Chapter 5, The Enchanted April By Elizabeth Von Arnim

Chapter 5, 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 V It was cloudy in Italy,

Which surprised them.

They had expected brilliant sunshine,

But never mind,

It was Italy,

And the very clouds looked fat.

Neither of them had ever been there before.

Both gazed out of the windows with rapt faces,

The hours flew as long as it was daylight,

And after that there was the excitement of getting nearer,

Getting quite near,

Getting there.

At Genoa it had begun to rain.

Genoa!

Imagine actually being at Genoa,

Seeing its name written up at the station,

Just like any other name.

At Nervi it was pouring,

And when at last,

Towards midnight,

For again the train was late,

They got to Masago,

The rain was coming down in what seemed solid sheets.

But it was Italy.

Nothing it did could be bad.

The very rain was different,

Straight rain,

Falling properly onto one's umbrella,

Not that violently blowing English stuff that got in everywhere.

And it did leave off,

And when it did,

Behold the earth would be strewn with roses.

Mr Briggs,

San Salvatore's owner,

Had said,

You get out of Masago and then you drive.

But he'd forgotten what he amply knew,

That trains in Italy are sometimes late,

And he'd imagined his tenants arriving at Masago at eight p.

M.

And finding a string of flies to choose from.

The train was four hours late,

And when Mrs Arbusnot and Mrs Wilkins scrambled down the ladder like high steps of their carriage onto the black downpour,

Their skirts sweeping off great pools of sooty wet because their hands were full of suitcases,

If it had not been for the vigilance of Domenico,

The gardener at San Salvatore,

They would have found nothing for them to drive in.

All ordinary flies had long since gone home.

Domenico,

Foreseen,

Had sent his aunt's fly,

Driven by her son,

His cousin,

And his aunt,

And her fly lived inconstant and gentle.

The village crouching at the feet of San Salvatore,

And therefore however late the train was,

The fly would not dare to come home without containing that which had been sent to fetch.

Domenico's cousin was named Beppo,

And he presently emerged out of the darkness where Mrs Arbusnot and Mrs Wilkins stood,

Uncertain what to do after the train had gone on,

For they could see no porter,

And they thought from the feel of it that they were standing not so much on a platform,

But in the middle of the permanent way.

Beppo,

Who had been searching for them,

Escaped in the dark,

With a kind of pounce,

And talked with them voraciously.

Beppo was the most respectable young man,

But he did not look as if he were,

Especially not in the dark.

He had a dripping hout slouched over one eye.

They did not like the way he seized their suitcases.

He could not be,

They thought,

A porter.

However,

They presently,

From out of the streaming talk,

Discerned the words San Salvatore,

And after that they kept saying the same thing to him,

For it was the only Italian they knew,

And as they hurried after him,

Unwilling to lose sight of their suitcases,

Stumbling across rails and through puddles out to where the road,

A small high fly stood.

Its hood was up,

And its horse was in an attitude of thought.

They climbed in,

And the minute they were in,

Mrs Wilkins indeed could hardly be called in.

The horse awoke with a start from its reverie,

And immediately began going home rapidly,

Without Beppo,

Without their suitcases.

Beppo darted after him,

Marking the night ring with his shouts,

And caught the hanging reins just in time.

He explained proudly,

As it seemed to him,

With perfect clearness,

That the horse always did that,

Being a fine animal,

Full of corn and blood,

And cared for by him,

Beppo,

As if he were his only son.

And the ladies must not be alarmed.

He had noticed they were clutching each other,

But clear and loud and profuse of words though he was,

They only looked at him blankly.

He went on talking,

However,

While he piled up the suitcases around them.

Sure that sooner or later they must understand him,

Especially if he was careful to talk very loud,

And illustrate everything he said with the simplest,

Illusitory gestures.

But they both continued only to look at him.

They both,

He noticed sympathetically,

Had white faces,

Fatigued faces,

And they both had big eyes,

Fatigued eyes.

They were beautiful ladies,

He thought,

And their eyes looking at him over the tops of their suitcases,

Watching his every movement.

There were no trunks,

Only numbers of suitcases,

Like the eyes of the Mother of God.

The only thing the ladies said,

And they repeated at regular intervals,

Even after they had started gently prodding him as he sat in the box to call his attention to it,

Was,

San Salvatore.

And each time he answered voraciously,

Encouragingly,

Si,

Salvatore.

We don't know,

Of course,

If he's taking us there,

Said Mrs.

Arbuthnot,

At last in a low voice,

After they'd been driving,

It seemed to them,

A very long while,

And had gone off the paving stones of a sleep-sloughed,

Shrouded town,

Out of which,

On a winding road with that they had just seen a low wall,

On their left,

Beyond which great black emptiness and the sound of the sea.

On their right was something close,

And steep,

And high,

And black.

Rocks,

They whispered to each other,

Huge rocks.

No,

We don't know,

Agreed Mrs.

Wilkins,

A slight coldness passing down her spine.

They felt very uncomfortable.

It was so late,

It was so dark.

The road was so lonely.

Suppose a wheel came off,

Suppose they met Fascisti,

Or the opposite of Fascisti.

How sorry they were now,

Not to have slept at Genoa,

And come on the next morning in daylight.

But that would have been the 1st of April,

Said Mrs.

Wilkins,

In a low voice.

It is that now,

Said Mrs.

Arbuthnot,

Beneath her breath.

So it is,

Murmured Mrs.

Wilkins.

They were silent.

Beppo turned around on his box,

A disquieting habit already noticed,

For surely his horse ought to be carefully watched,

And again address them with what he was convinced was lucidity.

No,

Patius,

It was the clearest explanatory movements.

How much they wished their mothers had made them learn Italian when they were little.

If only they could have said,

Please sit down the right way and look after the horse.

They did not even know the horse was in Italian.

It was contemptible to be so ignorant.

In their anxiety,

For the road twisted around the jutting rocks,

And on their left was a low wall,

To keep them out of the sea should anything happen.

They too began to gesticulate,

Waving their hands at Beppo,

Pointing ahead.

They wanted him to turn around again to face his horse.

That was all.

They thought they wanted him to drive faster,

And there followed a terrifying ten minutes,

During which,

As he supposed,

He was gratifying them.

He was proud of his horse,

And it would go very fast.

He rose in his seat,

The whip cracked,

The horse rushed forward,

The rocks leaped towards them,

And the little fly swayed,

The suitcases heaved,

And Mrs.

Arbuthnot and Mrs.

Wilkins clung.

In this way they continued,

Swaying,

Heaving,

Clattering,

Until at a point near Castigento there was a rise in the road,

And on reaching the foot and the rise of the horse,

Who knew every inch of the way,

Stopped suddenly,

Throwing everything in the fly into a heap,

And then proceeded up the slowest of walks.

Beppo twisted himself round to receive their admiration,

Laughing with pride in his horse.

There was no answering laugh from the beautiful ladies.

Their eyes,

Fixed on him,

Seemed bigger than ever.

Their faces,

Against the black of the night,

Showed milky.

But here at least,

Once they were up the slope,

Were houses.

The rocks left off,

And there were houses.

The low wall left off,

And there were houses.

The sea shrank away,

And the sound of it ceased,

And the loneliness of the road was finished.

No lights anywhere,

Of course,

Nobody could see them pass,

And yet Beppo,

When the houses began,

After looking over his shoulder and shouting Castigento at the ladies,

Once more stood up and cracked his whip,

And once more made the horse dash forward.

We shall be there in a minute,

Mrs Arbuthnot said to herself,

Holding on.

We shall soon stop now,

Said Mrs Wilkins to herself,

Holding on.

They said nothing aloud,

Because nothing would have been heard above the whip cracking,

And the wheel clattering,

And the boisterous,

Enticing noises Beppo was making at his horse.

Anxiously,

They strained their eyes for any sight of the beginning of San Salvatore.

They had supposed and hoped that after a reasonable amount of village,

A medieval archway would loom upon them,

And through it they would drive into a garden and draw up to an open,

Welcoming door,

With light streaming from it,

And then servants standing in it whom,

According to the advertisement,

Remained.

Instead,

The fly suddenly stopped.

Peering out,

They could see they were still in the village street,

With small dark houses either side,

And Beppo throwing the reins over his horse's back,

As if it was completely confident that this time he would not go any further,

Got down off his box.

At the same moment,

Springing as it seemed out of nothing,

A man and several half-grown boys appeared on each side of the fly,

And began dragging up the suitcases.

No,

No,

San Salvatore,

San Salvatore!

Exclaimed Mrs Wilkins,

Trying to hold on to what suitcases she could.

Si,

Si,

San Salvatore,

San Salvatore!

They all shouted,

Pulling.

This can't be San Salvatore,

Said Mrs Wilkins,

Turning to Mrs Arbuthnot,

Who sat quite still watching her suitcases being taken from her,

And with the same patience she applied to lesser evils.

She knew that she could do nothing if these men were wicked men,

Determined to have her suitcases.

I don't think it can be,

She admitted,

And could not refrain from a moment's wonder at the ways of God.

Had she really been brought here,

She and poor Mrs Wilkins,

After so much trouble in arranging it,

So much difficulty and worry along such devious paths of prevarication and deceit,

Only to be.

.

.

She checked her thoughts,

And gently said to Mrs Wilkins,

While the ragged youth disappeared with the suitcases into the night,

And the man with the lantern helped Beppo pull the rug off her,

That they were both in God's hands,

And for the first time on hearing this,

Mrs Wilkins was afraid.

There was nothing for it but for to get out,

Unless to try to go on sitting in the fly,

Repeating San Salvatore every time they said it,

And their voices each time were fainter.

Beppo and the other man merely echoed it in a series of loud shouts.

If only they had heard Italian when they were little.

If only they could have.

We wish to be driven to the door.

But they did not even know what door was in Italian.

Such ignorance was not only contemptible,

It was,

They saw now,

Definitely dangerous.

Unless,

However,

To lament it now.

Useless to put it off.

Whatever it was that was going to happen to them by trying to go on sitting in the fly.

They therefore got out.

The two men opened their umbrellas for them and handed them to them.

From this they received a faint encouragement,

Because they could not believe that if these men were wicked,

They would pause to open umbrellas.

The man with the lantern then made signs for them to follow him.

Talking loud and quickly,

And Beppo,

They noticed,

Remained behind.

Ought they to pay him?

Not,

They thought,

If they were going to be robbed and perhaps murdered.

Surely on such an occasion one did not pay.

Besides,

He had not,

After all,

Been brought them to the San Salvatore.

Where they had got to was evidently somewhere else.

Also,

He did not show the least wish to be paid,

But let them go away into the night with no clamour at all.

This,

They could not help thinking,

Was a bad sign.

He asked for nothing,

Because presently he was to get so much.

They came to some steps,

The road was narrow,

The road ended abruptly in a church,

And some descending steps.

The man held the lantern low for them to see the steps.

San Salvatore?

Said Mrs Wilkins,

Once again very faintly,

Before committing herself to the steps.

It was useless to mention it now,

Of course,

But she could not go down the steps in complete silence.

No medieval castle,

She was sure,

Was ever built at the bottom of steps.

Again,

However,

Came an echoing shout.

Si,

Si,

San Salvatore!

They descended gingerly,

Holding up their skirts just as if they would be wanting them another time and had not,

In all probability,

Finished with skirts forever.

The steps ended in a steeply sloping path with flat stone slabs down the middle.

They slipped a good deal on these wet slabs,

And the man with the lantern,

Talking loudly and quickly,

Held them up.

His way of holding them up was polite.

Perhaps,

Said Mrs Wilkins in a low voice to Mrs Arbuthnot,

It is right after all.

Wearing God's hands,

Said Mrs Arbuthnot again,

And again Mrs Wilkins was afraid.

They reached the bottom of the sloping path,

And the light of the lantern flickered over the open space with houses round three sides.

The sea was on the fourth side,

Lazily washing backwards and forwards on pebbles.

San Salvatore,

Said the man,

Pointing with his lantern to a black mass curved around the water like an arm flung about it.

They strained their eyes.

They saw the black mass,

And on top of it,

A light.

San Salvatore,

They both repeated incredulously,

For where were the suitcases?

And why had they been forced to get out of the fly?

Si,

Si,

San Salvatore.

They went along what seemed to be a quay,

Right at the edge of the water.

There was not even a low wall here,

Nothing to prevent the man and the lantern tipping them in if he wanted to.

He did not,

However,

Tip them in.

Perhaps it was right after all,

Mrs Wilkins again suggested to Mrs Arbuthnot,

Noticing this,

Who this time was herself beginning to think that it might be,

And said no more about God's hands.

The flicker of the lantern danced along,

Reflected in the wet pavement of the quay.

Out to the left,

In the darkness,

And evidently the end of a jetty,

Was a red light.

They came to an archway with a heavy iron gate.

The man with the lantern pushed the gate open.

This time they went up steps instead of down,

And at the top of them was a little path that wound upwards among flowers.

They could not see the flowers,

But the whole place was evidently full of them.

Here it dawned on Mrs Wilkins that perhaps the reason why the fly had not driven them up to the door was that there was no road,

Only a footpath.

That also would explain the disappearance of the suitcases.

She began to feel confident that they would find their suitcases waiting for them when they got up to the top.

San Salvatore was,

It seemed,

At the top of a hill,

As a medieval castle should be.

At a turn of the path they saw above them,

Much nearer now and shining more brightly,

The light they had seen from the quay.

She told Mrs Arbuthnot of her dawning belief,

And Mrs Arbuthnot agreed that it was a very likely to be a true one.

Once more,

But this time a tone of real hopefulness,

Mrs Wilkins said,

Pointing upwards at the black outline,

Against the only slightly less black sky.

San Salvatore?

And once more,

But this time comfortingly,

Encouragingly,

Came back the assurance.

Si,

Si,

San Salvatore!

They crossed a little bridge,

Over which was apparently a ravine,

And then came a flat bit,

With a long grass at the sides and more flowers.

They felt the grass flicking wet against their stockings,

And the invisible flowers were everywhere,

Then up again through the trees,

Along the zigzag path,

With the smell of all the way of the flowers that they could not see.

The warm rain was bringing out all the sweetness.

Higher and higher it went.

Rich in this dark sweetness,

And the red light on the jetty dropped further and further below them.

The path wound round to the other side of what appeared to be a little peninsula.

The jetty and the red light disappeared,

Across the emptiness of their left were distant lights.

Masergo,

Said the man,

Waving his lantern at the lights.

Si,

They answered,

For they had now learned si,

Si,

Upon which the man congratulated them with a great flow of polite words,

Not one of which they understood on their magnificent Italian.

For this was Domenico,

The vigilant and accomplished gardener at Torri,

The prop and stay of the establishment,

The resourceful,

The gifted,

The eloquent,

The courteous,

The intelligent Domenico.

Only they did not know that yet.

And he did,

In the dark,

And even sometimes in the light,

Look,

With his sharp knife,

Swarthy figures and swift panther movements,

Very like somebody wicked.

They passed along another flat bit of path with a black shape like a high wall towering above them on their right,

And then the path went up again under trellises and trailing sprays of scented things that caught them and shook raindrops on them,

And the light of the lantern flickered over lilies,

And then came the flight of ancient steps worn with centuries,

And then another iron gate.

And then they were inside,

Though still climbing a twisting flight of stone steps,

With old walls on either side like walls of a dungeon,

And with a vaulted roof.

At the top was a wrought iron door,

And through it shone a flood of electric light.

Ego,

Said Domenico,

Lively running up the last few steps ahead and pushing the door open,

And there they were,

Arrived,

And it was San Salvatore,

And their suitcases were waiting for them,

And they had not been murdered.

They looked at each other's white faces and blinking eyes very solemnly.

It was a great,

A wonderful moment.

Here they were,

In their medieval castle,

At last.

Their feet touched its stones.

Mrs Wilkins put her arm around Mrs Arbuthnot's neck and kissed her.

The first thing to happen in this house,

She said softly,

Solemnly,

Should be a kiss.

Dear Lottie,

Said Mrs Arbuthnot.

Dear Rose,

Said Mrs Wilkins,

Her eyes brimming with gladness.

Domenico was delighted.

He liked to see beautiful ladies kiss.

He made them a most appreciative speech of welcome,

And they stood arm in arm,

Holding each other up,

For they were very tired,

Blinking smilingly at him and did not understand a word.