“I suppose that if we were in Sicily,” he said to Taquisara on the following morning, “you would propose to carry her off by force. You once advised me to do something of the sort.”
“That is a proceeding which needs the consent of the lady,” answered the
Sicilian. “The ‘force’ is employed against the relations. Now Donna
Veronica has none to speak of so far as I can see. It is a case for
persuasion.”
Gianluca sighed. Matters were at a deadlock, and Veronica had announced her intention of going to Muro alone, before long. Once established there, she might stay in the mountains until the following autumn, unapproachable in her maiden solitude, as she had told Taquisara. Gianluca might knock at her gate, there, but he would certainly not be admitted.
“You despise me,” he said to his friend. “You think me weak and helpless, and you fancy that if you were in my place you could do better. But I do not believe you could.”
“No,” replied the other. “I do not believe so, either. And I do not at all despise you. You have only one chance — to make her love you. No man is to be despised because a woman does not love him. It is not his fault.”
“I feel as though it were,” said Gianluca. “I am sure that if I could change, if I could make myself different in some way — but that is absurd, of course.”
“One cannot suddenly become some one else.” For himself, without vanity, Taquisara was probably glad of the fact, but he was sincerely sorry for his friend. “You might write to her,” he suggested.
“Love-letters — to Donna Veronica?” Gianluca smiled incredulously. “You do not know her!”
“I know her a little,” replied Taquisara. “All women like to receive letters from men who love them, if they are well expressed and sincere.”
“How horribly practical you are sometimes!” exclaimed the younger man, unaccountably irritated at his friend’s generalizations.
Taquisara laughed and knocked the ashes from his long black cigar.
“You came to me for advice, not for sentiment,” he observed presently. “Perhaps I am a bad adviser, but that is the worst you can say of me. I daresay I do not understand women. I have known a few pretty well, but that is all. I am not a lady killer, and I certainly never wished to marry. You must not expect much of me — but what little there is to expect will be practical. Perhaps Ghisleri could advise you better than I. He is a queer fellow. If he ever cuts his throat, he will not die of it — his heart and his head will go on living separately, just as they do now.”
Gianluca smiled again, for the description of the man was keen and true, as men knew him.
“No,” he answered; “I shall not consult Ghisleri. You and I are different enough to understand each other. He and I are not, though he is a good friend of mine.”
“I should not say that you resemble Ghisleri in any way,” observed
Taquisara, bluntly.
“You may not see it, but I feel it. It is not easy to explain. He and I feel about many things in the same way, but we look at ourselves differently.”
“That sounds like a woman’s speech!” said Taquisara. “But you are always making fine distinctions which I cannot understand. What do you mean when you say that you look at yourselves differently? How do you look at yourselves?”
“Do you never think about yourself, as though you were another person, and were judging yourself like a man you knew?”
“No,” said Taquisara, thoughtfully. “I never thought of doing that.”
“But what does self-examination mean, then?” asked Gianluca.
“I have not the slightest idea. I am myself. I know myself. I know what I want and do not want. It seems to me that I know enough. What in the world should I examine? You would be much better if you could get rid of all that romance about conscience and self-examination and such trash. A man knows perfectly well whether he is faithful to the woman he loves or not, whether he is betraying his friend or standing by him — what else do you want? I believe that theology and philosophy and self-examination, and all that, were invented in early times for heathen people who did not know whether they were doing right or wrong, because they were just converted.”
At this extraordinary view of church history Gianluca laughed.
“You may laugh,” answered the Sicilian. “You will never make me believe that old Tancred sat up all night examining his conscience before he went to the Holy Land — any more than he fasted and prayed before he had his daughter’s lover murdered.”
“No — perhaps not!” Gianluca laughed again.
“He did what struck him as right and natural,” said Taquisara, gravely. “Besides, he was sovereign prince in his own land, and it was not a murder at all, but an execution. For a princess, his daughter behaved outrageously. I should have done the same thing, in his place. He had the right and the power, and he used it. But that is not the point. As for Ghisleri, he would have cut the boy’s head off in a rage, and then he would have spent a year on his knees in a monastery. You would have prayed yourself into a good humour, and the fellow would have got off.”
“Unless I had asked your advice,” suggested Gianluca.
“And if you had, you would not have acted upon it — any more than you will write to Donna Veronica now, though I tell you that all women like to receive love-letters. It is natural. A woman is not satisfied with being told once a week that she is loved. She likes to know it all the time — the oftener, the better. Two letters of one page are better than one of two pages. Twenty notes a day, of a line or two each, will make a woman perfectly happy — provided that you do not make a mistake and send one less on the day following. They like repetition, provided it is in the same pitch. If you have begun high, you must not let the strings slacken. Women are curious creatures. In religion, they can believe fifty times as much as any man. In love, they only believe while they see you and hear you. As soon as your back is turned — even if they have sent you away — they scream and cry out that you have abandoned them. Before you come, they want you. When you are there, you weary them. When you are gone, you have betrayed them. And they wonder that a man cannot bear that sort of thing forever! Do you call me practical for speaking in this way? Very well, then — I am practical. I tell you what I know.”
Gianluca was amused, but he thought over what Taquisara had advised him to do, and the more he thought about it, the more inclined he was to follow the advice. Not that he regarded the writing of letters to Veronica at all as a hopeful means of moving her; but he felt that he might write her much which he would not say. He loved her with the deepest sincerity, and with an almost morbid passion, and the idea of approaching her in any way was irresistible. He had not realized before now that he could at least try the experiment of writing. She knew that he loved her, and at the worst, she might tell him not to write again. He remembered his terrible awkwardness and hesitation when he had first told her of his love, and his humiliation afterwards, when he had reflected upon the poor figure he had made. There would be no humiliation, now. He was sure of that. He could rely upon his pen and his wits, though he could not trust to his wits with only his tongue to help them.
The chief objection to this method of wooing was that, in his class, it was untraditional. And this had some weight with him, for he had been brought up rigidly in the practices and customs of an exclusive caste. On the other hand, he had never thought of plunging rashly into love-phrases, from the first. He wished to establish a correspondence with Veronica, and then by subtle tact and delicate degrees to acquire the right of speaking to her, by his letters, of what he felt, making no reference to them when he met her, until she should at last give some sign that she would listen favourably.
The plan was wise and far sighted, but it had not been the result of wisdom nor of diplomatic instinct. He adopted it out of delicacy, and out of respect for the woman he loved, and in the hope of reaching her heart without ever jarring upon her sensibilities.
Gianluca had talked with Veronica about all sorts of subjects, and she had often asked him questions which he had not been able to answer on the spur of the moment. It was easy for him, in his first letter, to hark back to one of those idle questions of hers, and to make his reply to it an excuse for a letter. Such a communication would need no acknowledgment beyond a spoken word of thanks, which she would bestow upon him the next time they met. It should contain nothing warmer than the assurance of his anxiety to be of service to her, in anything she undertook, and a protestation of respectful friendship at the end.
He wrote that first letter over twice and read it carefully before he sent it. It referred to an historical question connected with the house of Anjou, from which her castle of Muro had come to the Serra by a marriage, several centuries ago, and by which marriage Veronica traced her descent on one side to the kings of France. The castle itself had been twice the scene of royal murders, and there were many strange traditions connected with it. Gianluca got the information he needed from the library downstairs, and he found ample material for a letter of some length.
But it was not dry and uninteresting, a mere copy of notes taken from histories and chronicles. The man had an undeveloped literary talent, as has been said, and he instinctively found light and graceful expressions for hard facts. He was himself discovering that he had a gift for writing, and the pleasure of the discovery enhanced the delight of writing to the woman he loved. The man of letters who has first found out his own facility in the course of daily writing to a dearly loved woman alone knows the sort of pleasure that Gianluca enjoyed, when he found that it was his pen that helped him, and not he that was driving his pen.
He sent what he had written, and determined that on the following day he would go to the villa again. To his surprise and joy, he received a note from Veronica in the morning, thanking him warmly for the pains he had taken, and asking another question. It came through the post; and with his insight into feminine ways, he guessed that she had not wished to send a messenger to him, — a servant, who would have at once told other servants of the correspondence.
Veronica had been pleased by the letter. She was beginning to like him for himself, and to forget how very foolish he had seemed to be when he was declaring his passion for her. But his letter showed him all at once in an entirely new light, and was at once a pleasure and a surprise. She thought it natural to write him a few words of thanks. Indeed, it would have seemed rude not to do so.
In the liberty she was enjoying in Bianca’s house, she was rapidly forgetting that she was only a young girl, and that society would be shocked if it knew that she was exchanging letters with Gianluca della Spina. There is nothing which a girl learns so easily and all at once as independence of that social kind. What grey-haired man of the world has not at one time or another been amazed at the full-grown assurance of some bride of eighteen or nineteen summers? A month is enough — with proper advantages — to make a drawing-room queen and a society tyrant of a schoolgirl. And that sort of independence is not alone the result of marriage. In Veronica’s case, a slowly developed strength had been suddenly set free to act, by an accidental emancipation from all semblance of restraint; and the emancipation was so complete that even in the widest interpretation of the law, no one could have now claimed a right to control or direct her actions.
She was nearly twenty-two years of age; she had a great position in her own right, and she was immensely rich. It was not until long afterwards that she learned how many offers of marriage had been refused for her by her aunt and uncle. For the present, the fathers and mothers of marriageable sons were waiting until three or four months should have elapsed, for they generally guessed that there had been a catastrophe of some sort at the Palazzo Macomer after Bosio’s death; and, moreover, as has been seen, it was impossible to ascertain the proper person to whom to address any such proposal.
The consequence of it all was, that Veronica was absolutely her own mistress, and free to go and come, and to do what seemed right in her own eyes. As she had told the cardinal, when she and society should discover that they needed each other, they would try and agree. In case of a disagreement, it was probable that, of the two, society would yield to Veronica Serra. Meanwhile she would correspond with Gianluca, if she pleased. During the arrangement of her affairs, she had constantly written to men, about business, under the advice of the bankers to whom she had confided the whole matter. Gianluca was merely a few years younger, and happened to belong to her own class. That was all. Why should he and she not write to each other? Yet it was not long since the idea of meeting Gianluca at Bianca’s house, by agreement, had seemed a dangerous adventure, about entering upon which she had really hesitated. To-day, for any reasonable cause, she would have walked through Naples with him in the face of the world, at the hour when every one was in the streets.
He came to the villa in the afternoon, after receiving her note of thanks, and she was glad to see him, and spoke with pleasure of his letter, before Bianca, who seemed surprised, but said nothing at the time. He was wise enough not to stay too long, and he went away exceedingly elated by his first success.
“What is the matter with him?” asked Veronica, of her friend, just after he had left them. “He seems so much better — but he is growing very lame. Did you notice how he walked to-day? He seems to drag his feet after him.”
“He must have hurt his foot,” said Bianca, calmly. “By the by, what is this, about letters? Do you mean to say that he writes to you?”
“Yes — and I write to him,” answered Veronica, with perfect calm. “You see, as I have nobody to ask, I ask nobody. It is more simple.”
“But, my dear child — a young girl—”
“Do not call me a child, and do not call me a young girl, Bianca,” said Veronica. “I am neither, in the sense of being a thing to be kept under a glass case and fed on rose leaves. I am a woman, and as I do not think that I shall ever marry, I refuse to be chaperoned all the way to old-maidhood. I know that you feel responsible for me, in a sort of way, because you are married, and I am not. It is really absurd, dear. I am much better able to take care of myself than you are.”
“No doubt, in a way. You are more energetic. But as for writing to
Gianluca — I hardly know — I wish you would not.”
“He writes very well,” answered Veronica. “I will show you his letter. Besides, so far as your responsibility goes, it will not last much longer. I shall go to Muro next month.”
“Alone?”
“Alone — yes. I always mean to live alone. Don Teodoro will come and dine with me every evening, and we will talk about the people, and what we are doing for them. I shall have horses to ride. If you will come, we will fence together. I shall miss the fencing dreadfully. Could you not come, Bianca dear?”
“I believe that you will miss the fencing more than me, dear,” answered
Bianca, rather sadly.
Veronica was more to her than she could ever be to Veronica, and she knew it.
“Bianca!” exclaimed the young girl. “How can you say such things! Because I spoke of fencing first? You know that I did not mean it in that way! I want you for yourself
— but it will be nice to have the foils in the morning, all the same. You see, I could not even have a fencing-master out there. It is so far! Do come.”
Bianca shook her head.
“We will have glorious days together,” continued Veronica. “We will do all sorts of things together. They do say that it rains a good deal in those mountains — well, when it rains, you can write to Signor Ghisleri, while I write to Don Gianluca.”
Her innocent laughter at the idea startled Bianca, and the beautiful face grew paler, until it was almost wan. Veronica thought she was like a passion flower, just then. A short silence followed.
“Veronica,” said Bianca, at last, “why do you not marry Gianluca, since you have grown to liking him so much?”
“I like him for a friend,” answered Veronica, quietly. “I do not want a husband. Some day, I will tell you my story, perhaps — some day, if you will come to Muro, dear. Think about it.”
She left the room rather abruptly, and Bianca did not refer to the subject again. She had the power, rare in either of two friends, of not asking questions. Confidence given for the asking, however readily, is but the little silver coin of friendship; the gold is confidence unasked.
In the days that followed, Gianluca wrote to Veronica again and again, about all manner of subjects which had come up in their conversation; and Veronica’s short notes of thanks grew longer, until she found that she, too, was beginning to write real letters, and looked forward to writing them, as well as to receiving his. And his came oftener, until she had one almost every day.
But when he came, as he did, twice a week, to the villa, they rarely spoke of their correspondence. Somehow it had come to be a bond linking certain sides of their natures which they did not show to each other when they met and talked. They never could talk as freely as they wrote, even upon the most indifferent subjects, though Gianluca seemed perfectly at his ease in conversation. There was a sort of undefined restraint from time to time, together with the certainty that they would write what they really meant, within a day or two, and understand each other far better than by spoken words.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 843