The advance of regret can be so gradual that it is impossible to say
“yesterday I was happy, today I am not.” At no one moment did Lilia
realize that her marriage was a failure; yet during the summer and
autumn she became as unhappy as it was possible for her nature to be.
She had no unkind treatment, and few unkind words, from her husband.
He simply left her alone. In the morning he went out to do “business,”
which, as far as she could discover, meant sitting in the Farmacia. He
usually returned to lunch, after which he retired to another room and
slept. In the evening he grew vigorous again, and took the air on
the ramparts, often having his dinner out, and seldom returning till
midnight or later. There were, of course, the times when he was away
altogether--at Empoli, Siena, Florence, Bologna--for he delighted in
travel, and seemed to pick up friends all over the country. Lilia often
heard what a favorite he was.
She began to see that she must assert herself, but she could not see
how. Her self-confidence, which had overthrown Philip, had gradually
oozed away. If she left the strange house there was the strange little
town. If she were to disobey her husband and walk in the country, that
would be stranger still--vast slopes of olives and vineyards, with
chalk-white farms, and in the distance other slopes, with more olives
and more farms, and more little towns outlined against the cloudless
sky. “I don’t call this country,” she would say. “Why, it’s not as wild
as Sawston Park!” And, indeed, there was scarcely a touch of wildness
in it--some of those slopes had been under cultivation for two thousand
years. But it was terrible and mysterious all the same, and its
continued presence made Lilia so uncomfortable that she forgot her
nature and began to reflect.
She reflected chiefly about her marriage. The ceremony had been hasty
and expensive, and the rites, whatever they were, were not those of the
Church of England. Lilia had no religion in her; but for hours at a
time she would be seized with a vulgar fear that she was not “married
properly,” and that her social position in the next world might be as
obscure as it was in this. It might be safer to do the thing thoroughly,
and one day she took the advice of Spiridione and joined the Roman
Catholic Church, or as she called it, “Santa Deodata’s.” Gino approved;
he, too, thought it safer, and it was fun confessing, though the priest
was a stupid old man, and the whole thing was a good slap in the face
for the people at home.
The people at home took the slap very soberly; indeed, there were few
left for her to give it to. The Herritons were out of the question;
they would not even let her write to Irma, though Irma was occasionally
allowed to write to her. Mrs. Theobald was rapidly subsiding into
dotage, and, as far as she could be definite about anything, had
definitely sided with the Herritons. And Miss Abbott did likewise. Night
after night did Lilia curse this false friend, who had agreed with her
that the marriage would “do,” and that the Herritons would come round to
it, and then, at the first hint of opposition, had fled back to England
shrieking and distraught. Miss Abbott headed the long list of those who
should never be written to, and who should never be forgiven. Almost
the only person who was not on that list was Mr. Kingcroft, who had
unexpectedly sent an affectionate and inquiring letter. He was quite
sure never to cross the Channel, and Lilia drew freely on her fancy in
the reply.
At first she had seen a few English people, for Monteriano was not the
end of the earth. One or two inquisitive ladies, who had heard at home
of her quarrel with the Herritons, came to call. She was very sprightly,
and they thought her quite unconventional, and Gino a charming boy, so
all that was to the good. But by May the season, such as it was, had
finished, and there would be no one till next spring. As Mrs. Herriton
had often observed, Lilia had no resources. She did not like music, or
reading, or work. Her one qualification for life was rather blowsy
high spirits, which turned querulous or boisterous according to
circumstances. She was not obedient, but she was cowardly, and in the
most gentle way, which Mrs. Herriton might have envied, Gino made her do
what he wanted. At first it had been rather fun to let him get the upper
hand. But it was galling to discover that he could not do otherwise. He
had a good strong will when he chose to use it, and would not have had
the least scruple in using bolts and locks to put it into effect. There
was plenty of brutality deep down in him, and one day Lilia nearly
touched it.
It was the old question of going out alone.
“I always do it in England.”
“This is Italy.”
“Yes, but I’m older than you, and I’ll settle.”
“I am your husband,” he said, smiling. They had finished their mid-day
meal, and he wanted to go and sleep. Nothing would rouse him up, until
at last Lilia, getting more and more angry, said, “And I’ve got the
money.”
He looked horrified.
Now was the moment to assert herself. She made the statement again. He
got up from his chair.
“And you’d better mend your manners,” she continued, “for you’d find it
awkward if I stopped drawing cheques.”
She was no reader of character, but she quickly became alarmed. As she
said to Perfetta afterwards, “None of his clothes seemed to fit--too
big in one place, too small in another.” His figure rather than his face
altered, the shoulders falling forward till his coat wrinkled across the
back and pulled away from his wrists. He seemed all arms. He edged round
the table to where she was sitting, and she sprang away and held the
chair between them, too frightened to speak or to move. He looked at her
with round, expressionless eyes, and slowly stretched out his left hand.
Perfetta was heard coming up from the kitchen. It seemed to wake him up,
and he turned away and went to his room without a word.
“What has happened?” cried Lilia, nearly fainting. “He is ill--ill.”
Perfetta looked suspicious when she heard the account. “What did you say
to him?” She crossed herself.
“Hardly anything,” said Lilia and crossed herself also. Thus did the two
women pay homage to their outraged male.
It was clear to Lilia at last that Gino had married her for money. But
he had frightened her too much to leave any place for contempt. His
return was terrifying, for he was frightened too, imploring her pardon,
lying at her feet, embracing her, murmuring “It was not I,” striving to
define things which he did not understand. He stopped in the house
for three days, positively ill with physical collapse. But for all his
suffering he had tamed her, and she never threatened to cut off supplies
again.
Perhaps he kept her even closer than convention demanded. But he was
very young, and he could not bear it to be said of him that he did
not know how to treat a lady--or to manage a wife. And his own social
position was uncertain. Even in England a dentist is a troublesome
creature, whom careful people find difficult to class. He hovers between
the professions and the trades; he may be only a little lower than the
doctors, or he may be down among the chemists, or even beneath them. The
son of the Italian dentist felt this too. For himself nothing mattered;
he made friends with the people he liked, for he was that glorious
invariable creature, a man. But his wife should visit nowhere rather
than visit wrongly: seclusion was both decent and safe. The social
ideals of North and South had had their brief contention, and this time
the South had won.
It would have been well if he had been as strict over his own behaviour
as he was over hers. But the incongruity never occurred to him for
a moment. His morality was that of the average Latin, and as he was
suddenly placed in the position of a gentleman, he did not see why he
should not behave as such. Of course, had Lilia been different--had
she asserted herself and got a grip on his character--he might
possibly--though not probably--have been made a better husband as well
as a better man, and at all events he could have adopted the attitude of
the Englishman, whose standard is higher even when his practice is the
same. But had Lilia been different she might not have married him.
The discovery of his infidelity--which she made by accident--destroyed
such remnants of self-satisfaction as her life might yet possess. She
broke down utterly and sobbed and cried in Perfetta’s arms. Perfetta was
kind and even sympathetic, but cautioned her on no account to speak to
Gino, who would be furious if he was suspected. And Lilia agreed, partly
because she was afraid of him, partly because it was, after all, the
best and most dignified thing to do. She had given up everything for
him--her daughter, her relatives, her friends, all the little comforts
and luxuries of a civilized life--and even if she had the courage to
break away, there was no one who would receive her now. The Herritons
had been almost malignant in their efforts against her, and all her
friends had one by one fallen off. So it was better to live on humbly,
trying not to feel, endeavouring by a cheerful demeanour to put things
right. “Perhaps,” she thought, “if I have a child he will be different.
I know he wants a son.”
Lilia had achieved pathos despite herself, for there are some situations
in which vulgarity counts no longer. Not Cordelia nor Imogen more
deserves our tears.
She herself cried frequently, making herself look plain and old, which
distressed her husband. He was particularly kind to her when he hardly
ever saw her, and she accepted his kindness without resentment, even
with gratitude, so docile had she become. She did not hate him, even as
she had never loved him; with her it was only when she was excited that
the semblance of either passion arose. People said she was headstrong,
but really her weak brain left her cold.
Suffering, however, is more independent of temperament, and the wisest
of women could hardly have suffered more.
As for Gino, he was quite as boyish as ever, and carried his iniquities
like a feather. A favourite speech of his was, “Ah, one ought to marry!
Spiridione is wrong; I must persuade him. Not till marriage does one
realize the pleasures and the possibilities of life.” So saying, he
would take down his felt hat, strike it in the right place as infallibly
as a German strikes his in the wrong place, and leave her.
One evening, when he had gone out thus, Lilia could stand it no longer.
It was September. Sawston would be just filling up after the summer
holidays. People would be running in and out of each other’s houses
all along the road. There were bicycle gymkhanas, and on the 30th Mrs.
Herriton would be holding the annual bazaar in her garden for the C.M.S.
It seemed impossible that such a free, happy life could exist. She
walked out on to the loggia. Moonlight and stars in a soft purple sky.
The walls of Monteriano should be glorious on such a night as this. But
the house faced away from them.
Perfetta was banging in the kitchen, and the stairs down led past the
kitchen door. But the stairs up to the attic--the stairs no one ever
used--opened out of the living-room, and by unlocking the door at the
top one might slip out to the square terrace above the house, and thus
for ten minutes walk in freedom and peace.
The key was in the pocket of Gino’s best suit--the English check--which
he never wore. The stairs creaked and the key-hole screamed; but
Perfetta was growing deaf. The walls were beautiful, but as they faced
west they were in shadow. To see the light upon them she must walk round
the town a little, till they were caught by the beams of the rising
moon. She looked anxiously at the house, and started.
It was easy walking, for a little path ran all outside the ramparts.
The few people she met wished her a civil good-night, taking her, in her
hatless condition, for a peasant. The walls trended round towards the
moon; and presently she came into its light, and saw all the rough
towers turn into pillars of silver and black, and the ramparts
into cliffs of pearl. She had no great sense of beauty, but she was
sentimental, and she began to cry; for here, where a great cypress
interrupted the monotony of the girdle of olives, she had sat with Gino
one afternoon in March, her head upon his shoulder, while Caroline was
looking at the view and sketching. Round the corner was the Siena gate,
from which the road to England started, and she could hear the rumble of
the diligence which was going down to catch the night train to Empoli.
The next moment it was upon her, for the highroad came towards her a
little before it began its long zigzag down the hill.
The driver slackened, and called to her to get in. He did not know who
she was. He hoped she might be coming to the station.
“Non vengo!” she cried.
He wished her good-night, and turned his horses down the corner. As the
diligence came round she saw that it was empty.
“Vengo...”
Her voice was tremulous, and did not carry. The horses swung off.
“Vengo! Vengo!”
He had begun to sing, and heard nothing. She ran down the road screaming
to him to stop--that she was coming; while the distance grew greater
and the noise of the diligence increased. The man’s back was black and
square against the moon, and if he would but turn for an instant she
would be saved. She tried to cut off the corner of the zigzag, stumbling
over the great clods of earth, large and hard as rocks, which lay
between the eternal olives. She was too late; for, just before she
regained the road, the thing swept past her, thunderous, ploughing up
choking clouds of moonlit dust.
She did not call any more, for she felt very ill, and fainted; and when
she revived she was lying in the road, with dust in her eyes, and dust
in her mouth, and dust down her ears. There is something very terrible
in dust at night-time.
“What shall I do?” she moaned. “He will be so angry.”
And without further effort she slowly climbed back to captivity, shaking
her garments as she went.
Ill luck pursued her to the end. It was one of the nights when Gino
happened to come in. He was in the kitchen, swearing and smashing
plates, while Perfetta, her apron over her head, was weeping violently.
At the sight of Lilia he turned upon her and poured forth a flood of
miscellaneous abuse. He was far more angry but much less alarming than
he had been that day when he edged after her round the table. And Lilia
gained more courage from her bad conscience than she ever had from her
good one, for as he spoke she was seized with indignation and feared him
no longer, and saw him for a cruel, worthless, hypocritical, dissolute
upstart, and spoke in return.
Perfetta screamed for she told him everything--all she knew and all
she thought. He stood with open mouth, all the anger gone out of
him, feeling ashamed, and an utter fool. He was fairly and rightfully
cornered. When had a husband so given himself away before? She finished;
and he was dumb, for she had spoken truly. Then, alas! the absurdity of
his own position grew upon him, and he laughed--as he would have laughed
at the same situation on the stage.
“You laugh?” stammered Lilia.
“Ah!” he cried, “who could help it? I, who thought you knew and saw
nothing--I am tricked--I am conquered. I give in. Let us talk of it no
more.”
He touched her on the shoulder like a good comrade, half amused and half
penitent, and then, murmuring and smiling to himself, ran quietly out of
the room.
Perfetta burst into congratulations. “What courage you have!” she cried;
“and what good fortune! He is angry no longer! He has forgiven you!”
Neither Perfetta, nor Gino, nor Lilia herself knew the true reason of
all the misery that followed. To the end he thought that kindness and a
little attention would be enough to set things straight. His wife was
a very ordinary woman, and why should her ideas differ from his own?
No one realized that more than personalities were engaged; that the
struggle was national; that generations of ancestors, good, bad, or
indifferent, forbad the Latin man to be chivalrous to the northern
woman, the northern woman to forgive the Latin man. All this might have
been foreseen: Mrs. Herriton foresaw it from the first.
Meanwhile Lilia prided herself on her high personal standard, and Gino
simply wondered why she did not come round. He hated discomfort and
yearned for sympathy, but shrank from mentioning his difficulties in the
town in case they were put down to his own incompetence. Spiridione was
told, and replied in a philosophical but not very helpful letter. His
other great friend, whom he trusted more, was still serving in Eritrea
or some other desolate outpost. And, besides, what was the good of
letters? Friends cannot travel through the post.
Lilia, so similar to her husband in many ways, yearned for comfort and
sympathy too. The night he laughed at her she wildly took up paper and
pen and wrote page after page, analysing his character, enumerating his
iniquities, reporting whole conversations, tracing all the causes and
the growth of her misery. She was beside herself with passion,
and though she could hardly think or see, she suddenly attained to
magnificence and pathos which a practised stylist might have envied. It
was written like a diary, and not till its conclusion did she realize
for whom it was meant.
“Irma, darling Irma, this letter is for you. I almost forgot I have a
daughter. It will make you unhappy, but I want you to know everything,
and you cannot learn things too soon. God bless you, my dearest, and
save you. God bless your miserable mother.”
Fortunately Mrs. Herriton was in when the letter arrived. She seized
it and opened it in her bedroom. Another moment, and Irma’s placid
childhood would have been destroyed for ever.
Lilia received a brief note from Harriet, again forbidding direct
communication between mother and daughter, and concluding with formal
condolences. It nearly drove her mad.
“Gently! gently!” said her husband. They were sitting together on the
loggia when the letter arrived. He often sat with her now, watching her
for hours, puzzled and anxious, but not contrite.
“It’s nothing.” She went in and tore it up, and then began to write--a
very short letter, whose gist was “Come and save me.”
It is not good to see your wife crying when she writes--especially if
you are conscious that, on the whole, your treatment of her has been
reasonable and kind. It is not good, when you accidentally look over her
shoulder, to see that she is writing to a man. Nor should she shake her
fist at you when she leaves the room, under the impression that you are
engaged in lighting a cigar and cannot see her.
Lilia went to the post herself. But in Italy so many things can be
arranged. The postman was a friend of Gino’s, and Mr. Kingcroft never
got his letter.
So she gave up hope, became ill, and all through the autumn lay in bed.
Gino was distracted. She knew why; he wanted a son. He could talk and
think of nothing else. His one desire was to become the father of a man
like himself, and it held him with a grip he only partially understood,
for it was the first great desire, the first great passion of his life.
Falling in love was a mere physical triviality, like warm sun or cool
water, beside this divine hope of immortality: “I continue.” He gave
candles to Santa Deodata, for he was always religious at a crisis, and
sometimes he went to her himself and prayed the crude uncouth demands of
the simple. Impetuously he summoned all his relatives back to bear him
company in his time of need, and Lilia saw strange faces flitting past
her in the darkened room.
“My love!” he would say, “my dearest Lilia! Be calm. I have never loved
any one but you.”
She, knowing everything, would only smile gently, too broken by
suffering to make sarcastic repartees.
Before the child was born he gave her a kiss, and said, “I have prayed
all night for a boy.”
Some strangely tender impulse moved her, and she said faintly, “You are
a boy yourself, Gino.”
He answered, “Then we shall be brothers.”
He lay outside the room with his head against the door like a dog. When
they came to tell him the glad news they found him half unconscious, and
his face was wet with tears.
As for Lilia, some one said to her, “It is a beautiful boy!” But she had
died in giving birth to him.