VIRGINIA VEXES
On returning to my house I ended a day of agitation by an interview with
Virginia. I found her in an abject way, scarcely able to speak, and very
unwilling to raise her eyes. She was dressed, and perfectly composed,
and said what she had to say in a tone deliberately dry. "I ask your
lordship's pardon," she began at once, "for the tempest I raised in your
house. I ask it on my knees. I forgot myself; I lost myself. I have not
seen your lordship for many months."
I begged her to allude to it no more. I myself had been glad to see her,
I said.
She looked up quickly--only for a moment--and showed a hint of her
former fire. "I think that you were--I did think so," she said; then
checked herself and was silent.
"There is no doubt about it," said I, "therefore let nothing disturb
you. Take your time and tell me your news. You have seen--you have
heard---"
"Yes, yes," she said, "I have seen your Aurelia. She came to our convent
a week ago in a chaise and pair."
This startled me--a week ago!
"I should have told you before if I could," she continued, "but they
keep us close, us penitents. I have run away; I could not bear that you
should remain ignorant. If they find me they will beat me to death."
I assured her of my protection and returned to the subject of Aurelia.
How, I asked, had she come? Had she been ill--in distress?
"Not at all," said Virginia. "She was elegantly dressed. She was
protected by an old woman. She wore a mask and a travelling hood, and
went into the nuns' parlour. She asked for a cup of chocolate, which was
brought her. I saw her in the chapel at the office."
How often had I seen her so--my saint on her knees!
"She was on her knees--yes," said Virginia, "but she yawned very much.
She did not rise till noon on the next morning."
I clasped my friend's hand. "Oh, Virginia, you have seen her!" I cried.
"You help me to see her. Is she not perfection?"
Virginia was rather cool. "Who knows?" she said, shrugging, "she is like
all Sienese women. She is fatter than I am. I allow her shape. But she
is not near so tall. She is a little thing. She wears her clothes well.
And she is merry enough when she has her tongue." I could afford to
smile at this grudging admiration. "My dear girl," I said, "you little
know her--but how should you? Tell me more. Did you speak to her?" She
nodded her head and told her story. "I waited my time. I was washing the
canon's linen in the little cloister. That was my job, week in and week
out. She came through. She was scolding her old woman. I followed her
round the cloister, and when the coast was clear, said, 'Hist, Madonna.'
She turned and looked at me with her eyes wide open. They are handsome
eyes for a Sienese woman. That I allow. She said, 'Do you call me?' Says
I, 'I do.' She says, 'Well?' I reply, 'He is well if you are.' 'Who,
then?' says she. I say, 'Your lover.' This makes her jump like a flea on
the bed. But she brazens it out finely, turning to her old crone with a
'What does the girl mean?' Bless you, THEY knew well enough. I folded my
arms--so; I said, 'He has walked the stony hills barefoot to find you.
He will be out of his skin, standing on his head, to know you are here.'
She stamped her foot and flew into a passion. 'How dare you?' she cries
out. 'Tell me of whom you are talking this rubbish.' I nodded my head
many times--so--and said, 'You are lucky to have him so fast.' She went
away. After that she never passed me without tossing her head; and
presently I ran away." I was greatly perturbed by this tale of hers, and
not unreasonably angry. I said, "Unhappy girl! you little know the harm
you have done. Have I instructed you so badly in myself that you can
think to serve me by your servant-girl mysteries and your nods and
winks? I enjoin you to leave my affairs absolutely alone. You are to
tell me no more, speak of me no more, see Donna Aurelia no more. Since
you have left the convent and are in danger of punishment, you must, of
course, stay here. You must be properly clothed and looked after. I will
see to that. Now recover yourself, and remember what I have said." I was
almost immediately sorry for my plain speaking; she was in extreme
misery, I could see. Tears streamed through her fingers, her body was
convulsed with grief. More than once she seemed upon the point of
lashing out at me with some furious blast of indignation; but she always
checked it, as it seemed, when it was at the edge of her lips.
Unthinking fool that I was! I little knew or guessed what she had
endured at the convent for my sake; how, treated as a sinful woman, she
had been the object of hard judgment and undeserved reproach--preached
at, prayed over, lectured, scolded, made a slave of; how she had loved
me and believed in me through all; and how, unable to bear her lot,
coming to me at last, I had proved the most cruel of her oppressors--and
precisely the most cruel because, from me, she deserved the least
reproach. However, I must not extenuate myself, nor forestall my
history. I begged her pardon for my severity and obtained her ready
forgiveness. From that hour forward she kept herself apart from me as my
servant, having arranged for her share of his duties with Scipione; and
she never by word or look recalled the time when a much closer intimacy
had existed between us.
One disturbing incident in my affairs with her must be mentioned in this
place, although it did not occur until I had twice waited upon Donna
Aurelia. It was indeed upon my return from the second of those visits
that Scipione came into the room after me with some secret or another
which he itched, evidently, to impart to me. After some hesitation, he
asked leave to exhibit Virginia to me, dressed, said he, according to
the best of his ability as such a fine girl should be dressed. I nodded
my head--having little attention to give him just then--and he presently
returned, leading Virginia by the hand.
"There, sir," said the jaunty rogue. "Now perhaps your honour will say
that she is worth looking at." I stared at Virginia, who coloured
finely, and hung her head.
I must say that, preoccupied as I was, I was astonished at what I saw.
He had transformed her by some means out of a sulky and dejected
penitent into a young woman of noble appearance and refined beauty. I
had seen that transformation once before--at Prato; but here was a more
mature and assured fine lady. She wore her hair over a cushion, a
handsome dress of yellow and white brocade upon a quilted petticoat,
silk stockings, and high-heeled shoes. Not only were the clothes fine of
their kind and well fitted to her person, but she wore them surprisingly
well; their colour set off her clear, chiselled and dark beauty; and
that, as if stung by the rivalry, came fiercely out to meet them. The
joy and pride of battle tingled in her cheeks and shone in her eyes. She
was of that aquiline, keen type of feature which we are accustomed to
call patrician. She looked at once superb and secure, at once eager to
contend and sure of the prize. It may have been that, as her name of
Strozzi implied, she was a scion of that noble house, sunk by no faults
of her own in servitude and obscurity; suffice it to say that she was
strikingly handsome and perfectly aware of it. I was too much astonished
to be angry with Scipione, as I might reasonably have been. Nor could I
have had the heart, I acknowledge, to have dashed her natural pleasure
at her success by any abrupt expression of annoyance. I said, "Why,
Virginia, you are become a fine lady!" She stepped quickly forward,
knelt, and kissed my hand--an act of humility which touched me.
"Sir," said Scipione, "I told you that she had the makings. Your honour
can do as you please now, and nobody have a word to say. I can assure
you that the count lost his breath and his heart at once when he saw
her."
"The count!" I cried; and he told me that Count Giraldi had called for
me that afternoon and had entertained himself greatly with Virginia.
I sent Scipione away. It was necessary to know more of this. The moment
he was out of the room I asked her what had brought about this
masquerade of hers. She said timidly that Scipione had a sister who was
woman to a great lady. This person had several times been in to see her
brother, and this dress was of her providing. She said that they had
teased her about her appearance at Prato, where Scipione's sister had
seen her, it appears, and had dared to prove to them that she was indeed
that handsome lady with whom I had been observed. She hoped I should not
take it amiss, or be angry with "my servant," by which she meant
herself. I assured her that I was not at all angry--which was true, and
then begged her to tell me what the count had wanted. She said he had
called to leave me a message--an invitation to dine, I think--and that
Scipione, maliciously or ingenuously, had shown him into the room where
she was queening it in her borrowed finery.
I guessed there was more. "What had his Excellency to say on your
account, my child?" I asked her.
"He thought at first that I was what I seemed, and was most gallant,"
she replied, to my consternation. "I told him, however, that he was very
much mistaken, that I was a poor girl and your servant, playing as I
should not. This tickled his Excellency--or so it appeared."
"And he said--what, Virginia?" I was careful to hide from her my
discomfort over this foolish business.
Virginia, with what I am sure was perfect innocence of any evil, said,
"He was most kind. He praised my looks, and vowed that you were happily
served."
"And so I am," I said rather ruefully. "He was right. What next?"
"Next, sir," said this strange girl, "he praised my figure, which he
thought was mightily becoming this gown."
"Well, well, and he was right," I admitted. "But did he say nothing
more?"
Virginia would not look at me, but I caught the words, "He said that he
envied you the arrangements of your household."
"Well?" I asked her.
"And he said that he was sure I was as good as I was good-looking, and
gave your honour every satisfaction. And then he gave me a gold piece
and a salutation and was going away, when---"
"Well, well? Let me have the whole story."
"I shall vex you--but not more than I was vexed, I assure you. No harm
had been done--for you don't suppose that I wanted his money, serving
your honour. But just as he was going out what must that daughter of
mischief--Scipione's sister--do but blurt out that she had seen me with
your honour not near so well dressed at the fair at Prato. The count
started and looked very much intrigued. He asked me a score of
questions--artfully, you may be sure, as if to idle away the time. But I
told him nothing at all, and he presently was tired of working a dry
pump. He took his leave, and that Sataness went with him. God knows what
she knows! If I come within distance of her I shall drag her tongue out
of her throat, I promise you."
I told her not to trouble herself with what could not be helped. I did
not see how she could be blamed, and after all the count was my friend
and a man of honour. But I relieved my feelings by bestowing upon Master
Scipione one of the handsomest drubbings his oily skin had ever
received. I little knew then how richly he deserved it; but I found out
before long, and then if I could have killed him I am sure I would have
done it.