Sant' Ilario, Page 2

  CHAPTER II.

  "You know Gouache?" asked old Prince Saracinesca, in a tone whichimplied that he had news to tell. He looked from his daughter-in-law tohis son as he put the question, and then went on with his breakfast.

  "Very well," answered Giovanni. "What about him?"

  "He was knocked down by a carriage last night. The carriage belonged toMontevarchi, and Gouache is at his house, in danger of his life."

  "Poor fellow!" exclaimed Corona in ready sympathy. "I am so sorry! I amvery fond of Gouache."

  Giovanni Saracinesca, known to the world since his marriage as Princeof Sant' Ilario, glanced quickly at his wife, so quickly that neithershe nor the old gentleman noticed the fact.

  The three persons sat at their midday breakfast in the dining-room ofthe Palazzo Saracinesca. After much planning and many discussions theyoung couple had determined to take up their abode with Giovanni'sfather. There were several reasons which had led them to this decision,but the two chief ones were that they were both devotedly attached tothe old man; and secondly, that such a proceeding was strictly fittingand in accordance with the customs of Romans. It was true that Corona,while her old husband, the Duca d'Astrardente, was alive, had grownused to having an establishment exclusively her own, and both theSaracinesca had at first feared that she would be unwilling to live inher father-in-law's house. Then, too, there was the Astrardente palace,which, could not lie shut up and allowed to go to ruin; but this matterwas compromised advantageously by Corona's letting it to an Americanmillionaire who wished to spend the winter in Rome. The rent paid waslarge, and Corona never could have too much money for her improvementsout at Astrardente. Old Saracinesca wished that the tenant might havebeen at least a diplomatist, and cursed the American by his gods, butGiovanni said that his wife had shown good sense in getting as much asshe could for the palace.

  "We shall not need it till Orsino grows up--unless you marry again,"said Sant' Ilario to his father, with a laugh.

  Now, Orsino was Giovanni's son and heir, aged, at the time of thistale, six months and a few days. In spite of his extreme youth,however, Orsino played a great and important part in the doings of theSaracinesca household. In the first place, he was the heir, and the oldprince had been found sitting by his cradle with an expression neverseen in his face since Giovanni had been a baby. Secondly, Orsino was avery fine child, swarthy of skin, and hard as a tiger cub, yet havingalready his mother's eyes, large, coal-black and bright, but deep andsoft withal. Thirdly, Orsino had a will of his own, admirably secondedby an enormous lung power. Not that he cried, when he wanted anything.His baby eyes had not yet been seen to shed tears. He merely shouted,loud and long, and thumped the sides of his cradle with his littleclenched fists, or struck out straight at anybody who chanced to bewithin reach. Corona rejoiced in the child, and used to say that he waslike his grandfather, his father and his mother all put together. Theold prince thought that if this were true the boy would do very well;Corona was the most beautiful dark woman of her time; he himself was asturdy, tough old man, though his hair and beard were white as snow,and Giovanni was his father's ideal of what a man of his race shouldbe. The arrival of the baby Orsino had been an additional argument infavour of living together, for the child's grandfather could not havebeen separated from him even by the quarter of a mile which lay betweenthe two palaces.

  And so it came to pass that they all dwelt under the same roof, andwere sitting together at breakfast on the morning of the 24th ofSeptember, when the old prince told them of the accident which hadhappened to Gouache.

  "How did you hear the news?" asked Giovanni.

  "Montevarchi told me this morning. He was very much disturbed at theidea of having an interesting young man in his house, with Flavia andFaustina at home." Old Saracinesca smiled grimly.

  "Why should that trouble him?" inquired Corona.

  "He has the ancient ideas," replied her father-in-law.

  "After all--Flavia--"

  "Yes Flavia, after all--"

  "I shall be curious to see how the other one turns out," remarkedGiovanni. "There seems to be a certain unanimity in our opinion ofFlavia. However, I daresay it is mere gossip, and Casa Montevarchi isnot a gay place for a girl of her age."

  "Not gay? How do you know?" asked the old prince. "Does the girl wantCarnival to last till All Souls'? Did you ever dine there, Giovannino?"

  "No--nor any one else who is not a member of the most Excellent CasaMontevarchi."

  "Then how do you know whether it is gay or not?"

  "You should hear Ascanio Bellegra describe their life," retortedGiovanni.

  "And I suppose you describe your life to him, in exchange?" PrinceSaracinesca was beginning to lose his temper, as he invariably didwhenever he could induce his son to argue any question with him. "Isuppose you deplore each other's miserable condition. I tell you what Ithink, Giovanni. You had better go and live in Corona's house if youare not happy here."

  "It is let," replied Giovanni with imperturbable calm, but his wife bither lip to control her rising laughter.

  "You might travel," growled the old gentleman.

  "But I am very happy here."

  "Then what do you mean by talking like that about Casa Montevarchi?"

  "I fail to see the connection between the two ideas," observed Giovanni.

  "You live in precisely the same circumstances as Ascanio Bellegra. Ithink the connection is clear enough. If his life is sad, so is yours.""For downright good logic commend me to my beloved father!" criedGiovanni, breaking into a laugh at last.

  "A laughing-stock for my children! I have come to this!" exclaimed hisfather gruffly. But his features relaxed into a good-humoured smile,that was pleasant to see upon his strong dark face.

  "But, really, I am very sorry to hear this of poor Gouache," saidCorona at last, returning to the original subject of theirconversation. "I hope it is nothing really dangerous."

  "It is always dangerous to be run over by a carriage," answeredGiovanni. "I will go and see him, if they will let me in."

  At this juncture Orsino was brought in by his nurse, a splendidcreature from Saracinesca, with bright blue eyes and hair as fair asany Goth's, a contrast to the swarthy child she carried in her arms.Immediately the daily ovation began, and each of the three personsbegan to worship the baby in an especial way. There was no moreconversation, after that, for some time. The youngest of theSaracinesca absorbed the attention of the family. Whether he clenchedhis little fists, or opened his small fat fingers, whether he laughedand crowed at his grandfather's attempts to amuse him, or struck hisnurse's rosy cheeks with his chubby hands, the result was alwaysapplause and merriment from those who looked on. The scene recalledJoseph's dream, in which the sheaves of his brethren bowed down to hissheaf.

  After a while, however, Orsino grew sleepy and had to be taken away.Then the little party broke up and separated. The old prince went tohis rooms to read and doze for an hour. Corona was called away to seeone of the numberless dressmakers whose shadows darken the beginning ofa season in town, and Giovanni took his hat and went out.

  In those days young men of society had very little to do. The other daya German diplomatist was heard to say that Italian gentlemen seemed todo nothing but smoke, spit, and criticise. Twenty years ago theirmanners might have been described less coarsely, but there was evenmore truth in the gist of the saying. Not only they did nothing. Therewas nothing for them to do. They floated about in a peaceful millpool,whose placid surface reflected nothing but their own idle selves,little guessing that the dam whereby their mimic sea was confined,would shortly break with a thundering crash and empty them all into thestream of real life that flowed below. For the few who dislikedidleness there was no occupation but literature, and literature, to theRoman mind of 1867, and in the Roman meaning of the word, wasscholarship. The introduction to a literary career was supposed to beobtained only by a profound study of the classics, with a view toavoiding everything classical, both in language and ideas, exceptCicer
o, the apostle of the ancient Roman Philistines; and the tendencyto clothe stale truisms and feeble sentiments in high-sounding languageis still found in Italian prose and is indirectly traceable to the samesource. As for the literature of the country since the Latins, itconsisted, and still consists, in the works of the four poets, Dante,Tasso, Ariosto, and Petrarch. Leopardi is more read now than then, butis too unhealthily melancholy to be read long by any one. There used tobe Roman princes who spent years in committing to memory the verses ofthose four poets, just as the young Brahman of to-day learns to recitethe Rig Veda. That was called the pursuit of literature.

  The Saracinesca were thought very original and different from othermen, because they gave some attention to their estates. It seemed verylike business to try and improve the possessions one had inherited oracquired by marriage, and business was degradation. Nevertheless, theSaracinesca were strong enough to laugh at other people's scruples, anddid what seemed best in their own eyes without troubling themselves toask what the world thought. But the care of such matters was not enoughto occupy Giovanni all day. He had much time on his hands, for he wasan active man, who slept little and rarely needed rest. Formerly he hadbeen used to disappear from Rome periodically, making long journeys,generally ending in shooting expeditions in some half-explored country.That was in the days before his marriage, and his wanderings hadassuredly done him no harm. He had seen much of the world not usuallyseen by men of his class and prejudices, and the acquaintance he hadthus got with things and people was a source of great satisfaction tohim. But the time had come to give up all this. He was now not onlymarried and settled in his own home, but moreover he loved his wifewith his whole heart, and these facts were serious obstacles againstroughing it in Norway, Canada, or Transylvania. To travel with Coronaand little Orsino seemed a very different matter from travelling withCorona alone. Then there was his father's growing affection for thechild, which had to be taken into account in all things. The four hadbecome inseparable, old Saracinesca, Giovanni, Corona, and the baby.

  Now Giovanni did not regret his old liberty. He knew that he was farhappier than he had ever been in his life before. But there were dayswhen the time hung heavily on his hands and his restless nature cravedsome kind of action which should bring with it a generous excitement.This was precisely what he could not find during the months spent inRome, and so it fell out that he did very much what most young men ofhis birth found quite sufficient as an employment; he spent a deal oftime in strolling where others strolled, in lounging at the club, andin making visits which filled the hours between sunset and dinner. Tohim this life was new, and not altogether tasteful; but his friends didnot fail to say that Giovanni had been civilised by his marriage withthe Astrardente, and was much less reserved than he had formerly been.

  When Corona went to see the dressmaker, Giovanni very naturally tookhis hat and went out of the house. The September day was warm andbright, and in such weather it was a satisfaction merely to pace theold Roman streets in the autumn sun. It was too early to meet any ofhis acquaintance, and too soon in the season for any regular visiting.He did not know what to do, but allowed himself to enjoy the sunshineand the sweet air. Presently, the sight of a couple of Zouaves, talkingtogether at the corner of a street, recalled to his mind the accidentwhich had happened to Gouache. It would be kind to go and see the poorfellow, or, at least, to ask after him. He had known him for some timeand had gradually learned to like him, as most people did who met thegifted artist day after day throughout the gaiety of the winter.

  At the Palazzo Montevarchi Giovanni learned that the princess had justfinished breakfast. He could hardly ask for Gouache without making ashort visit in the drawing-room, and he accordingly submitted,regretting after all that he had come. The old princess bored him, hedid not know Faustina, who was just out of the convent, and Flavia, whoamused many people, did not amuse him in the least. He inwardlyrejoiced that he was married, and that his visit could not beinterpreted as a preliminary step towards asking for Flavia's hand.

  The princess looked up with an expression of inquiry in her prominentblue eyes, as Sant' Ilario entered. She was stout, florid, and not welldressed. Her yellow hair, already half gray, for she was more thanfifty years old, was of the unruly kind, and had never looked neat evenin her best days. Her bright, clear complexion saved her, however, asit saves hundreds of middle-aged Englishwomen, from that look ofpeculiar untidiness which belongs to dark-skinned persons who take notrouble about their appearance or personal adornment. In spite ofthirty-three years of residence in Rome, she spoke Italian with aforeign accent, though otherwise correctly enough. But she wasnevertheless a great lady, and no one would have thought of doubtingthe fact. Fat, awkwardly dressed, of no imposing stature, withunmanageable hair and prominent teeth, she was not a person to belaughed at. She had what many a beautiful woman lacks andenvies--natural dignity of character and manner, combined with aself-possession which is not always found in exalted personages. Thatrepose of manner which is commonly believed to be the heirloom of noblebirth is seen quite as often in the low-born adventurer, who regards itas part of his stock-in-trade; and there are many women, and men too,whose position might be expected to place them beyond the reach of whatwe call shyness, but who nevertheless suffer daily agonies of socialtimidity and would rather face alone a charge of cavalry than make anew acquaintance. The Princess Montevarchi was made of braver stuff,however, and if her daughters had not inherited all her unaffecteddignity they had at least received their fair share of self-possession.When Sant' Ilario entered, these two young ladies, Donna Flavia andDonna Faustina, were seated one on each side of their mother. Theprincess extended her hand, the two daughters held theirs demurelycrossed upon their knees. Faustina looked at the carpet, as she hadbeen taught to do in the convent. Flavia looked up boldly at Giovanni,knowing by experience that her mother could not see her while greetingthe visitor. Sant' Ilario muttered some sort of civil inquiry, bowed tothe two young ladies and sat down.

  "How is Monsieur Gouache?" he asked, going straight to the point. Hehad seen the look of surprise on the princess's face as he entered, andthought it best to explain himself at once.

  "Ah, you have heard? Poor man! He is badly hurt, I fear. Would you liketo see him?"

  "Presently, if I may," answered Giovanni. "We are all fond of Gouache.How did the accident happen?"

  "Faustina ran over him," said Flavia, fixing her dark eyes on Giovanniand allowing her pretty face to assume an expression of sympathy--forthe sufferer. "Faustina and papa," she added.

  "Flavia! How can you say such things!" exclaimed the princess, whospent a great part of her life in repressing her daughter's manner ofspeech.

  "Well, mamma--it was the carriage of course. But papa and Faustina werein it. It is the same thing."

  Giovanni looked at Faustina, but her thin fresh face expressed nothing,nor did she show any intention of commenting on her sister'sexplanation. It was the first time he had seen her near enough tonotice her, and his attention was arrested by something in her lookswhich surprised and interested him. It was something almost impossibleto describe, and yet so really present that it struck Sant' Ilario atonce, and found a place in his memory. In the superstitions of the farnorth, as in the half material spiritualism of Polynesia, that look hasa meaning and an interpretation. With us, the interpretation is lost,but the instinctive persuasion that the thing itself is not whollymeaningless remains ineradicable. We say, with a smile at our owncredulity, "That man looks as though he had a story," or, "That womanlooks as though something odd might happen to her." It is an expressionin the eyes, a delicate shade in the features, which speak of manythings which we do not understand; things which, if they exist at all,we feel must be inevitable, fatal, and beyond human control. Giovannilooked and was surprised, but Faustina said nothing.

  "It was very good of the prince to bring him here," remarked Sant'Ilario.

  "It was very unlike papa," exclaimed Flavia, before her mother couldanswer. "But very k
ind, of course, as you say," she added, with alittle smile. Flavia had a habit of making rather startling remarks,and of then adding something in explanation or comment, before herhearers had recovered breath. The addition did not always mend mattersvery much.

  "Do not interrupt me, Flavia," said her mother, severely.

  "I beg your pardon, were you speaking, mamma?" asked the young girl,innocently.

  Giovanni was not amused by Flavia's manners, and waited calmly for theprincess to speak.

  "Indeed," said she, "there was nothing else to be done. As we had runover the poor man--"

  "The carriage--" suggested Flavia. But her mother took no notice of her.

  "The least we could do, of course, was to bring him here. My husbandwould not have allowed him to be taken to the hospital."

  Flavia again fixed her eyes on Giovanni with a look of sympathy, which,however, did not convey any very profound belief in her father'scharitable intentions.

  "I quite understand," said Giovanni. "And how has he been since youbrought him here? Is he in any danger?"

  "You shall see him at once," answered the princess, who rose and rangthe bell, and then, as the servant's footsteps were heard outside,crossed the room to meet him at the door.

  "Mamma likes to run about," said Flavia, sweetly, in explanation.Giovanni had risen and made as though he would have been of someassistance.

  The action was characteristic of the Princess Montevarchi. An Italianwoman would neither have rung the bell herself, nor have committed suchan imprudence as to turn her back upon her two daughters when there wasa man in the room. But she was English, and a whole lifetime spentamong Italians could not extinguish her activity; so she went to thedoor herself. Faustina's deep eyes followed her mother as though shewere interested to know the news of Gouache.

  "I hope he is better," she said, quietly.

  "Of course," echoed Flavia, "So do I. But mamma amuses me so much! Sheis always in a hurry."

  Faustina made no answer, but she looked at Sant' Ilario, as though shewondered what he thought of her sister. He returned her gaze, trying toexplain to himself the strange attraction of her expression, watchingher critically as he would have watched any new person or sight. Shedid not blush nor avoid his bold eyes, as he would have expected had herealised that he was staring at her.

  A few minutes later Giovanni found himself in a narrow, high room,lighted by one window, which showed the enormous thickness of the wallsin the deep embrasure. The vaulted ceiling was painted in fresco with arepresentation of Apollo in the act of drawing his bow, arrayed for thetime being in his quiver, while his other garments, of yellow and blue,floated everywhere save over his body. The floor of the room was of redbricks, which had once been waxed, and the furniture was scanty,massive and very old. Anastase Gouache lay in one corner in aqueer-looking bed covered with a yellow damask quilt the worse for acentury or two of wear, upon which faded embroideries showed theMontevarchi arms surmounted by a cardinal's hat. Upon a chair besidethe patient lay the little heap of small belongings he had carried inhis pocket when hurt, his watch and purse, his cigarettes, hishandkerchief and a few other trifles, among which, half concealed bythe rest, was the gold pin he had picked up by the bridge on theprevious evening. There was a mingled smell of dampness and of staletobacco in the comfortless room, for the windows were closely shut, inspite of the bright sunshine that flooded the opposite side of thestreet.

  Gouache lay on his back, his head tied up in a bandage and supported bya white pillow, which somehow conveyed the impression of one of thosemarble cushions upon which in old-fashioned monuments the effigies ofthe dead are made to lean in eternal prayer, if not in eternal ease. Hemoved impatiently as the door opened, and then recognising Giovanni, hehailed him in a voice much more lively and sonorous than might havebeen expected.

  "You, prince!" he cried, in evident delight. "What saint has broughtyou?"

  "I heard of your accident, and so I came to see if I could do anythingfor you. How are you?"

  "As you see," replied Gouache. "In a hospitable tomb, with my head tiedup like an imperfectly-resurrected Lazarus. For the rest there isnothing the matter with me, except that they have taken away myclothes, which is something of an obstacle to my leaving the house atonce. I feel as if I had been in a revolution and had found myself onthe wrong side of the barricade--nothing worse than that."

  "You are in good spirits, at all events. But are you not seriouslyhurt?"

  "Oh, nothing--a broken collar-bone somewhere, I believe, and some partof my head gone--I am not quite sure which, and a bad headache, andnothing to eat, and a general sensation as though somebody had made anineffectual effort to turn me into a sausage."

  "What does the doctor say?"

  "Nothing. He is a man of action. He bled me because I had not thestrength to strangle him, and poured decoctions of boiled grass down mythroat because I could not speak. He has fantastic ideas about thehuman body."

  "But you will have to stay here several days," said Giovanni,considerably amused by Gouache's view of his own case.

  "Several days! Not even several hours, if I can help it."

  "Things do not go so quickly in Rome. You must be patient."

  "In order to starve, when there is food as near as the Corso?" inquiredthe artist. "To be butchered by a Roman phlebotomist, and drenched withinfusions of hay by the Principessa Montevarchi, when I might bedevising means of being presented to her daughter? What do you take mefor? I suppose the young lady with the divine eyes is her daughter, isshe not?"

  "You mean Donna Faustina, I suppose. Yes. She is the youngest, just outof the Sacro Cuore. She was in the drawing-room when I called just now.How did you see her?"

  "Last night, as they brought me upstairs, I was lucky enough to wake upjust as she was looking at me. What eyes! I can think of nothing else.Seriously, can you not help me to get out of here?"

  "So that you may fall in love with Donna Faustina as soon as possible,I suppose," answered Giovanni with a laugh. "It seems to me that thereis but one thing to do, if you are really strong enough. Send for yourclothes, get up, go into the drawing-room and thank the princess forher hospitality."

  "That is easily said. Nothing is done in this house without the writtenpermission of the old prince, unless I am much mistaken. Besides, thereis no bell. I might as well be under arrest in the guard-room of thebarracks. Presently the doctor will come and bleed me again and theprincess will send me some more boiled grass. I am not very fat, as itis, but another day of this diet will make me diaphanous--I shall castno shadow. A nice thing, to be caught without a shadow on parade!"

  "I will see what I can do," said Giovanni, rising. "Probably, the bestthing would be to send your military surgeon. He will not be so tenderas the other leech, but he will get you away at once. My wife wished meto say that she sympathised, and hoped you might soon be well."

  "My homage and best thanks to the princess," answered Gouache, with aslight change of tone, presumably to be referred to his sense ofcourtesy in speaking of the absent lady.

  So Giovanni went away, promising to send the surgeon at once. Thelatter soon arrived, saw Gouache, and was easily persuaded to order himhome without further delay. The artist-soldier would not leave thehouse without thanking his hostess. His uniform had been cleansed fromthe stains it had got in the accident, and his left arm was in a sling.The wound on his head was more of a bruise than a cut, and wasconcealed by his thick black hair. Considering the circumstances hepresented a very good appearance. The princess received him in thedrawing-room, and Flavia and Faustina were with her, but all three werenow dressed to go out, so that the interview was necessarily a shortone.

  Gouache made a little speech of thanks and tried to forget thedecoction of mallows he had swallowed, fearing lest the recollectionshould impart a tone of insincerity to his expression of gratitude. Hesucceeded very well, and afterwards attributed the fact to DonnaFaustina's brown eyes, which were not cast down as they had been whenSant' Ilario had ca
lled, but appeared on the contrary to contemplatethe new visitor with singular interest.

  "I am sure my husband will not approve of your going so soon," said theprincess in somewhat anxious tones. It was almost the first time shehad ever known any step of importance to be taken in her house withouther husband's express authority.

  "Madame," answered Gouache, glancing from Donna Faustina to hishostess, "I am in despair at having thus unwillingly trespassed uponyour hospitality, although I need not tell you that I would gladlyprolong so charming an experience, provided I were not confined tosolitude in a distant chamber. However, since our regimental surgeonpronounces me fit to go home, I have no choice but to obey orders.Believe me, Madame, I am deeply grateful to yourself as well as to thePrincipe Montevarchi for your manifold kindnesses, and shall cherish aremembrance of your goodness so long as I live."

  With these words Gouache bowed as though he would be gone and stoodwaiting for the princess's last word. But before her mother couldspeak, Faustina's voice was heard.

  "I cannot tell you how dreadfully we feel--papa and I--at having beenthe cause of such a horrible accident! Is there nothing we can do tomake you forget it?"

  The princess stared at her daughter in the utmost astonishment at herforwardness. She would not have been surprised if Flavia had beenguilty of such imprudence, but that Faustina should thus boldly addressa young man who had not spoken to her, was such a shock to her beliefin the girl's manners that she did not recover for several seconds.Anastase appreciated the situation, for as he answered, he lookedsteadily at the mother, although his words were plainly addressed tothe brown-eyed beauty.

  "Mademoiselle is too kind. She exaggerates. And yet, since she has putthe question, I will say that I should forget my broken bones very soonif I might be permitted to paint Mademoiselle's portrait. I am apainter," he added, in modest explanation.

  "Yes," said the princess, "I know. But, really--this is a matter whichwould require great consideration--and my husband's consent--and, forthe present---"

  She paused significantly, intending to convey a polite refusal, butGouache completed the sentence.

  "For the present, until my bones are mended, we will not speak of it.When I am well again I will do myself the honour of asking the prince'sconsent myself."

  Flavia leaned towards her mother and whispered into her ear. The wordswere quite audible, and the girl's dark eyes turned to Gouache with awicked laugh in them while she was speaking.

  "Oh, mamma, if you tell papa it is for nothing he will be quitedelighted!"

  Gouache's lip trembled as he suppressed a smile, and the elderlyprincess's florid cheeks flushed with annoyance.

  "For the present," she said, holding out her hand rather coldly, "wewill not speak of it. Pray let us know of your speedy recovery,Monsieur Gouache."

  As the artist took his leave he glanced once more at Donna Faustina.Her face was pale and her eyes flashed angrily. She, too, had heardFlavia's stage whisper and was even more annoyed than her mother.Gouache went his way toward his lodging in the company of the surgeon,pondering on the inscrutable mysteries of the Roman household of whichhe had been vouchsafed a glimpse. He was in pain from his head andshoulder, but insisted that the walk would do him good and refused thecab which his companion had brought. A broken collar-bone is not adangerous matter, but it can be very troublesome for a while, and theartist was glad to get back to his lodgings and to find himselfcomfortably installed in an easy chair with something to eat beforehim, of a more substantial nature than the Principessa Montevarchi'sinfusions of camomile and mallows.