The Enchanted April

by Elizabeth Von Arnim

  Chapter 9

  That one of the two sitting-rooms which Mrs. Fisher had taken forher own was a room of charm and character. She surveyed it withsatisfaction on going into it after breakfast, and was glad it washers. It had a tiled floor, and walls the colour of pale honey, andinlaid furniture the colour of amber, and mellow books, many in ivoryor lemon-coloured covers. There was a big window overlooking the seatowards Genoa, and a glass door through which she could proceed outon to the battlements and walk along past the quaint and attractivewatch-tower, in itself a room with chairs and a writing table, to whereon the other side of the tower the battlements ended in a marble seat,and one could see the western bay and the point round which began theGulf of Spezia. Her south view, between these two stretches of sea,was another hill, higher than San Salvatore, the last of the littlepeninsula, with the bland turrets of a smaller and uninhabited castleon the top, on which the setting sun still shone when everything elsewas sunk in shadow. Yes, she was very comfortably established here;and receptacles--Mrs. Fisher did not examine their nature closely, butthey seemed to be small stone troughs, or perhaps little sarcophagi--ringed round the battlements with flowers.

  These battlements, she thought, considering them, would have beena perfect place for her to pace up and down gently in moments when sheleast felt the need of her stick, or to sit in on the marble seat,having first put a cushion on it, if there had not unfortunately been asecond glass door opening on to them, destroying their completeprivacy, spoiling her feeling that the place was only for her. Thesecond door belonged to the round drawing-room, which both she and LadyCaroline had rejected as too dark. That room would probably be sat inby the women from Hampstead, and she was afraid they would not confinethemselves to sitting in it, but would come out through the glass doorand invade her battlements. This would ruin the battlements. It wouldruin them as far as she was concerned if they were to be overrun; oreven if, not actually overrun, they were liable to be raked by theeyes of persons inside the room. No one could be perfectly atease if they were being watched and knew it. What she wanted, what shesurely had a right to, was privacy. She had no wish to intrude on theothers; why then should they intrude on her? And she could alwaysrelax her privacy if, when she became better acquainted with hercompanions, she should think it worth while, but she doubted whetherany of the three would so develop as to make her think it worth while.

  Hardly anything was really worth while, reflected Mrs. Fisher,except the past. It was astonishing, it was simply amazing, thesuperiority of the past to the present. Those friends of hers inLondon, solid persons of her own age, knew the same past that she knew,could talk about it with her, could compare it as she did with thetinkling present, and in remembering great men forget for a moment thetrivial and barren young people who still, in spite of the war, seemedto litter the world in such numbers. She had not come away from thesefriends, these conversable ripe friends, in order to spend her time inItaly chatting with three persons of another generation and defectiveexperience; she had come away merely to avoid the treacheries of aLondon April. It was true what she had told the two who came to Princeof Wales Terrace, that all she wished to do at San Salvatore was to sitby herself in the sun and remember. They knew this, for she had toldthem. It had been plainly expressed and clearly understood. Thereforeshe had a right to expect them to stay inside the round drawing-roomand not to emerge interruptingly on to her battlements.

  But would they? The doubt spoilt her morning. It was onlytowards lunch-time that she saw a way to be quite safe, and ringing forFrancesca, bade her, in slow and majestic Italian, shut the shutters ofthe glass door of the round drawing-room, and then, going with her intothe room, which had become darker than ever in consequence, but also,Mrs. Fisher observed to Francesca, who was being voluble, would becauseof this very darkness remain agreeably cool, and after all there werethe numerous slit-windows in the walls to let in light and it wasnothing to do with her if they did not let it in, she directed theplacing of a cabinet of curios across the door on its inside.

  This would discourage egress.

  Then she rang for Domenico, and caused him to move one of theflower-filled sarcophagi across the door on its outside.

  This would discourage ingress.

  "No one," said Domenico, hesitating, "will be able to use thedoor."

  "No one," said Mrs. Fisher firmly, "will wish to."

  She then retired to her sitting-room, and from a chair placedwhere she could look straight on to them, gazed at her battlements,secured to her now completely, with calm pleasure.

  Being here, she reflected placidly, was much cheaper than beingin an hotel and, if she could keep off the others, immeasurably moreagreeable. She was paying for her rooms--extremely pleasant rooms, nowthat she was arranged in them--L3 a week, which came to about eightshillings a day, battlements, watch-tower and all. Where else abroadcould she live as well for so little, and have as many baths as shelike, for eight shillings a day? Of course she did not yet know whather food would cost, but she would insist on carefulness over that,though she would also insist on its being carefulness combined withexcellence. The two were perfectly compatible if the caterer tookpains. The servants' wages, she had ascertained, were negligible,owing to the advantageous exchange, so that there was only the food tocause her anxiety. If she saw signs of extravagance she would proposethat they each hand over a reasonable sum every week to Lady Carolinewhich should cover the bills, any of it that was not used to bereturned, and if it were exceeded the loss to be borne by the caterer.

  Mrs. Fisher was well off and had the desire for comforts properto her age, but she disliked expenses. So well off was she that, hadshe so chosen, she could have lived in an opulent part of London anddriven from it and to it in a Rolls-Royce. She had no such wish. Itneeded more vitality than went with true comfort to deal with a housein an opulent spot and a Rolls-Royce. Worries attended suchpossessions, worries of every kind, crowned by bills. In the sobergloom of Prince of Wales Terrace she could obscurely enjoy inexpensiveyet real comfort, without being snatched at by predatory men-servantsor collectors for charities, and a taxi stand was at the end of theroad. Her annual outlay was small. The house was inherited. Deathhad furnished it for her. She trod in the dining-room on the Turkeycarpet of her fathers; she regulated her day by the excellent blackmarble clock on the mantelpiece which she remembered from childhood; herwalls were entirely covered by the photographs her illustrious deceasedfriends had given either herself or her father, with their ownhandwriting across the lower parts of their bodies, and the windows,shrouded by the maroon curtains of all her life, were decorated besideswith the selfsame aquariums to which she owed her first lessons insealore, and in which still swam slowly the goldfishes of her youth.

  Were they the same goldfish? She did not know. Perhaps, likecarp, they outlived everybody. Perhaps, on the other hand, behind thedeep-sea vegetation provided for them at the bottom, they had from timeto time as the years went by withdrawn and replaced themselves. Werethey or were they not, she sometimes wondered, contemplating thembetween the courses of her solitary means, the same goldfish that hadthat day been there when Carlyle--how well she remembered it--angrilystrode up to them in the middle of some argument with her father thathad grown heated, and striking the glass smartly with his fist had putthem to flight, shouting as they fled, "Och, ye deaf devils! Och, yelucky deaf devils! Ye can't hear anything of the blasted, blethering,doddering, glaikit fool-stuff yer maister talks, can ye?" Or words tothat effect.

  Dear, great-souled Carlyle. Such natural gushings forth; suchtrue freshness; such real grandeur. Rugged, if you will--yes,undoubtedly sometimes rugged, and startling in a drawing-room, butmagnificent. Who was there now to put beside him? Who was there tomention in the same breath? Her father, than whom no one had had moreflair, said: "Thomas is immortal." And here was this generation, thisgeneration of puniness, raising its little voice in doubts, or, stillworse, not giving itself the trouble
to raise it at all, not--it wasincredible, but it had been thus reported to her--even reading him.Mrs. Fisher did not read him either, but that was different. She hadread him; she had certainly read him. Of course she had read him.There was Teufelsdroeck--she quite well remembered a tailor calledTeufelsdroeck. So like Carlyle to call him that. Yes, she must haveread him, though naturally details escaped her.

  The gong sounded. Lost in reminiscence Mrs. Fisher had forgottentime, and hastened to her bedroom to wash her hands and smoothe herhair. She did not wish to be late and set a bad example, and perhapsfind her seat at the head of the table taken. One could put no trustin the manners of the younger generation especially not in those ofthat Mrs. Wilkins.

  She was, however, the first to arrive in the dining-room.Francesca in a white apron stood ready with an enormous dish of smokinghot, glistening macaroni, but nobody was there to eat it.

  Mrs. Fisher sat down, looking stern. Lax, lax.

  "Serve me," she said to Francesca, who showed a disposition towait for the others.

  Francesca served her. Of the party she liked Mrs. Fisher least,in fact she did not like her at all. She was the only one of the fourladies who had not yet smiled. True she was old, true she wasunbeautiful, true she therefore had no reason to smile, but kind ladiessmiled, reason or no. They smiled, not because they were happy butbecause they wished to make happy. This one of the four ladies couldnot then, Francesca decided, be kind; so she handed her the macaroni,being unable to hide any of her feelings, morosely.

  It was very well cooked, but Mrs. Fisher had never cared formaccaroni, especially not this long, worm-shaped variety. She found itdifficult to eat--slippery, wriggling off her fork, making her look,she felt, undignified when, having got it as she supposed into hermouth, ends of it yet hung out. Always, too, when she ate it she wasreminded of Mr. Fisher. He had during their married life behaved verymuch like maccaroni. He had slipped, he had wriggled, he had made herfeel undignified, and when at last she had got him safe, as shethought, there had invariably been little bits of him that still, as itwere, hung out.

  Francesca from the sideboard watched Mrs. Fisher's way withmacaroni gloomily, and her gloom deepened when she saw her at last takeher knife to it and chop it small.

  Mrs. Fisher really did not know how else to get hold of thestuff. She was aware that knives in this connection were improper, butone did finally lose patience. Maccaroni was never allowed to appearon her table in London. Apart from its tiresomeness she did not evenlike it, and she would tell Lady Caroline not to order it again. Yearsof practice, reflected Mrs. Fisher, chopping it up, years of actualliving in Italy, would be necessary to learn the exact trick. Browningmanaged maccaroni wonderfully. She remembered watching him one daywhen he came to lunch with her father, and a dish of it had beenordered as a compliment to his connection with Italy. Fascinating, theway it went in. No chasing round the plate, no slidings off the fork,no subsequent protrusions of loose ends--just one dig, one whisk, onethrust, one gulp, and lo, yet another poet had been nourished.

  "Shall I go and seek the young lady?" asked Francesca, unable anylonger to look on a good maccaroni being cut with a knife.

  Mrs. Fisher came out of her reminiscent reflections withdifficulty. "She knows lunch is at half-past twelve," she said. "Theyall know."

  "She may be asleep," said Francesca. "The other ladies arefurther away, but this one is not far away."

  "Beat the gong again then," said Mrs. Fisher.

  What manners, she thought; what, what manners. It was not anhotel, and considerations were due. She must say she was surprised atMrs. Arbuthnot, who had not looked like somebody unpunctual. LadyCaroline, too--she had seemed amiable and courteous, whatever else shemight be. From the other one, of course, she expected nothing.

  Francesca fetched the gong, and took it out into the garden andadvanced, beating it as she advanced, close up to Lady Caroline, who,still stretched in her low chair, waited till she had done, and thenturned her head and in the sweetest tones poured forth what appeared tobe music but was really invective.

  Francesca did not recognize the liquid flow as invective; how wasshe to, when it came out sounding like that? And with her face allsmiles, for she could not but smile when she looked at this young lady,she told her the maccaroni was getting cold.

  "When I do not come to meals it is because I do not wish to cometo meals," said the irritated Scrap, "and you will not in futuredisturb me."

  "Is she ill?" asked Francesca, sympathetic but unable to stopsmiling. Never, never had she seen hair so beautiful. Like pure flax;like the hair of northern babes. On such a little head only blessingcould rest, on such a little head the nimbus of the holiest saintscould fitly be placed.

  Scrap shut her eyes and refused to answer. In this she wasinjudicious, for its effect was to convince Francesca, who hurried awayfull of concern to tell Mrs. Fisher, that she was indisposed. And Mrs.Fisher, being prevented, she explained, from going out to Lady Carolineherself because of her stick, sent the two others instead, who had comein at that moment heated and breathless and full of excuses, while sheherself proceeded to the next course, which was a very well-madeomelette, bursting most agreeably at both its ends with young greenpeas.

  "Serve me," she directed Francesca, who again showed adisposition to wait for the others.

  "Oh, why won't they leave me alone?" Scrap asked herself when sheheard more scrunchings on the little pebbles which took the place ofgrass, and therefore knew some one else was approaching.

  She kept her eyes tight shut this time. Why should she go in tolunch if she didn't want to? This wasn't a private house; she was inno way tangled up in duties towards a tiresome hostess. For allpractical purposes San Salvatore was an hotel, and she ought to be letalone to eat or not to eat exactly as if she really had been in anhotel.

  But the unfortunate Scrap could not just sit still and close hereyes without rousing that desire to stroke and pet in her beholderswith which she was only too familiar. Even the cook had patted her.And now a gentle hand--how well she knew and how much she dreadedgentle hands--was placed on her forehead.

  "I'm afraid you're not well," said a voice that was not Mrs.Fisher's, and therefore must belong to one of the originals.

  "I have a headache," murmured Scrap. Perhaps it was best to saythat; perhaps it was the shortest cut to peace.

  "I'm so sorry," said Mrs. Arbuthnot softly, for it was her handbeing gentle.

  "And I," said Scrap to herself, "who thought if I came here Iwould escape mothers."

  "Don't you think some tea would do you good?" asked Mrs.Arbuthnot tenderly.

  "Tea? The idea was abhorrent to Scrap. In this heat to bedrinking tea in the middle of the day. . .

  "No," she murmured.

  "I expect what would really be best for her," said another voice,"is to be left quiet."

  How sensible, thought Scrap; and raised the eye-lashes of one eyejust enough to peep through and see who was speaking.

  It was the freckled original. The dark one, then, was the onewith the hand. The freckled one rose in her esteem.

  "But I can't bear to think of you with a headache and nothingbeing done for it," said Mrs. Arbuthnot. "Would a cup of strong blackcoffee--?"

  Scrap said no more. She waited, motionless and dumb, till Mrs.Arbuthnot should remove her hand. After all, she couldn't stand thereall day, and when she went away she would have to take her hand withher.

  "I do think," said the freckled one, "that she wants nothingexcept quiet."

  And perhaps the freckled one pulled the one with the hand by thesleeve, for the hold on Scrap's forehead relaxed, and after a minute'ssilence, during which no doubt she was being contemplated--she wasalways being contemplated--the footsteps began to scrunch the pebblesagain, and grew fainter, and were gone.

  "Lady Caroline has a headache," said Mrs. Arbuthnot, re-enteringthe dining-room and sitting down in her place next to Mrs. Fisher. "Ican't persuade her to have eve
n a little tea, or some black coffee. Doyou know what aspirin is in Italian?"

  "The proper remedy for headaches," said Mrs. Fisher firmly, "iscastor oil."

  "But she hasn't got a headache," said Mrs. Wilkins.

  "Carlyle," said Mrs. Fisher, who had finished her omelette andhad leisure, while she waited for the next course, to talk, "sufferedat one period terribly from headaches, and he constantly took castoroil as a remedy. He took it, I should say, almost to excess, andcalled it, I remember, in his interesting way the oil of sorrow. Myfather said it coloured for a time his whole attitude to life, hiswhole philosophy. But that was because he took too much. What LadyCaroline wants is one dose, and one only. It is a mistake to keep ontaking castor oil."

  "Do you know the Italian for it?" asked Mrs. Arbuthnot.

  "Ah, that I'm afraid I don't. However, she would know. You canask her."

  "But she hasn't got a headache," repeated Mrs. Wilkins, who wasstruggling with the maccaroni. "She only wants to be let alone."

  They both looked at her. The word shovel crossed Mrs. Fisher'smind in connection with Mrs. Wilkins's actions at that moment.

  "Then why should she say she has?" asked Mrs. Arbuthnot.

  "Because she is still trying to be polite. Soon she won't try,when the place has got more into her--she'll really be it. Withouttrying. Naturally."

  "Lotty, you see," explained Mrs. Arbuthnot, smiling to Mrs.Fisher, who sat waiting with a stony patience for her next course,delayed because Mrs. Wilkins would go on trying to eat the maccaroni,which must be less worth eating than ever now that it was cold; "Lotty,you see, has a theory about this place--"

  But Mrs. Fisher had no wish to hear any theory of Mrs. Wilkins's.

  "I am sure I don't know," she interrupted, looking severely atMrs. Wilkins, "why you should assume Lady Caroline is not telling thetruth."

  "I don't assume--I know." said Mrs. Wilkins.

  "And pray how do you know?" asked Mrs. Fisher icily, for Mrs.Wilkins was actually helping herself to more maccaroni, offered herofficiously and unnecessarily a second time by Francesca.

  "When I was out there just now I saw inside her."

  Well, Mrs. Fisher wasn't going to say anything to that; shewasn't going to trouble to reply to downright idiocy. Instead shesharply rapped the little table-gong by her side, though there wasFrancesca standing at the sideboard, and said, for she would wait nolonger for her next course, "Serve me."

  And Francesca--it must have been wilful--offered her themaccaroni again.