by Ann Bridge
‘The Sea is His, and He made it,
And His hands prepared the dry land.’
The young man said nothing for a little while when she had finished. Lady Kilmichael, closing the book, stole a glance at him – she was half afraid, from his silence, that this chapter which moved her so much had missed fire. But when he did speak, it was quite satisfying – ‘I wish I’d read that back there in the church,’ he said, waving a hand behind them.
‘I did,’ said Lady Kilmichael.
‘I don’t know why no one put me on to it,’ he said, a little discontentedly.
‘I thought everyone read The Stones of Venice here,’ said Grace.
The young man did not reply to this. Presently he spoke again. ‘All the same, you know, Mr Ruskin was pulling rather a long bow. How long do you suppose it took to build that church? – if it’s the original one, which I should say was extremely doubtful. Ten, fifteen years? Well, the Goths or Huns must have found out some pretty slow-combustion methods for burning homesteads if the sky was still reddened with them by the time the roof was put on. What?’ he said, cocking his head on one side and looking at her, with amusement on his face.
‘I didn’t say anything,’ said Grace, feeling a little chilled.
‘No, but what do you say?’ said the young man.
Grace thought for a moment. At home she would very likely have let the case for Mr Ruskin go by default; but some unwonted impulse, as well as something disarming about the young man’s smile, spurred her on to express her thought.
‘I think in point of actual months and weeks, and bricks and mortar – the technical side of history – it may be as great nonsense as you think it,’ she said, ‘but history has an untechnical side too. Ruskin is talking, as he says himself, about the spirit in which Venice was begun – and I think that sentence probably gives as true a picture of that as could be given.’
‘Of course it’s amazing to do it in one sentence at all,’ said the young man – ‘one superb sentence!’ He looked enquiringly at her – ‘You don’t mind my being facetious about it, do you? I’m sure you’re right, or he is, about the spiritual side of history, and I don’t think that nonsense, really.’
Grace said nothing. The novelty of having one of the young show himself apologetic about making fun of the things she cared for startled her almost out of the capacity for speech. He was an odd young man! The next minute – ‘You look cold,’ he said suddenly; ‘hadn’t you better put a coat on?’
Lady Kilmichael thought she had better. The sun had set, and a fresh wind had sprung up from the south-west, ruffling the darkening water before them; Giovanni and his companion were straining at their long oars; little waves slapped with gay ferocity and a small cold noise against the piles which marked the channel. The young man helped her into her white lambskin coat; Giovanni nodded and grinned approvingly – ‘Fa freddo,’ he observed – ‘Ha ragione, il signorino.’ The young man turned with an expression of exasperation to Lady Kilmichael – ‘Always the Signorino!’ he said. ‘It’s my hair!’ Lady Kilmichael looked at his hair. Its yellowness and curliness did make him look very young – perhaps she was wrong about his age. But she soon looked away again. Sky, sea and shores were, as it were, assembling and gathering themselves together for the pageant of a Venetian sunset. The whole western half of the heavens was full of a golden glow, throwing a tawny lustre on the steely blue of the wind-ruffled waters; on the mainland shore, to the north, the trees stood up, an incredible bronze-green, with blue hills behind. It was unpaintable, of course – too vast, too glorious, too violent; but her soul rose in her at the sight. In silence, as she looked, the young man waved his hand at it all, like a conductor conducting – after a few moments he spoke. ‘What an orchestra!’ he said. She nodded, and they rowed on, light and colour moving like music round them as they went.
Off Murano the wind dropped. Giovanni and his companion, encouraged, began to sing; Lady Kilmichael sat watching, against the faint yellow glow in the west which was all that remained of the sunset, the dark shape of Venice ahead of them, its lights drawing nearer and nearer over the water. They had been silent for some time, and she was thinking that she would soon have seen the last of her odd companion, whom she had picked up in such an odd way, when the young man put one of his abrupt questions – ‘Do you look at the pictures here at all?’
‘Yes, most of the time,’ she answered.
‘Which do you like best?’
‘Tintoretto’s “Paradise”, in the Ducal Palace,’ Grace replied, without hesitation.
‘So do I – how odd. I never found anyone else before who did,’ said the young man. ‘It is incredibly lovely, but I thought no one but me thought so. Can you tell me why you like it so much?’
‘I like the thing it describes and the way it describes it,’ she answered. ‘If Heaven is like anything, it’s like that – a white light, and ring upon ring of faces turned up to something they adore. It’s like the second movement of the Ninth Symphony – Beethoven is talking about the same place, only the music gets it even clearer.’ She stopped, a little embarrassed at having said so much; it was too dark to see the young man’s face. But when he answered she was reassured.
‘I know the part you mean,’ he said. ‘I rather prefer to keep music and pictures apart, but those two do belong together.’ Then she heard him chuckle. ‘If it comes to that, you know, that chapter of Ruskin is like Elgar, religiosity and all.’
Grace laughed. He had to make fun of everything, but somehow he did it very painlessly; and he was quite right – Ruskin’s prose was rather like Elgar. She admitted it. They went on talking about pictures; they were still talking about them, eagerly and in agreement, when the gondola slipped under one of the bridges on the Fondamenta Nuove and shot through the dim-lit maze of canals. The boy suggested, rather tentatively, that he should see her home; but Lady Kilmichael would not allow this; she was taking no risks, and even a stray boy had better not know where she was staying. She asked if the Piazzetta would do for him, and he said it would. Then they went on discussing pictures. Some key seemed to have been turned between them suddenly, for their conversation, so spasmodic and uncertain before, now ran like a river. The boy knew a lot – and as the gondola nosed its way in among its tethered fellows to the Piazzetta steps, Lady Kilmichael in her turn put a last question. ‘Do you paint yourself?’ she asked.
‘No, I don’t,’ said the young man abruptly. He shook hands with her. ‘Thank you frightfully,’ he said, and sprang out. Standing on the landing stage, above the bobbing gondola, his yellow head shining in the light from a lamp behind him, he spoke again, in tones of the most extraordinary bitterness. ‘But doing it is the only thing in the world I care about. Good night!’ He ran up the steps and was gone.
And only then did Lady Kilmichael remember that he had never given her the copy he had made of the inscription on the cinerary urn! She would have shouted, but what could she shout? She had no idea of his name. She got out hurriedly, ran up the steps, and looked about for a yellow head. But the Piazzetta was crowded, as it usually is on a fine evening; and though she walked as far as the entrance to the Piazza, there was no sign of him. She returned to the gondola and was borne home to her little pension. Such supper as it afforded was long past, and when she had washed she went out to a minute restaurant close by, and sat at a small table on a flagged calle, among gondoliers and shopkeepers, and ate macaroni and salad, to the characteristic Venetian accompaniment of a clatter of feet on the flagstones, re-echoed to and fro between the high houses. And while she ate she went over the day in her mind – the solitary and beautiful row out, the loveliness of Torcello, the finding of the stone and the odd encounter with the boy, the lost inscription, and their talk on that highly conversational row home. But two things remained predominant in her thoughts – the boy’s discontented expression, and the extraordinary bitterness in his voice when he told her at parting that he cared more for painting than anything else, and yet di
d not paint. There was some puzzle here – and she would never know the solution now. She was still thinking of this when she went to bed. It was a long time since Lady Kilmichael had expended so much speculation on any human being besides Walter, the boys, and Linnet.
FOUR
The Adriatica steamers, which take the traveller in the utmost comfort down the Dalmatian coast, leave Venice at the uncompromising hour of 6.30 A.M. Soon after six on a grey and chilly morning Lady Kilmichael went on board. She had postponed her departure from Venice for a few days in order to await the arrival of her painting things, for which she had telegraphed to her mother at Antibes; she had suddenly decided that she could not go on any longer without painting. She had had the things consigned to the Yugo-Slavia Express Agency’s offices at Venice, and put ‘No letters, please’ at the end of the telegram; but of course Mother always did what she chose and not what one asked her, and when the uniformed official of the Yugo-Slavia Express Agency stepped up to her, cap in hand, and pointed out the two large packages which bore her name, he handed her also a telegram, and a long fat envelope, obviously bursting with correspondence. This put Grace into a flutter. There would certainly be a letter from Walter, and what would it say? And what should she say? She opened the telegram with trembling fingers, but it was only from Mother:
Dearest child where are you and when do you think of coming here you ought really to write feel it a little inconsiderate Walter constantly telegraphing and even using telephone so disturbing and fearfully extravagant please send date of arrival or else some address to pacify W. you know how persistent he always is longing to see you of course dear child be careful of water salads in Venice thought best to send letters best love Mother.
How like Mother that was! And how letters, and still more telegrams from her always carried one back to one’s own youth – right into the past, with all the old sensations of dependence, vexation and amusement. She began to stuff the many sheets of this fantastic missive back into their inadequate envelope – really, it was all very well for Mother to talk of Walter’s extravagance! – thinking all at once that she must find a tip for the man, and get her luggage sent down to her cabin, and that if there was another passenger in it she would have to try and find a quiet corner somewhere where she could face that other envelope, the terrifying one with the letters in, when a rich deep voice, a familiar voice, hailed her – ‘Dearest Grace, who ever would have thought of finding you here?’ – and she turned to find herself face to face with Lady Roseneath.
This was very awkward indeed – so awkward that Lady Kilmichael entirely forgot about both letter and luggage for the moment. For she had now not only to explain her solitary presence in Venice to her old friend, but also her studied absence, for nearly a fortnight, from that old friend’s hospitable palazzo; and furthermore, she must (it was essential; Lady Roseneath was a prodigious correspondent) cover her future tracks, if there were such things, from her amiable curiosity. Embracing her old friend, then, warmly, far more warmly than was usual with her, she took a lightning and unprecedented decision – to lie, and to lie copiously and efficiently. It was the only thing to do, and she did it. She was on her way, she said, to Greece (you could get to Greece from Dalmatia, she knew, even if it meant going by Brindisi, and after all she might go there). The contract came out, handy and pat as a cork out of a bottle – such a marvellous contract, far too good to miss; and she had always wanted to see Greece. And to slip down the Dalmatian coast by sea was such a picturesque way of going. By the time the inevitable reproaches came, Lady Kilmichael had so warmed to her unwonted occupation of telling fibs that she produced a statement about ‘only a few nights; such a terrible headache after the train; so much to see – she simply had to do one or two sketches’ (the contract again) as glibly as if it had been the truth. Indeed, she was appalled to find how well she lied. Lady Roseneath accepted it all; she was deeply impressed by the contract – ‘My dear, you’re so clever!’ she said admiringly. She was not nearly so pertinacious in her questions, either, as Grace had feared, and after a few almost perfunctory enquiries for dear Walter and darling Linnet, enquiries which were easily parried, she allowed the reason for this lack of curiosity to appear. Lady Roseneath had a grievance. A nephew was staying with her – ‘Louise Humphries’s boy; you know – she married the General; a most tiresome, uncompromising man. Retired now, of course – and that’s the greatest bore for Louise; it wasn’t so bad when he was in India, or even at the War Office, but now he’s at home all day long, and my dear! the life he leads them all!’
Lady Kilmichael made a sound indicative of comprehension, and tried to slip a tip into the expectant goldcuffed hand of the Yugo-Slavia Express Agency man without relaxing her appearance of polite attention – time was passing, and she was not even sure if all her luggage had come on board. She managed the tip, while Lady Roseneath flowed on about her nephew – such nonsense, going to Dalmatia – as if there weren’t plenty of architecture to see in Venice! And now that she had got up – at this hour! – to see him off, of course he had gone and disappeared – Heaven knew where! She hoped he was on board. ‘He’s too impossibly vague and scrambly, my dear – do see him safely off at Spalato. And so self-centred and tiresome. All these last few days he’s been doing – imagine what? Sitting in the lounges of hotels looking for some girl he met on one of his expeditions! Out for lunch, out for tea – wouldn’t come to either of my receptions this week; no, he must find this girl. Too absurd.’
All this time, as she spoke, Lady Roseneath was surveying the crowd on deck – passengers, hotel porters, officers of the ship smartly uniformed in white – vainly trying to catch sight of her strayed nephew. The porters now began to leave, but still she talked on.
‘Do be kind to him. Poor boy, I pity him really. The fact is, he’s got—’
‘Booooop!’ went the siren of the vessel, drowning her voice; her mouth continued to move, but what her nephew had got was lost on Lady Kilmichael. ‘Oughtn’t you to go ashore?’ Grace suggested, when the deafening noise was over.
‘Oh, there’s no hurry – they’re very slow on these boats. Well, as you see, that’s what’s the matter with him, and of course, as a result, he’s lost—’
‘Boooooooop!’ went the siren again – and again Lady Roseneath’s lips moved in serene futility against the din, leaving Grace as completely uninformed about what the nephew had lost as she was about what he had got. When the siren ceased, Lady Roseneath interrupted her own discourse with a sudden cry – ‘Nicholas! Nicholas!’ and made an eager pounce among the crowd. ‘Here he is!’ she said triumphantly, catching a figure by the arm – ‘Nicholas, I want to introduce you to my friend Lady Kilmichael.’ And she led up the young man from Torcello.
Startled, Grace held out her hand. Looking as discontented as ever, the young man took it; he said ‘How do you do?’ without a sign of recognition – then, very deliberately, closed one eye, the eye furthest from Lady Roseneath.
The siren hooted again. An officer came up and interrupted Lady Roseneath’s final farewells – still talking, she was somehow bustled off the ship. Lady Kilmichael, shivering a little in her white coat, stood at the rail for a few moments, and waved politely – then she turned away. Now she really must get to her cabin and face that envelope and its contents. But she found the boy at her elbow at once.
‘This is distinct luck,’ he said, looking much less discontented. ‘I thought I’d lost you for good, and should never be able to give you this’ – and pulling out a pocketbook, he handed her the copy of the inscription. ‘I forgot it that night – we were talking so,’ he went on. ‘I did a bit of a search for you, but the hotels in Venice were full of tall women in white woolly coats, and none of them were you!’ He grinned, reminiscently. ‘I maddened Aunt a good deal about you. Where were you? Did you go away?’
‘No, I was at my pension,’ said Grace, amused in spite of her preoccupation to find herself the object of the search which had caused Lady Roseneath
so much annoyance, and also by the boy’s casual and minimising account of it.
‘It must have been a very obscure pension,’ said the boy. Grace could not help smiling – so he had tried the pensions too!
‘I am very sorry you should have taken so much trouble,’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t have bothered.’
‘I thought you wanted the thing,’ said he, looking discontented again.
‘I did – very much; I’m so glad to have it at last,’ she said hastily – he really mustn’t be disappointed. ‘Thank you very much.’ And again she started towards the steps which led down towards the cabins. The boy followed – wasn’t she coming to have some breakfast? Lady Kilmichael said no, not yet; she was going to find her cabin. ‘Are you going to Trieste?’ he called after her, as she descended the steps.