Gheta Sanviano often passed a night at the Mantegazzas' villa on the
Height of Castena, a long mile from the city.
Lavinia, too, knew the dwelling well, for Sanviano and Pier Mantegazza
had been intimate from their similar beginnings, and she had played
there as a child. However, she had never been regularly asked with
Gheta; and when that occurred--Gheta indifferently delivered Anna
Mantegazza's message--and her mother acquiesced, Lavinia had a renewed
sense of her growing importance.
She went out early, in the heat of midday, a time that fitted best with
the involved schedule of the Sanvianos' single equipage--Anna would take
her sister directly from a luncheon at the Ginoris'. Lavinia looked with
mingled anticipation and relief at the approaching graceful façade added
scarcely a hundred and fifty years before to the otherwise somber abode
of the Mantegazzas, first established in the twelfth century.
The villa stood on an eminence, circled by austere pines, and terraced
with innumerable vegetable gardens and frugally planted olives. The road
mounted abruptly, turned under a frowning wall incongruously topped with
delicately painted urns, and doubled across the massive iron-bound door
that closed the arched entrance. Within, an immensely high timbered hall
was pleasantly cool and dark after the white blaze without. It was bare
of furnishing except for a number of rude oak settles against the naked
stone walls. It had been a place of fear to Lavinia when a child; and
even now she left it with a sense of relief for the modernized interior
beyond.
Pier Mantegazza was standing before a high inclined table, which bore
a number of blackened and shapeless medallions. He was a famous
numismatic--a tall stooping man, slightly lame, and enveloped in a
premature gray ill health that resembled clinging cobwebs. He bent and
brushed Lavinia's forehead with his crisp mustache, and then returned to
the delicate manipulation of a magnifying glass and a small blue bottle
of acid. She left him for a deep chair and a surprising French romance
by Remy de Gourmont. At a long philosophical dialogue the book drooped,
and she thought of Anna Mantegazza and her husband.
She wondered whether they were happy. But she decided, measuring
that condition solely by her own requirement, that such a state was
impossible for them. It had certainly been a marriage for money and
position; prior to the ceremony the Casa Mantegazza had been closed
for years, and Pier Mantegazza occupied a small establishment near the
Military Hospital, on the Via San Gallo. Anna Cane had arrived in Rome,
without family or credentials, and unknown to the American Embassy
other than by amazing deposits at the best banks. But she did have, in
addition to this, a pungent charm and undeniable force and good taste.
It was said that the moment she had seen Mantegazza's villa she had
decided to possess it, even at the price of its sere withdrawn holder.
She had gone at once into the best Florentine and Roman society.
That was ten years before, but Lavinia realized that she had never
successfully assimilated the Italian social formula. She mixed the
most diverse elements of their world willfully and found enjoyment in
bringing about amusing situations. She seemed devoid of the foundations
of proper caution; in fact, she mocked at them openly. And if she
had not been a model Catholic, and herself above the slightest moral
question, even Mantegazza could not have carried her among his own
circles. As it was, people flocked to her elaborate parties, torn
between the hope of being amazed and the fear that they should furnish
the hub of the occasion.
Gheta and her hostess arrived later. The former, it appeared to Lavinia,
looked disconcerted; and it was evident that she had been remonstrating
with Anna Mantegazza. The other laughed provokingly.
“Nonsense!” she declared. “It was too good to miss; besides, you're an
old campaigner.”
A stair of flagging, turning sharply round a stone pillar, led
incongruously from the light French furnishings to the chamber where
Lavinia was to sleep. A Renaissance bed, made of thick quilting directly
upon the floor, was covered with gilt ecclesiastical embroidery; and a
movable tub stood in a stone corner. The narrow deep windows overlooked
Florence, a somber expanse of roofing; and, coming rapidly toward
the villa, Lavinia could see a tall dogcart, with a groom and two
passengers. They were men; and, as they drew nearer, Lavinia--with a
sudden pounding of her heart--realized the cause of the slight friction
between the two women. The cart bore Cesare Orsi, and Mochales the
bull-fighter, the Flower of Spain. It was a part of Anna Mantegazza's
humor that the men, so essentially antagonistic, should arrive together
clinging precariously on the high insecure trap.
Tea was served at five on the terrace, and Lavinia dressed with minute
care. Gheta, she knew, had brought a new lavender lawn with little gold
velvet buttons and lace; while she had nothing but the familiar coarse
white mull. But she had fresh ribbons and she gazed with satisfaction at
her firm, faintly rosy countenance. She would have no wrinkles for years
to come. However, she thought, with a return to her sense of tragic
gloom, such considerations were of little moment, as Abrego y Mochales
would scarcely be aware of her existence; he would never know....
Perhaps, years after--
She purposely delayed her appearance on the terrace until the others
had assembled, and then quietly took possession of a chair. Cesare Orsi
greeted her with effusive warmth, the Spaniard bowed ceremoniously.
A wide prospect of countryside flowed away in innumerable hills and
valleys, clothed in the silvery smoke of olives and in green-black
pines; below, a bank of cherry trees were in bloom. The air was sweet
and still and full of a warm radiance.
Lavinia luxuriated in her unhappiness. Mochales, she decided, must
be the handsomest man in existence. His unchanging gravity fascinated
her--the man's face, his voice, his dignified gestures, were all steeped
in a splendid melancholy.
“I am a peasant,” he said, apparently addressing them all, but with his
eyes upon Gheta, “from Estremadura, in the mountains. The life there was
very hard, and that was fortunate for me; the food was scarce, and that
was good too. If I ate like the grandees a bull would end me in the hot
sun of the first _fiesta_; I'd double up like a pancake. I must work all
the time--run for miles and play _pelota_.”
Lavinia was possessed by a new contempt for her kind, which she centered
upon Orsi, clumsy and stupidly smiling. It was clear that he couldn't
run a mile; in fact, he admitted that he detested all exercise. How
absurd he looked in his tight plaited jacket! It appeared that he was
always perspiring; a crime, she felt sure--with entire disregard of its
fatal consequences--that Mochales never committed.
“A friend of ours--it was Bembo--said that he saw you at San Sebastian
with your King,” Anna Mantegazza put in.
“Why not? But Alphonso is a fine boy; he understands the business of
royalty. Every year I dedicate a magnificent bull to the King on his
name day.”
“Will you dedicate one to me?” Gheta asked carelessly.
“The best in Andalusia,” he responded with fire.
Cesare Orsi made a slight sharp exclamation, and Lavinia's heart beat
painfully. The former turned to her with sudden determination.
“Were you comfortable in my carriage,” he demanded, “and fetched home at
a smart pace?” Lavinia thanked him.
“You are always so quiet,” he complained. “I'm certain there's a great
deal in that wise young head worth hearing.”
“Lavinia is still in the schoolroom,” Gheta explained brutally.
“Yesterday she put up her hair, to-day Anna Mantegazza invites her, and
we have an effect.”
Anna Mantegazza turned to the younger with a new veiled scrutiny. Her
gaze rested for an instant on Orsi and then moved contemplatively to
Gheta and Abrego y Mochales. It was evident that her thoughts were very
busy; a faint sparkle appeared in her eyes, a fresh vivacity animated
her manner. Suddenly she included Lavinia in her remarks; she put
queries to the girl patently intended to draw her out. Gheta grew uneasy
and then cross.
“I'm sick of sitting here,” she declared; “let's walk about. It's
cooler, and Pier Mantegazza's place is always worth investigation.”
She rose and waited for Cesare Orsi, then led the small procession from
under the striped tea kiosk down the terrace. The way grew steep and
she rested a hand on Orsi's arm. Anna, Lavinia and the Flower of Spain
followed together, until the first moved forward to join the leaders.
Lavinia's gaze was obscured by a sort of warm mist; she clasped her
hands to keep them from trembling. In a narrow flagged turn Mochales
brushed her shoulder. He scarcely moved his eyes from Gheta's back. Once
he gazed somberly at the girl beside him and she responded with a pale
questioning smile. “I have had a great misfortune,” he told her.
“Oh, I'm terribly, terribly sorry!”
“I've lost a blessed coin that interceded for me since the first day I
went in the bull ring. I'd give a thousand wax candles for its return.
Now--when I need everything,” he continued as if to himself. “Your
sister is beautiful,” he added abruptly. “Everybody thinks so,” Lavinia
replied in a voice she endeavored to make enthusiastic. “She has had
tens of admirers here and at Rome and Lucca.” There she knew she
should stop; but she continued: “Cesare Orsi is very persistent and
tremendously rich.”
Mochales made a short unintelligible remark in Spanish. He twisted a
cigarette with lightning-like rapidity and only one hand. Together
they looked at Orsi's broad ungainly back, and the bull-fighter's lips
tightened, exposing a glimmer of his immaculate teeth. They passed a
neat whitewashed cottage, where an old couple stood bowing abjectly, and
came on a series of long pale-brown buildings and walls.
“The stables and barn,” Lavinia explained.
Anna Mantegazza turned. “You may see something of interest here,” she
called to Mochales.
A series of steps, made by projecting stones, rose to the top of an
eight-foot wall, up which Anna unexpectedly led the way. The wall was
broad, afforded a comfortable footing, and enclosed a straw-littered
yard. A number of doors led into a barn, and into one some men were
urging refractory cattle. In a corner a small compact bull, with the
rapierlike horns of the mountain breeds, was secured by a nose ring and
a short chain; and to the latter the men turned when the other animals
had been confined. Two threatened the animal with long poles, while a
third unfastened the chain from the wall; and then all endeavored to
drive him within. Abrego y Mochales stood easily above, watching these
clumsy efforts.
Suddenly the bull stopped, plunged his front hoofs into the soft mold
of the stable yard and swept his head from side to side with a broken
hoarse bellow. The men prodded him with urgent cries; but the bull
suddenly whirled, snapping the poles, and there was an immediate
scattering.
The sight of the retreating forms apparently enraged the animal, for he
charged with astonishing speed and barely missed horning the last man
to fall over the barricade of a half door. Mochales smiled; he called
familiarly to the bull. Then he stooped and vaulted lightly down into
the yard. Lavinia gave a short exclamation; she was cold with fear. Orsi
looked on without any emotion visible on his heavy face. Anna Mantegazza
leaned forward, tense with interest. “_Bravo!_” she called.
Gheta Sanviano smiled.
The bull did not see Mochales at first, then the man cried tauntingly.
The bull turned and stood with a lowered slowly-moving head, an uneasy
tail. The Spaniard found a small milking stool and, carrying it to the
middle of the yard, sat and comfortably rolled another cigarette. He was
searching for a match when the bull moved forward a pace; he had found
and was striking it when the bull increased his pace; he was guarding
the flame about the cigarette's end when the animal broke into a
charging run.
The Flower of Spain inhaled a deep breath of smoke, which he expelled in
deliberate globes.
“Oh, don't! Oh----” Lavinia exclaimed, an arm before her eyes.
Mochales shifted easily from his seat and apparently in the same instant
the bull crushed the stool to splinters.
“_Bravo! Bravo!_” Anna Mantegazza called again, and the man bowed until
his extended hat rested on the ground.
He straightened slowly; the bull whirled about and flung himself
forward. Abrego y Mochales now had one of the discarded poles; and,
waiting until the horns had almost encircled him, he vaulted lightly
and beautifully over the running animal's shoulder. He waited again,
avoiding the infuriated charge by a scant step; and, when the bull
stopped he had Mochales' hat placed squarely upon his horns. Lavinia
watched now in fascinated terror; she could not remove her gaze from the
slim figure in the short black jacket and narrow crimson sash. At the
moment when her tension relaxed, Mochales, with a short running step,
vaulted cleanly to the top of the wall. His cigarette was still
burning. She wanted desperately to add her praise to Anna Mantegazza's
enthusiastic plaudits, Gheta's subtle smile; but only the utmost
banalities occurred to her.
They descended the stone steps and slowly mounted toward the house.
Cesare Orsi resolutely dropped back beside Lavinia.
“You are really superb!” he told her in his highly colored Neapolitan
manner. “Most women--Anna Mantegazza for example--are like children
before such a show as that back there. Your sister, too, was pleased; it
appealed to her vanity, as the fellow intended it should. But you
only disliked it.... I could see that in your attitude. It was the
circus--that's all.”
Lavinia gazed at him out of an unfathomable contempt. She thought: What
a fool he is! It wasn't Abrego y Mochales' courage that appealed to
her most, although that had afforded her an exquisite thrill, but his
powerful grace, his absolute physical perfection. Orsi was heated again
and his tie had slipped up over the back of his collar.
She recalled the first talk she had had with him about Mochales and the
manner in which she had masked her true feeling for the latter.
How easy Orsi had been to mislead! Now she was seized by the desire to
show him the actual state of her mind; she wanted, in bitter sentences,
to tell him how infinitely superior the Spaniard was to such fat easy
grubs as himself. She longed to make clear to him exactly what it was
that women admired in men--romance and daring and splendid strength.
It might suit Gheta, who had wrinkles, to encourage such men as Cesare
Orsi; their wealth might appeal to cold and material minds, but they
could never hope to inspire passion; no one would ever cherish for them
a hopeless lifelong love.
“Do you know,” Orsi declared with firm conviction, “you are even
handsomer than your sister!”
“Fool! fool! fool!” But she could not, of course, say a word of what was
in her thoughts. She met his admiring gaze with a blank face, conscious
of how utterly her exterior belied and hid the actual Lavinia Sanviano.
She felt wearily old, sophisticated. In her room, dressing for the
evening, she made up her mind that she must have a black dinner
gown--later she would wear no other shade.