OH! POOR ME!
I
The next morning at half-past five, half an hour before the train
started, Leila was on the platform at the Arsiero station with Teresina
and Giovanni, who had brought her portmanteau. She felt that Teresina
was watching her closely, and, taking her aside, told her to keep her
eye on Giovanni and the cook, who were, she believed, on terms of
greater intimacy than was desirable. She then gave minute instructions
concerning the preparations to be made for her return, saying she would
telegraph, that she desired to find the bath ready heated, and plenty
of flowers in her room. Teresina felt comforted.
Presently Signora Fantuzzo came hurrying up with her servant, in
a great state of anxiety lest she were late. When the ladies had
taken their places a couple of officers entered their compartment,
one belonging to the Engineer corps, the other to the regiment of
Chasseurs. Siora Bettina took the seat opposite Leila, and placed her
own handbag beside the girl, that neither of those terrible beings
might attempt to take that place. As soon as the train had started
she began saying the rosary, while Leila lowered the window and sat
watching for a glimpse of Villino delle Rose. She caught sight of it
at last. All the blinds were drawn save those of Donna Fedele's room.
When the house was passed, Leila ceased looking out of the window
and pretended to sleep. Just beyond the Seghe station Siora Bettina
gently touched her knee, and she opened her eyes. They were passing San
Giorgio with its cemetery, where Signor Marcello lay. Leila immediately
became so absorbed in looking at it that she heard nothing of what her
companion was saying. Bettina was begging her not to sleep, but to hold
herself in readiness to change cars at a station to which they were
fast coming. These changes were a perfect nightmare to the poor woman.
Leila smiled, assured her that they would not change for some time
yet, and once more closed her eyes. Two minutes later she was roused
again. Her companion was greatly upset because she could not find her
ticket. Presently Bettina tried in vain to lower the blind, and to her
intense vexation was obliged to accept the aid of one of the officers.
Then, when they had changed cars, she had another moment of dismay,
thinking she had forgotten a certain parasol, which, however, Leila had
taken care of. At Dueville two vulgar individuals got in, and promptly
began talking of the doings of priests and their Perpetua[9] in a most
disgusting way. Once more the beads of Siora Bettina's rosary began
to run through her fingers, and her lips to open and shut agitatedly.
At last the train rolled into the Vicenza station, and she alighted,
exhausted by her numerous anxieties, and as thankful as if she had
reached dry land again after a long voyage on a stormy sea.
Having left their luggage in the cloak-room, the two ladies took a
carriage and drove up to the sanctuary. It was not yet eight o'clock,
and their plan was to start for Verona and Desenzano towards eleven.
At the sanctuary Signora Fantuzzo asked for the Father whom she
knew. "If you do not mind waiting," she said to Leila, "I will go to
confession first." The young girl made no answer, but when the Father
had appeared, and entered the confessional, she went towards another
confessional nearer the sacristy, and in the darkest part of the
church, where her companion could not easily see her. This confessional
was occupied also, but presently the peasant woman who had been
kneeling there rose. The Father came out, looked about him, and glanced
at Leila, who was the only person near, but as she gave no sign that
she desired his ministrations, he withdrew to the sacristy. In due
course Siora Bettina rose also and glanced around anxiously. Hereupon
Leila came towards her out of the shadow, and informed her that she
had been to confession already. A Mass was about to begin at the high
altar. At the _Domine non sum dignus_ Siora Bettina rose from her chair
to approach the altar-rail, and stood waiting an instant for Leila
to do the same. Seeing that the girl did not move, and not daring to
address her at that moment, she went forward to receive Communion alone.
On rousing herself from her devotions, she reflected that, in all
probability Leila had carelessly broken her fast before leaving the
Montanina, or it might be that she had not felt in the proper mood at
that moment, and had determined to wait for another Mass. The clock
in the campanile was just striking nine. There was plenty of time. A
priest in surplice and stole approached the high-altar, and several
worshippers went to kneel at the altar-rail. Leila did not move. When
the priest had withdrawn to the sacristy, Siora Bettina mustered up all
the courage she could--which was only just enough to enable her to put
half a question--and addressed Leila.
"Excuse me, my dear girl, but don't you intend...?"
Leila had no difficulty in guessing the other half of the question.
"I shall wait and go to Communion at Castelletto to-morrow morning,"
said she.
Signora Fantuzzo returned to her prayers, and remained absorbed for
another quarter of an hour. She would gladly have prolonged her
devotions, good, pious creature that she was, had not Leila risen to
her feet without waiting for a sign from her, and showed plainly enough
that she had had enough of the sanctuary.
They walked down the hill on foot. Siora Bettina was silent for a long
time. She was finding it difficult to bring out the necessary untruth.
But at last she began nervously:
"Signorina, I am not feeling very well. Let us alter our plans
a little. Might we not go to Padua, for the present, instead of
Castelletto? We could visit the church of the Santo there, and if I
feel better later on, we can still reach Castelletto before evening."
Leila was astonished and did not answer at once, seeking to gain time
for reflection. She would consult the time-table, she said at last.
At the station café she did this with silent attention, and her eyes
sparkled with satisfaction as she discovered that, by leaving Padua
at 2.52 they could be at Castelletto at 7.55. It was then half-past
ten o'clock, and the train for Padua would leave at 11.8. The waiter
brought the coffee they had ordered. Leila drank hers, waited five
minutes longer, and then announced that she was going to post a letter
and buy some picture-postcards. She furthermore offered to get the
tickets for Padua. Siora Bettina accepted gratefully, and began getting
out her purse.
"We can settle later," said Leila, rising. As she was about to turn
away, she inquired easily:
"Second class?"
"Yes, second class," said Siora Bettina, with a bland and humble
smile. Leila walked away. Ten minutes passed and she did not return. A
voice cried out:
"Verona, Brescia, Milan!"
Siora Bettina began to display so much uneasiness that the waiter, who
was polishing the table after removing the tray, inquired if she were
leaving.
"Yes, indeed."
"Where for, Signora?"
"For Padua."
"Oh, then you have plenty of time. The train for Padua does not start
for another twenty minutes."
The minutes passed and still Leila did not come back. Bettina could sit
still no longer, and went to look for her. She was not in the vestibule
beyond the café. She thought she espied her among the crowd round the
booking-office. No, it was not she. She caught sight of the porter who
had carried their luggage on their arrival, and inquired if he had
seen her companion. He replied that he himself had just carried her
portmanteau to the train and found a good seat for her.
"No, no!" cried Signora Fantuzzo impatiently. "My companion has not
left, she is still here."
But the porter insisted.
"No, signora! I tell you she is gone! She left by the Milan express not
five minutes ago."
As Signora Fantuzzo continued to protest that he must be mistaken, he
asked somewhat impatiently if her friend had not been wearing a grey
dust-cloak with large blue buttons, a blue hat with grey veil, and grey
gloves, and whether she had not carried a dark blue parasol with a gold
handle. Yes, this was all correct. Well, then, that lady had come out
of the café, had posted a letter, and then gone with him to get her
luggage from the cloak-room. She had taken a ticket, and ordered him
to carry her portmanteau to the third-class waiting-room, although she
held a first-class ticket. Hardly had the express from Padua come to a
standstill in the station, than she had rushed across the platform and
climbed into a carriage with the agility of a squirrel. The porter had
inquired before they left the waiting-room if her friend was going with
her, and she had replied that the other lady was going to Padua.
Poor Siora Bettina felt her legs giving way, and her sight becoming
dim, and she would surely have fallen had not the porter supported her.
Four or five people soon gathered round her, and carried rather than
helped her back into the café, where they tried to make her drink some
Marsala. This she waved aside with all the energy she still possessed,
while one zealous soul sprinkled water over her. "Don't, don't! My
bonnet! My bonnet!" moaned the unhappy woman, fearing they would deluge
her headgear, which would, indeed, have been a calamity. Perceiving
that, after all, there was nothing much the matter with her, the
onlookers presently withdrew, leaving her with the waiter and the woman
from the bookstall.
"It is nothing, nothing!" this kind soul vaguely assured her. "You will
see it will be all right, Signora."
"Oh, Dio!" groaned Siora Bettina, beginning to feel better. "She has
gone to the convent, and left me here all alone!"
It struck the bookstall woman that the Signora was more troubled at
having been left "all alone" than at the thought of her companion's
flight. She inquired if the girl were her daughter.
"Gèsummaria, no!" cried poor, forsaken Bettina, and she rose with
difficulty, declaring her intention of returning to Arsiero at once.
The waiter went outside, and quickly returned with the news that the
train for Arsiero had been gone about five minutes. In the meantime
a police officer had entered the café to question Signora Fantuzzo
concerning the flight, about which the whole station was talking.
Siora Bettina could not have been more confused had the Minister of the
Interior himself been interviewing her. The officer inquired kindly if
she had any idea where her companion had gone, and whether she wished
the matter to be investigated. Siora Bettina declared the young girl
must have gone to Desenzano, and the officer went to make inquiries,
but returned presently to say that no ticket for Desenzano had been
issued.
II
The letter that Leila had posted at Vicenza reached Donna Fedele
towards seven that same evening. Anxious to husband her strength for
the journey to Turin, she had remained all day in her easy-chair.
She suffered, but she was at peace. She felt that she was dying. She
foresaw that the operation, which Carle himself was to perform, would
be successful, but that after that the end would come very quickly. She
felt herself too complete a wreck to live much longer. She was glad to
suffer and thus expiate the many sins of which she had been guilty in
her youth--sins of affection, sins of pride, that had been born, had
lived and died deep down in her mind, of which she had whispered in
the gloom of the confessional, and which the afflicted soul had never
succeeded in casting out entirely. She was glad to suffer and also to
know that soon she would suffer no more. That morning she had received
a cheerful letter from Don Aurelio. He wrote that he intended going
to Valsolda when poor Piero Maironi's body was brought from Rome to
Oria. He hoped to spend a few days with Massimo, and to cure him, with
God's help, of a depression that had begun to cloud his intellect.
She had immediately written to the friend she respected so highly,
telling him of Alberti's last letter, and speaking of Leila also,
who loved him (of this Donna Fedele was convinced) and who, swayed by
her unconquerable pride, was now struggling against love, but would
probably one day yield. It was unfortunately only too true that Leila's
love would not prove a spiritual support to Alberti, for indeed she had
no faith nor religious feeling. But Donna Fedele was sure that God had
chosen Don Aurelio to bring this wandering soul one day back to Him.
She had then told him of her departure for Turin, and had hinted
vaguely at the purpose of her journey. She promised to telegraph at
what hour she would be passing through Milan, so that perhaps he
might meet her at the station. She ended her letter with a whimsical
description of a certain ancient and oft-dyed shawl that poor old
Cousin Eufemia, in spite of the heat, insisted upon wearing on the
journey, and of the bewildered state they would both be in--like a
couple of owls in the sunshine--remarking that these particulars would
make it easy for him to recognise them amongst the gay throng in the
buffet.
Now as she gazed upon the great crags of Barco, still glowing in the
setting sun, she went over in her mind the list of objects that were
precious to her, which recalled dear memories and associations, and
which she wished to have with her in Turin, should she die there.
Cousin Eufemia was attending to the packing of everything else, and it
was she who now interrupted Donna Fedele's musings. She brought in the
post and a plate upon which lay six small trout from the Astico, which
the consumptive at Seghe had sent as a present. Donna Fedele envied
this man, who would die in his own home and native place. Presently
Cousin Eufemia bore the "poor beasts" away, and Donna Fedele began
opening her letters. The first was from the hospital in Turin. It
announced that her room was ready, and that the professor would see her
on the morning after her arrival. The second letter was from her Turin
agent, repeating the same information, and begging her to telegraph on
leaving Arsiero. The third and last was from Leila. On glancing at it
Donna Fedele did not recognise the handwriting on the envelope. She
tore the letter open, and turned immediately to the signature. "By
post?" she wondered.
The very first lines made her open her eyes wide, and as she read on an
astonished exclamation burst from her lips. She sat up very straight in
her chair, and immediately read the note through a second time.
"Oh, my God, my God!" she cried, and dropped the sheet upon her lap.
The note ran as follows:
"MY DEAR FRIEND,--I am just taking the train that will carry me from
Vicenza towards Dasio. I am going to tell him that I have been mad and
guilty and that, if he will have me, I am his for ever.
"My father knows nothing, and all this must be kept from him as long as
possible. In order to accomplish my purpose I have pretended and lied
so cleverly as to prove myself a true child of his!
"Forgive me! What I am doing is an act of love, humility, and justice.
I owe the strength and resolution necessary to carry it out to you
alone. Do not reproach me. I throw myself into your arms, and implore
your blessing.
"LEILA."
* * * * *
The day was fast dying, and Cousin Eufemia looked in again to see if
the invalid needed a light, or desired to go to bed. Donna Fedele
replied with her usual gentleness that she desired to remain alone
until she should ring her bell. Hereupon the little old woman withdrew,
but an hour later she returned, uneasy because she had not been
summoned. Pushing the door open very softly, she peered into the room,
and saw her cousin's tall figure at the window, standing out against
the clear, starry sky. It seemed to Eufemia that her face was bowed
upon her clasped hands, as if she were praying. The old woman drew
back softly without being seen. A few minutes later the bell rang,
and Cousin Eufemia hastened to the room with a light. Seated in her
easy-chair, Donna Fedele dictated a couple of telegrams to her which
were to be sent off early in the morning. The first, addressed to
Massimo Alberti, ran, "May some one show himself to be a Christian and
a gentleman." The second, for the Turin agent, contained the words,
"Inform Mauriziano that unforeseen circumstances oblige me to postpone
arrival."
"Oh, poor me!" cried Cousin Eufemia, instead of writing the word
"postpone." She shrank from doing so as she might have shrunk from
signing a death sentence. What had happened? The news of the unforeseen
circumstances must certainly have been contained in one of those
letters. For what written foolishness was Donna Fedele going to
postpone such an important matter? At last the invalid nearly lost her
temper.
"Write!" she commanded. Eufemia groaned "Oh, poor me!" once more, and
then penned the hateful words. Presently she helped Donna Fedele to
undress. When she was in bed she called for the railway time-table
and turned it over, studying it in silence for some time. At last she
dictated a third telegram, addressed to Don Aurelio:
"I shall be in Milan----"
"Good, good!" cried Cousin Eufemia, glad to know that at least they
were going to start, and that in the direction of Santhià.
"Day after to-morrow?" she suggested.
"No, to-morrow."
"To-morrow?"
She was staring in open-mouthed astonishment now. To-morrow was Friday.
But Donna Fedele went on dictating:
"... at eleven p.m. Please engage two rooms Hotel Terminus. Regards and
thanks."
"But we cannot possibly start to-morrow!" cried Eufemia. "We should
have to pack all night!"
"We do not leave until the afternoon, and besides, we are not taking
any luggage to speak of," said Donna Fedele.
"No luggage?"
Donna Fedele thought for a moment. Yes, her cousin had better take her
box, but she herself would need only a portmanteau and a dressing-bag.
Cousin Eufemia was forced to admit that under these circumstances it
would be possible to start on the following afternoon. Her own box,
which was small, was half-packed already. Donna Fedele reminded her not
to forget to send the telegrams and to order the carriage from Arsiero
for two o'clock. Then she asked to be left alone.
When she was alone once more she gave way freely to the sweetest tears
she had ever shed--tears she had not wished her cousin to see. During
her silent meditation she had determined to sacrifice her own life, and
while standing at the window she had solemnly offered it to God, in
the presence of the stars. She was giving her own life that two souls,
who had wandered from God, might return to Him; that the girl whom
Marcello had loved for the sake of his dead son might pass through a
perilous ordeal unsullied. She would not go to Turin. She would forego
the operation, which would not have been much good in any case, and she
would go instead to this mad girl in Valsolda, claiming her obedience
in memory of Marcello, claiming Alberti's for the sake of his dead
mother. At first she had thought of taking Cousin Eufemia to Valsolda
with her, but now she made up her mind to send her home to Santhià and
go alone. "It will make much more impression on them if they see me
arriving alone, from such a distance, and as ill as I am," she thought.
And now she looked back over her life. It seemed very empty to her,
very poor in good deeds, and she esteemed it a sweet privilege to end
it in this way. Lying stretched on her back, with her hands clasped
over her poor, aching body, she thanked God for the blessing of such
an end. A wave of relief swept over her; she smiled at herself in the
dark, smiled at the thought of her father, mother, and grandparents,
who had loved her so fondly in her childhood, looking down upon her
now, surely with approval and rejoicing that she would soon be with
them. She lighted the lamp and drew from a drawer in the bedside table
a precious little volume, the diary of her mother, who had died when
only two-and-twenty years of age, in giving her birth. She read the
closing words:
"Oh, my God! Bless the little angel that is coming to me, that it may
remain for ever Thine!"
Closing the book, she murmured ecstatically, "For ever--for ever!" Yes,
her mother in heaven must be glad now. And her dear old grandmother,
who had taught her to pray, and told her so many delightful stories!
The little volume contained a loose sheet of faded pink paper, on which
her beloved grandmother's tired hand had traced a prayer for Fedele's
special use:
"Most humble Jesus, destroy my pride and my self-esteem. Glory be to
the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost! Jesus, pattern of gentleness,
grant that I may become entirely gentle and infinitely charitable
toward my neighbour. Glory be to the Father, the Son, and the Holy
Ghost!
"Virtue to be practised:
"To remain silent under vexation."
Yes, dear grandmother, silence under vexation, and silence in happiness
also. Fedele laid the little volume down, put out the light, and a hush
fell upon her sweet spirit.
III
The maid brought Donna Fedele's coffee at seven, and told her of
Leila's flight. She had heard of it from the gate-keeper, who had
received his information from a railway employé at the station tavern
the night before. The woman who had just brought the milk knew
of it also. At nine, when Cousin Eufemia was in the midst of her
preparations for the journey, Teresina appeared, weeping bitterly.
She hoped Donna Fedele might know something about Leila. Eufemia,
convinced that her cousin was as much in the dark as every one else,
and, moreover, anxious that she should not be disturbed, told Teresina
so and dismissed her, having first inquired what Sior Momi's opinion
was. Teresina could not say. He had gone to Vicenza, intending, so it
would seem, to place the matter in the hands of the police. Signora
Fantuzzo was of opinion that the Signorina had fled to a convent, and
certain circumstances had led Teresina to think the same at first, but
she had now come to the conclusion that the young girl had purposely
misled them all and that she had really gone away to "do away with
herself." She had been on the brink of the precipice once before. After
Teresina's departure, Cousin Eufemia told Donna Fedele of the maid's
fears. The invalid said nothing, but wrote to Teresina as follows:
"DEAR TERESINA,--I am so sorry not to have seen you. You need not be
afraid of what you think happening. Leila gave me a solemn promise in
regard to this.
"Yours affectionately,
"F. V. DI B."
She wrote another note to the sick man at Seghe, which was to be sent
to him with some amusing books and the photograph that she had promised
him some time before. A third note was addressed to her little French
pupil, to say that the lessons must be interrupted, and setting her a
task. She was to write a composition on the theme of _La Mort de la
Cigale_.
Donna Fedele was feeling comparatively well. She was sure the relief
was due to her state of moral exaltation, and she feared lest she were
taking too much pride in her own sacrifice. She told herself that,
in offering her life, she was really offering a thing without value,
a thing that hardly belonged to her any more, a light that was about
to flicker out. Just before leaving the Villino she had a moment of
weakness. Seated on the verandah, she was pointing out, one by one,
to the gate-keeper, who was armed with scissors, the few last roses
remaining in the garden. She was going to take the roses with her, and
each flower that fell into the little basket filled her with sadness
and seemed to speak of her own ending day and of the last, sad parting
with this dear home. The gate-keeper placed the laden basket before
her. "Are there enough?" he asked. "Yes," the golden voice answered
softly, "there are enough." The man retired in silence, grieving deeply
over the necessity for the operation and over the dangers of which he
was aware; for to him, as to his wife also, the Signora was little
less than the Madonna herself. The man's presence had, in a measure,
held Donna Fedele's rising emotion in check. Alone once more, and
fanned by the silent breath of the noonday breeze stirring among the
rose-bushes and on the small open green in front of her, she yielded
to the on-rolling wave of feeling, and she became conscious of the
silent leave-taking between surrounding objects and her own mortal
heart. Down below the great verdure-clad valley was smiling, heedless
of the parting, and thence came no farewell. But Barco, Summano, and
Priaforà knew and understood, and the three hills stood looking down
upon Donna Fedele as silent figures stand around a bed upon which a
man lies dying, his parting glance resting upon them. She felt that
she was on the point of breaking down, and sought to control herself.
At that moment Cousin Eufemia appeared equipped for the journey, and
wrapped in the famous shawl that had survived so many dyeings. It had
been dipped the last time in Turin, and its snuffy, nondescript hue was
a never-failing stimulant to Donna Fedele's love of teasing. Even at
this moment she could not refrain from rallying her cousin concerning
the ludicrous garment, laughing nervously the while. In her delight
at seeing the invalid in good spirits, Cousin Eufemia herself laughed
merrily at her own poor old shawl, and her own poor old faded self.
On approaching the carriage the travellers found the driver and the
cook discussing Leila. The cook, remembering the other attempt at
flight, declared that the Signorina had gone away, goodness only knew
where, to commit suicide. The driver, who was more of a philosopher,
laid it down as Gospel truth that when a young girl runs away, she
always runs to a lover and not to death. During the drive from the
Villino to the station the subject of the snuff-coloured shawl would
not have sufficed to keep Donna Fedele in good spirits, but she
discovered presently that Cousin Eufemia was smuggling a fried trout
away with her, and immediately began teasing the poor old lady again.
Having reflected that it was Friday, that she might perhaps be unable
to get a fish supper at the hotel in Milan, and also that the trout
from the Astico are especially succulent, Cousin Eufemia had got
the cook quietly to fry one of the "poor beasts" for her, and the
incautious cook had allowed Donna Fedele to overhear her whispered
information to Eufemia that the "parcel" was in a certain umbrella-case.
Donna Fedele caught the word on the wing, and began tormenting poor
Eufemia with extravagant questions. What did the parcel contain?
Rouge and face powder? An improper book? Love letters? Her cousin
laughed and wriggled, and kept declaring that it was "nothing--nothing
worth mentioning!" until at last, horrified by Donna Fedele's absurd
suggestions, she blurted out:
"It is only a trout, I tell you!"
Hereupon the invalid became more pitiless than ever, but the jesting
voice was hushed as they passed the little church in the cemetery
at Arsiero, where she had received Communion two days before, and
presently, on going downhill towards the station, she caught sight
of the Montanina, resting as white as a cube of snow upon the tender
green, against its dusky background of chestnuts.
At the station Cousin Eufemia asked where she was to send her box. "To
Santhià," said Donna Fedele. Were they going to Santhià, then? No,
only as far as Milan to-day, but to-morrow Cousin Eufemia would go
home, and Donna Fedele would decide what to do with herself. Her cousin
protested hotly, but the Signora carried her point, and the luggage was
registered to Santhià.
The travellers took their places in the train. Don Emanuele's long,
lank figure passed beneath the window of their compartment. He went
to get his ticket, and returning, made straight for Donna Fedele's
carriage, but catching sight of Cousin Eufemia in time, he turned away
quickly. Eufemia was telling her cousin of this as the train started.
Donna Fedele closed her eyes as if to sleep, but only in order that
she might not see the dear country she was leaving without hope of
returning. In her mind's eye she saw the chaplain's lank figure, his
pale face and watery eyes. She had confessed all the ill she had
thought and said of him, and she now felt her heart free from any
shadow of rancour against the poor man, who honestly believed he might
serve God by crooked means and with bitter malice in his soul. For him,
among the rest, Christ had died; and this thought brought her peace,
but almost immediately that tiny mocking imp within her, whispered:
"Peace, peace indeed! But if he were seated here beside you, you would
be greatly annoyed, all the same!"
At the café of the Vicenza station, where the travellers had to wait
two long hours, Donna Fedele passed through some moments of anguish.
In the first place, the uncomfortable carriage and the frequent
changes had tried her greatly. Suddenly she shivered with cold, and
her sight grew dim. She drank a few drops of brandy, and gradually
revived, but she felt aghast at the thought that she might die before
she reached the end of her journey. She had not considered this danger
before starting, but now a fearful dread overtook her, and all the
way to Milan her thoughts would keep recurring to that one appalling
possibility. She was especially anxious about the journey she must
take on the morrow, and was undecided whether to push on immediately
from Milan, thus making sure of reaching her destination, or to rest,
that she might arrive in a less sorry plight. When they had passed
Treviglio, the thought of soon seeing Don Aurelio comforted her
greatly. It would be Paradise could she have his company on her further
pilgrimage, and feel him near and ever ready to afford her spiritual
aid. But there would be one great disadvantage to this arrangement; in
order to gain the greatest influence over those two young people, they
ought to see her arriving alone, and almost in a dying condition.
IV
Don Aurelio was waiting for her at the station, and she gave him her
usual, sweet smile. That smile only increased his sorrow at seeing
how pale and how changed she was. Having told her that her rooms
were ready for her, he would gladly have left her, for, if possible,
he always avoided being out late. But she insisted upon his coming
to the Terminus, and kept him talking for some time in the public
reception-room, which, at this hour, was deserted and half dark. She
told him everything except the alarming condition of her own health,
and of the sentence the doctor had passed upon her. Don Aurelio was
therefore justified in supposing her fit to continue her journey on the
morrow, and he advised her to go by way of Porto Ceresio. He expressed
regret for Leila's foolish act, but was in no way uneasy concerning
the line of conduct Massimo would pursue. This surprised Donna Fedele
somewhat. Passion, solitude, the weakening of the restraining influence
of religion, all these conditions she believed must favour the sway
of instinct. Her own inner experience had taught her the power of
passion far better than Don Aurelio could ever learn it through the
confessional. He took leave of her at last, despite her reluctance to
let him go, promising to be with her again at ten the next morning. She
had settled to start for Porto Ceresio at eleven.
She passed a sleepless night, but one almost free from pain. In the
morning she felt greatly exhausted, however, and fearing she would be
unfit to start at eleven o'clock, she told her cousin and Don Aurelio
that she had decided that it would be more convenient to lunch at
Milan, and leave three hours later. Don Aurelio brought the welcome
news that he himself would soon be going to Valsolda. He was hourly
expecting a telegram announcing that Benedetto's remains had left Rome.
A priest was to accompany them as far as Milan, and he had been asked
to perform the same solemn duty from Milan to Oria. He had accepted
partly that he might prevent the marring of the solemn ceremony by
any demonstration or speeches which he in whose memory they had met
together would have condemned, and also partly that he might have
the opportunity of seeing Massimo. The friends in Rome had entrusted
Massimo with all arrangements at Albogasio, and had also wished him to
speak at the grave, but Don Aurelio had received a sad letter from him
a few hours before Donna Fedele's arrival, saying that he had made all
necessary arrangements, but that he did not wish to speak at the grave,
for only a Catholic should do that, and he no longer felt himself such.
This Don Aurelio told with deep sorrow.
At lunch Donna Fedele could eat nothing. Her fellow-guests in the
dining-room glanced at her frequently, struck by her snowy hair, her
great dark eyes, her air of suffering, and her aristocratic features
and bearing. She preferred to drag herself to the station on foot,
rather than get in and out of the omnibus for so short a distance. She
begged her cousin to enter the compartment with her, that she might
take leave of her more quietly, and teasingly implored her not to get
lost in the great station, and let herself be carried to Venice or
Bologna instead of Santhià. As the moment of parting drew nearer Cousin
Eufemia regretted more acutely that she had not insisted upon going to
Valsolda with the invalid. She returned to the subject once more, and
begged and implored to be allowed to go. Donna Fedele made light of
this. "To Santhià you go--to Santhià!" she said. "What good could you
do by coming all the way to Valsolda?"
"It isn't at the other end of the world, after all," Eufemia retorted.
"Who knows?" said Donna Fedele. "It may be the end of the world for me."
The little old woman was silenced, but as several travellers bustled
in, in search of seats, she became ever more anxious. The hour of
departure was drawing near, and she must get down. Her place was
immediately taken by a pleasant-faced, insignificant little woman, with
a small dog. "Oh, dear!" sighed Eufemia. "A dog also!" The new-comer
overheard her words, and began to explain timidly that her dog could
not bear to be separated from her, that he was so very affectionate and
perfectly well-behaved.
"I won't be separated either!" thought Cousin Eufemia to herself.
"Surely I have as much heart as a dog!" and she said goodbye, having
fully determined in her own mind to enter another compartment in the
same train, unbeknown to Donna Fedele, whose last words were:
"Take good care of the roses!"
She smiled at the little old woman's bewilderment, who was far from
imagining that the roses alluded to were those of the Villino, which
would one day belong to her sisters and herself. The invalid calmly
fell to picturing the arrival at the Villino of the new owners, of
the three old ghosts clad in black, and to imagining what each would
do first. Eufemia, the youngest, would immediately hasten to inspect
a certain kneeling-stool that she had long coveted; the second
sister would examine the kitchen, while the eldest would repair to
the wine-cellar. But her pleasant-faced neighbour did not allow her
to follow up these half-painful, half-amusing fancies. She saw that
the Signora was ill, and began putting a series of questions for the
purpose of discovering particulars. Then she entered upon a history of
the complaints with which various members of her family and several of
her friends had been afflicted, and finally said that she was on her
way to Varese to visit her sister, who was the mother of four children,
and that she had brought Friend along with her because her little
nephews and nieces simply adored him. Donna Fedele could not close
her ears to all this chatter, but as she closed her eyes from time to
time, the little woman concluded she was suffering from headache, and
placing the dog on the invalid's lap, with a profusion of apologies,
she dived into her handbag for some phenacetin tabloids. From Rho
onwards poor Donna Fedele could do nothing but long for Varese, where
the insignificant little person got out at last, congratulating herself
on having performed an act of kindness by amusing the invalid with her
conversation, and congratulating her little dog on having contributed
towards the Signora's comfort by his decorous behaviour and silence.
Most of the travellers got out at Varese, and Donna Fedele was left
alone with a young doctor, who was on his way from Padua to his summer
home at Cuasso, which information had transpired from his conversation
with two other young men who had left the train at Varese. He now
began studying his travelling companion with respectful interest, and
becoming aware of this, and fearing he might guess the nature of her
malady and be induced to speak to her, Donna Fedele turned towards the
window, and did not look round again until the train drew up at Porto
Ceresio.
Here the first glimpse of the lake moved her profoundly. She was
nearing her destination at last--she was sure of arriving there, of
seeing them both. She was at once delighted, terrified, and uneasy. The
porter who carried her luggage was obliged to support her as far as the
café, for she was hardly able to stand. "It is madness, Signora, to go
about alone and in such a state!" he said, as she begged him to come
for her when it should be time to go aboard the steamer.
Cousin Eufemia was careful not to show herself, for she feared a
round scolding, and, what was far worse, being sent back to Milan.
She had determined to keep out of the way until it should have become
impossible to send her back. She was rather anxious, indeed, concerning
the box that had gone to Santhià, but that could not be helped now.
The boat for Lugano which would come from Ponte Tresa was not yet in
sight. Seated outside the café, on the terrace that overlooked the
water, Donna Fedele hardly touched the milk she had ordered, simply for
the sake of ordering something. Her heart had never before throbbed so
violently. The terrace, strewn with little tables, was deserted. The
mirror of green water was deserted also, lying there motionless beneath
the burning sun. White Marcote over opposite was quietly watching the
silent waters. Peace and rest breathed from the mighty hills piled high
beyond and above the winding course of the lake towards distant Lugano.
Donna Fedele felt very sad that she could enjoy none of this peace
and rest. The Ponte Tresa boat appeared at last, rounding the wooden
promontory on the west. She would have to rise presently and drag
herself to the landing-stage. It was but a few steps to go, but what if
the porter should fail to come?... Ah, here he was! It was still very
early, he said, but later he would have the luggage to attend to, and
might not be able to come for her.
The invalid rose with difficulty. She wondered how Cousin Eufemia would
act in her place, and, saying to herself, "Oh, poor me!" she took the
porter's arm.
FOOTNOTES:
[9] _Perpetua_: the name of Don Abbondio's maid-servant, in Manzoni's
famous "Promessi Sposi," now often applied generically to the female
servants of priests.--TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.