by Ann Bridge
And then Thomas died, leaving his family remarkably ill provided for. After the habit of Victorian husbands, his only communications to his wife on the subject of money had been to complain of the size of the cheques he was asked to draw, whether for housekeeping, dress, schools, or pocket-money; but as he always had drawn them, apparently without inconvenience, and had never given his Louisa any inkling of what his income was, or how much they could really afford to spend, it was hardly surprising that she, after the manner of Victorian wives, assumed that there was plenty, and extorted all she could in the way of cheques in order to give the children the clothes, the amusements and the amount of entertaining that she felt they ought to have. After his death she had a rude awakening. Dr. Prestwich, throughout his life, had lived well up to an extremely handsome income; and except for her marriage settlement and a thumping life insurance, there was little or nothing put by.
There was the practice, which in due course was sold, and sold fairly well. There was also the house, and since largish Victorian houses were already becoming difficult to dispose of, after some fruitless attempts they decided to stay on in it, with a diminished indoor and outdoor staff. The two boys were already earning their own living, but no more; Almina and May had completed their education, but the three younger girls were still at school. Mrs. Prestwich, at last with a grasp of the situation which in all her married life she had never been allowed, found eventually, when everything was settled up, that they would be able to carry on, but every possible economy would be necessary. Almina, for instance, who had had this very expensive new University education, ought to earn something. Mrs. Prestwich had never been really convinced in her heart as to the desirability of the higher education for girls—she thought it made them critical at home, and unfitted them for social life; she didn’t care for the tone of most of Almina’s college friends, and they were usually dreadfully dowdy. It was Dr. Prestwich, with the firm faith in education of a man who owes much to his own, who had insisted on sending Almina to Oxford. But since she had had the education, she had better make use of it. Mrs. Prestwich knew quite well the use Almina wanted to make of it—to do some research into the early Italian poets and their contemporary history and eventually to write a book about them. But that meant continued expense for ever so long—being boarded with people at Oxford to be within reach of books, or at the best living unremuneratively at home. It would mean skimping on the three little girls, who ought to have their chance. After those miserable wrestlings with figures, on sheets of paper covered with estimates of this and that, poor Mrs. Prestwich, shamefacedly and wretchedly, took her eldest daughter aside and made the admission which the Victorian parent found so unbearably mortifying—that money really was extremely short, and that if she could possibly start earning something, she had better.
Almina, greatly to her mother’s relief, took the whole thing very calmly and sensibly. She had been brought up in high principles of duty, obligation and unselfishness—the duty and obligation to express oneself and live one’s own life were then not so fashionable as they have since become; in fact the very words connoted a sense of responsibility to others, and especially to one’s parents. Besides this, Almina was happy enough to have a spontaneous and unforced affection for her Mother; they had sufficient instinctive sympathy for the relationship to be both easy and strong. She agreed at once, and set about looking for a job. In her heart of hearts she hoped for something reasonably academic, such as teacher in some rather advanced high-school. But her Mother had other views. Among the old friends with whom she had so carefully maintained contact was a certain Lydia Charlbury, who had married a Prince Asquini about the same time that Louisa Heycote married Tom Prestwich. When it was at last settled that Almina was to “earn,” Mrs. Prestwich determined that she should earn as much, and in a manner which held as many social possibilities as might be. She wrote to Princess Asquini and invoked her good offices to find a post for Almina as governess in Italy; if one must be a governess, it was both more interesting and less obvious to be a governess abroad. And before Almina’s answers to advertisements and consultations had led to any definite offer of a job, Mrs. Prestwich was able to produce the appointment of being governess to the daughter of the Marchesa di Vill’ Alta—a high salary, Rome in winter, the country in summer; delightful people, the Princess wrote, in the first society, and a household where “there was always a great deal going on.” It sounded perfect, and it was promptly arranged; slightly to Almina’s secret dismay, greatly to Mrs. Prestwich’s satisfaction.
Coming into her daughter’s bedroom now, to go through her things and make sure that all was right, Mrs. Prestwich had something of a shock. At the sound of the door opening Almina turned round on the chair towards it; she was still wearing the green hat, over a nun’s-veiling blouse which had been white, but had washed to cream-colour. And, as May had been, Mrs. Prestwich was startled by her daughter’s appearance. Certainly at that moment, in the hat, Almina looked extraordinarily pretty. Since by the time she went to Italy it would be several months since her father died, and as black in summer was so hot, and presented such difficulties with dust, and moreover as she was to be in the country, Mrs. Prestwich had rather brusquely decided that it would be best to let her daughter go out of mourning, and get an outfit at once which would last a couple of years. But after the months of seeing her in black or black-and-white, which killed her delicate colouring, leaving it cold and crude, the picture now before Mrs. Prestwich was startling. It flashed into her mind that Almina had improved, that after all she might, in the right clothes, be going to be a very pretty girl—and with the thought came a vague disquiet. Tacitly and affectionately, Almina had always been allowed to believe herself plain; if now she was going to be pretty, might not she be rather unprepared for the consequences—for admiration, for advances? Mrs. Prestwich, sending her daughter alone, at twenty-two, among strangers and foreigners, had had some natural anxiety; but she had banked on the girl’s plainness as much as on her upbringing to see her safely through. And if one of these bulwarks were removed, it would be disquieting. However, she reflected later in the day, it was too late to do anything about it now—you couldn’t make a girl believe herself pretty all in a minute. And her upbringing would remain.
At the moment, all she said was: “How nice that looks, my child. But hadn’t you better pack it? Have you got everything ready?”
“Yes, Mother. I was waiting for you. It’s all here.” She took off the hat and laid it on a chair.
There began the careful process of “going through” Almina’s things. The piles of underclothes on the bed, the two neat heaps of nightdresses, viyella for winter, cambric for summer, with their long sleeves and frilled collars, buttoning down the front to the accompaniment of more frills, the rows of rolled-up stockings on the chest of drawers, were all examined by Mrs. Prestwich with minute and anxious care. Most of the stockings were of black cashmere or black ribbed silk, but there were a few pairs of the frivolous up-to-date ones in lisle thread, with lacy openwork patterns all up the front, in discreet shades of mole and grey—over these Mrs. Prestwich lingered doubtfully, observing at length:” If you find these aren’t worn, dear, I should put them aside; don’t start on them till you see what other people do.”
“No, Mother—I’ll remember.”
Then the dresses had their turn. Mrs. Prestwich, with a certain enterprising practicality which always characterised her actions, had felt it right and worth while to lay out a good deal of money on Almina’s outfit, to give her a fair start—a policy to which the green hat bore eloquent witness. She passed her daughter’s frocks in review, seeing her in her mind in each garment; wondering if they were, after all, exactly what she would need, and of the sort to give her the reassurance of being “right” in new and alarming surroundings. She handled every one, giving a little discourse on the sort of occasion on which it should, in her opinion, be worn; now and then she sighed and said: “I hope it will do”—about some par
ticular garment. Almina listened with admirable patience. Neither of them, she felt in her heart, knew in the least if the clothes would be suitable or not; but she was sufficiently nervous herself about the whole enterprise not to be antagonised by her Mother’s fussing. Her family’s attitude to her appearance had never led her to take an excessive interest in her clothes, and at Oxford the prevailing concern with higher matters had made her more indifferent than ever; but she was prepared to believe that in this new sphere they would matter, and therefore she accepted her Mother’s outlook, and even shared it. At all costs, she was determined to make a sucess of this governessing job—save money, pay back her Mother for this trousseau, and even perhaps put by enough to keep herself while she worked at her poets later. Her independence beckoned and gleamed ahead of her.
And the moment had its emotional quality too. She was leaving her home to enter an unknown world, and her Mother was doing the last thing she could to equip her for it; exercising for the last time, for who knew how long, that gentle protecting care which had been like sheltering arms round her girlhood. Perhaps for the first time in her life Almina consciously realised the love behind this care, and what it had meant to her; and each time that she said “Yes Mother, I will remember” in her dutiful quiet voice, her heart within her was crying “Darling Mother, I will be what you want, do all you wish. I won’t fail you or disappoint you.” At the last she did say a little of what she meant. Mrs. Prestwich presently asked to see her jewellery. Almina showed her small possessions—some childish bangles and trinkets, a heavy garnet necklace and ear-rings, rather beautifully set, a little pearl and gold Venetian chain, one or two small pearl brooches of the safety-pin type, presented by god parents for use in bibs, and the inevitable string of corals. Mrs. Prestwich looked them over, and then murmuring— “Yes, I think perhaps—” went away to her room and fetched her own jewel-case, that treasure-house of riches into which Almina and May used to peep as children, with awe-struck delight, when their Mother was dressing for a dinner-party. Something of the old wonder and mystery still hung about the oblong black leather box, with its small key and its velvet trays—Almina felt it again now, as her Mother opened the lid, lifted out the topmost tray, and looked thoughtfully at the contents. At last she took out a brooch, a circle of emeralds and diamonds, and one of the things Almina had always loved most, a pair of bracelets of amethysts linked loosely together with seed pearls, and a pendant to match, with seed pearl fringes dropping from it.
“I think these,” Mrs. Prestwich said, “they are young enough, but they are good. For evening, my child, the amethysts—but the brooch you can wear at any time.”
Almina was quite overcome. “Oh Mummie darling, they are lovely. I’ve always loved the amethysts so specially. Thank you so so much.” Then she threw her arms round her Mother’s neck and kissed her worn gentle face. “I will do my best,” she murmured, her face hidden. “I really will.”
“I’m sure you will, my darling,” Mrs. Prestwich answered, moved in her turn. Holding her eldest daughter, her good trustworthy learned child, in her arms, she felt suddenly that she ought to give her a word of advice, of warning, before sending her off to the continent alone. She sought in her mind for the right thing to say—these things were so difficult. At last—”My child, you will be prudent, won’t you?” she said with some embarrassment. “I mean—” she paused. “Always remember to behave like a lady, and you will be all right,” she said at length.
“Yes Mother,” said Almina, aware of her Mother’s embarrassment, which communicated itself to her. She knew dimly what her Mother meant. One was to be careful about kisses and so on. If one was kissed too much, one had a baby—this she knew vaguely. A young man at a dance had once kissed her on the mouth, suddenly, and that had frightened Almina nearly out of her wits; for weeks she had wondered if she was going to have a baby or not. Though she was twenty-two, no one had yet told her how procreation occurred, or children were born, nor any facts about physiology. Like every other natural creature, she had wondered a little; but the only answers that her ignorant speculations obtained had been derived from fiction, and were therefore veiled and confused. Adam Bede had given her the data for her fright about the baby. But though Victorian fiction told one a great deal about love, it told one little that was practical about sex; and though she had read widely in poetry not Victorian, Shakespeare and the rest, the allusions which experience finds so broad slipped off the smooth veneer of her utter ignorance like water off a duck’s back. She had not had many young men in pursuit of her, and nothing like a love affair; her experience of life was purely literary, and she had not been given the key with which to unlock that literary experience. The parson who prepared her for confirmation had been expected by her mother, after the habit of the time, to tell her what a girl ought to know; but though he was considered rather “advanced” and had embarrassed her mortally, he had left her little wiser than before. He stressed the necessity for purity, without telling her in what exactly it consisted; in a burst of frankness—“Don’t let anyone handle your body,” he said. That one sentence, which went coiling through her consciousness for months afterwards, was all she had ever been given in the way of practical advice. She was left with a vague sense that though love was undoubtedly the most beautiful and wonderful thing in life, the physical expression of it was impurity, and therefore wrong. All this had not so far greatly troubled her—now, at her Mother’s words in this moment of separation, she had for a moment a wild desire to ask her what it all meant; how exactly one was to be prudent, and against precisely what? But she did not ask— such questions were impossible. Embarrassed, she said “Yes, Mother” to Mrs. Prestwich’s injunction. And Mrs. Prestwich, like the good Victorian parent that she was, was quite satisfied with her own last words.
It was indeed very difficult and dangerous to be young in those days.
Chapter Four
La Vecchia Marchesa was making her usual morning progress down onto the terrace at Vill ’ Alta. She always emerged, if the weather was fine, soon after eleven, and took her accustomed seat in a high-backed wicker chair under the great ilex, with its thick triple trunk—close enough to the low terrace parapet to be able to use it as a table on which to place her book, her lorgnette for reading, her ivory paper-knife, and the wine-glass containing a raw egg beaten up with a dash of maraschino which Roberto, her man-servant, invariably brought out to her when she was settled. Her progress was very slow and extremely dignified, as befitted an old lady of ninety-nine. First came Roberto, carrying cushions, a footstool, a rug and a light shawl, opening doors all the way; then came La Vecchia Marchesa herself, accompanied by Giacinta, her maid, who bore the book and the other oddments in her left hand, and kept her right free to support her mistress in need during her passage down the wide polished staircase. The Marchese Francesco, her son, and Suzy, her daughter-in-law, had both begged the old Marchesa for years to let them arrange an apartment for her on the ground floor—but no, she would not; she persisted in keeping to the suite of rooms at the west end of the house to which she had retired when her son married, nineteen years ago; and every day, at Vill’ Alta, downstairs she came, sliding her old wrinkled ivory-white hand with the huge rings along the glossy surface of the heavy carved balustrade, putting her little kid slippers—one after the other, precautiously—onto each of the wide shallow steps in turn, till she reached the stone floor of the great hall, with its pale coarse mosaic of Mars and Venus in the centre, and moved across it to the door of her Son’s study. For her age she walked surprisingly strongly, once she reached level ground—just steadying herself on an ebony stick, with a plain smooth ball of ivory for its head. This visit also was a daily ritual—Roberto flung open both the study doors, and announced “La Marchesa di Vill’ Alta,” more as if he were proclaiming her arrival at Court than in her son’s sitting-room; while the small figure, bent awkwardly at the hips but still beautifully upright at the shoulders, passed across the tiled floor.
On this, as on all other mornings, Francesco di Vill’ Alta rose to greet his Mother, pushing back his chair; he bowed over her hand, kissed it, and asked how she did, with as much formality as if she were a total stranger.
“Well; well,” the old lady replied, with a hint of impatience. “I am always well.”
“You slept well?” the son further asked, solicitously.
“Sufficiently. Sleep is for the young!” the old lady answered, with a tiny laugh that was as frail as the ring of fine glass. “And what are you painting this morning, my son?” As she spoke she walked towards a very large table of plain deal, set under one of the windows, from his seat before which the Marchese had risen at her entrance. The table was strewn at both ends with books and magazines, many of them held open with paper-weights, paper-cutters and even other books, displaying illustrations of a botanical nature—in the middle was a block, a box of water-colours, a small jug of discoloured water and a rather ugly purplish flower in a specimen-glass.
“Pipo has sent me this from Brioni”—the Marchese indicated the purple flower. “I am making a sketch of it before it fades. I have revived it with aspirin, but it will not last.”
The old lady, now standing by the table, glanced at the plant, which bore a long straggling truss of small flowers, maroon above, discoloured to a greenish yellow below, each on a spindly little stalk. It was very peculiar, but far from pretty. Her tone rather expressed her sense of this as she asked—“And what is it?”