Illyrian Spring Page 15

  But Nature in Dalmatia is singularly open-handed, and distributes beauties as well as wonders with lavish impartiality. Within a few hundred paces of the source of the Ombla they came on a thing which Grace was to remember all her life, as much for its beauty as its incredibility. The road here swung round to the right, pushed out towards the valley by a spur of the mountainside; some distance above the road the slopes of this spur rose steeply, broken by ledges and shallow gullies, the rocks of the usual tone of silvery pearl colour. And all over the ledges of these pearly rocks, as thick as they could stand, grew big pale-blue irises, a foot or more high, sumptuous as those in an English border, their leaves almost as silver as the rocks, their unopened buds standing up like violet spears among the delicate pallor of the fully opened flowers – Iris pallida dalmatica, familiar to every gardener, growing in unimaginable profusion in its native habitat. Now to see an English garden flower smothering a rocky mountainside is a sufficient wonder, especially if the rocks are of silver colour and the flowers a silvery blue; and Nature, feeling that she had done enough, might well have been content to leave it at that. But she had a last wonder, a final beauty to add. In the cracks and fissures another flower grew, blue also, spreading out over the steep slabs between the ledges in flat cushions as much as a yard across – a low-growing woody plant, smothered in small close flower-heads of a deep chalky blue, the shade beloved of the painter Nattier. Anything more lovely than these low compact masses of just the same tone of colour, but a deeper shade, flattened on the white rocks as a foil and companion to the flaunting splendour of the irises, cannot be conceived.

  Nicholas and Lady Kilmichael, strolling up the lower slopes in search of flowers, first came on the cushions of the blue plant. Then they caught sight of the irises, and by little paths, white-floored stone shoots and shallow gullies they scrambled up to one of the broad ledges, where above, below and all round them the flowers stood thick. ‘Good heavens!’ said Grace, and dropping down upon a stone, she stared incredulously about her. The white rocks, the flowers, their blade-like silvered leaves all glowed in the strong sunshine with an effect that was quite literally dazzling. Nicholas sat down beside her. He said nothing – he did not even sketch his gesture; but, as before, she was aware of the strong current of feeling set flowing within him. And this time, with a curious precision and certainty, she was aware of something more – how her own presence increased and heightened his delight, his response. Unspoken and unexpressed, this awareness grew and deepened, and with it her own pleasure in the sight. And for a short space of time, forgetting everything else, she gave herself up to this wordless sympathy, this peculiar accord between them, which made of the shared moment something more delicate and wonderful than it could have been for either alone.

  Presently, with a curious movement of his shoulders, as of a dog who shakes himself, Nicholas got up, and clambered off to examine the low blue plant, while Grace sat still, glad of the rest, now looking up at the iris-clad mountainside behind her, now at the view in front. How lovely, and what an impossible thing to paint, she thought, noting how the flower heads cut a sort of stencil of pale lilac across the foreshortened landscape of the valley. In a picture, that would be affected, impossible, without beauty – and she fell to thinking, as she often did, about the limitations which painting imposed, and the mysterious process by which, within those limitations, the great artists produced a quality of beauty and significance which often transcended the actual. But they could only do that by accepting the limitations.

  ‘I think it must be one of the Boraginaceae,’ said Nicholas, coming back and sitting down beside her with a loose flop. He continued to examine a sprig of the plant through a small lens. ‘It looks like an evergreen. Look at it.’

  Grace took the sprig, painfully certain that she would have no views as to whether it was one of the Boraginaceae or not. It had a tough woody stem like heather, with small dull-green leaves set close along it – the flower heads curled over tightly at the top, and the unopened buds were of a blue much deeper than the rest. It was unlike anything which she had ever seen; there was a delicate precision about its smallness, firmness and accuracy of design which charmed her.

  ‘It’s very lovely,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I wish one could grow it at home.’

  ‘I must come up here again with a pick and get a root,’ said Nicholas decidedly. ‘They go so deep, a knife’s no use.’

  Grace looked at her watch. ‘I think we ought to go on. But we will come back. Goodness, how lovely it is.’

  ‘It is a place, isn’t it?’ said Nicholas, looking approvingly round him. They scrambled down to the road again, and followed it round the curve of the river to the village, looking with pleasure at the gardens round the houses, the oleanders before the inn, the innumerable little boats moored along the fondamento, which was also the main street. Two or three villas stood a little way back from the road, in larger gardens, more or less screened by rich shrubs – one of these attracted their attention because it had a monkey puzzle. ‘What a thing to plant in Ombla!’ said Grace. ‘We shall have to find Rudolf now,’ observed Nicholas, scrutinising the boats in turn. ‘Oh, there he is.’

  ‘I’m hot – I should like a cup of coffee before we go back,’ said Grace. ‘Ask him where we can get it, Nicholas. Oh, this is a nice place.’

  The old boatman, who was snoozing in his craft some distance beyond the inn, indicated the last house in the village – the Signora Orlando there, he said, served coffees. He would bring the boat down. They strolled on in search of the Signora Orlando, Grace increasingly delighted with her surroundings. It was all so clean, so fresh, so simple, this village, among the sunny fields, with the river making soft sounds to itself as it hurried by, deep and clear; there was something homely about the spectacle of the bus, waiting empty in the shade at the side of the road; it was all very quiet. The idea came to her that if only there were a pub of any sort, it would be a divine place to stay. But the inn among the oleanders hardly looked habitable – those minute country places were really only wine shops, as a rule.

  The last house stood right on the fondamento, within a few feet of the water. A dark-haired woman, whom they took to be the Signora Orlando, responded to their knock, and, readily promising coffee, led them round to a garden at the side of the house, where little tables stood on the raked gravel, under trellises of roses and vines supported by small stone pillars. Oleanders and pomegranates stood in groups about the garden, the flower beds were fragrant with stocks and brilliant with snapdragons; further away from the house, grass paths ran between pergolas of ramblers – a high hedge enclosed the whole. Somewhere close by nightingales were singing; loud, sweet and fervent as the sunshine, their song filled the air like a clear light made audible. And drinking her coffee, again Grace thought – what a divine place to stay! If the Signora had a room or two, and would agree, what could be more perfect? Besides – yes, if the Signora could only spare one room, it would give her just the opportunity she wanted to leave Nicholas, for a time, anyhow. It would not be making a business; nothing could be more natural than that she should seize a chance to come and stay in this heavenly spot, and she could go over to Ragusa now and then to keep an eye on his work. The more she thought about this scheme, the better it seemed to her; and presently, making some excuse, she sought out the Signora in the house. Did she ever, Grace asked, take guests for a short time? The Signora looked a little startled, but after a moment’s hesitation smiled and said ‘Perché no?’ (Why not?) Grace, encouraged by this amiability, explained that she would like to come, by herself, and stay there to paint. ‘Perché no?’ said the Signora again. Could she then look at a room, Grace pursued. With another smiling ‘Perché no?’ the Signora led her up a broad wooden staircase and along a wide landing, all scrubbed, Grace noted, to a white spotlessness, and threw open the door of a room. Grace went in, and examined it with delight. It was a corner room, with one window looking out on the river, the island, and its black
groups of cypresses; the other window looked inland, across the fields to the ridge of hills which separates the Ombla valley from Ragusa and the sea, their lower slopes blurred with the soft grey of olive trees. The floor was bare, except for a couple of bright native rugs, and as spotless as the stairs and landing; there were two beds with, astonishingly, box-spring mattresses; there was also a wardrobe, a marble-topped washstand and a wicker armchair. It was all anyone could need; its very simplicity was delightful, and the view from those two windows riches in abundance. Were there other rooms? Only one, opposite, but the Signora’s niece was living in that – she could, however, be ejected. Grace explained that she would need a second room to paint in, and took the niece’s room as well, for the purpose; having thus made her solitude secure, as she hoped, she broached the question of meals, and was taken downstairs and shown a small cement-floored room, looking on the garden, where she could eat alone instead of in the main restaurant in front. And price? For the first time the Signora hesitated – she had never had a permanent guest before; but after some consultation with a white-haired crone in the kitchen across the passage, she returned and rather deprecatingly suggested for complete board, lodging and attendance, a sum in dinars which amounted to about 5s. 3d. a day. Grace nearly laughed – to live in such a paradise for such a price! She agreed, however, gravely, and then asked if she could come as soon as tomorrow? For the last time – ‘Perché no?’ said the Signora. So with the simplicity of some event in the Pilgrim’s Progress the whole thing was settled, and Grace returned to the garden.

  ‘What ages you’ve been,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘I know – I was seeing the house. Nicholas, I’m coming out here to stay.’

  ‘Oh, do they take people?’

  ‘They never have, but she’s going to take me. I want to paint here.’

  ‘How many rooms has she got? Can I come too?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not,’ said Grace, feeling slightly guilty. ‘She’s only got one bedroom free, and I’ve taken that – and got another room to paint in.’

  ‘What a bore!’ he said. ‘I should like to come too. It’s a good place.’

  ‘You can always come over by the bus, and I shall be coming into Ragusa a lot,’ said Grace cheerfully. ‘It’s only a few miles.’

  ‘What do you suppose the food’s like?’ Nicholas enquired, rather gloomily.

  ‘Oh, completely native, I should think. But I like that.’

  ‘I expect you’ll be poisoned,’ he said, more gloomily still. ‘When do you come?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘But you haven’t finished your picture of the Stradone,’ he protested.

  ‘No – I shall leave that with you and come in and finish it one day. But I want to do a thing of those irises before they’re over,’ said Grace, seizing on an inspired excuse for her precipitate move. Nicholas appeared to accept it, and presently they left, with a warm exchange of À riveder-la’s between Grace and the Signora. The boatman was waiting at the steps outside, and they set off down the river, Lady Kilmichael glancing back at the square house and its trellised garden with infinite satisfaction in the thought of her return the very next day. Nicholas still looked rather dejected, and to distract him she said, as they swept rapidly down on the swift current past the island – ‘Nicholas, we must find out why he talks English. Do ask him.’

  ‘Oh yes – so we must; I’d forgotten that.’

  The boatman’s Italian, though fluent, was very bad. However Nicholas presently elicited the information that he was vecchio piroscafo, as he called it. This, literally, means ‘old steamship’; the fact, it appeared, was that he had been a deckhand on tramp steamers, and had actually spent several years in the coastwise trade from Cardiff, where he had acquired a few words of English, including the national adjective. ‘Really, you know,’ Nicholas said to Grace, ‘bloody has taken the place that Goddamn used to hold. I wonder when Continentals will start calling us “les bloodies” as they used to call us “les Goddams”.’ The vecchio piroscafo, catching the last word, nodded and grinned – ‘Goddam, goddam!’ he said, delighted to show his knowledge. The ice thus pleasantly broken, he became extremely chatty, and volunteered various items of local information; as that the Signor Orlando worked for Pavlé Burié, the wine merchant, and that the monastery on the north shore belonged to the Franciscani. He praised Grace’s steering, and flourished a few compliments on her appearance. ‘Rudolf’s getting quite matey,’ observed Nicholas. Grace laughed. ‘I think he probably had one or two at the inn, don’t you?’ she said.

  Whether that were the cause, or whether it was merely the instinct, common to all watermen, to sing on the smallest provocation, ‘Rudolf’ presently volunteered a song, and poured out ‘O sole mio’ in a voice which, though nasal, was powerful and not unpleasing. Grace asked him then for a song of his own country, and he sang two or three – strange airs, monotonous and even uncouth to northern ears, but with a haunting quality in their curious intervals. The sun had set, and it was very still; the current carried them along smoothly between the pale hills, while those strange songs rang out over the darkly shining river with the peculiar resonance of a voice over water. Presently the old man asked Grace to sing an English song. Grace had rather a pretty voice, trained by much part-singing to a simple accuracy and purity; she sang ‘The Water of Tyne’, first carefully explaining the plot to the old man. He was delighted, and asked for another. And then Nicholas remembered something. ‘You’ve never sung me “Morgen”,’ he said; ‘you promised at Clissa to sing it to me in English. Sing it now – I want to know what it’s about. It’s such an intriguing tune.’

  ‘It will be horrible without the accompaniment,’ objected Grace.

  ‘Never mind – please!’

  So Grace sang it.

  ‘And oh, the sun will shine again tomorrow!

  And still my feet along that path will lead me

  Where we, the happy ones, shall be united

  There in the fragrant pinewood’s sun-breathing centre.

  And to the shore, the wide-flung, blue horizon

  Speechless and slow, we shall go down together –

  Deep in each other’s eyes will look, in wonder

  While on us sinks our rapture’s helpless silence.’

  The old boatman applauded when she had finished, but Nicholas said ‘Thank you,’ and nothing else. They had passed the bend now, and ahead of them the darkening river broadened to the open sea, where a faint glow lay along the horizon. He sat looking at it, his head turned away; and this time it was Lady Kilmichael who wondered what he was thinking about. But she did not ask.

  THIRTEEN

  Lady Kilmichael was sitting high up on the slopes above the source of the Ombla, painting the irises. She was working very fast – always, with her, a sign of interior well-being. Deliberately, but swiftly, she transferred to her canvas those militant cohorts – the leaves like swords, the buds like spears, the flowers like an army with banners – which covered the white rocks, in the fierce light, with something of the glitter of an invading host. That light, that whiteness, that intensity of heat and coolness of colour – what a thing to paint! But what a picture, if it came off! And it was coming off.

  She had been at Komolac three days, and she was deeply content to be there. It was with something of the sense of slipping into clear water that she woke, in the mornings, in her bare room, seeing from one window the long shadows of the cypresses cutting across the shafts of early light, from the other the olive trees detaching themselves with unwonted precision against a hillside which the morning sun made faintly golden. She lay in bed watching them, her lovely empty day spread out ahead of her wide and still as a lake, which she could explore in any direction; it seemed to her then that she had never been happier, never so free. Watching a parti-coloured flock of pigeons swing out over the river, circle and wheel back over the roofs of the village, she felt that here at last she was as unencumbered as they. All day and all night th
e river spoke gently under her windows; all day and all night the nightingales sang with a loud intense rapture of which their song in cool English spinneys is but a thin echo. And as she was astonished at the fervour of their singing, so she was astonished at the intensity of her own contentment. She had forgotten that it was possible to be so actively, so eagerly happy.

  There were no material drawbacks to check her pleasure, either. The house was perfectly clean – every inch of every floor was scrubbed daily. The food, as she had surmised, was completely indigenous and strange – each meal was like a voyage into uncharted seas – but it was also delicious. Now she sat down to roast kid smothered in chopped rosemary; now to thick rolled pancakes stuffed with raw ham, fennel and hard-boiled eggs; everything was full of strange herbs, strange flavours. And the Signor Orlando, finding that she took an interest in wines, brought her back daily from Pavlé Burié’s establishment some new thing to try – the red wine of Lacroma, heavy, of a Burgundy type, or one or other of the varieties of Grk, a white wine which at its best has something of the quality of sherry, with some other and more elusive subtlety added. Pavlé Burié’s office was the big building outside which the bus stopped, in the intervals of hurtling to and fro along the river road to Gruz; his cellars were further up the village, beyond the inn – one day she was to see over them. In Pavlé Burié’s office was the nearest approach to a public telephone in Komolac; she had been up once into the big barn-like room to speak to Nicholas. He sounded cheerful and even a little elated; he enquired very particularly as to her movements, what she was painting and in what light, but he made no complaints of solitude, and she was satisfied about him. For the present he had clearly accepted their separation, and was perfectly all right.

  She thought about him a good deal, nevertheless. From here, at a distance, she was able to see the whole thing more clearly and with greater detachment. Her sense of embarrassment lessened; in fact she began to regard that as rather an unworthy thing, remembering the simplicity of his affection – it was as artless as a child’s. Of course she reviewed her own conduct, asking herself – familiar question! – whether she had been in any way at fault. Had she been too easy, too free, given and accepted teasing too readily? With unusual robustness she decided that she had not. No! She had, quite deliberately, taken the line of treating him as an equal and contemporary, for the specific purpose of restoring his self-confidence, giving him encouragement. But on the whole she could not feel that that treatment had been a mistake; it had, as Teddy would say, ‘done its stuff’; Nicholas was undoubtedly happier, more equable, more poised than he had been when they first met. She began now to think of him apart from his relation to herself – it was much easier to do this, to stand his character up against the wall and look at it, when he was not always about, teasing, cajoling, interrupting her with demands for an opinion, for advice about his work. She was puzzled by that combination in him of considerable intellectual maturity and childishness of character. His mind was interesting, a more interesting mind than Teddy’s; perhaps as interesting as Nigel’s, because it was more experimental. But how odd to realise that he was actually older than they! One thought of him instinctively as years younger. And in a curious flash of insight it struck her that his childishness seemed almost deliberate; as though because of some failure of courage, of realisation, he clung to it. He was – yes, dependent was the word.