“You have been pleased—with our Pisa,” he said at last, with a sense, which made him hate himself, of the utter imbecility of the words.
“What shall I say?” Diana looked up at him with a smile. “I don’t know. Something has happened to me; but I am not sure if you will understand my loss. Italy was a wonder and a mystery when I came here: and now it is a place to live in, just like another. Do you understand? I know, of course, it is nonsense.”
“It is not non-sense—it is true-sense,” said the Italian; and the blue in his eyes moistened. “I do know what you would say.”
“Yes; everything that was impossible seemed as if it might be here. It was Italy, you know,” said Diana, growing rapid and colloquial. “And now, yes, it is Italy—a place more beautiful than any other, but just a place like any other. It is very absurd, but I am disappointed. You must think me very foolish, I am sure.”
“I think,” said Pandolfini—and then he paused. “It is that I know the meaning of it. Did not I say the Signora Diana was dei Sogni too?”
CHAPTER VI.
NEW ARRIVALS.
After this “these two,” as Mr. Hunstanton called them, “got on,” to make use also of his expression, very well. Pandolfini was very modest, and he was not in love as a boy of twenty falls in love. Men take the malady in different ways. His imagination had not rushed instantly to the point of marrying Diana, appropriating her, carrying her off, which is the first impulse of some kinds of love. Her appearance to him was like the appearance of a new great star in the sky, dwindling and dimming all the rest, but at the same time expanding and glorifying the world, making a new world of it, lighting up everything both old and new with its light. Darkness and despondency would have covered the earth had that new glory of light suffered eclipse; but he had not yet realised the idea of transferring it to his own home, and making the serene sweet star into a domestic lamp. He was too humble, in the beginning of the adoration by which he had been seized without any will of his own, to think of anything of the kind. He was so grateful to her for having come, for shining upon him, for not disappointing him or stepping down from her pedestal, but being what he had supposed her to be at the first glance. Women do not always do this, nor men either. Sometimes, very often it must be allowed, they not only come down from the pedestal on which we have placed them, but jump down, with harsh outbursts of laughter, spurning that elevation. But Diana lost no jot of her dignity to the imaginative Italian. Still and always she was dei Sogni, one of the dream-ladies, queens of earth and heaven. Sometimes her lavish liberality startled him in the habits of his poverty, for he was economical and careful as his race, not knowing what it was to be rich, and unfamiliar with the art of using money. Few of his delights had ever come in that way. He had been kind to his friends and to his inferiors in a different fashion, in the way of personal service, of tender sympathy, and the help one mind and heart can give to another; but it had never been in his power to lavish around him things which cost actual money as Diana did, and he was puzzled by her habits in this respect, and not quite sure, perhaps, that this was not a slight coming down from her high ideal position. But the fault, if fault it was, tended at least towards nobleness, for Diana’s personal tastes were simple enough, notwithstanding a certain inclination towards magnificence, which did not displease him.
He watched her as narrowly as a jealous husband, though in a very different sense, to make quite sure that she was everything he believed her to be. But Pandolfini was subtle as his race, notwithstanding that he was an Anglomane, and declared his enthusiasm for all the English virtues of openness, candour, and calm. He did not show his devotion as a blundering Englishman would have done. No one suspected him of his worship of Diana—no one—except two very acute observers, who made no communication to each other, but on the contrary avoided the subject—to wit, Diana herself and Mrs. Hunstanton. As for Diana, she was unconscious as long as possible, and denied it stoutly to herself as long as possible; yet nevertheless had the fact conveyed to her in the very air, by minute and all but invisible indications which she would not admit but could not gainsay. And her friend divined, being his friend also, and a silent observer, the very reverse of her kind busybody of a husband, to whom the idea that Pandolfini had any special admiration for Diana would have been simple food for laughter, neither less nor more.
Thus the course of events went on. When “these two” had a little talk together, Mr. Hunstanton would chuckle and rub his hands with pleasure. “Yes, I think they are getting on a little better,” he said. “Why they should not have taken to each other, is a thing I cannot comprehend. With so many things in common! But you see the Italian does not understand the Englishwoman, nor the Englishwoman the Italian. She is too independent for him; and he is too—too——too everything for her. The more they see of each other, the more they will respect each other; but there will never be any real understanding between them. A pity, isn’t it?—for there are not two better people in the world.”
“Dear Diana,” said Mrs. Norton, to whom he was talking. “It is not that she has really any strongmindedness about her; but there is no doubt that gentlemen always do prefer women to be dependent: they don’t like a girl to say like Diana that she does not want assistance, that she can manage her affairs, and all that sort of thing. That is what I think is such a pity. Of course it would be a great deal better if there was a gentleman at the Chase to look after everything.”