by Ann Bridge
“H’m! I wish you were Marietta’s governess!” said the old lady.
“Marchesa, there is another difficulty,” Fräulein Gelsicher said. “I must say that I have seen nothing in her behaviour but the most perfect discretion and propriety, and I do not wish to prejudice her position in any way, for I have a great respect for her, but—”
“Well, what now?” La Vecchia interrupted sharply; “Is that little creature also conducting a flirtation with Giulio?”
“No. But Elena thinks that Count Roffredo is in love with her” the Swiss said.
Old ladies of nearly a hundred seldom whistle. But La Vecchia Marchesa’s expression at this announcement of Frälein Gelsicher’s was the visible counterpart of the whistle of astonishment. She sat for some moments, in the yellow gloom, looking straight in front of her, with her brilliant black eyes, while her old ivory-white fingers tapped lightly on the carved arm of her chair. Then—Frälein Gelsicher was nearly as astonished as if she had whistled—she gave her little thin ringing laugh—and went on laughing for some moments. But her face grew sober again, and her minute right hand took a resolved grasp of the ivory knob of her stick.
“Dunque!” she said. “Signorina, this is folly! It is all folly. My daughter-in-law is foolish, and Roffredo—if you are right—is foolish, and that little Postiche, as poor Carlo calls her, is no doubt foolish too. Girls always are! But”— her voice grew stern—“we cannot have that child upset through their folly. This must stop. It must all stop. I shall speak to Suzy—and to Roffredo too. That is the major matter; the other thing would hardly upset the child so much.”
“And Miss Prestwich?” Fräulein Gelsicher asked. She was relieved that the old Marchesa was taking the thing so well, and that she was at last going into action, but that unseasonable laughter had disturbed her, and she wanted to know where she stood, and where her young colleague stood, too. If possible, she wished to suppress the business about Almina’s visit to the villa; she had not seen it herself, she felt sure it was an isolated occurrence; and a certain fellow-feeling, an obscure instinct of professional solidarity made her desire to protect the girl from the consequences of a situation in which she assumed her to be very little in fault, if at all.
The old lady looked keenly at her. “You say you have seen nothing indiscreet?” she asked.
“Nothing,” the Swiss answered stoutly. “Quite the reverse.”
“So—that is also my impression. Well, if she behaves, probably she can stay. It is not always a girl’s fault if men fall in love with her,” observed the old Marchesa, ironically. “I shall warn Roffredo to leave her alone. Though, mind you, a more idiotic arrangement than to have such a creature as governess! And both houses full of young men. But you should speak to her—a light word! She is well brought up; probably she realises that nothing of the sort can be countenanced. You are, in the circumstances,” she leant lightly on the last three words, “the best person to do this.”
Fräulein Gelsicher agreed. The wealth of implications in that phrase “in the circumstances”, tacitly accepted between the two women, gave the full measure of their mutual understanding of the whole situation.
“As for Marietta,” the old lady went on, after a pause— and on the name her voice lost its businesslike brusqueness, and became almost wistful—“all we can do, I think, is to watch, and see. If you are right, and if there is no further cause for her—” she checked, for once, to find a word— “malaise” she finally pronounced, “she may forget it all. Have you her confidence?”
“No. Miss Prestwich has.”
“Ecco! There you are!” said the old lady almost angrily. “Impossible! In any case,” she continued, after a moment’s thought, “it would be cruel to send Prestwich away now; the child loves her.” Again there was that softening of the old voice. “No—you do your part, Signorina, and for the rest, I will deal with it. Will you ring the bell?”
But when Giacinta had summoned Roberto, and he had escorted Fräulein Gelsicher downstairs, the old lady sat for a long time in the golden-shadowed room, thinking. What an imbroglio! Three-quarters of a century of ironic observation of human follies had made her very much awake to the element of comedy in such a situation. At the same time she was sorry for Suzy. She was fond of her, and she knew that these things go hardly with women at her age. And Roffredo —she knew it well—was very attractive; the old woman’s experience recognised at once in him a dominant sexual quality, over and above his physical splendour. One could not wonder at Suzy. But—the old face hardened—she had got to behave, now. Suzy had had her day—and a long and agreeable day, too; now it was the child’s turn. “I won’t have her sacrificed,” the imperious old creature said to herself. “My darling, my treasure!” No—at any cost she must be saved from such a moral shock. She sat on there, quietly resolved; she would tackle Suzy, finally and completely. There was no great hurry. After nearly a hundred years of life, time does not seem so short, nothing is so pressing. She would take a quiet moment, when she herself felt strong; she was a little troubled with her breath, just now. Tomorrow Suzy had some party, and the day after there was Carlo’s picnic to Meden—but after that, some time. Now she was going to rest a little. No suspicion that events might move too fast for her and her arbitrary decisions troubled her mind. The old eyes slowly closed.
When the Vill’ Alta carriage drove into the square at Pisignacco two mornings later, Suzy, seated under her parasol, surveyed the scene with amused satisfaction. She was in good spirits, and was looking forward to the day. For one thing, Roffredo was to be there, and she had reached the stage when merely to see him, even among others and in a crowd, satisfied a thirst that now would seldom be stilled. But probably she would also see him alone, and she proposed in any case to contrive to drive back with him from Pisignacco in the evening. The Odredo picnic to Meden was an annual event, much looked forward to in the Province, where picnics played a large part in the life of the community; it was one of the most romantic and exciting of these excursions, because it was so far away, and the scenery, in among the steep foothills of the eastern range was beautiful and thrilling after the plain. But the expedition was a considerable undertaking; the distance and the rough mountain roads made it unsuitable for a good many of the local conveyances, so there was always a general rendezvous at Pisignacco, where a re-shuffle of passengers took place; a rough brake, generally used for the conveyance of goods, was sent down from Meden to meet the party and take some of them on. So at this moment the Sorellone’s pony-carriage was being trotted homewards by a small boy, and the Caserns’ heavy tumbril-like barouche was majestically leaving the square, to return and fetch their owners in the evening; Roffredo’s car was being shoved into the inn yard among an enthralled crowd of onlookers. The square was full of carriages bright with parasols, glossy horses and shining harness; baskets were being carried about, greetings exchanged, and people hustled into vehicles with loud cries, only to be hauled out of them again and made to sit somewhere else. Suzy ejected Almina and Marietta, who were to crowd into the Meden brake with the other young people; she collected Dino and Carlotta di Caserta for herself, and added Countess Aspasia di Castellone, with a few low lazy words. Marietta and Almina joined Giulio, who had walked from Odredo, on the church steps, where they stood looking down on the scene—the black shadows under the arcaded loggia of the town hall, the pale tones of the houses, originally well-built and even noble, but now shabby and decayed, their fine fronts broken at street level by the sunblinds of small shops.
“I like Pisignacco,” Marietta announced suddenly.
“Why? It’s a dirty smelly little place,” said Elena, who had joined them. “Come on, the brake is ready—let’s get out before the crush.”
“It smells of the past—it is old and lonely,” Marietta said, wrinkling her small nose as if to catch the odour of antiquity, and following her cousin through the crowd to the brake. There they piled in, much squashed together—Roffredo contrived to sit between Al
mina and Olivia di Caserta, a lovely little thing of seventeen; this meant knees touching under the striped linen rug, and once or twice he managed to touch Almina’s hand too, stroking the palm with his fingertips, while he joked, with a perfectly blank face, with Giulio opposite. Almina had not so much control—the soft urgent movement of his fingers in the curve of her palm sent little shivers running all through her body; she was afraid of her too-ready changes of colour, and turned her head over her shoulder to look out behind her. What she saw was worth looking at. Soon they were in among the hills, and the valley narrowed; the slopes were densely clothed with a growth of young sweet chestnut, now turned to brilliant yellow—they moved in a golden world, under a blue heaven, with a lively chattering river keeping them company on their right, whose deep pools were blue too where they caught the sky. Almina at last put both her hands outside the carriage rug, to enjoy all this enchantment without those disturbances set up by Roffredo’s touch—this brought her a reproachful pinch on the knee, but she paid no attention. When they got out, he contrived to murmur in her ear—”Cara, I must do my duty now, but after lunch, will you walk with me?” She nodded. “If it’s possible.”
At this picnic, Suzy had no responsibilities—it was Fräulein Gelsicher’s task to see that lunch was correctly set out on the terrace before the sub-bailiff’s house; she was free to wander round the village with Roffredo, stared at with astonishment by the dark-faced round-headed inhabitants, who curtsied with guttural greetings, and to go and look at the waterfall. The Count was busy fussing about the wine—they were to drink white Meden wine, from the best slopes, at luncheon, and after were formally to inspect the site for his new experimental vineyards, to be planted in the French manner; this, for him, was the raison d’être of the picnic. Walking with Roffredo now, enjoying her temporary freedom, Suzy thought of Carlo. Poor Carlo!—with his vines and hopes and experiments, his futile gallantry. Under the compulsion of her feeling for Roffredo, she had latterly modified her relation with him, on various excuses, and his slightly fatigued acceptance of her denials had shown up to her, at last, her liaison with him for the poor thing that it was. Looking covertly at the young man beside her, with his youth and vigour, his abrupt hawklike swoops of mirthful comment, his grace and his laughter, she sighed with happiness, thinking how wonderful it was to have this splendour for her own, to hold his devotion. But—her thoughts turned back to Carlo—she could not, would not, withdraw her friendship and interest so abruptly; these were what he really needed from her, and he should keep them. She even took a new subtle pleasure in being what Carlo wanted, as perfectly as possible, for Roffredo’s sake—and when the time came, after lunch, to make the tour of the vineyards, she put up her parasol, and with a gallant gaiety walked about on the hot rough earth of the terraces in her thin small shoes, asking questions, showing interest, being what was wanted, with exquisite and easy skill.
But after a time she became aware that Roffredo was no longer there to mark the perfection of her performance. The party, trailing round in the heat, became thinner and thinner, till besides herself and the Count only Fräulein Gelsicher, the Sorellone, Dino di Caserta, who grew vines scientifically too, and Ernest’s little boy (who came because he liked picking and eating the grapes) were left, apart from Ospedi and the subbailiff, who stood respectfully about in the background, and answered questions when applied to. Suzy’s interest began to flag then—she noticed how hot and sore her feet were, and how rough and nubbly the ground; but she held up heroically till the grateful moment when Fräulein Gelsicher suggested quietly that they had seen enough—all the proposed new part—and that the gentlemen might go on alone if they wished to examine the high slopes further on. So they retired to the little meadow by the stream, fringed with wild raspberries, where coffee was to be drunk, and sat on rugs in the shade.
Fräulein Gelsicher had her own reasons for this adjournment. She had counted on a chance at this picnic of speaking to Miss Prestwich. But as Almina had sought in vain for an opportunity to speak to Gela at Castel Vecchio, and failed to get it till too late, so now the Swiss sought vainly for her colleague. The young people had scattered over the golden hillsides, on the ploys proper to youth at picnics—picking wild raspberries, flirting, looking for a view—and though she walked up slopes and down, and enquired of those she met, she found no trace of Almina. Even when the party gradually reassembled, tired, hot, and ready for lemonade or coffee, there was no sign of Miss Prestwich, and it was presently observed that both Giulio and Count Roffredo were missing too. And suddenly—it might have been due to Fräulein Gelsicher’s obvious fussing—Suzy’s suspicions flared up again. Though tired, she had been so happy and serene, waiting there by the musically-flowing water, thinking of the drive back and the evening at Vill’ Alta, remembering the pleasure of the morning stroll—now it was all turned again to poison and pain. With unusual energy, she declared gaily that they must be found, those three wanderers—let there be a search! And no great enthusiasm showing itself—indeed to her annoyance Elena went so far as to observe languidly that they all three had watches, and would doubtless come in good time—she set an example by rising herself and starting off—it was cooler now, and pleasant to walk!—escorted by the Count.
“Misfortune on her!” Elena muttered to her governess. “Now she may find them!” And she herself set off too, in the direction where she had last seen Roffredo and Almina, seeking a hilltop whence they would get a view.
But it is hard to find a view on those wooded hills of Gardone. The growth of young trees clothes them to the very top, so that when one has struggled up a wood-cutter’s path, at the summit one finds the leafy roof still over one’s head, and curtains of foliage draped all round. This had happened to Roffredo and Almina; in vain, holding her tend, he had tugged her, laughing and breathless, up various tunnellike wood-shoots, walled with the dark stems and floored and canopied with gold—at the top there was still nothing to be seen but the golden pattern of the leaves against blue sky— her face, he said, laughing and kissing it, was the only view! Still hopeful, lost in the delight of each other’s presence, they had rambled far from the point where they set out, and it was Suzy and not Elena who at last found them. Was it blind chance, or some sharpened subconscious faculty which led her to take that high path near the waterfall? Anyhow there, where the roar of the falling water drowned footsteps and voices alike, walking a little ahead of the Count, she came on them. They were sitting in a hollow far below the path, leaning against a rock—at least Roffredo so leant; the girl half-lay with her head on his shoulder, her face upturned to his, utterly surrendered, while with his free hand he played with her hair, arranging a yellow chestnut-leaf in its paler gold, trying it this way and that. The tender absorption of his gestures, the utter rapture of her upturned face told a tale of mutual passion so clear that it could not be mistaken.
At the sight Suzy stopped dead. She reached out and touched the nearest tree, as if to support herself—her other hand hung limp and inert. She felt cold and slightly sick. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out of it. Count Carlo, coming up behind her, said “Cosa è, cara?”—and the realised that he had seen nothing. Suddenly she knew that he must not—that no one must see this sight which was her private humiliation. She turned and faced him, manoeuvring him back along the path. “It is no good going on,” she said; “the path stops at the waterfall. Let us go back,”—and she pushed him gently ahead of her. She must do this now, what was necessary; try not to think, to feel till later. “Let us go down,” she said, when they had retraced their steps some distance—they took a downhill path, and when they reached the bottom, safely out of sight of the hollow, she stopped again.
“Call, Carlo,” she said. “They may be somewhere about. Forte! because of the torrent”
But when the Count lifted up his voice in a brazen bellow, she turned aside and again leant for a moment against a tree. In imagination she saw the sound reach that lovely idyll in the hollow, saw tha
t blissful group torn apart by the summons from a forgotten world—saw the last eager clinging kiss. Oh no, she could not bear it! How was she going to bear it? How dared he? How dared she? As the first shock passed, anger and torment woke in her. The Count shouted again— and this time there was a faint answering cry above the distant roar of the waterfall.
“Bene! That was Roffredo. I wonder where he was, that we did not see him,” he babbled cheerfully—then, as she did not answer, he looked at her. “Cara, you look pale,” he said with concern. “Are you well?”
“I am tired,” she said; “it was so hot in the vineyard. Come—let us go back; they will follow.”
They did turn up, eventually, where the rest sat drinking coffee by the stream, but separately—Miss Prestwich first, carrying a bunch of wild-flowers, Count Roffredo a few minutes later. Giulio, who alone had found a view, having scrambled to a distant rocky summit, had already re-appeared; so had Elena. That young lady noted the separate arrivals and the wild-flowers with amused approval—“Postiche is coming on!” was her inward comment. Fräulein Gelsicher was not quite sure what to make of it. But Suzy eyed the flowers in the English girl’s hand with real hatred. Artful little creature! she used every ruse to protect herself and cover her duplicity. And when the girl civilly offered to take away her cup, she refused coldly, saying that she had not finished, though the cup was manifestly empty. The icy tone and obvious rebuff were observed by Elena with a faint lift of the brows—“Dio mio, did she see something, I wonder?” she thought to herself—“Then there will be broken plates!” But she was unable to keep her entertained but watchful eye on her Aunt much longer—the carriages were ready, and everyone was marshalled into them. Was it by accident that Roffredo rode this time with the Casertas and the young Marchesa, or was she determined to keep him under observation? Elena could not be sure; Roma had come babbling up to her at that very moment with some giggling pointless communication about Giulio and Olivia di Caserta. Silly creature! The brake drove off.
