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THE PATRIOT

(PICCOLO MONDO ANTICO)

By

ANTONIO FOGAZZARO

Author of "The Saint"

Translated from the Italian by

M. PRICHARD-AGNETTI

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS

NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press

Copyright, 1906
BY
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS

INTRODUCTION

The Patriot (Piccolo Mondo Antico) was published in Milan in 1896, and has reached its forty-fourth edition, which is in itself sufficient proof of its popularity; for Italians do not purchase books largely, and one volume will often make the tour of a town, coming out of the campaign in rags and a newspaper cover.

Although The Patriot is not an historical novel in the true sense of the term, it certainly throws a wonderful side-light on those ten years of "deadly cold and awful silence," a silence broken only from time to time by the cries of the martyrs of Mantua, by the noise of inward strife in the Papal States, and by the weeping of mothers who saw their sons disappear behind the clanging doors of Austrian fortresses. These ten years stretched drearily from the disastrous field of Novara to the glorious days of Magenta, Solferino and San Martino (1849–59).

Antonio Fogazzaro, born in Vicenza in 1842, was a child when the battle of Novara was fought and lost; but when the French drove the Austrians from the bloody field of Magenta, he, a youth of seventeen, was ready to be fired with patriotic enthusiasm.

During those years, there was little the patriots could do save to feed the fire of hatred against the foreign oppressors, and prepare, as best they could, in secret and in constant danger of death, for the moment when Piedmont should once more give the signal of revolt.

In the night that succeeded the battle of Novara, King Carlo Alberto, who had risked all for the freedom of the rest of Italy—for it must be remembered that his own kingdom of Sardinia was independent of Austria—discouraged, mortified, and impoverished, abdicated in favour of his son, Victor Emmanuel. It was no longer possible to continue hostilities, and Carlo Alberto hoped that his son, whose wife, Maria Adelaide, was the daughter of an Austrian grand-duke, might obtain more favourable conditions from Austria for his unhappy country. On the following day the young King and Field-Marshal Radetzky met, and a peace was signed, the conditions of which Victor Emmanuel found great difficulty in persuading his parliament to ratify. But in the end Piedmont paid Austria an indemnity of seventy-five million francs.

Victor Emmanuel had not, however, abandoned the idea of United Italy, and could say with Massimo D'Azeglio: We will begin over again, and do better! Count Camillo Benso di Cavour, one of the greatest statesmen of modern times, stood by the King from the first. They immediately turned their attention towards bettering the condition of their impoverished country, and soon succeeded in rendering the little capital, Turin, one of the brightest and most prosperous cities of the Continent. The patriots, the best men in Italy, flocked to Turin from all those states where Austria or her tools held sway. The Piedmontese government granted subsidies to some of these refugees, and found employment for others, receiving all with open arms.

Meanwhile, Mazzini and Garibaldi were working, sometimes at home, sometimes in exile, while in Mantua brave patriots, among them several saintly priests, were suffering torture and death at the hands of the Austrians. The records of their trials revealed such palpable and flagrant violation of all justice, all law, that when the Austrians were at last expelled from Mantua, they were careful to remove these to Vienna, where they are still preserved. The aged mother of one of the priests who suffered execution appealed to the young Empress Elisabeth, begging that her son's body might be restored to her, and receive burial in consecrated ground. But Elisabeth was deaf to the unhappy woman's prayers. During the long and desolate years of her own affliction, how often must the unfortunate Empress have thought of the tears of blood the mothers of Italy had shed! It was Field-Marshal Haynau of inglorious memory, he who for his cruelties in that city had been dubbed the "hyena of Brescia," who tortured these martyrs of Mantua and signed their death-warrants.

All these things were happening during those ten years of heavy silence when Fogazzaro was a child. We can fancy how eagerly he listened to the accounts of these horrors, and to the long and animated discussions his father (Franco Maironi of The Patriot) and his uncle (Uncle Piero) held with the brilliant company that assembled at Casa Fogazzaro. His father took an active part in the defence of Vicenza in 1848, while his mother, whom he has portrayed for us in the lovely character of Signora Luisa Rigey, busied herself with scraping lint and making cockades for the soldiers. These events and scenes, which so deeply impressed the child, were ever present to the mind of the man, and the long cherished project of immortalising those personages and places which were both familiar and dear to him, was at last realised in the pages of The Patriot, in which, evoking personal memories of the past, he gives us a stirring account of the petty persecutions and base meanness to which the mighty Austria stooped during that period of suspense and anxiety. The intrigues of the rogue Pasotti, the skirmishes of the wicked old Marchesa with the adjutant of the great Radetzky himself, fill us with indignation and contempt, while we thrill with patriotic emotion when Luisa raises her glass and whispers: "Hurrah for Cavour!"—whispers the words, because in those days the very walls had ears, and in her toast there breathed sedition!

As the years passed and peace and prosperity settled over United Italy, another question, that of the religious life, began to occupy the master-mind of Antonio Fogazzaro. Intensely but broadly religious himself, he could not fail to introduce into his work the burning question of belief or unbelief which, from long contemplation and study, had become, as it were, a part of himself. The artistic motive of the book, the struggle between an unbelieving wife and an intensely religious husband, came to the Italian reader as a new revelation. Had Fogazzaro been influenced by certain works which had already excited much comment and discussion in England and America? Perhaps so; but at all events he has treated the subject differently, and in his own masterly fashion; he has spared us the long and tedious tirades of personages who are, after all, simply mouthpieces, and has given us instead two warm and palpitating human beings, who live and act in accordance with their opinions, and whose innermost souls are laid bare to us by their own deeds, their own actions. Franco and Luisa do not discuss and argue, they simply feel, feel intensely, and by a few burning words here, a few delicate touches there, our author leads us to feel with them, to understand and sympathise with their impulses, their passions, and their weaknesses.

We may not agree with Fogazzaro's conclusions, but we cannot but admire the masterly delineation of character, the unstudied and thoroughly artistic arrangement of the work, and the skilful handling of so many different elements.

The very simplicity and directness of his language give to his style a grandeur all its own, and lend a peculiar charm to his descriptions of nature, which form some of the most fascinating pages of The Patriot. With a few broad strokes, he spreads before us a landscape of ineffable beauty, or shows us the fury of the maddened elements. How marvellous in its solemn grandeur is the picture of the struggle between the sun and the fog, which Uncle Piero witnesses from the terrace at Oria! How wonderful in its awe-inspiring realism is the story of Franco's journey across the mountains, in the darkness of a moonless night! And that glorious picture of the sunrise, when Franco's crushed and tortured soul soars upwards again with the growing light, and, inspired and comforted, he once more squares his shoulders, and takes up his heavy burden of care!

Infinite sweetness breathes from the pages which deal with the short and sunny life of dear little Maria, and there are passages full of humour and whimsical reflections that must remind the English reader of Dickens.

Perhaps when Fogazzaro wrote The Patriot, he had already planned the trilogy of which it forms the first volume, but certainly the trilogy was rather evolved than planned, evolved from the union of two such characters as Franco and Luisa; and probably, while writing the first, the author was, to a certain extent, ignorant of what the second and third volumes would contain; for Luisa and Franco, Jeanne and Piero are not puppets which have been fitted into a story, but the story is in every particular the outcome of their personalities.

Certain it is that when we read the promise contained in the closing lines of The Patriot, we look forward eagerly to the succeeding volumes of the trilogy; and when, after that marvellous scene in the gardener's house, we reluctantly bid farewell to the Saint, our first thought is a hope that the master may soon resume his magic pen and continue the struggle for the purification and regeneration of the Faith, and, through the Faith, of Mankind.

MARY PRICHARD-AGNETTI.

Berceto, Italy,
October, 1906.

CONTENTS

Part First

CHAPTER I
RISOTTO AND TRUFFLES

On the lake a cold breva [A] was blowing, striving to drive away the grey clouds which clung heavily about the dark mountain-tops. Indeed, when the Pasottis reached Casarico on their way down from Albogasio Superiore, it had not yet begun to rain. The waves beat and thundered on the shore, jostling the boats at their moorings, while flashing tongues of white foam showed, here and there, as far as the frowning banks of the Doi over yonder. But down in the west, at the end of the lake, a line of light could be seen, a sign of approaching calm, of the diminishing breva, and behind the gloomy Caprino hill appeared the first misty rain. Pasotti, in his full dress black overcoat, a tall hat on his head, his hand grasping a thick bamboo walking-stick, was pacing nervously along the shore, peering now in this direction, now in that, or stopping to beat his stick upon the ground, and to shout for that ass of a boatman, who had not yet appeared.

The little black boat, with its red cushions, its red and white awning, its movable seat, used only on special occasions, fixed crosswise in its place, the oars lying ready amidship, was struggling, buffeted by the waves, between two coal barges, which hardly moved.

"Pin!" shouted Pasotti, growing more and more angry. "Pin!"

The only answer was the regular, constant thundering of the waves on the shore, and the bumping of one boat against another. At that moment one would have said there was not so much as a live dog in the whole of Casarico. Only a plaintive, old voice, like the husky falsetto of a ventriloquist, groaned from beneath the portico—

"Hadn't we better walk?"

At last Pin appeared in the direction of San Mamette.

"Hurry up, there!" shrieked Pasotti, raising his arms. The man began to run.

"Beast!" Pasotti roared. "It was with good reason they gave you the name of a dog!"

"Hadn't we better walk, Pasotti?" groaned the plaintive voice. "Let us walk!"

Pasotti continued to abuse the boatman, who was hastily unfastening the chain of his boat from a ring, fixed in the bank. Presently he turned towards the portico, with an authoritative air, and jerking his chin, motioned to some one to come forward.

"Let us walk, Pasotti!" the voice groaned once more.

He shrugged his shoulders, made a rough gesture of command with his hand, and started down towards the boat.

Then an old lady appeared under one of the arches of the portico, her lean person enveloped in an Indian shawl, below which a black silk skirt showed. Her head was surmounted by a fashionable bonnet, spindling, and lofty, trimmed with tiny yellow roses, and black lace. Two black curls framed the wrinkled face; the eyes were large and gentle, and the wide mouth was shaded by a faint moustache.

"Oh Pin!" she exclaimed, clasping her canary-coloured gloves, and pausing on the bank to gaze helplessly at the boatman. "Can we really venture out with the lake in this state?"

Her husband made a still more imperious gesture, and his face assumed a still sourer expression. The poor woman slipped down to the boat in silence, and was helped in, trembling violently.

"I commend myself to Our Lady of Caravino, my good Pin!" she said. "What a dreadful lake!"

The boatman shook his head, smiling.

"By the way!" Pasotti exclaimed, "have you brought the sail along?"

"It is up at the house," Pin answered. "Shall I go for it? But perhaps the Signora here, might be frightened. Besides, here comes the rain!"

"Go and fetch it," said Pasotti.

The Signora, who was as deaf as a post, had not heard a word of this conversation, and, greatly amazed at seeing Pin run off, asked her husband where he was going.

"The sail!" Pasotti shouted into her face. She sat, bending forward, her mouth wide open, striving in vain, to catch, at least, the sound of his voice.

"The sail!" he repeated, still louder, his hands framing his mouth.

She began to think that she understood. Trembling with fright she drew a questioning hieroglyphic in the air with her finger. Pasotti answered by drawing an imaginary curve in the air, and blowing into it; then he silently nodded his head. His wife, convulsed with terror, started to leave the boat.

"I am going to get out!" said she in an agonised voice. "I am going to get out! I want to walk!"

Her husband seized her by the arm, and pulled her down into her seat, fixing two flaming eyes upon her.

Meanwhile the boatman had returned with the sail. The poor woman writhed and sighed; tears stood in her eyes, and she cast despairing glances at the shore, but she was silent. The mast was raised, the two lower ends of the sail were made fast, and the boat was about to put out, when a voice bellowed from the portico—

"Hallo! Hallo! The Signor Controllore!" and out popped a big, rubicund priest, with a glorious belly, a large, black straw hat, a cigar in his mouth, and an umbrella under his arm.

"Oh! Curatone!" Pasotti exclaimed. "Well done! Are you invited to the dinner also? Are you coming to Cressogno with us?"

"If you will take me," the curate of Puria answered, going down towards the boat. "Well, I never! The Signora Barborin is here also."

The expression of his big face became supremely amiable, his great voice became supremely sweet.

"She is devilish frightened, poor creature!" Pasotti grinned, while the curate was making a series of little bows, and smiling sweetly upon the lady, who was more terrified than ever at the prospect of this added weight. She began to gesticulate silently, as if the others had been more deaf than she herself. She pointed to the lake, to the sail, to the bulk of the enormous curate, raising her eyes to heaven, hiding her face in her hands, or pressing them to her heart.

"I don't weigh so very much," said the curate laughing. "Hold your tongue, will you?" he added, turning to Pin, who had murmured disrespectfully: "A good, big fish!"

"I'll tell you how we can cure her of her fright!" Pasotti exclaimed. "Pin, have you a little table, and a pack of tarocchi [B] cards?"

"I have a pack," Pin replied. "But they are rather greasy."

They had great difficulty in making Signora Barbara—generally called Barborin—understand the matter in hand. She would not understand, not even when her husband forced the pack of filthy cards into her hands.

For the present, however, playing was out of the question. The boat was being laboriously rowed forward towards the mouth of the river of San Mamette, where they would be able to hoist the sail. The surf, flung back from the shore, clashed with the in-coming waves, and the little boat was tossing about among the seething, foaming crests. The lady was weeping and Pasotti was swearing at Pin, who had not stood out into the lake far enough. At last the fat curate seized a couple of oars, and planting his big person firmly in the middle of the boat, bent to his work with such good will that a few strokes sufficed to send them forward and out of difficulty. Then the sail was hoisted, and the boat glided quietly and smoothly onward, rocking slowly and gently, while the water gurgled softly under its keel. Then the smiling priest sat down beside Signora Barborin, who had closed her eyes and was muttering. But Pasotti drummed impatiently on the table with the cards, and play they must.

Meanwhile the grey rain was creeping slowly towards them, veiling the mountains, and stifling the breva.

The lady's breath returned in proportion as the wind's breath diminished, and she played resignedly, calmly oblivious to her own gross mistakes, and her husband's consequent outbursts of rage. When the rain began to rustle on the boat's awning, on the lifeless waves, which in the now almost breathless atmosphere, were rolling in against the rocks of the Tentiòn; when the boatman, judging it best to lower the sail, took to the oars once more, then, at last, Signora Barborin breathed freely. "Pin, my good fellow!" she said tenderly, and began playing tarocchi with a zeal, an energy and an expression of beatitude, which neither mistakes nor scoldings could trouble.

Many days of breva and of rain, of sunshine and of storm have dawned and faded away over the Lake of Lugano, over the hills of Valsolda since that game of cards was played by Signora Pasotti, her husband, the retired controller of customs, and the big curate of Puria, in the boat which coasted slowly along the rocky shore between San Mamette and Cressogno in the misty rain.

The times were grey and sleepy, in keeping with the aspect of sky and lake, after the breva had subsided, the breeze which had so terrified Signora Pasotti. The great breva [C] of 1848, after bringing a few hours of sunshine, and striving awhile with the heavy clouds, had slumbered for three years, allowing one breathless, gloomy, silent day to follow another in those places where the scene of this humble tale of mine is laid.

The king and queens of tarocchi, the mondo, the matto and the bagatto, were imported personages at that time, and in those parts; minor powers tolerated benevolently by the great, silent Austrian empire; and their antagonisms, their alliances, their wars, were the only political questions which might be freely discussed. Even Pin, as he rowed, eagerly poked his hooked and inquisitive nose into Signora Barborin's cards, withdrawing it reluctantly again. Once he paused in his rowing, and let his nose hover above the cards, to see how the poor woman would extricate herself from a difficult position; what she would do with a certain card it was dangerous to play, and equally dangerous to hold. Her husband thumped impatiently on the little table, the big curate sorted his cards with a blissful smile, while she clasped hers to her bosom, now laughing, now groaning, and rolling her eyes from one to the other of her companions.

"She holds the matto," the curate whispered.

"She always goes on like that when she has the matto," said Pasotti, and called to her, thumping the table one more—

"Out with the matto!"

"I will throw him into the lake!" said she. She cast a glance towards the prow, and, as an excuse, remarked that they were nearing Cressogno, and that it was time to stop playing.

Her husband fumed awhile, but finally resigned himself to putting on his gloves.

"Trout to-day, curate!" he observed, while his meek wife buttoned them for him. "White truffles, grouse, and wine from Ghemme."

"Then you know!" the curate exclaimed. "I know it also. The cook told me yesterday at Lugano."

"And besides, some ladies have been invited; the Carabellis, mother and daughter. Those Carabellis from Loveno, you know."

"Indeed!" the curate exclaimed. "Is there any scheme——? There is Don Franco, now, in his boat. But what a strange flag the young man is flying! I never saw him with it before."

Pasotti raised the awning and looked out. At a little distance a boat flying a white and blue flag rose and fell in unison with the weary motion of the waves. In the stern, under the flag, sat Don Franco Maironi, the grandson of the old Marchesa Orsola, who was giving the dinner.

Pasotti saw him rise, grasp the oars, and pull away, rowing slowly towards the upper lake, towards the wild gulf of the Doi, the white and blue flag spread wide, and floating above the boat's trail.

"Where is that eccentric young man going?" said he. And he muttered between his teeth; in the strained and husky voice of a Milanese rough—"A surly fellow!"

"They say he has great talents," the priest observed.

"An empty head," the other declared. "Much arrogance, little learning, no manners!"

"And half rotten," he added. "If I were that young woman——"

"Which?" the curate questioned.

"Why, Signorina Carabelli."

"Mark my words, Signor Controllore! If the grouse and white truffles are meant for that Carabelli girl, they are thrown away!"

"Do you know something?" Pasotti inquired, his eyes flaming with curiosity.

The priest did not answer because, at that point, the bow grated on the gravel, and touched the landing-stage. He got out first; Pasotti, with rapid and imperious gestures, gave his wife some orders of unknown purport. Then he himself left the boat. Last to get out was the poor woman, wrapped in her Indian shawl, bending under the tall, black bonnet with the little, yellow roses, staggering, and stretching out her big hands in the canary-coloured gloves. The two curls, hanging on either side of her meek ugliness, gave her a special air of resignation, under the umbrella of her husband, proprietor, inspector and jealous custodian of so much elegance.

The three went up to the portico, by means of which the little Villa Maironi spans the road leading from the landing-stage to the parish-church of Cressogno. Between two happy sighs, the curate and Pasotti sniffed an indistinct, warm odour, which floated out from the open vestibule of the villa.

"Ah! risotto! risotto!" the priest whispered, with a greedy glow on his face.

Pasotti, who had a keen nose, shook his head, knitting his brows in manifest contempt for that other nose.

"It is not risotto," said he.

"What do you mean by saying it is not risotto?" the priest exclaimed in vexation. "It is risotto; risotto with truffles. Don't you smell it?"

Both stopped half way across the vestibule, sniffing the air noisily like a couple of hounds.

"Do me the favour, my dear curate, to confine your remarks to posciandra," said Pasotti, after a long pause, alluding to a certain coarse dish the peasants prepare, with cabbage and sausages. "Truffles there are, but risotto there is not!"

"Posciandra! posciandra!" the other grumbled, somewhat offended. "As to that——"

The poor, meek lady understood that they were quarrelling, and, much alarmed, began pointing upward towards the ceiling, with her right forefinger, to warn them that they might be overheard up above. Her husband seized her uplifted arm, signed to her to sniff, and then blew into her wide open mouth the word: "Risotto."

She hesitated, not having heard distinctly. Pasotti shrugged his shoulders. "She don't understand anything," said he. "The weather is going to change," and he went up stairs, followed by his wife. The stout curate wished to take another look at Don Franco's boat. "The Carabellis, indeed!" he mused, but he was immediately recalled by Signora Barborin, who begged him to sit beside her at the table; she was so timid, poor creature!

The fumes of the pots and kettles filled the stairs with warm fragrance. "It is not risotto," the vanguard murmured. "It is risotto," the rearguard answered in the same tone. And thus they continued, ever more softly: "It is not risotto; it is risotto," until Pasotti pushed open the door of the red room, where the mistress of the house was usually to be found.

A hideous, lean, little dog trotted, barking, towards Signora Barborin, who was endeavouring to smile, while Pasotti was putting on his most obsequious expression, and the curate, entering last, his big face all sweetness, was really, in his heart, consigning the cursed little beast to hell.

"Friend, come here, Friend!" the old Marchesa said placidly. "Dear Signora, dear Controllore, and the curate!"

Her gruff nasal voice was pitched in the same calm tone to the guests and to the dog. She had risen to receive Signora Barborin, but did not move a step from the sofa, and stood there, a squat figure, with dull, torpid eyes beneath her marble forehead, and her black wig, which rounded out over her temples in the shape of two big snails. Her face must once have been handsome, and still retained in its pallor, tinged with yellow like old marble, a certain cold majesty, which—like her glance and her voice—never varied with the varying emotions of her soul. The big curate, standing at a distance, made her two or three jerky bows, but Pasotti kissed her hand, while Signora Barborin, who felt her blood turn to ice under the old lady's lifeless glance, did not know how to move, nor what to say. Another lady had risen from the sofa when the Marchesa rose, and was staring with an insolent air at Signora Pasotti, at that poor little bundle, old within, and new without! "Signora Pasotti and her husband," said the Marchesa. "Donna Eugenia Carabelli."

Donna Eugenia hardly bowed her head. Her daughter, Donna Carolina, was standing at the window, talking with one of the Marchesa's favourites, the niece of the agent.

The Marchesa did not consider it necessary to disturb her in order to present the new arrivals, and when she had invited them to be seated, she resumed her quiet conversation with Donna Eugenia concerning mutual friends in Milan, while Friend, sniffing and sneezing, circled slowly round Signora Barborin's shawl, which smelt of camphor, or rubbed himself against the curate's calves, studying Pasotti the while, with those pitiful, watery eyes of his, but never once touching him, as if he understood that the master of that Indian shawl, in spite of his amiable expression, would have liked to ring his—Friend's—neck!

And the Marchesa Orsola talked on in her usual guttural, sleepy voice, and Donna Carabelli, in answering, strove to give her loud, imperious voice an amiable ring. But to Pasotti's penetrating glance, and cunning shrewdness it was quite clear that the two old ladies were concealing a certain dissatisfaction, which was greater in the Marchesa Maironi than in Donna Eugenia. Every time the door opened the dim eyes of the one and the dark eyes of the other were turned in that direction. Once it admitted the prefect of the Santuario della Caravina, with little Signor Paolo Sala, called el Paolin—little Paul—and Signor Paolo Pozzi, called el Paolon—big Paul—who were inseparable companions. Again there entered the Marchese Bianchi, of Oria, a former officer of the kingdom of Italy, with his daughter. He was a noble type of the gallant, old soldier, as he stood beside the attractive and vivacious young girl.

On both occasions a shadow of vexation passed over Donna Carabelli's face. Her daughter also turned her eyes swiftly towards the door when it was thrown open, but presently she would begin chatting and laughing again, more gaily than ever.

"And Don Franco, Marchesa? How is Don Franco?" said the cunning Pasotti, in a mellifluous voice, as he offered his open snuff-box to his hostess.

"Thank you," the Marchesa answered, bending forward a little and dipping her fingers into the snuff. "Franco? To tell the truth I am rather anxious about him. This morning he was not feeling very well, and he has not appeared yet. I trust——"

"Don Franco?" said the Marchese. "He is out in his boat. We saw him a few minutes ago, rowing like any boatman."

Donna Eugenia spread her fan open.

"Well done!" said she, fanning furiously. "A most delightful pastime." Then she closed the fan with a bang, and began biting at it with her lips.

"Probably he needed the air," the Marchesa observed, in her unruffled, nasal drawl.

"Probably he needed a wetting," the prefect of the Caravina murmured, his eyes sparkling with fun. "It is raining!"

"Don Franco is coming now, Signora Marchesa," said the agent's niece, after a glance at the lake.

"That is good," the sleepy, nasal drawl replied. "I hope he is feeling better. If not, he will not speak two words. He is a perfectly healthy boy, but very apprehensive about himself. By the way, Signor Controllore, why does not Signor Giacomo make his appearance?"

"El sior Zacomo," Pasotti began, in imitation of Signor Giacomo Puttini, an old bachelor from the Veneto, who had lived at Albogasio Superiore, near Villa Pasotti, for the last thirty years. "El sior Zacomo——"

"Tut, tut!" said the old lady, interrupting him. "I cannot allow you to make fun of the Venetians, and besides, it is not true that they say Zacomo in the Veneto."

She herself was a native of Padua, and although she had lived in Brescia for half a century, still her Lombard accent was not entirely free from certain chronic suggestions of her Paduan origin. While Pasotti was protesting, with ceremonial horror, that he had only intended to imitate the voice of his beloved friend and neighbour, the door opened a third time. Donna Eugenia, well aware who was coming, did not condescend to look round, but the Marchesa allowed her dull eyes to rest on Don Franco with the greatest unconcern.

Don Franco, sole heir to the name of Maironi, was the son of the Marchesa's son who had died when only eight-and-twenty. He had lost his mother at his birth, and had always lived under the rule of his grandmother Maironi. He was tall and slender, and wore a tangle of rather long, dark hair, and this had procured for him the nickname of el scovin d'i nivol, "the cloud sweeper." He had eloquent, light blue eyes, a keen, animated and pleasing face, quick to blush or turn pale. Now that frowning face was saying very plainly: "Here I am, but I am much put out!"

"How do you feel, Franco?" his grandmother inquired, and added quickly, without waiting for an answer: "Donna Carolina is anxious to hear that piece by Kalkbrenner."

"Oh! not at all!" said the girl, turning to the young man with an air of indifference. "I did indeed say so, but then I am not fond of Kalkbrenner, I had much rather chat with the young ladies."

Franco seemed quite satisfied with the reception he had received and, without waiting for further remarks, went over to talk with the big curate about a fine old picture they were to inspect together, in the church at Dasio. Donna Eugenia Carabelli was quivering with indignation. She had come from Loveno, with her daughter, after certain secret diplomatic transactions, in which other powers had had a hand. Should this visit be paid or not; would the dignity of the house of Carabelli permit it; did that probability of success which Donna Eugenia exacted, really exist? Such were the final questions, which diplomacy had been called upon to answer, for, notwithstanding the acquaintance of long standing which existed between Mamma Carabelli and Grandmamma Maironi, the young people had met only once or twice, and then but for a few minutes. They were being drawn together by their surroundings of wealth and nobility, of relationships and friendships, as a drop of salt water and a drop of fresh water are mutually drawn together, though the microscopic creatures, which have their being in the one and in the other be condemned to perish if the two drops mingle. The Marchesa had carried her point. It had been decided—apparently out of respect for her age, but really out of respect for her money—that the interview should take place at Cressogno; for, though Franco himself was possessed only of his mother's modest fortune, amounting to eighteen or twenty thousand Austrian lire, his grandmother was enthroned in all her calm dignity upon several millions. And now Donna Eugenia, observing the young man's conduct, was furious with the Marchesa, as well as with those who had exposed her daughter and herself to such humiliation. If, at a single blow, she could have swept away the old woman, her grandson, the gloomy house and the tiresome company, she would have done so with joy; but she must hide her feelings, feign indifference, swallow the indignity and the dinner.

The Marchesa preserved her external, marble placidity, though her heart was filled with anger and rancour against her grandson. Two years before he had dared to ask her consent to his marriage with a young girl of Valsolda, of good family, but neither rich nor of noble birth. His grandmother's decided refusal had rendered the union impossible, and indeed the girl's mother had felt obliged to forbid Don Franco the house; but the Marchesa was convinced that those people still had their eyes on her millions. She had therefore determined to find a wife for Franco, at once, in order to avert all danger. She had sought for a girl who should be rich, but not too rich; of noble, but not too noble birth; intelligent, but not too intelligent. Having discovered one of the right sort, she suggested her to Franco who flew into a rage, and declared he had no desire to marry. The answer had a very suspicious ring, and she redoubled her vigilance, watching every movement of her grandson and of that "Madam Trap," that being the pleasing title she had bestowed upon Signorina Luisa Rigey.

The Rigey family, consisting of the two ladies only, lived at Castello, in Valsolda, so it was not difficult to watch their movements. Nevertheless the Marchesa could not discover anything. But one evening Pasotti told her, with much hypocritical hesitation and many horrified comments, that the prefect of the Caravina, while chatting with Pasotti himself, with Signor Giacomo Puttini and with Paolin and Paolon, in the chemist's shop at San Mamette, had made the following remark: "Don Franco is going to keep quiet until the old lady is really dead!" The Marchesa having listened to this delicate piece of wit, answered: "A thousand thanks!" through her placid nose, and changed the subject. Later she learned that Signora Rigey—always more or less of an invalid—was suffering from hypertrophia of the heart, and it appeared to her that Franco's spirits were much affected by this illness. It was then that Signorina Carabelli was suggested to her. Carolina Carabelli was perhaps not entirely to her taste, but with that other danger threatening she could not hesitate. She spoke to Franco. This time he did not fly into a rage, but listened in an absent-minded way, and said he would think the matter over. This was perhaps the one act of hypocrisy of his whole life. Then the Marchesa boldly played a high card, and sent for the Carabellis.

She saw plainly enough now, that the game was lost. Don Franco had not been present when the ladies arrived, and later had appeared only once for a few minutes. During those few minutes his manner had been gracious, but not so his expression. As usual his face had spoken so plainly that—though the Marchesa immediately invented an indisposition for him—no one could have been deceived. But in spite of all this, the old lady was not convinced that she had played her cards unskilfully. Ever since she had reached the age of discretion it had been a rule with her never to recognise in herself a single defect or mistake, never wittingly to wound her own noble and beloved self. Now she preferred to believe that, after her sermon on matrimony, some honeyed but poisonous and ensnaring word had mysteriously reached her grandson. If her disappointment was somewhat mitigated, this was due to the conduct of Signorina Carabelli, whose lively resentment was but ill concealed. This was not pleasing to the Marchesa. The prefect of the Caravina was not mistaken—though he perhaps erred slightly in the form of his discourse, when he said, softly, of her: "She is Austria itself." Like the old Austria of those days, the old Marchesa did not wish for any bold spirits in her empire. Her own iron will would not tolerate others in its neighbourhood. Such an indocile Lombardy-Venice as was Franco was already too much, and the Carabelli girl, who appeared to have a mind and a will of her own, would probably prove a troublesome subject of the house of Maironi, a species of turbulent Hungary.

Dinner was announced. The footman's shaven face, and ill-fitting, grey livery reflected the Marchesa's aristocratic tastes, which, however, had been tempered by habits of economy.

"And where is this Signor Giacomo, Controllore?" she said, without rising.

"I fear he is not coming, Marchesa," Pasotti replied. "I saw him this morning, and said to him: 'Then we shall meet at dinner, Signor Giacomo?' But he squirmed as if he had swallowed a snake. He twisted and turned and at last puffed out: 'Yes, probably. I don't know! Perhaps. I can't say!—Uff! uff. Well really now, my good Controllore, indeed I don't know!—Uff, uff!'—and I could get nothing more out of him."

The Marchesa summoned the footman to her side, and gave him an order in a low tone. He bowed and withdrew. In his longing for the risotto, the curate of Puria was rocking his body to and fro, and stroking his knees. But the Marchesa on her sofa, seemed turned to stone, so he also became petrified. The others gazed mutely at one another.

Poor Signora Barborin, who had seen the footman, and was surprised at this immobility and these astonished faces, arched her eyebrows, questioning with her eyes, first her husband, then Puria, then the prefect, until a lightning glance from Pasotti petrified her as well. "Perhaps the dinner is burnt!" she reflected, assuming an expression of indifference. "If they would only send us home! What luck that would be!" But in a minute or two the servant returned, and bowed.

"Let us go," the Marchesa said, rising.

In the dining-room the company found a new personage; a little, crooked, old man, with kind eyes and a long nose, that drooped towards his chin.

"Indeed, Signora Marchesa," he began, humbly and timidly, "I have already dined."

"Sit down, Signor Viscontini," the Marchesa replied, who, like all those who are determined to make their world bend to their own comfort and tastes, was well versed in the insolent art of feigning deafness.

The little man did not dare to answer, neither did he dare to sit down.

"Courage, Signor Viscontini!" said Paolin, who stood near him. "What are you doing here?"

"He is filling a gap!" muttered the prefect. In fact, the excellent Signor Viscontini, by trade a tuner of pianos, had that morning come from Lugano to tune the Zelbis' piano at Cima, and Don Franco's also, and at one o'clock he had dined at Casa Zelbi. Then he had come to Villa Maironi, and was now called upon to act as substitute for Signor Giacomo, because, without him, the company would have numbered thirteen.

A brown liquid was smoking in the silver soup-tureen.

"It is not risotto!" Pasotti whispered to Puria, passing behind him. But the big, mild face gave no sign of having heard.

The Casa Maironi dinners were always lugubrious affairs, and this one promised to be more than usually so. But as a compensation, it was much finer than usual. While they were eating, Pasotti and Puria often exchanged glances of admiration, as if congratulating one another on the exquisite delight they were enjoying; and if ever Puria failed to catch one of Pasotti's glances, Signora Barborin, seated beside him, would apprise him of it by a timid touch of her elbow.

The voices which predominated were those of the Marchesa and Donna Eugenia. Bianchi's large aristocratic nose, and his shrewd but gallant and courteous smile were often turned towards the lady's beauty, which though already fading, had not, as yet, departed. Both belonged to Milanese families of the best blood, and were united by a certain sense of superiority, not only over the other middle-class guests, but over their hosts as well, whose nobility was only provincial. The Marchese was affability itself, and would have conversed amiably with the humblest of his fellow-guests, but Donna Eugenia, in the bitterness of her soul, in her disgust for the place and the persons, attached herself to him as to the only one worthy of her attention, markedly singling him out, in order, also, to offend the others. She embarrassed him by remarking in a loud tone that she did not see how he could ever have taken a fancy to this odious Valsolda. The Marchese, who for many years had led a life of quiet and retirement in this region, where, moreover, the birth of his only daughter, Donna Ester, had taken place, was, first, greatly disconcerted, for this remark was calculated to wound several of their fellow-guests; but finally he burst into a brilliant defence of the place. The Marchesa showed no feeling; Paolin, Paolon, and the prefect, all natives of Valsolda, were silent and abashed.

Then, in pompous language, Pasotti sang the praises of Niscioree, the villa belonging to Bianchi, near Oria. These praises did not seem to please the Marchese, who, himself a most loyal man, had not always found Pasotti to his liking, in the past. He invited Donna Carabelli to come to Niscioree. "You must not go on foot, Eugenia," said the Marchesa, well aware that her friend was tormented by the fear of growing stout. "The road from the Custom House to Niscioree is so narrow! You could not possibly pass." Donna Eugenia protested hotly. "It is not, indeed, the Corso of Porta Renza," said the Marchese, "but neither is it le chemin du Paradis—unfortunately!"

"That it is not! Most certainly not! You may take my word for it!" exclaimed Viscontini, heated, as ill luck would have it, by too many glasses of Ghemme. All eyes were turned upon him, and Paolin said something to him in a low tone. "Crazy?" the little man retorted, his face aflame. "Not by any means! I tell you——" And here he related how, coming from Lugano that morning, he had felt cold in the boat, and had gotten out at Niscioree, intending to pursue his journey on foot; how there, between those two walls, where the path was so narrow an ass could not turn round in it, he had met the customs-officers, who had first abused him for getting out at Niscioree, and had then taken him back to the beastly custom-house. He said that beast of a Ricevitore—the receiver of customs—had confiscated a roll of manuscript music he had with him, taking the crotchets and quavers for a secret political correspondence.

Profound silence followed this recital. Presently the Marchesa declared that Signor Viscontini was entirely in the wrong. He should not have landed at Niscioree; it was forbidden. As to the Ricevitore, he was a most worthy man. Pasotti, with a solemn face, confirmed this statement.

"Excellent official," said he. "Excellent rascal!" muttered the prefect between his teeth. Franco, who at first appeared to be thinking of something else, roused himself, and cast a contemptuous glance at Pasotti.

"After all," the Marchesa added, "it seems to me that, in the disguise of manuscript music, there might easily——"

"Certainly," said Paolin, who played the Austrian from fear while the mistress of the house was Austrian from conviction.

The Marchese, who in 1815 had broken his sword in two that he might not be obliged to serve the Austrians, smiled saying quietly: "La! C'est un peu fort!"

"But every one knows that the Ricevitore is a beast!" Franco exclaimed.

"I beg to differ with you, Don Franco," said Pasotti.

"Nonsense; beg to differ!" the other retorted. "He is a perfect beast!"

"He is a conscientious man," said the Marchesa, "an official who does his duty."

"Then his masters are the beasts!" Franco exclaimed.

"My dear Franco!" drawled the emotionless voice, "I will not tolerate such language in my house! Thank God we are not in Piedmont!" Pasotti grinned his approval. Then Franco, lifting his plate with both hands shivered it upon the table, with a furious blow. "Holy Mother!" gasped Viscontini, and Paolon, interrupted in the laborious operations of a toothless glutton, uttered an exclamation of alarm. "Yes, yes!" said Franco, rising, his face distorted, "I had better go!" And he left the room. Donna Eugenia at once turned faint, and had to be led away. All the ladies, except Signora Pasotti, followed her out at one door, while the footman entered at another, bearing a great risotto pie. Puria cast a triumphant glance at Pasotti, but Pasotti pretended not to notice. All had risen. Viscontini, the apparent culprit, kept repeating: "I can't make it out! I can't make it out!" and Paolin, much vexed at seeing the dinner thus interrupted, grumbled at him: "What business have you to try to make anything out?" The Marchese was frowning fiercely, but kept silent. At last Pasotti, the real culprit, assuming an air of affectionate sadness, said, as if speaking to himself: "What a pity! Poor Don Franco! A heart of gold, a good head, but such a disposition! It is indeed unfortunate."

"Alas!" exclaimed Paolin, and Puria added despairingly: "Truly a great misfortune!"

They waited and waited, but the ladies did not return. Then some one moved. Paolin and Puria, their hands clasped behind them, walked slowly towards the sideboard, lost in contemplation of the risotto pie. Puria called sweetly to Pasotti, but Pasotti did not move. "I only wished to observe," the big curate said, hiding his triumph so that it might or might not be apparent, "I only wished to observe that there are white truffles in it."

"I should say that black truffles[D] are not wanting here either," remarked the Marchese pointedly, and slightly accentuating the words.

Footnotes

[ [A] Breva: local name for a sudden, violent wind blowing from the north, and sweeping over the Italian lakes. [Translator's note.]

[ [B] Tarocchi: a game of cards once much in vogue in Italy. The "Mondo," the "Matto," the "Bagatto," which will be referred to later on, are all picture cards used in this game. [Translator's note.]

[ [C] The breva of 1848 means the revolution which swept over Italy in that year, after which the country sunk into apparent calm, but all the while the people, chafing under the Austrian yoke, were preparing for the mighty effort which, at last, set them free. [Translator's note.]

[ [D] Tartufo: often used to indicate those who are hypocritically pious. The word "black" refers to the priest's black robe. [Translator's note.]

CHAPTER II
ON THE THRESHOLD OF A NEW LIFE

"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.

CHAPTER III
THE GREAT STEP

That same evening at exactly ten o'clock the engineer Ribera knocked gently twice on the door of Signor Giacomo Puttini's house at Albogasio Superiore. Presently a window above his head was opened, and a little, old, clean-shaven face of "Sior Zacomo" himself appeared in the moonlight.

"Most worshipful engineer, my respects!" said he. "The servant is coming down to let you in."

"That is not necessary," the other answered. "I am not coming up. It is time to start, so you had better join me at once."

Signor Giacomo began to puff and wink hard.

"You must pardon me," he said, in his peculiar dialect, which was a mixture of many elements. "You must pardon me, most worshipful engineer, but I really need——"

"Need what?" said the engineer, somewhat annoyed. The door opened, and the keen and yellow face of the servant appeared.

"Oh! Scior Parento! Sir Relative!" said she respectfully. She claimed I know not what degree of relationship with the engineer's family, and always addressed him thus. "At this hour? Have you perhaps been to see the Sciora Parenta? The Lady Relative?"

The "Lady Relative" was the engineer's sister, Signora Rigey.

Ribera answered shortly: "Oh! Marianna! How are you?" and went upstairs followed by Marianna, carrying the light.

"My respects," Signor Giacomo began, coming towards him with another light. "I understand and recognise the great inconvenience I am causing, but really——"

Signor Giacomo's small, clean-shaven, pink face, rose above an enormous white stock, and a lean little body, buttoned up in a great, black overcoat, and in the convulsive workings of his lips and eyebrows as well as in his troubled eyes, the most comical anxiety was expressed.

"What is the matter now?" asked the engineer, somewhat sharply. He, the most upright and straightforward man alive, had little sympathy with the hesitation of poor, timid Signor Giacomo.

"Allow me," Puttini began, and, turning to the servant, said harshly:

"Begone, you! Go into the kitchen. You will come when I call for you. Go, I say! Why don't you do what I tell you? Where is your respect for me? I command here! I am the master!"

It was the servant's curiosity, her insolent disregard for the orders of her superior, which had provoked this outburst of despotic fury in "Sior Zacomo."

"Whew! What a violent man!" she said, lifting the lamp on high. "There is no need to shout in that way! What do you think of it, Scior Parento?"

"Look here!" the engineer exclaimed. "Would it not be better for you to take yourself off, instead of standing there and jabbering?"

Marianna went away grumbling, and Signor Giacomo began to communicate his most secret thoughts to the worshipful engineer, interlarding his sentences with many buts and ifs, that is and reallys. He had promised to be present in the capacity of witness at Luisa's secret marriage, but now, when it was time to start for Castello, he was assailed by an overpowering fear of compromising himself.

He was "first political deputy," as the highest communal authority was then called. If the worshipful Imperial and Royal Commissary of Porlezza should get wind of this affair, how would he look upon it? And the Marchesa? "A terrible woman, most worthy engineer! A vindictive woman!" Besides he had so many other worries! "There is that cursed bull!" This bull, a bone of contention between the town and the alpador, or tenant of the hill-pastures, had, for the last two years, been a moral incubus to poor Signor Giacomo, who, in speaking of his troubles and trials, always began with "that perfidious servant," and ended with "that cursed bull!" In speaking these words he would raise his small face, his eyes full of pained execration, and stretch out accusing hands towards the brow of the hill which overhung his house, towards the home of that fiendish beast. But the engineer, whose fine, honest features betrayed marked disapproval and a growing contempt for this cowardly little man, who stood wriggling there before him, exclaimed several times impatiently: "Oh, dear me!" as if pitying himself for the poor company he was in. Finally, his patience entirely exhausted, he extended his arms with the elbows turned outwards, and shaking them as if he were holding the reins of a lazy old horse, exclaimed: "What is all this? What is all this? It is absurd! This is the language of a fool, my good Signor Giacomo! I would never have believed that a man like you, a man let us say——"

Here the engineer, being really at a loss for a suitable phrase wherewith to describe his companion, simply puffed out his cheeks, emitting a long-drawn-out rumble, a sort of rattling noise, as if he had an epithet in his mouth which was so big that he could not spit it out. Meanwhile Signor Giacomo, who had turned very red, was protesting eagerly: "Enough! Enough! Pray excuse me! I am quite ready! I will come! Don't get excited! I only expressed a doubt, most worshipful engineer. You know the world. So did I, at one time, but I know it no longer."

He withdrew for a moment to reappear again presently carrying an enormously high hat with a broad brim, which had seen Ferdinand enter Verona in 1838, the so-called "emperor's year."

"I feel this sign of respect and satisfaction is fitting," said he.

When the engineer caught sight of the thing, he once more ejaculated his "What is all this?" But the little man, who had a ceremonious spirit, stuck to his point. "It is my duty, my duty!" and he called to Marianna to light them down stairs. When the servant saw her master with that immense "sign of satisfaction" on his head, she gave voice to her astonishment. "Hold your tongue!" puffed the unfortunate Signor Giacomo. "Be quiet!" and as soon as he was out of the door his wrath burst forth. "There is no doubt about it, that cursed servant will be the death of me!"

"Why don't you send her away, then?" the engineer enquired.

Signor Giacomo had already placed one foot on the first step of the narrow lane that leads upwards on one side of the Puttini house, when he was brought to a stand-still by this pointed question, which pierced his conscience like a dagger.

"Alas!" he replied, sighing.

"I understand," said the engineer.

"Besides, what good would that do?" the other went on, after a short pause. "This is the same as that!"

This old Venetian saying concerning the unfortunate identity of the two relative pronouns, Signor Giacomo pronounced as an epilogue, and then, puffing loudly, emitted a loud breath, and once more started forward.

Puttini leading and the engineer following, they climbed steadily for a few minutes, up the steep and narrow path, dimly lighted by the moon which was hidden among the clouds. No sound was heard save their slow steps, the thumping of their sticks on the stones, and Signor Giacomo's regular puffing: "Apff! Apff!" At the foot of the narrow stairway leading to Pianca, the little man stopped, removed his hat, wiped away the perspiration with a big, white handkerchief, and glancing up at the great walnut-tree, and the stables of Pianca to which he must ascend, puffed harder than ever.

"By the body of the rogue Bacchus!" he ejaculated.

The engineer encouraged him. "Up with you, Signor Giacomo. It is all for love of Luisina." [E]

Signor Giacomo started on again without a word, and when they reached the stables, beyond which the path becomes less rough, he seemed to forget the stairs, his scruples, the perfidious servant, the Imperial and Royal Commissary, the vindictive Marchesa and the cursed bull, and began talking of Signora Rigey with great enthusiasm.

"There is no doubt about it, when I have the honour of being in the company of your niece, of Signorina Luisina, I assure you I really feel as if I were back into the days of Signora Baratela and the Filipuzze girls, of the three Sparesi sisters from San Piero Incarian, and of many others, whose graces used to charm me, in the old days. From time to time I go to see the Marchesa, and I sometimes meet the girls of to-day there. No—no—no, they do not behave in a becoming manner. They are either sullenly silent or over-talkative. But just look at Signorina Luisina, how easy is her manner with every one! She knows how to behave with young and old, rich and poor, the servant and the priest. I really fail to comprehend why the Marchesa——"

The engineer interrupted him.

"The Marchesa is right," said he. "My niece is neither of noble birth, nor has she a penny. How can you expect the Marchesa to be satisfied?"

Signor Giacomo stopped short, rather disconcerted, and stared at the engineer, blinking his sorrowful eyes.

"How is this? You don't really mean to say she is right?"

"I never approve of acting contrary to the wishes of parents, or of those who represent the parents. But I, dear Signor Giacomo, am an old-fashioned man like yourself, a man of the time of Carlo Umberto, as they say hereabouts. Now, the world wags differently, and we must let it wag. Therefore, having expressed my opinions on this point, I said to my relatives: 'Now do as you like. But when you have decided one way or another, let me know what is to be done, and I shall be ready!'"

"And what does Signora Teresina say?"

"My sister? My sister, poor creature, says: 'If I can see them settled in life, I shall no longer dread death.'"

Signor Giacomo breathed hard, as was his habit whenever he heard that last, unpleasant word pronounced.

"But it is surely not so bad as that?" said he.

"Who can tell?" the engineer replied, very seriously. "We must trust in the Almighty."

They had reached a sharp bend where the narrow path, passing the last of the small fields belonging to the territory of Albogasio, turns towards the first of those belonging to Castello, and winds on, on the left, along the top of a jutting crag, suddenly coming in sight of a deep cleft in the mountain's bosom, of the lake far below, of the villages of Casarico and San Mamette, crouching on the shore as if in the act of drinking. Castello is perched a little higher up, and not far distant, facing the bare and forbidding peak of Cressogno, the whole of which is visible, from the gorges of Loggio to the sky. It is a beautiful spot even at night in the moonlight, but if Signor Giacomo paused there, striking a contemplative attitude and forgetting to puff, it was not because he considered the scene worthy of any one's attention, to say nothing of that of a political deputy, but because, having a weighty argument to expound, he felt the necessity of concentrating all his strength in his brain, and of suspending all other effort, even that of the legs.

"That is a fine maxim," said he. "Let us trust in the Almighty. Yes, my dear sir. But permit me to observe that in our time we were always hearing of prayers being answered, of conversions and miracles. Am I not correct? But now the world is not the same, and it appears to me the Almighty is sick of it all. The world is in much the same condition as our parish church at Albogasio, which the Almighty used to visit once a month. Now He comes only once a year."

"Listen, my good Signor Giacomo," said the engineer, who was impatient to reach Castello. "The Almighty is not to blame because the parish has been transferred from one church to another. However, we will push on, and let the Almighty arrange things as He thinks best."

Whereupon he started forwarded so briskly that presently Signor Giacomo was obliged to stop again, puffing like a pair of bellows.

"Pardon me," said he, "if I yield, in a measure, to that curiosity which is inborn in man. Might one inquire your worshipful age?"

The engineer understood the hidden meaning of his question, and answered in a low tone, with triumphant and ironical meekness—

"I am older than you!"

And he started off again at the same cruel pace.

"I was born in '88, you know," Puttini groaned.

"And I, in '85!" Ribera flung over his shoulder, without stopping. "Now come along."