"You know Gouache?" asked old Prince Saracinesca, in a tone which
implied that he had news to tell. He looked from his daughter-in-law to
his son as he put the question, and then went on with his breakfast.
"Very well," answered Giovanni. "What about him?"
"He was knocked down by a carriage last night. The carriage belonged to
Montevarchi, and Gouache is at his house, in danger of his life."
"Poor fellow!" exclaimed Corona in ready sympathy. "I am so sorry! I am
very fond of Gouache."
Giovanni Saracinesca, known to the world since his marriage as Prince
of Sant' Ilario, glanced quickly at his wife, so quickly that neither
she nor the old gentleman noticed the fact.
The three persons sat at their midday breakfast in the dining-room of
the Palazzo Saracinesca. After much planning and many discussions the
young couple had determined to take up their abode with Giovanni's
father. There were several reasons which had led them to this decision,
but the two chief ones were that they were both devotedly attached to
the old man; and secondly, that such a proceeding was strictly fitting
and in accordance with the customs of Romans. It was true that Corona,
while her old husband, the Duca d'Astrardente, was alive, had grown
used to having an establishment exclusively her own, and both the
Saracinesca had at first feared that she would be unwilling to live in
her father-in-law's house. Then, too, there was the Astrardente palace,
which, could not lie shut up and allowed to go to ruin; but this matter
was compromised advantageously by Corona's letting it to an American
millionaire who wished to spend the winter in Rome. The rent paid was
large, and Corona never could have too much money for her improvements
out at Astrardente. Old Saracinesca wished that the tenant might have
been at least a diplomatist, and cursed the American by his gods, but
Giovanni said that his wife had shown good sense in getting as much as
she could for the palace.
"We shall not need it till Orsino grows up--unless you marry again,"
said Sant' Ilario to his father, with a laugh.
Now, Orsino was Giovanni's son and heir, aged, at the time of this
tale, six months and a few days. In spite of his extreme youth,
however, Orsino played a great and important part in the doings of the
Saracinesca household. In the first place, he was the heir, and the old
prince had been found sitting by his cradle with an expression never
seen in his face since Giovanni had been a baby. Secondly, Orsino was a
very fine child, swarthy of skin, and hard as a tiger cub, yet having
already his mother's eyes, large, coal-black and bright, but deep and
soft withal. Thirdly, Orsino had a will of his own, admirably seconded
by an enormous lung power. Not that he cried, when he wanted anything.
His baby eyes had not yet been seen to shed tears. He merely shouted,
loud and long, and thumped the sides of his cradle with his little
clenched fists, or struck out straight at anybody who chanced to be
within reach. Corona rejoiced in the child, and used to say that he was
like his grandfather, his father and his mother all put together. The
old prince thought that if this were true the boy would do very well;
Corona was the most beautiful dark woman of her time; he himself was a
sturdy, tough old man, though his hair and beard were white as snow,
and Giovanni was his father's ideal of what a man of his race should
be. The arrival of the baby Orsino had been an additional argument in
favour of living together, for the child's grandfather could not have
been separated from him even by the quarter of a mile which lay between
the two palaces.
And so it came to pass that they all dwelt under the same roof, and
were sitting together at breakfast on the morning of the 24th of
September, when the old prince told them of the accident which had
happened to Gouache.
"How did you hear the news?" asked Giovanni.
"Montevarchi told me this morning. He was very much disturbed at the
idea of having an interesting young man in his house, with Flavia and
Faustina at home." Old Saracinesca smiled grimly.
"Why should that trouble him?" inquired Corona.
"He has the ancient ideas," replied her father-in-law.
"After all--Flavia--"
"Yes Flavia, after all--"
"I shall be curious to see how the other one turns out," remarked
Giovanni. "There seems to be a certain unanimity in our opinion of
Flavia. However, I daresay it is mere gossip, and Casa Montevarchi is
not a gay place for a girl of her age."
"Not gay? How do you know?" asked the old prince. "Does the girl want
Carnival to last till All Souls'? Did you ever dine there, Giovannino?"
"No--nor any one else who is not a member of the most Excellent Casa
Montevarchi."
"Then how do you know whether it is gay or not?"
"You should hear Ascanio Bellegra describe their life," retorted
Giovanni.
"And I suppose you describe your life to him, in exchange?" Prince
Saracinesca was beginning to lose his temper, as he invariably did
whenever he could induce his son to argue any question with him. "I
suppose you deplore each other's miserable condition. I tell you what I
think, Giovanni. You had better go and live in Corona's house if you
are not happy here."
"It is let," replied Giovanni with imperturbable calm, but his wife bit
her lip to control her rising laughter.
"You might travel," growled the old gentleman.
"But I am very happy here."
"Then what do you mean by talking like that about Casa Montevarchi?"
"I fail to see the connection between the two ideas," observed Giovanni.
"You live in precisely the same circumstances as Ascanio Bellegra. I
think the connection is clear enough. If his life is sad, so is yours."
"For downright good logic commend me to my beloved father!" cried
Giovanni, breaking into a laugh at last.
"A laughing-stock for my children! I have come to this!" exclaimed his
father gruffly. But his features relaxed into a good-humoured smile,
that was pleasant to see upon his strong dark face.
"But, really, I am very sorry to hear this of poor Gouache," said
Corona at last, returning to the original subject of their
conversation. "I hope it is nothing really dangerous."
"It is always dangerous to be run over by a carriage," answered
Giovanni. "I will go and see him, if they will let me in."
At this juncture Orsino was brought in by his nurse, a splendid
creature from Saracinesca, with bright blue eyes and hair as fair as
any Goth's, a contrast to the swarthy child she carried in her arms.
Immediately the daily ovation began, and each of the three persons
began to worship the baby in an especial way. There was no more
conversation, after that, for some time. The youngest of the
Saracinesca absorbed the attention of the family. Whether he clenched
his little fists, or opened his small fat fingers, whether he laughed
and crowed at his grandfather's attempts to amuse him, or struck his
nurse's rosy cheeks with his chubby hands, the result was always
applause and merriment from those who looked on. The scene recalled
Joseph's dream, in which the sheaves of his brethren bowed down to his
sheaf.
After a while, however, Orsino grew sleepy and had to be taken away.
Then the little party broke up and separated. The old prince went to
his rooms to read and doze for an hour. Corona was called away to see
one of the numberless dressmakers whose shadows darken the beginning of
a season in town, and Giovanni took his hat and went out.
In those days young men of society had very little to do. The other day
a German diplomatist was heard to say that Italian gentlemen seemed to
do nothing but smoke, spit, and criticise. Twenty years ago their
manners might have been described less coarsely, but there was even
more truth in the gist of the saying. Not only they did nothing. There
was nothing for them to do. They floated about in a peaceful millpool,
whose placid surface reflected nothing but their own idle selves,
little guessing that the dam whereby their mimic sea was confined,
would shortly break with a thundering crash and empty them all into the
stream of real life that flowed below. For the few who disliked
idleness there was no occupation but literature, and literature, to the
Roman mind of 1867, and in the Roman meaning of the word, was
scholarship. The introduction to a literary career was supposed to be
obtained only by a profound study of the classics, with a view to
avoiding everything classical, both in language and ideas, except
Cicero, the apostle of the ancient Roman Philistines; and the tendency
to clothe stale truisms and feeble sentiments in high-sounding language
is still found in Italian prose and is indirectly traceable to the same
source. As for the literature of the country since the Latins, it
consisted, and still consists, in the works of the four poets, Dante,
Tasso, Ariosto, and Petrarch. Leopardi is more read now than then, but
is too unhealthily melancholy to be read long by any one. There used to
be Roman princes who spent years in committing to memory the verses of
those four poets, just as the young Brahman of to-day learns to recite
the Rig Veda. That was called the pursuit of literature.
The Saracinesca were thought very original and different from other
men, because they gave some attention to their estates. It seemed very
like business to try and improve the possessions one had inherited or
acquired by marriage, and business was degradation. Nevertheless, the
Saracinesca were strong enough to laugh at other people's scruples, and
did what seemed best in their own eyes without troubling themselves to
ask what the world thought. But the care of such matters was not enough
to occupy Giovanni all day. He had much time on his hands, for he was
an active man, who slept little and rarely needed rest. Formerly he had
been used to disappear from Rome periodically, making long journeys,
generally ending in shooting expeditions in some half-explored country.
That was in the days before his marriage, and his wanderings had
assuredly done him no harm. He had seen much of the world not usually
seen by men of his class and prejudices, and the acquaintance he had
thus got with things and people was a source of great satisfaction to
him. But the time had come to give up all this. He was now not only
married and settled in his own home, but moreover he loved his wife
with his whole heart, and these facts were serious obstacles against
roughing it in Norway, Canada, or Transylvania. To travel with Corona
and little Orsino seemed a very different matter from travelling with
Corona alone. Then there was his father's growing affection for the
child, which had to be taken into account in all things. The four had
become inseparable, old Saracinesca, Giovanni, Corona, and the baby.
Now Giovanni did not regret his old liberty. He knew that he was far
happier than he had ever been in his life before. But there were days
when the time hung heavily on his hands and his restless nature craved
some kind of action which should bring with it a generous excitement.
This was precisely what he could not find during the months spent in
Rome, and so it fell out that he did very much what most young men of
his birth found quite sufficient as an employment; he spent a deal of
time in strolling where others strolled, in lounging at the club, and
in making visits which filled the hours between sunset and dinner. To
him this life was new, and not altogether tasteful; but his friends did
not fail to say that Giovanni had been civilised by his marriage with
the Astrardente, and was much less reserved than he had formerly been.
When Corona went to see the dressmaker, Giovanni very naturally took
his hat and went out of the house. The September day was warm and
bright, and in such weather it was a satisfaction merely to pace the
old Roman streets in the autumn sun. It was too early to meet any of
his acquaintance, and too soon in the season for any regular visiting.
He did not know what to do, but allowed himself to enjoy the sunshine
and the sweet air. Presently, the sight of a couple of Zouaves, talking
together at the corner of a street, recalled to his mind the accident
which had happened to Gouache. It would be kind to go and see the poor
fellow, or, at least, to ask after him. He had known him for some time
and had gradually learned to like him, as most people did who met the
gifted artist day after day throughout the gaiety of the winter.
At the Palazzo Montevarchi Giovanni learned that the princess had just
finished breakfast. He could hardly ask for Gouache without making a
short visit in the drawing-room, and he accordingly submitted,
regretting after all that he had come. The old princess bored him, he
did not know Faustina, who was just out of the convent, and Flavia, who
amused many people, did not amuse him in the least. He inwardly
rejoiced that he was married, and that his visit could not be
interpreted as a preliminary step towards asking for Flavia's hand.
The princess looked up with an expression of inquiry in her prominent
blue eyes, as Sant' Ilario entered. She was stout, florid, and not well
dressed. Her yellow hair, already half gray, for she was more than
fifty years old, was of the unruly kind, and had never looked neat even
in her best days. Her bright, clear complexion saved her, however, as
it saves hundreds of middle-aged Englishwomen, from that look of
peculiar untidiness which belongs to dark-skinned persons who take no
trouble about their appearance or personal adornment. In spite of
thirty-three years of residence in Rome, she spoke Italian with a
foreign accent, though otherwise correctly enough. But she was
nevertheless a great lady, and no one would have thought of doubting
the fact. Fat, awkwardly dressed, of no imposing stature, with
unmanageable hair and prominent teeth, she was not a person to be
laughed at. She had what many a beautiful woman lacks and
envies--natural dignity of character and manner, combined with a
self-possession which is not always found in exalted personages. That
repose of manner which is commonly believed to be the heirloom of noble
birth is seen quite as often in the low-born adventurer, who regards it
as part of his stock-in-trade; and there are many women, and men too,
whose position might be expected to place them beyond the reach of what
we call shyness, but who nevertheless suffer daily agonies of social
timidity and would rather face alone a charge of cavalry than make a
new acquaintance. The Princess Montevarchi was made of braver stuff,
however, and if her daughters had not inherited all her unaffected
dignity they had at least received their fair share of self-possession.
When Sant' Ilario entered, these two young ladies, Donna Flavia and
Donna Faustina, were seated one on each side of their mother. The
princess extended her hand, the two daughters held theirs demurely
crossed upon their knees. Faustina looked at the carpet, as she had
been taught to do in the convent. Flavia looked up boldly at Giovanni,
knowing by experience that her mother could not see her while greeting
the visitor. Sant' Ilario muttered some sort of civil inquiry, bowed to
the two young ladies and sat down.
"How is Monsieur Gouache?" he asked, going straight to the point. He
had seen the look of surprise on the princess's face as he entered, and
thought it best to explain himself at once.
"Ah, you have heard? Poor man! He is badly hurt, I fear. Would you like
to see him?"
"Presently, if I may," answered Giovanni. "We are all fond of Gouache.
How did the accident happen?"
"Faustina ran over him," said Flavia, fixing her dark eyes on Giovanni
and allowing her pretty face to assume an expression of sympathy--for
the sufferer. "Faustina and papa," she added.
"Flavia! How can you say such things!" exclaimed the princess, who
spent a great part of her life in repressing her daughter's manner of
speech.
"Well, mamma--it was the carriage of course. But papa and Faustina were
in it. It is the same thing."
Giovanni looked at Faustina, but her thin fresh face expressed nothing,
nor did she show any intention of commenting on her sister's
explanation. It was the first time he had seen her near enough to
notice her, and his attention was arrested by something in her looks
which surprised and interested him. It was something almost impossible
to describe, and yet so really present that it struck Sant' Ilario at
once, and found a place in his memory. In the superstitions of the far
north, as in the half material spiritualism of Polynesia, that look has
a meaning and an interpretation. With us, the interpretation is lost,
but the instinctive persuasion that the thing itself is not wholly
meaningless remains ineradicable. We say, with a smile at our own
credulity, "That man looks as though he had a story," or, "That woman
looks as though something odd might happen to her." It is an expression
in the eyes, a delicate shade in the features, which speak of many
things which we do not understand; things which, if they exist at all,
we feel must be inevitable, fatal, and beyond human control. Giovanni
looked and was surprised, but Faustina said nothing.
"It was very good of the prince to bring him here," remarked Sant'
Ilario.
"It was very unlike papa," exclaimed Flavia, before her mother could
answer. "But very kind, of course, as you say," she added, with a
little smile. Flavia had a habit of making rather startling remarks,
and of then adding something in explanation or comment, before her
hearers had recovered breath. The addition did not always mend matters
very much.
"Do not interrupt me, Flavia," said her mother, severely.
"I beg your pardon, were you speaking, mamma?" asked the young girl,
innocently.
Giovanni was not amused by Flavia's manners, and waited calmly for the
princess to speak.
"Indeed," said she, "there was nothing else to be done. As we had run
over the poor man--"
"The carriage--" suggested Flavia. But her mother took no notice of her.
"The least we could do, of course, was to bring him here. My husband
would not have allowed him to be taken to the hospital."
Flavia again fixed her eyes on Giovanni with a look of sympathy, which,
however, did not convey any very profound belief in her father's
charitable intentions.
"I quite understand," said Giovanni. "And how has he been since you
brought him here? Is he in any danger?"
"You shall see him at once," answered the princess, who rose and rang
the bell, and then, as the servant's footsteps were heard outside,
crossed the room to meet him at the door.
"Mamma likes to run about," said Flavia, sweetly, in explanation.
Giovanni had risen and made as though he would have been of some
assistance.
The action was characteristic of the Princess Montevarchi. An Italian
woman would neither have rung the bell herself, nor have committed such
an imprudence as to turn her back upon her two daughters when there was
a man in the room. But she was English, and a whole lifetime spent
among Italians could not extinguish her activity; so she went to the
door herself. Faustina's deep eyes followed her mother as though she
were interested to know the news of Gouache.
"I hope he is better," she said, quietly.
"Of course," echoed Flavia, "So do I. But mamma amuses me so much! She
is always in a hurry."
Faustina made no answer, but she looked at Sant' Ilario, as though she
wondered what he thought of her sister. He returned her gaze, trying to
explain to himself the strange attraction of her expression, watching
her critically as he would have watched any new person or sight. She
did not blush nor avoid his bold eyes, as he would have expected had he
realised that he was staring at her.
A few minutes later Giovanni found himself in a narrow, high room,
lighted by one window, which showed the enormous thickness of the walls
in the deep embrasure. The vaulted ceiling was painted in fresco with a
representation of Apollo in the act of drawing his bow, arrayed for the
time being in his quiver, while his other garments, of yellow and blue,
floated everywhere save over his body. The floor of the room was of red
bricks, which had once been waxed, and the furniture was scanty,
massive and very old. Anastase Gouache lay in one corner in a
queer-looking bed covered with a yellow damask quilt the worse for a
century or two of wear, upon which faded embroideries showed the
Montevarchi arms surmounted by a cardinal's hat. Upon a chair beside
the patient lay the little heap of small belongings he had carried in
his pocket when hurt, his watch and purse, his cigarettes, his
handkerchief and a few other trifles, among which, half concealed by
the rest, was the gold pin he had picked up by the bridge on the
previous evening. There was a mingled smell of dampness and of stale
tobacco in the comfortless room, for the windows were closely shut, in
spite of the bright sunshine that flooded the opposite side of the
street.
Gouache lay on his back, his head tied up in a bandage and supported by
a white pillow, which somehow conveyed the impression of one of those
marble cushions upon which in old-fashioned monuments the effigies of
the dead are made to lean in eternal prayer, if not in eternal ease. He
moved impatiently as the door opened, and then recognising Giovanni, he
hailed him in a voice much more lively and sonorous than might have
been expected.
"You, prince!" he cried, in evident delight. "What saint has brought
you?"
"I heard of your accident, and so I came to see if I could do anything
for you. How are you?"
"As you see," replied Gouache. "In a hospitable tomb, with my head tied
up like an imperfectly-resurrected Lazarus. For the rest there is
nothing the matter with me, except that they have taken away my
clothes, which is something of an obstacle to my leaving the house at
once. I feel as if I had been in a revolution and had found myself on
the wrong side of the barricade--nothing worse than that."
"You are in good spirits, at all events. But are you not seriously
hurt?"
"Oh, nothing--a broken collar-bone somewhere, I believe, and some part
of my head gone--I am not quite sure which, and a bad headache, and
nothing to eat, and a general sensation as though somebody had made an
ineffectual effort to turn me into a sausage."
"What does the doctor say?"
"Nothing. He is a man of action. He bled me because I had not the
strength to strangle him, and poured decoctions of boiled grass down my
throat because I could not speak. He has fantastic ideas about the
human body."
"But you will have to stay here several days," said Giovanni,
considerably amused by Gouache's view of his own case.
"Several days! Not even several hours, if I can help it."
"Things do not go so quickly in Rome. You must be patient."
"In order to starve, when there is food as near as the Corso?" inquired
the artist. "To be butchered by a Roman phlebotomist, and drenched with
infusions of hay by the Principessa Montevarchi, when I might be
devising means of being presented to her daughter? What do you take me
for? I suppose the young lady with the divine eyes is her daughter, is
she not?"
"You mean Donna Faustina, I suppose. Yes. She is the youngest, just out
of the Sacro Cuore. She was in the drawing-room when I called just now.
How did you see her?"
"Last night, as they brought me upstairs, I was lucky enough to wake up
just as she was looking at me. What eyes! I can think of nothing else.
Seriously, can you not help me to get out of here?"
"So that you may fall in love with Donna Faustina as soon as possible,
I suppose," answered Giovanni with a laugh. "It seems to me that there
is but one thing to do, if you are really strong enough. Send for your
clothes, get up, go into the drawing-room and thank the princess for
her hospitality."
"That is easily said. Nothing is done in this house without the written
permission of the old prince, unless I am much mistaken. Besides, there
is no bell. I might as well be under arrest in the guard-room of the
barracks. Presently the doctor will come and bleed me again and the
princess will send me some more boiled grass. I am not very fat, as it
is, but another day of this diet will make me diaphanous--I shall cast
no shadow. A nice thing, to be caught without a shadow on parade!"
"I will see what I can do," said Giovanni, rising. "Probably, the best
thing would be to send your military surgeon. He will not be so tender
as the other leech, but he will get you away at once. My wife wished me
to say that she sympathised, and hoped you might soon be well."
"My homage and best thanks to the princess," answered Gouache, with a
slight change of tone, presumably to be referred to his sense of
courtesy in speaking of the absent lady.
So Giovanni went away, promising to send the surgeon at once. The
latter soon arrived, saw Gouache, and was easily persuaded to order him
home without further delay. The artist-soldier would not leave the
house without thanking his hostess. His uniform had been cleansed from
the stains it had got in the accident, and his left arm was in a sling.
The wound on his head was more of a bruise than a cut, and was
concealed by his thick black hair. Considering the circumstances he
presented a very good appearance. The princess received him in the
drawing-room, and Flavia and Faustina were with her, but all three were
now dressed to go out, so that the interview was necessarily a short
one.
Gouache made a little speech of thanks and tried to forget the
decoction of mallows he had swallowed, fearing lest the recollection
should impart a tone of insincerity to his expression of gratitude. He
succeeded very well, and afterwards attributed the fact to Donna
Faustina's brown eyes, which were not cast down as they had been when
Sant' Ilario had called, but appeared on the contrary to contemplate
the new visitor with singular interest.
"I am sure my husband will not approve of your going so soon," said the
princess in somewhat anxious tones. It was almost the first time she
had ever known any step of importance to be taken in her house without
her husband's express authority.
"Madame," answered Gouache, glancing from Donna Faustina to his
hostess, "I am in despair at having thus unwillingly trespassed upon
your hospitality, although I need not tell you that I would gladly
prolong so charming an experience, provided I were not confined to
solitude in a distant chamber. However, since our regimental surgeon
pronounces me fit to go home, I have no choice but to obey orders.
Believe me, Madame, I am deeply grateful to yourself as well as to the
Principe Montevarchi for your manifold kindnesses, and shall cherish a
remembrance of your goodness so long as I live."
With these words Gouache bowed as though he would be gone and stood
waiting for the princess's last word. But before her mother could
speak, Faustina's voice was heard.
"I cannot tell you how dreadfully we feel--papa and I--at having been
the cause of such a horrible accident! Is there nothing we can do to
make you forget it?"
The princess stared at her daughter in the utmost astonishment at her
forwardness. She would not have been surprised if Flavia had been
guilty of such imprudence, but that Faustina should thus boldly address
a young man who had not spoken to her, was such a shock to her belief
in the girl's manners that she did not recover for several seconds.
Anastase appreciated the situation, for as he answered, he looked
steadily at the mother, although his words were plainly addressed to
the brown-eyed beauty.
"Mademoiselle is too kind. She exaggerates. And yet, since she has put
the question, I will say that I should forget my broken bones very soon
if I might be permitted to paint Mademoiselle's portrait. I am a
painter," he added, in modest explanation.
"Yes," said the princess, "I know. But, really--this is a matter which
would require great consideration--and my husband's consent--and, for
the present---"
She paused significantly, intending to convey a polite refusal, but
Gouache completed the sentence.
"For the present, until my bones are mended, we will not speak of it.
When I am well again I will do myself the honour of asking the prince's
consent myself."
Flavia leaned towards her mother and whispered into her ear. The words
were quite audible, and the girl's dark eyes turned to Gouache with a
wicked laugh in them while she was speaking.
"Oh, mamma, if you tell papa it is for nothing he will be quite
delighted!"
Gouache's lip trembled as he suppressed a smile, and the elderly
princess's florid cheeks flushed with annoyance.
"For the present," she said, holding out her hand rather coldly, "we
will not speak of it. Pray let us know of your speedy recovery,
Monsieur Gouache."
As the artist took his leave he glanced once more at Donna Faustina.
Her face was pale and her eyes flashed angrily. She, too, had heard
Flavia's stage whisper and was even more annoyed than her mother.
Gouache went his way toward his lodging in the company of the surgeon,
pondering on the inscrutable mysteries of the Roman household of which
he had been vouchsafed a glimpse. He was in pain from his head and
shoulder, but insisted that the walk would do him good and refused the
cab which his companion had brought. A broken collar-bone is not a
dangerous matter, but it can be very troublesome for a while, and the
artist was glad to get back to his lodgings and to find himself
comfortably installed in an easy chair with something to eat before
him, of a more substantial nature than the Principessa Montevarchi's
infusions of camomile and mallows.