Hello,
My name's Mandy.
I'm really pleased you've decided to join me for tonight's reading.
Elizabeth von Armen was a prolific writer,
Best known for the story you're going to start listening to tonight,
The Enchanted April,
And also her debut novel,
Elizabeth and Her German Garden.
She wasn't crazy about the limitations of either marriage or motherhood in the 19th century,
And liked to escape to her garden and to her writing.
So before we start,
Let's just spend a few moments taking up a comfortable position,
Whether that's sitting or lying,
And do any of those little last minute adjustments that you might need to do to make yourself as comfortable as you can be today at this particular moment in time.
Okay,
Then I'll begin.
The Enchanted April by Elizabeth von Armen,
Chapter one.
It began in a woman's club in London on a February afternoon,
An uncomfortable club and a miserable afternoon,
When Mrs Wilkins,
Who had come down from Hampstead to shop and had lunched at her club,
Took up the times from the table in the smoking room.
And running her listless eye down the agony column,
She saw this.
To those who appreciate wisteria and sunshine.
Small medieval Italian castle on the shores of the Mediterranean to be let furnished for the month of April.
Necessary servants remain.
Z.
Box 1000.
The Times.
That was its conception.
Yet,
As in the case of many another,
The conceiver was unaware of it at the moment.
So entirely unaware was Mrs Wilkins that her April for that year had then and there been settled for her,
That she dropped the newspaper with a gesture that was both irritated and resigned,
And went over to the window and stared drearily out at the dripping street.
Not for her were medieval castles,
Even those that are specially described as small.
Not for her the shores in April of the Mediterranean and the wisteria and sunshine.
Such delights were only for the rich.
Yet the advertisement had been addressed to persons who appreciate these things,
So that it had been,
Anyhow,
Addressed too to her,
For she certainly appreciated them more than anybody knew,
More than she had ever told.
But she was poor.
In the whole world she possessed,
Of her very own,
Only £90,
Saved from year to year,
Put by carefully,
Pound by pound,
Out of her dress allowance.
She had scraped this sum together at the suggestion of her husband as a shield and refuge against a rainy day.
Her dress allowance,
Given to her by her father,
Was £100 a year,
So that Mrs Wilkins's clothes were what her husband,
Urging her to save,
Called modest and becoming.
And her acquaintance to each other,
When they spoke of her at all,
Which was seldom,
For she was very negligible,
Called a perfect sight.
Mr Wilkins,
A solicitor,
Encouraged thrift,
Except that branch of it which got into his food.
He did not call that thrift,
He called it bad housekeeping.
But for the thrift which,
Like moth,
Penetrated into Mrs Wilkins's clothes and spoiled them,
He had much praise.
You never know,
He said,
When there will be a rainy day,
And you may be very glad to find that you have a nest egg.
Indeed,
We both may.
Looking out of the club window into Shaftesbury Avenue,
Hers was an economical club,
But convenient for Hampstead,
Where she lived,
And for Shulbreds,
Where she shopped.
Mrs Wilkins,
Having stood there some time very drearily,
Her mind's eye on the Mediterranean in April,
And the wisteria and the enviable opportunities of the rich,
While her bodily eye watched the really extremely horrible sooty rain,
Falling steadily on the hurrying umbrellas and the splashing omnibuses,
Suddenly wondered whether perhaps this was not the rainy day Melesh,
Melesh was Mr Wilkins,
Had so often encouraged her to prepare for,
And whether to get out of such a climate and into the small medieval castle wasn't perhaps what Providence had all along intended her to do with her savings.
Part of her savings,
Of course,
Perhaps quite a small part.
The castle,
Being medieval,
Might also be dilapidated,
And dilapidations were surely cheap.
She wouldn't in the least mind a few of them,
Because you didn't pay for dilapidations which were already there.
On the contrary,
By reducing the price you had to pay,
They really paid you.
But what nonsense to think of it.
She turned away from the window,
With the same gesture of mingled irritation and resignation with which she had laid down the times,
And crossed the rim towards the door with the intention of getting her Macintosh and umbrella,
And fighting her way into one of the overcrowded omnibuses,
And going to Shulbred's on her way home,
And buying some sole for Melesh's dinner.
Melesh was difficult with fish,
And liked only sole,
Except salmon.
And then she beheld Mrs Arbuthnot,
A woman she knew by sight,
As also living in Hampstead,
And belonging to the club,
Sitting at the table in the middle of the room on which the newspapers and magazines were kept,
Absorbed in her turn in the first page of the Times.
Mrs Wilkins had never yet spoken to Mrs Arbuthnot,
Who belonged to one of the various church sets,
And who analysed,
Classified,
Divided and registered the poor.
Whereas she and Melesh,
When they did go out,
Went to the parties of Impressionist painters,
Of whom in Hampstead there were many.
Melesh had a sister who had married one of them,
And lived up on the heath,
And because of this alliance,
Mrs Wilkins was drawn into a circle,
Which was highly unnatural to her,
And she had learned to dread pictures.
She had to say things about them,
And she didn't know what to say.
She used to murmur,
Marvellous,
And feel that it was not enough.
But nobody minded,
Nobody listened,
Nobody took any notice of Mrs Wilkins.
She was the kind of person who is not noticed at parties.
Her clothes,
Infested by thrift,
Made her practically invisible.
Her face was non-arresting,
Her conversation was reluctant,
And she was shy.
And if one's clothes and face and conversation are all negligible,
Thought Mrs Wilkins,
Who recognised her disabilities,
What at parties is there left of one?
Also,
She was always with Wilkins,
That clean-shaven,
Fine-looking man,
Who gave a party,
Merely by coming to it,
A great air.
Wilkins was very respectable.
He was known to be highly thought of by his senior partners.
His sister's circle admired him.
He pronounced adequately intelligent judgements on art and artists.
He was pithy,
He was prudent,
He never said a word too much,
Nor,
On the other hand,
Did he ever say a word too little.
He produced the impression of keeping copies of everything he said.
And he was so obviously reliable,
That it often happened that people who met him at these parties became discontented with their own solicitors,
And after a period of restlessness,
Extricated themselves and went to Wilkins.
Naturally,
Mrs Wilkins was blotted out.
She,
Said his sister,
With something herself of the judicial,
The digested and the final,
In her manner,
Should stay at home.
But Wilkins could not leave his wife at home.
He was a family solicitor,
And all such have wives and show them.
With his,
In the week,
He went to parties,
And with his,
On Sundays,
He went to church.
Being still fairly young,
He was 39,
And ambitious of old ladies,
Of whom he had not yet acquired in his practice a sufficient number,
He could not afford to miss church,
And it was there that Mrs Wilkins became familiar,
Though never through words,
With Mrs Arbuthnot.
She saw her marshalling the children of the poor into pews.
She would come in at the head of the procession from the Sunday school,
Exactly five minutes before the choir,
And get her boys and girls neatly fitted into their allotted seats,
And down on their little knees in their preliminary prayer,
And up again on their feet,
Just as to the swelling organ,
The vestry door opened,
And the choir and clergy,
Big with the litanies and commandments they were pleasantly to roll out,
Emerged.
She had a sad face,
Yet she was evidently efficient.
The combination used to make Mrs Wilkins wonder,
For she had been told by Melesh,
On days when she'd only been able to get place,
That if one were efficient,
One wouldn't be depressed,
And that if one does one's job well,
One becomes automatically bright and brisk.
About Mrs Arbuthnot,
There was nothing bright and brisk,
Though much in her way with the Sunday school children,
That was automatic.
But when Mrs Wilkins,
Turning from the window,
Caught sight of her in the club,
She was not being automatic at all,
But was looking fixedly at one portion of the first page of the Times,
Holding the paper quite still,
Her eyes not moving.
She was just staring,
And her face as usual was the face of a patient and disappointed Madonna.
Obeying an impulse she wondered at,
Even while obeying it,
Mrs Wilkins,
The shy and the reluctant,
Instead of proceeding as she had intended to the cloakroom,
And from thence to Shulbreds in search of Melesh's fish,
Stopped at the table and sat down exactly opposite Mrs Arbuthnot,
To whom she had never yet spoken in her life.
It was one of those long,
Narrow,
Refectory tables,
So they were quite close to one another.
Mrs Arbuthnot,
However,
Did not look up.
She continued to gaze with eyes that seemed to be dreaming at one spot only of the Times.
Mrs Wilkins watched her a minute,
Trying to screw up courage to speak with her.
She wanted to ask her if she had seen the advertisement.
She didn't know why she wanted to ask her this,
But she wanted to.
How stupid not to be able to speak up.
Mrs Arbuthnot looked so kind,
She looked so unhappy.
Why couldn't two unhappy people refresh each other on their way through this dusty business of life by a little talk,
Real,
Natural talk,
About what they felt,
What they would have liked,
What they still tried to hope.
And she couldn't help thinking that Mrs Arbuthnot too was reading that very same advertisement.
Her eyes were on the very part of the paper.
Was she too picturing what it would be like,
The colour,
The fragrance,
The light,
The soft lapping of the sea among little hot rocks?
Colour,
Fragrance,
Light,
Sea.
Instead of Shaftesbury Avenue and the wet omnibuses and the fish department at Shawbreads and the tube to Hampstead and dinner and tomorrow the same and the day after the same and always the same.
Suddenly,
Mrs Wilkins found herself leaning across the table.
Are you reading about the medieval castle and the wisteria?
She heard herself asking.
Naturally,
Mrs Arbuthnot was surprised,
But she was not half so much surprised as Mrs Wilkins was at herself for asking.
Mrs Arbuthnot had not yet,
To her knowledge,
Set eyes on the shabby,
Lank,
Loosely put together figure sitting opposite her with its small freckled face and big grey eyes that almost disappeared under a smashed down wet weather hat.
And she gazed at her a moment without answering.
She was reading about the medieval castle and the wisteria,
Or rather had read about it ten minutes before and since then had been lost in dreams of light,
Of colour,
Of fragrance,
Of the soft lapping of the sea among little hot rocks.
Why do you ask me that,
She said in her grave voice,
For her training of and by the poor had made her grave and patient.
Mrs Wilkins flushed and looked excessively shy and frightened.
Oh,
Only because I saw it too and I thought perhaps,
I thought somehow,
She stammered.
Whereupon Mrs Arbuthnot,
Her mind being used to getting people into lists and divisions from habits considered,
As she gazed thoughtfully at Mrs Wilkins,
Under what heading,
Supposing she had to classify her,
She could most properly be put.
Ah,
I know you by sight,
Went on Mrs Wilkins,
Who,
Like all the shy,
Once she was started,
Plunged on,
Frightening herself to more and more speech by the sheer sound of what she had said last in her ears.
Every Sunday,
I see you every Sunday in church.
In church,
Echoed Mrs Arbuthnot,
And this seems such a wonderful thing,
This advertisement about the wisteria and Mrs Wilkins,
Who must have been at least 30,
Broke off and wriggled in her chair with the movement of an awkward and embarrassed schoolgirl.
It seems so wonderful,
She went on,
In a kind of burst,
And it is such a miserable day.
And then she sat,
Looking at Mrs Arbuthnot with the eyes of an imprisoned dog.
This poor thing,
Thought Mrs Arbuthnot,
Whose life was spent in helping and alleviating,
Needs advice.
She accordingly prepared herself patiently to give it.
If you see me in church,
She said,
Kindly and attentively,
I suppose you live in Hampstead too.
Oh yes,
Said Mrs Wilkins,
And she repeated,
Her head on its long thin neck,
Drooping a little,
As if the recollection of Hampstead bowed her,
Oh yes.
Where,
Asked Mrs Arbuthnot who,
When advice was needed,
Naturally first proceeded to collect the facts.
But Mrs Wilkins,
Laying her hand softly and caressingly on the part of the times where the advertisement was,
As though the mere printed words of it were precious,
Only said,
Perhaps that's why this seems so wonderful.
No,
I think that's wonderful anyhow,
Said Mrs Arbuthnot,
Forgetting facts and faintly sighing.
Then you were reading it.
Oh yes,
Said Mrs Arbuthnot,
Her eyes going dreamy again.
Wouldn't it be wonderful,
Murmured Mrs Wilkins.
Wonderful,
Said Mrs Arbuthnot.
Her face,
Which had lit up,
Faded into patience again.
Very wonderful,
She said,
But it's no use wasting one's time thinking of such things.
Oh,
But it is,
Was Mrs Wilkins quick,
Surprising reply.
Surprising because it was so much unlike the rest of her.
The characterless coat and skirt,
The crumpled hat,
The undecided wisp of hair straggling out.
And just the considering of them is worthwhile in itself,
Such a change from Hampstead.
And sometimes I believe,
I really do believe,
If one considers hard enough,
One gets things.
Mrs Arbuthnot observed her patiently.
In what category would she,
Supposing she had to,
Put her?
Perhaps,
She said,
Leaning forward a little,
You will tell me your name.
If we are to be friends,
She smiled her grave smile,
As I hope we are,
We had better begin at the beginning.
Oh yes,
How kind of you.
I'm Mrs Wilkins,
Said Mrs Wilkins.
I don't expect,
She added,
Flushing,
As Mrs Arbuthnot said nothing,
That it conveys anything to you.
Sometimes it,
It doesn't seem to convey anything to me either.
But,
She looked round with a movement of seeking help.
I am Mrs Wilkins.
She didn't like her name.
It was a mean small name,
With a kind of facetious twist,
She thought,
About its end,
Like the upward curve of a pug dog's tail.
There it was,
However.
There was no doing anything with it.
Wilkins she was,
And Wilkins she would remain.
And though her husband encouraged her to give it on all occasions as Mrs Mellish Wilkins,
She only did that when he was within earshot,
For she thought Mellish made Wilkins worse,
Emphasising it in the way Chatsworth,
On the gateposts of a villa,
Emphasises the villa.
When first he suggested she should add Mellish,
She had objected,
For the above reason,
And after a pause,
Mellish was much too prudent to speak,
Except after a pause,
During which,
Presumably,
He was taking a careful mental copy of his coming observation.
He said,
Much displeased,
But I am not a villa,
And looked at her,
As he looks who hopes,
For perhaps the hundredth time,
That he may not have married a fool.
Of course he was not a villa,
Mrs Wilkins assured him.
She had never supposed he was.
She had not dreamed of meaning.
She was only just thinking.
The more she explained,
The more earnest became Mellish's hope,
Familiar to him by this time,
For he had then been husband for two years,
That he might not by any chance have married a fool,
And they had a prolonged quarrel,
If that can be called a quarrel,
Which is conducted with dignified silence on one side,
And earnest apology on the other.
As to whether or no Mrs Wilkins had intended to suggest that Mr Wilkins was a villa,
I believe she had thought,
When it was at last over,
It took a long while,
That anybody would quarrel about anything when they have not left off being together for a single day for two whole years.
What we both need is a holiday.
My husband went on Mrs Wilkins to Mrs Arbuthnot,
Trying to throw some light on herself,
Is a solicitor,
He,
She cast about for something she could say about Mellish,
And found he's very handsome.
Well,
Said Mrs Arbuthnot kindly,
That must be a great pleasure to you.
Why?
Asked Mrs Wilkins.
Because,
Said Mrs Arbuthnot,
A little taken aback,
For constant intercourse with the poor had accustomed her to have her pronouncements accepted without question,
Because beauty,
Handsomeness,
Is a gift like any other,
And if it is properly used,
She trailed off into silence.
Mrs Wilkins' great grey eyes were fixed on her,
And it seemed suddenly to Mrs Arbuthnot,
That perhaps she was becoming crystallised into a habit of exposition,
And of exposition after the manner of nursemaids,
Through having an audience that couldn't but agree,
That would be afraid if it wished to interrupt,
That didn't know,
That was in fact at her mercy.
But Mrs Wilkins was not listening,
For just then,
Absurd as it seemed,
A picture had flashed across her brain,
And there were two figures in it,
Sitting together under a great trailing wisteria,
That stretched across the branches of a tree she didn't know,
And it was herself,
And Mrs Arbuthnot,
She saw them,
She saw them,
And behind them,
Bright in sunshine were old grey walls,
The medieval castle,
She saw it,
They were there.
She therefore stared at Mrs Arbuthnot,
And didn't hear a word she said,
And Mrs Arbuthnot stared too at Mrs Wilkins,
Arrested by the expression on her face,
Which was swept by the excitement of what she saw,
And was as luminous and tremulous under it,
As water in sunlight when it is ruffled by a gust of wind.
At this moment,
If she had been at a party,
Mrs Wilkins would have been looked at with interest.
They stared at each other,
Mrs Arbuthnot surprised,
Inquiringly,
Mrs Wilkins with the eyes of someone who has had a revelation.
Of course,
That was how it could be done.
She herself,
She by herself,
Couldn't afford it,
And wouldn't be able,
Even if she could afford it,
To go there all alone,
But she and Mrs Arbuthnot together,
She leaned across the table.
Why don't we try and get it,
She whispered.
Mrs Arbuthnot became even more wide-eyed.
Get it,
She repeated.
Yes,
Said Mrs Wilkins,
But as though she were afraid of being overheard.
Not just sit here and say,
How wonderful,
And then go home to Hampstead,
Without having put out a finger.
Go home,
Just as usual,
And see about the dinner and the fish,
Just as we've been doing for years and years,
And will go on doing for years and years.
In fact,
Said Mrs Wilkins,
Flushing to the roots of her hair,
For the sound of what she was saying,
Of what was coming,
Pouring out,
Frightened her,
And yet she couldn't stop.
I see no end to it.
There is no end to it.
So that there ought to be a break.
There ought to be intervals,
In everybody's interests.
Why?
It would really be being unselfish to go away,
And be happy for a little,
Because we would come back so much nicer.
After a bit,
Everybody needs a holiday.
But how do you mean,
Get it?
Asked Mrs Arbuthnot.
Take it,
Said Mrs Wilkins,
Take it.
Rent it,
Hire it,
Have it.
But,
Do you mean you and I?
Yes,
Between us,
Share,
Then it would only cost half.
And you look so,
You look exactly as if you wanted it,
Just as much as I do.
As if you ought to have a rest,
Have something happy happen to you.
Why?
But we don't know each other.
But just think how well we would,
If we went away together for a month.
And I've saved for a rainy day,
And I expect so of you.
And this,
This is the rainy day,
Look at it.
Mrs Arbuthnot,
Mrs Arbuthnot,
Mrs Arbuthnot,
Mrs Arbuthnot,
Mrs Arbuthnot,
Mrs Arbuthnot,
Mrs Arbuthnot,
Mrs Arbuthnot,
Mrs Arbuthnot,
Mrs Arbuthnot,
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