Chapter 6
When Mrs. Wilkins woke next morning she lay in bed a few minutesbefore getting up and opening the shutters. What would she see out ofher window? A shining world, or a world of rain? But it would bebeautiful; whatever it was would be beautiful.
She was in a little bedroom with bare white walls and a stonefloor and sparse old furniture. The beds--there were two--were made ofiron, enameled black and painted with bunches of gay flowers. She layputting off the great moment of going to the window as one puts offopening a precious letter, gloating over it. She had no idea what timeit was; she had forgotten to wind up her watch ever since, centuriesago, she last went to bed in Hampstead. No sounds were to be heard inthe house, so she supposed it was very early, yet she felt as if shehad slept a long while--so completely rested, so perfectly content.She lay with her arms clasped round her head thinking how happy shewas, her lips curved upwards in a delighted smile. In bed by herself:adorable condition. She had not been in a bed without Mellersh once nowfor five whole years; and the cool roominess of it, the freedom ofone's movements, the sense of recklessness, of audacity, in giving theblankets a pull if one wanted to, or twitching the pillows morecomfortably! It was like the discovery of an entirely new joy.
Mrs. Wilkins longed to get up and open the shutters, but whereshe was was really so very delicious. She gave a sigh of contentment,and went on lying there looking round her, taking in everything in herroom, her own little room, her very own to arrange just as she pleasedfor this one blessed month, her room bought with her own savings, thefruit of her careful denials, whose door she could bolt if she wantedto, and nobody had the right to come in. It was such a strange littleroom, so different from any she had known, and so sweet. It was like acell. Except for the two beds, it suggested a happy austerity. "Andthe name of the chamber," she thought, quoting and smiling round at it,"was Peace."
Well, this was delicious, to lie there thinking how happy shewas, but outside those shutters it was more delicious still. Shejumped up, pulled on her slippers, for there was nothing on the stonefloor but one small rug, ran to the window and threw open the shutters.
"Oh!" cried Mrs. Wilkins.
All the radiance of April in Italy lay gathered together at herfeet. The sun poured in on her. The sea lay asleep in it, hardlystirring. Across the bay the lovely mountains, exquisitely differentin colour, were asleep too in the light; and underneath her window, atthe bottom of the flower-starred grass slope from which the wall of thecastle rose up, was a great cypress, cutting through the delicate bluesand violets and rose-colours of the mountains and the sea like a greatblack sword.
She stared. Such beauty; and she there to see it. Such beauty;and she alive to feel it. Her face was bathed in light. Lovely scentscame up to the window and caressed her. A tiny breeze gently liftedher hair. Far out in the bay a cluster of almost motionless fishingboats hovered like a flock of white birds on the tranquil sea. Howbeautiful, how beautiful. Not to have died before this . . . to havebeen allowed to see, breathe, feel this. . . . She stared, her lipsparted. Happy? Poor, ordinary, everyday word. But what could onesay, how could one describe it? It was as though she could hardly stayinside herself, it was as though she were too small to hold so much ofjoy, it was as though she were washed through with light. And howastonishing to feel this sheer bliss, for here she was, not doing andnot going to do a single unselfish thing, not going to do a thing shedidn't want to do. According to everybody she had ever come across sheought at least to have twinges. She had not one twinge. Something waswrong somewhere. Wonderful that at home she should have been so good,so terribly good, and merely felt tormented. Twinges of every sort hadthere been her portion aches, hurts, discouragements, and she thewhole time being steadily unselfish. Now she had taken off all hergoodness and left it behind her like a heap in rain-sodden clothes, andshe only felt joy. She was naked of goodness, and was rejoicing inbeing naked. She was stripped, and exulting. And there, away in thedim mugginess of Hampstead, was Mellersh being angry.
She tried to visualize Mellersh, she tried to see him havingbreakfast and thinking bitter things about her; and lo, Mellershhimself began to shimmer, became rose-colour, became delicate violet,became an enchanting blue, became formless, became iridescent.Actually Mellersh, after quivering a minute, was lost in light.
"Well," thought Mrs. Wilkins, staring, as it were, after him.How extraordinary not to be able to visualize Mellersh; and she whoused to know every feature, every expression of his by heart. Shesimply could not see him as he was. She could only see him resolvedinto beauty, melted into harmony with everything else. The familiarwords of the General Thanksgiving came quite naturally into her mind,and she found herself blessing God for her creation, preservation, andall the blessings of this life, but above all for His inestimable Love;out loud; in a burst of acknowledgment. While Mellersh, at that momentangrily pulling on his boots before going out into the drippingstreets, was indeed thinking bitter things about her.
She began to dress, choosing clean white clothes in honour of thesummer's day, unpacking her suit-cases, tidying her adorable littleroom. She moved about with quick, purposeful steps, her long thin bodyheld up straight, her small face, so much puckered at home with effortand fear, smoothed out. All she had been and done before this morning,all she had felt and worried about, was gone. Each of her worriesbehaved as the image of Mellersh had behaved, and dissolved into colourand light. And she noticed things she had not noticed for years--whenshe was doing her hair in front of the glass she noticed it, andthought, "Why, what pretty stuff." For years she had forgotten she hadsuch a thing as hair, plaiting it in the evening and unplaiting it inthe morning with the same hurry and indifference with which she lacedand unlaced her shoes. Now she suddenly saw it, and she twisted itround her fingers before the glass, and was glad it was so pretty.Mellersh couldn't have seen it either, for he had never said a wordabout it. Well, when she got home she would draw his attention to it."Mellersh," she would say, "look at my hair. Aren't you pleased you'vegot a wife with hair like curly honey?"
She laughed. She had never said anything like that to Mellershyet, and the idea of it amused her. But why had she not? Oh yes--sheused to be afraid of him. Funny to be afraid of anybody; andespecially of one's husband, whom one saw in his more simplifiedmoments, such as asleep, and not breathing properly through his nose.
When she was ready she opened her door to go across to see ifRose, who had been put the night before by a sleepy maidservant into acell opposite, were awake. She would say good-morning to her, and thenshe would run down and stay with that cypress tree till breakfast wasready, and after breakfast she wouldn't so much as look out of a windowtill she had helped Rose get everything ready for Lady Caroline andMrs. Fisher. There was much to be done that day, settling in,arranging the rooms; she mustn't leave Rose to do it alone. They wouldmake it all so lovely for the two to come, have such an entrancingvision ready for them of little cells bright with flowers. Sheremembered she had wanted Lady Caroline not to come; fancy wanting toshut some one out of heaven because she thought she would be shy ofher! And as though it mattered if she were, and as though she would beanything so self-conscious as shy. Besides, what a reason. She couldnot accuse herself of goodness over that. And she remembered she hadwanted not to have Mrs. Fisher either, because she had seemed lofty.How funny of her. So funny to worry about such little things, makingthem important.
The bedrooms and two of the sitting-rooms at San Salvatore wereon the top floor, and opened into a roomy hall with a wide glass windowat the north end. San Salvatore was rich in small gardens in differentparts and on different levels. The garden this window looked down onwas made on the highest part of the walls, and could only be reachedthrough the corresponding spacious hall on the floor below. When Mrs.Wilkins came out of her room this window stood wide open, and beyond itin the sun was a Judas tree in full flower. There was no sign ofanybody, no sound of voices or feet. Tubs
of arum lilies stood abouton the stone floor, and on a table flamed a huge bunch of fiercenasturtiums. Spacious, flowery, silent, with the wide window at theend opening into the garden, and the Judas tree absurdly beautiful inthe sunshine, it seemed to Mrs. Wilkins, arrested on her way across toMrs. Arbuthnot, too good to be true. Was she really going to live inthis for a whole month? Up to now she had had to take what beauty shecould as she went along, snatching at little bits of it when she cameacross it--a patch of daisies on a fine day in a Hampstead field, aflash of sunset between two chimney pots. She had never been indefinitely, completely beautiful places. She had never been even in avenerable house; and such a thing as a profusion of flowers in herrooms was unattainable to her. Sometimes in the spring she had boughtsix tulips at Shoolbred's, unable to resist them, conscious thatMellersh if he knew what they had cost would think it inexcusable; butthey had soon died, and then there were no more. As for the Judastree, she hadn't an idea what it was, and gazed at it out there againstthe sky with the rapt expression of one who sees a heavenly vision.
Mrs. Arbuthnot, coming out of her room, found her there likethat, standing in the middle of the hall staring.
"Now what does she think she sees now?" thought Mrs. Arbuthnot.
"We are in God's hands," said Mrs. Wilkins, turning to her,speaking with extreme conviction.
"Oh!" said Mrs. Arbuthnot quickly, her face, which had beencovered with smiles when she came out of her room, falling. "Why, whathas happened?"
For Mrs. Arbuthnot had woken up with such a delightful feeling ofsecurity, of relief, and she did not want to find she had not after allescaped from the need of refuge. She had not even dreamed ofFrederick. For the first time in years she had been spared the nightlydream that he was with her, that they were heart to heart, and itsmiserable awakening. She had slept like a baby, and had woken upconfident; she had found there was nothing she wished to say in hermorning prayer, except Thank you. It was disconcerting to be told shewas after all in God's hands.
"I hope nothing has happened?" she asked anxiously.
Mrs. Wilkins looked at her a moment, and laughed. "How funny,"she said, kissing her.
"What is funny?" asked Mrs. Arbuthnot, her face clearing becauseMrs. Wilkins laughed.
"We are. This is. Everything. It's all so wonderful. It's sofunny and so adorable that we should be in it. I daresay when wefinally reach heaven--the one they talk about so much--we shan't findit a bit more beautiful."
Mrs. Arbuthnot relaxed to smiling security again. "Isn't itdivine?" she said.
"Were you ever, ever in your life so happy?" asked Mrs. Wilkins,catching her by the arm.
"No," said Mrs. Arbuthnot. Nor had she been; not ever; not evenin her first love-days with Frederick. Because always pain had beenclose at hand in that other happiness, ready to torture with doubts,to torture even with the very excess of her love; while this was thesimple happiness of complete harmony with her surroundings, thehappiness that asks for nothing, that just accepts, just breathes, justis.
"Let's go and look at that tree close," said Mrs. Wilkins. "Idon't believe it can only be a tree."
And arm in arm they went along the hall, and their husbands wouldnot have known them their faces were so young with eagerness, andtogether they stood at the open window, and when their eyes, havingfeasted on the marvelous pink thing, wandered farther among thebeauties of the garden, they saw sitting on the low wall at the eastedge of it, gazing out over the bay, her feet in lilies, Lady Caroline.
They were astonished. They said nothing in their astonishment,but stood quite still, arm in arm, staring down at her.
She too had on a white frock, and her head was bare. They hadhad no idea that day in London, when her hat was down to her nose andher furs were up to her ears, that she was so pretty. They had merelythought her different from the other women in the club, and so hadthe other women themselves, and so had all the waitresses, eyeing hersideways and eyeing her again as they passed the corner where shesat talking; but they had had no idea she was so pretty. She wasexceedingly pretty. Everything about her was very much that which itwas. Her fair hair was very fair, her lovely grey eyes were verylovely and grey, her dark eyelashes were very dark, her white skin wasvery white, her red mouth was very red. She was extravagantly slender--the merest thread of a girl, though not without little curves beneathher thin frock where little curves should be. She was looking outacross the bay, and was sharply defined against the background of emptyblue. She was full in the sun. Her feet dangled among the leaves andflowers of the lilies just as if it did not matter that they should bebent or bruised.
"She ought to have a headache," whispered Mrs. Arbuthnot at last,"sitting there in the sun like that."
"She ought to have a hat," whispered Mrs. Wilkins.
"She is treading on lilies."
"But they're hers as much as ours."
"Only one-fourth of them."
Lady Caroline turned her head. She looked up at them a moment,surprised to see them so much younger than they had seemed that day atthe club, and so much less unattractive. Indeed, they were reallyalmost quite attractive, if any one could ever be really quiteattractive in the wrong clothes. Her eyes, swiftly glancing over them,took in every inch of each of them in the half second before she smiledand waved her hand and called out Good-morning. There was nothing, shesaw at once to be hoped for in the way of interest from their clothes.She did not consciously think this, for she was having a violentreaction against beautiful clothes and the slavery they impose on one,her experience being that the instant one had got them they took one inhand and gave one no peace till they had been everywhere and been seenby everybody. You didn't take your clothes to parties; they took you.It was quite a mistake to think that a woman, a really well-dressedwoman, wore out her clothes; it was the clothes that wore out thewoman--dragging her about at all hours of the day and night. No wondermen stayed younger longer. Just new trousers couldn't excite them.She couldn't suppose that even the newest trousers ever behaved likethat, taking the bit between their teeth. Her images were disorderly,but she thought as she chose, she used what images she like. As shegot off the wall and came towards the window, it seemed a restful thingto know she was going to spend an entire month with people in dressesmade as she dimly remembered dresses used to be made five summers ago.
"I got here yesterday morning," she said, looking up at them andsmiling. She really was bewitching. She had everything, even adimple.
"It's a great pity," said Mrs. Arbuthnot, smiling back, "becausewe were going to choose the nicest room for you."
"Oh, but I've done that," said Lady Caroline. "At least, I thinkit's the nicest. It looks two ways--I adore a room that looks twoways, don't you? Over the sea to the west, and over this Judas tree tothe north."
"And we had meant to make it pretty for you with flowers," saidMrs. Wilkins.
"Oh, Domenico did that. I told him to directly I got here. He'sthe gardener. He's wonderful."
"It's a good thing, of course," said Mrs. Arbuthnot a littlehesitatingly, "to be independent, and to know exactly what one wants."
"Yes, it saves trouble," agreed Lady Caroline.
"But one shouldn't be so independent," said Mrs. Wilkins, "as toleave no opportunity for other people to exercise their benevolences onone."
Lady Caroline, who had been looking at Mrs. Arbuthnot, now lookedat Mrs. Wilkins. That day at the queer club she had had merely ablurred impression of Mrs. Wilkins, for it was the other one who didall the talking, and her impression had been of somebody so shy, soawkward that it was best to take no notice of her. She had not evenbeen able to say good-bye properly, doing it in an agony, turning red,turning damp. Therefore she now looked at her in some surprise; andshe was still more surprised when Mrs. Wilkins added, gazing at herwith the most obvious sincere admiration, speaking indeed with aconviction that refused to remain unuttered, "I didn't realize you wereso pretty."
She stared at Mrs. Wil
kins. She was not usually told this quiteso immediately and roundly. Abundantly as she was used to it--impossible not to be after twenty-eight solid years--it surprised herto be told it with such bluntness, and by a woman.
"It's very kind of you to think so," she said.
"Why, you're very lovely," said Mrs. Wilkins. "Quite, quitelovely."
"I hope," said Mrs. Arbuthnot pleasantly, "you make the most ofit."
Lady Caroline then stared at Mrs. Arbuthnot. "Oh yes," she said."I make the most of it. I've been doing that ever since I canremember."
"Because," said Mrs. Arbuthnot, smiling and raising a warningforefinger, "it won't last."
Then Lady Caroline began to be afraid these two were originals.If so, she would be bored. Nothing bored her so much as people whoinsisted on being original, who came and buttonholed her and kept herwaiting while they were being original. And the one who admired her--it would be tiresome if she dogged her about in order to look at her.What she wanted of this holiday was complete escape from all she hadhad before, she wanted the rest of complete contrast. Being admired,being dogged, wasn't contrast, it was repetition and as for originals,to find herself shut up with two on the top of a precipitous hill in amedieval castle built for the express purpose of preventing easy goingsout and in, would not, she was afraid, be especially restful. Perhapsshe had better be a little less encouraging. They had seemed suchtimid creatures, even the dark one--she couldn't remember theirnames--that day at the club, that she had felt it quite safe to be veryfriendly. Here they had come out of their shells; already; indeed, atonce. There was no sign of timidity about either of them here. Ifthey had got out of their shells so immediately, at the very firstcontact, unless she checked them they would soon begin to press uponher, and then good-bye to her dream of thirty restful, silent days,lying unmolested in the sun, getting her feathers smooth again, notbeing spoken to, not waited on, not grabbed at and monopolized, butjust recovering from the fatigue, the deep and melancholy fatigue, ofthe too much.
Besides, there was Mrs. Fisher. She too must be checked. LadyCaroline had started two days earlier than had been arranged for tworeasons: first, because she wished to arrive before the others in orderto pick out the room or rooms she preferred, and second, because shejudged it likely that otherwise she would have to travel with Mrs.Fisher. She did not want to travel with Mrs. Fisher. She did not wantto arrive with Mrs. Fisher. She saw no reason whatever why for asingle moment she should have to have anything at all to do with Mrs.Fisher.
But unfortunately Mrs. Fisher also was filled with a desire toget to San Salvatore first and pick out the room or rooms shepreferred, and she and Lady Caroline had after all traveled together.As early as Calais they began to suspect it; in Paris they feared it;at Modane they knew it; at Mezzago they concealed it, driving out toCastagneto in two separate flys, the nose of the one almost touchingthe back of the other the whole way. But when the road suddenly leftoff at the church and the steps, further evasion was impossible; andfaced by this abrupt and difficult finish to their journey there wasnothing for it but to amalgamate.
Because of Mrs. Fisher's stick Lady Caroline had to see abouteverything. Mrs. Fisher's intentions, she explained from her fly whenthe situation had become plain to her, were active, but her stickprevented their being carried out. The two drivers told Lady Carolineboys would have to carry the luggage up to the castle, and she went insearch of some, while Mrs. Fisher waited in the fly because of herstick. Mrs. Fisher could speak Italian, but only, she explained, theItalian of Dante, which Matthew Arnold used to read with her when shewas a girl, and she thought this might be above the heads of boys.Therefore Lady Caroline, who spoke ordinary Italian very well, wasobviously the one to go and do things.
"I am in your hands," said Mrs. Fisher, sitting firmly in herfly. "You must please regard me as merely an old woman with a stick."
And presently, down the steps and cobbles to the piazza, andalong the quay, and up the zigzag path, Lady Caroline found herself asmuch obliged to walk slowly with Mrs. Fisher as if she were her owngrandmother.
"It's my stick," Mrs. Fisher complacently remarked at intervals.
And when they rested at those bends of the zigzag path whereseats were, and Lady Caroline, who would have liked to run on and getto the top quickly, was forced in common humanity to remain with Mrs.Fisher because of her stick, Mrs. Fisher told her how she had been on azigzag path once with Tennyson.
"Isn't his cricket wonderful?" said Lady Caroline absently.
"The Tennyson," said Mrs. Fisher, turning her head and observingher a moment over her spectacles.
"Isn't he?" said Lady Caroline.
"And it was a path, too," Mrs. Fisher went on severely,"curiously like this. No eucalyptus tree, of course, but otherwisecuriously like this. And at one of the bends he turned and said tome--I see him now turning and saying to me--"
Yes, Mrs. Fisher would have to be checked. And so would thesetwo up at the window. She had better begin at once. She was sorry shehad got off the wall. All she need have done was to have waved herhand, and waited till they came down and out into the garden to her.
So she ignored Mrs. Arbuthnot's remark and raised forefinger, andsaid with marked coldness--at least, she tried to make it sound marked--that she supposed they would be going to breakfast, and that she hadhad hers; but it was her fate that however coldly she sent forth herwords they came out sounding quite warm and agreeable. That wasbecause she had a sympathetic and delightful voice, due entirely tosome special formation of her throat and the roof of her mouth, andhaving nothing whatever to do with what she was feeling. Nobody inconsequence ever believed they were being snubbed. It was mosttiresome. And if she stared icily it did not look icy at all, becauseher eyes, lovely to begin with, had the added loveliness of very long,soft, dark eyelashes. No icy stare could come out of eyes like that;it got caught and lost in the soft eyelashes, and the persons stared atmerely thought they were being regarded with a flattering and exquisiteattentiveness. And if ever she was out of humour or definitely cross--and who would not be sometimes in such a world?---she only looked sopathetic that people all rushed to comfort her, if possible by means ofkissing. It was more than tiresome, it was maddening. Nature wasdetermined that she should look and sound angelic. She could never bedisagreeable or rude without being completely misunderstood.
"I had my breakfast in my room," she said, trying her utmost tosound curt. "Perhaps I'll see you later."
And she nodded, and went back to where she had been sitting onthe wall, with the lilies being nice and cool round her feet.