘I never had any thought of doing so. What gave you that idea?’

  ‘Your father seemed quite convinced that America was your destination. I suppose, though, that it may have been only a guess on his part. Perhaps he had no more true information about your plans than I did.’

  ‘But you knew that I was coming to Paris,’ protested Matthew. ‘I told you that most plainly.’

  ‘You told me nothing,’ said Alexa. ‘You left, that was all. No warning, no explanation, no regret, no Matthew.’ She moved around the cramped room as she talked, her hands moving carelessly as though to show that the matter was of little importance to -her. Matthew caught her by the wrist and forced her to turn towards him.

  ‘I gave you my address,’ he said. ‘I asked you to write to me.’

  ‘And where did you hide this important message?’ she asked.

  ‘It was a long letter. I sent it to my father and asked him to put it personally into your hands.’

  As though she had picked up a costume and found it to be for the wrong operatic role, Alexa discarded her pretence of indifference.

  ‘I never received any letter. I asked your father if you had left anything for me and was told that you had not. What did it say, Matthew? If you remember.’

  ‘I remember every word.’ But bewilderment and anger and an almost uncontrollable need to kiss her jumbled his thoughts into incoherence. ‘I told you that I loved you. I was not leaving you for ever. It would only have been for a little while, if you had told me that you could understand. If I’ve stayed here, it’s because there seemed no reason to return. I wanted you to write. For weeks after I came here I waited for your letter. I hoped that perhaps you would feel some sympathy for me, because you had your own ambitions and knew how it felt to see no way of fulfilling them. I even hoped that you would use the time – as you have done – to work towards your goal, so that you would never reproach me for depriving you of the chance. But all the time, what I wanted was to marry you in the end. If you had called me back, I would have come. If you had expressed yourself as hurt or uncomprehending, I would have tried to explain, to console you. But when there was no an
swer at all, I had to believe at last that you found it impossible to forgive me. And I knew all the time that I’d behaved badly. I deserved to be punished for it.’

  ‘Oh!’ Alexa’s breath was forced out of her in a long sigh. She stood up again and began to pace up and down in an intensity of anger which for the moment seemed to transform her back into the part of Salome. At last she sighed again, calming herself.

  ‘I’ve hated your father for many years,’ she said, ‘because when he sent me to London he put me in bad hands. But even while I blamed him for that, I never thought that the whole arrangement might be based on a deception. He found it easy to persuade me because I was so unhappy; and I was unhappy because you had gone without a word. And yet all the time, you say . . .’ She shook her head as though still almost unable to believe it.

  ‘Why should he behave in such a way towards you?’ asked Matthew wonderingly.

  ‘I suppose I was not good enough for his elder son. He must have seen how fond we were of each other – and he knew already, what I only found out for myself later, that my parents were not married. I’m illegitimate.’

  ‘What does that matter?’

  ‘Obviously it mattered to him. He assumed, I suppose, that my moral standards would be no higher than my mother’s – and he did his best to make his assumptions come true as quickly as possible. If things had turned out as he expected, I should have been too much ashamed, and you would have been too shocked, for us to return easily to our old relationship.’ Alexa hesitated for a moment, and there was regret in her eyes as she looked steadily at him. ‘I was fortunate at that time, and was helped to escape from the situation your father had arranged for me. But since then –’ She raised her head and listened to the sound of brisk footsteps approaching outside. ‘We are going to be interrupted, and this is a conversation which ought to be completed. The conventions of opera have their uses at times. Hide behind the screen, Matthew, and keep still. It will be easier for me to tell a white lie if you are not here to arouse suspicion.’