Chapter 13
The uneventful days--only outwardly uneventful--slipped by infloods of sunshine, and the servants, watching the four ladies, came tothe conclusion there was very little life in them.
To the servants San Salvatore seemed asleep. No one came to tea,nor did the ladies go anywhere to tea. Other tenants in other springshad been far more active. There had been stir and enterprise; the boathad been used; excursions had been made; Beppo's fly was ordered;people from Mezzago came over and spent the day; the house rang withvoices; even sometimes champagne had been drunk. Life was varied, lifewas interesting. But this? What was this? The servants were not evenscolded. They were left completely to themselves. They yawned.
Perplexing, too, was the entire absence of gentlemen. How couldgentlemen keep away from so much beauty? For, added up, and even afterthe subtraction of the old one, the three younger ladies produced aformidable total of that which gentlemen usually sought.
Also the evident desire of each lady to spend long hoursseparated from the other ladies puzzled the servants. The result was adeathly stillness in the house, except at meal-times. It might havebeen as empty as it had been all the winter, for any sounds of lifethere were. The old lady sat in her room, alone; the dark-eyed ladywandered off alone, loitering, so Domenico told them, who sometimescame across her in the course of his duties, incomprehensibly among therocks; the very beautiful fair lady lay in her low chair in the topgarden, alone; the less, but still beautiful fair lady went up thehills and stayed up them for hours, alone; and every day the sun blazedslowly round the house, and disappeared at evening into the sea, andnothing at all had happened.
The servants yawned.
Yet the four visitors, while their bodies sat--that was Mrs.Fisher's--or lay--that was Lady Caroline's--or loitered--that was Mrs.Arbuthnot's--or went in solitude up into the hills--that was Mrs.Wilkins's--were anything but torpid really. Their minds were unusuallybusy. Even at night their minds were busy, and the dreams they hadwere clear, thin, quick things, entirely different from the heavydreams of home. There was that in the atmosphere of San Salvatorewhich produced active-mindedness in all except the natives. They, asbefore, whatever the beauty around them, whatever the prodigal seasonsdid, remained immune from thoughts other than those they wereaccustomed to. All their lives they had seen, year by year, theamazing recurrent spectacle of April in the gardens, and custom hadmade it invisible to them. They were as blind to it, as unconscious ofit, as Domenico's dog asleep in the sun.
The visitors could not be blind to it--it was too arresting afterLondon in a particularly wet and gloomy March. Suddenly to betransported to that place where the air was so still that it held itsbreath, where the light was so golden that the most ordinary thingswere transfigured--to be transported into that delicate warmth, thatcaressing fragrance, and to have the old grey castle as the setting,and, in the distance, the serene clear hills of Perugini's backgrounds,was an astonishing contrast. Even Lady Caroline, used all her life tobeauty, who had been everywhere and seen everything, felt the surpriseof it. It was, that year, a particularly wonderful spring, and of allthe months at San Salvatore April, if the weather was fine, was best.May scorched and withered; March was restless, and could be hard andcold in its brightness; but April came along softly like a blessing,and if it were a fine April it was so beautiful that it was impossiblenot to feel different, not to feel stirred and touched.
Mrs. Wilkins, we have seen, responded to it instantly. She, soto speak, at once flung off all her garments and dived straight intoglory, unhesitatingly, with a cry of rapture.
Mrs. Arbuthnot was stirred and touched, but differently. She hadodd sensations--presently to be described.
Mrs. Fisher, being old, was of a closer, more impermeabletexture, and offered more resistance; but she too had odd sensations,also in their place to be described.
Lady Caroline, already amply acquainted with beautiful houses andclimates, to whom they could not come quite with the same surprise, yetwas very nearly as quick to react as Mrs. Wilkins. The place had analmost instantaneous influence on her as well, and of one part of thisinfluence she was aware: it had made her, beginning on the very firstevening, want to think, and acted on her curiously like a conscience.What this conscience seemed to press upon her notice with an insistencethat startled her--Lady Caroline hesitated to accept the word, but itwould keep on coming into her head--was that she was tawdry.
She must think that out.
The morning after the first dinner together, she woke up in acondition of regret that she should have been so talkative to Mrs.Wilkins the night before. What had made her be, she wondered. Now, ofcourse, Mrs. Wilkins would want to grab, she would want to beinseparable; and the thought of a grabbing and an inseparableness thatshould last four weeks made Scrap's spirit swoon within her. No doubtthe encouraged Mrs. Wilkins would be lurking in the top garden waitingto waylay her when she went out, and would hail her with morningcheerfulness. How much she hated being hailed with morningcheerfulness--or indeed, hailed at all. She oughtn't to haveencouraged Mrs. Wilkins the night before. Fatal to encourage. It wasbad enough not to encourage, for just sitting there and saying nothingseemed usually to involve her, but actively to encourage was suicidal.What on earth had made her? Now she would have to waste all theprecious time, the precious, lovely time for thinking in, for gettingsquare with herself, in shaking Mrs. Wilkins off.
With great caution and on the tips of her toes, balancing herselfcarefully lest the pebbles should scrunch, she stole out when she wasdressed to her corner; but the garden was empty. No shaking off wasnecessary. Neither Mrs. Wilkins nor anybody else was to be seen. Shehad it entirely to herself. Except for Domenico, who presently cameand hovered, watering his plants, again especially all the plants thatwere nearest her, no one came out at all; and when, after a long whileof following up thoughts which seemed to escape her just as she had gotthem, and dropping off exhausted to sleep in the intervals of thischase, she felt hungry and looked at her watch and saw that it was pastthree, she realized that nobody had even bothered to call her in tolunch. So that, Scrap could not but remark, if any one was shaken offit was she herself.
Well, but how delightful, and how very new. Now she would reallybe able to think, uninterruptedly. Delicious to be forgotten.
Still, she was hungry; and Mrs. Wilkins, after that excessivefriendliness the night before, might at least have told her lunch wasready. And she had really been excessively friendly--so nice aboutMellersh's sleeping arrangements, wanting him to have the spare-roomand all. She wasn't usually interested in arrangements, in fact shewasn't ever interested in them; so that Scrap considered she might besaid almost to have gone out of her way to be agreeable to Mrs.Wilkins. And, in return, Mrs. Wilkins didn't even bother whether ornot she had any lunch.
Fortunately, though she was hungry, she didn't mind missing ameal. Life was full of meals. They took up an enormous proportion ofone's time; and Mrs. Fisher was, she was afraid, one of those personswho at meals linger. Twice now had she dined with Mrs. Fisher, andeach time she had been difficult at the end to dislodge, lingering onslowly cracking innumerable nuts and slowly drinking a glass of winethat seemed as if it would never be finished. Probably it would be agood thing to make a habit of missing lunch, and as it was quite easyto have tea brought out to her, and as she breakfasted in her room,only once a day would she have to sit at the dining-room table andendure the nuts.
Scrap burrowed her head comfortably in the cushions, and with herfeet crossed on the low parapet gave herself up to more thought. Shesaid to herself, as she had said at intervals throughout the morning:Now I'm going to think. But, never having thought out anything in herlife, it was difficult. Extraordinary how one's attention wouldn'tstay fixed; extraordinary how one's mind slipped sideways. Settlingherself down to a review of her past as a preliminary to theconsideration of her future, and hunting in it to begin with for anyjustification of that distressing word taw
dry, the next thing she knewwas that she wasn't thinking about this at all, but had somehowswitched on to Mr. Wilkins.
Well, Mr. Wilkins was quite easy to think about, though notpleasant. She viewed his approach with misgivings. For not only wasit a profound and unexpected bore to have a man added to the party, anda man, too, of the kind she was sure Mr. Wilkins must be, but she wasafraid--and her fear was the result of a drearily unvarying experience--that he might wish to hang about her.
This possibility had evidently not yet occurred to Mrs. Wilkins,and it was not one to which she could very well draw her attentionnot, that is, without being too fatuous to live. She tried to hopethat Mr. Wilkins would be a wonderful exception to the dreadful rule.If only he were, she would be so much obliged to him that she believedshe might really quite like him.
But--she had misgivings. Suppose he hung about her so that shewas driven from her lovely top garden; suppose the light in Mrs.Wilkins's funny, flickering face was blown out. Scrap felt she wouldparticularly dislike this to happen to Mrs. Wilkins's face, yet she hadnever in her life met any wives, not any at all, who had been able tounderstand that she didn't in the least want their husbands. Often shehad met wives who didn't want their husbands either, but that made themnone the less indignant if they thought somebody else did, and none theless sure, when they saw them hanging round Scrap, that she was tryingto get them. Trying to get them! The bare thought, the barerecollection of these situations, filled her with a boredom so extremethat it instantly sent her to sleep again.
When she woke up she went on with Mr. Wilkins.
Now if, thought Scrap, Mr. Wilkins were not an exception andbehaved in the usual way, would Mrs. Wilkins understand, or would itjust simply spoil her holiday? She seemed quick, but would she bequick about just this? She seemed to understand and see inside one,but would she understand and see inside one when it came to Mr.Wilkins?
The experienced Scrap was full of doubts. She shifted her feeton the parapet; she jerked a cushion straight. Perhaps she had bettertry and explain to Mrs. Wilkins, during the days still remaining beforethe arrival--explain in a general way, rather vague and talking atlarge--her attitude towards such things. She might also expound to herher peculiar dislike of people's husbands, and her profound craving tobe, at least for this one month, let alone.
But Scrap had her doubts about this too. Such talk meant acertain familiarity, meant embarking on a friendship with Mrs. Wilkins;and if, after having embarked on it and faced the peril it contained oftoo much Mrs. Wilkins, Mr. Wilkins should turn out to be artful--andpeople did get very artful when they were set on anything--and manageafter all to slip through into the top garden, Mrs. Wilkins mighteasily believe she had been taken in, and that she, Scrap, wasdeceitful. Deceitful! And about Mr. Wilkins. Wives were reallypathetic.
At half-past four she heard sounds of saucers on the other sideof the daphne bushes. Was tea being sent out to her?
No; the sounds came no closer, they stopped near the house. Teawas to be in the garden, in her garden. Scrap considered she might atleast have been asked if she minded being disturbed. They all knew shesat there.
Perhaps some one would bring hers to her in her corner.
No; nobody brought anything.
Well, she was too hungry not to go and have it with the othersto-day, but she would give Francesca strict orders for the future.
She got up, and walked with that slow grace which was another ofher outrageous number of attractions towards the sounds of tea. Shewas conscious not only of being very hungry but of wanting to talk toMrs. Wilkins again. Mrs. Wilkins had not grabbed, she had left herquite free all day in spite of the rapprochement the night before. Ofcourse she was an original, and put on a silk jumper for dinner, butshe hadn't grabbed. This was a great thing. Scrap went towards thetea-table quite looking forward to Mrs. Wilkins; and when she came insight of it she saw only Mrs. Fisher and Mrs. Arbuthnot.
Mrs. Fisher was pouring out the tea, and Mrs. Arbuthnot wasoffering Mrs. Fisher macaroons. Every time Mrs. Fisher offered Mrs.Arbuthnot anything--her cup, or milk, or sugar--Mrs. Arbuthnot offeredher macaroons--pressed them on her with an odd assiduousness, almostwith obstinacy. Was it a game? Scrap wondered, sitting down andseizing a macaroon.
"Where is Mrs. Wilkins?" asked Scrap.
They did not know. At least, Mrs. Arbuthnot, on Scrap's inquiry,did not know; Mrs. Fisher's face, at the name, became elaboratelyuninterested.
It appeared that Mrs. Wilkins had not been seen since breakfast.Mrs. Arbuthnot thought she had probably gone for a picnic. Scrapmissed her. She ate the enormous macaroons, the best and biggest shehad ever come across, in silence. Tea without Mrs. Wilkins was dull;and Mrs. Arbuthnot had that fatal flavour of motherliness about her, ofwanting to pet one, to make one very comfortable, coaxing one to eat--coaxing her, who was already so frankly, so even excessively, eating--that seemed to have dogged Scrap's steps through life. Couldn't peopleleave one alone? She was perfectly able to eat what she wantedunincited. She tried to quench Mrs. Arbuthnot's zeal by being shortwith her. Useless. The shortness was not apparent. It remained, asall Scrap's evil feelings remained, covered up by the impenetrable veilof her loveliness.
Mrs. Fisher sat monumentally, and took no notice of either ofthem. She had had a curious day, and was a little worried. She hadbeen quite alone, for none of the three had come to lunch, and none ofthem had taken the trouble to let her know they were not coming; andMrs. Arbuthnot, drifting casually into tea, had behaved oddly till LadyCaroline joined them and distracted her attention.
Mrs. Fisher was prepared not to dislike Mrs. Arbuthnot, whoseparted hair and mild expression seemed very decent and womanly, but shecertainly had habits that were difficult to like. Her habit ofinstantly echoing any offer made her of food and drink, of throwing theoffer back on one, as it were, was not somehow what one expected ofher. "Will you have some more tea?" was surely a question to which theanswer was simply yes or no; but Mrs. Arbuthnot persisted in the trickshe had exhibited the day before at breakfast, of adding to her yes orno the words, "Will you?" She had done it again that morning atbreakfast and here she was doing it at tea--the two meals at which Mrs.Fisher presided and poured out. Why did she do it? Mrs. Fisher failedto understand.
But this was not what was worrying her; this was merely by theway. What was worrying her was that she had been quite unable that dayto settle to anything, and had done nothing but wander restlessly fromher sitting-room to her battlements and back again. It had been awasted day, and how much she disliked waste. She had tried to read,and she had tried to write to Kate Lumley; but no--a few words read, afew lines written, and up she got again and went out on to thebattlements and stared at the sea.
It did not matter that the letter to Kate Lumley should not bewritten. There was time enough for that. Let the others suppose hercoming was definitely fixed. All the better. So would Mr. Wilkins bekept out of the spare-room and put where he belonged. Kate would keep.She could be held in reserve. Kate in reserve was just as potent asKate in actuality, and there were points about Kate in reserve whichmight be missing from Kate in actuality. For instance, if Mrs. Fisherwere going to be restless, she would rather Kate were not there to see.There was a want of dignity about restlessness, about trottingbackwards and forwards. But it did matter that she could not read asentence of any of her great dead friends' writings; no, not even ofBrowning's, who had been so much in Italy, nor of Ruskin's, whoseStones of Venice she had brought with her to re-read so nearly on thevery spot; nor even a sentence of a really interesting book like theone she had found in her sitting-room about the home life of the GermanEmperor, poor man--written in the nineties, when he had not yet begunto be more sinned against than sinning, which was, she was firmlyconvinced, what was the matter with him now, and full of excitingthings about his birth and his right arm and accoucheurs--withouthaving to put it down and go and stare at the sea.
Reading was very important; the prop
er exercise and developmentof one's mind was a paramount duty. How could one read if one wereconstantly trotting in and out? Curious, this restlessness. Was shegoing to be ill? No, she felt well; indeed, unusually well, and shewent in and out quite quickly--trotted, in fact--and without her stick.Very odd that she shouldn't be able to sit still, she thought, frowningacross the tops of some purple hyacinths at the Gulf of Speziaglittering beyond a headland; very odd that she, who walked so slowly,with such dependence on her stick, should suddenly trot.
It would be interesting to talk to some one about it, she felt.Not to Kate--to a stranger. Kate would only look at her and suggest acup of tea. Kate always suggested cups of tea. Besides, Kate had aflat face. That Mrs. Wilkins, now--annoying as she was, loose-tonguedas she was, impertinent, objectionable, would probably understand, andperhaps know what was making her be like this. But she could saynothing to Mrs. Wilkins. She was the last person to whom one wouldadmit sensations. Dignity alone forbade it. Confide in Mrs. Wilkins?Never.
And Mrs. Arbuthnot, while she wistfully mothered the obstructiveScrap at tea, felt too that she had had a curious day. Like Mrs.Fisher's, it had been active, but, unlike Mrs. Fisher's, only active inmind. Her body had been quite still; her mind had not been still atall, it had been excessively active. For years she had taken care tohave no time to think. Her scheduled life in the parish had preventedmemories and desires from intruding on her. That day they had crowded.She went back to tea feeling dejected, and that she should feeldejected in such a place with everything about her to make her rejoice,only dejected her the more. But how could she rejoice alone? Howcould anybody rejoice and enjoy and appreciate, really appreciate,alone? Except Lotty. Lotty seemed able to. She had gone off down thehill directly after breakfast, alone yet obviously rejoicing, for shehad not suggested that Rose should go too, and she was singing as shewent.
Rose had spent the day by herself, sitting with her handsclasping her knees, staring straight in front of her. What she wasstaring at were the grey swords of the agaves, and, on their tallstalks, the pale irises that grew in the remote place she had found,while beyond them, between the grey leaves and the blue flowers, shesaw the sea. The place she had found was a hidden corner where thesun-baked stones were padded with thyme, and nobody was likely to come.It was out of sight and sound of the house; it was off any path; it wasnear the end of the promontory. She sat so quiet that presentlylizards darted over her feet, and some tiny birds like finches,frightened away at first, came back again and flitted among the bushesround her just as if she hadn't been there. How beautiful it was. Andwhat was the good of it with no one there, no one who loved being withone, who belonged to one, to whom one could say, "Look." And wouldn'tone say, "Look--dearest?" Yes, one would say dearest; and the sweetword, just to say it to somebody who loved one, would make one happy.
She sat quite still, staring straight in front of her. Strangethat in this place she did not want to pray. She who had prayed soconstantly at home didn't seem able to do it here at all. The firstmorning she had merely thrown up a brief thank you to heaven on gettingout of bed, and had gone straight to the window to see what everythinglooked like--thrown up the thank you as carelessly as a ball, andthought no more about it. That morning, remembering this and ashamed,she had knelt down with determination but perhaps determination wasbad for prayers, for she had been unable to think of a thing to say.And as for her bedtime prayers, on neither of the nights had she said asingle one. She had forgotten them. She had been so much absorbed inother thoughts that she had forgotten them; and, once in bed, she wasasleep and whirling along among bright, thin swift dreams before shehad so much time as to stretch herself out.
What had come over her? Why had she let go the anchor of prayer?And she had difficulty, too, in remembering her poor, in rememberingeven that there were such things as poor. Holidays, of course, weregood, and were recognized by everybody as good, but ought they socompletely to blot out, to make such havoc of, the realities? Perhapsit was healthy to forget her poor; with all the greater gusto would shego back to them. But it couldn't be healthy to forget her prayers, andstill less could it be healthy not to mind.
Rose did not mind. She knew she did not mind. And, even worse,she knew she did not mind not minding. In this place she wasindifferent to both the things that had filled her life and made itseem as if it were happy for years. Well, if only she could rejoice inher wonderful new surroundings, have that much at least to set againstthe indifference, the letting go--but she could not. She had no work;she did not pray; she was left empty.
Lotty had spoilt her day that day, as she had spoilt her day theday before--Lotty, with her invitation to her husband, with hersuggestion that she too should invite hers. Having flung Frederickinto her mind again the day before, Lotty had left her; for the wholeafternoon she had left her alone with her thoughts. Since then theyhad been all of Frederick. Where at Hampstead he came to her only inher dreams, here he left her dreams free and was with her during theday instead. And again that morning, as she was struggling not tothink of him, Lotty had asked her, just before disappearing singingdown the path, if she had written yet and invited him, and again he wasflung into her mind and she wasn't able to get him out.
How could she invite him? It had gone on so long, theirestrangement, such years; she would hardly know what words to use; andbesides, he would not come. Why should he come? He didn't care aboutbeing with her. What could they talk about? Between them was thebarrier of his work and her religion. She could not--how could she,believing as she did in purity, in responsibility for the effect ofone's actions on others--bear his work, bear living by it; and he sheknew, had at first resented and then been merely bored by her religion.He had let her slip away; he had given her up; he no longer minded; heaccepted her religion indifferently, as a settled fact. Both it andshe--Rose's mind, becoming more luminous in the clear light of April atSan Salvatore, suddenly saw the truth--bored him.
Naturally when she saw this, when that morning it flashed uponher for the first time, she did not like it; she liked it so littlethat for a space the whole beauty of Italy was blotted out. What wasto be done about it? She could not give up believing in good and notliking evil, and it must be evil to live entirely on the proceeds ofadulteries, however dead and distinguished they were. Besides, if shedid, if she sacrificed her whole past, her bringing up, her work forthe last ten years, would she bore him less? Rose felt right down ather very roots that if you have once thoroughly bored somebody it isnext to impossible to unbore him. Once a bore always a bore--certainly, she thought, to the person originally bored.
Then, thought she, looking out to sea through eyes grown misty,better cling to her religion. It was better--she hardly noticed thereprehensibleness of her thought--than nothing. But oh, she wanted tocling to something tangible, to love something living, something thatone could hold against one's heart, that one could see and touch and dothings for. If her poor baby hadn't died . . . babies didn't get boredwith one, it took them a long while to grow up and find one out. Andperhaps one's baby never did find one out; perhaps one would always beto it, however old and bearded it grew, somebody special, somebodydifferent from every one else, and if for no other reason, precious inthat one could never be repeated.
Sitting with dim eyes looking out to sea she felt anextraordinary yearning to hold something of her very own tight to herbosom. Rose was slender, and as reserved in figure as in character,yet she felt a queer sensation of--how could she describe it?--bosom.There was something about San Salvatore that made her feel all bosom.She wanted to gather to her bosom, to comfort and protect, soothing thedear head that should lie on it with softest strokings and murmurs oflove. Frederick, Frederick's child--come to her, pillowed on her,because they were unhappy, because they had been hurt. . . They wouldneed her then, if they had been hurt; they would let themselves beloved then, if they were unhappy.
Well, the child was gone, would never come now; but
perhapsFrederick--some day--when he was old and tired . . .
Such were Mrs. Arbuthnot's reflections and emotions that firstday at San Salvatore by herself. She went back to tea dejected as shehad not been for years. San Salvatore had taken her carefully built-upsemblance of happiness away from her, and given her nothing inexchange. Yes--it had given her yearnings in exchange, this ache andlonging, this queer feeling of bosom; but that was worse than nothing.And she who had learned balance, who never at home was irritated butalways able to be kind, could not, even in her dejection, thatafternoon endure Mrs. Fisher's assumption of the position as hostess attea.
One would have supposed that such a little thing would not havetouched her, but it did. Was her nature changing? Was she to be notonly thrown back on long-stifled yearnings after Frederick, but alsoturned into somebody who wanted to fight over little things? Aftertea, when both Mrs. Fisher and Lady Caroline had disappeared again--itwas quite evident that nobody wanted her--she was more dejected thanever, overwhelmed by the discrepancy between the splendour outside her,the warm, teeming beauty and self-sufficiency of nature, and the blankemptiness of her heart.
Then came Lotty, back to dinner, incredibly more freckled,exuding the sunshine she had been collecting all day, talking,laughing, being tactless, being unwise, being without reticence; andLady Caroline, so quiet at tea, woke up to animation, and Mrs. Fisherwas not so noticeable, and Rose was beginning to revive a little, forLotty's spirits were contagious as she described the delights of herday, a day which might easily to any one else have had nothing in it buta very long and very hot walk and sandwiches, when she suddenly saidcatching Rose's eye, "Letter gone?"
Rose flushed. This tactlessness . . .
"What letter?" asked Scrap, interested. Both her elbows were onthe table and her chin was supported in her hands, for the nut-stagehad been reached, and there was nothing for it but to wait in ascomfortable as position as possible till Mrs. Fisher had finishedcracking.
"Asking her husband here," said Lotty.
Mrs. Fisher looked up. Another husband? Was there to be no endto them? Nor was this one, then, a widow either; but her husband wasno doubt a decent, respectable man, following a decent, respectablecalling. She had little hope of Mr. Wilkins; so little, that she hadrefrained from inquiring what he did.
"Has it?" persisted Lotty, as Rose said nothing.
"No," said Rose.
"Oh, well--to-morrow then," said Lotty.
Rose wanted to say No again to this. Lotty would have in herplace, and would, besides, have expounded all her reasons. But shecould not turn herself inside out like that and invite any andeverybody to come and look. How was it that Lotty, who saw so manythings, didn't see stuck on her heart, and seeing keep quiet about it,the sore place that was Frederick?
"Who is your husband?" asked Mrs. Fisher, carefully adjustinganother nut between the crackers.
"Who should he be," said Rose quickly, roused at once by Mrs.Fisher to irritation, "except Mr. Arbuthnot?"
"I mean, of course, what is Mr. Arbuthnot?"
And Rose, gone painfully red at this, said after a tiny pause,"My husband."
Naturally, Mrs. Fisher was incensed. She couldn't have believedit of this one, with her decent hair and gentle voice, that she tooshould be impertinent.