The Enchanted April, Chapter 19

The story continues in Elizabeth von Arnim's wonderful novel about four ladies who decide to spend a month at a castle in Italy. The trip begins to change all their lives in ways they could never have imagined. In tonight's episode, Lady Caroline stumbles across another unexpected visitor while she is trying to avoid the infatuated Briggs.

See the playlist Book At Bedtime: The Enchanted April, to find all the chapters in one place.

Transcript

Hello there,

It's Mandy here.

Thanks for joining me tonight and welcome back to The Enchanted April by Elizabeth von Arnim.

Tonight we're listening to chapter 19.

But before I go ahead,

Please feel free to make yourself really comfortable.

Okay,

Then I'll begin.

Chapter 19.

And then,

When she spoke,

What chance was there for poor Briggs?

He was undone.

All Scrap said was,

How do you do,

On Mr Wilkins presenting him.

But it was enough,

It undid Briggs.

From a cheerful,

Chatty,

Happy young man,

Overflowing with life and friendliness,

He became silent,

Solemn,

And with little beads on his temples.

Also,

He became clumsy,

Dropping the teaspoon as he handed her her cup,

Mismanaging the macaroons so that one rolled on the ground.

His eyes could not keep off the enchanting face for a moment,

And when Mr Wilkins,

Elucidating him,

For he failed to elucidate himself,

Informed Lady Caroline that in Mr Briggs she beheld the owner of San Salvatore,

Who was on his way to Rome,

But had got out at Missago,

Etc,

Etc,

And that the other three ladies had invited him to spend the night in what was,

To all intents and purposes,

His own house rather than a hotel.

And Mr Briggs was only waiting for the seal of her approval to this invitation,

She being the fourth hostess,

When Mr Wilkins,

Balancing his sentences,

And being admirably clear,

And enjoying the sound of his own cultured voice,

Explained the position in this manner to Lady Caroline,

Briggs sat and said never a word.

A deep melancholy invaded Scrap.

The symptoms of the incipient grabber were all there,

And only too familiar,

And she knew that if Briggs stayed,

Her rescuer might be regarded as over.

Then Kate Lumley occurred to her.

She caught at Kate Lumley as at a straw.

It would have been delightful,

She said,

Faintly smiling at Briggs.

She couldn't in decency not smile,

At least a little,

But even a little betrayed the dimple,

And Briggs's eyes became more fixed than ever.

I'm only wondering if there is room.

Yes there is,

Said Lottie,

There's Kate Lumley's room.

I thought,

Said Scrap to Mrs Fisher,

And it seemed to Briggs that he had never heard music until now.

I thought your friend was expected immediately.

Oh no,

Said Mrs Fisher,

With an odd placidness,

Scrap thought.

Miss Lumley,

Said Mr Wilkins,

Or should I,

He inquired of Mrs Fisher,

Say Mrs.

Nobody has ever married Kate,

Said Mrs Fisher complacently.

Quite so.

Miss Lumley does not arrive today in any case,

Lady Caroline.

Mr Briggs has,

Unfortunately if I may say so,

To continue his journey tomorrow,

So that his staying would in no way interfere with Miss Lumley's possible movements.

Then of course I join in the invitation,

Said Scrap,

With what was to Briggs the most divine cordiality.

He stammered something,

Flushing scarlet,

And Scrap thought,

Oh,

And turned her head away,

But that merely made Briggs acquainted with her profile,

And if there existed anything more lovely than Scrap's full face,

It was her profile.

Well,

It was only for this one afternoon and evening.

He would leave,

No doubt,

The first thing in the morning.

It took hours to get to Rome.

Awful if he hung on till the night train.

She had a feeling that the principle expressed to Rome passed through at night.

Why hadn't that woman Kate Lumley arrived yet?

She had forgotten all about her,

But now she remembered she was to have been invited a fortnight ago.

What had become of her?

This man,

Once let in,

Would come and see her in London,

Would haunt the places she was likely to go to.

He had the makings,

Her experienced eye could see,

Of a passionately persistent grabber.

If,

Thought Mr Wilkins,

Observing Briggs's face and sudden silence,

Any understanding existed between this young fellow and Mrs Arbuthnot,

There is now going to be trouble.

Trouble of a different nature from the kind I feared,

In which Arbuthnot would have played a leading part,

In fact the part of petitioner,

But trouble that may need help and advice nonetheless,

For it's not being publicly scandalous.

Briggs,

Impelled by his passions and her beauty,

Will aspire to the daughter of the Droitwitches.

She,

Naturally and properly,

Will repel him.

Mrs Arbuthnot,

Left in the cold,

Will be upset and show it.

Arbuthnot,

On his arrival,

Will find his wife in enigmatic tears.

Inquiring into their cause,

He will be met with an icy reserve.

More trouble may then be expected,

And in me they will seek and find their advisor.

When Lottie said Mrs Arbuthnot wanted her husband,

She was wrong.

What Mrs Arbuthnot wants is Briggs,

And it looks uncommonly as if she were not going to get him.

Well,

I'm their man.

Where are your things,

Mr Briggs?

Asked Mrs Fisher,

Her voice round with motherliness.

Oughtn't they to be fetched?

For the sun was nearly in the sea now,

And the sweet-smelling April dampness that followed immediately on its disappearance was beginning to steal into the garden.

Briggs started.

My things,

He repeated.

Oh yes,

I must fetch them.

They're in Metzago.

I'll send Domenico.

My fly is waiting in the village.

He can go back in it.

I'll go and tell him.

He got up.

To whom was he talking?

To Mrs Fisher,

Ostensibly,

But his eyes were fixed on Scrap,

Who said nothing and looked at no one.

Then,

Recollecting himself,

He stammered.

I'm awfully sorry.

I keep on forgetting.

I'll go down and fetch them myself.

We can easily send Domenico,

Said Rose,

And at her gentle voice he turned his head.

Why,

There was his friend,

The sweet named lady,

But how had she not in this short interval changed?

Was it the failing light making her so colourless,

So vague-featured,

So dim,

So much like a ghost?

A nice,

Good ghost,

Of course,

And still with a pretty name,

But only a ghost.

He turned from her to Scrap again and forgot Rose Arbuthnot's existence.

How is it possible for him to bother about anybody or anything else in this first moment of being face-to-face with his dream come true?

Briggs had not supposed nor hoped that anyone as beautiful as his dream of beauty existed.

He had never till now met even an approximation.

Pretty women,

Charming women by the score,

He had met and properly appreciated,

But never the real godlike thing itself.

He used to think,

If ever I saw a perfectly beautiful woman I should die,

And though,

Having now met what to his idea was a perfectly beautiful woman,

He did not die,

But he became very nearly as incapable of managing his own affairs as if he had.

The others were obliged to arrange everything for him.

By questions they extracted from him that his luggage was in the station cloakroom at Metz Argo,

And they sent for Domenico,

And,

Urged and prompted by everybody except Scrap,

Who sat in silence and looked at no one,

Briggs was induced to give him the necessary instructions for going back in the fly and bringing out his things.

It was a sad sight sight to see the collapse of Briggs.

Everybody noticed it,

Even Rose.

Upon my word,

Thought Mrs Fisher,

The way one pretty face can turn a delightful man into an idiot is past all patience,

And feeling the air getting chilly and the sight of the enthralled Briggs painful,

She went in to order his room to be got ready,

Regretting now that she had pressed the poor boy to stay.

She had forgotten Lady Caroline's kill-joy face for the moment,

And the more completely owing to the absence of any ill effects produced by it on Mr Wilkins.

Poor boy,

Such a charming boy too,

Left to himself.

It was true she couldn't accuse Lady Caroline of not leaving him to himself,

For she was taking no notice of him at all,

But that didn't help.

Exactly like foolish moths did men,

In other respects intelligent,

Flutter around the impassive lighted candle of a pretty face.

She had seen them doing it,

She had looked on only too often.

Almost she laid a motherly hand on Briggs' fair head as she passed him.

Poor boy.

Then Scrap,

Having finished her cigarette,

Got up and went indoors too.

She saw no reason why she should sit there in order to gratify Mr Briggs' desire to stare.

She would have liked to stay out longer,

To go to her corner behind the Daphne bushes,

And look at the sunset sky,

And watch the lights coming out one by one in the village below,

And smell the sweet moistness of the evening.

But if she did,

Mr Briggs would certainly follow her.

The old familiar tyranny had begun again.

Her holiday of peace and liberation was interrupted,

Perhaps over,

For who knew if he would go away after all tomorrow.

He might leave the house,

Driven out of it by Kate Lumley,

But there was nothing to prevent his taking rooms in the village and coming up every day.

The tyranny of one person over another.

And she was so miserably constructed that she wouldn't even be able to frown him down without being misunderstood.

Scrap,

Who loved this time of the evening in her corner,

Felt indignant with Mr Briggs,

Who was doing her out of it,

And she turned her back on the garden and him,

And went towards the house without a look or a word.

But Briggs,

When he realised her intention,

Leapt to his feet,

Snatched chairs which were not in her way out of it,

Kicked a footstool which was not in her path on one side,

Hurried to the door,

Which stood wide open,

In order to hold it open,

And followed her through it,

Walking by her side along the hall.

What was to be done with Mr Briggs?

Well,

It was his hall,

She couldn't prevent his walking along it.

I hope,

He said,

Not able while walking to take his eyes off her,

So that he knocked against several things he would otherwise have avoided,

The corner of a bookcase,

An ancient carved cupboard,

The table with the flowers on it,

Shaking the water over.

I hope that you're quite comfortable here.

If you're not,

I'll,

I'll flay them alive.

His voice vibrated.

What was to be done with Mr Briggs?

She could,

Of course,

Stay in her room the whole time,

Say she was ill,

Not appear at dinner,

But again,

The tyranny of this.

I'm very comfortable indeed,

Said Scrap.

If I had dreamed you were coming,

He began.

It's a wonderful old place,

Said Scrap,

Doing her utmost to sound detached and forbidding,

But with little hope of success.

The kitchen was on this floor,

And passing its door,

Which was open a crack,

They were observed by the servants,

Whose thoughts,

Communicated to each other by looks,

May be roughly reproduced by such rude symbols as,

Aha,

And oh-ho.

Symbols which represented and included their appreciation of the inevitable,

Their foreknowledge of the inevitable,

And their complete understanding and approval.

Are you going upstairs,

Asked Briggs,

As she paused at the foot of them?

Yes.

Which room do you sit in?

The drawing room,

Or the small yellow room?

In my own room.

So then,

He couldn't go up with her.

So then,

All he could do was wait till she came out again.

He longed to ask her which was her own room.

It thrilled him to hear her call any room in his house her own room,

That he might picture her in it.

He longed to know if by any happy chance it was his room,

Forever after to be filled with her wonder,

But he didn't dare.

He would find that out later from someone else,

Francesca,

Anybody.

Then I shan't see you again till dinner.

Dinner is at eight,

Was Scraps' evasive answer,

As she went upstairs.

He watched her go.

She passed the Madonna,

The portrait of Rose Arbuthnot,

And the dark-eyed figure he had thought so sweet,

Seemed to turn pale,

To shrivel into insignificance as she passed.

She turned the bend of the stairs,

And the setting sun,

Shining through the west window a moment on her face,

Turned her to glory.

She disappeared,

And the sun went out too,

And the stairs were dark and empty.

He listened till her footsteps were silent,

Trying to tell from the sound of the shutting door which room she had gone into,

Then wandered aimlessly away through the hall again,

And found himself back in the top garden.

Scrap from her window saw him there.

She saw Lottie and Rose sitting on the end parapet where she would have liked to have sat,

And she saw Mr Wilkins button-holding Briggs,

And evidently telling him the story of the oleander tree in the middle of the garden.

Briggs was listening with a patience she thought rather nice,

Seeing that it was his oleander and his own father's story.

She knew Mr Wilkins was telling him the story by his gestures.

Domenico had told it to her soon after her arrival,

And he had also told Mrs Fisher,

Who had told Mr Wilkins.

Mrs Fisher thought highly of the story,

And often spoke of it.

It was about a cherry wood walking stick.

Briggs's father had thrust this stick into the ground at that spot,

And said to Domenico's father,

Who was then the gardener,

Here we will have an oleander.

And Briggs's father left the stick in the ground as a reminder to Domenico's father,

And presently,

How long afterwards nobody remembered,

The stick began to sprout,

And it was an oleander.

There stood poor Mr Briggs being told all about it,

And listening to the story he must have known from infancy,

With patience.

Probably he was thinking of something else.

She was afraid he was.

How unfortunate,

How extremely unfortunate,

The determination that seized people to get hold of and engulf other people.

If only they could be induced to stand more on their own feet.

Why couldn't Mr Briggs be more like Lottie,

Who never wanted anything of anybody,

But was complete in herself,

And respected other people's completeness.

One loved being with Lottie,

With her one was free,

And yet befriended.

Mr Briggs looked so really nice too.

She thought she might like him,

If only he wouldn't so excessively like her.

Scrap felt melancholy.

Here she was shut up in her bedroom,

Which was stuffy from the afternoon sun that had been pouring into it,

Instead of out in the cool garden,

And all because of Mr Briggs.

Intolerable tyranny,

She thought,

Flaring up.

She wouldn't endure it.

She would go out all the same.

She would run downstairs while Mr Wilkins,

Really that man was a treasure,

Held Mr Briggs down,

Telling him about the oleander,

And get out of the house by the front door,

And take cover in the shadows of the zigzag path.

Nobody could see her there.

Nobody would think of looking for her there.

She snatched up a wrap,

For she didn't mean to come back for a long while,

Perhaps not even to dinner.

It would be all Mr Briggs's fault if she went dinnerless and hungry.

And with another glance out of the window,

To see if she was still safe,

She stole out and got away to the sheltering trees of the zigzag path,

And there sat down on one of the seats placed at each bend,

To assist the upward journey of those who were breathless.

Ah,

This was lovely,

Thought Scrap,

With a sigh of relief.

How cool,

How good it smelled.

She could see the quiet water of the little harbour,

Through the pine trunks,

And the lights coming out in the houses on the other side,

And all around her the green dusk was splashed by the rose pink of the gladioluses in the grass,

And the white of the crowding daisies.

Ah,

This was lovely,

So still,

Nothing moving,

Not a leaf,

Not a stalk.

The only sound was a dog barking,

Far away,

Somewhere up on the hills,

Or when the door of the little restaurant in the piazza below was opened,

And there was a burst of voices,

Silenced again immediately by the swinging two of the door.

She drew in a deep breath of pleasure.

Her deep breath was arrested in the middle.

What was that?

She leaned forward,

Listening,

Her body tense.

Footsteps on the zigzag path.

Briggs finding her out.

Should she run?

No,

The footsteps were coming up,

Not down.

Someone from the village,

Perhaps Angelo,

With provisions.

She relaxed again,

But the steps were not the steps of Angelo,

That swift and springy youth.

They were slow and considered,

And they kept on pausing.

Someone who isn't used to hills,

Thought Scrap.

The idea of going back to the house did not occur to her.

She was afraid of nothing in life,

Except love.

Briggans,

Or murderers as such,

Held no terrors for the daughter of the droit,

Which is,

She would only have been afraid of them,

If they left off being Briggans and murderers,

And began instead to try and make love.

The next moment,

The footsteps turned the corner of her bit of path,

And stood still.

Getting his wind,

Thought Scrap,

Not looking round.

Then,

As he,

From the sounds of the steps,

She took them to belong to a man,

Didn't move,

She turned her head,

And beheld,

With astonishment,

A person she had seen a good deal of lately in London,

The well-known writer of amusing memoirs,

Mr.

Ferdinand Arendelle.

She stared.

Nothing in the way of being followed surprised her anymore,

But that he should have discovered where she was,

Did surprise her.

Her mother had promised faithfully,

To tell no one.

You,

She said,

Feeling betrayed,

Here.

He came up to her,

And took off his hat.

His forehead,

Beneath the hat,

Was wet with the beads of unaccustomed climbing.

He looked ashamed and entreating,

Like a guilty but devoted dog.

You must forgive me,

He said.

Lady Droitwich told me where you were,

And as I happened to be passing through on my way to Rome,

I thought I would get out at Metzago,

And just look in and see how you were.

But,

Didn't my mother tell you I was doing a rest cure?

Yes,

She did,

And that's why I haven't intruded on you earlier in the day.

I thought you would probably sleep all day,

And wake up about now,

So as to be fed.

But,

I know,

I've got nothing to say an excuse.

I couldn't help myself.

This,

Thought Scrap,

Comes of mother insisting on having authors to lunch,

And me being so much more amiable in appearance than I really am.

She had been amiable to Ferdinand Arundel.

She liked him,

Or rather,

She didn't dislike him.

He seemed a jovial,

Simple man,

And had the eyes of a nice dog.

Also,

Though it was evident that he admired her,

He had not,

In London,

Grabbed.

There,

He had merely been a good-natured,

Harmless person of entertaining conversation,

Who helped to make luncheons agreeable.

Now,

It appeared that he too was a grabber.

Fancy following her out there,

Daring to.

Nobody else had.

Perhaps her mother had given him the address,

Because she considered him so absolutely harmless,

And thought he might be useful,

And see her home.

Well,

Whatever he was,

He couldn't possibly give her the trouble,

An active young man like Mr Briggs might give her.

Mr Briggs,

Infatuated,

Would be reckless,

She felt,

Would stick at nothing,

Would lose his head publicly.

She could imagine Mr Briggs doing things with rope ladders,

And singing all night under her window,

Being really difficult and uncomfortable.

Mr Arundel hadn't the figure for any kind of recklessness.

He had lived too long,

And too well.

She was sure he couldn't sing,

And wouldn't want to.

He must be at least 40.

How many good dinners could not a man have eaten by the time he was 40?

And if during that time,

Instead of taking exercise,

He had sat writing books,

He would quite naturally acquire the figure Mr Arundel had in fact acquired,

The figure rather for conversation than adventure.

Scrap,

Who had become melancholy at the sight of Briggs,

Became philosophical at the sight of Arundel.

Here he was,

She couldn't send him away till after dinner,

He must be nourished.

This being so,

She had better make the best of it,

And do that with a good grace which anyhow wasn't to be avoided.

Besides,

He would be a temporary shelter from Mr Briggs.

She was at least acquainted with Ferdinand Arundel,

And could hear news from him of her mother and her friends,

And such talk would put up a defensive barrier at dinner between herself and the approaches of the other one.

And it was only for one dinner,

And he couldn't eat her.

She therefore prepared herself for friendliness.

I'm to be fed,

She said,

Ignoring his last remark,

At eight.

And you must come up and be fed too.

Sit down and get cool and tell me how everybody is.

May I really dine with you?

In these travelling things,

He said,

Wiping his forehead before sitting down beside her.

She was too lovely to be true,

He thought.

Just to look at her for an hour,

Just to hear her voice,

Was enough reward for his journey and his fears.

Of course,

I suppose you've left your fly in the village and will be going on from Metzago by the night train,

Or stay in Metzago in a hotel and go on tomorrow,

He said.

But tell me,

He gazed at the adorable profile,

About yourself.

London has been extraordinarily dull and empty.

Lady Joytwich said you were with people here that she didn't know.

I hope they've been kind to you.

You look well,

As if your cure had done everything a cure should.

They've been very kind,

Said Scrap.

I got them out of an advertisement.

An advertisement?

It's a good way,

I find,

To get friends.

I'm fonder of one of these than I've been of anybody in years.

Really?

Who is it?

You shall guess which of them it is when you see them.

Tell me about Mother.

When did you see her last?

We arranged not to write to each other unless there was something special.

I wanted to have a month that was perfectly blank.

And now I've come and interrupted.

I can't tell you how ashamed I am,

Both of having done it and of not having been able to help it.

Oh but,

Said Scrap quickly,

For he couldn't have come on a better day,

When up there waiting and watching for her was she knew the enamoured Briggs.

I'm really very glad indeed to see you.

Tell me about Mother.

To be continued.

Reviews

I went to bed fully intending to read more of Mandy’s book “Stretching It” (another cliff hanger!!) and saw that a new “April” chapter had been posted! Oh the conundrum in my sleepy stupor! I’ll read in the morning, I couldn’t wait to hear what happened next with the April characters. Don’t anyone take the macarons (!) and Scrap, you stay strong! Sigh, Mr. Briggs, just sigh.
Thank you Mandy, your reading is just fantastic! x

I'm really enjoying this book, Mandy! I'm so glad you discovered it. Your voice is lovely.

Poor Scrap! I hope this “old” fellow from home helps her beat off Briggs! Thanks, Mandy, for this fun story.

What an interesting conundrum Scrap lives! What delightful writing and of course, reading ❤️🙏🏽

I always listen to your stories in the morning and get so excited to see another chapter of this wonderful story is available. The plot thickens!!! Thanks as always Mandy 💚x

Thank you for another chapter of this delightful story.

Another wonderful cliff-hanger chapter! The writing is so good, the characters so well developed.. I can’t wait for more to come. Please do keep recording! Thank you, as always, Mindy!!