The mighty UlansCame here from Hungary,But the Frenchman's armsMade them all promptly flee!
The mighty UlansCame here from Hungary,But the Frenchman's armsMade them all promptly flee!
Don Giuseppe, greatly alarmed, would cry: "Hush! Hush!"
Meanwhile the violets continued to grow as peacefully on the slopes of Valsolda as if nothing were happening. On the evening of the twentieth of February, Luisa carried a bunch to the cemetery. She was still in mourning. Pallid and emaciated, her eyes had become larger, and there were many silver threads in her hair. She seemed to have grown twenty years older since her bereavement. Upon leaving the cemetery she turned towards Albogasio, and joined some women from Oria, who were going to recite the Rosary in the parish church. She no longer seemed the same dark phantom that had laid the violets on Maria's grave. She talked calmly, almost gaily, firstwith one, then with another of the women; inquired after a sick animal, praised and caressed a little girl who was going to the Rosary with her grandmother, and told her to sit very still in church, as her Maria had always done. She said this and mentioned Maria very quietly, but the women shuddered and were filled with astonishment, for Luisa herself never went to church now. She asked one of the girls if the young men were going to act a play as usual, and if her brother was to take part. Upon receiving an answer in the affirmative she offered to help with the costumes. She left the others on the church-place of the Annunciata, and as she went down the Calcinera alone her face once more resumed its spectral appearance.
She was on her way to Casarico to see the Gilardonis, who had been married three years. The professor's happiness and his adoration of Ester would deserve to be told in verse! Uncle Piero said of him that he had grown feeble-minded. Ester feared he might become ridiculous, and would not allow him to assume certain ecstatic poses before her when there was anyone present. The only person in whose presence she did not insist upon the observance of this rule was Luisa. But Gilardoni always showed the greatest deference for Luisa; to him she was still a superhuman being; to his respect for the woman herself had been added his respect for her grief, and in her presence his behaviour was always most circumspect.Luisa had been going to Casa Gilardoni almost every evening for about two years now, and if anything could have troubled the couple's happiness it would have been these visits.
Indeed, their motive was a strange one, and one repugnant to Ester, but Ester's affection for her friend, and her pity for her bereavement, were so great, while her heart was so full of remorse for not having looked after Maria more carefully on that terrible day, that she did not dare to resolutely oppose her wishes, or dissuade her husband from gratifying them. She expressed her disapproval to Luisa, and begged her at least to maintain secrecy concerning the nightly doings in the professor's study, but she went no further. The professor, on the contrary, would have enjoyed these séances had it not been for his wife's disapproval. It was already dark when Luisa rang the bell at the little door of Casa Gilardoni. Ester herself opened it. Luisa did not return her greeting, which she felt was full of embarrassment. She simply looked at her, but when they reached the little parlour on the ground-floor where Ester was in the habit of spending her evenings, she embraced her so passionately that Ester burst into tears. "Have patience with me!" Luisa said. "It is all that is left me!" Ester tried to comfort her, telling her that happier times were coming for her; that she and Franco would soon be reunited. In a few months Lombardy would be free, and Franco would come home.And then—and then—so many things might happen! Perhaps Maria might return! Luisa started violently and caught her friend's hands. "No!" she cried. "Do not say such things! Never! Never! I am all hers! I belong to Maria alone!" Ester could not answer, for at that point the smiling professor came bustling into the room.
He saw that his wife's eyes were wet with tears and that Luisa was greatly excited. He greeted her very quietly and sat down in silence beside Ester, in the belief that they had been discussing the usual subject, which was so painful to his wife. She would have liked to send him away and resume her conversation with Luisa, but did not venture to do so. Luisa was shuddering at that spectre of future danger which would sometimes stand vaguely outlined before her mind's eye, but which she had always banished with horror, never pausing to examine it, and which now, evoked by her friend's words, rose before her, naked and distinct. After a long and painful silence Ester sighed, and said in a low voice:
"You may go if you like. Go, both of you."
Luisa, moved by an impulse of gratitude, fell on her knees before her friend and buried her face in her lap. "You know," she said, "I no longer believe in God. At first I thought there must be a cruel God, but now I do not believe in the existence of any God. But if a loving God, such as He in whom you believe, did really, surely exist, He would not condemn a poor mother who haslost her only child, and who is struggling to persuade herself that a part of that child still lives!"
Ester made no reply. Almost every night for two years Luisa and her husband had evoked the spirit of the dead child. Professor Gilardoni, in whom there was a strange mingling of the free-thinker and the mystic, had read with great interest the marvellous tales that were told concerning the Fox sisters—Americans—and the experiments of Eliphas Levi, and had closely followed the spiritualistic movement which had spread rapidly in Europe, in the form of a mania that upset both heads and tables. He had spoken to Luisa about this movement, and Luisa, possessed and blinded by the idea that she might ascertain if her child did still exist, in which case she might in some way be able to communicate with her, seeing nothing else in all the marvellous facts and strange theories save this one luminous point, had besought him to make some experiments with Ester and herself. Ester believed in nothing supernatural outside the doctrines of Christianity, and did not, therefore, take the matter seriously. She willingly consented to place her hands on a small table, in the company of her friend and her husband, who, on the contrary, exhibited great zeal, and had faith in their chances of success. The first experiments were disappointing. Ester, who found them tedious, would have liked to discontinue the attempts, but one evening, after twenty minutes of waiting, the little table tippedto one side, lifted a leg in the air, righted itself, and then tipped again, to Ester's great chagrin, but to the great joy of Luisa and the professor. The next night five minutes sufficed to make the table move. The professor taught them the alphabet, and then tried to summon a spirit. The table responded, knocking with its leg upon the floor according to the alphabet that had been arranged. The spirit evoked gave its name: Van Helmont. Ester was frightened and trembled like a leaf; the professor was trembling also, but with excitement. He wished to tell Van Helmont that he had his works in his library, but Luisa besought him to inquire where Maria was. Van Helmont answered: "Near!" Then Ester rose, as pale as a ghost, protesting that she would not continue, and neither Luisa's tears nor entreaties could move her. It was sinful, sinful! Ester's religious sense was not deep, but she had a wholesome fear of hell and the devil. For some time it had been impossible to resume the séances—she had a horror of them, and her husband did not venture to oppose her wishes. It was Luisa who, by dint of prayers and entreaties, at last obtained a compromise. The séances were resumed, but Ester took no part in them.
She did not even wish to know what took place. Only, whenever her husband seemed worried or preoccupied, she would throw out an uneasy allusion to the secret dealings in the study. Then he would be troubled, and offer to desist, butEster had not the courage to face Luisa. For she had discovered indirectly that Luisa really believed she held communication with the child's spirit. Once she had said: "I shall not come to-morrow night because Maria does not wish it." At another time she had said: "I am going up to Looch because Maria wants a flower from her grandmother's grave." To Ester it seemed incredible that a head so clear and strong could be thus deluded. At the same time she realised the extreme difficulty of convincing her by gentle means, and all the cruelty of using harsh measures with her.
The professor lit a candle and went upstairs to the study, followed by Luisa. We are acquainted with this study that was like a ship's cabin, its shelves filled with books, its little fireplace, its windows overlooking the lake and the armchair in which Maria had gone to sleep one Christmas Eve. The room now contained something else. Between the fireplace and the window stood a small round table, with one central leg only, that branched out into three feet, about a hand's breadth from the floor.
"I am very sorry to cause Ester so much pain," said the professor as they entered the room. He placed the light on the writing-desk, but instead of preparing the little table and the chairs as usual he went to look out of the window at the pale light on the water and in the sky, amidst the surrounding shadows of night. Luisa stood motionless,and suddenly he faced about as if some magnetism had revealed her anguish to him. He saw appalling anguish on her face, and understood that she believed he had made up his mind to stop the séances, whereas he had only been tempted to do so, and, greatly moved, he seized her hands, telling her that Ester was good, that she loved her so much, that neither he nor she would ever willingly cause her suffering. Luisa did not answer, but the professor had all he could do to prevent her kissing his hand. While he was arranging the little table and the two chairs in the centre of the floor, she sank into the armchair, in a state of great depression.
"There!" said the professor.
Drawing a letter from her pocket Luisa handed it to him.
"I need Maria and you so much to-night," said she. "Read that. It is from Franco. You can begin with the fourth page." The professor did not hear these last words, but going to the light, began to read aloud:
"Turin,February 18, 1859."Myown Luisa,—"Do you know you have not written to me for a fortnight!""You can skip that," said Luisa, but at once corrected herself. "No, perhaps you had better read it." The professor continued."This is my third letter to you since yours ofthe sixth. Perhaps I was too violent in my first letter, and wounded you. What a temper is this of mine, that makes me speak, and sometimes even write such harsh words when my blood is up! And what blood is this of mine that at two-and-thirty is as quick to boil as at two-and-twenty! Forgive me, Luisa, and permit me to return to the subject, and take back those words that may have offended you."At present there is no more talk here either of tables or of spirits, but only of diplomacy and war; in former years, however, spiritualism was very widely discussed, and several persons I both respect and esteem believed in it. I knew positively that many among them were simply deluded but I never doubted their good faith when they told me of conversations they had had with spirits. It would indeed seem that our imagination, when inflamed, can make us see and hear things that do not really exist. But I am willing to admit that in your case you are not deceived by your imagination; that your little table does really move and express itself exactly as you say. I was wrong to doubt this—I confess it—in the first place because you are so sure of not being mistaken, and secondly, because I am well aware of Professor Gilardoni's honesty. But to me this is a question of sentiment. I know that my sweet Maria lives with God, and I cherish the hope that some time I, with other souls dear to me, may go where she is. If she should appear before me unbidden, if,without having summoned her, I should hear the sound of her voice, clear and distinct, perhaps I should not be able to bear such joy. But I could never summon her, never force her to come to me. The thought is repugnant to me; it is contrary to that sense of veneration I feel for a Being who is so much nearer God than I am. Dear Luisa, I also speak to our treasure every day, speak to her of myself and of you as well; I am convinced that she sees us, that she loves us, that she can still do much for us even in this life. How I wish that your intercourse with her might be of the same nature! If, in answering your letter in which you allude to a communication from her I expressed myself too harshly, forgive me, not only in consideration of my hasty temper, but still more in consideration of my sentiments, which are indeed a part of my nature."Forgive me also in consideration of the atmosphere of intense excitement in which I am living here. My throat is perfectly well. Since war has been talked of, I have cast aside both camphor and sedative waters, but my nerves are in a state of such extraordinary tension that it seems as if, were they touched, sparks must fly from them. All this is partly due to the amount of work to be accomplished at the Home Office, where it is no longer a question of regular hours, but where even the humblest secretary, if he be conscientious, must strain every muscle. When I first obtained this position through the kindness ofCount Cavour, I felt I was not really earning the bread the government gave me. This is no longer the case, but I am about to withdraw from this field of strenuous labour; and this brings me to another topic, to something I have long had in my heart, and which I now impart to you with feelings of indescribable emotion."In a week my friends and I are going to enlist in the army as volunteers, for the duration of the coming campaign. We are entering the ninth infantry regiment, stationed in Turin. Here at the Home Office they would like to keep me some time longer, but I intend to become familiar with my duties in the regiment before the campaign opens, and I have therefore simply promised not to leave the Office until the day before we enlist."Luisa, we have not seen each other for three years and almost five months! It is true you are under police surveillance, and that you may not go to Lugano, but I have several times proposed means to you of meeting me, at least at the frontier, or on the mountains, and you have never even answered. I believed I knew why. It was because you could not tear yourself away even for a short time, from a certain sacred spot. This seemed too much, and I confess I had many bitter feelings. Then I reproached myself, I felt I was selfish, and I forgave you. Now, Luisa, circumstances have changed. I have no forebodings of evil; indeed, it seems impossible that I should be destined to end my days on a battlefield,nevertheless this is not impossible. I am going to take part in a war that promises to be one of the greatest, one of the longest and most desperate, for if Austria is risking her Italian provinces, we, and perhaps Emperor Napoleon as well, are risking everything. It is said we shall spend next winter beneath the walls of Verona. Luisa, I cannot run the risk of dying without seeing you once more. I shall have only twenty-four hours, I cannot come to the frontier or to Lugano, and I should not be satisfied to spend ten minutes with you. Ask Ismaele to get you to Lugano in some way on the morning of the twenty-fifth of this month. Leave Lugano in time to reach Magadino at one o'clock, for you cannot go by way of Luino. At Magadino you must take the boat that leaves at about half-past one. At four or thereabouts you will reach Isola Bella, where I shall arrive at about the same hour from Arona. At this time of year Isola Bella is a desert. We can spend the evening together, and in the morning you will leave for Oria, I for Turin."I am writing to Uncle Piero to ask his forgiveness for depriving him of your company for one day."I do not apprehend any danger. The Austrians are thinking only of their arms, and their police are letting thousands of young men escape them, young men who come here to take up arms. The Austrians would be terrible the day after a victory, but, God willing! that day shall never dawn for them."Luisa, can it be possible I shall not find you at Isola Bella, that you may think you are pleasing Maria by not coming? But don't you know that if some one had said to my Maria, to my poor little darling—run and say good-bye to your papa, who is perhaps going away to die—how fast——"
"Turin,February 18, 1859.
"Myown Luisa,—
"Do you know you have not written to me for a fortnight!"
"You can skip that," said Luisa, but at once corrected herself. "No, perhaps you had better read it." The professor continued.
"This is my third letter to you since yours ofthe sixth. Perhaps I was too violent in my first letter, and wounded you. What a temper is this of mine, that makes me speak, and sometimes even write such harsh words when my blood is up! And what blood is this of mine that at two-and-thirty is as quick to boil as at two-and-twenty! Forgive me, Luisa, and permit me to return to the subject, and take back those words that may have offended you.
"At present there is no more talk here either of tables or of spirits, but only of diplomacy and war; in former years, however, spiritualism was very widely discussed, and several persons I both respect and esteem believed in it. I knew positively that many among them were simply deluded but I never doubted their good faith when they told me of conversations they had had with spirits. It would indeed seem that our imagination, when inflamed, can make us see and hear things that do not really exist. But I am willing to admit that in your case you are not deceived by your imagination; that your little table does really move and express itself exactly as you say. I was wrong to doubt this—I confess it—in the first place because you are so sure of not being mistaken, and secondly, because I am well aware of Professor Gilardoni's honesty. But to me this is a question of sentiment. I know that my sweet Maria lives with God, and I cherish the hope that some time I, with other souls dear to me, may go where she is. If she should appear before me unbidden, if,without having summoned her, I should hear the sound of her voice, clear and distinct, perhaps I should not be able to bear such joy. But I could never summon her, never force her to come to me. The thought is repugnant to me; it is contrary to that sense of veneration I feel for a Being who is so much nearer God than I am. Dear Luisa, I also speak to our treasure every day, speak to her of myself and of you as well; I am convinced that she sees us, that she loves us, that she can still do much for us even in this life. How I wish that your intercourse with her might be of the same nature! If, in answering your letter in which you allude to a communication from her I expressed myself too harshly, forgive me, not only in consideration of my hasty temper, but still more in consideration of my sentiments, which are indeed a part of my nature.
"Forgive me also in consideration of the atmosphere of intense excitement in which I am living here. My throat is perfectly well. Since war has been talked of, I have cast aside both camphor and sedative waters, but my nerves are in a state of such extraordinary tension that it seems as if, were they touched, sparks must fly from them. All this is partly due to the amount of work to be accomplished at the Home Office, where it is no longer a question of regular hours, but where even the humblest secretary, if he be conscientious, must strain every muscle. When I first obtained this position through the kindness ofCount Cavour, I felt I was not really earning the bread the government gave me. This is no longer the case, but I am about to withdraw from this field of strenuous labour; and this brings me to another topic, to something I have long had in my heart, and which I now impart to you with feelings of indescribable emotion.
"In a week my friends and I are going to enlist in the army as volunteers, for the duration of the coming campaign. We are entering the ninth infantry regiment, stationed in Turin. Here at the Home Office they would like to keep me some time longer, but I intend to become familiar with my duties in the regiment before the campaign opens, and I have therefore simply promised not to leave the Office until the day before we enlist.
"Luisa, we have not seen each other for three years and almost five months! It is true you are under police surveillance, and that you may not go to Lugano, but I have several times proposed means to you of meeting me, at least at the frontier, or on the mountains, and you have never even answered. I believed I knew why. It was because you could not tear yourself away even for a short time, from a certain sacred spot. This seemed too much, and I confess I had many bitter feelings. Then I reproached myself, I felt I was selfish, and I forgave you. Now, Luisa, circumstances have changed. I have no forebodings of evil; indeed, it seems impossible that I should be destined to end my days on a battlefield,nevertheless this is not impossible. I am going to take part in a war that promises to be one of the greatest, one of the longest and most desperate, for if Austria is risking her Italian provinces, we, and perhaps Emperor Napoleon as well, are risking everything. It is said we shall spend next winter beneath the walls of Verona. Luisa, I cannot run the risk of dying without seeing you once more. I shall have only twenty-four hours, I cannot come to the frontier or to Lugano, and I should not be satisfied to spend ten minutes with you. Ask Ismaele to get you to Lugano in some way on the morning of the twenty-fifth of this month. Leave Lugano in time to reach Magadino at one o'clock, for you cannot go by way of Luino. At Magadino you must take the boat that leaves at about half-past one. At four or thereabouts you will reach Isola Bella, where I shall arrive at about the same hour from Arona. At this time of year Isola Bella is a desert. We can spend the evening together, and in the morning you will leave for Oria, I for Turin.
"I am writing to Uncle Piero to ask his forgiveness for depriving him of your company for one day.
"I do not apprehend any danger. The Austrians are thinking only of their arms, and their police are letting thousands of young men escape them, young men who come here to take up arms. The Austrians would be terrible the day after a victory, but, God willing! that day shall never dawn for them.
"Luisa, can it be possible I shall not find you at Isola Bella, that you may think you are pleasing Maria by not coming? But don't you know that if some one had said to my Maria, to my poor little darling—run and say good-bye to your papa, who is perhaps going away to die—how fast——"
The reader's voice trembled, broke, and was lost in a sob. Luisa hid her face in her hands. He placed the letter on her knees, saying with difficulty: "Donna Luisa, can you hesitate?"
"I am wicked," Luisa murmured. "I am mad!"
"But do you not love him?"
"Sometimes I think I love him very much, at other times not at all."
"My God!" the professor exclaimed. "But now? Are you not moved by the thought that you may never see him again?"
Luisa was silent, she seemed to be crying. Suddenly she started to her feet, pressing her hands to her temples, and fixed her eyes on the professor's face, eyes in which there were no tears, but in which there shone a sinister and angry light. "You don't know," she cried, "what there is here in my head! What a mass of contradictions, how many opposite thoughts that are struggling together, and always changing places with each other! When I received the letter I cried bitterly, and said to myself. 'Yes, my poor Franco, this time I will go!'—And then there came a voice that spoke here in my forehead, andsaid: 'No, you must not go because—because—because——'"
She ceased speaking, and the professor, terrified by the flashes of madness he saw in those eyes that were fixed on his, did not dare to ask for an explanation. The eyes, which still stared into his, gradually softened and became veiled with tears. Luisa took his hands, and said gently, timidly: "Let us ask Maria."
They sat down at the table and placed their hands upon it. The professor sat with his back to the light, which fell full upon Luisa's face. The little table was in the shadow. After eleven minutes of profound silence, the professor murmured:
"It is beginning to move."
In fact the table was gradually leaning over to one side. Presently it righted itself, and knocked once, lightly. Luisa's face brightened.
"Who are you?" said the professor. "Answer with the usual alphabet."
There came seventeen, then fourteen, then eighteen knocks, and then one alone. "Rosa," said the professor softly. Rosa was a little sister of his wife's who had died in infancy, and the table had knocked out this name on several previous occasions. "Go away," said Gilardoni. "Send Maria to us."
The table soon began to move again, and knocked out the words:
"It is I, Maria!"
"Maria, Maria, my own Maria!" whisperedLuisa, her face assuming an expression of intense joy.
"Do you know the contents of the letter your father has written to your mother?" Gilardoni inquired.
The table answered:
"Yes."
"What is your mother to do?"
Luisa was trembling from head to foot in anxious suspense. The table did not move.
"Answer," said the professor.
This time the table moved, but knocked out only an incomprehensible confusion of letters.
"We do not understand. Repeat."
The little table did not move again. "Repeat, I tell you!" said the professor, rather sharply.
"No, no!" begged Luisa. "Don't insist. Maria does not wish to answer." But the professor was bound to insist. "It is not admissible that a spirit should not answer. You know very well we have often before been unable to understand what they said."
Luisa rose, greatly agitated, saying that rather than force Maria she should prefer to cut the séance short. The professor remained seated, lost in thought. "Hush!" said he at last.
The table moved and once more began to knock.
"Yes!" exclaimed Gilardoni, his face radiant. "I inquired mentally if you should go, and thetable has answered 'yes.' Now you yourself must ask aloud."
Five or six minutes passed before the table began to move. In answer to Luisa's question: "Shall I go?" there came first thirteen, then fourteen knocks. The answer was "no."
The professor turned pale, and Luisa questioned him with her eyes. He was silent for some time, and then said with a sigh:
"Perhaps it was not Maria. Perhaps it was a lying spirit."
"And how can we find out?" Luisa inquired anxiously.
"We cannot find out. It is impossible."
"Then how about the other communications? Is there never any certainty?"
"Never."
She lapsed into terrified silence. Then presently she murmured: "It was bound to end thus. This also was to be taken from me."
She rested her forehead upon the table. The candle light fell upon her hair, upon her arms and hands. She was motionless, nothing moved in the room save the little flickering flame of the candle. Another little flame, the last light of hope and of comfort, was dying out in this poor head which had gone down before the onslaught of a bitter and invincible doubt. What could Gilardoni do or say? He saw that Ester's wish would soon be gratified, but not by his means. Three or four minutes later they heard Ester'svoice, and steps on the floor below. Luisa rose slowly.
"Let us go," said she.
"Perhaps we should pray," Gilardoni observed without rising. "Perhaps we should ask the spirits if they confess Christ."
"No, no, no!" Luisa exclaimed in an undertone, at the same time protesting with a hostile gesture. The professor silently took up the candle.
On her way back to Oria Luisa went up to the gate of the cemetery. Resting her forehead against it she sent a stifled good-bye towards Maria's grave, then she went down the hill again. On reaching the church-place she crossed over to the parapet and gazed down upon the lake sleeping in the shadow. She stood there some time, letting her thoughts roam at will. Placing her elbows on the parapet, she leaned forward and rested her face upon her hands, still gazing at the water, the water that had taken Maria. Her thoughts were beginning to take a definite shape, not within her, but down there in the water. She contemplated this shape. To die, to end it all! She was familiar with the thought, she had seen it once before when gazing into the water thus, long ago, before the experiments with the professor began. After that it had disappeared. But now it had returned again. It was a sweet and merciful thought, full of rest, of self-surrender,and of peace. It was good to gaze upon it now that her faith in the spirits was gone also. To die, to end it all! On that former occasion the image of her old uncle had been strong in helping to dispel the fascination. Now it was not so strong. Since Maria's death Uncle Piero had lapsed into a state of almost complete silence which Luisa believed to be the beginning of the apathy of old age. She did not understand that in the old man's soul profound disapproval was mingled with grief, nor did she understand how great was his aversion to these daily and repeated visits to the cemetery, the flowers, the mysterious journeys to Casarico, and above all, how he regretted her complete abandonment of the church. If she had not been so engrossed in her dead child she might have understood her uncle better, at least on this last point, the church, for now the silent old man himself went to Mass oftener than before, his heart returning to the religion of his father and mother, which, heretofore, he had practised coldly, from habit, and out of respect for family traditions. It seemed to Luisa that he had grown very dull, and that if only his personal needs were attended to, he would be quite content. Cia was there to attend to his comforts, and the means that had sufficed for three would be more than sufficient for two. Luisa thought she saw the water rise a hand's breadth. And Franco? Franco would be in despair, would mourn for a few years, and then he would be happier than ever.Franco knew the secret of speedy consolation. The water seemed to rise another hand's breadth.
At the same moment in which she had approached the parapet, Franco, passing the church of S. Francesco di Paolo in Via di Po, had seen lights and heard the organ. He went in. Hardly had he said a short prayer when the one dominant thought took possession of him once more; the sound of the organ became the noise of trumpets and drums, the clash of arms; and while a hymn of peace was rising from the altar, he, in imagination, was furiously charging the enemy. Suddenly he saw before his mind's eye the image of Luisa, pale, and dressed in mourning. He began to think of her, to pray for her with intense fervour.
Then, standing there on the church-place of Oria, she turned cold and was filled with dread, while the tempting thought gradually vanished. She tried to recall it, but could not. The water subsided. An inward voice said to her: "What if the professor be mistaken? What if it be not true that the table answered first yes and then no? what if it be not true about the lying spirits?" She drew back from the parapet, and with slow steps, went up to her house.
She found her uncle in the kitchen sitting in the chimney-corner, the tongs in his hand, and his glass of milk beside him. Cia and Leu were sewing.
"Well," said Uncle Piero, "I have been to theCustom-House. The Receiver is in bed with the jaundice, but I spoke with theSedentario."
"What about, uncle?"
"About Lugano. About your journey to Lugano on the twenty-fifth. He has promised to close an eye and let you pass."
Luisa was silent, and stood thoughtfully watching the fire. Presently she gave Leu some orders for the next day, and then begged her uncle to come into the parlour with her.
"What for?" said he, with his habitual simplicity, "You can't have any great secrets to tell. Let us stay here where the fire is."
Cia lit a candle. "We will go out," said she.
The uncle made his usual grimace, expressive of compassion for the weaknesses of others, but remained silent. Draining his glass of milk, he passed it to Luisa. She took the glass, and said softly: "I have not decided yet."
"What?" the uncle exclaimed sharply. "What is it you have not decided?"
"Whether I shall go to Isola Bella."
"Now what the deuce——?"
Uncle Piero was utterly incapable of grasping such a thing as this.
"And why should you not go?"
She answered calmly, and as if stating a perfectly obvious fact:
"I am afraid I shall not be able to leave Maria."
"Oh, come now!" Uncle Piero exclaimed. "Sit down over there," and he pointed to a benchin the chimney-corner opposite him. Then he said, in that serious, honest voice of his, which seemed to come from his heart:
"My dear Luisa, you have lost your bearings!"
And raising his arms, he uttered a long "Ah!" and then let them fall upon his knees once more.
"Lost your bearings completely!" he repeated. He sat silent for a time, his head bent, while behind his pursed lips there was the rumbling of words in course of formation, which presently burst forth.
"I would never have believed it! It does not seem possible! But when," and here he raised his head and looked Luisa straight in the face, "but when we once begin to lose our bearings it is all up with us. And you, my dear, began to lose yours a long time ago."
Luisa shuddered.
"Yes indeed!" Uncle Piero cried in a loud voice. "You began losing yours a long time ago. And now this is what I wish to say to you. Listen. My mother lost children, your mother lost children, I have seen many mothers lose children, but not one of them acted as you act. What can you expect? We are all mortal, and must adapt ourselves to our circumstances. Other mothers become resigned, but you do not. And this running two, three, and even four times a day to the cemetery! And the flowers, and I know not what all besides! Oh, dear me! And all that foolishness at Casarico with that other poor imbecile, which you thinkis such a secret, while every one is talking of it, even Cia. Oh, dear me!"
"No, uncle," said Luisa, sadly but calmly. "Don't talk of these things. You cannot understand them."
"Exactly!" the uncle retorted with all the irony of which he was capable. "I cannot understand! But there is something else. You no longer go to church. I have never mentioned this to you because I have always made it a rule to let people do as they like, but when I see you losing your good sense, losing your common-sense even, the least I can do is to remind you that this is all you do by turning your back on the Almighty. And now this idea of not going to see your husband, under similar circumstances! It is past belief. Well, well," he said after a short pause, "I will go myself."
"You?" Luisa exclaimed.
"Why not? Yes, I. I had intended to accompany you, but if you will not go I must take the journey alone. I will go and tell your husband that you have lost your head, and that I hope I may soon be called to join poor Maria."
No one had ever heard such bitter words from Uncle Piero's lips. Perhaps it was for that reason, perhaps it was the authority of the man, perhaps it was Maria's name pronounced in that way, but at any rate Luisa was conquered.
"I will go," she said, "but you must stay here."
"Most certainly not!" cried Uncle Piero, greatlypleased. "It is forty years since I saw the islands. I must avail myself of this opportunity. And who knows but what I may enlist in the cavalry?"
"Well?" said Cia, when the uncle had gone to bed. "Does my master really intend to go? For the love of Heaven, don't let him, my dear!" And she told Luisa that two hours before he had rolled his eyes in a strange manner, letting his head sink upon his breast, and when she had called to him he had not answered. Presently he had recovered, and had been provoked at her anxious questions, protesting that he had not been ill, that he had simply felt rather sleepy. Luisa listened to her, standing with her candle in her hand, her eyes glassy, and her attention divided between the words she was hearing and another very different thought, a thought very far removed from Uncle Piero, from the house, from Valsolda.
On the morning of the twenty-fifth of February, the day fixed for their journey, Uncle Piero rose at half-past seven, and went to the window. A heavy, white fog hung over the lake, hiding the mountains so that they appeared only as short black streaks, one on the right, the other on the left, between the lake and the fog. "Alas!" the uncle sighed. He had not finished dressing when Luisa came in, and using the unpleasant weather as a pretext, once more begged him to remain at home, and let her go alone. Cia was greatly distressed, and had entreated her to urge him not to go, for she knew he had had an attack of giddiness on the twentieth, and that on the twenty-second he had gone to confession without mentioning it to any one. Seeing that he was growing impatient, Luisa decided it would be wiser to desist, and let him have his own way. Poor Uncle Piero, he had always enjoyed the best of health, and now he was extremely apprehensive, and the slightest disturbance alarmed him. But he did not feel that Luisa should be allowed to set out alone in her present state of mind, and so hewas going to sacrifice himself for her. He finished dressing and returning to the window called out triumphantly to Luisa, who was in the little garden below.
"Look up!" said he. "Look up at the Boglia!"
High up above Oria through the smoking fog, the pale gold of the sun shining on the mountain could be seen, and still higher up all was clear and transparent.
"Fair weather!"
Luisa did not reply, and the old man came down to the loggia in a cheerful frame of mind, and went out to the terrace to enjoy the magnificent struggle between fog and sun.
The stretch of water towards the east between the Ca Rotta, the last house of S. Mamette on the left, and the gulf of the Doi on the right, was one immense white sea. The Ca Rotta could just be distinguished, coming out of the fog like some spectre. At the gulf of the Doi, the narrow black streak of the mountains began, making a gap between the leaden lake and the fog, which, little by little, was assuming a bluish hue. Vague lights broke in the sky towards Osteno; at the end of the eastern sea a new brightness trembled, streaks and spots, dark with the breeze, were forming; the eye of the sun appeared and disappeared among the whirling clouds above Osteno, until at last, growing rapidly larger, it shone forth triumphant. The fog fled in all directions in sheets and puffs, of which many sped past Oria, largeand swift, while others cast themselves upon the shore; but the largest rolled away into the far east, where, behind and above a heavy white curtain, the mountains of the lake of Como rose, glorious in the blue.
Uncle Piero called Luisa to witness the spectacle, the last splendid scene of the drama, the triumph of the sun, the flight of the mists, the glory of the hills. He admired nature in a simple manner, without the refinement of the artistic sense, but with youthful ardour, and with the ring of sincerity in his voice; his admiration was that of an old man who has lived a life of purity, who has not exhausted the freshness of his spirit, who still retains a certain simplicity of imagination. "Look, Luisa!" he exclaimed, "we must indeed cry out, 'Glory be to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!'" Luisa did not answer, but went quickly indoors, that she might not see that white enclosure beyond the kitchen-garden that was drawing her so strongly, with its tacit cry of reproach and grief. She had gone there that morning at six o'clock, and had remained an hour, seated on the wet grass.
The uncle remained on the terrace lost in contemplation until the moment of departure arrived. Had he been a vain poet he might have imagined that Valsolda was offering him this farewell spectacle to speed him on his way; that she wished to show herself more beautiful than he had, perhaps, ever seen her before. However, these poeticfancies did not come to him, and, besides, his journey was to be so short. But the image of Maria came to him instead; he saw her running round him, he took her upon his knee, and repeated the old rhyme to her:
Proud shade of the riverOf Missipipì——
Proud shade of the riverOf Missipipì——
"Enough!" he sighed. "It was a terrible thing!" and in answer to a summons from Cia he went slowly towards the little garden where Luisa was awaiting him, ready to go down to the boat. "Here I am," said he. "And you, Cia, be careful not to let the house tumble into the lake while we are away!"
During the journey on Lake Maggiore on board theSan Bernardino, Luisa remained in the second-class cabin most of the time. She went on deck once to try and persuade Uncle Piero to go below also, but, although the wind was cold, Uncle Piero, wrapped in his heavy grey travelling cloak, would not stir from the deck, where he sat calmly watching the hills and villages, and chatting with a priest from Locarno, with a little old woman from Belgirate, and with other second-class passengers. Luisa was obliged to leave him there, while she herself went below again, preferring to be alone with her own thoughts. As they approached Isola Bella a sense of inward excitement and a vagueforeboding of many things took possession of her. How would the meeting with Franco take place? How would he treat her? Would he repeat Uncle Piero's sermon to her? His letters were indeed always compassionate and tender, but who does not know that we write in one way and speak in another? How and where would they spend the evening? And then that other question, that question it so terrified her to think about——? All these anxious thoughts were rising higher and higher, threatening to become dominant, to place themselves in bold opposition to that image of the cemetery of Oria, which from time to time would return with impetuous violence, as if to snatch back its own. At the station of Cannero, Luisa heard the noise of many steps and of loud talking above her head, and went upstairs to look after her uncle. A party of soldiers, recalled to service, had come out to the steamer in two large barges. Other small boats bore women, children, and old men, who were crying and waving good-bye. The soldiers, most of whom wereBersaglieri, fine jolly young fellows, answered the greeting with shouts of "Hurrah for Italy!" and made promises of presents from Milan. One old woman, all dishevelled, but tearless, had three sons among those soldiers, and was calling out to them to remember our Lord and the Madonna. "Yes, yes," grumbled an old sergeant who was escorting them, "Remember our Lord, and the Madonna, and the Bishop, and don't forget theprevosto, theparish priest!" The soldiers, who were well acquainted with theprevosto, or military prison, laughed loudly at the joke, as the steamer started forward. There were cries, and waving of handkerchiefs, and then the men burst into song, a song shouted by fifty strong voices.
Addio, mia bella, addio,L'armata se ne va.
Addio, mia bella, addio,L'armata se ne va.
The soldiers were all clustered together at the prow, among piles of bags and barrels, some sitting, some lying down, others standing, and all singing at the top of their voices to the dull accompaniment of the paddles as the steamer glided straight towards that background of sky, against which rose the pointed hills of Ispra, dividing the immense expanse of water from the Ticino beyond. The young men would soon be crossing the Ticino, probably to the cry of "Savoy for ever!" and amidst the fury of cannonading. Death was awaiting many of them down there under that clear sky, but all sang gaily, and only the dull noise of the paddles seemed to be aware of their fate. The free hills of Piedmont, past which the boat was gliding, although they stood in the shadow, seemed to shine with pride and satisfaction at having given their sons to the captive hills of Lombardy, which wore an air of tragedy, although illumined by the sun. Luisa felt her blood begin to tingle, felt her once ardent patriotism begin to stir. And those mothers who had seen their sonsdepart thus? She foresaw whither her thoughts were tending, and hastened to assure herself that she also would gladly have given a son to Italy, that the grief of those mothers could not in any way be compared to hers. But what a difference there was between reading a letter in Valsolda, telling of the war, and feeling the very breath, hearing the very noise of war all about her, feeling it in the air itself! In the quiet of Valsolda, war was a shadow without substance; here the shadow became incarnate. Here Luisa's personal grief, that immense grief which filled the lifeless air surrounding her in Oria, seemed to shrink before the emotion of many, and her consciousness of this gave her an indefinable sense of discomfort and trouble. Was it the dread of losing a part of her own grief, a part, as it were, of herself? Was it the desire to escape from a comparison from which she shrank? At the same time the idea that Franco was going to this war, the idea that had affected her so slightly in Valsolda, was now assuming a new aspect of reality in her mind, was making her heart quiver, and it also was wrestling with the image of the cemetery of Oria. For the first time this image of the past was no longer the one, all-powerful master of her soul, and although her soul was indignant and regretful, new images, images of the present and of the future, were assailing it.
Uncle Piero began to feel cold and came down to the cabin.
"In little more than an hour we shall be at Isola Bella," said he.
"Are you tired?"
"Not in the least. I feel wonderfully well."
"But nevertheless, you will go to bed early to-night?"
The uncle, whose thoughts were wandering, did not answer, but presently he exclaimed: "Do you know what I was thinking? I was thinking that now there ought to be another Maria."
Luisa, who was sitting beside him, sprang up shuddering, and went to the little window opposite, standing with her back to Uncle Piero, who did not understand in the least, and, concluding she was embarrassed, went to sleep in his corner. The steamer touched at Intra. Now there was only Pallanza before Isola. They were skirting the coast; through the little oval window Luisa could see the banks, the houses, the trees slipping by. How fast the boat was gliding, how fast!
Pallanza. The steamer stopped five minutes.
Luisa went on deck and inquired when they would reach Isola Bella. They would not stop either at Suna or Baveno, so it was a question of only a few minutes now. And when would the steamer from Arona arrive? The steamer from Arona appeared to be late. She went below once more to awaken Uncle Piero, who presently came on deck with her. The last part of the journey was accomplished in silence. The uncle watchedPallanza, which they were leaving behind, while Luisa had fixed her gaze on Isola Bella, which they were rapidly approaching, and she saw nothing else.
The boat reached the landing-stage at Isola Bella at forty minutes past three. There was no sign of the steamer from Arona. A porter told Luisa that it was always late now because the train from Novara was never on time, owing to the movement of troops. No one else went ashore at Isola, no one was on the beach save the attendant at the landing-stage. When the boat had left, he himself conducted the two travellers to theAlbergo del Delfino. He said it was a mere chance their finding the hotel open at this season. A large family were spending the winter there. They were English people. Indeed, it seemed the Island of Silence. The lake lay about it, motionless and silent, the shore was deserted, no living being was to be seen in the porches of the poor little houses clustered together about the bay, between one of the round bastions of the gardens and the hotel. The English people had gone out in a boat; the hotel was as silent as the shore and the water. The new arrivals were given two large rooms on the second floor, both of which faced south, and overlooked the melancholy strait between the island and the wooded strip of coast that runs from Stressa to Baveno. The first room was on the western corner of the house, and its window looked out on the little church of S. Vittore, which risesbeside the hotel, and upon the small Isola dei Pescatori in the distance. Uncle Piero planted himself at the window contemplating the little island, the little pile of houses rising out of the mirror of the lake and culminating in a campanile; the great mountains of Val di Toce and Val di Gravellone, half hidden in a thin mist through which the sun was shining. Luisa, seeing that the room contained two beds, hastened to the other room, where an alcove also held two beds. "There," said Uncle Piero, coming in, a moment later, "this will do nicely for you two." Luisa asked the proprietor, in an undertone, if they could not have three rooms instead of two. No, it was impossible. "But this is all right," Uncle Piero repeated. "This is a perfect arrangement. You take this room, and I will have the other." Luisa was silent, and the proprietor withdrew. "Don't you see you have an alcove, just as at home?" It never struck the simple old man that the very sight of that alcove was a torment to Luisa. She told him she preferred the other room, which was lighter and more cheerful. "Amen!" said the uncle. "Do as you like. I am quite willing to be alcoved."
This corner of the hotel soon lapsed into silence once more. Luisa posted herself at the window. The boat from Arona must be very near now; the man who had accompanied them to the hotel was walking slowly towards the landing-stage, and in a few minutes she heard the noise of the paddlesin the distance. Uncle Piero told Luisa he was tired, and remained in his room.
She went down towards the landing-stage and stopped behind a small house that hid the boat from view, but she could hear it distinctly. Suddenly the prow of theSan Gottardoglided slowly in front of her and stopped. Luisa recognised her husband in the midst of a noisy group. Franco saw her, and springing ashore, ran towards her, while she came forward a few steps to meet him. They embraced, he speechless and blind with emotion, laughing and crying, full of gratitude, but uncertain as to her state of mind, as to how he should regulate his conduct; she more composed, extremely pale, and serious. "God bless you! God bless you!" he kept repeating, as they turned towards the hotel. Then Franco overwhelmed her with questions, first about her journey and the passing of the frontier, and then about Uncle Piero. When he mentioned the uncle, Luisa raised her head and said: "Look!" The old man was at the window waving his handkerchief and calling out his welcome in a ringing voice. "Oh!" cried Franco in amazement, and he ran forward.
Uncle Piero was waiting for him on the landing, his face wearing an expression of satisfaction that seemed to spread all over his peaceful breast. "How are you, my boy?" said he, taking both his hands and shaking them heartily, but, nevertheless, holding him at a distance. He did not want kisses, feeling that at such a moment theywould mean thanks; but he could not hold out against Franco's impetuosity. "Did you fancy a lady of the house of Maironi could travel without a courier?" said he, when he had extricated himself from the young man's arms. "Moreover, I came to enlist in theBersaglieri!" And the man who had said he was tired started downstairs, saying he was going to order dinner.
There was no sofa in their room. Franco drew Luisa to a seat on the bed, and sat down beside her, encircling her shoulders with his arm. He could not talk to her, could only keep on repeating: "I thank you! I thank you!" as he lavished eager caresses, eager kisses, and tender names upon her. Luisa did not respond in any way, but trembled violently with bowed head. Presently he checked himself, and, taking her head in his hands like some sacred thing, fell to touching with his lips the white hairs he saw here and there. She knew he was searching out the white hairs, understood those timid kisses, and was moved. She felt her heart of ice melting, and, seized with terror, struggled to defend herself more against her own emotions than against Franco. "You don't know," she said, "how cold my heart is. I did not even want to come, did not want to leave Maria or give you the pain of finding me in this state. But I came on Uncle Piero's account. He was determined to set out alone, and that I could not allow."
When she had pronounced these cruel words shefelt Franco's lips withdrawn from her hair, felt his arm forsake her shoulders. Both were silent for a time, then Franco murmured with great gentleness:
"Only thirteen hours more. Then perhaps I shall never trouble you again." At that moment Uncle Piero entered and announced that dinner was ready. Luisa took her husband's hand and pressed it in silence; it was not a lover-like pressure, but it told him she shared his emotion.
At dinner neither Franco nor Luisa could eat. But the uncle had a good appetite, and talked a great deal. He did not approve of Franco's enlisting. "What sort of a soldier do you expect to become?" said he. "What will you do without your camphor, your sedative water, and all the rest?"
Franco replied that he had cast aside all remedies, that he felt as if he were of steel, and that he should become the most robust soldier of the whole ninth regiment. "Maybe," the uncle grumbled, "maybe. And you, Luisa, what do you say about it?" Luisa believed it would be as her husband had said. "Then that is enough!" the uncle cried. "And so, hurrah!" He had a great opinion of the strength of Austria, and did not view matters in the same rosy light as did Franco. According to Franco there was not the slightest doubt that the Italians would be victorious. He had seen one of Niel's adjutants, who had come to Turin on a secret mission, andhad heard him say to some staff officers: "Nous allons supprimer l'Autriche!" Of course they fully expected to leave at least fifty thousand Italians and Frenchmen between the Ticino and the Isonzo.
"Excuse me, Signori," said the waiter who was serving them, "but did the gentlemen speak of enlisting in the ninth regiment?"
"Yes."
"The Queen's Brigade! A splendid brigade! I served in the tenth. We covered ourselves with glory in 1848, as you may remember. Goito, Santo Lucia, Governolo, and Volta. Now it will be your turn."
"We will do our best."
Luisa shuddered slightly. The English people, who were dining at a table near them, heard this dialogue and looked at Franco. For some minutes no one in the room spoke; there passed before them the vision of a column of infantry charging with fixed bayonets, amidst a shower of grapeshot.
After dinner the uncle remained at the hotel for his usual nap, and Franco went out with Luisa. They turned to the right towards the Palace. It was rather dark and a few infrequent drops of rain were falling. The steps leading from the shore to the courtyard of the villa were slippery, and Franco offered his arm to his wife, who took it in silence. They stopped between the deserted courtyard and the stairs that lead to the landing-stage,to count the hours which the clock on the Palace was ringing out. Six o'clock. Two hours had passed, and there now remained only eleven before the separation, before the unknown! They walked on slowly and silently, following the straight path between the lake and the side of the Palace, as far as the corner which commands a view of the Isola dei Pescatori, where some lights were already visible. Two women came towards them, chattering, and walking arm in arm. Franco allowed them to pass, and then asked his wife if she remembered the Rancò.
Two years before their marriage they had made an excursion with a party of friends to Drano and the Rancò, high pasture-lands of the Valsolda, on the way to the Passo Stretto. They had had a lively dispute, and had sulked and suffered for an hour. "Yes," Luisa replied, "I remember." At the same moment both realised how different was the present hour, and how painful it was to have to admit the difference. They did not speak again until they reached the corner. Bells rang out on the Isola dei Pescatori. Franco dropped his wife's arm, and leaned upon the parapet. The misty lake was silent; nothing was to be seen save the lights on the other island. The lake, the mist, those lights, those bells, which might have belonged to a ship lost at sea, the silence of all things, even the infrequent, tiny rain-drops, everything was so sad!
"And do you remember afterwards?" Francomurmured, without turning his head. Luisa was also leaning against the parapet. She was silent for a moment, and then answered in an undertone:
"Yes, dear."
And in her "dear," there was a slight and hidden beginning of warmth, of affectionate emotion. Franco felt it, and thrilled with joy, but controlled himself.
"I am thinking," he went on, "of the letter I wrote you as soon as I got home, and of the three words you said to me next day, at Muzzaglio, when the others were dancing under the chestnut-trees, and you passed close to me on your way to get your shawl, which you had left on the grass. Do you remember?"
"Yes."
He took her hand and raised it to his lips.
"And do you also remember that I slipped before we reached the bridge, and that you said: 'My dear sir, it is your place to support me!'"
Luisa did not answer, but pressed his hands.
"I have been good for nothing," he added sadly. "I have not known how to support you."
"You have done all you could."
Luisa's voice, as she spoke these words, was indeed faint, but very different from when she had said: "My heart is so cold."
Once more her husband drew her arm through his, and they returned to the landing-stage. The dear arm was less passive than before, and betrayedagitation and a struggle. Franco stopped, and said softly:
"And if I am called to join Maria? What shall I say to her from you?"
She began to tremble, and resting her head on his shoulder, whispered: "No, stay here!" Franco did not hear the words, and repeated: "What?" There was no answer, and very slowly he bent his head towards her, saw her lips seeking his, and pressed his own upon them. His heart was beating fast, faster than when he had kissed Luisa for the first time as her lover. He raised his head, but could not speak. At last he succeeded in saying these words: "I will tell her you have promised——" "No," murmured Luisa, in great distress. "I cannot do that. You must not ask it of me! It is no longer possible!"
"What is not possible?"
"Oh, you understand quite well! I also understood what you meant!"
She started forward as if to flee from the subject, but still clinging to Franco's arm, and he held her back.
"Luisa," said he gravely, almost severely, "will you let me go away like this? Do you realise what it means to me to go away like this?"
Then she slowly withdrew her arm from his, and turned towards the parapet on the right, leaning upon it, and gazing into the water as she had done that night at Oria. Franco stoodquietly beside her; waited a few moments, and then begged her to answer his question.
"It would be better for me to end it all in the lake," she said bitterly. Her husband passed his arm round her waist, pulled her away from the parapet, and then letting her go, threw up his arm with a gesture of protest. "You!" said he indignantly. "You talk thus? You who used to prate of looking upon life as a battle? And is this the way you fight? Once I believed you were the stronger of us two. Now I know it is I who am the stronger. Much the stronger! Can you not even imagine what I have suffered during all these years? Can you not——" For a moment his voice failed him, but he quickly controlled himself and went on. "Can you not even understand what you are to me, and what I would give to be able to spare you the slightest pain? While you, it would seem, do not care how cruelly you rend my soul!" She flung herself into his arms. In the silence that ensued, broken only by her spasmodic and suppressed sobbing, Franco heard steps approaching, and with difficulty freed himself from her embrace and induced her to turn with him towards the hotel. "You naughty girl!" he whispered. "And it is you who don't want me to be glad to die, when I can die so gloriously for my country!" Luisa pressed his arm without speaking. They met two young lovers, who looked curiously at them in passing. The girl smiled. When they reachedthe short flight of steps that leads down to the little square in front of S. Vittore, they heard voices of women and girls. Luisa paused a moment on the first step, and said softly the three words she had spoken at Muzzaglio.
"I love you!"
Franco did not answer, but pressed her arm. Very slowly they went down the stairs, and entered the Albergo del Delfino.
Some young men who were drinking, smoking, and laughing, rose as Franco and Luisa entered, and came towards them. "Signora," said the first to present himself to Luisa, "your husband has probably announced to you the visit of the Seven Wise Men." A great hubbub immediately ensued, because Franco had forgotten to tell Luisa that his friends had accompanied him from Turin, but, not wishing to intrude, had gone on to Pallanza promising to come and pay their respects to the Signora in the evening. They had come over from Pallanza in a row-boat, and had intended returning immediately, but Franco ordered a couple of bottles of wine and, soon, in spite of Luisa's presence, their hilarity became such that the proprietor begged them, for love of his English family, to make less noise.
After arranging with Franco to meet him in the morning on board the first steamer, the Wise Mentook themselves off. Franco accompanied them to the boat and Luisa went to look after Uncle Piero. He had left word for them with the proprietor that, feeling very sleepy, he had gone to bed. In fact Luisa could hear him snoring noisily. She put the candle down, and waited for Franco.
He came up almost immediately, and was surprised to hear that the uncle was already asleep. He had wished to say good-bye to him before going to bed, as his boat was leaving so early in the morning—at half-past five. The door between the two rooms was closed, but nevertheless Luisa begged her husband to step and speak softly. She told him what Cia had confided to her. The uncle needed rest. She hoped he would remain in bed until nine or ten o'clock, and she intended to start at one, and spend the night at Magadino, in order not to tire him too much. She laid great stress upon her apprehensions concerning Uncle Piero's health, and talked incessantly, nervously, anxious to avoid other topics, seeking thus to escape too tender caresses. At the same time she was continually moving about the room, repeatedly taking up and putting down the same objects, and this partly from nervousness, partly with the intention that her husband should go to bed before her. He, for his part, was intent upon a side-bag, which he was finding difficulty in opening. At last he succeeded, and, calling his wife to him, gave hera roll containing fifty twenty-franc pieces. "I know," said he, "that I shall not be able to send you anything for some months. This money is not mine, I have borrowed it." Then he drew a sealed letter from his pocket. "And this," he added, "is my will. I have little to leave, but of course I must dispose of that little. I have made only one legacy. My father's scarf-pin, which you have, is to go to Uncle Piero. I have also set down the name of the person who loaned me the thousand francs. Besides the will the letter contains a few words for you alone. That is all." He spoke with grave sweetness, and without agitation. Her hands trembled as she took the letter. "Thank you," she said, and began to unbraid her hair, but she immediately twisted it up again, hardly conscious of what she was doing, in her struggle with the phantom of the dead child, and with another vision of war and death. She said brokenly that, as she must be up so early to accompany Franco to the boat, she thought she would lie down with her clothes on, and not loosen her hair. Franco made no comment, but having said a short prayer, began to undress. From his neck he unclasped a little chain from which hung a small gold cross. This had belonged to his mother. "I wish you to keep this," said he, offering it to Luisa. "It will be safer. It might, perhaps, fall into the hands of the Croatians." She was horrified, she shuddered, hesitated a moment, then threw her arms abouthis neck, and pressed him to her in a passionate embrace.
The waiter knocked at their door at about half-past four. At five Franco took the candle and went into Uncle Piero's room. He was already awake. Franco said good-bye to him, and then proposed to Luisa that they also take leave of each other in the privacy of their own room. In her face and voice there was an expression of grave and painful stupor. She displayed no agitation, and did not weep, but embraced and kissed her husband as one in a dream, and, still in a dazed state, followed him downstairs. Did a flash from the thought that was filling her soul pass into his? If so, it happened in the little hotel parlour, while he was taking his coffee, his wife seated opposite him. He seemed suddenly to discover something in that glance, in that expression, for he paused to study her, cup in hand, while ineffable tenderness, anxiety and emotion overspread his face. She evidently had no wish to speak, but he longed to do so. A hidden word quivered in all the muscles of his face, and shone in his eyes, but his mouth did not venture to utter it.
Hand in hand they went down to the landing-stage, and leaned against the wall where Luisa had leaned the day before. When they heard the noise of the paddles, they embraced for the last time and said good-bye without tears, troubled rather by the hidden thought harbouredby both than afflicted by the separation. The steamer came in noisily, the ropes were flung ashore and made fast. A bell rang. One kiss more! "God bless you!" said Franco, and hurried on board.
She lingered as long as she could hear the noise of the paddles, as the steamer glided towards Stressa. Then she returned to the hotel, sank upon the bed, and sat there as one turned to stone, engrossed in the idea, in the instinctive certainty, that maternity awaited her a second time.
Although this was precisely what she had so greatly feared it cannot be said that now she was grieved. All other sentiments were subdued by the wonder of listening to a strong, inward voice, that was so clear and still so inexplicable. She was dazed. Since Maria's death she had firmly believed that the Book of Destiny could contain nothing new for her, that certain secret fibres of her heart were dead. And now a mysterious voice was speaking within that heart, saying: Know that one page in the book of your destiny is finished, and the leaf has been turned. For you there is still a future of intense living. The drama that you believed had come to an end at the second act, is to continue, and if I Myself announce it to you, it must indeed prove wonderful!
For three hours, until Uncle Piero called her, she sat there, absorbed in this voice.
The uncle rose at half-past nine; he was feeling very well. The weather was still damp, almostrainy, but he would not hear of remaining in the house until it was time to start for Magadino, as Luisa wished him to do. He knew, for he had inquired of the proprietor, that the gardens could be visited after nine o'clock, so at ten he drank his milk and then started out to visit them with Luisa. When they passed S. Vittore he wished to go in and see the paintings. Mass was being sung, and at that moment the officiating priest turned towards them and saidBenedicat vos omnipotens Deus. Uncle Piero crossed himself devoutly, and lingered to hear the last gospel. He did not attempt to examine the paintings, for there was little light in the church, but said with his accustomed cheerfulness: "Now that I have received that blessing I feel quite happy!"
It was not possible to hurry in his company. He stopped at every step, examining everything that seemed artistic, everything that was in a position to be examined. He studied the front of the church, the triple stairway of the landing-stage of Villa Borromeo, all three sides of the courtyard, and the great palm in the centre, which he was much scandalised to learn Luisa had not even noticed when she had passed it the night before with Franco. When the custodian ushered them into the palace, it took the uncle at least ten minutes to climb and admire the great stairway. As they reached the top a ray of sun glinted forth, and the custodian proposed that they should take advantage of this and visit the gardens.He turned to the left and led the visitors through a suite of empty rooms to the iron gate, where he rang the bell. A gardener appeared, a civil lad, to whom Uncle Piero took a great fancy, for he explained everything willingly, and the uncle's questions were not few. The camphor-tree near the entrance cost him five minutes. Luisa was distressed, for she feared the uncle would tire himself too much, and she herself was weary of looking at so many trees, of hearing so many names, both Latin and Italian, and of having to watch the uncle, while her thoughts called for silence and solitude. The gardener proposed going up to the Castello di Nettuno. Uncle Piero would have liked to inspect more closely the unicorn of the Borromei, which stood rampant up there, but there were many stairs to climb, the air was heavy, and he hesitated. Luisa took advantage of that moment of hesitation to ask the gardener where she might find a seat. "Just below here," said he. "On the left, where theStrobusare." Uncle Piero finally consented to go down and visit the clump ofStrobus.
He was tired, but he continued to look at everything, to ask questions about everything. As they walked towards theStrobusthey heard in the distance, over towards Isola Madre, the rolling of the drums of the National Guard of Pallanza, which was drilling on the shore. "Now it is all play," said the young man. "Not exactly play, but.... Next month we shall go to work inearnest. We have a lesson to give to a huge beast. There it is, over there, the monster!" The monster was the Austrian war steamerRadetzky, called by the inhabitants of the Piedmontese shore,el Radescòn. "The ship is just entering the bay of Laveno," said the young fellow, "coming from Luino. Come this way if you wish to see her plainly."
Uncle Piero knew his eyes were not strong enough to see the steamer, so he sat down on the first bench he found under theStrobus, which stood just in front of a group of bamboos, and was flanked by two groups of large azaleas. Behind the bamboos, between the great twisted trunks of theStrobus, he could see the mirror of white water trembling as far as the black line of the hills of Ispra. The sky, dark towards the north, was clear in that quarter. Luisa and the gardener went to the gate which bears the coat of arms, and which faces the green Isola Madre, Pallanza, and the upper lake. Luisa looked out over the immense expanse of leaden water, crowned by misty giants from the Sasso di Ferro group above Laveno to the mountains of Maccagno, and to the distant snows of the Splügen. The smoke of theRadetzkywas more plainly visible than its body, and the drums of Pallanza were still rolling. Uncle Piero called the gardener and Luisa went to lean against the parapet beside the gate, and near the yew-tree that rises from the terrace below. The tree shut out the view on the east. She was glad tobe alone at last, to rest her eyes and her thoughts on the grey of the great mountains and of the great waters. Presently the gardener came back to point out to her the yellow acacias and the white heather that were blossoming on the lower terrace. "Thebruyères blanchesbring luck," said he. Seeing that Luisa was lost in thought, and did not heed him, he started towards the hot-house containing the begonias. "An oldStrobus," said he, speaking in a loud voice that the visitors might hear him, but without looking around, "An oldStrobusthat has been struck by lightning. If you wish to visit the private gardens——"
Luisa turned from the parapet and went to fetch the uncle, and give him her arm if necessary. The gardener, who was waiting at the entrance of the little grove of laurels, saw her start towards the old gentleman, who was still sitting on the bench, saw her quicken her pace and then rush to his side with a cry.
Like the innocent and aged tree Uncle Piero also had been struck down. His body was resting against the back of the bench, his head had fallen forward, and his chin touched his breast. His eyes were open, fixed and expressionless. It had indeed been a farewell spectacle his beloved Valsolda had offered him the day before. Uncle Piero, the dear, venerable, old man, wise, upright, and fatherly, the benefactor of his own people, Uncle Piero was gone, gone forever. He had come to enlist, but God had called him to a higher service;the bugle had sounded, and he had answered the call. The drums of Pallanza still rolled, rolled for the end of the old world, and rolled for the advent of the new. In Luisa's womb there lay a vital germ which was preparing to fight the battles of a new era, preparing to taste other joys, other griefs than those which the man of the old world was leaving thus peacefully, blessed unconsciously, at the last moment, by that strange priest of Isola Bella, who had, perhaps, never uttered the holy words to one more worthy.