第 23 页

immediately, amidst childish disorder in action, and an empty show of

fine sonorous words.

Stefana had begun to smile in a placid way while glancing at Pierre, who

had approached the window. "Oh, you say that, uncle," she responded; "but

you love us well all the same, and more than once you have given me

myself some good advice, for which I'm very thankful to you. For

instance, there's that affair of Attilio's--"

She was alluding to her son, the lieutenant, and his love affair with

Celia, the little Princess Buongiovanni, of which all the drawing-rooms,

white and black alike, were talking.

"Attilio--that's another matter!" exclaimed Orlando. "He and you are both

of the same blood as myself, and it's wonderful how I see myself again in

that fine fellow. Yes, he is just the same as I was at his age,

good-looking and brave and enthusiastic! I'm paying myself compliments,

you see. But, really now, Attilio warms my heart, for he is the future,

and brings me back some hope. Well, and what about his affair?"

"Oh! it gives us a lot of worry, uncle. I spoke to you about it before,

but you shrugged your shoulders, saying that in matters of that kind all

that the parents had to do was to let the lovers settle their affairs

between them. Still, we don't want everybody to repeat that we are urging

our son to get the little princess to elope with him, so that he may

afterwards marry her money and title."

At this Orlando indulged in a frank outburst of gaiety: "That's a fine

scruple! Was it your husband who instructed you to tell me of it? I know,

however, that he affects some delicacy in this matter. For my own part, I

believe myself to be as honest as he is, and I can only repeat that, if I

had a son like yours, so straightforward and good, and candidly loving, I

should let him marry whomsoever he pleased in his own way. The

Buongiovannis--good heavens! the Buongiovannis--why, despite all their

rank and lineage and the money they still possess, it will be a great

honour for them to have a handsome young man with a noble heart as their

son-in-law!"

Again did Stefana assume an expression of placid satisfaction. She had

certainly only come there for approval. "Very well, uncle," she replied,

"I'll repeat that to my husband, and he will pay great attention to it;

for if you are severe towards him he holds you in perfect veneration. And

as for that ministry--well, perhaps nothing will be done, Sacco will

decide according to circumstances."

She rose and took her leave, kissing the old soldier very affectionately

as on her arrival. And she complimented him on his good looks, declaring

that she found him as handsome as ever, and making him smile by speaking

of a lady who was still madly in love with him. Then, after acknowledging

the young priest's silent salutation by a slight bow, she went off, once

more wearing her modest and sensible air.

For a moment Orlando, with his eyes turned towards the door, remained

silent, again sad, reflecting no doubt on all the difficult, equivocal

present, so different from the glorious past. But all at once he turned

to Pierre, who was still waiting. "And so, my friend," said he, "you are

staying at the Palazzo Boccanera? Ah! what a grievous misfortune there

has been on that side too!"

However, when the priest had told him of his conversation with Benedetta,

and of her message that she still loved him and would never forget his

goodness to her, no matter whatever happened, he appeared moved and his

voice trembled: "Yes, she has a good heart, she has no spite. But what

would you have? She did not love Luigi, and he was possibly violent.

There is no mystery about the matter now, and I can speak to you freely,

since to my great grief everybody knows what has happened."

Then Orlando abandoned himself to his recollections, and related how keen

had been his delight on the eve of the marriage at the thought that so

lovely a creature would become his daughter, and set some youth and charm

around his invalid's arm-chair. He had always worshipped beauty, and

would have had no other love than woman, if his country had not seized

upon the best part of him. And Benedetta on her side loved him, revered

him, constantly coming up to spend long hours with him, sharing his poor

little room, which at those times became resplendent with all the divine

grace that she brought with her. With her fresh breath near him, the pure

scent she diffused, the caressing womanly tenderness with which she

surrounded him, he lived anew. But, immediately afterwards, what a

frightful drama and how his heart had bled at his inability to reconcile

the husband and the wife! He could not possibly say that his son was in

the wrong in desiring to be the loved and accepted spouse. At first

indeed he had hoped to soften Benedetta, and throw her into Luigi's arms.

But when she had confessed herself to him in tears, owning her old love

for Dario, and her horror of belonging to another, he realised that she

would never yield. And a whole year had then gone by; he had lived for a

whole year imprisoned in his arm-chair, with that poignant drama

progressing beneath him in those luxurious rooms whence no sound even

reached his ears. How many times had he not listened, striving to hear,

fearing atrocious quarrels, in despair at his inability to prove still

useful by creating happiness. He knew nothing by his son, who kept his

own counsel; he only learnt a few particulars from Benedetta at intervals

when emotion left her defenceless; and that marriage in which he had for

a moment espied the much-needed alliance between old and new Rome, that

unconsummated marriage filled him with despair, as if it were indeed the

defeat of every hope, the final collapse of the dream which had filled

his life. And he himself had ended by desiring the divorce, so unbearable

had become the suffering caused by such a situation.

"Ah! my friend!" he said to Pierre; "never before did I so well

understand the fatality of certain antagonism, the possibility of working

one's own misfortune and that of others, even when one has the most

loving heart and upright mind!"

But at that moment the door again opened, and this time, without

knocking, Count Luigi Prada came in. And after rapidly bowing to the

visitor, who had risen, he gently took hold of his father's hands and

felt them, as if fearing that they might be too warm or too cold.

"I've just arrived from Frascati, where I had to sleep," said he; "for

the interruption of all that building gives me a lot of worry. And I'm

told that you spent a bad night!"

"No, I assure you."

"Oh! I knew you wouldn't own it. But why will you persist in living up

here without any comfort? All this isn't suited to your age. I should be

so pleased if you would accept a more comfortable room where you might

sleep better."

"No, no--I know that you love me well, my dear Luigi. But let me do as my

old head tells me. That's the only way to make me happy."

Pierre was much struck by the ardent affection which sparkled in the eyes

of the two men as they gazed at one another, face to face. This seemed to

him very touching and beautiful, knowing as he did how many contrary

ideas and actions, how many moral divergencies separated them. And he

next took an interest in comparing them physically. Count Luigi Prada,

shorter, more thick-set than his father, had, however, much the same

strong energetic head, crowned with coarse black hair, and the same frank

but somewhat stern eyes set in a face of clear complexion, barred by

thick moustaches. But his mouth differed--a sensual, voracious mouth it

was, with wolfish teeth--a mouth of prey made for nights of rapine, when

the only question is to bite, and tear, and devour others. And for this

reason, when some praised the frankness in his eyes, another would

retort: "Yes, but I don't like his mouth." His feet were large, his hands

plump and over-broad, but admirably cared for.

And Pierre marvelled at finding him such as he had anticipated. He knew

enough of his story to picture in him a hero's son spoilt by conquest,

eagerly devouring the harvest garnered by his father's glorious sword.

And he particularly studied how the father's virtues had deflected and

become transformed into vices in the son--the most noble qualities being

perverted, heroic and disinterested energy lapsing into a ferocious

appetite for possession, the man of battle leading to the man of booty,

since the great gusts of enthusiasm no longer swept by, since men no

longer fought, since they remained there resting, pillaging, and

devouring amidst the heaped-up spoils. And the pity of it was that the

old hero, the paralytic, motionless father beheld it all--beheld the

degeneration of his son, the speculator and company promoter gorged with

millions!

However, Orlando introduced Pierre. "This is Monsieur l'Abbe Pierre

Froment, whom I spoke to you about," he said, "the author of the book

which I gave you to read."

Luigi Prada showed himself very amiable, at once talking of home with an

intelligent passion like one who wished to make the city a great modern

capital. He had seen Paris transformed by the Second Empire; he had seen

Berlin enlarged and embellished after the German victories; and,

according to him, if Rome did not follow the movement, if it did not

become the inhabitable capital of a great people, it was threatened with

prompt death: either a crumbling museum or a renovated, resuscitated

city--those were the alternatives.*

* Personally I should have thought the example of Berlin a great

deterrent. The enlargement and embellishment of the Prussian

capital, after the war of 1870, was attended by far greater

roguery and wholesale swindling than even the previous

transformation of Paris. Thousands of people too were ruined,

and instead of an increase of prosperity the result was the

very reverse.--Trans.

Greatly struck, almost gained over already, Pierre listened to this

clever man, charmed with his firm, clear mind. He knew how skilfully

Prada had manoeuvred in the affair of the Villa Montefiori, enriching

himself when every one else was ruined, having doubtless foreseen the

fatal catastrophe even while the gambling passion was maddening the

entire nation. However, the young priest could already detect marks of

weariness, precocious wrinkles and a fall of the lips, on that

determined, energetic face, as though its possessor were growing tired of

the continual struggle that he had to carry on amidst surrounding

downfalls, the shock of which threatened to bring the most firmly

established fortunes to the ground. It was said that Prada had recently

had grave cause for anxiety; and indeed there was no longer any solidity

to be found; everything might be swept away by the financial crisis which

day by day was becoming more and more serious. In the case of Luigi,

sturdy son though he was of Northern Italy, a sort of degeneration had

set in, a slow rot, caused by the softening, perversive influence of

Rome. He had there rushed upon the satisfaction of every appetite, and

prolonged enjoyment was exhausting him. This, indeed, was one of the

causes of the deep silent sadness of Orlando, who was compelled to

witness the swift deterioration of his conquering race, whilst Sacco, the

Italian of the South--served as it were by the climate, accustomed to the

voluptuous atmosphere, the life of those sun-baked cities compounded of

the dust of antiquity--bloomed there like the natural vegetation of a

soil saturated with the crimes of history, and gradually grasped

everything, both wealth and power.

As Orlando spoke of Stefana's visit to his son, Sacco's name was

mentioned. Then, without another word, the two men exchanged a smile. A

rumour was current that the Minister of Agriculture, lately deceased,

would perhaps not be replaced immediately, and that another minister

would take charge of the department pending the next session of the

Chamber.

Next the Palazzo Boccanera was mentioned, and Pierre, his interest

awakened, became more attentive. "Ah!" exclaimed Count Luigi, turning to

him, "so you are staying in the Via Giulia? All the Rome of olden time

sleeps there in the silence of forgetfulness."

With perfect ease he went on to speak of the Cardinal and even of

Benedetta--"the Countess," as he called her. But, although he was careful

to let no sign of anger escape him, the young priest could divine that he

was secretly quivering, full of suffering and spite. In him the

enthusiastic energy of his father appeared in a baser, degenerate form.

Quitting the yet handsome Princess Flavia in his passion for Benedetta,

her divinely beautiful niece, he had resolved to make the latter his own

at any cost, determined to marry her, to struggle with her and overcome

her, although he knew that she loved him not, and that he would almost

certainly wreck his entire life. Rather than relinquish her, however, he

would have set Rome on fire. And thus his hopeless suffering was now

great indeed: this woman was but his wife in name, and so torturing was

the thought of her disdain, that at times, however calm his outward

demeanour, he was consumed by a jealous vindictive sensual madness that

did not even recoil from the idea of crime.

"Monsieur l'Abbe is acquainted with the situation," sadly murmured old

Orlando.

His son responded by a wave of the hand, as though to say that everybody

was acquainted with it. "Ah! father," he added, "but for you I should

never have consented to take part in those proceedings for annulling the

marriage! The Countess would have found herself compelled to return here,

and would not nowadays be deriding us with her lover, that cousin of

hers, Dario!"

At this Orlando also waved his hand, as if in protest.