Innocence

by Penelope Fitzgerald

  ‘Quite a tedious visit, my dear, to the Monsignore and one or two others.’

  ‘You shouldn’t go to Rome if it’s tedious.’

  ‘It’s been arranged for some time.’

  ‘I don’t believe it’s been arranged for some time at all,’ said Chiara. ‘Let’s go back.’

  ‘Oh, but I shall leave you in the company of Miss Barnes.’

  Chiara was seized with distress. ‘Papa, you do like Barney, don’t you?’

  ‘I’ve forgotten, I’m afraid, for the moment just why you asked her here.’

  ‘But she’s my friend!’

  ‘Of course. It’s just that I’m not used to quite so much straightforwardness, it’s a little confusing at first. Do, please, both of you enjoy yourselves.’

  It was not late when Chiara got back from the station, but she found Barney slumped like a potato sack on one of the hard divans, totally in repose.

  ‘I love him!’ she shouted as she came in. ‘What’s wrong with my saying that, it’s true.’

  ‘It’s embarrassing.’

  ‘But surely something can be true and embarrassing at the same time.’

  ‘No, it can’t. If it’s embarrassing it shouldn’t be said at all, and if it’s not said no-one’s going to be able to tell whether it’s true or not.’

  ‘Well, then, what are you going to say to this man at Painstake?’

  Barney did not reply. She was considering her tactics and the disposition of her forces. Pressed again and again as to where Dr Rossi could be found for inspection, and with whom, outside his hospital and consulting-room, Chiara could still think of nobody except Mimi Limentani, who was away, since she invariably spent the summer and early autumn at various health resorts, where she sampled the waters. Barney, for her part, knew nobody else in or near Florence, except her father’s friends, the Harringtons. This friendship seemed to be based on Colonel Barnes not having seen old Toby Harrington since God knew when, and on some link of gratitude or indebtedness in the past which wasn’t and perhaps now couldn’t be specified. It was also the Colonel’s belief that anyone who retired and went abroad to live in sunnier climes was soon reduced to asking everyone they knew to come and stay, and sit on their terraces with them, so that they could say you wouldn’t be able to sit outdoors in England like this, would you?, and that it was really a kindness to give them something by way of occupation. They couldn’t get down to any serious gardening in those countries because it meant taking jobs away from the peasantry, who had no idea how to make a decent lawn. Barney therefore felt no awkwardness in taking her next step.

  ‘I can’t waste any more time, Cha, I’m going to ring up these Harringtons. I’m going to ask them if they know anyone called Rossi. Do you think there’ll be a lot of Rossis in Florence?’

  ‘It’s the commonest name in Italy.’

  ‘Screw it,’ said Barney. ‘I shall have to get at it another way.’

  She took out her address book, a trusty leather-bound friend. It did duty, too, as an autograph book, and was full of the lavish scrawls of the convent girls, ending with Annette Zamoyska who by hook or by crook would be last in this book, to which Bice Zardanelli had added, No you bloody won’t, I will. Loose photographs and a newspaper cutting about worming powders fell from the album, and a list of things to be seen in Florence, divided by Barney’s grandmother into ‘advisable’ and ‘essential’.

  ‘But what are you going to say if you get on to them?’

  Barney, dialling, raised her free hand in a superb gesture. ‘That depends on how they behave themselves.’

  Mrs Harrington answered herself with cries of delight and astonishment, rather more than the occasion called for, but it seemed that from the moment she had woken up that morning she had known that something nice was going to happen. How was Lavinia’s mother?

  ‘And your father?’ interrupted Toby Harrington. Evidently he was joining in on the extension. Certainly it didn’t look as though he could have much to do.

  ‘But your mother’s up and about again? I heard about it from so many people. I mean her poor legs.’

  ‘They’re better,’ said Barney. ‘She doesn’t like talking about them.’

  ‘Both of them touching the ground, eh?’ Toby persisted loudly.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t think of any kind of disability as a joking matter,’ said Mrs Harrington.

  ‘Oh, young Lavinia knows I don’t mean that. God, no.’

  ‘But the point is, my dear, where are you? Are you speaking from a hotel? We’d hoped that if you ever came to Tuscany you’d make our place a kind of centre —’

  ‘I’m only here for a week. I’m staying with Chiara Ridolfi, who I was at the convent with.’

  ‘Then you’re at La Ricordanza?’ This word was very carefully pronounced.

  ‘No, I’m at this flat in Florence. They seem to have two places, even though they’re so badly off. And then there’s a farm, somewhere out your way. There’s some relation farming there, I think.’

  ‘Valsassina,’ said Chiara quietly at her side.

  ‘It begins with a V. Anyway he must be a neighbour of yours, do you know him?’

  Mrs Harrington hesitated.

  ‘Cesare Ridolfi?’

  ‘I expect so.’

  ‘We have met him, but he seems perhaps not very sociable.’

  ‘Repressed, if you ask me,’ Toby broke in. ‘But never mind all that, Madge, ask the girl when she’s coming to see us.’

  ‘I’d like to come out to your place for lunch, if that’s convenient,’ said Barney.

  ‘Of course, and bring young Chiara Ridolfi with you, and her father too if you like.’

  Barney took a deep courageous breath.

  ‘Look here, Mrs H., do you know a doctor, I mean an Italian doctor living in Florence, called Salvatore, that means Our Blessed Saviour, surname Rossi? He’s a nerve doctor, that is, he doesn’t deal with mad people exactly, just people who find things getting a bit too much for them. He’s a proper qualified doctor, not the other sort.’

  ‘But, my dear child, what do you want a doctor for? Aren’t you well?’

  ‘I don’t want any old doctor,’ said Barney. ‘Only this one.’

  As it happened, the Harringtons did know Dr Rossi, at least professionally. It was Madge who had consulted him. After they had settled in to their farmhouse — not straight away, but after the decoration had all been seen to, and the drains — she had been troubled with sleeplessness and had thought it might have a physical cause, anaemia, perhaps, because moving takes it out of you, even to such a heavenly place as Tuscany. She had been recommended to Dr Rossi by her own doctor, as being the best man. But in the end he had almost laughed at her, Madge went on, though in a perfectly gentle way, if Barney knew what she meant. He’d said that anaemia of the brain was an affliction of the elderly, and as she certainly couldn’t call herself that, she had probably better consult someone concerned with the treatment of illnesses where the psychological factors were more important than the physical ones.

  Barney recognized the cue for sympathy, but hadn’t time for it just at the moment. ‘Did he say all that in Italian? I’d have been lost.’

  Yes, so would Mrs H, but she had taken Mr H along with her as interpreter.

  ‘But Dr Rossi doesn’t know any English at all?’

  ‘Not really, but you sense his personality.’

  ‘You’d call him the dominating type, then?’

  ‘I’d say, compelling.’

  ‘Did you feel overwhelmed while you were talking to him, rather as if you were losing your senses?’

  Madge Harrington appeared to be taken aback.

  ‘You see, Mummy isn’t quite herself.’ It’s speaking evil that good may come, Barney thought. ‘She asked me to find out about this man while I was over here. You see, he’s very well known, only she wanted me to find out a bit more because actually nobody seems to know anything much about him. Mummy’s changed a good deal lately, you know
, she’s quite desperate at times. She’s ready to try anything.’

  ‘But I thought her trouble was some form of arthritis?’

  ‘That’s what everyone thought, but they’ve changed their minds.’

  ‘I could ring up your mother this evening,’ said Mrs Harrington doubtfully. ‘Or I could ring her now, if you feel it’s really urgent.’

  Barney felt driven to the limits of her imagination.

  ‘No, I don’t want you to do that, it might upset her nerves, she mightn’t even know what you were talking about, and when she’s like that a word will set her off screaming. No, the best thing by far would be if you could get hold of this Dr Rossi and ask him to lunch as well. I don’t suppose he’d need a lot to eat on a working day. Tomorrow if you can, or the next day, because I’m due back in England quite soon. Then I can get an idea, you see, of what he’s like. There’s nothing like personal contact. I’m sure I should know at once whether he’d be the right person or not.’

  ‘You must remember that we only know him very slightly, Lavinia. Everything in this country seems quite relaxed, but when it comes to invitations you soon find there are all sorts of little rights and wrongs.’

  ‘Oh, but Chiara was born here, and she thinks it’s a very good idea.’

  27

  ‘But is he going to come?’

  It hardly seemed possible that the Harringtons had believed this story of Barney’s. But Chiara was conscious, in any case, of a disturbing though not distressing, withdrawal of reality, as though she was driven forward by some quite other motive than the old ones, and divided beyond recall from the rest of the world, who could hardly fail to realise the strangeness of her condition.

  Barney, also, was somewhat surprised, but this was qualified by frank self-congratulation. She understood pretty well, however, why the Harringtons had let themselves be taken in.

  Toby Harrington — ‘old Toby’ even then, and indeed he’d been called this since he was fifteen — had been a liaison officer with the South African Armoured Division at the recapture of Impruneta. About two years ago his wife had indulged him by letting him drive her round the battlegrounds, and when the recession in Italy had reached its lowest point they had bought one of the fifty thousand-odd empty farmhouses in Tuscany. They had had in mind something rather different from the other villa-purchasers whom they knew, who seemed to have entered a second childhood, sitting in the sunshine, playing with adult toys. Lo Scampolo — they didn’t mind their London friends referring to it as The Scampi — was only a modest place, but it was worth running it properly, and living there all the year round. It was a totally different matter from settling down, say, up at Bellosguardo where they would have had a thronged gossiping life, taking or giving refreshment with this or that informed chatterer. It was perhaps unfortunate that their little property was bounded on one side by the Ridolfi vineyards, with their almost speechless proprietor. It had only been by chance (when he had called round and offered to help them in any way, they only had to let him know) that they had realized that he spoke perfectly good English. But there had never been an opportunity to go any further, and it had been Cesare who had freed Madge Harrington at last from her illusions that Italians, as a race, were vivacious.

  ‘The H.’s seem pretty decent people,’ said Barney. ‘But they’ve got a serious weakness, which is that they want to get to know people.’

  ‘Why is that a weakness?’ Chiara asked.

  Later in the afternoon Toby rang back. ‘Don’t fall to bits,’ Barney told Chiara. ‘They’ve asked him and he’s coming. Perhaps he isn’t asked out often. Doctors and bank managers very often aren’t, you know. They know too much about other people.’ Chiara, who had been obliged to drive Annunziata to the Ricordanza that afternoon for some kind of conference, or possibly a dispute, with the gardener, stood poised in the doorway as though ready either to escape or advance, with the car keys dangling in her hand.

  ‘Barney,’ she said, ‘I don’t think we ought to do this. I can’t stand the idea of Salvatore being inspected, so to speak, for two hours like that.’

  ‘It was quite awkward for me to arrange to come here.’

  ‘I know, I know, and I shan’t forget it as long as I live.’

  ‘You’ll have to let me do things my own way. Remember that you’re intending to spend the rest of your life with him, no divorce over here. You’ll get a straight opinion from me without fear or favour.’

  ‘But how can you possibly tell me what he’s like in that time?’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. I can sum a person up pretty well with a firm hand-grip and straight look in the eyes.’

  ‘He won’t grip your hand, Barney, he’ll only just touch it, as my father did.’

  ‘Leave the gripping to me,’ said Barney. ‘You can tell a lot from the conditioned reflex.’

  28

  Toby Harrington drove into Florence to pick up the daughter of his good friend, Colonel Barnes. He had thought it would not be uninteresting to see the Ridolfi flat, but Lavinia was waiting for him at the outer gate. There she was, solidly planted on good leather shoes from Russell and Bromley, solidly constructed herself, towering and glowing with well-earned health. Toby got out and civilly opened the door for her.

  ‘Where’s your friend?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, she’s not coming.’

  ‘And her father?’

  ‘He’s gone to Rome.’

  Toby put the car in gear.

  ‘He’s left us more or less on our own,’ Barney added. ‘So there’s not much chance of your seeing him either. Don’t think I’m knocking the Count, though, he’s quite something to talk to, when you think about what he’s said after he’s said it you can see that he’s quite witty. It doesn’t really take much time to get to know him or Chiara either, they have natural good manners.’

  ‘Were good manners taught in your convent?’ Toby asked.

  Barney laughed heartily, showing teeth that would not have disgraced a fine young ogress.

  ‘You’re getting at me,’ she said.

  As they left the city she relaxed. She felt much safer in a car with Toby than with Chiara. When Chiara was driving she no longer recognized Barney’s authority, but sprang forward into or against the stream of traffic, heedless of the fines for not giving way, like a wild animal in its own habitat, whereas Toby kept peering cautiously round his substantial passenger to check on the lighthearted drivers coming in from the right. One after another the white-painted trunks of the plane-trees and the mighty billboards advertising aperitifs and building sites advanced towards them and fell behind. When they passed the Ricordanza Toby glanced up at it, but said nothing. At the turn-off to Lo Scampolo there was a small group of buildings, a shed, an unenterprising cantina and grocer’s shop, and a chapel with locked doors. Then the Harringtons’ Hillman seemed to brace itself for the dried-out dirt road.

  ‘I say, who’s responsible for keeping this up?’

  Toby said that the road was classed as local not provincial, and that it was a matter for negotiation. Well, he was thinking, so there’ll just be the four of us, if this medico bothers to turn up. Meanwhile the large bright blundering presence of this robust girl intimidated him. As the tiled roof of the Scampi came in sight he was unable not to hope for her approval. There was the faint suggestion of a regimental inspection.

  From a side window as they drew up came a movement between a wave and a flicker, which Toby recognized as a distress signal.

  ‘Madge is a bit of a perfectionist, you know. I expect something isn’t quite ready.’

  ‘I’ll go and help, if you like,’ said Barney. ‘It would be awkward for her, with me and Dr Rossi coming, if she’s made a hopeless mess of everything.’

  Toby thought it better to start with a tour of inspection, beginning with the outbuildings and the cellars. Here Barney emphatically condemned the ancient olive-press which Toby had put into working order with the greatest difficulty, making replicas for the w
ooden screws on a lathe which they’d brought with them from England. ‘You should try selling it to one of those antique people on Piazza San Spirito,’ she suggested. ‘You never know what things will fetch.’

  Toby spoke of making his own oil.

  ‘Don’t tell me that’s what this cousin of Chiara uses.’

  ‘That’s a different matter, it’s quite a large working estate, a fattoria, it’s run as a business.’

  Barney thought that in the country everything should be run as a business. But she was generous in her praise of the kitchen, where Madge, still toiling, had grown or pickled or dried everything herself, had done, it seemed, everything herself short of laying the eggs, and of the new bathroom, although there the bright ceramic tiles were sinking and rising a little as though still accommodating themselves to a new life. ‘It’ll help if I put all my weight on them,’ Barney called out, stamping. ‘They just need walking about on for an hour or two every day. They’re fine.’ The Harringtons felt consoled, all the more so because of her rejection of the olive-press. Total approval is never convincing.

  The dining-room, too, laid out with pottery and violet-coloured glass from Empoli, looked well. The windows stood open to the languid autumn air. ‘You couldn’t leave them open like this in England at this time of year,’ said Barney kindly.

  Toby was still fussing a little over the wine, whether to serve Valsassina, which would be neighbourly, even if the neighbour seemed rather a difficult fellow, or a Chianti classico. Barney was of the opinion that doctors didn’t drink wine at lunch for fear of cutting off the wrong patient’s leg afterwards. Madge, too, seemed mildly anxious.

  ‘I must admit, Lavinia, I don’t quite see how your mother expects you to form an opinion of Dr Rossi, and particularly as to whether he’d be a suitable consultant for her, in such a very short time.’

  ‘Oh, all our family are good at snap judgements, I expect it’s an inherited characteristic. You know, we had to take on a new gardener and his wife this summer, and when the first couple who came, you know, for an interview, a friend of Mummy’s rang up and said, “I saw your applicants at the station waiting for the bus and I don’t think they’ll turn out to be what you want, the husband hasn’t got the hands of a working man.” But when they arrived Mummy made up her mind at once. It’s a gift of hers.’