A Lady of Rome

by F. Marion Crawford

The soldier was not at all analytical, though he had so long led an inward existence which no one suspected. He knew when his thoughts were ignoble, and he despised them then and was disgusted with himself; but during most of the time he merely looked upon the exceptional life he was leading for Maria’s sake as a duty, and therefore as something which must be done, whether he liked it or not. He was rather a rough specimen of manhood, but his nature was on large lines. Under grosser influences in early youth, he might have turned out what women call a brute, and perhaps it was only his love for Maria that had saved him from that. All men saints have not been born like Bernard of Clairvaux, ethereal, spiritual, eloquent, and already beings of another world. There have been very human Augustines, too, and sorely tempted Anthonys without end, and there have been denying Peters and doubting Thomases ever since the beginning; and because some of them were men of like passions with ourselves, most of us feel nearer to them than to the great ascetics, and we understand them better.

In his thoughts Castiglione called Maria a saint, and compared her to a Catherine of Siena rather than to a Magdalen; but she, too, had her moments of passionate regret, if not of weakness; she, too, was human still, and though she bore her pain like a martyr, she loved like a loving woman.

Here ends such explanation and repetition as was needed to make clear what soon happened to her, to her husband, and to Castiglione. After many months of quiet, when it seemed to Maria that nothing could ever happen again in her life beyond the daily round of dull misery, fate took up the action again with sudden and violent hands.

The two met by accident for a few moments, quite alone. It was at a hotel, of all places in the world; at a quiet and rather old-fashioned hotel which is patronised by the great of the earth when they come to Rome unofficially, for their own pleasure. A short time ago it was such a primitive place that the lift was small and was worked from below, like most of those in Roman private houses.

Now it happened that a certain young couple went to this hotel who were nearly related to the Count of Montalto on the Spanish side of his family, and who were of such exalted station that two smart officers were told off to be at their disposal and to show them the sights of Rome. One of these officers was Castiglione.

In the natural course of social events the Countess of Montalto had written her name in the book which people of such overwhelming importance keep at the porter’s lodge in hotels where they stop, because cards cannot be left for them as for ordinary human beings, on account of their inconvenient greatness. On the following day the Countess was informed that she would be received at five o’clock, and at three minutes to five her carriage stopped at the door. The footman informed the porter that her Excellency the Countess of Montalto came to see their Highnesses, and at the same instant Castiglione, who was on duty, and in uniform, presented himself to conduct the Countess upstairs.

It was rather a trying moment, for he had not been told who was coming, and he was the last person whom Maria expected to see there. As the footman opened the carriage door Castiglione put forward his arm to help her out, and she laid her hand upon it as lightly and indifferently as she could, but a thrill ran through her to her very feet, and she felt how he stiffened his arm lest it should shake. After the first glance of recognition they avoided each other’s eyes.

The porter stalked solemnly before them to the lift, and a moment later they were alone together in a space so small that they could hardly keep from touching, while the cage began to ascend with that extreme slowness which characterises the old-fashioned Roman contrivances. Maria sat on the narrow little seat, feeling that she dared not look up; Castiglione stood upright, squeezing his square shoulders as far back into the corner as he could, and holding his right hand on the handle of the sliding door. He breathed audibly, and the lift crawled upwards.

It was almost unbearable for them both. To speak indifferently was utterly impossible, and silence meant too much. Just as they were reaching the first floor, Maria rose quickly, expecting to be let out; but the cage did not stop.