(Italian of Haydée: Translated for Short Stories by E. Cavazza.)
When, before the altar, the priest asked her, “are you content?” it was
with all her soul Gemma had responded, “Yes!”
Oh, yes; she was content indeed. Through the cloud of costly lace
which enwrapped her in its snowy transparence, she saw the vast church
all dotted with lights, resplendent in the dark gleam of mosaics upon
golden backgrounds, animated by the slight movement of the very elegant
crowd that filled it; lighted by oblique rays descending from the nave,
all a glitter of gold, silks and brilliants; and it was her own future
that she seemed to see thus--the years of luxury and wealth which her
rich marriage was preparing for her. And had it not been the dream for
which she sighed? She, the ideal blonde, of eighteen years, with the
tall and proud figure; the pure, disdainful profile under heavy curls
like those of an archangel; with haughty eyes sparkling like blue gems
under the golden fringes of her long eyelashes.
She had been for a long time a poor girl, the daughter of citizens who
had seen better days, that marvelous human lily. She had experienced
all the petty troubles, all the cruel daily sufferings of misery that
conceals itself. The poor and inelegant gowns, painfully remodeled
every year; the insolence of creditors; humiliations; continual and
tormenting thoughts of money--she had experienced them all, and in
her little heart, eager for pleasure and enjoyment, swollen with
unsatisfied longings, a dream was arisen little by little, occupying
all the room, rendering her insensible to all the rest: the dream of at
last becoming rich.
She wanted it, absolutely; she was born for it; she was rich, now.
That “yes,” which she had just pronounced, had, by its three magic
letters, changed her destiny; and she was so content, so happy, that
it appeared to her it was all a dream, that her Mechlin veil was a
cloud that transported her into the realms of the impossible, across
a sidereal heaven, of which the diamond pins thrust among her laces
formed the flaming stars; and, in order to return to reality, she
must cast her eyes toward her husband, Luigo Marchis, kneeling beside
her, in the mystic, velvety shade of the altar, lit by the tremulous
brightness of the candles.
Ah, there was nothing ideal about him, poor fellow! In vain he
straightened his correct person of an elegant man, with his accurately
shaven face, with slender brown moustaches, and a still fresh color
that gave him something the look of an actor; he remained none the
less old, with his powerful shoulders a little bent, with his eyelids
grown heavy, and crow’s feet toward his temples, with the gray locks
that appeared here and there among his brown hair, with his forty-seven
years, of which the weariness was more conspicuous beside that radiant
and blonde Spring.
Forty-seven years! How was it possible? He felt his heart so
palpitating, full of tears as in youth! And he could not comprehend
how so much time had passed, he could not persuade himself of the
incredible fact--forty-seven years passed without knowing Gemma.
For they had been acquainted with each other only two months. Marchis,
however much he had frequented society, drawn there by his banking
connections, had never let himself be talked to of marriage. What! A
wife, children, troubles, cares, disappointments ... not even by idea!
And at forty-seven years, one evening, present from motives of
curiosity at a ball to which the employees of his bank had invited
him, he must needs be smitten by the exquisite, vaporous grace of that
blonde girl, dressed simply in white, entering on the arm of a funny
little man with a baby-face and a big, silvery beard, her father, a
modest clerk in the bank, a rather ridiculous little old man who,
beside that divine apparition, slender in her robes of snow, made one
think of the gnomes of folk-tales, always crouching at the feet of the
fairies.
Ah, weakness of hearts growing old! That apparition was enough to shake
all the ideas of Luigo Marchis concerning matrimony, and as the old
gnome, despite his absolute nullity, was an honest citizen, incapable
of resisting the assiduities of the Director to his pretty daughter,
the suitor had been greatly pleased with the consent of that little
maiden of eighteen, that beautiful creature, that blonde being, to
become his wife. Now he trembled with joy; his eyes were misty with
vivid emotion--not perceiving that that too was a sign of old age--and
it was a voice choked with joy that to the question of the priest, “Are
you content?” replied: “Oh, yes.”
Now, it is done. United, forever united. Having arisen to their feet,
she with an elegant and light impulse, like a lily, wind-lifted on its
stem; he with a little effort and difficulty, wearied by emotion, they
go down from the altar arm-in-arm. Now they pass through the church
amid the murmurs of compliments which arise amid the shadows of the
aisles, among the dull scraping of feet and the rustle of gowns; there
on the peristyle, among the white columns, is a living wave of sun and
air which comes to meet them, like a recall to real life, outside of
the mystic dream of the church, the creaking of the line of carriages
that advanced, the slow descent of the steps, with the white train of
the bride spreading and dragging upon the stairs, in folds like snow,
soft and light; then the carriages depart; they are alone for the first
time, in the narrow space of the carriage, which the bridal dress fills
with its whiteness, and the bouquet of orange-blossoms with its acute
perfume of intoxicating virginity; and it is then that, conquered by
the charm of that face, so delicate and proud amid its large pallid
curls, by the splendor of those blue eyes, the elderly bridegroom bends
over her to kiss her--
“Dear me, dear me....”
And to see the tranquility with which those finely cut, rose-colored
lips return the kisses, through the veil, the question arises whether
it is the bridegroom that she kisses, or the Mechlin lace, at five
hundred the metre.
* * * * *
Ah! there were adorers around that beautiful signora Marchis, so lovely
and so young, married to an old man! It was expected that this fortress
would be an easy one to conquer. Precisely on her wedding day, Vico
Molise, the most elegant and skeptical of the journalists of Upper
Italy, had propounded to his friends this theorem:
“Given a beautiful girl, very poor; given that she marries a rich
old man; divide the number of his years by that of the hundreds of
thousands of lire of which she becomes mistress, and you will have the
number of months necessary for her to take a lover.”
And as soon as he could, he began, with many others, to attempt the
demonstration of that theorem.
Well, this time the impeccable psychological diagnosis of Vico Molise
had been found to fail. Not only, after some months, the beautiful
signora Marchis had no lover, but it appeared also that she never was
to have one.
Always dressed with an adorable elegance, with a luxury full of good
taste, the beautiful Gemma loved to amuse herself, moving freely in
that society new for her, finding herself in her right place as a
marvelous plant in a vase of valuable porcelain, developing itself in
all its splendor. She went to dances, to the theatre, enjoying the
plebiscite of admiration provoked by her beauty, coquetting a little
with her adorers, fluttering about the fire in order to make them
sparkle, her wings of a golden butterfly; but never letting herself be
burned.
In the very moment of a declaration, in the midst of one of those
waltzes whose notes seem made on purpose to stifle expiring virtue
in their serpentine spirals, she cut short her adorer by turning her
angelic head, and saying serenely:
“I don’t see my husband.... Look a little where my husband is, if you
will be so kind.”
And it was known that her greatest delight was to relate, precisely to
her husband, the declarations which she had received. When she came
home with him from a ball, all wrapped in the white silken folds of
her _sortie du bal_, with her pure throat, her snowy shoulders that
blossomed still more fair from her swansdown boa; when in the evening
she met him in the dining-room, still in visiting costume, with her
slim waist tightly compressed by an exquisitely elegant gown, with
her face animated by the slight excitement which elegant conversation
always produces in a young woman, she amused herself immensely in
addressing to her husband some of these provoking and roguish phrases:
“You know, I was at Countess Foschis’.... Molise was there, you
know.... Always faithful and always in despair.... And also Comelli, he
that has such lugubrious gallantry.... He has promised to kill himself
for my sake, within a month, we shall see.... Ah! Ah!”
And sitting opposite to him, in a rustle of satin and jet, making shine
like two stars the brilliants, large as hazelnuts, which adorned her
small ears, she continued to laugh, with her elastic laughter, full of
mischief and full of tenderness.
Ah, indeed, old Marchis could call himself a fortunate man!
Fortunate? Yes, he ought to have considered himself so. When he
set himself to reason about it, to describe mentally his conjugal
situation, he had to conclude that he would have done wrong to complain
of his destiny. And yet....
What of the terribly unexpected had he now discovered in the depths
of the pure sapphire of Gemma’s eyes? Was there arisen in his soul
the doubt that that faithfulness against every trial, that coldness
toward her admirers was nothing but the wish to preserve intact a
position acquired with difficulty, and that precisely to that position
was directed all the tenderness shown toward himself! I do not know;
but the vivid and impetuous joy of the wedding was no longer in him,
although his love remained the same; and a painful doubt thrilled in
his voice when he replied to the playful confidence of Gemma, forcing
himself to laugh too:
“Take care, now, take care.... The vengeance of the tyrant hangs over
you....”
Ah, the poor tyrant, how he loved her! How she had known how to bind
him with her little hands, white and perfumed as two lilies. For
nothing in the world would he have discovered the truth, changed into
certainty his fomenting doubt; so, she had only to ask in order to
obtain; for now for him that love of which he doubted, had become his
life; and he felt a painful stricture at his heart at the mere thought
that a day might come when he would be obliged to refuse her something.
Yet that day came. Suddenly, by one of those mysterious complications
of business his bank, which until then had gone from triumph to
triumph, underwent a violent shock. Not a noisy downfall, one of those
open, public ruins, which produce great failures; but one of those
deep, intimate secret crises, that must be borne without a word, a
lament, under penalty of death; that can be overcome only by force of
small privations, little hidden savings; it is then that strict economy
in the family becomes necessary. The luxury of Gemma, in those moments,
became absolutely ruinous for her husband; he ought to have warned her,
sought to check her; he dared not; and continued to content her, but
very soon came the time when he could do so no more.
It was on the occasion of a great ball to which she was to go; she
had ordered from Paris a marvelous gown that became her to perfection;
still she was not satisfied. Some days before, in the showcase of the
most fashionable jeweler of the city, a diadem had set in revolution
all the feminine imaginations; a superb jewel, of antique style, set in
silver gilt, of a starry pallor, where the brilliants seemed drops of
flame. Gemma wished to have it and indeed it would be difficult to find
a face adapted to the almost religious richness of that jewel, more
than her snowy profile of an angel in ecstacy.
Ten thousand francs was the price of that jewel; and Marchis did not
have them. Mute, immovable, his heart oppressed, he listened to Gemma’s
words as she described it to him. How could he tell her, how could he
even tell her that he had not the ten thousand francs. It was terrible.
To another woman who should have had that caprice, one might have
proposed to have her own diamonds reset after that model or perhaps
even to have an imitation diadem made; no one would have suspected it;
but he felt that the danger lay in confessing his powerlessness. Yet,
it must be done.... And he made an effort at courage.
Gemma had seated herself beside him, throwing back and bending a little
to one side her blonde head, with that irresistible feminine movement
which displays the white throat, the pure line descending from the
slender neck to the full-bloomed bust down to the round and flexible
waist.
“I would like to have it, it seems to me that I should look well....
Don’t you think so? I have a great wish to be beautiful.... If you knew
why?”
She laughed, now, deliciously, with the air of her roguish hours. He
was silent for a moment; then, fixing a vague look upon the delicate
designs of the oriental carpet, paling as if from an inward wound, he
murmured:
“The fact is that I do not know.... I do not really know whether ...
whether I shall be able to buy it for you....”
“Why?”
She had quickly raised her head, much surprised, uneasy, looking at
him. Such a thing had never happened to her.
Marchis wiped his forehead and resumed his discourse.
“The fact is ... you see, in a bank like ours, there are moments that
... certain moments in which one cannot ... in which it is impossible.”
What was impossible for him, in that moment, was to finish the phrase.
He stopped, and lifted his eyes timidly to her, desolately, as if to
beg her to help him. She was very pale, with a sudden hardness in
all her features, in her compressed mouth, in her knit brows, in her
sparkling eyes.
“Have you not ten thousand francs? Is it possible?”
And her voice was hard as her look ... a profound hardness that
startled him. But all at once her face changed expression, she
recovered her fresh, tuneful laugh, the sweet and limpid ray was
rekindled in her blue eyes.
“Come you want to tell me stories, so as not to buy me anything....
Deceiver! I that wished to be beautiful in order to drive Vico Molise a
little crazy; he has declared to me that he is tired of my perfidy....
See, you deserve.... Do you know that I am becoming angry with you?”
She really believed that she had hit the truth, with her words.
Indeed, he had so well kept up the illusion with her, he had hidden so
jealously his embarrassment, that she did not know how to explain this
sudden restriction. But meanwhile, every word of hers was a blow to
the heart of Marchis; he saw her already at the ball, passing from arm
to arm with her step like a flying angel; listening to the insidious
compliments of Vico Molise and his kind, and keeping meantime in her
heart that leaven of rancor against him because of his refusal; and
he saw himself again, as he had seen himself a little while before in
the mirror, old, weary, worn, beside her so fresh, young, with eyes
sparkling from the cruel scorn of one who has made an unequal bargain.
Suddenly he rose, like one who has taken a decision, passed his hand
across his brow, and without replying, went away to go out of the
house. She believed that she had conquered, and let him go without
moving herself, only with a flash of cunning in her eyes; but when he
was on the stairs the door opened, a blonde head appeared between the
folding-doors--
“We are agreed, then?”
He did not reply; and she heard his step down the stairway, slow,
heavy, weary.
* * * * *
The evening of the ball, Marchis knocked at the door of his wife’s
dressing-room. “Come in,” and he entered.
In the little dressing-room so illumined as to seem on fire, with
the air filled with fragrance from the little unstoppered bottle of
perfume, all gleaming white with the disorder of feminine apparel
scattered about, Gemma stood erect before the mirror, between two
kneeling maids, ready dressed for the ball. She was truly radiant in
her gown of white satin with almond blossoms, with fresh sprays of
almond flowers around the neck of the dress, at the waist, among the
waving folds of the train, issuing from that covering of delicate,
pale, dawn-tinted flowers, she too was fresh as they, with her faintly
rosy complexion, as if she were one of those flowers become a person.
But under her lashes gleamed anon the flash of cold and cruel rancor.
Her husband had not given her the diadem!
But hearing him enter, she turned, and seeing that he held a casket in
his hands, she comprehended everything. With a bound, she was beside
him, her arms twined around his neck.
“Oh, how good you are! How good you are! How I love you!” He trembled
all over, and was very pale. Gemma did not even perceive it. All at
once, with one of her irresistible movements, she loosened her arms
from his neck, took with one hand the casket and with the other holding
her husband’s hand, she led him after her to the mirror. She seated
herself and opened the casket. Among puffs of red plush, under the
burning light, the diadem sent forth sparks like a flame. She had a new
outburst of joy, took the husband’s head between her hands, drew it
down, and kissed his forehead--oh! the forehead of a corpse, icy and
livid; then without looking at his features, his wandering gaze, she
offered him the diadem and bent before him her blonde head, which was
so well suited to that mystical jewel.
“Come sir, crown me!”
And while he sought to unite with trembling hands the clasp of the gems
among those marvelous blonde curls, waving and breaking into ripples of
gold at every movement, she, still with bent head, lifted her smiling
eyes to meet his look. And he answered with a resigned gentleness to
the smile of those perilous blue eyes; he, the poor man who deceived
for the sake of desire to be deceived, and who bought for himself a
little mock love with ... mock diamonds.