The Enchanted April Page 4

  But Mrs Fisher’s very abstractedness – and she seemed to be absorbed chiefly in the interesting people she used to know and in their memorial photographs, and quite a good part of the interview was taken up by reminiscent anecdote of Carlyle, Meredith, Matthew Arnold, Tennyson and a host of others – her very abstractedness was a recommendation. She only asked, she said, to be allowed to sit quiet in the sun and remember. That was all Mrs Arbuthnot and Mrs Wilkins asked of their sharers. It was their idea of a perfect sharer that she should sit quiet in the sun and remember, rousing herself on Saturday evenings sufficiently to pay her share. Mrs Fisher was very fond, too, she said, of flowers, and once when she was spending a weekend with her father at Box Hill—

  “Who lived at Box Hill?” interrupted Mrs Wilkins, who hung on Mrs Fisher’s reminiscences, intensely excited by meeting somebody who had actually been familiar with all the really and truly and undoubtedly great – actually seen them, heard them talking, touched them.

  Mrs Fisher looked at her over the top of her glasses in some surprise. Mrs Wilkins, in her eagerness to tear the heart out quickly of Mrs Fisher’s reminiscences, afraid that at any moment Mrs Arbuthnot would take her away and she wouldn’t have heard half, had already interrupted several times with questions which appeared ignorant to Mrs Fisher.

  “Meredith, of course,” said Mrs Fisher rather shortly. “I remember a particular weekend,” she continued. “My father often took me, but I always remember this weekend particularly—”

  “Did you know Keats?” eagerly interrupted Mrs Wilkins.

  Mrs Fisher, after a pause, said with subacid reserve that she had been unacquainted with both Keats and Shakespeare.

  “Oh of course – how ridiculous of me!” cried Mrs Wilkins, flushing scarlet. “It’s because” – she floundered – “it’s because the immortals somehow still seem alive, don’t they – as if they were here, going to walk into the room in another minute – and one forgets they are dead. In fact, one knows perfectly well they’re not dead – not nearly so dead as you and I even now,” she assured Mrs Fisher, who observed her over the top of her glasses.

  “I thought I saw Keats the other day,” Mrs Wilkins incoherently proceeded, driven on by Mrs Fisher’s look over the top of her glasses. “In Hampstead – crossing the road in front of that house – you know – the house where he lived…”

  Mrs Arbuthnot said they must be going.

  Mrs Fisher did nothing to prevent them.

  “I really thought I saw him,” protested Mrs Wilkins, appealing for belief first to one and then to the other while waves of colour passed over her face, and totally unable to stop because of Mrs Fisher’s glasses and the steady eyes looking at her over their tops. “I believe I did see him – he was dressed in a…”

  Even Mrs Arbuthnot looked at her now, and in her gentlest voice said they would be late for lunch.

  It was at this point that Mrs Fisher asked for references. She had no wish to find herself shut up for four weeks with somebody who saw things. It is true that there were three sitting rooms, besides the garden and the battlements at San Salvatore, so that there would be opportunities of withdrawal from Mrs Wilkins, but it would be disagreeable to Mrs Fisher, for instance, if Mrs Wilkins were suddenly to assert that she saw Mr Fisher. Mr Fisher was dead – let him remain so. She had no wish to be told he was walking about the garden. The only reference she really wanted, for she was much too old and firmly seated in her place in the world for questionable associates to matter to her, was one with regard to Mrs Wilkins’s health. Was her health quite normal? Was she an ordinary, everyday, sensible woman? Mrs Fisher felt that if she were given even one address she would be able to find out what she needed. So she asked for references, and her visitors appeared to be so much taken aback – Mrs Wilkins, indeed, was instantly sobered – that she added, “It is usual.”

  Mrs Wilkins found her speech first. “But,” she said, “aren’t we the ones who ought to ask for some from you?”

  And this seemed to Mrs Arbuthnot too the right attitude. Surely it was they who were taking Mrs Fisher into their party, and not Mrs Fisher who was taking them into it?

  For answer, Mrs Fisher, leaning on her stick, went to the writing table and in a firm hand wrote down three names and offered them to Mrs Wilkins, and the names were so respectable, more, they were so momentous, they were so nearly august, that just to read them was enough: The President of the Royal Academy, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and the Governor of the Bank of England – who would dare disturb such personages in their meditations with enquiries as to whether a female friend of theirs was all she should be?

  “They have known me since I was little,” said Mrs Fisher – everybody seemed to have known Mrs Fisher since or when she was little.

  “I don’t think references are nice things at all between – between ordinary, decent women,” burst out Mrs Wilkins – made courageous by being, as she felt, at bay – for she very well knew that the only reference she could give without getting into trouble was Shoolbred, and she had little confidence in that, as it would be entirely based on Mellersh’s fish. “We’re not business people. We needn’t distrust each other…”

  And Mrs Arbuthnot said, with a dignity that yet was sweet, “I’m afraid references do bring an atmosphere into our holiday plan that isn’t quite what we want, and I don’t think we’ll take yours up or give you any ourselves. So that I suppose you won’t wish to join us.”

  And she held out her hand in goodbye.

  Then Mrs Fisher, her gaze diverted to Mrs Arbuthnot, who inspired trust and liking even in Tube officials, felt that she would be idiotic to lose the opportunity of being in Italy in the particular conditions offered, and that she and this calm-browed woman between them would certainly be able to curb the other one when she had her attacks. So she said, taking Mrs Arbuthnot’s offered hand, “Very well. I waive references.”

  She waived references.

  The two as they walked to the station in Kensington High Street could not help thinking that this way of putting it was lofty. Even Mrs Arbuthnot, spendthrift of excuses for lapses, thought Mrs Fisher might have used other words, and Mrs Wilkins – by the time she got to the station, and the walk and the struggle on the crowded pavement with other people’s umbrellas had warmed her blood – actually suggested waiving Mrs Fisher.

  “If there is any waiving to be done, do let us be the ones who waive,” she said eagerly.

  But Mrs Arbuthnot, as usual, held on to Mrs Wilkins, and presently, having cooled down in the train, Mrs Wilkins announced that at San Salvatore Mrs Fisher would find her level. “I see her finding her level there,” she said, her eyes very bright.

  Whereupon Mrs Arbuthnot, sitting with her quiet hands folded, turned over in her mind how best she could help Mrs Wilkins not to see quite so much – or at least, if she must see, to see in silence.

  4

  It had been arranged that Mrs Arbuthnot and Mrs Wilkins, travelling together, should arrive at San Salvatore on the evening of March 31st – the owner, who told them how to get there, appreciated their disinclination to begin their time in it on April 1st – and Lady Caroline and Mrs Fisher – as yet unacquainted and therefore under no obligations to bore each other on the journey, for only towards the end would they find out by a process of sifting who they were – were to arrive on the morning of April 2nd. In this way everything would be got nicely ready for the two who seemed, in spite of the equality of the sharing, yet to have something about them of guests.

  There were disagreeable incidents towards the end of March, when Mrs Wilkins, her heart in her mouth and her face a mixture of guilt, terror and determination, told her husband that she had been invited to Italy, and he declined to believe it. Of course he declined to believe it. Nobody had ever invited his wife to Italy before. There was no precedent. He required proofs. The only proof was Mrs Arbuthnot, and Mrs Wilkins had produced he
r – but after what entreaties, what passionate persuading! For Mrs Arbuthnot had not imagined she would have to face Mr Wilkins and say things to him that were short of the truth, and it brought home to her what she had for some time suspected, that she was slipping more and more away from God.

  Indeed, the whole of March was filled with unpleasant anxious moments. It was an uneasy month. Mrs Arbuthnot’s conscience, made super-sensitive by years of pampering, could not reconcile what she was doing with its own high standard of what was right. It gave her little peace. It nudged her at her prayers. It punctuated her entreaties for divine guidance with disconcerting questions, such as, “Are you not a hypocrite? Do you really mean that? Would you not, frankly, be disappointed if that prayer were granted?”

  The prolonged wet, raw weather was on the side too of her conscience, producing far more sickness than usual among the poor. They had bronchitis, they had fevers, there was no end to the distress. And here she was going off, spending precious money on going off, simply and solely to be happy. One woman. One woman being happy, and these piteous multitudes…

  She was unable to look the vicar in the face. He did not know – nobody knew – what she was going to do, and from the very beginning she was unable to look anybody in the face. She excused herself from making speeches appealing for money. How could she stand up and ask people for money when she herself was spending so much on her own selfish pleasure? Nor did it help her or quiet her that, having actually told Frederick – in her desire to make up for what she was squandering – that she would be grateful if he would let her have some money, he instantly gave her a cheque for £100. He asked no questions. She was scarlet. He looked at her a moment and then looked away. It was a relief to Frederick that she should take some money. She gave it all immediately to the organization she worked with, and found herself more tangled in doubts than ever.

  Mrs Wilkins, on the contrary, had no doubts. She was quite certain that it was a most proper thing to have a holiday, and altogether right and beautiful to spend one’s own hard-collected savings on being happy.

  “Think how much nicer we shall be when we come back,” she said to Mrs Arbuthnot, encouraging that pale lady.

  No, Mrs Wilkins had no doubts, but she had fears – and March was for her too an anxious month – with the unconscious Mr Wilkins coming back daily to his dinner and eating his fish in the silence of imagined security.

  Also things happen so awkwardly. It really is astonishing how awkwardly they happen. Mrs Wilkins, who was very careful all this month to give Mellersh only the food he liked, buying it and hovering over its cooking with a zeal more than common, succeeded so well that Mellersh was pleased – definitely pleased – so much pleased that he began to think that he might, after all, have married the right wife instead of, as he had frequently suspected, the wrong one. The result was that on the third Sunday in the month – Mrs Wilkins had made up her trembling mind that on the fourth Sunday, there being five in that March and it being on the fifth of them that she and Mrs Arbuthnot were to start, she would tell Mellersh of her invitation – on the third Sunday, then, after a very well-cooked lunch in which the Yorkshire pudding had melted in his mouth and the apricot tart had been so perfect that he ate it all, Mellersh, smoking his cigar by the brightly burning fire the while hail gusts banged on the window, said: “I am thinking of taking you to Italy for Easter.” And paused for her astounded and grateful ecstasy.

  None came. The silence in the room, except for the hail hitting the windows and the gay roar of the fire, was complete. Mrs Wilkins could not speak. She was dumbfounded. The next Sunday was the day she had meant to break her news to him, and she had not yet even prepared the form of words in which she would break it.

  Mr Wilkins, who had not been abroad since before the war, and was noticing with increasing disgust, as week followed week of wind and rain, the peculiar persistent vileness of the weather, had slowly conceived a desire to get away from England for Easter. He was doing very well in his business. He could afford a trip. Switzerland was useless in April. There was a familiar sound about Easter in Italy. To Italy he would go, and as it would cause comment if he did not take his wife, take her he must – besides, she would be useful: a second person was always useful in a country whose language one did not speak for holding things, for waiting with the luggage.

  He had expected an explosion of gratitude and excitement. The absence of it was incredible. She could not, he concluded, have heard. Probably she was absorbed in some foolish daydream. It was regrettable how childish she remained.

  He turned his head – their chairs were in front of the fire – and looked at her. She was staring straight into the fire, and it was no doubt the fire that made her face so red.

  “I am thinking,” he repeated, raising his clear, cultivated voice and speaking with acerbity, for inattention at such a moment was deplorable, “of taking you to Italy for Easter. Did you not hear me?”

  Yes, she had heard him, and she had been wondering at the extraordinary coincidence – really most extraordinary – she was just going to tell him how – how she had been invited – a friend had invited her – Easter, too – Easter was in April, wasn’t it? – her friend had a – had a house there.

  In fact, Mrs Wilkins, driven by terror, guilt and surprise, had been more incoherent, if possible, than usual.

  It was a dreadful afternoon. Mellersh, profoundly indignant, besides having his intended treat coming back on him like a blessing to roost, cross-examined her with the utmost severity. He demanded that she refuse the invitation. He demanded that, since she had so outrageously accepted it without consulting him, she should write and cancel her acceptance. Finding himself up against an unsuspected, shocking rock of obstinacy in her, he then declined to believe she had been invited to Italy at all. He declined to believe in this Mrs Arbuthnot, of whom till that moment he had never heard, and it was only when the gentle creature was brought round – with such difficulty, with such a desire on her part to throw the whole thing up rather than tell Mr Wilkins less than the truth – and herself endorsed his wife’s statements that he was able to give them credence. He could not but believe Mrs Arbuthnot. She produced the precise effect on him that she did on Tube officials. She hardly needed to say anything. But that made no difference to her conscience, which knew, and would not let her forget, that she had given him an incomplete impression. “Do you,” asked her conscience, “see any real difference between an incomplete impression and a completely stated lie? God sees none.”

  The remainder of March was a confused bad dream. Both Mrs Arbuthnot and Mrs Wilkins were shattered; try as they would not to, both felt extraordinarily guilty – and when on the morning of the 30th they did finally get off there was no exhilaration about the departure, no holiday feeling at all.

  “We’ve been too good – much too good,” Mrs Wilkins kept on murmuring as they walked up and down the platform at Victoria, having arrived there an hour before they need have, “and that’s why we feel as though we’re doing wrong. We’re brow-beaten – we’re not any longer real human beings. Real human beings aren’t ever as good as we’ve been. Oh” – she clenched her thin hands – “to think that we ought to be so happy now, here on the very station, actually starting, and we’re not, and it’s being spoilt for us simply because we’ve spoilt them! What have we done – what have we done, I should like to know,” she enquired of Mrs Arbuthnot indignantly, “except for once want to go away by ourselves and have a little rest from them?”

  Mrs Arbuthnot, patiently pacing, did not ask who she meant by them, because she knew. Mrs Wilkins meant their husbands, persisting in her assumption that Frederick was as indignant as Mellersh over the departure of his wife, whereas Frederick did not even know his wife had gone.

  Mrs Arbuthnot, always silent about him, had said nothing of this to Mrs Wilkins. Frederick went too deep into her heart for her to talk about him. He was having an extra bout of
work finishing another of those dreadful books, and had been away practically continually the last few weeks, and was away when she left. Why should she tell him beforehand? Sure as she so miserably was that he would have no objection to anything she did, she merely wrote him a note and put it on the hall table ready for him if and when he should come home. She said she was going for a month’s holiday as she needed a rest and she had not had one for so long, and that Gladys, the efficient parlourmaid, had orders to see to his comforts. She did not say where she was going – there was no reason why she should: he would not be interested, he would not care.

  The day was wretched, blustering and wet, the crossing was atrocious, and they were very sick. But after having been very sick, just to arrive at Calais and not be sick was happiness, and it was there that the real splendour of what they were doing first began to warm their benumbed spirits. It got hold of Mrs Wilkins first, and spread from her like a rose-coloured flame over her pale companion. Mellersh at Calais, where they restored themselves with soles because of Mrs Wilkins’s desire to eat a sole Mellersh wasn’t having – Mellersh at Calais had already begun to dwindle and seem less important. None of the French porters knew him, not a single official at Calais cared a fig for Mellersh. In Paris there was no time to think of him because their train was late and they only just caught the Turin train at the Gare de Lyon, and by the afternoon of the next day when they got into Italy, England, Frederick, Mellersh, the vicar, the poor, Hampstead, the club, Shoolbred, everybody and everything, the whole inflamed sore dreariness, had faded to the dimness of a dream.