“You do not know me, Don Orsino,” said she with a gracious smile.
“I beg your pardon — you are the Countess Del Ferice — I have not been back from England long, and have not had an opportunity of being presented.”
Whatever might be Orsino’s weaknesses, shyness was certainly not one of them, and as he made the civil answer he calmly looked at Donna Tullia as though to inquire what in the world she wished to accomplish in making his acquaintance. He had been so situated during the ceremony as not to see that the two ladies had fallen into conversation.
“Will you introduce me?” said Maria Consuelo. “We have been talking together.”
She spoke in a low voice, but the words could hardly have escaped Donna Tullia. Orsino was very much surprised and not by any means pleased, for he saw that the elder woman had forced the introduction by a rather vulgar trick. Nevertheless, he could not escape.
“Since you have been good enough to recognise me,” he said rather stiffly to Donna Tullia, “permit me to make you acquainted with Madame d’Aranjuez d’Aragona.”
Both ladies nodded and smiled the smile of the newly introduced. Donna Tullia at once began to wonder how it was that a person with such a name should have but a plain “Madame” to put before it. But her curiosity was not satisfied on this occasion.
“How absurd society is!” she exclaimed. “Madame d’Aranjuez and I have been talking all the morning, quite like old friends — and now we need an introduction!”
Maria Consuelo glanced at Orsino as though, expecting him to make some remark. But he said nothing.
“What should we do without conventions!” she said, for the sake of saying something.
By this time they were threading the endless passages of the sacristy building, on their way to the Piazza Santa, Marta. Sant’ Ilario and Corona were not far in front of them. At a turn in the corridor Corona looked back.
“There is Orsino talking to Tullia Del Ferice!” she exclaimed in great surprise. “And he has given his arm to that other lady who was next to her in the tribune.”
“What does it matter?” asked Sant’ Ilario indifferently. “By the bye, the other lady is that Madame d’Aranjuez he talks about.”
“Is she any relation of your mother’s family, Giovanni?”
“Not that I am aware of. She may have married some younger son of whom I never heard.”
“You do not seem to care whom Orsino knows,” said Corona rather reproachfully.
“Orsino is grown up, dear. You must not forget that.”
“Yes — I suppose he is,” Corona answered with a little sigh. “But surely you will not encourage him to cultivate the Del Ferice!”
“I fancy it would take a deal of encouragement to drive him to that,” said Sant’ Ilario with a laugh. “He has better taste.”
There was some confusion outside. People were waiting for their carriages, and as most of them knew each other intimately every one was talking at once. Donna Tullia nodded here and there, but Maria Consuelo noticed that her salutations were coldly returned. Orsino and his two companions stood a little aloof from the crowd. Just then the Saracinesca carriage drove up.
“Who is that magnificent woman?” asked Maria Consuelo, as Corona got in.
“My mother,” said Orsino. “My father is getting in now.”
“There comes my carriage! Please help me.”
A modest hired brougham made its appearance. Orsino hoped that Madame d’Aranjuez would offer him a seat. But he was mistaken.
“I am afraid mine is miles away,” said Donna Tullia. “Good-bye, I shall be so glad if you will come and see me.” She held out her hand.
“May I not take you home?” asked Maria Consuelo. “There is just room — it will be better than waiting here.”
Donna Tullia hesitated a moment, and then accepted, to Orsino’s great annoyance. He helped the two ladies to get in, and shut the door.
“Come soon,” said Maria Consuelo, giving him her hand out of the window.
He was inclined to be angry, but the look that accompanied the invitation did its work satisfactorily.
“He is very young,” thought Maria Consuelo, as she drove away.
“She can be very amusing. It is worth while,” said Orsino to himself as he passed in front of the next carriage, and walked out upon the small square.
He had not gone far, hindered as he was at every step, when some one touched his arm. It was Spicca, looking more cadaverous and exhausted than usual.
“Are you going home in a cab?” he asked. “Then let us go together.”
They got out of the square, scarcely knowing how they had accomplished the feat. Spicca seemed nervous as well as tired, and he leaned on Orsino’s arm.
“There was a chance lost this morning,” said the latter when they were under the colonnade. He felt sure of a bitter answer from the keen old man.
“Why did you not seize it then?” asked Spicca. “Do you expect old men like me to stand up and yell for a republic, or a restoration, or a monarchy, or whichever of the other seven plagues of Egypt you desire? I have not voice enough left to call a cab, much less to howl down a kingdom.”
“I wonder what would have happened, if I, or some one else, had tried.”
“You would have spent the night in prison with a few kindred spirits. After all, that would have been better than making love to old Donna Tullia and her young friend.”
Orsino laughed.
“You have good eyes,” he said.
“So have you, Orsino. Use them. You will see something odd if you look where you were looking this morning. Do you know what sort of a place this world is?”
“It is a dull place. I have found that out already.”
“You are mistaken. It is hell. Do you mind calling that cab?”
Orsino stared a moment at his companion, and then hailed the passing conveyance.
CHAPTER VI.
ORSINO HAD SHOWN less anxiety to see Madame d’Aranjuez than might perhaps have been expected. In the ten days which had elapsed between the sitting at Gouache’s studio and the first of January he had only once made an attempt to find her at home, and that attempt had failed. He had not even seen her passing in the street, and he had not been conscious of any uncontrollable desire to catch a glimpse of her at any price.
But he had not forgotten her existence as he would certainly have forgotten that of a wholly indifferent person in the same time. On the contrary, he had thought of her frequently and had indulged in many speculations concerning her, wondering among other matters why he did not take more trouble to see her since she occupied his thoughts so much. He did not know that he was in reality hesitating, for he would not have acknowledged to himself that he could be in danger of falling seriously in love. He was too young to admit such a possibility, and the character which he admired and meant to assume was altogether too cold and superior to such weaknesses. To do him justice, he was really not of the sort to fall in love at first sight. Persons capable of a self-imposed dualism rarely are, for the second nature they build up on the foundation of their own is never wholly artificial. The disposition to certain modes of thought and habits of bearing is really present, as is sufficiently proved by their admiration of both. Very shy persons, for instance, invariably admire very self-possessed ones, and in trying to imitate them occasionally exhibit a cold-blooded arrogance which is amazing. Timothy Titmouse secretly looks up to Don Juan as his ideal, and after half a lifetime of failure outdoes his model, to the horror of his friends. Dionysus masks as Hercules, and the fox is sometimes not unsuccessful in his saint’s disguise. Those who have been intimate with a great actor know that the characters he plays best are not all assumed; there is a little of each in his own nature. There is a touch of the real Othello in Salvini — there is perhaps a strain of the melancholy Scandinavian in English Irving.
To be short, Orsino Saracinesca was too enthusiastic to be wholly cold, and too thoughtful to be thoroughly enthusiastic. He saw
things differently according to his moods, and being dissatisfied, he tried to make one mood prevail constantly over the other. In a mean nature the double view often makes an untruthful individual; in one possessing honourable instincts it frequently leads to unhappiness. Affectation then becomes aspiration and the man’s failure to impose on others is forgotten in his misery at failing to impose upon himself.
The few words Orsino had exchanged with Maria Consuelo on the morning of the great ceremony recalled vividly the pleasant hour he had spent with her ten days earlier, and he determined to see her as soon as possible. He was out of conceit with himself and consequently with all those who knew him, and he looked forward with pleasure to the conversation of an attractive woman who could have no preconceived opinion of him, and who could take him at his own estimate. He was curious, too, to find out something more definite in regard to her. She was mysterious, and the mystery pleased him. She had admitted that her deceased husband had spoken of being connected with the Saracinesca, but he could not discover where the relationship lay. Spicca’s very odd remark, too, seemed to point to her, in some way which Orsino could not understand, and he remembered her having said that she had heard of Spicca. Her husband had doubtless been an Italian of Spanish descent, but she had given no clue to her own nationality, and she did not look Spanish, in spite of her name, Maria Consuelo. As no one in Rome knew her it was impossible to get any information whatever. It was all very interesting.
Accordingly, late on the afternoon of the second of January, Orsino called and was led to the door of a small sitting-room on the second floor of the hotel. The servant shut the door behind him and Orsino found himself alone. A lamp with a pretty shade was burning on the table and beside it an ugly blue glass vase contained a few flowers, common roses, but fresh and fragrant. Two or three new books in yellow paper covers lay scattered upon the hideous velvet table cloth, and beside one of them Orsino noticed a magnificent paper cutter of chiselled silver, bearing a large monogram done in brilliants and rubies. The thing contrasted oddly with its surroundings and attracted the light. An easy chair was drawn up to the table, an abominable object covered with perfectly new yellow satin. A small red morocco cushion, of the kind used in travelling, was balanced on the back, and there was a depression in it, as though some one’s head had lately rested there.
Orsino noticed all these details as he stood waiting for Madame d’Aranjuez to appear, and they were not without interest to him, for each one told a story, and the stories were contradictory. The room was not encumbered with those numberless objects which most women scatter about them within an hour after reaching a hotel. Yet Madame d’Aranjuez must have been at least a month in Rome. The room smelt neither of perfume nor of cigarettes, but of the roses, which was better, and a little of the lamp, which was much worse. The lady’s only possessions seemed to be three books, a travelling cushion and a somewhat too gorgeous paper cutter; and these few objects were perfectly new. He glanced at the books; they were of the latest, and only one had been cut. The cushion might have been bought that morning. Not a breath had tarnished the polished blade of the silver knife.
A door opened softly and Orsino drew himself up as some one pushed in the heavy, vivid curtains. But it was not Madame d’Aranjuez. A small dark woman of middle age, with downcast eyes and exceedingly black hair, came forward a step.
“The signora will come presently,” she said in Italian, in a very low voice, as though she were almost afraid of hearing herself speak.
She was gone in a moment, as noiselessly as she had come. This was evidently the silent maid of whom Gouache had spoken. The few words she had spoken had revealed to Orsino the fact that she was an Italian from the north, for she had the unmistakable accent of the Piedmontese, whose own language is comprehensible only by themselves.
Orsino prepared to wait some time, supposing that the message could hardly have been sent without an object. But another minute had not elapsed before Maria Consuelo herself appeared. In the soft lamplight her clear white skin looked very pale and her auburn hair almost red. She wore one of those nondescript garments which we have elected to call tea-gowns, and Orsino, who had learned to criticise dress as he had learned Latin grammar, saw that the tea-gown was good and the lace real. The colours produced no impression upon him whatever. As a matter of fact they were dark, being combined in various shades of olive.
Maria Consuelo looked at her visitor and held out her hand, but said nothing. She did not even smile, and Orsino began to fancy that he had chosen an unfortunate moment for his visit.
“It was very good of you to let me come,” he said, waiting for her to sit down.
Still she said nothing. She placed the red morocco cushion carefully in the particular position which would be most comfortable, turned the shade of the lamp a little, which, of course, produced no change whatever in the direction of the light, pushed one of the books half across the table and at last sat down in the easy chair. Orsino sat down near her, holding his hat upon his knee. He wondered whether she had heard him speak, or whether she might not be one of those people who are painfully shy when there is no third person present.
“I think it was very good of you to come,” she said at last, when she was comfortably settled.
“I wish goodness were always so easy,” answered Orsino with alacrity.
“Is it your ambition to be good?” asked Maria Consuelo with a smile.
“It should be. But it is not a career.”
“Then you do not believe in Saints?”
“Not until they are canonised and made articles of belief — unless you are one, Madame.”
“I have thought of trying it,” answered Maria Consuelo, calmly. “Saintship is a career, even in society, whatever you may say to the contrary. It has attractions, after all.”
“Not equal to those of the other side. Every one admits that. The majority is evidently in favour of sin, and if we are to believe in modern institutions, we must believe that majorities are right.”
“Then the hero is always wrong, for he is the enthusiastic individual who is always for facing odds, and if no one disagrees with him he is very unhappy. Yet there are heroes—”
“Where?” asked Orsino. “The heroes people talk of ride bronze horses on inaccessible pedestals. When the bell rings for a revolution they are all knocked down and new ones are set up in their places — also executed by the best artists — and the old ones are cast into cannon to knock to pieces the ideas they invented. That is called history.”
“You take a cheerful and encouraging view of the world’s history, Don Orsino.”
“The world is made for us, and we must accept it. But we may criticise it. There is nothing to the contrary in the contract.”
“In the social contract? Are you going to talk to me about Jean-Jacques?”
“Have you read him, Madame?”
“‘No woman who respects herself—’” began Maria Consuelo, quoting the famous preface.
“I see that you have,” said Orsino, with a laugh. “I have not.”
“Nor I.”
To Orsino’s surprise, Madame d’Aranjuez blushed. He could not have told why he was pleased, nor why her change of colour seemed so unexpected.
“Speaking of history,” he said, after a very slight pause, “why did you thank me yesterday for having got you a card?”
“Did you not speak to Gouache about it?”
“I said something — I forget what. Did he manage it?”
“Of course. I had his wife’s place. She could not go. Do you dislike being thanked for your good offices? Are you so modest as that?”
“Not in the least, but I hate misunderstandings, though I will get all the credit I can for what I have not done, like other people. When I saw that you knew the Del Ferice, I thought that perhaps she had been exerting herself.”
“Why do you hate her so?” asked Maria Consuelo.
“I do not hate her. She does not exist — that is all.”
“Why does she not exist, as you call it? She is a very good-natured woman. Tell me the truth. Everybody hates her — I saw that by the way they bowed to her while we were waiting — why? There must be a reason. Is she a — an incorrect person?”
Orsino laughed.
“No. That is the point at which existence is more likely to begin than to end.”
“How cynical you are! I do not like that. Tell me about Madame Del Ferice.”
“Very well. To begin with, she is a relation of mine.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. Of course that gives me a right to handle the whole dictionary of abuse against her.”
“Of course. Are you going to do that?”
“No. You would call me cynical. I do not like you to call me by bad names, Madame.”
“I had an idea that men liked it,” observed Maria Consuelo gravely.
“One does not like to hear disagreeable truths.”
“Then it is the truth? Go on. You have forgotten what we were talking about.”
“Not at all Donna Tullia, my second, third or fourth cousin, was married once upon a time to a certain Mayer.”
“And left him. How interesting!”
“No, Madame. He left her — very suddenly, I believe — for another world. Better or worse? Who can say? Considering his past life, worse, I suppose; but considering that he was not obliged to take Donna Tullia with him, decidedly better.”
“You certainly hate her. Then she married Del Ferice.”
“Then she married Del Ferice — before I was born. She is fabulously old. Mayer left her very rich, and without conditions. Del Ferice was an impossible person. My father nearly killed him in a duel once — also before I was born. I never knew what it was about. Del Ferice was a spy, in the old days when spies got a living in a Rome—”
“Ah! I see it all now!” exclaimed Maria Consuelo. “Del Ferice is white, and you are black. Of course you hate each other. You need not tell me any more.”
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 539