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diff --git a/old/67143-0.txt b/old/67143-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 9ca62da..0000000 --- a/old/67143-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,12970 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Fantasy, by Matilde Serao - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Fantasy - -Author: Matilde Serao - -Translators: Henry Harland - Paul Sylvester - -Release Date: January 11, 2022 [eBook #67143] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Andrés V. Galia, Ed Leckert and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by The - Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FANTASY *** - - - - TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES - -In the plain text version words in Italics are denoted by _underscores_. - -A number of words in this book have both hyphenated and non-hyphenated -variants. For the words with both variants present the one more used -has been kept. - -Obvious punctuation and other printing errors have been corrected. - -The Table of Contents was added by the transcriber. - - - * * * * * - - - - - FANTASY - - - Heinemann’s International Library. - - Edited by EDMUND GOSSE. - - - _Crown 8vo, in paper covers, 2s. 6d., or cloth limp, 3s. 6d._ - - _IN GOD’S WAY._ - - _By BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON._ - - _Translated from the Norwegian by Elizabeth Carmichael._ - - - _PIERRE AND JEAN._ - - _By GUY DE MAUPASSANT._ - - _Translated from the French by Clara Bell._ - - - _THE CHIEF JUSTICE._ - - _By KARL EMIL FRANZOS._ - - _Translated from the German by Miles Corbet._ - - - _WORK WHILE YE HAVE THE - LIGHT._ - - _By COUNT LYON TOLSTOI._ - - _Translated from the Russian by E. J. Dillon, Ph.D._ - - - _FANTASY._ - - _By MATILDE SERAO._ - - _Translated from the Italian by Henry Harland and - Paul Sylvester._ - - - _FROTH._ - - _By ARMANDO PALACIO VALDÉS._ - - _Translated from the Spanish by Clara Bell._ - - - _Other Volumes will be announced later._ - - _Each Volume will contain a Specially Written Introduction - by the Editor._ - - - LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN, 21 BEDFORD ST., W.C. - - - - - FANTASY - - A NOVEL - - BY - MATILDE SERAO - - - TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN - BY - HENRY HARLAND & PAUL SYLVESTER - - Fourth [Illustration] Edition - - - LONDON - WILLIAM HEINEMANN - 1891 - [_All rights reserved_] - - - - - INTRODUCTION. - - -The most prominent imaginative writer of the latest generation in -Italy is a woman. What little is known of the private life of Matilde -Serao adds, as forcibly as what may be divined from the tenour and -material of her books, to the impression that every student of -literary history must have formed of the difficulties which hem in the -intellectual development of an ambitious girl. Without unusual neglect, -unusual misfortune, it seems impossible for a woman to arrive at that -experience which is essential to the production of work which shall be -able to compete with the work of the best men. It is known that the -elements of hardship and enforced adventure have not been absent from -the career of the distinguished Italian novelist. Madame Serao has -learned in the fierce school of privation what she teaches to us with -so much beauty and passion in her stories. - -Matilde Serao was born on the 17th of March 1856, in the little town of -Patras, on the western coast of Greece. Her father was a Neapolitan -political exile, her mother a Greek princess, the last survivor of an -ancient noble family. I know not under what circumstances she came to -the Italian home of her father, but it was probably in 1861 or soon -afterwards that the unification of Italy permitted his return. At an -early age, however, she seems to have been left without resources. She -received a rough education at the Scuola Normale in Naples, and she -obtained a small clerkship in the telegraph office at Rome. Literature, -however, was the profession she designed to excel in, and she showed -herself a realist at once. Her earliest story, if I do not mistake, -was that minute picture of the vicissitudes of a post-office which is -named _Telegrapi dello Stato_ (“State Telegraphs”). She worked with -extreme energy, she taught herself shorthand, and she presently quitted -the post-office to become a reporter and a journalist. To give herself -full scope in this new employment, she, as I have been assured, cut -short her curly crop of hair, and adopted on occasion male costume. -She soon gained a great proficiency in reporting, and advanced to the -writing of short sketches and stories for the newspapers. The power -and originality of these attempts were acknowledged, and the name -of Matilde Serao gradually became one of those which irresistibly -attracted public attention. The writer of these lines may be permitted -to record the impression which more than ten years ago was made upon -him by reading a Neapolitan sketch, signed by that then wholly obscure -name, in a chance number of the Roman _Fanfulla_. - -The short stories were first collected in a little volume in 1879. In -1880 Matilde Serao became suddenly famous by the publication of the -charming story _Fantasia_ (“Fantasy”), which is now first presented to -an English public. It was followed by a much weaker study of Neapolitan -life, _Cuore Infermo_ (“A Heart Diseased”). In 1881 she published -“The Life and Adventures of Riccardo Joanna,” to which she added a -continuation in 1885. It is not possible to enumerate all Madame -Serao’s successive publications, but the powerful romance _La Conquista -di Roma_ (“The Conquest of Rome”), 1882, must not be omitted. This is -a very careful and highly finished study of bureaucratic ambition, -admirably characterised. Since then she has written in rapid succession -several volumes of collected short stories, dealing with the oddities -of Neapolitan life, and a curious novel, “The Virtue of Cecchina,” -1884. Her latest romances, most of them short, have been _Terno Secco_ -(“A Dry Third”), a very charming episode of Italian life, illustrating -the frenzied interest taken in the public lotteries, 1887; _Addio -Amore_ (“Good-bye Love”), 1887; _La Granda Fiamma_, 1889; and _Sogno di -una notte d’estate_ (“A Summer Night’s Dream”), 1890. - -The naturalism of Matilde Serao deserves to be distinguished from -that of the French contemporaries with whom she is commonly classed. -She has a finer passion, more of the true ardour of the South, than -Zola or Maupassant, but her temperament is distinctly related to that -of Daudet. She is an idealist working in the school of realism; she -climbs, on scaffolding of minute prosaic observation, to heights which -are emotional and often lyrical. But her most obvious merit is the -acuteness with which she has learned to collect and arrange in artistic -form the elements of the town life of Southern Italy. She still retains -in her nature something of the newspaper reporter’s quicksilver, but it -is sublimated by the genius of a poet. - - EDMUND GOSSE. - - - - - CONTENTS - - - Page - - INTRODUCTION v - - PART I 1 - - PART II 38 - - PART III 114 - - PART IV 179 - - PART V 225 - - - FANTASY. - - - - - PART I. - - - I. - -“The discipline for to-morrow is this....” said the preacher, reading -from a small card. “You will sacrifice to the Virgin Mary all the -sentiments of rancour that you cherish in your hearts, and you will -kiss the schoolfellow, the teacher, or the servant whom you think you -hate.” - -In the twilight of the chapel there was a slight stir among the -grown-up girls and teachers; the little ones remained quiet; some of -them were asleep, others yawned behind tiny hands, and their small -round faces twitched with weariness. The sermon had lasted an hour; -and the poor children had not understood a word of it. They were -longing for supper and bed. The preacher had now descended from the -pulpit, and Cherubina Friscia, the teacher who acted as sacristan, was -lighting the candles with a taper. By degrees the chapel became flooded -with light. The cheeks of the dazed, sleepy little girls flushed pink -under it; their elders stood immovable, with blinking startled eyes, -and weary indifferent faces. Some prayed, with bowed heads, while the -candle-light played with the thick plaits of their hair, coiled close -to the neck, and with certain blonde curls that no comb could restrain. -Then, when the whole chapel was lighted for the recital of the -Rosary, the group of girl scholars in white muslin frocks, with black -aprons and the various coloured ribbons by which the classes were -distinguished, assumed a gay aspect, despite the general weariness. A -deep sigh escaped Lucia Altimare. - -“What ails thee?” queried Caterina Spaccapietra, under her breath. - -“I suffer, I suffer,” murmured the other dreamily. “This preacher -saddens me. He does not understand, he does not feel, Our Lady.” And -the black pupils of her eyes, set in bluish white, dilated as in a -vision. Caterina did not reply. The Directress intoned the Rosary in a -solemn voice, with a strong Tuscan accent. She read the Mystery alone. -Then all the voices in chorus, shrill and low, accompanied her in the -_Gloria Patri_, and in the _Pater_. - -She repeated the _Ave Maria_ as far as the _Frutto del tuo ventre_; -the teachers and pupils taking up the words in unison. The chapel -filled with music, the elder pupils singing with a fulness of voice -that sounded like the outpouring of their souls: but the little ones -made a game of it. While the Directress, standing alone, repeated the -verses, they counted the time, so that they might all break in at -the end with a burst, and nudging each other, tittered under their -breath. Some of them would lean over the backs of the chairs, assuming -a devout collectedness, but in reality pulling out the hair of the -playfellows in front of them. Some played with their rosaries under -their pinafores, with an audible click of the beads. The vigilant eye -of the Directress watched over the apparently exemplary elder girls; -she saw that Carolina Pentasuglia wore a carnation at the button-hole -of her bodice, though no carnations grew in the College gardens; that -a little square of paper was perceptible in the bosom of Ginevra -Avigliana, beneath the muslin of her gown; that Artemisia Minichini, -with the short hair and firm chin, had as usual crossed one leg over -the other, in contempt of religion; she saw and noted it all. Lucia -Altimare sat leaning forward, with wide open eyes fixed upon a candle, -her mouth drawn slightly on one side; from time to time a nervous shock -thrilled her. Close to her, Caterina Spaccapietra said her prayers in -all tranquillity, her eyes void of sight, as was her face of motion and -expression. The Directress said the words of the _Ave Maria_ without -thinking of their meaning, absent, preoccupied, getting through her -prayers as rapidly as possible. - -The restlessness of the little ones increased. They twisted about, and -lightly raised themselves on their chairs, whispering to each other, -and fidgeting with their rosaries. Virginia Friozzi had a live cricket -in her pocket, with a fine silken thread tied round its claw; at first -she had covered it with her hand to prevent its moving, then she had -allowed it to peep out of the opening of her pocket, then she had taken -it out and hidden it under her apron; at last she could not resist -showing it to the neighbours on her right and on her left. The news -spread, the children became agitated, restraining their laughter with -difficulty, and no longer giving the responses in time. Suddenly the -cricket dragged at the thread, and hopped off, limping, into the midst -of the passage which divided the two rows of chairs. There was a burst -of laughter. - -“Friozzi will not appear in the parlour to-morrow,” said the Directress -severely. - -The child turned pale at the harshness of a punishment which would -prevent her from seeing her mother. - -Cherubina Friscia, the sacristan-teacher, of cadaverous complexion, -and worn anæmic face, descended the altar steps, and confiscated the -cricket. There was a moment of silence, and then they heard the gasping -voice of Lucia Altimare murmuring, “Mary ... Mary ... divine Mary!” - -“Pray silently, Altimare,” gently suggested the Directress. - -The Rosary began again, this time without interruption. All knelt -down, with a great noise of moving chairs, and the Latin words were -recited, almost chanted, in chorus. Caterina Spaccapietra rested her -head against the back of the chair in front of her. Lucia Altimare had -thrown herself down, shuddering, with her head on the straw seat, and -arms hanging slack at her side. - -“The blood will go to your head, Lucia,” whispered her friend. - -“Leave me alone,” said Lucia. - -The pupils rose from their knees. One of them, accompanied by a -teacher, had mounted the steps leading to the little organ. The teacher -played a simple devotional prelude for the Litany to the Virgin. A pure -fresh voice, of brilliant quality, rang out, and permeated the chapel, -waking its sleeping echoes; a young yearning voice, crying with the -ardour of an invocation, “_Sancta Maria...!_” And from below, all the -pupils responded in the minor key, “_Ora pro nobis!_” The singer stood -in the light on the platform of the organ, her face turned towards the -altar. She was Giovanna Casacalenda, a tall girl whose white raiment -did not conceal her fine proportions; a girl with a massive head, -upon which her dark hair was piled heavily, and with eyes so black -that they appeared as if painted. She stood there alone, isolated, -infusing all the passion of her youth into her full mellow voice, -delighting in the pleasure of singing as if she had freed herself, -and lived in her song. The pupils turned to look at her, with the joy -in music which is inherent in childhood. When the voice of Giovanna -came down to them, the chorus rising from below answered, “_Ora pro -nobis!_” She felt her triumph. With head erect, her wondrous black eyes -swimming in a humid light, her right hand resting lightly on the wooden -balustrade, her white throat throbbing as if for love, she intoned the -medium notes, ran up to the highest ones, and came down gently to the -lower, giving full expression to her song: “_Regina angelorum...!_” -One moment of silence, in which to enjoy the last notes; then from -below, in enthusiastic answer, came childish and youthful voices: -“_Ora pro nobis!_” The singer looked fixedly at the altar, but she -seemed to see or hear something beyond it--a vision, or music inaudible -to the others. Every now and then a breath passed through her song, -lending it warmth, making it passionate; every now and then the voice -thinned itself to a golden thread, that sounded like the sweet trill -of a bird, while occasionally it sank to a murmur, with a delicious -hesitation. - -“Giovanna sees heaven,” said Ginevra Avigliana to Artemisia Minichini. - -“Or the stage,” rejoined the other, sceptically. - -Still, when Giovanna came to the poetic images by which the Virgin -is designated--Gate of Heaven, Vase of Election, Tower of David--the -girls’ faces flushed in the ecstasy of that wondrous music: only -Caterina Spaccapietra, who was absorbed, did not join in, and -Lucia Altimare, who wept silently. The tears coursed down her thin -cheeks. They rained upon her bosom and her hands; they melted away -on her apron; and she did not dry them. Caterina quietly passed her -handkerchief to her. But she took no notice of it. The preacher, Father -Capece, went up the altar steps for the benediction. The Litany ended -with the _Agnus Dei_. The voice of the singer seemed overpowered by -sheer fatigue. Once more all the pupils knelt, and the priest prayed. -Giovanna, kneeling at the organ, breathed heavily. After five minutes -of silent prayer, the organ pealed out again slowly over the bowed -heads, and a thrilling resonant voice seemed to rise from mid-air -towards heaven, lending its splendour to the Sacrament in the _Tantum -Ergo_. Giovanna was no longer tired; indeed her song grew in power, -triumphant and full of life, with an ebb and flow that were almost -voluptuous. The throb of its passion passed over the youthful heads -below, and a mystic sensation caused their hearts to flutter. In the -intensity of their prayer, in the approach of the benediction, they -realised the solemnity of the moment. It dominated and terrified them, -until it was followed by a painful and exquisite prostration. Then all -was silent. A bell rang three peals; for an instant Artemisia Minichini -dared to raise her eyes; she alone; looking at the inert forms upon the -chairs, looking boldly at the altar; after which, overcome by childish -fear, she dropped them again. - -The holy Sacrament, in its sphere of burnished gold, raised high in -the priest’s hands, shed its blessing on those assembled in the church. - -“I am dying,” gasped Lucia Altimare. - - * * * * * - -At the door of the chapel, in the long gas-lighted corridor, the -teachers were waiting to muster the classes, and lead them to the -refectory. The faces were still agitated, but the little ones hopped -and skipped about, and prattled together, and pinched each other, in -all the joyous exuberance of childhood released from durance vile. -As their limbs unstiffened, they jostled each other, laughing the -while. The teachers, running after some of them, scolding others, half -threatening, half coaxing, tried to range them in a file of two and -two. They began with the little ones, then came the elder children, and -after them the grown-up girls. The corridor rang with voices, calling: - -“The Blues, where are the Blues?” “Here they are, all of them.” -“Friozzi is missing.” “Where is Friozzi of the Blues?” “Here!” “In -line, and to the left, if you please.” “The Greens, in line the Greens, -or no fruit for dinner to-morrow.” “Quick, the refectory bell has rung -twice already.” “Federici of the Reds, walk straight!” “Young ladies of -the White-and-Greens, the bell is ringing for the third time.” “Are the -Tricolors all here?” “All.” “Casacalenda is missing.” “She is coming; -she is still at the organ.” “Altimare is missing.” “Where is Altimare?” - -“She was here just now, she must have disappeared in the bustle; shall -I look for her?” - -“Look; and come to the refectory with her.” - -Then the corridor emptied, and the refectory filled with light and -merriment. With measured, almost rhythmic step, Caterina went to -and fro in the deserted passages, seeking her friend Altimare. She -descended to the ground-floor, called her twice from the garden; no -answer. Then she mounted the stairs again, and entered the dormitory. -The white beds formed a line under the crude gaslight; Lucia was not -there. A shade of anxiety began to dawn on Caterina’s rosy face. She -passed by the chapel twice, without going in. But the third time, -finding the door ajar, she made up her mind to enter. It was dark -inside. A lamp burning before the Madonna, scarcely relieved the gloom. -She passed on, half intimidated, despite her well-balanced nerves, for -she was alone in the darkness, in church. - -Along one of the altar steps, stretched out on the crimson velvet -carpet, a white form was lying, with open arms and pallid face, a -spectral figure. It was Lucia Altimare, who had fainted. - - - II. - -The fan of Artemisia Minichini, made of a large sheet of manuscript, -waved noisily to and fro. - -“Minichini, you disturb the Professor,” said Friscia, the assistant -teacher, without raising her eyes from her crochet work. - -“Friscia, you don’t feel the heat?” returned Minichini, insolently. - -“No.” - -“You are lucky to be so insensible.” - -In the class room, where the Tricolor young ladies were taking their -lesson in Italian history, it was very hot. There were two windows -opening upon the garden, a door leading to the corridor, three rows -of benches, and twenty-four pupils. On a high raised step stood the -table and armchair of the Professor. The fans waved hither and thither, -some vivaciously, some languidly. Here and there a head bent over -its book as if weighted with drowsiness. Ginevra Avigliana stared at -the Professor, nodding as if in approval, though her face expressed -entire absence of mind. Minichini had put down her fan, opened her -_pince-nez_, and fixed it impudently upon the Professor’s face. -With her nose tip-tilted, and a truant lock of hair curling on her -forehead, she laughed her silent laugh that so irritated the teachers. -The Professor explained the lesson in a low voice. He was small, -spare, and pitiable. He might have been about two-and-thirty, but his -emaciated face, whose dark colouring had yellowed with the pallor of -some long illness, proclaimed him a convalescent. A big scholarly head -surmounting the body of a dwarf, a wild thick mane in which some white -hairs were already visible, proud yet shy eyes, a small dirty black -beard, thinly planted towards the thin cheeks, completed his sad and -pensive ugliness. - -He spoke without gesture, his eyes downcast; occasionally his right -hand moving so slightly. Its shadow on the wall seemed to belong -to a skeleton, it was so thin and crooked. He proceeded slowly, -picking his words. These girls intimidated him, some because of -their intelligence, others because of their impertinence, others -simply because of their sex. His scholastic austerity was perturbed -by their shining eyes, by their graceful and youthful forms; their -white garments formed a kind of mirage before his eyes. A pungent -scent diffused itself throughout the class, although perfumes were -prohibited; whence came it? And, at the end of the third bench, -Giovanna Casacalenda, who paid not the slightest attention, sat, with -half-closed eyes, furiously nibbling a rose. Here in front, Lucia -Altimare, with hair falling loose about her neck, one arm hanging -carelessly over the bench, resting her brow against her hand and hiding -her eyes, looked at the Professor through her fingers; every now and -then she pressed her handkerchief to her too crimson lips, as if to -mitigate their feverishness. The Professor felt upon him the gaze -that filtered through her fingers; while, without looking at her, he -could see Giovanna Casacalenda tearing the rose to pieces with her -little teeth. He remained apparently imperturbable, still discoursing -of Carmagnola and the conspiracy of Fiesco, addressing himself to the -tranquil face of Caterina Spaccapietra, who pencilled rapid notes in -her copy-book. - -“What are you writing, Pentasuglia?” asked the teacher Friscia, who had -been observing the latter for some time. - -“Nothing,” replied Pentasuglia, reddening. - -“Give me that scrap of paper.” - -“What for? There is nothing on it.” - -“Give me that scrap of paper.” - -“It is not a scrap of paper,” said Minichini, audaciously, taking hold -of it as if to hand it to her. “It is one, two, three, four, five, -twelve useless fragments....” - -To save her schoolfellow, she had torn it to shreds. There was silence -in the class: they trembled for Minichini. The teacher bent her head, -tightened her thin lips, and picked up her crochet again as if nothing -had happened. The Professor appeared to take no notice of the incident, -as he looked through his papers, but his mind must have been inwardly -disturbed. A flush of youthful curiosity made him wonder what those -girls were thinking of--what they scribbled in their little notes--for -whom their smiles were meant, as they looked at the plaster bust of the -King--what they thought when they drew the tricolor scarves round their -waists. But the ghastly face and false grey eyes of Cherubina Friscia, -the governess, frightened him. - -“Avigliana, say the lesson.” - -The girl rose and began rapidly to speak of the Viscontis, like a -well-trained parrot. When asked to give a few historical comments, she -made no reply; she had not understood her own words. - -“Minichini, say the lesson.” - -“Professor, I don’t know it.” - -“And why?” - -“Yesterday was Sunday, and we went out, so I could not study.” - -The Professor made a note in the register; the young lady shrugged her -shoulders. - -“Casacalenda?” - -This one made no answer. She was gazing with intense earnestness at her -white hands, hands that looked as if they were modelled in wax. - -“Casacalenda, will you say the lesson?” - -Opening her great eyes as if she were dazed, she began, stumbling at -every word, puzzled, making one mistake upon another: the Professor -prompted, and she repeated, with the winning air of a strong, -beautiful, young animal: she neither knew nor understood, nor was -ashamed, maintaining her sculpturesque placidity, moistening her savage -Diana-like lips, contemplating her pink nails. The Professor bent his -head in displeasure, not daring to scold that splendid stupid creature, -whose voice had such enchanting modulations. - -He made two or three other attempts, but the class, owing to the -preceding holiday, had not studied. This was the explanation of the -flowers, the perfumes, and the little notes: the twelve hours’ liberty -had upset the girls. Their eyes were full of visions, they had seen -the world, yesterday. He drew himself together, perplexed; a sense of -mingled shame and respect kept every mouth closed. How he loved that -science of history! His critical acumen measured its widest horizons; -his was a vast ideal, and he suffered in having to offer crumbs of it -to those pretty, aristocratic, indolent girls, who would have none of -it. Still young, he had grown old and grey in arduous study; and now, -behold--gay and careless youth, choosing rather to live than to know, -rose in defiance against him. Bitterness welled up to his lips and went -out towards those creatures, thrilling with life, and contemptuous of -his ideal: bitterness, in that he could not, like them, be beautiful -and vigorous, and revel in heedlessness, and be beloved. Anguish rushed -through his veins, from his heart, and poisoned his brain, that he -should have to humiliate his knowledge before those frivolous, scarcely -human girls. But the gathering storm was held back; and nothing of it -was perceptible save a slight flush on his meagre cheekbones. - -“Since none of you have studied,” he said slowly, in a low voice, “none -of you can have done the composition.” - -“Altimare and I have done it,” answered Caterina Spaccapietra. “We did -not go home,” she added apologetically, to avoid offending her friends. - -“Then you read, Spaccapietra; the subject is, I think, Beatrice di -Tenda.” - -“Yes; Beatrice di Tenda.” - -Spaccapietra stood up and read, in her pure, slow voice:-- - -“Ambition had ever been the ruling passion of the Viscontis of Milan, -who shrank from naught that could minister to the maintenance of their -sovereign power. Filippo Maria, son of Gian Galeazzo, who had succeeded -his brother, Gian Galeazzo, differed in no way from his predecessors. -For the love of gain, this Prince espoused Beatrice di Tenda, the widow -of a Condottiere, a soldier of fortune, a virtuous and accomplished -woman of mature age. She brought her husband in dowry the dominions of -Tortona, Novara, Vercelli and Alessandria; but he tired of her as soon -as he had satisfied his thirst for wealth. He caused her to be accused -of unfaithfulness to her wifely duty, with a certain Michele Orombello, -a simple squire. Whether the accusation was false, or made in good -faith, whether the witnesses were to be relied upon or not, Beatrice -di Tenda was declared guilty, and, with Michele Orombello, mounted the -scaffold in the year 1418, which was the forty-eighth of her life, she -having been born in 1370.” - -Caterina had folded up her paper, and the Professor was still waiting; -two minutes elapsed. - -“Is there no more?” - -“No.” - -“Really, is that all?” - -“All.” - -“It is a very meagre composition, Spaccapietra. It is but the bare -narrative of the historical fact, as it stands in the text-book. Does -not the hapless fate of Beatrice inspire you with any sympathy?” - -“I don’t know....” murmured the young scholar, pale with emotion. - -“Yet you are a woman.... It so happens that I had chosen a theme which -suggests the manifestation of a noble impulse; say of pity, or contempt -for the false accusation. But like this, the story turns to mere -chronology. The composition is too meagre. You have no imagination, -Spaccapietra.” - -“Yes, Professor,” replied the young girl, submissively, as she took her -seat again, while tears welled to her eyes. - -“Let us hear Altimare.” - -Lucia appeared to start out of a lethargy. She sought for some time -among her papers, with an ever increasing expression of weariness. -Then, in a weak inaudible voice, she began to read, slowly, dragging -the syllables, as if overpowered by an invincible lassitude.... - -“Louder, Altimare.” - -“I cannot, Professor.” - -And she looked at him with such melancholy eyes that he repented of -having made the remark. Again, she touched her parched lips with her -handkerchief and continued:-- - -“... through the evil lust of power. He was Filippo Maria Visconti, -of a noble presence, with the eye of a hawk, of powerful build, and -ever foremost in the saddle. The maidens who watched him pass, clad -in armour under the velvet coat, on the breastpiece of which was -broidered the wily, fascinating serpent, the crest of the Lords of -Visconti, sighed as they exclaimed: 'How handsome he is!’ But under -this attractive exterior, as is ever the case in this melancholy -world, where appearance is but part of _mise-en-scène_ of life, he -hid a depraved soul. Oh! gentle, loving women, trust not him who -flutters round you with courteous manner, and words that charm, and -protestations of exquisite sentiment; he deceives you. All is vanity, -all is corruption, all is ashes! None learnt this lesson better than -the hapless Beatrice di Tenda, whose tale I am about to tell you. This -youthful widow was of unblemished character and matchless beauty; -fair was her hair of spun gold, soft were her eyes of a blue worthy -to reflect the firmament; her skin was as dazzling white as the -petals of a lily. Her first marriage with Facino Cane could not have -been a happy one. He, a soldier of fortune, fierce, blood-thirsty, -trained to the arms, the wine, and the rough speech of martial camps, -could scarcely have been a man after Beatrice’s heart. Woe to those -marriages, in which one consort neither understands nor appreciates the -mind of the other. Woe to those marriages in which the man ignores the -mystic poetry, the mysterious sentiments of the feminine heart! These -be the unblessed unions, with which alas! our corrupt and suffering -modern society teems. Facino Cane died. His widow shed bitter tears -over him, but her virgin heart beat quicker when she first met the -valorous yet malefic Filippo Maria Visconti. Her face turned as pale -as Luna’s when she drags her weary way along the starred empyrean. And -she loved him with all the ardour of her stored-up youth, with the -chastity of a pious soul loving the Creator in the created, blending -divine with human love. Beatrice, pure and beautiful, wedded Filippo -Maria for love: Filippo Maria, black soul that he was, wedded Beatrice -for greed of money. For a short time the august pair were happy on -their ducal throne. But the hymeneal roses were worm-eaten: in the dewy -grass lay hidden the perfidious serpent, perfidious emblem of the most -perfidious Visconti. No sooner had he obtained possession of the riches -of Beatrice, than Filippo Maria wearied of her, as might be expected of -a man of so hard a heart and of such depraved manners. He had, besides, -formed an infamous connection with a certain Agnese del Maino, one of -the most vicious of women; and more than ever he was possessed of the -desire to rid himself of his wife. There lived at the Court of the -Visconti, a simple squire named Michele Orombello, a young troubadour, -a poet, who had dared to raise his eyes to his august mistress. -But the noble woman did not reciprocate his passion, although the -faithlessness and treachery of Filippo Maria caused her the greatest -unhappiness, and almost justified reprisals; she was simply courteous -to her unfortunate adorer. When Filippo Maria saw how matters stood, -he at once threw Michele Orombello and his chaste consort into prison, -accusing them of treason. Torture was applied to Beatrice, who bore it -bravely and maintained her innocence. Michele Orombello, being younger -and perchance weaker to combat pain, or because he was treacherously -advised that he might thereby save Beatrice, made a false confession. -The judges, vile slaves of Filippo Maria, and tremblingly submissive to -his will, condemned that most ill-starred of women and her miserable -lover to die on the scaffold. The saintly woman ascended it with -resignation; embracing the crucifix whereon the Redeemer agonised and -died for our sins. Then, perceiving the young squire, who, weeping -desperately, went with her to death, she cried: 'I forgive thee, -Michele Orombello;’ and he made answer: 'I proclaim thee the purest of -wives!’ But it availed not; the Prince’s will must needs be carried -out; the axe struck off the squire’s dark head. Beatrice cried: 'Gesù -Maria;’ and the axe felled the blonde head too. A pitiable spectacle -and full of horror for those assembled! Yet none dared to proclaim the -infamy of the mighty Filippo Maria Visconti. Thus it ever is in life, -virtue is oppressed, and vice triumphs. Only before the Eternal Judge -is justice, only before that God of mercy who has said: 'I am the -resurrection and the life.’” - -A profound silence ensued. The pupils were embarrassed, and looked -furtively at each other. Caterina gazed at Lucia with frightened -astonished eyes. Lucia remained standing, pale, panting, contemptuous, -with twitching lips. The Professor, deep in thought, held his peace. - -“The composition is very long, Altimare,” he said at last. “You have -too much imagination.” - -Then silence once more--and the dry malicious hissing voice of -Cherubina Friscia, “Give me that composition, Altimare.” - -All trembled, seized by an unknown terror. - - - III. - -They, the Tricolors, the tallest, the handsomest, the proudest girls, -had the privilege of sitting together in groups, during the hours set -aside for needlework, in a corner of the long work-room. The other -pupils sat on benches, behind frames, in rows, separated from each -other, in enforced silence. The Tricolors, whose deft fingers produced -the prettiest and most costly work, for the annual exhibition, enjoyed -a certain freedom. So, in a narrow circle, with their backs turned -to the others, they chatted in whispers. Whenever the work-mistress -approached them, they turned the conversation, and asking for her -advice, would hold up their work for her approval. It was their best -hour, almost free of surveillance, delivered from the tyranny of -Cherubina Friscia’s boiled fish eyes, with liberty to talk of whatever -they chose. The work dragged on; but word and thought flew. - -Giovanna Casacalenda--who was embroidering an altar-cover on finest -cambric, a cloudy, diaphanous piece of work, a very marvel--had a way -of rounding her arms, with certain graceful and studied movements of -the fingers, as they drew the thread. Ginevra Avigliana was absorbed -in a piece of lace made with bobbins, like Venetian point, to be -presented to the Directress at the end of the term; every _palma_ (a -measure of six inches) cost five francs in silk. Carolina Pentasuglia -was working a red velvet cushion in gold. Giulia Pezzali was making a -portfolio-cover in chenille. But little thought they of their work, -while the needles clicked and the bobbins flew; especially little on -that morning, when they could talk of nothing but the Altimare scandal. - -“So they have ordered her to appear before the Directress’s Committee?” -inquired Vitali, who was working with beads on perforated cardboard. - -“No, not yet. Do you think they will?” asked Spaccapietra, timidly. She -did not dare to raise her eyes from the shirt she was sewing. - -“_Diamine!_” exclaimed Avigliana. “Didn’t you hear what ambiguous -things there were in the composition! A girl has no right to know -anything about them.” - -“Altimare is innocent as a new-born babe,” replied Spaccapietra, -gravely. No one answered, but all looked towards Altimare. Separated -from the rest, far away from them, she sat with bowed head, making -lint. It was her latest fancy; to make lint for the hospitals. She had -voluntarily withdrawn herself, but appeared to be calm. - -“Nonsense, girls, nonsense,” observed Minichini, passing her hand -through her hair with a masculine gesture. “Every one knows these -things, but no one can speak of them.” - -“But to write about a wife’s deceiving her husband, Minichini, what do -you think of that?” - -“Oh, dear, that’s how it is in society; Signora Ferrari deceives her -husband with my cousin,” added Minichini, “I saw them ... behind a -door....” - -“How, what, what did you see?” asked two or three in concert, while the -others opened their eyes. - -“The _maestra_ is coming,” said Spaccapietra. - -“As usual, Minichini, you are not working,” observed the teacher. - -“You know it hurts my eyes.” - -“Are these your glasses? You are not so very short-sighted; I think you -might work.” - -“And why, what for?” - -“For your own house, when you return to it....” - -“You are perhaps unaware that my mother has three maids,” said the -other, turning on her like a viper. - -The teacher bent over the work of Avigliana, muttering something about -“pride ... insolence,” and then presently withdrew. Minichini shrugged -her shoulders. After a moment: - -“I say, Minichini, what were the Signora Ferrari and your cousin doing -behind the door?” - -“Do you really want to know?” - -“Yes, yes, yes.” - -“Well ... they were kissing.” - -“Ah!” exclaimed the chorus, alternately blushing and turning pale. - -“On the lips, of course?” asked Casacalenda, biting her own to make -them redder. - -“Yes.” - -The girls were silent, absorbed in thought. Minichini always unsettled -the work-class with her tales: she would tell the simplest thing with -a certain malicious reticence and brusque frankness, that wrought -upon their imagination. “I shall work myself a wrapper like this -altar-cloth, when I leave this house,” said Casacalenda, “it is so -becoming to the skin.” - -And she tried it over her hand, a pink and exquisite transparency. - -“_Dio_, when shall I get out of this house!” exclaimed Avigliana. - -“Three more months, eight days, and seven hours,” said Pentasuglia. - -“Doesn’t Altimare wish she were out of it?” murmured Vitali. - -“Goodness knows how they will punish her,” said Spaccapietra. - -“If I were she, I should give the Directress a piece of my mind.” - -Then all at once they heard: “Hush-sh.” The Vice-Directress had entered -the room; quite an event. Altimare raised her eyes, but only for an -instant, and her lids quivered. She went on making lint. To avoid a -sensation, the Vice-Directress bent over two or three frames, and made -a few remarks. At last: - -“Altimare, the Directress wishes to see you.” - -Altimare stood up, erect and rigid, and passed straight down through -two rows of pupils without looking either to right or left. The girls -kept silence and worked industriously. - -“Holy Mother, do thou help her,” said Caterina Spaccapietra under her -breath. - -“My married sister told me that Zola’s books are not fit to be read,” -said Giovanna Casacalenda. - -“That means that they may be read, but that it wouldn’t do to say -before gentlemen that one had read them.” - -“Oh! what a number of books I have read that no one knows anything -about,” exclaimed Avigliana. - -“I know of a marriage that never came off,” said Minichini, “because -the _fiancée_ let out that she read the _Dame aux Camélias_.” - -“_La Dame aux Camélias!_ how interesting it must be! Who has read it, -girls?” - -“Not I, nor I, nor I,” in chorus, accompanied by gentle sighs. - -“I have read it,” confessed Minichini. - -“The _maestra_ is coming,” whispered Vitali, the sentinel. - -“What is the matter, that you don’t sew, Spaccapietra?” asked the -teacher. - -“Nothing,” replied Caterina, casting down her eyes, while her hands -trembled. - -“Do you feel ill? Would you like to go out into the air?” - -“No, thank you, I am well; I prefer to stay here.” - -“Are you in trouble about Altimare?” asked Avigliana. - -“No, no,” murmured the other, shyly. - -“After all, what can they do to her?” said Casacalenda. - -“_Diamine_, they won’t eat her,” said Minichini. “If they do anything -to her, we will avenge her.” - -“The Directress is cruel,” said Avigliana. - -“And the Vice-Directress is a wretch,” added Vitali. - -“And as far as malignity goes, Cherubina Friscia is no joke,” observed -Pentasuglia. - -“_Dio mio_, may I soon leave this house!” exclaimed Casacalenda. - -All heads bent in acquiescence to this prayer. There was a spell of -silence. Caterina Spaccapietra, overcome by a great lassitude, dragged -slowly at her needle. - -“Minichini, darling, tell us about the _Dame aux Camélias_,” entreated -Giovanna Casacalenda, her sweet voice thrilling with the passion of the -unknown. - -“I cannot, my heart.” - -“Why not? is it so dreadful? Tell it, Minichini. Artemisia, sweetest, -tell us about that book.” The others did not speak, but curiosity -burned in their eyes; desire dried the words on their parched lips. -Giovanna pleaded for them, her great eyes brimming over with entreaty, -while a languid smile played about her full lips. - -“Well, I’ll tell it you. But you will never tell any one, Giovanna?” - -“No, dear love.” - -“It is too late to finish the tale to-day....” - -“Never mind, never mind, go on.” - -“Well then, work hard, without looking at me; as if you were not -listening to me. I shall turn towards Giovanna, as if I were chatting -with her: she must nod approval from time to time, and say a word or -two. But, for goodness’ sake, don’t show that you are listening to me: - -“Once upon a time, there lived in Paris, a poor little dressmaker, -whose name was Marguerite Duplessis....” - -“Violetta Valery,” interrupted Pezzali; “I have seen the _Traviata_.” - -“Don’t interrupt; in making the opera, they changed the name.... She -was a radiant beauty at fourteen, delicate, _svelte_, with long blonde -chestnut hair, large blue eyes, and an ethereal form. She was very -poor; she wore a faded cotton frock, a little black shawl, transparent -from age, and shabby shoes, down at heel. Every day she went to the man -who sold fried potatoes, and bought herself two _sous_ worth of them. -She was known as the Blonde of the fried potatoes. But she was born for -beautiful things, for luxury and elegance: she could not bear poverty -and misery; she held out for a time, but not for long. One fine day, -the pretty dove had a perfumed nest....” - -“What had she done?” asked Avigliana, bewildered. - -“She had become ... one of those....” - -“Here is Altimare,” said Spaccapietra, half rising from he chair. - -Every one turned round. Lucia advanced slowly, with uncertain gait, -stumbling here and there against the chairs as if she did not see -them. Her hands hung down against her dress as if they did not belong -to her. Her face was not pale, it was livid, with wild eyes. She -sat down, but did not take up her work. Her companions looked at -her aghast. The emaciated figure of the ardent ascetic had always -intimidated them: now it terrified them. Something very serious must -have passed between herself and the Directress. Without saying a word, -Caterina Spaccapietra laid down her work, left the charmed circle of -the Tricolors, and went and seated herself by Lucia. Altimare took no -notice of her, but sat as still as one petrified, with an expression of -pain on her face. - -“What is the matter, Lucia?” - -“Nothing.” - -“Tell me, Lucia, have they made you suffer much; do you still suffer?” - -Not even a sign that she breathed; not a line moved in her face. - -“Lucia, _sai_, I don’t know what to say to comfort you, I don’t know -how to say it, I don’t....” Then she was silent. She took one of -Lucia’s hands in hers; it was icy cold. The hand lay there, inert and -lifeless. Caterina caressed it as if to put warmth into it; indeed, she -was trying to think of something to say, but she found nothing. She sat -by her side, leaning slightly towards her, endeavouring to make Lucia -look at her. The Tricolors watched from a distance. The whole College -was watching. - -“Why do you not cry, Lucia?” suggested Caterina, timidly. - -Nothing, no impression. Caterina felt her own embarrassment and -confusion increase. “Tell me, Lucia, tell me what ails you? Be -comforted; see, I cannot console you; but speak, cry, give it vent, it -will choke you.” - -Nothing. All at once Lucia’s hand contracted nervously; she stood up, -still petrified, then thrust her hand into her hair and tore it, gave -one long, heartrending, horrible cry, and rushed like a whirlwind down -the room. The confusion was indescribable. Caterina Spaccapietra was -stunned for a moment. - -“To the terrace!” cried Minichini, “that’s where the danger is. To the -terrace!” - -Lucia Altimare fled along the hall with bowed head, the dark plaits -of her hair hanging loose over her shoulders, her white gown clinging -to her limbs. She fled along the room, and down the corridor, feeling -the hot breath of her pursuers close upon her. In the long corridor, -she doubled her speed; at the steps leading to the refectory, she cast -aside her tricolor scarf. - -“Altimare, Altimare, Altimare!” said her panting school-fellows. She -did not turn; she bounded up the steps, stumbled, instantly rose to her -feet again, drew a long breath and gained the corridor on the upper -story that ran parallel with the dormitory. She rushed to the door; but -uttered a cry of rage and anguish when she found it closed. - -“Altimare, for pity’s sake, Altimare!” called the voices of her -pursuers, in a tumult. She ran to another door, pushed it open and -entered the dormitory. She made a wild gesture of salutation to the -Christ over her bed. At the further end of the long room was a large -bay window, which overlooked the terrace. Wherever she went, the whole -College pressed within a dozen yards of her footsteps; but she did not -hear them. With one supreme bound she reached the window, opened it, -and rushed out upon the black asphalt, burning under the July sun. -Blinded by the brilliant outdoor light, mad with despair, she dashed -forward, wishing, almost believing, that the stone parapet would give -way at her desire. But when she got there, and hurriedly made the sign -of the cross, two iron arms caught her round the waist. - -“Let me go, Caterina, let me throw myself down.” - -“No.” - -“Loose me, I will die!” - -“No.” - -And for an instant there was a struggle on the broad, deserted terrace, -close to the outer wall, beyond which was the precipice. Caterina held -her close, panting, yet never loosening her hold. Lucia struggled -with serpentine flexibility; striking, scratching, and biting. Then -she gave a scream, and fell down insensible on the asphalt. When the -others arrived, when the whole College assembled on that wide terrace, -Caterina was fanning Lucia’s face with her handkerchief, and sucking -away the blood from the scratches on her own hands. - -“But for thee, she would have died,” said Minichini, kissing her. “How -did you manage?” - -“I came up by the chapel stair,” said Caterina, simply. “Directress, I -beg your pardon, but would you mind sending for some vinegar?” - - - IV. - -The little ones were doing their gymnastics in the garden, laughing -and screaming. Attenuated by the distance, their voices floated up -to the terrace, where the big girls were taking their recreation. In -the serene violet sunset, the young ladies walked slowly to and fro, -in groups of twos, and threes, and fours; white figures, on which -the black aprons stood out clearly defined, as they lingered near -the terrace wall. Three or four teachers moved about with crochet or -tatting in their hands. Their eyes bent on their work, and their faces -expressionless, none the less they heard and took heed of everything. -That hour of recess was the most longed for and yet the most melancholy -of the whole day. The fresh, calm air--the vast horizon opening out -before and around the line of houses that appeared to flow like a -stream into the sea, from Capo-di-monte, where the College stood--the -atmosphere of liberty--all lent a saddening influence to temperaments -that were either oppressed by exuberance or impoverished by anæmia. The -mystic melancholy, the yearning tenderness, the effusion of anguish, -the vague aspirations, all those impulses of tears and sighs, which the -dawn of womanhood brings in its train, breathed in that hour. - -The fair collegians mounted the terrace steps, longing for the open -air, and uttering little cries of joy at their deliverance. Merry -words ran from one to the other, and rippling laughter. They chased -each other as if they were but ten years old, those great girls of -fifteen and eighteen; they all but played at hide-and-seek. Here they -could forget the unedifying subjects upon which their precocious minds -were prone to dwell. They did not even think of murmuring against the -Directress or the teachers, an eternal theme on which to embroider -the most malicious variations. Up here they once more became frank, -light-hearted children. One day, Artemisia Minichini had in a fit of -gaiety forced Cherubina Friscia to waltz round the terrace with her; -and it had seemed to every one, natural and amusing. - -But after the first quarter of an hour, the excitement abated, until it -gradually died out. The laughter was silenced; the voices lowered, as -if in fear; the race abandoned for a slow solemn walk; separate groups -of twos and threes formed where there had been a compact crowd. And the -words came languidly and far between to their lips. All the suppressed -sadness of the full young life with which their pulses throbbed, made -their heads hang listlessly in that summer sunset. Lucia Altimare, -drawn to her full height, stood gazing across at Naples, as if she did -not see it. Her slight figure stood out clearly against the paling sky, -and in that light the fine lines of her profile acquired the purity -and refinement of an antique statue. Indeed, that dark hair coiled up -high, looked not unlike a classic helmet. Next to her stood Caterina -Spaccapietra, her clear grey eyes bent upon Naples. She seemed absent -and dreamy; but the moment Lucia looked down the precipice, she started -forward as if to hold her back. - -“Don’t be afraid, I won’t throw myself over,” said Lucia Altimare, in -her low, weak voice, her face breaking into the shadow of a smile. -“Last week, I was mad, but you have made me sane. That is to say, not -you, but God. Through your lips, by your hands, has the Lord saved me -from eternal perdition.” - -She drew her blue rosary from her pocket, and kissed the silver -crucifix and the medal of the Madonna. “Yes, Caterina, it was madness. -But here”--she bent down to whisper--“no one understands me, no one -but you! You are good, and you understand me; oh! if I could but tell -you all! They cannot understand me here. That day, the Directress was -so cold and cruel to me. She said that I had written things that were -unworthy of a gentleman’s daughter, that I appeared to know of things -which it is unmaidenly even to think of; that the Professor, the -teacher, and my companions were scandalised; that she should be obliged -to send the composition to my father, with a severe letter. I held my -tongue, Caterina; what could I say? I held my tongue, I did not weep; -neither did I entreat her. I returned to the hall in an agony of grief -and shame. You spoke to me, but I did not hear you. Death passed like -lightning through my soul, and my soul fell in love with it. God ... -disappeared.” - -She left off speaking, tired in voice and body. Caterina, who had -listened spell-bound by her sentimental talk, replied: “Cheer up, -Lucia; September will soon be here. We shall leave then.” - -“What does that matter?” said the other, shrugging her shoulders. “I -shall but exchange one sorrow for another. Do you see a little tower -yonder, under the Vomero hill? I was christened in that church. In -that little church there is a Madonna, all robed in black; her gown is -embroidered with gold. She holds a little white handkerchief in her -hand; she can turn her eyes in anguish, and in her divine heart of -woman and mother, are seven swords of pain. Caterina, they christened -me in the church of Our Lady of Seven Sorrows. The Madonna Addolorata -is my patron saint; I shall suffer for ever.” - -Caterina listened to her with a pained expression on her face. - -“You exaggerate; what do you know of life?” - -“I know it,” said the other, shaking her head. “I feel as if I had -lived enough, suffered enough--I feel as I had grown so old. I feel as -if I had found dust and ashes everywhere. I am sick at heart. We are -only born to sorrow.” - -“That’s Leopardi again, Lucia; you promised me not to read Leopardi -again.” - -“I will not read him again. But listen; we are blind, miserable beings, -destined to pain and death. Do you see beautiful Naples, smiling, -voluptuous, nestling between her fruitful hills and her divine sea, in -the magic of her radiant colouring? Do you really love Naples?” - -“Yes, for I was born there,” said the other in a low voice. - -“I hate her, with her odour of flowers, of humanity, of sparkling -wines; her starred and seductive nights. I hate her; for she is -the embodiment of sin and sorrow. There, where the tall lightning -conductors shoot into the air, is the aristocratic quarter; the home -of corruption and sorrow. Here below us, where the houses are closer -together and look darker, are the people’s dwellings; but here, too, -are corruption and sorrow. She is a sinner, like the city of Sodom, -like the city of Gomorrah; she is a sinful woman, like the Magdalen. -But she writhes in her sin, she inundates her bed with her tears, she -weeps in the fatal night of Gethsemane. Oh! triumphant city, accursed -and agonising!” - -Her gesture cut the air like an anathema; but immediately her -excitement calmed down, and the flush died out of her cheeks. - -“It is bad for you to stand here, Lucia; shall we walk?” - -“No, let me speak; I think too much, and thought ploughs too deep a -furrow, when I cannot put it into words. Have I saddened you, Caterina?” - -“A little; I fear for your health.” - -“I beg your pardon. I ought not to talk to you of these things. You -don’t like to hear them.” - -“I assure you....” - -“You are right, dear. But really, without exaggeration, life is not -beautiful. Have you ever thought of the future; of the vague, dread -future, that is so close upon us?” - -“Sometimes.” - -“And you have not feared?” - -“I don’t know.” - -“The future is all fear, Caterina.... Do you know what you will do with -your life?” - -“I know.” - -“Who has told it you, thoughtless child? Who has read the riddle of the -future?” - -“My aunt intends me to marry Andrea Lieti.” - -“Shall you obey?” - -“Yes.” - -“Without regret?” - -“Without regret.” - -“Oh! poor child, poor child! Does this Andrea love you?” - -“I think so.” - -“Do you love him?” - -“I think I do.” - -“Love is sorrow; marriage is an abomination, Caterina.” - -“I hope not,” replied the other, with clasped hands and bowed head. - -“I shall never marry, no, never,” added Lucia, drawing herself up and -raising her eyes to heaven, in the pride of her mysticism. - - * * * * * - -The violet twilight deepened. The collegians stood still in the -grounds, near the parapet, looking at some of the windows that -reflected the sun’s last rays, at the distant sea that was turning to -iron grey, at the swallows that shot like arrows across the roofs with -the shrill cry that is their evensong. - -Giovanna Casacalenda confessed to Maria Vitali that the hour of -twilight made her long to die a sudden death, so that they might embalm -her, dress her in a white satin gown, and loosen her long hair under -a wreath of roses ... and after a hundred years a poet might fall in -love with her. Artemisia Minichini assumed her most lugubrious air, her -fists were doubled up in her apron pockets, there was a deep furrow -across her forehead, and her lips were pursed up. Carolina Pentasuglia, -the blonde, romantic, little sentimentalist, told Ginevra Avigliana -that she wished herself far away in Denmark, on the shore of the -Northern Sea, on a deserted strand, where the north wind howls through -the fir-trees. Even Cherubina Friscia forgot her part of eavesdropper, -and with vague eyes and listless hands meditated upon a whole life to -be passed within College walls, without friends or relations, a poor -old maid, hated by the girls. - -“I think,” said Lucia to Caterina, “that my father intends marrying -again. He has not dared to before, but human patience is so fragile a -thing! My father is worldly, he does not understand me. My presence -saddens him. He would like to have a merry, thoughtless girl in the -house, who would enliven it. I am not the one for that.” - -“But what will you do? Something will have to be done, Lucia.” - -“Yes, something I will do, not for myself, but for others. Great -undertakings call for great sacrifices. If I were a man, I would go -to Africa and explore unknown regions. If I were a man, I would be a -monk, a missionary to China or Japan, far, far away. But I am a woman, -a weak, useless woman.” - -“You could stay with your father, meanwhile.” - -“No, his is a tardy youth, and mine a precocious old age. My presence -in his house would be a continual reproach. Well, listen, I shall try -to come upon a good, noble, holy idea, to which I can consecrate my -mind and my energy. I will seek for a plague to lessen, an injustice -to remove, a wrong to right, everywhere I will search for the ideal of -humanity, to which I may sacrifice my life. I know not what I shall -do, as yet I know not. But either as a Sister of the Red Cross on -the battlefield, or as a Sister of Charity in the hospitals, or as a -visitor in prisons, or as founder and teacher in some orphan asylum, -I shall dedicate the strength and the courage of a wasted existence to -the alleviation of human suffering.” - -Caterina did not answer. Lucia contemplated her friend with the -faintest shade of disdain on her lips. - -“Will it not be a beautiful life, Caterina?” - -“Very beautiful. Will your people give their consent?” - -“I should like to know how they could prevent it. It would be cruel -tyranny.” - -“And your health?” - -“I shall struggle against it ... or if I die, death will be the more -welcome to me, worn with toil, with the consciousness of accomplished -duty.” - -“I am not capable of such great things,” murmured Caterina, after a -short silence. “Mine is not a great soul.” - -“Never mind, dear,” said the other, stroking her hair as if she were a -child, “the ideal of humanity is not for every one.” - -Evening had closed in, recreation was over, the collegians re-entered -the dormitory, passed thence to the corridor, and descending the stair, -approached the chapel, for evening prayer. On they went, without -looking at each other, in silence, prey to a melancholy so intense that -it isolated them. They walked two and two, but not arm in arm. Two -of them took each other by the hand, but with so languid a pressure -that they scarcely held together. Behind them, the lights of Naples -glimmered like evening stars; they entered into the garnered peace of -the College, and did not turn to look back. The oppression of that long -hour of twilight weighed upon their spirits, and there was something -funereal in the long, unsmiling march to the chapel. The window, -hastily closed by the last comer, Cherubina Friscia, grated on its -rusty hinge with a noise like a laugh of irony. - - - V. - -It was the last lesson. August was dying; the lessons were all coming -to an end. After the September and October holidays, the children were -to return to school for the Feast of San Carlo. But the Tricolors, -maidens of seventeen or eighteen, having finished their education, left -in September, to return no more. On that day, at two o’clock, they -attended the history lesson the last of all. After that lesson, their -course of study was absolutely finished. - -That was why there was something so abnormal in the girls themselves, -and in the very atmosphere about them. That was why the curly, blonde -hair of Carolina Pentasuglia was dressed more like a poodle’s than -it had ever been before; a roguish cherub’s head, one mass of curls. -Giovanna Casacalenda, divested of her apron, was in pure white, a -resplendent whiteness, broken only at the waist by her tricolor scarf. -Artemisia Minichini wore a big gold locket on the velvet ribbon round -her throat. Ginevra Avigliana had three roses in her waistband, right -under her heart. But all of them sat demure and composed in the -class-room, that already seemed so deserted: there was not a book on -the desks, nor a scrap of paper, nor a pen. The inkstands were closed. -A few drawers stood open. In a corner, on the ground, behind the -blackboard, was a heap of tattered paper, torn into shreds or rolled up -in balls. On a black panel destined to the exhibition of calligraphic -achievements, there was chalked a tabulated list which set forth in -finest imitation of printed letters, combined with copy-book and old -English characters, embellished by countless flourishes, the fact -that: “In the scholastic year ---- the Signorine ... had completed the -studies of the fifth gymnasial course....” And first on the list was -Lucia Altimare. It was the _clôture_, the end of the volume, the word -_finis_.... The young ladies never turned towards that tablet. The -eyes of some of them were rather red. Oh! on that day the lesson was a -serious and arduous one. They had all studied that period of 1815, with -which the historical programme ended. From time to time the Professor -made a critical remark, to which the pupils listened attentively. -Caterina Spaccapietra, that diligent scribe, took notes on a scrap of -paper. On that day the Professor was paler and uglier than ever: he -seemed thinner, a pitiable figure in the clothes that set so awkwardly -upon him. The most ludicrous item of his attire was a large cameo pin, -stuck in a dark red cravat of the worst possible taste. On that day -he was more careful than ever to avoid the glances of his pupils. He -listened to them with profound attention, his eyes half closed, nodding -his approval, murmuring an occasional _bene_ under his breath. Now -and again he would make an absent comment, as if he were talking to -himself. Then the half-hour struck. As the minutes passed, the voice -of the girl who repeated the lesson grew more and more tremulous: then -at last the Professor added certain historical anecdotes concerning -Napoleon. He spoke slowly, carefully picking his words. When he had -ended the third quarter struck. The Professor and his pupils, impressed -by a sudden and painful embarrassment, looked at each other. The -history lesson was over. - -“The class asks permission to read its farewell letter,” said Cherubina -Friscia, whose placid face was undisturbed by emotion. - -He hesitated, a painful look of indecision passed over his face. - -“I should prefer to read it at home. I could give more attention to it -...” he stammered, for want of something better. - -“No, no; listen to it here, Professor,” cried two or three eager voices. - -“It is customary, Professor,” said Friscia, dryly. - -There was a moment’s silence. All the girls’ faces turned pale from -emotion. His head was bent in thought; at last: “Read,” he said, and -appeared ready to listen in earnest from behind the hand with which he -hid his eyes. - -Altimare rose, took the letter from an envelope and read it, halting at -every word, dividing every syllable, her voice suffused with tenderness: - -“Honoured and beloved Professor, fate has indeed been both blind and -cruel in choosing me to offer you, most respected Professor, the last -farewell of a departing class. I am assuredly too much affected by our -common sorrow; so conscious of the solitude in which this separation -will leave us, that a nameless pang at the heart will prevent the -anguish of our minds from passing into words, in parting from him -who has been our master and our guide. Oh, judge not the depth of -our feeling for you from what I write.... Words are so pale, so weak -and inadequate, and our emotion is so heartfelt. Professor, we are -leaving....” - -Ginevra Avigliana wept aloud, her face buried in her hands. - -“... this college where we have lived the sweetest years of our life, -where our childhood and youth have been passed in the companionship of -beloved friends and in the salutary occupation of our studies. We are -leaving the house where we have laughed and learned, the roof that has -overlooked our sports, our strivings for knowledge, our dreams. God is -our witness that we feel that the past is slipping from us....” - -Silently and with a pressure at her heart, Carolina Pentasuglia wept -until she felt faint. - -“... that a whirlwind is snatching it from us, that our joyous -youth has vanished, and that the weight of the future, heavy with -responsibility, is hanging over us. We cannot face the future -undaunted, we would fain prolong this last day at school, we would fain -cry aloud to our Directress and our teachers--'Why turn us away? we -were so happy! oh! keep us, keep us with you...!’” - -The reader broke down, her voice was hoarse, sobs checked her -utterance, tears blinded her. She dried her eyes and cheeks, and -continued: - -“... but this is a hard law which governs human beings. They must meet, -love and part--part for ever from those with whom one would gladly -pass one’s life. Well, on this day, we gather our memories together, -we recall the life we have lived and all the benefits we owe to your -knowledge, your teaching, and your patient, indulgent affection. For -all you have done for us, take our blessing and our thanks. Yours is -the tenderest memory that will abide with us, in the battle of life, -a guiding star in the darkness that perchance awaits us. If we have -failed in aught, forgive us. We entreat you, by this hour of sorrow -upon which we enter, prepared for it, and yet shrinking from it, we -entreat you, think of us without bitterness....” - -The reader fell back on her bench exhausted, sobbing violently. The -letter had fallen from her hand. Cherubina Friscia rose, crossed the -class, picked up the letter, put it into its envelope and placed -it on the Professor’s desk. Nearly all of them wept in the despair -of childish sorrow, at the many farewells, at the details of their -departure, and in doubt and dread of the world they were about to -enter. Artemisia Minichini, in the vain attempt to keep up her -reputation of a strong-minded woman, bit her lips and blinked with her -eyelids, but the flush on her cheek betrayed the effort it cost her. -Little Giulia Pezzali, with her head hanging over her arms, which she -had crossed on the back of the bench in front of her, like the child -she was, moaned as if some one were hurting her. Even the plump white -beauty of Giovanna Casacalenda was dimmed, her surprised black eyes -were swollen with tears. Caterina’s were dry and burning, but from time -to time a sigh escaped her lips. The Professor did not weep, but he -appeared to be more than usually unhappy in the heavy atmosphere that -bowed those youthful heads and forced from them such noisy tears. - -“Listen,” he said, “do not weep....” Some faces looked up through -their tears. “Do not weep. There should be no tears at your age. The -time will come for them later--very late, I trust.... To-day you feel -unbearable sorrow in departing from this educational institution, where -you must needs leave behind you so much of yourselves. To-morrow will -bring a joy that will blot out all this sorrow. Life is made up of -these alternations. They are not hard to bear, if you have within you -faith and courage. I have taught you all I know, hoping that in the -history of man’s deeds you might find guidance for your own actions. -Why do you thank me? I have done so little. But if you will perforce -thank me, I pray you let it be in this wise only: be good, be so in -a humane, womanly spirit. Remember one who says these words to you, -remember....” - -By this time his voice was very faint, and his hands were trembling. -The girls had abandoned themselves to a fresh fit of weeping. -Motionless he stood for a second on the little platform, looking down -at the bowed heads, at the faces buried in pocket-handkerchiefs, at -the convulsed forms on the benches; then he noiselessly descended, -scribbled a single word in chalk on the blackboard and slipped away, -bowing to Friscia as he passed. - -On the dingy slate, in big uncertain characters, stood the word “Addio.” - - - VI. - -There was only one flickering jet of gas burning at the entrance to the -dormitory that contained the little white beds in which the Tricolors -passed the last night of their school-days. There had been short -dialogues, interrupted by sighs, melancholy reflections and regrets, -until a late hour. They would have liked to sit up all night, to -indulge in their grief. But fatigue had melted their project away. When -they could hold out no longer, sleep mastered those restless beings, -weary with weeping. A languid “Good-night” was audible here and there, -gradually the irregular breathing had subsided, and the sobs had died -out. Complete repose reigned in the dormitory of the Tricolors. - -When the great clock struck two after midnight, Lucia Altimare opened -her eyes. She had not slept; devoured by impatience, she had watched. -Without rising she gently and noiselessly took her clothes from the -chair near her bed, and put them on, thrust her bare feet into her -slippers, and then crept out of bed. She moved liked a shadow, with -infinite precaution, casting, in passing, an oblique glance at the beds -where her companions slept. Now and again she looked towards the end of -the hall where Cherubina Friscia lay. There was no danger. Lucia passed -like a tall white phantom, with burning eyes, through the heavy gloom, -to Caterina’s bedside. - -Her friend slept quietly, composedly, breathing like a child. She bent -down and whispered close to her ear: - -“Caterina, Caterina!” - -She opened her eyes in alarm; a sign from Lucia froze the cry that rose -to her lips. The surprise on her face spoke for her, and questioned her -friend. - -“If you love me, Caterina, dress and follow me.” - -“Where are we going?” the other ventured to ask, hesitating. - -“If you love me....” - -Caterina no longer questioned her. She dressed herself in silence, -looking now and then at Lucia, who stood there like a statue, waiting. -When Caterina was ready she took her by the hand to lead her. - -“Fear nothing,” breathed Lucia, who could feel the coldness of her -hand. They glided down the passage that divided the beds from the rest -of the room. Artemisia Minichini was the only one who turned in her -bed, and appeared for a moment to have opened her eyes. They closed -again, but perhaps she saw through her lids. No other sign of waking. -They shrank closer together when they passed the last bed, Friscia’s, -and stooped to make themselves smaller. That moment seemed to them like -a century. When they got into the corridor, Caterina squeezed Lucia’s -hand as if they had passed through a great danger. - -“Come, come, come!” murmured the siren voice of Lucia, and suddenly -they stopped before a door. Lucia dropped Caterina’s hand and inserted -a key into the keyhole; the door creaked as it flew open. A gust of -chill air struck the two young girls; a faint diffuse light broke in -upon them. A lamp was burning before the image of the Virgin. They were -in the chapel. Calmly Lucia knelt before the altar and lighted two -candelabra. Then she turned to Caterina, who, dazed by the light, was -catching her breath, and once more said, “Come.” - -They advanced towards the altar. In the little whitewashed church, with -two high windows open on the country, a pleasant dampness tempered the -heat of the August night. The faintest perfume of incense still clung -to the air. The church was so placid and restful, the candelabra in -their places, the tapers extinguished, the Sacrament shut away in its -pix, the altar-cloth turned up to cover it. But a quaintly fashioned -silver arabesque, behind which Lucia had lighted a taper, projected -on the wall the profile of a strange monstrous beast. Caterina stood -there in a dream, with her hand still clasped in Lucia’s, whose fever -it had caught.... Even at that unusual hour, in the dead of night, she -no longer asked herself what strange rite was to be solemnised in that -chapel illuminated only for them. She was conscious of a vague tremor, -of a weight in the head, and a longing for sleep; she would fain have -been back in the dormitory, with her cheek on her pillow.... But like -one who dreams of having the well-defined will to do a thing, and yet -while the dream lasts has neither the speech to express nor the energy -to accomplish it, she was conscious, between sleeping and waking, of -the torpor of her own mind. She looked around her as one in a stupor, -neither understanding nor caring to understand. From time to time her -mouth twitched with an imperceptible yawn. Lucia’s hands were crossed -over her bosom, and her eyes fixed on the Madonna. No sound escaped her -half-open lips. Caterina leant forward to observe her; in the vague -turn of thought that went round and round in her sleepy brain, she -asked herself if she were dreaming, and Lucia a phantom.... She passed -one hand across her brow either to awake herself or to dispel the -hallucination. - -“Listen, Caterina, and try and comprehend me better than I know how to -express myself. Do you give your whole attention?” - -“Yes,” said the other with an effort. - -“You alone know how we have loved each other here. After God, the -Madonna Addolorata, and my father, I have loved you, Caterina. You have -saved my life, I can never forget it. But for you, I should have gone -to burn in hell, where suicides must eternally suffer. I thank you, -dear heart. You believe in my gratitude?” - -“Yes,” said Caterina, opening wide her eyes the better to understand -her. - -“Now we who so love each other must part. You go to the left, I to the -right. You are to be married. I know not what will happen to me. Shall -we meet again? I know not. Shall we again come together in the future? -Who knows? Do you know?” - -“No,” replied Caterina, starting. - -“Well, then, I propose to you to conquer time and space, men and -circumstances, should they stand in the way of our affection. From -afar, howsoever we may be separated, let us love each other as we do -to-day, as we did yesterday. Do you promise?” - -“I promise.” - -“The Madonna hears us, Caterina. Do you promise with a vow, with an -oath?” - -“With a vow, with an oath,” repeated Caterina, monotonously, like an -echo. - -“And I too promise, that no one shall ever by word or deed lessen this -our steadfast friendship. Do you promise?” - -“I promise.” - -“And I too promise, that neither shall ever seek to do ill to the -other, or willingly cause her sorrow, or ever, ever betray her. -Promise--the Madonna hears us.” - -“I promise.” - -“I swear it--that always, whatever befalls, one shall try to help the -other. Say, do you promise?” - -“I promise.” - -“And I too. Besides, that either will be ever ready to sacrifice her -own happiness to that of the other. Swear it, swear!” - -Caterina thought for an instant. Was she dreaming a strange dream, or -was she binding herself for life? “I swear,” she said, firmly. - -“I swear,” reiterated Lucia. “The Madonna has heard. Woe to her who -breaks her vow! God will punish her.” - -Caterina bowed her assent. Lucia took her rosary from her pocket. It -was a string of lapis lazuli bound together by little silver links. -From it depended a small silver crucifix, and a little gold medal on -which was engraved the image of the Madonna della Saletta. She kissed -it. - -“We will break this rosary in two equal parts, Caterina. Half of it -you shall take with you, the other half I will keep. It will be our -keepsake, to remind us of our vow. When I pray at night, I shall -remember. You too will remember me in your prayers. The missing half -will remind you of your absent friend.” - -And taking up the rosary between them, they pulled hard at it from -either side.... Lucia kept the half with the crucifix, Caterina the -half with the medal. The two girls embraced. Then they heard the clock -strike three. When silence reigned once more in the College and in the -empty chapel, both knelt down on the steps of the altar, crossed their -hands on their bosoms, and with closed eyes repeated in unison-- - -“Our Father....” - - - - - PART II. - - - I. - -The green hue of the country disappeared under the heavy November -rain. Caserta, down below, shrouded by the falling water as by a veil -of mist, seemed but a large grey blot on a background of paler grey. -The Tifata hills, that are tinged with so deep a violet during the -long autumn twilights, had vanished behind the thick, opaque downpour. -The small and aristocratic village of Centurano, entirely composed of -lordly villas, separated from each other by narrow lanes and flowering -hedges, held its peace. - -At the corner of the high road that leads to Caserta, the fountain -which Ferdinand of Bourbon had bestowed on Michelangiolo Viglia, his -favourite barber, overflowed with rain-water. The long, melancholy, -watery day was slowly dying, in a rainy twilight that seemed already -evening. No sound was heard. The last lingerers among the _villeganti_ -kept within their houses, yawning, dozing, or gazing through closed -windows at the drenched, denuded gardens, where the monthly roses -hung their dishevelled heads, and the water trickled in little muddy -rivulets among wasted flower-beds; while here and there the stalks of -stocks and wallflowers showed like the bare bones of so many skeletons. -Behind one window were visible the cadaverous old face and red velvet -smoking-cap of Cavalier Scardamaglia, judge at the Court of Santa -Maria; behind another, the aquiline nose and the long thin cheeks of -Signora Magaloni, wife of the architect who was directing the repairs -of the royal palace. The children of lawyer Farini were running after -and shouting at each other on the covered terrace of their villa. -Francesca, their nurse, sat in the arch of the window, knitting, -without dreaming of scolding them. The water poured along the gutters -and filled the pipes to bursting; the butts for the family washing -overflowed; the walls were stained as with rust. - -From behind her balcony windows, Caterina looked out upon the fountain -that overflowed the road. She tried to see farther away, down the -highway to Caserta, but in this the rain thwarted her. She looked back -again at the fountain, and re-read the two first lines of its fatuous -inscription: - - - DIEMMI DELL’ACQUA GIULIA - UN RIVOLETTO IL RE. - - -But she soon wearied of this contemplation, and again applied herself -to her sewing. She was seated on the broad window-sill: before her -stood her work-table, covered with reels of cotton, a needle-case, a -pincushion, scissors of all sizes, and bundles of tapes; near to her -was a large basket of new ready-basted household linen, at which she -was sewing. Just now she was hemming a fine Flanders tablecloth; four -that she had finished were lying folded on the little table. She sewed -deliberately, with a harmonious precision of movement. Whenever she cut -her thread with her scissors, she turned to the road for a moment to -see if any one was coming. Then she resumed her hem again, patiently -and mechanically, passing her pink nail across it to make it even. Once -a noise in the street caused her to start: she stopped to listen. It -was the little covered cart in which the Avvocata Farini was returning -from Nola, whither he had gone on some legal errand. The lawyer, as he -alighted, made her a low bow. - -Despite her disappointment, she responded with a pretty, gracious -smile, and followed him with her eyes, to where his children welcomed -him with shouts and outstretched arms. Once more the regular profile -bent over the Flanders cloth, and the needle flew under her agile -fingers. Caterina appeared to have grown bigger, although she still -retained a certain girlish delicacy and a pretty minuteness of feature. -The look in her grey eyes was more decided, the contour of her cheek -was firmer, the chin had assumed a more energetic character. On the low -brow, the bright chestnut hair was slightly waved; its thick plaits -were gathered up at the nape by a light tortoiseshell comb. She wore a -short indoor dress of ivory-white cashmere--a soft thick material that -clung closely to her, especially at the waist--a relic of the coquetry -of her school-days. Round her throat was a broad creamy lace tie, with -a large bow, wherein the chin seemed to bury itself. It gave value to -the delicate pink colouring of her face. There were full lace ruffles -around her wrists; no jewels, except a plain gold ring on one finger. -Her whole person breathed a serene simplicity, a delightful happy calm. - -“Shall I bring the lights?” asked Cecchina, the maid, entering the room. - -“What time is it?” - -“Nearly six o’clock.” - -“Wait a little longer.” - -“And master not yet back!” - -“He will come in good time.” - -“The Lord knows how soaked he’ll be.” - -“I hope not. Is his room quite ready?” - -“Everything, Signora.” - -“Then you needn’t wait.” - -Cecchina left the room. Caterina did not return to her sewing, for it -was nearly dark, and she wanted to believe that it was still early. -Meanwhile, the lamplighter of Centurano was proceeding under cover of -his waterproof and his umbrella to light the few petroleum lamps of the -tiny village. Caterina folded and refolded her linen in the twilight. -Cecchina, who was getting impatient, brought in two lamps. - -“The cook says, 'What is he to do?’” - -“He’s to wait.” - -“Till what hour?” - -“Till seven--like yesterday.” - -But all at once a faint bark was audible down the lane. - -“That is Fox,” said Caterina quietly. “Your master is coming.” - -Immediately there was the noise of a great opening and shutting of -doors; a rush of sound and movement. After that a lusty voice resounded -in the courtyard. - -“Here, Fox! Here, poor beast! Here, Diana! She’s as wet as a newly -hatched chicken! Caterina, Caterina! Matteo, take care of the gun, it’s -full of water! Caterina!” - -“Here I am,” she said, leaning over the balustrade. - -A big curly head and a green felt hat, then a herculean body, clothed -in a velveteen jacket, leather breeches, and top-boots, appeared on the -lower steps. With a great sound of clanking spur, and cracking whip, -soaked from head to foot, but laughing heartily, Andrea seized his wife -by the waist, and raised her like a child in his strong arms, while he -kissed her eyes, lips, and throat, roughly and eagerly. - -“Nini, Nini!” he cried, between each sounding kiss. - -“You’re come ... you’re come!” she murmured, smiling; her hair loosened -from its comb, and on her fair skin sundry red imprints left by his -caresses. - -“Oh! Nini, Nini!” he repeated, burying his big nose in the soft folds -of her tie. Then he placed his wife on her feet again, drew a deep -breath like a bellows, and stretched himself. - -“How wet you are, Andrea!” - -“From head to foot. Beastly weather! Yesterday capital sport, but -to-day, _perdio!_ this rascally rain! I’m soaked to the bone.” - -Leaning out of the landing window, he called in to the courtyard: “Take -care of the dogs, Matteo. Rub them down with warm straw.” - -“And yourself, Andrea?” - -“I will go and change my clothes. But I am not cold. I have walked so -fast that I am quite warm. Is everything ready for me?” - -“Everything.” - -“And dinner? I’m dying of hunger.” - -“Dinner is ready, Andrea.” - -“Macaroni, eh?” - -“Macaroni patties.” - -“Hurrah!” he shouted, tossing his cap up to the ceiling. “Thou art a -golden Nini.” - -And he took her once more in his arms, like a small bundle. - -“You are drenching me,” she murmured, without looking at all vexed. - -“I’m a brute; right you are. Thy pretty white frock! what a lout I am!” - -And he delicately shook out its folds. He took his handkerchief, and -went down on his knees to dry her gown, while she said: “No, it was -nothing, she would not let him tire himself.” - -“Let me; do, do let me, I am a brute ... I am a brute!” he persisted. -When he had finished, he turned her round and round like a child. - -“Now you’re dry, Nini. What a sweet smell you have about you. Is it -your lace tie or your skin? I’ll go and dress. Go and see if the -macaroni patties will be done in time.” - -She went away, but returned immediately to listen at his door, in -case he should call her. She could hear him moving to and fro in his -dressing-room, puffing and blowing and in the highest spirits. He was -throwing his wet boots against the wall, tramping about like a horse, -or halting to look at his clothes; singing the while to an air of his -own composition: - -“Where are the socks ... the socks ... the socks.... Here you are. Now -I want a scarf to bind up my inexpressibles. Here’s the scarf.... Now -where’s my necktie?” - -Then there was silence. - -“Have you found the necktie, Andrea? May I come in?” she asked shyly. - -“Oh! you are there! And here is the necktie.... I’m ready. Call -Cecchina to take away these wet things while we are at dinner.” - -He opened the door and came out with a face red from much rubbing. He -looked taller and broader in indoor dress. His curly leonine head, with -its low forehead, blue eyes, and bushy auburn moustache, was firmly set -on a full, massive, and very white throat. Round it he wore a white -silk tie and no collar. His broad shoulders expanded under the dark -blue cloth of his jacket, his mighty chest swelled under the fine linen -of his shirt. The whole figure, ponderous in its strength, was redeemed -from awkwardness by a certain high-bred ease and by the minute care -of his person, visible in the cut of his hair and the polish of his -well-tended nails. - -“H’m, Caterina, are we going to dine to-day?” - -“Dinner is on the table.” - -The dining-room was bright with lighted candles, spotless linen, -and shining silver. The centre-piece of fruit--grapes, apples, and -pears--shone golden with autumn tints. Through the closed shutters the -faintest patter of rain was perceptible. The light fell upon two huge -oaken cupboards, whose glass doors revealed within various services of -porcelain and crystal, and on the panels of which were carved birds, -fish, and fruit. Two high-backed armchairs faced each other. The whole -room was pervaded by a sense of peace and order. The macaroni pasty, -copper-coloured within its paler crust, was smoking on the table. -Andrea ate heartily and in silence; he had helped himself three times. -Caterina, who had taken her share with the appetite of a healthy young -woman, watched while he ate, with her chin in the air and a little -smile on her face. - -“_Perdio!_ how good this pie is! Tell the cook, Caterina, to repeat it -as often as he likes.” - -“I will make a note of it in the household book. Will you have some -more?” - -“No, _basta_. Ring, please. Has it rained all day here?” - -“Since last night.” - -“At Santa Maria, too. Would you believe it? I went as far as Mazzoni, -to the Torone, our farm over there.” - -“Did you sleep there last night?” - -“Yes; a good bed. Coarse but sweet-smelling sheets. But I was furious -with the weather. Have some beef, Nini. There is no sport to be had -now. Who has been here?” - -“Pepe Guardini, one of the Nola tenants. He wants a reduction.” - -“I’ve given him three reductions. He is a drunkard and too ready with -his knife. He must pay.” - -“He says he can’t.” - -“He can’t, he can’t!” he roared; “then I’ll turn him out.” - -She looked at him fixedly, but smiling. Andrea lowered his voice. - -“I don’t know why I lose my temper,” he muttered. “I beg your pardon, -Nini, but it annoys me when they come and bother you. What did you say -to him?” - -“That I would speak to you about it; that we should see.... Have your -own way. Give me some wine. By-the-by, Giovanni has been here; the vats -are opened; he says the wine promises well.” - -“I will look in to-morrow. When that’s over, in a week we’ll leave for -Naples. Are you impatient? No fowl! I assure you, it is excellent.” - -“Tell the truth, ’tis you who want more.” - -“I blush, but I say yes. So you pine for Naples?” - -“And you?” - -“I, too. Here there’s no sport, and dull neighbours. We are expected -there. By-the-by, send for Cecchina and tell her that in the pocket -of my shooting-jacket there is a letter for you. I found it at the -post-office at Caserta.” - -“Whose handwriting?” she queried, with a start. - -“The writing of one who sends thee long letters in a scratchy hand, on -transparent paper. Of one on whose seal is graven a death’s-head, with -the motto, 'Nihil’. Of one whose paper is so heavily scented with musk, -that my pocket reeks intolerably of it. Here’s a pear peeled for you, -Nini. ’Tis thy lover who writes to thee.” - -“It’s Lucia Altimare, is it not?” - -“Yes” ... stretching himself with a sigh of satisfaction, as one who -has dined well; “the Signorina Lucia Altimare, a skinny, ethereal -creature, with pointed elbows, _poseuse par excellence_.” - -“Andrea!” - -“Do you mean to say that she is not a _poseuse?_ Indulgent Nini! What -is this under the table? Your foot, Nini! I hope I haven’t crushed it. -But your friend is repugnant to me, at least she was so the only time I -ever saw her.” - -“I am so sorry, Andrea. I hope that when you see her again, you will -alter your mind.” - -“If you’re sorry, I hope I shall alter my mind. But why does she scent -her letters so heavily? I recommend you this coffee, Caterina; it ought -to be good.” - -“Lucia is sickly and unhappy. One is so sorry for her. Do you think -five teaspoonfuls of coffee will be sufficient?” - -“Put six.... I see; ... to please you I will pity her. But don’t read -her letter yet; for, to judge by the weight of it, it must be a very -long one. Make the coffee first. If you don’t, I shall say that you -care for Lucia more than for me,” murmured Andrea, with the vague -tenderness induced by digestion. - -“I will read it later.” - -He leant back in his chair, breathing slowly and contentedly, with his -necktie unfastened and his hands resting on the tablecloth, while he -watched her making the coffee--to which she gave all her attention, -intent on listening for the hiss of the machine. A calm lithe figure -that neither fidgeted nor moved too often, absorbed by her occupation, -she bent her whole mind to it. - -“It’s ready,” she said, after a time. - -“Let’s discuss it in the drawing-room,” he replied. “As a reward I will -let you read my rival’s letter.” - -A bright wood fire burned on the drawing-room hearth. With another sigh -of satisfaction, Andrea sank into a broad, low, leathern armchair that -was drawn up before it. - -“If it were not for the shooting, I should get too fat. Now don’t begin -to sew again, Caterina; sit down here and talk to me. Did you use to -dance when you were at school?” - -“The dancing-master came twice a week.” - -“Did you like dancing?” - -“Pretty well; do you?” - -“Now, when we are at Naples we can dance as much as we like. We’ve got -three invitations already.” - -“Giovanna Casacalenda ... that’s one.” - -“And my relations the Valgheras ... two.” - -“And Passalancias ... three.” - -“We’ll dance, Nini. If I didn’t dance I should get too fat. It will -be capital exercise for me. Does your melancholy skeleton of a friend -dance?” - -“Lucia?” - -“Yes.” - -“She didn’t dance much. She liked the lancers and the mazurka, I -remember. The waltz tried her strength too much.” - -“A woman who is always ill! who faints away in your arms at any moment! -What a bore!” - -“Oh, Andrea!” - -“At least you are always well, Nini.” - -“Always.” - -“So much the better, come here and give me a kiss! Has the _Pungolo_ -arrived?” - -“Here it is.” - -“Caterina, I am going to bury myself in the newspaper. Read your -letter. I won’t tease you any more.” - -But while he lost himself in the political diatribes that filled the -_Pungolo_, Caterina, notwithstanding the permission granted to her, -did not begin to read. She kept the letter in her hand, looking at -it and inhaling its scent. It was charged with the violent, luscious -perfume of ambergris. Then she glanced shyly at her husband; he was -falling gradually asleep, his head sinking towards his shoulder. In -five minutes the paper fell from his hands. Caterina picked it up, -and gently replaced it on the table. She turned down the lamp, to -make a twilight in the room. Then she crept back to her chair, and -knelt to read her letter by the light of the fire. For a long time, -the only sound within the quiet room was the calm, regular breathing -of Andrea, accompanied by the faint rustle of foreign letter-paper as -Caterina turned the pages. She read carefully and attentively, as if -weighing every word. From time to time an expression of trouble passed -across her firelit face. When she had finished reading she looked at -her husband; he slept on, like a great child, beautiful and gentle -in his strength, an almost infantile sweetness and tenderness on his -countenance. He lay there calm and still in the assurance of their -mutual love, his tired muscles relaxed and at ease in the peace of his -honest soul. She bent her head again towards the flame, and once more -read the letter from beginning to end, with the same minute attention. -When she had read it through for the second time, Caterina slipped it -into her pocket, and leaving her hand half hidden in its depths, rested -her head on the back of her low chair. Time passed, the quarter struck, -then the half-hour, and another quarter, at the clock in the tower of -Centurano: by degrees the fire burned out on the hearth. Andrea awoke -with a start. - -“Caterina, wake up.” - -“I am not asleep, Andrea,” she replied placidly, with wide-open eyes. - -“It’s late, Nini, very late; time for by-bye,” said the Colossus, as in -loving jest he gathered her up in his arms like a child. - - - II. - -The circular drawing-room had been transformed into a garden of -camellias, on whose close, dense, dark-green background of foliage -the flowers displayed their insolent waxen beauty, white or red, -perfumeless, icily voluptuous, their full buds swelling as if to burst -their green chalices. A luxuriant vegetation covered the walls and -the very roof, lending them a silent enchantment. In the midst of the -shrubbery a _Musa paradisiaca_ reared its lofty head, spreading out -its vivid green leaves like an umbrella. Round the _Musa_ ran a rustic -divan roughly wrought in wood. Here and there were low rustic stools. -Massive branches of camellia nearly hid the two doors leading to this -room. A faint diffuse light shone through its opaque rose-coloured -shades. - -Three or four times during the evening, in the intervals of the dances, -this room had filled with guests. Ladies, young and old, uttered -little cries of delight in the rustic effect, in the coolness and the -repose of it, as compared with the hard white glare of the ball-room, -its oppressive atmosphere and noisy orchestra. They assumed attitudes -of graceful languor. The men looked round with an air of suppressed -satisfaction, as if they too were far from insensible to the beauties -of Nature. A few timidly culled buds were offered as gifts.... A young -lady in pale yellow, with a shower of lilies of the valley in her -dark hair, recited some verses in a low murmur. Quiet women fanned -themselves gently with noiseless, winged fans of soft grey feathers; -but hardly had the triumphant appeal of the first notes of a waltz or -the plaintive melting strains of the mazurka reached their retreat, -when one and all flung themselves into the whirl of the ball and every -couple vanished. Once more the shrubbery was silent and deserted, the -red camellias again opened their lips. What were they waiting for? - -Giovanna Casacalenda, the daughter of the house, entered the shrubbery -on the arm of a young man. Taller than her partner, she seemed to look -down upon him from the height of her regal beauty. She was draped in -the clinging folds of a long dress of ivory crape, that ended in a soft -floating train. Wondrous to behold was the low bodice of crimson satin, -fitting without a crease; her arms were bare to the shoulder. One -row of pearls round the firm white throat. A wreath of damask roses, -worn low on the forehead, crowned her dark hair, drawn up close from -the nape of her neck. This audaciously simple costume was worn with -the repose of conscious beauty, proof against any weakness on its own -account. A smile just parted her curved lips while she listened to her -companion, a meagre undersized youth, with a bilious complexion; there -were lines about his eyes and the hair was scanty on the temples. He -was correct, refined, and finnikin. - -“But, Giovanna, I have your promise,” he protested, “_thy_ promise.” - -“You need not 'thou’ and 'thee’ me,” she observed. - -“Forgive.... I beg your pardon, I am always betraying my feelings,” he -murmured; “it’s very clear that you are casting me off, Giovanna....” - -“If it is so clear, why trouble to talk about it?” - -“Why do I...? That you may contradict me. What have I done to thee?” - -“Nothing; treat me to _you_, if you please. Now go on, I am in a hurry.” - -“Then it has been a dream?” - -“Dream, caprice, folly; call it what you will. You must make up your -mind to the fact that we cannot marry. You have an income of eight -thousand lire; I shall have six thousand. What can one do with fourteen -thousand lire a year?” - -Smiling, she said these things, without changing her easy attitude; the -arm that plied the fan was carefully rounded, and she looked at him -with a little air of superiority. - -“But if my uncle dies ...” whined her victim. - -“Your uncle is not going to die just yet, I have observed him -carefully; he’s solid.” - -“You are positively malevolent, Giovanna ... remember....” - -“What would you have me remember? Do try to be sensible. Let us go -back.” - -They went away, and those superb camellias that Giovanna so closely -resembled told no tales, neither did they murmur among themselves. - - * * * * * - -“Very fine indeed!” said Andrea Lieti, admiring the general effect, -while the divan creaked under his weight. “But give me Centurano.” - -“Real country must always surpass in beauty its counterfeit -presentment,” mumbled timid Galimberti, Professor of History. “But -these Casacalendas have a fine, luxurious taste.” - -“Bah! respected Professor, they want to marry their daughter, and they -are sure to succeed.” - -“Do you really think...?” - -“I don’t blame them. So magnificent a creature is not meant to be kept -at home. Was she so beautiful when she was at school?” - -“Beautiful ... dangerously beautiful, even at school.... I remember -...” passing his hand across his forehead, as if he were talking to -himself. - -Andrea Lieti opened his big blue eyes in amazement. The Professor -remained standing in an awkward attitude, stooping slightly, and ill -at ease in his easy attire. His trousers were too long, and bagged at -the knees. The collar of his old-fashioned dress-coat was too high. -Instead of the regulation shirt, shining like a wall of marble, he -wore an embroidered one, with large Roman mosaic studs, a view of the -Colosseum, the Column of Trajan, the Piazza di San Pietro. There he -stood, with hanging arms, with his hideous, pensive head. The brow -appeared to have grown higher and yellower. His eyes had the old -oblique look, at once absent and embarrassed. - -“These balls must bore you fearfully, Professor,” cried Andrea, as he -rose and walked to and fro, conspicuous for his fine proportions and -well-bred ease. - -“Well ... rather ... I feel somewhat isolated in a crowd like this,” -said Galimberti, confusedly. - -“And yet you don’t dislike it?” - -“A.... Two or three of my pupils are so good as to invite me.... I go -out for recreation.... I read too hard.” - -Again that weary gesture, as if to ease his brow of its weight of -thought, and the wandering glance seeming to seek something that was -lost. - -“You must come to us, too, Professor,” said Andrea, full of compassion -for the wretched little dwarf. “Caterina often speaks of you.” - -“She was a good creature ... such a good creature. So good and gentle -and sensible. Yours was an excellent choice.” - -“I believe you,” said Andrea, laughing heartily. “Is it true that you -always reproached her with a lack of imagination?” - -“Did she tell you that too? Yes--sometimes ... a certain dryness....” - -“Well, Caterina isn’t troubled with sentimental vagaries. But I like -her best as she is. Have you seen her to-night? She’s lovely. If she -were not my wife, I should be dancing with her.” - -“She is ... or was with her friend....” - -“With Lucia Altimare, to be sure.” - -“With the Signorina Altimare,” repeated the Professor, gulping down -something with difficulty. - -“There’s another of your pupils! She must have plagued you, no end, -with her compositions, to judge from the tiresome fantastic letters she -writes to my wife.” - -“The Signorina Altimare wrote divinely,” said the Professor, dryly. - -“Eh! maybe,” muttered Andrea, choosing a cigarette. “Have one? No? I -assure you they are not bad. I was saying”--he resumed his seat on the -couch, and blew the smoke upwards--“that she must have bored you to -tears.” - -“The Signorina Altimare is a suffering, interesting being. She is so -very unhappy,” persisted the Professor, with his cravat all awry, in -the heat of his defence. - -Andrea gazed at him with curiosity; then a faint smile parted his lips. - -“She goes to balls, however,” he replied, quietly enjoying the study of -the Professor. - -“She does. She is obliged to, and it changes the current of her -thoughts. You see she never dances.” - -“Bah! because nobody insists on her doing so. What do you bet that, if -I go and ask her, she won’t dance the waltz with me?” - -“Nothing would induce her to dance, she is subject to palpitations. It -might make her faint.” - -“_Che!_ If I give her a turn, you’ll see how she’ll trot! No woman -has ever fainted in my arms....” He stopped short from sheer pity. -Galimberti, who had turned from yellow to red, and stood nervously -clutching at his hat, looked at Andrea with so marked an expression of -pain and anger, that he felt ashamed of tormenting him. - -“But she is too thin, too angular; we’ll leave her alone. Or you try -it, Professor; you dance with her.” With a friendly gesture he took him -by the arm, to lead him away. - -“I don’t dance,” mumbled Galimberti, and his big head sank on his -breast. “I don’t know how to dance.” - - * * * * * - -Enter once more Giovanna Casacalenda, leaning this time with a certain -_abandon_ on the arm of a cavalry officer. Her arm nestled against his -coat, her face was raised to his. He, strutting like a peacock in his -new uniform, was smiling through his blonde moustache; an ornamental -soldier, who had left his sword in the anteroom. - -“Well, Giovanna, has the old boy made up his mind?” - -“There is something brewing, but nothing settled,” she replied, -wearily. “Indeed, it’s a sorry business.” - -“All’s well that ends well. Courage, Giovanna; you are enchanting -to-night.” - -“Am I?” she murmured, looking in his face. - -“More than ever ... when I think that old....” - -“Don’t think about it, Roberto.... It must be,” she added seriously. - -“I know that it must be; as if I hadn’t advised it! Of course your -father would not give you to me: it’s no good thinking of it. Besides, -he is a very presentable old fellow.” - -“Oh! presentable....” - -“Well, with the collar of his order under his coat, his bald head, and -his white whiskers, he looks dignified enough for a husband, and....” - -“It’s all so far off, Roberto,” she said, looking at him languidly but -fixedly, with parted lips and sad eyes. - -“Well, get it over; it rests with you....” - -“You will never forget me, Roberto, my own Roberto?” - -“Forget you, Giovanna, transcendent, fascinating as you are? Do you -realise the extent of my sacrifice? I leave you to Gabrielli. Do you -realise what I lose?” - -“You do not lose all,” murmured Giovanna, with a catch in her breath. -He bent down and imprinted a long kiss on her wrist. Her eyelids -drooped, but she did not withdraw it; she was ready to fall into his -arms, notwithstanding the nearness of the ball-room. The young officer, -whose prudence was more than equal to his love, raised his head. - -“It would be rash to loiter here,” he said; “the old boy might get -jealous.” - -“_Dio mio_, what a bore! _Basta_, for your sake.” - -“Why do you not sing to-night?” - -“Mamma won’t let me....” And they passed on. - - * * * * * - -The two friends were approaching the rustic seat: after carefully -arranging their trains, they sat down together. Lucia Altimare sank as -if from sheer fatigue. Her dress was of strange pale sea-green, almost -neutral in tint; the skirt hung in plain ample folds, like a peplum. -The bodice closely defined her small waist; her arms and shoulders were -swathed in a pale veil, like a cloud in colour and texture. Some of her -dark tresses were loosened on her shoulders, and, half buried in their -waves, was a wreath of natural white flowers, fresh, but just beginning -to fade. A bunch of the same flowers was dying in the folds of tulle -that covered her bosom. The general effect was that of the fragile body -of an Undine, surmounted by the head of a Sappho. - -Next to her sat Caterina Lieti, radiantly serene and fresh, in her -pretty pink ball-dress, wearing round her throat a dazzling _rivière_ -of diamonds, and in her hair a diamond aigrette that trembled as she -leant over her friend, talking to her the while with animation. Lucia -appeared to be lost in thought, or in the absence of it. She said, -in her dragging tones, as if her very words weighed too heavily for -her, “I knew I should meet you here. Besides, my father is so very -youngish--it amuses him, he likes dancing. Why did you not answer my -last letter?” - -“I was on the eve of returning to Naples ... and so you see....” - -“I hope,” said the other, with a somewhat contemptuous pout, “that you -do not permit your husband to read my letters.” - -Caterina, blushing, denied the impeachment. - -“He is a good young man,” admitted Lucia, in an indulgent tone. “I -think your husband suits you. You are pretty to-night: too many -diamonds, though.” - -“They were a present from Andrea,” proudly. - -“I hate jewels; I shall never wear them.” - -“If you were to marry, Lucia....” - -“I marry? You know what I wrote you.” - -“But listen; there is that Galimberti, who follows you everywhere; who -admires you from a distance; who loves you without daring to tell his -love. I am sorry for him.” - -“Alas! ’tis no fault of mine, Caterina, _sai_.” - -“You know; perhaps he is poor; perhaps his feelings are hurt in all -these rich houses, where he follows you. You are good. Spare him. He -looks so unhappy.” - -“What can I do? He is, like myself, a victim of fate, of fatality.” - -“Of what fatality?” - -“He is ill-starred, he deserves to be wealthy and handsome, and that -is just what he is not. I ought to have come into the world either as -an ignorant peasant or as queen of a people to whose happiness I could -have ministered. We console ourselves by a correspondence which gives -vent to our souls.” - -“But he will fall over head and ears in love.” - -“I cannot love any one: it is not given to me to love;” and Lucia fell -into a rigid, all but statuesque attitude, like a Greek heroine caught -in the act of posing. Caterina neither asked her why nor wherefore. In -Lucia’s presence she was under the spell that fantastic divagations -sometimes exercise over calm reasonable beings. - -“Caterina, I have begun to visit the poor in their homes. It is an -interesting humanitarian occupation. It is the source of the sweetest -emotion. Will you come with me?” - -“I will ask Andrea.” - -“Must you needs ask his permission for everything? Have you bartered -your liberty so far as that?” - -“_Sai_, a wife!” - -“Tell me, Caterina, what is the happiness, the charm of married life?” - -“I can’t explain it.” - -“Tell me why is marriage the death of love.” - -“I don’t know, Lucia.” - -“Then marriage is to be the eternal mystery of life?” - -“Who tells you these things, Lucia?” - -“My own heart, Caterina,” replied the other, rising. - -Then, assuming a solemn tone and raising her hand to swing it swordwise -through the air--“One thing only exists for certain.” - -“What?” - -“Passion, it’s the only reality.” - - * * * * * - -“The favoured mortal is always a young man,” remarked the Commendatore -Gabrielli, his mouth twitching with a nervous tic to which he was -subject. - -“But that is not my ideal,” replied the enchanting voice of -Giovanna.... “I have always felt a tacit contempt for those idlers, -deficient alike in character and talent, who waste their youth -and their fortune on gambling and horses and other less worthy -pursuits....” She pretended to blush behind her fan. - -“Well, Signora Giovanna, you are perhaps right. But a reformed rake -makes a good husband.” - -“I do not think so, Commendatore; with all due deference, I am not of -your opinion. Think of Angela Toraldo’s husband; what a pearl! I hear -that if she weeps or complains he boxes her ears. A horror! These young -husbands are brutes. Look at Andrea Lieti! how roughly he must treat -that poor little Caterina...! While with a man of mature age....” - -“Has this often occurred to you, Signora Giovanna?” - -“Always.... A grave man who takes life seriously; who lives up to a -political idea....” - -“You would know how to grace a political salon,” he murmured, gazing at -her. - -She shut her fan and shrugged her beautiful shoulders, as if they were -about to take leave of their crimson cuirasse. The Commendatore’s -catlike eyes blazed behind his gold spectacles. Giovanna again plied -her fan; it fluttered caressingly, humbly. - -“Oh! I am not worthy such honour.... He would shine; and I should -modestly reflect his light. We women love to be the secret inspirers -of great men. Could you read our hearts....” - -And she leant on his arm, against his shoulder, smiling perpetually, -smiling to the verge of weariness, while the bald head of the -Commendatore shone with a crimson glow. - - * * * * * - -“What madness,” whispered Lucia Altimare, sinking on the divan. -“Perfect madness, for which you are responsible. I ought not to have -waltzed....” - -“Pray forgive me,” said Andrea, apparently embarrassed, but really -bored. He was standing before her in a deferential attitude. - -“It is your fault,” she said, looking up at him through her lashes. -“You are strong and robust, and an odd fancy came into your head. -I ought to have refused.... At first it was all right, a delicious -waltz.... You bore me along like a feather, then my head began to -whirl.... The room swam round, the lights danced in my brain.... I lost -my breath....” - -“May I get you something to drink?” - -“No,” she answered curtly at his interruption of her eloquence. - -“A glass of punch? Punch is a capital remedy,” he continued hurriedly; -“it warms, and it’s the best possible restorative. I am going to have -some. Pray drink something, unless you mean to overwhelm me with -remorse. All our ills come from the stomach. Shall I call Caterina to -insist on your taking it?” - -“Caterina did not see us come in here?” - -“I think not, she was dancing with my brother-in-law, Federigo -Passalancia. Caterina is looking her loveliest to-night, isn’t she?” - -But Lucia Altimare made no answer; she turned extremely pale, breathed -heavily, and then slipped off the divan on to the floor, in a dead -faint. - -Andrea swore inwardly, with more energy than politeness, against all -women who waltz, and at the folly of men who waltz with them. - - - III. - -Every morning, Lucia Altimare, draped in the folds of a red, yellow, -and blue striped dressing-gown, fastened round her waist and kilted up -on one side with gold cord, her sleeves tucked up over bare wrists, an -immense white pocket-handkerchief in her hand as a duster, proceeded, -after dismissing her maid, to dust her little apartment, a bedroom -and a small sitting-room, within whose walls her father allowed her -complete liberty. The dainty office, accomplished methodically and -always at the same hour, after she had dressed and prayed, was a source -of infinite delight to her. It appeared to her that the act of bending -her great pride and her little strength to manual labour, was both -pious and meritorious. When the moment for dusting the furniture came -round, she would tell her maid, with a sense of condescension: - -“You may go, Giulietta, I will do it myself.” - -“But, Signorina....” - -“No, no, let me do it myself.” - -And she felt that she was kind and humane to Giulietta, sparing her -the trouble of dusting, and at the same time proving that she did not -disdain to share her humble labour. - -“In God’s sight we are all equal. If my strength permitted, I would -make my own bed, but I am so delicate! If I stoop too much, I get -palpitations,” she thought, as she tied on her black apron and tucked -up the train of her Turkish dressing-gown. - -But the greatest pleasure, the pleasure that thrilled her every -nerve, to which she owed her most exquisite sensations, was derived -from dawdling over each separate object that had become part of her -existence. A charm, wherewith to recall the past, to measure the -future, to pass from one dream to another, whereon to weave a fantastic -web. - -The cold frigid aspect of Lucia’s bedroom reminded her of her old -dream of becoming a nun, of falling sick of mysticism, of dying in the -ecstasy of the Cross. The room was uncarpeted, and the bare floor, -with its red tiles, had an icy polish. The bed, whose wrought-iron -supports Lucia rubbed so indefatigably, had no curtains. Under its -plain cover, with its single, meagre little pillow, it was the typical -bed of ascetic maidenhood. Next to the bed, in a frame draped in black -crape, hung a Byzantine Madonna and Child, painted on a background of -gilded wood. She wore an indigo dress, a red mantle, and her eyes were -strangely dilated, while one hand clutched the Infant Jesus: a picture -expressive of the first stammerings of the alphabet of art. Lucia -always kissed it before she dusted it; the lugubrious drapery made her -dream of the mother she had hardly known, and from whom the Madonna -came to her. Her lips would seek the traces of maternal kisses on the -narrow, diaphanous, waxen-hued hand of the Virgin. - -By the side of the bed, under the Madonna, stood a wooden prie-Dieu -of mediæval workmanship, which Lucia had bought of a second-hand -dealer. The family arms were effaced from its wooden escutcheon. Lucia, -instead of replacing them by the _alte onde in tempesta_, the polar -star and the azure field of Casa Altimare, had had it graven with a -death’s-head and the motto “Nihil,” which she had adopted for her own -seal. She had to kneel down on its red velvet cushion to polish it, and -then mechanically she would say another prayer. She could hardly tear -herself away from it. When she did so, it was to pass the handkerchief -over the tiny chest of drawers that she had taken with her to school. -That brought back some of her past life to her, the books hidden in the -folds of the linen, the little images from Lourdes mixed up with the -ribbons, the sweets that she did not eat. On the top of this chest of -drawers were a red silk pincushion, covered with finest lace--which had -been given to her by Ginevra Avigliana, the most patient needlewoman -of them all--and Thomas à Kempis’s “Imitation,” its margin finely -annotated in ink red as blood. When she passed the handkerchief over -the book, she read a few words in it. - -Her mind would run in another channel when she found herself in front -of the large mirror in her wardrobe, where she could see herself from -head to foot. She looked at herself, perceiving that her gown wrinkled -about the bodice, and reflecting that she must have become much thinner -lately. She joined her fingers round her narrow waist, remarking -inwardly that had she chosen she might have made it as slender as a -reed.... Then she posed in profile, with her train pushed on one side, -and her head a little inclined towards the right shoulder. She had once -seen the fantastic portrait of a thin unknown woman in white, in this -attitude.... Lucia liked to imagine that the unknown lady had suffered -much, then died; and that afterwards the unknown atom had joined the -Great Unknown. The same fancies followed her to the oval mirror on -her dressing-table. A thin white covering hung over it from the night -before, put there because it is unlucky to look into an uncovered -mirror the last thing at night. She threw the large white handkerchief, -now no longer white, into a corner and supplied herself with another, -with which she slowly rubbed the glass. She was tired, and sat gazing -at her image--her forehead, her eyes, and her lips--intently, as if -seeking to discover something in them. Every now and then she took up -a bottle of musk from the table and sniffed it, looking at herself to -mark the intense pallor and the tears induced by the pungent odour. In -the drawer there was a little box of rouge and a hare’s foot to lay it -on with; but she did not use it. One morning she had slightly tinted -one cheek, it had disgusted her. She preferred her pallor, the warm -pallor of ivory, that “white heat of passion,” as a rapturous poet, -of unrecognised merit, had described it. A butterfly was pinned to -the frame of the looking-glass. His wings were expanded, for he was a -cotillon butterfly of blue and silver gauze, a memento of the first -ball her father had taken her to last year. Every morning a puff of -her breath caused his wings to flutter, while his little body stuck -fast to the mirror. That motionless, artificial butterfly reminded her -of certain artificial lives, full of noble aspirations, but lacking -the energy, the power to rise. Then she wondered if she were very -interesting or very ugly, when she looked sad; and she postured before -the mirror in her most melancholy manner, calculating the effect of -the white brow, half hidden beneath the wealth of wavy hair, the depth -of sadness in her eyes, the dark colouring of the underlid which -accentuated their expression, the straight line of the profile, the -angle drawn by the bitter smile that sharpened the curves of her lips. -A sigh of satisfaction escaped her. In her sad mood, she might inspire -interest, if not love. Love she did not want. What would be the good of -it? The capacity for loving was denied her. - -Then came the turn of the bottles on the toilet-table. They contained, -for the most part, those fantastic remedies which a quasi-romantic -science has voted sovereign against the most modern of maladies, mock -nevrose. In one bottle, chloral for insomnia, chloral to produce a -sleep full of exquisite and painful hallucinations, the very disease of -fantasy. In another, digitalis, wherewith to calm palpitations of the -heart. In another, a beautiful one, enamelled, with a golden stopper, -“English” salts wherewith to recall the fainting spirit. And at last, -in one, a white limpid fluid--morphine. “For sleep ... sleep,” murmured -Lucia, while she reviewed her little pharmacy. - -After the toilet-table, she passed her handkerchief over the second -wardrobe, the one containing her linen, and dusted the three chairs. -Then having finished, she cast a look round, to assure herself that her -cell, as she called it, had assumed the cold, spotless appearance she -desired to give it. Her fantasy was assuaged; she addressed herself -aloud to her room: “Peace, peace, sleep on, inert and inanimate, until -to-night, when my tortured spirit will return to fill thy space with -anguish.” - -She passed into the sitting-room, her favourite resort, the room where -her life was passed. The dark rosewood cabinet, containing five wide -deep drawers, was her first stage. Her fancy transformed it into a -bier. She delicately dusted the oxidised silver inkstand, representing -a tiny boat, sinking in a lake of ink. Then the handkerchief was passed -over the portrait frames with their hermetically sealed doors, so that -no one might ever steal a glimpse of the portraits hidden within. In -reality, they were empty, but the white cardboard backs, the void only -known to herself, suggested an unknown lover, a mystic knight, that -fair-haired Knight of the Holy Grail whom Elsa had not known how to -love; whom _she_ would have known how to keep by her side. Gently she -brushed the dust off a small Egyptian idol with a tiny necklace of blue -fragments: it was an upright copy of a mummy of the Cheops dynasty. It -served as a talisman, for these Egyptian idols avert the evil of one’s -destiny. Lucia touched the Bible, bound in black morocco, on whose -fly-page she had inscribed certain memorable dates in her existence, -with mysterious signs to denote the events to which they referred. With -reverence she took up the diamond edition of Leopardi, on whose crimson -binding was inscribed “Lucia,” in letters of silver. She read in both -books, every day, kissing the Bible and Leopardi with equal fervour. -The ivory penholder, with its gold pen; the sandal-wood paper-knife, -on which was inscribed the Spanish word _Nada_; the agate seal, that -bore the same motto as the prie-dieu; the letter-weight, upon which -stood a porcelain child in its shift; the half-mourning pen-wiper of -black cloth, embroidered in white; all the fantastic playthings she had -accumulated on her writing-table, were objects of equal interest to -her. She always spent half an hour at the writing-table, with fingers -that dallied over their pastime, shoulders bent in contemplation, and -an imagination that sped on wings to unknown heights. - -Then, after the writing-table, came a photograph in a red frame, -suspended against the wall, a portrait of Caterina. Underneath it -hung a _bénitier_ containing fresh flowers, which were changed every -morning. Caterina contemplated her friend with kind serene eyes; the -portrait had her own air of composure. Every morning, in passing the -linen over the glass, Lucia greeted Caterina: “Blessed art thou, that -dreamest not, blessed ... that will never dream.” Next came a small -group in terra-cotta of Mephistopheles and Margaret. The guilty, -enamoured girl was kneeling in a convulsed attitude, with rigid limbs. -Her hands clasped the prayer-book that she could not open, her bosom -heaved, her throat had sunk into her crouching shoulders, her face was -contorted, her lips convulsed with the cry of horror that appeared to -escape them. Mephistopheles, tall, meagre, diabolic, with a subtle, -jeering smile, his hand in the act of making magnetic passes over her -head, stood behind her; a great, splendid, crushing Mephistopheles. -Whenever she looked at Margaret she felt herself blush with desire; -whenever she looked at Mephistopheles, Lucia paled with fear: with -vague indefinite desire of sin; with vague fear of punishment; a -mysterious struggle that took place in the very depths of her being. -It was Lucia’s hand that had carved in crooked, shaky characters, on -the wooden pedestal, _Et ne nos inducas in tentationem_. When she -came to the low table on which the albums stood, she sat down, for -her fatigue grew upon her. She turned their leaves; there were a few -portraits--girl friends, relations, three or four young men. Among -the latter, by way of eccentricity, was a faded photograph of Petröfi -Sandor, the Hungarian poet who fell in love with a dead maiden. Lucia -never saw that portrait but through a haze of tears, when she pondered -over a love so sad, so strange, and so funereal. Then she opened her -book of “Confessions.” Its pages were scribbled over by Lucia herself, -by the lady who taught her German, by the Professor of History, by -Caterina, Giovanna Casacalenda, and others. There were in response -to the wildest questions, the most irrelevant, silly, or eccentric -answers. Giovanna’s was stupid, Lucia’s mad and fantastic, Caterina’s -honest and collected, the Professor’s insane, the German teacher’s -sentimental, Alberto Sanna’s fluctuating and uncertain. Lucia lingered -here and there to read one of them. Then she put that album aside and -opened another, her favourite, the dearest, the handsomest, the best -beloved; a faded rose was gummed on the first page, underneath it was -a line from Byron. On the next, a little wreath of violets; in their -centre, a date and a line of notes of interrogation; farther on, the -shadowy profile of a woman, barely sketched in, signed “Clara.” And -pell-mell, dried flowers, verses, thoughts, landscapes, sketches, an -American postage-stamp, a scarabæus crushed into the paper, two words -written with gold ink. - -She smiled, revelling in melancholy, as she turned these pages. Then -she left the albums, and stroked the head of a bronze lizard that lay -beside them on the table. She had a great fondness for lizards, snakes, -and toads, thinking them beautiful and unfortunate. - -The grand piano, littered with music, was a long business. When she -passed the duster over the shining wood, she half closed her eyelids, -as if she felt the caressing contact of satin; then she passed it over -the keys, drawing from them a sort of formless, discordant music, in -whose endless variations she revelled. Lucia neither played well, nor -much; but when she met with a philharmonic friend, she would instal -her at the piano, and herself in a Viennese rocking-chair, where she -would close her eyes, beat time with her head and listen. Voiceless and -spell-bound, she was one of the best and most ecstatic of listeners. -Most of the music lying on the table was German; she specially affected -the sacred harmonies of Bach and Haydn. But _Aïda_ was always open -on the reading-desk. Then there was the embroidery-frame, a stole -for the church of the Madonna, her Madonna of the Bleeding Heart. -Next to it stood a microscopic work-table, on which lay the beginning -of a useless, spidery fabric. The chairs, the _pouffs_, the little -armchairs, were all in different styles and colours, for she loathed -uniformity. Her first prize for literature, a gold medal set in white -satin, hung on the wall; underneath it was her first childish essay in -writing. A bookshelf contained a few worn school-books, some novels, -and the Lives of the Saints. And last of all came a large tea-rose -with red marks, like blood-stains, on its petals, gummed into a velvet -frame, the _Rosa mystica_. When she had finished, Lucia cast aside her -duster, washed her hands, swallowed a few drops of syrup diluted with -water to clear her throat of dust, returned to the sitting-room, threw -herself down on her sofa, and let her fancies have free play. - - - IV. - -Caterina Lieti entered, looking tiny in her furs; with her pink face -peeping from under her fur cap. - -“Make haste, dear; it’s late.” - -“No, dear; it’s no good going to my poor people before four; it’s -hardly two o’clock.” - -“We are going elsewhere.” - -“Where?” - -“Somewhere where we shall amuse ourselves.” - -“I’m not going, I don’t want to amuse myself; I am more inclined to -cry.” - -“Why?” - -“I don’t know.... I feel miserable.” - -“Oh! poor, poor thing. Now listen to me, you’d better come with me and -try to amuse yourself. You will injure your health by always staying in -this dark room, in this perfumed atmosphere.” - -“My health is gone, Caterina,” said the other in a comfortless tone; -“every day I get thinner.” - -“Because you do not eat, dear; you ought to eat; Andrea says so too.” - -“What does Andrea say,” said Lucia, in a tone of indifference, which -annoyed Caterina. - -“That you should eat nutritious food, drink plenty of wine and eat -underdone meat.” - -“I am not a cannibal. That kind of diet does very well for muscular -organisms, but not for fragile nerve-tissues like mine.” - -“But Andrea says that nerves are cured by beefsteaks.” - -“It’s no good trying; I couldn’t digest them; I can’t digest anything -now.” - -“Well, do dress, and come with me. The cold is quite reviving.” - -“Where to?” - -“I won’t tell you. Trust me!” - -“I will trust you.... I am tempted by the unknown. I will drag this -weary existence about wheresoever you please. Will you wait for me?” - -She returned in half an hour, dressed in a short black dress, softened -by lace accessories. A black hat, with a broad velvet brim, shaded her -brow and eyes. - -“Shall we walk?” asked Caterina. - -“We will walk; if I get tired we can call a cab.” - -They walked, entering the Toledo from Montesanto. The tramontana was -blowing hard, but the sun flooded the streets with light. Men, with red -noses and hands in their pockets, were walking quickly. Behind their -short black veils the ladies’ eyes were full of tears and their lips -were chapped by the wind. Caterina drew her furs closer to her. - -“Are you cold, Lucia?” - -“Strange to say, I am not cold.” - -People turned to gaze at the two attractive-looking women, one small -and rosy, with clear eyes and an expression of perfect composure, -attired like a dainty Russian; the other, tall and slight, with -marvellous eyes set in a waxen pallor. - -A gentleman who passed them in a hired carriage, bowed profoundly to -both. - -“Galimberti ...” murmured Lucia, in a weary voice. - -“Where can he be going at this hour?” - -“I don’t know ... to his lesson ... I suppose.” - -“Do you know what Cherubina Friscia told me, a few days ago?” - -“Have you seen her again?” - -“Yes, I went there, because I heard that the Directress was ill. -Friscia told me that they were very dissatisfied with Galimberti. He is -always late for his lesson now; he either leaves before the hour is up, -or misses it altogether.” - -“Does he...?” indifferently. - -“Besides, he is not so good a teacher as he used to be. He takes no -interest in his class, is careless in correcting the compositions, and -has become prolix and hazy as an exponent.... In short, a mere ruin.” - -“Poor Galimberti...! I told you that he was an unlucky creature. He’ll -end badly.” - -“Forgive me if I ask you ... not from curiosity, but for friendship’s -sake ... does he still write to you?” - -“Yes, every day; he writes me all his troubles.” - -“And you to him?” - -“I write him a long letter, every day.” - -“And is it true that he comes to your house every day, to give you a -lesson in history?” - -“Yes, every day.” - -“And does he stay long?” - -“Yes, naturally. We don’t talk only of history, but of sentiment ... of -the human affections ... of religion....” - -“Of love?” - -“Of love too.” - -“Forgive me for importuning you. Galimberti is very much in love. -Perhaps it is for the sake of going to you that he gets there so late; -perhaps when he misses his lessons there altogether, it is because he -stays so long with you. You who are so good, think what it means for -him.” - -“It’s nothing to do with me; if it is his destiny, it is fatal.” - -“But does your father approve of these long interviews?” - -“My father! He doesn’t care a pin for me, he is a heartless man.” - -“Don’t say that, Lucia.” - -“A heartless man! If my health is bad, he doesn’t care. He laughs at my -piety.... Do you know how he describes me, when he speaks of me at all? -'That interesting _poseuse_, my daughter.’ You can’t get over that; it -sums up my father.” Caterina made no reply. “That Galimberti will end -by becoming a nuisance. Were he not so unhappy, I would send him about -his business.” - -“_Sai_, Lucia, a girl ought not to receive young men alone ... it is -not nice ... it is playing with fire.” - -“_Nè fiamma d’esto incendio non m’assale_,” she quoted. - -They had arrived at the Café de l’Europe, where the wind was blowing -furiously. Caterina, turning to protect herself against it, saw the cab -in which Galimberti sat with the hood drawn up to hide him, following -them step by step. - -“_Dio mio!_ now he is following us ... Galimberti.... What will people -think...? Lucia, what shall we do?” - -“Nothing, dear. I can’t prevent it; it is magnetism, you see.” - -“Now he is missing his lesson for the sake of following us.” - -“It is no good struggling against fate, Caterina.” - -Caterina was silent, for she knew not what to say. - - * * * * * - -It was three o’clock when they entered the Samazzaro Theatre, all lit -up by gas, as if for an evening entertainment. Nearly all the boxes -were occupied, and a hum of suppressed chitchat arose towards the -gilded ceiling. From time to time there was a peal of irrepressible -laughter. People who, in groups of threes and fours, invaded the -parterre were dazed by the artificial light. The gas was gruesome -after the brilliant light of the streets. The ladies were all in dark -morning costumes; most of them wore large hats, some were wrapped -in furs. There was the click of cups in one box where the Duchess -of Castrogiovanni and the Countess Filomarina were drinking tea, -to warm themselves. Little Countess Vanderhoot hid her snub nose in -her muff, trying to warm it by blowing as hard as she could. Smart -Neapolitans, with their fur coats thrown back to show the gardenia in -their button-hole, with dark gloves and light cravats, moved about the -parterre and the stalls and began to pay a few visits in the boxes. - -“What is going on here?” asked Lucia, as she took her seat in Box 1, -first tier. - -“You’ll see, you’ll see.” - -“But what is that boarding for, which enlarges the stage, and entirely -covers the place for the orchestra?” - -“There’s a fencing tournament to-day.” - -“Ah!” exclaimed Lucia, without much show of interest. - -“Andrea is to have three assaults.” - -“Ah!” repeated the other, in the same tone. - -The _maître d’armes_ seated himself at the end of the stage, next -to a table, laden with foils and jackets. Every one in the parterre -immediately resumed his seat, in profound silence. The theatre was -crowded. - -The _maître d’armes_ was a Count Alberti, tall, powerfully built, bald, -with bushy grey whiskers and serious mien. He was dressed in black, and -wore his overcoat buttoned to the chin. His hand was resting on a foil. - -“Look! what a fine type,” said Lucia; “a fine imposing figure.” - -The first couple advanced to the front of the stage. They were the -fencing-master, Giovanelli, and a Baron Mattei. The latter was tall -and finely proportioned. His beard was trimmed to a short point, his -cropped hair formed another point in the middle of his forehead; he -wore a tight-fitting costume of maroon cloth, with a black scarf. He at -once captured the ladies’ favour; there was a slight stir in the boxes. - -“A Huguenot cavalier, that’s what he looks like,” murmured Lucia, who -was becoming excited. - -The fencers, after saluting the ladies and the general company, bowed -to each other. Then the match began promptly and brilliantly. The -fencing-master was short and stout, but uncommonly agile; the Baron, -slight, cool, and admirable for ease and precision. They did not -open their lips. After each thrust, Mattei fell into a sculpturesque -attitude, which thrilled the company with admiration. He was touched -twice. He touched his adversary four times. Then they shook hands, and -laid down their foils. A burst of applause rang throughout the house. - -“Do you like it?” whispered Caterina to Lucia. - -“Oh, so much!” she answered, quite absorbed by the pleasure of it. - -“There is Giovanna Casacalenda.” - -“Where?” - -“On the second tier, No. 3.” - -“Ah! of course. Behind her is the Commendatore Gabrielli. Poor -Giovanna.” - -“The marriage is officially announced. But she does not look unhappy.” - -“She dissembles.” - -The second couple--Lieti, amateur, and Galeota, professional--appeared -and placed themselves in position. Andrea was dressed in black cloth, -with a yellow scarf and shoes, and chamois-leather gloves. His athletic -figure showed to its utmost advantage in perfect vigour and harmony of -form and line. He smiled up at the box, a second. Caterina had shrunk -back a little out of sight, with eyes all but overflowing. - -“Your husband is handsome to-day,” said Lucia, gravely. “He looks like -a gladiator.” - -Caterina nodded her thanks. Galeota, dark, slight and meagre, attacked -slowly. - -Andrea defended himself phlegmatically; motionless they gazed into each -other’s eyes; now and again a cunning thrust, cunningly parried. The -audience was absorbed in profound attention. - -“_Su, su_, on, on,” Lucia cried, under her breath, trembling in her -eagerness, and crushing her cambric handkerchief with nervous fingers. - -The assault went on as calmly and scientifically as a game of chess, -ending in two or three master-thrusts, miraculously parried. The two -fencers, as they shook hands, smiled at each other. They were worthy -antagonists. The applause which followed was wrung from the audience by -the perfection of their method. - -“Applaud your husband! Are you not proud of him?” - -“Yes,” replied Caterina, blushing. - -A visitor entered the box, it was Alberto Sanna, a cousin of Lucia’s. - -“Good-morning, Signora Lieti. What a triumph for your lord and master!” - -Caterina bowed and smiled. Lucia held out two fingers to her cousin, -who kept them in his. He was a rather stunted little creature, slightly -bent in his tight overcoat; his temples were hollow, his cheekbones -high, and his moustache thin and scanty; yet he had the air of a -gentleman. His appearance was sickly and his smile uncertain. He spoke -slowly, hissing out his syllables as if his breath were short. He -informed the ladies that cold was bad for him; that he could not get -warm, even in his fur coat; that he had only looked in, just by a mere -accident, to avoid the cold outside. He was fortunate in having met -them. He entreated them, for charity’s sweet sake, not to send him -away. He added: - -“I met your Professor of History, Lucia. He was walking up and down, -smoking. Why don’t he come in?” - -“I don’t know. Probably because he doesn’t care to see the fencing.” - -“Or because he hasn’t the money to pay for a ticket,” persisted Sanna, -with the triumphant malevolence of morbid natures. - -Lucia struck him with the lightning of her glance, but made no answer. -Caterina was too embarrassed to say anything. She looked at the stage; -the fencers were two professionals; they had coarse voices, and -arms that mowed the air like the poles of the semaphore telegraph. -The audience paid small heed. Giovanna Casacalenda talked to her -Commendatore, who was standing behind her, while she cast oblique -glances at Roberto Gentile, the young officer in the brand-new uniform, -who occupied a fauteuil underneath her box. - -“Do you not fence, Signor Sanna?” asked Caterina by way of conversation. - -“Fence!” said Lucia, vivaciously, giving her cousin tit-for-tat. -“Fence, indeed, when he hasn’t breath to say more than four words at a -time!” - -The Signora Lieti reddened and trembled, out of sheer pity for Sanna’s -pallor. - -The silence in the box was more embarrassing than ever; then as if it -were the most natural thing in the world, Lucia separated a gardenia -from the bunch in her waistband, and gave it to Alberto. A little -colour suffused his thin cheeks, he coughed weakly. - -“Are you not well, Alberto...?” laying her hand upon his arm. - -“Not quite, it’s the cold,” said he, with the whine of a sickly child. - -“Have a glass of punch, to warm you?” - -“It’s bad for my chest.” - -Caterina, pretending not to hear, gave her whole attention to the -spectacle. Count Alberti had passed two foils: to Galeota, junior, -the young fencing-master, and to Lieti. The interest of the audience -was once more awakened. The younger Galeota was a beautiful, graceful -youth, with fair, curly hair, shining blue eyes, a short wavy beard, -and the complexion of a fair woman; a well-proportioned figure, habited -in ultramarine, with a white scarf. Opposite him, stood Andrea Lieti, -like a calm Colossus. - -“_Dio mio!_” cried Lucia, “Galeota is like a picture of Our Lord! How -sweet and gentle he looks! If only Andrea does not hurt him.” But -Andrea did not hurt him. It was a furious attack, in which the foils -bent and squeaked; at last Galeota’s foil broke off at the hilt. -Alberti stayed both hands. The fencers raised their masks to breathe. - -“How like Galeota is to Corradino of Alcardi!” exclaimed Lucia. “But -your husband is a glorious Charles of Anjou.” - -The assault began again; hotter and fiercer than ever. From time to -time the deep sonorous voice of Andrea cried, _Toccato!_ and above -the din, the clear resonant tones of Galeota rang out, _Toccato!_ -The ladies became enthusiastic; they seized their opera-glasses and -leant over the parapet of their boxes, while a thrill of delight moved -the whole assembly. In Lucia’s excitement she closed her teeth over -her handkerchief, and dug her nails into the red velvet upholstery. -Caterina had again withdrawn into her shady corner. - -“Bravo! bravo!” cried the audience with one voice, when the assault was -over. Lucia leant out of the box and applauded; for the matter of that, -many other ladies applauded. After all, it was a tournament. Lucia’s -eyes dilated, her lips trembled; a nervous shiver shook her from time -to time. - -“Are you amusing yourself, Lucia?” said Caterina again. - -“Immensely...!” closing her eyes in the flush of her enjoyment. - -“_Senti_, Alberto; if it is not too cold, go down and send us up -something from the _buffet_.” - -“I don’t want anything,” protested Caterina. - -“Yes, yes, you do; you shall drink a glass of Marsala, with a biscuit.” - -“I will have anything to please you,” assented Caterina, to avoid -discussion. - -“Send an ice for me, Alberto.” - -“In this cold weather? I shiver to think of it.” - -“I am burning; feel my hand.” And she put the poor creature’s finger -in the opening of her glove. “Now, go and send me an ice at once. Take -care of draughts.... That poor Alberto is not long for this life,” she -added, addressing Caterina, when he was gone. - -“Why not?” - -“He is threatened with consumption. His mother and two sisters died of -it. Don’t you see how thin he is?” - -“Then don’t be cruel to him.” - -“I? Why, I’m devotedly attached to him. I sympathise with suffering of -every kind. All the people about me are sickly creatures.” - -“Andrea would say that such an atmosphere cannot but be injurious to -your health.” - -“Oh! how strong your Andrea is! That is what I call strength. You saw -to-day that he was the strongest of them all. But he never comes to see -me.” - -“_Sai_, he never has a moment to spare. And he is afraid of talking too -loudly--of making your head ache.” - -“He is not fond of musk, I fancy?” And she smiled a strange smile. - -“Perfumes send the blood to his head. I will tell him to call on you.” - -“_Senti_, Caterina, strength like his is almost overwhelming. Does it -not almost frighten you? Are you never afraid of him?” - -Caterina looked astonished, as she replied: “Afraid...! I do not -understand you.... Why should I be afraid?” - -“I don’t know,” said the other, shrugging her shoulders crossly. “I -must eat this ice, for here comes Alberto again.” - -During this conversation the performance continued--alternately -interesting and tiresome. Connoisseurs opined that the tournament was a -great success, and the Neapolitan school had been worthily represented. -The Filomarina averred, with the audacity of a Titianesque beauty, that -Galeota was an Antinous. The Marchesa Leale, a great friend of Baron -Mattei’s, was enraptured. She was seated quietly by her husband’s side; -she wore a badge--a brooch representing two crossed foils--that the -Baron had presented to her. On the latter’s scarf was embroidered a red -rose, the Marchesa’s emblem. - -In the excitement incidental to the clashing of swords and the triumph -of physical strength, Giovanna Casacalenda, with flushed cheeks and -moist lips, began to neglect her Commendatore, and to cast enthusiastic -and incendiary glances at Roberto Gentile. Many ladies regretted having -exchanged their fans for muffs in the increasingly heated atmosphere. -By degrees a vapour ascended towards the roof, and excited fancy -conjured up visions of duels, gleaming foils, shining swords, secret -thrusts, and applauding beauty. A warlike ardour reigned in boxes and -parterre. - -“Has the ice refreshed you, Lucia?” inquired her cousin. - -“No, I burn more than ever; there was fire in it.” - -“Perhaps you would feel better outside.” - -“It will be over in a few minutes,” observed Caterina. “There is to be -a set-to between my husband and Mattei.” - -The set-to proved to be the most interesting part of the performance. -Lieti and Mattei, the two most powerful champions, stood facing -each other. The audience held its breath. During five minutes the -two fencers stood facing each other; they toyed with their foils, -indulging in a flourish of salutes, _feintes_, thrusts, parries, and -plastic attitudes--a perfect symphony, whose theme was the chivalric -salutation. Applause without end; then again silence, for the -assault-at-arms was about to begin. Not a word or sound was uttered by -either fencer. They were equally agile, ready, scientific, and full of -fire--parrying with unflagging audacity, and liberating their foils as -in the turn of a ring. They were well matched. Lieti touched Mattei -five times; Mattei touched Lieti four times. They divided the honours. -In applauding the two champions the public broke through the cordon. -A handkerchief fell at Andrea’s feet. He hesitated a moment; then, -without raising his eyes, stuck it in the scarf round his waist. The -ladies’ gloves were torn to shreds in the storm of applause. - -When he joined them in the box, Andrea found the ladies standing up, -waiting for him. - -“Good evening, Signorina Altimare; good evening, Caterina. Shall we -go?” He spoke curtly and crossly while he helped his wife, who looked -confused, to put on her furs. Then he burst out: - -“Caterina, why did you behave so ridiculously? It is so unlike you to -be eccentric--to make a laughing-stock of yourself?” - -She kept her hands in her muff and her eyes cast down, and made no -reply. - -“You, a sensible little woman? Are we living in the Middle Ages? -_Perdio_, to expose oneself to ridicule!” - -Caterina turned pale and bit her lip; she would not cry, and had no -voice left to answer with. Lucia leant against the door-post, listening. - -“You are talking about the handkerchief, Signor Andrea?” she put in, -slowly. - -“Just so.... The handkerchief. A pretty conjugal amenity!” - -“It was I who threw the handkerchief, Signor Andrea, in my enthusiasm. -You were wonderful to-day--the first champion of the tournament.” - -Andrea had not a word to say. He calmed down at once, with a vague -smile. Caterina breathed freely once more. - -Alberto Sanna returned and offered his arm to Caterina; Andrea assisted -Lucia in putting on her cloak. She, with face uplifted towards his, her -eyes, through their long lashes, fixed on his, and a slight quiver in -her nostrils, leant on him imperceptibly, just sufficiently to graze -his shoulder, as she drew on her coat-sleeves. - - - V. - -“Is it you, Galimberti? Pray come in.” - -“Am I not disturbing you?” and, as usual, he stumbled over the rug, -and then sat down, hat in hand, one glove off and the other on, but -unbuttoned. - -“You never disturb me.” Her tone was the cold, monotonous one of -ill-humour. - -“You were thinking?” ventured the dwarf, after a short silence. - -“Yes, I was thinking ... but I don’t remember about what.” - -“Have you been out to-day? It is a lovely morning.” - -“And I’m so cold. I am always cold when the weather is warm, and _vice -versâ_.” - -“Strange creature!” - -“Eh?” - -“I beg your pardon.” - -“And about yourself, Galimberti. Have you been to the College to-day to -give your lesson?” - -“Yes, I went there, although I felt so sad, and so disinclined to -teach.” - -“Very sad--and why?” But the tone was indifferent. - -He stroked his forehead with his ungloved hand. She sat with her back -to the window, but the light shone straight on his face, which looked -yellow and faded. Occasionally there appeared to be a squint in his -eyes. - -“Yesterday ...” he began, “yesterday, you did not deign to write to me.” - -“Yesterday.... What did I do yesterday...? Oh! I remember. Alberto -Sanna came to see me.” - -“He ... comes ... often ... to see you ... does he not?” - -“He is my cousin,” she replied, coldly. - -Another halt in the conversation. He went on, mechanically fingering -the gloves he had not put on. Lucia unwound a cord of the silken fringe -of the low chair in which, with face upturned, she was lying. - -“Shall I give you your history lesson to-day?” - -“No. History is useless, like everything else.” - -“Are you too sad?” - -“I’m not even sad--I’m indifferent. I do not care to think.” - -“So that--forgive me for mentioning it--I must not hope for a letter -from you to-morrow?” - -“I don’t know ... I don’t think I shall be able to write.” - -“But those letters were my only consolation,” lamented the dwarf. - -“A fleeting consolation.” - -“I am unhappy, so unhappy.” - -“We’re all unhappy”--sententiously, and without looking at him. - -“I fear that they no longer like me at the College,” he went on, as if -talking to himself. “I always find myself confronted by such icy faces. -That Cherubina Friscia hates me. She is a canting hypocrite, who weighs -every word I speak. She makes a note in her handbook when I’m only a -little late. I don’t know how it is, but sometimes I forget the hour. -My memory is getting so weak.” - -“So much the better for you. I can never forget.” - -“And besides, the Tricolors of this year are lazy and insolent. They -contradict me, refuse to write on the subjects I give them, and -interrupt me with the most impertinent questions. Every now and then -I lose the thread of my discourse, and then they giggle so that I can -never find it again.... I’m done for, Signorina Lucia, I’m done for. I -no longer enjoy teaching. I think ... I think there is intrigue at work -against me at the College, a frightful, terrible, mysterious conspiracy -that will end in my destruction.” He rolled his fierce, scared eyes, -injected with blood and bile, as if he were taking stock of the enemies -against whom he had to defend himself. - -“The remedy, my dear Galimberti, is a simple one,” said Lucia with -childlike candour. - -“Speak, oh speak, you’re my good angel.... I will obey you in -everything.” - -“Shake the dust from off your sandals, and leave. Give them due -warning.” - -Galimberti was so much surprised that he hesitated. - -“Is not liberty dear to you?” she continued. “Are you not nauseated by -the stifling atmosphere you live in? There is a means of reasserting -your independence.” - -“True,” he murmured. He did not dare to confess to her that leaving the -aristocratic College would mean ruin and starvation to him. Thence he -derived the chief part of his income--through _them_ he obtained a few -private lessons at the houses of his old pupils, by means of which he -augmented the mite on which he lived, he in Naples, and his mother and -sister in his native province. Without this, there would only remain -to him an evening class for labouring people, by which he gained sixty -francs a month: not enough to keep three people from dying of hunger. -He was already too much ashamed of appearing to her, ugly, old, and -unfortunate, without owning to being poverty-stricken besides. - -“True,” he repeated despairingly. - -“Why don’t you write to the Directress? If there be a conspiracy, she -ought to be informed of it.” - -“There is a conspiracy.... I feel it in the air about me.... I will -write ... yes ... in a day or two.” - -Then there was silence. Lucia stroked the folds of her Turkish wrapper. -She took up her favourite album and in it wrote these lines of Boïto: - - L’ebete vita - Vita che c’innamora - Lunga che pare un secolo - Breve che pare un ora. - -She replaced the album on the table, and the gold pencil-case in her -pocket. - -“Will you believe in one thing, Signora Lucia?” - -“Scarcely....” - -“Oh! believe in this sacred truth; the only happy part of my life is -the time I pass here.” - -“Oh! indeed,” she said, without looking at him. - -“I swear it. Before I arrive here, I am overwhelmed with anxiety, I -seem to have so many important things to tell you. When I get to the -door, I forget them all. I am afraid my brain is getting weak. Then -time flies; you speak to me; I hear your voice; I am here with you, in -the room in which you live. I am afraid I stay too long; why don’t you -send me away? When I leave you, the first puff of wind on the threshold -of the street-door takes all my ideas away with it, and empties my -brain, without leaving me the power to hold on to my own thoughts.” - -“Here is Signor Sanna, Signorina,” announced the maid Giulietta. - -“I am going,” said the perturbed Professor, rising to take his leave. - -“As you please.” She shrugged her shoulders. - -But he did not go, not knowing how to do so, while Alberto Sanna -entered. The latter, buttoned up to his chin in his overcoat, with a -red silk handkerchief to protect his throat, held a bunch of violets in -his hand. Lucia, rising from her seat, placed both her hands in his, -and dragged him to the window, that she might see how he looked. - -“How are you, Alberto; do you feel well to-day?” - -“Always the same,” he said; “an unspeakable weakness in my limbs.” - -“Did you sleep, last night?” - -“Pretty well.” - -“Without any fever?” - -“I think so; at least I hadn’t those cold shivers or that horrid -suffocation.” - -“Let me feel your pulse. It is weak, but regular, _sai_.” - -“I ate a light breakfast.” - -“Then you ought to feel well.” - -“_Che!_ my stomach can’t digest anything.” - -“Like mine, Alberto. What lovely violets!” - -“I bought them for you. I think you are fond of them?” - -“I hope you didn’t buy them of a flower-girl?” - -“If I had, then I should not have offered them to you.” - -This dialogue took place in the window, while Galimberti sat alone -and forgotten in his armchair. He sat there without raising his eyes, -holding an album of photographs in his awkwardly gloved hands. He took -a long time turning pages which held the portraits of persons in whom -he could not have felt any interest. At last Lucia returned to her -rocking-chair, and Alberto dragged a stool close up to her. - -“Alberto, you know the Professor?” - -“I think I have the honour....” - -“We have met before ...” the two then said in unison; the Professor in -an undertone, the cousin curtly. - -They sat staring at each other, bored by each other’s presence, -conscious of being in love with the same woman; Galimberti not less -conscious of the necessity of taking his leave. Only he did not know -how to get up, or what the occasion demanded that he should say and do. -Lucia appeared quite unconscious of what was passing in their minds. -She sniffed at her violets, and sometimes vouchsafed a word or two, -especially to her cousin. However, conversation did not flow easily. -The Professor, when Lucia addressed him, replied in monosyllables, -starting with the air of a person who answers by courtesy, without -understanding what is said to him. Sanna never addressed Galimberti, so -that by degrees the trio once more collapsed into a duet. - -“I looked in at your father’s rooms before coming to you. He was going -out. He wanted to persuade me to go with him.” - -“He is always going out.... And why didn’t you go with him?” - -“It rained this morning; and I feel a shrinking in my very bones from -the damp. It’s so cosy here, I preferred staying with you.” - -“Have you no fireplaces at home?” - -“_Sai_; those Neapolitan fireplaces that are not meant for fire, a -cardboard sort of affair. Besides, my servant never manages to make -me comfortable. I shiver in my own room, although it is so thickly -carpeted.” - -“Do you light fires at home, Galimberti?” - -“No, Signorina; indeed, I have no fireplace.” - -“How can you study in the cold?” - -“I don’t feel the cold when I study.” - -“You, Alberto, when you have anything to do, bring it here. I will -embroider, and you can work.” - -“I never have any writing to do, Lucia. You know your father manages -all my business. And writing is bad for my chest.” - -“You could read.” - -“Reading bores me; there’s nothing but rubbish in books.” - -“Then we could chat.” - -“That we could! You might tell me all your beautiful thoughts, which -excite the unbounded admiration of every one who listens to you. Where -do you get your strange thoughts from, Lucia?” - -“From the land of dreams,” she said, with a smile. - -“The land of dreams! A land of your own invention, surely! You ought to -write these things, Lucia. You have the making of an authoress.” - -“What would be the good of it; I have no vanity, have I, Professor? I -never had any.” - -“Never! An excessive modesty, united to rare talent....” - -“_Basta_, I was not begging for compliments. I was thinking of how much -I suffered from my usual sleeplessness, last night....” - -“I hope you took no chloral?” - -“I refrained from it to please you. I bore with insomnia for your sake.” - -“Thank you, my angel.” - -Galimberti sat listening to them, while they exchanged lover-like -glances, gazing at the red frame which held Caterina’s portrait. - -“I ought to go ... I must go ...” he kept thinking. He felt as if he -were nailed to his chair; as if he had no strength to rise from it. He -was miserable, for he had just discovered that there was mud on one -of his boots. It appeared to him that Lucia was always looking at that -boot. It was his martyrdom, yet he dared not withdraw from it. - -“And so the thought came to me amid so many others, that you, Alberto, -need a woman about you.” - -“What sort of a woman--a housekeeper? They are selfish and odious, I -can’t abide them.” - -“Why, no, I mean a wife.” - -“Do you think so...? How strange! I should never have thought of it.” - -“But the woman whom you need is not like any other. You need an -exceptional woman.” - -“True, how true! I want an exceptional wife,” said Alberto, willing to -be persuaded. - -“An exceptional woman. Don’t you agree with me, Professor?” - -He started in the greatest perturbation. What could she be wanting of -him, now? - -Without awaiting his reply, she continued: - -“You are, dear Alberto, in a somewhat precarious state of health; or -rather, your age is itself a pitfall, surrounded as you are with all -the temptations of youth. What with balls, theatres, supper-parties....” - -“I never go anywhere,” he mumbled; “I am too afraid of making myself -ill.” - -“You do well to be prudent. After all, they are but empty pleasures. -But at home, in your cold, lonely house, you do indeed need a sweet -affectionate companion, who would never weary of tending you, who would -never be bored, never grudge you the most tender care. Think of it! -what a flood of light, and love, and sweet friendship, within your own -walls! Think of the whole life of such a woman, consecrated to you!” - -“And where is such an angel to be met with, Lucia?” he said, in an -enthusiasm caught from her words, in despair that no such paragon was -within reach. - -“Alas! Alberto, we are all straining after an impossible ideal. You, -too, are among the multitude of dreamers.” - -“I wish I could but meet my ideal,” he persisted, with the obstinacy of -his weak, capricious nature. - -“Seek,” said Lucia, raising her eyes to the ceiling. - -“Lucia, do me a favour.” - -“Tell me what it is...? I beg your pardon, Galimberti, would you pass -me that peacock fan?” - -“Do you feel the heat, Signorina Lucia?” - -“It oppresses me; I think I am feverish. Do you know that peacock -feathers are unlucky?” - -“I never heard it before.” - -“Yes, they are _iettatrici_, just as branches of heather are lucky. -Could you get me some?” - -“To-morrow....” - -“I was about to say, Lucia,” persisted Alberto, holding on to his idea, -“that there is a favour you could do me. Why not write me the beautiful -thing you have just said down on paper? I listen to you with delight; -you talk admirably. If you would but write these things on a scrap of -paper, I would put it in this fold of my pocket book, and every time -I opened it I should remember that I have to find my ideal--that’s a -wife.” - -“You are a dear, silly fellow,” said Lucia, in her good-natured manner. -“I will give you something better than this fleeting idea; all these -things, and more besides, that are quite unknown to you, I will write -you in a letter.” - -“When, when?” - -“To-day, to-night, or to-morrow morning.” - -“No, this evening,” - -“Well, this evening; but don’t answer me.” - -“I shall answer you.” - -“No, Alberto, your chest is too weak; it’s bad for you to stoop. -Positively I won’t allow it.” - -And so the Professor was quite excluded from the intimacy of the little -duet; he was evidently in the way. - -“What am I doing here, what _am_ I doing here, what am I here for?” he -kept repeating to himself. By this time he had succeeded in awkwardly -concealing his muddy boot; but he was tormented by a cruel suspicion -that his cravat was on one side. He dared not raise his finger to it; -and his mind was torn by two conflicting griefs: the letter Lucia -was going to write to her cousin, and the possible crookedness of -his cravat. The others continued to gaze at each other in silence. -On Alberto’s contemptuous face there appeared to be a note of -interrogation. He was inquiring tacitly of his cousin: “Is this bore -going to stay for ever?” And her eyes made answer: “Patience, he will -go some time; he bores me too.” - -The strangest part of it all was that Galimberti had a vague -consciousness of what was passing in their minds, and wanted to go, but -had not the strength to rise. His spine felt as if it were bound to the -back of the chair, and there was an unbearable weight in his head. - -“Signorina, here is Signor Andrea Lieti,” said Giulietta. - -“This is a miracle.” - -“If you reproach me,” said Andrea, laughing, “I won’t even sit down. -Good-morning, Alberto; good-morning, Galimberti!” - -The room seemed to be filled with the strong man’s presence, by his -hearty laugh, and his magnificent strength. Beside him, Galimberti, -crooked, undersized and yellow; Sanna, meagre, worn, pale, -consumptive-looking; Lucia, fragile, thin, and languishing, made up a -picture of pitiable humanity. Galimberti shrank in his chair, bowing -his head. Alberto Sanna contemplated Andrea from his feet upwards, -with profound admiration, making himself as small as possible, like a -weak being who craves the protection of a strong one. Lucia, on the -contrary, threw herself back in her rocking-chair, attitudinising like -a serpent in the folds of rich Turkish stuff, just showing the point -of a golden embroidered slipper. The glance that filtered through her -lids seemed to emit a spark at the corner of her eyes. All three were -visibly impressed by this fine physical type; so admirable in the -perfection of its development. The room appeared to have narrowed, and -even its furniture to have dwindled to humbler proportions, since he -entered it; all the minute bric-à-brac and curios with which Lucia had -surrounded herself had become invisible, as if they had been absorbed. -Andrea sat down against the piano, and it seemed to disappear behind -him. He shook his curly head, and a healthy current leavened the morbid -atmosphere of the room; his laugh was almost too hearty for it, it -disturbed the melancholy silence, which until his arrival had only been -broken by undertones. - -“I come here as an ambassador, Signora Lucia. Shall I present my -credentials to the reigning powers?” - -“Here are your credentials,” she said, pointing to the portrait of -Caterina. - -“Yes, there’s Nini. My government told me to go and prosper, and be -received with the honours due to the representative of a reigning -power.” - -“Did Caterina say all that?” - -“Not all. It’s in honour of your imagination, Signora Lucia, that I -embellish my wife’s few words with flowers of rhetoric.” - -“So you reproach me with my imagination,” said the girl, in an -aggrieved tone, casting a circular glance at her friends, as if in -appeal against such injustice. - -“By no means; mayn’t one venture a joke? In short, Caterina said to me, -'At three you are to go....’” - -“Is it already three?” broke in Galimberti, inopportunely. - -“Past three, as your watch will tell you, my dear Professor.” - -“Mine has stopped,” he replied mendaciously, not caring to exhibit a -huge silver family relic. “I must take my departure.” - -“To your lesson, Galimberti?” inquired Lucia, indifferently. - -“Indeed, I find the time for it has slipped by. I had no idea that it -was so late. After all it’s no great loss to my pupils. Will you have -your lesson to-morrow, Signorina?” - -“To-morrow! I don’t think I can; I feel too fatigued. Not to-morrow.” - -“Wednesday, then?” - -“I will let you know,” she replied, bored. - -When, with a brick-coloured flush on his yellow cheeks, Galimberti had -left them, all three were conscious of a sense of discomfort. - -“Poor devil!” exclaimed Andrea, at last. - -“Yes, but he is a bore,” added Alberto. - -“What’s to be done? These ladies, in their exquisite good-nature, -forget that he is only a teacher; and he gets bewildered and forgets it -too. He must suffer a good deal when he comes to his senses.” - -“Oh! he is an unhappy creature; but when I am sick or sad, the poor -thing becomes an incubus: I don’t know how to shake him off.” - -“Is he learned in history?” inquired Alberto, with the childish -curiosity of ignorance. - -“So, so; don’t let us talk about him any more. This morning he has -spoilt my day for me. What were you saying when he left, Signor Lieti?” - -“What was I saying? I don’t remember....” - -“You were saying that your wife had sent you here at three,” suggested -Alberto, as if he were repeating a lesson. - -“_Ecco!_ Ah, to be sure.... And after breakfast I went to a -shooting-gallery, then I had a talk with the Member for Caserta about -the local Exhibition in September, and then I came on here, with -weighty communications, Signora Lucia.” - -“I’m off,” said Alberto. - -“What, because of me? As for what I have to say, you may hear every -word of it.” - -“The reason is that now that the sun has come out, I want to take a -turn in the _Villa_ before it sets,” said Alberto, pensively. “It will -do me good, I want to get an appetite for dinner.” - -“Go, dear Alberto, go and take your walk. I wish I could come too! The -sun must be glorious outside; salute it for me.” - -“Remember your promise.” - -“I remember, and will keep it.” - -When he was gone, they looked at each other in silence. Andrea Lieti -had an awkward feeling that it would have been right and proper for -him to leave with her cousin. Lucia, on the contrary, settled herself -more comfortably in her rocking-chair; she had hidden her slippered -foot under the Turkish gown, whose heavy folds completely enveloped her -person. - -“Will you give me that Bible, on the table, Signor Lieti?” - -“Has the hour struck for prayer, Signorina?” he asked in a jesting tone. - -“No,” replied Lucia; “for I am always praying. But when something -unusual, something very unusual happens to me, then I open the Bible -haphazard, and I read the first verse that meets my eye. There is -always counsel, guidance, presentiment or a fatality in the words.” - -She did as she said. She read a verse several times over, under her -breath, as if to herself and in amazement.... Then she read aloud: “I -love them that love me, and those that seek me early shall find me.” - -He listened, surprised. This singular mysticism inspired him with a -sort of anger. He held his tongue, with the good breeding of a man -who would not willingly hurt a young lady’s feelings, but the episode -struck him as a very ridiculous one. - -“Did you hear, Signor Lieti?” she added, as if in defiance. - -“I heard. It was very fine.... Love is always an interesting topic, -whether in the Old or the New Testament, or elsewhere....” - -“Signor Lieti!” - -“I beg your pardon, I am talking nonsense. I am a rough fellow, -Signorina Altimare. We who are in rude health are apt to regard these -matters from a different standpoint. You must make allowances.” - -“You are indeed the incarnation of health,” she said, sighing. “I -shall never, never forget that waltz you made me dance. I shall never -do it again.” - -“_Ma che!_ winter will come round again; there will be other balls, and -we will dance like fun.” - -“I have no strength for dancing.” - -“If you are ill, it is your own fault. Why do you always keep your -windows closed? The weather is mild and the heat of your room is -suffocating; I’ll open them.” - -“No,” she exclaimed, placing her hand upon his arm: at its light -pressure he desisted: she smiled. - -“Do you never dream, Signor Lieti?” - -“Never. I sleep soundly, for eight hours, with closed fists, like a -child.” - -“But with open eyes?” - -“Never.” - -“Just like Caterina, then?” - -“Oh! exactly like her.” - -“You are two happy people.” Her accent was bitter. - -He felt the pain in it. He looked at her, and was troubled. Perhaps, he -had after all been hard upon the poor girl. What had she done to him? -She was sickly and full of fancies. The more reason for pitying her. -She was an ill-cared-for, unloved creature who was losing her way in -life. - -“Why don’t you marry?” he said, suddenly. - -“Why?” ... in astonishment. - -“Why? ... yes. Girls ought to marry, it cures them of their vagaries.” - -“Oh!” exclaimed Lucia, and she hid her face in her hands. - -“Now I suppose I have said something stupid again? I will give you -Caterina’s message and be gone, before you turn me out.” - -“No, Signor Lieti. Who knows but what your _bourgeois_ common sense is -right.” - -He understood the hidden meaning of her phrase, and felt hurt by it. -That skinny creature, with her ethereal airs and graces, knew how to -sting, after all! She suddenly appeared to him under a new aspect. -A slight fear of the woman, whose weakness was her only strength, -overcame him. He began to feel ill at ease in the perfumed atmosphere; -the room was so small that he could not stretch out his arms without -coming to fisticuffs with the wall, the air so perfumed that it -compressed his lungs; ill at ease with that long, lithe figure draped -in a piece of Eastern stuff; a woman who had a mouth like a red rose, -and eyes that shone as if they sometimes saw marvellous visions, and at -others looked as if they were dying in an ecstasy of unknown longing. -He felt a weight in his head like the beginning of a headache. He would -like to have let in air by putting his fists through the window-panes, -to have knocked down the walls by a push from his shoulders, to have -taken up the piano and thrown it into the street; anything to shake -off the torpor that was creeping over him. If he could only grasp that -lithe figure in his arms, to hurt her, to hear her bones creak, to -strangle her! The blood rushed to his head and it was getting heavier -every minute. She was looking at him, examining him, while she waved -the peacock-feather fan to and fro. Perhaps she divined it all, for -without saying a word she rose and went to open the window, standing -there a few minutes to watch the passers-by. When she returned, there -was a faint flush on her face. - -“Well,” she said, as if she were awaiting the end of a discourse. - -“Well; your perfumes have given me a headache. It’s a wonder I did not -faint; a thing that never yet happened to me, and that I should not -like to happen. May I go? May I give you Caterina’s message?” - -“I am listening to you. But are you better now?” - -“I am quite well. I am not Alberto Sanna.” - -“No, you are not Alberto Sanna,” she repeated, softly. “He is ill, I -pity him. How do you feel now?” - -“Why, very well indeed. It was a passing ailment, walking will set me -up again. Caterina....” - -“Do you love your wife as much as I love her?” - -“Eh! what a question!” - -“Don’t take any notice of it; it escaped me. I don’t believe in married -love.” - -“The worse for you!” - -“You are irritated, Signor Lieti?” she said, smiling. - -“No! I assure you I am not. Mine was a purely physical discomfort, I am -not troubled by any moral qualms. I don’t believe in their existence. -My wife....” - -“Are you a materialist?” - -“Signora Lucia, you will make me lose my temper,” he exclaimed, half in -anger, half in jest. “You won’t let me speak.” - -“I am listening to you.” - -“Caterina wishes you to dine with us next Sunday. Her little cousin -Giuditta is coming from school for the day. You two could drive her -back in the evening.” - -“I don’t know ...” she said, hesitatingly; “I don’t know whether I -can....” - -“I entreat you to, in Caterina’s name. She sent me here on purpose. -Come, we have a capital cook. You won’t get a bad dinner.” - -She shrugged her shoulders, and sat pondering as if she were gazing -into futurity. - -“You look like a sibyl, Signora Lucia. _Via_, make up your mind. A -dinner is no very serious matter. I will order a _crême méringue_ to -please you, because it is light and snowy.” - -“I will write to Caterina.” - -“No, don’t write. Why write so much? She desired me to take no denial.” - -“Well, I will come.” - -And she placed her hand in his. He bent down chivalrously and imprinted -a light kiss on it. She left her hand there and raised her eyes to his. -By a singular optical illusion, she appeared to have grown taller than -himself. - -When he returned home, after a two hours’ walk about Naples, Andrea -Lieti told his wife that Lucia Altimare was a false, rhetorical, -antipathetic creature; that her house was suffocating enough -to give one apoplexy; that she had a court of consumptives and -rachitics--Galimberti, Sanna, and the Lord knows whom besides; that -he would never put his foot into it again. He had done it to please -her, but it had been a great sacrifice; he detested that _poseuse_, -who received men’s visits as if she were a widow; he couldn’t imagine -what men and women found to fall in love with, in that packet of bones -in the shape of a cross. Of all this and more besides, he unburdened -himself. He only stopped when he saw the pain on his wife’s face, who -answered not a word and with difficulty restrained her tears. This -strong antipathy between two persons she loved was her martyrdom. - -“At least,” she stammered, “at least, she said she would dine with us -on Sunday?” - -“Just fancy, for your sake I had to entreat her as if I were praying -to a saint. She wouldn’t, the stupid thing. At last, she accepted. -But I give you due warning that on Sunday I shall not dine at home. I -shall dine out and not return till midnight. Keep her to yourself, your -_poseuse_.” - -This time Caterina did burst into tears. - - - VI. - -During the whole of the dinner in the Lietis’ apartment in Via -Constantinopoli, a certain all-pervading embarrassment was perceptible, -despite the care with which it was disguised. Caterina had not dared, -for several days, to breathe Lucia’s name. But on Saturday, when she -saw that Andrea had quite regained his good temper, she begged him not -to go out on the morrow. He at first shrugged his shoulders, as if he -did not care one way or the other, and then said, simply: - -“I will stay at home: it would be too rude to go out.” - -Yet Andrea’s manner was cold when he came in from his walk that day, -and Lucia was very nervous, but beautiful, thought Caterina, in her -clinging, cashmere gown, with a large bunch of violets under her -chin. The talk was frigid. Caterina, who had been driving Giuditta -all over the town, was troubled. She feared that Lucia would notice -Andrea’s coldness, and was sorry she had invited her. She talked more -than usual, addressing herself to Lucia, to Andrea, and to Giuditta, -to keep the ball going, making strenuous efforts to put her beloved -ones in good humour. For a moment she hoped that dinner would create a -diversion, and breathed a sigh of relief when the servant announced, -“The Signora is served.” - -But even the bright warmth of the room was of no avail. Andrea, at -whose side Lucia was seated, attended absently to her wants. He ate -and drank a good deal, devouring his food in a silence unusual to him. -Lucia hardly ate at all, but drank whole glasses of water just coloured -with wine, a liquid of pale amethyst colour. When Andrea addressed -her, she listened to him with intent eyes, which never lowered their -gaze; his fell before it, and again he applied himself to his dinner. -Caterina, who saw that their aversion was increasing, was terrified. -She tried to draw Giuditta into the general conversation, but the child -was possessed by the taciturn hunger of a school-girl, to whom good -food is a delightful anomaly. Towards the end of dinner, there were -slight signs of a thaw. Andrea began to chatter as fast as he could and -with surprising volubility; talking to the two ladies, to the child, -even to himself. Lucia deigned to smile assent two or three times. -There was a passage of civilities when the _crême méringue_ made its -appearance. Lucia compared it to a flake of immaculate snow; Andrea -pronounced the comparison to be as just as it was poetic. Caterina -turned from pale to pink in the dawn of so good an understanding. She -felt, however, that this was a bad evening for Lucia, one of those -evenings that used to end so disastrously at school, in convulsions or -a deluge of tears. She saw that her dark eyes were dilated, that her -whole face quivered from time to time, and that the violets she wore -rose and fell with the beating of her heart. Once or twice she asked -her, as in their school-days, “What ails thee?” - -“Nothing,” replied the other as curtly as she used to reply at school. - -“Don’t you see that there is nothing the matter with her?” questioned -Andrea. “Indeed, she looks better than usual. Signora Lucia, you are -another person to-night, you have a colour.” - -“I wish it were so.” - -“Are you courageous?” - -“Why do you ask?” - -“To know.” - -“Well, then, yes.” - -“Then swallow a glass of cognac, at once.” - -“No, Andrea, I won’t let her drink it. It would do her harm.” - -“What fun! don’t you feel tempted, Signora Lucia?” - -“I do ... rather....” after a little hesitation. - -“_Brava, brava!_ You too, Caterina, it doesn’t hurt you. And even -Giuditta....” - -“No; it would intoxicate the child.” - -“_Ma che!_ Just a drop in the bottom of the glass.” - -Lucia drank off hers without the slightest sign of perturbation, then -she turned pale. Giuditta, after swallowing hers, blushed crimson, -coughing and sneezing until her eyes filled with tears. Every one -laughed, while Caterina beat her gently on the back. - -“I think you are drinking too much to-night, Andrea,” she whispered in -his ear. - -“Right you are; I won’t drink any more.” - -When they rose from table, Andrea offered his arm to Lucia, a courtesy -he had omitted when they entered the room. Caterina said nothing. When -she had installed them in the yellow drawing-room, one on the sofa -and the other in a comfortable chair, she left them and went into an -adjoining room to prepare the child for her return. - -“Have you left off using musk, Signora Lucia?” - -“Yes, Signor Lieti.” - -“Why?” - -“I don’t know.” - -“Allow me to congratulate you.” - -“Thank you.” - -“Those flowers become you better. Who gave them to you?” - -“You are curious, Signor Lieti.” - -He smiled at her with approving eyes. To him she appeared like one -transformed, thanks, perhaps, to the soft folds of her white gown. In -his good-natured after-dinner mood, the beatitude of repletion infused -a certain tenderness into his voice. - -“My name is Andrea,” he murmured. - -“I know that,” was the curt reply. - -“Call me Andrea. You call Caterina by her name. Caterina and I are one.” - -“Not to me.” - -“I see. But as Caterina is so very much your friend, you might admit me -into the bond. Do you forbid me to become your friend?” - -“Perhaps there is no such thing as friendship.” - -“Yes, there is such a thing. Don’t be so pessimistic. _Senta, cara -Signorina_, let me whisper a word in your ear....” - -She bent forward until her cheek almost touched his lips. Then he said: - -“There are in this house two people who care for you. Pray believe....” - -Lucia fell back against her cushion and half closed her eyes. - -“Surely,” thought Andrea, “it’s another woman, with that round white -throat set in its frame of lace.” - -“Andrea, Andrea,” cried Caterina, from the bedroom. - -He started, and shrugged his shoulders, as if to shake off a weight, -glanced at Lucia, who seemed to be dreaming with closed eyes, and went -away. There was a short whispered discussion between husband and wife -in the adjoining room. It was suddenly interrupted by Andrea, who was -stifling his laughter, pouncing upon his wife and kissing her behind -her ear. Caterina defended herself by pointing to Giuditta, who was -putting on her hat before the glass. - -“It all depends on her,” he said, in an undertone, as he re-entered the -drawing-room. - -“Signora Lucia, are you asleep?” - -“No, I never sleep.” - -“Caterina wants you a moment, in there.” - -“What does she want?” - -“I know, but have been ordered not to tell.” - -“I will go to her.” - -She went, followed by the serpentine folds of her white train. Andrea -sat down, unconsciously rested his head where she had rested hers, and -inhaled the lingering perfume of her hair. He rose and walked about the -room to rid himself of the mists that seemed to be clouding his brain. - -Caterina, in the other room, knew not how to break it to Lucia. The -words refused to come, for the tall white-robed maiden, standing erect, -without a quiver of her eyelid, intimidated her. - -“I think ... I think it would bore you to have to come with me to the -College.” - -“What for?” - -“To take Giuditta back.” - -“I won’t go. You go alone. That College depresses me.” - -“I would go, if it were not for leaving you alone. But I shall not be -long; just the time to drive Giuditta there, and come back.” - -“Go; I like being alone.” - -“It’s ... that I should like to....” - -“Take Andrea with you, of course.” - -“No, no, on the contrary.” - -“Leave him with me...? He will be bored.” - -“What are you saying?” - -“He will bore himself, Caterina.” - -“’Tis he who doesn’t want to stay, for fear of boring you. If you don’t -mind....” - -“Really, was that all? I will stay alone, or with your husband, -whatever you like. But don’t be away long.” - -“Oh! no fear, dear.” And in her delight at having settled the important -question, she raised herself on tiptoe to kiss her. - -“Dress and go.” - -When Caterina and Giuditta passed through the drawing-room they found -Andrea and Lucia seated, as before, in silence. - -“Go, Caterina. I will read a book, and your husband the _Piccolo_. Have -you a Leopardi?” - -“No. I am so sorry....” - -“Well, I will amuse myself with my own thoughts. Go, dear, go.” - -Andrea listened, without saying a word. - -“You may go to sleep,” whispered his wife, as she bade him good-bye. -They did not kiss each other in the presence of their visitors. She -went away contented with having provided for everything. They followed -her with their eyes. Then, without a word, Lucia offered the newspaper -to Andrea, who unfolded it. While he pretended to read, he watched -Lucia out of the corner of his eye. She was looking at him with so -bewitching a smile, that again she appeared to him like a woman -transformed--so placid and youthful in her white gown. - -“Are you not bored, Signorina?” - -“No; I am thinking.” - -“Tell me what you are thinking of.” - -“What can it matter to you? I am thinking of far-off things.” - -“It is morbid to think too much. Sometimes, but not often, it happens -to me, too, to think.” - -“Are you thinking now, Signor Andrea?” - -Her hand hung slack at her side. In jest he knitted his little finger -for a moment in hers. There was a long silence. - -“What were you thinking of just now?” asked Lucia, in her low tender -tones. - -“I do not wish to tell you. How white your hand is, and long and -narrow! Look, what an enormous hand mine is!” - -“That day at the tournament your hand did wonders.” - -“Really...!” He reddened from pleasure. - -Again they were silent. She drew her hand away and played with her -violets. He half closed his eyes, but never took them off the pure -pale face, with its delicate colouring, its superb magnetic eyes -with pencilled brows, and the half-opened mouth that was as red as a -pomegranate flower. He sank into a state of vague contemplation, in -which a fascinating feminine figure was the only thing visible on a -cloudy background. - -“Say something to me, Signora Lucia?” - -“Why?” - -“I want to hear you speak; you have an enchanting voice.” - -“Caterina said the same thing to me this evening.” - -At that name he suddenly sprang to his feet, and took two or three -turns about the room, like an unquiet lion. She pulled a chair in front -of her, placed her feet upon it, and half closed her eyes. - -“Are you going to sleep?” asked Andrea, standing still before Lucia. - -“No, I am dreaming,” she replied, so gently that Andrea resumed his -seat beside her. - -“Tell me what you were thinking of just now?” she pleaded. - -“I was thinking of something dreadful, but true.” - -“About me?” - -“About you, Lucia.” - -“Say it.” - -“No, it would displease you.” - -“Not from you....” - -“Permit me not to tell it you....” - -“As you please.” - -Lucia’s countenance became overclouded; every now and then she drew a -long breath. - -“What is the matter?” - -“Nothing; I am very comfortable. And you, Signor Andrea?” - -Was he? He did not answer. Now and again the delicious languor that was -stealing over him cooled the current in his veins. He scarcely ventured -to breathe. Lucia’s white gown appeared to him like a snowy precipice; -a mad desire was on him to cast himself at this woman’s feet, to rest -his head on her knees, and to close his eyes like a child.... Was he? -when every now and then a savage longing came upon him to throw his arm -around that slender waist, and press it so that he might feel it writhe -and vibrate with tigerish flexibility? He strove not to think; that was -all. - -“What stuff is this, Signora Lucia?” - -“It is wool.” - -“A soft wool.” - -“Cashmere.” - -“It is so becoming to you. Why don’t you always wear it?” - -“Do you like it?” - -“Yes, I do.” He continued, unconsciously, to stroke her arm. - -She leant over, quite close to him, and said: - -“Have one made like it for Caterina.” - -This time Andrea did not rise, but shuddered perceptibly. He passed his -hand through his hair, to push it back. - -“I was thinking just now,” he said, “that the man who fell in love with -you would be a most unhappy fellow.” - -Lucia sank back in frigid silence, her face hardened with anger. - -“Now,” he said in a low tone of deprecation, “you are angry.” - -“No,” in a whisper. - -“Yes, you are angry; I am a brute.” As he said this, he tried to force -open her clenched hand. But he was afraid of hurting her, and so he -failed. He begged her not to drive her nails into the palm of her hand. -The pain of doing so accentuated the angles at the corners of her lips; -her head was turned away from him, resting against the cushioned back -of the sofa. - -“Lucia, Lucia ...” he murmured, “be good to one who is unworthy.” At -last, with a sigh of triumph, he opened the hand which he held: four -red marks disfigured its palm. Andrea looked at it, wishing but not -daring to kiss it; he blew over it childishly. - -“_Bobo_, gone!” - -She vouchsafed a smile, but no reply. Andrea tried to pacify her, -whispering nonsense to her. He mimicked the tone of a child, begging -its mother’s pardon, promising “never to do so again,” if only it -may not be sent to the dark room, where it is frightened. And the -strong man’s voice assumed so infantile an expression, he imitated the -whine, the grimaces, the feline movements of certain children to such -perfection, that she could not restrain the fit of nervous laughter -which overcame her, and throbbed in her white throat as she fell back -in her cushions. - -“Little mother, forgive?” he wound up with. - -“_Si, si_,” and, still laughing, she gave him a little pat on the -shoulder. - -Again he fought down his desire to kiss her hand. - -“Do you know that you are not so thin as usual to-night?” - -“Do you think so?” she replied, as if weary with laughter. - -“Certainly.” - -“I suppose it’s the white dress.” - -“Or yourself; you can work miracles, you can assume what appearance you -choose.” - -“What am I like to-night?” asked Lucia, languidly. - -“You are like a sorceress,” replied Andrea, with an accent of profound -conviction. - -Her eyes questioned him, eager to know more. - -“A witch ... a sorceress....” he repeated, as if in reply to an inner -voice. The clock struck nine times, but neither of them paid heed to -it. Stillness filled the room, which was lighted by a shaded lamp. No -sound reached it. Nothing. Two people alone, looking at each other. The -long pauses seemed to them full of a sweet significance; they could not -resume their talk without an effort. They spoke in lowered tones and -very slowly. He drew no nearer, neither did she withdraw her hand. - -“What perfume do you use in your hair?” - -“None.” - -“Oh! but it is perfumed. I could smell it just now....” - -“But I use no perfume.” - -“Just now I smelt it, when I leant my head where yours had been.” - -“None; smell!” she said, with unconscionable audacity, as she raised -her head to his, that he might inhale the perfume of her hair. - -Then he lost his head, seized Lucia by the waist, and kissed her throat -madly and roughly. She freed herself like a viper, starting to her feet -in a fury, scorching him with the flashing of her eyes. Not a word -passed between them. Stunned and confused, he watched her moving about -the room in search of her cloak, her gloves, her bonnet, and in such a -tremor of rage that she could not find them for a long while. At last -she slipped on her cloak, but her quivering hands could not tie the -strings of her black bonnet. The white dress had disappeared; she was -all in black now, lividly pale, with dark rings under her eyes. - -“Where are you going now?” - -“I am going away.” - -“Alone?” - -“Alone.” - -“No, rather than let you do that, I will go myself.” He made her a low -bow and disappeared within the bedroom, shutting the door between them. - -When Caterina returned, panting with haste, she found Lucia calmly -stretched out on the sofa. - -“Have I been too long...? And Andrea?” - -“I don’t know. He is in there, I think.” - -“What have you been doing with yourself all alone?” - -“_Sai_, I have been praying with the lapis-lazuli rosary.” - -Caterina entered the bedroom. A black form was lying prone across the -bed with open arms, like one crucified. - -“Andrea!” she called, tentatively. - -“What is it?” was the curt reply. - -“Are you sleeping?” - -“I was bored, and I came in here. Let me sleep.” - -“Lucia? Who is to take her back?” - -“Thou. Leave me alone.” - - - VII. - -One morning, before going out, Andrea kissed his wife, and said: “Have -our boxes packed for to-night; we are going to Rome.” - -“For how many days?” she asked, without surprise. She was accustomed to -these sudden orders. - -“A fortnight at least: plenty of linen and smart gowns. Leave the -jewels at home.” - -They left for Rome without announcing their departure to any one. It -was like a second honeymoon. During their eighteen months of married -life, neither had travelled farther than from Naples to Centurano. -Caterina had all the artlessness and _naïveté_ of a newly fledged -bride; but she at once adapted herself to the change, like the -well-balanced creature that she was. Andrea teased her delightedly, -when he saw her head peeping out of the window at every station. He -told her fabulous stories of every place they passed through; laughing -heartily at her incredulity, offering her things to eat and drink, -inviting her to take a turn up and down; and she parried his attacks -like a child. He walked about the carriage, put his big head out of -the window, bumped it against the roof, conversed with the railway -officials, indulged in discussions with newsvendors, and impressed -his fellow-travellers with his herculean stature. In a word, he was -exuberant with health, noise, and jollity. - -Caterina did not ever remember seeing him in such high spirits, -especially since that inauspicious dinner. Oh! there had been a -period of dreadful and furious ill-temper; the house had trembled -from slamming of doors, pushing of chairs, and thumping of fists on -writing-tables; to say nothing of the bursts of vociferation which had -echoed throughout it,--a three days’ storm that she had succeeded in -lulling by dint of silence, placidity, and submission. Then Andrea had -calmed down, except for a certain nervous irritability and occasional -bursts of anger, that became ever fewer and farther between. Still, -he had not quite gone back to the old Andrea--the childlike, noisy, -laughter-loving Andrea, overflowing with mirth and good temper--until -they started on this journey. Caterina said nothing about it; but she -felt as if her very heart were expanding, dilated with the pleasure of -it. - -In Rome, Andrea displayed a phenomenal activity. He woke early, with a -smile for the rosy face that watched his awakening, and proceeded to -call out his orders to all the waiters of the Hôtel de Rome; they drank -their coffee in haste and went on a round of sight-seeing. Andrea was -not devoted to antiquities and Caterina did not understand them; but -it was a duty to see them all, if only by way of gaining an appetite -for luncheon. So they continued to inspect everything, conscientiously, -without neglecting a stone or sparing themselves a corner; exclaiming, -with moderate enthusiasm: “Beautiful, beautiful, how beautiful!” - -They amused themselves, all the same, because Caterina had never seen -anything before, and because Andrea had a knack of imitating the -guide’s nasal voice, pouring forth, the while, a jumble of rambling, -explanatory description, in which Caterina corrected the erroneous -Roman history. They returned to the hotel in a state of collapse, and -dawdled through their luncheon. Then Andrea went out on important -business. To-day, he had an appointment with the Under-Secretary -of State; to-morrow, with a Cabinet Minister; the other day he had -had matters to settle with the Director-General of the Agricultural -Department. Sometimes he had two appointments on the same day; with the -huge, muscular Member for Santa Maria, with the aristocratic Member -for Capua, or with the hirsute Member for Teano. The conferences with -the journalistic Member for Caserta--influential both as the editor of -a Neapolitan paper of large circulation and as the intimate friend of -the Prime Minister--were of infinite length. Then he would accompany -his wife in her drive to the Villa Borghese or the Pincio, and leave -her there; or to San Pietro, where there was always something to look -at; and two or three times to the Ladies’ Gallery in the House of -Parliament, where Caterina, who understood little or nothing of the -subject under discussion, bored herself immensely, and suffered agonies -of heat and thirst. She waited patiently for him to come and fetch her, -with the resignation of a woman who would have waited for centuries, -had she been bidden to wait. Andrea returned to her, red, hasty and -flurried; blowing and puffing like a young bull, apologising for having -kept her waiting so long, recounting to her all his experiences; the -useless journeys to and fro, the inert functionaries, the diffident -Secretary, the enthusiastic Cabinet Minister, the Members’ zeal for -the honour of their constituencies. To all these details, Caterina -listened with the attentiveness that delights a narrator, without a -sign of weariness. And indeed the local Agricultural Exhibition was of -supreme interest to them both. Andrea was President of the Committee of -Promoters: he was to exhibit wheat, barley, wine, a special breed of -fowls, and a new species of gourd, a modification of the pumpkin. The -schools’ functions, of which Caterina was Lady Patroness, were fixed -for the same epoch. There was to be a flower show for the delectation -of the upper ten. The statue of Vanzitelli was to be unveiled, on the -chief Piazza of Caserta, which means, in short, a universal fillip, -the awakening of the entire province, splendid fêtes, special trains, -&c. &c.: the tenth of September, in the height of the fine weather; -already cool, you know, and still genial. It all hung upon whether or -no permission to hold the fête in the Royal Palace could be obtained, -that historic palace, beloved of the Bourbons. Caterina supported her -husband in demanding the _Reggia_, in insisting on having the _Reggia_: -what was the use of that empty, solemn Royal Palace? It would be -splendid for the Exhibition. They must have the _Reggia_, at whatever -the cost. When they had said and many times repeated these things, -Andrea and Caterina would go here and there and everywhere to dine. -They took a long time about it, and seriously studied the _menu_ for -the day; each of them ordering different dishes and tasting what the -other had ordered; Andrea making friends with the waiter, and both of -them relishing whatever they did with the capacity of young and healthy -people for enjoyment. No one interfered with or otherwise vexed them. -Rome is humane and maternal, ever smiling on those bridal couples who, -under the shadow of her noble walls, under her canopy of heavenly blue, -lead their loves through the maze of her uneven streets. - -After a short halt at the Café du Parlement or the Café de Rome, then a -short walk, and home to sleep. Andrea was tired, and had to rise early -next morning. But often in those hours between luncheon and dinner, -Caterina would beg him to leave her at home. She preferred staying -there, in a tiny sitting-room that was next to her bedroom. Andrea -would ask on his return what she had been doing. And she replied: “I -have been helping my maid to arrange my grey dress. She didn’t know -how to do it, so I showed her. I walked a little, as far as Pontecorvo, -to choose presents for Naples....” - -Sometimes she lowered her eyes and said, “I have been writing.” - -“Who to, Nini?” - -“To my aunt; to Giuditta, at school; to Giulietta, the maid at home; to -Matteo, the caretaker at Centurano....” - -“And to others?” - -“To others besides.” - -Without naming her, they instantly understood each other. They had -lately avoided mentioning her. Caterina _felt_ the profound antipathy -of Andrea, but neither ventured to combat or complain of it. She had -been to call on Lucia, alone. The latter had received her most warmly, -smothering her with kisses, asking her loving questions, confusing her -with those she read in her eyes: not a word of Andrea, to Caterina’s -infinite relief. Inwardly, she suffered from the species of hatred -which existed between the two persons she loved best. At last, one day -when Andrea returned to the hotel, he found Caterina more preoccupied -than usual. She heard the news that the Prime Minister would honour the -Agricultural Exhibition with his presence, without excessive transport; -she murmured a gentle but absent “Yes” to her husband’s suggestion that -they should spend three days in Florence, returning thence to Naples. - -“_Ohé!_ Nini, what is the matter?” - -“Nothing.” - -“Don’t tell stories, little Nini. They are visible on your nose. There -is one crawling, his legs are no longer than a spider’s, but he is -black and ugly! What is it, Nini?” - -“Nothing, nothing....” she said, in self-defence. - -“Say it, Caterina.” - -“I entreat you....” - -“Bah, innocent witch, I know what it is.” - -“What is it you know...?” blushing. - -“I know why you are so preoccupied; it’s the Naples letter that upset -you.” - -Her timid eyes entreated his forgiveness for both of them. - -“I am not vexed with you,” said he, slowly. “If I don’t like the girl, -I respect your affection for her: she is the friend of your childhood. -You don’t love her better than me, I hope?” - -“No,” she said, simply. - -“Well, that is all I care for. Don’t plague yourself about anything -else. And ... is the letter interesting?” - -“Very.” - -“'_Urgente_’ was written outside it. Is it really urgent, or is it only -fancy?” - -“Really urgent.” - -He took a turn in the room and glanced at the clock. - -“Shall we go to dinner? It is rather early, I think.” - -“True, it is early.” - -“And what does she write you...?” without infusing much interest into -his voice. - -“It’s too long to tell.” - -“I understand you, Nini; I understand you. You would like to read the -letter to me.” - -“No, no....” - -“Yes, you are dying to read it to me. You have not the courage to say -so; but I guess it. I’m a bear, I suppose. Do you wish it noised abroad -that I am a tyrant?” - -“Andrea!” - -“_Su!_ small victim of a barbarous husband: as we have an hour to spare -before dinner, and because the success of our enterprise inclines us to -clemency, you may even read us your letter. Unto us shall be brought -_vermouth_ and cigars, to help us to endure this new torment with -befitting patience. Oh! Lord, consider the sufferings of your unhappy -Andrea...!” - -“Andrea, one more word, and I won’t read it.” - -“_Ma che!_ you are dying to read it! _Su!_ up, intriguer; up, witch. We -accord you our august attention.” - -Caterina drew the hand that held the letter out of her pocket and read -as follows: - - - “CATERINA MIA! - - “This letter, which I am about to write to thee, will not be, like the - others, laden with what my father calls vagaries. This is a serious - letter. Caterina, collect all the sense, all the reason of which you - can dispose; add to it all your experience, call to your help the - whole height and depth of your friendship, and be helpful to me in - counsel and support. Caterina, I have reached the most solemn moment - of my life. A pilgrim and a wanderer, without a guide, I have come - to the crossing of the roads. I must decide. I must reply to the - dark question of the future, the mystic riddle will have its answer; - it calls for a 'Yes,’ or a 'No’. Oh! Caterina, how have I dreaded - this decisive moment! how have I halted and stumbled, as with waning - strength I neared it! Behold, it has caught me up, it is upon me like - an incubus. Listen to me patiently; I will try not to weary you. But - I want to put my position clearly before you. Do you remember when - we spoke of our future, on the College terrace? I told you then, - that I should never marry; that I should seek to fulfil a lowly but - noble mission, one to which I might consecrate my poor strength, the - fervour of my soul, the impulses of a heart enamoured of sacrifice. I - sought, and I had found--what human egoism has debarred me from: my - father, my unloving father, has prevented me from becoming a Sister of - Charity. He would not have them say, 'See, he had but one daughter, - and he made her so unhappy that she has taken the veil!’ If this was - my destiny, may God forgive him for not having permitted me to follow - it. Other missions are either too arduous for my state of health, or - too meagre to satisfy my passionate yearning.... My time was passed in - prayer, almsgiving, in seeking to console the afflicted, but without - any definite occupation or vocation. At last, one day, as it befell - Saint Paul on the road to Damascus, a great light struck my eyes, and - I fell down before the voice of the Lord. He has spoken to me: I have - understood His words, and, lowliest among those lowly ones who dare to - raise their eyes to the Virgin’s throne, I have to say in her words: - 'Lord, behold thy servant, thy will be done!’ - - “Near to me, my own Caterina, was a mission to be accomplished, - a sacrifice to be offered up. Near to me was a suffering being, - condemned by the fatal atavism which has poisoned his blood, to an - agonising death. The doctors do not, among themselves, disguise the - fact that his will not be a long life. Carderelli has said, with - brutal frankness: 'He may live some time, if every precaution is - taken.’ But it is written that he will die the death. He has the germs - of phthisis; he will die of consumption. You guess of whom I speak: my - cousin, Alberto Sanna. He does not know the sad truth about himself, - but we others do: he is condemned. - - “Now picture to yourself the kind of life led by poor Alberto. He is - very rich, but quite alone in the world, at the mercy of mercenary - beings, in the hands of servants who neglect him, and have no love - for him. Pleasure is always tempting him, but he may not, he dares - not.... His friends are bad counsellors: for when he listens to them - he loses the fruit of a month’s care. When he falls ill, he is alone, - uncared for, utterly miserable; it is piteous, my sweet Caterina. As - soon as he begins to recover, he leaves his bed, wraps himself up and - comes to me for comfort and consolation. He is saddened because of his - illness, because he has no one to love him, because he will never have - a family of his own, because all happiness is denied to him, because - at the banquet of life he may only appear for a moment, to disappear, - like the patient of _Gilbert_. He needs a soul, a love of his own: one - who will care for him, love him, who, if she cannot make the remaining - years of his life happy ones, is at least content to pour out all her - tenderness in them. He looks around and sees that he is alone in the - crowd, of no interest to any one. Living, none to love him; dead, none - to mourn him. Well, this creature, this soul, this woman, will I be - to him.... Yes, Caterina, I shall marry Alberto Sanna. It will be a - boundless sacrifice of my youth, my whole life, and every dream of - joy and splendour. It will be a silent holocaust that I shall offer - up to God. For the happiness of a suffering fellow-creature, I will - give my whole happiness. I will cast my life away for the life of an - afflicted being, whose smile will be my only reward. I am not in love - with Alberto Sanna. You know that this earthly and carnal sentiment - has never existed in me, nor will it ever exist. I am overwhelmed - with pity, compassion, for an unhappy fellow-creature, and out of - sheer compassion I wed him. He loves me with a blind, passionate, - and childlike affection--and believes that mine for him is love--and - I wish him to believe it. In some cases, deception is true piety. I - will be to him a faithful wife, a compassionate sister, a watchful - mother, an untiring nurse: he shall never read signs of weariness nor - fatigue on my countenance. I will cut myself off from the society that - he may not frequent. I will say good-bye to all worldly avocations; - they shall not disturb our quiet household. I will forget my own - sufferings, in alleviating his. If one of us must needs be unhappy, I - will be that one. Mute, calm, smiling, I will bury deep in my heart - whatever might pain poor Alberto. I will be his smile.... The future - is a melancholy one. I know not how I shall bear it. May God give - me strength where strength will be needed. For the sake of my poor - dear, for my poor afflicted one, I must live. I hope I shall not fall - ill. God would not lay upon me the burden of having to die before - Alberto. God does not recall those who have a mission upon earth until - it is accomplished. This thought so supports me that I feel as if - triple strength had been given to me. On the other hand, Caterina, - it is necessary that I should leave my home. My father cannot bear - me near him. He would willingly have left me at the College, had it - not been for regard to public opinion. I have already told you as - much. He is an egotist, and indifferent to all human suffering. From - morning till night he finds something to complain of in my attire, - the furniture of my poor rooms, my friends, the time they stay with - me, and what he is pleased to call my 'fatal’ attitude. Every day he - wounds me cruelly. He says the most dreadful things to me: that his - friends consider me eccentric; that my behaviour is mad; that I am - the worst coquette of his acquaintance. How have I wept; how have I - writhed; poor victim that I am, eternally held up to martyrdom by the - Philistine! I bend my head without attempting to reply to him. I am an - obstruction in my own house, Caterina. I have had to make a painful - effort in asking Galimberti to discontinue his frequent visits; they - were the subject of vulgar, scandalous gossip among the servants, who - made a laughing-stock of him. Poor, beloved friend, I have been forced - to sacrifice thee to the world; at the very moment when thou hadst - need of the consolation of my friendship, just at the moment when the - College authorities had, with barbarous injustice, turned thee away! I - write to him from time to time, if only not to break off too suddenly. - I fear that he is very miserable. I try, in my letters to him, to - write the sweetest words that sympathy has ever inspired. Now you see - what my father has done for me! The truth is that my presence casts - a gloom over his house, where he would fain have mirth and laughter. - The truth is that he is younger at forty-two than I am at twenty; that - he wishes I were married, so that he may be free of me. The horrible - truth is that he, who has been a widower for fifteen years, is waiting - for the hour of deliverance, the hour of my marriage, to marry again - himself. - - “So that all and everything combines to draw me closer to Alberto. In - marrying I please my father, I give happiness to my affianced husband, - and peace to my conscience. I need not say to you, who know me, that - no idea of self-interest influences me. Alberto is much better off - than I am; but what are his riches to me? We shall not receive, we - shall only keep two horses in our stable, for the invalid’s drives; I - shall dress simply in black; mourning for a blighted existence.... We - shall have but few servants, having so few wants.... Neither pomp, - nor luxury, nor fêtes, nor balls; the state of Alberto’s health does - not admit of them. I shall be content if he will give me something - for my poor. I shall have to administer our fortune, for he cannot - do so. I will bend my neck under this hard, dry, ungrateful yoke; I - will drink the last drop in the bitter chalice I have prepared for - myself.... - - “But tell me, Caterina, is not this beautiful? Tell me, my placid - critic, if my self-imposed task is not a holy one? Is not my mission - sublime? Is not the act I am about to perform all but a divine one? Do - I not set the crown on my life, with this motto, which henceforward - shall be mine: 'All for others, naught for self?’ Am I not giving - to others a fine example of altruism? I will have no praise; I will - accomplish it in all humility, as one unworthy, but chosen. Give me - your opinion, clearly, sincerely, loyally, as you have ever given it - me, in all vital moments of my life. To you I can repeat that none - have been more vital than is this one. Write me on a scrap of paper: - 'Right, Lucia;’ or only 'Lucia, wrong.’ And return, Caterina, return, - to one who loves thee as surely no other friend was ever loved. - - “LUCIA.” - - -The pure sonorous voice of the reader began to give way towards the -last, and grew hoarse as if from fatigue. She folded up the transparent -sheets, put them back in their envelope, and waited for her husband to -speak. Andrea had sipped two glasses of _vermouth_, and left half of a -third one; his cigar had gone out once or twice. - -“What do you think of it, Nini?” he said at last, as if he were waking -out of a trance. - -“I? I don’t know; I have no ideas of my own. I never had any.” - -“And what are you going to write her?” - -“What you tell me.” - -“I would have you observe,” he said, coldly, “that the Altimare did not -tell you to read her letter to me, or to ask for my advice. She does -not mention me.” - -“But, you see ...” she began, deprecatingly. - -“Yes, I see, and I don’t see. Anyhow, it appears to me to be an -unfortunate marriage.” - -“To me, too.” - -“You are always of my opinion. That Alberto is such a wretched -creature, he does not deserve a woman like Lucia.” - -“True, I will write her ... that she is doing wrong.” - -“Yes. Write to her. She won’t listen to you, but you will have warned -her in time. Or rather ... wait until to-morrow to write.” - -They said no more about it, but all that evening they were absent and -preoccupied. They hardly spoke to each other. They went to the play, -but did not stay for the last act. Andrea passed a disturbed night; -between sleeping and waking, Caterina could hear him turn from side to -side, drawing long breaths and tossing his coverings about. She called -out sleepily to ask what was the matter with him. - -“It’s the coffee! it was too strong,” he muttered. - -Next morning, he took her aside out of her maid’s hearing, and made her -the following short discourse: - -“Listen, Nini. Don’t let us get entangled in other people’s affairs. -We are not infallible, we mustn’t assume responsibilities that are too -serious for us. Let the Altimare marry whom she will. She may be happy -with Alberto. We have no charge of souls. We might give her bad advice. -After all, no one can tell how a marriage may turn out. Write that it’s -all right.” - -She obeyed, for her whole business in life was to believe in the worth -and wisdom of her husband. - - - - - PART III. - - - I. - -As the trains arrived from Rome and Naples, a sea of human beings -poured out of the dirty, wretched, little Caserta station, flooding the -wide, dusty road that is bordered by two fields, where the garrison -horses graze. The scorching sun shone down on black evening coats, -framing expensive white shirt-fronts, as well as on dittos of light -summer cloth, and blue-and-white striped linen costumes, by which the -gilded youth of Naples--with metropolitan irreverence for matters -provincial--implied their intention of ignoring the Hall of the -Inauguration. It shone, too, on overcoats that represented tentative -provincial elegance. Under the domes of their large white sunshades -came ladies of every degree, in every shade of light, fresh, aërial -dresses. They came from Naples, from Santa Maria, from Capua, from -Maddaloni; chattering together, and gesticulating with their fans, and -sniffing at their huge posies: the provincials quieter than the others, -whom they watched and strove to imitate. The sun shone with all its -might on that bright September day, and the ladies stepped out bravely, -in their polished leather shoes with bright buckles. - -In front of them towered the Palace, the poetic dream to which -Vanvitelli has given architectural reality. It maintained its imposing -air of majesty, due to purity of line, exquisite sobriety of ornament, -and the severe harmony of its pale, unfaded colouring, with which time -had dealt so gently. The windows of the first story were wide open, and -so were the three huge doorways which traversed the whole body of the -edifice. And all along the road waved the standard of the province, the -Campania Felice, with the Horn of Plenty pouring out the riches of the -Earth: and the national banners waved in unison. - -Onward went the crowd, as if agriculture were the end and aim of its -existence. This September function was in truth a rural feast, a -pretext for journeys by road or rail, and for enjoying the coolness of -the vast regal saloons.... Besides, the Prime Minister was coming to -prove the love of a northern statesman for a southern province. To many -he was unknown, and they were glad of a chance of seeing him in the -pride and pomp of his ministerial uniform. The more sentimental among -them, those who knew him to be eloquent, came to hear him speak. The -ladies were there for the mysterious, unfathomable reason for which -they go everywhere, especially where they are most likely to be bored. -At the middle entrance, the chief porter, in the royal livery, with a -plume waving in his carabineer’s hat, and a gold-headed wand in his -hand, impassively faced the crowd. People passing out of the dazzling -light and dry heat into the grey twilight and moist freshness of the -Hall, felt a sense of relief on entering it. The majesty of the Palazzo -Reale lent composure to their countenances and subdued their voices; -constraining admiration for its solidity of construction, the elegance -of its arched ceiling, the strength of the quadruple pillars, and the -eurythmy of the four triangular courts that grew out of its centre. - -“It resembles a construction of the Romans,” remarked the Mayor of -Arpino--a fat personage with his badge of office slung across his -portly figure, and gold spectacles, behind which he perpetually -blinked--to the Mayor of Aversa, a lawyer of fox-like cunning and -squat, sturdy appearance. - -There was a murmur of argument and protestation at the foot of the -grand staircase; the ushers were politely inflexible. Unless you wore -evening dress, you might not enter the Hall of Inauguration. Many -of the uninitiated appeared in their overcoats. A tall, fair, burly -exhibitor, brick-red in the face, with a diamond flashing on his -little finger, had come in a cutaway jacket. - -“I exhibit a bull, two cows, two sheep, and twelve fowls: I shall pass -in,” he repeated; “besides, I’ve got my wife with me, I must escort -her.” - -“No one can enter here without evening dress,” replied the ushers. - -“I don’t mind being alone, Mimi,” murmured his wife, a buxom -provincial, dressed in mourning, with an enormous train, a hat and -feathers, and superb brilliants in her ears. - -“Well, go up then, Rosalia. I’ll go and have a look at the fowls. -You’ll find me in the park after the speechifying in evening dress is -over.” - -And thus did the overcoats disappear in the courtyards or the park, -while men in evening attire and ladies slowly ascended the broad, low, -milk-white marble steps of the majestic stair. The ladies heaved sighs -of content, they revelled in the gradual ascent to regal magnificence -and the charmed silence stirred by a luxurious silken rustle. -Triumphant gentlemen in their black coats crowded upon them, hiding -behind their opera-hats the self-satisfied ecstasy of their smile. The -old Palace, which had witnessed the splendour of Carlo III., the folly -of Maria Carolina, the military fêtes of Murat, the popular ones of -Ferdinand I., was awakening for an hour to the luxury of modern dress, -the perfume of youth and beauty, the cold lustre of precious stones -and all the lavish pomp of a court. That feast of the people, of the -peasants--that feast of the soil, of its fruits, and cereals, and -animals, that should have been so humbly prosaic and commonplace--was -like a refined and courtly function, the birth of an hereditary prince -or an official New Year’s reception. - -“What victory for democracy, to have enthroned itself within the -tyrant’s halls, there to celebrate a rural feast,” quoth the -tun-bellied, squint-eyed lawyer Galante, from Cassino--he was bald, and -the only Socialist the province boasted--to the monarchical chancellor, -who was duly scandalised. - -The inauguration was to take place in the vast Farnese Hall with its -four windows on the façade; between the windows was the ministerial -platform, covered with green velvet adorned with gold cord, and -furnished with a bell, an inkstand, three glasses, a water-bottle, and -a sugar-basin, all pregnant with meaning. Around them were grouped five -red velvet armchairs. A step lower, between the ministerial platform -and the body of the Hall, was the presidential platform, furnished -with a grey carpet and five antique leather chairs. To the right, to -the left, and in front, rows of chairs for those who had received -invitations, three rows of armchairs for the ladies, and rush-bottomed -ones for the men. - -When Lucia Altimare-Sanna and Caterina Lieti appeared at the entrance, -escorted by a single squire, Alberto Sanna, of the worn and gruesome -countenance, Andrea Lieti hastily stepped down from the presidential -eminence, darted through the crowd, and offered his arm to Lucia. - -“Follow me with Caterina, Alberto; I’ll find you a good place.” - -A murmur followed Andrea and Lucia as they passed through the crowd. -Lucia in her long white satin robe, that clung to her and gleamed like -steel in the sun, where it was not swathed with antique lace, was truly -lovely and captivating. On the loose plaits of dark hair which waved on -her forehead was draped a priceless veil of finest Venetian point, in -lieu of a bonnet; it wound round her neck and was fastened under one -ear by three white roses, fresh and dewy, with shell-pink hearts. No -jewels. The same tint flushed her cheek, which was fuller than of yore; -the red lips, now no longer parched, were fuller too. She smiled on her -tall, strong knight, who bent his handsome person protectingly towards -her. - -“Who is she?” “The wife of Lieti?” “No, a relation of his wife’s.” -“She is beautiful!” “Too thin, but pleasing!” “Too much dressed!” -“_Che!_ it’s an official function.” “She is beautiful!” “Beautiful!” -“Beautiful!” - -The couple that followed in their wake passed unheeded through the -murmur, which, however, was not lost on either of them. Caterina was -simply dressed in lilac. She wore a feather of the same pale colour -on her tiny bonnet, and in her ears enormous diamond solitaires, “to -please Andrea.” But she was small, modest, and obscured by her friend’s -lustre, as if she had tried to hide herself behind it, and her escort -was undersized and undistinguished by either badge or decoration. He -and she heard the “_Bella, bella, bella!_” that hovered in whispers on -people’s lips. - -“They admire Lucia,” whispered Alberto, in the pride of his heart. - -“Of course, she is, and always has been, very beautiful,” said -Caterina, in placid and persistent admiration of her friend. - -“Oh! not as she used to be. She was not nearly so attractive before her -marriage. Now she is another woman. Happiness....” - -“Lucia is an angel,” declared Alberto, gravely. “I am not worthy of -her.” - -By this time they reached their places in the front row, opposite the -platform. - -There were two armchairs for the ladies, who took their seats, while -the men remained standing; Andrea by the side of Lucia, Alberto by -Caterina. Lucia’s train fell at her feet in a fluffy heap of silk -and lace, just allowing a glimpse of a tiny foot shod in white, -silver-worked leather; she fanned herself, for it was very hot. From -time to time Andrea bent down to speak to her, and she raised her eyes -as if to answer him in low tones, while a smile raised the corners -of her lips and showed her teeth. Alberto, who was at a loss for a -seat, was soon bored and wearied; he had a presentiment of a lengthy -ceremony. Caterina, who had been elected a member of the jury for -needlework, in the Didactic section, was somewhat preoccupied. The -office appeared to her to be an onerous and important one; what would -they expect of her, and what if she proved inadequate? - -“Who is that immensely tall man, rather bald, with the long black -whiskers, who has just entered? How tall he is? Who is he, Signor -Andrea?” - -“He is the Member for Santa Maria.” - -“_Dio mio!_ he is taller than you. I did not think that was possible. -Will he speak?” - -“I think not.” - -“How sorry I am that you are not going to speak, Lieti. If I were your -wife, I should have insisted on your speaking.” - -Caterina started. “I did not think of it,” she murmured, her mind -running absently on the meeting of the ladies of the jury. - -“Alberto _mio_, are you too warm? How do you feel? Will you have my -fan?” - -“I don’t feel the heat; I wish I could sit down. Thanks, dear.” - -“Lieti, will you find a chair for Alberto; he gets so soon tired. I -could not stay here, if he had to stand.” - -Andrea sought, until he at last succeeded in finding a seat for Alberto -in the next row, between two old ladies who sat behind Caterina. - -Alberto, with visible satisfaction, tucked himself between their skirts. - -“Are you comfortable now?” - -“Very, dearest.” - -“Will you have a lozenge?” - -“No, by-and-by. Don’t think of me: look about you, chatter, amuse -yourself, Lucia.” - -“My poor Alberto,” said Lucia--speaking so that only Andrea could hear -her--“is a continual source of torment to me. I would give my blood to -enrich his.” - -“You are good,” said Andrea. - -Meanwhile the people were arriving in crowds, and filling every -nook and corner, even to the recesses in the window, and the steps -of the platform. In one corner sat a group of young men chatting -without lowering their voices; one of them was scribbling notes in -a pocket-book, another making telegraphic signs to the secretary of -the committee, another yawning. Among them was a young woman, simply -dressed in mourning; her face, under her black-brimmed hat, was pale -and sickly. - -“Those are the journalists,” said Andrea to Lucia. “There are the -correspondents of the _Liberta_, the _Popolo Romano_, the _Fanfulla_, -for Rome; of the _Pungolo_ and the _Piccolo_, for Naples.” - -“And is she a journalist?” - -“I think so, but I don’t know her name.” - -“I envy her, if she is intelligent; she at least has an aim.” - -“Bah! you would rather be a woman.” - -“Glory is worth having.” - -“But love is better,” he continued, in a serious tone. - -“... Love?” - -Caterina did not hear. She was thinking of home, where she fancied -she had left the jewel-safe open. With these fashionable gowns it was -impossible to put your keys in your pocket. Despite her confidence in -her servants at Centurano, she could not help feeling a little anxious. - -“Do you remember, Lucia, if I locked the jewel-safe?” - -“No, dear, I do not remember. It will be quite safe, even if you have -not locked it.” - -“Do you, Signor Sanna?” - -“Yes; you locked it, and put the key under the clock.” - -“Thanks, thank you; you take a load off my mind.” - -“Signora Lucia, Caterina, I must go and speak to the Prime Minister.” - -“Are you going to leave us?” - -“I shall be here opposite to you. Caterina, don’t yawn, child, remember -that you are the wife of the vice-president of a committee.” - -She smiled absently, and nodded to him. - -A treble hedge of ladies, and then a multitude of black coats, on -which the light dresses stood out like splashes of colour: a vivid, -undulating crowd, disported itself under the gildings of the regal -ceiling. - -“Oh! it’s lovely, Caterina,” said Lucia, flushed with excitement. -At that moment there came from the staircase a suppressed sound of -applause. A flutter stirred the whole assembly as it turned to face -the Prime Minister, who entered, leaning on the arm of his friend, the -Member for Caserta. He was lame on the one leg that had been wounded in -battle; he stooped slightly. His massive head was covered with thick -iron-grey locks, well planted on a square brow: the head of a faithful -watch-dog, with bold, honest eyes, wide nostrils and a firm jaw. The -grey moustache covered a mouth of almost infantile sweetness, to which -the _impériale_ lent a certain meditative seriousness. He bowed, taking -evident pleasure in the prolonged applause, one of the few pleasures -of official life; then ascended the platform, and after once more -responding to the ovation, seated himself in its centre. - -“He is a brave man: he has fought in every battle; he comes of a family -of heroes,” explained Lucia to Caterina. - -Then came the chorus of coughing, throat-scraping, and clearing of -voices which precedes all speeches. Next to the Premier was seated -the Member for Sora, a white-haired veteran whose chin was fringed -with a white beard, a financier of somewhat furtive expression of -countenance. On the left sat the Member for Capua, cool, composed, and -distinguished-looking as ever. Two empty places. The Member for Caserta -mingled with the crowd. The Prime Minister raised his voice to speak, -amid breathless silence. - -To tell the truth, the collar of his uniform came up too high at the -back of his neck and gave him an appearance of awkwardness. He leant -forward while he spoke, gazing fixedly at one point in the Hall, losing -himself and his words from sheer absence of mind, and occasionally -indulging in long pauses that passed for oratorical effects, but were -probably due to the same cause. He pointed one hand on the table, -while the right described a vague circular gesture, as if he were -setting a clock. - -“He is unwinding the thread of his eloquence,” quoth Lucia, with much -emotion. - -He expressed himself poetically, here and there falling into the -rhetorical, ready-made phrases which strike so pleasantly on the ear -of an attentive crowd. “Yes, he was indeed happy to put aside for a -moment the cares of State and the burden of politics, to be present at -this festival of labour--of labour that, despite its humility, is so -ennobling to the horny hand of the peasant....” - -No effect. The Hall was filled with well-dressed landowners, who did -not appreciate this sentimentalism. - -“Besides,” he continued, “this festival assumes an historic character. -The Romans, ladies and gentlemen, our great ancestors, who were gifted -with the very poetry of diction, named this province the _Campania -Felice_....” - -Here the assembly, moved by the music of his words, broke into thunders -of applause. The journalists scribbled in their note-books, supporting -them with an air of infinite importance either on their knees or -against the wall. - -“We have named it _Terra di Lavoro_, a yet more poetic name, indicating -as it does the daily call of man on his mother earth, on that -earth--that earth--that Alma Demeter to whom of yore the labourers’ -hymns were raised. We also salute her, the beneficent mother, -inexhaustible fount of social well-being, blessed bosom that nourishes -us without stint or weariness.” - -Here, being tired, he sipped. A thrill of satisfaction ran through the -assembly, well pleased with its statesman. He began again, shrugging -his shoulders imperceptibly as if resigned to their burden, and -resumed. The moral atmosphere was cold, it needed warming. Then rang -out the sonorous words and broad phrases of little meaning that floated -like a vision before the mind’s eye of the somewhat bewildered company. -He spoke confusedly of enterprise, the new machinery we owe to -England, the _contadino_, the vast future of agriculture; on Bentham, -on universal suffrage, primary instruction, the Horn of Plenty, and -decentralisation. He slipped for a moment on “Regionalism,” but caught -himself up; then lost his way and became absorbed in thought, with one -hand suspended in mid-air, arrested midway while describing a circle. -Slowly he came to himself again, referring to _la patria_ and the fight -for independence. The Hall rang with applause. - -“This magnificent Exhibition, which unites to the sheaf of corn of -the poor _contadino_, the domestic animal trained by the aged dame, -the flower cultivated by the fine lady, the school exercise written -by the labourer’s child, is a happy manifestation of every energy, of -every--yes, of every force....” - -And transported and intoxicated by his own words, his hand described so -rapid a circle that the face of the invisible clock appeared to be in -imminent danger; he had knocked down the bell and an empty glass. He -referred to the Government, to efface the impression produced by this -disaster. - -“The Government, ladies and gentlemen--and especially the Minister for -Agriculture, whom a slight indisposition has debarred from being here -to-day--says to you by my lips that this festival, a living proof of -fecund prosperity and of useful activity, is a national festival. The -affluence of every single _commune_ is the affluence of the State; this -is the ideal the Government has in view. It will do its utmost within -the limits of the means at its disposal, and the power it wields, -to help this brave and laborious country where Garibaldi has fought -and....” - -“_Viva_ Garibaldi!” cried the company. - -“And where landed proprietors work together with their tenants for the -good of the community. The Government is imbued with good intentions -that in the course of time will become facts. But what appears to me to -be the feature the most touching in its beauty is the holding of this -domestic feast in the Palace of the banished Bourbons--is this triumph -of the people, where the people have so suffered....” - -“_Beneeee!_” - -“Only under a constitutional country like ours, only under the -beneficent rule of the House of Savoy, a race of knightly soldiers, -could this miracle be accomplished. I call upon you to join with me in -the cry, _Viva il Re! Viva la Regina!_” - -He fell back tired, his eye dull under its flaccid lid, while his -under-lip hung slack. Mechanically he wiped his brow, while the crowd -continued to applaud; the Deputies closed up around him, and there -was some congratulatory hand-shaking. He thanked them with studied -courtesy, bestowing Ministerial hand-shakes and endeavouring to ensure -his jeopardised majority. - -In the bustle which ensued Andrea hastened to join the ladies. - -“You liked it, didn’t you? Splendid voice!” - -“He said some stupendous things that the stupid people did not -understand,” pronounced Lucia, disdainfully. - -And she opened her fan, so that she succeeded in attracting the notice -of the group of journalists; perhaps they would mention her in their -reports. - -“Are you bored, Caterina?” queried Andrea. - -“No, it’s like the Chamber of Deputies,” she replied, with placid -resignation. - -“Are you hungry?” asked Andrea of Alberto, whose yawns were savagely -distending the pallid lips of his wide mouth. - -“Hungry indeed! I wish I were!” - -Then all resumed their seats, for the Member for Capua had advanced to -the front of the platform, so that his entire person was visible; he -waited for silence, to read his paper. The Prime Minister had seated -himself opposite to him, in that attitude of mock attention whose -assumption is so notable a faculty in a statesman. - -The clear light eyes of the tall, distinguished-looking Deputy looked -at the crowd. He wore the riband of the order of SS. Maurizzio -and Lazzero round his neck, and many foreign decorations at his -button-hole. With his powerful torso, erect carriage, and a countenance -so impassive that it neither expressed sound nor hearing, he was -a perfect type of the ex-soldier. There was no denying that his -appearance was more correct than that of the Prime Minister, his -features more refined, and his gestures more artistic. There was -something British in the grave composure and sobriety of his diction. -He read slowly, giving out every word with a high-bred voice that -was almost acid in its sharpness. And, strange to say, his speech, -which had been written beforehand, was a flat contradiction of the -Prime Minister’s rhetorical improvisation. He made short work of -the poetry of the Horn of Plenty and the Sweat of the Brow. He said -that the Exhibition was a step in the right direction, but it was -not everything; that the economic and financial movement had not yet -begun to work among the labouring classes; that its impetus must -necessarily be deadened as long as the present harsh fiscal system -continued to prevail; that certain experiments in English cultivation -and model-farming had been unsuccessful. He said that it was of no -avail to demand of the land more than it could yield: that only -meant exhaustion. He added that the agricultural question was a far -more serious one than it appeared to be, but that the splendour of -southern skies and a mild climate softened the hardships of meridional -provinces. This was the only concession to poetry made by this -poet--for he was, above all, a poet. But the unbiassed conscience of a -wealthy and experienced landowner spoke higher in him than sentiment. -The Minister listened, nodding his approval, as if all these ideas -had been his own, instead of a frank and decided contradiction to -everything he had said. The Member added, after a telling pause, and -with a smile--his first--that he did not wish to preach pessimism on -a day of rejoicing, and that this insight into genuine agricultural -life was in itself of some moment. The province tendered its thanks to -His Majesty’s Government, in the person of its Premier, for promises -on which it built hopes of sure fulfilment, for he who made them was -a hero, a patriot, and a brave soldier. Ever sensitive to praise, the -Prime Minister flushed like a boy with the pleasure of it; then the -Member calmly and quietly brought his speech to a close, without having -sipped a drop of water or shown any signs of fatigue. The applause -was prolonged, steady, and enthusiastic. The speech had been cold and -lacking in sonorous rumble; but the audience had felt the truth of it. -The Prime Minister all but embraced his beloved Deputy, who in the last -division had voted against him. He accepted the demonstration quietly. -The spectators could decipher no meaning on his high-bred sphinx-like -face. In profile he was more soldier-like than ever, and the only -trace of nervousness about him was a slight involuntary movement of -one shoulder. The public rose to salute the departing Prime Minister; -leaning on the Prefect’s arm, he passed through the applause of the -front rows, dragging the leg that had been wounded at Palermo, one of -the personal glories that helped him to govern. Behind him came the -Mayors and other functionaries, and all the journalists, in a bustle of -importance. On the stairs there was a second, weak, scant attempt at -applause. - -“The Member for Capua was fine, but cold, Caterina,” said Lucia, who -was standing to see the people pass. - -“Do you think so?” said Caterina, who held no opinion on the subject, -with indifference. - -“Oh! cold,” added Alberto, who always adopted the opinion of his wife. - -“Shall we go?” - -“I,” said Caterina, timidly, “have to go to the Didactic Exhibition; -their first meeting is for to-day.” - -“Then Alberto and I will take a turn in the Exhibition, until you and -your husband have shaken off these onerous duties.” - -“_Sai_, Lucia, I am tired, and I shan’t take a turn in the Exhibition.” - -“Then we will go to the park.” - -“Worse than ever, because of the sun,” he persisted, beginning to -sulk. Lucia smiled as if in resignation. Caterina was embarrassed, for -until the meeting was over and the Prime Minister took his departure, -she and her husband were not at liberty. - -“Well, Alberto _mio_, what will you do?” - -“Drink an iced lemonade and go home. I shall sleep until dinner-time.” - -“_Bene_, I will go home with you;” she suppressed a sigh. - -“Oh! my poor heart, what a continual sacrifice,” whispered Caterina, as -she embraced her friend. - - * * * * * - -A little later, Alberto passed alone through the Didactic section, and -calling Caterina aside, said to her: - -“When you have finished, Signora Lieti, you will find Lucia in the -park, quite alone, near the lake; she is there thinking, dear soul. She -pined for air, so I took her there and left her. I’m not a selfish man, -and I’m going away to sleep. Can you go soon?” - -“As soon as I can.” - -Alberto went off on those weak legs of his, of which the trousers -were always baggy, turning up the collar of his coat because he was -perspiring. He came upon Andrea in the Hemp section, in the midst of a -group of exhibitors who were accompanying the Prime Minister. - -“When you’ve done here, go into the park, where you’ll find your -Signora with mine, awaiting you in the little shrubbery by the lake. -But make haste. I’m going home to sleep. Is there a bar here?” - -“Yes, on the ground-floor.” - -“I want a glass of Marsala. Shall you be home in time for dinner?” - -“To be sure; pleasant dreams to you.” - -He watched him depart with pity for an existence so poor in health and -strength, useless alike to himself and others. But this Minister was -insatiable. As if he knew anything about madder, or dried beans, or -yellow gourds! Now it’s the turn of the cocoons! Andrea was beginning -to weary: while the Prime Minister was engaged in conversation with the -Prefect and the Member for Nola with that cadaverous face and ambiguous -blond hair, he wouldn’t be likely to speak to him. Andrea would have -liked to leave; he was getting bored with the official circle and -the stupid march of inspection throughout the building. Besides, he -suffered from the heat, and how cool it must be out there in the -park! Yet he lingered, a victim of his ambition, in the hope that the -Minister would speak to him at last. - -“In the Grain section, I shall bolt, unless he sends for me before we -get there,” said he to himself. They passed not only the grain, but the -fodder. Andrea felt his anger rising as they passed through the Hall -of the Oils, upon which the sun cast yellow rays. “I shall leave him -at the Wines,” he thought; he was incensed and quite red in the face. -But in the Wine section, in front of a pyramid of bottles, the Minister -called out: - -“Signor Lieti!” - -“Your Excellency!” - -“You are a brave worker in the common cause: here is some of your wine. -Fine Italian wines should be cultivated, if only out of patriotism. We -drink too much Bordeaux and Champagne; France intoxicates us.” - -“Your Excellency....” - -“The congratulations of the Government are due to you, as an -influential citizen, who utilises his activity in this public service -... to which I add my personal compliments.” - -Andrea bowed low, in mingled pride and shyness. He had had his share: -the Minister was now flattering the Member for Cassino also on his -wines. Besides, they had been all over the Exhibition; now they were -about to inspect the cattle and poultry in the park. - -“Now he has spoken to me he won’t say anything to me about my fowls; I -shall take to my heels.” Contented, with the blood once more running -freely through his veins, fanning himself with his _gibus_, his gloves -stuck in his waistcoat, he slipped away by a back staircase which -shortened the distance. - -“He will say nothing to me ... nothing to me ... nothing to me ... -nothing about the fowls,” he hummed, as he crossed the courtyard. - -Once in the park, he walked rapidly, but was disappointed in not -meeting with any one at the lake of the Castelluccia. - -“Where can they have got to?” he murmured, with flagging spirits. He -went the round of the wide, oval shrubbery that fringes the little -lake. In one corner, in a thin streak of light under the dome of her -white, red-lined sunshade, sat Lucia, on a rustic bench. She was alone, -and sat with her face turned away from him. Andrea thought he would -turn back; yet Caterina could not be far off. So he approached rather -shyly, intimidated by the white figure, crowned with blonde rays, their -radiance playing on her cheeks and on the rustic background. Lucia did -not hear his steps, despite the rustle in the dry leaves. She uttered a -cry when he appeared before her. - -“Oh! how easily you are frightened!” he said, with an assumed ease of -manner. - -She held out a trembling hand to him. Andrea, feeling rather awkward, -remained standing before her. - -“Won’t you sit down?” - -“No; I’m not tired.” - -“Has it been a long affair?” - -“Have you been long waiting?” - -“I think so; at least, it seemed long to me;” she smiled a melancholy -smile. “How beautiful it is here, Lieti!” - -“Oh! beautiful. What a fool I must look in evening clothes in the midst -of this green country!” - -“No; for this country is artificial, it savours of powder and patches. -The branches of these trees look as if they had been trimmed with -scissors. Oh! who will give me Nature--real great, omnipotent Nature?” - -“When your voice falls in longing, it is enchanting,” said Andrea, with -admiration in his eyes. - -“Do not you long for real country?” - -“Eh! it is not always poetic. Sometimes it is barren, at others it -smells too much of lime. But I know where to find your ideal; the dark -wood, the narrow paths, the lake hidden in the thicket....” - -“_Dio!_ ... You know where all that is, Andrea!” And she crossed her -hands on her bosom, her voice trembling from desire. - -“Here, in the English Garden.” - -“Far, far, far?” - -“No; near, three-quarters of an hour’s walk.” - -They looked fixedly at each other as if they were debating something. -She cast a glance around her, and then bowed her head and sighed in -resignation. Andrea felt inclined to sigh too, there was a weight upon -his chest. With a gesture familiar to him, he threw down his hat and -passed his hand through his curly hair. She stretched out a little foot -whose jewelled buckle shone in the sun. - -“You are too beautiful to-day. It is quite insufferable,” said Andrea, -with a forced laugh. - -“To please Alberto.... I am not fond of dressing extravagantly; I -cannot see the pleasure of it. I am, as you know, inaccessible to -vanity.” - -“I know ... but I think Alberto is a fool.” - -“Don’t say so, Signor Andrea; poor Alberto, he is but unhappy.” - -“You don’t understand me. Why does he make you dress like that? Every -one looks at you. Isn’t he jealous?” - -“No; I think not.” - -“If I were your husband I should be madly jealous,” he cried. - -For the space of a second, Lucia was startled and shrank back. Then -she broke into her habitual smile, a smile of voluptuous and seductive -melancholy. - -“I am always frightening you,” said Andrea, troubled, in a lamentable -voice. - -“No; I know it’s only your way.” - -“It’s my temperament; sometimes the blood goes to my head, and mad -ideas get into it. Listen, let me say all. If I were your husband, I -should be madly jealous, jealous to insanity. I feel that I should beat -you, strangle you....” - -Lucia closed her eyes, inebriated. - -“And listen, listen,” he gasped; “I want to tell you what I have never -dared to say to you until now ... to ask your pardon for that evening -... when I behaved like a brute.... Have you forgiven me?” Thrilling -with the mere thought of the scene he had evoked, his entreaty was as -passionate as the emotion caused by memory. - -“Yes,” she replied, a barely audible “yes,” that came after some -hesitation. - -“You do really forgive me?” - -“I forgive you. Do not let us talk about it.” - -“One word more. Did you say anything to....” - -“To whom?” - -“... to Alberto?” - -“No, nothing.” - -“Thank you.” - -He drew himself up as if he were both relieved and satisfied: there -was a secret between them about which they could talk without being -understood by any one else--about which neither could think without -knowing that the other shared the thought. Lucia started imperceptibly, -and then turned and asked him: - -“And you?” - -“What?” - -“Have you spoken of it?” - -“To whom?” - -“To Caterina, to your Nini?” - -“No, no...!” in evident agitation. - -“You might have told her,” she replied slowly, “you who love her so -much.” - -“It would have pained her ... and....” - -“Pained her for whom? For your sake, perhaps.” - -“For yours. She loves you.” - -“True. Caterina is an excellent creature, Signor Andrea: her good -qualities are remarkable, although they make no show. Love her ever, -for she deserves it; love her with all your might. Before my marriage, -I used to fear that my Caterina, my sweet friend, was unhappy. She -loves you above all; make her happy....” - -Caterina was coming towards them, smiling, and a little out of breath. - -“Have I kept you waiting very long? Have you been here long, Andrea?” - -“No; not very long.” - -“Did the Prime Minister speak to you?” - -“Yes; he was very complimentary.” - -“About the wheat?” - -“No, about the wine made on the new system.” - -“And the fowls?” - -“Nothing, I didn’t go there. And what have you done, Nini?” - -“Talkee, talkee, nothing settled. The worst of it is that I shall have -to go there every morning.” - -“For how many days?” - -“I don’t know; eight or ten, perhaps.” - -“A bore, Nini; but you are kind and patient.” - -“That is what we were saying,” observed Lucia; “that you are an angel -and worthy of adoration.” - -“An angel and worthy of adoration,” repeated Andrea, mechanically. - - - II. - -The Princess Caracciolo, the great benefactress of the poor, the -aged, and the children, presided. She reigned in the Hall of Maria -Carolina, where the ladies of the jury were assembled, with the mingled -air of regal hauteur and amiable piety peculiar to her. An ascetic -pallor had left her cheeks colourless and her lips faded; while her -person retained the seductive grace of the woman who had loved, and -loved to be beautiful. She had left her own poor and her children, -for the sake of these other children. The thirty ladies had, with one -voice, elected her as their president. There was only one man, the -secretary, among them--a professor, a pedagogue, saturated with the -principles of Froebel and of Pick; a bald, ambiguous-looking, and -perfectly innocuous being. The ladies of the jury sat in a circle, -on brocaded couches, where the most opposite types were brought into -juxtaposition. Three German teachers had come from Naples: one, tall, -thin and brick-coloured, with her hair in a green net; another, older, -stout, florid, and dressed in black; the third was a deal plank, with -a waxen head stuck on the end of it; all three had gold spectacles -and guide-books. They were talking, with animation, to each other, in -their own language, the deal plank ejaculating rapid _ja’s_ by fits and -starts. Then there were the Directresses of the Institutes of Caserta, -Santa Maria, and Maddaloni; all frills and cheap trinkets, black silk -dresses, starched collars and light gloves. A couple of professors’ -wives, of the genus that teaches, brings children into the world, and -does the cooking. They had pale, emaciated faces, were flat where -they should have been round, and protuberant where they should have -been flat. Then eight or ten wealthy ladies from the neighbourhood, -provincial aristocracy or plutocracy, wives of landed proprietors or -communal councillors; with bored, inexpressive faces, and toilets -that had come from Naples, some being worn awkwardly and others with -supreme elegance. Among the notabilities were the Contessa Brambilla, -a fresh-looking young woman, with perfectly white hair and very bright -eyes; the illustrious poetess Nina, small, fragile and vivacious as a -grain of pepper; the wife of the Member for Santa Maria, a calm austere -woman, with full pensive eyes. All these ladies inspected each other -with a curiosity they endeavoured to dissemble, while they discussed -the relative merits of hand-made stockings, hand-stitched shirts, and -darns in felt. Some of them carried special communications to and fro -from the presidential platform. - -Caterina was the most silent of them all; she was reading, or -pretending to read, in her little note-book. It was a present of the -day before from her husband; on its morocco binding was the name -_Nini_. Andrea had become more tenderly affectionate of late, and in -this tenderness she sunned herself with devout collectedness and the -absence of demonstration that characterised her. When they were alone, -Andrea would take her on his knee or carry her round their room in -his arms, murmuring “Nini, Nini,” ever “Nini,” while he kissed her. -And it sometimes happened that on these occasions his voice trembled -from emotion; he no longer laughed his noisy laugh that used to make -the house ring with its mirth. Perhaps it was because of the guests -who had been with them for the last fortnight. Caterina had long known -that Andrea’s character had all the delicacy of a woman’s. In the -presence of those two sickly beings, Alberto, a martyr to his cough, -and Lucia, a prey to latent or pronounced _nevrose_, Andrea restrained -the exuberance of his perfect health. When he went out he abstained, -from delicacy, from kissing Caterina in their presence; for Alberto -never kissed Lucia in public. Perhaps that was why Andrea made such -enthusiastic love to her when they were alone, to make up for all the -time they passed in a friendly _partie carrée._ - -Caterina was not less bored than the other eight or ten ladies of her -set. She could not appreciate the needlework exhibits: stockings in -coarse, yellowish thread, knitted with rusty needles; shirts covered -with the fly-marks accumulated during the six months they had been in -hand, sewn with big, inexpert stitches, ill-cut and folded in coarse -material; interminable productions in every kind of crochet, darns -done with hair, miracles of patience, that made her sick. The exhibits -had been sent in in heaps, badly arranged and catalogued, from rural -schools, in which the teachers laboured, almost in vain, to teach -the use of the needle to poor fingers hardened by the use of the -spade--rural schools that can neither provide needles, thread, irons, -nor material wherewith to work. Caterina with her instinctive love of -pure, fine, sweet-smelling linen, felt a sort of physical disgust in -inspecting these objects of dubious whiteness. Besides, what did she -know about it? These humble accomplishments had not been taught her. -She felt her own ignorance, and offered up inward thanks that it had -saved her from the vice-presidency of a district. - -Meanwhile the meeting continued in academic form, in discussion -that was at once official and colloquial. The vice-presidents read -lengthy accounts of their own districts, and insisted on prizes being -distributed to everybody: the poetess suggested buying materials for -those pupils who were too poor to do so for themselves: the professor -read letters of sympathy and adhesion from pedagoguish clubs and -committees; but Caterina heard not a word of it all. There was the -cook, who did just as he chose lately. Since Lucia and Alberto had come -to pass the villa season with her, Caterina was more particular than -ever as to her table. Those two were so delicate; they needed strong -_bouillon_ and light dishes; quite a different diet from Andrea’s, -which was also hers. She and Andrea ate underdone meat and refreshing -salads; and the fish question was a serious one at Caserta, an inland -town, where the fish had to be sent from Naples and Gaeta, and was not -always fresh. One day, in fact one evening, Caterina had sent Peppino, -a labourer, to Naples, for soles; her two guests often partook of this -delicate, innocuous fish. And now, what with official entertainments, -banquets, and hotels filled to overflowing, the market was cleared out -in a moment. - -Mouzu Giovanni, with whom she held a consultation every morning, shook -his head doubtfully on the slightest provocation, saying sceptically: - -“If we can get any! If there is any in the market! If it isn’t all -gone.” - -This was the difficult question which Caterina was debating, while the -Princess Caracciolo requested the ladies to proceed to the election -of a vice-president, who in one report would combine those of six -divisions. Caterina was in continual fear of not having sufficiently -mastered the study of Lucia’s tastes, poor nervous creature that she -was, whose digestion was completely destroyed. She had arranged a -pretty, fresh, airy room for her--hung with Pompadour cretonne, a room -full of pretty nicknacks, to please her. But she believed that in -secret Lucia hankered after her _prie-dieu_, which she had taken away -from her father’s house to her own in Via Bisignano. One afternoon, -when Alberto and Andrea had gone out riding, Caterina had entered the -room and found Lucia on her knees before a chair, just as she used to -kneel at school. If she could but arrange with Alberto to send Peppino -to Naples to fetch the _prie-dieu_, what a pleasant surprise for Lucia! -It could surely be managed without much difficulty, and it would give -her so much pleasure! Ah, she must remember to write to Naples for -good tea--Souchong; for Lucia said that from September on she could -only drink tea in the evening: coffee was too exciting for her nerves. -The question was whether she should write to Caflish or to Van Bol for -Souchong; Andrea would know; he was always well posted in such matters. - -“Signora Lieti, will you come and vote?” broke in the Princess -Caracciolo, gently. - -Caterina, scarcely realising what she was doing, wrote the first name -that occurred to her on her script, which she then rolled up and -dropped in the crystal bowl. Looking at her little gold watch, she -returned to her place. It was getting late; they had been there, losing -their time, for nearly three hours. - -Elsewhere, at home for instance, she could have employed it usefully. -The washerwoman had brought home an enormous pile of washing, and -Caterina never allowed it to be ironed until she had carefully examined -it and ascertained where a button or a tape was missing. The linen was -new, but she suspected the washerwoman of using potash, because of -certain tiny holes she had discovered therein. She had taxed her with -it, and the woman had replied that she was incapable of such deception, -and that all she used was pure wood-ash and soap. - -At last there was a stir in the meeting. The result of the voting was -uncertain; it was even remarkable for divergence of opinion. Each lady -appeared either to have given her vote to herself or to the person who -happened to be sitting next her. The Princess read out each scrip with -the same indulgent smile. She was a woman of unerring tact, who saw -and noted all that befell in her presence. She requested the ladies to -do their voting over again, and to make up their minds to one name, so -that some result might be attained. They then formed into groups; the -Colonel’s wife went from one juror to the other, talking to each in an -undertone. - -“Signora Lieti, would you like to vote for the Member’s wife? We ought -to get an unanimous vote.” - -“I will vote for any one you please. Will the meeting last much longer?” - -“Don’t talk about it; it’s torture. To-day I am supposed to be at home -to the superior officers, and my husband is there waiting for me, and I -shall find him furious. Shall we decide on that name?” - -“I am quite of your opinion.” - - * * * * * - -Andrea, Alberto, and Lucia were walking up and down the agricultural -show. They had driven over to Caserta after luncheon, leaving Caterina -in the Hall of the Didactic Jury, and promising to call for her soon. -That day Alberto had declared that he felt perfectly well and strong, -and he intended to see everything. Lucia, on the contrary, happened -to be in a bad humour; still she had vouchsafed a smile of melancholy -joy when the news was broken to her. Andrea was happy in his summer -garments--a great relief to him after the evening attire which had -sat so heavily on him the day before. He felt at his ease, free and -content, and frequently addressed himself to Alberto. Lucia, walking -between them, listened in silence. They stopped before everything of -interest--she longer than her companions--so that she did not always -keep up with them. - -“Are you in low spirits to-day?” queried Andrea at last. - -“No, no,” she replied, shaking her head. - -“Do you feel ill?” - -“Not worse than usual.” - -“Then what is it?” - -“Nothing.” - -“Nothing ... is too little.” - -“It is nothing that spoils my life for me.” - -“Don’t ask her questions,” said Alberto to Andrea, as they went on in -front; “it’s one of her bad days.” - -“What do you do when she is in one of her bad days?” - -“Nothing. If she doesn’t care to speak, I ask her no questions; if she -speaks, I don’t contradict her. It’s the least I can do for her. Do you -realise the sacrifice she has made in marrying me?” - -“What an idea!” - -“No, no; I am right. She is an angel, Andrea, an angel! and a woman at -the same time. If I could but tell you.... No lemons or oranges here, -are there, Andrea?” - -“No, Alberto. You must know that the soil is unfavourable to them. -Besides, we are too far inland; they thrive well along the coast. Have -you many at Sorrento?” - -“Oh, a good many; and, _sai_, they yield six per cent. free of -income-tax, while other produce only yields two and a half.” - -Lucia broke in with her faint, dragging intonation: - -“Alberto, why don’t we build a villa at Sorrento?” - -“Eh! It wouldn’t be a bad plan. I have thought of it sometimes myself; -but building runs away with time and money....” - -“Not a palace; no big useless edifice. What would be the good of it? -But a microscopic villa, a nest for us two, with three or four rooms -flooded with sun; a conservatory, and an underground kitchen that would -not destroy the poetry of the house; no dining-room, but a porch hung -with jasmin and passion-flowers; an aviary, where singing-birds would -pipe and birds of Paradise hop from branch to branch--and go together, -we two alone, into that fragrant land, washed by that divine sea, and -stay there together, apart from the world: thou restored to health, I -dedicating myself to thee....” - -She said all this to Alberto, looking the while at Andrea, who was -rather embarrassed by such a demonstration of conjugal affection. He -pretended to be immersed in the study of onions, but not one of the -slow, chiselled, seductive words escaped him. - -“You are right; it would be delightful, Lucia. We will think about it -when we get back to Naples. Oh! we really must build this nest. But -where do you find these strange notions that would never occur to me? -Who suggests them to you?” - -“The heart, Alberto. Shall we sit down?” - -“By no means; I am not a bit tired. I am flourishing--almost inclined -for a ride. You are tired, perhaps?” - -“I am never tired,” was the grave, deliberate answer. “Sometimes, -Signor Andrea, I ask myself what the people would do without bread.” - -“Eh!” he exclaimed. - -“If the wheat were to fail...! Who can have invented bread?” - -They turned to her in amazement; Alberto attempted a joke. - -“You should be able to tell us, Lucia. They must have taught you that -at school, where you learnt so many things.” - -“No; there is nothing that I know. I am always thinking, but I know -nothing.” - -She was looking singularly youthful, in her simple cotton frock, -striped white and blue, confined at the waist by a leather band, from -which hung a small bag; with a straw hat with a blue veil which the sun -mottled with luminous spots; her chin was half buried in folds of the -gauze that was tied under it. - -They had halted before a large panel, a marvel of patience, whose -frame consisted of dried beans strung together. Along it ran a design -executed in split peas in relief; the ground of the tablet itself was -in fine wheat, threaded grain by grain. On it, in letters formed of -lentils, might be read: “A MARGHERITA DI SAVOIA: REGINA D’ITALIA.” - -“Whose work is it?” asked Lucia. - -“Two young ladies, daughters of a landowner at San Leucio.” - -“How old are they?” - -“I think ... about twenty eight or thirty.” - -“Are they beautiful?” - -“Oh, no; but so good.” - -“That I am sure of. Do you know that in that tablet I can decipher -a romance? Poor creatures! passing their lonely winter evenings -imprisoned within their own walls, and finding their recreation in this -lowly, provincial, inartistic work. And perhaps, labouring over it, -they sighed for unrequited love ... an affection which their avaricious -parents refused to sanction. Oh! they foresaw their own existence--an -old maid’s dull life. Poor picture! I should like to buy it.” - -“It’s not for sale. Perhaps it will be sent to the Queen.” - -By degrees her melancholy was infecting her companions by the contact -of her fascinating sadness. Andrea shrugged his shoulders in an effort -to regain his good humour, but he had not the power to recall it--the -spring was gone. Alberto, tugging at his scanty moustache, tried to -shake off the impression of fatigue that had stolen upon him. - -“Is there much more to be seen?” he inquired of Andrea. - -“I,” observed Lucia, “have no will of my own. Take me where you please. -Do you know that I belong to the ladies’ jury for flowers? Yesterday I -received the appointment.” - -“These juries are an epidemic,” exclaimed Alberto. “They take our wives -away from us. The Signora Caterina has become invisible; now they want -to sequestrate mine. I refuse my consent.” - -“Have your own way; I will do whatever you choose,” said Lucia, with a -smile. “Still the flower jury is a pretty idea.... To feel the delight -of colour, perfume, exquisite form: to examine the most delicate, -mysterious, extraordinary of flowers, and among them to seek the -beautiful, the perfect one, the flower of flowers.” - -“After all, there would be no harm in your accepting ... Lucia,” -suggested Alberto. - -“Very well, then; I will accept for your sake--to please you, Signor -Andrea, what do you think about it?” - -“I am not a competent judge,” said Andrea, drily. - -Lucia, as if from fatigue, then slipped her arm through his, and leant -on it. He started, smiled, and then quickened his step, as if he would -run away with her.... They were about to enter the hemp-room: there it -was, in the rough, in bundles, then combed, spun and made up in skeins; -a complete exhibition of it in every stage. - -“Look, look at this mass of hemp; it is like the tresses of a -Scandinavian maiden looking down from her balcony on the Baltic, -awaiting her unknown lover. And this, paler still, so finely spun; -might it not be the hair of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark? Oh, how full of -meaning are all these things for me!” - -“She sees things that people like us never see,” said Alberto, as if -to himself. “Tell me, Signor Andrea, is it true that the lives of the -hemp-spinners are as wretched as those of the unfortunate peasants who -work in the rice plantations?” - -“Not quite so bad, but nearly, Signora Lucia. Hemp-netting is done at -midsummer, in the dog-days; a kind of heat that causes the exhalation -of miasma. The water in which the hemp lies becomes putrid and poisons -the atmosphere.” - -“But do you know that what you’re telling me is odious? Do you -know that our artificial life, that feeds on rural life, is an -anthropophagous one? Do you know that the daily homicide.... Oh! let us -go away, away from this place. This exhibition represents to me a place -of human butchery.” - -“There is a little exaggeration in this view of it,” he replied, not -daring to contradict her flatly. “For the disease is decreasing, and -fatal cases are growing less frequent. Landowners supply quinine gratis -to the women who fall ill. Besides, if we think seriously on all -things mundane, we shall perceive that human life needs these obscure -sacrifices. Progress....” - -“You are as odious as you are wicked. I cannot bear you; go away.” - -She dropped his arm, as if in horror. Alberto sniggered at Andrea’s -sudden discomfiture. - -“Oh! poor Andrea, didn’t you know that Lucia was a humanitarian?” - -“I did not know it,” he replied, gravely. - -“Oh! my heart is full of love for the disinherited of life; for the -poor, down-trodden ones; for the pariahs of this cruel world. I love -them deeply, warmly; my heart burns with love for them.” - -Andrea felt pained. He felt the weakness of Lucia’s argument, but -dared not prove it to her: he felt the predominance she usurped in -conversation and over those who approached her, and shrank from it as -from a danger. When she had leant on his arm he had throbbed, in every -vein, with a full and exquisite pleasure. When she had dropped it, he -had experienced a strange loneliness, he had felt himself shrink into -something poorer and weaker, and was almost tempted to feel his arm, so -that he might revive the sensation of the hand that had been withdrawn. -Now Alberto was laughing at him, and that irritated him beyond -measure.... That little Alberto, a being as stupid as he appeared -innocuous, was capable of biting, when the spirit moved him. He could -be poisonous, when he chose, the consumptive insect! Why shouldn’t he -crush his head against the wall? Andrea took off his light grey hat -and fanned his face to disperse the mist of blind rage that clouded his -brain. All three pursued their walk in silence, as if isolated by their -own thoughts. The embarrassing silence prolonged itself. Alberto had an -idea. - -“Make peace with Andrea, Lucia.” - -“No; he is a bad-hearted egotist.” - -“_Via_, make it up. Don’t you see he is sorry?” - -“Are you sorry for what you said just now, Signor Andrea?” - -“_Mah!_ ...” - -“Repent at once, and we will be friends again, and you shall once more -be my knight of the Exhibition. You do repent? Here is my pledge of -peace.” - -She separated a spray of lilies of the valley from the bunch at her -waist and gave it to him. He placed it in his button-hole, and, taking -her hand in his, tucked it under his arm.... - -“And you, Alberto, who are the mediator between us, will you have some -lilies?” - -“What should I do with them? I have no button-hole to this overcoat. -You shall give me another pledge--a kiss ... when we get home.” - -Andrea squeezed the arm that rested on his, so hard that it was all she -could do to suppress a cry. - -“Yes, yes,” she stammered, trembling. - -“What is the average value of the Wine Show?” inquired Alberto, who -possessed vineyards in Puglia which produced the noted Lagarese. This -he said with the air of a connoisseur.... - -“Not much,” replied Andrea, with forced composure. “For the -vine-growers have not all sent exhibits. You see, there are the special -viticultural expositions. But there’s some good in that too.” - -“Is this your wine, that the Prime Minister praised you for?” - -“Yes; and there is some more over there.” - -“Does this wine intoxicate, Signor Andrea?” inquired Lucia. - -“That’s according; I have some of greater strength.” - -“Intoxicating?” - -“Yes.” - -“Wine is an excellent and beneficent gift. It gives intoxication and -forgetfulness,” she said, slowly. - -“Forgetfulness,” murmured Alberto; “and the Signora Caterina, whom we -are forgetting.” - -The other two exchanged a rapid glance. They had indeed forgotten -Caterina, who had been waiting for them for an hour in the Maria -Carolina saloon, whence the other ladies had departed. - - * * * * * - -At table, between the roast and the salad, Lucia mentioned that she had -been, and was, still in low spirits on account of poor Galimberti. The -impending misfortune took her appetite away. - -“What misfortune?” asked Caterina. - -“His sister writes me that he begins to show signs of mental -alienation.” - -“Oh! poor, poor man!” - -“Most unhappy being, victim of blind fate, of cruel destiny. The case -is not hopeless, but he has never been quite _all there_. In addition -to this, they are poor, and do not like to confess their poverty.” - -“Have you sent money?” - -“They would be offended. I wrote to them.” - -A shiver ran through the circle. When they separated for the night, -Andrea was pensive. - -“What is the matter with you?” said Caterina, who was plaiting her hair. - -“I am thinking of that unfortunate Galimberti. Let us send him -something, anonymously.” - -“Yes, let us send!” - -“All the more ... all the more because his misfortune might befall any -of us,” he added, so low that she did not hear him. A sudden terror had -blanched his face. - - - III. - -“This morning I feel so well, that I shall go for a ride.” - -“It would be imprudent, Alberto,” said his wife, from her sofa. - -“No, no; it will do me good. I shall ride Tetillo, a quiet horse that -Andrea is having saddled for me. A two hours’ ride on the Naples -road....” - -“It is too sunny, dear Alberto.” - -“The sun will warm my blood. I am recovering my health, Lucia _mia_. I -am getting quite fat. What are your plans?” - -“I don’t care for anything. Perhaps I shan’t go out. I am bored.” - -“Bad day,” murmured Alberto, as, clanking the silver spurs on his -polished boots, he took his departure. - -Later on Caterina knocked at her door. - -“What are you going to do? Are you going to the Exhibition?” - -“No; it bores me.” - -“You will be more bored, all alone here. Alberto won’t come home till -late; Andrea and I are sure to be late. Come!” - -“I won’t go; the Exhibition bores me. I can never be with you for a -moment there.” - -“We can’t help that. I feel it too, but it’s not my fault.” - -“And to-day, if I went, I should have to pace up and down those huge -rooms alone.” - -“Andrea might stay with you,” urged Caterina, timidly, ever conscious -of their latent antipathy. - -“We should quarrel.” - -“Still?” said the other, pained and surprised. - -“That’s how it is; we cannot agree.” - -Caterina was silent; after a pause, she said: - -“But surely, to-day is the flower day?” - -“To-day? I think not.... True, it is to-day.” - -“Then you cannot avoid going.” - -“I can pretend to be ill.” - -“It’s a bad pretext.” - -“Well, I see I must sacrifice myself, and come.” There was irritation -in her voice and manner as she hurriedly proceeded to dress. Caterina -felt as humiliated, while she was waiting for her, as if she were to -blame for the annoyance. During the drive from Centurano to Caserta, -Lucia was silent, with a harsh expression on her face, keeping her eyes -closed and her parasol down as if she neither wished to see nor hear. - -Caterina congratulated herself on having sent Andrea on before, while -Lucia’s insufferable fit of ill temper lasted. They arrived at the -Palace at half-past twelve. They separated, without exchanging many -words, appointing to meet each other at four. Caterina mounted the -stairs leading to the Didactic Exhibition, and Lucia passed through -the garden to the flower-show. There were crowds of fashionably -attired ladies and gentlemen in those regions. Lucia moved slowly -along the gravelled path to the right, under the chestnut-trees, and -those whom she met turned to gaze at her. She wore a dress of darkest -green brocade, short, close-fitting, and well draped; it showed her -little black shoes and open-work, green silk stockings. On her head -was an aërial bonnet of palest pink tulle--a cloud, a breath, without -feathers or flowers, like a pink froth. Now Caterina had left her, she -was smiling at her own thoughts. The smile became more accentuated -when, on turning the palisades of the Floral Exhibition to enter the -conservatory containing the exotics, she met Andrea. - -“My dear Lieti, where are you going to?” - -“Nowhere,” he replied, with embarrassment; “I was looking for a friend -from Maddaloni.” - -“And have you found him?” with an ironical smile. - -“No; he hasn’t come. I shall wait for him. And you?” - -“Oh! you know all about me. I have come to the flower jury.” - -“But it doesn’t meet till two.” - -“Really? Oh! what a feather-head! and what shall I do till two? I may -not go to the 'Didactics,’ and the 'Agrarians’ bore me.” - -“Stay with me,” he entreated. - -“Alone?” - -“Here....” - -“Without doing anything? Every one will notice it.” - -“Who do you think is going to gape and watch?” - -“Every one, my friend.” - -“They will look at you,” he said, bitterly; although the words “my -friend” delighted him. - -“And if they do, we must provide against it; this is a scurrilous -province. It hides its own _bourgeois_ vices and slanders the innocent.” - -“Listen,” murmured Andrea, taking her arm in his. “Why don’t you come -with me to the English Garden?” - -“No....” - -“It is so beautiful. The great trees cast their shadows over it, the -paths rise, fall, and lose themselves among the roses; under the -water-lilies lies the still crystal water; under the reeds, the water -murmurs as it flows; there is no one there, and it is so cool....” - -“Do not speak to me like that,” she whispered, faintly. - -“Come, Lucia, come. That is the frame for your beauty. You are like a -rose to-day; come, and take your place among the roses.” - -“Do not talk to me like that, for pity’s sake, or you will kill me....” -Her teeth chattered as if from ague. - -He felt that she was losing consciousness, that she was going to faint. -People were passing to and fro; he was seized with a fear of ridicule. - -“Fear nothing; I will not say another word. Come to yourself, I beseech -you. If you care for me at all, come to yourself. Shall we go to the -cattle-show? It is crowded. You will be safe there. Will you come?” - -“Lead me where you please,” she replied faintly, while her bosom heaved -and her nostrils quivered in the struggle for breath. - -They did not exchange a word on the way. They met several persons, who, -seeing Andrea with a lady, bowed profoundly to him. Two young men made -whispered remarks to each other. - -“They take me for your wife.” - -“Do not say that to me, I entreat you.” - -“You are not brave, Signor Lieti; you are afraid to hear the truth.” - -“You have called me your friend....” - -“Do you wish to make me repent it?” - -“Oh! don’t torment me. Dialectics are your strong point; your thoughts -are deep, weird, and often too cruel for me to fathom. I am at your -mercy. You invest me, you capture me, and then you torture me. Remember -that I am a child, an ignorant child--a child all muscle and no -imagination. Spare me.” - -He raised his hand to his collar as if he were choking; while he spoke, -the tears had gathered in his eyes and voice. - -“Forgive me; I will spare you,” she said, sweetly humbling herself in -her triumph. - -They passed under a great avenue of chestnut-trees where the sun -cast little circles of golden light upon the ground. The heat was -increasing. Some of the passers-by were fanning their flushed faces -with their straw hats; ladies unfurled their fans as they moved -languidly along, overcome by the weight of the atmosphere. They spoke -but little to each other, looking down like two persons who were a -prey to _ennui_. They turned and came to the first section. A walk led -all round an immense rectangular meadow, which was enclosed by a stout -palisade of medium height, divided into compartments for each animal. -There was a little rack with a ring and a cord for each head of cattle; -the animals stood stolid and motionless, facing the spectators. The -cows had good stupid heads, benevolent eyes, and their ribs showed -through their thin flanks. - -“Poor beasts,” she whispered. “How ugly they are!” - -“Ugly, but useful. They are hardy animals, and all the better for being -thin; the milk is all the better for it. They are not so liable to -disease, and they yield five hundred per cent, of their value.” - -“You are fond of animals?” - -“Very; they are strong, useful, and docile. We humans do not always -combine the same qualities.” - -“But we have intellect.” - -“You mean, egoism.” - -“Well; love is a species of egoism,” affirmed Lucia, crossly. - -They progressed slowly. From behind the palisade the oxen gazed at them -with serene eyes that were almost indicative of thought. Some of them -bending their necks, under the sun that struck their hides, browsed -bunches of grass. Now and again the dull impatient thud of their hoofs -struck the scanty down-trodden grass of the meadow. The flies settled -on the hard rough hides with their many seams. Sometimes an ox would -strike his neck with his tongue and his flank with his tail, to rid -himself of them; but the flies returned insolently to the attack, -buzzing in the stifling atmosphere. Lucia opened a large Japanese fan, -all gold-dust on a black ground, and fanned herself rapidly. - -“Do you feel the heat?” - -“Very much. And how suffocating it is here!” - -“Shall we sit down?” - -“No; I am beginning to feel interested in the cattle. Besides, I feel -the sun broiling my shoulders. I would rather walk.” - -“Here are the buffaloes,” explained Andrea. “You cannot have seen any -before. They are of a nobler breed than these cows. Look at them; -don’t you see how wild they look? They are shaking those heads with -the twisted horns. They are of a powerful, sanguine temperament; their -blood is black and smoking. Have you ever drunk blood?” - -“No,” she replied, in amazement, yet sucking her lips with a kind of -longing. “What is it like?” - -“A potent drink that puts strength into your veins. A drink for -soldiers, sportsmen, and brave men trained to corporal exercises. A cup -of blood expands one’s life.” - -By degrees, while he spoke, Lucia’s enthusiasm grew for the plenitude -of strength expressed in Andrea’s whole personality for the vigour of -his powerful frame and the plastic animalism that found in him its -supreme and perfect development. A buffalo, in sudden rage, proceeded -to bump its head against the wall. Lucia gazed in growing astonishment -at the magnitude of these stalls built in the open air, and at the -motley show of sturdy brutes. - -“Are these buffaloes savage?” she inquired, timidly. - -“Very: the blood goes to their heads, as it might to the brain of a -strong man. They are subject to fits of sanguine madness. They loathe -red, it sends incendiary fumes to their brain.” - -Lucia raised her perfumed handkerchief to her lips and stopped her -nose with it. “This smell of cattle is not unhealthy,” said Andrea, -naïvely. “Indeed, it is good for the health. Doctors prescribe it for -consumptive people. Your perfumes are far more injurious, they deprave -the senses and shatter the nerves.” - -“Depravity is human.” - -“That is why I prefer the beasts, whose instincts are always healthy. -We have come to the end of this section. Here the finest of them all.” - -It was a bull, a black bull with a white mark on its forehead, between -its superb horns; a sturdy, majestic creature, contemptuous of its -rack, to whom had been given a long cord and a wide enclosure: he -tramped up and down his habitation without taking any notice of the -onlookers, who expressed their timid admiration by whispered eulogies. - -“Oh! how beautiful, how splendid!” cried Lucia. - -“He is magnificent. He belongs to Piccirilli, of Casapulla we shall -give him the prize. He is the pure exceptional type, the perfection of -the breed. A masterpiece, Lucia ... What is the matter?” - -“I feel rather faint, take me down there to the water. The sun is -burning my arms, and my brain is on fire.” - -They went as far as the little fountain, under a tree, where there was -a wooden cup. He dipped a handkerchief in water and applied it to her -forehead. - -“Thank you, I am better; I felt as though I were dying. Let us return, -or rather let us continue walking here, we are too isolated.” - -They passed by the horse-boxes, a row of little wooden houses that were -closed that day. They could hear the frequent neighings that came from -under the semi-obscurity, under the wooden roofs that were grilled by -the midday sun, and the restless impatient pawing of many hoofs. - -“Those are the stallions, accustomed to free gallops across their -native plains. They cannot bear inaction. Some of them can hear the -mares neighing in the adjoining boxes. And they answer them by neighing -and beating their tails against the walls.” - -She turned pale again while he spoke. - -“Is it the sun again?” he inquired. - -“The heat, the heat....” - -Dark flushes dyed her cheeks, leaving them paler than before, with -a feverish pallor. She tried to moisten her lips with the wet -handkerchief; they were as dry as if the wind had cut them. The arm -that rested on Andrea’s weighed heavily. - -“Shall we enter that large building, Signor Andrea? At least we shall -be out of the sun there. Do you know what I feel? Myriads of pricks -under my skin, as close together and as sharp as needle-points. I think -the cool shade will stop it.” - -They entered a sort of large ground-floor barn with a slanting roof, -where every species of domestic animal disported itself in cages or -little hutches. The grave white rabbits, with their pink noses and -comic, pendant ears, were rolled up like bundles of cotton-wool at the -back of their hutches. You could not see them without stooping, and -then they edged still farther back in terror at not being able to run -away. The fowls had a long compartment to themselves, a large wired -pen, divided into many smaller ones. Big, fat, and motionless, their -round eyes, watchful, disappeared now and then under the yellowish, -flabby membrane that covered them. They butted their heads against the -wire and pecked languidly at bran and barley prepared in little troughs -for them, pecking at each other under the wing and cackling loudly, -as if that cry were the yawn of a much bored fowl. The turkeys wore a -more serious aspect; they never stirred, maintaining their dignified -composure. - -“Look, Lucia; I always think that turkey-hens pipe for their chicks out -in the world.” - -“I have never seen one before. Are there no doves here?” - -“No, only animals for agricultural purposes. Doves are luxuries. Are -you fond of them?” - -“Yes. I had one, but it died when I was a little girl.” - -“I am sorry there are none here.” - -A cock awakening from his torpor, and perceiving a ray of sunlight -that had filtered through one of the windows, began to crow -lustily--cock-a-doodle-doo; then another answered in deeper tones, and -a third broke in immediately. And the hens began to perform in high -soprano, the turkey-hens in contralto, while the turkeys and their -kin gobbled in deep bass. Crescendo, staccato, swelled the discordant -symphony; and patient visitors stopped their ears, while nervous ones -ran away. Lucia’s grasp tightened on Andrea’s arm; she leant her head -against his shoulder to deaden the sound, stunned, coughing, laughing -hysterically, struggling in vain for speech, while he smiled his -good-tempered, phlegmatic smile at the animal chorus. Then by degrees -came a decrescendo; some of the performers suddenly stopped, others -waxed fainter; a few solitary ones held on, and, as if run down, -stopped all at once. Lucia was still convulsed with laughter. - -“Have you never heard this before?” - -A fat merino, of the height of a donkey, with abundant, dirty wool, -disported himself in solitary state in his pen. Farther on, a greyish -pig, with bright pink splotches that looked as if he had scratched them -that colour, stood forgotten and unclassed, away from his fellows, like -an exceptional and monstrous being that eschews all social intercourse. - -“Come away, come away,” said Lucia, whose nerves had been shaken, -dragging her companion away; “I won’t look at anything else.” She was -seized with cramps and violent stitches, alternating with a stinging -sensation which almost paralysed her. All the fire which the sun had -transfused into her veins seemed to have concentrated itself at the -nape and set her nerves in combustion. Andrea, who knew nothing of -atmospheric effects, who could bask in the sun and walk through two -rows of animals without discomfort, was unconscious of these painful -sensations; he was as sane as Nature herself. They passed out into -the garden, past the horse-boxes, where a ray of sun was beginning to -broaden. Lucia hastened along with bowed head; now the pain was in the -top of her skull, the fluffy bonnet weighed like a leaden helmet; she -could scarcely resist a longing to loosen her plaits and throw it off. - -“I am burning, burning!” she kept saying to Andrea. - -“What’s to be done about the jury?” - -“I’ll go there. Oh! this sun will kill me.” - -“What can I do for you; dip the handkerchief in water again?” - -“Yes, yes; or rather let us hasten on.” - -They crossed the enclosure, where the bull was now resting on his -haunches, apparently infuriated by the sun, pawing the ground with one -of his forefeet. Then came the whole show once more, with the buzzing -flies, the glorious sun, and the animals’ sleepy heads bowed under -it. Lucia stuffed her handkerchief into her mouth and nostrils until -she could hardly breathe. When she reached the cool anteroom next to -the conservatory, her face was flushed, her lips blanched, and the -brightness gone from her eyes. - -“I thought I should have died,” she said, after a while, to Andrea, -who stood waiting in dismay and remorse. “Go away now, the ladies are -coming.” - - * * * * * - -The Duchess of San Celso had come to attend the flower jury from -her villa. The veteran _mondaine_ was, if that were possible, more -painted than usual; her flabby charms draped in a youthful gown, and -her dyed hair crowned by a small white bonnet; she passed to and fro -with bent back, crooked neck, and a liberal display of feet that were -presentable. Three or four ladies of the Neapolitan aristocracy -had arrived: the Cantelmo, tall, fair and opulent of form; Fanny -Aldemoresco, small, dark and zingaresque, with hooked nose, olive -skin, and dazzling eyes, attired in deep crimson; the Della Mara, -with her fair cadaverous face, dull, leaden eyes, and pale hair; -there was besides a Capuan Countess, with a head like a viper; the -fat, insignificant wife of the Prefect, addicted to low curtseys and -ceremonious salutations; a general’s widow; and Lucia Altimare-Sanna. -These ladies had taken several turns round where the beds were planted, -and were inspecting them through the tortoiseshell lorgnettes poised -on their noses, with upturned chin and severe judicial eye, turning -to discuss them with the young men who followed in their train, and -chatting vivaciously with each other. A little expanse of many-hued -verbena was admired; Fanny Aldemoresco pronounced it “mignon.” -The Altimare-Sanna, with whom she was acquainted, and to whom she -addressed herself, replied that she hated verbena. She much preferred -those musk-roses that grew so close and sweet-smelling, those large -flesh-coloured ones with the curled petals. The Duchess of San Celso -was of the same opinion; indeed, she took a rose and placed it in the -V-shaped opening of her dress, against her skinny throat. That little -animated group of ladies, with waving fans and parasols and floating -laces, the bright-coloured group whence came the sound of silvery -laughter and little cries like the bickerings of tomtits, was beginning -to attract a court around it. - -There was the oldest, perhaps the first, lover of the Duchess; he also -had dyed hair, rouged cheeks, waxed moustachios of dubious flaxen hue, -and flabby hanging cheeks; and her young lover, handsome but very pale, -with insolent black eyes, a sensual mouth, and the elegance of a poor -young man enriched by her Grace’s bounty. There was Mimi d’Allemagna, -who had come for the Cantelmo, and Cicillo Filomarina, her unavowed -adorer, who had also come for her sake, and many others, either to keep -appointments or for the fête or for fun. The Prefect, in evening dress, -was always by the Duchess’s side. These people came and went, to and -fro, forming into little groups, yet always keeping together; exhaling -an odour of _veloutine_ and a _mondain_ murmur, from under the great -horse-chestnut-trees. The judgment of the bedding-out plants was soon -over. When questioned as to their votes, the ladies assumed a very -serious air. - -“We shall see ... we must consider ... we must decide....” said the -Aldemoresco, as serious as a politician who declines to be compromised. - -They entered the great conservatory, in which cut flowers and bouquets -and delicate exotics were exhibited. It had been provided by the -Prefect with blue sun-blinds, and as the day wore on a gentle breeze -cooled the air. In the centre, under a group of palms, a fountain had -been erected for the occasion; stools, wicker-chairs, and benches were -hidden in the profusion of flowers that bloomed in every corner. The -ladies, as they entered, uttered sighs of satisfaction and relief. -Outside, the sun had scorched and the dust had choked them, and -bedding-out flowers were of minor interest. Inside, the atmosphere -was full of perfume and softened light. Pleasure beamed in their -smiles; Lucia shivered and her nostrils dilated. Turning, the better -to observe a great bush of heliotrope, she perceived Andrea in the -doorway, where he was chatting with Enrico Cantelmo; she affected not -to see him, but stooped to inhale a longer draught of its perfume. His -eyes followed her absently, while he discussed horses with Cantelmo. -Then he had a sudden inspiration: she turned round, and approaching a -group of orchids, found herself in close proximity to the door; Andrea -understood her. He left Cantelmo, advanced towards her, and held out -his hand as if they met for the first time in the course of the day. -They conversed with the coolness of ordinary acquaintances. - -“How are you?” - -“Better, thank you. Why have you returned?” - -“... I happened to pass this way. Besides, the place is full of people; -there is no reason why I should not pass through it.” - -“Stay here, you must be fond of flowers.” - -“No; I don’t care for them. This atmosphere is heavy with perfume.” - -“Do you think so? I don’t notice it.” - -“Oh! it is overpowering. I don’t know how so many ladies can endure it.” - -“I will exchange explanations with you, Signor Andrea. I adore these -flowers and appreciate them. Look at this jasmin; it is a star-like -Spanish flower of strong perfume--a creeper that will cling as -tenaciously as humble, constant love.” - -“What do you know of love?” said Andrea, ironically. - -“What is unknown to others, and what you do not know,” she replied. -“Look, look, how beautiful is that large sheaf of white and tea-roses, -how light and delicate its colouring!” - -“You wore the same flowers at the Casacalenda ball, and at the -Inauguration the other day.” - -“You have a good memory. Does this inspection weary you?” - -“No,” he replied, with an effort, as if his mind had been wandering. - -“Lamarra’s exhibits are the best, Signora Sanna,” said the Cantelmo, -stopping to talk to her. “We will award the prize to him. Just look at -this flower-carpet.” - -She passed on. Andrea and Lucia crossed to the extreme end of the great -conservatory, where the flower-carpet was. Stretched on the ground was -a long rectangular rug, entirely composed of heartsease in varied but -funereal shades of velvety violet and yellow, streaked with black; some -of them large, with luscious petals, and others no bigger than your -nail: no leaves. This funereal carpet was divided down its centre by a -large cross formed of snowy gardenias which stood out in bold relief. - -“It looks like the covering of a tomb,” she said. “I remember a picture -of Morelli’s: 'The Daughter of Jairus.’ The carpet which is stretched -on the ground and cuts the picture in two runs across the whole canvas.” - -“You take too much delight in sadness,” said he, wearily. - -“Because the world is sad. These Neapolitan Lamarras are uneducated -people, yet they have a feeling for art; they understand that a flower -may express joy, but that it often expresses sorrow. Gardenias are -refined flowers; they remind me of double, or rather of glorified, -jasmin. The gardenia might almost have a soul, it certainly is not -devoid of individuality. Sometimes it is small and insignificant, -with tightly curled petals; at others as tall and delicate as an -eighteen-year old maiden, and of transparent purity; or it is full and -nobly developed and of a passionate whiteness. And when it fades it -turns yellow, and when it dies it looks as if it had been consumed by -fire.” - -She was drawn to her full height before the mortuary carpet when she -said this to him, absently and in an undertone, as if telling herself -the story of the flowers. She was very pale, but her eyes were suffused -with tenderness. A strong perfume rose from the gardenias so pungent -that Andrea felt it prick his nostrils, mount to his brain and beat in -his temples, where it seemed to him that the blood rushed heavily and -swiftly. - -“Here,” he said, wishing to get away from the funereal carpet and the -sight of the cross that stood out in such dazzling whiteness on its -dark background of pansies; “here is a beautiful bouquet.” - -“Yes, yes, it is pretty,” said Lucia, approaching to examine it -critically, and then moving away the better to observe its effect; -“really charming, with a discreet virginal charm of its own. Don’t you -think so? It is composed of the most delicate and youthful-looking -of exotics: the heart of the bouquet of minute fragrant mignonette; -then a broad band of heliotrope, contrasting the pale lilac of its -lace-like blossoms with the green of the mignonette, and over all -cloud-like sprays of heather which give an effect of distance to the -whole. Heather is a northern flower, lacking perfume and brilliancy, -but reposeful and grateful.... Here at least is a group of pure and -innocuous flowers.” - -Yet Andrea felt ill at ease while inhaling the delicate fragrance of -mignonette and heliotrope. He felt as if his breath were failing him, -with an unwonted oppression and a sensation of fatigue as if he had -passed the night at a ball. - -“What do you say to Kruepper, Signora Sanna?” said the San Celso, who -passed, leaning on the arm of her young adorer, like a ruin about to -fall to pieces. - -“I haven’t yet seen it, Duchess.” - -“Pray look at it: that German has something in him, he is inspired; -don’t you think so, Gargiulo?” - -“You always express yourself so well and artistically,” replied the -latter, with a tender inflexion in his voice, bending to kiss the bare -skinny arm and hand which displayed the swollen veins of old age. - -They passed on. The crowd increased. The murmur of voices waxed louder; -they smiled and jested more freely amid the luxuriant bloom; some of -them disappeared amid the shrubs and blossoming plants to chat with -their friends, to reappear with flushed faces and laughing behind -their fans. The atmosphere grew heavier and more than ever charged -with ylang-ylang, opoponax, new-mown hay, and other pungent feminine -odours, and the perfume exhaled by silken stuffs, silken tresses, and -lace that had lain amid sachets of orris. Those women were so many -artificial flowers, with lips and cheeks tinted like their petals, with -eyes as dark as the velvet heartsease, and skins as white and fragrant -as gardenias. And it seemed as if the vitiated atmosphere suited their -morbid brains and lungs, refreshed their sickly blood, and revived -their worn-out nerves. Lucia’s face was tinted with pink in patches; -her melancholy, leaden eyelids were raised, unveiling the lightning of -her glance; pleasure acute as it was intense imprinted the smile on her -lips. - -Andrea began to see the spectacle as in a dream. He could no longer -struggle against the torpor that was numbing his overtaxed brain. He -made violent efforts to shake it off, but in vain, for he was mastered -by a prostration that seemed to break his joints. As to his legs, they -felt like cotton-wool, lifeless and powerless. He could only feel the -leaden weight of his head, and he feared that it would fall upon his -chest because the throat had ceased to support it. Unconsciously he -wiped great beads of perspiration from his forehead, while his listless -eyes still followed Lucia. - -“Here is Kruepper, of Naples,” said Lucia. “Oh! look, look, Andrea.” - -Kruepper, of Naples, exhibited many gradations of vases, wherein a -monstrous tropical vegetation of cactus contorted itself with the -twists and bends of a venomous green serpent: its pricks might have -been fangs, its branches reared themselves or fell back as if their -spine had been broken, or turned on one side as if overcome with sleep. -These horror-inspiring branches supported a rich cup-like flower of -transparent texture and yellow pistils, or a white blossom like a lily: -superb flowers that lived with splendour and intensity for twenty-four -hours, chalices wherein burned strong incense. Lucia bent over one of -them to inspire its perfume, as if she would fain have drawn all its -essence from it. When she raised her head, her lips were powdered with -fine yellow dust. - -“Smell them, Andrea, they are intoxicating.” - -“No, it would make me ill,” he said, rubbing his eyes to clear them -of the mist that veiled them. The truth was that he would have given -anything to sit down and go to sleep, or rather to stretch his full -length on a sofa, or throw himself prone on the ground. Sleep was -gradually creeping on him while he strove with all his might, but in -vain, to keep awake. He kept his eyes open by force and squeezed one -hand in the other, trying to think of something to keep himself awake -with. But he longed to lay his head somewhere, no matter where, against -something, only to sleep for five minutes. Five minutes would have -sufficed, he knew it; he was nodding already. The passers-by looked -more than ever like phantoms gliding over the ground; there was no -noise, only an ever increasing haze, in which the flowers dilated, -expanded and contracted, assuming fantastic aspects, strange colours -and perfumes. Oh! the perfume. Andrea felt it more acutely than -anything else. It burned in his head like a flame, it filtered through -the recesses and blended with the phosphorus of his brain. His nerves -vibrated until exhaustion supervened, and then somnolence, and that -all-compelling catalepsy from which his prisoned will struggled in vain -to free itself. - -All at once he turned: Lucia had disappeared. His pain at this -discovery was so intense, that he would have uttered a loud cry -but that his voice failed him. Then some of these female phantoms -disappeared silently, as if the earth had swallowed them up. Could he -get five minutes’ sleep now, quietly? No; a shade had approached him. -Cantelmo was talking of flowers, of Kruepper again, and the warlike -sound of the barbarous name annoyed him. What did he think of the -hyacinths? - -The hyacinths reared their stately heads in a jardinière of golden -trellis-work. There were pink hyacinths, lilac ones and white, -blending and uniting their voluptuous fragrance. Next to them, in a -large Venetian amphora, stood a bunch of ten magnolias, exhaling the -strongest perfume of them all. - -In the lethargy that was upon him Andrea saw Lucia appear under the -doorway. In her dark green dress, with her pink bonnet, she looked like -a rose, a woman turned into a flower, a flower-made woman. To that -flower Andrea felt all his being drawn--and he longed ... sole, supreme -desire, to seize that flower, press it to his lips, and drink in its -life with its perfume. - - - IV. - -The fountain Michelangelo Viglia.... - - ... SUL AUGUSTO ESEMPIO - LO DO AD ALTRUIDA ME, - -dripped tranquilly into its grey stone basin. The second part of the -inscription: - - IL PELEGRINO, IL VILLICO, - IL CITTADINO L’AVRA. - VENITE, DISSETATEVI, - FRESCA PER VOI QUI STA....[1] - -could not incite any one to accept its invitation. In the silent -darkness of the night the solitary fountain repeated its purling -cadence, for Centurano was asleep; its grey, white, and yellow houses -had all their shutters barred. The first lights to be extinguished had -been those of the architect Maranca, who rose earlier than any one else -to superintend the repairs of the dome of Caserta. Next to his, those -of lawyer Marini, who had to plead a case on the morrow at the Court of -Santa Maria; and then those of Judge Scardanaglia, with whom they had -been keeping rather late hours to play at _mediatore_, and because on -the following day there was no sitting for him in the law courts. The -friends of the Member for Santa Maria had driven off towards Caserta -after an exchange of salutations from the road to the balcony, in two -sleepy carriage-loads--lights, coachmen, and horses. The last lights -to go out were those of Casa Lieti, at the corner, overlooking the -fountain. The drawing-room had subsided into darkness; lights had -appeared in the two sleeping apartments, divided from each other by an -intermediate room, each having balconies that overlooked the street. -Large and small shadows--tall, thin ones, pygmies, and Colossi--had -flitted across the window-panes, defining themselves against the -curtains. Then darkness. - - -A dark night, dark with the profound density of meridional nights. A -gleam of stars, a shining dust spread haphazard, hither and thither, -with a beating motion, a palpitation of the constellations. Under them, -amid the black fields, a whitish line was perceptible; the lane that -led to the high road towards Caserta. The lamps were out. Suddenly the -first balcony to the left opened; noiselessly, from the narrow opening, -a slight white form emerged, remaining motionless on the balcony; it -was unrecognisable. It stood still, leaning again the balustrade. Was -it gazing at the sky or at the soil? Impossible to tell, nothing could -be seen of it except that every now and then the hem of the white -garment stirred as if an impatient foot had moved it. Behind that form, -which appeared elongated against the dark background of the night, the -window remained ajar. It maintained its immobility and its attitude -of contemplation. The parish clock struck the quarter, and the calm -sound rang out gently on the silent air. Then, with a slight creaking -of hinges, the window to the right opened wide. A black mass, that -melted into the general darkness, appeared; but nothing was defined. -A luminous point glowed, the end of a lighted cigar. At every breath -drawn by the person smoking, the lighted end glowed brighter, casting a -little light on a heavy moustache, and emitting a light cloud of smoke. -Suddenly the glowing ember sped like a star, from the balcony to the -road, and the dark mass passed to the extreme end of the balcony to -approach the one on the left. The white shadow fluctuated and trembled; -it moved towards the right, standing at the corner motionless, then a -breath traversed the space between them. - -“Lucia.” - -The faintest breath made answer: “Andrea.” - -That was all, except that the fountain, ever fresh and young, continued -singing its eternal song. Above shimmered the Milky Way that overhung -Caserta. They, immersed in the profound darkness of the night, gazed at -each other athwart its shade, straining their sight to see each other -through it. Not a movement, not a word. And so the time passed, and -again the parish clock struck the quarter--and they stood shrouded in -darkness, without notion of space or time, losing themselves in the -gloom, lost in the thought of searching each other’s features. Once -or twice the white figure leant over the balustrade, as if overcome -by fatigue; once or twice the dark, massive one leant over it as if -to measure its height from the ground. But they drew back and fell -into their former attitudes. Once or twice the figures hanging over -the sides of their respective balconies appeared to stretch out their -arms towards each other, but they fell back again, as if discouraged; -condemned to inaction, to the torture of unfulfilled desire; parts of -that immovable, pitiless balcony, turned into statues of stone and -iron. How long did it last, that torture of the minimum of distance, -which in the night seemed immeasurable, the torture of not seeing, -while knowing each other to be so near? At last a faint breath -whispered: “Andrea.” And a passionate one made answer: “Lucia.” - -Through the air projected by a trembling hand flew a white object, from -one balcony to the other. He caught it on the edge of the balustrade, -just as it was about to fall. From a neighbouring ruin, an owl -screeched three times; a hoarse cry of terror answered from the left, -and the white figure suddenly disappeared: the window closed. On the -balcony to the right, the dark mass stood waiting and watching. - -When Andrea re-entered his room, he found the lamp lighted and Caterina -standing by the bed in slippers, fastening her wrapper. - -“What ails you, Andrea?” - -“Nothing; that’s to say, I feel the heat.” - -“Are you feverish, like last night?” - -“No, no; I was getting a little air on the balcony; go back to bed, -Caterina.” - -“What is it?” - -“Nothing; Nini, you have been dreaming.” - -“The cold air woke me. And when I felt for you, I found you missing.” - -“Were you frightened? Try to go to sleep again.” - -She threw the wrapper off; her mind was at rest. - -“To-morrow--have you to rise early, Andrea?” - -“Yes, early.” - -“At seven?” - -“Yes.” - -“Good-night.” - -“Good-night.” - -Caterina put out the light, crossed herself, and immediately fell -asleep, according to her wont. Andrea had waited, throbbing for that -moment, to press to his heart the lace scarf, warm from the neck of -Lucia, to kiss it, to put his teeth into it, to wind it round his hands -and his throat, to cool his temples, and cover his eyes with it, during -his long vigil. - - * * * * * - -Next morning Alberto alarmed the whole household by his sighs and -groans. On rising he had coughed three times, and while washing his -face he had coughed again. His throat was rough and relaxed, and he -complained of an oppression on his chest. - -“Where can I have caught cold? Where can I have caught it? I who am -so cautious. I always wear a silk handkerchief round my neck, and a -flannel shirt. A draught, I suppose.” - -He gave vent to his feelings in front of the glass, which reflected -a pale face; putting out his tongue, trying to see down his throat, -drawing long breaths to discover any possible obstruction. Lucia -comforted him sweetly. - -“Do you think I am ill? Do I look very seedy?” - -“Why, no; don’t indulge in fancies. You have your everyday face. Often, -when I’m quite well, I cough on getting out of bed.” - -“Even when you wash your face?” - -“Oh! always.” - -“Oh! really? But I am so delicate....” - -“No, indeed, you are much stronger since we came here.” - -“True, but I must take care not to get ill. Listen, Lucia; I should -like to go to Naples, to-day.” - -“What for?” - -“For Carderelli to examine my chest thoroughly.” - -“And leave me alone?” - -“For a short time, dear. _Sai_, just to reassure myself.” - -“I shall weary for you, Alberto _mio_. When do you return?” - -“To-day, at half-past six, in time for dinner.” - -“Without fail, _caro mio_?” - -“Why, of course! When I arrive at the station, I shall breakfast; then -go home for a moment; then to Carderelli, and back again.” - -“Return, Alberto _mio_. I shall not move from this room; I shall await -thee here, counting the hours. Listen, my heart; don’t you think you -caught this cold riding the day before yesterday?” - -“True, true; you are right, I am a fool; you tried to persuade me not -to go. I never take your advice, my Lucia. You are my good angel. I -will tell Carderelli of my carelessness.” - -“Ask him also if we are to stay on here.” - -“Why? I like being here. And you?” - -“I am well wherever you are.” - -Lucia appeared at breakfast with red eyes, and hardly ate anything. -Andrea was silent, and so was Caterina; they exchanged looks of pity -for the poor thing. Lucia recounted with much sadness the risk Alberto -had run in insisting on riding, the cold he had caught by getting -overheated, and her sorrow when she heard his harsh cough that morning. - -“I felt knives in my own chest,” she concluded, with a fresh fit of -weeping. - -Nobody ate another morsel. Caterina sat down beside her, trying to -comfort her, holding her hands in hers, in memory of their school-days. -Andrea stood by her side without finding a word to say to her. She -regained her composure later. - -Caterina had to go to that never-ending “jury”; luckily it was only to -sit for two days longer. Lucia was so cast down that she did not even -venture to propose that she should accompany her. Andrea, too, was -obliged to go to Caserta, on business. Husband and wife took leave of -her, Caterina kissed her cheek, Lucia sobbed and wept. This delayed -their departure. Andrea was getting impatient, and Caterina feared that -Lucia would perceive it. They bade her good-bye. - -“Return soon, my friends; return soon,” she said with intense languor. -They turned to go. She called them back. They reappeared in the doorway. - -“Whatever happens, you, my friends, will always love me?” - -This question was addressed to both of them. They looked at each other: -Caterina smiling, Andrea confused. - -“Yes, yes, yes; I answer for him and for myself,” cried Caterina. - -“You, too, Andrea?” - -“Yes,” he replied, curtly. - -“Lucia appears ... rather queer to you?” said Caterina, in the -carriage, to her husband. - -“To me...? No.” - -“She is so unhappy.” - -“I know....” - -“How preoccupied you are!” - -“In the Faete vineyards--you know where they are--the vines have gone -wrong.” - -“Oh, dear! Tell me all about it.” - - * * * * * - -The custodian of the English Garden bowed low to the pale lady in -black, opened the gate for her, and inquired if she needed a guide. -She refused, saying that she knew her way. Indeed, she trod the broad -level path, whence branched many narrow ones, as deliberately as if she -were accustomed to walk there. She had closed her black lace parasol, -allowing the sun to warm her arms and shoulders under the slightly -transparent gauze of her dress. Her black lace bonnet was fastened -on with hammer-headed jet pins, like a veil. She hesitated when she -reached the spot where the paths diverged. She turned and looked at -the closed gate; through it she could catch a glimpse of the park, -before her the enchanting incline of the walks, sloping under green -boughs. She turned slowly into one that was bordered by a hedge of -green myrtle, treading so lightly that her high heels hardly touched -the cool ground. The trees formed a verdant arch, like the walls of a -grotto, and far off, at the end of the walk, a hole let in the light. -She wandered on through the grey twilight, suffering a stray leaf that -dropped from overhead to rest on her garments, standing to watch the -lizards at play. Then she resumed her rhythmic walk, while her dress -brushed the myrtle hedge, and her gaze wandered through the murmuring -solitude. - -At the end of the slanting walk there was a little vale where other -walks met and crossed; in its midst was a shady valley, shut in by dark -hilly ground that was seamed in every direction by the yellow lines of -the gravel. All round her stood horse-chestnuts, dwarf oaks, and tall, -meagre, dusty eucalypti: complete solitude. She bent her steps towards -the field, but all at once stopped midway, frightened and trembling, -for Andrea had suddenly appeared before her. Without speaking, they -looked into each other’s eyes. He had come from below: she must have -appeared to him like a Madonna, descending from the clouds. - -They did not speak, but went on side by side, without looking at each -other. They went down into the vale; Andrea, aggrieved because she was -not hanging on his arm, yet not daring to ask her to do so. - -“How is it that you are here?” she asked, suddenly and curtly. - -“I can’t tell you. Down there the heat and the boredom were enough to -kill one.” - -“For no other reason?” - -“I ... thought you would come here.” - -“And you were right; it is fate.” - -She looked tragic under her black veil, in her black gown, with the -little silver dagger hanging from her waistband. The violet lines under -her eyes gave them a voluptuous and sinister expression. - -“If Caterina were to come ...” she said, grinding her teeth. - -“She will not come....” - -“It would be better that she came; I could kill myself here.” - -“Oh, Lucia!” - -“Do not call me by my name. I hate you.” - -Her tone was so passionate in its anger, her lips so livid, that he -turned pale, and took off his hat to pass his hand across his forehead. -Then suddenly two big tears burst from his frank, sorrowful eyes, ran -down his honest, despairing face, and melted on his hands. - -“Oh! Andrea, for pity’s sake do not weep. Oh! I implore you, do not -make me so unhappy, so unhappy!” - -“_Che!_ I am not weeping,” he said, recovering himself and smiling. “It -was a passing impression. It used to happen to me with my mother when I -was a boy. Will you take my arm? I will take you all over this place.” - -“Where the shadow is deepest, where there is a sound of rushing water, -where no one will think of coming,” she murmured, in a melting mood. -Leaning on his arm, in a narrow lane where the hedges were high, she -gathered sheaves of wild anemones and stuck bunches of them in her -waistband, in the lace round her throat, and the ribbons of her parasol. - -Those hedges, blooming in the shade, pierced here and there by faint -rays of sun, were full of wild anemones. She slipped some into the -pockets of his coat and others in his button-hole. Andrea laughed -silently, delightedly; happy in the sensation of the touch of those -light fingers on the cloth. They said nothing to each other, but -because of the narrow path she kept very close to him. A little bird -lightly grazed her brow. Lucia uttered a cry, started away from him, -and ran on. - -“Come, come, Andrea; how enchanting!” - -They had reached a platform, a sort of green terrace that looked down -over another valley. High up, from the side of the rock, rushed a -dancing, foaming torrent, falling straight down like a white, flaky -cataract, and forming far below a wide, limpid, but shallow stream, -that ran like a nameless river to an unknown sea, between two rows of -poplars. From the terrace they could look down on the little northern -landscape, the placid stream, and pale verdure: while the fine spray -refreshed their faces, and they revelled in the grateful moisture and -the soft breeze from the falling water. - -“Oh! how beautiful, how beautiful,” said Lucia, absorbed. - -“This is better than your drawing-rooms, where one cannot breathe,” he -said, with a long breath. - -“It is beautiful ...” murmured Lucia. She rested her cheek against his -shoulder, and he thrilled at the slight contact. Her hair was turned -up high under the black lace, leaving the white nape bare; her arm was -bare under the silken gauze, and on the slightest pressure he could -feel the rustle of the crisp diaphanous stuff. - -“Let us try to get down to the stream, to see where it goes,” said -Lucia. - -“There is no road down here.” - -“Let us find a way, an unknown way.” - -“We shall lose ourselves.” - -“Let us lose ourselves, for this is Paradise.” - -Soon they were making their way along an endless narrow path. They -laughed as they hastened along. They came to an interminable avenue of -exotic trees, ending in a square with a group of palms in its centre. -They turned into a walk without knowing whither it led; she, who had -relapsed into her melancholy languor, allowing herself to be dragged. - -“You are tired; let us sit on the ground, instead of looking for the -stream.” - -“Shall we die here?” - -“Perhaps some one will pass.” - -“No, do not say that any one may pass; you frighten me--how you -frighten me! Let us look for the stream.” - -At last they found it; shallower, narrower, slower than at its source, -as if dying out under the trees. They stood by its edge, bending over -it; Lucia leant down to gaze at its grey bed where green weeds waved -mysteriously. A green light was reflected on her face. She cast her -anemones into the water, watching them disappear and following them -with her eyes; then she threw down others, interested and preoccupied -in their destruction. When there were no more of her own, she took back -those she had given to Andrea; he tried to oppose her. - -“No, no; away with it all, all,” said Lucia, harshly. - -And she threw them away in bunches, closing her eyes. When her hands -were empty, she made a gesture as if to let herself go after them. - -“What are you doing?” he said, seizing her wrists. “Let us sit here, -will you?” - -“Not here. Let us find a secret place, that no one knows of; a -beautiful green place that the sun cannot reach, where we cannot see -the sky; I am afraid of all those things.” - -They began the search again eagerly, climbing steep ascents and -descending little precipices; he supporting her by passing an arm round -her waist. They crossed broad meadows, where the damp grass wetted -Lucia’s little shoes; holding each other by the hand, almost in each -other’s arms, with eyes averted, subdued by the innocent intoxication -of verdant Nature. They came to a tiny stream; Andrea took Lucia in his -arms and placed her on the other side; when he put her down his light -pressure made her utter a cry. - -“Have I hurt you?” he asked in contrition. - -“No.” - -They had to stoop to pass under low-hanging boughs that knitted into -each other like those of a virgin forest. A hare rushed by at full -speed, to Lucia’s great surprise. - -“Ah!” cried Andrea, biting his forefinger, “if I had but a gun.” - -“Wicked, cruel, how can you long for the death of an innocent animal?” - -“Oh! it is rapture; you cannot understand the wild excitement of a man -on the track of a hare. It is a combat of animal cunning; the man does -not always get the best of it. But when he does hit his prey, and the -animal falls in the death struggle, and the hot blood rushes out in -floods....” - -“It is horrible, horrible!” - -“Why?” said the other, ingenuously. - -“You have no heart, you have no feeling!” - -“You are jesting?” - -“_Che!_ I am in earnest. Do not say these cruel, blood-thirsty things -to me. You can only realise hate, torture, revenge. You know nothing of -love.” - -“But I neither hate nor love the hare. I kill it for the pleasure of -the thing.” - -“Pleasure! a great word; that which you sacrifice everything to; it is -brutality.” - -“I cannot argue with you,” he said, humbly. “You always conquer me by -saying things that pain me.” - -“I wish you were good and tender-hearted,” murmured Lucia, vaguely. -“You men have bursts of violent but short-lived passion; but women have -constant, enduring tenderness.” - -“That is why love is so beautiful,” he cried, triumphantly. - -To save her from being scratched by a straggling briar, Andrea drew her -towards him, murmuring close to her ear: “Love ... love.” - -She permitted him to do so at first, and tolerated his breath on her -cheeks, but all at once freed herself in alarm, with eyes apparently -fixed on a terrible vision. - -“I want to go away, away from here,” stamping her feet nervously, -gasping from terror. - -“Let us go,” he said, bowing his head, subjugated, incapable of having -any other will than Lucia’s. He tried to find a way out, and went -as far as the turning, where he disappeared amid the trees. Then he -returned to Lucia, whom the thought of going away had already calmed. - -“Over there,” he said, “is the little lake I told you of, and the way -out besides. We can get there by a short cut.” - -They wended their way in silence, he playing with the parasol, as if -he meant to break it, while he tried to subdue his anger. They found -themselves, by means of a descent so steep that it seemed as if it must -lead underground, at the spot for which they had been seeking, but -which they now no longer cared for. - -It was a tiny, round lake; its clear water was of a transparent -tint--deep-set in the wooded hills of the English Garden, which -screened it from sight and made it difficult of approach; invisible, -except to those who stood on its margin. This margin was planted with -pale-leaved acacias, and tall, lean, dull-green poplars. Bending into -its waters from the shore, a desolate, nymph-like weeping willow -laved its pale-green hair. The ground was covered with short, close -turf, studded here and there with bunches of shamrock. Flowerless, -velvet-leaved aquatic plants floated on the surface of its still -waters. In one spot, close to the shore, a Ninfea had risen from its -depths to display the large white blossom that lures the male flowers, -its lovers, to break from their roots and die. The landscape was -steeped in a grey light, so soft that it appeared to fall through an -awning; a mere reflection of the sun, toned down and attenuated. No -sound, complete forgetfulness; the cool, unknown, ideal spot where none -came nor went. A hint of far-off, pale, blue distance, high up among -the trees.... She stood in speechless contemplation on the shore. - -“What is the name of this lake?” she asked, without turning to Andrea. - -“_Bagno di Venere._” - -“Why?” - -“Look there.” - -Behind the weeping willow there rose out of the waters of the lake -a marble statue of the goddess. She was white and of life-size; her -head, like that of every other Venus, was too small and had the beauty -of this imperfection. Her hair was partly bound to her nape, partly -hanging on her neck. The water came up to her waist, hiding the lower -part of her body; under the surface, reeds and other aquatic plants -formed a pedestal for the white bust. The full-throated Venus leant -forward to gaze placidly into the water, her still bosom inflated -with delight, as if she had no cause of complaint against it, or the -plants held her bound in their enchantments. When Lucia turned from the -apparition to Andrea, her expression had undergone a change. Thought -was on her brow, in her eyes, on her lips. - -“And what is there over there, Andrea?” - -“Come and see.” - -It was something hidden in the trees. They went round the lake to -it and found the ruin of a mock portico, with eight or ten columns, -falling into utter decay, and a hole made in the roof through which the -weeds grew in abundance. The cracked walls, after the antique, were -peeling; the ivy was devouring the mock ruin in good earnest; some of -its stones had fallen. Under the damp shelter of the portico there was -a musty smell that made one shudder, like the air of a vault. - -“And this, Andrea?” - -“The ruin of a portico.” - -“There must have been a temple?” - -“Yes; the temple of Venus.” - -“Venus, who at night descends from her altar to bathe in the lake,” she -said, dreamily. “One night, jealous Dian enchanted her and bound her -in the waters. Never more did Venus return to the temple; the temple, -reft of the goddess, fell, and was no more. All that is left of it is -the portico; that will also fall. For all eternity, through the moon’s -spell, Venus is a prisoner amid the waters that gnaw her feet and the -reeds that pierce her sides. One fatal day the rotten pedestal will -give way, and fallen Venus will lie drowned at the bottom of the lake.” - -She was silent. - -“Speak on, speak,” whispered Andrea, taking her hand in his; “your -voice is music, and you say strange, harmonious things.” - -She left her gloved hand in his, but did not add another word, keeping -her eyes fixed on the hole in the roof which let in the light. His -fingers strayed idly to her wrist, and thence to where the glove joined -the sleeve of her dress. - -“Have you a pencil?” she said. - -Andrea took a gold pencil-case off his watch-chain and gave it to her. -She sought the darkest corner of the portico, and thereon traced the -outline of a heart. Inside she wrote: - - A VENERE DEA - LUCIA, - -and gave Andrea back the pencil. He stooped to read her inscription, -and thus wrote his own name: - - A VENERE DEA - LUCIA - - ANDREA. - -“Fate, fate,” she cried, escaping from Andrea’s outstretched arms. - -She had seated herself on the ground, with her little feet almost in -the water, so that the white lace of her petticoats peeped out from -under the skirt of her dress. Her parasol lay on the ground, at some -distance. She picked up little pellets of earth with her black-gloved -hands and threw them into the lake, watching them dissolve in the -water, and the concentric circles that widened around them like -wrinkles. Beside her sat Andrea, noting the curves of her white throat, -and the movements of the arm and fingers that played with the soil. He -had cast aside his hat to let the cool, moist air play on his heated -brow. Although she did not turn towards him, she appeared to feel the -influence of that passionate gaze, for every now and then she swayed -towards him as if to fall into his arms. He hardly dared to move, -under the spell of a new and exquisite emotion, inspired by a woman as -fragile as she was seductive. When she was tired of throwing grassy -pellets into the water, she let her hand lie on the turf. Andrea took -the hand and began gently to unbutton her glove, looking sideways at -her, fearful of angering her. But no, Lucia closed her eyes as if she -were going to sleep. When he had got one glove off, he thrilled with -triumph; then, reaching out a little further, he as gently took off the -other. He threw them on the grass, near to his hat and the parasol. -When he as gently stroked her arm through the transparent sleeve, Lucia -drew it away, but without smile or anger; she was looking at the Venus -Anadyomene, through the green screen of the willow. Then she slowly -unfastened the black lace scarf that fastened her bonnet under the chin -and cast the ends behind her: she drew out the hammer-headed pins and -stuck them in the turf, as if it were a pincushion, and, taking off her -bonnet, sent it to join the gloves and parasol. Then she rose, bent -over the water, and smiling took up some in the hollow of her hand and -bathed her temples with it, her lips aflame, and her hair dripping. He -lost his head, and, rising to his full height, clasped her in his arms -and kissed her wildly on eyes, throat, and wrists.... She struggled in -his embrace, but uttered no cry; her eyes were dilated, and her lips -tightly drawn; with hair dishevelled, she screened her face. - -“Leave me, leave me.” - -“No, love.... my love....” - -“Leave me, I implore you.” - -“Oh! my beautiful love, love of my life.” - -“Andrea, for the love I bear you, let me go.” - -He instantly loosed his hold on her. The lace round her neck was torn, -and there were red marks on her throat and wrists; her breath came -short and quick, yet she looked at him with the triumphant pride of -a queen. Andrea, with nerves and senses calmed after the outburst, -smiled in humble rapture. They resumed their places on the turf, she -reclining, with one arm under her head, to keep it off the ground, -looking up at the sky; he crosswise, so that his head scarcely reached -her knee. Lucia still gazing at the sky, stroked his hair with a -gesture that was almost maternal, while he rubbed his head against the -hand that toyed with his curls, like a cat who is being petted. Then -under the stillness of the great trees, a voice rang out, cool and -clear: - -“Andrea, what we are doing is infamous.” - -“Why, my sainted love?” - -“If you do not realise our infamy, I cannot explain it to you. Remember -two innocent beings who love us, who will suffer through us--Alberto -and Caterina.” - -“They will never know.” - -“Maybe, but the infamy and the treachery will be ours. We are not meant -to love each other.” - -“Why, if I love you? You are my heart, my sweetness, my perfume....” - -“Hold your peace. This love is a sin, Andrea.” - -“I know nothing about it. I love you, you are fond of me; you have said -so.” - -“I adore you,” she said, coldly. “I feel that this love is driving me -mad; but it must cease. It is a sin before God, a crime in the eyes of -man, a felony in the sight of the law.” - -“What care I for God, or man, or law? I love you....” - -“We are guilty sinners. Every tribunal, human and divine, condemns -us....” - -“What matter...? I love you!” - -“We are full of deceit, bad faith, and iniquity.” - -“Love, cast these nightmares aside. Give me a kiss; no one sees us.” - -“No, it is a sacrilege. I belong to another man; you to another woman.” - -“Then what have we come here for?” he whined like a child. “Why did you -give me your scarf last night? Why did you make me love you? What am I -to do now? Must I die? I cannot live without you, without kissing you. -I cannot live if you are not mine. You are beautiful, and I love you; -it is not my fault.” - -“It is fate,” she concluded, funereally crossing both hands under her -head, and closing her eyes as if awaiting death. - -“Lucia,” broke in Andrea, in the tones of a melancholy child. - -“Well?” - -“Do you love me?” - -“Yes.” - -“Say it: 'I love you.’” - -“I love you,” she repeated, monotonously. - -“And how much do you love me, dear love?” - -“I cannot measure it.” - -“Tell me, about how much,” he persisted, childishly. - -“Let me think,” she said, crossly. - -“What are you thinking of? Lucia _bella_, Lucia _mia_, tell me what you -are thinking of?” - -“Of you, rash boy,” said Lucia, starting suddenly into an upright -posture, and taking his head between her hands to look him straight -in the eyes.... “Of you, unthinking creature, who are about to commit -a terrible act, with nothing but love in your heart: neither fear nor -remorse....” - -“Why remorse? I love you, I want but you, naught besides.” - -“Bravo! how straight to the goal! You will have your way. Do you know -what you leave behind you? Do you gauge all that you lose or what the -future holds in store for you?” - -“No, neither do I care; I only care to know that you love me....” - -“Be a man, Andrea. Love is so serious a thing, passion is so terrible. -Beware; there is great danger for you, in loving, in being loved, by -me.” - -“I know it; that is what tempts me.” - -“I am not speaking for myself. I am an unhappy, suffering being, a -defenceless prey to human passion. I love you, and I yield to this my -love, even if it is to cost me my life. It is for you that I speak. I -am a fatal woman: I shall bring misfortune upon you.” - -“So be it. I love you.” - -“This love is madness, Andrea.” - -“So be it. I will have it so.” - -“You are binding yourself for life, Andrea.” - -“Oh! Lucia; tell me that you love me.” - -She moved towards the shore, and spread her arms as if in invocation: - -“Oh! distant sky, oh! passing clouds, oh! trees that crowd together to -mirror yourselves in the lake, bear witness that I have told him the -truth. Oh! sorrowing willow, oh! still waters, oh! reeds and lilies, -you have heard my words. Oh! Mother, Venus, Goddess, I have read the -future for him. Thou Nature, who liest not, bear witness that I have -not lied. ’Tis he will have it so.” - -“How divine you are, joy of my life!” - -She turned, and throwing her arms round his neck, gave him kiss for -kiss. Then, as if everything were irrevocably settled, she calmly -picked up her things. - -“It is fate,” she added. Then the tall, haughty, queen-like figure -moved slowly down the path, followed by her love-lorn vassal. - - - FOOTNOTES: - -[1] Literal translation:--“Following an august example ... I give it -from myself to others.... The pilgrim, the peasant ... The citizen may -have it.... Come, quench your thirst ... Here is fresh water for you.” - - - - - PART IV. - - - I. - -One rainy day, the Agrarian Exhibition closed, after a hurried -ceremony, in which the prizes had been distributed in the presence -of a scanty and discontented audience. Those who had not obtained -prizes wrote incendiary articles to the local papers, and sent paid -communications to the more important Neapolitan ones. The awards in -the Didactic Exhibition had also been very unsatisfactory, for every -teacher had expected the gold medal. The private school-teachers were -wroth with parish school-teachers, and the latter with the “College” -teachers. The ladies Sanna and Lieti had refrained from driving to -Caserta on that occasion, on account of the bad weather, and because -the fête had no attractions for them. - -Caterina, freed from the necessity of wasting whole days in driving -backwards and forwards between Centurano and Caserta, enjoyed being -able to stay at home. She had so much to arrange, so many shortcomings -to atone for, so many household projects to carry out. There were the -preserves to make; a great function in which Monzu succeeded admirably, -although he needed a certain supervision, so that when the crystal -jars were opened during the winter, at Naples, none of their contents -turned out mouldy; that was what happened, last year, to two large -jars of peaches: they had turned out quite green: such a pity! Then -there were the capers, gherkins, capsicums, and parsnips to pickle in -strong four-year-old vinegar: they would need a great number of jars, -for Andrea was fond of pickles and ate a great deal with _lesso_ and -roast meat. Of course Caterina never touched these things while they -were being prepared, but her presence and advice were necessary. Monzu -had the greatest esteem for his own culinary talents, but he always -declared that _senza l’occhio della Signora_ [without the mistress’s -eye] he had no pleasure in his work. Her rule was firm but gentle, she -did not speak to her servants more than was necessary, neither did she -bestow extraordinary _mance_ [presents in money] on them. She preferred -giving them left-off clothing; they had food and drink without stint, -and clean, comfortable sleeping apartments. She inspired them with a -certain affectionate respect, so that they always boasted of their -mistress to the servants of the neighbouring villas. Oh! she had so -much to think about. There was more linen to be made up; the linen -was a never-ending affair. Andrea had declared that the collars of -some of his shirts were out of fashion, and that he wouldn’t wear them -any more. He had ordered six of Tesorone, the first shirt-maker in -Naples, and after that she wished to have two winter wrappers copied -from a beautiful pattern of Lucia Sanna’s, although she feared that -those flowing, voluminous garments would not suit her little figure. -And Lucia Sanna said that she was glad to be able to stay at home with -her dear husband. Alberto continued to suffer from a cold, but he was -getting better; instead of coughing in the morning, he coughed at -night, an effect, he thought, of the coolness of the sheets. Carderelli -had told him that his lungs were delicate, but healthy; that he must -begin to take cod-liver oil, and continue to take a few drops of -Fowler’s arsenic after dinner, and occasionally a spoonful of _Eau de -goudron_ on rising. Diet--he must be careful as to diet; milk food, -eggs, no salted viands, no pepper, nothing heating, no fries. This was -a matter that Alberto was fond of discussing with the Signora Lieti, -his good friend and under-nurse. He clung to her skirts while she -ordered breakfast and dinner, and Caterina’s patience in discussing the -food was inexhaustible, in making suggestions that he vetoed, and in -eventually agreeing to whatever he wanted. Alberto really felt very -well; had he not ridden Tetillo that morning, and perspired and caught -cold, by this time he would have been as strong as anybody. When he -said this to Andrea and Lucia, those two exchanged a swift glance of -commiseration. - -Alberto was more than ever in love with his wife; for ever buzzing -round her, glad of the closing of the Exhibition, which did away with -so many walks and drives that were wearisome to him; for he took no -interest in any thing or person. He liked staying at home, in his -bedroom, to be present at Lucia’s toilet, admiring her lithe figure -and the undulations of her dark hair under the comb, her pink nails, -and all the minute care she lavished on her person. Alberto had the -vitiated tastes of a sick child who loves to lie among flounces and -furbelows, the scents of toilet-vinegar and _veloutine_. He went to and -fro among them, picking up a pair of stays, sitting on a petticoat, -unstopping a bottle, dipping a finger into the dentifrice--languid, -indolent, emasculated by physical weakness. He asked stupid questions, -often conscious of their stupidity, but choosing to be idiotic with his -wife, so that she might pity and protect him the more. Lucia answered -him patiently, with a resigned smile on her face which was painful to -behold, but which appeared to him the smile of love itself. When she -rose, Alberto rose; when she entered the drawing-room, Alberto followed -her; when she worked, he continued asking her stupid questions, to -which she made answers of amazing eccentricity. More than ever Alberto -admired his wife’s singular ideas, wondered at the things she saw -and that no one else saw, at her culture, her voice. Less reserved -than he had been till now, he sometimes kissed her in the presence of -others, hanging about her with singular tenacity. He even forgot his -own health, for her. The acute egoism of the poor-blooded, fibreless -creature was silenced by his love for Lucia. - -Oh! Lucia, she too was delighted to stay at home. That Palazzo Reale -had lost its charm, it was too huge, too heavy, too architectural. - -As to the park, it was a horror. Nature combed, flounced and powdered, -with lakes full of trout and red fish for the delectation of the -Philistines; with shaven turf, trimmed with scissors; and that eternal -waterfall, an odious motionless white line. - -“There is the English Garden,” remarked Caterina one day. - -“Have you seen it?” asked Lucia. - -“No, never.” - -“Is it possible, four months of Centurano every year, and you have -never seen the English Garden?” - -“There has been no opportunity. I hardly ever enter the park. I will -take you there, and we will see it together.” - -“I do not care to see it. I hate English gardens.” - -The subject dropped. Lucia was fond of staying indoors, but she -spent many hours in dressing, continually changing her gowns. Her -room was full of boxes and packing-cases; she had written to Naples -for new “half-season” dresses, fresh from the milliner’s hands. She -possessed every variety of teagown: white, ample, floating ones; -short, coquettish, bunched-up Pompadour ones; lacy ethereal ones that -you could blow away, and rich silken ones that opened over pleated -satin skirts. They all became her as well as nearly everything suits a -slight, lithe woman. When Caterina admired her, and told her that she -was beautiful, and Andrea bowed ceremoniously before her, she would say -with a placid smile: - -“I dress for Alberto, not for myself.” - -“Of course,” whispered Alberto to Caterina or Andrea, “poor Lucia -sacrifices herself completely to me. She shall at least have the -satisfaction of being beautiful for my sake.” - -After her toilet, Lucia breakfasted and then ensconced herself in her -favourite corner in Caterina’s drawing-room. She had begun a long -fanciful piece of work on coarse, stout canvas, without any design. On -it she embroidered the strangest things in loose stitches of wool and -silk: a flower, a lobster, a white star, a cock, a crescent, a window -grating, a serpent, a cart-wheel, haphazard from right to left. It -was the last Paris fashion to have your drawing-room furniture covered -with that coarse, quaintly embroidered canvas. It gave free scope to -the imagination of the fair embroideress, and Lucia revelled in the -strangest devices. Every one in the house was interested in the great -undertaking and curious to know, from day to day, what Lucia would add -to it. - -“What shall you put in it to-day, Lucia?” - -“An onion, Alberto.” - -“An onion, an onion: oh! how amusing! yesterday a pansy and to-day an -onion! How shall you work it?” - -“In flame-coloured silk.” - -Next day: “Oh! Lucia, tell me what you are going to put in it?” - -“An oaten pipe.” - -“_O Dio!_ what an eccentricity! What a mad drawing-room we shall have! -People will stand about, trying to find out the meaning of it, without -thinking of sitting down.” - -They chatted a little when they worked. Caterina cut out at the large -table, and Lucia, in whose taste she had the utmost confidence, advised -her. Lucia had become more demonstrative in her intercourse with -Caterina. She questioned her, and made her confessions that sometimes -brought the quick blush to her cheek, but only when they were alone. -When they remained indoors, Lucia retired to her room an hour before -dinner. - -“What can she be doing at this hour?” inquired Andrea of his wife. - -“I do not know. Probably she prays.” - -“Did she pray much at school?” - -“Very much; indeed, too much for her health.” - -Lucia reappeared in the same dress for dinner, but with her hair -differently arranged. She was always changing the style of her hair. -Sometimes she wore it turned up high over a tortoiseshell comb, at -others twisted round her head with a fresh rose on one side, or loosely -plaited and studded with daisies, or bound, in Grecian fashion, by a -thin gold fillet. The evenings on which she wore it like a Creole, with -a red silk handkerchief, she was irresistible. - -“Wear your red foulard; do wear it,” entreated Alberto. - -That was why she was fond of staying at home. But Alberto had confided -to Caterina and Andrea that his Lucia was busy on another great work. -No one was to know anything about it; so silence, if you please. Lucia -had begged him not to tell any one; but they were dear, tried friends. -It was no less than a great novel that Lucia was writing, a marvel of -creative imagination, that was surely destined to surpass all other -novels by Italian authors. Lucia worked at it after midnight. He, -Alberto, went to bed; Lucia placed the lamp so that it did not shine in -his eyes--the dear soul was full of these delicate attentions--opened -her desk, drew out a ream of paper, and sat with her head in her hand, -buried in deepest thought. Then she would stoop over her writing, -without pausing, for a long time. At times, under the influence of -her inspiration, she rose, and paced up and down the room in great -agitation, wringing her hands. - -“Like a poet, who under the spell of his inspiration cannot light -upon a rhyme. When I call her, she starts as if she were falling from -the clouds. You see she is in the throes of composition. I have left -off speaking to her in these moments, for I know that it disturbs her -genius. I generally fall asleep, but Lucia, I believe, does not go to -bed till two or three in the morning. They say that authors do not care -to show their work before it is finished. I shall read it, when it is -finished. I think she will dedicate it to me. It will be an amazing -work.” - -Even Andrea was glad when the Exhibition closed; through it, he had -neglected his own affairs for those of other people. He said that he -had a world of care on his shoulders, which that condemned show had -obliged him to put off. At last he was free to enjoy the peace of his -own home, without the obligation of wasting the best part of the day -in that solemn Palazzo Reale, walking ten kilometres up and down the -great halls, on those polished red tiles, that are enough to tire the -most enduring legs. He rose earlier than usual, and drove a pony down -to Caserta, where he superintended the removal of his own exhibits from -the show. He returned in time for luncheon and changed his clothes; he -no longer wore the white silk tie which used to serve as collar and -necktie, but a turned-down collar and black necktie, in honour of the -ladies, he said, laughing. At breakfast, he would speak vaguely of his -projects for the afternoon. - -“Are you going out again?” asked Caterina. - -“I don’t know ... there are some things I ought to do. Shall you ladies -go out?” - -“If Lucia cares to,” said Caterina, timidly showing a wish to stay at -home. - -“I don’t care to,” said she, raising her languid eyelids. “Will you go -out, Alberto?” - -“I don’t care to,” repeated the latter. - -“I don’t know, perhaps I shan’t go either,” murmured Andrea. But after -breakfast, when they met in the drawing-room, his impatience would get -the better of him, and he rose to go out. Sometimes he succeeded in -dragging Alberto with him in the phaeton; he drove him to Marcianise, -to Antifreda, or as far as Santa Maria. They drove up and down the -high-roads in the soft, mild autumn weather. Alberto, meagre and -undersized, in an overcoat buttoned up to his eyes, with a silk muffler -round his throat and a rug over his knees, was a striking contrast to -the vigorous young man with the curled moustache at his side, attired -in light clothes, and wearing an eagle’s feather in his grey huntsman’s -hat. Andrea was a good whip, but he sometimes slackened the reins when -they were on the high-road, so that the horses started off at a pace -that alarmed Alberto. - -One evening he said to his wife: “Andrea has homicidal intentions -towards me.” - -She looked fixedly at him, as if questioning his jesting tone. - -When, during these drives, Alberto was inclined for conversation, -he talked of his favourite subjects, his health and his wife ... he -vaunted Lucia’s beauty, the depth of her genius, the brightness of -her repartee. He would sometimes smilingly add details that irritated -Andrea, who had an aversion for the morbid confidences of his enamoured -guest. Then he would whip up his horses violently, cracking his whip -like a carrier, and indulging in a wild race along the high-road. - -“You are as prudish as a vestal,” sneered Alberto, more and more -convinced that the muscles of these very robust men are developed to -the detriment of their nerves. Strong men are cold, a reflection which -consoled Alberto, who was a weak man. - -They returned to Centurano at a furious pace. Scarcely had they turned -the corner, when they perceived a white handkerchief waving from the -balcony; it was Lucia, tall, beautiful, and supremely elegant, saluting -them, waiting for them. Sometimes Caterina’s smiling face was visible, -behind Lucia. She did not come forward, because she dreaded the remarks -of her neighbours, who did not approve of public demonstrations of -affection between husband and wife. Then Andrea cried, Hip, hip, to -Pulcinella, and the fiery mare tore up the hill at full speed; he -bowed rapidly to the balcony, and turning the corner in splendid -style, achieved a triumphal entry into the courtyard. Lucia generally -descended the stairs to meet them, to inquire how Alberto felt and -shake hands with Andrea, whom she complimented on his charioteering. -Caterina was never there, she was occupied with the last orders for -dinner, for she knew how Andrea disliked waiting. - -One of the reasons for which Andrea had longed for the closing of the -Exhibition, was that he might have time for shooting. Of this his wife, -who had passed five or six dreary days last year alone waiting for him, -a prey to a melancholy alien to her well-balanced temperament, was well -aware. So that this year she was afraid lest he should absent himself -too long and too often; an act her guests might deem discourteous. He -had said nothing about it, but from one moment to another she expected -to hear him say, “I leave to-morrow.” Yet he said nothing, until, -between two yawns, Alberto asked him: - -“About shooting, Andrea, shan’t you get any?” - -He hesitated, then he replied with decision: “Not this year.” - -“Why?” - -“I have made a vow.” - -“A vow? To Saint Hubert?” - -“To Our Lady of Sorrows.” - -Neither of the two women raised their eyes; but, for different reasons, -they both smiled. Caterina thought of Andrea’s kindness in not going -away, out of courtesy to her friend and that poor Alberto. She was -always afraid that her guests might bore themselves, and if Andrea -had gone shooting, how could she have managed, with her poor store of -intellectual resources? Oh! Andrea sacrificed himself without a murmur, -without any of those loud outbursts; he never indulged in those fits -of anger that used to frighten her. Andrea even attained the supreme -politeness of not falling asleep during the hour devoted to digestion. - - - II. - -For a whole week after the scene in the English Garden, their love had -been so calm that it needed no expression; it was self-concentrated and -subjective. They exchanged stolen glances without any agitation, they -neither blushed nor turned pale, nor did they tremble at the touch of -each other’s hands. Lucia had an absorbed air, as if she were immersed -in the contemplation of her own mind; neither the outer world nor her -lover could distract her from their state of contemplation. Andrea’s -demeanour was that of a man who is secure of himself and of the future. -When their eyes met for a moment it was as much as to say: “I love -you, you love me; all is well.” - -The fact was that the day passed in the English Garden had been too -passionate not to have exhausted, at least for a time, the savage -impulse of their repressed love. To the acute stage, a period of repose -had succeeded--a sort of Eastern dream in the certainty of their mutual -love, a kind of annihilation that to the sweets of memory unites those -of hope. - -It did not last long. Suddenly they awoke to passionate misery. One -morning Andrea arose troubled with a mad longing to see Lucia. It was -too early, she was sleeping. He paced the drawing-room like a prisoner, -looking at his watch from time to time. Caterina, who had already -risen, carried his coffee into the drawing-room, and sat down beside -him to talk over household bills, and to remind him that he had to -drive to Caserta to pay the taxes. He listened while he soaked his rusk -in the coffee, without understanding what she was saying to him. He -was devoured by impatience. What could Lucia be doing in her own room, -at that hour? How came it that she was not conscious of his longing -to see her, of his waiting for her? It must be the fault of that -miserable Alberto, who was never ready to get up--who clung, shivering -and grumbling, to the warm sheets; an odious, wretched creature, who -saddened poor Lucia’s existence. The idea, that Alberto kept her there -and prevented her from coming, was insufferable. He started to his -feet, as if in protestation, as if to go to her.... - -“Will the tax-collector be there?” said Caterina, brushing away the -crumbs with one finger, with her instinctive love of order. - -“Where?” - -“At Caserta?” - -“Who knows?” - -“We can inquire of lawyer Marini, who does the legal part of the -business; he is sure to know. Shall I send Giulietta!” - -“Send Giulietta.” - -She left the room, without noticing that anything was wrong. Andrea -became calmer, knowing that Lucia must soon appear; it was unreasonable -to expect her before half-past nine. He still longed for her presence, -but with a gentler longing. He drummed a march on the window-pane, -recalling the moment when she had entreated him not to embrace her “for -her love’s sake,” and he, obedient as a child, had desisted. Lucia, -his Lucia, should be loved in so many ways; with passion, but with the -utmost tenderness; with youthful ardour, but with reverence. Oh! all -these things were in his heart. He would wait patiently for her coming, -without any perilous, fiery outbursts. Lucia might be late, he who -loved her would refrain from breaking in doors and damaging china or -furniture. - -Enter Caterina. - -“Lawyer Marini says that the tax-collector will be there between nine -and twelve to-day.” - -“What does that prove?” - -“You are in time to go there and back before breakfast. It will take -you an hour to go there and back.” - -“No, I shan’t go ...” said Andrea, after some hesitation. - -Caterina was silent. She thought he was always right, and never -contradicted him. - -“I will go there after breakfast,” he added, as if in explanation of -his conduct. - -“As you will,” said Caterina, without remarking that after breakfast -the tax-collector would be no longer there. - -Andrea was becoming irritable again. Caterina standing like that before -him, bored him. She seemed to be waiting for something, as if she meant -to question him, to call him to account.... - -“Listen, Caterina, do fetch me my writing-case from the bedroom; I -shall stay here and write some important letters.” - -Away she went, with her light, elastic step. Lucia’s door opened, -and she entered; Andrea, pale with the pleasure of seeing her, ran -to meet her. But a disappointment arrested him. She was followed by -Alberto. Andrea’s greeting was cool, his fine project of a prolonged -contemplation of her melted away. - -“Haven’t you been out of doors this morning?” inquired Alberto, -fatuously. - -“No.” - -“Aren’t you well?” - -“I am always well. I am bored and worried.” - -Lucia looked at him as if to question him. She was so fascinating that -morning, with the dark shadow under her eyes that lent them so much -expression, her vivid lips that contrasted with the pallor of her face, -and the air of delicious languor of a woman who loves and is beloved. -In one sad, passionate glance behind Alberto’s back, they spoke to and -understood each other. He was sitting between them, sprawling in an -armchair, with no intention of moving. When he realised this, a spirit -of contradiction made Andrea long more ardently than ever to tell -Lucia what she was to him. Only once to whisper it in her ear, as in -the English Garden; once only, and he could have borne to go away. But -say it to her he must; the words sprang to his lips, and it seemed as -if Lucia read them there; her eyes dilated, and her expression became -alternately rapt and troubled. Meanwhile Alberto yawned, stretched out -his arms, drew a long breath to find out if there was any obstruction, -and coughed slightly to try his breathing capacity. Now Andrea’s only -wish was that Alberto should go away for a moment, to the window or -back to his room, so that he, Andrea, might tell Lucia that he loved -her. _Ma che!_ Her husband continued to sprawl at full length, staring -at the ceiling--lolling, with one leg over the other; anything but -move. Lucia pretended to read the paper that had come by post, but her -hands trembled from nervousness. - -“What is there in the newspaper?” - -“Nothing.” - -“As usual: there never is anything. Does it amuse you?” - -“Immensely;” her voice hissed between her teeth. - -“Why don’t you talk to us? Here is Andrea, who hasn’t been out. The -first day that he stays at home, you are absorbed in the _Pungolo_.” - -“I have forgotten to bring your box of lozenges with me,” she said, -pensively. - -“Here it is,” said Alberto, drawing it from his pocket. - -The commonplace but generally efficacious expedient had failed. The -lovers were downcast, low-spirited, and discomfited. Meanwhile Caterina -had returned with the writing-case. - -“I have been a long time,” she said, “but I could not find it. It was -at the bottom of the drawer, under the stamped paper. It is so long -since you have written.” - -She quietly prepared the necessary writing materials for her husband, -and went to sit down by Lucia. Andrea, furious at the double -surveillance, began rapidly to write senseless phrases. He wrote nouns -and verbs and immensely long adverbs for the mere sake of writing, -feeling that he could think of nothing, save that he wanted to tell -his dear Lucia, his sweet Lucia, his dear love, that he loved her. -Lucia, with her head thrown back, her face livid from irritation, -her lips so puckered that they appeared to be drawn on an invisible -thread, was looking at him from between half-closed lids, behind the -paper. He might have risen to tell her that he loved her, but Alberto -and Caterina were placidly chatting with her, saying that the rain -had cooled the atmosphere, and that at last it was possible to walk, -even when the sun was shining. Caterina had her look of serene repose, -and Alberto continued to twirl his thumbs, like a worthy _bourgeois_ -immersed in the delightful consciousness of his own insignificance. - -“There is nothing for it but to grin and bear it,” muttered Andrea. - -“What are you saying?” asked Caterina, whose ear was always on the -alert. - -“That we shall never get our breakfast. It is nearly half-past eleven. -I am fit to die of hunger.” - -“I will run and hasten it,” she said, perturbed by the savageness of -his accent. - -“I will come too, Signora Caterina,” said Alberto. - -The other two exchanged a rapid glance, so eager that it already seemed -to bring them together. But on rising Alberto thought he felt a stitch -in his chest; he began to prod himself all over, feeling for his ribs, -in prompt alarm. Caterina had disappeared. - -“I feel as if I had a pain here,” he complained. - -“I always have it,” said she, gloomily, without looking at him. - -“Do you speak seriously--at the base of the lungs?” - -“Yes, and at the top of them too. I have pains all over.” - -“But why don’t you say so? Why not see a doctor? Will you bring upon me -the sorrow of seeing you fall ill? I, who love you so!” - -The little table at which Andrea sat writing creaked as if his whole -weight had fallen upon it. Alberto, on his knees before his wife, -continued his inquiries as to her pains. Were they in the bones, or -were they stitches? Forgetful of his own suffering, he entreated her, -in adoration before that hard-set, sphinx-like face that allowed itself -to be questioned, but vouchsafed no answer. Caterina found them in this -attitude and smilingly designated them to her husband, who replied by -an ironic laugh, quite at variance with his frank, good-natured face. -But his wife’s penetration did not permit her to distinguish between -a simple smile and a sarcastic grin. Breakfast commenced in painful -but short-lived silence. Lucia soon began to chatter with nervous -volubility, playing with her knife and capriciously choosing to pour -out Andrea’s wine for him. She ate nothing, but drank great glasses of -iced water, her favourite beverage. While Caterina watched the service, -with her eye upon Giulietta, whom she addressed in an undertone, and -her hand on the electric bell, Alberto cut all the fat and gristle -away from his meat, reducing it to its smallest compass, and Andrea -stared absently at a ray of light playing on a glass of water. Lucia -continued to keep the conversation from flagging, by saying the most -eccentric things, exciting herself, doubling up her fingers, as was her -wont when her convulsive attacks were coming on. The usual question -cropped up. - -“Any one going out to-day?” asked Andrea. - -“Not I,” said Alberto. - -“Nor I,” said Lucia. - -“Nor I,” added Caterina. - -“And what do you intend to do at home?” asked Andrea. - -“I shall play at patience, with cards,” said Alberto. “But perhaps I -shan’t, after all. As to me, when Lucia stays indoors....” - -“I shall work at my embroidery,” said she, suddenly sobered. - -“And I shall sew,” said Caterina. - -“How you will amuse yourselves!” said Andrea, rising from his seat. -“Come out driving, let’s have the _daumont_.” - -“No,” said Lucia. He understood her. What would be the good of that -drive? They would still be four people together. He would have no -chance of telling Lucia that he loved her. - -“I am half inclined to stay here to count your yawns,” he growled, -savagely. - -“If you stay with me, then I’ll say you’re a good fellow,” said Alberto. - -He stayed with them: he hoped, he kept on hoping. But when he saw -Alberto seated at the little table with his pack of cards, Caterina -near the window with her basket of linen, Lucia on the sofa with the -interminable canvas between her fingers, drawing her thread slowly, -without raising her eyes, he thought it would never, never be; and -gloom and disappointment overwhelmed him. Those two obstacles, pacific, -well-meaning and motionless, who smilingly let drop an occasional -remark, were insurmountable. Never, no, never, would he be able to -speak to Lucia. He gave it up. He had neither the energy to go, nor the -patience to stay in that close room. - -“I am going away to sleep,” he said, as if he were about to accomplish -a meritorious action. - -“What are you embroidering to-day?” inquired Alberto of Lucia. - -“A heart, pierced by a dagger.” - -Once in his room, Andrea closed the shutters and threw himself on his -bed, in a state of fatigue of which he had had no experience till now. -He had been mastered in the struggle with circumstances. His impetuous -nature, alien to compromise, was incapable of endurance: he could -neither wait nor calculate. “Nevermore, nevermore,” he kept repeating -to himself, with his face buried in the pillows. - -Twice Caterina came in on tiptoe and leant over him, holding her breath -lest he should be sleeping. He feigned sleep, repressing a shrug of -annoyance. Was he not free to shut himself up in his room, and vent his -feelings by punching a mattress? Need he submit to all this wearisome -business? But Lucia, dominant and imperious, once more occupied his -thoughts; Lucia, whose name, did he but murmur it, filled him with -tenderness; Lucia, his dear love, a love as immense and unfathomable as -the sun. He turned over and over on his bed, in a fever of nervousness, -he who had never suffered from nerves before; it seemed to him that -he had lain for a century, burning between those cool sheets. Two or -three times he fell into an uneasy slumber and dreamt that he saw -Lucia, with flaming wide-open eyes, tendering her lips to his kisses. -When with wild longing he approached her, some one dragged her away -from him, and he was bereft of the power of moving from the spot to -which he felt nailed: he tried to utter a cry, but his voice failed -him. Then, starting and quivering, he awoke. “Lucia, Lucia,” he kept -repeating in his torpor, trying to recall his dream, to see her again, -to kiss her. And in his dream he found her again, he on the balcony, -she in the street, whence she held out her arms to him; and slowly he -threw himself off the balcony--slowly, slowly, never ceasing to fall, -experiencing unutterable anguish. There was an incubus on his chest -during that oppressed, restless slumber. When he really awoke his -eyes were heavy, his body ached, and there was a bitter taste in his -mouth. That eternal afternoon must be over, he thought. He opened the -window, the sun was still high. It was five o’clock, two more hours -till dinner-time. But in that pleasant light he awakened to fresh hope. -_Ecco!_ he would write to Lucia, on a scrap of paper, that he loved -her. Not another word; that was sufficient, and should suffice him. - -_Diamine!_ couldn’t he have given her that scrap of paper? It was -surely easy enough; yes, yes, it was a splendid idea. He entered the -drawing-room, pleased with his discovery. The first disillusion that -befell him was to find no one there but Caterina and Alberto. Lucia was -missing; where was she? He did not venture to ask. Alberto was smoking -a medicated cigarette, recommended for delicate lungs, and attentively -watching the smoke, with his right leg crossed over his left; Caterina -had put a band on a petticoat, and was running a tape in it. Lucia was -missing; whom could he ask about her? - -“Have you slept well?” - -“Yes, Caterina, very well; have you worked the whole time?” - -“No; the Signora Marini came to pay us a visit.” - -“I hope you had her shown into the drawing-room?” - -“Yes; she stayed too long.” - -Not a word of Lucia. Whom could he ask? Who would tell him what Lucia -was doing? - -“... And then Lucia, who is bored by stupid people,” added Alberto, -“felt ill and went to her room; just now I went to see what she was -doing.... Andrea, guess what she was doing?” - -“How can I tell?” - -“Guess, guess....” - -“You are like a child.” - -“As you cannot guess, I will tell you. She was kneeling on the cushion -of the _prie-dieu_, and praying.” - -“Lucia stays too long on her knees, it will injure her health,” -observed Caterina. - -“It can’t be helped; on religious subjects she is not amenable. -Indeed, she reproaches me for having forgotten the _Ave Maria_ and the -_Paternoster_. If I happen to cough, she prays for an hour longer,” -Alberto said. - -Andrea had gone to the writing-table, and having cut a scrap of paper -had written all over it, backwards and forwards, in every direction, -in minute characters, “I love you,” at least thirty times. This he did -while Caterina and Alberto were still talking of her.... he felt as if -he had done a deed of the greatest daring in writing those words under -their very eyes. Before he had finished, Lucia re-entered the room. -She was more nervous than usual; she went up to him and jested on his -“middle-aged,” provincial habit of “siesta.” All he needed to make him -perfect was a game of “tresette” in the evening, a snuff-box filled -with “rape,” and a red-and-black-checked cotton handkerchief. Would he -play at “scopa” with her after dinner? And while her voice rang shrill -and the others laughed, she put her hand in her pocket, as if to draw -out her handkerchief; a scrap of paper peeped out. Then he, in great -agitation, put a finger in his waistcoat-pocket and showed the corner -of his note. Caterina or Alberto, or both, were always in the room. -When one went away, the other returned; they were never alone for a -moment. Andrea had folded his note in two, in four, in eight; he had -rolled it into a microscopic ball, which he held in his hand to have -it ready. Lucia dropped a ball of wool, Alberto picked it up. Andrea -asked Lucia for her fan, but Caterina was the intermediary who handed -it to him. It was impossible. Those two were frankly and ingenuously -looking on, without a shade of suspicion; therefore the more to be -feared. Andrea trembled for Lucia, not for himself; he was ready to -risk everything. From time to time a queer daring idea flitted through -his brain; to say aloud to Lucia: “I have written something for you -on paper, but only you may read it.” Who could tell, perhaps Alberto -and Caterina would not have guessed anything, and his venture would be -crowned with success. But suppose that in jest they asked to see it? -Fear for Lucia conquered him; he ended by replacing the little ball in -his pocket. As for Lucia, her anger was so nervous and concentrated, -that it made her eyes dull and her nose look as thin as if a hand -had altered the lines of her face. She moved to and fro without her -customary rhythm, touching everything in absence of mind, arranging -her tie, lifting the plaits from her neck, inspecting Caterina’s work, -taking a puff from Alberto’s cigarette, filling the room with movement, -chatter, and sound. It was impossible to exchange the notes. Lucia put -hers in her handkerchief, and dropped the handkerchief on the sofa; but -to reach the sofa, Andrea would have had to pass Alberto’s intervening -body. After five minutes, Lucia again took up her handkerchief and -carried it to her lips, as if she were biting it. Then they exposed -themselves to a real danger. Andrea opened a volume of Balzac that was -lying on a bracket and replaced it, leaving his note between its leaves. - -“Hand me that book, Andrea.” - -“Nonsense,” cried Alberto; “would you begin to read now? It is -dinner-time, _sai_.” - -“I shall just read one page.” - -“One page, indeed! I hate your wordy, doleful Balzac. I confiscate the -book.” And he stretched out his hand for it. Andrea drew it towards -him, thinking, naturally enough, that all was lost. Lucia closed her -eyes as if she were dying. Nothing happened. Alberto did not insist on -having the book. After all, what did he care for _Eugénie Grandet_, -so that his wife chattered on instead of reading? Andrea drew a long -breath, and took his note back, no longer caring to give it to her; -his anxiety had been ineffable. Lucia, with her marvellous faculty of -passing from one impression to another, soon recovered her spirits. -The note episode was over and done for; they were very merry at dinner. -Curiously enough, a bright flush suffused Lucia’s cheeks, ending in a -red line like a scratch, towards her chin. She felt the heat and fanned -herself, joking with her husband and Caterina. She had never been so -animated before; now and then her mouth twitched nervously, but that -might have passed for a smile. Andrea drank deep, in absence of mind. -Lucia leant towards him, smiling; she spoke very close to his ear, -showing her teeth, almost as if she were offering her clove-scented -lips to him. Then Andrea, what with the heat of the dining-room, its -heavy atmosphere, laden with the odours of viands, preserved fruits, -and the strong vinegar used in the preparation of the game, the warm -rays reflected from the crystal on to the tablecloth, and Lucia’s -flushed face--the lace tie showing her white throat--so near to his, -Andrea was seized with a mad longing to kiss her; one kiss, only one, -on the lips. Every now and then he drew nearer to her, hoping that the -others would think him drunk; anything might be forgiven to a drunken -man. He drew nearer to her to kiss her, tortured by his desire. He -shrank back in dismay, before his wife’s pale, calm face, and the bony, -birdlike profile of Alberto. Suddenly Lucia saw what was passing in his -mind, and turned as pale as wax. She saw that he was looking at her -lips, and hid them with her hand. But that made no difference; he could -see them, bright, moist, bleeding, with the savour of fresh blood, that -had gone to his head in the English Garden. He would taste them for an -infinitesimal fraction of time. And with fixed gaze and a scowl that -wrinkled his eyebrows, his clenched fist on the tablecloth, he turned -this resolution over in his mind, while the others continued to talk of -Naples and the approaching winter festivities. They partook of coffee -in the drawing-room. He tried to lead Lucia behind the piano, so that -he might give her that kiss; which was absurd, because the piano was -too low. The candles were lighted, Caterina took her seat at the piano, -and played her usual pieces; easy ones, executed with a certain taste; -some of Schubert’s reveries, the Prelude to the fourth act of the -_Traviata_, and Beethoven’s March of the _Ruins of Athens_. Lucia was -lying with her head far back in the American armchair, and her little -feet hidden under the folds of her train, dreaming. Alberto, sitting -opposite to her, was turning over the leaves of the Franco-Prussian -war album, and discovering that Moltke was not in the least like -Crispi, and that all Prussians have a certain family likeness. -Andrea took several turns in the room, joining Caterina at the piano -sometimes asking her to change her piece, or to alter her time. But -he was haunted by Lucia’s lips; he saw them everywhere, like an open -pomegranate flower, a brightness of coral; he could see their curves -and fluctuations; he followed, caught them, they disappeared. For a -moment he would be free: then in a mirror, in a bronze candelabrum, -in a wooden jardinière, he would fancy they appeared to him, at first -pale, then glowing, as if they grew more living. Never to get to them! -He went out on the balcony and exposed his burning head to the air, -hoping that the evening dew would calm his delirium. Caterina begged -Lucia to play, but she refused, alleging that she had no strength, she -felt exhausted. Alberto drowsed. The two friends conversed in whispers -for a long time, bending over the black and white keys, while Andrea -watched from the window: now Lucia’s lips played him the horrible trick -of approaching Caterina’s cheek. Oh! if Caterina would but move away -from the piano; but no, there she sat, glued to her place, listening to -what Lucia was murmuring. - -Thus slowly passed the dreary hours, bringing no change to the aspect -of that room. At midnight they all wished each other good-night; Andrea -worn out with a nervous tremor, she hardly able to drag herself along. -Their good-night was spoken in the broken accents of those who have -lost all hope. And, alone in the darkness, he lived over again the -torment of that day in which he longed for a look and had not had it, -for a word and had been unable to say or hear it, for a note that he -had neither been able to read nor to deliver, for a kiss that he had -not given; his strength exhausted in that day of misery that had been -lost for love. Yes, it must be, it would be thus for evermore. Death -was surely preferable. - - - III. - -Andrea, that overgrown child of nature, whose primitive elasticity of -temperament enabled him to pass with ease from fury to tenderness, -revolted against sorrow and rebelled against anguish. Why would they -not let him love Lucia? Who dared to place themselves between him and -the woman of his love? When Caterina was in the way, he could have -screamed and stamped his foot, and sobbed like a child deprived of its -toy; his inward convulsions were like the terrible nervous attacks -of those obstinate infants who die in a fit of unsatisfied caprice. -Lucia saw his eyes swollen with tears, and his face redden with the -effort of repressing them; it made her turn pale with emotion. When the -unfortunate Alberto was the obstacle, with his meagre little person, -his hoarse voice, and his little fits of coughing, Andrea could hardly -resist the impulse which prompted him to take him round the body and -throw him down; to walk over him and crush him underfoot. When Lucia -saw the breath of madness pass over Andrea’s face, she rushed forward -at the first sign of it, to prevent a catastrophe. Then he took up -his hat and went out on foot, round the fields, under the broiling -sun, with hurried step, clenched teeth, and quivering nerves, bowing -mechanically to the people he met, even smiling at them without seeing -them. He returned home limp, bathed in perspiration, and fatigued; he -slept, the good sleep of old times, for two hours, with clenched fists -and head sunk in the pillows. On awaking, he had an instant of supreme -felicity, a well-being derived from the rest he had enjoyed, the -restored balance of his powers. But suddenly the worm began again to -gnaw, and, like a whining child that awakes too early, he thought: “Oh, -God! how unhappy I am! Why did I awake if I am to be so unhappy?” - -He was in truth a very child in love, a child of no reasoning faculty, -incapable of unhealthy sophistry or sensual melancholy. He loved Lucia, -and desired her; that was his aim, clear, precise, and well-defined. He -looked his own will in the face, straight as a sword-cut that finds its -way to the heart. He knew that he did wrong, he knew that he was guilty -of treachery; he looked his sin in the face without any mitigating -sentimentalism. Not his were the terrors, the languors of an erring -conscience, nor the mystifications of a depraved mind. He did wrong, -not because he was impelled by faith or wrath divine, but because his -imagination was wrought upon, and because he loved. He did not try to -justify himself by the discovery of any imaginary defect in Caterina, -nor wrongs nor shortcomings which would have made it excusable to -bestow his love elsewhere. His conscience could not have endured the -pretexts that might serve to lessen the consciousness of wrong-doing in -a viler soul. They sinned and betrayed, because they loved elsewhere; -that was all. Love is no fatality; love is itself, stronger than aught -besides. So he suffered in not being free to love in the light of day, -with the loyalty of a brave heart that has the courage of its errors. -He could not understand obstacles; they were a physical irritation to -him, as a cart across his path would have been. He would have liked to -have pushed them aside, or ridden over them; he lamented the injustice -of his fate, in that he could not surmount them. Sometimes, when they -were all sitting together in the drawing-room, he felt tempted to take -Lucia in his arms and carry her away. That was his right, the blind -right of violence, suited to his temperament. Did she understand it? -When he came too near to her, she shrank away with a slight gesture of -repulsion. In proportion as his passion increased in intensity, so did -the obstacles become more and more insurmountable. That consumptive -creature never left his wife for a moment; drowsing, yawning, reading -scraps by fits and starts, sucking tar lozenges, spitting in his -handkerchief, grumbling, feeling his own pulse a hundred times a day, -complaining of suffocation and cold sweats. Caterina, it is true, went -to and fro on household avocations, and sometimes retired to write -letters; but when her husband was at home she did her best to get her -business done so that she could sit down to sew in the drawing-room. -Alberto saw and inspected everything; and with the maudlin curiosity of -a sick and indolent person, wanted to touch all that he saw. Caterina -was more discreet, less curious, and of silent habit, yet she too saw -everything. Impossible to speak to Lucia alone for a minute. Two or -three times they had attempted this, almost oblivious of the others’ -presence; but having stopped in time, had found each other mute, pale -from weariness, their faces drawn by suppressed yawns. Caterina and -Alberto had nothing to say to each other. After five minutes they -subsided into an inevitable silence. Alberto considered Caterina an -excellent woman, a notable housekeeper, but rather stupid, and in -every way inferior to his wife. Caterina judged no man, but all that -Alberto inspired her with was quiet, unemotional compassion. There -was no spiritual sympathy between them, rather a physical repulsion. -The impression produced by Caterina on Alberto was the negative one -of absence of sex: she was neither beautiful nor ugly in his sight, -nor a woman at all. In Caterina the instinct of health which recoils -from disease, made him repellent to her. Then came the gloomy hours -in which Lucia, in dumb despair, would betake herself to the sofa, -where she would lie as rigid as the dead, her feet hidden under her -skirts, her train hanging on the ground, with wreathed arms, and hands -crossed behind her head, closed eyes and deathly pallor. She scarcely -answered except in curt, harsh monosyllables, passing hours in the -same attitude, without opening her eyes. Alberto wasted his breath in -questioning her, she never made him any reply. Caterina, who since -their school-days was accustomed to these acute attacks of melancholy, -signed to him to be silent, to wait for the fit to pass over: and they -kept silence until the gloom fell upon them all. Andrea started to his -feet and prepared to go out, without so much as looking towards the -sofa. Caterina was troubled at his manner of absenting himself, for she -knew that her husband could not abide these extraordinary scenes. She -ran after him to the top of the stairs, calling him back, whispering to -him. - -“Have patience, Andrea,” she said. - -“But what is the matter with her?” - -“I don’t know; she has strange ideas that unsettle her brain. She says -they are visions, and the doctor calls them hallucinations. She sees -things that we do not see.” - -“What a singular creature!” - -“Poor thing, she suffers a great deal, _sai_. If I could but tell you -what she tells me, when neither of you are there. I fear we were to -blame in advising her to marry Alberto....” - -“What does she say to you? Tell me.” - -“Are you going out?” - -“Right you are: I am off. If any one wants me, say I am out on -business. One can’t breathe in the drawing-room; it smells like a -sick-room.” - -“They will soon be leaving us, and then....” - -“I don’t mean that; you’ll tell me the rest to-night. _Au revoir._” - -To make matters worse, sometimes in the evening, when Lucia chose -to be most beautiful, she would gaze at him with a look of calm and -persistent provocation that was torture to him. And he tortured -himself, for he had neither the habit of patience nor the phlegmatic -capacity for conquering obstacles. His was the haste of one who is -accustomed to live well and quickly--who cares rather for a reality to -enjoy day by day than for an ideal to live up to. What was this torment -of having Lucia within reach--beautiful, desirable, desired--and yet -not his? He would struggle on undaunted, clenching those fists that -were ready to knock something down; and then he would fall back, -wearied to exhaustion, no longer caring for life, with the eternal -refrain in his mind: “that it would always be the same; that there was -no way out of it; that life was not worth having.” - -At night, it was no longer possible to pass an hour in the balcony. If -the bed only creaked, Caterina awoke and inquired: - -“Do you need anything?” - -“No,” was the curt reply. Sometimes he did not answer at all. Then -she fell asleep again, but her sleep was light. He knew that had he -gone out on the balcony Caterina would soon have followed him, in her -white wrapper--a tiny, faithful, loving shadow, ready to watch with him -if he could not sleep. Oh! he knew her well, Caterina. He had taken -the measure of the calm, deep, provident, almost maternal affection -that welled over in the little heart. At times, when her head rested -trustfully against his broad chest, as if it had been a haven of rest, -an immense pity, a despairing tenderness for the little woman whom he -no longer loved, stole upon him. All that was over. Finis had been -written and the volume closed. But from this very pity and tenderness -arose more potent his love for Lucia, who slept or watched two rooms -away from him. Some nights he could have run his head against the -walls to knock them down. He felt a seething in his brain that made -him capable of anything. At last he lighted on the desperate remedy of -talking to his wife of Lucia whenever they were alone. Caterina, who -was desirous of awakening her husband’s interest in her friend, was -fond of speaking of her. In a measure, Lucia’s personality modified -Caterina’s temperament; her fantasy exercised a certain influence on -her. Caterina proved this by her ingenuous employment of metaphor--she -with whom it was unusual--when her talk ran on Lucia. To tell the -truth, Andrea was rather unskilled in interrogatory, and in veiling a -too acute curiosity; but Caterina was no expert in such matters. She -talked on, in her quiet way, a gentle, continuous flow of words. It was -at night, before going to sleep, that these conversations took place. -She told him of Lucia’s mystico-religious mania; how she had turned the -whole College topsy-turvy with her penances, her ecstasies, her tears -during the sermons, her faintings at the Sacraments; she had even worn -a hair-shift, but the Directress had taken it away from her because it -made her ill. She told him of her strange answers, and of the fantastic -compositions that excited the whole class; of the strange superstitions -that tormented her. Sometimes, in the dead of the night, Lucia used to -get out of bed and come and sit by hers (Caterina’s), and weep, weep -silently. - -“Why did she weep?” inquired Andrea, moved. - -“Because she suffered. At school some considered her eccentric, some -romantic, others fantastic. The doctor said she was ill, and ought to -be taken away from there.” - -She continued talking of her curious fancies; how “she ate no fruit on -Tuesday, for the sake of the souls in Purgatory; and drank no wine on -Thursday, because of Christ’s Passion. She ate many sweets and drank -great glasses of water.” - -“Even now she drinks them,” remarked Andrea, profoundly interested. - -By degrees the narrator’s voice fell, the tale dragged, and he did not -venture to rouse her. Caterina slept for a few moments, and then, in -broken accents, began again. She ended by saying in her sleep, “Poor -Lucia!” - -“Poor Lucia!” repeated Andrea, mechanically. - -Caterina reposed in sleep, but he remained awake, feverish from the -tale he had heard, obliged to resist his longing to wake his wife and -say to her, “Let us continue to talk of her.” - -He had unconsciously adopted the same method with Alberto. When he -went out walking with him he ingeniously led up to the subject of his -wife. No sooner said than done. Alberto did not care to hear another -word. As with Caterina, Lucia was his one idea, his favourite topic. -He had so much to tell that Andrea never needed to question him: he -sometimes interrupted him by an exclamation to prove that he was an -interested listener. Alberto had enough to talk about for a century: -how he had fallen in love, how Lucia spoke, what she wrote, how she -dressed when she was a girl. He remembered certain phrases: The “Car -of Juggernaut,” the “Drama of Life,” the “Love of the Imagination,” the -“Silence of the Heart,” and he unconsciously repeated them, enjoying -the remembrance of them. He recalled the minutest details--a date, the -flower she had worn in her hair on a certain day, the gloves that came -up to her elbow, the rustle of a silken shirt under her fur wraps. -Alberto had forgotten nothing. One day he had found her in bed with the -fever, with a white silk handkerchief, that made her look like a nun, -bound round her head. Another day she had made the sign of the cross -on his chest--an ascetic gesture--to avert evil from him. Another time -she had told him that she was going to die, that she had a presentiment -about it, that she had already made her will. She wished to be -embalmed, for she dreaded the worms ... wrapped first in a batiste -sheet and then in a large piece of black satin, perfumed with musk, -pearls twisted in her hair, and a silver crucifix on her bosom. - -“Enough to make one weep, Andrea _mio_” continued Alberto. “I could -not keep her silent. She would tell me all, all. We ended by weeping -together, in each other’s arms, as if we had been going to die on the -spot.” - -When Alberto Sanna’s confidences became too expansive, and the -unhealthy flush of excitement dyed his cheeks, Andrea suffered the -tortures of jealousy. Alberto grew enthusiastic over the delicate -beauty of his wife, the sweetness of her kisses, and as he ran on his -companion turned pale, bit his cigar, and knew not how he resisted the -temptation to throw Alberto into a ditch. That invalid, whose breathing -was oppressed even on level, whose breath whistled through his lungs -on rising ground, that sickly homunculus discoursed of the joys of -love as if he knew anything about them. Andrea looked him up and down, -and decided that he was a wooden marionette in that winter overcoat, -with the collar drawn up to his ears, and the hat drawn down over his -eyes; so his anger was blended with contempt, and he threw his cigar -violently against the trunk of a tree. There were no means of reducing -Alberto to silence. His impudence was of the passionately shameless -kind, so peculiar to those lovers who recount to the whole world how -their mistress’s shoulder is turned, and that her limbs are whiter than -her face--a placid immodesty that made it possible for him to tell -Andrea that Lucia wore blue silk garters embroidered with heartsease, -with the motto, “_Honi soit qui mal y pense_;” and smilingly he -inquired: - -“What do you think of it?--pretty, eh!” - -The consolation turned to torture, the relief to anguish. Andrea grew -grave and gloomy. - - - IV. - -One day Lucia appeared in the drawing-room with a resolute and almost -defiant look on her face. Her nostrils quivered as if they scented -powder, and her whole being was ready for battle. Looking elsewhere, -while Andrea handed her a cup of coffee, she calmly gave him a note. -He trembled all over without losing his presence of mind. He found a -pretext to leave the room, and ran down into the courtyard to read -it. They were a few burning words of love written in pencil. “He was -her Andrea, her own strong love; she loved him, loved him, loved him; -her peace was gone, yet she was happy in that she loved, unhappy in -not being permitted to love him. They must put a bold face on it ... -Alberto and Caterina, poor, poor betrayed ones ... had no suspicions. -He, Andrea, should study her, Lucia, so that he might understand what -she said to him with her eyes; she was his _inamorata_, his mate, and -she loved her handsome lord....” - -All the gloom had vanished. Andrea felt as if joy must choke him. He -began to talk loudly to Matteo, the stable-man; called the hounds, -Fox and Diana, who leapt upon him; seized Diana by the scruff of her -neck; made Fox jump, telling Matteo that he was in his dotage; that -the dogs were worth two of him, but that, _vice versâ_, he was a good -_bestia_. Two ladies’ heads and the small head of a sort of scalded -bird, looked down upon him from a window. He called out to the ladies -that he proposed a good sharp drive: the ladies, like two princesses in -disguise, in the victoria, he and Alberto in the phaeton. - -“And how about luncheon?” grumbled the thin voice of Alberto, buried -under a woollen scarf. - -“Of course, we will lunch first,” he thundered from the courtyard. And -he mounted the stairs, four at a time, singing and shaking his leonine -mane. When he got to the top, he took Alberto by the throat, and forced -him to turn round the drawing-room, in the mazes of the polka. - -Lucia watched this violent ebullition of joy, without stirring an -eyelash. - -“Since you are so gallant, to-day, Andrea,” she said, coolly, “suppose -you offered me your arm, to go into lunch. ’Tis a courtesy you are -wanting in.” - -“I am a barbarian, Signora Sanna. Will you do me the honour to accept -my arm?” he said, bowing profoundly. - -The two others laughed, and followed, without imitating them. In the -gloom of the corridor, Lucia nestled closer to Andrea; he pressed her -arm until it hurt her. When they entered the dining-room, they were -so rigidly composed that Alberto teased them. Caterina was happy, for -her husband had gained his good temper. At table, Lucia’s elbow came -several times in contact with Andrea’s sleeve, when she raised her -glass to her lips, looking at him through the crystal. He kept his eyes -open, casting oblique looks at Alberto and Caterina, but they neither -saw nor suspected anything. - -“To repay you for the arm that you did not offer me,” said Lucia, with -frigid audacity, “I offer a pear, peeled by myself.” - -And she handed it to him on the point of the knife. On one side the -witch had bitten it with her small, strong teeth. He closed his eyes -while he ate it. - -“Is it good?” she inquired, gravely. - -“Sorry to say so, for your sake; but it was very bad,” he replied, -with a grimace of regret. Alberto was fit to die of laughter. That -rogue of a Lucia, who seriously offered a bad pear to Andrea, as if -in gratitude, as if she were making him a handsome present! What wit! -that Lucia! The ladies rose to dress for the drive. The first to return -was Caterina, dressed in black, with a jet bonnet. Lucia was away some -time, but, as Alberto afterwards remarked, she was worth waiting for. -At last she appeared, looking charming, her height somewhat diminished -by a dark plaid costume, with a thread of yellow and red running -through it. She wore a blue, mannish, double-breasted jacket, with -small gold buttons, a high white collar and a felt hat with a blue -veil, covering it and her hair. A bewitching, mock traveller, with a -little powder on her cheeks to cool their flush. - -The victoria and the phaeton were waiting in the courtyard. The ladies -entered their carriage and drew the tiger-skin over their knees: the -men sprang into the phaeton and bowed to the ladies, who waved their -handkerchiefs. Then the little vehicle, driven by Andrea, started at -full speed, the other equipage following more slowly. This lasted some -time; every now and then they turned back to look at their wives, who -were smiling and chatting with each other. Andrea saluted them by -cracking his whip. The wind blew fresh, and Alberto, who caught it in -his face, doubled himself up for fear of taking cold. - -“_Ma che!_” exclaimed Andrea, “don’t you feel how warm it is? I wish I -could take off my coat and drive in shirtsleeves.” - -And he goaded on Tetillo until he broke into a canter. - -“We are losing sight of the victoria, Andrea,” pleaded Alberto, who -thought that canter inopportune. - -“Now we will stop and wait for them.” - -They were on the road to San Niccolo, between Caserta, and Santa Maria. -Andrea got down and stood awaiting the victoria, which arrived almost -immediately. Francesco maintained all the gravity of a Neapolitan -coachman, although he had whipped up his Mecklenburg trotters. Andrea -and Alberto leant against the side of the little carriage, chatting -with its occupants. - -“Are you enjoying yourselves?” - -“Oh! the speed intoxicates me,” replied Lucia. - -“It is a lovely day,” added Caterina, simply. - -“Yes, but windy,” mumbled Alberto, stretching himself with the -weariness of having sat doubled up. - -“Well, shall we drive on?” inquired Andrea, impatiently. - -“I want to make a proposal,” said Alberto; “I submit it to the -consideration of the ladies.” - -“Well, make haste about it then.” - -“Have pity on a poor invalid and take him into the victoria; it is -sheltered from the wind, and this nice rug keeps one’s legs warm.” - -“And leave Andrea alone, in the phaeton?” observed Caterina. - -“True,” he said, pondering; “how could we manage it? Take him in here, -overload the carriage; and then who would drive the phaeton? Would one -of you ladies take my place?” - -They looked at each other interrogatively, and said, “Yes.” Andrea took -no part in the discussion, he listened patiently while he made a fresh -knot in his whip. - -“Would you, Signora Caterina?” continued Alberto, who had made up his -mind to a seat in the victoria; “but no, that wouldn’t do, we should be -husband and wife and wife and husband. It would be absurd; people would -take us for brides and bridegrooms! Lucia, are you too nervous to get -into the phaeton?” - -“I’m not afraid of anything,” she said, absently. - -“_Bé_, do me a favour; you go with Andrea. We will ask him to drive -slowly, because of your nerves. Will you really do me this favour?” - -“Certainly, Alberto _mio_. I was enjoying being with Caterina, but -sooner than you should be exposed to the wind....” - -Andrea assisted her to alight; she sprang out lightly, showing a -glimpse of a bronze boot. She took leave of Caterina while Alberto -ensconced himself well back in the victoria. - -“Signora Caterina, you must pardon the exigencies of an invalid. You -must fancy yourself a _garde-malade_.” - -She turned her sweet patient smile on him. Andrea and Lucia silently -made their way to the phaeton. He helped her up, and then got up -himself; then, both turning towards the carriage, waved their hands -once more. Then away like the wind. - -“Oh! my love, my beautiful love,” murmured Andrea, from whose hands the -reins had nearly slipped. - -“Run away with me, far away,” she whispered, looking at him with -languorous eyes. - -“Do not look at me like that, witch,” said Andrea, roughly. - -“I love you.” - -“And I, and I--you cannot know how I love you.” - -“I do, though. Why don’t you write to me?” - -“I have written to you, over and over again, and torn the letters up. -Oh! Lucia _mia_, how beautiful you are, and how dear!” - -Close to him, in her trim tight-fitting dress, with little crossed -feet, with the tender look on her face, shaded by the brim of her hat, -she was fascinating. She looked like an enamoured child, with her pink -chin, her delicate cheeks, and wind-blown hair. - -“I shall drop the reins and kiss you.” - -“No; they are watching us.” - -“Then why are you so dear? Why is my brain on fire?” - -The horse went on at full speed, arching its neck, almost dancing, the -other equipage, following at a distance of sixty paces. - -“I have suffered the tortures of the damned, these past days.” - -“Do not tell it me. I thought I should have died of it. Do you love me?” - -“Why do you ask me--you who know so much, you who know all?” - -“I know not why,” replied Lucia, in her caressing tones. - -“Lucia, you will drive me mad, if you speak in that voice. Shall I run -away with you here, on the high-road?” - -“Yes, yes, run away with me. That is what I wish, that you should run -away with me.” Her eye, her lips, her little foot so close to him, all -added to the provocation of her words. - -“Have pity on me, my love; you see that I am dying for love of you.” - -For a few minutes there was silence. He looked straight before him, -biting his lips, for fear of yielding to the temptation. But it was too -strong for him, he could not help looking at her. She was smiling at -him with a feverish and caressing smile, her teeth gleaming between her -lips. - -“How dear you are! Why are you laughing?” - -“I am not laughing, I am smiling.” - -“Sometimes, Lucia, I am afraid of you.” - -“Afraid of what?” - -“I don’t know. I do not know you well. And you, you are so completely -mistress of yourself. I am entirely yours; so much your slave, that I -tremble.” - -“Did not you say that you were ready for anything?” - -“And I say it again.” - -“’Tis well, keep your courage in readiness.” - -She had grown serious again--a great furrow crossed her brow, her -eyebrows were puckered, her eye sinister. - -“Oh! do not say these things to me, do not be so austere; smile again, -smile as before, I entreat you.” - -“I cannot smile,” said Lucia, harshly. - -“If you will not smile, I will drive this trap into that heap of -stones, and we shall be thrown out and killed,” said Andrea, in a rage. -She smiled with a strange ferocity, saying tenderly: - -“I love you. You are mad and boyish, that is what pleases me.” - -Andrea instinctively pulled at his reins; the pace slackened. - -“Oh! Lucia, you are a witch.” - -“You will never recover, I shall be your disease, your fever, your -irreparable mischief.” - -“Oh! be my health, my strength, my youth!” - -“Fire is better than snow, torture is more exquisite than joy, disease -is more poetic than health,” said Lucia in ringing tones, her head -erect, her eyes flashing, dominating him. Andrea bowed his head; he was -subjugated. - - * * * * * - -At Santa Maria, on the way home, the two equipages stopped, the -victoria had caught up the phaeton. They conversed from one carriage -to another. Alberto said he was very comfortable, and that he had made -the Signora Caterina explain to him how to make mulberry syrup. It was -so good for bronchial complaints. He had described his journey to Paris -to her. Caterina nodded acquiescingly; she was never bored. Then they -started again, the trap on before, the carriage following. The sun was -going down. - -“_Oh, dio!_ are we going back? We are going back,” moaned Lucia; “this -lovely day is coming to an end. Who knows when we shall have another?” - -“What dark thoughts! Do not torment yourself with dreams, Lucia. The -reality is that I love you; ’tis a fair reality.” - -“We are evil-doers.” - -“Lucia, you are striving to poison this hour of happiness.” - -“And what man are you, if you cannot bear sorrow? What cowardice is -this! Is all your strength in your muscles? I have loved you because I -believed in your strength.” - -“I am weak in your hands. Your voice alone can either sadden or revive -me. You can give me strength or deprive me of it. Do not abuse your -power.” - -They were on the verge of a sentimental wrangle, whither she had been -leading him since the beginning of the drive. - -“Love is no merry prank, Andrea; remember, love is a tragedy.” - -“Do not look at me like that, Lucia. Smile on me as you did before; we -were so happy, just now.” - -“We cannot always be happy. Happiness is sin, happiness is dearly -bought....” sententiously. - -He turned his face away, profoundly saddened. He no longer goaded his -horse, and Tetillo had subsided into a slow trot. Turning, Lucia beheld -the victoria approaching. “On, on, Andrea,” she said; “faster, faster!” -The little trap flew like an arrow. She passed one arm through the arm -of the driver, and with head erect, and hair blown about by the breeze, -she gave herself up to the pleasure of the race. - -“This is the _steppe_, the _steppe_,” she murmured, with a sigh. - -“Love, love, love!” repeated Andrea, in the excitement of their speed. -The phaeton sped on; they no longer looked behind them, nor saw the -double row of trees that flew past them, nor the people who met them, -nor the cloud of dust from the road. The little carriage flew, assuming -a fantastic aspect, like that of a winged car. - -“Give me a kiss,” said Andrea. - -“No, they are behind us; they can see us.” - -“Give me a kiss.” - -Then she opened her white linen sunshade, lined with blue, and put -it behind her; that dome screened them both and hid their two heads. -Before them, no one, no one in the fields; and while the carriage sped -along in the broad light of day, they kissed each other lingeringly on -the lips. - - - V. - -The audacity of their love increased day by day. Trusting in the -quiescence of the other two, they dared all that lovers’ imagination is -capable of inventing. They chose seats beside each other, Andrea played -with Lucia’s fan or handkerchief, he counted her bangles: if they were -apart they talked of their love in a special vocabulary that recalled -every incident of the past--an open parasol, a lake, a green shade, a -lace scarf, a phrase pronounced by one or the other, _then_. If Lucia -saw Andrea preoccupied, she immediately led the conversation to the -subject of the Exhibition, and placidly remarked that the day of the -horticultural show had been one of the most delightful in her whole -life; and Andrea would find means to drag the word _sorceress_ into his -discourse. They understood each other’s every gesture and intonation, -even to the movement of an eyelid or a finger. One day, Lucia called -across the room to Andrea: “Listen, Andrea, I have something to tell -you in your ear; no one else may hear it.” - -“Not even I?” said Alberto, in comic wrath. - -“Neither you, nor Caterina, who is smiling over there. Come here, -Andrea.” He crossed the room and approached her: she laid her hand on -his shoulder to draw him towards her, and whispered: - -“Andrea _mio_, I love you.” - -He appeared to collect his thoughts for a moment, and then breathed in -her ear: - -“Love, my love, my witch--I love you!” - -Then he returned to his place. But Alberto wanted to know absolutely; -if he didn’t, he should die of curiosity. Lucia, pretending to yield, -confessed that she had said; “Alberto is as curious as a woman; let us -tease him, poor fellow.” This incident amused the lovers immensely, but -they did not repeat the experiment. They had other devices: there was -the proffer of the arm--indoors, on the terrace, on the stairs, and -fugitive clasping and light touches in the corridor. Sometimes, for -an instant, the two heads were so close that they might have kissed. -When Caterina was not there and Alberto happened to turn his back to -them, they exchanged glances as intense as if there had been pain in -them. When they spent the evening in the drawing-room, Lucia chose -her position with infinite art. She sat in the shade behind Alberto, -so that she might gaze her fill on Andrea, without attracting any -observation. - -Sometimes she opened her fan before her eyes, looking through its -sticks. Now and then, when Alberto was away and Caterina bent over her -sewing, Lucia’s great eyes flashed in Andrea’s face: the lids dropped -immediately. All the evening Lucia maintained her air of melancholy, -her tired voice and weary intonation. If for a moment she found herself -alone with Andrea, she would rise, quivering with life, and cry, close -to his face: - -“I love you.” - -She fell back exhausted, while he was like one dazed. Now they found -a hundred ways of passing letters to each other, running the risk of -discovery every time, but succeeding with amazing dexterity; hiding -notes in balls of wool, handkerchiefs or books, in packs of cards, -at the bottom of the box of dominoes, in a copy of music, under the -drawing-room clock; in fact, wherever a scrap of paper could be hidden. -Lucia’s eye indicated the place; Andrea watched his opportunity, took -a turn round the room; then, when he reached the spot, abstracted the -letter with a masterly ease, acquired by habit, and substituted his own -for it. Under an assumed hilarity and noisy joking manner, he concealed -the most ardent anxiety and a continual uneasiness. Without looking at -Lucia, he studied her every movement; he, great lion though he was, -acquired the feline habit of certain tiger-like gestures; he, who was -frankness personified, became accustomed to profound dissimulation; he -grew sagacious, cunning and wily, oblique of glance and of crouching -gait. During the night he meditated the plan for the morrow, so that -on the morrow he might give Lucia a letter, or grasp her hand. He -prepared all the mock questions and departures, all the improvised -returns, the business pretexts and fictitious appointments. During the -night he rehearsed the lies that were to deceive Alberto and Caterina -on the morrow. Continual prevarication gradually degraded his character -and drowned the cries of his conscience, to which perfidy and veiled -evil were naturally repugnant. He lent a new spirit to the letter of -his doctrine, one steeped in mental restrictions and Jesuitical excuses. - -But this same spiritual corruption that tainted every characteristic -of his frank, loyal nature, these hypocritical concessions, this -sentimental cowardice, bound him the more firmly to Lucia. The more he -gave himself up to her the more he became penetrated by her influence, -the more acutely did he feel the delight of his slavery and the -exquisite bitterness of his subjugation. The sacrifice of his honesty, -the greatness of all his renunciations, strengthened the fetters -that bound him to her who inspired it. Although he was prepared for -anything, and ever on the look-out for any new, infernal, love-inspired -invention, that Lucia’s brain might devise, she always succeeded in -amazing him. One morning they met under a _portière_, on the threshold -of the drawing-room; she dropped the curtain, threw her arms round his -neck, and flew past him into the room. He thought he must be dreaming, -and could hardly restrain himself from running after her. One evening, -while Alberto was half asleep and Caterina playing one of her eternal -_rêveries_, she called him out to her on the balcony, under the pretext -of showing him a star, and there in the corner had for a second fallen -into his arms. Then she said, imperiously: - -“Go away.” - -In one of those moments he had murmured, with every feature quivering: - -“Take care: I shall strangle you.” - -Indeed, he often felt that he could have strangled the woman who -maddened him by her presence and her vagaries, and who always eluded -him. Even her letters were so incoherent, so mad, so prone to pass -from despair to joy, that they added to his perturbation. To-day she -would write a sentimental divagation on pure love--she wished him to -love her like a sister, like an ideal, impersonal being, for that -was the highest, sublimest love; and Andrea, moved, lulled by these -abstractions, by the tenderness with which they were expressed, replied -that thus did he love her, as she would be loved, as an angel of -Paradise. Next day her letter would be full of mysticism; she spoke of -God and the Madonna, of a vision that had come to her in the night; -she entreated him to have faith, she prayed him to pray--oh! to be -saved together, what happiness, what ecstasy to meet in Paradise! And -Andrea, who was indifferent in matters of religion, who lived in the -utmost apathy, replied--yes, for her sake, he would believe and pray: -he preferred to lie than to contradict her; her will was his, he had -no other. But in another mood, Lucia would indulge in the most ardent -phrases, filling a page with kisses, words of fire and yet more kisses, -with languors and savage longing and kisses, kisses, kisses; ending -with: “Do you not feel my lips dying on yours?” And Andrea did feel -them, and those words, written in minute characters, were to him as -kisses, and when his lips touched them a shiver ran through his burning -veins: his reply was almost brutal in its violence. Then Lucia, in -her alarm, would write that their love was infamy; that their treason -would meet with the direst punishment; that she already felt miserable, -unhappy, and stricken. Andrea, tortured by the inconstancy of her -moods, by her continual blowing hot and cold, by the constant struggle, -knowing not how to follow her, despairing of finding arguments that -would convince her--replied, entreating her to cease from torturing -him, to have pity on him. To which Lucia answered by return: “Thou dost -not love me!” He suffered more acutely than ever, despite the daring, -the letters, the stolen kisses and the embraces in doorways. Day by -day Lucia grew more strange; one morning her face was pale and her -voice hoarse and acrid. She neither gave her hand nor said good-day: -her elbows looked angular and her shoulders as if they would pierce -her gown; she even stooped as if suddenly stricken with age, answering -every one--her husband, Caterina, and Andrea--disagreeably, especially -Andrea. He held his peace, wondering what he could have done to her. -When he could snatch an opportunity of speaking to her, he asked: - -“What is the matter with thee?” - -“Nothing.” - -“What have I done?” - -“Nothing.” - -“Do you love me?” - -“No.” - -“Then I had better go away.” - -“Go.” - -In a moment like that, Andrea felt he could have beaten her, so wicked -did she seem to him. He went away to Caserta to write her a furious -letter from the post-office. When he returned she was worse, absorbed -in silence, no longer deigning to answer any one. Those about her were -so much influenced by her bad temper that they did not speak either. -Every now and then, Alberto would ask: - -“Lucia _mia_, is there anything you want?” - -“Yes.” - -“What?” - -“To die.” - -The newspaper shook in Andrea’s hand; he was pretending to read, while -not a word was lost upon him. - -“Lucia, shall we go to the wood to-morrow?” ventured Caterina, timidly, -to give her something to talk about. - -“No, I hate the wood, and the green, and the country....” - -“Yesterday you said that you loved them.” - -“To-day I hate what I loved yesterday,” said Lucia, in her sententious -tone. - -At last, one day, when she was shaking hands with Andrea, who was -going out, she fell down in the frightful convulsions to which she had -been subject from her childhood. Her arms beat the air, and her head -rebounded on the floor. Neither Alberto nor Caterina could do much for -her; Andrea grasped her wrists, and felt them stiffen like iron in his -hands; her teeth chattered as if from ague, and the pupils of her eyes -disappeared under her lids. She stammered unintelligible words, and -Andrea, in dismay, almost thought he heard her break into sentences -that revealed their secret. Then the convulsions appeared to abate, -her muscles relaxed, and her bosom heaved long sighs. She opened her -eyes, gazed at the persons round her, but closing them again, in a kind -of horror, uttered a piercing cry, and fell into fresh convulsions; -struggling, and insensible to the vinegar, the water, and the perfumes -with which they drenched her face. Caterina called her, Alberto called -her; no answer. When Andrea called her, her face became more livid, and -the convulsions redoubled in intensity. With her lace tie torn away -from her throat, her dress torn at the bosom, with dishevelled hair, -and livid marks on her wrists, she inspired love and terror. When she -came to herself, she cried as if her heart would break, as if some one -had died. They comforted her, but she kept repeating, “No, no, no,” -and continued her lamentations. Then, tired, worn out, with aching -bones and joints, incapable of moving away, she fell asleep on the -sofa, wrapped up in a shawl. Alberto stayed there until, at midnight, -Caterina persuaded him to go to bed, and the two men retired. She sat -up near a little table to watch, starting up at the slightest sound. -Towards two o’clock Andrea stole in quietly; he was dressed, he had not -gone to bed, he had been smoking. - -“How is she?” he whispered to his wife. - -“Better, I think; she never woke up, she has only sighed two or three -times, as if she were oppressed.” - -“What horrible convulsions!” - -“She used to have them at school, but not so badly.” “Why do you not go -to bed?” - -“I cannot, Andrea; I cannot leave the poor thing alone.” - -“I will sit up.” - -“That wouldn’t do, _sai_.” - -“You are right, but they haven’t made my orangeade.” - -“The oranges and the sugar must be in the bedroom ... but I had better -go and see.... Stay here a moment, I will soon return.” - -Then he knelt down by the sofa, laying his hand on Lucia’s. She woke up -gently and did not seem surprised, but hung on to his neck and kissed -him. - -“Take me away,” she said. - -“Come, love,” he said, attempting to raise her. - -“I cannot; I am dying, Andrea.” She again closed her eyes. - -“To-morrow,” he said vaguely, for fear the convulsions should come on -again. - -“Yes, to-morrow, you will take me away, far, far....” - -“Far, far away, my heart....” - -They were silent; she must have heard an imperceptible sound, for she -said: - -“Here is Caterina.” - -Caterina entered on tiptoe, and found her husband sitting in his place. - -“She hasn’t moved?” - -“No.” - -“I have made you your orangeade.” - -“Have you made up your mind to sit up?” - -“Yes, I shall stay here; you don’t mind?” - -And as they were in the dark, but for the faint light of the lamp, -she stood on tiptoe for him to kiss her. He went away as slowly as -possible, and Caterina watched until dawn. - - * * * * * - -Henceforward, all the letters ended with, “Take me away;” all of them -were despairing. - -Lucia wrote with such tragic concision, that he feared to open her -letters. There was nothing in them but crime, malediction, suicide, -death, eternal damnation, hellish remorse, teeth chattering, fever, -burning fire. She was afraid of God, of man, of her husband, of -Caterina, of Andrea himself; she felt degraded, lost, precipitated -into a bottomless pit. “To die, only to die!” she exclaimed, in her -letters. And she appeared so truly miserable, so really lost, that -he accused himself of having ruined a woman’s existence, and craved -her forgiveness, as if she had been a victim and a martyr. “I am your -assassin; I am your executioner; I am your torment,” wrote Andrea, who -had adopted the formulas of her emphatic style, with all its fantastic -lyricism. - -October was drawing to an end. One Sunday, at table, Lucia calmly -announced that they would be leaving on the following Tuesday, despite -the popular dictum.[2] - -“I thought,” said Caterina gently, “that you would have stayed till -Martinmas.” - -“The fact is that Alberto’s cough is a little more troublesome, owing -to the damp of this rainy October. Our house in Via Bisignano is very -dry, and it is quite ready for us.” - -“For the matter of that, I am better,” volunteered Alberto; “I am sure -that I have gained flesh. I have been obliged to lengthen my braces. I -owe my recovery to this country air.” - -“I am sorry that Lucia has not been so well,” said Caterina. - -“What does it matter?” said the other with supreme indifference. “I -am a sickly, unfortunate creature. Yet the time I have spent here at -Centurano, Caterina _mia_, has been the brightest, most harmonious -epoch of my life, the highest point in my parabola; after it, there can -only come a rapid descent towards eternal silence, eternal darkness, -eternal solitude.” - -Andrea did not open his lips, but in the evening he wrote, entreating -her to stay a few days longer. He could not bear the thought of her -departure. At Naples, she would no longer care for him. He would not -let her go. She was his Lucia; why did she leave him? If she refused -to stay, she must know that he would follow her at once. - -It was of no avail. Lucia insisted on leaving. He clashed against an -iron will, against a will with a steady aim. In one or two curt notes, -Lucia replied so harshly as to fill him with dismay. She wished to -leave, why should he detain her, why not let her go in peace? She -wished to go, because her sufferings were intolerable, because she -was so miserable. She wished to go, to weep elsewhere, to despair -elsewhere. She wished to go, and he had no right to detain her, since -he had made her so unhappy. She wished to go, so that she might not die -at Centurano. - -And she did leave; the farewell was heartrending. Lucia, whose -departure had been fixed for midday, wept since early morning. Of -everything that she looked upon, she said, “I look upon it for the last -time.” Of everything that she did she said, “I do this for the last -time.” Caterina was pale and with difficulty restrained her tears; -Alberto was so much moved by Lucia’s emotion, that he mumbled inaudible -nothings. Andrea rambled about the house like a phantom, touching -himself as if to make sure of his own existence. Lucia avoided him, and -abstained from addressing him; she did but raise her tearful eyes to -his. They lunched in silence; no one ate a mouthful. Afterwards Lucia -drew Caterina into her room; there she threw her arms round her, and -sobbed her thanks for all her goodness. - -“Oh! angel, angel! Caterina _mia_! For what you have done to me, may -happiness be yours! May God’s hand be over your house! May love and joy -abide within it! May Andrea ever love you more and more; may he adore -thee as the Madonna is adored....” - -Caterina signed to her to be silent, for the strain was getting too -much for her; they kissed each other over and over again. When they -entered the drawing-room, Lucia’s eyes were swollen. - -“_Addio_, Andrea,” she said. - -“Let me take you to the station,” he murmured. - -“No, no, it would be worse. _Addio_; thank you. May the Lord bless....” - -She turned away sobbing, and was gone. The greetings from the balcony -and waving of handkerchiefs lasted until the carriage had turned the -corner to Caserta. Husband and wife were alone together. Suddenly the -house seemed deserted, and the rooms immense. A chill fell upon it. -Caterina stooped to pick up a white handkerchief; it was Lucia’s, and -Caterina wept over it, like a child who has lost its mother. Andrea sat -down by her on the sofa, drew her head towards him, until it rested -against his shoulder, and wept with her. Only two tears--burning, -scalding, sacrilegious. - - - FOOTNOTES: - -[2] “Nè di Venerdì, nè di Marte, nè si sposa, nè si parte.” - - - - - PART V. - - - I. - -The note was worded as follows: - - - “I could not bear it without you. I gave out that I was going - shooting; have come to Naples instead. I implore you, let me see you - for a moment; just the time to tell you that I love you more than ever. - - “ANDREA.” - -He had to wait for the answer, but it came: - - “To-morrow, at ten. Let there be a closed carriage at the cloister of - Santa Chiara, before the little door of the church. Blinds down and - door open. I will come for a moment--to bid you farewell. - - “LUCIA.” - -All night long he paced the room that he had taken at an hotel, reading -that kind and cruel letter--inexplicable as she who had written -it--over and over again. With all its rich store of vitality, Andrea’s -healthy temperament was impaired; his nervous and muscular system -degraded and unstrung. He missed the vigour of his iron muscles: he -felt as weak as if his legs must refuse to carry him. His appetite, -served by the wonderful digestive faculties upon which the harmony of -the entire organism depended, had forsaken him. And he had acquired the -tastes of Lucia for glasses of iced water, barely tinted with wine, -spiced viands and sweets. Red meat disgusted him as it did her. He -felt ill. Within him or outside him, he could see but one remedy for -his evil--Lucia. She only could cure and redeem him, make the rich -blood run its old course through his veins, restore to him physical -equilibrium, with the exuberant gaiety and joy of life that he had -lost. He was ill for want of her; it was an unjust privation. He felt -that the first kiss, on the first day of happy love, would give him -again health, strength and comeliness, and the power of defying sorrow -and ill-luck. The bare vision of it made him shut his eyes as if the -sun had blinded him. - -“Lucia, Lucia,” he kept repeating, with dishevelled hair and oppressed -breathing. He could think of nothing but the appointment for the -morrow, what Lucia would have to say to him, and how he would dissuade -her from bidding him farewell. He was certain of dissuading her, for -without Lucia he would die, and he did not mean to die. A thousand -wild projects crowded his brain. He dreamt of kneeling before her and -saying, “I have come to die by thy hand.” He would take a dagger with -him and offer it to her. He dreamt of not replying to her arguments -except by, “I love you, you shall be mine.” He dreamt of not saying a -word, but of kissing her until his lips ached. - -The livid November dawn found Andrea with parched lips and burning -eyes, lost in fantastic hallucinations. He went out into the streets of -Naples at seven, under a fine rain, without heeding the wet. At eight -he was already driving up and down the Toledo, lolling on the cushions -of a hired carriage, with his hat over his eyes and the curtains drawn -down, consulting his watch every few minutes. - - * * * * * - -The heavy, iron-bound _portière_ of padded leather fell behind a lady -dressed in black, in deep mourning. There were few people in the church -of Santa Chiara, which has but one nave, gay with gilding, large -windows and bright painting; more of a drawing-room than a church. -Lucia, crossing herself devoutly, took the holy water, and turned -towards the principal entrance. Then she knelt before the altar of the -_Padre Eterno_, a miraculous shrine hung with ex-voto offerings in -wax and silver, in red or blue frames. She, kneeling on the marble -steps, with her head against the balustrade, conversed with the Eternal -Father, telling Him that He had thus ordained, for this was fate. Since -bow she must to the decrees of Providence, she prayed Him to vouchsafe -her counsel in that supreme hour. The Eternal Father had chosen to -cast her into this tribulation, in which she had lost all peace and -felicity: now she prayed Him to sustain her, to illumine her darkness -so that she might find her way. Which was her way--the way of justice? -To leave Andrea, so that he might do something desperate? Be his, in -continual deceit? Be his, openly? She spoke humbly to the Eternal, -awaiting the flash of the Holy Spirit that should illumine her terrible -position. - -“O Father, O Father, Thou wouldst have it so. Now help me.” - -After saying three final _Paternosters_, she rose. Grace had not come -to her: the Eternal had not permitted her to hear His voice: she -arose from prayer offered in vain: God the Father had not heard her. -She crossed the whole length of the church and tottered up to the -image of the Madonna, where she fell on her knees. She was an ancient -_Madonna delle Grazie_, with a cadaverous face and large pitiful eyes -that appeared to look at you, to appeal to you, to follow you as you -departed. Lucia told the Madonna of her trouble, of her misery, and -with her head resting on the balustrade, weeping and sobbing, she said -to her: - -“O! _Vergine Santissima_, as Thou hast suffered in Thy motherhood, -so do I suffer in my womanhood. The anguish of these sorrows was not -Thine, but from high Heaven. Thou seest and dost fathom them. O! -_Vergine Santissima_, mine was not the will to do this thing. Before -the Divine mercy, I am innocent and unhappy. I was led into evil and it -overcame me, for my strength could not withstand it; it was weakened by -the misfortunes inflicted on me by Heaven. O! Holy Virgin, I may have -sinned, but I am not a wicked woman. I am a tempest-tossed, tortured -creature, a plaything of the fates. O! Holy Virgin, like unto Thee have -they thrust seven swords into my heart; like unto Thee, for fifteen -years, am I pursued by the sinister vision of martyrdom. I am the most -bitter tribulation that is upon the earth. My heart bleeds, my brain -is bound in leaden bands, my nerves are knotted by an iron hand, my -mouth is parched. Madonna, do Thou help me, do Thou console me. O! -Madonna, who hast not known human love, mercy on her who has learnt to -know it, ardent, immense, devouring. O! Madonna, Thou who knowest not -desire, mercy on her who has it within her, long, savage, insatiable. -O! Madonna, do Thou tell me, shall I give myself to Andrea?” - -But Lucia’s passionate eyes were turned in vain on the Madonna: the -Virgin continued to consider Lucia who was praying earnestly, and a -little woman who was reciting her rosary and beating her bosom, with -the same compassionate gaze. Then Lucia recited half the rosary, on -that lapis-lazuli fragment of hers. She stopped at a _Paternoster_, -and looked at her watch. It was ten o’clock. Absent and indignant at -last that Divine grace had been withheld from her, she was now only -praying with her lips. They all left her to her fate, even God and the -Madonna--poor leaf that she was, fallen from the bough and whirled in -the vortex of destiny. It was of no avail: they were all against her, -they left her defenceless and bereft of succour. In that dark hour, the -ingratitude of the world and the indifference of Heaven were revealed -to her. “Hyssop and vinegar, hyssop and vinegar, the drink they gave to -Christ,” she kept repeating to herself, while she rearranged the folds -of her black dress, and drew her crape veil over her face. Once more, -when she passed the chief altar, she knelt and said a _Gloria Patri_, -crossing herself from sheer force of habit. And it was with a gesture -of decision that she sped through the little door and dropped the -curtain behind her. - -The two-horsed hired landau was waiting in front of the five steps. The -wide quadrangle of the cloister was deserted. Perhaps the noble Sisters -were peeping from behind those gratings. The fine close rain continued: -the driver, indifferent and motionless, sheltered himself under a big -umbrella. The carriage bore the letter M and the number 522. The door -nearest the church was open. Lucia took in all these details. She -walked down firmly, without looking behind her, and with one spring was -inside the carriage. A voice cried: “_A Posilipo_,” to the driver, and -the carriage-door closed with a snap; then it started. - -“O! love, love, love,” murmured Andrea, folding her in his embrace. - -She tore herself away, and laughing ironically, said: - -“Do you know that our position is to be found in _Madame Bovary_? This -is a novel by Flaubert!” - -“I have not read it. How can you be so cruel as to say these things to -me?” - -“Because we are the performers in a bourgeois drama, or in a provincial -one, which comes to the same thing.” - -“I don’t know anything about it, I only know that I love you.” - -“Is this all that you have to say to me?” she asked, with a sneer. - -“Oh! Lucia, be human. True, I have lost all sense, all dignity, but -’tis for love of you. Think how I have suffered in these three days! -Despair has nearly driven me to throw myself down from the _Ponte della -Valle_.” - -“They who talk of suicide are the last to commit it.” - -“But if I love thee, I do not mean to die. Oh! cruel, not one kiss hast -thou given me.” - -“There are no more kisses for our love,” she replied, oracularly. - -In her black attire, with her veil drawn over her face, under the green -shade of the curtains, her feet hidden by her long skirt, and her hands -by her gloves, without a thread of white on her person, her aspect was -most tragic. Andrea shuddered with an acute sense of fear, he felt -as if he were being irretrievably ruined by a malignant sorceress. -But when she moved and the well-known perfume diffused itself in the -circumscribed atmosphere, the painful sensation decreased and was soon -gone. - -“What is the matter with you?” he said. He had lost heart, and seeing -all his projects melt away, found nothing to say to her. - -“Nothing.” - -“Do you love me?” - -“I love you,” was Lucia’s frigid reply. - -“How much?” - -“I do not know.” - -“Why did you say that there were no more kisses for our love?” - -“Because, like Siebel, you are accursed of Mephistopheles. Siebel could -not touch a flower without its fading and dying. You have kissed me, -and I am fading and dying. There are no more flowers for Margaret, no -kisses for our love.” - -“I see,” said Andrea, absorbed in a sorrowful dream. - -“This is what I have to say to you, we must forget each other.” - -“No,” cried Andrea, in a passion. - -“Yes, the hard law of duty imposes this upon us.” - -“Duty is one thing, love is another.” - -“That is why. Do you love Caterina?” - -“I love you,” he said, closing his eyes. - -“Well, you are happier than I am; I love Caterina, I love Alberto; to -my mind, they are adorable beings.” - -“You love too many people,” he said, bitterly. He tried to take her -hand, she resisted. Outside, the rain increased; the carriage rolled on -noiselessly over the wet pavement of Santa Lucia. - -“Mine is a large heart, Andrea.” - -“You shall love me only.” - -“I cannot. I love your wife and my husband, I cannot sacrifice them to -you. Let us say good-bye.” - -“I cannot, Lucia. I am doomed to love you, for ever. You shall be mine.” - -“Never, never, never!” - -“But are you not afraid of me?” he cried, red in the face, furious. -“But do you think you can say all this to me with impunity? Are you -not afraid that I shall kill you? Couldn’t I do so, this instant?” - -“Please yourself,” she replied, calmly. - -“Forgive me, Lucia; I am a fool and a savage. You are my victim, I -know it. I make you unhappy, and ill-treat you into the bargain. All -the wrong is on my side. Will you forgive me? Tell me that you have -forgiven me.” - -“I forgive you.” She gave him her hand, which he kissed humbly, through -her glove. “Listen to me attentively, Andrea,” she resumed; “when you -have heard me, you will be convinced that I am right. In sorrow, but of -your own free will, you will say good-bye for ever. Are you listening?” - -“Say what you will. You cannot convince me, for I love you.” - -“I shall convince you, you’ll see. I am not to blame for what has -happened in this dark, tumultuous drama. I did not seek love, I did not -seek you. I had married Alberto, willingly sacrificing my whole life to -him, in all affection. I had already shunned you. Twice before you had -crossed my path with your conquering, all-compelling love. I would not, -I would not--you know that I would not. Do you confess to this?” - -“Yes, I confess it; you would not,” repeated Andrea like an echo. - -“Do me this justice. Step by step have I fought against your love, your -tyrannic love. I have watched and prayed and wept; deaf is Heaven, deaf -the world, and fate, the implacable statue that has no entrails, that -no human love can move, is inexorable. Fate has willed it so.” - -“Fate, fate,” repeated Andrea, in a tone of conviction. - -“Now, although I know myself to be free from blame, my sensitive -conscience makes me decry myself, as if I were a baneful creature. It -is useless to struggle against fate; we have bowed to its decrees and -we have loved. Oh! Andrea, I would not have said it to you--but at this -supreme moment the soul must reveal itself stripped of all artifice; I -have sacrificed all to you.” - -“You are an angel....” - -“No, I am a miserable woman, who loves and is capable of sacrifice. -Peace, tranquillity, conjugal duties, the ties of friendship, serenity -of conscience, mystic love, of all these have you bereft me. What have -you to offer me in exchange?” - -“Alas! I can but love you,” he cried, in despair at his own poverty. - -“Love is not everything, Andrea.” - -“It is everything to me, Lucia.” - -“You would do anything for love?” - -“Anything.” - -“Tell the truth, speak as if you were drawing your last breath, before -passing into the presence of your Judge; would you do anything?” She -had seized his hands, she was gazing fixedly, ardently into his eyes, -as if she would have drawn his soul from him. Andrea, completely -subjugated, simply said: - -“Anything.” - -She permitted him to kiss both her hands. She was thinking. Then she -raised the green curtain and looked out into the street. It was still -raining--in fact the rain was heavier than ever, and fell in long, -pointed drops, like needles. They had reached Mergellina. The sea under -the rain was of a dirty grey colour, and a mist shrouded the green blot -made in the landscape by the villa and the blurred blot made by the -Fort. Neither boat nor sail on the sea. - -“What desolation!” murmured Lucia, “on sea and land! Ours is an -ill-starred love!” - -“Lucia, Lucia, my beautiful Lucia, do not say these things. You have -not yet given me one kiss.” - -“Kissing is your refrain; kiss me if you will.” - -She threw back her veil and let him kiss her cold, closed lips. He -turned away from her, mortified. - -“You are passionless; you do not care for me,” he said. - -“But do you not realise, unhappy man, that I can never be yours? Do -you not realise that in being yours I should attain the utmost joy? -but that I deny myself? Do you not realise my renunciation of youth, -passion, life? Oh! unfortunate, who can torment me because you cannot -realise....” - -“I admire you, Lucia, there is no other woman like you, and I do not -deserve you.” - -The driver stopped, they had arrived at Posilipo, on the road that -leads between the villas on the heights and those that slope down to -the sea. - -“Via di Bagnoli,” cried Andrea from the window. - -“Whither are you taking me, Andrea?” - -“Far....” - -“No; I must return to town. Alberto is awaiting me.” - -“Do not speak to me of Alberto.” - -“On the contrary, you must let me speak of him. He is ill. I told him I -was going to confession. You must drive me quickly back to town.” - -“I will never take you back,” he said emphatically. - -Lucia looked at him, inquiringly, but a transient smile flitted over -her lips. - -“You shall stay with me, you shall come with me. I will not let you go, -Lucia.” - -She looked as if she were too stupefied to reply.... “You are going -mad, Andrea.” - -“I am not going mad, I am speaking in all seriousness; my mind is made -up.” - -The carriage had reached the Bagnoli shore. - -“Let us get down here, it is rainy and deserted; no one will see us.” - -He obediently opened the carriage-door, helped her to get down, and -gave her his arm. - -Leaving the carriage on the high-road, they walked down to the sea -under a fine rain, their feet sinking in the moist sand. A damp mist -hung over the deserted landscape. Nisida, the convicts’ isle, stood out -before them, black on the pale horizon. Round it, the sea was dark and -turbid, as if all the livid horrors from the bottom had floated to its -surface: further on towards Baia, it shone with frigid whiteness. The -_Trattoria_ of Bagnoli, behind them, had all its windows closed; the -covered terrace was bare and empty, its yellow walls were stained by -the damp. Further back still spread the grey plain of Bagnoli, where -the soldiers go through their exercise, and Neapolitan duellists settle -their disputes. - -“It is like a northern landscape,” she said, clinging to the arm of -her companion. “It is not Brittany, for Brittany has bare rocks and -terrible peaks. Neither is it Holland, for the Scheldt is white, and -fair and placid, veiled in a milky mist. It is Denmark, with Hamlet -gazing at the grey Baltic, with thoughtful eyes that betray his -madness.” - -He listened to her, only conscious of the music of the voice that -re-echoed in his innermost being. The fine, close rain poured down upon -them until they were drenched, but neither of them perceived it. - -“Have you ever been here, Andrea, when the landscape was blue?” - -“Oh, yes--look over there, behind those closed shutters. I once fought -a duel in a big room in the inn.” - -“Oh! my love, with whom?” - -“With Cicillo Cantelmo, a friend of mine.” - -“For whom?” - -“... for a woman.” - -An embarrassing silence ensued. - -“How little I know of your life, Andrea,” she said gently, clinging -ever closer to him. “I am a stranger to you.” - -“The past does not exist, love; all that has been is dead.” - -“Oh! love, I am dead, I am dead to happiness.” - -“Let me carry you away. Oh! my heart, you shall be reborn.” - -“To-day you talk like a poet, Andrea, like a dreamer.” - -“You have taught me this language; I did not know it before. I had -never dreamed. Come away, Lucia, come away with me.” - -“It’s late, very late,” she replied. “Come back to the carriage: let us -return to Naples.” - -They regained the little green haven that cut them off from the rest of -the world. They were both saddened. When they turned in to the Via di -Fuorigrotta, Lucia shuddered, and turning to Andrea, said: - -“And the future?” - -“Do not think of it, let it come.” - -“You are a child, Andrea.” - -“No; you will find that I am a man. Will you trust me?” - -“I am afraid, I am afraid;” and she clung to him. - -“What are you afraid of?” - -“I do not know.... I am afraid of losing myself. This love is ruin, -Andrea. I can see the future. Shall I foretell it you? Shall I describe -the fate that awaits us?” - -“Tell, but give me your hands; tell, but smile.” - -“There are two ways before me. The first is the path of duty. After -this gloomy, melancholy drive in the rain, in a carriage like a hearse, -driven by a spectral coachman, we can coldly kiss and say good-bye, -renouncing love. Ever to be apart, never to meet again, to betake -ourselves, you to Caterina’s side, I to ... Alberto, to a life as dry -and arid as pumice-stone, to that humdrum existence that is the death -of the soul. Forget our glorious dreams, our sweet realities: behold -the future....” - -“No; I cannot.” - -“There is another future open to us. It is sin clothed in hypocrisy; it -is hidden evil; it is fear-struck, trembling adultery, that degrades -and deceives, that steals secret kisses, that is dependent on servants, -porters, postmen, maids, and the tribe of them. It is what we have -endured till now; it is odium, vulgarity, commonplace treason. To love -as every one else loves! to imitate what a hundred thousand have done -before us! It is unworthy of a woman like me, of a man like you!” - -“Once you told me that deceit is merciful,” he murmured. “You love -Caterina and Alberto, in this way you could save....” - -She turned and looked at Andrea, her scholar who had learnt her -theories so well, whom she had taught to deny truth. - -“Then,” said Lucia, gloomily, “as I shall be never able to resign -myself to hiding my love, since I can no longer practise deceit, we had -better part.” - -“No; I cannot.” - -“We had better part.” - -“I cannot; I shall die without you.” - -“What can I do? There is no other way out of it. Die! I, too, will die.” - -She turned up her eyes to the roof of the carriage and crossed her -arms, as if she were waiting for death. - -“I have let you speak,” he said calmly, in a tone of decision, “because -you would have your say. But I have a plan of my own, the best, the -only one. Humdrum adultery, you will have none of it. Well, then, -we will have brazen adultery, open scandal. We will leave Naples -together....” - -“No,” she cried, covering her face in horror. - -“... we will leave together, never to return. We will begin our life -anew, in London, Paris, Nice or Brittany, wheresoever you will. Naples -shall be wiped out of it. Since it is ordained that I love you, that -you love me, we will pay our debt to fate.” - -“Fate, fate,” she sobbed, convulsively, wringing her hands. - -“Fate,” repeated Andrea, bitterly. “We should never have loved each -other. Now it is too late to draw back; you are mine.” - -“Oh, Caterina! oh, Alberto!” she exclaimed, weeping. - -“It is fate, Lucia.” - -“My husband, my dearest friend!” Sobs rent her bosom. - -“I tell you again, your heart is too big. I love you and you only: you -shall only love me.” - -“What torture, Andrea!” - -“Have you not said, hundreds of times, 'take me away?’ Now I am ready -to take you away.” - -“You will take a corpse with you, pale with remorse.” - -“Then let us content ourselves with hypocrisy, with such love as -suffices to others; yet that is what you cannot tolerate.” - -“Oh! my God! what torture is this? I have not deserved it.” - -Suddenly it turned dark. She uttered a cry of dismay. - -“It is nothing, we are passing through the Grotta. Fear nothing, I love -you.” - -“This love is a misfortune, a tragedy.” - -“Have you not already told me this in the park?” - -“Yes....” - -“Well, Lucia, my life shall be passed in craving your pardon for having -brought this misery upon you, I know that you are my victim. I know -that I brought you to ruin. I demand of you an immense sacrifice. I -know it, but are you not the personification of sacrifice? You are an -example of noble abnegation, you are virtue and purity incarnate. You -will see what my love for you is--how I shall adore you.” - -“And Caterina and Alberto? - -“We will go away together, never to return,” he persisted obstinately. - -“We shall be accursed, Andrea.” - -“I shall take you away. Call me your executioner, I deserve it, but -come with me.” - -“We shall be unhappy.” - -“_Che!_” - -“Madonna _mia_, Madonna _mia_, why hast thou ordained my ruin?” - -“Will you come to-day or to-morrow?” - -“Neither to-day nor to-morrow. I am afraid; let me think. You are -pitiless; no one has mercy on me.” - -“You are an angel, Lucia, you know how to forgive. To-day or to-morrow?” - -“Be merciful, give me time.” - -“I will wait for you, my love. I will wait, for I know that you will -come.” - -A pale ray of light stole into the carriage through the blinds. Lucia -was like one in a trance. - -“You will leave me at the church _Della Vittoria_. I will pray there -and walk home; it is only a few steps from home.” - -“And what am I to do? It is for you to decide what I am to do.” - -“Leave to-day for Caserta. In five or six days you will return to -Naples, you and Caterina. By that time I.... shall have thought. -But do not attempt to write to me or see me; do not ask me for -appointments....” - -“You hate me, don’t you?” - -“I love you madly. But I must be left to myself for a time.” - -“You don’t hate me for the harm I have done you?” - -“Alas, no. We are all liable to do evil.” - -“Not you; I am evil, but I love you.” - -“Andrea, we have arrived; stop.” - -“Lucia, remember that there is no way out of it. We must go away, -absolutely. Give me a kiss, oh, my bride!” - -She stood up and allowed him to kiss her. - -“Till that day, Andrea,” said Lucia, with a gesture as tragic as if she -were casting her life away. - -“Till that day, Lucia.” - -The door of the carriage closed and it drove off in the direction of -Chiatamone. - -She found the church closed. That made an impression on her. - -“Even God so wills it. O Lord, do Thou remember, on the day of -judgment.” - - - II. - -Caterina was glad to return to Naples, to the house in Via -Constantinopoli; for alone at Centurano, without the Sannas, and -especially without Andrea (who had gone away shooting four times in a -fortnight, to make up for lost time), she had been very dull. In those -two weeks she had busied herself with putting the villa in order; the -furniture had been encased in holland covers and the curtains taken -down, Lucia’s room left intact, in readiness for next year. Then the -house had been consigned to the care of Matteo, and when this was -accomplished she was glad to get away. - -She intended making many innovations in her winter quarters. She -discussed them at great length with Andrea, whose advice was precious -to her. For instance, the dining-room wanted redecorating; she was -thinking of having it panelled half-way up with carved oak, an idea -suggested by Giovanna Gabrielli-Casacalenda, past mistress in the art -of elegance. Caterina had hesitated at first because of the expense, -although Andrea had given her permission to spend as much as she chose. -They were rich, and did not live up to their income; their property -was well managed and lucrative; but she was economically-minded. As -for altering the yellow drawing-room which Andrea considered too showy -and too provincial, that would not be a serious expense, for the -upholsterer was willing to take back all its furniture and hangings, -and to exchange them for more modern, neutral-tinted ones. She often -consulted Andrea on these matters; he gave her rather absent answers, -being preoccupied with a lawsuit about a boundary-wall on their -property at Sedile di Porto. - -His conferences with his legal advisers often obliged him to be away -from home. Indeed, that very morning he had been out since eight -o’clock, returning at eleven, apparently exhausted. - -“Well, how goes the lawsuit?” inquired Caterina at luncheon. - -“Badly.” - -“Why? Does our neighbour decline any compromise?” - -“He does. He is obstinate; says the right is on his side.” - -“But what is the lawyer doing?” - -“What can he do? He is moving heaven and earth, like any other lawyer; -or pretending to do so.” - -“Why don’t you eat?” - -“I am not very hungry; out of sorts.” - -“After luncheon you ought to take a nap.” - -“What an idea! I’ve got to go out again.” - -“To the Court? This lawsuit will make you ill.” - -“Then I shall have to get well again.” - -“Listen to me. Suppose you let the neighbour have his own way?” - -“It’s a question of self-respect; but perhaps you are right after all.” - -“This lawsuit is a nuisance. This morning Alberto sent for you, and you -were out.” - -“Who is Alberto?” - -“Alberto Sanna.” - -“What did he want?” - -“The maid told me that he wanted to see you, to ask you to attend to -some business for him because he was confined to the house. She told me -in confidence that Lucia wished me to know that Alberto spat blood last -night in his sleep, but that he did not know it, and they were hiding -it from him. She also said that Lucia was crying.” - -“And Alberto is another nuisance,” he rejoined, crossly and with a -shrug of his shoulders. - -“It is for Lucia that I am grieving. How she must suffer!” - -No answer. - -“I should like to go there to-day, for half an hour,” she ventured to -remark. - -“What would be the good of it?” - -“Only to comfort Lucia....” - -“To-day I can’t go there with you, and you know I don’t care for you to -go alone.” - -“You are right, I won’t go; we will go together this evening.” - -Luncheon was over, but they did not leave the table. Andrea was playing -with his breadcrumbs. - -“Besides our agent, Scognamiglio, will call to-day. He will bring some -money for which you must give him a receipt. Tell him he can make a -reduction for the third-floor tenants of No. 79 Via Speronzella. They -are poor people.” - -“Am I to say anything else to him?” - -“Give him his monthly salary.” - -“A hundred and sixty lire?” - -“Yes; but let him give you a receipt.” - -“All right; another cup of coffee?” - -“Yes; give me another cup, it is weak to-day.” - -“Because of your nerves. I wanted to ask you, are we going to the ball -of the _Unione_?” - -“... Yes.” - -“Shall I order a dress of cream brocade for that ball?” - -“Will the colour suit you?” - -“The dressmaker says so.” - -“They always say so. But order it, anyhow.” - -“I will wear my pearls.” - -He did not answer. He was gazing abstractedly into the bottom of -his cup. Then he looked at her so long and so fixedly that Caterina -wondered. - -“Well,” he said at last, looking at his watch, “I must be going.” - -He rose, and as usual she followed him. He went right through the -house; stopping before his writing-table to take a bulky parcel out of -it, which he put into his pocket. - -“It makes you look fat,” she said, laughing. - -“Never mind.” - -He dawdled in his bedroom, as if he were looking for something that he -had forgotten. Then he took up his hat and gloves. - -“You should take your overcoat with you, the air is biting.” - -“You are right; I will take it.” - -He finished buttoning his gloves. She was standing, looking at him with -her serene eyes. He stooped and gave her an absent kiss. Then he turned -to go, followed by his wife. - -“_Arrivederci_, Andrea.” - -“... _Arrivederci_.” - -He began to descend the stairs; she called out to him from the landing: - -“Shall you return late?” - -“No. Good-bye, Caterina.” - - * * * * * - -Lucia had risen late. She told Alberto that she had passed a feverish -night. Indeed, her lips were dry and discoloured, her heavy eyelids had -livid circles round them. At eleven, she languidly dragged herself, -in a black satin dressing-gown, to be present at her husband’s -breakfast--two eggs beaten in a cup of _café-au-lait_--capital stuff -for the chest. She sat with her head in her hands. Every now and then -dark flushes dyed her face, and she pushed her hair off her temples -with a vague gesture that indicated suffering. - -“What is the matter with you? You are sadder than usual!” - -“I wish I could see you well, Alberto _mio_. I wish I could give you my -heart’s blood.” - -“What is it all about? Am I so ill, then?” - -“No, Alberto, no. The season is trying to delicate lungs.” - -“Well, then, what of it? But I see that you are so good as to be -anxious about me. Thank you, dear. But for you I should have been dead -by this time.” - -“Do not say that--do not say it.” - -“Now she is in tears, my poor little thing! I was joking. What a fool I -am! My stupid chaff makes you cry. I entreat you not to cry any more.” - -“I am not crying, Alberto _mio_.” - -“Have a sip of my coffee.” - -“No, thank you, I don’t care for any.” - -“Have some; do have some.” - -“I am going to take the Sacrament to-day, about one.” - -“Ah! beg pardon. I never remember anything. What church are you going -to?” - -“The same church, Santa Chiara.” - -“But your religion makes you suffer, dear.” - -“Everything makes me suffer, Alberto _mio_. It is my destiny. But it is -well to suffer for God’s sake!” - -“Let us both take holy vows, Lucia.” - -“You are joking, but I did seriously intend to be a nun. It was my -father who prevented me from doing so. God grant that he may not repent -of it.” - -“Why, Lucia? Think, if you had become a nun, we should not have met and -loved each other, and you would never have been my dear wife.” - -“What is the good of love and marriage? All is corruption, everything -in this world is putrid.” - -“Lucia, you are lugubrious.” - -“Forgive me, Alberto _mio_, the gloom that overshadows my soul leaks -out and saddens my beloved one. I will smile sooner than you should be -sad.” - -“Poor dear, I know what I cost you. But you’ll see how soon I shall get -strong, and how we shall amuse ourselves this winter. There will be -fêtes, balls, races.” - -“I shall never be gay again.” - -“Lucia, I shall have to scold you.” - -“No, no; let us talk of something else.” - -“If you are going to church, you are but just in time.” - -“Do you send me away, Alberto?” - -“It is midday; you have to go as far as Santa Chiara ... and the sooner -you go the sooner you will be back.” - -“True, the sooner back.... I must go, mustn’t I?” - -“Of course, the air will do you good. Go on foot, the walk will be good -for you.” - -“What will you do, meanwhile?” - -“I shall wait for your return.” - -“... You will wait.” - -“Yes; perhaps I shall go to sleep in this chair.” - -“Are your hands hot, Alberto?” - -“No; feel them.” - -“Pain in your chest?” - -“Nothing of the sort, only slight stitches in the sides, automatic -stitches, as the doctor calls them. What are you thinking of? Don’t -you see that I am better? Yesterday, I coughed eighteen times; this -morning, seventeen; I’m improving.” - -“Alberto _mio_, may health be yours!” - -“Yes, yes, I shall get as strong as Andrea! I sent for him this -morning, but he never came. He is out in all sorts of weather. Lucky -dog!” - -She stood listening, with hanging arms and downcast eyes. - -“Go and dress, dear; go.” - -She moved away slowly, turning to look at him. In half an hour she -returned, dressed in black, enveloped in a fur cloak, in which she hid -her hands. She came and sat down by him, as if she were already tired. - -“You are not fit to walk, Lucia; call a _fiacchere_.” - -“I will....” she said in a faint voice. - -“What have you got under your cloak?” - -“The prayer-book, a veil, a rosary.” - -“All the pious baggage of my little nun. Be a saint to thy heart’s -content, my beauty. Thanks to you, we shall all get into Paradise.” - -“Do not laugh at religion, Alberto.” - -“I never laugh at the objects of your faith. Time’s up, my heart; go, -and come back soon.” - -Lucia threw her arms round his neck, kissed his thin face, and -whispered: - -“Forgive....” - -“Am I to forgive you for taking the Sacrament? Hasn’t your confessor -told you that I ... absolve you?” - -She bowed low. Then she drew herself up and looked round, wildly. She -went away, bent and tottering, but returned almost immediately. - -“I had forgotten to bid you good-bye, Alberto.” - -She squeezed his hand. - -“Think of me in church, my saint.” - -“I will pray for you, Alberto.” - -And she went away--tall, black, and stately. - - - III. - -Night was closing in; in the December twilight the air had grown more -chill. Under the lighted lamp Caterina sat writing to her cousin -Giuditta at school, to invite her to spend next Sunday with her. The -clock struck six. “Andrea is late,” thought Caterina; “I am glad I made -him take his overcoat, the days are getting so cold.” She finished her -letter and laid her hand on the bell. Giulietta appeared. - -“Have this letter posted, with a halfpenny stamp.” - -“Shall I order dinner to be served?” - -“Yes; your master will be home in a few minutes.” - -But the master kept them waiting till half-past seven. Caterina waited -patiently, yet she felt a certain inward spite towards the business -that took up so much of Andrea’s time. It struck her that the house in -Via Constantinopoli was rather cold, and it needed fireplaces. How long -would it take to put in a grate? It would please Andrea. - -The bell rang. That must be Andrea ... but it was only Giulietta. - -“A letter from Casa Sanna, and one by post.” - -“All right; you can go. See that dinner is kept hot.” - -Although she was disappointed by Andrea’s non-arrival--it was nearly -eight o’clock--Caterina eagerly opened the letter from Casa Sanna. - - “Signora Caterina, for pity’s sake, come to me. - - “ALBERTO.” - - -The handwriting was shaky and blurred, as if the pen had trembled in -the writer’s hand. The address was in a different hand. Caterina was -alarmed. What could have happened? Nothing to Alberto; no, for then -Lucia would have written. Then something must surely be the matter with -Lucia. What dreadful accident, what awful trouble, could it mean? She -must go at once. She rang. - -“The carriage, Giulietta.” - -The maid looked at her in astonishment and left the room. All at once -Caterina, who was proceeding to put on her bonnet and wrap, stood -still. Andrea! Had she forgotten Andrea? If Andrea did not find her -at home when he returned he would be angry. What was to be done? She -sat down a moment to collect her thoughts; she was not accustomed to -rely on herself in any difficulty--she had no will of her own. She -decided on writing a line to Andrea, apologising for going out for half -an hour, and enclosing Alberto’s note. She would return immediately; -he was not to wait dinner for her. She placed the letter, with the -letter-weight over it, in full view, on the writing-table. Then she saw -the letter that had come by post. “From Giuditta,” she thought. - -She opened it, still preoccupied with the thought of what could have -happened to Lucia, and read: - - “Oh! Caterina, mercy, Caterina; have pity upon me; mercy, mercy, - mercy! I am unfortunate. I am leaving with Andrea. I am a miserable - creature; you will never see me again. I suffer. I am leaving. I am - dying. Have pity!” - - “LUCIA.” - - -She read it over again, re-read it, and read it for the fourth time. -She sat down by the writing-table, with the letter in her hands. She -was stupefied. - -“The carriage is at the door,” said Giulietta. Caterina’s head moved as -if in reply. Then she rose to her feet, but she felt the floor give way -beneath them. “If I move I shall fall,” she thought. - -She stood still; her giddiness increased; the furniture turned round -her; there was buzzing in her ears and a bright light in her eyes. - -“Surely, I am dying,” she thought. But the giddiness began to decrease, -the whirl became wider and slower, and then stopped. Then she read the -letter over again, replaced it in the envelope, put it in her pocket -and kept her hand over it. She passed into her room, took her bonnet -and wrap out of the darkness, but did not put them on. She crossed the -anteroom with them in her hands. - -“Shall you return early, Signora?” said Giulietta. - -She looked at her, dazed. - -“... Yes, I think so.” - -“What shall I say to the master?” - -“There is ... yes, there is a note for him.” - -She descended the stairs and entered the carriage. The coachman must -have had his orders from Giulietta, for without waiting for further -instructions he drove off through Via Sebastiano. Caterina, sitting on -the edge of the cushion, without leaning back, had placed her bonnet -and shawl opposite to her, and still kept her hand on the letter in her -pocket. She felt the discomfort of the chill air that came in through -the open window. She could not resist the impulse that led her, by -the fugitive light of the street-lamps, to read Lucia’s letter over -again for the sixth time. What with the movement of the carriage and -the sudden shadows that succeeded the flashes of light, the written -words jumped up and down; and Caterina felt them jumping in her brain, -knocking against her brow and at the back of her head, beating in -either temple. It was a tempest of little blows, a beating of the drum -under her skull. Every now and then she bent her head, as if to escape -it. She folded the paper; the sensation became less intense, died away, -and stupefaction once more dulled her brain. - -She mounted the stairs slowly, keeping a firm, mechanical hold on her -shawl. She found the door wide open. In the anteroom the maid was -talking with animation to the man-servant, emphasising her discourse -by expressive gestures. When they saw her enter noiselessly, in indoor -attire, without either bonnet or gloves, they became silent. Then she -forgot where she was, halting in indecision. She no longer knew what -she had come for, when the maid whispered to her that: - -“The Signore was awaiting her.” - -Of whom was she talking? Caterina looked fixedly at the maid, without -the quiver of an eyelash. - -“The poor Signore had again spat blood at about three o’clock. He -noticed it this time. This evening, when he received the Signora’s -letter, he turned red and screamed; he got very excited and -coughed--and again spat blood, saving your presence.” - -“La Signora, blood! what were they talking of?” - -“Now I will show you in, Signorina. But bear up, both of you, it was -inevitable.” - -At these words Caterina trembled all over; a change came over her face. -Glued to the spot, she gazed at the maid with eyes full of sorrow. - -“What is done, can’t be undone, Signora _mia_! Let us go to the poor -Signore.” - -Preceded by the maid, she followed submissively. Lucia’s boudoir was -in great disorder. The little armchairs were turned upside down; the -music on the piano was torn and dispersed, the empty work-basket was -topsy-turvy, the reels rolling about the carpet, the wools entangled, -and the coarse canvas at which Lucia used to work was lying like a rag -on the ground; the writing-case was opened on the little writing-table, -the drawers were empty, the letters littered the ground: a battlefield. - -“The Signore made this havoc, he was like a madman,” explained the maid. - -Leaving the darkened drawing-room to the right, they entered the -bedroom. Within was sufficient light to make darkness visible; a -night-lamp under an opaque shade so placed that the bed lay in shadow. -Profound silence: solitude. A pungent odour of drugs and the smell -peculiar to sick-rooms filled the atmosphere. Instinctively, Caterina -strained her eyes and advanced towards the bed. Alberto was lying -there, supine, his head and shoulders resting upon a pile of graduated -cushions. He was dressed, but his shirt was crushed and torn, and his -legs were wrapped in a woman’s shawl. On a night-table by his side -stood bottles, phials, glasses, wafers, red pill-boxes and packets of -powders. A white handkerchief peeped out from under the pillow. On the -side where Lucia slept, between the bed and the wall, the _prie-Dieu_ -had been turned upside down. Caterina stooped over the bed. His eyes -were closed and his lips half open, the breath that escaped them was -short and faint, his chest scarcely heaved. He opened his eyes, and -when he saw her they filled with tears. The tears coursed down his -spare cheeks and fell on his neck; the maid took a handkerchief out of -the pocket of her apron and wiped them away. He signed to her with his -hand to thank and dismiss her. - -“Will you have another bit of snow?” - -“Yes,” in a faint whisper. - -The maid took a little from a basin and put it in his mouth. - -“The powder; is it not time?” - -“No; go away.” - -She took a turn round the room and went away as quietly as possible. -Caterina, hugging her shawl, had remained standing. Now she realised -all that she saw and heard; indeed, sensation had become so acute that -the noise of the words hurt her, the light dazzled her, the sick man’s -hectic features became visible; she saw the knife-like profile, the -thin protruding chin, the skeleton chest, the miserable legs. She saw, -felt, and understood too much. - -“Come nearer and be seated. I can neither turn nor raise my voice. It -might bring on hæmorrhage again.” - -She took a chair and sat down, facing the bed, so that she could see -Alberto’s face, crossed her hands on her lap, and waited. He made an -effort to swallow the bit of snow, then with all the despair of which a -hoarse, low voice is capable said to her: - -“You’ve heard, eh?” - -Her eyelids quivered two or three times, but she found nothing to say -to him. - -Alberto, who was lying sunk in his pillows, with half-closed eyes and -upturned chin, gazed vaguely at the white curtains instead of at her. - -“I should never have suspected such treason. Would you have suspected -it? No; of course not.” - -Her gesture signified, “No.” Her inert will had no power over her -nerves, so that she had absolutely no strength wherewith to articulate. - -“Lucia appeared to be so fond of me. She was so good, she thought of -nothing but me. You saw, you must have seen, how fond she was of me. -How could she do this to me?” - -Husbanding his breath, he continued his complaint in an undertone, -never turning to Caterina, but addressing his lamentations to the bed, -the room, the curtains. - -“Even this morning she kissed me three times. I ought to have known -that she was going away. I ought not to have let her go out.” - -A short, harsh cough interrupted him. - -“Give me ... give me a little snow.” - -She handed the saucer to him; he put a little in his mouth and was -silent until he recovered his breath. - -“Has she written to you?” - -Caterina drew the letter from her pocket and handed it to him. Alberto -raised it eagerly to the level of his eyes. - -“Not a word as to where they are going, nor at what time they left. -But I have found out the hour. They left at half-past two, by the -Paris-Turin express. They posted the letters at the station. What has -Andrea written to you? What does he say? Why has he done this to me? -What does he write?” - -“Nothing,” said Caterina, whose head had fallen on her bosom. - -“Nothing! But what infamous creatures they both are! They are a couple -of assassins. Listen, listen; I tell you, they will certainly be the -death of me.” - -He had almost risen to a sitting posture, choked by impotent rage, -clenching his diminutive fists, opening his mouth to breathe, to utter -a cry. She gazed at him with wide-open eyes, struck once more with the -stupor that from time to time paralysed her brain. - -“Then you have not received anything but that letter; you know nothing -of their doings? You know only that they have gone? That is why you -are so cool! If you only knew ... only knew ... what infamy ... what -infamy...!” - -She exerted her will and succeeded in raising her head, drew nearer to -him, and questioned him with her eyes. - -“I will whisper it to you. The doctor advises me not to waste my -breath. When you see me getting excited, stop me. Horrible treason! It -has gone on for some time, you know, since our stay at Centurano....” - -A wild look passed over the face of his listener, but he did not -observe it. - -“... but in reality, those infamous assassins were betraying us. -Centurano indeed! It began before my marriage. One day that they were -alone, in your house, Andrea kissed Lucia, on the neck....” - -Caterina wrung the helpless hands that were lying in her lap. - -“... afterwards they made love to each other under our very eyes; -writing, speaking to each other, making appointments with an -impudence.... We never noticed anything. All through that accursed -Exhibition! How could I tell that they would have served me like this? -Do you know that they kissed....” - -He ground his teeth as he told these things, casting savage glances -around him, revelling in the ecstasy, the intoxication of his -rage when he recalled the voluptuous details of the love-story. On -Caterina’s face, which was turned towards him, there was still the same -look of grieved surprise. - -“... they kissed again, the accursed assassins. He has tasted the ripe -red lips of my Lucia, those lips that were mine, and mine only; he took -them from me, and scorched and faded them with coarse, brutal kisses. I -wish that in those kisses thou hadst sucked arsenic and strychnine, and -that their sweetness had poisoned thee, vile thief, deceitful villain! -Ah! they were sweet, were they, the kisses of my Lucia? Ah! they -pleased you, and so you’ve taken them for yourself and gone off with -them, vile thievish clod--brigand!” - -A fit of coughing that lasted a long time choked him, his head -rebounded on the pillow, and his chest heaved with a hoarse rasping -sound. Trembling all over he grasped his handkerchief and expectorated, -examining the handkerchief carefully with a hurried, frightened gesture. - -“It is white,” he said, with a voice as thin as a thread. He fell -back, paler than ever from fright, in his pillows, his chest heaving -painfully. After this vehement attack, he was obliged to rest a little. -She waited, watching his every movement: when he expectorated, a sense -of nausea caused her to turn her head aside. - -“Give me the blue bottle, with the spoon by it. It’s codeine.” - -Caterina’s hand wandered over the table for some time before she could -find what she looked for.... When she gave it him, he swallowed it, -thanked her, and looked at her fixedly, perhaps because her trembling -silence and her immobility began to strike him.... - -“It must have made a great impression upon you,” he muttered. “I was -already upset, half dead, in fact, for I spat a little blood. I sent -for the doctor and for Lucia, at the church of Santa Chiara, at once. -The doctor came; Lucia didn’t come. They hadn’t found her at Santa -Chiara. I was getting desperate; I went all over the house and turned -it upside down. When, lo, and behold, a letter, brought by hand. I -opened it, screamed, and fell down. I bit my hand and broke a pane of -glass. I knocked the furniture about, all that had belonged to Lucia. -If I could have got at her for a minute, ill and weak as I am, I should -have strangled her. Then a fit of coughing came on, but I didn’t -expectorate. Then a little scraping; it was red, red as flame. They -have killed me, they have killed me....” - -The fever of his complaint had left him in a stupor until the -arrival of Caterina, now it was passing into the acute stage, as the -temperature increased and the fever mounted from his chest to his -brain. His ideas were becoming incoherent. “What happened afterwards, -I don’t know. I sent for you, and the doctor came again. You see I -threw the _prie-dieu_ down; I wanted to kick it to pieces, but I -couldn’t. She took away the Byzantine Madonna. She was pious, she was -religious, she went to confession, she took the Sacrament; how could I -tell that with all that she would commit this horrible crime! But ... -you know ... they were a couple of lovers awaiting their honeymoon, -like bride and bridegroom ... infamous wretches, assassins ... and -to-night, to-morrow; while I lie here, dying alone, like a dog....” She -shuddered, in terror at sight of the little mannikin wrapped up in a -woman’s shawl. - -“... I had always loved her,” he said after a pause, speaking in a -lower tone. “I married her for love, because she was good and beautiful -and clever, and spoke poetically; ... because she was unhappy in her -father’s house. I didn’t mind her marriage portion being small. Some of -my friends remarked at the time that women always marry from interested -motives. I didn’t believe it. She wrote me such beautiful letters! Oh! -she was a famous hand at letter-writing. She wrote to Galimberti, who -went mad; to me, to you; and she wrote some to Andrea. She gave them to -him in books, she put them under the clock, everywhere. I ought to have -known that she married me for money. Do you know what she has taken -with her besides the Madonna? Her diamonds, the diamonds that I gave -her.” And a sneer of irony distorted the invalid’s lips. - -“The diamonds, you know! My mother’s ... who was an honest woman ... -that I had given her. She will wear them in her ears for him, and he -will kiss her throat; she will wear them in her hair, and he will kiss -her hair; she will wear them on her bosom, and he will sleep on that -bosom. O God! if you exist--cruel God, vile God!--make me die an hour -before the time.” - -A gloomy silence reigned in the room after that imprecation. She shrank -away with outstretched hands, in dread of the delirious sufferer in -whose thoughts fever of blood and brain had wrought such terrible -havoc, while it lent him a fictitious vigour equal to the strength of a -person in rude health. - -“... Wherever they were, they betrayed us. At home, at the Exhibition, -in the carriage--everywhere, everywhere they made fools of us. In the -wood, in the English Garden they were together.... They snatched each -other’s hands on the stairs, on the landing; they kissed each other, -while we went on before. On the terrace, in the corner, they kissed -over again. It’s a horrible, crying shame! I think the servants must -have noticed it at Centurano. They must have laughed at us, that -_canaille_ must have laughed its fill behind our backs....” - -There were two bright red spots on his cheekbones, and he was gasping. - -“... And do you know why I call them assassins, why I say that they -have killed me? And by God, I am right! The most odious, the most cruel -part of it all is, that through their damned love affair I have caught -this illness, that might have been spared me. On a chilly night, Lucia -stood out on the balcony, the whole night through, and so did Andrea. -I slept all night with the window open, with the cold air penetrating -my lungs and inflaming them, making me cough for two months, making -me so ill! They gazed at each other, called to each other and blew -kisses: I caught the cough that has lasted two months, and made me -spit this blood to-day.” He looked at her. In her horror, she hid her -face in her hands. “You wonder how I know all this? You remember the -novel that Lucia was writing? Another lie. It wasn’t a novel, it was -a journal. Every day she wrote down all that happened to her, all her -thoughts and fancies. The whole love affair is in it, from beginning to -end--every look, every kiss, every act. Oh! there are splendid bits of -description, beautiful things are narrated therein. It is instructive -and interesting reading. You can profit by it, if you like. Read it, it -will amuse you.” - -Then grinning, like a consumptive Mephistopheles, he drew a bulky -manuscript from under the pillow. He threw it into Caterina’s lap; -she left it there, sooner than touch it, as if she were afraid of its -burning her fingers. - -“Yes,” he said, having reached the lowest depth of bitterness, “Lucia -wished me to know how it all happened. She took the Madonna, she took -the diamonds, but she has had the goodness to forget the journal! Do -read it! It is a charming novel, a fine drama.” - -He was exhausted, with the fever came a return of the stupor. His eyes -were half closed, his feeble hands, with the violet veins standing out -in relief, were like yellow wax. In the gloom, Caterina kept turning -the pages of the journal, at first without reading, then glancing at a -page here and there, grasping an idea, or discovering a fact amid the -fantastic divagations in which its pages abounded. At certain parts she -shuddered and fell back in her chair. He coughed weakly in his torpor, -without unclosing his eyes. Suddenly a violent attack tore his chest, -the cough began low, grew louder, died away, seemed to be over, and -began again, cruelly, persistently. In the short intervals he groaned -feebly, clutching at his ribs, as if he could bear it no longer. Then -he expectorated again, and once more made that hurried gesture of -examination. He fell back with a faint cry. He had spat blood. She had -watched this scene; when she saw the blood, she shuddered and closed -her eyes, as if she were about to faint. - -“So these medicines are no good to me? The doctor is telling me a -parcel of old woman’s tales. Why doesn’t he stop the hæmorrhage? I -have swallowed such a lot of snow, I have taken such a lot of syrup of -codeine and gallic acid, to stop the blood! Am I to spit all my blood -away? Why haven’t they given me something stronger to-night, instead of -to-morrow, if it is to do me any good?” - -His lamentations, persistent, hoarse, torturing to his listener, filled -the room. His voice had the aggrieved intonation that is peculiar to -invalids who feel the injustice of not being cured. He continued to -grumble at the doctor, the medicines, the syrup that failed to relieve -his cough; the snow was useless, for it did not stop the hæmorrhage. -Still complaining, he turned to Caterina: - -“I beg your pardon; do you mind giving me that little paper of gallic -acid, and a wafer?” - -With the patience of one to whom these things are habitual, he made a -pill and swallowed it, with an air of resignation. She had closed the -journal. - -“Had enough of it, eh? I have read every word of it, and shall read -it again, to learn how these frightful crimes are committed. Well, I -couldn’t have done such a thing to Lucia. To me she was the dearest -and most beautiful of women. I was in love with her; _via_, to tell -the truth, I was idiotically in love with her. She ought not to have -behaved as she has done to me; she knew how ill I am, she might have -spared me. She knew that I was alone, how could she abandon me...!” - -He considered the deserted room, the _prie-dieu_ lying upside down, the -empty space where the Madonna had been, the open drawers, and fresh -tears coursed down his cheeks. They were scant tears, that reddened the -tight-drawn skin as they fell. - -“What do you intend to do, Signora Caterina?” - -She started and looked at him, questioningly, surprised. - -“I asked you what you were going to do?” - -“Nothing,” she said, gravely. - -The despairing word rang through the room, accentuating its void. - -“Nothing; true. What is there to be done? Those two love each other, -have gone off together ... and good-night to them who remain behind. -Follow them? It would be useless; useless to catch them. Besides, who -is to go? They have killed me. Well, I am so weak, so mean, so vilely -ridiculous, that, despite _all_, I feel that I still care for Lucia.... -I care for her still--it’s no use denying it, for all her wickedness, -her betrayal, and her perpetual deceit--I care for her, because I love -her, _ecco!_ I am so tied to her, so bound up in her, that the loss of -her will kill me, if this hæmorrhage doesn’t. Oh! what a woman, what a -woman it is! How she takes possession of you, and carries you away, and -never loosens her hold on you...!” - -His eyelids were wide open, as if he beheld the seductive vision of -her; he held up his lips, and stretched out his arms to her, calling on -her, in a transport of love, that was part of his delirium. - -“Oh! if she could but return, for a moment! If she could but return, -even if she went away again! Oh! return, that I might forgive her ... -return, return, to see me die! Not to let me die alone, in this icy -bed, that my fever does not warm; in this great room, where I am afraid -to be alone!” - -He was wandering. Presently he felt under the pillow, and drew out a -letter and a small packet. - -“... listen, she sent me this, with the letter. They are the wedding -rings. Here is the one I gave her, here is the one you gave Andrea. Do -you think she will ever return?” - -“No,” said Caterina, rising to her feet, “they will never return.” She -took her own ring and went away, leaving Alberto still wandering. - -“If she had but lied a little longer; she might have waited for my -death! She would not have had long to wait, miserable....” - - - IV. - -In the night, in her dark room, seated beside her bed, Caterina -pondered. She had returned home without speaking to any one; no one had -said anything to her, for they all knew what had happened. The house -was in order, composed, cold, and silent; on the table was the note she -had written to her husband, to apologise for having gone out alone. -She tore it up, and threw the pieces into the waste-paper basket. -Giulietta, who had crept in after her, to try and proffer a word of -consolation, was dismissed as usual with a gentle good-night. The maid -told the coachman that the Signora had not shed a tear, but that the -expression of her face was “dreadful.” They all pitied her, but they -had long foreseen what would happen; they knew of it at Centurano: -you’d have to be blind not to have seen it. - -Then the conventicle dispersed, and the house was wrapped in profound -silence. Caterina had extinguished the light in her own room, but had -not undressed. Instinctively she craved for darkness, wherein to hang -her head and think. She could distinguish the whiteness of the bed -in the gloom, and it frightened her. She sat with one hand over the -other, pressing the point of her nails against the third finger of the -hand that bore the two marriage rings. Now and again, when she became -aware of the contact of that second ring, she started and moaned. Her -life, quiet and uniform as it had been, came before her with such -distinctness of detail that it seemed as if she lived it over again. -She had had a mother until she was seven; a father, until she was nine; -and lived with her aunt until she was eleven. A peaceful childhood, -except for the formless, shadowy sorrow of those two deaths, a sorrow -bereft of cries or tears. She had always been ashamed to cry in the -presence of other people; she had wept for her dead at night, in her -little bed, with the sheet drawn over her face. Later, at her aunt’s, -she had been seriously ill, a very dangerous illness--a combination of -every disease that is incidental to childhood. She remembered that the -Sacrament had been administered to her in great haste, in the fear that -she would die. She had not understood its meaning, and had not been -very strongly impressed; since then she had retained a calm religious -piety, devoid of mystic enthusiasm, but characterised by the rigorous -strictness of observance with which she fulfilled all her duties. - -When she recovered, her aunt had put her to school, the best school -in Naples, and had undertaken the management of her fortune. She -was a cold, trustworthy, childless aunt, who did not incline to -demonstrations of affection, but who visited her punctually on -Thursdays in the parlour, and drove her out on Sundays, and took her to -the theatre. Caterina recalled the first year at school, where she had -been happier than at home, where she had given herself to the simple -pleasure of being with other children; not playing, but watching them -play; not speaking, but hearing them speak. Study she found rather -hard; she had been obliged to apply herself to succeed in learning -anything; the teachers had always given her the maximum marks for good -conduct, but not so many for study. She had never been punished nor -reproached that first year, and at the final examination she came out -fifteen, among twenty-eight: she had gained a silver medal for good -conduct. - -The duality of her school-life began with the appearance of Lucia, whom -she had met with in the second class. A wonderful pupil, who surpassed -all her fellows; a slight, thin girl, whose long black plaits hung down -her back, who spent three days in school and three in the infirmary, -who was an object of charity to the teachers, the assistants, and her -companions. She was a sickly, pensive child, whose great eyes swallowed -up her whole face, and who could master anything without opening a -book. Many girls desired her friendship, but one day she said to -Caterina, in her weak voice: - -“They tell me that you have neither mother nor father; my mother -is dead too, and that is why I wear a black band round my arm, for -mourning. Will you be my friend?” All at once, Caterina remembered that -she had begun to love the lithe, melancholy creature with her whole -heart, the girl who was as slender as a reed, who never played, and who -talked like a maiden of fifteen when she was but a child of eleven. -She remembered how this childish love was strengthened by their living -together under one roof. In the hours of recreation they had walked up -and down the corridors like the others, they had held each other by -the hand, but without speaking. During school-hours they sat on the -same bench, lending each other a pen, a scrap of paper, or a pencil: -at table they sat opposite, looking at each other, and Caterina passed -her share of pudding to Lucia, who could eat nothing else. In chapel -they prayed together, and in the dormitory they were not far apart. In -talent, in beauty, and in stature Lucia had always surpassed Caterina, -a fact that Caterina had tacitly acknowledged, and the whole College -recognised. In the College the two friends were always designated as, -“the one who loved, and the one who submitted to be loved.” The one -who permitted herself to be loved was the beauty, the _bellezza_; the -one who loved was the _capezza_, the ass’s bridle, a patient, humble, -devoted, servile thing. The _bellezza_ was entitled to everything, the -_capezza_ had no rights, but all the duties. She was permitted to love, -that was all. In the Altimare and Spaccapietra bond, Lucia was the -_bellezza_, and Caterina the _capezza_. - -She could remember having been punished several times in her stead, for -having been bewitched into following her in an escapade, for having -taken her part against the _maestra_, for having done the sums that -were too dry for Lucia’s poetic mind. Lucia wept, was in despair, -fainted, when Caterina was punished for a fault of hers; and Caterina -ended by consoling her, telling her that it was nothing, praying her -to stop crying, because she rather liked punishment. Lucia was a -profoundly affectionate creature, expansive to enthusiasm, ever ready -to sacrifice herself for the sake of friendship; Caterina, who could -never find words to express herself, whose affection was calm and -silent, who could never behave enthusiastically, and who had never -fainted, was sometimes ashamed of loving so little. In everything -Lucia surpassed her. So they passed from class to class. Caterina was -always a mediocre scholar, obtaining a bronze medal or honourable -mention at the examinations, on which occasions she never came to the -fore--an insipid pupil, who was neither appreciated nor bullied by -the professors. There was nothing interesting in her character--like, -for instance, Artemisia Minichini, who was insolent and sceptical; or -Giovanna Casacalenda, who was provoking and coquettish. The Directress -did not give herself the trouble of watching her. Her greatest charm, -her only distinguishing quality, was her friendship for Lucia--“Where -is Altimare?” “Spaccapietra, tell us where Altimare is.” “How is -Altimare?” “Spaccapietra, surely thou knowest how Altimare is to-day!” - -Lucia, on the contrary, passed a brilliant yearly examination, took the -gold medal for composition, and wrote congratulatory addresses on the -Directress’s birthday. Her compositions were notable productions: one -of them had been read in the presence of three assembled classes. But -more remarkable than anything else was the strange disposition which -aroused the curiosity of the entire College. Her fits of mysticism, -her fits of deep despondency, the tears she shed in shady nooks, about -the College; her passion for flowers, her nausea in the refectory, -her convulsive nervous attacks, claimed universal attention. When she -passed, tall, lithe, with dreamy, pensive eyes, the other scholars -turned and pointed her out to each other, and whispered about her. - -The Directress watched her. Cherubina Friscia had special instructions -with regard to Lucia Altimare; the professors kept their eye on her. -In the parlour, the little girls described her to their mothers in -undertones as, “Un tipo strano,” an extraordinary type. She knew -it, and cast languid glances round her, and indulged in pretty, -pathetic movements of the head. She was the incarnate expression of -suffering--slow, continual, persistent suffering, that weighed her -down for weeks together, and ended in a heartbreaking crisis. Oh! -Caterina had always felt a profound compassion for her, which she had -never been able to express, but was none the less as intense as it -was sincere. The last year at school had been a tumultuous one, it -was a wonder that Caterina had maintained her placid serenity in the -midst of all those girls, who were yearning for freedom, panting for -life; who already boasted adorers, affianced husbands and lovers; who -hated the College, and treated the _maestre_ with impertinence. Her -aunt had informed her that Andrea Lieti was to be her husband; she had -no anxiety for her own future. But she was very anxious about Lucia, -who during this last year had been unusually delicate, who had turned -Galimberti’s head, who had made up her mind to be a nun, and attempted -to commit suicide. Caterina had saved her life. And last, like a -dream, the last night at school, when they had entered the chapel, had -knelt down and sworn, before the Madonna, to love each other for ever, -reproduced itself in her memory.... - - * * * * * - -Lucia vanished, Andrea entered upon the scene. Andrea had been kind -and amiable to Caterina during their courtship. At first, it had been -a marriage of convenience; the young man wanted a wife, her fortune -suited him, and the orphan girl had to be married. Andrea was a very -good match for her; the engaged pair got on capitally together. -Andrea’s vigorous, often violent temperament, was well balanced by -Caterina’s calm and gentle nature. He neither wrote letters nor offered -flowers, nor paid more than two or three visits during the week, while -they were engaged, but Caterina had not missed these demonstrations -of love. Love she read in Andrea’s honest, merry eyes, when they met -hers. She had admired him from the first, for the herculean comeliness -of his fine physique, and the grace of a gentlemanlike athlete, with -which he wore either morning or evening attire. And immediately she -had begun to love him, because she had found him good and honest and -just. The strong man, who could be a very child, in whom she divined a -feminine delicacy, won her heart. As usual, from timidity and the habit -of reserve, her emotion was self-contained. Later on, in her married -life, she had always been shy and retiring with her husband, neither -expressing her love for him by well-turned phrases or poetic imagery. -But perhaps he knew it, for from morning till night she busied herself -in the house, and with the food, forestalling his wishes, preparing a -cool sitting-room for him in the summer, and a warm bedroom in winter. -The viands he preferred his wife carefully dressed, ever placid and -smiling. No, she had never found words to tell him the happiness that -flooded her heart when he raised her in his strong arms, kissed her -throat, and called her “Nini”; but every day her gratitude proved -it to him, and her constant thought and care for him. She did not -tell him that when he went shooting and left her alone for days, she -wearied after him, and longed for his return.... On his return, he was -so happy and so pleasantly tired, that she had never spoken of those -solitary hours to him. If they separated for eight or ten days, she -wrote to him every day, just a line about household matters, or the -people who had called.... There was no flourish about her letters; -they began with _Caro Andrea_, and ended with _la tua affezionatissima -moglie, Caterina_. She murmured inwardly against her own timidity, and -often felt that she was very stupid. That poor Galimberti had once -said to her: “Spaccapietra, you are entirely wanting in imagination.” -Then she had taken heart when it occurred to her that Andrea must -know how well she loved him; if she said nothing, her every act spoke -for her. Luckily Andrea was of a frank, open disposition; he did not -like affected grimaces, he did not make melting speeches; his was a -well-conditioned love that could exist without his perpetually asking -her during the honeymoon, “Do you love me?” Besides, she knew of no -other answer than “Yes.” Again Lucia appeared on the scene; Lucia, -more beautiful than herself, nervous, suffering, fantastic. Lucia -and Andrea stood together in the foreground of her life. Oh! how she -could recall her trouble, through their disputes and their reciprocal -dislike. Her heart had been torn between love for Andrea, to whom Lucia -was odious, and love for Lucia, who held Andrea in contempt. She could -neither venture to coerce them, nor could she divide herself in two. -She loved them both, each in a different fashion. When they had begun -to know each other, and their antipathy had turned to a more cordial -sentiment, then there had been thanksgiving in her heart, that the -miracle she prayed for with all her might had come to pass. She had not -told either of them how much her love for them had grown since they had -deigned to be friends; but during the whole year she had tried to prove -her gratitude to them. She passed her life between them, for them, ever -devising a way to make their life pleasant; tending and caring for -them, body and soul, thinking of naught but the two persons in whom -her life was centred. Thus had Caterina Lieti lived and had her being, -thus it was that her whole existence appeared to her like a series of -events, of which she was a spectator on that winter night. Her memory -was as clear and definite as the facts it recalled. With calm patience, -staring into the darkness the better to discern them, she searched -for other memories; if perchance she had overlooked any incident of a -different nature, anything singular, exceptional, like all that she had -already recalled. Was there nothing, really nothing? Twice she repeated -this question to herself, but she found nothing. Her conscience had -been calm, equal, unvaried; it had known two constant and active -loves--Andrea, Lucia. - - * * * * * - -Well, now all was clear to her. The science of life had come to her in -a flash, sweeping faith and innocence from her heart. Her intellect -opened wide to the cruel lesson, applied as by a blow from a hammer. -She felt like another woman, one suddenly aged and become more capable, -a woman of cool, clear judgment, searching eye, and an implacable -conscience. She no longer discovered in herself either indulgence, -pity, kindness, nor illusions; in their stead she found the inflexible -justice that could weigh men and things. - -Now she understood it all. Lucia’s personality encroached on the life -around her; Lucia the Protagonist, Lucia the Sovereign. The personality -rose, clearly defined against her horizon, as if in harsh relief, -without any softening or veiling of the contours, without any optical -illusion, cruel in its truth. In vain Caterina closed her dazzled eyes -not to see this truth, it filtered through her lids, like the sun. The -gigantic figure attracted all the others, fascinated them, bewitched -them, seized them, absorbed them, and down below there only remained -certain pitiful, shrunken shades, that vaguely struggled and despaired -within a grey mist. Lucia reigned, beautiful and cruel, not bending -her eyes on those who wrung their hands, nor hearing their groans, -her eyes half closed so that she might not see, her ears unheeding; -contemplating herself, adoring herself, making an idol of herself. - -Surely this was a monstrous creature, a spirit ruined in infancy, an -ever-swelling egoism that assumed the fair cruel features of fantasy. -At bottom, the heart was cold, arid, and incapable of enthusiasm; -its surface was coated with a prodigious imagination that magnified -at will every sensation and impression. Within, a total absence of -sentiment; without, every form of sentimentalism. Within, indifference -to every human being; without, the delirium of noble Utopian theories, -fluctuating aspirations round a vague ideal. Within, a harsh spongy -pumice-stone, that nothing can soften, that is never moved; without, -the sweetness of a voice and the tenderness of words. And artifice, so -deeply rooted in the soul as to mock nature, artifice so complete, so -perfect that by night, alone with herself, she could persuade herself -that she was really unhappy and really in love: artifice that had -become one with disposition, temperament, blood and nerves, until she -had acquired the profound conviction of her own goodness, her own -virtue, and her own excellence. - -The vision became more and more distinct, cynically revealing the -falseness of its character, and the lie that was incrusted in its -every line. To have the fantasy of error, the fantasy of sentiment, -the fantasy of love, the fantasy of friendship, the fantasy of sorrow; -never anything but blinding, corroding fantasy, put forward in the -guise of all that is sweet and wholesome. To weave fancies on God, the -Madonna, the affections, on everything; to barter the realities of -life for the unreality of a dream; to be master of the fantasy that -endows the eye with seductive charm, the voice with voluptuous melody, -the smile with fascination that makes the kiss irresistible; to feed -one’s nerves on the torments of others, bringing about the enacting -of the drama that is artificial for oneself, and terribly earnest for -everybody else. That was Lucia. - -That smiling and weeping monster, with the moving tears, the enchanting -voice, the bewitching flexibility and poetry of diction, that profound -and feminine egoism, had absorbed all that surrounded her.... Caterina -had pitied and loved her, Galimberti had loved and pitied her, Alberto -had loved her, Andrea had loved her. She had stood in their midst and -had drawn all the love out of them. At the languor of her countenance, -all had languished; in her mystic prostration, all had suffered; her -mock passion had burned deep into their flesh. Her egoism had battened -on sacrifice and abnegation: yet they who loved her, loved her more -and more. Whoever had approached her had been taken. Those whom she -took never regained their freedom. Their souls blended with her -soul, they thought her thoughts, dreamed her dreams, shuddered with -her thrills; their bodies clung to her irrevocably, without hope of -deliverance, receiving from her their health and their disease. And for -the aggrandisement of this potent egoism, its glory and its triumph, -Caterina beheld the misery of those who had surrounded Lucia: the fate -of Galimberti, who was dying in a madhouse; the misery of his starving, -despairing mother and sister; the lugubrious and dishonoured agony of -Alberto, the husband she had abandoned; the dishonour of her father -and her name; the ruin of Andrea, who left home, wife, and country to -live a life of despair with Lucia; and the last most innocent victim, -Caterina herself, bereft by Lucia of her all. - -All these wrongs were irreparable. Horrible was the agony of the dying, -who cried for Lucia and loved her; horrible the life of the survivors, -who hated, cursed, and loved her. Irreparable the past, irreparable -the present. Lucia towered above the ruins, enthroned, audacious, -triumphant, formidable, casting on the earth the shadow of her inhuman -egoism, obscuring the sky with it. - - * * * * * - -The dawn rose livid and frozen. Caterina was still there, stiffened -in her chair, pressing the wedding ring that had been returned to her -between her icy fingers. She uttered a cry of terror when, in the grey -morning light, she saw the white bed, so smooth and cold; a cry so -terrible that it did not sound human. She opened her arms and threw -herself down on the spot where Andrea had slept--and wept upon that -tomb. - - - V. - -“You had better go to bed, Signora,” said Giulietta, pityingly; “you -haven’t even undressed.” - -“I was not sleepy,” replied Caterina, simply. - -“Will you breakfast?” - -“No.” - -“At least, I may bring you your coffee?” - -“Bring me the coffee.” - -The tears had ceased to flow, but her eyes burned painfully. She -passed into her dressing-room and began to bathe them with cold water. -She dipped her whole head into the basin, and felt refreshed. When -Giulietta entered with the coffee she found her still bathing her head. - -“The maid has come from Casa Sanna. The poor gentleman wandered all -night; this morning, saving your presence, he spat blood again. The -maid says it is a heartrending sight. Madonna _mia_, how did this -dreadful thing happen?” - -Caterina raised her cold, severe eyes, and looked at her. Giulietta, -who was intimidated, held her peace. - -In the kitchen, she announced to the man-servant, the coachman, and the -cook that “the Signora was a woman in a thousand. You will see with -what courage she will bear her misfortune.” - -“What can she do?” quoth the man-servant. “If Signor Sanna were well, -she could have gone to stay with him....” - -“Sst!” the cook silenced him. “The Signora is not a woman of that kind. -I know her well, for I have seen a great deal of her. She wouldn’t do -it.” - -“I say there is no chance of the master’s returning,” added the cook -later. “My! that Donna Lucia is a clever woman.” - -Caterina busied herself in her room, putting away the few things that -were lying about, such as her bonnet and shawl; opening and shutting -the wardrobes, reviewing the linen shelves, counting their contents, -as if she thought of cataloguing them. She stopped to think every now -and then, as if she were verifying the numbers. This long and minute -examination took some time. All her husband’s things were there, and -in one corner stood his gun and cartridge-box. The room was in order. -She passed into the morning-room, where on the previous evening she had -read that letter. The drawers of her husband’s bureau were open, and -the key was in one of them; she inspected them, paper on paper, letter -on letter. They were business papers, contracts, donations, leases, -bills, letters from friends, letters that she, Caterina, had written -to him during his absence: all the Exhibition documents were there, -reports and communications. She patiently turned all these pages, -and read them all, holding the drawer on her knee, leaning her elbow -against the bureau, with her forehead resting on her hand. She was -conscious of feeling stunned, of a void in her head and a buzzing in -her ears. But that passed, and she soon recovered the lucidity of her -mind. When she had finished reading, she tied up all the letters with -string, made separate packets of the business papers, and wrote the -date and name on each in her round, legible hand. It did not tremble -while she wrote, and when she had finished her arduous task she wiped -the pen on the pen-wiper and shut down the cover of the inkstand. At -the bottom of the big drawer she found another bundle, containing ten -pages of stamped paper, forming her marriage contract. She read them -all, but replaced them without writing on them. She closed the drawers, -and added the key to the bunch that she kept in her pocket. - -“It is midday,” said Giulietta. “Will you breakfast, or will you wear -yourself to rags?” - -She ventured on the brusque, affectionate familiarity that is peculiar -to Neapolitan servants when there is trouble in a house. - -“Bring me another cup of coffee.” - -“At least dip a rusk in it; you mustn’t starve.” - -Caterina seated herself in the armchair, waiting for Giulietta to -bring her the cup of coffee. She sat without thinking, counting the -roses on the carpet, and observing that one turned to the left and -the other to the right. She drank her coffee and then went over to -her little writing-table, where she kept her own letters. They were -already classified, with the order which was characteristic of her. -There were letters from her aunt, from Giuditta, from her teachers, -and from Andrea. The bulkiest packet was the one labelled “Lucia.” -This packet smelled of musk; she untied and with calm attentiveness -read those transparent, crossed, and closely written pages, one by -one. They took her so long to read that her face began to show signs -of fatigue. She locked the writing-table and added the key to the -others in her pocket. Lucia’s letters had remained in her lap; she -lifted up her dress like an apron, knelt down before the fireplace, and -there burned the letters, page by page. The thin paper made a quick, -short-lived flame, that left behind it a white evanescent ash, and a -more pungent odour of musk, blended with that of burnt sealing-wax. She -watched the pyre, still kneeling. When it was consumed, she rose to her -feet, mechanically flicking the dust off her dress at the knees. The -iron safe stood next to the mantelpiece. Andrea had left it and his -bureau unlocked, with the keys in them. She opened it and inspected -its contents. Andrea had taken with him a hundred thousand francs in -coupons payable to bearer, and in shares of the National Bank. He had -left the settlements of his inheritance, Caterina’s marriage contract, -and a bundle of other bonds. In one corner were the cases containing -Caterina’s jewels. She counted the money, classified the gems, and -wrote a list of both on a scrap of paper, which she left in the bureau, -took some small change and a ten-franc-note, and locked the safe. A -new impulse caused her to spring to her feet again. She passed into an -adjoining room, and from thence into the drawing-room, whose windows -she threw wide open. The splendid December day broke in with its deep -blue sky, its glare of light and its soft air. Caterina had nothing to -do in the drawing-room, but in passing she stopped near a window to -gracefully arrange the folds of a curtain, moved the Murano glasses -from one table to another, and went a few steps away from them to -judge of the effect. When she had inspected everything, in the bright -light that lit up pearl-grey brocaded hangings into which were woven -coral-coloured flowers, the crystals, the statues, the bric-à-brac, she -closed the windows, fastened the shutters, and left the drawing-room -and the yellow room behind her in darkness. - -When she reached the dining-room, Giulietta hastened to meet her, -thinking that her mistress would eat something. But Caterina was only -looking at the high sideboards, making mental calculations. - -“How many glasses are missing from the _Baccarat_ service, Giulietta?” - -“One large tumbler and a wineglass.” - -“That’s right; and this set of Bohemian glass?” - -“Only one; Monzu knocked it down with his elbow.” - -“I see. I think there is a fork with a crooked prong.” - -“Yes, Signorina.” - -“Well, you can go; I know you have some ironing to do to-day.” - -Giulietta went away quite comforted. If the Signora had time and -inclination to take such minute interest in the house, it was a sign -that she had made up her mind to bear her trouble. And if men were such -wretches, what was the good of taking it to heart? The master used to -be good, but he had quite changed of late. Giulietta, standing before -a table heaped up with rough-dried linen, sprinkled it with the water -she took up out of a basin in the hollow of her hand. Caterina passing -slowly by her, stopped for a moment. - -“Be careful of the shirts, Giulietta; last week there were two -scorched.” - -“That was because I overheated the irons; I will be careful to-day.” - -Caterina entered the kitchen. Monzu, who was carrying on an animated -conversation with the man-servant, became suddenly silent. She cast a -cool glance of inspection round her, the look of the mistress, severe -and just. - -“Monzu, tell your kitchen-boy to scour the corners well. It is no good -cleaning just in the middle of the floor.” - -“I have told that boy about it so often, but Signora _mia_, he’s good -for nothing. I’ll give him a scolding when he comes to-day.” - -“Are your accounts made up, Monzu?” - -“We were to settle on Monday, the day after to-morrow.” - -“Let us settle to-day instead.” - -He drew out the large account-book in its red leather binding, and -placed it on the corner of the table, where his mistress added it up. -He had sufficient money in hand for another week. - -“Am I to provide for the Signora only?” - -“Do not provide for me; I shall not be dining at home. Think of the -servants.” - -The cook cast a triumphant glance after her, as turning quickly she -went away; he knew that the Signora was a woman of spirit, and was not -going to give way.... - -Caterina went back to her room and looked at her watch. It was about -three, she had barely time to dress. She chose her black cashmere gown -and her fur. Slowly, bestowing on her toilet the utmost care, she -changed from head to foot. She had already wound her hair in a great -knot, and fastened it with a light tortoiseshell comb. She looked at -herself in the glass: she was rather pale, with two red lines under her -eyes; but for that she looked much as usual. She put her handkerchief -and purse in her pocket, and while she was drawing on her black gloves -she called Giulietta. - -“Order the carriage,” she said. - -She waited in her room for the carriage to be announced. Had she -forgotten anything? No, nothing. The house was in order from top to -bottom; there was nothing lying about, nothing out of place; everything -was locked up and the keys were on the ring. She had not overlooked -anything. She felt in her pocket for an object that she needed, -and found it there; nothing had been omitted. She waited without -impatience; she had plenty of time, having, as usual, dressed early. -When Giulietta returned, she rose and let her put her wraps on her. -Passing before her she said: - -“Giulietta, I am going to Centurano on business.” - -“But there is no one at Centurano, except Matteo!” - -“He will do. You can keep house here.” - -“May I not come?” - -“I shall only stay one night at Centurano.” - -“Then you will return to-morrow?” - -“Of course. _Arrivederci_, Giulietta.” - -“The Madonna be with you, Signorina; never fear, all will be right -here.” - -She accompanied her as far as the stairs. Caterina went away without -looking back, with rhythmic step, and veil drawn down over her eyes. - -“The Madonna be with you, and give you a good journey and a speedy -return.” - -“Good-bye, Giulietta.” - -The latter went, however, to look after her mistress from the window -of the anteroom that overlooked the courtyard. Caterina entered her -carriage without turning to look behind her, and said to the coachman: - -“To the station.” - -In the Via di Foria she met Giovanna Casacalenda, in a _daumont_, -with her husband. Giovanna sat, upright and beautiful, with the -black brim of her Rubens hat shading her proud, voluptuous eyes: the -Commendatore Gabrielli wore the look of composure that became his -age, his beard correctly trimmed to a fringe, his oblique glance from -behind the gold-rimmed spectacles, and the twitch of the lips that -denoted a tendency to apoplexy. Husband and wife neither spoke to nor -looked at each other. Behind them followed a smart, high equipage, -with spider-like wheels, driven by Roberto Gentile, in his showy, -cavalry uniform. He drove close to the _daumont_, while Giovanna -assumed unconsciousness, and her husband maintained his grave, assured -demeanour. Giovanna smiled and waved her hand to Caterina, the husband -raised his hat. It was evident that her friends had not yet heard -anything. - - * * * * * - -There was only a pair of German fellow-travellers in the first-class -carriage, occupied by the solitary little lady who was so neatly gloved -and wrapped in furs. Whether they were husband and wife, brother and -sister, uncle and niece, or father and daughter, it was impossible to -decide, so red were they of face, light of hair, indefinite as to age, -and alike in all respects. They were laden with shawls, rugs, bags, and -Baedekers; they gabbled continually, glancing furtively betimes at the -little lady, who, seated in a corner, gazed at the Neapolitan twilight -landscape. When they arrived at Caserta, the youthful lady crossed the -carriage, and bending in salutation, descended: the two travellers -uttered a sigh of relief. - -“Raise the hood, and drive to Centurano,” she said to the driver of -a fly. Only once, in passing the Palazzo Reale, solemn, silent, and -closed, pale with the solitude that had once more fallen upon it, she -leant forward to contemplate it, a stretch of park, and far, far away -a white line that was the waterfall, through the arch of the great -gate. But she drew herself back immediately, and did not look out again -through the rest of the drive. The short winter twilight deepened; a -fresh breeze blew over the ploughed fields and the bare trees. - -The villas of Centurano were nearly all closed, except two or three -that were inhabited by their owners all the year round. Little lights -shone in the dwellings of the tenantry. Matteo, who was leaning against -the portico quietly smoking his pipe, did not at first recognise his -mistress until she had paid the driver. After the latter had wished her -“una santa notte” (a holy good-night), he turned and drove away. - -“O Signorina.... O Signorina....” stammered Matteo, in confusion, -hiding his pipe behind his back. - -“Good evening, Matteo; is it open up there?” - -“I have the key here, Signora.” - -“Can one pass a night here?” - -“Certainly, Signora; it is always ready--beds made, floors swept.” - -Taking an oil-lamp from his room on the ground-floor, he led the way -upstairs, jingling his keys as he went. - -“And the Signore, will he be here soon?” - -“No, the Signore is not coming. I can manage without him.” - -“I wanted to show him how fit Fox and Diana are. They are getting so -fat, from having nothing to do.” - -“I will tell him to-morrow.” - -“Shall you stay here to-night, Signorina?” - -“Just for one night. I must find some important documents, and I had no -one I could send.” - -“But about dinner, Signorina? If you don’t mind it, Carmela can toss -you up an omelette and a handful of vermicelli with tomato sauce. Of -course, it’s no food for you, but for once....” - -“I have dined at Naples; I don’t want anything.” - -Despite Matteo’s care, the upstairs department looked cold, dreary, and -unhabited. She shivered when she entered the drawing-room, where she -had passed so much of her country life. - -“No; we’ll soon have a fire burning in the grate.” - -While he knelt down and blew the lighted wood she drew off her gloves, -stretched them, and placed them on the table. - -“Beg pardon, Signorina, but how is the Signora Donna Lucia?” - -“She’s well.” - -“All the better, poor young thing; she was always so sickly. And that -husband of hers, who hadn’t a ha’p’orth of health, the Signor Don -Alberto, how is he?” - -“He’s ill.” - -“The severe weather, eh? But when the Lord calls we must obey.” - -“True, Matteo; so the house is in order.” - -“From top to bottom, Signorina _mia_. What you have told me to do, that -I have done. The Signora Donna Lucia’s room is just as she left it. -Would you like to see it?” - -“Let’s see it.” - -She followed Matteo, who carried a light, into the room. On the -threshold she was arrested by the same shivering sensation. - -“Every morning I air the room and let in the sun. Carmela sweeps, I -dust. Look, look, Signorina, there is no dust. Tell the Signore....” - -“Yes, I will tell him. Shut the door, Matteo; we will go to mine.” - -They went there. When they got inside her teeth began to chatter. - -“Shall I light the fire in here, too, Signorina?” - -“Yes, light it, and bring me another lamp.” - -She took off her furs and threw them on the bed. The room was full of -shadows, which the faint light of the wick of the lamp he held, of the -kind in use among the peasantry, did not dispel. Matteo returned with a -larger lamp. She took her place on the sofa. Matteo remained standing -before her, as if he were ready to make his report. - -“Well, what news?” inquired Caterina, seeing that Matteo wished to be -questioned. - -“It happened a week ago that the wind was very high, and through the -forgetfulness of Carmela, who had left the windows open, four panes -were broken in the dining-room.” - -“Have you had them replaced?” - -“Certainly.” - -“You will put them on the bill?” - -“Don Claudio, the parish priest, called. They want a new roof to the -church, and count on the charity of the faithful. He says that he hopes -that the Signorina, who gives so much away in alms, won’t forget the -church.” - -“What did you say?” - -“That he must write to you at Naples.” - -“That was right. And what else?” - -“And then the Mariagrazia’s boy died.” - -“That fine child?” - -“_Gnorsi_[3]: Mariagrazia has been at death’s door herself, saving your -presence.” - -“You will tell Mariagrazia how sorry I am for her. What is she going to -do?” - -“She is going to service in Naples, poor woman. Did Pepe Guardino go to -Naples?” - -“Yes, he came.” - -“Then he must have given you the message about the millstone that -split. Have I told you all? Yes, it seems to me that I have. No; I was -forgetting the best. One day that she was dusting, Carmela found a -paper, with writing, under the clock. She always meant to put it in an -envelope and send it you, Signorina. Then, as I had to go to Naples, I -said, 'I will take it to the Signora myself.’ Shall I go and fetch it?” - -“Go,” she said. - -A slight expression of fatigue came over her face, the heavy lids -dropped for want of rest. The warmth from the grate had overcome the -sensation of cold. She tried to shake off the torpor. Matteo returned, -carrying a sheet of foreign letter-paper, folded into microscopic -compass. - -“As neither Carmela nor I can read, your fate might have been written -here, and we should have been none the wiser.” - -She opened the sheet and read it. Its perusal made no visible -impression on her. She put it in her pocket. - -“It is a list of certain things that I had forgotten. You can go to -bed, Matteo.” - -“There is nothing I can do for you?” - -“Nothing else.” - -“Don’t be afraid of anything, Signorina. I shall be here below. The -bell rings in my room; if you want anything, ring.” - -“I will, if I want anything. But I shall not want anything.” - -“What time will you have your coffee in the morning? Carmela knows how -to make coffee.” - -“At nine. I shall leave by the twelve o’clock train.” - -“The gig at the door at eleven, then?” - -“Yes.” - -“Do you want anything else, Signorina?” - -“No.” - -“Do you want to write?” - -“I have nothing to write to any one.” - -“I am going to supper; a leaf or two of salad and a scrap of cheese, -and then to bed; but always ready for your Excellency’s service. -Perhaps you’d like your bed warmed?” - -“No.” - -“It would be no trouble to light a bit of fire in the kitchen.” - -“No.” - -“Good-night, Signorina; sleep well.” - -“Good-night, Matteo.” - -He went away with his lamp, closing the door behind him. She heard the -steps dying away in the distance, and the last door close. At that -moment the clock struck half-past eight. She fell back on the sofa, as -pale as though she had fainted. - - * * * * * - -She waited for two hours without rising from the sofa, in a species -of stupor that made her limbs ache. She heard the quarters ring while -she counted them. The fire in the grate had gradually turned to ashes, -leaving a tepid warmth in the room. She turned her back on the moon. -When the clock struck twelve she rose to her feet. The two hours’ -rest had restored her strength. She went to the window, but could not -distinguish anything. Then, without moving the light, she entered the -drawing-room, one window of which overlooked the courtyard. There was -no light in Matteo’s room; he must have been asleep, for two hours -profound silence reigned in the house. - -Then she thought the hour had come. She returned to her room, and with -infinite precaution passed out of it again through the drawing-room, -the billiard-room, the dining-room, and the ante-chamber. She shaded -the light with her hand, and as she passed through the room her little -black shadow grew, as it was projected on the wall, to giant stature. -She passed a landing, descended two steps, and entered the kitchen. -She rested the light on a marble table, crossed the kitchen on tiptoe, -placed a chair against the panelling, and unhooked from the wall, where -it hung amid shining saucepans and moulds, a copper brazier, with -brass feet fashioned like cat’s claws. It was heavy, and the weight -of it nearly threw her down. She placed it on the ground near the -hearth; then, stooping over the arched angle where coals were kept, she -noiselessly took up some pieces of coke with the tongs and filled the -brazier with them one by one. She blew the coal off her fingers, but -when she came to raise the brazier she found that it needed the support -of her two hands, and that it was not possible to carry the light at -the same time. She put it down, and carried the light back to her room. -Then, in the dark, she crept back to the kitchen and took the brazier, -setting it down before every door, which she closed behind her. She -crossed the entire length of the house, carrying the burden that bore -her down. She had seen an old newspaper lying in the drawing-room, -picked it up, entered her room, and locked the door. When she saw her -hands in the lamplight she perceived that the coke had soiled them, and -proceeded to wash and dry them carefully. She crossed to the window -with the intention of closing the shutters; the stars shone high and -bright in the night, and the fountain in the street sang its fresh, -eternal melody. She preferred to leave the shutters open, returned to -the fireplace, and burned the letter in which Lucia had craved her -pity--and the love-letter to Andrea that Matteo had found. She mixed -the ashes, as she had done at Naples, so that no trace was left of -anything. She took the fur wrap off the bed and laid it on the sofa. -Was there anything else to be done? Yes; the keys. She took them out of -her pocket and laid them on the mantelshelf, well in sight. That was -all she had to do. - -Then she placed a chair under the image of the Madonna by the bedside, -and, kneeling on the carpet, prayed as she used to pray in her -school-days. Her face was buried in her hands; she prayed without -looking at the Madonna. She neither wept nor sobbed, nor even sighed. -It did not transpire whether she repeated her usual prayers or only -told the Virgin her thoughts. It was a long, calm, mute prayer, -unbroken by thrill, start, or shiver. Twice she made the sign of the -cross, glanced for an instant at the Madonna, and rose. Then she put -the chair back in its place. She tore a strip off the newspaper, and -folded it in four. This she placed under the door, thereby effectually -shutting out the draught. With a small roll of paper she closed the -keyhole, from which she had previously withdrawn the key. She tore -another strip and placed it under the window. She stopped up a tiny -hole that let in the rain-water. She placed her head against the -window fastening to feel if there were any draught: no, the two sides -closed so accurately that there was none. She looked round, wondering -if the air could get in anywhere. No. She drew the brazier into the -middle of the room, and, with a strip of paper lighted at the lamp, -set fire to two small pieces of coal. She blew the fire to spread -it. Then she carried the light to the bedside and unlooped the white -curtains, standing a moment absorbed in thought. She turned to look -at the brazier; one coal caught fire from another, and the whole mass -was gradually becoming incandescent. She felt an increasing weight -in her head. Without hesitation she blew out the light, and, drawing -the curtains, lay down on the bed, on the place where she had been -accustomed to sleep. - - * * * * * - -The bright winter sun shed its light on a room flooded with a light -haze. Behind the white curtains lay a little dead woman. She was -dressed in black, her feet outstretched and close together, her head -resting on the pillows. She looked like a child, smaller than in life. -Her face was of leaden hue. The hair was unruffled, the mouth open -as if in the effort to breathe, the lips violet, the chest slightly -elevated, and the rest of the body sunken in the bed. The glazed eyes -of the little dead woman were wide open, as if in stupefaction at an -incredible spectacle; and round the violet fingers of the leaden-hued -hands there was twisted part of a broken rosary of lapis-lazuli. - - - FOOTNOTES: - -[3] _Gnorsi_, corruption of _Signora si_. - - - PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. - LONDON AND EDINBURGH - - - * * * * * - - - Heinemann’s International Library. - - - EDITORS NOTE. - -There is nothing in which the Anglo-Saxon world differs more from the -world of the Continent of Europe than in its fiction. English readers -are accustomed to satisfy their curiosity with English novels, and it -is rarely indeed that we turn aside to learn something of the interior -life of those other countries the exterior scenery of which is often -so familiar to us. We climb the Alps, but are content to know nothing -of the pastoral romances of Switzerland. We steam in and out of the -picturesque fjords of Norway, but never guess what deep speculation -into life and morals is made by the novelists of that sparsely peopled -but richly endowed nation. We stroll across the courts of the Alhambra, -we are listlessly rowed upon Venetian canals and Lombard lakes, we -hasten by night through the roaring factories of Belgium; but we never -pause to inquire whether there is now flourishing a Spanish, an -Italian, a Flemish school of fiction. Of Russian novels we have lately -been taught to become partly aware, but we do not ask ourselves whether -Poland may not possess a Dostoieffsky and Portugal a Tolstoï. - -Yet, as a matter of fact, there is no European country that has -not, within the last half-century, felt the dew of revival on the -threshing-floor of its worn-out schools of romance. Everywhere there -has been shown by young men, endowed with a talent for narrative, a -vigorous determination to devote themselves to a vivid and sympathetic -interpretation of nature and of man. In almost every language, too, -this movement has tended to display itself more and more in the -direction of what is reported and less of what is created. Fancy has -seemed to these young novelists a poorer thing than observation; the -world of dreams fainter than the world of men. They have not been -occupied mainly with what might be or what should be, but with what -is, and, in spite of all their shortcomings, they have combined to -produce a series of pictures of existing society in each of their -several countries such as cannot fail to form an archive of documents -invaluable to futurity. - -But to us they should be still more valuable. To travel in a foreign -country is but to touch its surface. Under the guidance of a novelist -of genius we penetrate to the secrets of a nation, and talk the very -language of its citizens. We may go to Normandy summer after summer -and know less of the manner of life that proceeds under those gnarled -orchards of apple-blossom than we learn from one tale of Guy de -Maupassant’s. The present series is intended to be a guide to the inner -geography of Europe. It offers to our readers a series of spiritual -Baedekers and Murrays. It will endeavour to keep pace with every truly -characteristic and vigorous expression of the novelist’s art in each of -the principal European countries, presenting what is quite new if it is -also good, side by side with what is old, if it has not hitherto been -presented to our public. That will be selected which gives with most -freshness and variety the different aspects of continental feeling, the -only limits of selection being that a book shall be, on the one hand, -amusing, and, on the other, wholesome. - -One difficulty which must be frankly faced is that of subject. Life is -now treated in fiction by every race but our own with singular candour. -The novelists of the Lutheran North are not more fully emancipated -from prejudice in this respect than the novelists of the Catholic -South. Everywhere in Europe a novel is looked upon now as an impersonal -work, from which the writer, as a mere observer, stands aloof, neither -blaming nor applauding. Continental fiction has learned to exclude, in -the main, from among the subjects of its attention, all but those facts -which are of common experience, and thus the novelists have determined -to disdain nothing and to repudiate nothing which is common to -humanity; much is freely discussed, even in the novels of Holland and -of Denmark, which our race is apt to treat with a much more gingerly -discretion. It is not difficult, however, we believe--it is certainly -not impossible--to discard all which may justly give offence, and yet -to offer to an English public as many of the masterpieces of European -fiction as we can ever hope to see included in this library. It will be -the endeavour of the editor to search on all hands and in all languages -for such books as combine the greatest literary value with the most -curious and amusing qualities of manner and matter. - - EDMUND GOSSE. - - - HEINEMANN’S - Scientific Handbooks. - - -A knowledge of the practical Sciences has now become a necessity to -every educated man. The demands of life are so manifold, however, -that of many things one can acquire but a general and superficial -knowledge. Ahn and Ollendorff have been an easy road to languages for -many a struggling student; Hume and Green have taught us history; but -little has been done, thus far, to explain to the uninitiated the -most important discoveries and practical inventions of the present -day. Is it not important that we should know how the precious metals -can be tested as to their value; how the burning powers of fuel can -be ascertained; what wonderful physical properties the various gases -possess; and to what curious and powerful purposes heat can be adapted? -Ought we not to know more of the practical application and the working -of that almost unfathomable mystery--electricity? Should we not know -how the relations of the Poles to the magnet-needle are tested; how we -can ascertain by special analysis what produce will grow in particular -soils, and what will not, and what artificial means can be used to -improve the produce? - -In this Series of “Scientific Handbooks” these and kindred subjects -will be dealt with, and so dealt with as to be intelligible to all who -seek knowledge--to all who take an interest in the scientific problems -and discoveries of the day, and are desirous of following their course. -It is intended to give in a compact form, and in an attractive style, -the progress made in the various departments of Science, to explain -novel processes and methods, and to show how so many wonderful results -have been obtained. The treatment of each subject by thoroughly -competent writers will ensure perfect scientific accuracy; at the same -time, it is not intended for technical students _alone_. Being written -in a popular style, it is hoped that the volumes will also appeal to -that large class of readers who, not being professional men, are yet in -sympathy with the progress of science generally, and take an interest -in it. - -The Series will therefore aim to be of general interest, thoroughly -accurate, and quite abreast of current scientific literature, and, -wherever necessary, well illustrated. Anyone who masters the details of -each subject treated will possess no mean knowledge of that subject; -and the student who has gone through one of these volumes will be able -to pursue his studies with greater facility and clearer comprehension -in larger manuals and special treatises. - -The first volume will be a Manual on the Art of Assaying Precious -Metals, and will be found valuable not only to the amateur, but to -the assayer, metallurgist, chemist, and miner. The work will be a -desirable addition to the libraries of Mining Companies, engineers, -bankers, and bullion brokers, as well as to experts in the Art of -Assaying. - -The second volume of the Series is written by Professor Kimball, and -deals with the physical properties of Gases. He has taken into account -all the most recent works on “the third state of matter,” including -Crooke’s recent researches on “radiant matter.” There is a chapter also -on Avogadro’s law and the Kinetic theory, which chemical as well as -physical students will read with interest. - -In the third volume Dr. Thurston treats, in a popular way, on “Heat as -a Form of Energy”; and his book will be found a capital introduction to -the more exhaustive works of Maxwell, Carnot, Tyndall, and others. - -On account of the requirements of the subject, a large number of -wood-cuts have been made for the first volume, and the following -volumes will also be fully illustrated wherever the subject is -susceptible of it. - -The first three volumes are now ready. Others will follow, written, -like these, by thoroughly competent writers in their own departments; -and each volume will be complete in itself. - - - HEINEMANN’S SCIENTIFIC HANDBOOKS. - - - I. - - MANUAL OF ASSAYING GOLD, SILVER, COPPER, AND LEAD ORES. - By WALTER LEE BROWN, B.Sc. - - Revised, corrected, and considerably enlarged, with a chapter on THE -ASSAYING OF FUEL, &c., by A. B. GRIFFITHS, Ph.D., F.R.S. (Edin.), F.C.S. - - In One Volume, small crown 8vo. Illustrated, 7s. 6d. - - -_Colliery Guardian._--“A delightful and fascinating book.” - -_Financial World._--“The most complete and practical manual on -everything which concerns assaying of all which have come before us.” - -_North British Economist._--“With this book the amateur may become -an expert. Bankers and Bullion Brokers are equally likely to find it -useful.” - - - II. - - THE PHYSICAL PROPERTIES OF GASES. - By ARTHUR L. KIMBALL, of the Johns Hopkins University. - - In One Volume, small crown 8vo. Illustrated, 5s. - - - CONTENTS. - - - Introduction. Diffusion and Occlusion. - Pressure and Buoyancy. Thermodynamics of Gases. - Elasticity and Expansion with Avogadro’s Law and the Kinetic - heat. Theory. - Gases and Vapours. Geissler Tubes and Radiant Matter. - Air-Pumps and High Vacua. Conclusion. - -_Chemical News._--“The man of culture who wishes for a general and -accurate acquaintance with the physical properties of gases, will find -in Mr. Kimball’s work just what he requires.” - -_Iron._--“We can highly recommend this little book.” - -_Manchester Guardian._--“Mr. Kimball has the too rare merit of -describing first the facts, and then the hypotheses invented to limn -them together.” - - - III. - - HEAT AS A FORM OF ENERGY. - By Professor R. H. THURSTON, of Cornell University. - In One Volume, small crown 8vo. Illustrated, 5s. - - - CONTENTS. - - The Philosophers’ Ideas of Air and Gas Engines, their Work and - Heat. their Promise. - The Science of Thermodynamics. The Development of the Steam Engine. - Heat Transfer and the World’s Summary and Conclusion. - Industries. - - OTHER VOLUMES IN PREPARATION. - - - MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN’S ANNOUNCEMENTS - AND - NEW PUBLICATIONS. - - _The Books mentioned in this List can be obtained_ to order _by - any Bookseller if not in stock, or will be sent by the Publisher - post free on receipt of price_. - - - MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN’S LIST. - - - _Now Ready._ - - THE CURE OF CONSUMPTION. - 8vo, Wrapper, 1s.; or Limp Cloth, 1s. 6d. - - COMMUNICATIONS ON A REMEDY - FOR - TUBERCULOSIS. - - By PROFESSOR ROBERT KOCH, BERLIN. - _Authorised Translation._ - - -From _The Times_, leading article, November 17, 1890:--“It has -been acknowledged, at any time during the last year or two, that -the discovery of a cure for tuberculosis was not only possible but -even likely; and that which is now announced comes with the highest -recommendations and from the most trustworthy source.” - - - In One Volume, Crown 8vo, 6s. - - THE LIFE OF HENRIK IBSEN. - BY HENRIK JÆGER. - - _TRANSLATED BY CLARA BELL._ - - WITH THE VERSE DONE INTO ENGLISH FROM THE NORWEGIAN ORIGINAL - BY EDMUND GOSSE. - - -_St. James’s Gazette._--“Admirably translated. Deserves a cordial and -emphatic welcome.” - -_Guardian._--“Ibsen’s dramas at present enjoy a considerable vogue, and -their admirers will rejoice to find full descriptions and criticisms in -Mr. Jæger’s book.” - -_Academy._--“We welcome it heartily. An unqualified boon to the many -English students of Ibsen.” - - - THREE NEW PLAYS. - - _Now ready._ - - In One Volume, Small 4to, - - HEDDA GABLER: - _A DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS_. - - BY HENRIK IBSEN. - - TRANSLATED BY EDMUND GOSSE. - In One Volume, Small 4to, - - - THE - FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT: - - _A COMEDY IN FOUR ACTS_. - - BY COUNT LYON TOLSTOI. - - TRANSLATED BY E. J. DILLON. - - - _In Preparation._ - - In One Volume, Small 4to, - - MAHOMET: - - _A DRAMA_. - BY HALL CAINE. - - - _In the Press._ - - In 8vo, - - THE SALON OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. - _LETTERS AND JOURNALS._ - - With Drawings and Studies by the youthful Artist. - - - _In the Press._ - - In Two Volumes, Demy 8vo, - - DE QUINCEY MEMORIALS. - - _IN LETTERS AND OTHER RECORDS HERE FIRST PUBLISHED, WITH - COMMUNICATIONS FROM COLERIDGE, THE WORDSWORTHS, MRS. HANNAH MORE, - PROFESSOR WILSON, AND OTHERS OF NOTE._ - - - Edited, with Introduction, Notes, and Narrative, - BY ALEXANDER H. JAPP, LL.D., F.R.S.E. - - -These volumes include letters to De Quincey from his mother whilst -he was still at school, from his sisters Jane and Mary, his brothers -Henry and Richard, and his guardian, the Rev. Samuel Hall. Letters also -from the Marquis of Sligo, Professor Wilson, Sir W. Hamilton, “Cyril -Thornton,” Hannah More, the Brontës, Coleridge, Professor T. P. Nichol, -the Wordsworths, and many others, add to the value of the book, and -with De Quincey’s own letters, throw new light on many points in his -career, and present confirmation by documentary evidence of the truth -of some of his statements regarding the most extraordinary incidents in -his early career, some of which have been doubted at various times. - -The work will be handsomely printed, in two volumes, and will be -illustrated by various portraits of De Quincey and members of the De -Quincey family. - - - _Early in 1891._ - - In two Volumes, Crown 8vo, - - THE POSTHUMOUS WORKS OF THOMAS DE QUINCEY. - - VOLUME I. - ADDITIONAL SUSPIRIA DE PROFUNDIS. - - _WITH ESSAYS, CRITICAL, HISTORICAL, BIOGRAPHICAL, PHILOSOPHICAL, - IMAGINATIVE, AND HUMOROUS._ - - VOLUME II. - CONVERSATION AND COLERIDGE. - - _WITH OTHER ESSAYS._ - Recovered from the Author’s Original MSS., and Edited by - ALEXANDER H. JAPP, LL.D., F.R.S.E., &c. - - -In announcing a collection of unpublished writings of De Quincey, the -publisher believes he is presenting to the public an essential addition -to every library, as without these volumes the editions of De Quincey’s -works now before the public will be incomplete. The additional -_Suspiria_ alone would justify this claim for it, some of them being -absolutely necessary to complete the significance of the _Suspiria_ -already published. In addition to this there are other essays, on -history, speculation, criticism, and theology, which will attract and -appeal to a varied class of readers. A collection of notes under the -heading _Brevia_ are added, which will give the reader closer access -to De Quincey in his private life and thoughts than anything that has -hitherto been published. By means of these notes the reader is, as it -were, introduced to the opium-eater when he was communing with himself -by means of his pen. - - - _In the Press._ - - THE COMPLETE WORKS OF HEINRICH HEINE. - - I. - PICTURES OF TRAVEL. - - TRANSLATED BY - - CHARLES GODFREY LELAND, M.A., F.R.L.S., _ - President of the Gypsy Lore Society, &c. &c._ - - -A want has long been felt and often expressed by different writers for -a complete English edition of Heine’s works. That this has never been -done is the more remarkable, because HEINE is, next to GOETHE, the most -universally popular author in Germany, and one who, although he termed -himself an unlicked Teutonic savage, wrote in a style and manner which -have made him a leading favourite in all countries. - -The first volume will be the REISEBILDER, or PICTURES OF TRAVEL, -probably the most brilliant and entertaining, while at the same time -the most instructive or thought-inspiring work of its kind ever -written; to be followed by II., FLORENTINE NIGHTS, SCHNABELEWOPSKI, and -THE RABBI OF BACHARACH; and III., THE BOOK OF SONGS. Other volumes will -be announced later. - -Dr. Garnett is preparing a “Life of Heine,” which will be uniform with -this edition of Heine’s works. - - _A Large Paper Edition will be printed, limited to - one hundred and fifty copies, numbered, and signed - by the translator._ - - - _Now Ready._ - - In Two Volumes 8vo, £3, 13s. 6d. - - THE GENESIS OF THE UNITED STATES. - - - A narrative of the movement in England, 1605-1616, which resulted - in the plantation of North America by Englishmen, disclosing the - contest between England and Spain for the possession of the soil - now occupied by the United States of America; set forth through - a series of historical manuscripts now first printed, together - with a re-issue of rare contemporaneous tracts, accompanied by - bibliographical memoranda, notes, and brief biographies. - - COLLECTED, ARRANGED, AND EDITED BY ALEXANDER BROWN, - Member of the Virginia Historical Society and of the American - Historical Association, Fellow of the Royal Historical Society. - - _With 100 Portraits, Maps, and Plans._ - -The crucial period of English occupancy of North America was that -included between the return of Weymouth to England in July 1605, and -closing with the return of Dale to England in July 1616. This period -has hitherto been most imperfectly understood, partly because of the -misrepresentations made by early authorities who have been followed too -implicitly, but chiefly because of the ignorance by later historians, -and even by early writers, of the part played by Spain in attempting to -thwart the movements of England. - -No historical work for many years has attracted such attention as is -sure to be given to this. Its peculiar significance consists in the -fact that it contains so much important matter never before printed in -any language. Mr. Brown’s researches, pursued through many years and at -large expense, were rewarded by the discovery, in the secret archives -of Spain, of numerous documents throwing light on the contest in Europe -for the possession of the American Continent. These documents, with -rare tracts of that period (in all 365 papers, of which 294 are now for -the first time made public), accompanied by Bibliographical Memoranda, -Notes, Maps and Plans, Portraits and Autographs, and a Comprehensive -Biographical Index, lend special value and importance to this work. - -A prospectus, with specimen pages and full description, will be sent -on application. Orders may be sent to Booksellers, or direct to the -Publisher. - - - HEINEMANN’S SCIENTIFIC HANDBOOKS. - - _Now Ready._ - - In One Volume, Crown 8vo, Illustrated, 7s. 6d. - - MANUAL OF ASSAYING GOLD, SILVER, COPPER, AND LEAD ORES. - BY WALTER LEE BROWN, B.SC. - - REVISED, CORRECTED, AND CONSIDERABLY ENLARGED, - WITH A CHAPTER ON THE ASSAYING OF FUEL, ETC. - - BY A. B. GRIFFITHS, Ph.D., F.R.S. (Edin.), F.C.S. - -This work gives full details of the assaying and valuation of ores -containing gold, silver, copper, and lead. The assaying of gold and -silver bullion, fuels, &c., and full descriptions are given of the -necessary apparatus, appliances, and re-agents, the whole being fully -illustrated by eighty-seven figures in the text. - - - In One Volume, Crown 8vo, Illustrated, 5s. - - THE PHYSICAL PROPERTIES OF GASES. - BY ARTHUR L. KIMBALL, OF THE JOHNS HOPKINS UNIVERSITY. - - - CONTENTS. - - Introduction. Diffusion and Occlusion. - Pressure and Buoyancy. Thermodynamics of Gases. - Elasticity and Expansion with Avogadro’s Land and the Kinetic - heat. Theory. - Gases and Vapours. Geissler Tubes and Radiant Matter. - Air-Pumps and High Vacua. Conclusion. - - - In One Volume, Crown 8vo, Illustrated, 5s. - - HEAT AS A FORM OF ENERGY. - BY PROFESSOR R. H. THURSTON, OF CORNELL UNIVERSITY. - - - CONTENTS. - - The Philosophers’ Ideas of Heat. Air and Gas Engines, their Work and - their Promise. - The Science of Thermodynamics. The Development of the Steam Engine. - Heat Transfer and the World’s Summary and Conclusion. - Industries. - - _In preparation._ - - In One Volume, Demy 8vo, - - DENMARK: - ITS HISTORY, TOPOGRAPHY, LANGUAGE, LITERATURE, - FINE ARTS, SOCIAL LIFE, AND FINANCE. - - EDITED BY H. WEITEMEYER. - - With a Coloured Map. - - _Dedicated, by Permission, to H.R.H. The Princess of Wales._ - - - In One Volume, 8vo. - - THE COMING TERROR. - - ESSAYS. - BY ROBERT BUCHANAN. - - In One Volume, Crown 8vo. - - - GIRLS AND WOMEN. - BY E. CHESTER. - - A NEW NOVEL - BY OUIDA. - - A NEW NOVEL - BY FLORENCE WARDEN. - - A NEW NOVEL - BY HANNAH LYNCH. - - - HEINEMANN’S INTERNATIONAL LIBRARY. - - EDITED BY EDMUND GOSSE. - - Each Volume will have an Introduction - specially written by the Editor. - - - _Just Published._ - - WORK WHILE YE HAVE THE LIGHT. - - A TALE OF THE EARLY CHRISTIANS. - BY COUNT LYON TOLSTOI. - - TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN BY E. J. DILLON, Ph.D. - -_Glasgow Herald._--“Mr. Gosse gives a brief biographical sketch of -Tolstoi, and an interesting estimate of his literary productions.” - -_Scotsman._--“It is impossible to convey any adequate idea of the -simplicity and force with which the work is unfolded; no one who reads -the book will dispute its author’s greatness.” - -_Liverpool Mercury._--“Marked by all the old power of the great Russian -novelist.” - -_Manchester Guardian._--“Readable and well translated; full of high and -noble feeling.” - - - _In the Press._ - - FANTASY. - BY MATILDE SERAO. - - TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN - BY HENRY HARLAND AND PAUL SYLVESTER. - - - FROTH. - BY A. P. VALDÈS. - - TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH BY CLARA BELL. - - - THE COMMANDER’S DAUGHTERS. - BY JONAS LIE. - - TRANSLATED BY A. L. BRAKSTAD. - - - THE CHIEF JUSTICE. - By KARL EMIL FRANZOS. - Author of “For the Right,” &c. - - TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY MILES CORBET. - -_Manchester Guardian._--“Simple, forcible, and intensely tragic. It is -a very powerful study, singularly grand in its simplicity.” - -_Sunday Times._--“A series of dramatic scenes welded together with a -never-failing interest and skill.” - - - IN GOD’S WAY. - By BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON. - - TRANSLATED FROM THE NORWEGIAN BY ELIZABETH CARMICHAEL. - - With Introduction by EDMUND GOSSE. - - In One Volume, crown 8vo, 3s. 6d.; or Paper Covers, 2s. 6d. - -_Athenæum._--“Without doubt the most important, and the most -interesting work published during the twelve months.... There are -descriptions which certainly belong to the best and cleverest things -our literature has ever produced. Amongst the many characters, the -doctor’s wife is unquestionably the first. It would be difficult -to find anything more tender, soft, and refined than this charming -personage.” - -_Saturday Review._--“The English reader could desire no better -introduction to contemporary foreign fiction than this notable novel.” - -_Speaker._--“'In God’s Way’ is really a notable book, showing the -author’s deep insight into character, giving evidence that his hand has -lost none of its cunning in the delineation of Scandinavian character, -and proving, too, how the widespread spirit of criticism is affecting -Northern Europe as elsewhere.” - - - PIERRE AND JEAN. - By GUY DE MAUPASSANT. - - TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY CLARA BELL. - - With Introduction by EDMUND GOSSE. - - In One Volume, crown 8vo, 3s. 6d.; or Paper Covers, 2s. 6d. - -_Pall Mall Gazette._--“So fine and faultless, so perfectly balanced, -so steadily progressive, so clear and simple and satisfying. It is -admirable from beginning to end.” - -_Athenæum._--“Ranks amongst the best gems of modern French fiction.” - - - _The Books of which the titles follow this have - been published during the present year._ - - - THE GENTLE ART OF MAKING ENEMIES - - As pleasingly exemplified in many instances, wherein - the serious ones of this earth, carefully exasperated, - have been prettily spurred on to indiscretions and - unseemliness, while overcome by an undue sense of right. - - By J. M’NEIL WHISTLER. - - In One Volume, pott 4to, 10s. 6d. - -_Punch_, _June 21_.--“The book in itself, in its binding, print, and -arrangement, is a work of art.” - -_Punch_, _June 28_.--“A work of rare humour, a thing of beauty and a -joy for now and ever.” - - - THE PASSION PLAY AT OBERAMMERGAU, 1890. - By F. W. FARRAR, D.D., F.R.S., - Archdeacon and Canon of Westminster, &c. &c. - - In One Volume, small 4to, 2s. 6d. - -_Spectator._--“Among the many accounts that have been written this -year of 'The Passion Play,’ one of the most picturesque, the most -interesting, and the most reasonable, is this sketch of Archdeacon -Farrar’s.... This little book will be read with delight by those who -have, and by those who have not, visited Oberammergau.” - - - THE GARDEN’S STORY; - or, Pleasures and Trials of an Amateur Gardener. - - By G. H. ELLWANGER. - - With an Introduction by the Rev. C. WOLLEY DOD. - - In One Volume, 12mo, with Illustrations, 5s. - -_Scotsman._--“Deserves every recommendation that a pleasant-looking -page can give it; for it deals with a charming subject in a charming -manner. Mr. Ellwanger talks delightfully, with instruction but without -pedantry, of the flowers, the insects, and the birds.... It will give -pleasure to every reader who takes the smallest interest in flowers, -and ought to find many readers.” - - - NEW WORKS OF FICTION. - - - THE BONDMAN. A New Saga. - By HALL CAINE. - - Fourth Edition (Twelfth Thousand). - - In One Volume. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. - -_Mr. Gladstone._--“The 'Bondman’ is a work of which I recognise the -freshness, vigour, and sustained interest no lese than its integrity of -aim.” - -_Count Tolstoi._--“A book I have read with deep interest.” - -_Standard._--“Its argument is grand, and it is sustained with a power -that is almost marvellous.” - - - IN THE VALLEY. A Novel. - By HAROLD FREDERIC, - Author of “The Lawton Girl,” “Seth’s Brother’s Wife,” &c. &c. - - In Three Volumes. Crown 8vo, with Illustrations. - -_Athenæum._--“A romantic story book, graphic and exciting, not merely -in the central picture itself, but also in its weird surroundings. This -is a novel deserving to be read.” - -_Manchester Examiner._--“Certain to win the reader’s admiration. 'In -the Valley’ is a novel that deserves to live.” - -_Scotsman._--“A work of real ability; it stands apart from the common -crowd of three-volume novels.” - - - A MARKED MAN: Some Episodes in his Life. - By ADA CAMBRIDGE, - Author of “Two Years’ Time,” “A Mere Chance,” &c. &c. - - In Three Volumes, crown 8vo. - -_Morning Post._--“A depth of feeling, a knowledge of the human heart, -and an amount of tact that one rarely finds. Should take a prominent -place among the novels of the season.” - -_Illustrated London News._--“The moral tone of this story, rightly -considered, is pure and noble, though it deals with the problem of an -unhappy marriage.” - -_Pall Mall Gazette._--“Contains one of the best written stories of a -_mésalliance_ that is to be found in modern fiction.” - - - THE MOMENT AFTER: A Tale of the Unseen. - By ROBERT BUCHANAN. - - In One Volume, crown 8vo, 10s. 6d. - -_Athenæum._--“Should be read--in daylight.” - -_Observer._--“A clever _tour de force_.” - -_Guardian._--“Particularly impressive, graphic, and powerful.” - -_Bristol Mercury._--“Written with the same poetic feeling and power -which have given a rare charm to Mr. Buchanan’s previous prose -writings.” - - - COME FORTH! - By ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS and HERBERT D. WARD. - - In One Volume, imperial 16mo, 7s. 6d. - -_Scotsman._--“'Come Forth!’ is the story of the raising of Lazarus, -amplified into a dramatic love-story.... It has a simple, forthright -dramatic interest such as is seldom attained except in purely -imaginative fiction.” - - - THE MASTER OF THE MAGICIANS. - By ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS and HERBERT D. WARD. - - In One Volume, imperial 16mo, 7s. 6d. - -_The Athenæum._--“A success in Biblical fiction.” - - - THE DOMINANT SEVENTH: A Musical Story. - By KATE ELIZABETH CLARK. - - In One Volume, crown 8vo, 5s. - -_Speaker._--“A very romantic story.” - - - A VERY STRANGE FAMILY: A Novel. - By F. W. ROBINSON, - Author of “Grandmother’s Money,” “Lazarus in London,” &c. &c. - - In One Volume, crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. - -_Glasgow Herald._--“An ingeniously-devised plot, of which the interest -is kept up to the very last page. A judicious blending of humour and -pathos further helps to make the book delightful reading from start to -finish.” - - - HAUNTINGS: Fantastic Stories. - By VERNON LEE, - Author of “Baldwin,” “Miss Brown,” &c. &c. - - In One Volume, crown 8vo, 6s. - -_Pall Mall Gazette._--“Well imagined, cleverly constructed, powerfully -executed. 'Dionea’ is a fine and impressive idea, and 'Oke of Okehurst’ -a masterly story.” - - - PASSION THE PLAYTHING. A Novel. - By R. MURRAY GILCHRIST. - - In One Volume, crown 8vo, 6s. - -_Athenæum._--“This well-written story must be read to be appreciated.” - -_Yorkshire Post._--“A book to lay hold of the reader.” - - THE LABOUR MOVEMENT IN AMERICA. - By RICHARD T. ELY, Ph.D., - - Associate in Political Economy, Johns Hopkins University. - - In One Volume, crown 8vo, 5s. - - -_Weekly Despatch._--“There is much to interest and instruct.” - -_Saturday Review._--“Both interesting and valuable.” - -_England._--“Full of information and thought.” - -_National Reformer._--“Chapter iii. deals with the growth and present -condition of labour organisations in America ... this forms a most -valuable page of history.” - - - ARABIC AUTHORS: A Manual of Arabian History and Literature. - By F.F. ARBUTHNOT, M.R.A.S., - Author of “Early Ideas,” “Persian Portraits,” &c. - - In One Volume 8vo, 10s. - -_Manchester Examiner._--“The whole work has been carefully indexed, and -will prove a handbook of the highest value to the student who wishes to -gain a better acquaintance with Arabian letters.” - - - IDLE MUSINGS: Essays in Social Mosaic. - By E. CONDER GRAY, - Author of “Wise Words and Loving Deeds,” &c. &c. - - In One Volume, crown 8vo, 6s. - -_Saturday Review._--“Light, brief, and bright are the 'essays in social -mosaic.’ Mr. Gray ranges like a butterfly from high themes to trivial -with a good deal of dexterity and a profusion of illustrations.” - -_Graphic._--“Pleasantly written, will serve admirably to wile away -an idle half-hour or two.” IVY AND PASSION FLOWER: Poems. By GERARD -BENDALL, Author of “Estelle,” &c. &c. 12mo, 3s. 6d. - -_Scotsman._--“Will be read with pleasure.” - -_Woman._--“There is a delicacy of touch and simplicity about the poems -which is very attractive.” - -_Musical World._--“The poems are delicate specimens of art, graceful -and polished.” - - - VERSES. - By GERTRUDE HALL. - - 12mo, 3s. 6d. - -_Musical World._--“Interesting volume of verse.” - -_Woman._--“Very sweet and musical.” - -_Manchester Guardian._--“Will be welcome to every lover of poetry who -takes it up.” - - * * * * * - - LONDON: WM. HEINEMANN, 21, BEDFORD STREET, W.C. - -TELEGRAPHIC ADDRESS--SUNLOCKS, LONDON. - _December 1890._ - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FANTASY *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following -the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use -of the Project Gutenberg trademark. 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