by Ann Bridge
The British Legation at Durazzo was an extraordinary place. On the seaward side of the town the immense walls of the Venetian fortifications still stand (or stood before the Italian bombardment in 1939) and the Legation was built partly on, partly in the actual wall. Visitors passed through the street door into a small courtyard, with oleanders in tubs and a fig-tree growing against the wall, and climbed a steep outside staircase to a second door, which led into the house proper—the kitchens and store-rooms were on a level with the courtyard, hollowed out, like caverns, in the massy thickness of the wall itself. Gloire and the Langdons now climbed this stair, and were ushered by a second liveried servant through a long narrow room with a table set for luncheon, and out onto a paved terrace, shaded by an awning—as they stepped out, the blue of sea and sky, and the southern midday glare hit them from under the awning, like an almost palpable blow.
It was a large party. They were greeted by Sir Arthur, tall, tidy, with a scholarly precision of manner, and by his wife, equally tall and giving an impression of being less scholarly and socially more competent. There were introductions—to the Greeks, the Spaniards, the French, the Yugo-Slavs, and one or two Albanian Ministers and their wives. And finally to Miss Glanfield. She met the Langdons first—as Gloire approached she greeted her with a look of amusement.
“Did you have a ghastly trip down with those shattering people, after George gave you away?” Gloire asked at once.
Miss Glanfield smiled.
“Well actually, yes,” she said. “Only when we got out from the Bocche again it got quite rough, and they were sick, thank goodness.”
“Oh, do you two know one another, then?” Lady Carruthers enquired.
“Yes, we were on the boat together from Ragusa to Cattaro,” said Miss Glanfield. She turned back to Gloire.
“Tell me, how did you get on with George? Did he show you San Metodo? And were you comfortable at the Slavia?”
“I wasn’t at the Slavia—the wretched place was shut. I was at the Serbia, and it was frightful,” said Gloire. “But George was grand. He showed me everything.”
“He’s a touching creature, really,” said Miss Glanfield; “so passionately patriotic, so aware of his country’s failings, and so set on remedying them in quite the wrongest possible way.”
“What way?”
“Now we can’t have our two precious strangers talking to one another all the time,” said Lady Carruthers firmly, coming up with an Albanian in tow. “You’ve no idea how valuable you are here! Miss Glanfield, Mr. Frasheri wants to talk to you. And Count de Tourville wants to talk to you,” she said to Gloire. It was evident that he did—it was evident that all the men present did, to some extent. Warren, leaning against the railing of the terrace drinking a cocktail, cool and loosely elegant in his seersucker suit, watched with some amusement the impact of the two new women on the local society. The men of course all eyed Gloire, as men everywhere always did, with a sort of covetous and fascinated pleasure. The women observed her with doubt, envy, and a grudging admiration; at Miss Glanfield, on the other hand, they looked with curiosity and slight awe, faintly tinged with patronage because she held herself carelessly, because her hair was unfashionable, and because she was not more imposingly dressed. She looked an agreeable woman, Warren thought—she was talking very fast and with immense animation in French to M. Frasheri, and M. Frasheri seemed to be liking it.
One of the good things about the Carruthers, Warren always maintained, was that unlike most British Ministers and Ambassadors, they served two rounds of drinks before meals. Over his second cocktail his host came up to talk to him, and Warren seized this opportunity to speak about Gloire’s trip.
“How very decorative your guest is!” said Sir Arthur, glancing at her tolerantly through his tortoise-shell spectacles. “Is she one of the Yorkshire Thurstons?”
“Well, her husband was,” replied Warren—“he was killed climbing in the Himalayas.”
“Oh yes, of course—I remember. A shocking business,” said Sir Arthur. “Terrible for her.”
“Yes, I guess it was—I think she was pretty fond of him,” said Warren. “By the way,” he said, leaning a little towards his host and lowering his voice—“I wanted to talk to you about her—about a plan she has.”
“Oh really? What sort of plan?” asked Sir Arthur—his voice was perfectly non-committal, but Warren’s hypersensitive perceptions told him that the Englishman had gone on the defensive at the mere idea of being consulted about Gloire.
“Why, she has taken the idea into her head that she wants to see more of the country, and get around,” said Warren, immediately rendered irresolute by his realisation of the Englishman’s attitude.
“Oh yes. Very nice. Well, you could take her down to Elbasan and Valona—even to Butrinto, if you don’t mind the mosquitoes, couldn’t you? The excavations there are well worth seeing.”
“That wasn’t quite what Mrs. Thurston had in mind,” said Warren feebly. He took a pull on his resolution. “What she really wants to do is to go up to Torosh,” he said desperately, “and see the costumes, and all that.”
“That’s rather an undertaking, isn’t it?” said Sir Arthur equably. “Has she got all her kit? She’ll need a tent, of course, and a camp-bed and flea-bag and so forth for that trip—even if it could be arranged,” he added cautiously.
“That’s what I wanted to consult you about,” said Warren uncomfortably. “Do you think the General would be willing to arrange it for her? I know it’s quite a business.”
“It is, as a matter of fact,” said Sir Arthur. “I’ve no idea if he would feel he could spare one of his officers to take her just now. She couldn’t go alone, of course; and then”—he glanced at Gloire—“she would really have to take some other woman along, wouldn’t she? And it’s not easy to find anyone. If she’s going to be here some time, I should be inclined to wait a little—she might make friends with someone who would care to go with her. Though very few women seem to want to—it’s pretty rough up there.”
“The trouble is, she wants to be there at Whitsuntide,” said Warren desperately.
“Oh well, ask the General,” said Sir Arthur. “He always gives you a straight answer! Well, Madam, and how are you?” he said, turning to the French Minister’s wife, who approached at that moment.
Discomfited, Warren moved away and set down his glass. That was that. He had been accustomed to find the Englishman most helpful about such minor problems, but this time he, Warren, had evidently opened his mouth too wide. With perfect courtesy, but with complete decision, Sir Arthur had said No. Well, he supposed he would have to try it on with the General himself.
In this uncomfortable frame of mind he was pleased, at luncheon, to find himself placed next to Miss Glanfield. The dining-room at the Legation was really not a room at all, it was a long broad passage leading from the drawing-room and Sir Arthur’s study at one end of the house to the bedrooms at the other, with high windows on the landward side. Since it was so narrow, the table had to be long and narrow too. Warren and Miss Glanfield sat facing the windows—Gloire was immediately opposite. Warren did not really agree with Miss Anne about the house; he thought it had great charm, and that the terrace, the view, and the romantic situation, perched on the city wall, fully compensated for the inconveniences. Turning to Miss Glanfield, he opened by asking if she did not think it extraordinarily attractive?
“Oh yes indeed—it has so much character; so much more dignified and amusing than those Lutyens-ey super-villas that the Office of Works has stuck down all over the Balkans,” Miss Glanfield replied rapidly. “It’s inconvenient, of course—but then convenience isn’t everything.”
Warren laughed at her description of the Balkan Legations, which he felt to be justified.
“And how do you like Albania?” he pursued.
“The very little that I’ve seen of it I like extremely,” she answered. “Of course I’ve only been here a few days. But I find them extraordinarily a
ttractive people. That man I was talking to before lunch, for example, M. Frasheri—he’s so intelligent, and full of a sort of direct ardour for his country, and an honesty about its failings that I find enormously engaging.”
Warren was increasingly pleased with his companion. He liked the way in which, when you offered her a subject, she took it up and carried it on, gave you of her best on it, instead of letting it drop with a dull thud after a single banal sentence of reply.
“You don’t get put off by they’re being so small-town and unsophisticated?” he asked, thinking of Gloire’s strictures— M. Frasheri was wearing a frock-coat.
“Good Heavens no! How could they possibly be expected to be anything else in the time? And all that is quite unimportant.”
“I agree,” he said. “I find them mighty nice too. I’m glad you like them so well. Will Albania wean you from your devotion to the Yugo-Slavs, do you think?” he asked, turning to gaze rather quizzically at her.
In return, he got that blue stare.
“Do I need weaning from my devotion to the Yugo-Slavs?”
Evidently Miss Glanfield was very capable of self-defence.
“Don’t get mad at me,” Warren hastened to placate her. “I had better tell you right away that I’m an Albanian fan, heart and soul, and you have the name of being the champion of Yugo-Slavia. You’re such a redoubtable champion, I was hoping to enlist some of your sympathy for these people here.”
“I think that may happen without anyone’s help,” said Miss Glanfield quietly, but with a certain emphasis. “But perhaps I should tell you, Mr. Langdon, that my interest in these countries isn’t political at all. I’m much more interested in their economic and social conditions—I don’t dabble in politics.” She gave him a small smile. “So now we both know where we are,” she said.
“The social and economic conditions in this country could do with some looking into,” Warren observed, “and some outside help.”
“I expect so—I hope to see something of all that,” Miss Glanfield replied. “Even in this short time it strikes me that the place is full of undeveloped possibilities. Fruit-growing, for example; it’s obviously an ideal place for that if it could be done scientifically, and the marketing were properly organised, with careful grading and a recognised standard adhered to.”
The American was so delighted with this manifestation of sympathy for his favourite project that he hit the table a resounding bang, making the glasses dance; everyone looked up; Miss Anne peered apprehensively down the table through her pince-nez; Lady Carruthers laughed.
“Lady Carruthers, I beg your pardon.” He turned to his companion. “Miss Glanfield, Ma’am, you’re a wonderful woman! I’ve been preaching fruit-growing in this country for years, and you come and tumble to it in one week!”
“Oh well, I saw the orchards, and asked about it,” said Miss Glanfield deprecatingly. “It’s rather obvious, really, if one knows anything about agriculture.”
“Yes, but how many women do know anything about agriculture?”
“Well, quite a lot of Englishwomen do, as a matter of fact. You see the soil is still an intimate friend, with us, although we’re so heavily industrialised—it’s very curious.”
Warren was charmed. He went on happily talking, his discomfiture over Gloire’s trip quite forgotten. Gloire across the narrow table was near enough to observe what was going on. She was rather intrigued at Miss Glanfield’s particular brand of attack. There was the beautiful rather caressing voice, and there was a sort of impersonal cajolery. Miss Glanfield talked on any subject with ardour and interest, but it was ardour and interest in the subject, not for the person talked to; there was absolutely no hint of coquetry, which she was still quite good-looking enough to employ. And yet it worked! To Gloire this was quite a new technique, but it clearly appealed to Warren; and on the terrace, after lunch, she saw it appealing to the Greek Minister, to another Albanian beside M. Frasheri, and to Mr. Hickson, a small neat man who seemed to be on the Legation staff. As a matter of fact she found that it even appealed a little to her when, just before they left, she again found herself talking to the Englishwoman. They dwelt on the horrors of the Serbia, on George, and on the sights of Cattaro—Miss Glanfield was determined to find out what she had seen, was sympathetic over the horrors, and laughed a great deal. She had a direct, infectious, ready laugh, whose spontaneity was unexpected in a person of her age.
Warren for his part watched them together with interest. He expected there to be a certain latent animosity between two women, both in their own way outstanding, but so totally opposed; instead, there seemed to be if anything a certain sympathy.
Driving home in the car—‘That’s a mighty nice woman,” he observed generally.
“She’s a little exaltée,” Miss Anne remarked.
Gloire said nothing. In her heart she was inclined to agree with them both. Miss Anne as usual had put her finger on it—exaltée was the word for Miss Glanfield.
Chapter Seven
Warren Langdon had very little appetite for his task of tackling General Stanley about Gloire’s trip. More than once he thought of telling her quite definitely that it was impossible. But it was as difficult, and usually as futile to tell Gloire that anything she wanted was impossible as to tell it to a spoilt child: which, by heck, is just what she is!—Warren growled to himself. Also, he had long entertained a sort of indulgent affection for Gloire, to which pity had added itself since her husband’s death; it was this, as much as anything else, which took him round to the General’s villa next morning before lunch.
The General was at home—in fact he was sitting having a drink with one of his Colonels in the small untidy garden, bare in the middle and tangled round the edges, which surrounded his residence—a camp-bed and a tent lay airing in the sun on the sparse weedy grass which did duty for a lawn. The General was a bachelor, and his establishment looked it.
He greeted his visitor cheerfully, and shouted to his servant for another glass; the Colonel made some excuse and took his leave. When they were alone Warren, rather hesitantly, unfolded his errand.
As Sir Arthur had foretold, the General gave a straight answer, without any hesitation at all.
“I’m so sorry, but no can do just now,” he said at once. “As a matter of fact, I can’t spare the men. Miss Glanfield is going at the end of the week, with the Robinsons—it’s in his district, and he was about due to make a round in any case. And—er—I don’t think they know one another; anyhow one can’t very well put a stranger into a party of this kind—close quarters and all that; mightn’t work, might it?”
“You know Mrs. Thurston is British too,” said Warren.
“Yes, yes; of course—but it isn’t quite the same thing,” said the General a little testily. “The Government here is anxious that Miss Glanfield should be given all facilities—I’m terribly sorry, my dear fellow, but you see how it is. Of course, if she happened to be a friend of Miss Glanfield’s it would have been different; they might have joined up then. But as it is, I’m afraid it’s no go.”
So that had been the reason for Sir Arthur’s unhelpfulness, Warren reflected gloomily, as Cyril whirled him homewards through the dusty untidy streets. It was quite understandable, he admitted; and Gloire didn’t look in the least the sort of person who would be anything but an encumbrance on such a trip.
Luncheon was waiting when he got home—Gloire, idly glorious in flowered beach pyjamas, at which Miss Anne glanced with restrained disapproval, sat between them.
“The Carruthers are being very energetic about Miss Glanfield,” Miss Anne pronounced. “They’ve sent cards for a cocktail party on Tuesday. Do we have to go, do you think? All that way again, twice in a week?”
“Why, I should say we might as well,” Warren answered. “How about you, Gloire?”
“Oh yes, let’s go,” Gloire drawled. “I like that funny house.”
“I like Miss Glanfield,” said Warren. “Yes, let’s go, Anne.”
Miss Anne always retired to her room on Sundays after lunch, with such issues of the “Christian Science Monitor” as had recently percolated to Tirana; Warren and Gloire moved to the farther end of the garden-room, and when the servants had brought coffee and cleared the table, Warren rather timorously reported his mission to the General and its result. Gloire, as he had expected, was indignant and hurt.
“How lousy!” she exclaimed. “Really, how unspeakably lousy of him!”
“Why Gloire, you can’t really be surprised. It means taking an officer and goodness knows how many men off their ordinary duties, just to cart you around. You can’t expect it. It’s quite different for Miss Glanfield—the Government want her to go, so she can write it all up. You can’t do that.”
“I don’t suppose she’d have minded me going along,” said Gloire mutinously, pushing the floor with her foot and swinging to and fro.
“Now, Gloire, I do beg that you will leave it alone,” said Warren, instantly alarmed. “I’ve risked, and gotten, two rebuffs, trying to give you what you wanted. You must realise that you can’t always have things just the way you wish them. It’s time you grew up,” said Warren, for once exasperated into frankness of speech, “and learned that your whims don’t just rule the world!”
To his dismay, Gloire burst into tears.
“It wasn’t a whim,” she sobbed out. “It was something else. I wanted to go! Oh damn! damn!” She sprang off the swing seat, and whirled away to her room.
It was another hot, glorious and glittering day when they drove over to Durazzo for the Carruthers’ cocktail. Miss Anne as usual insisted on starting excessively early. At the further end of the causeway, just short of the town, where the road still ran between low banks, topped with straggling hedges wreathed in purple vetch and a still deeper purple clematis, they saw two people emerging from the swampy ground by the lagoon; they were wading half-way up to their knees in water, but presently they scrambled up the bank onto the road and stood there; the man shook his feet, one after the other, like a wet cat; his companion was a woman, for she unkilted her skirt, which had been held above her knees by a belt, and let it fall to a normal length.