Chapter 11, The Enchanted April By Elizabeth Von Arnim

Chapter 11, The Enchanted April by Elizabeth Von Arnim, written in 1922, was inspired by a trip to the Italian Riviera.
Mrs. Wilkins and Mrs. Arbuthnot are captivated by an advertisement in The Times. "To those who appreciate wisteria and sunshine. Small medieval castle on the Mediterranean to be let furnished for the month of April..."

Read by Brita Benson

Transcript

The Enchanted April Chapter 11 The sweet smells that were everywhere in San Salvatore were alone enough to produce Concord.

They came into the sitting-room from the flowers on the battlements,

And met the ones from the flowers inside the room,

And almost thought Mrs.

Wilkins could be seen greeting each other with a holy kiss.

Who could be angry in the middle of such gentleness?

Who could be acquisitive,

Selfish,

In the old rasped London way,

In the presence of this bounteous beauty?

Yet Mrs.

Fisher seemed to be all three of these things.

There was so much beauty,

So much more than enough for everyone,

That it did appear to be a vain activity to try and make a corner in it.

Yet Mrs.

Fisher was trying to make a corner in it,

And had railed off a portion for her exclusive use.

When she would get over that presently,

She would get over it inevitably,

Mrs.

Wilkins was sure,

After a day or two in the extraordinary atmosphere of peace in that place.

Meanwhile,

She obviously hadn't even begun to get over it.

She stood looking at her and Rose with an expression that appeared to be one of anger.

Anger,

Fancy,

Silly old nerve-wracked London feelings,

Thought Mrs.

Wilkins,

Whose eyes saw the room full of kisses,

And everyone in it being kissed.

Mrs.

Fisher,

As copiously as she herself and Rose.

You don't like us being in here,

Said Mrs.

Wilkins,

Getting up and at once,

After her manner fixing on the truth,

Why?

I should have thought,

Said Mrs.

Fisher,

Leaning on her stick,

You could see that this is my room.

You mean because of the photographs,

Said Mrs.

Wilkins.

Mrs.

Arbuthnot,

Who was a little red and surprised,

Got up too.

And the notepaper,

Said Mrs.

Fisher.

Notepaper with my London address on it,

The pen,

She pointed.

It was still in Mrs.

Wilkins' hand.

It's yours,

I'm very sorry,

Said Mrs.

Wilkins,

Laying it on the table.

And she added,

Smiling,

That she'd been writing some very amiable things.

But why?

Asked Mrs.

Arbuthnot,

Who found herself unable to acquiesce in Mrs.

Fisher's arrangements,

Without at least a gentle struggle.

Ought we not to be here?

It's a sitting room.

There's another one,

Said Mrs.

Fisher.

You and your friend cannot sit in two rooms at once.

If I have no wish to disturb you in yours,

I'm able to see why you should wish to disturb me in mine.

But why?

Began Mrs.

Arbuthnot again.

It's quite natural,

Said Mrs.

Wilkins,

Interrupting.

For Rose was looking stubborn,

And turning to Mrs.

Fisher,

She said that although sharing things with friends was pleasant,

She could understand that Mrs.

Fisher,

Still seeped in the Prince of Wales Terrace attitude to life,

Did not yet want to,

But that she would get rid of that after a bit and feel quite different.

Soon you'll want us to share,

Said Mrs.

Wilkins,

Reassuringly.

Why,

You may even get so far as asking me to use your pen,

If I knew I hadn't got one.

Mrs.

Fisher was moved almost beyond this by speech.

To have a ramshackle young woman from Hampstead patting her on the back,

As it were,

In breezy certitude,

That quite soon she would improve,

Stirred her more deeply than anything had stirred her since her first discovery that Mr.

Fisher was not what he seemed.

Mrs.

Wilkins must certainly be curbed,

But how?

There was a curious imperviousness about her,

At that unclouded face,

As if she were saying nothing in the least impertinent.

Would she know she was being curbed?

If she didn't know,

If she were too tough to feel it,

Then what?

Nothing,

Except avoidance,

Except precisely one's own private sitting room.

I'm an old woman,

Said Mrs.

Fisher,

And I need a room to myself I cannot get about,

Because of my stick,

And as I cannot have it about,

I have to sit.

Why should I not sit quietly and undisturbed as I told you in London I intended to?

If people are to come in and out all day long,

Chattering and leaving doors open,

You will have broken the agreement.

Which was what I was to be,

That I was to be quiet.

But we haven't the least wish,

Began Mrs.

Arbosnot,

Who was again cut short by Mrs.

Wilkins.

We're only too glad,

Said Mrs.

Wilkins,

For you to have this room if it makes you happy.

We just didn't know about it,

That's all.

We would never have come in if we had,

Not till you invite us in,

Anyhow,

I expect.

She finished looking down cheerfully at Mrs.

Fisher.

You soon will,

And picking up her letter,

She took Mrs.

Arbosnot's hand and drew her towards the door.

Mrs.

Arbosnot did not want to go.

She,

The mildest of women,

Was filled with a curious and surely unchristian desire to stay and fight.

Not,

Of course,

Really,

Nor even with any definitely aggressive words,

No.

She only wanted to reason with Mrs.

Fisher,

And to reason patiently.

But she did feel that something ought to be said,

And that she ought not to allow herself to be rated and turned out as if she were a schoolgirl caught in ill behavior by authority.

Mrs.

Wilkins,

However,

Drew her firmly to and through the door,

And once again Rose wondered at Lottie,

At her balance,

Her sweet and equable temper.

She,

Who,

In England,

Had such a thing of gusts.

From the moment they got to Italy,

It was Lottie who seemed the elder.

She certainly was very happy,

Blissful,

In fact.

Did happiness so completely protect one?

Did it make one so untouchable,

So wise?

Rose was happy herself,

But not anything like so happy.

Evidently not,

For not only did she want to fight Mrs.

Fisher,

But she wanted something else,

Something more than this lovely place,

Something to complete it.

She wanted Frederick.

For the first time in her life,

She was surrounded by perfect beauty,

And her one thought was to show it to him,

To share it with him.

She wanted Frederick.

She yearned for Frederick.

Ah,

If only,

Only Frederick.

Poor thing,

Said Mrs.

Wilkins,

Shutting the door gently on Mrs.

Fisher and her triumph.

Fancy on a day like this.

She's a very rude old thing,

Said Mrs.

Arbosnott.

She'll get over that.

I'm sorry we chose just to let her room go and sit in it.

It's much the nicest,

Said Mrs.

Arbosnott,

And it isn't hers.

Oh,

But there are a lot of other places,

And she's such a poor old thing.

Let her have the room,

Whatever does it matter?

And Mrs.

Wilkins said she was going to go down to the village to find out where the post office was and post her letter to Mellush.

And Rose would go too.

I've been thinking about Mellush,

Said Mrs.

Wilkins as they walked,

One behind the other,

Down the narrow zigzag path,

Up which they had climbed in the rain the night before.

She went first.

Mrs.

Arbosnott quite naturally now followed.

In England it had been the other way round.

Lottie,

Timid,

Hesitating,

Except when she burst out so awkwardly,

Getting behind the calm and reasonable Rose whenever she could.

I've been thinking about Mellush,

Repeated Mrs.

Wilkins over her shoulder,

As Rose seemed not to have heard.

Have you?

Said Rose,

A faint distaste in her voice,

For her experience with Mellush had not been of a kind to make her enjoy remembering him.

She had deceived Mellush,

Before she didn't like him.

She was unconscious that this was the reason for her dislike,

And thought it was that there didn't seem to be very much,

If any,

Of the grace of God about him,

And yet how wrong to feel that,

She rebuked herself,

And how presumptuous.

No doubt Lottie's husband was far,

Far nearer to God than she herself was ever likely to be.

Still,

She didn't like him.

I've been a mean dog,

Said Mrs.

Wilkins.

A what?

Asked Mrs.

Arbosnott,

Incredulous of her hearing.

All this coming away and leaving him in that dreary place,

While I rollick in heaven.

He had planned to take me to Italy for Easter himself.

Did he tell you?

No,

Said Mrs.

Arbosnott.

And indeed,

She had discouraged talk about husbands.

Whenever Lottie had begun to blurt out things,

She had swiftly changed the conversation.

One husband led to another,

In conversation as well as in life.

She felt,

And she could not,

She would not,

Talk of Frederick,

Beyond the bare fact that he was there.

He had not been mentioned.

Mellish had had to be mentioned,

Because of this obstructiveness.

But she had carefully kept him from overflowing outside the limits of necessity.

Well,

He did,

Said Mrs.

Wilkins.

He had never done any such thing in his life before,

And I was horrified,

Fancy,

Just as I had planned to come to it myself.

She paused on the path and looked up at Rose.

Yes,

Said Rose,

Trying to think of something else to talk about.

Now you see why I say I've been a mean dog.

He had planned a holiday in Italy with me,

And I planned a holiday in Italy,

Leaving him at home,

I think,

She went on with her eyes fixed on Rose's face.

Mellish has every reason to be both angry and hurt.

Mrs.

Arbuthnot was astonished.

The extraordinary quickness with which she,

Hour by hour,

Under her very eyes,

Lottie became more selfless,

Disconcerted her.

She was turning into something surprisingly like a saint.

Here she was,

Now being affectionate about Mellish,

Mellish.

Only that morning,

While they hung their feet into the sea,

Had seemed a mere iridescence,

Lottie had told her a thing of gauze.

That was only that morning,

And by the time they'd had lunch,

Lottie had developed so far as to have got him solid enough again to write to,

And to write to at length.

And now,

A few minutes later,

She was announcing that he was the very reason to be angry with her and hurt,

And that she herself had been,

The language was unusual,

But it did express real penitence,

A mean dog.

Rose stared at her,

Astonished.

If she went on like this,

Soon a nimbus might be expected around her head,

Was already there,

If one didn't know it was the sun through the tree trunks catching her sandy hair.

A great desire to love and be friends,

To love everybody,

To be friends with everybody,

Seemed to be invading Lottie.

A desire for sheer goodness.

Rose's own experience was that goodness,

The state of being good,

Was only reached with difficulty and pain.

It took a long time to get to it.

In fact,

One never did get to it,

Or if for a flashing instant one did,

It was only for a flashing instant.

Desperate perseverance was needed to struggle along its path,

And all the way was dotted with doubts.

Lottie simply flew along.

She had certainly thought Rose not got rid of her impetuousness.

It had merely taken another direction.

She was now impetuously becoming a saint.

Could one really attain goodness so violently?

Wouldn't there be an equally violent reaction?

I shouldn't,

Said Rose with caution,

Looking down into Lottie's bright eyes,

The steep path so that Lottie was well below her.

I shouldn't be sure of that too quickly.

But I'm sure of it,

And I've written and I've told him so.

Rose stared.

But why only this morning,

She began.

It's all this,

Interrupted Lottie,

Tapping the envelope and looking pleased.

What,

Everything?

You mean about the advertisement and my savings being spent?

Oh no,

Not yet,

But I'll tell him all that when he comes.

When he comes,

Repeated Rose.

I've invited him to come and stay with us.

Rose could only go on staring.

It's the least I could do.

Besides,

Look at this.

Lottie waved her hand,

Disgusting not to share it.

I was a mean dog to go off and leave him.

But no dog I've ever heard of was ever as mean as I'd been if I didn't try and persuade Mellish to come out and enjoy this too.

It's barest decency that he should have some of the fun out of my nest egg.

After all,

He has the house.

And he's housed and fed me for years.

One couldn't be churlish.

But do you think he'll come?

Oh,

I hope so,

Said Lottie with utmost earnestness,

And added,

Poor lamb.

At that,

Rose felt that she would like to sit down.

Mellish,

A poor lamb.

That same Mellish who a few hours before was mere shimmer.

There was a seat at the bend of the path,

And Rose went to it and sat down.

She wished to get her breath,

Gain time.

If she had time,

She might perhaps be able to catch up with the leaping Lottie,

And perhaps to be able to stop her before she committed herself to what she probably presently would be sorry for.

Mellish at San Salvatore.

Mellish,

From whom Lottie had taken such pain so recently to escape.

I see him here,

Said Lottie,

As if in answer to her own thoughts.

Rose looked at her with real concern.

For every time Lottie said that in a convinced voice,

I see,

What she saw came true.

Then it was to be supposed that Mr.

Wilkins,

Too,

Would presently come true.

I wish,

Said Rose anxiously,

I understood you.

Don't try,

Said Lottie,

Smiling.

But I must,

Because I love you.

Dear Rose,

Said Lottie,

Swiftly bending down and kissing her.

You're so quick,

Said Rose.

I can't follow your developments,

I can't keep touch.

It was what happened with Frida,

She broke off and looked frightened.

The whole idea of our coming here,

She went on again,

As Lottie didn't seem to have noticed,

Was to get away,

Wasn't it?

Well,

We've got away,

And now,

Only after a single day of it,

We want to get back to the very people,

She stopped.

The very people we're trying to get away from,

Finished Lottie.

It's quite true,

It seems idiotically illogical,

But I'm so happy,

I'm so well.

I feel so fearfully wholesome,

This place,

Why,

It makes me feel flooded with love.

And she stared down at Rose in a kind of radiant surprise.

Rose was silent a moment,

Then she said,

And do you think it will have the same effect on Mr.

Wilkins?

Lottie laughed,

I don't know,

She said.

But even if it doesn't,

There's enough love about to flood 50 Mr.

Wilkins.

And as you call him,

The great thing is to have lots of love about.

I don't see,

She went on,

At least I don't see here.

Though I did at home,

And it matters who loves as long as somebody does.

I was stingy,

A beast at home.

I used to measure and count.

I had a queer obsession about justice,

As though justice mattered.

As though justice can really be distinguished from vengeance.

It's only love that's any good.

At home,

I wouldn't love Mellosh unless he loved me back exactly as much.

Absolute fairness.

Did you ever?

And as he didn't,

Neither did I.

And the aridity of that house,

The aridity.

Rose said nothing.

She was bewildered by Lottie.

The odd effect of San Salvatore on her,

Rapidly developing her friend,

Was in her sudden free use of robust words.

She had not used them in Hampstead.

Beast and dog were more robust than Hampstead cared about.

In words,

Too,

Lottie had become unchained.

But how she wished,

Oh how Rose wished,

That she too could write to her husband and say,

Come,

The Wilkins Menage,

However pompous Mellosh may be,

And he had seemed,

To Rose,

Pompous,

Was on a healthier,

More natural footing than hers.

Lottie could write to Mellosh and would get an answer.

She couldn't write to Frederick.

But only too well did she know he wouldn't answer.

At least he might answer,

A hurried scribble,

Showing how much bored he was at doing it,

With perfunctory thanks for her letter.

But that would be worse than no answer at all,

For his handwriting,

Her name on the envelope addressed by him,

Stabbed her heart.

Too acutely did it bring back the letters of their beginnings together,

The letters from him so desolate with separation,

So aching with love and longing,

To see apparently one of these very same letters arrive,

To open it and find,

Dear Rose,

Thanks for your letter.

Glad you're having a good time.

Don't hurry back.

Say if you want money.

Everything going splendidly here.

Yours,

Frederick.

No,

They couldn't be born.

I don't think I'll come down to the village with you today,

She said,

Looking up at Lottie with eyes suddenly gone dim.

I think I want to think.

All right,

Said Lottie,

At once starting off briskly down the path,

But don't think too long,

She called back over her shoulder.

Write and invite him at once.

Invite whom?

Asked Rose,

Startled.

Your husband.