by H. E. Bates
In one swift movement she turned from the old man to Henry and then back to the old man again, smiling at the youth with half-grave, half-vivacious eyes. And there was the same mischievous solemnity in her voice.
‘He’s the new gardener,’ she said.
‘Eh?’
‘The new gardener. Here, take the book. Read a little till I come back. From the top of the page there. You see?’
‘What? I’d like some tea.’
‘All right.’
‘It’s not so frightfully warm in here either,’ he said pettishly.
‘Keep your dressing-gown buttoned. You’re not likely to be warm. See, button it up.’
She fingered the buttons of his dressing-gown, quickly, impatiently. And then, while he still protested and complained, she walked swiftly across the room, opened the far door and vanished into the passage outside. In bewilderment Henry followed her. She shut the door quickly behind him.
‘Well, now I’ll see you out,’ she said.
She began to walk away along the passage and he followed her, a step or two behind. She walked quickly with long, impatient steps, so that he had difficulty in keeping up.
They walked along in silence except for the sound of her dress swishing along the carpet until he recognised the window at which he had stood and looked down in the choir.
‘I’m all right now,’ he said. He began to utter dim thanks and apologies.
‘Go and enjoy yourself,’ she said. ‘Have you seen the lake?’
‘No,’
‘Go and see it. Across the park and through the rhododendron plantation. You’ll find it. It’s lovely.’
Before he could speak again she had turned away. There was a brief flash of maroon in the passage, the sound of her feet running quickly after she had vanished. He waited a moment. But nothing happened, there was only a curious, almost audible hush everywhere. Outside the singing had ceased. He moved towards the stairs in a state of dejected and tense astonishment.
III
The singing was over for the afternoon. There was nothing to do but wander about the lawns and terraces or take tea in the large flagged tea-tent. Privileged ladies were playing croquet on a small lawn under the main terrace, giggling nervously as they struck the bright-coloured balls. Gentlemen in straw boaters and pin-striped cream flannel trousers with wide silk waist-bands applauded their shots delicately. There was an oppressive feeling of summer languor, a parade of gay hats and parasols and sweeping dresses. Henry went into the tea-tent for a cup of tea to escape the boredom of it all. Coming out again he met the fishmonger.
‘Cheer up,’ said the fishmonger.
‘Oh! I’m all right.’ He put on a casual air. ‘I was wondering which was the way to the lake.’
‘The lake?’ said the fishmonger. His eyes began to dance like little bubbling peas as soon as he heard the word. The lake? What did he want with the lake? Becoming quite excited, he took hold of Henry’s coat-sleeve confidentially and led him across the lawn. So he wanted to know the way to the lake? Well! Very strange. He wondered what he wanted with the lake? Not for fish by any chance? Oh! no, not for fish. Perhaps he didn’t even know there were fish in the lake? Henry protested. He cut him short:
‘Ah, you’re dark, you’re dark.’
Finally, losing a little of his excitement, he began to tell him of the days when, as a young man, he had fished in the lake. Fish! They hadn’t breathing room. They were the days. But now there hadn’t been fish, not a solitary fish, not a stickleback, pulled out of that lake for twenty years. ‘Not since old Antonio came.’ It was a shame, wickedness. He began to talk with lugubrious regret. Who was Antonio? Henry asked. The fishmonger echoed the words with tenor astonishment, his voice squeaking. Antonio? Hadn’t he seen him running about all over the place — ‘T’ank you a t’ousand times! T’ank you a t’ousand times!’ So that was Antonio? Yes, Antonio Serelli. It was he who was mad on singing and had the choirs come every summer. It was he who hadn’t allowed a line in the lake for twenty years. ‘In the old days you could give a keeper a drink and fish all day.’ But not now. Antonio wouldn’t allow it. The police had instructions to keep their eyes open for anyone carrying anything that looked like a rod. And Antonio would go mad if he heard a fish had been hooked. But then he was mad. They were all mad, the whole family, always had been. The girl and all.
‘The girl?’ Henry repeated. ‘Who is she?’
‘Maddalena?’ The fishmonger shook his head. He didn’t know anything about Maddalena. He’d never seen her. She never came out. He only knew old Antonio.
‘And what’s their name?’
‘Serelli.’
‘Which must be Italian.’
‘Half and half. Don’t do to inquire too much into the ins and outs of the aristocracy.’
Finally he pointed out the path going down through a plantation of rhododendrons to the lake and Henry climbed over the high iron fence of the park.
‘Keep your eyes open,’ the fishmonger whispered. ‘They say he’s down there every night. Singing the fish to sleep I shouldn’t wonder.’
Henry left him and walked down through the rhododendrons to the lake. It was larger than he had imagined, a wide oval of water, stretching for a quarter of a mile before him and on either hand. A thick wood came down on the opposite shore to the fringe of reeds and wild iris fronds. The water was still and smooth until a pair of wild duck, frightened by his coming, shot up and flew high and swift over the alders darkening the bank, their feet dripping silver, their long necks craned to the sun, their alarmed quack-quacking splitting the warm silence. The water-rings, undulating gently away, struck islands of water lilies with a soft flopping sound. Under the sun-shot water countless lily-buds were pushing up like dim magnolias and on the surface wide-open flowers floated like saucers of white and yellow china.
As he walked along the lakeside he could still hear the faint cries that rose from the crowded lawns, and now and then the clock of croquet balls. Hearing them he thought of how he had wandered about the lawns and gardens trying to find courage enough to go into the house again in the hope of seeing for a second time the girl who had been reading to the old man. He could not forget the melancholy intensity of her face. But when finally he had hurried along the terrace the door had been locked.
He walked along by the lake. The grass was spongy and noiseless to walk on, the air very still and warm under the shelter of the rhododendrons, and pigeons made a soft complaint in the silence.
Abruptly he was aware of something moving on the opposite bank. He half stopped and looked. It seemed like a group of yellow irises fluttered by a little deliberate wind. Then he saw that it was someone in a yellow dress. The sleeve was waving. He stopped quite still. The sleeve seemed to be making signals for him to go on.
He began to walk slowly along the bank and the woman on the opposite bank began to walk along in the same direction, hurrying. At the end of the lake, where the water sluiced in, was a wooden bridge. The woman began to run as she approached it. Her dress was very long and hampered her movements and she paused on the bridge to straighten her skirt and then hurried on again to meet him.
‘You shouldn’t come along here, you know,’ she began to say, as she approached him.
She seemed to be very agitated. Henry stopped. He felt that she had not recognised him.
‘I am very sorry,’ he said.
And then, perhaps because of his voice, she recognised him. Her face broke into a half smile, but the agitation remained:
‘But you shouldn’t, you shouldn’t,’ she kept saying.
‘But it was you who told me to come.’
‘It makes no difference.’
He did not speak. All this time they had stood at a distance from each other, four or five yards between them. Now she came nearer. In the house he had thought of her as very young, a girl. Now, as she came nearer, she seemed much older. He took her now for twenty-seven or eight. And perhaps because of the yellow dress she
seemed darker too. Her eyes were utterly black, not merely dark, and brilliant without the faintest mistiness, like black glass. And she seemed taller also and her body finer in shape, again perhaps because of the yellow dress, and her skin had a kind of creamy duskiness, soft, very smooth, a rich duskiness that had covered also her heavy southern lips and her straight black hair.
Staring at her, he was still at a loss for something to say. She had begun to bite her lower lip, hard, making little white teeth-prints on the dusky flesh, as though in agitation or perplexity. And it occurred to him suddenly why she did not want him there. She had come down not to meet him, but someone else. And she was angry and troubled at finding him there.
‘I’m very sorry,’ he said again. ‘But I’ll go at once.’
He put his hand to his straw hat. She startled him by saying instantly:
‘I’ll walk back with you.’ And then added: ‘I’m going back the same way.’
It looked as if she didn’t trust him. But he said nothing. A path slanted up the slope through the rhododendrons and they began to walk up it. The rhododendrons, old wild misshapen bushes, were full of withered seed-heads. He said something about their having looked wonderful in early summer. She did not answer. He thought she seemed preoccupied. Once, without stopping, she glanced back at the lake as though looking for someone, and as she turned back he remarked:
‘It’s been a wonderful day.’
‘Yes,’ she said. She said it unthinkingly, the word meant nothing. And suddenly she added:
‘You think so?’
And, as she spoke, she was smiling, an extraordinary smile, vivacious, dark, allusive. It had in it something both tender and mocking.
‘You don’t think so?’ she said.
‘No, perhaps not.’
She seemed to feel instinctively that he was bored. He felt it. And he felt that she might have triumphed over him for knowing, but she said nothing, and they walked slowly on up the path.
All the time he wondered why she had been so agitated at finding him by the lake. And finally he asked.
‘I didn’t recognise you,’ she said.
That was all. He didn’t believe her. And she sensed his unbelief at once. She looked quickly at him and he smiled. She smiled in return, the same vivacious tender smile as before, and in a moment they were intimate. She said then:
‘I didn’t want you to get into any unpleasantness, that’s all.’
‘What unpleasantness?’
‘Well, the lake is private. The fish are preserved and there are keepers and so on.’
He said nothing, but at heart he was disappointed at leaving the lake.
‘You’re not disappointed?’ she said at once.
‘Yes,’ he said.
And then she did an extraordinary thing. She suddenly lifted her arms with a gesture of almost mocking abandonment and declared:
‘All right. We’ll go back.’
He protested. But she turned and began to walk back down the path to the lake, not heeding him. He turned and followed her, a yard or two behind, protesting again. And suddenly she let out a laugh and began to run. For a moment he stood still with astonishment and then he ran after her.
At the bottom of the path she paused and waited for him. She was still laughing.
‘What shall we do?’ she said recklessly. ‘There’s a punt. We could go out on the lake.’
‘All right.’ He was ready for anything.
And then, as suddenly as she had turned and run down the path, she was saying:
‘No, I mustn’t. You must excuse me. I must go back.’
‘Don’t go,’ he said.
She caught the tone of entreaty in his voice. And it seemed to hurt her. Her eyes filled with pain, then abruptly with swimming wetness, and he stood still, too astounded to speak, while she bent her head and let the tears fall helplessly down her face. She began to cry with the helplessness of utter dejection, like someone worn out, not even lifting her hands to her face to hide it, but letting them hang spiritlessly at her side, not moving. She hardly made a sound, as though her tears were flooding away her strength. And when gradually she ceased crying and at last lifted her head she never uttered a word of apology or excuse or regret. But she gave him one amazing look, her black eyes swimming with many conflicting emotions; anger, helplessness, dejection, bitterness, fear and pain.
A moment later they were walking back up the path again. He could not speak. She dried her eyes with the sleeve of her dress, making a little yellow handkerchief of it. He felt that there was something unforgettably strange and touching about her, about her beauty, her amazing changes of mood, her tears and her silence.
And just as he had given up the idea of her ever speaking again, she made a sort of excuse, half for her tears, half for her behaviour on first seeing him:
‘My brother might be very angry if he knew people had been down by the lake. And that might mean the end of the singing contests.’
That was all. It was very lame, very unconvincing, but he said:
‘I understand.’
She must have felt that the excuse was poor and that he didn’t understand, for a moment later she began to tell him, half apologetically, something about her brother: of how he was passionately fond of music, of singing especially. Twenty years before, her father had brought her mother to live there. Her father had been an English doctor and her mother Italian, an opera singer, a very gay woman, but a little irresponsible. Now that her father and mother were dead the brother and sister lived alone in the place and the brother devoted himself to music.
‘He lives for nothing else,’ she concluded.
She told him all this quietly, a little disjointedly, offering it as an excuse. But there was a curious bitterness in her voice, sharpest when she said ‘He lives for nothing else.’ He said nothing at all and by the time she had finished speaking they had reached the crest of the path.
There they paused. Across the park, through the thick summer trees, they could see the tent with its flags, the fluttering panorama of dresses across the lawns, the flowers on the terraces. And as they stood there the evening singing began, the harmony of male voices low and soft but very clear on the still evening air. They listened a moment; the choir was singing ‘Calm was the Sea’, and the voices, falling, crooned away almost to silence. There was a gate in the iron fence beyond the rhododendrons. The woman put her hand on the latch and he pushed it open and she slipped through and before he could say anything she smiled and was going away in the direction of the trees.
Just before she disappeared she turned as if to wave her hand and then, as though remembering something, she let it fall loosely to her side.
IV
It was nearly midnight, the sky was clear and dark, a pattern of blue and starlight. Down the avenue of elms the line of conveyances gave departing winks of light. The horses hoofs made hollow clock-clocking echoes under the roof of thick leaves. The air was still warm. There was a scent of limes, an odour of horses, an acrid whiff of candles from the carriage lamps. Above the noises of departure a thin emasculate voice kept piping continually:
‘T’ank you a t’ousand times! T’ank you a t’ousand times. T’ank you so much.’
It was all over. Henry was in the brake, squeezed between the fishmonger and the school teacher who sat half lost already in a pair of dark entwining arms; the brake was moving away, the lamplight was shining down the avenue, the lawn with its web of fairy-lights, azure and red and emerald and gold, was receding, fading, vanishing at last.
‘Well, it’s been a grand day. And if you ask me we done well. Yes, it’s been grand. I’m satisfied. I shan’t be sorry when I’m going up wooden hill, now. I like my rest.’ The voices of the women were tired, disjointed, the words broken by yawns. A mutter of dissatisfaction ran among the men. They had won the second prize, there had been some unfairness, they had expected the first, they were sure of it, they had sung beautifully. The judges were too old, they were finicky,
they had been prejudiced. The voices of the men, discussing it, were petty, regretful. ‘A day wasted, I call it.’ Little arguments flamed up in the darkness. ‘Ah! not so strong. It’s been grand.’ Jokes cracked out, someone made the sweet wet sound of a kiss, laughter flickered and died, the petty arguments were renewed. A woman suddenly complained: ‘There! and I forgot my honeysuckle,’ and a voice quietened her from the darkness: ‘Come here and I’ll give you something sweeter’n honeysuckle.’
The brake went slowly on into dark vague country. The night was warm and soundless, the houses were little grey haystacks clustered together, the woods were blacker and deeper. It was like a tranquil dream: the lovely glitter of summer starlight, the restfulness of the dark sky after the glare of sunshine.
Henry sat silent, only half-conscious of what the voices about him said. He was thinking of the woman: he could see her in the room with the old man, he could see her crying by the lake and half-waving her hand. He could see her clearly and could hear her voice unmistakably; yet he felt at times that she had never existed.
The fishmonger broke in upon his thoughts, his breath sweetish with wine, his voice a little thick and excited:
‘Remember I was tellin’ you about old Fiddlesticks, Antonio? I been havin’ a glass o’ wine with him.’
Henry only nodded.
‘Would make me have it. Dragged me into the house. Drawing-room. Kept shaking hands wimme. Nice fellow, old Antonio. You’d like him. Nice wine an’ all — beautiful — like spring water. Made your heart sing, fair made your heart sing.’
His voice trailed off and he sat silent, as though overawed by these memories. Thinking of the woman, Henry said nothing. His mind puzzled over her with tender perplexity. Who was she? Why had she wept? What was she doing now?
The fishmonger broke in again, a little garrulously:
‘Did I tell you the old man came in? No? Came in about half-way through the second glass. Dirty old dressing-gown, all gravy and slobber down the front. I tell you, nobody knows how the rich live only those who do know. Had the girl with him. In a yellow dress. Know who I mean? The girl who never comes out, never goes nowhere.’