Giovanni laughed.
“My dear old friend,” he said good-humouredly, “have you known us nearly five and twenty years without discovering that it is our peculiar privilege to be ignorant without reproach?”
Gouache laughed in his turn.
“You do not often make sharp remarks — but when you do!”
Giovanni left the studio very soon, and went in search of Spicca. It was no easy matter to find the peripatetic cynic on a winter’s afternoon, but Gouache’s remark had seemed to mean something, and Sant’ Ilario saw a faint glimmer of hope in the distance. He knew Spicca’s habits very well, and was aware that when the sun was low he would certainly turn into one of the many houses where he was intimate, and spend an hour over a cup of tea. The difficulty lay in ascertaining which particular fireside he would select on that afternoon. Giovanni hastily sketched a route for himself and asked the porter at each of his friends’ houses if Spicca had entered. Fortune favoured him at last. Spicca was drinking his tea with the Marchesa di San Giacinto.
Giovanni paused a moment before the gateway of the palace in which San Giacinto had inhabited a large hired apartment for many years. He did not see much of his cousin, now, on account of differences in political opinion, and he had no reason whatever for calling on Flavia, especially as formal New Year’s visits had lately been exchanged. However, as San Giacinto was now a leading authority on questions of landed property in the city, it struck him that he could pretend a desire to see Flavia’s husband, and make that an excuse for staying a long time, if necessary, in order to wait for him.
He found Flavia and Spicca alone together, with a small tea-table between them. The air was heavy with the smoke of cigarettes, which clung to the oriental curtains and hung in clouds about the rare palms and plants. Everything in the San Giacinto house was large, comfortable and unostentatious. There was not a chair to be seen which might not have held the giant’s frame. San Giacinto was a wonderful judge of what was good. If he paid twice as much as Montevarchi for a horse, the horse turned out to be capable of four times the work. If he bought a picture at a sale, it was discovered to be by some good master and other people wondered why they had lost courage in the bidding for a trifle of a hundred francs. Nothing ever turned out badly with him, but no success had the power to shake his solid prudence. No one knew how rich he was, but those who had watched him understood that he would never let the world guess at half his fortune. He was a giant in all ways and he had shown what he could do when he had dominated Flavia during the first year of their marriage. She had at first been proud of him, but about the time when she would have wearied of another man, she discovered that she feared him in a way she certainly did not fear the devil. Yet lie had never spoken a harsh, word to her in his life. But there was something positively appalling to her in his enormous strength, rarely exhibited and never without good reason, but always quietly present, as the outline of a vast mountain reflected in a placid lake. Then she discovered to her great surprise that he really loved her, which she had not expected, and at the end of three years he became aware that she loved him, which was still more astonishing. As usual, his investment had turned out well.
At the time of which I am speaking Flavia was a slight, graceful woman of forty years or thereabouts, retaining much of the brilliant prettiness which served her for beauty, and conspicuous always for her extremely bright eyes. She was of the type of women who live to a great age.
She had not expected to see Sant’ Ilario, and as she gave her hand, she looked up at him with an air of inquiry. It would have been like him to say that he had come to see her husband and not herself, for he had no tact with persons whom he did not especially like. There are such people in the world.
“Will you give me a cup of tea, Flavia?” he asked, as he sat down, after shaking hands with Spicca.
“Have you at last heard that your cousin’s tea is good?” inquired the latter, who was surprised by Giovanni’s coming.
“I am afraid it is cold,” said Flavia, looking into the teapot, as though she could discover the temperature by inspection.
“It is no matter,” answered Giovanni absently.
He was wondering how he could lead the conversation to the discussion of Madame d’Aranjuez.
“You belong to the swallowers,” observed Spicca, lighting a fresh cigarette. “You swallow something, no matter what, and you are satisfied.”
“It is the simplest way — one is never disappointed.”
“It is a pity one cannot swallow people in the same way,” said Flavia with a laugh.
“Most people do,” answered Spicca viciously.
“Were you at the Jubilee on the first day?” asked Giovanni, addressing Flavia.
“Of course I was — and you spoke to me.”
“That is true. By the bye, I saw that excellent Donna Tullia there. I wonder whose ticket she had.”
“She had the Princess Befana’s,” answered Spicca, who knew everything. “The old lady happened to be dying — she always dies at the beginning of the season — it used to be for economy, but it has become a habit — and so Del Ferice bought her card of her servant for his wife.”
“Who was the lady who sat with her?” asked Giovanni, delighted with his own skill.
“You ought to know!” exclaimed Flavia. “We all saw Orsino take her out. That is the famous, the incomparable Madame d’Aranjuez — the most beautiful of Spanish princesses according to to-day’s paper. I daresay you have seen the account of the Del Ferice party. She is no more Spanish than Alexander the Great. Is she, Spicca?”
“No, she is not Spanish,” answered the latter.
“Then what in the world is she?” asked Giovanni impatiently.
“How should I know? Of course it is very disagreeable for you.” It was Flavia who spoke.
“Disagreeable? How?”
“Why, about Orsino of course. Everybody says he is devoted to her.”
“I wish everybody would mind his and her business,” said Giovanni sharply. “Because a boy makes the acquaintance of a stranger at a studio—”
“Oh — it was at a studio? I did not know that.”
“Yes, at Gouache’s — I fancied your sister might have told you that,” said Giovanni, growing more and more irritable, and yet not daring to change the subject, lest he should lose some valuable information. “Because Orsino makes her acquaintance accidentally, every one must say that he is in love with her.”
Flavia laughed.
“My dear Giovanni,” she answered. “Let us be frank. I used never to tell the truth under any circumstances, when I was a girl, but Giovanni — my Giovanni — did not like that. Do you know what he did? He used to cut off a hundred francs of my allowance for every fib I told — laughing at me all the time. At the end of the first quarter I positively had not a pair of shoes, and all my gloves had been cleaned twice. He used to keep all the fines in a special pocket-book — if you knew how hard I tried to steal it! But I could not. Then, of course, I reformed. There was nothing else to be done — that or rags — fancy! And do you know? I have grown quite used to being truthful. Besides, it is so original, that I pose with it.”
Flavia paused, laughed a little, and puffed at her cigarette.
“You do not often come to see me, Giovanni,” she said, “and since you are here I am going to tell you the truth about your visit. You are beside yourself with rage at Orsino’s new fancy, and you want to find out all about this Madame d’Aranjuez. So you came here, because we are Whites and you saw that she had been at the Del Ferice party, and you know that we know them — and the rest is sung by the organ, as we say when high mass is over. Is that the truth, or not?”
“Approximately,” said Giovanni, smiling in spite of himself.
“Does Corona cut your allowance when you tell fibs?” asked Flavia. “No? Then why say that it is only approximately true?”
“I have my reasons. And you can tell me nothing?”
“Nothing. I
believe Spicca knows all about her. But he will not tell what he knows.”
Spicca made no answer to this, and Giovanni determined to outstay him, or rather, to stay until he rose to go and then go with him. It was tedious work for he was not a man who could talk against time on all occasions. But he struggled bravely and Spicca at last got up from his deep chair. They went out together, and stopped as though by common consent upon the brilliantly lighted landing of the first floor.
“Seriously, Spicca,” said Giovanni, “I am afraid Orsino is falling in love with this pretty stranger. If you can tell me anything about her, please do so.”
Spicca stared at the wall, hesitated a moment, and then looked straight into his companion’s eyes.
“Have you any reason to suppose that I, and I especially, know anything about this lady?” he asked.
“No — except that you know everything.”
“That is a fable.” Spicca turned from him and began to descend the stairs.
Giovanni followed and laid a hand upon his arm.
“You will not do me this service?” he asked earnestly.
Again Spicca stopped and looked at him.
“You and I are very old friends, Giovanni,” he said slowly. “I am older than you, but we have stood by each other very often — in places more slippery than these marble steps. Do not let us quarrel now, old friend. When I tell you that my omniscience exists only in the vivid imaginations of people whose tea I like, believe me, and if you wish to do me a kindness — for the sake of old times — do not help to spread the idea that I know everything.”
The melancholy Spicca had never been given to talking about friendship or its mutual obligations. Indeed, Giovanni could not remember having ever heard him speak as he had just spoken. It was perfectly clear that he knew something very definite about Maria Consuelo, and he probably had no intention of deceiving Giovanni in that respect. But Spicca also knew his man, and he knew that his appeal for Giovanni’s silence would not be vain.
“Very well,” said Sant’ Ilario.
They exchanged a few indifferent words before parting, and then Giovanni walked slowly homeward, pondering on the things he had heard that day.
CHAPTER VIII.
WHILE GIOVANNI WAS exerting himself to little purpose in attempting to gain information concerning Maria Consuelo, she had launched herself upon the society of which the Countess Del Ferice was an important and influential member. Chance, and probably chance alone, had guided her in the matter of this acquaintance, for it could certainly not be said that she had forced herself upon Donna Tullia, nor even shown any uncommon readiness to meet the latter’s advances. The offer of a seat in her carriage had seemed natural enough, under the circumstances, and Donna Tullia had been perfectly free to refuse it if she had chosen to do so.
Though possessing but the very slightest grounds for believing herself to be a born diplomatist, the Countess had always delighted in petty plotting and scheming. She now saw a possibility of annoying all Orsino’s relations by attracting the object of Orsino’s devotion to her own house. She had no especial reason for supposing that the young man was really very much in love with Madame d’Aranjuez, but her woman’s instinct, which far surpassed her diplomatic talents in acuteness, told her that Orsino was certainly not indifferent to the interesting stranger. She argued, primitively enough, that to annoy Orsino must be equivalent to annoying his people, and she supposed that she could do nothing more disagreeable to the young man’s wishes than to induce Madame d’Aranjuez to join that part of society from which all the Saracinesca were separated by an insuperable barrier.
And Orsino indeed resented the proceeding, as she had expected; but his family were at first more inclined to look upon Donna Tullia as a good angel who had carried off the tempter at the right moment to an unapproachable distance. It was not to be believed that Orsino could do anything so monstrous as to enter Del Ferice’s house or ask a place in Del Ferice’s circle, and it was accordingly a relief to find that Madame d’Aranjuez had definitely chosen to do so, and had appeared in olive-green brocade at the Del Ferice’s last party. The olive-green brocade would now assuredly not figure in the gatherings of the Saracinesca’s intimate friends.
Like every one else, Orsino read the daily chronicle of Roman life in the papers, and until he saw Maria Consuelo’s name among the Del Ferice’s guests, he refused to believe that she had taken the irrevocable step he so much feared. He had still entertained vague notions of bringing about a meeting between her and his mother, and he saw at a glance that such a meeting was now quite out of the question. This was the first severe shock his vanity had ever received and he was surprised at the depth of his own annoyance. Maria Consuelo might indeed have been seen once with Donna Tullia, and might have gone once to the latter’s day. That was bad enough, but might be remedied by tact and decision in her subsequent conduct. But there was no salvation possible after a person had been advertised in the daily paper as Madame d’Aranjuez had been. Orsino was very angry. He had been once to see her since his first visit, and she had said nothing about this invitation, though Donna Tullia’s name had been mentioned. He was offended with her for not telling him that she was going to the dinner, as though he had any right to be made acquainted with her intentions. He had no sooner made the discovery than he determined to visit his anger upon her, and throwing the paper aside went straight to the hotel where she was stopping.
Maria Consuelo was at home and he was ushered into the little sitting-room without delay. To his inexpressible disgust he found Del Ferice himself installed upon the chair near the table, engaged in animated conversation with Madame d’Aranjuez. The situation was awkward in the extreme. Orsino hoped that Del Ferice would go at once, and thus avoid the necessity of an introduction. But Ugo did nothing of the kind. He rose, indeed, but did not take his hat from the table, and stood smiling pleasantly while Orsino shook hands with Maria Consuelo.
“Let me make you acquainted,” she said with exasperating calmness, and she named the two men to each other.
Ugo put out his hand quietly and Orsino was obliged to take it, which he did coldly enough. Ugo had more than his share of tact, and he never made a disagreeable impression upon any one if he could help it. Maria Consuelo seemed to take everything for granted, and Orsino’s appearance did not disconcert her in the slightest degree. Both men sat down and looked at her as though expecting that she would choose a subject of conversation for them.
“We were talking of the change in Rome,” she said. “Monsieur Del Ferice takes a great interest in all that is doing, and he was explaining to me some of the difficulties with which he has to contend.”
“Don Orsino knows what they are, as well as I, though we might perhaps differ as to the way of dealing with them,” said Del Ferice.
“Yes,” answered Orsino, more coldly than was necessary. “You play the active part, and we the passive.”
“In a certain sense, yes,” returned the other, quite unruffled. “You have exactly defined the situation, and ours is by far the more disagreeable and thankless part to play. Oh — I am not going to defend all we have done! I only defend what we mean to do. Change of any sort is execrable to the man of taste, unless it is brought about by time — and that is a beautifier which we have not at our disposal. We are half Vandals and half Americans, and we are in a terrible hurry.”
Maria Consuelo laughed, and Orsino’s face became a shade less gloomy. He had expected to find Del Ferice the arrogant, self-satisfied apostle of the modern, which he was represented to be.
“Could you not have taken a little more time?” asked Orsino.
“I cannot see how. Besides it is our time which takes us with it. So long as Rome was the capital of an idea there was no need of haste in doing anything. But when it became the capital of a modern kingdom, it fell a victim to modern facts — which are not beautiful. The most we can hope to do is to direct the current, clumsily enough, I daresay. We cannot stop it. Nothing short of
Oriental despotism could. We cannot prevent people from flocking to the centre, and where there is a population it must be housed.”
“Evidently,” said Madame d’Aranjuez.
“It seems to me that, without disturbing the old city, a new one might have been built beside it,” observed Orsino.
“No doubt. And that is practically what we have done. I say ‘we,’ because you say ‘you.’ But I think you will admit that, as far as personal activity is concerned, the Romans of Rome are taking as active a share in building ugly houses as any of the Italian Romans. The destruction of the Villa Ludovisi, for instance, was forced upon the owner not by the national government but by an insane municipality, and those who have taken over the building lots are largely Roman princes of the old stock.”
The argument was unanswerable, and Orsino knew it, a fact which did not improve his temper. It was disagreeable enough to be forced into a conversation with Del Ferice, and it was still worse to be obliged to agree with him. Orsino frowned and said nothing, hoping that the subject would drop. But Del Ferice had only produced an unpleasant impression in order to remove it and thereby improve the whole situation, which was one of the most difficult in which he had found himself for some time.
“I repeat,” he said, with a pleasant smile, “that it is hopeless to defend all of what is actually done in our day in Rome. Some of your friends and many of mine are building houses which even age and ruin will never beautify. The only defensible part of the affair is the political change which has brought about the necessity of building at all, and upon that point I think that we may agree to differ. Do you not think so, Don Orsino?”
“By all means,” answered the young man, conscious that the proposal was both just and fitting.
“And for the rest, both your friends and mine — for all I know, your own family and certainly I myself — have enormous interests at stake. We may at least agree to hope that none of us may be ruined.”
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 542