Veronica accompanied the travellers with a light, and wished her master a pleasant journey, with a crestfallen expression, for she had an inkling of the quarrel.
Two minutes later and the heavy boat, pushed forward by Ismaele's slow and steady "travelling strokes," was passing beneath the wall of the kitchen-garden. Franco put his head out of the little window. The rose-bushes, the caper-bushes, and the aloes hanging from the wall, passed slowly in the pale light of this starry but moonless night; then the orange-trees, the medlar, and the pine slipped by. Good-bye! Good-bye! They passed the cemetery, the Zocca di Mainè, the narrow lane where he had so often walked with Maria, the Tavorell. Franco no longer watched. The light that usually burned in the little cabin was not there to-night, and he could not see his wife, who was silent.
"Are you going to Porlezza about those papers of the notary's, or simply to accompany me?" he said.
"This too!" Luisa murmured sadly. "I tried to be strictly honest with you, and you took offence. You ask my forgiveness, and now you say such things as this to me. I see that one cannot be faithful to truth without great, great suffering. But patience! I have chosen that path now. You will know soon whether I really came on your account or not. Do not humble me by making me say so now."
"Do not humble me!" Franco exclaimed. "I do not understand. We are indeed different in so many ways. My God, how different we are! You are always so completely mistress of yourself, you can always express your thoughts so exactly, they are always so clear, so cool."
Luisa murmured: "Yes, we are different."
Neither spoke again until they reached Cressogno. When they were near the Marchesa's villa Luisa began to talk, and tried to keep the conversation alive until they should have left the villa behind. She asked him to repeat to her the itinerary that had been arranged for his journey, and suggested that he take only his handbag with him, for the valise would be a burden from Argegno on. She had already spoken to Ismaele about it, and he had promised to carry it to Lugano and send it on to Turin from that place. Meanwhile they had passed his grandmother's villa.
Now the sanctuary of Caravina came in sight. Twice during their courtship Franco and Luisa had met under those olive-trees, at the festa of Caravina, on the eighth of September. And now the dear little church in its grove of olives, beneath the awful rocks of the peak of Cressogno, was left behind also. Farewell, little church. Farewell to the past!
"Remember," Franco said, almost harshly, "that Maria is to say her prayers every morning and evening. It is an order I give you."
"I should have made her do so without this order," Luisa answered. "I know Maria does not belong to me alone."
Then they were silent all the way to Porlezza. Coming forth from the tranquil bay of Valsolda, seeing other valleys, other horizons, the lake just rippled by the first breath of dawn, the two travellers were drawn towards other thoughts, were led to think, without knowing why, of the uncertain future, which must bring great events, of which prophetic whisperings already circulated mysteriously through the heavy Austrian silence. Some one called out from the shore at Porlezza, and Ismaele began to row rapidly. It was the driver, Toni Pollin, who was shouting to them to make haste if they wished to catch the steamer at Menaggio.
The last moments had come. Franco let down the window in the little door, and looked at the man as if he were most anxious not to lose a word.
When they touched the shore he turned to his wife. "Are you going to get out also?" "If you wish it," she said. They alighted. A cabriolet stood ready on the shore. "By the way," said Luisa, "you will find some lunch in your bag." They embraced, exchanging a cold and rapid kiss in the presence of three or four curious bystanders "Try and make Maria forgive me for leaving her thus," said Franco, and they were his last words, for Toni Pollin was hurrying them: "Quick, quick!" The horse started off at a brisk trot, and the cabriolet rattled noisily, with a great snapping of the whip, through the dark and narrow street of Porlezza.
Franco was on board the Falcon between Campo and Argegno when he thought of his lunch. He opened the bag, and his heart gave a bound as he perceived a letter bearing as an address the words "For You" in his wife's hand. He tore it open eagerly, and read as follows—
"If you only knew what I am experiencing in my soul, how I am suffering, how sorely I am tempted to lay aside the little shoes—in the making of which I am far less skilful than you think—and to go to you, taking back all I have said, you would not be so harsh with me. I must have sinned deeply against truth, that the first steps I now take in following her are so difficult, so bitter.
"You think me proud, and I believed myself very sensitive, but now I feel that your humiliating words alone could not have kept me from hastening to you. What holds me back is a Voice within me, a Voice stronger than I am, which commands me to sacrifice everything save my consciousness of truth.
"Ah! I hope this sacrifice may bring its reward! I hope that one day there may be a perfect union between our two souls.
"I am going into the garden to gather for you that brave little rose we admired together the other day, the little rose that has challenged and conquered January. Do you remember how many obstacles lay between us the first time I received a flower from your hand? I was not yet in love with you, but you already dreamt of winning me. Now it is I who hope to win you!"
Franco came near letting the steamer pass Argegno without moving from his seat.
CHAPTER IX
FOR BREAD, FOR ITALY, FOR GOD
Eight months later, in September, 1855, Franco was occupying a miserable attic in Via Barbaroux, Turin. In February he had obtained the post of translator for the Opinione, with a monthly salary of eighty-five lire. Later he began to write the parliamentary reports, and his salary was raised to a hundred lire. Dina, the manager of the paper, was fond of him, and procured him extra work outside the office, thus adding twenty-five or thirty lire to his earnings. Franco lived on sixty lire a month. The rest went to Lugano to be carried thence to Oria by the faithful hands of Ismaele. To live a month on sixty lire took more courage than Franco himself had believed he possessed. The hours at the office, the translating—a laborious task for one full of scruples and literary timidity—weighed more heavily upon him than the privations; moreover he felt even sixty lire was too large a sum, and reproached himself for not being able to do with less.
He had attached himself to six other refugees, some of whom were Lombards, others Venetians. They ate together, walked together, conversed together. With the exception of Franco and a young man from Udine, all the others were between thirty and forty years of age. All were extremely poor, and not one of them had ever consented to accept a penny from the Piedmontese Government as a subsidy. The young man from Udine came of a rich family, of Austrian tendencies, and received not a penny from home. He was a good flutist, gave four or five lessons a week, and played in the small orchestras of second-rate theatres. A notary from Padua was copyist in Boggio's office. A lawyer from Caprino, Bergamasco, who had seen service at Rome in 1849, was book-keeper at a large establishment in Via Nuovo, where umbrellas and walking-sticks were sold, and for this reason his friends had dubbed him "the knave of clubs." A fourth, a Milanese, had been through the campaign of 1848 as one of Carlo Alberto's scouts. His present occupation was to quarrel continually with "the knave of clubs," for reasons of provincial rivalry, to teach fencing in a couple of boarding schools, and in winter to play the piano behind a mysterious curtain in halls where polkas were danced at a penny each. The others lived on insufficient allowances from their families. All except Franco were unmarried, and all were gay. They called themselves, and were called by others, the "seven wise men," and in their wisdom they dominated Turin from the elevated positions of seven attics, scattered all over the city from Borgo San Dalmazzo to Piazza Milano.
Franco's was the most wretched of these attics, the rent being only seven lire a month. No member of this band had any services whatsoever performed for them, save the notary from Padua, for whom the doorkeeper's sister carried water to his attic, and had he not been the calm philosopher he was, the merciless teasings of his friends would have made him regret Marga's devotion. They all cleaned their own boots. The most skilful with his hands was Franco, and it was his lot to sew on his friends' buttons when they did not wish to humble themselves by applying to the lawyer and his Marga, who, nevertheless, often had her hands full, "poor, overworked woman that I am!" The young man from Udine had a sweetheart, a little tota [N] from the first booth in Piazza Castello on the corner of Po, but he was jealous, and would not allow her to sew on buttons for any one. The friends took their revenge by calling her "the puppet," because she sold puppets and dolls. However, thanks to "the puppet," he was the only member of the band whose clothes were always in order, and whose cravat was always tied in a graceful knot. They took their meals at a restaurant in Vanchiglia, which they had christened "Stomach-ache Tavern," and where they had lunch and dinner for thirty lire a month. Their only extravagance was the bicierîn, a mixture of coffee, milk, and chocolate, costing only fifteen centimes. They drank this in the morning, the Venetians at the Café Alfieri, the others at Café Florio. All except Franco, however. He went without the bicierîn and the torcètt, a cake costing a penny that went with it, in order that he might lay by enough for a little trip to Lugano, and a trifling present for Maria. In the winter they walked under the porticoes of Po, the "wise ones" in the vicinity of the University, while the more light-minded frequented the porticoes on the San Francesco side. After their walk they would go to a coffee-house, where the one whose turn it was would sip a cup of coffee, while the others read the newspapers and looted the sugar basin. Once a week, to satisfy the "knave of clubs," they would betake themselves to a den in Via Bertola, where the purest and most exquisite Giambava wine was to be had.
The flutist from Udine of course went to the theatres, and by his means some of the others went gratis from time to time, but always to the play, and usually either to the Rossini or Gerbino theatres. For Franco to be obliged to pass the posters at the Regio and the other opera houses was a far greater trial than to be obliged to clean his own boots and lunch off two square inches of omelet that was so thin it would have served admirably to observe the spots on the sun through. He had had the good fortune to make the acquaintance of a certain C., a Venetian, who was secretary at the department of Public Works, and who presented him to the family of a most distinguished major in the sanitary corps, also Venetian, and who owned a piano and was in the habit of receiving a few friends of an evening, on which occasions he would regale them with a cup of most excellent coffee of a quality almost unique in the Turin of those days. When, for one reason or another, the "seven wise men" did not spend the evening together, Franco would go to this gentleman's house in Piazza Milano, to make music, to converse on art with the daughters, or to discuss politics with his hostess, a fierce Venetian patriot, a woman of great talents, and possessed of a strenuous soul, who had not only borne heroically all the hardships and the bitterness of exile, but had sustained the courage of her husband, whose first steps had been most painful and difficult; for those precious, honest old numskulls of the inflexible Piedmontese administration had actually obliged this already famous professor of the University of Padua to submit to an examination, before they would admit him into the army as surgeon. [O]
The correspondence between Turin and Oria did not indeed reflect the true state of mind of Franco and Luisa; it ran on smoothly and affectionately enough, but with great caution and reserve on either side. Luisa had expected that Franco would answer her note, and resume the great discussion. As he never mentioned either the note or what had passed between them that last night, she risked an allusion. It was allowed to pass unheeded. As a matter of fact Franco had several times started to write with the intention of confuting his wife's opinions. Before beginning he always felt himself strong, and was convinced that with a little thought he could easily discover crushing arguments, and, indeed, arguments he believed to be such would rush to his pen, but when they were set down in writing, he would at once be forced to recognise their inadequacy. Though surprised and grieved he would make another attempt, but always with the same result. Nevertheless his wife was certainly in error; this he never for a moment doubted, and there must be a way of demonstrating it to her. He must study. But what, and how? He consulted a priest to whom he had been to confession soon after his arrival in Turin. This priest, a little misshapen old man, who was fiery and very learned, invited him to his house in Piazza Paisana, and began to help him enthusiastically, suggesting a number of books, some for his own perusal, and others to be sent to his wife. He was a learned Orientalist, and an enthusiastic Thomist, and had taken a great fancy to Franco, of whose genius and culture he had formed an opinion which was perhaps exaggeratedly favourable. At one time he was on the point of proposing to him the study of Hebrew, and indeed insisted upon his reading St. Thomas. He went so far as to sketch for Franco the outlines of a letter to his wife, with a list of the arguments he must expound. Franco had at once fallen in love with the enthusiastic little old man, who, moreover, had the pure expression of a saint. He began to study St. Thomas with great ardour, but did not persevere long. He felt he was embarking upon a sea without beginning and without end, across which he was unable to steer a straight course. The scholastic scheme of treatment, that sameness in the form of argument for and against, that icy Latin, dense with profound thought, and colourless on the surface, had successfully routed all his good intentions at the end of three days. Of the arguments contained in the sketch for the letter he understood only a small part. He got the priest to explain them to him, understood somewhat better, and prepared to open a campaign with them, but found himself as much encumbered by them as was David by the armour of Saul. They weighed upon him, he could not handle them, he felt they were not his own and never would be. No, he could not present himself before his wife with Professor G.'s priestly hat and tunic, a theological lance in his hand, and entrenched behind a shield of metaphysics. He recognised that he was not born to philosophise in any way; he was destitute of the very power of strictly logical reasoning, for indeed his glowing heart, rich in tenderness and indignation, would too often interfere, speaking for or against, according to its own passions. One evening at Casa C. he was playing the andante of Beethoven's twenty-eighth sonata, when, with quivering nerves and flashing eyes, he said in a low tone: "Ah! This, this, this!" He was reflecting that no theologian, no doctor, could communicate the religious sentiment as Beethoven does. As he played on he put his whole soul into the music, and longed for Luisa's presence that he might play this divine andante to her, that he might unite himself to her, praying thus in an ineffable spasm of the spirit. But he did not reflect that Luisa who, moreover, was far less sensitive to music than he was, would probably have attributed another meaning to the andante, that of the painful conflict between our affections and our convictions.
He went to G., returned the works of St. Thomas and confessed his utter incapacity in such humble and feeling language, that after a few moments of frowning and uneasy silence, the old priest forgave him. "There, there, there!" said he, resignedly taking back the first volume of the Somma. "Commend yourself to our Lord, and let us hope He Himself will act." Thus ended Franco's theological studies.
All this pondering of his wife's opinions and his own, and above all the Professor's advice: "Commend yourself to our Lord," were not fruitless. He began to see that on some points Luisa was not mistaken. When she had reproached him for not leading a life in conformity with his faith, he had been more offended by this than by anything else. Now a generous impulse carried him to the other extreme; he judged himself severely, exaggerated his faults of idleness, of anger, even of greed, and held himself responsible for Luisa's intellectual aberrations. He felt a desire to tell her this, to humble himself before her, to separate his own cause from the cause of God. When he obtained his position on the Opinione, and regulated his own expenses in such a manner as to be able to make an allowance to his family, his wife wrote that this allowance was entirely too large in proportion to his earnings, and that the thought of him, living in Turin on sixty lire a month, gave her own food a bitter taste. He answered—and this was not strictly true—that in the first place, he never went hungry, but that he would, indeed, be glad to fast, because he felt an intense desire to change his way of life, to expiate his past idleness, including the hours he had wasted on his flowers and music, to expiate all past softness, all past weaknesses, including the weakness for dainty dishes and fine wines. He added that he had asked God's forgiveness for this past life, and that he felt he must ask her forgiveness also. In fact the Paduan, with whom Franco had become very intimate, and to whom he read this passage in his letter as a sort of confirmation of previous confessions, exclaimed: "That bit sounds for all the world like the oration of Manasseh, king of Judæa!"
Luisa wrote most affectionately, but with less effusion. Franco's silence on the painful subject displeased her, and she felt it would be unwise on her part to allude to it in the face of a silence so obstinate.
His good intentions concerning labour and self-sacrifice moved her deeply; when she read that confession of great wickedness, followed by the prayer for pardon to God and to herself, she smiled and kissed the letter, feeling that this was an act of submission, and a humble acceptance of the censure which had at first only irritated him. Poor Franco! These were the impulses of his noble, generous nature! But would they last? She answered at once, and if her emotion was apparent in her answer, so also was her smile, which displeased Franco. At the end he found these words: "When I read your many self-accusations I thought, with remorse, of the accusations I brought against you, one sad night, and I felt that you also had been thinking of them as you wrote, although neither in this letter nor in any other are they alluded to. I deeply regret those accusations, my own Franco, but how I wish we could speak together as true friends, concerning those other questions of which I think so much here in my solitude!"
Luisa's wish remained ungratified. In answering Franco did not even touch on this point; indeed his next letter was somewhat cool, so Luisa did not again revert to the subject. Only once, when speaking of Maria, did she write: "If you could only see how Maria recites her 'Our Father' every night and morning, and how well she behaves at Mass, on Sundays, you would be satisfied."
He replied: "As to what you tell me concerning Maria's religious exercises, I am satisfied, and I thank you!"
Both Luisa and Franco wrote almost every day, and sent their letters once a week. Ismaele went to the post at Lugano every Tuesday, taking the wife's letters and bringing back the husband's. In June Maria had the measles, and in August Uncle Piero lost the sight of his left eye, almost without warning, and for some time was greatly distressed. During these two periods the letters from Oria were more frequent, but in September the weekly correspondence was resumed. From the bundle of letters I take the last that passed between Franco and Luisa, on the eve of those events which overwhelmed them at the end of September.
"I do not think Pasotti will ever come to our house again. I am sorry on poor Barborin's account, for I fear she will not be able to come either, but I do not regret what I did.
"He has known perfectly well for some time that you are in Turin. He even talked of it with the Receiver, so Maria Pon told me. She was in the Romit chapel, and heard them talking on their way down from Albogasio Superiore. When he came here he would always pretend not to know, and would enquire for you with his usual assumption of interest and friendship. To-day he found me alone in the little garden and asked how much longer you would be absent and whether you were in Milan at present. I answered frankly that his question surprised me. He turned pale. 'Why?' said he. 'Because you have been going about saying that Franco is in an entirely different place.' He became confused and protested angrily. 'You may protest as much as you like!' I said. 'It is quite useless. You know that. At all events Franco is very well off where he is. You may say as much to whomever you please.' 'You wish to insult me!' he exclaimed. I did not stop to think long, but retorted: 'That is quite possible!' Then he rushed away without saluting me, and looking as black as the ace of spades—that simile suits my present mood! I am sure he will go to Cressogno this evening.
"Cüstant has sent us a present of a magnificent tench which he caught this morning, much to the chagrin of Bianconi, who fishes all day long, and never catches anything. He is furious with the impudent tench because they snap their fingers—so to speak—at His Imperial and Royal Majesty of Austria and his Carlascia. 'Poor fellow!' says Signora Peppina. 'He is eating his heart out!'
"However, he will get over it, he will get over it.
"I related the Pasotti episode to Uncle Piero and he was very much annoyed. 'Much good this will do you!' he said. Poor Uncle! One might almost suspect him of being a utilitarian, whereas he is really a philosopher. After all the strongest argument he ever opposes to all my burning indignation against the many ugly things in this world is: 'Worrying won't mend it!'
"To-day the parish Mass was said at Albogasio Superiore. In coming out of church with Maria I caught a despairing glance from poor Barborin, who evidently had orders to avoid me. However, Ester walked down with us and coming into the house told me privately something I have been expecting to hear. She began by begging me not to laugh, while all the time she was laughing herself. I succeeded in gathering that the Professor, by dint of great perseverance, has overcome her resistance, although Ester still declares she does not know her own mind.
"'It is his nose!' she said this morning, laughing and hiding her gay little face. Indeed that scandalous nose seems to me to be prospering; it is redder than ever, and grows ever larger!
"I have not written for three days, fearing I should not be mistress of my pen, nor be able to confine my thoughts within words which must not exceed certain bounds. Now I feel equal to the task, and so I will set about it. But I must warn you, Franco, that I am not sure of being able to control my feelings all the way through.
"Well, then, your grandmother's agent came to me on the evening of the fifteenth. As the half-yearly payment of your income is due on the sixteenth, I concluded he had come to bring the five hundred svanziche, and so I told him at once that I would go and prepare the receipt for him. Then the most gracious Signor Bellini informed me that my receipt would not be sufficient. 'How can that be?' I said. 'It was sufficient on the sixteenth of March.' 'I don't know,' he replied. 'I have my orders.' 'But Franco is not here.' 'I know that.' 'Then what did you come here for?' 'I came to tell you that if Don Franco wishes to draw his money he must present himself at the Signora Marchesa's agency in Brescia.' 'And what if he cannot go to Brescia?' Here Signor Bellini made a gesture that meant, 'That is your affair.' I replied that it was all right, had coffee brought for him, and told him I was anxious to purchase the book-shelves in your old study at Cressogno from the Signora Marchesa. Bellini turned yellow, and sneaked away like our old dog Pato at Casa Rigey when he had been stealing.
"Most certainly the worthy Pasotti has had a finger in this dirty business.
"The Prefect of Caravina was here yesterday and told us that Pasotti went to Cressogno on the evening of the fourteenth. He was very late, and reached your grandmother's house while they were saying the rosary, so he had to mumble the prayers with the others, which greatly amused the prefect, for it is his opinion that Pasotti goes to Mass simply because he is an Imperial and Royal pensioner, but that his only prayer is 'the rats' Pater,' whatever that may be. He added that after the others had gone out Pasotti remained in confabulation with your grandmother, and that Bellini was also present. Bellini had arrived that very day from Brescia. He probably brought the money for you.
"We have enough left to live upon until the money comes from you in October. That is all I wish to say.
"Maria sends you the cyclamen you will find enclosed. I must also tell you the following incident. You can fancy she notices the state of mind I am in. She often hears me discussing the subject with Uncle Piero. The uncle is always the uncle! In his whole life he has set down as rascals only such contractors as offered him bribes, and another uncle his exact opposite, who, after making use of his nephew for many years, died without leaving him so much as a dried fig. He would never recognise any other rascals, nor will he do so even now. Well, when I am talking with him, Maria always wants to listen. I send her away, but I sometimes fail to notice that she has returned very softly. This morning she began saying her prayers. Oh, Franco! your daughter is indeed very religious in your own way! The last prayer she repeats is a requiem for poor Grandmamma Teresa. 'Mamma,' said she when she had finished, 'I want to recite a requiem for the grandmother in Cressogno also.' Never mind my answer. My words were bitter; perhaps I did wrong; I am even ready to confess I did wrong. Maria looked at me, and said: 'Is the grandmother at Cressogno really wicked?' 'Yes.' 'But why does Uncle Piero say she is not really wicked?' 'Because Uncle Piero is so very good.' 'Then you are not so very good?' My dear little innocent! I devoured her with kisses, I could not help it! As soon as she was free to speak she began again: 'You will not go to Paradise, you know, if you are not so very good.' Paradise is her one idea. Poor Franco, not to have her with you, you who would be so satisfied with her! You are indeed making a great sacrifice! If it will give you any pleasure I will tell you that the only possibility for me to love God is through this child, for in her God becomes visible and intelligible to me.
"Good-bye, Franco. I embrace you.
"P. S. I must tell you that I have dismissed Veronica for the first of October. This I did in the first place for reasons of economy, and secondly because I have discovered that she is flirting with a customs-guard. Oh! I almost forgot something else! Half an hour ago Ester came to tell me she has decided to say 'yes,' but she wishes to wait a day longer before seeing the Professor. She has evidently succeeded in swallowing the nose, but has not yet digested it."
"The 'knave of clubs' is threatened with dismissal by his employer on account of the truly miserable state of his clothes. The 'knave' is indeed given to extravagance, and has not yet learned—duris in rebus—to handle a clothes brush, but however that may be, the other 'wise men' have decided not to lunch for a week in order that he may re-clothe himself. Now observe the baseness of the human heart! The 'knave,' overflowing with expressions of gratitude, calmly prepared to go to his own lunch! This, however, we would not stand. So to-day, instead of repairing to Stomach-ache Tavern, we spent half an hour on the banks of the Po, near the Valentino, watching the water flow past. The wise man from Udine had brought his flute with him, because music should not be wanting at an ideal lunch, at which the most Irimalchionian ideas of food and beverages are handed round. He also had with him a letter from his family, containing magnificent proposals for his return to the fold. They even offer him a riding-horse. He says he has written them that they will soon see him come dashing up on one of King Victor Emmanuel's horses. Then the Paduan, who is a wag, said to him with a great assumption of seriousness, "Ah, my hero! So you are beginning to blow your own trumpet as well as play the flute!" The flutist was wild, but presently he calmed down, and played us a nice little tune. The strange part of it all is that none of us felt hungry. However, when the meeting was adjourned, we decided that the 'knave's' clothing should be simplified, and that he could get along without the justicoat, known in modern parlance as the waistcoat.
"Ah! We would all gladly do without dinner as well as lunch if we could only cross the Ticino with the King in April, 1856! We talked of this on our way back to the city after the ideal lunch. The Paduan observed that the water is too cold in April and that we had better wait until the end of June. We began to talk about how great Italy will be without the Germans. I assure you we were all enthusiastic, in spite of the emptiness of our stomachs. All except the Paduan of course, but of him I must tell you that if he is reduced almost to the verge of starvation, it is because he will not tolerate the Austrians, and that although he is knocking at the door of forty, he will fight better than some of these young fellows who are now devouring an Austrian for lunch, and two for dinner! He says we shall once more become a cat and dog kingdom. 'Mark this, for example,' he added. 'When the Germans shall have departed, each of us will return to his own home, and woe to you if you come and worry me in Padua!' I can almost fancy I am listening to Uncle Piero, when, at Oria, we used to discuss the greatness and the splendid future of Italy. 'Yes, yes, yes!' he would say, 'Yes, yes, yes! The lake will turn into milk and honey, and the Galbiga will become a Parmesan cheese!'
"We shall see! We shall see!
"Your letter has awakened in me a tumult of feelings which cannot be described in writing.
"Of course my grandmother's action and the indirect malevolence of Pasotti grieve me deeply, but your too violent indignation is far more painful to me. When some one holding my power-of-attorney presents himself at Brescia, payment cannot be refused. It is true that you, a woman, are not expected to know these things. I can also forgive your anger, for in the beginning I myself was not unmoved. Then I asked myself: Why are you indignant? Why are you surprised? Were you not already acquainted with that evil spirit, and have you not already suffered greater insult from it?
"I am most deeply grieved that you did not succeed in hiding your feelings from Maria; I am deeply moved to learn that you repented of this; and deeply thankful that you love the Lord in the child, and that you have confessed as much to me. Indeed I feel I should not be so overjoyed at this, for the heavens and the earth are always inviting us to love God; He is visible in every ray of light, and His voice may be heard in every truth. But, at least, you are beginning to hear this voice! I have never touched upon this subject in my letters because I feel I am not capable of speaking worthily and efficaciously of it to you. And now I shall let God Himself speak to you through the child, and once more resume my silence. But remember, I am waiting in suspense; I am hoping and praying.
"How can I express to you what I feel for Maria? Who could describe this emotion, this immense tenderness, this consuming desire to clasp her for a moment, only for one moment, to my heart? Do you believe I shall be able to wait until November? No, no, no! I will write, I will copy, I will do the work of others, but I must come to Lugano sooner! Cover her with kisses for me, and meanwhile, tell her that Papa carries his Maria in his heart always, and that he sends her his blessing. Ask her what she wishes me to bring her and let me know, without thinking too much about my poverty.
"With my whole soul I embrace you, my Luisa.
"At last! Ever since you left I have been longing for you to touch upon this question. How did I explain myself that night, in my painful emotion? How did you understand me, in your equally painful emotion? For months and months I have felt the necessity of speaking of this to you, and I have never done so because I lacked courage.
"You will remember you accused me of pride that night. I implore you to believe that I am not proud. I cannot even understand such an accusation.
"Your letter gives me the idea that you think I have returned to a belief in God. But did I ever tell you that I do not believe in God? I cannot have told you so, for the whole history of my opinions is engraved upon my mind, and the fright, the distressing thought that I might perhaps no longer be able to believe in God, came to me after you left. I know the day, the very hour. At S. Mamette I had heard them talking of a great dinner your grandmother had given at Brescia, while I could not even procure the food and wine necessary for the diet the doctor—fearing the loss of the right eye—had prescribed for our beloved Uncle. I struggled against these awful shadows, Franco, and I conquered. It is true the victory is due, in a great measure, to Maria. I mean that if all these black clouds hide the existence of Supreme Justice from me, a ray of light from it reaches me through Maria; and this ray of light makes me believe, makes me hope in the Orb. For it would be too horrible if the universe were not governed by justice!
"That night then, I can only have told you that I understood religion in a different way from you; that prayers and acts of Christian faith did not seem to me essential to the religious idea, but rather love and actions for those who suffer, rather indignation and actions against those who cause suffering!
"And you wish to resume your silence? No, you must not. You feel weak, you say. Do you feel you yourself are weak, or your Credo? Let us reason, let us discuss. Confess that one reason why you who believe, love your beliefs, is because they are comfortably restful to the intellect. You stretch yourselves at your ease in them as in a hammock, suspended in the air by innumerable threads spun by men and fastened by men to many hooks. You are comfortable, and if any one examines or lays his hand upon one only of these threads, you are troubled, and afraid it will snap, because very probably its neighbour will snap also, and after that one, another; and so, to your great fright and pain, your fragile bed will come tumbling down from the sky to the earth. I know this fright and this pain, I know that the satisfaction of walking on solid ground must be purchased at this cost, and therefore I am not deterred by a pity that would be false from discussing with you. But I may be mistaken, and perhaps it may be you who will lift me up, up to your resting place of fragile threads and air. Maria is not equal to this task. If Maria makes me believe in God, it does not follow that she can make me believe in the Church as well. And you yourself believe in the Church above all things. Therefore try to convince me, and I also will listen in suspense, and though I do not pray, at least I can hope, because now my longing for a perfect union with you is stronger than ever before. Now, together with my old affection, I feel a new admiration for you, a new gratitude towards you.
"Will you take offence at this outpouring of mine? Remember that you must have found a letter from me in your handbag, eight months ago, and that I have waited eight months for an answer!
"The Professor and Ester now meet at our house as fiancés. They, at least, are happy. She goes to church and he does not, and neither of them thinks any more about it than they do about the difference in the colour of their hair. And I believe nine hundred and ninety-nine couples in a thousand do the same."
"I embrace you. Write me a long, long letter.
This letter did not leave Lugano until September 26th, and Franco received it on the 27th. On the 29th, at eight o'clock in the morning, he received the following telegram, also from Lugano:
"Child dangerously ill. Come at once.
Footnotes
[N] Tota is Piedmontese for young girl, often used in the sense of grisette. [Translator's note.]
[O] It must be remembered that Padua and its university were at that time dominated by the Austrians, and that patriotism drove this "already famous professor" to give up his position and migrate to free Piedmont. [Translator's note.]
CHAPTER X
SIGNORA LUISA, COME HOME!
In the early afternoon of the twenty-seventh of September Luisa was returning from Porlezza with some documents to copy for the notary. In those days the rocks between S. Michele and Porlezza were perfectly bare, and destitute of the narrow pathway which now runs across them. Luisa had had herself ferried that short distance, and had then walked along the lane that, like all those of my little world, both ancient and modern, would admit of no other method of travel; that pretty deceitful lane, that seeks in every way to avoid leading whither the traveller wishes to go. At Cressogno it passes above Villa Maironi, which, however, is not visible from the path.
"What if I should meet her?" Luisa thought, her blood boiling. But she met no one. On the slope between Cressogno and Campo, the sun beat fiercely. When she reached the cool, high valley known as Campo, she sat down in the shade of the colossal chestnut-tree that is still alive, the last of three or four venerable patriarchs, and looked towards the houses of her native Castello, clustered in a circle round a lofty peak among those shady crags. She thought of her dead mother, and was glad she, at least, was at rest. Presently she heard some one exclaim: "Oh, blessed Madonna!" It was Signora Peppina, who was also on her way from Cressogno, and who was in despair because neither at S. Mamette, Loggio, nor Cressogno had she been able to find any eggs. "Carlo will beat me this time! He'll kill me outright, my dear!" She would have liked to go on to Puria, but she was half dead with fatigue. What roads! How many stones! "When I think of my Milan, my dear!" She sat down on the grass beside Luisa, saying many affectionate things to her, and wanted her to guess with whom she had been speaking about her, only a few minutes before. "With the Signora Marchesa! Certainly! Yes indeed! Oh, my dear...." It looked as if Signora Peppina had great things to tell, but did not dare do so, and as their presence in her throat was causing her discomfort, she was bound to make Luisa draw them out. "What a business!" she would exclaim from time to time. "What a business! What language! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" But Luisa held her peace. At last the other yielded to the terrible tickling in her throat, and poured forth her story. She had gone to the Marchesa's cook to borrow some eggs, and the Signora Marchesa, hearing her voice, had insisted upon seeing her, and had kept her there chattering. In her heart she had felt what she believed to be a heavenly inspiration, which prompted her to speak of that unhappy family. Perhaps this was the right moment! She must speak about Maria, "that precious darling, that sweet little mouse, that dear little creature!" But alas! The inspiration had come from the devil and not from Heaven! She had begun to speak, had been going to say how lovely Maria was, how sweet, and how wonderfully precocious, when that ugly old woman interrupted her, looking as black as a thunder-cloud. "Say no more about her, let her alone, Signora Bianconi. I am aware she is very badly behaved, and indeed one cannot expect her to be otherwise!" Then Peppina had tried sounding another note, and had touched upon Uncle Piero's misfortune in having lost his eye. "The Lord chastises the dishonest, Signora Bianconi." Here Peppina glanced at Luisa and regretted her chattering. She began caressing her, reproaching herself for having spoken, and entreated her to be calm. Luisa assured her that she was perfectly calm, that nothing coming from that source could surprise her. But Peppina insisted upon giving her a kiss, and then went her way, murmuring a string of "Oh, dear me's!" and haunted by a vague suspicion that she had made a mess of it!
Luisa rose and turned to look towards Cressogno, clenching her fists. "If I only had a horse-whip!" she thought "If I could only lash her!" The idea of a meeting, the old idea that had made her quiver with passion four years ago, on the night of her mother's death, had flashed across her mind shortly before, as she passed Cressogno, and had once more taken violent possession of her, and now made her start suddenly downwards. She checked her steps at once, however, and returning slowly, went towards S. Mamette, stopping every now and then to think, her brow clouded, her lips tightly compressed, seeking to untangle a knot in the thread of a scheme she was weaving in her secret heart.
At Casarico she sought out the Professor to offer him an opportunity of meeting Ester at her house the next day at two o'clock. As she was leaving she asked him if the Maironi documents were still in his possession. The Professor, greatly astonished at this question, replied that they were, expecting an explanation, but Luisa went away without further words. She was anxious to get home, for she could not rely either upon Cia or Uncle Piero to look after Maria, and she had little confidence in the girl to whom she had given notice. She found Maria alone on the church-place, and scolded Veronica. Then she went to her room and began a letter to Franco.
She had been writing about five minutes when she heard a gentle tap on the window of the adjoining room. That window looked out upon a short flight of steps, leading from the square by the church to some stables, and thence to a short cut to Albogasio Superiore. Luisa went into the little room, and saw behind the iron grating the red and distracted countenance of Barborin Pasotti, who motioned to her to be quiet, and asked if she had visitors. Upon being reassured, Barborin glanced swiftly up and down, and hastily descending the steps entered the house in great trepidation.
Poor woman, she was on forbidden ground, and before her loomed the spectre of the wrathful Pasotti. Pasotti was in Lugano. "Oh, Lord, yes! In Lugano." Having imparted this information to Luisa the unhappy woman began to roll her eyes and squirm. Pasotti had gone to Lugano on account of the great dinner that was to take place on the morrow—to purchase provisions. How? Had Luisa not heard about the dinner? Did she not know who was coming? Why! The Signora Marchesa! The Signora Marchesa Maironi! Luisa started.
Barborin, misunderstanding the expression of her eyes, thought she read a reproach there, and began to cry, her face buried in her hands, shaking those two poor black curls, and saying through her fingers that she was so distressed about it, so distressed! She would rather have lived on bread and water for a year than invite the Marchesa to dinner. This dinner was indeed a cross to her, for it took a deal of thought, and then there was the trouble of preparing everything, to say nothing of Pasotti's awful scoldings, but the worst part of it all was the idea of displeasing Luisa. If, at least, it had been a cross she could lay at the feet of our Lord, but she could not do that, for it contained too much wrath. She had come on purpose to tell her Luisa how distressed she was on account of this dinner.
"Forgive me, Luisa!" she said in her hoarse voice, that seemed to come out of an ancient and tightly closed spinet. "I really could not prevent it, indeed I could not, indeed I could not!"
They were seated side by side on the sofa. Barborin drew a great handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it to her face with one hand, while with the other she sought Luisa's hand, without turning her head. But Luisa rose, and going to the writing-desk, scrawled upon a piece of paper: "When is the Marchesa coming? What road will she take?" Barborin answered that the dinner was to be at half-past three; that at about three the Marchesa would leave her gondola at the landing-stage of the Calcinera, where Pasotti was to meet her with four men and the famous litter that had belonged to an archbishop of Milan a century ago.
Luisa listened to every detail in silence and with the greatest attention. Before leaving, Signora Pasotti said she longed to kiss that love of a Maria, but was afraid the child might not know how to keep the secret. At this point the good creature plunged her left arm into her pocket up to the elbow, and drew out a small tin boat, which she begged Luisa to give to her little daughter in the name of another battered old craft, whose identity must not be made known. Then she rushed down stairs and disappeared.
Luisa returned to her letter to Franco, but having thought a long time, pen in hand, she finally put the letter away again without having added a word, and drawing the notary's documents towards her, began to copy. Her resolution was formed. Fate itself was offering her this meeting with the old wretch. She had neither a doubt nor a scruple. The passion which had sprung up within her so long ago, which she had caressed and fostered, had now gathered that strength which, when it reaches its full, transforms the thought into the deed at one blow, and in such a manner that all responsibility seems removed from the agent, while in reality, it is simply carried back to the first inward movement of yielding to temptation.
Yes, on the morrow, either at the landing-stage, on the Calcinera path, or on the church-place of the Annunciata, she would stand scornfully before the Marchesa, openly declaring war, and advising her to have a care, for now all legitimate weapons of defence were to be used against her. Yes, she would tell her so, and then she would act, act alone and unaided, since Franco would take no steps. If Franco had made promises she had not. A little later she wrote a note to the lawyer V. begging him to come to her as soon as possible. She wished to learn from him how to use the documents in Gilardoni's possession. Then she resumed her copying for the notary at Porlezza.
The next day Professor Beniamino arrived at Oria an hour earlier than the time fixed by Luisa. After Ester's "yes," the man had become transfigured. He seemed much younger than before. The sallowness of his skin, now irradiated by a rosy inner light, had entirely disappeared, and was only perceptible on his bald head, where Luisa daily expected to see the hair begin to grow. He neither walked nor breathed as before. But to-day he arrived with a clouded brow.
It was reported at S. Mamette that the physician of Pellio had been arrested and taken to Como, and that letters and memoranda had been found in his possession which incriminated others, among whom was Don Franco Maironi.
"I do not fear for Franco," said Luisa. "As to the rest, my good Professor, we will set the physician of Pellio, who is a big fellow and weighs pounds and pounds, down in the score the Emperor of Austria will have to pay. And now, Professor, I want you to promise me something."
"What do you wish me to promise?"
"I need those famous documents."
"They are at your service."
"Pray note that it is I and not Franco who ask for them."
"Yes, yes. Whatever you do is well done. I will bring you the documents to-morrow."
"That is right."
Luisa knitted as she talked, her needles clicking continually, but her seeming calm and good spirits did not entirely conceal her inward excitement, which had begun on the previous day, had become more intense during a sleepless night, and was now steadily increasing as the moment for setting out drew nearer. Even in the playful tone of her voice an unusual chord seemed to be vibrating. About her hair, which was always most carefully dressed, there was a something of disorder, like the touch of a light breath brushing gently across her brow.
Ester arrived at a quarter to two, and explained that she had come a little earlier because she had heard it thunder. Thunder? Luisa hastened to the terrace to examine the sky. It certainly did not look very threatening. Above the point of Cressogno and over Galbiga the sky was perfectly serene as far as the hills of the Lake of Como. Towards Carona it was indeed rather dark, but not so very dark, after all. What if the Marchesa should not come on account of the weather? She seized the little telescope that was kept in the loggia. There was nothing to be seen. Of course; it was still too early. In order to reach the Calcinera at three, the Marchesa, with that heavy gondola of hers, must start at about half-past two. Luisa went back to the hall, where she found Ester, the Professor, and Maria. She would have preferred to have Maria remain in the loggia with Uncle Piero, but Signorina Missipipì always clung fast to her mother when there were visitors, becoming all eyes and ears. Luisa decided that when she was ready to start she would send Maria away, meanwhile she would keep her with her. As to the happy couple, they were seated apart, and were conversing almost in whispers.
Luisa, who now found it difficult to keep quiet, once more returned to the terrace, and looked through the telescope. Her heart gave a bound! The gondola was just coming in sight at the Tentiòn.
It was a quarter-past two o'clock.
Some one coming from Albogasio had stopped in the church-place to speak to some one coming down the steps at the side of Casa Ribera. They were saying: "Signor Pasotti has just gone down with the litter. There was a troop of children following."
Now the sky was overcast, even above the point of Cressogno and the Galbiga. Only the hills of the Lake of Como were still in the sunshine. The terrible wind which accompanies a thunderstorm, and which in Valsolda is called the Caronasco, was threatening seriously now. Above Corona the colour of the clouds was gradually becoming one with the colour of the hills. The great cloud over Zocca d'i Ment had become dark blue, and the Boglia was also beginning to knit its brows. The lake was calm and leaden.
Luisa had decided to start when the gondola should have arrived opposite S. Mamette. She now returned to the hall.
Maria had obeyed her mother's orders, and had not moved from the chair where Luisa had left her, but noticing that the Professor was speaking with animation and at great length to Ester, she had asked:
"Are you telling her a story?"
At this point Luisa entered.
"Yes, dear," said Ester, laughing. "He is telling me a story."
"Oh, tell it to me also! To me also!"
A muffled peal of thunder resounded. "Go, Maria dear," said Ester. "Go to your room and pray the Lord not to send a terrible thunderstorm or hail."
"Oh, yes, yes! I will pray to the Lord!"
The little one went out, and entered the alcove-room, serious and dignified, as if in that moment the safety of the whole Valsolda depended upon her prayer. Prayer to her was always a solemn matter; it was a point of contact with mystery which always made her assume a grave and attentive air, as did also certain tales of enchantment and magic. She mounted a chair and said the few prayers she knew, and then assumed the attitude she had seen the most pious women of town assume in church, and began moving her lips as they did, repeating a wordless prayer. Seeing her thus one acquainted with the terrible secret of the next hour would have felt that the guardian angel of little children was standing beside her at that moment, and admonishing her to pray for something besides the vineyards and olive-groves of Valsolda, for something nearer to her, something the angel did not name, and she neither knew nor could put into words. The onlooker would have felt also that in these, her inarticulate whisperings, there was an element of occult tenderness, and tragedy, the docile surrender of a sweet soul to the admonitions of its guardian angel, to the mysterious will of God.
At half-past two the great lowering clouds above Carona belched forth another peal of thunder, to which the other great clouds above Boglia and the Zocca d'i Ment immediately responded. Luisa ran out to the terrace. The gondola was opposite S. Mamette, and was making straight for the Calcinera. She could see quite plainly that the boatmen were pulling hard. As Luisa laid aside the telescope the first gust of wind swept through the loggia, banging doors and windows. Terrified by a feeling that she would be too late, she hastily closed both doors and windows, passed swiftly through the hall, seized an umbrella and went out, without telling any one she was going, and without closing the house-door behind her. She started towards Albogasio Inferiore. Just beyond the cemetery, on the spot they call Mainè, she met Ismaele.
"Where are you going in such weather, Signora Luisa?"
She answered that she was going to Albogasio, and passed on. When she had gone about a hundred paces she remembered that she had not let Veronica know she was going out, that she had not told her to close the windows in the bedrooms, and look after Maria. She might send word by Ismaele. But he had already disappeared round the corner of the cemetery. In her heart she felt an impulse to go back, but there was not time. The rumbling of the thunder was continuous; great, infrequent drops were striking here and there on the maize; gusts of wind swept at intervals through the mulberry-trees, forerunners of the whirlwind of the Caronasco. Luisa opened her umbrella and hastened forward.
A furious downpour overtook her in the dark lanes of Albogasio. But she never thought of taking refuge in a doorway, and pushed on undaunted. She met a troop of children who were running away from the rain, after waiting in vain on the church-place of the Annunciata for the passing of the Marchesa in the litter. While she was crossing the short space between the town-hall of Albogasio and the church, the wind turned her umbrella inside out. She began to run, and reached the strip of ground behind the church that overlooks the path leading down to the Calcinera. There, protected by the church from the driving rain, she righted her umbrella as best she could, and looked over the parapet.
The Annunciata rests upon the summit of a cliff, sparsely covered with brambles and wild fig-trees, which rises from the foot of the Boglia and juts out over the lake, shutting in the narrow path to Calcinera on the west. The strip of ground where Luisa stood runs along that part of the cliff's brow. From here she could have followed the course of the boat from the waters of Cressogno as far as the landing-stage, but now that the rain was pouring down in sheets, a white mist hid all things from view. However, unless the Marchesa returned to Cressogno, she must certainly pass that way, no matter where she landed, for there, at the foot of the cliff, where it juts out with the coast, the narrow stairway starts upwards, leading from the Calcinera to the church-place, and this is the only way of reaching Albogasio Superiore either from the landing-stage below, or from S. Mamette, Casarico, or Cadate.
Presently the violence of the downpour lessened, the dark phantoms of the mountains began to stand out against the white background. Luisa gazed down at the lake. There was no gondola on the lake, and no litter on the path; nothing was to be seen. This troubled her. Was it possible that the gondola had returned to Cressogno? The mist cleared rapidly, and Cadate became discernible, while at the door of the boathouse of the "Palazz" the prow of the gondola appeared, shimmering white in the thin, grey mist. Ah, the Marchesa had taken refuge at the "Palazz," and Pasotti with his bearers had done the same. The thunderstorm was now practically over and the litter would soon appear.
But instead, ten long minutes elapsed. Luisa kept her eyes fixed on the point where the path from Cadate turns into the Calcinera. No movement of thought was going on within her. Her whole soul was watching and waiting, that was all. People passed her on the left going up to Albogasio or coming down, but each time she inclined her umbrella so that she was hidden from view, so that they might not recognise her, thus avoiding greetings and conversations.
At last a group of people appeared at the bend of the path. Luisa could distinguish the litter, and behind the litter Pasotti and Don Giuseppe, and the Marchesa's boatmen bringing up the rear. Still she did not move, but followed the litter with her eyes as it slowly advanced. Presently she closed her umbrella, for the rain had almost ceased. Five or six children from Albogasio reappeared. She ordered them off sharply. They hesitated to obey, but a sudden downpour of rain, unaccompanied by wind or thunder, put them to flight. The litter had now reached the foot of the steps. Luisa moved forward.
Her eyes glittered coldly, and she held herself very erect. Absorbed in one thought, she heeded not at all the pelting rain, which beat upon her head and shoulders, which surrounded her with a misty veil and loud noise. Perhaps she was glad of this outburst of passion in the elements, which was in keeping with the passion within her. She went slowly down, clasping the handle of her closed umbrella very tightly, as if it had been the handle of a weapon. There is a somewhat sharp bend in the stairway, and the bottom is not visible until this bend is reached. Upon arriving there she saw the litter had stopped. The two boatmen were taking the places of two of the bearers.
Luisa went down as far as the spot where a great walnut-tree spreads its branches above the stairs. Here she stopped just as the Marchesa's bearers began coming upwards. Everything was as Luisa wished. Pasotti and Don Giuseppe, bringing up the rear with open umbrellas, could not see her. The bearers, on reaching the spot where she stood, would be obliged to stop to let her pass.
As they drew nearer she recognised the two who carried the front of the litter; one was Ismaele's brother, the other a cousin of Veronica's. When they were within a yard or two of her she ordered them, by an imperious gesture, to stop. They obeyed at once, and set the litter down, the two other bearers doing the same without knowing why. Pasotti raised his umbrella, and seeing Luisa, made a movement of astonishment, frowning blackly. Seizing Don Giuseppe, he drew him aside that she might pass, never dreaming that the meeting was intentional.
But Luisa did not move. "You did not think of meeting me, did you, Signor Pasotti?" she said in a loud voice. The Marchesa stuck her head out, caught sight of her, and withdrew it again, saying, with new strength in her usually lifeless voice:
"Go on!"
At that moment loud cries rang out from the top of the church-place above them. "Sciora Luisa! Sciora Luisa!" Luisa did not hear. Pasotti had called angrily to the bearers: "Go on!" and they had resumed the poles.
"Go on if you like," said she, resolved to walk along beside the litter. "I have only a few words to say."
If Pasotti and the old Marchesa had anticipated tears and supplications this fierce glance and ringing voice must now have led them to expect something quite different.
"Words at present?" said Pasotti, coming forward almost threateningly.
"Sciora Luisa! Sciora Luisa!" a voice cried close at hand in a tone of anguish, while with the cries was mingled the noise of hastening steps. But Luisa did not appear to hear anything. "Yes, at present!" she said, addressing Pasotti with indescribable haughtiness. "I am generous enough to wish to warn this lady that——"
"Sciora Luisa!"
This time she was forced to pause and look round. Three or four women were upon her, distraught, dishevelled, sobbing: "Come home at once! Come home at once!" These faces, these tears, these voices, detached her from her passion, from her purpose, at one blow.
She rushed in among the women, exclaiming: "What is the matter?" and they could only repeat, their eyes starting from their heads: "Come home, come home at once!"
"But what has happened, you stupid things?"
"The child, the child!"
"Maria? Maria? What is it, what is it?" she shrieked like a mad woman. Amidst their sobbing she caught the word lake, and uttering a great cry, she dashed them out of her path like a wild beast, and rushed up the stairs. The women could not keep up with her, but on the church-place there were others waiting in spite of the rain, and they were also crying and sobbing.
Luisa felt herself growing faint, and fell to the ground on reaching the last step.
The women ran to her, many hands seized her and lifted her up. She shrieked: "Good God! Is she dead?" Some one answered: "No, no!" "The doctor?" she gasped. "The doctor?" Many voices answered that he was already there.
Once more she appeared to regain all her energy, and sprang eagerly forward. Eight or ten people hastened after her, but only two could keep up with her. She flew! At the cemetery she met Ismaele and another man, and cried out as soon as she caught sight of them:
"Is she still alive? Is she alive?" Ismaele's companion turned and ran back to tell them that the mother was coming, but Ismaele was weeping, and could only answer: "Good God! Sciora Luisa!" as he tried to detain her. Luisa pushed him wildly aside and rushed on, followed by the boatman who had now quite lost his head and was calling out to her as she ran: "Perhaps it is nothing! Perhaps it is nothing, after all!" But the pelting, ceaseless, even downpour, seemed to be contradicting his words with its wail.
Gasping for breath, she reached the square by the church of Oria, and had the strength to call out: "Maria! My Maria!" The window of the alcove-room was open. She heard Cia crying and Ester chiding her. Several people, among them Professor Gilardoni, came out to meet her. The Professor, as pale as a ghost, was weeping silently with clasped hands. The others whispered: "Courage, there is still hope!" In her exhaustion she came near falling. The Professor encircled her waist with one arm and drew her up the stairs, which were crowded with people, as was also the corridor of the first floor.
As Luisa passed, the Professor almost carrying her, voices laden with words of comfort murmured: "Courage! Courage! Who can tell? Who can tell?" At the door of the alcove-room she freed herself from the Professor's arm, and went in alone.
They had been obliged to light a lamp, because it was already dark in the alcove, owing to the rain. Poor, sweet little Maria lay naked upon the bed, her eyes half open, and her lips slightly parted. Her face was still tinged with pink, but her lips were discoloured and her body was deathly pale. The doctor, with Ester's help, was trying to induce artificial breathing, alternately raising the tiny arms above the head and stretching them along the sides, and compressing the abdomen.
"Doctor! Doctor!" Luisa sobbed.
"We're doing all we can," the doctor answered gravely. She flung herself face downwards upon her baby's little icy feet, and covered them with wild kisses. Ester began to tremble. "No, no!" the doctor exclaimed. "Courage! Courage!" "Help!" shrieked Luisa. The doctor checked her by a gesture, and motioned to Ester to pause in her work. He bent over Maria's little face, placed his mouth upon hers and having breathed deeply several times, raised his head again. "But she is still rosy, she is still rosy!" Luisa gasped softly. The doctor sighed gently, struck a match and held it close to Maria's lips.
Three or four women who were praying on their knees, rose and approached the bed, holding their breath in suspense. The door leading into the hall was open, and other faces appeared there, all silent and intent. Luisa, kneeling beside the bed, kept her eyes fixed on the flame. A voice murmured:
"It quivers!"
Ester, standing very erect behind Luisa, shook her head. The doctor put out the match. "Hot flannels," he ordered. Luisa rushed from the room, and the doctor once more resumed the movements of the arms. When Luisa returned with the hot flannels they began to rub the child's chest and bowels, he on one side, she on the other. Presently, noting Luisa's pallor, and the distortion of her features, he motioned to a girl to take her place. "You must give up," said he, for Luisa had made a protesting gesture. "Even I am tired. You cannot go on." Luisa shook her head without speaking and continued her work with convulsive energy. The doctor silently shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows, and gave his place to the girl, ordering Ester to bring more flannel with which to cover the child's legs. Ester went out and herself heated the flannel, for Veronica, on hearing what had happened, had disappeared and was nowhere to be found. In the corridor and on the stairs people were discussing the how and where of the event, and as Ester passed all inquired: "What news? What news?" Ester made a despairing gesture and went on without answering. Then the talk once more flowed on in an undertone.
No one knew how long the child had been in the water. While the thunderstorm had been raging a certain Toni Gall had happened to be in the stables behind Casa Ribera. Reflecting that if the engineer's boat was not tied fast enough it would be dashed to pieces against the walls of the boathouse, he bounded down the steps, and seeing the door open, went in. The boat was being frightfully knocked about, and was drenched with the splashing of the waves that broke against the walls. It was tossing and writhing among its chains, and had set itself crosswise, with the stern knocking against the wall. Opposite the door that opens from the road, there runs a gallery from which two flights of steps lead down to the water, the first on the side of the prow, the second on the side of the stern. Toni Gall went down the second flight to tighten the stern chain. There, between the boat and the lowest step, where the water is from sixty to seventy centimetres deep, he saw Maria's little body. She was floating face downwards, with her back above the water. As he drew her out he saw a little tin boat lying on the bottom. He carried the child to the house, crying out with his terrible voice, bringing the whole town to the spot, and fortunately the doctor also, who happened to be in Oria, and then he helped Ester undress the poor little creature, who gave no sign of life.
With whom had she been before going down to the lake? Not with Veronica, for before Luisa went out Veronica had been seen going into the storeroom where the flowerpots were kept, with her customs-guard. Nor had she been with Ester and the Professor. Ester had sent her to pray in the alcove-room, and had not seen her again. Cia had been sewing and Uncle Piero had been writing when they heard Toni Gall's shouts. Maria must have gone straight from the alcove-room to the boathouse to sail her boat, and as ill-luck would have it, she had found both the house door and the door of the boathouse open. It was Toni Gall's opinion that she had been in the water several minutes, for she was floating at some distance from the spot where the little tin boat lay. Standing in the hall where Cia, the engineer, the Professor, and others from the village were assembled, he was describing his frightful discovery for the hundredth time. All save Uncle Piero were sobbing. Seated on the sofa where Ester and the Professor had sat, he seemed turned to stone. He shed no tears and spoke never a word. Toni Gall's chattering was evidently annoying to him, but he held his peace. His noble countenance was rather solemn and grave than distressed. It was as if the shade of ancient Destiny had arisen before his eyes. He did not even ask for news; it was evident he was without hope. And it was also evident that his sorrow was very different from all this nervous, noisy, fleeting sorrow that surrounded him. His was the mute, calm grief of the wise and the strong.