by Ann Bridge
But one birthday wish La Vecchia Marchesa did not get. As a result of her insistence the little girl was sent for, and presently slipped in, light and slim as an elf, in her white muslin with the black ribands, and kissed her grandmother and asked her how she did? “Well, well—it was nothing,” the old lady said. “Sit there, by me, my child—I want to talk to you.” Marietta did as she was bidden, taking a low chair beside the old woman, who retained her little hand and fondled it caressingly. She sat for some time in silence, trying, for the second time that day, to recall what it was that she had wished to say to this precious young creature, this treasure of her old heart. But it was no use—she could not remember, she could not do it. She was too tired. There had been so many people, that afternoon.
“It is no good,” she said at last, rather wistfully. “I had something to say to you, but I find that I am rather too tired now, my little one. I will tell you tomorrow, when I am fresher. Give me a kiss.”
The child put her arms round the old woman’s neck and kissed her—to her surprise, Bonne-Mama rubbed her fine old ivory-coloured cheek gently, lingeringly, against the soft apricot-white one. “Thank you for letting me see Postiche, Bonne-Mama,” the little girl said; “it has made me so happy, seeing her again. And I am so so glad that you have made this nice plan for her. She is so good!”
“Yes, she is,” the old woman said. “Now, run away.” She kissed the child again. “God bless you, my darling one, my treasure. I will see you in the morning.”
Marietta slipped out, quietly as she had come; she ran downstairs and made her way on to the stone pine ridge. Darling Bonne-Mama, she did not really seen very ill; only rather tired and vague. How funny and tender she had been, too; generally she only just stroked one’s hand! And what could she have wanted to say? The child at once wondered if she could have done something wrong—wandering along between the stone pines, chewing a dry grass-stem, she ran her mind over the day, the past week or so, but she could think of nothing serious. But coming to one of the open spaces between the trees, where a great segment of the arc of mountains to the North opened on the eye, she stopped with held breath, and gazed and gazed—in a moment she had forgotten all about her grandmother, or possible naughtiness. Here was beauty; here was that strange source of the uplifting of the heart—sorrow or uncertainty must be stilled before this. Her spirit took wing, planing off into those remote realms of aspiration and bodiless worshipping bliss which are youth’s special home and kingdom. She stood there, lost and happy in her private world of wonder.
After Marietta had left the room the old Marchesa sat on, half-dozing, in her chair. Anastasia crept in, but seeing her quiet and comfortable, crept out again. Giacinta was in the bedroom beyond, with the communicating door open—she too came in several times and fussed quietly about, pulling up the light indoor rug over the old woman’s lap, tidying the bottles on the side table; the old Marchesa, accustomed to these ministrations, paid no attention to her. In a dreamy vague way, behind her closed eyes, she was meditating—little scraps of thoughts that came and went. It has been a pleasant day, a pretty party. She wished Suzy could have been there —Suzy would have enjoyed it. She had enjoyed it herself. Everyone had seemed happy, had met contentedly—even Marietta and the little Prestwich. She was glad that was all arranged. And Giulio—how red he had turned when she asked him about Castellone! That had gone all right, evidently. And he would get his wonderful Oxford now, and a year or two would show how much there really was in it. A year or two—somehow there was a cold feeling about that thought. Would she hear at the end of a year or two what had happened? But her old mind slipped off to something else—Giulio and the little Prestwich led back again to Marietta. It was a pity she had not been able to talk to Marietta—it was the one thing left undone. But she would be with the excellent Gelsicher now, the little thing. And she had really been too tired— too tired. She was very tired, still; she had never been quite so tired before, she thought. In a strange remote way she felt that perhaps the call was near, now—not today, or tomorrow, but soon. If one was as tired as this, really rest was the only thing left. Still more dreamily, her mind skimmed over the long past—touching the landmarks, some great, some small, that stood up out of the misty distance. Oh well, life had been, on the whole, good—sometimes painful, often pleasant; never so important as one imagined at the time, as these young people imagined still. And she had had a good long spell of it. A childish sense of triumph stirred in her, and she startled Giacinta by murmuring aloud—“And I have lived to be a hundred!”
The maid hurried forward. “Does the Marchesa want anything?”
“No no—what more should I want?” the old Marchesa said.
The woman went over to the window and raised the sunblind; it was getting rather dark in the room. The striped yellow awning rolled up with a little rattle, and settled into place with a click; the soft sunless light from the upper sky, faintly warmed by the evening gold, filled the room. Still holding the cord, Giacinta turned and looked at her mistress. ’She looks old’, she thought; ’at last she looks very old. But she looks quite happy.’ She turned away again, and fastened the cord round the double hook, leaning forward over the sill to do so. Outside, the tops of the cypresses below the terrace stood up against that soft evening sky, burnished like green spears in the last sunlight; beyond, from the foot of the hill the autumn countryside stretched away, golden with harvest, the completed fullness of the year’s cycle, and lit by the late sunshine, till it faded gently into a far invisible horizon. The maid turned back into the room. “It is a beautiful evening, La Marchesa,” she remarked. But the old lady did not answer. The maid went over to her, pulled the rug up to cover the little old hands, put another shawl round her shoulders, and then, taking her work, seated herself under the window, where she could keep watch over her mistress, and sat sewing, as the light faded.
To
GEORGE,
and to
THE TWO CORAS
This electronic edition published in 2011 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London
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Copyright © Ann Bridge
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ISBN: 9781448206520
eISBN: 9781448206162
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