Enchanter's Nightshade

by Ann Bridge

  “You are very elegant today, my daughter,” the old Marchesa said, touching the swansdown and the pearls.

  “Of course—I have made a grande toilette for your birthday, Bonne-Mama. One does not celebrate such an event once a week!” Suzy responded, smiling.

  “Ah! I suspect you of having made it for Anastasia’s benefit, and to coquet with Edoardo and Filippo!” the old lady said in the same tone.

  “No—for you! I am not sure that I shall see them today,” the young Marchesa said, a little wearily. “But they are all right—they amuse themselves? It seems so odd not to be able to see for myself that all is well, with such a houseful,” she said rather sadly.

  The old Marchesa assured her that everything was in train, and marching perfectly. “Though without you, it will not be the same thing at all, my fête,” she said; “indeed, all will miss you!”

  The Marchesa Suzy made a graceful deprecating gesture with her head, very slight, and smiled; she was not much good at talking yet, and all she said was “Cara Bonne-Mama!”

  “It is true,” the old lady pursued. “And my dear Suzy,” she laid her hand on the younger woman’s—”on this day, when I have reached the fantastic age of a hundred years, I should like you to know, from my own mouth, how pleasant you have made life for an old woman, ever since you came into the family, fifteen years ago. I can tell you now, frankly, that I was dismayed, a little, at Francesco’s marrying a foreigner—I dreaded it! But you have been one of my greatest sources of happiness, from the very first. It is right, and for me a pleasure, to tell you this,” she concluded, with an attempt at her usual firm manner, but with an irrepressible quaver in her old voice.

  The ready tears of weakness had sprung to Suzy’s eyes. “Oh Bonne-Mama, if you only knew what your goodness to me has meant!” she said—and then, with a little half-sobbing laugh: “But it is sixteen years, cara; Marietta is fifteen.”

  The old lady bridled for a moment—then her fine threatly laughter pealed out. “So she is—I had forgotten!” But her face changed then, to a gravity that was still charged with tenderness.

  “My daughter,” she said, “I have something to say to you about Marietta. I think you know, that she is beginning to need you now.”

  Suzy looked puzzled.

  “To need me? How, Bonne-Mama? Till just now, I have always had her with me.”

  “In your house, yes; with you, cara mia, no,” the old woman said, with unusually gentle firmness. “In fact she has had almost nothing of you. What she needs from you now is your time, your thought, your attention—all the practical evidences of an affection which, I feel sure, exists, but which might as well not exist if it is not fully demonstrated.” She paused, and then went on—“I think perhaps the same is true of Francesco. He is not a young man any more; it would help him, comfort him, I fancy, to feel himself the object of such a loving attention as you have always shown to me.”

  In all their sixteen years together, these were almost the first words of direct criticism that Suzy had ever had from her Mother-in-law. She looked at the old lady almost in amazement, and then turned her head away—tears welled up in her eyes again and began to run down her face. But the old Marchesa went steadily on.

  “To give them both—the child and my son—what they need may well involve the sacrifice of some of your other relationships,” she said, leaning a little on the last word; “but I believe you would find this worth while. At my age, it is one’s children and one’s grandchildren who count —it is unwise to sacrifice them to more ephemeral affections.” Again she paused, and still the tears ran slowly down Suzy’s face.

  “Those pass,” the old lady went on. “Who in their old age has been comforted, supported, by a lover? But by their children and their children’s children, many—as I by you.” Again she took Suzy’s hand, grown thin and blue-veined, in her small old one. “Sometimes it is possible to have both things, lovers and an ideal family life,” she continued. “But to combine the two perfectly, so that no one suffers, requires a very great output of energy—as I know. It is not easy to concentrate that necessary affectionate attention in two directions at once. And I rather doubt whether after this illness, and at your age, you will have the requisite strength. I would like you to consider seriously whether you should not now try devoting yourself to family life.”

  She paused again, and sat waiting for a response. Suzy gave her hand a slight squeeze, but still she said nothing. Very gently, but with a certain remorselessness, the old woman pursued her object, and once more began to address words to that silent weeping figure in the bed.

  “Marietta is a very remarkable child in some ways. Beauty she has not—importance she has; she is full of intelligence, of soul. She needs comprehension, affection—and an object for her loyalties and her love. You are the natural object for that, at present; and I cannot but feel, cara mia, that this exaggerated feeling of hers for the little Prestwich is in some sense a criticism of her relation to you. If you had chosen to fill her heart, she would hardly have looked at her governess! And if one is to enjoy the love and support of one’s children in later years, one cannot indefinitely postpone giving them some tangible proofs of one’s own affection. Do you not feel this?”

  The direct question drove Suzy di Vill’ Alta to speech. It was a curious unexpected little thought which came out. “Marietta is really so—so different to me,” she said through her tears; “she is all for books and ideas. That is why she liked Miss Prestwich so much, I think.”

  “No difference is so great but that affection can overcome it,” said the old lady vigorously. “She would have worshipped you, given the chance. She will now, if you will let her have what is, my dear Suzy, her right—a full measure of your thought, and time, and above all interest.” She waited a moment, and then said, in a different tone, one Suzy had never heard her use, far-away and wistful—

  “I love her more than anything in the world; I wish this for her. So much—so much…”

  Weak as she was, those words, the -last ones so faintly spoken, moved Suzy very deeply. “Oh Bonne-Mama, I will give her this—I will try!” she sobbed out. “Children are—are not in my line, very much; if she had been a boy, it might have been easier! But I will do my best. I would like you to have everything you wish, today.”

  The old woman rose, bent over the bed, and kissed her. “Thank you, figlia mia,” she said, gently. “You have made me glad. You will have your reward,” she added, with characteristic precision.

  The old Marchesa did not get quite everything she wanted on her birthday, though she got a great deal. When she left Suzy she went back to her own sitting-room and sat for a little in her upright chair, among the hydrangeas in pots, the baskets with beribboned handles, the bouquets which crowded the room, brought by the family, sent from all over the Province, and even from Bologna and Rome. Well, that had not gone so badly; Suzy had certainly taken the point, and she was quite sufficiently intelligent, quite generous and skilful enough in her dealings with people to carry her promise into effect, once she gave her mind to it. One could hope, now, that things would go better, the old woman thought. And some time today she must find a moment to say a word to that darling child, that ardent brilliant creature, her precious little Marietta. A faint mist clouded her eyes at the thought of Marietta. What should she say to her? That life could be hard, but not as hard as it sometimes seemed? and that it was also good? That the trick of it was—was—what had she been going to say? She put her hand up to her left side— that tiresome little pain again! She was so fond of Suzy, it had been hard to say those severe things to her—tiring. She was really not equal to seeing her darling now—besides, perhaps she was still with her nice little Postiche. No, just now she must sit quiet—she was really rather tired. She rang her little silver bell for Giacinta, and told her to take out all the lilies—the scent was almost overpowering, quite stifling! She sat on, in her chair, and presently dropped off to sleep.

  But there was no sign
of fatigue or weakness about her that afternoon, when she sat in the great cool salone, in her richest black brocade, with the marvellous ruffled “front” of Point d’Alençon, and the little cap to match. She was seated at the further end, in one of her favourite high-backed chairs, with the flowers from her room, lilies and all, banked behind and around her—a figure at once formidable and gracious, for all its tiny stature. Because of the Marchesa Nadia’s recent death it was only a “family reception”; but the stranger would hardly have guessed it from the names and numbers which thronged the room and the terrace; only the fact that the dresses were all black, white, grey or lilac might have given it away. The ramifications of the Vill’ Alta and Castellone families were so widespread that half the Province could claim relationship, and every known cousin of every conceivable degree had contrived to be present, from near and far; Odredo and Castellone were full to overflowing with relations from a distance, Asquinis, di Montes and Barbellinis— all come to celebrate an occasion which made half Italy vicariously proud. On a small table, under alabaster paperweights, were set out telegrams of congratulation from the Queen, from members of the houses of Aosta and Piedmont, and other notabilities; out on the terrace was an open-air buffet with madeira, coffee and sweet champagne, of which the centrepiece was a vast cake surrounded by a hundred candles. At one point the old Marchesa proceeded out onto the terrace, to cut the cake and have her health drunk, and listen to speeches, seated in her usual wicker chair; but for the most part she remained at the end of the salone among her embattled masses of flowers, like royalty on a throne, while one and another was brought up to her by Anastasia Colonna, to kiss her hand and utter compliments and felicitations. They were brought one at a time, and as a rule swept away after a moment or two —Anastasia was anxious that the old lady should not overtax her strength. But a few La Vecchia kept by her, waving them to a chair placed conveniently at her right hand, for a little talk.

  One of these favoured ones was the Countess Aspasia. After suitable compliments had been suitably acknowledged, and enquiries after the Marchesa Suzy satisfactorily answered, the old lady asked the Countess how her little visitor did?

  “Marchesa, she is another creature! Your visit and these arrangements that you have made for her have worked a miracle! She eats, and sleeps, and talks more cheerfully— she came in from the garden yesterday with quite a colour!”

  The old Marchesa smiled finely. But—“Youth needs hope” was all she said. “With the young, health and hope are practically the same thing. But she owes all this, really, to you, my dear Aspasia; your resource and promptitude, and your kindness. I hope to hear any day now from the Grand Duchess—and that will put a term to your charity and your patience. As you know, I thank you.”

  “Dear Marchesa, there is no occasion for thanks. It has been a pleasure to have her—really most interesting,” the Countess said, truthfully. “Roffredo, I hear, is going back to Milan to see about this famous invention,” she added— “he expects to be there some time.”

  “A most suitable arrangement,” was La Vecchia’s only comment.

  A little later it was Giulio’s turn. Ushered up to kiss La Vecchia Marchesa’s hand, he was detained, and Anastasia imperiously waved out of earshot—“Giulio and I have a thousand secrets!” the old lady said. She was in tremendous spirits by this time. “Well, and how did you get on at Castellone?” she asked him, with an arch shrewd glance.

  The boy turned very red, but he spoke up stoutly. “I did as you told me, Bonne-Mama.”

  “Famous! And what did she say?”

  “Not much,” he said simply. “She hardly spoke at all.”

  “She did not rebuff you?”

  “No no—she was gentle, as she always is,” he said, a tone of warmth coming into his voice on the last words.

  “So!—well, for the moment, I think that suffices. I am glad, Giulio. Coraggio!—and good fortune to you.” And he was dismissed.

  Later still Fräulein Gelsicher was made to sit in the small chair beside the old Marchesa—she had modestly waited to come forward almost till the last. The old lady accepted her congratulations with brief sincerity, and then said abruptly—“Well, our little Marietta had her heart’s desire this morning! I hope it made her happy.”

  “It has made her very happy, I think, Marchesa—it has soothed her, and put her mind at rest. She looks more serene this afternoon than she has done for weeks.”

  “She has too much mind for that little body, and more feeling than her experience can carry,” the old woman said— “that is what is the matter with her. But you will help her in this, for the present.” She smiled very pleasantly at the Swiss. “It is the greatest comfort to me, that she will be with you. And as for later on—” she paused and looked significantly at the governess—“I think that perhaps from now onwards our dear Suzy will lead a simpler life,” she said blandly. “If she does so, there will still be time for her and Marietta to become to one another what they ought to be.”

  Fräulein Gelsicher agreed, perhaps not quite sincerely. She did not herself entertain much belief in a serious change of heart or habits on the Marchesa Suzy’s part. But much had been done that would be of permanent benefit—Count Carlo, in the tone of his conversation about the young Marchesa, had not been able to avoid betraying a change of attitude towards her; there was the solid gain of Oxford for Giulio; and there was a future of hope and usefulness for Miss Prestwich, in spite of her disaster. Fräulein Gelsicher had a strong feeling for the old Marchesa, and took this occasion to express, warmly and sensibly, her satisfaction and admiration for the way in which she had arranged everything so well for so many people. “No one else could have done it,” she ended.

  “My good Gelsicher, there are some advantages in being a hundred years old!” the old lady chuckled.

  But a few minutes later, when the Swiss had gone out onto the terrace again, something of a stir and commotion became evident in the great drawing-room. The sons hastened in, Roberto and Giacinta were hurriedly summoned, Anastasia asked people to step outside. Anxiety and consternation flew through the assembly. “She is ill.” “She has collapsed.” “They are taking her upstairs.” “The Doctor has been sent for”—the rumours ran from mouth to mouth. In five minutes the gossips of the Province had killed the old Marchesa off outright. Some people left at once; the majority however remained, standing unhappily about on the terrace, in whispering groups, waiting for further news, for confirmation, for certainty. “Listen to Aspidistra!” Elena muttered indignantly to Fräulein Gelsicher—“she has practically arranged the funeral already! Such rubbish—as if Bonne-Mama, of all people, would go and do anything so melodramatic as to die today!” And in fact, after less than a quarter of an hour Anastasia reappeared on the terrace steps, to give to those nearest her a reassuring report. It was no more than a sudden faintness—after all, the day had been one of great exertion; the old Marchesa was now quite herself again, and was resting quietly in her room. She regretted extremely not to be able to bid her guests goodbye; but they would realise, Anastasia said, with something of her Mother’s firm smoothness, that it would be most unwise for her to come down any more that day.

  “There you are!” Elena muttered to Frälein Gelsicher. “What did I say?” The company, taking the hint, dispersed gradually. The Sorellone drove off in their pony-carriage, Aspasia saying to Roma that Anastasia was always one for putting a good outward face on things—for her part, she did not believe the old lady would see the night out! Count Carlo, taking a last glass of champagne, expressed the belief that the Old One would live for ever, and drank to her two hundredth birthday; Fräulein Gelsicher and Elena, disapproving of this levity, hurried him off—Marietta was to spend the night at home, by the old Marchesa’s wish, and to return to Odredo next day. Countess Livia drove away with two carriage-loads of guests to Castellone; she had just heard from Countess Roma of Miss Prestwich’s visit to Marietta that morning, and while her lips moved silently in the words of the O
ffice for the Dying, her mind was actively condemning the immoral levity of the old woman, who could have allowed a pure young girl like Marietta to speak to “that creature”. In one of the Odredo carriages Giulio, made grumpy by anxiety, quarrelled with his sister—“She knows all that is necessary, she has done everything she could—why should she desire to live longer? To wish her to live till today was fundamentally absurd—there is no virtue in number! Why a hundred, rather than ninety-eight or ninety-nine?” Elena told him curtly that philosophers were well known to be usually also fools. In the back premises at Vill’ Alta, Umberto, lent for the occasion with a quantity of Odredo china and glass, washed up and packed his effects, exchanging views the while with Valentino. “She always knew what she meant, the Old One, and saw to it that you knew it too. Such are the best employers,” Valentino observed sententiously.

  “Come, she is not dead yet!” Umberto replied, wrinkling up his square face in a comic grimace. “But, my word, she does know what she means! You should have seen my poor Master the day she told him that the young Signor Conte was to go to school in Inghilterra! He was like a hunted calf, when he came home! She is the one!”

  Up in the old Marchesa’s sitting-room the sal volatile and the brandy stood discarded on a table—they had done their work. The old lady had insisted on leaving the couch where they had placed her at first, and sat now in her high-backed chair—“It is more comfortable so” she protested impatiently to Anastasia. It was only that tiresome little pain over the heart—“which I may tell you I have constantly, lately”— which had suddenly overtaken her downstairs, this time with surprising strength. “It is nothing—probably indigestion. That fine cake of Apollonia’s was very rich.” And then she demanded to see Marietta.