Leslie Hartley - The Complete Short Stories of L.P. Hartley

The champagne flowed, and as fast as Henry drank it his labouring, overheated skin discharged it. He dabbed his neck, his face, his hands. Perhaps it would have been wiser not to drink, but he could not forgo the momentary relief each swallow brought him—the immediate physical relief, and the deliverance from his nervous premonitions. All nerves they were: to-morrow this time he would be at Merano breathing freely. Drinking freely he could better imagine that paradise. The faces opposite him were a blur, but one was Maureen’s, and another, farther to the left, between a Nino and a Gigi who were both talking to her at once, was Annette’s.

At last the chairs scraped on the smooth terrazza and they left the dining-room, in Continental fashion, the men and women together, a little group of white shirt-fronts and bare shoulders. Up they went, upstairs into the second sala , for the Palazzo Bembo had two, two great galleries that ran the whole length of the building. Breasting the ascent, however, they stopped, as a crowd stops, automatically, almost barging into each other: and little cries broke out and circled over Henry’s head. ‘Ah, che bello!’ As they moved on and up, these exclamations, and others like them, screams and trills and chirrups of delight, went on, and Henry, reaching the top, saw what it was that had provoked them, though for a moment he didn’t quite take in what it meant. He blinked and looked again: what was it, this array of snowy surfaces, booths, tents, tabernacles, this ghostly encampment under the great chandelier? Then, drawing nearer, he saw: it was an encampment, an encampment of mosquito-nets. Following the others’ lead, Henry began to circulate among them. They were of all shapes and sizes, some square, some domed and circular, some tapering to a peak like army tents. To one and all gaily coloured pennons were attached, indicating their purpose. Under the chandelier, where the light was brightest, was pitched a cluster of square tents meant for bridge, as their label, ‘Per far una partita’, testified. Beyond them, farther from the light, round and square forms alternating, were other tents reserved for conversation: ‘Per far la conversazione’ was the device they bore. Beyond them, where the light was fainter, was ranged another group, only big enough to hold two armchairs apiece: ‘Per far l’amore’ was the legend that these temptingly displayed. A gasp went up; had Loredana gone too far this time? And beyond these again, one in each corner of the room flanking the tall gothic windows, where the light from the chandelier hardly reached them, almost out of sight, were two much smaller refuges. These at once aroused the curiosity of the guests: what could their purpose be? They peered and peered at the labels, which were not coloured or cut into fantastic shapes, but sober rectangles of white cardboard, with plain black lettering on them. Then there was a chuckle, which sooner or later was taken up by everyone: ‘Per i misantropi’, they read, and soon the words were on every lip.

The first tents to be occupied were the bridge tents: the impatient players made straight for them, and within a minute or two the cards were being dealt. If some of the guests were too slow off the mark, and lost their places at the bridge-tables, they concealed their disappointment and joined the conversationalists. One or two paired off, and somewhat sheepishly and defiantly made for the tents of love: cries of encouragement followed after them. As far as Henry could make out, no man or woman chose to be self-proclaimed a misanthrope: the two lone tents remained unoccupied. But he had scarcely time to see, for it was like a game of musical chairs—one had to find one’s seat or be left standing, and the idea of standing was much less bearable to Henry even than the idea of talking. ‘Per far la conversazione!’ There was a vacancy: in he went and sank down in a chair. There were iced drinks in misted glasses on the table, and round it three people whom he knew quite well: it might have been much worse.

He it was who drew together the tent-flaps and tied them with gay bows of scarlet ribbon: if the tents were not mosquito-proof, as he suspected, they looked as if they were, which was a great thing: he could relax, he needn’t flap and flip, and screw his face up, or make other uncivilized gestures of the mosquito-ridden. Outside, no doubt, the creatures hummed, they must, for at both ends of the sala the windows stood wide open, and with two glittering chandeliers to guide them they couldn’t miss their way. No, it wasn’t too bad. The muslin kept out some of the air, of course, but how clever of Loredana to have thought of it all! She had turned those twin plagues, the heat and the mosquitoes, neither of which was funny in itself, into a joke. She had converted them into a social asset, she had countered them with a creation that was beautiful and strange. The party would be long remembered.

Fuddled though he was, and ready to accept unreality, Henry began to wonder where, in what muslin arbours, Annette and Maureen had taken shelter. The first question was quickly answered. Faintly, from below, came the strains of a dance-band.

‘You didn’t know?’ said someone. ‘They’re coming in after dinner to dance, a whole crowd of them. It’s we old-stagers who are sitting up here.’ He was an Italian and vecchietti was the word he used: ‘a little old’, such a nice word, there was no equivalent for it in English, we were less considerate to old age. Henry didn’t mind being a vecchietto . So Annette was accounted for: she would be downstairs dancing with a Nino, or a Nini, a Gigio or a Gigi. She would be sure to be enjoying herself.

But Maureen? He looked about him. Even here where the light from the chandelier was fairly strong, you couldn’t very well see through the muslin; you could see the shadowy shapes of other tents, but you couldn’t tell who was inside them; in the case of those farther away, nearer the windows, you couldn’t tell if anyone was inside them. Maureen was so efficient, so practised socially; she would have found her niche—not with the bridge-players, for she wasn’t one, not—he smiled to himself—in one of the temples d’amour , for that didn’t interest her—she would be taking part in another conversation-piece, perhaps next door to his. While with the surface of his mind he gossiped with his fellow guests his inner ear was alert for the inflexions of Maureen’s voice; and so intent was he on listening that he didn’t see the figure that more than once passed by his curtain wall, stopping and peering in and circling round; and it was one of the others who first saw her and said, ‘Guardi, Enrico, isn’t that your wife who goes in search of you?’ At once Henry jumped up and excusing himself untied the ribbons and let himself out into the air.

‘What is it?’ he said, moving with her into a space between the tents that was out of earshot. ‘Anything I can do?’

‘Darling, I’ve got a splitting headache,’ she answered. ‘I really think I must go back. It came on suddenly—it’s the heat, I suppose. But I don’t want to spoil Annette’s fun, she’s having the time of her life, and I don’t want Loredana to know, she has so much on her hands already. So I’ll just slip out—she’ll never notice—and Luigi and Emilio can take me back to the hotel.’

‘I’ll go with you,’ Henry said.

‘No, darling, don’t do that. What I should like you to do, if you don’t mind, is to wait for Annette and bring her home. When you go you can explain to Loredana and make my apologies. I know it’s a frightful bore and you’re not feeling well either—but just this once! It really wouldn’t do to let Annette go back alone, we know she can be trusted but people would talk about it. I hate to ask you to, but it won’t be for long—what time is it?’