The Complete Mapp & Lucia (164 page)

“Benjy, I’m waiting for you,” said Elizabeth.

He looked this way and that but encountered no glance of encouragement. Then he made a smart military salute to the general company and marched from the room stepping carefully but impeccably, as if treading a tight rope stretched over an abyss, and shut the door into the hall with swift decision.

“Puir wee mannie,” said the Padre. “Three no trumps, Mistress Plaistow.”

“She
had
quitted the card,” said Diva still fuming. “I saw the light between it and her fingers. Oh, is it me? Three spades, I mean four.”

Lucia and Georgie were seated side by side on the bench of the organ in Tilling church. The May sunshine streamed on to them through the stained glass of a south window, vividly colouring them with patches of the brightest hues, so that they looked like objects daringly camouflaged in war-time against enemy aircraft, for nobody could have dreamed that those brilliant Joseph-coats could contain human beings. The lights cast upon Lucia’s face and white dress reached her through a picture of Elijah going up to heaven in a fiery chariot. The heat from this vehicle would presumably have prevented the prophet from feeling cold in interstellar space, for he wore only an emerald-green bathing-dress which left exposed his superbly virile arms and legs, and his snowy locks streamed in the wind. The horses were flame-coloured, the chariot was red-hot, and high above it in an ultramarine sky hung an orange sun which seemed to be the object of the expedition. Georgie came under the influence of the Witch of Endor. She was wrapt in an
eau de nil
mantle, which made his auburn beard look livid. Saul in a purple cloak, and Samuel in a black dressing-gown made sombre stains on his fawn-coloured suit.

The organ was in process of rebuilding. A quantity of fresh stops were being added to it, and an electric blowing apparatus had been installed. Lucia clicked on the switch which set the bellows working, and opened a copy of the Moonlight Sonata.

“It sounds quite marvellous on the organ, Georgie,” she said. “I was trying it over yesterday. What I want you to do is to play the pedals. Just those slow base notes: pom, pom. Quite easy.”

Georgie put a foot on the pedals. Nothing happened.

“Oh, I haven’t pulled out any pedal stop,” said Lucia. By mistake she pulled out the
tuba,
and as the pedals happened to be coupled to the solo organ a blast of baritone fury yelled through the church. “My fault,” she said, “entirely my fault, but what a magnificent noise! One of my new stops.”

She uncoupled the pedals and substituted the
bourdon:
Elijah and the Witch of Endor rattled in their leaded frames.

“That’s perfect!” she said. “Now with one hand I shall play the triplets on the swell, and the solo tune with the other on the
vox humana!
Oh, that
tuba
again! I thought I’d put it in.”

The plaintive throaty bleating of the
vox humana
was enervatingly lovely, and Lucia’s America-cloth eyes grew veiled with moisture.

“So heart-broken,” she intoned, her syllables keeping time with the air. “A lovely contralto tone. Like Clara Butt, is it not? The passionate despair of it. Fresh courage coming. So noble. No, Georgie, you must take care not to put your foot on two adjacent pedals at once. Now, listen! Do you hear that lovely crescendo? That I do by just opening the swell very gradually. Isn’t it a wonderful effect?… I am surprised that no one has ever thought of setting this Sonata for the organ… Go on pulling out stops on the great organ—yes, to your left there—in case I want them. One always has to look ahead in organ playing. Arrange your palette, so to speak. No, I shan’t want them… It dies away, softer and softer… Hold on that bass C sharp till I say now… Now.”

They both gave the usual slow movement sigh. Then the volume of Beethoven tumbled on to the great organ on which Georgie had pulled out all the stops, and the open diapasons received it with a shout of rapture. Lucia slipped from the bench to pick it up. On the floor round about was an assemblage of small pipes.

“I think this lot is the
cor anglais,”
she said. “I am putting in a beautiful
cor anglais.”

She picked up one of the pipes, and blew through it.

“A lovely tone,” she said. “It reminds one of the last act of
Tristan,
does it not, where the shepherd-boy goes on playing the
cor anglais
for ever and ever.”

Georgie picked up a pipe belonging to the
flute.
It happened to be a major third above Lucia’s
cor anglais,
and they blew on them together with a very charming effect. They tried two others, but these happened to be a semitone apart, and the result was not so harmonious. Then they hastily put them down, for a party of tourists, being shown round the church by the Padre, came in at the north door. He was talking very strong Scots this morning, with snatches of early English in compliment to the architecture.

“The orrgan, ye see, is being renovated,” he said. “‘Twill be a bonny instrument, I ken. Good morrow to ye, Mistress Lucas.”

Then, as she and Georgie passed him on their way out, he added in an audible aside: “The leddy whose munificence has given it to the church. Eh, a grand benefaction. A thousand pounds and mair, what wi’ lutes and psaltery, and a’ the whustles.”

“I often go and have a little practice on my organ during the workmen’s dinner-hour,” said Lucia as they stepped out into the hot sunshine. “The organ, Georgie, I find is a far simpler instrument on which to get your effects than the piano. The stops supply expression: you just pull them out or push them in. That
vox humana,
for instance, with what ease one gets the singing tone, that’s so difficult on the piano.”

“You’ve picked it up wonderfully quickly,” said Georgie. “I thought you had a beautiful touch. And when will your organ be finished?”

“In a month or less, I hope. We must have a service of dedication and a recital: the Padre, I know, will carry out my wishes about that. Georgie, I think I shall open the recital myself. I am sure that Tilling would wish it. I should play some little piece, and then make way for the organist. I might do worse than give them that first movement of the ‘Moonlight.’”

“I’m sure Tilling would be much disappointed if you didn’t,” said Georgie warmly. “May I play the pedals for you?”

“I was going to suggest that, and help me with the stops. I have progressed, I know, and I’m glad you like my touch, but I hardly think I could manage the whole complicated business alone yet.
Festina lente.
Let us practice in the dinner-hour every day. If I give the ‘Moonlight’ it must be exquisitely performed. I must shew them what can be done with it when the orchestral colour of the organ is added.”

“I promise to work hard,” said Georgie. “And I do think, as the Padre said to the tourists just now, that it’s a most munificent gift.”

“Oh, did he say that?” asked Lucia who had heard perfectly. “That was why they all turned round and looked at me. But, as you know, it was always my intention to devote a great part, anyhow, of what I made on the Stock Exchange to the needs of our dear Tilling.”

“Very generous, all the same,” repeated Georgie.

“No, dear; simple duty. That’s how I see it… Now what have I got to do this afternoon? That tea-party for the school-children: a hundred and twenty are coming. Tea in the garden in the shade, and then games and races. You’ll be helping me all the time, won’t you? Only four o’clock till seven.”

“Oh dear: I’m not very good with children,” said Georgie. “Children are so sticky, particularly after tea, and I won’t run a race with anybody.”

“You shan’t run a race. But you’ll help to start them, won’t you, and find their mothers for them and that sort of thing. I know I can depend on you, and children always adore you. Let me see: do I dine with you to-night or you with me?”

“You with me. And then to-morrow’s your great dinner-party. I tell you I’m rather nervous, for there are so many things we mustn’t talk about, that there’s scarcely a safe subject. It’ll be the first complete party anyone’s had since that frightful evening at the Wyses’.”

“It was clearly my duty to respond to Diva’s appeal,” said Lucia, “and all we’ve got to do is to make a great deal of poor Elizabeth. She’s had a horrid time, most humiliating, Georgie, and what makes it worse for her is that it was so much her own fault. Four o’clock then, dear, this afternoon, or perhaps a little before.”

Lucia let herself into her house, musing at considerable length on the frightful things that had happened since that night at the Wyses’ to which Georgie had alluded, when Elizabeth and Benjy had set out in their goloshes, to walk back to Grebe. That was an unwise step, for the fresh night air had made Benjy much worse, and the curate returning home on the other side of the High Street after a meeting of the Band of Hope (such a contrast) had witnessed dreadful goings-on. Benjy had stood in the middle of the road, compelling a motor to pull up with a shriek of brakes, and asked to see the driver’s license, insisting that he was a policeman in plain clothes on point duty. When that was settled in a most sympathetic manner by a real policeman, Benjy informed him that Msslucas was a regular stunner, and began singing “You are Queen of my heart to-night.” At that point the curate, pained but violently interested, reluctantly let himself into his house, and there was no information to be had with regard to the rest of their walk home to Grebe. Then the sad tale was resumed, for Withers told Foljambe (who told Georgie who told Lucia) that Major Mapp-Flint on arrival had, no doubt humorously, suggested getting his gun and shooting the remaining tiger-skins in the hall, but that Mrs. Mapp-Flint wouldn’t hear of it and was not amused. “Rather the reverse,” said Withers… Bed.

The curate felt bound to tell his spiritual superior about the scene in the High Street and Evie told Diva, so that by the time Elizabeth came up with her market-basket next morning, this sad sequel to the Wyses’ dinner party was known everywhere. She propitiated Diva by paying her the ninepence which had been in dispute, and went so far as to apologise to her for her apparent curtness at the bridge-table last night. Then, having secured a favourable hearing, she told Diva how she had found Benjy sitting close to Lucia with his hand on her knee. “He had had more to drink than he should,” she said, “but never would he have done that unless she had encouraged him. That’s her nature, I’m afraid: she can’t leave men alone. She’s no better than the Pride of Poona!”

So, when Diva met Lucia half an hour afterwards, she could not resist being distinctly “arch” about her long
tête-à-tête
with Benjy during the first rubber. Lucia, not appreciating this archness, had answered not a word, but turned her back and went into Twistevant’s. Diva hadn’t meant any harm, but this truculent conduct (combined with her dropping that ninepence down a grating in the gutter) made her see red, and she instantly told Irene that Lucia had been flirting with Benjy. Irene had tersely replied, “You foul-minded old widow.”

Then as comment spread, Susan Wyse was blamed for having allowed Benjy (knowing his weakness) to drink so much champagne, and Mr. Wyse was blamed for being so liberal with his port. This was quite unfounded: it was Benjy who had been so liberal with his port. The Wyses adopted a lofty attitude: they simply were not accustomed to their guests drinking too much, and must bear that possibility in mind for the future: Figgis must be told. Society therefore once again, as on the occasion of the municipal elections, was rent. The Wyses were aloof, Elizabeth and Diva would not speak to Lucia, nor Diva to Irene, and Benjy would not speak to anybody because he was in bed with a severe bilious attack.

This haycock of inflammatory material would in the ordinary course of things soon have got dispersed or wet through or trodden into the ground, according to the Tilling use of disposing of past disturbances in order to leave the ground clear for future ones, but for the unexpected arrival of the Contessa Faraglione who came on a flying visit of two nights to her brother. He and Susan were still adopting their tiresome lofty, un-Tillingish attitude, and told her nothing at all exhaustive about Benjy’s inebriation, Lucia’s excavations, Elizabeth’s disappointment and other matters of first-rate importance, and in the present state of tension thought it better not to convoke any assembly of Tilling Society in Amelia’s honour. But she met Elizabeth in the High Street who was very explicit about Roman antiquities, and she met Lucia, who was in a terrible fright lest she should begin talking Italian, and learned a little more, and she went to tea with Diva, who was quite the best chronicler in Tilling, and who poured into her madly interested ear a neat
résumé
of all previous rows, and had just got down to the present convulsion when the Padre popped in, and he and Diva began expounding it in alternate sentences after the manner of a Greek tragedy. Faradiddlione sat, as if hypnotised, alert and wide-eyed while this was going on, but when told of Elizabeth’s surmise that Lucia had encouraged Benjy to make love to her, she most disconcertingly burst into peals of laughter. Muffins went the wrong way, she choked, she clapped her hands, her eyes streamed, and it was long before she could master herself for coherent speech.

“But you are all adorable,” she cried. “There is no place like Tilling, and I shall come and live here for ever when my Cecco dies and I am dowager. My poor brother (such a prig!) and fat Susan were most discreet: they told me no more than that your great Benjy—he was my flirt here before, was he not, the man like a pink walrus—that he had a bilious attack, but of his tipsiness and of all those
gaffes
at dinner and of that scene of passion in the back drawing-room not a word. Thr-r-rilling! Imagine the scene. Your tipsy walrus. Your proud Lucia in her Roman blue stockings. She is a Duse, all cold alabaster without and burning with volcanic passion within. Next door is Mapp quarrelling about ninepence. What did the guilty ones do? I would have given anything to have been behind the curtain. Did they kiss? Did they embrace? Can you picture them? And then the entry of Mapp with her ninepence still in her pocket.”