Chapter 14, The Enchanted April By Elizabeth Von Arnim

Chapter 14, 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 Fourteen It did not matter that the letter to Kate Lumley should not be written.

There was enough time for that.

Let the others suppose her coming was definitely fixed,

All the better.

So would Mr.

Wilkins be kept out of the spare room,

And put where he belonged.

Kate would keep.

She could be held in reserve.

Kate in reserve was just as potent as Kate in actuality.

And there were points about Kate in reserve which might be missing from Kate in actuality.

For instance,

If Mrs.

Fisher were going to be restless,

She would rather Kate were not to be there.

There was a want of dignity about restlessness,

About trotting backwards and forwards.

But did it matter that she could not read a sentence of any of her great dead friends?

Writings?

No,

Not even of Browning's,

Who had been so much in Italy,

Nor of Ruskin's,

Whose Stones of Venice she had brought with her to re-read.

So nearly on the very spot.

Nor even a sentence of a really interesting book,

Like the one she had found in her sitting room,

About the home life of a German emperor,

Poor man,

Written in the nineties,

When he had not yet begun to be more sinned against than sinning,

Which was,

She was firmly convinced,

What was the matter with him now,

The full of exciting things about his birth and his right arm,

Without having to put it down and go and stare at the sea.

Reading was very important.

The proper exercise and development of one's mind was a paramount duty.

How could one read if one were constantly trotting in and out?

Curiously,

This restlessness.

Was she going to be ill?

No,

She felt quite well.

Indeed,

Unusually well.

And she went in and out quite quickly,

Trotted in fact,

And without her stick.

Very odd that she shouldn't be able to sit still,

She thought,

Frowning across the tops of some purple hyacinths at the Gulf of Spezia,

Littering beyond the headland.

Very odd that she,

Who had walked so slowly,

With such a dependence on her stick,

Should suddenly trot.

It would be interesting to talk to someone about it,

She felt.

Not to Kate,

To a stranger.

Kate would only look at her and suggest a cup of tea.

Kate always suggested cups of tea.

Besides,

Kate had a flat face.

That Mrs.

Wilkins,

Now annoying as she was,

Loose-tongued as she was,

Impertinent,

Objectionable,

Would probably understand,

And perhaps know what to make of her.

But she would not say anything to Mrs.

Wilkins.

She was the last person to whom one would admit sensations.

Dignity alone forbade it.

Confident in Mrs.

Wilkins,

Never.

And Mrs.

Arbuthnot,

While she wistfully mothered the obstructive scrap at tea,

Felt too that she had had a curious day.

Like Mrs.

Fisher,

It had been active,

But unlike Mrs.

Fisher's,

Only active in mind.

Her body had been quite still,

Her mind had been not still at all,

And it had been excessively active.

For years she had taken care to have time to think.

Her scheduled life in the parish had prevented memories and desires from intruding on her.

That day they had crowded.

She went to tea feeling dejected.

And that she should feel dejected in such a place,

With everything about her to make her rejoice,

Only dejected her more.

But how could she rejoice alone?

How could anybody rejoice and enjoy and appreciate,

Really appreciate,

Alone?

Except Lottie.

Lottie seemed able to.

She had gone off down the hill directly after breakfast,

Alone yet obviously rejoicing,

For she had not suggested that Rose should go too.

And she was singing as she went.

Rose had spent the day by herself,

Sitting with her hands clasping her knees,

Staring straight in front of her.

What she was staring at were the grey swords of the Argoves,

And on their tall stalks,

The pale irises that grew in the romantic place she had found.

While beyond them,

Between the grey leaves and the blue flowers,

She saw the sea.

The place she had found was a hidden corner,

Where the sun-baked stones were padded with thyme,

And nobody was likely to come.

It was out of sight and sound of the house.

It was off any path.

It was near the end of the Promenade.

So she sat quite quiet,

But presently lizards darted over her feet,

And some tiny birds like finches,

Frightened away at first,

Came back again and flitted among the bushes around her,

As if she hadn't been there.

How beautiful it was.

And what was the good of it,

With no one there,

No one being loved?

Being with one who belonged to one,

To whom one could say,

Look,

And wouldn't one say,

Look,

Dearest?

Yes,

One would say dearest,

And the sweet word,

Just to say it to somebody who loved one,

Would make one happy.

She sat still,

Staring straight in front of her.

Strange that,

In this place,

She did not want to pray.

She who had prayed so constantly at home,

Didn't seem to be able to do it here at all.

The first morning,

She had merely thrown up a brief thank you to Heaven on getting out of bed,

And had gone straight to the window to see what everything looked like,

Thrown up a thank you as carelessly as a ball,

And thought no more about it.

That morning,

Remembering this and ashamed,

She had knelt down with determination,

But perhaps determination was bad for prayers,

For she had been unable to think of a thing to say.

And as for her bedtime prayers,

On neither of the nights had she said a single one,

She had forgotten them.

She had been so much absorbed in her other thoughts that she had forgotten about them,

And once in bed,

She was asleep and whirling among the bright,

Thin,

Swift dreams,

Before she had so much time as to stretch herself out.

What had come over her?

Why had she let go of the anchor of prayer?

She had definitely,

Too,

In remembering her poor,

In remembering that there really were such things as poor.

Holidays,

Of course,

Were good,

And were recognized by everybody as good,

But ought they be so completely to blot out,

To make such havoc of the realities?

Perhaps it was healthy to forget about her poor,

And with all the greater gusto,

She would go back to them.

But it couldn't be healthy to forget about her prayers,

And still less could be healthy not to mind.

Rose did not mind.

She knew she did not mind,

And even worse,

She knew she did not mind not minding.

In this place,

She was indifferent to both the things that had filled her life and made it seem as if it were happy for years.

Well,

If only she could rejoice in her wonderful new surroundings,

Have that much at least to set against the indifference,

The letting go,

But she could not.

She had to work.

She did not pray.

She had no work.

She was left empty.

Lottie had spoiled her day that day,

As she had spoiled her day the day before.

Lottie with her invitation to her husband,

With her suggestion that she,

Too,

Should invite hers,

Having flung Frederick into her mind again the day before.

Lottie had left her.

For that whole afternoon,

She had left her alone with her thoughts.

Since then,

There had been all of Frederick.

Where at Hampstead,

He only came to her in her dreams.

Here,

He left her dreams free and was with her during the day instead,

And again that morning,

As she was struggling not to think of him,

Lottie had just asked her,

Just before disappearing,

Singing down the path,

As if she had written yet and invited him,

And again he was flung into her mind and she wasn't able to get him out.

How could she invite him?

It had gone on so long,

Their estrangement,

Such years.

She would hardly know what words to use,

And besides,

He would not come.

Why should he come?

He didn't care about being with her.

What would they talk about?

Between them was the barrier of his work and her religion.

She could not.

How could she,

Believing as she did,

In purity,

In responsibility for the effects of one's actions on others,

Bear his work,

Bear it,

Living it?

And he,

She knew,

Had at first resented,

And then,

Merely bored by her religion,

He let her slip away.

He'd given her up.

He no longer minded.

He accepted her religion,

Indifferently,

As a settled fact.

Both it and she,

Rose's mind,

Becoming more luminous in the clear light of April at San Salvatore,

Suddenly saw the truth,

Bored him.

Naturally,

When she saw this,

When that morning it flashed upon her for the first time,

She did not like it.

She liked it so little,

That for the space of the whole beauty of Italy,

Was blotted out.

What was to be done about it?

She could not give up believing in good and not liking evil,

And it must be evil to live entirely on the proceeds of adulterers,

However dead and distinguished they were.

Besides,

If she did,

If she sacrificed her whole past,

Her bringing up,

Her work for the last ten years,

She would bore him less.

Rose felt,

Right down to her very roots,

That if you have once thoroughly bored somebody,

It is next impossible to unbore him.

Once a bore,

Always a bore,

Certainly,

She thought,

To the person originally bored.

Then,

She thought,

Looking out to the see-through eyes grown misty,

But a cling to her religion.

Was it better?

She hardly noticed the reprehensibleness of her thought,

The nothing.

Oh,

She wanted to cling to something tangible,

To love something living.

Something that one could hold against one's heart and could see and touch and do things for.

If her poor baby hadn't died,

Babies didn't get bored with one,

It took them a long while to grow up and find one out.

And perhaps one's baby never did find one out.

Perhaps one would always be to it,

However old and bearded it grew,

Somebody special,

Somebody different from everybody else.

And if for no other reason,

Precious in that they could never be repeated.

Sitting with dim eyes,

Looking out to the sea,

She felt an extraordinary yearning to hold something of her very own tight to her bosom.

Rose was slender and as a reserved in-figure as a character,

Yet she felt a queer sensation.

Of how could she describe it?

Bosom.

There was something about San Salvatore that made her feel all bosom.

She wanted to gather to her bosom to comfort and protect,

Soothing the dear head that should lie on it with softest strokings and murmurs of love.

Frederick,

Frederick's child,

Come to her,

Pillowed on her,

Because they were unhappy,

Because they were hurt.

They would need her then.

If they had been hurt,

They would let themselves be loved then.

If they were unhappy,

Well,

The child was gone,

Would never come now,

But perhaps Frederick,

Someday,

When he was old and tired.

Such were Mrs.

Arbuthnot's reflections and emotions that first day at San Salvatore by herself.

She went back to tea,

Dejected,

As she had not been for years.

San Salvatore had taken her carefully built-up semblance of happiness away from her and given her nothing in exchange.

Yes,

It had given her yearnings in exchange,

This ache and longing,

This queer feeling of bosom.

But that was worse than nothing,

And she who had learned balance,

Who never at home was irritated,

But always to be kind,

Could not,

Even in her dejection,

That afternoon endure Mrs.

Fisher's assumption of the position as hostess at tea.

One would have supposed that such a little thing would not have touched her,

But it did.

Was her nature changing?

Was she to be not only thrown back on long stifled yearnings after Frederick,

But also turned into somebody who wanted to fight over little things?

After tea,

When both Mrs.

Fisher and Lady Caroline had disappeared again,

It was quite evident that nobody wanted her.

She was even more dejected than ever,

Overwhelmed by the discrepancy between the splendor outside her and the warm,

Teeming beauty and self-sufficiency of nature,

And the blank emptiness of her heart.

Then came Lottie back to dinner,

Incredibly more freckled,

Enduring,

Exuding the sunshine that she had been collecting all day,

Talking,

Laughing,

Being tactless,

Being unwise,

Being without reticence.

And Lady Caroline,

So quiet at tea,

Woke up to the animation,

And Mrs.

Fisher,

Who was not so noticeable,

And Rose was beginning to revive a little,

For Lottie's spirits were contagious,

As she described the delights of her day,

A day which,

Quite easily,

If anyone else had had nothing to do but a very long and very hot walk and sandwiches,

When she suddenly sat catching Rose's eye,

"'Letter gone!

' Rose flushed,

The tactlessness.

"'What letter?

' asked Scrap,

Interested.

Both her elbows were on the table,

And her chin was supported in her hands.

For the nut stage had been reached,

And there was nothing for it but to wait as the comfortable inner position as possible till Mrs.

Fisher had finished cracking.

"'Asking her husband here?

' said Lottie.

Mrs.

Fisher looked up.

"'Another husband?

Was there to be no end to them?

' Nor was this one,

Then,

A widow either,

But her husband was,

No doubt,

A decent,

Respectable man,

Following a decent,

Respectable calling.

She had little hope of Mr.

Wilkins,

So little that she had refrained from inquiring what he did.

"'Has it?

' persisted Lottie,

As Rose said nothing.

"'No,

' said Rose.

"'Oh,

Well,

To-morrow,

Then,

' said Lottie.

Rose wanted to say no again to this.

Lottie would have in her place,

And would,

Besides,

Have expounded all her reasons.

But she could not turn herself inside out like that and invite anybody and anybody to come and look.

How was it that Lottie,

Who saw solely things,

Didn't see he stuck on her heart and seeing kept quiet about it the sole place that was Frederick?

' "'Who is your husband?

' asked Mrs.

Fisher,

Carefully adjusting another nut between the crackers.

"'Who should he be?

' said Rose quickly,

Roused at once by Mrs.

Fisher to irritation.

"'Except Mr.

Upothnot.

'" "'I mean,

Of course,

What is Mr.

Upothnot?

' And Rose,

Gone painfully red at this,

Said after a tiny pause,

"'My husband.

'" Naturally,

Mrs.

Fisher was incensed.

She couldn't have believed it of this one,

Her decent hair and gentle voice,

That she,

Too,

Should be impertinent.