‘You slept badly too?’
‘Yes. Let us go now and visit your mother. However she is placed, it will be better to know. Besides, I long to meet her.’
‘And so do I!’
‘The Signora Aldini?’ Momolo did not seem surprised. ‘But naturally, Principessa, I had wondered when you would wish to visit her.’
‘You mean, you knew?’
‘Everyone knows, Principessa. Here in Venice, everyone has always known everything. Most especially we gondoliers. It is our business. The other young lady goes too? That’s good.’ He settled them with his usual care for their comfort and pushed off across the Grand Canal.
‘Your mother must live on the south side of the island,’ Martha said as the gondola headed for the narrow channel between St. George’s and the Giudecca. ‘I do hope it is not going to be too sad for you, Cristabel.’
‘But I’m right to come?’ It was half a question.
‘Of course you are.’
They were silent for a while, both wondering what they were going to find. Then, ‘We must be almost there,’ exclaimed Cristabel as the gondola turned into the mouth of a narrow canal that ran north across the Giudecca. ‘Goodness!’ Momolo had swooped across the canal to bring his craft to a halt at a well-kept quay with a black and gold striped mooring-post. High walls of rose-red brick were pierced by ornamental iron gates, so closely wrought that they allowed only glimpses of an evergreen garden behind. ‘Can this be the place?’ Momolo had jumped ashore, moored the gondola with the usual expert fling of the rope, and rung a peal at the ornamental bell beside the gate.
‘It must be.’ Martha stood up, shaking out muslin skirts.
The gates opened slowly. There was a quick exchange in the incomprehensible Venetian lingo, then Momolo returned to the gondola. ‘The Signora is at home,’ he told Cristabel. ‘She will receive you. I will be here again in two hours.’ He helped them ashore.
‘Two hours?’ Martha had noticed with amusement that Momolo always directed his first attention to Cristabel. Now she thought she was beginning to understand. He had known that her friend was half Italian as well as being, in his terms, a princess.
‘Look!’ said Cristabel. The bowing, black-clad servant had led them through the evergreen hedge that masked the gates into a fantastic garden. More evergreen hedges, lawns, small, frivolous baroque statues.
‘A garden in Venice?’ she said in Italian to the servant.
‘Ah, Signora,’ the old man smiled at her. ‘In Venice, there are gardens, but one must be of the elect to find them.’
The elect? They had reached the house, where another servant stood bowing at a welcoming open door. Inside was the usual cool, shadowy vault, part entry, part storeroom, from which marble steps took them up to the living-quarters. As carved doors opened before them they stopped, dazzled by light. The high, square room looked south on to the garden, and crimson velvet curtains had been drawn well back to admit the afternoon sun. Its rays made a Titian aureole for the woman who sat there, enthroned on the kind of sofa Madame Recamier had made fashionable in Paris. Since her back was to the light, she was a half-defined figure except for the flaming statement of her hair. Deep blue draperies, brilliant against the crimson of the sofa, suggested a figure of some grandeur.
‘Cristabel.’ She held out a plump white hand. ‘My darling child. Come, kiss your idle old mother, who stirs herself for no one, not even a long-lost daughter.’ She aimed the remark directly at Cristabel, with merely a civil side glance for Martha.
Cristabel bent into a cloud of exquisite, unidentifiable perfume, kissed a soft, delicious cheek, stood, looking down, still holding the hand. ‘Mama?’
Her mother patted her hand. ‘I wonder which of us is the more surprised, I to acquire a full grown daughter, or you to find a mother you had not looked for.’
‘I thought you dead.’
If there was a hint of reproach in her tone, her mother chose to ignore it. ‘Poor Sarum,’ she laughed musically. ‘When I stopped taking that pittance he allowed me, he jumped to the most hopeful conclusion, decided I was dead. Well, you see he was gravely mistaken. I’m very much alive.’
She was. Now that they had got used to the light, they could see that she was enormous, a Rubens Venus miraculously without the jowled, sullen look that often goes with such proportions.
‘I’m glad you are!’ Cristabel bent impulsively to kiss her again. ‘So very glad!’ She looked around the room, noticing as Martha already had the huge Canaletto on the wall facing them, the evidence, everywhere, of great wealth. ‘And glad to find you –’ She hesitated.
‘Dear child.’ Her mother laughed again. ‘You had thought to find me living in a slum, taking in washing, destitute. You were coming to my rescue? You and your friend – introduce your friend, of whom I have heard so much.’ She turned her ravishing smile full on Martha. ‘I owe this happy surprise to you, do I not, Miss Peabody? I cannot tell you how grateful I am.’
‘Happy indeed.’ Martha shook the plump hand in her firm American way. ‘But hardly a surprise, Signora Aldini?’
‘Ah ha!’ It was a little crow of pleasure. ‘They told me you were no fool, Miss Peabody. You are quite right, of course. I am well served, here on my quiet island. Yes, I did know you were coming. Such a touching scene deserved a proper setting. Do you not agree with me?’ She clapped white hands. ‘And now we are going to dine. No need to fret about your aunt, my dear. I’ve sent her a message to say you will dine with me. That way, the worst of her surprise will be over by the time you get back to her. She’s turned out quite a formidable creature, they tell me. I’d never have thought it of her. Such a timid little thing as I remember her. Ah,’ with obvious satisfaction, ‘here comes our dinner. I do love my food. You will find it one of our more lasting pleasures.’ She turned the conversation to ask about Cristabel’s singing lessons, as a troop of servants wheeled a table close to her sofa and set out a lavish selection of antipasto and a huge, savoury-smelling, silver tureen. When their green-gold Venetian glass goblets had been filled with chianti, she dismissed the servants. ‘We will wait on ourselves. Or rather you will wait on me. My own information system is good enough, so I know better than to talk before even my faithful servants. Not that we intend to talk secrets today.’ She helped herself liberally to antipasto, raised her glass. ‘I drink to you both. Now tell me, Cristabel, what is puzzling you? You have the look of one who is doing sums in her head.’
‘Exactly!’ Cristabel was surprised into frankness. ‘Mama – may I call you mama? – Aunt Helen, what you said about her … and I remember something she said about you. You cannot possibly be older than Aunt Helen?’
‘Oh yes I can. I enjoy life, you see. It makes a great difference. And I enjoy my food.’ Having disposed of six anchovies, a handful of olives and a large slice of prosciutto as she talked, she now reached over to take the lid off the tureen. ‘Ah, lasagne today. I often think it is my favourite kind of pasta. Will you help us all, my dear? Poor Helen, has she aged so much? And what did she say about me, pray?’
‘She remembers you as brilliant.’
‘Ah.’ Purring a little. ‘You must bring her to see me. Perhaps we could make life a little more interesting for her.’
‘She has written to my father,’ said Cristabel.
‘Well, of course. Poor man, what a shock for him. But I am sure, with his influence, and mine, there should be no problem about a divorce – or maybe even an annulment. So much simpler.’
‘But where would that leave me?’ asked Cristabel, and was greeted by another peal of delicious laughter.
‘In limbo? Never mind, we’ll make sure you continue to exist, one way or another. I’ve a friend who will look after it for me.’ She looked at the gold clock. ‘He’ll be here soon, so I’d best tell you about him. Are you going to be very badly shocked?’
‘If we are,’ Martha had already come to her own conclusions, ‘we promise to hide it gallantly.’
‘Ah!
I am going to like you, Miss Peabody! No, on second thoughts, I think I shall begin as I mean to go on and call you Martha.’
‘That will please me very much.’
‘That’s settled then. So – to my good friend, Count Gabriel Tafur, whose palace this is. He was waiting for me, when I got back from England, full of reproaches that I had not waited for him. He had been a younger son, you see, penniless, powerless. By the time I came back, he had inherited the Tafur riches. He had this palace ready for me. His own is on the Grand Canal, you must have seen it, the one with the lions, near the Ca’ d’Oro; this was just something that had come into the family by marriage, been left to fall into ruins. He had had it entirely refitted, as you see it now. His gondola was waiting for me at Mestre, with a note. I have been here ever since. Ah, here he is! My dear, may I present my daughter Cristabel, and her friend Miss Peabody.’
‘Enchanted.’ He came forward, slim and erect in old-fashioned elegant black. ‘Lady Cristabel,’ he bent over her hand. ‘Welcome to Venice! And, Miss Peabody,’ he turned to her. ‘We thank you for bringing her.’ His English was as fluent as the Signora’s. He looked very much older than her, but there was nothing elderly about the sparkling black eyes which were busy summing them both up. Doing a little summing of her own, Martha decided they were a couple to be reckoned with. ‘You are going to let us help you, I hope, in this gallant enterprise of yours,’ the Count went on, confirming this. ‘A bold plan indeed, three unaccompanied ladies to conquer at once the social and the musical world. You have my congratulations on your success so far.’
‘In which you have, in fact, helped us?’ Martha smiled at him. ‘I believe we should be thanking you already, Count.’
He smiled and shrugged, spreading expressive, capable hands. ‘You are quick, Miss Peabody. Yes, a word here, a word there. Even in today’s deplorable society we Tafurs are not entirely without influence. And everyone in the world of music loves your mother.’ He turned to Cristabel. ‘Since she retired, that is, and stopped being a threat to them.’
‘Which is a long time!’ The Signora smiled and stretched out a lazy hand to him.
‘And a most happy one.’ He kissed it and Martha and Cristabel, watching, both realised that perhaps for the first time in their lives they were seeing a truly happy marriage. Except that it was no such thing.
‘Why –’ began Cristabel, went crimson and stopped.
‘You’re quick, too.’ The Count smiled at her very kindly. ‘You want to know why I didn’t ask my friend the Pope to annul your mother’s marriage, and marry her myself? Well, at first she refused – said one marriage was enough for a lifetime – and by the time I had managed to make her see the situation a little differently, it hardly seemed worth the trouble – and the talk.’
‘We are very well as we are,’ said the Signora. ‘I have no wish to go out – except to the theatre of course – and everyone I care about comes to me. And, really, we find our two establishments very comfortable, do we not, Gabriel?’
‘Your mother is a brilliantly idle woman who likes her own way in everything,’ the Count told Cristabel. ‘This way, as you can see, she gets it.’
‘Lady Helen is going to be a problem,’ said Martha.
‘I’m afraid so.’ The Count smiled ruefully, and she found herself liking him more and more. ‘We are counting on you to deal with her,’ he went on. ‘After all, you persuaded her into this bold scheme in the first place.’
‘No,’ Martha told him. ‘In fact, she volunteered.’
‘Better and better.’ He turned to a servant who had appeared in the doorway. ‘Your gondola is here, Lady Cristabel, will you ask Lady Helen if I may call on her tomorrow?’
‘You mean, tell her you are going to?’ Cristabel’s smile took any sting out of the words.
He laughed and threw out a hand. ‘What a pair of Amazons! I wonder if I dare volunteer my next suggestion.’
‘I expect you will.’
‘Of course I shall. May I bring a couple of gentlemen to call on you two ladies? If you are going to honour our scandalous ménage with your friendship, you need, I think, to be extra punctilious in other social respects. A pair of reliable cicisbeos will help to establish your position.’
‘You guarantee them reliable?’ asked Martha, amused.
‘They’ll be terrified of you.’
‘As well as of you? Yes, do bring them, Count. We had been thinking it was time we set ourselves up with a couple of cavaliers.’
‘I long to see Torcello,’ said Cristabel.
‘That certainly settles it. I will look forward to calling on you tomorrow.’
‘When will I see you again, Mama?’ Cristabel bent to kiss her mother’s fragrant cheek.
‘Just as soon as we have squared Lady Helen. It will not do for you to be quarrelling with her. You owe her a great deal for cutting loose and coming with you, as I am sure you are aware. But just persuade her I am wicked but harmless, and I see my friends on Thursdays.’
‘Not wicked,’ said Cristabel. ‘How strange it all is.’
‘And hardly harmless either,’ said Martha and got another delighted laugh.
When Lady Helen agreed to receive Count Tafur, the two girls thought the battle as good as won, and turned their attention to the young men he had brought with him, their prospective adorers. Surprisingly, neither of them was Venetian. Or was it so surprising? Barham Lodge was American, tall and gangling, and over in Europe on what he called a voyage of exploration. His friend Dominic Playfair was intensely English, the fair-haired, fine-boned, younger son of a north-country family. ‘I slipped the leash,’ he told them. ‘M’mother wants me to go into the Church, m’father wants me to go into the army. I said I must have time to think it over, came away as soon as the peace was confirmed, met Barham in Paris, decided to join forces.’
‘A grand day for me,’ confirmed Barham Lodge. ‘Dominic has been able to show me how to go on in Society; I’d be nowhere without him. Wonderful to be born knowing how to behave. And now you ladies are going to be our guides here in Venice.’
‘Hardly that,’ objected Cristabel. ‘We’ve been here no time ourselves.’
‘Ah, but with such connections!’ Lodge laughed. ‘Now I am learning about connections. Your mother is the most amazing woman, Lady Cristabel. To see her sitting on that sofa of hers, like a queen, ruling her soirées … Not a word out of place, not a look; my Aunt Priscilla would be happy there … And the talk’s the best in Venice. Everyone says so.’
‘And for once, everyone is right,’ Dominic Playfair told Martha. ‘I hope we are to have the pleasure of escorting you there tomorrow evening.’
‘So do I.’ Martha wondered just how much he knew about their situation.
‘The Count’s a remarkable man too,’ he said. ‘I’ll bet you a pair of Venetian gloves he and Lady Helen emerge from their conference the best of friends.’
‘I’m not a betting woman, Mr. Playfair, but I certainly hope you are right.’
‘Bound to be,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Lady Helen’s a woman of the world; must be, stands to reason. And everyone knows that Society here in Venice has its own rules, goes on quite otherwise than anywhere else in the civilised world.’
‘I know this used to be true,’ she said doubtfully. ‘But even now, under the Austrians …’
‘More than ever now, don’t you see? The old families hanging together. Oh, on the surface it’s all conformity and curtsies, but have you thought, Miss Peabody, about what is seething underneath?’
‘Why, no, not really. You make me ashamed. We’ve been so busy, you see, getting ourselves settled, trying to find our way around, arranging for Lady Cristabel’s studies …’
‘I long to hear her voice. Is it really so extraordinary?’
‘We think so.’ Who was the ‘we’, she wondered, herself and Franz Wengel, perhaps? ‘But this seething you speak of… You mean there is really a spirit of revolt here in Venice? I thought they gave in so ea
sily, crumbled so completely before Bonaparte … That it was all over with them.’
‘With the old régime, yes indeed, and good riddance. A régime of black tyranny and wicked secrecy. You have only to see the lions’ heads in the streets, where the informers dropped their evil messages, or those horrible torture chambers under the Doge’s Palace, to recognise that the Serenissima was doomed. It was ripe and ready to fall, half the population, more, were ready to receive the French with open arms. Trees of liberty sprouting of their own accord … The authorities were between the devil of Bonaparte, and the deep blue sea of their own revolutionaries. No wonder they yielded to the devil they thought they knew and ferried his soldiers across the lagoon to save themselves from the excesses of their own people. But not even they could reckon on his duplicity. To hand them over to Austria as he did –’ He broke off. ‘I do apologise, Miss Peabody. I am lecturing you like a public meeting.’
‘I like it, Mr. Playfair. It’s what my father used to do.’
‘Thank you.’ He was looking beyond her. ‘I think you get your gloves, Miss Peabody.’
Lady Helen and the Count had just emerged from the music-room, talking with the ease of old friends.
As she got to know them better, Martha was increasingly sure that Lodge and Playfair were involved in some kind of plotting against the Austrian authorities. Convinced that they were rather playing at it than serious, she decided not to mention her suspicion to Lady Helen, or Cristabel, who was so totally immersed in her music that she only noticed politics when Signor Carpani, the Director and Censor of the Theatres, committed some particularly ridiculous act of censorship.
‘He’s a poet himself. And a librettist,’ she fumed. ‘How can he do it?’
‘To curry favour with his Austrian masters, I am afraid. I’m glad you never thought of making your début here, Belle.’
‘I should just about think not! But, oh, Martha, do you think I ever will? Sometimes I think it is all cloud-cuckoo-land and I shall be a charge on you for ever.’
‘And a great pleasure it would be. But don’t think it for a minute. Signor Arioso was saying just the other day what wonderful progress you have made this winter. You must be aware of it yourself.’
First Night Page 7