VI.
During the whole of the dinner in the Lietis’ apartment in Via Constantinopoli, a certain all-pervading embarrassment was perceptible, despite the care with which it was disguised. Caterina had not dared, for several days, to breathe Lucia’s name. But on Saturday, when she saw that Andrea had quite regained his good temper, she begged him not to go out on the morrow. He at first shrugged his shoulders, as if he did not care one way or the other, and then said, simply:
“I will stay at home: it would be too rude to go out.”
Yet Andrea’s manner was cold when he came in from his walk that day, and Lucia was very nervous, but beautiful, thought Caterina, in her clinging, cashmere gown, with a large bunch of violets under her chin. The talk was frigid. Caterina, who had been driving Giuditta all over the town, was troubled. She feared that Lucia would notice Andrea’s coldness, and was sorry she had invited her. She talked more than usual, addressing herself to Lucia, to Andrea, and to Giuditta, to keep the ball going, making strenuous efforts to put her beloved ones in good humour. For a moment she hoped that dinner would create a diversion, and breathed a sigh of relief when the servant announced, “The Signora is served.”
But even the bright warmth of the room was of no avail. Andrea, at whose side Lucia was seated, attended absently to her wants. He ate and drank a good deal, devouring his food in a silence unusual to him. Lucia hardly ate at all, but drank whole glasses of water just coloured with wine, a liquid of pale amethyst colour. When Andrea addressed her, she listened to him with intent eyes, which never lowered their gaze; his fell before it, and again he applied himself to his dinner. Caterina, who saw that their aversion was increasing, was terrified. She tried to draw Giuditta into the general conversation, but the child was possessed by the taciturn hunger of a school-girl, to whom good food is a delightful anomaly. Towards the end of dinner, there were slight signs of a thaw. Andrea began to chatter as fast as he could and with surprising volubility; talking to the two ladies, to the child, even to himself. Lucia deigned to smile assent two or three times. There was a passage of civilities when the crême méringue made its appearance. Lucia compared it to a flake of immaculate snow; Andrea pronounced the comparison to be as just as it was poetic. Caterina turned from pale to pink in the dawn of so good an understanding. She felt, however, that this was a bad evening for Lucia, one of those evenings that used to end so disastrously at school, in convulsions or a deluge of tears. She saw that her dark eyes were dilated, that her whole face quivered from time to time, and that the violets she wore rose and fell with the beating of her heart. Once or twice she asked her, as in their school-days, “What ails thee?”
“Nothing,” replied the other as curtly as she used to reply at school.
“Don’t you see that there is nothing the matter with her?” questioned Andrea. “Indeed, she looks better than usual. Signora Lucia, you are another person to-night, you have a colour.”
“I wish it were so.”
“Are you courageous?”
“Why do you ask?”
“To know.”
“Well, then, yes.”
“Then swallow a glass of cognac, at once.”
“No, Andrea, I won’t let her drink it. It would do her harm.”
“What fun! don’t you feel tempted, Signora Lucia?”
“I do ... rather....” after a little hesitation.
“Brava, brava! You too, Caterina, it doesn’t hurt you. And even Giuditta....”
“No; it would intoxicate the child.”
“Ma che! Just a drop in the bottom of the glass.”
Lucia drank off hers without the slightest sign of perturbation, then she turned pale. Giuditta, after swallowing hers, blushed crimson, coughing and sneezing until her eyes filled with tears. Every one laughed, while Caterina beat her gently on the back.
“I think you are drinking too much to-night, Andrea,” she whispered in his ear.
“Right you are; I won’t drink any more.”
When they rose from table, Andrea offered his arm to Lucia, a courtesy he had omitted when they entered the room. Caterina said nothing. When she had installed them in the yellow drawing-room, one on the sofa and the other in a comfortable chair, she left them and went into an adjoining room to prepare the child for her return.
“Have you left off using musk, Signora Lucia?”
“Yes, Signor Lieti.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Allow me to congratulate you.”
“Thank you.”
“Those flowers become you better. Who gave them to you?”
“You are curious, Signor Lieti.”
He smiled at her with approving eyes. To him she appeared like one transformed, thanks, perhaps, to the soft folds of her white gown. In his good-natured after-dinner mood, the beatitude of repletion infused a certain tenderness into his voice.
“My name is Andrea,” he murmured.
“I know that,” was the curt reply.
“Call me Andrea. You call Caterina by her name. Caterina and I are one.”
“Not to me.”
“I see. But as Caterina is so very much your friend, you might admit me into the bond. Do you forbid me to become your friend?”
“Perhaps there is no such thing as friendship.”
“Yes, there is such a thing. Don’t be so pessimistic. Senta, cara Signorina, let me whisper a word in your ear....”
She bent forward until her cheek almost touched his lips. Then he said:
“There are in this house two people who care for you. Pray believe....”
Lucia fell back against her cushion and half closed her eyes.
“Surely,” thought Andrea, “it’s another woman, with that round white throat set in its frame of lace.”
“Andrea, Andrea,” cried Caterina, from the bedroom.
He started, and shrugged his shoulders, as if to shake off a weight, glanced at Lucia, who seemed to be dreaming with closed eyes, and went away. There was a short whispered discussion between husband and wife in the adjoining room. It was suddenly interrupted by Andrea, who was stifling his laughter, pouncing upon his wife and kissing her behind her ear. Caterina defended herself by pointing to Giuditta, who was putting on her hat before the glass.
“It all depends on her,” he said, in an undertone, as he re-entered the drawing-room.
“Signora Lucia, are you asleep?”
“No, I never sleep.”
“Caterina wants you a moment, in there.”
“What does she want?”
“I know, but have been ordered not to tell.”
“I will go to her.”
She went, followed by the serpentine folds of her white train. Andrea sat down, unconsciously rested his head where she had rested hers, and inhaled the lingering perfume of her hair. He rose and walked about the room to rid himself of the mists that seemed to be clouding his brain.
Caterina, in the other room, knew not how to break it to Lucia. The words refused to come, for the tall white-robed maiden, standing erect, without a quiver of her eyelid, intimidated her.
“I think ... I think it would bore you to have to come with me to the College.”
“What for?”
“To take Giuditta back.”
“I won’t go. You go alone. That College depresses me.”
“I would go, if it were not for leaving you alone. But I shall not be long; just the time to drive Giuditta there, and come back.”
“Go; I like being alone.”
“It’s ... that I should like to....”
“Take Andrea with you, of course.”
“No, no, on the contrary.”
“Leave him with me...? He will be bored.”
“What are you saying?”
“He will bore himself, Caterina.”
“’Tis he who doesn’t want to stay, for fear of boring you. If you don’t mind....”
“Really, was that all? I will stay alone, or with your husband, whatever you like. But don’t be away long.”
“Oh! no fear, dear.” And in her delight at having settled the important question, she raised herself on tiptoe to kiss her.
“Dress and go.”
When Caterina and Giuditta passed through the drawing-room they found Andrea and Lucia seated, as before, in silence.
“Go, Caterina. I will read a book, and your husband the Piccolo. Have you a Leopardi?”
“No. I am so sorry....”
“Well, I will amuse myself with my own thoughts. Go, dear, go.”
Andrea listened, without saying a word.
“You may go to sleep,” whispered his wife, as she bade him good-bye. They did not kiss each other in the presence of their visitors. She went away contented with having provided for everything. They followed her with their eyes. Then, without a word, Lucia offered the newspaper to Andrea, who unfolded it. While he pretended to read, he watched Lucia out of the corner of his eye. She was looking at him with so bewitching a smile, that again she appeared to him like a woman transformed—so placid and youthful in her white gown.
“Are you not bored, Signorina?”
“No; I am thinking.”
“Tell me what you are thinking of.”
“What can it matter to you? I am thinking of far-off things.”
“It is morbid to think too much. Sometimes, but not often, it happens to me, too, to think.”
“Are you thinking now, Signor Andrea?”
Her hand hung slack at her side. In jest he knitted his little finger for a moment in hers. There was a long silence.
“What were you thinking of just now?” asked Lucia, in her low tender tones.
“I do not wish to tell you. How white your hand is, and long and narrow! Look, what an enormous hand mine is!”
“That day at the tournament your hand did wonders.”
“Really...!” He reddened from pleasure.
Again they were silent. She drew her hand away and played with her violets. He half closed his eyes, but never took them off the pure pale face, with its delicate colouring, its superb magnetic eyes with pencilled brows, and the half-opened mouth that was as red as a pomegranate flower. He sank into a state of vague contemplation, in which a fascinating feminine figure was the only thing visible on a cloudy background.
“Say something to me, Signora Lucia?”
“Why?”
“I want to hear you speak; you have an enchanting voice.”
“Caterina said the same thing to me this evening.”
At that name he suddenly sprang to his feet, and took two or three turns about the room, like an unquiet lion. She pulled a chair in front of her, placed her feet upon it, and half closed her eyes.
“Are you going to sleep?” asked Andrea, standing still before Lucia.
“No, I am dreaming,” she replied, so gently that Andrea resumed his seat beside her.
“Tell me what you were thinking of just now?” she pleaded.
“I was thinking of something dreadful, but true.”
“About me?”
“About you, Lucia.”
“Say it.”
“No, it would displease you.”
“Not from you....”
“Permit me not to tell it you....”
“As you please.”
Lucia’s countenance became overclouded; every now and then she drew a long breath.
“What is the matter?”
“Nothing; I am very comfortable. And you, Signor Andrea?”
Was he? He did not answer. Now and again the delicious languor that was stealing over him cooled the current in his veins. He scarcely ventured to breathe. Lucia’s white gown appeared to him like a snowy precipice; a mad desire was on him to cast himself at this woman’s feet, to rest his head on her knees, and to close his eyes like a child.... Was he? when every now and then a savage longing came upon him to throw his arm around that slender waist, and press it so that he might feel it writhe and vibrate with tigerish flexibility? He strove not to think; that was all.
“What stuff is this, Signora Lucia?”
“It is wool.”
“A soft wool.”
“Cashmere.”
“It is so becoming to you. Why don’t you always wear it?”
“Do you like it?”
“Yes, I do.” He continued, unconsciously, to stroke her arm.
She leant over, quite close to him, and said:
“Have one made like it for Caterina.”
This time Andrea did not rise, but shuddered perceptibly. He passed his hand through his hair, to push it back.
“I was thinking just now,” he said, “that the man who fell in love with you would be a most unhappy fellow.”
Lucia sank back in frigid silence, her face hardened with anger.
“Now,” he said in a low tone of deprecation, “you are angry.”
“No,” in a whisper.
“Yes, you are angry; I am a brute.” As he said this, he tried to force open her clenched hand. But he was afraid of hurting her, and so he failed. He begged her not to drive her nails into the palm of her hand. The pain of doing so accentuated the angles at the corners of her lips; her head was turned away from him, resting against the cushioned back of the sofa.
“Lucia, Lucia ...” he murmured, “be good to one who is unworthy.” At last, with a sigh of triumph, he opened the hand which he held: four red marks disfigured its palm. Andrea looked at it, wishing but not daring to kiss it; he blew over it childishly.
“Bobo, gone!”
She vouchsafed a smile, but no reply. Andrea tried to pacify her, whispering nonsense to her. He mimicked the tone of a child, begging its mother’s pardon, promising “never to do so again,” if only it may not be sent to the dark room, where it is frightened. And the strong man’s voice assumed so infantile an expression, he imitated the whine, the grimaces, the feline movements of certain children to such perfection, that she could not restrain the fit of nervous laughter which overcame her, and throbbed in her white throat as she fell back in her cushions.
“Little mother, forgive?” he wound up with.
“Si, si,” and, still laughing, she gave him a little pat on the shoulder.
Again he fought down his desire to kiss her hand.
“Do you know that you are not so thin as usual to-night?”
“Do you think so?” she replied, as if weary with laughter.
“Certainly.”
“I suppose it’s the white dress.”
“Or yourself; you can work miracles, you can assume what appearance you choose.”
“What am I like to-night?” asked Lucia, languidly.
“You are like a sorceress,” replied Andrea, with an accent of profound conviction.
Her eyes questioned him, eager to know more.
“A witch ... a sorceress....” he repeated, as if in reply to an inner voice. The clock struck nine times, but neither of them paid heed to it. Stillness filled the room, which was lighted by a shaded lamp. No sound reached it. Nothing. Two people alone, looking at each other. The long pauses seemed to them full of a sweet significance; they could not resume their talk without an effort. They spoke in lowered tones and very slowly. He drew no nearer, neither did she withdraw her hand.
“What perfume do you use in your hair?”
“None.”
“Oh! but it is perfumed. I could smell it just now....”
“But I use no perfume.”
“Just now I smelt it, when I leant my head where yours had been.”
“None; smell!” she said, with unconscionable audacity, as she raised her head to his, that he might inhale the perfume of her hair.
Then he lost his head, seized Lucia by the waist, and kissed her throat madly and roughly. She freed herself like a viper, starting to her feet in a fury, scorching him with the flashing of her eyes. Not a word passed between them. Stunned and confused, he watched her moving about the room in search of her cloak, her gloves, her bonnet, and in such a tremor of rage that she could not find them for a long while. At last she slipped on her cloak, but her quivering hands could not tie the strings of her black bonnet. The white dress had disappeared; she was all in black now, lividly pale, with dark rings under her eyes.
“Where are you going now?”
“I am going away.”
“Alone?”
“Alone.”
“No, rather than let you do that, I will go myself.” He made her a low bow and disappeared within the bedroom, shutting the door between them.
When Caterina returned, panting with haste, she found Lucia calmly stretched out on the sofa.
“Have I been too long...? And Andrea?”
“I don’t know. He is in there, I think.”
“What have you been doing with yourself all alone?”
“Sai, I have been praying with the lapis-lazuli rosary.”
Caterina entered the bedroom. A black form was lying prone across the bed with open arms, like one crucified.
“Andrea!” she called, tentatively.
“What is it?” was the curt reply.
“Are you sleeping?”
“I was bored, and I came in here. Let me sleep.”
“Lucia? Who is to take her back?”
“Thou. Leave me alone.”