The Enchanted April - Chapter 17

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:01):
The Enchanted April by Elizabeth von Arnhem, chapter seventeen. On
the first day of the third week, Rose wrote to Frederick.
In case she should again hesitate and not post the letter,
she gave it to Domenico to post, for if she

(00:22):
did not write now there would be no time left
at all. Half the month at San Salvatore was over,
even if Frederick started directly he got the letter, which
of course he wouldn't be able to do, what with
packing and passport, besides not being in a hurry to come,
he couldn't arrive for five days. Having done it, Rose

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wished she hadn't. He wouldn't come, He wouldn't bother to answer,
and if he did answer, it would just be giving
some reason which was not true, and about being too
busy to get away, And all that had been got
by writing to him would be that she would be
more unhappy than before. What things one did when one

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was idle? This resurrection of Frederick, or rather this attempt
to resurrect him, what was it but the result of
having nothing whatever to do? She wished she had never
come away on a holiday. What did she want with holidays?
Work was her salvation? Work was the only thing that

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protected one, that kept one steady and one's values true.
At home in Hampstead, absorbed and busy, she had managed
to get over Frederick, thinking of him latterly only with
the gentle melancholy with which one thinks of some one
once loved but long since dead. And now this place, idleness,

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in this soft place, had thrown her back to the wreck.
Should state she had climbed so carefully out of years ago?
Why if Frederick did come, she would only bore him.
Hadn't she seen in a flash, quite soon after getting
to send Salvatore, that that was really what kept him
away from her? And why should she suppose that now,

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after such a long estrangement she would be able not
to bore him, be able to do anything but stand
before him like a tongue tied idiot, with all the
fingers of her spirit turned into thumbs. Besides, what a
hopeless position to have, as it were, to beseech Please

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wait a little, Please don't be impatient. I think perhaps
I sha'n't be a bore presently. A thousand times a day,
Rose wished she had let Frederick alone. Lottie, who asked
her every evening whether she had sent her letter yet, exclaimed,
aimed with delight when the answer at last was yes,
and threw her arms around her. Now we shall be

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completely happy, cried the enthusiastic Lottie. But nothing seemed less
certain to Rose, and her expression became more and more
the expression of one who has something on her mind.
Mister Wilkins, wanting to find out what it was, strolled

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in the sun and his Panama hat and began to
meet her. Accidentally, I did not know, said mister Wilkins
the first time, courteously raising his hat, that you too
liked this particular spot, and he sat down beside her.
In the afternoon, she chose another spot, and she had

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not been in it half an hour before mister Wilkins,
lightly swinging his cane, came round the corner. We are
destined to meet in our rambles, said mister Wilkins pleasantly,
and he sat down beside her. Mister Wilkins was very kind,
and she had she saw, misjudged him in Hampstead, and

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this was the real man, ripened like fruit by the
beneficent son of San Salvatore. But Rose did want to
be alone. Still, she was grateful to him for proving
to her that though she might bore Frederick, she did
not bore everybody. If she had, he would not have
sat talking to her on each occasion till it was

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time to go In. True, he bored her, but that
wasn't anything like so dreadful as if she bored him
then indeed, her vanity would have been sadly ruffled. For
now that Rose was not able to say her prayers,
she was being assailed by every sort of weakness, vanity, sensitiveness, irritability, pugnacity,

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strange unfamiliar devils to have come crowding on one and
taking possession of one's swept and empty heart. She'd never
been vain or irritable or pugnacious in her life before.
Could it be that San Salvatore was capable of opposite effects?

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And the same sun that ripened mister Wilkins made her
go acid the next morning so as to be sure
of being alone. She went down while mister Wilkins was
still lingering pleasantly with Missus Fisher over breakfast, to the
rocks by the water's edge, where she and Lottie had

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sat the first day Frederick by now had got her
letter to day. If you were like mister Wilkins, she
might get a telegram from him. She tried to silence
the absurd hope by jeering at it. Yet, if mister
Wilkins had telegraphed, why not Frederick? The spell of San

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Salvatore lurked, even it seemed in notepaper. Lottie had not
dreamed of getting a telegram, And when she came in
at lunch time, there it was. It would be too
wonderful if when she went back at lunch time she
found one there for her too. Rose clasped her hands

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tight round her knees. How passionately she longed to be
important to somebody again, not important on platforms, not important
as an asset in an organization, but privately important, just
to one other person, quite privately, nobody else to know

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or notice. It didn't seem much to ask, in a
world so crowded with people, just to have one of them,
only one out of all the millions, to one's self,
somebody who needed one, who thought of one, who was
eager to come to one. Oh, oh, how dreadfully one

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wanted to be precious. All the morning she sat beneath
the pine tree by the sea. Nobody came near her.
The great hours passed slowly, they seemed enormous, but she
wouldn't go up before lunch. She would give the telegram

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time to arrive that day's scrap. Egged on by Lottie's persuasions,
and also thinking that perhaps she had sat long enough,
had arisen from her chair and cushions and gone off
with lotty and sandwiches up into the hills till evening.

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Mister Wilkins, who wished to go with them, stayed on
Lady Caroline's advice with Missus Fisher in order to cheer
her solitude. And though he left off cheering her about
eleven to go and look for Missus Arbuthnot, so as
for a space to cheer her too, thus dividing himself

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impartially between these solitary ladies, he came back again, presently
mopping his forehead, and continued with Missus Fisher where he
had left off. For this time Missus Arbuthnot had hidden successfully.
There was a telegram too for her, he noticed when
he came in. Pity he did not know where she was.

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Ought we to open it, he said to missus Fisher, No,
said missus Fisher, it may require an answer. I don't
approve of tampering with other people's correspondents, tampering my dear lady.

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Mister Wilkins was shocked such a word, tampering. He had
the greatest possible esteem for missus Fisher, but he did
at times find her a little difficult. She liked him,
he was sure, and she was in a fair way.
He felt to become a client, but he feared she
would be a headstrong and secretive client. She was certainly secretive,

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for though he had been skillful and sympathetic for a
whole week, she had as yet given him no inkling
of what was so evidently worrying her. Poor old thing,
said Lottie, on his asking her if she perhaps could
throw light on missus Fisher's troubles. She hasn't got love. Love,

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Mister Wilkins could only echo genuinely scandalized. But surely, my
dear at her age any love, said Lotty. That very
morning he had asked his wife, for he now sought
and respected her opinion, if she could tell him what

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was the matter with missus arbuthnot, for she too, though
he had done his best to thaw her into confidence,
had remained persistently retiring. She wants her husband, said Lotty, Ah,
said mister Wilkins. A new light shed on missus Arbuthnot's

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shy and modest melancholy, and he added, very proper, And
Lotty said, smiling at him, one does, And mister Wilkins said,
smiling at her, does one. And Lotty said, smiling at him,

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of course, And mister Wilkins much pleased with her. Though
it was still quite early in the day, a time
when caresses are sluggish, pinched her ear. Just before half
past twelve, Rose came slowly up through the pergola and
between the camellias ranged on either side of the old

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stone steps. The rivulets of pariwinkles that flowed down them
when first she arrived were gone, and now there were
these bushes, incredibly rosetted, pink, white, red striped. She fingered
and smelt them one after the other, so as not
to get to her disappointment too quickly. As long as

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she hadn't seen for herself seen the table in the
hall quite empty except for its bowl of flowers, she
still could hope. She still could have the joy of
imagining the telegram lying on it, waiting for her. But
there is no malin a camellia, as mister Wilkins, who

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was standing in the doorway on the lookout for her
and knew what was necessary in horticulture, reminded her. She
started at his voice and looked up. A telegram has
come for you, said mister Wilkins. She stared at him,
her mouth open. I searched for you everywhere but failed.

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Of course, she knew it, She had been sure of
it all the time. Bright and burning youth in that
instant flashed down again on rose. She flew up the steps,
red as the camellia she'd just been fingering, and was
in the hall and tearing open the telegram before mister
Wilkins had finished his sentence. Why but if things could

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happen like this, why But there was no end to
why she and Frederick they were going to be again
at last. No bad news, I trust, said mister Wilkins,
who had followed her. For when she had read the telegram,
she stood staring at it, and her face went slowly white.

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Curious to watch how her face went slowly white, she
turned and looked at mister Wilkins, as if trying to
remember him. Oh. No, On the contrary, she managed to smile.
I'm going to have a visitor, she said, holding out

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the telegram, and when he had taken it, she walked
away towards the dining room, murmuring something about lunch being ready.
Mister Wilkins read the telegram. It had been sent that
morning from Mitzago and was and passing through on way

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to Rome. May I pay my respects the afternoon, Thomas Briggs?
Why should such a telegram make the interesting lady turn pale?
For her pallor? On reading? It had been so striking
as to convince mister Wilkins she was receiving a blow.

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Who is Thomas Briggs, he asked, following her into the
dining room. She looked at him vaguely. Who is she repeated,
getting her thoughts together again. Thomas Briggs. Oh, yes, he
is the owner. This is his house. He is very nice.

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He is coming this afternoon. Thomas Briggs was at that
very moment coming. He was jogging along the road between
Matzago and Castagnetto in a fly. Sincerely, how that the
dark eyed lady would grasp that all he wanted was
to see her, and not at all to see if

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his house were still there. He felt that an owner
of delicacy did not intrude on a tenant. But he
had been thinking so much of her since that day.
Rozarbuthnot such a pretty name, and such a pretty creature, mild,
milky mothery in the best sense, the best sense being

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that she wasn't his mother, and couldn't have been if
she had tried. Her parents were the only things impossible
to have younger than oneself. Also, he was passing so
near it seemed absurd, not just to look in and
see if she were comfortable. He longed to see her
in his house. He longed to see it as her background,

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to see her sitting in his chairs, drinking out of
his cups, using all his things. Did she put the
big crimson brocade cushion in the drawing room behind her
little dark head. Her hair and the whiteness of her
skin would look lovely against it. Had she seen the
portrait of herself on the stairs, he wondered if she

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liked it, He would explain it to her. If she
didn't paint, and she had said nothing to suggest it,
she wouldn't perhaps notice how exactly the molding of the
eyebrows and the slight hollow of the cheek. He told
the fly to wait in Castignetto, and crossed the piazza,

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hailed by children and dogs who all knew him, and
sprang up suddenly from nowhere and walking quickly up the
zigzag path. For he was an active young man, not
much more than thirty. He pulled the ancient chain that
rang the bell, and waited decorously on the proper side
of the open door to be allowed to come in.

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At the sight of him, Francesca flung up every bit
of her that would fling up eyebrows, eyelids, and hands,
and volubly assured him that all was in perfect order,
and that she was doing her duty. Of course, of course,
said Briggs, cutting her short. No one doubts it, and

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he asked her to take in his card to her mistress.
Which mistress asked Francesca, which mistress? There are four, said Francesca,
scenting an irregularity on the part of the tenants. For
her master looked surprised, and she felt pleased, for life

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was dull, and irregularities helped it along. At least a
little four, he repeated, surprised. Well, take it to the lot, then,
he said, recovering himself, for he noticed her expression. Coffee
was being drunk in the top gar garden in the
shade of the Umbrella Pine. Only Missus Fisher and mister

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Wilkins were drinking it, for Missus arbuthnot after eating nothing
and being completely silent during lunch, had disappeared immediately afterwards.
While Francesca went away into the garden with his card,
her master stood examining the picture on the staircase of
that Madonna by an early Italian painter name unknown, picked

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up by him at Orvieto, who was so much like
his tenant it really was remarkable the likeness. Of course,
his tenant that day in London had had her hat on,
but he was pretty sure her hair grew just like
that off her forehead. The expression of the eyes grave

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and sweet was exactly the same. He rejoiced to think
that he would always have her portrait. He looked up
at the sound of footsteps, and there she was, coming
down the stairs, just as he had imagined her in
that place, dressed in white. She was astonished to see

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him so soon she had supposed he would come about
tea time. Until then, she had meant to sit somewhere
out of doors where she could be by herself. He
watched her coming down the stairs with the utmost eager interest.
In a moment she would be level with her portrait.

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It really is extraordinary, said Briggs. How do you do?
Said Rose, intent only on a decent show of welcome,
she did not welcome him. He was here, she felt
the telegram bitter in her heart. Instead of Frederick doing
what she had longed Frederick would do, taking his place,

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just stand still a moment, She obeyed automatically, Yes, quite astonishing.
Do you mind taking off your hat? Rose, surprised, took
it off obediently. Yes, I thought so. I just wanted

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to make sure and look, have you noticed? He began
to make odd, swift passes with his hand over the
face in the picture, measuring it, looking from it to her.
Rose's surprise became amusement, and she could not help smiling.
Have you come to compare me with my original? She asked?

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You do see how extraordinarily alike? I didn't know I
looked so solemn. You don't not now you did a
minute ago quite as solemn. Oh, yes, how do you do?
He finished, suddenly noticing her outstretched hand, and he laughed
and shook it, flushing a trick of his to the

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roots of his hair. Francesca came back. The Signora Fisher,
she said, will be pleased to see him. Who is
the signor a Fisher, he asked Rose. One of the
four who are sharing your house? Then there are four

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of you. Yes, my friend and I found we couldn't
afford it by ourselves. Oh I say, began Briggs in confusion,
for he would best have liked Rose arbuthnot pretty name,
not to have to afford anything, but to stay at
San Salvatore as long as she liked as his guest.

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Missus Fisher is having coffee in the top garden, said Rose.
I'll take you to her and introduce you. I don't
want to go. You've got your hat on you were
going for a walk. Mayn't I come too? I'd immensely
like being shown round by you. But missus Fisher is
waiting for you. Won't she keep? Yes, said Rose, with

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the smile that had so much attracted him the first day.
I think she will keep quite well till tea. Do
you speak Italian? No, said Rose? Why on that he
turned to Francesca and told her at a great rate
for an Italian. He was glib to go back to
the signor in the top garden and tell her he

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had encountered his old friend, the Signor Arbuthnot, and was
going for a walk with her, and would present himself
to her later. Do you invite me to tea? He
asked Rose, when Francesca had gone. Of course, it's your house,
it isn't It's yours till Monday week, she smiled. Come

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and show me all the views, he said eagerly. And
it was plain even to the self depreciatory Rose that
she did not bore mister Briggs. End of Chapter seventeen.