Lucia Rising

  Then the door was opened, and the abominable noise poured out in increased volume.

  Lucia paused for a moment in indecision. Would it be the great, the magnificent thing to go home without coming in, trusting to Pepino to let it be widely known what had turned her back from the door? There was a good deal to be said for that, for it would be living up to her own high and immutable standards. On the other hand she particularly wanted to see what standard of entertaining Olga was initiating. The ‘silly evening’ was quite a new type of party, for since Lucia had directed and controlled the social side of things there had been no ‘silly evenings’ of any kind in Riseholme, and it might be a good thing to ensure the failure of this (in case she did not like it) by setting the example of a bored and frosty face. But if she went in, the gramophone must be stopped. She would sit and wince, and Pepino must explain her feeling about gramophones. That would be a suitable exhibition of authority. Or she might tell Olga…

  Lucia put on her satin shoes, leaving her boots till the hour for ‘the cobbler's at-home’ came, and composing her face to a suitable wince, was led by a footman on tip-toe to the door of the big music-room which Georgie had spoken of.

  ‘If you'll please to slip in very quietly, ma'am,’ he said.

  The room was full of people; all Riseholme was there, and since there were not nearly enough chairs (Lucia saw that at once), a large number were sitting on the floor on cushions. At the far end of the room was a slightly raised dais, to the corner of which the grand piano had been pushed, on the top of which, with its braying trumpet pointing straight at Lucia, was an immense gramophone. On the dais was Olga, dancing. She was dressed in some white, soft fabric, shimmering with silver, which left her beautiful arms bare to the shoulder. It was cut squarely and simply about the neck, and hung in straight lines down to just above her ankles. She held in her hands some long shimmering scarf of brilliant red, that floated and undulated as she moved, as if inspired by some life of its own that it drew out of her slim, superb vitality. From the cloud of shifting crimson, with the slow billows of silver moving rhythmically round her body that beautiful face looked out, seriously smiling and brimming with life…

  Lucia had hardly entered when, with a final bray, the gramophone came to the end of its record, and Olga swept a great curtsey, threw down her scarf, and stepped off the dais. Georgie was sitting on the floor close to it, and jumped up, leading the applause. For a moment, though several heads had been turned at Lucia's entrance, nobody took the slightest notice of her; indeed the first apparently to recognize her presence was her hostess, who just kissed her hand to her, and then continued talking to Georgie. Then Olga threaded her way through the besprinkled floor, and came up to her.

  ‘How wise you were to miss that very poor performance,’ she said. ‘But Mr Georgie insisted that I should make a fool of myself.’

  ‘Indeed, I am sorry not to have been here for it,’ said Lucia in her most stately manner. ‘It seemed to me very far from being a poor performance, very far indeed. Caro mio, you remember Miss Bracely?’

  ‘Si, si; molto bene,’ said Pepino, shaking hands.

  ‘Ah, and you talk Italian!’ said Olga. ‘Che bella lingua! I wish I knew it.’

  ‘You have a very good pronunciation,’ said Lucia.

  ‘Grazie tante! You know everyone here, of course. Now what shall we do next? Clumps or charades, or what? Ah, there are some cigarettes. Won't you have one?’

  Lucia gave a little scream of dismay.

  ‘A cigarette for me! That would be a very odd thing,’ she said. Then relenting, as she remembered that Olga must be excused for her ignorance, she added, ‘You see I never smoke. Never!’

  ‘Oh, you should learn,’ said Olga. ‘Now let's play clumps. Does everyone know clumps? If they don't, they will find out. Or shall we dance? There's the gramophone to dance to.'

  Lucia put up her hands in playful petition.

  ‘Oh, please, no gramophone!’ she said.

  ‘Oh, don't you like it?’ said Olga. ‘It's so horrible that I adore it, as I adore dreadful creatures in an aquarium. But I think we won't dance till after supper. We'll have supper extremely soon, partly because I am dying of famine, and partly because people are sillier afterwards. But just one game of clumps first. Let's see: there are enough for four clumps. Please make four clumps everybody, and – and will you and two more go out with Mr Georgie, Mrs Lucas? We will be as quick as we can, and we won't think of anything that will make Mr Georgie blush. Oh, there he is! He heard!’

  Olga's intense enjoyment of her own party was rapidly galvanizing everybody into a much keener gaiety than was at all usual in Riseholme, where as a rule the hostess was somewhat anxious and watchful, fearing that her guests were not amusing themselves, or that the sandwiches would give out. There was a sit-down supper when the clumps were over (Mrs Quantock had been the first to guess Beethoven's little toe on his right foot, which made Lucia wince), and there were not enough men and maids to wait, so people foraged for themselves, and Olga paraded up and down the room with a bottle of champagne in one hand and a dish of lobster salad in the other. She sat for a minute or two first at one table, and then at another, and asked silly riddles, and sent to the kitchen for a ham, and put out all the electric light by mistake when she meant to turn on some more. Then when supper was over they all took some more seats back into the music-room and played musical chairs, at the end of which Mrs Quantock was left in with herself, and it was believed that she said ‘Damn,’ when Mrs Quantock won. Georgie was in charge of the gramophone, which supplied deadly music, quite forgetting that this was agony to Lucia, and not even being aware when she made a sign to Pepino, and went away, having a ‘cobbler's at-home’ all to herself. Nobody noticed when Saturday ended and Sunday began, for Georgie and Colonel Boucher were cock-fighting on the floor, Georgie screaming out ‘How tarsome!’ when he was upset, and Colonel Boucher, very red in the face, saying ‘Haw, hum! Never thought I should romp again like this. By Jove, most amusing!’ Georgie was the last to leave, and did not notice till he was half-way home that he had a ham-frill adorning his shirt front. He hoped that it had been Olga who put it there, when he had to walk blindfold across the room and try to keep in a straight line.

  Riseholme got up rather late next morning and had to hurry over its breakfast in order to be in time for church. There was a slight feeling of reaction abroad, a sense of having been young and amused, and of waking now to the fact of church-bells and middle age. Colonel Boucher singing the bass of ‘A few more years shall roll’, felt his mind instinctively wandering to the cock-fight the evening before, and depressedly recollecting that a considerable number of years had rolled already. Mrs Weston, with her bath-chair in the aisle and Tommy Luton to hand her hymn-book and prayer-book as she required, looked sideways at Mrs Quantock, and thought how strange it was that Daisy so few hours ago had been racing round a solitary chair with Georgie's finger on the gramophone; while Georgie, singing tenor by Colonel Boucher's ample side, saw with keen annoyance that there was a stain of tarnish of silver on his forefinger, accounted for by the fact that after breakfast he had been cleaning the frame that held the photograph of Olga Bracely, and had been astonished to hear the church-bells beginning. Another conducement to depression on his part was the fact that he was lunching with Lucia, and he could not imagine what Lucia's attitude would be towards the party last night. She had come to church rather late with Pepino, having no use for the General Confession, and sang with stony fervour. She wore her usual church-face, from which nothing whatever could be gathered. A great many stealthy glances right and left from everybody failed to reveal the presence of their hostess of last night. Georgie, in particular, was sorry for this: he would have liked her to show that capacity for respectable seriousness which her presence at church that morning would have implied; while Lucia, in particular, was glad of this, for it confirmed her view that Miss Bracely was not, nor could ever be, a true Riseholmite. She had thought as much la
st night, and had said so to Pepino. She purposed to say the same to Georgie to-day.

  Then came a stupefying surprise, as Mr Rumbold walked from his stall to the pulpit for the sermon. Generally he gave out the number of the short anthem which accompanied this manoeuvre, but to-day he made no such announcement. A discreet curtain hid the organist from the congregation, which veiled his gymnastics with the stops, and his antic dancing on the pedals, and now when Mr Rumbold moved from his stall, there came from the organ the short introduction to Bach's Du mein gläubiges Herz, which even Lucia had allowed to be nearly ‘equal’ to Beethoven. And then came the voice… The reaction after the romp last night went out like a snuffed candle at this divine singing, which was charged with the joyfulness of some heavenly child. It grew low and soft, it rang out again, it lingered and tarried, it quickened into the ultimate triumph. No singing could have been simpler, but that simplicity could only have sprung from the highest art. But now the art was wholly unconscious; it was part of the singer, who but praised God as the thrushes do. She who had made gaiety last night, made worship this morning.

  As they sat down for the discourse, Colonel Boucher discreetly whispered to Georgie ‘By Jove!’ And Georgie rather more audibly answered ‘Adorable’. Mrs Weston drew half a crown from her purse instead of her usual shilling, to be ready for the offertory, and Mrs Quantock wondered if she was too old to learn to sing…

  Georgie found Lucia very full of talk that day at luncheon and markedly more Italian than usual. Indeed, she put down an Italian grammar when he entered the drawing-room, and covered it up with the essays of Antonio Caporelli. This possibly had some connection with the fact that she had encouraged Olga last night with regard to her pronunciation.

  ‘Ben arrivato, Georgio,’ she said. ‘Ho finito il libro di Antonio Caporelli questo momento. E magnifico!’

  Georgie thought she had finished it long ago, but perhaps he was mistaken. The sentence flew off Lucia's tongue as if it was perched there all quite ready.

  ‘Sono un poco fatigata dopo il – dear me, how rusty I am getting in Italian, for I can't remember the word,’ she went on. ‘Anyhow, I am a little tired after last night. A delightful little party, was it not? It was clever of Miss Bracely to get so many people together at so short a notice. Once in a way that sort of romp is very well.’

  ‘I enjoyed it quite enormously,’ said Georgie.

  ‘I saw you did, cattivo ragazzo,’ said she. ‘You quite forgot about your poor Lucia and her horror of that dreadful gramophone. I had to exert all the calmness that Yoga has given me not to scream. But you were naughty with the gramophone over those musical chairs – unmusical chairs, as I said to Pepino, didn't I, caro? – taking it off and putting it on again so suddenly. Each time I thought it was the end. E pronto la colazione. Andiamo!’

  Presently they were seated: the menu, unusual thing in itself at lunch, was written in Italian, the scribe being clearly Lucia.

  ‘I shall want a lot of Georgino's tempo this week,’ she said, ‘for Pepino and I have quite settled we must give a little after-dinner party next Saturday, and I want you to help me to arrange some impromptu tableaux. Everything impromptu must just be sketched out first, and I daresay Miss Bracely worked a great deal at her dance last night, and I wish I had seen more of it. She was a little awkward in the management of her draperies, I thought, but I daresay she does not know much about dancing. Still it was very graceful and effective for an amateur, and she carried it off very well!’

  ‘Oh, but she is not quite an amateur,’ said Georgie. ‘She has played in Salome.'

  Lucia pursed her lips.

  ‘Indeed, I am sorry she played in that,’ she said. ‘With her undoubtedly great gifts I should have thought she might have found a worthier object. Naturally I have not heard it: I should be very much ashamed to be seen there. But about our tableaux now. Pepino thought we might open with the execution of Mary Queen of Scots. It is a dreadful thing that I have lost my Roman pearls. He would be the executioner, and you the priest. Then I should like to have the awakening of Brünnhilde.’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ said Georgie. ‘Have you asked Miss Olga if she will?’

  ‘Georgino mio, you don't quite understand,’ said Lucia. ‘This party is to be for Miss Bracely. I was her guest last night in spite of the gramophone, and, indeed, I hope she will find nothing in my house that jars on her as much as her gramophone jarred on me. I had a dreadful nightmare last night – didn't I, Pepino? – in consequence. About the Brünnhilde tableau. I thought Pepino would be Siegfried, and perhaps you could learn just fifteen or twenty bars of the music and play it while the curtain was up. You can play the same over again if it is encored. Then how about King Cophetua and the beggar-maid. I should be with my back to the audience, and should not turn round at all: it would be quite your tableau. We will just sketch them out, as I said, and have a grouping or two to make sure we don't get in each other's way, and I will see that there are some dresses of some kind, which we can just throw on. The tableaux with a little music, serious music, would be quite sufficient to keep everybody interested.’

  By this time Georgie had got a tolerable inkling of the import of all this. There was not at present to be war; there was to be magnificent Medicean rivalry, artist gloriously competing with artist in splendour. To confirm his view, Lucia went on with gathering animation.

  ‘I do not purpose to have games, romps shall I call them?’ she said, ‘for as far as I know Riseholme – and perhaps I know it a little better than dear Miss Bracely – Riseholme does not care for that sort of thing. It is not quite in our line: we may be right or wrong, I am sure I do not know, but as a matter of fact we don't care for that sort of thing. Dear Miss Bracely did her very best last night: I am sure she was prompted only by the most hospitable motives, but how should she know? That supper, too. Pepino counted nineteen empty champagne-bottles –’

  ‘Eighteen, carissima,’ said Pepino.

  ‘I think you told me nineteen, caro, but it makes very little difference. Eighteen empty champagne-bottles standing on the sideboard, and no end to the caviare sandwiches which were left over. It was all too much, though there were not nearly enough chairs, and, indeed, I never got one at all except just at supper.’

  Lucia leaned forward over the table, with her hands clasped.

  ‘There was a display about it, Georgino, and you know how I hate display,’ she said. ‘Shakespeare was content with the most modest scenery for his master-pieces, and it would be a great mistake if we allowed ourselves to be carried away by mere wasteful opulence. In all the years I have lived here, and contributed in my humble way to the life of the place, I have heard no complaints about my suppers or teas, nor about the quality of entertainment which I offer my guests when they are so good as to say “Si” to le mie invitazione. Art is not advanced by romping, and we are able to enjoy ourselves without two hundred caviare sandwiches being left over. And such wasteful cutting of the ham! I had to slice the chunk she gave me over and over again before I could eat it.’

  Georgie felt he could not quite let this pass.

  ‘Well, I had an excellent supper,’ he said, ‘and I enjoyed it very much. Besides, I saw Pepino tucking in like anything. Ask him what he thought of it.’

  Lucia gave her silvery laugh.

  ‘Georgino, you are a boy,’ she said artfully, ‘and “tuck in”, as you so vulgarly call it, without thinking. I'm saying nothing against the supper, but I'm sure that Pepino and Colonel Boucher would have felt better this morning if they had been wiser last night. But that's not the real point. I want to show Miss Bracely, and I'm sure she will be grateful for it, the sort of entertainment that has contented us at Riseholme for so long. I will frame it on her lines: I will ask all and sundry to drop in with just a few hours’ notice, as she did. Everything shall be good, and there shall be about it all something that I seemed to miss last night. There was a little bit – how shall I say it – a little bit of the footlights about it
all. And the footlights didn't seem to me to have been extinguished at church-time this morning. Her singing of that very fine aria was theatrical; I can't call it less than theatrical.’

  She fixed Georgie with her black beady eye, and smoothed her undulating hair.

  ‘Theatrical,’ she said again. ‘Now let us have our coffee in the music-room. Shall Lucia play little bit of Beethoven to take away nasty taste of gramophone? She no likey gramophone at all. Nebber!’

  Georgie now began to feel himself able to sympathize with that surfeited swain who thought how happy he could be with either were t'other dear charmer away. Certainly he had been very happy with Lucia all these years, before t'other dear charmer alighted in Riseholme, and now he felt that should Lucia decide, as she had often so nearly decided, to spend the winter on the Riviera, Riseholme would still be a very pleasant place of residence. He had never been quite sure how seriously she had contemplated a winter on the Riviera, for the mere mention of it had always been enough to make him protest that Riseholme could not possibly exist without her, but to-day, as he sat and heard (rather than listened) a series of slow movements, with a brief and hazardous attempt at the scherzo of the ‘Moonlight’, he felt that if any talk of the Riviera came up, he would not be quite so insistent as to the impossibility of Riseholme continuing to exist without her. He could, for instance, have existed perfectly well this Sunday afternoon if Lucia had been even at Timbuctoo or the Antipodes, for as he went away last night, Olga had thrown a casual intimation to him that she would be at home for lunch, if he had nothing better to do, and cared to drop in. Certainly he had nothing better to do, but he had something worse to do…

  Pepino was sitting in the window-seat, with eyes closed, because he listened to music better so, and with head that nodded occasionally, presumably for the same reason. But the cessation of the slow movement naturally made him cease to listen, and he stirred and gave the sigh with which Riseholme always acknowledged the end of a slow movement. Georgie sighed too, and Lucia sighed; they all sighed, and then Lucia began again. So Pepino closed his eyes again, and Georgie continued his mental analysis of the situation.