Four Phases of Love Part 14

Then there ensued a pause, in which the rather excitedly-spoken words of the young man echoed disagreeably. Mary went to the piano and endeavoured to charm away the discord with music. Only with Theodore was it ineffectual. The simple ballad had no power over one in whose ear the maddening tones of the tambourine again awoke spectrally, and the echo of the marvellous song of the chorister overwhelmed the pure voice. He saw Bianchi's firm gaze fastened upon him, and heard again the words, "There will be a miracle performed!" And here, where he was now, all was strange, and tame, and wonderless.

After the song, Mary seated herself again by his side. She spoke German to him; she asked about his amus.e.m.e.nts and his employments, about Bianchi. He talked absently, and thus half-confusedly, as if to himself, he told her about the osteria and the girl's dancing. As he glanced up from time to time, he marked a clouded tension over the delicate brows. The conversation between them died away. The father asked about English families, on which subject the guests talked eagerly. It was without interest to Theodore, and so he became again absorbed by his whirling thoughts. At last he departed. The strangers had taken up their residence with Mary's parents. It seemed to him as though he were doubly driven unhappy from this circle which once was his own--doubly--by himself and by others.

CHAPTER V.

Nowhere are impure inclinations, doubtful relations.h.i.+ps, and undecided wishes more embarra.s.sing and unbearable than in Rome. The vast _entourage_, replete with evidences of pure human vigour and firm will, is only to be endured, without envy and pain, by those who, in the narrow circle of their own actions, can feel certain of their own healthiness and rect.i.tude of soul.

He paced for hours up and down the banks of the Tiber before Bianchi's door, gazing over to where St. Peter's rose mightily above the broad ma.s.ses of the Vatican.

The strangely agitated state of his friend did not escape Bianchi's penetration. But he never attempted to discover its cause, as he avoided conversations upon personal subjects or inner experiences. This same restless manner seemed to attach closer to Theodore day by day. He was tamer and more cheerful in all his words and actions since his sickness. When he heard Theodore's knock, he threw a cloth over his clay sketch and opened hastily. He was still sparing of the smallest proofs of his affection, but his face could not conceal the fact that the presence of his friend was all in all to him. He sat by the window, and worked diligently at his cameo sh.e.l.ls whilst they talked, or a book inspirited them both. Through Theodore's intervention he had found customers for his cameos, who paid him twice as much as the dealers had hitherto given him, yet his new dwelling was in no respect more richly furnished than his former one. Truly the sun gilded the naked walls on which the Medusa's head hung, and before the window lay the exquisite distance.

One evening, in sunny May, when all was solitary without, on the banks of the Tiber, and the flies played undisturbed over the bushes, the knocker on Bianchi's door resounded more loudly and vehemently than usual. He arose from his work, before which he had been sitting pondering, and did not, as usual, throw the cloth over it. "He may see it to day," he said to himself, "if it really be he who thunders so immeasurably!" and therewith he opened the door.

Theodore burst in impetuously--his face was vividly flushed, and his eyes gleamed, "Bianchi," he cried, "Bianchi, I come from her! I have seen her--spoken to her! The miracle has penetrated again into my inmost soul! and you, best, unkindest one--did you not tell me that she was gone, away to her mountains, run away from the old woman, and however the story went? Or did you really hear it? for she is here--not a footstep has she stirred out of Rome these two months long. Speak, Bianchi, what say you? Bless the fate that led me to her side, which makes me feel still out of my senses for joy."

He walked up and down the room without looking round. He did not perceive that Bianchi had remained standing by the door, pale as death, following his steps with a searching glance: "Caterina!" at last broke from his lips.

"Caterina!" cried Theodore, "she herself, she herself--lovely and calm, and heaven and h.e.l.l in her eyes, as on that never-to-be-forgotten evening, only without that bitter sadness about the lips, and in a Roman dress!--listen how it happened: I was sitting at home, in the heat, idling over my books, and at last felt forced to wander out. Some streets distant, I fell in with a stream of people in their holiday clothes, hastening in one direction, and asked one of them 'Whither away?' 'To the Monte Pincio, to see the races and the chariots,' he answered. I had no will of my own, so I allowed myself to be carried onwards, and, at last, purposeless, reached the summit with them. You saw the scaffolding which they were still working at yesterday? To-day the seats were filled tier above tier, so that I had difficulty in finding a place, unpleasant enough, as I at first thought, for the sun was opposite to me, and glimmered in my eyes as I looked across the stage. As I was considering whether I should go, or how I should try to protect myself against it, and was standing in my place, I looked down and discovered a silk parasol, and an enchanting glance of a head and neck beneath it; I sat down again, and bending under the parasol, asked my fair neighbour whether I might share its shelter with her. She turned round, and I felt as if a flash of lightning had pa.s.sed through my heart when I saw who it was. She seemed to recognize me too, and did not answer. At this moment I discovered the old woman beside her; she was talkative and polite, and bade Caterina share her parasol with me. Bianchi--how she did it! Managing the parasol in her little hand, half-embarra.s.sed, half-confidingly, and then how modestly and sensibly she answered my eager questions with that sweet low voice--it is all indescribable. I sat enchanted, blind to all around, beneath the little roof, alone with her, and built it up in fancy into a cottage for us two, in which I could have listened to hours, days, years, pa.s.sing by us as carelessly as if eternity was already my own. What eyes had I for the play? But I watched the impression that the wild course had upon Caterina; her joy broke forth when one chariot swept rus.h.i.+ng round the corner before the others, or made some daring turn. How she rejoiced when one of the n.o.ble animals, steaming and snorting from its victory, was led near us! 'Holy nature!' I cried within myself, 'how unadulterated and unadorned thou laughest from those bright eyes! How must he be drawn towards thee, body and soul, on whom those eyes but smile!' It came to an end; the people left the benches, and my neighbours arose too. When I begged to be permitted to conduct them through the crowd to their house, the girl refused, calmly, but firmly; the old woman winked and grinned behind her back, and made signs which I could not fully understand; but I still kept myself at some little distance behind them, and descended the hill after them down into the town. At last they entered a house. I did not dare to knock, but I stood before the door for half an hour, as if rooted to the spot, and saw the curtain move, but she did not appear; once only the repulsive face of the old woman showed itself at the window; she did not see me, as I was concealed in the shadow of the houses--and so, at last, I tore myself away, and here I am, if it can be called being here, when the floor seems to glow under my feet, and my soul recoils at finding itself in the presence of other human beings."

He threw himself into a chair. He did not observe that Bianchi still remained standing by the door, or that he had not uttered a sound since he entered--he looked straight before him. "To-day, for the first time," he began again, "after miserable weeks of pressure and despondency, to drink in a full draught of life, to enjoy one hour which raises me above myself--who would not float so for ever with swelling sails out into the open sea?--but to crawl along the coast in a tattered boat, to turn and wind at the will of the sh.o.r.e, and after all to be cast away on a pebble!--miserable cowardice!"

At these words he raised his eyes, and they caught the model opposite him. The evening sun shone redly through the window, and the sharply-defined figures stood out in bold relief. A youth stood by a river's bank, by which the bow of a boat, bearing the wild form of the grisly ferryman, was waiting. One foot of the parting one was already on the gunwale, but the face and the outstretched arms, waving a farewell, were turned towards the opposite side, where a fair female figure, with a cornucopia, sat under a fruit-laden tree, with her head bowed in a n.o.ble att.i.tude of sorrow; the genius of love leaned by her side, his torch reversed, expiring, with his eyes clinging to the youth, as if it were possible to hold him back; but between them stood, stern and implacable, the ghastly forms of the Parcae.

Theodore stared speechlessly at the head of the youth, whose features calmed him irresistibly. He had given Bianchi a portrait of Edward, which Mary had painted but a few days before his death. It showed the n.o.ble features in all the beauty of the approaching transfiguration; and the eyes, in particular, were movingly free and large. At the same time, now that all the mere accidental accessories had melted away, one saw the striking likeness between the brother and sister--one so great as to be almost distressing to the survivors. It struck Theodore for the first time--he saw Mary before him in her hour of sorrow or of lofty excitement, when her eyes shone more darkly from out the gentle face, and the serious lips were half-opened, as were the sighing ones of her brother. He could no longer remain seated--he stepped close up to the model, the strife ceased within him. So he remained till the evening glow departed, and the face withdrew itself from him into the quick coming darkness; then he went, without a word, towards the door, by which Bianchi had remained standing, grasped the hand of his friend, pressed it without feeling how clammy and cold it was, and departed.

Bianchi shrank as the door closed. He looked with a troubled gaze and absent thoughts around him. So he remained leaning against the wall, incapable of moving. His determination had long been formed, but his limbs would not obey his will. The night arrived. At last he was able to raise himself, and stood battling with the tremor that fell upon him, his clenched hand pressed against his eyes. Then he uttered one single hollow cry, and felt that he had again attained the mastery over himself. He left the house with a steady step. None of all the numerous promenaders who were enjoying the coolness of the night remarked him, so calmly he looked around. He reached at last the part where Caterina lived, and knocked, without hesitation, at the door of a small house.

It opened, and he entered the pa.s.sage. He glanced up the stone staircase, down which a ray of light streamed. Above, with a lamp, stood Caterina.

The man revelled for a moment in the perfect beauty of the young girl, who, leaning over the bal.u.s.trade, holding the lamp out before her, was agitated with the most charming expression of love at recognizing the well-known face below in the shade. She nodded, and smiled, and waved a greeting to him. "Come, come!" she cried, as he loitered below. He strode slowly up the steps; but when the light of the lamp fell upon his face, all her smiles and joy died away from her lips.

"Carlo! you are ill," she said to him. He pressed her gently back, and shook his forefinger warningly. "Be still," he said; "come within, Caterina--come!"

She followed him in breathless anxiety. The little room was mean, but clean and neatly kept. Flowers stood in the window; a bird hung in its cage, and began to chirp as the lamp-light disturbed it. On the table lay a simple guitar. The old woman had been sitting near it, at her work. She arose, greeting the new arrival cringingly and confidently.

"Good evening, Signer Carlo," she cried; "how goes it? You have just come at the right moment. The poor foolish thing there--not a song would please her, not a string was in tune; and even the bird that you gave her, too, sang too loud for her. 'Daughter,' said I, 'he will be here directly--he who is dearer to you than your eyes, silly girl that you are.' 'Mama,' said she, 'I feel so anxious--my heart beats so--I know not why.' 'Hush, hus.h.!.+' said I; 'you are a child, to have such a gentleman, who bears you in his very hands, and watches and cares for you like his own heart'"--

--"And who will punish you, you witch!" shrieked Bianchi, striding close up to her--"you poison, you baseness! Thank your grey hairs that you do not feel the weight of my hand!" He shook her violently by the shoulder. The old woman trembled. "Do not play such rough jokes upon a poor old woman," she stammered; "You have frightened me so that I shall have the gout. What! speak gently. Signer Carlo, and do not utter such unchristian words, enough to make one cross and bless oneself! What have you to say against the poor old Neuna?"

"What?" foamed Bianchi, and thrust her from him so violently that she sank upon her knees,--"you dare to ask? To play the virtuous to my very face, after you have betrayed me? Away! out of the house, and that without tarrying or whimpering--for I know you, and I ought to have known that you could be no fit guardian, and that treachery nestles in your withered breast!"

The old woman had raised herself, and waited with a.s.sumed humility a few feet from him, by the window. "You are right, Signor Carlo," she said; "I ought not to have done it; but I pitied the poor lonely creature, because she never got a glimpse of the world Sunday nor working day, and seeing nothing but the roofs opposite, or the dark streets and the little bits of starry sky at midnight, when you take her out now and then. 'Child,' said I, 'he is so kind that he cannot be angry with you, when you tell him this evening that you have been to see the races with me.' She did not like to go, poor thing; but I saw how much she wished it, and so persuaded her. And what harm is done? If you had not made all this noise about it, she would only have had a pleasure the more."

"Go!" said Bianchi, with inexorable calmness; "not one word more."

The old woman glided to the girl, who was seated on a chair in the corner, with downcast eyes. "Daughter!" she whispered, "do _you_ try him." Caterina cast a glance at Bianchi's face, and shook her head. "It is useless," she answered.

"Let me stop the night here at least," begged the old woman, and approached the man a step nearer. "Where shall I rest my old head?--how can I collect my little things?"

"Go!" re-echoed the man;--"_your_ things! you have nothing but what I have given you. Go, or"--

He raised his hand. The old woman trembled. Muttering a confused medley of curses, prayers, and threats, she glided from the house.

"Caterina," said Bianchi slowly, without looking up, "it is over! After to-day you see me not again! Do not ask me why, and do not be unhappy at the idea that you have made me angry. I have only been so with that she-fiend who has just gone from us. You are good, and will be happy, even though you do not see me again. Another will come, and will knock at your door--the same who sat by your side at the races. Open to him, greet him and love him--and be true to him! You must not tell him that you know me; you must never utter my name before him. But keep still at home, as you have hitherto done; and, should you chance to go out, avoid that part of the town that lies below by the Tiber. Promise me all this, Caterina!"

He waited for an answer. Instead of it, there came a sob from the corner that cut through his very heart. "Do not weep!" he said, as calmly as he could; "You hear that I do not go from you in anger, and you will be happy. All will be better for you than it has been hitherto. You will love the other better than you have loved me!"

"Never!" groaned from the lips of the poor girl. Her sobs prevented her saying more. But in that one sound spoke out a true vehement avowal of boundless affection. Bianchi's darkened brow brightened. He looked up joyously--turned round and approached her. Beside herself, she rushed towards him, and he received her as she pressed him unconsciously to her arms. He kissed her forehead. "Hus.h.!.+" he said, "Thou and I--we must collect ourselves. It is now as well as it was, and better. But it cannot remain so. It cannot or I shall be lost. Come!" he said, "make a bundle of your best and favourite things, and what you will want for a journey. Hasten, Caterina. I think that we shall see each other again--but not here. Have patience."

She looked at him with her large eyes. She understood nothing--she antic.i.p.ated nothing--mechanically she did as he directed her. "Where are we going?" she asked, timidly, when all was ready.

"Come," he said. He extinguished the light. The bird in its cage fluttered eagerly against the wires. The guitar gave out a saddened note as he struck against it in the darkness. Both their hearts beat violently--and so they went.

CHAPTER VI.

Theodore's mind was in a strange state when he left Bianchi's house. As soon as he felt the cool air breathe upon his face, the feeling of depression which so weighed upon him, as he stood before the model, left him at once. Even the secret remorse in the background of his thoughts almost served to intensify his mental clearness, as the shadow does the light.

The former of the two girls pa.s.sed before his mind's eye, and his heart never faltered for a moment. Yet it was unjust towards the stranger--a feeling of wonder struck through it still, when it recollected all the beauties of that marvellous face. But it beat high and fiercely, when it recollected the time of his first knowing and loving, of his growing pa.s.sion for Mary. And what had changed in the interim? Had she not remained the same? Truly, delicacy and a feeling of propriety had restrained her in the presence of others. But she had told him, with all the ever-increasing intensity of her whole being--with her eyes, which never moved from him as long as he was near her; with her hands, that were so loth to leave his when he went, that she had utterly and unrestrictedly abandoned her whole existence to him.

"Can I blame in her," he said to himself, "that she sits in awe of her puritanical mother--that she did not break this old bond of reverence at the same moment that she bound herself to me?"

As if he had to confess to her all with which he had these weeks long made his life miserable, he felt constrained to see her. He knew that the English visitors, who had annoyed him so, had left Rome the day before. He felt as if all was now to begin anew. In this state of freshly-awakened happiness he sprang up the steps of the house.

But a few moments before, Miss Betsy had been standing in Mary's chamber, about to take her leave. The girl was seated by the piano, in the shade, with her hands grasping the arms of her chair, as if afraid that she should sink down upon the floor, if she did not support herself.

"Take my advice, child," said the little woman, at the end of a long conversation. "Directly he appears, and without any beating about the bush, tell him that he will only lose time in trying to excuse himself.

Do that, Mary--I advise you; he is young enough to grow a better man, if he begins in time. It is scandalous and, dear heart, much as I wish it, I cannot retract a word that I spoke in my first burst of anger.

G.o.d has, however, brought other sinners to himself before now; if he only had more religion; you must confess that I have often spoken to him about it, and now you see I was right; shame upon him, child, to have no more respect for you! I looked round, fortunately none of your acquaintances were sitting near us, for respectable people do not go into this part of the circus, but into the private boxes, unless, indeed, they want to study the people. But he spoilt the whole play for me; and I cannot forgive him. Dear me! if you had been with me, you would have died upon the spot! _Do_ you think that he took his eyes off her for a moment? And she seemed to know him--an old pa.s.sion--and that might be some excuse for him; for he has found girls pretty enough before he knew you. But people ought to have some self-respect, at least in public, and pretend not to recognise each other. Well, well, child, when you talk to him seriously and once for all, he will shrink in his shoes; but if _you_ will not do it--willingly as I would spare you--my principles require me to tell it all to your parents, that they may bring him to his senses. It would be too great a disgrace and misfortune for a family like yours to receive such a frivolous person into its circle. Have you never heard of any old Roman flirtation which he gave up on your account?"

"No," said the girl, in a low voice. How could she confess that the description of her officious tale-bearer brought a picture vividly before her mind, which had once before caused her an anxious day? The day after Theodore had told her about the dance in the osteria, she had walked arm-in-arm with him through the town. From out a lowly window looked a lovely face, which she pointed out to her friend. He had been unable to repress a sudden start, and the girl, too, seemed to recognize him. "It is the girl from Albano of last night," he said, and then turned the conversation suddenly to another subject. But the face had impressed itself feature by feature upon her memory.

"Do not be down-hearted, my child," said Miss Betsy, pa.s.sing her hand over Mary's hair, "and don't fret. Human beings, and men in particular, are not angels. Dear me! who has not had to bear the like. Do you talk seriously to him, and all will come right. Good night, my child; I will come and see you to-morrow. Heaven bless you!"

She left hastily. Without she met Theodore, who nearly ran against her.

"Pardon me," he said; "a bridegroom who is hastening to his bride may be excused for being in a hurry. Is it not so, dear Miss Betsy?" He did not remark the cold expression with which she greeted him. "You will find Mary----indeed she was not expecting you." He greeted her hastily again, and rushed into the room.

For the first time he found her alone, standing at the window, in the darkness, her hair loosened about her face. In his heart he fervently blessed the good fortune that seemed so willing to pave the way for a perfect reconciliation. Gently he approached her. She did not move. He pa.s.sed his arm around her waist, and called her by her name. She started and turned round, and he saw her eyes, gleaming wet with tears.

"You are weeping, Mary, my own love--you are weeping," he cried, and would have pressed her closer to his heart. She resisted him without speaking. She closed her eyes and repressed her tears, and shook her head. "No!" she said, at last, "I am not weeping. It is pa.s.sed! It is well!"

He took a turn up and down the room. He knew not how it happened, but in one moment all his joyousness had gone. "What is the grief." he said, at last, after a pause, "which _I_ may not know! If you but knew with what a feeling of happiness I stepped over this threshold, what a gleam of joy pa.s.sed through me at finding you at last alone! And now you are so distant, and more reserved than under all the restraints of society. You know not _what_ amount of sorrow you heap upon both of us."

She remained silent, and kept her eyes firmly closed. She compared within herself the words he spoke, with those that had but just before so chilled her heart, his glances with those which her old friend had described, and which had been directed to another. She felt something within her which would gladly have pleaded for him, but too many voices cried against it. She had listened to Miss Betsy's tale as if it related neither to herself nor to him, like something incomprehensible, which she possessed no power of appreciating. But yet it was the last straw upon the burden, which she had borne for weeks past. Theodore deceived himself when he fancied that he alone had suffered from his miserable overexcited dreamings. That he was altered, that the first glow of love had paled, that his heart was no longer sure of itself had not escaped Mary's penetration. Whilst he was present she controlled herself for his sake, for the world she would not have let him see that she doubted him; and when she was alone she blamed herself, and said that she had seen falsely, and seen more than existed; that a man had thoughts sometimes that absorbed him, and followed him even into the presence of his love. And she knew too that the restraint her mother imposed annoyed him more day by day. And yet just at this moment a feeling of the deepest agony burst through all, and closed her lips and heart at the very time when words were so much wanted. She hoped for nothing from questionings, and of reproaches she would not suffer herself to think. She felt no acute pain, but as if paralyzed, so that she felt not that he was near her, and yet would have received a deathblow had he left her.

So they stood in miserable self-deception opposite each other. He had already taken his hat, intending to put an end to this unbearable situation, when her mother entered. He must remain. Lights were brought. The women seated themselves, whilst he stood, answering in monosyllables, and cursing a thousand times both himself and his miserable fate. And, as everything disagreeable invariably heaps itself together at such moments, the mother began to talk of Edward's monument. He could not conceal that he had seen it that day for the first time, and was obliged to describe the feeling and execution of the work.