Works of E F Benson

by E. F. Benson

  CHAPTER VIII.

  Lucia, followed by Georgie, and preceded by an attendant, swept along the corridor behind the boxes on the grand tier at Covent Garden Opera House. They had dined early at their hotel and were in good time. She wore her seed-pearls in her hair, her gold Mayoral badge, like an Order, on her breast, and her gown was of a rich, glittering russet hue like cloth of copper. A competent-looking lady, hovering about with a small note book and a pencil, hurried up to her as the attendant opened the door of the box.

  “Name, please,” he said to Lucia.

  “The Mayor of Tilling,” said Lucia, raising her voice for the benefit of the lady with the note book.

  He consulted his list.

  “No such name, ma’am,” he said. “Madam has given strict orders—”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Pillson,” suggested Georgie.

  “That’s all right, sir “; and in they went.

  The house was gleaming with tiaras and white shoulders, and loud with conversation. Lucia stood for a minute at the front of the box which was close to the stage, and nodded and smiled as she looked this way and that, as if recognising friends . . . But, oh, to think that she might have been recognised, too, if only Irene had portrayed her in the Picture of the Year! They had been to see it this afternoon, and Georgie, also, had felt pangs of regret that it was not he with his Vandyck beard who sprawled windily among the clouds. But in spite of that he was very happy for in a few minutes now he would hear and see his adorable Olga again, and they were to lunch with her to-morrow at her hotel.

  A burst of applause hailed the appearance of Cortese, composer, librettist and, to-night, conductor of Lucrezia. Lucia waggled her hand at him. He certainly bowed in her direction (for he was bowing in all directions), and she made up her mind to scrap her previous verdict on the opera and be enchanted with it.

  The Royal party unfortunately invisible from Lucia’s box arrived, and after the National Anthem the first slow notes of the overture wailed on the air.

  “Divine!” she whispered to Georgie. “How well I remember dear Signor Cortese playing it to me at Riseholme. I think he took it a shade faster . . . There! Lucrezia’s motif, or is it the Pope’s? Tragic splendour. The first composer in Europe.”

  If Georgie had not known Lucia so well, he would scarcely have believed his ears. On that frightful evening, three years ago, when Olga had asked her to come and hear “bits” of it, she had professed herself outraged at the hideous, modern stuff, but there were special circumstances on that occasion which conduced to pessimism. Lucia had let it be widely supposed that she talked Italian with ease and fluency, but when confronted with Cortese, it was painfully clear that she could not understand a word he said. An awful exposure . . . Now she was in a prominent box, guest of the prima donna, at this gala performance, she could not be called upon to talk to Cortese without annoying the audience very much, and she was fanatic in admiration. She pressed Georgie’s hand, emotion drowning utterance; she rose in her place at the end of Olga’s great song in the first act, crying “Brava! Brava!” in the most correct Italian, and was convinced that she led the applause that followed.

  During the course of the second act, the box was invaded by a large lady, clad in a magnificent tiara, but not much else, and a small man, who hid himself at the back. Lucia felt justly indignant at this interruption, but softened when the box-attendant appeared with another programme, and distinctly said “Your Grace” to the large lady. That made a difference, and during the interval Lucia talked very pleasantly to her (for when strangers were thrown together stiffness was ridiculous) and told her how she had heard her beloved Olga run through some of her part before the opera was produced, and that she had prophesied a huge success for it. She was agonising to know what the large lady was the Grace of, but could scarcely put so personal a question on such short acquaintance. She did not seem a brilliant conversationalist, but stared rather fixedly at Georgie . . . At the end of the opera there was immense enthusiasm: Olga and Cortese were recalled again and again, and during these effusions, Her unidentified Grace and her companion left: Lucia presumed that they were husband and wife as they took no notice of each other. She regretted their disappearance, but consoled herself with the reflection that their names would appear in the dazzling list of those who would be recorded in the press to-morrow as having attended the first performance of Lucrezia. The competent female in the corridor would surely see to that.

  Georgie lay long awake that night. The music had excited him, and, more than the music, Olga herself. What a voice, what an exquisite face and presence, what an infinite charm! He recalled his bachelor days at Riseholme, when Lucia had been undisputed Queen of that highly-cultured village and he her cavaliere servente, whose allegiance had been seriously shaken by Olga’s advent. He really had been in love with her, he thought, and the fact that she had a husband alive then, to whom she was devoted, allowed a moral man like him to indulge his emotions in complete security. It had thrilled him with daring joy to imagine that, had Olga been free, he would have asked her to marry him, but even in those flights of fancy he knew that her acceptance of him would have put him in a panic. Since then, of course, he had been married himself, but his union with Lucia had not been formidable, as they had agreed that no ardent tokens of affection were to mar their union. Marriage, in fact, with Lucia might be regarded as a vow of celibacy. Now, after three years, the situation was reversing itself in the oddest manner. Olga’s husband had died and she was free, while his own marriage with Lucia protected him. His high moral principles would never suffer him to be unfaithful to his wife. “I am not that sort of man,” he said to himself. “I must go to sleep.”

  He tossed and turned on his bed. Visions of Olga as he had seen her to-night floated behind his closed eyelids. Olga as a mere girl at the fête of her infamous father Pope Alexander VI: Olga at her marriage in the Sistine Chapel to the Duke of Biseglia: his murder in her presence by the hired bravos of His Holiness and her brother. The scenery was fantastically gorgeous (“not Shakespearian at all, Georgie,” Lucia had whispered to him), but when Olga was on the stage, he was conscious of nothing but her. She outshone all the splendour, and never more so than when, swathed in black, she followed her husband’s bier, and sang that lament — or was it a song of triumph?— “Amore misterioso, celeste, profondo.” . . . “I believe I’ve got a very passionate nature,” thought Georgie, “but I’ve always crushed it.”

  It was impossible to get to sleep, and wheeling out of bed, he lit a cigarette and paced up and down his room. But it was chilly, and putting on a smart blue knitted pullover he got back into bed again. Once more he jumped up; he had no ashtray, but the lid of his soap-dish would do, and he reviewed Life.

  “I know Tilling is very exciting,” he said to himself, “for extraordinary things are always happening, and I’m very comfortable there. But I’ve no independence. I’m devoted to Lucia, but what with breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner, as well as a great deal in between . . . And then how exasperating she is as Mayor! What with her ceaseless jaw about her duties and position I get fed up. Those tin boxes with nothing in them! Mrs. Simpson every morning with nothing to do! I want a change. Sometimes I almost sympathise with Elizabeth, when Lucia goes rolling along like the car of Juggernaut, squish-squash, whoever comes in her way. And yet it’s she, I really believe, who makes things happen, just because she is Lucia, and I don’t know where we should be without her. Good gracious, that’s the second cigarette I’ve smoked in bed, and I had my full allowance before. Why didn’t I bring up my embroidery? That often makes me sleepy. I shall be fit for nothing to-morrow, lying awake like this, and I must go shopping in the morning, and then we lunch with Olga, and catch the afternoon train back to That Hole. Damn everything!”

  Georgie felt better in the morning after two cups of very hot tea brought him by Foljambe who had come up as their joint maid. He read his paper, breakfasting in his room, as in his comfortable bachelor days. There was a fervent
notice of Lucrezia, but no indication, since there had been five Duchesses present, as to which their particular Grace was, who had rather embarrassed him by her fixed eye. But then Foljambe brought him another paper which Lucia wanted back. She had marked it with a blue pencil, and there he read that the Duke and Duchess of Sheffield and the Mayor of Tilling had attended the opera in Miss Bracely’s box. That gave him great satisfaction, for all those folk who had looked at their box so much would now feel sure that he was the Mayor of Tilling . . . Then he went out alone for his shopping, as Lucia sent word that she had received some agenda for the next Council meeting, which she must study, and thoroughly enjoyed it. He found some very pretty new ties and some nice underwear, and he could linger by attractive windows, instead of going to some improving exhibition which Lucia would certainly have wished to do. Then in eager trepidation he went to the Ritz for lunch, and found that Lucia had not yet arrived. But there was Olga in the lounge, who hailed him on a high soprano note, so that everybody knew that he was Georgie, and might have guessed, from the timbre, that she was Olga.

  “My dear, how nice to see you,” she cried. “But a beard, Georgie! What does it mean? Tell me all about it. Where’s your Lucia? She hasn’t divorced you already, I hope? And have a cocktail? I insist, because it looks so bad for an elderly female to be drinking alone, and I am dying for one. And did you like the opera last night? I thought I sang superbly; even Cortese didn’t scold me. How I love being in stuffy old London again; I’m off to Riseholme to-night for a week, and you must — Ah, here’s Lucia! We’ll go into lunch at once. I asked Cortese, but he can’t come in till afterwards. Only Poppy Sheffield is coming, and she will probably arrive about tea-time. She’ll be terribly taken up with Georgie, because she adores beards, and says they are getting so rare nowadays. Don’t be alarmed, my lamb: she doesn’t want to touch them, but the sight of them refreshes her in some psychic manner. Oh, of course, she was in your box last night. She hates music, and hears it only as a mortification of the flesh, of which she has plenty. Quite gaga, but so harmless.”

  Olga was a long time getting to her table, because she made many greetings on the way, and Lucia began to hate her again. She was too casual, keeping the Mayor of Tilling standing about like this, and Lucia, who had strong views about maquillage, was distressed to see how many women, Olga included, were sadly made-up. And yet how marvellous to thread her way through the crowded restaurant with the prima donna, not waiting for a Duchess: if only some Tillingites had been there to see! Per contra, it was rather familiar of Olga to put her hand on Georgie’s shoulder and shove him into his place. Lucia stored up in separate packets resentment and the deepest gratification.

  Asparagus. Cold and very buttery. Olga picked up the sticks with her fingers and then openly sucked them. Lucia used a neat little holder which was beside her plate. Perhaps Olga did not know what it was for.

  “And you and Georgie must come to Riseholme for the week-end,” she said. “I get down to-night, so join me to-morrow.”

  Lucia shook her head.

  “Too sweet of you,” she said, “but impossible, I’m afraid. So many duties. To-morrow is Friday, isn’t it? Yes: a prize-giving to-morrow afternoon, and something in the evening, I fancy. Borough Bench on Monday at ten. One thing after another; no end to them, day after day. It was only by the rarest chance I was able to come up yesterday.”

  Georgie knew that this was utter rubbish. Lucia had not had a single municipal engagement for four days, and had spent her time in bicycling and sketching and playing Bridge. She just wanted to impress Olga with the innumerable duties of her position.

  “Too bad!” said Olga. “Georgie, you mustn’t let her work herself to death like this. But you’ll come, won’t you, if we can’t persuade her.”

  Here was an opportunity for independent action. He strung himself up to take it.

  “Certainly. Delighted. I should adore to,” he said with emphasis.

  “Capital. That’s settled then. But you must come, too, Lucia. How they would all love to see you again at Riseholme.”

  Lucia wanted to go, especially since Georgie would otherwise go without her, and she would have been much disconcerted if her refusal had been taken as final. She pressed two fingers to her forehead.

  “Let me think!” she said. “I’ve nothing after Friday evening, have I, Georgie, till Monday’s Council? I always try to keep Saturdays free. No: I don’t think I have. I could come down with Georgie, on Saturday morning, but we shall have to leave again very early on Monday. Too tempting to refuse, dear Olga. The sweet place, and those busy days, or so they seemed then, but now, by comparison, what a holiday!”

  Poppy appeared just as they had finished lunch, and Lucia was astonished to find that she had not the smallest idea that they had ever met before. When reminded, Poppy explained that when she went to hear music a total oblivion of all else seized her.

  “Carried away,” she said. “I don’t know if I’m on my head or my heels.”

  “If you were carried away you’d be on your back,” said Olga. “What do you want to eat?”

  “Dressed crab and plenty of black coffee,” said Poppy decidedly. “That’s what keeps me in perfect health.” She had just become conscious of Georgie, and had fixed her eye on his beard, when Cortese plunged into the restaurant and came, like a bore up the River Severn, to Olga’s table, loudly lamenting in Italian that he had not been able to come to lunch. He kissed her hand, he kissed Poppy’s hand, and after a short pause for recollection, he kissed Lucia’s hand.

  “Si, si,” he cried, “it is the lady who came to hear the first trial of Lucrezia at your Riseholme, and spoke Italian with so pure an accent. Come sta, signora?” And he continued to prattle in Italian.

  Lucia had a horrid feeling that all this had happened before, and that in a moment it would be rediscovered that she could not speak Italian. Lunch, anyhow, was over, and she could say a reluctant farewell. She summoned up a few words in that abhorred tongue.

  “Cara,” she said to Olga, “we must tear ourselves away. A rivederci, non e vero, dopo domani. But we must go to catch our train. A poor hard-worked Mayor must get back to the call of duty.”

  “Oh, is he a Mayor?” asked Poppy with interest. “How very distinguished.”

  There was no time to explain; it was better that Georgie should be temporarily enthroned in Poppy’s mind as Mayor, rather than run any further risks, and Lucia threaded her way through the narrow passage between the tables. After all she had got plenty of material to work up into noble narrative at Tilling. Georgie followed and slammed the door of the taxi quite crossly.

  “I can’t think why you were in such a hurry,” he said. “I was enjoying myself, and we shall only be kicking our heels at the station.”

  “Better to run no risk of missing our train,” she said. “And we have to pick up Foljambe and our luggage.”

  “Not at all,” said Georgie. “We particularly arranged that she should meet us with it at Victoria.”

  “Georgie, how stupid of me!” said the shameless Lucia. “Forgive me.”

  Lucia found that she had no engagement for the next evening, and got up a party for dinner and Bridge in order casually to disseminate these magnificent experiences. Mr. Wyse and Diva, (Susan being indisposed) the Mapp-Flints and the Padre and Evie were her guests. It rather surprised her that nobody asked any questions at dinner, about her visit to London, but, had she only known it, Tilling had seen in the paper that she and a Duke and Duchess had been in Olga’s box, and had entered into a fell conspiracy, for Lucia’s good, not to show the slightest curiosity about it. Thus, though her guests were starving for information, conversation at dinner had been entirely confined to other topics, and whenever Lucia made a casual allusion to the opera, somebody spoke loudly about something else. But when the ladies retired into the garden-room the strain on their curiosity began to tell, and Lucia tried again.

  “So delightful to get back to peaceful Tilling,” she
said, as if she had been away for thirty-six weeks instead of thirty-six hours, “though I fear it is not for long. London was such a terrible rush. Of course the first thing we did was to go to the Academy to see the Picture of the Year, dear Elizabeth.”

  That was crafty: Elizabeth could not help being interested in that.

  “And could you get near it, dear?” she asked.

  “Easily. Not such a great crowd. Technically I was a wee bit disappointed. Very vigorous, of course, and great bravura—”

  “What does that mean?” asked Diva.

  “How shall I say it? Dash, sensational effect, a too obvious dexterity,” said Lucia, gesticulating like a painter doing bold brush-work. “I should have liked more time to look at it, for Irene will long to know what I think about it, but we had to dress and dine before the opera. Dear Olga had given us an excellent box, a little too near the stage perhaps.”

  It was more than flesh and blood could stand: the conspiracy of silence broke down.

  “I saw in the paper that the Duke and Duchess of Sheffield were there, too,” said Evie.

  “In the paper was it?” asked Lucia with an air of great surprise. “How the press ferrets things out! He and Poppy Sheffield came in in the middle of the second act. I was rather cross, I’m afraid, for I hate such interruptions.”

  Elizabeth was goaded into speech.

  “Most inconsiderate,” she said. “I hope you told her so, Worship.”

  Lucia smiled indulgently.

  “Ah, people who aren’t really musical — poor Poppy Sheffield is not — have no idea of the pain they give. And what has happened here since Georgie and I left?”

  “Seventeen to tea yesterday,” said Diva. “What was the opera like?”

  “Superb. Olga sang the great scene to me years ago and I confess I did not do it justice. A little modern for my classical taste, but a very great work. Very. And her voice is still magnificent; perhaps a little sign of forcing in the top register, but then I am terribly critical.”