"That when I am stronger, Egidio—"
The blood rose in Ragna's cheek; Virginia leaned forward and patted her hand.
"I understand, poverina,—but what would you have? We married women are not our own mistresses,—it is the way of the world. The Creator has willed that some of us serve our Purgatory on earth."
Before she left, she kissed Ragna tenderly, and murmured, "Poverina, I am sorry—but you have the bimbo! Let that make up to you for the rest!"
She was thinking of Egidio with his mouth like that of a beast.
After the Valentinis moved, Virginia was not able to come so often; they lived further apart, and her visits in consequence became less frequent. Indeed, this had been part of Valentini's intention in going so far. He wished, partly from jealousy, and partly from mingled dislike and fear of Virginia to remove Ragna from her close companionship and the moving offered a good pretext for this, without the risk of offending the susceptibilities of his friend Ferrati.
Ragna missed Virginia greatly, she had grown to depend on her society, and as she had few friends and but little opportunity for making new acquaintances, her lonely days became singularly dull and empty.
Egidio had had a run of bad luck and had sold no pictures for some time and the expenses of Ragna's confinement had been a heavy drain on his resources. As week after week passed, bringing no sign from Fru Boyesen, he grew impatient, although he had told himself to expect nothing for some time. The confinement had cost more than he expected, and he thought that Ragna's family might have helped him out, though realizing at the same time the absurdity of the idea, as they could and must know nothing of the birth of a child for some months to come. He grew moody and taciturn, and without speaking directly on the subject, gave Ragna to understand that her faulty diplomacy was to blame for their discomfort. This bewildered her, as she had even yet, no inkling of his real motive in marrying her.
She withdrew more and more into herself, realizing as time went on, how vain had been the hopes of a friendly comradeship on which she had founded her expectations of married life. Egidio no longer cared to talk with her about his work and his interests, and when she proposed a visit to his studio and a resumption of her lessons, he received the suggestion with such coldness and evident lack of pleasure, that she let the subject drop and never revived it again. He nearly always spent the evenings out now and when, by chance, he remained at home, his sour, forbidding expression and the aura of gloom that hung about him, effectually choked any conversation. Ragna felt a distinct relief in his absence for Carolina's cheery song rang out unreproved in the kitchen, little Egidio, or "Mimmo," as they called him, cooed and prattled in his crib—the whole household, in fact, seemed to stretch its cramped limbs and breathe freely, relieved of the oppressive presence of the master.
They were poor, very poor; Ragna did the best she could in restricting expense, but the bills crept up in spite of her, and Egidio's reproaches for her extravagance hurt her bitterly. Was all her life to be a failure, she wondered drearily? She had always acted for the best, she told herself; she had only consented to marry because Egidio had begged her to, and on her child's account, and now all was misery. She could see from day to day her husband's affection for the child slowly waning. What would become of them all? In these reflections she did not dare to be quite honest with herself,—she had acted for the best, yes, but as others saw it for her, she had lacked the courage to be true to herself, to her instinct. So, because she had gone counter to her nature, because she had denied the essential truth in her soul, and surrendered her life to the guidance of others, in giving to her motherhood the shield of what she expected to be but an empty social contract, a sham, she had sold her birthright for a mess of pottage. Even the love of her child, which should have been her consolation, was to become as dust and ashes in her mouth. It seemed cruel, as she did not err consciously, and it was not her fault if the arguments with which society and custom supplied her, proved specious. But she was not one who could live on the surface, buoyed up by a succession of more or less agreeable occurrences and material facts, therefore the Law, the first commandment of which is, "This above all, to thine own self be true," bore heavily on her.