"From the Contessa, signore."
A tall liveried servant handed me a coroneted missive, and, bowing
stiffly, withdrew. Taking the letter mechanically, I sat puffing at my
cigarette and dreaming.
The sultry day was over, and the full moon was shining down clear and
cool. Genoa had drawn breath again; its streets and piazzas had grown
alive with the stir of manifold movement; the broad Via Roma, with its
fine shops and garish _cafes_, echoed with increasing confusion of
voices and jest and laughter and song; while the flower-sellers were
everywhere, and the newsboys in strident tones cried the _Secolo_ and
the _Gazzetta_. My small and rather shabby room was on the top floor of
a great old palazzo in the Via Balbi. The jalousies, wide-open,
admitted little gusts of fresh air that blew up from the sea, while the
ceaseless babel of tongues, the clip-clap of horses' hoofs, and the
indescribable odour of garlic, fried oil, and the cheap cigars
characteristic of an Italian street, was borne in upon me.
Two candles in the sconces of a small Venetian mirror shed their light
over the pedestal, upon which was a statue almost finished. It was a
representation of a lovely woman in carnival dress, that I had chiselled
in marble.
The face was absolutely beautiful, not only because of its perfect
harmony, not only winsome in the gentleness of its contour, but it was
also masterful by virtue of the freedom and force expressed in all its
firmness.
Lazily I opened the letter, and prepared to feast upon its contents.
But the few brief words penned in a woman's hand caused me to start to
my feet in anger and dismay; and, holding my breath, I crushed the
missive and cast it under my foot. She who had written to me was the
original of this statue, which was considered my masterpiece.
The note was cold and formal, unlike her usual graceful letters. It
stated that she was leaving Italy that evening; and expressed regret she
could not sit again to me. She also enclosed a bank-note for two
thousand lire, which she apparently believed would repay me for my
trouble.
My trouble! _Dio mio_! Had it not been a labour of love, when I
adored--nay, worshipped her; and she, in her turn, had bestowed smiles
and kisses upon me?
Yet she had written and sent me money, as if I were a mere tradesman;
and from the tone of her note, it seemed as if our friendship existed no
longer. Every day she had come to my studio, bringing with her that
breath of stephanotis that always pervaded her; and because she was not
averse to a mild flirtation, I had believed she loved me! Bah! I had
been fooled! The iron of a wasted love, of a useless sacrifice, was in
my heart.
This sudden awakening had crushed me; and I stood gazing aimlessly out
of the window, unaware of the presence of a visitor, until I felt a
hearty slap on the shoulder, and, turning quickly, faced my old friend,
Pietro Barolini.
"_Chi vide mai tanto_!" he cried cheerily. "Why, my dear fellow, you
look as if you've got a very bad attack of melancholia. What's the
matter?"
"Read that," I said, pointing to the crumpled letter on the floor.
"Tell me, what am I to do?"
Picking up the note, he read it through, drew a heavy breath, and
remained silent and thoughtful.
Pietro and I had been companions ever since our childhood days, when, as
bare-legged urchins, sons of honest fishermen, we had played on the
beach at our quiet home in rural Tuscany. When we set out together to
seek our fortunes, Fate directed us to Genoa; and in "La Superba" we
still lived, Pietro having become a well-known musician; while I,
Gasparo Corazzini, had, by a vagary of chance, attracted the notice of
the great _maestro_ Verga, under whose tuition I had developed into a
successful sculptor.
"It is unfortunate," my friend said at last, twisting his pointed black
moustache; "yet she is not of our world, and, after all, perhaps it is
best that you should part."
"Ah!" I said. "Your words are well meant, Pietro; but I love her too
passionately to cast aside her memory so lightly. I must see her. She
must tell me from her own lips that she no longer cares for me!" I
cried, starting up impetuously.
"Very well--go. Take her back the money with which she has insulted
you, and bid adieu to her forever. You will soon forget."
"Yes," I said; "I will."
Snatching up my hat, and crushing the letter into the pocket of my
blouse, I rushed out and down the stairs into the street, without a
thought of personal appearance, my only desire being to catch her before
she departed.
Blindly I hurried across the Piazza del Principe, then out of the town
into the open country, never slackening my pace for a moment until I
entered the grounds of a great white villa that stood on the hillside at
Comigliano, overlooking the moonlit sea. Then, with a firm
determination to be calm, I advanced towards the house cautiously, and,
swinging myself upon the low verandah, peered in at a glass door that
stood open.
Noiselessly I entered. The room was dazzling in its magnificence,
notwithstanding that the lamps were shaded by soft lace and tinted silk.
The gilt furniture, the great mirrors, the statuary--genuine works by
Leopardi and Sansovino--the Persian rugs and rich silken hangings, all
betokened wealth, taste, and refinement.
Reclining on a couch with languid grace, clad in a loose wrapper of
dove-grey silk, with her hair _en deshabille_, was the woman I loved.
"Santina!" I whispered, bending over her, uttering a pet name I had
bestowed upon her.