PART V.
The note was worded as follows:
“I could not bear it without you. I gave out that I was going shooting; have come to Naples instead. I implore you, let me see you for a moment; just the time to tell you that I love you more than ever.“Andrea.”
“I could not bear it without you. I gave out that I was going shooting; have come to Naples instead. I implore you, let me see you for a moment; just the time to tell you that I love you more than ever.
“Andrea.”
He had to wait for the answer, but it came:
“To-morrow, at ten. Let there be a closed carriage at the cloister of Santa Chiara, before the little door of the church. Blinds down and door open. I will come for a moment—to bid you farewell.“Lucia.”
“To-morrow, at ten. Let there be a closed carriage at the cloister of Santa Chiara, before the little door of the church. Blinds down and door open. I will come for a moment—to bid you farewell.
“Lucia.”
All night long he paced the room that he had taken at an hotel, reading that kind and cruel letter—inexplicable as she who had written it—over and over again. With all its rich store of vitality, Andrea’s healthy temperament was impaired; his nervous and muscular system degraded and unstrung. He missed the vigour of his iron muscles: he felt as weak as if his legs must refuse to carry him. His appetite, served by the wonderful digestive faculties upon which the harmony of the entire organism depended, had forsaken him. And he had acquired the tastes of Lucia for glasses of iced water, barely tinted with wine, spiced viands and sweets. Red meat disgusted him as it did her. He felt ill. Within him or outside him, he could see but one remedy for his evil—Lucia.She only could cure and redeem him, make the rich blood run its old course through his veins, restore to him physical equilibrium, with the exuberant gaiety and joy of life that he had lost. He was ill for want of her; it was an unjust privation. He felt that the first kiss, on the first day of happy love, would give him again health, strength and comeliness, and the power of defying sorrow and ill-luck. The bare vision of it made him shut his eyes as if the sun had blinded him.
“Lucia, Lucia,” he kept repeating, with dishevelled hair and oppressed breathing. He could think of nothing but the appointment for the morrow, what Lucia would have to say to him, and how he would dissuade her from bidding him farewell. He was certain of dissuading her, for without Lucia he would die, and he did not mean to die. A thousand wild projects crowded his brain. He dreamt of kneeling before her and saying, “I have come to die by thy hand.” He would take a dagger with him and offer it to her. He dreamt of not replying to her arguments except by, “I love you, you shall be mine.” He dreamt of not saying a word, but of kissing her until his lips ached.
The livid November dawn found Andrea with parched lips and burning eyes, lost in fantastic hallucinations. He went out into the streets of Naples at seven, under a fine rain, without heeding the wet. At eight he was already driving up and down the Toledo, lolling on the cushions of a hired carriage, with his hat over his eyes and the curtains drawn down, consulting his watch every few minutes.
The heavy, iron-boundportièreof padded leather fell behind a lady dressed in black, in deep mourning. There were few people in the church of Santa Chiara, which has but one nave, gay with gilding, large windows and bright painting; more of a drawing-room than a church. Lucia, crossing herself devoutly, took the holy water, and turned towards the principal entrance. Then she knelt before the altar of thePadre Eterno, a miraculous shrine hung with ex-voto offerings in wax andsilver, in red or blue frames. She, kneeling on the marble steps, with her head against the balustrade, conversed with the Eternal Father, telling Him that He had thus ordained, for this was fate. Since bow she must to the decrees of Providence, she prayed Him to vouchsafe her counsel in that supreme hour. The Eternal Father had chosen to cast her into this tribulation, in which she had lost all peace and felicity: now she prayed Him to sustain her, to illumine her darkness so that she might find her way. Which was her way—the way of justice? To leave Andrea, so that he might do something desperate? Be his, in continual deceit? Be his, openly? She spoke humbly to the Eternal, awaiting the flash of the Holy Spirit that should illumine her terrible position.
“O Father, O Father, Thou wouldst have it so. Now help me.”
After saying three finalPaternosters, she rose. Grace had not come to her: the Eternal had not permitted her to hear His voice: she arose from prayer offered in vain: God the Father had not heard her. She crossed the whole length of the church and tottered up to the image of the Madonna, where she fell on her knees. She was an ancientMadonna delle Grazie, with a cadaverous face and large pitiful eyes that appeared to look at you, to appeal to you, to follow you as you departed. Lucia told the Madonna of her trouble, of her misery, and with her head resting on the balustrade, weeping and sobbing, she said to her:
“O!Vergine Santissima, as Thou hast suffered in Thy motherhood, so do I suffer in my womanhood. The anguish of these sorrows was not Thine, but from high Heaven. Thou seest and dost fathom them. O!Vergine Santissima, mine was not the will to do this thing. Before the Divine mercy, I am innocent and unhappy. I was led into evil and it overcame me, for my strength could not withstand it; it was weakened by the misfortunes inflicted on me by Heaven. O! Holy Virgin, I may have sinned, but I am not a wicked woman. I am a tempest-tossed, tortured creature, a plaything of the fates. O! Holy Virgin, like unto Thee have they thrust sevenswords into my heart; like unto Thee, for fifteen years, am I pursued by the sinister vision of martyrdom. I am the most bitter tribulation that is upon the earth. My heart bleeds, my brain is bound in leaden bands, my nerves are knotted by an iron hand, my mouth is parched. Madonna, do Thou help me, do Thou console me. O! Madonna, who hast not known human love, mercy on her who has learnt to know it, ardent, immense, devouring. O! Madonna, Thou who knowest not desire, mercy on her who has it within her, long, savage, insatiable. O! Madonna, do Thou tell me, shall I give myself to Andrea?”
But Lucia’s passionate eyes were turned in vain on the Madonna: the Virgin continued to consider Lucia who was praying earnestly, and a little woman who was reciting her rosary and beating her bosom, with the same compassionate gaze. Then Lucia recited half the rosary, on that lapis-lazuli fragment of hers. She stopped at aPaternoster, and looked at her watch. It was ten o’clock. Absent and indignant at last that Divine grace had been withheld from her, she was now only praying with her lips. They all left her to her fate, even God and the Madonna—poor leaf that she was, fallen from the bough and whirled in the vortex of destiny. It was of no avail: they were all against her, they left her defenceless and bereft of succour. In that dark hour, the ingratitude of the world and the indifference of Heaven were revealed to her. “Hyssop and vinegar, hyssop and vinegar, the drink they gave to Christ,” she kept repeating to herself, while she rearranged the folds of her black dress, and drew her crape veil over her face. Once more, when she passed the chief altar, she knelt and said aGloria Patri, crossing herself from sheer force of habit. And it was with a gesture of decision that she sped through the little door and dropped the curtain behind her.
The two-horsed hired landau was waiting in front of the five steps. The wide quadrangle of the cloister was deserted. Perhaps the noble Sisters were peeping from behind those gratings. The fine close rain continued: the driver, indifferent and motionless, sheltered himself under a big umbrella. Thecarriage bore the letter M and the number 522. The door nearest the church was open. Lucia took in all these details. She walked down firmly, without looking behind her, and with one spring was inside the carriage. A voice cried: “A Posilipo,” to the driver, and the carriage-door closed with a snap; then it started.
“O! love, love, love,” murmured Andrea, folding her in his embrace.
She tore herself away, and laughing ironically, said:
“Do you know that our position is to be found inMadame Bovary? This is a novel by Flaubert!”
“I have not read it. How can you be so cruel as to say these things to me?”
“Because we are the performers in a bourgeois drama, or in a provincial one, which comes to the same thing.”
“I don’t know anything about it, I only know that I love you.”
“Is this all that you have to say to me?” she asked, with a sneer.
“Oh! Lucia, be human. True, I have lost all sense, all dignity, but ’tis for love of you. Think how I have suffered in these three days! Despair has nearly driven me to throw myself down from thePonte della Valle.”
“They who talk of suicide are the last to commit it.”
“But if I love thee, I do not mean to die. Oh! cruel, not one kiss hast thou given me.”
“There are no more kisses for our love,” she replied, oracularly.
In her black attire, with her veil drawn over her face, under the green shade of the curtains, her feet hidden by her long skirt, and her hands by her gloves, without a thread of white on her person, her aspect was most tragic. Andrea shuddered with an acute sense of fear, he felt as if he were being irretrievably ruined by a malignant sorceress. But when she moved and the well-known perfume diffused itself in the circumscribed atmosphere, the painful sensation decreased and was soon gone.
“What is the matter with you?” he said. He had lost heart, and seeing all his projects melt away, found nothing to say to her.
“Nothing.”
“Do you love me?”
“I love you,” was Lucia’s frigid reply.
“How much?”
“I do not know.”
“Why did you say that there were no more kisses for our love?”
“Because, like Siebel, you are accursed of Mephistopheles. Siebel could not touch a flower without its fading and dying. You have kissed me, and I am fading and dying. There are no more flowers for Margaret, no kisses for our love.”
“I see,” said Andrea, absorbed in a sorrowful dream.
“This is what I have to say to you, we must forget each other.”
“No,” cried Andrea, in a passion.
“Yes, the hard law of duty imposes this upon us.”
“Duty is one thing, love is another.”
“That is why. Do you love Caterina?”
“I love you,” he said, closing his eyes.
“Well, you are happier than I am; I love Caterina, I love Alberto; to my mind, they are adorable beings.”
“You love too many people,” he said, bitterly. He tried to take her hand, she resisted. Outside, the rain increased; the carriage rolled on noiselessly over the wet pavement of Santa Lucia.
“Mine is a large heart, Andrea.”
“You shall love me only.”
“I cannot. I love your wife and my husband, I cannot sacrifice them to you. Let us say good-bye.”
“I cannot, Lucia. I am doomed to love you, for ever. You shall be mine.”
“Never, never, never!”
“But are you not afraid of me?” he cried, red in the face, furious. “But do you think you can say all this to me withimpunity? Are you not afraid that I shall kill you? Couldn’t I do so, this instant?”
“Please yourself,” she replied, calmly.
“Forgive me, Lucia; I am a fool and a savage. You are my victim, I know it. I make you unhappy, and ill-treat you into the bargain. All the wrong is on my side. Will you forgive me? Tell me that you have forgiven me.”
“I forgive you.” She gave him her hand, which he kissed humbly, through her glove. “Listen to me attentively, Andrea,” she resumed; “when you have heard me, you will be convinced that I am right. In sorrow, but of your own free will, you will say good-bye for ever. Are you listening?”
“Say what you will. You cannot convince me, for I love you.”
“I shall convince you, you’ll see. I am not to blame for what has happened in this dark, tumultuous drama. I did not seek love, I did not seek you. I had married Alberto, willingly sacrificing my whole life to him, in all affection. I had already shunned you. Twice before you had crossed my path with your conquering, all-compelling love. I would not, I would not—you know that I would not. Do you confess to this?”
“Yes, I confess it; you would not,” repeated Andrea like an echo.
“Do me this justice. Step by step have I fought against your love, your tyrannic love. I have watched and prayed and wept; deaf is Heaven, deaf the world, and fate, the implacable statue that has no entrails, that no human love can move, is inexorable. Fate has willed it so.”
“Fate, fate,” repeated Andrea, in a tone of conviction.
“Now, although I know myself to be free from blame, my sensitive conscience makes me decry myself, as if I were a baneful creature. It is useless to struggle against fate; we have bowed to its decrees and we have loved. Oh! Andrea, I would not have said it to you—but at this supreme moment the soul must reveal itself stripped of all artifice; I have sacrificed all to you.”
“You are an angel....”
“No, I am a miserable woman, who loves and is capable of sacrifice. Peace, tranquillity, conjugal duties, the ties of friendship, serenity of conscience, mystic love, of all these have you bereft me. What have you to offer me in exchange?”
“Alas! I can but love you,” he cried, in despair at his own poverty.
“Love is not everything, Andrea.”
“It is everything to me, Lucia.”
“You would do anything for love?”
“Anything.”
“Tell the truth, speak as if you were drawing your last breath, before passing into the presence of your Judge; would you do anything?” She had seized his hands, she was gazing fixedly, ardently into his eyes, as if she would have drawn his soul from him. Andrea, completely subjugated, simply said:
“Anything.”
She permitted him to kiss both her hands. She was thinking. Then she raised the green curtain and looked out into the street. It was still raining—in fact the rain was heavier than ever, and fell in long, pointed drops, like needles. They had reached Mergellina. The sea under the rain was of a dirty grey colour, and a mist shrouded the green blot made in the landscape by the villa and the blurred blot made by the Fort. Neither boat nor sail on the sea.
“What desolation!” murmured Lucia, “on sea and land! Ours is an ill-starred love!”
“Lucia, Lucia, my beautiful Lucia, do not say these things. You have not yet given me one kiss.”
“Kissing is your refrain; kiss me if you will.”
She threw back her veil and let him kiss her cold, closed lips. He turned away from her, mortified.
“You are passionless; you do not care for me,” he said.
“But do you not realise, unhappy man, that I can never be yours? Do you not realise that in being yours I should attain the utmost joy? but that I deny myself? Do you notrealise my renunciation of youth, passion, life? Oh! unfortunate, who can torment me because you cannot realise....”
“I admire you, Lucia, there is no other woman like you, and I do not deserve you.”
The driver stopped, they had arrived at Posilipo, on the road that leads between the villas on the heights and those that slope down to the sea.
“Via di Bagnoli,” cried Andrea from the window.
“Whither are you taking me, Andrea?”
“Far....”
“No; I must return to town. Alberto is awaiting me.”
“Do not speak to me of Alberto.”
“On the contrary, you must let me speak of him. He is ill. I told him I was going to confession. You must drive me quickly back to town.”
“I will never take you back,” he said emphatically.
Lucia looked at him, inquiringly, but a transient smile flitted over her lips.
“You shall stay with me, you shall come with me. I will not let you go, Lucia.”
She looked as if she were too stupefied to reply.... “You are going mad, Andrea.”
“I am not going mad, I am speaking in all seriousness; my mind is made up.”
The carriage had reached the Bagnoli shore.
“Let us get down here, it is rainy and deserted; no one will see us.”
He obediently opened the carriage-door, helped her to get down, and gave her his arm.
Leaving the carriage on the high-road, they walked down to the sea under a fine rain, their feet sinking in the moist sand. A damp mist hung over the deserted landscape. Nisida, the convicts’ isle, stood out before them, black on the pale horizon. Round it, the sea was dark and turbid, as if all the livid horrors from the bottom had floated to its surface: further on towards Baia, it shone with frigid whiteness. TheTrattoriaof Bagnoli,behind them, had all its windows closed; the covered terrace was bare and empty, its yellow walls were stained by the damp. Further back still spread the grey plain of Bagnoli, where the soldiers go through their exercise, and Neapolitan duellists settle their disputes.
“It is like a northern landscape,” she said, clinging to the arm of her companion. “It is not Brittany, for Brittany has bare rocks and terrible peaks. Neither is it Holland, for the Scheldt is white, and fair and placid, veiled in a milky mist. It is Denmark, with Hamlet gazing at the grey Baltic, with thoughtful eyes that betray his madness.”
He listened to her, only conscious of the music of the voice that re-echoed in his innermost being. The fine, close rain poured down upon them until they were drenched, but neither of them perceived it.
“Have you ever been here, Andrea, when the landscape was blue?”
“Oh, yes—look over there, behind those closed shutters. I once fought a duel in a big room in the inn.”
“Oh! my love, with whom?”
“With Cicillo Cantelmo, a friend of mine.”
“For whom?”
“... for a woman.”
An embarrassing silence ensued.
“How little I know of your life, Andrea,” she said gently, clinging ever closer to him. “I am a stranger to you.”
“The past does not exist, love; all that has been is dead.”
“Oh! love, I am dead, I am dead to happiness.”
“Let me carry you away. Oh! my heart, you shall be reborn.”
“To-day you talk like a poet, Andrea, like a dreamer.”
“You have taught me this language; I did not know it before. I had never dreamed. Come away, Lucia, come away with me.”
“It’s late, very late,” she replied. “Come back to the carriage: let us return to Naples.”
They regained the little green haven that cut them off from the rest of the world. They were both saddened. When they turned in to the Via di Fuorigrotta, Lucia shuddered, and turning to Andrea, said:
“And the future?”
“Do not think of it, let it come.”
“You are a child, Andrea.”
“No; you will find that I am a man. Will you trust me?”
“I am afraid, I am afraid;” and she clung to him.
“What are you afraid of?”
“I do not know.... I am afraid of losing myself. This love is ruin, Andrea. I can see the future. Shall I foretell it you? Shall I describe the fate that awaits us?”
“Tell, but give me your hands; tell, but smile.”
“There are two ways before me. The first is the path of duty. After this gloomy, melancholy drive in the rain, in a carriage like a hearse, driven by a spectral coachman, we can coldly kiss and say good-bye, renouncing love. Ever to be apart, never to meet again, to betake ourselves, you to Caterina’s side, I to ... Alberto, to a life as dry and arid as pumice-stone, to that humdrum existence that is the death of the soul. Forget our glorious dreams, our sweet realities: behold the future....”
“No; I cannot.”
“There is another future open to us. It is sin clothed in hypocrisy; it is hidden evil; it is fear-struck, trembling adultery, that degrades and deceives, that steals secret kisses, that is dependent on servants, porters, postmen, maids, and the tribe of them. It is what we have endured till now; it is odium, vulgarity, commonplace treason. To love as every one else loves! to imitate what a hundred thousand have done before us! It is unworthy of a woman like me, of a man like you!”
“Once you told me that deceit is merciful,” he murmured. “You love Caterina and Alberto, in this way you could save....”
She turned and looked at Andrea, her scholar who hadlearnt her theories so well, whom she had taught to deny truth.
“Then,” said Lucia, gloomily, “as I shall be never able to resign myself to hiding my love, since I can no longer practise deceit, we had better part.”
“No; I cannot.”
“We had better part.”
“I cannot; I shall die without you.”
“What can I do? There is no other way out of it. Die! I, too, will die.”
She turned up her eyes to the roof of the carriage and crossed her arms, as if she were waiting for death.
“I have let you speak,” he said calmly, in a tone of decision, “because you would have your say. But I have a plan of my own, the best, the only one. Humdrum adultery, you will have none of it. Well, then, we will have brazen adultery, open scandal. We will leave Naples together....”
“No,” she cried, covering her face in horror.
“... we will leave together, never to return. We will begin our life anew, in London, Paris, Nice or Brittany, wheresoever you will. Naples shall be wiped out of it. Since it is ordained that I love you, that you love me, we will pay our debt to fate.”
“Fate, fate,” she sobbed, convulsively, wringing her hands.
“Fate,” repeated Andrea, bitterly. “We should never have loved each other. Now it is too late to draw back; you are mine.”
“Oh, Caterina! oh, Alberto!” she exclaimed, weeping.
“It is fate, Lucia.”
“My husband, my dearest friend!” Sobs rent her bosom.
“I tell you again, your heart is too big. I love you and you only: you shall only love me.”
“What torture, Andrea!”
“Have you not said, hundreds of times, 'take me away?’ Now I am ready to take you away.”
“You will take a corpse with you, pale with remorse.”
“Then let us content ourselves with hypocrisy, with such love as suffices to others; yet that is what you cannot tolerate.”
“Oh! my God! what torture is this? I have not deserved it.”
Suddenly it turned dark. She uttered a cry of dismay.
“It is nothing, we are passing through the Grotta. Fear nothing, I love you.”
“This love is a misfortune, a tragedy.”
“Have you not already told me this in the park?”
“Yes....”
“Well, Lucia, my life shall be passed in craving your pardon for having brought this misery upon you, I know that you are my victim. I know that I brought you to ruin. I demand of you an immense sacrifice. I know it, but are you not the personification of sacrifice? You are an example of noble abnegation, you are virtue and purity incarnate. You will see what my love for you is—how I shall adore you.”
“And Caterina and Alberto?
“We will go away together, never to return,” he persisted obstinately.
“We shall be accursed, Andrea.”
“I shall take you away. Call me your executioner, I deserve it, but come with me.”
“We shall be unhappy.”
“Che!”
“Madonnamia, Madonnamia, why hast thou ordained my ruin?”
“Will you come to-day or to-morrow?”
“Neither to-day nor to-morrow. I am afraid; let me think. You are pitiless; no one has mercy on me.”
“You are an angel, Lucia, you know how to forgive. To-day or to-morrow?”
“Be merciful, give me time.”
“I will wait for you, my love. I will wait, for I know that you will come.”
A pale ray of light stole into the carriage through the blinds. Lucia was like one in a trance.
“You will leave me at the churchDella Vittoria. I will pray there and walk home; it is only a few steps from home.”
“And what am I to do? It is for you to decide what I am to do.”
“Leave to-day for Caserta. In five or six days you will return to Naples, you and Caterina. By that time I.... shall have thought. But do not attempt to write to me or see me; do not ask me for appointments....”
“You hate me, don’t you?”
“I love you madly. But I must be left to myself for a time.”
“You don’t hate me for the harm I have done you?”
“Alas, no. We are all liable to do evil.”
“Not you; I am evil, but I love you.”
“Andrea, we have arrived; stop.”
“Lucia, remember that there is no way out of it. We must go away, absolutely. Give me a kiss, oh, my bride!”
She stood up and allowed him to kiss her.
“Till that day, Andrea,” said Lucia, with a gesture as tragic as if she were casting her life away.
“Till that day, Lucia.”
The door of the carriage closed and it drove off in the direction of Chiatamone.
She found the church closed. That made an impression on her.
“Even God so wills it. O Lord, do Thou remember, on the day of judgment.”
Caterina was glad to return to Naples, to the house in Via Constantinopoli; for alone at Centurano, without the Sannas, and especially without Andrea (who had gone away shooting four times in a fortnight, to make up for lost time),she had been very dull. In those two weeks she had busied herself with putting the villa in order; the furniture had been encased in holland covers and the curtains taken down, Lucia’s room left intact, in readiness for next year. Then the house had been consigned to the care of Matteo, and when this was accomplished she was glad to get away.
She intended making many innovations in her winter quarters. She discussed them at great length with Andrea, whose advice was precious to her. For instance, the dining-room wanted redecorating; she was thinking of having it panelled half-way up with carved oak, an idea suggested by Giovanna Gabrielli-Casacalenda, past mistress in the art of elegance. Caterina had hesitated at first because of the expense, although Andrea had given her permission to spend as much as she chose. They were rich, and did not live up to their income; their property was well managed and lucrative; but she was economically-minded. As for altering the yellow drawing-room which Andrea considered too showy and too provincial, that would not be a serious expense, for the upholsterer was willing to take back all its furniture and hangings, and to exchange them for more modern, neutral-tinted ones. She often consulted Andrea on these matters; he gave her rather absent answers, being preoccupied with a lawsuit about a boundary-wall on their property at Sedile di Porto.
His conferences with his legal advisers often obliged him to be away from home. Indeed, that very morning he had been out since eight o’clock, returning at eleven, apparently exhausted.
“Well, how goes the lawsuit?” inquired Caterina at luncheon.
“Badly.”
“Why? Does our neighbour decline any compromise?”
“He does. He is obstinate; says the right is on his side.”
“But what is the lawyer doing?”
“What can he do? He is moving heaven and earth, like any other lawyer; or pretending to do so.”
“Why don’t you eat?”
“I am not very hungry; out of sorts.”
“After luncheon you ought to take a nap.”
“What an idea! I’ve got to go out again.”
“To the Court? This lawsuit will make you ill.”
“Then I shall have to get well again.”
“Listen to me. Suppose you let the neighbour have his own way?”
“It’s a question of self-respect; but perhaps you are right after all.”
“This lawsuit is a nuisance. This morning Alberto sent for you, and you were out.”
“Who is Alberto?”
“Alberto Sanna.”
“What did he want?”
“The maid told me that he wanted to see you, to ask you to attend to some business for him because he was confined to the house. She told me in confidence that Lucia wished me to know that Alberto spat blood last night in his sleep, but that he did not know it, and they were hiding it from him. She also said that Lucia was crying.”
“And Alberto is another nuisance,” he rejoined, crossly and with a shrug of his shoulders.
“It is for Lucia that I am grieving. How she must suffer!”
No answer.
“I should like to go there to-day, for half an hour,” she ventured to remark.
“What would be the good of it?”
“Only to comfort Lucia....”
“To-day I can’t go there with you, and you know I don’t care for you to go alone.”
“You are right, I won’t go; we will go together this evening.”
Luncheon was over, but they did not leave the table. Andrea was playing with his breadcrumbs.
“Besides our agent, Scognamiglio, will call to-day. He will bring some money for which you must give him a receipt. Tell him he can make a reduction for the third-floor tenants of No. 79 Via Speronzella. They are poor people.”
“Am I to say anything else to him?”
“Give him his monthly salary.”
“A hundred and sixty lire?”
“Yes; but let him give you a receipt.”
“All right; another cup of coffee?”
“Yes; give me another cup, it is weak to-day.”
“Because of your nerves. I wanted to ask you, are we going to the ball of theUnione?”
“... Yes.”
“Shall I order a dress of cream brocade for that ball?”
“Will the colour suit you?”
“The dressmaker says so.”
“They always say so. But order it, anyhow.”
“I will wear my pearls.”
He did not answer. He was gazing abstractedly into the bottom of his cup. Then he looked at her so long and so fixedly that Caterina wondered.
“Well,” he said at last, looking at his watch, “I must be going.”
He rose, and as usual she followed him. He went right through the house; stopping before his writing-table to take a bulky parcel out of it, which he put into his pocket.
“It makes you look fat,” she said, laughing.
“Never mind.”
He dawdled in his bedroom, as if he were looking for something that he had forgotten. Then he took up his hat and gloves.
“You should take your overcoat with you, the air is biting.”
“You are right; I will take it.”
He finished buttoning his gloves. She was standing, looking at him with her serene eyes. He stooped and gave her an absent kiss. Then he turned to go, followed by his wife.
“Arrivederci, Andrea.”
“...Arrivederci.”
He began to descend the stairs; she called out to him from the landing:
“Shall you return late?”
“No. Good-bye, Caterina.”
Lucia had risen late. She told Alberto that she had passed a feverish night. Indeed, her lips were dry and discoloured, her heavy eyelids had livid circles round them. At eleven, she languidly dragged herself, in a black satin dressing-gown, to be present at her husband’s breakfast—two eggs beaten in a cup ofcafé-au-lait—capital stuff for the chest. She sat with her head in her hands. Every now and then dark flushes dyed her face, and she pushed her hair off her temples with a vague gesture that indicated suffering.
“What is the matter with you? You are sadder than usual!”
“I wish I could see you well, Albertomio. I wish I could give you my heart’s blood.”
“What is it all about? Am I so ill, then?”
“No, Alberto, no. The season is trying to delicate lungs.”
“Well, then, what of it? But I see that you are so good as to be anxious about me. Thank you, dear. But for you I should have been dead by this time.”
“Do not say that—do not say it.”
“Now she is in tears, my poor little thing! I was joking. What a fool I am! My stupid chaff makes you cry. I entreat you not to cry any more.”
“I am not crying, Albertomio.”
“Have a sip of my coffee.”
“No, thank you, I don’t care for any.”
“Have some; do have some.”
“I am going to take the Sacrament to-day, about one.”
“Ah! beg pardon. I never remember anything. What church are you going to?”
“The same church, Santa Chiara.”
“But your religion makes you suffer, dear.”
“Everything makes me suffer, Albertomio. It is my destiny. But it is well to suffer for God’s sake!”
“Let us both take holy vows, Lucia.”
“You are joking, but I did seriously intend to be a nun. It was my father who prevented me from doing so. God grant that he may not repent of it.”
“Why, Lucia? Think, if you had become a nun, we should not have met and loved each other, and you would never have been my dear wife.”
“What is the good of love and marriage? All is corruption, everything in this world is putrid.”
“Lucia, you are lugubrious.”
“Forgive me, Albertomio, the gloom that overshadows my soul leaks out and saddens my beloved one. I will smile sooner than you should be sad.”
“Poor dear, I know what I cost you. But you’ll see how soon I shall get strong, and how we shall amuse ourselves this winter. There will be fêtes, balls, races.”
“I shall never be gay again.”
“Lucia, I shall have to scold you.”
“No, no; let us talk of something else.”
“If you are going to church, you are but just in time.”
“Do you send me away, Alberto?”
“It is midday; you have to go as far as Santa Chiara ... and the sooner you go the sooner you will be back.”
“True, the sooner back.... I must go, mustn’t I?”
“Of course, the air will do you good. Go on foot, the walk will be good for you.”
“What will you do, meanwhile?”
“I shall wait for your return.”
“... You will wait.”
“Yes; perhaps I shall go to sleep in this chair.”
“Are your hands hot, Alberto?”
“No; feel them.”
“Pain in your chest?”
“Nothing of the sort, only slight stitches in the sides, automatic stitches, as the doctor calls them. What are you thinking of? Don’t you see that I am better? Yesterday, I coughed eighteen times; this morning, seventeen; I’m improving.”
“Albertomio, may health be yours!”
“Yes, yes, I shall get as strong as Andrea! I sent for him this morning, but he never came. He is out in all sorts of weather. Lucky dog!”
She stood listening, with hanging arms and downcast eyes.
“Go and dress, dear; go.”
She moved away slowly, turning to look at him. In half an hour she returned, dressed in black, enveloped in a fur cloak, in which she hid her hands. She came and sat down by him, as if she were already tired.
“You are not fit to walk, Lucia; call afiacchere.”
“I will....” she said in a faint voice.
“What have you got under your cloak?”
“The prayer-book, a veil, a rosary.”
“All the pious baggage of my little nun. Be a saint to thy heart’s content, my beauty. Thanks to you, we shall all get into Paradise.”
“Do not laugh at religion, Alberto.”
“I never laugh at the objects of your faith. Time’s up, my heart; go, and come back soon.”
Lucia threw her arms round his neck, kissed his thin face, and whispered:
“Forgive....”
“Am I to forgive you for taking the Sacrament? Hasn’t your confessor told you that I ... absolve you?”
She bowed low. Then she drew herself up and looked round, wildly. She went away, bent and tottering, but returned almost immediately.
“I had forgotten to bid you good-bye, Alberto.”
She squeezed his hand.
“Think of me in church, my saint.”
“I will pray for you, Alberto.”
And she went away—tall, black, and stately.
Night was closing in; in the December twilight the air had grown more chill. Under the lighted lamp Caterina sat writing to her cousin Giuditta at school, to invite her to spend next Sunday with her. The clock struck six. “Andrea is late,” thought Caterina; “I am glad I made him take his overcoat, the days are getting so cold.” She finished her letter and laid her hand on the bell. Giulietta appeared.