I.
The green hue of the country disappeared under the heavy November
rain. Caserta, down below, shrouded by the falling water as by a veil
of mist, seemed but a large grey blot on a background of paler grey.
The Tifata hills, that are tinged with so deep a violet during the
long autumn twilights, had vanished behind the thick, opaque downpour.
The small and aristocratic village of Centurano, entirely composed of
lordly villas, separated from each other by narrow lanes and flowering
hedges, held its peace.
At the corner of the high road that leads to Caserta, the fountain
which Ferdinand of Bourbon had bestowed on Michelangiolo Viglia, his
favourite barber, overflowed with rain-water. The long, melancholy,
watery day was slowly dying, in a rainy twilight that seemed already
evening. No sound was heard. The last lingerers among the _villeganti_
kept within their houses, yawning, dozing, or gazing through closed
windows at the drenched, denuded gardens, where the monthly roses
hung their dishevelled heads, and the water trickled in little muddy
rivulets among wasted flower-beds; while here and there the stalks of
stocks and wallflowers showed like the bare bones of so many skeletons.
Behind one window were visible the cadaverous old face and red velvet
smoking-cap of Cavalier Scardamaglia, judge at the Court of Santa
Maria; behind another, the aquiline nose and the long thin cheeks of
Signora Magaloni, wife of the architect who was directing the repairs
of the royal palace. The children of lawyer Farini were running after
and shouting at each other on the covered terrace of their villa.
Francesca, their nurse, sat in the arch of the window, knitting,
without dreaming of scolding them. The water poured along the gutters
and filled the pipes to bursting; the butts for the family washing
overflowed; the walls were stained as with rust.
From behind her balcony windows, Caterina looked out upon the fountain
that overflowed the road. She tried to see farther away, down the
highway to Caserta, but in this the rain thwarted her. She looked back
again at the fountain, and re-read the two first lines of its fatuous
inscription:
DIEMMI DELL’ACQUA GIULIA
UN RIVOLETTO IL RE.
But she soon wearied of this contemplation, and again applied herself
to her sewing. She was seated on the broad window-sill: before her
stood her work-table, covered with reels of cotton, a needle-case, a
pincushion, scissors of all sizes, and bundles of tapes; near to her
was a large basket of new ready-basted household linen, at which she
was sewing. Just now she was hemming a fine Flanders tablecloth; four
that she had finished were lying folded on the little table. She sewed
deliberately, with a harmonious precision of movement. Whenever she cut
her thread with her scissors, she turned to the road for a moment to
see if any one was coming. Then she resumed her hem again, patiently
and mechanically, passing her pink nail across it to make it even. Once
a noise in the street caused her to start: she stopped to listen. It
was the little covered cart in which the Avvocata Farini was returning
from Nola, whither he had gone on some legal errand. The lawyer, as he
alighted, made her a low bow.
Despite her disappointment, she responded with a pretty, gracious
smile, and followed him with her eyes, to where his children welcomed
him with shouts and outstretched arms. Once more the regular profile
bent over the Flanders cloth, and the needle flew under her agile
fingers. Caterina appeared to have grown bigger, although she still
retained a certain girlish delicacy and a pretty minuteness of feature.
The look in her grey eyes was more decided, the contour of her cheek
was firmer, the chin had assumed a more energetic character. On the low
brow, the bright chestnut hair was slightly waved; its thick plaits
were gathered up at the nape by a light tortoiseshell comb. She wore a
short indoor dress of ivory-white cashmere--a soft thick material that
clung closely to her, especially at the waist--a relic of the coquetry
of her school-days. Round her throat was a broad creamy lace tie, with
a large bow, wherein the chin seemed to bury itself. It gave value to
the delicate pink colouring of her face. There were full lace ruffles
around her wrists; no jewels, except a plain gold ring on one finger.
Her whole person breathed a serene simplicity, a delightful happy calm.
“Shall I bring the lights?” asked Cecchina, the maid, entering the room.
“What time is it?”
“Nearly six o’clock.”
“Wait a little longer.”
“And master not yet back!”
“He will come in good time.”
“The Lord knows how soaked he’ll be.”
“I hope not. Is his room quite ready?”
“Everything, Signora.”
“Then you needn’t wait.”
Cecchina left the room. Caterina did not return to her sewing, for it
was nearly dark, and she wanted to believe that it was still early.
Meanwhile, the lamplighter of Centurano was proceeding under cover of
his waterproof and his umbrella to light the few petroleum lamps of the
tiny village. Caterina folded and refolded her linen in the twilight.
Cecchina, who was getting impatient, brought in two lamps.
“The cook says, 'What is he to do?’”
“He’s to wait.”
“Till what hour?”
“Till seven--like yesterday.”
But all at once a faint bark was audible down the lane.
“That is Fox,” said Caterina quietly. “Your master is coming.”
Immediately there was the noise of a great opening and shutting of
doors; a rush of sound and movement. After that a lusty voice resounded
in the courtyard.
“Here, Fox! Here, poor beast! Here, Diana! She’s as wet as a newly
hatched chicken! Caterina, Caterina! Matteo, take care of the gun, it’s
full of water! Caterina!”
“Here I am,” she said, leaning over the balustrade.
A big curly head and a green felt hat, then a herculean body, clothed
in a velveteen jacket, leather breeches, and top-boots, appeared on the
lower steps. With a great sound of clanking spur, and cracking whip,
soaked from head to foot, but laughing heartily, Andrea seized his wife
by the waist, and raised her like a child in his strong arms, while he
kissed her eyes, lips, and throat, roughly and eagerly.
“Nini, Nini!” he cried, between each sounding kiss.
“You’re come ... you’re come!” she murmured, smiling; her hair loosened
from its comb, and on her fair skin sundry red imprints left by his
caresses.
“Oh! Nini, Nini!” he repeated, burying his big nose in the soft folds
of her tie. Then he placed his wife on her feet again, drew a deep
breath like a bellows, and stretched himself.
“How wet you are, Andrea!”
“From head to foot. Beastly weather! Yesterday capital sport, but
to-day, _perdio!_ this rascally rain! I’m soaked to the bone.”
Leaning out of the landing window, he called in to the courtyard: “Take
care of the dogs, Matteo. Rub them down with warm straw.”
“And yourself, Andrea?”
“I will go and change my clothes. But I am not cold. I have walked so
fast that I am quite warm. Is everything ready for me?”
“Everything.”
“And dinner? I’m dying of hunger.”
“Dinner is ready, Andrea.”
“Macaroni, eh?”
“Macaroni patties.”
“Hurrah!” he shouted, tossing his cap up to the ceiling. “Thou art a
golden Nini.”
And he took her once more in his arms, like a small bundle.
“You are drenching me,” she murmured, without looking at all vexed.
“I’m a brute; right you are. Thy pretty white frock! what a lout I am!”
And he delicately shook out its folds. He took his handkerchief, and
went down on his knees to dry her gown, while she said: “No, it was
nothing, she would not let him tire himself.”
“Let me; do, do let me, I am a brute ... I am a brute!” he persisted.
When he had finished, he turned her round and round like a child.
“Now you’re dry, Nini. What a sweet smell you have about you. Is it
your lace tie or your skin? I’ll go and dress. Go and see if the
macaroni patties will be done in time.”
She went away, but returned immediately to listen at his door, in
case he should call her. She could hear him moving to and fro in his
dressing-room, puffing and blowing and in the highest spirits. He was
throwing his wet boots against the wall, tramping about like a horse,
or halting to look at his clothes; singing the while to an air of his
own composition:
“Where are the socks ... the socks ... the socks.... Here you are. Now
I want a scarf to bind up my inexpressibles. Here’s the scarf.... Now
where’s my necktie?”
Then there was silence.
“Have you found the necktie, Andrea? May I come in?” she asked shyly.
“Oh! you are there! And here is the necktie.... I’m ready. Call
Cecchina to take away these wet things while we are at dinner.”
He opened the door and came out with a face red from much rubbing. He
looked taller and broader in indoor dress. His curly leonine head, with
its low forehead, blue eyes, and bushy auburn moustache, was firmly set
on a full, massive, and very white throat. Round it he wore a white
silk tie and no collar. His broad shoulders expanded under the dark
blue cloth of his jacket, his mighty chest swelled under the fine linen
of his shirt. The whole figure, ponderous in its strength, was redeemed
from awkwardness by a certain high-bred ease and by the minute care
of his person, visible in the cut of his hair and the polish of his
well-tended nails.
“H’m, Caterina, are we going to dine to-day?”
“Dinner is on the table.”
The dining-room was bright with lighted candles, spotless linen,
and shining silver. The centre-piece of fruit--grapes, apples, and
pears--shone golden with autumn tints. Through the closed shutters the
faintest patter of rain was perceptible. The light fell upon two huge
oaken cupboards, whose glass doors revealed within various services of
porcelain and crystal, and on the panels of which were carved birds,
fish, and fruit. Two high-backed armchairs faced each other. The whole
room was pervaded by a sense of peace and order. The macaroni pasty,
copper-coloured within its paler crust, was smoking on the table.
Andrea ate heartily and in silence; he had helped himself three times.
Caterina, who had taken her share with the appetite of a healthy young
woman, watched while he ate, with her chin in the air and a little
smile on her face.
“_Perdio!_ how good this pie is! Tell the cook, Caterina, to repeat it
as often as he likes.”
“I will make a note of it in the household book. Will you have some
more?”
“No, _basta_. Ring, please. Has it rained all day here?”
“Since last night.”
“At Santa Maria, too. Would you believe it? I went as far as Mazzoni,
to the Torone, our farm over there.”
“Did you sleep there last night?”
“Yes; a good bed. Coarse but sweet-smelling sheets. But I was furious
with the weather. Have some beef, Nini. There is no sport to be had
now. Who has been here?”
“Pepe Guardini, one of the Nola tenants. He wants a reduction.”
“I’ve given him three reductions. He is a drunkard and too ready with
his knife. He must pay.”
“He says he can’t.”
“He can’t, he can’t!” he roared; “then I’ll turn him out.”
She looked at him fixedly, but smiling. Andrea lowered his voice.
“I don’t know why I lose my temper,” he muttered. “I beg your pardon,
Nini, but it annoys me when they come and bother you. What did you say
to him?”
“That I would speak to you about it; that we should see.... Have your
own way. Give me some wine. By-the-by, Giovanni has been here; the vats
are opened; he says the wine promises well.”
“I will look in to-morrow. When that’s over, in a week we’ll leave for
Naples. Are you impatient? No fowl! I assure you, it is excellent.”
“Tell the truth, ’tis you who want more.”
“I blush, but I say yes. So you pine for Naples?”
“And you?”
“I, too. Here there’s no sport, and dull neighbours. We are expected
there. By-the-by, send for Cecchina and tell her that in the pocket
of my shooting-jacket there is a letter for you. I found it at the
post-office at Caserta.”
“Whose handwriting?” she queried, with a start.
“The writing of one who sends thee long letters in a scratchy hand, on
transparent paper. Of one on whose seal is graven a death’s-head, with
the motto, 'Nihil’. Of one whose paper is so heavily scented with musk,
that my pocket reeks intolerably of it. Here’s a pear peeled for you,
Nini. ’Tis thy lover who writes to thee.”
“It’s Lucia Altimare, is it not?”
“Yes” ... stretching himself with a sigh of satisfaction, as one who
has dined well; “the Signorina Lucia Altimare, a skinny, ethereal
creature, with pointed elbows, _poseuse par excellence_.”
“Andrea!”
“Do you mean to say that she is not a _poseuse?_ Indulgent Nini! What
is this under the table? Your foot, Nini! I hope I haven’t crushed it.
But your friend is repugnant to me, at least she was so the only time I
ever saw her.”
“I am so sorry, Andrea. I hope that when you see her again, you will
alter your mind.”
“If you’re sorry, I hope I shall alter my mind. But why does she scent
her letters so heavily? I recommend you this coffee, Caterina; it ought
to be good.”
“Lucia is sickly and unhappy. One is so sorry for her. Do you think
five teaspoonfuls of coffee will be sufficient?”
“Put six.... I see; ... to please you I will pity her. But don’t read
her letter yet; for, to judge by the weight of it, it must be a very
long one. Make the coffee first. If you don’t, I shall say that you
care for Lucia more than for me,” murmured Andrea, with the vague
tenderness induced by digestion.
“I will read it later.”
He leant back in his chair, breathing slowly and contentedly, with his
necktie unfastened and his hands resting on the tablecloth, while he
watched her making the coffee--to which she gave all her attention,
intent on listening for the hiss of the machine. A calm lithe figure
that neither fidgeted nor moved too often, absorbed by her occupation,
she bent her whole mind to it.
“It’s ready,” she said, after a time.
“Let’s discuss it in the drawing-room,” he replied. “As a reward I will
let you read my rival’s letter.”
A bright wood fire burned on the drawing-room hearth. With another sigh
of satisfaction, Andrea sank into a broad, low, leathern armchair that
was drawn up before it.
“If it were not for the shooting, I should get too fat. Now don’t begin
to sew again, Caterina; sit down here and talk to me. Did you use to
dance when you were at school?”
“The dancing-master came twice a week.”
“Did you like dancing?”
“Pretty well; do you?”
“Now, when we are at Naples we can dance as much as we like. We’ve got
three invitations already.”
“Giovanna Casacalenda ... that’s one.”
“And my relations the Valgheras ... two.”
“And Passalancias ... three.”
“We’ll dance, Nini. If I didn’t dance I should get too fat. It will
be capital exercise for me. Does your melancholy skeleton of a friend
dance?”
“Lucia?”
“Yes.”
“She didn’t dance much. She liked the lancers and the mazurka, I
remember. The waltz tried her strength too much.”
“A woman who is always ill! who faints away in your arms at any moment!
What a bore!”
“Oh, Andrea!”
“At least you are always well, Nini.”
“Always.”
“So much the better, come here and give me a kiss! Has the _Pungolo_
arrived?”
“Here it is.”
“Caterina, I am going to bury myself in the newspaper. Read your
letter. I won’t tease you any more.”
But while he lost himself in the political diatribes that filled the
_Pungolo_, Caterina, notwithstanding the permission granted to her,
did not begin to read. She kept the letter in her hand, looking at
it and inhaling its scent. It was charged with the violent, luscious
perfume of ambergris. Then she glanced shyly at her husband; he was
falling gradually asleep, his head sinking towards his shoulder. In
five minutes the paper fell from his hands. Caterina picked it up,
and gently replaced it on the table. She turned down the lamp, to
make a twilight in the room. Then she crept back to her chair, and
knelt to read her letter by the light of the fire. For a long time,
the only sound within the quiet room was the calm, regular breathing
of Andrea, accompanied by the faint rustle of foreign letter-paper as
Caterina turned the pages. She read carefully and attentively, as if
weighing every word. From time to time an expression of trouble passed
across her firelit face. When she had finished reading she looked at
her husband; he slept on, like a great child, beautiful and gentle
in his strength, an almost infantile sweetness and tenderness on his
countenance. He lay there calm and still in the assurance of their
mutual love, his tired muscles relaxed and at ease in the peace of his
honest soul. She bent her head again towards the flame, and once more
read the letter from beginning to end, with the same minute attention.
When she had read it through for the second time, Caterina slipped it
into her pocket, and leaving her hand half hidden in its depths, rested
her head on the back of her low chair. Time passed, the quarter struck,
then the half-hour, and another quarter, at the clock in the tower of
Centurano: by degrees the fire burned out on the hearth. Andrea awoke
with a start.
“Caterina, wake up.”
“I am not asleep, Andrea,” she replied placidly, with wide-open eyes.
“It’s late, Nini, very late; time for by-bye,” said the Colossus, as in
loving jest he gathered her up in his arms like a child.
II.
The circular drawing-room had been transformed into a garden of
camellias, on whose close, dense, dark-green background of foliage
the flowers displayed their insolent waxen beauty, white or red,
perfumeless, icily voluptuous, their full buds swelling as if to burst
their green chalices. A luxuriant vegetation covered the walls and
the very roof, lending them a silent enchantment. In the midst of the
shrubbery a _Musa paradisiaca_ reared its lofty head, spreading out
its vivid green leaves like an umbrella. Round the _Musa_ ran a rustic
divan roughly wrought in wood. Here and there were low rustic stools.
Massive branches of camellia nearly hid the two doors leading to this
room. A faint diffuse light shone through its opaque rose-coloured
shades.
Three or four times during the evening, in the intervals of the dances,
this room had filled with guests. Ladies, young and old, uttered
little cries of delight in the rustic effect, in the coolness and the
repose of it, as compared with the hard white glare of the ball-room,
its oppressive atmosphere and noisy orchestra. They assumed attitudes
of graceful languor. The men looked round with an air of suppressed
satisfaction, as if they too were far from insensible to the beauties
of Nature. A few timidly culled buds were offered as gifts.... A young
lady in pale yellow, with a shower of lilies of the valley in her
dark hair, recited some verses in a low murmur. Quiet women fanned
themselves gently with noiseless, winged fans of soft grey feathers;
but hardly had the triumphant appeal of the first notes of a waltz or
the plaintive melting strains of the mazurka reached their retreat,
when one and all flung themselves into the whirl of the ball and every
couple vanished. Once more the shrubbery was silent and deserted, the
red camellias again opened their lips. What were they waiting for?
Giovanna Casacalenda, the daughter of the house, entered the shrubbery
on the arm of a young man. Taller than her partner, she seemed to look
down upon him from the height of her regal beauty. She was draped in
the clinging folds of a long dress of ivory crape, that ended in a soft
floating train. Wondrous to behold was the low bodice of crimson satin,
fitting without a crease; her arms were bare to the shoulder. One
row of pearls round the firm white throat. A wreath of damask roses,
worn low on the forehead, crowned her dark hair, drawn up close from
the nape of her neck. This audaciously simple costume was worn with
the repose of conscious beauty, proof against any weakness on its own
account. A smile just parted her curved lips while she listened to her
companion, a meagre undersized youth, with a bilious complexion; there
were lines about his eyes and the hair was scanty on the temples. He
was correct, refined, and finnikin.
“But, Giovanna, I have your promise,” he protested, “_thy_ promise.”
“You need not 'thou’ and 'thee’ me,” she observed.
“Forgive.... I beg your pardon, I am always betraying my feelings,” he
murmured; “it’s very clear that you are casting me off, Giovanna....”
“If it is so clear, why trouble to talk about it?”
“Why do I...? That you may contradict me. What have I done to thee?”
“Nothing; treat me to _you_, if you please. Now go on, I am in a hurry.”
“Then it has been a dream?”
“Dream, caprice, folly; call it what you will. You must make up your
mind to the fact that we cannot marry. You have an income of eight
thousand lire; I shall have six thousand. What can one do with fourteen
thousand lire a year?”
Smiling, she said these things, without changing her easy attitude; the
arm that plied the fan was carefully rounded, and she looked at him
with a little air of superiority.
“But if my uncle dies ...” whined her victim.
“Your uncle is not going to die just yet, I have observed him
carefully; he’s solid.”
“You are positively malevolent, Giovanna ... remember....”
“What would you have me remember? Do try to be sensible. Let us go
back.”
They went away, and those superb camellias that Giovanna so closely
resembled told no tales, neither did they murmur among themselves.
* * * * *
“Very fine indeed!” said Andrea Lieti, admiring the general effect,
while the divan creaked under his weight. “But give me Centurano.”
“Real country must always surpass in beauty its counterfeit
presentment,” mumbled timid Galimberti, Professor of History. “But
these Casacalendas have a fine, luxurious taste.”
“Bah! respected Professor, they want to marry their daughter, and they
are sure to succeed.”
“Do you really think...?”
“I don’t blame them. So magnificent a creature is not meant to be kept
at home. Was she so beautiful when she was at school?”
“Beautiful ... dangerously beautiful, even at school.... I remember
...” passing his hand across his forehead, as if he were talking to
himself.
Andrea Lieti opened his big blue eyes in amazement. The Professor
remained standing in an awkward attitude, stooping slightly, and ill
at ease in his easy attire. His trousers were too long, and bagged at
the knees. The collar of his old-fashioned dress-coat was too high.
Instead of the regulation shirt, shining like a wall of marble, he
wore an embroidered one, with large Roman mosaic studs, a view of the
Colosseum, the Column of Trajan, the Piazza di San Pietro. There he
stood, with hanging arms, with his hideous, pensive head. The brow
appeared to have grown higher and yellower. His eyes had the old
oblique look, at once absent and embarrassed.
“These balls must bore you fearfully, Professor,” cried Andrea, as he
rose and walked to and fro, conspicuous for his fine proportions and
well-bred ease.
“Well ... rather ... I feel somewhat isolated in a crowd like this,”
said Galimberti, confusedly.
“And yet you don’t dislike it?”
“A.... Two or three of my pupils are so good as to invite me.... I go
out for recreation.... I read too hard.”
Again that weary gesture, as if to ease his brow of its weight of
thought, and the wandering glance seeming to seek something that was
lost.
“You must come to us, too, Professor,” said Andrea, full of compassion
for the wretched little dwarf. “Caterina often speaks of you.”
“She was a good creature ... such a good creature. So good and gentle
and sensible. Yours was an excellent choice.”
“I believe you,” said Andrea, laughing heartily. “Is it true that you
always reproached her with a lack of imagination?”
“Did she tell you that too? Yes--sometimes ... a certain dryness....”
“Well, Caterina isn’t troubled with sentimental vagaries. But I like
her best as she is. Have you seen her to-night? She’s lovely. If she
were not my wife, I should be dancing with her.”
“She is ... or was with her friend....”
“With Lucia Altimare, to be sure.”
“With the Signorina Altimare,” repeated the Professor, gulping down
something with difficulty.
“There’s another of your pupils! She must have plagued you, no end,
with her compositions, to judge from the tiresome fantastic letters she
writes to my wife.”
“The Signorina Altimare wrote divinely,” said the Professor, dryly.
“Eh! maybe,” muttered Andrea, choosing a cigarette. “Have one? No? I
assure you they are not bad. I was saying”--he resumed his seat on the
couch, and blew the smoke upwards--“that she must have bored you to
tears.”
“The Signorina Altimare is a suffering, interesting being. She is so
very unhappy,” persisted the Professor, with his cravat all awry, in
the heat of his defence.
Andrea gazed at him with curiosity; then a faint smile parted his lips.
“She goes to balls, however,” he replied, quietly enjoying the study of
the Professor.
“She does. She is obliged to, and it changes the current of her
thoughts. You see she never dances.”
“Bah! because nobody insists on her doing so. What do you bet that, if
I go and ask her, she won’t dance the waltz with me?”
“Nothing would induce her to dance, she is subject to palpitations. It
might make her faint.”
“_Che!_ If I give her a turn, you’ll see how she’ll trot! No woman
has ever fainted in my arms....” He stopped short from sheer pity.
Galimberti, who had turned from yellow to red, and stood nervously
clutching at his hat, looked at Andrea with so marked an expression of
pain and anger, that he felt ashamed of tormenting him.
“But she is too thin, too angular; we’ll leave her alone. Or you try
it, Professor; you dance with her.” With a friendly gesture he took him
by the arm, to lead him away.
“I don’t dance,” mumbled Galimberti, and his big head sank on his
breast. “I don’t know how to dance.”
* * * * *
Enter once more Giovanna Casacalenda, leaning this time with a certain
_abandon_ on the arm of a cavalry officer. Her arm nestled against his
coat, her face was raised to his. He, strutting like a peacock in his
new uniform, was smiling through his blonde moustache; an ornamental
soldier, who had left his sword in the anteroom.
“Well, Giovanna, has the old boy made up his mind?”
“There is something brewing, but nothing settled,” she replied,
wearily. “Indeed, it’s a sorry business.”
“All’s well that ends well. Courage, Giovanna; you are enchanting
to-night.”
“Am I?” she murmured, looking in his face.
“More than ever ... when I think that old....”
“Don’t think about it, Roberto.... It must be,” she added seriously.
“I know that it must be; as if I hadn’t advised it! Of course your
father would not give you to me: it’s no good thinking of it. Besides,
he is a very presentable old fellow.”
“Oh! presentable....”
“Well, with the collar of his order under his coat, his bald head, and
his white whiskers, he looks dignified enough for a husband, and....”
“It’s all so far off, Roberto,” she said, looking at him languidly but
fixedly, with parted lips and sad eyes.
“Well, get it over; it rests with you....”
“You will never forget me, Roberto, my own Roberto?”
“Forget you, Giovanna, transcendent, fascinating as you are? Do you
realise the extent of my sacrifice? I leave you to Gabrielli. Do you
realise what I lose?”
“You do not lose all,” murmured Giovanna, with a catch in her breath.
He bent down and imprinted a long kiss on her wrist. Her eyelids
drooped, but she did not withdraw it; she was ready to fall into his
arms, notwithstanding the nearness of the ball-room. The young officer,
whose prudence was more than equal to his love, raised his head.
“It would be rash to loiter here,” he said; “the old boy might get
jealous.”
“_Dio mio_, what a bore! _Basta_, for your sake.”
“Why do you not sing to-night?”
“Mamma won’t let me....” And they passed on.
* * * * *
The two friends were approaching the rustic seat: after carefully
arranging their trains, they sat down together. Lucia Altimare sank as
if from sheer fatigue. Her dress was of strange pale sea-green, almost
neutral in tint; the skirt hung in plain ample folds, like a peplum.
The bodice closely defined her small waist; her arms and shoulders were
swathed in a pale veil, like a cloud in colour and texture. Some of her
dark tresses were loosened on her shoulders, and, half buried in their
waves, was a wreath of natural white flowers, fresh, but just beginning
to fade. A bunch of the same flowers was dying in the folds of tulle
that covered her bosom. The general effect was that of the fragile body
of an Undine, surmounted by the head of a Sappho.
Next to her sat Caterina Lieti, radiantly serene and fresh, in her
pretty pink ball-dress, wearing round her throat a dazzling _rivière_
of diamonds, and in her hair a diamond aigrette that trembled as she
leant over her friend, talking to her the while with animation. Lucia
appeared to be lost in thought, or in the absence of it. She said,
in her dragging tones, as if her very words weighed too heavily for
her, “I knew I should meet you here. Besides, my father is so very
youngish--it amuses him, he likes dancing. Why did you not answer my
last letter?”
“I was on the eve of returning to Naples ... and so you see....”
“I hope,” said the other, with a somewhat contemptuous pout, “that you
do not permit your husband to read my letters.”
Caterina, blushing, denied the impeachment.
“He is a good young man,” admitted Lucia, in an indulgent tone. “I
think your husband suits you. You are pretty to-night: too many
diamonds, though.”
“They were a present from Andrea,” proudly.
“I hate jewels; I shall never wear them.”
“If you were to marry, Lucia....”
“I marry? You know what I wrote you.”
“But listen; there is that Galimberti, who follows you everywhere; who
admires you from a distance; who loves you without daring to tell his
love. I am sorry for him.”
“Alas! ’tis no fault of mine, Caterina, _sai_.”
“You know; perhaps he is poor; perhaps his feelings are hurt in all
these rich houses, where he follows you. You are good. Spare him. He
looks so unhappy.”
“What can I do? He is, like myself, a victim of fate, of fatality.”
“Of what fatality?”
“He is ill-starred, he deserves to be wealthy and handsome, and that
is just what he is not. I ought to have come into the world either as
an ignorant peasant or as queen of a people to whose happiness I could
have ministered. We console ourselves by a correspondence which gives
vent to our souls.”
“But he will fall over head and ears in love.”
“I cannot love any one: it is not given to me to love;” and Lucia fell
into a rigid, all but statuesque attitude, like a Greek heroine caught
in the act of posing. Caterina neither asked her why nor wherefore. In
Lucia’s presence she was under the spell that fantastic divagations
sometimes exercise over calm reasonable beings.
“Caterina, I have begun to visit the poor in their homes. It is an
interesting humanitarian occupation. It is the source of the sweetest
emotion. Will you come with me?”
“I will ask Andrea.”
“Must you needs ask his permission for everything? Have you bartered
your liberty so far as that?”
“_Sai_, a wife!”
“Tell me, Caterina, what is the happiness, the charm of married life?”
“I can’t explain it.”
“Tell me why is marriage the death of love.”
“I don’t know, Lucia.”
“Then marriage is to be the eternal mystery of life?”
“Who tells you these things, Lucia?”
“My own heart, Caterina,” replied the other, rising.
Then, assuming a solemn tone and raising her hand to swing it swordwise
through the air--“One thing only exists for certain.”
“What?”
“Passion, it’s the only reality.”
* * * * *
“The favoured mortal is always a young man,” remarked the Commendatore
Gabrielli, his mouth twitching with a nervous tic to which he was
subject.
“But that is not my ideal,” replied the enchanting voice of
Giovanna.... “I have always felt a tacit contempt for those idlers,
deficient alike in character and talent, who waste their youth
and their fortune on gambling and horses and other less worthy
pursuits....” She pretended to blush behind her fan.
“Well, Signora Giovanna, you are perhaps right. But a reformed rake
makes a good husband.”
“I do not think so, Commendatore; with all due deference, I am not of
your opinion. Think of Angela Toraldo’s husband; what a pearl! I hear
that if she weeps or complains he boxes her ears. A horror! These young
husbands are brutes. Look at Andrea Lieti! how roughly he must treat
that poor little Caterina...! While with a man of mature age....”
“Has this often occurred to you, Signora Giovanna?”
“Always.... A grave man who takes life seriously; who lives up to a
political idea....”
“You would know how to grace a political salon,” he murmured, gazing at
her.
She shut her fan and shrugged her beautiful shoulders, as if they were
about to take leave of their crimson cuirasse. The Commendatore’s
catlike eyes blazed behind his gold spectacles. Giovanna again plied
her fan; it fluttered caressingly, humbly.
“Oh! I am not worthy such honour.... He would shine; and I should
modestly reflect his light. We women love to be the secret inspirers
of great men. Could you read our hearts....”
And she leant on his arm, against his shoulder, smiling perpetually,
smiling to the verge of weariness, while the bald head of the
Commendatore shone with a crimson glow.
* * * * *
“What madness,” whispered Lucia Altimare, sinking on the divan.
“Perfect madness, for which you are responsible. I ought not to have
waltzed....”
“Pray forgive me,” said Andrea, apparently embarrassed, but really
bored. He was standing before her in a deferential attitude.
“It is your fault,” she said, looking up at him through her lashes.
“You are strong and robust, and an odd fancy came into your head.
I ought to have refused.... At first it was all right, a delicious
waltz.... You bore me along like a feather, then my head began to
whirl.... The room swam round, the lights danced in my brain.... I lost
my breath....”
“May I get you something to drink?”
“No,” she answered curtly at his interruption of her eloquence.
“A glass of punch? Punch is a capital remedy,” he continued hurriedly;
“it warms, and it’s the best possible restorative. I am going to have
some. Pray drink something, unless you mean to overwhelm me with
remorse. All our ills come from the stomach. Shall I call Caterina to
insist on your taking it?”
“Caterina did not see us come in here?”
“I think not, she was dancing with my brother-in-law, Federigo
Passalancia. Caterina is looking her loveliest to-night, isn’t she?”
But Lucia Altimare made no answer; she turned extremely pale, breathed
heavily, and then slipped off the divan on to the floor, in a dead
faint.
Andrea swore inwardly, with more energy than politeness, against all
women who waltz, and at the folly of men who waltz with them.
III.
Every morning, Lucia Altimare, draped in the folds of a red, yellow,
and blue striped dressing-gown, fastened round her waist and kilted up
on one side with gold cord, her sleeves tucked up over bare wrists, an
immense white pocket-handkerchief in her hand as a duster, proceeded,
after dismissing her maid, to dust her little apartment, a bedroom
and a small sitting-room, within whose walls her father allowed her
complete liberty. The dainty office, accomplished methodically and
always at the same hour, after she had dressed and prayed, was a source
of infinite delight to her. It appeared to her that the act of bending
her great pride and her little strength to manual labour, was both
pious and meritorious. When the moment for dusting the furniture came
round, she would tell her maid, with a sense of condescension:
“You may go, Giulietta, I will do it myself.”
“But, Signorina....”
“No, no, let me do it myself.”
And she felt that she was kind and humane to Giulietta, sparing her
the trouble of dusting, and at the same time proving that she did not
disdain to share her humble labour.
“In God’s sight we are all equal. If my strength permitted, I would
make my own bed, but I am so delicate! If I stoop too much, I get
palpitations,” she thought, as she tied on her black apron and tucked
up the train of her Turkish dressing-gown.
But the greatest pleasure, the pleasure that thrilled her every
nerve, to which she owed her most exquisite sensations, was derived
from dawdling over each separate object that had become part of her
existence. A charm, wherewith to recall the past, to measure the
future, to pass from one dream to another, whereon to weave a fantastic
web.
The cold frigid aspect of Lucia’s bedroom reminded her of her old
dream of becoming a nun, of falling sick of mysticism, of dying in the
ecstasy of the Cross. The room was uncarpeted, and the bare floor,
with its red tiles, had an icy polish. The bed, whose wrought-iron
supports Lucia rubbed so indefatigably, had no curtains. Under its
plain cover, with its single, meagre little pillow, it was the typical
bed of ascetic maidenhood. Next to the bed, in a frame draped in black
crape, hung a Byzantine Madonna and Child, painted on a background of
gilded wood. She wore an indigo dress, a red mantle, and her eyes were
strangely dilated, while one hand clutched the Infant Jesus: a picture
expressive of the first stammerings of the alphabet of art. Lucia
always kissed it before she dusted it; the lugubrious drapery made her
dream of the mother she had hardly known, and from whom the Madonna
came to her. Her lips would seek the traces of maternal kisses on the
narrow, diaphanous, waxen-hued hand of the Virgin.
By the side of the bed, under the Madonna, stood a wooden prie-Dieu
of mediæval workmanship, which Lucia had bought of a second-hand
dealer. The family arms were effaced from its wooden escutcheon. Lucia,
instead of replacing them by the _alte onde in tempesta_, the polar
star and the azure field of Casa Altimare, had had it graven with a
death’s-head and the motto “Nihil,” which she had adopted for her own
seal. She had to kneel down on its red velvet cushion to polish it, and
then mechanically she would say another prayer. She could hardly tear
herself away from it. When she did so, it was to pass the handkerchief
over the tiny chest of drawers that she had taken with her to school.
That brought back some of her past life to her, the books hidden in the
folds of the linen, the little images from Lourdes mixed up with the
ribbons, the sweets that she did not eat. On the top of this chest of
drawers were a red silk pincushion, covered with finest lace--which had
been given to her by Ginevra Avigliana, the most patient needlewoman
of them all--and Thomas à Kempis’s “Imitation,” its margin finely
annotated in ink red as blood. When she passed the handkerchief over
the book, she read a few words in it.
Her mind would run in another channel when she found herself in front
of the large mirror in her wardrobe, where she could see herself from
head to foot. She looked at herself, perceiving that her gown wrinkled
about the bodice, and reflecting that she must have become much thinner
lately. She joined her fingers round her narrow waist, remarking
inwardly that had she chosen she might have made it as slender as a
reed.... Then she posed in profile, with her train pushed on one side,
and her head a little inclined towards the right shoulder. She had once
seen the fantastic portrait of a thin unknown woman in white, in this
attitude.... Lucia liked to imagine that the unknown lady had suffered
much, then died; and that afterwards the unknown atom had joined the
Great Unknown. The same fancies followed her to the oval mirror on
her dressing-table. A thin white covering hung over it from the night
before, put there because it is unlucky to look into an uncovered
mirror the last thing at night. She threw the large white handkerchief,
now no longer white, into a corner and supplied herself with another,
with which she slowly rubbed the glass. She was tired, and sat gazing
at her image--her forehead, her eyes, and her lips--intently, as if
seeking to discover something in them. Every now and then she took up
a bottle of musk from the table and sniffed it, looking at herself to
mark the intense pallor and the tears induced by the pungent odour. In
the drawer there was a little box of rouge and a hare’s foot to lay it
on with; but she did not use it. One morning she had slightly tinted
one cheek, it had disgusted her. She preferred her pallor, the warm
pallor of ivory, that “white heat of passion,” as a rapturous poet,
of unrecognised merit, had described it. A butterfly was pinned to
the frame of the looking-glass. His wings were expanded, for he was a
cotillon butterfly of blue and silver gauze, a memento of the first
ball her father had taken her to last year. Every morning a puff of
her breath caused his wings to flutter, while his little body stuck
fast to the mirror. That motionless, artificial butterfly reminded her
of certain artificial lives, full of noble aspirations, but lacking
the energy, the power to rise. Then she wondered if she were very
interesting or very ugly, when she looked sad; and she postured before
the mirror in her most melancholy manner, calculating the effect of
the white brow, half hidden beneath the wealth of wavy hair, the depth
of sadness in her eyes, the dark colouring of the underlid which
accentuated their expression, the straight line of the profile, the
angle drawn by the bitter smile that sharpened the curves of her lips.
A sigh of satisfaction escaped her. In her sad mood, she might inspire
interest, if not love. Love she did not want. What would be the good of
it? The capacity for loving was denied her.
Then came the turn of the bottles on the toilet-table. They contained,
for the most part, those fantastic remedies which a quasi-romantic
science has voted sovereign against the most modern of maladies, mock
nevrose. In one bottle, chloral for insomnia, chloral to produce a
sleep full of exquisite and painful hallucinations, the very disease of
fantasy. In another, digitalis, wherewith to calm palpitations of the
heart. In another, a beautiful one, enamelled, with a golden stopper,
“English” salts wherewith to recall the fainting spirit. And at last,
in one, a white limpid fluid--morphine. “For sleep ... sleep,” murmured
Lucia, while she reviewed her little pharmacy.
After the toilet-table, she passed her handkerchief over the second
wardrobe, the one containing her linen, and dusted the three chairs.
Then having finished, she cast a look round, to assure herself that her
cell, as she called it, had assumed the cold, spotless appearance she
desired to give it. Her fantasy was assuaged; she addressed herself
aloud to her room: “Peace, peace, sleep on, inert and inanimate, until
to-night, when my tortured spirit will return to fill thy space with
anguish.”
She passed into the sitting-room, her favourite resort, the room where
her life was passed. The dark rosewood cabinet, containing five wide
deep drawers, was her first stage. Her fancy transformed it into a
bier. She delicately dusted the oxidised silver inkstand, representing
a tiny boat, sinking in a lake of ink. Then the handkerchief was passed
over the portrait frames with their hermetically sealed doors, so that
no one might ever steal a glimpse of the portraits hidden within. In
reality, they were empty, but the white cardboard backs, the void only
known to herself, suggested an unknown lover, a mystic knight, that
fair-haired Knight of the Holy Grail whom Elsa had not known how to
love; whom _she_ would have known how to keep by her side. Gently she
brushed the dust off a small Egyptian idol with a tiny necklace of blue
fragments: it was an upright copy of a mummy of the Cheops dynasty. It
served as a talisman, for these Egyptian idols avert the evil of one’s
destiny. Lucia touched the Bible, bound in black morocco, on whose
fly-page she had inscribed certain memorable dates in her existence,
with mysterious signs to denote the events to which they referred. With
reverence she took up the diamond edition of Leopardi, on whose crimson
binding was inscribed “Lucia,” in letters of silver. She read in both
books, every day, kissing the Bible and Leopardi with equal fervour.
The ivory penholder, with its gold pen; the sandal-wood paper-knife,
on which was inscribed the Spanish word _Nada_; the agate seal, that
bore the same motto as the prie-dieu; the letter-weight, upon which
stood a porcelain child in its shift; the half-mourning pen-wiper of
black cloth, embroidered in white; all the fantastic playthings she had
accumulated on her writing-table, were objects of equal interest to
her. She always spent half an hour at the writing-table, with fingers
that dallied over their pastime, shoulders bent in contemplation, and
an imagination that sped on wings to unknown heights.
Then, after the writing-table, came a photograph in a red frame,
suspended against the wall, a portrait of Caterina. Underneath it
hung a _bénitier_ containing fresh flowers, which were changed every
morning. Caterina contemplated her friend with kind serene eyes; the
portrait had her own air of composure. Every morning, in passing the
linen over the glass, Lucia greeted Caterina: “Blessed art thou, that
dreamest not, blessed ... that will never dream.” Next came a small
group in terra-cotta of Mephistopheles and Margaret. The guilty,
enamoured girl was kneeling in a convulsed attitude, with rigid limbs.
Her hands clasped the prayer-book that she could not open, her bosom
heaved, her throat had sunk into her crouching shoulders, her face was
contorted, her lips convulsed with the cry of horror that appeared to
escape them. Mephistopheles, tall, meagre, diabolic, with a subtle,
jeering smile, his hand in the act of making magnetic passes over her
head, stood behind her; a great, splendid, crushing Mephistopheles.
Whenever she looked at Margaret she felt herself blush with desire;
whenever she looked at Mephistopheles, Lucia paled with fear: with
vague indefinite desire of sin; with vague fear of punishment; a
mysterious struggle that took place in the very depths of her being.
It was Lucia’s hand that had carved in crooked, shaky characters, on
the wooden pedestal, _Et ne nos inducas in tentationem_. When she
came to the low table on which the albums stood, she sat down, for
her fatigue grew upon her. She turned their leaves; there were a few
portraits--girl friends, relations, three or four young men. Among
the latter, by way of eccentricity, was a faded photograph of Petröfi
Sandor, the Hungarian poet who fell in love with a dead maiden. Lucia
never saw that portrait but through a haze of tears, when she pondered
over a love so sad, so strange, and so funereal. Then she opened her
book of “Confessions.” Its pages were scribbled over by Lucia herself,
by the lady who taught her German, by the Professor of History, by
Caterina, Giovanna Casacalenda, and others. There were in response
to the wildest questions, the most irrelevant, silly, or eccentric
answers. Giovanna’s was stupid, Lucia’s mad and fantastic, Caterina’s
honest and collected, the Professor’s insane, the German teacher’s
sentimental, Alberto Sanna’s fluctuating and uncertain. Lucia lingered
here and there to read one of them. Then she put that album aside and
opened another, her favourite, the dearest, the handsomest, the best
beloved; a faded rose was gummed on the first page, underneath it was
a line from Byron. On the next, a little wreath of violets; in their
centre, a date and a line of notes of interrogation; farther on, the
shadowy profile of a woman, barely sketched in, signed “Clara.” And
pell-mell, dried flowers, verses, thoughts, landscapes, sketches, an
American postage-stamp, a scarabæus crushed into the paper, two words
written with gold ink.
She smiled, revelling in melancholy, as she turned these pages. Then
she left the albums, and stroked the head of a bronze lizard that lay
beside them on the table. She had a great fondness for lizards, snakes,
and toads, thinking them beautiful and unfortunate.
The grand piano, littered with music, was a long business. When she
passed the duster over the shining wood, she half closed her eyelids,
as if she felt the caressing contact of satin; then she passed it over
the keys, drawing from them a sort of formless, discordant music, in
whose endless variations she revelled. Lucia neither played well, nor
much; but when she met with a philharmonic friend, she would instal
her at the piano, and herself in a Viennese rocking-chair, where she
would close her eyes, beat time with her head and listen. Voiceless and
spell-bound, she was one of the best and most ecstatic of listeners.
Most of the music lying on the table was German; she specially affected
the sacred harmonies of Bach and Haydn. But _Aïda_ was always open
on the reading-desk. Then there was the embroidery-frame, a stole
for the church of the Madonna, her Madonna of the Bleeding Heart.
Next to it stood a microscopic work-table, on which lay the beginning
of a useless, spidery fabric. The chairs, the _pouffs_, the little
armchairs, were all in different styles and colours, for she loathed
uniformity. Her first prize for literature, a gold medal set in white
satin, hung on the wall; underneath it was her first childish essay in
writing. A bookshelf contained a few worn school-books, some novels,
and the Lives of the Saints. And last of all came a large tea-rose
with red marks, like blood-stains, on its petals, gummed into a velvet
frame, the _Rosa mystica_. When she had finished, Lucia cast aside her
duster, washed her hands, swallowed a few drops of syrup diluted with
water to clear her throat of dust, returned to the sitting-room, threw
herself down on her sofa, and let her fancies have free play.
IV.
Caterina Lieti entered, looking tiny in her furs; with her pink face
peeping from under her fur cap.
“Make haste, dear; it’s late.”
“No, dear; it’s no good going to my poor people before four; it’s
hardly two o’clock.”
“We are going elsewhere.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere where we shall amuse ourselves.”
“I’m not going, I don’t want to amuse myself; I am more inclined to
cry.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.... I feel miserable.”
“Oh! poor, poor thing. Now listen to me, you’d better come with me and
try to amuse yourself. You will injure your health by always staying in
this dark room, in this perfumed atmosphere.”
“My health is gone, Caterina,” said the other in a comfortless tone;
“every day I get thinner.”
“Because you do not eat, dear; you ought to eat; Andrea says so too.”
“What does Andrea say,” said Lucia, in a tone of indifference, which
annoyed Caterina.
“That you should eat nutritious food, drink plenty of wine and eat
underdone meat.”
“I am not a cannibal. That kind of diet does very well for muscular
organisms, but not for fragile nerve-tissues like mine.”
“But Andrea says that nerves are cured by beefsteaks.”
“It’s no good trying; I couldn’t digest them; I can’t digest anything
now.”
“Well, do dress, and come with me. The cold is quite reviving.”
“Where to?”
“I won’t tell you. Trust me!”
“I will trust you.... I am tempted by the unknown. I will drag this
weary existence about wheresoever you please. Will you wait for me?”
She returned in half an hour, dressed in a short black dress, softened
by lace accessories. A black hat, with a broad velvet brim, shaded her
brow and eyes.
“Shall we walk?” asked Caterina.
“We will walk; if I get tired we can call a cab.”
They walked, entering the Toledo from Montesanto. The tramontana was
blowing hard, but the sun flooded the streets with light. Men, with red
noses and hands in their pockets, were walking quickly. Behind their
short black veils the ladies’ eyes were full of tears and their lips
were chapped by the wind. Caterina drew her furs closer to her.
“Are you cold, Lucia?”
“Strange to say, I am not cold.”
People turned to gaze at the two attractive-looking women, one small
and rosy, with clear eyes and an expression of perfect composure,
attired like a dainty Russian; the other, tall and slight, with
marvellous eyes set in a waxen pallor.
A gentleman who passed them in a hired carriage, bowed profoundly to
both.
“Galimberti ...” murmured Lucia, in a weary voice.
“Where can he be going at this hour?”
“I don’t know ... to his lesson ... I suppose.”
“Do you know what Cherubina Friscia told me, a few days ago?”
“Have you seen her again?”
“Yes, I went there, because I heard that the Directress was ill.
Friscia told me that they were very dissatisfied with Galimberti. He is
always late for his lesson now; he either leaves before the hour is up,
or misses it altogether.”
“Does he...?” indifferently.
“Besides, he is not so good a teacher as he used to be. He takes no
interest in his class, is careless in correcting the compositions, and
has become prolix and hazy as an exponent.... In short, a mere ruin.”
“Poor Galimberti...! I told you that he was an unlucky creature. He’ll
end badly.”
“Forgive me if I ask you ... not from curiosity, but for friendship’s
sake ... does he still write to you?”
“Yes, every day; he writes me all his troubles.”
“And you to him?”
“I write him a long letter, every day.”
“And is it true that he comes to your house every day, to give you a
lesson in history?”
“Yes, every day.”
“And does he stay long?”
“Yes, naturally. We don’t talk only of history, but of sentiment ... of
the human affections ... of religion....”
“Of love?”
“Of love too.”
“Forgive me for importuning you. Galimberti is very much in love.
Perhaps it is for the sake of going to you that he gets there so late;
perhaps when he misses his lessons there altogether, it is because he
stays so long with you. You who are so good, think what it means for
him.”
“It’s nothing to do with me; if it is his destiny, it is fatal.”
“But does your father approve of these long interviews?”
“My father! He doesn’t care a pin for me, he is a heartless man.”
“Don’t say that, Lucia.”
“A heartless man! If my health is bad, he doesn’t care. He laughs at my
piety.... Do you know how he describes me, when he speaks of me at all?
'That interesting _poseuse_, my daughter.’ You can’t get over that; it
sums up my father.” Caterina made no reply. “That Galimberti will end
by becoming a nuisance. Were he not so unhappy, I would send him about
his business.”
“_Sai_, Lucia, a girl ought not to receive young men alone ... it is
not nice ... it is playing with fire.”
“_Nè fiamma d’esto incendio non m’assale_,” she quoted.
They had arrived at the Café de l’Europe, where the wind was blowing
furiously. Caterina, turning to protect herself against it, saw the cab
in which Galimberti sat with the hood drawn up to hide him, following
them step by step.
“_Dio mio!_ now he is following us ... Galimberti.... What will people
think...? Lucia, what shall we do?”
“Nothing, dear. I can’t prevent it; it is magnetism, you see.”
“Now he is missing his lesson for the sake of following us.”
“It is no good struggling against fate, Caterina.”
Caterina was silent, for she knew not what to say.
* * * * *
It was three o’clock when they entered the Samazzaro Theatre, all lit
up by gas, as if for an evening entertainment. Nearly all the boxes
were occupied, and a hum of suppressed chitchat arose towards the
gilded ceiling. From time to time there was a peal of irrepressible
laughter. People who, in groups of threes and fours, invaded the
parterre were dazed by the artificial light. The gas was gruesome
after the brilliant light of the streets. The ladies were all in dark
morning costumes; most of them wore large hats, some were wrapped
in furs. There was the click of cups in one box where the Duchess
of Castrogiovanni and the Countess Filomarina were drinking tea,
to warm themselves. Little Countess Vanderhoot hid her snub nose in
her muff, trying to warm it by blowing as hard as she could. Smart
Neapolitans, with their fur coats thrown back to show the gardenia in
their button-hole, with dark gloves and light cravats, moved about the
parterre and the stalls and began to pay a few visits in the boxes.
“What is going on here?” asked Lucia, as she took her seat in Box 1,
first tier.
“You’ll see, you’ll see.”
“But what is that boarding for, which enlarges the stage, and entirely
covers the place for the orchestra?”
“There’s a fencing tournament to-day.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Lucia, without much show of interest.
“Andrea is to have three assaults.”
“Ah!” repeated the other, in the same tone.
The _maître d’armes_ seated himself at the end of the stage, next
to a table, laden with foils and jackets. Every one in the parterre
immediately resumed his seat, in profound silence. The theatre was
crowded.
The _maître d’armes_ was a Count Alberti, tall, powerfully built, bald,
with bushy grey whiskers and serious mien. He was dressed in black, and
wore his overcoat buttoned to the chin. His hand was resting on a foil.
“Look! what a fine type,” said Lucia; “a fine imposing figure.”
The first couple advanced to the front of the stage. They were the
fencing-master, Giovanelli, and a Baron Mattei. The latter was tall
and finely proportioned. His beard was trimmed to a short point, his
cropped hair formed another point in the middle of his forehead; he
wore a tight-fitting costume of maroon cloth, with a black scarf. He at
once captured the ladies’ favour; there was a slight stir in the boxes.
“A Huguenot cavalier, that’s what he looks like,” murmured Lucia, who
was becoming excited.
The fencers, after saluting the ladies and the general company, bowed
to each other. Then the match began promptly and brilliantly. The
fencing-master was short and stout, but uncommonly agile; the Baron,
slight, cool, and admirable for ease and precision. They did not
open their lips. After each thrust, Mattei fell into a sculpturesque
attitude, which thrilled the company with admiration. He was touched
twice. He touched his adversary four times. Then they shook hands, and
laid down their foils. A burst of applause rang throughout the house.
“Do you like it?” whispered Caterina to Lucia.
“Oh, so much!” she answered, quite absorbed by the pleasure of it.
“There is Giovanna Casacalenda.”
“Where?”
“On the second tier, No. 3.”
“Ah! of course. Behind her is the Commendatore Gabrielli. Poor
Giovanna.”
“The marriage is officially announced. But she does not look unhappy.”
“She dissembles.”
The second couple--Lieti, amateur, and Galeota, professional--appeared
and placed themselves in position. Andrea was dressed in black cloth,
with a yellow scarf and shoes, and chamois-leather gloves. His athletic
figure showed to its utmost advantage in perfect vigour and harmony of
form and line. He smiled up at the box, a second. Caterina had shrunk
back a little out of sight, with eyes all but overflowing.
“Your husband is handsome to-day,” said Lucia, gravely. “He looks like
a gladiator.”
Caterina nodded her thanks. Galeota, dark, slight and meagre, attacked
slowly.
Andrea defended himself phlegmatically; motionless they gazed into each
other’s eyes; now and again a cunning thrust, cunningly parried. The
audience was absorbed in profound attention.
“_Su, su_, on, on,” Lucia cried, under her breath, trembling in her
eagerness, and crushing her cambric handkerchief with nervous fingers.
The assault went on as calmly and scientifically as a game of chess,
ending in two or three master-thrusts, miraculously parried. The two
fencers, as they shook hands, smiled at each other. They were worthy
antagonists. The applause which followed was wrung from the audience by
the perfection of their method.
“Applaud your husband! Are you not proud of him?”
“Yes,” replied Caterina, blushing.
A visitor entered the box, it was Alberto Sanna, a cousin of Lucia’s.
“Good-morning, Signora Lieti. What a triumph for your lord and master!”
Caterina bowed and smiled. Lucia held out two fingers to her cousin,
who kept them in his. He was a rather stunted little creature, slightly
bent in his tight overcoat; his temples were hollow, his cheekbones
high, and his moustache thin and scanty; yet he had the air of a
gentleman. His appearance was sickly and his smile uncertain. He spoke
slowly, hissing out his syllables as if his breath were short. He
informed the ladies that cold was bad for him; that he could not get
warm, even in his fur coat; that he had only looked in, just by a mere
accident, to avoid the cold outside. He was fortunate in having met
them. He entreated them, for charity’s sweet sake, not to send him
away. He added:
“I met your Professor of History, Lucia. He was walking up and down,
smoking. Why don’t he come in?”
“I don’t know. Probably because he doesn’t care to see the fencing.”
“Or because he hasn’t the money to pay for a ticket,” persisted Sanna,
with the triumphant malevolence of morbid natures.
Lucia struck him with the lightning of her glance, but made no answer.
Caterina was too embarrassed to say anything. She looked at the stage;
the fencers were two professionals; they had coarse voices, and
arms that mowed the air like the poles of the semaphore telegraph.
The audience paid small heed. Giovanna Casacalenda talked to her
Commendatore, who was standing behind her, while she cast oblique
glances at Roberto Gentile, the young officer in the brand-new uniform,
who occupied a fauteuil underneath her box.
“Do you not fence, Signor Sanna?” asked Caterina by way of conversation.
“Fence!” said Lucia, vivaciously, giving her cousin tit-for-tat.
“Fence, indeed, when he hasn’t breath to say more than four words at a
time!”
The Signora Lieti reddened and trembled, out of sheer pity for Sanna’s
pallor.
The silence in the box was more embarrassing than ever; then as if it
were the most natural thing in the world, Lucia separated a gardenia
from the bunch in her waistband, and gave it to Alberto. A little
colour suffused his thin cheeks, he coughed weakly.
“Are you not well, Alberto...?” laying her hand upon his arm.
“Not quite, it’s the cold,” said he, with the whine of a sickly child.
“Have a glass of punch, to warm you?”
“It’s bad for my chest.”
Caterina, pretending not to hear, gave her whole attention to the
spectacle. Count Alberti had passed two foils: to Galeota, junior,
the young fencing-master, and to Lieti. The interest of the audience
was once more awakened. The younger Galeota was a beautiful, graceful
youth, with fair, curly hair, shining blue eyes, a short wavy beard,
and the complexion of a fair woman; a well-proportioned figure, habited
in ultramarine, with a white scarf. Opposite him, stood Andrea Lieti,
like a calm Colossus.
“_Dio mio!_” cried Lucia, “Galeota is like a picture of Our Lord! How
sweet and gentle he looks! If only Andrea does not hurt him.” But
Andrea did not hurt him. It was a furious attack, in which the foils
bent and squeaked; at last Galeota’s foil broke off at the hilt.
Alberti stayed both hands. The fencers raised their masks to breathe.
“How like Galeota is to Corradino of Alcardi!” exclaimed Lucia. “But
your husband is a glorious Charles of Anjou.”
The assault began again; hotter and fiercer than ever. From time to
time the deep sonorous voice of Andrea cried, _Toccato!_ and above
the din, the clear resonant tones of Galeota rang out, _Toccato!_
The ladies became enthusiastic; they seized their opera-glasses and
leant over the parapet of their boxes, while a thrill of delight moved
the whole assembly. In Lucia’s excitement she closed her teeth over
her handkerchief, and dug her nails into the red velvet upholstery.
Caterina had again withdrawn into her shady corner.
“Bravo! bravo!” cried the audience with one voice, when the assault was
over. Lucia leant out of the box and applauded; for the matter of that,
many other ladies applauded. After all, it was a tournament. Lucia’s
eyes dilated, her lips trembled; a nervous shiver shook her from time
to time.
“Are you amusing yourself, Lucia?” said Caterina again.
“Immensely...!” closing her eyes in the flush of her enjoyment.
“_Senti_, Alberto; if it is not too cold, go down and send us up
something from the _buffet_.”
“I don’t want anything,” protested Caterina.
“Yes, yes, you do; you shall drink a glass of Marsala, with a biscuit.”
“I will have anything to please you,” assented Caterina, to avoid
discussion.
“Send an ice for me, Alberto.”
“In this cold weather? I shiver to think of it.”
“I am burning; feel my hand.” And she put the poor creature’s finger
in the opening of her glove. “Now, go and send me an ice at once. Take
care of draughts.... That poor Alberto is not long for this life,” she
added, addressing Caterina, when he was gone.
“Why not?”
“He is threatened with consumption. His mother and two sisters died of
it. Don’t you see how thin he is?”
“Then don’t be cruel to him.”
“I? Why, I’m devotedly attached to him. I sympathise with suffering of
every kind. All the people about me are sickly creatures.”
“Andrea would say that such an atmosphere cannot but be injurious to
your health.”
“Oh! how strong your Andrea is! That is what I call strength. You saw
to-day that he was the strongest of them all. But he never comes to see
me.”
“_Sai_, he never has a moment to spare. And he is afraid of talking too
loudly--of making your head ache.”
“He is not fond of musk, I fancy?” And she smiled a strange smile.
“Perfumes send the blood to his head. I will tell him to call on you.”
“_Senti_, Caterina, strength like his is almost overwhelming. Does it
not almost frighten you? Are you never afraid of him?”
Caterina looked astonished, as she replied: “Afraid...! I do not
understand you.... Why should I be afraid?”
“I don’t know,” said the other, shrugging her shoulders crossly. “I
must eat this ice, for here comes Alberto again.”
During this conversation the performance continued--alternately
interesting and tiresome. Connoisseurs opined that the tournament was a
great success, and the Neapolitan school had been worthily represented.
The Filomarina averred, with the audacity of a Titianesque beauty, that
Galeota was an Antinous. The Marchesa Leale, a great friend of Baron
Mattei’s, was enraptured. She was seated quietly by her husband’s side;
she wore a badge--a brooch representing two crossed foils--that the
Baron had presented to her. On the latter’s scarf was embroidered a red
rose, the Marchesa’s emblem.
In the excitement incidental to the clashing of swords and the triumph
of physical strength, Giovanna Casacalenda, with flushed cheeks and
moist lips, began to neglect her Commendatore, and to cast enthusiastic
and incendiary glances at Roberto Gentile. Many ladies regretted having
exchanged their fans for muffs in the increasingly heated atmosphere.
By degrees a vapour ascended towards the roof, and excited fancy
conjured up visions of duels, gleaming foils, shining swords, secret
thrusts, and applauding beauty. A warlike ardour reigned in boxes and
parterre.
“Has the ice refreshed you, Lucia?” inquired her cousin.
“No, I burn more than ever; there was fire in it.”
“Perhaps you would feel better outside.”
“It will be over in a few minutes,” observed Caterina. “There is to be
a set-to between my husband and Mattei.”
The set-to proved to be the most interesting part of the performance.
Lieti and Mattei, the two most powerful champions, stood facing
each other. The audience held its breath. During five minutes the
two fencers stood facing each other; they toyed with their foils,
indulging in a flourish of salutes, _feintes_, thrusts, parries, and
plastic attitudes--a perfect symphony, whose theme was the chivalric
salutation. Applause without end; then again silence, for the
assault-at-arms was about to begin. Not a word or sound was uttered by
either fencer. They were equally agile, ready, scientific, and full of
fire--parrying with unflagging audacity, and liberating their foils as
in the turn of a ring. They were well matched. Lieti touched Mattei
five times; Mattei touched Lieti four times. They divided the honours.
In applauding the two champions the public broke through the cordon.
A handkerchief fell at Andrea’s feet. He hesitated a moment; then,
without raising his eyes, stuck it in the scarf round his waist. The
ladies’ gloves were torn to shreds in the storm of applause.
When he joined them in the box, Andrea found the ladies standing up,
waiting for him.
“Good evening, Signorina Altimare; good evening, Caterina. Shall we
go?” He spoke curtly and crossly while he helped his wife, who looked
confused, to put on her furs. Then he burst out:
“Caterina, why did you behave so ridiculously? It is so unlike you to
be eccentric--to make a laughing-stock of yourself?”
She kept her hands in her muff and her eyes cast down, and made no
reply.
“You, a sensible little woman? Are we living in the Middle Ages?
_Perdio_, to expose oneself to ridicule!”
Caterina turned pale and bit her lip; she would not cry, and had no
voice left to answer with. Lucia leant against the door-post, listening.
“You are talking about the handkerchief, Signor Andrea?” she put in,
slowly.
“Just so.... The handkerchief. A pretty conjugal amenity!”
“It was I who threw the handkerchief, Signor Andrea, in my enthusiasm.
You were wonderful to-day--the first champion of the tournament.”
Andrea had not a word to say. He calmed down at once, with a vague
smile. Caterina breathed freely once more.
Alberto Sanna returned and offered his arm to Caterina; Andrea assisted
Lucia in putting on her cloak. She, with face uplifted towards his, her
eyes, through their long lashes, fixed on his, and a slight quiver in
her nostrils, leant on him imperceptibly, just sufficiently to graze
his shoulder, as she drew on her coat-sleeves.
V.
“Is it you, Galimberti? Pray come in.”