Chapter 9

That one of the two sitting-rooms which Mrs. Fisher had taken for her

own was a room of charm and character. She surveyed it with

satisfaction on going into it after breakfast, and was glad it was

hers. It had a tiled floor, and walls the colour of pale honey, and

inlaid furniture the colour of amber, and mellow books, many in ivory

or lemon-coloured covers. There was a big window overlooking the sea

towards Genoa, and a glass door through which she could proceed out on

to the battlements and walk along past the quaint and attractive

watch-tower, in itself a room with chairs and a writing table, to where

on the other side of the tower the battlements ended in a marble seat,

and one could see the western bay and the point round which began the

Gulf of Spezia. Her south view, between these two stretches of sea, was

another hill, higher than San Salvatore, the last of the little

peninsula, with the bland turrets of a smaller and uninhabited castle

on the top, on which the setting sun still shone when everything else

was sunk in shadow. Yes, she was very comfortably established here; and

receptacles—Mrs. Fisher did not examine their nature closely, but they

seemed to be small stone troughs, or perhaps little sarcophagi—ringed

round the battlements with flowers.

These battlements, she thought, considering them, would have been a

perfect place for her to pace up and down gently in moments when she

least felt the need of her stick, or to sit in on the marble seat,

having first put a cushion on it, if there had not unfortunately been a

second glass door opening on to them, destroying their complete

privacy, spoiling her feeling that the place was only for her. The

second door belonged to the round drawing-room, which both she and Lady

Caroline had rejected as too dark. That room would probably be sat in

by the women from Hampstead, and she was afraid they would not confine

themselves to sitting in it, but would come out through the glass door

and invade her battlements. This would ruin the battlements. It would

ruin them as far as she was concerned if they were to be overrun; or

even if, not actually overrun, they were liable to be raked by the eyes

of persons inside the room. No one could be perfectly at ease if they

were being watched and knew it. What she wanted, what she surely had a

right to, was privacy. She had no wish to intrude on the others; why

then should they intrude on her? And she could always relax her privacy

if, when she became better acquainted with her companions, she should

think it worth while, but she doubted whether any of the three would so

develop as to make her think it worth while.

Hardly anything was really worth while, reflected Mrs. Fisher, except

the past. It was astonishing, it was simply amazing, the superiority of

the past to the present. Those friends of hers in London, solid persons

of her own age, knew the same past that she knew, could talk about it

with her, could compare it as she did with the tinkling present, and in

remembering great men forget for a moment the trivial and barren young

people who still, in spite of the war, seemed to litter the world in

such numbers. She had not come away from these friends, these

conversable ripe friends, in order to spend her time in Italy chatting

with three persons of another generation and defective experience; she

had come away merely to avoid the treacheries of a London April. It was

true what she had told the two who came to Prince of Wales Terrace,

that all she wished to do at San Salvatore was to sit by herself in the

sun and remember. They knew this, for she had told them. It had been

plainly expressed and clearly understood. Therefore she had a right to

expect them to stay inside the round drawing-room and not to emerge

interruptingly on to her battlements.

But would they? The doubt spoilt her morning. It was only towards

lunch-time that she saw a way to be quite safe, and ringing for

Francesca, bade her, in slow and majestic Italian, shut the shutters of

the glass door of the round drawing-room, and then, going with her into

the room, which had become darker than ever in consequence, but also,

Mrs. Fisher observed to Francesca, who was being voluble, would because

of this very darkness remain agreeably cool, and after all there were

the numerous slit-windows in the walls to let in light and it was

nothing to do with her if they did not let it in, she directed the

placing of a cabinet of curios across the door on its inside.

This would discourage egress.

Then she rang for Domenico, and caused him to move one of the

flower-filled sarcophagi across the door on its outside.

This would discourage ingress.

“No one,” said Domenico, hesitating, “will be able to use the door.”

“No one,” said Mrs. Fisher firmly, “will wish to.”

She then retired to her sitting-room, and from a chair placed where she

could look straight on to them, gazed at her battlements, secured to

her now completely, with calm pleasure.

Being here, she reflected placidly, was much cheaper than being in an

hotel and, if she could keep off the others, immeasurably more

agreeable. She was paying for her rooms—extremely pleasant rooms, now

that she was arranged in them—£3 a week, which came to about eight

shillings a day, battlements, watch-tower and all. Where else abroad

could she live as well for so little, and have as many baths as she

liked, for eight shillings a day? Of course she did not yet know what

her food would cost, but she would insist on carefulness over that,

though she would also insist on its being carefulness combined with

excellence. The two were perfectly compatible if the caterer took

pains. The servants’ wages, she had ascertained, were negligible, owing

to the advantageous exchange, so that there was only the food to cause

her anxiety. If she saw signs of extravagance she would propose that

they each hand over a reasonable sum every week to Lady Caroline which

should cover the bills, any of it that was not used to be returned, and

if it were exceeded the loss to be borne by the caterer.

Mrs. Fisher was well off and had the desire for comforts proper to her

age, but she disliked expenses. So well off was she that, had she so

chosen, she could have lived in an opulent part of London and driven

from it and to it in a Rolls-Royce. She had no such wish. It needed

more vitality than went with true comfort to deal with a house in an

opulent spot and a Rolls-Royce. Worries attended such possessions,

worries of every kind, crowned by bills. In the sober gloom of Prince

of Wales Terrace she could obscurely enjoy inexpensive yet real

comfort, without being snatched at by predatory men-servants or

collectors for charities, and a taxi stand was at the end of the road.

Her annual outlay was small. The house was inherited. Death had

furnished it for her. She trod in the dining-room on the Turkey carpet

of her fathers; she regulated her day by the excellent black marble

clock on the mantelpiece which she remembered from childhood; her walls

were entirely covered by the photographs her illustrious deceased

friends had given either herself or her father, with their own

handwriting across the lower parts of their bodies, and the windows,

shrouded by the maroon curtains of all her life, were decorated besides

with the selfsame aquariums to which she owed her first lessons in

sealore, and in which still swam slowly the goldfishes of her youth.

Were they the same goldfish? She did not know. Perhaps, like carp, they

outlived everybody. Perhaps, on the other hand, behind the deep-sea

vegetation provided for them at the bottom, they had from time to time

as the years went by withdrawn and replaced themselves. Were they or

were they not, she sometimes wondered, contemplating them between the

courses of her solitary meals, the same goldfish that had that day been

there when Carlyle—how well she remembered it—angrily strode up to them

in the middle of some argument with her father that had grown heated,

and striking the glass smartly with his fist had put them to flight,

shouting as they fled, “Och, ye deaf deevils! Och, ye lucky deaf

deevils! Ye can’t hear anything of the blasted, blethering, doddering,

glaikit fool-stuff yer maister talks, can ye?” Or words to that effect.

Dear, great-souled Carlyle. Such natural gushings forth; such true

freshness; such real grandeur. Rugged, if you will—yes, undoubtedly

sometimes rugged, and startling in a drawing-room, but magnificent. Who

was there now to put beside him? Who was there to mention in the same

breath? Her father, than whom no one had had more _flair_, said:

“Thomas is immortal.” And here was this generation, this generation of

puniness, raising its little voice in doubts, or, still worse, not

giving itself the trouble to raise it at all, not—it was incredible,

but it had been thus reported to her—even reading him. Mrs. Fisher did

not read him either, but that was different. She had read him; she had

certainly read him. Of course she had read him. There was

Teufelsdröck—she quite well remembered a tailor called Teufelsdröck. So

like Carlyle to call him that. Yes, she must have read him, though

naturally details escaped her.

The gong sounded. Lost in reminiscence Mrs. Fisher had forgotten time,

and hastened to her bedroom to wash her hands and smoothe her hair. She

did not wish to be late and set a bad example, and perhaps find her

seat at the head of the table taken. One could put no trust in the

manners of the younger generation; especially not in those of that Mrs.

Wilkins.

She was, however, the first to arrive in the dining-room. Francesca in

a white apron stood ready with an enormous dish of smoking hot,

glistening maccaroni, but nobody was there to eat it.

Mrs. Fisher sat down, looking stern. Lax, lax.

“Serve me,” she said to Francesca, who showed a disposition to wait for

the others.

Francesca served her. Of the party she liked Mrs. Fisher least, in fact

she did not like her at all. She was the only one of the four ladies

who had not yet smiled. True she was old, true she was unbeautiful,

true she therefore had no reason to smile, but kind ladies smiled,

reason or no. They smiled, not because they were happy but because they

wished to make happy. This one of the four ladies could not then,

Francesca decided, be kind; so she handed her the maccaroni, being

unable to hide any of her feelings, morosely.

It was very well cooked, but Mrs. Fisher had never cared for maccaroni,

especially not this long, worm-shaped variety. She found it difficult

to eat—slippery, wriggling off her fork, making her look, she felt,

undignified when, having got it as she supposed into her mouth, ends of

it yet hung out. Always, too, when she ate it she was reminded of Mr.

Fisher. He had during their married life behaved very much like

maccaroni. He had slipped, he had wriggled, he had made her feel

undignified, and when at last she had got him safe, as she thought,

there had invariably been little bits of him that still, as it were,

hung out.

Francesca from the sideboard watched Mrs. Fisher’s way with maccaroni

gloomily, and her gloom deepened when she saw her at last take her

knife to it and chop it small.

Mrs. Fisher really did not know how else to get hold of the stuff. She

was aware that knives in this connection were improper, but one did

finally lose patience. Maccaroni was never allowed to appear on her

table in London. Apart from its tiresomeness she did not even like it,

and she would tell Lady Caroline not to order it again. Years of

practice, reflected Mrs. Fisher, chopping it up, years of actual living

in Italy, would be necessary to learn the exact trick. Browning managed

maccaroni wonderfully. She remembered watching him one day when he came

to lunch with her father, and a dish of it had been ordered as a

compliment to his connection with Italy. Fascinating, the way it went

in. No chasing round the plate, no slidings off the fork, no subsequent

protrusions of loose ends—just one dig, one whisk, one thrust, one

gulp, and lo, yet another poet had been nourished.

“Shall I go and seek the young lady?” asked Francesca, unable any

longer to look on a good maccaroni being cut with a knife.

Mrs. Fisher came out of her reminiscent reflections with difficulty.

“She knows lunch is at half-past twelve,” she said. “They all know.”

“She may be asleep,” said Francesca. “The other ladies are further

away, but this one is not far away.”

“Beat the gong again then,” said Mrs. Fisher.

What manners, she thought; what, what manners. It was not an hotel, and

considerations were due. She must say she was surprised at Mrs.

Arbuthnot, who had not looked like somebody unpunctual. Lady Caroline,

too—she had seemed amiable and courteous, whatever else she might be.

From the other one, of course, she expected nothing.

Francesca fetched the gong, and took it out into the garden and

advanced, beating it as she advanced, close up to Lady Caroline, who,

still stretched in her low chair, waited till she had done, and then

turned her head and in the sweetest tones poured forth what appeared to

be music but was really invective.

Francesca did not recognise the liquid flow as invective; how was she

to, when it came out sounding like that? And with her face all smiles,

for she could not but smile when she looked at this young lady, she

told her the maccaroni was getting cold.

“When I do not come to meals it is because I do not wish to come to

meals,” said the irritated Scrap, “and you will not in future disturb

me.”

“Is she ill?” asked Francesca, sympathetic but unable to stop smiling.

Never, never had she seen hair so beautiful. Like pure flax; like the

hair of northern babes. On such a little head only blessing could rest,

on such a little head the nimbus of the holiest saints could fitly be

placed.

Scrap shut her eyes and refused to answer. In this she was injudicious,

for its effect was to convince Francesca, who hurried away full of

concern to tell Mrs. Fisher, that she was indisposed. And Mrs. Fisher,

being prevented, she explained, from going out to Lady Caroline herself

because of her stick, sent the two others instead, who had come in at

that moment heated and breathless and full of excuses, while she

herself proceeded to the next course, which was a very well-made

omelette, bursting most agreeably at both its ends with young green

peas.

“Serve me,” she directed Francesca, who again showed a disposition to

wait for the others.

“_Oh_, why won’t they leave me alone?—oh, why _won’t_ they leave me

alone?” Scrap asked herself when she heard more scrunchings on the

little pebbles which took the place of grass, and therefore knew some

one else was approaching.

She kept her eyes tight shut this time. Why should she go in to lunch

if she didn’t want to? This wasn’t a private house; she was in no way

tangled up in duties towards a tiresome hostess. For all practical

purposes San Salvatore was an hotel, and she ought to be let alone to

eat or not to eat exactly as if she really had been in an hotel.

But the unfortunate Scrap could not just sit still and close her eyes

without rousing that desire to stroke and pet in her beholders with

which she was only too familiar. Even the cook had patted her. And now

a gentle hand—how well she knew and how much she dreaded gentle

hands—was placed on her forehead.

“I’m afraid you’re not well,” said a voice that was not Mrs. Fisher’s,

and therefore must belong to one of the originals.

“I have a headache,” murmured Scrap. Perhaps it was best to say that;

perhaps it was the shortest cut to peace.

“I’m so sorry,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot softly, for it was her hand being

gentle.

“And I,” said Scrap to herself, “who thought if I came here I would

escape mothers.”

“Don’t you think some tea would do you good?” asked Mrs. Arbuthnot

tenderly.

Tea? The idea was abhorrent to Scrap. In this heat to be drinking tea

in the middle of the day. . .

“No,” she murmured.

“I expect what would really be best for her,” said another voice, “is

to be left quiet.”

How sensible, thought Scrap; and raised the eye-lashes of one eye just

enough to peep through and see who was speaking.

It was the freckled original. The dark one, then, was the one with the

hand. The freckled one rose in her esteem.

“But I can’t bear to think of you with a headache and nothing being

done for it,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot. “Would a cup of strong black

coffee—?”

Scrap said no more. She waited, motionless and dumb, till Mrs.

Arbuthnot should remove her hand. After all, she couldn’t stand there

all day, and when she went away she would have to take her hand with

her.

“I do think,” said the freckled one, “that she wants nothing except

quiet.”

And perhaps the freckled one pulled the one with the hand by the

sleeve, for the hold on Scrap’s forehead relaxed, and after a minute’s

silence, during which no doubt she was being contemplated—she was

always being contemplated—the footsteps began to scrunch the pebbles

again, and grew fainter, and were gone.

“Lady Caroline has a headache,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot, re-entering the

dining-room and sitting down in her place next to Mrs. Fisher. “I can’t

persuade her to have even a little tea, or some black coffee. Do you

know what aspirin is in Italian?”

“The proper remedy for headaches,” said Mrs. Fisher firmly, “is castor

oil.”

“But she hasn’t got a headache,” said Mrs. Wilkins.

“Carlyle,” said Mrs. Fisher, who had finished her omelette and had

leisure, while she waited for the next course, to talk, “suffered at

one period terribly from headaches, and he constantly took castor oil

as a remedy. He took it, I should say, almost to excess, and called it,

I remember, in his interesting way the oil of sorrow. My father said it

coloured for a time his whole attitude to life, his whole philosophy.

But that was because he took too much. What Lady Caroline wants is one

dose, and one only. It is a mistake to keep on taking castor oil.”

“Do you know the Italian for it?” asked Mrs. Arbuthnot.

“Ah, that I’m afraid I don’t. However, she would know. You can ask

her.”

“But she hasn’t got a headache,” repeated Mrs. Wilkins, who was

struggling with the maccaroni. “She only wants to be let alone.”

They both looked at her. The word shovel crossed Mrs. Fisher’s mind in

connection with Mrs. Wilkins’s actions at that moment.

“Then why should she say she has?” asked Mrs. Arbuthnot.

“Because she is still trying to be polite. Soon she won’t try, when the

place has got more into her—she’ll really be it. Without trying.

Naturally.”

“Lotty, you see,” explained Mrs. Arbuthnot, smiling to Mrs. Fisher, who

sat waiting with a stony patience for her next course, delayed because

Mrs. Wilkins would go on trying to eat the maccaroni, which must be

less worth eating than ever now that it was cold; “Lotty, you see, has

a theory about this place—”

But Mrs. Fisher had no wish to hear any theory of Mrs. Wilkins’s.

“I am sure I don’t know,” she interrupted, looking severely at Mrs.

Wilkins, “why you should assume Lady Caroline is not telling the

truth.”

“I don’t assume—I know,” said Mrs. Wilkins.

“And pray how do you know?” asked Mrs. Fisher icily, for Mrs. Wilkins

was actually helping herself to more maccaroni, offered her officiously

and unnecessarily a second time by Francesca.

“When I was out there just now I saw inside her.”

Well, Mrs. Fisher wasn’t going to say anything to that; she wasn’t

going to trouble to reply to downright idiocy. Instead she sharply

rapped the little table-gong by her side, though there was Francesca

standing at the sideboard, and said, for she would wait no longer for

her next course, “Serve me.”

And Francesca—it must have been wilful—offered her the maccaroni again.