DURING the first few months of their marriage Reanda and Gloria believed
themselves happy, and really were, since there is no true criterion of
man's happiness but his own belief in it. They took a small furnished
apartment at the corner of the Macel de' Corvi, with an iron balcony
overlooking the Forum of Trajan. They would have had no difficulty in
obtaining other rooms adjoining the two Reanda had so long occupied in
the Palazzetto Borgia, but Gloria was opposed to the arrangement, and
Reanda did not insist upon it. The Forum of Trajan was within a
convenient distance of the palace, and he went daily to his work.
"Besides," said Gloria, "you will not always be painting frescoes for
Donna Francesca. I want you to paint a great picture, and send it to
Paris and get a medal."
She was ambitious for him, and dreamed of his winning world-wide fame.
She loved him, and she felt that Francesca had caged him, as Francesca
herself had once felt. She wished to remove him altogether from the
latter's influence, both because she was frankly jealous of his
friendship for the older woman, and wished to have him quite to herself,
and also in the belief that he could do greater things if he were
altogether freed from the task of decorating the palace, which had kept
him far too long in one limited sequence of production. There was,
moreover, a selfish consideration of vanity in her view, closely linked
with her unbounded admiration for her husband. She knew that she was
beautiful, and she wished his greatest work to be a painting of herself.
Gloria, however, wished also to take a position in Roman society, and
the only person who could help her and her husband to cross the line was
Francesca Campodonico. It was therefore impossible for Gloria to break
up the intimacy altogether, however much she might wish to do so.
Meanwhile, too, Reanda had not finished his frescoes.
Soon after the marriage, which took place in the summer, Dalrymple left
Rome, intending to be absent but a few months in Scotland, where his
presence was necessary on account of certain family affairs and
arrangements consequent upon the death of Lord Redin, the head of his
branch of the Dalrymples, and of Lord Redin's son only a few weeks
later, whereby the title went to an aged great-uncle of Angus
Dalrymple's, who was unmarried, so that Dalrymple's only brother became
the next heir.
Gloria was therefore quite alone with her husband. Paul Griggs had also
left Rome for a time on business connected with his journalistic career.
He had in reality been unwilling to expose himself to the unnecessary
suffering of witnessing Gloria's happiness, and had taken the earliest
opportunity of going away. Gloria herself was at first pleased by his
departure. Later, however, she wished that he would come back. She had
no one to whom she could turn when she was in need of any advice on
matters which Reanda could not or would not decide.
Reanda himself was at first as absolutely happy as he had expected to
be, and Francesca Campodonico congratulated herself on having brought
about a perfectly successful match. While he continued to work at the
Palazzetto Borgia, the two were often together for hours, as in former
times. Gloria had at first come regularly in the course of the morning
and sat in the hall while her husband was painting, but she had found it
a monotonous affair after a while. Reanda could not talk perpetually.
More than once, indeed, he introduced his wife's face amongst the many
he painted, and she was pleased, though not satisfied. He could not make
her one of the central figures which appeared throughout the series,
because the greater part of the work was done already, and it was
necessary to preserve the continuity of each resemblance. Gloria wished
to be the first everywhere, though she did not say so.
Little by little, she came less regularly in the mornings. She either
stayed at home and studied seriously the soprano parts of the great
operas then fashionable, or invented small errands which kept her out of
doors. She sometimes met Reanda when he left the palace, and they walked
home together to their midday breakfast.
Little by little, also, Francesca fell into the habit of visiting Reanda
in the great hall at hours when she was sure that Gloria would not be
there. It was not that she disliked to see them together, but rather
because she felt that Gloria was secretly antagonistic. There was a
small, perpetual, unexpressed hostility in Gloria's manner which could
not escape so sensitive a woman as Francesca. Reanda felt it, too, but
said nothing. He was almost foolishly in love with his wife, and he was
devotedly attached to Francesca herself. For the present he was very
simple in his dealings with himself, and he quietly shut his eyes to the
possibility of a disagreement between the two women, though he felt
that it was in the air.
Instead of diminishing with his marriage, the obligations under which he
was placed towards Donna Francesca were constantly increasing. She saw
and understood his wife's social ambition, and gave herself trouble to
satisfy it. Reanda felt this keenly, and while his gratitude increased,
he inwardly wished that each kindness might be the last. But Gloria had
the ambition and the right to be received in society on a footing of
equality, and no one but Francesca Campodonico could then give her what
she wanted.
She did not obtain what is commonly called social success, though many
people received her and her husband during the following winter. She got
admiration in plenty, and she herself believed that it was friendship.
Of the two, Reanda, who had no social ambition at all, was by far the
more popular. He was, as ever, quiet and unassuming, as became a man of
his extraordinary talent. He so evidently preferred in society to talk
with intelligent people rather than to make himself agreeable to the
very great, that the very great tried to attract him to themselves, in
order to appear intelligent in the eyes of others. They altogether
forgot that he was the son of the steward of Gerano, though he sometimes
spoke unaffectedly of his boyhood.
But Gloria reminded people too often that she had a right to be where
she was, as the daughter of Angus Dalrymple, who might some day be Lord
Redin. Fortunately for her, no one knew that Dalrymple had begun life as
a doctor, and very far from such prospects as now seemed quite within
the bounds of realization. But even as the possible Lord Redin, her
father's existence did not interest the Romans at all. They were not
accustomed to people who thought it necessary to justify their social
position by allusions to their parentage, and since Francesca
Campodonico had assured them that Dalrymple was a gentleman, they had no
further questions to ask, and raised their eyebrows when Gloria
volunteered information on the subject of her ancestors. They listened
politely, and turned the subject as soon as they could, because it bored
them.
But the admiration she got was genuine of its kind, as admiration and as
nothing else. Her magnificent voice was useful to ancient and charitable
princesses who wished to give concerts for the benefit of the deserving
poor, but her face disturbed the hearts of those excellent ladies who
had unmarried sons, and of other excellent ladies who had gay husbands.
Her beauty and her voice together were a danger, and must be admired
from a distance. Gloria and her husband were asked to many houses on
important occasions. Gloria went to see the princesses and duchesses,
and found them at home. Their cards appeared regularly at the small
house in the Macel de' Corvi, but there was always a mystery as to how
they got there, for the princesses and the duchesses themselves did not
appear, except once or twice when Francesca Campodonico brought one of
her friends with her, gently insisting that there should be a proper
call. Gloria understood, and said bitter things about society when she
was alone, and by degrees she began to say them to her husband.
"These Romans!" she exclaimed at last. "They believe that there is
nobody like themselves!"
Angelo Reanda's face had a pained look, as he laid his long thin hand
upon hers.
"My dear," he said gently. "You have married an artist. What would you
have? I am sure, people have received us very well."
"Very well! Of course--as though we had not the right to be received
well. But, Angelo--do not say such things--that I have married an
artist--"
"It is quite true," he answered, with a smile. "I work with my hands.
They do not. There is the difference."
"But you are the greatest artist in the world!" she cried
enthusiastically, throwing her arms round his neck, and kissing him
again and again. "It is ridiculous. In any other city, in London, in
Paris, people would run after you, people would not be able to do
enough for you. But it is not you; it is I. They do not like me, Angelo,
I know that they do not like me! They want me at their big parties, and
they want me to sing for them--but that is all. Not one of them wants me
for a friend. I am so lonely, Angelo."
Her eyes filled with tears, and he tried to comfort her.
"What does it matter, my heart?" he asked, soothingly. "We have each
other, have we not? I, who adore you, and you, who love me--"
"Love you? I worship you! That is why I wish you to have everything the
world holds, everything at your feet."
"But I am quite satisfied," objected Reanda, with unwise truth. "Do not
think of me."
She loved him, but she wished to put upon him some of her uncontrollable
longing for social success, in order to justify herself. To please her,
he should have joined in her complaint. Her tears dried suddenly, and
her eyes flashed.
"I will think of you!" she cried. "I have nothing else to think of. You
shall have it all, everything--they shall know what a man you are!"
"An artist, my dear, an artist. A little better than some, a little less
good than others. What can society do for me?"
She sighed, and the colour deepened a little in her cheeks. But she hid
her annoyance, for she loved him with a love at once passionate and
intentional, compounded of reality and of a strong inborn desire for
emotion, a desire closely connected with her longing for the life of the
stage, but now suddenly thrown with full force into the channel of her
actual life.
Reanda began to understand that his wife was not happy, and the
certainty reacted strongly upon him. He became more sad and abstracted
from day to day, when he was not with her. He longed, as only a man of
such a nature can long, for a friend in whom he could confide, and of
whom he could ask advice. He had such a friend, indeed, in Francesca
Campodonico, but he was too proud to turn to her, and too deeply
conscious that she had done all she could to give Gloria the social
position the latter coveted.
Francesca, on her side, was not slow to notice that something was
radically wrong. Reanda's manner had changed by degrees since his
marriage. His pride made him more formal with the woman to whom he owed
so much, and she felt that she could do nothing to break down the
barrier which was slowly rising between them. She suffered, in her way,
for she was far more sincerely attached to the man than she recognized,
or perhaps would have been willing to recognize, when she allowed
herself to look the situation fairly in the face. For months she
struggled against anything which could make her regret the marriage she
had made. But at last she admitted the fact that she regretted it, for
it thrust itself upon her and embittered her own life. Then she became
conscious in her heart of a silent and growing enmity for Gloria, and of
a profound pity for Angelo Reanda. Being ashamed of the enmity, as
something both sinful in her eyes, and beneath the nobility of her
nature, she expressed it, if that were expression, by allowing her pity
for the man to assert itself as it would. That, she told herself, was a
form of charity, and could not be wrong, however she looked at it.
All mention of Gloria vanished from her conversation with Reanda when
they were alone together. At such times she did her best to amuse him,
to interest him, and to take him out of himself. At first she had little
success. He answered her, and sometimes even entered into an argument
with her, but as soon as the subject dropped, she saw the look of
harassed preoccupation returning in his face. So far as his work was
concerned, what he did was as good as ever. Francesca thought it was
even better. But otherwise he was a changed man.
In the course of the winter Paul Griggs returned. One day Francesca was
sitting in the hall with Reanda, when a servant announced that Griggs
had asked to see her. She glanced at Reanda's face, and instantly
decided to receive the American alone in the drawing-room, on the other
side of the house.
"Why do you not receive him here?" asked Reanda, carelessly.
"Because--" she hesitated. "I should rather see him in the
drawing-room," she added a moment later, without giving any further
explanation.
Griggs told her that he had come back to stay through the year and
perhaps longer. She took a kindly interest in the young man, and was
glad to hear that he had improved his position and prospects during his
absence. He rarely found sympathy anywhere, and indeed needed very
little of it. But he was capable of impulse, and he had long ago decided
that Francesca was good, discreet, and kind. He answered her questions
readily enough, and his still face warmed a little while she talked with
him. She, on her part, could not help being interested in the lonely,
hard-working man who never seemed to need help of any kind, and was
climbing through life by the strength of his own hands. There was about
him at that time an air of reserved power which interested though it did
not attract those who knew him.
Suddenly he asked about Gloria and her husband. There was an odd
abruptness in the question, and a hard little laugh, quite unnecessary,
accompanied it. Francesca noted the change of manner, and remembered
how she had at first conceived the impression that Griggs admired
Gloria, but that Gloria was repelled by him.
"I suppose they are radiantly happy," he said.
Francesca hesitated, being truthful by nature, as well as loyal. There
was no reason why Griggs should not ask her the question, which was
natural enough, but she had many reasons for not wishing to answer it.
"Are they not happy?" he asked quickly, as her silence roused his
suspicions.
"I have never heard anything to the contrary," answered Francesca,
dangerously accurate in the statement.
"Oh!" Griggs uttered the ejaculation in a thoughtful tone, but said no
more.
"I hope I have not given you the impression that there is anything
wrong," said Francesca, showing her anxiety too much.
"I saw Dalrymple in England," answered Griggs, with ready tact. "He
seems very well satisfied with the match. By the bye, I daresay you have
heard that Dalrymple stands a good chance of dying a peer, if he ever
dies at all. With his constitution that is doubtful."
And he went on to explain to Francesca the matter of the Redin title,
and that as Dalrymple's elder brother, though married, was childless,
he himself would probably come into it some day. Then Griggs took his
leave without mentioning Reanda or Gloria again. But Francesca was aware
that she had betrayed Reanda's unhappiness to a man who had admired
Gloria, and had probably loved her before her marriage. She afterwards
blamed herself bitterly and very unjustly for what she had done.
Griggs went away, and called soon afterwards at the small house in the
Macel de' Corvi. He found Gloria alone, and she was glad to see him. She
told him that Reanda would also be delighted to hear of his return.
Griggs, who wrote about everything which gave him an opportunity of
using his very various knowledge, wrote also upon art, and besides the
first article he had written about Reanda, more than a year previously,
had, since then, frequently made allusion to the artist's great talent
in his newspaper correspondence. Reanda was therefore under an
obligation to the journalist, and Gloria herself was grateful. Moreover,
Englishmen who came to Rome had frequently been to see Reanda's work in
consequence of the articles. One old gentleman had tried to induce the
artist to paint a picture for him, but had met with a refusal, on the
ground that the work at the Palazzetto Borgia would occupy at least
another year. The Englishman said he should come back and try again.
Between Griggs and Gloria there was the sort of friendly confidence
which could not but exist under the circumstances. She had known him
long, and he had been her father's only friend in Rome. She remembered
him from the time when she had been a mere child, before her sudden
transition to womanhood. She trusted him. She understood perfectly well
that he loved her, but she believed that she had it in her power to keep
his love as completely in the background as he himself had kept it
hitherto. Her instinct told her also that Griggs might be a strong ally
in a moment of difficulty. His reserved strength impressed her even more
than it impressed Francesca Campodonico. She received him gladly, and
told him to come again.
He came, and she asked him to dinner, feeling sure that Reanda would
wish to see him. He accepted the first invitation and another which
followed before long. By insensible degrees, during the winter, Griggs
became very intimate at the house, as he had been formerly at
Dalrymple's lodgings.
"That young man loves you, my dear," said Reanda, one day in the
following spring, with a smile which showed how little anxiety he felt.
Gloria laughed gaily, and patted her husband's hand.
"What men like that call love!" she answered. "Besides--a journalist!
And hideous as he is!"
"He certainly has not a handsome face," laughed Reanda. "I am not
jealous," he added, with sudden gravity. "The man has done much for my
reputation, too, and I know what I owe him. I have good reason for
wishing to treat him well, and I am all the more pleased, if you find
him agreeable."
He made the rather formal speech in a decidedly formal tone, and with
the unconscious intention of justifying himself in some way, though he
was far too simple by nature to suspect himself of any complicated
motive. She looked at him, but did not quite understand.
"You surely do not suppose that I ever cared for him!" she said, readily
suspecting that he suspected her.
He started perceptibly, and looked into her eyes. She was very truly in
earnest, but her exaggerated self-consciousness had given her tone a
colour which he did not recognize. Some seconds passed before he
answered her. Then the gentle light came into his face as he realized
how much he loved her.
"How foolish you are, love!" he exclaimed. "But Griggs is younger than
I--it would not be so very unnatural if you had cared for him."
She broke out passionately.
"Younger than you! So am I, much younger than you! But you are young,
too. I will not have you suggest that you are not young. Of course you
are. You are unkind, besides. As though it could make the slightest
difference to me, if you were a hundred years old! But you do not
understand what my love for you is. You will never understand it. I wish
I loved you less; I should be happier than I am."
He drew her to him, reluctant, and the pained look which Francesca knew
so well came into his face.
"Are you unhappy, my heart?" he asked gently. "What is it, dear? Tell
me!"
She was nervous, and the confession or complaint had been unintentional
and the result of irritation more than of anything else. The fact that
he had taken it up made matters much worse. She was in that state in
which such a woman will make a mountain of a molehill rather than forego
the sympathy which her constitution needs in a larger measure than her
small sufferings can possibly claim.
"Oh, so unhappy!" she cried softly, hiding her face against his coat,
and glad to feel the tears in her eyes.
"But what is it?" he asked very kindly, smoothing her auburn hair with
one hand, while the other pressed her to him.
As he looked over her head at the wall, his face showed both pain and
perplexity. He had not the least idea what to do, except to humour her
as much as he could.
"I am so lonely, sometimes," she moaned. "The days are so long."
"And yet you do not come and sit with me in the mornings, as you used to
do at first." There was an accent of regret in his voice.
"She is always there," said Gloria, pressing her face closer to his
coat.
"Indeed she is not!" he cried, and she could feel the little breath of
indignation he drew. "I am a great deal alone."
"Not half as much as I am."
"But what can I do?" he asked, in despair. "It is my work. It is her
palace. You are free to come and go as you will, and if you will not
come--"
"I know, I know," she answered, still clinging to him. "You will say it
is my fault. It is just like a man. And yet I know that you are there,
hour after hour, with her, and she is young and beautiful. And she loves
you--oh, I know she loves you!"
Reanda began to lose patience.
"How absurd!" he exclaimed. "It is ridiculous. It is an insult to Donna
Francesca to say that she is in love with me."
"It is true." Gloria suddenly raised her head and drew back from him a
very little. "I am a woman," she said. "I know and I understand. She
meant to sacrifice herself and make you happy, by marrying you to me,
and now she regrets it. It is enough to see her. She follows you with
her eyes as you move, and there is a look in them--"
Reanda laughed, with an effort.
"It is altogether too absurd!" he said. "I do not know what to say. I
can only laugh."
"Because you know it is true," answered Gloria. "It is for your sake
that she has done it all, that she makes such a pretence of being
friendly to me, that she pushes us into society, and brings her friends
here to see me. They never come unless she brings them," she added
bitterly. "There is no fear of that. The Duchess of Astrardente would
not have her black horses seen standing in the Macel de' Corvi, unless
Donna Francesca made her do it and came with her."
"Why not?" asked Reanda, simply, for his Italian mind did not grasp the
false shame which Gloria felt in living in a rather humble
neighbourhood.
"She would not have people know that she had friends living in such a
place," Gloria answered.
Unwittingly she had dealt Reanda a deadly thrust.
He had fallen in love with her and had married her on the understanding
with himself, so to say, that she was in all respects as much a great
lady as Donna Francesca herself, and he had taken it for granted that
she must be above such pettiness. The lodging was extremely good and had
the advantage of being very conveniently situated for his work. It had
never struck him that because it was in an unfashionable position,
Gloria could imagine that the people she knew would hesitate to come and
see her. Since their marriage she had done and said many little things
which had shaken his belief in the thoroughness of her refinement. She
had suddenly destroyed that belief now, by a single foolish speech. It
would be hard to build it up again.
Like many men of genius he could not forgive his own mistake, and Gloria
was involved in this one. Moreover, as an Italian, he fancied that she
secretly suspected him of meanness, and when Italians are not mean,
there is nothing which they resent more than being thought to be so. He
had plenty of money, for he had always lived very simply before his
marriage, and Dalrymple gave Gloria an allowance.
His tone changed, when he answered her, but she was far from suspecting
what she had done.
"We will get another apartment at once," he said quietly.
"No," she answered at once, protesting, "you must not do anything of the
kind! What an idea! To change our home merely because it is not on the
Corso or the Piazza di Venezia!"
"You would prefer the Corso?" inquired Angelo. "That is natural. It is
more gay."
The reflexion that the view of the deserted Forum of Trajan was dull
suggested itself to him as a Roman, knowing the predilection of Roman
women of the middle class for looking out of the window.
"It is ridiculous!" cried Gloria. "You must not think of it.
Besides--the expense--"
"The expense does not enter into the question, my dear," he answered,
having fully made up his mind. "You shall not live in a place to which
you think your friends may hesitate to come."
"Friends! They are not my friends, and they never mean to be," she
replied more hotly. "Why should I care whether they will take the
trouble to come and see me or not? Let them stay away, if I am not good
enough for them. Tell Donna Francesca not to bring them--not to come
herself any more. I hate to feel that she is thrusting me down the
throat of a society that does not want me! She only does it to put me
under an obligation to her. I am sure she talks about me behind my back
and says horrid things--"
"You are very unjust," said Reanda, hurt by the vulgarity of the speech
and deeply wounded in his own pride.
"You defend her! You see!" And the colour rose in Gloria's cheeks.
"She has done nothing that needs defence. She has acted always with the
greatest kindness to me and to us. You have no right to suppose that she
says unkind things of you when you are not present. I cannot imagine
what has come over you to-day. It must be the weather. It is sirocco."
Gloria turned away angrily, thinking that he was laughing at her,
whereas the suggestion about the weather was a perfectly natural one in
Rome, where the southeast wind has an undoubted effect upon the human
temper.
But the seeds of much discussion were sown on that close spring
afternoon. Reanda was singularly tenacious of small purposes, as he was
of great ideas where his art was concerned, and his nature though gentle
was unforgiving, not out of hardness, but because he was so sensitive
that his illusions were easy to destroy.
He went out and forthwith began to search for an apartment of which his
wife should have no cause to complain. In the course of a week he found
what he wanted. It was a part of the second floor of one of the palaces
on the Corso, not far from the Piazza di Venezia. It was partially
furnished, and without speaking to Gloria he had it made comfortable
within a few days. When it was ready, he gave her short warning that
they were to move immediately.
Strange to say, Gloria was very much displeased, and did not conceal her
annoyance. She really liked the small house in the Macel de' Corvi, and
resented the way in which her husband had taken her remarks about the
situation. To tell the truth, Reanda had deceived himself with the idea
that she would be delighted at the change, and had spent money rather
lavishly, in the hope of giving her a pleasant surprise. He was
proportionately disappointed by her unexpected displeasure.
"What was the use of spending so much money?" she asked, with a
discontented face. "People will not come to see us because we live in a
fine house."
"I did not take the house with that intention, my dear," said Reanda,
gently, but wounded and repelled by the remark and the tone.
"Well then, we might have stayed where we were," she answered. "It was
much cheaper, and there was more sun for the winter."
"But this is gayer," objected Reanda. "You have the Corso under the
window."
"As though I looked out of the window!" exclaimed Gloria, scornfully.
"It was so nice--our little place there."
"You are hard to please, my dear," said the artist, coldly.
Then she saw that she had hurt him, which she had not meant to do. Her
own nature was self-conscious and greedy of emotion, but not sensitive.
She threw her arms round him, and kissed him and thanked him.
But Reanda was not satisfied. Day by day when Francesca looked at him,
she saw the harassed expression deepening in his face, and she felt that
every furrow was scored in her own heart. And she, in her turn, grew
very grave and thoughtful.