CHAPTER V

THE SECRET OF THE WIND AND THE WALNUT-TREES

Maria's fever lasted only eight days; nevertheless, when she left her bed, her parents found her more changed in face and in mind than if the eight days had been eight months. Her eyes had grown darker, and had assumed a peculiar expression of calm and precocious maturity. She spoke more distinctly and rapidly, but to those who were not to her liking, she would not speak at all, would not even greet them. This was more displeasing to Franco than to Luisa. Franco wished her to be amiable, but Luisa feared to spoil her sincerity. For her mother Maria cherished an affection violent rather than demonstrative, a jealous, almost fierce affection. She was very fond of her father also, but it was evident that she felt he was unlike herself. Franco had passionate outbursts of affection for her, when he would catch her up unexpectedly, press her close, and cover her with kisses. At such moments she would throw her head back, plant one little hand upon her father's face, and look frowningly at him, as if something in him were strange and repugnant to her. Often Franco would scold her angrily, and Maria would cry and stare at him through her tears, motionless, and as if fascinated, and always wearing the expression of one who does not understand. He noticed the child's predilection for her mother, and this was pleasing to him, for it seemed a just preference, and he never doubted that later Maria would love him tenderly also. Luisa, loving her husband as she did, was much troubled that the child should exhibit greater affection for herself; however this sentiment of hers was less lively, less pure, than Franco's generous pleasure. It seemed to Luisa that, after all, in spite of his transports, Franco loved his daughter as a being distinct from himself, while she, who had no transports of external tenderness, loved the child as a vital part of herself. Moreover she cherished in her heart a future Maria probably very different from the one Franco cherished. For this reason also she could not regret her moral ascendency over her daughter. She foresaw the danger that Franco might favour an exaggerated development of the child's religious sentiment, and this, to her, was a very serious danger, for in Maria, full of curiosity, eager for stories, there were the germs of a very lively imagination, which would be most favourable to religious fancies, and a badly balanced moral sense might be the result. It was not a question of abolishing religious sentiment; this Luisa, out of respect for Franco, if for no other reason, would never have sought to do, but it was imperative that Maria, on reaching womanhood, should be able to find the pivot of her own existence in her own sure and vigorous moral sense, a moral sense not founded upon beliefs which, after all, were simply hypotheses and opinions, and which, sooner or later, might fail her. The preservation of faith in Justice and in Truth, setting aside all other faith, all hope, all fear, seemed to her the most sublime condition of the human conscience. She believed that because she went to Mass, and twice a year to the sacraments, she had renounced such perfection for herself, and she intended to renounce it for Maria also, but as one who, finding himself hampered by wife and children, must renounce Christian perfection, but who does so unwillingly, and in as slight a degree as possible.

Fate might bestow riches upon Maria. Therefore they must carefully provide against her acceptance of a life of frivolity, compensated for by the giving of alms, the Mass in the morning, and the rosary at night. On several occasions Luisa had attempted to sound Franco upon the question of giving Maria's education a moral direction quite apart from the religious direction, but such attempts had never been accompanied by satisfactory results. Franco could understand an unbelief in religion, but it was quite incomprehensible to him that there were those who found religion insufficient as a rule of life. He had never for a moment believed that all should aspire to saintliness, or that those who love _tarocchi_, primero, hunting, fishing, nice little dinners and a bottle of fine wine, are not good Christians. And this moral direction in education as divided from the religious direction seemed to him a mere notion, because, to his thinking, all honest men who did not believe, were honest either by nature or from habit, and not from any moral or philosophical reasoning. So it was not possible for Luisa to come to an understanding with her husband on this delicate point. She must act alone and very cautiously, in order neither to offend nor to grieve him. When Franco pointed out to the child the stars and the moon, the flowers and the butterflies, as admirable works of God, using poetically religious language fit for a child of twelve, Luisa held her peace; but if, on the contrary, he chanced to say to Maria: "Mind, God does not wish you to do that!" Luisa would immediately add: "That is wicked! You must never do what is wicked!" In such cases some dissension must inevitably arise between the parents, for the moral judgment of one was not always in harmony with the moral judgment of the other. Once they were standing together at the window of the hall, while Maria played with a little girl of about her own age from Oria. A brother of the child passed, a tyrant of eight, and ordered his little sister to follow him. She refused and wept. But Maria, looking very grave, faced the tyrant with clenched fists. Franco restrained her by a sharp command; the little one turned and looked at him, and then burst into tears, while the tyrant dragged his victim away. Luisa left the window, saying in an undertone to her husband: "Excuse me, but that was not just." "Why was it not just?" said Franco, and he became heated and raised his voice, demanding whether his wife wished Maria to grow up pugilistic and violent. She answered gently and firmly, overlooking some sharp words of his, and maintaining that Maria's impulse had been good; that our first duty is to withstand tyranny and injustice; and that, though the child use his fists, the man would use more civilised weapons; but if the natural impulse of the soul be repressed in the child, there was danger of destroying the nascent sense of justice as well.

Franco would not be convinced. According to him it was very doubtful whether Maria had harboured any such heroic sentiments. She had simply been angry because she was to be deprived of her playmate, that was all. Besides, was it not a woman's place to oppose gentle meekness to injustice and tyranny, to appease and correct the offender, rather than repulse the offence by force? Luisa flushed crimson, and replied that this role might suit some women, perhaps the best of women, but it would certainly not suit all, for not all were so meek and humble.

"And you are of that number?"

"I believe so."

"A fine thing to boast of!"

"Does it grieve you very much?"

"Very much indeed."

Luisa placed her hands on his shoulders. "Does it grieve you very much," said she, "that I rebel as you yourself do against the presence of these masters in our house; that I desire as you yourself do, to help, even with my hands, in driving them out? Or would you prefer to see me attempt to correct Radetzky and appease the Croatians?"

"That is a different thing."

"In what way? No, it is the same thing."

"It is a different thing!" Franco repeated, but he was unable to demonstrate this. He felt he was wrong according to superficial ratiocination, and right according to a profound truth which he was unable to grasp. He said no more but was thoughtful all day, and was evidently seeking for an answer. He thought about it in the night also, and finally, believing he had found an answer, called to his wife, who was asleep.

"Luisa!" said he. "Luisa, that is a different thing."

"What is the matter?" Luisa exclaimed, waking with a start.

He had reflected that the offence of a foreign dominion was not personal like a private offence, and was always the result of a violation of a principle of universal justice. But while he was explaining this to his wife it struck him that in private offences also there was always the violation of a principle of universal justice, and he fancied he must have blundered.

"Nothing," said he.

His wife thought he was dreaming, and placing her head upon his shoulder, she went to sleep again. If any argument could convert Franco to his wife's ideas it was this sweet contact, this gentle breathing upon his breast, in which he had so often and so deliciously felt the blending of their two souls. But now it was not so. Through his brain the thought flashed suddenly like a quick and cold blade, that this latent antagonism between his wife's views and his own might one day burst forth in some painful form, and, terrified, he pressed her in his arms, as if to defend both himself and her against the phantoms of his own brain.

* * * * *

After breakfast, on the sixth of November Franco took his great gardening-shears and proceeded as usual, to the extermination of all dry leaves and branches on the terrace and in the little garden. The great beauty and deep peace of the hour went to the heart. Not a leaf stirred; the air from the west was most pure and crystalline; on the east the hills between Osteno and Porlezza were fading against a background of light mist; the house was glorious with the sun and the tremulous reflections from the lake; but though the sun was still very hot, the chrysanthemums in the little garden, the olives and laurels along the coast--more plainly visible now among the reddening, falling leaves--a certain secret freshness in the air, scented with _olea fragrans_, the absence of all wind, the vaporous mountains of the Lake of Como, white with snow, all said, with one melancholy accord, that the sweet season was dying. When he had exterminated the withered brushwood Franco proposed to his wife that they should go to Casarico in their boat, and return the two first volumes of the _Mysteres du Peuple_ which they had eagerly devoured in a few days, to their friend Gilardoni, and borrow the next volume from him. They decided to start after lunch, when Maria should have gone to bed. But before Maria had been put to bed Barborin Pasotti appeared, all out of breath, her bonnet and mantle askew. She had come up from the garden-gate, and now stopped on the threshold of the hall. It was the first time she had been to see them since the search. Upon catching sight of her friends she clasped her hands, and kept repeating in a low tone: "Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!" Then she flung herself upon Luisa and covered her with kisses.

"My dear girl! My dear girl!" she exclaimed. She would have liked to treat Franco in the same way, but Franco was not favourable to this sort of emotion, and his expression was not encouraging, so the poor woman had to be satisfied with taking both his hands and shaking them heartily. "My dear Don Franco! My dear Don Franco!" Finally she gathered Maria into her arms, but the child planted her two little hands upon Barborin's chest, her face wearing an expression similar to her father's. "I am old, am I not? And ugly? You don't like me? Well, never mind, never mind!" And she fell to kissing the child's arms and shoulders humbly, not daring to brave the sour little face. Then she told her friends she had brought them a piece of good news, and her eyes sparkled at the pleasant mystery. The Marchesa had written to Pasotti, and one passage in the letter Barborin had committed to memory. "It was with the deepest regret (deepest regret, those were the very words) that I learned of the sad affair at Oria ... at Oria ... (wait a moment) the sad affair at Oria ... (ah!) and although my grandson is most undeserving (wait! ... have patience!) I trust that it may have no unpleasant consequences." The passage did not produce any great effect. Luisa frowned and said nothing. Franco glanced at his wife, and did not dare to utter the favourable comment he had on his lips, but not in his heart. Poor Barborin, who had taken advantage of her husband's absence at Lugano to run to her friends with this sugar-plum, was deeply mortified, and after gazing ruefully from Luisa to Franco, ended by pulling a real sugar-plum from her pocket, and offering it to Maria. Then, having made out that the Maironis wanted to go away in the boat, and longing to be allowed to stay with Maria a little while, she begged and entreated so hard that they finally started, leaving orders with Veronica to put the child to bed a little later.

Maria did not seem any too well pleased with the company of her elderly friend. She remained silent, obstinately silent, and before long she opened her mouth and burst into tears. Poor Barborin did not know which Saint to appeal to, so she appealed to Veronica, but Veronica was discoursing with a customs-guard, and either did not or would not hear. Barborin showed her rings, her watch, even the big bonnet, _a la vice-reine Beauharnais_, but nothing would do, and Maria continued to weep. Then she bethought her of going to the piano, where she strummed eight or ten bars of an antediluvian jig over and over again. Then little Princess Maria became more amiable, and allowed her old court-pianist to lift her as carefully as if her little arms had been a butterfly's wings, and place her on her lap as softly as if there had been danger of the old legs crumbling to dust.

When the jig had been repeated five or six times Maria began to look bored and tried to pull the elderly pianist's hand from the key-board, saying in an undertone: "Sing me a song." Obtaining no answer, she turned, looked Barborin straight in the face, and shouted at the top of her voice: "Sing me a song."

"I don't understand," Barborin replied. "I am deaf."

"Why are you deaf?"

"I am deaf," the unfortunate woman answered, smiling.

"But why are you deaf?"

Barborin could not imagine what the child was saying.

"I don't understand," said she.

"Then you are stupid," Maria announced with a very serious face, and knitting her brows, she repeated in a whining voice: "I want a song!"

A voice from the little garden said--

"Here is the person for songs."

Maria raised her head and her face became radiant. "Missipipi!" she cried, and slipping down from Barborin's lap, ran to meet Uncle Piero who was coming in. Signora Pasotti rose also, astonished and smiling, and stretched out her arms towards this old and unexpected friend. "Behold, behold, behold!" she exclaimed, and hastened to greet him. Maria was calling so loudly for "Missipipi, Missipipi!" and clinging so tight to Uncle Piero's legs, that, although he did not seem inclined to do so, he was obliged to sit down on the sofa, take the child on his knees, and repeat the old story to her.

Proud shade of the river----

After four or five "Missipipis" Signora Pasotti went home, fearing her husband might return. Veronica wished to put the child to bed, but the little one rebelled, and Uncle Piero interfered, saying: "Oh, leave her here a little while longer," and he took her out to the terrace to see if Papa and Mamma were coming.

No boat could be seen coming from Casarico. The little one ordered her uncle to sit down, and then she climbed upon his knee.

"Why did you come?" said she. "There isn't any dinner for you, you know."

"Then you must cook some for me. I came to stay with you."

"Always?"

"Always."

"But really always, always, always?"

"Really always."

Maria became silent and thoughtful, but presently she asked--

"What have you brought me?"

Uncle Piero drew a rubber doll from his pocket. Had Maria known, had she been able to understand how he had gone out to buy that doll for her in great anguish of mind, still smarting from a terrible blow, she would have wept with pity.

"This is an ugly present," said she, recalling others he had brought her. "And if you stay here will you never bring me any more presents?"

"No more presents."

"Go away, Uncle," said she.

He smiled.

And then Maria wanted her uncle to tell her if his uncle had brought him presents when he was a little boy. But, though the thing was inconceivable to Maria, this uncle of her uncle had never existed. Who had brought him presents, then? And had he always been a good little boy? Had he cried much? Her uncle began telling her many tales of his childhood, things that had happened sixty years before, when people wore wigs and pig-tails. He enjoyed talking to his little grand-niece of that far-away time, making her share for a moment the existence of his dead parents, and he spoke with sad gravity, as if the dear ones who had passed away had been present, and he were speaking more for them than for her. She fixed her wide-open eyes on his face, and gazed intently at him. Neither he nor she heeded the flight of time, neither he nor she thought of the boat that was coming.

And the boat came. Luisa and Franco drew near, suspecting nothing, and believing the child to be asleep. Franco was the first to perceive Uncle Piero seated under the drooping branches of the passion-flower vine with Maria on his knee. He uttered a loud exclamation of surprise, and, followed by Luisa, hastened towards them, fearing something had happened. "You here?" he called as he ran. Luisa, who was very pale, said nothing. Uncle Piero raised his head, and looked at them. They felt at once that he had brought bad news, for they had never seen him so grave.

"_Addio!_ God bless you!" said he.

"What has happened?" Franco whispered. Uncle Piero motioned to them to withdraw from the terrace to the loggia, whither he followed them. Then the poor old man spread wide his arms as one crucified, and said in a sad but firm voice--

"I am dismissed."

Franco and Luisa stared at him for a moment, dazed. Then Franco burst out: "Oh, Uncle, Uncle!" and fell upon his neck. Seeing her father's action and the expression on her mother's face Maria fell to sobbing. Luisa tried to pacify her, but she herself, strong woman that she was, felt the tears rising in her throat.

Seated on the sofa in the hall Uncle Piero told them that the Imperial and Royal Delegate of Como had sent for him to tell him that the search which had been carried out in his house at Oria had given painful and unexpected results, but what these results were he had positively refused to state. The Delegate had added that the authorities had at first intended to take legal proceedings against him, but that in consideration of his long and faithful services to the government, it had been decided to remove him from office instead. Uncle Piero had insisted upon knowing the nature of the accusations brought against him, but the Delegate had dismissed him without an answer.

"And what is to be done now?" said Franco.

"What is to be done----" Uncle Piero was silent for a moment, and then pronounced that sacramental phrase of unknown origin which he and his fellow _tarocchi_ players were in the habit of repeating when the game was hopelessly lost. "We are done brown, O Queen!"

A long silence ensued, which was finally broken by Luisa, who cast herself upon her uncle's neck, murmuring: "Oh, Uncle, Uncle! I am afraid it is our fault." She was thinking of the grandmother, but Uncle Piero thought she was accusing Franco and herself of some imprudence.

"Listen, my dear friends," said he good-naturedly, but in his tone there was a hidden spirit of reproof, "these discourses are useless. Now that the evil is done we must think of bread. You may count upon this house, upon some modest savings which bring me in about four _svanziche_ a day, and upon two more mouths to feed, mine and Cia's. Let us hope you will not have to feed mine long." Franco and Luisa protested. "Better so, better so!" Uncle Piero exclaimed, waving his arms as if in contempt of unreasonable sentimentality. "Live well, and die in good time. That is the best rule. I have performed the first part, now I must perform the second. Meanwhile send some water to my room, and open my bag. You will find ten meat croquettes, which Signora Carolina dell'Agria insisted upon giving me. You see we are not so badly off, after all!"

Whereupon Uncle Piero rose and went out at the drawing-room door with a firm step, and even when his back was turned, displaying a head and body held erect, and an unruffled serenity like that of an ancient philosopher.

Franco, with knitted brows and arms crossed upon his breast, was standing motionless on the edge of the terrace, and looking towards Cressogno. If at that moment he had had a bundle of Delegates, Commissaries, police-agents, and spies between his teeth, he would have ground them so hard that all these functionaries would have been reduced to pulp.