This was acceptable. The old Marchesa didn’t answer : merely nodded her head slowly to show assent. For a few moments there was silence. Then : ‘If you wish to speak to me of this at some time, then I shall listen. You understand?’
‘Thank you,’ Edwina said. Silence again, which she didn’t mind at all. She felt no need to speak, although she had a mild not unpleasant sense of fear. It was akin almost to excitement.
‘I think perhaps you were not very fond of Adelina? I was most fond. But blood is a strong affair, quite different from these bonds of marriage-I have however for Frederick great affection. That has come to me most naturally – Such a person needs a mother. And you also are quite devoted to him – ’ It was a statement, not a question. She paused. ‘Stefano, my Stefano. What do you think? You like him?’
‘But of course.’
‘There is no “of course” – He is very handsome, beautiful, no? And for the family very important. We must thank God that nothing has happened – this stupidity that they must fight. And Taddeo – ’ she leant on her stick – ‘fortunately he is mutilato only. But you will have seen that all is not well – there is too much fever, too much nervous life.’
And Eugenio? Edwina felt certain that he would be discussed next, but no. The old Marchesa, as if missing her cue, suggested instead that they should take a drink. Edwina was to pull the bell.
This we have made many years.’ she said, sipping and then putting down a glass of cinnamon-coloured liquid; she turned to Edwina : ‘I understand that you are excellent with the piano?’
‘I’m very serious. And yes–I’m good.’ She mentioned Paris, and the old Marchesa asked sharply : ‘You want to do, so?’
‘Yes.’ They finished their drinks in silence. Edwina thought perhaps she had done, said, something wrong. But the silence was not uncomfortable. Putting down her glass, the Marchesa exclaimed : ‘ Mah!’ Then was silent again.
‘You may play for me,’ she announced now. ‘There is a chair before the piano – inside is music. Please choose.’ She rose stiffly. Edwina took her arm. She didn’t thank her but said merely : ‘Some Weber, I think?’
The piano, when they reached it, was badly tuned. ‘It is now some years since– ’ But Edwina was happy to play. When the Marchesa had had enough, she raised her cane. Then as Edwina stood up : ‘Quite an exécutante? she said. She remained where she was, in a high-backed chair of blue velvet, while Edwina tidied and put away the music. ‘Mahl’ she exclaimed twice, clasping and unclasping her fingers over the stick. ‘Mah!’
In an upper courtyard Severina, a dark squat woman, sleeves rolled up, turned with happy abandon coffee beans in a roaster. Their smell filled the air.
‘Whatever did she want you for?’ Fanny asked. ‘I don’t think she likes me at all – and a great deal I care… Her reign is quite over, for goodness’ sake. I’d be assy to mind.’
The smell of coffee beans faded away. They were completely indoors now : ‘I never told you,’ she said suddenly. ‘That first afternoon, I’m sure I saw Annette’s brother. There were some people painting near that kiosk where the band plays.’
‘I don’t know him,’ Edwina said. ‘I mean, I remember she had a brother – ’
‘I went to stay there once-they lived with this aunt – and I met him just for half a day. I’m sure it was him in the Borghese. But I thought how embarrassing if it wasn’t and when we were with Stefano and everybody…’ She broke off : ‘This reception next week – it’s a princess, surely, giving it? Can you imagine? I shall wear my Fortuny frock…’ She stretched her arms above her head. ‘I don’t want my mood ever to change. I don’t want to feel black and muddled ever again. If time could just stand still – ’
But time going too fast was a good sign. It meant, Edwina thought, that you were alive. (In the grave, how it must drag.) And indeed it did seem to her that it was going if not fast, at least less slowly. There was so much to do-And because he had to go before they did, Taddeo seemed determined to make something memorable of their visit. She was grateful for this. Also, with him she felt quite at ease, however febrile his mood. With Stefano, less so. He treated her, it seemed, with a formal politeness, a kind but almost distant courtesy : it reminded her of childhood parties where one was told to be nice to so-and-so. Someone had said : ‘Be nice to Edwina.’
Their days had taken on a pattern. At seven-thirty the hot water came, at eight o’clock Severina brought breakfast : some cake-like bread in slices, occasionally rolls, some soft white cheese or honey, and strong but milky coffee. She and Fanny would take it together in Edwina’s room.
In the morning someone would take them out. Occasionally it was the young Marchesa, but never her husband, and never Marchesa Vittoria. Most often it would be Taddeo with or without Uncle Frederick. Stefano might or might not. He had a great deal to do, it appeared, administering the estate, work that he took increasingly often off his father’s feeble shoulders.
After luncheon (always a large meal although not so large as dinner) and a light siesta, there would be another outing. Once it was tea at the Excelsior, another time a visit to friends. Taddeo was always most assured, most confident of where, how, why. ‘No, not this place – it has too much cake-walk about it… Piperno’s – remind me, please, that we go there. The artichokes are very special, cooked in the Jewish manner…’ Sometimes Stefano would disagree, and then Taddeo would appeal to Uncle Frederick : ‘Dear Uncle Frederick, you are so experienced, you do agree?’
It would have been impossible to be bored. Although the long evenings, glimpsed occasionally, suggested how it could be. Often they dined early : the old Marchesa would sit afterwards, not in her own apartment but in the salotto where she had first been seen. She played patience, sitting up until at least midnight. Donna Laura crocheted, her head bent, while Eugenio, often unnoticed, would sit rolling his eyes or perhaps staring at the girls-his short legs crossed, showing an expanse of white silk sock. Stefano would have gone to his club, while the Marchese retired to bed almost at once after the meal. He suffered from nervous debility. Attempts to make Eugenio go to bed were usually unsuccessful. The young Marchesa sat with a book, the pages of which were rarely turned. Taddeo played with puzzles, intricate metal links and chains. The third evening of their stay he played chess with Edwina. Fanny said irrelevantly : ‘I hate cards.’ Later the three of them played backgammon. Edwina thought then : what must this be like-night after night after night?
Wednesday. Marchesa Vittoria was At Home from five to seven. By a quarter past five all the guests had arrived. She received in the largest of her drawing-rooms, the one with the piano. In her seat by the fireplace, surrounded by flowers and bibelots, she held court, Donna Laura at her side. In the room beyond, a huge round table covered with gleaming white linen, embroidered insets, was spread lavishly with food. Fanny, removing herself as soon as possible from the room where the old Marchesa was, stood there unashamedly stuffing herself. It was in there that Edwina met Ersilia and her husband – a small balding man, evidently forty but looking fifty. Ersilia, very pregnant and nibbling a tiny cake covered in pink sugar, talked to Edwina of hunting. She had the passion, she said, from her mother who was now no longer interested. She had invitations to hunt in England which soon she would take up : ‘I wait for a child. But after that…’ They spoke of Edwina’s mother : ‘Adelina has told me-she also has the same passion … ah, the tramontana, that wind –and a fine winter morning, and a good horse, a fine horse…’
It was still only half past five. Taddeo had told them : ‘It’s not necessary to stay too long. You pay your respects to Nonnina of course, then I introduce you perhaps to someone interesting – ’
But before this could happen Donna Laura brought the message that Edwina was expected to sit with Marchesa Vittoria. ‘She ask you– ’ She corrected herself : ‘She command you – ’
The old Marchesa, speaking French, English or Italian, talked with a succession of people : Edwina was bewildered. On ea
ch occasion she was introduced. The name of Adelina arose frequently. Uncle Frederick, who’d been there at the beginning, was there again for the last half-hour. The old Marchesa told him : ‘Next week Edwina will play the piano.’ To another guest, the elderly attaché at the British Embassy, she said : ‘Perhaps you can come in next Sunday to meet a few friends en intimité? It is possible that she will play for us then.’ She spoke as if Edwina were not there. Later, Edwina heard her say in French : ‘She is not a beauty. But with care and attention perhaps an élégante… ?’
‘Stefano is not here yet,’ Taddeo said, ‘but I have the key – Today we visit the gallery. Edwina-you haven’t said yet what you thought of yesterday? You are a great success with Nonnina – ’
‘I’m not,’ said Fanny.
Taddeo said in a teasing voice, ‘You don’t know how to butter her – is that the word?’ But when Edwina, interrupting indignantly, said : ‘I don’t do anything special,’ he was all penitence. ‘I didn’t mean – she likes you, she is fond. It’s only natural. And when she likes, she likes very much.’
‘And when she dislikes – ’ Fanny began, but Taddeo, hurrying ahead, didn’t hear.
‘First, more frescoes. I think Lanfranco. As we have in some other rooms. Here, two pictures. When we have our earthquake – nineteen hundred fifteen – only little here of course and early before breakfast, in the Abruzzi it was so big-two pictures have fallen. A little damage, you see, to the frames…’ He held a candelabra to each painting. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling the length of the gallery. There was no electric light. Stefano, who had just joined them, came up behind
Stefano interrupted in a cold voice. ‘I decide what I will do.’
‘Bully for you– ’ Taddeo said lightly. Edwina thought Stefano was going to say something else, but the exchange was arrested. They had come upon the Pope. Paschal III. He was very ordinary, and any resemblance to the family impossible to see; disappointing too, because no cruelty, no arrogance. Nor piety either.
But yes, here and there were faces which glimpsed in the light of the candles made Edwina gasp almost with recognition : Ersilia’s eyes with their fierce curved brows, Taddeo’s mouth and sharp chin above an ornate ruff, again and again Stefano’s high-bridged nose and almost hooded eyes. An eighteenth-century Eugenio – Simple-mindedness had visited the family before.
‘This one on the horse, it is by Velasquez, I think…’ ‘I shall be the guide.’ Stefano said, reaching for the candelabra.
‘But of course, old boy,’ said Taddeo. Then to Edwina : ‘He got out of bed upside down. Do you still say “old boy”, by the way? I like better “chap”. Of course, my dear chap,’ he said now to Stefano.
‘Oh, be friends,’ said Edwina. She thought of herself and Cora. ‘For you, yes,’ Taddeo said, touching her. They had come to a big ebony cabinet almost covered with ivory panels carved with tiny figures and trees. She had to peer to see the detail. Fanny beside her, leaning forward, bumped against Stefano. ‘You knocked into me,’ she said to him indignantly : ‘You knocked me just then – ’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘Of course I don’t mind – how assy. I rather liked it.’ She paused and then she said in a husky voice. ‘Do it again, would you?’ Stefano coloured. In the candlelight Edwina felt rather than saw his flush. He said : ‘This panel here which is painted is the Devil, many devils. I am always afraid, as a child. I had then the key, you understand, to come down – ’
Edwina thought that she too would not like to be down here alone. The devils in the dark cracked paint were traditionally gleeful and forked of tail, but standing on the cold marble floor she was reminded suddenly of Clare’s story that far-away stormy night : the poor Ampleforth boy and the Black Thing.
She shivered. Taddeo said suddenly, as if part of, ahead of her thoughts : ‘And we must show you too where we are all buried – where we shall be buried…’
Fountains. The Antici-Montani, playing in the courtyard, two in ‘the garden of our friends’, and again and again, where Florence had seemed to her a city of bells, Rome was a city of fountains. Not only the expected Trevi and Tritone and Barcaccia, but all the little ones which in gardens, streets, squares would suddenly surprise her. She would have liked to walk about on her own. Occasionally she was able to wander with Uncle Frederick : outings for just the two of them, without any pre-arranged plan. He showed great concern then that she should be enjoying herself in Rome. ‘A lifetime here is not long enough…’ He seemed very interested in her opinion of the family. He said he had questioned the wisdom of bringing Fanny here. ‘I have been thinking …’ But he never said what he’d thought.
Fanny had now met Annette’s brother. He’d been seen painting again one time when Edwina had not been of the party. He’d recognized Fanny at once. With his aunt and some cousins he was living in a house and studio in the Via Margutta until October. She said she hadn’t spoken for too long because Stefano had become impatient, but she had his card and they were going to be in touch. ‘Isn’t life exciting?’ she cried.
Although she felt guilty afterwards, sometimes Edwina would think simply : I wish you hadn’t come, hearing yet again at some meal an account of cleaning out sheep’s hooves, the over-animated laugh, the gushing enthusiasm. She and Taddeo seemed to suffer from a twin complaint (although in him it didn’t irritate her). Neither knew when to stop. Again and again Taddeo would make jokes at Eugenio’s expense, and the old Marchesa, who for Fanny merely looked her disapproval, would drum her forefinger three times. And then always, his charming apology : ‘Nonnina, sorry-you’re not cross?’
A woman in a turban with a long cigarette-holder pushed past, her elbow catching Edwina’s rib. She didn’t notice. Edwina did.
‘Manners!’ said the man standing near Edwina’s chair. ‘I am ashamed. Fortunately she doesn’t come into my ambiente – but the people who the dear Principessa …’
Edwina agreed. It seemed simpler. She didn’t know with whom she was speaking but as she hadn’t heard when she should, she felt it was too late to ask. Dressed in white she had been sitting half an hour now on one of the many little gilt chairs round the wall of the long high room. She had had to curtsy to the quite terrifying figure of the Princess : late seventies and heavily made-up, raddled almost, gnarled, bejewelled, enthroned. Uncle Frederick wasn’t there; he was already engaged. She had lost Stefano and Taddeo, and others of the family. Established on the little gilt chair it seemed that she must receive whoever came into her orbit.
‘Lady Rodd, the wife of your Ambassador – a Beneficenza at the Eliseo, I think. Scenes from Cleopatra – You were not there then? So very well attended, you see…’ Her companion was pleased with his English so that she supposed he might stay a long time. Too long. He had a manner as if he would like to catch her out-his confident domed forehead at war with his drooping moustache.
‘You are only here some weeks? Antici-Montani – This family is most interesting. But misfortunate. They have this, I think, which often happens in old families. It is not pretty, naturally. But Stefano he must marry soon, he is one of the best partis in Rome. Many are interested –I can even now point to you some..’
Edwina realized with relief she was not going to have to talk about herself. She sipped at a small yellow drink she had taken from a tray.
‘And it is fortunate – not all are so lucky-that he and Taddeo, that they are not killed in the War.’
Edwina said yes, indeed. ‘I think that would have meant the end of the family.’
‘What end of the family?’ He leaned towards her a little, his moustache dampened. ‘Eugenio, he of course would marry. It would be arranged. After all it is only necessary he is able to do as the animals – you understand me? Excuse me that I am frank. Naturally, there is the f
ear always that it may happen again…’
A string quartet in the next room could be heard faintly above the hubbub of voices. Her companion had tired now of the Antici-Montani. Cleaning out his earhole with his little finger, he said : ‘I am very interested by Shakespeare – you are acquainted with his works? I think you will be interested to learn that he is not the author of his plays. It is the Count of Derby who has written everything. We have a very good book about this just these last days. The tema is – ’
Tee fi fo fum, I hear English. And I’m jolly well going to interrupt– ’ The voice was booming, the tone joyful and enthusiastic. She was a very large woman : Edwina’s companion seemed to shrivel beside her. ‘I couldn’t resist when I heard. My dear, I know everybody in Rome – and of course you, my dear Alfredo-But who’s this? I thought I knew all the English …’
Edwina was explained, and the woman, who turned out to be a maiden lady called Dora Norrington, hooted with pleasure. ‘Such a beautiful home. Some of these palaces are so lovely, Barberini, Pamfili, Colonna…’ She seemed to be all bust : a platform so that Edwina couldn’t really see the remainder. That and her enormously thick lips defied inattention.
‘My dear, I must show you English Rome. How long are you here? You don’t know the English Tea-Rooms – Babing-ton’s? Really? That is a must. And poor dear little Keats’s house – “Beauty is truth, truth beauty” …’
The little gilt chair looked scarcely big enough for her frame. She held her head high and very rigid – necessary perhaps to support the bust? Words and yet more words gushed forth : ‘The War – you look too young. I hope, my dear, you were too young to do anything-my War work– I had a very busy War. A friend to the Tommies here in Rome. And such fun ! I’d worried, you see, about these boys stranded sometimes two, three days, and no idea of language or food or where to get a shave. The poor darlings. So every day, winter and summer, I was down at that station. I took them over completely – “Auntie Dora” they christened me, my dear. Can you imagine? The word was passed round– Of course I hadn’t heard here of the Defence of the Realm Act so I didn’t know what a household word “Dora” was–it was all really very jolly and touching…’ On and on. ‘Alfredo’ had long since disappeared. ‘… Some people of course, have been doing excellent work for cats. Your Italian, my dear, is not good with animals…’
Men On White Horses Page 26
