VIRGINIA DECLINES THE HEIGHTS
I took up my lodgings at the Bear, in Arezzo, and made all such
preparations to receive my wife as were becoming. I engaged a woman to
wait upon her, had a withdrawing-room--as the French say, a boudoir--
fitted up, and caused her bedchamber to be hung with the best curtain
and wall furniture the place could afford, I then proceeded to dine, but
told the landlord that he must be prepared at any moment to place a
fresh cover on the table, with a bottle of his most excellent wine. To
Belviso, who persisted in playing valet, and who told me that he had
been in Arezzo before more than once, I entrusted the privilege--though
I grudged it him--of seeking far and wide through the town for
Virginia's lodging. I said, "Brother, you failed me once, in spite of
yourself, when you tried so bravely to find my wife. Don't fail me this
time, I beseech you."
He looked troubled; he fingered the tablecloth before he spoke. I
encouraged him to open me his mind. "Well, Don Francis," said he, most
uncomfortably, "the task you put upon me then was very easy but for the
one little circumstance that Virginia was not there. But this present is
of enormous difficulty."
"Why so, my dear?" I asked him.
"For the one little circumstance that Virginia IS here," said he; and
then, seeing my bewilderment, he added, "You don't know the Tuscans of
her class as well as I do, that's certain. You know them as children, as
warm-hearted, passionate simpletons; but you have yet to learn how
tender they are of their reputation, and how quick to feel a touch. I
have never seen your Virginia, but I'll warrant her as proud as fire. I
believe that she would rather die than occupy that damask-hung bed, even
with your honour for mate. And supposing she consented to that, do you
not guess what would be the first thing she would do? It would be to
scratch the eyes out of that Donna di Camera you have given her. And she
would do that, mind you, in self-defence, for the Donna di Camera (who
is probably a little above her in degree) would certainly do the same
for Virginia."
I own to having been somewhat put about. "My dear Belviso," I said,
"Virginia is liable to impulse, it may be admitted; but she is never
likely to forget what wifely duty involves. I was not a cruel husband to
her, and left her through no fault of my own. I will answer for her that
she will be a good wife."
"A good wife--for Francesco the carpenter," said Belviso. "Yes, it may
be so, though I own that her marriage puzzles me. But wife to Don
Francesco--nobile Inglese--never in the world!"
I said, "Belviso, I never asked you to be my servant, as you very well
know. The proposal came from you against my will. But if my servant you
are, I will make free to remind you that I have given you an order, and
shall be obliged if you will set about performing it." The good lad
dropped on one knee, took my hand and kissed it, and turned to obey me
without a word. Ashamed of myself, I patted him on the shoulder in token
of forgiveness, and saw the tears spring into his eyes. Before he could
reach the door, Fra Palamone had filled up the entry, panting, holding
out a note.
"For the Excellency of Don Francesco," says he, "just delivered at the
door by a young female." I took it from him; it was in the hand of
Virginia, the hand I myself had guided, the good and docile hand which
had formed itself on mine.
I read--O Heaven, can I say so? The words, like knives at work, cut
themselves deep into the fibres of my heart.
Virginia wrote:
"MOST EXCELLENT DON FRANCIS,--
"That cavalcade of his lordship's, of four horses and two servants,
entering this city of Arezzo at three o'clock in the afternoon of to-
day, was witnessed by a concourse of people, always eager to see a great
gentleman, and to secure some part of his bounty. Had his lordship
lifted his eyes to the windows of the shops and houses of the poor as he
passed by, he would have seen Virginia Strozzi at her needlework--that
poor creature whose virtue his lordship was so benevolent as to protect;
for which truly gracious act his same poor Virginia must always be
grateful. It would have been a great kindness in his lordship to have
allowed one, who ever tried to be faithful and obedient, to kiss his
noble hand; and his Virginia cannot doubt but that she might have done
so. His lordship's nobility of mind and generosity of heart are so well
known, that for the very reason of them she has not dared to present
herself. I know what my duty is; I cannot come to you. I beg him not to
seek me; I am going away so soon as I have delivered this letter. Do not
ask me to come, Francis, I cannot, I cannot, I cannot.
"Your VIRGINIA, who tries to be good."
This letter stunned me. I sank under it, as under a violent blow. With
me also fell, dashed to the ground, all my honourable resolutions, all
my hopes of gaining self-respect. I will not deny also that I was
savagely stung by mortification; for a man is so made that he does not
relish a refusal any the more for being aware that he has not too
anxiously sought acceptance; but, on the contrary, his self-reproach for
that tardiness of his is made more bitter by the rebuff. He feels that
he has deserved it, and is the more deeply wounded.
And had I not deserved it? Why had I not crept back into Lucca--in any
disguise, by any subterfuge--when I was driven out? Why had I not braved
a second disgrace--nay, imprisonment, stripes, even death, on Virginia's
account? Alas, it was because Virginia's account was not heavy enough in
my books. Pass that, and have at me again. Why, when I knew her
whereabouts, did I not strike off across the hills to find her? Was it
that she would not have welcomed me naked, have cherished me dying, have
died herself to save me? Alas, no! It was because I had been drawn on to
Siena by that lovely, haunting, beckoning, beguiling vision of Aurelia,
my torture and stem of shame. Why, finally, were my eyes not lifted up
to her wistful eyes, as she sat--poor sempstress--in that upper room? It
was because of my accursed prosperity. It was because my eyes were cased
and swollen in pride; because my fine horse held them; because I thought
I had but to nod and be obeyed by--my wife! Thy wife, sayest thou,
Francis? Nay, wretched fool, but thy SLAVE! Out upon thee--out!
White and suffering, not knowing what to do, I sat by my untasted board
and gave the letter into Belviso's hand to read. He read it carefully,
and Fra Palamone peeped over his shoulder. He was the first to speak.
He clacked his tongue to his palate--that gross and forcible rogue; he
looked all about him with his arms spread abroad, as if he were scouring
the air to find Virginia. "She's off," he said, "she's off, that's
plain. Bolted like a coney to the hills. Now, who's our man?"
I struck my breast. "It is I, Fra Palamone. I am her man."
He inspected me for half a moment, as if to judge of the possibility;
but took no further notice of me. He walked to the window and looked
out--up and down the street. "Clean heels," says he, "and she was within
reach of my hand."
"What!" I cried. "It was she who----" I did not finish but rushed at the
door. Belviso, divining my insane purpose, caught me by the coat.
"Stay, Don Francis--let any one go but you." Seeing that I paused
irresolute, he went on to urge me by all that I held dear to do nothing
so foolish. "Do you suppose," he said, "that YOU will find her--knowing
nothing of Arezzo--and she knowing all? Do you think her so light, that,
having borne the first sight of you already without faltering, she will
fall to you at the second? You have taught me wiselier about her out of
your own mouth. Let us question the friar." He turned to Palamone, who
had his mouth open and was scratching in his beard.
The frate said that Virginia herself had delivered the letter into his
hands as he stood taking the air at the inn door. He scoffed at the
notion that he could be mistaken; had he not nearly lost his life for
her already? He described her in terms too luscious to be palatable--a
fine and full wench, he called her, bare-headed, bare-necked, with the
breasts of Hebe. "And," says he, "Don Francis, you may call her your
wife or by what other pleasant phrase you please, but though I'd allow
you, to do you pleasure, that that were what she ought to be--wife, at
least, to somebody--saving your respect, she's no wife at all. There's
not a wedded woman in all Italy would go abroad with a bare bosom--you
may take the word of an expert for that. She's tricked you, sir,--or you
have tricked her. She has had what she has had without responsibility--
and now she's away; and if I may be allowed the remark, I should say you
were well rid of her. An excellent dinner awaits you here--more than
enough for one, a bare pittance for two; a courteous banker awaits you
in Florence. Old Palamone will scratch his eyes out to save you. After
dinner, sir, half of Arezzo--"
I said, "Palamone, I lay this command upon you, since you profess
yourself my friend. Find me Virginia, wheresoever she may be. I will
give you a thousand guineas. Without her you have not one farthing of
mine."
He seized my hands. "A thousand devils would not send me faster--
consider her in your arms." He went gaily out of my presence with a song
on his lips. I heard him singing it lustily down the street of the town,
and saw no more of him for some days.
Belviso was of great comfort to me during my time of anxiety; without
the faithful creature I should have run my feet off my legs and my wit
out of my head in futile search. He was much too tactful to remind me of
his warnings, but did not cease to show me all sorts of reasonable
grounds for Virginia's conduct, which had the effect of keeping his
first prognostication always before me. "The girl," he said--I repeat
the sum of his many discourses--"is evidently a good girl, and of strong
character. She is perfectly reasonable. She married you--I take that for
granted--when you were broken, beyond all prospect of repair. She now
finds you restored to your proper station in the world, and will be no
party to pulling you off your throne. She sees very well how that must
end--unhappily. How can she hope to be a companion of your companions, a
friend of your friends, a sharer in your amusements? Mistress she might
be, your toy; wife she can never be. That parade of her neck and bosom--
a desperate measure I assure you--shows to my mind that you will never
possess her again, but as you would not care to do. You assure me that
you married her, you name the church, describe the rites. All seems to
be in order; but the more I understand your Virginia in these late
proceedings, the less I understand that wedding in the Ghetto.
Everything I learn of her from her own acts convinces me of her good
sense; but of her acts as reported by you, Don Francis, I reserve my
judgment."
My heart and whole mind being now set upon finding her, my chagrin may
be imagined when Fra Palamone returned without her. He demanded money to
prosecute his researches beyond the confines of Arezzo. "She's a deep
one," he said, "she's as deep as the sea. Who can tell where she is by
now? May be in Venice, may be in Rome, may be in the attics of this
inn." I gave him twenty guineas, and he disappeared again for ten days.
At the end of that time he returned once more, horribly dishevelled,
dirty and extended. He looked to be just out and about again after a
ruinous debauch. He talked in hollow whispers, he trembled in the limbs,
he started and turned pale at a shadow, or the sound of a mouse in the
wainscot. He said he had been to Ancona, Gubbio, Rimini, Ravenna,
Chioggia, Venice, Udine, Trieste. He demanded money--fifty guineas; but
this time I gave him nothing. I was preparing to go to Florence, and had
other agents than him in view. I dismissed him from my service, and told
him to go to the devil. He left me for the moment, vowing as he did it
that he should never, never quit my service, and I found that it was no
easier to get rid of him now than it had ever been. I saw him on the
morrow; I saw him every day. The more I saw of him the more I abhorred
him; and the more I made this plain the more devoted he professed
himself. Wherever I went he shadowed me. He lurked in the dark corners
of churches where I made my devotions, or studied the monuments until I
rose from my knees. If I rode in the country I knew that he was not far
away, if I frequented public assemblies I saw his keen eyes upon me, and
his wide mouth fixed at a patient grin. He was oppressively, sickeningly
affectionate, his role being that of the old friend of my family, who
had rocked my cradle and held me by my leading-strings. At meals he came
skipping about me with little offerings: "A rose-bud for my bosom's
king!" he would say; "Fresh-pulled radishes for my heart's blood!"; and
once, while I was at dinner, he danced up to the table with a large and
bleeding rabbit, saying, "A coney for my dear, of old Palamone's
wiring!" This was too much for my patience; I swung the beast about his
ears, drove him from the room and flung his catch after him. He brought
me no more presents, but did not cease to be my shadow.