Enchanter's Nightshade

by Ann Bridge

  “But do you think they were together? They came back separately, as I told you before,” Roma argued.

  “Chi sa? But which would you take for a walk, the cow or the calf, if you were a young man?” Aspasia asked, with true Italian relish of her own coarseness. And she laughed again, and whipped up the pony.

  But there was no laughter in her face when she walked, twenty minutes later, into Roffredo’s sitting-room at the Villa Gemignana, followed by Countess Roma. With one sweeping glance she took in the whole scene—the champagne-bottle, the tumbled divan, the girl sitting with a white, rather dazed face at the writing-table, the stamped letter and the revolver before her. It was such a diagram of tragedy that she really needed to ask no questions at all. With a swift pounce she snatched up the revolver and put it out of reach. Then she turned to Almina.

  “So that was the idea!” she said.

  The girl had risen, slowly, and stood looking at her, while an appalling expression came over her face—that of the human being who is in complete uncertainty as to what horror to expect next. It is an expression not often seen by civilised persons, except during modern Colonial wars; but like the champagne-bottle and all the rest, to the Countess Aspasia it told its own tale. She went round to the girl, took her by the shoulders, and set her decidedly down in the chair again.

  “Have you had some coffee?” she asked, indicating the tray.

  “Some—enough.”

  “Va bene. Ring!” she commanded Roma. When Alba came, she curtly bade her remove the coffee and the champagne-bottle—”What disorder!” she commented acidly; while the woman did so, she folded the rug and beat up the cushions on the divan, and told Roma to sit there. In the restored decency of the room she then drew forward a chair and sat down beside Almina. Without a word, without a gesture of kindness, she had nevertheless made an intention of benevolence perfectly evident—that unstrung, disintegrated look began to fade a little from the girl’s face.

  “Now, tell me what has happened,” she said firmly. “Why are you here?”

  “I had no money—and I thought Count Roffredo might lend me enough to get home with,” Almina answered.

  “Tchk!” Countess Aspasia clicked her tongue. “You were dismissed, then? For what?”

  “Because I—because I had received the attentions of Count Roffredo,” the girl answered.

  The Countess Aspasia sniffed. “And why had you no money? Was no salary owing to you?”

  “Only a month.”

  “The Marchesa did not pay this?”

  “No.”

  “And her reason for paying you nothing?”

  The girl struggled before she spoke. “She said it was not customary—in the circumstances.”

  “What circumstances? Speak up—I can’t hear you. Dismissed for impropriety? Così! And was that true?”

  “No!” the girl said, bursting into tears. “It wasn’t! And she said that I neglected my duties to Marietta to be with him, and that was also untrue. I did not—I would not. I loved her.”

  Countess Aspasia nodded to Roma, registering agreement. Then she resumed her cross-examination.

  “When did you see him, then?”

  “Before breakfast—we walked.”

  The older woman burst into a lough laugh. “Dio mio! Venus is not in the ascendant at such an hour! Was that all?”

  “Yes. I—I did conceal it,” Almina said. “He said he loved me, and I believed him—” there was a peculiar intonation of disillusionment on the last words. “But I considered that he had a right to, and I to let him—” again a nod of agreement passed between the sisters—Miss Prest-wich’s family connections were perfectly well known in the Province—“except for being the governess, here.”

  “How, being the governess?” Countess Roma asked.

  “Roma, do me the favour not to interrupt! It is evident!”

  But Almina answered the interruption. “Since I was in the position of governess, I should have told the Marchesa. I know it. I thought of it. But at first I was not sure, and by the time I was—I thought I was, I mean—“ her lip quivered—“it—it had become very difficult to do that.”

  Roma was irrepressible. “Because you suspected that she too was interested in him?” she asked, her round eyes goggling with interest in her fat face.

  “I saw them,” the girl said simply.

  The sisters exchanged glances which contained whole salvos of comment.

  “Where?” Aspasia snapped.

  “On a seat in the garden”—the girl turned her head aside, as if in distaste.

  “H’m! Well, that did not make it precisely easy for her,” Aspasia observed to Roma. “But you still went on meeting him, after that?” she asked, turning again to Almina.

  “No!” the girl said, almost violently. “I did not! I would not see him again—I kept away from him. I was angry. But one day I met him, by accident, when I was walking alone, looking for flowers, and he stopped me, and he would know why—why I had changed to him; and at last I told him. And then—” she stopped. Even at that moment some deep instinct made her hesitate so to give away another woman as to proffer Roffredo’s own explanation to her.

  Countess Aspasia had no such hesitations. “Well, then what? How did he make you change your mind?”

  “He said”—she paused for a phrase—“that—the other— was only civility; that it was necessary; but that it meant nothing. And I—I thought it was true.”

  “Without doubt it was true!” Countess Aspasia said, as much to her sister as to the girl. “What did I say to you, Roma, as we drove here?” She turned to Almina again. “Dunque, after this explanation you continued to go for these early walks? And how did the Marchesa in the end find out?”

  “She said we were seen at Meden. I think she saw us herself. Marietta was with Elena and the little Caserta girl, so I went for a walk with—him!” Almina said. This cross-examination was painful, but in a way it was a relief too. to get everything admitted at last, to a third party; and in any case she was too exhausted to resist—she was wax in Countess Aspasia’s rather ruthless hands.

  “Were you kissing, when she saw you?” Countess Roma interjected, greedily.

  “Of course they were kissing! Did you imagine they were playing chess?” Aspasia said impatiently. “It is exactly as we thought—she saw than there when she went with Carlo. And then she got rid of Marietta, to have the coast clear—and now this!” Then she started on a fresh tack. “How did you get here?”

  “By the diligence—I paid him to come here, so that I might try to borrow some money.”

  “The carriage took you to the diligence?”

  Yes.

  “And Tommaso waited till it came?”

  “No—I had to wait a little,” the girl said, flushing—even after ail that had happened since, she did not like to recall the memory of that wait by the roadside. Countess Aspasia observed the flush, and guessed at the cause. Never mind, that could wait—she would get that later. “Suzy must be mad!” she said to her sister, briefly, and went on with her main line of inquiry.

  “So you came here to borrow money? And would Roffredo not lend it you?”

  “Yes—he said he would,” Almina said, tears gathering again in her eyes. “He had plenty, he showed it to me; and he said he would drive me in to the express at Gardone at eleven. But we had dinner first, as there was plenty of time.” She stopped.

  “Well, and then what happened?” Countess Aspasia pursued, remorselessly.

  But Almina had used up practically all the strength and self-control she had left. She struggled with rising sobs, tried to speak clearly, but without much success. “I don’t know— we drank a great deal of wine, and then we came in here—and I really don’t remember—don’t remember—.” The sobs became convulsive, strangled her voice, shook her whole body; she put her head down on the table, holding it with her hands as if to hold in the sounds by force; but they gained on her, grew louder and louder, till they broke on the scre
aming note of violent hysteria.

  Countess Aspasia dealt with this collapse with perfect competence. She pushed the girl’s head down between her knees, sent for water, did whatever was necessary, keeping up mean-while a steady commentary to her sister. “Ma, it is perfectly clear, what has happened last night! And then this telegram came, this morning, and he rushed off, forgetting her, the money, everything! Alba said she asked if he had left any money. That is Roffredo all over!”

  Countess Aspasia was of course perfectly accustomed to that peculiar bird-wittedness, that volatile irresponsible hopping from one interest to another, from one enthusiasm to the next, which is such a marked characteristic of her countrymen. But in this case it actually roused her ire. Putting a fresh damp pad on Almina’s forehead, as she lay where they had placed her on the divan, deep sobbing breaths still painfully leaving her chest, she continued—“But this is rather too much, to leave her so! And indeed to seduce her! She is not of that type.”

  “What is to become of her?” Roma asked.

  “I shall take her home with us, to Castellone,” Aspasia pronounced magisterially. “For a month at least—until we see! We cannot send her back to her Mother like this—she is an old friend of the Princess Asquini’s! It would make an appalling scandal.”

  Roma looked slightly aghast. “Suzy will not like that at all,” she observed. “Is it wise, Aspasia?”

  “My dear Roma, if you believe that after this performance Suzy will sing at all loudly, I think you deceive yourself,” Aspasia said. “When her own behaviour has been of such an inconvenienza, she can hardly criticise the actions of others. She must have been quite out of herself to do such a thing. Leaving the girl alone on the road! Certainly that will have been by her orders. Though I shall find that out from Tommaso. No—I shall do it. You will see that La Vecchia will agree.” “Besides, it is a work of mercy,” she added righteously, as an afterthought.

  She presented the same bold front, later in the day, to the Countess Livia, Roffredo’s mother. The return to the red wing at Castellone of the pony-carriage, with Miss Prestwich as an extra occupant, did not pass unnoticed either in the central portion, occupied by Ernest’s wife, or in the further end, where Countess Livia lived; nor did the subsequent arrival of all Miss Prestwich’s luggage in Roffredo’s dog-cart, driven by Antonio. The baker and the postman had of course not confined their absorbing communications to Maria, and both the other establishments were seething with excited but uninformed comment by the time the two flowered hats, accompanied by Almina’s straw sailor, were seen nodding up the steep approach to the red front door behind the pony. And even while Countess Aspasia, with her usual strong common-sense, was getting Almina put straight to bed in a pleasant room at the North-east corner, looking out onto the mountains (nearer here than at Odredo or Vill’ Alta) Countess Livia was putting on her widow’s bonnet and a flowing crêpetrimmed silk mantle to walk the ninety yards along the terrace in front of the long building, from her own front door to that of her cousin by marriage.

  Countess Livia had disapproved violently of Miss Prestwich ever since the day when Suzy took her to call at Castellone, and so enjoyed watching the widow’s reaction to the governess’s green silk frock and the green and yellow hat; she felt her to be “a thoroughly unsuitable person”, and had lost no opportunity of saying so ever since. And now, armed with the flying rumours, with her characteristic brand of rather sour piety she endeavoured to remonstrate with Countess Aspasia on her incredible action in bringing “that young person” to Castellone, “practically under my roof”. It was true, as she said, that she could hardly believe her eyes when she saw Miss Prestwich descending from the pony-carriage.

  Countess Aspasia was quite unconcerned. “Yes, I have brought her here,” she said, “I considered it right to do so. For the present, she remains with me.”

  Countess Livia’s ears were almost as difficult of credence as her eyes.

  “Remains with you? My dear Aspasia, this is very extraordinary. Do you wish to give your countenance to such behaviour? May one ask for how long she remains?”

  “She remains for at least a month. By that time it should be clear whether Roffredo has given her a baby or not,” Aspasia replied, delighting in the embarrassment she was causing. “And if you wish to know, my dear Livia, the sort of behaviour I do not countenance, it is that of a young man who, when a girl in desperation (as a result of gross injustice and ill-treatment) goes to him to borrow money to return decently to her home, uses her distress as an opportunity, first to make her drunk, and then to seduce her. That I do not countenance. Do you?”

  Disconcerted was a mild word for Countess Livia’s reaction to this attack. “How do we know that she went to borrow money?” she said, still flushed by the less bearable parts of Aspasia’s speech. “And how do we know that he seduced her?”

  “That is what we shall know, for certain, in a month; personally I have no doubt of it, but you can ask him, if you like, when he comes back from Milan,” Aspasia said, inexorably, “He should know, unless he was himself too drunk to recollect! As to her going to borrow money, I know it. I have seen Alba, remember.”

  Routed on this front, Countess Livia tried a flank attack. “In any case, I hardly feel that you ought to have her here among us all. Suzy would not have dismissed her without cause.”

  “No, the did not. She had an admirable cause—jealousy of her own governess! Did you know that Suzy constanty visited our dear Roffredo at night? Late—leaving 1dm towards midnight? Bella cosa, no? Very creditable to Suzy! As to Roffredo, there I say nothing; when a young man flirts with a woman ten years his senior, one knows which to blame! But do not seek to shuffle off that misdeeds onto that unfortunate child. I warn you that I shall not lend myself to it! Suzy was seen there, remember.”

  This onslaught completely undermined the remaining shreds of the Countess Livia’s morale. Clearly diere was nothing to be done with Aspasia. And though she was not a clear thinker, she did realise that the less the Countess spread her knowledge of Roffredo’s part in the affair (which, according to her usual practice, she had made complete by enquiry on the spot) the better for herself, Roffredo, and everyone else. Partly to achieve this end, partly to cover her retreat, she sighed, and said that it was all most distressing. “But the important thing is to prevent La Vecchia Marchesa from hearing of it. It would be a serious shock for her—anything might result! Remember, the birthday is in three weeks, now. We should be careful not to let the story get about, cara Aspasia.”

  Countess Aspasia had already thought of la Vecchia Marchesa. The old lady was one of the very few human beings to whom she accorded her whole-hearted respect and liking.

  “Lo so,” she said briefly. “I shall not tell her unless I must. But I do not guarantee that she will not find it out for herself. There is not much that escapes her”

  Chapter Twenty

  Countess Aspasia was quite right about La Vecchia Marchesa. Very little did escape her, at any time. And though she sometimes conveniently failed to hear what she did not wish to hear, her ears were preternaturally keen for all those things which others desired to keep from her—it was as if their very wish for secrecy sharpened their voices and carried them direct to her brain. (Everyone who has lived with very old people will recognise this singular and exasperating trait.) On the morning after Almina’s dismissal the old lady, against Suzy’s wishes, suddenly decided after all to go downstairs that day. No, she felt perfectly well, and go she would. The fact was that she was thoroughly bored upstairs. But because she had taken this decision rather late, she had her egg-nog in her sitting-room, after she was dressed. The door into the little lobby beyond, which more or less shut off her apartments from the rest of the house, was ajar; in this lobby Giacinta and Roberto were getting her rugs and cushions together, in preparation for the transit downstairs, and discussing in lowered voices the absorbing news of Miss Prestwich’s flight to the Villa Gemignana and her annexation by the Countesses Asp
asia and Roma, which by various channels —notably the belated sending of a note written to Suzy by Ernest’s wife, and carried on a bicycle by a Castellone garden-boy—had reached Vill’ Alta a short time before. The old lady, sipping her egg-nog, presently became aware of their voices, speaking with unusual animation; she caught the words “Signorina” and “Villa” more than once, and then Roffredo’s name—tilting her white head to the angle at which she could best catch the sounds, sharpening her attention with a great effort, she now heard a whole phrase, in Roberto’s voice, in cautiously raised in his efforts to convince Giacinta of the truth of the latest development: “It is true, I tell you; the two old Countesses have taken her to Castellone! Giacomino saw them before he started, arriving there, with our Signorina.

  “Giacinta!” the old lady called sharply.

  The maid hurried in. “The Marchesa wishes?”

  “Shut the door!” the old woman said. When the maid had done so—“What were you and Roberto tattling about outside?” she demanded imperiously.

  Giacinta smoothed her black silk apron and looked blank. “Nothing of importance, la Marchesa.”

  “Where is the Signorina Prestwich?” the old lady asked.

  “Non so,” Giacinta replied.

  “Giacinta, you might know by now that it is no good lying to me,” her mistress said calmly, “Why has the Signorina gone to Castellone with the two Countesses? When did she leave here?”

  This evidence of knowledge defeated Giacinta. She saw that further refusal to speak was hopeless, in spite of the Marchesa Suzy’s injunctions to keep the departure of the Signorina from the old Marchesa for the present, so as not to cause her any fresh disturbance so soon after the ill news of the Marchesa Nadia’s death.