Chapter 9, The Enchanted April By Elizabeth Von Arnim

THE ENCHANTED APRIL CHAPTER IX That one of the two sitting-rooms which Mrs.

Fisher had taken for her own was a room of charm and character.

She surveyed it with satisfaction on going into it,

After breakfast,

And was glad it was hers.

It had a tiled floor,

And the walls the colour of pale honey,

And inlaid furniture the colour of amber,

And mellow books,

Many in ivory or lemon-coloured covers.

There was a big window overlooking the sea towards Genoa,

And a glass door through which she could proceed out onto the battlements,

And walk along past the quaint and attractive watch-tower,

In itself a room with chairs and a writing-table,

To where on the other side of the tower the battlements ended in a marble seat,

And one could see the western bay and the point round which began the Gulf of Spezia.

Her south view,

Between these two stretches of sea,

Was another hill higher than San Salvatore,

The last of the little peninsula,

With the bland turrets of a smaller and uninhabited castle on the top,

On which the setting sun still shone with everything else sunk in shadow.

Yes,

She was very comfortably established here,

And receptacles,

Mrs.

Fisher did not examine their nature closely,

But they seemed to be small stone troughs,

Or perhaps little sarcophagi,

Ringed round the battlements with flowers.

These battlements,

She thought,

Considering them,

Would have been a perfect place for her to pace up and down gently in moments when she least felt the need of her stick,

Or to sit on the marble seat having first put a cushion on it,

If there had not,

Unfortunately,

Been a second-class door opening onto them,

Destroying their complete privacy,

Spoiling her feeling that the place was only for her.

The second door belonged to the round drawing-room,

Which both she and Lady Caroline had rejected as too dark.

That room would probably be sat in by the women from Hampstead,

And she was afraid that they would not confine themselves to sitting in it,

But would come out through the glass door and invade her battlements.

This would ruin the battlements,

It would ruin them as far as she was concerned,

If they would be overrun,

Or even if not actually overrun,

They were liable to be raked by the eyes of persons inside the room.

No,

One could perfectly be at ease if they were being watched and knew it.

What she wanted,

What she surely had a right to,

Was privacy.

She had no wish to intrude on the others,

Then why should they intrude on her?

And she could always relax her privacy if,

When she came better acquainted with her companions,

She should think it worthwhile.

But she doubted whether any of the three would so develop as to make her think it worthwhile.

Hardly anything was really worthwhile,

Reflected Mrs Fisher,

Except the past.

It was astonishing,

It was simply amazing,

The superiority of the past to the present.

Those friends of hers in London,

Solid persons of her own age,

Knew the same past that she knew.

Could talk about it with her,

Could compare it,

As she did with the tinkling present.

And in remembering,

Great men forget for a moment the trivial and barren young people,

Who still in spite of the war,

Seemed to litter the world in such numbers.

She had not come away from these friends,

These conversable,

Ripe friends,

In order to spend her time in Italy chatting with three persons of another generation and effective experience.

She had come away merely to avoid the treacheries of London,

April.

It was true that she had told the two who came to Prince of Wales Terrace,

That all she wished to do at San Salvatore was to sit by herself in the sun and remember.

They knew this,

For she had told them.

It had been plainly expressed and clearly understood.

Therefore she had a right to expect them to stay inside the round drawing room and not to emerge interruptingly onto her battlements.

But would they?

The doubt spoiled her morning.

It was only towards lunchtime that she saw a way to be quite safe,

And ringing for Francesca bade her in slow and majestic Italian,

Shut the shutters of the glass door of the round drawing room,

And then going into her room,

Which had become darker than ever in consequence,

But also,

Mrs.

Fisher observed to Francesca,

Who was being voluble,

Would,

Because of this very darkness,

Remain agreeably cool,

And after all there were than numerous slit windows in the walls to let in light,

And it was nothing to do with her if they did not let it in,

She directed the placing of the cabinet of curios across the door on its inside.

This would discourage egress.

Then she rang for Domenico,

And caused him to move one of the flower-filled sarcophagi across the door on its outside.

This would discourage egress.

No one,

Said Domenico hesitating,

Will be able to use the door.

No one,

Said Mrs.

Fisher firmly,

Will wish to.

She then retired to her sitting room,

And from a chair placed where she could look straight on to them,

Gazed at her bafflements,

Secured to her now completely with calm pleasure.

Being here,

She reflected placidly,

Was much cheaper than being in a hotel,

And if she could keep off the others,

Immeasurably more agreeable.

She was paying for her rooms,

Extremely pleasant rooms,

Now that she would have ranged them,

Three pounds a week,

Which came to eight shillings a day,

Battlements,

Watchtower,

And all.

Where else abroad could she live as well for so little,

And have as many baths as she liked for eight shillings a day?

Of course she did not know what the food would cost yet,

But she would insist on carefulness over that.

Though she would also insist on its being carefulness combined with excellence.

The two were perfectly compatible if the caterer took pains.

The servants' wages,

She had ascertained,

Were negligible,

Owing to the advantageous exchange,

So that there was only the food to cause her anxiety.

If she saw signs of extravagance,

She would propose that they each hand over a reasonable sum every week to Lady Caroline,

Which should cover the bills.

Any of it that was not to be used to be returned,

And if it were exceeded,

The loss to be borne by the caterer.

Mrs.

Fisher was well off,

And had the desire for comforts proper to her age,

But she disliked expenses.

So well off was she that,

Had she chosen to,

She could have lived in an opulent part of London,

And driven from it and to it in a Rolls-Royce.

She had no such wish.

It needed more vitality than went with true comfort to deal with a house in an opulent spot and a Rolls-Royce.

Worries attended such possessions,

Worries of every kind,

Crowned by bills.

In sober gloom of Prince of Wales Terrace,

She could obscurely enjoy inexpensive yet real comfort without being snatched at by predatory men's servants or collectors for charities,

And a taxi stand was at the end of the road.

Her annual outlay was small.

The house was inherited.

Death had furnished it for her.

She trod in the dining room on the turkey carpet of her father's.

She regulated her day by excellent black marble clock on the mantelpiece,

Which she remembered from childhood.

Her walls were entirely covered by the photographs her illustrious deceased friends had given,

Either herself or her father,

With their own handwriting across the lower parts of their bodies,

And the windows,

Shrouded by maroon curtains all of her life,

Were decorated besides with the same self-aquariums to which she owned her first lessons in sea law and in which she swam slowly the goldfishes of her youth.

Were they the same goldfish?

She did not know.

Perhaps,

Like carp,

They outlived everybody.

Perhaps,

On the other hand,

Besides the deep-sea vegetation provided for them at the bottom,

They had from time to time,

As the years went by,

Withdrawn and replaced themselves.

Were they or were they not?

She sometimes wondered,

Contemplating them between the courses of her solitary meals,

The same goldfish that had been there when Carlyle,

How well she remembered it,

Angrily strode up to them in the middle of some argument with her father that had grown heated,

And,

Striking the glass sharply with his fist,

Put them to flight,

Shouting as they fled,

Ouch!

Ye deaf devils!

Oof!

Ye lucky deaf devils!

Ye can't hear anything of that blasted,

Blethering,

Doddering lake.

Fool stuff,

Ye master-tox,

Have can ye?

Or was to that effect.

Dear great soul Carlyle,

Such natural gushings forth,

Such true friendships,

Such real grandeur,

Rugged,

If you will,

Yes,

Undoubtedly,

Sometimes rugged,

And startling in the drawing-room,

But magnificent.

Who was there now to put beside him?

Who was there to mention in the same breath?

Her father,

Than whom no one had had more flair,

Said,

Thomas is immortal,

And here was this generation,

This generation of puniness,

Raising its little voice in doubts,

Or,

Still worse,

Not giving itself the trouble to raise it at all.

Not.

It was incredible that it had been thus reported to her,

Even reading him.

Mrs.

Fisher did not read him either,

But that was different.

She had read him.

She had certainly read him.

Of course she had read him.

There was Trufsteldoch.

She quite well remembered a tailor called Trufsteldoch.

So,

Like Carlyle to call him like that.

Yes,

She must have read him,

Though naturally details escaped her.

The gong sounded.

Lost in reminiscence,

Mrs.

Fisher had forgotten time and hastened to her bedroom to wash her hands and smooth her hair.

She did not wish to be late and set a bad example and perhaps find her seat at the head of the table taken.

One could not trust in the manners of the younger generation,

Certainly not in those of Mrs.

Wilkins.

She was,

However,

The first to arrive in the dining room.

Francesca,

In a white apron,

Stood ready with an enormous dish of smoking hot,

Glistening macaroni,

But nobody was there to eat it.

Mrs.

Fisher sat down,

Looking stern.

Lax,

Lax.

Serve me,

She said to Francesca,

Who showed a disposition to wait for the others.

Francesca served her.

Of the party,

She liked Mrs.

Fisher least.

In fact,

She did not like her at all.

She was the only one of the four ladies who had not yet smiled.

True,

She was old.

True,

She was unbeautiful.

True,

She was,

Therefore,

Had no reason to smile,

But kind ladies smiled,

Reason or no.

They smiled,

Not because they were happy,

But because they wished to make happy.

This one of the four ladies could not,

Then,

Francesca decided,

Be kind,

So she handed her the macaroni,

Being unable to hide any of her feelings morosely.

It was very well cooked,

But Mrs.

Fisher had never cared for macaroni,

Especially not this long,

Worm-shaped variety.

She found it difficult to eat,

Slippery,

Wriggling off her fork,

Making her look she felt undignified,

When,

Having got it as she supposed into her mouth,

Ends of it hung out.

Always,

Too,

When she ate it,

She was reminded of Mr.

Fisher.

He had,

During their married life,

Behaved very much like macaroni.

He had slipped,

He had wriggled,

He had made her feel undignified,

And then,

At last,

When she'd got him safe,

As she thought,

There had invariably been bits of him that still,

As it were,

Hung out.

Francesca,

From the sideboard,

Watched Mrs.

Fisher's way with macaroni gloomily,

And her gloom deepened when she saw her take the knife to it and chop it small.

Mrs.

Fisher really did not know how else to get hold of the stuff.

She was aware that knives in this connection were improper,

But one did finally lose patience.

Macaroni was never allowed to appear on her table in London.

Apart from its tiresomeness,

She did not even like it,

And she would tell Lady Caroline not to order it again.

Years of practice,

Reflected Mrs.

Fisher,

Chopping it up,

Years of actual living in Italy would be necessary to learn the exact trick.

Browning managed macaroni wonderfully.

She remembered watching him one day when he came to lunch with her father.

A dish of it had been ordered as a compliment to his connection with Italy.

Fascinating the way it went in.

No chasing around the plate,

No sidelings off the fork,

No subsequent protrusions of loose ends.

Just one dig,

One whisk,

One thrust,

One gulp,

And lo!

Yet another poet had been nourished.

Shall I go and seek the young lady?

Asked Francesca,

Unable any longer to look at the good macaroni being cut with a knife.

Mrs.

Fisher came out of her reminiscent reflections with difficulty.

She knows lunch is at half-past twelve,

She said.

They all know.

And she may be asleep,

Said Francesca.

The other ladies are further away,

But this one is not far away.

Beat the gong again,

Then,

Said Mrs.

Fisher.

What manners,

She thought.

What?

What manners?

It was not a hotel,

And considerations were due.

She must say she was surprised at Mrs.

Arbuthnot,

Who had not looked like someone unpunctual.

Lady Caroline,

Too.

She had seemed amiable and courteous,

Whatever else she might be.

From the other one,

Of course,

She expected nothing.

Francesca fetched the gong and took it out into the garden and advanced,

Beating it as she advanced,

Close up to Lady Caroline,

Who had been stretched in her low chair,

Waited till she had done,

And then turned her head and in the sweetest tones poured forth what appeared to be music,

But was really infective.

Francesca did not recognise the liquid flow as infective.

How was she to,

When it came out sounding like that,

And with her face all smiles,

For she could not but smile when she looked at this young lady.

She told her the macaroni was getting cold.

When I do not come to meals,

It is because I do not wish to come to meals,

Said the irritated Scrap,

And you will not in future disturb me.

She is ill,

Asked Francesca,

Sympathetic but unable to stop smiling.

Never,

Never has she seen hair so beautiful,

Like pure flax,

Like the hair of northern babes.

On such a little head only a blessing could rest.

On such a little head the nimbus of the holiest saints could thickly be placed.

Scraps shut her eyes and refused to answer.

In this she was injudicious,

For its effect was to convince Francesca,

Who hurried away,

Full of concern to tell Mrs Fisher that she was indisposed.

And Mrs Fisher,

Being prevented,

She explained,

From going out to Lady Caroline herself because of her stick,

Sent thee to others instead.

Who had come in at that moment,

Excited,

Heated and breathless and full of excuses,

While she herself proceeded to the next course,

Which was very well-made omelette,

Bursting most agreeably at both ends with young green peas.

Serve me,

She directed Francesca,

Who again showed a disposition to wait for the others.

Oh,

Why won't they leave me alone?

Oh,

Why won't they leave me alone?

Scrap asked herself when she heard more scrunchings on the little pebbles,

Which took the place of grass and therefore knew someone else was approaching.

She kept her eyes shut this time.

Why should she go to lunch if she didn't want to?

This wasn't a private house.

She had no way tangled up in duties towards a tiresome hostess.

For all practical purposes,

San Salvatore was a hotel and she ought to be let alone to eat or not to eat exactly,

As if she had really been in the hotel.

But the unfortunate Scrap could not just sit still and close her eyes without rousing that desire to stroke and pet her beholders with which she was only too familiar.

Even the cook had patted her.

And now a gentle hand,

How well she knew and how much she dreaded gentle hands,

Was placed on her forehead.

I'm afraid you're not well,

Said a voice that was not Mrs.

Fisher's and therefore must belong to one of the originals.

I have a headache,

Murmured Scrap.

Perhaps it was best to say that.

Perhaps it was the shortest cut to piece.

I'm so sorry,

Said Mrs.

Arbuthnot softly,

For it was her hand being gentle.

And I,

Said Scrap to herself,

Who thought it,

If I came here I would escape mothers.

Don't you think some tea would be good for you?

Asked Mrs.

Arbuthnot tenderly.

Tea!

The idea was abhorrent to Scrap,

In this heat,

To be drinking tea in the middle of the day.

No,

She murmured.

I expect what she would really like to be best for her,

Said another voice,

Is to be left quite quiet.

How sensible,

Thought Scrap,

And raised the eyelashes just one,

Enough to peep through to see who was speaking.

It was the freckled original.

The dark one,

Then,

Was the one with the hand.

The freckled one rose in her esteem.

But I can't bear to think of you out here with a headache and nothing being done for it,

Said Mrs.

Arbuthnot.

Would a strong cup of black coffee,

Scrap said no more.

She waited,

Motionless and dumb,

Till Mrs.

Arbuthnot should remove her hand.

After all,

She couldn't stand there all day,

And when she went away she would have to take her hand with her.

I do think,

Said the freckled one,

That she wants nothing except quiet.

And perhaps the freckled one pulled the other one with the hand by the sleeve.

For the hold on Scrap's forehead relaxed,

And after a minute's silence,

During which no doubt she was being contemplated,

She was always being contemplated,

The footsteps began to scrunch the pebbles again and grew fainter and gone.

Lady Caroline has a headache,

Said Mrs.

Arbuthnot,

Re-entering the dining room and sitting down in her place next to Mrs.

Fisher.

I can't persuade her to even have a little tea or some black coffee.

Do you know what aspirin is in Italian?

The proper remedy for headaches,

Said Mrs.

Fisher firmly,

Is castor oil.

But she hasn't got a headache,

Said Mrs.

Wilkins.

Carlyle,

Said Mrs.

Fisher,

Who had finished her omelette and had leisure while she waited for the next course to talk,

Suffered at one period terribly from headaches and he constantly took castor oil as a remedy.

He took it,

I should say,

Almost to excess and called it,

I remember,

In his interesting way,

Oil of sorrow.

My father said it coloured for some time his whole attitude to life,

His whole philosophy,

But that was because he took too much.

What Lady Caroline wants is one dose and only one.

It's a mistake to keep on taking castor oil.

Do you know the Italian for it?

Asked Mrs.

Arbuthnot.

I'm afraid I don't know.

However,

She would know.

You can ask her.

But she hasn't got a headache,

Repeated Mrs.

Wilkins,

Who was struggling with the macaroni.

She only wants to eat that alone.

They both looked at her.

The word shovel crossed Mrs.

Fisher's mind in connection with Mrs.

Wilkins' actions at that moment.

Then why should she say she has?

Because she's trying to be polite.

Soon she won't try.

When the places got more into her,

She'll really be it,

Without trying,

Naturally.

Lottie,

You see,

Explained Mrs.

Arbuthnot,

Smiling to Mrs.

Fisher,

Who sat waiting with a stony patient for her next course,

Delayed because Mrs.

Wilkins would go on trying to eat the macaroni,

Which must be less worth eating than ever now because it was cold.

Lottie,

You see,

Has a theory about this place.

But Mrs.

Fisher had no wish to hear any theory of Mrs.

Wilkins.

I'm sure I don't know,

She interrupted,

Looking severely at Mrs.

Wilkins,

Why you should assume Lady Caroline is not telling the truth.

I don't assume.

I know,

Said Mrs.

Wilkins.

And pray,

How do you know,

Asked Mrs.

Fisher icily,

For Mrs.

Wilkins was actually helping herself to more macaroni,

Offered her officiously and unnecessarily a second time by Francesca.

When I was out there just now,

I saw inside her.

Well,

Mrs.

Fisher wasn't going to say anything to that.

She wasn't going to trouble to reply to downright idiocy.

Instead,

She sharply wrapped the little table gong by her side.

Though there was Francesca standing at the sideboard and said that it would no longer wait for the next course,

Serve me.

And Francesca,

It must have been willful,

Offered her the macaroni again.