SHADOWS AND DAWN
On receiving the telegram Franco at once hastened to the office of the
_Opinione_, in Via della Rocca. Perceiving his agitation, Dina said:
"Ah! then you already know?" Franco's blood ran cold, but on hearing
about the telegram Dina exhibited great surprise. No, no, of that he
knew nothing. Information had reached him from the Prime Minister that
the Austrian police had been searching houses and making arrests in
Vall' Intelvi, and that among the papers of a certain doctor there was
one in which the name of Don Franco Maironi was mentioned, with
particulars of a compromising nature. Dina added that at a moment of
such great anguish for a father, he would refrain from going into an
explanation of Count Cavour's interest in him; suffice it to say that he
himself had mentioned Franco to the Count, who had expressed his regret
that a Lombard gentleman, bearing such a distinguished name, should be
obliged to live in such straitened and obscure circumstances in Turin.
Dina believed it was his intention to offer him a position in the
Foreign Office. Now, of course, Franco must go. But the little girl
would recover and he must return as soon as possible. Meanwhile he would
stop at Lugano, would he not? He must, at least, await news there, and
unless it became absolutely necessary, he must not venture into
Lombardy. After this affair at Vall' Intelvi it would be extremely
imprudent. As Franco remained silent, the director once more broached
the subject before bidding him good-bye. "Be prudent! Don't let them
take you!" But Franco would not answer.
Ever since the receipt of the telegram Franco had walked the streets of
Turin like one in a dream, deaf to the noise of his own footsteps,
unconscious of what he saw, of what he heard, going mechanically
wherever it was necessary for him to go at this juncture, wherever a
certain servile and lower faculty of the soul might lead him, that
faculty composed of reason and of instinct, which is capable of guiding
us through a labyrinth of city streets, while the mind, concentrated
upon some problem, some passion, takes no heed of our movements. He sold
his watch and chain to a watchmaker of Doragrossa for one hundred and
thirty-five lire, purchased a doll for Maria, stopped at Cafe Alfieri
and Cafe Florio to leave word for his friends, and was at the station by
eleven o'clock, although the train for Novara which he was to take did
not start until half-past eleven. At a quarter-past the Paduan and the
young man from Udine appeared. They endeavoured to encourage him with
all sorts of rosy suppositions and unconvincing arguments, but he
answered never a word and only longed intensely for the moment of
departure, longed to be alone, to be hastening towards Oria, for he was
determined to go to Oria, no matter how great the danger might be. He
entered a third-class carriage, and when the locomotive whistled and the
train began to move, he heaved a great sigh of relief, and gave himself
up entirely to thoughts of Maria. But there were too many people about
him, they were too many, too rough, and too noisy. At Chivasso, feeling
he could no longer bear their chattering and laughter, he changed into
an empty second-class carriage, where he began to talk aloud, his eyes
fixed on the opposite seat.
Good God! why had they not added another word to the telegram? Just one
word more! At least the name of the illness.
A terrible name flashed across his brain: Croup! He gasped with horror,
and threw out his arms against this phantom, his muscles suddenly
stiffening, then, letting his arms sink once more, he heaved a sigh so
deep that it seemed to expel the very soul, even life itself, from his
breast. It must indeed be a sudden illness, or Luisa would have written.
Another name flashed across his mind. Brain-fever! He himself had been
at the point of death with brain-fever when a child. Oh God! oh God! It
must be that! God Himself had sent this thought to him. He was shaken
by tearless sobbing. Maria, his treasure, his love, his joy! Yes,
indeed it must be that. He could see her gasping, flushed, watched over
by her mother and the doctor. In a moment he pictured to himself long
hours spent by her bedside, long hours of anguish, then he pictured the
birth of hope, heard the first whisper of that sweet voice:
"Papa! my papa!"
He started to his feet, clasping and wringing his hands in a mute
impulse of prayer. Presently he sank back into his seat again,
exhausted, and turned unseeing eyes upon the flying landscape, vaguely
conscious of some connection between the misty Alps looming motionless
there against the northern horizon and the thought that dominated him,
looming motionless and torpid within his soul. From time to time the
jolting of the train would rouse him from his stupor, suggesting the
idea of a painful race, stimulating his heart to rush, to beat thus
also. Sometimes he would close his eyes, the better to picture his
arrival at home. Images would at once rise from his heart to his
eyelids, but they were always changing, continually moving, and he could
not hold them for more than a second. Now it was Luisa hastening towards
him on the stairs; now the uncle holding out his arms to him from the
door of the hall; now Dr. Aliprandi who was opening the door of the
alcove-room to him, and saying: "She is better, she is better!" Now in
the darkened room, filled with shadows, it was Maria herself who gazed
at him with glassy, feverish eyes.
When he reached Vercelli, he felt as if he were a thousand miles from
Turin, and once more awoke to a sense of reality. How should he get from
Lugano to Oria? What route should he take? Should he go openly by the
lake, showing himself at the Custom-House? And what if they would not
allow him to proceed because his passport had not been stamped on
leaving Italy as the law demanded? Or, worse still, what if a warrant of
arrest be out against him on account of those papers taken from the
doctor at Pellio? He had better keep to the hills. They might arrest him
later, but with his knowledge of the neighbourhood, acquired on his many
hunting expeditions in 1848, he was almost sure of reaching home. This
wearisome task of planning and arranging absorbed his attention for some
time, and kept him occupied until he had passed Arona, on the Lake
Maggiore steamer. He had arranged to reach Lugano in the middle of the
night. Would there be some one there to meet him? If there were no one
there, perhaps he might hear something at the Fontana pharmacy, where
the Valsolda people were in the habit of congregating. If God would only
permit reassuring news to reach him at Lugano he would postpone decision
as to his journey to Oria until the morrow. He therefore determined to
make no plans before reaching Lugano, and he prayed fervently that the
Almighty would allow this good news to reach him. The sky was overcast;
the mountains had already assumed their sad autumnal tints; a thin mist
hung over the lake; the bells of Meina were ringing; on the steamer
there were but few passengers, and Franco's prayer died in his heart,
stifled by a crushing sadness, while his eyes unconsciously followed a
flock of white gulls, that were winging their flight towards the distant
waters of Laveno, towards that hidden country where his soul was.
It was past seven when he reached Magadino. He climbed Monte Ceneri on
foot, following the path that leads to the road-mender's house, took a
carriage at Bironico and reached Lugano shortly after midnight. He
alighted in the Piazza, near Cafe Terreni. The coffee-house was closed,
the square was deserted and dark, and silence reigned; even the lake,
which could be seen gently rising and falling in the gloom, was silent.
Franco paused a moment on the shore, hoping that some one had come to
meet him, and would presently appear. He could not see Valsolda, hidden
behind Monte Bre, but that same water mirrored Oria, and slept in the
boathouse at home. A wave of peace eased his heart somewhat; he felt he
was among things familiar to him. Every human voice was hushed, but the
great, dark hills spoke to him, Monte Caprino and the Zocca d'i Ment
more than all, for they overlooked Oria. They spoke gently to him,
suggesting comfort-bringing thoughts. Nineteen hours had passed since
the telegram was sent. All danger might now be over.
As no one appeared he went to the Fontana pharmacy, and rang the bell.
For many years he had known that most worthy, cordial, and honest man,
Signor Carlo Fontana, who has now passed away with the world of long
ago. Signor Carlo came to the window, and was greatly surprised to see
Don Franco. He had no news from Oria. He had spent the last two days at
Tesserete, and had returned only a few hours before, so could tell him
nothing. His assistant had started for Bellinzona that evening. Franco
thanked him and walked away in the direction of Villa Ciani, for he was
now determined to go to Oria at once.
Two routes were open to him. He could either climb the Swiss slope of
the Boglia from Pregassona, strike the heights of Bolla; cross the Pian
Biscagno and the great beech wood, coming out at the venerable
beech-tree of the Madonnina on the brow of the hill which slopes down
into Lombardy, and then drop down on to Albogasio Superiore and Oria; or
he could take the easy Gandria road, leading towards the lake, and then
follow that treacherous and dangerous path which starts from Gandria,
the last Swiss village, cuts along the face of the almost perpendicular
cliff, crosses the frontier some hundred metres above the lake, runs on
to the Origa farm, drops into the ravine of Val Malghera, rising once
more to the Rooch farm, where it joins the paved way which passes above
Niscicoree and finally leads down to Oria. The first route was much
longer and far more difficult, but it afforded a better chance of
eluding the vigilance of the guards at the frontier. On leaving the
Fontana pharmacy Franco had been fully determined to go that way, but
when, on reaching Cassarago, where the roads to Pregassona and to
Gandria meet, he saw how near the point of Castagnola was, and reflected
that it would take him less than half an hour to go from Castagnola to
Gandria, and that another hour and a half would take him from Gandria to
Oria, the idea of climbing the Boglia, of walking seven or eight hours,
became intolerable to him. Besides, if he went by the Boglia he would
arrive in the daytime, and this, of course, would jeopardise his safety.
He turned his face resolutely towards Castagnola and Gandria. The sky
was now completely overcast with heavy clouds. Beneath the great
chestnut trees that line the road to Castagnola, he could not see where
to set his feet, but how much worse it would have been in the great
beech forest of the Boglia if Franco had chosen that route. It was just
as dark in Castagnola, and worse in the labyrinth of narrow lanes at
Gandria. After wandering backwards and forwards among these lanes for
some time, always mistaking his way, Franco at last found himself on the
path leading to the frontier, and stopped to rest. Before starting
forward again in the impenetrable darkness, before braving the dangers
of a difficult path, and of a meeting with the Austrian guards, and then
facing another terrifying step, that of entering his house, of putting
the first question, of listening to the first answer, he raised his
heart to God, and concentrated all the powers of his mind upon a
determination to be strong and calm.
Once more he started forward. Now he must give his whole attention to
the path, in order not to fall or lose his way. The little fields of
Gandria soon come to an end. Then wild tracts follow, that jut out over
the lake, and are covered with a thick growth of low bushes; then come
ravines with crumbling sides, that go tumbling straight downwards, and
are half hidden by the bushes. In such places as these Franco was
obliged to feel his way blindly, to cling first to one branch, then to
another, plunging his face in among the leaves, that, at least, smelt of
Valsolda, and dragging himself from bush to bush. He must explore the
ground with his foot, trembling lest it give way beneath him, and
seeking for traces of the path. The bundle he carried was small, but
nevertheless it embarrassed him. The rustling of the foliage as he
brushed past, irritated him; it seemed as if it must be heard a long way
off, on the hills and on the lake, in the solemn hush of the night. Then
he would stop and listen. He could hear only the distant thundering of
the falls at Rescia, the hooting of owls in the woods over yonder,
across the lake, and from time to time, far below, a sharp stroke on the
water, for which he could not account. It took him quite an hour to
reach the frontier. There, between the Valle del Confine and the Val
Malghera, the forest had been recently cut down, and the rocky slope was
bare. This enhanced both the danger of falling, and that of discovery.
He crossed this tract very slowly, often pausing, sometimes crawling on
hands and knees. Before reaching Oria he heard the faint dip of oars far
below. He knew the customs-guards' boat sometimes passed the shore of
Val Malghera at night. Surely these were the guards. Beneath the
chestnut trees of Origa he breathed freely once more. There he was
hidden, and could walk noiselessly on the grass. He descended the
western slope of Val Malghera and climbed up the other side without
encountering any obstacles. On approaching Rooch his heart beat
furiously. Rooch is a sort of outpost of Oria. There the little path
ends that he had so often followed with Luisa on mild winter afternoons,
gathering violets and laurel leaves, and talking of the future. He
remembered that the last time, they had had a discussion concerning the
most desirable husband for Maria, and the qualities he must possess.
Franco had hoped he would be a country gentleman, but Luisa had been in
favour of a civil engineer.
Rooch is a little farmhouse perched above a few small fields which lie
terraced against the hillside, and form a small, light clearing among
the surrounding woods. The stable, a room above it, a small portico in
front of the stable, a cistern under the portico--that is all. The
little portico is just above the narrow paved way that passes some two
or three metres below. It is only a few steps from the comb of the
ravine of Val Malghera, to Rooch. Having reached the comb, Franco heard
low voices in the farmhouse.
He paused and drawing aside, stretched himself, face downwards, upon the
grass, beyond the path, and near a cluster of low chestnut trees. The
voices became silent, but he heard a man's steps coming rapidly towards
him; he lay quite still, holding his breath. The man stopped almost at
his side, waited a moment, and then slowly retraced his steps, saying in
a loud voice, with a foreign accent: "There is no one here, it must have
been a fox."
The guards! A long silence followed, during which Franco did not dare to
move. The guards once more began to talk, and he decided to crawl
noiselessly backwards, to drop down into Val Malghera and pass behind
and above the house. Slowly, very slowly he pulled off his boots. He was
about to move when he heard two or three guards leave the farmhouse,
talking as they came towards him. He heard one of them say: "Is no one
going to stay here?" and another answered: "It is not necessary."
Four guards brushed past him without noticing him. They certainly had
no suspicions, for they were talking unconcernedly. One was saying that
a person may remain ten minutes under water without drowning; but
another maintained that five minutes is long enough to cause death. The
fourth passed him in silence, but hardly had he done so when he stopped.
Franco shuddered upon hearing him strike a match. He lit his pipe,
puffed at it two or three times, and then called out to his companions
in a loud voice, for they had already gone some way down the slope of
Val Malghera.
"How old was she?"
One of the others answered, louder still:
"Three years and one month."
Then the fourth guard puffed twice more and started forward. Three years
and one month! Maria's age! Franco, lying on his face, raised himself
upon his elbows, clutching convulsively at the grass. The noise of the
steps died away down below in Val Malghera.
"My God! My God!" he cried. Rising to his knees he repeated the terrible
words in his heart, slowly, as if stupefied. "_She was!_" He wrung his
hands, moaning once more: "My God! My God!"
After this he was hardly conscious of his movements. He went down to
Oria with the vague sensation of having grown suddenly deaf, and his arm
which clasped the doll trembled violently. Reaching the Madonna del
Romit he crossed the town, and instead of going down by the Pomodoro
stairway he followed the path that joins the short cut to Albogasio
Superiore, and descended those same stairs that Barborin Pasotti had
descended the day before the catastrophe. On the wall of the church he
noticed a pale light which was reflected from the alcove-room. He
neither paused beneath the window, nor called out, but stepped under the
porch and tried the door.
It was open.
From the coolness of the night he passed into a heavy, close atmosphere,
laden with the unfamiliar odour of burnt vinegar and incense. With
difficulty he dragged himself up the stairs. Before him, on the landing,
half-way up, light fell from above. On reaching the spot he saw that the
light came from the alcove-room. He went on and presently stood in the
corridor. The door of the room was wide open; there must be many candles
burning in there. Mingled with the odour of incense he recognised the
perfume of flowers, and began to tremble so violently that he could not
go on. No sound reached him from the room. Suddenly he heard Luisa's
voice, speaking tenderly, quietly: "Do you want me to go where you are
going to-morrow, Maria? Do you want your mamma under the ground with
you?" "Luisa! Luisa!" sobbed Franco, and they found themselves in each
others' arms, on the threshold of their nuptial chamber, where the
memory of their love was still alive, but where its sweet fruit lay
dead.
"Come, dear. Come in," said she, and drew him forward. In the centre of
the room, between four lighted candles, stood the little open coffin, in
which lay poor Maria, under a mound of flowers, broken and wilted like
herself. There were roses, heliotrope, jasmine, begonia, geraniums,
verbena, flowering sprays of _olea fragrans_, and other blossomless
sprays, all dark and shiny, from the carob tree she had loved so well,
because it had been dear to papa. Flowers and leaves lay across her face
as well.
Franco fell upon his knees sobbing: "My God! My God!" while Luisa chose
two tiny rosebuds, placed them in Maria's little hand, and kissed her
brow.
"You can kiss her hair," said she, "but not her face. The doctor does
not wish it."
"But you have just done so!"
"Oh, it is a different thing for me."
But instead he pressed his lips to her icy lips, that showed among the
geraniums and the carob leaves, touching them gently, as in a tender,
but not despairing farewell to the outward wrapping now cast aside and
empty, which had once belonged to his beloved baby, who had gone to
dwell elsewhere.
"Maria! My darling Maria!" he whispered between his sobs. "What was the
matter?"
He had not realised the connection between the guards' talk about
drowning and the rest of their conversation.
"You have not heard?" said his wife calmly, and without surprise. They
had told her how the telegram had been worded, but she was also aware
that Ismaele was to have met Franco in Lugano. She did not know,
however, that as Franco had not arrived by the coach from Ceneri,
Ismaele had gone to bed.
"Poor Franco!" said she, kissing his hair almost maternally. "There was
no illness."
He started to his feet, terrified, and exclaiming: "What do you mean?
There was no illness?"
Leu, the person whom Franco had heard breathing heavily in her sleep,
now came in with the intention of fumigating the room, but seeing Franco
she stopped in amazement. "Come in," said Luisa. "You may place the
brazier outside the door; sprinkle whatever is necessary upon it, and
then return to the kitchen and sleep, my good Leu." The woman obeyed.
"There was no illness?" Franco repeated.
"Come," his wife answered. "I will tell you everything."
She made him sit down on the _dormeuse_ at the foot of their bed. He
wished her to sit beside him, but she made a gesture of refusal, and of
entreaty that he should not insist, that he should be quiet and wait;
then, sinking down on the floor beside her baby, she began the painful
story in a low, even voice, that sounded almost indifferent to the
tragedy it was relating, a voice that resembled poor, deaf Barborin's,
seeming to come from a far-away world. She began with her meeting with
Peppina Bianconi at Campo, and--always in the same calm tone--told him
all the thoughts, all the sentiments that had brought her to confront
his grandmother, told him everything, down to the moment when she had
realised that Maria was indeed dead. When she had finished she rose to
her knees, and kissing her dead child, whispered to her: "Now your papa
thinks that I killed you, but it is not true, dear, indeed, it is not
true!"
He rose, quivering with nameless emotion, and bending over her, raised
her--neither yielding nor resisting--from the floor. Touching her
resolutely but tenderly, he placed her on the _dormeuse_ beside him. He
encircled her shoulders with his arm, pressing her to him, speaking with
his lips on her hair, wetting it with the hot tears, which from time to
time choked his voice. "My poor Luisa! No, indeed you did not kill her!
How could you suspect me of thinking such a thing? I bless you instead
for all that you have done for her ever since she came into the world;
I, who have done nothing, bless you who have done so much. Never say
such a thing again! Never, dear. Our Maria----"
A violent sob checked his words, but the man immediately exerted his
strong will, controlled himself and continued:
"Don't you know what our Maria is saying now? She is saying: 'My darling
mamma, my darling papa, now you are all alone, you have only each
other, you are more closely united than ever; give me to God that He may
give me back to you; that I may become your little guardian angel, and
lead you to Him at last, that we may dwell together in all eternity,' Do
you hear her saying these words, Luisa?"
She trembled in his arms, shaken by spasmodic quiverings; her face bent
low, resisted Franco when he would have raised it. At last she took his
hand and kissed it. Then he also kissed her on the hair, and murmured:
"Answer me."
"You are good!" Luisa replied, in a faint and despairing voice. "You
wish to spare me, but you do not believe what you say. You must feel
that I caused her death, that if I had adopted your sentiments, your
ideas, I should not have left the house, and if I had not left the house
this would not have happened, and Maria would still be alive."
"Don't think of that, my dear, don't! You might have believed Maria was
with Veronica; you might have remained in the room with the fiances, and
the accident would have happened just the same. Don't think of this any
more, Luisa. Rather listen to what Maria is saying."
"Poor Franco! Poor, poor fellow!" said Luisa, with such bitterness of
terrible hidden meanings, that his blood ran cold. He shuddered and was
silent, unable to grasp her meaning, and at the same time dreading an
explanation. Slowly they withdrew from each other's arms, Luisa being
the first to move. She again took her husband's hand and wished to
carry it to her lips, but Franco drew her hand tenderly towards him and
made a last attempt.
"Why will you not answer me?"
"I should hurt you too much," she murmured.
He began to realise the irreparable ruin of her soul, and was silent. He
did not withdraw his hand, but felt his strength deserting him, felt
darkness and icy cold creeping over him, as if Maria, whom he had evoked
in vain, had died a second time. Anguish, fatigue, the heavy atmosphere,
the mingled odours of the room, affected him so strongly that he was
obliged to go out, or he would have fainted.
He went to the loggia. The windows were open and the sweet, fresh air
restored him. Out there in the dark he wept for his little daughter
unrestrainedly, without even that restraint which light imposes. He
knelt by one of the windows, crossed his arms on his breast and wept,
his face raised towards heaven, tears and words flowing together,
disjointed words of anguish and of faith, calling out to God for help,
to God, to God who had dealt him the blow. With streaming eyes he cried
out, begging that his tears might continue to flow, confessing that he
knew full well why the child had died. Had he not prayed again and again
that God would preserve her from the danger of losing her faith through
her mother's influence? Ah! that last night! That last night when Maria
had said to him: "Darling papa, a kiss!" and so many other tender
things, and would not let go his hand, how he had prayed! The memory of
it was a terror, a joy, a spasm to him. "Lord, Lord!" said he, gazing
heavenward. "Thou wert silent, but my voice reached Thee. Thou hast
answered my prayer in Thine own mysterious way. Thou hast taken my
treasure to Thyself, she is safe, she is happy, she awaits me. Thou wilt
reunite us." The fast-falling tears that accompanied his last words had
no bitter taste, but presently, while thinking once more of that last
night, he was bitterly sorry he had left Maria without telling her that
he had deceived her. "Maria, my own Maria!" he entreated, weeping,
"forgive me!" Good God! it seemed impossible that all this could be
true; it seemed impossible that if he went into the alcove-room he
should not find her there asleep in her little bed, her head drooping
towards her shoulder and her tiny hands resting, palms upward, upon the
sheet. Indeed she was still there, but----! Oh! how awful it all was!
Surely his tears would never end.
Leu came in bringing a light and a cup of coffee. The Signora had sent
her. He felt a thrill of tender gratitude towards his wife. Good God!
Poor Luisa! How hopeless was her grief! And what an awful semblance of
punishment for her in the blow which had fallen upon her at that very
moment, that very moment! She herself had realised that he must think
this, and he did indeed think it, but had denied his thought in order
to spare her, and this she had also realised. And was this awful
semblance of punishment destined not to bear any fruit whatsoever? She
seemed to shrink from God more than ever now, and who could tell how far
she might wander! Poor, poor Luisa! It was not Maria he should pray for,
Maria did not need his prayers. He must pray for Luisa, pray night and
day, trusting also in the prayers of the precious little soul now hidden
in God.
He talked with Leu, feeling more calm now, and had her tell him all she
had seen, all she had heard of this terrible event. "The Lord wanted
your little child for Himself," said Leu at last. "If you could only
have seen her in church, with her little folded hands and her serious
little face! She looked just like an angel. Indeed she did." Then she
asked Franco if she should leave the light. No, he preferred to be in
the dark. At what time was the funeral to take place? At eight o'clock,
Leu thought. When Leu once began talking it was always hard for her to
leave off, and perhaps now she was afraid of staying in the kitchen all
alone. "Her papa!" she added, before going out. "Her dear papa! It isn't
more than a week ago that I came here with some chestnuts for the
Signora, and that blessed little creature, who spoke so well, for all
the world like a lawyer, said to me: 'Do you know, Leu, my papa is
coming to Lugano very soon, and I am going to see him.' Oh, dear! What a
dreadful thing!"
His tears flowed afresh. Ah, God had taken the child to save her from
the errors of the world. God had punished Luisa for her errors, but was
not this awful punishment intended for him also? Was he not guilty also?
Ah, yes! Very, very guilty! A clear vision of his past life rose before
him, his life, barren of all useful labour, full of vanities,
corresponding ill with the beliefs he professed, a life which rendered
him responsible for Luisa's unbelief. The world accounted him virtuous
for certain qualities he possessed through no merit of his own, for they
were inborn in him, and he felt that for this very reason God's judgment
of him must be doubly severe; for God had endowed him richly, and he had
gathered no fruit. Once more he fell upon his knees and humbly accepted
his punishment, in the desolate contrition of his heart, in his burning
desire to expiate, to purify himself, to become worthy of re-union with
Maria at last.
A long, long time he prayed and wept. At last he went out to the
terrace. Above Galbiga and the hills of the Lake of Como the sky was
growing light; day was breaking. From neighbouring Boglia a cold north
wind was blowing. From far and near, from the lake shore, from the lofty
bosom of the valley, bells rang out. The thought that Maria and
Grandmother Teresa were together and happy, rose suddenly, clear and
sweet in Franco's heart. It seemed to him the Lord was saying to him: "I
afflict thee, but I love thee. Wait, be steadfast, and thou shalt
know." The bells chimed far and near, from the lake shore and from the
lofty bosom of the valley. The sky grew ever brighter above Galbiga and
towards the Lake of Como, along the steep, black profile of the Picco di
Cressogno; and the sweep of smooth water down there in the East, between
the great shadows of the mountains, was like a shining pearl. The sprays
of the passion-flower vine, touched by the north wind, waved silently
above Franco's head, in quivering anticipation of the light, of the
immense glory that was rising out of the east, colouring clouds and
clear sky with itself, and welcomed by the bells.
To live, to live, to work, suffer, adore, and ascend! That was what the
light demanded! He must carry the living away in his arms, carry the
dead away in his heart, return to Turin, work for Italy, die for her!
The dawning day demanded this. Italy! Italy! Beloved Mother! Franco
clasped his hands in a transport of desire.
Luisa heard the bells also. She wished that she might not have heard
them, wished that day might never dawn, bringing with it the hour in
which Maria must be consigned to the grave. On her knees beside her
baby's little body she promised her that every day of her life she would
come and talk to her, bring her flowers, and bear her company; morning
and evening she would come. Then she sank down and gave herself up to
those dark thoughts which she had not wished to confess to her husband,
and which had grown and matured in her during the last twenty-four
hours, as a malignant infection of remote origin which has lain dormant
in the system, being caught up at last in the current of the blood,
suddenly bursts forth with overwhelming violence.
All her religious views, her faith in the existence of God, her
scepticism concerning the immortality of the soul were tending towards
subversion. She was convinced that she was in no way responsible for
Maria's death. If indeed there did exist an Intelligence, a Will, a
Power which was master of men and of things, then the monstrous guilt
was of this Intelligence, which had coldly pre-ordained Barborin
Passotti's visit and gift; had withdrawn Maria from those who should
have watched over her in her mother's absence; had lured her,
defenceless, towards destruction; had killed her. That same Power had
checked her, the mother, when she had been about to perform an act of
justice. Fool that she was, ever to have believed in Divine Justice!
There was no such thing as Divine Justice! Instead there was the altar
allied to the throne; the Austrian God, a party to all injustice, all
tyranny, author of suffering, and of evil, slayer of the innocent and
protector of the wicked. Ah! if such a God did indeed exist, it were
better that Maria be there in that body, better that no part of her
should live on to fall into the toils of this fiendish Omnipotence!
But it was possible to doubt the existence of this horrible God. And if
He did not exist we might desire that a part of a human being should
continue to live beyond the grave, live not miraculously, but naturally.
That was perhaps easier to conceive than the existence of an invisible
tyrant, of a Creator who was cruel to the beings of His own creation.
The rule of nature without God was certainly preferable; better a blind
master, who was not our enemy, not deliberately cruel. But henceforth,
at least, no thought must be wasted in any way, either in this life or
in the next--if, indeed, the next exist--upon that vain phantom,
Justice!
The faint light of dawn mingled with her thoughts as it had mingled with
Franco's thoughts, solemn and consoling to him, hateful to her. He, the
Christian, meditated an insurrection of wrath and of arms against
brothers in Christ, for love of a dot upon the surface of one of
Heaven's orbs; she meditated an immense rebellion, the liberation of the
Universe. Her thought might be the greater, her intellect might appear
the stronger, but he whom the human generations learn to know even
better as they advance in civilisation and science; He who allows each
generation to honour Him according to its strength, and who gradually
transforms and raises the ideals of the nations, making use even of
inferior and fleeting ideals, when He deems it opportune, in His
government of the world; He who, being Peace and Life, has allowed
Himself to be called the God of armies, had impressed the sign of His
judgment upon the face of the woman and upon the face of the man. While
dawn burned into the glory of sunrise, Franco's brow became ever more
brightly illumined by a light from within, and through his tears his
eyes shone with the vigour of life; but Luisa's brow grew ever darker,
and from the depths, the shadows mounted to her dull eyes.
* * * * *
As the sun rose a boat came in sight off the point of Caravina. It
brought the lawyer, V., who had come from Varenna in obedience to
Luisa's call.