Giannella was amazed at learning the next morning that she and
Mariuccia were to wait on the Princess at ten o'clock. Bianchi called
her into the study to give her the message, without any explanation
or comment. Mariuccia had followed her to the door and listened
attentively at the keyhole, so she had little to learn when the girl
came out, grasped her arm excitedly, and dragged her back to the
kitchen. There they stood and stared at one another in dumb perplexity.
Mariuccia threw up her hands at last and turned away, as if giving the
problem up.
Then Giannella broke out in agitated whispers: "What does it mean? She
forgets all about us for three years at least--and now, just as she is
going away, we are to be sure to go to her at ten o'clock. It must be
something very extraordinary. Everything is in a bustle down there;
they were packing the traveling carriages already when I went out to
Mass. What can she want of us?"
"Better ask Pasquino,"[1] Mariuccia replied with a toss of the head,
"I don't know. Perhaps the Princess means to take you to the country
with her."
"That is very likely, is it not?" retorted Giannella, her eyes
flashing with sudden wrath, "after banishing me from her presence--for
nothing--all these years! I wish she had left me alone in the
beginning. Why didn't you all let me be a servant, earning my living
like other girls, poor like me, and not made miserable by being
educated above their wretched station in life? What good did the
reading and writing, the designing and embroidery, ever do me? Here I
am, a grown woman, still as dependent as a baby or an idiot. No, I am
not grateful to the Princess. If she began, she should have finished. I
could do for her what dear Signora Dati, of good memory, did--I could
write her letters and save her many steps, many annoyances--I could
have been useful to her or some other lady. That was what Signora Dati
meant for me--she told me so once. But no. The Princess takes a dislike
to me, and I am dropped out of sight. I would not take one step for her
now. I will not go down this morning."
By this time Giannella's cheeks were flaming and tears of anger were
brimming in her eyes. She stood, tense and panting, her hands behind
her, the incarnation of sudden revolt. Mariuccia was appalled. The
revelation of slow secret suffering would have grieved her to the
heart at any other time, but now it was swallowed up in horror at
the audacity of the girl's declaration. Not obey the commands of a
Cestaldini, of Mariuccia's own Princess, the greatest personage in
her world except the Holy Father himself! And then, this outburst of
black ingratitude, why, it was like Lucifer rebelling against the
Divine mandates! The stern old peasant felt that she must conquer this
demon of insurrection on the spot. She came and put both her hands on
Giannella's shoulders and looked her straight in the eyes. The hands
felt heavy as flatirons, but the girl stiffened her shoulders under
their weight, and the gray eyes were bright and burning, for all the
tears, as they met the angry black ones.
"You sometimes say that I have been like a mother to you," Mariuccia
began, her deep masculine tones rumbling like approaching thunder. "Do
you know what I would do if I were really your mother? For all that
you are long and large, I would take that little stick over there,"
she pointed to a broomstick in the corner, "and give you a beating you
would never forget. That is how we teach obedience and respect in the
Castelli. But because you are not my child--though God knows I have
loved you as if you were--" The voice choked and a dimness came over
the old eyes that still never flinched from their steady, reproachful
gaze.
Then Giannella's arms were flung round her neck, and the golden head
was buried on her shoulder, and the young heart was weeping out its
storm of love and sorrow and remorse against the old one.
"Mariuccia mia," she sobbed, "you have been an angel to me, and I am a
wretch, an ingrate, but I love you. It was not true, not a single word.
I will do anything you wish, anything--even go down to the Princess."
"What are you about, you females?" cried a sharp voice in the passage.
"Do you know that it is half-past nine? Make haste and get ready to
go to her Excellency." Then the study door was slammed impatiently.
Evidently the master was not in a good temper this morning.
When the two women presented themselves at the Princess's door at
five minutes to ten, Giannella was led away alone, and Mariuccia,
much against her will, left to wait in the anteroom. All Giannella's
rage had evaporated by this time and the old awe, the sense of being
dominated by greater powers, stole over her as she followed the
attendant through the series of remembered rooms, silent and splendid,
darkened to keep out the heat, and pleasantly cool compared with the
burning air of the courtyard outside. She recalled her first childish
impression that the place must be a church; then, sooner than she
expected it, she found herself standing before the Princess in the
same old attitude of frightened submission. She knew that she would
do whatever was required of her if the regal black-robed woman in
the great chair by the table had any commands to issue. She had no
particular curiosity now as to what they might prove to be; she only
felt the oppressive weight of authority made visible.
But the command, when it came, gave her a most disagreeable shock.
The Princess, with the gravity of a judge summing up the case against
a prisoner, opened her discourse by stating the facts. An honorable
proposal had been made to Giannella by the kind and upright gentleman
to whom she already owed so much, and the judge was grieved to learn
that it had been met in a most unsuitable spirit. No opening was given
to the prisoner in which to express any private opinion, no loophole in
the argument permitted escape from the logical conclusion--namely, that
a young girl alone in the world was committing a great sin in refusing
the protection of a Christian husband. Such a course could only point
to one thing, an innate levity of character (the Princess, remembering
her former apprehensions about Onorato, looked sternly condemnatory as
she said this), a levity which, unchecked, must end in a disastrous
downward career. She spoke of the horrible temptations to which needy
and unprotected young women are exposed, warned her listener of the
abominable designs harbored by men who tried to make poor girls believe
that they admired them; contrasted Signor Bianchi's honorable behavior
with that of such base deceivers; and finally asked Giannella to
contemplate the picture of her own destiny should the Professor, justly
incensed at her ingratitude, refuse her in future the shelter of his
roof.
The speaker felt that this was not a time to mince matters, and she
made her meaning so cruelly clear, that Giannella, who had never had
her attention drawn to the degraded aspects of human nature, was
overwhelmed with shame and horror, and found it impossible to control
the flood of tears which rose to her eyes. The Princess, seeing that
she had gained her point with the girl, sent for Mariuccia, who had
been fuming in the anteroom for three-quarters of an hour. When she
made her appearance, Giannella was standing beside the big chair, still
weeping bitterly; the Princess was holding her hand quite kindly. The
prisoner had repented, and was now to be forgiven in form.
"There is nothing to cry about now, my child," the judge was saying;
"you are naturally sorry for having shown yourself so ungrateful and
unamiable to the good man who has done so much for you and only asks
to do more. But now you understand things better--how exceedingly
fortunate it is for you, who have no relations and no dowry, to find
an honest Christian husband to protect you from the dangers I have
been describing and which would certainly assail you if you were left
alone in the world. Now go home and tell Signor Bianchi that you will
do your best to be a good wife to him. Believe me, respect is a better
foundation for happiness in matrimony than any sentimental affection
such as young people sometimes permit themselves to dream of. Heaven
will grant you the necessary graces for fulfilling your duty in the
married state; and here is a little present"--the Princess picked up a
closed envelope from the table and put it into Giannella's hand--"with
which you can buy your wedding dress--you had better get a black silk,
it will be useful to you afterwards. Now wait outside while I speak
with this good woman a moment."
Giannella, too much overcome to say a word, kissed the extended hand
and withdrew to digest her misery in the outer room while Mariuccia
should receive her own particular scolding. Giannella's world had
slipped from under her feet. Even her trust in Rinaldo was shaken. As
for speaking of him--her adored, beautiful Rinaldo--to the terrible
Princess--she felt that it would have been easier and quite as useful
to jump out of the window. Perhaps he was in reality like the wicked
men of whose existence she had shudderingly learned; but that was
hard to believe. Only that morning he had looked at her with such a
light of truth in his dark eyes, had told her so joyfully about the
big picture--and then, with such poignant regret, that the purchaser
was leaving in a few days and insisted on its being completed, so that
every moment of daylight must go to it, and Rinaldo feared he could not
even come to Mass till next Sunday. Would Giannella remember to pray
for him till then? He would be needing it so badly. And Giannella had
laughingly replied that the next day was Sunday, when he must certainly
come and pray for himself. And on that they had shaken hands for the
first time. It was like sealing a compact. And when his fingers touched
hers he had opened his lips as if to speak--and had kept back the words
with an evident effort. Oh, she knew what they would have been. But of
course he was too honorable to let them pass his lips before he had
Mariuccia's sanction. Did Mariuccia dream of anything? Was it possible
that she was even now making out some kind of a case for her wretched
Giannella against the plausible, desirable, unendurable Professor?
What a time she was in there! And then the door opened and Mariuccia
came towards her with averted eyes and a silent shake of the head,
and Giannella saw that all was lost. Her only ally had succumbed, like
herself. Who were they, poor women of the people, to argue or reason
with authority in high places?
They returned home silently, Giannella too sick at heart to discuss the
sentence which destiny seemed to have passed upon her, and Mariuccia
so angry with everything and everybody that she was ferociously sulky
all day. The Professor wisely stayed away till the evening, so as to
give the Princess's admonitions time to sink in. When he came back for
supper, expecting to find Giannella all submission and repentance, he
was curtly informed that she was not well and had been sent to bed.
And Mariuccia would not tell him a single word of what had taken place
at the interview of the morning. What was more, he caught a glimpse of
a magnificent pile of fruit and vegetables on the kitchen table (one
of Rinaldo's now constant sendings from the vigna), and when his tray
appeared it was disappointingly empty of what he considered his dues of
the bounties which his servant's relatives seemed to have been sending
her of late with such praiseworthy generosity. This symptom appeared
to him most ominous. It could only indicate a most unusual state of
things and pointed clearly to open revolt. Well, with the Princess
away the worst danger had passed; he argued only good from Giannella's
indisposition; she was preparing to meet him in the right spirit, and
a few hours must be granted her in which to accustom her mind to the
new dispensation. Now for the article on the Cardinal's inestimable
fragment.
Giannella herself could scarcely have catalogued her thoughts as she
sat the next morning at the window of the workroom; she only knew that
she wished to keep out of the padrone's way and that to this inner
fortress he never ventured to penetrate. She had a headache and a
heartache and felt quite ill enough to justify Mariuccia's statement.
She almost hoped, with the delightful audacity of youth, that she was
going to die. That appeared to be the shortest and most becoming way
out of her troubles.
Just as she had reached this conclusion there was a shadow of wings on
the window ledge, and then Themistocles alighted there, his head on one
side and an alluring air of hope and mystery in his bearing. Giannella
reached down for the little basket of grain which always stood under
the work-table, and when she raised her head again the pigeon hopped
in and began to peck from her hand. Suddenly she gave a little cry
and leaned over to look closer. There was a bit of ribbon under the
collar round his neck, and, peeping out from beneath one wing, a
minute fold of paper. He had brought her a message from Rinaldo! With
trembling fingers she untied the ribbon, and drew forth from its plumed
resting-place a three-cornered note, which she opened in a tumult of
happiness. The color flushed up to her temples and her eyes shone when
she found a leaf of verbena pasted to the paper, and two words written
beneath, "Amicizia eterna."
Eternal friendship! That was all he had dared to say, but how much
it meant. Love in the respectful dress of friendship--that meant
eternal love. Giannella raised the little leaf to her cheek, smelt its
delicate perfume, brought it to her lips and kissed it once, twice,
a dozen times. Its fragrance seemed to speak of all happy things, it
gave her back her courage, her buoyancy, her very life. Should she
answer? Ah no, that would be too bold; besides, there was no word in
her vocabulary that would express the delicate ecstacy that filled her
heart. Yet she would send something--a leaf of the rose geranium there,
sweet as the verbena itself, and meaning, as she remembered from old
sentimental friendships at the convent, "Constancy under suffering."
There was nothing unmaidenly in that.
Her nimble fingers, still so white and fine, gathered the leaf, folded
it in thin paper, and attached it to the ribbon. Themistocles was
busily engaged on the Indian corn when she tied it on. Having picked
up the last grain he perched for a moment on the window ledge, glanced
this way and that, then flung himself off into the quivering sunshot
blue of the noon, rose, and flew steadily away over the monastery roof.
"You make me a liar!" exclaimed Mariuccia, coming in a few minutes
later and looking at the suddenly recovered invalid with delighted
astonishment. "I told the padrone you were ill."
"So I am," replied Giannella, laughing for joy, "too ill to see him
to-day. Oh, Mariuccia, if you love me just a little let me stay in
here. I cannot wait on the padrone this morning."
"Rest easy, figlia mia, you shall not," the old woman promised. "I told
him you were hot and cold, and consumed with fever. You looked like
that an hour or two ago, so I shall not get a sore tongue this time."
"It is all true," cried Giannella, "I burn with fever--but it is a good
fever. I feel happy--I want to sing."
"Better so," growled the other; "since it seems you must marry him, I
am glad you are pleased. It is another thing for me. I cannot say that
I am. What has made you change your mind so suddenly? Are you thinking
of the silk dress and the confetti?"
All the color left Giannella's face and she gave a little cry. "Madonna
mia buona, I had forgotten! Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?"
And she covered her eyes with her hands and rocked herself in her
chair. She had forgotten--for a few happy moments--all that had gone
before--the Princess's manifesto, her own conviction while listening to
it that there could be no right action in opposition to so much sense
and piety--her remorse for her own selfishness and willfulness, the
perception of the duty which stood unbendingly before her.
She rose and paced the narrow room, all her senses at war. Who could
help her? Who would tell her which was right and to be obeyed--her
own intense repulsion for Bianchi, strengthened a thousandfold by the
upspringing of the new love, the first love, all unbaptized as yet, but
drawing her with every chord of the spirit, every fiber of the flesh,
to her natural mate? or the fiat of those whom God had placed in
authority over her, the Princess, the Professor? She thought of taking
her case to her confessor, Padre Anselmo, over there at San Severino;
but how could she lay it honestly before the dim-eyed old saint, who
seemed already to be hovering so far above earth that he could only see
things from above, as the angels see them? How could she bare her heart
to him, confess that it had become a shrine of glory where a thousand
love lamps burned round one worshiped picture, the picture of a man she
had known but a few weeks and who had spoken no word to her or to her
natural guardians to show that he meant to ask her in marriage?
She felt that she should die of shame if she had to tell that, for who
would ever understand? In days gone by, before she had seen love's
face, she had listened, first hopefully and then despondingly, to
Mariuccia's prophecies about the good young husband who would come to
seek for her. Then, marriage had presented itself as a mere change of
state, very slightly connected with the shadowy wooer. She had never
read a novel, never spoken with a person in love; the relations of
husband and wife had been wrapped for her in the impenetrable veil so
strongly insisted on in the Castelli, where girls at that time grew
up to womanhood believing what their mothers told them--that the mere
breath of man, a kiss or even a sigh, was all that was needed to make a
maid a mother. Trusting to this complete impersonality of the married
relation, it might have been possible for the Giannella of three
months earlier to bow her pretty head to fate and accept even Carlo
Bianchi as a husband, had authority voiced its mandate then; but now,
now the new music, new yet tenderly familiar, was sounding in her ears;
life lay before her like an unblown rose that every hour of sunshine
was kissing into bloom; a new Giannella had been born, and her every
heart-beat cried aloud, "I will live, I will live."
FOOTNOTE:
[1] The mutilated statue which served as a gazette of public opinion.
All lampoons, caricatures, etc. were pasted on the pedestal in the
night, and there was generally a little crowd gathered round it in the
morning. The questions were affixed to another torso called Marforio,
near by, and "Pasquino" displayed the answers.