There was the fiasco about Olga coming to the tableaux7, which was the cause of her sending that very tart2 reply, via Miss Lyall, to Lady Ambermere’s impertinence, and the very next morning, Lady Ambermere, coming again into Riseholme, perhaps for that very purpose, had behaved to Lucia as Lucia had behaved to the moon, and cut her. That was irritating, but the counter-irritant to it had been that Lady Ambermere had then gone to Olga’s, and been told that she was not at home, though she was very audibly practising in her music-room at the time. Upon which Lady Ambermere had said “Home” to her people, and got in with such unconcern of the material world that she sat down on Pug.
Mrs Quantock had heard both “Home” and Pug, and told the cut Lucia, who was a hundred yards away about it. She also told her about the engagement of Atkinson and Elizabeth, which was all she knew about events in those houses. On which Lucia with a kind smile had said, “Dear Daisy, what slaves some people are to their servants. I am sure Mrs Weston and Colonel Boucher will be quite miserable, poor things. Now I must run home. How I wish I could stop and chat on the green!” And she gave her silvery laugh, for she felt much better now that she knew Olga had said she was out to Lady Ambermere, when she was so audibly in.
Then came a second piece of bad luck. Lucia had not gone more than a hundred yards past Georgie’s house, when he came out in a tremendous hurry. He rapidly measured the distance between himself and Lucia, and himself and Mrs Quantock, and made a bee-line for Mrs Quantock, since she was the nearest. Olga had just telephoned to him. . . .
“Good morning,” he said breathlessly, determined9 to cap anything she said. “Any news?”
“Yes, indeed,” she said. “Haven’t you heard?”
Georgie had one moment of heart-sink.
“What?” he said.
“Atkinson and Eliz ——” she began.
“Oh, that,” said he scornfully. “And talking of them, of course you’ve heard the rest. Haven’t you? Why, Mrs Weston and Colonel Boucher are going to follow their example, unless they set it themselves, and get married first.”
“No!” said Mrs Quantock in the loudest possible Riseholme voice of surprise.
“Oh, yes. I really knew it last night. I was dining at Old Place and they were there. Olga and I both settled there would be something to talk in the morning. Shall we stroll on the green a few minutes?”
Georgie had a lovely time. He hurried from person to person, leaving Mrs Quantock to pick up a few further gleanings. Everyone was there except Lucia, and she, but for the accident of her being further off than Mrs Quantock, would have been the first to know.
When this tour was finished Georgie sat to enjoy the warm comforting glow of envy that surrounded him. Nowadays the meeting place at the Green had insensibly transferred itself to just opposite Old Place, and it was extremely interesting to hear Olga practising as she always did in the morning. Interesting though it was, Riseholme had at first been a little disappointed about it, for everyone had thought that she would sing Brunnhilde’s part or Salome’s part through every day, or some trifle of that kind. Instead she would perform an upwards11 scale in gradual crescendo12, and on the highest most magnificent note would enunciate13 at the top of her voice, “Yawning York!” Then starting soft again she would descend14 in crescendo to a superb low note and enunciate “Love’s Lilies Lonely.” Then after a dozen repetitions of this, she would start off with full voice, and get softer and softer until she just whispered that York was yawning, and do the same with Love’s Lilies. But you never could tell what she might not sing, and some mornings there would be long trills and leapings onto high notes: long notes and leaping onto trills, and occasionally she sang a real song. That was worth waiting for, and Georgie did not hesitate to let drop that she had sung four last night to his accompaniment. And hardly had he repeated that the third time, when she appeared at her window, and before all Riseholme called out “Georgie!” with a trill at the end, like a bird shaking its wings. Before all Riseholme!
So in he went. Had Lucia known that, it would quite have wiped the gilt15 off Lady Ambermere’s being refused admittance. In point of fact it did wipe the gilt off when, about an hour afterwards, Georgie went to lunch because he told her. And if there had been any gilt left about anywhere, that would have vanished, too, when in answer to some rather damaging remark she made about poor Daisy’s interests in the love-affairs of other people’s servants, she learned that it was of the love-affairs of their superiors that all Riseholme had been talking for at least an hour by now.
Again there was ill-luck about the tableaux on Saturday, for in the Brunnhilde scene, Peppino in his agitation16, turned the lamp that was to be a sunrise, completely out, and Brunnhilde had to hail the midnight, or at any rate a very obscure twilight17. Georgie, it is true, with wonderful presence of mind, turned on an electric light when he had finished playing, but it was more like a flash of lightning than a slow, wonderful dawn. The tableaux were over well before 10.45, and though Lucia in answer to the usual pressings, said she would “see about” doing them again, she felt that Mrs Weston and Colonel Boucher, who made their first public appearance as the happy pair, attracted more than their proper share of attention. The only consolation18 was that the romps20 that followed at poor Daisy’s were a complete fiasco. It was in vain, too, at supper, that she went from table to table, and helped people to lobster21 salad and champagne22, and had not enough chairs, and generally imitated all that had apparently23 made Olga’s party so supreme24 a success. But on this occasion the recipe for the dish and not the dish itself was served up, and the hunting of the slipper25 produced no exhilaration in the chase. . . .
But far more untoward26 events followed. Olga came back on the next Monday, and immediately after Lucia received a card for an evening “At Home,” with “Music” in the bottom left-hand corner. It happened to be wet that afternoon, and seeing Olga’s shut motor coming from the station with four men inside, she leaped to the conclusion that these were four musicians for the music. A second motor followed with luggage, and she quite distinctly saw the unmistakable shape of a ‘cello against the window. After that no more guessing was necessary, for it was clear that poor Olga had hired the awful string-quartet from Brinton, that played in the lounge at the Royal Hotel after dinner. The Brinton string-quartet! She had heard them once at a distance and that was quite enough. Lucia shuddered27 as she thought of those doleful fiddlers. It was indeed strange that Olga with all the opportunities she had had for hearing good music, should hire the Brinton string-quartet, but, after all, that was entirely28 of a piece with her views about the gramophone. Perhaps the gramophone would have its share in this musical evening. But she had said she would go: it would be very unkind to Olga to stop away now, for Olga must know by this time her passion for music, so she went. She sincerely hoped that she would not be conducted to the seat of honour, and be obliged to say a few encouraging words to the string-quartet afterwards.
Once again she came rather late, for the music had begun. It had only just begun, for she recognised — who should recognise if not she? — the early bars of a Beethoven quartet. She laid her hand on Peppino’s arm.
“Brinton: Beethoven,” she said limply.
She slipped into a chair next Daisy Quantock, and sat in her well-known position when listening to music, with her head forward, her chin resting on her hand, and the far-away look in her eyes. Nothing of course could wholly take away the splendour of that glorious composition, and she was pleased that there was no applause between the movements, for she had rather expected that Olga would clap, and interrupt the unity29 of it all. Occasionally, too, she was agreeably surprised by the Brinton string-quartet: they seemed to have some inklings, though not many. Once she winced30 very much when a string broke.
Olga (she was rather a restless hostess) came up to her when it was over.
“So glad you could come,” she said. “Aren’t they divine?”
Lucia gave her most indulgent smile.
“Perfect music! Glorious!” she said. “And they really played it very creditably. But I am a little spoiled, you know, for the last time I heard that it was performed by the Spanish Quartet. I know one ought never to compare, but have you ever heard the Spanish Quartet, Miss Bracely?”
Olga looked at her in surprise.
“But they are the Spanish Quartet!” she said pointing to the players.
Lucia had raised her voice rather as she spoke31, for when she spoke on music she spoke for everybody to hear. And a great many people undoubtedly32 did hear, among whom, of course, was Daisy Quantock. She gave one shrill33 squeal34 of laughter, like a slate-pencil, and from that moment granted plenary absolution to poor dear Lucia for all her greed and grabbing with regard to the Guru.
But instantly all Olga’s good-nature awoke: unwittingly (for her remark that this was the Spanish Quartet had been a mere8 surprised exclamation), she had made a guest of hers uncomfortable, and must at once do all she could to remedy that.
“It’s a shocking room for echoes, this,” she said. “Do all of you come up a little nearer, and you will be able to hear the playing so much better. You lose all shade, all fineness here. I came here on purpose to ask you to move up, Mrs Lucas: there are half a dozen chairs unoccupied near the platform.”
It was a kindly35 intention that prompted the speech, but for all real Riseholme practical purposes, quite barren, for many people had heard Lucia’s remarks, and Peppino also had already been wincing36 at the Brinton quartet. In that fell moment the Bolshevists laid bony fingers on the sceptre of her musical autocracy37. . . . But who would have guessed that Olga would get the Spanish Quartet from London to come down to Riseholme?
Staggering from these blows, she had to undergo an even shrewder stroke yet. Already. in the intelligence department, she had been sadly behind-hand in news, her tableaux-party had been anything but a success, this one little remark of Olga’s had shaken her musically, but at any rate up till this moment she had shewn herself mistress of the Italian tongue, while to strengthen that she was being very diligent38 with her dictionary, grammar and Dante’s Paradiso. Then as by a bolt out of a clear sky that temple, too, was completely demolished39, in the most tragic40 fashion.
A few days after the disaster of the Spanish–Brinton Quartet, Olga received a letter from Signor Cortese, the eminent41 Italian composer, to herald42 the completion of his opera, “Lucretia.” Might he come down to Riseholme for a couple of nights, and, figuratively, lay it at her feet, in the hope that she would raise it up, and usher43 it into the world? All the time he had been writing it, as she knew, he had thought of her in the name part and he would come down today, tomorrow, at a moment’s notice by day or night to submit it to her. Olga was delighted and sent an effusive44 telegram of many sheets, full of congratulation and welcome, for she wanted above all things to “create” the part. So would Signor Cortese come down that very day?
She ran upstairs with the news to her husband.
“My dear, ‘Lucretia’ is finished,” she said, “and that angel practically offers it me. Now what are we to do about dinner tonight? Jacob and Jane are coming, and neither you nor they, I suppose, speak one word of Italian, and you know what mine is, firm and intelligible45 and operatic but not conversational46. What are we to do? He hates talking English. . . . Oh, I know, if I can only get Mrs Lucas. They always talk Italian, I believe, at home. I wonder if she can come. She’s musical, too, and I shall ask her husband, I think: that’ll be a man over, but it will be another Italiano ——”
Olga wrote at once to Lucia, mentioning that Cortese was staying with them, but, quite naturally, saying nothing about the usefulness of Peppino and her being able to engage the musician in his own tongue, for that she took for granted. An eager affirmative (such a great pleasure) came back to her, and for the rest of the day, Lucia and Peppino made up neat little sentences to let off to the dazzled Cortese, at the moment when they said “good-night,” to shew that they could have talked Italian all the time, had there been any occasion for doing so.
Mrs Weston and Colonel Boucher had already arrived when Lucia and her husband entered, and Lucia had quite a shock to see on what intimate terms they were with their hostess. They actually called each other Olga and Jacob and Jane, which was most surprising and almost painful. Lucia (perhaps because she had not known about it soon enough) had been a little satirical about the engagement, rather as if it was a slight on her that Jacob had not been content with celibacy47 and Jane with her friendship, but she was sure she wished them both “nothing but well.” Indeed the moment she got over the shock of seeing them so intimate with Olga, she could not have been surpassed in cordiality.
“We see but little of our old friends now,” she said to Olga and Jane jointly48, “but we must excuse their desire for solitude49 in their first glow of their happiness. Peppino and I remember that sweet time, oh, ever so long ago.”
This might have been tact50, or it might have been cat. That Peppino and she sympathised as they remembered their beautiful time was tact, that it was so long ago was cat. Altogether it might be described as a cat chewing tact. But there was a slight air of patronage51 about it, and if there was one thing Mrs Weston would not, and could not and did not even intend to stand, it was that. Besides it had reached her ears that Mrs Lucas had said something about there being no difficulty in finding bridesmaids younger than the bride.
“Fancy! How clever of you to remember so long ago,” she said. “But, then, you have the most marvellous memory, dear, and keep it wonderfully!”
Olga intervened.
“How kind of you and Mr Lucas to come at such short notice,” she said. “Cortese hates talking English, so I shall put him between you and me, and you’ll talk to him all the time, won’t you? And you won’t laugh at me, will you, when I join in with my atrocious attempts? And I shall buttress53 myself on the other side with your husband, who will firmly talk across me to him.”
Lucia had to say something. A further exposure was at hand, quite inevitably54. It was no use for her and Peppino to recollect55 a previous engagement.
“Oh, my Italian is terribly rusty,” she said, knowing that Mrs Weston’s eye was on her. . . . Why had she not sent Mrs Weston a handsome wedding-present that morning?
“Rusty? We will ask Cortese about that when you’ve had a good talk to him. Ah, here he is!”
Cortese came into the room, florid and loquacious56, pouring out a stream of apology for his lateness to Olga, none of which was the least intelligible to Lucia. She guessed what he was saying, and next moment Olga, who apparently understood him perfectly57, and told him with an enviable fluency58 that he was not late at all, was introducing him to her, and explaining that “la Signora” (Lucia understood this) and her husband talked Italian. She did not need to reply to some torrent59 of amiable60 words from him, addressed to her, for he was taken on and introduced to Mrs Weston, and the Colonel. But he instantly whirled round to her again, and asked her something. Not knowing the least what he meant, she replied:
“Si: tante grazie.”
He looked puzzled for a moment and then repeated his question in English.
“In what deestrict of Italy ‘ave you voyaged most?”
Lucia understood that: so did Mrs Weston, and Lucia pulled herself together.
“In Rome,” she said. “Che bella citta! Adoro Roma, e il mio marito. Non e vere, Peppino?”
Peppino cordially assented61: the familiar ring of this fine intelligible Italian restored his confidence, and he asked Cortese whether he was not very fond of music. . . .
Dinner seemed interminable to Lucia. She kept a watchful62 eye on Cortese, and if she saw he was about to speak to her, she turned hastily to Colonel Boucher, who sat on her other side, and asked him something about his cari cani, which she translated to him. While he answered she made up another sentence in Italian about the blue sky or Venice, or very meanly said her husband had been there, hoping to direct the torrent of Italian eloquence63 to him. But she knew that, as an Italian conversationalist, neither she nor Peppino had a rag of reputation left them, and she dismally64 regretted that they had not chosen French, of which they both knew about as much, instead of Italian, for the vehicle of their linguistic65 distinction.
Olga meantime continued to understand all that Cortese said, and to reply to it with odious66 fluency, and at the last, Cortese having said something to her which made her laugh, he turned to Lucia.
“I’ve said to Meesis Shottlewort” . . . and he proceeded to explain his joke in English.
“Molto bene,” said Lucia with a dying flicker67. “Molto divertente. Non e vero, Peppino.”
“Si, si,” said Peppino miserably68.
And then the final disgrace came, and it was something of a relief to have it over. Cortese, in excellent spirits with his dinner and his wine and the prospect69 of Olga taking the part of Lucretia, turned beamingly to Lucia again.
“Now we will all spick English,” he said. “This is one very pleasant evening. I enjoy me very much. Ecco!”
Just once more Lucia shot up into flame.
“Parlate Inglese molto bene,” she said, and except when Cortese spoke to Olga, there was no more Italian that night.
Even the unique excitement of hearing Olga “try over” the great scene in the last act could not quite absorb Lucia’s attention after this awful fiasco, and though she sat leaning forward with her chin in her hand, and the far-away look in her eyes, her mind was furiously busy as to how to make anything whatever out of so bad a job. Everyone present knew that her Italian, as a medium for conversation, had suffered a complete break-down, and it was no longer any real use, when Olga did not quite catch the rhythm of a passage, to murmur70 “Uno, due, tre” unconsciously to herself; she might just as well have said “one, two, three” for any effect it had on Mrs Weston. The story would be all over Riseholme next day, and she felt sure that Mrs Weston, that excellent observer and superb reporter, had not failed to take it all in, and would not fail to do justice to it. Blow after blow had been rained upon her palace door, it was little wonder that the whole building was a-quiver. She had thought of starting a Dante-class this winter, for printed Italian, if you had a dictionary and a translation in order to prepare for the class, could be easily interpreted: it was the spoken word which you had to understand without any preparation at all, and not in the least knowing what was coming, that had presented such insurmountable difficulties. And yet who, when the story of this evening was known, would seek instruction from a teacher of that sort? Would Mrs Weston come to her Dante-class? Would she? Would she? No, she would not.
Lucia lay long awake that night, tossing and turning in her bed in that delightful71 apartment in “Midsummer Night’s Dream,” and reviewing the fell array of these unlucky affairs. As she eyed them, black shapes against the glow of her firelight, it struck her that the same malevolent72 influence inspired them all. For what had caused the failure and flatness of her tableaux (omitting the unfortunate incident about the lamp) but the absence of Olga? Who was it who had occasioned her unfortunate remark about the Spanish Quartet but Olga, whose clear duty it had been, when she sent the invitation for the musical party, to state (so that there could be no mistake about it) that those eminent performers were to entrance them? Who could have guessed that she would have gone to the staggering expense of having them down from London? The Brinton quartet was the Utmost that any sane73 imagination could have pictured, and Lucia’s extremely sane imagination had pictured just that, with such extreme vividness that it had never occurred to her that it could be anybody else. Certainly Olga should have put “Spanish Quartet” in the bottom left-hand corner instead of “Music” and then Lucia would have known all about it, and have been speechless with emotion when they had finished the Beethoven, and wiped her eyes, and pulled herself together again. It really looked as if Olga had laid a trap for her. . . .
Even more like a trap were the horrid74 events of this evening. Trap was not at all too strong a word for them. To ask her to the house, and then suddenly spring upon her the fact that she was expected to talk Italian. . . . Was that an open, an honourable75 proceeding76? What if Lucia had actually told Olga (and she seemed to recollect it) that she and Peppino often talked Italian at home? That was no reason why she should be expected, off-hand like that, to talk Italian anywhere else. She should have been told what was expected of her, so as to give her the chance of having a previous engagement. Lucia hated underhand ways, and they were particularly odious in one whom she had been willing to educate and refine up to the highest standards of Riseholme. Indeed it looked as if Olga’s nature was actually incapable77 of receiving cultivation78. She went on her own rough independent lines, giving a romp19 one night, and not coming to the tableaux on another, and getting the Spanish Quartet without consultation79 on a third, and springing this dreadful Pentecostal party on them on a fourth. Olga clearly meant mischief80: she wanted to set herself up as leader of Art and Culture in Riseholme. Her conduct admitted of no other explanation.
Lucia’s benevolent81 scheme of educating and refining vanished like morning mists, and through her drooping82 eyelids83, the firelight seemed strangely red. . . . She had been too kind, too encouraging: now she must collect her forces round her and be stern. As she dozed84 off to sleep, she reminded herself to ask Georgie to lunch next day. He and Peppino and she must have a serious talk. She had seen Georgie comparatively little just lately, and she drowsily85 and uneasily wondered how that was.
Georgie by this time had quite got over the desolation of the moment when standing86 in the road opposite Mrs Quantock’s mulberry-tree he had given vent3 to that bitter cry of “More misery87: more unhappiness!” His nerves on that occasion had been worn to fiddlestrings with all the fuss and fiasco of planning the tableaux, and thus fancying himself in love had been just the last straw. But the fact that he had been Olga’s chosen confidant in her wonderful scheme of causing Mrs Weston and the Colonel to get engaged, and the distinction of being singled out by Olga to this friendly intimacy88, had proved a great tonic89. It was quite clear that the existence of Mr Shuttleworth constituted a hopeless bar to the fruition of his passion, and, if he was completely honest with himself, he was aware that he did not really hate Mr Shuttleworth for standing in his path. Georgie was gentle in all his ways, and his manner of falling in love was very gentle, too. He admired Olga immensely, he found her stimulating90 and amusing, and since it was out of the question really to be her lover, he would have enjoyed next best to that, being her brother, and such little pangs91 of jealousy92 as he might experience from time to time, were rather in the nature of small electric shocks voluntarily received. He was devoted93 to her with a warmth that his supposed devotion to Lucia had never kindled94 in him; he even went so far as to dream about her in an agitated95 though respectful manner. Without being conscious of any unreality about his sentiments, he really wanted to dress up as a lover rather than to be one, for he could form no notion at present of what it felt to be absorbed in anyone else. Life was so full as it was: there really was no room for anything else, especially if that something else must be of the quality which rendered everything else colourless.
This state of mind, this quality of emotion was wholly pleasurable and quite exciting, and instead of crying out “More misery! more unhappiness!” he could now, as he passed the mulberry, say to himself “More pleasures! more happiness!”
Yet as he ran down the road to lunch with Lucia he was conscious that she was likely to stand, an angel perhaps, but certainly one with a flaming sword, between him and all the interests of the new life which was undoubtedly beginning to bubble in Riseholme, and to which Georgie found it so pleasant to take his little mug, and have it filled with exhilarating liquid. And if Lucia proved to be standing in his path, forbidding his approach, he, too, was armed for combat, with a revolutionary weapon, consisting of a rolled-up copy of some of Debussy’s music for the piano — Olga had lent it him a few days — and he had been very busy over “Poissons d’or.” He was further armed by the complete knowledge of the Italian debacle of last night, which, from his knowledge of Lucia, he judged must constitute a crisis. Something would have to happen. . . . Several times lately Olga had, so to speak, run full-tilt into Lucia, and had passed on leaving a staggering form behind her. And in each case, so Georgie clearly perceived, Olga had not intended to butt52 into or stagger anybody. Each time, she had knocked Lucia down purely96 by accident, but if these accidents occurred with such awful frequency, it was to be expected that Lucia would find another name for them: they would have to be christened. With all his Riseholme appetite for complications and events Georgie guessed that he was not likely to go empty away from this lunch. In addition there were other topics of extraordinary interest, for really there had been very odd experiences at Mrs Quantock’s last night, when the Italian debacle was going on, a little way up the road. But he was not going to bring that out at once.
Lucia hailed him with her most cordial manner, and with a superb effrontery97 began to talk Italian just as usual, though she must have guessed that Georgie knew all about last night.
“Bon arrivato, amico mio,” she said. “Why, it must be three days since we met. Che la falto il signorino? And what have you got there?”
Georgie, having escaped being caught over Italian, had made up his mind not to talk any more ever.
“Oh, they are some little things by Debussy,” he said. “I want to play one of them to you afterwards. I’ve just been glancing through it.”
“Bene, molto bene!” said she. “Come in to lunch. But I can’t promise to like it, Georgino. Isn’t Debussy the man who always makes me want to howl like a dog at the sound of the gong? Where did you get these from?”
“Olga lent me them,” said Georgie negligently98. He really did call her Olga to her face now, by request.
Lucia’s bugles99 began to sound.
“Yes, I should think Miss Bracely would admire that sort of music,” she said. “I suppose I am too old-fashioned, though I will not condemn100 your little pieces of Debussy before I have heard them. Old-fashioned! Yes! I was certainly too old-fashioned for the music she gave us last night. Dio mi!”
“Oh, didn’t you enjoy it?” asked he.
Lucia sat down, without waiting for Peppino.
“Poor Miss Bracely!” she said. “It was very kind of her in intention to ask me, but she would have been kinder to have asked Mrs Antrobus instead, and have told her not to bring her ear-trumpet. To hear that lovely voice, for I do her justice, and there are lovely notes in her voice, lovely, to hear that voice shrieking101 and screaming away, in what she called the great scene, was simply pitiful. There was no melody, and above all there was no form. A musical composition is like an architectural building; it must be built up and constructed. How often have I said that! You must have colour, and you must have line, otherwise I cannot concede you the right to say you have music.”
Lucia finished her egg in a hurry, and put her elbows on the table.
“I hope I am not hide-bound and limited,” she said, “and I think you will acknowledge, Georgie, that I am not. Even in the divinest music of all, I am not blind to defects, if there are defects. The Moonlight Sonata102, for instance. You have often heard me say that the two last movements do not approach the first in perfection of form. And if I am permitted to criticise103 Beethoven, I hope I may be allowed to suggest that Mr Cortese has not produced an opera which will render Fidelio ridiculous. But really I am chiefly sorry for Miss Bracely. I should have thought it worth her while to render herself not unworthy to interpret Fidelio, whatever time and trouble that cost her, rather than to seek notoriety by helping104 to foist105 on to the world a fresh combination of engine-whistles and grunts106. Non e vero, Peppino? How late you are.”
Lucia had not determined on this declaration of war without anxious consideration. But it was quite obvious to her that the enemy was daily gaining strength, and therefore the sooner she came to open hostilities107 the better, for it was equally obvious to her mind that Olga was a pretender to the throne she had occupied for so long. It was time to mobilise, and she had first to state her views and her plan of campaign to the chief of her staff.
“No, we did not quite like our evening, Peppino and I, did we, caro?” she went on. “And Mr Cortese! His appearance! He is like a huge hairdresser. His touch on the piano. If you can imagine a wild bull butting108 at the keys, you will have some idea of it. And above all, his Italian! I gathered that he was a Neapolitan, and we all know what Neapolitan dialect is like. Tuscans and Romans, who between them I believe — Lingua Toscano in Bocca Romana, you remember — know how to speak their own tongue, find Neapolitans totally unintelligible109. For myself, and I speak for mio sposo as well, I do not want to understand what Romans do not understand. La bella lingua is sufficient for me.”
“I hear that Olga could understand him quite well,” said Georgie betraying his complete knowledge of all that had happened.
“That may be so,” said Lucia. “I hope she understood his English too, and his music. He had not an ‘h’ when he spoke English, and I have not the slightest doubt in my own mind that his Italian was equally illiterate110. It does not matter; I do not see that Mr Cortese’s linguistic accomplishments111 concern us. But his music does, if poor Miss Bracely, with her lovely notes, is going to study it, and appear as Lucretia. I am sorry if that is so. Any news?”
Really it was rather magnificent, and it was war as well; of that there could not be the slightest doubt. All Riseholme, by this time, knew that Lucia and Peppino had not been able to understand a word of what Cortese had said, and here was the answer to the back-biting suggestion, vividly112 put forward by Mrs Weston on the green that morning, that the explanation was that Lucia and Peppino did not know Italian. They could not reasonably be expected to know Neapolitan dialect; the language of Dante satisfied their humble113 needs. They found it difficult to understand Cortese when he spoke English, but that did not imply that they did not know English. Dante’s tongue and Shakespeare’s tongue sufficed them. . . .
“And what were the words of the libretto114 like?” asked Georgie.
Lucia fixed115 him with her beady eyes, ready and eager to show how delighted she was to bestow116 approbation117 wherever it was deserved.
“Wonderful!” she said. “I felt, and so did Peppino, that the words were as utterly118 wasted on that formless music as was poor Miss Bracely’s voice. How did it go, Peppino? Let me think!”
Lucia raised her head again with the far-away look.
“Amore misterio!” she said. “Amore profondo! Amore profondo del vasto mar10.” Ah, there was our poor bella lingua again. I wonder who wrote the libretto.”
“Mr Cortese wrote the libretto,” said Georgie.
Lucia did not hesitate for a moment, but gave her silvery laugh.
“Oh, dear me, no,” she said. “If you had heard him talk you would know he could not have. Well, have we not had enough of Mr Cortese and his works? Any news? What did you do last night, when Peppino and I were in our purgatorio?”
Georgie was almost equally glad to get off the subject of Italian. The less said in or of Italian the better.
“I was dining with Mrs Quantock,” he said. “She had a very interesting Russian woman staying with her, Princess Popoffski.”
Lucia laughed again.
“Dear Daisy!” she said. “Tell me about the Russian princess. Was she a Guru? Dear me, how easily some people are taken in! The Guru! Well, we were all in the same boat there. We took the Guru on poor Daisy’s valuation, and I still believe he had very remarkable119 gifts, curry-cook or not. But Princess Popoffski now ——”
“We had a seance,” said Georgie.
“Indeed! And Princess Popoffski was the medium?”
Georgie grew a little dignified120.
“It is no use adopting that tone, cara,” he said, relapsing into Italian. “You were not there; you were having your purgatory121 at Olga’s. It was very remarkable. We touched hands all round the table; there was no possibility of fraud.”
Lucia’s views on psychic122 phenomena123 were clearly known to Riseholme; those who produced them were fraudulent, those who were taken in by them were dupes. Consequently there was irony124 in the baby-talk of her reply.
“Me dood!” she said. “Me very dood, and listen carefully. Tell Lucia!”
Georgie recounted the experiences. The table had rocked and tapped out names. The table had whirled round, though it was a very heavy table. Georgie had been told that he had two sisters, one of whom in Latin was a bear.
“How did the table know that?” he asked. “Ursa, a bear, you know. And then, while we were sitting there, the Princess went off into a trance. She said there was a beautiful spirit present, who blessed us all. She called Mrs Quantock Margarita, which, as you may know, is the Italian for Daisy.”
Lucia smiled.
“Thank you for explaining, Georgino,” she said.
There was no mistaking the irony of that, and Georgie thought he would be ironical125 too.
“I didn’t know if you knew,” he said. “I thought it might be Neapolitan dialect.”
“Pray, go on!” said Lucia, breathing through her nose.
“And she said I was Georgie,” said Georgie, “but that there was another Georgie not far off. That was odd, because Olga’s house, with Mr Shuttleworth, were so close. And then the Princess went into very deep trance, and the spirit that was there took possession of her.”
“And who was that?” asked Lucia.
“His name was Amadeo. She spoke in Amadeo’s voice, indeed it was Amadeo who was speaking. He was a Florentine and knew Dante quite well. He materialised; I saw him.”
A bright glorious vision flashed upon Lucia. The Dante-class might not, even though it was clearly understood that Cortese spoke unintelligible Neapolitan, be a complete success, if the only attraction was that she herself taught Dante, but it would be quite a different proposition if Princess Popoffski, controlled by Amadeo, Dante’s friend, was present. They might read a Canto126 first, and then hold a seance of which Amadeo — via Princess Popoffski — would take charge. While this was simmering in her mind, it was important to drop all irony and be extremely sympathetic.
“Georgino! How wonderful!” she said. “As you know, I am sceptical by nature, and want all evidence carefully sifted127. I daresay I am too critical, and that is a fault. But fancy getting in touch with a friend of Dante’s! What would one not give? Tell me: what is this Princess like? Is she the sort of person one could ask to dinner?”
Georgie was still sore over the irony to which he had been treated. He had, moreover, the solid fact behind him that Daisy Quantock (Margarita) had declared that in no circumstances would she permit Lucia to annex128 her Princess. She had forgiven Lucia for annexing129 the Guru (and considering that she had only annexed130 a curry-cook, it was not so difficult) but she was quite determined to run her Princess herself.
“Yes, you might ask her,” he said. If irony was going about, there was no reason why he should not have a share.
Lucia bounced from her seat, as if it had been a spring cushion.
“We will have a little party,” she said. “We three, and dear Daisy and her husband and the Princess. I think that will be enough; psychics131 hate a crowd, because it disturbs the influences. Mind! I do not say I believe in her power yet, but I am quite open-minded; I should like to be convinced. Let me see! We are doing nothing tomorrow. Let us have our little dinner tomorrow. I will send a line to dear Daisy at once, and say how enormously your account of the seance has interested me. I should like dear Daisy to have something to console her for that terrible fiasco about her Guru. And then, Georgino mio, I will listen to your Debussy. Do not expect anything; if it seems to me formless, I shall say so. But if it seems to me promising132, I shall be equally frank. Perhaps it is great; I cannot tell you about that till I have heard it. Let me write my note first.”
That was soon done, and Lucia, having sent it by hand, came into the music-room, and drew down the blinds over the window through which the autumn sun was streaming. Very little art, as she had once said, would “stand” daylight; only Shakespeare or Dante or Beethoven and perhaps Bach, could complete with the sun.
Georgie, for his part, would have liked rather more light, but after all Debussy wrote such very odd chords and sequences that it was not necessary to wear his spectacles.
Lucia sat in a high chair near the piano, with her chin in her hand, tremendously erect133.
Georgie took off his rings and laid them on the candle-bracket, and ran his hands nimbly over the piano.
“Poissons d’or,” he said. “Goldfish!”
“Yes; Pesci d’oro,” said Lucia, explaining it to Peppino.
Lucia’s face changed as the elusive134 music proceeded. The far-away look died away, and became puzzled; her chin came out of her hand, and the hand it came out of covered her eyes.
Before Georgie had got to the end the answer to her note came, and she sat with it in her hand, which, released from covering her eyes, tried to beat time. On the last note she got up with a regretful sigh.
“Is it finished?” she asked. “And yet I feel inclined to say ‘When is it going to begin?’ I haven’t been fed; I haven’t drank in anything. Yes, I warned you I should be quite candid135. And there’s my verdict. I am sorry. Me vewy sowwy! But you played it, I am sure, beautifully, Georgino; you were a buono avvocato; you said all that could be said for your client. Shall I open this note before we discuss it more fully5? Give Georgino a cigarette, Peppino! I am sure he deserves one, after all those accidentals.”
She pulled up the blind again in order to read her note and as she read her face clouded.
“Ah! I am sorry for that,” she said. “Peppino, the Princess does not go out in the evening; they always have a seance there. I daresay Daisy means to ask us some evening soon. We will keep an evening or two open. It is a long time since I have seen dear Daisy; I will pop round this afternoon.”
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1
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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tart
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| adj.酸的；尖酸的，刻薄的；n.果馅饼；淫妇 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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4
prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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6
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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7
tableaux
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| n.舞台造型，（由活人扮演的）静态画面、场面；人构成的画面或场景( tableau的名词复数 )；舞台造型；戏剧性的场面；绚丽的场景 | |
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8
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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9
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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10
mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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12
crescendo
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| n.(音乐)渐强，高潮 | |
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13
enunciate
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| v.发音；（清楚地）表达 | |
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14
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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15
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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16
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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17
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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18
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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19
romp
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| n.欢闹；v.嬉闹玩笑 | |
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20
romps
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| n.无忧无虑，快活( romp的名词复数 )v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的第三人称单数 )；（尤指在赛跑或竞选等中）轻易获胜 | |
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21
lobster
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| n.龙虾，龙虾肉 | |
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22
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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23
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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24
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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25
slipper
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| n.拖鞋 | |
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26
untoward
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| adj.不利的，不幸的，困难重重的 | |
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27
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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28
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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29
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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30
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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32
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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33
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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34
squeal
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| v.发出长而尖的声音；n.长而尖的声音 | |
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35
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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36
wincing
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的现在分词 ) | |
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37
autocracy
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| n.独裁政治，独裁政府 | |
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38
diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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39
demolished
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| v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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40
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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41
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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42
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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43
usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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44
effusive
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| adj.热情洋溢的；感情(过多)流露的 | |
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45
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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46
conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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47
celibacy
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| n.独身(主义) | |
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48
jointly
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| ad.联合地，共同地 | |
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49
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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50
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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51
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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52
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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53
buttress
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| n.支撑物；v.支持 | |
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54
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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55
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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56
loquacious
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| adj.多嘴的，饶舌的 | |
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57
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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58
fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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59
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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60
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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61
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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63
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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64
dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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65
linguistic
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| adj.语言的，语言学的 | |
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66
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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67
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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68
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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69
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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70
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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71
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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72
malevolent
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| adj.有恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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73
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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74
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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75
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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76
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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77
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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78
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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79
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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80
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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81
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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82
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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83
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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84
dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
drowsily
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| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
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86
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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87
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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88
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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89
tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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90
stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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91
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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92
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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93
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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94
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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95
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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96
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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97
effrontery
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| n.厚颜无耻 | |
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98
negligently
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99
bugles
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| 妙脆角，一种类似薯片但做成尖角或喇叭状的零食； 号角( bugle的名词复数 )； 喇叭； 匍匐筋骨草； （装饰女服用的）柱状玻璃（或塑料）小珠 | |
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100
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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101
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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102
sonata
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| n.奏鸣曲 | |
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103
criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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104
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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foist
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| vt.把…强塞给，骗卖给 | |
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grunts
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的第三人称单数 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说； 石鲈 | |
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hostilities
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| n.战争；敌意(hostility的复数)；敌对状态；战事 | |
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butting
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| 用头撞人（犯规动作） | |
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unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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111
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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libretto
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| n.歌剧剧本，歌曲歌词 | |
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115
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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psychic
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| n.对超自然力敏感的人；adj.有超自然力的 | |
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phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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canto
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| n.长篇诗的章 | |
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127
sifted
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| v.筛( sift的过去式和过去分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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annex
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| vt.兼并，吞并；n.附属建筑物 | |
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annexing
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| 并吞( annex的现在分词 )； 兼并； 强占； 并吞（国家、地区等） | |
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annexed
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| [法] 附加的，附属的 | |
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psychics
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| 心理学，心灵学； （自称）通灵的或有特异功能的人，巫师( psychic的名词复数 ) | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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