"I have come to see if you need anything," Marcello said, when they were
in the sitting-room. "I am sorry to have been obliged to bring you to
such a wretched place, but it seemed a good thing that you should be so
near Kalmon."
"It is not a wretched place," Regina answered. "It is clean, and the
things are new, and the curtains have been washed. It is not wretched.
We have been in worse lodgings when we have travelled and stopped in
small towns. Professor Kalmon has been very kind. It was wise to bring
me here."
He wished she had seemed discontented.
"Have you rested a little?" he asked.
"I have slept two or three hours. And you? You look tired."
"I have had no time to sleep. I shall sleep to-night."
He leaned back in the small green arm-chair and rested his head against
a coarse netted antimacassar. His eyes caught Regina's, but she was
looking down thoughtfully at her hands, which lay in her lap together
but not clasped. Peasant women often do that; their hands are resting
then, after hard work, and they are thinking of nothing.
"Look at me," Marcello said after a long time.
Her glance was sad and almost dull, and there was no light in her face.
She had made up her mind that something dreadful was going to happen to
her, and that the end was coming soon. She could not have told why she
felt it, and that made it worse. Her eyes had the indescribable look
that one sees in those of a beautiful sick animal, the painful
expression of an unintelligent suffering which the creature cannot
understand. Regina, roused to act and face to face with danger, was
brave, clever, and quick, but under the mysterious oppression of her
forebodings she was the Roman hill woman, apathetic, hopeless,
unconsciously fatalistic and sleepily miserable.
"What is the matter?" Marcello asked. "What has happened?"
"I shall know when you have told me," Regina answered, slowly shaking
her head; and again she looked down at her hands.
"What I have come to tell you will not make you sad," Marcello replied.
"Speak, heart of my heart. I listen."
Marcello leaned forward and laid his hand upon hers. She looked up
quietly, for it was a familiar action of his.
"I am going to marry you," he said, watching her, and speaking
earnestly.
She kept her eyes on his, but she shook her head again, slowly, from
side to side, and her lips were pressed together.
"Yes, I am," said Marcello, with a little pressure of his hand to
emphasise the words.
But she withdrew hers, and leaned far back from him.
"Never," she said. "I have told you so, many times."
"Not if I tell you that nothing else will make me happy?" he asked.
"If I still made you happy, you would not talk of marriage," Regina
answered.
For the first time since she had loved him he heard a ring of bitterness
in her voice. They had reached that first node of misunderstanding in
the love relations of men and women, which lies where the one begins to
think and act upon a principle while the other still feels and acts from
the heart.
"That is not reasonable," Marcello said.
"It is truth," she answered.
"But how?"
"How! I feel it, here!"
Her hands sprang to life and pressed her bosom, her voice rang deep and
her eyes flashed, as if she were impatient of his misunderstanding.
He tried to laugh gently.
"But if I want to marry you, it is because I mean never to part from
you," he said.
"No!" she cried. "It is because you are afraid that you will leave me,
unless you are bound to me."
"Regina!" Marcello protested, by his tone.
"It is as I say. It is because you are honourable. It is because you
wish to be faithful. It is because you want to be true. But what do I
care for honour, or faith, or truth, if I can only have them of you
because you are tied to me? I only want love. That is everything. I want
it, but I have never asked it of you, and never shall. Is love money,
that you can take it out of your purse and give it? Is love a string,
that the priest and the mayor can tie the ends so that they can never
come undone? I do not know what it is, but it is not that!"
She laughed scornfully, as if she were angry at the thought. But
Marcello had made up his mind, and was obstinate.
"We must be married at once," he said quietly, and fully believing that
he could impose his will upon hers. "If I had not been weak and foolish,
we should have been married long ago. But for a long time after my
illness I had no will of my own. I am sorry. It was my fault."
"It was not your fault, it was the illness, and it was my will. If I had
said, any day in those first two years, 'Make me your wife, for I wish
to be a real signora,' would you not have done it?"
"You know I would."
"But I would not, and I will not now. I am not a real signora. I am
beautiful--yes, I see that. Am I blind when I look into my glass? I am
very beautiful. We have not often met any woman in our travels as
beautiful as I am. Am I blind? I have black hair, like the common
people, but my hair is not coarse, like a mule's tail. It is as fine as
silk. My eyes are black, and that is common too; but my eyes are not
like those of the buffaloes in the Campagna, as the other women's are
where I was born. And I am not dark-skinned; I am as white as the snow
on Monte Cavo, as white as the milk in the pan. Also I have been told
that I have beautiful feet, though I cannot tell why. They are small,
this is the truth, and my hands are like those of a signora. But I am
not a real signora, though I have all this. How can you marry me? None
of your friends would speak to me, because I have not even been an
honest girl. That was for you, but they do not count love. Your servants
at the villa would laugh at you behind your back, and say, 'The master
has married one of us!' Do you think I could bear that? Tell me what you
think! Am I of stone, to bear that people should laugh at you?"
She took breath at last and leaned back again, folding her arms and
fixing her splendid eyes on his face, and challenging him to answer her.
"We will go and live in Calabria, at San Domenico, for a while," he
said. "We need not live in Rome at all, unless we please, for we have
the whole world before us."
"We saw the world together without being married," Regina answered
obstinately. "What difference would there be, if we were husband and
wife? Do you wish to know what difference there would be? I will tell
you. There would be this difference. One day I should see no light in
your eyes, and your lips would be like stone. Then I should say, 'Heart
of my heart, you are tired of me, and I go.' But you would answer, 'You
cannot go, for you are my wife.' What would that be? That would be the
difference. Do you understand, or do you not understand? If you do not
understand, I can do nothing. But I will not marry you. Have you ever
seen a mule go down to the ford in spring, too heavily laden, when there
is freshet? He drowns, if he is driven in, because the burden is too
heavy. I will not be the burden; but I should be, if I were your wife,
because I am not a real signora. Now you know what I think."
"Yes," Marcello answered, "but I do not think in the same way."
He was not sure how to answer her arguments, and he lit a cigarette to
gain time. He was quietly determined to have his own way, but in order
to succeed he knew that he must persuade her till she agreed with him.
He could not drag her to the altar against her will.
Before he had thrown away the match, Regina had risen from her chair.
She leaned against the little marble mantelpiece, looking down at him.
"There are things that you do not know," she said. "If you knew them you
would not want to marry me. In all the time we have been together, you
have hardly ever spoken to me of your mother."
Marcello started a little and looked up, unconsciously showing that he
was displeased.
"No," he answered. "Why should I?"
"You were right. Your mother is now one of the saints in Paradise. How
do I know it? Even Settimia knew it. I am not going to talk of her now.
I am not fit to speak her name in your hearing. Very well. Do you know
what my mother was?"
"She is dead," Marcello replied, meaning that Regina should let her
memory alone.
"Or my father?" she asked, going on. "They were bad people. I come of a
bad race. Perhaps that is why I do wrong easily, for you. My father
killed a man and left us, though he was allowed to go free, and I never
saw him again. He had reason to kill the man. I was a little girl, but I
remember. My mother took other men. They came and went; sometimes they
were drunk and they beat us. When I was twelve years old one of them
looked upon me with bad eyes. Then my mother cursed him, and he took up
a stone and struck her on the head, and she died. They sent him to the
galleys, and me to work at the inn, because I had no friends. This is
the family of Regina. It is a race of assassins and wicked women. If I
were your wife, that would be the family of your wife. If God sent
children, that would be the blood they would have of me, to mix with
that of your mother, who is one of the saints in heaven. This is the
truth. If you think I am telling you one thing for another, let us go to
the inn on the Frascati road. Paoluccio and Nanna know. They would laugh
if they could see me dressed like a real signora, and they would say,
'This girl is her mother's daughter!' And so I am."
She ceased speaking, and again waited for his answer, but he had none
ready, and there was silence. She had put the ugly truth too plainly
before him, and he could not shut up his understanding against it; he
could not deny what she said, he could never teach himself to believe
that it did not matter. And yet, he did not mean to draw back, or give
up his purpose, even then. Men of good birth had married peasant women
before now. They had given up the society of their old friends, they had
lived in remote places, they had become half peasants themselves, their
sons had grown up to be rough farmers, and had done obligatory military
service in the ranks for years, because they could not pass an easy
examination. But was all that so very terrible after all, in the light
of the duty that faced him?
The woman had saved his life, had carried him in her arms, had tended
him like a child, had stolen food to keep him alive, had faced
starvation for him when she had got him to the hospital, had nursed
him--had loved him, had given him all she had, and she would have died
for him, if there had been need. Now, she was giving him something more,
for she was refusing to be his wife because she was sure that sooner or
later she must be a burden to him, and that her birth would be a
reproach to his children. No woman could do more for a man than she had
done. She had been his salvation and his good angel; when she had found
out that the life in Paris that amused her was killing him, she had
brought him back to himself, she had made him at last fit and able to
face those who would have destroyed him. She had loved him like a
woman, she had obeyed him and served him like a devoted servant, she had
watched over him like a faithful dog; and he had given her nothing in
return for all that, not one thing that deserved to be counted. Perhaps
he had not even really loved her; most surely his love had been far less
large and true and devoted than hers, and he felt that it was so. The
reparation he was determined to make was not really for her honesty's
sake; it was to be an attempt at repaying a debt that was weighing upon
his conscience like a debt of honour.
That was it. He felt that unless he could in some way repay her for what
she had done, his man's honour would not be satisfied. That was very
well, in its way, but it was not love. It was as if he had said to
himself, "I cannot love her as she loves me, but I can at least marry
her; and that is better than nothing, and has the merit of being morally
right."
She had told him that if she still made him happy he would not talk of
marriage. The brutal truth shamed him, now that he knew it from her own
lips. It was not the whole truth, but it was a great part of it. If he
was happy with her now, when there was nothing to disturb them, it was
by force of habit, it was because her beauty appealed to him, it was
because her touch was dearer to him than her heart's devotion. Now that
he was a grown man, he knew well enough that he craved something else
which poor Regina could never give him.
For he felt the want of companionship. Those who have lost what is most
worth having, whether by death or by their own fault, or by the other's,
miss the companionship of love more than anything else, when the pain of
the first wrench is dulled and the heart's blood is staunched, and the
dreadful bodily loneliness comes only in dreams. Then the longing for
the old sweet intercourse of thought and word makes itself felt and is
very hard to bear, though it is not sharp like the first wound; and it
comes again and again for years, and perhaps for ever.
But where there is no true companionship while love lasts, there is
something lacking, and such love cannot live long. Men seem to want it
more than women do; and women, seeing that men want something, often
fancy they want flattery, and natter the men they love till they disgust
them; and then the end comes suddenly, much to the astonishment of those
women.
Regina was too womanly not to feel that Marcello was in real need of
something which she had not, and could never have. She had known it from
the first, and had almost told him so. She gave what was hers to give,
as long as he wanted it; when he wanted it no more, she meant to leave
him, and it would make no difference what became of her afterwards.
When she had finished speaking, Marcello was very miserable, because he
could find no answer to what she had said, and he felt that she had no
right to say it at all. His head ached now, from excitement and want of
sleep, and he almost wished that he had put off speaking to Regina about
her marriage. He rested his head in his hand as he sat thinking, and she
came and stood beside him as she had done in the morning in the little
house in Trastevere. But it was not the same now. She hoped that he
would put up his other hand to find hers, without looking at her, as he
often did, but it gripped his knee as if he did not mean to move it, and
he did not raise his head.
She looked up from his bent figure to the window and saw that the light
was reddening with the first tinge of sunset. It would soon be night,
Marcello would go away, and she would be dreadfully lonely. It was not
like being in the little house, knowing that he was near her, in the
great villa on top of the hill, hidden from her only by trees. She was
in a strange place now, and he would be far away, across the Tiber, and
the great dark city would be between her and him.
For an instant her lip quivered, and she thought she was going to cry,
though she had never cried in her life, except for rage and when she had
been a little girl. She shook her handsome head impatiently at the mere
sensation, and held it higher than ever. Then Marcello looked up at
last.
As their eyes met they heard the tinkle of the little bell. Regina at
once left his side to go and open the door. It was not till she had left
the room that Marcello rose, asking himself suddenly why it had not
occurred to him to go himself. He realised that he had always allowed
her to wait on him without question. Yet if she were his wife, he would
not think of letting her do what she was doing now. He would even open
the door of the room for her to go out.
He knew why he had never treated her in that way. She was a peasant
girl, she had been a servant in an inn; it was natural that she should
serve him too. She often brought him his shoes when he was going out,
and she would have put them on for him and laced them if he would have
let her do it. It seemed natural that she should answer the bell and
open the door, as it seemed unnatural that she should ever be his wife.
The thought stung him, and again, he was ashamed.
While these things were passing in his mind, he heard a familiar voice
in the dark entry.
"Signora, you will excuse me," Ercole was saying. "I asked the Professor
and he told me. I beg the favour of a few words."
"Come in," Regina answered, and a moment later they both entered the
sitting-room.
Ercole stood still when he saw Marcello, and began to turn his hat in
his hands, as if it were a rosary, which he generally did when he was
embarrassed. Marcello wondered what the man wanted.
"Were you looking for me?" he asked. "Come in! What is it? Has anything
happened?"
"No, sir, nothing new has happened," answered Ercole.
"What is it, then? Why did you come here?"
Ercole had dressed himself for the occasion in his best clothes. He had
on a snowy shirt and a new keeper's jacket, and his boots were blacked.
Furthermore, he had just been shaved, and his shaggy hair had been cut
rather close. He did not carry his gun about with him in the streets of
Rome, though he felt that it was slightly derogatory to his dignity to
be seen without it, and Nino was not with him, having been temporarily
chained to the wall in the court of the stables at the villa.
He stood still, and looked from Marcello to Regina, and back to Marcello
again.
"It cannot be done," he said suddenly. "It is useless. It cannot be
done."
Without another word he turned abruptly and was going to leave the room,
when Marcello stopped him authoritatively.
"Come here, Ercole!" he cried, as the man was disappearing into the
entry.
"Did you speak to me, sir?" Ercole inquired, stopping in the doorway.
"Yes. Shut the door and come here." Ercole obeyed with evident
reluctance. "Now, then," Marcello continued, "come here and tell me what
you want, and what it is that cannot be done."
"I desire a few words with this lady, and I did not know that you were
here, sir. Therefore I said, it cannot be done. I mean that while you
are here, sir, I cannot speak alone with this lady."
"That is clear," Marcello answered. "You cannot be alone with this lady
while I am in the room. That certainly cannot be done. Why do you wish
to be alone with her? You can speak before me."
"It will not be so easy, sir. I will come at another time."
"No," Marcello answered, not liking his manner. "You will say what you
have to say now, or you will say nothing, for you will not come at
another time. The lady will not let you in, if you come again. Now
speak."
"It will be a little difficult, sir. I would rather speak to the lady
alone."
Regina had stood listening in silence, and looking intently at Ercole's
face.
"Let me speak to him," she said to Marcello. "What is your full name?"
she asked, turning to Ercole again.
"Spalletta Ercole, to serve you," was the prompt answer.
"Spalletta?" Marcello asked in surprise, for strange as it may seem to
any but Italians, it was quite natural that he should never have known
Ercole's family name. "Spalletta? That is your own name, Regina! What a
strange coincidence!"
"Yes," Ercole said. "I know that the young lady's name is Spalletta. It
is for this reason that I desire the favour of a few words with her
alone."
"There is no need," Regina answered. "Since we have the same name, there
is no doubt. I remember your face now, though until last night I had not
seen you since I was a little child. Yes. I know what you have come to
say, and it is quite true."
"What?" asked Marcello with some anxiety.
"This man is my father," Regina said, very quietly.
"Your father!" Marcello made half a step backwards in his surprise.
"Yes. I have told you what he did." She turned to Ercole. "What do you
want of me? Is it money that you want, perhaps?"
Ercole stiffened himself and seemed to grow taller. His black eyes
flashed dangerously, and his heavy eyebrows were suddenly stern and
level, as Regina's were.
"You are your mother's daughter," he said slowly. "Did I take money from
her? I took blood, and when I was tried for it, I was set free. I was
told that it was my right under our law. I do not want money. I have
brought you money. There it is. It will buy you some bread when your
lover turns you into the street!"
He took out his old sheepskin purse with a quick movement, and laughed
harshly as he tossed it at her. Marcello sprang forward and caught him
by the collar, to thrust him out of the room; but Ercole was tough and
wiry, and resisted.
"Will you hinder me from giving money to my daughter?" he asked
fiercely. "It was yours, for you paid it to me; but when I knew, I saved
my wages to give them back, for I will not take your money, sir! Take
your hands from me, sir! I have a right to be here and to speak. Let me
go, I tell you! I am not in your service any longer. I do not eat your
cursed bread. I am this woman's father, and I shall say what I will."
Marcello withdrew his hands and pointed to the door.
"Go!" he said, in a voice of command.
Ercole backed away a little, and then stood still again.
"I have to tell you that I have spent five francs of that money," he
said, speaking to Regina. "But it was spent for you. I found a good
monk, and I gave him the five francs to say three masses for your soul.
The masses were said in August, and now it is November, and you are
still alive!"
"Go!" cried Marcello, understanding, and advancing upon him once more.
"I go," answered Ercole hoarsely. "Let her live, till you are tired of
her, and she dies in a ditch! I told the monk to say the masses for a
female. They will do for the woman who was killed last night. One female
is worth another, and evil befall them all, as many as they are! Why did
the Eternal Father ever create them?"
He had turned before he spoke the last words, and he went out
deliberately, shutting the door behind him. They heard him go out upon
the landing, and they were alone again. Regina leaned back against the
mantelpiece, but Marcello began to walk up and down the room.
"You have seen," she said, in a rather unsteady voice. "Now you know of
what blood I am, and that what I said was true. The son of your mother
cannot marry the daughter of that man."
"What have you to do with him?" Marcello asked sharply, stopping in his
walk.
But Regina only shook her head, and turned away. She knew that she was
right, and that he knew it too, or would know it soon.
"You will never see him again," he said. "Forget that you have seen him
at all!"
Again she shook her head, not looking at him.
"You will not forget," she answered, "and I shall always remember. He
should have killed me, as he meant to do. It would have been the end. It
would have been better, and quicker."
"God forbid!"
"Why? Would it not have been better?"
She came close to him and laid one hand upon his shoulder and gazed into
his eyes. They were full of trouble and pain, and they did not lighten
for her; his brow did not relax and his lips did not part. After a
little while she turned again and went back to the fireplace.
"It would have been better," she said in a low voice. "I knew it this
morning."
There was silence in the room for a while. Marcello stood beside her,
holding her hand in his, and trying to see her face. He was very tender
with her, but there was no thrill in his touch. Something was gone that
would never come back.
"When all this trouble is over," he said at last, "you shall go back to
the little house in Trastevere, and it will be just as it was before."
She raised her head rather proudly, as she answered.
"If that could be, it would be now. You would have taken me in your arms
when he was gone, and you would have kissed my eyes and my hair, and we
should have been happy, just as it was before. But instead, you want to
comfort me, you want to be kind to me, you want to be just to me,
instead of loving me!"
"Regina! I do love you! I do indeed!"
He would have put his arms round her to draw her closer to him, in the
sudden longing to make her think that there was no change in his love,
but she quietly resisted him.
"You have been very good to me, dear," she said, "and I know you will
always be that, whatever comes. And I am always yours, dear, and you are
the master, whenever you choose to come and see me. For I care for
nothing that God has made, except you. But it will never be just as it
used to be."
"It shall!" Marcello tried to put conviction into the words. "It shall!
It shall!"
"It cannot, my heart," she answered. "I used to say that when this came,
I would go away. But I will not do that, unless you bid me to, for I
think you would be sorry, and I should be giving you more pain, and you
have enough. Only leave me a little while alone, dear, for I am very
tired, and it is growing late."
He took her hands and kissed them one after the other, and looked into
her face. His own was very weary.
"Promise me that I shall find you here to-morrow," he said.
"You shall find me," she answered softly.
They parted so, and he left her alone, in the dark, for the glow of the
sunset had faded and the early November evening was closing in.
Old Teresa came and brought a lamp, and drew the curtains, and gave her
a message from Kalmon. If she needed anything she was to send for him,
and he would come at once. She thanked Teresa. It was very kind of the
Professor, but she needed nothing. Not even a fire; no, she hardly ever
felt cold. Teresa brought something to eat, and set the little table for
her. She was not hungry, and she was glad when the good soul was gone.
She could open the windows when she was alone, and look out into the
silent street. There was moonlight now, and it fell across the walls and
trees of the Villa Aurora upon her face. It was a young moon, that would
set before midnight, but it was very clear and bright, and the sky was
infinitely deep and very clear behind it. Regina fancied that if there
were really angels in heaven, she should be able to see them on such a
night.
If she had been in Trastevere she would have gone out to walk up and
down the old paved paths of the little garden, for she could not sleep,
though she was so tired. The lamp disturbed her and she put it out, and
sat down by the window again.
It was very quiet now, for it was past nine o'clock. She heard a step,
and it almost surprised her. A man with a big dog was walking in the
shadow on the other side of the street, and when he was opposite the
house he stood still and looked up at her window. He did not move for
some time, but the dog came out into the moonlight in a leisurely way,
and lay down on the paving stones. All dogs think it is warmer in the
light than in the shadow.
Regina rose, got a long black cloak and a dark veil without lighting a
candle, and put them on. Then she went out.