He put down the lamp on the table and threw himself into a chair. The figures in the tapestry were undecipherable in the dim light, except just opposite to it where a shepherdess and shepherd sat in eternal dalliance upon the little green mound beloved of such art. The soft and worn tints gave a certain faint cheerfulness to the wall, but all was dark around and as still as the night itself. Old Antonio, his faithful servant, slept in a corner somewhere, peacefully undisturbed by the master’s comings or goings. The donna da faccenda, or woman-of-all-work, had long ago gone home to her family. This was all his establishment. The conversation he had just had, awakened, as may well be supposed, a thousand thoughts in the Italian’s mind. It had been all fervent poetry as he stood outside her door and walked home along Arno, hearing the bells chime her sweet name: Di—ana, Di-an-a, with its long, soft vowels, such as an Italian loves. But when he reached his own house, other thoughts not less thrilling or sweet, though more real, came into his mind. Was it possible that she should set foot here even—take up her abode here? He rose up from his chair when that fancy came to him, and stood with his breast expanded and his head held high, not feeling that he had breath enough for such a thought. Diana—and here; and then it occurred to him, perhaps for the first time, how poor and dark and silent it was, how worn and faded, how unlike a shrine for such a saint! What could he do to it to make it better? Pandolfini was not of so poor a spirit as to think that Love (if for him such a thing could be) would despise his condition and surroundings. No; if, profoundest wonder of wonders, Diana should love him, as his friend took upon himself to promise, what to her would be the circumstances external to him? Nothing! He had forgotten that he had heard it said she was a great lady in her own home—forgotten even the superior wealth of her surroundings here. He cared nothing about these, and Diana would care nothing. If only the first might be true, there was nothing else to be taken thought of. The wonder of her loving him could not be greater if she were a queen.
But supposing——then what could be done to make the faded things bright, to renovate, and warm, and light up his house for her coming? He dropped back into his chair and began to think. Could any magic make these apartments worthy of her? Then he rose hastily, unable to be still in his excitement, and took up his lamp in his hand again, and began to go over the room, his head throbbing with agitating thoughts. Every new door he opened sent a thrill of echoes through the place, until at last they disturbed the rest of old Antonio, who sallied forth in alarm, his grey locks tumbled from his pillow, his eyes fiery yet full of sleep, a coloured counterpane wrapped round him for want of better. “Ah! it is only the padrone,” cried Antonio, turning his back without another word, but with muttered grumblings in his throat. He was angry to be disturbed. “Surely he walks enough in the day to leave one tranquil at night,” the old man grumbled, as he restored the counterpane to his bed. Then a momentary thought struck him that it might not be the padrone at all, but his double, presaging evil. But after a moment’s thought, Antonio dismissed that idea; for had not his quick eye caught that very thin place, not yet a hole, on the right leg of the padrone’s pantoloons, which he had brushed so carefully that morning? No ghost risen from the grave could know about that thin place. So Antonio went grumbling yet calm to bed.
Pandolfini took little notice of this old grey apparition. He gave the old man a nod, and passed on. There were many empty rooms to go through, all furnished after a sort, all with cold glistening marble floors, dim great mirrors, into which his lamp gleamed with mysterious reflections, dark pictures, bits of tapestry, here a frescoed wall, there a richly decorated roof. The remains of wealth, or rather the ghosts of wealth, were there standing with a forlorn pride in the midst of the cold and of the dim reflected lights. Of all the rooms he went into, only his own library could be called inhabitable, much less comfortable; and yet there was a faded grace and dignity in everything. Would she prize that and understand it? he wondered. Ah yes! Could it be possible that Diana did not understand everything, see everything with the noblest, gentlest comprehension of all that had been noble, then she would not have been the Diana of his thoughts. She would understand. She would learn the story of the house, and its decadence, and its pride—all in a glance. But—would she prefer her English comfort, her warmth of carpets and close-drawn hangings, and the insular way of cushioning and smoothing over every sharp corner—to this old chill splendour and poverty? He could not answer himself with any satisfaction; and his thoughts carried him further to his little farm in Tuscany, and the villa with its bare rooms and terraces, which had not even any trace of old splendour to veil the present poverty. Would it be better to dismiss the forestieri down below, who paid so good a rent for the piano nobile, and so make more room and a more seemly habitation—something more worthy of her? But then his foreign lodgers gave a very agreeable addition to his funds; and how could he do without that? or how adapt the villa for an English lady without spending of money which was impossible to him?
When the vague raptures of a dawning love change into plans of intending matrimony, the difference is very great. Had he known how rich Diana was, the simple-minded Italian might have taken matters more easily perhaps than an Englishman would have approved of; but he was an Anglomane, and had picked up some reflections of English thoughts, which made him try anxiously now if there was any way by which he himself on his own finances could accomplish all this. And the question was grave, very grave, deepening the furrows on his forehead. When he paused from these reflections, and the first initial thought of all,—the idea that Diana—Diana! loved him,—came back to his mind, Pandolfini’s heart recovered itself with a great throb of happiness beyond all imagining, an incredulous triumph of joy, which took away his breath. But then he fell back again into his anxieties, his questions. To realise this crown of all possible gladness and delight, what cares, what anxious self-discussions, what elaborate calculations must he go through! how could he make her life fair, and bright, and free from the pinchings which were in so many Italian houses, which he had learned by heart in his own life, and which, if they no longer existed for him now, might come back again were he to launch into greater expenditure and luxuries hitherto unknown?
He sat up half the night pondering all these strange new thoughts, which were penetrated now and then as by a sudden golden arrow, by that flash of consciousness which made everything glow and shine. But this very consciousness, this ecstasy, was the occasion and beginning of the care. After he had deliberated and deliberated till his very brain ached, he took paper and a pen, and began to put down his calculations. The very act of doing so, putting this wonderful hope, so to speak, into black and white, and making his visionary preparations into a tangible thing which he could look at, thrilled him through and through again with touches of delight He leant back in his chair, and laughed softly, so softly that the low utterance was more like a tone upon an instrument than the commonplace happiness of laughter. To him, to come to him! he who had never expected it, never hoped for it, since his first youth. Love! He was incredulous of it, yet believed in it to the bottom of his profound and passionate soul.
Thus he sat through the long night, feeling neither cold nor weariness, nor as if he could ever want such vulgar consolations as sleep, until Antonio’s first stirring in the blue chill of the morning aroused him from his arithmetic and his thoughts. He started guiltily, and saw the flicker of his poor little lamp reflected in the dim mirror at the end of the room, in the midst of a soft clearness of the day, which confused him, and gave him a sense of shame, as if some cool and calm spectator had suddenly looked over his shoulder and seen the follies that occupied him. Quickly and abashed he extinguished the lamp, gathered up all his papers carefully, opened the window to let in the morning air still somewhat chill: and feeling for the first time a little stiff and cold, crept noiselessly to bed, afraid to be found out by Antonio, who, however, was not deceived by this stealthy retreat, and knew very well by the smell of the suddenly extinguished lamp, and the creak of the opened window, that his master had been keeping unholy vigils. “Had he slept when all Christians ought to sleep he should have got up now,” said Antonio, “instead of stealing to bed like a thief lest I should find him. Ah, padrone mio! if you could but learn what was for your true advantage!” But that is what young men will never learn till it is too late, Antonio reminded himself: for his master was yet young to Antonio, a fit subject for lecturing and good advice still.
Pandolfini came out of his room at a respectably early hour after all, and with innocent looks that did all but deceive his old servant “I hope I did not disturb you last night,” he said, with hypocritical amiability; “I was looking for—a—book.”
“The padrone did not disturb me last night,” said Antonio, severely; “but this morning when I found the lamp still hot, and the illustrissimo’s chair warm! padrone mio, it is no good for the health. There is a time to sleep, which is the night; there is a time, if you will, to make calculations to amuse one’s self—to play, if it is necessary—and that is day.”
“I am going to make use of the day,” said Pandolfini, taking the cup of coffee which was his cheerless breakfast. And then he added, “Don’t you think, my old Toni, that the olives at the farm might yield a little more oil? Marchese Rolfo has no better land than I have, and yet he sends more flasks to the market.”
“Marchese Rolfo is an old miser; he wrings the trees and the poor men that keep them,” cried Antonio; “and Gigi at the villa is as honest a man as any I know. The padrone forgets that it has been a bad year.”