by Ann Bridge
Suzy saw them go with mild relief. It had all been a great waste of time, she thought, as she lay in her hammock on the terrace, empty now save for herself and her mother-in-law— it had left everything exactly where it was. Pipo would not change; she knew him too well for that. If it wasn’t La Panelli, it would be somebody else. The one satisfaction was that it was safely over without doing Bonne-Mama any harm—she looked better than ever. But how fantastic, really, to suppose that it could change anything, a whole roomful of relations sitting round the table discussing! How could that affect the secret emotions, glad or bitter, of the urgent human heart? The heart took its own way, always. A tiny smile changed the delightful shape of her mouth—thinking of the secret waywardness of the human heart reminded her of Roffredo. In retrospect, that evening with him had somehow gathered weight, become more important. She had set out, half idly, to cure a foolish young man of a foolish infatuation by the surest means she knew; but all through the days of the consiglio, talking, caring for her guests, listening to opinions, putting in a word of advice here and there, she had been aware of a secret sense of having a little private hoard of riches in the background which, presently, she could return to enjoy. She had been surprised at the persistence and vigour of this feeling, and its reviving effects on her; surprised too at the kindling vividness of her memory of Roffredo’s hands on her shoulders, his lips on her face. She had not expected to remember them like that. It was surprising, but it was also pleasant. And now the consiglio was over, and the temporary isolation of Vill’ Alta from the rest of the Province—there would be meetings again. She blew out a cloud of smoke, on a long contented breath, and applied herself cheerfully to amusing La Vecchia Marchesa.
To Almina the move to Odredo had been a relief. It had at least removed her from the daily necessity of seeing and being polite to the Marchesa Suzy, whose mere presence, since that evening under the arbutus, aroused in her a sort of nervous horror. She liked the quiet cheerful informality prevailing at Odredo, where the life of the soil, from which the whole great household derived its sustenance, was much more in evidence than it was at Vill’ Alta. Out in the courtyard behind the house the bullock-teams came and went, bringing in wood and water, and meal in squat dusty sacks—the yard was hardly ever without a pair of the great creamy beasts, standing patient-eyed in the shade, chewing the cud, or merely breathing with a strong gentle sound. On the low terrace above the yard, screened from the house by the growth of pomegranates which sprawled through the white stone balustrade, long shallow trays of coarse muslin were set out, on which the small sweet black plums were drying, turning slowly into prunes under the strong sun. Anna the cook was busy with jam-making; the two girls and Almina helped to gather green figs for green-fig-jam, and green grapes for green-grape-jelly—Anna made tomato jam too, a preserve to which Giulio was very partial, but which Almina privately thought horrible because of its curious after-taste—what she liked best was the thick sweet jam made from the ripe black grapes, of which Anna was planning a fresh supply later. The Count would come in to lunch, the pockets of his light alpaca jacket bulging with small envelopes, which he would tip out onto plates and sniff carefully; the contents, which were artificial manures recommended for vines, usually smelt frightful, and Elena would scold him freely for such disgusting practices. All this was pleasant to Almina—there was something soothing and steadying about these homely activities. And Fräulein Gelsicher was in herself always a solace and a support. She had now become, so to speak, an indirect one; all question of consulting her on the subject of Roffredo was finished with. That problem, and the dreams which it had fed, were set aside—all that was over, but Almina returned now more earnestly than ever to the governess ideal, to becoming for her pupil what Gela was to Elena. She threw herself with fervour into Giulio’s lessons, giving him extra time, making him talk English—with Marietta she made him undertake English readings, all three together, sitting round the marble table under the stone pine.
The fact was that the girl had received a very severe moral shock—and moral shocks are usually far more shattering in their effects than emotional ones. In all these ways her shaken being sought to build itself up again, clinging to work, to simple things and practical tasks, to recover its stability. She took up the pursuit of wild-flowers once more, rising early and going for long walks before breakfast. Though wild-flower hunting had bitter-sweet associations of its own! Wandering homewards, once, her thoughts far away, she found herself unexpectedly in the little spinney where she had picked the butterfly orchis earlier in the year; she remembered how Roffredo had asked her its name, and begged to be taken there at dusk to smell their evening fragrance—it was the first time that he had shown her marked attention. In a rush of sentimental misery she poked about among the later summer growth till she found one or two of the dead orchis; the frail stalks had given way, but the withered flower heads lay, dry, papery and brown on the dead leaves. She took one home with her and put it between the leaves of her Tennyson, where the gentian which he had given her that day at Castellone already reposed, carefully pressed. In Almina’s day such rites were quite in order—it did not occur to her, even in her most secret thoughts, to laugh at herself for her folly, or question the merits of an affection so nourished. But she did thereafter avoid the spinney carefully.
But in spite of this secret weakness, she was steady and consistent in her avoidance of Roffredo. He came over several times to Odredo, but the cousins made a four at tennis without her, and she always contrived some excuse to absent herself when he was coming. If he arrived unexpectedly, she gave him the minimum of civil greeting and then slipped away. She exercised all her small stock of ingenuity to make these evasions look as natural as possible, but the change in her manner with the young Count did not escape the watchful eye of Elena—still less did it escape Roffredo’s own notice. Without any clue to the reason for it, the young man was thoroughly puzzled. Was it coquetry, or an exaggerated prudence, or some real change of feeling? He had no idea— but whatever the cause, he was equally thoroughly piqued. He had hoped great things from Miss Prestwich’s visit to Odredo, where, away from the Marchesa and the need for being gallant to her, he felt more free and more at ease. Roffredo had been rather irritated by the episode on the stone pine ridge. He had been carried further than he meant; while he had no serious scruples about kissing as many pretty and pleasant women as would let him, he had a private predilection for making love to one person at a time, and a very shrewd objection to any casual kissings which were likely to land him in difficulties. It was not hard to foresee the sort of difficulties in which one was apt to land oneself by making love to two women in the same house—that was a thing he had always avoided, like the plague itself!—and if one was the mistress and the other the governess, it was worse than ever. And here he was, practically run into it! And it was the governess he cared most about, in this case. He had not wanted to kiss Suzy, that night—and his own ardour had jarred on him afterwards. Perdition on his feelings!—they were so wretchedly easily aroused. But now here she was, the lovely darling Almina, away from Vill’ Alta, with all sorts of opportunities open before them—and instead of taking them, she hid herself all the time, the silly little thing. He was uncertain, hurt, and helpless. Could it be only prudence? If not, what?
The uncertainty fretted him, and made him think of her incessantly. This worried him too. He was at a crucial stage with his experiments. The N.S.A. at Milan had seen a demonstration of one of his inventions, had praised it, and suggested one or two modifications—if these could be made satisfactorily, they held out hopes of taking it. As a result he was working feverishly at the villa, often sitting up the night through, with sheets of squared paper scattered round him, drinking cup after cup of black coffee, trying to work out the requisite formulas. But one wanted one’s mind free for work like that—and often, when he was half-blinded with peering at figures by lamplight, and dizzy with strain, the picture of Almina would come swimming in b
etween him and the paper before him—chilly, prim and elusive, as she had been the previous afternoon—and he would get up and stamp about the room, cursing, trying to banish her image, only to have it slide back again, as soon as he sat down— tender and yielding, as she had been in that ruined room with the oval-window at Castel Vecchio. Ah, the sweetness of her then, with her head sunk on his arm, her closed eyes and her parted lips—all his! Which was she, really?—the one or the other? Anyhow, she made it impossible to work; and he would go swearing off and throw himself, dressed as he was, on his bed, and fall leadenly asleep.
After one such night, when he had worked later than usual, the light was already beginning to filter in through the slats of the Venetian shutters when he lay down—it fretted his eyes, hot and sore after the night’s work, and though he turned on his other side, he could not sleep; into his tired brain, drowsy and uninhibited, crowded visions of Almina—there with him, in the room, in all her delicate fragility—his weary fancy unclothed her, showed her in maddening perfection. He sprang up, at last, unable to endure the torment of these thoughts which he could not control; he would go out and walk—that would put an end to it, and he would be able to sleep. Regardless of the slumbers of Alba, his old housekeeper, he banged open one of the side doors of the villa, and went out.
Outside, the light, which indoors had lanced his eyes with the persistency of arrows, was perfectly soothing—tender, grey and clear; the cypresses round the villa stood up in it like shadows, also grey. He passed through the rather withered little garden, in which Antonio, his chauffeurservant, tried to make a few discouraged geraniums bloom, and out into the road, where he stood for a moment, breathing deeply—the cool air, entering his lungs, was comforting and reviving. He walked a few yards along the road, and then turned off to the right, where a tiny path led across the pastures towards the Monte Sant’ Antonio. Roffredo knew the path well—it had been trodden originally by the feet of smugglers, bringing salt and tobacco in over the mountains from across the Austrian frontier; old Trino, with dark waggings of the head, muttered sometimes that they still used it. Certainly someone used it, for though faint it was still clearly traced in the rough turf, grey now with dew. He followed along the outer fringe of a thick coppice which lay between it and the road; as he walked Roffredo thought idly that he could account for the regular use of the path. In that coppice was a small ruined building, and by it a well or spring, rising in a deep pool—the peasants credited the well with the power of granting wishes, and went there to make trivial offerings; he remembered seeing fragments of clothing fluttering from the bushes there, from the time when he was a child. No doubt it was such worshippers who kept the path trodden.
Out in the pastures, a light mist lay over the grass; the poplars, just beginning to turn colour, rose through it; while he walked their tops were turned to gold by the first rays of the sun. And now, through the mist, he saw a figure moving ahead of him along the smugglers’ path. Roffredo was amused and a little startled—could Trino be right? In the mist he could not see it with any distinctness. He quickened his pace, walking noiselessly on the soft turf—now he was near enough to see that it was a woman; and not a peasant, for she wore a pale dress. A sudden suspicion overtook him— he ran; and as he drew nearer, with one of those sweet pangs with which we salute the impossible joy, he recognised Almina.
All his usual deliberate skill in such encounters forsook Roffredo then. Panting, he came up with her, and took her by the arm. “It is you,” he said, as she faced round towards him; and nothing else. They stood so, in silence, for a moment or two, while his eyes travelled over her, up and down, as if to assure himself of the whole presence of her— coming to rest at last on her face, where the delicate colour came and went. At last —“Good morning,” the girl said, with the chilly primness she had used to him lately; “Surely you are out very early?”
“Yes, and why? Because of you—because I could neither work nor sleep last night because of you,” the young man burst out.
“I am sorry for that—but I cannot help it,” she said coldly, walking on again; she carried a little spray of some green plant in her hand, and raised it to her face as if to smell it, to emphasise her detachment.
“Almina, what is it? Why have you changed like this?” he asked urgently, again catching at her arm.
She moved her elbow to free it. “I have the best of reasons, which I do not wish to discuss,” she said, more coldly than ever. “Would you please leave me now? I am going home.”
Roffredo was both hurt and nonplussed. “No, I shall not leave you,” he said with angry firmness. “I shall see you into the Park. Surely you must know that you are most indiscreet to walk alone at this hour, with no one about? The peasants here are quite untrustworthy—you might be insulted at any moment. You are doing a very foolish thing.”
“It is not only by the peasants that one is insulted here,” the girl said, her lip trembling; her artificial composure was breaking down under the scene.
“What do you mean? Almina, dearest, darling, I have not insulted you! What have I said? If I have been rude, forgive me—I have not slept, and I don’t know what I am saying,” he said, pouring out his words with eager urgency, and catching at her arm again.
“Not today, no,” she said, tears which she could not check gathering in her eyes.
“Then when? Then when?”
“In England we think it insulting to—to tell a person you love them, and to—act it, and then to make love to someone else, on the same day,” the girl said bitterly, her grievance escaping at last.
He stood stock still and stared at her, retaining his hold of her arm, which this time she had made no move to release.
“Dunque! So that is it!” he said at last. “You saw me and Suzy?”
She nodded, turning away her head, but he saw two bright tears fall.
“Cara signorina, I owe you an explanation,” he said very gravely. “Will you allow me to make it? I beseech you to do so—it is important to me.” He looked round and saw a pile of logs at a little distance, by the foot of a tree. “Come here and sit for a few minutes,” he said, leading her towards it. “You shall hear, and then you shall judge, and act as you please. There!” he said, pulling off his jacket and spreading it on the dew-damp wood.
“You will be cold,” Almina said, glancing at his shirtsleeves.
“No, I shall not.” He seated himself beside her. “Now, will you listen to me?”
Again she nodded. Her angry resolution had been shaken by his evident emotion on meeting her, and by his eager words; the thought that she had broken his sleep moved her, and the gravity with which he had made this last request somehow demanded a civil audience. He looked, too, tired and distraught—his eyes were red-rimmed, and there were blue shadows under them on his white skin, which had that transparent whiteness of the red-haired. His usual arrogance was gone—he looked young and serious; at her gesture of assent he looked also relieved.
“That is good of you,” he said. “Dunque, you know Zia Suzy—she is—well,- very attractive. You have heard that people call her the Enchantress; well, that is not for nothing! And she is a relation; one must not quarrel with relations—and besides, she has been very nice to me. Well, that night, I don’t know why—I suppose she felt flirtatious,” he said, with a rather engaging flat simplicity; “anyhow she teased me, and I did flirt with her. And—it may be less so with women, but you know how it is with men, they are easily aroused—and I am particularly so,” he said, with disarming candour—“red-haired people are always the worst for that. And I did kiss her—I do, in such cases! I can’t help it. Besides, it was necessary; one cannot do less than is expected of one! But—oh, dear one, lovely one, do try to understand this!—when I kissed you, it was with my heart also—it meant something; and when I kissed her, it meant nothing, except that I was aroused, as I said. Do you believe that?’
She sat with averted head, as she listened. It was all very strange, and rather di
sagreeable—but it was all of a piece with so much else that was strange, in Italy; it fitted in with things that she had heard Elena say, often. And there was something compelling about his very frankness and sincerity. “Yes, I suppose I do,” she said at last.