The Contessa congratulated him, and he bowed profoundly in a silent pleasure.
Then he took up the poet, repeating stanza after stanza with a perfect naïveté, in his rich young voice, without a trace of display; ending at last with a little sigh, and a sudden dropping of the eyes, like a child craving pardon.
Eleanor was delighted with him, and the Contessa, who seemed more difficult to please, also smiled upon him. Teresa, the pious daughter, was with Lucy in the Sassetto. No doubt she was the little priest's particular friend. He had observed at once that she was not there, and had inquired for her.
'One or two of those lines remind me of Carducci, and that reminds me that I saw Carducci for the first time this spring,' said the Contessa, turning to Eleanor. 'It was at a meeting of the Accademia in Rome. A great affair—the King and Queen—and a paper on Science and Religion, by Mazzoli. Perhaps you don't remember his name? He was our Minister of the Interior a few years ago.'
Eleanor did not hear. Her attention was diverted by the sudden change in the aspect of the padre parroco. It was the dove turned hawk. The fresh face seemed to have lost its youth in a moment, to have grown old, sharp, rancorous.
'Mazzoli!'—he said, as the Contessa paused—'Eccellenza, è un Ebreo!'
The Contessa frowned. Yes, Mazzoli was a Jew, but an honest man; and his address had been of great interest, as bearing witness to the revival of religious ideas in circles that had once been wholly outside religion. The parroco's lips quivered with scorn. He remembered the affair—a scandalous business! The King and Queen present, and a Jew daring before them, to plead the need of 'a new religion'—in Italy, where Catholicism, Apostolic and Roman, was guaranteed as the national religion—by the first article of the Statuto. The Contessa replied with some dryness that Mazzoli spoke as a philosopher. Whereupon the parroco insisted with heat that there could be no true philosophy outside the Church. The Contessa laughed and turned upon the young man a flashing and formidable eye.
'Let the Church add a little patriotism to her philosophy, Father,—she will find it better appreciated.'
Don Teodoro straightened to the blow. 'I am a Roman, Eccellenza—you also—Scusi!'
'I am an Italian, Father—you also. But you hate your country.'