Frances Minto Dickinson Elliot

“ Enrica's face is in shadow, but, as she raises it and sees the cavaliere seated beside her aunt, a quiet smile plays about her mouth, and a gleam of pleasure rises in her eyes.
What is it that makes youth in Italy so fresh and beautiful—so lithe, erect, and strong? What gives that lustre to the eye, that ripple to the hair, that faultless mould to the features, that mellowness to the skin—like the ruddy rind of the pomegranate—those rounded limbs that move with sovereign ease—that step, as of gods treading the earth? ”

“ No, Enrica could never be his; no child of his would ever be encircled by those soft, womanly arms! With a strong effort to shake off the feeling which so deeply moved him, the count continued:
"In the boundless realms of ideal philosophy"—his noble features were at this moment lit up into the living image of that hero he so much resembled—"man grapples hand to hand with the unseen. There are no limits to his glorious aspirations. He is as God himself. He, too, becomes a Creator; and a new and purer world forms beneath his hand."
"Have you done?" asked Trenta, looking up out of the arm-chair. ”

“ And a great spasm passed over the cavaliere's frame. "You must prepare yourself for the worst."
The marchesa laughed—a short, contemptuous laugh—and shrugged her shoulders.
"Enrica, Enrica—what can she do?—a child! She cannot compromise me, or my name."
"Enrica has compromised both," cried Trenta, roused at last from his paroxysm of grief. "Enrica has more than compromised it; she has compromised all the Guinigi that ever lived—you, the palace, herself—every one. Enrica has a lover!" The marchesa bounded from her chair; her face turned livid in the waning light. ”

“ This is enough for the marchesa. As in the palace of Lucca, she still—even at lonely Corellia—lives as it were under the shadow of that great ancestral name.
Lonely Corellia! Yes, it is lonely! The church bells, high up in the Lombard tower sound loudly the matins and the eventide. They sound louder still on the saints days and festivals. With the festivals pass summer and winter, both dreary to the poor. Children are born, and marriage-flutes wake the echoes of the mountain solitudes—and mothers weep, hearing them, remembering their young days and present pinching want. ”

“ Following close on Count Marescotti comes Count Nobili. There are ease and conscious strength and freedom in his every movement. He pauses for a moment on the uppermost step under the central arch of the atrium and gazes round. The sun strikes upon his fresh-complexioned face and lights up his fair hair and restless eyes.—It is clear to see no care has yet troubled that curly head of his.—Nobili is closely followed by a lady of mature age, dark, thin, and sharp-featured. She has a glass in her eye, with which she peers at every thing and everybody. This is the Marchesa Boccarini. ”

“ At the hottest moment of the twenty-four hours, and in the dog-days, when the rays of a scalding sun pour down upon roof and wall and tower like molten lead, searching out each crack and cranny with cruel persistence, the marchesa was wont stealthily to descend into the very bowels, as it were, of that great body corporate, the Guinigi Palace—to see with her own eyes if her orders were obeyed. With hard words, and threats of instant dismissal, she aroused her sleeping household. No refuge could hide an offender—no hole, however dark, could conceal so much as a kitchen-boy. ”

“ A figure is standing within the light that streams out from the door, a very well-remembered figure, stout and short—a little bent forward on a stick—with a round, rosy face framed in snowy curls, a world of pleasant wickedness in two twinkling eyes, on which the light strikes, and a mouth puckered up for any mischief.
"Madonna!" cries Pipa, rubbing her eyes—"the cavaliere! How you did frighten me! I cannot bear to hear footsteps about when Adamo is out;" and Pipa gazes up and down into the darkness with an unpleasant consciousness that something ghostly might be watching her. ”

“ Why has God given her none? Again the impious thought rises within her which tempted her when standing before the marriage-bed in the nuptial chamber. "God is my enemy." "He has smitten me with a curse." "Why have I no child?" "No child, nothing but her"—and she flashes a savage glance at Enrica, who has sunk backward, covering her tear-stained face with a black veil, to avoid the peering eyes of the Corellia townsfolk—"nothing but her. Born to disgrace me. Would she were dead! Then all would end, and I should go down—the last Guinigi—to an honored grave." ”

“ Enrica listened to him in painful silence; his words sounded prophetic.
"To love and to suffer; but, loving once"—again the count was speaking, and his voice enchained her by its sweetness—"to love forever. Where shall the man be found pure enough to dare to accept such love as you can bestow? By Heavens!" he added, and his voice fell to a whisper, and his black eyes seemed to penetrate into her very soul, "you love already. I read it in the depths of those heavenly eyes, in the shadow that already darkens that soft brow, in the dreamy, languid air that robs you of your youth. ”

“ Right or wrong, the marchesa is a woman born to command.
"It is not for me," she says, with lofty composure, "to reason with a love-sick girl, whose mind runs to the tune of her lover's name. Of all living men I abhor Count Nobili. To love him, in my eyes, is a crime—yes, a crime," she repeats, raising her voice, seeing that Enrica is about to speak. "I know him—he is a vain, purse-proud reprobate. He has come and planted himself like a mushroom within our ancient walls. Nor did this content him—he has had the presumption to lodge himself in a Guinigi palace. The blood in his veins is as mud. ”

“ But Enrica shrank from compliance, with a secret sense that she had no right to do what he asked; no right to marry without her aunt's consent. Her love was her own to give. She had thought it all out for herself, pacing up and down under the cool marble arcades of the Moorish garden, the splash of the fountain in her ears—Teresa had told her the same—her love was her own to give. What had her aunt done for her, her sister's child, but feed and clothe her? Indeed, as Teresa said, the marchesa had done but little else. ”

“ Men had been her special study. Nera was only twenty-four, but she was clever, and would have excelled in any thing she pleased. To draw men to her, as the magnet draws the needle, was the passion of her life; whether she cared for them or not, to draw them. Not to succeed argued a want of skill. That maddened her. She was keen and hot upon the scent, knocking over her man as a sportsman does his bird, full in the breast. Her aim was marriage. Count Nobili would have suited her exactly. She had felt for him a warmth that rarely quickened her pulses. Nobili had evaded her. ”

“ A puff of wind from the open door for an instant raised the smoke and sparks; in that instant Adamo sees a dark heap lying on the floor close to the door. It is the marchesa. "Is she dead or alive?" He cannot stop to tell. He raises her. She lay within his arms. Her dark dress, though not consumed, strikes hot against his chest. Not an instant is to be lost. The fresh rush of air up the stairs has fanned the flames. Every moment they are rising higher. They redden on the dark rafters of the ceiling. ”

“ Every dancer stops. They gather round her where she lies. Her face is turned upward, her eyes are set and glassy, her cheeks are ashen.
"Holy Virgin!" cries Nobili, in a voice of anguish, "I have killed her!" He casts himself on the floor beside her—he raises her in his strong arms. "Air, air!—give her air, or she will die!" he cries.
Putting every one aside, he carries Nera to the nearest window, he lays her tenderly on a sofa. It is the very spot where he had kissed her—under the fiery shadow of the red curtain. Alas! Nobili is sobered now from the passion of that moment. ”

“ In these few and simple words Enrica had tried all her powers of persuasion. The words were addressed to the priest; but her blue eyes, filled with tears, gathered themselves upon the marchesa imploringly. Enrica awaited her fate in silence. The priest rose and gently replaced her on her chair. All the benevolence of his manly nature was called forth. He cast a searching glance at the marchesa. Nothing betrayed her feelings.
"Calm yourself, Enrica," Fra Pacifico said, soothingly. "No one seeks to hurry or to force you. But I could not for a moment sanction your entering a convent. ”

“ Cavaliere Trenta found Count Nobili and Fra Pacifico awaiting the marchesa's summons. Behind them, at a respectful distance, stood Ser Giacomo, the notary from Corellia. Streamlets pure as crystal ran bubbling down beside them in marble runnels; statues of gods and goddesses balanced each other, on pedestals, at the angles where the steps turned. In front, on the gravel, a pair of peacocks strutted, spreading their gaudy tails in the sunshine. ”

“ Trenta's shrill voice had risen into a kind of wail. "Do you mean to doubt what I told you at Lucca? I swear to you that Enrica never knew that she was offered in marriage to Count Marescotti—I swear it!—I did it—it was my fault. I persuaded the marchesa. It was I. Enrica and Count Marescotti never met but in my presence. And you revenge yourself on her? If you had the heart of a man, you could not do it!"
"It is because I have the heart of a man, I will not suffer degradation!" cried Nobili. "It is because I have the heart of a man, I will not sink into an unworthy tool! ”

“ The sparks fly about in dazzling clouds. Adamo is on the threshold. Outside it is now so dark that, spite of danger, he has to pause and feel his way downward, or he might dash his precious burden against the walls. In that pause a piercing cry from above strikes upon his ear, but in the crackling of the increasing flames and a fresh torrent of smoke and burning sparks that burst out from the room, Adamo's brain—always of the dullest—is deadened. He forgets that cry. All his thought is to save his mistress. Even Pipa and Angelo and little Gigi are forgotten. ”

“ The cavaliere has risen at Enrica's entrance. Not daring to display his feelings in the presence of the marchesa, he thrusts his hands into his pockets, and stands behind her, his head partly turned away, leaning against the edge of the marble mantel-piece. There is such absolute silence in the room that the ticking of a clock is distinctly heard. It is the deadly pause before the slaughter of the battle. "You sent for me, my aunt?" Enrica speaks in a timid voice, not moving from the spot where she has entered, near the open window. ”

“ Now, having with lover's haste made good progress with all he had to do, Nobili has come down to the club to meet his friends, and to receive their congratulations. Every hand is stretched out toward him. Even Ruspoli, spite of obvious jealousy, liked him. Nobili's face is lit up with its sunniest smile. Having shaken hands with him, an ominous silence ensues. Orsetti and Malatesta suddenly find that their cigars want relighting, and turn aside. Orazio seats himself at a distance, and scowls at Prince Ruspoli. Nobili gives a quick glance round. An instant tells him that something is wrong. ”

“ The Café of the Tricolor, and such shops as Corellia boasts of, are there opposite. Men, smoking, and drinking native wine, are lounging about. Ser Giacomo, the notary, spectacles on nose, sits at a table in a corner, reading aloud to a select audience a weekly broad-sheet published at Lucca, news of men and things not of the mountain-tops. Every soul starts up as they hear wheels approaching. If a bomb had burst in the piazza the panic could not be greater. They know it is the marchesa. ”

“ He could urge Nobili no more. He must work out his own fate!
Again Nobili spoke.
"When I saw her sweet face turned toward me as she entered the chapel, I dared not look again! It was too late. My pride as a man, all that is sacred to me as a gentleman, has been too deeply wounded. The marchesa has done it. She alone is responsible. She has left me no alternative. I will never accept a wife forced upon me by her—never, by Heaven! My father, these are my last words. Carry them to Enrica."
Count Nobili's head dropped upon his breast. ”

“ Each man, woman, and child shouts, screams, and laughs. All down the dark, cavernous streets, in the great piazza, at the sindaco's, at college, at club, public offices, and hotels, at the grand old palaces, untouched since the middle ages—the glory of the city—at every house, great and small—flutter gaudy draperies; crimson, amber, violet, and gold, according to purse and condition, either of richest brocade, or of Eastern stuffs wrought in gold and needle-work, or—the family carpet or bed-furniture hung out for show. ”