Stories from Italy

Front matter

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Class _/

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Chapter II

He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small,

Who dares not put it to the touch To gain or lose it all.

Montrose.

EVILACQUA, accustomed from long practice in military life to early rising, was up at the dawn, wandering over the mountains, and back in the convent grounds by seven o’clock. He was going through the wood near the house when he heard a little voice, which was something different from that of the birds, but quite as sweet to his ear. “ La mia rondinella / ” he whispered to his moustache as he hid himself behind a tree. From this post of observation he peeped through the foliage, and beheld, with a lover’s rapture, a little lady seated upon a wall under the shade of a tree, with her back partly towards him, in a white gown sprinkled with violets. He knew the dress and he knew the mass of glossy brown hair, without braids, or curls, or frizzes, simply rolled up at the back of the head with a comb. She had a book on her lap, from which she was committing something to memory.

Bevilacqua’s heart beat faster when she turned her head a little in his direction, and he hardly dared move, lest he might startle his “ little swallow.” The words she was repeating in her pretty foreign accents were the first lines of Dante’s most beautiful sonnet to Beatrice, —

Having read these lines, she put her hand on the page, lifted her eyes to the wood and repeated them again ; then she returned to the book, and so continued to the end of the poem. The eavesdropper felt every line of the exquisite sonnet was applicable to her.

1 So gentle and modest does my lady appear when she stops to salute others, that every tongue becomes trembling and silent, and eyes dare not gaze on her.

Finding his ambush undiscovered, he grew bolder and advanced cautiously nearer to the wall. Captain Bevilacqua’s ordinary walk was a “ march,” and it seemed impossible for him to move lightly or noiselessly. He went on tiptoe, but he trod on a bramble and made a rustling sound, which caused Amy to turn her head quickly and behold him looking guilty as a spy.

“ Oh, buon giorno, Signor Capitano.”

Bevilacqua drew himself up, placed his heels together, and doffed his plumed hat with a profound salutation.

“ Scusi, Signorina. I had not intended to interrupt your studies. I tried to pass unperceived, but the bramble betrayed me.”

“ It does not matter in the least,” she replied, with a smile, which encouraged him to lay his arm on the wall and say :

“ Can I help you with your lesson ? n

“ If you would correct my pronunciation, which is my weak point,” said Amy, “ and if you don’t mind hearing the divine poet murdered — ”

“ Che , che / It is an infinite pleasure, nothing I enjoy more,” said the bersagliere.

“ What a heretical Italian you must be,” 3 33 laughed the girl. “ My professor says he suffers dreadfully listening to his pupils mangling Dante.”

“ Ah, yes; I understand that,” returned the captain, recovering himself. “ But there is a great difference in pupils.”

“ I am one of the worst, I assure you,” she replied, handing him the book, which he laid back on her lap. “ You know it by heart? ”

“ What Italian worthy of the name does not?” he replied.

Amy repeated the first six lines without a blunder, then she paused and cast down her eyes. If her teacher had been reading instead of looking at her, she would have got on better.

“ You must not refer to the book,” he said, covering the page with his hand.

She then fixed her eyes steadily on an olive tree, and got to the end of the fourteen lines without much prompting.

“ Bravissima /” said the captain.

“ But you did not correct my pronunciation,” she said.

“ I did not perceive any particular defect but a general slurring of the letter r”

“ I observe,” replied Amy, “ that you roll 34 your r 9 s with great force. Will you let me hear you repeat the sonnet?”

Bevilacqua liked nothing better. As he recited the beautiful poem, he felt he was describing the little lady by his side : his face lit up and his deep voice took a tone of tender expression in the last few lines, which she attributed to his enthusiasm for Dante. There was a momentous pause, in which he felt inclined to follow up the advantage which the poetry had given him, and tell her that she was his Beatrice. When would he have such a delightful chance again ? If he had not the spirit to speak now, and combat her foolish fancy for a convent, she might be lost to him for ever.

“ Courage ! ” he said within himself. “ Nothing venture, nothing win.”

But our hero, who had so many medals for valor in the field, was a very coward in the presence of the girl he loved. When he looked at her with his soul in his eyes, he saw no responsive light in hers. Her soft, dreamy, gray eyes seemed to look beyond him into the wood. He ruffled the leaves of her book with nervous hand, hardly conscious of what he was doing, and remained silent.

“ Don’t spoil the corners,” said Amy, with a playful smile, laying her pretty hand on the book and pushing his away.

The touch of her fingers sent an electric thrill through him, and if he had to be shot for it the next hour, he could not help enclosing them in his broad palm for a moment, as he said :

“ Pardon ; I am only a rough soldier. I cannot handle things daintily.”

He thought he observed the roseate hue which the morning breeze had brought to his madonnina’s delicate cheek, deepen a little : but he might have been mistaken. While a hundred fond words were surging in his heart, and he had not courage to give utterance to one of them, Amy rose, and standing on the stone bench which had served her as a footstool while sitting on the wall, she said :

“ I think it is time to go.”

“Have you had a walk this morning?”

“I tried to find the little chapel in the boscoy but did not succeed.”

“ Oh, let me conduct you to it ; I have just passed it,” said the captain.

“ Is it far? ”

“Two steeps,” replied he, eagerly.

The Italian “ two steps ” may possibly extend half a mile. Amy stepped up on the wall, which, low on her side, on the captain’s was between four and five feet. She was about to leap, but he, not knowing how English girls are accustomed to outdoor exercise, and how his madonnina, small and delicate as she looked, used to scud over moor and mountain in all weathers, could not permit her to hurt her little feet, and passing his arm round her waist, lifted her to the ground as easily as if she were a child.

“ It is too high ; you might have been hurt,” he said apologetically, fearing he had been too audacious.

Amy sped down the path, not waiting for her cavalier to clear the brambles out of her way, but hopping over them like a fay.

“ I am going to ask you an impertinent question,” said Amy, as they walked side by side. “ Will you answer it ? ”

“ Most willingly. No question of yours could be impertinent.”

“ How did you come by the name of Douglas Scotti? Had you a Scotchman for a godfather? ”

“It is my mother’s name.”

“Is she Scotch? ” asked Amy.

“ No, Italian, if a residence of four hundred years makes a family indigenous of the soil. My maternal ancestor was a Douglas, and in Italy it was much the habit to sign the nationality after the name, so in time it became part of it.”

“Ah! I thought it must be so,” returned Amy. “ It is interesting to trace national characteristics which have survived four hundred years after transplantation. I fancy I have perceived some Scottish traits in you.”

“ Indeed ! I thought I was Italianissimo . The Bevilacquas have been pure Piedmontese blood as far back as our history dates.”

“ Yes, you are chiefly Italian ; but still you have a little touch of a Scot.”

“ May I ask what are my Scottish traits? ” inquired Bevilacqua, with much interest.

“ It is not pleasant, nor is it polite, to analyze a person’s character in his presence,” returned Amy.

“ But if he entreats you to do so as a kindness? I promise not to take ill any criticism. Pray tell me how I resemble a Scot.”

“ One point is your perfect sincerity.”

Bevilacqua, like most persons of his com- 38 plexion, colored easily ; he did so now, but not with pleasure, and said :

“You think Italians insincere then.”

“ No, I do not ; but I think the Scotch more sincere — everything is relative. I do not say it is always a virtue, for with the Scotch it sometimes degenerates into rudeness. They want the pleasant, courteous manners which everybody, high and low, has here. I protest against the habit of taking for granted that a comparison between two diverse characters must imply a reproach to one. People are too fond of describing certain attributes that they admire as cardinal virtues and the opposite as defects.”

“You have reason in what you say. Tell me if I have any other Scottish trait.”

“That I will not,” returned Amy. “My first remark roused your Italian blood, and how should I know but I might touch some sensitive spot of your organization which is still Scotch?”

“ No, no,” he replied, laughing ; “ I know I am an ass ; but have patience with me, and speak frankly, for I desire very much to hear your opinion.”

But Amy would not gratify him.

“ What a charming old place this is — just my beau ideal of a monastery,” she said. “ But the frate does not look happy ; he must be very lonely since all his company have been removed.”

“ I do not think a man of spirit or energy — that is to say, a manly man — can ever be happy in a life of inaction and idleness,” observed Bevilacqua.

“ Their life is not exactly one of idleness,” returned Amy ; “ but I grant you it is not so well adapted to men as women. To many women it is a peaceful haven of rest from the turmoil and worry and petty jealousies of society.”

“To what sort of women?” asked Bevilacqua, his bright face clouding.

“ Those who have no settled home — who have no parents to care for them or mourn them, nor any near relations — those who have suffered, who care not for society, who have quiet tastes, are fond of study, who love nature — those who like to be taken care of, and would rather be one of a large family than stand alone in solitary independence.”

Every word went straight to the heart of Douglas Bevilacqua, for he knew that Amy was describing her own condition. She had 40 lost loved parents in recent years, and had felt their loss deeply, being an only child with no near relations. She was of a quiet and studious nature, and a lover of the country father than the city. To think that she should feel lonely and desolate, and seek protection and family affection in a convent ! The thought was maddening. He burned to throw himself at her feet and tell her she was the idol of his soul, the joy of his life — that she should not, must not, sacrifice herself to a whim, a chimera. But he feared a repulse ; he had no reason to think Amy had any feeling for him except friendly regard.

“ My mother has a cousin who was a nun,’* he began slowly, u and when the convents were opened lately, and those who chose were set at liberty, she, as well as others, returned to her family. She has been staying at our house, and a more foolish, childish woman of forty I have rarely seen. She does not know how to buy her own clothes, and she is afraid of every one she meets on the road. She would be terribly shocked if she saw you running about through the wood. Love of nature is crushed in the convent, for the nuns live indoors. As for pursuing favorite studies, it is not per- 4i mitted. Our cousin reads nothing but the lives of the saints.”

“ She may be an exceptional case,” said Amy. “ It seems to me a beautiful life, so restful and calm.”

“ Signorina, you deceive yourself if you think you could be happy in such a place,” broke in Douglas Bevilacqua, his breath coming quickly with suppressed excitement. “ You, who have been bred in a land of liberty, who have been allowed to run over your native hills free as the birds of the air, — how would you bear the imprisonment — the subjection — never to have a will of your own? ”

“ It has never troubled me to give up,” returned Amy. “ I never thought my own will of such value as to be worth a struggle.”

“ That is because you have never felt what it is to be oppressed. It is a very different thing to obey loving parents, those who have a natural right to command, from obeying the caprices of an unsympathetic stranger. I am a soldier, I, and have known how to obey as well as command. I appreciate the importance of surrendering our own will in certain circumstances. But the monastic system differs from all others in this : There is no public opinion, 42 no appeal against injustice — all is secret. It is a positive tyranny.”

“ There may be some cases of abuse.”

“ I do not speak of isolated cases. It is the system that is bad,” returned Bevilacqua, emphatically.

They had now reached the tiny chapel in the heart of the wood. He unlatched the door and threw it open for her, and though he uncovered mechanically on the threshold, he did not feel in a mood to enter. He saw Amy sink on her knees reverently before the little flower-decked altar ; saw the grotto beyond it with the statue of the Beato who had founded the monastery of Trecolli, reclining gracefully with his head on a stone pillow, the white marble gleaming out of the gloom — all making a pretty picture, which, at another time, would have touched him, but he was too much perturbed now to dwell on it. He turned away, and leaning against the pillar of the door, with his eyes fixed on the ground, abandoned himself to a painful reverie. She was lost to him, then, his madonnina !

The Church had laid her tenacious grip upon her, and there was no hope for him. He never knew till now how much he had counted on winning her. Life without her would be desolation ; and for her, his beloved, what a fate ! If she were sure of happiness even —

A light step near him interrupted his gloomy reflections, and, on lifting his head, he beheld the frate’s eyes fixed on him with a keen interest.

“ Ah, buon giorno , padre” he said, rousing himself and shaking out the feathers of his hat before replacing it on his head. “ The Signorina Amy wanted to see your little chapel and I undertook to lead her to it.”

“ I saw you passing through the wood and knew where to seek you. Felice giorno , Signorina; how do you like the chapel?” he added as Amy joined them.

“Very much. It is charming in its simplicity.”

“ After breakfast I will show you the church of the monastery. Come with me now, for the coffee is ready,” and he led them by a short cut to the house, where they found breakfast awaiting them, and the rest of the party assembled in the sa/a. After the meal had been despatched, the captain followed the host and the rest of the company in moody 44 silence to the church, looked at the fine pictures and frescos, the gorgeous colored marbles and gold chasing that adorned the altars, the finely carved wood that composed the choir, and turned away in deep disgust from it all — thinking how many miserable men immured in this prison house had eaten their hearts out, while working year after year.

Later, when the frate had despatched some business and had an hour to dedicate to his guests, he was persuaded to sit for his portrait to Miss Burney. They placed themselves in the cool shade of the cloister, and here Bevilacqua found them — Janet painting, Amy working embroidery, and the frate reading aloud. The trio looked happy, and as homelike as it was possible to look in a cloister, for they had brought out chairs and stools. They called to Bevilacqua to join them, which he did, taking a seat near the portrait painter. Miss Burney laid down her brush, pushed back her fair frizzy hair with long white fingers — the fingers of an artist — looked at the captain meditatively a moment, and then returned to her model.

“ Fra Gualberto, I ’ll trouble you to lay 45 down your book and look in this direction — not at me : at Captain Bevilacqua — that is right ; turn your head a little more — so.”

“ Shall I read while you rest, padre?” asked the bersagliere , reaching his hand for the book. La Vita di San Francesco was the title that met his eye, an inoffensive work, one might suppose.

The soldier suppressed an oath, but exclaimed, “ Per carita /” emphatically, as he slapped the book down on his knee. The look of surprise that three pair of eyes bent on him — Janet’s with a touch of mirthful humor, the madonnina’s with a gentle reproach, and the slightly disturbed expression in the frate’s — awakened him to a sense of his rudeness to the latter, and, like a true gentleman, he hastened to apologize as well as he could.

“ You must excuse me, I meant no offence by my exclamation. But we have in our house a nun who left her convent some time ago, and she is always reading the life of this saint ; she pursued me with it continually, reading me choice passages, till she made my life a burden, and I almost wished — with all reverence be it spoken — that Brother Wolf 46 with whom St. Francis made the treaty of peace, had eaten him up. You can imagine, then, my surprise on meeting with the book here the first thing.”

“ It was not of my choosing — the ladies wished for it,” said Fra Gualberto.

“ It was most natural to want to read the life of St. Francis in a monastery,” returned the captain. “And now I have made my confession, I again ask pardon for my rude exclamation, and I am ready to do penance by reading the chapter about Brother Wolf or the sermon to the Sister Birds.”

“We hold you absolved,” replied the frate, a sly smile playing round his expressive mouth, “ on condition that you read us something else from a work of your own choice.”

“ What author? ” asked the captain, glancing at Amy, who promptly replied, “ Dante.” Bevil’acqua was a good elocutionist, he had a fine voice, and he read, con amore , the whole of the first canto of the “ Inferno.” He enjoyed it himself as much as his hearers. Then he handed the volume to Gualberto, asking him to read a passage. The frate without a moment’s hesitation turned to the story of Francesca di Rimini, as if he were as familiar with 47 it as with the lives of the saints, and delivered it with a dramatic power of expression which charmed his audience.

“ Bravissimo / ” cried Bevilacqua, “ I have heard the passage a hundred times, but never more admirably delivered. I am glad I objected to St. Francis since it has procured us this pleasure.”

Gualberto bowed his thanks, while the color faded from his cheek, and he settled into his normal calm. Meantime Janet’s busy fingers had been hard at work. During the Dante recitation she had caught in her model’s eyes the spark of living fire for which she had been looking, while his voice had lost the monotonous melancholy tone, and vibrated with emotion. Elated by the discovery, and eager to infuse this look if possible into his portrait, while she listened to the poetry and enjoyed it, she had been laboring under a sort of excitement which left her exhausted before the mid-day meal was ready. “ I am tired,” she said, “ yet I am unwilling to leave off. I fear it will be a very imperfect sketch after all,” and she sighed.

“ Signorina, I do not know why you should wish to paint a poor old monk like me. But 48 since it is your whim and that of madame, I am at your disposition at any hour.”

“ But we are going away this evening.”

“ Would you like to remain another day ? ” asked Gualberto.

“ I would, indeed. Mrs. Burney wished particularly for this sketch as a souvenir of our delightful visit, and I might make something of it if I had another day ; but I fear we are intruding too much and detaining you from your occupations.”

“ By no means. I am up at five, and do most of my business before breakfast ; then I have the afternoon again for my affairs. Do you wish to remain also, Signorina?” he said, addressing Amy.

“ Ah, I should be so glad ! ”

“ And you, Signor Capitano? ”

“ I have no wish that does not accord with that of the ladies,” was the polite rejoinder. “ I think it is a pity if Miss Janet cannot finish her little picture, and I know my friend Burney has no hope of completing his to-day.”

“ Let us all come, then, with a petition to the Signora to postpone the departure, the day is so beautiful,” said Fra Gualberto.

Chapter III

Oh, think, when a hero is wooing, What danger in such an adorer !

What maid has the heart to refuse The hand that lays laurels before her ?

Moore.

IGHT days had elapsed since our travellers had alighted at the gate of Trecolli. On the second day of their sojourn they had sent to the city for some additions to their wardrobe by a contadinOy repairing thither on his own business with a bullock cart ; and being thus supplied with necessaries, they were in no hurry to take their departure. Though every day was supposed to be the last, there was always found some reason for postponing the journey till the morrow. Arthur Burney, who revelled in the scenery, had finished two sketches, and begun a third on a little height above the monastery. 5 °

Janet’s portrait of the frate grew apace, and promised to be a fair success. He gave her a sitting of two hours every morning in the cloisters, her favorite resort, always donning his white robe, which she preferred to the black one. She had brought her materials with her, and the frate himself had put together a rough little easel for her use. Mrs. Burney and Amy, with books and work, generally kept them company. The bersagliere , who required three times as much exercise as the rest of the party, used to rise early and make long excursions over the mountains to different villages, running for an hour at a time according to the practice of his corps, — the most robust and best disciplined in the Italian army. The captain was a zealous officer, and devoted to the mental and moral improvement of the men under his charge, as well as to their physical development, and had lofty ideas about the mission of the army as a means of civilization and education, and a cementer of the national unity. It was rarely he allowed himself such pleasant idleness as he now enjoyed, and it seemed all the sweeter in consequence.

He generally strolled into the cloisters the last hour of the sitting, when the frate, who 5 1 had been reading aloud for the most part of it, used to hand him the book, and settle himself in an attitude of graceful repose, quietly observant of the others. He was not fidgety or impatient ; it did not seem to matter to him how long or how short a time he sat. If the painter were in a social mood, he talked very agreeably; if she were disposed to work silently, he read, unless she required him to look up. Amy used sometimes to make excursions into the fine old chapel and the ghostly library, with its parchment volumes bound in brass, which she examined with a reverent awe.

One morning she came into the cloister where the rest were assembled — all but Mr. Burney, who was as usual out on his own business — and on being asked where she had been exploring, she replied that she had visited the convent prison in company with one of the lay brothers.

“Why did he conduct you there?” asked Fra Gualberto, a little annoyed.

“ I asked him,” she replied. “ I am curious about it.”

“ And what sort of place is it, Amy ? ” asked Janet, throwing back her head to look criti- 52 cally at the slender brown hand which supported the book in her picture, and then glancing at the original.

“ A horrid place, like all prisons. Has it ever been used in your time, Padre Gualberto? ”

“ Very rarely.”

“ For what offence ? ” asked Amy.

“ Insubordination.”

“ It is the one unpardonable sin in conventual life,” observed Captain Bevilacqua.

“ Is it not punished severely in the army? ” said Fra Gualberto, in a voice so melancholy and gentle that it took off the sharp edge of the retort. And Bevilacqua had to acknowledge that it was so, and could not be otherwise.

It had become the custom of the little party to take a walk all together every evening. Fra Gualberto had at first withdrawn himself at this hour, but his guests would not admit of his absenting himself; Mr. Burney, who was out sketching all day, protesting that as that was the only time he had his host’s company, he would not go without him. In fact, he was made to feel that he was indispensable to the happiness of the party, so he yielded to their persuasions, and seemed to enjoy those pleas- 53 ant rambles. In constant intercourse in such an isolated spot, they became in the course of a week not only friendly, but intimate.

The evening of the same day in which Amy had spoken of visiting the prison, all went out for the customary walk ; and returning in the twilight, they had to cross the bed of a little mountain torrent, now almost dry, but still with water enough to make a couple of bowlders useful as stepping-stones. The gentlemen had moved one of these to a convenient distance for the ladies, and Mrs. Burney had been safely piloted across by the bersagliere on one side and her husband on the other, the frate standing behind to see them all over before him. With his assistance, Amy mounted on the round bowlder, gave the tips of her fingers to the captain, and bounded across without touching the second stone even with her toe.

“ Brava /” cried Bevilacqua, lost in admiration of the activity of English ladies.

“Miss Burke is a regular mountain deer,” said Burney, “ but you need not suppose that all our ladies are equal to her. Here is Emma, my wife, who would not take that leap to save her life, I do believe.”

The frate then helped Janet to the stepping- 54 stone, but before she could give her hand to Bevilacqua at the other side, her foot slipped and went down in a hole ; her tall slender figure swayed backwards, and she would have fallen had not Gualberto been there to catch her. They carried her across to smooth ground, and laid her down on the turf for a little while, till the pain of her foot had almost passed. They were not far from the monastery, and she was able to walk home, leaning on her cousin’s arm. This little accident had made their return somewhat late, and the moonlight began to mingle with the dim twilight before they arrived.

Bevilacqua, seeing Gualberto and Mrs. Burney walking abreast with Arthur and Janet, and all four engaged in conversation, seized the occasion which he had been looking for to speak privately to his fair friend, who had a most artful way of eluding him without appearing ungracious.