Enchanter's Nightshade

by Ann Bridge

  Almina felt that this fresh lot of names might safely be left till their appearance to be unravelled. “Your Mother is the person I really want to see,” she said quietly. “I want to settle with her about your work, and all that.”

  “Oh yes.” Marietta glanced again at the terrace. “But I do not think now is a very good time, as Zio Carlo is there. He comes over most days in the afternoon, you know.” She lowered her voice. “His wife, Zia Maria, Elena’s mother, died six years ago. He was very unhappy then. Mama has been very good to him; he said so once to me. ‘I do not know what I should have done without your dear Mother’s sympathy and affection.’ That was nice, no?”

  Almina made a suitable sound of respectful sympathy, and a face to match. It was nice—it matched her already sympathetic impression of the Marchesa Suzy as a kind person. “Well, since I cannot see her now, I think I will go and unpack,” she said.

  “Yes indeed—shall I come with you and help?” Marietta said. Almina would rather have been alone, but she felt that this was a good opportunity of making friends with her pupil, and agreed. As they went upstairs, the young Marchesa’s clear pealing laugh rang out from the terrace. Coming on top of Marietta’s words about her mother and Count Carlo, it gave Almina a slight—a very slight—shock. Its rather complacent gaiety did not quite fit in with the picture of the sympathetic friend consoling the heart-broken widower. But all that was six years ago, she reflected; and laughter did no one any harm. She went on upstairs with Marietta.

  The reason for the young Marchesa’s laughter had been Count Carlo’s incurable habit of getting names wrong. When the two girls came out onto the steps above the terrace he noticed them and said “Who is the pretty creature with Marietta, Suzy?”

  “That is her new English governess, Miss Prestwich,” Suzy responded.

  The Count put up an eye-glass on a riband, and gazed. “Cara, anything less like a governess I never saw,” he then observed, turning back to Suzy again. “She has the appearance of being exactly eighteen.”

  “She’s twenty-two, my dear Carlo, and has a University degree,” Suzy said, half amused and half impatient—she was already becoming a little bored with the inevitable comments on Almina’s youthful appearance. The Marchese Francesco had peered at her through his thick lenses and murmured something about “cosi giovane”, and even Paolo, over coffee, had left music alone for a moment to say “My dear Suzy, the governess seems to be of the same age as the pupil.”

  “Tiens! Well, she is charming—that hair is delicious,” the Count now said. “What do you say her name is?”

  “Prestwich—and it is not very ingratiating of you to praise her hair to me, lovely as it is,” said Suzy, with lazy coquetry.

  “Cara e bella! You know that I see no one but you,” the Count protested—from long practice he played this particular game with considerable skill and great satisfaction. He bent forward to take her hand and kiss it; then, with a glance towards the steps, checked himself. “Suzy, will it not be— inconvenient—having this young girl here?” he asked, in a different tone. “At that age they see everything, and I am told that the English have no—ma, no comprehension, no savoir-faire. And if this little Postiche is like the rest—”

  It was then that Suzy’s laughter had pealed out. “Prestwich, my poor Carlo—her name is Prestwich.”

  He mouthed at it. “Prestveech. It is impossible to say— it is a foolish name,” he pronounced. “I shall call her the Signorina Postiche. She will get used to it, as Gelosia has done. But now, cara, tell me—you think this will be all right?”

  “Quite all right,” Suzy assured him—she would arrange everything. And the conversation went off onto other topics.

  Upstairs, the two girls worked away at unpacking and installing Almina’s things. The dresses were hung in the cupboards, the stockings and underwear, so carefully checked by Mrs. Prestwich, ranged in drawers, the hats put on shelves. As May had done, Marietta exclaimed over the green hat: “Oh, do put it on and let me see it!” Almina did so. “Lovely! It is lovely! Elena has nothing prettier, even from Madame Josephine! And on your beautiful hair! Do you know, I think you are so fortunate to have such beautiful hair and such a lovely teint,” Marietta exclaimed earnestly. Starded and pleased at her enthusiasm, Almina turned back to the mirror. But seeing herself wearing the hat in the glass suddenly reminded her forcibly of the last time she had put it on, in the old comfortable shabby sunflower room at home, with May making admiring comments, and her Mother coming in and giving her that lovely jewellery—and a wave of homesickness and loneliness swept over her; tears stood in her eyes, in the mirror the hat grew blurred and wavered. She took it off, and went on diligently with her task.

  The afternoon seemed very long to Almina. She hoped for a summons to tea, but none came. When they had finished the clothes they arranged the books, in neat rows on one of the large tables—lesson books, some solid biographies, English poets, and a few novels: E. F. Benson, Robert Hichens, Mrs. Humphry Ward. Almina showed Marietta the two volumes of Bentham and Hooker, one with illustrations and one with the text, and explained how to use them. Marietta was delighted. At last—“Where shall we work?” Almina asked, when all was done, and they were sitting on the couch, resting after their labours.

  “Oh, but in the school-room. I will show you,” and she led her off to a pretty room on the same floor, reached by passing through Marietta’s bedroom, which was next to Almina’s. At Vill’ Alta, as in most old Italian country houses, only a small percentage of the upstairs rooms could be entered directly from any corridor—they opened chainwise out of one another, and when the house was full the embarrassed foreign guest, going up late to bed, must generally pass through two or three bedrooms which had already a slumbering or partially-clad occupant. Suzy had very sensibly given the English governess a room which shared with Marietta’s a small vestibule, where luggage could be stored and tennis racquets deposited—this already contained a fair litter of Marietta’s surplus possessions. Almina duly admired the school-room.

  “Yes. It is to the South, so we may find it a little hot,” said Marietta, “but there was no very convenient room on the North, Mama thought.” (In fact, the Marchesa Suzy had been very careful not to instal the school-room party in a room overlooking the terrace, where her afternoon sessions with Count Carlo took place.) “But if we are hot, we can work out-of-doors, in the shade, no?” Then she passed on to the subject that was uppermost in her thoughts.

  “Miss Prestwich, I have something very important to ask you.”

  “What is it?” Almina asked, surprised and amused at her grave face.

  “It is about Giulio, my cousin, whom you saw this morning. Giulio is molto serio; he is learned; he wants to be a philosopher—he reads such books! And he wishes to go and study at Oxford. But his English is so bad—if he went, as he is, he could not understand the lectures, nor read the books. And so, while you are here, he is most anxious to study with you also—just English; to read it and to speak it. Not while you work with me, but at some other time. Do you think this could be arranged? Would you be willing? It means so much to him!” she said, clasping her hands and looking at Almina with intense gravity.

  Almina hesitated. Personally she had no particular objection, especially if the extra coaching were to mean extra fees; but she was a little doubtful of committing herself to such a plan before she knew how much she was expected to do with her legitimate pupil, and without knowing what the Marchesa would think of it.

  “I think it might perhaps be possible,” she said rather doubtfully, “but I can’t really say until I have talked to your Mother, Marietta. You see we have not arranged your own work yet—and that must come first.”

  “Of course, of course. But Mama has already said Yes. We spoke of it this morning—Elena was stupid, she leapt in with the plan—she is so headlong and so mischievous! But even so, Mama said yes. And I know she will leave you to arrange my lessons as you like! So do say you will do it.” Then,
seeing Almina still hesitate, the astonishing child went on: “And you need not be afraid that Giulio will begin a flirt with you, because he hates girls! He is not like Roffredo. I think he is horrified that you are young—I saw his face when you came! He was hoping that you would be like Gela!” She laughed.

  “Who is Gela?” Almina asked.

  “Gela is Elena’s governess—her real name is Fräulein Gelsicher—at least she was,” Marietta explained, not very grammatically. “Elena does no lessons now, of course—she is just beginning to be in Society. But Gela is still with them —they could not live without her! She does everything. She manages the house, she keeps Ospedi in order—he is the bailiff, and he is so bad! But my Uncle is too silly to see it. And she keeps my Uncle in order too, as much as she can!” Marietta said, with a giggle. “And for everything for Giulio and Elena, she is just the one person who does things. She is so wise, elle donne des conseils; even my Grandmother respects her opinion. She looks so old and stiff, and puts on a severe air—but really she is molto cara, and so kind. Everyone loves her.”

  Almina listened to this account of another governess with far more interest than she had to Marietta’s versions of her various relations. And as she listened, her heart mounted within her. From the young girl’s odd lively expressions, and still more from her tone of voice, she gathered a deep impression of the respect and love which the Swiss woman had earned from all about her. If she could do the same it would make this job of governessing, on which she had entered rather against the grain, something worthy of her very best efforts. Inwardly she resolved to do her utmost for this nice child beside her, for the pretty charming woman who was her mother. And beginning at once, she said a little nervously—“Marietta, do you think you ought to speak as you do of your Uncle? It is not very respectful, is it?”

  Marietta opened her eyes at her. “Zio Carlo? Calling him silly? But Miss Prestwich, he is silly; we all know it. So why not say so? Not to him, of course—except Mama! She tells him so, into his face!” She laughed. But seeing Almina still look grave—“If you wish me not to, I shall not!” the impulsive creature said. “I wish to please you in everything!”

  “That is very nice—I am glad,” Almina said warmly, moved by this admirable disposition in her new pupil.

  “And you will see Gela tomorrow,” Marietta ran on “for we are to lunch at Odredo. So then, if you are willing, we can settle with Giulio about his lessons. He will be dying with anxiety about it.” And, after further pressure, Almina eventually agreed that, subject to the Marchesa’s formal approval, she would be willing to coach Giulio for an hour a day.

  Marietta proved to be perfectly right in her prediction that the matter of lessons would be left mainly to Almina’s discretion. When the girls eventually went downstairs, Almina managed to catch the young Marchesa, and in Suzy’s boudoir attempted to find out what her employer’s educational views were. It was not very successful. “Oh, my dear Miss Prestwich, I leave all that to you,” Suzy said, lighting, to Almina’s astonishment, a cigarette. She and May had very occasionally smoked a cigarette in secret with their brothers; but they were well aware of the impropriety of what they were doing, and carefully concealed the traces of it afterwards by cleaning their teeth and sucking small scented cachous. Girls who smoked were hopelessly “fast”; and as for married women smoking, Almina had never even heard of it. That, again, was “actressy”. And here was the Marchesa doing it with the most open coolness. Almina, repressing her astonishment, pushed on with the matter in hand. “How much work do you want her to do?” she asked. “Six hours a day, about?”

  “O Dio mio, no! Poor child, she must not be driven like a slave,” Suzy said. Three hours in the morning, perhaps, proved to be the young Marchesa’s idea, and a little light reading in the evenings. English, she should learn that— she knew a little already; they could study English literature, especially modern literature. The Marchesa preferred modern literature, it seemed. “Her French, you will find, is quite good, but you might also read some French together—memoirs, and so on. Can you teach German?” Almina said she could. “Her Grandmother would like Marietta to read and speak German well—you’might also work at that,” Suzy said. “The child has some intelligence, but she is very untrained, and lacks application. Make her a cultivated person, if you can, Miss Prestwich. You see she is never going to have any looks to speak of, I fear—so she had better have plenty of intellectual interests.” She smiled at the governess. “I am sure you will do this very well. She needs most of all to have her time profitably occupied, you know.”

  This view of her duties slightly discouraged Almina. But she turned to the next point, with her usual conscientious steadiness.

  “There is one other thing, Marchesa,” she said. “Marietta says that your nephew, Count Giulio di Castellone, is most anxious to improve his English and to do a little work with me. I told her that I could not arrange anything till I had spoken to you about it. Have you any objection? Provided, of course, that I do not let it interfere in any way with Marietta’s work? Naturally, I only want to do exactly what you wish about this.”

  The young Marchesa laughed a little, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “Poor Giulio!” she said. “He is so ambitious, and so bored, here in the Province. No, Miss Prestwich, I have no objection—pray help him if you have the time. Only he must come here for his lessons,” said Suzy, suddenly alert, “otherwise it will take too long. But the children all live in one another’s pockets anyhow, in the summer.” Then she looked very kindly at the young girl. “Are you comfortable, upstairs?” she asked. “You are sure you have all you want?” Almina said that she had. “Shall” you be homesick, do you think?” the young Marchesa asked, in a very friendly tone, speaking now in English.

  “I hope not,” Almina said, smiling. “Marietta is very friendly.”

  “Yes, she is greatly taken with you. Well, if you are homesick, you must come to me and we will have a little talk in English,” said the Marchesa. “And you must tell me if there is anything you want.” She looked at her. “You look tired,” she said, with pleasant concern—and then a thought struck her.

  “Tea!” she exclaimed suddenly, looking at her watch. “Of course, you want tea! And it is after five o’clock!” She rang a bell, and gave an order to the servant “You and Marietta shall always have tea,” she said, “in the school-room. I know the English cannot live without it.”

  Much restored by the tea, and more charmed than ever by the young Marchesa’s thoughtful kindness, Almina’s spirits had risen a little when Marietta took her out afterwards to see the grounds. They went out through the olives, and came onto the ridge that led towards Odredo. It was a high stretch of wild wiry grass, in which thyme grew—distributed irregularly along it were groups of umbrella pines, and in the open stretches between stood clumps of arbutus, grown to an unusual height, so that their red trunks, with the dusty papery looking bark, stood out against the dark foliage. The two girls presently sat down. In front of them, through the trunks of the stone pines, the mountains to the North rose, pale and clear in the evening light; their white limestone, touched with the level sunshine, turning them to blue shot with gold. Almina had never seen anything so beautiful, and said so.

  “Yes,” said Marietta on a deep breath. “It is beautiful. You have no conception how I love this place.” Then she pointed out a long building, standing up in the foreground. “That is Castellone, where Zia Livia lives.”

  “Why is one end of it red, and all the rest white?” Almina asked.

  “Ah—that is the story! Long ago, one branch of the Castellones had a quarrel with the Vill’ Altas, but the rest of the family had not. And they made war on one another. But so that the Vill’ Altas should only shoot and bombard at the right part of the casde, those Castellones painted their own part red, so that it should be clear what was theirs and what not. And it has been kept painted red ever since.” She paused and laughed. “The Sorellone—Aspasia and Roma Castellone, live in i
t now. They are the two I told you about. They are spinsters, and great gossips, and so curious, they always must know everything!” “Do you mind my saying that?” she asked, turning round suddenly to Almina. The latter had to laugh.

  “I will tell you in a week,” she said. “When I have met all these people, I shall be able to judge better how you ought to speak of them.”

  “You won’t have to wait a week to meet the Sorellone,” Marietta said ruefully. “They will come to look at you long before that.”

  She was right. When the two girls returned to Vill’ Alta to dress for dinner, they saw a small pony-carriage drawn up by the front door. Marietta checked at the sight.

  “Per carità! There they are!” she said in a whisper.

  “Who?”

  “The Sorellone. Now they will stay to dinner—you will see! That is why they have called so late.”

  Again she was right. On descending to the great salone where the family assembled before dinner, Almina found two strange middle-aged ladies added to the party. Countess Aspasia was tall and thin, with something martial about her appearance; Countess Roma shorter and very stout, with a rather foolish face and a frequent needless laugh. And they fully lived up to Marietta’s rather unpromising account of them. After being introduced, Almina heard Countess Roma say, in a very audible aside to her sister—“It is true then—she is quite a jeune file!” Blushing and feeling slightly indignant (indignation was a feeling very commonly engendered by the Sorellone) she took a chair in a corner, and sat rather in the background throughout the evening, letting the tide of gossip and family affairs flow by her, and thinking how high Italian voices were when a lot of them got together in one room. The two Countesses were full of information, and their frequent and direct questions showed how they obtained it. There was a great deal about Roffredo, whose name Marietta had also mentioned.