Chapter 3, The Enchanted April By Elizabeth Von Arnim

Chapter 3, 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 3,

Read by Britta Benson The owner of the medieval castle was an Englishman,

A Mr Briggs,

Who was in London at the moment and wrote that it had beds enough for eight people,

Exclusive of servants,

Three sitting rooms,

Battlements,

Dungeons and electric light.

The rent was £60 for the month,

The servants wages were extra and he wanted references,

He wanted assurances that the second half of his rent would be paid,

The first half being paid in advance,

And he wanted assurances of respectability from a solicitor or a doctor or a clergyman.

He was very polite in his letter,

Explaining that his desire for references was what was usual and should be regarded as a mere formality.

Mrs Arbuthnot and Mrs Wilkins had not thought of references,

They'd not dreamed a rent could be so high.

In their minds had floated sums like three guineas a week or less,

Seeing that the place was old and small.

£60 for a single month,

It staggered them.

Before Mrs Arbuthnot's eyes rose up boots,

Endless vistas and all stout boots that £60 would buy,

And besides the rent there would be servants wages and the food and the railway journeys out and home.

While as for the references these did indeed seem a stumbling block,

It did seem impossible to give any without making their plan more public than they had intended.

They had both,

Even Mrs Arbuthnot,

Lured for once away from perfect candour by the realisation of the great saving of trouble and criticism an imperfect explanation would produce.

And they had both thought it a good plan to give out each other to their own circle,

Their circles being luckily distinct,

But each was going to stay with a friend who had had a house in Italy.

It would be true as far as it went,

Mrs Wilkins asserted that it would be quite true,

But Mrs Arbuthnot thought it wouldn't be quite.

It was the only way,

Mrs Wilkins said,

To keep Melosh even approximately quiet.

To spend any of her money just on the mere getting to Italy would cause him indignation,

And that he would say if he knew she was renting part of the medieval castle on her own account,

While Mrs Wilkins preferred not to think.

It would take him days to say it all,

And this,

Although it was her very own money,

Was,

And not a penny of it,

Had ever been his.

But I expect,

She said,

Your husband is just the same.

I expect all husbands are alike in the long run.

Mrs Arbuthnot said nothing,

Because her reason for not wanting Frederick to know was the exact opposite one.

Frederick would only be too pleased for her to go.

He would not mind,

At the very least indeed.

He would hail such a manifestation of self-indulgence and worldliness with an amusement,

And would hurt and urge her to have a good time,

And not to hurry home with a crashing detachment.

Far better,

She thought,

To be missed by Melosh than to be sped by Frederick.

To be missed,

To be needed,

From whatever motive,

Was,

She thought,

Better than the complete loneliness of what not being missed or needed at all.

She therefore said nothing,

And allowed Mrs Wilkins to leave her her conclusions unchecked.

But they did,

Both of them,

For a whole day feel that the only thing to be done was to renounce the medieval castle.

And it was in arriving at this bitter decision that they really realised how acute had been their longing for it.

Then Mrs Arbuthnot,

Who mind was trained in the finding out of difficulties,

Found a way out of the recurrence difficulty,

And simultaneously Mrs Wilkins had a vision revealing to her how to reduce the rent.

Mrs Arbuthnot's plan was simple,

And completely successful.

She took the whole of the rent in person to the owner,

Drawing it out of her savings bank,

Again she looked furtive and apologetic,

As if the clerk must know the money was wanted for purposes of self-indulgence,

And going up with the six pounds,

Ten pound notes in her handbag,

To the address near the Brompton Oratory,

Where the owner lived,

Presented them to him,

Waving her right to pay only half.

And when he saw her,

And her hair parted,

And her soft dark eyes,

And sober apparel,

And heard her grey voice,

He told her not to bother about writing around for those references.

It'll be all right,

He said,

Scribbling a receipt for the rent.

Do sit down,

Won't you?

Nasty day,

Isn't it?

You'll find the old castle has lots of sunshine,

Whatever else it hasn't got.

Husband going?

Mrs Arbuthnot,

Unused to anything but candour,

Looked troubled at his question,

And began to murmur inarticulately,

And the owner at once concluded that she was a widow,

A war one,

Of course,

For other widows were old,

And that he had been a fool not to guess it.

Oh,

I'm sorry,

He said,

Turning red right up to his fair hair.

I didn't mean.

.

.

He ran his eyes over the receipt he had written.

Yes,

I think that's all right,

He said,

Getting up and giving it to her.

Now,

He added,

Taking the six notes she held out,

Smiling,

For Mrs Arbuthnot was agreeable to look at.

I'm richer,

And you're happier.

I've got the money,

And you've got San Salvatore.

I wonder which is best.

I think you know,

Said Mrs Arbuthnot with her sweet smile.

He laughed and opened the door for her.

It was a pity the interview was over.

He would have liked to have asked her for lunch with him.

She made him think of his mother,

Of his nurse,

Of all things kind and comforting,

Besides having the attraction of not being his mother or his nurse.

I hope you like the old place,

He said,

Holding her hand a minute at the door.

The very feel of her hand,

Even through its glove,

Was reassuring.

It was the sort of hand,

He thought,

That children would like to hold in the dark.

In April,

You know,

It's simply a mess of flowers,

And then there's the sea.

You must wear white.

You're fitting very well there.

There are several portraits of you there.

Portraits?

Madonnas,

You know.

There's one on the stairs,

Really exactly like you.

Mrs Arbuthnot smiled and said goodbye and thanked him,

Without the least trouble,

And at once she got placed in his proper category.

He was an artist,

And of an effervescent temperament.

She shook hands and left,

And he wished she hadn't.

After she was gone,

He supposed that he ought to have asked her for those references,

If only because she would like to think him so unbusinesslike not to.

But he could have,

As soon,

Have insisted on references from a saint in a nimbus,

As from that brave,

Sweet lady,

Rose Arbuthnot.

Her letter,

Making the appointment,

Lay on the table.

Pretty name.

That difficulty,

Then,

Was overcome.

But there still remained the other one.

The really annihilating effect of the expense of the nest eggs,

And especially on Mrs Wilkins,

Which was in size,

Compared with Mrs Arbuthnot's as the egg of the plover,

To that of the dog.

And this,

In its turn,

Was overcome by the vision of vouchsafe to Mrs Wilkins,

Revealing to her the steps to be taken for its overcoming,

Having got San Salvatore,

The beautiful,

The religious name,

Fascinated them.

They,

In their turn,

Would advertise in the agony column of the Times,

And they would inquire,

After two more ladies,

Of similar desires to their own,

To join them and share the expenses.

At once,

The strain of the nest eggs would be reduced from half to a quarter.

Mrs Wilkins was prepared to fling her entire egg into the adventure,

But she realised that,

If she were to cost even sixpence over ninety pounds,

Her position would be terrible.

Imagine going to Mellish and saying,

I owe.

It would be awful enough if,

Someday,

Circumstances forced us to say,

I have no nest egg.

But at least it would be supported,

In such a case,

By the knowledge that the egg had been her own.

She therefore,

Though prepared to fling her last penny into the adventure,

Was not prepared to fling it into a single farthing that was not demonstrably her own,

And she felt that,

If her share of the rent was reduced to fifteen pounds only,

She would have a safe margin for the other expenses.

Also,

They might economise very much on food,

Gather olives from their own trees and eat them,

For instance,

And perhaps catch fish.

Of course,

As they pointed out to each other,

They could reduce the rent to an almost negligible sum by increasing the number of sharers.

If only they could have six more ladies instead of two,

If they wanted to,

Seeing that there were eight beds.

But supposing the eight beds were distributed in couples in four rooms,

It would not be altogether what they wanted to find themselves shut up at night with a stranger.

Besides,

They thought,

That perhaps having so many would not be quite so peaceful.

After all,

They were going to San Salvatore for peace and rest and joy,

And six more ladies,

Especially if they got into one's bedroom,

Might a little interfere with that.

However,

There seemed only the two ladies in England at that moment who wished to join them,

For they had only two answers to their advertisement.

Well,

We only want two,

Said Mrs Wilkins,

Quickly recovering,

For she had imagined a great rush.

I think a choice would have been a good thing,

Said Mrs Arbuthnot.

You mean that because we needn't have Lady Caroline D'Esta?

I didn't say that,

Gently protested Mrs Arbuthnot.

We needn't have her,

Said Mrs Wilkins.

Just one more person would help us a great deal with the rent.

We're not obliged to have two.

But why should we not have her?

She seems quite what we want.

Yes,

She does want her letter,

Said Mrs Wilkins,

Doubtfully.

She felt she would be terribly shy of Lady Caroline.

Incredible as it may seem,

Seeing how they got into everything,

Mrs Wilkins had never come across any members of the aristocracy.

They interviewed Lady Caroline,

And they interviewed the other applicant,

Mrs Fisher.

Lady Caroline came to the club in Shaftesbury Avenue,

And appeared to be wholly taken up with one great longing,

A longing to get away from anybody she'd ever known.

When she saw the club,

And Mrs Arbuthnot,

And Mrs Wilkins,

She was sure that here was exactly what she wanted.

She would be in Italy,

A place she adored.

She would not be in hotels,

Places she loathed.

And she would not be staying with friends,

Persons she disliked.

And she would not be in the company of strangers,

Who would never mention a single person she knew,

For the simple reason that they had not,

Could not have,

And would never come across them.

She asked a few questions about the fourth woman,

And was satisfied with the answers.

Mrs Fisher,

Of Prince of Wales Terrace,

A widow.

She too would be unacquainted with any of her friends.

Lady Caroline did not even know where Prince of Wales Terrace was.

It's in London,

Said Mrs Arbuthnot.

Is it?

Said Lady Caroline.

It all seemed most restful.

Mrs Fisher was unable to come to the club,

Because,

She explained by letter,

She could not walk without a stick.

Therefore,

Mrs Arbuthnot and Mrs Wilkins went to her.

But if she can't come to the club,

How can she go to Italy?

Wondered Mrs Wilkins aloud.

We shall hear that from her own lips,

Said Mrs Arbuthnot.

From Mrs Fisher's lips,

They merely heard,

In reply to delicate questioning,

That sitting in trains was not walking about.

And they knew that already.

Except for the stick,

However,

She appeared to be most desirable fourth.

Quiet,

Educated,

Elderly.

She was much older than they or Lady Caroline.

Lady Caroline had informed them that she was twenty-eight,

But not so old as to have ceased to be active-minded.

She was very respectable indeed,

And still wore a complete suit of black,

Though her husband had died,

She told them,

Eleven years before.

Her house was full of signed photographs of illustrious Victorian dead,

All of whom she said she had known when she was very little.

Her father had been an eminent critic,

And in his house she had seen practically everyone who was anyone,

In letters and art.

Carlisle had scowled at her.

Matthew Arnold had held her on his knee.

Tennyson had sonorously rallied her on the length of her pigtail.

She animatedly showed them the photographs,

Hung everywhere on her walls,

Pointing out the signatures with her And she neither gave any information about her husband,

Nor asked for any about the husbands of the visitors,

Which was the greatest comfort.

Indeed,

She seemed to think that they were also widows.

For on enquiring who the fourth lady was to be,

And was told it was Lady Caroline Dester,

She said,

Is she a widow too?

And on their explaining that she was not,

Because she had not yet been married,

Observed with abstracted amiability,

All in good time.

But Mrs Fisher's very abstractedness,

And she seemed to be chiefly absorbed with the interesting people she used to know,

And in their memorial photographs,

And quite a good part of the interview was taken up by the reminiscent anecdote of Carlisle,

Meredith,

Matthew Arnold,

Tennyson,

And a host of others.

Of her very abstractness was a recommendation.

She only asked,

She said,

To be allowed to sit quiet in the sun and remember.

That was all Mrs Arbuthnot and Mrs Wilkins asked of their sharers.

It was their idea of a perfect sharer,

That she should sit quiet in the sun and remember,

Rousing herself on Saturday evenings sufficiently to pay her share.

Mrs Fisher was very fond too,

She said,

Of flowers,

And once she was spending a weekend with her father at Box Hill.

Who lived at Box Hill?

Interrupted Mrs Wilkins,

Who hung on Mrs Fisher's reminiscences,

Intensely excited by meeting someone who had actually been familiar with all the really and truly and undoubtedly great,

Actually seen them,

Heard them talking,

Touched them.

Mrs Fisher looked over the top of her glasses in some surprise.

Mrs Wilkins,

In her eagerness to tear the heart out quickly of Mrs Fisher's reminiscences,

Afraid that of any moment Mrs Arbuthnot would take her away and she wouldn't have heard half,

Had already interrupted several times with questions which appeared ignorant to Mrs Fisher.

Meredith,

Of course,

Said Mrs Fisher rather shortly.

I remember a particular weekend,

She continued.

My father often took me,

But I always remember this weekend particularly.

Do you know Keats?

Eagerly interrupted Mrs Wilkins.

Mrs Fisher,

After repose,

Said with subacid reserve that she had been unacquainted with both Keats and Shakespeare.

Oh,

Of course,

How ridiculous of me,

Cried Mrs Wilkins,

Flushing scarlet.

It's because,

She floundered,

It's because the immortals,

Somehow,

They seem alive,

Don't they?

As if they were going to walk into the room in another minute,

And one forgets they are dead.

In fact,

One knows perfectly well,

They're not dead,

Not nearly so dead as you or I,

Even now,

She assured Mrs Fisher,

Who observed her over the top of her glasses.

I thought I saw Keats the other day,

Said Mrs Wilkins,

Incoherently proceeded,

Drived on by Mrs Fisher,

Looks over the top of her glasses,

In Hampstead,

Crossing the road in front of the house,

You know,

The house where he lived.

Mrs Arbuthnot said they must be going.

Mrs Fisher did nothing to prevent them.

I really thought I saw him,

Protested Mrs Wilkins,

Appealing for belief,

First one and then the other,

While waves of colour passed over her face,

And totally unable to stop because of Mrs Fisher's glasses and the steady eyes looking at her over their tops.

I believe I did see him,

He was dressed in a.

.

.

Even Mrs Arbuthnot looked at her now,

And in her gentlest voice said that they would be late for lunch.

It was at this point that Mrs Fisher asked for references.

She had no wish to find herself shut up for four weeks with somebody who saw things.

It is true that there were three sitting rooms,

Besides the garden and the battlements at San Salvatore,

So that there would be opportunities of withdrawal from Mrs Wilkins,

But it would be disagreeable to Mrs Fisher,

For instance,

If Mrs Wilkins were suddenly to assert that she saw Mr Fisher.

Mr Fisher was dead.

Let him remain so.

She had no wish to be told he was walking about in the garden.

The only reference she really wanted,

For she was much too old and firmly seated in her place in the world for questionable associates to matter to her,

Was one with regard to Mrs Wilkins' health.

Was her health quite normal?

Was she ordinary,

Everyday,

Sensible woman?

Mrs Fisher felt that if she were given even one address,

She would be able to find out what she needed,

So she asked for references,

And her visitors appeared to be so much taken aback.

Mrs Wilkins,

Indeed,

Was insistently sobered,

And she added,

It is usual.

Mrs Wilkins found her speech first,

But she said,

Aren't we the ones who ought to ask some of you,

And this seemed to Mrs Arbuthnot,

To the right attitude?

Surely,

If they were they were the ones who were asking Mrs Fisher into their party,

And not Mrs Fisher who was taking them into it?

For answer,

Mrs Fisher,

Leaning on her stick,

Went to the writing table,

And in a firm hand wrote down three names and offered them to Mrs Wilkins,

And the names were so respectable,

More,

They were so momentous,

They were so nearly august,

That just to read them was enough.

The President of the Royal Academy,

The Archbishop of Canterbury,

And the Governor of the Bank of England.

Who would dare disturb such personages in their meditations with inquiries as to whether a female friend of theirs was all she should be?

They have known me since I was little,

Said Mrs Fisher.

Everybody seemed to have known Mrs Fisher,

Or when she was little.

I don't think references and nice things between ordinary decent women,

Burst out Mrs Wilkins,

Made courageous by being as she felt at bay,

For she very well knew the only reference she could give without getting into trouble was school bread,

And she had little confidence in that,

As it would be entirely based on Melusia's fish.

We're not business people,

We needn't distrust each other,

And Mrs Arbuthnot said,

With a dignity that was sweet,

I'm afraid references do bring an atmosphere into a holiday plan which isn't quite what we want,

And I don't think we'll take up yours or give you any of ours,

So I suppose you won't wish to join us,

And she held out her hand in goodbye.

Then Mrs Fisher,

Her gaze diverted to Mrs Arbuthnot,

Who inspired trust and liking it in tube officials,

Felt that she would be idiotic to lose the opportunity of being in Italy in particular conditions offered,

And that she had,

And this calm,

Proud woman between them would certainly be able to curb the other one when she had her attacks,

So she said,

Taking Mrs Arbuthnot's offered hand,

Very well,

I waive all references.

She waived references.

The two,

As they walked to the station in Kensington High Street,

Could not help thinking that this way of putting it was lofty.

Even Mrs Arbuthnot's spendthrift of excuses for lapses thought Mrs Fisher might have used other words,

And Mrs Wilkins,

By the time she got to the station,

And the walk and the struggle onto the crowded pavement with other people's umbrellas,

Had warmed her blood,

Actually suggested waving Mrs Fisher.

If there isn't any waving to be done,

Do let us be the ones who do the wave,

She said eagerly,

But Mrs Arbuthnot,

As usual,

Held on to Mrs Wilkins,

And presently,

Having cooled down in the train,

Mrs Wilkins announced that San Salvatore,

Mrs Fisher would find her level.

I see her finding her level there,

She said,

Her eyes very bright,

Whereupon Mrs Arbuthnot,

Sitting with her quiet hands folded,

Turned over in her mind how best she could help Mrs Wilkins not to see quite so much,

Or at least,

If she must see,

To see in silence.