Part 5

Meanwhile the girl recovered herself, composing her features, which once more took on a severe expression. They sat down at some distance from each other.

“Your mother is well?”

“Quite well, thank you.”

“And--Lulu?”

“She, too, is very well.”

There was silence. Roberto experienced a strange sensation as of joy filled with bitterness.

“Lulu is occupied?” he asked.

Sofia checked a slight movement of impatience.

“She is at the Dellinos’ ball with mama,” she continued rapidly, as if to anticipate other questions.

Since Sofia was alone, then, and if he did not wish to be the most discourteous of men, he ought to remain and chat with her. At this thought Roberto was seized with an almost irresistible desire to flee. Yet he did not move.

“I came here because there was not the required number of us at my club,” he finally said, as if to excuse his presence.

“Lulu did not expect you--I am sorry--”

“Oh, it does not matter,” interrupted Roberto.

The interruption was too quick, and hardly flattering to the absent one.

“And you did not go?” he resumed.

“No, you know I am not very fond of balls.”

“Do you prefer reading?”

“Yes, very much.”

“Are you not afraid of doing yourself harm?”

“I have good eyes,” replied Sofia, raising them to the face of her questioner.

“And beautiful ones,” thought Roberto, “but expressionless. I meant--”

“Moral injury, perhaps. I do not think so. From the books that I read I always derive great peace.”

“Do you need peace?”

“We all need peace.”

Sofia’s voice was grave, resonant. Roberto took pleasure in it, as though he were hearing it for the first time. He seemed to find himself face to face with a woman hitherto unknown to him, and who was revealing herself to him in every word and gesture. Sofia had lost her coldness, she even looked at him, smiled at him, and spoke to him as to a friend. What had been between them before this? What was happening now?

“When I like a book,” continued Roberto, “I always feel the greatest desire to know the author, to know if he or she is good, if he has suffered, if he too has loved--”

“Perhaps you would be disillusioned. Authors always describe the love of others, never their own.”

“Possibly out of respect?”

“From jealousy, I think. There are cases in which love is the only treasure hidden in a soul.”

But the voice of Sofia did not change as she said these words. Her face wore such a frank expression, her tone was so simple, so pure, so convinced, that Roberto felt no surprise at hearing her discuss love with such sureness. Nothing now surprised him; everything seemed natural, to be expected. Even this evening, passed alone with this strange girl, seemed to him something predestined and long awaited. When they separated they gazed directly into each other’s faces, as though they wished to be sure of recognizing each other again. Sofia held out her hand, Roberto took it and bowed over it; a portière fell heavily behind him. They were parted.

When the charm of Sofia’s presence and conversation had ceased, Roberto felt confused, his brain in a turmoil. He was both gay and melancholy, would have liked to die, and was yet full of life. He did not know what to think of Lulu, of himself, or of his future.

Sofia was very happy, very happy. For this reason she wept, sobbing heartily, her head buried in her pillow.

IV

Three months had passed, Lulu’s marriage was still postponed. Every once in a while her mother, who did not understand this delay, would call her daughter aside and ask her the cause.

“I wish to wait,” Lulu always replied; “I need to know Roberto better.”

In fact, the girl had become observing. She went about as usual, sang as usual, laughed, joked, but often interrupted these pleasant occupations to study her sister, or to listen closely to Roberto’s every word. The former was often seen with lips compressed, her eyebrows drawn together with an air of great attention.

Then Lulu looked about her. And about her strange things were happening. Roberto was no longer serene and hilarious as usual, but thoughtful, pale, and agitated. He spoke briefly and absently; to many things in which he had formerly been interested he now seemed quite indifferent; sometimes with a great effort he succeeded in controlling himself, and becoming once more what he had been before, but only for a short time. He had never been accustomed to dissimulation, and succeeded badly; his passion and inner torment were revealed in his eyes.

A different Sofia, too, made her appearance at this time; that is to say, a nervous, restless Sofia, who at times embraced her sister with effusion, sometimes remained for hours without seeing her, rather avoiding her. Fleeting blushes rose to her cheeks, feverish flushes; a flame burned in her eyes; her voice was now deep and full of emotion, now dry and strident; her hands shook. At night she did not sleep. Lulu often rose, and went with bare feet to listen at her door and heard Sofia toss about and weep. If questioned, Sofia declared that there was nothing the matter; always the same reply.

When Roberto and Sofia met--and this happened every day--the change that had taken place in both of them became evident. Remarks were rare, replies were either too prompt or too vague, there were odd glances; sometimes for whole evenings they did not speak, but each studied the movements of the other. They never sat beside each other; yet Roberto always found an excuse for picking up the work or the book that Sofia had touched. Sometimes when she did not come into the room, Roberto, always more and more uneasy, stared at the closed door, answering absently to what was said. Sometimes only five minutes after Sofia’s appearance he would take his hat and leave. The girl was growing pale, black circles appeared under her eyes. Finally, she decided not to let herself be seen. Every evening for a week she shut herself in her room, trembling with impatience, trying to smother her unhappiness.

One evening Lulu entered her room. “Will you do me a favor?” she asked.

“What do you want?”

“I have a note to write,” said Lulu. “Roberto is alone, out on the terrace. Will you go and keep him company?”

“But I--”

“Do you wish to stay shut up here? Does it cost you so much to please me?”

“Will you come back soon?”

“I only want time to write four lines.”

Sofia turned toward the terrace, trying to summon courage for the ordeal. She paused on the threshold. Roberto was walking up and down; she went up to him.

“Lulu sends me,” she said in a low voice.

“You forced yourself to come?”

“Forced--no.”

She trembled throughout her whole frame; Roberto was near her, his face transfigured with passion.

“What have I done to you, Sofia?”

“Nothing, you have done nothing. Do not look at me like that,” she implored, terrified.

“You know then, Sofia, that I love you very dearly?”

“Oh! hush, Roberto, for pity’s sake hush! If Lulu were to hear us!”

“I do not love Lulu. I love you, Sofia.”

“That is treachery.”

“I know it, but I love you. I will go away--”

“Well?” cried Lulu in the distance, appearing from another door. “Well, have you two made peace?”

But there was no reply. Sofia fled, hiding her face in her hands; and Roberto remained motionless, silent, as though stunned.

“Roberto!” cried Lulu.

“Lulu.”

“What has happened?”

“Nothing; I am going.”

And without even taking leave of her, he too went away with a despairing gesture. Lulu followed him with her eyes, and stood there absorbed in thought.

“One here, the other there,” she murmured; “and previous to that? Enough! I must take a hand in it.”

V

“And so for all these excellent reasons I can not marry Roberto Montefranco,” Lulu finally said to her mother.

“They are absurd reasons, my daughter,” replied the mother, shaking her head.

“In short, must I tell you frankly and plainly that Roberto does not please me, and that I am not going to marry him?”

“It is at least frank; but it is no more than a whim. Roberto loves you.”

“He will console himself.”

“You have exchanged promises.”

“We can retract them. We are no longer living in the days when people were married by force.”

“What will the world say?”

“Mother, let us define the world.”

“People.”

“And who is Mr. People? I do not know him; I am not obliged to be unhappy for the sake of Mr. People.”

“You are a terrible girl! But how am I to arrange it with Roberto? What am I to say to him?”

“What you wish. That is what you are my mother for.”

“Oh, indeed! To remedy the wrongs you have done. There will be a scandal.”

“I do not think so; you can say it politely, with pretty manners. Indeed, I think you might even speak badly of me--call me capricious, frivolous, childish; say that I would be a very bad wife, that I am not at all serious, that I am lacking in dignity, that my sister is--”

“Your sister? Are you losing your mind, Lulu?”

“Pshaw! you could easily say that. At present Roberto and Sofia are indifferent to each other, but if they come to know each other better they might appreciate each other, and then--who can say? You would be praised as a good mother for having married off the elder daughter first.”

“In fact--”

“I shall not go husbandless; I am barely eighteen years old. And I wish to amuse myself; I wish to dance a great deal; I wish to enjoy my happy youth with my dear, kind little mother--”

“You are a little rogue,” replied the mother, moved, and embracing her daughter.

“Then we understand each other? Announce the ugly news to Roberto politely, but add that we must always be friends, that we hope to see him often. If these two are to fall in love with each other they will do so; it is predestined.”

“But do you believe, naughty Lulu, that matters will all come right? You know that I hate quarrels.”

“Oh, unconvinced mother! Oh, mother, more unbelieving than Saint Thomas! Yes, yes, out of my wide experience I assure you that there will be no scandal. Roberto is a gentleman, and will not expect me to marry him without loving him.”

“What seems to me impossible is the affair with Sofia--”

“Nothing is more possible than the impossible,” gravely replied Lulu.

“My dear, so many axioms! Enough. Let us leave it all to time; perhaps time will regulate our affairs. All of which does not change the fact that you are a scatterbrain.”

“And very capricious--”

“Lacking in judgment--”

“And a whimsical creature. I am everything you like; lecture me, I deserve it. Come; have you nothing to say? I am waiting.”

“Give me a kiss, and go to bed. Good night, baby.”

“Thank you, mama. Good night.”

“It is better so,” thought the good mother. “Lulu is too young yet. Every day one sees the sad consequences of these marriages of convenience. May Heaven free us from them! It is better so.”

“Uff!” said Lulu, taking a deep breath. “What diplomacy I was forced to use, what art in order to convince mama! I would make a perfect ambassador. What a triumph! Not like a triumph of love, to be sure, but it is Lulu’s triumph!”

She paused outside her sister’s door and listened. She heard every now and then a repressed sigh. Poor Sofia had lost her peace of mind.

“Sleep, Sofia, sleep,” Lulu murmured softly, kissing the lock of the door almost as though she were kissing her sister’s brow; “calm yourself and rest. I have worked for you this evening.”

And the generous girl fell asleep, happy and content in the thought of the happiness of the sister she loved.

Time, good old time, the eternal wise old gentleman, accomplished his task. Lulu asked herself whether this unmarried sister who acted as bridesmaid should wear a gown of blue silk or a simple one of straw-colored foulard with lace. She asked Roberto if there would be a great many bonbons for her, and Sofia if she would give her that pretty embroidered handkerchief that was like a zephyr, a cloud. Roberto and Sofia, knowing what the girl’s heart was capable of, smiled at her gay thoughtlessness, and loved her, and looked upon her as their Providence.

“For I have always maintained,” said Roberto Montefranco to a friend, speaking of his marriage, “that a couple should be of opposite tastes. Extremes touch. Thus they will understand each other, will mingle, will form a complete whole, while those of similar tastes are like two parallel lines; they walk on together, but never meet. And then when there is love--! I have always said so.”

THE END OF CANDIA BY GABRIELE D’ANNUNZIO

[Illustration]

_Gabriele d’Annunzio, Italian poet and novelist, whose real name is Rapagnetta, was born on the Adriatic in 1864. In 1898 he was chosen member of the Chamber of Deputies, when he announced himself a social democrat. His first poems, which appeared in 1879, showed great talent, but it is as a writer of richly colored, vivid, voluptuous prose, which is at the same time classic in form and correct, almost finikin, in its perfect style, that he ranks among the best of Italy’s authors. His later stories grow deeper, more sombre, and unpleasant in theme, and are full of gruesome realism, borrowed from the modern French and Russian. He is a symbolist whose love of musical cadence sometimes leaves little room for sound thinking. But he is a master of style. His earlier stories, one of which is given here, are not so unpleasant as the later ones, and are frank imitations of De Maupassant--in this case of “The String.”_

[Illustration]

THE END OF CANDIA BY GABRIELE D’ANNUNZIO

Translated by Frederic Taber Cooper. Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier & Son.

I

Three days after the Easter banquet, which was traditionally a great occasion in the Lamonica household, both in its lavishness and in the number of its guests, Donna Cristina Lamonica was counting the table linen and silver service, and replacing them one by one, methodically, in drawer and cupboard, in readiness for future banquets.

As usual, she had with her, to help in the task, the chambermaid, Maria Bisaccia, and the laundress, Candida Marcanda, familiarly known as Candia. The huge hampers, filled with fine linen, stood in a row upon the floor. The silver platters and other table service gleamed brightly from the sideboard--massive vessels, somewhat crudely wrought by rustic silver-smiths, and of more or less liturgical design, like all the plate which rich provincial families hand down from generation to generation. A fresh fragrance of soapy water pervaded the room.

From the hampers Candia took tablecloths, napkins, and towels; she made the mistress take note that each piece was intact, and then passed them over to Maria, who laid them away in the drawers, while the mistress sprinkled lavender between them and entered the numbers in a book. Candia was a tall, lean, angular woman of fifty, with back somewhat bent from the habitual attitude of her calling, with arms of unusual length, and the head of a bird of prey mounted on a turtle’s neck. Maria Bisaccia was a native of Ortona, a trifle stout, with a fresh complexion and the clearest of eyes; she had a soft fashion of speech, and the light, leisurely touch of one whose hands were almost always busy over cakes and sirups, pastry and preserves. Donna Cristina, also an Ortonese, and educated in a Benedictine convent, was of small stature, with a somewhat too generous expanse of bosom, a face overstrewn with freckles, a large, long nose, poor teeth, and handsome eyes cast downward in a way that made one think of a priest in woman’s clothing.

The three women were performing their task with the utmost care, giving up to it the greater part of the afternoon. All at once, just as Candia was leaving with the empty baskets, Donna Cristina, in the course of counting the small silver, found that a spoon was missing.

“Maria! Maria!” she cried, in utter dismay, “count these! There’s a spoon missing! Count them yourself!”

“But how could it? That’s impossible, Signora!” replied Maria, “let me have a look.” And she in turn began to count the small pieces, telling off the numbers aloud, while Donna Cristina looked on, shaking her head. The silver gave forth a clear, ringing sound.

“Well, it’s a fact!” Maria exclaimed at last, with a gesture of despair; “what’s to be done about it!”

She herself was safe from all suspicion. For fifteen years she had given proofs of her fidelity and honesty in this very household. She had come from Ortona together with Donna Cristina at the time of the wedding, almost as though she were a part of the marriage settlement; and from the first she had acquired a certain authority in the house, through the indulgence of her mistress. She was full of religious superstitions, devoted to the saint and the belfry of her birthplace, and possessed of great shrewdness. She and her mistress had formed a sort of offensive alliance against Pescara and all pertaining to it, and more particularly against the saint of the Pescarese. She never missed a chance to talk of her native town, to vaunt its beauty and its riches, the splendor of its basilica, the treasures of San Tommaso, the magnificence of its religious ceremonies, as compared with the poverty of San Cetteo, that possessed only one single little silver cross.

Donna Cristina said:

“Take a good look in there.”

Maria left the room to extend the search. She explored every nook and corner of the kitchen and the balcony, but in vain. She came back empty-handed.

“It isn’t there! It isn’t there!”

Then the two together tried to think, to make conjectures, to ransack their memories. They went out upon the balcony that communicated with the court, the balcony back of the laundry, to make one last research. As they talked together in loud tones, women’s heads began to appear at the windows of the surrounding houses.

“What has happened, Donna Cristina? Tell us about it.”

Donna Cristina and Maria related the occurrence with many words and many gestures.

“Lord, Lord! Then there have been thieves here?”

In a moment the report of the theft had spread through the neighborhood, through all Pescara. Men and women fell to discussing, to imagining who could have been the thief. By the time the news had reached the most distant houses of Sant’ Agostino, it had gathered volume; it was no longer a question of a mere spoon, but of all the silver plate in the house of Lamonica.

Now, since the weather was fine and roses were beginning to bloom upon the balcony, and a pair of linnets were singing in their cage, the women lingered at their windows, for the pleasure of gossiping across the grateful warmth of the outdoor air. Female heads continued to appear from behind the pots of sweet basil, and a chatter arose that must have rejoiced the cats upon the housetops.

Clasping her hands, Donna Cristina asked: “Who could it have been?”

Donna Isabella Sertale, nicknamed the Pole-cat, who had the lithe and stealthy movements of a beast of prey, asked in a strident voice: “Who did you have with you, Donna Cristina? It seems to me that I saw Candia on her way--”

“Ahah!” exclaimed Donna Felicetta Margasanta, nicknamed the Magpie because of her continuous garrulity. “Ahah!” repeated the other gossips.--“And you hadn’t thought of it?”--“And you never noticed?”--“And you don’t know about Candia?”--“We can tell you about Candia!”--“Indeed we can!”--“Oh, yes, we can tell you about her!”

“She washes clothes well, there is no denying it. She is the best laundress in Pescara, there’s no question about it. But the trouble with her is that she is too light-fingered--didn’t you know that, my dear?”

“She got a couple of towels from me once.”--“And a napkin from me.”--“And a night-gown from me.”--“And three pairs of stockings from me.”--“And a new petticoat from me.”--“And I never got them back again.”--“Nor I.”--“Nor I.”

“But I didn’t discharge her. Whom could I get? Silvestra?”

“Oh! oh!”

“Angelantonia? The African?”

“Each one worse than the other!”

“We must put up with it.”

“But it’s a spoon this time!”

“That’s a little too much!”

“Don’t you let it pass, Donna Cristina, don’t you let it pass!”

“Let it pass, or not let it pass!” burst forth Maria Bisaccia, who in spite of her placid and benign appearance, never let an opportunity pass for displaying her superiority over her fellow servants. “That is for us to decide, Donna Isabella, that is for us to decide!”

And the chatter continued to flow back and forth from windows to balcony. And the accusation spread from lip to lip throughout the whole countryside.

II

The following morning, Candia Marcanda already had her arms in a tubful of clothes, when the village constable, Biagio Pesce, nicknamed the Little Corporal, appeared at her door.

“His Honor, the mayor, wants you up at his office right away,” he told the laundress.

“What’s that?” demanded Candia, wrinkling her brows into a frown, yet without interrupting the task before her.

“His Honor, the mayor, wants you up at his office, right away.”

“Wants me? What does he want me for?” Candia demanded rather sharply, for she was at a loss to understand this unexpected summons, and it turned her as stubborn as a horse balking at a shadow.

“I can’t tell you what for,” replied the Little Corporal, “those were my orders.”

“What were your orders?” From an obstinacy that was natural to her, she would not cease from asking questions. She could not convince herself that it was a reality. “The mayor wants me? What for? What have I done, I should like to know? I’m not going. I haven’t done anything.”

The Little Corporal, losing his temper, answered: “Oh, you won’t go, won’t you? We’ll see about that!” and he went off, muttering, with his hand upon the hilt of the ancient sword he wore.

Meanwhile there were others along the narrow street who had overheard the conversation and came out upon their doorsteps, where they could watch Candia vigorously working her arms up and down in the tubful of clothes. And since they knew about the silver spoon, they laughed meaningly and interchanged ambiguous phrases, which Candia could not understand. But this laughter and these phrases awoke a vague foreboding in the woman’s mind. And this foreboding gathered strength when the Little Corporal reappeared, accompanied by another officer.

“Step lively,” said the Little Corporal peremptorily.

Candia wiped her arms, without replying, and went with them. In the public square, people stopped to look. One of her enemies, Rosa Panura, called out from the door of her shop, with a hateful laugh: “Drop your stolen bone!”

The laundress, dazed by this persecution for which she could find no reason, was at a loss for a reply.

Before the mayor’s office a group of curious idlers had gathered to watch her as she went in. Candia, in an access of anger, mounted the steps in a rush and burst into the mayor’s presence, breathlessly demanding: “Well, what is it you want of me?”