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 on to the battlements and walk along past the quaint and attractive
watch-tower, 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 had not unfortunately been a second glass door opening on to
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 would not
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 worth while, but she doubted whether any of the
three would so develop as to make her think it worth while. Hardly anything was really worth while, 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 on to her battlements. But would they? The doubt spoilt her morning. It was only towards lunch-time
that she saw a way to be quite safe, and ringing for Francesca, bade 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 the numerous slit-windows in the walls to let in light and
it was nothing to do with her if they did not let it in, she directed the
placing of a cabinet of curios across the door on its inside. This would discourage egress. Then she rang for Domenico, and caused him to move one of the flower-filled
sarcophagi across the door on its outside. This would discourage ingress. “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 on to them, gazed at her battlements, secured to her now
completely, with calm pleasure. Being here, she reflected placidly, was much cheaper than being in an 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—£3 a week, which came to about eight shillings a day, battlements,
watch-tower 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
did not yet know what her 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 that 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. 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 men-servants 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 fathers; 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
sealore, and in which still swam slowly the goldfishes of her youth. Were they the same goldfish? She did not 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 meals, the
same goldfish that had that day been there when Carlyle—how well she remembered
it—angrily strode up to them in the middle of some argument with her father
that had grown heated, and striking the glass smartly with his fist had put
them to flight, shouting as they fled, “Och, ye deaf deevils! Och, ye lucky deaf
deevils! Ye can’t hear anything of the blasted, blethering, doddering, glaikit
fool-stuff yer maister talks, can ye?” Or words to that effect. Dear, great-souled Carlyle. 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 doubts,
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 him. Mrs. Fisher
did not read him either, but that was different. She had read him; she had
certainly read him. Of course she had read him. There was Teufelsdröck—she
quite well remembered a tailor called Teufelsdröck. So like Carlyle 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 smoothe her hair. She did not
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 maccaroni,
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 least, in fact she did
not 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
maccaroni, being unable to hide any of her feelings, morosely. It was very well cooked, but Mrs. Fisher had never cared for maccaroni,
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. He had during
their married life behaved very much like maccaroni. 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 maccaroni gloomily,
and her gloom deepened when she saw her at last take her knife to it and chop
it small. Mrs. Fisher really did not 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. Maccaroni was never allowed to appear on her table in London. Apart
from its tiresomeness she did not 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 maccaroni 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 round 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 maccaroni 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 an 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 up 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 could not
but smile when she looked at this young lady, she told her the maccaroni 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 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?—oh, why won’t they leave me
alone?” Scrap asked herself when she heard more scrunchings on the little
pebbles which took the place of grass, and therefore knew some one else was
approaching. She kept her eyes tight shut this time. Why should she go in to 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
an hotel, and she ought to be let alone to eat or not to eat exactly as if she
really had been in an 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 eye-lashes 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 her 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 maccaroni. “She only wants to be let alone.” They both looked at her. The word shovel crossed Mrs. Fisher’s mind in
connection with Mrs. Wilkins’s 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.” “Lotty, 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 maccaroni, which must be less worth eating than
ever now that it was cold; “Lotty, you see, has a theory about this place—” But Mrs. Fisher had no wish to hear any theory of Mrs. Wilkins’s. “I am 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 icily, for Mrs. Wilkins was
actually helping herself to more maccaroni, 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 rapped 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 wilful—offered her the maccaroni again.