Scene I.
The family in Palazzo Loredan, in the Grand Canal, Venice, had finished their midday breakfast, and coffee was brought in.
There was the Marchesa Loredan, a widow, her widowed only daughter with a little son and his tutor, and Don Claudio Loredan, the Marchesa’s second son. Her eldest son was married; and the youngest, Don Enrico, was a monsignore, and coadjutor of an old canon whom he was impatiently waiting to succeed.
The breakfast had not been a cheerful one. Don Claudio, usually the life of the family and its harmonizing element, had been silent and preoccupied; and Madama Loredan’s black brows had two deep lines between them,—sure signs of a storm.
She rose as the coffee was bought in.
“Carry a tête-à-tête down to the arbor,” she said to the servant; and to her son, “I wish to speak to you, Claudio.”
The tutor rose respectfully, making sly but intense signals to his pupil to do the same. But the boy, occupied in counting the cloves of a mandarin orange, did not choose to see them.
A long window of the dining-room opened on a balcony, and from the balcony a stair descended to the garden. This garden, a square the width of the house, would soon be a mass of bloom; but spring had hardly come as yet. The little arbor in the centre was covered with rosebuds, and the orange-trees were in blossom. There was a table in the arbor, with a chair at each side.
Madama literally swept across the dining-room; for she did not lift a fold of the trailing robe of glossy white linen bordered with black velvet that followed her imperious steps.
Don Claudio was familiar with the several indications of his mother’s moods, and he followed in silence, carefully avoiding the glistening wake of her progress. When she had seated herself in the arbor, he took the chair opposite her, half filled a little rose-colored cup with coffee, dropped a single cube of sugar into it, stirred it with a tiny spoon that had the Loredan shield at the end of its slender twisted stem, and gravely set the cup before her.
He had not once raised his eyes to her face.
She watched him with a scrutinizing gaze. He was evidently expecting a reprimand; yet there was neither anger nor confusion in his handsome face. It had not lost its preoccupied and even sorrowful expression. She sipped her coffee in silence, and waited till he had drunk his.
“You were at Ca’ Mora last evening and this morning,” she said abruptly, when he set his cup down.
“My master is dying!” he responded quietly.
Madama was for a moment disconcerted. The old professor with whom her son had for two years been studying oriental languages was a man of note among the learned. He had exercised a beneficial influence over the mind of Don Claudio; and for a while she had been glad that an enthusiasm for study should counteract the natural downward tendency of a life full of worldly prosperity and its attendant temptations. Only of late had she become aware of any danger in this intimacy.
“Dying!” she echoed. “I did not know that he was ill.” She hesitated a moment, then bitterness prevailed.
“Of course his granddaughter has need of consolation,” she added with a sneer.
“I have not seen her to-day,” Don Claudio said, controlling himself. Then, with a sudden outburst, “I would gladly console her!” he exclaimed, and looked at his mother defiantly.
His defiance of her was like the flash of a wax taper on steel. Madama leaned forward and raised a warning finger.
“You will leave her to be consoled by her equals,” she said. “And when her grandfather is dead, you will see her no more. Woe to her if you disobey me!”
The young man shrugged his shoulders to hide a tremor.
“Woe to her!” repeated his mother, marking the tremor.
Don Claudio remained silent.
“Has she succeeded in compromising you?” Madama asked.
The quick blood covered her son’s face.
“You might, at least, refrain from slandering her!” he exclaimed. Then his voice became supplicating. “Mamma, all that Tacita Mora lacks is rank. She has a fair portion; and she has been delicately reared and guarded. Her manners are exquisite. And there can be no undesirable connection, for she will be quite alone in the world.”
His mother made an impatient gesture, and was about to speak; but he held his hands out to her.
“Mamma, I love her so!” he exclaimed. “You do not know her. She is not one of those girls who give a man opportunities, and are always on the lookout for a lover. We have never spoken a word of love. We have only looked at each other. But I cannot lose her!”
He threw himself on his knees at his mother’s side, and burst into tears.
She drew his head to her shoulder, and kissed him.
“You have only looked at each other!” she repeated. “My poor boy! As if that were not enough! Claudio, we all have to go through with it, as with teething. It is a madness. The only safe way is to follow the counsel of those who have had experience. It is only the pang of a day. This kind of passion does not endure; but order does. This is a passing fever of the fancy and the blood. Be patient a little while, and it will cure itself. Do not allow it to compromise your future. You will be glad of having listened to me when your love shall have died out.”
“It will never die!” he sobbed.
“It will die!” she said. “And now, listen to me. I have told the Sangredo that you are going to visit them this afternoon. It is a week since Bianca came home from school. You should have gone sooner. Go, and make yourself agreeable. If you do so, I will consent to your going once more to see Professor Mora, and I will myself go to inquire for him.”
The young man rose, and stood hesitating and frowning.
“Go, my dear!” his mother urged. “It is only a civility, and commits you to nothing.”
He went slowly away, knowing well that further appeal was useless. His mother followed him after a moment.
“My gondola!” she said to a servant who was taking off the tablecloth, and went on to an adjoining boudoir where her daughter sat.
“Boys are such a trial!” she said with an impatient sigh, and dropped into a sofa. “Alfonso has, happily, reached the age of reason. Enrico is under good guardianship, or I should tremble for his future, he is so impatient. It is true, Monsignor Scalchi does live longer than we thought he would; but, as I say to Enrico, can I kill Monsignor Scalchi in order that you may be made a canon at once? Wait. He cannot live long. Enrico declares that he will never die. And now Claudio, with his folly!”
“What will he do?” the daughter asked.
“He will do as I command him!” the Marchesa answered sharply. “I only wish, Isabella, that you would be half as resolute with your son. Peppino may go without his dessert this evening. It may make him remember to rise the next time that the mistress of the house leaves the table.”