have it!" he cried, after musing a few moments. "These people are deep
in politics. They are still conspiring. Probably they did not even take
the trouble to look at my paintings, or else they know nothing about
art. They pet and flatter my father, who is one of their tools, and they
are trying to gain possession of me, too. Ah well! if they wish to
arouse Sicilian patriotism in my bosom, let them go about it in a
different way and not attempt to exploit my youth without advantage to
my reputation! I see their object; but they shall learn to know me. I am
willing to be the victim of a noble cause, but not the dupe of other
people's ambition."
XV
ROMANTIC LOVE
"But," said Michel to himself, "are the patricians all alike in this
island? Does the age of gold still flourish in Catania, and do the
servants alone retain the pride of prejudice?"
The majordomo had just passed and saluted him with a depressed and
crestfallen air. Doubtless he had been reprimanded, or expected to be.
Michel was passing through the dressing-room, resolved to go home, when
he saw Pier-Angelo holding the wadded great-coat of an old noble in a
light wig, who was feeling about for the arm-holes, shaking as with
palsy. Michel blushed at that sight, and quickened his pace. In his
opinion, his father was much too good-natured, and the man who allowed
himself to be waited upon thus gave an explicit contradiction to the
conjectures in which he had just been indulging concerning the
noble-hearted generosity of the great.
But he did not escape the humiliation he shunned. "Ah!" cried
Pier-Angelo, "there he is, monsignor! Look, you were asking me if he was
a handsome boy; look at him!"
"Ah! upon my word, the rascal is well turned, and no mistake!" said the
old noble, standing in front of Michel, and eying him from head to foot,
as he wrapped his coat about him. "I am much pleased with your
decorative work, my boy; I noticed it particularly. I was just telling
your father, whom I have known a long while, that you will deserve to
succeed him some day in his trade; and if you don't go about town too
much, you'll never land in the gutter. At all events, if you ever do get
there, it will be your own fault. Call my carriage for me. Be quick;
there is quite a cool wind to-night, and it's a bad thing when one has
just been in such a suffocating crowd."
"A thousand pardons, your excellency," rejoined Michel, frantic with
rage. "I am afraid of the wind myself."
"What does he say?" the old man asked Pier-Angelo.
"He says that your excellency's carriage is at the door," replied Pier,
struggling hard to keep from roaring with laughter.
"Very good; I will hire him by the day, with you, when I have work for
you."
"Oh! father!" cried Michel, as soon as the old nobleman had gone, "how
can you laugh? That impertinent man treats you like a footman, and you
accept such treatment with a smile!"
"It makes you angry," said Pier, "but why? I am laughing at your anger
and not at the goodman's lack of ceremony. Didn't I promise to help the
people of the house in every way? I happen to be here; he asks me for
his great-coat; he is old, infirm, foolish--three reasons why I should
take pity on him. And why should I despise him, pray?"
"Because he despises you!"
"According to your ideas, but not according to his conception of the
things of this world. He is an old devotee, formerly a great rake. In
the old days he seduced the daughters of the common people; to-day he
bestows alms on the poor mothers. God will forgive him for his early
sins, beyond any doubt. Why should I be more straitlaced than the good
Lord! I tell you that the differences which social customs create among
men are neither so important nor so real as you think, my child. They
are all disappearing little by little, and if those who are inordinately
sensitive would be a little less stiff, all those barriers would soon be
nothing but empty words. For my part I laugh at those who consider
themselves so much better than I am, and I never lose my temper. It is
not in any man's power to humiliate me, so long as I am at peace with my
conscience."
"Do you know, father, that you are invited to dine with the Marquis
della Serra on the day after to-morrow?"
"Yes, that is understood," replied Pier-Angelo, coolly. "I accepted this
invitation because he is not tiresome like most of the great nobles. Ah!
what a price some of them would have to pay me to induce me to pass a
couple of hours with them! But the marquis is a man of intellect. Do you
mean to go there with me? Don't accept unless you choose, Michel; do you
understand? You must not stand on ceremony with any one if you wish to
retain your openness of heart."
There was evidently a wide difference between Pier-Angelo's idea of the
honor conferred upon him by such an invitation and the idea that Michel
had conjured up of his triumphal entrance into society. Intoxicated at
first by what had seemed to him to be love on the part of the princess;
then bewildered by the amiability of the marquis, which tended to
diminish the force of the portent, but did not explain it; and, lastly,
irritated by the insolence of the man in the great-coat, he did not know
which way to turn. His theories concerning the victories of talent fell
to the ground before the heedless simplicity of his father, who accepted
everything--homage and disdain--with placid gratitude or satirical
amusement.
At the doors of the palace Michel met Magnani, who was also going away.
But, after walking a few steps, the two young men, revived by the
morning air, determined, instead of going to bed, to skirt the hill and
watch the rising of the sun, which was just beginning to whiten the
sides of Ætna. They paused on a small hill, about the half height of
Ætna itself, and seated themselves on a picturesque spot, having at
their right the Villa Palmarosa, still gleaming with light and echoing
with the strains of the orchestra; on their left the towering cone of
the volcano, with the vast slopes forming an amphitheatre of verdure,
rocks and snow to the summit. It was a strange and superb spectacle.
Everything was ill-defined in that boundless expanse, and the
_piedimonta_ could hardly be distinguished from the upper belt, called
_nemorosa_ or _silvosa_. But while the dawn, reflected in the sea,
suffused the lower portion of the picture with a pale, vague light, the
bold, jagged edges and immaculate snow of the peak were sharply outlined
against the transparent atmosphere of the night, which was still a deep
blue and studded with stars about the giant's head.
The sublime tranquillity, the imposing serenity of the towering peaks,
presented a marked contrast to the commotion all about the palace. The
music, the shouts of the servants, the rumbling of the carriages,
seemed, in the presence of placid, silent Ætna, a satirical epitome of
human life as compared with the mysterious abyss of eternity. As the
light grew stronger the peaks became less distinct, and the gorgeous
streamer of reddish smoke that had cut the deep blue sky became blue
itself, and wound upward like an azure serpent against an opal
background.
Then the picture changed, and the contrast was reversed. The commotion
and noise rapidly subsided about the palace, and the horrors of the
volcano became visible; the formidable inequalities of its surface, its
yawning chasms, and all the marks of desolation it had left upon the
soil from its crater to its base, even beyond the point from which
Michel and Magnani were gazing at it, even to the very seashore, where
Catania lies, imprisoned by countless blocks of lava as black as ebony.
That awe-inspiring marvel of nature seemed to be defied and insulted by
the joyous airs which the orchestra was playing, softly now, and by the
fast-dying illuminations which crowned the main façade of the palace.
Now and again the music and the candles seemed to make an effort to
revive. Evidently some indefatigable dancers compelled the musicians to
shake off their torpor. Perhaps the burnt-out candles set fire to their
collars of pink paper. One would have said, watching that brilliant and
echoing structure, that the heedless gayety of youth was struggling
against the prostration of sleep or the languor of sensual desire, while
the undying scourge of that sublime country sent its blazing smoke into
the air, a menace of destruction which could not always be defied with
impunity.
Michelangelo Lavoratori was absorbed by the spectacle of the volcano,
Magnani's eyes were fixed more frequently on the villa. Suddenly he
uttered an exclamation, and his young friend, following the direction of
his glance, saw a white figure which seemed to be floating in space. It
was a woman walking slowly on the high terrace of the palace.
"She, too," cried Magnani, involuntarily, "is watching the sun rise over
the mountain. She, too, is musing, and, it may be, sighing!"
"Who?" queried Michel, whose mind had hardened itself somewhat to eject
its own chimera. "Are your eyes sharp enough to see from here whether it
is Princess Agatha or her maid who is taking the air on the terrace?"
Magnani hid his face in his hands and made no answer.
"Come, my friend," said Michel, obeying a sudden inspiration, "be frank
with me. The great lady with whom you are in love is the Princess
Agatha?"
"Well, why should I not admit it?" rejoined the young mechanic, in a
profoundly sorrowful tone; "it may be that I shall soon repent of having
confided to a child whom I hardly know a secret which I have never
allowed those who should be my best friends to suspect. There must be
some fateful reason for this longing to unbosom myself which has
suddenly drawn me toward you. Perhaps it is the late hour, the fatigue,
the excitement caused by the music and lights and perfumes; I do not
know. Perhaps, rather, it is because I feel that you are the only person
here who is capable of understanding me, and that you are mad enough
yourself not to be too severe upon my madness. Well, yes, I love her! I
fear her, I hate her, and I adore her all at once--that woman who is
unlike all other women, whom no one knows, and whom I do not know
myself."
"I certainly shall not laugh at you, Magnani; I pity you, I understand
you and I love you, because I think that I can detect a certain
similarity between you and me. I, too, am excited by the perfumes, the
intense brilliancy of that ball, and the noisy dance-music, in which my
imagination detects such an undertone of gloom and melancholy through
its false liveliness. I, too, feel over-excited and a little mad at this
moment. I fancy that there is some deep mystery in our sympathetic
feeling for each other."
"Because we both love her!" cried Magnani, beside himself. "Why, Michel,
I guessed it from the first glance you bestowed upon her; you, too, love
her! But you are loved by her, or will be, and she will never love me!"
"Loved, I shall be loved, or am already! What are you saying, Magnani?
you are raving!"
"Listen to me; I must tell you how this disease took possession of me,
and perhaps you will understand what is taking place in yourself. Five
years ago my mother was ill. The doctor who attended her, for charity's
sake, had almost given her up; her case seemed hopeless. I was sitting
with my face in my hands, weeping bitterly, at the gate of our little
garden, which opens on a street which is almost always deserted, and
which ends in the fields on the outskirts of the town. A woman wrapped
in a cloak passed the gate and stopped: 'Young man,' she said, 'why do
you grieve so? what can I do to lighten your sorrow?'--It was almost
dark and her face was hidden; I could not see her features, and her
voice, which was extremely sweet, was unfamiliar to me. But her
pronunciation and her manner convinced me that she did not belong to our
class.
"'Signora,' I replied, rising, 'my poor mother is dying. I ought to be
with her, but, as she is fully conscious and I have reached the end of
my courage, I came outside to weep, so that she should not hear me. I am
going back to her, for it is cowardly to weep like this.'
"'Yes,' she said, 'we must have enough courage to lend some to those who
are struggling in the death agony. Go back to your mother; but tell me
first if all hope is lost? has she no doctor?'
"'The doctor has not been to-day, and I understand that he can do
nothing more.'
"She asked me the doctor's name and my mother's, and when I answered,
she said: 'What! has she grown so much worse during the night? he told
me last evening that he still hoped to save her.'
"These words, which she involuntarily let fall did not lead me to think
that it was the Princess of Palmarosa who was speaking to me. I did not
then know what many people do not know to-day, that that charitable
woman paid several doctors to attend the poor of the city, the suburbs,
and the country; that, without ever appearing in person, unwilling to
receive the reward of her good works in the esteem and gratitude of
others, she gave the most assiduous and careful attention to all the
details of our hardships and our necessities.
"I was too much engrossed by my grief to pay the same attention to her
words that I afterwards paid to them. I left her; but when I entered my
poor invalid's room, I saw that the veiled lady had followed me. She
approached my mother's bed without speaking, took her hand and held it a
long time, leaned over her, looked into her eyes, listened to her
breathing, and finally said in my ear: 'Young man, your mother is not so
ill as you think. She still has some strength and vitality. The doctor
did wrong to give up hope. I will send him to you and I am sure that he
will save her.'
"'Who is this woman?' my mother asked in a feeble voice; 'I do not
recognize you, my dear, but I recognize everybody else here.'
"'I am a neighbor of yours,' replied the princess, 'and I came to tell
you that the doctor is coming soon.'
"She went out, and my father at once exclaimed: 'That woman is the
Princess Agatha! I recognized her perfectly.'
"We could not believe my father; we supposed that he was mistaken, but
we did not have time to discuss the question much. Mother said that she
felt better, and the doctor soon arrived, ordered other remedies, and
left us, saying that she was saved.
"And so she was; and since then she has always insisted that the veiled
lady she saw at her death-bed was her patron saint, who had appeared to
her just as she was praying to her, and that the breath of that blessed
spirit had restored her life as by a miracle. We cannot disabuse my dear
mother's mind of that pious and poetic idea, and my brothers and
sisters, who were children then, share it with her. The doctor always
pretended that he didn't know what we meant when we talked about a woman
in a black _mazzaro_, who had just entered the house and gone out again,
saying that he was coming, and that my mother was saved.
"They say that the princess requires absolute secrecy from all those
whom she employs in her good works, and indeed they go so far as to say
that her modesty in that respect amounts to a mania. Her secret was kept
for many years; but the truth always comes out at last, and now many
know that she is the hidden providence of the unfortunate. But see the
injustice and absurdity of human judgments! Some of our people declare
that she once committed a crime, and made a vow to atone for it; that
her noble and saintly life is a self-imposed, terrible penance; that in
her heart she hates all mankind so bitterly that she will never exchange
a sympathetic word with those whom she assists; but that the fear of
everlasting punishment impels her to devote her life to works of
charity. Isn't it horrible to form such judgments? And yet that is what
I have heard said, in a very low tone, it is true, by old women who have
called to see my mother in the evening, and it is sometimes repeated by
younger people, who are impressed by these extraordinary conjectures.
For my own part, I was fully convinced that I had not seen a phantom,
and although my father, fearing lest he might lose the princess's
good-will if he betrayed her incognito, dared not repeat that it was she
who had appeared to us, he said it at first so naturally and so
confidently that I could not doubt it.
"As soon as my mother was convalescent, I went and offered to pay the
doctor for his services; but he refused my money, as did the druggist.
They replied to my questions according to the lesson that had been
taught them, that a secret association of wealthy and devout people paid
them for their trouble and outlay."
XVI
CONCLUSION OF MAGNANI'S STORY
"My brain began to work," said Magnani, continuing his narrative. "As
the grief that had overwhelmed me gave place to joy, the romantic
portion of my adventure recurred to my memory. The slightest details
stood out distinctly and assumed an intoxicating charm. That woman's
soft voice, her graceful figure, her noble carriage, her white hand,
were constantly in my mind. A ring which she wore, of a curious shape,
had attracted my attention when she felt my poor mother's pulse.
"I had never entered the Palmarosa palace. It is not open to strangers
or to inquisitive natives, like most of the ancient abodes of our
patricians. The princess has lived in retirement there, hidden from the
world, so to speak, ever since her father's death, receiving very few
visitors, going out only at night, and that very rarely. I had to watch
for an opportunity to see her near at hand, for I was determined to see
her with the eyes which I had for her alone thenceforth. I had never
desired before that time to see her features, and she had shown them so
seldom in ten years that the people of the suburb had forgotten them.
When she rode out the shades were lowered, and when she went to church
her head was completely enveloped in her black mantilla. Indeed, it was
commonly said among us that she had once been very beautiful, but that
she had had a scrofulous eruption on her face which made her so
frightful that she preferred not to show herself.
"All this was simply vague rumor, for my father and other mechanics whom
she employed laughed at these stories, and declared that she was the
same as always. But my youthful brain was affected, none the less, by
these contradictory reports, and my desire to see that woman was blended
with an indefinable dread which prepared me by slow degrees for the
madness of falling in love with her.
"One fact in particular added to my ardent longing. My father, who went
often to the palace, as a simple journeyman, to assist the master
upholsterer to hang and drape curtains and the like, refused to take me
there with him, although I was accustomed to go everywhere else with
him. He had often put me off with excuses which I accepted without
examining them; but when my longing to find my way into that sanctuary
became overpowering, he was compelled to admit that the princess did not
like to see young people in her house, and that the master upholsterer
carefully excluded them when he went there with his workmen. This
extraordinary restriction served only to inflame my desire. One morning
I resolutely took my hammer and my apron and entered the Palmarosa
palace, carrying a prie-Dieu covered with velvet, which my father had
just finished in his employer's workshop. I knew that it was made for
Signora Agatha; I consulted nobody, but took possession of it and
started.
"That was five years ago, Michel! The palace which you see at this
moment, so resplendent, with its doors wide open, and filled with
people, was just the same a month ago as it was at the time of which I
am telling you, just the same as it had then been during the five years
that had passed since she was left an orphan and mistress of her own
life, and as it probably will be again to-morrow. It was a tomb in which
she seemed to have buried herself alive. All the treasures to-day spread
out for everyone to see were buried in darkness under layers of dust,
like relics of the dead in a tomb. Two or three servants, dismal and
silent, walked noiselessly through the long galleries closed to the
sunlight and the outer air. On all sides thick curtains hanging before
the windows, doors which refused to swing on their rusty hinges, an air
of solemn neglect, statues standing erect in the shadow like ghosts,
family portraits that followed you with their eyes with a distrustful
air. I was frightened, and yet I walked on. The house was not so
jealously guarded as I expected. It had invisible sentinels in its
reputation for inhospitable gloom and the dread of its loneliness. I
carried thither the insane audacity of my twenty years, the ill-fated
rashness of a heart enamored in anticipation, and rushing headlong to
its destruction.
"By a chance which seemed like fatality, I was not questioned by anyone.
The few servants of that dismal abode did not see me, or did not think
of preventing me from proceeding, relying, perhaps, upon some Cerberus
nearer to the person of their mistress, whose duty it was to guard the
door of her apartments, and who, by some miracle, happened not to be
there.
"Instinct or destiny guided me. I passed through several rooms, I put
aside heavy, dust-covered portières; I passed through one more open
door and found myself in a very richly furnished room, where a
full-length portrait of a man occupied a panel of the wall directly
opposite me. I stopped. That portrait sent a shudder through my veins. I
recognized it from my father's description of the original, whose
character was then a much more common subject of anecdote and gossip
among our people than the peculiarities of the princess. It was the
portrait of Dionigi Palmarosa, Princess Agatha's father, and I must tell
you something of that terrible man, Michel; for it may be that you have
not as yet heard his name in this country, where nobody mentions it
except in fear and trembling. Indeed, I see that I should have mentioned
him to you before, for the hatred and terror which his memory inspires
would have explained to you in some measure the distrust, and even
malevolence with which his daughter, despite all her virtues, is
regarded by some persons of our station in life.
"Prince Dionigi was a fierce, despotic, cruel and overbearing man. The
pride of birth made him almost insane, and every indication of spirit or
of resistance on the part of his inferiors was punished with incredible
arrogance and severity. Vindictive to excess, he had, it was said,
killed his wife's lover with his own hand, and worried her to death,
poor creature, in a sort of captivity. He was bitterly detested by his
equals, and still more bitterly by the poor, whom he assisted, however,
on occasion, with lordly liberality, but in such a humiliating way that
one felt degraded by his benefactions.
"Now you will understand better the small degree of sympathy which his
daughter has acquired. It seems to me that the constraint in which she
passed her early youth, under the iron rule of such a detestable father,
may well explain her reserved disposition, and what I may call the
premature withering or repression of her heart. Doubtless she is afraid
of reawakening antipathies connected with the name she bears, by
entering into relations with other people; and if she avoids intercourse
with her fellow men, it is for reasons which should arouse the
compassion and deep interest of fair-minded persons.
"A single other fact will serve to exhibit Prince Dionigi's disposition.
About fifteen or sixteen years ago, I think--it is all very vague in my
boyish memories,--a young mountaineer in his service, being maddened
beyond endurance by the harshness of his language, ventured, they say,
to shrug his shoulders as he held the stirrup for the prince to dismount
from his horse. He was a worthy, honest fellow, but proud and of violent
temper. The prince struck him a vicious blow. Thereafter they hated each
other intensely, and the groom--his name was Ercolano--left the
Palmarosa palace, saying that he knew the great secret of the family and
that he would soon have his revenge. What was that secret? He had no
time to reveal it, and no one ever knew what he had to reveal; for they
found Ercolano the next morning on the seashore, murdered, with a dagger
bearing the Palmarosa arms in his breast. His relations dared not demand
justice, they were poor!"