I FIRST SEE MY WIFE.
By this time I had grown to be a young man beloved by my friends, who were not many, and not all of them excellent. Some were a little too full of life, like myself, and these gay young fellows used sometimes to drag me to places where young men of good repute should never go—I mean to osterias and billiard-rooms. In such places there is loss of time, loss of health, and loss of morals. Vaguely I felt, even then, the impropriety of such places, and an internal sense of dissatisfaction warned me to break off from these habits and to avoid these friends. Indeed at home I was no longer like the same person. I was restless, intolerant, despising the naturally frugal meals of the family; and my mother, my poor mother, suffered for this, but my father was angry, and sometimes with loving words and sometimes with severe ones he reproached me for my crabbedness and caprices, and I then felt sincere regret, and my heart softened, and quite overcome I embraced my mother. For all this, the road that I had taken was a slippery one. I no longer studied anything or drew as I had always done before. I read very little, and that little was rubbish. Praised and cajoled by my companions, quite satisfied with the kind of superiority I had acquired amongst them in the shop, I might have fallen very low, and have become a good-for-nothing man, and perhaps a despicable one; but God willed it otherwise. And now that I must begin to speak of her who saved me and loved me, and whom I loved and esteemed always, because she was so rich in all true virtues, I feel my hand tremble, and the fulness of my love confuses my ideas. One day as I was standing by my work-bench, I saw a young girl pass with quick short footsteps, quite concentrated in herself. It was but a fugitive impression, but so vivid that every now and then that vision came back to me and seemed to comfort me. I had not seen the features of her face, nor her eyes, which she kept on the ground; and yet that upright modest little figure, those quick little footsteps, had taken my fancy. I desired to see her again. Every now and then I looked up from my work, in the hope of seeing the person that I had been so struck by; but I did not see her again during that day or the following ones.
MASS AT SANTI APOSTOLI.
The second festa of Easter I was at Mass in the Church of the Santi Apostoli near by. Suddenly lifting my eyes, I saw facing me the dear young girl on her knees. Her face was in shadow, as it was bent down, and the church was rather dark, but the features and general expression were chaste and sweet. I stayed there enchanted. That figure in her modest dress and humble attitude, so still, so serene, enraptured me. When Mass was finished, the people began to go away, but she still remained on her knees. At last she rose and went out, and I followed her from afar. She stopped at a house on the door of which I saw the sign of "laundress." I could not believe that such a modest serious young girl could be so employed; for as a general thing, laundresses are rather frisky and provocative, turning their heads and glancing about, and sometimes very slovenly in their dress—in fact, the opposite of all that dear good creature was. From the first moment that I saw her I felt for her a respectful admiration, a tranquil serene brotherly affection and trust. I was seized with an irresistible desire to love her, to possess her, and to have my love returned. Often without her knowing it, I followed her at a distance, to assure myself of her bearing and her ways, and always observed in her a chaste, serious, and modest nature. At last I attempted to follow her nearer; and when she became aware of it, she hastened her steps and crossed to the other side of the street. I was disconcerted, but at the same time felt contented. One day, however, I decided at any cost to speak to her, and to open my heart to her; and as I knew the hour when she was in the habit of passing by the Piazza di San Biagio, where I was at work, I held myself in readiness, and as soon as I saw her, went out and followed her, that I might draw this thorn out of my heart. Yes, I somehow thought she would not take my offer amiss. She crossed the Loggia del Mercato and took the Via di Baccano and Condotta, and turned into the Piazzetta de' Giuochi, and I always followed her nearer and nearer. At last she became aware of this, stopped suddenly, turned, and without looking me in the face, said, "I want no one to follow me."
I FOLLOW MARINA—HER REBUKE.
I stammered a few words, but with so much emotion in my voice, that she again stopped, looked at me a moment, and said, "Go home to your mother, and do not stop me again in the streets."
I gave her a grateful look, and we parted. I returned to the shop with my heart overflowing with love and hope.
From that day a great change took place in me: companions, rioting, and billiards disappeared as by enchantment from my life. That same evening I went to the laundry. I saw the mistress of it, and with an excuse of having some work to give her, I spoke to her casually, and in a general way, of the young girl (whose name I did not know); but she being very sharp, smiled and said—
"Ah yes; Marina—certainly—I understand. But take care and mind what I say; Marina is such a well-conducted girl that she will not give heed to you."
"But I did not say that I wanted to make love to her."