THE MOONSHINE AND CLOUD SONATA
The sun was sinking behind the brow of Monte Bre and darkness was
rapidly covering the precipitous shores and the houses of Oria, stamping
the purple and gloomy profile of the hill on the luminous green of the
waves, which were running obliquely towards the west, still high, but
foamless in the tired _breva_. The lights in Casa Ribera had been the
last to go out. Standing against the steep vineyards of the mountainside
dotted with olives, it spanned the narrow road that follows the
coast-line, its modest facade rising from the clear water, and flanked
on the west, towards the village, by a little hanging-garden, divided
into two tiers, on the east, towards the church, by a small terrace
raised on pillars, which framed a square of church ground. In this
facade there was a small boathouse where at that time the boat belonging
to Franco and Luisa lay rocking on the jostling waves. Above the
boathouse a slender gallery united the hanging-garden on the west and
the terrace on the east, and looked out upon the lake by means of three
windows. They called it a loggia, perhaps because it really had been
one in olden times. The old house bore incrusted here and there several
of these venerable, fossil names, which had survived through tradition,
and represented, in their apparent absurdity, the mysteries of the
religion of domestic walls. Behind the loggia was a spacious hall, and
there were two rooms more behind that. On the west was the small
dining-room, its walls covered with little, illustrious, paper men, each
under his own glass and in his own frame, each in a dignified attitude,
like the illustrious in flesh and blood, looking as if his colleagues
did not exist at all, and the world was gazing at him alone. On the east
was the alcove-room, where next to her parents, in her own little bed,
slept Signorina Maria Maironi, born in August, 1852.
From the great rococo chests to the bed-rooms, the kitchen cupboard, the
black clock in the little dining-room, the sofa in the loggia, with its
brown cover, sprinkled with red and yellow Turks; from the
straw-bottomed chairs to the armchairs with disproportionately high
arms, the furniture of the house all belonged to the epoch of the
illustrious men, most of whom wore the wig and pigtail. Even though it
did appear to have just descended from the garret, it seemed,
nevertheless, to have regained in the light and air of its new
surroundings certain lost habits of cleanliness, a decided interest in
life, and the dignity of old age. Thus a collection of disused words
might to-day be composed by the breath of some aged and conservative
poet, and reflect his serene and graceful senility. Under the
mathematical and bureaucratic rule of Uncle Piero, chairs and armchairs,
tables large and small, had lived in perfect symmetry, and the privilege
of immobility had been extended to the very mats themselves. The only
piece of furniture which might have been called _movable_, was a grey
and blue cushion, an abortive mattress, which the engineer, during his
short visits at Oria, carried with him when he moved from one easy-chair
to another. When he was absent the caretaker respected all relics of him
to such an extent as never to dare touch them familiarly, or dust the
less visible parts. This caused the housekeeper to fly into a rage,
regularly, every time they returned to Valsolda. The master, vexed that
a little dust should cause so much scolding of a poor peasant, would
reprimand her, and suggest that she do the dusting herself; and when the
woman--by way of a scornful retort--would demand, wrathfully, if she was
to kill herself with dusting the house every time they came, he would
answer good-naturedly: "If you kill yourself once, that will be
sufficient."
The cultivation of the little garden as well as of a kitchen-garden he
owned to the east of the church grounds, he left entirely to the caprice
of the caretaker. Only once, two years before Luisa's marriage, arriving
at Oria at the beginning of September, and finding six stalks of maize
growing on the second terrace of the little garden, did he allow
himself to say to the man: "Look here, my friend. Couldn't you really
get along without those six stalks of Indian corn?"
Those liberal poets, Franco and Luisa, had breathed upon things and
changed their aspect. Franco's poetry was more ardent, fervid and
passionate; Luisa's more prudent. Thus Franco's sentiments always flamed
out in his eyes, his face, his words, while Luisa's seldom burst into
flames, and only tinged the depths of her penetrating glance, and her
soft voice. Franco was conservative only in matters of religion and art;
he was an ardent radical as far as the domestic walls were concerned,
always planning transformations of ceilings, walls, floors, and drapery.
Luisa began by admiring his genius, but as nearly all the funds came
from her uncle, and there was little margin for extraordinary
undertakings, she persuaded him, very gently and little by little, to
leave the walls, the ceilings, and the floors as they were, and to study
how best to arrange the furniture without seeking to transform it. And
she would make suggestions without appearing to do so, letting him
believe the ideas were his own, for Franco was jealous of the paternity
of ideas, while Luisa was quite indifferent to this sort of maternity.
Thus, together, they arranged the hall as a music-room, drawing-room,
and reading-room; the loggia as a card-room, while the terrace was
sacred to coffee and contemplation. This small terrace became in
Franco's hands the lyric poem of the house. It was very tiny and Luisa
felt that here a concession might be made, and an outlet provided for
her husband's enthusiasms. It was then that the king of Valsoldian
mulberry-trees fell from his throne, the famous and ancient mulberry of
the churchyard, a tyrant that deprived the terrace of the finest view.
Franco freed himself from this tyrant by pecuniary means; then he
designed and raised above the terrace an airy context of slim rods and
bars of iron which formed three arches surmounted by a tiny cupola, and
over this he trained two graceful passion-flower vines, that opened
their great blue eyes here and there, and fell on all sides in festoons
and garlands. A small round table and some iron chairs served for coffee
and contemplation. As to the little hanging-garden, Luisa would have
been willing to put up even with maize, with that tolerance of the
superior mind which loves to humour the ideas, the habits, the
affections of inferior minds. She felt a sort of respectful pity for the
horticultural ideals of the poor caretaker, for that mixture of
roughness and gentleness he had in his heart, a great heart, capable of
holding at once, reseda and pumpkins, balsam and carrots. But Franco,
generous and religious though he was, would not have tolerated a carrot
or a pumpkin in his garden for love of any neighbour. All stupid
vulgarity irritated him. When the unfortunate kitchen-gardener heard Don
Franco declare that the little garden was a filthy hole, that
everything must be torn up, everything thrown away, he was so dazed and
humiliated as to excite pity; but when, working under his master's
orders, tracing out paths, bordering them with tufa-stones, planting
flowers and shrubs, he saw how skilful Franco himself was with his
hands, and how many terrible Latin names he knew, and what a surprising
talent he possessed for imagining new and beautiful arrangements, he
conceived, little by little, an almost fearful admiration for him, which
soon--in spite of many scoldings--developed into devoted affection.
The little hanging garden was transformed in Franco's own image and
likeness. An _olea fragrans_ in one corner spoke of the power of gentle
things over the hot, impetuous spirit of the poet; a tiny cypress, not
over-acceptable to Luisa, spoke in another corner of his religiosity; a
low, brick parapet, in open-work pattern, ran between the cypress and
the _olea_, supporting two parallel rows of tufa-stones, between which
blossomed a smiling colony of verbenas, petunias, and wall-flowers, and
spoke of the singular ingenuity of its author; the many rose-bushes
scattered everywhere spoke of his love of classic beauty; the _ficus
repens_ which decked the walls towards the lake, the twin orange-trees
between the two tiers, and a vigorous carob-tree, revealed a chilly
temperament, a fancy turning always towards the south, insensible to the
fascination of the north.
Luisa had worked far harder than her husband, and still continued to do
so, but whereas he was proud of his labours and glad to speak of them,
Luisa, on the contrary, never mentioned hers, nor was she in the least
proud of them. She laboured with the needle, the crochet, the iron, the
scissors, with a wonderful, calm rapidity; working for her husband, her
child, the poor, herself, and for the adornment of her house. Each room
contained some creation of hers; dainty curtains, rugs, cushions, or
lamp-shades. It was also her duty to arrange the flowers in the hall and
the loggia; no flowers in pots, for Franco did not have many, and did
not wish them shut up in rooms; no flowers from the little garden, for
to gather one of those was like tearing it out of Franco's heart. But
the dahlias, the gladioles, the roses, and the asters of the
kitchen-garden were at Luisa's disposal. These, however, were not
sufficient, and as the village loved "Sciora Luisa" best after the
Almighty, St. Margherita, and St. Sebastian, at a sign from her, its
children would bring her wildflowers and ferns, and ivy to festoon
between the great bunches, stuck in metal rings on the walls. Even the
arms of the harp that hung from the ceiling of the hall, were always
entwined with long serpents of ivy and passion-flower.
If they wrote to Uncle Piero of these innovations he would answer little
or nothing. At most he would caution them not to keep the
kitchen-gardener too busy, but to leave him time for his own work. The
first time he came to Oria after the transformation of the little
garden he paused and contemplated it as he had contemplated the six
stocks of maize, and murmured under his breath: "Oh dear me!" He went
out to the terrace, looked at the little cupola, touched the iron bars,
and pronounced an "Enough!" that was resigned, but full of disapproval
of so much elegance, which he considered above the position of his
family and himself. But when he had examined in silence all the nosegays
and bunches of flowers, the pots and the festoons of the hall and the
loggia, he said, with his good-natured smile: "Look here, Luisa! Don't
you think it would be better to keep a couple of sheep with all this
fodder?"
But the housekeeper was delighted that she no longer need kill herself
for dust and cobwebs, and the kitchen-gardener was for ever praising the
wonderful works of "Signor Don Franco," so that Uncle Piero himself soon
began to grow accustomed to the new aspect his house had assumed, and to
look without disapproval upon the little cupola, which, indeed, afforded
a most grateful shade. At the end of two or three days he asked who had
made it, and he would sometimes pause to examine the flowers in the
garden, to inquire the name of one or another. At the end of eight or
ten days, standing with little Maria at the door leading from the hall
to the garden, he would ask her: "Who planted all those beautiful
flowers?" and teach her to answer: "Papa!" He exhibited his nephew's
creations to an employe of his who one day came to visit him, and
listened to his expressions of approval with a fine assumption of
indifference, but with the greatest satisfaction. "Yes, yes, he is
clever enough." Indeed he ended by becoming one of Franco's admirers,
and would even listen, in the course of conversation, to other projects
of his. And in Franco, admiration and gratitude were growing for that
great and generous bounty that had vanquished conservative nature, and
the old aversion for elegance of every description; for that same bounty
that at all such opposition rose silently and even higher behind the
uncle's resistance, until it surmounted all, covered all in a broad wave
of acquiescence, or at least with the sacramental phrase: "However,
_fate vobis_; do as you like." One innovation only Uncle Piero had not
been willing to accept--the disappearance of his old cushion. "Luisa,"
said he, gingerly lifting the new, embroidered cushion from the
easy-chair, "Luisa, take this away." And he would not be persuaded.
"Will you take it away?" When Luisa, smiling, brought him the little
abortive mattress he sat down upon it with a satisfied, "That's it!" as
if he were solemnly taking possession of a lost throne.
At the present moment, while the violet dusk was invading the green of
the waves and running along the coast from village to village,
eclipsing, one after another, the shining white houses, the engineer
was seated upon his throne holding little Maria on his knees, while out
on the terrace Franco was watering the pots of pelargonia, his heart and
his face as full of affectionate satisfaction as if he had been slaking
the thirst of Ishmael in the desert. Luisa was patiently untangling a
fishing-line belonging to her husband, a frightful snarl of string,
lead, silk, and hooks. She was talking, meanwhile, with Professor
Gilardoni, who always had some philosophical snarl to untangle, but who
greatly preferred a discussion with Franco, who always contradicted him,
right or wrong, believing him to possess an excellent heart, but a
confused head. Uncle Piero, his right knee resting on his left, held the
child on this elevation, and for the hundredth time at least, was
repeating a little scrap of verse to her, with affected slowness, and a
slight distortion of the foreign name--
Proud shade of the river,
Of Missipipi----
As far as the seventh word the child would listen, motionless and
serious, with earnest eyes; but when he reached "Missipipi," she would
burst out laughing, pound hard with her little legs, and clap her tiny
hands over the uncle's mouth, who would also laugh merrily, and after a
short pause he would begin again, speaking slowly, slowly, in the same
approved tone:
Proud shade of the river----
The child did not resemble either father or mother; she had the eyes,
the delicate features of Grandmother Teresa. She exhibited a strange
impetuous tenderness for the old uncle, whom she so seldom saw. Uncle
Piero did not use sweet words to her; indeed, when necessary, he would
even chide her gently, but he always brought her toys, often took her
out to walk, danced her upon his knee, laughed with her, and repeated
comic verses to her--the one beginning with the "Missipipi," and that
other, ending with the words:
Answered so promptly young Barucaba!
Who may this Barucaba have been, and what had they been asking him?
"_Toa Ba! Toa Ba!_ Barucaba again! Barucaba again!" and once more the
uncle would recite the poetic tale to the child, but there is no one now
to repeat it to me.
This is what Professor Gilardoni was discussing in his timid, gentle
voice with Luisa; the Professor, grown just a little older, just a
little more bald, just a little more sallow. "Who knows," Luisa had
said, "if Maria will resemble her grandmother in soul as she does in
face." The Professor replied that it would indeed be a miracle to find
two such souls in the same family, and separated by so short an interval
of time. Then wishing to explain to how rare a species he conceived the
grandmother's soul to have belonged, he gave voice to the following
tangle: "There are souls," said he, "that openly deny a future life, and
live according to their opinions, solely for the present life. Such are
few in number. Then there are souls that pretend to believe in a future
life, and live entirely for the present. These are far more numerous.
There are souls that do not think about the future life, but live so
that they may not run too great a risk of losing it if, after all, it
should be found to exist. These are more numerous still. Then there are
souls that really do believe in the future life, and divide their
thoughts and actions into two categories, which are generally at war
with each other; one is for heaven, the other for earth. There are very
many such. And then there are souls that live entirely for the future
life, in which they believe. These are very few, and Signora Teresa was
one of them."
Franco, who hated psychological disquisitions, passed frowning, with his
empty watering-pot, on his way to the little garden, and thought: "Then
there are those souls that are bores!" Uncle Piero who, by the way, was
slightly deaf, was laughing with Maria. When her husband had passed,
Luisa said softly: "Then there are souls that live as if there were only
the future life, in which they do not believe. And of such there is
one." The Professor started, and looked at her in silence. She was
hunting in the tangle of the line for a double thread with a ring that
must be drawn through, and though she did not see his glance, still she
felt it, and quickly nodded towards her uncle. Had she really been
thinking of him when speaking those words? Or had there been in her
some occult complication? Had she alluded to her uncle without
conviction, simply because she dare not name, even in thought, another
person to whom her words might more justly apply? The Professor's
silence, his searching glance which she had felt without meeting,
revealed to her that he suspected her. It was for that reason she had
hastily nodded towards Uncle Piero.
"Does he not believe in a future life?" the Professor asked.
"I should say not," Luisa answered, and then at once her heart was
filled with remorse, for she felt that her reasons for affirming this
were not sufficient, that she had no right to answer thus. In fact her
uncle had never taken the trouble to meditate on religion. In his
conception of honesty were included the continuation of the ancient,
family practices and the profession of the inherited faith, accepted
carelessly, as it stood. His was a good-natured God like himself, who,
again like himself, cared little for genuflections and rosaries; a God
well pleased to have honest, hearty men for His ministers, as Uncle
Piero was well pleased to have such for his friends, even though they
might be merry eaters and drinkers, life-long devotees of _tarocchi_,
open tellers of spicy but not filthy stories, as a lawful outlet for
that prurient hilarity which is in all of us. Certain joking remarks of
his, certain aphorisms uttered thoughtlessly upon the relative
importance of religious practices and the absolute importance of honest
living, had struck her, even as a child, especially as they greatly
vexed Signora Teresa, who would entreat her brother not to "talk
nonsense." She suspected that he went to church simply because it was
fitting to do so. Perhaps this was not true; one must overlook the
aphorisms of a man who had grown old in self-sacrifice and
self-abnegation, and who was wont to say: _Charitas incipit a me._
Besides, even if her uncle did hold religious practices in slight
esteem, there was a vast difference between that and denying a future
life. Indeed, as soon as Luisa had uttered her opinion and had heard how
it sounded, she felt it was false, saw more clearly within herself and
realised that she had been seeking in her uncle's example, a prop and a
comfort for herself.
The Professor was greatly moved by this unexpected revelation.
"This one soul," said he, "that lives as if thinking only of a future
life in which it does not believe, is indeed in error, but nevertheless,
we are bound to admire it as the most noble, the greatest of all. It is
something sublime!"
"But are you then sure that this soul is in error?"
"Oh, yes, yes!"
"And you yourself, to which category do you belong?"
The Professor really believed he was of the few who rule their actions
entirely according to an aspiration towards a future life, but he would
have been embarrassed had he been called upon to demonstrate that his
earnest study of Raspail, his zeal in the preparation of sedative water
and camphor cigarettes, his horror of dampness and of draughts, were
proofs of slight attachment to the present life. However, he would not
answer, but said that though he did not belong to any church, he
nevertheless, believed firmly in God and the future life, and that he
could not judge of his own conduct.
Meanwhile, Franco, watering the little garden, had discovered that a new
verbena had blossomed, and setting down his watering-pot, had come to
the door of the loggia and was calling to Maria, to whom he wished to
point it out. Maria let him call, and demanded "Missipipi" again,
whereupon the uncle put her down, and himself led her to her father.
"But, Professor," Luisa said, emerging by means of the living word from
a course of occult ponderings, "do you not think one may believe in God
and still be in doubt concerning the future life?"
Speaking thus she had dropped the tangled maze of net, and was looking
the Professor straight in the face, with an expression of lively
interest, and a manifest desire that he might answer yes. As Gilardoni
did not speak she added--
"It seems to me some one might say: What obligation is God under to
give us immortality? The immortality of the soul is an invention of
human selfishness, which, after all, simply wishes to make God serve its
own convenience. We want a reward for the good we do to others, and a
punishment for the evil others do to us. Let us rather resign ourselves
to complete death, which comes to every living thing, being just with
ourselves and with others as long as we live, without looking for future
reward, but simply because God wishes it, as he wishes every star to
give light, and every tree to give shade. What do you think about it?"
"What can I say?" Gilardoni answered. "It seems to me a thought of great
beauty! I cannot say: a great truth. Indeed I do not know. I have never
thought about it, but it is very beautiful! I will say that Christianity
has never had, has never even imagined a Saint so sublime as this _some
one_! It is very beautiful, very beautiful!"
"And besides," Luisa continued after a short silence, "it might also be
maintained that this future would not mean perfect happiness. Can there
be happiness if we do not know the reasons of all things? If we may not
explain all mysteries? And will this longing to know all things be
satisfied in the future life? Will there not always remain one
impenetrable mystery? Do they not teach us that we shall never
understand God perfectly? Therefore, in our longing to know, shall we
not end by suffering as at present, perhaps even more, because in a
higher life that longing must become stronger? I can only see one way of
arriving at a knowledge of everything, and that would be to become
God----"
"Ah! You are a pantheist!" the Professor exclaimed, interrupting her.
"Hush!" said Luisa. "No, no, no, I am a Catholic Christian. I am only
repeating what others might say."
"Pardon me, but there is a pantheism----"
"Philosophy still?" exclaimed Franco, coming in with the little one in
his arms.
"Oh, misery!" grumbled Uncle Piero behind him.
Maria held a beautiful white rose in her hand. "Look at this rose,
Luisa," said Franco. "Maria, give Mamma the flower. Look at the shape of
this rose, its pose, its shading, the veins in its petals; look at that
red stripe, and inhale its perfume. Now drop philosophy."
"You are an enemy of philosophy?" the Professor said, smiling.
"I am a friend of that simple and sure philosophy which even roses can
teach me," Franco answered.
"Philosophy, my dear Professor," Uncle Piero put in solemnly, "is all
contained in Aristotle. You can get all you want from that source."
"You are jesting," the Professor said, "but you yourself are a
philosopher."
The engineer placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Listen, dear friend! My philosophy could all be put into eight or ten
glasses."
"Mercy on us! Eight or ten glasses!" grumbled the housekeeper, who had
caught her most temperate master's words of boastful intemperance, as
she came in. "Eight or ten fiddlesticks!"
She had come to announce Don Giuseppe Costabarbieri, whose hollow but
jolly voice was just then heard in the hall, saying heartily, "_Deo
gratias_." Then the red and wrinkled face, the lively eyes, and the grey
hair of the gentle priest appeared.
"We are discussing philosophy, Don Giuseppe," said Luisa when greetings
had been exchanged. "Come here and let us have your valuable opinion."
Don Guiseppe scratched his head, and then turning it slightly towards
the engineer, with the expression of one who desires something for which
he hardly dares to ask, gave utterance to this flower of his
philosophical opinions.
"Wouldn't a little game of primero be better?"
Franco and Uncle Piero, who were only too glad to escape from
Gilardoni's philosophy, sat merrily down to the little table with the
priest.
As soon as he and Luisa were alone, the Professor said softly--
"The Marchesa left yesterday."
Luisa, who had taken Maria upon her lap, pressed her lips to the child's
neck passionately.
"Perhaps," continued Gilardoni, who had never known how to read in the
human heart, or to touch its chords correctly, "perhaps sometime--it is
only three years, yet--perhaps the day may come when she will yield."
Luisa raised her face from Maria's neck. "Perhaps _she_ may yield!" said
she. The Professor did not understand, and giving way to the evil genius
that invariably suggested to him the worst word at the worst moment, he
persisted instead of breaking off. "Perhaps, if she could see Maria!"
Luisa pressed the little girl to her breast, and looked at him so
fiercely that he was confused, and stammered, "I beg your pardon!"
Maria, in this close embrace, raised her eyes to her mother's strange
face, grew very red, pressed her lips tight together, cried two great
tears, and began to sob.
"No, no, dear!" Luisa murmured tenderly to her, "be quiet, be quiet! You
shall never see her, never!"
As soon as the child was comforted the Professor, distressed at the
mistake he had made, at having offended this Luisa, who seemed to him a
superhuman being, wished to explain, to justify himself, but Luisa would
not allow him to speak. "Pardon me, but that will do," said she, rising.
"Let us go and watch the game."
But, as a matter of fact, she did not go near the players. She sent
Maria to amuse herself in the church-grounds with her little nurse,
Veronica, and herself went to carry a piece of pudding to an old
villager who had a voracious appetite and a small voice, with which he
would every day promise his benefactress the same precious recompense,
"Before I die, I will give you a kiss."
Meanwhile the Professor was filled with scruples and remorse for the
unfortunate step he had taken. Not knowing whether to go or to remain,
whether the lady would or would not return, whether it would or would
not be indiscreet to go in search of her, after having looked out
towards the lake as if seeking advice from the fishes, towards the hills
to see if she or some one of whom he could inquire about her happened to
be at one of the windows, he finally went to watch the game.
Each one of the players kept his eyes fixed on the four cards he held in
his left hand, placed one upon the other in such a way that the second
and third projected above the others just enough to be recognisable,
while the fourth remained carefully hidden.
The Professor reflected that he also held a secret card, a trump, and he
was undecided whether to play it or not. He held old Maironi's will. A
few days after Signora Teresa's death, Franco had told him to destroy
it, and never breathe a word about it to Luisa. He had obeyed only so
far as keeping silence was concerned. The document still existed, though
of this Franco was ignorant, because its custodian had determined to
await the development of events, to see if Cressogno and Oria would come
to terms, or if, in consequence of prolonged hostilities, Franco and
his family would be reduced to want, in which case he himself intended
to do something. What he should do, he did not really know. He was
nurturing the germs of several foolish plans in his head, and trusted
that one or other of them would have ripened before the time for action
arrived. Now, as he watched Franco play, he wondered how that man, so
engrossed in his desire to win a pasteboard king, could ever have
refused that other precious card, not even wishing to inform his wife of
its existence. He attributed this silence to modesty, to a desire to
hide a generous action, and although he had suffered more than one sharp
rebuff from him, and felt that Franco esteemed him lightly, still he
looked upon him with a respect full of humble devotion.
"Give me the cards! Give me the cards!" the priest exclaimed, and he
shuffled them eagerly. Then the game, symbol of the universal struggle
between the blacks and the reds, began once more.
* * * * *
The lake now lay sleeping, covered and encircled by shadows. Only on the
east the great, distant mountains of the Lario were still in a glory of
purple and rich, yellow gold. The first breath of the evening breeze out
of the north, moved the tender branches of the passion-flowers, ruffled,
in spots, the surface of the grey waters towards the upper lake, and
wafted a perfume of cool woods.
When Luisa returned the Professor had been gone some time.
"Ah, here is _Sciora_ Luisa!" said Don Giuseppe, who was feeling quite
satisfied, having had his fill of primero, and he gently stroked the
modest rotundity of his ribs and belly. Then this little personage of
the world of long ago remembered the second object of his visit. He had
wished to speak a little word to Signora Luisa. The engineer had gone
out to take his usual short walk as far as the Tavorell hill, which he
jokingly called the St. Bernard, and Franco, after a glance at the moon
which was just then sparkling above the black brow of the Bisgnago, and
below, in the undulations of the water, began improvising on the piano
outpourings of ideal sorrow, that floated out of the open windows upon
the deep sonorousness of the lake. His musical improvisations were more
successful than his elaborate poems because in music his impulsive
feelings found a mode of expression more facile, more complete, and the
scruples, the uncertainties, the doubts which rendered the labour of
language most wearisome and slow, did not torment his fancy at the
piano. There he would give himself up, body and soul, to the poetic
rage, and quivering to the roots of his hair, his clear, speaking eyes
reflecting every little shade in the musical expression, while his face
worked with the continuous movement of inarticulate words, his hands,
though neither very agile nor very supple, would make the piano sing
ineffably.
At the present moment he was passing from one tone to another, breathing
hard, and putting all the strength of his intellect into those passages,
eviscerating the instrument, as it were, with his ten fingers, and
almost with his glowing eyes as well. He had begun to play under the
spell of the moonshine, but as he played, sad clouds had arisen from the
depths of his heart. Conscious that as a youth he had dreamed of glory
and that later he had humbly laid aside all hope of attaining it, he
said, almost to himself, with his sad and passionate music, that in him
there was indeed some glow of genius, some of the fire of creation seen
only by God, for not even Luisa exhibited that esteem for his intellect
which he himself lacked, but which he could have wished to find in her;
not even Luisa, the heart of his heart. She praised his music and his
poetry in measured terms, but she had never said: "Follow this path,
dare, write, publish." He was thinking of this as he played on in the
dark hall putting into a tender melody the lament of his love, the
timid, secret lament he would never have dared to put into words.
Out on the terrace in the quivering light-and-shade formed by the breath
of the north wind and the passion-flower vines, by the moon and its
reflection in the lake, Don Giuseppe was telling Luisa that Signor
Giacomo Puttini was angry with him on account of Signora Pasotti, who
had repeated to him the false report that he, Don Giuseppe, was going
about preaching the necessity of a marriage between Puttini and
Marianna. "May I be struck dead," the poor priest protested, "if I ever
breathed a single word! Not a single word! It is all a lie!" Luisa would
not believe poor Barborin guilty, but Don Giuseppe declared he had it
straight from the Controller himself. Then she understood at once that
the cunning Pasotti was indulging in a joke at the expense of his wife,
Signor Giacomo, and the priest, and declining to interfere in the matter
as Don Giuseppe wished her to do, she advised him to speak to Signora
Pasotti herself. "She is so terribly deaf!" said the priest, scratching
his head; and he finally departed, dissatisfied, and without saluting
Franco, whom he did not wish to interrupt. Luisa went towards the piano
on tiptoe, and stopped to listen to her husband, to hear the beauty, the
richness, the fire of that soul which was hers, and to which she
belonged for ever. If she had never said to Franco, "Follow this path,
write, publish!" it was perhaps because in her well-balanced affection
she believed, and with reason, that he would never be able to produce
anything superior to mediocrity, but it was above all, because, although
she had a fine feeling for music and poetry, she did not really esteem
either of much account. She did not approve of a man's dedicating
himself wholly to either, and she had an ardent longing that her
husband's intellectual and material activity should flow in a more
manly channel. Nevertheless, she admired Franco in his music more than
if he had been a great master; she found in this almost secret
expression of his soul something virginal, something sincere, the light
of a loving spirit, most worthy to be loved.
He did not perceive her presence until two arms brushed his shoulders
and he saw two little hands hanging on his breast. "No! no! Play, play!"
Luisa murmured, for Franco had grasped the hands; but, without
answering, his head thrown back, he sought her, sought her lips and her
eyes, and she kissed him and then raised her face, repeating, "Play." He
drew the imprisoned wrists still farther down, silently praying for the
sweet, sweet mouth: then she surrendered, and pressed her lips upon his
in a long kiss, full of understanding, and infinitely more exquisite,
more exhilarating than the first. Then she once more whispered, "Play."
And in his happiness he played the music of triumph, full of joy and of
cries. For at that moment it seemed to him he possessed the soul of this
woman in its entirety, whereas sometimes, even though convinced that she
loved him, he seemed to feel in her that lofty reason, towering serene
and cold, above love itself, and far beyond the reach of his
enthusiasms. She would often place her hands upon his head, and from
time to time kiss his hair softly. She was aware of her husband's
doubts, and always protested that she was all his, but in her heart she
knew he was right. There was in her a tenacious, fierce sense of
intellectual independence which withstood love. She could judge her
husband calmly, recognising his imperfections, but she felt he was not
capable of doing the same, felt how humble he was in his love, in his
boundless devotion. She did not think she was unjust to him, she felt no
remorse, but she was touched with loving pity when she pondered these
things. Now she guessed the meaning of this joyous musical outpouring,
and, deeply moved, she embraced Franco and the piano became suddenly
silent.
* * * * *
Uncle Piero's slow, heavy step was heard on the stairs; he was returning
from his St. Bernard.
It was eight o'clock, and the usual _tarocchi_-players, Signors Giacomo
and Pasotti, had not yet arrived, for in September Pasotti himself
became a regular visitor at Casa Ribera, where he pretended to be in
love with the engineer, with Luisa, and even with Franco. Franco and
Luisa suspected some duplicity, but Pasotti was an old friend of the
uncle's, and must be tolerated out of respect to him. As the players
failed to appear Franco proposed to his wife that they should go out in
the boat to enjoy the moon. First, however, they went to see Maria, who
was asleep in her little bed in the alcove, her head drooping towards
her right shoulder, one arm under her pillow, and the other resting
across her breast. They looked at her and kissed her smiling, and then
the silent thoughts of both flew to Grandmamma Teresa, who would have
loved her so dearly. With serious faces, they kissed her once more. "My
poor little one!" said Franco. "Poor, penniless, Donna Maria Maironi!"
Luisa placed her hand upon his mouth. "Be quiet!" said she. "We are
fortunate, we who are the penniless Maironis."
Franco understood, and did not answer at once, but presently, when they
were leaving the room to go to the boat, he said to his wife, forgetting
one of his grandmother's threats, "It will not always be thus."
This allusion to the old Marchesa's wealth displeased Luisa. "Do not
speak of it to me," she said. "I would not soil my fingers by touching
that money."
"I was thinking of Maria," Franco observed.
"Maria has us. We can work."
Franco was silent. Work! That was one of the words that chilled his
heart. He knew he was leading a life of indolence, for were not music,
books, flowers, and a few verses now and then, merely vanities and a
waste of time? And he was leading this life almost entirely at the
expense of others, for how could he possibly have managed with only his
one thousand Austrian lire a year? How could he have maintained his
family? He had taken his collegiate degree, but without deriving the
slightest profit from it. He doubted his own ability, felt himself too
much of an artist, too foreign to forensic wiles, and he was well aware
that the blood of earnest labourers did not flow in his veins. His only
hope was in a revolution, a war, in the freedom of his country. Ah! When
Italy should be free, how well he would serve her, with what great
strength, what joy! This poetry he had indeed in his heart, but he
lacked the energy, the constancy to prepare himself by study for such a
future.
While he was rowing away from the shore in silence, Luisa was wondering
how it was that her husband could pity the child because she was poor.
Did not this sentiment stand in contradiction to Franco's faith, to his
Christian piety? She recalled Professor Gilardoni's categories. Franco
believed firmly in a future life, but in practice he clung passionately
to all that is beautiful and good in this earthly life, clung to all its
lawful pleasures, including cards and dainty dinners. One who obeyed the
precepts of the Church so scrupulously, who was so careful to abstain
from flesh on Fridays and Saturdays, to listen to a sermon every Sunday,
should conform his daily life far more strictly to the evangelical
ideal. He should rather fear than desire riches.
"A pleasant sail to you!" Uncle Piero called out from the terrace,
catching sight of the boat and Luisa seated in the prow in the
moonlight. Opposite black Bisgnago all Valsolda, from Niscioree to
Caravina lay spread out in the glory of the moon; all the windows of
Oria and of Albogasio, the arches of Villa Pasotti, the tiny white
houses of the most distant villages, Castello, Casarico, S. Mamette,
Drano, seemed to be gazing as if hypnotised, at the great, motionless
eye of the dead orb in the heavens.
Franco drew the oars into the boat. "Sing," said he.
Luisa had never studied singing, but she possessed a sweet mezzo-soprano
voice and a perfect ear, and had learned many operatic airs from her
mother, who had heard Grisi, Pasta, and Malibran, during the golden days
of Italian opera.
She began the air from _Anne Boleyn_:
Al dolce guidami
Castel natio.
The song of the soul which at first descends, little by little, and
finally, in greater sweetness gives itself up to its love, to rise
again, locked in his embrace, in an impulse of desire towards some
distant light which shall complete its happiness. She sang, and Franco,
carried away, fancied that she longed to be united to him in that lofty
region of the soul from which she had, until now, excluded him; that in
this perfect union, she longed to be guided by him towards the goal of
his ideals. A sob rose in his throat, and the rippling lake, the great
tragic mountains, those eyes of things fixed upon the moon, the very
light of the moon itself, everything, was filled with his indefinable
sentiment. And so, when beyond the broken image of the orb, silver
lights flashed for a moment as far as Bisgnago, and even into the
shadowy gulf of the Doi, he was moved, as if they had been mysterious
signals concerning him, which lake and moon were exchanging, while Luisa
finished the verse:
Ai verdi platani,
Al cheto rio
Che i nostri mormora
Sospi ancor.
* * * * *
Pasotti's voice called from the terrace--
"_Brava!_"
And Uncle Piero shouted--
"_Tarocco!_"
At the same moment they heard the oars of a boat coming from Porlezza,
and a bassoon mimicked the air of _Anne Boleyn_. Franco, who had seated
himself in the stern of his boat, started to his feet, crying
delightedly--
"Who goes there?" A fine, big, bass voice answered him--
Buona sera
Miei signori,
Buona sera,
Buona sera.
They were his friends from the Lake of Como, the lawyer V. of Varenna
and a certain Pedraglio of Loveno, who were in the habit of coming to
make music openly, and discuss politics in secret; this was known only
to Luisa.
They called from the terrace--
"Well done, Don Basilio!--Bravo, bassoon!" And in the interval the voice
could be heard of some one who was begging to be excused from _tarocco_:
"No, no, most gracious Controller, it is late! The time is too short;
really too short. Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord! Indeed you must excuse me. I
cannot, I cannot. Most worshipful Engineer, I appeal to you!"
But they made the little man play, promising that they would not go
beyond two games. He puffed very hard, and sat down to the little table
with the engineer, Pasotti, and Pedraglio. Franco seated himself at the
piano, and the lawyer placed himself beside him with the bassoon.
Between Pasotti and Pedraglio, two terrible quizzers, poor Signor
Giacomo passed a short half-hour which was full of tribulation. They did
not leave him alone a minute. "How goes it, _Scior Zacomo_?--Badly,
badly! _Scior Zacomo_, are there no friars walking about in
slippers?--Not one. And the bull, how is the bull, _Scior
Zacomo_?--Stop, stop--A most accursed beast, eh?--Yes, indeed, Sir. And
the servant, _Scior Zacomo_?" "Hush!" exclaimed Pasotti at this
impertinent question of Pedraglio's. "Be prudent. On this point Signor
Giacomo is having a great deal of trouble, through the indiscretion of
certain individuals." "Let us not discuss it, most gracious Controller,
let us not discuss it!" Signor Giacomo exclaimed, writhing all over, and
the engineer advised him to send his tormentors to the devil. "But how
is this, _Scior Zacomo_," Pasotti went on, undaunted, "don't you call
that little priest indiscreet?" "I call him an ass!" Signor Giacomo
answered angrily. Then Pasotti, smiling and triumphant, because this
joke was really of his own making, ordered Pedraglio to be quiet, and
started the game afresh, although Pedraglio was bursting with curiosity
to hear the story.
Franco and the lawyer were studying a new composition for piano and
bassoon, continually making mistakes and beginning over again. Presently
Signora Bianconi came in on tiptoe that she might not interrupt the
melody. No one noticed her entrance save Luisa, who made her sit down
beside her on the little sofa near the piano.
Signora Peppina with her cordial good-nature, her long tongue, and her
foolishness was irritating to Franco, but not to Luisa. Luisa liked her,
but she was careful on account of Carlascia. From her garden Peppina had
heard that "lovely song," and then the bassoon and the greetings; she
had imagined there was going to be music, and she was "so madly fond of
music, you know!" There was that lawyer who "blows into that shiny
thing," to say nothing of Don Franco with those fingers of his "that
seem bewitched." To hear the piano played with such precision was as
good as hearing a barrel-organ, and she was "so awfully fond" of
barrel-organs! She added that she had been afraid she should disturb
them, but that her husband had encouraged her to come. And she asked if
that other gentleman from Loveno did not play also; if they were going
to stay long; and observed that both must be passionately fond of music.
"I'll be even with you, you rascal of a Receiver," thought Luisa, and
she proceeded to stuff his wife with the most ridiculous tales of the
melomania of Pedraglio and the lawyer, inventing more and more as she
grew more and more angry with those odious persons against whom one was
obliged to defend one's self by lying. Signora Peppina swallowed all the
stories scrupulously down to the very last, accompanying them with
gentle notes of pleased wonder: "Oh, how strange!--Just fancy!--Just
think of that!" Then, instead of listening to the diabolical dispute
going on between the piano and the bassoon, she began to talk of the
Commissary, saying he intended to come and see Don Franco's flowers.
"He may come," said Luisa, coldly.
Then Signora Peppina, taking advantage of the storm Franco and his
friend were raising, risked a little private speech, which would have
cost her dear had her Carlascia overheard it, but fortunately that
faithful mastiff was asleep in his own bed, his night-cap drawn well
down over his ears.
"I am so devoted to these dear flowers!" she began. It was her opinion
the Maironis would do well to pet the Commissary a little. He was one
of the Marchesa's intimates, and it would be awful if he should take it
into his head to cause them trouble. He was a terrible man, this
Commissary! "Now my Carlo barks a little, but he is a good creature; the
other one doesn't bark, but--you understand?" She herself knew nothing
about it, had not heard anything, but if, for example, that lawyer and
the other gentleman had come for something else than music, and the
Commissary should find it out----! Then the Lord have mercy on us!
The moon was dragging its splendour across the lake towards the western
waters; the game had come to an end, and Signor Giacomo was preparing to
light his little lantern, in spite of Pasotti's remonstrances. "A light,
_Scior Zacomo_? You are mad! A light with such a moon!" "At your
service," Puttini replied. "In the first place there is that accursed
Pomodoro to cross, and then--_cossa vorla_--the moon nowadays! Besides I
must tell you it is the August moon, for although we are in September,
still the moon belongs to August. Well, once upon a time, my dear sirs,
August moons were fine and big, as large as the bottom of a cask at
least; now they are no better than moonlets, good-for-nothing
moons----no, no, no." And his lantern lighted, he departed with Pasotti,
the impertinent Pedraglio accompanying them as far as the gate of the
little garden, with his usual fire of antiphones about the bull and the
servant. Then the little man turned towards the cavernous streets of
Oria, greatly comforted by Pasotti's exclamations: "Ill-bred people,
_Scior Zacomo_! Vulgar people!" exclamations uttered in a tone
calculated to reach the others, and add to their amusement.
* * * * *
A loud gape from the engineer put Signora Peppina to flight. A few
minutes later, having drunk his cup of milk, Uncle Piero took leave of
the company in verse--
Tall laurel trees and myrtle sweet upon Parnassus grow,
May night upon you, worthy Sirs, great happiness bestow.
The two guests also asked for a little milk, but Franco, who understood
their Latin, went for an old bottle of the wine from the small but
excellent vineyard of Maine.
When he returned Uncle Piero was no longer present. The dark, bearded
lawyer, the picture of strength and placidity, raised both hands
silently, summoning Luisa and Franco, one to either side of him. Then he
said softly, in his voice like a violoncello, warm and deep--
"Great news!"
"Ah!" ejaculated Franco, opening his eager eyes wide. Luisa turned pale,
and clasped her hands in silence.
"Yes, indeed!" said Pedraglio calmly and seriously, "we have succeeded!"
"Speak out! Speak out!" Franco begged. The lawyer answered him:
"We have Piedmont allied with France and England! To-day war with
Russia, to-morrow with Austria! Are you satisfied?"
With a sob Franco sprang to embrace his friends.
The three stood clinging to one another in silence, pressing close in
the intoxication of the magic word: War! Franco forgot that he still
held the bottle. Luisa took it from him. Then he tore himself
impetuously from the other two, rushed between them, and seizing each
round the waist, dragged them into the hall like an avalanche,
repeating: "Tell all, tell all, tell all!"
There, when they had prudently closed the glass door leading to the
terrace, the lawyer and Pedraglio disclosed their precious secret. An
English lady, spending her holiday at Bellagio, who was a devoted friend
of Italy, had received a letter (of which the lawyer possessed a
translation) from another lady, a cousin of Sir James Hudson, English
Minister at Turin. The letter stated that secret negotiations were being
carried on in Turin, Paris, and London, to obtain the armed co-operation
of Piedmont in the Orient; that the matter was looked upon as settled by
the three cabinets, but that there still remained a few formal
difficulties to arrange, as Count Cavour demanded the greatest
consideration for the dignity of his country. At Turin they were
confident the official and open invitation from the Western powers to
accede to the treaty of the tenth of April, 1851, would come to hand not
later than December. It was even affirmed that the troops forming the
contingent would be under the command of the Duke of Genoa.
The lawyer read, and Franco held his wife's hand tight. Then he wanted
to read the letter himself, and after him Luisa read. "But," said she,
"war with Austria? How is that?"
"Most certainly," said the lawyer. "Do you suppose Cavour is going to
send the Duke of Genoa with fifteen or twenty thousand men to fight the
Turks unless he already holds the war with Austria in his hand? You may
believe me, Madam, it will come about before a year is passed."
Franco shook his fists in the air, his whole body quivering.
"Hurrah for Cavour!" whispered Luisa.
"Ah!" the lawyer exclaimed, "Demosthenes himself could not have praised
Cavour with greater efficacy."
Franco's eyes were filling with tears. "I am a fool!" he said. "I don't
know what to say!"
Pedraglio asked Luisa where the deuce she had hidden the bottle. Luisa
smiled and went out, returning again immediately with the wine and
glasses.
"Count Cavour!" said Pedraglio in a low tone. All raised their glasses
repeating: "Count Cavour!" Then they drank, even Luisa, who never took
wine.
Pedraglio refilled the glasses and again rose to his feet.
"War!" said he.
The three others sprang up, clutching their glasses in silence, too
deeply moved to speak.
"We must all go!" said Pedraglio.
"All!" Franco repeated. Luisa kissed him impetuously on the shoulder.
Her husband seized her head in both hands, and imprinted a kiss upon her
hair.
One of the windows towards the lake was open. In the silence that
followed the kiss, they heard the measured dip of oars.
"The customs-guards," whispered Franco. While the guards' long-boat was
passing beneath the window, Pedraglio said: "D---- hogs!" in such a loud
tone, that the others hushed him. The long-boat floated past. Franco
looked out of the window.
It was cool; the moon was sinking towards the hills of Carona, streaking
the lake with long, gilded stripes. What a strange sensation it gave him
to contemplate that quiet solitude, with a great war so near at hand!
The dark, sad mountains seemed to be thinking of the formidable future.
Franco closed the window, and the conversation began again in low tones
round the little table. Each one had his own suppositions concerning
future events, and all spoke of these events as of a drama, of which the
manuscript was lying quite ready, down to the very last verse, with all
its stops and commas in place, in Count Cavour's writing-desk. V., who
was a Bonapartist, saw clearly that Napoleon intended to avenge his
uncle, overthrowing one after another, the parties to the Holy Alliance;
to-day Russia, to-morrow Austria. But Franco, on the other hand, who was
mistrustful of the emperor, attributed the Sardinian alliance to the
good-will of England, but acknowledged that as soon as this alliance
would be proclaimed, Austria, sacrificing her own interests to
principles and hatred, would cast in her lot with Russia, and therefore
Napoleon would be obliged to fight her. "Listen," said his wife, "I am
afraid Austria will come over to the side of Piedmont," "Impossible!"
said the lawyer. Franco felt alarmed, and admired the acuteness of the
observation, but Pedraglio exclaimed: "Nonsense! Those blockheads are
too great asses to think out a trick like that!" This argument appeared
decisive, and no one save Luisa gave the possibility another thought.
They began discussing plans for the campaign, plans for insurrections,
but here they could not agree. V. knew the men and the mountains of the
Lake of Como from Colico to Como and Lecco, better perhaps than any one
else. And everywhere all along the lake, in Val Menaggio, in Vall
'Intelvi, in Valsassina, in the Tre Pievi, he knew those who were
devoted to the cause, and even ready to strike the blow at a sign from
the _Scior Avocat_. He and Franco considered any insurrectional movement
useful that might serve to distract part of the Austrian forces even for
a moment. But Luisa and Pedraglio were of opinion that all the
able-bodied men should hasten to swell the Piedmontese battalions. "We
women will make the revolution," said Luisa, with her mock gravity. "I,
for my part, will pitch Carlascia into the lake!"
They still conversed in an undertone, with an electric current in their
veins that flashed from their eyes, and made their nerves tingle;
enjoying this hushed talk behind closed doors and windows, the danger of
being in possession of that letter, the glowing life they felt in their
blood, and those intoxicating words they were always repeating:
Piedmont, War, Cavour, Duke of Genoa, Victor Emmanuel, Cannon,
_Bersaglieri_.
"Do you know what time it is?" said Pedraglio, consulting his watch. "It
is half-past twelve! Let us go to bed."
Luisa went for the candles, and lighted them, standing the while, but no
one moved, so she also sat down again. When he saw the candles lighted,
even Pedraglio himself lost his desire to go to bed.
"A fine kingdom!" said he.
"Piedmont," said Franco, "Lombardy-Venice, Parma, and Modena."
"And the Legations!"[L] V. added.
More discussions followed. All wished for the
Legations, especially the lawyer and Luisa, but Franco and Pedraglio
were afraid to touch them, fearing to stir up difficulties. They grew so
warm that Pedraglio entreated his companions to "scream" in an
undertone. "Scream softly, children!" Then it was V.'s turn to propose
going to bed. He took his candle in his hand but did not rise.
"Body of Bacchus!" said he, not knowing whether he meant it as a
conclusion or an exhortation. Indeed he had a terrible desire to talk,
and to hear others talk, but could find nothing new to say. "Body of
Bacchus it is indeed!" Franco exclaimed, who was in much the same state
of mind. A long silence ensued. At last Pedraglio said, "Well?" and
rose. "Shall we go?" said Luisa, leading the way. "And the name?" the
lawyer asked. They all stopped. "What name?" "The name of the new
Kingdom!" Franco set down his candle at once. "Well done!" said he, "the
name!" as if it had been a point that must be settled before going to
bed. Fresh discussions followed. Piedmont? _Cisalpino?_ Upper Italy?
Italy?
Luisa also was quick to put down her candle, and as the others were not
willing to accept his "Italy," Pedraglio set his down also. But finding
the debate promised to be a long one, he resumed it, and ran away,
repeating: "Italy, Italy, Italy, Italy!" heedless of the "hushes" and
admonitions of the others, who were following on tiptoe. They all
stopped once more at the foot of the stairs that Pedraglio and the
lawyer must ascend to reach their room, and exchanged good-nights. Luisa
entered the neighbouring alcove-room; Franco waited to watch his friends
upstairs. "Look here!" he suddenly exclaimed. He had been going to speak
to them from the foot of the stairs, but finally decided it was better
to go up to them. "And what if we are defeated?" he whispered.
The lawyer simply uttered a contemptuous "Nonsense!" but Pedraglio
turning like a hyena, seized Franco by the throat. They struggled gaily
there on the landing, and then once more said good-night. Pedraglio
rushed upwards, while Franco flung himself downstairs.
His wife was waiting for him, standing in the centre of the room, her
eyes fixed on the door. When she saw him enter she moved gravely towards
him, and folded him in a close embrace. When, after a few moments had
elapsed, he moved as though to draw away, she silently pressed him
closer. Then Franco understood. She was embracing him now as she had
kissed him before, when they had talked of all going to the war. He
pressed her temples between his hands, kissed her again and again on the
hair, saying gently: "Dearest, think how great she will be afterwards,
this Italy!" "Yes, yes!" said she. She raised her face to his, and
offered him her lips. She was not crying, but her eyes were moist. To
feel himself gazed upon like this, to be kissed thus, was indeed worth a
few years of life, for never, never before had her tenderness towards
him contained this humility.
"Then," said she, "we shall no longer live in Valsolda. You will be
obliged to assume the duties of a citizen, will you not?"
"Yes, yes, certainly!"
They began to talk eagerly, both he and she, about what they should do
after the war, as if to banish the thought of a terrible possibility.
Luisa let down her hair, and went to look at Maria in her little bed.
The child had probably been roused some time before, and had put a tiny
finger in her mouth, which, little by little, as sleep returned, had
slipped out. Now she was sleeping with her mouth open, and the little
finger resting on her chin. "Come here, Franco," said her mother. Both
bent over the bed. Maria's small face held the sweetness of paradise.
Husband and wife lingered over her in silence, and then rose, deeply
moved. The interrupted conversation was not resumed.
When they were in bed and the light put out, Luisa murmured, on her
husband's lips--
"If that day should come, you will go; but I shall go also."
And she would not allow him to answer.
FOOTNOTE:
[L] The Legations were provinces of the Roman state, governed by a
legate from Rome. The Marches, Romagna and Umbria. [_Translator's
note._]