Eleanor (42 page)

For at the Contessa’s elbow, on a table specially given up to it, she perceived a large framed photograph draped in black. It represented a tall young man in an Artillery uniform. The face was handsome, eager, and yet melancholy. It seemed to express a character at once impatient and despondent, but held in check by a strong will. With a shiver Eleanor again recalled the ghastly incidents of the war; and the story they had heard from the
massaja
of the young man’s wound and despair.

Her heart, in its natural lovingness, went out to his mother. She found her tongue, and she and the Contessa talked till the twilight fell of the country and the peasants, of the improvements in Italian farming, of the old convent and its history.

Not a word of the war; and not a word, Eleanor noticed, of their fellow-lodger, Father Benecke. From various indications she gathered that the sallow daughter was
devote
and a ‘black.’ The mother, however, seemed to be of a different stamp. She was at any rate a person of cultivation. That, the books lying about were enough to prove. But she had also the shrewdness and sobriety, the large pleasant homeliness, of a good man of business. It was evident that she, rather than her
fattore
, managed her property, and that she perfectly understood what she was doing.

In truth, a secret and strong sympathy had arisen between the two women. During the days that followed they met often.

The Contessa asked no further questions as to the past history or future plans of the visitors. But indirectly, and without betraying her new friends, she made inquiries in Rome. One of the D---- family wrote to her:

‘The English people we brought with us last year to your delicious Torre Amiata were three—a gentleman and two ladies. The gentleman was a Mr. Manisty, a former member of the English Parliament, and very conspicuous in Rome last winter for a kind of Brunetiere alliance with the Vatican and hostility to the Italian
regime
. People mostly regarded it as a pose; and as he and his aunt were rich and of old family, and Mr. Manisty was—when he chose—a most brilliant talker, they were welcome everywhere, and Rome certainly feted them a good deal. The lady staying with them was a Mrs. Burgoyne, a very graceful and charming woman whom everybody liked. It was quite plain that there was some close relation between her and Mr. Manisty. By which I mean nothing scandalous! Heavens! nobody ever thought of such a thing. But I believe that many people who knew them well felt that it would be a very natural and right thing that he should marry her. She was evidently touchingly devoted to him—acting as his secretary, and hanging on his talk. In the spring they went out to the hills, and a young American girl—quite a beauty, they say, though rather raw—went to stay with them. I heard so much of her beauty from Madame Variani that I was anxious to see her. Miss Manisty promised to bring her here before they left in June. But apparently the party broke up suddenly, and we saw no more of them.

‘Now I think I have told you the chief facts about them. I wonder what makes you ask? I often think of poor Mrs. Burgoyne, and hope she may be happy some day. I can’t say, however, that Mr. Manisty ever seemed to me a very desirable husband! And yet I was very sorry you were not at home in the autumn. You might have disliked him heartily, but you would have found him
piquant
and stimulating. And of all the glorious heads on man’s shoulders he possesses the most glorious—the head of a god attached to a rather awkward and clumsy body.’

Happy! Well, whatever else might have happened, the English lady was not yet happy. Of that the Contessa Guerrini was tolerably certain after a first conversation with her. Amid the gnawing pressure of her own grief there was a certain distraction in the observance of this sad and delicate creature, and in the very natural speculations she aroused. Clearly Miss Foster was the young American girl. Why were they here together, in this heat, away from all their friends?

One day Eleanor was sitting with the Contessa on a
loggia
in the Palazzo, looking north-west towards Radicofani. It was a cool and rather cloudy evening, after a day of gasping heat. The majordomo suddenly announced; ‘His reverence, Don Teodoro.’

The young
padre parroco
appeared—a slim, engaging figure, as he stood for an instant amid the curtains of the doorway, glancing at the two ladies with an expression at once shy and confiding.

He received the Contessa’s greeting with effusion, bowing low over her hand. When she introduced him to the English lady, he bowed again ceremoniously. But his blue eyes lost their smile. The gesture was formal, the look constrained. Eleanor, remembering Father Benecke, understood.

In conversation with the Contessa however he recovered a boyish charm and spontaneity that seemed to be characteristic. Eleanor watched him with admiration, noticing also the subtle discernment of the Italian, which showed through all his simplicity of manner. It was impossible to mistake, for instance, that he felt himself in a house of mourning. The movements of body and voice were all at first subdued and sympathetic. Yet the mourning had passed into a second stage, and ordinary topics might now be introduced. He glided into them with the most perfect tact.

He had come for two reasons. First, to announce his appointment as Select Preacher for the coming Advent at a well-known church in Rome; secondly, to bring to the Contessa’s notice a local poet—gifted, but needy—an Orvieto man, whose Muse the clergy had their own reasons for cultivating.

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
naivete
, 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, e 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.’

Both speakers had grown a little pale.

‘I have nothing to do with the Italy of Venti Settembre,’ said the priest, twisting and untwisting his long fingers in a nervous passion. ‘That Italy has three marks of distinction before Europe—by which you may know her.’

‘And those—?’ said the Contessa, calm and challenging.

‘Debt,
Eccellenza
—hunger!—crimes of blood!
Sono il suo primato—l’unico!
’

He threw at her a look sparkling and venomous. All the grace of his youth had vanished. As he sat there, Eleanor in a flash saw in him the conspirator and the firebrand that a few more years would make of him.

‘Ah!’ said the Contessa, flushing. ‘There were none of these things in the old Papal States?—under the Bourbons?—the Austrians? Well—we understand perfectly that you would destroy us if you could!’

‘
Eccellenza
, Jesus Christ and his Vicar come before the House of Savoy!’

‘Ruin us, and see what you will gain!’

‘
Eccellenza
, the Lord rules.

‘Well—well. Break the eggs—that’s easy. But whether the omelet will be as the Jesuits please—that’s another affair.’

Each combatant smiled, and drew a long breath.

‘These are our old battles,’ said the Contessa, shaking her head. ‘
Scusi!
I must go and give an order.’

And to Eleanor’s alarm, she rose and left the room.

The young priest showed a momentary embarrassment at being left alone with the strange lady. But it soon passed. He sat a moment, quieting down, with his eyes dropped, his finger-tips lightly joined upon his knee. Then he said sweetly:

‘You are perhaps not acquainted with the pictures in the Palazzo, Madame. May I offer you my services? I believe that I know the names of the portraits.’

Eleanor was grateful to him, and they wandered through the bare rooms, looking at the very doubtful works of art that they contained.

Presently, as they returned to the
salone
from which they had started, Eleanor caught sight of a fine old copy of the Raphael St. Cecilia at Bologna. The original has been much injured, and the excellence of the copy struck her. She was seized, too, with a stabbing memory of a day in the Bologna Gallery with Manisty!

She hurried across the room to look at the picture. The priest followed her.

‘Ah! that, Madame,’ he said with enthusiasm—that is a
capolavoro
. It is by Michael Angelo.’

Eleanor looked at him in astonishment. ‘This one? It is a copy, Padre, of Raphael’s St. Cecilia at Bologna—a very interesting and early copy.’

Don Teodoro frowned. He went up to look at it doubtfully, pushing out his lower lip.

‘Oh! no, Madame,’ he said, returning to her, and speaking with a soft yet obstinate complacency. ‘Pardon me—but you are mistaken. That is an original work of the great Michael Angelo.’

Eleanor said no more.

When the Contessa returned, Eleanor took up a volume of French translations from the Greek Anthology that the Contessa had lent her the day before. She restored the dainty little book to its mistress, pointing to some of her favourites.

The
parroco’s
face fell as he listened.

‘Ah!—these are from the Greek!’ he said, looking down modestly, as the Contessa handed him the book. ‘I spent five years,
Eccellenza
, in learning Greek, but—!’ He shrugged his shoulders gently.

Then glancing from one lady to the other, he said with a deprecating smile:

‘I could tell you some things. I could explain what some of the Greek words in Italian come from—“mathematics,” for instance.’

He gave the Greek word with a proud humility, emphasising each syllable.

‘“Economy”—“theocracy”—“aristocracy.”’

The Greek came out like a child’s lesson. He was not always sure; he corrected himself once or twice; and at the end he threw back his head with a little natural pride.

But the ladies avoided looking either at him or each other.

Eleanor thought of Father Benecke; of the weight of learning on that silver head. Yet Benecke was an outcast, and this youth was already on the ladder of promotion.

When he departed the Contessa threw up her hands.

‘And that man is just appointed Advent Preacher at one of the greatest churches in Rome!’

Then she checked herself.

‘At the same time, Madame,’ she said, looking a little stiffly at Eleanor, ‘we have learned priests—many of them.’

Eleanor hastened to assent. With what heat had Manisty schooled her during the winter to the recognition of Catholic learning, within its own self-chosen limits!

‘It is this deplorable Seminary education!’ sighed the Contessa. ‘How is one half of the nation ever to understand the other? They speak a different language. Imagine all our scientific education on the one side, and this—this dangerous innocent on the other! And yet we all want religion—we all want some hope beyond this life.’

Her strong voice broke. She turned away, and Eleanor could only see the massive outline of head and bust, and the coils of grey hair.

Mrs. Burgoyne drew her chair nearer to the Contessa. Silently and timidly she laid a hand upon her knee.

‘I can’t understand,’ she said in a low voice, ‘how you have had the patience to be kind to us, these last weeks!’

‘Do you know why?’ said the Contessa, turning round upon her, and no longer attempting to conceal the tears upon her fine old face.

‘No—tell me!’

‘It was because Emilio loved the English. He once spent a very happy summer in England.
I—I
don’t know whether he was in love with anyone. But, at any rate, he looked back to it with deep feeling. He always did everything that he could for any English person—and especially in these wilds. I have known him often take trouble that seemed to me extravagant or quixotic. But he always would. And when I saw you in the
Sassetto
that day, I knew exactly what he would have done. You looked so delicate—and I remembered how rough the convent was. I had hardly spoken to anybody but Teresa since the news came, but I could not help speaking to you.’

Eleanor pressed her hand. After a pause she said gently: