Lucia lay long awake that night, tossing and turning in her bed in ‘Midsummer-Night's Dream’, and reviewing the full array of those unlucky affairs. As she eyed them, black shapes against the glow of her firelight, it struck her that the same malevolent 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 sane 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 horrid 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 honourable proceeding? What if Lucia had actually told Olga (she seemed to recollect it) that she and Pepino 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 a 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 incapable of receiving cultivation. She went on her own rough independent lines, giving a romp one night, and not coming to the tableaux on another, and getting the Spanish Quartet without consultation on a third, and springing this dreadful Pentecostal party on them all. Olga clearly meant mischief: she wanted to set herself up as leader of art and culture in Riseholme. Her conduct admitted of no other explanation.
Lucia's benevolent scheme of educating and refining vanished like morning mists, and through her drooping eyelids 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 dozed off to sleep, she reminded herself to ask Georgie to lunch next day. He and Pepino and she must have a serious talk. She had seen Georgie comparatively little just lately, and she drowsily and uneasily wondered how that was.
Georgie by this time had quite got over the desolation of the moment when standing in the road opposite Mrs Quantock's mulberry-tree he had given vent to that bitter cry of ‘More misery! More unhappiness!’ His nerves, on that occasion, had been worn to fiddle-strings with all the fuss and fiasco of planning the tableaux, and this fancying himself in love had been 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 for this friendly intimacy, had proved a great tonic. 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 stimulating 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 pangs of jealousy as he might experience from time to time were rather in the nature of small electric shocks voluntarily received. He was devoted to her with a warmth that his supposed devotion to Lucia had never kindled in him; he even went so far as to dream about her in an agitated 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 like 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 morsels for the piano. Olga had lent it him a few days ago, and he had been very busy over Poissons d'or. He was further armed by the complete knowledge of the Italian débâcle 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 butt into or stagger anybody. Each time she had knocked Lucia down purely 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 re-christened. With all his Riseholme appetite for complications and events, Georgie foresaw 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 débâcle 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 effrontery began to talk Italian just as usual, though she must have guessed that Georgie knew all about last night.
‘Ben arrivato, amico mio,’ she said. ‘Why, it must be three days since we met. Che ha fatto 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, these. 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, and wonder when it is going to begin? Where did you get them from?’
‘Olga lent me them,’ said Georgie negligently. He really did call her Olga to her face now, by request.
Lucia's bugles 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 condemn 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 mio!’
‘Oh, didn't you enjoy it?’ asked he.
Lucia sat down, without waiting for Pepino.
‘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 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 shrieking 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 c
omposition 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 Sonata’, for instance. You have often heard me say that the last two movements do not approach the first in perfection of form. And if I am permitted to criticize 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 helping to foist on to the world a fresh combination of engine-whistles and grunts. Non é vero, Pepino? 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 hostilities 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 mobilize, 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, Pepino and I, did we, caro?’ she went on. ‘And Mr Cortese! His appearance! He is like a huge hair-dresser. His touch on the piano: if you can imagine a wild bull 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 what Neapolitan dialect is like. Toscana and Romans, who between them, I believe – lingua Toscana in bocca Romana, remember – know how to speak their own tongue, find Neapolitans totally unintelligible. 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 illiterate. It does not matter: I do not see that Mr Cortese's linguistic accomplishments concern us. But his music does, if poor Miss Bracely, with her lovely notes, is going to study it and appear as Lucrezia. 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 Pepino had not been able to understand a word of what Cortese had said, and here was the answer to the backbiting suggestion, vividly put forward by Mrs Weston on the green that morning, that the explanation was that Lucia and Pepino did not know Italian. They could not reasonably be expected to know Neapolitan dialect: the language of Dante satisfied their humble 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 libretto like?’ asked Georgie. ‘That piece that Olga sang.’
Lucia fixed him with her beady eye, ready and eager to show how delighted she was to bestow approbation wherever it was deserved.
‘Wonderful,’ she said. ‘I felt, and so did Pepino, that the words were as utterly wasted on that formless music as was poor Miss Bracely's voice. How did it go, Pepino? Let me think!’
Lucia raised her head again with the far-away look.
‘Amore misterio!’ she said. ‘Amore profondo! Amore profondo del vasto mar. Ah, there was our poor bella lingua again. I wonder who wrote the libretto.’
‘Mr Cortese wrote the libretto,’ said Georgie. ‘Olga told me so.’
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 done so. 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. Who wanted rows in Riseholme?
‘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 at poor Daisy's valuation, and I still believe he had very remarkable gifts, curry-cook or not. But Princess Popoffski now –’
‘We had a séance,’ 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 into Italian. ‘You were not there: you were having your purgatory at Olga's. And Mr Cortese did write the libretto. It was very remarkable. We touched hands all round the table: there was no 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 by them were dupes. Consequently there was irony in the baby-talk of her reply:
‘Me dood!’ she said. ‘Me vewy dood, and me 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 whose names, if translated from the Latin, meant a bear.
‘How did the table know that?’ he asked. ‘Ursa, a bear, you know, Ursula, a little bear. And then, while we were sitting there, the Princess went into a trance. She said there was a beautiful spirit present, who blessed us all. She called Mrs Quantock Margherita, 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 ironical 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 Georgino,’ said Georgie, ‘but that there was another Georgino not far off. That was odd, because Olga's house, with Mr Shuttleworth, was 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 materialized: I saw him.’
A bright and 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 Canto first, and then hold a séance 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 sifted. I daresay I am too critical, and that is a fault. Pepino is very critical too; I have caught it from him. 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?’
&nb
sp; Georgie was still sore over the irony to which he had been treated. He had, moreover, the solid fact behind him that Daisy Quantock (Margherita) had declared that in no circumstances would she permit Lucia to annex her Princess. She had forgiven Lucia for annexing the Guru (and considering that she had only annexed 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: psychics hate a crowd, because it disturbs the influences. I do not say I believe in her power yet, but I am quite open-minded; I should like to be convinced. That's my attitude! Let me see! We are doing nothing to-morrow. Let us have our little dinner to-morrow. I will send a line to dear Daisy at once, and say how enormously your account of the séance 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 promising, 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 November sun was streaming. Very little art, as she had once said, would ‘stand’ daylight: only Shakespeare and Dante and Beethoven, and perhaps Bach, could compete 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 alert.