While Giovanni was exerting himself to little purpose in attempting to
gain information concerning Maria Consuelo, she had launched herself
upon the society of which the Countess Del Ferice was an important and
influential member. Chance, and probably chance alone, had guided her in
the matter of this acquaintance, for it could certainly not be said that
she had forced herself upon Donna Tullia, nor even shown any uncommon
readiness to meet the latter's advances. The offer of a seat in her
carriage had seemed natural enough, under the circumstances, and Donna
Tullia had been perfectly free to refuse it if she had chosen to do so.
Though possessing but the very slightest grounds for believing herself
to be a born diplomatist, the Countess had always delighted in petty
plotting and scheming. She now saw a possibility of annoying all
Orsino's relations by attracting the object of Orsino's devotion to her
own house. She had no especial reason for supposing that the young man
was really very much in love with Madame d'Aranjuez, but her woman's
instinct, which far surpassed her diplomatic talents in acuteness, told
her that Orsino was certainly not indifferent to the interesting
stranger. She argued, primitively enough, that to annoy Orsino must be
equivalent to annoying his people, and she supposed that she could do
nothing more disagreeable to the young man's wishes than to induce
Madame d'Aranjuez to join that part of society from which all the
Saracinesca were separated by an insuperable barrier.
And Orsino indeed resented the proceeding, as she had expected; but his
family were at first more inclined to look upon Donna Tullia as a good
angel who had carried off the tempter at the right moment to an
unapproachable distance. It was not to be believed that Orsino could do
anything so monstrous as to enter Del Ferice's house or ask a place in
Del Ferice's circle, and it was accordingly a relief to find that Madame
d'Aranjuez had definitely chosen to do so, and had appeared in
olive-green brocade at the Del Ferice's last party. The olive-green
brocade would now assuredly not figure in the gatherings of the
Saracinesca's intimate friends.
Like every one else, Orsino read the daily chronicle of Roman life in
the papers, and until he saw Maria Consuelo's name among the Del
Ferice's guests, he refused to believe that she had taken the
irrevocable step he so much feared. He had still entertained vague
notions of bringing about a meeting between her and his mother, and he
saw at a glance that such a meeting was now quite out of the question.
This was the first severe shock his vanity had ever received and he was
surprised at the depth of his own annoyance. Maria Consuelo might indeed
have been seen once with Donna Tullia, and might have gone once to the
latter's day. That was bad enough, but might be remedied by tact and
decision in her subsequent conduct. But there was no salvation possible
after a person had been advertised in the daily paper as Madame
d'Aranjuez had been. Orsino was very angry. He had been once to see her
since his first visit, and she had said nothing about this invitation,
though Donna Tullia's name had been mentioned. He was offended with her
for not telling him that she was going to the dinner, as though he had
any right to be made acquainted with her intentions. He had no sooner
made the discovery than he determined to visit his anger upon her, and
throwing the paper aside went straight to the hotel where she was
stopping.
Maria Consuelo was at home and he was ushered into the little
sitting-room without delay. To his inexpressible disgust he found Del
Ferice himself installed upon the chair near the table, engaged in
animated conversation with Madame d'Aranjuez. The situation was awkward
in the extreme. Orsino hoped that Del Ferice would go at once, and thus
avoid the necessity of an introduction. But Ugo did nothing of the kind.
He rose, indeed, but did not take his hat from the table, and stood
smiling pleasantly while Orsino shook hands with Maria Consuelo.
"Let me make you acquainted," she said with exasperating calmness, and
she named the two men to each other.
Ugo put out his hand quietly and Orsino was obliged to take it, which he
did coldly enough. Ugo had more than his share of tact, and he never
made a disagreeable impression upon any one if he could help it. Maria
Consuelo seemed to take everything for granted, and Orsino's appearance
did not disconcert her in the slightest degree. Both men sat down and
looked at her as though expecting that she would choose a subject of
conversation for them.
"We were talking of the change in Rome," she said. "Monsieur Del Ferice
takes a great interest in all that is doing, and he was explaining to me
some of the difficulties with which he has to contend."
"Don Orsino knows what they are, as well as I, though we might perhaps
differ as to the way of dealing with them," said Del Ferice.
"Yes," answered Orsino, more coldly than was necessary. "You play the
active part, and we the passive."
"In a certain sense, yes," returned the other, quite unruffled. "You
have exactly defined the situation, and ours is by far the more
disagreeable and thankless part to play. Oh--I am not going to defend
all we have done! I only defend what we mean to do. Change of any sort
is execrable to the man of taste, unless it is brought about by
time--and that is a beautifier which we have not at our disposal. We are
half Vandals and half Americans, and we are in a terrible hurry."
Maria Consuelo laughed, and Orsino's face became a shade less gloomy. He
had expected to find Del Ferice the arrogant, self-satisfied apostle of
the modern, which he was represented to be.
"Could you not have taken a little more time?" asked Orsino.
"I cannot see how. Besides it is our time which takes us with it. So
long as Rome was the capital of an idea there was no need of haste in
doing anything. But when it became the capital of a modern kingdom, it
fell a victim to modern facts--which are not beautiful. The most we can
hope to do is to direct the current, clumsily enough, I daresay. We
cannot stop it. Nothing short of Oriental despotism could. We cannot
prevent people from flocking to the centre, and where there is a
population it must be housed."
"Evidently," said Madame d'Aranjuez.
"It seems to me that, without disturbing the old city, a new one might
have been built beside it," observed Orsino.
"No doubt. And that is practically what we have done. I say 'we,'
because you say 'you.' But I think you will admit that, as far as
personal activity is concerned, the Romans of Rome are taking as active
a share in building ugly houses as any of the Italian Romans. The
destruction of the Villa Ludovisi, for instance, was forced upon the
owner not by the national government but by an insane municipality, and
those who have taken over the building lots are largely Roman princes of
the old stock."
The argument was unanswerable, and Orsino knew it, a fact which did not
improve his temper. It was disagreeable enough to be forced into a
conversation with Del Ferice, and it was still worse to be obliged to
agree with him. Orsino frowned and said nothing, hoping that the subject
would drop. But Del Ferice had only produced an unpleasant impression in
order to remove it and thereby improve the whole situation, which was
one of the most difficult in which he had found himself for some time.
"I repeat," he said, with a pleasant smile, "that it is hopeless to
defend all of what is actually done in our day in Rome. Some of your
friends and many of mine are building houses which even age and ruin
will never beautify. The only defensible part of the affair is the
political change which has brought about the necessity of building at
all, and upon that point I think that we may agree to differ. Do you not
think so, Don Orsino?"
"By all means," answered the young man, conscious that the proposal was
both just and fitting.
"And for the rest, both your friends and mine--for all I know, your own
family and certainly I myself--have enormous interests at stake. We may
at least agree to hope that none of us may be ruined."
"Certainly--though we have had nothing to do with the matter. Neither my
father nor my grandfather have entered into any such speculation."
"It is a pity," said Del Ferice thoughtfully.
"Why a pity?"
"On the one hand my instincts are basely commercial," Del Ferice
answered with a frank laugh. "No matter how great a fortune may be, it
may be doubled and trebled. You must remember that I am a banker in fact
if not exactly in designation, and the opportunity is excellent. But the
greater pity is that such men as you, Don Orsino, who could exercise as
much influence as it might please you to use, leave it to men--very
unlike you, I fancy--to murder the architecture of Rome and prepare the
triumph of the hideous."
Orsino did not answer the remark, although he was not altogether
displeased with the idea it conveyed. Maria Consuelo looked at him.
"Why do you stand aloof and let things go from bad to worse when you
might really do good by joining in the affairs of the day?" she asked.
"I could not join in them, if I would," answered Orsino.
"Why not?"
"Because I have not command of a hundred francs in the world, Madame.
That is the simplest and best of all reasons."
Del Ferice laughed incredulously.
"The eldest son of Casa Saracinesca would not find that a practical
obstacle," he said, taking his hat and rising to go. "Besides, what is
needed in these transactions is not so much ready money as courage,
decision and judgment. There is a rich firm of contractors now doing a
large business, who began with three thousand francs as their whole
capital--what you might lose at cards in an evening without missing it,
though you say that you have no money at your command."
"Is that possible?" asked Orsino with some interest.
"It is a fact. There were three men, a tobacconist, a carpenter and a
mason, and they each had a thousand francs of savings. They took over a
contract last week for a million and a half, on which they will clear
twenty per cent. But they had the qualities--the daring and the prudence
combined. They succeeded."
"And if they had failed, what would have happened?"
"They would have lost their three thousand francs. They had nothing else
to lose, and there was nothing in the least irregular about their
transactions. Good evening, Madame--I have a private meeting of
directors at my house. Good evening, Don Orsino."
He went out, leaving behind him an impression which was not by any means
disagreeable. His appearance was against him, Orsino thought. His fat
white face and dull eyes were not pleasant to look at. But he had shown
tact in a difficult situation, and there was a quiet energy about him, a
settled purpose which could not fail to please a young man who hated his
own idleness.
Orsino found that his mood had changed. He was less angry than he had
meant to be, and he saw extenuating circumstances where he had at first
only seen a wilful mistake. He sat down again.
"Confess that he is not the impossible creature you supposed," said
Maria Consuelo with a laugh.
"No, he is not. I had imagined something very different. Nevertheless, I
wish--one never has the least right to wish what one wishes--" He
stopped in the middle of the sentence.
"That I had not gone to his wife's party, you would say? But my dear Don
Orsino, why should I refuse pleasant things when they come into my
life?"
"Was it so pleasant?"
"Of course it was. A beautiful dinner--half a dozen clever men, all
interested in the affairs of the day, and all anxious to explain them to
me because I was a stranger. A hundred people or so in the evening, who
all seemed to enjoy themselves as much as I did. Why should I refuse all
that? Because my first acquaintance in Rome--who was Gouache--is so
'indifferent,' and because you--my second--are a pronounced clerical?
That is not reasonable."
"I do not pretend to be reasonable," said Orsino. "To be reasonable is
the boast of people who feel nothing."
"Then you are a man of heart?" Maria Consuelo seemed amused.
"I make no pretence to being a man of head, Madame."
"You are not easily caught."
"Nor Del Ferice either."
"Why do you talk of him?"
"The opportunity is good, Madame. As he is just gone, we know that he is
not coming."
"You can be very sarcastic, when you like," said Maria Consuelo. "But I
do not believe that you are as bitter as you make yourself out to be. I
do not even believe that you found Del Ferice so very disagreeable as
you pretend. You were certainly interested in what he said."
"Interest is not always agreeable. The guillotine, for instance,
possesses the most lively interest for the condemned man at an
execution."
"Your illustrations are startling. I once saw an execution, quite by
accident, and I would rather not think of it. But you can hardly compare
Del Ferice to the guillotine."
"He is as noiseless, as keen and as sure," said Orsino smartly.
"There is such a thing as being too clever," answered Maria Consuelo,
without a smile.
"Is Del Ferice a case of that?"
"No. You are. You say cutting things merely because they come into your
head, though I am sure that you do not always mean them. It is a bad
habit."
"Because it makes enemies, Madame?" Orsino was annoyed by the rebuke.
"That is the least good of good reasons."
"Another, then?"
"It will prevent people from loving you," said Maria Consuelo gravely.
"I never heard that--"
"No? It is true, nevertheless."
"In that case I will reform at once," said Orsino, trying to meet her
eyes. But she looked away from him.
"You think that I am preaching to you," she answered. "I have not the
right to do that, and if I had, I would certainly not use it. But I have
seen something of the world. Women rarely love a man who is bitter
against any one but himself. If he says cruel things of other women, the
one to whom he says them believes that he will say much worse of her to
the next he meets; if he abuses the men she knows, she likes it even
less--it is an attack on her judgment, on her taste and perhaps upon a
half-developed sympathy for the man attacked. One should never be witty
at another person's expense, except with one's own sex." She laughed a
little.
"What a terrible conclusion!"
"Is it? It is the true one."
"Then the way to win a woman's love is to praise her acquaintances? That
is original."
"I never said that."
"No? I misunderstood. What is the best way?"
"Oh--it is very simple," laughed Maria Consuelo.
"Tell her you love her, and tell her so again and again--you will
certainly please her in the end."
"Madame--" Orsino stopped, and folded his hands with an air of devout
supplication.
"What?"
"Oh, nothing! I was about to begin. It seemed so simple, as you say."
They both laughed and their eyes met for a moment.
"Del Ferice interests me very much," said Maria Consuelo, abruptly
returning to the original subject of conversation. "He is one of those
men who will be held responsible for much that is now doing. Is it not
true? He has great influence."
"I have always heard so." Orsino was not pleased at being driven to talk
of Del Ferice again.
"Do you think what he said about you so altogether absurd?"
"Absurd, no--impracticable, perhaps. You mean his suggestion that I
should try a little speculation? Frankly, I had no idea that such things
could be begun with so little capital. It seems incredible. I fancy that
Del Ferice was exaggerating. You know how carelessly bankers talk of a
few thousands, more or less. Nothing short of a million has much meaning
for them. Three thousand or thirty thousand--it is much the same in
their estimation."
"I daresay. After all, why should you risk anything? I suppose it is
simpler to play cards, though I should think it less amusing. I was only
thinking how easy it would be for you to find a serious occupation if
you chose."
Orsino was silent for a moment, and seemed to be thinking over the
matter.
"Would you advise me to enter upon such a business without my father's
knowledge?" he asked presently.
"How can I advise you? Besides, your father would let you do as you
please. There is nothing dishonourable in such things. The prejudice
against business is old-fashioned, and if you do not break through it
your children will."
Orsino looked thoughtfully at Maria Consuelo. She sometimes found an
oddly masculine bluntness with which to express her meaning, and which
produced a singular impression on the young man. It made him feel what
he supposed to be a sort of weakness, of which he ought to be ashamed.
"There is nothing dishonourable in the theory," he answered, "and the
practice depends on the individual."
Maria Consuelo laughed.
"You see--you can be a moralist when you please," she said.
There was a wonderful attraction in her yellow eyes just at that moment.
"To please you, Madame, I could do something much worse--or much
better."
He was not quite in earnest, but he was not jesting, and his face was
more serious than his voice. Maria Consuelo's hand was lying on the
table beside the silver paper-cutter. The white, pointed fingers were
very tempting and he would willingly have touched them. He put out his
hand. If she did not draw hers away he would lay his own upon it. If she
did, he would take up the paper-cutter. As it turned out, he had to
content himself with the latter. She did not draw her hand away as
though she understood what he was going to do, but quietly raised it and
turned the shade of the lamp a few inches.
"I would rather not be responsible for your choice," she said quietly.
"And yet you have left me none," he answered with, sudden boldness.
"No? How so?"
He held up the silver knife and smiled.
"I do not understand," she said, affecting a look of surprise.
"I was going to ask your permission to take your hand."
"Indeed? Why? There it is." She held it out frankly.
He took the beautiful fingers in his and looked at them for a moment.
Then he quietly raised them to his lips.
"That was not included in the permission," she said, with a little laugh
and drawing back. "Now you ought to go away at once."
"Why?"
"Because that little ceremony can belong only to the beginning or the
end of a visit."
"I have only just come."
"Ah? How long the time has seemed! I fancied you had been here half an
hour."
"To me it has seemed but a minute," answered Orsino promptly.
"And you will not go?"
There was nothing of the nature of a peremptory dismissal in the look
which accompanied the words.
"No--at the most, I will practise leave-taking."
"I think not," said Maria Consuelo with sudden coldness. "You are a
little too--what shall I say?--too enterprising, prince. You had better
make use of the gift where it will be a recommendation--in business, for
instance."
"You are very severe, Madame," answered Orsino, deeming it wiser to
affect humility, though a dozen sharp answers suggested themselves to
his ready wit.
Maria Consuelo was silent for a few seconds. Her head was resting upon
the little red morocco cushion, which heightened the dazzling whiteness
of her skin and lent a deeper colour to her auburn hair. She was gazing
at the hangings above the door. Orsino watched her in quiet admiration.
She was beautiful as he saw her there at that moment, for the
irregularities of her features were forgotten in the brilliancy of her
colouring and in the grace of the attitude. Her face was serious at
first. Gradually a smile stole over it, beginning, as it seemed, from
the deeply set eyes and concentrating itself at last in the full, red
mouth. Then she spoke, still looking upwards and away from him.
"What would you think if I were not a little severe?" she asked. "I am a
woman living--travelling, I should say--quite alone, a stranger here,
and little less than a stranger to you. What would you think if I were
not a little severe, I say? What conclusion would you come to, if I let
you take my hand as often as you pleased, and say whatever suggested
itself to your imagination--your very active imagination?"
"I should think you the most adorable of women--"
"But it is not my ambition to be thought the most adorable of women by
you, Prince Orsino."
"No--of course not. People never care for what they get without an
effort."
"You are absolutely irrepressible!" exclaimed Maria Consuelo, laughing
in spite of herself.
"And you do not like that! I will be meekness itself--a lamb, if you
please."
"Too playful--it would not suit your style."
"A stone--"
"I detest geology."
"A lap-dog, then. Make your choice, Madame. The menagerie of the
universe is at your disposal. When Adam gave names to the animals, he
could have called a lion a lap-dog--to reassure the Africans. But he
lacked imagination--he called a cat, a cat."
"That had the merit of simplicity, at all events."
"Since you admire his system, you may call me either Cain or Abel,"
suggested Orsino. "Am I humble enough? Can submission go farther?"
"Either would be flattery--for Abel was good and Cain was interesting."
"And I am neither--you give me another opportunity of exhibiting my deep
humility. I thank you sincerely. You are becoming more gracious than I
had hoped."
"You are very like a woman, Don Orsino. You always try to have the last
word."
"I always hope that the last word may be the best. But I accept the
criticism--or the reproach, with my usual gratitude. I only beg you to
observe that to let you have the last word would be for me to end the
conversation, after which I should be obliged to go away. And I do not
wish to go, as I have already said."
"You suggest the means of making you go," answered Maria Consuelo, with
a smile. "I can be silent--if you will not."
"It will be useless. If you do not interrupt me, I shall become
eloquent--"
"How terrible! Pray do not!"
"You see! I have you in my power. You cannot get rid of me."
"I would appeal to your generosity, then."
"That is another matter, Madame," said Orsino, taking his hat.
"I only said that I would--" Maria Consuelo made a gesture to stop him.
But he was wise enough to see that the conversation had reached its
natural end, and his instinct told him that he should not outstay his
welcome. He pretended not to see the motion of her hand, and rose to
take his leave.
"You do not know me," he said. "To point out to me a possible generous
action, is to ensure my performing it without hesitation. When may I be
so fortunate as to see you again, Madame?"
"You need not be so intensely ceremonious. You know that I am always at
home at this hour."
Orsino was very much struck by this answer. There was a shade of
irritation in the tone, which he had certainly not expected, and which
flattered him exceedingly. She turned her face away as she gave him her
hand and moved a book on the table with the other as though she meant to
begin reading almost before he should be out of the room. He had not
felt by any means sure that she really liked his society, and he had not
expected that she would so far forget herself as to show her inclination
by her impatience. He had judged, rightly or wrongly, that she was a
woman who weighed every word and gesture beforehand, and who would be
incapable of such an oversight as an unpremeditated manifestation of
feeling.
Very young men are nowadays apt to imagine complications of character
where they do not exist, often overlooking them altogether where they
play a real part. The passion for analysis discovers what it takes for
new simple elements in humanity's motives, and often ends by feeding on
itself in the effort to decompose what is not composite. The greatest
analysers are perhaps the young and the old, who, being respectively
before and behind the times, are not so intimate with them as those who
are actually making history, political or social, ethical or scandalous,
dramatic or comic.
It is very much the custom among those who write fiction in the English
language to efface their own individuality behind the majestic but
rather meaningless plural, "we," or to let the characters created
express the author's view of mankind. The great French novelists are
more frank, for they say boldly "I," and have the courage of their
opinions. Their merit is the greater, since those opinions seem to be
rarely complimentary to the human race in general, or to their readers
in particular. Without introducing any comparison between the fiction of
the two languages, it may be said that the tendency of the method is
identical in both cases and is the consequence of an extreme preference
for analysis, to the detriment of the romantic and very often of the
dramatic element in the modern novel. The result may or may not be a
volume of modern social history for the instruction of the present and
the future generation. If it is not, it loses one of the chief merits
which it claims; if it is, then we must admit the rather strange
deduction, that the political history of our times has absorbed into
itself all the romance and the tragedy at the disposal of destiny,
leaving next to none at all in the private lives of the actors and
their numerous relations.
Whatever the truth may be, it is certain that this love of minute
dissection is exercising an enormous influence in our time; and as no
one will pretend that a majority of the young persons in society who
analyse the motives of their contemporaries and elders are successful
moral anatomists, we are forced to the conclusion that they are
frequently indebted to their imaginations for the results they obtain
and not seldom for the material upon which they work. A real Chemistry
may some day grow out of the failures of this fanciful Alchemy, but the
present generation will hardly live to discover the philosopher's stone,
though the search for it yield gold, indirectly, by the writing of many
novels. If fiction is to be counted among the arts at all, it is not yet
time to forget the saying of a very great man: "It is the mission of all
art to create and foster agreeable illusions."
Orsino Saracinesca was no further removed from the action of the
analytical bacillus than other men of his age. He believed and desired
his own character to be more complicated than it was, and he had no
sooner made the acquaintance of Maria Consuelo than he began to
attribute to her minutest actions such a tortuous web of motives as
would have annihilated all action if it had really existed in her brain.
The possible simplicity of a strong and much tried character, good or
bad, altogether escaped him, and even an occasional unrestrained word or
gesture failed to convince him that he was on the wrong track. To tell
the truth, he was as yet very inexperienced. His visits to Maria
Consuelo passed in making light conversation. He tried to amuse her, and
succeeded fairly well, while at the same time he indulged in endless and
fruitless speculations as to her former life, her present intentions and
her sentiments with regard to himself. He would have liked to lead her
into talking of herself, but he did not know where to begin. It was not
a part of his system to believe in mysteries concerning people, but
when he reflected upon the matter he was amazed at the impenetrability
of the barrier which cut him off from all knowledge of her life. He soon
heard the tales about her which were carelessly circulated at the club,
and he listened to them without much interest, though he took the
trouble to deny their truth on his own responsibility, which surprised
the men who knew him and gave rise to the story that he was in love with
Madame d'Aranjuez. The most annoying consequence of the rumour was that
every woman to whom he spoke in society overwhelmed him with questions
which he could not answer except in the vaguest terms. In his ignorance
he did his best to evolve a satisfactory history for Maria Consuelo out
of his imagination, but the result was not satisfactory.
He continued his visits to her, resolving before each meeting that he
would risk offending her by putting some question which she must either
answer directly or refuse to answer altogether. But he had not counted
upon his own inherent hatred of rudeness, nor upon the growth of an
attachment which he had not foreseen when he had coldly made up his mind
that it would be worth while to make love to her, as Gouache had
laughingly suggested. Yet he was pleased with what he deemed his own
coldness. He assuredly did not love her, but he knew already that he
would not like to give up the half hours he spent with her. To offend
her seriously would be to forfeit a portion of his daily amusement which
he could not spare.
From time to time he risked a careless, half-jesting declaration such as
many a woman might have taken seriously. But Maria Consuelo turned such
advances with a laugh or by an answer that was admirably tempered with
quiet dignity and friendly rebuke.
"If she is not good," he said to himself at last, "she must be
enormously clever. She must be one or the other."