Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “Certainly — though we have had nothing to do with the matter. Neither my father nor my grandfather have entered into any such speculation.”

  “It is a pity,” said Del Ferice thoughtfully.

  “Why a pity?”

  “On the one hand my instincts are basely commercial,” Del Ferice answered with a frank laugh. “No matter how great a fortune may be, it may be doubled and trebled. You must remember that I am a banker in fact if not exactly in designation, and the opportunity is excellent. But the greater pity is that such men as you, Don Orsino, who could exercise as much influence as it might please you to use, leave it to men — very unlike you, I fancy — to murder the architecture of Rome and prepare the triumph of the hideous.”

  Orsino did not answer the remark, although he was not altogether displeased with the idea it conveyed. Maria Consuelo looked at him.

  “Why do you stand aloof and let things go from bad to worse when you might really do good by joining in the affairs of the day?” she asked.

  “I could not join in them, if I would,” answered Orsino.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I have not command of a hundred francs in the world, Madame. That is the simplest and best of all reasons.”

  Del Ferice laughed incredulously.

  “The eldest son of Casa Saracinesca would not find that a practical obstacle,” he said, taking his hat and rising to go. “Besides, what is needed in these transactions is not so much ready money as courage, decision and judgment. There is a rich firm of contractors now doing a large business, who began with three thousand francs as their whole capital — what you might lose at cards in an evening without missing it, though you say that you have no money at your command.”

  “Is that possible?” asked Orsino with some interest.

  “It is a fact. There were three men, a tobacconist, a carpenter and a mason, and they each had a thousand francs of savings. They took over a contract last week for a million and a half, on which they will clear twenty per cent. But they had the qualities — the daring and the prudence combined. They succeeded.”

  “And if they had failed, what would have happened?”

  “They would have lost their three thousand francs. They had nothing else to lose, and there was nothing in the least irregular about their transactions. Good evening, Madame — I have a private meeting of directors at my house. Good evening, Don Orsino.”

  He went out, leaving behind him an impression which was not by any means disagreeable. His appearance was against him, Orsino thought. His fat white face and dull eyes were not pleasant to look at. But he had shown tact in a difficult situation, and there was a quiet energy about him, a settled purpose which could not fail to please a young man who hated his own idleness.

  Orsino found that his mood had changed. He was less angry than he had meant to be, and he saw extenuating circumstances where he had at first only seen a wilful mistake. He sat down again.

  “Confess that he is not the impossible creature you supposed,” said Maria Consuelo with a laugh.

  “No, he is not. I had imagined something very different. Nevertheless, I wish — one never has the least right to wish what one wishes—” He stopped in the middle of the sentence.

  “That I had not gone to his wife’s party, you would say? But my dear Don Orsino, why should I refuse pleasant things when they come into my life?”

  “Was it so pleasant?”

  “Of course it was. A beautiful dinner — half a dozen clever men, all interested in the affairs of the day, and all anxious to explain them to me because I was a stranger. A hundred people or so in the evening, who all seemed to enjoy themselves as much as I did. Why should I refuse all that? Because my first acquaintance in Rome — who was Gouache — is so ‘indifferent,’ and because you — my second — are a pronounced clerical? That is not reasonable.”

  “I do not pretend to be reasonable,” said Orsino. “To be reasonable is the boast of people who feel nothing.”

  “Then you are a man of heart?” Maria Consuelo seemed amused.

  “I make no pretence to being a man of head, Madame.”

  “You are not easily caught.”

  “Nor Del Ferice either.”

  “Why do you talk of him?”

  “The opportunity is good, Madame. As he is just gone, we know that he is not coming.”

  “You can be very sarcastic, when you like,” said Maria Consuelo. “But I do not believe that you are as bitter as you make yourself out to be. I do not even believe that you found Del Ferice so very disagreeable as you pretend. You were certainly interested in what he said.”

  “Interest is not always agreeable. The guillotine, for instance, possesses the most lively interest for the condemned man at an execution.”

  “Your illustrations are startling. I once saw an execution, quite by accident, and I would rather not think of it. But you can hardly compare Del Ferice to the guillotine.”

  “He is as noiseless, as keen and as sure,” said Orsino smartly.

  “There is such a thing as being too clever,” answered Maria Consuelo, without a smile.

  “Is Del Ferice a case of that?”

  “No. You are. You say cutting things merely because they come into your head, though I am sure that you do not always mean them. It is a bad habit.”

  “Because it makes enemies, Madame?” Orsino was annoyed by the rebuke.

  “That is the least good of good reasons.”

  “Another, then?”

  “It will prevent people from loving you,” said Maria Consuelo gravely.

  “I never heard that—”

  “No? It is true, nevertheless.”

  “In that case I will reform at once,” said Orsino, trying to meet her eyes. But she looked away from him.

  “You think that I am preaching to you,” she answered. “I have not the right to do that, and if I had, I would certainly not use it. But I have seen something of the world. Women rarely love a man who is bitter against any one but himself. If he says cruel things of other women, the one to whom he says them believes that he will say much worse of her to the next he meets; if he abuses the men she knows, she likes it even less — it is an attack on her judgment, on her taste and perhaps upon a half-developed sympathy for the man attacked. One should never be witty at another person’s expense, except with one’s own sex.” She laughed a little.

  “What a terrible conclusion!”

  “Is it? It is the true one.”

  “Then the way to win a woman’s love is to praise her acquaintances? That is original.”

  “I never said that.”

  “No? I misunderstood. What is the best way?”

  “Oh — it is very simple,” laughed Maria Consuelo.

  “Tell her you love her, and tell her so again and again — you will certainly please her in the end.”

  “Madame—” Orsino stopped, and folded his hands with an air of devout supplication.

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing! I was about to begin. It seemed so simple, as you say.”

  They both laughed and their eyes met for a moment.

  “Del Ferice interests me very much,” said Maria Consuelo, abruptly returning to the original subject of conversation. “He is one of those men who will be held responsible for much that is now doing. Is it not true? He has great influence.”

  “I have always heard so.” Orsino was not pleased at being driven to talk of Del Ferice again.

  “Do you think what he said about you so altogether absurd?”

  “Absurd, no — impracticable, perhaps. You mean his suggestion that I should try a little speculation? Frankly, I had no idea that such things could be begun with so little capital. It seems incredible. I fancy that Del Ferice was exaggerating. You know how carelessly bankers talk of a few thousands, more or less. Nothing short of a million has much meaning for them. Three thousand or thirty thousand — it is much the same in their estimation.”

  “I daresa
y. After all, why should you risk anything? I suppose it is simpler to play cards, though I should think it less amusing. I was only thinking how easy it would be for you to find a serious occupation if you chose.”

  Orsino was silent for a moment, and seemed to be thinking over the matter.

  “Would you advise me to enter upon such a business without my father’s knowledge?” he asked presently.

  “How can I advise you? Besides, your father would let you do as you please. There is nothing dishonourable in such things. The prejudice against business is old-fashioned, and if you do not break through it your children will.”

  Orsino looked thoughtfully at Maria Consuelo. She sometimes found an oddly masculine bluntness with which to express her meaning, and which produced a singular impression on the young man. It made him feel what he supposed to be a sort of weakness, of which he ought to be ashamed.

  “There is nothing dishonourable in the theory,” he answered, “and the practice depends on the individual.”

  Maria Consuelo laughed.

  “You see — you can be a moralist when you please,” she said.

  There was a wonderful attraction in her yellow eyes just at that moment.

  “To please you, Madame, I could do something much worse — or much better.”

  He was not quite in earnest, but he was not jesting, and his face was more serious than his voice. Maria Consuelo’s hand was lying on the table beside the silver paper-cutter. The white, pointed fingers were very tempting and he would willingly have touched them. He put out his hand. If she did not draw hers away he would lay his own upon it. If she did, he would take up the paper-cutter. As it turned out, he had to content himself with the latter. She did not draw her hand away as though she understood what he was going to do, but quietly raised it and turned the shade of the lamp a few inches.

  “I would rather not be responsible for your choice,” she said quietly.

  “And yet you have left me none,” he answered with, sudden boldness.

  “No? How so?”

  He held up the silver knife and smiled.

  “I do not understand,” she said, affecting a look of surprise.

  “I was going to ask your permission to take your hand.”

  “Indeed? Why? There it is.” She held it out frankly.

  He took the beautiful fingers in his and looked at them for a moment. Then he quietly raised them to his lips.

  “That was not included in the permission,” she said, with a little laugh and drawing back. “Now you ought to go away at once.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that little ceremony can belong only to the beginning or the end of a visit.”

  “I have only just come.”

  “Ah? How long the time has seemed! I fancied you had been here half an hour.”

  “To me it has seemed but a minute,” answered Orsino promptly.

  “And you will not go?”

  There was nothing of the nature of a peremptory dismissal in the look which accompanied the words.

  “No — at the most, I will practise leave-taking.”

  “I think not,” said Maria Consuelo with sudden coldness. “You are a little too — what shall I say? — too enterprising, prince. You had better make use of the gift where it will be a recommendation — in business, for instance.”

  “You are very severe, Madame,” answered Orsino, deeming it wiser to affect humility, though a dozen sharp answers suggested themselves to his ready wit.

  Maria Consuelo was silent for a few seconds. Her head was resting upon the little red morocco cushion, which heightened the dazzling whiteness of her skin and lent a deeper colour to her auburn hair. She was gazing at the hangings above the door. Orsino watched her in quiet admiration. She was beautiful as he saw her there at that moment, for the irregularities of her features were forgotten in the brilliancy of her colouring and in the grace of the attitude. Her face was serious at first. Gradually a smile stole over it, beginning, as it seemed, from the deeply set eyes and concentrating itself at last in the full, red mouth. Then she spoke, still looking upwards and away from him.

  “What would you think if I were not a little severe?” she asked. “I am a woman living — travelling, I should say — quite alone, a stranger here, and little less than a stranger to you. What would you think if I were not a little severe, I say? What conclusion would you come to, if I let you take my hand as often as you pleased, and say whatever suggested itself to your imagination — your very active imagination?”

  “I should think you the most adorable of women—”

  “But it is not my ambition to be thought the most adorable of women by you, Prince Orsino.”

  “No — of course not. People never care for what they get without an effort.”

  “You are absolutely irrepressible!” exclaimed Maria Consuelo, laughing in spite of herself.

  “And you do not like that! I will be meekness itself — a lamb, if you please.”

  “Too playful — it would not suit your style.”

  “A stone—”

  “I detest geology.”

  “A lap-dog, then. Make your choice, Madame. The menagerie of the universe is at your disposal. When Adam gave names to the animals, he could have called a lion a lap-dog — to reassure the Africans. But he lacked imagination — he called a cat, a cat.”

  “That had the merit of simplicity, at all events.”

  “Since you admire his system, you may call me either Cain or Abel,” suggested Orsino. “Am I humble enough? Can submission go farther?”

  “Either would be flattery — for Abel was good and Cain was interesting.”

  “And I am neither — you give me another opportunity of exhibiting my deep humility. I thank you sincerely. You are becoming more gracious than I had hoped.”

  “You are very like a woman, Don Orsino. You always try to have the last word.”

  “I always hope that the last word may be the best. But I accept the criticism — or the reproach, with my usual gratitude. I only beg you to observe that to let you have the last word would be for me to end the conversation, after which I should be obliged to go away. And I do not wish to go, as I have already said.”

  “You suggest the means of making you go,” answered Maria Consuelo, with a smile. “I can be silent — if you will not.”

  “It will be useless. If you do not interrupt me, I shall become eloquent—”

  “How terrible! Pray do not!”

  “You see! I have you in my power. You cannot get rid of me.”

  “I would appeal to your generosity, then.”

  “That is another matter, Madame,” said Orsino, taking his hat.

  “I only said that I would—” Maria Consuelo made a gesture to stop him.

  But he was wise enough to see that the conversation had reached its natural end, and his instinct told him that he should not outstay his welcome. He pretended not to see the motion of her hand, and rose to take his leave.

  “You do not know me,” he said. “To point out to me a possible generous action, is to ensure my performing it without hesitation. When may I be so fortunate as to see you again, Madame?”

  “You need not be so intensely ceremonious. You know that I am always at home at this hour.”

  Orsino was very much struck by this answer. There was a shade of irritation in the tone, which he had certainly not expected, and which flattered him exceedingly. She turned her face away as she gave him her hand and moved a book on the table with the other as though she meant to begin reading almost before he should be out of the room. He had not felt by any means sure that she really liked his society, and he had not expected that she would so far forget herself as to show her inclination by her impatience. He had judged, rightly or wrongly, that she was a woman who weighed every word and gesture beforehand, and who would be incapable of such an oversight as an unpremeditated manifestation of feeling.

  Very young men are nowadays apt to imagine complications of cha
racter where they do not exist, often overlooking them altogether where they play a real part. The passion for analysis discovers what it takes for new simple elements in humanity’s motives, and often ends by feeding on itself in the effort to decompose what is not composite. The greatest analysers are perhaps the young and the old, who, being respectively before and behind the times, are not so intimate with them as those who are actually making history, political or social, ethical or scandalous, dramatic or comic.

  It is very much the custom among those who write fiction in the English language to efface their own individuality behind the majestic but rather meaningless plural, “we,” or to let the characters created express the author’s view of mankind. The great French novelists are more frank, for they say boldly “I,” and have the courage of their opinions. Their merit is the greater, since those opinions seem to be rarely complimentary to the human race in general, or to their readers in particular. Without introducing any comparison between the fiction of the two languages, it may be said that the tendency of the method is identical in both cases and is the consequence of an extreme preference for analysis, to the detriment of the romantic and very often of the dramatic element in the modern novel. The result may or may not be a volume of modern social history for the instruction of the present and the future generation. If it is not, it loses one of the chief merits which it claims; if it is, then we must admit the rather strange deduction, that the political history of our times has absorbed into itself all the romance and the tragedy at the disposal of destiny, leaving next to none at all in the private lives of the actors and their numerous relations.

  Whatever the truth may be, it is certain that this love of minute dissection is exercising an enormous influence in our time; and as no one will pretend that a majority of the young persons in society who analyse the motives of their contemporaries and elders are successful moral anatomists, we are forced to the conclusion that they are frequently indebted to their imaginations for the results they obtain and not seldom for the material upon which they work. A real Chemistry may some day grow out of the failures of this fanciful Alchemy, but the present generation will hardly live to discover the philosopher’s stone, though the search for it yield gold, indirectly, by the writing of many novels. If fiction is to be counted among the arts at all, it is not yet time to forget the saying of a very great man: “It is the mission of all art to create and foster agreeable illusions.”