Part 2

I was stammering out some apology, but she stopped me. “No, no. It isn’t your fault. I’m not crying. It’s all right. I meant I was never a girl, because I was married at eighteen. That is all. And I’ve had to be dull and middle-aged ever since,” she added, smiling again. “You dull and middle-aged!” I scoffed at the notion. But her tears, and then her word about her marriage, had touched me poignantly. She had never mentioned, she had never remotely alluded to her marriage, before, in all our intercourse. Certainly, I knew, from things Miss Belmont had said, that it had not been a happy marriage. The Con-tessa’s word about it now, brief as it was, slight as it was, moved me like a cry of pain. I felt a great anguish, a great anger, to think that circumstances had been cruel to her in the past; a great yearning in some way to be of comfort to her.

“Oh,” I cried out—tactlessly, if you will; but my emotion was dominant; I could not stop to reflect—“oh, why—why didn’t I know you in those days? Why wasn’t I here—to—to help you—to defend you—to—to make it easier for you?”

We were in the carriage by this time, rolling swiftly back towards Rome. She did not speak. I did not look at her. But I felt her hand laid gently upon mine, her little light gloved hand; and then her hand pressed mine, a long soft pressure that said vastly more than speech; and then her hand rested there, lightly, lightly, and we were both silent, till we reached the Porta del Popolo.

When I had left her, I was conscious of a curious elation, a curious exaltation. It was almost as if my confidante had made me her confidant. A new honour had been conferred upon me, a new trust and responsibility. “Oh, I will devote my life to her,” I vowed fervently, in my soul. “I will devote my life to making her happy, to compensating her in some measure for what she has suffered in the past. When shall I see her again?” I was consumed with eagerness, with impatience, to see her again.

I saw her, as a matter of fact, no later than the next day. I called on her in the afternoon. I went to her, meditating heroics. I would lay my life at her feet, I would ask her to let me be her knight, her servant. I looked forward to rather a fine moment. But it takes two to make a melodrama. She met me in a mood that sealed the heroics in my bosom; a teasing, elusive mood, her eyes, her voice, all mockery, all mischief. “Tiens, c’est mon petit-fils,” she cried, on my arrival. “Bonjour, Toto. How nice of you to come and see your granny.” There were days when she was like this, when she would never drop her joke about being my grandmother, and perpetually called me “Toto,” and talked to me as if I were approaching seven. “Now, sit down on the floor before the fire,” she said, “and gwandmamma will tell you a stor-wy.” A sprite danced in her eyes. Her drawling enunciation of the last word was irresistible. I laughed, despite myself; and thoughts of high rhetoric had summarily to be dismissed.

When I look back upon my life as it was in those days, I protest I am filled with a sort of envy. A boy of twenty-something, his pockets comfortably supplied with money; free from morning to night, from night to morning, to do as his fancy prompted; with numberless pleasant acquaintances; and in the most beautiful country, the most interesting city, of two hemispheres—in Italy, in Rome: yes, indeed, as I look back at him, I am filled with envy.

But then, when I think of her.... I think of her, and she becomes visible before me, visible in all her exquisite grace and fineness, her exquisite femininity. I see her intimate little room, its gay blue and white, its pretty furniture, its hundred pretty personal trifles, tokens of her habitation; I breathe the air of it, the faint, soft perfume that was always on its air; I see her fan, her open book, her handkerchief forgotten on a table. I see her, in the room. I see her delicate white face, witty, alert, sensitive; I see her laughing eyes, her hair, the sumptuous masses of her hair. I see her hands, I touch them, slender, fragile, but warm, but firm and responsive. I see the delicious toilet she is wearing, I hear the brisk frou-frou of it. I hear her voice. I see her at her piano, I see her as she plays, the bend of her head, the motion of her body. I see her as she glances up at me, whimsically smiling, asking me something, telling me something. I gaze long at her, hungrily. And then, remembering that there was a time when I could see her like this in very reality as often as I would—oh, I can only cry out to myself of those days, “You lucky heathen, you lucky, lucky heathen! How little you realised, how little you merited, your extraordinary fortune!”

Of course, I was in love with her. But as yet, upon my conscience, I did not know it. I knew that I was tremendously fond of her, that I was never so happy as when in her presence, that I was always more or less unsatisfied and restless when out of it. I knew that I was always more or less unsatisfied and restless, too, when other men were hovering about her, when she was laughing and talking with other men. I knew that I wished to be her knight, her servant, to dedicate my existence to her welfare. But beyond that, I had not analysed my sentiment, nor given it a name.

And so, if you please, I was still able to go on prating to her of Elsie Milray!

However, there came a day when I ceased to prate of Elsie... It was during the Carnival. Miss Belmont had taken a room in the Corso, from the balcony of which, that afternoon, she and various of her friends had watched the merrymaking. The Contessa Bracca was expected, but the hours wore away, and she did not turn up. I waited for her, hoped for her, from minute to minute, to the last. Then I went home in a fine state of depression.

After dinner—and after much irresolution, ending in an abrupt resolve—I ventured to present myself at the Palazzo Stricci.

“I was alarmed about you. I was afraid you might be ill,” I explained. I felt a great rush of relief, of warmth and peace, at seeing her.

She was seated in a low easy-chair, by her writing-table, with a volume of the “Récit d’une Sour” open in her lap.

“No, I’m not ill,” she said, rising, and putting her book aside. “I’m not sorry you thought so, though, since it has procured me the pleasure of a visit from you,” she added, smiling, as she gave me her hand.

But her face was pale, her smile seemed like a pale light that just flickered on it for an instant, and went out.

I looked at her with anxiety. “You are ill,” I said. “There’s something the matter. What is it? Tell me.”

“No, no. Really. I’m all right,” she insisted, with a little movement of the head, that was meant to be reassuring. “Sit down, and light a cigarette, and give me a true and faithful account of the day’s doings. Who was there?”

“I don’t know. You weren’t. That was the important thing. We missed you awfully. Your absence entirely spoiled the afternoon,” I declared.

She raised her eyebrows. “I can imagine how they must all have pined for me. Did they commission you to speak for them?”

“Well, I pined for you, at any rate,” I said. “I kept looking for you, expecting you. Every minute, up to the very end, I still hoped for you. If you’re not ill, or anything, why didn’t you come?”

“Vanity. I was having a plain day, I didn’t like to show myself.”

I looked at her with anxiety, narrowly. “I say,” I blurted out, “what’s the use of beating about the bush? I know there’s something wrong. I should have to be blind not to see it. If you’re not ill, then you’re unhappy about something. I can’t help it—if you don’t like my speaking of it, send me away. But I can’t sit here and talk small-talk, when I know that you’re unhappy.”

“If you know that I’m unhappy, you might sit here and talk small-talk, to cheer me up,” she suggested.

“You—you’ve been crying,” I exclaimed, all at once understanding an odd brightness in her eyes.

“Well, and even so? Hasn’t one a right to cry, if it amuses one?” she questioned.

“What have you been crying about?” questioned I.

“I’ve been crying over my faded beauty—because I’ve had a plain day.”

“Oh, I wish you wouldn’t try to turn the matter to a jest,” I pleaded. “I can’t bear to think of you crying. I can’t bear to think of you unhappy. What is it? I wish you’d tell me.”

“Do you really wish it?” she asked, with a sudden approach to gravity.

“Yes—yes,” I answered eagerly. “If you’re unhappy, I want to know it, I want to share it with you. You’re so good, you’re so dear, I wish I could take every pain in the world away from you, I wish I could protect you from every breath of pain.”

Her eyes softened beautifully, they shone into mine with a beautiful gentleness. “You’re a dear boy,” she said. “You’re a great comfort to your grandmother.”

“Well, then,” I urged, “the least you can do is to tell me what has happened to make my grandmother unhappy.”

“Nothing has happened. I’ve been thinking. That’s all.”

“Thinking what? What have you been thinking?”

“Thinking——————-” she began, as if she was about to answer; but then she made a teasing little face at me, and declaimed—

“Oh, thinking, if you like,

How utterly dissociated was I,

A priest and celibate, from the sad strange wife

Of Guido.”

And she laughed.

I threw up my hands in despair. “You’re hopeless,” I said. “It’s no good ever expecting you to be serious.”

“I’m serious enough, in all conscience,” said she, “but I conceal it. I let concealment, like a worm in the bud, feed on my damask cheek. And so—I have plain days.”

“I don’t believe you’ve ever had a plain day in your life,” asserted I. “You’re the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“I would beg you to observe that you’re sitting here and talking small-talk, after all,” she laughed, “That isn’t small-talk. It’s the solemn truth. But look here. I’m not going to let you evade the question. What have you been unhappy about?”

“I’m not unhappy any more. So what does it matter?”

“I want to know. Tell me.”

“I’ve been puzzling over a dilemma,” she said, “an excessively perplexed one.”

“Yes? Go on,” said I.

“I’ve been wondering whether I’d better marry Ciccolesi, or retire into a convent.”

“Ciccolesi!” I cried, in astonishment, in dismay. “Marry Ciccolesi! You!”

“The Cavalière Ciccolesi. You’ve met him here on Mondays, A brown man, with curly hair. He’s done me the honour of offering me his hand. Would you advise me to accept it?”

“Accept it?” I cried. “Good Lord! You must be—have you lost your reason? Ciccolesi—that automaton—that cardboard stalking-horse—that Neapolitan jackanapes! You—think of marrying him!”

I could only walk up and down the room and wave my hands.

“Ah, well,” said she, “then I see there’s nothing for it but the other alternative—to retire into a convent.”

I halted and stared at her.

“What—what on earth has happened to make you talk like this?” I demanded, in a sort of gasp.

“I’ve been reflecting upon the futility of my life,” she said. “I get up in the morning, and eat my breakfast. Then I fritter away an hour or two, and eat my luncheon. Then I fritter away the afternoon, and eat my dinner. Then I fritter away the evening, and go to bed. I live, apparently, to eat and sleep, like the beasts that perish. We must reform all that. I must do something to make myself of use in the world. And since you seem disinclined to sanction a marriage with Ciccolesi, what do you say to my joining some charitable sisterhood?”

She spoke lightly, even, if you will, half-jocosely. But there was a real bitterness unmistakable behind her tone. There was a bitterness in her smile.

And I—I was overwhelmed, penetrated, by a distress, by an emotion, such as I had never known before. I looked at her through a sort of mist—of pain, of passion; with a kind of aching helplessness; longing to say something, to do something, I could not tell what. Her smile had faded out; her face was white, set; her eyes were sombre. I looked at her, I longed to say something, to do something, and I could not move or speak. My mind was all a whirl, a bewilderment—till, somehow, gradually, from some place in the background of it, her name, her Christian name, struggled forward into consciousness. I seemed to see it before me, like a written word, her name, Gabrielle. And then I heard myself calling it.

“Gabrielle! Gabrielle!”

I heard my voice, I found myself kneeling beside her, holding her hands, speaking close to her face.

“Gabrielle! I can’t let you—I can’t allow you to think such things. Your life futile! Your beautiful, beautiful life! Gabrielle—my love! Oh, my love, my love!”...

By-and-by, laughing, sobbing, her eyes melting with a heavenly tenderness, she said, “It’s absurd, it’s impossible. You’re only a boy. I’m a woman. I’m seven years older than you—in years. I’m immeasurably older in everything else. But I can’t help it—I love you. You’re only a boy—and yet—you’re such an honest, frank, sweet boy—and my life has been passed with such artificial people, such unreal people—you’re the only man I have ever known.”

The next morning one of her servants brought me a letter. Here it is.

“Dearest Friend,—Please do not come to see me this afternoon. I shall not be at home. I am leaving town. I am going to the Convent of Saint Veronica; I shall pass Lent there, with the good sisters.

“Dearest, do not be angry with me. I cannot accept your love, I have no right to accept it. Our friendship, our companionship, has been infinitely precious to me; it has given me a belief in human nature which I never had before. But you are young, you are still growing—in mind, in spirit. You must be free. I cannot cramp your youth, your growth, by accepting your love. Look, my dear, it would be an impasse. We could not marry. It would be monstrous if I should let you marry me—at the end of a year, at the end of six months, you would hate me, you would feel that I had spoiled your life. Yes, it is true. You must be free—you must grow. You must not handicap yourself at twenty-two by marrying a woman seven years your senior.

“Well, what then? Nothing but this—I must not accept your love, dear, I must give you up. You will go on, on; you will grow, you will outgrow the love you bear me now. You will live your life. And some day you will meet a woman of your own age.

“I know the pain this letter will give you; I know, I know. You will be unhappy, you will be angry with me. Dearest, try to forgive me. I am doing the only thing there is for me to do. You will be glad of it in the future. You will shudder to think, ’What if that woman had taken me at my word!’—Oh, why weren’t you born ten years earlier, or I ten years later?

“I am going to the Convent of Saint Veronica, to pass Lent. Perhaps I shall stay longer. Perhaps—do not cry out, it is not a sudden resolution—perhaps I shall remain there, as an oblate. I could teach music, French. I must do something. I must not lead this idle futile life. Do not think of me as undergoing hardships. The rule for an oblate is not severe.

“Good-bye, dear. I pray God to bless you in every way.

“Good-bye, good-bye.

“Gabrielle.”

Don’t ask me what I felt, what I did....

Lent dragged itself away, but she did not return to Rome.

Then one day I received by post a copy of the Osservatore Romano, with a marked paragraph. It announced that the Contessa Bracca had been received into the Pious Community of Saint Veronica as a noble oblate.

Her letter, and that paragraph, cut from the Osservatore Romano, lie before me now, on my writing-table. Don’t ask me what I feel, as I look at them.

MERELY PLAYERS I

My dear,” said the elder man, “as I’ve told you a thousand times, what you need is a love-affair with a red-haired woman.”

“Bother women,” said the younger man, “and hang love-affairs. Women are a pack of samenesses, and love-affairs are damnable iterations.”

They were seated at a round table, gay with glass and silver, fruit and wine, in a pretty, rather high-ceiled little grey-and-gold breakfast-room. The French window stood wide open to the soft June day. From the window you could step out upon a small balcony; the balcony overhung a terrace; and a broad flight of steps from the terrace led down into a garden. You could not perceive the boundaries of the garden; in all directions it offered an indefinite perspective, a landscape of green lawns and shadowy alleys, bright parterres of flowers, fountains, and tall bending trees.

I have spoken of the elder man and the younger, though really there could have been but a trifling disparity in their ages: the elder was perhaps thirty, the younger seven- or eight-and-twenty. In other respects, however, they were as unlike as unlike may be. Thirty was plump and rosy and full-blown, with a laughing good-humoured face, and merry big blue eyes; eight-and-twenty, thin, tall, and listless-looking, his face pale and aquiline, his eyes dark, morose. They had finished their coffee, and now the plump man was nibbling sweetmeats, which he selected with much careful discrimination from an assortment in a porcelain dish. The thin man was drinking something green, possibly chartreuse.

“Women are a pack of samenesses,” he grumbled, “and love-affairs are damnable iterations.”

“Oh,” cried out his comrade, in a tone of plaintive protest, “I said red-haired. You can’t pretend that red-haired women are the same.”

“The same, with the addition of a little henna,” the pale young man argued wearily.

“It may surprise you to learn that I was thinking of red-haired women who are born red-haired,” his friend remarked, from an altitude.

“In that case,” said he, “I admit there is a difference—they have white eyelashes.” And he emptied his glass of green stuff. “Is all this apropos of boots?” he questioned.

The other regarded him solemnly. “It’s apropos of your immortal soul,” he answered, nodding his head. “It’s medicine for a mind diseased. The only thing that will wake you up, and put a little life and human nature in you, is a love-affair with a red-haired woman. Red in the hair means fire in the heart. It means all sorts of things. If you really wish to please me, Uncle, you’ll go and fall in love with a red-haired woman.”

The younger man, whom the elder addressed as Uncle, shrugged his shoulders, and gave a little sniff. Then he lighted a cigarette.

The elder man left the table, and went to the open window. “Heavens, what weather!” he exclaimed fervently. “The day is made of perfumed velvet. The air is a love-philtre. The whole world sings romance. And yet you—insensible monster!—you can sit there torpidly—-” But abruptly he fell silent.

His attention had been caught by something below, in the garden. He watched it for an instant from his place by the window; then he stepped forth upon the balcony, still watching. Suddenly, facing halfway round, “By my bauble, Nunky,” he called to his companion, and his voice was tense with surprised exultancy, “she’s got red hair!”

The younger man looked up with vague eyes. “Who? What?” he asked languidly.

“Come here, come here,” his friend urged, beckoning him. “There,” he indicated, when the pale man had joined him, “below there—to the right—picking roses. She’s got red hair. She’s sent by Providence.”

A woman in a white frock was picking roses, in one of the alleys of the garden; rather a tall woman. Her back was turned towards her observers; but she wore only a light scarf of lace over her head, and her hair—dim gold in its shadows—where the sun touched it, showed a soul of red.

The younger man frowned, and asked sharply, “Who the devil is she?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” replied the other. “One of the Queen’s women, probably. But whoever she is, she’s got red hair.”

The younger man frowned more fiercely still. “What is she doing in the King’s private garden? This is a pretty state of things.” He stamped his foot angrily. “Go down and turn her out. And I wish measures to be taken, that such trespassing may not occur again.”

But the elder man laughed. “Hoity-toity! Calm yourself, Uncle. What would you have? The King is at a safe distance, hiding in one of his northern hunting-boxes, sulking, and nursing his spleen, as is his wont. When the King’s away, the palace mice will play—at lèse majesté, the thrilling game. If you wish to stop them, persuade the King to come home and show his face. Otherwise, we’ll gather our rosebuds while we may; and I’m not the man to cross a red-haired woman.”

“You’re the Constable of Bellefontaine,” retorted his friend, “and it’s your business to see that the King’s orders are respected.”

“The King’s orders are so seldom respectable; and then, I’ve a grand talent for neglecting my business. I’m trying to elevate the Constableship of Bellefontaine into a sinecure,” the plump man explained genially. “But I’m pained to see that your sense of humour is not escaping the general decay of your faculties. What you need is a love-affair with a red-haired woman; and yonder’s a red-haired woman, dropped from the skies for your salvation. Go—engage her in talk—and fall in love with her. There’s a dear,” he pleaded.

“Dropped from the skies,” the pale man repeated, with mild scorn. “As if I didn’t know my Hilary! Of course, you’ve had her up your sleeve the whole time.”

“Upon my soul and honour, you are utterly mistaken. Upon my soul and honour, I’ve never set eyes on her before,” Hilary asseverated warmly.

“Ah, well, if that’s the case,” suggested the pale man, turning back into the room, “let us make an earnest endeavour to talk of something else.” II

The next afternoon they were walking in the park, at some distance from the palace, when they came to a bridge over a bit of artificial water; and there was the woman of yesterday, leaning on the parapet, throwing bread-crumbs to the carp. She looked up as they passed, and bowed, with a little smile, in acknowledgment of their raised hats.

When they were out of earshot, “H’m,” muttered Hilary, “viewed at close quarters, she’s a trifle disenchanting.”

“Oh?” questioned his friend. “I thought her very good-looking.”

“She has too short a nose,” Hilary complained.

“What’s the good of criticising particular features? The general effect of her face was highly pleasing. She looked intelligent, interesting; she looked as if she would have something to say,” the younger man insisted.

“It’s very possible she has a tongue in her head,” admitted Hilary; “but we were judging her by the rules of beauty. For my fancy, she’s too tall.”

“She’s tall, but she’s well-proportioned. Indeed, her figure struck me as exceptionally fine. There was something sumptuous and noble about it,” declared the other.

“There are scores of women with fine figures in this world,” said Hilary. “But I’m sorely disappointed in her hair. Her hair is nothing like so red as I’d imagined.”

“You’re daft on the subject of red hair. Her hair’s not carrot-colour, if you come to that. But there’s plenty of red in it, burning through it. The red is managed with discretion—suggestively. And did you notice her eyes? She has remarkably nice eyes—eyes with an expression. I thought her eyes and mouth were charming when she smiled,” the pale man affirmed.

“When she smiled? I didn’t see her smile,” reflected Hilary.

“Of course she smiled—when we bowed,” his friend reminded him.

“Oh, Ferdinand Augustus,” Hilary remonstrated, “will you never learn to treat words with some consideration? You call that smiling! Two men take off their hats, and a woman gives them just a look of bare acknowledgment; and Ferdinand Augustus calls it smiling!”

“Would you have wished for a broad grin?” asked Ferdinand Augustus. “Her face lighted up most graciously. I thought her eyes were charming. Oh, she’s certainly a good-looking woman, a distinctly handsome woman.”

“Handsome is that handsome does,” said Hilary.

“I miss the relevancy of that,” said Ferdinand Augustus.