Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “Every human being you ever heard of is here,” he remarked at the end of the first act. “Really I should think you would find it worth while to look at your magnificent fellow-creatures, my dear.”

  Corona looked slowly round the house. She had excellent eyes, and never used a glass. She saw the same faces she had seen for five years, the same occasional flash of beauty, the same average number of over-dressed women, the same paint, the same feathers, the same jewels. She saw opposite to her Madame Mayer, with the elderly countess whom she patronised for the sake of deafness, and found convenient as a sort of flying chaperon. The countess could not hear much of the music, but she was fond of the world and liked to be seen, and she could not hear at all what Del Ferice said in an undertone to Madame Mayer. Sufficient to her were the good things of the day; the rest was in no way her business. There was Valdarno in the club-box, with a knot of other men of his own stamp. There were the Rocca, mother and daughter and son — a boy of eighteen — and a couple of men in the back of the box. Everybody was there, as her husband had said; and as she dropped her glance toward the stalls, she was aware of Giovanni Saracinesca’s black eyes looking anxiously up to her. A faint smile crossed her serene face, and almost involuntarily she nodded to him and then looked away. Many men were watching her, and bowed as she glanced at them, and she bent her head to each; but there was no smile for any save Giovanni, and when she looked again to where he had been standing with his back to the stage, he was gone from his place.

  “They are the same old things,” said Astrardente, “but they are still very amusing. Madame Mayer always seems to get the wrong man into her box. She would give all those diamonds to have Giovanni Saracinesca instead of that newsmonger fellow. If he comes here I will send him across.”

  “Perhaps she likes Del Ferice,” suggested Corona.

  “He is a good lapdog — a very good dog,” answered her husband. “He cannot bite at all, and his bark is so soft that you would take it for the mewing of a kitten. He fetches and carries admirably.”

  “Those are good points, but not interesting ones. He is very tiresome with his eternal puns and insipid compliments, and his gossip.”

  “But he is so very harmless,” answered Astrardente, with compassionate scorn. “He is incapable of doing an injury. Donna Tullia is wise in adopting him as her slave. She would not be so safe with Saracinesca, for instance. If you feel the need of an admirer, my dear, take Del Ferice. I have no objection to him.”

  “Why should I need admirers?” asked Corona, quietly.

  “I was merely jesting, my love. Is not your own husband the greatest of your admirers, and your devoted slave into the bargain?” Old Astrardente’s face twisted itself into the semblance of a smile, as he leaned towards his young wife, lowering his cracked voice to a thin whisper. He was genuinely in love with her, and lost no opportunity of telling her so. She smiled a little wearily.

  “You are very good to me,” she said. She had often wondered how it was that this aged creature, who had never been faithful to any attachment in his life for five months, did really seem to love her just as he had done for five years. It was perhaps the greatest triumph she could have attained, though she never thought of it in that light; but though she could not respect her husband very much, she could not think unkindly of him — for, as she said, he was very good to her. She often reproached herself because he wearied her; she believed that she should have taken more pleasure in his admiration.

  “I cannot help being good to you, my angel,” he said. “How could I be otherwise? Do I not love you most passionately?”

  “Indeed, I think so,” Corona answered. As she spoke there was a knock at the door. Her heart leaped wildly, and she turned a little pale.

  “The devil seize these visitors!” muttered old Astrardente, annoyed beyond measure at being interrupted when making love to his wife. “I suppose we must let them in?”

  “I suppose so,” assented the Duchessa, with forced calm. Her husband opened the door, and Giovanni Saracinesca entered, hat in hand.

  “Sit down,” said Astrardente, rather harshly.

  “I trust I am not disturbing you,” replied Giovanni, still standing. He was somewhat surprised at the old man’s inhospitable tone.

  “Oh no; not in the least,” said the latter, quickly regaining his composure. “Pray sit down; the act will begin in a moment.”

  Giovanni established himself upon the chair immediately behind the Duchessa. He had come to talk, and he anticipated that during the second act he would have an excellent opportunity.

  “I hear you enjoyed yourselves yesterday,” said Corona, turning her head so as to speak more easily.

  “Indeed!” Giovanni answered, and a shade of annoyance crossed his face.

  “And who was your informant, Duchessa?”

  “Donna Tullia. I met her this morning. She said you amused them all — kept them laughing the whole day.”

  “What an extraordinary statement!” exclaimed Giovanni. “It shows how one may unconsciously furnish matter for mirth. I do not recollect having talked much to any one. It was a noisy party enough, however.”

  “Perhaps Donna Tullia spoke ironically,” suggested Corona. “Do you like

  ‘Norma’?”

  “Oh yes; one opera is as good as another. There goes the curtain.”

  The act began, and for some minutes no one in the box spoke. Presently there was a burst of orchestral music. Giovanni leaned forward so that his face was close behind Corona. He could speak without being heard by Astrardente.

  “Did you receive my letter?” he asked. Corona made an almost imperceptible inclination of her head, but did not speak.

  “Do you understand my position?” he asked again. He could not see her face, and for some seconds she made no sign; at last she moved her head again, but this time to express a negative.

  “It is simple enough, it seems to me,” said Giovanni, bending his brows.

  Corona found that by turning a little she could still look at the stage, and at the same time speak to the man behind her.

  “How can I judge?” she said. “You have not told me all. Why do you ask me to judge whether you are right?”

  “I could not do it if you thought me wrong,” he answered shortly.

  The Duchessa suddenly thought of that other woman for whom the man who asked her advice was willing to sacrifice his life.

  “You attach an astonishing degree of importance to my opinion,” she said very coldly, and turned her head from him.

  “There is no one so well able to give an opinion,” said Giovanni, insisting.

  Corona was offended. She interpreted the speech to mean that since she had sacrificed her life to the old man on the opposite side of the box, she was able to judge whether Giovanni would do wisely in making a marriage of convenience, for the sake of an end which even to her mind seemed visionary. She turned quickly upon him, and there was an angry gleam in her eyes.

  “Pray do not introduce the subject of my life,” she said haughtily.

  Giovanni was too much astonished to answer her at once. He had indeed not intended the least reference to her marriage.

  “You have entirely misunderstood me,” he said presently.

  “Then you must express yourself more clearly,” she replied. She would have felt very guilty to be thus talking to Giovanni, as she would not have talked before her husband, had she not felt that it was upon Giovanni’s business, and that the matter discussed in no way concerned herself. As for Saracinesca, he was in a dangerous position, and was rapidly losing his self-control. He was too near to her, his heart was bearing too fast, the blood was throbbing in his temples, and he was stung by being misunderstood.

  “It is not possible for me to express myself more clearly,” he answered.

  “I am suffering for having told you too little when I dare not tell you

  all. I make no reference to your marriage when I speak to you of my own.

  Forgiv
e me; I will not refer to the matter again.”

  Corona felt again that strange thrill, half of pain, half of pleasure, and the lights of the theatre seemed moving before her uncertainly, as things look when one falls from a height. Almost unconsciously she spoke, hardly knowing that she turned her head, and that her dark eyes rested upon Giovanni’s pale face.

  “And yet there must be some reason why you tell me that little, and why you do not tell me more.” When she had spoken, she would have given all the world to have taken back her words. It was too late. Giovanni answered in a low thick voice that sounded as though he were choking, his face grew white, and his teeth seemed almost to chatter as though he were cold, but his eyes shone like black stars in the shadow of the box.

  “There is every reason. You are the woman I love.”

  Corona did not move for several seconds, as though not comprehending what he had said. Then she suddenly shivered, and her eyelids drooped as she leaned back in her chair. Her fingers relaxed their tight hold upon her fan, and the thing fell rattling upon the floor of the box.

  Old Astrardente, who had taken no notice of the pair, being annoyed at Giovanni’s visit, and much interested in the proceedings of Madame Mayer in the box opposite, heard the noise, and stooped with considerable alacrity to pick up the fan which lay at his feet.

  “You are not well, my love,” he said quickly, as he observed his wife’s unusual pallor.

  “It is nothing; it will pass,” she murmured, with a terrible effort. Then, as though she had not said enough, she added, “There must be a draught here; I have a chill.”

  Giovanni had sat like a statue, utterly overcome by the sense of his own folly and rashness, as well as by the shock of having so miserably failed to keep the secret he dreaded to reveal. On hearing Corona’s voice, he rose suddenly, as from a dream.

  “Forgive me,” he said hurriedly, “I have just remembered a most important engagement—”

  “Do not mention it,” said Astrardente, sourly. Giovanni bowed to the

  Duchessa and left the box. She did not look at him as he went away.

  “We had better go home, my angel,” said the old man. “You have got a bad chill.”

  “Oh no, I would rather stay. It is nothing, and the best part of the opera is to come.” Corona spoke quietly enough. Her strong nerves had already recovered from the shock she had experienced, and she could command her voice. She did not want to go home; on the contrary, the brilliant lights and the music served for a time to soothe her. If there had been a ball that night she would have gone to it; she would have done anything that would take her thoughts from herself. Her husband looked at her curiously. The suspicion crossed his mind that Don Giovanni had said something which had either frightened or offended her, but on second thoughts the theory seemed absurd. He regarded Saracinesca as little more than a mere acquaintance of his wife’s.

  “As you please, my love,” he answered, drawing his chair a little nearer to hers. “I am glad that fellow is gone. We can talk at our ease now.”

  “Yes; I am glad he is gone. We can talk now,” repeated Corona, mechanically.

  “I thought his excuse slightly conventional, to say the least of it,” remarked Astrardente. “An important engagement! — just a little banal. However, any excuse was good enough which took him away.”

  “Did he say that?” asked Corona. “I did not hear. Of course, any excuse would do, as you say.”

  CHAPTER IX.

  GIOVANNI LEFT THE theatre at once, alone, and on foot. He was very much agitated. He had done suddenly and unawares the thing of all others he had determined never to do; his resolutions had been broken down and carried away as an ineffectual barrier is swept to the sea by the floods of spring. His heart had spoken in spite of him, and in speaking had silenced every prompting of reason. He blamed himself bitterly, as he strode out across the deserted bridge of Sant’ Angelo and into the broad gloom beyond, where the street widens from the fortress to the entrance of the three Borghi: he walked on and on, finding at every step fresh reason for self-reproach, and trying to understand what he had done. He paused at the end of the open piazza and looked down towards the black rushing river which he could hear, but hardly see; he turned into the silent Borgo Santo Spirito, and passed along the endless wall of the great hospital up to the colonnades, and still wandering on, he came to the broad steps of St. Peter’s and sat down, alone in the darkness, at the foot of the stupendous pile.

  He was perhaps not so much to blame as he was willing to allow in his just anger against himself. Corona had tempted him sorely in that last question she had put to him. She had not known, she had not even faintly guessed what she was doing, for her own brain was intoxicated with a new and indescribable sensation which had left no room for reflection nor for weighing the force of words. But Giovanni, who had been willing to give up everything, even to his personal liberty, for the sake of concealing his love, would not allow himself any argument in extenuation of what he had done. He had had but very few affairs of the heart in his life, and they had been for the most part very insignificant, and his experience was limited. Even now it never entered his mind to imagine that Corona would condone his offence; he felt sure that she was deeply wounded, and that his next meeting with her would be a terrible ordeal — so terrible, indeed, that he doubted whether he had the courage to meet her at all. His love was so great, and its object so sacred to him, that he hesitated to conceive himself loved in return; perhaps if he had been able to understand that Corona loved him he would have left Rome for ever, rather than trouble her peace by his presence.

  It would have been absolutely different if he had been paying court to Donna Tullia, for instance. The feeling that he should be justified would have lent him courage, and the coldness in his own heart would have left his judgment free play. He could have watched her calmly, and would have tried to take advantage of every mood in the prosecution of his suit. He was a very honourable man, but he did not consider marriages of propriety and convenience as being at all contrary to the ordinary standard of social honour, and would have thought himself justified in using every means of persuasion in order to win a woman whom, upon mature reflection, he had judged suitable to become his wife, even though he felt no real love for her. That is an idea inherent in most old countries, an idea for which Giovanni Saracinesca was certainly in no way responsible, seeing that it had been instilled into him from his boyhood. Personally he would have preferred to live and die unmarried, rather than to take a wife as a matter of obligation towards his family; but seeing that he had never seriously loved any woman, he had acquired the habit of contemplating such a marriage as a probability, perhaps as an ultimate necessity, to be put off as long as possible, but to which he would at last yield with a good grace.

  But the current of his life had been turned. He was certainly not a romantic character, not a man who desired to experience the external sensations to be obtained by voluntarily creating dramatic events. He loved action, and he had a taste for danger, but he had sought both in a legitimate way; he never desired to implicate himself in adventures where the feelings were concerned, and hitherto such experiences had not fallen in his path. As is usual with such men, when love came at last, it came with a strength such as boys of twenty do not dream of. The mature man of thirty years, with his strong and dominant temper, his carelessness of danger, his high and untried ideals of what a true affection should be, resisting the first impressions of the master-passion with the indifference of one accustomed to believe that love could not come near his life, and was in general a thing to be avoided — a man, moreover, who by his individual gifts and by his brilliant position was able to command much that smaller men would not dream of aspiring to, — such a man, in short, as Giovanni Saracinesca, — was not likely to experience love-sickness in a mild degree. Proud, despotic, and fiercely unyielding by his inheritance of temper, he was outwardly gentle and courteous by acquired habit, a man of those whom women easily love and m
en very generally fear.

  He did not realise his own nature, he did not suspect the extremes of feeling of which he was eminently capable. He had at first felt Corona’s influence, and her face and voice seemed to awaken in him a memory, which was as yet but an anticipation, and not a real remembrance. It was as the faint perfume of the spring wafted up to a prisoner in some stern fortress, as the first gentle sweetness that rose from the enchanted lakes of the cisalpine country to the nostrils of the war-hardened Goths as they descended the last snow-slopes in their southern wandering — an anticipation that seemed already a memory, a looking forward again to something that had been already loved in a former state. Giovanni had laughed at himself for it at first, then he had dreaded its growing charm, and at the last he had fallen hopelessly under the spell, retaining only enough of his former self to make him determined that the harm which had come upon himself should not come near this woman whom he so adored.

  And behold, at the first provocation, the very first time that by a careless word she had fired his blood and set his brain throbbing, he had not only been unable to hide what he felt, but had spoken such words as he would not have believed he could speak — so bluntly, so roughly, that she had almost fainted before his very eyes.

  She must have been very angry, he thought. Perhaps, too, she was frightened. It was so rude, so utterly contrary to all that was chivalrous to say thus at the first opportunity, “I love you” — just that and nothing more. Giovanni had never thought much about it, but he supposed that men in love, very seriously in love, must take a long time to express themselves, as is the manner in books; whereas he was horrified at his own bluntness in having blurted out rashly such words as could never be taken back, as could never even be explained now, he feared, because he had put himself beyond the pale of all explanation, perhaps beyond the reach of forgiveness.