IV

Three months had passed, Lulu’s marriage was still postponed. Every

once in a while her mother, who did not understand this delay, would

call her daughter aside and ask her the cause.

“I wish to wait,” Lulu always replied; “I need to know Roberto better.”

In fact, the girl had become observing. She went about as usual,

sang as usual, laughed, joked, but often interrupted these pleasant

occupations to study her sister, or to listen closely to Roberto’s

every word. The former was often seen with lips compressed, her

eyebrows drawn together with an air of great attention.

Then Lulu looked about her. And about her strange things were

happening. Roberto was no longer serene and hilarious as usual, but

thoughtful, pale, and agitated. He spoke briefly and absently; to many

things in which he had formerly been interested he now seemed quite

indifferent; sometimes with a great effort he succeeded in controlling

himself, and becoming once more what he had been before, but only

for a short time. He had never been accustomed to dissimulation, and

succeeded badly; his passion and inner torment were revealed in his

eyes.

A different Sofia, too, made her appearance at this time; that is to

say, a nervous, restless Sofia, who at times embraced her sister with

effusion, sometimes remained for hours without seeing her, rather

avoiding her. Fleeting blushes rose to her cheeks, feverish flushes; a

flame burned in her eyes; her voice was now deep and full of emotion,

now dry and strident; her hands shook. At night she did not sleep. Lulu

often rose, and went with bare feet to listen at her door and heard

Sofia toss about and weep. If questioned, Sofia declared that there was

nothing the matter; always the same reply.

When Roberto and Sofia met--and this happened every day--the change

that had taken place in both of them became evident. Remarks were rare,

replies were either too prompt or too vague, there were odd glances;

sometimes for whole evenings they did not speak, but each studied the

movements of the other. They never sat beside each other; yet Roberto

always found an excuse for picking up the work or the book that Sofia

had touched. Sometimes when she did not come into the room, Roberto,

always more and more uneasy, stared at the closed door, answering

absently to what was said. Sometimes only five minutes after Sofia’s

appearance he would take his hat and leave. The girl was growing pale,

black circles appeared under her eyes. Finally, she decided not to let

herself be seen. Every evening for a week she shut herself in her room,

trembling with impatience, trying to smother her unhappiness.

One evening Lulu entered her room. “Will you do me a favor?” she asked.

“What do you want?”

“I have a note to write,” said Lulu. “Roberto is alone, out on the

terrace. Will you go and keep him company?”

“But I--”

“Do you wish to stay shut up here? Does it cost you so much to please

me?”

“Will you come back soon?”

“I only want time to write four lines.”

Sofia turned toward the terrace, trying to summon courage for the

ordeal. She paused on the threshold. Roberto was walking up and down;

she went up to him.

“Lulu sends me,” she said in a low voice.

“You forced yourself to come?”

“Forced--no.”

She trembled throughout her whole frame; Roberto was near her, his face

transfigured with passion.

“What have I done to you, Sofia?”

“Nothing, you have done nothing. Do not look at me like that,” she

implored, terrified.

“You know then, Sofia, that I love you very dearly?”

“Oh! hush, Roberto, for pity’s sake hush! If Lulu were to hear us!”

“I do not love Lulu. I love you, Sofia.”

“That is treachery.”

“I know it, but I love you. I will go away--”

“Well?” cried Lulu in the distance, appearing from another door. “Well,

have you two made peace?”

But there was no reply. Sofia fled, hiding her face in her hands; and

Roberto remained motionless, silent, as though stunned.

“Roberto!” cried Lulu.

“Lulu.”

“What has happened?”

“Nothing; I am going.”

And without even taking leave of her, he too went away with a

despairing gesture. Lulu followed him with her eyes, and stood there

absorbed in thought.

“One here, the other there,” she murmured; “and previous to that?

Enough! I must take a hand in it.”

V

“And so for all these excellent reasons I can not marry Roberto

Montefranco,” Lulu finally said to her mother.

“They are absurd reasons, my daughter,” replied the mother, shaking her

head.

“In short, must I tell you frankly and plainly that Roberto does not

please me, and that I am not going to marry him?”

“It is at least frank; but it is no more than a whim. Roberto loves

you.”

“He will console himself.”

“You have exchanged promises.”

“We can retract them. We are no longer living in the days when people

were married by force.”

“What will the world say?”

“Mother, let us define the world.”

“People.”

“And who is Mr. People? I do not know him; I am not obliged to be

unhappy for the sake of Mr. People.”

“You are a terrible girl! But how am I to arrange it with Roberto? What

am I to say to him?”

“What you wish. That is what you are my mother for.”

“Oh, indeed! To remedy the wrongs you have done. There will be a

scandal.”

“I do not think so; you can say it politely, with pretty manners.

Indeed, I think you might even speak badly of me--call me capricious,

frivolous, childish; say that I would be a very bad wife, that I am not

at all serious, that I am lacking in dignity, that my sister is--”

“Your sister? Are you losing your mind, Lulu?”

“Pshaw! you could easily say that. At present Roberto and Sofia are

indifferent to each other, but if they come to know each other better

they might appreciate each other, and then--who can say? You would be

praised as a good mother for having married off the elder daughter

first.”

“In fact--”

“I shall not go husbandless; I am barely eighteen years old. And I wish

to amuse myself; I wish to dance a great deal; I wish to enjoy my happy

youth with my dear, kind little mother--”

“You are a little rogue,” replied the mother, moved, and embracing her

daughter.

“Then we understand each other? Announce the ugly news to Roberto

politely, but add that we must always be friends, that we hope to see

him often. If these two are to fall in love with each other they will

do so; it is predestined.”

“But do you believe, naughty Lulu, that matters will all come right?

You know that I hate quarrels.”

“Oh, unconvinced mother! Oh, mother, more unbelieving than Saint

Thomas! Yes, yes, out of my wide experience I assure you that there

will be no scandal. Roberto is a gentleman, and will not expect me to

marry him without loving him.”

“What seems to me impossible is the affair with Sofia--”

“Nothing is more possible than the impossible,” gravely replied Lulu.

“My dear, so many axioms! Enough. Let us leave it all to time; perhaps

time will regulate our affairs. All of which does not change the fact

that you are a scatterbrain.”

“And very capricious--”

“Lacking in judgment--”

“And a whimsical creature. I am everything you like; lecture me, I

deserve it. Come; have you nothing to say? I am waiting.”

“Give me a kiss, and go to bed. Good night, baby.”

“Thank you, mama. Good night.”

“It is better so,” thought the good mother. “Lulu is too young

yet. Every day one sees the sad consequences of these marriages of

convenience. May Heaven free us from them! It is better so.”

“Uff!” said Lulu, taking a deep breath. “What diplomacy I was forced

to use, what art in order to convince mama! I would make a perfect

ambassador. What a triumph! Not like a triumph of love, to be sure, but

it is Lulu’s triumph!”

She paused outside her sister’s door and listened. She heard every now

and then a repressed sigh. Poor Sofia had lost her peace of mind.

“Sleep, Sofia, sleep,” Lulu murmured softly, kissing the lock of

the door almost as though she were kissing her sister’s brow; “calm

yourself and rest. I have worked for you this evening.”

And the generous girl fell asleep, happy and content in the thought of

the happiness of the sister she loved.

Time, good old time, the eternal wise old gentleman, accomplished

his task. Lulu asked herself whether this unmarried sister who acted

as bridesmaid should wear a gown of blue silk or a simple one of

straw-colored foulard with lace. She asked Roberto if there would be a

great many bonbons for her, and Sofia if she would give her that pretty

embroidered handkerchief that was like a zephyr, a cloud. Roberto and

Sofia, knowing what the girl’s heart was capable of, smiled at her gay

thoughtlessness, and loved her, and looked upon her as their Providence.

“For I have always maintained,” said Roberto Montefranco to a friend,

speaking of his marriage, “that a couple should be of opposite tastes.

Extremes touch. Thus they will understand each other, will mingle,

will form a complete whole, while those of similar tastes are like two

parallel lines; they walk on together, but never meet. And then when

there is love--! I have always said so.”

THE END OF CANDIA

BY GABRIELE D’ANNUNZIO

[Illustration]

_Gabriele d’Annunzio, Italian poet and novelist, whose real

name is Rapagnetta, was born on the Adriatic in 1864. In 1898

he was chosen member of the Chamber of Deputies, when he

announced himself a social democrat. His first poems, which

appeared in 1879, showed great talent, but it is as a writer

of richly colored, vivid, voluptuous prose, which is at the

same time classic in form and correct, almost finikin, in its

perfect style, that he ranks among the best of Italy’s authors.

His later stories grow deeper, more sombre, and unpleasant

in theme, and are full of gruesome realism, borrowed from

the modern French and Russian. He is a symbolist whose love

of musical cadence sometimes leaves little room for sound

thinking. But he is a master of style. His earlier stories,

one of which is given here, are not so unpleasant as the later

ones, and are frank imitations of De Maupassant--in this case

of “The String.”_

[Illustration]

THE END OF CANDIA

BY GABRIELE D’ANNUNZIO

Translated by Frederic Taber Cooper. Copyright, 1907, by P. F.

Collier & Son.

I

Three days after the Easter banquet, which was traditionally a great

occasion in the Lamonica household, both in its lavishness and in the

number of its guests, Donna Cristina Lamonica was counting the table

linen and silver service, and replacing them one by one, methodically,

in drawer and cupboard, in readiness for future banquets.

As usual, she had with her, to help in the task, the chambermaid,

Maria Bisaccia, and the laundress, Candida Marcanda, familiarly known

as Candia. The huge hampers, filled with fine linen, stood in a row

upon the floor. The silver platters and other table service gleamed

brightly from the sideboard--massive vessels, somewhat crudely wrought

by rustic silver-smiths, and of more or less liturgical design, like

all the plate which rich provincial families hand down from generation

to generation. A fresh fragrance of soapy water pervaded the room.

From the hampers Candia took tablecloths, napkins, and towels; she

made the mistress take note that each piece was intact, and then

passed them over to Maria, who laid them away in the drawers, while

the mistress sprinkled lavender between them and entered the numbers

in a book. Candia was a tall, lean, angular woman of fifty, with back

somewhat bent from the habitual attitude of her calling, with arms of

unusual length, and the head of a bird of prey mounted on a turtle’s

neck. Maria Bisaccia was a native of Ortona, a trifle stout, with a

fresh complexion and the clearest of eyes; she had a soft fashion

of speech, and the light, leisurely touch of one whose hands were

almost always busy over cakes and sirups, pastry and preserves. Donna

Cristina, also an Ortonese, and educated in a Benedictine convent, was

of small stature, with a somewhat too generous expanse of bosom, a face

overstrewn with freckles, a large, long nose, poor teeth, and handsome

eyes cast downward in a way that made one think of a priest in woman’s

clothing.

The three women were performing their task with the utmost care, giving

up to it the greater part of the afternoon. All at once, just as Candia

was leaving with the empty baskets, Donna Cristina, in the course of

counting the small silver, found that a spoon was missing.

“Maria! Maria!” she cried, in utter dismay, “count these! There’s a

spoon missing! Count them yourself!”

“But how could it? That’s impossible, Signora!” replied Maria, “let me

have a look.” And she in turn began to count the small pieces, telling

off the numbers aloud, while Donna Cristina looked on, shaking her

head. The silver gave forth a clear, ringing sound.

“Well, it’s a fact!” Maria exclaimed at last, with a gesture of

despair; “what’s to be done about it!”

She herself was safe from all suspicion. For fifteen years she had

given proofs of her fidelity and honesty in this very household. She

had come from Ortona together with Donna Cristina at the time of the

wedding, almost as though she were a part of the marriage settlement;

and from the first she had acquired a certain authority in the house,

through the indulgence of her mistress. She was full of religious

superstitions, devoted to the saint and the belfry of her birthplace,

and possessed of great shrewdness. She and her mistress had formed a

sort of offensive alliance against Pescara and all pertaining to it,

and more particularly against the saint of the Pescarese. She never

missed a chance to talk of her native town, to vaunt its beauty and its

riches, the splendor of its basilica, the treasures of San Tommaso, the

magnificence of its religious ceremonies, as compared with the poverty

of San Cetteo, that possessed only one single little silver cross.

Donna Cristina said:

“Take a good look in there.”

Maria left the room to extend the search. She explored every nook and

corner of the kitchen and the balcony, but in vain. She came back

empty-handed.

“It isn’t there! It isn’t there!”

Then the two together tried to think, to make conjectures, to ransack

their memories. They went out upon the balcony that communicated with

the court, the balcony back of the laundry, to make one last research.

As they talked together in loud tones, women’s heads began to appear at

the windows of the surrounding houses.

“What has happened, Donna Cristina? Tell us about it.”

Donna Cristina and Maria related the occurrence with many words and

many gestures.

“Lord, Lord! Then there have been thieves here?”

In a moment the report of the theft had spread through the

neighborhood, through all Pescara. Men and women fell to discussing,

to imagining who could have been the thief. By the time the news had

reached the most distant houses of Sant’ Agostino, it had gathered

volume; it was no longer a question of a mere spoon, but of all the

silver plate in the house of Lamonica.

Now, since the weather was fine and roses were beginning to bloom upon

the balcony, and a pair of linnets were singing in their cage, the

women lingered at their windows, for the pleasure of gossiping across

the grateful warmth of the outdoor air. Female heads continued to

appear from behind the pots of sweet basil, and a chatter arose that

must have rejoiced the cats upon the housetops.

Clasping her hands, Donna Cristina asked: “Who could it have been?”

Donna Isabella Sertale, nicknamed the Pole-cat, who had the lithe and

stealthy movements of a beast of prey, asked in a strident voice: “Who

did you have with you, Donna Cristina? It seems to me that I saw Candia

on her way--”

“Ahah!” exclaimed Donna Felicetta Margasanta, nicknamed the

Magpie because of her continuous garrulity. “Ahah!” repeated the

other gossips.--“And you hadn’t thought of it?”--“And you never

noticed?”--“And you don’t know about Candia?”--“We can tell you about

Candia!”--“Indeed we can!”--“Oh, yes, we can tell you about her!”

“She washes clothes well, there is no denying it. She is the best

laundress in Pescara, there’s no question about it. But the trouble

with her is that she is too light-fingered--didn’t you know that, my

dear?”

“She got a couple of towels from me once.”--“And a napkin from

me.”--“And a night-gown from me.”--“And three pairs of stockings from

me.”--“And a new petticoat from me.”--“And I never got them back

again.”--“Nor I.”--“Nor I.”

“But I didn’t discharge her. Whom could I get? Silvestra?”

“Oh! oh!”

“Angelantonia? The African?”

“Each one worse than the other!”

“We must put up with it.”

“But it’s a spoon this time!”

“That’s a little too much!”

“Don’t you let it pass, Donna Cristina, don’t you let it pass!”

“Let it pass, or not let it pass!” burst forth Maria Bisaccia, who in

spite of her placid and benign appearance, never let an opportunity

pass for displaying her superiority over her fellow servants. “That is

for us to decide, Donna Isabella, that is for us to decide!”

And the chatter continued to flow back and forth from windows to

balcony. And the accusation spread from lip to lip throughout the whole

countryside.