Eustace and Hilda (64 page)

L
ADY NELLY
came out from the cool, porphyry-tinted twilight of St. Mark's into the strong white sunshine of the Piazza.

The heat, like a lover, had possessed the day; its presence, as positive and self-confident as an Italian tenor's, rifled the senses and would not be denied. Lady Nelly moved on into the glare; she wore dark glasses to shield her eyes, and her face looked pale under her broad-brimmed hat, for the fashion for being sunburnt was one she did not follow. A true Venetian, she did not try to avoid treading on the pigeons, which nodded to each other as they bustled about her feet; but when she came in line with the three flag-poles she paused and looked around her.

The scene was too familiar for her to take in its detail, though as always she felt unconsciously uplifted by it. The drawing-room of Europe, Henry James had called it, and as befitted a drawing-room, it was well furnished with chairs. Those on the right, belonging to the cafés of Lavena and the Quadri, and enjoying the full sunlight, were already well patronised; even to her darkened vision the white coats of the waiters flashing to and fro looked blindingly bright. But at Florian's, on the left, where the shadow fell on all but the outermost tiers of tables, hardly anyone was sitting, and the waiters stood like a group of statues, mutely contemplating their lack of custom.

Indescribably loud, the report of the midday gun startled Lady Nelly from her meditation. The pigeons launched themselves into the air as though the phenomenon was new to them; the loiterers checked their watches or started into the sky; there was a general feeling of détente, as if a crisis had been passed and nerves could relax for another twenty-four hours.

To Lady Nelly it was now clear that she wanted to go to Florian's. As she bent her steps that way, the waiters sighted her from afar, and began to talk among themselves as though speculating which of them would have the pleasure of serving her. Each had his province beyond whose bounds he might not pass. This Lady Nelly well knew, and she had her favourite, though she made her arrival in his domain seem quite accidental. With a smile that seemed to circle round the top of his bald head he came out to meet her and held the chair for her, as she sat down.

“Buon giorno, Signora Contessa.”

“Buon giorno, Angelo.”

“La Contessa è sola?” asked Angelo diffidently. He contrived to suggest that, amazing as it was that Lady Nelly should be alone, it was also fitting, since no company was worthy of her.

“Si, sono sola,” said Lady Nelly, but made it sound as if the burden of loneliness was greatly reduced by the pleasure of Angelo's attendance.

“La Contessa prende un vermouth bianco, come al solito?” suggested the waiter.

“Yes, please, a white vermouth”—Lady Nelly seldom talked Italian for long.

“Senza gin?” inquired Angelo, with the air of one offering a temptation possibly too crude for an educated palate.

“Yes, without gin.”

Lady Nelly sipped her vermouth. It was still too early in the year for the fashionable cosmopolitan world to have alighted upon Venice. Lady Nelly did not mind being alone, and she enjoyed solitary sight-seeing, hence her visit to St. Mark's. Although on particular occasions her entrances were often late, for the spectacle of life she liked to take her seat early. She had begun to think of herself as a spectator, and did not quite realise that to her friends she still seemed the centre of the play. Seldom was a human contact really distasteful to her; she had almost no prejudices, and the love she lavished on a few she did not withhold from the multitude. With Shelley she felt that it grew bright gazing on many truths. The dignity which, in the eyes of some, she jeopardised by her unconventionality meant as much or as little to her as her birth: both were inalienable and she took both for granted. The naturalness of her attitude to life was her great defence against its slings and arrows. She was aware that her charms might wane, and she took a good deal of trouble, not unmixed with humour, to maintain them; but about the charm which even her critics allowed her, she took no trouble at all.

It has been said that if you sit in the Piazza long enough everyone you have known in your life will eventually pass by, and Lady Nelly was placidly awaiting the fulfilment of this prophecy when a figure detached itself from the slowly sauntering throng and halted by her chair.

“Good-morning, Nelly,” said a cultivated voice with a slight edge to it.

Lady Nelly looked up and saw a tall spare man of about fifty-five wearing a suit of white drill, a white felt hat very new-looking, and a monocle which dropped out as he spoke.

“Why, good-morning, Jasper,” said Lady Nelly. “
Who
would have thought of finding you here?”

“Well,
you
might have,” said the tall man, his eye kindling a little as he replaced the monocle. With a critical glance at the seat of the chair Lady Nelly offered him, and an indefinable movement in his clothes as if he were preparing them for some kind of ordeal, he sat down. “How long have you been in Venice?” he demanded.

“Oh, hardly any time,” said Lady Nelly. “Tuesday, I think; but I lose count of the days. Don't tell me you've been here all the time, I should be heartbroken.”

“I've been here since the twentieth of June,” said Jasper Bentwich grimly. “It's now the sixth of July, and there hasn't been a cat in the place, not a cat,” he said, looking at her accusingly.

“I rather like it like this. I hadn't noticed myself feeling lonely till you came,” said Lady Nelly.

“I expect you have a houseful of people,” said her companion, as though making a charge.

“No,” said Lady Nelly, “I'm quite alone, as a matter of fact.”

“You must be terribly bored. Where are you?”

“At the Sfortunato.”

“And haunted, too.”

“I don't feel anything,” said Lady Nelly. “I never did, when I used to have it before the war. The bad luck belongs to the family, I think; it doesn't go with the house.”

“I dare say you're proof against it, Nelly.” Jasper's tone convicted her of insensitiveness. “I must say I never have a comfortable moment there.”

“But you'll risk coming to see me?”

“I'd much rather you came to me.”

“As you like. Have you still the same cook, the divine Donnizzetta?”

“Yes, but oh how tired I get of the things she does.”

“You're difficult to please, you know,” said Lady Nelly. “She's far the best cook in Venice. And said to be the best-looking. You won't be able to keep me away from your table.”

“Come to-night, then.”

“Delighted. But could you put up with a young man too?”

“Oh dear, I knew there was a snag somewhere,” said Jasper. His monocle fell out and he eyed it with rancour. “You said you were alone.”

“Well, I may be,” said Lady Nelly. “I'm not sure if he's coming or not.”

“Who is he? Do I know him?”

“I shouldn't think you would,” said Lady Nelly, “but you might.” She tried to place him for Jasper. “He's a friend of Antony Lachish's. I met him staying with John and Edie. He's quite harmless—you wouldn't notice he was there.”

“Why do you ask someone to stay if you don't notice that he's there?”

“I meant, you wouldn't. I shall.”

“That's just what I'm afraid of,” said Jasper crossly. “Won't he be tired after the journey? Couldn't you let him dine at home?”

“Oh, but think what a pleasure for him, meeting you his first evening in Venice.”

“Well, tell me more about him.”

“I will, but you must have a cocktail first.”

“Is it as bad as that?”

“No, but I don't like to see you looking thirsty. Angelo!”

In a moment the waiter was at her side. He turned a rather experimental smile on Jasper Bentwich.

“What will you have?” asked Lady Nelly.

“Their white vermouth is poison, I wonder you dare drink it.”

“Try the red, with some soda. I think they call it an Americano.”

“Americano very good,” said the waiter, giving Jasper a pleading look.

“Very good for Americans, I dare say,” said Jasper, “but very bad for me. I think I'll have some plain gin and water.”

“Oh, Jasper, how could you, and in Venice, too.”

“I like it for the same reason that you like your friends—because I hardly notice that it's there. What's his name, by the way?”

“Eustace Cherrington.”

“Ought I to know that name?”

“No, but you asked me. He's at Oxford, at St. Joseph's, and he's an orphan and lives with his aunt. He's reading for Schools or whatever they do, and I thought it might be nice for him to come and read here. I've promised him that he shan't see me.”

“Then I don't understand why he's coming.”

“To see Venice, of course. And we shall meet for meals. He may like to read at meals, too—I don't know.”

“You don't seem to know him very well.”

“No, that was partly why I asked him to come here, to get to know him better.”

“You won't, if you never see him.”

“Well, we shall meet on the stairs, and also, I hope, at your hospitable board.”

Jasper raised his glass of gin to the sky and gave it a search-ing look.

“It doesn't sound to me as if he'd get much work done.”

“Dear Jasper, how you always look on the dark side. Between ourselves, I shouldn't much mind if he didn't. I think he's in need of the sun, he seemed a little shut up and colourless.”

“That's the worst thing you've told me yet. You know how I dislike colourless people.”

“You should meet his sister, then. There's no lack of colour there.”

“Is she as ruddy as their name? No, thank you, Nelly, I feel that one Cherrington is enough. She was for Dick, I suppose?”

Lady Nelly's eyes were mysterious behind her dark glasses.

“He did pay her a certain amount of attention. We mustn't jump to conclusions, but I thought Edie seemed a little anxious.”

“No wonder, but on whose account?”

“Well, you know, he's the only son. But I'm afraid my misgivings were rather for her. Dick can look after himself.”

“I suppose so. What's the girl's name?”

“Hilda.”

Jasper screwed his monocle into his eye, and his whole face seemed to rally to it in outraged repudiation.

“Hilda!” he exclaimed. “You can't mean it! You must be joking!”

“There was a St. Hilda, you know,” said Lady Nelly placatingly, “a very good woman. I connect her with Whitby.”

“Such an ungracious piece of coast! But surely not with Anchorstone?”

“Well, that was where I met her.”

“So this Eustace is to be your nephew-in-law?”

“Privately, I don't think so.”

“Remember that he falls within the prohibited degrees! His cradle is défendu, vietato, verboten!”

“Really, Jasper, I won't talk to you any more! It would serve you right if I left you to pay the bill!”

When Jasper had made a half-hearted attempt to claim this honour, they strolled together down the colonnade lined with shops towards the “mouth” of the Piazza.

“Let me give you a lift,” said Lady Nelly; “my boat is at the Luna.”

“Very obliging of you, I'm sure,” said her companion. “But you know I never ride in them—they're full of fleas and all gondoliers are rogues.”

“Mine isn't,” said Lady Nelly, “and he spends hours every morning cleaning the gondola. He washes it from head to foot. No flea could possibly survive. I'll give you a pound for every one you catch.”

“I can't catch them,” said Jasper. “That's just it. But if you let me look at your gondola, I'll tell you if I dare take the risk.”

They walked towards the landing-stage. Sitting on the balustrade was a gondolier reading a newspaper. Over his white sailor suit he had a blue sash and a blue ribbon round his broad-brimmed straw hat. As soon as he saw them he jumped to his feet and called in a stentorian voice, “Erminio!”

At the summons, the head and shoulders of a much smaller and younger gondolier suddenly appeared above the balustrade. He seemed to be standing on air, but they could now see that he was mounted on the poop of the gondola, the hold of which was in position at the bottom of the steps, ready to receive them.

“Oh,” said Jasper, “I see you've got Silvestro.”

“Wasn't I lucky?” said Lady Nelly. “But first come, first served. Every day I am told of imploring letters, messages, telegrams, threats and attempted bribes pouring in from heartbroken padroni who say Venice will not be the same to them without him. But his loyalty to me remains unshaken.”

“It remains to be seen,” said Jasper. “Still, I grant you he is better than most.”

“And so good-looking,” said Lady Nelly.

“Yes, I suppose so.... But I think that's all rather a bore, don't you, the myth of the gondolier with his flashing black eyes, always ready with a stiletto or a kiss? It's all so stagey. Most of those I see are utterly moth-eaten and reek of garlic.”

“Silvestro's eyes are blue,” said Lady Nelly with spirit, “and he doesn't flash them: they are simply the windows of his soul. The trouble with you, Jasper, if I may say so, is that you've lived in Venice too long. I'm not sure that I ought to let my caro Eustace meet you: you might disillusion him, and I'm sure he's brimful of illusions. Now I'm going to make you admire something for a change.” She took his arm and drew him towards the riva; Silvestro, with his hat under his arm, preceded them down the steps.