The Enchanted April, Chapter 11

In the latest chapter from Elizabeth von Armin's wonderful novel about four women who spend a month in an Italian castle, there is a difference of opinion about how to handle Mrs Fisher, and there is also talk of husbands.

Transcript

Hello there,

It's Mandy here.

Thanks for joining me tonight and we're going to be reading chapter 11 of the Enchanted April by the wonderful Elizabeth von Arnim.

So please feel free and go ahead and make yourself really comfortable and I'll begin.

The sweet smells that were everywhere in San Salvatore were alone enough to produce concord.

They came into the sitting room from the flowers on the battlements and met the ones from the flowers inside the room and almost thought Mrs Wilkins could be seen greeting each other with a holy kiss.

Who could be angry in the middle of such gentleness?

Who could be acquisitive,

Selfish in the old rasped London way in the presence of this bounteous beauty?

Yet Mrs Fisher seemed to be all three of these things.

There was so much beauty,

So much more than enough for everyone that it did appear to be a vain activity to try and make a corner in it.

Yet Mrs Fisher was trying to make a corner in it and had railed off a portion for her exclusive use.

Well she would get over that presently.

She would get over it inevitably,

Mrs Wilkins was sure after a day or two in this extraordinary atmosphere of peace in that place.

But meanwhile she obviously hadn't even begun to get over it.

She stood looking at her and Rose with an expression that appeared to be one of anger.

Anger,

Fancy,

Silly old nerve-wracked London feelings,

Thought Mrs Wilkins,

Whose eyes saw the room full of kisses and everybody in it being kissed.

Mrs Fisher as copiously as she herself and Rose.

You don't like us being in here,

Said Mrs Wilkins,

Getting up and at once after her manner,

Fixing on the truth.

Why?

I should have thought,

Said Mrs Fisher,

Leaning on her stick,

You could have seen that it is my room.

You mean because of the photographs,

Said Mrs Wilkins.

Mrs Arbuthnot,

Who was a little red and surprised,

Got up too.

And the notepaper,

Said Mrs Fisher,

Notepaper with my London address on it.

That pen,

She pointed,

It was still in Mrs Wilkins' hand.

Is yours?

I'm very sorry,

Said Mrs Wilkins,

Laying it on the table.

And she added,

Smiling,

That it had just been writing some very amiable things.

But why?

Asked Mrs Arbuthnot,

Who found herself unable to acquiesce in Mrs Fisher's arrangements,

Without at least a gentle struggle.

But why ought we not to be here?

It's a sitting-room.

There is another one,

Said Mrs Fisher.

You and your friend cannot sit in two rooms at once,

And if I have no wish to disturb you in yours,

I am unable to see why you should wish to disturb me in mine.

But why?

Began Mrs Arbuthnot again.

It's quite natural,

Mrs Wilkins interrupted,

For Rose was looking stubborn,

And turning to Mrs Fisher,

She said that although sharing things with friends was pleasant,

She could understand that Mrs Fisher,

Still steeped in the Prince of Wales Terrace attitude to life,

Did not yet want to,

But that she would get rid of that after a bit,

And feel quite differently.

Soon you'll want us to share,

Said Mrs Wilkins,

Reassuringly.

Why,

You may even get so far as asking me to use your pen,

If you knew I hadn't got one.

Mrs Fisher was moved almost beyond control by this speech.

To have a ramshackle young woman from Hampstead,

Patting her on the back,

As it were,

In breezy certitude,

That quite soon she would improve,

Stirred her more deeply than anything had stirred her,

Since her first discovery that Mr Fisher was not what he seemed.

Mrs Wilkins must certainly be curbed.

But how?

There was a curious imperviousness about her.

At that moment,

For instance,

She was smiling as pleasantly and with as unclouded a face as if she were saying nothing in the least impertinent.

Would she know she was being curbed?

If she didn't know,

If she were too tough to feel it,

Then what?

Nothing,

Except avoidance,

Except,

Precisely,

One's own private sitting-room.

I'm an old woman,

Said Mrs Fisher,

And I need a room to myself.

I cannot get about because of my stick.

As I cannot get about,

I have to sit.

Why should I not sit quietly and undisturbed,

As I told you in London I intended to?

If people are to come in and out all day long,

Chattering and leaving doors open,

You will have broken the agreement,

Which was that I was to be quiet.

But we haven't the least wish,

Began Mrs Arbuthnot,

Who was again cut short by Mrs Wilkins.

We're only too glad,

Said Mrs Wilkins,

For you to have this room,

If it makes you happy.

We didn't know about it,

That's all.

We wouldn't have come in if we had,

Not till you invited us anyhow.

I expect,

She finished,

Looking down cheerfully at Mrs Fisher,

That you soon will.

And picking up her letter,

She took Mrs Arbuthnot's hand and drew her towards the door.

Mrs Arbuthnot did not want to go.

She,

The mildest of women,

Was filled with a curious and surely unchristian desire to stay and fight.

Not,

Of course,

Really,

Nor even with any definitely aggressive words.

No,

She only wanted to reason with Mrs Fisher,

And to reason patiently.

But she did feel that something ought to be said,

And that she ought not to allow herself to be rated and turned out as if she were a schoolgirl,

Caught in ill-behaviour by authority.

Rose wondered at Lottie,

At her balance,

Her sweet and equable temper.

She,

Who in England,

Had been such a thing of gusts.

From the moment they got into Italy,

It was Lottie who seemed the elder.

She certainly was very happy,

Blissful,

In fact.

Did happiness so completely protect one?

Did it make one so untouchable,

So wise?

Rose was happy herself,

But not anything like so happy.

Evidently not,

For not only did she want to fight Mrs Fisher,

But she wanted something else,

Something more than this lovely place,

Something to complete it.

She wanted Frederick.

For the first time in her life she was surrounded by perfect beauty,

And her one thought was to show it to him,

To share it with him.

She wanted Frederick.

She yearned for Frederick.

Ah,

If only,

Only Frederick!

Poor old thing,

Said Mrs Wilkins,

Shutting the door gently on Mrs Fisher and her triumph.

Fancy on a day like this!

She's a very rude old thing,

Said Mrs Arbuthnot.

She'll get over it.

I'm sorry we chose just her room to go and sit in.

Well,

It's much the nicest,

Said Mrs Arbuthnot,

And it isn't hers.

Oh,

But there are lots of other places,

And she's such a poor old thing.

Let her have the room,

Whatever does it matter?

And Mrs Wilkins said she was going down to the village to find out where the post office was,

And post her letter to Mellash,

And would Rose go too.

I've been thinking about Mellash,

Said Mrs Wilkins,

As they walked,

One behind the other,

Down the narrow zigzag path up which they had climbed in the rain the night before.

She went first.

Mrs Arbuthnot,

Quite naturally now,

Followed.

In England it had been the other way about,

Lottie timid,

Hesitating,

Except when she burst out so awkwardly,

Getting behind the calm and reasonable Rose whenever she could.

I've been thinking about Mellash,

Repeated Mrs Wilkins over her shoulder,

As Rose seemed not to have heard.

Have you,

Said Rose,

A faint distaste in her voice,

For her experiences with Mellash had not been of a kind to make her enjoy remembering him.

She had deceived Mellash,

Therefore she didn't like him.

She was unconscious that this was the reason of her dislike,

And thought it was that there didn't seem to be much,

If any,

Of the grace of God about him.

And yet how wrong to feel that,

She rebuked herself,

How presumptuous.

No doubt Lottie's husband was far,

Far nearer to God than she herself was ever likely to be.

Still,

She didn't like him.

I've been a mean dog,

Said Mrs Wilkins.

A what?

Asked Mrs Arbuthnot,

Incredulous of her hearing.

All this coming away,

And leaving him in that dreary place,

While I rollick in heaven.

He had planned to take me to Italy for Easter himself,

Did I tell you?

No,

Said Mrs Arbuthnot,

And indeed she had discouraged talk about husbands.

Whenever Lottie had begun to blurt out things,

She had swiftly changed the conversation.

One husband led to another,

In conversation as well as in life,

And she felt,

And she could not,

She would not,

Talk of Frederick.

Beyond the bare fact that he was there,

He had not been mentioned.

Melesh had had to be mentioned,

Because of his obstructiveness,

But she had carefully kept him from overflowing,

Outside the limits of necessity.

Well he did,

Said Mrs Wilkins.

He had never done such a thing in his life before,

And I was horrified.

Fancy,

Just as I had planned to come to it myself.

She paused on the path,

And looked up at Rose.

Yes,

Said Rose,

Trying to think of something else to talk about.

Now you see why I say I've been a mean dog.

He had planned a holiday in Italy with me,

And I had planned a holiday in Italy,

Leaving him at home.

I think,

She went on,

Her eyes fixed on Rose's face,

Melesh has every reason to be both angry and hurt.

Mrs Arbuthnot was astonished.

The extraordinary quickness with which,

Hour by hour,

Under her very eyes,

Lottie became more selfless,

Disconcerted her.

She was turning into something surprisingly,

Like a saint.

Here she was now,

Being affectionate about Melesh.

Melesh,

Who only that morning,

While they hung their feet into the sea,

Had seemed a mere iridescence,

Lottie had told her,

A thing of gauze.

That was only that morning,

And by the time they had had lunch,

Lottie had developed so far,

As to have got him solid enough again to write to,

And to write to at length.

And now,

A few minutes later,

She was announcing,

That he had every reason to be angry with her,

And hurt,

And that she herself had been,

The language was unusual,

But it did express real penitence,

A mean dog.

Rose stared at her.

If she went on like this,

Soon a nimbus might be expected around her head,

Was there already,

If one didn't know it was the sun,

Through the tree trunks,

Catching her sandy hair.

A great desire to love and be friends,

To love everybody,

To be friends with everybody,

Seemed to be invading Lottie,

A desire for sheer goodness.

Rose's own experience was that goodness,

The state of being good,

Was only reached with difficulty and pain.

It took a long time to get to it.

In fact,

One never did get to it,

Or,

If for a flashing instant one did,

It was only for a flashing instant.

Desperate perseverance was needed,

To struggle along its path,

And all the way,

Was dotted with doubts.

Lottie simply flew along.

She had certainly,

Thought Rose,

Not got rid of her impetuousness.

It had merely taken another direction.

She was now impetuously becoming a saint.

Could one really attain goodness so violently?

Wouldn't there be an equally violent reaction?

I shouldn't,

Said Rose,

With caution,

Looking down into Lottie's bright eyes.

The path was steep,

So that Lottie was well below her.

I shouldn't be sure of that,

Too quickly.

But I am sure of it,

And I've written and told him so.

Rose stared.

Why,

But only this morning,

She began.

It's all in this,

Interrupted Lottie,

Tapping the envelope,

And looking pleased.

What,

Everything?

You mean about the advertisement,

And my savings being spent?

Oh no,

Not yet.

But I'll tell him all that when he comes.

When he comes,

Repeated Rose.

I've invited him to come and stay with us.

Rose could only go on,

Staring.

It's the least I could do.

Besides,

Look at this,

Look at this,

Lottie waved her hand.

Disgusting not to share it.

I was a mean dog to go off and leave him,

But no dog I've ever heard of was ever as mean as I'd be,

If I didn't try and persuade Melesh to come out and enjoy this too.

It's barest decency that he should have some of the fun out of my nest egg.

After all,

He has housed and fed me for years.

One shouldn't be churlish.

But do you think he'll come?

I hope so,

Said Lottie,

With the utmost earnestness,

And added,

Poor lamb.

At that,

Rose felt she would like to sit down.

Melesh a poor lamb.

That same Melesh,

Who a few hours before was a mere shimmer.

There was a seat at the bend of the path,

And Rose went to it and sat down.

She wished to get her breath,

Gain time.

If she had time,

She might perhaps be able to catch up with leaping Lottie,

And perhaps be able to stop her before she committed herself to what she probably presently would be sorry for.

Melesh at San Salvatore.

Melesh,

From whom Lottie had taken such pains so recently to escape.

I see him here,

Said Lottie,

As if in answer to her thoughts.

Rose looked at her with real concern,

For every time Lottie said in that convinced voice,

I see,

What she saw came true.

Then it was to be supposed that Mr Wilkins,

Too,

Would presently come true.

I wish,

Said Rose anxiously,

I understood you.

Don't try,

Said Lottie,

Smiling.

But I must,

Because I love you.

Dear Rose,

Said Lottie,

Swiftly bending down and kissing her.

You're so quick,

Said Rose.

I can't follow your developments.

I can't keep touch.

It was what happened with Fred.

She broke off and looked frightened.

The whole idea of our coming here,

She went on again,

As Lottie didn't seem to have noticed,

Was to get away,

Wasn't it?

Well,

We've got away,

And now,

After only a single day of it,

You want to write to the very people,

She stopped.

The very people we were getting away from,

Finished Lottie.

It's quite true.

It seems idiotically illogical.

But I'm so happy.

I'm so,

Well,

I feel so fearfully wholesome.

This place,

Why it makes me feel flooded with love.

And she stared down at Rose in a kind of radiant surprise.

Rose was silent a moment.

Then she said,

And do you think it will have the same effect on Mr Wilkins?

Lottie laughed.

I don't know,

She said.

But even if it doesn't,

There's enough love about to flood fifty Mr Wilkinsons,

As you call him.

The great thing is to have lots of love about.

I don't see,

She went on,

At least I don't see here,

Although I did at home,

That it matters who loves as long as somebody does.

I was a stingy beast at home,

And used to measure and count.

I had a queer obsession with justice,

As though justice mattered,

As though justice can really be distinguished from vengeance.

It's only love that's any good.

At home I wouldn't love Melesh unless he loved me back exactly as much.

Absolute fairness.

Did you ever?

And as he didn't,

Neither did I.

And the aridity of that house,

The aridity.

Rose said nothing.

She was bewildered by Lottie.

One odd effect of San Salvatore on her rapidly developing friend was her sudden free use of robust words.

She had not used them in Hampstead.

Beast and dog were more robust than Hampstead cared about.

In words,

Too,

Lottie had come unchained.

But how she wished,

Oh,

How Rose wished that she,

Too,

Could write to her husband and just say,

Come.

The Wilkins menage,

However pompous Melesh might be,

And he had seemed to Rose pompous,

Was on a healthier,

More natural footing than hers.

Lottie could write to Melesh and would get an answer.

She couldn't write to Frederick,

For only too well did she know he wouldn't answer.

At least he might answer a hurried scribble showing how much bored he was at doing it,

With perfunctory thanks for her letter.

But that would be worse than no answer at all.

For his handwriting,

Her name on an envelope addressed by him stabbed her heart.

Too acutely did it bring back the letters of their beginnings together,

The letters from him so desolate with separation,

So aching with love and longing,

To see apparently one of these very same letters arrive,

And open it to find,

Dear Rose,

Thanks for the letter,

Glad you're having a good time,

Don't hurry back,

Say if you want any money,

Everything going splendidly here,

Yours,

Frederick.

No,

It could not be born.

I don't think I'll come to the village with you today,

She said,

Looking up at Lottie,

With eyes suddenly gone dim.

I think I want to think.

All right,

Said Lottie,

At once starting off briskly down the path.

But don't think too long,

She called back over her shoulder.

Write and invite him at once.

Invite whom?

Asked Rose,

Startled.

Your husband.

To be continued.

Reviews

This chapter surprised me; the mark of good writing! Thanks Mandy for reading to me 🙏🏻

These collection of chapters are so delightful! I am enjoying them emensely!

Thank you for such an engaging book! I'm eager for the next chapter.

Mandy’s voice has you feeling as if she is reading directly to you, 1:1! This is one of the most cliff-hanging chapters yet! Really looking forward to those yet to come.

Mandy I was so excited to see that another chapter was available. I enjoyed it and look forward to the next one 🙏x

Wow, Lottie is really off the chain here! Wonder how it will play out🤷‍♀️ thank you!!❤️

I’m loving this story! I want it to go on and on… Makes me want to see the movie again. Thank you for selecting it.

Utterly entrancing! Each chapter builds upon the last… I love this story and Mandy’s delivery is outstanding. Just can’t wait to see where the story in the Mediterranean castle shall take us!