Chapter 6, The Enchanted April By Elizabeth Von Arnim

Chapter 6, 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 6 When Mrs Wilkins woke the next morning, She lay in bed a few minutes before getting up and opening the shutters. What would she see out of her window? A shining world or a world of rain? But it would be beautiful. Whatever it was, It would be beautiful. She was in a little bedroom with bare white walls, A stone floor and sparse old furniture. The beds, There were two, Were made of iron, Enamelled black and painted with bunches of gay flowers. She lay putting off the great moment to go to the window as one puts off opening a precious letter, Gloating over it. She had no idea what time it was. She had forgotten to wind up her watch ever since centuries ago. She last went to bed in Hampstead. No sounds would be heard in the house, So she supposed it was very early. Yet she felt as if she had slept a long while, So completely rested, So perfectly content. She lay with her arms clasped around her head, Thinking how happy she was. Her lips curved upwards in a delighted smile. In bed, By herself, Adorable condition. She had not been in bed without mellosh, Once now for five whole years. And the cool roominess of it, The freedom of one's movements, The sense of recklessness, Of audacity, In giving the blankets a pull if one wanted to, Or twitching the pillows more comfortable. It was like a discovery of an entirely new joy. Mrs Wilkins longed to get up and open the shutters, But where she was really so, Was so really very delicious. She gave a sigh of contentment, And went online there, Looking around her, Taking in everything in her room, Her own little room. Her very own, To arrange, Just as she pleased, For this one blessed month. Her room, Bought with her own savings, The fruit of her careful denials. Whose door she could bolt if she wanted to, And nobody had the right to come in. It was such a strange little room, So different from any she had known, And so sweet. It was like a cell, Except for the two beds it suggested a happy austerity. And the name of the chamber, She thought, Quoting and smiling about it, Was Peace. Well this was delicious, To lie there thinking how happy she was, But outside those shutters it was still more delicious. She jumped up, Pulled on her slippers, For there was nothing on the stone floor but one small rug, Ran to the window and threw open the shutters. Oh, Cried Mrs Wilkins, All the radiance of April in Italy lay gathered together at her feet, The sun poured in on her. The sea lay asleep in it, Hardly stirring. Across the bay, The lovely mountains, Exquisitely different in colour, Were asleep too in the light, And underneath her window, At the bottom of the flower-starred grass slope from which the wall of the castle rose up, Was a great cypress. Cutting through the delicate blues and violets and rose colours of the mountains and the sea like a great black sword, She stared, Such beauty, And she there to see it, Such beauty, And she alive to feel it. Her face was bathed in light, Lovely scents came up to the window and caressed her, A tiny breeze gently lifted her hair. Far out in the bay, A cluster of almost motionless fishing boats hovered like a flock of white birds on the tranquil sea. How beautiful, How beautiful, Not to have died before this, To have been allowed to see, Breathe, Feel this, She stared, Her lips parted. Happy, Poor, Ordinary day word. But what could one say, How could one describe it? It was as though she could hardly stay inside herself, It was as though she was too small to hold so much of joy, It was as though she was washed through with light, And how astonishing to feel this sheer bliss. For here she was, Not doing and not going to do a single unselfish thing, Not going to do a thing she didn't want to do. According to everybody she'd ever come across, She ought to at least have twinges. She had not one twinge. Something was wrong somewhere. Wonderful that at home she should have been so good, So terribly good, And merely felt tormented. Twinges of every sort had been there, Her portion, Aches, Hurts, Discouragements, And she, The whole time, Being steadily unselfish. Now she'd taken time off all her goodness and left it behind her like a heap of rain-sodden clothes, And she only felt joy. She was naked of goodness and was rejoicing in being naked. She was stripping and exulting. And there, Away in the dim mugginess of Hampstead, Was Mellosh being angry. She tried to visualise Mellosh, She tried to see him having breakfast and thinking bitter things about her, And lo, Mellosh himself began to shimmer. Became rose-coloured, Became delicate violet, Became an enchanting blue, Became formless, Became iridescent. Actually, Mellosh, After quivering a minute, Was lost in sight. Well, Thought Mrs Wilkins, Staring as if it were after him, How extraordinary not to be able to see Mellosh. And she, Who used to know every feature, Every expression of his by heart, She simply could not see him as he was. She could only see him resolved into beauty, Melted into harmony with everything else. The familiar words of the general thanksgiving came quite naturally into her mind, And she found herself blessing God for her creation, Preservation and all the blessings of this life. And above all for his inestimable love, Out loud in a burst of acknowledgement. While Mellosh, At that moment, Angry, Pulling on his boots before going out into the dripping streets, Was indeed thinking bitter things about her. She began to dress, Choosing clean white clothes in honour of the summer's day, Unpacking her suitcases, Tidying her adorable little room. She moved about with quick, Purposeful steps, Her long, Thin body held up straight, Her small face, So much puckered at home, With effort and fear, Smoothed out. All she had been and done before this morning, All she had felt and worried about, Was gone. Each of her worries behaved as if the image of Mellosh had behaved, And dissolved into colour and light, And she noticed things she had not noticed for years. When she was doing her hair in front of the glass she noticed it, And thought, Why, What pretty stuff. For years she had forgotten she had such a thing as hair, Plaiting it in the evening and unplaiting it in the morning, With the same hurry and indifference with which she laced and unlaced her shoes. Now she suddenly saw it, And she twisted around her finger before the glass, And was glad it was so pretty. Mellosh couldn't have seen it either, For he'd never said a word about it. Well, When she got home she would draw his attention to it. Mellosh, She would say, Look at my hair, Aren't you pleased you've got a wife with curly honey hair? She laughed, She had never said anything like that to Mellosh yet, And the idea of it amused her. But why had she not? Oh yes, She used to be afraid of him. Funny to be afraid of anybody, And especially of one's husband, Whom one saw in his more simplified moments, Such as sleep and not breathing properly through his nose. When she was ready to open the door and go across to see if Rose, Who had been put the night before by a sleepy maid servant into the cell opposite, Were awake, She would say good morning to her, And she would run down and stay with the cypress tree till breakfast was ready. And after breakfast she wouldn't so much as look out of the window till she had helped Rose get everything ready for Lady Caroline and Mrs Fisher. There was so much to be done that day, Settling in, Arranging the rooms, She mustn't leave Rose to do it all alone. They would make it all so lovely for the two to come, Have such entrancing vision ready for them of the cells with little bright flowers. She remembered she had wanted Lady Caroline not to come, Fancy wanting to shut someone out of heaven because she thought she would be shy of her. And as though it mattered if she were, And as though she would be anything so self-conscious as shy. Besides, What a reason. She could not accuse herself of goodness over that. And she remembered she had wanted not to have Mrs Fisher either, Because she had seemed lofty. How funny of her, So funny to worry about such little things, Making them important. The bedrooms and two of the sitting rooms at San Salvatore were on the top floor and opened into a roomy hall with a wide glass window at the north end. San Salvatore was rich in small gardens in different parts and on different levels. The garden this window looked down on was made on the highest part of the walls and could only be reached through the corresponding spacious hall on the floor below. When Mrs Wilkins came out of her room, This window stood wide open and beyond it in the sun was a Judas tree in full flower. There was no sign of anybody, No sound of voices or feet. Tubs of arum lilies stood about on the stone floor and on the table flamed a huge bunch of fierce nasturtiums. Spacious, Flowery, Silent, With their wide window at the end opening into the garden and the Judas tree absurdly beautiful in the sunshine. It seemed to Mrs Wilkins, Arrested, On her way across to Mrs Arbuthnot, Too good to be true. Was she really going to live in this for a whole month? Up till now she had had to take what beauty she could as she went along, Snatching at little bits of it when she came across it. A patch of daisies on a fine day in Hampstead Heath, A flash of sunset between two chimney pots. She had never been in definitely, Completely beautiful places. She had never even been in a venerable house and such a thing as profusion of flowers in her rooms was untainable to her. Sometimes in the spring she had bought six tulips at Shulbreds, Unable to resist them, Conscious that Mellosh, If he knew what they had cost, Would think it inexcusable. But they had just soon died and then there were no more. As for the Judas tree, She hadn't an idea what it was and gazed at it out there against the sky with a rapt expression of one who sees a heavenly vision. Mrs Arbuthnot, Coming out of her room, Found her there like that, Standing in the middle of the hall, Staring. Now what does she think she sees now, Thought Mrs Arbuthnot. Are we not in God's hands, Said Mrs Wilkins, Turning to her and speaking in extreme conviction. Oh, Said Mrs Arbuthnot quickly, Her face which had been covered with smiles when she came out of her room, Falling. Why, What has happened? For Mrs Arbuthnot had woken up with such a delightful feeling of security, Of relief, That she did not want to find that she had after all not escaped from the need of refuge. She had not even dreamed of Frederick. For the first time in years she had been spared the nightly dream that was with her, That they were heart to heart and its miserable awakening. She had slept like a baby and had woken up confident and had found that there was nothing she wished to say in her morning prayer except thank you. It was disconcerting to be told that she was in after all God's hands. I hope nothing has happened, She asked anxiously. Mrs Wilkins looked at her a moment and laughed. How funny, She said kissing her. What is funny? Asked Mrs Arbuthnot, Her face clearing because Mrs Wilkins laughed. We are. This is. Everything. It's all so wonderful. It's funny and so adorable that we should be in it. I dare say when we finally reach heaven, The one they only talk about so much, We shall find it a bit more beautiful. Mrs Arbuthnot relaxed into smiling securely again. Isn't it divine, She said. Were you ever, Ever in your whole life so happy? Asked Mrs Wilkins, Catching her by the arm. No, Said Mrs Arbuthnot, Nor had she been, Not ever, Not even in the first days of love with Frederick, Because always pain had been close at hand and in that other happiness ready to torture with doubts, To torture even with the very excess of her love. While this was the simple happiness of complete harmony with her surroundings, The happiness that asks for nothing, That just accepts, Just breathes, Just is. Let's go and look at that tree close, Said Mrs Wilkins. I don't believe it can only be a tree. And arm in arm they went along the hall, And their husbands would not have known them, Their faces were so young and eager, And full of eagerness. And together they stood at the open window, And when their eyes, Having feasted on the marvellous pink thing, Wandered further along the beauties of the garden, They saw sitting on a low wall at the east edge of it, Gazing out over the bay, Her feet in the lilies, Lady Caroline. They were astonished. They said nothing in their astonishment, But stood quite still, Arm in arm, Staring down at her. She too had on a white frock, And her head was bare. They had no idea that day in London, When her hat was down to her nose and her furs pulled up to her ears, That she was so pretty. They'd merely thought her different from the other women in the club, And so had the other women themselves, And so had all the waitresses, Eyeing her sideways and eyeing her again as they passed the corner where she sat talking. But they had no idea she was so pretty. She was exceedingly pretty. Everything about her was very much that which it was. Her fair hair was very fair, Her lovely grey eyes were very lovely grey eyes, Her dark eyelashes were very dark, Her white skin was white, Her red mouth was very red. She was extravagantly slender, The merest thread of a girl, Though not without her little curves behind her thin frock, Where her curves should be. She was looking out across the bay, And was sharply defined against the background of empty blue. She was full in the sun, Her feet dangled amongst the leaves and the flowers of the lilies, Just as it did not matter that they should be brent or bruised. She ought to have a headache, Whispered Mrs Arbuthnot at last, Sitting there in the sun like that. She ought to have a hat, Whispered Mrs Wilkins. She's treading on lilies. But they're hers as much as ours, Only one-fourth of them. Lady Caroline turned her head. She looked up at them a moment, Surprised to see them so much younger than they had seemed that day at the club, And so much less unattractive. Indeed, They were really almost quite attractive, If anyone could ever really be quite attractive in the wrong clothes. Her eyes swiftly glancing over them, Took in every inch of them in the half second before she smiled and waved her hand and called out, Good morning! There was nothing, She saw at once, To be hoped for in a way of interest from their clothes. She did not consciously think this, For she was having a violent reaction against the beautiful clothes and the slavery they imposed on one, Her experience being that the instant she'd got them and took one in hand and gave one no peace until they had been everywhere and been seen by everybody, You didn't take your clothes to parties, They took you. It was quite a mistake to think that a woman, A really well-dressed woman, Wore out her clothes. It was the clothes that wore out the woman. Dragging her about at all hours of the day and night, No wonder men stayed younger, Longer. Just new trousers couldn't excite them, She couldn't suppose that even the newest trousers ever behaved like that. Taking the whip between her teeth, Her images were disorderly, But she thought as she chose, She used what images she liked, And she got off the wall and came towards the window. It seemed a restful thing to know that she was going to spend an entire month with people in dresses made as simply and as dimly remembered dresses used to be made five summers ago. I got here yesterday morning, She said, Looking up at them smiling. She really was bewitching. She had everything, Even a dimple. It's a great pity, Said Mrs Arbuthnot smiling back, Because we were going to choose the nicest room for you. Oh, But I've done that, Said Lady Caroline, At least I think it's the nicest. It looks two ways, I adore that room that looks two ways, Don't you? Out over the sea to the west and over this Judas tree to the north. And we meant to make it pretty for you with flowers, Said Mrs Wilkins. Oh, Domenico did that, I told him to do it directly, I got here, He's a gardener, He's wonderful. It's a good thing, Of course, Said Mrs Arbuthnot a little hesitatingly, To be independent and to know exactly what one wants. Yes, It saves trouble, Agreed Lady Caroline, But one shouldn't be so independent, Said Mrs Wilkins, As to leave no opportunity for other people to exercise their benevolences on one. Lady Caroline, Who had been looking at Mrs Arbuthnot, Now looked at Mrs Wilkins. That day at the queer club, She had merely a blurred impression of Mrs Wilkins, For it was the other one who did all the talking, And her impression had been of somebody so shy, So awkward, That it was best to take no notice of her. She had not even been able to say goodbye properly, Doing it in agony, Turning red, Turning damp. Therefore, She now looked at her in some surprise, And she was still more surprised when Mrs Wilkins added, Gazing at her with the most obvious and sincere admiration, Speaking indeed with conviction, That refused to remain unuttered, I didn't realise she was so pretty. She stared at Mrs Wilkins. She was not usually told this quite so immediately and roundly. Abundantly, As she was used to it, Impossible not to be after 28-year-old solid years, It suddenly surprised her to be told with such bluntness and by a woman. It's very kind of you to think so, She said. Why, You're lovely, Said Mrs Wilkins, Quite, Quite lovely. I hope, Said Mrs Arbuthnot pleasantly, You make the most of it. Lady Caroline then stared at Mrs Arbuthnot. Oh yes, She said, I make the most of it. I've been doing that ever since I can remember. Because, Said Mrs Arbuthnot, Smiling and raising a warning forefinger, It won't last. Then Lady Caroline began to be afraid these two were originals. If so, She would be bored. Nothing bored her so much as people who hesitated on being original. She came and buttoned the hold her and kept her waiting while they were being original. And the one who admired her, It would be tiresome if she dodged her about in order to look at her. But she wanted this holiday. It was a complete escape from all she had had before. She wanted the rest of complete contrast. Being admired, Being dogged, Wasn't contrast. It was repetition. And as for originals, To find herself shut up with two on top of a precipitous hill in a medieval castle built for the express purpose of preventing easy goings in and out, Would not, She was afraid, Be especially restful. But she'd better be a little less encouraging. They had seemed such timid creatures, Even the dark one. She couldn't remember their names, That day at the club, That she had felt quite safe to be very friendly. Here they'd come out of their shells already indeed, At once. There was no sign of timidity about either of them here. If they'd gone out of their shells so immediately at the very first encounter, Unless she checked them, They would soon begin to press upon her. And then goodbye to her dream of thirty restful silent days, Lying unmolested in the sun, Getting her feathers smooth again, Not being spoken to, Not waited on, Not grabbed and not monopolised. But just recovering from the fatigue, The deep and melancholy fatigue of the too much. Besides, There was Mrs Fisher. She must too be checked. Lady Caroline had started two days earlier and had arranged for two reasons. First, Because she wished to arrive before the others in order to pick out the room, Or rooms, She preferred. And second, Because she judged it likely that otherwise she would have to travel with Mrs Fisher. She did not want to travel with Mrs Fisher. She did not want to arrive with Mrs Fisher. She saw no reason whatever why for a single moment she would have to have anything at all to do with Mrs Fisher. But unfortunately, Mrs Fisher was also filled with the desire to get to San Salvatore first and pick out the room, Or rooms, Which she preferred. And she and Lady Caroline had, After all, Travelled together. As early as Calais, They began to suspect it. In Paris, They feared it. At Modane, They knew it. And at Marzago, They concealed it, Driving out to Castigento in two separate flies, The nose of one almost touching the back of the other the whole way. But when the road suddenly left off at the church, And the steps, Further evasion was impossible. And faced by this abrupt and difficult finish to their journey, There was nothing for it but to amalgamate. Because of Mrs Fisher's stick, Lady Caroline had to see about everything. Mrs Fisher's intentions, She explained from her fly, When the situation had become plain to her, Were active. But her stick prevented their being carried out. The two drivers told Lady Caroline boys would have to carry the luggage up to the castle. And she went in search of some, While Mrs Fisher waited in the fly because of her stick. Mrs Fisher could speak Italian, But only, She explained, The Italian of Dante, Which Matthew Arnold used to read with her when she was a girl. And she thought this might be above the heads of the boys. Therefore Lady Caroline, Who spoke ordinary Italian very well, Was obviously the one to go and do things. I'm in your hands, Said Mrs Fisher, Sitting firmly in her fly. You must please regard me as merely an old woman with a stick. And presently, Down the steps and cobbles to the piazza, And along the quay and up the zigzag path, Lady Caroline found herself as much obliged to walk slowly with Mrs Fisher as if she were her own grandmother. It's my stick, Said Mrs Fisher complacently, Remarked at her intervals. And when they rested at those bends of the zigzag path where the seats were, And Lady Caroline, Who would have liked to have run on and get to the top quickly, Was forced in common humanity to remain with Mrs Fisher because of her stick, Mrs Fisher told her how she had been on a zigzag path once with Tennyson. Isn't his cricket wonderful, Said Lady Caroline absently. The Tennyson, Said Mrs Fisher, Turning her head and observing her a moment over her spectacles. Isn't he, Said Lady Caroline. I'm speaking, Said Mrs Fisher, Of Alfred. Oh, Said Lady Caroline. And it was a path too, Mrs Fisher went on severely. Curiously like this. No eucalyptus tree, Of course, But otherwise curiously like this. And at one of the bends, He turned and said to me, I see him now turning and saying to me. Yes, Mrs Fisher would have to be checked. And so with these two up at the window. She'd better begin at once. She was sorry she'd got off the wall. All she need have done was to have waved her hand and waited till they came down and out into the garden to her. So she ignored Mrs Arbuthnot's remarks and raised forefinger and said with marked coldness. At least she tried to make it sound marked that she supposed that they would be going to breakfast and that she had hers. But it was her fate that however coldly she set forth her words, They came out sounding quite warm and agreeable. That was because she had a sympathetic and delightful voice due entirely to some special formation of her throat. And the roof of her mouth and having nothing whatever to do with what she was feeling. Nobody in consequence ever believed they were being snubbed. It was most tiresome. And if she stared icily, She did not look icy at all, Because her eyes, Lovely to begin with, Had the added loveliness of very long, Soft, Dark eyelashes. No icy stare could come out of eyes like that. It got caught and lost in the soft eyelashes and the persons stared at merely thought they were being regarded with a flattering and exquisite attentiveness. And if ever she was out of humour or definitely cross, And who would not be sometimes in such a world, She only looked so pathetic that people all rushed to comfort her, If possible by means of kissing. It was more than tiresome, It was maddening. Nature was determined that she should look and sound angelic. She could never be disagreeable or rude without being completely misunderstood. I have my breakfast in my room, She said, Trying her utmost to sound curt. Perhaps I'll see you later. And she nodded and went back to where she'd been sitting on the wall, With the lilies being nice and cool around her feet.