CHAPTER XXVIILUIGI SAVIOLA
“I come now to the most fateful day of my unhappy life. The day on which Luigi Saviola was presented to me.
“It was in November; but it was bright and sunny on the seashore.
“My companion and chaperon—once my English teacher—Miss Murray, was confined to the house by a slight attack of bronchitis, which she was carefully nursing lest it should become serious.
“I was walking on the esplanade, attended by my French governess.
“At that early hour, ten in the morning, there were but few people out besides nursemaids and children.
“We were sauntering along slowly, when we saw coming toward us Anglesea and another young gentleman, walking arm in arm, apparently on the most friendly and even affectionate terms.
“In a few minutes we met face to face.
“Anglesea bowed, and then presented his companion:
“‘Prince Luigi Saviola.’
“Madame de la Champe received the stranger’s low bow with all the courtesy of her nation.
“I do not know how I received him, I wore a little round turban hat, with a little thin, gray gauze mask veil over my face, which completely shaded my features, while it enabled me to look at the stranger.
“I know not if there be any such thing as love at first sight; for the only real, lasting love of my life was of slow growth, as you know, Abel. Oh, Abel! you do know that I love you!
“No! I do not believe there is such a thing as real love at first sight; but I do know that there is a madness that apes it.
“Some fascination made me look at this Italian from behind the shield of my gray veil, while he talked with my vivacious French governess, who quickly engaged him in conversation.
“He was young—quite youthful, indeed; and—it is a very effeminate term to apply to a man—but he was beautiful—not handsome, but beautiful. He was of medium height and slender proportions; but he was perfectly elegant in form and perfectly graceful in gesture. His profile was purely, finely Grecian. His complexion pale and clear, his hair, eyebrows and mustache of darkest brown; his eyes of darkest violet blue. Yet all this description gives but the outline of the youth’s form and face—it cannot give the subtle and exquisite charm of expression which was the chief beauty of his aspect, nor can it give the lingering music of the most melodious voice that ever spoke.
“Are you displeased with me, that I describe this stranger so minutely?
“I do it in cold blood, Abel, and only that you may understand and perhaps pardon the fascination he possessed over a sensitive, imaginative young recluse, such as I had been. And some instinct told me even then that this attraction was mutual, though we did not exchange a word, and he could clearly see my face.
“After a few moments of courteous conversation, the two young gentlemen bowed and walked on.
“I went home in a dream—the face and voice of the young stranger haunting my spirit.
“The Frenchwoman made some few favorable remarks on the manner and appearance of the young Italian; but I did not reply—I could not.
“I passed the day in a vision. I was like one possessed.
“Two days later young Anglesea made us the first call of many days.
“Madame de la Champe immediately beset him with questions about the young Italian.
“I said nothing, but listened with the deepest interest for his replies.
(“This is a confession, you know, Abel. And I mean that it shall be a full one.)
“I listened with the most eager curiosity to hear all that could be told of one who had taken complete possession of my fancy and imagination, if not of my heart.
“And what Anglesea told us of Luigi Saviola did but deepen the profound interest I already took in the young stranger.
“He told us that Saviola was of royal race, yet of advanced republican ideas. That for the expression of his principles he was a political exile. He was wealthy, and his wealth had been confiscated. He was now living in Brighton on the wreck of his fortune; but was brave, cheerful and heroic, as we had seen him.
“All this, as I say, deepened my interest in Saviola, and heightened my admiration for him. He was no longer a most charming person, but he was a hero and a martyr, a patriot and a humanitarian. And already I loved, adored, worshiped him, or believed that I did.
“You see, Abel, what a very ‘foolish virgin’ I was. But then, I was a motherless child.
“Anglesea was devoted to Saviola, and expressed the most profound esteem and admiration for him. He asked permission to bring the young Italian to call on us.
“It was an indiscreet request to make; but Anglesea was young and impulsive.
“It was an improper favor to grant, but my governess was vain and faithless, and had herself taken a fancy to the young Italian, so she consented that he should come.
“The intervening time between this day and the day of the visit was passed by me in a state of feverish anticipation.
“The next evening Anglesea brought Saviola. He was much more attractive than ever. He talked mostly with Madame de la Champe, but I felt that he looked mostly at me—at me, who scarcely ever uttered a word.
“This was the first of many calls—for some time made only in the company of his friend, and received by me only in the company of one or both of my governesses.
“How can I tell you the progress of that infatuation, hallucination—call it what you please—that kindled at the first meeting, and increased with every after interview?
“Saviola never sat by my side in those early days; never took my hand, except at meeting and parting, when, with the reverential tenderness of his race, he would raise it to his lips, bowing over it. He scarcely ever addressed me with words, but with glances—how eloquently! All the wooing was done through the passionate eyes.
“At first I could not look at him at all; then only very shyly; and then at length my eyes seemed irresistibly attracted to meet his—even to seek to meet his eys.
“Oh, Abel, I am telling you everything! I am unveiling my heart to you! How will you receive my confession?Will you believe that there was no conscious sense of wrongdoing at the time? But, indeed, there was none. Will you believe the stranger truth that this was not love which I gave to Luigi? I did not know what love meant until I met the one love of my life—years after this lunacy. Oh, Abel, believe that this delirium was not love, though even I, knowing no better, mistook it for love at the time. It was madness; it was hero-worship, enthusiasm. But not love. This young Italian exile, beautiful as Adonis in his person, was idealized and glorified in my vision by his history.
“Remember how young I was—scarcely past childhood; and remember how I had lived isolated from all society of my own rank and age, secluded in a desolate old manor house on the Irish, coast, whose very name—Weirdwaste—could not tell its dreariness; spending my solitary life in wandering by the seashore during the days, reading the old romances and poems left on the bookshelves of the old manor house, and dreaming dreams and seeing visions that seemed to have come to be realized in my present surroundings and crystallized in the person of Saviola.
“Oh, Abel! Oh, Abel! Pity and pardon me if you can, for now I come to the part of my life which I shrink from approaching as a child would shrink from a fierce fire.
“Luigi came every day now, whether Anglesea accompanied him or not. I had learned a little Italian from Miss Murray, at Weirdwaste, and now Madame de la Champe was continuing my studies in that language.
“Luigi found it out, and begged her permission to bring me some standard Italian works and to assist me in the translation.
“Madame, who looked upon me only as a child, and thought the attention of the young Italian so manytributes to her own charms, very affably consented, and so the exile became my unpaid master in Italian.
“The ‘standard’ works he brought were all poetry—Petrarch’s, Tasso’s and others’ impassioned songs. These he translated for me in more ways than one—with his pen, with his tongue, and more eloquently and effectively still with his glorious eyes.
“As for me, I was far gone in madness before Luigi ever had the opportunity to speak one direct word of love to me.
“The inevitable hour came at last. I was reading Italian poetry with Luigi.
“Madame de la Champe sat near, working a screen in Berlin wool. Suddenly she got up and left the room to match some shade of worsted.
“The next instant Saviola was at my feet, and, in a sudden tempest of impassioned words, he told me what his eyes had told me long ago.
“This was the first time we had been alone since we had met on the esplanade, and he had seized the occasion.
“I could not reply to him; but I did not repulse him, and he saw that I did not wish to do so.
“‘Madame!’ I whispered, as I heard the Frenchwoman’s approach, which had not attracted his attention.
“He arose at once, and resumed his attitude of teacher.
“Madame entered. She had not been gone two minutes.
“Gradually, as the intimacy between madame and the exile advanced, her strict surveillance over me was relaxed. I was still a child in her eyes, and she was a charming woman who had fired the young Italian with admiration. So she did not feat to leave Luigi and myself together.
“As for Miss Murray, she hated all foreigners, especiallyItalians, and most especially political exiles, so she was seldom present during Saviola’s calls. We had many atête-à-tête. And for a few weeks we lived happily in mere certainty that we could see and talk with each other every day. But then came a change.
“Luigi became restless and unhappy. He never smiled now. He often sighed heavily. He grew paler than his custom and very thin.
“Madame—poor madame—thought the youth was pining away for her love. And surely she did all she could to encourage him to speak plainly to her; all she could, except to tell him in so many words that she was ready to marry him.
“One day she sent me out of the room, and was with him alone for an hour. I think then she really did propose to him, and that he saved himself without wounding her, for when she recalled me to the room Saviola was gone, and she was in tears, when she said to me:
“‘Ah, the poor prince! He is so honorable, so conscientious. He sacrifices—he immolates himself! It is for duty—it is for patriotism! We must cure him of all that.’”