Then he turned away, and Franco saw the Carabellis' boatman go down to the shore to prepare the boat. He left the window, and returning to the thoughts which had occupied him first of all, he opened his chest of drawers, and stood absently contemplating an embroidered shirt front, where certain small diamond studs his father had worn at his own wedding, were already sparkling. He disliked the idea of going to the altar without some outward sign of festivity, but of course, this sign must not be too apparent.
In the iris-scented chest of drawers everything was arranged with that order which denotes a cultured spirit, and no one was allowed to touch its contents save Franco himself. But the chairs, the writing table, the piano, were heaped with such disorder that it would seem as if a hurricane of books and papers had swept in at the two windows. Certain law books were slumbering under an inch of dust, but not a single leaf of the little gardenia, growing in a pot on the sill of the east window, showed a speck of dust. These indications were sufficient to suggest the whimsical rule of a poet. A glance at the books and papers would have given conclusive proof of this.
Franco was passionately fond of poetry, and was a true poet in the exquisite delicacy of his instincts. As a writer of verse he could be ranked only as an indifferent amateur, wanting in originality. His favourite models were Foscolo and Giusti. He worshipped them fervently, and pillaged them both, for his genius, which was both satirical and enthusiastic, was not capable of creating a style of its own, and must content itself with imitating others. It is only fair to remark that young men in those days generally possessed a classical culture such as has since become most exceptional, and that through the classics themselves they learned to respect the art of imitation, as a praiseworthy and virtuous practice.
Franco liked to improvise on the piano with some of these verses before his eyes. Even more devoted to music than to poetry, he had himself purchased this piano for one hundred and fifty svanziche, from the organist at Loggio, because the poor Viennese instrument, belonging to his grandmother, which was always wrapped up and must be handled carefully, like a gouty member of the family, was not adapted to his requirements. The organist's instrument, which had been thumped and banged upon by two generations of hands, hardened by contact with the pickaxe, now sent forth only a funny little nasal voice, which rose above a faint tinkling, as of many tiny glasses standing too close together. Franco was almost oblivious to this. As soon as he had placed his hands upon the instrument his imagination would take fire; the composer's enthusiasm would enter into him, and, in the heat of the creative passion, a thread of sound sufficed to permeate him with the spirit of music, and absolutely to intoxicate him. An Erard would have embarrassed him, would have left less room for fancy, would, in a word, have been less dear to him than his spinet.
Franco possessed too many talents, too many different inclinations, too much impetuosity, too little vanity and perhaps also, too little will-power to undertake that tiresome, methodical, manual labour, which is indispensable in order to become a pianist. Nevertheless, Viscontini was enthusiastic about the style of playing, and his fiancée Luisa, though she did not entirely share his classical tastes, honestly admired his touch. When, being pressed to do so, he would make the organ at Cressogno roar and groan in the approved classic manner, the good people, overwhelmed by the music and the honour, would stare at him with open mouths and reverent eyes, as they would have stared at some preacher, whose sermon they did not understand. But notwithstanding all this, Franco could not have held his own in a city drawing-room, against the majority of feeble amateurs, incapable even of understanding and loving music. All, or almost all of them would have shown themselves his superiors in agility and in precision, and would have gathered in more applause, even though no one of them had succeeded in making the piano sing as he made it sing, especially in the adagios of Bellini and of Beethoven, playing with his soul in his throat, in his eyes, in the muscles of his face, in the tendons of his hands, which seemed one with the chords of the piano.
Another passion of his was for old pictures. The walls of his room held several, most of which were daubs. Never having travelled he had little experience. His fancy was quick to take fire, and, obliged as he was to fit his ample desires to his scant means, he was credulous concerning the alleged good fortune of other ignorant purchasers, and often allowed himself to be influenced by them, to be blinded and led into buying certain dirty rags, which, if they cost little, were worth still less. The only passably good things he possessed were a head, in the style of Morone, and a Madonna and Child, after the manner of Carlo Dolci. Franco, however, baptised these two little pictures with the names of Morone and Carlo Dolci, without further qualification.
When he had re-read and enjoyed some lines inspired by the hypocritical Pasotti, he once more hunted in the chaos of his desk, and drew forth a small sheet of notepaper, upon which he intended to write to Monsignor Benaglia, the only person who, in the future, might be able to influence his grandmother in his favour. He felt it his duty to inform him of the step he was about to take, of the reasons which had forced his fiancée and himself to resort to this painful subterfuge, of the hope they cherished that he would help them when the time came to confess all to the Marchesa. He was still reflecting, pen in hand, when the Carabellis' boat passed beneath his window. Soon after he heard the Marchese's gondola glide by, followed presently by Pin's boat. He expected that his grandmother would send for him, now that she was alone, but she did not do so. He waited some time, expecting to be summoned, then he began to think of his letter again, and reflected so long, re-wrote the introduction so many times, and got on so slowly, that before he had finished he was obliged to light the lamp.
The end was easier. He begged the old Bishop's prayers for his Luisa and for himself, and expressed a faith in God so perfect and so pure, that the most unbelieving heart must have been touched by it.
Fiery and impetuous as he was, still Franco possessed the calm and simple faith of a little child. Entirely free from pride, a stranger to philosophical meditations, he was ignorant of that thirst for intellectual liberty which torments young men, when their senses begin to find themselves hampered by that strong curb—positive beliefs. He had never for an instant doubted his religion, and performed all the duties it prescribed without once asking himself if it be reasonable to act and believe thus. Still he had nothing of the mystic or of the ascetic. His intellect, though ardent and poetic, was, at the same time, clear and positive. Devoted as he was to nature and to art, and attracted by all the pleasing aspects of life, he would naturally shrink from mysticism. He had not acquired his faith; he had never concentrated all his thoughts upon it for any length of time, therefore it was not possible that it should have penetrated all his sentiments. Religion was to him what science is to the student, whose first thought is school, where he studies diligently, having no peace until he has done his home tasks, and is prepared for the next lesson, but who, once his duty is performed, thinks no more either of teachers or of books, and does not feel the need of regulating his actions according to scientific conclusions or scholastic programmes. Therefore it would often seem that Franco's life was influenced by nothing else than his warm and generous heart, his passionate inclinations, his lively impressions, and the impulses of his honest nature, which was offended by every kind of untruth and meanness, while he chafed under contradiction, and was incapable of deceit.
He had just sealed his letter when some one knocked at the door. The Marchesa had sent to summon Don Franco downstairs to recite the Rosary. At Casa Maironi they recited the Rosary every evening between seven and eight, and the servants were obliged to be present. The Marchesa herself intoned the prayers, enthroned on her sofa, her sleepy eyes roving over the backs and legs of the worshippers, kneeling, some in one position, some in another, some in the light best adapted to set off a devotional attitude, and others in the shadow which would favour a comfortable, but forbidden nap. Franco entered the room as the nasal voice was repeating the sweet words: "Ave Maria, gratia plena," with that drawling unction which always inspired him with a wild desire to become a Turk. The young man flung himself down in a dark corner, and never opened his lips. It was impossible for him to answer that irritating voice with fitting devotion. He fell to imagining what the coming interview would be like, and preparing caustic answers.