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diff --git a/5610-h/5610-h.htm b/5610-h/5610-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..95d820d --- /dev/null +++ b/5610-h/5610-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9490 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + The Cardinal's Snuff-box, by Henry Harland + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Cardinal's Snuff-Box, by Henry Harland + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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 + + +Title: The Cardinal's Snuff-Box + +Author: Henry Harland + +Release Date: March 25, 2009 [EBook #5610] +Last Updated: March 13, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CARDINAL'S SNUFF-BOX *** + + + + +Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer, and David Widger + + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE CARDINAL'S SNUFF-BOX + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Henry Harland + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> VII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> VIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> IX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> X </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> XI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> XII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> XIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> XIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> XV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> XVI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> XVII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> XVIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> XIX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> XX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> XXI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> XXII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> XXIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> XXIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> XXV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> XXVI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> XXVII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> XXVIII </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <p> + “The Signorino will take coffee?” old Marietta asked, as she set the fruit + before him. + </p> + <p> + Peter deliberated for a moment; then burned his ships. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “But in the garden, perhaps?” the little brown old woman suggested, with a + persuasive flourish. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he corrected her, gently smiling, and shaking his head, “not perhaps—certainly.” + </p> + <p> + Her small, sharp old black Italian eyes twinkled, responsive. + </p> + <p> + “The Signorino will find a rustic table, under the big willow-tree, at the + water's edge,” she informed him, with a good deal of gesture. “Shall I + serve it there?” + </p> + <p> + “Where you will. I leave myself entirely in your hands,” he said. + </p> + <p> + So he sat by the rustic table, on a rustic bench, under the willow, sipped + his coffee, smoked his cigarette, and gazed in contemplation at the view. + </p> + <p> + Of its kind, it was rather a striking view. + </p> + <p> + In the immediate foreground—at his feet, indeed—there was the + river, the narrow Aco, peacock-green, a dark file of poplars on either + bank, rushing pell-mell away from the quiet waters of the lake. Then, just + across the river, at his left, stretched the smooth lawns of the park of + Ventirose, with glimpses of the many-pinnacled castle through the trees; + and, beyond, undulating country, flourishing, friendly, a perspective of + vineyards, cornfields, groves, and gardens, pointed by numberless white + villas. At his right loomed the gaunt mass of the Gnisi, with its black + forests, its bare crags, its foaming ascade, and the crenelated range of + the Cornobastone; and finally, climax and cynosure, at the valley's end, + Monte Sfiorito, its three snow-covered summits almost + insubstantial-seeming, floating forms of luminous pink vapour, in the + evening sunshine, against the intense blue of the sky. + </p> + <p> + A familiar verse had come into Peter's mind, and kept running there + obstinately. + </p> + <p> + “Really,” he said to himself, “feature for feature, down to the very + 'cataract leaping in glory,' the scene might have been got up, apres coup, + to illustrate it.” And he began to repeat the beautiful hackneyed words, + under his breath.... + </p> + <p> + But about midway of the third line he was interrupted. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + “It's not altogether a bad sort of view—is it?” some one said, in + English. + </p> + <p> + The voice was a woman's. It was clear and smooth; it was crisp-cut, + distinguished. + </p> + <p> + Peter glanced about him. + </p> + <p> + On the opposite bank of the Aco, in the grounds of Ventirose, five or six + yards away, a lady was standing, looking at him, smiling. + </p> + <p> + Peter's eyes met hers, took in her face.... And suddenly his heart gave a + jump. Then it stopped dead still, tingling, for a second. Then it flew + off, racing perilously.—Oh, for reasons—for the best reasons + in the world: but thereby hangs my tale. + </p> + <p> + She was a young woman, tall, slender, in a white frock, with a white + cloak, an indescribable complexity of soft lace and airy ruffles, round + her shoulders. She wore no hat. Her hair, brown and warm in shadow, + sparkled, where it caught the light, in a kind of crinkly iridescence, + like threads of glass. + </p> + <p> + Peter's heart (for the best reasons in the world) was racing perilously. + “It's impossible—impossible—impossible”—the words + strummed themselves to its rhythm. Peter's wits (for had not the + impossible come to pass?) were in a perilous confusion. But he managed to + rise from his rustic bench, and to achieve a bow. + </p> + <p> + She inclined her head graciously. + </p> + <p> + “You do not think it altogether bad—I hope?” she questioned, in her + crisp-cut voice, raising her eyebrows slightly, with a droll little + assumption of solicitude. + </p> + <p> + Peter's wits were in confusion; but he must answer her. An automatic + second-self, summoned by the emergency, answered for him. + </p> + <p> + “I think one might safely call it altogether good.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—?” she exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + Her eyebrows went up again, but now they expressed a certain whimsical + surprise. She threw back her head, and regarded the prospect critically. + </p> + <p> + “It is not, then, too spectacular, too violent?” she wondered, returning + her gaze to Peter, with an air of polite readiness to defer to his + opinion. “Not too much like a decor de theatre?” + </p> + <p> + “One should judge it,” his automatic second-self submitted, “with some + leniency. It is, after all, only unaided Nature.” + </p> + <p> + A spark flickered in her eyes, while she appeared to ponder. (But I am not + sure whether she was pondering the speech or its speaker.) + </p> + <p> + “Really?” she said, in the end. “Did did Nature build the villas, and + plant the cornfields?” + </p> + <p> + But his automatic second-self was on its mettle. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” it asserted boldly; “the kind of men who build villas and plant + cornfields must be classified as natural forces.” + </p> + <p> + She gave a light little laugh—and again appeared to ponder for a + moment. + </p> + <p> + Then, with another gracious inclination of the head, and an interrogative + brightening of the eyes, “Mr. Marchdale no doubt?” she hazarded. + </p> + <p> + Peter bowed. + </p> + <p> + “I am very glad if, on the whole, you like our little effect,” she went + on, glancing in the direction of Monte Sfiorito. “I”—there was the + briefest suspension—“I am your landlady.” + </p> + <p> + For a third time Peter bowed, a rather more elaborate bow than his earlier + ones, a bow of respectful enlightenment, of feudal homage. + </p> + <p> + “You arrived this afternoon?” she conjectured. + </p> + <p> + “By the five-twenty-five from Bergamo,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “A very convenient train,” she remarked; and then, in the pleasantest + manner, whereby the unusual mode of valediction was carried off, “Good + evening.” + </p> + <p> + “Good evening,” responded Peter, and accomplished his fourth bow. + </p> + <p> + She moved away from the river, up the smooth lawns, between the trees, + towards Castel Ventirose, a flitting whiteness amid the surrounding green. + </p> + <p> + Peter stood still, looking after her. + </p> + <p> + But when she was out of sight, he sank back upon his rustic bench, like a + man exhausted, and breathed a prodigious sigh. He was absurdly pale. All + the same, clenching his fists, and softly pounding the table with them, he + muttered exultantly, between his teeth, “What luck! What incredible luck! + It's she—it's she, as I 'm a heathen. Oh, what supernatural luck!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III + </h2> + <p> + Old Marietta—the bravest of small figures, in her neat + black-and-white peasant dress, with her silver ornaments, and her red silk + coif and apron—came for the coffee things. + </p> + <p> + But at sight of Peter, she abruptly halted. She struck an attitude of + alarm. She fixed him with her fiery little black eyes. + </p> + <p> + “The Signorino is not well!” she cried, in the tones of one launching a + denunciation. + </p> + <p> + Peter roused himself. + </p> + <p> + “Er—yes—I 'm pretty well, thank you,” he reassured her. “I—I + 'm only dying,” he added, sweetly, after an instant's hesitation. + </p> + <p> + “Dying—!” echoed Marietta, wild, aghast. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, but you can save my life—you come in the very nick of time,” he + said. “I'm dying of curiosity—dying to know something that you can + tell me.” + </p> + <p> + Her stare dissolved, her attitude relaxed. She smiled—relief, + rebuke. She shook her finger at him. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, the Signorino gave me a fine fright,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “A thousand regrets,” said Peter. “Now be a succouring angel, and make a + clean breast of it. Who is my landlady?” + </p> + <p> + Marietta drew back a little. Her brown old visage wrinkled up, perplexed. + </p> + <p> + “Who is the Signorino's landlady?” she repeated. + </p> + <p> + “Ang,” said he, imitating the characteristic nasalised eh of Italian + affirmation, and accompanying it by the characteristic Italian jerk of the + head. + </p> + <p> + Marietta eyed him, still perplexed—even (one might have fancied) a + bit suspicious. + </p> + <p> + “But is it not in the Signorino's lease?” she asked, with caution. + </p> + <p> + “Of course it is,” said he. “That's just the point. Who is she?” + </p> + <p> + “But if it is in your lease!” she expostulated. + </p> + <p> + “All the more reason why you should make no secret of it,” he argued + plausibly. “Come! Out with it! Who is my landlady?” + </p> + <p> + Marietta exchanged a glance with heaven. + </p> + <p> + “The Signorino's landlady is the Duchessa di Santangiolo,” she answered, + in accents of resignation. + </p> + <p> + But then the name seemed to stimulate her; and she went on “She lives + there—at Castel Ventirose.” Marietta pointed towards the castle. + “She owns all, all this country, all these houses—all, all.” + Marietta joined her brown old hands together, and separated them, like a + swimmer, in a gesture that swept the horizon. Her eyes snapped. + </p> + <p> + “All Lombardy?” said Peter, without emotion. + </p> + <p> + Marietta stared again. + </p> + <p> + “All Lombardy? Mache!” was her scornful remonstrance. “Nobody owns all + Lombardy. All these lands, these houses.” + </p> + <p> + “Who is she?” Peter asked. + </p> + <p> + Marietta's eyes blinked, in stupefaction before such stupidity. + </p> + <p> + “But I have just told you,” she cried “She is the Duchessa di + Santangiolo.” + </p> + <p> + “Who is the Duchessa di Santangiolo?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Marietta, blinking harder, shrugged her shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “But”—she raised her voice, screamed almost, as to one deaf—“but + the Duchessa di Santangiolo is the Signorino's landlady la, proprietaria + di tutte queste terre, tutte queste case, tutte, tutte.” + </p> + <p> + And she twice, with some violence, reacted her comprehensive gesture, like + a swimmer's. + </p> + <p> + “You evade me by a vicious circle,” Peter murmured. + </p> + <p> + Marietta made a mighty effort-brought all her faculties to a focus—studied + Peter's countenance intently. Her own was suddenly illumined. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, I understand,” she proclaimed, vigorously nodding. “The Signorino + desires to know who she is personally!” + </p> + <p> + “I express myself in obscure paraphrases,” said he; “but you, with your + unfailing Italian simpatia, have divined the exact shade of my intention.” + </p> + <p> + “She is the widow of the Duca di Santangiolo,” said Marietta. + </p> + <p> + “Enfin vous entrez dans la voie des aveux,” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Scusi?” said Marietta. + </p> + <p> + “I am glad to hear she's a widow,” said he. “She—she might strike a + casual observer as somewhat young, for a widow.” + </p> + <p> + “She is not very old,” agreed Marietta; “only twenty-six, twenty-seven. + She was married from the convent. That was eight, nine years ago. The Duca + has been dead five or six.” + </p> + <p> + “And was he also young and lovely?” + </p> + <p> + Peter asked. + </p> + <p> + “Young and lovely! Mache!” derided Marietta. “He was past forty. He was + fat. But he was a good man.” + </p> + <p> + “So much the better for him now,” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Gia,” approved Marietta, and solemnly made the Sign of the Cross. + </p> + <p> + “But will you have the kindness to explain to me,” the young man + continued, “how it happens that the Duchessa di Santangiolo speaks English + as well as I do?” + </p> + <p> + The old woman frowned surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Come? She speaks English?” + </p> + <p> + “For all the world like an Englishman,” asseverated Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well,” Marietta reflected, “she was English, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Oho!” exclaimed Peter. “She was English! Was she?” He bore a little on + the tense of the verb. “That lets in a flood of light. And—and what, + by the bye, is she now?” he questioned. + </p> + <p> + “Ma! Italian, naturally, since she married the Duca,” Marietta replied. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed? Then the leopard can change his spots?” was Peter's inference. + </p> + <p> + “The leopard?” said Marietta, at a loss. + </p> + <p> + “If the Devil may quote Scripture for his purpose, why may n't I?” Peter + demanded. “At all events, the Duchessa di Santangiolo is a very beautiful + woman.” + </p> + <p> + “The Signorino has seen her?” Marietta asked. + </p> + <p> + “I have grounds for believing so. An apparition—a phantom of delight—appeared + on the opposite bank of the tumultuous Aco, and announced herself as my + landlady. Of course, she may have been an impostor—but she made no + attempt to get the rent. A tall woman, in white, with hair, and a figure, + and a voice like cooling streams, and an eye that can speak volumes with a + look.” + </p> + <p> + Marietta nodded recognition. + </p> + <p> + “That would be the Duchessa.” + </p> + <p> + “She's a very beautiful duchessa,” reiterated Peter. + </p> + <p> + Marietta was Italian. So, Italian—wise, she answered, “We are all as + God makes us.” + </p> + <p> + “For years I have thought her the most beautiful woman in Europe,” Peter + averred. + </p> + <p> + Marietta opened her eyes wide. + </p> + <p> + “For years? The Signorino knows her? The Signorino has seen her before?” + </p> + <p> + A phrase came back to him from a novel he had been reading that afternoon + in the train. He adapted it to the occasion. + </p> + <p> + “I rather think she is my long-lost brother.” + </p> + <p> + “Brother—?” faltered Marietta. + </p> + <p> + “Well, certainly not sister,” said Peter, with determination. “You have my + permission to take away the coffee things.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV + </h2> + <p> + Up at the castle, in her rose-and-white boudoir, Beatrice was writing a + letter to a friend in England. + </p> + <p> + “Villa Floriano,” she wrote, among other words, “has been let to an + Englishman—a youngish, presentable-looking creature, in a dinner + jacket, with a tongue in his head, and an indulgent eye for Nature—named + Peter Marchdale. Do you happen by any chance to know who he is, or + anything about him?” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + V + </h2> + <p> + Peter very likely slept but little, that first night at the villa; and + more than once, I fancy, he repeated to his pillow his pious ejaculation + of the afternoon: “What luck! What supernatural luck!” He was up, in any + case, at an unconscionable hour next morning, up, and down in his garden. + </p> + <p> + “It really is a surprisingly jolly garden,” he confessed. “The agent was + guiltless of exaggeration, and the photographs were not the perjuries one + feared.” + </p> + <p> + There were some fine old trees, lindens, acacias, chestnuts, a flat-topped + Lombardy pine, a darkling ilex, besides the willow that overhung the + river, and the poplars that stiffly stood along its border. Then there was + the peacock-blue river itself, dancing and singing as it sped away, with a + thousand diamonds flashing on its surface—floating, sinking, rising—where + the sun caught its ripples. There were some charming bits of greensward. + There was a fountain, plashing melodious coolness, in a nimbus of spray + which the sun touched to rainbow pinks and yellows. There were vivid + parterres of flowers, begonia and geranium. There were oleanders, with + their heady southern perfume; there were pomegranate-blossoms, like knots + of scarlet crepe; there were white carnations, sweet-peas, heliotrope, + mignonette; there were endless roses. And there were birds, birds, birds. + Everywhere you heard their joyous piping, the busy flutter of their wings. + There were goldfinches, blackbirds, thrushes, with their young—the + plumpest, clumsiest, ruffle-feathered little blunderers, at the age + ingrat, just beginning to fly, a terrible anxiety to their parents—and + there were also (I regret to own) a good many rowdy sparrows. There were + bees and bumblebees; there were brilliant, dangerous-looking dragonflies; + there were butterflies, blue ones and white ones, fluttering in couples; + there were also (I am afraid) a good many gadflies—but che volete? + Who minds a gadfly or two in Italy? On the other side of the house there + were fig-trees and peach-trees, and artichokes holding their heads high in + rigid rows; and a vine, heavy with great clusters of yellow grapes, was + festooned upon the northern wall. + </p> + <p> + The morning air was ineffably sweet and keen—penetrant, tonic, with + moist, racy smells, the smell of the good brown earth, the smell of green + things and growing things. The dew was spread over the grass like a veil + of silver gossamer, spangled with crystals. The friendly country westward, + vineyards and white villas, laughed in the sun at the Gnisi, sulking black + in shadow to the east. The lake lay deep and still, a dark sapphire. And + away at the valley's end, Monte Sfiorito, always insubstantial-seeming, + showed pale blue-grey, upon a sky in which still lingered some of the + flush of dawn. + </p> + <p> + It was a surprisingly jolly garden, true enough. But though Peter remained + in it all day long—though he haunted the riverside, and cast a + million desirous glances, between the trees, and up the lawns, towards + Castel Ventirose—he enjoyed no briefest vision of the Duchessa di + Santangiolo. + </p> + <p> + Nor the next day; nor the next. + </p> + <p> + “Why does n't that old dowager ever come down and look after her river?” + he asked Marietta. “For all the attention she gives it, the water might be + undermining her property on both sides.” + </p> + <p> + “That old dowager—?” repeated Marietta, blank. + </p> + <p> + “That old widow woman—my landlady—the Duchessa Vedova di + Santangiolo.” + </p> + <p> + “She is not very old—only twenty-six, twenty-seven,” said Marietta. + </p> + <p> + “Don't try to persuade me that she is n't old enough to know better,” + retorted Peter, sternly. + </p> + <p> + “But she has her guards, her keepers, to look after her property,” said + Marietta. + </p> + <p> + “Guards and keepers are mere mercenaries. If you want a thing well done, + you should do it yourself,” said Peter, with gloomy sententiousness. + </p> + <p> + On Sunday he went to the little grey rococo parish church. There were two + Masses, one at eight o'clock, one at ten—and the church was quite a + mile from Villa Floriano, and up a hill; and the Italian sun was hot—but + the devoted young man went to both. + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa was at neither. + </p> + <p> + “What does she think will become of her immortal soul?” he asked Marietta. + </p> + <p> + On Monday he went to the pink-stuccoed village post-office. + </p> + <p> + Before the post-office door a smart little victoria, with a pair of + sprightly, fine-limbed French bays, was drawn up, ducal coronets + emblazoned on its panels. + </p> + <p> + Peter's heart began to beat. + </p> + <p> + And while he was hesitating on the doorstep, the door opened, and the + Duchessa came forth—tall, sumptuous, in white, with a wonderful + black-plumed hat, and a wonderful white-frilled sunshade. She was followed + by a young girl—a pretty, dark-complexioned girl, of fourteen, + fifteen perhaps, with pleasant brown eyes (that lucent Italian brown), and + in her cheeks a pleasant hint of red (that covert Italian red, which seems + to glow through the thinnest film of satin). + </p> + <p> + Peter bowed, standing aside to let them pass. + </p> + <p> + But when he looked up, the Duchessa had stopped, and was smiling on him. + </p> + <p> + His heart beat harder. + </p> + <p> + “A lovely day,” said the Duchessa. + </p> + <p> + “Delightful,” agreed Peter, between two heart-beats.—Yet he looked, + in his grey flannels, with his straw-hat and his eyeglass, with his lean + face, his even colour, his slightly supercilious moustaches—he + looked a very embodiment of cool-blooded English equanimity. + </p> + <p> + “A trifle warm, perhaps?” the Duchessa suggested, with her air of polite + (or was it in some part humorous?) readiness to defer to his opinion. + </p> + <p> + “But surely,” suggested he, “in Italy, in summer, it is its bounden duty + to be a trifle warm?” + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa smiled. + </p> + <p> + “You like it? So do I. But what the country really needs is rain.” + </p> + <p> + “Then let us hope,” said he, “that the country's real needs may remain + unsatisfied.” + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa tittered. + </p> + <p> + “Think of the poor farmers,” she said reproachfully. + </p> + <p> + “It's vain to think of them,” he answered. “'T is an ascertained fact that + no condition of the weather ever contents the farmers.” + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well,” she consented, “then I 'll join in your hope that the fine + weather may last. I—I trust,” she was so good as to add, “that + you're not entirely uncomfortable at Villa Floriano?” + </p> + <p> + “I dare n't allow myself to speak of Villa Floriano,” he replied. “I + should become dithyrambic. It's too adorable.” + </p> + <p> + “It has a pretty garden, and—I remember—you admired the view,” + the Duchessa said. “And that old Marietta? I trust she does for you fairly + well?” Her raised eyebrows expressed benevolent (or was it in some part + humorous?) concern. + </p> + <p> + “She does for me to perfection. That old Marietta is a priceless old + jewel,” Peter vowed. + </p> + <p> + “A good cook?” questioned the Duchessa. + </p> + <p> + “A good cook—but also a counsellor and friend. And with a flow of + language!” + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa laughed again. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, these Lombard peasant women. They are untiring chatterers.” + </p> + <p> + “I 'm not sure,” Peter felt himself in justice bound to confess, “that + Marietta is n't equally untiring as a listener. In fact, there's only one + respect in which she has disappointed me.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—?” said the Duchessa. And her raised eyebrows demanded + particulars. + </p> + <p> + “She swears she does n't wear a dagger in her garter—has never heard + of such a practice,” Peter explained. “And now,” he whispered to his soul, + “we 'll see whether our landlady is up in modern literature.” + </p> + <p> + Still again the Duchessa laughed. And, apparently, she was up in modern + literature. At any rate— + </p> + <p> + “Those are Lombard country-girls along the coast,” she reminded him. “We + are peaceful inland folk, miles from the sea. But you had best be on your + guard, none the less.” She shook her head, in warning. “Through all this + country-side that old Marietta is reputed to be a witch.” + </p> + <p> + “If she's a witch,” said Peter, undismayed, “her usefulness will be + doubled. I shall put her to the test directly I get home.” + </p> + <p> + “Sprinkle her with holy water?” laughed the Duchessa. “Have a care. If she + should turn into a black cat, and fly away on a broomstick, you'd never + forgive yourself.” + </p> + <p> + Wherewith she swept on to her carriage, followed by her young companion. + </p> + <p> + The sprightly French bays tossed their heads, making the harness tinkle. + The footman mounted the box. The carriage rolled away. + </p> + <p> + But Peter remained for quite a minute motionless on the door-step, gazing, + bemused, down the long, straight, improbable village street, with its + poplars, its bridge, its ancient stone cross, its irregular pink and + yellow houses—as improbable as a street in opera-bouffe. A thin + cloud of dust floated after the carriage, a thin screen of white dust, + which, in the sun, looked like a fume of silver. + </p> + <p> + “I think I could put my finger on a witch worth two of Marietta,” he said, + in the end. “And thus we see,” he added, struck by something perhaps not + altogether novel in his own reflection, “how the primary emotions, being + perennial, tend to express themselves in perennial formulae.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VI + </h2> + <p> + Back at the villa, he enquired of Marietta who the pretty brown-eyed young + girl might have been. + </p> + <p> + “The Signorina Emilia,” Marietta promptly informed him. + </p> + <p> + “Really and truly?” questioned he. + </p> + <p> + “Ang,” affirmed Marietta, with the national jerk of the head; “the + Signorina Emilia Manfredi—the daughter of the Duca.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—? Then the Duca was married before?” concluded Peter, with + simplicity. + </p> + <p> + “Che-e-e!” scoffed Marietta, on her highest note. “Married? He?” Then she + winked and nodded—as one man of the world to another. “Ma molto + porn! La mamma fu robaccia di Milano. But after his death, the Duchessa + had her brought to the castle. She is the same as adopted.” + </p> + <p> + “That looks as if your Duchessa's heart were in the right place, after + all,” commented Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Gia,” agreed Marietta. + </p> + <p> + “Hang the right place!” cried he. “What's the good of telling me her heart + is in the right place, if the right place is inaccessible?” + </p> + <p> + But Marietta only looked bewildered. + </p> + <p> + He lived in his garden, he haunted the riverside, he made a daily + pilgrimage to the village post, he thoroughly neglected the work he had + come to this quiet spot to do. But a week passed, during which he never + once beheld so much as the shadow of the Duchessa. + </p> + <p> + On Sunday he trudged his mile, through the sun, and up the hill, not only + to both Masses, but to Vespers and Benediction. + </p> + <p> + She was present at none of these offices. + </p> + <p> + “The Pagan!” he exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VII + </h2> + <p> + Up at the castle, on the broad marble terrace, where clematis and + jessamine climbed over the balustrade and twined about its pilasters, + where oleanders grew in tall marble urns and shed their roseate petals on + the pavement, Beatrice, dressed for dinner, in white, with pearls in her + hair, and pearls round her throat, was walking slowly backwards and + forwards, reading a letter. + </p> + <p> + “There is a Peter Marchdale—I don't know whether he will be your + Peter Marchdale or not, my dear; though the name seems hardly likely to be + common—son of the late Mr. Archibald Marchdale, Q. C., and nephew of + old General Marchdale, of Whitstoke. A highly respectable and stodgy + Norfolk family. I've never happened to meet the man myself, but I'm told + he's a bit of an eccentric, who amuses himself globe-trotting, and writing + books (novels, I believe) which nobody, so far as I am aware, ever reads. + He writes under a pseudonym, Felix—I 'm not sure whether it's + Mildmay or Wildmay. He began life, by the bye, in the Diplomatic, and was + attache for a while at Berlin, or Petersburg, or somewhere; but whether + (in the elegant language of Diplomacy) he 'chucked it up,' or failed to + pass his exams, I'm not in a position to say. He will be near thirty, and + ought to have a couple of thousand a year—more or less. His father, + at any rate, was a great man at the bar, and must have left something + decent. And the only other thing in the world I know about him is that + he's a great friend of that clever gossip Margaret Winchfield—which + goes to show that however obscure he may be as a scribbler of fiction, he + must possess some redeeming virtues as a social being—for Mrs. + Winchfield is by no means the sort that falls in love with bores. As you + 're not, either—well, verbum sap., as my little brother Freddie + says.” + </p> + <p> + Beatrice gazed off, over the sunny lawn, with its trees and their long + shadows, with its shrubberies, its bright flower-beds, its marble benches, + its artificial ruin; over the lake, with its coloured sails, its + incongruous puffing steamboats; down the valley, away to the rosy peaks of + Monte Sfiorito, and the deep blue sky behind them. She plucked a spray of + jessamine, and brushed the cool white blossoms across her cheek, and + inhaled their fairy fragrance. + </p> + <p> + “An obscure scribbler of fiction,” she mused. “Ah, well, one is an obscure + reader of fiction oneself. We must send to London for Mr. Felix Mildmay + Wildmay's works.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VIII + </h2> + <p> + On Monday evening, at the end of dinner, as she set the fruit before him, + “The Signorino will take coffee?” old Marietta asked. + </p> + <p> + Peter frowned at the fruit, figs and peaches— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Figs imperial purple, and blushing peaches”— +</pre> + <p> + ranged alternately, with fine precision, in a circle, round a central heap + of translucent yellow grapes. + </p> + <p> + “Is this the produce of my own vine and fig-tree?” he demanded. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Signorino; and also peach-tree,” replied Marietta. + </p> + <p> + “Peaches do not grow on fig-trees?” he enquired. + </p> + <p> + “No, Signorino,” said Marietta. + </p> + <p> + “Nor figs on thistles. I wonder why not,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “It is n't Nature,” was Marietta's confident generalisation. + </p> + <p> + “Marietta Cignolesi,” Peter pronounced severely, looking her hard in the + eyes, “I am told you are a witch.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Marietta, simply, without surprise, without emotion. + </p> + <p> + “I quite understand,” he genially persisted. “It's a part of the game to + deny it. But I have no intention of sprinkling you with holy water-so + don't be frightened. Besides, if you should do anything outrageous—if + you should turn into a black cat, and fly away on a broomstick, for + example—I could never forgive myself. But I'll thank you to employ a + little of your witchcraft on my behalf, all the same. I have lost + something—something very precious—more precious than rubies—more + precious than fine gold.” + </p> + <p> + Marietta's brown old wrinkles fell into an expression of alarm. + </p> + <p> + “In the villa? In the garden?” she exclaimed, anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “No, you conscientious old thing you,” Peter hastened to relieve her. + “Nowhere in your jurisdiction—so don't distress yourself: Laggiu, + laggiu.” + </p> + <p> + And he waved a vague hand, to indicate outer space. + </p> + <p> + “The Signorino should put up a candle to St. Anthony of Padua,” counselled + this Catholic witch. + </p> + <p> + “St. Anthony of Padua? Why of Padua?” asked Peter. + </p> + <p> + “St. Anthony of Padua,” said Marietta. + </p> + <p> + “You mean of Lisbon,” corrected Peter. + </p> + <p> + “No,” insisted the old woman, with energy. “St. Anthony of Padua.” + </p> + <p> + “But he was born in Lisbon;” insisted Peter. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Marietta. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said he, “parola d' onore. And, what's more to the purpose, he died + in Lisbon. You clearly mean St. Anthony of Lisbon.” + </p> + <p> + “No!” Marietta raised her voice, for his speedier conviction. “There is no + St. Anthony of Lisbon. St. Anthony of Padua.” + </p> + <p> + “What's the use of sticking to your guns in that obstinate fashion?” Peter + complained. “It's mere pride of opinion. Don't you know that the ready + concession of minor points is a part of the grace of life?” + </p> + <p> + “When you lose an object, you put up a candle to St. Anthony of Padua,” + said Marietta, weary but resolved. + </p> + <p> + “Not unless you wish to recover the object,” contended Peter. + </p> + <p> + Marietta stared at him, blinking. + </p> + <p> + “I have no wish to recover the object I have lost,” he continued blandly. + “The loss of it is a new, thrilling, humanising experience. It will make a + man of me—and, let us hope, a better man. Besides, in a sense, I + lost it long ago—'when first my smitten eyes beat full on her,' one + evening at the Francais, three, four years ago. But it's essential to my + happiness that I should see the person into whose possession it has + fallen. That is why I am not angry with you for being a witch. It suits my + convenience. Please arrange with the powers of darkness to the end that I + may meet the person in question tomorrow at the latest. No!” He raised a + forbidding hand. “I will listen to no protestations. And, for the rest, + you may count upon my absolute discretion. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'She is the darling of my heart + And she lives in our valley,'” + </pre> + <p> + he carolled softly. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “E del mio cuore la carina, + E dimor' nella nostra vallettina,” + </pre> + <p> + he obligingly translated. “But for all the good I get of her, she might as + well live on the top of the Cornobastone,” he added dismally. “Yes, now + you may bring me my coffee—only, let it be tea. When your coffee is + coffee it keeps me awake at night.” + </p> + <p> + Marietta trudged back to her kitchen, nodding at the sky. + </p> + <p> + The next afternoon, however, the Duchessa di Santangiolo appeared on the + opposite bank of the tumultuous Aco. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IX + </h2> + <p> + Peter happened to be engaged in the amiable pastime of tossing + bread-crumbs to his goldfinches. + </p> + <p> + But a score or so of sparrows, vulture-like, lurked under cover of the + neighbouring foliage, to dash in viciously, at the critical moment, and + snatch the food from the finches' very mouths. + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa watched this little drama for a minute, smiling, in silent + meditation: while Peter—who, for a wonder, had his back turned to + the park of Ventirose, and, for a greater wonder still perhaps, felt no + pricking in his thumbs—remained unconscious of her presence. + </p> + <p> + At last, sorrowfully, (but there was always a smile at the back of her + eyes), she shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the pirates, the daredevils,” she sighed. + </p> + <p> + Peter started; faced about; saluted. + </p> + <p> + “The brigands,” said she, with a glance towards the sparrows' outposts. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, poor things,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “Poor things?” cried she, indignant. “The unprincipled little monsters!” + </p> + <p> + “They can't help it,” he pleaded for them. “'It is their nature to.' They + were born so. They had no choice.” + </p> + <p> + “You actually defend them!” she marvelled, rebukefully. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear, no,” he disclaimed. “I don't defend them. I defend nothing. I + merely recognise and accept. Sparrows—finches. It's the way of the + world—the established division of the world.” + </p> + <p> + She frowned incomprehension. + </p> + <p> + “The established division of the world—?” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly,” said he. “Sparrows—finches the snatchers and the + snatched-from. Everything that breathes is either a sparrow or a finch. 'T + is the universal war—the struggle for existence—the survival + of the most unscrupulous. 'T is a miniature presentment of what's going on + everywhere in earth and sky.” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head again. + </p> + <p> + “YOU see the earth and sky through black spectacles, I 'm afraid,” she + remarked, with a long face. But there was still an underglow of amusement + in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he answered, “because there's a compensation. As you rise in the + scale of moral development, it is true, you pass from the category of the + snatchers to the category of the snatched-from, and your ultimate + extinction is assured. But, on the other hand, you gain talents and + sensibilities. You do not live by bread alone. These goldfinches, for a + case in point, can sing—and they have your sympathy. The sparrows + can only make a horrid noise—and you contemn them. That is the + compensation. The snatchers can never know the joy of singing—or of + being pitied by ladies.” + </p> + <p> + “N... o, perhaps not,” she consented doubtfully. The underglow of + amusement in her eyes shone nearer to the surface. “But—but they can + never know, either, the despair of the singer when his songs won't come.” + </p> + <p> + “Or when the ladies are pitiless. That is true,” consented Peter. + </p> + <p> + “And meanwhile they get the bread, crumbs,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “They certainly get the bread-crumbs,” he admitted. + </p> + <p> + “I 'm afraid “—she smiled, as one who has conducted a syllogism + safely to its conclusion—“I 'm afraid I do not think your + compensation compensates.” + </p> + <p> + “To be quite honest, I daresay it does n't,” he confessed. + </p> + <p> + “And anyhow”—she followed her victory up—“I should not wish my + garden to represent the universal war. I should not wish my garden to be a + battle-field. I should wish it to be a retreat from the battle—an + abode of peace—a happy valley—a sanctuary for the + snatched-from.” + </p> + <p> + “But why distress one's soul with wishes that are vain?” asked he. “What + could one do?” + </p> + <p> + “One could keep a dragon,” she answered promptly. “If I were you, I should + keep a sparrow-devouring, finch-respecting dragon.” + </p> + <p> + “It would do no good,” said he. “You'd get rid of one species of snatcher, + but some other species of snatcher would instantly pop UP.” + </p> + <p> + She gazed at him with those amused eyes of hers, and still again, slowly, + sorrowfully, shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, your spectacles are black—black,” she murmured. + </p> + <p> + “I hope not,” said he; “but such as they are, they show me the inevitable + conditions of our planet. The snatcher, here below, is ubiquitous and + eternal—as ubiquitous, as eternal, as the force of gravitation. He + is likewise protean. Banish him—he takes half a minute to change his + visible form, and returns au galop. Sometimes he's an ugly little + cacophonous brown sparrow; sometimes he's a splendid florid money-lender, + or an aproned and obsequious greengrocer, or a trusted friend, hearty and + familiar. But he 's always there; and he's always—if you don't mind + the vernacular—'on the snatch.'” + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa arched her eyebrows. + </p> + <p> + “If things are really at such a sorry pass,” she said, “I will commend my + former proposal to you with increased confidence. You should keep a + dragon. After all, you only wish to protect your garden; and that”—she + embraced it with her glance—“is not so very big. You could teach + your dragon, if you procured one of an intelligent breed, to devour + greengrocers, trusted friends, and even moneylenders too (tough though no + doubt they are), as well as sparrows.” + </p> + <p> + “Your proposal is a surrender to my contention,” said Peter. “You would + set a snatcher to catch the snatchers. Other heights in other lives, + perhaps. But in the dark backward and abysm of space to which our lives + are confined, the snatcher is indigenous and inexpugnable.” + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa looked at the sunny landscape, the bright lawns, the high + bending trees, with the light caught in the network of their million + leaves; she looked at the laughing white villas westward, the pale-green + vineyards, the yellow cornfields; she looked at the rushing river, with + the diamonds sparkling on its surface, at the far-away gleaming snows of + Monte Sfiorito, at the scintillant blue shy overhead. + </p> + <p> + Then she looked at Peter, a fine admixture of mirth with something like + gravity in her smile. + </p> + <p> + “The dark backward and abysm of space?” she repeated. “And you do not wear + black spectacles? Then it must be that your eyes themselves are just a + pair of black-seeing pessimists.” + </p> + <p> + “On the contrary,” triumphed Peter, “it is because they are optimists, + that they suspect there must be forwarder and more luminous regions than + the Solar System.” + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa laughed. + </p> + <p> + “I think you have the prettiest mouth, and the most exquisite little + teeth, and the eyes richest in promise, and the sweetest laughter, of any + woman out of Paradise,” said Peter, in the silence of his soul. + </p> + <p> + “It is clear I shall never be your match in debate,” said she. + </p> + <p> + Peter made a gesture of deprecating modesty. + </p> + <p> + “But I wonder,” she went on, “whether you would put me down as 'another + species of snatcher,' if I should ask you to spare me just the merest end + of a crust of bread?” And she lifted those eyes rich in promise + appealingly to his. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I beg of you—take all I have,” he responded, with effusion. + “But—but how—?” + </p> + <p> + “Toss,” she commanded tersely. + </p> + <p> + So he tossed what was left of his bread into the air, above the river; and + the Duchessa, easily, deftly, threw up a hand, and caught it on the wing. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you very much,” she laughed, with a little bow. + </p> + <p> + Then she crumbled the bread, and began to sprinkle the ground with it; and + in an instant she was the centre of a cloud of birds. Peter was at liberty + to watch her, to admire the swift grace of her motions, their suggestion + of delicate strength, of joy in things physical, and the lithe elasticity + of her figure, against the background of satiny lawn, and the further + vistas of lofty sunlit trees. She was dressed in white, as always—a + frock of I know not what supple fabric, that looked as if you might have + passed it through your ring, and fell in multitudes of small soft creases. + Two big red roses drooped from her bodice. She wore a garden-hat, of white + straw, with a big daring rose-red bow, under which the dense meshes of her + hair, warmly dark, dimly bright, shimmered in a blur of brownish gold. + </p> + <p> + “What vigour, what verve, what health,” thought Peter, watching her, “what—lean, + fresh, fragrant health!” And he had, no doubt, his emotions. + </p> + <p> + She bestowed her bread crumbs on the birds; but she was able, somehow, to + discriminate mightily in favour of the goldfinches. She would make a + diversion, the semblance of a fling, with her empty right hand; and the + too-greedy sparrows would dart off, avid, on that false lead. Whereupon, + quickly, stealthily, she would rain a little shower of crumbs, from her + left hand, on the grass beside her, to a confiding group of finches + assembled there. And if ever a sparrow ventured to intrude his ruffianly + black beak into this sacred quarter, she would manage, with a kind of + restrained ferocity, to “shoo” him away, without thereby frightening the + finches. + </p> + <p> + And all the while her eyes laughed; and there was colour in her cheeks; + and there was the forceful, graceful action of her body. + </p> + <p> + When the bread was finished, she clapped her hands together gently, to + dust the last mites from them, and looked over at Peter, and smiled + significantly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he acknowledged, “you outwitted them very skilfully. You, at any + rate, have no need of a dragon.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, in default of a dragon, one can do dragon's work oneself,” she + answered lightly. “Or, rather, one can make oneself an instrument of + justice.” + </p> + <p> + “All the same, I should call it uncommonly hard luck to be born a sparrow—within + your jurisdiction,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “It is not an affair of luck,” said she. “One is born a sparrow—within + my jurisdiction—for one's sins in a former state.—No, you + little dovelings”—she turned to a pair of finches on the greensward + near her, who were lingering, and gazing up into her face with hungry, + expectant eyes—“I have no more. I have given you my all.” And she + stretched out her open hands, palms downwards, to convince them. + </p> + <p> + “The sparrows got nothing; and the goldfinches, who got 'your all,' + grumble because you gave so little,” said Peter, sadly. “That is what + comes of interfering with the laws of Nature.” And then, as the two birds + flew away, “See the dark, doubtful, reproachful glances with which they + cover you.” + </p> + <p> + “You think they are ungrateful?” she said. “No—listen.” + </p> + <p> + She held up a finger. + </p> + <p> + For, at that moment, on the branch of an acacia, just over her head, a + goldfinch began to sing—his thin, sweet, crystalline trill of song. + </p> + <p> + “Do you call that grumbling?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “It implies a grumble,” said Peter, “like the 'thank you' of a servant + dissatisfied with his tip. It's the very least he can do. It's perfunctory—I + 'm not sure it is n't even ironical.” + </p> + <p> + “Perfunctory! Ironical!” cried the Duchessa. “Look at him! He's warbling + his delicious little soul out.” + </p> + <p> + They both paused to look and listen. + </p> + <p> + The bird's gold-red bosom palpitated. He marked his modulations by sudden + emphatic movements of the head. His eyes were fixed intently before him, + as if he could actually see and follow the shining thread of his song, as + it wound away through the air. His performance had all the effect of a + spontaneous rhapsody. When it was terminated, he looked down at his + auditors, eager, inquisitive, as who should say, “I hope you liked it?”—and + then, with a nod clearly meant as a farewell, flew out of sight. + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa smiled again at Peter, with intention. + </p> + <p> + “You must really try to take a cheerier view of things,” she said. + </p> + <p> + And next instant she too was off, walking slowly, lightly, up the green + lawns, between the trees, towards the castle, her gown fluttering in the + breeze, now dazzling white as she came into the sun, now pearly grey as + she passed into the shade. + </p> + <p> + “What a woman it is,” said Peter to himself, looking after her. “What + vigour, what verve, what sex! What a woman!” + </p> + <p> + And, indeed, there was nothing of the too-prevalent epicene in the + Duchessa's aspect; she was very certainly a woman. “Heavens, how she + walks!” he cried in a deep whisper. + </p> + <p> + But then a sudden wave of dejection swept over him. At first he could not + account for it. By and by, however, a malicious little voice began to + repeat and repeat within him, “Oh, the futile impression you must have + made upon her! Oh, the ineptitudes you uttered! Oh, the precious + opportunity you have misemployed!” + </p> + <p> + “You are a witch,” he said to Marietta. “You've proved it to the hilt. I + 've seen the person, and the object is more desperately lost than ever.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + X + </h2> + <p> + That evening, among the letters Peter received from England, there was one + from his friend Mrs. Winchfield, which contained certain statistics. + </p> + <p> + “Your Duchessa di Santangiolo 'was' indeed, as your funny old servant told + you, English: the only child and heiress of the last Lord Belfont. The + Belfonts of Lancashire (now, save for your Duchessa, extinct) were the + most bigoted sort of Roman Catholics, and always educated their daughters + in foreign convents, and as often as not married them to foreigners. The + Belfont men, besides, were ever and anon marrying foreign wives; so there + will be a goodish deal of un-English blood in your Duchessa's own + ci-devant English veins. + </p> + <p> + “She was born, as I learn from an indiscretion of my Peerage, in 1870, and + is, therefore, as near to thirty (the dangerous age!) as to the + six-and-twenty your droll old Marietta gives her. Her Christian names are + Beatrice Antonia Teresa Mary—faites en votre choix. She was married + at nineteen to Baldassarre Agosto, Principe Udeschini, Duca di + Santangiolo, Marchese di Castellofranco, Count of the Holy Roman Empire, + Knight of the Holy Ghost and of St. Gregory, (does it take your breath + away?), who, according to Frontin, died in '93; and as there were no + children, his brother Felipe Lorenzo succeeded to the titles. A younger + brother still is Bishop of Sardagna. Cardinal Udeschini is the uncle. + </p> + <p> + “That, dear child, empties my sack of information. But perhaps I have a + bigger sack, full of good advice, which I have not yet opened. And + perhaps, on the whole, I will not open it at all. Only, remember that in + yonder sentimental Italian lake country, in this summer weather, a + solitary young man's fancy might be much inclined to turn to thoughts of—folly; + and keep an eye on my friend Peter Marchdale.” + </p> + <p> + Our solitary young man brooded over Mrs. Winchfield's letter for a long + while. + </p> + <p> + “The daughter of a lord, and the widow of a duke, and the niece-in-law of + a cardinal,” he said. “And, as if that were not enough, a bigoted Roman + Catholic into the bargain.... And yet—and yet,” he went on, taking + heart a little, “as for her bigotry, to judge by her assiduity in + attending the village church, that factor, at least, thank goodness, would + appear to be static, rather than dynamic.” + </p> + <p> + After another longish interval of brooding, he sauntered down to the + riverside, through his fragrant garden, fragrant and fresh with the cool + odours of the night, and peered into the darkness, towards Castel + Ventirose. Here and there he could discern a gleam of yellow, where some + lighted window was not entirely hidden by the trees. Thousands and + thousands of insects were threading the silence with their shrill + insistent voices. The repeated wail, harsh, prolonged, eerie, of some + strange wild creature, bird or beast, came down from the forest of the + Gnisi. At his feet, on the troubled surface of the Aco, the stars, + reflected and distorted, shone like broken spearheads. + </p> + <p> + He lighted a cigarette, and stood there till he had consumed it. + </p> + <p> + “Heigh-ho!” he sighed at last, and turned back towards the villa. And + “Yes,” he concluded, “I must certainly keep an eye on our friend Peter + Marchdale.” + </p> + <p> + “But I 'm doubting it's a bit too late—troppo tardo,” he said to + Marietta, whom he found bringing hot water to his dressing-room. + </p> + <p> + “It is not very late,” said Marietta. “Only half-past ten.” + </p> + <p> + “She is a woman—therefore to be loved; she is a duchess—therefore + to be lost,” he explained, in his native tongue. + </p> + <p> + “Cosa.” questioned Marietta, in hers. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XI + </h2> + <p> + Beatrice and Emilia, strolling together in one of the flowery lanes up the + hillside, between ranks of the omnipresent poplar, and rose-bush hedges, + or crumbling pink-stuccoed walls that dripped with cyclamen and + snapdragon, met old Marietta descending, with a basket on her arm. + </p> + <p> + Marietta courtesied to the ground. + </p> + <p> + “How do you do, Marietta?” Beatrice asked. + </p> + <p> + “I can't complain, thank your Grandeur. I have the lumbago on and off + pretty constantly, and last week I broke a tooth. But I can't complain. + And your Highness?” + </p> + <p> + Marietta returned, with brisk aplomb. + </p> + <p> + Beatrice smiled. “Bene, grazie. Your new master—that young + Englishman,” she continued, “I hope you find him kind, and easy to do + for?” + </p> + <p> + “Kind—yes, Excellency. Also easy to do for. But—!” Marietta + shrugged her shoulders, and gave her head two meaning oscillations. + </p> + <p> + “Oh—?” wondered Beatrice, knitting puzzled brows. + </p> + <p> + “Very amiable, your Greatness; but simple, simple,” Marietta explained, + and tapped her brown old forehead with a brown forefinger. + </p> + <p> + “Really—?” wondered Beatrice. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Nobility,” said Marietta. “Gentle as a canarybird, but innocent, + innocent.” + </p> + <p> + “You astonish me,” Beatrice avowed. “How does he show it?” + </p> + <p> + “The questions he asks, Most Illustrious, the things he says.” + </p> + <p> + “For example—?” pursued Beatrice. + </p> + <p> + “For example, your Serenity—” Marietta paused, to search her memory.— + “Well, for one example, he calls roast veal a fowl. I give him roast veal + for his luncheon, and he says to me, 'Marietta, this fowl has no wings.' + But everyone knows, your Mercy, that veal is not a fowl. How should veal + have wings?” + </p> + <p> + “How indeed?” assented Beatrice, on a note of commiseration. And if the + corners of her mouth betrayed a tendency to curve upwards, she immediately + compelled them down. “But perhaps he does not speak Italian very well?” + she suggested. + </p> + <p> + “Mache, Potenza! Everyone speaks Italian,” cried Marietta. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed?” said Beatrice. + </p> + <p> + “Naturally, your Grace—all Christians,” Marietta declared. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I did n't know,” said Beatrice, meekly. “Well,” she acknowledged, + “since he speaks Italian, it is certainly unreasonable of him to call veal + a fowl.” + </p> + <p> + “But that, Magnificence,” Marietta went on, warming to her theme, “that is + only one of his simplicities. He asks me, 'Who puts the whitewash on Monte + Sfiorito? 'And when I tell him that it is not whitewash, but snow, he + says, 'How do you know?' But everyone knows that it is snow. Whitewash!” + </p> + <p> + The sprightly old woman gave her whole body a shake, for the better + exposition of her state of mind. And thereupon, from the interior of her + basket, issued a plaintive little squeal. + </p> + <p> + “What have you in your basket?” Beatrice asked. + </p> + <p> + “A little piglet, Nobility—un piccolo porcellino,” said Marietta. + </p> + <p> + And lifting the cover an inch or two, she displayed the anxious face of a + poor little sucking pig. + </p> + <p> + “E carino?” she demanded, whilst her eyes beamed with a pride that almost + seemed maternal. + </p> + <p> + “What on earth are you going to do with him?” Beatrice gasped. + </p> + <p> + The light of pride gave place to a light of resolution, in Marietta's + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Kill him, Mightiness,” was her grim response; “stuff him with almonds, + raisins, rosemary, and onions; cook him sweet and sour; and serve him, + garnished with rosettes of beet-root, for my Signorino's Sunday dinner.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh-h-h!” shuddered Beatrice and Emilia, in a breath; and they resumed + their walk. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XII + </h2> + <p> + Francois was dining—with an appearance of great fervour. + </p> + <p> + Peter sat on his rustic bench, by the riverside, and watched him, smoking + a cigarette the while. + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa di Santangiolo stood screened by a tree in the park of + Ventirose, and watched them both. + </p> + <p> + Francois wore a wide blue ribbon round his pink and chubby neck; and his + dinner consisted of a big bowlful of bread and milk. + </p> + <p> + Presently the Duchessa stepped forth from her ambush, into the sun, and + laughed. + </p> + <p> + “What a sweetly pretty scene,” she said. “Pastoral—idyllic—it + reminds one of Theocritus—it reminds one of Watteau.” + </p> + <p> + Peter threw his cigarette into the river, and made an obeisance. + </p> + <p> + “I am very glad you feel the charm of it,” he responded. “May I be + permitted to present Master Francois Vllon?” + </p> + <p> + “We have met before,” said the Duchessa, graciously smiling upon Francois, + and inclining her head. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I did n't know,” said Peter, apologetic. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said the Duchessa, “and in rather tragical circumstances. But at + that time he was anonymous. Why—if you won't think my curiosity + impertinent—why Francois Villon?” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” said Peter. “He made such a tremendous outcry when he was + condemned to death, for one thing. You should have heard him. He has a + voice! Then, for another, he takes such a passionate interest in his meat + and drink. And then, if you come to that, I really had n't the heart to + call him Pauvre Lelian.” + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa raised amused eyebrows. + </p> + <p> + “You felt that Pauvre Lelian was the only alternative?” + </p> + <p> + “I had in mind a remark of Pauvre Lilian's friend and confrere, the + cryptic Stephane,” Peter answered. “You will remember it. 'L'ame d'un + poete dans le corps d'un—' I—I forget the last word,” he + faltered. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we say 'little pig'?” suggested the Duchessa. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, please don't,” cried Peter, hastily, with a gesture of supplication. + “Don't say 'pig' in his presence. You'll wound his feelings.” + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa laughed. + </p> + <p> + “I knew he was condemned to death,” she owned. “Indeed, it was in his + condemned cell that I made his acquaintance. Your Marietta Cignolesi + introduced us. Her air was so inexorable, I 'm a good deal surprised to + see him alive to-day. There was some question of a stuffing of rosemary + and onions.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, I see,” said Peter, “I see that you're familiar with the whole + disgraceful story. Yes, Marietta, the unspeakable old Tartar, was all for + stuffing him with rosemary and onions. But he could not bring himself to + share her point of view. He screamed his protest, like a man, in twenty + different octaves. You really should have heard him. His voice is of a + compass, of a timbre, of an expressiveness! Passive endurance, I fear, is + not his forte. For the sake of peace and silence, I intervened, + interceded. She had her knife at his very throat. I was not an instant too + soon. So, of course, I 've had to adopt him.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, poor man,” sympathised the Duchessa. “It's a recognised + principle that if you save a fellow's life, you 're bound to him for the + rest of yours. But—but won't you find him rather a burdensome + responsibility when he's grownup?” she reflected. + </p> + <p> + “—Que voulez-vous?” reflected Peter. “Burdensome responsibilities + are the appointed accompaniments of man's pilgrimage. Why not Francois + Villon, as well as another? And besides, as the world is at present + organised, a member of the class vulgarly styled 'the rich' can generally + manage to shift his responsibilities, when they become too irksome, upon + the backs of the poor. For example—Marietta! Marietta!” he called, + raising his voice a little, and clapping his hands. + </p> + <p> + Marietta came. When she had made her courtesy to the Duchessa, and a + polite enquiry as to her Excellency's health, Peter said, with an + indicative nod of the head, “Will you be so good as to remove my + responsibility?” + </p> + <p> + “Il porcellino?” questioned Marietta. + </p> + <p> + “Ang,” said he. + </p> + <p> + And when Marietta had borne Francois, struggling and squealing in her + arms, from the foreground— + </p> + <p> + “There—you see how it is done,” he remarked. + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa laughed. + </p> + <p> + “An object-lesson,” she agreed. “An object-lesson in—might n't one + call it the science of Applied Cynicism?” + </p> + <p> + “Science!” Peter plaintively repudiated the word. “No, no. I was rather + flattering myself it was an art.” + </p> + <p> + “Apropos of art—” said the Duchessa. + </p> + <p> + She came down two or three steps nearer to the brink of the river. She + produced from behind her back a hand that she had kept there, and held up + for Peter's inspection a grey-and-gold bound book. + </p> + <p> + “Apropos of art, I've been reading a novel. Do you know it?” + </p> + <p> + Peter glanced at the grey-and-gold binding—and dissembled the + emotion that suddenly swelled big in his heart. + </p> + <p> + He screwed his eyeglass into his eye, and gave an intent look. + </p> + <p> + “I can't make out the title,” he temporised, shaking his head, and letting + his eyeglass drop. + </p> + <p> + On the whole, it was very well acted; and I hope the occult little smile + that played about the Duchessa's lips was a smile of appreciation. + </p> + <p> + “It has a highly appropriate title,” she said. “It is called 'A Man of + Words,' by an author I've never happened to hear of before, named Felix + Wildmay.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes. How very odd,” said Peter. “By a curious chance, I know it very + well. But I 'm surprised to discover that you do. How on earth did it fall + into your hands?” + </p> + <p> + “Why on earth shouldn't it?” wondered she. “Novels are intended to fall + into people's hands, are they not?” + </p> + <p> + “I believe so,” he assented. “But intentions, in this vale of tears, are + not always realised, are they? Anyhow, 'A Man of Words' is not like other + novels. It's peculiar.” + </p> + <p> + “Peculiar—?” she repeated. + </p> + <p> + “Of a peculiar, of an unparalleled obscurity,” he explained. “There has + been no failure approaching it since What's-his-name invented printing. I + hadn't supposed that seven copies of it were in circulation.” + </p> + <p> + “Really?” said the Duchessa. “A correspondent of mine in London + recommended it. But—in view of its unparalleled obscurity is n't it + almost equally a matter for surprise that you should know it?” + </p> + <p> + “It would be, sure enough,” consented Peter, “if it weren't that I just + happen also to know the author.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—? You know the author?” cried the Duchessa, with animation. + </p> + <p> + “Comme ma poche,” said Peter. “We were boys together.” + </p> + <p> + “Really?” said she. “What a coincidence.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “And—and his book?” Her eyebrows went up, interrogative. “I expect, + as you know the man, you think rather poorly of it?” + </p> + <p> + “On the contrary, in the teeth of verisimilitude, I think extremely well + of it,” he answered firmly. “I admire it immensely. I think it's an + altogether ripping little book. I think it's one of the nicest little + books I've read for ages. + </p> + <p> + “How funny,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “Why funny?” asked he. + </p> + <p> + “It's so unlikely that one should seem a genius to one's old familiar + friends.” + </p> + <p> + “Did I say he seemed a genius to me? I misled you. He does n't. In fact, + he very frequently seems—but, for Charity's sake, I 'd best forbear + to tell. However, I admire his book. And—to be entirely frank—it's + a constant source of astonishment to me that he should ever have been able + to do anything one-tenth so good.” + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa smiled pensively. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well,” she mused, “we must assume that he has happy moments—or, + perhaps, two soul-sides, one to face the world with, one to show his + manuscripts when he's writing. You hint a fault, and hesitate dislike. + That, indeed, is only natural, on the part of an old friend. But you pique + my interest. What is the trouble with him? Is—is he conceited, for + example?” + </p> + <p> + “The trouble with him?” Peter pondered. “Oh, it would be too long and too + sad a story. Should I anatomise him to you as he is, I must blush and + weep, and you must look pale and wonder. He has pretty nearly every + weakness, not to mention vices, that flesh is heir to. But as for + conceit... let me see. He concurs in my own high opinion of his work, I + believe; but I don't know whether, as literary men go, it would be fair to + call him conceited. He belongs, at any rate, to the comparatively modest + minority who do not secretly fancy that Shakespeare has come back to + life.” + </p> + <p> + “That Shakespeare has come back to life!” marvelled the Duchessa. “Do you + mean to say that most literary men fancy that?” + </p> + <p> + “I think perhaps I am acquainted with three who don't,” Peter replied; + “but one of them merely wears his rue with a difference. He fancies that + it's Goethe.” + </p> + <p> + “How extravagantly—how exquisitely droll!” she laughed. + </p> + <p> + “I confess, it struck me so, until I got accustomed to it,” said he, + “until I learned that it was one of the commonplaces, one of the normal + attributes of the literary temperament. It's as much to be taken for + granted, when you meet an author, as the tail is to be taken for granted, + when you meet a cat.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm vastly your debtor for the information—it will stand me in + stead with the next author who comes my way. But, in that case, your + friend Mr. Felix Wildmay will be, as it were, a sort of Manx cat?” was her + smiling deduction. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, if you like, in that particular, a sort of Manx cat,” acquiesced + Peter, with a laugh. + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa laughed too; and then there was a little pause. + </p> + <p> + Overhead, never so light a breeze lisped never so faintly in the + tree-tops; here and there bird-notes fell, liquid, desultory, like drops + of rain after a shower; and constantly one heard the cool music of the + river. The sun, filtering through worlds and worlds of leaves, shed upon + everything a green-gold penumbra. The air, warm and still, was sweet with + garden-scents. The lake, according to its habit at this hour of the + afternoon, had drawn a grey veil over its face, a thin grey veil, through + which its sapphire-blue shone furtively. Far away, in the summer haze, + Monte Sfiorito seemed a mere dim spectre of itself—a stranger might + easily have mistaken it for a vague mass of cloud floating above the + horizon. + </p> + <p> + “Are you aware that it 's a singularly lovely afternoon?” the Duchessa + asked, by and by. + </p> + <p> + “I have a hundred reasons for thinking it so,” Peter hazarded, with the + least perceptible approach to a meaning bow. + </p> + <p> + In the Duchessa's face, perhaps, there flickered, for half-a-second, the + least perceptible light, as of a comprehending and unresentful smile. But + she went on, with fine aloofness. + </p> + <p> + “I rather envy you your river, you know. We are too far from it at the + castle. Is n't the sound, the murmur, of it delicious? And its colour—how + does it come by such a subtle colour? Is it green? Is it blue? And the + diamonds on its surface—see how they glitter. You know, of course,” + she questioned, “who the owner is of those unequalled gems?” + </p> + <p> + “Surely,” Peter answered, “the lady paramount of this demesne?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no.” She shook her head, smiling. “Undine. They are Undine's—her + necklaces and tiaras. No mortal woman's jewel-case contains anything half + so brilliant. But look at them—look at the long chains of them—how + they float for a minute—and are then drawn down. They are Undine's—Undine + and her companions are sporting with them just below the surface. A moment + ago I caught a glimpse of a white arm.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Peter, nodding thoughtfully, “that's what it is to have 'the + seeing eye.' But I'm grieved to hear of Undine in such a wanton mood. I + had hoped she would still be weeping her unhappy love-affair.” + </p> + <p> + “What! with that horrid, stolid German—Hildebrandt, was his name?” + cried the Duchessa. “Not she! Long ago, I'm glad to say, she learned to + laugh at that, as a mere caprice of her immaturity. However, this is a + digression. I want to return to our 'Man of Words.' Tell me—what is + the quality you especially like in it?” + </p> + <p> + “I like its every quality,” Peter affirmed, unblushing. “Its style, its + finish, its concentration; its wit, humour, sentiment; its texture, tone, + atmosphere; its scenes, its subject; the paper it's printed on, the type, + the binding. But above all, I like its heroine. I think Pauline de + Fleuvieres the pearl of human women—the cleverest, the loveliest, + the most desirable, the most exasperating. And also the most feminine. I + can't think of her at all as a mere fiction, a mere shadow on paper. I + think of her as a living, breathing, flesh-and-blood woman, whom I have + actually known. I can see her before me now—I can see her eyes, full + of mystery and mischief—I can see her exquisite little teeth, as she + smiles—I can see her hair, her hands—I can almost catch the + perfume of her garments. I 'm utterly infatuated with her—I could + commit a hundred follies for her.” + </p> + <p> + “Mercy!” exclaimed the Duchessa. “You are enthusiastic.” + </p> + <p> + “The book's admirers are so few, they must endeavour to make up in + enthusiasm what they lack in numbers,” he submitted. + </p> + <p> + “But—at that rate—why are they so few?” she puzzled. “If the + book is all you think it, how do you account for its unpopularity?” + </p> + <p> + “It could never conceivably be anything but unpopular,” said he. “It has + the fatal gift of beauty.” + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa laughed surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Is beauty a fatal gift—in works of art?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—in England,” he declared. + </p> + <p> + “In England? Why especially in England?” + </p> + <p> + “In English-speaking—in Anglo-Saxon lands, if you prefer. The + Anglo-Saxon public is beauty-blind. They have fifty religions—only + one sauce—and no sense of beauty whatsoever. They can see the nose + on one's face—the mote in their neighbour's eye; they can see when a + bargain is good, when a war will be expedient. But the one thing they can + never see is beauty. And when, by some rare chance, you catch them in the + act of admiring a beautiful object, it will never be for its beauty—it + will be in spite of its beauty for some other, some extra-aesthetic + interest it possesses—some topical or historical interest. Beauty is + necessarily detached from all that is topical or historical, or + documentary or actual. It is also necessarily an effect of fine shades, + delicate values, vanishing distinctions, of evasiveness, inconsequence, + suggestion. It is also absolute, unrelated—it is positive or + negative or superlative—it is never comparative. Well, the + Anglo-Saxon public is totally insensible to such things. They can no more + feel them, than a blind worm can feel the colours of the rainbow.” + </p> + <p> + She laughed again, and regarded him with an air of humorous meditation. + </p> + <p> + “And that accounts for the unsuccess of 'A Man of Words'?” + </p> + <p> + “You might as well offer Francois Villon a banquet of Orient pearls.” + </p> + <p> + “You are bitterly hard on the Anglo-Saxon public.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no,” he disclaimed, “not hard—but just. I wish them all sorts + of prosperity, with a little more taste.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but surely,” she caught him up, “if their taste were greater, their + prosperity would be less?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know,” said he. “The Greeks were fairly prosperous, were n't + they? And the Venetians? And the French are not yet quite bankrupt.” + </p> + <p> + Still again she laughed—always with that little air of humorous + meditation. + </p> + <p> + “You—you don't exactly overwhelm one with compliments,” she + observed. + </p> + <p> + He looked alarm, anxiety. + </p> + <p> + “Don't I? What have I neglected?” he cried. + </p> + <p> + “You 've never once evinced the slightest curiosity to learn what I think + of the book in question.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'm sure you like it,” he rejoined hardily. “You have 'the seeing + eye.'” + </p> + <p> + “And yet I'm just a humble member of the Anglo-Saxon public.” + </p> + <p> + “No—you're a distinguished member of the Anglo-Saxon 'remnant.' + Thank heaven, there's a remnant, a little scattered remnant. I'm perfectly + sure you like 'A Man of Words.'” + </p> + <p> + “'Like it' is a proposition so general. Perhaps I am burning to tell + someone what I think of it in detail.” + </p> + <p> + She smiled into his eyes, a trifle oddly. + </p> + <p> + “If you are, then I know someone who is burning to hear you,” he avowed. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, I think—I think...” she began, on a note of + deliberation. “But I 'm afraid, just now, it would take too long to + formulate my thought. Perhaps I'll try another day.” + </p> + <p> + She gave him a derisory little nod—and in a minute was well up the + lawn, towards the castle. + </p> + <p> + Peter glared after her, his fists clenched, teeth set. + </p> + <p> + “You fiend!” he muttered. Then, turning savagely upon himself, “You + duffer!” + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, that evening, he said to Marietta, “The plot thickens. We've + advanced a step. We've reached what the vulgar call a psychological + moment. She's seen my Portrait of a Lady. But as yet, if you can believe + me, she doesn't dream who painted it; and she has n't recognised the + subject. As if one were to face one's image in the glass, and take it for + another's! 3—I 'll—I 'll double your wages—if you will + induce events to hurry up.” + </p> + <p> + However, as he spoke English, Marietta was in no position to profit by his + offer. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIII + </h2> + <p> + Peter was walking in the high-road, on the other side of the river—the + great high-road that leads from Bergamo to Milan. + </p> + <p> + It was late in the afternoon, and already, in the west, the sky was + beginning to put on some of its sunset splendours. In the east, framed to + Peter's vision by parallel lines of poplars, it hung like a curtain of + dark-blue velvet. + </p> + <p> + Peter sat on the grass, by the roadside, in the shadow of a hedge—a + rose-bush hedge, of course—and lighted a cigarette. + </p> + <p> + Far down the long white road, against the blue velvet sky, between the + poplars, two little spots of black, two small human figures, were moving + towards him. + </p> + <p> + Half absently, he let his eyes accompany them. + </p> + <p> + As they came nearer, they defined themselves as a boy and a girl. Nearer + still, he saw that they were ragged and dusty and barefoot. + </p> + <p> + The boy had three or four gaudy-hued wicker baskets slung over his + shoulder. + </p> + <p> + Vaguely, tacitly, Peter supposed that they would be the children of some + of the peasants of the countryside, on their way home from the village. + </p> + <p> + As they arrived abreast of him, they paid him the usual peasants' salute. + The boy lifted a tattered felt hat from his head, the girl bobbed a + courtesy, and “Buona sera, Eccellenza,” they said in concert, without, + however, pausing in their march. + </p> + <p> + Peter put his hand in his pocket. + </p> + <p> + “Here, little girl,” he called. + </p> + <p> + The little girl glanced at him, doubting. + </p> + <p> + “Come here,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Her face a question, she came up to him; and he gave her a few coppers. + </p> + <p> + “To buy sweetmeats,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “A thousand thanks; Excellency,” said she, bobbing another courtesy. + </p> + <p> + “A thousand thanks, Excellency,” said the boy, from his distance, again + lifting his rag of a hat. + </p> + <p> + And they trudged on. + </p> + <p> + But Peter looked after them—and his heart smote him. They were + clearly of the poorest of the poor. He thought of Hansel and Gretel. Why + had he given them so little? He called to them to stop. + </p> + <p> + The little girl came running back. + </p> + <p> + Peter rose to meet her. + </p> + <p> + “You may as well buy some ribbons too,” he said, and gave her a couple of + lire. + </p> + <p> + She looked at the money with surprise—even with an appearance of + hesitation. Plainly, it was a sum, in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “It's all right. Now run along,” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + “A thousand thanks, Excellency,” said she, with a third courtesy, and + rejoined her brother.... + </p> + <p> + “Where are they going?” asked a voice. + </p> + <p> + Peter faced about. + </p> + <p> + There stood the Duchessa, in a bicycling costume, her bicycle beside her. + Her bicycling costume was of blue serge, and she wore a jaunty sailor-hat + with a blue ribbon. Peter (in spite of the commotion in his breast) was + able to remember that this was the first time he had seen her in anything + but white. + </p> + <p> + Her attention was all upon the children, whom he, perhaps, had more or + less banished to Cracklimbo. + </p> + <p> + “Where are they going?” she repeated, trouble in her voice and in her + eyes. + </p> + <p> + Peter collected himself. + </p> + <p> + “The children? I don't know—I didn't ask. Home, aren't they?” + </p> + <p> + “Home? Oh, no. They don't live hereabouts,” she said. “I know all the poor + of this neighbourhood.—Ohe there! Children! Children!” she cried. + </p> + <p> + But they were quite a hundred yards away, and did not hear. + </p> + <p> + “Do you wish them to come back?” asked Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—of course,” she answered, with a shade of impatience. + </p> + <p> + He put his fingers to his lips (you know the schoolboy accomplishment), + and gave a long whistle. + </p> + <p> + That the children did hear. + </p> + <p> + They halted, and turned round, looking, enquiring. + </p> + <p> + “Come back—come back!” called the Duchessa, raising her hand, and + beckoning. + </p> + <p> + They came back. + </p> + <p> + “The pathetic little imps,” she murmured while they were on the way. + </p> + <p> + The boy was a sturdy, square-built fellow, of twelve, thirteen, with a + shock of brown hair, brown cheeks, and sunny brown eyes; with a precocious + air of doggedness, of responsibility. He wore an old tail-coat, the + tail-coat of a man, ragged, discoloured, falling to his ankles. + </p> + <p> + The girl was ten or eleven, pale, pinched; hungry, weary, and sorry + looking. Her hair too had been brown, upon a time; but now it was faded to + something near the tint of ashes, and had almost the effect of being grey. + Her pale little forehead was crossed by thin wrinkles, lines of pain, of + worry, like an old woman's. + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa, pushing her bicycle, and followed by Peter, moved down the + road, to meet them. Peter had never been so near to her before—at + moments her arm all but brushed his sleeve. I think he blessed the + children. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going?” the Duchessa asked, softly, smiling into the girl's + sad little face. + </p> + <p> + The girl had shown no fear of Peter; but apparently she was somewhat + frightened by this grand lady. The toes of her bare feet worked nervously + in the dust. She hung her head shyly, and eyed her brother. + </p> + <p> + But the brother, removing his hat, with the bow of an Italian peasant—and + that is to say, the bow of a courtier—spoke up bravely. + </p> + <p> + “To Turin, Nobility.” + </p> + <p> + He said it in a perfectly matter-of-fact way, quite as he might have said, + “To the next farm-house.” + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa, however, had not bargained for an answer of this measure. + Startled, doubting her ears perhaps, “To—Turin—!” she + exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Excellency,” said the boy. + </p> + <p> + “But—but Turin—Turin is hundreds of kilometres from here,” she + said, in a kind of gasp. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Excellency,” said the boy. + </p> + <p> + “You are going to Turin—you two children—walking—like + that!” she persisted. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Excellency.” + </p> + <p> + “But—but it will take you a month.” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon, noble lady,” said the boy. “With your Excellency's permission, we + were told it should take fifteen days.” + </p> + <p> + “Where do you come from?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “From Bergamo, Excellency.” + </p> + <p> + “When did you leave Bergamo?” + </p> + <p> + “Yesterday morning, Excellency.” + </p> + <p> + “The little girl is your sister?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Excellency.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you a mother and father?” + </p> + <p> + “A father, Excellency. The mother is dead.” Each of the children made the + Sign of the Cross; and Peter was somewhat surprised, no doubt, to see the + Duchessa do likewise. He had yet to learn the beautiful custom of that + pious Lombard land, whereby, when the Dead are mentioned, you make the + Sign of the Cross, and, pausing reverently for a moment, say in silence + the traditional prayer of the Church: + </p> + <p> + “May their souls and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the + Mercy of God, rest in peace.” + </p> + <p> + “And where is your father?” the Duchessa asked. + </p> + <p> + “In Turin, Excellency,” answered the boy. “He is a glass-blower. After the + strike at Bergamo, he went to Turin to seek work. Now he has found it. So + he has sent for us to come to him.” + </p> + <p> + “And you two children—alone—are going to walk all the way to + Turin!” She could not get over the pitiful wonder of it. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Excellency.” + </p> + <p> + “The heart-rending little waifs,” she said, in English, with something + like a sob. Then, in Italian, “But—but how do you live by the way?” + </p> + <p> + The boy touched his shoulder-load of baskets. + </p> + <p> + “We sell these, Excellency.” + </p> + <p> + “What is their price?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Thirty soldi, Excellency.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you sold many since you started?” + </p> + <p> + The boy looked away; and now it was his turn to hang his head, and to let + his toes work nervously in the dust. + </p> + <p> + “Haven't you sold any?” she exclaimed, drawing her conclusions. + </p> + <p> + “No, Excellency. The people would not buy,” he owned, in a dull voice, + keeping his eyes down. + </p> + <p> + “Poverino,” she murmured. “Where are you going to sleep to-night?” + </p> + <p> + “In a house, Excellency,” said he. + </p> + <p> + But that seemed to strike the Duchessa as somewhat vague. + </p> + <p> + “In what house?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “I do not know, Excellency,” he confessed. “We will find a house.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you like to come back with me, and sleep at my house?” + </p> + <p> + The boy and girl looked at each other, taking mute counsel. + </p> + <p> + Then, “Pardon, noble lady—with your Excellency's permission, is it + far?” the boy questioned. + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid it is not very near—three or four kilometres.” + </p> + <p> + Again the children looked at each other, conferring. Afterwards, the boy + shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “A thousand thanks, Excellency. With your permission, we must not turn + back. We must walk on till later. At night we will find a house.” + </p> + <p> + “They are too proud to own that their house will be a hedge,” she said to + Peter, again in English. “Aren't you hungry?” she asked the children. + </p> + <p> + “No, Excellency. We had bread in the village, below there,” answered the + boy. + </p> + <p> + “You will not come home with me, and have a good dinner, and a good + night's sleep?” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon, Excellency. With your favour, the father would not wish us to + turn back.” + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa looked at the little girl. + </p> + <p> + The little girl wore a medal of the Immaculate Conception on a ribbon + round her neck—a forlorn blue ribbon, soiled and frayed. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you have a holy medal,” said the Duchessa. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, noble lady,” said the girl, dropping a courtesy, and lifting up her + sad little weazened face. + </p> + <p> + “She has been saying her prayers all along the road,” the boy volunteered. + </p> + <p> + “That is right,” approved the Duchessa. “You have not made your First + Communion yet, have you?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Excellency,” said the girl. “I shall make it next year.” + </p> + <p> + “And you?” the Duchessa asked the boy. + </p> + <p> + “I made mine at Corpus Christi,” said the boy, with a touch of pride. + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa turned to Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know, I haven't a penny in my pocket. I have come out without my + purse.” + </p> + <p> + “How much ought one to give them?” Peter asked. + </p> + <p> + “Of course, there is the fear that they might be robbed,” she reflected. + “If one should give them a note of any value, they would have to change + it; and they would probably be robbed. What to do?” + </p> + <p> + “I will speak to the boy,” said Peter. “Would you like to go to Turin by + train?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + The boy and girl looked at each other. “Yes, Excellency,” said the boy. + </p> + <p> + “But if I give you money for your fare, will you know how to take care of + it—how to prevent people from robbing you?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, Excellency.” + </p> + <p> + “You could take the train this evening, at Venzona, about two kilometres + from here, in the direction you are walking. In an hour or two you would + arrive at Milan; there you would change into the train for Turin. You + would be at Turin to-morrow morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Excellency.” + </p> + <p> + “But if I give you money, you will not let people rob you? If I give you a + hundred lire?” + </p> + <p> + The boy drew back, stared, as if frightened. + </p> + <p> + “A hundred lire—?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + The boy looked at his sister. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon, Nobility,” he said. “With your condescension, does it cost a + hundred lire to go to Turin by train?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no. I think it costs eight or ten.” + </p> + <p> + Again the boy looked at his sister. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon, Nobility. With your Excellency's permission, we should not desire + a hundred lire then,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Peter and the Duchessa were not altogether to be blamed, I hope, if they + exchanged the merest hint of a smile. + </p> + <p> + “Well, if I should give you fifty?” Peter asked. + </p> + <p> + “Fifty lire, Excellency?” + </p> + <p> + Peter nodded. + </p> + <p> + Still again the boy sought counsel of his sister, with his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Excellency,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “You are sure you will be able to take care of it—you will not let + people rob you,” the Duchessa put in, anxious. “They will wish to rob you. + If you go to sleep in the train, they will try to pick your pocket.” + </p> + <p> + “I will hide it, noble lady. No one shall rob me. If I go to sleep in the + train, I will sit on it, and my sister will watch. If she goes to sleep, I + will watch,” the boy promised confidently. + </p> + <p> + “You must give it to him in the smallest change you can possibly scrape + together,” she advised Peter. + </p> + <p> + And with one-lira, two-lira, ten-lira notes, and with a little silver and + copper, he made up the amount. + </p> + <p> + “A thousand thanks, Excellency,” said the boy, with a bow that was + magnificent; and he proceeded to distribute the money between various + obscure pockets. + </p> + <p> + “A thousand thanks, Excellency,” said the girl, with a courtesy. + </p> + <p> + “Addio, a buon' viaggio,” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Addio, Eccellenze,” said the boy. + </p> + <p> + “Addio, Eccellenze,” said the girl. + </p> + <p> + But the Duchessa impulsively stooped down, and kissed the girl on her poor + little wrinkled brow. And when she stood up, Peter saw that her eyes were + wet. + </p> + <p> + The children moved off. They moved off, whispering together, and + gesticulating, after the manner of their race: discussing something. + Presently they stopped; and the boy came running back, while his sister + waited. + </p> + <p> + He doffed his hat, and said, “A thousand pardons, Excellency-” + </p> + <p> + “Yes? What is it?” Peter asked. + </p> + <p> + “With your Excellency's favour—is it obligatory that we should take + the train?” + </p> + <p> + “Obligatory?” puzzled Peter. “How do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “If it is not obligatory, we would prefer, with the permission of your + Excellency, to save the money.” + </p> + <p> + “But—but then you will have to walk!” cried Peter. + </p> + <p> + “But if it is not obligatory to take the train, we would pray your + Excellency's permission to save the money. We should like to save the + money, to give it to the father. The father is very poor. Fifty lire is so + much.” + </p> + <p> + This time it was Peter who looked for counsel to the Duchessa. + </p> + <p> + Her eyes, still bright with tears, responded, “Let them do as they will.” + </p> + <p> + “No, it is not obligatory—it is only recommended,” he said to the + boy, with a smile that he could n't help. “Do as you will. But if I were + you, I should spare my poor little feet.” + </p> + <p> + “Mille grazie, Eccellenze,” the boy said, with a final sweep of his + tattered hat. He ran back to his sister; and next moment they were walking + resolutely on, westward, “into the great red light.” + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa and Peter were silent for a while, looking after them. + </p> + <p> + They dwindled to dots in the distance, and then, where the road turned, + disappeared. + </p> + <p> + At last the Duchessa spoke—but almost as if speaking to herself. + </p> + <p> + “There, Felix Wildmay, you writer of tales, is a subject made to your + hand,” she said. + </p> + <p> + We may guess whether Peter was startled. Was it possible that she had + found him out? A sound, confused, embarrassed, something composite, + between an oh and ayes, seemed to expire in his throat. + </p> + <p> + But the Duchessa did n't appear to heed it. + </p> + <p> + “Don't you think it would be a touching episode for your friend to write a + story round?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + We may guess whether he was relieved. + </p> + <p> + “Oh—oh, yes,” he agreed, with the precipitancy of a man who, in his + relief, would agree to anything. + </p> + <p> + “Have you ever seen such courage?” she went on. “The wonderful babies! + Fancy fifteen days, fifteen days and nights, alone, unprotected, on the + highway, those poor little atoms! Down in their hearts they are really + filled with terror. Who would n't be, with such a journey before him? But + how finely they concealed it, mastered it! Oh, I hope they won't be + robbed. God help them—God help them!” + </p> + <p> + “God help them, indeed,” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + “And the little girl, with her medal of the Immaculate Conception. The + father, after all, can hardly be the brute one might suspect, since he has + given them a religious education. Oh, I am sure, I am sure, it was the + Blessed Virgin herself who sent us across their path, in answer to that + poor little creature's prayers.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Peter, ambiguously perhaps. But he liked the way in which she + united him to herself in the pronoun. + </p> + <p> + “Which, of course,” she added, smiling gravely into his eyes, “seems the + height of absurdity to you?” + </p> + <p> + “Why should it seem the height of absurdity to me?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “You are a Protestant, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose so. But what of that? At all events, I believe there are more + things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in the usual philosophies. + And I see no reason why it should not have been the Blessed Virgin who + sent us across their path.” + </p> + <p> + “What would your Protestant pastors and masters do, if they heard you? + Isn't that what they call Popish superstition?” + </p> + <p> + “I daresay. But I'm not sure that there's any such thing as superstition. + Superstition, in its essence, is merely a recognition of the truth that in + a universe of mysteries and contradictions, like ours, nothing conceivable + or inconceivable is impossible.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, no,” she objected. “Superstition is the belief in something that + is ugly and bad and unmeaning. That is the difference between superstition + and religion. Religion is the belief in something that is beautiful and + good and significant—something that throws light into the dark + places of life—that helps us to see and to live.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Peter, “I admit the distinction.” After a little suspension, + “I thought,” he questioned, “that all Catholics were required to go to + Mass on Sunday?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course—so they are,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “But—but you—” he began. + </p> + <p> + “I hear Mass not on Sunday only—I hear it every morning of my life.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh? Indeed? I beg your pardon,” he stumbled. “I—one—one never + sees you at the village church.” + </p> + <p> + “No. We have a chapel and a chaplain at the castle.” + </p> + <p> + She mounted her bicycle. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye,” she said, and lightly rode away. + </p> + <p> + “So-ho! Her bigotry is not such a negligible quantity, after all,” Peter + concluded. + </p> + <p> + “But what,” he demanded of Marietta, as she ministered to his wants at + dinner, “what does one barrier more or less matter, when people are + already divided by a gulf that never can be traversed? You see that + river?” He pointed through his open window to the Aco. “It is a symbol. + She stands on one side of it, I stand on the other, and we exchange little + jokes. But the river is always there, flowing between us, separating us. + She is the daughter of a lord, and the widow of a duke, and the fairest of + her sex, and a millionaire, and a Roman Catholic. What am I? Oh, I don't + deny I 'm clever. But for the rest? ... My dear Marietta, I am simply, in + one word, the victim of a misplaced attachment.” + </p> + <p> + “Non capisco Francese,” said Marietta. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIV + </h2> + <p> + And after that, for I forget how many days, Peter and the Duchessa did not + meet; and so he sank low and lower in his mind. + </p> + <p> + Nothing that can befall us, optimists aver, is without its value; and + this, I have heard, is especially true if we happen to be literary men. + All is grist that comes to a writer's mill. + </p> + <p> + By his present experience, accordingly, Peter learned—and in the + regretful prose of some future masterpiece will perhaps be enabled to + remember—how exceeding great is the impatience of the lovesick, with + what febrile vehemence the smitten heart can burn, and to what improbable + lengths hours and minutes can on occasions stretch themselves. + </p> + <p> + He tried many methods of distraction. + </p> + <p> + There was always the panorama of his valley—the dark-blue lake, pale + Monte Sfiorito, the frowning Gnisi, the smiling uplands westward. There + were always the sky, the clouds, the clear sunshine, the crisp-etched + shadows; and in the afternoon there was always the wondrous opalescent + haze of August, filling every distance. There was always his garden—there + were the great trees, with the light sifting through high spaces of + feathery green; there were the flowers, the birds, the bees, the + butterflies, with their colour, and their fragrance, and their music; + there was his tinkling fountain, in its nimbus of prismatic spray; there + was the swift, symbolic Aco. And then, at a half-hour's walk, there was + the pretty pink-stuccoed village, with its hill-top church, its odd little + shrines, its grim-grotesque ossuary, its faded frescoed house-fronts, its + busy, vociferous, out-of-door Italian life:—the cobbler tapping in + his stall; women gossiping at their toilets; children sprawling in the + dirt, chasing each other, shouting; men drinking, playing mora, + quarrelling, laughing, singing, twanging mandolines, at the tables under + the withered bush of the wine-shop; and two or three more pensive citizens + swinging their legs from the parapet of the bridge, and angling for fish + that never bit, in the impetuous stream below. + </p> + <p> + Peter looked at these things; and, it is to be presumed, he saw them. But, + for all the joy they gave him, he, this cultivator of the sense of beauty, + might have been the basest unit of his own purblind Anglo-Saxon public. + They were the background for an absent figure. They were the + stage-accessories of a drama whose action was arrested. They were an empty + theatre. + </p> + <p> + He tried to read. He had brought a trunkful of books to Villa Floriano; + but that book had been left behind which could fix his interest now. + </p> + <p> + He tried to write—and wondered, in a kind of daze, that any man + should ever have felt the faintest ambition to do a thing so thankless and + so futile. + </p> + <p> + “I shall never write again. Writing,” he generalised, and possibly not + without some reason, “when it is n't the sordidest of trades, is a mere + fatuous assertion of one's egotism. Breaking stones in the street were a + nobler occupation; weaving ropes of sand were better sport. The only + things that are worth writing are inexpressible, and can't be written. The + only things that can be written are obvious and worthless—the very + crackling of thorns under a pot. Oh, why does n't she turn up?” + </p> + <p> + And the worst of it was that at any moment, for aught he knew, she might + turn up. That was the worst of it, and the best. It kept hope alive, only + to torture hope. It encouraged him to wait, to watch, to expect; to linger + in his garden, gazing hungry-eyed up the lawns of Ventirose, striving to + pierce the foliage that embowered the castle; to wander the country + round-about, scanning every vista, scrutinising every shape and shadow, a + tweed-clad Gastibelza. At any moment, indeed, she might turn up; but the + days passed—the hypocritic days—and she did not turn up. + </p> + <p> + Marietta, the kind soul, noticing his despondency, sought in divers + artless ways to cheer him. + </p> + <p> + One evening she burst into his sitting-room with the effect of a small + explosion, excitement in every line of her brown old face and wiry little + figure. + </p> + <p> + “The fireflies! The fireflies, Signorino!” she cried, with strenuous + gestures. + </p> + <p> + “What fireflies?” asked he, with phlegm. + </p> + <p> + “It is the feast of St. Dominic. The fireflies have arrived. They arrive + every year on the feast of St. Dominic. They are the beads of his rosary. + They are St. Dominic's Aves. There are thousands of them. Come, Signorino, + Come and see.” + </p> + <p> + Her black eyes snapped. She waved her hands urgently towards the window. + </p> + <p> + Peter languidly got up, languidly crossed the room, looked out. + </p> + <p> + There were, in truth, thousands of them, thousands and thousands of tiny + primrose flames, circling, fluttering, rising, sinking, in the purple + blackness of the night, like snowflakes in a wind, palpitating like hearts + of living gold—Jove descending upon Danae invisible. + </p> + <p> + “Son carin', eh?” cried eager Marietta. + </p> + <p> + “Hum—yes—pretty enough,” he grudgingly acknowledged. “But even + so?” the ingrate added, as he turned away, and let himself drop back into + his lounging-chair. “My dear good woman, no amount of prettiness can + disguise the fundamental banality of things. Your fireflies—St. + Dominic's beads, if you like—and, apropos of that, do you know what + they call them in America?—they call them lightning-bugs, if you can + believe me—remark the difference between southern euphuism and + western bluntness—your fireflies are pretty enough, I grant. But + they are tinsel pasted on the Desert of Sahara. They are condiments added + to a dinner of dust and ashes. Life, trick it out as you will, is just an + incubus—is just the Old Man of the Sea. Language fails me to convey + to you any notion how heavily he sits on my poor shoulders. I thought I + had suffered from ennui in my youth. But the malady merely plays with the + green fruit; it reserves its serious ravages for the ripe. I can promise + you 't is not a laughing matter. Have you ever had a fixed idea? Have you + ever spent days and nights racking your brain, importuning the unanswering + Powers, to learn whether there was—well, whether there was Another + Man, for instance? Oh, bring me drink. Bring me Seltzer water and + Vermouth. I will seek nepenthe at the bottom of the wine-cup.” + </p> + <p> + Was there another man? Why should there not be? And yet was there? In her + continued absence, the question came back persistently, and scarcely + contributed to his peace of mind. + </p> + <p> + A few days later, nothing discouraged, “Would you like to have a good + laugh, Signorino?” Marietta enquired. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he answered, apathetic. + </p> + <p> + “Then do me the favour to come,” she said. + </p> + <p> + She led him out of his garden, to the gate of a neighbouring meadow. A + beautiful black-horned white cow stood there, her head over the bars, + looking up and down the road, and now and then uttering a low distressful + “moo.” + </p> + <p> + “See her,” said Marietta. + </p> + <p> + “I see her. Well—?” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + “This morning they took her calf from her—to wean it,” said + Marietta. + </p> + <p> + “Did they, the cruel things? Well—?” said he. + </p> + <p> + “And ever since, she has stood there by the gate, looking down the road, + waiting, calling.” + </p> + <p> + “The poor dear. Well—?” said he. + </p> + <p> + “But do you not see, Signorino? Look at her eyes. She is weeping—weeping + like a Christian.” + </p> + <p> + Peter looked-and, sure enough, from the poor cow's eyes tears were + falling, steadily, rapidly: big limpid tears that trickled down her cheek, + her great homely hairy cheek, and dropped on the grass: tears of helpless + pain, uncomprehending endurance. “Why have they done this thing to me?” + they seemed dumbly to cry. + </p> + <p> + “Have you ever seen a cow weep before? Is it comical, at least?” demanded + Marietta, exultant. + </p> + <p> + “Comical—?” Peter gasped. “Comical—!” he groaned.... + </p> + <p> + But then he spoke to the cow. + </p> + <p> + “Poor dear—poor dear,” he repeated. He patted her soft warm neck, + and scratched her between the horns and along the dewlap. + </p> + <p> + “Poor dear—poor dear.” + </p> + <p> + The cow lifted up her head, and rested her great chin on Peter's shoulder, + breathing upon his face. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you know that we are companions in misery, don't you?” he said. + “They have taken my calf from me too—though my calf, indeed, was + only a calf in an extremely metaphorical sense—and it never was + exactly mine, anyhow—I daresay it's belonged from the beginning to + another man. You, at least, have n't that gall and wormwood added to your + cup. And now you must really try to pull yourself together. It's no good + crying. And besides, there are more calves in the sea than have ever been + taken from it. You'll have a much handsomer and fatter one next time. And + besides, you must remember that your loss subserves someone else's gain—the + farmer would never have done it if it hadn't been to his advantage. If you + 're an altruist, that should comfort you. And you must n't mind Marietta,—you + must n't mind her laughter. Marietta is a Latin. The Latin conception of + what is laughable differs by the whole span of heaven from the Teuton. You + and I are Teutons.” + </p> + <p> + “Teutons—?” questioned Marietta wrinkling her brow. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—Germanic,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “But I thought the Signorino was English?” + </p> + <p> + “So he is.” + </p> + <p> + “But the cow is not Germanic. White, with black horns, that is the purest + Roman breed, Signorino.” + </p> + <p> + “Fa niente,” he instructed her. “Cows and Englishmen, and all such + sentimental cattle, including Germans, are Germanic. Italians are Latin—with + a touch of the Goth and Vandal. Lions and tigers growl and fight because + they're Mohammedans. Dogs still bear without abuse the grand old name of + Sycophant. Cats are of the princely line of Persia, and worship fire, + fish, and flattery—as you may have noticed. Geese belong + indifferently to any race you like—they are cosmopolitans; and I've + known here and there a person who, without distinction of nationality, was + a duck. In fact, you're rather by way of being a duck yourself: And now,” + he perorated, “never deny again that I can talk nonsense with an aching + heart.” + </p> + <p> + “All the same,” insisted Marietta, “it is very comical to see a cow weep.” + </p> + <p> + “At any rate,” retorted Peter, “it is not in the least comical to hear a + hyaena laugh.” + </p> + <p> + “I have never heard one,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “Pray that you never may. The sound would make an old woman of you. It's + quite blood-curdling.” + </p> + <p> + “Davvero?” said Marietta. + </p> + <p> + “Davvero,” he assured her. + </p> + <p> + And meanwhile the cow stood there, with her head on his shoulder, silently + weeping, weeping. + </p> + <p> + He gave her a farewell rub along the nose. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye,” he said. “Your breath is like meadowsweet. So dry your tears, + and set your hopes upon the future. I 'll come and see you again + to-morrow, and I 'll bring you some nice coarse salt. Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + But when he went to see her on the morrow, she was grazing peacefully; and + she ate the salt he brought her with heart-whole bovine relish—putting + out her soft white pad of a tongue, licking it deliberately from his hand, + savouring it tranquilly, and crunching the bigger grains with ruminative + enjoyment between her teeth. So soon consoled! They were companions in + misery no longer. “I 'm afraid you are a Latin, after all,” he said, and + left her with a sense of disappointment. + </p> + <p> + That afternoon Marietta asked, “Would you care to visit the castle, + Signorino?” + </p> + <p> + He was seated under his willow-tree, by the river, smoking cigarettes—burning + superfluous time. + </p> + <p> + Marietta pointed towards Ventirose. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” said he. + </p> + <p> + “The family are away. In the absence of the family, the public are + admitted, upon presentation of their cards.” + </p> + <p> + “Oho!” he cried. “So the family are away, are they?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Signorino.” + </p> + <p> + “Aha!” cried he. “The family are away. That explains everything. Have—have + they been gone long?” + </p> + <p> + “Since a week, ten days, Signorino.” + </p> + <p> + “A week! Ten days!” He started up, indignant. “You secretive wretch! Why + have you never breathed a word of this to me?” + </p> + <p> + Marietta looked rather frightened. + </p> + <p> + “I did not know it myself, Signorino,” was her meek apology. “I heard it + in the village this morning, when the Signorino sent me to buy coarse + salt.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I see.” He sank back upon his rustic bench. “You are forgiven.” He + extended his hand in sign of absolution. “Are they ever coming back?” + </p> + <p> + “Naturally, Signorino.” + </p> + <p> + “What makes you think so?” + </p> + <p> + “But they will naturally come back.” + </p> + <p> + “I felicitate you upon your simple faith. When?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, fra poco. They have gone to Rome.” + </p> + <p> + “To Rome? You're trifling with me. People do not go to Rome in August.” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon, Signorino. People go to Rome for the feast of the Assumption. + That is the 15th. Afterwards they come back,” said Marietta, firmly. + </p> + <p> + “I withdraw my protest,” said Peter. “They have gone to Rome for the feast + of the Assumption. Afterwards they will come back.” + </p> + <p> + “Precisely, Signorino. But you have now the right to visit the castle, + upon presentation of your card. You address yourself to the porter at the + lodge. The castle is grand, magnificent. The Court of Honour alone is + thirty metres long.” + </p> + <p> + Marietta stretched her hands to right and left as far as they would go. + </p> + <p> + “Marietta,” Peter enquired solemnly, “are you familiar with the tragedy of + 'Hamlet'?” + </p> + <p> + Marietta blinked. + </p> + <p> + “No, Signorino.” + </p> + <p> + “You have never read it,” he pursued, “in that famous edition from which + the character of the Prince of Denmark happened to be omitted?” + </p> + <p> + Marietta shook her head, wearily, patiently. + </p> + <p> + Wearily, patiently, “No, Signorino,” she replied. + </p> + <p> + “Neither have I,” said he, “and I don't desire to.” + </p> + <p> + Marietta shrugged her shoulders; then returned gallantly to her charge. + </p> + <p> + “If you would care to visit the castle, Signorino, you could see the crypt + which contains the tombs of the family of Farfalla, the former owners. + They are of black marble and alabaster, with gilding—very rich. You + could also see the wine-cellars. Many years ago a tun there burst, and a + serving man was drowned in the wine. You could also see the bed in which + Nabulione, the Emperor of Europe, slept, when he was in this country. Also + the ancient kitchen. Many years ago, in a storm, the skeleton of a man + fell down the chimney, out upon the hearth. Also what is called the Court + of Foxes. Many years ago there was a plague of foxes; and the foxes came + down from the forest like a great army, thousands of them. And the lords + of the castle, and the peasants, and the village people, all, all, had to + run away like rabbits—or the foxes would have eaten them. It was in + what they call the Court of Foxes that the King of the foxes held his + court. There is also the park. In the park there are statues, ruins, and + white peacocks.” + </p> + <p> + “What have I in common with ruins and white peacocks?” Peter demanded + tragically, when Marietta had brought her much-gesticulated exposition to + a close. “Let me impress upon you once for all that I am not a tripper. As + for your castle—you invite me to a banquet-hall deserted. As for + your park, I see quite as much of it as I wish to see, from the seclusion + of my own pleached garden. I learned long ago the folly of investigating + things too closely, the wisdom of leaving things in the vague. At present + the park of Ventirose provides me with the raw material for day-dreams. It + is a sort of looking-glass country,—I can see just so far into it, + and no farther—that lies beyond is mystery, is potentiality—terra + incognita, which I can populate with monsters or pleasant phantoms, at my + whim. Why should you attempt to deprive me of so innocent a recreation?” + </p> + <p> + “After the return of the family,” said Marietta, “the public will no + longer be admitted. Meantime—” + </p> + <p> + “Upon presentation of my card, the porter will conduct me from + disenchantment to disenchantment. No, thank you. Now, if it were the other + way round, it would be different. If it were the castle and the park that + had gone to Rome, and if the family could be visited on presentation of my + card, I might be tempted.” + </p> + <p> + “But that would be impossible, Signorino,” said Marietta. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XV. + </h2> + <p> + Beatrice walking with a priest—ay, I am not sure it would n't be + more accurate to say conspiring with a priest: but you shall judge. + </p> + <p> + They were in a room of the Palazzo Udeschini, at Rome—a reception + room, on the piano nobile. Therefore you see it: for are not all + reception-rooms in Roman palaces alike? + </p> + <p> + Vast, lofty, sombre; the walls hung with dark-green tapestry—a + pattern of vertical stripes, dark green and darker green; here and there a + great dark painting, a Crucifixion, a Holy Family, in a massive dim-gold + frame; dark-hued rugs on the tiled floor; dark pieces of furniture, + tables, cabinets, dark and heavy; and tall windows, bare of curtains at + this season, opening upon a court—a wide stone-eaved court, planted + with fantastic-leaved eucalyptus-trees, in the midst of which a brown old + fountain, indefatigable, played its sibilant monotone. + </p> + <p> + In the streets there were the smells, the noises, the heat, the glare of + August of August in Rome, “the most Roman of the months,” they say; + certainly the hottest, noisiest, noisomest, and most glaring. But here all + was shadow, coolness, stillness, fragrance-the fragrance of the clean air + coming in from among the eucalyptus-trees. + </p> + <p> + Beatrice, critical-eyed, stood before a pier-glass, between two of the + tall windows, turning her head from side to side, craning her neck a + little—examining (if I must confess it) the effect of a new hat. It + was a very stunning hat—if a man's opinion hath any pertinence; it + was beyond doubt very complicated. There was an upward-springing black + brim; there was a downward-sweeping black feather; there was a defiant + white aigrette not unlike the Shah of Persia's; there were glints of red. + </p> + <p> + The priest sat in an arm-chair—one of those stiff, upright Roman + arm-chairs, which no one would ever dream of calling easy-chairs, + high-backed, covered with hard leather, studded with steel nails—and + watched her, smiling amusement, indulgence. + </p> + <p> + He was an oldish priest—sixty, sixty-five. He was small, lightly + built, lean-faced, with delicate-strong features: a prominent, delicate + nose; a well-marked, delicate jaw-bone, ending in a prominent, delicate + chin; a large, humorous mouth, the full lips delicately chiselled; a high, + delicate, perhaps rather narrow brow, rising above humorous grey eyes, + rather deep-set. Then he had silky-soft smooth white hair, and, topping + the occiput, a tonsure that might have passed for a natural bald spot. + </p> + <p> + He was decidedly clever-looking; he was aristocratic-looking, + distinguished-looking; but he was, above all, pleasant-looking, + kindly-looking, sweet-looking. + </p> + <p> + He wore a plain black cassock, by no means in its first youth—brown + along the seams, and, at the salient angles, at the shoulders, at the + elbows, shining with the lustre of hard service. Even without his cassock, + I imagine, you would have divined him for a clergyman—he bore the + clerical impress, that odd indefinable air of clericism which everyone + recognises, though it might not be altogether easy to tell just where or + from what it takes its origin. In the garb of an Anglican—there + being nothing, at first blush, necessarily Italian, necessarily + un-English, in his face—he would have struck you, I think, as a + pleasant, shrewd old parson of the scholarly—earnest type, mildly + donnish, with a fondness for gentle mirth. What, however, you would + scarcely have divined—unless you had chanced to notice, + inconspicuous in this sober light, the red sash round his waist, or the + amethyst on the third finger of his right hand—was his rank in the + Roman hierarchy. I have the honour of presenting his Eminence Egidio Maria + Cardinal Udeschini, formerly Bishop of Cittareggio, Prefect of the + Congregation of Archives and Inscriptions. + </p> + <p> + That was his title ecclesiastical. He had two other titles. He was a + Prince of the Udeschini by accident of birth. But his third title was + perhaps his most curious. It had been conferred upon him informally by the + populace of the Roman slum in which his titular church, St. Mary of the + Lilies, was situated: the little Uncle of the Poor. + </p> + <p> + As Italians measure wealth, Cardinal Udeschini was a wealthy man. What + with his private fortune and official stipends, he commanded an income of + something like a hundred thousand lire. He allowed himself five thousand + lire a year for food, clothing, and general expenses. Lodging and service + he had for nothing in the palace of his family. The remaining ninety-odd + thousand lire of his budget... Well, we all know that titles can be + purchased in Italy; and that was no doubt the price he paid for the title + I have mentioned. + </p> + <p> + However, it was not in money only that Cardinal Udeschim paid. He paid + also in labour. I have said that his titular church was in a slum. Rome + surely contained no slum more fetid, none more perilous—a region of + cut-throat alleys, south of the Ghetto, along the Tiber bank. Night after + night, accompanied by his stout young vicar, Don Giorgio Appolloni, the + Cardinal worked there as hard as any hard-working curate: visiting the + sick, comforting the afflicted, admonishing the knavish, persuading the + drunken from their taverns, making peace between the combative. Not + infrequently, when he came home, he would add a pair of stilettos to his + already large collection of such relics. And his homecomings were apt to + be late—oftener than not, after midnight; and sometimes, indeed, in + the vague twilight of morning, at the hour when, as he once expressed it + to Don Giorgio, “the tired burglar is just lying down to rest.” And every + Saturday evening the Cardinal Prefect of Archives and Inscriptions sat for + three hours boxed up in his confessional, like any parish priest—in + his confessional at St. Mary of the Lilies, where the penitents who + breathed their secrets into his ears, and received his fatherly + counsels... I beg your pardon. One must not, of course, remember his rags + or his sores, when Lazarus approaches that tribunal. + </p> + <p> + But I don't pretend that the Cardinal was a saint; I am sure he was not a + prig. For all his works of supererogation, his life was a life of pomp and + luxury, compared to the proper saint's life. He wore no hair shirt; I + doubt if he knew the taste of the Discipline. He had his weaknesses, his + foibles—even, if you will, his vices. I have intimated that he was + fond of a jest. “The Sacred College,” I heard him remark one day, “has + fifty centres of gravity. I sometimes fear that I am its centre of + levity.” He was also fond of music. He was also fond of snuff: + </p> + <p> + “'T is an abominable habit,” he admitted. “I can't tolerate it at all—in + others. When I was Bishop of Cittareggio, I discountenanced it utterly + among my clergy. But for myself—I need not say there are special + circumstances. Oddly enough, by the bye, at Cittareggio each separate + member of my clergy was able to plead special circumstances for himself I + have tried to give it up, and the effort has spoiled my temper—turned + me into a perfect old shrew. For my friends' sake, therefore, I appease + myself with an occasional pinch. You see, tobacco is antiseptic. It's an + excellent preservative of the milk of human kindness.” + </p> + <p> + The friends in question kept him supplied with sound rappee. Jests and + music he was abundantly competent to supply himself. He played the piano + and the organ, and he sang—in a clear, sweet, slightly faded tenor. + Of secular composers his favourites were “the lucid Scarlatti, the + luminous Bach.” But the music that roused him to enthusiasm was Gregorian. + He would have none other at St. Mary of the Lilies. He had trained his + priests and his people there to sing it admirably—you should have + heard them sing Vespers; and he sang it admirably himself—you should + have heard him sing a Mass—you should have heard that sweet old + tenor voice of his in the Preface and the Pater Noster. + </p> + <p> + So, then, Beatrice stood before a pier-glass, and studied her new hat; + whilst the Cardinal, amused, indulgent, sat in his high-backed armchair, + and watched her. + </p> + <p> + “Well—? What do you think?” she asked, turning towards him. + </p> + <p> + “You appeal to me as an expert?” he questioned. + </p> + <p> + His speaking-voice, as well as his singing-voice, was sweet, but with a + kind of trenchant edge upon it, a genial asperity, that gave it character, + tang. + </p> + <p> + “As one who should certainly be able to advise,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then—” said he. He took his chin into his hand, as if it were + a beard, and looked up at her, considering; and the lines of amusement—the + “parentheses”—deepened at either side of his mouth. “Well, then, I + think if the feather were to be lifted a little higher in front, and + brought down a little lower behind—” + </p> + <p> + “Good gracious, I don't mean my hat,” cried Beatrice. “What in the world + can an old dear like you know about hats?” + </p> + <p> + There was a further deepening of the parentheses. + </p> + <p> + “Surely,” he contended, “a cardinal should know much. Is it not 'the badge + of all our tribe,' as your poet Byron says?” + </p> + <p> + Beatrice laughed. Then, “Byron—?” she doubted, with a look. + </p> + <p> + The Cardinal waved his hand—a gesture of amiable concession. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, if you prefer, Shakespeare. Everything in English is one or the + other. We will not fall out, like the Morellists, over an attribution. The + point is that I should be a good judge of hats.” + </p> + <p> + He took snuff. + </p> + <p> + “It's a shame you haven't a decent snuff-box,” Beatrice observed, with an + eye on the enamelled wooden one, cheap and shabby, from which he helped + himself. + </p> + <p> + “The box is but the guinea-stamp; the snuff's the thing.—Was it + Shakespeare or Byron who said that?” enquired the Cardinal. + </p> + <p> + Beatrice laughed again. + </p> + <p> + “I think it must have been Pulcinella. I'll give you a lovely silver one, + if you'll accept it.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you? Really?” asked the Cardinal, alert. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I will. It's a shame you haven't one already.” + </p> + <p> + “What would a lovely silver one cost?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know. It does n't matter,” answered she. + </p> + <p> + “But approximately? More or less?” he pursued. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, a couple of hundred lire, more or less, I daresay.” + </p> + <p> + “A couple of hundred lire?” He glanced up, alerter. “Do you happen to have + that amount of money on your person?” + </p> + <p> + Beatrice (the unwary woman) hunted for her pocket—took out her purse—computed + its contents. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she innocently answered. + </p> + <p> + The Cardinal chuckled—the satisfied chuckle of one whose unsuspected + tactics have succeeded. + </p> + <p> + “Then give me the couple of hundred lire.” + </p> + <p> + He put forth his hand. + </p> + <p> + But Beatrice held back. + </p> + <p> + “What for?” she asked, suspicion waking. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I shall have uses for it.” + </p> + <p> + His outstretched hand—a slim old tapering, bony hand, in colour like + dusky ivory—closed peremptorily, in a dumb-show of receiving; and + now, by the bye, you could not have failed to notice the big lucent + amethyst, in its setting of elaborately-wrought pale gold, on the third + finger. + </p> + <p> + “Come! Give!” he insisted, imperative. + </p> + <p> + Rueful but resigned, Beatrice shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “You have caught me finely,” she sighed, and gave. + </p> + <p> + “You should n't have jingled your purse—you should n't have flaunted + your wealth in my face,” laughed the Cardinal, putting away the notes. He + took snuff again. “I think I honestly earned that pinch,” he murmured. + </p> + <p> + “At any rate,” said Beatrice, laying what unction she could to her soul, + “I am acquainted with a dignitary of the Church, who has lost a handsome + silver snuffbox—beautiful repousse work, with his arms engraved on + the lid.” + </p> + <p> + “And I,” retaliated he, “I am acquainted with a broken-down old doctor and + his wife, in Trastevere, who shall have meat and wine at dinner for the + next two months—at the expense of a niece of mine. 'I am so glad,' + as Alice of Wonderland says, 'that you married into our family.'” + </p> + <p> + “Alice of Wonderland—?” doubted Beatrice. + </p> + <p> + The Cardinal waved his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, if you prefer, Punch. Everything in English is one or the other.” + </p> + <p> + Beatrice laughed. “It was the I of which especially surprised my English + ear,” she explained. + </p> + <p> + “I am your debtor for two hundred lire. I cannot quarrel with you over a + particle,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “But why,” asked she, “why did you give yourself such superfluous pains? + Why couldn't you ask me for the money point-blank? Why lure it from me, by + trick and device?” + </p> + <p> + The Cardinal chuckled. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, one must keep one's hand in. And one must not look like a Jesuit for + nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you look like a Jesuit?” + </p> + <p> + “I have been told so.” + </p> + <p> + “By whom—for mercy's sake?” + </p> + <p> + “By a gentleman I had the pleasure of meeting not long ago in the train—a + very gorgeous gentleman, with gold chains and diamonds flashing from every + corner of his person, and a splendid waxed moustache, and a bald head + which, I think, was made of polished pink coral. He turned to me in the + most affable manner, and said, 'I see, Reverend Sir, that you are a + Jesuit. There should be a fellow-feeling between you and me. I am a Jew. + Jews and Jesuits have an almost equally bad name!'” + </p> + <p> + The Cardinal's humorous grey eyes swam in a glow of delighted merriment. + </p> + <p> + “I could have hugged him for his 'almost.' I have been wondering ever + since whether in his mind it was the Jews or the Jesuits who benefited by + that reservation. I have been wondering also what I ought to have + replied.” + </p> + <p> + “What did you reply?” asked Beatrice, curious. + </p> + <p> + “No, no,” said the Cardinal. “With sentiments of the highest + consideration, I must respectfully decline to tell you. It was too flat. I + am humiliated whenever I recall it.” + </p> + <p> + “You might have replied that the Jews, at least, have the advantage of + meriting their bad name,” she suggested. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my dear child!” objected he. “My reply was flat—you would have + had it sharp. I should have hurt the poor well-meaning man's feelings, and + perhaps have burdened my own soul with a falsehood, into the bargain. Who + are we, to judge whether people merit their bad name or not? No, no. The + humiliating circumstance is, that if I had possessed the substance as well + as the show, if I had really been a son of St. Ignatius, I should have + found a retort that would have effected the Jew's conversion.” + </p> + <p> + “And apropos of conversions,” said Beatrice, “see how far we have strayed + from our muttons.” + </p> + <p> + “Our muttons—?” The Cardinal looked up, enquiring. + </p> + <p> + “I want to know what you think—not of my hat—but of my man.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—ah, yes; your Englishman, your tenant.” The Cardinal nodded. + </p> + <p> + “My Englishman—my tenant—my heretic,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said he, pondering, while the parentheses became marked again,—“I + should think, from what you tell me, that you would find him a useful + neighbour. Let me see... You got fifty lire out of him, for a word; and + the children went off, blessing you as their benefactress. I should think + that you would find him a valuable neighbour—and that he, on his + side, might find you an expensive one.” + </p> + <p> + Beatrice, with a gesture, implored him to be serious. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, please don't tease about this,” she said. “I want to know what you + think of his conversion?” + </p> + <p> + “The conversion of a heretic is always 'a consummation devoutly to be + desired,' as well, you may settle it between Shakespeare and Byron, to + suit yourself. And there are none so devoutly desirous of such + consummations as you Catholics of England—especially you women. It + is said that a Catholic Englishwoman once tried to convert the Pope.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, there have been popes whom it would n't have hurt,” commented + Beatrice. “And as for Mr. Marchdale,” she continued, “he has shown + 'dispositions.' He admitted that he could see no reason why it should not + have been Our Blessed Lady who sent us to the children's aid. Surely, from + a Protestant, that is an extraordinary admission?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said the Cardinal. “And if he meant it, one may conclude that he + has a philosophic mind.” + </p> + <p> + “If he meant it?” Beatrice cried. “Why should he not have meant it? Why + should he have said it if he did not mean it?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don't ask me,” protested the Cardinal. “There is a thing the French + call politesse. I can conceive a young man professing to agree with a lady + for the sake of what the French might call her beaux yeux.” + </p> + <p> + “I give you my word,” said Beatrice, “that my beaux yeux had nothing to do + with the case. He said it in the most absolute good faith. He said he + believed that in a universe like ours nothing was impossible—that + there were more things in heaven and earth than people generally dreamed + of—that he could see no reason why the Blessed Virgin should not + have sent us across the children's path. Oh, he meant it. I am perfectly + sure he meant it.” + </p> + <p> + The Cardinal smiled—at her eagerness, perhaps. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then,” he repeated, “we must conclude that he has a philosophic + mind.” + </p> + <p> + “But what is one to do?” asked she. “Surely one ought to do something? One + ought to follow such an admission up? When a man is so far on the way to + the light, it is surely one's duty to lead him farther?” + </p> + <p> + “Without doubt,” said the Cardinal. + </p> + <p> + “Well—? What can one do?” + </p> + <p> + The Cardinal looked grave. + </p> + <p> + “One can pray,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Emilia and I pray for his conversion night and morning.” + </p> + <p> + “That is good,” he approved. + </p> + <p> + “But that is surely not enough?” + </p> + <p> + “One can have Masses said.” + </p> + <p> + “Monsignor Langshawe, at the castle, says a Mass for him twice a week.” + </p> + <p> + “That is good,” approved the Cardinal. + </p> + <p> + “But is that enough?” + </p> + <p> + “Why doesn't Monsignor Langshawe call upon him—cultivate his + acquaintance—talk with him—set him thinking?” the Cardinal + enquired. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Monsignor Langshawe!” Beatrice sighed, with a gesture. “He is + interested in nothing but geology—he would talk to him of nothing + but moraines—he would set him thinking of nothing but the march of + glaciers.” + </p> + <p> + “Hum,” said the Cardinal. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then—?” questioned Beatrice. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, Carissima, why do you not take the affair in hand yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “But that is just the difficulty. What can I what can a mere woman—do + in such a case?” + </p> + <p> + The Cardinal looked into his amethyst, as a crystal-gazer into his + crystal; and the lines about his humorous old mouth deepened and quivered. + </p> + <p> + “I will lend you the works of Bellarmine in I forget how many volumes. You + can prime yourself with them, and then invite your heretic to a course of + instructions.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I wish you would n't turn it to a joke,” said Beatrice. + </p> + <p> + “Bellarmine—a joke!” exclaimed the Cardinal. “It is the first time I + have ever heard him called so. However, I will not press the suggestion.” + </p> + <p> + “But then—? Oh, please advise me seriously. What can I do? What can + a mere unlearned woman do?” + </p> + <p> + The Cardinal took snuff. He gazed into his amethyst again, beaming at it, + as if he could descry something deliciously comical in its depths. He gave + a soft little laugh. At last he looked up. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he responded slowly, “in an extremity, I should think that a mere + unlearned woman might, if she made an effort, ask the heretic to dinner. I + 'll come down and stay with you for a day or two, and you can ask him to + dinner.” + </p> + <p> + “You're a perfect old darling,” cried Beatrice, with rapture. “He'll never + be able to resist you.”' + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I 'm not undertaking to discuss theology with him,” said the + Cardinal. “But one must do something in exchange for a couple of hundred + lire—so I'll come and give you my moral support.” + </p> + <p> + “You shall have your lovely silver snuffbox, all the same,” said she. + </p> + <p> + Mark the predestination! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XVI + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “CASTEL VENTIROSE, + “August 21 st. +</pre> + <p> + “DEAR Mr. Marchdale: It will give me great pleasure if you can dine with + us on Thursday evening next, at eight o'clock, to meet my uncle, Cardinal + Udeschini, who is staying here for a few days. + </p> + <p> + “I have been re-reading 'A Man of Words.' I want you to tell me a great + deal more about your friend, the author. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Yours sincerely, + BEATRICE DI SANTANGIOLO.” + </pre> + <p> + It is astonishing, what men will prize, what men will treasure. Peter + Marchdale, for example, prizes, treasures, (and imagines that he will + always prize and treasure), the perfectly conventional, the perfectly + commonplace little document, of which the foregoing is a copy. + </p> + <p> + The original is written in rather a small, concentrated hand, not + overwhelmingly legible perhaps, but, as we say, “full of character,” on + paper lightly blueish, in the prescribed corner of which a tiny ducal + coronet is embossed, above the initials “B. S.” curiously interlaced in a + cypher. + </p> + <p> + When Peter received it, and (need I mention?) approached it to his face, + he fancied he could detect just a trace, just the faintest reminder, of a + perfume—something like an afterthought of orris. It was by no means + anodyne. It was a breath, a whisper, vague, elusive, hinting of things + exquisite, intimate of things intimately feminine, exquisitely personal. I + don't know how many times he repeated that manoeuvre of conveying the + letter to his face; but I do know that when I was privileged to inspect + it, a few months later, the only perfume it retained was an unmistakable + perfume of tobacco. + </p> + <p> + I don't know, either, how many times he read it, searched it, as if + secrets might lie perdu between the lines, as if his gaze could warm into + evidence some sympathetic ink, or compel a cryptic sub-intention from the + text itself. + </p> + <p> + Well, to be sure, the text had cryptic subintentions; but these were as + far as may be from any that Peter was in a position to conjecture. How + could he guess, for instance, that the letter was an instrument, and he + the victim, of a Popish machination? How could he guess that its writer + knew as well as he did who was the author of “A Man of Words”? + </p> + <p> + And then, all at once, a shade of trouble of quite another nature fell + upon his mind. He frowned for a while in silent perplexity. At last he + addressed himself to Marietta. + </p> + <p> + “Have you ever dined with a cardinal?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “No, Signorino,” that patient sufferer replied. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'm in the very dickens of a quandary—son' proprio nel + dickens d'un imbarazzo.” he informed her. + </p> + <p> + “Dickens—?” she repeated. + </p> + <p> + “Si—Dickens, Carlo, celebre autore inglese. Why not?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Marietta gazed with long-suffering eyes at the horizon. + </p> + <p> + “Or, to put it differently,” Peter resumed, “I've come all the way from + London with nothing better than a dinner jacket in my kit.” + </p> + <p> + “Dina giacca? Cosa e?” questioned Marietta. + </p> + <p> + “No matter what it is—the important thing is what it is n't. It is + n't a dress-coat.” + </p> + <p> + “Non e un abito nero,” said Marietta, seeing that he expected her to say + something. + </p> + <p> + “Well—? You perceive my difficulty. Do you think you could make me + one?” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Make the Signorino a dress-coat? I? Oh, no, Signorino.” Marietta shook + her head. + </p> + <p> + “I feared as much,” he acknowledged. “Is there a decent tailor in the + village?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Signorino.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor in the whole length and breadth of this peninsula, if you come to + that. Well, what am I to do? How am I to dine with a cardinal? Do you + think a cardinal would have a fit if a man were to dine with him in a dina + giacca?” + </p> + <p> + “Have a fit? Why should he have a fit, Signorino?” Marietta blinked. + </p> + <p> + “Would he do anything to the man? Would he launch the awful curses of the + Church at him, for instance?” + </p> + <p> + “Mache, Signorino!” She struck an attitude that put to scorn his + apprehensions. + </p> + <p> + “I see,” said Peter. “You think there is no danger? You advise me to + brazen the dina giacca out, to swagger it off?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't understand, Signorino,” said Marietta. + </p> + <p> + “To understand is to forgive,” said he; “and yet you can't trifle with + English servants like this, though they ought to understand, ought n't + they? In any case, I 'll be guided by your judgment. I'll wear my dina + giacca, but I'll wear it with an air! I 'll confer upon it the dignity of + a court-suit. Is that a gardener—that person working over there?” + </p> + <p> + Marietta looked in the quarter indicated by Peter's nod. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Signorino; ha is the same gardener who works here three days every + week,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “Is he, really? He looks like a pirate,” Peter murmured. + </p> + <p> + “Like a pirate? Luigi?” she exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” affirmed her master. “He wears green corduroy trousers, and a red + belt, and a blue shirt. That is the pirate uniform. He has a swarthy skin, + and a piercing eye, and hair as black as the Jolly Roger. Those are the + marks by which you recognise a pirate, even when in mufti. I believe you + said his name is Luigi?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Signorino—Luigi Maroni. We call him Gigi.” + </p> + <p> + “Is Gigi versatile?” asked Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Versatile—?” puzzled Marietta. But then, risking her own + interpretation of the recondite word, “Oh, no, Signorino. He is of the + country.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, he's of the country, is he? So much the better. Then he will know the + way to Castel Ventirose?” + </p> + <p> + “But naturally, Signorino.” Marietta nodded. + </p> + <p> + “And do you think, for once in a way, though not versatile, he could be + prevailed upon to divert his faculties from the work of a gardener to that + of a messenger?” + </p> + <p> + “A messenger, Signorino?” Marietta wrinkled up her brow. + </p> + <p> + “Ang—an unofficial postman. Do you think he could be induced to + carry a letter for me to the castle?” + </p> + <p> + “But certainly, Signorino. He is here to obey the Signorino's orders.” + Marietta shrugged her shoulders, and waved her hands. + </p> + <p> + “Then tell him, please, to go and put the necessary touches to his + toilet,” said Peter. “Meanwhile I'll indite the letter.” + </p> + <p> + When his letter was indited, he found the piratical-looking Gigi in + attendance, and he gave it to him, with instructions. + </p> + <p> + Thereupon Gigi (with a smile of sympathetic intelligence, inimitably + Italian) put the letter in his hat, put his hat upon his head, and started + briskly off—but not in the proper direction: not in the direction of + the road, which led to the village, and across the bridge, and then round + upon itself to the gates of the park. He started briskly off towards + Peter's own toolhouse, a low red-tiled pavilion, opposite the door of + Marietta's kitchen. + </p> + <p> + Peter was on the point of calling to him, of remonstrating. Then he + thought better of it. He would wait a bit, and watch. + </p> + <p> + He waited and watched; and this was what he saw. + </p> + <p> + Gigi entered the tool-house, and presently brought out a ladder, which he + carried down to the riverside, and left there. Then he returned to the + tool-house, and came back bearing an armful of planks, each perhaps a foot + wide by five or six feet long. Now he raised his ladder to the + perpendicular, and let it descend before him, so that, one extremity + resting upon the nearer bank, one attained the further, and it spanned the + flood. Finally he laid a plank lengthwise upon the hithermost rungs, and + advanced to the end of it; then another plank; then a third: and he stood + in the grounds of Ventirose. + </p> + <p> + He had improvised a bridge—a bridge that swayed upwards and + downwards more or less dizzily about the middle, if you will—but an + entirely practicable bridge, for all that. And he had saved himself at + least a good three miles, to the castle and back, by the road. + </p> + <p> + Peter watched, and admired. + </p> + <p> + “And I asked whether he was versatile!” he muttered. “Trust an Italian for + economising labour. It looks like unwarrantable invasion of friendly + territory—but it's a dodge worth remembering, all the same.” + </p> + <p> + He drew the Duchessa's letter from his pocket, and read it again, and + again approached it to his face, communing with that ghost of a perfume. + </p> + <p> + “Heavens! how it makes one think of chiffons,” he exclaimed. “Thursday—Thursday—help + me to live till Thursday!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XVII + </h2> + <p> + But he had n't to live till Thursday—he was destined to see her not + later than the next afternoon. + </p> + <p> + You know with what abruptness, with how brief a warning, storms will + spring from the blue, in that land of lakes and mountains. + </p> + <p> + It was three o'clock or thereabouts; and Peter was reading in his garden; + and the whole world lay basking in unmitigated sunshine. + </p> + <p> + Then, all at once, somehow, you felt a change in things: the sunshine + seemed less brilliant, the shadows less solid, less sharply outlined. Oh, + it was very slight, very uncertain; you had to look twice to assure + yourself that it was n't a mere fancy. It seemed as if never so thin a + gauze had been drawn over the face of the sun, just faintly bedimming, + without obscuring it. You could have ransacked the sky in vain to discover + the smallest shred of cloud. + </p> + <p> + At the same time, the air, which had been hot all day—hot, but + buoyant, but stimulant, but quick with oxygen—seemed to become + thick, sluggish, suffocating, seemed to yield up its vital principle, and + to fall a dead weight upon the earth. And this effect was accompanied by a + sudden silence—the usual busy out-of-door country noises were + suddenly suspended: the locusts stopped their singing; not a bird + twittered; not a leaf rustled: the world held its breath. And if the river + went on babbling, babbling, that was a very part of the silence—accented, + underscored it. + </p> + <p> + Yet still you could not discern a rack of cloud anywhere in the sky—still, + for a minute or two.... Then, before you knew how it had happened, the + snow-summits of Monte Sfiorito were completely lapped in cloud. + </p> + <p> + And now the cloud spread with astonishing rapidity—spread and sank, + cancelling the sun, shrouding the Gnisi to its waist, curling in smoky + wreaths among the battlements of the Cornobastone, turning the lake from + sapphire to sombre steel, filling the entire valley with a strange mixture + of darkness and an uncanny pallid light. Overhead it hung like a vast + canopy of leaden-hued cotton-wool; at the west it had a fringe of fiery + crimson, beyond which a strip of clear sky on the horizon diffused a dull + metallic yellow, like tarnished brass. + </p> + <p> + Presently, in the distance, there was a low growl of thunder; in a minute, + a louder, angrier growl—as if the first were a menace which had not + been heeded. Then there was a violent gush of wind—cold; smelling of + the forests from which it came; scattering everything before it, dust, + dead leaves, the fallen petals of flowers; making the trees writhe and + labour, like giants wrestling with invisible giants; making the short + grass shudder; corrugating the steel surface of the lake. Then two or + three big raindrops fell—and then, the deluge. + </p> + <p> + Peter climbed up to his observatory—a square four-windowed turret, + at the top of the house—thence to watch the storm and exult in it. + Really it was splendid—to see, to hear; its immense wild force, its + immense reckless fury. Rain had never rained so hard, he thought. Already, + the lake, the mountain slopes, the villas and vineyards westward, were + totally blotted out, hidden behind walls and walls of water; and even the + neighbouring lawns of Ventirose, the confines of his own garden, were + barely distinguishable, blurred as by a fog. The big drops pelted the + river like bullets, sending up splashes bigger than themselves. And the + tiled roof just above his head resounded with a continual loud + crepitation, as if a multitude of iron-shod elves were dancing on it. The + thunder crashed, roared, reverberated, like the toppling of great + edifices. The lightning tore through the black cloud-canopy in long + blinding zig-zags. The wind moaned, howled, hooted—and the square + chamber where Peter stood shook and rattled under its buffetings, and was + full of the chill and the smell of it. Really the whole thing was + splendid. + </p> + <p> + His garden-paths ran with muddy brooklets; the high-road beyond his hedge + was transformed to a shallow torrent.... And, just at that moment, looking + off along the highroad, he saw something that brought his heart into his + throat. + </p> + <p> + Three figures were hurrying down it, half-drowned in the rain—the + Duchessa di Santangiolo, Emilia Manfredi, and a priest. + </p> + <p> + In a twinkling, Peter, bareheaded, was at his gate. + </p> + <p> + “Come in—come in,” he called. + </p> + <p> + “We are simply drenched—we shall inundate your house,” the Duchessa + said, as he showed them into his sitting-room. + </p> + <p> + They were indeed dripping with water, soiled to their knees with mud. + </p> + <p> + “Good heavens!” gasped Peter, stupid. “How were you ever out in such a + downpour?” + </p> + <p> + She smiled, rather forlornly. + </p> + <p> + “No one told us that it was going to rain, and we were off for a good long + walk—for pleasure.” + </p> + <p> + “You must be wet to the bone—you must be perishing with cold,” he + cried, looking from one to another. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I daresay we are perishing with cold,” she admitted. + </p> + <p> + “And I have no means of offering you a fire—there are no + fireplaces,” he groaned, with a gesture round the bleak Italian room, to + certify their absence. + </p> + <p> + “Is n't there a kitchen?” asked the Duchessa, a faint spark of raillery + kindling amid the forlornness of her smile. + </p> + <p> + Peter threw up his hands. + </p> + <p> + “I had lost my head. The kitchen, of course. I 'll tell Marietta to light + a fire.” + </p> + <p> + He excused himself, and sought out Marietta. He found her in her + housekeeper's room, on her knees, saying her rosary, in obvious terror. I + 'm afraid he interrupted her orisons somewhat brusquely. + </p> + <p> + “Will you be so good as to start a rousing fire in the kitchen—as + quickly as ever it can be done?” + </p> + <p> + And he rejoined his guests. + </p> + <p> + “If you will come this way—” he said. + </p> + <p> + Marietta had a fire of logs and pine-cones blazing in no time. She + courtesied low to the Duchessa, lower still to the priest—in fact, + Peter was n't sure that she did n't genuflect before him, while he made a + rapid movement with his hand over her head: the Sign of the Cross, + perhaps. + </p> + <p> + He was a little, unassuming-looking, white haired priest, with a + remarkably clever, humorous, kindly face; and he wore a remarkably shabby + cassock. The Duchessa's chaplain, Peter supposed. How should it occur to + him that this was Cardinal Udeschini? Do Cardinals (in one's antecedent + notion of them) wear shabby cassocks, and look humorous and unassuming? Do + they go tramping about the country in the rain, attended by no retinue + save a woman and a fourteen-year-old girl? And are they little men—in + one's antecedent notion? True, his shabby cassock had red buttons, and + there was a red sash round his waist, and a big amethyst glittered in a + setting of pale gold on his annular finger. But Peter was not sufficiently + versed in fashions canonical, to recognise the meaning of these insignia. + </p> + <p> + How, on the other hand, should it occur to the Duchessa that Peter needed + enlightenment? At all events, she said to him, “Let me introduce you;” and + then, to the priest, “Let me present Mr. Marchdale—of whom you have + heard before now.” + </p> + <p> + The white-haired old man smiled sweetly into Peter's eyes, and gave him a + slender, sensitive old hand. + </p> + <p> + “E cattivo vento che non e buono per qualcuno—debbo a questa + burrasca la pregustazione d' un piacere,” he said, with a mingling of + ceremonious politeness and sunny geniality that was of his age and race. + </p> + <p> + Peter—instinctively—he could not have told why—put a + good deal more deference into his bow, than men of his age and race + commonly put into their bows, and murmured something about “grand' onore.” + </p> + <p> + Marietta placed a row of chairs before the raised stone hearth, and + afterwards, at her master's request, busied herself preparing tea. + </p> + <p> + “But I think you would all be wise to take a little brandy first,” Peter + suggested. “It is my despair that I am not able to provide you with a + change of raiment. Brandy will be the best substitute, perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + The old priest laughed, and put his hand upon the shoulder of Emilia. + </p> + <p> + “You have spared this young lady an embarrassing avowal. Brandy is exactly + what she was screwing her courage to the point of asking for.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no!” protested Emilia, in a deep Italian voice, with passionate + seriousness. + </p> + <p> + But Peter fetched a decanter, and poured brandy for everyone. + </p> + <p> + “I drink to your health—c'est bien le cas de le dire. I hope you + will not have caught your deaths of cold,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, we are quite warm now,” said the Duchessa. “We are snug in an ingle + on Mount Ararat.” + </p> + <p> + “Our wetting will have done us good—it will make us grow. You and I + will never regret that, will we, Emilietta?” said the priest. + </p> + <p> + A lively colour had come into the Duchessa's cheeks; her eyes seemed + unusually bright. Her hair was in some disorder, drooping at the sides, + and blown over her brow in fine free wavelets. It was dark in the kitchen, + save for the firelight, which danced fantastically on the walls and + ceiling, and struck a ruddy glow from Marietta's copper pots and pans. The + rain pattered lustily without; the wind wailed in the chimney; the + lightning flashed, the thunder volleyed. And Peter looked at the Duchessa—and + blessed the elements. To see her seated there, in her wet gown, seated + familiarly, at her ease, before his fire, in his kitchen, with that colour + in her cheeks, that brightness in her eyes, and her hair in that disarray—it + was unspeakable; his heart closed in a kind of delicious spasm. And the + fragrance, subtle, secret, evasive, that hovered in the air near her, did + not diminish his emotion. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder,” she asked, with a comical little glance upwards at him, + “whether you would resent it very much if I should take off my hat—because + it's a perfect reservoir, and the water will keep trickling down my neck.” + </p> + <p> + His joy needed but this culmination that she should take off her hat! + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I beg of you—” he returned fervently. + </p> + <p> + “You had better take yours off too, Emilia,” said the Duchessa. + </p> + <p> + “Admire masculine foresight,” said the priest. “I took mine off when I + came in.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me hang them up,” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + It was wonderful to hold her hat in his hand—it was like holding a + part of herself. He brushed it surreptitiously against his face, as he + hung it up. Its fragrance—which met him like an answering caress, + almost—did not lessen his emotion. + </p> + <p> + Then Marietta brought the tea, with bread-and-butter, and toast, and + cakes, and pretty blue china cups and saucers, and silver that glittered + in the firelight. + </p> + <p> + “Will you do me the honour of pouring the tea?” Peter asked the Duchessa. + </p> + <p> + So she poured the tea, and Peter passed it. As he stood close to her, to + take it—oh, but his heart beat, believe me! And once, when she was + giving him a cup, the warm tips of her fingers lightly touched his hand. + Believe me, the touch had its effect. And always there was that heady + fragrance in the air, like a mysterious little voice, singing secrets. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder,” the old priest said, “why tea is not more generally drunk by + us Italians. I never taste it without resolving to acquire the habit. I + remember, when I was a child, our mothers used to keep it as a medicine; + and you could only buy it at the chemists' shops.” + </p> + <p> + “It's coming in, you know, at Rome—among the Whites,” said the + Duchessa. + </p> + <p> + “Among the Whites!” cried he, with a jocular simulation of disquiet. “You + should not have told me that, till I had finished my cup. Now I shall feel + that I am sharing a dissipation with our spoliators.” + </p> + <p> + “That should give an edge to its aroma,” laughed she. “And besides, the + Whites aren't all responsible for our spoliation—some of them are + not so white as your fancy paints them. They'd be very decent people, for + the most part—if they were n't so vulgar.” + </p> + <p> + “If you stick up for the Whites like that when I am Pope, I shall + excommunicate you,” the priest threatened. “Meanwhile, what have you to + say against the Blacks?” + </p> + <p> + “The Blacks, with few exceptions, are even blacker than they're painted; + but they too would be fairly decent people in their way—if they were + n't so respectable. That is what makes Rome impossible as a residence for + any one who cares for human society. White society is so vulgar—Black + society is so deadly dull.” + </p> + <p> + “It is rather curious,” said the priest, “that the chief of each party + should wear the colour of his adversary. Our chief dresses in white, and + their chief can be seen any day driving about the streets in black.” + </p> + <p> + And Peter, during this interchange of small-talk, was at liberty to feast + his eyes upon her. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you have not yet reached the time of life where men begin to find + a virtue in snuff?” the priest said, producing a smart silver snuff box, + tapping the lid, and proffering it to Peter. + </p> + <p> + “On the contrary—thank you,” Peter answered, and absorbed his pinch + like an adept. + </p> + <p> + “How on earth have you learned to take it without a paroxysm?” cried the + surprised Duchessa. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, a thousand years ago I was in the Diplomatic Service,” he explained. + “It is one of the requirements.” + </p> + <p> + Emilia Manfredi lifted her big brown eyes, filled with girlish wonder, to + his face, and exclaimed, “How extraordinary!” + </p> + <p> + “It is n't half so extraordinary as it would be if it were true, my dear,” + said the Duchessa. + </p> + <p> + “Oh? Non e poi vero?” murmured Emilia, and her eyes darkened with + disappointment. + </p> + <p> + Peter meanwhile was looking at the snuffbox, which the priest still held + in his hand, and admiring its brave repousse work of leaves and flowers, + and the escutcheon engraved on the lid. But what if he could have guessed + the part he had passively played in obtaining it for its possessor—or + the part that it was still to play in his own epopee? Mark again the + predestination! + </p> + <p> + “The storm is passing,” said the priest. + </p> + <p> + “Worse luck!” thought Peter. + </p> + <p> + For indeed the rain and the wind were moderating, the thunder had rolled + farther away, the sky was becoming lighter. + </p> + <p> + “But there's a mighty problem before us still,” said the Duchessa. “How + are we to get to Ventirose? The roads will, be ankle-deep with mud.” + </p> + <p> + “If you wish to do me a very great kindness—” Peter began. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—?” she encouraged him. + </p> + <p> + “You will allow me to go before you, and tell them to come for you with a + carriage.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall certainly allow you to do nothing of the sort,” she replied + severely. “I suppose there is no one whom you could send?” + </p> + <p> + “I should hardly like to send Marietta. I 'm afraid there is no one else. + But upon my word, I should enjoy going myself.” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head, smiling at him with mock compassion. + </p> + <p> + “Would you? Poor man, poor man! That is an enjoyment which you will have + to renounce. One must n't expect too much in this sad life.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then,” said Peter, “I have an expedient. If you can walk a somewhat + narrow plank—?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—?” questioned she. + </p> + <p> + “I think I can improvise a bridge across the river.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe the rain has stopped,” said the priest, looking towards the + window. + </p> + <p> + Peter, manning his soul for the inevitable, got up, went to the door, + opened it, stuck out his head. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he acknowledged, while his heart sank within him, “the rain has + stopped.” + </p> + <p> + And now the storm departed almost as rapidly as it had arrived. In the + north the sky was already clear, blue and hard-looking—a wall of + lapis-lazuli. The dark cloud-canopy was drifting to the south. Suddenly + the sun came out, flashing first from the snows of Monte Sfiorito, then, + in an instant, flooding the entire prospect with a marvellous yellow + light, ethereal amber; whilst long streamers of tinted vapour—columns + of pearl-dust, one might have fancied—rose to meet it; and all wet + surfaces, leaves, lawns, tree-trunks, housetops, the bare crags of the + Gnisi, gleamed in a wash of gold. + </p> + <p> + Puffs of fresh air blew into the kitchen, filling it with the keen sweet + odour of wet earth. The priest and the Duchessa and Emilia joined Peter at + the open door. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, your poor, poor garden!” the Duchessa cried. + </p> + <p> + His garden had suffered a good deal, to be sure. The flowers lay supine, + their faces beaten into the mud; the greensward was littered with fallen + leaves and twigs—and even in one or two places whole branches had + been broken from the trees; on the ground about each rose-bush a snow of + pink rose-petals lay scattered; in the paths there were hundreds of little + pools, shining in the sun like pools of fire. + </p> + <p> + “There's nothing a gardener can't set right,” said Peter, feeling no doubt + that here was a trifling tax upon the delights the storm had procured him. + </p> + <p> + “And oh, our poor, poor hats!” said the Duchessa, eyeing ruefully those + damaged pieces of finery. “I fear no gardener can ever set them right.” + </p> + <p> + “It sounds inhospitable,” said Peter, “but I suppose I had better go and + build your bridge.” + </p> + <p> + So he threw a ladder athwart the river, and laid the planks in place, as + he had seen Gigi do the day before. + </p> + <p> + “How ingenious—and, like all great things, how simple,” laughed the + Duchessa. + </p> + <p> + Peter waved his hand, as who should modestly deprecate applause. But, I 'm + ashamed to own, he didn't disclaim the credit of the invention. + </p> + <p> + “It will require some nerve,” she reflected, looking at the narrow planks, + the foaming green water. “However—” + </p> + <p> + And gathering in her skirts, she set bravely forward, and made the transit + without mishap. The priest and Emilia, gathering in their skirts, made it + after her. + </p> + <p> + She paused on the other side, and looked back, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Since you have discovered so efficacious a means of cutting short the + distance between our places of abode,” she said, “I hope you will not fail + to profit by it whenever you may have occasion—on Thursday, for + example.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you very much,” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” she went on, “we may all die of our wetting yet. It would + perhaps show a neighbourly interest if you were to come up to-morrow, and + take our news. Come at four o'clock; and if we're alive... you shall have + another pinch of snuff,” she promised, laughing. + </p> + <p> + “I adore you,” said Peter, under his breath. “I'll come with great + pleasure,” he said aloud. + </p> + <p> + “Marietta,” he observed, that evening, as he dined, “I would have you to + know that the Aco is bridged. Hence, there is one symbol the fewer in + Lombardy. But why does—you mustn't mind the Ollendorfian form of my + enquiry—why does the chaplain of the Duchessa wear red stockings?” + </p> + <p> + “The chaplain of the Duchessa—?” repeated Marietta, wrinkling up her + brow. + </p> + <p> + “Ang—of the Duchessa di Santangiolo. He wore red stockings, and + shoes with silver buckles. Do you think that's precisely decorous—don't + you think it 's the least bit light-minded—in an ecclesiastic?” + </p> + <p> + “He—? Who—?” questioned Marietta. + </p> + <p> + “But the chaplain of the Duchessa—when he was here this afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + “The chaplain of the Duchessa!” exclaimed Marietta. “Here this afternoon? + The chaplain of the Duchessa was not here this afternoon. His Eminence the + Lord Prince Cardinal Udeschini was here this afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + “What!” gasped Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Ang,” said Marietta. + </p> + <p> + “That was Cardinal Udeschini—that little harmless-looking, + sweet-faced old man!” Peter wondered. + </p> + <p> + “Sicuro—the uncle of the Duca,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “Good heavens!” sighed he. “And I allowed myself to hobnob with him like a + boon-companion.” + </p> + <p> + “Gia,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “You need n't rub it in,” said he. “For the matter of that, you yourself + entertained him in your kitchen.” + </p> + <p> + “Scusi?” said she. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well—it was probably for the best,” he concluded. “I daresay I + should n't have behaved much better if I had known.” + </p> + <p> + “It was his coming which saved this house from being struck by lightning,” + announced Marietta. + </p> + <p> + “Oh—? Was it?” exclaimed Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Signorino. The lightning would never strike a house that the Lord + Prince Cardinal was in.” + </p> + <p> + “I see—it would n't venture—it would n't presume. Did—did + it strike all the houses that the Lord Prince Cardinal was n't in?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not think so, Signorino. Ma non fa niente. It was a terrible storm—terrible, + terrible. The lightning was going to strike this house, when the Lord + Prince Cardinal arrived.” + </p> + <p> + “Hum,” said Peter. “Then you, as well as I, have reason for regarding his + arrival as providential.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XVIII + </h2> + <p> + “I think something must have happened to my watch,” Peter said, next day. + </p> + <p> + Indeed, its hands moved with extraordinary, with exasperating slowness. + </p> + <p> + “It seems absurd that it should do no good to push them on,” he thought. + </p> + <p> + He would force himself, between twice ascertaining their position, to wait + for a period that felt like an eternity, walking about miserably, and + smoking flavourless cigarettes;—then he would stand amazed, + incredulous, when, with a smirk (as it almost struck him) of ironical + complacence, they would attest that his eternity had lasted something near + a quarter of an hour. + </p> + <p> + “And I had professed myself a Kantian, and made light of the objective + reality of Time! thou laggard, Time!” he cried, and shook his fist at + Space, Time's unoffending consort. + </p> + <p> + “I believe it will never be four o'clock again,” he said, in despair, + finally; and once more had out his watch. It was half-past three. He + scowled at the instrument's bland white face. “You have no bowels, no + sensibilities—nothing but dry little methodical jog-trot wheels and + pivots!” he exclaimed, flying to insult for relief. “You're as inhuman as + a French functionary. Do you call yourself a sympathetic comrade for an + impatient man?” He laid it open on his rustic table, and waited through a + last eternity. At a quarter to four he crossed the river. “If I am early—tant + pis!” he decided, choosing the lesser of two evils, and challenging Fate. + </p> + <p> + He crossed the river, and stood for the first time in the grounds of + Ventirose—stood where she had been in the habit of standing, during + their water-side colloquies. He glanced back at his house and garden, + envisaging them for the first time, as it were, from her point of view. + They had a queer air of belonging to an era that had passed, to a + yesterday already remote. They looked, somehow, curiously small, moreover—the + garden circumscribed, the two-storied house, with its striped sunblinds, + poor and petty. He turned his back upon them—left them behind. He + would have to come home to them later in the day, to be sure; but then + everything would be different. A chapter would have added itself to the + history of the world; a great event, a great step forward, would have + definitely taken place. He would have been received at Ventirose as a + friend. He would be no longer a mere nodding acquaintance, owing even that + meagre relationship to the haphazard of propinquity. The ice-broken, if + you will, but still present in abundance—would have been gently + thawed away. One era had passed; but then a new era would have begun. + </p> + <p> + So he turned his back upon Villa F'loriano, and set off, high-hearted, up + the wide lawns, under the bending trees—whither, on four red-marked + occasions, he had watched her disappear—towards the castle, which + faced him in its vast irregular picturesqueness. There were the oldest + portions, grimly mediaeval, a lakeside fortress, with ponderous round + towers, meurtrieres, machiolations, its grey stone walls discoloured in + fantastic streaks and patches by weather-stains and lichens, or else + shaggily overgrown by creepers. Then there were later portions, + rectangular, pink-stuccoed, with rusticated work at the corners, and, on + the blank spaces between the windows, quaint allegorical frescoes, faded, + half washed-out. And then there were entirely modern-looking portions, of + gleaming marble, with numberless fanciful carvings, spires, pinnacles, + reliefs—wonderfully light, gay, habitable, and (Peter thought) + beautiful, in the clear Italian atmosphere, against the blue Italian sky. + </p> + <p> + “It's a perfect house for her,” he said. “It suits her—like an + appropriate garment; it almost seems to express her.” + </p> + <p> + And all the while, as he proceeded, her voice kept sounding in his ears; + scraps of her conversation, phrases that she had spoken, kept coming back + to him. + </p> + <p> + One end of the long, wide marble terrace had been arranged as a sort of + out-of-door living-room. A white awning was stretched overhead; warm-hued + rugs were laid on the pavement; there were wicker lounging-chairs, with + bright cushions, and a little table, holding books and things. + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa rose from one of the lounging-chairs, and came forward, + smiling, to meet him. + </p> + <p> + She gave him her hand—for the first time. + </p> + <p> + It was warm—electrically warm; and it was soft—womanly soft; + and it was firm, alive—it spoke of a vitality, a temperament. Peter + was sure, besides, that it would be sweet to smell; and he longed to bend + over it, and press it with his lips. He might almost have done so, + according to Italian etiquette. But, of course, he simply bowed over it, + and let it go. + </p> + <p> + “Mi trova abbandonata,” she said, leading the way back to the terrace-end. + There were notes of a peculiar richness in her voice, when she spoke + Italian; and she dwelt languorously on the vowels, and rather slurred the + consonants, lazily, in the manner Italian women have, whereby they give + the quality of velvet to their tongue. She was not an Italian woman; + Heaven be praised, she was English: so this was just pure gain to the + sum-total of her graces. “My uncle and my niece have gone to the village. + But I 'm expecting them to come home at any moment now—and you'll + not have long, I hope, to wait for your snuff.” + </p> + <p> + She flashed a whimsical little smile into his eyes. Then she returned to + her wicker chair, glancing an invitation at Peter to place himself in the + one facing her. She leaned back, resting her head on a pink silk cushion. + </p> + <p> + Peter, no doubt, sent up a silent prayer that her uncle and her niece + might be detained at the village for the rest of the afternoon. By her + niece he took her to mean Emilia: he liked her for the kindly euphemism. + “What hair she has!” he thought, admiring the loose brown masses, warm + upon their background of pink silk. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'm inured to waiting,” he replied, with a retrospective mind for the + interminable waits of that interminable day. + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa had taken a fan from the table, and was playing with it, + opening and shutting it slowly, in her lap. Now she caught Peter's eyes + examining it, and she gave it to him. (My own suspicion is that Peter's + eyes had been occupied rather with the hands that held the fan, than with + the fan itself—but that's a detail.) + </p> + <p> + “I picked it up the other day, in Rome,” she said. “Of course, it's an + imitation of the French fans of the last century, but I thought it + pretty.” + </p> + <p> + It was of white silk, that had been thinly stained a soft yellow, like the + yellow of faded yellow rose-leaves. It was painted with innumerable plump + little cupids, flying among pale clouds. The sticks were of + mother-of=pearl. The end-sticks were elaborately incised, and in the + incisions opals were set, big ones and small ones, smouldering with green + and scarlet fires. + </p> + <p> + “Very pretty indeed,” said Peter, “and very curious. It's like a great + butterfly's wing is n't it? But are n't you afraid of opals?” + </p> + <p> + “Afraid of opals?” she wondered. “Why should one be?” + </p> + <p> + “Unless your birthday happens to fall in October, they're reputed to bring + bad luck,” he reminded her. + </p> + <p> + “My birthday happens to fall in June but I 'll never believe that such + pretty things as opals can bring bad luck,” she laughed, taking the fan, + which he returned to her, and stroking one of the bigger opals with her + finger tip. + </p> + <p> + “Have you no superstitions?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I hope not—I don't think I have,” she answered. “We're not allowed + to have superstitions, you know—nous autres Catholiques.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh?” he said, with surprise. “No, I did n't know.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, they're a forbidden luxury. But you—? Are you superstitious? + Would you be afraid of opals?” + </p> + <p> + “I doubt if I should have the courage to wear one. At all events, I don't + regard superstitions in the light of a luxury. I should be glad to be rid + of those I have. They're a horrible inconvenience. But I can't get it out + of my head that the air is filled with a swarm of malignant little devils, + who are always watching their chance to do us an ill turn. We don't in the + least know the conditions under which they can bring it off; but it's + legendary that if we wear opals, or sit thirteen at table, or start an + enterprise on Friday, or what not, we somehow give them their opportunity. + And one naturally wishes to be on the safe side.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him with doubt, considering. + </p> + <p> + “You don't seriously believe all that?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “No, I don't seriously believe it. But one breathes it in with the air of + one's nursery, and it sticks. I don't believe it, but I fear it just + enough to be made uneasy. The evil eye, for instance. How can one spend + any time in Italy, where everybody goes loaded with charms against it, and + help having a sort of sneaking half-belief in the evil eye?” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head, laughing. + </p> + <p> + “I 've spent a good deal of time in Italy, but I have n't so much as a + sneaking quarter-belief in it.” + </p> + <p> + “I envy you your strength of mind,” said he. “But surely, though + superstition is a luxury forbidden to Catholics, there are plenty of good + Catholics who indulge in it, all the same?” + </p> + <p> + “There are never plenty of good Catholics,” said sire. “You employ a + much-abused expression. To profess the Catholic faith, to go to Mass on + Sunday and abstain from meat on Friday, that is by no means sufficient to + constitute a good Catholic. To be a good Catholic one would have to be a + saint, nothing less—and not a mere formal saint, either, but a very + real saint, a saint in thought and feeling, as well as in speech and + action. Just in so far as one is superstitious, one is a bad Catholic. Oh, + if the world were populated by good Catholics, it would be the Millennium + come to pass.” + </p> + <p> + “It would be that, if it were populated by good Christians—wouldn't + it?” asked Peter. + </p> + <p> + “The terms are interchangeable,” she answered sweetly, with a half-comical + look of defiance. + </p> + <p> + “Mercy!” cried he. “Can't a Protestant be a good Christian too?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said, “because a Protestant can be a Catholic without knowing + it.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—?” he puzzled, frowning. + </p> + <p> + “It's quite simple,” she explained. “You can't be a Christian unless + you're a Catholic. But if you believe as much of Christian truth as you've + ever had a fair opportunity of learning, and if you try to live in + accordance with Christian morals, you are a Catholic, you're a member of + the Catholic Church, whether you know it or not. You can't be deprived of + your birthright, you see.” + </p> + <p> + “That seems rather broad,” said Peter; “and one had always heard that + Catholicism was nothing if not narrow.” + </p> + <p> + “How could it be Catholic if it were narrow?” asked she. “However, if a + Protestant uses his intelligence, and is logical, he'll not remain an + unconscious Catholic long. If he studies the matter, and is logical, he'll + wish to unite himself to the Church in her visible body. Look at England. + See how logic is multiplying converts year by year.” + </p> + <p> + “But it's the glory of Englishmen to be illogical,” said Peter, with a + laugh. “Our capacity for not following premisses to their logical + consequences is the principal source of our national greatness. So the + bulk of the English are likely to resist conversion for centuries to come—are + they not? And then, nowadays, one is so apt to be an indifferentist in + matters of religion—and Catholicism is so exacting. One remains a + Protestant from the love of ease.” + </p> + <p> + “And from the desire, on the part of a good many Englishmen at least, to + sail in a boat of their own—not to get mixed up with a lot of + foreign publicans and sinners—no?” she suggested. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, of course, we're insular and we're Pharisaical,” admitted Peter. + </p> + <p> + “And as for one's indifference,” she smiled, “that is most probably due to + one's youth and inexperience. One can't come to close quarters with the + realities of life—with sorrow, with great joy, with temptation, with + sin or with heroic virtue, with death, with the birth of a new soul, with + any of the awful, wonderful realities of life—and continue to be an + indifferentist in matters of religion, do you think?” + </p> + <p> + “When one comes to close quarters with the awful, wonderful realities of + life, one has religious moments,” he acknowledged. “But they're generally + rather fugitive, are n't they?” + </p> + <p> + “One can cultivate them—one can encourage them,” she said. “If you + would care to know a good Catholic,” she added, “my niece, my little ward, + Emilia is one. She wants to become a Sister of Mercy, to spend her life + nursing the poor.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh? Would n't that be rather a pity?” Peter said. “She's so extremely + pretty. I don't know when I have seen prettier brown eyes than hers.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, in a few years, I expect we shall see those pretty brown eyes + looking out from under a sister's coif. No, I don't think it will be a + pity. Nuns and sisters, I think, are the happiest people in the world—and + priests. Have you ever met any one who seemed happier than my uncle, for + example?” + </p> + <p> + “I have certainly never met any one who seemed sweeter, kinder,” Peter + confessed. “He has a wonderful old face.” + </p> + <p> + “He's a wonderful old man,” said she. “I 'm going to try to keep him a + prisoner here for the rest of the summer—though he will have it that + he's just run down for a week. He works a great deal too hard when he's in + Rome. He's the only Cardinal I've ever heard of, who takes practical + charge of his titular church. But here in the country he's out-of-doors + all the blessed day, hand in hand with Emilia. He's as young as she is, I + believe. They play together like children—and make—me feel as + staid and solemn and grown-up as one of Mr. Kenneth Grahame's Olympians.” + </p> + <p> + Peter laughed. Then, in the moment of silence that followed, he happened + to let his eyes stray up the valley. + </p> + <p> + “Hello!” he suddenly exclaimed. “Someone has been painting our mountain + green.” + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa turned, to look; and she too uttered an exclamation. + </p> + <p> + By some accident of reflection or refraction, the snows of Monte Sfiorito + had become bright green, as if the light that fell on them had passed + through emeralds. They both paused, to gaze and marvel for a little. + Indeed, the prospect was a pleasing one, as well as a surprising—the + sunny lawns, the high trees, the blue lake, and then that bright green + mountain. + </p> + <p> + “I have never known anything like those snow-peaks for sailing under false + colours,” Peter said. “I have seen them every colour of the calendar, + except their native white.” + </p> + <p> + “You must n't blame the poor things,” pleaded the Duchessa. “They can't + help it. It's all along o' the distance and the atmosphere and the sun.” + </p> + <p> + She closed her fan, with which she had been more or less idly playing + throughout their dialogue, and replaced it on the table. Among the books + there—French books, for the most part, in yellow paper—Peter + saw, with something of a flutter (he could never see it without something + of a flutter), the grey-and-gold binding of “A Man of Words.” + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa caught his glance. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said; “your friend's novel. I told you I had been re-reading + it.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “And—do you know—I 'm inclined to agree with your own + enthusiastic estimate of it?” she went on. “I think it's extremely—but + extremely—clever; and more—very charming, very beautiful. The + fatal gift of beauty!” + </p> + <p> + And her smile reminded him that the application of the tag was his own. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “Its beauty, though,” she reflected, “is n't exactly of the obvious sort—is + it? It does n't jump at you, for instance. It is rather in the texture of + the work, than on the surface. One has to look, to see it.” + </p> + <p> + “One always has to look, to see beauty that is worth seeing,” he safely + generalised. But then—he had put his foot in the stirrup—his + hobby bolted with him. “It takes two to make a beautiful object. The eye + of the beholder is every bit as indispensable as the hand of the artist. + The artist does his work—the beholder must do his. They are + collaborators. Each must be the other's equal; and they must also be like + each other—with the likeness of opposites, of complements. Art, in + short, is entirely a matter of reciprocity. The kind of beauty that jumps + at you is the kind you end by getting heartily tired of—is the + skin-deep kind; and therefore it is n't really beauty at all—it is + only an approximation to beauty—it may be only a simulacrum of it.” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes were smiling, her face was glowing, softly, with interest, with + friendliness and perhaps with the least suspicion of something else—perhaps + with the faintest glimmer of suppressed amusement; but interest was easily + predominant. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she assented.... But then she pursued her own train of ideas. “And—with + you—I particularly like the woman—Pauline. I can't tell you + how much I like her. I—it sounds extravagant, but it's true—I + can think of no other woman in the whole of fiction whom I like so well—who + makes so curiously personal an appeal to me. Her wit—her waywardness—her + tenderness—her generosity—everything. How did your friend come + by his conception of her? She's as real to me as any woman I have ever + known she's more real to me than most of the women I know—she's + absolutely real, she lives, she breathes. Yet I have never known a woman + resembling her. Life would be a merrier business if one did know women + resembling her. She seems to me all that a woman ought ideally to be. Does + your friend know women like that—the lucky man? Or is Pauline, for + all her convincingness, a pure creature of imagination?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Peter, laughing, “you touch the secret springs of my friend's + inspiration. That is a story in itself. Felix Wildmay is a perfectly + commonplace Englishman. How could a woman like Pauline be the creature of + his imagination? No—she was a 'thing seen.' God made her. Wildmay + was a mere copyist. He drew her, tant bien que mal, from the life from a + woman who's actually alive on this dull globe to-day. But that's the + story.” + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa's eyes were intent. + </p> + <p> + “The story-? Tell me the story,” she pronounced in a breath, with + imperious eagerness. + </p> + <p> + And her eyes waited, intently. + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said Peter, “it's one of those stories that can scarcely be told. + There's hardly any thing to take hold of. It's without incident, without + progression—it's all subjective—it's a drama in states of + mind. Pauline was a 'thing seen,' indeed; but she wasn't a thing known: + she was a thing divined. Wildmay never knew her—never even knew who + she was—never knew her name—never even knew her nationality, + though, as the book shows, he guessed her to be an Englishwoman, married + to a Frenchman. He simply saw her, from a distance, half-a-dozen times + perhaps. He saw her in Paris, once or twice, at the theatre, at the opera; + and then later again, once or twice, in London; and then, once more, in + Paris, in the Bois. That was all, but that was enough. Her appearance—her + face, her eyes, her smile, her way of carrying herself, her way of + carrying her head, her gestures, her movements, her way of dressing—he + never so much as heard her voice—her mere appearance made an + impression on him such as all the rest of womankind had totally failed to + make. She was exceedingly lovely, of course, exceedingly distinguished, + noble-looking; but she was infinitely more. Her face her whole person—had + an expression! A spirit burned in her—a prismatic, aromatic fire. + Other women seemed dust, seemed dead, beside her. She was a garden, + inexhaustible, of promises, of suggestions. Wit, capriciousness, + generosity, emotion—you have said it—they were all there. Race + was there, nerve. Sex was there—all the mystery, magic, all the + essential, elemental principles of the Feminine, were there: she was a + woman. A wonderful, strenuous soul was there: Wildmay saw it, felt it. He + did n't know her—he had no hope of ever knowing her—but he + knew her better than he knew any one else in the world. She became the + absorbing subject of his thoughts, the heroine of his dreams. She became, + in fact, the supreme influence of his life.” + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa's eyes had not lost their intentness, while he was speaking. + Now that he had finished, she looked down at her hands, folded in her lap, + and mused for a moment in silence. At last she looked up again. + </p> + <p> + “It's as strange as anything I have ever heard,” she said, “it's furiously + strange—and romantic—and interesting. But—but—” + She frowned a little, hesitating between a choice of questions. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it's a story all compact of 'buts,'” Peter threw out laughing. + </p> + <p> + She let the remark pass her—she had settled upon her question. + </p> + <p> + “But how could he endure such a situation?” she asked. “How could he sit + still under it? Did n't he try in any way—did n't he make any effort + at all—to—to find her out—to discover who she was—to + get introduced to her? I should think he could never have rested—I + should think he would have moved heaven and earth.” + </p> + <p> + “What could he do? Tell me a single thing he could have done,” said Peter. + “Society has made no provision for a case like his. It 's absurd—but + there it is. You see a woman somewhere; you long to make her acquaintance; + and there's no natural bar to your doing so—you 're a presentable + man she's what they call a lady—you're both, more or less, of the + same monde. Yet there 's positively no way known by which you can contrive + it—unless chance, mere fortuitous chance, just happens to drop a + common acquaintance between you, at the right time and place. Chance, in + Wildmay's case, happened to drop all the common acquaintances they may + possibly have had at a deplorable distance. He was alone on each of the + occasions when he saw her. There was no one he could ask to introduce him; + there was no one he could apply to for information concerning her. He + could n't very well follow her carriage through the streets—dog her + to her lair, like a detective. Well—what then?” + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa was playing with her fan again. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she agreed; “I suppose it was hopeless. But it seems rather hard on + the poor man—rather baffling and tantalising.” + </p> + <p> + “The poor man thought it so, to be sure,” said Peter; “he fretted and + fumed a good deal, and kicked against the pricks. Here, there, now, anon, + he would enjoy his brief little vision of her—then she would vanish + into the deep inane. So, in the end—he had to take it out in + something—he took it out in writing a book about her. He propped up + a mental portrait of her on his desk before him, and translated it into + the character of Pauline. In that way he was able to spend long delightful + hours alone with her every day, in a kind of metaphysical intimacy. He had + never heard her voice—but now he heard it as often as Pauline opened + her lips. He owned her—he possessed her—she lived under his + roof—she was always waiting for him in his study. She is real to + you? She was inexpressibly, miraculously real to him. He saw her, knew + her, felt her, realised her, in every detail of her mind, her soul, her + person—down to the very intonations of her speech—down to the + veins in her hands, the rings on her fingers—down to her very furs + and laces, the frou-frou of her skirts, the scent upon her + pocket-handkerchief. He had numbered the hairs of her head, almost.” + </p> + <p> + Again the Duchessa mused for a while in silence, opening and shutting her + fan, and gazing into its opals. + </p> + <p> + “I am thinking of it from the woman's point of view,” she said, by and by. + “To have played such a part in a man's life—and never to have + dreamed it! Never even, very likely, to have dreamed that such a man + existed—for it's entirely possible she didn't notice him, on those + occasions when he saw her. And to have been the subject of such a novel—and + never to have dreamed that, either! To have read the novel perhaps—without + dreaming for an instant that there was any sort of connection between + Pauline and herself! Or else—what would almost be stranger still—not + to have read the novel, not to have heard of it! To have inspired such a + book, such a beautiful book—yet to remain in sheer unconscious + ignorance that there was such a book! Oh, I think it is even more + extraordinary from the woman's point of view than from the man's. There is + something almost terrifying about it. To have had such an influence on the + destiny of someone you've never heard of! There's a kind of intangible + sense of a responsibility.” + </p> + <p> + “There is also, perhaps,” laughed Peter, “a kind of intangible sense of a + liberty taken. I'm bound to say I think Wildmay was decidedly at his ease. + To appropriate in that cool fashion the personality of a total stranger! + But artists are the most unprincipled folk unhung. Ils prennent leur bien + la, ou ils le trouvent.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no,” said the Duchessa, “I think she was fair game. One can carry + delicacy too far. He was entitled to the benefits of his discovery—for, + after all, it was a discovery, was n't it? You have said yourself how + indispensable the eye of the beholder is—'the seeing eye.' I think, + indeed, the whole affair speaks extremely well for Mr. Wildmay. It is not + every man who would be capable of so purely intellectual a passion. I + suppose one must call his feeling for her a passion? It indicates a + distinction in his nature. He can hardly be a mere materialist. But—but + I think it's heart-rending that he never met her.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but that's the continuation of the story,” said Peter. “He did meet + her in the end, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “He did meet her!” cried the Duchessa, starting up, with a sudden access + of interest, whilst her eyes lightened. “He did meet her? Oh, you must + tell me about that.” + </p> + <p> + And just at this crisis the Cardinal and Emilia appeared, climbing the + terrace steps. + </p> + <p> + “Bother!” exclaimed the Duchessa, under her breath. Then, to Peter, “It + will have to be for another time—unless I die of the suspense.” + </p> + <p> + After the necessary greetings were transacted, another elderly priest + joined the company; a tall, burly, rather florid man, mentioned, when + Peter was introduced to him, as Monsignor Langshawe. “This really is her + chaplain,” Peter concluded. Then a servant brought tea. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Diamond, Diamond, you little know what mischief you might have + wrought,” he admonished himself, as he walked home through the level + sunshine. “In another instant, if we'd not been interrupted, you would + have let the cat out of the bag. The premature escape of the cat from the + bag would spoil everything.” + </p> + <p> + And he hugged himself, as one snatched from peril, in a qualm of + retroactive terror. At the same time he was filled with a kind of + exultancy. All that he had hoped had come to pass, and more, vastly more. + Not only had he been received as a friend at Ventirose, but he had been + encouraged to tell her a part at least of the story by which her life and + his were so curiously connected; and he had been snatched from the peril + of telling her too much. The day was not yet when he could safely say, + “Mutato nomine.....” Would the day ever be? But, meanwhile, just to have + told her the first ten lines of that story, he could not help feeling, + somehow advanced matters tremendously, somehow put a new face on matters. + </p> + <p> + “The hour for which the ages sighed may not be so far away as you think,” + he said to Marietta. “The curtain has risen upon Act Three. I fancy I can + perceive faint glimmerings of the beginning of the end.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIX + </h2> + <p> + All that evening, something which he had not been conscious of noticing + especially when it was present to him—certainly he had paid no + conscious attention to its details—kept recurring and recurring to + Peter's memory: the appearance of the prettily-arranged terrace-end at + Ventirose: the white awning, with the blue sky at its edges, the sunny + park beyond; the warm-hued carpets on the marble pavement; the wicker + chairs, with their bright cushions; the table, with its books and bibelots—the + yellow French books, a tortoise-shell paperknife, a silver paperweight, a + crystal smelling-bottle, a bowlful of drooping poppies; and the marble + balustrade, with its delicate tracery of leaves and tendrils, where the + jessamine twined round its pillars. + </p> + <p> + This kept recurring, recurring, vividly, a picture that he could see + without closing his eyes, a picture with a very decided sentiment. Like + the gay and gleaming many-pinnacled facade of her house, it seemed + appropriate to her; it seemed in its fashion to express her. Nay, it + seemed to do more. It was a corner of her every-day environment; these + things were the companions, the witnesses, of moments of her life, phases + of herself, which were hidden from Peter; they were the companions and + witnesses of her solitude, her privacy; they were her confidants, in a + way. They seemed not merely to express her, therefore, but to be + continually on the point—I had almost said of betraying her. At all + events, if he could only understand their silent language, they would + prove rich in precious revelations. So he welcomed their recurrences, + dwelt upon them, pondered them, and got a deep if somewhat inarticulate + pleasure from them. + </p> + <p> + On Thursday, as he approached the castle, the last fires of sunset were + burning in the sky behind it—the long irregular mass of buildings + stood out in varying shades of blue, against varying, dying shades of red: + the grey stone, dark, velvety indigo; the pink stucco, pink still, but + with a transparent blue penumbra over it; the white marble, palely, + scintillantly amethystine. And if he was interested in her environment, + now he could study it to his heart's content: the wide marble staircase, + up which he was shown, with its crimson carpet, and the big mellow + painting, that looked as if it might be a Titian, at the top; the great + saloon, in which he was received, with its polished mosaic floor, its + frescoed ceiling, its white-and-gold panelling, its hangings and + upholsteries of yellow brocade, its satinwood chairs and tables, its + bronzes, porcelains, embroideries, its screens and mirrors; the long + dining-hall, with its high pointed windows, its slender marble columns + supporting a vaulted roof, its twinkling candles in chandeliers and + sconces of cloudy Venetian glass, its brilliant table, its flowers and + their colours and their scents. + </p> + <p> + He could study her environment to his heart's content, indeed—or to + his heart's despair. For all this had rather the effect of chilling, of + depressing him. It was very splendid; it was very luxurious and cheerful; + it was appropriate and personal to her, if you like; no doubt, in its + fashion, in its measure, it, too, expressed her. But, at that rate, it + expressed her in an aspect which Peter had instinctively made it his habit + to forget, which he by no means found it inspiriting to remember. It + expressed, it emphasised, her wealth, her rank; it emphasised the + distance, in a worldly sense, between her and himself, the conventional + barriers. + </p> + <p> + And she... + </p> + <p> + She was very lovely, she was entirely cordial, friendly, she was all that + she had ever been—and yet—and yet—Well, somehow, she + seemed indefinably different. Somehow, again, the distance, the barriers, + were emphasised. She was very lovely, she was entirely cordial, friendly, + she was all that she had ever been; but, somehow, to-night, she seemed + very much the great lady, very much the duchess.... + </p> + <p> + “My dear man,” he said to himself, “you were mad to dream for a single + instant that there was the remotest possibility of anything ever + happening.” + </p> + <p> + The only other guests, besides the Cardinal and Monsignor Langshawe, were + an old Frenchwoman, with beautiful white hair, from one of the + neighbouring villas, Madame de Lafere, and a young, pretty, witty, and + voluble Irishwoman, Mrs. O'Donovan Florence, from an hotel at Spiaggia. In + deference, perhaps, to the cloth of the two ecclesiastics, none of the + women were in full evening-dress, and there was no arm-taking when they + went in to dinner. The dinner itself was of a simplicity which Peter + thought admirable, and which, of course, he attributed to his Duchessa's + own good taste. He was not yet familiar enough with the Black aristocracy + of Italy, to be aware that in the matter of food and drink simplicity is + as much the criterion of good form amongst them, as lavish complexity is + the criterion of good form amongst the English-imitating Whites. + </p> + <p> + The conversation, I believe, took its direction chiefly from the + initiative of Mrs. O'Donovan Florence. With great sprightliness and + humour, and with an astonishing light-hearted courage, she rallied the + Cardinal upon the neglect in which her native island was allowed to + languish by the powers at Rome. “The most Catholic country in three + hemispheres, to be sure,” she said; “every inch of its soil soaked with + the blood of martyrs. Yet you've not added an Irish saint to the Calendar + for I see you're blushing to think how many ages; and you've taken sides + with the heretic Saxon against us in our struggle for Home Rule—which + I blame you for, though, being a landowner and a bit of an absentee, I 'm + a traitorous Unionist myself.” + </p> + <p> + The Cardinal laughingly retorted that the Irish were far too fine, too + imaginative and poetical a race, to be bothered with material questions of + government and administration. They should leave such cares to the stolid, + practical English, and devote the leisure they would thus obtain to the + further exercise and development of what someone had called “the starfire + of the Celtic nature.” Ireland should look upon England as her + working-housekeeper. And as for the addition of Irish saints to the + Calendar, the stumbling-block was their excessive number. “'T is an + embarrassment of riches. If we were once to begin, we could never leave + off till we had canonised nine-tenths of the dead population.” + </p> + <p> + Monsignor Langshawe, at this (making jest the cue for earnest), spoke up + for Scotland, and deplored the delay in the beatification of Blessed Mary. + “The official beatification,” he discriminated, “for she was beatified in + the heart of every true Catholic Scot on the day when Bloody Elizabeth + murdered her.” + </p> + <p> + And Madame de Lafere put in a plea for Louis XVI, Marie-Antoinette, and + the little Dauphin. + </p> + <p> + “Blessed Mary—Bloody Elizabeth,” laughed the Duchessa, in an aside + to Peter; “here is language to use in the presence of a Protestant + Englishman.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'm accustomed to 'Bloody Elizabeth,'” said he. “Was n't it a word of + Cardinal Newman's?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I think so,” said she. “And since every one is naming his candidate; + for the Calendar, you have named mine. I think there never was a saintlier + saint than Cardinal Newman.” + </p> + <p> + “What is your Eminence's attitude towards the question of mixed + marriages?” Mrs. O'Donovan Florence asked. + </p> + <p> + Peter pricked up his ears. + </p> + <p> + “It is not the question of actuality in Italy that it is in England,” his + Eminence replied; “but in the abstract, and other things equal, my + attitude would of course be one of disapproval.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet surely,” contended she, “if a pious Catholic girl marries a + Protestant man, she has a hundred chances of converting him?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know,” said the Cardinal. “Would n't it be safer to let the + conversion precede the marriage? Afterwards, I 'm afraid, he would have a + hundred chances of inducing her to apostatise, or, at least, of rendering + her lukewarm.” + </p> + <p> + “Not if she had a spark of the true zeal,” said Mrs. O'Donovan Florence. + “Any wife can make her husband's life a burden to him, if she will + conscientiously lay herself out to do so. The man would be glad to submit, + for the sake of peace in his household. I often sigh for the good old days + of the Inquisition; but it's still possible, in the blessed seclusion of + the family circle, to apply the rack and the thumbscrew in a modified + form. I know a dozen fine young Protestant men in London whom I'm + labouring to convert, and I feel I 'm defeated only by the circumstance + that I'm not in a position to lead them to the altar in the full meaning + of the expression.” + </p> + <p> + “A dozen?” the Cardinal laughed. “Aren't you complicating the question of + mixed marriages with that of plural marriage?” + </p> + <p> + “'T was merely a little Hibernicism, for which I beg your Eminence's + indulgence,” laughed she. “But what puts the most spokes in a + proselytiser's wheel is the Faith itself. If we only deserved the + reputation for sharp practice and double dealing which the Protestants + have foisted upon us, it would be roses, roses, all the way. Why are we + forbidden to let the end justify the means? And where are those + accommodements avec le ciel of which we've heard? We're not even permitted + a few poor accommodements avec le monde.” + </p> + <p> + “Look at my uncle's face,” whispered the Duchessa to Peter. The Cardinal's + fine old face was all alight with amusement. “In his fondness for taking + things by their humorous end, he has met an affinity.” + </p> + <p> + “It will be a grand day for the Church and the nations, when we have an + Irish Pope,” Mrs. O'Donovan Florence continued. “A good, stalwart, + militant Irishman is what's needed to set everything right. With a sweet + Irish tongue, he'd win home the wandering sheep; and with a strong Irish + arm, he'd drive the wolves from the fold. It's he that would soon sweep + the Italians out of Rome.” + </p> + <p> + “The Italians will soon be swept out of Rome by the natural current of + events,” said the Cardinal. “But an Irish bishop of my acquaintance + insists that we have already had many Irish Popes, without knowing it. Of + all the greatest Popes he cries, 'Surely, they must have had Irish blood.' + He's perfectly convinced that Pius the Ninth was Irish. His very name, his + family-name, Ferretti, was merely the Irish name, Farrity, Italianised, + the good bishop says. No one but an Irishman, he insists, could have been + so witty.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. O'Donovan Florence looked intensely thoughtful for a moment.... Then, + “I 'm trying to think of the original Irish form of Udeschini,” she + declared. + </p> + <p> + At which there was a general laugh. + </p> + <p> + “When you say 'soon,' Eminence, do you mean that we may hope to see the + Italians driven from Rome in our time?” enquired Madame de Lafere. + </p> + <p> + “They are on the verge of bankruptcy—for their sins,” the Cardinal + answered. “When the crash comes—and it can't fail to come before + many years—there will necessarily be a readjustment. I do not + believe that the conscience of Christendom will again allow Peter to be + deprived of his inheritance.” + </p> + <p> + “God hasten the good day,” said Monsignor Langshawe. + </p> + <p> + “If I can live to see Rome restored to the Pope, I shall die content, even + though I cannot live to see France restored to the King,” said the old + Frenchwoman. + </p> + <p> + “And I—even though I cannot live to see Britain restored to the + Faith,” said the Monsignore. + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa smiled at Peter. + </p> + <p> + “What a hotbed of Ultramontanes and reactionaries you have fallen into,” + she murmured. + </p> + <p> + “It is exhilarating,” said he, “to meet people who have convictions.” + </p> + <p> + “Even when you regard their convictions as erroneous?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, even then,” he answered. “But I'm not sure I regard as erroneous the + convictions I have heard expressed to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—?” she wondered. “Would you like to see Rome restored to the + Pope?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said he, “decidedly—for aesthetic reasons, if for no others.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose there are aesthetic reasons,” she assented. “But we, of course, + think there are conclusive reasons in mere justice.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't doubt there are conclusive reasons in mere justice, too,” said + he. + </p> + <p> + After dinner, at the Cardinal's invitation, the Duchessa went to the + piano, and played Bach and Scarlatti. Her face, in the soft candlelight, + as she discoursed that “luminous, lucid” music, Peter thought... But what + do lovers always think of their ladies' faces, when they look up from + their pianos, in soft candlelight? + </p> + <p> + Mrs. O'Donovan Florence, taking her departure, said to the Cardinal, “I + owe your Eminence the two proudest days of my life. The first was when I + read in the paper that you had received the hat, and I was able to boast + to all my acquaintances that I had been in the convent with your niece by + marriage. And the second is now, when I can boast forevermore hereafter + that I've enjoyed the honour of making my courtesy to you.” + </p> + <p> + “So,” said Peter, as he walked home through the dew and the starlight of + the park, amid the phantom perfumes of the night, “so the Cardinal does + n't approve of mixed marriages and, of course, his niece does n't, either. + But what can it matter to me? For alas and alas—as he truly said—it's + hardly a question of actuality.” + </p> + <p> + And he lit a cigarette. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XX + </h2> + <p> + “So he did meet her, after all?” the Duchessa said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he met her in the end,” Peter answered. + </p> + <p> + They were seated under the gay white awning, against the bright + perspective of lawn, lake, and mountains, on the terrace at Ventirose, + where Peter was paying his dinner-call. The August day was hot and still + and beautiful—a day made of gold and velvet and sweet odours. The + Duchessa lay back languidly, among the crisp silk cushions, in her low, + lounging chair; and Peter, as he looked at her, told himself that he must + be cautious, cautious. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he met her in the end,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Well—? And then—?” she questioned, with a show of eagerness, + smiling into his eyes. “What happened? Did she come up to his + expectations? Or was she just the usual disappointment? I have been pining—oh, + but pining—to hear the continuation of the story.” + </p> + <p> + She smiled into his eyes, and his heart fluttered. “I must be cautious,” + he told himself. “In more ways than one, this is a crucial moment.” At the + same time, as a very part of his caution, he must appear entirely + nonchalant and candid. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no—tutt' altro,” he said, with an assumption of nonchalant + airiness and candid promptness. “She 'better bettered' his expectations—she + surpassed his fondest. She was a thousand times more delightful than he + had dreamed—though, as you know, he had dreamed a good deal. Pauline + de Fleuvieres turned out to be the feeblest, faintest echo of her.” + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa meditated for an instant. + </p> + <p> + “It seems impossible. It's one of those situations in which a + disenchantment seems the foregone conclusion,” she said, at last. + </p> + <p> + “It seems so, indeed,” assented Peter; “but disenchantment, there was + none. She was all that he had imagined, and infinitely more. She was the + substance—he had imagined the shadow. He had divined her, as it + were, from a single angle, and there were many angles. Pauline was the + pale reflection of one side of her—a pencil-sketch in profile.” + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa shook her head, marvelling, and smiled again. + </p> + <p> + “You pile wonder upon wonder,” she said. “That the reality should excel + the poet's ideal! That the cloud-capped towers which looked splendid from + afar, with all the glamour of distance, should prove to be more splendid + still, on close inspection! It's dead against the accepted theory of + things. And that any woman should be nicer than that adorable Pauline! You + tax belief. But I want to know what happened. Had she read his book?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing happened,” said Peter. “I warned you that it was a drama without + action. A good deal happened, no doubt, in Wildmay's secret soul. But + externally, nothing. They simply chatted together—exchanged the time + o' day—like any pair of acquaintances. No, I don't think she had + read his book. She did read it afterwards, though.” + </p> + <p> + “And liked it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—she said she liked it.” + </p> + <p> + “Well—? But then-?” the Duchessa pressed him, insistently. “When she + discovered the part she had had in its composition—? Was n't she + overwhelmed? Wasn't she immensely interested—surprised—moved?” + </p> + <p> + She leaned forward a little. Her eyes were shining. Her lips were slightly + parted, so that between their warm rosiness Peter could see the exquisite + white line of her teeth. His heart fluttered again. “I must be cautious, + cautious,” he remembered, and made a strenuous “act of will” to steady + himself. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, she never discovered that,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “What!” exclaimed the Duchessa. Her face fell. Her eyes darkened—with + dismay, with incomprehension. “Do you—you don't—mean to say + that he didn't tell her?” There was reluctance to believe, there was a + conditional implication of deep reproach, in her voice. + </p> + <p> + Peter had to repeat his act of will. + </p> + <p> + “How could he tell her?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + She frowned at him, with reproach that was explicit now, and a kind of + pained astonishment. + </p> + <p> + “How could he help telling her?” she cried. “But—but it was the one + great fact between them. But it was a fact that intimately concerned her—it + was a fact of her own destiny. But it was her right to be told. Do you + seriously mean that he did n't tell her? But why did n't he? What could + have possessed him?” + </p> + <p> + There was something like a tremor in her voice. “I must appear entirely + nonchalant and candid,” Peter remembered. + </p> + <p> + “I fancy he was possessed, in some measure, by a sense of the liberty he + had taken by a sense of what one might, perhaps, venture to qualify as his + 'cheek.' For, if it was n't already a liberty to embody his notion of her + in a novel—in a published book, for daws to peck at—it would + have become a liberty the moment he informed her that he had done so. That + would have had the effect of making her a kind of involuntary particeps + criminis.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the foolish man!” sighed the Duchessa, with a rueful shake of the + head. “His foolish British self-consciousness! His British inability to + put himself in another person's place, to see things from another's point + of view! Could n't he see, from her point of view, from any point of view + but his own, that it was her right to be told? That the matter affected + her in one way, as much as it affected him in another? That since she had + influenced—since she had contributed to—his life and his art + as she had, it was her right to know it? Couldn't he see that his 'cheek,' + his real 'cheek,' began when he withheld from her that great strange + chapter of her own history? Oh, he ought to have told her, he ought to + have told her.” + </p> + <p> + She sank back in her chair, giving her head another rueful shake, and + gazed ruefully away, over the sunny landscape, through the mellow + atmosphere, into the golden-hazy distance. + </p> + <p> + Peter looked at her—and then, quickly, for caution's sake, looked + elsewhere. + </p> + <p> + “But there were other things to be taken into account,” he said. + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa raised her eyes. “What other things?” they gravely + questioned. + </p> + <p> + “Would n't his telling her have been equivalent to a declaration of love?” + questioned he, looking at the signet-ring on the little finger of his left + hand. + </p> + <p> + “A declaration of love?” She considered for a moment. “Yes, I suppose in a + way it would,” she acknowledged. “But even so?” she asked, after another + moment of consideration. “Why should he not have made her a declaration of + love? He was in love with her, wasn't he?” + </p> + <p> + The point of frank interrogation in her eyes showed clearly, showed + cruelly, how detached, how impersonal, her interest was. + </p> + <p> + “Frantically,” said Peter. For caution's sake, he kept HIS eyes on the + golden-hazy peaks of Monte Sfionto. “He had been in love with her, in a + fashion, of course, from the beginning. But after he met her, he fell in + love with her anew. His mind, his imagination, had been in love with its + conception of her. But now he, the man, loved her, the woman herself, + frantically, with just a downright common human love. There were + circumstances, however, which made it impossible for him to tell her so.” + </p> + <p> + “What circumstances?” There was the same frank look of interrogation. “Do + you mean that she was married?” + </p> + <p> + “No, not that. By the mercy of heaven,” he pronounced, with energy, “she + was a widow.” + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa broke into an amused laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Permit me to admire your piety,” she said. + </p> + <p> + And Peter, as his somewhat outrageous ejaculation came back to him, + laughed vaguely too. + </p> + <p> + “But then—?” she went on. “What else? By the mercy of heaven, she + was a widow. What other circumstance could have tied his tongue?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” he answered, a trifle uneasily, “a multitude of circumstances. + Pretty nearly every conventional barrier the world has invented, existed + between him and her. She was a frightful swell, for one thing.” + </p> + <p> + “A frightful swell—?” The Duchessa raised her eyebrows. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Peter, “at a vertiginous height above him—horribly + 'aloft and lone' in the social hierarchy.” He tried to smile. + </p> + <p> + “What could that matter?” the Duchessa objected simply. “Mr. Wildmay is a + gentleman.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know he is?” Peter asked, thinking to create a diversion. + </p> + <p> + “Of course, he is. He must be. No one but a gentleman could have had such + an experience, could have written such a book. And besides, he's a friend + of yours. Of course he's a gentleman,” returned the adroit Duchessa. + </p> + <p> + “But there are degrees of gentleness, I believe,” said Peter. “She was at + the topmost top. He—well, at all events, he knew his place. He had + too much humour, too just a sense of proportion, to contemplate offering + her his hand.” + </p> + <p> + “A gentleman can offer his hand to any woman—under royalty,” said + the Duchessa. + </p> + <p> + “He can, to be sure—and he can also see it declined with thanks,” + Peter answered. “But it wasn't merely her rank. She was horribly rich, + besides. And then—and then—! There were ten thousand other + impediments. But the chief of them all, I daresay, was Wildmay's fear lest + an avowal of his attachment should lead to his exile from her presence—and + he naturally did not wish to be exiled.” + </p> + <p> + “Faint heart!” the Duchessa said. “He ought to have told her. The case was + peculiar, was unique. Ordinary rules could n't apply to it. And how could + he be sure, after all, that she would n't have despised the conventional + barriers, as you call them? Every man gets the wife he deserves—and + certainly he had gone a long way towards deserving her. She could n't have + felt quite indifferent to him—if he had told her; quite indifferent + to the man who had drawn that magnificent Pauline from his vision of her. + No woman could be entirely proof against a compliment like that. And I + insist that it was her right to know. He should simply have told her the + story of his book and of her part in it. She would have inferred the rest. + He needn't have mentioned love—the word.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Peter, “it is not always too late to mend. He may tell her + some fine day yet.” + </p> + <p> + And in his soul two voices were contending. + </p> + <p> + “Tell her—tell her—tell her! Tell her now, at once, and abide + your chances,” urged one. “No—no—no—do nothing of the + kind,” protested the second. “She is arguing the point for its abstract + interest. She is a hundred miles from dreaming that you are the man—hundreds + of miles from dreaming that she is the woman. If she had the least + suspicion of that, she would sing a song as different as may be. Caution, + caution.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her—warm and fragrant and radiant, in her soft, white + gown, in her low lounging-chair, so near, so near to him—he looked + at her glowing eyes, her red lips, her rich brown hair, at the + white-and-rose of her skin, at the delicate blue veins in her forehead, at + her fine white hands, clasped loosely together in her lap, at the flowing + lines of her figure, with its supple grace and strength; and behind her, + surrounding her, accessory to her, he was conscious of the golden August + world, in the golden August weather—of the green park, and the pure + sunshine, and the sweet, still air, of the blue lake, and the blue sky, + and the mountains with their dark-blue shadows, of the long marble + terrace, and the gleaming marble facade of the house, and the marble + balustrade, with the jessamine twining round its columns. The picture was + very beautiful—but something was wanting to perfect its beauty; and + the name of the something that was wanting sang itself in poignant + iteration to the beating of his pulses. And he longed and longed to tell + her; and he dared not; and he hesitated.... + </p> + <p> + And while he was hesitating, the pounding of hoofs and the grinding of + carriage-wheels on gravel reached his ears—and so the situation was + saved, or the opportunity lost, as you choose to think it. For next minute + a servant appeared on the terrace, and announced Mrs. O'Donovan Florence. + </p> + <p> + And shortly after that lady's arrival, Peter took his leave. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXI + </h2> + <p> + “Well, Trixie, and is one to congratulate you?” asked Mrs. O'Donovan + Florence. + </p> + <p> + “Congratulate me—? On what?” asked Beatrice. + </p> + <p> + “On what, indeed!” cried the vivacious Irishwoman. “Don't try to pull the + wool over the eyes of an old campaigner like me.” + </p> + <p> + Beatrice looked blank. + </p> + <p> + “I can't in the least think what you mean,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Get along with you,” cried Mrs. O'Donovan Florence; and she brandished + her sunshade threateningly. “On your engagement to Mr.—what's this + his name is?—to be sure.” + </p> + <p> + She glanced indicatively down the lawn, in the direction of Peter's + retreating tweeds. + </p> + <p> + Beatrice had looked blank. But now she looked—first, perhaps, for a + tiny fraction of a second, startled—then gently, compassionately + ironical. + </p> + <p> + “My poor Kate! Are you out of your senses?” she enquired, in accents of + concern, nodding her head, with a feint of pensive pity. + </p> + <p> + “Not I,” returned Mrs. O'Donovan Florence, cheerfully confident. “But I 'm + thinking I could lay my finger on a long-limbed young Englishman less than + a mile from here, who very nearly is. Hasn't he asked you yet?” + </p> + <p> + “Es-to bete?” Beatrice murmured, pitifully nodding again. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well, if he has n't, it's merely a question of time when he will,” + said Mrs. O'Donovan Florence. “You've only to notice the famished gaze + with which he devours you, to see his condition. But don't try to hoodwink + me. Don't pretend that this is news to you.” + </p> + <p> + “News!” scoffed Beatrice. “It's news and nonsense—the product of + your irrepressible imagination. Mr. What's-this-his-name-is, as you call + him, and I are the barest acquaintances. He's our temporary neighbour—the + tenant for the season of Villa Floriano—the house you can catch a + glimpse of, below there, through the trees, on the other side of the + river.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he, now, really? And that's very interesting too. But I wasn't denying + it.” Mrs. O'Donovan Florence smiled, with derisive sweetness. “The fact of + his being the tenant of the house I can catch a glimpse of, through the + trees, on the other side of the river, though a valuable acquisition to my + stores of knowledge, does n't explain away his famished glance unless, + indeed, he's behind with the rent: but even then, it's not famished he'd + look, but merely anxious and persuasive. I'm a landlord myself. No, + Trixie, dear, you've made roast meat of the poor fellow's heart, as the + poetical Persians express it; and if he has n't told you so yet with his + tongue, he tells the whole world so with his eyes as often as he allows + them to rest on their loadstone, your face. You can see the sparks and the + smoke escaping from them, as though they were chimneys. If you've not + observed that for yourself, it can only be that excessive modesty has + rendered you blind. The man is head over ears in love with you. Nonsense + or bonsense, that is the sober truth.” + </p> + <p> + Beatrice laughed. + </p> + <p> + “I 'm sorry to destroy a romance, Kate,” she said; “but alas for the + pretty one you 've woven, I happen to know that, so far from being in love + with me, Mr. Marchdale is quite desperately in love with another woman. He + was talking to me about her the moment before you arrived.” + </p> + <p> + “Was he, indeed?—and you the barest acquaintances!” quizzed Mrs. + O'Donovan Florence, pulling a face. “Well, well,” she went on + thoughtfully, “if he's in love with another woman, that settles my last + remaining doubt. It can only be that the other woman's yourself.” + </p> + <p> + Beatrice shook her head, and laughed again. + </p> + <p> + “Is that what they call an Irishism?” she asked, with polite curiosity. + </p> + <p> + “And an Irishism is a very good thing, too—when employed with + intention,” retorted her friend. “Did he just chance, now, in a casual + way, to mention the other woman's name, I wonder?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you perverse and stiff-necked generation!” Beatrice laughed. “What + can his mentioning or not mentioning her name signify? For since he's in + love with her, it's hardly likely that he's in love with you or me at the + same time, is it?” + </p> + <p> + “That's as may be. But I'll wager I could make a shrewd guess at her name + myself. And what else did he tell you about her? He's told me nothing; but + I'll warrant I could paint her portrait. She's a fine figure of a young + Englishwoman, brown-haired, grey-eyed, and she stands about + five-feet-eight in her shoes. There's an expression of great malice and + humour in her physiognomy, and a kind of devil-may-care haughtiness in the + poise of her head. She's a bit of a grande dame, into the bargain—something + like an Anglo-Italian duchess, for example; she's monstrously rich; and + she adds, you'll be surprised to learn, to her other fascinations that of + being a widow. Faith, the men are so fond of widows, it's a marvel to me + that we're ever married at all until we reach that condition;—and + there, if you like, is another Irishism for you. But what's this? Methinks + a rosy blush mantles my lady's brow. Have I touched the heel of Achilles? + She IS a widow? He TOLD you she was a widow?... But—bless us and + save us!—what's come to you now? You're as white as a sheet. What is + it?” + </p> + <p> + “Good heavens!” gasped Beatrice. She lay back in her chair, and stared + with horrified eyes into space. “Good—good heavens!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. O' Donovan Florence leaned forward and took her hand. + </p> + <p> + “What is it, my dear? What's come to you?” she asked, in alarm. + </p> + <p> + Beatrice gave a kind of groan. + </p> + <p> + “It's absurd—it's impossible,” she said; “and yet, if by any + ridiculous chance you should be right, it's too horribly horrible.” She + repeated her groan. “If by any ridiculous chance you are right, the man + will think that I have been leading him on!” + </p> + <p> + “LEADING HIM ON!” Mrs. O'Donovan Florence suppressed a shriek of ecstatic + mirth. “There's no question about my being right,” she averred soberly. + “He wears his heart behind his eyeglass; and whoso runs may read it.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then—” began Beatrice, with an air of desperation... “But + no,” she broke off. “YOU CAN'T be right. It's impossible, impossible. + Wait. I'll tell you the whole story. You shall see for yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Go on,” said Mrs. O'Donovan Florence, assuming an attitude of devout + attention, which she retained while Beatrice (not without certain starts + and hesitations) recounted the fond tale of Peter's novel, and of the + woman who had suggested the character of Pauline. + </p> + <p> + “But OF COURSE!” cried the Irishwoman, when the tale was finished; and + this time her shriek of mirth, of glee, was not suppressed. “Of course—you + miracle of unsuspecting innocence! The man would never have breathed a + whisper of the affair to any soul alive, save to his heroine herself—let + alone to you, if you and she were not the same. Couple that with the eyes + he makes at you, and you've got assurance twice assured. You ought to have + guessed it from the first syllable he uttered. And when he went on about + her exalted station and her fabulous wealth! Oh, my ingenue! Oh, my + guileless lambkin! And you Trixie Belfont! Where's your famous wit? Where + are your famous intuitions?” + </p> + <p> + “BUT DON'T YOU SEE,” wailed Beatrice, “don't you see the utterly odious + position this leaves me in? I've been urging him with all my might to tell + her! I said... oh, the things I said!” She shuddered visibly. “I said that + differences of rank and fortune could n't matter.” She gave a melancholy + laugh. “I said that very likely she'd accept him. I said she couldn't help + being... Oh, my dear, my dear! He'll think—of course, he can't help + thinking—that I was encouraging him—that I was coming halfway + to meet him.” + </p> + <p> + “Hush, hush! It's not so bad as that,” said Mrs. O'Donovan Florence, + soothingly. “For surely, as I understand it, the man doesn't dream that + you knew it was about himself he was speaking. He always talked of the + book as by a friend of his; and you never let him suspect that you had + pierced his subterfuge.” + </p> + <p> + Beatrice frowned for an instant, putting this consideration in its place, + in her troubled mind. Then suddenly a light of intense, of immense relief + broke in her face. + </p> + <p> + “Thank goodness!” she sighed. “I had forgotten. No, he does n't dream + that. But oh, the fright I had!” + </p> + <p> + “He'll tell you, all the same,” said Mrs. O'Donovan Florence. + </p> + <p> + “No, he'll never tell me now. I am forewarned, forearmed. I 'll give him + no chance,” Beatrice answered. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; and what's more, you'll marry him,” said her friend. + </p> + <p> + “Kate! Don't descend to imbecilities,” cried Beatrice. + </p> + <p> + “You'll marry him,” reiterated Mrs. O'Donovan Florence, calmly. “You'll + end by marrying him—if you're human; and I've seldom known a human + being who was more so. It's not in flesh and blood to remain unmoved by a + tribute such as that man has paid you. The first thing you'll do will be + to re-read the novel. Otherwise, I'd request the loan of it myself, for I + 'm naturally curious to compare the wrought ring with the virgin gold—but + I know it's the wrought ring the virgin gold will itself be wanting, + directly it's alone. And then the poison will work. And you'll end by + marrying him.” + </p> + <p> + “In the first place,” replied Beatrice, firmly, “I shall never marry any + one. That is absolutely certain. In the next place, I shall not re-read + the novel; and to prove that I shan't, I shall insist on your taking it + with you when you leave to-day. And finally, I'm nowhere near convinced + that you're right about my being... well, you might as well say the raw + material, the rough ore, as the virgin gold. It's only a bare possibility. + But even the possibility had not occurred to me before. Now that it has, I + shall be on my guard. I shall know how to prevent any possible + developments.” + </p> + <p> + “In the first place,” said Mrs. O'Donovan Florence, with equal firmness, + “wild horses couldn't induce me to take the novel. Wait till you're alone. + A hundred questions about it will come flocking to your mind; you'd be + miserable if you had n't it to refer to. In the next place, the poison + will work and work. Say what you will, it's flattery that wins us. In the + third place, he'll tell you. Finally, you'll make a good Catholic of him, + and marry him. It's absurd, it's iniquitous, anyhow, for a young and + beautiful woman like you to remain a widow. And your future husband is a + man of talent and distinction, and he's not bad-looking, either. Will you + stick to your title, now, I wonder? Or will you step down, and be plain + Mrs. Marchdale? No—the Honourable Mrs.—excuse me—'Mr. + and the Honourable Mrs. Marchdale.' I see you in the 'Morning Post' + already. And will you continue to live in Italy? Or will you come back to + England?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my good Kate, my sweet Kate, my incorrigible Kate, what an + extravagantly silly Kate you can be when the mood takes you,” Beatrice + laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Kate me as many Kates as you like, the man is really not bad-looking. He + has a nice lithe springy figure, and a clean complexion, and an open brow. + And if there's a suggestion of superciliousness in the tilt of his nose, + of scepticism in the twirl of his moustaches, and of obstinacy in the + squareness of his chin—ma foi, you must take the bitter with the + sweet. Besides, he has decent hair, and plenty of it—he'll not go + bald. And he dresses well, and wears his clothes with an air. In short, + you'll make a very handsome couple. Anyhow, when your family are gathered + round the evening lamp to-night, I 'll stake my fortune on it, but I can + foretell the name of the book they'll find Trixie Belfont reading,” + laughed Mrs. O'Donovan Florence. + </p> + <p> + For a few minutes, after her friend had left her, Beatrice sat still, her + head resting on her hand, and gazed with fixed eyes at Monte Sfiorito. + Then she rose, and walked briskly backwards and forwards, for a while, up + and down the terrace. Presently she came to a standstill, and leaning on + the balustrade, while one of her feet kept lightly tapping the pavement, + looked off again towards the mountain. + </p> + <p> + The prospect was well worth her attention, with its blue and green and + gold, its wood and water, its misty-blushing snows, its spaciousness and + its atmosphere. In the sky a million fluffy little cloudlets floated like + a flock of fantastic birds, with mother-of-pearl tinted plumage. The + shadows were lengthening now. The sunshine glanced from the smooth surface + of the lake as from burnished metal, and falling on the coloured sails of + the fishing-boats, made them gleam like sails of crimson silk. But I + wonder how much of this Beatrice really saw. + </p> + <p> + She plucked an oleander from one of the tall marble urns set along the + balustrade, and pressed the pink blossom against her face, and, closing + her eyes, breathed in its perfume; then, absent-minded, she let it drop, + over the terrace, upon the path below. + </p> + <p> + “It's impossible,” she said suddenly, aloud. At last she went into the + house, and up to her rose-and-white retiring-room. There she took a book + from the table, and sank into a deep easy-chair, and began to turn the + pages. + </p> + <p> + But when, by and by, approaching footsteps became audible in the + stone-floored corridor without, Beatrice hastily shut the book, thrust it + back upon the table, and caught up another so that Emilia Manfredi, + entering, found her reading Monsieur Anatole France's “Etui de nacre.” + </p> + <p> + “Emilia,” she said, “I wish you would translate the I Jongleur de Notre + Dame' into Italian.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXII + </h2> + <p> + Peter, we may suppose, returned to Villa Floriano that afternoon in a + state of some excitement. + </p> + <p> + “He ought to have told her—” + </p> + <p> + “It was her right to be told—” + </p> + <p> + “What could her rank matter—” + </p> + <p> + “A gentleman can offer his hand to any woman—” + </p> + <p> + “She would have despised the conventional barriers—” + </p> + <p> + “No woman could be proof against such a compliment—” + </p> + <p> + “The case was peculiar—ordinary rules could not apply to it—” + </p> + <p> + “Every man gets the wife he deserves—and he had certainly gone a + long way towards deserving her—” + </p> + <p> + “He should simply have told her the story of his book and of her part in + it—he need n't have mentioned love—she would have understood—” + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa's voice, clear and cool and crisp-cut, sounded perpetually in + his ears; the words she had spoken, the arguments she had urged, repeated + and repeated themselves, danced round and round, in his memory. + </p> + <p> + “Ought I to have told her—then and there? Shall I go to her and tell + her to-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + He tried to think; but he could not think. His faculties were in a whirl—he + could by no means command them. He could only wait, inert, while the dance + went on. It was an extremely riotous dance. The Duchessa's conversation + was reproduced without sequence, without coherence—scattered + fragments of it were flashed before him fitfully, in swift disorder. If he + would attempt to seize upon one of those fragments, to detain and fix it, + for consideration—a speech of hers, a look, an inflection—then + the whole experience suddenly lost its outlines, his recollection of it + became a jumble, and he was left, as it were, intellectually gasping. + </p> + <p> + He walked about his garden, he went into the house, he came out, he walked + about again, he went in and dressed for dinner, he sat on his rustic + bench, he smoked cigarette after cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “Ought I to have told her? Ought I to tell her to-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + At moments there would come a lull in the turmoil, an interval of quiet, + of apparent clearness; and the answer would seem perfectly plain. + </p> + <p> + “Of course, you ought to tell her. Tell her—and all will be well. + She has put herself in the supposititious woman's place, and she says, 'He + ought to tell her.' She says it earnestly, vehemently. That means that if + she were the woman, she would wish to be told. She will despise the + conventional barriers—she will be touched, she will be moved. 'No + woman could be proof against such a compliment.' Go to her to-morrow, and + tell her—and all will be well.” + </p> + <p> + At these moments he would look up towards the castle, and picture the + morrow's consummation; and his heart would have a convulsion. Imagination + flew on the wings of his desire. She stood before him in all her sumptuous + womanhood, tender and strong and glowing. As he spoke, her eyes lightened, + her eyes burned, the blood came and went in her cheeks; her lips parted. + Then she whispered something; and his heart leapt terribly; and he called + her name—“Beatrice! Beatrice!” Her name expressed the inexpressible—the + adoring passion, the wild hunger and wild triumph of his soul. But now she + was moving towards him—she was holding out her hands. He caught her + in his arms—he held her yielding body in his arms. And his heart + leapt terribly, terribly. And he wondered how he could endure, how he + could live through, the hateful hours that must elapse before tomorrow + would be to-day. + </p> + <p> + But “hearts, after leaps, ache.” Presently the whirl would begin again; + and then, by and by, in another lull, a contrary answer would seem equally + plain. + </p> + <p> + “Tell her, indeed? My dear man, are you mad? She would simply be amazed, + struck dumb, by your presumption. I can see from here her incredulity—I + can see the scorn with which she would wither you. It has never dimly + occurred to her as conceivable that you would venture to be in love with + her, that you would dare to lift your eyes to her—you who are + nothing, to her who is all. Yes—nothing, nobody. In her view, you + are just a harmless nobody, whose society she tolerates for kindness' sake—and + faute de mieux. It is precisely because she deems you a nobody—because + she is profoundly conscious of the gulf that separates you from her—that + she can condescend to be amiably familiar. If you were of a rank even + remotely approximating to her own, she would be a thousand times more + circumspect. Remember—she does not dream that you are Felix Wildmay. + He is a mere name to her; and his story is an amusing little romance, + perfectly external to herself, which she discusses with entirely + impersonal interest. Tell her by all means, if you like Say, 'I am Wildmay—you + are Pauline.' And see how amazed she will be, and how incensed, and how + indignant.” + </p> + <p> + Then he would look up at the castle stonily, in a mood of desperate + renunciation, and vaguely meditate packing his belongings, and going home + to England. + </p> + <p> + At other moments a third answer would seem the plain one: something + between these extremes of optimism and pessimism, a compromise, it not a + reconciliation. + </p> + <p> + “Come! Let us be calm, let us be judicial. The consequences of our + actions, here below, if hardly ever so good as we could hope, are hardly + ever so bad as we might fear. Let us regard this matter in the light of + that guiding principle. True, she does n't dream that you are Wildmay. + True, if you were abruptly to say to her, 'I am Wildmay—you are the + woman,' she would be astonished—even, if you will, at first, more or + less taken aback, disconcerted. But indignant? Why? What is this gulf that + separates you from her? What are these conventional barriers of which you + make so much? She is a duchess, she is the daughter of a lord, and she is + rich. Well, all that is to be regretted. But you are neither a plebeian + nor a pauper yourself. You are a man of good birth, you are a man of some + parts, and you have a decent income. It amounts to this—she is a + great lady, you are a small gentleman. In ordinary circumstances, to be + sure, so small a gentleman could not ask so great a lady to become his + wife. But here the circumstances are not ordinary. Destiny has meddled in + the business. Small gentleman though you are, an unusual and subtle + relation-ship has been established between you and your great lady. She + herself says, 'Ordinary rules cannot apply—he ought to tell her.' + Very good: tell her. She will be astonished, but she will see that there + is no occasion for resentment. And though the odds are, of course, a + hundred to one that she will not accept you, still she must treat you as + an honourable suitor. And whether she accepts you or rejects you, it is + better to tell her and to have it over, than to go on forever dangling + this way, like the poor cat in the adage. Tell her—put your fate to + the touch—hope nothing, fear nothing—and bow to the event.” + </p> + <p> + But even this temperate answer provoked its counter-answer. + </p> + <p> + “The odds are a hundred to one, a thousand to one, that she will not + accept you. And if you tell her, and she does not accept you, she will not + allow you to see her any more, you will be exiled from her presence. And I + thought, you did not wish to be exiled from her presence, You would stake, + then, this great privilege, the privilege of seeing her, of knowing her, + upon a. chance that has a thousand to one against it. You make light of + the conventional barriers—but the principal barrier of them all, you + are forgetting. She is a Roman Catholic, and a devout one. Marry a + Protestant? She would as soon think of marrying a Paynim Turk.” + </p> + <p> + In the end, no doubt, a kind of exhaustion followed upon his excitement. + Questions and answers suspended themselves; and he could only look up + towards Ventirose, and dumbly wish that he was there. The distance was so + trifling—in five minutes he could traverse it—the law seemed + absurd and arbitrary, which condemned him to sit apart, free only to look + and wish. + </p> + <p> + It was in this condition of mind that Marietta found him, when she came to + announce dinner. + </p> + <p> + Peter gave himself a shake. The sight of the brown old woman, with her + homely, friendly face, brought him back to small things, to actual things; + and that, if it was n't a comfort, was, at any rate, a relief. + </p> + <p> + “Dinner?” he questioned. “Do peris at the gates of Eden DINE?” + </p> + <p> + “The soup is on the table,” said Marietta. + </p> + <p> + He rose, casting a last glance towards the castle. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Towers and battlements... + Bosomed high in tufted trees, + Where perhaps some beauty lies, + The cynosure of neighbouring eyes.” + </pre> + <p> + He repeated the lines in an undertone, and went in to dinner. And then the + restorative spirit of nonsense descended upon him. + </p> + <p> + “Marietta,” he asked, “what is your attitude towards the question of mixed + marriages?” + </p> + <p> + Marietta wrinkled her brow. + </p> + <p> + “Mixed marriages? What is that, Signorino?” + </p> + <p> + “Marriages between Catholics and Protestants,” he explained. + </p> + <p> + “Protestants?” Her brow was still a network. “What things are they?” + </p> + <p> + “They are things—or perhaps it would be less invidious to say people—who + are not Catholics—who repudiate Catholicism as a deadly and + soul-destroying error.” + </p> + <p> + “Jews?” asked Marietta. + </p> + <p> + “No—not exactly. They are generally classified as Christians. But + they protest, you know. Protesto, protestare, verb, active, first + conjugation. 'Mi pare che la donna protesta troppo,' as the poet sings. + They're Christians, but they protest against the Pope and the Pretender.” + </p> + <p> + “The Signorino means Freemasons,” said Marietta. + </p> + <p> + “No, he does n't,” said Peter. “He means Protestants.” + </p> + <p> + “But pardon, Signorino,” she insisted; “if they are not Catholics, they + must be Freemasons or Jews. They cannot be Christians. Christian—Catholic: + it is the same. All Christians are Catholics.” + </p> + <p> + “Tu quoque!” he cried. “You regard the terms as interchangeable? I 've + heard the identical sentiment similarly enunciated by another. Do I look + like a Freemason?” + </p> + <p> + She bent her sharp old eyes upon him studiously for a moment. Then she + shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she answered slowly. “I do not think that the Signorino looks like a + Freemason.” + </p> + <p> + “A Jew, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Mache! A Jew? The Signorino!” She shrugged derision. + </p> + <p> + “And yet I'm what they call a Protestant,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said he. “I refer you to my sponsors in baptism. A regular, true + blue moderate High Churchman and Tory, British and Protestant to the + backbone, with 'Frustrate their Popish tricks' writ large all over me. You + have never by any chance married a Protestant yourself?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “No, Signorino. I have never married any one. But it was not for the lack + of occasions. Twenty, thirty young men courted me when I was a girl. But—mica!—I + would not look at them. When men are young they are too unsteady for + husbands; when they are old they have the rheumatism.” + </p> + <p> + “Admirably philosophised,” he approved. “But it sometimes happens that men + are neither young nor old. There are men of thirty-five—I have even + heard that there are men of forty. What of them?” + </p> + <p> + “There is a proverb, Signorino, which says, Sposi di quarant' anni son mai + sempre tiranni,” she informed him. + </p> + <p> + “For the matter of that,” he retorted, “there is a proverb which says, + Love laughs at locksmiths.” + </p> + <p> + “Non capisco,” said Marietta. + </p> + <p> + “That's merely because it's English,” said he. “You'd understand fast + enough if I should put it in Italian. But I only quoted it to show the + futility of proverbs. Laugh at locksmiths, indeed! Why, it can't even + laugh at such an insignificant detail as a Papist's prejudices. But I wish + I were a duke and a millionaire. Do you know any one who could create me a + duke and endow me with a million?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Signorino,” she answered, shaking her head. + </p> + <p> + “Fragrant Cytherea, foam-born Venus, deathless Aphrodite, cannot, goddess + though she is,” he complained. “The fact is, I 'm feeling rather undone. I + think I will ask you to bring me a bottle of Asti-spumante—some of + the dry kind, with the white seal. I 'll try to pretend that it's + champagne. To tell or not to tell—that is the question. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'A face to lose youth for, to occupy age + With the dream of, meet death with— +</pre> + <p> + And yet, if you can believe me, the man who penned those lines had never + seen her. He penned another line equally pat to the situation, though he + had never seen me, either + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Is there no method to tell her in Spanish?” + </pre> + <p> + But you can't imagine how I detest that vulgar use of 'pen' for 'write'—as + if literature were a kind of pig. However, it's perhaps no worse than the + use of Asti for champagne. One should n't be too fastidious. I must really + try to think of some method of telling her in Spanish.” + </p> + <p> + Marietta went to fetch the Asti. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXIII + </h2> + <p> + When Peter rose next morning, he pulled a grimace at the departed night. + </p> + <p> + “You are a detected cheat,” he cried, “an unmasked impostor. You live upon + your reputation as a counsellor—'tis the only reason why we bear + with you. La nuit porte conseil! Yet what counsel have you brought to me?—and + I at the pass where my need is uttermost. Shall I go to her this + afternoon, and unburden my soul—or shall I not? You have left me + where you found me—in the same fine, free, and liberal state of + vacillation. Discredited oracle!” + </p> + <p> + He was standing before his dressing-table, brushing his hair. The image in + the glass frowned back at him. Then something struck him. + </p> + <p> + “At all events, we'll go this morning to Spiaggia, and have our hair cut,” + he resolved. + </p> + <p> + So he walked to the village, and caught the ten o'clock omnibus for + Spiaggia. And after he had had his hair cut, he went to the Hotel de + Russie, and lunched in the garden. And after luncheon, of course, he + entered the grounds of the Casino, and strolled backwards and forwards, + one of a merry procession, on the terrace by the lakeside. The gay toilets + of the women, their bright-coloured hats and sunshades, made the terrace + look like a great bank of monstrous moving flowers. The band played brisk + accompaniments to the steady babble of voices, Italian, English, German. + The pure air was shot with alien scents—the women's perfumery, the + men's cigarette-smoke. The marvellous blue waters crisped in the breeze, + and sparkled in the sun; and the smooth snows of Monte Sfiorito loomed so + near, one felt one could almost put out one's stick and scratch one's name + upon them.... And here, as luck would have it, Peter came face to face + with Mrs. O'Donovan Florence. + </p> + <p> + “How do you do?” said she, offering her hand. + </p> + <p> + “How do you do?” said he. + </p> + <p> + “It's a fine day,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “Very,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I make you a confidence?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Do,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure I can trust you?” She scanned his face dubiously. + </p> + <p> + “Try it and see,” he urged. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, if you must know, I was thirsting to take a table and call + for coffee; but having no man at hand to chaperon me, I dared not.” + </p> + <p> + “Je vous en prie,” cried Peter, with a gesture of gallantry; and he led + her to one of the round marble tables. “Due caffe,” he said to the + brilliant creature (chains, buckles, ear-rings, of silver filigree, and + head-dress and apron of flame-red silk) who came to learn their pleasure. + </p> + <p> + “Softly, softly,” put in Mrs. O'Donovan Florence. “Not a drop of coffee + for me. An orange-sherbet, if you please. Coffee was a figure of speech—a + generic term for light refreshments.” + </p> + <p> + Peter laughed, and amended his order. + </p> + <p> + “Do you see those three innocent darlings playing together, under the eye + of their governess, by the Wellingtonia yonder?” enquired the lady. + </p> + <p> + “The little girl in white and the two boys?” asked Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Precisely,” said she. “Such as they are, they're me own.” + </p> + <p> + “Really?” he responded, in the tone of profound and sympathetic interest + we are apt to affect when parents begin about their children. + </p> + <p> + “I give you my word for it,” she assured him. “But I mention the fact, not + in a spirit of boastfulness, but merely to show you that I 'm not entirely + alone and unprotected. There's an American at our hotel, by the bye, who + goes up and down telling every one who'll listen that it ought to be + Washingtonia, and declaiming with tears in his eyes against the arrogance + of the English in changing Washington to Wellington. As he's a + respectable-looking man with grown-up daughters, I should think very + likely he's right.” + </p> + <p> + “Very likely,” said Peter. “It's an American tree, is n't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Whether it is n't or whether it is,” said she, “one thing is undeniable: + you English are the coldest-blooded animals south of the Arctic Circle.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—? Are we?” he doubted. + </p> + <p> + “You are that,” she affirmed, with sorrowing emphasis. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well,” he reflected, “the temperature of our blood does n't matter. + We're, at any rate, notoriously warm-hearted.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you indeed?” she exclaimed. “If you are, it's a mighty quiet kind of + notoriety, let me tell you, and a mighty cold kind of warmth.” + </p> + <p> + Peter laughed. + </p> + <p> + “You're all for prudence and expediency. You're the slaves of your reason. + You're dominated by the head, not by the heart. You're little better than + calculating-machines. Are you ever known, now, for instance, to risk earth + and heaven, and all things between them, on a sudden unthinking impulse?” + </p> + <p> + “Not often, I daresay,” he admitted. + </p> + <p> + “And you sit there as serene as a brazen statue, and own it without a + quaver,” she reproached him. + </p> + <p> + “Surely,” he urged, “in my character of Englishman, it behooves me to + appear smug and self-satisfied?” + </p> + <p> + “You're right,” she agreed. “I wonder,” she continued, after a moment's + pause, during which her eyes looked thoughtful, “I wonder whether you + would fall upon and annihilate a person who should venture to offer you a + word of well-meant advice.” + </p> + <p> + “I should sit as serene as a brazen statue, and receive it without a + quaver,” he promised. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then,” said she, leaning forward a little, and dropping her voice, + “why don't you take your courage in both hands, and ask her?” + </p> + <p> + Peter stared. + </p> + <p> + “Be guided by me—and do it,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Do what?” he puzzled. + </p> + <p> + “Ask her to marry you, of course,” she returned amiably. Then, without + allowing him time to shape an answer, “Touche!” she cried, in triumph. “I + 've brought the tell-tale colour to your cheek. And you a brazen statue! + 'They do not love who do not show their love.' But, in faith, you show + yours to any one who'll be at pains to watch you. Your eyes betray you as + often as ever you look at her. I had n't observed you for two minutes by + the clock, when I knew your secret as well as if you 'd chosen me for your + confessor. But what's holding you back? You can't expect her to do the + proposing. Now curse me for a meddlesome Irishwoman, if you will—but + why don't you throw yourself at her feet, and ask her, like a man?” + </p> + <p> + “How can I?” said Peter, abandoning any desire he may have felt to beat + about the bush. Nay, indeed, it is very possible he welcomed, rather than + resented, the Irishwoman's meddling. + </p> + <p> + “What's to prevent you?” said she. + </p> + <p> + “Everything,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “Everything is nothing. That?” + </p> + <p> + “Dear lady! She is hideously rich, for one thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Getaway with you!” was the dear lady's warm expostulation. “What has + money to do with the question, if a man's in love? But that's the English + of it—there you are with your cold-blooded calculation. You chain up + your natural impulses as if they were dangerous beasts. Her money never + saved you from succumbing to her enchantments. Why should it bar you from + declaring your passion.” + </p> + <p> + “There's a sort of tendency in society,” said Peter, “to look upon the + poor man who seeks the hand of a rich woman as a fortunehunter.” + </p> + <p> + “A fig for the opinion of society,” she cried. “The only opinion you + should consider is the opinion of the woman you adore. I was an heiress + myself; and when Teddy O'Donovan proposed to me, upon my conscience I + believe the sole piece of property he possessed in the world was a + corkscrew. So much for her ducats!” + </p> + <p> + Peter laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Men, after coffee, are frequently in the habit of smoking,” said she. + “You have my sanction for a cigarette. It will keep you in countenance.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said Peter, and lit his cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “And surely, it's a countenance you'll need, to be going on like that + about her money. However—if you can find a ray of comfort in the + information—small good will her future husband get of it, even if he + is a fortunehunter: for she gives the bulk of it away in charity, and I 'm + doubtful if she keeps two thousand a year for her own spending.” + </p> + <p> + “Really?” said Peter; and for a breathing-space it seemed to him that + there was a ray of comfort in the information. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you may rate her at two thousand a year,” said Mrs. O'Donovan + Florence. “I suppose you can match that yourself. So the disparity + disappears.” + </p> + <p> + The ray of comfort had flickered for a second, and gone out. + </p> + <p> + “There are unfortunately other disparities,” he remarked gloomily. + </p> + <p> + “Put a name on them,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “There's her rank.” + </p> + <p> + His impetuous adviser flung up a hand of scorn. + </p> + <p> + “Her rank, do you say?” she cried. “To the mischief with her rank. What's + rank to love? A woman is only a woman, whether she calls herself a duchess + or a dairy-maid. A woman with any spirit would marry a bank manager, if + she loved him. A man's a man. You should n't care that for her rank.” + </p> + <p> + “That,” was a snap of Mrs. O' Donovan Florence's fingers. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you know,” said Peter, “that I am a Protestant.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you—you poor benighted creature? Well, that's easily remedied. + Go and get yourself baptised directly.” + </p> + <p> + She waved her hand towards the town, as if to recommend his immediate + procedure in quest of a baptistery. + </p> + <p> + Peter laughed again. + </p> + <p> + “I 'm afraid that's more easily said than done.” + </p> + <p> + “Easy!” she exclaimed. “Why, you've only to stand still and let yourself + be sprinkled. It's the priest who does the work. Don't tell me,” she + added, with persuasive inconsequence, “that you'll allow a little thing + like being in love with a woman to keep you back from professing the true + faith.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, if I were convinced that it is true,” he sighed, still laughing. + </p> + <p> + “What call have you to doubt it? And anyhow, what does it matter whether + you 're convinced or not? I remember, when I was a school-girl, I never + was myself convinced of the theorems of Euclid; but I professed them + gladly, for the sake of the marks they brought; and the eternal verities + of mathematics remained unshaken by my scepticism.” + </p> + <p> + “Your reasoning is subtle,” laughed Peter. “But the worst of it is, if I + were ten times a Catholic, she wouldn't have me. So what's the use?” + </p> + <p> + “You never can tell whether a woman will have you or not, until you offer + yourself. And even if she refuses you, is that a ground for despair? My + own husband asked me three times, and three times I said no. And then he + took to writing verses—and I saw there was but one way to stop him. + So we were married. Ask her; ask her again—and again. You can always + resort in the end to versification. And now,” the lady concluded, rising, + “I have spoken, and I leave you to your fate. I'm obliged to return to the + hotel, to hold a bed of justice. It appears that my innocent darlings, + beyond there, innocent as they look, have managed among them to break the + electric light in my sitting-room. They're to be arraigned before me at + three for an instruction criminelle. Put what I 've said in your pipe, and + smoke it—'tis a mother's last request. If I 've not succeeded in + determining you, don't pretend, at least, that I haven't encouraged you a + bit. Put what I 've said in your pipe, and see whether, by vigorous + drawing, you can't fan the smouldering fires of encouragement into a small + blaze of determination.” + </p> + <p> + Peter resumed his stroll backwards and forwards by the lakeside. + Encouragement was all very well; but... “Shall I—shall I not? Shall + I—shall I not? Shall I—shall I not?” The eternal question went + tick-tack, tick-tack, to the rhythm of his march. He glared at vacancy, + and tried hard to make up his mind. + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid I must be somewhat lacking in decision of character,” he said, + with pathetic wonder. + </p> + <p> + Then suddenly he stamped his foot. + </p> + <p> + “Come! An end to this tergiversation. Do it. Do it,” cried his manlier + soul. + </p> + <p> + “I will,” he resolved all at once, drawing a deep breath, and clenching + his fists. + </p> + <p> + He left the Casino, and set forth to walk to Ventirose. He could not wait + for the omnibus, which would not leave till four. He must strike while his + will was hot. + </p> + <p> + He walked rapidly; in less than an hour he had reached the tall gilded + grille of the park. He stopped for an instant, and looked up the straight + avenue of chestnuts, to the western front of the castle, softly alight in + the afternoon sun. He put his hand upon the pendent bell-pull of twisted + iron, to summon the porter. In another second he would have rung, he would + have been admitted.... And just then one of the little demons that inhabit + the circumambient air, called his attention to an aspect of the situation + which he had not thought of. + </p> + <p> + “Wait a bit,” it whispered in his ear. “You were there only yesterday. It + can't fail, therefore, to seem extraordinary, your calling again to-day. + You must be prepared with an excuse, an explanation. But suppose, when you + arrive, suppose that (like the lady in the ballad) she greets you with 'a + glance of cold surprise'—what then, my dear? Why, then, it's + obvious, you can't allege the true explanation—can you? If she + greets you with a glance of cold, surprise, you 'll have your answer, as + it were, before the fact you 'll know that there's no manner of hope for + you; and the time for passionate avowals will automatically defer itself. + But then—? How will you justify your visit? What face can you put + on?” + </p> + <p> + “H'm,” assented Peter, “there's something in that.” + </p> + <p> + “There's a great deal in that,” said the demon. “You must have an excuse + up your sleeve, a pretext. A true excuse is a fine thing in its way; but + when you come to a serious emergency, an alternative false excuse is + indispensable.” + </p> + <p> + “H'm,” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + However, if there are demons in the atmosphere, there are gods in the + machine—(“Paraschkine even goes so far as to maintain that there are + more gods in the machine than have ever been taken from it.”) While Peter + stood still, pondering the demon's really rather cogent intervention, his + eye was caught by something that glittered in the grass at the roadside. + </p> + <p> + “The Cardinal's snuff-box,” he exclaimed, picking it up. + </p> + <p> + The Cardinal had dropped his snuff-box. Here was an excuse, and to spare. + Peter rang the bell. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXIV + </h2> + <p> + And, like the lady in the ballad, sure enough, she greeted his arrival + with a glance of cold surprise. + </p> + <p> + At all events, eyebrows raised, face unsmiling, it was a glance that + clearly supplemented her spoken “How do you do?” by a tacit (perhaps + self-addressed?) “What can bring him here?” + </p> + <p> + You or I, indeed, or Mrs. O'Donovan Florence, in the fulness of our + knowledge, might very likely have interpreted it rather as a glance of + nervous apprehension. Anyhow, it was a glance that perfectly checked the + impetus of his intent. Something snapped and gave way within him; and he + needed no further signal that the occasion for passionate avowals was not + the present. + </p> + <p> + And thereupon befell a scene that was really quite too absurd, that was + really childish, a scene over the memory of which, I must believe, they + themselves have sometimes laughed together; though, at the moment, its + absurdity held, for him at least, elements of the tragic. + </p> + <p> + He met her in the broad gravelled carriage-sweep, before the great + hall-door. She had on her hat and gloves, as if she were just going out. + It seemed to him that she was a little pale; her eyes seemed darker than + usual, and graver. Certainly—cold surprise, or nervous apprehension, + as you will—her attitude was by no means cordial. It was not + oncoming. It showed none of her accustomed easy, half-humorous, wholly + good-humoured friendliness. It was decidedly the attitude of a person + standing off, shut in, withheld. + </p> + <p> + “I have never seen her in the least like this before,” he thought, as he + looked at her pale face, her dark, grave eyes; “I have never seen her more + beautiful. And there is not one single atom of hope for me.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you do?” she said, unsmiling and waited, as who should invite him + to state his errand. She did not offer him her hand but, for that matter, + (she might have pleaded), she could not, very well: for one of her hands + held her sunshade, and the other held an embroidered silk bag, woman's + makeshift for a pocket. + </p> + <p> + And then, capping the first pang of his disappointment, a kind of anger + seized him. After all, what right had she to receive him in this fashion?—as + if he were an intrusive stranger. In common civility, in common justice, + she owed it to him to suppose that he would not be there without abundant + reason. + </p> + <p> + And now, with Peter angry, the absurd little scene began. + </p> + <p> + Assuming an attitude designed to be, in its own way, as reticent as hers, + “I was passing your gate,” he explained, “when I happened to find this, + lying by the roadside. I took the liberty of bringing it to you.” + </p> + <p> + He gave her the Cardinal's snuff box, which, in spite of her hands' + preoccupation, she was able to accept. + </p> + <p> + “A liberty!” he thought, grinding his teeth. “Yes! No doubt she would have + wished me to leave it with the porter at the lodge. No doubt she deems it + an act of officiousness on my part to have found it at all.” + </p> + <p> + And his anger mounted. + </p> + <p> + “How very good of you,” she said. “My uncle could not think where he had + mislaid it.” + </p> + <p> + “I am very fortunate to be the means of restoring it,” said he. + </p> + <p> + Then, after a second's suspension, as she said nothing (she kept her eyes + on the snuffbox, examining it as if it were quite new to her), he lifted + his hat, and bowed, preparatory to retiring down the avenue. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but my uncle will wish to thank you,” she exclaimed, looking up, with + a kind of start. “Will you not come in? I—I will see whether he is + disengaged.” + </p> + <p> + She made a tentative movement towards the door. She had thawed + perceptibly. + </p> + <p> + But even as she thawed, Peter, in his anger, froze and stiffened. “I will + see whether he is disengaged.” The expression grated. And perhaps, in + effect, it was not a particularly felicitous expression. But if the poor + woman was suffering from nervous apprehension—? + </p> + <p> + “I beg you on no account to disturb Cardinal Udeschini,” he returned + loftily. “It is not a matter of the slightest consequence.” + </p> + <p> + And even as he stiffened, she unbent. + </p> + <p> + “But it is a matter of consequence to him, to us,” she said, faintly + smiling. “We have hunted high and low for it. We feared it was lost for + good. It must have fallen from his pocket when he was walking. He will + wish to thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “I am more than thanked already,” said Peter. Alas (as Monsieur de la + Pallisse has sagely noted), when we aim to appear dignified, how often do + we just succeed in appearing churlish. + </p> + <p> + And to put a seal upon this ridiculous encounter, to make it irrevocable, + he lifted his hat again, and turned away. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, very well,” murmured the Duchessa, in a voice that did not reach him. + If it had reached him, perhaps he would have come back, perhaps things + might have happened. I think there was regret in her voice, as well as + despite. She stood for a minute, as he tramped down the avenue, and looked + after him, with those unusually dark, grave eyes. At last, making a little + gesture—as of regret? despite? impatience?—she went into the + house. + </p> + <p> + “Here is your snuff-box,” she said to the Cardinal. + </p> + <p> + The old man put down his Breviary (he was seated by an open window, + getting through his office), and smiled at the snuff box fondly, caressing + it with his finger. Afterwards, he shook it, opened it, and took a pinch + of snuff. + </p> + <p> + “Where did you find it?” he enquired. + </p> + <p> + “It was found by that Mr. Marchdale,” she said, “in the road, outside the + gate. You must have let it drop this morning, when you were walking with + Emilia.” + </p> + <p> + “That Mr. Marchdale?” exclaimed the Cardinal. “What a coincidence.” + </p> + <p> + “A coincidence—?” questioned Beatrice. + </p> + <p> + “To be sure,” said he. “Was it not to Mr. Marchdale that I owed it in the + first instance?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—? Was it? I had fancied that you owed it to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—but,” he reminded her, whilst the lines deepened about his + humorous old mouth, “but as a reward of my virtue in conspiring with you + to convert him. And, by the way, how is his conversion progressing?” + </p> + <p> + The Cardinal looked up, with interest. + </p> + <p> + “It is not progressing at all. I think there is no chance of it,” answered + Beatrice, in a tone that seemed to imply a certain irritation. + </p> + <p> + “Oh—?” said the Cardinal. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “I thought he had shown 'dispositions'?” said the Cardinal. + </p> + <p> + “That was a mistake. He has shown none. He is a very tiresome and silly + person. He is not worth converting,” she declared succinctly. + </p> + <p> + “Good gracious!” said the Cardinal. + </p> + <p> + He resumed his office. But every now and again he would pause, and look + out of the window, with the frown of a man meditating something; then he + would shake his head significantly, and take snuff. + </p> + <p> + Peter tramped down the avenue, angry and sick. + </p> + <p> + Her reception of him had not only administered an instant death-blow to + his hopes as a lover, but in its ungenial aloofness it had cruelly wounded + his pride as a man. He felt snubbed and humiliated. Oh, true enough, she + had unbent a little, towards the end. But it was the look with which she + had first greeted him—it was the air with which she had waited for + him to state his errand—that stung, and rankled, and would not be + forgotten. + </p> + <p> + He was angry with her, angry with circumstances, with life, angry with + himself. + </p> + <p> + “I am a fool—and a double fool—and a triple fool,” he said. “I + am a fool ever to have thought of her at all; a double fool ever to have + allowed myself to think so much of her; a triple and quadruple and + quintuple idiot ever to have imagined for a moment that anything could + come of it. I have wasted time enough. The next best thing to winning is + to know when you are beaten. I acknowledge myself beaten. I will go back + to England as soon as I can get my boxes packed.” + </p> + <p> + He gazed darkly round the familiar valley, with eyes that abjured it. + </p> + <p> + Olympus, no doubt, laughed. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXV + </h2> + <p> + “I shall go back to England as soon as I can get my boxes packed.” + </p> + <p> + But he took no immediate steps to get them packed. + </p> + <p> + “Hope,” observes the clear-sighted French publicist quoted in the + preceding chapter, “hope dies hard.” + </p> + <p> + Hope, Peter fancied, had received its death-blow that afternoon. Already, + that evening, it began to revive a little. It was very much enfeebled; it + was very indefinite and diffident; but it was not dead. It amounted, + perhaps, to nothing more than a vague kind of feeling that he would not, + on the whole, make his departure for England quite so precipitate as, in + the first heat of his anger, the first chill of his despair, he had + intended. Piano, piano! He would move slowly, he would do nothing rash. + </p> + <p> + But he was not happy, he was very far from happy. He spent a wretched + night, a wretched, restless morrow. He walked about a great deal—about + his garden, and afterwards, when the damnable iteration of his garden had + become unbearable, he walked to the village, and took the riverside path, + under the poplars, along the racing Aco, and followed it, as the waters + paled and broadened, for I forget how many joyless, unremunerative miles. + </p> + <p> + When he came home, fagged out and dusty, at dinner time, Marietta + presented a visiting card to him, on her handsomest salver. She presented + it with a flourish that was almost a swagger. + </p> + <p> + Twice the size of an ordinary visiting-card, the fashion of it was roughly + thus: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IL CARDLE UDESCHINI + Sacr: Congr: Archiv: et Inscript: Praef: + + Palazzo Udeschini. +</pre> + <p> + And above the legend, was pencilled, in a small oldfashioned hand, + wonderfully neat and pretty:— + </p> + <p> + “To thank Mr. Marchdale for his courtesy in returning my snuff-box.” + </p> + <p> + “The Lord Prince Cardinal Udeschini was here,” said Marietta. There was a + swagger in her accent. There was also something in her accent that seemed + to rebuke Peter for his absence. + </p> + <p> + “I had inferred as much from this,” said he, tapping the card. “We + English, you know, are great at putting two and two together.” + </p> + <p> + “He came in a carriage,” said Marietta. + </p> + <p> + “Not really?” said her master. + </p> + <p> + “Ang—veramente,” she affirmed. + </p> + <p> + “Was—was he alone?” Peter asked, an obscure little twinge of hope + stirring in his heart. + </p> + <p> + “No. Signorino.” And then she generalised, with untranslatable + magniloquence: “Un amplissimo porporato non va mai solo.” + </p> + <p> + Peter ought to have hugged her for that amplissimo porporato. But he was + selfishly engrossed in his emotions. + </p> + <p> + “Who was with him?” He tried to throw the question out with a casual + effect, an effect of unconcern. + </p> + <p> + “The Signorina Emelia Manfredi was with him,” answered Marietta, little + recking how mere words can stab. + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + “The Lord Prince Cardinal Udeschini was very sorry not to see the + Signorino,” continued Marietta. + </p> + <p> + “Poor man—was he? Let us trust that time will console him,” said + Peter, callously. + </p> + <p> + But, “I wonder,” he asked himself, “I wonder whether perhaps I was the + least bit hasty yesterday? If I had stopped, I should have saved the + Cardinal a journey here to-day—I might have known that he would + come, these Italians are so punctilious—and then, if I had stopped—if + I had stopped—possibly—possibly—” + </p> + <p> + Possibly what? Oh, nothing. And yet, if he had stopped... well, at any + rate, he would have gained time. The Duchessa had already begun to thaw. + If he had stopped... He could formulate no precise conclusion to that if; + but he felt dimly remorseful that he had not stopped, he felt that he had + indeed been the least bit hasty. And his remorse was somehow medicine to + his reviving hope. + </p> + <p> + “After all, I scarcely gave things a fair trial yesterday,” he said. + </p> + <p> + And the corollary of that, of course, was that he might give things a + further and fairer trial some other day. + </p> + <p> + But his hope was still hard hurt; he was still in a profound dejection. + </p> + <p> + “The Signorino is not eating his dinner,” cried Marietta, fixing him with + suspicious, upbraiding eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I never said I was,” he retorted. + </p> + <p> + “The Signorino is not well?” she questioned, anxious. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes—cosi, cosi; the Signorino is well enough,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “The dinner”—you could perceive that she brought herself with + difficulty to frame the dread hypothesis—“the dinner is not good?” + Her voice sank. She waited, tense, for his reply. + </p> + <p> + “The dinner,” said he, “if one may criticise without eating it, the dinner + is excellent. I will have no aspersions cast upon my cook.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah-h-h!” breathed Marietta, a tremulous sigh of relief. + </p> + <p> + “It is not the Signorino, it is not the dinner, it is the world that is + awry,” Peter went on, in reflective melancholy. “'T is the times that are + out of joint. 'T is the sex, the Sex, that is not well, that is not good, + that needs a thorough overhauling and reforming.” + </p> + <p> + “Which sex?” asked Marietta. + </p> + <p> + “The sex,” said Peter. “By the unanimous consent of rhetoricians, there is + but one sex the sex, the fair sex, the unfair sex, the gentle sex, the + barbaric sex. We men do not form a sex, we do not even form a sect. We are + your mere hangers-on, camp-followers, satellites—your things, your + playthings—we are the mere shuttlecocks which you toss hither and + thither with your battledores, as the wanton mood impels you. We are born + of woman, we are swaddled and nursed by woman, we are governessed by + woman; subsequently, we are beguiled by woman, fooled by woman, led on, + put off, tantalised by woman, fretted and bullied by her; finally, last + scene of all, we are wrapped in our cerements by woman. Man's life, birth, + death, turn upon woman, as upon a hinge. I have ever been a misanthrope, + but now I am seriously thinking of becoming a misogynist as well. Would + you advise me to-do so?” + </p> + <p> + “A misogynist? What is that, Signorino?” asked Marietta. + </p> + <p> + “A woman-hater,” he explained; “one who abhors and forswears the sex; one + who has dashed his rose-coloured spectacles from his eyes, and sees woman + as she really is, with no illusive glamour; one who has found her out. + Yes, I think I shall become a misogynist. It is the only way of rendering + yourself invulnerable, 't is the only safe course. During my walk this + afternoon, I recollected, from the scattered pigeon-holes of memory, and + arranged in consequent order, at least a score of good old apothegmatic + shafts against the sex. Was it not, for example, in the grey beginning of + days, was it not woman whose mortal taste brought sin into the world and + all our woe? Was not that Pandora a woman, who liberated, from the box + wherein they were confined, the swarm of winged evils that still afflict + us? I will not remind you of St. John Chrysostom's golden parable about a + temple and the thing it is constructed over. But I will come straight to + the point, and ask whether this is truth the poet sings, when he informs + us roundly that 'every woman is a scold at heart'?” + </p> + <p> + Marietta was gazing patiently at the sky. She did not answer. + </p> + <p> + “The tongue,” Peter resumed, “is woman's weapon, even as the fist is + man's. And it is a far deadlier weapon. Words break no bones—they + break hearts, instead. Yet were men one-tenth part so ready with their + fists, as women are with their barbed and envenomed tongues, what savage + brutes you would think us—would n't you?—and what a rushing + trade the police-courts would drive, to be sure. That is one of the good + old cliches that came back to me during my walk. All women are alike—there's + no choice amongst animated fashion-plates: that is another. A woman is the + creature of her temper; her husband, her children, and her servants are + its victims: that is a third. Woman is a bundle of pins; man is her + pin-cushion. When woman loves, 't is not the man she loves, but the man's + flattery; woman's love is reflex self-love. The man who marries puts + himself in irons. Marriage is a bird-cage in a garden. The birds without + hanker to get in; but the birds within know that there is no condition so + enviable as that of the birds without. Well, speak up. What do you think? + Do you advise me to become a misogynist?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not understand, Signorino,” said Marietta. + </p> + <p> + “Of course, you don't,” said Peter. “Who ever could understand such stuff + and nonsense? That's the worst of it. If only one could understand, if + only one could believe it, one might find peace, one might resign oneself. + But alas and alas! I have never had any real faith in human wickedness; + and now, try as I will, I cannot imbue my mind with any real faith in the + undesirability of woman. That is why you see me dissolved in tears, and + unable to eat my dinner. Oh, to think, to think,” he cried with passion, + suddenly breaking into English, “to think that less than a fortnight ago, + less than one little brief fortnight ago, she was seated in your kitchen, + seated there familiarly, in her wet clothes, pouring tea, for all the + world as if she was the mistress of the house!” + </p> + <p> + Days passed. He could not go to Ventirose—or, anyhow, he thought he + could not. He reverted to his old habit of living in his garden, haunting + the riverside, keeping watchful, covetous eyes turned towards the castle. + The river bubbled and babbled; the sun shone strong and clear; his + fountain tinkled; his birds flew about their affairs; his flowers breathed + forth their perfumes; the Gnisi frowned, the uplands westward laughed, the + snows of Monte Sfiorito sailed under every colour of the calendar except + their native white. All was as it had ever been—but oh, the + difference to him. A week passed. He caught no glimpse of the Duchessa. + Yet he took no steps to get his boxes packed. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXVI + </h2> + <p> + And then Marietta fell ill. + </p> + <p> + One morning, when she came into his room, to bring his tea, and to open + the Venetian blinds that shaded his windows, she failed to salute him with + her customary brisk “Buon giorno, Signorino.” + </p> + <p> + Noticing which, and wondering, he, from his pillow, called out, “Buon' + giorno, Marietta.” + </p> + <p> + “Buon' giorno, Signorino,” she returned but in a whisper. + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter? Is there cause for secrecy?” Peter asked. + </p> + <p> + “I have a cold, Signorino,” she whispered, pointing to her chest. “I + cannot speak.” + </p> + <p> + The Venetian blinds were up by this time; the room was full of sun. He + looked at her. Something in her face alarmed him. It seemed drawn and set, + it seemed flushed. + </p> + <p> + “Come here,” he said, with a certain peremptoriness. “Give me your hand.” + </p> + <p> + She wiped her brown old hand backwards and forwards across her apron; then + gave it to him. + </p> + <p> + It was hot and dry. + </p> + <p> + “Your cold is feverish,” he said. “You must go to bed, and stay there till + the fever has passed.” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot go to bed, Signorino,” she replied. + </p> + <p> + “Can't you? Have you tried?” asked he. + </p> + <p> + “No, Signorino,” she admitted. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you never can tell whether you can do a thing or not, until you + try,” said he. “Try to go to bed; and if at first you don't succeed, try, + try again.” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot go to bed. Who would do the Signorino's work?” was her whispered + objection. + </p> + <p> + “Hang the Signorino's work. The Signorino's work will do itself. Have you + never observed that if you conscientiously neglect to do your work, it + somehow manages to get done without you? You have a feverish cold; you + must keep out of draughts; and the only place where you can be sure of + keeping out of draughts, is bed. Go to bed at once.” + </p> + <p> + She left the room. + </p> + <p> + But when Peter came downstairs, half an hour later, he heard her moving in + her kitchen. + </p> + <p> + “Marietta!” he cried, entering that apartment with the mien of Nemesis. “I + thought I told you to go to bed.” + </p> + <p> + Marietta cowered a little, and looked sheepish, as one surprised in the + flagrant fact of misdemeanour. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Signorino,” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + “Well—? Do you call this bed?” he demanded. + </p> + <p> + “No, Signorino,” she acknowledged. + </p> + <p> + “Do you wish to oblige me to put you to bed?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, Signorino,” she protested, horror in her whisper. + </p> + <p> + “Then go to bed directly. If you delay any longer, I shall accuse you of + wilful insubordination.” + </p> + <p> + “Bene, Signorino,” reluctantly consented Marietta. + </p> + <p> + Peter strolled into his garden. Gigi, the gardener, was working there. + </p> + <p> + “The very man I most desired to meet,” said Peter, and beckoned to him. + “Is there a doctor in the village?” he enquired, when Gigi had approached. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Signorino. The Syndic is a doctor—Dr. Carretaji.” + </p> + <p> + “Good,” said Peter. “Will you go to the village, please, and ask Dr. + Carretaji if he can make it convenient to call here to-day? Marietta is + not well.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Signorino.” + </p> + <p> + “And stop a bit,” said Peter. “Are there such things as women in the + village?' + </p> + <p> + “Ah, mache, Signorino! But many, many,” answered Gigi, rolling his dark + eyes sympathetically, and waving his hands. + </p> + <p> + “I need but one,” said Peter. “A woman to come and do Marietta's work for + a day or two—cook, and clean up, and that sort of thing. Do you + think you could procure me such a woman?” + </p> + <p> + “There is my wife, Signorino,” suggested Gigi. “If she would content the + Signorino?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh? I was n't aware that you were married. A hundred felicitations. Yes, + your wife, by all means. Ask her to come and rule as Marietta's + vicereine.” + </p> + <p> + Gigi started for the village. + </p> + <p> + Peter went into the house, and knocked at Marietta's bed-room door. He + found her in bed, with her rosary in her hands. If she could not work, she + would not waste her time. In Marietta's simple scheme of life, work and + prayer, prayer and work, stood, no doubt, as alternative and complementary + duties. + </p> + <p> + “But you are not half warmly enough covered up,” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + He fetched his travelling-rug, and spread it over her. Then he went to the + kitchen, where she had left a fire burning, and filled a bottle with hot + water. + </p> + <p> + “Put this at your feet,” he said, returning to Marietta. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I cannot allow the Signorino to wait on me like this,” the old woman + mustered voice to murmur. + </p> + <p> + “The Signorino likes it—it affords him healthful exercise,” Peter + assured her. + </p> + <p> + Dr. Carretaji came about noon, a fat middleaged man, with a fringe of + black hair round an ivory-yellow scalp, a massive watch-chain (adorned by + the inevitable pointed bit of coral), and podgy, hairy hands. But he + seemed kind and honest, and he seemed to know his business. + </p> + <p> + “She has a catarrh of the larynx, with, I am afraid, a beginning of + bronchitis,” was his verdict. + </p> + <p> + “Is there any danger?” Peter asked. + </p> + <p> + “Not the slightest. She must remain in bed, and take frequent nourishment. + Hot milk, and now and then beef-tea. I will send some medicine. But the + great things are nourishment and warmth. I will call again to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + Gigi's wife came. She was a tall, stalwart, blackbrowed, red-cheeked young + woman, and her name (Gigi's eyes flashed proudly, as he announced it) her + name was Carolina Maddalena. + </p> + <p> + Peter had to be in and out of Marietta's room all day, to see that she + took her beef-tea and milk and medicine regularly. She dozed a good deal. + When she was awake, she said her rosary. + </p> + <p> + But next day she was manifestly worse. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—bronchitis, as I feared,” said the doctor. “Danger? No—none, + if properly looked after. Add a little brandy to her milk, and see that + she has at least a small cupful every half-hour. I think it would be + easier for you if you had a nurse. Someone should be with her at night. + There is a Convent of Mercy at Venzona. If you like, I will telephone for + a sister.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you very much. I hope you will,” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + And that afternoon Sister Scholastica arrived, and established herself in + the sick-room. Sister Scholastica was young, pale, serene, competent. But + sometimes she had to send for Peter. + </p> + <p> + “She refuses to take her milk. Possibly she will take it from you,” the + sister said. + </p> + <p> + Then Peter would assume a half-bluff (perhaps half-wheedling?) tone of + mastery. + </p> + <p> + “Come, Marietta! You must take your milk. The Signorino wishes it. You + must not disobey the Signorino.” + </p> + <p> + And Marietta, with a groan, would rouse herself, and take it, Peter + holding the cup to her lips. + </p> + <p> + On the third day, in the morning, Sister Scholastica said, “She imagines + that she is worse. I do not think so myself. But she keeps repeating that + she is going to die. She wishes to see a priest. I think it would make her + feel easier. Can you send for the Parrocco? Please let him know that it is + not an occasion for the Sacraments. But it would do her good if he would + come and talk with her.” + </p> + <p> + And the doctor, who arrived just then, having visited Marietta, confirmed + the sister's opinion. + </p> + <p> + “She is no worse—she is, if anything, rather better. Her malady is + taking its natural course. But people of her class always fancy they are + going to die, if they are ill enough to stay in bed. It is the panic of + ignorance. Yes, I think it would do her good to see a priest. But there is + not the slightest occasion for the Sacraments.” + </p> + <p> + So Peter sent Gigi to the village for the Parrocco. And Gigi came back + with the intelligence that the Parrocco was away, making a retreat, and + would not return till Saturday. To-day was Wednesday. + </p> + <p> + “What shall we do now?” Peter asked of Sister Scholastica. + </p> + <p> + “There is Monsignor Langshawe, at Castel Ventirose,” said the sister. + </p> + <p> + “Could I ask him to come?” Peter doubted. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly,” said the sister. “In a case of illness, the nearest priest + will always gladly come.” + </p> + <p> + So Peter despatched Gigi with a note to Monsignor Langshawe. + </p> + <p> + And presently up drove a brougham, with Gigi on the box beside the + coachman. And from the brougham descended, not Monsignor Langshawe, but + Cardinal Udeschini, followed by Emilia Manfredi. + </p> + <p> + The Cardinal gave Peter his hand, with a smile so sweet, so benign, so + sunny-bright—it was like music, Peter thought; it was like a silent + anthem. + </p> + <p> + “Monsignor Langshawe has gone to Scotland, for his holiday. I have come in + his place. Your man told me of your need,” the Cardinal explained. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know how to thank your Eminence,” Peter murmured, and conducted + him to Marietta's room. + </p> + <p> + Sister Scholastica genuflected, and kissed the Cardinal's ring, and + received his Benediction. Then she and Peter withdrew, and went into the + garden. + </p> + <p> + The sister joined Emilia, and they walked backwards and forwards together, + talking. Peter sat on his rustic bench, smoked cigarettes, and waited. + </p> + <p> + Nearly an hour passed. + </p> + <p> + At length the Cardinal came out. + </p> + <p> + Peter rose, and went forward to meet him. + </p> + <p> + The Cardinal was smiling; but about his eyes there was a suggestive + redness. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Marchdale,” he said, “your housekeeper is in great distress of + conscience touching one or two offences she feels she has been guilty of + towards you. They seem to me, in frankness, somewhat trifling. But I + cannot persuade her to accept my view. She will not be happy till she has + asked and received your pardon for them.” + </p> + <p> + “Offences towards me?” Peter wondered. “Unless excess of patience with a + very trying employer constitutes an offence, she has been guilty of none.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind,” said the Cardinal. “Her conscience accuses her—she + must satisfy it. Will you come?” + </p> + <p> + The Cardinal sat down at the head of Marietta's bed, and took her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Now, dear,” he said, with the gentleness, the tenderness, of one speaking + to a beloved child, “here is Mr. Marchdale. Tell him what you have on your + mind. He is ready to hear and to forgive you.” + </p> + <p> + Marietta fixed her eyes anxiously on Peter's face. + </p> + <p> + “First,” she whispered, “I wish to beg the Signorino to pardon all this + trouble I am making for him. I am the Signorino's servant; but instead of + serving, I make trouble for him.” + </p> + <p> + She paused. The Cardinal smiled at Peter. + </p> + <p> + Peter answered, “Marietta, if you talk like that, you will make the + Signorino cry. You are the best servant that ever lived. You are putting + me to no trouble at all. You are giving me a chance—which I should + be glad of, except that it involves your suffering—to show my + affection for you, and my gratitude.” + </p> + <p> + “There, dear,” said the Cardinal to her, “you see the Signorino makes + nothing of that. Now the next thing. Go on.” + </p> + <p> + “I have to ask the Signorino's forgiveness for my impertinence,” whispered + Marietta. + </p> + <p> + “Impertinence—?” faltered Peter. “You have never been impertinent.” + </p> + <p> + “Scusi, Signorino,” she went on, in her whisper. “I have sometimes + contradicted the Signorino. I contradicted the Signorino when he told me + that St. Anthony of Padua was born in Lisbon. It is impertinent of a + servant to contradict her master. And now his most high Eminence says the + Signorino was right. I beg the Signorino to forgive me.” + </p> + <p> + Again the Cardinal smiled at Peter. + </p> + <p> + “You dear old woman,” Peter half laughed, half sobbed, “how can you ask me + to forgive a mere difference of opinion? You—you dear old thing.” + </p> + <p> + The Cardinal smiled, and patted Marietta's hand. + </p> + <p> + “The Signorino is too good,” Marietta sighed. + </p> + <p> + “Go on, dear,” said the Cardinal. + </p> + <p> + “I have been guilty of the deadly sin of evil speaking. I have spoken evil + of the Signorino,” she went on. “I said—I said to people—that + the Signorino was simple—that he was simple and natural. I thought + so then. Now I know it is not so. I know it is only that the Signorino is + English.” + </p> + <p> + Once more the Cardinal smiled at Peter. + </p> + <p> + Again Peter half laughed, half sobbed. + </p> + <p> + “Marietta! Of course I am simple and natural. At least, I try to be. Come! + Look up. Smile. Promise you will not worry about these things any more.” + </p> + <p> + She looked up, she smiled faintly. + </p> + <p> + “The Signorino is too good,” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + After a little interval of silence, “Now, dear,” said the Cardinal, “the + last thing of all.” + </p> + <p> + Marietta gave a groan, turning her head from side to side on her pillow. + </p> + <p> + “You need not be afraid,” said the Cardinal. “Mr. Marchdale will certainly + forgive you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh-h-h,” groaned Marietta. She stared at the ceiling for an instant. + </p> + <p> + The Cardinal patted her hand. “Courage, courage,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Oh—Signorino mio,” she groaned again, “this you never can forgive + me. It is about the little pig, the porcellino. The Signorino remembers + the little pig, which he called Francesco?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” answered Peter. + </p> + <p> + “The Signorino told me to take the little pig away, to find a home for + him. And I told the Signorino that I would take him to my nephew, who is a + farmer, towards Fogliamo. The Signorino remembers?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” answered Peter. “Yes, you dear old thing. I remember.” + </p> + <p> + Marietta drew a deep breath, summoned her utmost fortitude. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I did not take him to my nephew. The—the Signorino ate him.” + </p> + <p> + Peter could hardly keep from laughing. He could only utter a kind of + half-choked “Oh?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” whispered Marietta. “He was bought with the Signorino's money. I + did not like to see the Signorino's money wasted. So I deceived the + Signorino. You ate him as a chicken-pasty.” + </p> + <p> + This time Peter did laugh, I am afraid. Even the Cardinal—well, his + smile was perilously near a titter. He took a big pinch of snuff. + </p> + <p> + “I killed Francesco, and I deceived the Signorino. I am very sorry,” + Marietta said. + </p> + <p> + Peter knelt down at her bedside. + </p> + <p> + “Marietta! Your conscience is too sensitive. As for killing Francesco—we + are all mortal, he could not have lived forever. And as for deceiving the + Signorino, you did it for his own good. I remember that chicken-pasty. It + was the best chicken-pasty I have ever tasted. You must not worry any more + about the little pig.” + </p> + <p> + Marietta turned her face towards him, and smiled. + </p> + <p> + “The Signorino forgives his servant?” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + Peter could not help it. He bent forward, and kissed her brown old cheek. + </p> + <p> + “She will be easier now,” said the Cardinal. “I will stay with her a + little longer.” + </p> + <p> + Peter went out. The scene had been childish—do you say?—ridiculous, + almost farcical indeed? And yet, somehow, it seemed to Peter that his + heart was full of unshed tears. At the same time, as he thought of the + Cardinal, as he saw his face, his smile, as he heard the intonations of + his voice, the words he had spoken, as he thought of the way he had held + Marietta's hand and patted it—at the same time a kind of strange joy + seemed to fill his heart, a strange feeling of exaltation, of enthusiasm. + </p> + <p> + “What a heavenly old man,” he said. + </p> + <p> + In the garden Sister Scholastica and Emilia were still walking together. + </p> + <p> + They halted, when Peter came out; and Emilia said, “With your consent, + Signore, Sister Scholastica has accepted me as her lieutenant. I will come + every morning, and sit with Marietta during the day. That will relieve the + sister, who has to be up with her at night.” + </p> + <p> + And every morning after that, Emilia came, walking through the park, and + crossing the river by the ladder-bridge, which Peter left now permanently + in its position. And once or twice a week, in the afternoon, the Cardinal + would drive up in the brougham, and, having paid a little visit to + Marietta, would drive Emilia home. + </p> + <p> + In the sick-room Emilia would read to Marietta, or say the rosary for her. + </p> + <p> + Marietta mended steadily day by day. At the end of a fortnight she was + able to leave her bed for an hour or two in the afternoon, and sit in the + sun in the garden. Then Sister Scholastica went back to her convent at + Venzona. At the end of the third week Marietta could be up all day. But + Gigi's stalwart Carolina Maddalena continued to rule as vicereine in the + kitchen. And Emilia continued to come every morning. + </p> + <p> + “Why does the Duchessa never come?” Peter wondered. “It would be decent of + her to come and see the poor old woman.” + </p> + <p> + Whenever he thought of Cardinal Udeschini, the same strange feeling of joy + would spring up in his heart, which he had felt when he had left the + beautiful old man with Marietta, on the day of his first visit. In the + beginning he could only give this feeling a very general and indefinite + expression. “He is a man who renews one's faith in things, who renews + one's faith in human nature.” But gradually, I suppose, the feeling + crystallised; and at last, in due season, it found for itself an + expression that was not so indefinite. + </p> + <p> + It was in the afternoon, and he had just conducted the Cardinal and Emilia + to their carriage. He stood at his gate for a minute, and watched the + carriage as it rolled away. + </p> + <p> + “What a heavenly old man, what a heavenly old man,” he thought. + </p> + <p> + Then, still looking after the carriage, before turning back into his + garden, he heard himself repeat, half aloud + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Nor knowest thou what argument + Thy life to thy neighbour's creed hath lent.” + </pre> + <p> + The words had come to his lips, and were pronounced, were addressed to his + mental image of the Cardinal, without any conscious act of volition on his + part. He heard them with a sort of surprise, almost as if some one else + had spoken them. He could not in the least remember what poem they were + from, he could not even remember what poet they were by. Were they by + Emerson? It was years since he had read a line of Emerson's. + </p> + <p> + All that evening the couplet kept running in his head. And the feeling of + joy, of enthusiasm, in his heart, was not so strange now. But I think it + was intensified. + </p> + <p> + The next time the Cardinal arrived at Villa Floriano, and gave Peter his + hand, Peter did not merely shake it, English fashion, as he had hitherto + done. + </p> + <p> + The Cardinal looked startled. + </p> + <p> + Then his eyes searched Peter's face for a second, keenly interrogative. + Then they softened; and a wonderful clear light shone in them, a wonderful + pure, sweet light. + </p> + <p> + “Benedicat te Omnipotens Deus, Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus,” he + said, making the Sign of the Cross. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXVII + </h2> + <p> + Up at the castle, Cardinal Udeschini was walking backwards and forwards on + the terrace, reading his Breviary. + </p> + <p> + Beatrice was seated under the white awning, at the terrace-end, doing some + kind of needlework. + </p> + <p> + Presently the Cardinal came to a standstill near her, and closed his book, + putting his finger in it, to keep the place. + </p> + <p> + “It will be, of course, a great loss to Casa Udeschini, when you marry,” + he remarked. + </p> + <p> + Beatrice looked up, astonishment on her brow. + </p> + <p> + “When I marry?” she exclaimed. “Well, if ever there was a thunderbolt from + a clear sky!” + </p> + <p> + And she laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Yes-when you marry,” the Cardinal repeated, with conviction. “You are a + young woman—you are twenty-eight years old. You will, marry. It is + only right that you should marry. You have not the vocation for a + religious. Therefore you must marry. But it will be a great loss to the + house of Udeschini.” + </p> + <p> + “Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof,” said Beatrice, laughing + again. “I haven't the remotest thought of marrying. I shall never marry.” + </p> + <p> + “Il ne faut jamais dire a la fontaine, je ne boirai pas de ton eau,” his + Eminence cautioned her, whilst the lines of humour about his mouth + emphasised themselves, and his grey eyes twinkled. “Other things equal, + marriage is as much the proper state for the laity, as celibacy is the + proper state for the clergy. You will marry. It would be selfish of us to + oppose your marrying. You ought to marry. But it will be a great loss to + the family—it will be a great personal loss to me. You are as dear + to me as any of my blood. I am always forgetting that we are uncle and + niece by courtesy only.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall never marry. But nothing that can happen to me can ever make the + faintest difference in my feeling for you. I hope you know how much I love + you?” She looked into his eyes, smiling her love. “You are only my uncle + by courtesy? But you are more than an uncle—you have been like a + father to me, ever since I left my convent.” + </p> + <p> + The Cardinal returned her smile. + </p> + <p> + “Carissima,” he murmured. Then, “It will be a matter of the utmost + importance to me, however,” he went on, “that, when the time comes, you + should marry a good man, a suitable man—a man who will love you, + whom you will love—and, if possible, a man who will not altogether + separate you from me, who will perhaps love me a little too. It would send + me in sorrow to my grave, if you should marry a man who was not worthy of + you.” + </p> + <p> + “I will guard against that danger by not marrying at all,” laughed + Beatrice. + </p> + <p> + “No—you will marry, some day,” said the Cardinal. “And I wish you to + remember that I shall not oppose your marrying—provided the man is a + good man. Felipe will not like it—Guido will pull a long nose—but + I, at least, will take your part, if I can feel that the man is good. Good + men are rare, my dear; good husbands are rarer still. I can think, for + instance, of no man in our Roman nobility, whom I should be content to see + you marry. Therefore I hope you will not marry a Roman. You would be more + likely to marry one of your own countrymen. That, of course, would double + the loss to us, if it should take you away from Italy. But remember, if he + is a man whom I can think worthy of you, you may count upon me as an + ally.” + </p> + <p> + He resumed his walk, reopening his Breviary. + </p> + <p> + Beatrice resumed her needlework. But she found it difficult to fix her + attention on it. Every now and then, she would leave her needle stuck + across its seam, let the work drop to her lap, and, with eyes turned + vaguely up the valley, fall, apparently, into a muse. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder why he said all that to me?” was the question that kept posing + itself. + </p> + <p> + By and by the Cardinal closed his Breviary, and put it in his pocket. I + suppose he had finished his office for the day. Then he came and sat down + in one of the wicker chairs, under the awning. On the table, among the + books and things, stood a carafe of water, some tumblers, a silver + sugar-bowl, and a crystal dish full of fresh pomegranate seeds. It looked + like a dish full of unset rubies. The Cardinal poured some water into a + tumbler, added a lump of sugar and a spoonful of pomegranate seeds, + stirred the mixture till it became rose-coloured, and drank it off in a + series of little sips. + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter, Beatrice?” he asked, all at once. + </p> + <p> + Beatrice raised her eyes, perplexed. + </p> + <p> + “The matter—? Is anything the matter?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said the Cardinal; “something is the matter. You are depressed, you + are nervous, you are not yourself. I have noticed it for many days. Have + you something on, your mind?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing in the world,” Beatrice answered, with an appearance of great + candour. “I had not noticed that I was nervous or depressed.” + </p> + <p> + “We are entering October,” said the Cardinal. “I must return to Rome. I + have been absent too long already. I must return next week. But I should + not like to go away with the feeling that you are unhappy.” + </p> + <p> + “If a thing were needed to make me unhappy, it would be the announcement + of your intended departure,” Beatrice said, smiling. “But otherwise, I am + no more unhappy than it is natural to be. Life, after all, is n't such a + furiously gay business as to keep one perpetually singing and dancing—is + it? But I am not especially unhappy.” + </p> + <p> + “H'm,” said the Cardinal. Then, in a minute, “You will come to Rome in + November, I suppose?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—towards the end of November, I think,” said Beatrice. + </p> + <p> + The Cardinal rose, and began to walk backwards and forwards again. + </p> + <p> + In a little while the sound of carriage-wheels could be heard, in the + sweep, round the corner of the house. + </p> + <p> + The Cardinal looked at his watch. + </p> + <p> + “Here is the carriage,” he said. “I must go down and see that poor old + woman.... Do you know,” he added, after a moment's hesitation, “I think it + would be well if you were to go with me.” + </p> + <p> + A shadow came into Beatrice's eyes. + </p> + <p> + “What good would that do?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “It would give her pleasure, no doubt. And besides, she is one of your + parishioners, as it were. I think you ought to go. You have never been to + see her since she fell ill.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—well,” said Beatrice. + </p> + <p> + She was plainly unwilling. But she went to put on her things. + </p> + <p> + In the carriage, when they had passed the village and crossed the bridge, + as they were bowling along the straight white road that led to the villa, + “What a long time it is since Mr. Marchdale has been at Ventirose,” + remarked the Cardinal. + </p> + <p> + “Oh—? Is it?” responded Beatrice, with indifference. + </p> + <p> + “It is more than three weeks, I think—it is nearly a month,” the + Cardinal said. + </p> + <p> + “Oh—?” said she. + </p> + <p> + “He has had his hands full, of course; he has had little leisure,” the + Cardinal pursued. “His devotion to his poor old servant has been quite + admirable. But now that she is practically recovered, he will be freer.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Beatrice. + </p> + <p> + “He is a young man whom I like very much,” said the Cardinal. “He is + intelligent; he has good manners; and he has a fine sense of the droll. + Yes, he has wit—a wit that you seldom find in an Anglo-Saxon, a wit + that is almost Latin. But you have lost your interest in him? That is + because you despair of his conversion?” + </p> + <p> + “I confess I am not greatly interested in him,” Beatrice answered. “And I + certainly have no hopes of his conversion.” + </p> + <p> + The Cardinal smiled at his ring. He opened his snuffbox, and inhaled a + long deliberate pinch of snuff. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well—who can tell?” he said. “But—he will be free now, + and it is so long since he has been at the castle—had you not better + ask him to luncheon or dinner?” + </p> + <p> + “Why should I?” answered Beatrice. “If he does not come to Ventirose, it + is presumably because he does not care to come. If he does care to come, + he needs no invitation. He knows that he is at liberty to call whenever he + likes.” + </p> + <p> + “But it would be civil, it would be neighbourly, to ask him to a meal,” + the Cardinal submitted. + </p> + <p> + “And it would put him in the embarrassing predicament of having either to + accept against his will, or to decline and appear ungracious,” submitted + Beatrice. “No, it is evident that Ventirose does not amuse him.” + </p> + <p> + “Bene,” said the Cardinal. “Be it as you wish.” + </p> + <p> + But when they reached Villa Floriano, Peter was not at home. + </p> + <p> + “He has gone to Spiaggia for the day,” Emilia informed them. + </p> + <p> + Beatrice, the Cardinal fancied, looked at once relieved and disappointed. + </p> + <p> + Marietta was seated in the sun, in a sheltered corner of the garden. + </p> + <p> + While Beatrice talked with her, the Cardinal walked about. + </p> + <p> + Now it so happened that on Peter's rustic table a book lay open, face + downwards. + </p> + <p> + The Cardinal saw the book. He halted in his walk, and glanced round the + garden, as if to make sure that he was not observed. He tapped his snuff—box, + and took a pinch of snuff. Then he appeared to meditate for an instant, + the lines about his mouth becoming very marked indeed. At last, swiftly, + stealthily, almost with the air of a man committing felony, he slipped his + snuff-box under the open book, well under it, so that it was completely + covered up. + </p> + <p> + On the way back to Ventirose, the Cardinal put his hand in his pocket. + </p> + <p> + “Dear me!” he suddenly exclaimed. “I have lost my snuff box again.” He + shook his head, as one who recognises a fatality. “I am always losing it.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure you had it with you?” Beatrice asked. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, I think I had it with me. I should have missed it before this, + if I had left it at home. I must have dropped it in Mr. Marchdale's + garden.” + </p> + <p> + “In that case it will probably be found,” said Beatrice. + </p> + <p> + Peter had gone to Spiaggia, I imagine, in the hope of meeting Mrs. + O'Donovan Florence; but the printed visitors' list there told him that she + had left nearly a fortnight since. On his return to the villa, he was + greeted by Marietta with the proud tidings that her Excellency the + Duchessa di Santangiolo had been to see her. + </p> + <p> + “Oh—? Really?” he questioned lightly. (His heart, I think, dropped a + beat, all the same.) + </p> + <p> + “Ang,” said Marietta. “She came with the most Eminent Prince Cardinal. + They came in the carriage. She stayed half an hour. She was very + gracious.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah?” said Peter. “I am glad to hear it.” + </p> + <p> + “She was beautifully dressed,” said Marietta. + </p> + <p> + “Of that I have not the shadow of a doubt,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “The Signorina Emilia drove away with them,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “Dear, dear! What a chapter of adventures,” was his comment. + </p> + <p> + He went to his rustic table, and picked up his book. + </p> + <p> + “How the deuce did that come there?” he wondered, discovering the snuff + box. + </p> + <p> + It was, in truth, an odd place for it. A cardinal may inadvertently drop + his snuff box, to be sure. But if the whole College of Cardinals together + had dropped a snuff box, it would hardly have fallen, of its own weight, + through the covers of an open book, to the under-side thereof, and have + left withal no trace of its passage. + </p> + <p> + “Solid matter will not pass through solid matter, without fraction—I + learned that at school,” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + The inference would be that someone had purposely put the snuff box there. + </p> + <p> + But who? + </p> + <p> + The Cardinal himself? In the name of reason, why? + </p> + <p> + Emilia? Nonsense. + </p> + <p> + Marietta? Absurd. + </p> + <p> + The Du— + </p> + <p> + A wild surmise darted through Peter's soul. Could it be? Could it + conceivably be? Was it possible that—that—was it possible, in + fine, that this was a kind of signal, a kind of summons? + </p> + <p> + Oh, no, no, no. And yet—and yet— + </p> + <p> + No, certainly not. The idea was preposterous. It deserved, and (I trust) + obtained, summary deletion. + </p> + <p> + “Nevertheless,” said Peter, “it's a long while since I have darkened the + doors of Ventirose. And a poor excuse is better than none. And anyhow, the + Cardinal will be glad to have his snuff.” + </p> + <p> + The ladder-bridge was in its place. + </p> + <p> + He crossed the Aco. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXVIII + </h2> + <p> + He crossed the Aco, and struck bravely forward, up the smooth lawns, under + the bending trees, towards the castle. + </p> + <p> + The sun was setting. The irregular mass of buildings stood out in varying + shades of blue, against varying, dying shades of red. + </p> + <p> + Half way there, Peter stopped, and looked back. + </p> + <p> + The level sunshine turned the black forests of the Gnisi to shining + forests of bronze, and the foaming cascade that leapt down its side to a + cascade of liquid gold. The lake, for the greater part, lay in shadow, + violet-grey through a pearl-grey veil of mist; but along the opposite + shore it caught the light, and gleamed a crescent of quicksilver, with + roseate reflections. The three snow-summits of Monte Sfiorito, at the + valley's end, seemed almost insubstantial—floating forms of luminous + pink vapour, above the hazy horizon, in a pure sky intensely blue. + </p> + <p> + A familiar verse came into Peter's mind. + </p> + <p> + “Really,”' he said to himself, “down to the very 'cataract leaping in + glory,' I believe they must have pre-arranged the scene, feature for + feature, to illustrate it.” And he began to repeat the vivid, musical + lines, under his breath... + </p> + <p> + But about midway of them he was interrupted. + </p> + <p> + “It's not altogether a bad sort of view—is it?” a voice asked, + behind him. + </p> + <p> + Peter faced about. + </p> + <p> + On a marble bench, under a feathery acacia; a few yards away, a lady was + seated, looking at him, smiling. + </p> + <p> + Peter's eyes met hers—and suddenly his heart gave a jump. Then it + stood dead still for a second. Then it flew off, racing perilously. Oh, + for the best reasons in the world. There was something in her eyes, there + was a glow, a softness, that seemed—that seemed... But thereby hangs + my tale. + </p> + <p> + She was dressed in white. She had some big bright-yellow chrysanthemums + stuck in her belt. She wore no hat. Her hair, brown and warm in shadow, + sparkled, where the sun touched it, transparent and iridescent, like + crinkly threads of glass. + </p> + <p> + “You do not think it altogether bad—I hope?” she questioned, arching + her eyebrows slightly, with a droll little assumption of concern. + </p> + <p> + Peter's heart was racing—but he must answer her. + </p> + <p> + “I was just wondering,” he answered, with a tolerably successful feint of + composure, “whether one might not safely call it altogether good.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—?” she exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + She threw back her head, and examined the prospect critically. Afterwards, + she returned her gaze to Peter, with an air of polite readiness to defer + to his opinion. + </p> + <p> + “It is not too sensational? Not too much like a landscape on the stage?” + </p> + <p> + “We must judge it leniently,” said he; “we must remember that it is only + unaided Nature. Besides,” he added, “to be meticulously truthful, there is + a spaciousness, there is a vivacity in the light and colour, there is a + sense of depth and atmosphere, that we should hardly find in a landscape + on the stage.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—perhaps there is,” she admitted thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + And with that, they looked into each other's eyes, and laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Are you aware,” the lady asked, after a brief silence, “that it is a + singularly lovely evening.” + </p> + <p> + “I have a hundred reasons for thinking it so,” Peter answered, with the + least approach to a meaning bow. + </p> + <p> + In the lady's face there flickered, perhaps, for half a second, the + faintest light, as of a comprehending and unresentful smile. But she went + on, with fine detachment + </p> + <p> + “How calm and still it is. The wonderful peace of the day's compline. It + seems as if the earth had stopped breathing—does n't it? The birds + have already gone to bed, though the sun is only just setting. It is the + hour when they are generally noisiest; but they have gone to bed—the + sparrows and the finches, the snatchers and the snatched-from, are equal + in the article of sleep. That is because they feel the touch of autumn. + How beautiful it is, in spite of its sadness, this first touch of autumn—it + is like sad distant music. Can you analyse it, can you explain it? There + is no chill, it is quite warm, and yet one knows somehow that autumn is + here. The birds know it, and have gone to bed. In another month they will + be flying away, to Africa and the Hesperides—all of them except the + sparrows, who stay all winter. I wonder how they get on during the winter, + with no goldfinches to snatch from?” + </p> + <p> + She turned to Peter with a look of respectful enquiry, as one appealing to + an authority for information. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, they snatch from each other, during the winter,” he explained. “It is + thief rob thief, when honest victims are not forthcoming. And—what + is more to the point—they must keep their beaks in, against the + return of the goldfinches with the spring.” + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa—for I scorn to deceive the trustful reader longer; and + (as certain fines mouches, despite my efforts at concealment, may ere this + have suspected) the mysterious lady was no one else—the Duchessa + gaily laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said, “the goldfinches will return with the spring. But isn't + that rather foolish of them? If I were a goldfinch, I think I should make + my abode permanent in the sparrowless south.” + </p> + <p> + “There is no sparrowless south,” said Peter. “Sparrows, alas, abound in + every latitude; and the farther south you go, the fiercer and bolder and + more impudent they become. In Africa and the Hesperides, which you have + mentioned, they not infrequently attack the caravans, peck the eyes out of + the camels, and are sometimes even known to carry off a man, a whole man, + vainly struggling in their inexorable talons. There is no sparrowless + south. But as for the goldfinches returning—it is the instinct of us + bipeds to return. Plumed and plumeless, we all return to something, what + though we may have registered the most solemn vows to remain away.” + </p> + <p> + He delivered his last phrases with an accent, he punctuated them with a + glance, in which there may have lurked an intention. + </p> + <p> + But the Duchessa did not appear to notice it. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—true—so we do,” she assented vaguely. “And what you tell + me of the sparrows in the Hesperides is very novel and impressive—unless, + indeed, it is a mere traveller's tale, with which you are seeking to + practise upon my credulity. But since I find you in this communicative + vein, will you not push complaisance a half-inch further, and tell me what + that thing is, suspended there in the sky above the crest of the + Cornobastone—that pale round thing, that looks like the spectre of a + magnified half-crown?” + </p> + <p> + Peter turned to the quarter her gaze indicated. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that,” he said, “is nothing. In frankness, it is only what the vulgar + style the moon.” + </p> + <p> + “How odd,” said she. “I thought it was what the vulgar style the moon.” + </p> + <p> + And they both laughed again. + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa moved a little; and thus she uncovered, carved on the back of + her marble bench, and blazoned in red and gold, a coat of arms. + </p> + <p> + She touched the shield with her finger. + </p> + <p> + “Are you interested in canting heraldry?” she asked. “There is no country + so rich in it as Italy. These are the arms of the Farfalla, the original + owners of this property. Or, seme of twenty roses gules; the crest, on a + rose gules, a butterfly or, with wings displayed; and the motto—how + could the heralds ever have sanctioned such an unheraldic and unheroic + motto? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Rosa amorosa, + Farfalla giojosa, + Mi cantano al cuore + La gioja e l' amore. +</pre> + <p> + They were the great people of this region for countless generations, the + Farfalla. They were Princes of Ventirose and Patricians of Milan. And then + the last of them was ruined at Monte Carlo, and killed himself there, + twenty-odd years ago. That is how all their gioja and amore ended. It was + the case of a butterfly literally broken upon a wheel. The estate fell + into the hands of the Jews, as everything more or less does sooner or + later; and they—if you can believe me—they were going to turn + the castle into an hotel, into one of those monstrous modern hotels, for + other Jews to come to, when I happened to hear of it, and bought it. Fancy + turning that splendid old castle into a Jew-infested hotel! It is one of + the few castles in Italy that have a ghost. Oh, but a quite authentic + ghost. It is called the White Page—il Paggio Bianco di Ventirose. It + is the ghost of a boy about sixteen. He walks on the ramparts of the old + keep, and looks off towards the lake, as if he were watching a boat, and + sometimes he waves his arms, as if he were signalling. And from head to + foot he is perfectly white, like a statue. I have never seen him myself; + but so many people say they have, I cannot doubt he is authentic. And the + Jews wanted to turn this haunted castle into an hotel... As a tribute to + the memory of the Farfalla, I take pains to see that their arms, which are + carved, as you see them here, in at least a hundred different places, are + remetalled and retinctured as often as time and the weather render it + necessary.” + </p> + <p> + She looked towards the castle, while she spoke; and now she rose, with the + design, perhaps, of moving in that direction. + </p> + <p> + Peter felt that the moment had come for actualities. + </p> + <p> + “It seems improbable,” he began,—“and I 'm afraid you will think + there is a tiresome monotony in my purposes; but I am here again to return + Cardinal Udeschini's snuff box. He left it in my garden.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—?” said the Duchessa. “Yes, he thought he must have left it + there. He is always mislaying it. Happily, he has another, for + emergencies. It was very good of you to trouble to bring it back.” + </p> + <p> + She gave a light little laugh.. + </p> + <p> + “I may also improve this occasion,” Peter abruptly continued, “to make my + adieux. I shall be leaving for England in a few days now.” + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa raised her eyebrows. + </p> + <p> + “Really?” she said. “Oh, that is too bad,” she added, by way of comment. + “October, you know, is regarded as the best month of all the twelve, in + this lake country.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know it,” Peter responded regretfully. + </p> + <p> + “And it is a horrid month in England,” she went on. + </p> + <p> + “It is an abominable month in England,” he acknowledged. + </p> + <p> + “Here it is blue, like larkspur, and all fragrant of the vintage, and + joyous with the songs of the vintagers,” she said. “There it is + dingy-brown, and songless, and it smells of smoke.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he agreed. + </p> + <p> + “But you are a sportsman? You go in for shooting?” she conjectured. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he answered. “I gave up shooting years ago.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—? Hunting, then?” + </p> + <p> + “I hate hunting. One is always getting rolled on by one's horse.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, I see. It—it will be golf, perhaps?” + </p> + <p> + “No, it is not even golf.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't tell me it is football?” + </p> + <p> + “Do I look as if it were football?” + </p> + <p> + “It is sheer homesickness, in fine? You are grieving for the purple of + your native heather?” + </p> + <p> + “There is scarcely any heather in my native county. No,” said Peter, “no. + To tell you the truth, it is the usual thing. It is an histoire de femme.” + </p> + <p> + “I 'might have guessed it,” she exclaimed. “It is still that everlasting + woman.” + </p> + <p> + “That everlasting woman—?” Peter faltered. + </p> + <p> + “To be sure,” said she. “The woman you are always going on about. The + woman of your novel. This woman, in short.” + </p> + <p> + And she produced from behind her back a hand that she had kept there, and + held up for his inspection a grey-and-gold bound book. + </p> + <p> + “MY novel—?” faltered he. (But the sight of it, in her possession, + in these particular circumstances, gave him a thrill that was not a thrill + of despair.) + </p> + <p> + “Your novel,” she repeated, smiling sweetly, and mimicking his tone. Then + she made a little moue. “Of course, I have known that you were your friend + Felix Wildmay, from the outset.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said Peter, in a feeble sort of gasp, looking bewildered. “You have + known that from the outset?” And his brain seemed to reel. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said she, “of course. Where would the fun have been, otherwise? And + now you are going away, back to her shrine, to renew your worship. I hope + you will find the courage to offer her your hand.” + </p> + <p> + Peter's brain was reeling. But here was the opportunity of his life. + </p> + <p> + “You give me courage,” he pronounced, with sudden daring. “You are in a + position to help me with her. And since you know so much, I should like + you to know more. I should like to tell you who she is.” + </p> + <p> + “One should be careful where one bestows one's confidences,” she warned + him; but there was something in her eyes, there was a glow, a softness, + that seemed at the same time to invite them. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said, “better than telling you who she is, I will tell you where + I first saw her. It was at the Francais, in December, four years ago, a + Thursday night, a subscription night. She sat in one of the middle boxes + of the first tier. She was dressed in white. Her companions were an + elderly woman, English I think, in black, who wore a cap; and an old man, + with white moustache and imperial, who looked as if he might be a French + officer. And the play—.” + </p> + <p> + He broke off, and looked at the Duchessa. She kept her eyes down. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—the play?” she questioned, in a low voice, after a little wait. + </p> + <p> + “The play was Monsieur Pailleron's 'Le monde ou l'on s'ennuie',” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said she, still keeping her eyes down. Her voice was still very low. + But there was something in it that made Peter's heart leap. + </p> + <p> + “The next time I saw her,” he began... + </p> + <p> + But then he had to stop. He felt as if the beating of his heart must + suffocate him. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—the next time?” she questioned. + </p> + <p> + He drew a deep breath. He began anew— + </p> + <p> + “The next time was a week later, at the Opera. They were giving Lohengrin. + She was with the same man and woman, and there was another, younger man. + She had pearls round her neck and in her hair, and she had a cloak lined + with white fur. She left before the opera was over. I did not see her + again until the following May, when I saw her once or twice in London, + driving in the Park. She was always with the same elderly Englishwoman, + but the military-looking old Frenchman had disappeared. And then I saw her + once more, a year later, in Paris, driving in the Bois.” + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa kept her eyes down. She did not speak. + </p> + <p> + Peter waited as long as flesh-and-blood could wait, looking at her. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” he pleaded, at last. “That is all. Have you nothing to say to me?” + </p> + <p> + She raised her eyes, and for the tiniest fraction of a second they gave + themselves to his. Then she dropped them again. + </p> + <p> + “You are sure,” she asked, “you are perfectly sure that when, afterwards, + you met her, and came to know her as she really is—you are perfectly + sure there was no disappointment?” + </p> + <p> + “Disappointment!” cried Peter. “She is in every way immeasurably beyond + anything that I was capable of dreaming. Oh, if you could see her, if you + could hear her speak, if you could look into her eyes—if you could + see her as others see her—you would not ask whether there was a + disappointment. She is... No; the language is not yet invented, in which I + could describe her.” + </p> + <p> + The Duchessa smiled, softly, to herself. + </p> + <p> + “And you are in love with her—more or less?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “I love her so that the bare imagination of being allowed to tell her of + my love almost makes me faint with joy. But it is like the story of the + poor squire who loved his queen. She is the greatest of great ladies. I am + nobody. She is so beautiful, so splendid, and so high above me, it would + be the maddest presumption for me to ask her for her love. To ask for the + love of my Queen! And yet—Oh, I can say no more. God sees my heart. + God knows how I love her.” + </p> + <p> + “And it is on her account—because you think your love is hopeless—that + you are going away, that you are going back to England?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said he. + </p> + <p> + She raised her eyes again, and again they gave themselves to his. There + was something in them, there was a glow, a softness ... + </p> + <p> + “Don't go,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Up at the castle—Peter had hurried down to the villa, dressed, and + returned to the castle to dine—he restored the snuff-box to Cardinal + Udeschini. + </p> + <p> + “I am trebly your debtor for it,” said the Cardinal. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Cardinal's Snuff-Box, by Henry Harland + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CARDINAL'S SNUFF-BOX *** + +***** This file should be named 5610-h.htm or 5610-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/1/5610/ + +Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer, and David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions 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. 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