Lady's Maid

by Margaret Forster

  Within a month Wilson saw with her own eyes that she had been right. In a letter to Minnie, who seemed the natural recipient of the account she wished to give, she described how

  — when first she was taken ill Minnie, which I expect you have heard of from Miss Arabel, who I dare say was given a terrible fright as were we all, many despaired of her life but I did not and I am pleased to say my faith was justified. We came here to Siena, where I have been before, though to a different house, to visit my husband who accompanied the Brownings last month, the doctor having ordered Mrs Browning to be taken out of this city or he would not answer for the consequences. The villa is very beautiful and large and it has been possible for myself and my baby and my husband to stay together which is a very great privilege and one I did not look to have extended to me. I tell you, Minnie, I have fallen from favour of late and through no fault of my own, whereas my husband and son rest high in Mrs Browning’s estimation. The truth is, she does not seem to wish to see me and will think of every excuse to keep me out of her presence. I did not therefore expect to be invited here and was resigned to being by myself yet again and sure my spirits would once more be lowered. This not being the case I have benefited much from the peace and quiet and from the fresh air. But Minnie I ought to have suspected there was more to this kindness than appeared and so there is. Are you acquainted if only by repute with a Mr Landor who is a poet? He is an old man who Mr Browning met in the burning streets of Florence last month half out of his wits and with nowhere to go his wife having thrown him out for what reason I do not know. Mr Browning out of the kindness of his heart and because Mr Landor I believe was once his champion when no one thought anything of him brought the old gentleman to Siena and prevailed upon Mr Story his friend to take him in. He was afraid to keep him in his own house because the old fellow rants and raves upon occasion and might distress Mrs Browning. But now there is the pressing problem of what to do with Mr Landor who seems incapable of acting for himself. The Storys leave for Rome at the end of this month and cannot take him with them. The Brownings have no room in the Casa Guidi should they ever be willing to shelter him and in any case intend to follow the Storys for another winter in Rome (entailing another in Florence alone for me). Now they have brought forward a plan which is that they should lend me sufficient money to rent another house in which Mr Landor is to have the first floor, comprising three rooms, a book closet, and a terrace, and I am to reside on the ground floor and care for him receiving £30 a year for my trouble. That is a great deal of money Minnie which I do not need to tell you and would without doubt enable me to bring over my first-born at long last. The house I now rent could be let again and in all I might find myself with a handsome income. This prospect is pleasing to me but I have seen Mr Landor and confess myself alarmed. He is large Minnie and loud and not altogether sensible often and I would have no other man in the house to manage him if need be. His wife who I am told still resides up at Fiesole has been heard to call her husband ‘the old Brute’ and when a wife speaks thus I am more of a mind to listen than not. But it is hard to resist this plan put before me and indeed it ought to be tried since I have no other resource. I have given up begging to be taken back into service since it is plain Annunciata is preferred. She of course is in a hurry to return to Rome where she left a sweetheart and has offered to do the ironing there to save on laundry expenses so great is her anxiety to be taken. As to my husband, he does what he is told as ever and I have faced the truth long ago that the Brownings are more important to him than I am. But he has been very loving this summer and much cast down by the failure of the Italian cause and I will not grudge him a livelier time of it in Rome. Next year Minnie I will be forty and hardly able to believe it but I am resolved to make great changes with the help of a hard winter’s work. I have seen at long last that I need to be free of my beloved mistress and even as I write that word it is hollow for how can I love one who no longer has the least regard for me? Is it always thus, Minnie? You have had a long life of service and time to look back on it and if I did not know how your arthritis troubles you and with what difficulty you pen your kind notes I would ask you to help me in this. Is everything I did for Miss Elizabeth worthless and am I foolish to expect more of her? It seems to me often that her husband is kinder and more thoughtful. I have not seen her alone face to face all the time we have been here and when I do see her in company she is wont to turn from me. Who would have thought it would come to this? Think of me, Minnie, as I think of you.

  Putting her pen down, Wilson sighed. Thinking of Minnie was to think of days long ago when she had been at the centre of things. Now, unless she could rescue herself, she had not even a place on the outside of Mrs Browning’s life and what troubled her most was that she cared. What she must teach herself to do was to stop caring, learn to stand up for herself.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  WILSON LIKED THIS other house. Taken by Mr Browning to view it – though since it had already been rented her approval was of no importance – she was at once charmed. It was a small house, directly behind the church of Santa Maria del Carmine, and a good deal less gloomy than the other next to the Casa Guidi. Though it was much less grand, it reminded her of what her mistress had called ‘the doll’s house’, that little house they had rented for six months in the winter of ’48 in the Piazza Pitti. She could see its possibilities straight away, something she had never seen in those gloomy other chambers. But that was not all: Mr Browning said Mr Landor’s rooms were all to be painted, carpeted and furnished and that he thought her own quarters might at least be painted if she contributed only a little to the cost. Wilson hesitated over how little ‘little’ would be but, when she heard the sum, could not resist agreeing since it was so very small. The painters being on the premises, and the landlord seeing the advantage, the job was done cheaply. (Ferdinando said he expected the profit on Mr Landor’s rooms was so enormous it covered the cost of the rest more than double.)

  Wilson bore the departure of the Brownings and her husband stoically this time. She was determined to make a go of this new house, in which she felt so much more cheerful, and understood fully how much depended on Mr Landor’s tractability. She must see that he was comfortable and cared for so that with contentment would come peace. To help her, she had a new maid, Teresa, older and more confident than Maria, who had left to be a nursemaid. Wilson left Teresa in no doubt as to her main function in the house: keeping the old gentleman happy. His every whim was to be catered for, however strange, and he must be put first at all times. This was more difficult than it sounded since he did not keep either regular or normal hours. He was capable of wanting nothing all day, of sending every meal away and not allowing Teresa in, even to make up his fire or turn down his bed, and then, around midnight, calling for his breakfast and complaining he was cold because the fire had gone out. It would have driven every other landlady to distraction but Wilson was determined not to be bested.

  When he roared for food at midnight, she attended to him herself. She went to him, wearing her dress over her shift, and said, ‘Now, Mr Landor, sir, what is this, at this hour, sir?’

  ‘This is hunger, woman, this is starvation!’ he shouted. ‘This is a disgrace and I won’t have it and I will have my coffee and rolls and eggs and I will have a good fire or I leave tomorrow and to hell with you.’

  ‘It is midnight, sir …’

  ‘I don’t give a damn what time it is. My stomach says it is hungry and that’s the only time I know. You’re idle, the lot of you.’

  ‘Idle I am not, sir, but at midnight my stomach says it is asleep and if it must be wakened it needs warning.’

  ‘Then warning it is given – ten minutes and no more, mind. Quick with you, be off and see to it.’

  Furious, Wilson went down into the freezing kitchen, where the well banked-up fire had not quite died down, and poked it vigorously until it began to burn up. The kettle sang quite quickly and meanwhile the stove, never entirely allowed to g
o out in the winter, had coughed into life. She warmed yesterday’s bread and cooked three eggs and laid a tray and took the lot upstairs, meaning to return with coals for Mr Landor’s fire as soon as he was placated with the food. He was asleep. She put the tray down noisily, made sure the coffee with its strong smell was under his nose, even lit a lamp, but to no avail. He snored, deeply asleep. Standing over him, she saw how very old he must be, with the skin of his face and neck pleated in heavy folds of wrinkles and his wild hair quite sparse and white, and only her respect for his years prevented her from shaking him. Instead, she covered him with a blanket and put a cushion behind his head and blew out both lamp and candle.

  In the morning, he was without any memory of the night before. When she heard movement above – there was no shouting – Wilson went up and knocked on the door and was told, in the most mild of voices, to come in. Mr Landor was standing scratching himself, and none too particular about where. The tray remained untouched. He seemed bewildered, shuffled about his room yawning and stretching, and only after several minutes of this focused on Wilson at all.

  ‘You are not my wife,’ he said, startled. ‘In the name of God you aren’t. Who the devil are you?’

  ‘I am Signora Romagnoli,’ Wilson said calmly, ‘and I am your landlady who you called in the middle of the night to give you food and there it is.’

  ‘Well, it is cold and I do not want it. But I am very glad you are not my wife for she is a bitch.’ He rubbed his eyes hard, like some truculent baby. ‘I am tired and my throat is dry. What time is it?’

  ‘Ten in the morning.’

  ‘What morning?’

  ‘January 7th, sir.’

  ‘What year?’

  ‘1860.’

  ‘What place?’

  ‘Florence.’

  ‘What am I doing here?’

  ‘Mr Browning brought you, sir.’

  ‘Mr Browning? Mr Browning? What was he doing with me? What business do I have with him? The world has gone mad.’

  Gradually, Wilson learned how to deal with the old man. The roars in the night, it turned out, could safely be ignored. Once this was understood, it became part of the pattern and both Wilson and Teresa and even the landlord’s son, who slept in the garret, all sighed at the disturbance then turned over and went back to sleep. A few more yells and crashings about and Mr Landor invariably wrapped himself in a quilt and fell asleep. But no daytime cry could be left to die out – it must be investigated immediately or the rage was tremendous. Only let there be a five-minute delay and pots would be thrown, furniture overturned and the servant arriving, whether Teresa or Wilson herself, threatened with clenched fist. So the moment the shout was heard, one of them would rush and then try to provide what was wanted on the instant. The real problems arose when that something was unobtainable. It was impossible to explain that strawberries were not available and nor was a copy of The Times. In such cases, it was best to say one would go directly and to rush out of the room and hope the substitute finally brought would convince him this was what had been asked for. That was all that was necessary and to proffer whatever it was, saying with great emphasis ‘Here is what you asked for, sir’. Often, he would say thank you, and take it, or look puzzled but always take it. The fatal approach was to falter and say that whatever he had asked for could not be found – then, the violence was terrifying.

  Wilson, writing to Mr Browning to report how his self-imposed charge fared, expressed the opinion that

  — he is not exactly mad, sir, begging your pardon, as unable to remember himself. He is ever confused and his confusion makes him angry and I cannot see that it can be helped though it is hard to endure. Were he among familiars it might help him but as it is he cannot place himself here and it is pitiful to see how lost he is. He does not go abroad much which is as well since he has little sense of direction and has twice been found many miles from home wandering the streets. I cannot prevent him going forth, but am ever relieved when he has returned. As to the poetry, sir, I do not think there is much done in that direction though paper aplenty is screwed up and thrown on the floor.

  Wilson found it hard to believe Mr Landor had ever written poetry, that he had ever been judged a great poet, but Miss Blagden, who had moved into the Casa Guidi for the winter, swore that he had been much admired and gave her a whole list of his published works. ‘He is not like a poet,’ Wilson said, sniffing, ‘and I have lived with two of them.’

  ‘You mean poets may not have tempers, do you not?’ Miss Blagden said with a smile. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘No, ma’am, though temper he has and …’

  ‘Oh, he is famous for it and I believe sent down from Oxford for it. He is very old, you know, Wilson. Eighty-five, I think.’

  ‘It is on account of his age I restrain myself, ma’am. But it is not his temper makes him unlike any poet I have ever known so much as his, well, as his coarseness in general. He has no love of beauty that I can see. I cannot think what his poetry would be like.’

  ‘It is dramatic stuff, I believe, though I confess not to have read any. He has had an unhappy life, when all is said and done, unhappy in the personal department. It is fortunate for him that Mr Browning has rescued him. Dear Robert, such affecting tenderness.’

  ‘He is a kind man, certainly.’

  Something in the way this was said clearly caught Miss Blagden’s attention. Wilson saw she was scrutinised enquiringly and blushed. ‘A very kind man and always good to me,’ she said with more emphasis. It would not do to have Miss Blagden imagine she bore any grudge.

  Nor did she, against him. In fact, as the winter wore on, she felt grateful rather than otherwise. Her savings mounted and she was confident that come the summer she would be able to afford a journey to England. This time, with some need to be cautious and not show her hand too soon, she said nothing to Ellen whom she judged would most likely have forgotten she had sworn to come and get Oreste herself. Forgotten, or decided it had been idle talk, a vow impossible to realise. So all winter Wilson wrote only of Pilade and of Mr Landor, innocent gossipy letters which would most likely bore Ellen but not alarm her. Meanwhile, the moment there was a hint of spring in the air, she began to lay her plans. Not for nothing had she made all those journeys with her employers – she now showed herself to have a familiarity with timetables quite out of the ordinary and was able to spot at once where a connection could be made. The Brownings and Ferdinando would be back in June so it would be best to go at once, when it would be more likely that her absence would be looked on leniently. And she would provide a substitute for the two weeks she reckoned it would take her, an English maid called Phoebe Crabbe with whom she had become friendly. Phoebe was her own age, near forty, and had been left behind in Wilson’s old house when her employers went home because she was ill with flu and unable to travel. Wilson had nursed her and taken care of her and Phoebe was only too willing to show her gratitude. It was all planned.

  Afterwards, Wilson could not forgive herself for endangering these beautifully laid plans. It horrified her to think how foolish she had been and she could only excuse herself on the grounds that she had suffered some kind of fit. That was what it was, a fit, during which something in her burst and she lost control of herself – or perhaps it had had something to do with the terrible heat. Once upon a time, she had been able to withstand Florentine summers better than any English woman she knew but of late they had begun to tire her, to make her feel that in everything she did she was pushing a large boulder up a hill. It was her age she supposed, and nothing could be done about it. But that late June day, soon after the Brownings and Ferdinando returned from Rome, she felt more than exhausted. She felt as though she were suffocating in the heat, as though it were stopping her nostrils, sealing her mouth, and when she tried to breathe it forced itself down into her stomach and made her heave. Twice that morning, before even the heat was at its worst, she had to lie down and mop her face with a cold wet cloth and when she took the cloth from her
skin it seemed to steam. She had been woken up at one in the morning by Mr Landor and again at four, and both times he had been abusive, calling her ‘a bitch as fat and stupid’ as his wife. When his dinner arrived from the trattoria – he had told her long ago he preferred their food to hers which suited her perfectly well – it was eight minutes late. She took it up the stairs herself, adding another two minutes to the delay because she had to pause and rest half-way up. She was scarlet in the face and perspiring profusely by the time she entered the old gentleman’s room. The moment she did so he was on her, grabbing her by the arm, so that the tray shook violently in her slippery hands, trying to drag her to the clock as he screamed, ‘Look! Look! Is that the hour I ordered my dinner? Is that how a gentleman should be treated?’