Enchanter's Nightshade

by Ann Bridge

  Almina, lying in bed at Vill’ Alta that morning, her yellow plaits hanging down over her high frilled nightdress, her grey eyes serious and absorbed, asked herself such questions as these. The breathless bewilderment, the sort of shivering wonder of those moments at Castellone still overcame her when she remembered them; but she tried earnestly to be practical; to decide, in fact, “how much it meant.” And then there was the matter of being prudent, as she had promised her Mother she would. Just what did being prudent, in this connection, amount to? She had better be rather guarded, rather aloof; tell him again, if occasion arose, that she would rather he paid her no more compliments. Prudence could not involve anything so drastic as not seeing him again, which was in any case impracticable. But what about not seeing him again alone? He still talked about that walk to the orchis wood—would that be prudent? The very thought of that made her heart beat in a curious thumping way—no, that would probably not be prudent. It was all so complicated. Perhaps she was exaggerating the whole thing—on the other hand, apart from her being the governess here, there was no earthly reason why he should not pay her attentions, if his feelings were—well, of the right sort! And his words about her position and her parents seemed to show that he recognised this. (Almina, like most young women, tended to fasten on words as her principal witnesses in these secret tribunals.) But what she did not, at any point of this meditation, do was to ask herself exactly what her own feelings were. It never occurred to her that this was the crux of the matter, in regard to prudence and everything else. Quite innocently, about this she quietly set about deceiving herself.

  On another point, however, she did try to be honest. After all, she was the governess, and a member of the family was making love to her. That being so, she realised that she ought really to go straight to the Marchesa, tell her what had happened, and ask what she wished her to do? But that might involve her leaving—she had no idea how much or how little fuss such an admission would cause, out here— and then she would be back on her Mother’s hands, and all the fearful expenditure on these clothes wasted; when it was not her fault. Besides, the scene she had witnessed the previous evening; and still more Giulio’s words about the Marchesa and Roffredo, seemed to make it impossible to speak to her, of all people, on the subject. And yet not to tell her was not quite straight. The oblongs of sunlight shifted across the floor; Graziella the maid came in, bringing her breakfast on a tray—the coffee, the plate of figs, the curious starfish-shaped rolls, with four twisted points, which represented the only form of wheaten bread in the Province, and the funny little pieces of toast, less than two inches square, which were cut out of these rolls; Almina ate with appetite, while Graziella carried steaming cans of hot water into the cabinet de toilette for her bath, but still without having reached any conclusion as to what to do. At last a solution occurred to her—when she got the chance, she would consult Fräulein Gelsicher. From her she would certainly get wise and trustworthy advice. Braced by the decision she sprang up, breathed the air at the window for a moment, and then ran into the cabinet de toilette to bathe and dress.

  The next few days passed, however, without Almina’s getting any chance to speak privately with the Swiss. Elena or Marietta were always about—moreover Fräulein Gelsicher was unusually busy, wrestling with Ospedi’s confused estimates of the probable cost of re-planting portions of the vineyards at Meden, where Count Carlo’s best wine came from, in the new French manner. She suspected these estimates of being either extravagant or inadequate, or both, and insisted on getting them clear before allowing the Count to embark on the scheme. Foolish man!—fpr half what he proposed to spend on these miserable grapes, the governess reflected, he could send Giulio away to Oxford, give the boy his heart’s desire, and remove him in time from the dangerous proximity of Miss Prestwich—who was none the less a danger for being a good, sober little thing, so far as one could see. And so it came about that the day of the picnic to Castel Vecchio arrived without Almina’s having unburdened herself of her secret to anyone.

  The picnic had developed into a monster of an affair. Except for the old Marchesa, the entire party from Vill’ Alta was going, even the Marchese Paolo; Countess Livia was bringing Ernest di Castellone’s wife, with her small boy and his nurse, and some neighbours from Macerbo; then there were to be two carriage-loads from Odredo, including the Sorellone, who had driven over the previous evening in their pony-carriage, according to their own unwelcome plan— finally Roffredo was coming in his car. But when the carriages began to assemble on the great sweep of gravel in front of the house at Vill’ Alta, between the portico and the geraniumbeds, and the sorting out of parties and allocation of picnic-baskets began, the Sorellone proved to be absent. Fräulein Gelsicher gave a little note from the Countess Aspasia to Suzy —“Countess Roma is unwell; some interior derangement; Countess Aspasia did not care to leave her—indeed they think of sending for the Doctor,” she murmured to her hostess, with an expression of kind concern on her plain face. Suzy opened the note, glanced at the contents, wrinkled her nose and said “Tant pis!” airily—then she went on with her arrangements. “Livia, will you take Paolo with you?”

  But when Almina and Marietta were installed in a brake with Tino, Ernest’s boy, his nurse, and a vast array of hampers, Marietta muttered to her governess as they drove off—“I wonder what Elena has been up to. Did you see her face as Gela told Mama of Zia Roma’s illness? She had on her wicked look.” Almina had in fact noticed a peculiar expression of bland attention about Elena when the news of Countess Roma’s indisposition was announced, and had wondered what it portended. “Whatever it is, she will tell us as soon as she gets the chance,” she replied, in the same tone, “but she would hardly go so far as to make anyone ill.”

  Marietta laughed. “As to telling us, you are right,” she said. “You are getting to know Elena, Postiche!” Count Carlo’s nickname had crept round via the cousins to Marietta, and she had begun, tentatively at first, to use it—Almina rather liked it, regarding it as a mark of confidence; but she would not allow her pupil to use it in front of anyone but Elena and Fräulein Gelsicher. While she listened to Marietta’s chatter she was wondering rather nervously how much she would see of Roffredo today, and also whether this outing would give her the chance she so much desired of speaking to Fräulein Gelsicher; and in her mind, during most of the drive, she rehearsed the phrases in which she would put her problem before the older woman.

  Castel Vecchio lies well away to the South, in the flat part of the plain of Gardone—the cavalcade of carriages, widely spaced because of the dust, soon left the little crumpled hills, crowned with tufts of acacia, behind, and drove through flat fields where the maize and “gran turco” were taking on the yellowish tinge of late summer, and a smoky purplish bloom was beginning to overspread the bunches of grapes, already swollen to their full size, which hung from the vines bordering the road. The castle itself stands on a high hillock or mound, and for more than a hour before they reached it the picnic party could see, first its high square tower, then the great oblong block of the main building, and finally the curtain wall which runs round the entire circumference of the hill. As they drew nearer, they could see that the whole place was considerably more ruinous than they had expected; there were breaches in the topmost battlements of the tower, and great loops of ivy and wild clematis hung from the broken stonework; hawks wheeled and cried about it. There were gaps in the curtain wall too; the Marchese Paolo observed to Countess Livia that it would cost more than all the eighty-one heirs together could put down to bring the place into repair.

  However, on arrival, lunch was the first consideration. Rugs were spread and baskets opened on a stretch of smooth turf beside a small stream which wound round the foot of the mound, in half-shade from a group of poplars which crowned the bank above; bottles of wine were stuck in the running water to cool, salad was rinsed out to refresh it, Umberto and Valentino, the Vill’ Alta butler, in Panama hats and striped jackets, ran about arrang
ing cold pies, cold roast duck, sandwiches and rolls on tablecloths on the grass. Elena, during the preliminary strollings about, at once gravitated towards Marietta and Almina; she was clearly seething with something which she burned to impart.

  “Dunque, here we are, and no Sorellone!” she began, with her delightful giggle interrupting her words. “Isn’t that nice, Marietta;”

  “What is the matter with Zia Roma?” Marietta asked.

  “Nothing! Nothing in the world.” Elena’s laughter almost suffocated her. “But she thinks there is, and that is the same thing.”

  “What did you do?” Marietta asked, rather inquisitorially.

  “Why, you know what happens if you put a Seidlitz Powder in a glass of water? Well, if you put one, flat, on the bottom of a certain article, you do not see it at all—but later, you get the same effect.” She laughed again. “So, this morning, round comes Zia Aspasia to Gela—’a little bladder trouble, dear Fräulein Gelsicher. I hope it is not much, but I do not think a long expedition would be prudent.’ So, there we are.”

  “Really, Elena, I do call that a revolting trick,” Miss Prestwich exclaimed, while Marietta laughed.

  “Not at all, Postiche. It was the one way to get rid of them. Their feelings are not hurt, and now we shall have a perfect picnic.”

  As far as the lunch went, the picnic was as near perfection as need be. Almina remembered long afterwards some of the details of it: the coffee, steaming hot from squat Chinese teapots in padded wicker cases, the little squares of butter floating in water in screw-top jars, to keep them cool—mixed with the picture of Roffredo lounging on the grass at the Marchesa Suzy’s feet, indulging in rather lazy gallantries with her, while the chequered sunlight played over her white dress and his white flannels, and made broken metallic lights on his red head. She sat rather quietly watching the whole party, as was her habit when “company” was present, and thinking out schemes for getting Fräulein Gelsicher to herself later on.

  The meal over, there was a general adjournment to the castle. They climbed the rough track which led to the gate-house, with its arched entrance, and then dispersed themselves over the wide grassy space, probably once a tilt-yard, within the walls. Peasant families had taken up their abode both in the gatehouse, and in the rooms at the foot of the tower and below the long block of the main building; goats and chickens ran about, washing flapped from windows, decayed ironware rusted in corners. It was all rather squalid, and Countess Livia, sniffing delicately, observed to Fräulein Gelsicher that they had far better leave it as it was, to moulder away. But others, including Count Carlo, were enthusiastic for repairing the place; he led the Marchesa Suzy about, pointing out the splendour of the approach and the view, the solidity of the main structure and the possibilities of the great tiltyard as pleasure-grounds. Great beauty the place undoubtedly had. The main building was entered by an outside staircase of stone, with a carved balustrade, which led up to a fine doorway on the first floor; passing in, one entered a chain of great rooms, each the full depth of the building, their high windows looking out over the courtyard on one side and the plain on the other—the last room had a curved end, like the apse of a church, and large oval windows commanding a view to the east. All the rooms had fine floors of black marble and white stone, and magnificently carved chimney-pieces—there were certainly the makings of a splendid mansion here. A stone staircase led on to the upper floors, but only a few of the elders—Suzy, Count Carlo and Ernest’s wife among them— had the energy to inspect even the floor immediately above; here the rooms were smaller and more numerous, but still large and of fine proportions. The young people however ranged everywhere, and carried Almina along with them; she saw from a window that Fräulein Gelsicher was firmly anchored by the Countess Livia’s side down in the courtyard, and gave herself up to the always exciting pleasure of exploring an empty house. On the third floor they found a door through into the tower, and climbed its stone steps, sending the hawks screaming out in wheeling circles overhead, till the lack of a handrail and the ruinous condition of the stonework drove them back; then they scattered through the rooms on the higher floors, calling to one another to look at this and that. Almina stuck closely to Marietta’s side, determined to avoid an encounter with Roffredo tête-à-tête. One room at the eastern end had also a small oval window, now unglazed; leaning out of this to see the view, she noticed a fern growing in the stonework below her. It was difficult to reach, and while she lingered, trying to see what it was and wondering whether it was worth while climbing up onto the sill and trying to pick it, she failed to notice that Marietta had left the room. She was recalled by hearing the door, creaking heavily, pushed to behind her—she turned round, and there stood Roffredo.

  “Is it the view or is it a flower?” he asked, coming over to her.

  “A flower,” she replied, leaning forward and indicating the fern. He too leant out ta look, slipping his arm gently round her as he did so; then he stepped back into the room, drawing her with him, and said—“I will pick it for you in a minute. But there is a flower I want to pick for myself first—if I may.” And as she glanced up at him, embarrassed and uncertain, he stood back from her, holding her so that he could look at her face. “Cara, do you know that ever since we walked together at Castellone, nine whole days ago, I have thought of little else but you?” he said, “and of when I should see you again like this? Have you thought of me at all?”

  Now was of course the moment for displaying that prudence and firmness on which Almina had been resolving for those same nine days. But with his arm round her, his eyes on her face, her heart drinking in the sweet flattery of his words, it was not easy to be firm. And her own good-breeding in a sense stood in her way—she found it difficult to say anything so abrupt and awkward as “Let go of me, please,” or even brusquely to release herself. She made one small struggle.

  “Yes, I did—but not quite like that,” she said. “Signor Conte, I really don’t—”

  “You did think of me too? Then I shall pick my flower,” he interrupted, with a sort of triumph, and drew her to him and kissed her again. Held in his arms, under his kisses, a physical disturbance of such violence overtook the girl as she had never known before—thought, scruples, prudence vanished, blotted out by a sort of anaesthesia that was half bliss, half something terrifying that she did not understand. Presently the young man raised his head and looked at her again; her hat, the childish hat held by the green ribbons under her chin, which she had worn on the walk to Trino’s, had fallen back; her closed eyelids, the look of drowned defeat on her face, lying so still there on his arm, moved him curiously. “Ah, lovely little one, how I love you!” he murmured, carried away by an impulse of tenderness which surprised himself; and gently pushing her hat further back, he stroked her sun-silky hair. She opened her eyes then, and looked at him in a sort of bewilderment, like a person waked out of deep sleep; he was at once touched and almost alarmed at the effect his kisses had produced on her. “little one!” he said again, smiling reassuringly. “Come—let us see if we can see Castellone”; and he led her over to the northern window. They could not —beyond the near flatness of the plain the broken country round Odredo was blurred by the afternoon haze into a dim blue confusion. The movement, the little gay discussion as to whether one higher blue bump was Vill’ Alta or not restored the girl a little—her sense of reality began to return, and with it her scruples. Pushing her hair back from her forehead, with a gesture as if to sweep some veil away, she moved gently out of his arm, and made one more effort.

  “Signor Conte, this makes me unhappy,” she said. “I— I think we should stop.”

  “You are unhappy with me?” he said, moving over to her again, and taking her hand, while his eyes searched her face. “Does it make you unhappy that I love you?”

  Those words again! She could not say it—her eyes went down before his.

  “No—only, like this—”

  He would not have it. “I do not believe it,” he i
nterrupted, drawing her once more into his arms. “Little foolish one, it is not true!” Like the bird-snarer’s hand, his face came down on hers again; his kisses silenced her words, that secret anaesthesia engulfed her, sweeping away doubts and prudence on a tidal wave which carried her out of all known depths. When he had gone, slipping prudently away and bidding her not to follow for a moment or two, she leaned again on the stone sill of the oval window, gazing at the view, the fern forgotten, and telling herself in shy secrecy that this was love at last.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Marchesa Suzy di Vill’ Alta was not really very fond of picnics. The kind of shoes she wore made her feet ache if she walked much in them, the stays which moulded her figure so elegantly made sitting on rocks or grass uncomfortable; perpetually holding up a parasol was tiring, and without it the sun was ruinous to one’s complexion—also in her experience picnics tended to promote, even among the most civilised people, rather anti-social behaviour. She had agreed to the Castel Vecchio expedition mainly out of pure good nature, because Marietta wished it, partly because she had thought it likely that the day would afford further and possibly amusing opportunities for her rather lazy flirtation with Roffredo di Castellone, which was beginning to entertain her a good deal. There was something intriguing about this young man, apart from his splendid appearance; a sort of free detachment, which she always noticed behind his gallantries, was definitely unusual and provocative; in an idle way she felt that she would like to break this down. However, the day had not been a success from this point of view; Carlo had stuck to her side with tiresome persistence, off again on one of his foolish enthusiasms—poor Carlo!—and Roffredo had disappeared into the upper regions of the castle with the children, and been no more seen. By the time the party began to reassemble by the stream for more coffee before the drive back, Suzy was thoroughly bored. She despatched Carlo to summon the young people, and then sat chatting, with mechanical politeness but without interest, to the Countess Livia and Ernest’s wife, fanning away the mosquitoes which began to assail the party, as the sun drew westward and the shadows lengthened, and wishing that the others would come quickly. Odd that Roffredo should have made no move to seek her company the whole afternoon, she thought—if he had, she could easily have detached the Count and arranged it. What could have kept him? When the younger elements at length appeared, all together in a chattering laughing group, herded by Carlo, she watched Roffredo more attentively than usual. In his manner now she noticed, or thought she noticed, something which she had not seen before,—a subtle air of disturbance, almost of triumph, hard to define but to her experienced eye fairly evident. And looking round the group to find some counterpart of this expression, her attention was caught by Miss Prestwich’s face. The girl had a heightened colour; her eyes were absent and dreamy; though she was behaving with her usual pretty quiet propriety, there was somehow a bloom, a glow about her that could hardly be mistaken.