The Italians: A Novel

by Frances Minto Dickinson Elliot

Nobili rose from the divan on which he had been lying, lighted some candles, and, sitting down at a table, took a pen in his hand. But the pen did not help him. He tore it between his teeth, he leaned his head upon his hand, he stared at the blank paper before him. What should he say to her? was the question he asked himself. After all, should he confess all his weakness, and implore her forgiveness? or should he take the chance of her hearing nothing?

After much thought and many struggles with his pen, he decided he would say nothing. But write he would; write he must. Full of remorse for what had passed, he longed to assure her of his love. He yearned to cast himself for pardon at her feet; to feast his eyes upon the sweetness of her fair face; to fill his ears with the sound of her soft voice; to watch her heavenly eyes gathering upon him with the gleam of incipient passion.

How pure she was! How peerless, how different from all other women! How different from Nera! dark-eyed, flashing, tempting Nera!—Nera, so sensual in her ripe and dazzling beauty. At that moment of remorse and repentance he would have likened her to an alluring fiend, Enrica to an angel! Yes, he would write; he would say something decisive. This point settled, Nobili put down the pen, struck a match, and lit a cigar. A cigar would calm him, and help him to think.

His position, even as he understood it, was sufficiently difficult. How much more, had he known all that lay behind! He had entered life a mere boy at his father's death, with some true friends; his wealth had created him a host of followers. His frank, loyal disposition, his generosity, his lavish hospitality, his winning manners, had insured him general popularity. Not one, even of those who envied him, could deny that he was the best fellow in Lucca. Women adored him, or said so, which came to the same thing, for he believed them. Many had proved, with more than words, that they did so. In a word, he had been fêted, followed, and caressed, as long as he could remember. Now the incense of flattery floating continually in the air which he breathed had done its work. He was not actually spoiled but he had grown arrogant; vain of his person and of his wealth. He was vain, but not yet frivolous; he was insolent, but not yet heartless. At his age, impressions come from without, rather than from within. Nobili was extremely impressionable; he also, as has been seen, wanted resolution to resist temptation. As yet, he had not developed the firmness and steadfastness that really belonged to his character.

But spite of foibles, spite of weakness—foibles and weakness were but part of the young blood within him—Nobili possessed, especially toward women, that rare union of courage, tenderness, and fortitude, we call chivalry; he forgot himself in others. He did this as the most natural thing in the world—he did it because he could not help it. He was capable of doing a great wrong—he was also capable of a great repentance. His great wealth had hitherto enabled him to indulge every fancy. With this power of wealth, unknown almost to himself, a spirit of conquest had grown upon him. He resolved to overcome whatever opposed itself to him. Nobili was constantly assured by those ready flatterers who lived upon him—those toadies who, like a mildew, dim and deface the virtues of the rich—that "he could do what he pleased."

With the presumption of youth he believed this, and he acted on it, especially in regard to women. He was of an age and temperament to feel his pulse quicken at the sight of every pretty woman he met, even if he should meet a dozen in the day. Until lately, however, he had cared for no one. He had trifled, dangled, ogled. He had plucked the fair fruit where it hung freely on the branch, and he had turned away heart-whole. He knew that there was not a young lady in Lucca who would not accept him as her suitor—joyfully accept him, if he asked her. Not a father, let his name be as old as the Crusades, his escutcheon decorated with "the golden rose," or the heraldic ermine of the emperors, who would not welcome him as a son-in-law.

The Marchesa Guinigi alone had persistently repulsed him. He had heard and laughed at the outrageous words she had spoken. He knew what a struggle it had cost her to sell the second Guinigi Palace at all. He knew that of all men she had least desired to sell it to him. For that special reason he had resolved to possess it. He had bought it, so to say, in spite of her, at the price of gold.

Yet, although Nobili laughed with his friends at the marchesa's outrageous words, in reality they greatly nettled him. By constant repetition they came even to rankle. At last he grew—unconfessed, of course—so aggravated by them that a secret longing for revenge rose up within him. She had thrown down the gauntlet, why should he not pick it up? The marchesa, he knew, had a niece, why should he not marry the niece, in defiance of the aunt?

No sooner was this idea conceived than he determined, if he married at all (marriage to a young man leading his dissipated life is a serious step), that, of all living women, the marchesa's niece should be his wife. All this time he had never seen Enrica. Yes, he would marry the niece, to spite the marchesa. Marry—she, the marchesa, should see a Guinigi head his board; a Guinigi seated at his hearth; worse than all, a Guinigi mother of his children!

All this he kept closely locked within his own breast. As the marchesa had intimated to him, at the time he bought the palace, that she would never permit him to cross her threshold, he was debarred from taking the usual social steps to accomplish his resolve. Not that he in the least desired to see her, save for that overbearing disposition which impelled him to combat all opposition. With great difficulty, and after having expended various sums in bribes among the ill-paid servants of the marchesa, he had learned the habits of her household.