Читать книгу The Patriot (Piccolo Mondo Antico) - Antonio Fogazzaro - Страница 7

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"Scoundrels!" snorted Don Franco, climbing the stairs that led to his room. "Silly ass of an Austrian!" He was venting his wrath on Pasotti, as he could not hurl insults at his grandmother, and the very letters of the word Austrian served so well to grind between his teeth, as he ground his rage, crushing it and enjoying its flavour. When he reached his room his burning indignation died out.

He threw himself into a chair opposite the open window, and gazed at the lake, lying still and mournful in the cloudy afternoon, and at the lonely mountains beyond the sheet of water. He drew a long breath. Ah! how well he felt here all alone! Ah! what peace! How different the atmosphere was to that of the drawing-room! What a precious atmosphere, full of his thoughts and of his loves! He felt a great need of giving himself up to them, and they at once took possession of him, driving from his mind the Carabellis, Pasotti, his grandmother and that egregious beast, the receiver of customs. They? No, one thought alone; a thought composed of mingled love and reason, of anxiety and joy, of so many sweet memories, and at the same time, of tremulous expectancy, for something solemn was drawing near, and would come to him in the shadows of the night. Franco looked at his watch. It wanted a quarter to four o'clock. Seven hours longer to wait. He rose, and leaned with folded arms upon the window sill.

In seven hours another life would begin for him. Beyond the few persons who were to have a part in the event, not even the air itself knew that that same evening, towards eleven o'clock, Don Franco Maironi would wed Signorina Luisa Rigey.

For some time Signora Teresa Rigey, Luisa's mother, had, in all sincerity, begged Franco to bend to his grandmother's will, to abstain from visiting their house, and to think no more of Luisa, who, on her part, was content, for the dignity of the family, and out of respect for her mother, that all official relations with Don Franco should cease. She did not, however, doubt that he would remain faithful to her, and considered herself bound to him for life. His grandmother was not aware that he was now privately reading law, in order that by following a profession, he might be able to maintain himself. But, as a result of so much anxiety, Signora Rigey contracted a heart trouble, which grew suddenly worse towards the end of August, 1851. Franco wrote to her, begging to be allowed at least, to visit her, since it was not possible for him to nurse her "as would have been his duty." The lady did not feel justified in consenting to this, and the young man, in despair, gave her to understand that he looked upon Luisa as his affianced wife before God, and that he would rather die than to give her up. Then the poor mother, conscious that her life was ebbing day by day, distressed by the uncertain position of her beloved child, and convinced of the young man's strength of purpose, conceived a great longing that—as the marriage would surely take place—it should be celebrated as soon as possible. Everything was arranged in haste, with the aid of the curate of Castello and of Signora Rigey's brother, the civil engineer Ribera, of Oria, who was in the service of the Imperial and Royal Office of Public Works, at Como. The understanding was as follows: The marriage should be celebrated secretly; Franco should remain with his grandmother, and Luisa with her mother, until such a time as they should deem it opportune to acknowledge their union to the Marchesa. Franco relied greatly upon the support of Monsignor Benaglia, Bishop of Lodi, and an old friend of the family, but before he was asked to interfere, the decisive step must be taken. If (as in all probability would be the case) the Marchesa hardened her heart against them, the young couple and Signora Rigey would take up their abode in a house in Oria, belonging to the engineer Ribera, a bachelor who was supporting his sister's family, and would now accept Franco in place of a son.

In seven hours then!

The window overlooked the landing-place and the strip of garden in front of the villa, on the lake side. When he first fell in love, Franco used to stand there and watch for the coming of a certain boat, from which would spring a slim little person, as light as air, but who never, never looked towards his window. At last, one day he had gone down to meet her, and she had waited a moment before jumping out, that she might accept his helping hand—which, indeed, was most unnecessary. Down there in the garden he had given her a flower, for the first time, the sweet-smelling flower of the Mandevilia suaveolens. Down there, on another occasion, he had cut his finger rather deeply with his penknife, while gathering a little branch of roses for her, and she, by the anxiety she displayed, had given him a sweet proof of her love. How many excursions to the solitary slopes of Monte Bisgnago, on the other side, he had made with her and with other friends, before his grandmother found out! How many lunches and suppers at the little inn at Doi! Franco would come home with the sweetness of the many glances exchanged still lingering in his heart, and shutting himself up in his room, would recall them all, revelling in them in memory. These first emotions of his love now rushed into his mind, not one by one, but all together, from the waters and from the gloomy shores, where his fixed gaze seemed to lose itself in the shadowy past rather than in the misty present. Thus, as he neared the goal, he thought of the first steps he had taken on this long road, of the unforeseen incidents, of the aspect of this much-longed-for union, so different in reality from what it had appeared in his dreams. He looked back upon the time of the mandevilia and the roses, of the excursions on the lake and among the hills. Certainly, at that time, he did not dream he would attain his object thus, secretly, and surrounded by so many difficulties, so much pain. Still, he thought that if the wedding had taken place openly, with the customary proem of official ceremonies, of contracts, congratulations, visits, and dinners, all this would have been even more wearisome and repugnant to his love than the opposition he had met with.

He was aroused by the voice of the prefect, calling to him from the garden, to announce the departure of the Carabellis. Franco reflected that if he went down he would be obliged to offer some apologies, and he preferred not to make his appearance. "You should have smashed the plate on his face!" the prefect called up to him, his hands framing his mouth. "You should have smashed it on his face!"

Then he turned away, and Franco saw the Carabellis' boatman go down to the shore to prepare the boat. He left the window, and returning to the thoughts which had occupied him first of all, he opened his chest of drawers, and stood absently contemplating an embroidered shirt front, where certain small diamond studs his father had worn at his own wedding, were already sparkling. He disliked the idea of going to the altar without some outward sign of festivity, but of course, this sign must not be too apparent.

In the iris-scented chest of drawers everything was arranged with that order which denotes a cultured spirit, and no one was allowed to touch its contents save Franco himself. But the chairs, the writing table, the piano, were heaped with such disorder that it would seem as if a hurricane of books and papers had swept in at the two windows. Certain law books were slumbering under an inch of dust, but not a single leaf of the little gardenia, growing in a pot on the sill of the east window, showed a speck of dust. These indications were sufficient to suggest the whimsical rule of a poet. A glance at the books and papers would have given conclusive proof of this.

Franco was passionately fond of poetry, and was a true poet in the exquisite delicacy of his instincts. As a writer of verse he could be ranked only as an indifferent amateur, wanting in originality. His favourite models were Foscolo and Giusti. He worshipped them fervently, and pillaged them both, for his genius, which was both satirical and enthusiastic, was not capable of creating a style of its own, and must content itself with imitating others. It is only fair to remark that young men in those days generally possessed a classical culture such as has since become most exceptional, and that through the classics themselves they learned to respect the art of imitation, as a praiseworthy and virtuous practice.

Franco liked to improvise on the piano with some of these verses before his eyes. Even more devoted to music than to poetry, he had himself purchased this piano for one hundred and fifty svanziche, from the organist at Loggio, because the poor Viennese instrument, belonging to his grandmother, which was always wrapped up and must be handled carefully, like a gouty member of the family, was not adapted to his requirements. The organist's instrument, which had been thumped and banged upon by two generations of hands, hardened by contact with the pickaxe, now sent forth only a funny little nasal voice, which rose above a faint tinkling, as of many tiny glasses standing too close together. Franco was almost oblivious to this. As soon as he had placed his hands upon the instrument his imagination would take fire; the composer's enthusiasm would enter into him, and, in the heat of the creative passion, a thread of sound sufficed to permeate him with the spirit of music, and absolutely to intoxicate him. An Erard would have embarrassed him, would have left less room for fancy, would, in a word, have been less dear to him than his spinet.

Franco possessed too many talents, too many different inclinations, too much impetuosity, too little vanity and perhaps also, too little will-power to undertake that tiresome, methodical, manual labour, which is indispensable in order to become a pianist. Nevertheless, Viscontini was enthusiastic about the style of playing, and his fiancée Luisa, though she did not entirely share his classical tastes, honestly admired his touch. When, being pressed to do so, he would make the organ at Cressogno roar and groan in the approved classic manner, the good people, overwhelmed by the music and the honour, would stare at him with open mouths and reverent eyes, as they would have stared at some preacher, whose sermon they did not understand. But notwithstanding all this, Franco could not have held his own in a city drawing-room, against the majority of feeble amateurs, incapable even of understanding and loving music. All, or almost all of them would have shown themselves his superiors in agility and in precision, and would have gathered in more applause, even though no one of them had succeeded in making the piano sing as he made it sing, especially in the adagios of Bellini and of Beethoven, playing with his soul in his throat, in his eyes, in the muscles of his face, in the tendons of his hands, which seemed one with the chords of the piano.

Another passion of his was for old pictures. The walls of his room held several, most of which were daubs. Never having travelled he had little experience. His fancy was quick to take fire, and, obliged as he was to fit his ample desires to his scant means, he was credulous concerning the alleged good fortune of other ignorant purchasers, and often allowed himself to be influenced by them, to be blinded and led into buying certain dirty rags, which, if they cost little, were worth still less. The only passably good things he possessed were a head, in the style of Morone, and a Madonna and Child, after the manner of Carlo Dolci. Franco, however, baptised these two little pictures with the names of Morone and Carlo Dolci, without further qualification.

When he had re-read and enjoyed some lines inspired by the hypocritical Pasotti, he once more hunted in the chaos of his desk, and drew forth a small sheet of notepaper, upon which he intended to write to Monsignor Benaglia, the only person who, in the future, might be able to influence his grandmother in his favour. He felt it his duty to inform him of the step he was about to take, of the reasons which had forced his fiancée and himself to resort to this painful subterfuge, of the hope they cherished that he would help them when the time came to confess all to the Marchesa. He was still reflecting, pen in hand, when the Carabellis' boat passed beneath his window. Soon after he heard the Marchese's gondola glide by, followed presently by Pin's boat. He expected that his grandmother would send for him, now that she was alone, but she did not do so. He waited some time, expecting to be summoned, then he began to think of his letter again, and reflected so long, re-wrote the introduction so many times, and got on so slowly, that before he had finished he was obliged to light the lamp.

The end was easier. He begged the old Bishop's prayers for his Luisa and for himself, and expressed a faith in God so perfect and so pure, that the most unbelieving heart must have been touched by it.

Fiery and impetuous as he was, still Franco possessed the calm and simple faith of a little child. Entirely free from pride, a stranger to philosophical meditations, he was ignorant of that thirst for intellectual liberty which torments young men, when their senses begin to find themselves hampered by that strong curb—positive beliefs. He had never for an instant doubted his religion, and performed all the duties it prescribed without once asking himself if it be reasonable to act and believe thus. Still he had nothing of the mystic or of the ascetic. His intellect, though ardent and poetic, was, at the same time, clear and positive. Devoted as he was to nature and to art, and attracted by all the pleasing aspects of life, he would naturally shrink from mysticism. He had not acquired his faith; he had never concentrated all his thoughts upon it for any length of time, therefore it was not possible that it should have penetrated all his sentiments. Religion was to him what science is to the student, whose first thought is school, where he studies diligently, having no peace until he has done his home tasks, and is prepared for the next lesson, but who, once his duty is performed, thinks no more either of teachers or of books, and does not feel the need of regulating his actions according to scientific conclusions or scholastic programmes. Therefore it would often seem that Franco's life was influenced by nothing else than his warm and generous heart, his passionate inclinations, his lively impressions, and the impulses of his honest nature, which was offended by every kind of untruth and meanness, while he chafed under contradiction, and was incapable of deceit.

He had just sealed his letter when some one knocked at the door. The Marchesa had sent to summon Don Franco downstairs to recite the Rosary. At Casa Maironi they recited the Rosary every evening between seven and eight, and the servants were obliged to be present. The Marchesa herself intoned the prayers, enthroned on her sofa, her sleepy eyes roving over the backs and legs of the worshippers, kneeling, some in one position, some in another, some in the light best adapted to set off a devotional attitude, and others in the shadow which would favour a comfortable, but forbidden nap. Franco entered the room as the nasal voice was repeating the sweet words: "Ave Maria, gratia plena," with that drawling unction which always inspired him with a wild desire to become a Turk. The young man flung himself down in a dark corner, and never opened his lips. It was impossible for him to answer that irritating voice with fitting devotion. He fell to imagining what the coming interview would be like, and preparing caustic answers.

When the Rosary was finished the Marchesa waited a moment and then pronounced the words consecrated by long usage—

"Carlotta, Friend."

It was the duty of Carlotta, the Marchesa's old maid, to take Friend in her arms, and carry him off to bed, as soon as the Rosary was finished.

"He is here, Signora Marchesa," said Carlotta.

But Friend, though indeed he had been there, was somewhere else when she bent down with outstretched hand. That evening old Friend was in good spirits, and determined to play at not being caught. He would tempt Carlotta, and then slip through her fingers, taking refuge under the piano, or under the table, from whence he would peer out at the poor woman with ironical waggings of his tail, while Carlotta's lips said, "Come, come, dear!" and her heart said, "Ugly beast!"

"Friend!" exclaimed the Marchesa. "That will do, Friend! Be good!"

Franco was boiling. The nasty little monster, imbued with his mistress' arrogance and egotism, paused at his feet, and Franco rolled him roughly towards Carlotta, who grabbed him, and punished him with an angry squeeze, and then carried him off, answering his whines with deceitful words of pity. "What did they do to you, poor Friend? What did they do to you? Tell us all about it!"

The Marchesa made no remarks, nor did her marble countenance betray her feelings. She ordered the footman to tell the prefect of the Caravina, or any one else who might call, that his mistress had retired. Franco started to leave the room behind the servants, but checked himself at once, that he might not appear to be running away. He took a number of the Imperial and Royal Gazette of Milan from the mantel-shelf, and seating himself near his grandmother, began reading while he waited.

"I congratulate you heartily on the good manners and fine sentiments you displayed to us to-day," the sleepy voice began, almost immediately.

"I accept your congratulations," Franco retorted, without raising his eyes from his paper.

"Well done, my dear!" his immovable grandmother replied, and added: "I am glad that young girl had the opportunity of seeing you as you are, because, supposing she may have heard of a certain project, she will now be very glad it is no longer thought of."

"Then we are both satisfied!" said Franco.

"You cannot in the least tell if you are going to be satisfied. Especially if you still hold the views you once held."

Upon this, Franco put his paper down, and looked his grandmother full in the face.

"What would happen," he said, "if I still held the same views I once held?"

This time he did not speak in a challenging tone, but with quiet seriousness.

"Ah! That is right!" the Marchesa exclaimed. "Let us speak plainly! I hope and believe that a certain event will never take place, but should it take place, do not flatter yourself that there will be anything for you at my death, for I have already arranged matters so that there will be nothing."

"Oh! as to that——" the young man began, with indifference.

"That is the score you would have to settle with me," the Marchesa continued. "Then there would be a score to settle with God."

"How is that?" Franco questioned. "God shall come first with me, and you afterwards!"

When the Marchesa was caught in a mistake she always talked straight on as if nothing had happened.

"And it will be a heavy score," said she.

"But it must be settled first!" Franco insisted.

"Because," the formidable old woman continued, "a good Christian is in duty bound to obey his father and his mother, and I represent both your father and your mother."

If the one was obstinate, the other was no less so.

"But God comes first!" said he.

The Marchesa rang the bell and closed the conversation thus—

"Now we understand each other perfectly."

When Carlotta entered she rose from the sofa, and said, placidly—

"Good-night."

"Good-night," Franco answered, and resumed the Milan Gazette.

As soon as his grandmother had left the room he flung the paper aside, clenched his fists, and giving vent to his anger in a sort of furious snort, sprang to his feet, saying aloud—

"Ah! It is better so! Better, better so!" It was better so, he continued to assure himself mutely. Better never to bring Luisa to this accursed house, better never to oblige her to bear this rule, this arrogance, this voice, this face! Better to live on bread and water, and look to hard work for the rest, rather than to accept anything from his grandmother's hand. Better become a gardener, d—— it! a boatman, or a charcoal burner!

He went up to his room determined to break with all obligations. "A score to settle with God!" he exclaimed, banging the door behind him. "A score to settle with God if I marry Luisa! Ah! after all, what do I care? Let them see me, spy upon me, bring her the news. Let them tell her, let them sing it to her in every key. I shall be delighted!"

He dressed himself in feverish haste, knocking against the chairs, and closing the drawers with a bang. In his recklessness he put on a black suit, went noisily downstairs, called the old footman, told him he should be out all night, and, not heeding the half-astonished, half-terrified face of the poor fellow, who was devoted to him, rushed into the street, and was lost in the darkness.

He had been gone two or three minutes when the Marchesa, who was already in bed, sent Carlotta to see who had come running downstairs. Carlotta reported that it was Don Franco, and was at once dispatched again on a second errand. "What did Don Franco want?" This time the answer was, that Don Franco had gone out for a few moments. The "few moments" was added out of kindness by the old servant. The Marchesa told Carlotta to go away, but not to put out the light. "You will return when I ring," said she.

It was past midnight when the bell sounded.

The maid hurried to her mistress.

"Is Don Franco still out?"

"Yes, Signora Marchesa."

"Put out the light. Take your knitting and wait in the ante-room. When he returns come and tell me."

Having given these orders, the Marchesa rolled over on her side, turning her face towards the wall, and leaving the amazed and ill-pleased maid to stare at that white, smooth, impenetrable enigma, her night-cap.