“Where have you been all this time?” asked Donna Tullia, as she lifted the curtain and entered the studio. He had kept out of her way during the past few days.
“Good heavens, Gouache!” cried Del Ferice, starting back, as he caught sight of the artist’s grey trousers and yellow gaiters. “What is the meaning of this comedy?”
“What?” asked Gouache, coolly. Then, glancing at his legs, he answered,
“Oh, nothing. I have turned Zouave — that is all. Will you sit down, Donna
Tullia? I was waiting for you.”
“Turned Zouave!” exclaimed Madame Mayer and Del Ferice in a breath.
“Turned Zouave!”
“Well?” said Gouache, raising his eyebrows and enjoying their surprise.
“Well — why not?”
Del Ferice struck a fine attitude, and, laying one hand upon Donna
Tullia’s arm, whispered hoarsely in her ear —
“Siamo traditi — we are betrayed!” he said. Whereupon Donna Tullia turned a little pale.
“Betrayed!” she repeated, “and by Gouache!”
Gouache laughed, as he drew out the battered old carved chair on which
Madame Mayer was accustomed to sit when he painted.
“Calm yourself, Madame,” he said. “I have not the least intention of betraying you. I have made a counter-revolution — but I am perfectly frank. I will not tell of the ferocious deeds I have heard discussed.”
Del Ferice scowled and drew back, partly acting, partly in earnest. It lay in his schemes to make Donna Tullia believe herself involved in a genuine plot, and from this point of view he felt that he must pretend the greatest horror and surprise. On the other hand, he knew that Gouache had been painting the Cardinal’s portrait, and guessed that the statesman had acquired a strong influence over the artist’s mind — an influence which was already showing itself in a way that looked dangerous. It had never struck him until quite lately that Anastase, a republican by descent and conviction, could suddenly step into the reactionary camp.
“Pardon me, Donna Tullia,” said Ugo, in serious tones, “pardon me — but I think we should do well to leave Monsieur Gouache to the contemplation of his new career. This is no place for us — the company of traitors—”
“Look here, Del Ferice,” said Gouache, suddenly going up to him and looking him in the face,— “do you seriously believe that anything you have ever said, in this room is worth betraying? or, if you do, do you really think that I would betray it?”
“Bah!” exclaimed Donna Tullia, interposing, “it is nonsense! Gouache is a gentleman, of course — and besides, I mean to have my portrait, politics or no politics.”
With this round statement Donna Tullia sat down, and Del Ferice had no choice but to follow her example. He was profoundly disgusted, but he saw at a glance that it would be hopeless to attempt to dissuade Madame Mayer when she had once made up her mind.
“And now you can tell us all about it,” said Donna Tullia. “What, in the name of all that is senseless, has induced you to join the Zouaves? It really makes me very nervous to see you.”
“That lends poetry to your expression,” interrupted Gouache. “I wish you were always nervous. You really want to know why I am a Zouave? It is very simple. You must know that I always follow my impulses.”
“Impulses!” ejaculated Del Ferice, moodily.
“Yes; because my impulses are always good, — whereas when I reflect much, my judgment is always bad. I felt a strong impulse to wear the grey uniform, so I walked into the recruiting office and wrote my name down.”
“I feel a strong impulse to walk out of your studio, Monsieur Gouache,” said Donna Tullia, with a rather nervous laugh.
“Then allow me to tell you that, whereas my impulses are good, yours are not,” replied Anastase, quietly painting. “Because I have a new dress—”
“And new convictions,” interrupted Del Ferice; “you who were always arguing about convictions!”
“I had none; that is the reason I argued about them. I have plenty now — I argue no longer.”
“You are wise,” retorted Ugo. “Those you have got will never bear discussion.”
“Excuse me,” answered Gouache; “if you will take the trouble to be introduced to his Eminence Cardinal Antonelli—”
Donna Tullia held up her hands in horror.
“That horrible man! That Mephistopheles!” she cried.
“That Macchiavelli! That arch-enemy of our holy liberty!” exclaimed Del
Ferice, in theatrical tones.
“Exactly,” answered Gouache. “If he could be induced to devote a quarter of an hour of his valuable time to talking with you, he would turn your convictions round his finger.”
“This is too much!” cried Del Ferice, angrily.
“I think it is very amusing,” said Donna Tullia, “What a pity that all Liberals are not artists, whom his Eminence could engage to paint his portrait and be converted at so much an hour!”
Gouache smiled quietly, and went on with his work.
“So he told you to go and turn Zouave,” remarked Donna Tullia, after a pause, “and you submitted like a lamb.”
“So far was the Cardinal from advising me to turn soldier, that he expressed the greatest surprise when I told him of my intention,” returned Gouache, rather coldly.
“Indeed it is enough to take away even a cardinal’s breath,” answered
Madame Mayer. “I was never, never so surprised in my life!”
Gouache stood up to get a view of his work, and Donna Tullia looked at him critically.
“Tiens!” she exclaimed, “it is rather becoming — what small ankles you have, Gouache!”
Anastase laughed. It was impossible to be grave in the face of such utterly frivolous inconsistency.
“You will allow your expression to change so often, Donna Tullia! It is impossible to catch it.”
“Like your convictions,” murmured Del Ferice from his corner. Indeed Ugo did not know what to make of the scene. He had miscalculated the strength of Donna Tullia’s fears as compared with her longing to possess a flattering portrait of herself. Rather than leave the picture unfinished, she exhibited a cynical indifference to danger which would have done honour to a better man than Del Ferice. Perhaps, too, she understood Gouache well enough to know that he might be trusted. Indeed any one would have trusted Gouache. Even Del Ferice was less disturbed at the possibility of the artist’s repeating any of the trivial liberal talk which he had listened to, than at the indifference to discovery shown by Donna Tullia. To Del Ferice, the whole thing had been but a harmless play; but he wanted Madame Mayer to believe that it had all been in solemn earnest, and that she was really implicated in a dangerous plot; for it gave him a stronger hold upon her for his own ends.
“So you are going to fight for Pio Nono,” remarked Ugo, scornfully, after another pause.
“I am,” replied Gouache. “And, no offence to you, my friend, if I meet you in a red shirt among the Garibaldini, I will kill you. It would be very unpleasant, so I hope that you will not join them.”
“Take care, Del Ferice,” laughed Donna Tullia; “your life is in danger!
You had better join the Zouaves instead.”
“I cannot paint his Eminence’s portrait,” returned Ugo, with a sneer, “so there is no chance of that.”
“You might assist him with wholesome advice, I should think,” answered Gouache. “I have no doubt you could tell him much that would be very useful.”
“And turn traitor to—”
“Hush! Do not be so silly, Del Ferice,” interrupted Donna Tullia, who began to fear that Del Ferice’s taunts would make trouble. She had a secret conviction that it would not be good to push the gentle Anastase too far. He was too quiet, too determined, and too serious not to be a little dangerous if roused.
“Do not be absurd,” she repeated. “Whatever Gouache may choose to do, he is a gentleman, and I will not have you talk of traitors
like that. He does not quarrel with you — why do you try to quarrel with him?”
“I think he has done quite enough to justify a quarrel, I am sure,” replied Del Ferice, moodily.
“My dear sir,” said Gouache, desisting from his work and turning towards Ugo, “Madame is quite right. I not only do not quarrel, but I refuse to be quarrelled with. You have my most solemn assurance that whatever has previously passed here, whatever I have heard said by you, by Donna Tullia, by Valdarno, by any of your friends, I regard as an inviolable secret. You formerly said I had no convictions, and you were right. I had none, and I listened to your exposition of your own with considerable interest. My case is changed. I need not tell you what I believe, for I wear the uniform of a Papal Zouave. When I put it on, I certainly did not contemplate offending you; I do not wish to offend you now — I only beg that you will refrain from offending me. For my part, I need only say that henceforth I do not desire to take a part in your councils. If Donna Tullia is satisfied with her portrait, there need be no further occasion for our meeting. If, on the contrary, we are to meet again, I beg that we may meet on a footing of courtesy and mutual respect.”
It was impossible to say more; and Gouache’s speech terminated the situation so far as Del Ferice was concerned. Donna Tullia smilingly expressed her approval.
“Quite right, Gouache,” she said. “You know it would be impossible to leave the portrait as it is now. The mouth, you know — you promised to do something to it — just the expression, you know.”
Gouache bowed his head a little, and set to work again without a word. Del Ferice did not speak again during the sitting, but sat moodily staring at the canvas, at Donna Tullia, and at the floor. It was not often that he was moved from his habitual suavity of manner, but Gouache’s conduct had made him feel particularly uncomfortable.
The next time Donna Tullia came to sit, she brought her old Countess, and Del Ferice did not appear. The portrait was ultimately finished to the satisfaction of all parties, and was hung in Donna Tullia’s drawing-room, to be admired and criticised by all her friends. But Gouache rejoiced when the thing was finally removed from his studio, for he had grown to hate it, and had been almost willing to flatter it out of all likeness to Madame Mayer, for the sake of not being eternally confronted by the cold stare of her blue eyes. He finished the Cardinal’s portrait too; and the statesman not only paid for it with unusual liberality, but gave the artist what he called a little memento of the long hours they had spent together. He opened one of the lockers in his study, and from a small drawer selected an ancient ring, in which was set a piece of crystal with a delicate intaglio of a figure of Victory. He took Gouache’s hand and slipped the ring upon his finger. He had taken a singular liking to Anastase.
“Wear it as a little souvenir of me,” he said kindly. “It is a Victory; you are a soldier now, so I pray that victory may go with you; and I give Victory herself into your hands.”
“And I,” said Gouache, “will pray that it may be a symbol in my hand of the real victories you are to win.”
“Only a symbol,” returned the Cardinal, thoughtfully. “Nothing but a symbol. I was not born to conquer, but to lead a forlorn hope — to deceive vanquished men with a hope not real, and to deceive the victors with an unreal fear. Nevertheless, my friend,” he added, grasping Gouache’s hand, and fixing upon him his small bright eyes,— “nevertheless, let us fight, fight — fight to the very end!”
“We will fight to the end, Eminence,” said Gouache. He was only a private of Zouaves, and the man whose hand he held was great and powerful; but the same spirit was in the hearts of both, the same courage, the same devotion to the failing cause — and both kept their words, each in his own way.
CHAPTER XXIII.
ASTRARDENTE WAS IN some respects a picturesque place. The position of the little town gave it a view in both directions from where it stood; for it was built upon a precipitous eminence rising suddenly out of the midst of the narrow strip of fertile land, the long and rising valley which, from its lower extremity, conducted by many circuits to the Roman Campagna, and which ended above in the first rough passes of the lower Abruzzi. The base of the town extended into the vineyards and olive-orchards which surrounded the little hill on all sides; and the summit of it was crowned by the feudal palace-castle — an enormous building of solid stone, in the style of the fifteenth century. Upon the same spot had formally stood a rugged fortress, but the magnificent ideas of the Astrardente pope had not tolerated such remains of barbarism; the ancient stronghold had been torn down, and on its foundations rose a gigantic mansion, consisting of a main palace, with great balconies and columned front, overlooking the town, and of two massive wings leading back like towers to the edge of the precipitous rock to northwards. Between these wings a great paved court formed a sort of terrace, open upon one side, and ornamented within with a few antique statues dug up upon the estates, and with numerous plants, which the old duke had caused to be carefully cultivated in vases, and which were only exposed upon the terrace during the warm summer months. The view from the court was to the north — that is to say, down the valley, comprehending ranges of hills that seemed to cross and recross into the extreme distance, their outlines being each time less clearly defined, as the masses in each succeeding range took a softer purple hue.
Within, the palace presented a great variety of apartments. There were suites of vaulted rooms upon the lower floor, frescoed in the good manner of the fifteenth century; there were other suites above, hung with ancient tapestry and furnished with old-fashioned marble tables, and mirrors in heavily gilt frames, and one entire wing had been lately fitted up in the modern style. In this part of the house Corona established herself with Sister Gabrielle, and began to lead a life of regular occupations and profound retirement, which seemed to be rather a continuation of her existence in the convent where she had been educated as a girl, than to form any part in the life of the superb Duchessa d’Astrardente, who for five years had been one of the most conspicuous persons in society. Every morning at eight o’clock the two ladies, always clad in deep black, attended the Mass which was celebrated for them in the palace chapel. Then Corona walked for an hour with her companion upon the terrace, or, if it rained, beneath the covered balconies upon the south side. The morning hours she passed in solitude, reading such books of devotion and serious matter as most suited the sad temper of her mind; precisely at mid-day she and Sister Gabrielle breakfasted together in a sort of solemn state; and at three o’clock the great landau, with its black horses and mourning liveries, stood under the inner gate. The two ladies appeared five minutes later, and by a gesture Corona indicated whether she would be driven up or down the valley. The dashing equipage descended the long smooth road that wound through the town, and returned invariably at the end of two hours, again ascended the tortuous way, and disappeared beneath the dark entrance. At six o’clock dinner was served, with the same solemn state as attended the morning meal; Corona and Sister Gabrielle remained together until ten, and the day was over. There was no more variation in the routine of their lives than if they had been moved by a machinery connected with the great castle clock overhead, which chimed the hours and the quarters by day and night, and regulated the doings of the town below.
But in spite of this unchanging sequence of similar habit, the time passed pleasantly for Corona. She had had too much of the brilliant lights and the buzzing din of society for the last five years, too much noise, too much idle talk, too much aimless movement; she needed rest, too, from the constant strain of her efforts to fulfil her self-imposed duties towards her husband — most of all, perhaps, she required a respite from the sufferings she had undergone through her stifled love for Giovanni Saracinesca. All this she found in the magnificent calm of the life at Astrardente. She meditated long upon the memory of her husband, recalling lovingly those things which had been most worthy in him, willingly forgetting his many follies and vanities and moments of petulance. She went over
in her mind the many and varied scenes of the past, and learned to love the sweet and silent solitude of the present by comparison of it with all the useless and noisy activity of the world she had for a time abandoned. She had not expected to find anything more than a passive companion in Sister Gabrielle; but in the course of their daily converse she discovered in her a character of extreme refinement and quick perception, a depth of human sympathy and a breadth of experience which amazed her, and made her own views of things seem small. The Sister was devout and rigid in the observance of the institutions of her order, in so far as she was able to follow out the detail of religious regulation without interfering with the convenience of her companion; but in her conversation she showed an intimate knowledge of character which was a constant source of pleasure to Corona, who told the Sister long stories of people she had known for the sake of hearing her admirable comments upon social questions.
But besides her reading and her long hours of meditation and her talks with Sister Gabrielle, Corona found occupation in the state of the town below her residence. She attempted once or twice to visit the poor cottages, in the hope of doing some good; but she found that she was such an object of holy awe to the inmates that they were speechless in her presence, or became so nervous in their desire to answer her questions, that the information she was able to obtain concerning their troubles was too vague to be of any use.
The Italian peasant is not the same in all parts of the country, as is generally supposed; and although the Tuscan, who is constantly brought into familiar contact with his landlord, and acquires a certain pleasant faith in him, grows eloquent upon the conditions of his being, the same is not true of the rougher race that labours in the valleys of the Sabine and the Samnite hills. The peasant of the Agro Romano is indeed capable of civilisation and he is able to understand his superiors, provided that he is gradually accustomed to seeing them: unfortunately this occurs but rarely. Many of the great Roman landholders spend a couple of months of every year upon their estates: old Astrardente had in his later years gone to considerable expense in refitting and repairing the castle, but he had done little for the town. Men like the Saracinesca, however, were great exceptions at that time; though they travelled much abroad, they often remained for many months in their rugged old fortress. They knew the inhabitants of their lands far and wide, and were themselves not only known but loved; they spent their money in improving the condition of their peasants, in increasing the area of their forests, and in fostering the fertility of the soil, but they cared nothing for adorning the grey stone walls of their ancestors’ stronghold. It had done well enough for a thousand years, it would do well enough still; it had stood firm against fierce sieges in the dark ages of the Roman baronry, it could afford to stand unchanged in its monumental strength against the advancing sea of nineteenth-century civilisation. They themselves, father and son, were content with such practical improvements as they could introduce for the good of their people and the enriching of their land; a manly race, despising luxury, they cared little whether their home was thought comfortable by the few guests they occasionally invited to spend a week with them. They saw much of the peasantry, and went daily among them, understanding their wants, and wisely promoting in their minds the belief that land cannot prosper unless both landlord and tenant do their share.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 220