Illyrian Spring

by Ann Bridge

  The aqueduct, really only a pipeline in a solid concrete bed, lies fairly high up on the slopes of the ridge between Komolac and Ragusa, and follows round the contours of the hill till it reaches a point above the town, a distance of some seven or eight miles. Grace found a path through the level fields in the valley, crossed the road, and took a stony track up the slope beyond, through the olive trees. The low sun, striking level through the branches, lit up the silver undersides of the small fine leaves, so that the olive groves were filled with a sort of delicate illumination. Down in the fields a low growth of bay and myrtles bordered every path, as brambles border field paths in England; up here there were still myrtles, and great clumps of Phlomis fruticosa, a plant with bright yellow flowers and felt-like silver foliage, which brushed her skirts as she passed. What a countryside, she thought, which has bay and myrtle for brambles and phlomis for nettles, and pomegranates and arbutus for hazels and hawthorns! The richness and strangeness of flower and tree, in a land so arid, bleached as white as weathered bones, struck powerfully on her imagination. Presently she reached the aqueduct, and turned right along it; here she was above the olives, out on the open hill, and here a new wonder filled her with startled delight. The rocky hillside was covered with cistuses, purple and white, and the flowers were opening in the early sunlight, damp and crinkled still as a butterfly newly emerged from its dark chrysalis. For three or four hours that stretch of hillside would be bright with clouds of bloom, frail and ephemeral as butterflies – they would fall by noon. In Dalmatia these dry open slopes of the phrygana level are above all the place of flowers – in spring they are one vast rock garden filled with cistuses, irises, brooms and alliums; a rock garden on such a scale of size, richness and variety as no words can make credible. And on this May morning Lady Kilmichael’s path led her along the lower edge of one of these slopes, just where it blends gradually into the evergreen richness of the macchie. Every few yards some new flower entailed a pause and an exclamation of wonder and delight. Now it was a clover, furry and silver of leaf, with enormous flower heads of maroon and cream; now a patch of alliums, with great reddish-purple balls of bloom two inches across; now a dozen or more grape-hyacinths, standing in a miniature valley between grey rocks – but puce-coloured, not blue. As for the brooms, they were everywhere – some upstanding, stiff and yellow, with sparse blooms most delicately shaped and set, some cream-coloured and drooping. She gathered a little of everything for Nicholas – she collected flowers for Nicholas now just as she collected stones for Nigel, or embroideries for Linnet.

  This thought occurred to her when, after an hour’s walking, she stopped to rest. It was not yet seven, but she was already glad to sit in the shade of a small tufted pine tree beside the path. Munching with relish one of her crusts, dry and full of caraway seeds as it was, she glanced at the bunch of flowers beside her, and smiled. Yes, Nicholas might really be one of the children, the way she now collected things for him! Dear Nicholas – he had been very nice since he came back to Komolac; but what she ought to do next she did not know. She had tried to withdraw herself, and he had defeated that intention. Perhaps it was really better – separation sometimes poked people up, made them more aware of their own feelings; and the last thing she wanted to do was to poke him up. And looking down through the pines and myrtles at the emerald line of the Ombla, flowing below her, she thought for the twentieth time how strange it was that he should be so fond of her – a woman old enough to be his mother; not realising how much her own attitude, so nearly that of a mother to a child, had had to do with creating this affection.

  ‘I will love them and believe in them, whatever they are and whatever they do, because they are mine’ – that, unconscious but unescapable, is the attitude of parents. And whether mistakenly expressed, or not expressed at all, this attitude gives a most lovely sense of assurance, of certainty – in this one relationship spontaneous, in all others hard to come by, the fruit of cultivation and intention; a sense of assurance on which youth rests, supported; the safe base, paradoxically enough, from which it launches its merry and irresponsible onslaughts on authority and the tiresomeness of age. Something of this sense of reassurance Nicholas Humphries had from the outset had with Lady Kilmichael, just because there was so much of the maternal in her attitude; with her he was fearless and secure, feeling no need to fence and defend himself. He realised her age in theory – he knew perfectly well that she had sons almost as old as he; but as he had told her that day at the restaurant in Ragusa, when she was actually with him the years fell away, and she became the delightful friend; much wiser than he, infinitely wonderful in character, such a rock of safety and affection as his mother might be, a wellspring of more skilful happiness than his contemporaries could bring – lovely in person and most dear. But though Grace Kilmichael had caught a glimpse of this certainty and confidence in her affection, which more than anything else bound him to her, when he had so naïvely assumed that she wished him to rejoin her at Komolac, she was too little accustomed to thinking things out to see that just there lay the main clue to the whole business.

  She rose presently and followed the aqueduct round the hill along the estuary, through the villa gardens above the harbour at Gruz, till she came at last to one of the flights of steps which lead down through agaves, palms and roses to the Borgo. In spite of her crusts on the hillside she was hungry already, and she went in through the Porta Pile and along the Stradone to the restaurant in the Piazza, where she ordered rolls and coffee. It was only half-past seven, but all the shops were already open. Lina Amandi’s jackets and embroideries swung above the pavement, a brilliant mass of colour; M. Kraljic was flicking his trays of earrings with a bunch of hen’s feathers; Signor Lassi, the photographer, was examining some negatives outside his front door, holding them up to the cool glitter of the early sky. How sensible it was, she thought, drinking her coffee outside the restaurant, for a whole city thus to rise early, work during these cool delicious morning hours, and then rest through the midday heat. The bells of the Duomo and San Biagio chimed eight – perhaps it was rather too early to disturb the Dominicans; and when she had paid for her coffee she went off to the Duomo. But instead of taking the direct way thither, she went round through the Piazza delle Erbe.

  The morning vegetable market is another peculiar feature of the life of Ragusa. There is not a greengrocer’s shop in the whole place – fruit, salads and vegetables of all sorts are sold in the market between 7 and 10.30 a.m., and thereafter simply are not sold at all. The market women pack up their baskets and return to the country, taking their unsold produce with them, and the shopper who has failed to make her purchases while the market was open must either borrow from a neighbour, or wait till next day.

  Grace lingered there for some time, watching the women with their Roman faces under their white-kerchiefed heads bargaining, gossiping, joking, exchanging what was evidently the liveliest repartee in high screaming rather nasal tones. There was plenty of what Nicholas called ‘fancy dress’ in the Piazza delle Erbe. Neat serving-women in full dark skirts, white aprons, bodices with short puffed sleeves and dark sleeveless jackets embroidered round the armholes, paused by the stalls, basket on arm – fingering the aubergines, opening the flageolets to see if they were tender, examining the salads critically – while the vendors, similarly, but rather more brightly and dirtily dressed, screeched reassurance at them with flashing eyes and southern gestures. Regretting bitterly that she had not brought her sketchbook, Grace at last went into the Duomo.

  Mass was going on in several of the chapels when she went in, and she sat down to take her bearings. The paintings above the different altars were all uncovered at this early hour – the curtains which later protect them from the strong light, and are so reluctantly withdrawn by the sacristan for the midday visitor, were pulled to one side. Having discovered the Memling, she went and knelt in front of it, and looked her fill. It was a lovely thing, and almost certainly genuine – the long filbert nails were hi
ghly characteristic, she thought. Then she moved on to another chapel and examined the altarpiece there, and then to still others. No one paid any attention; the church was full of coming and going – above the pattering drone of the priests’ hurried syllables there was a perpetual soft scuffle of feet on stone as people passed in and out: market women who had left their stalls in the care of a friend to come and say the rosary, boys and girls on their way to the college further up the hill who slipped in, crossed themselves with holy water, heard five minutes of a mass and slipped out again. It was all very homely, casual and free – she had no sense of being an intruder. She was tired with her walk, and glad to rest, and when she had seen all the pictures and Mass was over, she still sat on, watching the sacristan draw the curtains and fuss about, in the almost empty church. It was quiet now; undisturbed, her thoughts strayed into familiar channels – to Walter, to the children, and at last to Nicholas. But imperceptibly the tone of her thoughts had altered since she knelt in the Martins-Kapelle at Spalato. Walter and the children – this time they were not ‘after all’ hers; they were just hers, her treasure and her joy – she found the current of her affection setting towards them full and clear, without checks and barriers of resentments or doubts. How strange! How had this come about? Was this the beginning of freedom, she wondered, or just a momentary impulse? She caught herself actually contemplating writing to Walter – it would be nice to hear how they all were! But there she pulled herself up. No – she must wait, be sure; she knew her own impulses, and how little they were to be trusted to wear well and durably. But in the meantime, how blessed was this sense of fearless love and affection, so confident and free!

  And with the idea of confidence, her thoughts turned to Nicholas. With curious vividness his image rose in her mind – his yellow head, his red face, his teasing grin, his eyes, whether searching or trustful, so steady in their gaze. Dear child! This time she did not put the thought of him aside – now he was very much hers; and when presently, unable as usual to resist the impulse to pray, she knelt in the Duomo, she prayed chiefly for Nicholas.

  It was past nine o’clock when she emerged again, and after the cool dim church the heat and light hit her like a blow. She went down across the Piazza to the monastery of the Dominicans. There she gained admittance to the church, and ignoring the urgency of the sacristan that she should admire the Titian, went and sat before the paintings of Nicolo Ragusano, that lovely creative spirit thrown up out of due time by the little free republic. Two unique things Ragusa has given to the world – the painter Nicolo, and the word ‘argosy,’ which is merely a corruption of Ragosy, the name by which her trading vessels were known in all the ports of Europe and the Levant in the sixteenth century, when under her Spanish Alliance a contingent of her ships sailed up the Channel with the Armada. Caught away into delight, Grace sat before Nicolo’s gracious saints, the pure flow of their draperies somehow emphasising the still perfection of their hands and faces, statue-like in their raised golden backgrounds, touched with that remoteness which is the Byzantine heritage. She forgot the time, and went on forgetting what she had forgotten all the morning, that she had promised to sit to Nicholas in the Tete Mare garden at half-past ten. It was only when the bells in the Campanile overhead raised a sudden clamour for the hour of ten that with a flash of dismay she remembered this, and fled.

  There was a bus from Gruz to Komolac at ten-thirty, and luck favouring her in the matter of a tram, she managed to catch it. The Komolac bus, as was stated plainly above its door, was constructed to carry fourteen persons, but twenty-six passengers were already inside it when Grace arrived – mostly market-women sitting on each other’s laps, their baskets, tied up in pale flowered aprons, piled all over the roof. Loudly and cheerfully they beckoned her in, pushed her along between them, and planted her firmly on someone’s knee. Lady Kilmichael, looking round to see who it was who was thus affording her a seat, found herself sitting on the lap of a Franciscan monk; he smiled and nodded very complacently to her. The driver started his engine, came in and gave Lady Kilmichael a ticket, and mounted to his seat. At the same moment all the women in the bus crossed themselves fervently, and then crossed themselves twice more, nodding once to their neighbour on the right, once to their neighbour on the left as they did so. It reminded Grace of drinking healths at a German wedding. Fascinated by this unwonted ritual, she took no part in it – this, however, could not be allowed; the woman who had pushed her down on to the monk’s lap seized her hand and made the sign of the cross for her, the correct number of times, while the others applauded.

  Before the drive to Komolac was over Lady Kilmichael felt that the precaution of crossing oneself was one which was certainly worth taking. The road was narrow, rutted and stony, and full of sharp bends; round these the driver shot at top speed, while the passengers lurched to and fro and bumped against one another. But nobody minded. The monk very amiably clasped Grace firmly round the middle from behind, to steady her, making intelligent conversation in French at the same time – a manifestation of impersonality and politeness which struck her as the very flower of good manners. The market women screamed gibes at one another at the pitch of their voices; the noise was really deafening, and by way of a hint the three men passengers, who each had a woman on his lap, ostentatiously tore up their bus tickets, rolled them into pellets and stuffed them into their ears. This witticism produced fresh paroxysms of mirth. The bus stopped opposite the steep tree-clad hill of Rožat, where Grace and Nicholas had landed on their sail up the Ombla, and the monk and one of the men got out – a little boat was waiting for them at the riverbank below the road. Grace saw it pull out across the current as they moved on again. At length they drew up outside Pavlé Burié’s office; the women descended, and still screaming and laughing collected their baskets as the driver handed them down off the roof one by one. What nice happy people they were, Grace thought, as she too got out; but goodness, what voices! No wonder her head ached. Her bunch of flowers was squashed and wilted, after being carried in her hand for so long – they wouldn’t be much good to Nicholas. Tired, remorseful at her lateness, she felt vaguely dispirited as she hurried along the fondamento – a very common reaction to rising at five in the morning.

  Nicholas was sitting in the garden, rather idly mixing paint on his palette. ‘Nicholas, I am so sorry! I forgot all about it,’ she said rather breathlessly as she came in.

  ‘What happened to you?’ he asked, getting up.

  ‘I walked to Ragusa to look at the pictures, and I forgot. I’m terribly sorry,’ she said, sitting down on the parapet.

  ‘You walked to Ragusa! What on earth for?’

  ‘Because it was so early, and such a lovely morning.’

  ‘What time did you start?’

  ‘Half-past five. Of course I could have been back in time if I’d thought. But never mind – we can begin now – there’s more than an hour before lunch.’

  He stood looking down at her. ‘You don’t look in the least fit to sit,’ he said. ‘Have you got a headache?’

  ‘No.’

  He stared hard at her. ‘You’re telling a story,’ he said accusingly, ‘you have got one. You’d better go up and lie down on your bed till lunch.’

  ‘No, really, Nicholas, there’s no need for that. I’ll have some coffee or something while I sit, and I shall be quite all right.’

  ‘Well, I shan’t paint you now, in any case, so you may as well rest,’ he said rather dourly, beginning to put his things together. ‘We can do it just as well this afternoon.’

  Vanquished by his firmness, Grace gave way. She settled that he should stay to lunch, so that they could begin immediately afterwards, and then went up to her room, put on a dressing gown and lay down. Oh, it was heavenly to lie still and shut her eyes. What a pity she hadn’t pulled down the venetian blinds – but she couldn’t be bothered to move.

  There was a knock at the door. ‘Avanti!’ she called – it was probably the Signora, come as usual to mother he
r. The door opened and Nicholas came in, carrying a glass of white wine on a tin tray.

  ‘You’d better have this,’ he said, ‘otherwise you won’t be able to digest your lunch.’ As she thanked him and began to sip it, he looked round the room. ‘Don’t you want those blinds down a bit?’ he asked. ‘There’s a terrific glare.’

  ‘Oh, thank you – yes, I wish you would,’ she said. His mixture of thoughtfulness and disapproval suddenly reminded her of Walter, and this amused her. Pulling down the blind of the landward window, he paused. ‘Hullo! There’s a most posh car coming up the road,’ he observed.

  ‘Tourists,’ said Grace indifferently. The wine and the fatigue together were making her sleepy. Dear boy – it was so sensible of him to have made her do this. As she handed him back the glass – ‘Thank you frightfully,’ she said, ‘it is darling of you to look after me like this, Nicholas, when I’ve been so tiresome.’

  He stood holding the glass, looking at her. ‘As far as that goes—’ he said slowly, and stopped. ‘You go to sleep!’ he said, and went out, shutting the door softly behind him.

  That evening about seven o’clock Nicholas and Lady Kilmichael were sitting among the oleanders outside the inn, taking a glass of wine together. This was a recognised practice in Komolac, and it amused them to conform to it; they had already found that one heard more amusing things about village concerns at that time and place than during all the rest of the day. They had had a satisfactory sitting in the afternoon; Grace was pleasantly tired, and both were in the most serene of humours. The evening light lay golden over Rožat, with its pines and its campanile, across the river; and seeing it, Grace was reminded to tell Nicholas about the monk in the bus. ‘He ended up by asking me to tea,’ she was saying, when she broke off suddenly, with an exclamation of surprise, and stared up the fondamento behind Nicholas’s head.