‘It is very interesting,’ said Kate; ‘but it is about this Count’s
grandfather you are talking, Francesca. Could not we come a little lower
down?’
‘Signorina mia, when one is a Buoncompagni, one’s grandfather is very
close and near,’ said Francesca. ‘There are some families in which a
grandfather is a distant ancestor, or perhaps the beginning of the race.
But with the Buoncompagni you do not adopt that way of reckoning. Count
Antonio’s mother is living--she is a thing of to-day, like the rest of
us. Then I ask, Signorina Katta, whom can one speak of? That is the way
in old families. Doubtless in the Signorina’s own house----’
‘Oh, my grandpapa is a thousand years off!’ said Kate. ‘I don’t believe
in him--he must have been so dreadfully old. Even papa was old. He
married when he was about fifty, I suppose, and I never saw him. My poor
little mother was different, but I never saw her either. Don’t speak of
my family, please. I suppose they were very nice, but I don’t know much
about them.’
‘Mademoiselle would not like to be without them,’ said Francesca,
nodding her little grey head. ‘Mademoiselle would feel very strange if
all at once it were said to her, “You never had a grandpapa. You are a
child of the people, my young lady. You came from no one knows where.”
Ah, you prefer the old ones to that! Signorina Katta. If you were to go
into the Buoncompagni Palazzo, and see all the beautiful pictures of the
old Cavalieri in their armour, and the ladies with pearls and rubies
upon their beautiful robes! The Contino would be rich if he could make
up his mind to sell those magnificent pictures; but the Signorina will
perceive in a moment that to sell one’s ancestors--that is a thing one
could never do.’
‘No, I should not like to sell them,’ said Kate, thoughtfully. ‘But do
you mean that? Are the Buoncompagni poor?’
‘Signorina mia,’ said Francesca, with dignity, ‘when were they rich--our
grand nobili Italiani! Not since the days when Firenze was a queen in
the world, and did what she would. That was ended a long, long time ago.
And what, then, was it the duty of the great Signori to do? They had to
keep their old palaces, and all the beautiful things the house had got
when it was rich, for the good of _la patria_, when she should wake up
again. They had to keep all the old names, and the recollections.
Signorina Katta, a common race could not have done this. We poor ones in
the streets, we have done what we could; we have kept up our courage and
our gaiety of heart for our country. The Buoncompagni, and such like,
kept up the race. They would rather live in a corner of the old Palazzo
than part with it to a stranger. They would not sell the pictures, and
the _belle cose_, except now and then one small piece, to keep the
family alive. And now, look you, Signorina mia, _la patria_ has woke up
at last, and _ecco_! Her old names, and her old palaces, and the _belle
cose_ are here waiting for her. Ah! we have had a great deal to suffer,
but we are not extinguished. Certainly they are poor, but what then?
They exist; and every true Italian will bless them for that.’
This old woman, with her ruddy-brown, dried-up little face, and her
scanty hair, tied into a little knot at the top of it--curious little
figure, whom Kate had found it hard work to keep from laughing at when
she arrived first at Shanklin--was a politician, a visionary, a
patriot-enthusiast. Kate now, at eighteen, looked at Francesca with
respect, which was just modified by an inclination, far down at the
bottom of her heart, to laugh. But for this she took herself very
sharply to task. Kate had not quite got over the natural English
inclination to be contemptuous of all ‘foreigners’ who took a different
view of their duty from that natural to the British mind. If the
Buoncompagni had tried to make money, and improve their position; if
they had emigrated, and fought their way in the world; if they had done
some active work, instead of vegetating and preserving their old
palaces, she asked herself? Which was no doubt an odd idea to have got
into the Tory brain of the young representative of an old family, bound
to hate revolutionaries; but Kate was a revolutionary by nature, and her
natural Toryism was largely tinctured by the natural Radicalism of her
age, and that propensity to contradict, and form theories of her own,
which were part of her character. It was part of her character still,
though it had been smoothed down, and brought under subjection, by her
aunt’s continual indulgence. She was not so much impressed as she felt
she ought to have been by Francesca’s speech.
‘I am glad they exist,’ she said. ‘Of course we must all really have had
the same number of grandfathers and grandmothers, but still an old
family is pleasant. The only thing is, Francesca--don’t be
angry--suppose they had done something, while the _patria_, you know,
has been asleep; suppose they had tried to get on, to recover
their money, to do something more than exist! It is only a
suggestion--probably I am quite wrong, but----
‘The Signorina perhaps will condescend to inform me,’ said Francesca,
with lofty satire, ‘what, in her opinion, it would have been best for
our nobles to do?’
‘Oh! I am sure I don’t know. I only meant--I don’t know anything about
it!’ cried Kate.
‘If the Signorina will permit me to say so, that is very visible,’ said
Francesca; and then, for full five minutes, she plied her needle, and
was silent. This, perhaps, was rather a hard punishment for Kate, who
had left the visitors in the drawing-room to seek a more lively
amusement in Francesca’s company, and who, after the excitement of the
ball, was anxious for some other excitement. She revenged herself by
pulling the old woman’s work about, and asking what was this, and this.
Francesca was making a dress for her mistress, and Mrs. Anderson, though
she did not despise the fashion, was sufficiently sensible to take her
own way, and keep certain peculiarities of her own.
‘Why do you make it like this?’ said Kate. ‘Auntie is not a hundred. She
might as well have her dress made like other people. She is very
nice-looking, I think, for her age. Don’t you think so? She must have
been pretty once, Francesca. Why, you ought to know--you knew her when
she was young. Don’t you think she has been----?’
‘Signorina, be so good as to let my work alone,’ said Francesca. ‘What!
do you think there is nothing but youth that is to be admired? I did not
expect to find so little education in one of my Signorinas. Know,
Mademoiselle Katta, that there are many persons who think Madame
handsomer than either of the young ladies. There is an air of
distinction and of intelligence. You, for instance, you have the _beauté
de diable_--one admires you because you are so young; but how do you
know that it will last? Your features are not remarkable, Signorina
Katta. When those roses are gone, probably you will be but an
ordinary-looking woman; but my Signora Anderson, she has features, she
has the grand air, she has distinction----’
‘Oh! you spiteful old woman!’ cried Kate, half vexed, half laughing. ‘I
never said I thought I was pretty. I know I am just like a doll, all red
and white; but you need not tell me so, all the same.’
‘Mademoiselle is not like a doll,’ said Francesca. ‘Sometimes, when she
has a better inspiration, Mademoiselle has something more than red and
white. I did not affirm that it would not last. I said how do you know?
But my Signora has lasted. She is noble!--she is distinguished! And as
for what she has been----’
‘That is exactly what I said,’ said Kate.
‘We do not last in Italy,’ said Francesca, pursuing the subject with the
gravity of an abstract philosopher. ‘It is, perhaps, our beautiful
climate. Your England, which has so much of mist and of rain, keeps the
grass green, and it preserves beauty. The Contessa Buoncompagni has lost
all her beauty. She was of the Strozzi family, and made her first
communion on the same day as my little Angiolina, who is now blessed in
heaven. Allow me to say it to you, Signorina mia, they were beautiful as
two angels in their white veils. But the Contessina has grown old. She
has lost her hair, which does not happen to the English Signore,
and--other things. I am more old than she, and when I see it I grieve.
She does not go out, except, of course, which goes without saying, to
the Duomo. She is a good woman--a very good woman. If she cannot afford
to give the best price for her salad, is it her fault? She is a great
lady, as great as anybody in all Firenze--Countess Buoncompagni, born
Strozzi. What would you have more? But, dear lady, it is no shame to her
that she is not rich. Santissima Madonna, why should one hesitate to say
it? It is not her fault.’
‘Of course it cannot be her fault; nobody would choose to be poor if
they could help it,’ said Kate.
‘I cannot say, Signorina Katta--I have not any information on the
subject. To be rich is not all. It might so happen--though I have no
special information--that one would choose to be poor. I am poor myself,
but I would not change places with many who are rich. I should esteem
more,’ said Francesca, raising her head, ‘a young galantuomo who was
noble and poor, and had never done anything against the _patria_, nor
humbled himself before the Tedeschi, a hundred and a thousand times more
than those who hold places and honours. But then I am a silly old woman,
most likely the Signorina will say.’
‘Is Count Buoncompagni like that?’ asked Kate; but she did not look for
an answer.
And just then the bell rang from the drawing-room, and Francesca put
down her work and bustled away to open the door for the young Englishmen
whose company Kate had abandoned. The girl took up Francesca’s work, and
made half a dozen stitches; and then went to her own room, where
Maryanne was also at work. Kate gave a little sketch of the dresses at
the ball to the handmaiden, who listened with breathless interest.
‘I don’t think anyone could have looked nicer than you and Miss Ombra in
your fresh tarlatane, Miss,’ said Maryanne.
‘Nobody took the least notice of us,’ said Kate. ‘We are not worth
noticing among so many handsome, well-dressed people. We were but a
couple of girls out of the nursery in our white. I think I will choose a
colour that will make some show if I ever go to a ball again.’
‘Oh! Miss Kate, you will go to a hundred balls!’ cried Maryanne, with
fervour.
Kate shrugged her shoulders with sham disdain; but she felt, with a
certain gentle complacency, that it was true. A girl who has once been
to a ball must go on. She cannot be shut up again in any nursery and
school-room; she is emancipated for ever and ever; the glorious world is
thrown open to her. The tarlatane which marked her bread-and-butter days
would no doubt yield to more splendid garments; but she could not go
back--she had made her entry into life.
Lady Caryisfort called next day--an event which filled Mrs. Anderson
with satisfaction. No doubt Kate was the chief object of her visit; and
as it was the first time that Kate’s aunt and cousin had practically
felt the great advantage which her position gave her over them, there
was, without doubt, some difficulty in the situation. But, fortunately,
Ombra’s attention was otherwise occupied; and Mrs. Anderson, though she
was a high-spirited woman, and did not relish the idea of deriving
consequence entirely from the little girl whom she had brought up, had
yet that philosophy which more or less is the accompaniment of
experience, and knew that it was much better to accept the inevitable
graciously, than to fight against it. And if anything could have
neutralised the wound to her pride, it would have been the ‘pretty
manners’ of Lady Caryisfort, and the interest which she displayed in
Ombra. Indeed, Ombra secured more of her attention than Kate did--a
consoling circumstance. Lady Caryisfort showed every inclination to
‘take them up.’ It was a thing she was fond of doing; and she was so
amiable and entertaining, and so rich, and opened up such perfectly good
society to her _protégées_, that few people at the moment of being taken
up realised the fact that they must inevitably be let down again
by-and-by--a process not so pleasant.
At this moment nothing could be more delightful than their new friend.
She called for them when she went out driving, and took them to Fiesole,
to La Pioggia, to the Cascine--wherever fashion went. She lent them her
carriage when she was indolent, as often happened, and did not care to
go out. She asked them to her little parties when she had ‘the best
people’--a compliment which Mrs. Anderson felt deeply, and which was
very different from the invitation to the big ball at the Embassy, to
which everybody was invited. In short, Lady Caryisfort launched the
little party into the best society of English at Florence, such as it
is. And the pretty English heiress became as well known as if she had
gone through a season at home previous to this Italian season. Poor
Uncle Courtenay! Had he seen Antonio Buoncompagni, who danced like an
angel, leading his ward through the mazes of a cotillon, what would that
excellent guardian’s feelings have been?