by Ann Bridge
“Gone, Signorina—gone to Milan! He had a telegram this morning, early, early—they brought it out from Pisignacco. This Compagnia has taken his invention, Antonio tells me—these things, I don’t understand them, I! But it shall be very important, it seems. So he went with Antonio in the car; he was dressed and out of the house in a small quarter-of-an-hour; and just caught the express at Gardone.”
“Did he leave a note for me? A letter?” Almina asked, rather wildly.
“No, Signorina.”
“But he must have done! He would not have gone without.” She twisted her hands together. “Are you sure?”
“Certain, Signorina. There was no note.”
The girl’s face, white already, turned whiter. Her mouth worked. At last—”Did he leave some money?” she asked, very low.
“Veda, Signorina, he was in such a hurry,” the old woman said. “He thought of nothing, sicuro, but of the good news about the invention, and catching the train. He was sent for, the Signorina sees. She knows what the Signor Conte is, when he is excited—everything, everything is forgotten!”
Again Almina stood still, saying nothing. It seemed to her that there was nothing to say. So he had gone, and left her here in his house, like this!—she shuddered from head to foot—and had not even thought to leave some of all that mass of money he had shown her last night. Now, how could she leave? What could she do?
“Let the Signorina drink her coffee,” Alba said again, with practical concern. She poured out a cup, and then took the girl by the arm and led her to the table. Almina took one mouthful, and then pushed back her chair.
“I should like to wash,” she said. “Where is the luggage?” In this nadir of despair and shame and confusion her instinct suddenly turned to this simple thing—one washed before one breakfasted. Alba fetched her dressing-case, took her in to Roffredo’s cabinet de toilette, and brought a can of hot water; there the girl washed her face and hands, and put up her hair properly. And there, having done this, without warning she was violently sick. She felt better after that, and cleaned her teeth with relief; she drank a glass of water, too. Then she went back into the sitting-room and drank her coffee, cup after cup, till she had drunk it all. That revived her slightly; and pushing the tray away across the writing-table, she put her elbows down on the cleared space, and took her head in her hands. She was aware of the need to think quickly and clearly as to what to do next, but it was extremely hard to concentrate, and moreover every attempt at thought was obscured by an obsessing sense of shame and hopelessness at the idea of what must have happened the night before. Adam Bede and the Victorian novelists had given her no data for envisaging it, but they had given her a strong generalised notion of the fact at which, shrinkingly, she guessed, and of its social consequences; she knew, in that generalised way, that she was “ruined”, “fallen”. And the knowledge crushed her. The night had made true those accusations of the Marchesa’s which she had so bitterly resented for their injustice the day before.
Her one impulse was to escape from the scene of this double disaster; but Roffredo’s cruel carelessness in rushing off without remembering to leave her any money made that impossible. And now, she could hardly take his money! That would be like—she pressed her hands desperately to her eyes, as if to shut out the intolerable thought of what that would be like. “Oh, OH!” she moaned aloud, in the extreme of horror and misery—the sound was like a tiny scream. She got up, unable to bear the very position in which that thought had touched her, and walked up and down the room. Alba had not bothered to remove the champagne bottle and glasses, nor to tidy the rumpled divan; with the true Italian mixture of insensitiveness and casualness, she had let them all be. They could be done later. If the Conte and the Signorina had spent the night like that, they had—what did it matter to her? But Almina’s eye lit on them, and she shuddered again, from head to foot. She suddenly remembered her dream, the dream she had had after their visit to Trino, of herself as a bird, held fast among the limed twigs, her plumage soiled and befouled—in the confusion of her mind this image presented itself to her with almost violent clearness. She must get away from here, out of this house! But where? But how? “Oh, if only I could see Gela!” she said, just above her breath. She sat down again to consider this possibility. If she walked to Odredo, which was simplicity itself, surely she could get hold of Anna or Annina, without facing Umberto at the front door, and ask them to bring Gela down to her, without risk of seeing Elena or Marietta. Oh, Marietta, her darling pupil! At the thought of her, of all she had meant to be to her, of the child’s loyalty and love and need, for the first time tears came with real freedom—she put her head down on her hands and sobbed.
But the thought of Marietta also brought back an overwhelming sense of her own disgrace. As she now was, she could not go to Gela, even, for help. If she had found it too difficult yesterday, when it was only the disgrace of being dismissed, how could she do it now, when—when—when she was ruined? “Oh, if only I had gone to her yesterday, and not come here!” the poor little creature sobbed out—“oh! OH!” Why had she not? Why had she not had the courage? Why had she let such small things distract her from it, or even large ones, like the general distress over the Marchesa Nadia, which had somehow made it seem so much more difficult?
At the recollection of the Marchesa Nadia a new idea struck her. She lifted her head, and sat staring in front of her for a long time. She had suddenly remembered what Elena said, when they were sitting on the stone pine ridge, the three of them, and discussing it—“There are some situations that cannot be supported.” Oh, it was true! And now she too was in such a one. And the Marchesa Nadia’s way out was the only way. The thought came to her like an illumination —the only thought that had so presented itself during this morning of baffled helplessness and misery and confused despair. Slowly, she stooped down and pulled open the drawer of the writing-table. Would he have left it there?
Yes, he had. And because he had shown it her so thoroughly, on that morning when she had been so happy with him, and yet so afraid of being seen by the servant—oh, mercy! she had been afraid to be found there then, walking, dressed! And now! But because of that, she knew exactly how to work it. She took the revolver out, opened the magazine, found the box of cartridges in the drawer, loaded it, and clicked the magazine to. Then she put it on the table beside her and sat looking at it. The head, or the heart? Or did you put it in your mouth? She shuddered a little, at that.
The impulse to suicide is a curious thing. Those who have experienced it, and survive, usually agree that it really would appear to be a sort of madness, so complete is its domination; the restraining bonds of religious training and family ties are swept away and forgotten. At such moments as those through which Almina Prestwich was passing, there is no moral argument—the only questions are “Can I?” and “How?” When these are settled, calm comes. It was so with her. Her wretchedness had been so absolute that this decision, and the prepared means to carry it out, brought her real relief. She was quieter now. and her head a little clearer; she thought more quietly. What had she to do first? The idea of writing to Roffredo came to her, but she put it aside. It was useless. He did not need a farewell, or he would not have forgotten all her need and gone off like that; and—and he would not—. She did not finish that sentence in her mind. But she did not want to send reproaches either; that was useless too. There was something wrong about the whole thing—his love, her love; she wrinkled her fine dark eyebrows, trying to think, in this strange new calm and clearness, what had been wrong with it. It had seemed—her mouth quivered a little—it had seemed all right; it had seemed perfect! But that didn’t matter either, now; she need not puzzle it out. It hadn’t been what she thought, but she did not know how she could have told that it wasn’t. Let it go. There was one thing though that she must do—one person with whose love there had been nothing wrong! Tears blinded her as she opened another drawer and pulled out some paper on which to write to her Mother.
/> That letter to Mrs. Prestwich took her a long time. It was as nearly impossible to write as anything could be. Faced with the task of framing the actual sentences, the difficulty of concentrating returned; her head ached, her words and thoughts surged forward and then slipped away again, eluding her. And she was interrupted at every sentence by memories which shook her, by unbidden pictures which sprang out in her mind of her Mother’s face, of little past kindnesses—and then of her incredulousness at this news, her disappointment, her worry, her bitter sorrow. Now conflict and argument did enter-but mostly under this curious guise of pictures. And she found it impossible to envisage her return, as she now was; she could see her Mother’s distress at her death, but she could not see any picture of herself living again at home, after what had happened. Her life at home—it had in any case receded and become far away, during this time abroad; now it seemed to her that it had vanished, perished completely, stolen from her by Roffredo’s act.
All the same, the writing of that letter nearly shook her resolution. In any other room, probably it would have done so. But here, whenever she raised her eyes, searching for a phrase, they lit on either the champagne-bottle, still standing on the table with its peculiar day-time air of rakish dissipation, or on the divan, with the crumpled cushions and rug— and each time that she saw these things, she shuddered a little, and set her small jaw firmly, and went on with her task.
It was done at last. She sealed up the envelope, addressed it, found a stamp in her purse and put it on. She took another sheet of paper and wrote on it in Italian—“Please put in the post”; and placed it and the letter together on the table in front of her. That was everything. Now it had come. There was nothing else to wait for. She picked up the revolver, and examined the catch and the trigger, still with that same curious calm clarity of mind in which she had as it were floated ever since she took her decision. It struck her suddenly that this detached calmness was rather like the odd remoteness in which she had eaten and moved the evening before, only without that sea-shell rushing in her ears. She put the revolver down again, at that, with a little shiver of disgust. She must have been drunk, then, though she had not realised it. But she was sober enough now, she thought irritated by the memory; the only thing now was to remember the Marchesa Nadia, and how well and swiftly she had done it —to choose exactly which way, and then to keep her hand perfectly steady, and make no mistake. Her hand was not very steady—she held it out to see; but it was better than when she had spilt the hairpins. And she could prop it on something. Very well, then—which place? The temple, under the left breast, or the mouth—pointing well upwards?
There was a sound of voices outside—Alba was speaking to someone. Antonio, or one of the trades-people, no doubt. Well, she would wait a moment till they had gone—there was no violent hurry. Alba had been shuffling about all the time, doing things in Roffredo’s room next door, so the girl paid no particular attention to steps in the passage. She sat at the table, the letter and the revolver in front of her, still in that state of almost dreamy calmness, when without warning the door opened, and the Countesses Aspasia and Roma di Castellone walked into the room.
Chapter Nineteen
It has already been said that the news service in the Province of Gardone used to be extremely good—very nearly as good as it was at the same period in the West Highlands. The Countess Aspasia had her coffee and rolls brought to her room every morning at ten minutes to nine precisely by Maria, the fat, cheerful, inconsequent personal maid of the two sisters; this hour was dictated by the fact that it was the earliest moment at which the Castellone baker could be induced to deliver the fresh hot rolls which Aspasia regarded as indispensable to her breakfast. Countess Roma only had her coffee taken to her at nine, and was generally still in bed, but Countess Aspasia was always up, her hair already done in a rather squashed-looking grey bang across her forehead, with coils going up and down the back of her head, and her toilet in the familiar silk petticoat and cambric dressing-jacket stage. Her petticoats were invariably of grey and white tartan taffetas, and her dressing-jackets, more coquettish than Fräulein Gelsicher’s, were flounced with Valenciennes edging. On this particular morning Maria was five minutes late, and Countess Aspasia, rather irritated, had begun to polish her nails, a task usually carried out after breakfast. When the servant appeared, she upbraided her brusquely, but entirely without heat. Maria apologised, also without much conviction, and then broke headlong into the morning’s news—it was her custom to serve up any fresh items, so to speak, along with the coffee. Yes, she was late, but the baker had been so long telling her, and then the postman had come! The diligence driver was the baker’s wife’s cousin, and lodged with them in Castellone, and last night when he came home he told them—let the Countess figure to herself!—that he had picked up the little Signorina inglese from Vill’ Alta, with all her luggage, at the cross roads. “She was waiting there, alone, la povera!” And she had asked him to take her round by die young Count’s villa. Which he had done—yes, and set her down there, baggage and all. At seven in the evening. And—Maria carried on with a rush, dreading an interruption, as her mistress made a clicking sound with her tongue—at this moment the postman came, so they spoke all three together. The postman had already called at the Villa, and had spoken with “quella vecchia”— so Maria described the ancient Alba—because of the telegram; and the vecchia told him that the young Signorina was still there, asleep! Maria, her eyes like saucers, made a dramatic pause at this point.
“What telegram, fool?” the Countess enquired.
“The telegram from Milano. It was sent out from Pisignacco. And the young Conte went off at once to Gardone in quella macchina” (so the Province at large invariably described Roffredo’s car) “to catch the express to Venice. He took it. He is gone to Milano. But the Signorina remains.”
Countess Aspasia rose at that moment to an enormous height in her servant’s esteem. Without comment, she observed—“If the postman is already come, where are the letters?”
Maria had forgotten the letters in the thrill of all this news. Babbling “subito”, she fled to fetch them. Left alone, the Countess Aspasia took a turn down the room, which like most Italian rooms was large and rather bare; at the further end she paused and spoke aloud: one sentence—“This is some of Suzy’s work!” The moment Maria returned with the letters, she flung them, without so much as a glance, on the table, and ordered the pony-carriage to be brought round in a quarter of an hour. Then, leaving her coffee untasted, she strode into Countess Roma’s room.
“Up! Up!” she cried to her sister, who still lay in bed, reading a French novel; curling-pins clasped her rather sallow forehead round like a belt of machine-gun cartridges; the frilled cambric sleeves of her nighdress fell over her hands, which were covered with white cotton gloves— her white hands were Countess Roma’s chief vanity, and she habitually slept in gloves to keep the blanching cream on them during the night.
“Cosa è?” she asked, rather resentfully, closing her book and slipping an ivory paper-knife between the pages.
“I shall tell you as we go—we must start in fifteen minutes for Roffredo’s house. I have ordered the pony-carriage,” | Aspasia said—and regardless of Roma’s babbling protests and plaintive demands for enlightenment, she scourged and harried her into her clothes and through her toilet, saying constantly —“Leave that!” “You can do that later!” about all but the most vital operations. Aspasia thoroughly despised Roma in most respects, but that strange family link, forged by blood and common ties and a common life, which so often exists between elderly sisters made it inconceivable that she should undertake such an enterprise as this without her. Cross, uncomfortable (because Aspasia in her hurry had laced her stays too tight), “practically starving” as she bitterly protested, Roma was at last got into the pony-carriage, a low-hung affair, and the sisters drove off, their flowered hats nodding incongruously above their grey heads in the bright morning sunshine, as the little vehic
le bumped over the cobbles of the Castellone street. Aspasia of course drove, and Roma made her usual ineffectual protest—“I might sometimes drive, at least!” Once en route, Aspasia briefly re-told Maria’s tale. “Suzy has been up to some of her tricks, for a certainty,” was her comment. “Quella piccola is not the sort to go staying at young men’s houses for nothing. Prrt!”— she flicked the pony, who though rather ancient still had sprit enough to shy at a goat which came wandering down the road, and flourished her whip at the goat.
“But what are we to do?” Roma asked, straightening her hat, which the lurch of the encounter with the goat had set askew.
“Ma, at least see what the position is,” Aspasia replied, “and find out what has happened. I heard that Suzy had sent Marietta to Odredo without the little Postiche, and I wondered why. She is deep! There may be plenty to do!” she added significantly. “Anyhow, at least, we shall know.”
Knowing was one of Countess Aspasia’s deepest passions, and this hurried drive had been undertaken partly out of the mere desire to be first on the spot in such a major scandal. (She would have made an admirable modem reporter.) But there was more to it than that. No serious amount of love was lost between the poor, forceful, highly intelligent spinster, with her plain face and her awkward figure, and her much richer, beautiful and successful kinswoman, whom, as half an American, she inevitably regarded as something of a parvenue. Sustaining a perfect outward amity, reluctantly conceding all that must be conceded to the Marchesa Suzy in the way of kindness and savoir-faire, in her presence unwillingly submitting to her charm, Countess Aspasia nevertheless nourished a profound distrust of her relation—as Elena and Fräulein Gelsicher also did, and on as slight grounds. She felt that Suzy had it in her to “play anyone a bad turn”; and mixed up with all her other motives for this jaunt was a secret hope that a chance might be offered her, quite correctly, “ de lui contrarier d’une facon ou d’ autre” as she expressed it to herself. But she said nothing of this to Roma; Roma was too untrustworthy— she gabbled. To her she merely speculated, very agreeably, on Suzy’s possible actions and motives—“ou remember the other day at Meden, when they were late for tea, how she dragged that wretched fool of a Carlo off to look for them! That’s pretty—to drag the old amante off to help her to find the new one!” She gave a harsh cackling laugh.