V
“And so for all these excellent reasons I can not marry Roberto Montefranco,” Lulu finally said to her mother.
“They are absurd reasons, my daughter,” replied the mother, shaking her head.
“In short, must I tell you frankly and plainly that Roberto does not please me, and that I am not going to marry him?”
“It is at least frank; but it is no more than a whim. Roberto loves you.”
“He will console himself.”
“You have exchanged promises.”
“We can retract them. We are no longer living in the days when people were married by force.”
“What will the world say?”
“Mother, let us define the world.”
“People.”
“And who is Mr. People? I do not know him; I am not obliged to be unhappy for the sake of Mr. People.”
“You are a terrible girl! But how am I to arrange it with Roberto? What am I to say to him?”
“What you wish. That is what you are my mother for.”
“Oh, indeed! To remedy the wrongs you have done. There will be a scandal.”
“I do not think so; you can say it politely, with pretty manners. Indeed, I think you might even speak badly of me—call me capricious, frivolous, childish; say that I would be a very bad wife, that I am not at all serious, that I am lacking in dignity, that my sister is—”
“Your sister? Are you losing your mind, Lulu?”
“Pshaw! you could easily say that. At present Roberto and Sofia are indifferent to each other, but if they come to know each other better they might appreciate each other, and then—who can say? You would be praised as a good mother for having married off the elder daughter first.”
“In fact—”
“I shall not go husbandless; I am barely eighteen years old. And I wish to amuse myself; I wish to dance a great deal; I wish to enjoy my happy youth with my dear, kind little mother—”
“You are a little rogue,” replied the mother, moved, and embracing her daughter.
“Then we understand each other? Announce the ugly news to Roberto politely, but add that we must always be friends, that we hope to see him often. If these two are to fall in love with each other they will do so; it is predestined.”
“But do you believe, naughty Lulu, that matters will all come right? You know that I hate quarrels.”
“Oh, unconvinced mother! Oh, mother, more unbelieving than Saint Thomas! Yes, yes, out of my wide experience I assure you that there will be no scandal. Roberto is a gentleman, and will not expect me to marry him without loving him.”
“What seems to me impossible is the affair with Sofia—”
“Nothing is more possible than the impossible,” gravely replied Lulu.
“My dear, so many axioms! Enough. Let us leave it all to time; perhaps time will regulate our affairs. All of which does not change the fact that you are a scatterbrain.”
“And very capricious—”
“Lacking in judgment—”
“And a whimsical creature. I am everything you like; lecture me, I deserve it. Come; have you nothing to say? I am waiting.”
“Give me a kiss, and go to bed. Good night, baby.”
“Thank you, mama. Good night.”
“It is better so,” thought the good mother. “Lulu is too young yet. Every day one sees the sad consequences of these marriages of convenience. May Heaven free us from them! It is better so.”
“Uff!” said Lulu, taking a deep breath. “What diplomacy I was forced to use, what art in order to convince mama! I would make a perfect ambassador. What a triumph! Not like a triumph of love, to be sure, but it is Lulu’s triumph!”
She paused outside her sister’s door and listened. She heard every now and then a repressed sigh. Poor Sofia had lost her peace of mind.
“Sleep, Sofia, sleep,” Lulu murmured softly, kissing the lock of the door almost as though she were kissing her sister’s brow; “calm yourself and rest. I have worked for you this evening.”
And the generous girl fell asleep, happy and content in the thought of the happiness of the sister she loved.
Time, good old time, the eternal wise old gentleman, accomplished his task. Lulu asked herself whether this unmarried sister who acted as bridesmaid should wear a gown of blue silk or a simple one of straw-colored foulard with lace. She asked Roberto if there would be a great many bonbons for her, and Sofia if she would give her that pretty embroidered handkerchief that was like a zephyr, a cloud. Roberto and Sofia, knowing what the girl’s heart was capable of, smiled at her gay thoughtlessness, and loved her, and looked upon her as their Providence.
“For I have always maintained,” said Roberto Montefranco to a friend, speaking of his marriage, “that a couple should be of opposite tastes. Extremes touch. Thus they will understand each other, will mingle, will form a complete whole, while those of similar tastes are like two parallel lines; they walk on together, but never meet. And then when there is love—! I have always said so.”
THE END OF CANDIA
BY GABRIELE D’ANNUNZIO
Gabriele d’Annunzio, Italian poet and novelist, whose real name is Rapagnetta, was born on the Adriatic in 1864. In 1898 he was chosen member of the Chamber of Deputies, when he announced himself a social democrat. His first poems, which appeared in 1879, showed great talent, but it is as a writer of richly colored, vivid, voluptuous prose, which is at the same time classic in form and correct, almost finikin, in its perfect style, that he ranks among the best of Italy’s authors. His later stories grow deeper, more sombre, and unpleasant in theme, and are full of gruesome realism, borrowed from the modern French and Russian. He is a symbolist whose love of musical cadence sometimes leaves little room for sound thinking. But he is a master of style. His earlier stories, one of which is given here, are not so unpleasant as the later ones, and are frank imitations of De Maupassant—in this case of “The String.”
