Part 41 (1/2)
What is it the English poet Swinburne says--
”I shall never be friends again with roses!”
My wife wore them always: even on that night when I had seen her clasped in Guido's arms, a red rose on her breast had been crushed in that embrace--a rose whose withered leaves I still possess. In the forest solitude where I now dwell there are no roses--and I am glad!
The trees are too high, the tangle of bramble and coa.r.s.e brushwood too dense--nothing grows here but a few herbs and field flowers--weeds unfit for wearing by fine ladies, yet to my taste infinitely sweeter than all the tenderly tinted cups of fragrance, whose colors and odors are spoiled to me forever. I am unjust, say you? the roses are innocent of evil? True enough, but their perfume awakens memory, and--I strive always to forget!
I reached my hotel that evening to find that I was an hour late for dinner, an unusual circ.u.mstance, which had caused Vincenzo some disquietude, as was evident from the relieved expression of his face when I entered. For some days the honest fellow had watched me with anxiety; my abstracted moods, the long solitary walks I was in the habit of taking, the evenings I pa.s.sed in my room writing, with the doors locked--all this behavior on my part exercised his patience, I have no doubt, to the utmost limit, and I could see he had much ado to observe his usual discretion and tact, and refrain from asking questions. On this particular occasion I dined very hastily, for I had promised to join my wife and two of her lady friends at the theater that night.
When I arrived there, she was already seated in her box, looking radiantly beautiful. She was attired in some soft, sheeny, clinging primrose stuff, and the brigand's jewels I had given her through Guido's hands, flashed brilliantly on her uncovered neck and arms. She greeted me with her usual child-like enthusiasm as I entered, bearing the customary offering--a costly bouquet, set in a holder of mother-of-pearl studded with turquois, for her acceptance. I bowed to her lady friends, both of whom I knew, and then stood beside her watching the stage. The comedietta played there was the airiest trifle--it turned on the old worn-out story--a young wife, an aged, doting husband, and a lover whose principles were, of course, of the ”n.o.blest” type. The husband was fooled (naturally), and the chief amus.e.m.e.nt of the piece appeared to consist in his being shut out of his own house in dressing-gown and slippers during a pelting storm of rain, while his spouse (who was particularly specified as ”pure”) enjoyed a luxurious supper with her highly moral and virtuous admirer. My wife laughed delightedly at the poor jokes and the stale epigrams, and specially applauded the actress who successfully supported the chief role. This actress, by the way, was a saucy, brazen-faced jade, who had a trick of flas.h.i.+ng her black eyes, tossing her head, and heaving her ample bosom tumultuously whenever she hissed out the words Vecchiaccio maladetto [Footnote: Accursed, villainous old monster.] at her discomfited husband, which had an immense effect on the audience--an audience which entirely sympathized with her, though she was indubitably in the wrong. I watched Nina in some derision as she nodded her fair head and beat time to the music with her painted fan. I bent over her.
”The play pleases you?” I asked, in a low tone.
”Yes, indeed!” she answered, with a laughing light in her eyes. ”The husband is so droll! It is all very amusing.”
”The husband is always droll!” I remarked, smiling coldly. ”It is not a temptation to marry when one knows that as a husband one must always look ridiculous.”
She glanced up at me.
”Cesare! You surely are not vexed? Of course it is only in plays that it happens so!”
”Plays, cara mia, are often nothing but the reflex of real life,” I said. ”But let us hope there are exceptions, and that all husbands are not fools.”
She smiled expressively and sweetly, toyed with the flowers I had given her, and turned her eyes again to the stage. I said no more, and was a somewhat moody companion for the rest of the evening. As we all left the theater one of the ladies who had accompanied Nina said lightly:
”You seem dull and out of spirits, conte?”
I forced a smile.
”Not I, signora! Surely you do not find me guilty of such ungallantry?
Were I dull in YOUR company I should prove myself the most ungrateful of my s.e.x.”
She sighed somewhat impatiently. She was very young and very lovely, and, as far as I knew, innocent, and of a more thoughtful and poetical temperament than most women.
”That is the mere language of compliment,” she said, looking straightly at me with her clear, candid eyes. ”You are a true courtier! Yet often I think your courtesy is reluctant.”
I looked at her in some surprise.
”Reluctant? Signora, pardon me if I do not understand!”
”I mean,” she continued, still regarding me steadily, though a faint blush warmed the clear pallor of her delicate complexion, ”that you do not really like us women; you say pretty things to us, and you try to be amiable in our company, but you are in truth averse to our ways--you are sceptical--you think we are all hypocrites.”
I laughed a little coldly.
”Really, signora, your words place me in a very awkward position. Were I to tell you my real sentiments--”
She interrupted me with a touch of her fan on my arm, and smiled gravely.
”You would say, 'Yes, you are right, signora. I never see one of your s.e.x without suspecting treachery.' Ah, Signor Conte, we women are indeed full of faults, but nothing can blind our instinct!” She paused, and her brilliant eyes softened as she added gently, ”I pray your marriage may be a very happy one.”