There was no way of getting into or out of the top garden at San Salvatore
except through the two glass doors, unfortunately side by side, of the
dining-room and the hall. A person in the garden who wished to escape unseen
could not, for the person to be escaped from would be met on the way. It was a
small, oblong garden, and concealment was impossible. What trees there were—the
Judas tree, the tamarisk, the umbrella-pine—grew close to the low parapets.
Rose bushes gave no real cover; one step to right or left of them, and the
person wishing to be private was discovered. Only the north-west corner was a
little place jutting out from the great wall, a kind of excrescence or loop, no
doubt used in the old distrustful days for observation, where it was possible
to sit really unseen, because between it and the house was a thick clump of
daphne. Scrap, after glancing round to see that no one was looking, got up and carried
her chair into this place, stealing away as carefully on tiptoe as those steal
whose purpose is sin. There was another excrescence on the walls just like it
at the north-east corner, but this, though the view from it was almost more
beautiful, for from it you could see the bay and the lovely mountains behind
Mezzago, was exposed. No bushes grew near it, nor had it any shade. The
north-west loop then was where she would sit, and she settled into it, and
nestling her head in her cushion and putting her feet comfortably on the
parapet, from whence they appeared to the villagers on the piazza below as two
white doves, thought that now indeed she would be safe. Mrs. Fisher found her there, guided by the smell of her cigarette. The
incautious Scrap had not thought of that. Mrs. Fisher did not smoke herself,
and all the more distinctly could she smell the smoke of others. The virile
smell met her directly she went out into the garden from the dining-room after
lunch in order to have her coffee. She had bidden Francesca set the coffee in
the shade of the house just outside the glass door, and when Mrs. Wilkins,
seeing a table being carried there, reminded her, very officiously and
tactlessly Mrs. Fisher considered, that Lady Caroline wanted to be alone, she
retorted—and with what propriety—that the garden was for everybody. Into it accordingly she went, and was immediately aware that Lady Caroline was
smoking. She said to herself, “These modern young women,” and proceeded to find
her; her stick, now that lunch was over, being no longer the hindrance to
action that it was before her meal had been securely, as Browning once
said—surely it was Browning? Yes, she remembered how much diverted she had
been—roped in. Nobody diverted her now, reflected Mrs. Fisher, making straight for the clump
of daphne; the world had grown very dull, and had entirely lost its sense of
humour. Probably they still had their jokes, these people—in fact she knew they
did, for Punch still went on; but how differently it went on, and what
jokes. Thackeray, in his inimitable way, would have made mincemeat of this
generation. Of how much it needed the tonic properties of that astringent pen
it was of course unaware. It no longer even held him—at least, so she had been
informed—in any particular esteem. Well, she could not give it eyes to see and
ears to hear and a heart to understand, but she could and would give it,
represented and united in the form of Lady Caroline, a good dose of honest
medicine. “I hear you are not well,” she said, standing in the narrow entrance of the
loop and looking down with the inflexible face of one who is determined to do
good at the motionless and apparently sleeping Scrap. Mrs. Fisher had a deep voice, very like a man’s, for she had been overtaken by
that strange masculinity that sometimes pursues a woman during the last laps of
her life. Scrap tried to pretend that she was asleep, but if she had been her cigarette
would not have been held in her fingers but would have been lying on the
ground. She forgot this. Mrs. Fisher did not, and coming inside the loop, sat down on a
narrow stone seat built out of the wall. For a little she could sit on it; for
a little, till the chill began to penetrate. She contemplated the figure before her. Undoubtedly a pretty creature, and one
that would have had a success at Farringford. Strange how easily even the
greatest men were moved by exteriors. She had seen with her own eyes Tennyson
turn away from everybody—turn, positively, his back on a crowd of eminent
people assembled to do him honour, and withdraw to the window with a young
person nobody had ever heard of, who had been brought there by accident and
whose one and only merit—if it be a merit, that which is conferred by
chance—was beauty. Beauty! All over before you can turn round. An affair, one
might almost say, of minutes. Well, while it lasted it did seem able to do what
it liked with men. Even husbands were not immune. There had been passages in
the life of Mr. Fisher . . . “I expect the journey has upset you,” she said in her deep voice. “What you
want is a good dose of some simple medicine. I shall ask Domenico if there is
such a thing in the village as castor oil.” Scrap opened her eyes and looked straight at Mrs. Fisher. “Ah,” said Mrs. Fisher, “I knew you were not asleep. If you had been you would
have let your cigarette fall to the ground.” Scrap threw the cigarette over the parapet. “Waste,” said Mrs. Fisher. “I don’t like smoking for women, but I still less
like waste.” “What does one do with people like this?” Scrap asked herself, her eyes
fixed on Mrs. Fisher in what felt to her an indignant stare but appeared to
Mrs. Fisher as really charming docility. “Now you’ll take my advice,” said Mrs. Fisher, touched, “and not neglect what
may very well turn into an illness. We are in Italy, you know, and one has to
be careful. You ought, to begin with, to go to bed.” “I never go to bed,” snapped Scrap; and it sounded as moving, as forlorn, as
that line spoken years and years ago by an actress playing the part of Poor Jo
in dramatised version of Bleak House—“I’m always moving on,” said Poor Jo in
this play, urged to do so by a policeman; and Mrs. Fisher, then a girl, had
laid her head on the red velvet parapet of the front row of the dress circle
and wept aloud. It was wonderful, Scrap’s voice. It had given her, in the ten years since she
came out, all the triumphs that intelligence and wit can have, because it made
whatever she said seem memorable. She ought, with a throat formation like that,
to have been a singer, but in every kind of music Scrap was dumb except this
one music of the speaking voice; and what a fascination, what a spell lay in
that. Such was the loveliness of her face and the beauty of her colouring that
there was not a man into whose eyes at the sight of her there did not leap a
flame of intensest interest; but, when he heard her voice, the flame in that
man’s eyes was caught and fixed. It was the same with every man, educated and
uneducated, old, young, desirable themselves or undesirable, men of her own
world and bus-conductors, generals and Tommies—during the war she had had a
perplexing time—bishops equally with vergers—round about her confirmation
startling occurrences had taken place—wholesome and unwholesome, rich and
penniless, brilliant or idiotic; and it made no difference at all what they
were, or how long and securely married: into the eyes of every one of them,
when they saw her, leapt this flame, and when they heard her it stayed there. Scrap had had enough of this look. It only led to difficulties. At first it had
delighted her. She had been excited, triumphant. To be apparently incapable of
doing or saying the wrong thing, to be applauded, listened to, petted, adored
wherever she went, and when she came home to find nothing there either but the
most indulgent proud fondness—why, how extremely pleasant. And so easy, too. No
preparation necessary for this achievement, no hard work, nothing to learn. She
need take no trouble. She had only to appear, and presently say something. But gradually experiences gathered round her. After all, she had to take
trouble, she had to make efforts, because, she discovered with astonishment and
rage, she had to defend herself. That look, that leaping look, meant that she
was going to be grabbed at. Some of those who had it were more humble than
others, especially if they were young, but they all, according to their several
ability, grabbed; and she who had entered the world so jauntily, with her head
in the air and the completest confidence in anybody whose hair was grey, began
to distrust, and then to dislike, and soon to shrink away from, and presently
to be indignant. Sometimes it was just as if she didn’t belong to herself,
wasn’t her own at all, but was regarded as a universal thing, a sort of
beauty-of-all-work. Really men . . . And she found herself involved in ,
vague quarrels, being curiously hated. Really women . . . And when the war
came, and she flung herself into it along with everybody else, it finished her.
Really generals . . . The war finished Scrap. It killed the one man she felt safe with, whom she
would have married, and it finally disgusted her with love. Since then she had
been embittered. She was struggling as angrily in the sweet stuff of life as a
wasp got caught in honey. Just as desperately did she try to unstick her wings.
It gave her no pleasure to outdo other women; she didn’t want their tiresome
men. What could one do with men when one had got them? None of them would talk
to her of anything but the things of love, and how foolish and fatiguing that
became after a bit. It was as though a healthy person with a normal hunger was
given nothing whatever to eat but sugar. Love, love . . . the very word made
her want to slap somebody. “Why should I love you? Why should I?”
she would ask amazed sometimes when somebody was trying—somebody was always
trying—to propose to her. But she never got a real answer, only further
incoherence. A deep cynicism took hold of the unhappy Scrap. Her inside grew hoary with
disillusionment, while her gracious and charming outside continued to make the
world more beautiful. What had the future in it for her? She would not be able,
after such a preparation, to take hold of it. She was fit for nothing; she had
wasted all this time being beautiful. Presently she wouldn’t be beautiful, and
what then? Scrap didn’t know what then, it appalled her to wonder even. Tired
as she was of being conspicuous she was at least used to that, she had never
known anything else; and to become inconspicuous, to fade, to grow shabby and
dim, would probably be most painful. And once she began, what years and years
of it there would be! Imagine, thought Scrap, having most of one’s life at the
wrong end. Imagine being old for two or three times as long as being young.
Stupid, stupid. Everything was stupid. There wasn’t a thing she wanted to do.
There were thousands of things she didn’t want to do. Avoidance, silence,
invisibility, if possible unconsciousness—these negations were all she asked
for at the moment; and here, even here, she was not allowed a minute’s peace, and
this absurd woman must come pretending, merely because she wanted to exercise
power and make her go to bed and make her—hideous—drink castor oil, that she
thought she was ill. “I’m sure,” said Mrs. Fisher, who felt the cold of the stone beginning to come
through and knew she could not sit much longer, “you’ll do what is reasonable.
Your mother would wish—have you a mother?” A faint wonder came into Scrap’s eyes. Have you a mother? If ever anybody had a
mother it was Scrap. It had not occurred to her that there could be people who
had never heard of her mother. She was one of the major marchionesses—there
being, as no one knew better than Scrap, marchionesses and marchionesses—and
had held high positions at Court. Her father, too, in his day had been most
prominent. His day was a little over, poor dear, because in the war he had made
some important mistakes, and besides he was now grown old; still, there he was,
an excessively well-known person. How restful, how extraordinarily restful to
have found some one who had never heard of any of her lot, or at least had not
yet connected her with them. She began to like Mrs. Fisher. Perhaps the originals didn’t know anything about
her either. When she first wrote to them and signed her name, that great name
of Dester which twisted in and out of English history like a bloody thread, for
its bearers constantly killed, she had taken it for granted that they would
know who she was; and at the interview in Shaftesbury Avenue she was sure they
did know, because they hadn’t asked, as they otherwise would have, for
references. Scrap began to cheer up. If nobody at San Salvatore had ever heard of her, if
for a whole month she could shed herself, get right away from everything
connected with herself, be allowed really to forget the clinging and the
clogging and all the noise, why, perhaps she might make something of herself
after all. She might really think; really clear up her mind; really come to
some conclusion. “What I want to do here,” she said, leaning forward in her chair and clasping
her hands round her knees and looking up at Mrs. Fisher, whose seat was higher
than hers, almost with animation, so much pleased was she that Mrs. Fisher knew
nothing about her, “is to come to a conclusion. That’s all. It isn’t much to
want, is it? Just that.” She gazed at Mrs. Fisher, and thought that almost any conclusion would do; the
great thing was to get hold of something, catch something tight, cease to
drift. Mrs. Fisher’s little eyes surveyed her. “I should say,” she said, “that what a
young woman like you wants is a husband and children.” “Well, that’s one of the things I’m going to consider,” said Scrap amiably.
“But I don’t think it would be a conclusion.” “And meanwhile,” said Mrs. Fisher, getting up, for the cold of the stone was
now through, “I shouldn’t trouble my head if I were you with considerings and
conclusions. Women’s heads weren’t made for thinking, I assure you. I should go
to bed and get well.” “I am well,” said Scrap. “Then why did you send a message that you were ill?” “I didn’t.” “Then I’ve had all the trouble of coming out here for nothing.” “But wouldn’t you prefer coming out and finding me well than coming out and
finding me ill?” asked Scrap, smiling. Even Mrs. Fisher was caught by the smile. “Well, you’re a pretty creature,” she said forgivingly. “It’s a pity you
weren’t born fifty years ago. My friends would have liked looking at you.” “I’m very glad I wasn’t,” said Scrap. “I dislike being looked at.” “Absurd,” said Mrs. Fisher, growing stern again. “That’s what you are made for,
young women like you. For what else, pray? And I assure you that if my friends
had looked at you, you would have been looked at by some very great people.” “I dislike very great people,” said Scrap, frowning. There had been an incident
quite recently—really potentates. . . “What I dislike,” said Mrs. Fisher, now as cold as the stone she had
got up from, “is the pose of the modern young woman. It seems to me pitiful,
positively pitiful, in its silliness.” And, her stick crunching the pebbles, she walked away. “That’s all right,” Scrap said to herself, dropping back into her comfortable
position with her head in the cushion and her feet on the parapet; if only
people would go away she didn’t in the least mind why they went. “Don’t you think darling Scrap is growing a little, just a little, peculiar?”
her mother had asked her father a short time before that latest peculiarity of
the flight to San Salvatore, uncomfortably struck by the very odd things Scrap
said and the way she had taken to slinking out of reach whenever she could and
avoiding everybody except—such a sign of age—quite young men, almost boys. “Eh? What? Peculiar? Well, let her be peculiar if she likes. A woman with her
looks can be any damned thing she pleases,” was the infatuated answer. “I do let her,” said her mother meekly; and indeed if she did not, what
difference would it make? Mrs. Fisher was sorry she had bothered about Lady Caroline. She went along the
hall towards her private sitting-room, and her stick as she went struck the
stone floor with a vigour in harmony with her feelings. Sheer silliness, these
poses. She had no patience with them. Unable to be or do anything of
themselves, the young of the present generation tried to achieve a reputation
for cleverness by decrying all that was obviously great and obviously good and
by praising everything, however obviously bad, that was different. Apes,
thought Mrs. Fisher, roused. Apes. Apes. And in her sitting-room she found more
apes, or what seemed to her in her present mood more, for there was Mrs.
Arbuthnot placidly drinking coffee, while at the writing-table, the
writing-table she already looked upon as sacred, using her pen, her own pen
brought for her hand alone from Prince of Wales Terrace, sat Mrs. Wilkins
writing; at the table; in her room; with her pen. “Isn’t this a delightful place?” said Mrs. Arbuthnot cordially. “We have just
discovered it.” “I’m writing to Mellersh,” said Mrs. Wilkins, turning her head and also
cordially—as though, Mrs. Fisher thought, she cared a straw who she was writing
to and anyhow knew who the person she called Mellersh was. “He’ll want to
know,” said Mrs. Wilkins, optimism induced by her surroundings, “that I’ve got
here safely.”