And then the scene changed, abruptly, as only in dreams. She heard a bell tolling. She moved away at once, turning to where the breakers, the great white horses could be seen rearing and crashing out in the bay.
Ben was sitting in a coble drawn up in the Dock. He smiled at her. ‘I didn’t drown.’ Arms outstretched, she wanted to rush to him. Her lips, stiff with joy, would not speak. Then she saw that he was surrounded by people. Of course, she thought, they’re all here, they’ve all come to hear the good news. Ben’s mother, Damaris, standing beside Edwina, put an arm round her shoulder. Edwina asked : ‘Were you angry– about us?’ But without looking at her : ‘It’s known …’ she said only.
Edwina turned back to the boat. It was empty. She was alone, the sea grey and frothy rushing up the Wayfoot. She stood there hearing the low moaning sound she was making. With clenched fists she hit her head. The sense of loss. It was as fresh as yesterday.
When she woke, tears were streaming down her face. The linen sheet was screwed up, damp, where she had been clutching it.
What have I done? she thought, half awake, half asleep still. What have I done?
Taddeo, resplendent in uniform, sword, helmet, of the Noble Guard. It would be his duty to assist at the Pope’s deathbed. Edwina wondered sadly whether indeed Benedict would be the first to go? He should have attended at the Vatican more often but hadn’t always been thought well enough– or was it calm enough? It was hard to imagine him for hours on end not talking, not teasing, not cheeking passing Cardinals, Ambassadors, Prime Ministers.
But it was through the family of course that both she and Fanny sat always in privileged positions at every religious ceremony, had effortlessly the best views, the least discomfort. It was all so simply in the very air they breathed, so accustomed a part of life that it was never discussed.
And yet she’d thought she would find the pomp, the beauty of religious Rome, more deeply moving. She found it only exciting. Emotions written on water. It was as if in the old split tug-of-war she had once felt between Bay and the convent, it was Bay after all that had won. She would think suddenly, remember that once she’d feared she might become a nun, might have to become a nun, and that it was Fanny who had rescued her (and for this she could, did feel gratitude). It all seemed so long ago. She took her religion perhaps more from Mother, on whom it seemed to sit very lightly and for a lot of the time was probably irrelevant. When she had imagined (no, known for certain) that she and Ben had only to live happily ever after, their different religions had seemed to her no problem. She had failed to think of them at all.
A letter came for Fanny : everything was in order. They were delighted at this wonderful opportunity for her-A large sum of money would be telegraphed and meanwhile could she try and arrange some formal art lessons to draw full benefit from her time in Italy? She said to Edwina : ‘Don’t talk to me about Uncle Clive, will you? I never want his name mentioned. Even in passing.’
Time was what passed-Only a few days to Taddeo’s departure. On the last Wednesday, Annette’s brother, aunt and cousins were invited to the old Marchesa’s At Home. By accident or design they managed to avoid meeting their hostess at all. The old Marchesa made no comment : Edwina, who’d been kept by her side the whole afternoon, didn’t meet them either.
Although she spent part of every day now with the old Marchesa – such a habit now that no one remarked on it at all (except perhaps Fanny : ‘How could you?’)-she had been lately playing the piano every morning for an hour or two. It had become accepted. Occasionally in the evenings she would play for everyone, usually after Uncle Frederick had sung. The old Marchesa approved of this : she would stop her game of patience to listen. The others seemed uninterested (it was often the occasion for Eugenio to perform some of his worst facial contortions) although Stefano, if there, would come over to the piano. There seemed to be something about her when she played which aroused his admiration. It was the nearest thing to a bond. Once they laughed together over Adelina’s singing – Uncle Frederick safely out of earshot. He showed more than a nodding acquaintance with what she played, ‘I learned as a boy, some years,’ but rather as something he took for granted-as it might be art for another. When, in talking, they moved from pieces to players, he lost interest.
Uncle Frederick, although pleased that she was playing regularly again, was guarded, non-committal about the proposed studying in Paris – his idea in the first place. Franz had understood that he would arrange it all for not later than the autumn. ‘Ah yes,’ was what he said, when not very pressingly (it was only occasionally she could feel the desire, the energy and the enthusiasm for it) she reminded him of it, ‘Ah yes, of course,’ and then the subject would go again. Her fault, she thought. It was sometimes as if the horrible habit of the last hopeless two years, the struggle to cure Mother, had sapped something. She didn’t want particularly to do it – believed only that she would want it when she got it.
But music was still her greatest bond with him. To celebrate nothing in particular he took her one evening to the Costanzi to hear Debussy’s Pelléas and Melisande (‘the critics say it has no leit-motiv and many other deficiencies but I would value your opinion’), and afterwards, supper at the Massimo D’Azeglio in the Via Gavour. He told her then that he had written to Mother – several days ago now – suggesting that she, too, stay on in Rome.
‘I have to be back in Florence, but you have nothing to hurry to Yorkshire for. Josephine misses you, naturally – but she is more than capable.’ It was the Marchesa Vittoria, he said, who had suggested it : Fanny’s staying on had made it all quite simple.
‘She has a special affection for you…’ He fingered the fern which stood with two pale yellow roses on their table – the narrow-stemmed vase wobbled. ‘I think she would like – ’ but he took the subject no further. They talked instead of a letter he’d had from Mother, crossing with his, full of Cora’s successes – And hers too. She had befriended a White Russian, was taking him everywhere, helping him to accustom himself to English life. ‘Andrei thinks this, that…’ Later in the summer he would be coming to stay in Yorkshire.
Uncle Frederick said, ‘It seems the most wonderful thing that, God willing, she is going to be all right.’ He said it benevolently, tiredly. She avoided his eyes.
Taddeo, in a great state of excitement, left for England. The next day Fanny, even more excited if possible, moved out-a week earlier than planned. ‘We’ll meet,’ she told Edwina, ‘we’ll keep meeting.’ She seemed on top of the world. ‘I love to think of notes from me, being brought in to you on silver salvers…’
It felt very quiet after they had left. Stefano was away all that day. In only another week Uncle Frederick would be gone. She realized that she had never actually been asked if she wanted to stay on. The old Marchesa had referred to it only as a fact. ‘I am glad to hear what Frederick tells me…’ Edwina thought : Since I don’t really want to be anywhere, I might as well be here. Italy, Rome was where she had become the most nearly alive. And for her the rather oppressive feel of the palace had come to be, after only a few weeks, the natural state of affairs. When she thought about it – how could it be worse than home?
The pudding was a brilliant confection. Rich dark chocolate, studded with flaked almonds, laced with rum-flavoured cream, somewhere between a mousse and a cake, it sat on the serving platter wielded so skilfully by Norberto. Edwina, the spoon slipping as she took a helping-a spot falling on to Norberto’s glove was taken back to the embarrassments of childhood (and perhaps of her second day at the palace when in an attempt to help herself neatly to spaghetti, she had been left continually with unfinished strands, so that she had taken more and more and more …)
But no one had noticed this mishap. The old Marchesa, who had taken a substantial helping, was now concentrating on it. Eugenio, next to Edwina today, had just been served and sat, a beatific smile on his face, spooning in the dark luscious mixture. Father Gomboli took a helping and attacked it with gusto.
‘Comfortable, I imagine,’ said her mother.
They spoke English still out of courtesy to Edwina. She felt for that reason that she must be part of the conversation. Although her remarks were often, she thought, stupider even than Donna Laura’s, they were treated always with respect by the old Marchesa. ‘Ah, you think so, Edwina?’ Or, ‘That is most interesting – ’
The Marchese, at last risen from his sick bed, dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. He ate in small, timid mouthfuls, watched anxiously by his wife. Occasionally he put his hand to his forehead.
Norberto was passing the pudding round a second time. Edwina refused, but Eugenio on her left turned and snatched at the serving spoon. Instantly alert the old Marchesa said loudly : ‘No!’ banging with the palm of her hand on the table. (Plainly fingers were insufficient here.) But Eugenio continued to hold tight, the spoon buried deep in the pudding. Norberto stood there uncomfortably.
‘There is no question,’ said the old Marchesa. ‘Angela, speak to him, please!’ The young Marchesa said, a little nervously, ‘It is not good, Eugenio – ’
‘I take,’ he announced triumphantly. He did indeed take. His plate was covered completely, piled high. On the serving dish only a small portion remained, sad and limp.
‘This I will not tolerate,’ said the old Marchesa. ‘His liver. Chocolate. It is far too rich.’ She said something swiftly to Norberto.
‘Norberto will remove his plate.’ Eugenio clung tightly as Norberto gave a token tug, and then stopped. Father Gomboli closed his eyes.
‘I like,’ declared Eugenio, his teeth clenched. ‘I want.’ That the whole affair should be conducted in English (for her benefit) seemed to Edwina the height of absurdity. She noticed then that the old Marchesa was signalling to her, eyebrows raised. ‘Edwina – you.’
Edwina put out a hand boldly. ‘Let me have some, Eugenio– ’ In answer, he upturned the plate in one grand gesture, covering her hand, her cuff, the white linen of the table. Nuts stuck out incongruously from the smeared dark mess.
He stood up. He was very flushed, his cheeks shining, eyes almost popping. He looked at once a child and an old man. He held his napkin in his hand, waving it like a banner, ‘I go,’ he declared.
‘Yes, it is better that you go,’ the old Marchesa said.
He strutted out, still waving the napkin. Norberto, accompanied by two maids, arrived with a towel, damp cloths and a basin of warm water.
The old Marchesa did not speak. She behaved as if nothing had happened. Father Gomboli had opened his eyes again. Donna Laura, clearing her throat, remarked that ‘dear Taddeo is perhaps, who knows, very seasick today?’
‘Ten on the nine, now he is free … Sit down, please. You excuse me… There is the eight, and the Queen– no! Yes. Now the King, and here is almost success. So… We stop. Tomorrow I try Réussite …’
Edwina was used to interrupting the interminable games of patience with which the old Marchesa whiled away the long hours of her remaining life. Occasionally, as now, some small triumph, aided a little by cheating, would cause her to go on playing after Edwina’s arrival.
‘And now you tell me how you shall spend today. This afternoon, what are the plans? Tomorrow you and I drive together, we visit a good friend of mine…’ She rose slowly from the card table. ‘You are not unhappy without Frances? Frederick you still have. That is good. And Stefano – do you see sometimes a little more of Stefano?’
‘He’s out a lot,’ Edwina said. ‘I think he’s often rather busy– ’
‘Certainly he must see to much. He has now responsibility. His father, Gelasio, again he is ill. That is how it is with him… And she – she must spend her time always with an invalid. What sort of life is this? But “Comme on fait son lit on se couche” – she would have him. It was all this nonsense of love. Convenienza, that is the only real way for marriage.’ She turned to Edwina : ‘Is not that so?’
‘No, it isn’t. Lots and lots of people fall in love, and marry and live happily ever after – ’
‘You shall give me the name of one, Edwina.’ Pause. ‘Ah, you are silent. You think. But you know of course that I am right. You must only think what is it that happens? This business of love. They are happy one year, two years – perhaps three. And then? It is the same as if there has been no love, except that it is more worse, because there was not choosing to suit. Now they have nothing. What a foolishness…’
Abruptly she changed the subject. Resting her chin on hands clasped around her stick, she said : ‘Has Frederick spoken to you-on a certain matter?’ Edwina said ‘No, not really,’ and her manner changed again. ‘Mah!’ she said twice into the silence.
Edwina was told to ring for some wine. While they were drinking : ‘I am very fond of you, Edwina. Frederick naturally has told me many things. He has described to me such a girl as I admire. He is proud also of your great gift.’ She paused. ‘I would like to ask if you have put all of your heart there?’
Edwina was taken aback. She looked down at her glass. In a rush she thought of Ben : the twist, the jab. ‘No. Not all– ’
‘Frederick, you see, has spoken of you always as one who – He and Adelina, you understand, it has been very happy. My niece, I was greatly concerned, naturally. A good match –strange, but good, I think it has suited both.’ She paused again. ‘And you see, Italian and English, two such different bloods-and yet they have come together very well. Each perhaps have what the other have not.’
There was silence for a few moments. A small ormolu clock struck midday.
‘And you, Edwina-have you thought ever how it would be if you, also, marry someone who is not English?’
‘Antico Caffè Greco,’ it said outside. Next door she’d noticed that they sold pianos. She would have liked to go in there. Stefano said : ‘We wait only a little. Uncle Frederick has perhaps forgotten. When he is lunching out, you know – ’ he smiled affectionately. Then, his attention on Edwina : ‘I had described already the table. We sit, you see, underneath a picture of Hans Andersen – where it is written that he stayed here.’
He glanced again towards the fore part of the café. ‘I think we will not wait.’
She felt suddenly then, became convinced that he never thought Uncle Frederick would come, that perhaps it had been arranged that Uncle Frederick should not come. She saw it as some sort of trap, or test. Perhaps the old Marchesa had commanded, ‘Now you sit alone with her, and say something.’ Even perhaps, ‘Will you marry me?’ For it would be not only her idea-but her order also. And (Edwina marvelled) because it was her order, he would of course obey.
But it was not to decide now, this afternoon. That she herself could manage the task of being his wife, she had no doubts-she had merely to learn : the Marchesa Vittoria would at every step guide her, groom her. All these excursions into society, this waiting upon and attendance at the Wednesdays, what else had it been for?
Here at last-she had thought this last night-was something definite, a sacrifice almost, something definite that she could do with her life : to help others, to repair some of the mess she had made so far. Gradually an idea which had seemed at first preposterous, if not impossible, had come to appear tolerable. She could make so many people happy – the names ran through her mind. All that had been wrong, made right. How little, she thought, I’ve loved God.
‘It’s certain now he is not coming. You take coffee, of course?’
(Why did God make you? God made me to know Him, love Him and serve Him in this world, and to be happy with Him for ever in the next.) They ate small florentines, wavy lines down their dark chocolate backs, front studded with cherries and almonds. The coffee came in small cups. Stefano drank his black. Their talk edged round topics : he was warily polite – she had never, she realized, been alone with him before. As far as admiration went, Fanny was surel
y more to his taste – She’d wanted to flirt, had flirted.
They spoke about the War. Once, as if they were still waiting, he said : ‘Uncle Frederick is absent-minded perhaps –I think he will go home in a dream, or already he has done so – then to his room and sleep. Yes?’
She felt awkward and longed suddenly for Taddeo’s presence. Her eyes wandered. At the next table sat two white-haired, bearded men, so alike they must have been twins. She imagined they must have some secret because for several minutes they would say nothing–both had strange coloured drinks they stirred with a spoon –pulling odd shapes with their mouths, jutting out their chins, raising their eyebrows, almost identically. Then suddenly one would lean over and make some momentous remark behind a raised hand…
‘I would like to visit England. It would give me great pleasure to meet your family …’
‘Yes, of course,’ she agreed, as if they played some hidden game of meanings. And yet any single remark was capable of much simpler interpretations. He had set himself out now to be charming. ‘I thought Caffè Greco was a place you are sure to wish to come in. Also we dine one evening at Ranieri’s – some steps only from here. I give a small party.’ He turned on her a smile of great sweetness. ‘I think certainly you like Rome?’
(How are we to deny ourselves? We are to deny ourselves by giving up our own will, and by going against our own humours, inclinations and passions.)
Against expectation she found herself warming to him. Over the weeks, over so many hours spent in his company – albeit never alone-he had grown to be familiar. Family. For years Uncle Frederick had talked of them all as if their doings must interest her and hers them. No matter now that the real link was the hated Aunt Adelina. She thought for the first time, I like to be with him. She watched his face when he was talking but not looking at her. She watched the habitual slight flush, thought : That’s a nice mouth, a little spoilt-Nose bent so slightly, it gave his face strength. Eyes, perhaps the best of all because they were dark and soft. She thought it might be possible to say, if I wanted somebody, that is somebody I could want. She would be making not just a sacrifice but receiving also, greatly. Was she not perhaps being rescued, as Father had once rescued Mother? The figure of her childhood memories, riding Mother away to safety. Now Stefano had come (I must see it like that, she thought) riding a white horse, to rescue her from the dragons of apathy, of desolation.
Men On White Horses Page 28
