Four Phases of Love Part 15

He roused himself a little. "It is incomparable," he said; "I cannot express how it affected me. Edward himself, living but at the same time, glorified. And most marvellous, revealed through some strange inspiration of art, his very att.i.tude, that peculiar, kindly way he had of bending his head forward, a peculiarity of which I never said a word to Bianchi."

"What you tell us may be perfectly true, dearest Theodore," said the mother, after some reflection; "I must confess, however, that the additional figures, as you describe them, are so utterly repugnant to me, that I feel that I could never pray at my son's grave whilst the stone presented to me these strange fabulous forms, which horrify instead of elevating the mind."

"They are symbols, mother, symbols of the most exquisite feelings, not foreign to your own when once you appreciate their meaning. Would you not have been affected had an Italian poet written a poem on Edward in his own language, even though it was not your own mother tongue?"

"True; but then it would only be the expression which would seem strange to me; but here the idea of the representation that repels my holiest feelings, is so strong that I run away and feel that I can have nothing in common with it."

"You speak harshly!"

"I wonder that you think it harsh, dear Theodore, when it is the natural feeling of a woman and a Christian."

"And you are in Rome, and see each day the wonders of bygone races, and enjoy the deeds of a thousand different spirits, each of which is different from your own, and yet can close your heart and turn away here--here, where a spirit for your sake has brought up out of his inmost soul all that it possessed."

"I do not dispute his good-will. But, just because it touches me so nearly and is done for my sake, I feel more susceptible against what is wrong; the best intentions may be ungrateful to us when they have no respect for our own feelings."

Theodore approached Mary, who had sat silent, at her work. "Mary," he said, "has Bianchi's effort offended you too?"

"No;" she said gently; "but my mother is right. One cannot love what is strange to us--at least I cannot! A man possibly."

He only partly understood her words, but he understood that she withdrew herself from him. An unspeakable feeling of agony seized him. It was not irritation--no little feeling of bitterness--which made him bow silently and leave them. He felt that he must collect himself--rouse up his crushed spirits. He would have talked wildly had he stayed.

"It shall not be," he said to himself, when he reached the street. "She is right; we were and should have ever remained strangers to each other. I looked upon my longing to throw my whole heart upon her anew, as fruitless. No wonder that at last she became wearied of it! But it was horrible that it should happen just on this day when I had so sweetly deceived myself, so blissfully lied to my soul, and was more full of hoping than ever! It was horrible, yet wholesome. Now am I cured for ever of this presumptuous amiable self-deception!"

Then he thought of Bianchi. "In pity." he said, "I should have spared him this; he will have something to throw into the Tiber again. No; he shall not. I will keep this monument for myself, to warn me in future how I trust mankind."

So he reached his dwelling; he lighted his lamp and sat down to write.

He began a letter to Mary, calm and gentle--after the first few lines, the lie became apparent--for it seethed and boiled and surged within him, till he threw the pen upon the table, and sprang up to go--he knew not whither. At last he went again into the night, towards Bianchi's house. Should he seek him out, tell him all? conceal all from him? or only in his neighbourhood struggle for decision and composure? He knew not clearly--but solitude he could not bear.

Only a young and narrow moon stood above the roofs, but the houses were bright, the windows and balconies alive with people. Along the Corso rolled a gay stream of careless promenaders, refres.h.i.+ng themselves in the cool evening; laughing girlish faces, foreign and Roman, lightly dressed, as they had just escaped from the close rooms. The street was like a long corridor near a ball-room, where the company wander in cool twilight between the dances. Here and there music floated through the open windows, and a girl's voice amongst the crowd sang lightly to the air.

Theodore was obliged to cross the stream. He seemed to himself like one departed, who has nothing more to do with life, but who is forced to revisit some friend in order to reveal to him some forgotten duty before he departs for ever. He buried himself in the small deserted streets which lead down to the Tiber, and pa.s.sed along without the power of grasping any one train of thought firmly; at last, wearied by the fruitless endeavour, he let his spirit dive along the empty waste of sorrow, as across a sh.o.r.eless, waveless sea.

Thus he reached a part of the river bank called the Ripa Grande, where the boats lie which ply to Ostia and to the little post steamer and other s.h.i.+pping; from there down to the Ripetta there are still some hundred paces, and no direct connection by the water. He turned, however, to the right, towards the broader street, as a loud altercation reached his ears from the summit of the landing-steps. He heard the sound of a voice through it which made him stop suddenly; he approached the crowd, the individuals composing which he could only distinguish gradually by the light of a flaring street lamp. The dispute seemed to be about a girl that a sailor had seized by the arm and was endeavouring to drag off--another tried to separate them--"Let her go, Pietro;" he cried. "How long have you taken cargoes of women, kidnapper that you are? See, she is crying, poor thing! she does not want to go back into your hole of a cabin, she has good reasons--"

"The devil take you!" shouted the other, dragging at the girl. "She will have reasons enough! But the man who brought her, and paid me well too, said, 's.h.i.+p her to Ostia and place her in safe hands there, and take care she don't get back again.' He had his reasons too, I fancy, and reasons that he backed with good arguments. The baggage! She has been up to some mischief! If she was the blessed innocent she pretends to be now, why did she not make a fuss when the man brought her? But what do you think? then she was as quiet as a mouse, only cried and sobbed, and kissed the man till it made him quite sad, and he promised to come and see her in Ostia; and now, why should she take a fancy to run away--the cat! as soon as I turned my back--and struggled and screamed half along the street when I wanted to do my duty and place her in safety again? Tell me that if you can! No! away with the witch, and hold your jaw; and _accidenti_ on any one who gets in my way."

"I _cannot_, I _will_ not go back," cried the girl's voice: "this man is false; he insulted me shamefully; he breaks his agreement; save me!"

"Who will believe you, you liar! who only lie to get away, and to abuse me? Away with your hands, I say, and back to the cabin."

"Halt!" thundered a voice suddenly. The contending parties turned round startled, and saw Theodore breaking through the crowd to place his hand on the girl's arm. "She is mine." he cried, "and goes with me."

There was a pause. Caterina had recognized the young man instantaneously. Wavering between joy and bitter doubt, she stood with downcast eyes.

"Do you take us for children?" cried the sailor, "to think that we are going to be made fools of by the first fellow who comes by? If you want a sweetheart, you will find plenty on the Corso for gold and good words. Who told you to thrust your oar in, and with a style as if you had the best right in the world?"

"I have," said Theodore, loudly and firmly; "I have--for she is my wife!"

"His wife!" ran through the crowd. The nearest drew back a step.

"Your wife! that you must prove--or it may be,--halt!" interrupted the sailor. "Tell us her name, sir, her name! a husband generally knows so much of his wife, even though he don't know what she is about in the streets late at night."

"Caterina," said Theodore, "do you know me?"

"Yes," answered the girl.

"Caterina!" murmured the sailor; "it is right--so the other one called her."

"You will go with me, Caterina?" said Theodore--"you will tell me the reason why you have left me, and forced me to seek you up and down the streets of Rome in anger and fear? So! to Ostia? and he was going to meet you there? It is enough--come!"

He spoke so sternly, and with a face in which sorrow and anger were so plainly written that no one doubted him for a moment. "It is her husband," they whispered: "she was going to run off with the other. G.o.d pity him, when he falls into his hands, as she has done!"

Caterina did nothing to undeceive them. Obediently she ascended the steps by Theodore's side; and her astonishment at being saved by _him_, to escape whom she had fallen into the danger, resembled the conscious confusion of a discovered criminal. The sailor alone did not seem perfectly convinced. He looked at the piece of gold which Theodore had thrown to him, and growled, "If it was all right, the gentleman would not have put his hand in his pocket. Well, I am doubly paid, at all events: what does it matter to me?"

CHAPTER VII.

He walked beside her through two or three streets, holding her hand in his. But neither looked at the other, nor did a word pa.s.s between them, till suddenly he released her hand, and asked, "Whither shall I take you, Caterina?"

"I know not," she answered.

"To the Via Margatta?"

"No!" and she shrank together: "the old woman would find me there--or he."

"Who?"

"I may not name him--least of all to you--he has forbidden me."

"Then it is Bianchi." said Theodore, in a hollow voice. She did not deny it.

As they pa.s.sed along, the misgiving which had arisen in his breast became stronger. The strange silence of the artist, while he described to him the scene at the Circus, and his meeting with the girl, were now explained and obvious for the first time. "Had we but confided to each other what was nearest to our hearts!" he sighed of himself and his friend. He knew not all as yet.

When they reached the house where Theodore lodged, he produced a key, and opened the door. Caterina stepped back. "I do not enter with you,"

she said. "No! rather would I sleep on the steps of Santo Maria Maggiore, than there within"--

"Child," he said, "I am no longer now what I might have seemed but a few hours ago! Thou art as safe with me as with a brother."

She looked at him in the darkness, as keenly as she could, and it seemed as if some strange light struck her. "I know," she said, remaining still some steps from the door; "he has arranged it all with you. He came and tried to persuade me that he had sold me to you, or given me to you. I was to love you as I had loved him. '_I cannot_,' I told him, and I swore it in my soul, and he saw clearly enough that it was true. Then he wished to entrap me, and brought me down to the boat, and ran to tell you that I was below, and that you might go and take me.--But I will never be yours--no, though you were a thousand times his friend, and though he should murder me a thousand times when I did not do his will! Go! I can find my way back to my mountains again, and you can tell him--what you will, and--farewell!"

She turned away. Hardly had Theodore time to arouse himself from his astonishment, and to overtake her. He seized her by the hand.

"Caterina," he said, "when I swear that you shall be to me as a sister, and that I will take you back to your Carlo again as you left him--you cannot hesitate to enter my house!"

"You could do that? you would do that?" she asked, stopping hesitatingly. "It is impossible; you do not know him; no one can alter _him_!"