"AVEU"
I
On the following morning Leila received a letter from Donna Fedele
complaining that she had not seen Leila since their little quarrel. She
was going to Turin almost immediately, the Arsiero doctor having urged
her to go. Leila gathered from this that the physician had examined
her, though Donna Fedele did not say so. The letter concluded with an
earnest request that Leila would go to see her soon, and that a reply
might be sent by the bearer. Leila answered in haste:
"I am so glad you are going to Turin. I will not come to you because it
would be too painful for me to be obliged, as I should be, to refuse
to comply with any wish of yours on the eve of such a journey. I am
unworthy that you should trouble about me any more. Perhaps it would be
better to forget me, and leave me to my fate."
II
That day Donna Fedele's physical condition was such as to make her
extremely irritable. She had been in pain all night long, and it was
only towards daybreak that she had been able to get half an hour's
sleep. Poor old Eufemia, who slept in the next room, had heard her
groan several times, and was in despair. Her very despair and anxiety,
which prompted her to ask many anxious questions, earned for her only
impatient answers. The effect of Leila's letter was disastrous. Donna
Fedele read the note over and over again in her cousin's presence, and
finally tore it to bits. She was annoyed at the refusal to come to
her, and by the closing sentences, which struck her as a sentimental
repetition of stock phrases: "Forget me--I am unworthy--Leave me to my
fate!"
Hardly had she destroyed the note, however, than her mood softened at
the thought of Marcello. She thought for a while and presently ordered
Eufemia to send to Arsiero for a carriage to take them to the Montanina
at four that afternoon. Her cousin protested that this was madness.
After an examination, to which she had submitted at last, the Arsiero
doctor had ordered complete rest, that she might gain sufficient
strength to undertake the journey to Turin. He had recommended Padua
instead, as being nearer, but Donna Fedele would hear of no place but
Turin and the Mauriziano hospital. The operation might be postponed
for a few days, but for no longer. Her cousin's protests were in vain,
however, and the order for the carriage was sent, together with a note
for the archpriest of Arsiero, begging him to be at the little chapel
in the cemetery at four o'clock. This chapel is only a short distance
beyond the road to the Montanina. During the night Donna Fedele had
really believed she was dying, and now wished to go to confession, but
it would be impossible for her to climb the steps of the Arsiero church.
Ordinarily the carriage that came to fetch her waited at the gate of
the Villino road, and she walked down to it, but to-day it was ordered
to come up to the door. There had been rain, but now the sun was
shining. Cousin Eufemia, terrified by the invalid's pallor, once more
implored her to stay at home, but a smiling order to get into the
carriage was the only answer she received. Donna Fedele's pallor was
due, indeed, as much to mental suffering as to physical pain. She, as
well as Leila, had pride, and it cost her a painful effort to humble
her pride before Leila's.
She came out of the little chapel another creature, and told her cousin
that the drive and the air had done so much for her that she felt
almost fit to climb one of those "great, ugly mountains," as the little
old spinster had called them. The carriage drew up at the candelabrum
chestnut, and Cousin Eufemia was sent to the Montanina to summon Leila.
Donna Fedele sat in the carriage and waited. Usually she chatted with
the driver, amusing herself by asking him questions about different
people and things, and enjoying his picturesque language. Often the man
had been drinking, and at such times she would first reproach him and
then encourage him to talk, for the pleasure of hearing him. For his
part, the driver was only too happy to chat with the "Rose Countess,"
who, he declared, could talk better than any one else in the world. And
so to-day Cousin Eufemia was hardly out of earshot when he inquired if
what they were saying at Arsiero were really true, that Sior Momi's
housekeeper had given him a trouncing before she left. Donna Fedele
ordered him to be silent. She really felt eased by her confession, and
the moment was precious to her. Ever since her girlhood she had hoped
that death would come painlessly, and that to the last she should keep
her senses, and, above all, her joy in life. She did not think she
should recover from the operation; the thought did not grieve her, but
as she sat here to-day, on this lonely road, along which as a girl she
had so often walked, she was moved by a great feeling of tenderness
towards the familiar scene. Nature had never whispered its secrets
to her. She was one of those to whom the language and aspect of men
appealed much more than did the language and aspect of Nature. But at
that moment she wondered at the tenderness she felt for the lonely
road, for the quiet beauty of the landscape, for the faint voice of
the falling water, for the eternal hills. It was the tenderness of a
farewell. She would not return to this spot before going to Turin. And
afterwards....
Afterwards, would she meet Marcello? She did not count on this. Who
knows what feelings may awaken in that future life! Still, the thought
troubled her that she had not been able to shape Leila's future as her
dead friend had desired, that she must leave her work unfinished.
The time passed and Cousin Eufemia's prolonged absence made her
anxious. She heard steps behind her and looked round. It was Don
Emanuele with Siora Bettina. Don Emanuele suddenly turned to his
companion, said something to her, and then tore away at a great pace.
Signora Fantuzzo kept on her way, and passed the carriage with a
flaming face, but without looking up. Donna Fedele, who had met her
once or twice, made her a charming bow, which she acknowledged with a
slight inclination of her head as she hurried along. The Signora saw
her go up the steps of the church, and disappear beyond the gate. "What
will happen now?" she thought. "Perhaps Leila will not come." A moment
later Leila and Cousin Eufemia appeared together at the gate. Donna
Fedele drew a long breath of relief.
Cousin Eufemia, who knew that her presence was not required during the
interview, sat down on the steps of the church. Leila came towards the
carriage, slowly at first, and then in haste, as she saw Donna Fedele
attempting to get out, with the driver's help. She was glad that a
little incident of ceremony should relieve the embarrassment of their
meeting, and if Donna Fedele could be prevailed upon to stay in the
carriage, the interview, in the presence of the driver, would be less
painful. But Donna Fedele insisted upon getting out. She had seen that
the gate leading to the narrow strip of field and to the woods beyond
was open.
"We will go in there and have a little talk," said she, with her
familiar smile--"where we went once before. Do you remember?"
Leila, to whom Eufemia had spoken anxiously concerning her cousin's
condition, pointed out that she would overtire herself. Donna Fedele
replied that she would sit down on the grass. Leila foresaw a trying
interview, and her face showed it. For a moment she hesitated, but
meanwhile the attentive driver, who had overheard Donna Fedele's
remark, and who knew that the grass was still soaking after the rain,
took a rug from beneath his seat, and pushing open the gate, cried:
"Where will you have it, Signora Contessa?"
Then, leaning on Leila's arm, Donna Fedele walked slowly towards the
low bank between the chestnuts and the stream, where every blade of
grass seemed already aware of what each woman was going to say.
Donna Fedele sat down, but Leila remained standing:
"You have been very naughty," said the elder woman, when the driver had
left them.
"I am still naughty," the young girl made answer, gazing into the
stream.
Donna Fedele was silent a moment, and she also gazed into the water.
Presently she said softly, without looking up:
"You should consider that you may not see me again."
"When do you leave?" Leila inquired, in the same low tone.
Her friend's voice became a shade less gentle.
"I am starting for Turin in a day or two, but I fancy I shall shortly
be leaving Turin on a longer journey."
"Don't think of such things!" Leila cried, struggling with her emotion.
"When you hear of my death," Donna Fedele went on, "will you remember
your promise to me?"
In a voice that could scarcely be heard Leila answered, "Yes." Donna
Fedele drew two letters from her bag, and handed one to the young girl.
"That contains everything," said she, "names, addresses, and
instructions. My will simply contains the legacy to you."
Leila took the letter in silence.
Donna Fedele felt that she was moved, and asked her if she were still
glad she had written as she had. The girl dropped her eyes, and
murmured:
"No."
"Well, here is your note," said Donna Fedele, offering her the second
envelope.
"You destroy it," said Leila, with a lingering touch of pride.
Donna Fedele opened the envelope and showed her the ashes it contained.
Leila's face flushed hotly. With a proud gesture she seized the
envelope, and flung it into the stream.
"Another thing," said her wise friend. "You told me that you leave
Catholicism to me. Yes, yes--to me. I know you named others as well,
but you meant to wound me. Never mind if you succeeded or not! It is
only the loss of faith that matters. Do you wish to inflict this last
grief upon me, when I am about to die?"
"Can I believe or not, at my pleasure?" Leila cried passionately. "It
has not been your fault that I have lost my faith. I was irritated when
I spoke in that way. But don't say you are going to die! Why will you
torment me? Is not that Turin surgeon a famous operator? He will save
you!"
"My dear," Donna Fedele replied, "I am not even sure of getting there
in time for the operation. Even if I am in time, I feel that inwardly I
am such a wreck that the shock will be too much for me. But never mind
that. You will not forbid me to pray for you both in this life and the
next. That is all I ask. You see, I am as proud as you are. I have just
been to confess these sins of pride, with deep repentance. You must
also try to rid yourself of them. Soon you will be of age, and your own
mistress. I beg of you not to listen to pride then. For it is all pride
with you. You know what I mean."
Leila smiled bitterly to herself. Donna Fedele, with all her
cleverness, had failed to understand.
"Remember," Donna Fedele went on, "a man is losing himself through your
fault."
"Losing himself!" Leila murmured sarcastically.
"Yes, losing himself."
"Because he no longer believes what the priests say?"
The sarcasm was more strongly marked now, and Donna Fedele thought for
an instant.
"My bag is a very letter-box to-day," said she, and drew forth another
envelope. "This is a letter I received this morning," she went on.
"I don't want you to read it now. You can do so later. I leave it
with you. Don't return it. I give it to you to keep. Read the closing
paragraph over and over again. That is all I have to say about it. And
now help me to get up. We have kept the archpriest's sister-in-law
waiting far too long already."
Moved by an irresistible impulse, Leila took the letter, thinking at
the same moment that she was acting unwisely in so doing. As soon as
she had taken it she wished to give it back again, but Donna Fedele
was already making painful efforts to rise. She must, of course, help
her, and it proved a difficult task. When the first moment was past
she could no longer return the letter with an impetuosity sufficient
to enforce its acceptance, and Donna Fedele's condition forbade any
contest. She told herself that after all she need not read it. Donna
Fedele, who was exhausted, paused every few steps to rest, leaning
heavily on Leila's arm, and glancing frequently into her face, with a
whimsical little smile at her own weakness.
"No further leave-taking, please, dear," said she. "I don't ask you to
come to the Villino again. I need perfect rest before undertaking this
journey. Send me a few lines when I get to Turin--Ospitale Mauriziano."
Leila remained silent. The letter was burning her hand and her heart.
On reaching the carriage it was found that the rug had been forgotten.
The driver hastened to fetch it, and Cousin Eufemia, who had been
having a friendly chat with him, reported that the lady from Velo had
passed on her way home, and had left her apologies for not waiting for
Leila, adding that she would return on the following afternoon. Leila
seemed not to notice that she was being spoken to.
When she was about to get into the carriage, Donna Fedele murmured
lovingly, and with a tender smile:
"Goodbye, my dear."
Then, at the last moment, the girl begged her to take back the letter,
speaking in an undertone and with the hesitancy of one who foresees
that her request will not be granted.
"Nonsense, nonsense!" said Donna Fedele.
When they were gone Leila was seized with violent palpitation. Her
heart throbbed even in her temples. She hid the letter in her dress,
and sank upon the steps of the little church.
To calm herself she reflected that the letter probably spoke only of
religion, and of faith lost or regained, and that these were matters
of perfect indifference to her. Nevertheless, its mere contact filled
her with a vague eagerness, with a dizzy sense that her own will had
been reduced to impotence in the whirlpool of fate. She heard steps
descending on her left, and rose. A couple of peasants from Lago passed
her, and raised their hats. She determined to go into the house, but
when she had gone a few steps, she changed her mind. In the house, in
the seclusion of her own room, she would no longer be able to resist
the temptation to read the letter at once, and she did not wish to do
so immediately. She paused, hesitating. At last she went mechanically
down the steps, and started to walk along the Lago road.
On reaching the hollow in which Lago lay Leila took the path that
led to the pond in the park, but hearing women's voices at the
washing-place, she retraced her steps and passed between the rows of
cottages that made up the village of Lago. Now she had a fixed goal
in her mind. She would go along the military road across Priaforà,
overhanging the gorges of the Posina, where she had often been to
gather rhododendrons. She reached the wild stretches, swept bare by
landslips, as the sun, that had already touched the upper peaks, was
rapidly leaving them. A cold wind was blowing in the gorges of Posina,
over the heaps of dead stone, and the enormous boulders which have
rolled downwards from the naked, forbidding heights into the ravine, so
full of shadow and ceaseless roarings. Leaving the road, Leila climbed
upwards on her left among the blossoming rhododendrons. She seated
herself there, the only living figure in this great windy desert, and
began mechanically to pick the flowers on each side of her. She heaped
them in her lap and held them in her hands, and for a long time let her
eyes and thoughts rest quietly upon them. Then, with as much composure
as she could muster, she brought out the letter, restrained her desire
to glance through it in search of her own name, and proceeded to read
it slowly from beginning to end.
"DEAR MOTHER FEDELE,--I would have you know that I am on the high-road
to fame and fortune. The day before yesterday the family of a young man
whom I had attended for a sprained ankle sent a regular greengrocer's
shop to the hotel for me. There was goat's cheese, and there were
sausages and mushrooms. Yesterday a very neat, timid, and humble young
priest made me a present of a small phial of Modena vinegar,[8] because
I had refused to accept a fee for a visit I paid to his old mother,
who is suffering with varicose veins. The Lord only knows how he came
by the vinegar! This morning the sacristan's wife sent for me, and the
child who came with the message brought me a basket of walnuts at the
same time, that I might not be able to avoid going. The innkeeper's
wife says I have a great future before me, and that if I go on like
this, I shall soon be sent for even from remote Puria, which is a small
cluster of houses, some twenty minutes' walk from here.
"Can one on whom fortune thus smiles wish to die? Alas, yes! From
time to time I myself am that foolish person! At such moments I feel
that I should be happy to sleep beneath the stunted cypresses of the
little Dasio cemetery, which are as melancholy as my own sad destiny.
And, as I am not wanting in poetic sentiment, I dream that the stunted
cypresses, feeding on my heart, would grow into two great dark
columns, marking the triumph of death. When I rouse myself and accuse
myself of cowardice, I am forced to confess that, although cowardice
may be contemptible, I have, after all, very little to live for.
"I do not allude to the friends to whom my death would bring sorrow; as
a matter of fact, they are but two in number--yourself and Don Aurelio;
and I believe that could Don Aurelio know I had died a natural death,
in my bed, after having received all the consolations of the Catholic
religion, he would think me fortunate, and be comforted. You, dear
friend, would take things less philosophically, and would mourn for me
a little longer; but, if I mistake not, you yourself do not greatly
value this life, and would therefore not mourn too much for a good
friend who had set out on his journey towards the next world, having
made his exit with every mark of respect for Holy Mother Church. You
may wonder that I now talk of marks of respect, after what I wrote in
my last letter, and you will quickly infer that, feeling myself about
to sink, I have cried out, 'Lord, save me!' as you advised me to do,
and that He has answered my appeal. Dear friend, it is true enough
that I have cried out, and it may also be true that the Lord is even
now accomplishing my salvation, but not in the way you think. Truth
rests, perhaps, at the bottom of the sea, rather than on its surface.
But if I were about to die, I should send for a priest, in order to
avoid scandalising these good people here. And this would be no act of
hypocrisy. A supreme desire to meet death truthfully and humbly would
move me to confess my sins, and I should receive the Communion in
memory of Him whom I could have wished to follow into the high places
and across the waves of Galilee, instead of following the endless
procession of mitres, skullcaps, tricorns, and hoods, and of black,
white, and purple robes that to-day walks before us. But this is not
yet the root of the matter. I feel I am still floundering in troubled
waters, but I know that I still cling instinctively to my old faith,
and that I shall find rest and freedom from doubt in that untroubled
haven where all must come at last. If I compared what I believed a year
ago with what I believe to-day, I ask myself--and the very question
fills me with horror--if to-morrow I shall still believe in God. This
light of my spirit, that until yesterday burned steadily enough, is
already beginning to waver.
"Well, I should be uttering falsehood if I told you that I wished to
die for this reason. No, were it only for this I should long more
intensely still to live. I should forbid myself to think of religious
matters, I should forbid myself both denial and belief, I should become
the father, brother, and friend of these poor people, seeking to bestow
upon them all I have that is worth giving, living poorly myself; I
should seek a companion whom I could love both with my spirit and my
senses, and fall asleep at last, unaffrighted by an unsolved mystery.
But I am cruelly shut out from this Paradise. If I wish to die it is
because the fever that I sought to overcome, that, for a moment, I
believed I could conquer, the fever that is called Leila, now rages
more fiercely than before, burning me, and consuming my being, while I
am powerless to resist."
At this point the blood coursed hot through Leila's veins, a cloud came
in front of her eyes, and she felt herself as a helpless atom in the
presence of a compelling fate. She spread the letter on the heap of
rhododendrons in her lap, raised them in her trembling hands, and held
them to her face, as if to inhale their perfume, wishing to hide, even
from the spirits of the air, the yearning kiss she pressed upon those
wonderful words. She was conquered, she was his, she was the woman of
his desire, who would live in poverty with him, who would shut herself
up with him in that nest among the mountains, far away from the world,
who would comfort him for all the past bitterness, who would help him
to do good and with him face the inscrutable mystery of life, aye, and
if need be, of death too. Tears rose in her throat, and letting the
flowers fall to her lap again, she tried not to think and to forget
herself in looking at a wild pink that trembled in the wind as her own
hands were trembling. When she felt that she was once more mistress of
herself, she went on reading.
"It may be that here I am easily governed by fancy, or that the sad and
tender poetry of the place appeals to me. I cannot say. I only know
that I am torn with longing, that I spend hours in looking, not at her
picture, for that I do not possess, but at a scrap of paper on which
she one day wrote the name of a piece of music for me. I bend over it
and breathe in the faint perfume that still clings to it, and wrings my
soul as did the divine music of Schumann's 'Aveu' which she once played
to me. You see, dear Mother Fedele, I am indeed telling you everything,
as a son would. This morning I could bear it no longer and walked out
beyond the village, whence I could see, rising above the tops of the
mountains, a solitary peak that reminds me, oh so much, of the peak
I stood gazing upon through the window in the upper gallery at the
Montanina, as I listened to the music of 'Aveu.' I cannot bring myself
to turn away from it--its associations are so vivid.
"And there is one other thing I must tell you, the most important thing
of all. There is no contempt in my love now. I no longer feel that I
have the right to despise one who misjudged me only because she did
not know me. My only right, a right and a duty at the same time, is to
preserve my dignity, should we two ever meet again."
At this point Leila smiled, and then quickly pressed a kiss upon the
words, as if craving pardon for her smile. She read on.
"To-morrow I am going down to Albogasio to make the final arrangements
with the mayor for the interment of Benedetto's remains in the cemetery
there, in a few days' time. I have written to his friends in Rome that
I gladly undertake all the arrangements, out of respect for his dear
memory, but that I do not feel I can speak at his grave, as my friends
wish me to do. My faith in an immortal Catholicism will rest in that
grave with him. Should I speak I could only say that I mourn for him
who inspired it, and for the faith itself.
"And now, goodbye. Write to me about yourself. If you really believe I
could do better for you than your own doctors, I will come to you. But
I myself do not think so. They are men of experience, while I am but a
novice, and must now set out to attend the sacristan's wife. Once more,
goodbye.
"Your "PRODIGAL SON
"(who must be satisfied with the husks!)"
Beneath the signature were the words:
"Make no mistake. The ruining of this soul is your work--yours--yours
alone! Yet I feel that God will restore him. May He, in His wisdom and
mercy, make you the restorer. Then think of your poor friend, and pray
for her.
"FEDELE."
Leila did not linger over this postcript, but turned once again to
those other passionate words, reading and kissing them again and again.
At last she put away the letter with a long sigh of contentment. A
tremendous sense of physical wellbeing seized her; and she stood up and
stretched out her arms as if to embrace a wonderful new world that had
been given her. Then she looked around, afraid lest she might have been
seen, but no one was near. She stooped to gather up the flowers that
had slipped from her lap, and started homewards, eager to reach her
own room, and eager also to experience this joyful new feeling in the
presence of others. She walked rapidly, with the elastic, buoyant tread
of a happy being.
Just outside the villa she met Teresina, who was full of admiration for
the flowers--at least, so she said; but in reality the maid was amazed
by the new light in the Signora's eyes. She reported that Siora Bettina
had seemed annoyed at being neglected for Donna Fedele. "Was she?"
said Leila. "I am sorry. What did she want?" And she went to her room
without waiting for an answer and again lost herself in the letter.
She hung the bunch of rhododendrons upon the head-board of the bed,
with the blossoms downwards, that they might touch her hair and that,
by raising her face, she might kiss them. Drawing one flower from the
bunch, Leila went down to the dining-room, and placed it on the table
in a tall glass, that she might look at it while dining alone, later
on. Then she passed into the drawing-room, and, seating herself at the
piano, began playing "Aveu" as she had never played it before, and
it seemed to her that the piano understood and was inspired too. The
thought came to her that _his_ being might perhaps vibrate in response,
there in his far-away retreat. She played the melody through several
times, then wandered about the room in search of the spot whence she
could see the dolomitic peak. Once more she returned to the piano, and
wrung from it the broken accents of an overwhelming passion.
"Gèsu!" thought Teresina, who was setting the table, "whatever ails her
now?"
FOOTNOTES:
[8] Modena vinegar is prepared in small barrels from the best of wine,
to which certain aromatic herbs are added. It is allowed to become very
old and, when thoroughly mellowed, a few drops added to a bottle of
ordinary vinegar impart a most delicious flavour.--TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.