"WILL YOU TAKE ME--"
Spring had taken possession of Florence. Its glamour, its dewy
freshness, lay over all. The pregnant earth intoxicated with incense of
new-born life.
On the hillside, Anne's garden was abloom. Hyacinths and lilies,
daffodils, jonquils and pansies, bordered the graveled paths.
Morning-glories crept along the rose-tinted walls. In intricate designs,
orderly brigades of tulips, flung heavenwards their gorgeous cups. Lilac
bushes showered fragrance from all sides. The fountain, silent all
winter, gushed forth in renewed lilt. In its center, a marble cupid,
scarred and darkened with years, dimpled, perennially roguish.
On the raised terrace, overlooking the valley, Anne was pouring tea for
Vittorio's mother. Petite, grande dame, the short snow-white hair
curling tightly all over her head, the Marchesa looked like an
Eighteenth Century porcelain. About the delicately wrinkled old throat
coiled a necklace of pearls as large and round as peas. A Chinese shawl,
youthfully gay and exotic, draped the frail shoulders. She was talking,
as usual, with great animation.
A little pale in her yellow crèpe gown, Anne leaned back in the Manila
chair and listened. A subdued, rather weary, little smile played about
her lips. The old lady stopped her chatter and scanned Anne's face
affectionately. The large black eyes were very bright and uncannily
piercing.
"What is the matter, Anne? You aren't a bit like yourself this spring.
You seem a little fagged. Are you sure that everything is right with
you, dear child?"
Anne's smile brightened. "Cara Marchesa, of course I'm all right. Why
shouldn't I be? Am I not always happy to get back to my beloved
Florence?"
The Marchesa laughed happily, like a reassured child.
"You do love it, don't you? You are a true daughter of the Lily like
myself. Just think, Anne, I haven't been back to America for almost
forty years. And after Vittorio's hectic description of New York, I have
no desire to go."
"What a naughty lady," Anne laughed. "An unpatriotic little fraud!
Nobody would dream you were an old New Yorker, yourself, before your
marriage."
"No," the Marchesa smiled complacently. "They tell me I am thoroughly
Italianized. Frankly, the new America would kill me."
Anne laughed again. The Marchesa's little affectation was rather
endearing. "I believe it would, Marchesa. You belong in a garden like
this, against a background of Tuscan hills." She waved her hand towards
the terraced hillsides.
The Marchesa nodded, pleased at the delicate compliment.
"But Vittorio really likes New York, that is, some aspects of it," she
said courteously.
Anne shook her head with a dry little laugh. "Don't try to spare my
feelings. He hated it. He was horribly bored with us all."
The Marchesa's eyes twinkled. She shook a coquettish finger slightly
crooked from rheumatism in Anne's face.
"Not bored with you, my dear. You cannot make me believe that. You are
the apple of his eye."
Anne helped herself hastily to a buttered scone. "I'm afraid the apple
stuck in his throat more than once," she murmured with a nervous laugh.
The old woman looked at her wistfully. No, certainly, Anne was not
herself. What could be the matter? Some love affair, perhaps?
"When are you going to make us both happy?" The old voice was very
gentle.
"Do you still want me?" With averted head Anne fingered the teacups.
"More than ever, sweet child! I cannot bear to think of poor Vittorio
spending the rest of his life pottering about musty old ruins. And that
is what he will do if you won't have him, my dear. He refuses to look at
any one else!"
"But he loves ruins, doesn't he?" Anne teased, her equanimity somewhat
restored.
The Marchesa laughed ruefully. "Yes, he seems to have an
inextinguishable fondness for antiques, including his mother."
"Perhaps then, if I wait a little longer, I shall acquire more value in
his eyes, become more mellow, you know."
"Wicked child! You speak of yourself as if you were a cheese!"
"Speaking of cheese, that reminds me. I golfed with the Principe this
morning. You know he is in very bad odor here at present? I felt quite
devilish being seen with him."
"Some new scandal?" The black eyes twinkled.
Anne shrugged. "A cinema actress, I believe." She lighted a cigarette
and puffed at it delicately. "He had the temerity to propose to me
again."
The Marchesa's foot tapped upon the bricks. "Impoverished old wretch! I
can't bear to have you exposed to such things, Anne. Why don't you marry
us, and protect yourself against these adventurers?"
Secure in her own immense fortune, the Marchesa serenely felt her son to
be above suspicion.
Anne pretended to be immensely shocked. "The idea of calling the
Principe an adventurer. Why, his one foot in the grave would break off
if he could hear you. He is count of this, marchese of that," she
flicked her ashes flippantly, "and a Spanish Grandee to boot. I ought to
know, he has enumerated his titles to me often enough."
The Marchesa cackled merrily. "I suggest his getting out a catalogue for
the benefit of American heiresses. Old braggart! Why doesn't he ask me?
I'm nearer his age!"
"He is going to invite you to his tennis tea on Sunday," giggled Anne.
"Perhaps you can catch him on the rebound."
"Never say die! If I can't have a daughter-in-law, I might as well get
me a husband!" The Marchesa rose to her feet rheumatically. "But I must
limp along now dear. The sun is beginning to sink behind the Duomo and
my old bones will creak if I linger."
Anne moved towards her quickly. "I hate to have you go, dear lady."
Arm in arm, they strolled towards the balustrade and leaned there
silently. Dotted with occasional villas, the terraced hillsides glowed
russet. Dusky cypresses towered beside stone walls. Olive trees, in
gray-green uniforms elbowed gayly-blossoming fruit trees, "Like soldiers
out with their sweethearts," murmured Anne. "How Florence grows upon
one. What a personality she has! There is something chaste and virginal
about her, which is strange when you consider her history. She is as
unlike Rome or Venice as Botticelli is different from Michael Angelo and
Titian. But I put it so badly!"
"I see what you mean," broke in the Marchesa. "Florence will always be
pre-Raphaelite. She is the Blonde Princess, while Rome and Venice----"
she hesitated.
"Are the wicked brunettes--the red-haired villainesses like myself,"
finished Anne with a laugh. "But it is beautiful. I never get tired of
the Duomo, especially from this distance, do you? Near to, it resembles
a mah jong set a little too closely to suit me in flippant moods."
"Blasphemer!"
In spite of the rheumatism, they lingered while the setting sun cast a
ruddy glow over roofs and buildings and stained the Arno pink, as it
crawled beneath its bridges, and here and there a window gleamed
rose-colored. The crimson dome of the cathedral resembled a mammoth
ruby, its columnar campanile soaring ethereally beside it.
Still arm in arm, the two women sauntered away from the scene
regretfully, and descended the short flight of steps into the garden.
"What are you doing with yourself to-night?" asked Anne as they strolled
down one of the graveled paths.
"I'm looking forward to a perfect evening, child. Dinner by the fire in
the saloto, the companionship of Saint Simon, unexpurgated. And you?"
Anne sighed. "Nothing. I refused a bridge. I wasn't in the mood."
Her sad face fretted the old Marchesa. What ailed the girl? She
certainly must be love-sick. Had Vittorio lost out after all? Her son,
she shrewdly suspected, was remaining in Sicily at Anne's request, for
she had never known him to miss a Florentine spring before. About to
invite Anne to join forces for the evening, she changed her mind
abruptly. If the child wished to work out her problem in solitude, she
herself ought to be the last to prevent her, especially if some good
should come out of it for Vittorio.
They continued in silence to the end of the garden, where a postern gate
in the pink-tinted wall opened on to the Torrigiani property. As the
Marchesa passed through she turned and gazed up into the other's face.
Tall and slim as a jonquil in her yellow crêpe dress, Anne's hair flamed
in the setting sun. The old woman's eyes looked troubled as they rested
upon it.
"My dear, how beautiful you are! I love to look at you! If I were the
typical old lady I'd be telling what a beauty I was myself in my palmy
days. I don't seem to know my cues at all. But as a matter of fact, I'm
a better looking ruin than I ever was girl! If I were more wily, too,
and less wise, I probably wouldn't urge you quite so heartily, to marry
my only son. For there is danger in your beauty, child. But years have
taught me to appreciate danger. And I couldn't be so unkind as to
deprive a son of mine of such a precious stimulant."
With an enigmatic smile she raised herself on tiptoe and pecked daintily
at Anne's chin. The younger woman gathered her impulsively into her arms
and squeezed her.
"You delicious old cynic! No wonder Vittorio adores you. I do myself!"
A wistful expression crossed the delicate old face. "Be good to us, my
dear," she whispered. "We need you terribly in our house." She turned
gayly-shawled shoulders, and trotted up the long avenue towards her
villa.
Anne gazed after the small figure affectionately. Her absent eyes swept
the familiar gardens whose famous boxwood hedges defined the paths with
fantastic precision. Here a strange, antediluvian beast, there a
gigantic globe, so that to the bird's-eye view the gardens appeared like
an enormous chessboard with pawns at play. In the distance, from behind
a mass of towering cypresses, gleamed the villa, its splendid façade
flanked by a long flight of marble steps.
Anne closed the gate and walked back through her own simple garden. She
was anxious to reach the terrace again before all vestige of the sunset
should have disappeared, and she mounted the steps with rapid feet. A
cape over her shoulders, she drew a chair up by the balustrade and sat
there while the henna-colored hills darkened to purple, then faded into
lavender, and a mist rolled up from the valley and curled about the city
like a smoking halo. Pretty soon a few lights gradually emerged with the
evanescent gleam of a flock of fireflies.
Fireflies! Anne's lips curled downward. She closed her eyes behind
smarting tears. Soon would return the season of fireflies and roses.
Would Vittorio be there to wander arm in arm as of old in the Viale,
beneath a golden moon, while swarms of fireflies danced about them and
the scent of roses and verbena ascended to the stars? Anne did not know.
She had not been able to bring herself to the point of meeting him
again, although she had written of her definite rupture with Alexis only
a few weeks after it had taken place. But her heart was still sore from
the uprooting, and the necessity for solitude was urgent as the
primitive instinct of a wounded animal. So she had begged Vittorio to be
patient a little while longer, to give her time to readjust herself to
the old life. And he had been generous as usual, with an ecstatic
undercurrent coursing beneath the sacrifice; a feeling as of crisis
reached and nearly overcome; a premonition of future joys.
Anne had been quick to read this joy concealed between the lines of his
letters. But she had not had either the desire or the heart to quench
it. Her own unhappiness had made her heart very tender towards Vittorio
and she was inexpressibly tired of struggling against the tide. Why not
drift into haven at last? If she were good for nothing else, at least,
she could make Vittorio happy. Alexis had taught her that, and much
besides. No longer the inhibited creature of her first marriage, love
and all it implied, no longer repelled her. She had looked upon its
naked beauty unashamed.
The first bitterness of parting over, she scarcely knew in what mood she
found herself. A great lassitude had fallen upon her. A weariness almost
mortal. Although she had realized from the beginning that rupture was
inevitable, she had not looked for it so soon, and when the blow fell it
stunned her. For days she had gone about her packing numbly, and it was
not until after her arrival in Florence that she had been able to think
about Alexis without tears, she to whom weeping was strange and almost
monstrous.
And yet she had never really loved him as a woman loves a man upon whom
she depends for her daily strength. He had been like a dearly loved,
temperamental child. Torn from her arms, her tenderness was lost without
him. Her heart yearned to mother his sorrow. At times her need of him
was so desperate that she would have even welcomed a scene. To feel the
eager arms about her, to look upon the beautiful, willful face, would
have made up for all. However, in the darkest hour, when the void he had
left ached most intolerably, Anne knew that their parting had all been
for the best. Their chances of enduring happiness had been so
infinitesimal compared to the odds against them. No, even now, hungry
for love and solitary as never before, she could still face facts with a
certain sturdy wisdom, a cynicism that amazed her, and of which she was
even a trifle ashamed.
She found herself reading Vittorio's letters with a growing nostalgia
for his comforting presence. His poise, his masculinity, appealed to her
more than ever before. Weary of leaning upon herself, she longed to take
refuge behind his strength. How soothing, how comfortable, his
untemperamental simplicity, how genuinely lovable his personality. And
besides those qualities for which her fatigue yearned, he possessed rare
ability, brains, and a growing reputation that was rapidly making him an
outstanding figure amongst his colleagues.
Anne rose from her chair by the balustrade and groped her way down into
the garden. Yes, she mused, Vittorio was a remarkable man. He deserved a
better woman than herself. She ought to be ashamed for having kept him
waiting so long. She strolled towards the house, whose lighted windows
flickered welcome from behind closed shutters. Should she write to
Vittorio to come at once? Perhaps? How happy it would make the dear
little Marchesa. Yes, she would write to him now, at once, before the
mood passed.
With a resolute step she walked up to the terrace and entered the villa,
going directly to her desk in the library.
It was perhaps an evasive little letter, after all, she thought, as she
stamped and gave it to the contadine's boy to mail. But it would fetch
Vittorio, of that she was sure. Allowing three or four days for it to
reach him (it might just miss the boat from Naples) she ought to be able
to count upon seeing him within ten days or perhaps even sooner. She
went upstairs and with the help of Regina changed into a loose,
peplum-like tea-gown. Supremely happy in her beloved Firenze, the woman
chattered volubly and flew about the large, austere room, like a
bright-eyed magpie. Amusement curved Anne's lips as she watched her.
What boundless joy it would give Regina when she herself became a
Marchesa.
Gleaming hair wound about her head like a copper helmet, amber draperies
clinging to the long, slim body, she wended her way downstairs and into
the dining room.
After dinner she sat before the fire in the library, whose crowded
bookshelves gleamed like jewels in the light of the flames. A volume of
memoirs upon her knees, she gazed into the blaze absently. About ten
o'clock the gate-bell rang and she heard a car drive into the courtyard.
Perhaps the Principe, or some young officer whom she was in the habit of
meeting at the Tennis Club in the Cascine. Not in the mood for visitors,
she rose and made for the stairs.
"Give my excuses, Sandro," she commenced, as the old butler appeared in
the doorway.
But she was too late, for the visitor had followed close upon the man's
heels. Decidedly annoyed, she turned and faced the intruder, a courteous
smile upon her lips.
If Anne had been a frail woman, she might have fainted. As she was, she
came nearer to it than ever in her life before. The color drained from
her face. She stared with dilated eyes, as a slim, tall man traversed
the distance between them in a few short strides.
"Anne, I have come back. Will you take me?"
Falling at her feet, Alexis encircled her knees with relentless young
arms.