IV.
Caterina Lieti entered, looking tiny in her furs; with her pink face peeping from under her fur cap.
“Make haste, dear; it’s late.”
“No, dear; it’s no good going to my poor people before four; it’s hardly two o’clock.”
“We are going elsewhere.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere where we shall amuse ourselves.”
“I’m not going, I don’t want to amuse myself; I am more inclined to cry.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.... I feel miserable.”
“Oh! poor, poor thing. Now listen to me, you’d better come with me and try to amuse yourself. You will injure your health by always staying in this dark room, in this perfumed atmosphere.”
“My health is gone, Caterina,” said the other in a comfortless tone; “every day I get thinner.”
“Because you do not eat, dear; you ought to eat; Andrea says so too.”
“What does Andrea say,” said Lucia, in a tone of indifference, which annoyed Caterina.
“That you should eat nutritious food, drink plenty of wine and eat underdone meat.”
“I am not a cannibal. That kind of diet does very well for muscular organisms, but not for fragile nerve-tissues like mine.”
“But Andrea says that nerves are cured by beefsteaks.”
“It’s no good trying; I couldn’t digest them; I can’t digest anything now.”
“Well, do dress, and come with me. The cold is quite reviving.”
“Where to?”
“I won’t tell you. Trust me!”
“I will trust you.... I am tempted by the unknown. I will drag this weary existence about wheresoever you please. Will you wait for me?”
She returned in half an hour, dressed in a short black dress, softened by lace accessories. A black hat, with a broad velvet brim, shaded her brow and eyes.
“Shall we walk?” asked Caterina.
“We will walk; if I get tired we can call a cab.”
They walked, entering the Toledo from Montesanto. The tramontana was blowing hard, but the sun flooded the streets with light. Men, with red noses and hands in their pockets, were walking quickly. Behind their short black veils the ladies’ eyes were full of tears and their lips were chapped by the wind. Caterina drew her furs closer to her.
“Are you cold, Lucia?”
“Strange to say, I am not cold.”
People turned to gaze at the two attractive-looking women, one small and rosy, with clear eyes and an expression of perfect composure, attired like a dainty Russian; the other, tall and slight, with marvellous eyes set in a waxen pallor.
A gentleman who passed them in a hired carriage, bowed profoundly to both.
“Galimberti ...” murmured Lucia, in a weary voice.
“Where can he be going at this hour?”
“I don’t know ... to his lesson ... I suppose.”
“Do you know what Cherubina Friscia told me, a few days ago?”
“Have you seen her again?”
“Yes, I went there, because I heard that the Directress was ill. Friscia told me that they were very dissatisfied with Galimberti. He is always late for his lesson now; he either leaves before the hour is up, or misses it altogether.”
“Does he...?” indifferently.
“Besides, he is not so good a teacher as he used to be. He takes no interest in his class, is careless in correcting the compositions, and has become prolix and hazy as an exponent.... In short, a mere ruin.”
“Poor Galimberti...! I told you that he was an unlucky creature. He’ll end badly.”
“Forgive me if I ask you ... not from curiosity, but for friendship’s sake ... does he still write to you?”
“Yes, every day; he writes me all his troubles.”
“And you to him?”
“I write him a long letter, every day.”
“And is it true that he comes to your house every day, to give you a lesson in history?”
“Yes, every day.”
“And does he stay long?”
“Yes, naturally. We don’t talk only of history, but of sentiment ... of the human affections ... of religion....”
“Of love?”
“Of love too.”
“Forgive me for importuning you. Galimberti is very much in love. Perhaps it is for the sake of going to you that he gets there so late; perhaps when he misses his lessons there altogether, it is because he stays so long with you. You who are so good, think what it means for him.”
“It’s nothing to do with me; if it is his destiny, it is fatal.”
“But does your father approve of these long interviews?”
“My father! He doesn’t care a pin for me, he is a heartless man.”
“Don’t say that, Lucia.”
“A heartless man! If my health is bad, he doesn’t care. He laughs at my piety.... Do you know how he describes me, when he speaks of me at all? 'That interesting poseuse, my daughter.’ You can’t get over that; it sums up my father.” Caterina made no reply. “That Galimberti will end by becoming a nuisance. Were he not so unhappy, I would send him about his business.”
“Sai, Lucia, a girl ought not to receive young men alone ... it is not nice ... it is playing with fire.”
“Nè fiamma d’esto incendio non m’assale,” she quoted.
They had arrived at the Café de l’Europe, where the wind was blowing furiously. Caterina, turning to protect herself against it, saw the cab in which Galimberti sat with the hood drawn up to hide him, following them step by step.
“Dio mio! now he is following us ... Galimberti.... What will people think...? Lucia, what shall we do?”
“Nothing, dear. I can’t prevent it; it is magnetism, you see.”
“Now he is missing his lesson for the sake of following us.”
“It is no good struggling against fate, Caterina.”
Caterina was silent, for she knew not what to say.
It was three o’clock when they entered the Samazzaro Theatre, all lit up by gas, as if for an evening entertainment. Nearly all the boxes were occupied, and a hum of suppressed chitchat arose towards the gilded ceiling. From time to time there was a peal of irrepressible laughter. People who, in groups of threes and fours, invaded the parterre were dazed by the artificial light. The gas was gruesome after the brilliant light of the streets. The ladies were all in dark morning costumes; most of them wore large hats, some were wrapped in furs. There was the click of cups in one box where the Duchess of Castrogiovanni and the Countess Filomarina were drinking tea, to warm themselves. Little Countess Vanderhoot hid her snub nose in her muff, trying to warm it by blowing as hard as she could. Smart Neapolitans, with their fur coats thrown back to show the gardenia in their button-hole, with dark gloves and light cravats, moved about the parterre and the stalls and began to pay a few visits in the boxes.
“What is going on here?” asked Lucia, as she took her seat in Box 1, first tier.
“You’ll see, you’ll see.”
“But what is that boarding for, which enlarges the stage, and entirely covers the place for the orchestra?”
“There’s a fencing tournament to-day.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Lucia, without much show of interest.
“Andrea is to have three assaults.”
“Ah!” repeated the other, in the same tone.
The maître d’armes seated himself at the end of the stage, next to a table, laden with foils and jackets. Every one in the parterre immediately resumed his seat, in profound silence. The theatre was crowded.
The maître d’armes was a Count Alberti, tall, powerfully built, bald, with bushy grey whiskers and serious mien. He was dressed in black, and wore his overcoat buttoned to the chin. His hand was resting on a foil.
“Look! what a fine type,” said Lucia; “a fine imposing figure.”
The first couple advanced to the front of the stage. They were the fencing-master, Giovanelli, and a Baron Mattei. The latter was tall and finely proportioned. His beard was trimmed to a short point, his cropped hair formed another point in the middle of his forehead; he wore a tight-fitting costume of maroon cloth, with a black scarf. He at once captured the ladies’ favour; there was a slight stir in the boxes.
“A Huguenot cavalier, that’s what he looks like,” murmured Lucia, who was becoming excited.
The fencers, after saluting the ladies and the general company, bowed to each other. Then the match began promptly and brilliantly. The fencing-master was short and stout, but uncommonly agile; the Baron, slight, cool, and admirable for ease and precision. They did not open their lips. After each thrust, Mattei fell into a sculpturesque attitude, which thrilled the company with admiration. He was touched twice. He touched his adversary four times. Then they shook hands, and laid down their foils. A burst of applause rang throughout the house.
“Do you like it?” whispered Caterina to Lucia.
“Oh, so much!” she answered, quite absorbed by the pleasure of it.
“There is Giovanna Casacalenda.”
“Where?”
“On the second tier, No. 3.”
“Ah! of course. Behind her is the Commendatore Gabrielli. Poor Giovanna.”
“The marriage is officially announced. But she does not look unhappy.”
“She dissembles.”
The second couple—Lieti, amateur, and Galeota, professional—appeared and placed themselves in position. Andrea was dressed in black cloth, with a yellow scarf and shoes, and chamois-leather gloves. His athletic figure showed to its utmost advantage in perfect vigour and harmony of form and line. He smiled up at the box, a second. Caterina had shrunk back a little out of sight, with eyes all but overflowing.
“Your husband is handsome to-day,” said Lucia, gravely. “He looks like a gladiator.”
Caterina nodded her thanks. Galeota, dark, slight and meagre, attacked slowly.
Andrea defended himself phlegmatically; motionless they gazed into each other’s eyes; now and again a cunning thrust, cunningly parried. The audience was absorbed in profound attention.
“Su, su, on, on,” Lucia cried, under her breath, trembling in her eagerness, and crushing her cambric handkerchief with nervous fingers.
The assault went on as calmly and scientifically as a game of chess, ending in two or three master-thrusts, miraculously parried. The two fencers, as they shook hands, smiled at each other. They were worthy antagonists. The applause which followed was wrung from the audience by the perfection of their method.
“Applaud your husband! Are you not proud of him?”
“Yes,” replied Caterina, blushing.
A visitor entered the box, it was Alberto Sanna, a cousin of Lucia’s.
“Good-morning, Signora Lieti. What a triumph for your lord and master!”
Caterina bowed and smiled. Lucia held out two fingers to her cousin, who kept them in his. He was a rather stunted little creature, slightly bent in his tight overcoat; his temples were hollow, his cheekbones high, and his moustache thin and scanty; yet he had the air of a gentleman. His appearance was sickly and his smile uncertain. He spoke slowly, hissing out his syllables as if his breath were short. He informed the ladies that cold was bad for him; that he could not get warm, even in his fur coat; that he had only looked in, just by a mere accident, to avoid the cold outside. He was fortunate in having met them. He entreated them, for charity’s sweet sake, not to send him away. He added:
“I met your Professor of History, Lucia. He was walking up and down, smoking. Why don’t he come in?”
“I don’t know. Probably because he doesn’t care to see the fencing.”
“Or because he hasn’t the money to pay for a ticket,” persisted Sanna, with the triumphant malevolence of morbid natures.
Lucia struck him with the lightning of her glance, but made no answer. Caterina was too embarrassed to say anything. She looked at the stage; the fencers were two professionals; they had coarse voices, and arms that mowed the air like the poles of the semaphore telegraph. The audience paid small heed. Giovanna Casacalenda talked to her Commendatore, who was standing behind her, while she cast oblique glances at Roberto Gentile, the young officer in the brand-new uniform, who occupied a fauteuil underneath her box.
“Do you not fence, Signor Sanna?” asked Caterina by way of conversation.
“Fence!” said Lucia, vivaciously, giving her cousin tit-for-tat. “Fence, indeed, when he hasn’t breath to say more than four words at a time!”
The Signora Lieti reddened and trembled, out of sheer pity for Sanna’s pallor.
The silence in the box was more embarrassing than ever; then as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Lucia separated a gardenia from the bunch in her waistband, and gave it to Alberto. A little colour suffused his thin cheeks, he coughed weakly.
“Are you not well, Alberto...?” laying her hand upon his arm.
“Not quite, it’s the cold,” said he, with the whine of a sickly child.
“Have a glass of punch, to warm you?”
“It’s bad for my chest.”
Caterina, pretending not to hear, gave her whole attention to the spectacle. Count Alberti had passed two foils: to Galeota, junior, the young fencing-master, and to Lieti. The interest of the audience was once more awakened. The younger Galeota was a beautiful, graceful youth, with fair, curly hair, shining blue eyes, a short wavy beard, and the complexion of a fair woman; a well-proportioned figure, habited in ultramarine, with a white scarf. Opposite him, stood Andrea Lieti, like a calm Colossus.
“Dio mio!” cried Lucia, “Galeota is like a picture of Our Lord! How sweet and gentle he looks! If only Andrea does not hurt him.” But Andrea did not hurt him. It was a furious attack, in which the foils bent and squeaked; at last Galeota’s foil broke off at the hilt. Alberti stayed both hands. The fencers raised their masks to breathe.
“How like Galeota is to Corradino of Alcardi!” exclaimed Lucia. “But your husband is a glorious Charles of Anjou.”
The assault began again; hotter and fiercer than ever. From time to time the deep sonorous voice of Andrea cried, Toccato! and above the din, the clear resonant tones of Galeota rang out, Toccato! The ladies became enthusiastic; they seized their opera-glasses and leant over the parapet of their boxes, while a thrill of delight moved the whole assembly. In Lucia’s excitement she closed her teeth over her handkerchief, and dug her nails into the red velvet upholstery. Caterina had again withdrawn into her shady corner.
“Bravo! bravo!” cried the audience with one voice, when the assault was over. Lucia leant out of the box and applauded; for the matter of that, many other ladies applauded. After all, it was a tournament. Lucia’s eyes dilated, her lips trembled; a nervous shiver shook her from time to time.
“Are you amusing yourself, Lucia?” said Caterina again.
“Immensely...!” closing her eyes in the flush of her enjoyment.
“Senti, Alberto; if it is not too cold, go down and send us up something from the buffet.”
“I don’t want anything,” protested Caterina.
“Yes, yes, you do; you shall drink a glass of Marsala, with a biscuit.”
“I will have anything to please you,” assented Caterina, to avoid discussion.
“Send an ice for me, Alberto.”
“In this cold weather? I shiver to think of it.”
“I am burning; feel my hand.” And she put the poor creature’s finger in the opening of her glove. “Now, go and send me an ice at once. Take care of draughts.... That poor Alberto is not long for this life,” she added, addressing Caterina, when he was gone.
“Why not?”
“He is threatened with consumption. His mother and two sisters died of it. Don’t you see how thin he is?”
“Then don’t be cruel to him.”
“I? Why, I’m devotedly attached to him. I sympathise with suffering of every kind. All the people about me are sickly creatures.”
“Andrea would say that such an atmosphere cannot but be injurious to your health.”
“Oh! how strong your Andrea is! That is what I call strength. You saw to-day that he was the strongest of them all. But he never comes to see me.”
“Sai, he never has a moment to spare. And he is afraid of talking too loudly—of making your head ache.”
“He is not fond of musk, I fancy?” And she smiled a strange smile.
“Perfumes send the blood to his head. I will tell him to call on you.”
“Senti, Caterina, strength like his is almost overwhelming. Does it not almost frighten you? Are you never afraid of him?”
Caterina looked astonished, as she replied: “Afraid...! I do not understand you.... Why should I be afraid?”
“I don’t know,” said the other, shrugging her shoulders crossly. “I must eat this ice, for here comes Alberto again.”
During this conversation the performance continued—alternately interesting and tiresome. Connoisseurs opined that the tournament was a great success, and the Neapolitan school had been worthily represented. The Filomarina averred, with the audacity of a Titianesque beauty, that Galeota was an Antinous. The Marchesa Leale, a great friend of Baron Mattei’s, was enraptured. She was seated quietly by her husband’s side; she wore a badge—a brooch representing two crossed foils—that the Baron had presented to her. On the latter’s scarf was embroidered a red rose, the Marchesa’s emblem.
In the excitement incidental to the clashing of swords and the triumph of physical strength, Giovanna Casacalenda, with flushed cheeks and moist lips, began to neglect her Commendatore, and to cast enthusiastic and incendiary glances at Roberto Gentile. Many ladies regretted having exchanged their fans for muffs in the increasingly heated atmosphere. By degrees a vapour ascended towards the roof, and excited fancy conjured up visions of duels, gleaming foils, shining swords, secret thrusts, and applauding beauty. A warlike ardour reigned in boxes and parterre.
“Has the ice refreshed you, Lucia?” inquired her cousin.
“No, I burn more than ever; there was fire in it.”
“Perhaps you would feel better outside.”
“It will be over in a few minutes,” observed Caterina. “There is to be a set-to between my husband and Mattei.”
The set-to proved to be the most interesting part of the performance. Lieti and Mattei, the two most powerful champions, stood facing each other. The audience held its breath. During five minutes the two fencers stood facing each other; they toyed with their foils, indulging in a flourish of salutes, feintes, thrusts, parries, and plastic attitudes—a perfect symphony, whose theme was the chivalric salutation. Applause without end; then again silence, for the assault-at-arms was about to begin. Not a word or sound was uttered by either fencer. They were equally agile, ready, scientific, and full of fire—parrying with unflagging audacity, and liberating their foils as in the turn of a ring. They were well matched. Lieti touched Mattei five times; Mattei touched Lieti four times. They divided the honours. In applauding the two champions the public broke through the cordon. A handkerchief fell at Andrea’s feet. He hesitated a moment; then, without raising his eyes, stuck it in the scarf round his waist. The ladies’ gloves were torn to shreds in the storm of applause.
When he joined them in the box, Andrea found the ladies standing up, waiting for him.
“Good evening, Signorina Altimare; good evening, Caterina. Shall we go?” He spoke curtly and crossly while he helped his wife, who looked confused, to put on her furs. Then he burst out:
“Caterina, why did you behave so ridiculously? It is so unlike you to be eccentric—to make a laughing-stock of yourself?”
She kept her hands in her muff and her eyes cast down, and made no reply.
“You, a sensible little woman? Are we living in the Middle Ages? Perdio, to expose oneself to ridicule!”
Caterina turned pale and bit her lip; she would not cry, and had no voice left to answer with. Lucia leant against the door-post, listening.
“You are talking about the handkerchief, Signor Andrea?” she put in, slowly.
“Just so.... The handkerchief. A pretty conjugal amenity!”
“It was I who threw the handkerchief, Signor Andrea, in my enthusiasm. You were wonderful to-day—the first champion of the tournament.”
Andrea had not a word to say. He calmed down at once, with a vague smile. Caterina breathed freely once more.
Alberto Sanna returned and offered his arm to Caterina; Andrea assisted Lucia in putting on her cloak. She, with face uplifted towards his, her eyes, through their long lashes, fixed on his, and a slight quiver in her nostrils, leant on him imperceptibly, just sufficiently to graze his shoulder, as she drew on her coat-sleeves.