My Friend Prospero

by Henry Harland

  II

  John was in a state of mind that perplexed and rather annoyed him. Untilthe day before yesterday, his detachment here at Sant' Alessina fromordinary human society, the absence of people more or less of his ownsort, had been one of the elements of his situation which he hadpositively, consciously, rejoiced in,--had been an appreciable part ofwhat he had summarized to Lady Blanchemain as "the whole blessed thing."He had his castle, his pictures, his garden, he had the hills andvalley, the birds, the flowers, the clouds, the sun, he had the Rampio,he had Annunziata, he even had Annunziata's uncle; and with all this hehad a sense of having stepped out of a world that he knew by heart, thathe knew to satiety, a world that was stale and stuffy and threadbare,with its gilt rubbed off and its colours tarnished, into a world whereeverything was fresh and undiscovered and full of savour, a great coolblue and green world that from minute to minute opened up newperspectives, made new promises, brought to pass new surprises. And thissense, in some strange way, included Time as well as space. It was as ifhe had entered a new region of Time, as if he had escaped from themoving current of Time into a stationary moment. Alone here, wheremodern things or thoughts had never penetrated, alone with the earth andthe sky, the mediaeval castle, the dead ladies, with Annunziata, and theparroco, and the parroco's Masses and Benedictions--to-day, he wouldplease himself by fancying, might be a yesterday of long ago that hadsomehow dropped out of the calendar and remained, a fragment of the Pastthat had been forgotten and left over. The presence of a person of hisown sort, a fellow citizen of his own period, wearing its clothes,speaking its speech, would have broken the charm, would have seemed asundesirable and as inappropriate as the introduction of an Englishmeadow into the Italian landscape.

  Yet now such a person had come, and behold, her presence, so far frombreaking the charm, merged with and intensified it,--supplied indeedthe one feature needed to perfect it. A person of his own sort? Theexpression is convenient. A fellow citizen, certainly, of his period,wearing its clothes, speaking its speech. But a person, happily, not ofhis own sex, a woman, a beautiful woman; and what her presence suppliedto the poetry of Sant' Alessina, making it complete, was, if you like,the Eternal Feminine. As supplied already by the painted women on thewalls about him, this force had been static; as supplied by a woman wholived and breathed, it became dynamic. That was all very well; if hecould have let it rest at that, if he could have confined his interestin her, his feeling about her, to the plane of pure aesthetics, he wouldhave had nothing to complain of. But the mischief was that he couldn't.The thing that perplexed and annoyed him,--and humiliated him too, insome measure,--was a craving that had sprung up over-night, and was nowstrong and constant, to get into personal touch with her, to make heracquaintance, to talk with her; to find out a little what manner of soulshe had, to establish some sort of human relation with her. It wasn'tin the least as yet a sentimental craving; or, if it was, John at anyrate didn't know it. In its essence, perhaps, it was little more thancuriosity. But it was disturbing, upsetting, it destroyed the peace andthe harmonious leisure of his day. It perplexed him, it was outside hishabits, it was unreasonable. "Not unreasonable to think it might be funto talk to a pretty woman," he discriminated, "but unreasonable to yearnto talk to her as if your life hung in the balance." And in somemeasure, too, it humiliated him: it was a confession of weakness, ofinsufficiency to himself, of dependence for his contentment uponanother. He tried to stifle it; he tried to fix his mind on subjectsthat would lead far from it. Every subject, all subjects, subjects themost discrepant, seemed to possess one common property, that of leadingstraight back to it. Then he said, "Well, if you can't stifle it, yieldto it. Go down into the garden--hunt her up--boldly engage her inconversation." Assurance was the note of the man; but when he picturedhimself in the act of "boldly engaging her in conversation," hisassurance oozed away, and he was conscious of a thrice-humiliatingshyness. Why? What _was_ there in the woman that should turn a brave manshy?

  However, the stars were working for him. That afternoon, coming homefrom a stroll among the olives, he met her face to face at the gate ofthe garden, whither she had arrived from the direction of the village.Having made his bow, which she accepted with a smile, he could do noless than open the gate for her; and as their ways must thence lietogether, up the long ilex-shaded avenue to the castle, it would be anawkward affectation not to speak. And yet (he ground his teeth at havingto admit it) his heart had begun to pound so violently, (not fromemotion, he told himself,--from a mere ridiculous sort of nervousexcitement: what _was_ there in the woman that should excite a sane manlike that?) he was afraid to trust his voice, lest it should quaver andbetray him. But fortunately this pounding of the heart lasted only a fewseconds. The short business of getting the gate open, and of closing itafterwards, gave it time to pass. So that now, as they set forwardstowards the house, he was able to look her in the eye, and to observe,with impressiveness, that it was a fine day.

  She had accepted his bow with a smile, amiable and unembarrassed; and atthis, in quite the most unembarrassed manner, smiling again,--perhapswith just the faintest, just the gentlest shade of irony, and with justthe slightest quizzical upward tremor of the eyebrows,--"Isn't it a dayrather typical of the land and season?" she inquired.

  It was the first step that had cost. John's assurance was coming swiftlyback. Her own air of perfect ease in the circumstances very likelyaccelerated it. "Yes," he answered her. "But surely that isn't a reasonfor begrudging it a word of praise?"

  By this he was lucky enough to provoke a laugh, a little light gaytrill, sudden and brief like three notes on a flute.

  "No," she admitted. "You are right. The day deserves the best we can sayof it."

  "Her voice," thought John, availing himself of a phrase that had struckhim in a book he had lately read, "her voice is like ivory and whitevelvet." And the touch, never so light, of a foreign accent with whichshe spoke, rendered her English piquant and pretty,--gave to eachsyllable a crisp little clean-cut outline. They sauntered on for aminute or two in silence, with half the width of the road-way betweenthem, the shaded road-way, where the earth showed purple through a thingreen veil of mosses, and where irregular shafts of sunlight, here andthere, turned purple and green to red and gold. The warm air, woven ofgarden-fragrances, hung round them palpable, like some infinitelysubtile fabric. And of course blackbirds were calling, blackcaps andthrushes singing, in all the leafy galleries overhead. A fine dayindeed, mused John, and indeed worthy of the best that they could say.His nervousness, his excitement, had entirely left him, his assurancehad come completely back; and with it had come a curious deepsatisfaction, a feeling that for the moment at any rate the world leftnothing to be wished for, that the cup of his desire was full. He didn'teven, now that he might do so, wish to talk to her. To walk with her wasenough,--to enjoy her companionship in silence. Yes, that wasit--companionship. He caught at the word. "That is what I have beenunconsciously needing all along. I flattered myself that I wasluxuriating in the very absence of it. But man is a gregarious animal,and I was deceived." So he could refer the effect of her propinquity tothe mere gregarious instinct, not suspecting that a more powerfulinstinct was already awake. Anyhow, his sense of that propinquity,--hisconsciousness of her, gracefully moving beside him in the sweet weather,while her summery garments fluttered, and some strange, faint, elusiveperfume was shaken from them,--filled him with a satisfaction that forthe moment seemed ultimate. He had no wish to talk. Their progress sideby side was a conversation without words. They were getting to know eachother, they were breaking the ice. Each step they took was as good as aspoken sentence, was a mutual experience, drawing them closer, helpingto an understanding. They walked slowly, as by a tacit agreement.

  Silence, however, couldn't in the nature of things last for ever. It wasshe who presently broke it.

  "I owe you," she said, in her ivory voice, with her clean-cutenunciation, "a debt of thanks." And still again she smiled, as shelooked over towards him, her dark eyes
glowing, her dark hair richlydrooping, in the shadow of a big hat of wine-coloured straw.

  John's eyes were at a loss. "Oh--?" he wondered.

  "For a pleasure given me by our friend Annunziata," she explained. "Thismorning she told me a most interesting parable about Death. And shementioned that it was you who had suggested to her to tell it me."

  "Oh," said John, laughing, while the pink of his skin deepened a shade."She mentioned that, did she? I'm glad if you don't feel that I took agood deal upon myself. But she had just told the same parable to me, andit seemed a pity it shouldn't have a larger audience."

  Then, after a few more paces taken again in silence, "What a marvellouslittle person she is, Annunziata!" said Maria Dolores.

  "She's to a marvellous degree the right product of her milieu," saidJohn.

  Maria Dolores did not speak, but her eyes questioned, "Yes? How do youmean?"

  "I mean that she's a true child of the presbytery," he replied, "and atthe same time a true child of this Italy, where Paganism has neverperfectly died. She has been carefully instructed in her catechism, andshe has fed upon pious legends, she has breathed an ecclesiasticalatmosphere, until the things of the Church have become a part of hervery bone. She sees everything in relation to them, translateseverything in terms of them. But at the same time odd streaks ofPaganism survive in her. They survive a little--don't they?--in allItalians. Wherever she goes her eye reads omens. She will cast yourfortune for you with olive-stones. The woods are peopled for her byfauns and dryads. When she takes her walks abroad, I've no doubt, shecatches glimpses of Proteus rising from the lake, and hears old Tritonblow his wreathed horn."

  Maria Dolores looked interested.

  "Yes," she said, slowly, thoughtfully, and meditated for an interval.By-and-by, "You know," she recommenced, "she's a sort of little personabout whom one can't help feeling rather frightened." And her eyeslooked to his for sympathetic understanding.

  But his were interrogative. "No? Why should one feel frightened abouther?"

  "Oh," said Maria Dolores, with a movement, "it isn't exactly easy totell why. One's fears are vague. But--well, for one thing, she thinks somuch about Death. Death and what comes after,--they interest her somuch. It doesn't seem natural, it makes one uneasy. And then she's sodelicate-looking. Sometimes she's almost transparent. In every way sheis too serious. She uses her mind too much, and her body too little. Sheought to have more of the gaiety of childhood, she ought to have otherchildren to romp with. She's too much like a disembodied spirit. It allalarms one."

  John, as she spoke, frowned, pondering. When she had done, his frowncleared, he shook his head.

  "I don't think it need," he said. "Her delicacy, her frailness, havenever struck me as indicating weakness,--they seem simply the properphysical accompaniments of her crystalline little soul,--she's made of afine and delicate clay. She thinks about Death, it is true, but not in amorbid way,--and that's a part of her ecclesiastical tradition; and shethinks quite as much about life,--she thinks about everything. I agreewith you, it's a pity she has no other children. But she isn't by anymeans deficient in the instincts of childhood. She can enjoy a chocolatecigar, for instance, as well as another; and as for marchpane, I haveher own word that she adores it."

  Maria Dolores gave another light trill of laughter.

  "Yes, I'm aware of her passion for marchpane. She confided it to me thismorning. And as, in reply to her questions, I admitted that I ratherliked it myself, she very generously offered to bring me some thisafternoon,--which, to be sure, an hour ago, she did."

  She laughed again, and John laughed too.

  "All the same" she insisted, "I can't help that feeling of uneasinessabout her. Sometimes, when I look at her, I can almost see her wings.What will be her future, if she grows up? One would rather not think ofher as married to some poor Italian, and having to give herself to theprosaic sort of existence that would mean."

  "The sordid sort of existence," augmented John. "No, one would decidedlyrather not. But she will never marry. She will enter religion. Heruncle has it all planned out. He destines her for the Servites."

  "Oh? The Servites--the Mantellate? I am glad of that," exclaimed MariaDolores. "It is a most beautiful order. They have an especial devotionto Our Lady of Sorrows."

  "Yes," said John, and remembered it was for Our Lady of Sorrows that shewho spoke was named.

  Slow though their march had been, by this time they had come to the endof the avenue, and were in the wide circular sweep before the castle.They stopped here, and stood looking off over the garden, with itssombre cypresses and bright beds of geranium, down upon the valley, dimand luminous in a mist of gold. Great, heavy, fantastic-shaped clouds,pearl-white with pearl-grey shadows, piled themselves up against thescintillant dark blue of the sky. In and out among the rose-trees nearat hand, where the sun was hottest, heavily flew, with a loudbourdonnement, the cockchafers promised by Annunziata,--big, blundering,clumsy, the scorn of their light-winged and business-like competitors,the bees. Lizards lay immobile as lizards cast in bronze, only theirlittle glittering, watchful pin-heads of eyes giving sign of life. Andof course the blackcaps never for a moment left off singing.

  They stood side by side, within a yard of each other, in silentcontemplation of these things, during I don't know how many long and,for John, delicious seconds. Yes, he owned it to himself; it wasdelicious to feel her standing there beside him, in silent communionwith him, contemplating the same things, enjoying the samepleasantnesses. Companionship--companionship: it was what he had beenunconsciously needing all along! ... At last she turned, and,withdrawing her eyes lingeringly from the landscape, looked into his,with a smile. She did not speak, but her smile said, just as explicitlyas her lips could have done, "What a scene of beauty!"

  And John responded aloud, with fervour, "Indeed, indeed it is."

  "And so romantic," she added. "It is like a scene out of some old highmusical romance."

  "The most romantic scene I know," said he. "All my life I have thoughtso."

  "Oh?" said she, looking surprise. "Have you known it all your life?"

  "Well,--very nearly," said he, with half a laugh. "I saw it first when Iwas ten. Then for long years I lost it,--and only recovered it, byaccident, a month ago."

  Her face showed her interest. "Oh? How was that? How did it happen?"

  "When I was ten," John recounted, half laughing again, "I was travellingwith my father, and, among the many places we visited, one seemed to mea very vision of romance made real. A vast and stately castle, in agarden, in a valley, with splendid halls and chambers, and countlessbeautiful pictures of women. All my life I remembered it, dreamed of it,longed to see it again. But I hadn't a notion where it was, save vaguelythat it was somewhere in Italy; and, my poor father being dead, therewas no one I could ask. Then, wandering in these parts a month ago, Istumbled upon it, and recognized it. Though shrunken a good deal insize, to be sure, it was still recognizable, and as romantic as ever."

  Maria Dolores listened pensively. When he had reached his period, hereyes lighted up. "What a charming adventure!" she said. "And so, foryou, besides its general romance, the place has a personal one, all yourown. I, too, have known it for long years, but only from photographs. Isuppose I should never have seen the real thing, except for a friend ofmine coming to live here."

  "I wonder," said John, "that the people who own it never live here."

  "The Prince of Zelt-Neuminster?" said she. "No,--he doesn't like theItalian Government. Since Lombardy passed from Austria to Italy, thefamily have entirely given up staying at Sant' Alessina."

  "In those circumstances," said John, "practical-minded people, I shouldthink, would get rid of the place."

  "Oh," said she, laughing, "the Prince, in some ways, is practical-mindedenough. He has this great collection of Italian paintings, which, byItalian law, he mayn't remove from Italian soil; and if he were to getrid of Sant' Alessina, where could he house them? In other ways, though,he is perhaps
not so practical. He is one of those Utopians who believethat the present Kingdom of Italy must perforce before long makeshipwreck; and I think he holds on to Sant' Alessina in the dream ofcoming here in triumph, and grandly celebrating that event."

  "I see," said John, nodding. "That is a beautiful ideal."

  "Good-bye," said she, flashing a last quick smile into his eyes; and shemoved away, down a garden path, towards the pavilion beyond the clock.