Chapter Fifty One

Death In Florence

Villa San Callisto, Fiesole, Italy, August 1932.

Even now, here in the coolness of this darkened room, the shutters firmly closed, both against the constant heat and the fierce glare of the noonday sun, perhaps also in part to try and shut out the cold harshness of reality all it took was for him to close his eyes and the scene came back to him in all its vivid detail...

Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, New Year's Day, 1920.

There was a distinct chill in the air; it was snowing and behind her in the darkness, illuminated from attic to cellar, the vast bulk of the abbey loomed large.

"You mean you've forgiven me?"

"No I haven't forgiven you".

"Well, then…"

"I haven't forgiven you because…I don't believe you need my forgiveness. You've lived your life. And I've lived mine. And now it's time we live them together".

"We've been on the edge of this so many times, Matthew. Please don't take me there again unless you're sure".

"I am sure".

"And your vows to the memory of Lavinia?"

"I was wrong. I…I don't think she wants us to be sad. She was someone who never caused a moment of sorrow in her whole life".

"I agree."

"Then will you?"

"You must say it properly. I won't answer unless…you kneel down and everything".

"Lady Mary Crawley. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

"Yes!"

Villa San Callisto, Fiesole, Italy August 1932.

"As Euripides tells us, however It comes, whenever It comes, Death is a debt we all must pay".

At least, that was what the Dean had once said to them during a tutorial given at Oxford. Not that Matthew had believed it at the time; especially not after having had to contend with, at a very early age, the death of his own father. But especially not here amid the ancient, hallowed buildings of Merton College, when, by merely raising his head slightly and looking out of the adjacent window, he could see the pastoral, verdant beauty of the water meadows stretching unbroken down as far as the banks of the Thames. Nor did Matthew believe it later when Death was everywhere about him in the living hell that was Flanders' fields ...

The Western Front, near Ypres, July 1916.

It was, as he recalled it, just about noon when, among the barrage of sausages fired by the Germans from their Rum Jars, a 14lb whizz bang had exploded directly overhead. At the time, they had been sitting in a deep dug out, itself captured from the Hun but a matter of days ago, eating their dinner or at least what passed for it: Potato Pie and Milk Biscuit Pudding, neither of which would ever have been given house room in Mrs. Patmore's kitchen. Apart from the noisome taste of the food, everyone huddled together in the dug out was acutely aware of the stench from the rotting corpses lying but a few feet away from the fallen parapet of sandbags and from the bodies both of friend and foe still out there in No-Man's Land, already swollen with gas by the heat of the sun, gnawed at by rats and with their eyes pecked out by the crows; one of the dead Germans still enmeshed in the vicious tangle of barbed wire, the body putrid with the consistency of a Camembert cheese, crawling with maggots and covered in a moving mass of black flies. With an offhand crude remark or a dirty story, some of his men could, seemingly, shrug off the ever present threat of instant mortality; the suddenness of death, waged here on the Western Front on an industrial scale. For Matthew, it was something with which he could never come to terms and never would accept. What then happened merely served to reinforce his view.

Mason had just made them all tea when, from somewhere above the dug out there came the sickening crump as the high explosive shell detonated right above them, raining down a shower of dirt, fragments of wood and metal. And not only that. For, with the deluge of debris came the blood spattered remains of Private Jennings who had been on guard duty on the fire step directly outside the entrance to the dug out and who had taken the full force of the blast: a human life snuffed out in an instant, just as Mary's had been in saving young Max...

Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, July 1925.

"Sometimes I don't know how you live with me!" She smiled at him, laughed, and flung her arms about his neck.

Villa San Callisto, Fiesole, Italy, August 1932.

Deep within his consciousness the faint ghost of remembrance stirred and recognising it for what it was, slowly he nodded his head in tacit, unspoken agreement although why he should have thought of it now, he couldn't say. Perhaps it was something to do with the time of year. After all, when she had spoken those words to him for that very first time, it had been summer then too. Less than a whisper apart, they had been standing together on the south side of the abbey at the top of the flight of stone steps which led down from the rose garden with its lily pond to the lower terrace and its ornate parterre; she, her ivory complexion flawless, slender as a reed, wearing the beaded, red chiffon evening gown by Paquin which he had bought her on their honeymoon in Paris and he, handsome, impeccably smart in his Mess Dress uniform of an officer in the Duke of Manchester's Own. Even now he could recall the beguiling, aromatic scent of the Coty perfume which she favoured; feel the gentle softness of her skin as she had cupped his face tenderly in her hands.

Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, July 1925.

At her words he had smiled; enfolded her hands gently within his own.

"I do too! Only, I know I could never live without you"...

Villa San Callisto, Fiesole, Italy, August 1932.

But now, he had no choice except but to learn how to do just that.

"It was pleasant to wake up in Florence, to open the eyes upon a bright bare room, with a floor of red tiles which look clean though they are not; with a painted ceiling whereon pink griffins and blue amorini sport in a forest of yellow violins and bassoons. It was pleasant, too, to fling wide the windows, pinching the fingers in unfamiliar fastenings, to lean out into sunshine with beautiful hills and trees and marble churches opposite, and, close below, Arno, gurgling against the embankment of the road".

Matthew grimaced and now all but hurled the book from him in disgust. Instead, at the last moment he changed his mind and slammed it down hard on the table beside him. The table rocked ominously. Then, his fingers fumbling, he reached for the glass of whisky and brought it quickly up to his lips. In a single gulp he drained what yet remained in it and then with all the force that he could muster threw the now empty glass savagely at the far wall where it shattered into pieces. What remained of the amber liquid, not more than a few stray droplets, flecked the pale plaster; some strange trick of the morning light imparting to it a distinctly reddish hue so that it looked like blood. Her blood.

Not that anyone came to find out what had happened; in fact, no-one seemed even to have heard. The house was still and quiet; uncannily so; almost as if it was itself trying to come to terms with the enormity of what had happened the previous day. Now as he listened, alert for the slightest sound, the silence persisted. Not that in itself that was surprising. So as to ensure he was not disturbed, doubtless, along with Friedrich and Edith, Tom and Sybil must have taken all the children down into the gardens below the villa.

Matthew's eyes lighted on the book he had been reading. He had read "A Room With A View" by E. M. Forster on his mother's recommendation for the first time many years ago during his time at Oxford, long before the outbreak of the Great War. It was one of the reasons which had made him want to visit the city in the first place and he had re-read it several times since. Indeed, it was also why, the previous Christmas, when the suggestion had been mooted of the Bransons and the Crawleys taking a trip together to the Continent, knowing Mary's love of art, he himself had suggested Florence as a possible destination. Then, when the Asshingtons had offered them the loan of their villa here in Fiesole that had more or less clinched matters.

Not that Matthew would ever claim to be an avid reader. He would freely, gladly, and of his own volition concede that accolade to Tom, his dearly loved brother-in-law and best friend. That said, recently, Tom had been instrumental in widening Matthew's literary horizons considerably, never more so than a couple of years ago when Tom had presented him with an unexpected gift on the very last day of 1929.

From whence it came, Tom never told him although from what he said later it transpired that both he and Sybil had read the book the previous year. Now, duly having obtained a copy for Matthew, he had made a great show of presenting it clandestinely to him in the Billiards Room of Downton Abbey on New Year's Eve 1929. Swearing him to the utmost secrecy, Tom had grinned and handed Matthew the package, wrapped for further concealment from prying eyes in a covering of brown paper. Then he had winked broadly at Matthew, saying that it would be for the best if their father-in-law knew nothing about it; to read it himself, in private, before, if he so decided, letting Mary see it.

So it was, that shortly thereafter, Matthew Crawley, then heir to the earldom of Grantham one of the oldest titles in the country, became one of but a handful of people in England who, at the time, could claim to have read the novel that had so scandalized polite society: Lady Chatterley's Lover by D. H. Lawrence. And, while he would never claim to be widely read, as was Tom, once he had read it, other than for the appearance in the tale of certain words, Matthew was left wondering what all the fuss was about and duly passed it on to Mary. For her part, once she too had read it, Mary was equally perplexed by all the furore surrounding the story; remarking privately to Matthew in bed one evening shortly after she had finished reading it, that if only Lawrence had had the wit to have made the character of Mellors a chauffeur instead of a gamekeeper but for the fact that Lady Chatterley was a married woman, then the story might have born more than a passing resemblance to the tale of a certain lady and an erstwhile chauffeur!

Until then, Matthew had read little by Lawrence other than The Rainbow when, after 1926, it became available again in England and also its sequel Women In Love, agreeing wholeheartedly with the writer who regarded Florence as a city where life was civilised yet unspoiled, praising the place for both its beauty and its flowers. Even so, after what had happened, Matthew could no longer find Florence beautiful nor agree with Lawrence that here in Italy in the sunshine even death is sunny and that there is no end to the sunshine. And, on reflection, Matthew found too that he did not agree with E. M. Forster either any more: that it was pleasant to wake up in Florence. It wasn't. At least, not today; the saddest day of his life and which, before it was through, would have seen take place the funeral of his dearly loved wife.

The English Church, Via Maggio, Florence, August 1932.

Opened for worship in 1881, St. Mark's, the English Church in Florence, stood on the Via Maggio, close to the Santa Trinita Bridge. With its austere classical façade, save for the standing figure of its patron saint sheltered within a semi-circular niche, to the passer-by the exterior of the building appeared remarkably plain and in no way prepared the antiquarian, the architectural historian or indeed the casual visitor who took the trouble to step across its threshold for what lay within.

Gazing fixedly at the magnificent gilded reredos behind the main altar of the church, the whole of which was richly decorated in the style of the pre-Raphaelites, next to the centre aisle, huddled in the none too comfortable corner of a wooden pew, Matthew sat quietly; silently contemplative. Of course, this was not the first time he had set foot inside St. Mark's, having visited the church as a young man when still at Oxford long before he had ever heard of Downton Abbey, let alone fallen in love with and then married Lady Mary Josephine Crawley.

With its brightly painted frescoes, religious pictures in ornately carved frames, statues of the saints, votive lights and delicate, hanging silver lamps, it was so unlike the plain, stark interior of the parish church at Downton. All but devoid of decoration and with its simple, whitewashed walls, St. Mary's parish church at Downton had been all but stripped of its Catholic fittings and fixtures during the iconoclasm of the English Reformation in the mid sixteenth century. True, here and there, some fragments yet remained to show how splendid it all must once have been: the richly carved parclose screens with their faded figures of the saints enclosing the two side chapels, the traces of wall paintings and the fragments of beautiful fifteenth century stained glass and which, when intact, Matthew supposed, in some ways, must have resembled the ornate nineteenth century interior of St. Mark's in Florence.

Here in Italy, in the bright sunshine of Tuscany, so beloved by Lawrence, where the summer air was warm, inside St. Mark's the church was pleasantly cool, heady with the aromatic scent of incense. By contrast, even on the brightest of English summer days the interior of St, Mary's was undeniably both damp and chill; the pervading smell being one of both mould and decay, as if somehow, the vicissitudes of past centuries had conspired to strip the old church of some of its ancient holiness.

But, here in St. Mark's, to the more perceptive, among them Matthew himself, there was something else too: for mingling with the heady fragrance of both frankincense and sandalwood there was another, far less pleasant smell: one that was cold, sour, and stale, the source of which could not be ascertained with any degree of certainty. Perhaps it had something to do with unanswered prayers.

Brought up from childhood by his parents as a member of the Church of England, Matthew had never been especially religious. At boarding school he had no option but to attend the daily service in the school chapel and later as he grew to manhood during the school holidays he had attended Church of England services in Manchester with his widowed mother. However, as sixth earl of Grantham and therefore also as local squire, at Downton, Matthew saw to it that he did what was expected and required of him by way of punctillious religious observance. That is to say on most Sundays, as well as at Easter, at Harvest Festival and at Christmas, along with the rest of the Crawley family, of which he was now head, he attended Divine Service in St. Mary's parish church of which he was patron.

Not that Matthew gained much if anything at all by way of spiritual comfort from such weekly religious observances. Given the present circumstances he only wished he did. Turning his head he glanced at Robert and Simon who were seated next to him; saw that both his boys were staring ahead, their eyes red and puffy from crying. Saw Robert place a comforting arm around the shoulders of young Simon who clutched his teddy bear even more tightly to him. Had he been able to do so, Matthew would dearly have loved to have spared them this, as he had little Rebecca who, too young to understand what had happened, was presently being cared for by Nanny back at the villa.

From where he was sitting, glancing across the stone-flagged aisle with Danny, Saiorse and Bobby between them, he saw that Tom and Sybil were seated in the pew directly opposite. Catching sight of Matthew glancing in his direction, Tom, who like Danny looked ashen, did his very best to muster a weak smile while Sybil whose face was hidden from view by the brim of her black hat hugged little Bobby to her in a tight embrace and then pointed out something on the adjacent wall. In the pew behind the Bransons sat Friedrich, Edith and Max. Her eyes red from weeping, Edith managed to summon up a wan smile and Friedrich nodded his head curtly in acknowledgement. Between them, little Max sat quietly serious, gazing silently into space. Of course, Matthew didn't blame the young boy for what had happened. After all, it was just…

Just what?

A series of hackneyed phrases now ran through his mind, each of them commonplace, even trite and, given the circumstances, in the end, all singularly meaningless. One of those things? Or as Mary herself once put it, part of life's rich tapestry?

Matthew glanced back towards where the oak coffin with its accompanying wreaths rested on the bier. The candles on the altar flickered. Accompanied by two young acolytes swinging incense burners, he saw the priest resplendent in his vestments moving forward. The small congregation rose to its feet. It was time.

Villa San Callisto, Fiesole, Italy, August 1932.

"Matthew. Matthew!" As he drifted somewhere in that No-Man's Land that exists between the borders of sleep and consciousness, his brain still fogged by the noxious, unpleasant taste of the dream, Matthew became aware of someone shaking him hard by the shoulder. Opening his eyes, a moment later and Tom's dearly loved face came into sharp focus.

"Tom! What the devil…" Matthew sat bolt upright.
"You've been asleep old chap. Not that I'm surprised. Best thing for you, what, with this business and all". Tom smiled down at his best friend and brother-in-law.

"Mary?" asked Matthew in obvious alarm.

"She's just woken up. Matthew, she'll be fine".

"Fine?"
"For sure! Her head's rather sore of course. All bandaged up. But that's only to be expected. In a week or so, she'll be as right as rain. You'll see. According to the doctor what Mary needs now is plenty of loving care and a lot of bed rest. Sybil and Edith will see to that between them. Whatever differences there once were between her and Edith, given what Mary did for young Max, out there on the terrace steps, it's now all in the past. Where it belongs. Leave it so". Tom smiled. "By the way, the doctor asked me to tell you that your wife has a very thick skull. Mind you, I suppose we both knew that before all of this". Tom's smile broadened. "Anyway, it was that which saved her. Sybil and Edith are in with her now. She's asking for you, old friend".

Nodding weakly, Matthew now struggled to his feet. Reaching forward he grasped Tom's outstretched hand. Well, thought Matthew, if Euripides had it wrong about Death, he certainly had the right of it when he wrote about the inestimable value of one loyal friend, as, buoyed beyond measure by Tom's good news, together they now walked out onto the landing and went happily in to see Mary.

Author's Note:

Jeanne Pacquin (1869-1936) was a leading French fashion designer renowned for her modern and innovative creations.

"Sausages" - the nickname given by the Tommies to shells fired from German mortars (Rum Jars).

The first version of Lady Chatterley's Lover was written in Italy between 1926 and 1928 while D. H. Lawrence and his wife were living in a rented villa south west of Florence. The finished novel was privately printed in Florence later that same year. At the time much of its content was considered obscene and the unexpurgated novel was not published in England until 1960.

Originally opened in the late nineteenth century for English residents in Florence and for English visitors to the city, St. Mark's (known unsurprisingly as the English Church) still stands on the Via Maggio close to the Santa Trinita Bridge.