PART III.
As the trains arrived from Rome and Naples, a sea of human beings poured out of the dirty, wretched, little Caserta station, flooding the wide, dusty road that is bordered by two fields, where the garrison horses graze. The scorching sun shone down on black evening coats, framing expensive white shirt-fronts, as well as on dittos of light summer cloth, and blue-and-white striped linen costumes, by which the gilded youth of Naples—with metropolitan irreverence for matters provincial—implied their intention of ignoring the Hall of the Inauguration. It shone, too, on overcoats that represented tentative provincial elegance. Under the domes of their large white sunshades came ladies of every degree, in every shade of light, fresh, aërial dresses. They came from Naples, from Santa Maria, from Capua, from Maddaloni; chattering together, and gesticulating with their fans, and sniffing at their huge posies: the provincials quieter than the others, whom they watched and strove to imitate. The sun shone with all its might on that bright September day, and the ladies stepped out bravely, in their polished leather shoes with bright buckles.
In front of them towered the Palace, the poetic dream to which Vanvitelli has given architectural reality. It maintained its imposing air of majesty, due to purity of line, exquisite sobriety of ornament, and the severe harmony of its pale, unfaded colouring, with which time had dealt so gently. The windows of the first story were wide open, and so were the three huge doorways which traversed the whole body ofthe edifice. And all along the road waved the standard of the province, the Campania Felice, with the Horn of Plenty pouring out the riches of the Earth: and the national banners waved in unison.
Onward went the crowd, as if agriculture were the end and aim of its existence. This September function was in truth a rural feast, a pretext for journeys by road or rail, and for enjoying the coolness of the vast regal saloons.... Besides, the Prime Minister was coming to prove the love of a northern statesman for a southern province. To many he was unknown, and they were glad of a chance of seeing him in the pride and pomp of his ministerial uniform. The more sentimental among them, those who knew him to be eloquent, came to hear him speak. The ladies were there for the mysterious, unfathomable reason for which they go everywhere, especially where they are most likely to be bored. At the middle entrance, the chief porter, in the royal livery, with a plume waving in his carabineer’s hat, and a gold-headed wand in his hand, impassively faced the crowd. People passing out of the dazzling light and dry heat into the grey twilight and moist freshness of the Hall, felt a sense of relief on entering it. The majesty of the Palazzo Reale lent composure to their countenances and subdued their voices; constraining admiration for its solidity of construction, the elegance of its arched ceiling, the strength of the quadruple pillars, and the eurythmy of the four triangular courts that grew out of its centre.
“It resembles a construction of the Romans,” remarked the Mayor of Arpino—a fat personage with his badge of office slung across his portly figure, and gold spectacles, behind which he perpetually blinked—to the Mayor of Aversa, a lawyer of fox-like cunning and squat, sturdy appearance.
There was a murmur of argument and protestation at the foot of the grand staircase; the ushers were politely inflexible. Unless you wore evening dress, you might not enter the Hall of Inauguration. Many of the uninitiated appeared in their overcoats. A tall, fair, burly exhibitor, brick-red in the face,with a diamond flashing on his little finger, had come in a cutaway jacket.
“I exhibit a bull, two cows, two sheep, and twelve fowls: I shall pass in,” he repeated; “besides, I’ve got my wife with me, I must escort her.”
“No one can enter here without evening dress,” replied the ushers.
“I don’t mind being alone, Mimi,” murmured his wife, a buxom provincial, dressed in mourning, with an enormous train, a hat and feathers, and superb brilliants in her ears.
“Well, go up then, Rosalia. I’ll go and have a look at the fowls. You’ll find me in the park after the speechifying in evening dress is over.”
And thus did the overcoats disappear in the courtyards or the park, while men in evening attire and ladies slowly ascended the broad, low, milk-white marble steps of the majestic stair. The ladies heaved sighs of content, they revelled in the gradual ascent to regal magnificence and the charmed silence stirred by a luxurious silken rustle. Triumphant gentlemen in their black coats crowded upon them, hiding behind their opera-hats the self-satisfied ecstasy of their smile. The old Palace, which had witnessed the splendour of Carlo III., the folly of Maria Carolina, the military fêtes of Murat, the popular ones of Ferdinand I., was awakening for an hour to the luxury of modern dress, the perfume of youth and beauty, the cold lustre of precious stones and all the lavish pomp of a court. That feast of the people, of the peasants—that feast of the soil, of its fruits, and cereals, and animals, that should have been so humbly prosaic and commonplace—was like a refined and courtly function, the birth of an hereditary prince or an official New Year’s reception.
“What victory for democracy, to have enthroned itself within the tyrant’s halls, there to celebrate a rural feast,” quoth the tun-bellied, squint-eyed lawyer Galante, from Cassino—he was bald, and the only Socialist the province boasted—to the monarchical chancellor, who was duly scandalised.
The inauguration was to take place in the vast Farnese Hall with its four windows on the façade; between the windows was the ministerial platform, covered with green velvet adorned with gold cord, and furnished with a bell, an inkstand, three glasses, a water-bottle, and a sugar-basin, all pregnant with meaning. Around them were grouped five red velvet armchairs. A step lower, between the ministerial platform and the body of the Hall, was the presidential platform, furnished with a grey carpet and five antique leather chairs. To the right, to the left, and in front, rows of chairs for those who had received invitations, three rows of armchairs for the ladies, and rush-bottomed ones for the men.
When Lucia Altimare-Sanna and Caterina Lieti appeared at the entrance, escorted by a single squire, Alberto Sanna, of the worn and gruesome countenance, Andrea Lieti hastily stepped down from the presidential eminence, darted through the crowd, and offered his arm to Lucia.
“Follow me with Caterina, Alberto; I’ll find you a good place.”
A murmur followed Andrea and Lucia as they passed through the crowd. Lucia in her long white satin robe, that clung to her and gleamed like steel in the sun, where it was not swathed with antique lace, was truly lovely and captivating. On the loose plaits of dark hair which waved on her forehead was draped a priceless veil of finest Venetian point, in lieu of a bonnet; it wound round her neck and was fastened under one ear by three white roses, fresh and dewy, with shell-pink hearts. No jewels. The same tint flushed her cheek, which was fuller than of yore; the red lips, now no longer parched, were fuller too. She smiled on her tall, strong knight, who bent his handsome person protectingly towards her.
“Who is she?” “The wife of Lieti?” “No, a relation of his wife’s.” “She is beautiful!” “Too thin, but pleasing!” “Too much dressed!” “Che!it’s an official function.” “She is beautiful!” “Beautiful!” “Beautiful!”
The couple that followed in their wake passed unheededthrough the murmur, which, however, was not lost on either of them. Caterina was simply dressed in lilac. She wore a feather of the same pale colour on her tiny bonnet, and in her ears enormous diamond solitaires, “to please Andrea.” But she was small, modest, and obscured by her friend’s lustre, as if she had tried to hide herself behind it, and her escort was undersized and undistinguished by either badge or decoration. He and she heard the “Bella, bella, bella!” that hovered in whispers on people’s lips.
“They admire Lucia,” whispered Alberto, in the pride of his heart.
“Of course, she is, and always has been, very beautiful,” said Caterina, in placid and persistent admiration of her friend.
“Oh! not as she used to be. She was not nearly so attractive before her marriage. Now she is another woman. Happiness....”
“Lucia is an angel,” declared Alberto, gravely. “I am not worthy of her.”
By this time they reached their places in the front row, opposite the platform.
There were two armchairs for the ladies, who took their seats, while the men remained standing; Andrea by the side of Lucia, Alberto by Caterina. Lucia’s train fell at her feet in a fluffy heap of silk and lace, just allowing a glimpse of a tiny foot shod in white, silver-worked leather; she fanned herself, for it was very hot. From time to time Andrea bent down to speak to her, and she raised her eyes as if to answer him in low tones, while a smile raised the corners of her lips and showed her teeth. Alberto, who was at a loss for a seat, was soon bored and wearied; he had a presentiment of a lengthy ceremony. Caterina, who had been elected a member of the jury for needlework, in the Didactic section, was somewhat preoccupied. The office appeared to her to be an onerous and important one; what would they expect of her, and what if she proved inadequate?
“Who is that immensely tall man, rather bald, with the long black whiskers, who has just entered? How tall he is? Who is he, Signor Andrea?”
“He is the Member for Santa Maria.”
“Dio mio!he is taller than you. I did not think that was possible. Will he speak?”
“I think not.”
“How sorry I am that you are not going to speak, Lieti. If I were your wife, I should have insisted on your speaking.”
Caterina started. “I did not think of it,” she murmured, her mind running absently on the meeting of the ladies of the jury.
“Albertomio, are you too warm? How do you feel? Will you have my fan?”
“I don’t feel the heat; I wish I could sit down. Thanks, dear.”
“Lieti, will you find a chair for Alberto; he gets so soon tired. I could not stay here, if he had to stand.”
Andrea sought, until he at last succeeded in finding a seat for Alberto in the next row, between two old ladies who sat behind Caterina.
Alberto, with visible satisfaction, tucked himself between their skirts.
“Are you comfortable now?”
“Very, dearest.”
“Will you have a lozenge?”
“No, by-and-by. Don’t think of me: look about you, chatter, amuse yourself, Lucia.”
“My poor Alberto,” said Lucia—speaking so that only Andrea could hear her—“is a continual source of torment to me. I would give my blood to enrich his.”
“You are good,” said Andrea.
Meanwhile the people were arriving in crowds, and filling every nook and corner, even to the recesses in the window, and the steps of the platform. In one corner sat a group ofyoung men chatting without lowering their voices; one of them was scribbling notes in a pocket-book, another making telegraphic signs to the secretary of the committee, another yawning. Among them was a young woman, simply dressed in mourning; her face, under her black-brimmed hat, was pale and sickly.
“Those are the journalists,” said Andrea to Lucia. “There are the correspondents of theLiberta, thePopolo Romano, theFanfulla, for Rome; of thePungoloand thePiccolo, for Naples.”
“And is she a journalist?”
“I think so, but I don’t know her name.”
“I envy her, if she is intelligent; she at least has an aim.”
“Bah! you would rather be a woman.”
“Glory is worth having.”
“But love is better,” he continued, in a serious tone.
“... Love?”
Caterina did not hear. She was thinking of home, where she fancied she had left the jewel-safe open. With these fashionable gowns it was impossible to put your keys in your pocket. Despite her confidence in her servants at Centurano, she could not help feeling a little anxious.
“Do you remember, Lucia, if I locked the jewel-safe?”
“No, dear, I do not remember. It will be quite safe, even if you have not locked it.”
“Do you, Signor Sanna?”
“Yes; you locked it, and put the key under the clock.”
“Thanks, thank you; you take a load off my mind.”
“Signora Lucia, Caterina, I must go and speak to the Prime Minister.”
“Are you going to leave us?”
“I shall be here opposite to you. Caterina, don’t yawn, child, remember that you are the wife of the vice-president of a committee.”
She smiled absently, and nodded to him.
A treble hedge of ladies, and then a multitude of black coats, on which the light dresses stood out like splashes of colour: a vivid, undulating crowd, disported itself under the gildings of the regal ceiling.
“Oh! it’s lovely, Caterina,” said Lucia, flushed with excitement. At that moment there came from the staircase a suppressed sound of applause. A flutter stirred the whole assembly as it turned to face the Prime Minister, who entered, leaning on the arm of his friend, the Member for Caserta. He was lame on the one leg that had been wounded in battle; he stooped slightly. His massive head was covered with thick iron-grey locks, well planted on a square brow: the head of a faithful watch-dog, with bold, honest eyes, wide nostrils and a firm jaw. The grey moustache covered a mouth of almost infantile sweetness, to which theimpérialelent a certain meditative seriousness. He bowed, taking evident pleasure in the prolonged applause, one of the few pleasures of official life; then ascended the platform, and after once more responding to the ovation, seated himself in its centre.
“He is a brave man: he has fought in every battle; he comes of a family of heroes,” explained Lucia to Caterina.
Then came the chorus of coughing, throat-scraping, and clearing of voices which precedes all speeches. Next to the Premier was seated the Member for Sora, a white-haired veteran whose chin was fringed with a white beard, a financier of somewhat furtive expression of countenance. On the left sat the Member for Capua, cool, composed, and distinguished-looking as ever. Two empty places. The Member for Caserta mingled with the crowd. The Prime Minister raised his voice to speak, amid breathless silence.
To tell the truth, the collar of his uniform came up too high at the back of his neck and gave him an appearance of awkwardness. He leant forward while he spoke, gazing fixedly at one point in the Hall, losing himself and his words from sheer absence of mind, and occasionally indulging in long pauses that passed for oratorical effects, but were probably dueto the same cause. He pointed one hand on the table, while the right described a vague circular gesture, as if he were setting a clock.
“He is unwinding the thread of his eloquence,” quoth Lucia, with much emotion.
He expressed himself poetically, here and there falling into the rhetorical, ready-made phrases which strike so pleasantly on the ear of an attentive crowd. “Yes, he was indeed happy to put aside for a moment the cares of State and the burden of politics, to be present at this festival of labour—of labour that, despite its humility, is so ennobling to the horny hand of the peasant....”
No effect. The Hall was filled with well-dressed landowners, who did not appreciate this sentimentalism.
“Besides,” he continued, “this festival assumes an historic character. The Romans, ladies and gentlemen, our great ancestors, who were gifted with the very poetry of diction, named this province theCampania Felice....”
Here the assembly, moved by the music of his words, broke into thunders of applause. The journalists scribbled in their note-books, supporting them with an air of infinite importance either on their knees or against the wall.
“We have named itTerra di Lavoro, a yet more poetic name, indicating as it does the daily call of man on his mother earth, on that earth—that earth—that Alma Demeter to whom of yore the labourers’ hymns were raised. We also salute her, the beneficent mother, inexhaustible fount of social well-being, blessed bosom that nourishes us without stint or weariness.”
Here, being tired, he sipped. A thrill of satisfaction ran through the assembly, well pleased with its statesman. He began again, shrugging his shoulders imperceptibly as if resigned to their burden, and resumed. The moral atmosphere was cold, it needed warming. Then rang out the sonorous words and broad phrases of little meaning that floated like a vision before the mind’s eye of the somewhat bewildered company. He spoke confusedly of enterprise, the newmachinery we owe to England, thecontadino, the vast future of agriculture; on Bentham, on universal suffrage, primary instruction, the Horn of Plenty, and decentralisation. He slipped for a moment on “Regionalism,” but caught himself up; then lost his way and became absorbed in thought, with one hand suspended in mid-air, arrested midway while describing a circle. Slowly he came to himself again, referring tola patriaand the fight for independence. The Hall rang with applause.
“This magnificent Exhibition, which unites to the sheaf of corn of the poorcontadino, the domestic animal trained by the aged dame, the flower cultivated by the fine lady, the school exercise written by the labourer’s child, is a happy manifestation of every energy, of every—yes, of every force....”
And transported and intoxicated by his own words, his hand described so rapid a circle that the face of the invisible clock appeared to be in imminent danger; he had knocked down the bell and an empty glass. He referred to the Government, to efface the impression produced by this disaster.
“The Government, ladies and gentlemen—and especially the Minister for Agriculture, whom a slight indisposition has debarred from being here to-day—says to you by my lips that this festival, a living proof of fecund prosperity and of useful activity, is a national festival. The affluence of every singlecommuneis the affluence of the State; this is the ideal the Government has in view. It will do its utmost within the limits of the means at its disposal, and the power it wields, to help this brave and laborious country where Garibaldi has fought and....”
“VivaGaribaldi!” cried the company.
“And where landed proprietors work together with their tenants for the good of the community. The Government is imbued with good intentions that in the course of time will become facts. But what appears to me to be the feature the most touching in its beauty is the holding of this domesticfeast in the Palace of the banished Bourbons—is this triumph of the people, where the people have so suffered....”
“Beneeee!”
“Only under a constitutional country like ours, only under the beneficent rule of the House of Savoy, a race of knightly soldiers, could this miracle be accomplished. I call upon you to join with me in the cry,Viva il Re! Viva la Regina!”
He fell back tired, his eye dull under its flaccid lid, while his under-lip hung slack. Mechanically he wiped his brow, while the crowd continued to applaud; the Deputies closed up around him, and there was some congratulatory hand-shaking. He thanked them with studied courtesy, bestowing Ministerial hand-shakes and endeavouring to ensure his jeopardised majority.
In the bustle which ensued Andrea hastened to join the ladies.
“You liked it, didn’t you? Splendid voice!”
“He said some stupendous things that the stupid people did not understand,” pronounced Lucia, disdainfully.
And she opened her fan, so that she succeeded in attracting the notice of the group of journalists; perhaps they would mention her in their reports.
“Are you bored, Caterina?” queried Andrea.
“No, it’s like the Chamber of Deputies,” she replied, with placid resignation.
“Are you hungry?” asked Andrea of Alberto, whose yawns were savagely distending the pallid lips of his wide mouth.
“Hungry indeed! I wish I were!”
Then all resumed their seats, for the Member for Capua had advanced to the front of the platform, so that his entire person was visible; he waited for silence, to read his paper. The Prime Minister had seated himself opposite to him, in that attitude of mock attention whose assumption is so notable a faculty in a statesman.
The clear light eyes of the tall, distinguished-looking Deputy looked at the crowd. He wore the riband of the order of SS. Maurizzio and Lazzero round his neck, and many foreigndecorations at his button-hole. With his powerful torso, erect carriage, and a countenance so impassive that it neither expressed sound nor hearing, he was a perfect type of the ex-soldier. There was no denying that his appearance was more correct than that of the Prime Minister, his features more refined, and his gestures more artistic. There was something British in the grave composure and sobriety of his diction. He read slowly, giving out every word with a high-bred voice that was almost acid in its sharpness. And, strange to say, his speech, which had been written beforehand, was a flat contradiction of the Prime Minister’s rhetorical improvisation. He made short work of the poetry of the Horn of Plenty and the Sweat of the Brow. He said that the Exhibition was a step in the right direction, but it was not everything; that the economic and financial movement had not yet begun to work among the labouring classes; that its impetus must necessarily be deadened as long as the present harsh fiscal system continued to prevail; that certain experiments in English cultivation and model-farming had been unsuccessful. He said that it was of no avail to demand of the land more than it could yield: that only meant exhaustion. He added that the agricultural question was a far more serious one than it appeared to be, but that the splendour of southern skies and a mild climate softened the hardships of meridional provinces. This was the only concession to poetry made by this poet—for he was, above all, a poet. But the unbiassed conscience of a wealthy and experienced landowner spoke higher in him than sentiment. The Minister listened, nodding his approval, as if all these ideas had been his own, instead of a frank and decided contradiction to everything he had said. The Member added, after a telling pause, and with a smile—his first—that he did not wish to preach pessimism on a day of rejoicing, and that this insight into genuine agricultural life was in itself of some moment. The province tendered its thanks to His Majesty’s Government, in the person of its Premier, for promises on which it built hopes of sure fulfilment, for he who made themwas a hero, a patriot, and a brave soldier. Ever sensitive to praise, the Prime Minister flushed like a boy with the pleasure of it; then the Member calmly and quietly brought his speech to a close, without having sipped a drop of water or shown any signs of fatigue. The applause was prolonged, steady, and enthusiastic. The speech had been cold and lacking in sonorous rumble; but the audience had felt the truth of it. The Prime Minister all but embraced his beloved Deputy, who in the last division had voted against him. He accepted the demonstration quietly. The spectators could decipher no meaning on his high-bred sphinx-like face. In profile he was more soldier-like than ever, and the only trace of nervousness about him was a slight involuntary movement of one shoulder. The public rose to salute the departing Prime Minister; leaning on the Prefect’s arm, he passed through the applause of the front rows, dragging the leg that had been wounded at Palermo, one of the personal glories that helped him to govern. Behind him came the Mayors and other functionaries, and all the journalists, in a bustle of importance. On the stairs there was a second, weak, scant attempt at applause.
“The Member for Capua was fine, but cold, Caterina,” said Lucia, who was standing to see the people pass.
“Do you think so?” said Caterina, who held no opinion on the subject, with indifference.
“Oh! cold,” added Alberto, who always adopted the opinion of his wife.
“Shall we go?”
“I,” said Caterina, timidly, “have to go to the Didactic Exhibition; their first meeting is for to-day.”
“Then Alberto and I will take a turn in the Exhibition, until you and your husband have shaken off these onerous duties.”
“Sai, Lucia, I am tired, and I shan’t take a turn in the Exhibition.”
“Then we will go to the park.”
“Worse than ever, because of the sun,” he persisted,beginning to sulk. Lucia smiled as if in resignation. Caterina was embarrassed, for until the meeting was over and the Prime Minister took his departure, she and her husband were not at liberty.
“Well, Albertomio, what will you do?”
“Drink an iced lemonade and go home. I shall sleep until dinner-time.”
“Bene, I will go home with you;” she suppressed a sigh.
“Oh! my poor heart, what a continual sacrifice,” whispered Caterina, as she embraced her friend.
A little later, Alberto passed alone through the Didactic section, and calling Caterina aside, said to her:
“When you have finished, Signora Lieti, you will find Lucia in the park, quite alone, near the lake; she is there thinking, dear soul. She pined for air, so I took her there and left her. I’m not a selfish man, and I’m going away to sleep. Can you go soon?”
“As soon as I can.”
Alberto went off on those weak legs of his, of which the trousers were always baggy, turning up the collar of his coat because he was perspiring. He came upon Andrea in the Hemp section, in the midst of a group of exhibitors who were accompanying the Prime Minister.
“When you’ve done here, go into the park, where you’ll find your Signora with mine, awaiting you in the little shrubbery by the lake. But make haste. I’m going home to sleep. Is there a bar here?”
“Yes, on the ground-floor.”
“I want a glass of Marsala. Shall you be home in time for dinner?”
“To be sure; pleasant dreams to you.”
He watched him depart with pity for an existence so poor in health and strength, useless alike to himself and others. But this Minister was insatiable. As if he knew anything about madder, or dried beans, or yellow gourds! Now it’sthe turn of the cocoons! Andrea was beginning to weary: while the Prime Minister was engaged in conversation with the Prefect and the Member for Nola with that cadaverous face and ambiguous blond hair, he wouldn’t be likely to speak to him. Andrea would have liked to leave; he was getting bored with the official circle and the stupid march of inspection throughout the building. Besides, he suffered from the heat, and how cool it must be out there in the park! Yet he lingered, a victim of his ambition, in the hope that the Minister would speak to him at last.
“In the Grain section, I shall bolt, unless he sends for me before we get there,” said he to himself. They passed not only the grain, but the fodder. Andrea felt his anger rising as they passed through the Hall of the Oils, upon which the sun cast yellow rays. “I shall leave him at the Wines,” he thought; he was incensed and quite red in the face. But in the Wine section, in front of a pyramid of bottles, the Minister called out:
“Signor Lieti!”
“Your Excellency!”
“You are a brave worker in the common cause: here is some of your wine. Fine Italian wines should be cultivated, if only out of patriotism. We drink too much Bordeaux and Champagne; France intoxicates us.”
“Your Excellency....”
“The congratulations of the Government are due to you, as an influential citizen, who utilises his activity in this public service ... to which I add my personal compliments.”
Andrea bowed low, in mingled pride and shyness. He had had his share: the Minister was now flattering the Member for Cassino also on his wines. Besides, they had been all over the Exhibition; now they were about to inspect the cattle and poultry in the park.
“Now he has spoken to me he won’t say anything to me about my fowls; I shall take to my heels.” Contented, with the blood once more running freely through his veins, fanning himselfwith hisgibus, his gloves stuck in his waistcoat, he slipped away by a back staircase which shortened the distance.
“He will say nothing to me ... nothing to me ... nothing to me ... nothing about the fowls,” he hummed, as he crossed the courtyard.
Once in the park, he walked rapidly, but was disappointed in not meeting with any one at the lake of the Castelluccia.
“Where can they have got to?” he murmured, with flagging spirits. He went the round of the wide, oval shrubbery that fringes the little lake. In one corner, in a thin streak of light under the dome of her white, red-lined sunshade, sat Lucia, on a rustic bench. She was alone, and sat with her face turned away from him. Andrea thought he would turn back; yet Caterina could not be far off. So he approached rather shyly, intimidated by the white figure, crowned with blonde rays, their radiance playing on her cheeks and on the rustic background. Lucia did not hear his steps, despite the rustle in the dry leaves. She uttered a cry when he appeared before her.
“Oh! how easily you are frightened!” he said, with an assumed ease of manner.
She held out a trembling hand to him. Andrea, feeling rather awkward, remained standing before her.
“Won’t you sit down?”
“No; I’m not tired.”
“Has it been a long affair?”
“Have you been long waiting?”
“I think so; at least, it seemed long to me;” she smiled a melancholy smile. “How beautiful it is here, Lieti!”
“Oh! beautiful. What a fool I must look in evening clothes in the midst of this green country!”
“No; for this country is artificial, it savours of powder and patches. The branches of these trees look as if they had been trimmed with scissors. Oh! who will give me Nature—real great, omnipotent Nature?”
“When your voice falls in longing, it is enchanting,” said Andrea, with admiration in his eyes.
“Do not you long for real country?”
“Eh! it is not always poetic. Sometimes it is barren, at others it smells too much of lime. But I know where to find your ideal; the dark wood, the narrow paths, the lake hidden in the thicket....”
“Dio!... You know where all that is, Andrea!” And she crossed her hands on her bosom, her voice trembling from desire.
“Here, in the English Garden.”
“Far, far, far?”
“No; near, three-quarters of an hour’s walk.”
They looked fixedly at each other as if they were debating something. She cast a glance around her, and then bowed her head and sighed in resignation. Andrea felt inclined to sigh too, there was a weight upon his chest. With a gesture familiar to him, he threw down his hat and passed his hand through his curly hair. She stretched out a little foot whose jewelled buckle shone in the sun.
“You are too beautiful to-day. It is quite insufferable,” said Andrea, with a forced laugh.
“To please Alberto.... I am not fond of dressing extravagantly; I cannot see the pleasure of it. I am, as you know, inaccessible to vanity.”
“I know ... but I think Alberto is a fool.”
“Don’t say so, Signor Andrea; poor Alberto, he is but unhappy.”
“You don’t understand me. Why does he make you dress like that? Every one looks at you. Isn’t he jealous?”
“No; I think not.”
“If I were your husband I should be madly jealous,” he cried.
For the space of a second, Lucia was startled and shrank back. Then she broke into her habitual smile, a smile of voluptuous and seductive melancholy.
“I am always frightening you,” said Andrea, troubled, in a lamentable voice.
“No; I know it’s only your way.”
“It’s my temperament; sometimes the blood goes to my head, and mad ideas get into it. Listen, let me say all. If I were your husband, I should be madly jealous, jealous to insanity. I feel that I should beat you, strangle you....”
Lucia closed her eyes, inebriated.
“And listen, listen,” he gasped; “I want to tell you what I have never dared to say to you until now ... to ask your pardon for that evening ... when I behaved like a brute.... Have you forgiven me?” Thrilling with the mere thought of the scene he had evoked, his entreaty was as passionate as the emotion caused by memory.
“Yes,” she replied, a barely audible “yes,” that came after some hesitation.
“You do really forgive me?”
“I forgive you. Do not let us talk about it.”
“One word more. Did you say anything to....”
“To whom?”
“... to Alberto?”
“No, nothing.”
“Thank you.”
He drew himself up as if he were both relieved and satisfied: there was a secret between them about which they could talk without being understood by any one else—about which neither could think without knowing that the other shared the thought. Lucia started imperceptibly, and then turned and asked him:
“And you?”
“What?”
“Have you spoken of it?”
“To whom?”
“To Caterina, to your Nini?”
“No, no...!” in evident agitation.
“You might have told her,” she replied slowly, “you who love her so much.”
“It would have pained her ... and....”
“Pained her for whom? For your sake, perhaps.”
“For yours. She loves you.”
“True. Caterina is an excellent creature, Signor Andrea: her good qualities are remarkable, although they make no show. Love her ever, for she deserves it; love her with all your might. Before my marriage, I used to fear that my Caterina, my sweet friend, was unhappy. She loves you above all; make her happy....”
Caterina was coming towards them, smiling, and a little out of breath.
“Have I kept you waiting very long? Have you been here long, Andrea?”
“No; not very long.”
“Did the Prime Minister speak to you?”
“Yes; he was very complimentary.”
“About the wheat?”
“No, about the wine made on the new system.”
“And the fowls?”
“Nothing, I didn’t go there. And what have you done, Nini?”
“Talkee, talkee, nothing settled. The worst of it is that I shall have to go there every morning.”
“For how many days?”
“I don’t know; eight or ten, perhaps.”
“A bore, Nini; but you are kind and patient.”
“That is what we were saying,” observed Lucia; “that you are an angel and worthy of adoration.”
“An angel and worthy of adoration,” repeated Andrea, mechanically.
The Princess Caracciolo, the great benefactress of the poor, the aged, and the children, presided. She reigned in the Hall of Maria Carolina, where the ladies of the jury were assembled, with the mingled air of regal hauteur and amiable piety peculiar to her. An ascetic pallor had left her cheeks colourless and her lips faded; while her personretained the seductive grace of the woman who had loved, and loved to be beautiful. She had left her own poor and her children, for the sake of these other children. The thirty ladies had, with one voice, elected her as their president. There was only one man, the secretary, among them—a professor, a pedagogue, saturated with the principles of Froebel and of Pick; a bald, ambiguous-looking, and perfectly innocuous being. The ladies of the jury sat in a circle, on brocaded couches, where the most opposite types were brought into juxtaposition. Three German teachers had come from Naples: one, tall, thin and brick-coloured, with her hair in a green net; another, older, stout, florid, and dressed in black; the third was a deal plank, with a waxen head stuck on the end of it; all three had gold spectacles and guide-books. They were talking, with animation, to each other, in their own language, the deal plank ejaculating rapidja’sby fits and starts. Then there were the Directresses of the Institutes of Caserta, Santa Maria, and Maddaloni; all frills and cheap trinkets, black silk dresses, starched collars and light gloves. A couple of professors’ wives, of the genus that teaches, brings children into the world, and does the cooking. They had pale, emaciated faces, were flat where they should have been round, and protuberant where they should have been flat. Then eight or ten wealthy ladies from the neighbourhood, provincial aristocracy or plutocracy, wives of landed proprietors or communal councillors; with bored, inexpressive faces, and toilets that had come from Naples, some being worn awkwardly and others with supreme elegance. Among the notabilities were the Contessa Brambilla, a fresh-looking young woman, with perfectly white hair and very bright eyes; the illustrious poetess Nina, small, fragile and vivacious as a grain of pepper; the wife of the Member for Santa Maria, a calm austere woman, with full pensive eyes. All these ladies inspected each other with a curiosity they endeavoured to dissemble, while they discussed the relative merits of hand-made stockings, hand-stitched shirts, and darns in felt. Some of them carried specialcommunications to and fro from the presidential platform.
Caterina was the most silent of them all; she was reading, or pretending to read, in her little note-book. It was a present of the day before from her husband; on its morocco binding was the nameNini. Andrea had become more tenderly affectionate of late, and in this tenderness she sunned herself with devout collectedness and the absence of demonstration that characterised her. When they were alone, Andrea would take her on his knee or carry her round their room in his arms, murmuring “Nini, Nini,” ever “Nini,” while he kissed her. And it sometimes happened that on these occasions his voice trembled from emotion; he no longer laughed his noisy laugh that used to make the house ring with its mirth. Perhaps it was because of the guests who had been with them for the last fortnight. Caterina had long known that Andrea’s character had all the delicacy of a woman’s. In the presence of those two sickly beings, Alberto, a martyr to his cough, and Lucia, a prey to latent or pronouncednevrose, Andrea restrained the exuberance of his perfect health. When he went out he abstained, from delicacy, from kissing Caterina in their presence; for Alberto never kissed Lucia in public. Perhaps that was why Andrea made such enthusiastic love to her when they were alone, to make up for all the time they passed in a friendlypartie carrée.
Caterina was not less bored than the other eight or ten ladies of her set. She could not appreciate the needlework exhibits: stockings in coarse, yellowish thread, knitted with rusty needles; shirts covered with the fly-marks accumulated during the six months they had been in hand, sewn with big, inexpert stitches, ill-cut and folded in coarse material; interminable productions in every kind of crochet, darns done with hair, miracles of patience, that made her sick. The exhibits had been sent in in heaps, badly arranged and catalogued, from rural schools, in which the teachers laboured, almost in vain, to teach the use of the needle to poor fingershardened by the use of the spade—rural schools that can neither provide needles, thread, irons, nor material wherewith to work. Caterina with her instinctive love of pure, fine, sweet-smelling linen, felt a sort of physical disgust in inspecting these objects of dubious whiteness. Besides, what did she know about it? These humble accomplishments had not been taught her. She felt her own ignorance, and offered up inward thanks that it had saved her from the vice-presidency of a district.
Meanwhile the meeting continued in academic form, in discussion that was at once official and colloquial. The vice-presidents read lengthy accounts of their own districts, and insisted on prizes being distributed to everybody: the poetess suggested buying materials for those pupils who were too poor to do so for themselves: the professor read letters of sympathy and adhesion from pedagoguish clubs and committees; but Caterina heard not a word of it all. There was the cook, who did just as he chose lately. Since Lucia and Alberto had come to pass the villa season with her, Caterina was more particular than ever as to her table. Those two were so delicate; they needed strongbouillonand light dishes; quite a different diet from Andrea’s, which was also hers. She and Andrea ate underdone meat and refreshing salads; and the fish question was a serious one at Caserta, an inland town, where the fish had to be sent from Naples and Gaeta, and was not always fresh. One day, in fact one evening, Caterina had sent Peppino, a labourer, to Naples, for soles; her two guests often partook of this delicate, innocuous fish. And now, what with official entertainments, banquets, and hotels filled to overflowing, the market was cleared out in a moment.
Mouzu Giovanni, with whom she held a consultation every morning, shook his head doubtfully on the slightest provocation, saying sceptically:
“If we can get any! If there is any in the market! If it isn’t all gone.”
This was the difficult question which Caterina was debating,while the Princess Caracciolo requested the ladies to proceed to the election of a vice-president, who in one report would combine those of six divisions. Caterina was in continual fear of not having sufficiently mastered the study of Lucia’s tastes, poor nervous creature that she was, whose digestion was completely destroyed. She had arranged a pretty, fresh, airy room for her—hung with Pompadour cretonne, a room full of pretty nicknacks, to please her. But she believed that in secret Lucia hankered after herprie-dieu, which she had taken away from her father’s house to her own in Via Bisignano. One afternoon, when Alberto and Andrea had gone out riding, Caterina had entered the room and found Lucia on her knees before a chair, just as she used to kneel at school. If she could but arrange with Alberto to send Peppino to Naples to fetch theprie-dieu, what a pleasant surprise for Lucia! It could surely be managed without much difficulty, and it would give her so much pleasure! Ah, she must remember to write to Naples for good tea—Souchong; for Lucia said that from September on she could only drink tea in the evening: coffee was too exciting for her nerves. The question was whether she should write to Caflish or to Van Bol for Souchong; Andrea would know; he was always well posted in such matters.
“Signora Lieti, will you come and vote?” broke in the Princess Caracciolo, gently.
Caterina, scarcely realising what she was doing, wrote the first name that occurred to her on her script, which she then rolled up and dropped in the crystal bowl. Looking at her little gold watch, she returned to her place. It was getting late; they had been there, losing their time, for nearly three hours.
Elsewhere, at home for instance, she could have employed it usefully. The washerwoman had brought home an enormous pile of washing, and Caterina never allowed it to be ironed until she had carefully examined it and ascertained where a button or a tape was missing. The linen was new, butshe suspected the washerwoman of using potash, because of certain tiny holes she had discovered therein. She had taxed her with it, and the woman had replied that she was incapable of such deception, and that all she used was pure wood-ash and soap.
At last there was a stir in the meeting. The result of the voting was uncertain; it was even remarkable for divergence of opinion. Each lady appeared either to have given her vote to herself or to the person who happened to be sitting next her. The Princess read out each scrip with the same indulgent smile. She was a woman of unerring tact, who saw and noted all that befell in her presence. She requested the ladies to do their voting over again, and to make up their minds to one name, so that some result might be attained. They then formed into groups; the Colonel’s wife went from one juror to the other, talking to each in an undertone.
“Signora Lieti, would you like to vote for the Member’s wife? We ought to get an unanimous vote.”
“I will vote for any one you please. Will the meeting last much longer?”
“Don’t talk about it; it’s torture. To-day I am supposed to be at home to the superior officers, and my husband is there waiting for me, and I shall find him furious. Shall we decide on that name?”
“I am quite of your opinion.”
Andrea, Alberto, and Lucia were walking up and down the agricultural show. They had driven over to Caserta after luncheon, leaving Caterina in the Hall of the Didactic Jury, and promising to call for her soon. That day Alberto had declared that he felt perfectly well and strong, and he intended to see everything. Lucia, on the contrary, happened to be in a bad humour; still she had vouchsafed a smile of melancholy joy when the news was broken to her. Andrea was happy in his summer garments—a great relief to him after the evening attire which had sat so heavily on him the daybefore. He felt at his ease, free and content, and frequently addressed himself to Alberto. Lucia, walking between them, listened in silence. They stopped before everything of interest—she longer than her companions—so that she did not always keep up with them.
“Are you in low spirits to-day?” queried Andrea at last.
“No, no,” she replied, shaking her head.
“Do you feel ill?”
“Not worse than usual.”
“Then what is it?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing ... is too little.”
“It is nothing that spoils my life for me.”
“Don’t ask her questions,” said Alberto to Andrea, as they went on in front; “it’s one of her bad days.”
“What do you do when she is in one of her bad days?”
“Nothing. If she doesn’t care to speak, I ask her no questions; if she speaks, I don’t contradict her. It’s the least I can do for her. Do you realise the sacrifice she has made in marrying me?”
“What an idea!”
“No, no; I am right. She is an angel, Andrea, an angel! and a woman at the same time. If I could but tell you.... No lemons or oranges here, are there, Andrea?”
“No, Alberto. You must know that the soil is unfavourable to them. Besides, we are too far inland; they thrive well along the coast. Have you many at Sorrento?”
“Oh, a good many; and,sai, they yield six per cent. free of income-tax, while other produce only yields two and a half.”
Lucia broke in with her faint, dragging intonation:
“Alberto, why don’t we build a villa at Sorrento?”
“Eh! It wouldn’t be a bad plan. I have thought of it sometimes myself; but building runs away with time and money....”
“Not a palace; no big useless edifice. What would be thegood of it? But a microscopic villa, a nest for us two, with three or four rooms flooded with sun; a conservatory, and an underground kitchen that would not destroy the poetry of the house; no dining-room, but a porch hung with jasmin and passion-flowers; an aviary, where singing-birds would pipe and birds of Paradise hop from branch to branch—and go together, we two alone, into that fragrant land, washed by that divine sea, and stay there together, apart from the world: thou restored to health, I dedicating myself to thee....”
She said all this to Alberto, looking the while at Andrea, who was rather embarrassed by such a demonstration of conjugal affection. He pretended to be immersed in the study of onions, but not one of the slow, chiselled, seductive words escaped him.
“You are right; it would be delightful, Lucia. We will think about it when we get back to Naples. Oh! we really must build this nest. But where do you find these strange notions that would never occur to me? Who suggests them to you?”
“The heart, Alberto. Shall we sit down?”
“By no means; I am not a bit tired. I am flourishing—almost inclined for a ride. You are tired, perhaps?”
“I am never tired,” was the grave, deliberate answer. “Sometimes, Signor Andrea, I ask myself what the people would do without bread.”
“Eh!” he exclaimed.
“If the wheat were to fail...! Who can have invented bread?”
They turned to her in amazement; Alberto attempted a joke.
“You should be able to tell us, Lucia. They must have taught you that at school, where you learnt so many things.”
“No; there is nothing that I know. I am always thinking, but I know nothing.”
She was looking singularly youthful, in her simple cotton frock, striped white and blue, confined at the waist by aleather band, from which hung a small bag; with a straw hat with a blue veil which the sun mottled with luminous spots; her chin was half buried in folds of the gauze that was tied under it.
They had halted before a large panel, a marvel of patience, whose frame consisted of dried beans strung together. Along it ran a design executed in split peas in relief; the ground of the tablet itself was in fine wheat, threaded grain by grain. On it, in letters formed of lentils, might be read: “A Margherita di Savoia: Regina d’Italia.”
“Whose work is it?” asked Lucia.
“Two young ladies, daughters of a landowner at San Leucio.”
“How old are they?”
“I think ... about twenty eight or thirty.”
“Are they beautiful?”
“Oh, no; but so good.”
“That I am sure of. Do you know that in that tablet I can decipher a romance? Poor creatures! passing their lonely winter evenings imprisoned within their own walls, and finding their recreation in this lowly, provincial, inartistic work. And perhaps, labouring over it, they sighed for unrequited love ... an affection which their avaricious parents refused to sanction. Oh! they foresaw their own existence—an old maid’s dull life. Poor picture! I should like to buy it.”
“It’s not for sale. Perhaps it will be sent to the Queen.”
By degrees her melancholy was infecting her companions by the contact of her fascinating sadness. Andrea shrugged his shoulders in an effort to regain his good humour, but he had not the power to recall it—the spring was gone. Alberto, tugging at his scanty moustache, tried to shake off the impression of fatigue that had stolen upon him.
“Is there much more to be seen?” he inquired of Andrea.
“I,” observed Lucia, “have no will of my own. Take me where you please. Do you know that I belong to the ladies’ jury for flowers? Yesterday I received the appointment.”
“These juries are an epidemic,” exclaimed Alberto. “They take our wives away from us. The Signora Caterina has become invisible; now they want to sequestrate mine. I refuse my consent.”
“Have your own way; I will do whatever you choose,” said Lucia, with a smile. “Still the flower jury is a pretty idea.... To feel the delight of colour, perfume, exquisite form: to examine the most delicate, mysterious, extraordinary of flowers, and among them to seek the beautiful, the perfect one, the flower of flowers.”
“After all, there would be no harm in your accepting ... Lucia,” suggested Alberto.
“Very well, then; I will accept for your sake—to please you, Signor Andrea, what do you think about it?”
“I am not a competent judge,” said Andrea, drily.
Lucia, as if from fatigue, then slipped her arm through his, and leant on it. He started, smiled, and then quickened his step, as if he would run away with her.... They were about to enter the hemp-room: there it was, in the rough, in bundles, then combed, spun and made up in skeins; a complete exhibition of it in every stage.
“Look, look at this mass of hemp; it is like the tresses of a Scandinavian maiden looking down from her balcony on the Baltic, awaiting her unknown lover. And this, paler still, so finely spun; might it not be the hair of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark? Oh, how full of meaning are all these things for me!”
“She sees things that people like us never see,” said Alberto, as if to himself. “Tell me, Signor Andrea, is it true that the lives of the hemp-spinners are as wretched as those of the unfortunate peasants who work in the rice plantations?”
“Not quite so bad, but nearly, Signora Lucia. Hemp-netting is done at midsummer, in the dog-days; a kind of heat that causes the exhalation of miasma. The water in which the hemp lies becomes putrid and poisons the atmosphere.”
“But do you know that what you’re telling me is odious? Do you know that our artificial life, that feeds on rural life, isan anthropophagous one? Do you know that the daily homicide.... Oh! let us go away, away from this place. This exhibition represents to me a place of human butchery.”
“There is a little exaggeration in this view of it,” he replied, not daring to contradict her flatly. “For the disease is decreasing, and fatal cases are growing less frequent. Landowners supply quinine gratis to the women who fall ill. Besides, if we think seriously on all things mundane, we shall perceive that human life needs these obscure sacrifices. Progress....”
“You are as odious as you are wicked. I cannot bear you; go away.”
She dropped his arm, as if in horror. Alberto sniggered at Andrea’s sudden discomfiture.
“Oh! poor Andrea, didn’t you know that Lucia was a humanitarian?”
“I did not know it,” he replied, gravely.
“Oh! my heart is full of love for the disinherited of life; for the poor, down-trodden ones; for the pariahs of this cruel world. I love them deeply, warmly; my heart burns with love for them.”
Andrea felt pained. He felt the weakness of Lucia’s argument, but dared not prove it to her: he felt the predominance she usurped in conversation and over those who approached her, and shrank from it as from a danger. When she had leant on his arm he had throbbed, in every vein, with a full and exquisite pleasure. When she had dropped it, he had experienced a strange loneliness, he had felt himself shrink into something poorer and weaker, and was almost tempted to feel his arm, so that he might revive the sensation of the hand that had been withdrawn. Now Alberto was laughing at him, and that irritated him beyond measure.... That little Alberto, a being as stupid as he appeared innocuous, was capable of biting, when the spirit moved him. He could be poisonous, when he chose, the consumptive insect! Why shouldn’t he crush his head against the wall? Andrea took off his lightgrey hat and fanned his face to disperse the mist of blind rage that clouded his brain. All three pursued their walk in silence, as if isolated by their own thoughts. The embarrassing silence prolonged itself. Alberto had an idea.
“Make peace with Andrea, Lucia.”
“No; he is a bad-hearted egotist.”
“Via, make it up. Don’t you see he is sorry?”
“Are you sorry for what you said just now, Signor Andrea?”
“Mah!...”
“Repent at once, and we will be friends again, and you shall once more be my knight of the Exhibition. You do repent? Here is my pledge of peace.”
She separated a spray of lilies of the valley from the bunch at her waist and gave it to him. He placed it in his button-hole, and, taking her hand in his, tucked it under his arm....
“And you, Alberto, who are the mediator between us, will you have some lilies?”
“What should I do with them? I have no button-hole to this overcoat. You shall give me another pledge—a kiss ... when we get home.”
Andrea squeezed the arm that rested on his, so hard that it was all she could do to suppress a cry.
“Yes, yes,” she stammered, trembling.
“What is the average value of the Wine Show?” inquired Alberto, who possessed vineyards in Puglia which produced the noted Lagarese. This he said with the air of a connoisseur....
“Not much,” replied Andrea, with forced composure. “For the vine-growers have not all sent exhibits. You see, there are the special viticultural expositions. But there’s some good in that too.”
“Is this your wine, that the Prime Minister praised you for?”
“Yes; and there is some more over there.”
“Does this wine intoxicate, Signor Andrea?” inquired Lucia.
“That’s according; I have some of greater strength.”
“Intoxicating?”
“Yes.”
“Wine is an excellent and beneficent gift. It gives intoxication and forgetfulness,” she said, slowly.
“Forgetfulness,” murmured Alberto; “and the Signora Caterina, whom we are forgetting.”
The other two exchanged a rapid glance. They had indeed forgotten Caterina, who had been waiting for them for an hour in the Maria Carolina saloon, whence the other ladies had departed.
At table, between the roast and the salad, Lucia mentioned that she had been, and was, still in low spirits on account of poor Galimberti. The impending misfortune took her appetite away.
“What misfortune?” asked Caterina.
“His sister writes me that he begins to show signs of mental alienation.”
“Oh! poor, poor man!”
“Most unhappy being, victim of blind fate, of cruel destiny. The case is not hopeless, but he has never been quiteall there. In addition to this, they are poor, and do not like to confess their poverty.”
“Have you sent money?”
“They would be offended. I wrote to them.”
A shiver ran through the circle. When they separated for the night, Andrea was pensive.
“What is the matter with you?” said Caterina, who was plaiting her hair.
“I am thinking of that unfortunate Galimberti. Let us send him something, anonymously.”
“Yes, let us send!”
“All the more ... all the more because his misfortunemight befall any of us,” he added, so low that she did not hear him. A sudden terror had blanched his face.
“This morning I feel so well, that I shall go for a ride.”
“It would be imprudent, Alberto,” said his wife, from her sofa.
“No, no; it will do me good. I shall ride Tetillo, a quiet horse that Andrea is having saddled for me. A two hours’ ride on the Naples road....”
“It is too sunny, dear Alberto.”
“The sun will warm my blood. I am recovering my health, Luciamia. I am getting quite fat. What are your plans?”
“I don’t care for anything. Perhaps I shan’t go out. I am bored.”
“Bad day,” murmured Alberto, as, clanking the silver spurs on his polished boots, he took his departure.
Later on Caterina knocked at her door.
“What are you going to do? Are you going to the Exhibition?”
“No; it bores me.”
“You will be more bored, all alone here. Alberto won’t come home till late; Andrea and I are sure to be late. Come!”
“I won’t go; the Exhibition bores me. I can never be with you for a moment there.”
“We can’t help that. I feel it too, but it’s not my fault.”
“And to-day, if I went, I should have to pace up and down those huge rooms alone.”
“Andrea might stay with you,” urged Caterina, timidly, ever conscious of their latent antipathy.
“We should quarrel.”
“Still?” said the other, pained and surprised.
“That’s how it is; we cannot agree.”
Caterina was silent; after a pause, she said:
“But surely, to-day is the flower day?”
“To-day? I think not.... True, it is to-day.”
“Then you cannot avoid going.”
“I can pretend to be ill.”
“It’s a bad pretext.”
“Well, I see I must sacrifice myself, and come.” There was irritation in her voice and manner as she hurriedly proceeded to dress. Caterina felt as humiliated, while she was waiting for her, as if she were to blame for the annoyance. During the drive from Centurano to Caserta, Lucia was silent, with a harsh expression on her face, keeping her eyes closed and her parasol down as if she neither wished to see nor hear.
Caterina congratulated herself on having sent Andrea on before, while Lucia’s insufferable fit of ill temper lasted. They arrived at the Palace at half-past twelve. They separated, without exchanging many words, appointing to meet each other at four. Caterina mounted the stairs leading to the Didactic Exhibition, and Lucia passed through the garden to the flower-show. There were crowds of fashionably attired ladies and gentlemen in those regions. Lucia moved slowly along the gravelled path to the right, under the chestnut-trees, and those whom she met turned to gaze at her. She wore a dress of darkest green brocade, short, close-fitting, and well draped; it showed her little black shoes and open-work, green silk stockings. On her head was an aërial bonnet of palest pink tulle—a cloud, a breath, without feathers or flowers, like a pink froth. Now Caterina had left her, she was smiling at her own thoughts. The smile became more accentuated when, on turning the palisades of the Floral Exhibition to enter the conservatory containing the exotics, she met Andrea.
“My dear Lieti, where are you going to?”
“Nowhere,” he replied, with embarrassment; “I was looking for a friend from Maddaloni.”
“And have you found him?” with an ironical smile.
“No; he hasn’t come. I shall wait for him. And you?”
“Oh! you know all about me. I have come to the flower jury.”
“But it doesn’t meet till two.”
“Really? Oh! what a feather-head! and what shall I do till two? I may not go to the 'Didactics,’ and the 'Agrarians’ bore me.”
“Stay with me,” he entreated.
“Alone?”
“Here....”
“Without doing anything? Every one will notice it.”
“Who do you think is going to gape and watch?”
“Every one, my friend.”
“They will look at you,” he said, bitterly; although the words “my friend” delighted him.
“And if they do, we must provide against it; this is a scurrilous province. It hides its ownbourgeoisvices and slanders the innocent.”