Corona d'Astrardente had been educated in a convent--that is to say, she
had been brought up in the strict practice of her religion; and during
the five years which had elapsed since she had come out into the world,
she had found no cause for forsaking the habits she had acquired in her
girlhood. Some people find religion a burden; others regard it as an
indifferently useless institution, in which they desire no share, and
concerning which they never trouble themselves; others, again, look upon
it as the mainstay of their lives.
It is natural to suppose that the mode of thought and the habits acquired
by young girls in a religious institution will not disappear without a
trace when they first go into the world, and it may even be expected that
some memory of the early disposition thus cultivated will cling to them
throughout their lives. But the multifarious interests of social
existence do much to shake that young edifice of faith. The driving
strength of stormy passions of all kinds undermines the walls of the
fabric, and when at last the bolt of adversity strikes full upon the
keystone of the arch, upon the self of man or woman, weakened and
loosened by the tempests of years, the whole palace of the soul falls in,
a hopeless wreck, wherein not even the memory of outline can be traced,
nor the faint shadow of a beauty which is destroyed for ever.
But there are some whose interests in this world are not strong enough to
shake their faith in the next; whose passions do not get the mastery, and
whose self is sheltered from danger by something more than the feeble
defence of an accomplished egotism. Corona was one of these, for her lot
had not been happy, nor her path strewn with roses.
She was a friendless woman, destined to suffer much, and her suffering
was the more intense that she seemed always upon the point of finding
friends in the world where she played so conspicuous a part. There can be
little happiness when a whole life has been placed upon a false
foundation, even though so dire a mistake may have been committed
willingly and from a sense of duty and obligation, such as drove Corona
to marry old Astrardente. Consolation is not satisfaction; and though,
when she reflected on what she had done, she knew that from her point of
view she had done her best, she knew also that she had closed upon
herself the gates of the earthly paradise, and that for her the prospect
of happiness had been removed from the now to the hereafter--the dim and
shadowy glass in which we love to see any reflection save that of our
present lives. And to her, thus living in submission to the consequences
of her choice, that faith in things better which had inspired her to
sacrifice was the chief remaining source of consolation. There was a good
man to whom she went for advice, as she had gone to him ever since she
could remember. When she found herself in trouble she never hesitated.
Padre Filippo was to her the living proof of the possibility of human
goodness, as faith is to us all the evidence of things not seen.
Corona was in trouble now--in a trouble so new that she hardly understood
it, so terrible and yet so vague that she felt her peril imminent. She
did not hesitate, therefore, nor change her mind upon the morning
following the day of the meet, but drove to the church of the Capuchins
in the Piazza Barberini, and went up the broad steps with a beating
heart, not knowing how she should tell what she meant to tell, yet
knowing that there was for her no hope of peace unless she told it
quickly, and got that advice and direction she so earnestly craved.
Padre Filippo had been a man of the world in his time--a man of great
cultivation, full of refined tastes and understanding of tastes in
others, gentle and courteous in his manners, and very kind of heart. No
one knew whence he came. He spoke Italian correctly and with a keen
scholarly use of words, but his slight accent betrayed his foreign birth.
He had been a Capuchin monk for many years, perhaps for more than half
his lifetime, and Corona could remember him from her childhood, for he
had been a friend of her father's; but he had not been consulted about
her marriage,--she even remembered that, though she had earnestly desired
to see him before the wedding-day, her father had told her that he had
left Rome for a time. For the old gentleman was in terrible earnest about
the match, so that in his heart he feared lest Corona might waver and ask
Padre Filippo's advice; and he knew the good monk too well to think that
he would give his countenance to such a sacrifice as was contemplated
in marrying the young girl to old Astrardente. Corona had known this
later, but had hardly realised the selfishness of her father, nor indeed
had desired to realise it. It was sufficient that he had died satisfied
in seeing her married to a great noble, and that she had been able, in
his last days, to relieve him from the distress of debt and embarrassment
which had doubtless contributed to shorten his life.
The proud woman who had thus once humbled herself for an object she
thought good, had never referred to her action again. She had never
spoken of her position to Padre Filippo, so that the monk wondered and
admired her steadfastness. If she suffered, it was in silence, without
comment and without complaint, and so she would have suffered to the end.
But it had been ordered otherwise. For months she had known that the
interest she felt in Giovanni Saracinesca was increasing: she had choked
it down, had done all in her power to prove herself indifferent to him;
but at last the crisis had come. When he spoke to her of his marriage,
she had felt--she knew now that it was so--that she loved him. The very
word, as she repeated it to herself, rang like an awful, almost
incomprehensible, accusation of evil in her ears. One moment she stood at
the top of the steps outside the church, looking down at the bare
straggling trees below, and upward to the grey sky, against which the
lofty eaves of the Palazzo Barberini stood out sharply defined. The
weather had changed again, and a soft southerly wind was blowing the
spray of the fountain half across the piazza. Corona paused, her graceful
figure half leaning against the stone doorpost of the church, her hand
upon the heavy leathern curtain in the act to lift it; and as she stood
there, a desperate temptation assailed her. It seemed desperate to
her--to many another woman it would have appeared only the natural course
to pursue--to turn her back upon the church, to put off the hard moment
of confession, to go down again into the city, and to say to herself that
there was no harm in seeing Don Giovanni, provided she never let him
speak of love. Why should he speak of it? Had she any reason to suppose
there was danger to her in anything he meant to say? Had he ever, by word
or deed, betrayed that interest in her which she knew in herself was love
for him? Had he ever?--ah yes! It was only the night before last that he
had asked her advice, had besought her to advise him not to marry
another, had suffered his arm to tremble when she laid her hand upon it.
In the quick remembrance that he too had shown some feeling, there was a
sudden burst of joy such as Corona had never felt, and a moment later she
knew it and was afraid. It was true, then. At the very time when she was
most oppressed with the sense of her fault in loving him, there was an
inward rejoicing in her heart at the bare thought that she loved him.
Could a woman fall lower, she asked herself--lower than to delight in
what she knew to be most bad? And yet it was such a poor little thrill of
pleasure after all; but it was the first she had ever known. To turn away
and reflect for a few days would be so easy! It would be so sweet to
think of it, even though the excuse for thinking of Giovanni should be a
good determination to root him from her life. It would be so sweet to
drive again alone among the trees that very afternoon, and to weigh the
salvation of her soul in the balance of her heart: her heart would know
how to turn the scales, surely enough. Corona stood still, holding the
curtain in her hand. She was a brave woman, but she turned pale--not
hesitating, she said to herself, but pausing. Then, suddenly, a great
scorn of herself arose in her. Was it worthy of her even to pause in
doing right? The nobility of her courage cried loudly to her to go in and
do the thing most worthy: her hand lifted the heavy leathern apron, and
she entered the church.
The air within was heavy and moist, and the grey light fell coldly
through the tall windows. Corona shuddered, and drew her furs more
closely about her as she passed up the aisle to the door of the sacristy.
She found the monk she sought, and she made her confession.
"Padre mio," she said at last, when the good man thought she had
finished--"Padre mio, I am a very miserable woman." She hid her dark face
in her ungloved hands, and one by one the crystal tears welled from her
eyes and trickled down upon her small fingers and upon the worn black
wood of the confessional.
"My daughter," said the good monk, "I will pray for you, others will pray
for you--but before all things, you must pray for yourself. And let me
advise you, my child, that as we are all led into temptation, we must
not think that because we have been in temptation we have sinned
hopelessly; nor, if we have fought against the thing that tempts us,
should we at once imagine that we have overcome it, and have done
altogether right. If there were no evil in ourselves, there could be no
temptation from without, for nothing evil could seem pleasant. But with
you I cannot find that you have done any great wrong as yet. You must
take courage. We are all in the world, and do what we may, we cannot
disregard it. The sin you see is real, but it is yet not very near you
since you so abhor it; and if you pray that you may hate it, it will go
further from you till you may hope not even to understand how it could
once have been so near. Take courage--take comfort. Do not be morbid.
Resist temptation, but do not analyse it nor yourself too closely; for
it is one of the chief signs of evil in us that when we dwell too much
upon ourselves and upon our temptations, we ourselves seem good in our
own eyes, and our temptations not unpleasant, because the very resisting
of them seems to make us appear better than we are."
But the tears still flowed from Corona's eyes in the dark corner of the
church, and she could not be comforted.
"Padre mio," she repeated, "I am very unhappy. I have not a friend in the
world to whom I can speak. I have never seen my life before as I see it
now. God forgive me, I have never loved my husband. I never knew what it
meant to love. I was a mere child, a very innocent child, when I was
married to him. I would have sought your advice, but they told me you
were away, and I thought I was doing right in obeying my father."
Padre Filippo sighed. He had long known and understood why Corona had not
been allowed to come to him at the most important moment of her life.
"My husband is very kind to me," she continued in broken tones. "He loves
me in his way, but I do not love him. That of itself is a great sin. It
seems to me as though I saw but one half of life, and saw it from the
window of a prison; and yet I am not imprisoned. I would that I were, for
I should never have seen another man. I should never have heard his
voice, nor seen his face, nor--nor loved him, as I do love him," she
sobbed.
"Hush, my daughter," said the old monk, very gently. "You told me you had
never spoken of love; that you were interested in him, indeed, but that
you did not know--"
"I know--I know now," cried Corona, losing all control as the passionate
tears flowed down. "I could not say it--it seemed so dreadful--I love him
with my whole self! I can never get it out--it burns me. O God, I am so
wretched!"
Padre Filippo was silent for a while. It was a terrible case. He could
not remember in all his experience to have known one more sad to
contemplate, though his business was with the sins and the sorrows of the
world. The beautiful woman kneeling outside his confessional was
innocent--as innocent as a child, brave and faithful. She had sacrificed
her whole life for her father, who had been little worthy of such
devotion; she had borne for years the suffering of being tied to an old
man whom she could not help despising, however honestly she tried to
conceal the fact from herself, however effectually she hid it from
others. It was a wonder the disaster had not occurred before: it showed
how loyal and true a woman she was, that, living in the very centre and
midst of the world, admired and assailed by many, she should never in
five years have so much as thought of any man beside her husband. A woman
made for love and happiness, in the glory of beauty and youth, capable
of such unfaltering determination in her loyalty, so good, so noble, so
generous,--it seemed unspeakably pathetic to hear her weeping her heart
out, and confessing that, after so many struggles and efforts and
sacrifices, she had at last met the common fate of all humanity, and
was become subject to love. What might have been her happiness was turned
to dishonour; what should have been the pride of her young life was made
a reproach.
She would not fall. The grey-haired monk believed that, in his great
knowledge of mankind. But she would suffer terribly, and it might be that
others would suffer also. It was the consequence of an irretrievable
error in the beginning, when it had seemed to the young girl just
leaving the convent that the best protection against the world of evil
into which she was to go would be the unconditional sacrifice of herself.
Padre Filippo was silent. He hoped that the passionate outburst of grief
and self-reproach would pass, though he himself could find little enough
to say. It was all too natural. What was he, he thought, that he should
explain away nature, and bid a friendless woman defy a power that has
more than once overset the reckoning of the world? He could bid her pray
for help and strength, but he found it hard to argue the case with her;
for he had to allow that his beautiful penitent was, after all, only
experiencing what it might have been foretold that she must feel, and
that, as far as he could see, she was struggling bravely against the
dangers of her situation.
Corona cried bitterly as she knelt there. It was a great relief to give
way for a time to the whole violence of what she felt. It may be that in
her tears there was a subtle instinctive knowledge that she was weeping
for her love as well as for her sin in loving, but her grief was none
the less real. She did not understand herself. She did not know, as Padre
Filippo knew, that her woman's heart was breaking for sympathy rather
than for religious counsel. She knew many women, but her noble pride
would not have let her even contemplate the possibility of confiding in
any one of them, even if she could have done so in the certainty of not
being herself betrayed and of not betraying the man she loved. She had
been accustomed to come to her confessor for counsel, and she now came to
him with her troubles and craved sympathy for them, in the knowledge that
Padre Filippo could never know the name of the man who had disturbed her
peace.
But the monk understood well enough, and his kind heart comprehended hers
and felt for her.
"My daughter," he said at last, when she seemed to have grown more calm,
"it would be an inestimable advantage if this man could go away for a
time, but that is probably not to be expected. Meanwhile, you must not
listen to him if he speaks--"
"It is not that," interrupted Corona--"it is not that. He never speaks of
love. Oh, I really believe he does not love me at all!" But in her heart
she felt that he must love her; and her hand, as it lay upon the hard
wood of the confessional, seemed still to feel his trembling arm.
"That is so much the better, my child," said the monk, quietly. "For if
he does not love you, your temptations will not grow stronger."
"And yet, perhaps--he may--" murmured Corona, feeling that it would be
wrong even to conceal her faintest suspicions at such a time.
"Let there be no perhaps," answered Padre Filippo, almost sternly. "Let
it never enter your mind that he might love you. Think that even from the
worldly point there is small dignity in a woman who exhibits love for a
man who has never mentioned love to her. You have no reason to suppose
you are loved save that you desire to be. Let there be no perhaps."
The monk's keen insight into character had given him an unexpected weapon
in Corona's defence. He knew how of all things a proud woman hates to
know that where she has placed her heart there is no response, and that
if she fails to awaken an affection akin to her own, what has been love
may be turned to loathing, or at least to indifference. The strong
character of the Duchessa d'Astrardente responded to his touch as he
expected. Her tears ceased to flow, and her scorn rose haughtily against
herself.
"It is true. I am despicable," she said, suddenly. "You have shown me
myself. There shall be no perhaps. I loathe myself for thinking of it.
Pray for me, lest I fall so low again."
A few minutes later Corona left the confessional and went and kneeled in
the body of the church to collect her thoughts. She was in a very
different frame of mind from that in which she had left home an hour ago.
She hardly knew whether she felt herself a better woman, but she was
sure that she was stronger. There was no desire left in her to meditate
sadly upon her sorrow--to go over and over in her thoughts the feelings
she experienced, the fears she felt, the half-formulated hope that
Giovanni might love her after all. There was left only a haughty
determination to have done with her folly quickly and surely, and to try
and forget it for ever. The confessor's words had produced their effect.
Henceforth she would never stoop so low again. She was ready to go out
into the world now, and she felt no fear. It was more from habit than for
the sake of saying a prayer that she knelt in the church after her
confession, for she felt very strong. She rose to her feet presently, and
moved towards the door: she had not gone half the length of the church
when she came face to face with Donna Tullia Mayer.
It was a strange coincidence. The ladies of Rome frequently go to the
church of the Capuchins, as Corona had done, to seek the aid and counsel
of Padre Filippo, but Corona had never met Donna Tullia there. Madame
Mayer did not profess to be very devout. As a matter of fact, she had not
found it convenient to go to confession during the Christmas season, and
she had been intending to make up for the deficiency for some time past;
but it is improbable that she would have decided upon fulfilling her
religious obligations before Lent if she had not chanced to see the
Duchessa d'Astrardente's carriage standing at the foot of the church
steps.
Donna Tullia had risen early because she was going to sit for her
portrait to a young artist who lived in the neighbourhood of the Piazza
Barberini, and as she passed in her brougham she caught sight of the
Duchessa's liveries. The artist could wait half an hour: the opportunity
was admirable. She was alone, and would not only do her duty in going to
confession, but would have a chance of seeing how Corona looked when she
had been at her devotions. It might also be possible to judge from Padre
Filippo's manner whether the interview had been an interesting one. The
Astrardente was so very devout that she probably had difficulty in
inventing sins to confess. One might perhaps tell from her face whether
she had felt any emotion. At all events the opportunity should not be
lost. Besides, if Donna Tullia found that she herself was really not in a
proper frame of mind for religious exercises, she could easily spend a
few moments in the church and then proceed upon her way. She stopped her
carriage and went in. She had just entered when she was aware of the tall
figure of Corona d'Astrardente coming towards her, magnificent in the
simplicity of her furs, a short veil just covering half her face, and an
unwonted colour in her dark cheeks.
Corona was surprised at meeting Madame Mayer, but she did not show it.
She nodded with a sufficiently pleasant smile, and would have passed on.
This would not have suited Donna Tullia's intentions, however, for she
meant to have a good look at her friend. It was not for nothing that she
had made up her mind to go to confession at a moment's notice. She
therefore stopped the Duchessa, and insisted upon shaking hands.
"What an extraordinary coincidence!" she exclaimed. "You must have been
to see Padre Filippo too?"
"Yes," answered Corona. "You will find him in the sacristy." She noticed
that Madame Mayer regarded her with great interest. Indeed she could
hardly be aware how unlike her usual self she appeared. There were dark
rings beneath her eyes, and her eyes themselves seemed to emit a strange
light; while an unwonted colour illuminated her olive cheeks, and her
voice had a curiously excited tone. Madame Mayer stared at her so hard
that she noticed it.
"Why do you look at me like that?" asked the Duchessa, with a smile.
"I was wondering what in the world you could find to confess," replied
Donna Tullia, sweetly. "You are so immensely good, you see; everybody
wonders at you."
Corona's eyes flashed darkly. She suspected that Madame Mayer noticed
something unusual in her appearance, and had made the awkward speech to
conceal her curiosity. She was annoyed at the meeting, still more at
being detained in conversation within the church.
"It is very kind of you to invest me with such virtues," she answered. "I
assure you I am not half so good as you suppose. Good-bye--I must be
going home."
"Stay!" exclaimed Donna Tullia; "I can go to confession another time.
Will not you come with me to Gouache's studio? I am going to sit. It is
such a bore to go alone."
"Thank you very much," said Corona, civilly. "I am afraid I cannot go. My
husband expects me at home. I wish you a good sitting."
"Well, good-bye. Oh, I forgot to tell you, we had such a charming picnic
yesterday. It was so fortunate--the only fine day this week. Giovanni was
very amusing: he was completely _en train_, and kept us laughing the
whole day. Good-bye; I do so wish you had come."
"I was very sorry," answered Corona, quietly, "but it was impossible. I
am glad you all enjoyed it so much. Good-bye."
So they parted.
"How she wishes that same husband of hers would follow the example of my
excellent old Mayer, of blessed memory, and take himself out of the world
to-day or to-morrow!" thought Donna Tullia, as she walked up the church.
She was sure something unusual had occurred, and she longed to fathom the
mystery. But she was not altogether a bad woman, and when she had
collected her thoughts she made up her mind that even by the utmost
stretch of moral indulgence, she could not consider herself in a proper
state to undertake so serious a matter as confession. She therefore
waited a few minutes, to give time for Corona to drive away, and then
turned back. She cautiously pushed aside the curtain and looked out.
The Astrardente carriage was just disappearing in the distance. Donna
Tullia descended the steps, got into her brougham, and proceeded to the
studio of Monsieur Anastase Gouache, the portrait-painter. She had not
accomplished much, save to rouse her curiosity, and that parting thrust
concerning Don Giovanni had been rather ill-timed.
She drove to the door of the studio and found Del Ferice waiting for her
as usual. If Corona had accompanied her, she would have expressed
astonishment at finding him; but, as a matter of fact, Ugo always met
her there, and helped to pass the time while she was sitting. He was very
amusing, and not altogether unsympathetic to her; and moreover, he
professed for her the most profound devotion--genuine, perhaps, and
certainly skilfully expressed. If any one had paid much attention to Del
Fence's doings, it would have been said that he was paying court to the
rich young widow. But he was never looked upon by society from the point
of view of matrimonial possibility, and no one thought of attaching any
importance to his doings. Nevertheless Ugo, who had been gradually rising
in the social scale for many years, saw no reason why he should not win
the hand of Donna Tullia as well as any one else, if only Giovanni
Saracinesca could be kept out of the way; and he devoted himself with
becoming assiduity to the service of the widow, while doing his utmost to
promote Giovanni's attachment for the Astrardente, which he had been the
first to discover. Donna Tullia would probably have laughed to scorn the
idea that Del Ferice could think of himself seriously as a suitor, but of
all her admirers she found him the most constant and the most convenient.
"What are the news this morning?" she asked, as he opened her
carriage-door for her before the studio.
"None, save that I am your faithful slave as ever," he answered.
"I have just seen the Astrardente," said Donna Tullia, still sitting in
her seat. "I will let you guess where it was that we met."
"You met in the church of the Capuchins," replied Del Ferice promptly,
with a smile of satisfaction.
"You are a sorcerer: how did you know? Did you guess it?"
"If you will look down this street from where I stand, you will perceive
that I could distinctly see any carriage which turned out of the Piazza
Barberini towards the Capuchins," replied Ugo. "She was there nearly an
hour, and you only stayed five minutes."
"How dreadful it is to be watched like this!" exclaimed Donna Tullia,
with a little laugh, half expressive of satisfaction and half of
amusement at Del Fence's devotion.
"How can I help watching you, as the earth watches the sun in its daily
course?" said Ugo, with a sentimental intonation of his soft persuasive
voice. Donna Tullia looked at his smooth face, and laughed again, half
kindly.
"The Astrardente had been confessing her sins," she remarked.
"Again? She is always confessing."
"What do you suppose she finds to say?" asked Donna Tullia.
"That her husband is hideous, and that you are beautiful," answered Del
Ferice, readily enough.
"Why?"
"Because she hates her husband and hates you."
"Why, again?"
"Because you took Giovanni Saracinesca to your picnic yesterday; because
you are always taking him away from her. For the matter of that, I hate
him as much as the Astrardente hates you," added Del Ferice, with an
agreeable smile. Donna Tullia did not despise flattery, but Ugo made her
thoughtful.
"Do you think she really cares--?" she asked.
"As surely as that he does not," replied Del Ferice.
"It would be strange," said Donna Tullia, meditatively. "I would like to
know if it is true."
"You have only to watch them."
"Surely Giovanni cares more than she does," objected Madame Mayer.
"Everybody says he loves her; nobody says she loves him."
"All the more reason. Popular report is always mistaken--except
in regard to you."
"To me?"
"Since it ascribes to you so much that is good, it cannot be wrong,"
replied Del Ferice.
Donna Tullia laughed, and took his hand to descend from her carriage.