Part 43 (1/2)
”That is not reasonable,” Marcello said.
”It is truth,” she answered.
”But how?”
”How! I feel it, here!”
Her hands sprang to life and pressed her bosom, her voice rang deep and her eyes flashed, as if she were impatient of his misunderstanding.
He tried to laugh gently.
”But if I want to marry you, it is because I mean never to part from you,” he said.
”No!” she cried. ”It is because you are afraid that you will leave me, unless you are bound to me.”
”Regina!” Marcello protested, by his tone.
”It is as I say. It is because you are honourable. It is because you wish to be faithful. It is because you want to be true. But what do I care for honour, or faith, or truth, if I can only have them of you because you are tied to me? I only want love. That is everything. I want it, but I have never asked it of you, and never shall. Is love money, that you can take it out of your purse and give it? Is love a string, that the priest and the mayor can tie the ends so that they can never come undone? I do not know what it is, but it is not that!”
She laughed scornfully, as if she were angry at the thought. But Marcello had made up his mind, and was obstinate.
”We must be married at once,” he said quietly, and fully believing that he could impose his will upon hers. ”If I had not been weak and foolish, we should have been married long ago. But for a long time after my illness I had no will of my own. I am sorry. It was my fault.”
”It was not your fault, it was the illness, and it was my will. If I had said, any day in those first two years, 'Make me your wife, for I wish to be a real signora,' would you not have done it?”
”You know I would.”
”But I would not, and I will not now. I am not a real signora. I am beautiful--yes, I see that. Am I blind when I look into my gla.s.s? I am very beautiful. We have not often met any woman in our travels as beautiful as I am. Am I blind? I have black hair, like the common people, but my hair is not coa.r.s.e, like a mule's tail. It is as fine as silk. My eyes are black, and that is common too; but my eyes are not like those of the buffaloes in the Campagna, as the other women's are where I was born. And I am not dark-skinned; I am as white as the snow on Monte Cavo, as white as the milk in the pan. Also I have been told that I have beautiful feet, though I cannot tell why. They are small, this is the truth, and my hands are like those of a signora. But I am not a real signora, though I have all this. How can you marry me? None of your friends would speak to me, because I have not even been an honest girl. That was for you, but they do not count love. Your servants at the villa would laugh at you behind your back, and say, 'The master has married one of us!' Do you think I could bear that? Tell me what you think! Am I of stone, to bear that people should laugh at you?”
She took breath at last and leaned back again, folding her arms and fixing her splendid eyes on his face, and challenging him to answer her.
”We will go and live in Calabria, at San Domenico, for a while,” he said. ”We need not live in Rome at all, unless we please, for we have the whole world before us.”
”We saw the world together without being married,” Regina answered obstinately. ”What difference would there be, if we were husband and wife? Do you wish to know what difference there would be? I will tell you. There would be this difference. One day I should see no light in your eyes, and your lips would be like stone. Then I should say, 'Heart of my heart, you are tired of me, and I go.' But you would answer, 'You cannot go, for you are my wife.' What would that be? That would be the difference. Do you understand, or do you not understand? If you do not understand, I can do nothing. But I will not marry you. Have you ever seen a mule go down to the ford in spring, too heavily laden, when there is freshet? He drowns, if he is driven in, because the burden is too heavy. I will not be the burden; but I should be, if I were your wife, because I am not a real signora. Now you know what I think.”
”Yes,” Marcello answered, ”but I do not think in the same way.”
He was not sure how to answer her arguments, and he lit a cigarette to gain time. He was quietly determined to have his own way, but in order to succeed he knew that he must persuade her till she agreed with him.
He could not drag her to the altar against her will.
Before he had thrown away the match, Regina had risen from her chair.
She leaned against the little marble mantelpiece, looking down at him.
”There are things that you do not know,” she said. ”If you knew them you would not want to marry me. In all the time we have been together, you have hardly ever spoken to me of your mother.”
Marcello started a little and looked up, unconsciously showing that he was displeased.
”No,” he answered. ”Why should I?”
”You were right. Your mother is now one of the saints in Paradise. How do I know it? Even Settimia knew it. I am not going to talk of her now.