Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence (Illustrated), page 247
Miss Pinnegar came and knocked at the door.
“Alvina! Alvina! Oh, you are there! Whatever are you doing? Aren’t you coming down to speak to your cousin?”
“Soon,” said Alvina.
And taking a pillow from the bed, she crushed it against herself and swayed herself unconsciously, in her orgasm of unbearable feeling. Right in her bowels she felt it — the terrible, unbearable feeling. How could she bear it.
She crouched over until she became still. A moment of stillness seemed to cover her like sleep: an eternity of sleep in that one second. Then she roused and got up. She went to the mirror, still, evanescent, and tidied her hair, smoothed her face. She was so still, so remote, she felt that nothing, nothing could ever touch her.
And so she went downstairs, to that horrible cousin of her father’s. She seemed so intangible, remote and virginal, that her cousin and Miss Pinnegar both failed to make anything of her. She answered their questions simply, but did not talk. They talked to each other. And at last the cousin went away, with a profound dislike of Miss Alvina.
She did not notice. She was only glad he was gone. And she went about for the rest of the day elusive and vague. She slept deeply that night, without dreams.
The next day was Saturday. It came with a great storm of wind and rain and hail: a fury. Alvina looked out in dismay. She knew Ciccio would not be able to come — he could not cycle, and it was impossible to get by train and return the same day. She was almost relieved. She was relieved by the intermission of fate, she was thankful for the day of neutrality.
In the early afternoon came a telegram: Coming both tomorrow morning deepest sympathy Madame. Tomorrow was Sunday: and the funeral was in the afternoon. Alvina felt a burning inside her, thinking of Ciccio. She winced — and yet she wanted him to come. Terribly she wanted him to come.
She showed the telegram to Miss Pinnegar.
“Good gracious!” said the weary Miss Pinnegar. “Fancy those people. And I warrant they’ll want to be at the funeral. As if he was anything to them — ”
“I think it’s very nice of her,” said Alvina.
“Oh well,” said Miss Pinnegar. “If you think so. I don’t fancy he would have wanted such people following, myself. And what does she mean by both. Who’s the other?” Miss Pinnegar looked sharply at Alvina.
“Ciccio,” said Alvina.
“The Italian! Why goodness me! What’s he coming for? I can’t make you out, Alvina. Is that his name, Chicho? I never heard such a name. Doesn’t sound like a name at all to me. There won’t be room for them in the cabs.”
“We’ll order another.”
“More expense. I never knew such impertinent people — ”
But Alvina did not hear her. On the next morning she dressed herself carefully in her new dress. It was black voile. Carefully she did her hair. Ciccio and Madame were coming. The thought of Ciccio made her shudder. She hung about, waiting. Luckily none of the funeral guests would arrive till after one o’clock. Alvina sat listless, musing, by the fire in the drawing-room. She left everything now to Miss Pinnegar and Mrs. Rollings. Miss Pinnegar, red-eyed and yellow-skinned, was irritable beyond words.
It was nearly mid-day when Alvina heard the gate. She hurried to open the front door. Madame was in her little black hat and her black spotted veil, Ciccio in a black overcoat was closing the yard door behind her.
“Oh, my dear girl!” Madame cried, trotting forward with outstretched black-kid hands, one of which held an umbrella: “I am so shocked — I am so shocked to hear of your poor father. Am I to believe it? — am I really? No, I can’t.”
She lifted her veil, kissed Alvina, and dabbed her eyes. Ciccio came up the steps. He took off his hat to Alvina, smiled slightly as he passed her. He looked rather pale, constrained. She closed the door and ushered them into the drawing-room.
Madame looked round like a bird, examining the room and the furniture. She was evidently a little impressed. But all the time she was uttering her condolences.
“Tell me, poor girl, how it happened?”
“There isn’t much to tell,” said Alvina, and she gave the brief account of James’s illness and death.
“Worn out! Worn out!” Madame said, nodding slowly up and down. Her black veil, pushed up, sagged over her brows like a mourning band. “You cannot afford to waste the stamina. And will you keep on the theatre — with Mr. May — ?”
Ciccio was sitting looking towards the fire. His presence made Alvina tremble. She noticed how the fine black hair of his head showed no parting at all — it just grew like a close cap, and was pushed aside at the forehead. Sometimes he looked at her, as Madame talked, and again looked at her, and looked away.
At last Madame came to a halt. There was a long pause. “You will stay to the funeral?” said Alvina.
“Oh my dear, we shall be too much — ”
“No,” said Alvina. “I have arranged for you — ”
“There! You think of everything. But I will come, not Ciccio. He will not trouble you.”
Ciccio looked up at Alvina.
“I should like him to come,” said Alvina simply. But a deep flush began to mount her face. She did not know where it came from, she felt so cold. And she wanted to cry.
Madame watched her closely.
“Siamo di accordo,” came the voice of Ciccio.
Alvina and Madame both looked at him. He sat constrained, with his face averted, his eyes dropped, but smiling.
Madame looked closely at Alvina.
“Is it true what he says?” she asked.
“I don’t understand him,” said Alvina. “I don’t understand what he said.”
“That you have agreed with him — ”
Madame and Ciccio both watched Alvina as she sat in her new black dress. Her eyes involuntarily turned to his.
“I don’t know,” she said vaguely. “Have I — ?” and she looked at him. Madame kept silence for some moments. Then she said gravely: “Well! — yes! — well!” She looked from one to another. “Well, there is a lot to consider. But if you have decided — ”
Neither of them answered. Madame suddenly rose and went to Alvina. She kissed her on either cheek.
“I shall protect you,” she said.
Then she returned to her seat.
“What have you said to Miss Houghton?” she said suddenly to Ciccio, tackling him direct, and speaking coldly.
He looked at Madame with a faint derisive smile. Then he turned to Alvina. She bent her head and blushed.
“Speak then,” said Madame, “you have a reason.” She seemed mistrustful of him.
But he turned aside his face, and refused to speak, sitting as if he were unaware of Madame’s presence.
“Oh well,” said Madame. “I shall be there, Signorino.”
She spoke with a half-playful threat. Ciccio curled his lip. “You do not know him yet,” she said, turning to Alvina.
“I know that,” said Alvina, offended. Then she added: “Wouldn’t you like to take off your hat?”
“If you truly wish me to stay,” said Madame.
“Yes, please do. And will you hang your coat in the hall?” she said to Ciccio.
“Oh!” said Madame roughly. “He will not stay to eat. He will go out to somewhere.”
Alvina looked at him.
“Would you rather?” she said.
He looked at her with sardonic yellow eyes.
“If you want,” he said, the awkward, derisive smile curling his lips and showing his teeth.
She had a moment of sheer panic. Was he just stupid and bestial? The thought went clean through her. His yellow eyes watched her sardonically. It was the clean modelling of his dark, other-world face that decided her — for it sent the deep spasm across her.
“I’d like you to stay,” she said.
A smile of triumph went over his face. Madame watched him stonily as she stood beside her chair, one hand lightly balanced on her hip. Alvina was reminded of Kishwégin. But even in Madame’s stony mistrust there was an element of attraction towards him. He had taken his cigarette case from his pocket.
“On ne fume pas dans le salon,” said Madame brutally.
“Will you put your coat in the passage? — and do smoke if you wish,” said Alvina.
He rose to his feet and took off his overcoat. His face was obstinate and mocking. He was rather floridly dressed, though in black, and wore boots of black patent leather with tan uppers. Handsome he was — but undeniably in bad taste. The silver ring was still on his finger — and his close, fine, unparted hair went badly with smart English clothes. He looked common — Alvina confessed it. And her heart sank. But what was she to do? He evidently was not happy. Obstinacy made him stick out the situation.
Alvina and Madame went upstairs. Madame wanted to see the dead James. She looked at his frail, handsome, ethereal face, and crossed herself as she wept.
“Un bel homme, cependant,” she whispered. “Mort en un jour. C’est trop fort, voyez!” And she sniggered with fear and sobs.
They went down to Alvina’s bare room. Madame glanced round, as she did in every room she entered.
“This was father’s bedroom,” said Alvina. “The other was mine. He wouldn’t have it anything but like this — bare.”
“Nature of a monk, a hermit,” whispered Madame. “Who would have thought it! Ah, the men, the men!”
And she unpinned her hat and patted her hair before the small mirror, into which she had to peep to see herself. Alvina stood waiting.
“And now — ” whispered Madame, suddenly turning: “What about this Ciccio, hein?” It was ridiculous that she would not raise her voice above a whisper, upstairs there. But so it was.
She scrutinized Alvina with her eyes of bright black glass. Alvina looked back at her, but did not know what to say.
“What about him, hein? Will you marry him? Why will you?”
“I suppose because I like him,” said Alvina, flushing.
Madame made a little grimace.
“Oh yes!” she whispered, with a contemptuous mouth. “Oh yes! — because you like him! But you know nothing of him — nothing. How can you like him, not knowing him? He may be a real bad character. How would you like him then?”
“He isn’t, is he?” said Alvina.
“I don’t know. I don’t know. He may be. Even I, I don’t know him — no, though he has been with me for three years. What is he? He is a man of the people, a boatman, a labourer, an artist’s model. He sticks to nothing — ”
“How old is he?” asked Alvina.
“He is twenty-five — a boy only. And you? You are older.”
“Thirty,” confessed Alvina.
“Thirty! Well now — so much difference! How can you trust him? How can you? Why does he want to marry you — why?”
“I don’t know — ” said Alvina.
“No, and I don’t know. But I know something of these Italian men, who are labourers in every country, just labourers and under-men always, always down, down, down — ” And Madame pressed her spread palms downwards. “And so — when they have a chance to come up — ” she raised her hand with a spring — ”they are very conceited, and they take their chance. He will want to rise, by you, and you will go down, with him. That is how it is. I have seen it before — yes — more than one time — ”
“But,” said Alvina, laughing ruefully. “He can’t rise much because of me, can he?”
“How not? How not? In the first place, you are English, and he thinks to rise by that. Then you are not of the lower class, you are of the higher class, the class of the masters, such as employ Ciccio and men like him. How will he not rise in the world by you? Yes, he will rise very much. Or he will draw you down, down — Yes, one or another. And then he thinks that now you have money — now your father is dead — ” here Madame glanced apprehensively at the closed door — ”and they all like money, yes, very much, all Italians — ”
“Do they?” said Alvina, scared. “I’m sure there won’t be any money. I’m sure father is in debt.”
“What? You think? Do you? Really? Oh poor Miss Houghton! Well — and will you tell Ciccio that? Eh? Hein?”
“Yes — certainly — if it matters,” said poor Alvina.
“Of course it matters. Of course it matters very much. It matters to him. Because he will not have much. He saves, saves, saves, as they all do, to go back to Italy and buy a piece of land. And if he has you, it will cost him much more, he cannot continue with Natcha-Kee-Tawara. All will be much more difficult — ”
“Oh, I will tell him in time,” said Alvina, pale at the lips.
“You will tell him! Yes. That is better. And then you will see. But he is obstinate — as a mule. And if he will still have you, then you must think. Can you live in England as the wife of a labouring man, a dirty Eyetalian, as they all say? It is serious. It is not pleasant for you, who have not known it. I also have not known it. But I have seen — ” Alvina watched with wide, troubled eyes, while Madame darted looks, as from bright, deep black glass.
“Yes,” said Alvina. “I should hate being a labourer’s wife in a nasty little house in a street — ”
“In a house?” cried Madame. “It would not be in a house. They live many together in one house. It would be two rooms, or even one room, in another house with many people not quite clean, you see — ”
Alvina shook her head.
“I couldn’t stand that,” she said finally.
“No!” Madame nodded approval. “No! you could not. They live in a bad way, the Italians. They do not know the English home — never. They don’t like it. Nor do they know the Swiss clean and proper house. No. They don’t understand. They run into their holes to sleep or to shelter, and that is all.”
“The same in Italy?” said Alvina.
“Even more — because there it is sunny very often — ”
“And you don’t need a house,” said Alvina. “I should like that.”
“Yes, it is nice — but you don’t know the life. And you would be alone with people like animals. And if you go to Italy he will beat you — he will beat you — ”
“If I let him,” said Alvina.
“But you can’t help it, away there from everybody. Nobody will help you. If you are a wife in Italy, nobody will help you. You are his property, when you marry by Italian law. It is not like England. There is no divorce in Italy. And if he beats you, you are helpless — ”
“But why should he beat me?” said Alvina. “Why should he want to?”
“They do. They are so jealous. And then they go into their ungovernable tempers, horrible tempers — ”
“Only when they are provoked,” said Alvina, thinking of Max. “Yes, but you will not know what provokes him. Who can say when he will be provoked? And then he beats you — ”
There seemed to be a gathering triumph in Madame’s bright black eyes. Alvina looked at her, and turned to the door.
“At any rate I know now,” she said, in rather a flat voice.
“And it is true. It is all of it true,” whispered Madame vindictively. Alvina wanted to run from her.
“I must go to the kitchen,” she said. “Shall we go down?”
Alvina did not go into the drawing-room with Madame. She was too much upset, and she had almost a horror of seeing Ciccio at that moment.
Miss Pinnegar, her face stained carmine by the fire, was helping Mrs. Rollings with the dinner.
“Are they both staying, or only one?” she said tartly.
“Both,” said Alvina, busying herself with the gravy, to hide her distress and confusion.
“The man as well,” said Miss Pinnegar. “What does the woman want to bring him for? I’m sure I don’t know what your father would say a common show-fellow, looks what he is — and staying to dinner.”
Miss Pinnegar was thoroughly out of temper as she tried the potatoes. Alvina set the table. Then she went to the drawing-room. “Will you come to dinner?” she said to her two guests.
Ciccio rose, threw his cigarette into the fire, and looked round. Outside was a faint, watery sunshine: but at least it was out of doors. He felt himself imprisoned and out of his element. He had an irresistible impulse to go.
When he got into the hall he laid his hand on his hat. The stupid, constrained smile was on his face.
“I’ll go now,” he said.
“We have set the table for you,” said Alvina.
“Stop now, since you have stopped for so long,” said Madame, darting her black looks at him.
But he hurried on his coat, looking stupid. Madame lifted her eyebrows disdainfully.
“This is polite behaviour!” she said sarcastically.
Alvina stood at a loss.
“You return to the funeral?” said Madame coldly.
He shook his head.
“When you are ready to go,” he said.
“At four o’clock,” said Madame, “when the funeral has come home. Then we shall be in time for the train.”
He nodded, smiled stupidly, opened the door, and went.
“This is just like him, to be so — so — ” Madame could not express herself as she walked down to the kitchen.
“Miss Pinnegar, this is Madame,” said Alvina.
“How do you do?” said Miss Pinnegar, a little distant and condescending. Madame eyed her keenly.
“Where is the man? I don’t know his name,” said Miss Pinnegar. “He wouldn’t stay,” said Alvina. “What is his name, Madame?”
“Marasca — Francesco. Francesco Marasca — Neapolitan.”
“Marasca!” echoed Alvina.
“It has a bad sound — a sound of a bad augury, bad sign,” said Madame. “Ma-rà-sca!” She shook her head at the taste of the syllables.
“Why do you think so?” said Alvina. “Do you think there is a meaning in sounds? goodness and badness?”
“Yes,” said Madame. “Certainly. Some sounds are good, they are for life, for creating, and some sounds are bad, they are for destroying. Ma-rà-sca! — that is bad, like swearing.”
“But what sort of badness? What does it do?” said Alvina.
