I
From the window of the drawing-room Lavinia Sanviano could see, on the
left, the Statue of Garibaldi, where the Corso Regina Maria cut into the
Lungarno; on the right, and farther along, the gray-green foliage of the
Cascine. Before her the Arno flowed away, sluggish and without a wrinkle
or reflection on its turbid surface, into Tuscany. It was past the
middle of afternoon, and a steady procession of carriages and mounted
officers in pale blue tunics moved below toward the shade of the
Cascine.
Lavinia could not see this gay progress very well, for the window--it
had only a narrow ledge guarded by an iron grille--was practically
filled by her sister, Gheta, and Anna Mantegazza. Occasionally
she leaned forward, pressed upon Gheta's shoulder, for a hasty
unsatisfactory glimpse.
“You are crushing my sleeves!” Gheta finally and sharply complained.
“Do go somewhere else. Anna and I want to talk without your young ears
eternally about. When do you return to the convent?”
Lavinia drew back. However, she didn't leave. She was accustomed to her
sister's complaining, and--unless the other went to their father--she
ignored her hints. Lavinia's curiosity in worldly scenes and topics was
almost as full as her imagination thereof. She was sixteen, and would
have to endure another year of obscurity before her marriage could be
thought of, or she take any part in the social life where Gheta moved
with such marked success.
But, Lavinia realized with a sigh, she couldn't expect to be pursued
like Gheta, who was very beautiful. Gheta was so exceptional that she
had been introduced to the Florentine polite world without the customary
preliminary of marriage. She could, almost every one agreed, marry very
nearly whomever and whenever she willed. Even now, after the number of
years she had been going about with practically all her friends wedded,
no one seriously criticized the Sanvianos for not insisting on a match
with one of the several eligibles who had unquestionably presented
themselves.
Gheta was slender and round; her complexion had the flawless pallid
bloom of a gardenia; her eyes and hair were dark, and her lips an
enticing scarlet thread. Perhaps her chin was a trifle lacking in
definition, her voice a little devoid of warmth; but those were
minor defects in a person so precisely radiant. Her dress was always
noticeably lovely; at present she wore pink tulle over lustrous gray,
with a high silver girdle, a narrow black velvet band and diamond clasp
about her delicate full throat.
Anna Mantegazza was more elaborately gowned, in white embroidery, with
a little French hat; but Anna Mantegazza was an American with millions,
and elaboration was a commonplace with her. Lavinia wore only a simple
white slip, confined about her flexible waist with a yellow ribbon; and
she was painfully conscious of the contrast she presented to the two
women seated in the front of the window.
The fact was that a whole fifth of the Sanvianos' income was spent
on Gheta's clothes; and this left only the most meager provision for
Lavinia. But this, the latter felt, was just--still in the convent,
she required comparatively little personal adornment; while the other's
beauty demanded a worthy emphasis. Later Lavinia would have tulle and
silver lace. She wished, however, that Gheta would get married; for
Lavinia knew that even if she came home she would be held back until the
older sister was settled. It was her opinion that Gheta was very silly
to show such indifference to Cesare Orsi.... Suddenly she longed to have
men--not fat and good-natured like the Neapolitan banker, but austere
and romantic--in love with her. She clasped her hands to her fine young
breast and a delicate color stained her cheeks. She stood very straight
and her breathing quickened through parted lips.
She was disturbed by the echo of a voice from the cool depths of the
house, and turned at approaching footfalls. The room was so high and
large that its stiff gilt and brocade furnishing appeared insignificant.
Three long windows faced the Lungarno, but two were screened with green
slatted blinds and heavily draped, and the light within was silvery and
illusive. A small man in correct English clothes, with a pointed bald
head and a heavy nose, entered impulsively.
“It's Bembo,” Lavinia announced flatly.
“Of course it's Bembo,” he echoed vivaciously. “Who's more faithful to
the Casa Sanviano----”
“At tea time,” Lavinia interrupted.
“Lavinia,” her sister said sharply, “don't be impertinent. There are so
many strangers driving,” she continued, to the man; “do stand and tell
us who they are. You know every second person in Europe.”
He pressed eagerly forward, and Anna Mantegazza turned and patted his
hand.
“I wish you were so attentive to Pier and myself,” she remarked,
both light and serious. “I'd like to buy you--you're indispensable in
Florence.”
“Contessa!” he protested. “Delighted! At once.”
“Bembo,” Gheta demanded, “duty--who's that in the little carriage with
the bells bowed over the horses?”
He leaned out over the grille, his beady alert gaze sweeping the way
below.
“Litolff,” he pronounced without a moment's hesitation--“a Russian
swell. The girl with him is----” He stopped with a side glance at
Lavinia, a slight shrug.
“Positively, Lavinia,” Gheta insisted again, more crossly, “you're a
nuisance! When do you go back to school?”
“In a week,” Lavinia answered serenely.
With Bembo added to the others, she could see almost nothing of the
scene below. Across the river the declining sun cast a rosy light on the
great glossy hedges and clipped foliage of the Boboli Gardens; far to
the left the paved height of the Piazzale Michelangelo rose above the
somber sweep of roofs and bridges; an aged bell rang harshly and mingled
with the inconsequential clatter on the Lungarno. An overwhelming sense
of the mystery of being stabbed, sharp as a knife, at her heart; a
choking longing possessed her to experience all--all the wonders of
life, but principally love.
“Look, Bembo!” Anna Mantegazza suddenly exclaimed. “No;
there--approaching! Who's that singular person in the hired carriage?”
Her interest was so roused that Lavinia, once more forgetful of
Gheta's sleeves, leaned over her sister's shoulder, and immediately
distinguished the object of their curiosity.
An open cab was moving slowly, almost directly under the window, with a
single patron--a slender man, sitting rigidly erect, in a short, black
shell jacket, open upon white linen, a long black tie, and a soft narrow
scarlet sash. He wore a wide-brimmed stiff felt hat slanted over a thin
countenance burned by the sun as dark as green bronze; his face was as
immobile as metal, too; it bore, as if permanently molded, an expression
of excessive contemptuous pride.
Bembo's voice rose in a babble of excited information.
“'Singular?' Why, that's one of the most interesting men alive. It's
Abrego y Mochales, the greatest bullfighter in existence, the Flower of
Spain. I've seen him in the ring and at San Sebastian with the King; and
I can assure you that one was hardly more important than the other. He's
idolized by every one in Spain and South America; women of all classes
fall over each other with declarations and gifts.”
As if he had heard the pronouncement of his name the man in the cab
turned sharply and looked up. Gheta was leaning out, and his gaze
fastened upon her with a sudden and extraordinary intensity. Lavinia
saw that her sister, without dissembling her interest, sat forward,
statuesque and lovely. It seemed to the former that the cab was an
intolerable time passing; she wished to draw Gheta back, to cover
her indiscretion from Anna Mantegazza's prying sight. She sighed with
inexplicable relief when she saw that the man had driven beyond them and
that he did not turn.
A bull-fighter! A blurred picture formed in Lavinia's mind from the
various details she had read and heard of the cruelty of the Spanish
national sport--torn horses, stiff on blood-soaked sand; a frenzied
and savage populace; and charging bulls, drenched with red froth. She
shuddered.
“What a brute!” she spoke aloud unintentionally.
Gheta glanced at her out of a cool superiority, but Anna Mantegazza
nodded vigorously.
“He would be a horrid person!” she affirmed.
“How silly!” Gheta responded. “It's an art, like the opera; he's an
artist in courage. Personally I find it rather fascinating. Most men are
so--so mild.”
Lavinia knew that the other was thinking of Cesare Orsi, and she agreed
with her sister that Orsi was far too mild. Without the Orsi fortune--he
had much more even than Anna Mantegazza--Cesare would simply get
nowhere. The Spaniard--Lavinia could not recall his name, although it
hung elusively among her thoughts--was different; women of all classes,
Bembo had said, pursued him with favors. He could be cruel, she
decided, and shivered a little vicariously. She half heard Bembo's rapid
high-pitched excitement over trifles.
“You are going to the Guarinis' sale to-morrow afternoon? But, of
course, every one is. Well, if I come across Abrego y Mochales before
then, and I'm almost certain to, and he'll come, I'll bring him. He's as
proud as the devil--duchesses, you see--so no airs with him. The
Flower of Spain. A king of sport sits high at the table--” He went on,
apparently interminable; but Lavinia turned away to where tea was being
laid in a far angle.
Others approached over the tiled hall and the Marchese Sanviano entered
with Cesare Orsi. The window was deserted, and the women trailed
gracefully toward the bubbling minor note of the alcohol lamp. Both
Sanviano and Orsi were big men--the former, like Bembo, wore English
clothes; but Orsi's ungainly body had been tightly garbed by a Southern
military tailor, making him--Lavinia thought--appear absolutely
ridiculous. His collar was both too tight and too high, although
perspiration promised relief from the latter.
A general and unremarkable conversation mingled with the faint rattle of
passing cups and low directions to a servant. Lavinia was seated next to
Cesare Orsi, but she was entirely oblivious of his heavy kindly face and
almost anxiously benevolent gaze. He spoke to her, and because she had
comprehended nothing of his speech she smiled at him with an absent and
illuminating charm. He smiled back, happy in her apparent pleasure; and
his good-nature was so insistent that she was impelled to reward it with
a remark.
She thought, she said, that Gheta was particularly lovely this
afternoon. He agreed eagerly; and Lavinia wondered whether she had been
clumsy. She simply couldn't imagine marrying Cesare Orsi, but she knew
that such a match for Gheta was freely discussed, and she hoped that her
sister would not make difficulties. She wouldn't have dresses so
fussy as Gheta's--in figure, anyhow, she was perhaps her sister's
superior--fine materials, simply cut, with a ruffle at the throat and
hem, a satin wrap pointed at the back, with a soft tassel....
Orsi was talking to Gheta, and she was answering him with a brevity
that had cast a shade of annoyance over the Marchese Sanviano's large
features. Lavinia agreed with her father that Gheta was a fool. She must
be thirty, the younger suddenly realized. Bembo was growing hysterical
from the tea and his own shrill anecdotes. He resembled a grotesque
performing bird with a large beak. Lavinia's mind returned to the silent
dark man who had passed in a cab. She wished, now, that she had been
sitting at the front of the window--the object of his unsparing intense
gaze. She realized that he was extremely handsome, and contrasted his
erect slim carriage with Orsi's thick slouched shoulders. The latter
interrupted her look, misinterpreted it, and said something about candy
from Giacosa's.
Lavinia thanked him and rose; the discussion about the tea table became
unbearably stupid, no better than the flat chatter of the nuns at
school.
Her room was small and barely furnished, with a thin rug over the stone
floor, and opened upon the court about which the house was built. The
Sanvianos occupied the second floor. Below, the _piano nobile_ was
rented by the proprietor of a great wine industry. It was evident that
he was going out to dinner, for his dark blue brougham was waiting
at the inner entrance. The horse, a fine sleek animal, was stamping
impatiently, with ringing shoes, on the paved court. A flowering
magnolia tree against one corner filled the thickening dusk with a heavy
palpitating sweetness.
Lavinia stayed for a long while at the ledge of her window. Her hair,
which she wore braided in a smooth heavy rope, slid out and hung free.
The brougham left, with a clatter of hoofs and a final clang of the
great iron-bound door on the street; above, white stars grew visible in
a blue dust. She dressed slowly, changing from one plain gown to another
hardly less simple. Before the mirror, in an unsatisfactory lamplight,
she studied her appearance in comparison with Gheta's.
She lacked the latter's lustrous pallor, the petal-like richness of
Gheta's skin. Lavinia's cheeks bore a perceptible flush, which she
detested and tried vainly to mask with powder. Her eyes, a clear bluish
gray, inherited from the Lombard strain in her mother, were not so much
fancied as her sister's brown; but at least they were more uncommon and
contrasted nicely with her straight dark bang. Her shoulders and arms
she surveyed with frank healthy approbation. Now her hair annoyed
her, swinging childishly about her waist, and she secured it in an
instinctively effective coil on the top of her head. She decided to
leave it there for dinner. Her mother was away for the night; and she
knew that Gheta's sarcasm would only stir their father to a teasing
mirth.
Later, Gheta departed for a ball, together with the Marchese
Sanviano--to be dropped at his club--and Lavinia was left alone. The
scene in the court was repeated, but with less flourish than earlier in
the evening. Gheta would be nominally in the charge of Anna Mantegazza;
but Lavinia knew how laxly the American would hold her responsibility.
She wished, moving disconsolately under high painted ceilings through
the semi-gloom of still formal chambers, that she was a recognized
beauty--free, like Gheta.
The drawing-room, from which they had watched the afternoon procession,
was in complete darkness, save for the luminous rectangle of the window
they had occupied. Its drapery was still disarranged. Lavinia crossed
the room and stood at the grille. The lights strung along the river,
curving away like uniform pale bubbles, cast a thin illumination over
the Lungarno, through which a solitary vehicle moved. Lavinia idly
watched it approach, but her interest increased as it halted directly
opposite where she stood. A man got quickly out--a lithe figure with a
broad-brimmed hat slanted across his eyes. It was, she realized with
an involuntary quickening of her blood, Abrego y Mochales. A second
man followed, tendered him a curiously shaped object, and stood by
the waiting cab while the bull-fighter walked deliberately forward. He
stopped under the window and shifted the thing in his hands.
A rich chord of strings vibrated through the night, another followed,
and then a brief pattern of sound was woven from the serious notes of
a guitar. Lavinia shrank back within the room--it was, incredibly, a
serenade on the stolid Lungarno. It was for Gheta! The romance of the
south of Spain had come to life under their window. A voice joined
the instrument, melodious and melancholy, singing an air with little
variation, but with an insistent burden of desire. The voice and the
guitar mingled and fluctuated, drifting up from the pavement exotic and
moving. Lavinia could comprehend but little of the Spanish:
_“I followed through the acacias,
But it was only the wind.
.... looked for you beyond the limes----“_
The thrill at her heart deepened until tears wet her cheeks. It was for
Gheta, but it overwhelmed Lavinia with a formless and aching emotion;
it was for Gheta, but her response was instant and uncontrollable. It
seemed to Lavinia that the sheer beauty of life, which had moved her
so sharply, had been magnified unbearably; she had never dreamed of the
possibilities of such ecstasy or such delectable grief.
The song ended abruptly, with a sharp jarring note. The man by the
carriage moved deferentially forward and took the guitar. She could
see the minute pulsating sparks of cigarettes; heard a direction to the
driver. Abrego y Mochales and the other got into the cab and it turned
and shambled away. Lavinia Sanviano moved forward mechanically, gazing
after the dark vanishing shape on the road. She was shaken, almost
appalled, by the feeling that stirred her. A momentary terror of living
swept over her; the thrills persisted; her hands were icy cold. She had
been safely a child until now, when she had lost that small security,
and gained--what?
She studied herself, clad in her coarse nightgown with narrow lace, in
her inadequate mirror. The color had left her cheeks and her eyes shone
darkly from shadows. “Lavinia Sanviano!” she spoke aloud, with the
extraordinary sensation of addressing, in her reflection, a stranger.
She could never, never wear her hair down again, she thought with an odd
pang.