Queen Lucia

  Chapter TWELVE

  The miserable Lucia started a run of extreme bad luck about this time,of which the adventure or misadventure of the Guru seemed to be theprelude, or perhaps the news of her want of recognition of the Augustmoon, which Georgie had so carefully saluted, may have arrived at thatsatellite by October. For she had simply "cut" the August moon....

  There was the fiasco about Olga coming to the tableaux, which was thecause of her sending that very tart reply, via Miss Lyall, to LadyAmbermere's impertinence, and the very next morning, Lady Ambermere,coming again into Riseholme, perhaps for that very purpose, had behavedto Lucia as Lucia had behaved to the moon, and cut her. That wasirritating, but the counter-irritant to it had been that Lady Ambermerehad then gone to Olga's, and been told that she was not at home, thoughshe was very audibly practising in her music-room at the time. Uponwhich Lady Ambermere had said "Home" to her people, and got in withsuch unconcern of the material world that she sat down on Pug.

  Mrs Quantock had heard both "Home" and Pug, and told the cut Lucia, whowas a hundred yards away about it. She also told her about theengagement of Atkinson and Elizabeth, which was all she knew aboutevents in those houses. On which Lucia with a kind smile had said,"Dear Daisy, what slaves some people are to their servants. I am sureMrs 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 sheknew Olga had said she was out to Lady Ambermere, when she was soaudibly in.

  Then came a second piece of bad luck. Lucia had not gone more than ahundred yards past Georgie's house, when he came out in a tremendoushurry. He rapidly measured the distance between himself and Lucia, andhimself and Mrs Quantock, and made a bee-line for Mrs Quantock, sinceshe was the nearest. Olga had just telephoned to him....

  "Good morning," he said breathlessly, determined to cap anything shesaid. "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'veheard the rest. _Haven't_ you? Why, Mrs Weston and Colonel Boucherare going to follow their example, unless they set it themselves, andget married first."

  "No!" said Mrs Quantock in the loudest possible Riseholme voice ofsurprise.

  "Oh, yes. I really knew it last night. I was dining at Old Place andthey were there. Olga and I both settled there would be something totalk in the morning. Shall we stroll on the green a few minutes?"

  Georgie had a lovely time. He hurried from person to person, leavingMrs Quantock to pick up a few further gleanings. Everyone was thereexcept Lucia, and she, but for the accident of her being further offthan Mrs Quantock, would have been the first to know.

  When this tour was finished Georgie sat to enjoy the warm comfortingglow of envy that surrounded him. Nowadays the meeting place at theGreen had insensibly transferred itself to just opposite Old Place, andit was extremely interesting to hear Olga practising as she always didin the morning. Interesting though it was, Riseholme had at first beena little disappointed about it, for everyone had thought that she wouldsing Brunnhilde's part or Salome's part through every day, or sometrifle of that kind. Instead she would perform an upwards scale ingradual _crescendo,_ and on the highest most magnificent notewould enunciate at the top of her voice, "Yawning York!" Then startingsoft again she would descend in _crescendo_ to a superb low noteand enunciate "Love's Lilies Lonely." Then after a dozen repetitions ofthis, she would start off with full voice, and get softer and softeruntil she just whispered that York was yawning, and do the same withLove's Lilies. But you never could tell what she might not sing, andsome mornings there would be long trills and leapings onto high notes:long notes and leaping onto trills, and occasionally she sang a realsong. That was worth waiting for, and Georgie did not hesitate to letdrop that she had sung four last night to his accompaniment. And hardlyhad 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 giltoff Lady Ambermere's being refused admittance. In point of fact it didwipe the gilt off when, about an hour afterwards, Georgie went to lunchbecause he told her. And if there had been any gilt left aboutanywhere, that would have vanished, too, when in answer to some ratherdamaging remark she made about poor Daisy's interests in thelove-affairs of other people's servants, she learned that it was ofthe love-affairs of their superiors that all Riseholme had been talkingfor at least an hour by now.

  Again there was ill-luck about the tableaux on Saturday, for in theBrunnhilde scene, Peppino in his agitation, turned the lamp that was tobe a sunrise, completely out, and Brunnhilde had to hail the midnight,or at any rate a very obscure twilight. Georgie, it is true, withwonderful presence of mind, turned on an electric light when he hadfinished playing, but it was more like a flash of lightning than aslow, wonderful dawn. The tableaux were over well before 10.45, andthough Lucia in answer to the usual pressings, said she would "seeabout" doing them again, she felt that Mrs Weston and Colonel Boucher,who made their first public appearance as the happy pair, attractedmore than their proper share of attention. The only consolation was thatthe romps that followed at poor Daisy's were a complete fiasco. It wasin vain, too, at supper, that she went from table to table, and helpedpeople to lobster salad and champagne, and had not enough chairs, andgenerally imitated all that had apparently made Olga's party so supremea success. But on this occasion the recipe for the dish and not thedish itself was served up, and the hunting of the slipper produced noexhilaration in the chase....

  But far more untoward events followed. Olga came back on the nextMonday, and immediately after Lucia received a card for an evening "AtHome," with "Music" in the bottom left-hand corner. It happened to bewet that afternoon, and seeing Olga's shut motor coming from thestation with four men inside, she leaped to the conclusion that thesewere four musicians for the music. A second motor followed withluggage, 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 fromBrinton, that played in the lounge at the Royal Hotel after dinner. TheBrinton string-quartet! She had heard them once at a distance and thatwas quite enough. Lucia shuddered as she thought of those dolefulfiddlers. It was indeed strange that Olga with all the opportunitiesshe had had for hearing good music, should hire the Brintonstring-quartet, but, after all, that was entirely of a piece with herviews about the gramophone. Perhaps the gramophone would have its sharein this musical evening. But she had said she would go: it would be veryunkind to Olga to stop away now, for Olga must know by this time herpassion for music, so she went. She sincerely hoped that she would notbe conducted to the seat of honour, and be obliged to say a fewencouraging words to the string-quartet afterwards.

  Once again she came rather late, for the music had begun. It had onlyjust begun, for she recognised--who should recognise if not she?--theearly 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-knownposition when listening to music, with her head forward, her chinresting on her hand, and the far-away look in her eyes. Nothing ofcourse could wholly take away the splendour of that gloriouscomposition, and she was pleased that there was no applause between themovements, for she had rather expected that Olga would clap, andinterrupt the unity of it all. Occasionally, too, she was agreeablysurprised by the Brinton string-quartet: they seemed to have someinklings, though not many. Once she winced very much when a stringbroke.

  Olga (she was rather a restless hostess) came up to her when it wasover.

  "So glad you cou
ld come," she said. "Aren't they divine?"

  Lucia gave her most indulgent smile.

  "Perfect music! Glorious!" she said. "And they really played it verycreditably. But I am a little spoiled, you know, for the last time Iheard that it was performed by the Spanish Quartet. I know one oughtnever to compare, but have you ever heard the Spanish Quartet, MissBracely?"

  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 spoke, for when she spoke onmusic she spoke for everybody to hear. And a great many peopleundoubtedly did hear, among whom, of course, was Daisy Quantock. Shegave one shrill squeal of laughter, like a slate-pencil, and from thatmoment granted plenary absolution to _poor dear Lucia_ for all hergreed and grabbing with regard to the Guru.

  But instantly all Olga's good-nature awoke: unwittingly (for her remarkthat this _was_ the Spanish Quartet had been a mere surprisedexclamation), she had made a guest of hers uncomfortable, and must atonce do all she could to remedy that.

  "It's a shocking room for echoes, this," she said. "Do all of you comeup a little nearer, and you will be able to hear the playing so muchbetter. You lose all shade, all fineness here. I came here on purposeto ask you to move up, Mrs Lucas: there are half a dozen chairsunoccupied near the platform."

  It was a kindly intention that prompted the speech, but for all realRiseholme practical purposes, quite barren, for many people had heardLucia's remarks, and Peppino also had already been wincing at theBrinton quartet. In that fell moment the Bolshevists laid bony fingerson the sceptre of her musical autocracy.... But who would have guessedthat Olga would get the Spanish Quartet from London to come down toRiseholme?

  Staggering from these blows, she had to undergo an even shrewder strokeyet. Already, in the intelligence department, she had been sadlybehind-hand in news, her tableaux-party had been anything but asuccess, this one little remark of Olga's had shaken her musically, butat any rate up till this moment she had shewn herself mistress of theItalian tongue, while to strengthen that she was being very diligentwith her dictionary, grammar and Dante's Paradiso. Then as by a boltout of a clear sky that temple, too, was completely demolished, in themost tragic fashion.

  A few days after the disaster of the Spanish-Brinton Quartet, Olgareceived a letter from Signor Cortese, the eminent Italian composer, toherald the completion of his opera, "Lucretia." Might he come down toRiseholme for a couple of nights, and, figuratively, lay it at herfeet, in the hope that she would raise it up, and usher it into theworld? All the time he had been writing it, as she knew, he hadthought 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 wasdelighted and sent an effusive telegram of many sheets, full ofcongratulation 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 angelpractically offers it me. Now what are we to do about dinner tonight?Jacob and Jane are coming, and neither you nor they, I suppose, speakone word of Italian, and you know what mine is, firm and intelligibleand operatic but not conversational. What are we to do? He hatestalking English.... Oh, I know, if I can only get Mrs Lucas. Theyalways 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 aman over, but it will be another Italiano----"

  Olga wrote at once to Lucia, mentioning that Cortese was staying withthem, but, quite naturally, saying nothing about the usefulness ofPeppino and her being able to engage the musician in his own tongue,for that she took for granted. An eager affirmative (such a greatpleasure) came back to her, and for the rest of the day, Lucia andPeppino made up neat little sentences to let off to the dazzledCortese, at the moment when they said "good-night," to shew that theycould have talked Italian all the time, had there been any occasion fordoing so.

  Mrs Weston and Colonel Boucher had already arrived when Lucia and herhusband entered, and Lucia had quite a shock to see on what intimateterms they were with their hostess. They actually called each otherOlga and Jacob and Jane, which was most surprising and almost painful.Lucia (perhaps because she had not known about it soon enough) had beena little satirical about the engagement, rather as if it was a slighton her that Jacob had not been content with celibacy and Jane with herfriendship, but she was sure she wished them both "nothing but well."Indeed the moment she got over the shock of seeing them so intimatewith Olga, she could not have been surpassed in cordiality.

  "We see but little of our old friends now," she said to Olga and Janejointly, "but we must excuse their desire for solitude in their firstglow of their happiness. Peppino and I remember that sweet time, oh,ever so long ago."

  This might have been tact, or it might have been cat. That Peppino andshe sympathised as they remembered their beautiful time was tact, thatit was so long ago was cat. Altogether it might be described as a catchewing tact. But there was a slight air of patronage about it, and ifthere was one thing Mrs Weston would not, and could not and did noteven intend to stand, it was that. Besides it had reached her ears thatMrs Lucas had said something about there being no difficulty in findingbridesmaids 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 itwonderfully!"

  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 atme, will you, when I join in with my atrocious attempts? And I shallbuttress myself on the other side with your husband, who will firmlytalk across me to him."

  Lucia had to say something. A further exposure was at hand, quiteinevitably. It was no use for her and Peppino to recollect a previousengagement.

  "Oh, my Italian is terribly rusty," she said, knowing that Mrs Weston'seye was on her.... Why had she not sent Mrs Weston a handsomewedding-present that morning?

  "Rusty? We will ask Cortese about that when you've had a good talk tohim. Ah, here he is!"

  Cortese came into the room, florid and loquacious, pouring out a streamof apology for his lateness to Olga, none of which was the leastintelligible to Lucia. She guessed what he was saying, and next momentOlga, who apparently understood him perfectly, and told him with anenviable fluency that he was not late at all, was introducing him toher, and explaining that "la Signora" (Lucia understood this) and herhusband talked Italian. She did not need to reply to some torrent ofamiable words from him, addressed to her, for he was taken on andintroduced to Mrs Weston, and the Colonel. But he instantly whirledround to her again, and asked her something. Not knowing the least whathe meant, she replied:

  "Si: tante grazie."

  He looked puzzled for a moment and then repeated his question inEnglish.

  "In what deestrict of Italy 'ave you voyaged most?"

  Lucia understood that: so did Mrs Weston, and Lucia pulled herselftogether.

  "In Rome," she said. "_Che bella citta! Adoro Roma, e il mio marito.Non e vere, Peppino?_"

  Peppino cordially assented: the familiar ring of this fine intelligibleItalian restored his confidence, and he asked Cortese whether he wasnot very fond of music....

  Dinner seemed interminable to Lucia. She kept a watchful eye onCortese, and if she saw he was about to speak to her, she turnedhastily to Colonel Boucher, who sat on her other side, and asked himsomething about his _cari cani_, which she translated to him.While he answered she made up another sentence in Italian about theblue sky or Venice, or very meanly said her husband had been there,hoping to direct the torrent of Italian eloquence to him. But she knewthat, as an Italian conversationalist, neither she nor Peppino had arag of reputation left them, and she dismally regretted that they hadnot chosen French, of whi
ch they both knew about as much, instead ofItalian, for the vehicle of their linguistic distinction.

  Olga meantime continued to understand all that Cortese said, and toreply to it with odious fluency, and at the last, Cortese having saidsomething to her which made her laugh, he turned to Lucia.

  "I've said to Meesis Shottlewort" ... and he proceeded to explain hisjoke in English.

  "Molto bene," said Lucia with a dying flicker. "Molto divertente. Non evero, Peppino."

  "Si, si," said Peppino miserably.

  And then the final disgrace came, and it was something of a relief tohave it over. Cortese, in excellent spirits with his dinner and hiswine and the prospect of Olga taking the part of Lucretia, turnedbeamingly to Lucia again.

  "Now we will all spick English," he said. "This is one very pleasantevening. I enjoy me very much. Ecco!"

  Just once more Lucia shot up into flame.

  "Parlate Inglese molto bene," she said, and except when Cortese spoketo Olga, there was no more Italian that night.

  Even the unique excitement of hearing Olga "try over" the great scenein the last act could not quite absorb Lucia's attention after thisawful fiasco, and though she sat leaning forward with her chin in herhand, and the far-away look in her eyes, her mind was furiously busy asto how to make anything whatever out of so bad a job. Everyone presentknew that her Italian, as a medium for conversation, had suffered acomplete break-down, and it was no longer any real use, when Olgadid not quite catch the rhythm of a passage, to murmur "_Uno_,_due_, _tre_" unconsciously to herself; she might just as wellhave 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 thatMrs Weston, that excellent observer and superb reporter, had not failedto take it all in, and would not fail to do justice to it. Blow afterblow had been rained upon her palace door, it was little wonder thatthe whole building was a-quiver. She had thought of starting aDante-class this winter, for printed Italian, if you had a dictionaryand a translation in order to prepare for the class, could be easilyinterpreted: it was the spoken word which you had to understand withoutany preparation at all, and not in the least knowing what was coming,that had presented such insurmountable difficulties. And yet who, whenthe story of this evening was known, would seek instruction from ateacher of that sort? Would Mrs Weston come to her Dante-class? Wouldshe? Would she? No, she would not.

  Lucia lay long awake that night, tossing and turning in her bed in thatdelightful apartment in "Midsummer Night's Dream," and reviewing thefell array of these unlucky affairs. As she eyed them, black shapesagainst the glow of her firelight, it struck her that the samemalevolent influence inspired them all. For what had caused the failureand flatness of her tableaux (omitting the unfortunate incident aboutthe lamp) but the absence of Olga? Who was it who had occasioned herunfortunate remark about the Spanish Quartet but Olga, whose clear dutyit had been, when she sent the invitation for the musical party, tostate (so that there could be no mistake about it) that those eminentperformers were to entrance them? Who could have guessed that she wouldhave gone to the staggering expense of having them down from London?The Brinton quartet was the utmost that any sane imagination could havepictured, and Lucia's extremely sane imagination had pictured justthat, with such extreme vividness that it had never occurred to herthat it could be anybody else. Certainly Olga should have put "SpanishQuartet" in the bottom left-hand corner instead of "Music" and thenLucia would have known all about it, and have been speechless withemotion when they had finished the Beethoven, and wiped her eyes, andpulled herself together again. It really looked as if Olga had laid atrap for her....

  Even more like a trap were the horrid events of this evening. Trap wasnot at all too strong a word for them. To ask her to the house, andthen suddenly spring upon her the fact that she was expected to talkItalian.... Was that an open, an honourable proceeding? What if Luciahad actually told Olga (and she seemed to recollect it) that she andPeppino often talked Italian at home? That was no reason why she shouldbe expected, off-hand like that, to talk Italian anywhere else. Sheshould have been told what was expected of her, so as to give her thechance of having a previous engagement. Lucia hated underhand ways,and they were particularly odious in one whom she had been willing toeducate and refine up to the highest standards of Riseholme. Indeed itlooked as if Olga's nature was actually incapable of receivingcultivation. She went on her own rough independent lines, giving a rompone night, and not coming to the tableaux on another, and getting theSpanish Quartet without consultation on a third, and springing thisdreadful Pentecostal party on them on a fourth. Olga clearly meantmischief: she wanted to set herself up as leader of Art and Culture inRiseholme. Her conduct admitted of no other explanation.

  Lucia's benevolent scheme of educating and refining vanished likemorning mists, and through her drooping eyelids, the firelight seemedstrangely red.... She had been too kind, too encouraging: now she mustcollect her forces round her and be stern. As she dozed off to sleep,she reminded herself to ask Georgie to lunch next day. He and Peppinoand she must have a serious talk. She had seen Georgie comparativelylittle just lately, and she drowsily and uneasily wondered how thatwas.

  Georgie by this time had quite got over the desolation of the momentwhen standing in the road opposite Mrs Quantock's mulberry-tree he hadgiven vent to that bitter cry of "More misery: more unhappiness!" Hisnerves on that occasion had been worn to fiddlestrings with all thefuss and fiasco of planning the tableaux, and thus fancying himself inlove had been just the last straw. But the fact that he had been Olga'schosen confidant in her wonderful scheme of causing Mrs Weston and theColonel to get engaged, and the distinction of being singled out byOlga to this friendly intimacy, had proved a great tonic. It was quiteclear that the existence of Mr Shuttleworth constituted a hopeless barto the fruition of his passion, and, if he was completely honest withhimself, he was aware that he did not really hate Mr Shuttleworth forstanding in his path. Georgie was gentle in all his ways, and hismanner of falling in love was very gentle, too. He admired Olgaimmensely, he found her stimulating and amusing, and since it was outof the question really to be her lover, he would have enjoyed next bestto that, being her brother, and such little pangs of jealousy as hemight experience from time to time, were rather in the nature of smallelectric shocks voluntarily received. He was devoted to her with awarmth that his supposed devotion to Lucia had never kindled in him; heeven went so far as to dream about her in an agitated though respectfulmanner. Without being conscious of any unreality about his sentiments,he really wanted to dress up as a lover rather than to be one, for hecould form no notion at present of what it felt to be absorbed inanyone else. Life was so full as it was: there really was no room foranything else, especially if that something else must be of the qualitywhich rendered everything else colourless.

  This state of mind, this quality of emotion was wholly pleasurable andquite exciting, and instead of crying out "More misery! moreunhappiness!" 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 thatshe was likely to stand, an angel perhaps, but certainly one with aflaming sword, between him and all the interests of the new life whichwas undoubtedly beginning to bubble in Riseholme, and to which Georgiefound it so pleasant to take his little mug, and have it filled withexhilarating liquid. And if Lucia proved to be standing in his path,forbidding his approach, he, too, was armed for combat, with arevolutionary weapon, consisting of a rolled-up copy of some ofDebussy's music for the piano--Olga had lent it him a few days,--and hehad been very busy over "Poissons d'or." He was further armed by thecomplete knowledge of the Italian debacle of last night, which, fromhis knowledge of Lucia, he judged must constitute a crisis. Somethingwould have to happen.... Several times lately Olga had, so to speak,run full-tilt into Lucia, and had passed on leaving a staggering formbehind her. And in each case, so Georgie clearly perceived, Olga hadnot intended to butt into or stagge
r anybody. Each time, she hadknocked Lucia down purely by accident, but if these accidents occurredwith such awful frequency, it was to be expected that Lucia would findanother name for them: they would have to be christened. With all hisRiseholme appetite for complications and events Georgie guessed that hewas not likely to go empty away from this lunch. In addition there wereother topics of extraordinary interest, for really there had been veryodd experiences at Mrs Quantock's last night, when the Italian debaclewas going on, a little way up the road. But he was not going to bringthat out at once.

  Lucia hailed him with her most cordial manner, and with a superbeffrontery began to talk Italian just as usual, though she must haveguessed that Georgie knew all about last night.

  "Bon arrivato, amico mio," she said. "Why, it must be three days sincewe met. Che la falto il signorino? And what have you got there?"

  Georgie, having escaped being caught over Italian, had made up his mindnot to talk any more ever.

  "Oh, they are some little things by Debussy," he said. "I want to playone 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 tolike it, Georgino. Isn't Debussy the man who always makes me want tohowl like a dog at the sound of the gong? Where did you get thesefrom?"

  "Olga lent me them," said Georgie negligently. He really did call herOlga to her face now, by request.

  Lucia's bugles began to sound.

  "Yes, I should think Miss Bracely would admire that sort of music," shesaid. "I suppose I am too old-fashioned, though I will not condemn yourlittle 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 toask me, but she would have been kinder to have asked Mrs Antrobusinstead, and have told her not to bring her ear-trumpet. To hear thatlovely voice, for I do her justice, and there are lovely notes in hervoice, _lovely_, to hear that voice shrieking and screaming away,in what she called the great scene, was simply pitiful. There was nomelody, and above all there was no form. A musical composition is likean architectural building; it must be built up and constructed. Howoften 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 youwill acknowledge, Georgie, that I am not. Even in the divinest music ofall, I am not blind to defects, if there are defects. The MoonlightSonata, for instance. You have often heard me say that the two lastmovements do not approach the first in perfection of form. And if I ampermitted to criticise Beethoven, I hope I may be allowed to suggestthat Mr Cortese has not produced an opera which will render Fidelioridiculous. But really I am chiefly sorry for Miss Bracely. I shouldhave thought it worth her while to render herself not unworthy tointerpret Fidelio, whatever time and trouble that cost her, rather thanto seek notoriety by helping to foist on to the world a freshcombination of engine-whistles and grunts. _Non e vero_, Peppino?How late you are."

  Lucia had not determined on this declaration of war without anxiousconsideration. But it was quite obvious to her that the enemy was dailygaining strength, and therefore the sooner she came to open hostilitiesthe better, for it was equally obvious to her mind that Olga was apretender to the throne she had occupied for so long. It was time tomobilise, and she had first to state her views and her plan of campaignto 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 likea huge hairdresser. His touch on the piano. If you can imagine a wildbull butting 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 whatNeapolitan dialect is like. Tuscans and Romans, who between them Ibelieve--Lingua Toscano in Bocca Romana, you remember--know how tospeak their own tongue, find Neapolitans totally unintelligible. Formyself, and I speak for mio sposo as well, I do not want to understandwhat Romans do not understand. La bella lingua is sufficient for me."

  "I hear that Olga could understand him quite well," said Georgiebetraying 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 notthe slightest doubt in my own mind that his Italian was equallyilliterate. It does not matter; I do not see that Mr Cortese'slinguistic accomplishments concern us. But his music does, if poor MissBracely, with her lovely notes, is going to study it, and appear asLucretia. I am sorry if that is so. Any news?"

  Really it was rather magnificent, and it was war as well; of that therecould not be the slightest doubt. All Riseholme, by this time, knewthat Lucia and Peppino had not been able to understand a word of whatCortese had said, and here was the answer to the back-bitingsuggestion, vividly put forward by Mrs Weston on the green thatmorning, that the explanation was that Lucia and Peppino did not knowItalian. They could not reasonably be expected to know Neapolitandialect; the language of Dante satisfied their humble needs. They foundit difficult to understand Cortese when he spoke English, but that didnot imply that they did not know English. Dante's tongue andShakespeare's tongue sufficed them....

  "And what were the words of the libretto like?" asked Georgie.

  Lucia fixed him with her beady eyes, ready and eager to show howdelighted she was to bestow approbation wherever it was deserved.

  "Wonderful!" she said. "I felt, and so did Peppino, that the words wereas utterly wasted on that formless music as was poor Miss Bracely'svoice. 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 vastomar." "Ah, there was our poor bella lingua again. I wonder who wrote thelibretto."

  "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 knowhe could not have. Well, have we not had enough of Mr Cortese and hisworks? Any news? What did you do last night, when Peppino and I were inour purgatorio?"

  Georgie was almost equally glad to get off the subject of Italian. Theless said in or of Italian the better.

  "I was dining with Mrs Quantock," he said. "She had a very interestingRussian woman staying with her, Princess Popoffski."

  Lucia laughed again.

  "Dear Daisy!" she said. "Tell me about the Russian princess. Was she aGuru? Dear me, how easily some people are taken in! The Guru! Well, wewere all in the same boat there. We took the Guru on poor Daisy'svaluation, and I still believe he had very remarkable gifts, curry-cookor not. But Princess Popoffski now----"

  "We had a seance," said Georgie.

  "Indeed! And Princess Popoffski was the medium?"

  Georgie grew a little dignified.

  "It is no use adopting that tone, cara," he said, relapsing intoItalian. "You were not there; you were having your purgatory at Olga's.It was very remarkable. We touched hands all round the table; there wasno possibility of fraud."

  Lucia's views on psychic phenomena were clearly known to Riseholme;those who produced them were fraudulent, those who were taken in bythem were dupes. Consequently there was irony in the baby-talk of herreply.

  "Me dood!" she said. "Me very dood, and listen carefully. Tell Lucia!"

  Georgie recounted the experiences. The table had rocked and tapped outnames. 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 wasa bear.

  "How did the table know that?" he asked. "Ursa, a bear, you know. Andthen, while we were sitting th
ere, the Princess went off into a trance.She said there was a beautiful spirit present, who blessed us all. Shecalled Mrs Quantock Margarita, which, as you may know, is the Italianfor Daisy."

  Lucia smiled.

  "Thank you for explaining, Georgino," she said.

  There was no mistaking the irony of that, and Georgie thought he wouldbe ironical too.

  "I didn't know if you knew," he said. "I thought it might be Neapolitandialect."

  "Pray, go on!" said Lucia, breathing through her nose.

  "And she said I was Georgie," said Georgie, "but that there was anotherGeorgie not far off. That was odd, because Olga's house, with MrShuttleworth, were so close. And then the Princess went into very deeptrance, 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 Amadeowho was speaking. He was a Florentine and knew Dante quite well. Hematerialised; I saw him."

  A bright glorious vision flashed upon Lucia. The Dante-class might not,even though it was clearly understood that Cortese spoke unintelligibleNeapolitan, be a complete success, if the only attraction was that sheherself taught Dante, but it would be quite a different proposition ifPrincess Popoffski, controlled by Amadeo, Dante's friend, was present.They might read a Canto first, and then hold a seance of whichAmadeo--via Princess Popoffski--would take charge. While this wassimmering in her mind, it was important to drop all irony and beextremely sympathetic.

  "Georgino! How wonderful!" she said. "As you know, I am sceptical bynature, and want all evidence carefully sifted. I daresay I am toocritical, and that is a fault. But fancy getting in touch with a friendof Dante's! What would one not give? Tell me: what is this Princesslike? 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 permitLucia to annex her Princess. She had forgiven Lucia for annexing theGuru (and considering that she had only annexed a curry-cook, it wasnot so difficult) but she was quite determined to run her Princessherself.

  "Yes, you might ask her," he said. If irony was going about, there wasno 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 andher husband and the Princess. I think that will be enough; psychicshate a crowd, because it disturbs the influences. Mind! I do not say Ibelieve in her power yet, but I am quite open-minded; I should like tobe convinced. Let me see! We are doing nothing tomorrow. Let us haveour 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. Ishould like dear Daisy to have something to console her for thatterrible fiasco about her Guru. And then, Georgino mio, I will listento your Debussy. Do not expect anything; if it seems to me formless, Ishall say so. But if it seems to me promising, I shall be equallyfrank. Perhaps it is great; I cannot tell you about that till I haveheard it. Let me write my note first."

  That was soon done, and Lucia, having sent it by hand, came into themusic-room, and drew down the blinds over the window through which theautumn sun was streaming. Very little art, as she had once said, would"stand" daylight; only Shakespeare or Dante or Beethoven and perhapsBach, could compete with the sun.

  Georgie, for his part, would have liked rather more light, but afterall Debussy wrote such very odd chords and sequences that it was notnecessary to wear his spectacles.

  Lucia sat in a high chair near the piano, with her chin in her hand,tremendously erect.

  Georgie took off his rings and laid them on the candle-bracket, and ranhis 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 elusive music proceeded. The far-away lookdied away, and became puzzled; her chin came out of her hand, and thehand it came out of covered her eyes.

  Before Georgie had got to the end the answer to her note came, and shesat with it in her hand, which, released from covering her eyes, triedto 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 isit going to begin?' I haven't been fed; I haven't drank in anything.Yes, I warned you I should be quite candid. And there's my verdict. Iam sorry. Me vewy sowwy! But you played it, I am sure, beautifully,Georgino; you were a _buono avvocato_; you said all that could besaid for your client. Shall I open this note before we discuss it morefully? 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 readher face clouded.

  "Ah! I am sorry for that," she said. "Peppino, the Princess does not goout in the evening; they always have a seance there. I daresay Daisymeans 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 thisafternoon."