I.
The note was worded as follows:
“I could not bear it without you. I gave out that I was going
shooting; have come to Naples instead. I implore you, let me see you
for a moment; just the time to tell you that I love you more than ever.
“ANDREA.”
He had to wait for the answer, but it came:
“To-morrow, at ten. Let there be a closed carriage at the cloister of
Santa Chiara, before the little door of the church. Blinds down and
door open. I will come for a moment--to bid you farewell.
“LUCIA.”
All night long he paced the room that he had taken at an hotel, reading
that kind and cruel letter--inexplicable as she who had written
it--over and over again. With all its rich store of vitality, Andrea’s
healthy temperament was impaired; his nervous and muscular system
degraded and unstrung. He missed the vigour of his iron muscles: he
felt as weak as if his legs must refuse to carry him. His appetite,
served by the wonderful digestive faculties upon which the harmony of
the entire organism depended, had forsaken him. And he had acquired the
tastes of Lucia for glasses of iced water, barely tinted with wine,
spiced viands and sweets. Red meat disgusted him as it did her. He
felt ill. Within him or outside him, he could see but one remedy for
his evil--Lucia. She only could cure and redeem him, make the rich
blood run its old course through his veins, restore to him physical
equilibrium, with the exuberant gaiety and joy of life that he had
lost. He was ill for want of her; it was an unjust privation. He felt
that the first kiss, on the first day of happy love, would give him
again health, strength and comeliness, and the power of defying sorrow
and ill-luck. The bare vision of it made him shut his eyes as if the
sun had blinded him.
“Lucia, Lucia,” he kept repeating, with dishevelled hair and oppressed
breathing. He could think of nothing but the appointment for the
morrow, what Lucia would have to say to him, and how he would dissuade
her from bidding him farewell. He was certain of dissuading her, for
without Lucia he would die, and he did not mean to die. A thousand
wild projects crowded his brain. He dreamt of kneeling before her and
saying, “I have come to die by thy hand.” He would take a dagger with
him and offer it to her. He dreamt of not replying to her arguments
except by, “I love you, you shall be mine.” He dreamt of not saying a
word, but of kissing her until his lips ached.
The livid November dawn found Andrea with parched lips and burning
eyes, lost in fantastic hallucinations. He went out into the streets of
Naples at seven, under a fine rain, without heeding the wet. At eight
he was already driving up and down the Toledo, lolling on the cushions
of a hired carriage, with his hat over his eyes and the curtains drawn
down, consulting his watch every few minutes.
* * * * *
The heavy, iron-bound _portière_ of padded leather fell behind a lady
dressed in black, in deep mourning. There were few people in the church
of Santa Chiara, which has but one nave, gay with gilding, large
windows and bright painting; more of a drawing-room than a church.
Lucia, crossing herself devoutly, took the holy water, and turned
towards the principal entrance. Then she knelt before the altar of the
_Padre Eterno_, a miraculous shrine hung with ex-voto offerings in
wax and silver, in red or blue frames. She, kneeling on the marble
steps, with her head against the balustrade, conversed with the Eternal
Father, telling Him that He had thus ordained, for this was fate. Since
bow she must to the decrees of Providence, she prayed Him to vouchsafe
her counsel in that supreme hour. The Eternal Father had chosen to
cast her into this tribulation, in which she had lost all peace and
felicity: now she prayed Him to sustain her, to illumine her darkness
so that she might find her way. Which was her way--the way of justice?
To leave Andrea, so that he might do something desperate? Be his, in
continual deceit? Be his, openly? She spoke humbly to the Eternal,
awaiting the flash of the Holy Spirit that should illumine her terrible
position.
“O Father, O Father, Thou wouldst have it so. Now help me.”
After saying three final _Paternosters_, she rose. Grace had not come
to her: the Eternal had not permitted her to hear His voice: she
arose from prayer offered in vain: God the Father had not heard her.
She crossed the whole length of the church and tottered up to the
image of the Madonna, where she fell on her knees. She was an ancient
_Madonna delle Grazie_, with a cadaverous face and large pitiful eyes
that appeared to look at you, to appeal to you, to follow you as you
departed. Lucia told the Madonna of her trouble, of her misery, and
with her head resting on the balustrade, weeping and sobbing, she said
to her:
“O! _Vergine Santissima_, as Thou hast suffered in Thy motherhood,
so do I suffer in my womanhood. The anguish of these sorrows was not
Thine, but from high Heaven. Thou seest and dost fathom them. O!
_Vergine Santissima_, mine was not the will to do this thing. Before
the Divine mercy, I am innocent and unhappy. I was led into evil and it
overcame me, for my strength could not withstand it; it was weakened by
the misfortunes inflicted on me by Heaven. O! Holy Virgin, I may have
sinned, but I am not a wicked woman. I am a tempest-tossed, tortured
creature, a plaything of the fates. O! Holy Virgin, like unto Thee have
they thrust seven swords into my heart; like unto Thee, for fifteen
years, am I pursued by the sinister vision of martyrdom. I am the most
bitter tribulation that is upon the earth. My heart bleeds, my brain
is bound in leaden bands, my nerves are knotted by an iron hand, my
mouth is parched. Madonna, do Thou help me, do Thou console me. O!
Madonna, who hast not known human love, mercy on her who has learnt to
know it, ardent, immense, devouring. O! Madonna, Thou who knowest not
desire, mercy on her who has it within her, long, savage, insatiable.
O! Madonna, do Thou tell me, shall I give myself to Andrea?”
But Lucia’s passionate eyes were turned in vain on the Madonna: the
Virgin continued to consider Lucia who was praying earnestly, and a
little woman who was reciting her rosary and beating her bosom, with
the same compassionate gaze. Then Lucia recited half the rosary, on
that lapis-lazuli fragment of hers. She stopped at a _Paternoster_,
and looked at her watch. It was ten o’clock. Absent and indignant at
last that Divine grace had been withheld from her, she was now only
praying with her lips. They all left her to her fate, even God and the
Madonna--poor leaf that she was, fallen from the bough and whirled in
the vortex of destiny. It was of no avail: they were all against her,
they left her defenceless and bereft of succour. In that dark hour, the
ingratitude of the world and the indifference of Heaven were revealed
to her. “Hyssop and vinegar, hyssop and vinegar, the drink they gave to
Christ,” she kept repeating to herself, while she rearranged the folds
of her black dress, and drew her crape veil over her face. Once more,
when she passed the chief altar, she knelt and said a _Gloria Patri_,
crossing herself from sheer force of habit. And it was with a gesture
of decision that she sped through the little door and dropped the
curtain behind her.
The two-horsed hired landau was waiting in front of the five steps. The
wide quadrangle of the cloister was deserted. Perhaps the noble Sisters
were peeping from behind those gratings. The fine close rain continued:
the driver, indifferent and motionless, sheltered himself under a big
umbrella. The carriage bore the letter M and the number 522. The door
nearest the church was open. Lucia took in all these details. She
walked down firmly, without looking behind her, and with one spring was
inside the carriage. A voice cried: “_A Posilipo_,” to the driver, and
the carriage-door closed with a snap; then it started.
“O! love, love, love,” murmured Andrea, folding her in his embrace.
She tore herself away, and laughing ironically, said:
“Do you know that our position is to be found in _Madame Bovary_? This
is a novel by Flaubert!”
“I have not read it. How can you be so cruel as to say these things to
me?”
“Because we are the performers in a bourgeois drama, or in a provincial
one, which comes to the same thing.”
“I don’t know anything about it, I only know that I love you.”
“Is this all that you have to say to me?” she asked, with a sneer.
“Oh! Lucia, be human. True, I have lost all sense, all dignity, but
’tis for love of you. Think how I have suffered in these three days!
Despair has nearly driven me to throw myself down from the _Ponte della
Valle_.”
“They who talk of suicide are the last to commit it.”
“But if I love thee, I do not mean to die. Oh! cruel, not one kiss hast
thou given me.”
“There are no more kisses for our love,” she replied, oracularly.
In her black attire, with her veil drawn over her face, under the green
shade of the curtains, her feet hidden by her long skirt, and her hands
by her gloves, without a thread of white on her person, her aspect was
most tragic. Andrea shuddered with an acute sense of fear, he felt
as if he were being irretrievably ruined by a malignant sorceress.
But when she moved and the well-known perfume diffused itself in the
circumscribed atmosphere, the painful sensation decreased and was soon
gone.
“What is the matter with you?” he said. He had lost heart, and seeing
all his projects melt away, found nothing to say to her.
“Nothing.”
“Do you love me?”
“I love you,” was Lucia’s frigid reply.
“How much?”
“I do not know.”
“Why did you say that there were no more kisses for our love?”
“Because, like Siebel, you are accursed of Mephistopheles. Siebel could
not touch a flower without its fading and dying. You have kissed me,
and I am fading and dying. There are no more flowers for Margaret, no
kisses for our love.”
“I see,” said Andrea, absorbed in a sorrowful dream.
“This is what I have to say to you, we must forget each other.”
“No,” cried Andrea, in a passion.
“Yes, the hard law of duty imposes this upon us.”
“Duty is one thing, love is another.”
“That is why. Do you love Caterina?”
“I love you,” he said, closing his eyes.
“Well, you are happier than I am; I love Caterina, I love Alberto; to
my mind, they are adorable beings.”
“You love too many people,” he said, bitterly. He tried to take her
hand, she resisted. Outside, the rain increased; the carriage rolled on
noiselessly over the wet pavement of Santa Lucia.
“Mine is a large heart, Andrea.”
“You shall love me only.”
“I cannot. I love your wife and my husband, I cannot sacrifice them to
you. Let us say good-bye.”
“I cannot, Lucia. I am doomed to love you, for ever. You shall be mine.”
“Never, never, never!”
“But are you not afraid of me?” he cried, red in the face, furious.
“But do you think you can say all this to me with impunity? Are you
not afraid that I shall kill you? Couldn’t I do so, this instant?”
“Please yourself,” she replied, calmly.
“Forgive me, Lucia; I am a fool and a savage. You are my victim, I
know it. I make you unhappy, and ill-treat you into the bargain. All
the wrong is on my side. Will you forgive me? Tell me that you have
forgiven me.”
“I forgive you.” She gave him her hand, which he kissed humbly, through
her glove. “Listen to me attentively, Andrea,” she resumed; “when you
have heard me, you will be convinced that I am right. In sorrow, but of
your own free will, you will say good-bye for ever. Are you listening?”
“Say what you will. You cannot convince me, for I love you.”
“I shall convince you, you’ll see. I am not to blame for what has
happened in this dark, tumultuous drama. I did not seek love, I did not
seek you. I had married Alberto, willingly sacrificing my whole life to
him, in all affection. I had already shunned you. Twice before you had
crossed my path with your conquering, all-compelling love. I would not,
I would not--you know that I would not. Do you confess to this?”
“Yes, I confess it; you would not,” repeated Andrea like an echo.
“Do me this justice. Step by step have I fought against your love, your
tyrannic love. I have watched and prayed and wept; deaf is Heaven, deaf
the world, and fate, the implacable statue that has no entrails, that
no human love can move, is inexorable. Fate has willed it so.”
“Fate, fate,” repeated Andrea, in a tone of conviction.
“Now, although I know myself to be free from blame, my sensitive
conscience makes me decry myself, as if I were a baneful creature. It
is useless to struggle against fate; we have bowed to its decrees and
we have loved. Oh! Andrea, I would not have said it to you--but at this
supreme moment the soul must reveal itself stripped of all artifice; I
have sacrificed all to you.”
“You are an angel....”
“No, I am a miserable woman, who loves and is capable of sacrifice.
Peace, tranquillity, conjugal duties, the ties of friendship, serenity
of conscience, mystic love, of all these have you bereft me. What have
you to offer me in exchange?”
“Alas! I can but love you,” he cried, in despair at his own poverty.
“Love is not everything, Andrea.”
“It is everything to me, Lucia.”
“You would do anything for love?”
“Anything.”
“Tell the truth, speak as if you were drawing your last breath, before
passing into the presence of your Judge; would you do anything?” She
had seized his hands, she was gazing fixedly, ardently into his eyes,
as if she would have drawn his soul from him. Andrea, completely
subjugated, simply said:
“Anything.”
She permitted him to kiss both her hands. She was thinking. Then she
raised the green curtain and looked out into the street. It was still
raining--in fact the rain was heavier than ever, and fell in long,
pointed drops, like needles. They had reached Mergellina. The sea under
the rain was of a dirty grey colour, and a mist shrouded the green blot
made in the landscape by the villa and the blurred blot made by the
Fort. Neither boat nor sail on the sea.
“What desolation!” murmured Lucia, “on sea and land! Ours is an
ill-starred love!”
“Lucia, Lucia, my beautiful Lucia, do not say these things. You have
not yet given me one kiss.”
“Kissing is your refrain; kiss me if you will.”
She threw back her veil and let him kiss her cold, closed lips. He
turned away from her, mortified.
“You are passionless; you do not care for me,” he said.
“But do you not realise, unhappy man, that I can never be yours? Do
you not realise that in being yours I should attain the utmost joy?
but that I deny myself? Do you not realise my renunciation of youth,
passion, life? Oh! unfortunate, who can torment me because you cannot
realise....”
“I admire you, Lucia, there is no other woman like you, and I do not
deserve you.”
The driver stopped, they had arrived at Posilipo, on the road that
leads between the villas on the heights and those that slope down to
the sea.
“Via di Bagnoli,” cried Andrea from the window.
“Whither are you taking me, Andrea?”
“Far....”
“No; I must return to town. Alberto is awaiting me.”
“Do not speak to me of Alberto.”
“On the contrary, you must let me speak of him. He is ill. I told him I
was going to confession. You must drive me quickly back to town.”
“I will never take you back,” he said emphatically.
Lucia looked at him, inquiringly, but a transient smile flitted over
her lips.
“You shall stay with me, you shall come with me. I will not let you go,
Lucia.”
She looked as if she were too stupefied to reply.... “You are going
mad, Andrea.”
“I am not going mad, I am speaking in all seriousness; my mind is made
up.”
The carriage had reached the Bagnoli shore.
“Let us get down here, it is rainy and deserted; no one will see us.”
He obediently opened the carriage-door, helped her to get down, and
gave her his arm.
Leaving the carriage on the high-road, they walked down to the sea
under a fine rain, their feet sinking in the moist sand. A damp mist
hung over the deserted landscape. Nisida, the convicts’ isle, stood out
before them, black on the pale horizon. Round it, the sea was dark and
turbid, as if all the livid horrors from the bottom had floated to its
surface: further on towards Baia, it shone with frigid whiteness. The
_Trattoria_ of Bagnoli, behind them, had all its windows closed; the
covered terrace was bare and empty, its yellow walls were stained by
the damp. Further back still spread the grey plain of Bagnoli, where
the soldiers go through their exercise, and Neapolitan duellists settle
their disputes.
“It is like a northern landscape,” she said, clinging to the arm of
her companion. “It is not Brittany, for Brittany has bare rocks and
terrible peaks. Neither is it Holland, for the Scheldt is white, and
fair and placid, veiled in a milky mist. It is Denmark, with Hamlet
gazing at the grey Baltic, with thoughtful eyes that betray his
madness.”
He listened to her, only conscious of the music of the voice that
re-echoed in his innermost being. The fine, close rain poured down upon
them until they were drenched, but neither of them perceived it.
“Have you ever been here, Andrea, when the landscape was blue?”
“Oh, yes--look over there, behind those closed shutters. I once fought
a duel in a big room in the inn.”
“Oh! my love, with whom?”
“With Cicillo Cantelmo, a friend of mine.”
“For whom?”
“... for a woman.”
An embarrassing silence ensued.
“How little I know of your life, Andrea,” she said gently, clinging
ever closer to him. “I am a stranger to you.”
“The past does not exist, love; all that has been is dead.”
“Oh! love, I am dead, I am dead to happiness.”
“Let me carry you away. Oh! my heart, you shall be reborn.”
“To-day you talk like a poet, Andrea, like a dreamer.”
“You have taught me this language; I did not know it before. I had
never dreamed. Come away, Lucia, come away with me.”
“It’s late, very late,” she replied. “Come back to the carriage: let us
return to Naples.”
They regained the little green haven that cut them off from the rest of
the world. They were both saddened. When they turned in to the Via di
Fuorigrotta, Lucia shuddered, and turning to Andrea, said:
“And the future?”
“Do not think of it, let it come.”
“You are a child, Andrea.”
“No; you will find that I am a man. Will you trust me?”
“I am afraid, I am afraid;” and she clung to him.
“What are you afraid of?”
“I do not know.... I am afraid of losing myself. This love is ruin,
Andrea. I can see the future. Shall I foretell it you? Shall I describe
the fate that awaits us?”
“Tell, but give me your hands; tell, but smile.”
“There are two ways before me. The first is the path of duty. After
this gloomy, melancholy drive in the rain, in a carriage like a hearse,
driven by a spectral coachman, we can coldly kiss and say good-bye,
renouncing love. Ever to be apart, never to meet again, to betake
ourselves, you to Caterina’s side, I to ... Alberto, to a life as dry
and arid as pumice-stone, to that humdrum existence that is the death
of the soul. Forget our glorious dreams, our sweet realities: behold
the future....”
“No; I cannot.”
“There is another future open to us. It is sin clothed in hypocrisy; it
is hidden evil; it is fear-struck, trembling adultery, that degrades
and deceives, that steals secret kisses, that is dependent on servants,
porters, postmen, maids, and the tribe of them. It is what we have
endured till now; it is odium, vulgarity, commonplace treason. To love
as every one else loves! to imitate what a hundred thousand have done
before us! It is unworthy of a woman like me, of a man like you!”
“Once you told me that deceit is merciful,” he murmured. “You love
Caterina and Alberto, in this way you could save....”
She turned and looked at Andrea, her scholar who had learnt her
theories so well, whom she had taught to deny truth.
“Then,” said Lucia, gloomily, “as I shall be never able to resign
myself to hiding my love, since I can no longer practise deceit, we had
better part.”
“No; I cannot.”
“We had better part.”
“I cannot; I shall die without you.”
“What can I do? There is no other way out of it. Die! I, too, will die.”
She turned up her eyes to the roof of the carriage and crossed her
arms, as if she were waiting for death.
“I have let you speak,” he said calmly, in a tone of decision, “because
you would have your say. But I have a plan of my own, the best, the
only one. Humdrum adultery, you will have none of it. Well, then,
we will have brazen adultery, open scandal. We will leave Naples
together....”
“No,” she cried, covering her face in horror.
“... we will leave together, never to return. We will begin our life
anew, in London, Paris, Nice or Brittany, wheresoever you will. Naples
shall be wiped out of it. Since it is ordained that I love you, that
you love me, we will pay our debt to fate.”
“Fate, fate,” she sobbed, convulsively, wringing her hands.
“Fate,” repeated Andrea, bitterly. “We should never have loved each
other. Now it is too late to draw back; you are mine.”
“Oh, Caterina! oh, Alberto!” she exclaimed, weeping.
“It is fate, Lucia.”
“My husband, my dearest friend!” Sobs rent her bosom.
“I tell you again, your heart is too big. I love you and you only: you
shall only love me.”
“What torture, Andrea!”
“Have you not said, hundreds of times, 'take me away?’ Now I am ready
to take you away.”
“You will take a corpse with you, pale with remorse.”
“Then let us content ourselves with hypocrisy, with such love as
suffices to others; yet that is what you cannot tolerate.”
“Oh! my God! what torture is this? I have not deserved it.”
Suddenly it turned dark. She uttered a cry of dismay.
“It is nothing, we are passing through the Grotta. Fear nothing, I love
you.”
“This love is a misfortune, a tragedy.”
“Have you not already told me this in the park?”
“Yes....”
“Well, Lucia, my life shall be passed in craving your pardon for having
brought this misery upon you, I know that you are my victim. I know
that I brought you to ruin. I demand of you an immense sacrifice. I
know it, but are you not the personification of sacrifice? You are an
example of noble abnegation, you are virtue and purity incarnate. You
will see what my love for you is--how I shall adore you.”
“And Caterina and Alberto?
“We will go away together, never to return,” he persisted obstinately.
“We shall be accursed, Andrea.”
“I shall take you away. Call me your executioner, I deserve it, but
come with me.”
“We shall be unhappy.”
“_Che!_”
“Madonna _mia_, Madonna _mia_, why hast thou ordained my ruin?”
“Will you come to-day or to-morrow?”
“Neither to-day nor to-morrow. I am afraid; let me think. You are
pitiless; no one has mercy on me.”
“You are an angel, Lucia, you know how to forgive. To-day or to-morrow?”
“Be merciful, give me time.”
“I will wait for you, my love. I will wait, for I know that you will
come.”
A pale ray of light stole into the carriage through the blinds. Lucia
was like one in a trance.
“You will leave me at the church _Della Vittoria_. I will pray there
and walk home; it is only a few steps from home.”
“And what am I to do? It is for you to decide what I am to do.”
“Leave to-day for Caserta. In five or six days you will return to
Naples, you and Caterina. By that time I.... shall have thought.
But do not attempt to write to me or see me; do not ask me for
appointments....”
“You hate me, don’t you?”
“I love you madly. But I must be left to myself for a time.”
“You don’t hate me for the harm I have done you?”
“Alas, no. We are all liable to do evil.”
“Not you; I am evil, but I love you.”
“Andrea, we have arrived; stop.”
“Lucia, remember that there is no way out of it. We must go away,
absolutely. Give me a kiss, oh, my bride!”
She stood up and allowed him to kiss her.
“Till that day, Andrea,” said Lucia, with a gesture as tragic as if she
were casting her life away.
“Till that day, Lucia.”
The door of the carriage closed and it drove off in the direction of
Chiatamone.
She found the church closed. That made an impression on her.
“Even God so wills it. O Lord, do Thou remember, on the day of
judgment.”
II.
Caterina was glad to return to Naples, to the house in Via
Constantinopoli; for alone at Centurano, without the Sannas, and
especially without Andrea (who had gone away shooting four times in a
fortnight, to make up for lost time), she had been very dull. In those
two weeks she had busied herself with putting the villa in order; the
furniture had been encased in holland covers and the curtains taken
down, Lucia’s room left intact, in readiness for next year. Then the
house had been consigned to the care of Matteo, and when this was
accomplished she was glad to get away.
She intended making many innovations in her winter quarters. She
discussed them at great length with Andrea, whose advice was precious
to her. For instance, the dining-room wanted redecorating; she was
thinking of having it panelled half-way up with carved oak, an idea
suggested by Giovanna Gabrielli-Casacalenda, past mistress in the art
of elegance. Caterina had hesitated at first because of the expense,
although Andrea had given her permission to spend as much as she chose.
They were rich, and did not live up to their income; their property
was well managed and lucrative; but she was economically-minded. As
for altering the yellow drawing-room which Andrea considered too showy
and too provincial, that would not be a serious expense, for the
upholsterer was willing to take back all its furniture and hangings,
and to exchange them for more modern, neutral-tinted ones. She often
consulted Andrea on these matters; he gave her rather absent answers,
being preoccupied with a lawsuit about a boundary-wall on their
property at Sedile di Porto.
His conferences with his legal advisers often obliged him to be away
from home. Indeed, that very morning he had been out since eight
o’clock, returning at eleven, apparently exhausted.
“Well, how goes the lawsuit?” inquired Caterina at luncheon.
“Badly.”
“Why? Does our neighbour decline any compromise?”
“He does. He is obstinate; says the right is on his side.”
“But what is the lawyer doing?”
“What can he do? He is moving heaven and earth, like any other lawyer;
or pretending to do so.”
“Why don’t you eat?”
“I am not very hungry; out of sorts.”
“After luncheon you ought to take a nap.”
“What an idea! I’ve got to go out again.”
“To the Court? This lawsuit will make you ill.”
“Then I shall have to get well again.”
“Listen to me. Suppose you let the neighbour have his own way?”
“It’s a question of self-respect; but perhaps you are right after all.”
“This lawsuit is a nuisance. This morning Alberto sent for you, and you
were out.”
“Who is Alberto?”
“Alberto Sanna.”
“What did he want?”
“The maid told me that he wanted to see you, to ask you to attend to
some business for him because he was confined to the house. She told me
in confidence that Lucia wished me to know that Alberto spat blood last
night in his sleep, but that he did not know it, and they were hiding
it from him. She also said that Lucia was crying.”
“And Alberto is another nuisance,” he rejoined, crossly and with a
shrug of his shoulders.
“It is for Lucia that I am grieving. How she must suffer!”
No answer.
“I should like to go there to-day, for half an hour,” she ventured to
remark.
“What would be the good of it?”
“Only to comfort Lucia....”
“To-day I can’t go there with you, and you know I don’t care for you to
go alone.”
“You are right, I won’t go; we will go together this evening.”
Luncheon was over, but they did not leave the table. Andrea was playing
with his breadcrumbs.
“Besides our agent, Scognamiglio, will call to-day. He will bring some
money for which you must give him a receipt. Tell him he can make a
reduction for the third-floor tenants of No. 79 Via Speronzella. They
are poor people.”
“Am I to say anything else to him?”
“Give him his monthly salary.”
“A hundred and sixty lire?”
“Yes; but let him give you a receipt.”
“All right; another cup of coffee?”
“Yes; give me another cup, it is weak to-day.”
“Because of your nerves. I wanted to ask you, are we going to the ball
of the _Unione_?”
“... Yes.”
“Shall I order a dress of cream brocade for that ball?”
“Will the colour suit you?”
“The dressmaker says so.”
“They always say so. But order it, anyhow.”
“I will wear my pearls.”
He did not answer. He was gazing abstractedly into the bottom of
his cup. Then he looked at her so long and so fixedly that Caterina
wondered.
“Well,” he said at last, looking at his watch, “I must be going.”
He rose, and as usual she followed him. He went right through the
house; stopping before his writing-table to take a bulky parcel out of
it, which he put into his pocket.
“It makes you look fat,” she said, laughing.
“Never mind.”
He dawdled in his bedroom, as if he were looking for something that he
had forgotten. Then he took up his hat and gloves.
“You should take your overcoat with you, the air is biting.”
“You are right; I will take it.”
He finished buttoning his gloves. She was standing, looking at him with
her serene eyes. He stooped and gave her an absent kiss. Then he turned
to go, followed by his wife.
“_Arrivederci_, Andrea.”
“... _Arrivederci_.”
He began to descend the stairs; she called out to him from the landing:
“Shall you return late?”
“No. Good-bye, Caterina.”
* * * * *
Lucia had risen late. She told Alberto that she had passed a feverish
night. Indeed, her lips were dry and discoloured, her heavy eyelids had
livid circles round them. At eleven, she languidly dragged herself,
in a black satin dressing-gown, to be present at her husband’s
breakfast--two eggs beaten in a cup of _café-au-lait_--capital stuff
for the chest. She sat with her head in her hands. Every now and then
dark flushes dyed her face, and she pushed her hair off her temples
with a vague gesture that indicated suffering.
“What is the matter with you? You are sadder than usual!”
“I wish I could see you well, Alberto _mio_. I wish I could give you my
heart’s blood.”
“What is it all about? Am I so ill, then?”
“No, Alberto, no. The season is trying to delicate lungs.”
“Well, then, what of it? But I see that you are so good as to be
anxious about me. Thank you, dear. But for you I should have been dead
by this time.”
“Do not say that--do not say it.”
“Now she is in tears, my poor little thing! I was joking. What a fool I
am! My stupid chaff makes you cry. I entreat you not to cry any more.”
“I am not crying, Alberto _mio_.”
“Have a sip of my coffee.”
“No, thank you, I don’t care for any.”
“Have some; do have some.”
“I am going to take the Sacrament to-day, about one.”
“Ah! beg pardon. I never remember anything. What church are you going
to?”
“The same church, Santa Chiara.”
“But your religion makes you suffer, dear.”
“Everything makes me suffer, Alberto _mio_. It is my destiny. But it is
well to suffer for God’s sake!”
“Let us both take holy vows, Lucia.”
“You are joking, but I did seriously intend to be a nun. It was my
father who prevented me from doing so. God grant that he may not repent
of it.”
“Why, Lucia? Think, if you had become a nun, we should not have met and
loved each other, and you would never have been my dear wife.”
“What is the good of love and marriage? All is corruption, everything
in this world is putrid.”
“Lucia, you are lugubrious.”
“Forgive me, Alberto _mio_, the gloom that overshadows my soul leaks
out and saddens my beloved one. I will smile sooner than you should be
sad.”
“Poor dear, I know what I cost you. But you’ll see how soon I shall get
strong, and how we shall amuse ourselves this winter. There will be
fêtes, balls, races.”
“I shall never be gay again.”
“Lucia, I shall have to scold you.”
“No, no; let us talk of something else.”
“If you are going to church, you are but just in time.”
“Do you send me away, Alberto?”
“It is midday; you have to go as far as Santa Chiara ... and the sooner
you go the sooner you will be back.”
“True, the sooner back.... I must go, mustn’t I?”
“Of course, the air will do you good. Go on foot, the walk will be good
for you.”
“What will you do, meanwhile?”
“I shall wait for your return.”
“... You will wait.”
“Yes; perhaps I shall go to sleep in this chair.”
“Are your hands hot, Alberto?”
“No; feel them.”
“Pain in your chest?”
“Nothing of the sort, only slight stitches in the sides, automatic
stitches, as the doctor calls them. What are you thinking of? Don’t
you see that I am better? Yesterday, I coughed eighteen times; this
morning, seventeen; I’m improving.”
“Alberto _mio_, may health be yours!”
“Yes, yes, I shall get as strong as Andrea! I sent for him this
morning, but he never came. He is out in all sorts of weather. Lucky
dog!”
She stood listening, with hanging arms and downcast eyes.
“Go and dress, dear; go.”
She moved away slowly, turning to look at him. In half an hour she
returned, dressed in black, enveloped in a fur cloak, in which she hid
her hands. She came and sat down by him, as if she were already tired.
“You are not fit to walk, Lucia; call a _fiacchere_.”
“I will....” she said in a faint voice.
“What have you got under your cloak?”
“The prayer-book, a veil, a rosary.”
“All the pious baggage of my little nun. Be a saint to thy heart’s
content, my beauty. Thanks to you, we shall all get into Paradise.”
“Do not laugh at religion, Alberto.”
“I never laugh at the objects of your faith. Time’s up, my heart; go,
and come back soon.”
Lucia threw her arms round his neck, kissed his thin face, and
whispered:
“Forgive....”
“Am I to forgive you for taking the Sacrament? Hasn’t your confessor
told you that I ... absolve you?”
She bowed low. Then she drew herself up and looked round, wildly. She
went away, bent and tottering, but returned almost immediately.
“I had forgotten to bid you good-bye, Alberto.”
She squeezed his hand.
“Think of me in church, my saint.”
“I will pray for you, Alberto.”
And she went away--tall, black, and stately.
III.
Night was closing in; in the December twilight the air had grown more
chill. Under the lighted lamp Caterina sat writing to her cousin
Giuditta at school, to invite her to spend next Sunday with her. The
clock struck six. “Andrea is late,” thought Caterina; “I am glad I made
him take his overcoat, the days are getting so cold.” She finished her
letter and laid her hand on the bell. Giulietta appeared.
“Have this letter posted, with a halfpenny stamp.”
“Shall I order dinner to be served?”
“Yes; your master will be home in a few minutes.”
But the master kept them waiting till half-past seven. Caterina waited
patiently, yet she felt a certain inward spite towards the business
that took up so much of Andrea’s time. It struck her that the house in
Via Constantinopoli was rather cold, and it needed fireplaces. How long
would it take to put in a grate? It would please Andrea.
The bell rang. That must be Andrea ... but it was only Giulietta.
“A letter from Casa Sanna, and one by post.”
“All right; you can go. See that dinner is kept hot.”
Although she was disappointed by Andrea’s non-arrival--it was nearly
eight o’clock--Caterina eagerly opened the letter from Casa Sanna.
“Signora Caterina, for pity’s sake, come to me.
“ALBERTO.”
The handwriting was shaky and blurred, as if the pen had trembled in
the writer’s hand. The address was in a different hand. Caterina was
alarmed. What could have happened? Nothing to Alberto; no, for then
Lucia would have written. Then something must surely be the matter with
Lucia. What dreadful accident, what awful trouble, could it mean? She
must go at once. She rang.
“The carriage, Giulietta.”
The maid looked at her in astonishment and left the room. All at once
Caterina, who was proceeding to put on her bonnet and wrap, stood
still. Andrea! Had she forgotten Andrea? If Andrea did not find her
at home when he returned he would be angry. What was to be done? She
sat down a moment to collect her thoughts; she was not accustomed to
rely on herself in any difficulty--she had no will of her own. She
decided on writing a line to Andrea, apologising for going out for half
an hour, and enclosing Alberto’s note. She would return immediately;
he was not to wait dinner for her. She placed the letter, with the
letter-weight over it, in full view, on the writing-table. Then she saw
the letter that had come by post. “From Giuditta,” she thought.
She opened it, still preoccupied with the thought of what could have
happened to Lucia, and read:
“Oh! Caterina, mercy, Caterina; have pity upon me; mercy, mercy,
mercy! I am unfortunate. I am leaving with Andrea. I am a miserable
creature; you will never see me again. I suffer. I am leaving. I am
dying. Have pity!”
“LUCIA.”
She read it over again, re-read it, and read it for the fourth time.
She sat down by the writing-table, with the letter in her hands. She
was stupefied.
“The carriage is at the door,” said Giulietta. Caterina’s head moved as
if in reply. Then she rose to her feet, but she felt the floor give way
beneath them. “If I move I shall fall,” she thought.
She stood still; her giddiness increased; the furniture turned round
her; there was buzzing in her ears and a bright light in her eyes.
“Surely, I am dying,” she thought. But the giddiness began to decrease,
the whirl became wider and slower, and then stopped. Then she read the
letter over again, replaced it in the envelope, put it in her pocket
and kept her hand over it. She passed into her room, took her bonnet
and wrap out of the darkness, but did not put them on. She crossed the
anteroom with them in her hands.
“Shall you return early, Signora?” said Giulietta.
She looked at her, dazed.
“... Yes, I think so.”
“What shall I say to the master?”
“There is ... yes, there is a note for him.”
She descended the stairs and entered the carriage. The coachman must
have had his orders from Giulietta, for without waiting for further
instructions he drove off through Via Sebastiano. Caterina, sitting on
the edge of the cushion, without leaning back, had placed her bonnet
and shawl opposite to her, and still kept her hand on the letter in her
pocket. She felt the discomfort of the chill air that came in through
the open window. She could not resist the impulse that led her, by
the fugitive light of the street-lamps, to read Lucia’s letter over
again for the sixth time. What with the movement of the carriage and
the sudden shadows that succeeded the flashes of light, the written
words jumped up and down; and Caterina felt them jumping in her brain,
knocking against her brow and at the back of her head, beating in
either temple. It was a tempest of little blows, a beating of the drum
under her skull. Every now and then she bent her head, as if to escape
it. She folded the paper; the sensation became less intense, died away,
and stupefaction once more dulled her brain.
She mounted the stairs slowly, keeping a firm, mechanical hold on her
shawl. She found the door wide open. In the anteroom the maid was
talking with animation to the man-servant, emphasising her discourse
by expressive gestures. When they saw her enter noiselessly, in indoor
attire, without either bonnet or gloves, they became silent. Then she
forgot where she was, halting in indecision. She no longer knew what
she had come for, when the maid whispered to her that:
“The Signore was awaiting her.”
Of whom was she talking? Caterina looked fixedly at the maid, without
the quiver of an eyelash.
“The poor Signore had again spat blood at about three o’clock. He
noticed it this time. This evening, when he received the Signora’s
letter, he turned red and screamed; he got very excited and
coughed--and again spat blood, saving your presence.”
“La Signora, blood! what were they talking of?”
“Now I will show you in, Signorina. But bear up, both of you, it was
inevitable.”
At these words Caterina trembled all over; a change came over her face.
Glued to the spot, she gazed at the maid with eyes full of sorrow.
“What is done, can’t be undone, Signora _mia_! Let us go to the poor
Signore.”
Preceded by the maid, she followed submissively. Lucia’s boudoir was
in great disorder. The little armchairs were turned upside down; the
music on the piano was torn and dispersed, the empty work-basket was
topsy-turvy, the reels rolling about the carpet, the wools entangled,
and the coarse canvas at which Lucia used to work was lying like a rag
on the ground; the writing-case was opened on the little writing-table,
the drawers were empty, the letters littered the ground: a battlefield.
“The Signore made this havoc, he was like a madman,” explained the maid.
Leaving the darkened drawing-room to the right, they entered the
bedroom. Within was sufficient light to make darkness visible; a
night-lamp under an opaque shade so placed that the bed lay in shadow.
Profound silence: solitude. A pungent odour of drugs and the smell
peculiar to sick-rooms filled the atmosphere. Instinctively, Caterina
strained her eyes and advanced towards the bed. Alberto was lying
there, supine, his head and shoulders resting upon a pile of graduated
cushions. He was dressed, but his shirt was crushed and torn, and his
legs were wrapped in a woman’s shawl. On a night-table by his side
stood bottles, phials, glasses, wafers, red pill-boxes and packets of
powders. A white handkerchief peeped out from under the pillow. On the
side where Lucia slept, between the bed and the wall, the _prie-Dieu_
had been turned upside down. Caterina stooped over the bed. His eyes
were closed and his lips half open, the breath that escaped them was
short and faint, his chest scarcely heaved. He opened his eyes, and
when he saw her they filled with tears. The tears coursed down his
spare cheeks and fell on his neck; the maid took a handkerchief out of
the pocket of her apron and wiped them away. He signed to her with his
hand to thank and dismiss her.
“Will you have another bit of snow?”
“Yes,” in a faint whisper.
The maid took a little from a basin and put it in his mouth.
“The powder; is it not time?”
“No; go away.”
She took a turn round the room and went away as quietly as possible.
Caterina, hugging her shawl, had remained standing. Now she realised
all that she saw and heard; indeed, sensation had become so acute that
the noise of the words hurt her, the light dazzled her, the sick man’s
hectic features became visible; she saw the knife-like profile, the
thin protruding chin, the skeleton chest, the miserable legs. She saw,
felt, and understood too much.
“Come nearer and be seated. I can neither turn nor raise my voice. It
might bring on hæmorrhage again.”
She took a chair and sat down, facing the bed, so that she could see
Alberto’s face, crossed her hands on her lap, and waited. He made an
effort to swallow the bit of snow, then with all the despair of which a
hoarse, low voice is capable said to her:
“You’ve heard, eh?”
Her eyelids quivered two or three times, but she found nothing to say
to him.
Alberto, who was lying sunk in his pillows, with half-closed eyes and
upturned chin, gazed vaguely at the white curtains instead of at her.
“I should never have suspected such treason. Would you have suspected
it? No; of course not.”
Her gesture signified, “No.” Her inert will had no power over her
nerves, so that she had absolutely no strength wherewith to articulate.
“Lucia appeared to be so fond of me. She was so good, she thought of
nothing but me. You saw, you must have seen, how fond she was of me.
How could she do this to me?”
Husbanding his breath, he continued his complaint in an undertone,
never turning to Caterina, but addressing his lamentations to the bed,
the room, the curtains.
“Even this morning she kissed me three times. I ought to have known
that she was going away. I ought not to have let her go out.”
A short, harsh cough interrupted him.
“Give me ... give me a little snow.”
She handed the saucer to him; he put a little in his mouth and was
silent until he recovered his breath.
“Has she written to you?”
Caterina drew the letter from her pocket and handed it to him. Alberto
raised it eagerly to the level of his eyes.
“Not a word as to where they are going, nor at what time they left.
But I have found out the hour. They left at half-past two, by the
Paris-Turin express. They posted the letters at the station. What has
Andrea written to you? What does he say? Why has he done this to me?
What does he write?”
“Nothing,” said Caterina, whose head had fallen on her bosom.
“Nothing! But what infamous creatures they both are! They are a couple
of assassins. Listen, listen; I tell you, they will certainly be the
death of me.”
He had almost risen to a sitting posture, choked by impotent rage,
clenching his diminutive fists, opening his mouth to breathe, to utter
a cry. She gazed at him with wide-open eyes, struck once more with the
stupor that from time to time paralysed her brain.
“Then you have not received anything but that letter; you know nothing
of their doings? You know only that they have gone? That is why you
are so cool! If you only knew ... only knew ... what infamy ... what
infamy...!”
She exerted her will and succeeded in raising her head, drew nearer to
him, and questioned him with her eyes.
“I will whisper it to you. The doctor advises me not to waste my
breath. When you see me getting excited, stop me. Horrible treason! It
has gone on for some time, you know, since our stay at Centurano....”
A wild look passed over the face of his listener, but he did not
observe it.
“... but in reality, those infamous assassins were betraying us.
Centurano indeed! It began before my marriage. One day that they were
alone, in your house, Andrea kissed Lucia, on the neck....”
Caterina wrung the helpless hands that were lying in her lap.
“... afterwards they made love to each other under our very eyes;
writing, speaking to each other, making appointments with an
impudence.... We never noticed anything. All through that accursed
Exhibition! How could I tell that they would have served me like this?
Do you know that they kissed....”
He ground his teeth as he told these things, casting savage glances
around him, revelling in the ecstasy, the intoxication of his
rage when he recalled the voluptuous details of the love-story. On
Caterina’s face, which was turned towards him, there was still the same
look of grieved surprise.
“... they kissed again, the accursed assassins. He has tasted the ripe
red lips of my Lucia, those lips that were mine, and mine only; he took
them from me, and scorched and faded them with coarse, brutal kisses. I
wish that in those kisses thou hadst sucked arsenic and strychnine, and
that their sweetness had poisoned thee, vile thief, deceitful villain!
Ah! they were sweet, were they, the kisses of my Lucia? Ah! they
pleased you, and so you’ve taken them for yourself and gone off with
them, vile thievish clod--brigand!”
A fit of coughing that lasted a long time choked him, his head
rebounded on the pillow, and his chest heaved with a hoarse rasping
sound. Trembling all over he grasped his handkerchief and expectorated,
examining the handkerchief carefully with a hurried, frightened gesture.
“It is white,” he said, with a voice as thin as a thread. He fell
back, paler than ever from fright, in his pillows, his chest heaving
painfully. After this vehement attack, he was obliged to rest a little.
She waited, watching his every movement: when he expectorated, a sense
of nausea caused her to turn her head aside.
“Give me the blue bottle, with the spoon by it. It’s codeine.”
Caterina’s hand wandered over the table for some time before she could
find what she looked for.... When she gave it him, he swallowed it,
thanked her, and looked at her fixedly, perhaps because her trembling
silence and her immobility began to strike him....
“It must have made a great impression upon you,” he muttered. “I was
already upset, half dead, in fact, for I spat a little blood. I sent
for the doctor and for Lucia, at the church of Santa Chiara, at once.
The doctor came; Lucia didn’t come. They hadn’t found her at Santa
Chiara. I was getting desperate; I went all over the house and turned
it upside down. When, lo, and behold, a letter, brought by hand. I
opened it, screamed, and fell down. I bit my hand and broke a pane of
glass. I knocked the furniture about, all that had belonged to Lucia.
If I could have got at her for a minute, ill and weak as I am, I should
have strangled her. Then a fit of coughing came on, but I didn’t
expectorate. Then a little scraping; it was red, red as flame. They
have killed me, they have killed me....”
The fever of his complaint had left him in a stupor until the
arrival of Caterina, now it was passing into the acute stage, as the
temperature increased and the fever mounted from his chest to his
brain. His ideas were becoming incoherent. “What happened afterwards,
I don’t know. I sent for you, and the doctor came again. You see I
threw the _prie-dieu_ down; I wanted to kick it to pieces, but I
couldn’t. She took away the Byzantine Madonna. She was pious, she was
religious, she went to confession, she took the Sacrament; how could I
tell that with all that she would commit this horrible crime! But ...
you know ... they were a couple of lovers awaiting their honeymoon,
like bride and bridegroom ... infamous wretches, assassins ... and
to-night, to-morrow; while I lie here, dying alone, like a dog....” She
shuddered, in terror at sight of the little mannikin wrapped up in a
woman’s shawl.
“... I had always loved her,” he said after a pause, speaking in a
lower tone. “I married her for love, because she was good and beautiful
and clever, and spoke poetically; ... because she was unhappy in her
father’s house. I didn’t mind her marriage portion being small. Some of
my friends remarked at the time that women always marry from interested
motives. I didn’t believe it. She wrote me such beautiful letters! Oh!
she was a famous hand at letter-writing. She wrote to Galimberti, who
went mad; to me, to you; and she wrote some to Andrea. She gave them to
him in books, she put them under the clock, everywhere. I ought to have
known that she married me for money. Do you know what she has taken
with her besides the Madonna? Her diamonds, the diamonds that I gave
her.” And a sneer of irony distorted the invalid’s lips.
“The diamonds, you know! My mother’s ... who was an honest woman ...
that I had given her. She will wear them in her ears for him, and he
will kiss her throat; she will wear them in her hair, and he will kiss
her hair; she will wear them on her bosom, and he will sleep on that
bosom. O God! if you exist--cruel God, vile God!--make me die an hour
before the time.”
A gloomy silence reigned in the room after that imprecation. She shrank
away with outstretched hands, in dread of the delirious sufferer in
whose thoughts fever of blood and brain had wrought such terrible
havoc, while it lent him a fictitious vigour equal to the strength of a
person in rude health.
“... Wherever they were, they betrayed us. At home, at the Exhibition,
in the carriage--everywhere, everywhere they made fools of us. In the
wood, in the English Garden they were together.... They snatched each
other’s hands on the stairs, on the landing; they kissed each other,
while we went on before. On the terrace, in the corner, they kissed
over again. It’s a horrible, crying shame! I think the servants must
have noticed it at Centurano. They must have laughed at us, that
_canaille_ must have laughed its fill behind our backs....”
There were two bright red spots on his cheekbones, and he was gasping.
“... And do you know why I call them assassins, why I say that they
have killed me? And by God, I am right! The most odious, the most cruel
part of it all is, that through their damned love affair I have caught
this illness, that might have been spared me. On a chilly night, Lucia
stood out on the balcony, the whole night through, and so did Andrea.
I slept all night with the window open, with the cold air penetrating
my lungs and inflaming them, making me cough for two months, making
me so ill! They gazed at each other, called to each other and blew
kisses: I caught the cough that has lasted two months, and made me
spit this blood to-day.” He looked at her. In her horror, she hid her
face in her hands. “You wonder how I know all this? You remember the
novel that Lucia was writing? Another lie. It wasn’t a novel, it was
a journal. Every day she wrote down all that happened to her, all her
thoughts and fancies. The whole love affair is in it, from beginning to
end--every look, every kiss, every act. Oh! there are splendid bits of
description, beautiful things are narrated therein. It is instructive
and interesting reading. You can profit by it, if you like. Read it, it
will amuse you.”
Then grinning, like a consumptive Mephistopheles, he drew a bulky
manuscript from under the pillow. He threw it into Caterina’s lap;
she left it there, sooner than touch it, as if she were afraid of its
burning her fingers.
“Yes,” he said, having reached the lowest depth of bitterness, “Lucia
wished me to know how it all happened. She took the Madonna, she took
the diamonds, but she has had the goodness to forget the journal! Do
read it! It is a charming novel, a fine drama.”
He was exhausted, with the fever came a return of the stupor. His eyes
were half closed, his feeble hands, with the violet veins standing out
in relief, were like yellow wax. In the gloom, Caterina kept turning
the pages of the journal, at first without reading, then glancing at a
page here and there, grasping an idea, or discovering a fact amid the
fantastic divagations in which its pages abounded. At certain parts she
shuddered and fell back in her chair. He coughed weakly in his torpor,
without unclosing his eyes. Suddenly a violent attack tore his chest,
the cough began low, grew louder, died away, seemed to be over, and
began again, cruelly, persistently. In the short intervals he groaned
feebly, clutching at his ribs, as if he could bear it no longer. Then
he expectorated again, and once more made that hurried gesture of
examination. He fell back with a faint cry. He had spat blood. She had
watched this scene; when she saw the blood, she shuddered and closed
her eyes, as if she were about to faint.
“So these medicines are no good to me? The doctor is telling me a
parcel of old woman’s tales. Why doesn’t he stop the hæmorrhage? I
have swallowed such a lot of snow, I have taken such a lot of syrup of
codeine and gallic acid, to stop the blood! Am I to spit all my blood
away? Why haven’t they given me something stronger to-night, instead of
to-morrow, if it is to do me any good?”
His lamentations, persistent, hoarse, torturing to his listener, filled
the room. His voice had the aggrieved intonation that is peculiar to
invalids who feel the injustice of not being cured. He continued to
grumble at the doctor, the medicines, the syrup that failed to relieve
his cough; the snow was useless, for it did not stop the hæmorrhage.
Still complaining, he turned to Caterina:
“I beg your pardon; do you mind giving me that little paper of gallic
acid, and a wafer?”
With the patience of one to whom these things are habitual, he made a
pill and swallowed it, with an air of resignation. She had closed the
journal.
“Had enough of it, eh? I have read every word of it, and shall read
it again, to learn how these frightful crimes are committed. Well, I
couldn’t have done such a thing to Lucia. To me she was the dearest
and most beautiful of women. I was in love with her; _via_, to tell
the truth, I was idiotically in love with her. She ought not to have
behaved as she has done to me; she knew how ill I am, she might have
spared me. She knew that I was alone, how could she abandon me...!”
He considered the deserted room, the _prie-dieu_ lying upside down, the
empty space where the Madonna had been, the open drawers, and fresh
tears coursed down his cheeks. They were scant tears, that reddened the
tight-drawn skin as they fell.
“What do you intend to do, Signora Caterina?”
She started and looked at him, questioningly, surprised.
“I asked you what you were going to do?”
“Nothing,” she said, gravely.
The despairing word rang through the room, accentuating its void.
“Nothing; true. What is there to be done? Those two love each other,
have gone off together ... and good-night to them who remain behind.
Follow them? It would be useless; useless to catch them. Besides, who
is to go? They have killed me. Well, I am so weak, so mean, so vilely
ridiculous, that, despite _all_, I feel that I still care for Lucia....
I care for her still--it’s no use denying it, for all her wickedness,
her betrayal, and her perpetual deceit--I care for her, because I love
her, _ecco!_ I am so tied to her, so bound up in her, that the loss of
her will kill me, if this hæmorrhage doesn’t. Oh! what a woman, what a
woman it is! How she takes possession of you, and carries you away, and
never loosens her hold on you...!”
His eyelids were wide open, as if he beheld the seductive vision of
her; he held up his lips, and stretched out his arms to her, calling on
her, in a transport of love, that was part of his delirium.
“Oh! if she could but return, for a moment! If she could but return,
even if she went away again! Oh! return, that I might forgive her ...
return, return, to see me die! Not to let me die alone, in this icy
bed, that my fever does not warm; in this great room, where I am afraid
to be alone!”
He was wandering. Presently he felt under the pillow, and drew out a
letter and a small packet.
“... listen, she sent me this, with the letter. They are the wedding
rings. Here is the one I gave her, here is the one you gave Andrea. Do
you think she will ever return?”
“No,” said Caterina, rising to her feet, “they will never return.” She
took her own ring and went away, leaving Alberto still wandering.
“If she had but lied a little longer; she might have waited for my
death! She would not have had long to wait, miserable....”
IV.
In the night, in her dark room, seated beside her bed, Caterina
pondered. She had returned home without speaking to any one; no one had
said anything to her, for they all knew what had happened. The house
was in order, composed, cold, and silent; on the table was the note she
had written to her husband, to apologise for having gone out alone.
She tore it up, and threw the pieces into the waste-paper basket.
Giulietta, who had crept in after her, to try and proffer a word of
consolation, was dismissed as usual with a gentle good-night. The maid
told the coachman that the Signora had not shed a tear, but that the
expression of her face was “dreadful.” They all pitied her, but they
had long foreseen what would happen; they knew of it at Centurano:
you’d have to be blind not to have seen it.
Then the conventicle dispersed, and the house was wrapped in profound
silence. Caterina had extinguished the light in her own room, but had
not undressed. Instinctively she craved for darkness, wherein to hang
her head and think. She could distinguish the whiteness of the bed
in the gloom, and it frightened her. She sat with one hand over the
other, pressing the point of her nails against the third finger of the
hand that bore the two marriage rings. Now and again, when she became
aware of the contact of that second ring, she started and moaned. Her
life, quiet and uniform as it had been, came before her with such
distinctness of detail that it seemed as if she lived it over again.
She had had a mother until she was seven; a father, until she was nine;
and lived with her aunt until she was eleven. A peaceful childhood,
except for the formless, shadowy sorrow of those two deaths, a sorrow
bereft of cries or tears. She had always been ashamed to cry in the
presence of other people; she had wept for her dead at night, in her
little bed, with the sheet drawn over her face. Later, at her aunt’s,
she had been seriously ill, a very dangerous illness--a combination of
every disease that is incidental to childhood. She remembered that the
Sacrament had been administered to her in great haste, in the fear that
she would die. She had not understood its meaning, and had not been
very strongly impressed; since then she had retained a calm religious
piety, devoid of mystic enthusiasm, but characterised by the rigorous
strictness of observance with which she fulfilled all her duties.
When she recovered, her aunt had put her to school, the best school
in Naples, and had undertaken the management of her fortune. She
was a cold, trustworthy, childless aunt, who did not incline to
demonstrations of affection, but who visited her punctually on
Thursdays in the parlour, and drove her out on Sundays, and took her to
the theatre. Caterina recalled the first year at school, where she had
been happier than at home, where she had given herself to the simple
pleasure of being with other children; not playing, but watching them
play; not speaking, but hearing them speak. Study she found rather
hard; she had been obliged to apply herself to succeed in learning
anything; the teachers had always given her the maximum marks for good
conduct, but not so many for study. She had never been punished nor
reproached that first year, and at the final examination she came out
fifteen, among twenty-eight: she had gained a silver medal for good
conduct.
The duality of her school-life began with the appearance of Lucia, whom
she had met with in the second class. A wonderful pupil, who surpassed
all her fellows; a slight, thin girl, whose long black plaits hung down
her back, who spent three days in school and three in the infirmary,
who was an object of charity to the teachers, the assistants, and her
companions. She was a sickly, pensive child, whose great eyes swallowed
up her whole face, and who could master anything without opening a
book. Many girls desired her friendship, but one day she said to
Caterina, in her weak voice:
“They tell me that you have neither mother nor father; my mother
is dead too, and that is why I wear a black band round my arm, for
mourning. Will you be my friend?” All at once, Caterina remembered that
she had begun to love the lithe, melancholy creature with her whole
heart, the girl who was as slender as a reed, who never played, and who
talked like a maiden of fifteen when she was but a child of eleven.
She remembered how this childish love was strengthened by their living
together under one roof. In the hours of recreation they had walked up
and down the corridors like the others, they had held each other by
the hand, but without speaking. During school-hours they sat on the
same bench, lending each other a pen, a scrap of paper, or a pencil:
at table they sat opposite, looking at each other, and Caterina passed
her share of pudding to Lucia, who could eat nothing else. In chapel
they prayed together, and in the dormitory they were not far apart. In
talent, in beauty, and in stature Lucia had always surpassed Caterina,
a fact that Caterina had tacitly acknowledged, and the whole College
recognised. In the College the two friends were always designated as,
“the one who loved, and the one who submitted to be loved.” The one
who permitted herself to be loved was the beauty, the _bellezza_; the
one who loved was the _capezza_, the ass’s bridle, a patient, humble,
devoted, servile thing. The _bellezza_ was entitled to everything, the
_capezza_ had no rights, but all the duties. She was permitted to love,
that was all. In the Altimare and Spaccapietra bond, Lucia was the
_bellezza_, and Caterina the _capezza_.
She could remember having been punished several times in her stead, for
having been bewitched into following her in an escapade, for having
taken her part against the _maestra_, for having done the sums that
were too dry for Lucia’s poetic mind. Lucia wept, was in despair,
fainted, when Caterina was punished for a fault of hers; and Caterina
ended by consoling her, telling her that it was nothing, praying her
to stop crying, because she rather liked punishment. Lucia was a
profoundly affectionate creature, expansive to enthusiasm, ever ready
to sacrifice herself for the sake of friendship; Caterina, who could
never find words to express herself, whose affection was calm and
silent, who could never behave enthusiastically, and who had never
fainted, was sometimes ashamed of loving so little. In everything
Lucia surpassed her. So they passed from class to class. Caterina was
always a mediocre scholar, obtaining a bronze medal or honourable
mention at the examinations, on which occasions she never came to the
fore--an insipid pupil, who was neither appreciated nor bullied by
the professors. There was nothing interesting in her character--like,
for instance, Artemisia Minichini, who was insolent and sceptical; or
Giovanna Casacalenda, who was provoking and coquettish. The Directress
did not give herself the trouble of watching her. Her greatest charm,
her only distinguishing quality, was her friendship for Lucia--“Where
is Altimare?” “Spaccapietra, tell us where Altimare is.” “How is
Altimare?” “Spaccapietra, surely thou knowest how Altimare is to-day!”
Lucia, on the contrary, passed a brilliant yearly examination, took the
gold medal for composition, and wrote congratulatory addresses on the
Directress’s birthday. Her compositions were notable productions: one
of them had been read in the presence of three assembled classes. But
more remarkable than anything else was the strange disposition which
aroused the curiosity of the entire College. Her fits of mysticism,
her fits of deep despondency, the tears she shed in shady nooks, about
the College; her passion for flowers, her nausea in the refectory,
her convulsive nervous attacks, claimed universal attention. When she
passed, tall, lithe, with dreamy, pensive eyes, the other scholars
turned and pointed her out to each other, and whispered about her.
The Directress watched her. Cherubina Friscia had special instructions
with regard to Lucia Altimare; the professors kept their eye on her.
In the parlour, the little girls described her to their mothers in
undertones as, “Un tipo strano,” an extraordinary type. She knew
it, and cast languid glances round her, and indulged in pretty,
pathetic movements of the head. She was the incarnate expression of
suffering--slow, continual, persistent suffering, that weighed her
down for weeks together, and ended in a heartbreaking crisis. Oh!
Caterina had always felt a profound compassion for her, which she had
never been able to express, but was none the less as intense as it
was sincere. The last year at school had been a tumultuous one, it
was a wonder that Caterina had maintained her placid serenity in the
midst of all those girls, who were yearning for freedom, panting for
life; who already boasted adorers, affianced husbands and lovers; who
hated the College, and treated the _maestre_ with impertinence. Her
aunt had informed her that Andrea Lieti was to be her husband; she had
no anxiety for her own future. But she was very anxious about Lucia,
who during this last year had been unusually delicate, who had turned
Galimberti’s head, who had made up her mind to be a nun, and attempted
to commit suicide. Caterina had saved her life. And last, like a
dream, the last night at school, when they had entered the chapel, had
knelt down and sworn, before the Madonna, to love each other for ever,
reproduced itself in her memory....
* * * * *