Edith Wharton - Novella 01

by Fast (and) Loose (v2. 1)

  

  XII.

  Poor Teresina.

  “When pain & anguish wring the brow, a ministering Angel thou!”

  Scott: “Marmion.”

  The returning Winter found Guy Hastings again at Rome, in the old studio which he & Egerton had shared the year before; but Jack was still in England, though he wrote in the expectancy of joining his Telemachus in the early Spring. Meanwhile Guy, on settling down in his Winter quarters, began to apply himself with real assiduity to his art. He painted a successful picture which was bought by an Italian connoisseur; & inspirited by this piece of good fortune, grew more & more attached to the great work he had heretofore treated as play. He had lost his utter recklessness in this deepening interest, & a new & softening influence seemed to have entered into his imbittered life since the happy weeks at Interlaken. This influence was not the less tender or pleasant that it was somehow connected with a pair [of] sweet, childlike blue eyes & a low voice full of shy music. Little did Madeline, cherishing the secret of her first love in silence, guess the innocent change she had worked in her hero; & perhaps Guy himself scarcely realized her quiet power. When the Grahams came back to Rome however, the intercourse which had charmed the Interlaken days, was renewed; Guy was always welcomed in their apartment, & many a little breakfast or supper was given in their honour in his sunny studio. Mr. Graham, too, discovered that Madeline’s portrait must be painted; & twice a week she & her mother would knock at Guy’s door, until, when the last coat of varnish was dry & the picture sent home, he grew to miss the timid rap & the pleasant hour that ensued & to discover that it had been, unconsciously, the brightest part of his day. Madeline’s frail health grew stronger, & her shy laugh gayer; & though one parent was far from satisfied with the cause, both could not but rejoice over the effect of this change. Altogether, the Winter was a happy, if a quiet one to the few with whom our story is most concerned; & as the days slipped by, they forged the imperceptible links of interest & sympathy which were drawing Guy nearer to Madeline. One of these links was brought about by a little personage who by this time had nearly dropped out of Guy’s remembrance, although her face was reflected on more than one canvas hung upon his studio wall. He was hurrying homeward near dusk on a soft day toward the end of January, & taking a short cut to the Piazza , struck a little, out of the way street, apparently quite deserted in the waning light. The houses were old & ruinous, & if Guy had found time to pause, their tumbling picturesqueness would have delighted his artist-eye; but as it was, he was in too great haste to notice anything, until at a turn in the street he nearly stumbled across a little drooping figure huddled against a broken flight of steps. Bending down in astonishment, he asked in Italian what was the matter. There was no answer, or movement, & he repeated his question more anxiously. Just then a coarse-faced woman came swinging down the street bare-headed, & paused in astonishment to see the handsome Signore Inglese bending over a little, cowering contadina with her face hidden. “Eh, she won’t move, Signore,” said the woman, grinning. “She’s been there these three hours.” “Is she dead?” asked Guy, pityingly. “Dead? Santa Maria! No, not she. Maybe she is crazy.” “You cannot leave her here,” said Guy; “if she is alive she should be taken in somewhere.” The woman shrugged her shoulders. “I tell you, she won’t move. I don’t know who she is.” “Poverina!” said Guy, very low; but he had scarcely spoken when a tremor shot through the crouching form at his feet, & a faint little cry reached him. “Signore—it is Teresina!” “Teresina,” repeated Guy in amazement. “Are you ill? What is the matter?” “Eh,” said the woman, staring, “The Signore knows her, then?” “What has happened?” Guy continued, as a burst of sobs answered his questions. “Will you get up, Teresina, & let me carry you into some house?” But she did not lift her hidden face, nor move from her cowering attitude. Guy was in sore perplexity. He could not leave her, not knowing whether she was ill or frightened in some way; & the woman who had been watching him with an expression of sleepy surprise on her heavy face ran off here in pursuit of a brown-legged little boy who was scampering toward the Piazza. Just then, as Guy was gazing doubtfully down the crooked street, two people appeared moving quickly against the dark sunset glow; one a short, plain-faced little woman, with the indefinable air of an English servant—the other tall, & blonde, with soft blue eyes & her hands full of flowers. “Miss Graham!” exclaimed Guy, as she recognized him with a start & a deepening blush. “What is the matter?” said Madeline, glancing with surprise towards Teresina while Priggett, the maid, hung back with a disapproving stare. “Who is that poor creature, Mr. Hastings?

  Why,” she continued suddenly, “it must be your little peasant—Teresina!” “So it is,” said Guy, “& I cannot find whether she is ill or only unhappy. She will not move, & I cannot get her to answer my questions.” “Poor thing!” and Madeline, regardless of the dirty cobble-stones & her own soft, pretty dress, knelt down beside Teresina; & began to speak in her sweet, shy Italian. “Will you not tell us if you are suffering?” she said; “we are so sorry for you & we cannot leave you here.” “Miss—” said Priggett in an agony, “Miss, it’s growing very dark.” “Never mind, Priggett. Mr. Hastings, will you hold these flowers, please?” & putting her roses into his hand, she quietly slipped her arm about Teresina & raised the poor little drooping head tenderly. “I do not think she is in pain—speak to her, Mr. Hastings.” Guy bent over her & said a few soothing words; & Madeline, still kneeling by her side, asked again very gently: “What is it, Teresina?” “Tell the Signora,” urged Guy. “She is very kind & wants to help you.” Teresina was still sobbing, but less violently & now she made no attempt to hide her face; & in a few moments they caught a little, trembling answer. “I am hungry.” “Poor thing—poor thing—” said Madeline, through her tears. “Have you no home?” She gave a little shriek & tried to hide her face, repeating passionately “No, no, no!” “She is not fit to answer any questions,” said Madeline. “Mr. Hastings, she must be carried into some house at once & taken care of.” The woman who had stared at Guy came back just then from her chase to the piazza; & calling her, they persuaded her to let Teresina be taken into her house close by. Guy lifted the poor, fainting creature in his arms & Madeline followed, for once regardless of Priggett’s indignant glances, while the woman led the way up some tumbling steps into a wretched little room. The night had fallen when, having left some money & sundry directions, they turned once more into the lonely street, Madeline shyly accepting Guy’s escort home. “I will go & see the poor thing tomorrow,” she said, her sweet voice full of pity. “I think she has had a great blow. She does not seem really ill—only exhausted.” “She could not be under kinder care—poor child!” said Guy, thoughtfully. “I cannot understand what has happened. She was happily married to her lover last year—as you know.” “He may have died. How lonely she seemed! O poor, poor thing—it makes me feel almost guilty to think how loved & happy I am while others…” Madeline brushed away her tears hastily, & for a few moments neither spoke. The next morning found Priggett & her young mistress hurrying down the same obscure street, laden with baskets & shawls, towards the house into which Teresina had been carried. She was still lying on the low bed where they had left her the night before, her great eyes wide with grief, her childish face haggard with lines of suffering. “She won’t eat much, Signora,” said Giovita, the woman of the house, as Madeline bent anxiously over the bed, “but I think she’ll be better soon, poor fanciulla!” Teresina turned her eyes to the fair, pitying face that stooped above her. “You are the beautiful Signora,” she whispered, “that came to me last night. The Signore Inglese said you would be kind.” Madeline’s colour brightened softly; he called her kind! “I want to be your friend, Teresina,” she answered; “for he has told me a great deal about you, & we are both so sorry for you!” Teresina sighed. A new contentment was entering into her eyes as they met those other eyes, pure & tender as a guardian Angel’s. “You look like one of the Saints in the great
pictures,” she murmured dreamily.

  “It was at Easter—I saw it—the saint with the white face like yours.” “Never mind that, Teresina,” Madeline said gently. “I want you to tell me why you were so hungry & unhappy & all alone in the street last night. Do not be afraid to tell me. If you have no friends, I want to help you & take care of you.” “I have no friends,” Teresina whispered, still gazing up at Madeline. “Oh, I am so unhappy, Signora… I ran away to starve all alone… I could not kill myself…” she shuddered & hid her face with a burst of sobs. At first Madeline could win no more from her, but gradually, as she sat by the wretched bedside, she learned the story of Teresina’s sorrow. She had been married—poor child!—to her sweetheart, Matteo, & they had been so happy, until Matteo could get no work, & grew harsh & reckless. Teresina was unhappy, & cried because he did not love her any more—& the bambino died of the fever, & Matteo got worse & worse. Still there was no work, & Teresina was ill at home—Matteo said he could not feed her. He used to go out all day, & one day he did not come back—she never saw him again, & she knew that he had deserted her. “Oh, it was so lonely without the bambino,” ended the poor little wife, through her tears. “I could not bear to go home, for the Madre is dead & the Padre was so angry when I married Matteo—& I did not want anything but to run away & hide myself—& die.” But she did not die; Madeline felt a new interest in her after this & watched & comforted her tenderly; & in a few days she was strong enough to be moved from the wretched house to the Graham’s apartment. They sent for her father, a rough old peasant who would have nothing to do with her, & cursed her for marrying against his will. Teresina begged with passionate tears not to go back to him; & Madeline had grown so attached to her that she easily prevailed on her father to keep the poor child at least for the present. On Teresina’s part there had sprung up a blind adoration of the beautiful Signorina who was the Signore Inglese’s friend; she asked nothing but to stay with her always & serve her & follow her like a dog. Guy was not a little interested in the fate of his poor little model; & Madeline’s kindness to her won him more & more. Few girls, he thought, would have behaved as nobly, as impulsively & as tenderly as Madeline had done. And so it was that Teresina’s misfortune revealed to him the earnest, quiet beauty of this shy English girl’s character, & made him think more & more seriously every day that in this world of sin & folly & darkness there are after all some pure spirits moving, like sun-gleams in a darkened chamber.

  

  XIII.

  Villa Doria-Pamfili.

  “If thou canst reason, sure thou dost not love.” Old Play.

  On one of those delicious languid days of Spring that follow in the footsteps of the short Roman Winter, the Grahams drove out to spend a long afternoon at the Villa Doria-Pamfili, where the violets & anemones were awake in every hollow, & the trees putting on their tenderest silver-green. Guy rode by the side of the carriage, having breakfasted that morning with its occupants & engaged to join them again in the afternoon. Day by day Madeline’s society had grown sweeter & more needful to him, her soft presence effacing as nothing else could the bitter past. Great sorrows cast long shadows; & in reality the gloom of his disappointed love still hung darkly over Hastings’ life; but it was a softened gloom when he was at Madeline’s side, losing his heart-loneliness in her sunny companionship. When a man marries without falling in love he always has at hand an elaborate course of reasoning to prove beyond all doubt the advisableness of the step he takes; & some such process was occupying Guy’s thoughts as he trotted along on his chesnut, Rienzi, beside the Grahams’ carriage. Since his engagement had been broken he had, as we have said, felt all hope & interest in life slipping away from his empty grasp; & now that he had met & known Madeline it struck him with what renewed dreariness he would return to his old, reckless ways when their paths divided. More than once he had dreamed of his motley studio with a fair figure moving continually about it, or a soft, flushed face bending over him as he worked; & had wondered if life would not get a new zest with someone beside him to be cherished & worked for until death. Madeline’s peculiar innocence & shy simplicity had soothed him in contrast to the gay, wilful charms with which his most cruel recollections were united; he thought that here was a shrinking, clinging creature who would need his tender protection & look up to him always for the help & love that another had despised. In short, on that sweet Spring afternoon, the impressions & reflections of the whole Winter had nearly resolved themselves into a determination to ask Madeline for his wife, when the whole party reached the gates of the Villa Doria. Giving Rienzi over to his groom, Guy stood by the carriage to help Madeline & her mother out; & then they all strolled along through the beautiful princely grounds. Madeline’s passion for flowers was very pretty that day; prettier than ever it seemed to Hastings, as she bent down to fill her hands with violets, or ran on in search of a new blossom under the greening boughs. Oh, the sunshiny peacefulness of that long Spring afternoon, under the soft Italian sky, with the wood-flowers underfoot & the tree-branches closing above, bubbling over with the earliest bird-music of the new-drest year! They wandered on in the delicious Spring-time idleness that had fallen upon them all; now & then resting on a bench in some quiet alley or soft, violet-sown slope, or pausing to admire a beautiful view—all forgetting that even in the Villa Doria-Pamfili, on a Heavenly day of Spring, the hours will fly & the sun stoop to the west. Strolling along by Madeline’s side, carrying her sunshade & her cloak, Guy recalled Robert Spencer’s bright words: “How lightly falls the foot of Time That only treads on flowers!” He repeated them to her, adding as he glanced down at his feet, “literally true here, is it not, Miss Graham? You trample a violet at every step.” “Oh, I am so sorry for them!” said Madeline, earnestly; “but what can I do? My hands are quite full.” She was standing still, in her floating white dress, framed by rising boughs, & holding a great mass of the balmy purple treasures. Guy Hastings had never seen a fairer picture in a fairer setting. “If I had my pallette & canvas here, Miss Graham, I should paint you as you stand, for a Proserpine.” “I am glad you haven’t then,” returned Madeline, laughing, “for I should be longing to escape in search of some more flowers, & how tired I should get, standing so long.” “You will be tired now if you don’t rest a little,” said Guy. They were standing near an old grey stone bench, hidden in tree-shadows, with a cushioning of deep moss & anemones around it. “Let us sit down, Miss Graham,” he continued. “You are dropping your violets at every step & my practical mind suggests that they should be tied together to prevent further loss.” Madeline laughed, & sat down while he quietly folded her cloak about her, & then took his place at her side. Mr. and Mrs. Graham had walked on slowly, & were presently lost among the trees; but neither Guy nor Madeline noticed this—which is perhaps scarcely surprising. It suited Hastings very well to be sitting there, holding the violets, while Madeline’s soft hands took them from him one by one & bound them carefully together; he had never found her quite so lovely as on that golden afternoon. “Am I to have none as a reward for my help?” he asked, as she took the last violets to add to her bunch. “You are very miserly with your treasures, Miss Graham.” “Because I don’t think you love them as well as I do,” she said, smiling. “But you did hold them very well, & here is your reward.” She handed him two or three, with her soft blush, & he was very near kissing the white ungloved hand that offered them. But reflecting that so sudden a proceeding might startle his shy damsel, & break up the sweet, idle course of their tete a tete, he wisely refrained, & only thanked her as he put the violets in his coat. “I shall wear them as my Legion of honour,” he added, smiling. “But they will fade so soon! Do you know,” said Madeline, glancing up into the handsome blue eyes bent on her face, & then looking quickly downward with a blush, as if she had read some secret there too subtle to be put into words—”do you know, it always makes me a little sad—foolishly, I suppose—to gather flowers, when I think of that.” “Gather ye roses while ye may!”
hummed Guy, laughing. “I don’t think the flowers are to be pitied, Miss Graham.” “Why not?” said Madeline, very low. “Why not? Because—I put myself in their place & judge their feelings by—my own.” Madeline’s heart beat quicker, & she sprang up suddenly. “Where is Papa, Mr. Hastings? I think…” Guy caught her hand. “Stay, Miss Graham,” he said as she rose. “Before you go, I want to say a few words to you. Will you hear me?” He led her quietly back to her shady seat, & sat down beside her again, leaning forward to catch sight of her half-turned face & dropped lashes. “I do not know,” he went on, in his low, winning voice, “what right I have to say these words, or to expect an answer; for I feel, day by day, as I watch you, so young, so happy, so beautiful—pardon me—I feel how little I can give in return for what your kindness has encouraged me to ask.”