The palace of the Saracinesca is in an ancient quarter of Rome, far
removed from the broad white streets of mushroom dwelling-houses and
machine-laid macadam; far from the foreigners' region, the varnish of the
fashionable shops, the whirl of brilliant equipages, and the scream of
the newsvendor. The vast irregular buildings are built around three
courtyards, and face on all sides upon narrow streets. The first sixteen
feet, up to the heavily ironed windows of the lower storey, consist of
great blocks of stone, worn at the corners and scored along their length
by the battering of ages, by the heavy carts that from time immemorial
have found the way too narrow and have ground their iron axles against
the massive masonry. Of the three enormous arched gates that give access
to the interior from different sides, one is closed by an iron grating,
another by huge doors studded with iron bolts, and the third alone is
usually open as an entrance. A tall old porter used to stand there in a
long livery-coat and a cocked-hat; on holidays he appeared in the
traditional garb of the Parisian "Suisse," magnificent in silk stockings
and a heavily laced coat of dark green, leaning upon his tall mace--a
constant object of wonder to the small boys of the quarter. He trimmed
his white beard in imitation of his master's--broad and square--and his
words were few and to the point.
No one was ever at home in the Palazzo Saracinesca in those days; there
were no ladies in the house; it was a man's establishment, and there was
something severely masculine in the air of the gloomy courtyards
surrounded by dark archways, where not a single plant or bit of colour
relieved the ancient stone. The pavement was clean and well kept, a new
flagstone here and there showing that some care was bestowed upon
maintaining it in good repair; but for any decoration there was to be
found in the courts, the place might have been a fortress, as indeed it
once was. The owners, father and son, lived in their ancestral home in a
sort of solemn magnificence that savoured of feudal times. Giovanni was
the only son of five-and-twenty years of wedlock. His mother had been
older than his father, and had now been dead some time. She had been a
stern dark woman, and had lent no feminine touch of grace to the palace
while she lived in it, her melancholic temper rather rejoicing in the
sepulchral gloom that hung over the house. The Saracinesca had always
been a manly race, preferring strength to beauty, and the reality of
power to the amenities of comfort.
Giovanni walked home from the afternoon reception at the Embassy. His
temper seemed to crave the bleak wet air of the cold streets, and he did
not hurry himself. He intended to dine at home that evening, and he
anticipated some kind of disagreement with his father. The two men were
too much alike not to be congenial, but too combative by nature to care
for eternal peace. On the present occasion it was likely that there would
be a struggle, for Giovanni had made up his mind not to marry Madame
Mayer, and his father was equally determined that he should marry her at
once: both were singularly strong men, singularly tenacious of their
opinions.
At precisely seven o'clock father and son entered from different doors
the small sitting-room in which they generally met, and they had no
sooner entered than dinner was announced. Two words might suffice for the
description of old Prince Saracinesca--he was an elder edition of his
son. Sixty years of life had not bent his strong frame nor dimmed the
brilliancy of his eyes, but his hair and beard were snowy white. He was
broader in the shoulder and deeper in the chest than Giovanni, but of
the same height, and well proportioned still, with little tendency to
stoutness. He was to all appearance precisely what his son would be at
his age--keen and vigorous, the stern lines of his face grown deeper, and
his very dark eyes and complexion made more noticeable by the dazzling
whiteness of his hair and broad square beard--the same type in a
different stage of development.
The dinner was served with a certain old-fashioned magnificence which has
grown rare in Rome. There was old plate and old china upon the table, old
cut glass of the diamond pattern, and an old butler who moved noiselessly
about in the performance of the functions he had exercised in the same
room for forty years, and which his father had exercised there before
him. Prince Saracinesca and Don Giovanni sat on opposite sides of the
round table, now and then exchanging a few words.
"I was caught in the rain this afternoon," remarked the Prince.
"I hope you will not have a cold," replied his son, civilly. "Why do you
walk in such weather?"
"And you--why do you walk?" retorted his father. "Are you less likely to
take cold than I am? I walk because I have always walked."
"That is an excellent reason. I walk because I do not keep a carriage."
"Why do not you keep one if you wish to?" asked the Prince.
"I will do as you wish. I will buy an equipage to-morrow, lest I should
again walk in the rain and catch cold. Where did you see me on foot?"
"In the Orso, half an hour ago. Why do you talk about my wishes in that
absurd way?"
"Since you say it is absurd, I will not do so," said Giovanni, quietly.
"You are always contradicting me," said the Prince. "Some wine,
Pasquale."
"Contradicting you?" repeated Giovanni. "Nothing could be further from my
intentions."
The old Prince slowly sipped a glass of wine before he answered.
"Why do not you set up an establishment for yourself and live like a
gentleman?" he asked at length. "You are rich--why do you go about on
foot and dine in cafés?"
"Do I ever dine at a café when you are dining alone?"
"You have got used to living in restaurants in Paris," retorted his
father. "It is a bad habit. What was the use of your mother leaving you a
fortune, unless you will live in a proper fashion?"
"I understand you very well," answered Giovanni, his dark eyes beginning
to gleam. "You know all that is a pretence. I am the most home-staying
man of your acquaintance. It is a mere pretence. You are going to talk
about my marriage again."
"And has any one a more natural right to insist upon your marriage than I
have?" asked the elder man, hotly. "Leave the wine on the table,
Pasquale--and the fruit--here. Give Don Giovanni his cheese. I will ring
for the coffee--leave us." The butler and the footman left the room. "Has
any one a more natural right, I ask?" repeated the Prince when they were
alone.
"No one but myself, I should say," answered Giovanni, bitterly.
"Yourself--yourself indeed! What have you to say about it? This a family
matter. Would you have Saracinesca sold, to be distributed piecemeal
among a herd of dogs of starving relations you never heard of, merely
because you are such a vagabond, such a Bohemian, such a break-neck,
crazy good-for-nothing, that you will not take the trouble to accept one
of all the women who rush into your arms?"
"Your affectionate manner of speaking of your relatives is only surpassed
by your good taste in describing the probabilities of my marriage,"
remarked Giovanni, scornfully.
"And you say you never contradict me!" exclaimed the Prince, angrily.
"If this is an instance, I can safely say so. Comment is not
contradiction."
"Do you mean to say you have not repeatedly refused to marry?" inquired
old Saracinesca.
"That would be untrue. I have refused, I do refuse, and I will refuse,
just so long as it pleases me."
"That is definite, at all events. You will go on refusing until you have
broken your silly neck in imitating Englishmen, and then--good night
Saracinesca! The last of the family will have come to a noble end!"
"If the only use of my existence is to become the father of heirs to your
titles, I do not care to enjoy them myself."
"You will not enjoy them till my death, at all events. Did you ever
reflect that I might marry again?"
"If you please to do so, do not hesitate on my account. Madame Mayer will
accept you as soon as me. Marry by all means, and may you have a numerous
progeny; and may they all marry in their turn, the day they are twenty. I
wish you joy."
"You are intolerable, Giovanni. I should think you would have more
respect for Donna Tullia--"
"Than to call her Madame Mayer," interrupted Giovanni.
"Than to suggest that she cares for nothing but a title and a fortune--"
"You showed much respect to her a moment ago, when you suggested that she
was ready to rush into my arms."
"I! I never said such a thing. I said that any woman--"
"Including Madame Mayer, of course," interrupted Giovanni again.
"Can you not let me speak?" roared the Prince. Giovanni shrugged his
shoulders a little, poured out a glass of wine, and helped himself to
cheese, but said nothing. Seeing that his son said nothing, old
Saracinesca was silent too; he was so angry that he had lost the thread
of his ideas. Perhaps Giovanni regretted the quarrelsome tone he had
taken, for he presently spoke to his father in a more conciliatory tone.
"Let us be just," he said. "I will listen to you, and I shall be glad if
you will listen to me. In the first place, when I think of marriage I
represent something to myself by the term--"
"I hope so," growled the old man.
"I look upon marriage as an important step in a man's life. I am not so
old as to make my marriage an immediate necessity, nor so young as to be
able wholly to disregard it. I do not desire to be hurried; for when I
make up my mind, I intend to make a choice which, if it does not ensure
happiness, will at least ensure peace. I do not wish to marry Madame
Mayer. She is young, handsome, rich--"
"Very," ejaculated the Prince.
"Very. I also am young and rich, if not handsome."
"Certainly not handsome," said his father, who was nursing his wrath, and
meanwhile spoke calmly. "You are the image of me."
"I am proud of the likeness," said Giovanni, gravely. "But to return to
Madame Mayer. She is a widow--"
"Is that her fault?" inquired his father irrelevantly, his anger rising
again.
"I trust not," said Giovanni, with a smile. "I trust she did not murder
old Mayer. Nevertheless she is a widow. That is a strong objection. Have
any of my ancestors married widows?"
"You show your ignorance at every turn," said the old Prince, with a
scornful laugh. "Leone Saracinesca married the widow of the Elector of
Limburger-Stinkenstein in 1581."
"It is probably the German blood in our veins which gives you your
taste for argument," remarked Giovanni. "Because three hundred years
ago an ancestor married a widow, I am to marry one now. Wait--do not be
angry--there are other reasons why I do not care for Madame Mayer. She is
too gay for me--too fond of the world."
The Prince burst into aloud ironical laugh. His white hair and beard
bristled about his dark face, and he showed all his teeth, strong and
white still.
"That is magnificent!" he cried; "it is superb, splendid, a piece of
unpurchasable humour! Giovanni Saracinesca has found a woman who is too
gay for him! Heaven be praised! We know his taste at last. We will give
him a nun, a miracle of all the virtues, a little girl out of a convent,
vowed to a life of sacrifice and self-renunciation. That will please
him--he will be a model happy husband."
"I do not understand this extraordinary outburst," answered Giovanni,
with cold scorn. "Your mirth is amazing, but I fail to understand its
source."
His father ceased laughing, and looked at him curiously, his heavy brows
bending with the intenseness of his gaze. Giovanni returned the look, and
it seemed as though those two strong angry men were fencing across the
table with their fiery glances. The son was the first to speak.
"Do you mean to imply that I am not the kind of man to be allowed to
marry a young girl?" he asked, not taking his eyes from his father.
"Look you, boy," returned the Prince, "I will have no more nonsense. I
insist upon this match, as I have told you before. It is the most
suitable one that I can find for you; and instead of being grateful, you
turn upon me and refuse to do your duty. Donna Tullia is twenty-three
years of age. She is brilliant, rich. There is nothing against her. She
is a distant cousin--"
"One of the flock of vultures you so tenderly referred to," remarked
Giovanni.
"Silence!" cried old Saracinesca, striking his heavy hand upon the table
so that the glasses shook together. "I will be heard; and what is more, I
will be obeyed. Donna Tullia is a relation. The union of two such
fortunes will be of immense advantage to your children. There is
everything in favour of the match--nothing against it. You shall marry
her a month from to-day. I will give you the title of Sant' Ilario, with
the estate outright into the bargain, and the palace in the Corso to
live in, if you do not care to live here."
"And if I refuse?" asked Giovanni, choking down his anger.
"If you refuse, you shall leave my house a month from to-day," said the
Prince, savagely.
"Whereby I shall be fulfilling your previous commands, in setting up an
establishment for myself and living like a gentleman," returned Giovanni,
with a bitter laugh. "It is nothing to me--if you turn me out. I am rich,
as you justly observed."
"You will have the more leisure to lead the life you like best," retorted
the Prince; "to hang about in society, to go where you please, to make
love to--" the old man stopped a moment. His son was watching him
fiercely, his hand clenched upon the table, his face as white as death.
"To whom?" he asked with a terrible effort to be calm.
"Do you think I am afraid of you? Do you think your father is less strong
or less fierce than you? To whom?" cried the angry old man, his whole
pent-up fury bursting out as he rose suddenly to his feet. "To whom but
to Corona d'Astrardente--to whom else should you make love?--wasting your
youth and life upon a mad passion! All Rome says it--I will say it too!"
"You have said it indeed," answered Giovanni, in a very low voice. He
remained seated at the table, not moving a muscle, his face as the face
of the dead. "You have said it, and in insulting that lady you have said
a thing not worthy for one of our blood to say. God help me to remember
that you are my father," he added, trembling suddenly.
"Hold!" said the Prince, who, with all his ambition for his son, and his
hasty temper, was an honest gentleman. "I never insulted, her--she is
above suspicion. It is you who are wasting your life in a hopeless
passion for her. See, I speak calmly--"
"What does 'all Rome say'?" asked Giovanni, interrupting him. He was
still deadly pale, but his hand was unclenched, and as he spoke he rested
his head upon it, looking down at the tablecloth.
"Everybody says that you are in love with the Astrardente, and that her
husband is beginning to notice it."
"It is enough, sir," said Giovanni, in low tones. "I will consider this
marriage you propose. Give me until the spring to decide."
"That is a long time," remarked the old Prince, resuming his seat and
beginning to peel an orange, as though nothing had happened. He was far
from being calm, but his son's sudden change of manner had disarmed his
anger. He was passionate and impetuous, thoughtless in his language, and
tyrannical in his determination; but he loved Giovanni dearly for all
that.
"I do not think it long," said Giovanni, thoughtfully. "I give you my
word that I will seriously consider the marriage. If it is possible for
me to marry Donna Tullia, I will obey you, and I will give you my answer
before Easter-day. I cannot do more."
"I sincerely hope you will take my advice," answered Saracinesca, now
entirely pacified. "If you cannot make up your mind to the match, I may
be able to find something else. There is Bianca Valdarno--she will have a
quarter of the estate."
"She is so very ugly," objected Giovanni, quietly. He was still much
agitated, but he answered his father mechanically.
"That is true--they are all ugly, those Valdarni. Besides, they are of
Tuscan origin. What do you say to the little Rocca girl? She has great
_chic_; she was brought up in England. She is pretty enough."
"I am afraid she would be extravagant."
"She could spend her own money then; it will be sufficient."
"It is better to be on the safe side," said Giovanni. Suddenly he changed
his position, and again looked at his father. "I am sorry we always
quarrel about this question," he said. "I do not really want to marry,
but I wish to oblige you, and I will try. Why do we always come to words
over it?"
"I am sure I do not know," said the Prince, with a pleasant smile. "I
have such a diabolical temper, I suppose."
"And I have inherited it," answered Don Giovanni, with a laugh that was
meant to be cheerful. "But I quite see your point of view. I suppose I
ought to settle in life by this time."
"Seriously, I think so, my son. Here is to your future happiness," said
the old gentleman, touching his glass with his lips.
"And here is to our future peace," returned Giovanni, also drinking.
"We never really quarrel, Giovanni, do we?" said his father. Every trace
of anger had vanished. His strong face beamed with an affectionate smile
that was like the sun after a thunderstorm.
"No, indeed," answered his son, cordially. "We cannot afford to quarrel;
there are only two of us left."
"That is what I always say," assented the Prince, beginning to eat the
orange he had carefully peeled since he had grown calm. "If two men like
you and me, my boy, can thoroughly agree, there is nothing we cannot
accomplish; whereas if we go against each other--"
"Justitia non fit, coelum vero ruet," suggested Giovanni, in parody of
the proverb.
"I am a little rusty in my Latin, Giovanni," said the old gentleman.
"Heaven is turned upside down, but justice is not done."
"No; one is never just when one is angry. But storms clear the sky, as
they say up at Saracinesca."
"By the bye, have you heard whether that question of the timber has been
settled yet?" asked Giovanni.
"Of course--I had forgotten. I will tell you all about it," answered his
father, cheerfully. So they chatted peacefully for another half-hour; and
no one would have thought, in looking at them, that such fierce passions
had been roused, nor that one of them felt as though his death-warrant
had been signed. When they separated, Giovanni went to his own rooms, and
locked himself in.
He had assumed an air of calmness which was not real before he left his
father. In truth he was violently agitated. He was as fiery as his
father, but his passions were of greater strength and of longer duration;
for his mother had been a Spaniard, and something of the melancholy of
her country had entered into his soul, giving depth and durability to the
hot Italian character he inherited from his father. Nor did the latter
suspect the cause of his son's sudden change of tone in regard to the
marriage. It was precisely the difference in temperament which made
Giovanni incomprehensible to the old Prince.
Giovanni had realised for more than a year past that he loved Corona
d'Astrardente. Contrary to the custom of young men in his position, he
determined from the first that he would never let her know it; and herein
lay the key to all his actions. He had, as he thought, made a point of
behaving to her on all occasions as he behaved to the other women he met
in the world, and he believed that he had skilfully concealed his passion
from the world and from the woman he loved. He had acted on all occasions
with a circumspection which was not natural to him, and for which he
undeniably deserved great credit. It had been a year of constant
struggles, constant efforts at self-control, constant determination that,
if possible, he would overcome his instincts. It was true that, when
occasion offered, he had permitted himself the pleasure of talking to
Corona d'Astrardente--talking, he well knew, upon the most general
subjects, but finding at each interview some new point of sympathy.
Never, he could honestly say, had he approached in that time the subject
of love, nor even the equally dangerous topic of friendship, the
discussion of which leads to so many ruinous experiments. He had never by
look or word sought to interest the dark Duchessa in his doings nor in
himself; he had talked of books, of politics, of social questions, but
never of himself nor of herself. He had faithfully kept the promise he
had made in his heart, that since he was so unfortunate as to love the
wife of another--a woman of such nobility that even in Rome no breath had
been breathed against her--he would keep his unfortunate passion to
himself. Astrardente was old, almost decrepit, in spite of his
magnificent wig; Corona was but two-and-twenty years of age. If ever her
husband died, Giovanni would present himself before the world as her
suitor; meanwhile he would do nothing to injure her self-respect nor to
disturb her peace--he hardly flattered himself he could do that, for he
loved her truly--and above all, he would do nothing to compromise the
unsullied reputation she enjoyed. She might never love him; but he was
strong and patient, and would do her the only honour it was in his power
to do her, by waiting patiently.
But Giovanni had not considered that he was the most conspicuous man in
society; that there were many who watched his movements, in hopes he
would come their way; that when he entered a room, many had noticed
that, though he never went directly to Corona's side, he always looked
first towards her, and never omitted to speak with her in the course of
an evening. Keen observers, the jays of society who hover about the
eagle's nest, had not failed to observe a look of annoyance on Giovanni's
face when he did not succeed in being alone by Corona's side for at least
a few minutes; and Del Ferice, who was a sort of news-carrier in Rome,
had now and then hinted that Giovanni was in love. People had repeated
his hints, as he intended they should, with the illuminating wit peculiar
to tale-bearers, and the story had gone abroad accordingly. True, there
was not a man in Rome bold enough to allude to the matter in Giovanni's
presence, even if any one had seen any advantage in so doing; but such
things do not remain hidden. His own father had told him in a fit of
anger, and the blow had produced its effect.
Giovanni sat down in a deep easy-chair in his own room, and thought over
the situation. His first impulse had been to be furiously angry with his
father; but the latter having instantly explained that there was nothing
to be said against the Duchessa, Giovanni's anger against the Prince had
turned against himself. It was bitter to think that all his self-denial,
all his many and prolonged efforts to conceal his love, had been of no
avail. He cursed his folly and imprudence, while wondering how it was
possible that the story should have got abroad. He did not waver in his
determination to hide his inclinations, to destroy the impression he had
so unwillingly produced. The first means he found in his way seemed the
best. To marry Donna Tullia at once, before the story of his affection
for the Duchessa had gathered force, would, he thought, effectually shut
the mouths of the gossips. From one point of view it was a noble thought,
the determination to sacrifice himself wholly and for ever, rather than
permit his name to be mentioned ever so innocently in connection with the
woman he loved; to root out utterly his love for her by seriously
engaging his faith to another, and keeping that engagement with all the
strength of fidelity he knew himself to possess. He would save Corona
from annoyance, and her name from the scandal-mongers; and if any one
ever dared to mention the story--
Giovanni rose to his feet and mechanically took a fencing-foil from the
wall, as he often did for practice. If any one mentioned the story, he
thought, he had the means to silence them, quickly and for ever. His eyes
flashed suddenly at the idea of action--any action, even fighting, which
might be distantly connected with Corona. Then he tossed down the rapier
and threw himself into his chair, and sat quite still, staring at the
trophies of armour upon the wall opposite.
He could not do it. To wrong one woman for the sake of shielding another
was not in his power. People might laugh at him and call him Quixotic,
forsooth, because he would not do like every one else and make a marriage
of convenience--of propriety. Propriety! when his heart was breaking
within him; when every fibre of his strong frame quivered with the strain
of passion; when his aching eyes saw only one face, and his ears echoed
the words she had spoken that very afternoon! Propriety indeed! Propriety
was good enough for cold-blooded dullards. Donna Tullia had done him no
harm that he should marry her for propriety's sake, and make her life
miserable for thirty, forty, fifty years. It would be propriety rather
for him to go away, to bury himself in the ends of the earth, until he
could forget Corona d'Astrardente, her splendid eyes, and her deep sweet
voice.
He had pledged his father his word that he would consider the marriage,
and he was to give his answer before Easter. That was a long time yet. He
would consider it; and if by Eastertide he had forgotten Corona, he
would--he laughed aloud in his silent room, and the sound of his voice
startled him from his reverie.
Forget? Did such men as he forget? Other men did. What were they made of?
They did not love such women, perhaps; that was the reason they forgot.
Any one could forget poor Donna Tullia. And yet how was it possible to
forget if one loved truly?
Giovanni had never believed himself in love before. He had known one or
two women who had attracted him strongly; but he had soon found out that
he had no real sympathy with them, that though they amused him they had
no charm for him--most of all, that he could not imagine himself tied to
any one of them for life without conceiving the situation horrible in the
extreme. To his independent nature the idea of such ties was repugnant:
he knew himself too courteous to break through the civilities of life
with a wife he did not love; but he knew also that in marrying a woman
who was indifferent to him, he would be engaging to play a part for life
in the most fearful of all plays--the part of a man who strives to bear
bravely the galling of a chain he is too honourable to break.
It was four o'clock in the morning when Giovanni went to bed; and even
then he slept little, for his dreams were disturbed. Once he thought he
stood upon a green lawn with a sword in his hand, and the blood upon its
point, his opponent lying at his feet. Again, he thought he was alone in
a vast drawing-room, and a dark woman came and spoke gently to him,
saying, "Marry her for my sake." He awoke with a groan. The church clocks
were striking eight, and the meet was at eleven, five miles beyond the
Porta Pia. Giovanni started up and rang for his servant.