The Enchanted April, Chapter 9

In this latest installment from Elizabeth von Arnim's witty yet touching novel, we see inside Mrs. Fisher's mind and realize how deeply wedded she is to the past and to her memories of the colorful characters she met around the dining table when her father was alive.

Transcript

Hello there,

It's Mandy here.

Thanks so much for joining me for another reading from The Enchanted April by Elizabeth von Arnim.

We're reading Chapter 9 tonight,

But before we begin,

Please feel free to make yourself really comfortable on whatever surface you happen to be sitting or lying on.

And I'll begin.

That one of the two sitting rooms,

Which Mrs Fisher had taken for her own,

Was a room of charm and character.

She surveyed it with satisfaction on going into it after breakfast,

And was glad it was hers.

It had a tiled floor and walls the colour of pale honey,

And inlaid furniture the colour of amber,

And mellow books,

Many in ivory or lemon-coloured covers.

There was a big window overlooking the sea towards Genoa,

And a glass door through which she could proceed out onto the battlements,

And walk along past the quaint and attractive watchtower,

In itself a room with chairs and a writing table,

To where on the other side of the tower the battlements ended in a marble seat,

And one could see the Western Bay,

And the point round which began the Gulf of Spezia.

Her south view between these two stretches of sea was another hill,

Higher than San Salvatore,

The last of the little peninsula,

With the bland turrets of a smaller and uninhabited castle on the top,

On which the setting sun still shone when everything else was sunk in shadow.

Yes,

She was very comfortably established here,

And receptacles,

Mrs Fisher did not examine their nature closely,

But they seemed to be small stone troughs,

Or perhaps little sarcophagi,

Ringed round the battlements with flowers.

These battlements,

She thought,

Considering them,

Would have been a perfect place for her to pace up and down gently,

In moments when she least felt the need of her stick,

Or to sit in on the marble seat,

Having first put a cushion on it,

If there hadn't unfortunately been a second glass door opening onto them,

Destroying their complete privacy,

Spoiling her feeling that the place was only for her.

The second door belonged to the round drawing room,

Which both she and Lady Caroline had rejected as too dark.

That room would probably be sat in by the women from Hampstead,

And she was afraid they wouldn't confine themselves to sitting in it,

But would come out through the glass door and invade her battlements.

This would ruin the battlements,

It would ruin them as far as she was concerned,

If they were to be overrun,

Or even if not actually overrun,

They were liable to be raked by the eyes of persons inside the room.

No one could be perfectly at ease if they were being watched,

And knew it.

What she wanted,

What she surely had a right to,

Was privacy.

She had no wish to intrude on the others,

Why then should they intrude on her?

And she could always relax her privacy if,

When she became better acquainted with her companions,

She should think it worthwhile.

But she doubted whether any of the three would so develop as to make her think it worthwhile.

Hardly anything was really worthwhile,

Reflected Mrs Fisher,

Except the past.

It was astonishing,

It was simply amazing,

The superiority of the past to the present.

Those friends of hers in London,

Solid persons of her own age,

Knew the same past that she knew,

Could talk about it with her,

Could compare it,

As she did,

With the tinkling present,

And in remembering great men,

Forget for a moment the trivial and barren young people,

Who still,

In spite of the war,

Seemed to litter the world in such numbers.

She had not come away from these friends,

These conversable,

Ripe friends,

In order to spend her time in Italy,

Chatting with three persons of another generation and defective experience.

She had come away merely to avoid the treacheries of a London April.

It was true what she had told the two who came to Prince of Wales Terrace,

That all she wished to do at San Salvatore was to sit by herself in the sun and remember.

They knew this,

For she had told them.

It had been plainly expressed and clearly understood.

Therefore,

She had a right to expect them to stay inside the round drawing room and not to emerge interruptingly onto her battlements.

But would they?

The doubt spoiled her mourning.

It was only towards lunchtime that she saw a way to be quite safe,

And ringing for Francesca,

Bad her in slow and majestic Italian,

Shut the shutters of the glass door of the round drawing room.

And then,

Going with her into the room,

Which had become darker than ever in consequence,

But also,

Mrs Fisher observed to Francesca,

Who was being voluble,

Would,

Because of this very darkness,

Remain agreeably cool.

And after all,

There were numerous slit windows in the walls to let in light,

And it was nothing to do with her if they didn't let it in.

She directed the placing of a cabinet of curios across the door on its inside.

This would discourage egress.

Then she ran for Domenico and caused him to move one of the flower-filled sarcophagi across the door on its outside.

This would discourage ingress.

But no one,

Said Domenico,

Hesitating,

Will be able to use the door.

No one,

Said Mrs Fisher firmly,

Will wish to.

She then retired to her sitting room,

And from a chair placed where she could look straight onto them,

Gazed at her battlements,

Secured to her now completely with calm pleasure.

Being here,

She reflected placidly,

Was much cheaper than being in a hotel,

And if she could keep off the others,

Immeasurably more agreeable.

She was paying for her rooms,

Extremely pleasant rooms,

Now that she was arranged in them,

Three pounds a week,

Which came to about eight shillings a day,

Battlements,

Watchtower,

And all.

Where else abroad could she live as well,

For so little,

And have as many baths as she liked,

For eight shillings a day?

Of course,

She didn't yet know what the food would cost,

But she would insist on carefulness over that,

Though she would also insist on its being carefulness combined with excellence.

The two were perfectly compatible,

If the caterer took pains.

The servants' wages,

She had ascertained,

Were negligible,

Owing to the advantageous exchange,

So there was only the food to cause her anxiety.

If she saw signs of extravagance,

She would propose that they each hand over a reasonable sum every week to Lady Caroline,

Which should cover the bills,

Any of it that was not used to be returned,

And if it were exceeded,

The loss to be borne by the caterer.

Mrs.

Fisher was well off,

And had the desire for comforts proper to her age,

But she disliked expenses.

So well off was she that,

Had she so chosen,

She could have lived in an opulent part of London,

And driven from it and to it in a Rolls Royce,

But she had no such wish.

It needed more vitality than went with true comfort to deal with a house in an opulent spot and a Rolls Royce.

Worries attended such possessions,

Worries of every kind crowned by bills.

In the sober gloom of Prince of Wales Terrace,

She could obscurely enjoy inexpensive yet real comfort,

Without being snatched at by predatory manservants or collectors for charities,

And a taxi stand was at the end of the road.

Her annual outlay was small.

The house was inherited.

Death had furnished it for her.

She trod in the dining room on the turkey carpet of her father's.

She regulated her day by the excellent black marble clock on the mantelpiece,

Which she remembered from childhood.

Her walls were entirely covered by the photographs her illustrious deceased friends had given either herself or her father,

With their own handwriting across the lower parts of their bodies,

And the windows,

Shrouded by the maroon curtains of all her life,

Were decorated,

Besides,

With the selfsame aquariums to which she owed her first lessons in sea law,

And in which still swam slowly the goldfishes of her youth.

Were they the same goldfish?

She didn't know.

Perhaps,

Like carp,

They outlived everybody.

Perhaps,

On the other hand,

Behind the deep sea vegetation provided for them at the bottom,

They had from time to time,

As the years went by,

Withdrawn and replaced themselves.

Were they or were they not,

She sometimes wondered,

Contemplating them between the courses of her solitary means,

The same goldfish that had that day been there when Carlisle,

How well she remembered it,

Angrily strode up in the middle of some argument with her father that had grown heated and,

Striking his glass smartly with the fist,

Had put them to flight,

Shouting as they fled,

"'Och,

Ye deft evils!

Och,

Ye lucky deft evils!

You can't hear anything of the blasted,

Blethering,

Doddering,

Gleaket,

Foolstuff your maester talks,

Can you?

' Or words to that effect.

Dear great-souled Carlisle,

Such natural gushings forth,

Such true freshness,

Such real grandeur.

Rugged,

If you will,

Yes,

Undoubtedly sometimes rugged,

And startling in a drawing-room,

But magnificent.

Who was there now to put beside him?

Who was there to mention in the same breath?

Her father,

Than whom no one had had more flair,

Said,

"'Thomas is immortal.

' And here was this generation,

This generation of puniness,

Raising its little voice in doubt,

Or still worse,

Not giving itself the trouble to raise it at all,

Not,

It was incredible,

But it had been thus reported to her,

Even reading Carlisle.

Mrs Fisher didn't read him either,

But that was different.

She had read him.

She had certainly read him.

Of course she had read him.

She quite well remembered a tailor called Teufelsdruck.

So like Carlisle to call him that.

Yes,

She must have read him,

Though naturally details escaped her.

The gong sounded.

Lost in reminiscence,

Mrs Fisher had forgotten time and hastened to her bedroom to wash her hands and smooth her hair.

She didn't wish to be late and set a bad example,

And perhaps find her seat at the head of the table taken.

One could put no trust in the manners of the younger generation,

Especially not in those of that Mrs Wilkins.

She was,

However,

The first to arrive in the dining room.

Francesca,

In a white apron,

Stood ready with an enormous dish of smoking hot,

Glistening macaroni.

But nobody was there to eat it.

Mrs Fisher sat down,

Looking stern.

Lax,

Lax.

Serve me,

She said to Francesca,

Who showed a disposition to wait for the others.

Francesca served her.

Of the party,

She liked Mrs Fisher the least.

In fact,

She didn't like her at all.

She was the only one of the four ladies who had not yet smiled.

True,

She was old.

True,

She was unbeautiful.

True,

She therefore had no reason to smile.

But kind ladies smiled,

Reason or no.

They smiled not because they were happy,

But because they wished to make happy.

This one of the four ladies could not then,

Francesca decided,

Be kind.

So she handed her the macaroni,

Being unable to hide any of her feelings,

Morosely.

It was very well cooked.

But Mrs Fisher had never cared for macaroni,

Especially not this long,

Worm-shaped variety.

She found it difficult to eat,

Slippery,

Wriggling off her fork,

Making her look,

She felt,

Undignified,

When,

Having got it,

As she supposed,

Into her mouth,

Ends of it yet hung out.

Always,

Too,

When she ate it,

She was reminded of Mr Fisher.

During their married life,

He had behaved very much like macaroni.

He had slipped,

He had wriggled,

He had made her feel undignified.

And when at last she had got him safe,

As she thought,

There had invariably been little bits of him that still,

As it were,

Hung out.

Francesca,

From the sideboard,

Watched Mrs Fisher's way with macaroni,

Gloomily.

And her gloom deepened when she saw her at last take her knife to it and chop it small.

Mrs Fisher really didn't know how else to get hold of the stuff.

She was aware that knives in this connection were improper,

But one did finally lose patience.

Macaroni was never allowed to appear on her table in London.

Apart from its tiresomeness,

She didn't even like it,

And she would tell Lady Caroline not to order it again.

Years of practice,

Reflected Mrs Fisher.

Chopping it up.

Years of actual living in Italy would be necessary to learn the exact trick.

Browning managed macaroni wonderfully.

She remembered watching him one day when he came to lunch with her father,

And a dish of it had been ordered as a compliment to his connection with Italy.

Fascinating,

The way it went in.

No chasing around the plate.

No slidings off the fork.

No subsequent protrusions of loose ends.

Just one dig,

One whisk,

One thrust,

One gulp,

And lo!

Yet another poet had been nourished.

Shall I go and seek the young lady?

Asked Francesca,

Unable any longer to look on a good macaroni being cut with a knife.

Mrs Fisher came out of her reminiscent reflections with difficulty.

She knows lunch is at half past twelve,

She said.

They all know.

She may be asleep,

Said Francesca.

The other ladies are further away,

But this one is not far away.

Beat the gong again then,

Said Mrs Fisher.

What manners,

She thought.

What,

What manners.

It was not a hotel,

And considerations were due.

She must say she was surprised at Mrs Arbuthnot,

Who had not looked like somebody unpunctual.

Lady Caroline,

Too.

She had seemed amiable and courteous,

Whatever else she might be.

From the other one,

Of course,

She expected nothing.

Francesca fetched the gong and took it out into the garden and advanced,

Beating it as she advanced,

Close to Lady Caroline,

Who,

Still stretched in her low chair,

Waited till she had done,

And then turned her head and in the sweetest tones poured forth what appeared to be music but was really invective.

Francesca did not recognise the liquid flow as invective.

How was she to,

When it came out sounding like that?

And with her face all smiles,

For she couldn't but help smile when she looked at this young lady,

She told her the macaroni was getting cold.

When I do not come to meals,

It is because I do not wish to come to meals,

Said the irritated Scrap,

And you will not in future disturb me.

Is she ill,

Asked Francesca,

Sympathetic but unable to stop smiling.

Never,

Never had she seen hair so beautiful,

Like pure flax,

Like the hair of northern babes.

On such a little head only blessing could rest.

On such a little head the nimbus of the holiest saints could fitly be placed.

Scrap shut her eyes and refused to answer.

In this she was injudicious,

For its effect was to convince Francesca,

Who hurried away,

Full of concern,

To tell Mrs Fisher that she was indisposed.

And Mrs Fisher,

Being prevented,

She explained,

From going out to Lady Caroline herself because of her stick,

Sent the two others instead,

Who had come in at that very moment,

Heated and breathless and full of excuses,

While she herself proceeded to the next course,

Which was a very well-made omelette,

Bursting most agreeably at both its ends with young green peas.

Serve me,

She directed Francesca,

Who again showed a disposition to wait for the others.

Oh,

Why won't they leave me alone?

Why won't they?

Scrap asked herself,

When she heard more scrunchings on the little pebbles,

Which took the place of grass,

And therefore knew someone else was approaching.

She kept her eyes tight shut this time.

Why should she go into lunch if she didn't want to?

This wasn't a private house.

She was in no way tangled up in duties towards a tiresome hostess.

For all practical purposes,

San Salvatore was a hotel,

And she ought to be left alone to eat or not to eat,

Exactly as if she really had been in a hotel.

But the unfortunate Scrap could not just sit still and close her eyes without rousing that desire to stroke and pet in her beholders,

With which she was only too familiar.

Even the cook had patted her.

And now a gentle hand,

How well she knew and how much she dreaded gentle hands,

Was placed on her forehead.

I'm afraid you're not well,

Said a voice that was not Mrs Fisher's,

And therefore must belong to one of the originals.

I have a headache,

Murmured Scrap.

Perhaps it was best to say that.

Perhaps it was the shortest cut to peace.

I'm so sorry,

Said Mrs Arbuthnot softly,

For it was her hand being gentle.

And I,

Said Scrap to herself,

Who thought if I came here I would escape mothers.

Don't you think some tea would do you good,

Asked Mrs Arbuthnot tenderly.

Tea?

The idea was abhorrent to Scrap.

In this heat,

To be drinking tea in the middle of the day.

No,

She murmured.

I expect what would really be best for her,

Said another voice,

Is to be left quiet.

How sensible,

Thought Scrap,

And raised the eyelashes of one eye,

Just enough to peep through and see who was speaking.

It was the freckled original.

The dark one then was the one with the hand.

The freckled one rose in her esteem.

But I can't bear to think of you with a headache and nothing being done for it,

Said Mrs Arbuthnot.

Would a cup of strong black coffee?

Scrap said no more.

She waited,

Motionless and dumb,

Till Mrs Arbuthnot should remove her hand.

After all,

She couldn't stand there all day.

And when she went away,

She would have to take the hand with her.

I do think,

Said the freckled one,

That she wants nothing except quiet.

And perhaps the freckled one pulled the one with the hand by the sleeve,

For the hold on Scrap's forehead relaxed,

And after a minute's silence,

During which no doubt she was being contemplated,

She was always being contemplated,

The footsteps began to scrunch the pebbles again and grew fainter and were gone.

Lady Caroline has a headache,

Said Mrs Arbuthnot,

Re-entering the dining room and sitting down in her place next to Mrs Fisher.

I can't persuade her to have even a little tea or some black coffee.

Do you know what aspirin is in Italian?

The proper remedy for headaches,

Said Mrs Fisher firmly,

Is castor oil.

But she hasn't got a headache,

Said Mrs Wilkins.

Carlyle,

Said Mrs Fisher,

Who had finished her omelette and had leisure while she waited for the next course to talk,

Suffered at one period terribly from headaches and he constantly took castor oil as a remedy.

He took it,

I should say,

Almost to excess and called it,

I remember,

In his interesting way,

The oil of sorrow.

My father said it coloured for a time his whole attitude to life,

His whole philosophy.

But that was because he took too much.

What Lady Caroline wants is one dose and one only.

It is a mistake to keep on taking castor oil.

Do you know the Italian for it?

Asked Mrs Arbuthnot.

Ah,

That I'm afraid I don't.

However,

She would know.

You can ask her.

But she hasn't got a headache,

Repeated Mrs Wilkins,

Who was struggling with the macaroni.

She only wants to be left alone.

They both looked at her.

The word shovel crossed Mrs Fisher's mind in connection with Mrs Wilkins' actions at that moment.

Then why should she say she has?

Asked Mrs Arbuthnot.

Because she is still trying to be polite.

Soon she won't try when the place has got more into her.

She'll really be it without trying,

Naturally.

Lottie,

You see,

Explained Mrs Arbuthnot,

Smiling to Mrs Fisher,

Who sat waiting with a stony patience for her next course,

Delayed because Mrs Wilkins would go on trying to eat the macaroni,

Which must be less worth eating than ever,

Now that it was cold.

Lottie,

You see,

Has a theory about this place.

But Mrs Fisher had no wish to hear any theory of Mrs Wilkins'.

I'm sure I don't know,

She interrupted,

Looking severely at Mrs Wilkins,

Why you should assume Lady Caroline is not telling the truth.

I don't assume,

I know,

Said Mrs Wilkins.

And pray how do you know?

Asked Mrs Fisher,

For Mrs Wilkins was actually helping herself to more macaroni,

Offered her,

Officiously and unnecessarily,

A second time by Francesca.

When I was out there just now,

I saw inside her.

Well,

Mrs Fisher wasn't going to say anything to that.

She wasn't going to trouble to reply to downright idiocy.

Instead,

She sharply wrapped the little table gong by her side.

Though there was Francesca standing at the sideboard and said,

For she would wait no longer for her next course,

Serve me.

And Francesca,

It must have been willful,

Offered her the macaroni again.

Reviews

Love the description of the macaroni eating! Thanks Mandy 🙏🏻

Thank you! As always, nicely done and a lovely story! 🥰

Thank you for this next chapter. I love your way of reading. I look forward to the next one 🙏

I absolutely love this reading of The Envhanted April. I wait with anticipation for each new chapter to drop. Mandy’s delivery is superb. I’ve never read the book so I can’t wait to hear more! I’ve heard there’s a good movie version, but I won’t watch it until I’ve listened to the whole thing! More please! 🙏🏻🤗

Oh but Mrs fisher is beastly! Great reading though!🙏🏽❤️