“You are fortunate to be the only man selected to melt that coldness,” said Sylvie with a touch of disdain, “Myself, I think you make a great mistake in calling Angela passionless. She is all passion — and ardour — but it is kept down, — held firmly within bounds, and devoutly consecrated to you. Pardon me, if I say that you should be more grateful for the love and trust she gives you. You are not without rivals in the field.”
Florian Varillo raised his eyebrows smilingly.
“Rivals? VERAMENTE! I am not aware of them!”
“No, I should say you had too good an opinion of yourself to imagine any rival possible!” said the Comtesse, “But such a person may exist!”
Varillo yawned, and flicked a grain of dust off his waistcoat with a fastidious thumb and finger.
“Impossible! No one could possibly fall in love with Angela now! She is an icicle, — no man save myself has the ghost of a chance with her!”
“Of course not,” said Sylvie impatiently, “Because she is betrothed to you. But if things were not as they are—”
“It would make no difference, I assure you,” laughed Varillo gaily, “Angela does not like men as a rule. She is fondest of romance — of dreams — of visions, out of which come the ideas for her pictures—”
“And she is quite passionless with all this, you think?” said Sylvie, “The ‘stronger sentiment which strikes the heart like a flash of lightning, and consumes it’, as you so poetically describe it — could never possibly disturb her peace?”
“I think not,” replied Varillo, with a meditative air, “Angela and I glided into love like two children wandering by chance into a meadow full of flowers, — no storm struck us — no sudden danger signal flashed from our eyes — no trembling hurry of the blood bade us rush into each other’s arms and cling! — nothing of this marvel touched us! — we loved with all the calm — but without the glory!”
His voice, — the most fascinating quality attached to his personality, — rose and fell in this little speech with an exquisite cadence, half sad, half sweet, — and Sylvie, impressionable creature as she was, with her innate love of romance and poetry, was unconsciously moved by it to a faint sigh. There was nothing to sigh for, really, — it was just a mere melodious noise of words, in the making of which Florian Varillo was an adept. He had not an atom of serious thought in his remark, any more than in the dainty verses he was wont to append to his pictures — verses which he turned out with the lightest and swiftest ease, and which read like his spoken sentences, as if there were a meaning in them, when truly there was none. But Sylvie was just then in a curious state of mind, and slight things easily impressed her. She was in love — and yet she was not in love. The handsome face and figure of the Marquis Fontenelle, together with many of his undoubted good and even fine qualities, attracted her and held her in thrall, much more than the consciousness of his admiration and pursuit of her, — but — and this was a very interfering “but” indeed, — she was reluctantly compelled to admit to herself that there was no glozing over the fact that he was an incorrigibly “fast”, otherwise bad man. His life was a long record of LIAISONS with women, — an exact counterpart of the life of the famous actor Miraudin. And though there is a saying that a reformed rake makes the best husband, Sylvie was scarcely sure of being willing to try this test, — besides, the Marquis had not offered himself in that capacity, but only as a lover. In Paris, — within reach of him, surrounded by his gracious and graceful courtesies everywhere, the pretty and sensitive Comtesse had sometimes felt her courage oozing out at her finger’s ends, — and the longing to be loved became so strong and overwhelming in her soul that she had felt she must perforce one day yield to her persistent admirer’s amorous solicitations, come what would of it in the end. Her safety had been in flight; and here in Rome, she had found herself, like a long-tossed little ship, suddenly brought up to firm anchorage. The vast peace and melancholy grandeur of the slowly dying “Mother of Nations”, enveloped her as with a sheltering cloak from the tempest of her own heart and senses, and being of an exquisitely refined and dainty nature in herself, she had, while employing her time in beautifying, furnishing and arranging her apartments in the casa D’Angeli, righted her mind, so to speak, and cleared it from the mists of illusion which had begun to envelop it, so that she could now think of Fontenelle quietly and with something of a tender compassion, — she could pray for him and wish him all things good, — but she could not be quite sure that she loved him. And this was well. For we should all be very sure indeed that we do love, before we crucify ourselves to the cross of sacrifice. Inasmuch as if the love in us be truly Love, we shall not feel the nails, we shall be unconscious of the blood that flows, and the thorns that prick and sting, — we shall but see the great light of Resurrection springing glorious out of death! But if we only THINK we love, — when our feeling is the mere attraction of the senses and the lighter impulses — then our crucifixion is in vain, and our death is death indeed. Some such thoughts as these had given Sylvie a new charm of manner since her arrival in Rome — she was less mirthful, but more sympathetic — less RIANTE, but infinitely prettier and more fascinating. Florian Varillo studied her appreciatively in this regard after he had uttered his little meaningless melody of sentiment, and thought within himself— “A week or two and I could completely conquer that woman!” He was mistaken — men who think these sort of things often are. But the thought satisfied him, and gave bold lustre to his eyes and brightness to his smile when he rose to take his leave. He had been one of the guests at a small and early dinner-party given by the Comtesse that evening, — and with the privilege of an old acquaintance, he had lingered thus long after all the others had gone to their respective homes.
“I will bid you now the felicissima notte, cara e bella contessa!” he said caressingly, raising her small white hand to his lips, and kissing it with a lingering pressure of what he considered a peculiarly becoming moustache— “When Angela arrives to-morrow night I shall be often at the Palazzo Sovrani — shall I see you there?”
“Of course you will see me there,” replied Sylvie, a little impatiently, “Am I not one of Angela’s closest friends?”
“True! And for the sake of la mia dolcezza, you will also be a friend to me?”
“‘la mia dolcezza’”, repeated Sylvie, “Is that what you call her?”
“Yes — but I fear it is not original!” said Varillo smiling, “One Ariosto called his lady thus.”
“Yes?” and Sylvie’s eyes darkened and grew humid with a sudden tenderness of thought, “It is a pretty phrase!”
“It should be used to YOU always, by every man who has my present privilege!” said Varillo, gallantly, kissing her hand once more, “You will be my friend?”
Sylvie disengaged her hand from his.
“You must not depend upon me, Signor,” she said with sudden coldness, “To be perfectly frank with you I am not sure that I like you. You are very charming and very clever — but I doubt your sincerity.”
“Ah, che sono infelice!” murmured varillo softly, “you are right, bellissima madama! I am not myself with many people — but with you — you are one of the few who understand me . . . I am the very soul of candour!”
He fixed his eyes full upon her with an open and straight regard, adding, “Can you doubt me?” in a touching tone of wounded feeling.
The Comtesse laughed, and her face flushed.
“Well, I do not know!” she said, with a light gesture of her hands as though she threw something unpleasant away from her, “I shall fudge of you by the happiness — or sorrow — of Angela!”
A slight frown contracted his brows — but it passed quickly, and the candid smile illumined his mobile face once more.
“Ebben! Buona notte, bela capricciosa!” and bowing low he turned towards the door, “Thank you a thousand times for a very happy evening! Even when you are unkind to me you are still charming! Addio!”
She murmured an “addio” in response, a
nd when he had gone, and the echo of his footfall down the great marble stairs had completely died away, she went out once more to the balcony and leaned among the sculptured angels, a dainty, slender, white figure, with her soft flower-like face turned up to the solemn sky, where the large moon marched like an Amazon through space, attended by her legions and battalions of stars. So slight, so fragile and sweet a woman! — with a precious world of love pent up in her heart . . . yet alone — quite alone on this night of splendid luminousness and majestic suggestions of infinity, — an infinity so monstrous and solitary to the one delicate creature, whose whole soul craved for a perfect love. Alas, for this “perfect love,” of which all the dearest women dream! Where shall they find it? — and how shall they win it? Too often it comes when they may not have it; the cup of nectar is offered to lips that are forbidden to drink of it, because the world’s convention stands between and turns the honey to gall. One of the many vague problems of a future life, offered for our consideration, is the one concerning the righteous satisfaction of love. Will not those who have been bound fast as prisoners in the bonds of matrimony without love, find those whose spirits are naturally one with theirs, but whom they have somehow missed in this life? For Byron’s fine lines are eternally true, —
“Few — none — find what they love or could have loved, — Though accident, blind contact, and the strong Necessity of loving, have removed Antipathies — but to recur ere long Envenom’d with irrevocable wrong.”
And the “blind contact” is the worst of all influences brought to bear upon the mind and heart, — the most pernicious, and the most deeply weighted with responsibility. In this regard, Sylvie Hermenstein had acted wisely by removing herself from association, or “blind contact” with her would-be lover, — and yet, though she was aware that her doing so had caused a certain dispersal of the atmosphere which almost veered towards complete disillusion, she found nevertheless, that Rome as she had said, was “dull”; her heart was empty, and longing for she knew not what. And that deep longing she felt could not have been completely gratified by the brief ardours of Fontenelle. And so she sat thinking wearily, — wondering what was to become of her life. She had riches in plenty, a fine estate and castle in Hungary, — servants at her beck and call — and yet with all her wealth and beauty and brilliancy, she felt that she was only loved by two persons in the world, her old butler, and Madame Bozier, who had been her first governess, and who now lived with her, as a sort of dame d’honneur surrounded with every comfort and luxury, and who certainly served her former pupil with a faithful worship that would not have changed, even if the direst poverty instead of riches had been the portion of her beloved patroness. This elderly lady it was who entered now with a soft and hesitating step, and raising her glasses to her eyes, peered anxiously through the lighted room towards the dark balcony where Sylvie stood, like a fairy fallen out of the moon, and who presently ventured to advance and call softly,
“Sylvie!”
The pretty Comtesse turned and smiled.
“Is it you, Katrine? Will you come out here? It is not cold, and there is a lace wrap on the chair, — put it round your dear old head and come and be romantic with me!” and she laughed as the worthy Bozier obeyed her, and came cautiously out among the angels’ sculptured wings. “Ah, dear Katrine! The happy days are gone when a dark-eyed Roman lover would come strolling down a street like this to strike the chords of his mandoline, and sing the dear old song,
“‘Ti voglio bene assai, E tu non pensi a me!’”
Without thinking about it, she sang this refrain suddenly in her sweet mezzo-soprano, every note ringing clear on the silence of the night, and as she did so a man of slim figure and medium height, stepped out of the dark shadows and looked up. His half laughing eyes, piercing in their regard, met the dreamy soft ones of the pretty woman sitting among the angels’ heads above him — and pausing a moment he hesitated — then lifted his hat. His face was excessively delicate in outline and very pale, but a half mischievous smile softened and sweetened the firm lines of his mouth and chin, and as the moonbeams played caressingly on his close curling crop of fair hair, he looked different enough to most of the men in Rome to be considered singular as well as handsome. Sylvie, hidden as she was among the shadows, blushed and drew back, a little vexed with herself, — the worthy Madame Bozier was very properly scandalised.
“My dear child!” she murmured, “Remember — we are in Rome. People judge things so strangely! What an unfortunate error!—”
But Sylvie became suddenly unmanageable. Her love of coquetry and mischief got the better of her, and she thrust out her pretty head over the balcony once more.
“Be quiet, Katrine!” she whispered, “I was longing for a romance, and here is one!” And detaching a rose from her dress she tossed it lightly to the stranger below. He caught it — then looked up once more.
“Till we meet,” he said softly in English, — and moving on among the shadows, disappeared.
“Now, who do you suppose HE was?” enquired Sylvie, leaning back against the edge of the balcony, with an arch glance at her gouvernante, “It was someone unlike anyone else here, I am sure! It was somebody with very bright eyes, — laughing eyes, — audacious eyes, because they laughed at me! They sparkled at me like stars on a frosty night! Katrine, have you ever been for a sleigh-ride in America? No, I did not take you there, — I forgot! You would have had the rheumatism, poor dear! Well, when you are in America during the winter, you go for rides over the snow in a big sleigh, with tinkling bells fastened to the horses, and you see the stars flash as you pass — like the eyes of that interesting gentleman just now. His face was like a cameo — I wonder who he is! I shall find out! I must do something desperate for Rome is so terribly dull! But I feel better now! I like that man’s eyes. They are SUCH a contrast to the sleepy tiger eyes of the Marquis Fontenelle!”
“My dear Sylvie!” remonstrated Madame Bozier, “How can you run on in this way? Do you want to break any more hearts? You are like a lamp for unfortunate moths to burn themselves in!”
“Oh no, not I,” said Sylvie, shaking her head with a touch of half melancholy scorn, “I am not a ‘professional’ beauty! The Prince of Wales does not select me for his admiration, — hence it follows that I cannot possibly be an attraction in Europe. I have not the large frame, the large hands, and the still larger feet of the beautiful English ladies, who rule royal hearts and millionaires’ pockets! Men scarcely notice me till they come to know me — and then, pouf! — away go their brains! — and they grovel at my small feet instead of the large ones of the English ladies!” She laughed. “Now how is that, Katrine?”
“C’est du charme — toujurs du charme!” murmured Madame Bozier, studying with a wistful affection the dainty lines of Sylvie’s slight figure, “And that is an even more fatal gift than beauty, chere petite!”
“Du charme! You think that is it? Yes? — and so the men grow stupid and wild! — some want me, and some want my fortune — and some do not know what they want! — but one thing is certain, that they all quarrel together about me, and bore me to extinction! — Even the stranger with the bright stars of an American winter for eyes, might possibly bore me if I knew him!”
She gave a short sigh of complete dissatisfaction.
“To be loved, Katrine — really loved! What a delicious thing that would be! Have you ever felt it?”
The poor lady trembled a little, and gave a somewhat mournful smile.
“No, you dear romantic child! I cannot say with truth that I have! I married when I was very young, and my husband was many years older than myself. He was afflicted with chronic rheumatism and gout, and to be quite honest, I could never flatter myself that he thought of me more than the gout. There! I knew that would amuse you!” — this, as Sylvie’s pretty tender laugh rippled out again on the air, “And though it sounds as if it were a jest, it is perfectly true. Poor Monsieur Bozier! He was the drawing master at the school where I was assistant go
verness, — and he was very lonely; he wanted someone to attend to him when the gouty paroxysms came on, and he thought I should do as well, perhaps better than anyone else. And I — I had no time to think about myself at all, or to fall in love — I was very glad to be free of the school, and to have a home of my own. So I married him, and did my best to be a good nurse to him, — but he did not live long, poor man — you see he always would eat things that did not agree with him, and if he could not get them at home he went out and bought them on the sly. There was no romance there, my dear! And of course he died. And he left me nothing at all, — even our little home was sold up to pay our debts. Then I had to work again for my living, — and it was by answering an advertisement in the Times, which applied for an English governess to go to a family in Budapest, that I first came to know you.”
“And that is all your history!” said Sylvie, “Poor dear Bozier! How uneventful!”
“Yes, it is,” and the worthy lady sighed also, but hers, was a sigh of placid arid philosophical comfort. “Still, my dear, I am not at all sorry to be uninteresting! I have rather a terror of lives that arrange themselves into grand dramas, with terrible love affairs as the central motives.”
“Have you? I have not!” said Sylvie thoughtfully,— “With all my heart I admire a ‘grande passion.’ Sometimes I think it is the only thing that makes history. One does not hear nearly so much of the feuds in which Dante was concerned, as of his love for Beatrice. It is always so, only few people are capable of the strength and patience and devotion needed for this great consummation of life. Now I—”
Madame Bozier smiled, and with tender fingers arranged one of the stray knots of pearls with which Sylvie’s white gown was adorned.
“You dear child! You were made for sweetness and caresses, — not suffering . . .”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 482