Читать книгу Called Back - Martin Edwards, Hugh Conway - Страница 8

IT is spring—the beautiful spring of Northern Italy. My friend Kenyon and I are lounging about in the rectangular city of Turin, as happy and idle a pair of comrades as may anywhere be met with. We have been here a week, long enough to do all the sight-seeing demanded by duty. We have seen San Giovanni and the churches. We have toiled, or beasts of burden have toiled with us, up La Superga, where we have gazed at the mausoleum of Savoy’s princely line. We have seen enough of the cumbrous old Palazzo Madama, which frowns at our hotel across the Piazzi Castello. We have marvelled at the plain, uninteresting looking Palazzo Reale, and our mirth has been moved by the grotesque brick-work decoration of the Palazzo Carignano. We have criticised the rather poor picture gallery. In fact we have done Turin thoroughly, and with contempt bred by familiarity, are ceasing to feel like pitiful little atoms as we stand in the enormous squares and crane our necks looking at Marochetti’s immense bronze statues.

Our tasks are over. We are now simply loafing about and enjoying ourselves; revelling in the delicious weather, and trying to make up our languid but contented minds as to when we shall leave the town and where our next resting place shall be.

We wander down the broad Via di Po, lingering now and then to peer into the enticing shops which lurk in its shady arcades; we pass through the spacious Piazzi Vittorio Emanuele; we cross the bridge whose five granite arches span the classic Po; we turn opposite the domed church and soon are walking up the wide shaded path which leads to the Capuchin Monastery; the broad terrace in front of which is our favourite haunt. Here we can lounge and see the river at our feet, the great town stretching from its further bank, the open plain beyond the town, and, far, far away in the background, the glorious snow-capped Alps, with Monte Rosa and Grand Paradis towering above their brothers. No wonder we enjoy the view from this terrace more than churches, palaces, or pictures.

We gaze our fill, and then retrace our steps and saunter back as lazily as we came. After lingering a few moments at our hotel some hazy destination prompts us to cross the great square, past the frowning old castle, leads us up the Via di Seminario, and we find ourselves for the twentieth time in front of San Giovanni. I stop with my head in the air admiring what architectural beauties its marble front can boast, and as I am trying to discover them am surprised to hear Kenyon announce his intention of entering the building

‘But we have vowed a vow,’ I said, ‘that the interior of churches, picture galleries, and other tourist traps shall know us no more.’

‘What makes the best of men break their vows?’

‘Lots of things, I suppose.’

‘But one thing in particular. Whilst you are staring up at pinnacles and buttresses, and trying to look as if you knew architecture as well as Ruskin, the fairest of all sights, a beautiful woman, passes right under your nose.’

‘I understand—I absolve you.’

‘Thank you. She went into the church. I feel devotional, and will go too.’

‘But our cigars?’

‘Chuck them to the beggars. Beware of miserly habits, Gilbert; they grow on one.’

Knowing that Kenyon was not the man to abandon a choice Havana without a weighty reason, I did as he suggested and followed him into the dim cool shades of San Giovanni.

No service was going on. The usual little parties of sightseers were walking about and looking much impressed as beauties they could not comprehend were being pointed out to them. Dotted about here and there were silent worshippers. Kenyon glanced round eagerly in quest of ‘the fairest of all sights’, and after a while discovered her.

‘Come this way,’ he said; ‘let us sit down and pretend to be devout Catholics. We can catch her profile here.’

I placed myself next to him, and saw, a few seats from us, an old Italian woman kneeling and praying fervently, whilst in a chair at her side sat a girl of about twenty-two.

A girl who might have belonged to almost any country. The eyebrows and cast-down lashes said that her eyes were dark, but the pure pale complexion, the delicate straight features, the thick brown hair might, under circumstances, have been claimed by any nation, although had I met her alone I should have said she was English. She was well but plainly dressed, and her manner told me she was no stranger to the church. She did not look from side to side, and up and down, after the way of a sightseer. She sat without moving until her companion had finished her prayers. So far as one could judge from her appearance she was in church for no particular object, neither devotional nor critical. Probably she may have come to bear the old woman at her side company. This old woman, who had the appearance of a superior kind of servant, seemed from the passionate appeals she was addressing to heaven to be in want of many things. I could see her thin lips working incessantly, and although her words were inaudible it was evident her petitions were heart-spoken and sincere.

But the girl by her side neither joined her in her prayers nor looked at her. Ever motionless as a statue—her eyes ever cast down—apparently wrapped in deep thought, and, I fancied, sad thought, she sat, showing us the while no more of her face than that perfect profile. Kenyon had certainly not over-praised her. Her’s was a face which had a peculiar attractiveness for me, the utter repose of it not being the least of that charm. I was growing very anxious to see her full face, but as I could not do so without positive rudeness, was compelled to wait until she might chance to turn her head.

Presently the old Italian woman appeared to think she had done her religious duty. Seeing she was preparing to cross herself I rose and sauntered down the church toward the door. In a few minutes the girl and her companion passed me, and I was able to see her to better advantage, as she waited whilst the old woman dipped her fingers in the holy water. She was undoubtedly beautiful; but there was something strange in her beauty. I made this discovery when, for a moment, her eyes met mine. Dark and glorious as those eyes were there was a dreamy, far-away look in them—a look that seemed to pass over one and see what was behind the object gazed at. This look gave me a curious impression, but as it was only for a second that my eyes met hers, I could scarcely say whether the impression was a pleasant or an unpleasant one.

The girl and her attendant lingered a few moments at the door, so that Kenyon and I passed out before them. By common consent we paused outside. The action may have been a rude one, but we were both anxious to see the departure of the girl whose appearance had so greatly interested us. As we came through the door of the church I noticed a man standing near the steps—a middle-aged man of gentlemanly appearance. He was rather round-shouldered and wore spectacles. Had I felt any interest in determining his station in life I should have adjudged him to one of the learned professions. There could be no mistake as to his nationality; he was Italian to the backbone. He was evidently waiting for someone; and when the girl, followed by the old woman, came out of San Giovanni, he stepped forward and accosted them. The old woman gave a little sharp cry of surprise. She took his hand and kissed it. The girl stood apparently apathetic. It was evident that the gentleman’s business lay with the old servant. He spoke a few words to her; then drawing her aside the two walked away to some distance, under the shadow of the church, and to all appearance were talking earnestly and volubly, but ever and anon casting a look in the direction of the girl.

As her companion left her she walked on a few paces, then paused and turned as though waiting for the old woman. Now it was that we were able to see her perfect figure and erect carriage to full advantage. Being some little way off, we could look at her without committing an act of rudeness or indiscretion.

‘She is beautiful,’ I said, more to myself than to Kenyon.

‘Yes, she is—but not so beautiful as I thought. There is something wanting, yet it is impossible to say what it is. Is it animation or expression?’

‘I can see nothing wanting,’ I said, so enthusiastically that Kenyon laughed aloud.

‘Do English gentlemen stare at their own countrywomen and appraise them in public places, like this; or is it a custom adopted for the benefit of Italians?’

This impudent question was asked by someone close to my side. We turned simultaneously, and saw a tall man of about thirty standing just behind us. His features were regular, but their effect was not a pleasant one. You felt at a glance that a sneering mouth was curtained by the heavy moustache, and that those dark eyes and eyebrows were apt to frown with sullen anger. At present the man’s expression was that of haughty arrogance—a peculiarly galling expression, especially so I find when adopted by a foreigner toward an Englishman. That he was a foreigner it was easy to see, in spite of his perfectly accented English.

A hot reply was upon my lips, but Kenyon, who was a young man of infinite resource and well able to say and do the right thing in the right place, was before me. He raised his hat and made a sweeping bow, so exquisitely graduated that it was impossible to say where apology ended and mockery began.

‘Signor,’ he said, ‘an Englishman travels through your fair land to see and praise all that is beautiful in nature and art. If our praise offends we apologize.’

The man scowled, hardly knowing whether my friend was in jest or in earnest.

‘If we have done wrong will the Signor convey our apologies to the lady? His wife, or shall I say his daughter?’

As the man was young, the last question was sarcastic.

‘She is neither,’ he rapped out. Kenyon bowed.

‘Ah, then a friend. Let me congratulate the Signor, and also congratulate him on his proficiency in our language.’

The man was growing puzzled; Kenyon spoke so pleasantly and naturally.

‘I have spent many years in England,’ he said, shortly.

‘Many years! I should scarcely have thought so, the Signor has not picked up that English peculiarity which is far more important than accent or idiom.’

Kenyon paused and looked into the man’s face so innocently and inquiringly that he fell into the trap.

‘And pray what may that be?’ he asked.

‘To mind one’s own business,’ said Kenyon, shortly and sharply, turning his back to the last speaker, as if the discussion was at an end.

The tall man’s face flushed with rage. I kept my eye upon him, fearing he would make an assault upon my friend, but he thought better of it. With a curse he turned on his heel, and the matter ended.

While this conversation was in progress, the old Italian woman had left her learned-looking friend, and having rejoined the young girl, the two went upon their way. Our ill-conditioned Italian, after his discomfiture, walked across to the man who had been talking to the old servant, and taking his arm went with him in another direction. They were soon out of sight.

Kenyon did not propose to follow the steps of the first couple, and I, even had I wished to do so, was ashamed to suggest such a thing. Still, I am afraid that a resolution as to visiting San Giovanni again tomorrow was forming in my mind.

But I saw her no more. How many times I went to that church I dare not say. Neither the fair girl nor her attendant crossed my path again whilst in Turin. We met our impertinent friend several times in the streets, and were honoured by a dark scowl which passed unnoticed; but of that sweet girl with the pale face and strange dark eyes we caught no glimpse.

It would be absurd to say I had fallen in love with a woman I had seen only for a few minutes—to whom I had never spoken—whose name and abode were unknown to me; but I must confess that, so far as looks went, I was more interested in this girl than in anyone I had ever seen. Beautiful as she was, I could scarcely say why I felt this attraction or fascination. I had met many, many beautiful women. Yet, for the slender chance of seeing this one again I lingered on in Turin until Kenyon—my good-tempered friend’s patience was quite exhausted—declared that unless I quitted at once, he would go away alone. At last I gave in. Ten days had passed by without the chance encounter I was waiting for. We folded up our tents and started for fresh scenes.

From Turin we went southwards—to Genoa, Florence, Rome and Naples, and other minor places; then we went across to Sicily, and at Palermo, according to arrangement, were received on board a yacht belonging to another friend. We had taken our journey easily, staying as long as it suited us in each town we visited, so that by the time the yacht had finished her cruise and borne us back to England, the summer was nearly over.

Many and many a time since leaving Turin I had thought of the girl I had seen at San Giovanni—thought of her so often that I laughed at myself for my folly. Until now I had never carried in my mind for so long a period the remembrance of a woman’s face. There must, for me, have been something strangely bewitching in her style of beauty. I recalled every feature—I could, had I been an artist, have painted her portrait from memory. Laugh at my folly as I would, I could not conceal from myself that, short as time was during which I had seen her, the impression made upon me was growing stronger each day, instead of fainter. I blamed myself for leaving Turin before I had met her again—even if for that purpose it had been necessary to linger there for months. My feeling was that by quitting the place I had lost a chance which comes to a man but once in a lifetime.

Kenyon and I parted in London. He was going to Scotland after grouse, I had not yet quite settled my autumn plans, so I resolved to stay, at any rate for a few days, in town.

Was it chance or was it fate? The first morning after my arrival in London, business led me to Regent Street. I was walking slowly down the broad thoroughfare, but my thoughts were far away. I was trying to argue away an insane longing which was in my mind—a longing to return at once to Turin. I was thinking of the dim church and the fair young face I saw three months ago. Then, as in my mind’s eye I saw that girl and her old attendant in church, I looked up and here, in the heart of London, they stood before me!

Amazed as I was, no thought of being mistaken entered my head. Unless it was a dream or an illusion, there came the one I had been thinking of so often, walking towards me, with the old woman at her side. They might have just stepped out of San Giovanni. There was a little change in the appearance of the old woman: she was dressed more like an English servant; but the girl was the same. Beautiful, more beautiful than ever, I thought as my heart gave a great leap. They passed me; I turned impulsively and followed them with my eyes.

Yes, it was Fate! Now I had found her in this unexpected manner I would take care not to lose sight of her again. I attempted to disguise my feelings no longer. The emotion which had thrilled me as I stood once more face to face with her told me the truth. I was in love—deeply in love. Twice, only twice, I had seen her, but that was enough to convince me that if my lot was ever linked with another’s, it must be with this woman’s, whose name, home, or country, I knew not.

There was only one thing I could now do. I must follow the two women. So, for the next hour or more wherever they went, at a respectful distance, I followed. I waited whilst they entered one or two shops, and when their walk was resumed discreetly dogged their steps. I kept so far in the rear that my pursuit was bound to be unnoticed and could cause no annoyance. They soon turned out of Regent Street and walked on until they came to one of those many rows of houses in Maida Vale. I marked the house they entered, and as I passed by it, a few minutes afterwards, saw in the front window the girl arranging a few flowers in a vase. It was evident I had ascertained her abode.

It was Fate! I was in love and could only act as my passion impelled me. I must find out all about this unknown. I must make her acquaintance and so obtain the right of looking into those strange but beautiful eyes. I must hear her speak. I laughed again at the absurdity of being in love with a woman whose voice I had never heard, whose native language was a matter of uncertainty. But then, love is full of absurdities. When once he gets the whip hand he drives us in strange ways.

I formed a bold resolve. I retraced my steps and walked up to the house. The door was opened by a tidy-looking servant.

‘Have you any rooms to let?’ I asked; having jumped at the conclusion that the unknown was only lodging at the house.

The servant replied in the affirmative, and upon my expressing a wish to see the vacant rooms I was shown a dining-room and bedroom on the ground floor.

Had these rooms been dungeons instead of airy, cheerful apartments—had they been empty and bare instead of comfortably furnished—had the rent been fifty pounds a week instead of the moderate sum asked, I should have engaged them. I was very easy to deal with. The landlady was summoned and the bargain struck at once. If that good person had known state of my mind she might have reaped a golden harvest of her ground floor apartments. As it was, the only thing she was exacting in was the matter of references. I named several, then I paid a month’s rent in advance and received her permission, as I had just returned to England and wanted a home at once, to enter into possession that very evening.

‘By the by,’ I said carelessly, as I left the house to get my luggage, ‘I forgot to ask if you have other lodgers—no children, I hope?’