As Gianluca's spirits revived, and he began to take courage again and
find new hope that Veronica might marry him after all, her position as a
permanent guest in Bianca's house became a subject of especial
displeasure to the Della Spina family. They wished to renew their
proposals for a marriage, and they found themselves stopped by the fact
that Veronica was no longer under the charge of any relative to whom
they could have communicated their offer.
No one knew exactly what had happened before Christmas at the Palazzo
Macomer excepting the persons concerned; but there is inevitably a
certain amount of publicity about all business transactions connected
with real estate, and somehow a story had filtered from the financial to
the social world, which more or less explained Veronica's conduct. It
was said that Gregorio, whom most people had detested, had mismanaged
her fortune, though nothing was hinted about any great fraud; and people
added that when the day of reckoning had come he had found himself
ruined, and had lost his mind; Matilde, as guardian, had incurred the
young princess's displeasure, but the latter had treated her generously,
allowing her to live in the palace, which was now undoubtedly Veronica's
property. Some persons told a story of an attempt made by a servant to
poison the Macomer household, but the majority laughed at the tale, and
said that Gregorio had been too poor, or too stingy, to have his copper
saucepans properly tinned, and that a grain of verdigris would poison
half a regiment, as every Italian knows.
However that might be, no one was responsible for Veronica, but Veronica
herself, unless Cardinal Campodonico still had some authority over her,
which seemed more than doubtful. The old Duca made him a formal visit,
and a formal proposition. His Eminence smiled, looked grave, smiled
again, and replied that in a long and varied experience of the world he
could not remember to have met with just such a case; that so far as he
could understand, the young Princess of Acireale was her own mistress,
and would make her own choice, if she made any; but that she had been
heard to say that she would never marry at all. This, however, the
cardinal thought impossible.
"Then," said the Duca della Spina, "you advise me to go directly to the
young lady and ask her whether she will marry my son."
"My friend," replied the cardinal, "this is a case in which I would
rather not give advice. I have no doubt that whatever you do will be
well done, and I wish you all possible success."
The old Duca shuffled out of the cardinal's study, more puzzled than
ever, and went home to tell his wife and Gianluca and Taquisara the
result of the interview. Taquisara was in the confidence of the family,
and spent much of his time with his friend.
"I am at my wits' end," concluded the old nobleman, shaking his head,
and looking sorrowfully at his son. "If you wish it, I will go to Donna
Veronica myself. It would be--well--very informal, to say the least.
Poor Gianluca! My poor boy! If you would only be satisfied to marry your
cousin Vittoria, it would be a question of days! Of course--I
understand--her complexion is an obstacle," he added reflectively. "It
will probably improve, however."
No one answered him, Taquisara broke the silence, after a pause.
"You must either speak to the Princess Corleone," he said, "or Gianluca
must speak to Donna Veronica for himself."
Gianluca said nothing to him, but by a glance he reminded his friend of
his former attempt. So they came to no conclusion, though it was clear
that Veronica now liked Gianluca quite enough, in their opinion, to
marry him at once. But he himself, remembering his discomfiture, knew
that the time had not yet come, though he had hopes that it might not
be far off. On that very day he went to Bianca's villa, and stayed an
unreasonably long time, in the hope that Ghisleri might appear, for he
found Bianca and Veronica alone. Pietro would have talked with Bianca,
and he himself would have had a chance, perhaps, to judge of his actual
position. He was no longer shy and awkward, now, when he was with the
young girl. But Ghisleri did not come, and Gianluca went home,
disappointed and disconsolate.
"I suppose that if we were in Sicily," he said to Taquisara on the
following morning, "you would propose to carry her off by force. You
once advised me to do something of the sort."
"That is a proceeding which needs the consent of the lady," answered the
Sicilian. "The 'force' is employed against the relations. Now Donna
Veronica has none to speak of so far as I can see. It is a case for
persuasion."
Gianluca sighed. Matters were at a deadlock, and Veronica had announced
her intention of going to Muro alone, before long. Once established
there, she might stay in the mountains until the following autumn,
unapproachable in her maiden solitude, as she had told Taquisara.
Gianluca might knock at her gate, there, but he would certainly not be
admitted.
"You despise me," he said to his friend. "You think me weak and
helpless, and you fancy that if you were in my place you could do
better. But I do not believe you could."
"No," replied the other. "I do not believe so, either. And I do not at
all despise you. You have only one chance--to make her love you. No man
is to be despised because a woman does not love him. It is not his
fault."
"I feel as though it were," said Gianluca. "I am sure that if I could
change, if I could make myself different in some way--but that is
absurd, of course."
"One cannot suddenly become some one else." For himself, without vanity,
Taquisara was probably glad of the fact, but he was sincerely sorry for
his friend. "You might write to her," he suggested.
"Love-letters--to Donna Veronica?" Gianluca smiled incredulously. "You
do not know her!"
"I know her a little," replied Taquisara. "All women like to receive
letters from men who love them, if they are well expressed and sincere."
"How horribly practical you are sometimes!" exclaimed the younger man,
unaccountably irritated at his friend's generalizations.
Taquisara laughed and knocked the ashes from his long black cigar.
"You came to me for advice, not for sentiment," he observed presently.
"Perhaps I am a bad adviser, but that is the worst you can say of me. I
daresay I do not understand women. I have known a few pretty well, but
that is all. I am not a lady killer, and I certainly never wished to
marry. You must not expect much of me--but what little there is to
expect will be practical. Perhaps Ghisleri could advise you better than
I. He is a queer fellow. If he ever cuts his throat, he will not die of
it--his heart and his head will go on living separately, just as they do
now."
Gianluca smiled again, for the description of the man was keen and true,
as men knew him.
"No," he answered; "I shall not consult Ghisleri. You and I are
different enough to understand each other. He and I are not, though he
is a good friend of mine."
"I should not say that you resemble Ghisleri in any way," observed
Taquisara, bluntly.
"You may not see it, but I feel it. It is not easy to explain. He and I
feel about many things in the same way, but we look at ourselves
differently."
"That sounds like a woman's speech!" said Taquisara. "But you are always
making fine distinctions which I cannot understand. What do you mean
when you say that you look at yourselves differently? How do you look at
yourselves?"
"Do you never think about yourself, as though you were another person,
and were judging yourself like a man you knew?"
"No," said Taquisara, thoughtfully. "I never thought of doing that."
"But what does self-examination mean, then?" asked Gianluca.
"I have not the slightest idea. I am myself. I know myself. I know what
I want and do not want. It seems to me that I know enough. What in the
world should I examine? You would be much better if you could get rid of
all that romance about conscience and self-examination and such trash. A
man knows perfectly well whether he is faithful to the woman he loves or
not, whether he is betraying his friend or standing by him--what else do
you want? I believe that theology and philosophy and self-examination,
and all that, were invented in early times for heathen people who did
not know whether they were doing right or wrong, because they were just
converted."
At this extraordinary view of church history Gianluca laughed.
"You may laugh," answered the Sicilian. "You will never make me believe
that old Tancred sat up all night examining his conscience before he
went to the Holy Land--any more than he fasted and prayed before he had
his daughter's lover murdered."
"No--perhaps not!" Gianluca laughed again.
"He did what struck him as right and natural," said Taquisara, gravely.
"Besides, he was sovereign prince in his own land, and it was not a
murder at all, but an execution. For a princess, his daughter behaved
outrageously. I should have done the same thing, in his place. He had
the right and the power, and he used it. But that is not the point. As
for Ghisleri, he would have cut the boy's head off in a rage, and then
he would have spent a year on his knees in a monastery. You would have
prayed yourself into a good humour, and the fellow would have got off."
"Unless I had asked your advice," suggested Gianluca.
"And if you had, you would not have acted upon it--any more than you
will write to Donna Veronica now, though I tell you that all women like
to receive love-letters. It is natural. A woman is not satisfied with
being told once a week that she is loved. She likes to know it all the
time--the oftener, the better. Two letters of one page are better than
one of two pages. Twenty notes a day, of a line or two each, will make a
woman perfectly happy--provided that you do not make a mistake and send
one less on the day following. They like repetition, provided it is in
the same pitch. If you have begun high, you must not let the strings
slacken. Women are curious creatures. In religion, they can believe
fifty times as much as any man. In love, they only believe while they
see you and hear you. As soon as your back is turned--even if they have
sent you away--they scream and cry out that you have abandoned them.
Before you come, they want you. When you are there, you weary them.
When you are gone, you have betrayed them. And they wonder that a man
cannot bear that sort of thing forever! Do you call me practical for
speaking in this way? Very well, then--I am practical. I tell you what I
know."
Gianluca was amused, but he thought over what Taquisara had advised him
to do, and the more he thought about it, the more inclined he was to
follow the advice. Not that he regarded the writing of letters to
Veronica at all as a hopeful means of moving her; but he felt that he
might write her much which he would not say. He loved her with the
deepest sincerity, and with an almost morbid passion, and the idea of
approaching her in any way was irresistible. He had not realized before
now that he could at least try the experiment of writing. She knew that
he loved her, and at the worst, she might tell him not to write again.
He remembered his terrible awkwardness and hesitation when he had first
told her of his love, and his humiliation afterwards, when he had
reflected upon the poor figure he had made. There would be no
humiliation, now. He was sure of that. He could rely upon his pen and
his wits, though he could not trust to his wits with only his tongue to
help them.
The chief objection to this method of wooing was that, in his class, it
was untraditional. And this had some weight with him, for he had been
brought up rigidly in the practices and customs of an exclusive caste.
On the other hand, he had never thought of plunging rashly into
love-phrases, from the first. He wished to establish a correspondence
with Veronica, and then by subtle tact and delicate degrees to acquire
the right of speaking to her, by his letters, of what he felt, making no
reference to them when he met her, until she should at last give some
sign that she would listen favourably.
The plan was wise and far sighted, but it had not been the result of
wisdom nor of diplomatic instinct. He adopted it out of delicacy, and
out of respect for the woman he loved, and in the hope of reaching her
heart without ever jarring upon her sensibilities.
By nature and talent, as well as by cultivation, Gianluca was admirably
gifted for such a correspondence as he now attempted to begin. In other
circumstances of fortune he might have become eminent as a man of
letters. Without possessing any of that practical, masculine knowledge
of women, which Taquisara so roughly expressed, Gianluca had a keen and
sure understanding of the feminine mind. There is no contradiction in
that, for the men who know something of women's hearts by instinct and
experience are by no means always those who are in intellectual sympathy
with them. Very young women are sometimes surprised when they discover
this fact, but men generally know it of one another; and the man of whom
other men are jealous is rarely the one who prides himself upon knowing
and sympathizing with the feminine point of view on things in general,
from literature to dress.
Gianluca had talked with Veronica about all sorts of subjects, and she
had often asked him questions which he had not been able to answer on
the spur of the moment. It was easy for him, in his first letter, to
hark back to one of those idle questions of hers, and to make his reply
to it an excuse for a letter. Such a communication would need no
acknowledgment beyond a spoken word of thanks, which she would bestow
upon him the next time they met. It should contain nothing warmer than
the assurance of his anxiety to be of service to her, in anything she
undertook, and a protestation of respectful friendship at the end.
He wrote that first letter over twice and read it carefully before he
sent it. It referred to an historical question connected with the house
of Anjou, from which her castle of Muro had come to the Serra by a
marriage, several centuries ago, and by which marriage Veronica traced
her descent on one side to the kings of France. The castle itself had
been twice the scene of royal murders, and there were many strange
traditions connected with it. Gianluca got the information he needed
from the library downstairs, and he found ample material for a letter
of some length.
But it was not dry and uninteresting, a mere copy of notes taken from
histories and chronicles. The man had an undeveloped literary talent, as
has been said, and he instinctively found light and graceful expressions
for hard facts. He was himself discovering that he had a gift for
writing, and the pleasure of the discovery enhanced the delight of
writing to the woman he loved. The man of letters who has first found
out his own facility in the course of daily writing to a dearly loved
woman alone knows the sort of pleasure that Gianluca enjoyed, when he
found that it was his pen that helped him, and not he that was driving
his pen.
He sent what he had written, and determined that on the following day he
would go to the villa again. To his surprise and joy, he received a note
from Veronica in the morning, thanking him warmly for the pains he had
taken, and asking another question. It came through the post; and with
his insight into feminine ways, he guessed that she had not wished to
send a messenger to him,--a servant, who would have at once told other
servants of the correspondence.
Veronica had been pleased by the letter. She was beginning to like him
for himself, and to forget how very foolish he had seemed to be when he
was declaring his passion for her. But his letter showed him all at
once in an entirely new light, and was at once a pleasure and a
surprise. She thought it natural to write him a few words of thanks.
Indeed, it would have seemed rude not to do so.
In the liberty she was enjoying in Bianca's house, she was rapidly
forgetting that she was only a young girl, and that society would be
shocked if it knew that she was exchanging letters with Gianluca della
Spina. There is nothing which a girl learns so easily and all at once as
independence of that social kind. What grey-haired man of the world has
not at one time or another been amazed at the full-grown assurance of
some bride of eighteen or nineteen summers? A month is enough--with
proper advantages--to make a drawing-room queen and a society tyrant of
a schoolgirl. And that sort of independence is not alone the result of
marriage. In Veronica's case, a slowly developed strength had been
suddenly set free to act, by an accidental emancipation from all
semblance of restraint; and the emancipation was so complete that even
in the widest interpretation of the law, no one could have now claimed a
right to control or direct her actions.
She was nearly twenty-two years of age; she had a great position in her
own right, and she was immensely rich. It was not until long afterwards
that she learned how many offers of marriage had been refused for her
by her aunt and uncle. For the present, the fathers and mothers of
marriageable sons were waiting until three or four months should have
elapsed, for they generally guessed that there had been a catastrophe of
some sort at the Palazzo Macomer after Bosio's death; and, moreover, as
has been seen, it was impossible to ascertain the proper person to whom
to address any such proposal.
The consequence of it all was, that Veronica was absolutely her own
mistress, and free to go and come, and to do what seemed right in her
own eyes. As she had told the cardinal, when she and society should
discover that they needed each other, they would try and agree. In case
of a disagreement, it was probable that, of the two, society would yield
to Veronica Serra. Meanwhile she would correspond with Gianluca, if she
pleased. During the arrangement of her affairs, she had constantly
written to men, about business, under the advice of the bankers to whom
she had confided the whole matter. Gianluca was merely a few years
younger, and happened to belong to her own class. That was all. Why
should he and she not write to each other? Yet it was not long since the
idea of meeting Gianluca at Bianca's house, by agreement, had seemed a
dangerous adventure, about entering upon which she had really hesitated.
To-day, for any reasonable cause, she would have walked through Naples
with him in the face of the world, at the hour when every one was in the
streets.
He came to the villa in the afternoon, after receiving her note of
thanks, and she was glad to see him, and spoke with pleasure of his
letter, before Bianca, who seemed surprised, but said nothing at the
time. He was wise enough not to stay too long, and he went away
exceedingly elated by his first success.
"What is the matter with him?" asked Veronica, of her friend, just after
he had left them. "He seems so much better--but he is growing very lame.
Did you notice how he walked to-day? He seems to drag his feet after
him."
"He must have hurt his foot," said Bianca, calmly. "By the by, what is
this, about letters? Do you mean to say that he writes to you?"
"Yes--and I write to him," answered Veronica, with perfect calm. "You
see, as I have nobody to ask, I ask nobody. It is more simple."
"But, my dear child--a young girl--"
"Do not call me a child, and do not call me a young girl, Bianca," said
Veronica. "I am neither, in the sense of being a thing to be kept under
a glass case and fed on rose leaves. I am a woman, and as I do not think
that I shall ever marry, I refuse to be chaperoned all the way to
old-maidhood. I know that you feel responsible for me, in a sort of
way, because you are married, and I am not. It is really absurd, dear. I
am much better able to take care of myself than you are."
"No doubt, in a way. You are more energetic. But as for writing to
Gianluca--I hardly know--I wish you would not."
"He writes very well," answered Veronica. "I will show you his letter.
Besides, so far as your responsibility goes, it will not last much
longer. I shall go to Muro next month."
"Alone?"
"Alone--yes. I always mean to live alone. Don Teodoro will come and dine
with me every evening, and we will talk about the people, and what we
are doing for them. I shall have horses to ride. If you will come, we
will fence together. I shall miss the fencing dreadfully. Could you not
come, Bianca dear?"
"I believe that you will miss the fencing more than me, dear," answered
Bianca, rather sadly.
Veronica was more to her than she could ever be to Veronica, and she
knew it.
"Bianca!" exclaimed the young girl. "How can you say such things!
Because I spoke of fencing first? You know that I did not mean it in
that way! I want you for yourself--but it will be nice to have the foils
in the morning, all the same. You see, I could not even have a
fencing-master out there. It is so far! Do come."
Bianca shook her head.
"We will have glorious days together," continued Veronica. "We will do
all sorts of things together. They do say that it rains a good deal in
those mountains--well, when it rains, you can write to Signor Ghisleri,
while I write to Don Gianluca."
Her innocent laughter at the idea startled Bianca, and the beautiful
face grew paler, until it was almost wan. Veronica thought she was like
a passion flower, just then. A short silence followed.
"Veronica," said Bianca, at last, "why do you not marry Gianluca, since
you have grown to liking him so much?"
"I like him for a friend," answered Veronica, quietly. "I do not want a
husband. Some day, I will tell you my story, perhaps--some day, if you
will come to Muro, dear. Think about it."
She left the room rather abruptly, and Bianca did not refer to the
subject again. She had the power, rare in either of two friends, of not
asking questions. Confidence given for the asking, however readily, is
but the little silver coin of friendship; the gold is confidence
unasked.
In the days that followed, Gianluca wrote to Veronica again and again,
about all manner of subjects which had come up in their conversation;
and Veronica's short notes of thanks grew longer, until she found that
she, too, was beginning to write real letters, and looked forward to
writing them, as well as to receiving his. And his came oftener, until
she had one almost every day.
But when he came, as he did, twice a week, to the villa, they rarely
spoke of their correspondence. Somehow it had come to be a bond linking
certain sides of their natures which they did not show to each other
when they met and talked. They never could talk as freely as they wrote,
even upon the most indifferent subjects, though Gianluca seemed
perfectly at his ease in conversation. There was a sort of undefined
restraint from time to time, together with the certainty that they would
write what they really meant, within a day or two, and understand each
other far better than by spoken words.
In Gianluca's case such a condition of things was natural enough. He
felt that she understood friendship when he meant love, and he was aware
that he was progressing slowly but surely towards the freedom to say
what was always in his heart, while his success must depend upon his
wisdom and tact in not surprising her with a declaration of passion, in
the midst of a discussion upon church history or modern systems of
charity. Compared with what he had felt in their former relations, he
was happy, now, beyond his utmost expectations; and, in the relative
happiness he had found, he was willing to be patient, rather than to
risk anything prematurely.
It was more strange, perhaps, that Veronica should regard this growing
intimacy as she did, for she had no under-thought of a future change to
something else, as he had, and she was naturally simple in reasoning and
direct in action. Yet she could not but be aware that there was a sort
of duality in their friendship, and she never confused the ideas they
exchanged when in the one state--that is to say, when writing--with
those about which they talked when an actual meeting brought them into
the other. The one state already was an intimacy; the other was hardly
yet more than a pleasant acquaintance, with the memory of a disagreeable
beginning. Such curiosities of human intercourse are more easily
understood by those who have met with them in life than explained to
those who have not. The facts were plain. When Veronica and Gianluca
were together in Bianca's drawing-room, they said nothing which might
not have been heard with indifference by all Naples. When they wrote to
each other they spoke of themselves, of their real thoughts about things
and people, of their belief, and, to some extent, of their feelings.
Veronica did not perhaps acknowledge that, little by little, Gianluca's
letters were beginning to fill the place of poor Bosio's conversation in
former times. But that was what was taking place. She was more lonely in
mind than in heart, and without making the slightest pretence to talent
or unusual cultivation, she craved a mental companionship of some sort
to take up the thread where it had been broken. She had found it
unexpectedly in her new friend's letters, and she recognized it and
clung to it, as to something almost necessary in her existence. When she
was ready to go up to Muro, she knew that without those letters life in
such a solitude would be well nigh unsupportable, whereas, being able to
look forward to them, and to answering them, her hours of idleness were
already a foretasted pleasure.
She had not even told the cardinal that she was going, and she was going
alone. In Naples this seemed so incredible that after she was gone,
people spontaneously invented a companion for her and assured one
another that she had sent for a distant and elderly old-maid cousin as a
chaperon and protectress. Even the cardinal believed it, taking it
almost for granted.
On the afternoon of the day before her departure Gianluca came, walking
with difficulty and excusing himself for bringing his stick with him
into the drawing-room. He was very pale, and looked more ill than for a
long time past. But he spoke calmly enough, though saying little more
than was required, while Bianca and Veronica kept up the conversation.
Veronica was in good spirits and was evidently looking forward to the
journey with pleasure and curiosity.
Then Ghisleri appeared, followed shortly by Taquisara, who had called
very rarely during the winter. Veronica thought that he had grown very
cold and silent. He slowly stirred a cup of tea which he did not drink,
and he scarcely joined in the conversation at all. He looked
occasionally at one or another of the party, and once or twice his eyes
fixed themselves on Veronica's face. She could not understand why his
presence chilled her, but she was aware that she spoke more coldly than
usual to Gianluca.
At the end of half an hour, the latter rose to go, glancing at Veronica
as he did so. Taquisara, on pretence of setting down his tea-cup, rose
also and managed to place himself in front of Bianca, and said something
to which Ghisleri gave an answer, just as Veronica and Gianluca were
standing close together.
"May I go on writing to you?" asked Gianluca, in a low tone and quickly.
Veronica looked up at him with a startled expression.
"Oh please--please!" she answered anxiously. "As often as you can--I
count on it! Of course!"
Gianluca's thin, pale face brightened suddenly as he heard her vehement
request and the anxiety in her tone.
"Thank you," he said. "Good-bye."
He shook hands with Bianca, nodded to the two men, and turned away
towards the door. He had not reached it, walking a little less painfully
in his excitement, when he was aware that he had left his stick leaning
against the chair in which he had sat. He stopped and looked back to be
sure that it was there, before returning to get it. Veronica was
watching him, saw what he had done, picked up the stick and carried it
swiftly to him before he could come for it.
Taquisara had seen her movement and had tried to get the stick before
she could, to take it to his friend. He had been too far out of reach,
and she had been before him. But he followed her, and he saw that as she
handed Gianluca his property, she looked up into his face and smiled
very kindly. Gianluca thanked her, smiling too, and the impression any
one would have had was that they thoroughly understood each other. He
bowed again and went out. Veronica turned to come back to the tea-table
and found herself facing Taquisara's fiery eyes. She was surprised, and
looked into his face, very near to him, and waiting for him to stand
aside.
"You are playing with him," he said in a low and angry voice.
The room was long, and Bianca and Ghisleri were at the other end of it.
After he had spoken, Veronica stared at him a moment, in genuine
amazement at his words and manner. Then her eyes gleamed, too, and the
delicate nostrils quivered.
"You are insolent," she said coldly, and turning a little to the right,
she passed him.
"No. I am his friend," he answered, scarcely above a whisper, as she
went by.
He came back, shook hands with Bianca, bowed coldly to Veronica, and
left the room within two minutes after Gianluca.
"What is the matter with Taquisara?" asked Ghisleri, carelessly. "He
seems irritable."
Bianca looked at Veronica.
"Does he? I suppose he is anxious about Don Gianluca."
Veronica was still pale when she spoke, but the tone was cold and
indifferent.