________________________________________________
_ Opposite the Volterra gate of Monteriano, outside the city,
is a very respectable white-washed mud wall, with a coping
of red crinkled tiles to keep it from dissolution. It would
suggest a gentleman's garden if there was not in its middle
a large hole, which grows larger with every rain-storm.
Through the hole is visible, firstly, the iron gate that is
intended to close it; secondly, a square piece of ground
which, though not quite, mud, is at the same time not
exactly grass; and finally, another wall, stone this time,
which has a wooden door in the middle and two
wooden-shuttered windows each side, and apparently forms the
facade of a one-storey house.
This house is bigger than it looks, for it slides for
two storeys down the hill behind, and the wooden door, which
is always locked, really leads into the attic. The knowing
person prefers to follow the precipitous mule-track round
the turn of the mud wall till he can take the edifice in the
rear. Then--being now on a level with the cellars--he lifts
up his head and shouts. If his voice sounds like something
light--a letter, for example, or some vegetables, or a bunch
of flowers--a basket is let out of the first-floor windows by
a string, into which he puts his burdens and departs. But
if he sounds like something heavy, such as a log of wood, or
a piece of meat, or a visitor, he is interrogated, and then
bidden or forbidden to ascend. The ground floor and the
upper floor of that battered house are alike deserted, and
the inmates keep the central portion, just as in a dying
body all life retires to the heart. There is a door at the
top of the first flight of stairs, and if the visitor is
admitted he will find a welcome which is not necessarily
cold. There are several rooms, some dark and mostly
stuffy--a reception-room adorned with horsehair chairs,
wool-work stools, and a stove that is never lit--German bad
taste without German domesticity broods over that room; also
a living-room, which insensibly glides into a bedroom when
the refining influence of hospitality is absent, and real
bedrooms; and last, but not least, the loggia, where you can
live day and night if you feel inclined, drinking vermouth
and smoking cigarettes, with leagues of olive-trees and
vineyards and blue-green hills to watch you.
It was in this house that the brief and inevitable
tragedy of Lilia's married life took place. She made Gino
buy it for her, because it was there she had first seen him
sitting on the mud wall that faced the Volterra gate. She
remembered how the evening sun had struck his hair, and how
he had smiled down at her, and being both sentimental and
unrefined, was determined to have the man and the place
together. Things in Italy are cheap for an Italian, and,
though he would have preferred a house in the piazza, or
better still a house at Siena, or, bliss above bliss, a
house at Leghorn, he did as she asked, thinking that perhaps
she showed her good taste in preferring so retired an abode.
The house was far too big for them, and there was a
general concourse of his relatives to fill it up. His
father wished to make it a patriarchal concern, where all
the family should have their rooms and meet together for
meals, and was perfectly willing to give up the new practice
at Poggibonsi and preside. Gino was quite willing too, for
he was an affectionate youth who liked a large home-circle,
and he told it as a pleasant bit of news to Lilia, who did
not attempt to conceal her horror.
At once he was horrified too; saw that the idea was
monstrous; abused himself to her for having suggested it;
rushed off to tell his father that it was impossible. His
father complained that prosperity was already corrupting him
and making him unsympathetic and hard; his mother cried; his
sisters accused him of blocking their social advance. He
was apologetic, and even cringing, until they turned on
Lilia. Then he turned on them, saying that they could not
understand, much less associate with, the English lady who
was his wife; that there should be one master in that house--
himself.
Lilia praised and petted him on his return, calling him
brave and a hero and other endearing epithets. But he was
rather blue when his clan left Monteriano in much dignity--a
dignity which was not at all impaired by the acceptance of a
cheque. They took the cheque not to Poggibonsi, after all,
but to Empoli--a lively, dusty town some twenty miles off.
There they settled down in comfort, and the sisters said
they had been driven to it by Gino.
The cheque was, of course, Lilia's, who was extremely
generous, and was quite willing to know anybody so long as
she had not to live with them, relations-in-law being on her
nerves. She liked nothing better than finding out some
obscure and distant connection--there were several of
them--and acting the lady bountiful, leaving behind her
bewilderment, and too often discontent. Gino wondered how
it was that all his people, who had formerly seemed so
pleasant, had suddenly become plaintive and disagreeable.
He put it down to his lady wife's magnificence, in
comparison with which all seemed common. Her money flew
apace, in spite of the cheap living. She was even richer
than he expected; and he remembered with shame how he had
once regretted his inability to accept the thousand lire
that Philip Herriton offered him in exchange for her. It
would have been a shortsighted bargain.
Lilia enjoyed settling into the house, with nothing to
do except give orders to smiling workpeople, and a devoted
husband as interpreter. She wrote a jaunty account of her
happiness to Mrs. Herriton, and Harriet answered the letter,
saying (1) that all future communications should be
addressed to the solicitors; (2) would Lilia return an
inlaid box which Harriet had lent her--but not given--to keep
handkerchiefs and collars in?
"Look what I am giving up to live with you!" she said to
Gino, never omitting to lay stress on her condescension. He
took her to mean the inlaid box, and said that she need not
give it up at all.
"Silly fellow, no! I mean the life. Those Herritons
are very well connected. They lead Sawston society. But
what do I care, so long as I have my silly fellow!" She
always treated him as a boy, which he was, and as a fool,
which he was not, thinking herself so immeasurably superior
to him that she neglected opportunity after opportunity of
establishing her rule. He was good-looking and indolent;
therefore he must be stupid. He was poor; therefore he
would never dare to criticize his benefactress. He was
passionately in love with her; therefore she could do
exactly as she liked.
"It mayn't be heaven below," she thought, "but it's
better than Charles."
And all the time the boy was watching her, and growing up.
She was reminded of Charles by a disagreeable letter
from the solicitors, bidding her disgorge a large sum of
money for Irma, in accordance with her late husband's will.
It was just like Charles's suspicious nature to have
provided against a second marriage. Gino was equally
indignant, and between them they composed a stinging reply,
which had no effect. He then said that Irma had better come
out and live with them. "The air is good, so is the food;
she will be happy here, and we shall not have to part with
the money." But Lilia had not the courage even to suggest
this to the Herritons, and an unexpected terror seized her
at the thought of Irma or any English child being educated
at Monteriano.
Gino became terribly depressed over the solicitors'
letter, more depressed than she thought necessary. There
was no more to do in the house, and he spent whole days in
the loggia leaning over the parapet or sitting astride it
disconsolately.
"Oh, you idle boy!" she cried, pinching his muscles.
"Go and play pallone."
"I am a married man," he answered, without raising his
head. "I do not play games any more."
"Go and see your friends then."
"I have no friends now."
"Silly, silly, silly! You can't stop indoors all day!"
"I want to see no one but you." He spat on to an olive-tree.
"Now, Gino, don't be silly. Go and see your friends,
and bring them to see me. We both of us like society."
He looked puzzled, but allowed himself to be persuaded,
went out, found that he was not as friendless as he
supposed, and returned after several hours in altered
spirits. Lilia congratulated herself on her good management.
"I'm ready, too, for people now," she said. "I mean to
wake you all up, just as I woke up Sawston. Let's have
plenty of men--and make them bring their womenkind. I mean
to have real English tea-parties."
"There is my aunt and her husband; but I thought you did
not want to receive my relatives."
"I never said such a--"
"But you would be right," he said earnestly. "They are
not for you. Many of them are in trade, and even we are
little more; you should have gentlefolk and nobility for
your friends."
"Poor fellow," thought Lilia. "It is sad for him to
discover that his people are vulgar." She began to tell him
that she loved him just for his silly self, and he flushed
and began tugging at his moustache.
"But besides your relatives I must have other people
here. Your friends have wives and sisters, haven't they?"
"Oh, yes; but of course I scarcely know them."
"Not know your friends' people?"
"Why, no. If they are poor and have to work for their
living I may see them--but not otherwise. Except--" He
stopped. The chief exception was a young lady, to whom he
had once been introduced for matrimonial purposes. But the
dowry had proved inadequate, and the acquaintance terminated.
"How funny! But I mean to change all that. Bring your
friends to see me, and I will make them bring their people."
He looked at her rather hopelessly.
"Well, who are the principal people here? Who leads society?"
The governor of the prison, he supposed, and the
officers who assisted him.
"Well, are they married?"
"Yes."
"There we are. Do you know them?"
"Yes--in a way."
"I see," she exclaimed angrily. "They look down on you,
do they, poor boy? Wait!" He assented. "Wait! I'll soon
stop that. Now, who else is there?"
"The marchese, sometimes, and the canons of the
Collegiate Church."
"Married?"
"The canons--" he began with twinkling eyes.
"Oh, I forgot your horrid celibacy. In England they
would be the centre of everything. But why shouldn't I know
them? Would it make it easier if I called all round? Isn't
that your foreign way?"
He did not think it would make it easier.
"But I must know some one! Who were the men you were
talking to this afternoon?"
Low-class men. He could scarcely recollect their names.
"But, Gino dear, if they're low class, why did you talk
to them? Don't you care about your position?"
All Gino cared about at present was idleness and
pocket-money, and his way of expressing it was to exclaim,
"Ouf-pouf! How hot it is in here. No air; I sweat all
over. I expire. I must cool myself, or I shall never get
to sleep." In his funny abrupt way he ran out on to the
loggia, where he lay full length on the parapet, and began
to smoke and spit under the silence of the stars.
Lilia gathered somehow from this conversation that
Continental society was not the go-as-you-please thing she
had expected. Indeed she could not see where Continental
society was. Italy is such a delightful place to live in if
you happen to be a man. There one may enjoy that exquisite
luxury of Socialism--that true Socialism which is based not
on equality of income or character, but on the equality of
manners. In the democracy of the caffe or the street the
great question of our life has been solved, and the
brotherhood of man is a reality. But is accomplished at the
expense of the sisterhood of women. Why should you not make
friends with your neighbour at the theatre or in the train,
when you know and he knows that feminine criticism and
feminine insight and feminine prejudice will never come
between you? Though you become as David and Jonathan, you
need never enter his home, nor he yours. All your lives you
will meet under the open air, the only roof-tree of the
South, under which he will spit and swear, and you will drop
your h's, and nobody will think the worse of either.
Meanwhile the women--they have, of course, their house
and their church, with its admirable and frequent services,
to which they are escorted by the maid. Otherwise they do
not go out much, for it is not genteel to walk, and you are
too poor to keep a carriage. Occasionally you will take
them to the caffe or theatre, and immediately all your
wonted acquaintance there desert you, except those few who
are expecting and expected to marry into your family. It is
all very sad. But one consolation emerges--life is very
pleasant in Italy if you are a man.
Hitherto Gino had not interfered with Lilia. She was so
much older than he was, and so much richer, that he regarded
her as a superior being who answered to other laws. He was
not wholly surprised, for strange rumours were always
blowing over the Alps of lands where men and women had the
same amusements and interests, and he had often met that
privileged maniac, the lady tourist, on her solitary walks.
Lilia took solitary walks too, and only that week a tramp
had grabbed at her watch--an episode which is supposed to be
indigenous in Italy, though really less frequent there than
in Bond Street. Now that he knew her better, he was
inevitably losing his awe: no one could live with her and
keep it, especially when she had been so silly as to lose a
gold watch and chain. As he lay thoughtful along the
parapet, he realized for the first time the responsibilities
of monied life. He must save her from dangers, physical and
social, for after all she was a woman. "And I," he
reflected, "though I am young, am at all events a man, and
know what is right."
He found her still in the living-room, combing her hair,
for she had something of the slattern in her nature, and
there was no need to keep up appearances.
"You must not go out alone," he said gently. "It is not
safe. If you want to walk, Perfetta shall accompany you."
Perfetta was a widowed cousin, too humble for social
aspirations, who was living with them as factotum.
"Very well," smiled Lilia, "very well"--as if she were
addressing a solicitous kitten. But for all that she never
took a solitary walk again, with one exception, till the day
of her death.
Days passed, and no one called except poor relatives.
She began to feel dull. Didn't he know the Sindaco or the
bank manager? Even the landlady of the Stella d'Italia
would be better than no one. She, when she went into the
town, was pleasantly received; but people naturally found a
difficulty in getting on with a lady who could not learn
their language. And the tea-party, under Gino's adroit
management, receded ever and ever before her.
He had a good deal of anxiety over her welfare, for she
did not settle down in the house at all. But he was
comforted by a welcome and unexpected visitor. As he was
going one afternoon for the letters--they were delivered at
the door, but it took longer to get them at the office--some
one humorously threw a cloak over his head, and when he
disengaged himself he saw his very dear friend Spiridione
Tesi of the custom-house at Chiasso, whom he had not met for
two years. What joy! what salutations! so that all the
passersby smiled with approval on the amiable scene.
Spiridione's brother was now station-master at Bologna, and
thus he himself could spend his holiday travelling over
Italy at the public expense. Hearing of Gino's marriage, he
had come to see him on his way to Siena, where lived his own
uncle, lately monied too.
"They all do it," he exclaimed, "myself excepted." He
was not quite twenty-three. "But tell me more. She is
English. That is good, very good. An English wife is very
good indeed. And she is rich?"
"Immensely rich."
"Blonde or dark?"
"Blonde."
"Is it possible!"
"It pleases me very much," said Gino simply. "If you
remember, I always desired a blonde." Three or four men had
collected, and were listening.
"We all desire one," said Spiridione. "But you, Gino,
deserve your good fortune, for you are a good son, a brave
man, and a true friend, and from the very first moment I saw
you I wished you well."
"No compliments, I beg," said Gino, standing with his
hands crossed on his chest and a smile of pleasure on his face.
Spiridione addressed the other men, none of whom he had
ever seen before. "Is it not true? Does not he deserve
this wealthy blonde?"
"He does deserve her," said all the men.
It is a marvellous land, where you love it or hate it.
There were no letters, and of course they sat down at
the Caffe Garibaldi, by the Collegiate Church--quite a good
caffe that for so small a city. There were marble-topped
tables, and pillars terra-cotta below and gold above, and on
the ceiling was a fresco of the battle of Solferino. One
could not have desired a prettier room. They had vermouth
and little cakes with sugar on the top, which they chose
gravely at the counter, pinching them first to be sure they
were fresh. And though vermouth is barely alcoholic,
Spiridione drenched his with soda-water to be sure that it
should not get into his head.
They were in high spirits, and elaborate compliments
alternated curiously with gentle horseplay. But soon they
put up their legs on a pair of chairs and began to smoke.
"Tell me," said Spiridione--"I forgot to ask--is she young?"
"Thirty-three."
"Ah, well, we cannot have everything."
"But you would be surprised. Had she told me
twenty-eight, I should not have disbelieved her."
"Is she SIMPATICA?" (Nothing will translate that word.)
Gino dabbed at the sugar and said after a silence,
"Sufficiently so."
"It is a most important thing."
"She is rich, she is generous, she is affable, she
addresses her inferiors without haughtiness."
There was another silence. "It is not sufficient," said
the other. "One does not define it thus." He lowered his
voice to a whisper. "Last month a German was smuggling
cigars. The custom-house was dark. Yet I refused because I
did not like him. The gifts of such men do not bring
happiness. NON ERA SIMPATICO. He paid for every one, and
the fine for deception besides."
"Do you gain much beyond your pay?" asked Gino, diverted
for an instant.
"I do not accept small sums now. It is not worth the
risk. But the German was another matter. But listen, my
Gino, for I am older than you and more full of experience.
The person who understands us at first sight, who never
irritates us, who never bores, to whom we can pour forth
every thought and wish, not only in speech but in
silence--that is what I mean by SIMPATICO."
"There are such men, I know," said Gino. "And I have
heard it said of children. But where will you find such a woman?"
"That is true. Here you are wiser than I. SONO POCO
SIMPATICHE LE DONNE. And the time we waste over them is
much." He sighed dolefully, as if he found the nobility of
his sex a burden.
"One I have seen who may be so. She spoke very little,
but she was a young lady--different to most. She, too, was
English, the companion of my wife here. But Fra Filippo,
the brother-in-law, took her back with him. I saw them
start. He was very angry."
Then he spoke of his exciting and secret marriage, and
they made fun of the unfortunate Philip, who had travelled
over Europe to stop it.
"I regret though," said Gino, when they had finished
laughing, "that I toppled him on to the bed. A great tall
man! And when I am really amused I am often impolite."
"You will never see him again," said Spiridione, who
carried plenty of philosophy about him. "And by now the
scene will have passed from his mind."
"It sometimes happens that such things are recollected
longest. I shall never see him again, of course; but it is
no benefit to me that he should wish me ill. And even if he
has forgotten, I am still sorry that I toppled him on to the
bed."
So their talk continued, at one moment full of
childishness and tender wisdom, the next moment scandalously
gross. The shadows of the terra-cotta pillars lengthened,
and tourists, flying through the Palazzo Pubblico opposite,
could observe how the Italians wasted time.
The sight of tourists reminded Gino of something he
might say. "I want to consult you since you are so kind as
to take an interest in my affairs. My wife wishes to take
solitary walks."
Spiridione was shocked.
"But I have forbidden her."
"Naturally."
"She does not yet understand. She asked me to accompany
her sometimes--to walk without object! You know, she would
like me to be with her all day."
"I see. I see." He knitted his brows and tried to
think how he could help his friend. "She needs employment.
Is she a Catholic?"
"No."
"That is a pity. She must be persuaded. It will be a
great solace to her when she is alone."
"I am a Catholic, but of course I never go to church."
"Of course not. Still, you might take her at first.
That is what my brother has done with his wife at Bologna
and he has joined the Free Thinkers. He took her once or
twice himself, and now she has acquired the habit and
continues to go without him."
"Most excellent advice, and I thank you for it. But she
wishes to give tea-parties--men and women together whom she
has never seen."
"Oh, the English! they are always thinking of tea.
They carry it by the kilogramme in their trunks, and they
are so clumsy that they always pack it at the top. But it
is absurd!"
"What am I to do about it?'
"Do nothing. Or ask me!"
"Come!" cried Gino, springing up. "She will be quite pleased."
The dashing young fellow coloured crimson. "Of course I
was only joking."
"I know. But she wants me to take my friends. Come
now! Waiter!"
"If I do come," cried the other, "and take tea with you,
this bill must be my affair."
"Certainly not; you are in my country!"
A long argument ensued, in which the waiter took part,
suggesting various solutions. At last Gino triumphed. The
bill came to eightpence-halfpenny, and a halfpenny for the
waiter brought it up to ninepence. Then there was a shower
of gratitude on one side and of deprecation on the other,
and when courtesies were at their height they suddenly
linked arms and swung down the street, tickling each other
with lemonade straws as they went.
Lilia was delighted to see them, and became more
animated than Gino had known her for a long time. The tea
tasted of chopped hay, and they asked to be allowed to drink
it out of a wine-glass, and refused milk; but, as she
repeatedly observed, this was something like. Spiridione's
manners were very agreeable. He kissed her hand on
introduction, and as his profession had taught him a little
English, conversation did not flag.
"Do you like music?" she asked.
"Passionately," he replied. "I have not studied
scientific music, but the music of the heart, yes."
So she played on the humming piano very badly, and he
sang, not so badly. Gino got out a guitar and sang too,
sitting out on the loggia. It was a most agreeable visit.
Gino said he would just walk his friend back to his
lodgings. As they went he said, without the least trace of
malice or satire in his voice, "I think you are quite
right. I shall not bring people to the house any more. I
do not see why an English wife should be treated
differently. This is Italy."
"You are very wise," exclaimed the other; "very wise
indeed. The more precious a possession the more carefully
it should be guarded."
They had reached the lodging, but went on as far as the
Caffe Garibaldi, where they spent a long and most delightful
evening. _
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