"Mammina," asked Mimmo, stirring his soup with thoughtful care, "can
people do just what they like, when they are big?"
Ragna was feeding Beppino out of a bowl of bread and milk. It was the
usual luncheon hour, but Valentini had not yet come in, and the children
chattered away, gaily.
"No," said Ragna, "no one can do exactly what he likes."
"But they can,--they does," insisted Mimmo.
"Do, you should say, dear."
"'Do,' then," corrected Mimmo, "they do. Babbo says 'accidenti' and
bangs the door, but you punish us if we do,--why does no one punish
him?"
"Punish Babbo!" exclaimed Beppino agape.
"Grown up people do many things that children aren't allowed to do,--but
they don't always do what is right, and God punishes them," said Ragna.
"Who ith God," asked Beppino.
"I know," Mimmo hastened to show his superior knowledge,--"He is a big
person sitting on a cloud in the sky, with a beard and a dove with shiny
lines out of it,--I have never seen him really truly, but _Babbo_ has a
picture of him."
"Yeth," assented Beppino without interest.
But Mimmo was not so assured as he wished to appear.
"Mammina," he said, "does God come off his cloud to punish people?"
"God is everywhere," said his mother.
The child puckered his brows.
"How can he be everywhere if he sits on a cloud in the sky? Is he here
now, in this room?"
"Yes, dear."
"Then why can't I see Him?"
"He is here like the air,--you can't see the air."
"Is He in my soup?" he inquired eagerly, "does I eat Him in my spoon?"
Ragna could not help smiling. Mimmo's questions often puzzled her as to
how to answer them in a way suited to the child's understanding. This
time, she hedged.
"Eat your soup, darling; you are too little to understand yet. When you
are older, Mammina will tell you."
Mimmo addressed himself to his task, but he turned the question over in
his childish mind, and when Valentini made his tardy appearance, greeted
him with:
"Babbo, Mammina says that I am eating up God in my soup, and that He
will punish you,--but if I eat Him up, he won't be able to, will He?"
"God will punish your mother for telling such wicked lies," growled
Egidio, hitching his chair to the table.
He had not deigned to greet his wife on entering, and his sullen
expression, the yellow, bilious colour of his skin, the mottled
puffiness about his eyes were the evidences of his rage the night
before, as the retreating tide leaves uncovered the unsightly mud-flats.
He had a bad taste in his mouth, both physically and morally; an uneasy
feeling possessed him that his wife by her unbroken calm had got the
better of him in their acrimonious discussion. She had called him
"ludicrous," that was what galled him most. He was more than her match
in opprobrium, in biting sarcasm, but before ridicule and a cool,
unperturbed demeanour, he felt himself helpless. He cast about in his
mind for a way to humble her, to pierce the joint of her new armour of
indifference, and fate had brought a weapon to his hand, though he did
not yet know it. Indeed, he had finished his meal and was lighting a
cigar when he bethought him of a letter addressed to Ragna, which the
postman had brought that morning. It was his habit to take the letters
from the postman himself, or have them brought to his studio, where he
opened them, his own and those addressed to his wife, alike. It was one
of his numerous ways of keeping himself informed of all that went on. He
prided himself on knowing everything that occurred, and was pleased, on
occasions, to give his wife a proof of his ability, by recounting
minutely all her doings, both indoors and out. He wished her to
acknowledge his power over her, and he wished her, above all, to believe
that nothing could be hidden from him. This system of constant espionage
was one of Ragna's greatest trials, and despite her efforts to free
herself from it, to keep the peace, she had been obliged to submit,
tacitly, at least. She had never cared to inquire into her husband's
sources of information, she would not give him so much satisfaction, she
despised the ingenuity and acumen he displayed to such a despicable end.
It really was a symptom of the man's craving for power; it gratified his
pride to feel that he had a hold over others, that they should be at the
mercy of his good pleasure and discretion. He believed that the one way
to get on in the world was by using other people, and these either had
to be bought, or captured. "Knowledge," he said to himself, "is power,"
and certainly, in the wire-pulling for which he afterwards became
famous, he used the power his "knowledge" brought him, with an unsparing
hand.
Had he enjoyed a different education there is no telling to what heights
he might have attained, but the early Jesuit influence, coupled with the
weak indulgence of his mother, had endowed him, on the one hand, with a
cynical unscrupulousness, and on the other with an unsatiable
self-indulgence which sapped his better qualities at the fountain-head
and warped his entire character to such an extent that his natural
cleverness failed to redeem him from the narrowing distortion of his
life.
Remembering the letter for his wife, he drew it from his pocket and
jerked it across the table to her, without looking up, or appearing
otherwise to be aware of her presence.
She seized the envelope eagerly, frowning at the torn flap, but smiled
in spite of herself, as she saw that it was written in Norwegian--the
nut had been too hard to crack this time! She was obliged to defer her
reading until she had lifted the children down and sent them off to
Carolina. They slunk away like little animals, even as they had sat
silent since Valentini's entrance; they lived in mortal terror of his
fits of ill-humour, and had learned to avoid irritating him, by making
themselves as inconspicuous as possible.
Ragna took up her letter and began to read. It was from Ingeborg written
two days after Fru Boyesen's death, telling of the old woman's
intention of reinstating Ragna as her heiress and of the frustration of
her design.
"You must not think hardly of poor Auntie," wrote Ingeborg, "she has
been so unhappy. I have seen the struggle going on for some time, and I
was sure her better nature would win in the end. Oh, Ragna, if I had
only known, I might have done something, but although I could see she
was relenting I never guessed she was so near to giving in, and I was
afraid of doing more harm than good, if I tried to push things--If you
had seen the expression of her poor eyes, when she said, 'I must make it
right for Ragna,' and the agonised look in them, that last instant just
before--. Oh, if only she could have lived ten minutes, five minutes
longer! Isn't it awful to think of her remorse, feeling herself dying
without having accomplished what was in her heart? Dr. Ericssen and Herr
Hendriksen, both went to see the Directors of the Orphanage, to which
she had left her money,--she did that you know, when she tore up her
will in favour of you,--and told them they had no moral right to accept
the bequest, as the last wishes of the deceased were otherwise, but they
did not see it at all that way. Why are charities so grasping, I wonder?
I don't see how they can reconcile their consciences to accept a bequest
that morally belongs to someone else! It makes my blood boil, Ragna
dear, as according to Auntie's wishes it all ought to be yours--"
Ragna put the letter down with a sigh. She hardly realized as yet all
that this disappointment meant to her, the hopes of relative
independence dashed, nothing to look forward to beyond her own unaided
effort. The news of her Aunt's death grieved her, but her senses,
dulled by the nervous strain of the evening before, refused to
appreciate to its full extent the enormity of the catastrophe. She sat
as though stunned. Little Mimmo stole in unnoticed and installed himself
on the floor with a picture-book. Valentini, smoking ostentatiously,
cast furtive glances at his wife, and at last, unable to contain his
curiosity any longer, shifted his chair and asked:
"Well, what does Ingeborg say?"
Although he could not read the letter, the handwriting was familiar.
Ragna, taken off her guard, answered:
"Aunt Gitta is dead and has left all her money to an orphanage; she
wanted to change her will to one in my favour, at the last moment, but
died before she could sign the new one."
An oath broke from Valentini's lips.
"And so you are a beggar!"
"Yes," assented Ragna wearily,--what was the use of disputing the fact?
Valentini felt his Castle in Spain crash about his ears. He had never
ceased to hope that Fru Boyesen would become reconciled to the marriage
of her niece, and he had never thought that in any circumstances, she
would leave her niece penniless, even if she disposed of the bulk of her
fortune in another way. He felt as though the ground had suddenly
slipped from beneath his feet, and instinctively turned on the
involuntary source of his disappointment.
"I suppose that that is one of your charming national customs? _Santo
Dio_, why was I ever so left to myself as to marry a Norwegian?"
Ragna let the sarcasm fall unheeded, so with a rising intonation he
tried again.
"You prate about honesty, yet you inveigled me into a marriage, by
giving me to understand that you were your Aunt's heiress--yet you knew
all the time what might be expected! Oh, yes, I have had a refreshing
experience of Norwegian honesty and straightforwardness!"
She smiled disdainfully.
"Permit me, it was not I who held out any hopes of future riches, your
memory misleads you. But had you been frank, Egidio, had you told me
then your real reason for wishing to marry me, be very sure that I
should have declined the honour."
"Yes," he sneered, "now lie about it. When it suits your convenience,
you lie worse than anyone I ever heard. And your airs and graces! One
would think you sprang from '_la cuisse de Jupiter_.' You were not quite
so high and mighty when I married you! To exchange the gutter for a
comfortable home--"
Mimmo, alarmed by Valentini's rough voice had fled to his mother's knee,
and Ragna, stung into reply by the child's presence, said:
"Be careful, Egidio,--the child--"
The child! Ah, here was the way to hurt her! Valentini's laugh rang
hatefully in her ears; he beckoned to the boy, but Mimmo refused to
leave his refuge.
"Ask your mother, Mimmo caro, what a bastard is?"
Ragna sprang to her feet, her eyes blazing; she carried the child to the
door, set him down outside, bidding him run to Carolina, and returned to
face her husband, who sat leaning back in his chair, his legs crossed,
his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, a sneering expression on
his face.
Ragna advanced to the table and leaning both hands on it leant forward,
her eyes burning with a fierce light.
"I have borne much from you, Egidio Valentini, since you married me. I
have been a dutiful wife to you, and a faithful one, I am the mother of
your child; you have no just cause for complaint against me. I married
you in the first place, induced by your insistence, by your pleadings,
by the seemingly disinterested offers you made me of protection and
comradeship. You made me many promises none of which have you kept.
Instead of that you have abused me morally and physically, you have
taken pleasure in tormenting me and humiliating me; you have been openly
unfaithful to me, you have even outraged me in my own home by ill-using
my maid. All this I have stood, but to-day you have gone too far, you
have struck at me through my child whom you bound yourself to cherish as
your own. Coward!"
Egidio started from his chair threateningly, but she was not to be
stopped.
"Yes, coward!" she repeated. "And I tell you, Egidio Valentini, I can
bear no more, this is the end. I will take my child and go, I will shake
the dust of your house off my feet, I will leave you to the curse of
your own evil nature."
He turned upon her with a roar.
"Go, then, do! There is the door, I won't keep you, beggar, liar,
ingrate! You spit on the hand that raised you from the dirt--well, you
shall see! Go, yes go, I beg of you, you could do me no greater
pleasure! Go, my sweet dove, my repentant Magdalen,--but you go alone,
the child remains with me."
"I shall take the child, do you think I would let you keep him?" said
Ragna, "He is mine, you have said it often enough, he goes with me."
"You forget, _cara mia_, or you are more ignorant than I thought. I
acknowledged the child as my own, he is on the State register, 'Egidio,
son of Egidio Valentini.' No, no, in the eyes of the State he is not all
yours--the State does not know what we know. He is five years old, is he
not, the bastard? From five years up, the State gives a child to the
father. Mimmo is mine, by the law. A pleasant life he shall have,--my
first born, my darling! Do not fear, he shall be brought up to
appreciate his mother at her true worth!"
"Oh!" gasped Ragna, "you would not be so wicked."
"You have just given such a flattering opinion of me!"
"Oh, but there are limits to everything!"
"So you will soon find; I know how to keep my own. Be wise, Ragna,
realize that you are absolutely powerless. If you want a scandal,
beware! It will hurt you, not me; I know the good opinion people have of
me, I could put it to public vote. Who are you? You have neither money
nor powerful friends nor position, you are dependent on me for the
clothes on your back and the bread you eat. You are far too rash. Your
conduct is ungrateful and insulting; if I were not the most forbearing
man alive I should have thrown you into the street long ago. Think it
over, even you must realize the position you put yourself in."
He had the pleasure of seeing her wince, as the iron of his words
entered into her soul. Her calm deserted her; his words had a paralysing
hypnotic effect, she saw herself stripped and naked in a cold world
inimical to her desolate state. Trembling with rage, she felt herself
beaten, crushed by the power that circumstances and the law put into
her husband's hands, and that he used like a bludgeon. Despairingly she
searched her mind for any fact that she could turn to her advantage and
found none. She felt herself sinking helplessly in the quicksand.
"I hate you!" she cried with all the intensity of her being. "I hate
you! May God deal with you as you have dealt with me!"
"God is not a silly woman,"--he used the insulting word _femmina_. A
smile curled his lips, for her expression of hatred was the cry of the
weak creature driven to the wall. She had defied him, she had called him
"ludicrous"? Well, he had sworn to punish her, and punish her he would.
Fate had placed her at his mercy.
He sauntered jauntily to the door, his thumbs in his armholes; she,
leaning on the table, speechless with hatred, followed him with burning
eyes.
As the door closed behind him, she sank to a chair, and falling forward,
buried her face in her arms, in an attitude of utter despair. One
thought possessed her mind; she must get away, she must escape somehow,
anyhow; this life was intolerable. Then from the depths of her inner
consciousness rose the image of Angelescu--she would see him, she would
ask him to help her. He would not refuse,--had he not said he would
always be at her service?
Should she write, or should she go in person? She sprang to her feet and
paced up and down the long dining-room, her hands clasped, twisting and
untwisting her fingers. To and fro, to and fro, like a caged lioness she
went, living over in her mind day by day the Calvary of the five years
of her marriage. The sense of the oppression of it grew like the rising
tide, engulfing prudence, common sense, even the thought of her
children, leaving only the wild uncontrollable longing for freedom.
Free! She flung her head back and stretched out her arms. Almost she
felt the salt kiss of the home-fjord on her face, she offered herself to
the buffeting of the strong sea-wind, her lungs inhaled with rapture the
balsam of the firs, the wild singing of the gale filled her ears. A mist
rose before her eyes, she soared on imaginary wings to undreamt of
heights.
Her rapture came to an end as raptures must, and she was again Ragna
Valentini, pacing the long dining-room with its high vaulted ceiling,
its solid early Renaissance furniture, the untidy remains of luncheon
still littering the table, but she no longer felt the oppression of it
all. It was as though a veil had been drawn aside disclosing a new
landscape, or rather as though having toiled through hardship
unspeakable to the uttermost depths of the Valley of Despondency, she
saw before her the wondrous vision of sunlit peaks and the Promised Land
beyond--no longer a mirage but a blessed actuality. All that she had to
do was to enter. A light long extinguished came back to her eyes, she
carried her head with a conscious air of resolution.
The manservant entering, started as though at an apparition, so
different was she from the reserved, patient mistress he had served. And
a scene with the _Padrone_ had had this effect! With admirable
self-control the man held his peace, though questions all but burst from
his lips--your Italian servant is on a very familiar footing with the
family he serves--but his eyes were less discreet, in fact they never
left his mistress during the time he spent clearing the table and
setting the room to rights, and it may be said that he in no way
hastened the process. When he finally withdrew, it was to expatiate in
the kitchen on the marvellous change come over the _Padrona_.
"I said to myself, the Signora will require a glass of Marsala, for he
was worse than usual to-day. _Mondo ladro!_ to have to live with a man
like that! If it were not for the Signora who is an angel of goodness,
I, for one,--"
"That's so," assented the cook.
"But _Assunta mia_, there she was, she who has looked like wilted grass
ever since I came, as fresh as a daisy, with a colour like a sunset in
her cheeks. _Accitempoli!_ I all but dropped my tray! To think that with
a bella Signora like her, the _Padrone_ should--" He winked knowingly.
"All men are pigs," opined the cook.
"Some things are above the comprehension of females," returned Nando,
loftily, his masculine vanity ruffled,--"But all the same--"
He leisurely consumed the Marsala which he had found it unnecessary to
offer Ragna, tilting back on the legs of his chair, alternately holding
his glass up to the light to enjoy the clear amber colour, and
appreciatively smacking his lips as he sipped. Assunta, the cook, her
portly form arrayed in a blue apron, stood by the sink rinsing the
dishes under the tap and standing them in the overhead rack to drip. A
square of sunshine lay on the red brick floor, and Civetta, the cat, lay
basking in it, luxuriously curling and uncurling her velvet paws,
stretching her neck to lick an unruly patch of fur and blinking at her
surroundings with lazy topaz eyes. Copper kettles and pans decorated the
whitewashed walls; the red brick stove and the dresser were well
scrubbed and tidy.
Nando, having finished his wine, brought his chair back to the
perpendicular and rose, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Mark my words, Assunta, something is going to happen in this house!
When a woman looks like the Signora does to-day, it means trouble for
somebody,--for--"
His dissertation was cut short by the bell, and in his haste to answer
the summons he left the kitchen door open. Assunta heard Ragna send him
to call a _legno_.
She shook her head, as her little straw fan blew life into the dying
charcoal embers; it was most unusual for Ragna to go out at this time of
day,--something was surely in the wind! In any case, her sympathies were
with the Signora, even though, with an eye to her own interests she
allowed the _Sor Padrone_ to pump her as to the Signora's movements. The
Signora never did anything wrong, so what harm could it do, she argued?
Meanwhile an extra _lira_ or two in a poor woman's pocket was not to be
despised. Also instant dismissal would be the penalty of a refusal, and
who could stand out against the _Padrone_ when he glared at one with
those awful eyes? Oh, certainly the Signora's lot was not one to be
envied, even though she were a lady and had fine clothes and jewels!
Such were the humble reflections of Assunta as she fanned the fire, and
it gave her considerable satisfaction to think that her confessor Don
Bazzanti was right in saying that rich and poor alike have their
troubles.
"Signor Iddio is just, after all," thought Assunta piously, and crossed
herself. It may give the moralist pleasure to observe that the
circumstances that ground the soul of Ragna to the earth, made as a
sequence, for the contentment of her cook.