Thepresence of the Snodgrasses did not make very much difference to the party in the Palazzo dei Sogni; Mr. Hunstanton introduced them to the English club, and, as was natural, they established themselves in the select coterie of the English Church, and were a great godsend to the chaplain, and attended the choir practices, and soon became very well known in Pisa. And in the evening receptions, which took place sometimes at Miss Trelawny’s, sometimes at Mrs. Hunstanton’s, these two black figures were perpetually apparent, the uncle circulating among the little society, the nephew standing up in his usual corner. Poor curate! he did not get very much attention from any one. The Hunstantons confined their civilities to the necessary number of Good nights and Good mornings: Sophy flouted him perpetually: and Mrs. Norton madehim alarming little speeches about the parish, and asked him if he felt better, in a tone which inferred a contemptuous refusal to believe that he had been ill at all. All this he bore, poor fellow; he was not ill to speak of. If he could have been left in his corner staring at Diana for twelve hours at a time, or the whole twenty-four, had that been possible, he would have been happy—and would have minded none of the snubs that were freely dispensed on all sides. And Diana herself was always kind to the poor young man. She did not talk to him, for he could not talk; but she would give him a kindly smile when she passed him. She gave him her hand when he came in, and when he went away. Now and then in heavenly courtesy she would say three words to him. “I hope you are better, Mr. Snodgrass. I hope you like Pisa. What have you been seeing to-day?” One of these phrases kept him happy for a day. He did not expect any more, nor indeed half so much; and with what aim he continued to haunt and follow her, and put all his existence into the distant enjoyment of her sight and presence, it would be hard to say. As for gaining her love,marryingher!—it seemed about as hopeful as that he should marry the other Diana in the heavens, the moon, that shone with such warm Italian splendour over the high house-tops. In his brightest dreams he could not have imagined anything of the kind.
The only other person who took any notice of poor William Snodgrass was the one other who might have been supposed least likely to notice him. Pandolfini took the poor young fellow up. Notwithstanding the curate’s awkwardness and shyness, the kind Italian insisted upon making acquaintance with him. There is no one so kind as an Italian, endowed with thatcortesiawhich the old writers speak of as a quality of God. “The Lord of all Courtesy,” is not that a title which Dante gives to the Supreme? Pandolfini had this divine quality as much as any man, even an Italian, ever had; and his heart was touched by the most tender sympathy for this fellow-in-feeling, whom it was too absurd to think of as his rival. The poor curate was no one’s rival. He had given up his being to the most beautiful and noble creature, so far as he knew, who had ever crossed his horizon; and had not Pandolfini done so too? The sympathetic Italian gave himself up to the task of cultivating this dull but tender soul. He took him to private gems of pictures which the public saw only on rare occasions: he took him through everything that was most worth seeing: and having his eyes opened by the factthat the heavy young Englishman had set his affections upon the highest object within his firmament, saw other glimmers of perception in him which no one else had found out.
“There, I can’t understand Pandolfini,” said Mr. Hunstanton; “the uncle, now, is a man of the world. He is a man that knows what he is about. He has read a little and observed a little—as much as you can expect from a clergyman. But Bill Snodgrass is a nonentity. He is as dull as ditch-water. You can’t get a sensible word out of him. The rector can talk and take his own part like any other man.”
“I do not agree with you, my friend,” said the Italian, “there are some fine things in the Stupid: there are feelings: I do not mean feelings of the heart alone. He has nothing to say about it; but he will know a fine picture when he sees one.”
“When you tell him it is fine—”
“I never tell him anything; but there are things which Mr. Bill, if so you call him (I admire your monosyllables), can see—and a great many people cannot see,” said Pandolfini simply, yet with meaning, with a half-smile at his companion, who laughed, unabashed, and rubbed his hands.
“He means me! Yes, I know him. The bestfellow that ever breathed; but if he can give you a random cut round the corner! I refused to buy something once of a friend of his—and it turned out—what did it turn out, Pandolfini? an enormous prize, you know. How was a man to divine that? There was nobody to speak up for it, and I don’t pretend to be a connoisseur. By the way, if you have friends who want to sell anything, you had better send them to Diana. She is the person. She could buy us all up and never feel it. To see her so simple as she is, you would never suppose that she was such a great lady at home.”
“Is she, then, a great lady at home?”
“As great as a princess in other places. You didn’t know? Well, I don’t suppose it will make much difference to you, but that’s the truth. She is what we call a great Squire in England. You know what that means?”
“Yes; I know what that means.” Pandolfini looked at him with a half-smile, yet sigh. What difference could it make to him? He had never thought of putting himself on a level with that beautiful princess, of securing her to be his—his housewife, his chief possession. All that he had thought of was the pleasure of being with her, looking at her, like poor Snodgrass.Now here was something which put a still greater difference between them, and removed her out of his sphere. Was it not an irony of fate that before one woman only the doors of his heart should have flown wide open? and that she should be so entirely out of his sphere? A slight vague smile came upon his face, half at himself and his evil fortune—half with a tremulous and painful pleasure that she should be so rich, so magnificent, so secure of everything that was good. Whatever happened, that was always well: that she should be a kind of queen, regnant, and safe from all straits and contradictions of fortune in the outer world as well as in the hearts that loved her. But he sighed. Why was it that the world was so made that the beautiful was always beyond reach, that love must be never more than a dream? He murmured over a verse or two of Leopardi, as he went upon his way, with that smile and sigh.
“O natura, o natura,Perchè non rendi poi,Quel che prometti allor? perchè de tanto,Inganni i figli tuoi.”
“O natura, o natura,Perchè non rendi poi,Quel che prometti allor? perchè de tanto,Inganni i figli tuoi.”
“O natura, o natura,Perchè non rendi poi,Quel che prometti allor? perchè de tanto,Inganni i figli tuoi.”
Nothing more pathetic or more poignant than that sense of tantalised anguish and pleasure—supremest good held before the eyes, but ever inaccessible, givinghappiness and suffering together, without blame of any one, or wrong, can be. And Pandolfini was not the kind of man who rails at fortune. He went away melancholy along Arno: yet smiled while he sighed.
Somehow or other this passing and temporary life of the English visitors in the foreign town had become too serious, too securely established and certain with all of them, being as it really was an affair of a few weeks or months at the utmost, and incapable of extension. Perhaps this was Diana’s fault. Arriving in March, she had no more than six or seven weeks before her, a mere temporary visit—but the temporary was uncongenial to her nature. She established herself half unconsciously, involuntarily as if she had been at home. She made herpiano nobilein the old palace assume a certain resemblance to herself, just as she, on the other hand, perhaps unconsciously too, perhaps with a touch of that fine vanity which disguises itself under the semblance of taste, suited herself to her dwelling-place, and put her dress and all her surroundings into conformity with it. If Diana had not had the kind of lofty beauty to which utter simplicity of toilet is becoming, probably it might not have occurred to her to leave the new dress from Paris, before which Mrs. Norton and Sophy had rendered homage, hangingin her wardrobe, and put on the old velvet gown, which, as Sophy indignantly remarked, “she had worn all last winter!” But this was what she did: though in some lights the long sweeping folds of the velvet, which was of a very dark Venetian blue, looked somewhat faded, at least in the eyes of her friends. “I never thought Diana would be like that: wearing out her old dresses, when she can afford to have as many new ones as she pleases!” Sophy cried, almost weeping at the recollections of all M. Worth’spoufsandplissés. “It does not matter for us,” Mrs. Norton added, with serious vexation, “weknow her and look up to her in any dress; but among strangers!” Thus her friends were annoyed by her supposed frugality: and perhaps Diana, if her French toilet had been more becoming to her, would not have felt the necessity of conforming her dress to the style of those great rooms, so pathetically faded, so noble and worn, and independent of all meretricious decoration.
She did other things, which perhaps were less justifiable still, and which excited the displeasure of another section of her friends. In a country practically unconverted to the laws of political economy, she was but too glad to forget them, and gave alms with a largeness and liberality which, I suppose, is quite indefensible. She was even so misled as to allow the shameless beggars about to come to her for weekly pensions, putting them on their honour, and talking to them in friendly, if somewhat solemn Italian—slow as Pandolfini’s English, and from the same cause. “Giving to all those beggars,—I can’t imagine what Miss Trelawny can be thinking of,” cried the rector; “surely she must know that she is helping to demoralise them: destroying all the safeguards of society.” “So far as that goes, I don’t think Diana will dothemmuch harm; but I object to have the staircase haunted by Peppino and Company,” said Mr. Hunstanton. “I must talk to her, and you had better talk to her, Snodgrass. As for demoralising, you know, they’re past that. I defy you to demoralise Peppino. You can’t blind a man who has no eyes; can you, now?” But this will be enough to show that Diana gave dissatisfaction on both sides: only Pandolfini and the curate stood by with silent adoration, and thought everything she did and was, the noblest and the fairest that ever were made visible to eyes of men.
It must be allowed, however, that neither the disapproval nor the adoration affected Diana. She went on her way calmly, indifferent to what was said, laughing, though gently, at Mr. Snodgrass’s serious remonstrance, and at the half-crying appeal of Sophy. And everything seemed to conspire around her to give the air of stability and everlastingness which seemed natural to her life. She acquired for herself, without knowing it, a distinct position, which was partly by her beauty, no doubt, partly even by her height and dignity of person, and partly from the individuality about her, and her modest indifference to ordinary rule. There is an immodest indifference which gives distinction of a totally different kind; but Diana—who did not come for pleasure as commonly so called, who appeared seldom at public places, and whose enjoyment of her strange habitation was that of an inhabitant, not of a tourist—Diana became known in Pisa as scarcely everforestierahad been before. Pandolfini felt that he could divine why, believing, as was natural at once to a patriot and a lover, that his race was quick to recognise supreme excellence, and that it was natural that all who knew her should bow down before her. But anyhow, in her retirement, in her quietness, she became known as if by an instinct of sympathy. The beggars in the piazzas asked nothing of her, but blessed her with bold extravagance as she passed. The people uncovered right and left.Quant’ è bella!they said, with that unfeigned and heartfelt admiration which is pureItalian, not loudly, to catch her ear, nor yet in whispers, as if they were ashamed of it, but in their ordinary tones, all being natural, both the popular worship and its object. The curate when he became aware of this grew red, and clenched his fist, with an English impulse “to knock down the fellow;” but Pandolfini, who knew better what it meant, followed her steps at a distance with glowing eyes, and was proud and happy in the universal homage. He quoted lines out of the “Vita Nuova” to his stupid faithful companion. Not always to his listener’s edification. “How do you suppose I can understand that stuff?” growled the Rev. William through the beard he was growing, and the Italian ceased to throw about such pearls.
But it may be imagined what a thunderbolt fell into this peaceful little society when there began to be consultations among the leaders of the party about going away. “Our time will soon be up, you know,” Mr. Hunstanton said one evening, rubbing his hands; “May is a very nice month to get home in. A week or two in Switzerland; perhaps a week or two in London, if my wife has good accounts of the children. That’s what I like. After May it’s sultry here and uncomfortable, eh, Pandolfini? Off in November, home in May, that’s my rule—and if you like to take it oldstyle, you know, as they do in Russia, so much the better. That’s my regular rule.”
“W—what?” said Mrs. Norton, who sometimes tried to persuade herself that she was rather deaf, and would not hear anything that was unpleasant; but she had scarcely self-possession for this little trick, being too much aghast at the idea thus presented to her mind, which it seemed incredible they should all have ignored till now.
Then there was a pause of universal dismay, for they had all enjoyed themselves very much, and disliked the idea of breaking up. Mrs. Hunstanton alone went on working placidly, and the murmur of Reginald’s voice, who was playing patience at a table, and whispering the value of the cards to himself, became suddenly audible. The impatience of the whole company with Reginald cannot be described. “My dear boy,” said the rector sharply (in a tone which meant You odious idiot!), “couldn’t you just count as well if you did it to yourself?”
“What has the boy done?” said Mr. Hunstanton with surprise. “Yes; we must bolt. I don’t know how that may affect your plans, Diana.”
“I have no plans,” she said. “I came here by the light of nature, because you were all here——”
“And you will come away in the same manner,” said Mr. Hunstanton briskly. Sophy turned round and transfixed him with her eyes, or would have done so had his middle-aged composure been penetrable, or had he seen her, which had something also to do with it. But he did not see her, and, good man, was perfectly easy in his mind.
“Well, I confess I shall be sorry,” said the rector, “and so, I am sure, will be my dear Bill. We have had a very agreeable visit, nice society, all centring round the Church in the most delightful way, and so many charming people! I shall be very sorry to think of breaking up.”
He stopped somewhat abruptly, with unexpected suddenness, and in the silence, more audible still than Reginald’s whispering, came a sort of groan from the burdened bosom of the curate, who stood behind-backs in his usual place, and who had felt himself covered by his uncle’s speech. This made everybody look up, and there was a faint titter from Reginald, by way of revenge for the rector’s rebuke. It was Sophy who had the boldness to take up this titter in the wild stinging of disappointment and dismay.
“Why shouldyoufeel it so much, Mr. Snodgrass?—what does it matter to you? You willhave to go home to the parish whether or not!” she cried.
“Sophy, hush, hush! Yes, dear Mr. Hunstanton, how pleasant it has been!” said Mrs. Norton. “What a blow to us all to break it up! I should like to stay here for ever, winter and summer. It would not be too hot for me. For I can never be grateful enough to Italy,” she added, impressively, “for restoring health to my dear child.”
This called the general attention to Sophy, whose blooming countenance, a little flushed by vexation, looked very unlike any possible failure of health. Sophy was as near crying as possible. She had to put force upon herself to keep the tears out of her eyes.
“Let us not make ourselves miserable before the time,” said Diana. “It is not May yet; there is a week of April left. Let us gather roses while we may, and in good time here is Mrs. Winthrop and our musical people. Sophy, come and help to get the songs out. We can talk of this another time.”
Sophy came, with a sullenness which no one had ever remarked in her before. She made no reply to what Diana said, but pulled the music about under pretence of arranging it. As she did so, with her back turned to the rest of the company, Diana saw a fewhot hail-drops of tears pattering down among the songs. She put her hand kindly upon Sophy’s shoulder.
“Sophy, dear,” she said, “is it the thought of going away? is this what you feel so much?”
“Oh, leave me alone, please! I have got a headache,” cried Sophy, jerking away from her friend’s grasp.
Diana said nothing more. She was grieved and disturbed by this very strange new development. She put down all the songs and music that were likely to be wanted, and opened the piano, and greeted with her usual dignified kindness the new people who came rustling in to the agitated atmosphere. It did not seem agitated to them. Mrs. Winthrop came in all smiles and flounces, and there was a gathering round the piano, and much laughter and talk and consultation, as is customary on such occasions. Diana herself did not sing except rarely. She helped to set the little company going, over their madrigals and part-songs, and then she withdrew, with that sensation of relief which is afforded to the mind of the mistress of a house and chief entertainer by the happy consciousness of having set an amusement going, by means of which her guests will manage to entertain themselves for the rest of the night.
Dianaseated herself in her favourite place, in a great chair covered with dark old velvet, which had got a bloom on it by dint of age, such as youth sometimes has, like theduvetof a purple plum. Her own dress was made in toned white, creamy and soft, not the brilliant white of snow, and of rich silk, which fell in heavy splendid folds. But it was “old-fashioned” in its cut, which Sophy had deeply deplored already, with a plain long skirt, “such as was worn three years ago!” the girl had cried with vexation. A certain weariness was about Diana as she laid her head back on the velvet, weariness yet satisfaction in having settled all her people comfortably in the way of amusing themselves, and being thus herself left free. Mr. Hunstanton was talking with Colonel Winthrop, who was the husband of the musical lady, and two other persons whodid not care for music. Mrs. Norton, who was not musical, except in the way of playing waltzes (of which she knew three) and one old set of quadrilles, had taken pity upon Reginald, and had gone to the side-table with him to play piquet, which was more amusing than patience. Diana looked round her with a sigh of comfort, feeling that all her guests were off her hands. The central group at the piano was the brightest point. Mrs. Winthrop, who was a pretty young woman, and acted as conductor, held the chief place, holding a pink forefinger in the air instead of a baton, swaying her head, and tapping her foot according to the measure. Around her were her troupe with their music, among whom, most evident to Diana, was Mrs. Hunstanton, “putting in a second,” as she had been adjured to do—and anxious to escape, Sophy singing soprano, with the half-tearful, half-sullen look gradually melting from her face under the charms of the madrigal; and over Sophy’s head, holding his book high, the poor curate, who had been forced into it, and who, with his mouth open, and his eyes wandering, added a powerful but uncertain bass. The soft lights of the candles on the walls lighted them all up, shining upon the lightness of their faces, and the dresses of the ladies, as they stood grouped about the piano. Behind, Mr.Hunstanton’s darkly attired group of men gave an agreeable balance to the picture.
In front of Diana there were but three figures. Mrs. Norton and Reginald, with a table between them, covered with the glories of the coloured cards, which were repeated in the rose-coloured ribbons of her cap; and standing quite alone in front of the dim profundity of a great old mirror—Pandolfini. He was the only one who was alone as she was, though not by design, like Diana. The glass was so old and so dim that it almost shrouded him, giving its background of mysterious reflection to make even his solid figure look unreal. But one thing about him was very real, which was that his eyes were fixed upon herself. It was an inadvertent moment, and Mr. Hunstanton’s sudden announcement of approaching departure had brought a certain agitation into the atmosphere. To Diana, who had taken root in the friendly place, notwithstanding her consciousness that her stay could not be long, the feeling was painful—but to Pandolfini it was like the crush of overthrow. He had known it, he said to himself—of course he had known it—but it had not appeared such an utter and miserable conclusion of all hopes, and revolution in life. The room had contracted round him, and the lights grown dim, just as he feltthe firmament itself would contract, and the sun grow dim to him, when she was gone—and he had forgotten himself. He had not been able to talk, to join in what everybody was doing, so long as this feeling that the earth had opened under his feet, ready to swallow him up and all things, was foremost in his mind. He had had his full of revolutions: he knew what they were, and how men could live through them, and the vulgar placidity of every day overcome all the violence that could be done in life. But here was a revolution which could not be got over. Yes, yes, he said to himself drearily, as, under cover of the music and the movement, he put himself thus behind-backs, and allowed his eyes to rest upon Diana with a half-despairing intentness.Si! si!it could be got over. If a man is hacked limb by limb he has to bear it, making no unseemly outcries; but still the thought of what it would be, the going out of all sweet lights and hopes, the settling down of darkness, the horror of something taken away which could never be replaced, appalled his very soul. What an irony it was, what a cruelty of fate! He had been well enough before, contenting himself with his existence, thinking of no Diana, satisfied with the life which had never known her. But now!—without knowing, Pandolfini gazed at her out ofthe shadows with eyes that glowed and burned, and with a longing and fixedness very startling to her pensive calm, as suddenly she turned to him with a half-smile and met his look!
Diana drew a little back in her chair, swerved for a moment, so startled that she did not know what to do or think. She felt a blush rising over her—why she could not tell: a sort of self-consciousness seized upon her, consciousness of herself as being gazed at, rather than of him who was gazing. Why should he or any one look at her so? Then she recovered, with a slight shake of her head to throw off the impression, and a confused laugh at her own vanity (as she called it): and seeing nothing better to do, beckoned to him to come to her. Pandolfini was not less confused than she. His first thought was that he had betrayed himself, and that nothing was to be done now but to face his fate with melancholy boldness, which becomes the unfortunate. He had made up his mind before now in moments of peril to sell his life dearly. If this unconscious queenly lady was to have his life like a flower, at least she should be aware of what it was which was thrown on her path for her delicate foot to tread on. A kind of tender fury came into his mind. He went up to her slowly, almost solemnly, as a manmight be supposed to go to his death—not affecting to be indifferent to it, but ready for whatever might befall.
Diana had called him: but she was confused, not knowing how she was to speak to this man, who looked at her not as acquaintances look. In her embarrassment she found nothing but the mostbanalof nothings to say.
“I cannot suppose you are not fond of music, Mr. Pandolfini.”
“Should I unite myself to the gentlemen, then? But neither does Miss Trelawny—it is not that one does not love music.”
“I cannot answer for myself,” said Diana, gladly plunging into an abstract subject. “I am fanciful—I think I like music only when it goes to my heart.”
“What a pretty idiom is that!” said Pandolfini. “One loves everything most when it touchesthere.” He had placed himself just a step behind her, enough to make it difficult for her to see him, while he could see her perfectly. It was an unfair advantage to take. “But music,” he added, “it has other aims—the ear first, and the mind and the imagination.”
“There is my deficiency,” said Diana. “I only understand it in this way. Other arts may instruct, ormay inspire; but if music does not touch me, move my feelings, I do not make anything of it. I do not understand it. This is my deficiency.”
“I acknowledge no deficiency,” said the Italian in a low tone. The excitement in his blood was subsiding a little, but still he wanted some perfume to reach her from the myrtle-bow crushed on her path. And the tone was one which answered her musical requirements, and went right to her heart. Where had she heard that tone before? It was not the first time in her life, as may be supposed; but it seemed a long time since, and the thrill of recognition was also a thrill of alarm.
“We will not quarrel on this point,” she said, “especially as the present performance is not one to call forth much feeling; but it makes people happy, which is always something.”
“Happy?” said Pandolfini; “is it this then which in your English calls itself happiness? Ah! pardon—the Italian is more rich. This is (perhaps) to be amused—to be diverted—buthappy—no. We keep that name for better things. I, for instance,” he added once more, in so low a voice that she had to stoop forward to hear him, “I might say so much—and, alas! it is for a moment, for a breath, no more.Butthey, these gentlemen and ladies—they divert themselves: the difference is great.”
“You must say ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Pandolfini,” said Diana, glad to be able to escape from too grave an argument; “in English it is more courteous to putusfirst.”
“Pardon,” he said, with the flush of ready shame, which every one feels who has made a slip in a new language. “I thought it was used so. But in all languages heaven goes before the earth. I ought to have known.”
Diana laughed, but he did not laugh. He was not without humour; but at present he was in deadly earnest, incapable of seeing the lighter side. “At all events, that is pure Italian,” she said. “Your compliments are delightful, Mr. Pandolfini—so general that one ventures to accept them on account of all the other women in the world. I wish one could believe it,” she added, shaking her head.
“I do believe it,” he said once more, in his deepest tone.
“Ah! you speak too low: I cannot hear you—which is an English not an Italian fault. But you are right to discriminate between happiness and amusement. We do so too, but we are not sufficientlyparticular about our words, and use the first that comes to hand.”
Then there was a pause, and this time it was he who began. “Is it true,” he said, “that this is soon to come to an end?—that you are going away?”
“I suppose we must go, sooner or later. Not perhaps with the Hunstantons; but people do not stay here for summer, do they? It is for winter one comes here?”
“I am no judge,” he said gravely, with that seriousness, on the verge of offence with which a man hears his own country criticised. “I have spent many summers here. You shut yourself up behind thepersianisall day; but when evening comes—ah, Miss Trelawny! the night of summer that goes to the heart, as you say. I have never been in your country. I cannot tell if among the seas you can know. Ah, you smile! I am wrong; I can believe it. England is no more sombre when you—such as you—live there; but in Italy I would give—how much—a year! years—of my life that you might see one summer night. The air it is balm; so soft, so warm, so cool, so dark. The moon more lustrous than any day. And all the people out of doors. You who love the people it would make you glad. Upon the stairs and in thedoorways, everywhere, all friendly, smiling, singing, feeling the air blow in their faces. How it has made me happy!—But now,—now——”
“You ought to be more happy than ever, Mr. Pandolfini,” said Diana, raising herself erect in her chair, turning round upon him with the courage the situation demanded, yet unable to keep a tremor of sympathy out of her voice, “now that your country has risen up again, and takes her place once more among the best.”
“I thank you for saying so—yes, I should be more happy; but,ecco, Miss Trelawny, we are not as we would. I have my senses, is it not true? I am not a child to stretch out my hands for what is beyond reach? Yet also, alas! I am that fool,—I am that child. My country?—I forget what I meant to say.”
“You are not well,” said Diana, troubled. “It is this hideous din. Oh no, I meant this beautiful music. You will be better when it is over.”
“Nay,” he said, the moisture coming into his eyes. “I like it; it makes a solitude. It might be that there was no one else in the world.”
All this was nothing. If Mr. Hunstanton had heard it, he would have said that Pandolfini was in one of his queer moods, and would have divined nothing of what lay below; but to most women this inference ofadoration is more seductive than the most violent protestations. Even Diana felt herself yield a little to the charm. She had to make an effort to resist and escape from this fascination.
“And happily, here we are at the end,” she said. “Listen—here comes the last burst.”
“Will you tell me?” said poor Pandolfini, paying no attention to the interruption; “it will be very kind. Will you tell me to my own self,à me stesso, before you go away?”
“It will be your turn to pay us a visit in England,” she said, rising; and she turned and looked at him with a smile which was very sweet and friendly, though so calm. “Then I will show you my country as you have shown me yours,” she added. How kind she was! almost affectionate, confiding; looking at him as if he had been an old friend—she who had known him a few weeks only. But, alas! the moon in the sky was not more serene than Diana. She went forward to the singers, adding in the same breath, “Is it over so soon? You have given us a very pleasant half-hour” (was it by their singing?). “Won’t you take something, and begin again?”
“Tea is the worst thing for the voice,” said Mrs. Winthrop, “though I am dying for a cup of tea. Nomore to-night, dear Miss Trelawny. I am sure we have bored you quite enough: though it is amusing to those who sing, I am always sorry for the audience. We must not try you any more.”
“I have liked it,” said Diana; and he thought she gave a humorous half-glance towards himself, as if to indicate how it was that she had liked it. As for Pandolfini, he could not bear the contact of the gay little crowd. He went into one of the deep windows, and after a moment stole out into the balcony outside. He was not calm. If Diana had liked this brief retirement from her little world and its busy affairs only to plunge into them again—to pour out tea for Mrs. Winthrop, and condole with the tenor on the cold which affected his voice—the Italian was not so philosophical. His frame quivered with all that he had said and all that he had not said. Had he betrayed himself? In every other kind of sentiment two people are on easier ground; but in love, except when they understand each other completely, how are they ever to understand each other? A woman cannot be kind without being more than kind, or a man make himself intelligible without those last explanations which one way or another are final—knitting the two together, or cutting them adrift for ever. Alas! there seemed no likelihood with thatcalm Diana of any knitting together: and he would not be cut adrift. No: he would take her at her word. He would be patient—nay, passive, tenacious—as the English like a man to be. He would be silent, resisting all temptation to speak even as he had spoken to-night. He would give up the ways of his own race and take to hers, concealing every sentiment; he would be reticent, self-controlled, everything that an Italian is not by nature. He would take the benefit of every moment here, and enjoy her society as if he did not love her. Yes; that is what he would do—take the good of her, as if she were nothing to him but an acquaintance, and never risk that subdued happiness by any revelation of deeper feeling. And then when all was had that could be had here, he would do as she had said—he would go to England, and there be happy, or at least a little happy, again. And who could tell? If he could manage to be so wise as this, so self-controlled, so English, who could tell what might happen? She might be in some great danger from which he could rescue her; she might fall into some great strait or misfortune in which he might be of use. He did not, perhaps, immediately realise the drowning, or the fire, or the runaway horses which might form the extremity which would be his opportunity, as ayouth might have done; but when a man is under the dominion of one of the primitive emotions, does not that reverse the distinctions of youth and age?
It was the most youthful foolish notion, transparent as gossamer, which thus sprang up within him, and which he cherished with such tenderness. He stood on the balcony with his back turned to the world outside: the soft infinite sky of a spring night, the dewy sense of moisture in the air, the gleam of the Arno between its banks below, and the voices of the passers-by, in which there was generally a dreamy attraction for him—all this was of less importance to Pandolfini to-night than the lighted interior, with those groups of carelessforestierilaughing and carrying on their chatter under that solemn cavalier of the Sogni, his own ancestor, who looked on so gravely, seeing the Northern hordes come and go. A momentary contempt and almost hatred for them seized Pandolfini, though he was an Anglomane. What did they want here with their curiosity and their levity?
“Le case di Italia son fatte per noi,” he said to himself; then laughed at himself for the doggerel, and so brought his mind down as well as he could from these thoughts to the common platitudes, to Mr. Hunstanton, who appealed to him about a discussion whichhad taken place in the Italian parliament, and to Colonel Winthrop, who claimed his opinion as an impartial person as to the relative intelligence of the English and Americans. He stepped in from the balcony with a smile on his face, and gave them his reply. His heart was thrilling and quivering with the effort, but he made no sign. Was not this the first symptom that he had conquered himself, that he was as strong as an Englishman, and had surmounted that impatience of suffering, that desire for demonstration which is in the Italian blood? Would she think so? or had she divined what he meant, or ever thought enough about him to wonder? This was the most exciting question of all.
Mrs. Hunstantonlingered after the visitors had gone away. She made a determined stand even against Mrs. Norton and Sophy, and outstayed them in spite of all their efforts. She said, with something of that breathlessness which betrays mental excitement, “I want to say a word to you, Diana. I want to warn you. Spectators always see more than the chief actors, and I have been a spectator all the evening. You must not play with edge-tools.”
“Iplay with edge-tools?” said Diana; “are there any in my way?”
“My dear,” said the elder lady, who was not addicted to phrases of affection, “I wish I could let you have a peep from my point of view without saying a word: but that is a thing which cannot be done. Diana—I don’t know if you have observed it,—but poor Pandolfini——”
Involuntarily, unawares, Diana raised her hand to stop the warning with which she had been threatened, and the colour rose in her face, flushing over cheeks and forehead, to her great distress and shame. But what could she do? Some women cannot help blushing, and those who are thus affected generally consider it as the most foolish and unpleasant of personal peculiarities. She tried to look unconscious, calmly indifferent, but the effort was entirely destroyed by this odious blush.
“Mr. Pandolfini?” she said, with an attempt at cheerful light-heartedness. “I hope it is not he who is your edge-tool. It does not seem to me a happy simile.”
“Oh, Diana,” cried Mrs. Hunstanton, too eager to be careful, “don’t treat a man’s happiness or misery so lightly! I never questioned you on such subjects, but a woman does not come to your age without knowing something of it. Don’t take his heart out of his hand and fling it to the dogs. Don’t——”
“I?” cried Diana, aghast. She grew pale and then red again, and the tears came to her eyes. “Am I such a monster? or is it only you who are rhetorical? What have I to do with Mr. Pandolfini’s heart?”
“You cannot deceive me, Diana,” said her friend.“You blushed—you know very well what I mean. Men may not see such things—but women, they understand.”
“We have no right to speak of a gentleman we know so little—or at least whomIknow so little—in this way,” said Diana, very gravely. “It is an injury to him. You are kind—you mean him well—but even with that we have no right to discuss——”
“I don’t wish to discuss him, Diana. If there was any chance for him, poor man—oh no, you need not shake your head; I know well enough there is no chance for him; but don’t torture him at least,” cried Mrs. Hunstanton, getting up hastily, “this Imaysay——”
“It is the thing you ought least to say,” Diana said, accepting her good-night kiss perhaps more coldly than usual, for though she was perfectly innocent, she dared not dispute the fact pointed out to her. “No, I am not angry: but why should you accuse me so? Do I torture any one? You have made me very uncomfortable. If it is true, I shall have to break up and leave this nice place, which pleased me, and go back with you to England.”
“You are afraid of yourself,” cried Mrs. Hunstanton.
“I!”—— Diana did not say any more. Yes; she was too proud. It was not like a woman to be so determined, so immovable: and yet a woman whose colour went and came, whose eyes filled so quickly, who was so sensitive and easily moved, could she be hard? Mrs. Hunstanton did not quite know what she wished. She was a little proud of Diana—among all the girls who married, the one unmarrying woman, placed upon a pedestal, a virgin princess dispensing good things to all, and above the common weaknesses. One such, once in a way, pleased her imagination and heresprit de corps. And if Diana had willingly stepped down from her pedestal, a sense of humiliation would have filled her friend’s mind. But then poor Pandolfini! She was quick of wit and quick of speech, and would have been as ready as anybody to turn upon him, and ask who was he that he should have the Una, the peerless woman, he a penniless foreigner with nothing but a fine name? Probably had Diana melted, all this wilful lady’s impatient soul would have risen indignant at the idea of the English lady of the manor consenting to turn herself into a Madame Pandolfini. But all the same, as Diana had no such intention, her heart melted over the hopeless lover. Poor fellow! how good he was, how kind, how friendly! It was hard that by a mere accident, so to speak, because Dianahad taken it into her head so suddenly to come here, that his whole life should be ruined for him. How hard it was that such things should be! As Mrs. Hunstanton went upstairs to her own floor she could not help remembering with some virulence that it was that absurd little Sophy’s sham cough which had brought Diana here, and done all the mischief. Little ridiculous creature, whom Diana would spoil so, and raise altogether out of her sphere! Mrs. Hunstanton was quite sure that it was entirely Sophy’s fault (and her aunt’s: the aunt was on the whole, being older, more ridiculous and more to be blamed than Sophy) that this misfortune had happened; though after all, she added to herself, how could Pandolfini expect that Diana was to be kept out of Italy, and shut up, so to speak, in England on his account, lest he should come to harm? That was out of the question too. Thus it will be seen the argument on her side was inconsistent, and indeed contradictory, as most such arguments must always be.
At the same time a very different sort of conversation was going on in another room in this same Palazzo dei Sogni. As they went out, Mr. Hunstanton had seized Pandolfini by the arm. “Come upstairs and smoke a cigar with me: the night is young,” he said; “and there are lots of things I want to talk toyou about. Now there are so many ladies on hand, I never see you. Come, you shall have some syrup or other, and I’ll have soda—and something—and a friendly cigar. What a business it is to be overdone with ladies! One never knows the comfort of a steady-going wife of one’s own—that is acquainted with one’s tastes and never bothers one—till a lot of women are let loose upon you. Diana there, Sophy here—a man does not know if he is standing on his head or his heels.”
“Pah! you like it,” said the Italian with a smile.
“Do I? Well, I don’t know but what I do. I like something going on. I like a little commotion and life, and I am rather fond, I confess, of helping things forward, and acting a friend’s part when I can. Yes, I’m very glad to be of use. You now, my dear fellow, if I could help you to a good wife.”
Pandolfini turned pale. Was it sacrilege this good easy Englishman was talking? The idea seemed too profane, too terrible to be even contradicted. He pretended not to have heard, and took up the “Galignani” which lay in Mr. Hunstanton’s private room—the room where he was supposed to write business letters, and do all his graver duties, but in which there was always a limp novel in evidence, from the press of MichelLevy, or Baron Tauchnitz, and where “Galignani” was the tutelary god.
“Sit down, and let us talk. You should come over to England, Pandolfini. The change would do you good. I like change, for my part. What is the good of staying for ever in one corner of the world, as if you were a vegetable and had roots? We say it is a grievance that we have to leave home every winter on Reginald’s account, and I suppose I grumble like other people; but no doubt, on the whole, I like it. There’s the hunting—of course one misses all that; but then I don’t hunt, so it matters less: change is always agreeable. And then you have got used to our little society. One abuses the women; but they are always pleasant enough. The worst is, one has a little too much of them in the country. Well, not so constantly as here; but they are our nearest neighbours, andtoujours perdrix, you know.”
“Is it that you mean to persuade me to come, or not to come?” said Pandolfini, laughing.
“My dear fellow, how can you doubt? Of course we shall be delighted to see you, both I and my wife. We always feel together, she and I. Of course you will think me an old fool and all that for speaking with so little enthusiasm. I am past the age oflesgrandes passions; but a good wife is a very good thing, I can tell you, Pandolfini. It is astonishing how many worries a man is spared when he has somebody always by him who knows his ways, and sees that he is comfortable. Many a great calamity is easier put up with than having your tastes disregarded, and your customs broken in upon.”
“This may be very true, my good Hunstanton, but why to me—why say it to me? I have no—wife.” His voice changed a little, with a tone which would have been very instructive to the lady spoken of, but which conveyed no particular information to her husband. Mr. Hunstanton rubbed his hands: then he took his cigar out of his mouth in his energy, and puffed a large mouthful of smoke into his companion’s face.
“That is exactly the question—exactly the question. My dear fellow, that is just what I wanted to say to you. You ought to have a wife.”
Pandolfini gave a quick look up into his friend’s eyes. What he thought or hoped he might find there who can tell? Many things were possible to his Italian ideas that no Englishman would have thought possible. From whom might this suggestion come? His heart gave a wild leap upward, then sank with a sudden plunge and chill. What a fool, what a miserable vainfool he was! She to hold out a little finger, a corner of her handkerchief, to him or any man! His eyes fell, and his heart; he shook his head.
“Come, come, Pandolfini! that is the way with all you foreign fellows. You are as afraid of marriage as if it were purgatory. You have had full time to have your fling surely. I don’t mean to insinuate anything against you. So far as I know, you have always been the most irreproachable of men. But supposing that you hadn’t, why, you have had time enough to have your fling. How old are you, forty? Well, then, it is time to range yourself as the French say. An English wife would be the making of you——”
“Hunstanton,” cried the Italian, “all this that you are saying is as blasphemy. Is it to me you speak of ranging myself, of accepting unwillingly marriage, of having an English wife offered to me like a piece of useful furniture? It is that you do not know me—do not know anything about me—notwithstandingbuon amico, that you are my best friend.”
Mr. Hunstanton looked at him with complacent yet humorous eyes. “Aha!” he said, “didn’t I divine it! I knew, of course, how the wind was blowing. Bravo, Pandolfini! so you are hit, eh? I knew it, man! I saw it sooner than you did yourself.”
Pandolfini looked at the light-hearted yet sympathetic Englishman with a glow upon his dark face of more profound emotion than Mr. Hunstanton knew anything about. He held out his hands in the fulness of his heart. Instinct told him that this was not the man to whom to speak of Diana—although the Englishman was fond of Diana too in his way. But his heart melted to the friend who had divined his love. Mr. Hunstanton, too, was touched by a confession so frank yet so silent. He got up and patted his friend on the shoulder. “To be sure,” he said, his voice even trembling a little, “you mustn’t have any shyness with an old man. I divined it all the time.”
There was a little pause, during which this delightful and effusive confidant resumed his seat. He kept silence by sheer force of the emotion which he saw in the other’s face, though it was almost unintelligible to him. Why should he take it so very seriously? Mr. Hunstanton was on the very eve of bursting forth when Pandolfini himself began—
“But to what good? She is more young, more rich, more highly gifted than I. What hope have I to win her! She with all the world at her feet! I—nobody. Ah, it is not want of seeing. I see well—not what you say, my good friend, but what all yourpoets have said. That is what a woman is—a woman of the English. But,amico mio, do not let us deceive ourselves. What hope is there for such a one as I?”
“Hope! why, every hope in the world,” cried the cheerful counsellor. “Talk about the poets: what is it that Shakespeare says? Shakespeare, you know, the very chief of them—