“You are such an old friend of the family, conte, that perhaps you will not mind sitting at the head of the table?”
“Tropp’ onore, signora!” I answered, bowing gallantly, as I at once resumed my rightful place at my own table, Ferrari placing himself on my right hand, Nina on my left. The butler, my father’s servant and mine, stood as of old behind my chair, and I noticed that each time he supplied me with wine he eyed me with a certain timid curiosity — but I knew I had a singular and conspicuous appearance, which easily accounted for his inquisitiveness. Opposite to where I sat, hung my father’s portrait — the character I personated permitted me to look at it fixedly and give full vent to the deep sigh which in very earnest broke from my heart. The eyes of the picture seemed to gaze into mine with a sorrowful compassion — almost I fancied the firm-set lips trembled and moved to echo my sigh.
“Is that a good likeness?” Ferrari asked, suddenly.
I started, and recollecting myself, answered: “Excellent! So true a resemblance that it arouses a long train of memories in my mind — memories both bitter and sweet. Ah! what a proud fellow he was!”
“Fabio was also very proud,” chimed in my wife’s sweet voice. “Very cold and haughty.”
Little liar! How dared she utter this libel on my memory! Haughty, I might have been to others, but never to her — and coldness was no part of my nature. Would that it were! Would that I had been a pillar of ice, incapable of thawing in the sunlight of her witching smile! Had she forgotten what a slave I was to her? what a poor, adoring, passionate fool I became under the influence of her hypocritical caresses! I thought this to myself, but I answered aloud:
“Indeed! I am surprised to hear that. The Romani hauteur had ever to my mind something genial and yielding about it — I know my friend was always most gentle to his dependents.”
The butler here coughed apologetically behind his hand — an old trick of his, and one which signified his intense desire to speak.
Ferrari laughed, as he held out his glass for more wine.
“Here is old Giacomo,” he said, nodding to him lightly. “He remembers both the Romanis — ask him his opinion of Fabio — he worshiped his master.”
I turned to my servant, and with a benignant air addressed him:
“Your face is not familiar to me, my friend,” I said. “Perhaps you were not here when I visited the elder Count Romani?”
“No, eccellenza,” replied Giacomo, rubbing his withered hands nervously together, and speaking with a sort of suppressed eagerness, “I came into my lord’s service only a year before the countess died — I mean the mother of the young count.”
“Ah! then I missed making your acquaintance,” I said, kindly, pitying the poor old fellow, as I noticed how his lips trembled, and how altogether broken he looked. “You knew the last count from childhood, then?”
“I did, eccellenza!” And his bleared eyes roved over me with a sort of alarmed inquiry.
“You loved him well?” I said, composedly, observing him with embarrassment.
“Eccellenza, I never wish to serve a better master. He was goodness itself — a fine, handsome, generous lad — the saints have his soul in their keeping! Though sometimes I cannot believe he is dead — my old heart almost broke when I heard it. I have never been the same since — my lady will tell you so — she is often displeased with me.”
And he looked wistfully at her; there was a note of pleading in his hesitating accents. My wife’s delicate brows drew together in a frown, a frown that I had once thought came from mere petulance, but which I was now inclined to accept as a sign of temper. “Yes, indeed, Giacomo,” she said, in hard tones, altogether unlike her usual musical voice. “You are growing so forgetful that it is positively annoying. You know I have often to tell you the same thing several times. One command ought to be sufficient for you.”
Giacomo passed his hand over his forehead in a troubled way, sighed, and was silent. Then, as if suddenly recollecting his duty, he refilled my glass, and shrinking aside, resumed his former position behind my chair.
The conversation now turned on desultory and indifferent matters. I knew my wife was an excellent talker, but on that particular evening I think she surpassed herself. She had resolved to fascinate me, that I saw at once, and she spared no pains to succeed in her ambition. Graceful sallies, witty bon-mots tipped with the pungent sparkle of satire, gay stories well and briskly told, all came easily from her lips, so that though I knew her so well, she almost surprised me by her variety and fluency. Yet this gift of good conversation in a woman is apt to mislead the judgment of those who listen, for it is seldom the result of thought, and still more seldom is it a proof of intellectual capacity. A woman talks as a brook babbles; pleasantly, but without depth. Her information is generally of the most surface kind — she skims the cream off each item of news, and serves it up to you in her own fashion, caring little whether it be correct or the reverse. And the more vivaciously she talks, the more likely she is to be dangerously insincere and cold-hearted, for the very sharpness of her wit is apt to spoil the more delicate perceptions of her nature. Show me a brilliant woman noted for turning an epigram or pointing a satire, and I will show you a creature whose life is a masquerade, full of vanity, sensuality and pride. The man who marries such a one must be content to take the second place in his household, and play the character of the henpecked husband with what meekness he best may. Answer me, ye long suffering spouses of “society women” how much would you give to win back your freedom and self-respect? to be able to hold your head up unabashed before your own servants? to feel that you can actually give an order without its being instantly countermanded? Ah, my poor friends! millions will not purchase you such joy; as long as your fascinating fair ones are like Caesar’s wife, “above suspicion” (and they are generally prudent managers), so long must you dance in their chains like the good-natured clumsy bears that you are, only giving vent to a growl now and then; a growl which at best only excites ridicule. My wife was of the true world worldly; never had I seen her real character so plainly as now, when she exerted herself to entertain and charm me. I had thought her spirituelle, ethereal, angelic! never was there less of an angel than she! While she talked, I was quick to observe the changes on Ferrari’s countenance. He became more silent and sullen as her brightness and cordiality increased. I would not appear aware of the growing stiffness in his demeanor; I continued to draw him into the conversation, forcing him to give opinions on various subjects connected with the art of which he was professedly a follower. He was very reluctant to speak at all; and when compelled to do so, his remarks were curt and almost snappish, so much so that my wife made a laughing comment on his behavior.
“You are positively ill-tempered, Guido!” she exclaimed, then remembering she had addressed him by his Christian name, she turned to me and added— “I always call him Guido, en famille; you know he is just like a brother to me.”
He looked at her and his eyes flashed dangerously, but he was mute. Nina was evidently pleased to see him in such a vexed mood; she delighted to pique his pride, and as he steadily gazed at her in a sort of reproachful wonder, she laughed joyously. Then rising from the table, she made us a coquettish courtesy.
“I will leave you two gentlemen to finish your wine together,” she said, “I know all men love to talk a little scandal, and they must be alone to enjoy it. Afterward, will you join me in the veranda? You will find coffee ready.”
I hastened to open the door for her as she passed out smiling; then, returning to the table, I poured out more wine for myself and Ferrari, who sat gloomily eying his own reflection in the broad polished rim of a silver fruit-dish that stood near him. Giacomo, the butler, had long ago left the room; we were entirely alone. I thought over my plans for a moment or two; the game was as interesting as a problem in chess. With the deliberation of a prudent player I made my next move.
“A lovely woman!” I murmured, meditatively, sipping my wine, “and intel
ligent also. I admire your taste, signor!”
He started violently. “What — what do you mean?” he demanded, half fiercely. I stroked my mustache and smiled at him benevolently.
“Ah, young blood! young blood!” I sighed, shaking my head, “it will have its way! My good sir, why be ashamed of your feelings? I heartily sympathize with you; if the lady does not appreciate the affection of so ardent and gallant an admirer, then she is foolish indeed! It is not every woman who has such a chance of happiness.”
“You think — you imagine that — that — I—”
“That you are in love with her?” I said, composedly. “Ma — certamente! And why not? It is as it should be. Even the late conte could wish no fairer fate for his beautiful widow than that she should become the wife of his chosen friend. Permit me to drink your health! Success to your love!” And I drained my glass as I finished speaking. Unfortunate fool! He was completely disarmed; his suspicions of me melted away like mist before the morning light. His face cleared — he seized my hand and pressed it warmly.
“Forgive me, conte,” he said, with remorseful fervor; “I fear I have been rude and unsociable. Your kind words have put me right again. You will think me a jealous madman, but I really fancied that you were beginning to feel an attraction for her yourself, and actually — (pardon me, I entreat of you!) actually I was making up my mind to — to kill you!”
I laughed quietly. “Veramente! How very amiable of you! It was a good intention, but you know what place is paved with similar designs?”
“Ah, conte, it is like your generosity to take my confession so lightly; but I assure you, for the last hour I have been absolutely wretched!”
“After the fashion of all lovers, I suppose,” I answered “torturing yourself without necessity! Well, well, it is very amusing! My young friend, when you come to my time of life, you will prefer the chink of gold to the laughter and kisses of women. How often must I repeat to you that I am a man absolutely indifferent to the tender passion? Believe it or not, it is true.”
He drank off his wine at one gulp and spoke with some excitement.
“Then I will frankly confide in you. I do love the contessa. Love! it is too weak a word to describe what I feel. The touch of her hand thrills me, her very voice seems to shake my soul, her eyes burn through me! Ah! You cannot know — you could not understand the joy, the pain—”
“Calm yourself,” I said, in a cold tone, watching my victim as his pent-up emotion betrayed itself, “The great thing is to keep the head cool when the blood burns. You think she loves you?”
“Think! Gran Dio! She has—” here he paused and his face flushed deeply— “nay! I have no right to say anything on that score. I know she never cared for her husband.”
“I know that too!” I answered, steadily. “The most casual observer cannot fail to notice it.”
“Well, and no wonder!” he exclaimed, warmly. “He was such an undemonstrative fool! What business had such a fellow as that to marry so exquisite a creature!”
My heart leaped with a sudden impulse of fury, but I controlled my voice and answered calmly:
“Requiescat in pace! He is dead — let him rest. Whatever his faults, his wife of course was true to him while he lived; she considered him worthy of fidelity — is it not so?”
He lowered his eyes as he replied in an indistinct tone:
“Oh, certainly!”
“And you — you were a most loyal and faithful friend to him, in spite of the tempting bright eyes of his lady?”
Again he answered huskily, “Why, of course!” But the shapely hand that rested on the table so near to mine trembled.
“Well, then,” I continued, quietly, “the love you bear now to his fair widow is, I imagine, precisely what he would approve. Being, as you say, perfectly pure and blameless, what can I wish otherwise than this — may it meet with the reward it deserves!”
While I spoke he moved uneasily in his chair, and his eyes roved to my father’s picture with restless annoyance. I suppose he saw in it the likeness to his dead friend. After a moment or two of silence he turned to me with a forced smile —
“And so you really entertain no admiration for the contessa?”
“Oh, pardon me, I do entertain a very strong admiration for her, but not of the kind you seem to suspect. If it will please you, I can guarantee that I shall never make love to the lady unless—”
“Unless what?” he asked, eagerly.
“Unless she happens to make love to me. In which case it would be ungallant not to reciprocate!”
And I laughed harshly. He stared at me in blank surprise. “She make love to you!” he exclaimed, “You jest. She would never do such a thing.”
“Of course not!” I answered, rising and clapping him heavily on the shoulder. “Women never court men, it is quite unheard of; a reverse of the order of nature! You are perfectly safe, my friend; you will certainly win the recompense you so richly merit. Come, let us go and drink coffee with the fair one.”
And arm-in-arm we sauntered out to the veranda in the most friendly way possible. Ferrari was completely restored to good humor, and Nina, I thought, was rather relieved to see it. She was evidently afraid of Ferrari — a good point for me to remember. She smiled a welcome to us as we approached, and began to pour out the fragrant coffee. It was a glorious evening; the moon was already high in the heavens, and the nightingales’ voices echoed softly from the distant woods. As I seated myself in a low chair that was placed invitingly near that of my hostess, my ears were startled by a long melancholy howl, which changed every now and then to an impatient whine.
“What is that?” I asked, though the question was needless, for I knew the sound.
“Oh, it is that tiresome dog Wyvis,” answered Nina, in a vexed tone. “He belonged to Fabio. He makes the evening quite miserable with his moaning.”
“Where is he?”
“Well, after my husband’s death he became so troublesome, roaming all over the house and wailing; and then he would insist on sleeping in Stella’s room close to her bedside. He really worried me both day and night, so I was compelled to chain him up.”
Poor Wyvis! He was sorely punished for his fidelity.
“I am very fond of dogs,” I said, slowly, “and they generally take to me with extraordinary devotion. May I see this one of yours?”
“Oh, certainly! Guido, will you go and unfasten him?”
Guido did not move; he leaned easily back in his chair sipping his coffee.
“Many thanks,” he answered, with a half laugh; “perhaps you forget that last time I did so he nearly tore me to pieces. If you do not object, I would rather Giacomo undertook the task.”
“After such an account of the animal’s conduct, perhaps the conte will not care to see him. It is true enough,” turning to me as she spoke, “Wyvis has taken a great dislike to Signor Ferrari — and yet he is a good-natured dog, and plays with my little girl all day if she goes to him. Do you feel inclined to see him? Yes?” And, as I bowed in the affirmative, she rang a little bell twice, and the butler appeared.
“Giacomo,” she continued, “unloose Wyvis and send him here.”
Giacomo gave me another of those timid questioning glances, and departed to execute his order. In another five minutes, the howling had suddenly ceased, a long, lithe, black, shadowy creature came leaping wildly across the moonlighted lawn — Wyvis was racing at full speed. He paid no heed to his mistress or Ferrari; he rushed straight to me with a yelp of joy. His huge tail wagged incessantly, he panted thirstily with excitement, he frisked round and round my chair, he abased himself and kissed my feet and hands, he rubbed his stately head fondly against my knee. His frantic demonstrations of delight were watched by my wife and Ferrari with utter astonishment. I observed their surprise, and said lightly:
“I told you how it would be! It is nothing remarkable, I assure you. All dogs treat me in the same way.”
And I laid my hand on the animal’s neck w
ith a commanding pressure; he lay down at once, only now and then raising his large wistful brown eyes to my face as though he wondered what had changed it so greatly. But no disguise could deceive his intelligence — the faithful creature knew his master. Meantime I thought Nina looked pale; certainly the little jeweled white hand nearest to me shook slightly.
“Are you afraid of this noble animal, madame?” I asked, watching her closely. She laughed, a little forcedly.
“Oh, no! But Wyvis is usually so shy with strangers, and I never saw him greet any one so rapturously except my late husband. It is really very odd!”
Ferrari, by his looks, agreed with her, and appeared to be uneasily considering the circumstance.
“Strange to say,” he remarked, “Wyvis has for once forgotten me. He never fails to give me a passing snarl.”
Hearing his voice, the dog did indeed commence growling discontentedly; but a touch from me silenced him. The animal’s declared enmity toward Ferrari surprised me — it was quite a new thing, as before my burial his behavior to him had been perfectly friendly.
“I have had a great deal to do with dogs in my time,” I said, speaking in a deliberately composed voice. “I have found their instinct marvelous; they generally seem to recognize at once the persons who are fond of their society. This Wyvis of yours, contessa, has no doubt discovered that I have had many friends among his brethren, so that there is nothing strange in his making so much of me.”
The air of studied indifference with which I spoke, and the fact of my taking the exuberant delight of Wyvis as a matter of course, gradually reassured the plainly disturbed feelings of my two betrayers, for after a little pause the incident was passed over, and our conversation went on with pleasant and satisfactory smoothness. Before my departure that evening, however, I offered to chain up the dog— “as, if I do this,” I added, “I guarantee he will not disturb your night’s rest by his howling.”
This suggestion met with approval, and Ferrari walked with me to show me where the kennel stood. I chained Wyvis, and stroked him tenderly; he appeared to understand, and he accepted his fate with perfect resignation, lying down upon his bed of straw without a sign of opposition, save for one imploring look out of his intelligent eyes as I turned away and left him.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 47