Illyrian Spring

by Ann Bridge

  ‘You think that they loved you for your intelligence?’

  Grace had to smile. ‘No one ever did that, I’m sure! No, but Doctor Halther, it does make it difficult – if they don’t respect one, it makes it very hard to control them, and that’s a thing one must do to some extent. And then there’s friction, and that makes them dislike one. It’s the friction – yes, I see – that does it; but the friction comes because they think that almost everything I say is foolish. That’s a real difficulty.’

  She poured this out, not fast, thinking it out as she went along. Dr Halther listened quietly; when she stopped – ‘Do your sons dislike you?’ he asked.

  Goodness, how shrewd he was! ‘No – I can’t say that. It’s worst with Linnet. I – she’s such a darling, and good, but somehow we can’t make it work, lately.’ Again she was uncertain of her voice.

  ‘Is this why you come abroad, because you are unhappy with your daughter?’

  ‘Partly. The whole thing, really – it was getting worse instead of better, and I felt it was no good going on. I thought it might help me to get right away.’ She had elided the question of Rose, deliberately – now that Dr Halther knew who she was, and all about Walter, Rose and Walter must be kept out of it.

  ‘And has it helped, to come away?’

  ‘I think it has, rather. I feel able to think about it all more clearly. Nicholas Humphries has helped me a lot, too.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Because he’s young, and knows how young people think and feel, and he talks to me as if I were young too. He’s taught me a great deal about the things that annoy children in their parents.’

  Something in the simplicity of this statement made the Doctor laugh. ‘This shall be most useful, no doubt,’ he said, ‘but you must also be clear on the fundamentals. Thinking for yourself, what have you found out?’

  Grace considered again. To garner the fruits of a month’s scattered reflections into a handful of sentences has taxed clearer heads than hers. But, as seemed to happen when she was talking to the Professor, his questions released in her conclusions of which she had hardly been aware.

  ‘I’ve found that I can’t do without them, to begin with,’ she said. ‘I almost thought I might be able to when I came away. But not now – I must go back when I’m ready.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘That it’s more my fault than I thought. There is something in me, in the way I set about everything, that is wrong – but I’m not absolutely certain yet what it is. And besides that, I’ve begun to find out what it is to feel free, out here – and now I’ve got to find out how to be free at home. If I could do that, I’m sure I could manage. I thought that was a thing you might be able to help me about,’ she said, turning to him almost wistfully.

  ‘You have already helped yourself a good deal,’ he said. ‘You need only to think a little deeper to make it clear. Look – this thing in you which makes your life at home go wrong, is there not the element of amour propre in it? Not much, but a little? Is not that why you mind being thought stupid, teased? You are confused in this still; no one was ever loved for their intelligence, and respect is usually reserved, in England anyhow’ – he smiled – ‘for moral qualities. These you have. I suspect that your children both love and respect you really, but you are made clumsy and exigeante by your amour propre; you will have them think you also intelligent. Is this true?’

  ‘I must think. Perhaps it is. Does amour propre make one afraid of people?’

  ‘More than almost any other quality – it shrinks at a touch.’

  Grace nodded, slowly, thinking. Was this what had alienated Walter, bit by bit? Was this what made her lack with Linnet the self-confidence she had had, so surprisingly, with Nicholas? If she could accept both her own stupidity and her family’s attitude to it really unresentfully, was he perhaps right, and would she nevertheless be able to deal with them all?

  ‘I think you are right,’ she said, turning to him. ‘I haven’t been content to be stupid, as it were.’

  ‘You have the word! You must be content with what you are. See – you speak of freedom, but freedom, gnädige Frau, is within. It does not live in Dalmatia any more than in London.’ He spread out his hand again like a diagram, and tapped it with his cheroot while he spoke. ‘What is freedom? It consists in two things: To know each his own limitations and to accept them – that is the same thing as to know oneself, and to accept oneself as one is, without fear, or envy, or distaste; and to recognise and accept the conditions under which one lives, also without fear or envy or distaste. When you do this, you shall be free.’

  Lady Kilmichael sat silent for some time after that. ‘Thank you,’ she said at last.

  Dr Halther rose, shook his bandana carefully, and replaced it in his pocket. ‘Do not be too concerned about your stupidity, gnädige Frau,’ he said, looking down at her. ‘The habit of thought you lack, but this can be learned; and l’intelligence du cœur is a very useful quality, which I think you have.’ His sardonic grin appeared. ‘See, you know what to do about young Humphries for yourself, without any help from me!’

  ‘I only found that out by your suggesting the wrong thing,’ said Grace. And when he had gone and she returned to her painting, she thought how curious that was.

  She and Nicholas were still in the habit of meeting at the inn between six and seven, for a glass of light wine and ‘a tot of village gossip’ as he called it; but when she went down that evening he was not there, and she sat with Signor Orlando and the innkeeper, hearing about the export trade in red Lacroma to Glasgow and Oslo, and how unlucky it was that Grk would not travel. She worried a little about Nicholas, remembering his ill looks that morning, and after supper she had almost screwed herself up to the point of walking down to the villa to see how he was when a note was brought to her in the garden. It was from Nicholas; she knew his writing, though she had never had a letter from him. The written word has a quality all its own, and she opened the note with a little tremor of curiosity as to how he would write to her.

  Dear Lady K.,

  I am off to Ragusa tomorrow early. Now the portrait is done I think I may as well pursue my architectural tour, so I shall get on to Greece as soon as there’s a boat – probably via the Bocche. I expect it will enlarge my mind, as they say.

  The portrait is for you. I am leaving it here; you can fetch it any time when it is dry. It is rather unworthy, but I want you to have it, as a mild thank-offering for all your help. I have learned quite a lot from you, one way and another – thank you.

  Your dear child,

  Nicholas Humphries.

  Lady Kilmichael put down the note. So that was Nicholas’s own solution of the problem over which she and the Professor had differed so acutely that afternoon – to go away. Well, it was probably the most sensible one of all. It wasn’t very prettily done – to sever a month’s companionship and affection with that rather poverty-stricken little note was slightly ungracious; she was a little chilled. She took up the note and read it again and this time she was less chilled. Her attention was held by the touching absurdity of the signature, with its hint of revolt – who but Nicholas would have thought of calling himself ‘Your dear child’? That said most, for and against, of what the rest so determinedly didn’t say. As she folded it up she noticed a single line written on the back of the sheet. It was scrawled so illegibly that it took her some moments to make it out – so illegibly that when she had at last deciphered it, she wondered if it had not been written so badly on purpose, in a panic lest it should be understood. ‘And still my feet’ – that was all. But Lady Kilmichael recognised it – the second line of the translation of ‘Morgen’; and she remembered the words which followed. Poor child! The note wasn’t so poverty-stricken after all. Smiling a little, she put it away and went up to bed. (Of course she couldn’t go to the villa now.)

  It was only when she was in bed that one thing struck her – Nicholas’s destination! She had said she was going to Greece, and
she hadn’t gone; the Professor had said he was going to Greece, and he hadn’t gone; and now Nicholas proposed to go there too.

  ‘Well, if he gets there, he will be the best out of three,’ she thought, and fell asleep.

  EIGHTEEN

  Notes were something of a rarity at the Restauracija Tete Mare, and the arrival of two within twelve hours caused quite an agreeable stir of excitement in the establishment. The second came about eight the next morning, and was carried up to Lady Kilmichael’s room by the Signora, followed by Teta and the niece, who remained listening in delightful speculation on the landing outside. Grace had ordered her breakfast in her room overnight, to secure herself against any sudden impulse of going for an early walk and happening to be at the bus-start at half-past seven; from her bed she had heard the bus go roaring off with sensations which surprised her. ‘He’s only going away – it can’t hurt like this really’ her mind protested. ‘You’ve only known him a month.’ But it did hurt, just like that; and she stared out of her window at the cypresses on the island, remembering how free she had felt, watching them, barely a fortnight before; and thinking how futile and humiliating it was to fall in love at her age – till the sight of the venetian blinds across the top of the window reminded her of the day when Nicholas came in to bring her the glass of wine, and let them down for her against the glare. The tears sprang to her eyes, at that; they had been so happy, he had been so sweet. Well, it was over now – and though it was a very silly business on her part, she at least wouldn’t pretend about it.

  The Signora’s knock startled her. ‘Avanti!’ she called. The sight of the note startled her still more, brought the colour into her face – as the Signora duly informed Teta and the niece two minutes later; but it was in a strange writing this time, and the signature, which she read first, showed it to be from the Professor.

  Dear Lady Kilmichael,

  As soon as you can, it would be kind if you would come round to see Mr Humphries. He is very unwell; he vomits constantly and I think he has fever. Maria does her best, but outside her kitchen she is as one of the lower animals, and I am without resources in illness, being a healthy bachelor! I do not think it grave, but it is better that you should see him.

  Lady Kilmichael issued a demand for immediate breakfast, sprang out of bed, and began to dress. No wonder he had looked seedy yesterday morning! Probably he had got a chill up on the plateau, or he had eaten something which upset him – his digestion was so groggy. She bundled the very few ‘resources’ which she had – some bicarbonate of soda, aspirin, a flask of eau-de-cologne, and a thermometer – into a satchel, and after hurriedly swallowing some bread and coffee, while the Signora stood by urging her to take more and deploring the illness of the Signorino, she set off for the villa. It was a brilliant morning, fresher than usual after the storm of the day before; the fondamento wore its normal matutinal aspect of rather casual activity, the river glittered in the early sunlight. As she passed Pavlé Burié’s office, where the bus was wont to stand, she surprised in her mind a little thread of gladness, twisted in among the vague anxiety – he hadn’t after all gone! Greece had failed as a destination again.

  Dr Halther met her in the garden. ‘You have come quickly,’ he said. ‘That is good of you.’

  ‘How bad is he?’ Grace asked.

  Dr Halther shrugged. ‘I cannot judge. He is all the time sick. I do not think it is grave, but he is very unwell.’

  ‘When did it begin?’

  ‘In the night, it seems. He ate little last evening, but he had told me that he leaves today, and I attributed this to his state of mind. When Maria went to wake him this morning she found him very sick; he tried to get up, but he could not stand, and must lie down again. She made him some tisane, but he vomited it immediately again. I have no thermometer, but I think he has fever also.’

  ‘I’ve brought a thermometer. Shall I go up to him?’

  Dr Halther led the way upstairs. ‘You will tell me presently how you think he is,’ he said as they went. ‘Maria will do anything you tell her and bring you anything you want. I hope it is not much, this sickness.’ He opened a door. ‘See, I bring you a nurse!’ he announced cheerfully, ushering Lady Kilmichael in, and then went out, shutting the door softly behind him.

  Nicholas was lying with his knees drawn up and his back to the light; a basin stood on a chair by the bed, and there was a sour smell of sickness in the room. His suitcases and knapsack, three-parts packed, stood about between little heaps of clothes and shoes on the floor; half the drawers in the bureau were open – a more comfortless sick-room Grace had never seen. He turned his head a very little at her entrance and said ‘Hullo!’ and nothing else. Grace went over to him. ‘You poor Nicholas, how horrid this is for you,’ she said. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Beastly,’ he said weakly.

  ‘Any pain?’

  ‘All over my front. Oh lord, I’m going to be sick again!’ He was – with retchings of great violence. Grace held his head till it was over and he lay back, damp and exhausted, on the pillow. She was shocked by his appearance. His usually red face had a yellowish pallor, his cheeks a look of having fallen in, and there were enormous purplish circles under his eyes. The sweat on his forehead from the exertion of retching was cold under her palm, but his hands were hot. She took out the thermometer, and shook it down. ‘Take this,’ she said. ‘Where’s the bathroom?’

  ‘Third door on the right. I say, I hate your bothering with all that.’

  ‘Nonsense – I’m going to make you tidy. Put that in and leave it till I come back.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  While he took his temperature Grace found the bathroom, emptied the basin, sought out Maria and demanded some cloths for her own use, a small table, tumblers, eggs and a kettle of boiling water. Then she went back to Nicholas. His temperature was only a hundred and one degrees, but his pulse and his general appearance alarmed her a good deal; he gave her the impression of being really ill.

  ‘When did this begin?’

  ‘I felt sick and queer all yesterday afternoon, but I was only taken short after dinner, when I was getting packed – and then I began to be sick too, and I’ve gone on more or less ever since.’

  ‘Sick how often?’

  ‘About every quarter of an hour, I should say.’

  She reckoned in her head. This had been going on for nine or ten hours. It must be stopped somehow. When Maria brought the kettle she mixed some bicarbonate of soda and gave it to Nicholas. While he sipped it she broke the whites of two eggs carefully into a tumbler, beat them up with a toothbrush handle, went and fetched some salt and another glass, poured on the water, and strained the mixture through a clean pocket handkerchief.

  ‘What’s that brew?’

  ‘Albumen water – it soothes your inside.’

  ‘It looks filthy.’

  ‘It isn’t really.’

  While she did these things her mind was working fast, taking stock of the situation; thinking what was probably the best treatment, what most urgently needed doing, what must be got from Ragusa. As soon as he had finished the bicarbonate of soda Nicholas was sick again. As she came back from the bathroom she met him coming along the landing, in a sort of staggering run. That couldn’t be allowed either; something must be arranged. While he was gone she hurriedly made his bed; as soon as he came back and was tucked up again she gave him the albumen water to sip.

  ‘It’ll only make me sick again,’ he said fretfully.

  ‘Sip it very slowly – it may not. Some of it will stay down anyhow. Besides if you’re going to be sick you must have something to be sick with! I’ll be back in a moment.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Just to ask Doctor Halther for one or two things I want. You’ve got the basin.’

  Downstairs she found Dr Halther writing in a room off the verandah. ‘Na, wie geht’s?’ he asked.

  ‘I think he’s really pretty bad – more than just an upset or a chill. His temper
ature is only a hundred and one, but he has pain all the time, and this severe sickness. Can one get a doctor?’

  ‘Doctor Karaman is away, and his assistant is a man of little skill. You think it is grave?’

  ‘He certainly ought not to go on being sick like that, and I don’t know how to stop it. I should like to give him castor oil, but I hardly dare to without advice.’

  ‘I shall see if there is a doctor,’ he said, reaching for his hat. ‘I telephone to the Imperial – there can be one among the guests.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Grace. ‘There are things I need – could you telephone to Herr Hasler for those too?’

  ‘I send the car, if you make a list.’

  She made a list for the yachting chemist, with Dr Halther’s help; there were one or two items for which she did not know the German word, nor he the English, and she had to explain – ‘Obviously, with a temperature, he can’t go running along the landing all the time.’ When the list was done he took it. ‘I am glad you are here,’ he said. ‘I should not know any of these things.’ He smiled at her. ‘For a woman who is not clever, you are very competent!’

  ‘I should telephone the list to Hasler before the car goes; he keeps half his stuff in a sort of cellar up the hill, and it always takes him ages to get it out,’ said Grace. ‘Oh, and please send to the Tete Mare for my tea basket; then I can heat water and all that upstairs whenever I want. And Roberto might bring some more Meta too.’

  ‘I do this.’ He went off to summon the ‘tremendously posh car’ which Nicholas had seen from Lady Kilmichael’s window on the day of her walk to Ragusa; and Grace went up to Nicholas again.

  ‘You have been ages,’ he said.

  ‘I had to make a list of things from Hasler’s. How do you feel?’

  ‘The pain’s rather beastly – can one do anything about it?’