THE WOOF
I
Don Tita Fantuzzo, archpriest of Velo d'Astico, said Mass as usual
at half-past seven; and, after some lengthy prayers in the sacristy,
proceeded down the stairs leading from the church to the parsonage,
where he met his sister-in-law, Signora Bettina Pagan, _veuve_
Fantuzzo, and the chaplain, Don Emanuele Costi de Villata. These two
were going down together, or, rather, not together, for the chaplain
was a few steps ahead; but his progress was impeded by the sense of the
presence behind him, while Signora Bettina was hindered by a feeling of
obsequiousness towards the presence before, and also somewhat by the
mere knowledge of her position as rear-guard.
"What are you marching in single file for, like a pair of cart-horses?"
inquired the jovial archpriest, pausing close behind his sister-in-law.
"'Se casco mi, Caschemo tuti tri!' ('Tumble me, Tumble all three!').
Lines by the poet Zanella," he quoted merrily.
Behind her black veil Signora Bettina's vermilion nose took on a deeper
hue, while a fleeting smile lit up Don Emanuele's watery eyes, a sign
rather of deference for a superior's wit than of any appreciation of
it.
"Cape!" muttered Signora Bettina. This invocation in dialect of a
favourite crustacean inhabitant of the sea was an ejaculation that
was often upon her lips, and, in the present case, expressed a gentle
self-justification and the fitting reverence that had forbidden her
advancing at the chaplain's side. On reaching the parsonage door the
latter stepped aside to the right and Signora Bettina to the left,
while the archpriest, hastening his steps and murmuring, "Here I am!
Here I am!" passed in in triumph, with a great flapping of priestly
robes.
They assembled in the little dining-room of the parsonage, where coffee
stood ready for the archpriest and for Signora Bettina, who was in
the habit of going to Communion every day. Don Emanuele had said his
Mass at five, and now sought permission to withdraw under pretext of
studying. The archpriest detained him.
"Don't study so much. You will only muddle your brain," said he.
The other, who was clever at feigning, appeared to yield simply from a
sense of deference, whereas, in reality, this little formality had been
privately arranged with his superior, and he began talking of a certain
sick person he had visited that morning. The archpriest, meanwhile, was
taking his coffee and milk in an old chipped basin, and dipping into it
some broken bits of yesterday's bread. Signora Bettina was having her
coffee in a similar basin, but with some of those Pandoli for which the
town of Schio is famous.
"I am ashamed to be eating these biscuits, Don Tita," said she, raising
one to her mouth.
"Be ashamed, then, to your heart's content," replied the excellent
Don Tita, laughing. "Shame is a virtuous sentiment." And as she still
hesitated, in red-faced silence, to bite off the top of the biscuit,
he added, laughing still: "Go ahead! Go ahead! Aren't you a native of
Dolo, and is that not Dolo bread?"
"Poor Dolo!" cried Signora Bettina, turning with a smile to Don
Emanuele, and speaking in Italian now. "What ever am I to do? The
archpriest cannot forgive me for having been born there."
"Just as he cannot forgive me for having been born at Udine," the
chaplain replied, smiling also.
"I should think not!" Don Tita exclaimed. "Udine indeed! Fountains
without water and an aristocracy without manners!"
Now, Don Emanuele was not only a native of Udine but came of a noble
family as well; but Don Tita, of course, was only jesting. His face,
his person, his bearing, and his language, all pointed to the young
chaplain's gentle birth and education. In appearance he was in all
things the reverse of Don Tita. Don Tita, short and rubicund, with a
merry face, as heavy as his own witticisms, and eyes that twinkled,
despite his honest piety, inspired rather by worldly shrewdness than
by celestial yearnings, was most careless in his dress, anything but
scrupulous as regards cleanliness, and familiar and simple in manner,
sometimes even to the point of rudeness.
In Don Emanuele, tall and slender, one saw the future prelate. He had
the face of an ascetic--a lofty brow beneath a delicate and perfect
arch of light hair, thin cheeks, deep-sunk eyes under bushy brows;
the eyes themselves of a pale blue, with mysterious pupils and irises
moist, as it were, with meekness, and, like windows of painted glass,
open to light but closed upon the soul. In his bearing and gestures
there was a precocious dignity and sense of just measure. His language
also was studied and cautious. He spoke softly, in a cold, slightly
nasal voice and with aristocratic enunciation. It was said that in
his early youth he had wished to join a religious Order, but that
his bishop, for some reason unknown, had dissuaded him. It was also
said that his family had strongly desired him to seek an appointment
in connection with the _curia_ in Rome, but that it had been his own
ardent wish to devote himself, for a time at least, to the cure of
souls, at a distance from his family and in a different diocese.
Inwardly, also, Don Tita and Don Emanuele were dissimilar, but less
so than outwardly. Don Tita was more complex. Don Tita's spirit might
be compared to his face, whose fundamental hardness was concealed by
flexible muscles and soft flesh; or, less gruesomely, to a green,
flowery field, where the rock is not a hand's breadth below the
surface; or to certain small, soft mountain peaches, in which the
teeth are quickly brought into contact with the uncompromising stone.
On the surface he was all good nature, verbal acquiescence, and
willingness to accommodate; but his heart was hard and cold with a
religious conscience that was stereotyped by antiquated doctrines and
dominated by tradition, the letter of the law, and the authority of
the hierarchy. It was a conscience full of conviction, and a slave to
the desire to perform his religious duty everywhere, at all times, and
at whatever cost. But to Don Tita charity towards his neighbour was
merely a duty imposed by a stern external law. Obedient to the gospel,
he was generous in bestowing alms, but he neither loved nor esteemed
the poor. The most grievous sins of his flock, above all, any public
exhibition of disrespect for the sacerdotal office, irritated rather
than grieved him, and made his hands itch--his heavy hands, that were
not unskilled in a certain form of oratory. As to his morals, they were
of a scrupulous, almost mistrustful purity. A man of many prayers, he
despised mysticism, which he looked upon as sentimentality, except when
met with in the saints or in their writings; for to him the saints
were especial beings, men born with the nimbus decreed to them by
canonisation after death.
He had a fair knowledge of theology, and was not entirely destitute of
literary culture; he had been Professor of Classics in the seminary,
although, indeed, he knew no Greek. His reading consisted exclusively
of newspapers, magazines, and Catholic books. Only Italian printed
matter came to the parsonage for him, but for Don Emanuele there
came the _Stimmen aus Maria Laach_, and other foreign publications,
principally German. This strong food was not for the excellent Don
Tita, but nevertheless filled him with admiration for Don Emanuele's
powers of mastication. Admiration, not envy, for Don Tita was not
ambitious, and was satisfied with his lot, his only desire being,
perhaps, promotion to a parish in the city, that he might escape from
the mountains that oppressed him, and where he might enjoy the society
of old friends and colleagues. This was the height of his ambition. But
as to Don Emanuele, nephew of a cardinal, son of a privy-chamberlain
to his Holiness, and brother of one of the noble-guardsmen, Don
Tita believed him destined to great things. If the humble chaplain
of Riese had become Sovereign Pontiff, why should not a chaplain,
favoured by fortune as was Don Emanuele, achieve the same greatness?
The archpriest's bearing towards the younger man was difficult to
define. He really stood somewhat in awe of him, but he sought to hide
this sentiment beneath a display of jocose familiarity. He felt Don
Emanuele's superiority, and was never entirely at his ease with him.
He believed him to be a tower of knowledge because he spoke German,
nevertheless he was convinced that, as a preacher, he, Don Tita,
surpassed him. His vanity was flattered by the fact that he had such a
chaplain, but there were times when he could not help thinking that the
parsonage would be a pleasanter place without Don Emanuele.
Don Tita would perhaps have been happier without his chaplain,
because Don Emanuele did not speak the dialect, because his manners
were refined, and because he was the living negation of all that is
jovial. But in the main both were hewn from the same stone. In Don
Tita, however, there was need of much scraping before the natural rock
was reached, whereas Don Emanuele was a smooth and highly-polished
monolith. Notwithstanding his knowledge of the diabolical German
language, he was far less clever than the archpriest. The son of an
Austrian woman of rank, he had learnt French and English from his
sisters' _bonnes_ and governesses. It was said that his progress
in theology was slow, notwithstanding his persistent application.
But many visits to Rome, where he had been the guest of his uncle
the Cardinal--a man of genius, extremely sociable, and surrounded
by friends--had done for him what long immersion in good Bordeaux
may do for certain insipid biscuits. This great personage, the
family divinity, had been a sun to his asteroid of a nephew, and,
all unconsciously and unintentionally, had attracted him to his own
orbit from the time that the asteroid was still studying grammar.
It is true the lad already displayed, both in face and character, a
singular predisposition for high ecclesiastical office. At ten he was
a little man fully equipped with all the manners and graces of the
best society, a stranger to all games and boyish friendships, orderly,
respectful, quaintly discreet in his infrequent discourses, measured
in his expressions of affection towards his relatives, regulating such
expressions according to their different degrees of relationship,
devout, and self-contained. His mother, the Cardinal's sister, and a
very pious woman, was at once proud of this son and disappointed in
him. It was a joy to her to know that he was sincerely religious, and
an anxiety to know nothing further concerning him. The Cardinal had
never been like this--his was an open nature. When little Emanuele was
between six and eight, to all who asked him what he was going to be
when he grew up he would answer promptly, "A bishop"; between eight
and twelve the answer was, "A priest," but between twelve and fourteen
he would only repeat obstinately, "I don't know, I don't know!" The
honest answer at that time would have been, "A cardinal." Still, he
was no hypocrite nor was he consciously ambitious. He honestly felt
himself called to enter the Church, and he persuaded himself that his
birth and connections providentially predisposed him to rise to dignity
and power in her service, and that this lofty sentiment sanctified
certain ambitious longings whose voices he had heard within him in
early days, not without certain pricks of conscience. By degrees these
longings had become so enveloped in the mantle of pious yearnings as
to be completely hidden from his conscience. The mantle was both wide
and heavy. Don Emanuele's religious zeal was not inferior to that of
Don Aurelio, his religious convictions were no less deep, his life
and thoughts no less pure, no less free from any stain of concession
to lustful tendencies. But his conception of God, and, above all, his
conception of the Church was different. Divine paternity was to him
rather a formula in which he believed than a truth which he felt and
which was precious to him. With his lips he called Him Father, while
in his heart he felt Him to be a monarch. Don Emanuele's grandfather
had been the imperious and formidable tyrant of his noble family, upon
which he had forced his own austere asceticism, and a fear of God that
in his children and grandchildren was irrevocably confused with a fear
of himself. In Don Emanuele's mind the idea of God had shaped itself
in accordance with his grandfather's imperiousness and piety. His God
was a species of infinite grandfather, holy and terrible. For him the
Church was the only hierarchy, and was, in a way, his grandfather's
house, where there was perpetual entertainment of priests and friars,
as celestial beings superior to poor humanity.
The archpriest alone in all the countryside knew exactly under what
circumstances Don Emanuele had come from Udine to be chaplain of Val
d'Astico. It had been the will of the Cardinal that his nephew should
devote himself, not to the career of the prelacy, but to the cure of
souls, at a distance from his family and his aristocratic connections,
in a diocese where his name was completely unknown. The archpriest
had heard this from the Bishop of Vicenza. Don Emanuele himself had
never mentioned it to him; indeed, he never spoke either of himself,
his family, or his future plans. He even seemed unwilling to speak of
the Cardinal. By dint of much effort, the archpriest had succeeded in
eliciting from him some information concerning the Cardinal, and had
concluded that the nephew had more reverence than affection for his
uncle. He therefore refrained from mentioning the Most Eminent, save
at Christmas, New Year, Easter, and on the eve of the festival of St.
John, his Eminence's patron saint. On these occasions he would say: "By
the way, Don Emanuele ... when you write to Rome, if you think best ...
you understand ... my most humble...." Or sometimes his words would be
only: "By the way, when you write...." And he would complete the phrase
with a respectful bending of head and body, and an obsequious spreading
of hands.
II
"Madre Santa! How he talks!" cried Signora Bettina, turning a very red
face to the chaplain, upon the archpriest's outburst concerning the
aristocracy of Udine. The unruly member of Don Tita's flock had made a
mistake when he fastened upon Signora Bettina the title of the "female
Holy Ghost." She had not the slightest ambition to inspire either
her brother-in-law or Don Emanuele, and was intent only upon her own
sanctification. At the age of fifty-two she had become the widow of
Dr. Fantuzzo, and being childless and well provided for, had arranged
to occupy an apartment in the spacious parsonage at Velo d'Astico from
the end of April to the beginning of November of each year, for which
apartment she paid rent to the archpriest. She had her own kitchen,
and took only her morning coffee with Don Tita. She was of a good
family of Dolo, and had remained faithful to certain habits of life
differing somewhat from those of the archpriest, and notwithstanding
her profound respect for the clergy, she was jealous of her liberty.
That she might be preserved from her neighbour was, indeed, one of the
fundamental characteristics of her extremely fervent piety. Signora
Bettina desired and prayed that, for the greater glory of God, her
good neighbour might be encouraged in the path of righteousness, and
that her bad neighbour might be converted, but she would have neither
of them hanging about the house--she would have no "bother"! She would
look after her own soul, let others look after theirs. When her right
hand succoured the poor her left hand remained in ignorance of the
fact, but so also did her heart. Her heart was eager only to acquire
mortgages on celestial estates, and on these terms, and through the
agency of her brother-in-law, she was more willing to allow her loans
to the Almighty to take the form of surplices, copes, altar-clothes,
sacred vessels, Masses, and Requiems than that of deeds of charity.
But her heart had not always been thus. In her early youth it had been
a heart full of secret and dangerous vagaries. The late Dr. Fantuzzo,
however--a good-natured creature enough, but coarse and pleasantish
and an inveterate drinker--had disillusioned her. Sprung from a deeply
religious family, she had one day been terrified by being brought face
to face with a temptation such as she had never dreamed of. She took
refuge in fervent asceticism, and in all such external practices as
were best adapted to surround her with an invulnerable reputation.
Aided by an uncompromising theologian, who was mistrustful of all
mysticism, her wavering earthly flames were gradually transformed into
one great blaze, nominally the love of God, but really the desire for
her own salvation. The world, always severe in its judgment of pious
persons, might easily have set her down as a born egotist. But is the
world capable of judging? Different social surroundings and a simpler
spiritual training might not have smothered those harmless affections
that had gladdened childhood and youth. In this imperviousness to
friendship she resembled the chaplain rather than Don Tita. The merry
Don Tita was quick to make friends, and found it easy to adapt himself
to every one. Don Emanuele had never had a friend; in the midst of
a merry crowd he seemed like a crow, dazed by the noise of a flock
of cocks and hens. But Don Emanuele had not yet found his peace, and
Signora Fantuzzo had. She had no other temptations save of eating
three biscuits with her morning coffee, instead of two, of telling the
archpriest to stop wiping his pen on his hair, now that it was white,
and of praying that the Lord might see fit to destroy the cobbler's
scandalous cat. She was more like Don Emanuele than Don Tita, and in
fact, without drawing any comparisons, which she would have scrupled
to do, she felt for Don Emanuele a respect and admiration she would
have shrunk from uttering, and cherished a secret reverence for him,
whereas her open demonstrations of reverence were directed mainly
towards the archpriest. In speaking of the latter, Signora Bettina
might sometimes smile; in speaking of Don Emanuele, never.
* * * * *
When she had finished her coffee Signora Fantuzzo reached for her black
veil which lay on the table.
"Well," said she, "Don Tita----"
This was her usual formula of departure. Don Tita stretched out his
hand, with fingers widespread.
But the archpriest had no intention of letting her go, and burst into a
long string of "No, no, no," and "Sit down, sit down!"
The servant entering at that moment to remove the tray, Don Tita
ordered her to be gone, and as a greater precaution against
interruption, he withdrew to the study beyond, followed by the chaplain
and Signora Bettina, who was in great trepidation in case she were
about to be involved in some "bother."
The archpriest's joke led her to suppose that it was simply a matter of
advice, but even this would be a "bother." In fact, not even to herself
did she confess her horror of "bother," believing that this horror
was only for such doubts as her conscience might inspire, and, after
all, every "bother," be it in advice or deed, must bring with it some
scruple of conscience. In the past one of her spiritual directors had
recommended a certain book, well calculated to further the progress in
her soul of an incipient paralysis of all scruple.
"The fact of the matter is, my dear Bettina," the archpriest began,
"that, were it not for the glory of God and the good of our neighbour,
we would not trouble you. Is not that so, Don Emanuele?"
Don Emanuele, who had kept his eyes fixed upon the archpriest as if
to control and direct his language, into which there frequently crept
expressions that were ill-advised and good-naturedly imprudent, showed
both in his glance and bearing so evident a desire to help, that the
archpriest immediately took advantage of it.
"Do you wish to explain?" he asked. "Then do."
Promptly withdrawing once more into his cold shell of prelatical
composure, Don Emanuele spoke, confident of not spoiling, as the
archpriest might have done, a certain piece of delicate machinery which
had been set in motion, perhaps not over much for their neighbour's
good, but certainly, from the chaplain's point of view at least, very
much for the glory of God. He believed himself more clever than the
archpriest, because he had studied the grammar of subtleties, but
he was mistaken. The archpriest was clever by nature, unconsciously
clever, and his purposes were served by the very imprudence and
carelessness of his language. It made him appear a simple creature to
such as had but slight knowledge of him, and there was perhaps no one
in all the countryside who really knew him well, save Signor Marcello
and Donna Fedele, who had the power of reading character in a very
short space of time.
"Well," said Don Emanuele, "it is a question of saving a poor girl."
"Ah! yes, I can fancy what it is then," said Signora Bettina, her face
lighting up with satisfaction beneath a veneer of compunction. "I can
fancy."
The subject, indeed, was a thorny one and painful to handle, but
the "bother" would be but slight. Her servant's younger sister was
undergoing siege by a private of the Royal Foot Artillery.
"Ah, I know!" she went on with a sigh. "I am sorry to say I know.
I heard only yesterday, and had, indeed, intended to speak to the
archpriest about it."
"You are on the wrong scent--the wrong scent, my girl!" muttered Don
Tita, his deep and serious tones saying plainly, "This is quite another
matter."
"Perhaps she does know. She may perhaps know," observed Don Emanuele
sweetly, addressing the archpriest. "The matter has to do with the
young person--the young lady who lives with Signor Trento, and who was
to have married his son."
The archpriest had his eyes fixed upon his sister-in-law to see what
her expression would be. It was not promising.
"Good gracious! I don't know her!" said she.
If she supposed she had found a safe refuge through her declaration of
ignorance, her illusion was short-lived.
"Nonsense!" said the archpriest.
"It would be easier if you were acquainted with her," Don Emanuele
observed thoughtfully. "Do you not know her at all? Not even slightly?"
"By sight. Oh yes, by sight!" Signora Fantuzzo replied with flushed
cheeks. But Don Emanuele, who was well informed, held his peace, as one
who deems it better policy to insist by silence.
"I may have spoken to her once," Signora Bettina conceded, her face
aflame.
"That is good," said the archpriest.
"But I shall not speak to her again--not again--certainly not again!"
Poor Bettina appeared terrified, and kept repeating, "Ah, no, no, no!"
until the archpriest demanded impatiently: "Why not? What has she
done to you?" She replied that the person in question made her feel
timid, terribly timid. But this was far from being the true reason.
Leila had found herself seated beside her one day in church, when poor
Bettina was sporting a headgear of such an outlandish description as
to excite the mirth of a group of summer visitors, consisting of eight
or ten young girls, each one more flighty than the other. Seeing this,
Leila immediately took poor Signora Fantuzzo under her protection. She
offered her own seat, recaptured a whole flight of saints that had
escaped from the Signora's prayer-book, left the church when she did,
and found an opportunity of saying a few pleasant words concerning
the archpriest's sermon. For some unknown reason the young girl's
courtesy completely upset poor Bettina. It was as if, together with a
wave of strong attraction, there flowed over her once more those vague
emotions of her youth that had once filled her with terror. To become
the Signorina's friend, to come in contact with a youthful spirit, a
spirit well versed in love and the ways of the world, to taste of both
once more, even though it be through another--such was the temptation
that had spoken faintly within Signora Bettina's bosom. But it had
been sufficiently strong to send her hastening into the parsonage
crying, "Enough, enough, enough!" her throat a cavern overflowing
with ejaculations expressive of her firm determination never again to
approach that most dangerous person.
"It would of course be better if she could speak to her," said Don
Emanuele, looking at the archpriest, "but it does not seem to me to be
essential."
"No so po!--I don't know!" The three truly masterly monosyllables
seemed to signify that he saw no way of reaching the desired goal if
his sister-in-law persisted in refusing to approach the Signorina. As a
matter of fact neither the archpriest nor the chaplain really intended
to bring about an interview. Their tactics were to lead up skilfully to
a proposal that should appear and be agreed to as a compromise. But Don
Emanuele had gone too fast, and the archpriest's _No so po_ had been
a delicate and artistic turn of the brake. Don Emanuele saw this and
retreated with a _Perhaps_, that was charged with doubt and with regret
as well as with suggestions of yielding and exhortation.
As both lapsed into silence after this, Signora Bettina, hoping that
the hour of her release had now come, straightened her shoulders as if
about to rise, and uttered another:
"Well."
"Wait, my girl," said the archpriest, stopping her by a gesture, and
turning to Don Emanuele, he added:
"We may as well tell her everything. Then she can make up her mind what
to do. Do you agree?"
Don Emanuele, remembering the lesson he had just received from one
he looked upon as having more to learn than to teach, raised his two
hands that rested on his knees, spreading them like a pair of fans, and
murmured in his turn:
"I don't know."
Don Tita's tone now became decided.
"Yes, yes! Tell her," he said. "Tell her."
Then Don Emanuele drew his tunic about his legs with an almost feminine
gesture, and began:
"It is a very simple matter."
But it was evidently a very complex matter, and he did not know where
to begin.
"The Signorina's parents are still living," said he. "Her father, you
know----"
And the chaplain drew a long and soft breath in a manner as if to
signify that of the father there was good to be said and evil as well,
and that, having added the two together, the sum total was that--it
would be best to say nothing.
"The mother, on the other hand----" he went on.
"Ah! the mother," Don Tita put in in a deep bass voice laden with
satisfaction, and wagging his head as if silently denying that anything
evil could be said of her.
"Mercy on us, Don Tita!" Signora Bettina gasped in utter amazement,
fixing her eyes on her brother-in-law, for in the past she had heard
accounts of a very different nature.
The chaplain hastened to pacify her.
"No," he began. "In times past, indeed, there may have been room for
comment. Yes, indeed, there were certain indiscretions.... Now she
is a woman who is making amends, a woman whose one thought is for
pious works and deeds of charity, who lives in Milan, leading a most
edifying life, and who is well known to many excellent men among the
clergy. It is true she is separated from her husband, but there may
be some good reason for that, or perhaps some misunderstanding. After
God and the Church her one thought is for her daughter. She can have
no direct communication with her because Signor Trento, a hard-hearted
man who may or may not be truly religious, will not allow it. At this
moment she is trembling for her daughter. I heard of this in a letter I
received the other day from a priest, a most worthy priest, who comes
in contact with her."
"Have you the letter about you?" the archpriest broke in. "You had
better read it."
Don Emanuele glanced apologetically at his superior.
"To tell the truth," said he, "it is a letter of a very private----"
"Well, well!" cried Don Tita. "Never mind, then, never mind."
The chaplain continued:
"This priest writes that Signora da Camin has discovered that a young
man from Milan, who is well known there, and who bears a notorious
reputation, has been staying at Signor Trento's for some days and is
still there."
"An unhappy creature!" murmured Don Tita. "A most unenviable
individual!"
He said this in the tone of one who registers an irreparable and
unhappy fact.
Signora Bettina struck in timidly to say she thought she had seen the
young man in church on the preceding Sunday. Don Emanuele sighed, but
did not speak.
"Yes, yes," said the archpriest, "very likely you did see him. He goes
to church, but he is worse than those who do not. Headstrong, my girl,
and a friend of that other headstrong fellow the priest of Lago. He is
one of those who want to change everything in our religion."
Signor Bettina emitted a whistling sound, sucking the air in sharply as
if she had burnt her tongue. Once more Don Emanuele sighed.
"Alas! yes," said he. "And this mother is living in agony lest
her child should become interested in the young man, and lest the
young man--the girl being good-looking and possessed of great
expectations----"
"The Lord save us!" Don Tita exclaimed. "If he should worm himself in
here----"
Signora Bettina repeated her whistling noise.
"Now," Don Emanuele went on, "the priest who writes to me has been able
to discover, through what seems to me a special dispensation of Divine
providence, that----"
There was a pause.
"Out with it, out with it!" cried Don Tita. "Courage! Very well, then,
I will go on. It seems there is some sort of a mess between this fellow
and a woman in Milan--a married woman, mind you."
Signora Bettina here indulged in repeated whistlings.
"The other night Don Emanuele and I were talking this over," Don Tita
continued, "and wondering how we could get this piece of information to
the girl. We thought and thought, but could find no way. But yesterday
we came to the conclusion that the only way would be through you."
"Good Lord, Don Tita!"
The accent with which she pronounced this ejaculation was heartrending.
There was silence.
"We will say no more about it," the archpriest declared. "The girl will
be ruined, but it will be through no fault of mine."
Signora Fantuzzo, who was seated beside the archpriest's writing-table,
reached out for a book that lay upon it, and drawing it towards her,
pretended to study it. She was the colour of a lobster.
"I really believe," Don Tita exclaimed, "that this sly puss knows more
than she will tell!"
Signora Fantuzzo protested that she knew nothing at all, but the
archpriest had little trouble in eliciting from her the information
that the Trentos' cook, who was a friend of her servant's, had talked
of the goings on at home since the arrival of the young man from Milan.
She had spoken of the master's apparent uneasiness, of Teresina,
the maid's, ill-humour, and of fits of weeping on the part of the
Signorina. One morning the maid had rushed into the kitchen calling
for very strong coffee, her eyes standing out of her head with fright,
because the young lady had been foolish enough to shut the windows,
with all the flowers she kept in her room at night, and was almost dead
with the headache. The cook had said at the time:
"The girl wants to kill herself!" and the maid had answered, her eyes
full of tears, "Who can say!"
"I believe," added the excellent Bettina, "that all this is because the
young man was such a friend of her lover's, and reminds her of him."
"My good creature," said Don Tita, "you are a simpleton."
Meanwhile Don Emanuele was reflecting with a grateful heart how visibly
favourable Providence was to his aims and to those of the archpriest.
To tell the truth, neither the one nor the other had proposed making
Signora Bettina the only and direct instrument of Providence in this
matter. In their satisfaction at possessing a weapon against Don
Aurelio's friend, the famous Alberti, they had planned that Signora
Bettina should confide the story of Alberti's intrigue with the woman
in Milan to her servant, who, as they well knew, was a friend of the
Trentos' cook, and the cook, they hoped, would pass the scandal on
to the maid. And here were their hopes being realised; here was the
machinery already acting in the service of similar confidential reports.
"Then I understand," the future prelate began, with a guileless air,
"that between your servant and the Trentos' cook----"
There was a knock at the door.
"Come in!" cried good-natured Don Tita.
The chaplain relapsed into silence, dropping his watery eyes, but
otherwise giving no sign of his dissatisfaction at the interruption
sanctioned by his superior. It was Signora Fantuzzo's servant, who had
come to look for her mistress. Don Tita, his mind flooded with the
light of a sudden inspiration, begged her to wait outside. "One moment,
one moment only!" he cried. He himself rose and closed the door with a
bang that--left it open! Then he began declaiming, confronted by the
bewildered faces of the chaplain and Signora Bettina.
"Listen, sister-in-law, and you also, chaplain. You must not mention
it, but I will tell you something. That young fellow from Milan who is
at the Montanina and who is so intimate with the priest of Lago--do
you know what a precious pearl he is? He is entangled with a woman in
Milan, I tell you, and I know--a woman with a husband, children----"
"Goodness!" Bettina ejaculated. "Children also?"
"Well?" Don Tita retorted in a low tone. "She is married, isn't she?"
And he resumed in a loud voice: "Let us hope the rascal has no designs
upon that young girl who lives with old Trento! Supposing her mother
should hear of this, poor woman!"
Hereupon Don Tita rose, and added softly, "That's done!" Casting at
Don Emanuele the glance of a colleague in art who has proved himself
a master, he crept to the door on tiptoe and flung it suddenly open,
shouting, "Where is she ... ah! excuse me." For there the woman stood
before him, half stunned by the sudden opening of the door. Signora
Bettina rose, thankful to be free at last. The chaplain, not entirely
convinced of the success of this brilliant strategy, was still
pondering the matter, when the archpriest's servant rushed in, in a
state of great excitement.
"The Fedele woman is here!"
Signora Vayla's Christian name was often mistaken among the peasants
for her surname.
"What Fedele woman?" the dazed archpriest demanded.
"Don't you know? The one from Arsiero--the one with white hair."
Signora Bettina scurried away, the archpriest closed his eyes and
puffed, as if he had been offered a glass of castor-oil, the chaplain
murmured, "Archpriest!" and stood before his superior with clasped
hands and eyes raised heavenward, which attitude signified an
exhortation to the man to stand firm, and a prayer to the Lord to keep
the man standing firm. Then, with bowed head, he also hastened away.
The archpriest requested that Donna Fedele should be ushered in. He
was convinced she had come to talk to him about Don Aurelio and of the
people of Lago's determination to appeal, if need be, to his Holiness
himself against the priest's dismissal.
III
Donna Fedele had driven over from the Villino delle Rose in the usual
little hired carriage. Near the Posina Bridge she had met Massimo, and
had said to him, laughing, "I am going to see the archpriest about the
'den.'" By a similar channel of communication to that which lay between
the parsonage and the Montanina, certain interesting bits of news had
reached her, and also, amongst others, the fact that at the parsonage
her house had been labelled a "den" on account of Carnesecca's
presence. She had answered Massimo's exhortation to "give him a piece
of her mind" with a smile, a smile as sweet as her voice. But when
the little carriage had turned to the left on the steep rise, the
noble lines of her face assumed an expression of melancholy, which the
meeting with Massimo had not a little to do with. She was worried as to
the position of affairs at the Montanina. She saw, indeed, that Massimo
was daily becoming more strongly attached, but she recognised too that
Signor Marcello was anxious and Leila startlingly enigmatical. Leila
impressed the older woman as a creature at war with herself, and withal
so proud that nothing good could come from any attempt to influence
her. Donna Fedele had won Teresina's confidence, and had heard from
her about the flowers and the closed windows, which incident she felt
should neither be made too much of nor entirely ignored. Teresina's
idea was that the girl was in love, and was ashamed of her state of
mind, feeling bound in honour to the memory of poor Signor Andrea and
by Signor Marcello's trust in her. It was at present impossible to
see clearly in the matter, and Donna Fedele could not rid herself of
innumerable doubts, anxieties, and presentiments.
* * * * *
Waiting in the little salon of the parsonage, Signora Bettina and Don
Emanuele strongly reminded the visitor of two frightened chickens, as
they scurried past, hugging the wall, and she recalled so vividly a
certain red wart above the archpriest's left eye, that always became
inflamed when he was worried, that a laugh clutched her throat, and she
had barely time to straighten her face before entering the study.
The wart was scarlet indeed, but her welcome was of the warmest. Worthy
Don Tita appeared incapable of suppressing within himself--and he was,
in truth, no weak vessel--a certain effervescent mixture of surprise,
pleasure, and obsequiousness. But at this moment Don Tita was no
hypocrite. Rising, he approached his visitor, crying eagerly, "Well,
well, well! Who do I see, who do I see? Your servant, your very humble
servant!" And this cordiality was not the result of any calculation.
There was an unconquerable officiousness in his blood that instantly
rendered him cordial and ceremonious in the presence of any person
worthy of consideration. On such occasions he felt any differences
of opinion that might separate him from such a person shrivel within
him, as by a miracle, and in spite of himself he was bound to convey
to that person, by means of words, gestures, and play of feature, that
he was really much more of his or her opinion than that person might
be inclined to think. Secretly, Donna Fedele was highly amused by the
reception she had of course expected, especially when she reflected
how different would be the scene that must follow. She also took a
mischievous delight in accepting the archpriest's big chair, and in
imagining herself a bishop in her violet skirt, and she longed to reach
out her hand to the snuffbox that lay open on the table before her.
"I have come," she began, in that gentle, indolent manner of hers, "to
show you that I try to be a Christian, if not a good Christian, at
least a passable one."
The archpriest gave a loud laugh.
"That is good! That is good! But who doubts it, Signora? Tut, tut, tut!
Who doubts it?"
Donna Fedele smiled, but while her lips were smiling her eyes widened
and flashed with a vivid light.
"Ah! that is the question," said she, and there was a flash in her
voice also.
Don Tita pretended not to understand, to have forgotten a certain
occasion when Donna Fedele lent her grounds for a peasants'
merry-making that had ended in some rather wild dancing, to have
forgotten, too, a certain unwise sermon of his of which the lady had
unnecessarily reminded him.
"Tut, tut, tut!" he repeated.
The sweet voice went on:
"You yourself have not always considered me such, and you do not at
present, now that I have taken Pestagran into my house."
Don Tita became the colour of a raspberry.
"I?" he cried. "Quite the contrary! It is pure charity, Signora!
Charity, charity! A priest's house was one thing, you see, but the
house of a layman is another."
"It is a lay 'den,' then," Donna Fedele murmured under her breath.
The archpriest did not hear, and she went on to say, still blandly,
that she had not known the clergy were less bound to perform deeds of
charity than the laity. Don Tita's protests she met with a fixed stare
and in silence.
Poor Don Tita, remembering that he had said that this lean lady was
more of a _Carnesecca_ (a piece of dry flesh) than Gran Peste himself,
and who was far from realising that had she known this Donna Fedele's
amusement would have tempered her severity towards himself, was as one
seated upon hot coals.
"But I am not here," she continued, "to discuss Pestagran, or anything
connected with Pestagran."
"_Ben_, Signora! Good, good!"
The archpriest said "_Ben!_" relieving his feelings by a lapse into
dialect, but in his heart he thought, "_Male_, Signora! Bad, very bad!"
for although that first pill was swallowed, who could say what Madame
Carnesecca might have in reserve?
"As you and I are both interested in the same person, I have come
to ask you for some information that might perhaps, under certain
circumstances, affect that person indirectly."
This time Donna Fedele spoke in a clear and rather loud voice,
articulating her words carefully and looking resolutely at Don Tita.
His face was filled with bewilderment. Who could this person be?
Bettina? No, no--nor the chaplain either. Could it be Don Aurelio,
after all?"
"It is true, is it not," Donna Fedele went on, "that you are much
interested in the young girl who lives with Signor Trento?"
Don Tita, greatly relieved that Don Aurelio had not been sprung upon
him, rubbed his hands together softly.
"I, Signora ... I interested...? No, no, Signora. Not at all, not at
all."
"What do you mean by 'not at all,' when you are anxious to have her
warned against a certain Alberti because he is carrying on an intrigue
with a married woman?"
The archpriest made up his mind that Donna Fedele was indeed an
incarnation of the evil one. He muttered, "What, what, what!" and,
gathering his scattered wits together, whispered to himself, "The
monster!" these words referring to his own servant, who alone could
have listened, have heard, and have gossiped. But meanwhile he found no
answer. Donna Fedele waited for a time, and then asked, with her gentle
but pitilessly apathetic air, if he were going to admit or deny the
accusation.
"I deny it," said Don Tita, recovering from the blow. "I can safely
deny it, Signora. I deny having had any hand in the matter. I was
already acquainted with the fact, Signora, but the secret was not my
own."
Donna Fedele inwardly regretted having omitted to count the
archpriest's "Signoras." Once before she had counted, or said she had
counted, one hundred and one in half an hour. Presently she went on
with her cold-blooded torture.
"You see, archpriest," she said, "as so much is known here concerning
what is said and done in my house, it is only fair that I should know
something of what is said and done here."
Donna Fedele was convinced that the archpriest's servant had orders to
worm out of her gardener's wife all she could about her mistress, Don
Aurelio, Carnesecca, and Massimo Alberti. The servant, on the other
hand, had parted with some parsonage gossip in exchange. Then the
gardener's wife told the story to the housemaid, and although Donna
Fedele invariably scolded her maids for listening to gossip, she had
not been able to stop her own ears, and, as a matter of fact, had
opened them rather wide this time.
The colour of the wart spread over the whole surface of Don Tita's face.
"Ah! you must really excuse me, Signora," said he in an injured tone,
"but as to that--that--oh! oh!----"
And he wagged his head as if it had been on a pivot, and knit his brows.
A timid "Con permesso" was heard, the door opened slowly, and there
stood the culprit herself with coffee and biscuits for Donna Fedele.
She was a little, fat old woman, with the voice of a goat and a cunning
expression. She placed the tray upon the writing-table and glanced
at her master, expecting him to rise, as usual, brandish the spoon,
and vociferate, "How many lumps, Signora? How many lumps?" Her master
did rise, but slowly and not at once, and he gave her a glance that
made her tremble lest she had done wrong to bring the coffee. "Cape!"
muttered the poor woman, who, like Signora Fantuzzo, was in the habit
of appealing to that distant and invisible crustacean. The sight of
this bewildered woman, ignorant of her position of _lupus in fabula_,
and of Don Tita's face at being obliged to administer coffee and
biscuits to an odious creature who had dared to be insolent to him,
the thought of the scene that was bound to take place between master
and servant as soon as she should have left--all this put the little
demon of comedy that had his home in Donna Fedele's brain into such
extreme good-humour, that instead of refusing the coffee, or at least
the biscuits as her first impulse had prompted her to do, she partook
of both, that she might better enjoy her laugh at Don Tita's sad plight
and smile at her own part of it.
After the coffee and biscuits, however, she ceased tormenting the
poor man. Donna Fedele, who was capable of fierce dislikes, felt only
indifference for the archpriest. She believed him to be rather weak
than deceitful, rather spoiled by an insufficient and unwholesome
education than base by nature, possessing cunning indeed, but cunning
of a coarse sort, that it was easy to fathom; and she recognised his
good qualities, his disinterestedness, his sincere desire to serve God.
When the servant had left the room she told him, very calmly, that
she had serious reasons for wishing to know the truth concerning the
accusations against young Alberti. Don Tita, who was quickly appeased,
at first barricaded himself behind the assurance that the secret
was another's; but he soon yielded to the temptation to gratify his
interlocutress, and admitted that it was the chaplain's secret, and
it would be terrible should the chaplain suspect that his secret was
not well guarded. "He is my master, you see! A future cardinal! One
centime's worth of cardinal already!" The archpriest often alluded to
Don Emanuele in this way, when he believed he was addressing one not
friendly disposed towards the chaplain. And this time, indeed, he was
not mistaken, for there was no one in the world more uncongenial to
Donna Fedele than the chaplain of Velo d'Astico. She asked at once to
speak with him, and Don Tita hastened away to fetch him. Donna Fedele
felt quite sure he would not be forthcoming, and, in fact, Don Tita
returned, after a long enough absence, with a hang-dog expression,
stammering that the chaplain was out.
"He will come back," said Donna Fedele, rising. Yes, Don Emanuele would
Certainly come back, but hardly before noon. It was then half-past
nine. Donna Fedele could not wait two hours and a half, and so, without
explaining what she intended to do, she left the parsonage. She made
inquiries of a peasant woman seated in the door of a cottage close by
if she had seen Don Emanuele. "He has just gone past, Signora," the
woman answered. "He went into the church."
Donna Fedele turned quickly, and was sure she saw the archpriest's
tunic whisk into the parsonage, he very probably having been watching
her movements from the doorway. Mounting the steps, she entered the
church and saw the chaplain kneeling in the first row of benches, in
front of the high altar, and praying fervently. Instinctively she
raised her hand to the holy-water font, but before her fingers had
touched the water she repented of her action and withdrew her hand,
for her feelings at that moment were all too unchristian. That man,
kneeling there with his face buried in his hands, filled her with
wrath. For him to play the saint, he, the hard-hearted, malevolent
creature! He was the secret enemy and denouncer of Don Aurelio, of that
she had no doubt, now that she had discovered him plotting maliciously
against Alberti, because he suspected him of heresy! Donna Fedele was
ready to swear to this also, although she really knew nothing about
it, and had come for the express purpose of discovering whether there
was any solid foundation for the accusations against Alberti. She sat
down on a bench in the shadow near the side door, and after a moment's
hesitation, sank upon her knees. The ancient traditions of her house
had made her an earnest believer. Her faith was simple; she did not
trouble herself with religious contentions and often declared, like
her father before her, she preferred the famous _foi de charbonnier_.
But she detested everything that seemed to her deceit, hypocrisy, or
perfidy, and at this moment a capricious impulse suggested to her to
pray against the prayers of the priest bending low before the high
altar. Kneeling down, she prayed, "O Lord! Listen to me, and not to
him"; but hardly had she placed her arms upon the bench before her
than she thought, "Perhaps he is not praying at all." He seemed to
her a Pharisee, and she did not realise that she was putting herself
in the position of the Pharisee of the parable and that, like him,
she deserved condemnation. Her suspicion, moreover, was unjust. Don
Emanuele was praying with all the strength of his soul, according to
his nature and education, in the only way possible to him. In his own
home no one had ever dared to ask the terrible grandfather for anything
in the usual, direct way. A priest, or a favourite steward, or an old
nurse had been made the go-between. Thus Don Emanuele prayed rather to
His servants than to the Infinite Grandfather Himself. At the present
moment he was praying to St. Louis Gonzaga as to a deified prince,
who, standing upon the throne in all the pomp of state, surrounded by
flowers and winged cherubims, should graciously bend his head in the
suppliant's direction and command the demon to depart. Thus prayed
poor Don Emanuele as best he might, horrified at the fierceness of
unexpected temptation. And it may be that the Almighty, to whom all
causes and all origins are known, judged him far less severely than
did Donna Fedele, who would have brought about a rare muddle had
her prayers for the confusion of the chaplain been answered. Soon
afterwards, hearing some one enter the church, Don Emanuele, feigning
to look around to see if his chair was empty, and having thereby
caught sight of Donna Fedele, sat down and began to read his breviary.
In his own way he heartily reciprocated Donna Fedele's dislike.
The outspoken frankness, which her soft voice only rendered more
irritating, offended him. Besides, he knew her to be the friend of Don
Aurelio and of young Alberti, two persons whom he fervently abhorred,
convinced, however, that it was their opinions and not themselves
that he detested. Conscious of an ill-defined but profound antagonism
between himself and Don Aurelio, and instinctively averse to him, he
was naturally and conscientiously inclined to attribute to him ideas
and opinions unworthy of any Catholic, to say nothing of a priest. The
irreprehensibleness both of his words and actions was another source
of irritation, for he believed Don Aurelio to be a hypocrite. As to
Alberti, what he had read in the newspapers, together with what had
been communicated to him from Milan, filled him with a sort of loathing
for the man. Donna Fedele, the friend of both, could not differ from
them to any great extent.
Upon hearing her announced by the archpriest's servant the chaplain had
concluded that she had come to plead Don Aurelio's cause. Now, however,
he was aware that she had come about Alberti, that the archpriest's
servant had been eavesdropping and gossiping, and that that wretched
man had been true to himself and compromised him, the chaplain,
instead. As soon as he caught sight of Donna Fedele he guessed her
intentions, and as he read his breviary he was enveloping himself in an
imaginary armour, plated with steel and bristling with points.
But as the placid lady showed no intention of raising the siege, he
knelt down once more, buried his face in his hands, and having pictured
to himself the moment of the attack, and decided upon his line of
defence, he withdrew to the sacristy. Immediately, and as he had
foreseen, Donna Fedele rose and followed him. Being unable to avoid
the interview, the chaplain preferred that it should take place in the
sacristy rather than at the parsonage or in the street.
Donna Fedele inquired icily if she might speak with him, her eyes
veiled with haughty indifference. His equally cold answer was a silent
bow of assent.
"I should prefer some other place," said she. He hesitated for an
instant, and then proposed that she should wait for him in the church.
They would go out together. He remained in the sacristy at least ten
minutes longer, and then made a genuflection before the high altar that
lasted two minutes more.
"I wish you to give me a piece of reliable information," said
Donna Fedele, coming out of the church with him, and trembling with
impatience.
"If I can," Don Emanuele answered gently but firmly--"if I can."
The Signora found it difficult to check an angry outburst.
"If you can, of course. But I know you can, and, being able to, you
must."
"If I can," the chaplain repeated, still more gently and firmly--"if I
can. What is it?"
Very red in the face, Donna Fedele observed that it was a delicate
matter, and one not fit to be handled in the public square. Hereupon
the priest pulled out his watch.
"I have to go to Mea," said he, with that air of gravity,
impenetrability, and of compunction, and that _Dominus vobiscum_ tone
which were unbearable to Donna Fedele. Once more she fumed.
"Very well. I will take you there. I have a carriage."
"I am sorry, Signora. I must go on foot."
It seemed to Donna Fedele that his short words, his knitted brow, and
downcast eyes spoke of a shrinking, prompted by modesty, of a fear of
giving scandal. She was on the point of calling him a fool to his face,
but checked herself.
"I will walk also," said she. "The carriage can follow us."
Don Emanuele continued to wriggle for a while, but said no more. Two
minutes ago Donna Fedele would not have believed herself capable
of walking half a kilometre, but now her nerves were braced with
sufficient energy to carry her all the way to Vicenza. At the Albergo
del Sole she picked up her driver, who, immediately upon his arrival at
Velo, had tied his horse to an iron railing, that he might be free to
begin an imprudent struggle with a wine that was stronger than himself.
As soon as they had crossed the square, the carriage following slowly
at a short distance, the conversation began. The priest walked as if
the soil burnt his feet, as if he were striving to tire out this woman
who was persecuting him.
She told him openly and simply that, for particular reasons, she
was very fond of young Alberti. She knew that he was said to hold
unorthodox religious views. She hoped that this was not so, but, after
all, his religious opinions were not a matter that concerned her. But
now they were accusing him of immorality. This was a question upon
which she could give an opinion, and, before judging, she wished and
was determined to know the truth. The archpriest had told her that
the chaplain was the one who knew. At this point the chaplain made a
movement of acquiescence.
"Then you do know?" Donna Fedele exclaimed, stopping short. Don
Emanuele stopped also. He hoped that, having had her answer, this
terrible woman would turn back.
"I am sorry to say I do know," said he. "It is very serious. Immoral
dealings with a person who is not free. Unfortunately, this is true,
only too true!"
"But what authority have you for saying this?"
"Oh, my source of information is--is--is----"
He appeared unable to find an epithet sufficiently superlative to
qualify the excellence of this source.
"Well? And the source--the source----!" Donna Fedele exclaimed
impatiently.
"The thing is a fact," the chaplain retorted gravely and positively.
"The thing is a fact, but I am not at liberty to reveal the source of
my knowledge."
"At least tell me the name of this married woman."
"I cannot."
This, indeed, he was not able to do, and his words naturally were more
full of conviction than ever. But Donna Fedele's patience was at an end.
"Do you know what I think?" said she. "That there is no source at all,
and that this is a pure invention!"
"Think what you will," said the chaplain, who had grown very pale; and,
touching his hat in sign of salutation, he started off rapidly along
the road to Mea.
"Don Emanuele!" called the Signora. The driver, who was half tipsy, and
who was standing near, his hand upon his horse's bridle, dropped the
bridle and flew past Donna Fedele, shouting as he ran:
"Shall I catch him for you?"
"Stop!" cried Donna Fedele, but the drunken man already had the
chaplain by the arm.
"Stop, my lad!" he commanded.
"No! Shame upon you!" cried Donna Fedele, coming up with the pair and
ordering the driver back to his horse in a tone so peremptory that he
obeyed at once.
"Now go!" said she, turning to the bewildered chaplain with such a
disdainful air, with so much energy and such fire in her bearing that
she seemed almost to have recovered the brilliancy of her youth. "Go
on serving God by slandering your neighbour! Treat Alberti as you have
treated the priest of Lago! Triumph! I am going back to my house, which
you have called a 'den,' and I am better satisfied with myself and my
'den' than you will ever be with yourself and your palace when you are
a cardinal." And she turned her back upon him.
"Siora!" (Signora) the driver declared tragically, placing his left
hand on his breast, and waving his right, in which he clasped the whip.
"If you say the word, priest or no priest, Gèsummaria! I will twist his
neck!"
Where can Donna Fedele's little demon have been dozing? She did not
even smile, but ordered the carriage to turn round, and got in,
heedless of the driver's condition. She could not possibly have
walked another step. All her strength was deserting her in a tremor
that shook her from head to foot. The gentle wind of Val d'Astico, so
pure and fresh, that made the trees sway and the shadows wave upon
the white road, revived her somewhat. Having had a chance to relieve
her feelings, she now felt a sort of pity for the chaplain. But
presently she banished him from her mind, and fixed her thoughts on
the Montanina, on her old friend's last, melancholy desire of a union
between Leila and Alberti, of the inscrutability of these two young
people, and of what the future might have in store.