Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  She was Maria’s enemy now, as she had once been her defender, when it had suited her to take the side of frailty, which may bend without being quite broken, against that columnar social virtue which may possibly break but never bends at all. Teresa’s enmity was not likely to be very dangerous, however, for she was, on the whole, a good-natured gossip, and might at any time be in need of a good word for herself in the dangerous game she was playing.

  She reflected with rather unnecessary bitterness on her position as a defenceless widow, and felt quite sure that if she were Madame de Maurienne, Montalto would not have the courage to insult her husband by refusing to receive her.

  CHAPTER XV

  CASTIGLIONE HAD A sort of rule for avoiding Maria which worked very well for a long time. There is a great sameness in the lives of Roman ladies even now, and in a society which is numerically small it is rarely hard to guess where the more important members of it are. So long as Maria had lived in Via San Martino, not by any means cut off from the world, but quite independent of it, she had been in the habit of coming and going as she pleased. She could slip out to the little oratory in Via Somma Campagna at seven o’clock in the morning, she could put on her hat unknown to her maid and go over to the station to post a letter, she could call a cab and drive to Saint Peter’s, or she could take Leone with her at a moment’s notice, on a fine day, for a walk in the outlying quarters of the city, towards Santa Maria Maggiore. All these things look very simple, unimportant, and easy, and it might be supposed that she could have enjoyed the same small liberty after she had moved back to the Palazzo Montalto.

  But she could not. Whenever she went out, there was a footman on duty in the hall, where the wide swinging door to the landing of the grand staircase was never fastened except at night. If she was allowed to go downstairs alone, the footman touched a bell that rang in the porter’s lodge, and the porter was waiting for her under the arched entrance, respectful but imposing, and by no means allowing her to take a cab for herself at the stand, fifty paces from the door. The cab must be called for her, and two of those on the stand were privileged by turns, because the cabmen paid the porter a percentage of what he allowed them to earn. Then, too, the address to which she wished to be taken had to be given to him, and he transmitted it to the cabman in a stern manner, as if he thought the man certainly meant to take her somewhere else and must be dealt with severely.

  As for going out in her own carriage, that was quite an affair of state, too, though old Telemaco still sat on the box. She could not go to the telephone whenever she pleased and order him to come when she wanted him. There was red tape in such matters. Maria had to tell a footman, who had to tell another, who went downstairs when he was ready and who was in no hurry to find the coachman; and difficulties arose about horses which had never been heard of when she had hired a pair by the month.

  Moreover, Leone now had a tutor at home, and was taken to the clerical Istituto Massimo every morning, because Montalto objected to the public schools, and Maria was not able to argue the question.

  ‘Either you believe in our religion, or you do not, my dear,’ the Count had said.

  ‘I hope I do,’ Maria had answered meekly.

  ‘In that case I cannot see how you can even think of sending Leone to a school where no religion is taught.’

  She could not answer this, though she had a suspicion that the boy might be ‘taught religion’ in some other and better way than at the day-school. Yet it was better to have him go to the Istituto Massimo and come home for luncheon, than to lose him altogether for three-quarters of the year, as she must if he were sent to the Jesuit school of Mondragone in the country; and that seemed to be the alternative in Montalto’s mind. He himself had been several years at the latter place, but Leone had become necessary to him and he wanted the boy at home. Maria submitted a little more readily to his decision when she thought of Castiglione, who had been through a public school and the military academy, and who, according to her ideas, had no religion at all.

  Leone’s schooling, the Count’s methodical habits, and the tiresome formalities and traditions of existence in the great house combined to make Maria’s days almost as monotonously regular in Rome as they had been in Montalto; and as they closely resembled those of other Roman ladies of the same age who had children to educate, it was not hard for Castiglione to keep out of her way.

  So far as society went it was made still easier, because even after Christmas, when their mourning was slightly relaxed, Montalto was evidently inclined to confine his acquaintance to the old-fashioned and clerical houses, so far as any still existed, rather than to extend it into the modern circles where Castiglione was more often seen. Montalto made an exception for Giuliana Parenzo and her husband.

  Similar conditions being granted for any particular case, two people can live a long time without meeting face to face, even in Rome; and in a city like London they may not meet in a dozen years if they wish to avoid each other.

  Castiglione faced his life quietly and courageously, but there were moments in which his intention weakened. At times it seemed to him impossible that such a situation should last till his regiment left Rome. Maria was a saint, he admitted, and he had no doubt at all but that he was a man of honour and meant to respect his promise, however quixotic it looked. But he did not ‘rise higher,’ as Maria used to write him that he must, and still prayed that he might. On the contrary, though he kept his word, he sometimes wished that he had not given it; the roughly masculine side of his nature rebelled against the higher life, till he asked himself why, after all, he was living like a man under vows and avoiding the woman he loved, for the sake of a dream that was quite past and could never visit him again.

  But these moods never lasted long. It was true that he had not Maria’s faith in things unseen to help him, nor her beatific vision of an eternal reward for earthly virtues; but, on the other hand, he had a strong perception of what was right and wrong, in the sense that conceives actions as morally noble or ignoble, and brave or cowardly, and he guessed what Maria was undergoing. He had been the cause of her suffering, and it would be dastardly to let her outdo him in courage, knowing that she loved him still. In refusing to see him she was making the greatest sacrifice she could, next to the supreme one she had made when she had let her husband take her back. Castiglione knew that. People who love in earnest do not stop to ask if they are flattering themselves when they believe that they are loved in return.

  The soldier was not at all analytical, though he had so long led an inward existence which no one suspected. He knew when his thoughts were ignoble, and he despised them then and was disgusted with himself; but during most of the time he merely looked upon the exceptional life he was leading for Maria’s sake as a duty, and therefore as something which must be done, whether he liked it or not. He was rather a rough specimen of manhood, but his nature was on large lines. Under grosser influences in early youth, he might have turned out what women call a brute, and perhaps it was only his love for Maria that had saved him from that. All men saints have not been born like Bernard of Clairvaux, ethereal, spiritual, eloquent, and already beings of another world. There have been very human Augustines, too, and sorely tempted Anthonys without end, and there have been denying Peters and doubting Thomases ever since the beginning; and because some of them were men of like passions with ourselves, most of us feel nearer to them than to the great ascetics, and we understand them better.

  In his thoughts Castiglione called Maria a saint, and compared her to a Catherine of Siena rather than to a Magdalen; but she, too, had her moments of passionate regret, if not of weakness; she, too, was human still, and though she bore her pain like a martyr, she loved like a loving woman.

  Here ends such explanation and repetition as was needed to make clear what soon happened to her, to her husband, and to Castiglione. After many months of quiet, when it seemed to Maria that nothing could ever happen again in her life beyond the daily round of dull misery, fate to
ok up the action again with sudden and violent hands.

  The two met by accident for a few moments, quite alone. It was at a hotel, of all places in the world; at a quiet and rather old-fashioned hotel which is patronised by the great of the earth when they come to Rome unofficially, for their own pleasure. A short time ago it was such a primitive place that the lift was small and was worked from below, like most of those in Roman private houses.

  Now it happened that a certain young couple went to this hotel who were nearly related to the Count of Montalto on the Spanish side of his family, and who were of such exalted station that two smart officers were told off to be at their disposal and to show them the sights of Rome. One of these officers was Castiglione.

  In the natural course of social events the Countess of Montalto had written her name in the book which people of such overwhelming importance keep at the porter’s lodge in hotels where they stop, because cards cannot be left for them as for ordinary human beings, on account of their inconvenient greatness. On the following day the Countess was informed that she would be received at five o’clock, and at three minutes to five her carriage stopped at the door. The footman informed the porter that her Excellency the Countess of Montalto came to see their Highnesses, and at the same instant Castiglione, who was on duty, and in uniform, presented himself to conduct the Countess upstairs.

  It was rather a trying moment, for he had not been told who was coming, and he was the last person whom Maria expected to see there. As the footman opened the carriage door Castiglione put forward his arm to help her out, and she laid her hand upon it as lightly and indifferently as she could, but a thrill ran through her to her very feet, and she felt how he stiffened his arm lest it should shake. After the first glance of recognition they avoided each other’s eyes.

  The porter stalked solemnly before them to the lift, and a moment later they were alone together in a space so small that they could hardly keep from touching, while the cage began to ascend with that extreme slowness which characterises the old-fashioned Roman contrivances. Maria sat on the narrow little seat, feeling that she dared not look up; Castiglione stood upright, squeezing his square shoulders as far back into the corner as he could, and holding his right hand on the handle of the sliding door. He breathed audibly, and the lift crawled upwards.

  It was almost unbearable for them both. To speak indifferently was utterly impossible, and silence meant too much. Just as they were reaching the first floor, Maria rose quickly, expecting to be let out; but the cage did not stop.

  They were face to face now, and very near together, so that Castiglione distinctly felt her sharply drawn breath as she looked up at him.

  ‘It is the next floor,’ he said unsteadily, for he could not take his eyes from her now.

  The meeting had been too sudden, too close; Maria could not bear it, but Castiglione would have let his right hand be cut off at the wrist, as it held the door, rather than have moved it towards her. With the other he held his sabre close to his left side, and his blue eyes gazed hungrily into hers. A moment more and the lift would stop; there was only that moment left, for, without looking away from him, she was aware of the landing just overhead. Then she spoke.

  ‘I love you more than ever!’

  The words came to him in a fierce whisper. She had never spoken in that way, even in days of the short sweet dream that was all he had left. His answer was in his eyes, and in the sudden pallor that overspread his face, the ghastly white pallor of fair men who are deeply moved.

  Then the lift stopped, the door slid sideways in its grooves, and he was leading the way through a wide corridor under the electric light. Maria was not pale just then; there was a little dark red flush in each cheek, for shame at what she had done.

  Her visit was soon over, she hardly knew how, and when she came out Castiglione was not to be seen. A servant offered to call for the lift, but she refused it and almost ran down the stairs in her haste to get out of the hotel. A quarter of an hour later she was alone in her boudoir, sitting before the small wood fire with her elbows on her knees and her chin supported on her clasped hands.

  She was terrified when she thought of what she had done, and an unreasoning fear of the future took possession of her. She felt that she had broken her solemn promise and betrayed her husband’s unbounded faith in her; for she knew how she had spoken the half-dozen words, and that if Castiglione had taken her into his arms then, her lips would have met his instantly, willingly, passionately. It had not been possible there; but if they had been in another place, could she have blamed him as she blamed herself? And by and by, when it was late, perhaps she would hear the familiar knock at her unlocked door, and the lips that had spoken those fierce little whispered words to the man she loved would have to say ‘Come in’ to the man whom she was pledged to honour. That was the sum and result, after so many months of pain and prayer and self-abasement, by which she had hoped to rise heavenwards. If only the man had spoken first, she could have grasped at the straw of self-excuse, she could have deluded herself with the thought that she had been tempted. But he had been silent, he had stood quite still, only looking at her, brave against himself and constant to his plighted promise. It was she who had tempted him; that was what she had come to!

  There was only one way now, she would tear the thought of him from her heart for ever, and trample out his memory as men stamp upon the embers of the camp fire when the wind rises, lest the dry grass be kindled, and they themselves be burnt to death in the storm of flame. It was well that Montalto had taken her back and that the dream had ended in that sharp agony; if there had been no such waking it would have turned into a reality she shuddered to think of.

  She rose and went to her writing-table and opened a deep drawer. It was there that she kept the small locked desk she had used in Via San Martino, the one in which she had put away Castiglione’s letters, meaning to burn them. With them there was also that letter of her husband’s in which he had first spoken of reconciliation, and she had never opened the writing-case since she had placed it there.

  It had been spring when she had left the little apartment, and there had been no fire in any of the rooms. The fireplaces were closed with painted boards, in the Italian way, and she had not wished to excite her servants’ curiosity by taking out the board and burning a quantity of papers on the clean hearth. Burnt paper leaves its unmistakable black ash behind it, and the servants might guess that she had destroyed old love-letters before going back to her husband. Besides, she had thought them innocent then. She had thought that some day she might find comfort in reading them over and recalling the sweetest illusion of her life, the happy and innocent dream of a love grown pure and true in years of waiting and trial. The well-loved writing was dearer to her than she would confess even to herself.

  But those letters must be burnt now. She was alone, for Montalto was hardly ever at home at that hour, and Leone was busy at his late afternoon lesson with his tutor, after having been out till nearly sunset. The small fire was burning well, too, and it would be a matter of only two or three minutes to destroy everything; and it must be done at once, while she felt the courage to do it.

  She lifted the case out of the drawer and set it on the table before her, turning up the shaded light she used for writing. It was a little old desk that had belonged to her grandmother, made of ebony and inlaid with metal and mother-of-pearl in the happily forgotten taste of the Second Empire. It was of the old sloping shape, made so that when it was opened the upper part turned down in front, continuing the inclined plane to the level of the table, to give enough space for writing; it was one of those primitive attempts at a convenient travelling writing-case which had seemed marvels of ingenuity in those days, and look so hopelessly clumsy to our modern eyes. But Maria’s grandmother had used it for many years, and it had a lock. Everything could be locked in those days, though most of the keys were absurdly simple. Maria looked at it, and remembered that the folding board was covered on the inside with
very faded and threadbare purple velvet on which there were three or four inkstains; and when the outer cover was down the upper half of the folding board made a second lid which could be turned down on the first, and there was a little silk tag fastened to it, by which it could be moved. Under this second lid was the body of the desk, a space large enough to contain a good many papers.

  Maria sat at the table with the case before her, and her hands upon it. She meant to burn all the letters, except Montalto’s, without reading them. That would be the only way, and it would not take more than two or three minutes; yet she hesitated, though she had already taken the little key from the chain on which she had always carried it.

  Might she not at least think for the last time of those dear words? They had been quite innocent. If worse had come to worst she would have shown them even to her husband. They were not eloquent, for Castiglione had small gift for writing. They were not the rough and uncouth love-letters that such a man might have written; for the very essence of the lost dream had been that it was to ignore the earthly love and look forward to the spiritual. He had tried to follow whither she meant to lead, and what he had written was the sincere effort, the pathetically imperfect effort, to see something heavenly through eyes not used to call up the unreal in visions.

  She remembered well the awkward wording of his sentences, and the way he had groped at the meaning of what seemed so clear to her. He could understand whatever had to do with honour, with courage, and even with sacrifice, if it were for her sake. But heavenly things were quite beyond him, and even the earthly paradise she had tried to show him seemed very complicated. Yet he would try to make himself comprehend it because all her thoughts were beautiful, and because she had taught him where true honour lay, in honouring her honour, and in kneeling at the shrine of her purity, he, a poor material man.