continually enfeebled the painter in his attempts to portray his Venetian priest, and that gave its undecided, unsatisfactory character to the picture before him–its weak hardness, its provoking superficiality. He expressed the traits of melancholy and loss that he imagined in him, yet he always was tempted to leave the picture with a touch of something sinister in it, some airy and subtle shadow of selfish design.
He stared hard at Don Ippolito while this perplexity filled his mind, for the hundredth time; then he said stiffly, “I don’t know. I don’t want to marry anybody. Besides,” he added, relaxing into a smile of helpless amusement, “it’s possible that Miss Vervain might not want to marry me.”
“As to that,” replied Don Ippolito, “you never can tell. All young girls desire to be married, I suppose,” he continued with a sigh. “She is very beautiful, is she not? It is seldom that we see such a blonde in Italy. Our blondes are dark; they have auburn hair and blue eyes, but their complexions are thick. Miss Vervain is blonde as the morning light; the sun’s gold is in her hair, his noonday whiteness in her dazzling throat; the flush of his coming is on her lips; she might utter the dawn!”
“You’re a poet, Don Ippolito,” laughed the painter. “What property of the sun is in her angry-looking eyes?”
“His fire! Ah, that is her greatest charm! Those strange eyes of hers, they seem full of tragedies. She looks made to be the heroine of some stormy romance; and yet how simply patient and good she is!”
“Yes,” said Ferris, who often responded in English to the priest’s Italian; and he added half musingly in his own tongue, after a moment, “but I don’t think it would be safe to count upon her. I’m afraid she has a bad temper. At any rate, I always expect to see smoke somewhere when I look at those eyes of hers. She has wonderful self-control, however; and I don’t exactly understand why. Perhaps people of strong impulses have strong wills to overrule them; it seems no more than fair.”
“Is it the custom,” asked Don Ippolito, after a moment, “for the American young ladies always to address their mammas as _mother_?”
“No; that seems to be a peculiarity of Miss Vervain’s. It’s a little formality that I should say served to hold Mrs. Vervain in check.”
“Do you mean that it repulses her?”
“Not at all. I don’t think I could explain,” said Ferris with a certain air of regretting to have gone so far in comment on the Vervains. He added recklessly, “Don’t you see that Mrs. Vervain sometimes does and says things that embarrass her daughter, and that Miss Vervain seems to try to restrain her?”
“I thought,” returned Don Ippolito meditatively, “that the signorina was always very tenderly submissive to her mother.”
“Yes, so she is,” said the painter dryly, and looked in annoyance from the priest to the picture, and from the picture to the priest.
After a minute Don Ippolito said, “They must be very rich to live as they do.”
“I don’t know about that,” replied Ferris. “Americans spend and save in ways different from the Italians. I dare say the Vervains find Venice very cheap after London and Paris and Berlin.”
“Perhaps,” said Don Ippolito, “if they were rich you would be in a position to marry her.”
“I should not marry Miss Vervain for her money,” answered the painter, sharply.
“No, but if you loved her, the money would enable you to marry her.”
“Listen to me, Don Ippolito. I never said that I loved Miss Vervain, and I don’t know how you feel warranted in speaking to me about the matter. Why do you do so?”
“I? Why? I could not but imagine that you must love her. Is there anything wrong in speaking of such things? Is it contrary to the American custom? I ask pardon from my heart if I have done anything amiss.”
“There is no offense,’ said the painter, with a laugh,” and I don’t wonder you thought I ought to be in love with Miss Vervain. She _is_ beautiful, and I believe she’s good. But if men had to marry because women were beautiful and good, there isn’t one of us could live single a day. Besides, I’m the victim of another passion,–I’m laboring under an unrequited affection for Art.”
“Then you do _not_ love her?” asked Don Ippolito, eagerly.
“So far as I’m advised at present, no, I don’t.”
“It is strange!” said the priest, absently, but with a glowing face.
He quitted the painter’s and walked swiftly homeward with a triumphant buoyancy of step. A subtle content diffused itself over his face, and a joyful light burnt in his deep eyes. He sat down before the piano and organ as he had arranged them, and began to strike their keys in unison; this seemed to him for the first time childish. Then he played some lively bars on the piano alone; they sounded too light and trivial, and he turned to the other instrument. As the plaint of the reeds arose, it filled his sense like a solemn organ-music, and transfigured the place; the notes swelled to the ample vault of a church, and at the high altar he was celebrating the mass in his sacerdotal robes. He suddenly caught his fingers away from the keys; his breast heaved, he hid his face in his hands.
VII.
Ferris stood cleaning his palette, after Don Ippolito was gone, scraping the colors together with his knife and neatly buttering them on the palette’s edge, while he wondered what the priest meant by pumping him in that way. Nothing, he supposed, and yet it was odd. Of course she had a bad temper….
He put on his hat and coat and strolled vaguely forth, and in an hour or two came by a roundabout course to the gondola station nearest his own house. There he stopped, and after an absent contemplation of the boats, from which the gondoliers were clamoring for his custom, he stepped into one and ordered the man to row him to a gate on a small canal opposite. The gate opened, at his ringing, into the garden of the Vervains.
Florida was sitting alone on a bench near the fountain. It was no longer a ruined fountain; the broken-nosed naiad held a pipe above her head, and from this rose a willowy spray high enough to catch some colors of the sunset then striking into the garden, and fell again in a mist around her, making her almost modest.
“What does this mean?” asked Ferris, carelessly taking the young girl’s hand. “I thought this lady’s occupation was gone.”
“Don Ippolito repaired the fountain for the landlord, and he agreed to pay for filling the tank that feeds it,” said Florida. “He seems to think it a hard bargain, for he only lets it play about half an hour a day. But he says it’s very ingeniously mended. He didn’t believe it could be done. It _is_ pretty.
“It is, indeed,” said the painter, with a singular desire, going through him like a pang, likewise to do something for Miss Vervain. “Did you go to Don Ippolito’s house the other day, to see his traps?”
“Yes; we were very much interested. I was sorry that I knew so little about inventions. Do you think there are many practical ideas amongst his things? I hope there are–he seemed so proud and pleased to show them. Shouldn’t you think he had some real inventive talent?”
“Yes, I think he has; but I know as little about the matter as you do.” He sat down beside her, and picking up a twig from the gravel, pulled the bark off in silence. Then, “Miss Vervain,” he said, knitting his brows, as he always did when he had something on his conscience and meant to ease it at any cost, “I’m the dog that fetches a bone and carries a bone; I talked Don Ippolito over with you, the other day, and now I’ve been talking you over with him. But I’ve the grace to say that I’m ashamed of myself.”
“Why need you be ashamed?” asked Florida. “You said no harm of him. Did you of us?”
“Not exactly; but I don’t think it was quite my business to discuss you at all. I think you can’t let people alone too much. For my part, if I try to characterize my friends, I fail to do them perfect justice, of course; and yet the imperfect result remains representative of them in my mind; it limits them and fixes them; and I can’t get them back again into the undefined and the ideal where they really belong. One ought never to speak of the faults of one’s friends: it mutilates them; they can never be the same afterwards.”
“So you have been talking of my faults,” said Florida, breathing quickly. “Perhaps you could tell me of them to my face.”
“I should have to say that unfairness was one of them. But that is common to the whole sex. I never said I was talking of your faults. I declared against doing so, and you immediately infer that my motive is remorse. I don’t know that you have any faults. They may be virtues in disguise. There is a charm even in unfairness. Well, I did Bay that I thought you had a quick temper,”–
Florida colored violently.
–“but now I see that I was mistaken,” said Ferris with a laugh.
“May I ask what else you said?” demanded the young girl haughtily.
“Oh, that would be a betrayal of confidence,” said Ferris, unaffected by her hauteur.
“Then why have you mentioned the matter to me at all?”
“I wanted to clear my conscience, I suppose, and sin again. I wanted to talk with you about Don Ippolito.”
Florida looked with perplexity at Ferris’s face, while her own slowly cooled and paled.
“What did you want to say of him?” she asked calmly.
“I hardly know how to put it: that he puzzles me, to begin with. You know I feel somewhat responsible for him.”
“Yes.”
“Of course, I never should have thought of him, if it hadn’t been for your mother’s talk that morning coming back from San Lazzaro.”
“I know,” said Florida, with a faint blush.
“And yet, don’t you see, it was as much a fancy of mine, a weakness for the man himself, as the desire to serve your mother, that prompted me to bring him to you.”
“Yes, I see,” answered the young girl.
“I acted in the teeth of a bitter Venetian prejudice against priests. All my friends here–they’re mostly young men with the modern Italian ideas, or old liberals–hate and despise the priests They believe that priests are full of guile and deceit, that they are spies for the Austrians, and altogether evil.”
“Don Ippolito is welcome to report our most secret thoughts to the police,” said Florida, whose look of rising alarm relaxed into a smile.
“Oh,” cried the painter, “how you leap to conclusions! I never intimated that Don Ippolito was a spy. On the contrary, it was his difference from other priests that made me think of him for a moment. He seems to be as much cut off from the church as from the world. And yet he is a priest, with a priest’s education. What if I should have been altogether mistaken? He is either one of the openest souls in the world, as you have insisted, or he is one of the closest.”
“I should not be afraid of him in any case,” said Florida; “but I can’t believe any wrong of him.”
Ferris frowned in annoyance. “I don’t want you to; I don’t, myself. I’ve bungled the matter as I might have known I would. I was trying to put into words an undefined uneasiness of mine, a quite formless desire to have you possessed of the whole case as it had come up in my mind. I’ve made a mess of it,” said Ferris rising, with a rueful air. “Besides, I ought to have spoken to Mrs. Vervain.”
“Oh no,” cried Florida, eagerly, springing to her feet beside him. “Don’t! Little things wear upon my mother, so. I’m glad you didn’t speak to her. I don’t misunderstand you, I think; I expressed myself badly,” she added with an anxious face. “I thank you very much. What do you want me to do?”
By Ferris’s impulse they both began to move down the garden path toward the water-gate. The sunset had faded out of the fountain, but it still lit the whole heaven, in whose vast blue depths hung light whiffs of pinkish cloud, as ethereal as the draperies that floated after Miss Vervain as she walked with a splendid grace beside him, no awkwardness, now, or self-constraint in her. As she turned to Ferris, and asked in her deep tones, to which some latent feeling imparted a slight tremor, “What do you want me to do?” the sense of her willingness to be bidden by him gave him a delicious thrill. He looked at the superb creature, so proud, so helpless; so much a woman, so much a child; and he caught his breath before he answered. Her gauzes blew about his feet in the light breeze that lifted the foliage; she was a little near-sighted, and in her eagerness she drew closer to him, fixing her eyes full upon his with a bold innocence. “Good heavens! Miss Vervain,” he cried, with a sudden blush, “it isn’t a serious matter. I’m a fool to have spoken to you. Don’t do anything. Let things go on as before. It isn’t for me to instruct you.”
“I should have been very glad of your advice,” she said with a disappointed, almost wounded manner, keeping her eyes upon him. “It seems to me we are always going wrong”–
She stopped short, with a flush and then a pallor.
Ferris returned her look with one of comical dismay. This apparent readiness of Miss Vervain’s to be taken command of, daunted him, on second thoughts. “I wish you’d dismiss all my stupid talk from your mind,” he said. “I feel as if I’d been guiltily trying to set you against a man whom I like very much and have no reason not to trust, and who thinks me so much his friend that he couldn’t dream of my making any sort of trouble for him. It would break his heart, I’m afraid, if you treated him in a different way from that in which you’ve treated him till now. It’s really touching to listen to his gratitude to you and your mother. It’s only conceivable on the ground that he has never had friends before in the world. He seems like another man, or the same man come to life. And it isn’t his fault that he’s a priest. I suppose,” he added, with a sort of final throe, “that a Venetian family wouldn’t use him with the frank hospitality you’ve shown, not because they distrusted him at all, perhaps, but because they would be afraid of other Venetian tongues.”
This ultimate drop of venom, helplessly distilled, did not seem to rankle in Miss Vervain’s mind. She walked now with her face turned from his, and she answered coldly, “We shall not be troubled. We don’t care for Venetian tongues.”
They were at the gate. “Good-by,” said Ferris, abruptly, “I’m going.”
“Won’t you wait and see my mother?” asked Florida, with her awkward self-constraint again upon her.
“No, thanks,” said Ferris, gloomily. “I haven’t time. I just dropped in for a moment, to blast an innocent man’s reputation, and destroy a young lady’s peace of mind.”
“Then you needn’t go, yet,” answered Florida, coldly, “for you haven’t succeeded.”
“Well, I’ve done my worst,” returned Ferris, drawing the bolt.
He went away, hanging his head in amazement and disgust at himself for his clumsiness and bad taste. It seemed to him a contemptible part, first to embarrass them with Don Ippolito’s acquaintance, if it was an embarrassment, and then try to sneak out of his responsibility by these tardy cautions; and if it was not going to be an embarrassment, it was folly to have approached the matter at all.
What had he wanted to do, and with what motive? He hardly knew. As he battled the ground over and over again, nothing comforted him save the thought that, bad as it was to have spoken to Miss Vervain, it must have been infinitely worse to speak to her mother.
VIII.
It was late before Ferris forgot his chagrin in sleep, and when he woke the next morning, the sun was making the solid green blinds at his window odorous of their native pine woods with its heat, and thrusting a golden spear at the heart of Don Ippolito’s effigy where he had left it on the easel.
Marina brought a letter with his coffee. The letter was from Mrs. Vervain, and it entreated him to come to lunch at twelve, and then join them on an excursion, of which they had all often talked, up the Canal of the Brenta. “Don Ippolito has got his permission–think of his not being able to go to the mainland without the Patriarch’s leave! and can go with us to-day. So I try to make this hasty arrangement. You _must_ come–it all depends upon you.”
“Yes, so it seems,” groaned the painter, and went.
In the garden he found Don Ippolito and Florida, at the fountain where he had himself parted with her the evening before; and he observed with a guilty relief that Don Ippolito was talking to her in the happy unconsciousness habitual with him.
Florida cast at the painter a swift glance of latent appeal and intelligence, which he refused, and in the same instant she met him with another look, as if she now saw him for the first time, and gave him her hand in greeting. It was a beautiful hand; he could not help worshipping its lovely forms, and the lily whiteness and softness of the back, the rose of the palm and finger-tips.
She idly resumed the great Venetian fan which hung from her waist by a chain. “Don Ippolito has been talking about the vitteggiatura on the Brenta in the old days,” she explained.
“Oh, yes,” said the painter, “they used to have merry times in the villas then, and it was worth while being a priest, or at least an abbate di casa. I should think you would sigh for a return of those good old days, Don Ippolito. Just imagine, if you were abbate di casa with some patrician family about the close of the last century, you might be the instructor, companion, and spiritual adviser of Illustrissima at the theatres, card-parties, and masquerades, all winter; and at this season, instead of going up the Brenta for a day’s pleasure with us barbarous Yankees, you might be setting out with Illustrissima and all the ‘Strissimi and ‘Strissime, big and little, for a spring villeggiatura there. You would be going in a gilded barge, with songs and fiddles and dancing, instead of a common gondola, and you would stay a month, walking, going to parties and caffes, drinking chocolate and lemonade gaming, sonneteering, and butterflying about generally.”
“It was doubtless a beautiful life,” answered the priest, with simple indifference. “But I never have thought of it with regret, because I have been preoccupied with other ideas than those of social pleasures, though perhaps they were no wiser.”
Florida had watched Don Ippolito’s face while Ferris was speaking, and she now asked gravely, “But don’t you think their life nowadays is more becoming to the clergy?”
“Why, madamigella? What harm was there in those gayeties? I suppose the bad features of the old life are exaggerated to us.”
“They couldn’t have been worse than the amusements of the hard- drinking, hard-riding, hard-swearing, fox-hunting English parsons about the same time,” said Ferris. “Besides, the abbate di casa had a charm of his own, the charm of all _rococo_ things, which, whatever you may say of them, are somehow elegant and refined, or at least refer to elegance and refinement. I don’t say they’re ennobling, but they’re fascinating. I don’t respect them, but I love them. When I think about the past of Venice, I don’t care so much to see any of the heroically historical things; but I should like immensely to have looked in at the Ridotto, when the place was at its gayest with wigs and masks, hoops and small-clothes, fans and rapiers, bows and courtesies, whispers and glances. I dare say I should have found Don Ippolito there in some becoming disguise.”
Florida looked from the painter to the priest and back to the painter, as Ferris spoke, and then she turned a little anxiously toward the terrace, and a shadow slipped from her face as her mother came rustling down the steps, catching at her drapery and shaking it into place. The young girl hurried to meet her, lifted her arms for what promised an embrace, and with firm hands set the elder lady’s bonnet straight with her forehead.
“I’m always getting it on askew,” Mrs. Vervain said for greeting to Ferris. “How do you do, Don Ippolito? But I suppose you think I’ve kept you long enough to get it on straight for once. So I have. I _am_ a fuss, and I don’t deny it. At my time of life, it’s much harder to make yourself shipshape than it is when you’re younger. I tell Florida that anybody would take _her_ for the _old_ lady, she does seem to give so little care to getting up an appearance.”
“And yet she has the effect of a stylish young person in the bloom of youth,” observed Ferris, with a touch of caricature.
“We had better lunch with our things on,” said Mrs. Vervain, “and then there needn’t be any delay in starting. I thought we would have it here,” she added, as Nina and the house-servant appeared with trays of dishes and cups. “So that we can start in a real picnicky spirit. I knew you’d think it a womanish lunch, Mr. Ferris–Don Ippolito likes what we do–and so I’ve provided you with a chicken salad; and I’m going to ask you for a taste of it; I’m really hungry.”
There was salad for all, in fact; and it was quite one o’clock before the lunch was ended, and wraps of just the right thickness and thinness were chosen, and the party were comfortably placed under the striped linen canopy of the gondola, which they had from a public station, the house-gondola being engaged that day. They rowed through the narrow canal skirting the garden out into the expanse before the Giudecca, and then struck across the lagoon towards Fusina, past the island-church of San Giorgio in Alga, whose beautiful tower has flushed and darkened in so many pictures of Venetian sunsets, and past the Austrian lagoon forts with their coronets of guns threatening every point, and the Croatian sentinels pacing to and fro on their walls. They stopped long enough at one of the customs barges to declare to the swarthy, amiable officers the innocence of their freight, and at the mouth of the Canal of the Brenta they paused before the station while a policeman came out and scanned them. He bowed to Don Ippolito’s cloth, and then they began to push up the sluggish canal, shallow and overrun with weeds and mosses, into the heart of the land.
The spring, which in Venice comes in the softening air and the perpetual azure of the heavens, was renewed to their senses in all its miraculous loveliness. The garden of the Vervains had indeed confessed it in opulence of leaf and bloom, but there it seemed somehow only like a novel effect of the artifice which had been able to create a garden in that city of stone and sea. Here a vernal world suddenly opened before them, with wide-stretching fields of green under a dome of perfect blue; against its walls only the soft curves of far-off hills were traced, and near at hand the tender forms of full-foliaged trees. The long garland of vines that festoons all Italy seemed to begin in the neighboring orchards; the meadows waved their tall grasses in the sun, and broke in poppies as the sea-waves break in iridescent spray; the well-grown maize shook its gleaming blades in the light; the poplars marched in stately procession on either side of the straight, white road to Padua, till they vanished in the long perspective. The blossoms had fallen from the trees many weeks before, but the air was full of the vague sweetness of the perfect spring, which here and there gathered and defined itself as the spicy odor of the grass cut on the shore of the canal, and drying in the mellow heat of the sun.
The voyagers spoke from time to time of some peculiarity of the villas that succeeded each other along the canal. Don Ippolito knew a few of them, the gondoliers knew others; but after all, their names were nothing. These haunts of old-time splendor and idleness weary of themselves, and unable to escape, are sadder than anything in Venice, and they belonged, as far as the Americans were concerned, to a world as strange as any to which they should go in another life,–the world of a faded fashion and an alien history. Some of the villas were kept in a sort of repair; some were even maintained in the state of old; but the most showed marks of greater or less decay, and here and there one was falling to ruin. They had gardens about them, tangled and wild- grown; a population of decrepit statues in the rococo taste strolled in their walks or simpered from their gates. Two or three houses seemed to be occupied; the rest stood empty, each
“Close latticed to the brooding heat, And silent in its dusty vines.”
The pleasure-party had no fixed plan for the day further than to ascend the canal, and by and by take a carriage at some convenient village and drive to the famous Villa Pisani at Stra.
“These houses are very well,” said Don Ippolito, who had visited the villa once, and with whom it had remained a memory almost as signal as that night in Padua when he wore civil dress, “but it is at Stra you see something really worthy of the royal splendor of the patricians of Venice. Royal? The villa is now one of the palaces of the ex-Emperor of Austria, who does not find it less imperial than his other palaces.” Don Ippolito had celebrated the villa at Stra in this strain ever since they had spoken of going up the Brenta: now it was the magnificent conservatories and orangeries that he sang, now the vast garden with its statued walks between rows of clipt cedars and firs, now the stables with their stalls for numberless horses, now the palace itself with its frescoed halls and treasures of art and vertu. His enthusiasm for the villa at Stra had become an amiable jest with the Americans. Ferris laughed at his fresh outburst he declared himself tired of the gondola, and he asked Florida to disembark with him and walk under the trees of a pleasant street running on one side between the villas and the canal. “We are going to find something much grander than the Villa Pisani,” he boasted, with a look at Don Ippolito.
As they sauntered along the path together, they came now and then to a stately palace like that of the Contarini, where the lions, that give their name to one branch of the family, crouch in stone before the grand portal; but most of the houses were interesting only from their unstoried possibilities to the imagination. They were generally of stucco, and glared with fresh whitewash through the foliage of their gardens. When a peasant’s cottage broke their line, it gave, with its barns and straw-stacks and its beds of pot-herbs, a homely relief from the decaying gentility of the villas.
“What a pity, Miss Vervain,” said the painter, “that the blessings of this world should be so unequally divided! Why should all this sketchable adversity be lavished upon the neighborhood of a city that is so rich as Venice in picturesque dilapidation? It’s pretty hard on us Americans, and forces people of sensibility into exile. What wouldn’t cultivated persons give for a stretch of this street in the suburbs of Boston, or of your own Providence? I suppose the New Yorkers will be setting up something of the kind one of these days, and giving it a French name–they’ll call it _Aux bords du Brenta_. There was one of them carried back a gondola the other day to put on a pond in their new park. But the worst of it is, you can’t take home the sentiment of these things.”
“I thought it was the business of painters to send home the sentiment of them in pictures,” said Florida.
Ferris talked to her in this way because it was his way of talking; it always surprised him a little that she entered into the spirit of it; he was not quite sure that she did; he sometimes thought she waited till she could seize upon a point to turn against him, and so give herself the air of having comprehended the whole. He laughed: “Oh yes, a poor little fragmentary, faded-out reproduction of their sentiment– which is ‘as moonlight unto sunlight and as water unto wine,’ when compared with the real thing. Suppose I made a picture of this very bit, ourselves in the foreground, looking at the garden over there where that amusing Vandal of an owner has just had his statues painted white: would our friends at home understand it? A whole history must be left unexpressed. I could only hint at an entire situation. Of course, people with a taste for olives would get the flavor; but even they would wonder that I chose such an unsuggestive bit. Why, it is just the most maddeningly suggestive thing to be found here! And if I may put it modestly, for my share in it, I think we two young Americans looking on at this supreme excess of the rococo, are the very essence of the sentiment of the scene; but what would the honored connoisseurs–the good folks who get themselves up on Ruskin and try so honestly hard to have some little ideas about art–make of us? To be sure they might justifiably praise the grace of your pose, if I were so lucky as to catch it, and your way of putting your hand under the elbow of the arm that holds your parasol,”–Florida seemed disdainfully to keep her attitude, and the painter smiled,–“but they wouldn’t know what it all meant, and couldn’t imagine that we were inspired by this rascally little villa to sigh longingly over the wicked past.”
“Excuse me,” interrupted Florida, with a touch of trouble in her proud manner, “I’m not sighing over it, for one, and I don’t want it back. I’m glad that I’m American and that there is no past for me. I can’t understand how you and Don Ippolito can speak so tolerantly of what no one can respect,” she added, in almost an aggrieved tone.
If Miss Vervain wanted to turn the talk upon Don Ippolito, Ferris by no means did; he had had enough of that subject yesterday; he got as lightly away from it as he could.
“Oh, Don Ippolito’s a pagan, I tell you; and I’m a painter, and the rococo is my weakness. I wish I could paint it, but I can’t; I’m a hundred years too late. I couldn’t even paint myself in the act of sentimentalizing it.”
While he talked, he had been making a few lines in a small pocket sketch-book, with a furtive glance or two at Florida. When they returned to the boat, he busied himself again with the book, and presently he handed it to Mrs. Vervain.
“Why, it’s Florida!” cried the lady. “How very nicely you do sketch, Mr. Ferris.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Vervain; you’re always flattering me.”
“No, but seriously. I _wish_ that I had paid more attention to my drawing when I was a girl. And now, Florida–she won’t touch a pencil. I wish you’d talk to her, Mr. Ferris.”
“Oh, people who are pictures needn’t trouble themselves to be painters,” said Ferris, with a little burlesque.
Mrs. Vervain began to look at the sketch through her tubed hand; the painter made a grimace. “But you’ve made her too proud, Mr. Ferris. She doesn’t look like that.”
“Yes she does–to those unworthy of her kindness. I have taken Miss Vervain in the act of scorning the rococo, and its humble admirer, me, with it.”
“I’m sure _I_ don’t know what you mean, Mr. Ferris; but I can’t think that this proud look is habitual with Florida; and I’ve heard people say–very good judges–that an artist oughtn’t to perpetuate a temporary expression. Something like that.”
“It can’t be helped now, Mrs. Vervain: the sketch is irretrievably immortal. I’m sorry, but it’s too late.”
“Oh, stuff! As if you couldn’t turn up the corners of the mouth a little. Or something.”
“And give her the appearance of laughing at me? Never!”
“Don Ippolito,” said Mrs. Vervain, turning to the priest, who had been listening intently to all this trivial talk, “what do you think of this sketch?”
He took the book with an eager hand, and perused the sketch as if trying to read some secret there. After a minute he handed it back with a light sigh, apparently of relief, but said nothing.
“Well?” asked Mrs. Vervain.
“Oh! I ask pardon. No, it isn’t my idea of madamigella. It seems to me that her likeness must be sketched in color. Those lines are true, but they need color to subdue them; they go too far, they are more than true.”
“You’re quite right, Don Ippolito,” said Ferris.
“Then _you_ don’t think she always has this proud look?” pursued Mrs. Vervain. The painter fancied that Florida quelled in herself a movement of impatience; he looked at her with an amused smile.
“Not always, no,” answered Don Ippolito.
“Sometimes her face expresses the greatest meekness in the world.”
“But not at the present moment,” thought Ferris, fascinated by the stare of angry pride which the girl bent upon the unconscious priest.
“Though I confess that I should hardly know how to characterize her habitual expression,” added Don Ippolito.
“Thanks,” said Florida, peremptorily. “I’m tired of the subject; it isn’t an important one.”
“Oh yes it is, my dear,” said Mrs. Vervain. “At least it’s important to me, if it isn’t to you; for I’m your mother, and really, if I thought you looked like this, as a general thing, to a casual observer, I should consider it a reflection upon myself.” Ferris gave a provoking laugh, as she continued sweetly, “I must insist, Don Ippolito: now did you ever see Florida look so?”
The girl leaned back, and began to wave her fan slowly to and fro before her face.
“I never saw her look so with you, dear madama,” said the priest with an anxious glance at Florida, who let her fan fall folded into her lap, and sat still. He went on with priestly smoothness, and a touch of something like invoked authority, such as a man might show who could dispense indulgences and inflict penances. “No one could help seeing her devotedness to you, and I have admired from the first an obedience and tenderness that I have never known equaled. In all her relations to you, madamigella has seemed to me”–
Florida started forward. “You are not asked to comment on my behavior to my mother; you are not invited to speak of my conduct at all!” she burst out with sudden violence, her visage flaming, and her blue eyes burning upon Don Ippolito, who shrank from the astonishing rudeness as from a blow in the face. “What is it to you how I treat my mother?”
She sank back again upon the cushions, and opening the fan with a clash swept it swiftly before her.
“Florida!” said her mother gravely.
Ferris turned away in cold disgust, like one who has witnessed a cruelty done to some helpless thing. Don Ippolito’s speech was not fortunate at the best, but it might have come from a foreigner’s misapprehension, and at the worst it was good-natured and well-meant. “The girl is a perfect brute, as I thought in the beginning,” the painter said to himself. “How could I have ever thought differently? I shall have to tell Don Ippolito that I’m ashamed of her, and disclaim all responsibility. Pah! I wish I was out of this.”
The pleasure of the day was dead. It could not rally from that stroke. They went on to Stra, as they had planned, but the glory of the Villa Pisani was eclipsed for Don Ippolito. He plainly did not know what to do. He did not address Florida again, whose savagery he would not probably have known how to resent if he had wished to resent it. Mrs. Vervain prattled away to him with unrelenting kindness; Ferris kept near him, and with affectionate zeal tried to make him talk of the villa, but neither the frescoes, nor the orangeries, nor the green- houses, nor the stables, nor the gardens could rouse him from the listless daze in which he moved, though Ferris found them all as wonderful as he had said. Amidst this heavy embarrassment no one seemed at ease but the author of it. She did not, to be sure, speak to Don Ippolito, but she followed her mother as usual with her assiduous cares, and she appeared tranquilly unconscious of the sarcastic civility with which Ferris rendered her any service. It was late in the afternoon when they got back to their boat and began to descend the canal towards Venice, and long before they reached Fusina the day had passed. A sunset of melancholy red, streaked with level lines of murky cloud, stretched across the flats behind them, and faintly tinged with its reflected light the eastern horizon which the towers and domes of Venice had not yet begun to break. The twilight came, and then through the overcast heavens the moon shone dim; a light blossomed here and there in the villas, distant voices called musically; a cow lowed, a dog barked; the rich, sweet breath of the vernal land mingled its odors with the sultry air of the neighboring lagoon. The wayfarers spoke little; the time hung heavy on all, no doubt; to Ferris it was a burden almost intolerable to hear the creak of the oars and the breathing of the gondoliers keeping time together. At last the boat stopped in front of the police-station in Fusina; a soldier with a sword at his side and a lantern in his hand came out and briefly parleyed with the gondoliers; they stepped ashore, and he marched them into the station before him.
“We have nothing left to wish for now,” said Ferris, breaking into an ironical laugh.
“What does it all mean?” asked Mrs. Vervain.
“I think I had better go see.”
“We will go with you,” said Mrs. Vervain.
“Pazienza!” replied Ferris.
The ladies rose; but Don Ippolito remained seated. “Aren’t you going too, Don Ippolito?” asked Mrs. Vervain.
“Thanks, madama; but I prefer to stay here.”
Lamentable cries and shrieks, as if the prisoners had immediately been put to the torture, came from the station as Ferris opened the door. A lamp of petroleum lighted the scene, and shone upon the figures of two fishermen, who bewailed themselves unintelligibly in the vibrant accents of Chiozza, and from time to time advanced upon the gondoliers, and shook their heads and beat their breasts at them, A few police- guards reclined upon benches about the room, and surveyed the spectacle with mild impassibility.
Ferris politely asked one of them the cause of the detention.
“Why, you see, signore,” answered the guard amiably, “these honest men accuse your gondoliers of having stolen a rope out of their boat at Dolo.”
“It was my blood, you know!” howled the elder of the fishermen, tossing his arms wildly abroad, “it was my own heart,” he cried, letting the last vowel die away and rise again in mournful refrain, while he stared tragically into Ferris’s face.
“What _is_ the matter?” asked Mrs. Vervain, putting up her glasses, and trying with graceful futility to focus the melodrama.
“Nothing,” said Ferris; “our gondoliers have had the heart’s blood of this respectable Dervish; that is to say, they have stolen a rope belonging to him.”
“_Our_ gondoliers! I don’t believe it. They’ve no right to keep us here all night. Tell them you’re the American consul.”
“I’d rather not try my dignity on these underlings, Mrs. Vervain; there’s no American squadron here that I could order to bombard Fusina, if they didn’t mind me. But I’ll see what I can do further in quality of courteous foreigner. Can you perhaps tell me how long you will be obliged to detain us here?” he asked of the guard again.
“I am very sorry to detain you at all, signore. But what can I do? The commissary is unhappily absent. He may be here soon.”
The guard renewed his apathetic contemplation of the gondoliers, who did not speak a word; the windy lamentation of the fishermen rose and fell fitfully. Presently they went out of doors and poured forth their wrongs to the moon.
The room was close, and with some trouble Ferris persuaded Mrs. Vervain to return to the gondola, Florida seconding his arguments with gentle good sense.
It seemed a long time till the commissary came, but his coming instantly simplified the situation. Perhaps because he had never been able to befriend a consul in trouble before, he befriended Ferris to the utmost. He had met him with rather a browbeating air; but after a glance at his card, he gave a kind of roar of deprecation and apology. He had the ladies and Don Ippolito in out of the gondola, and led them to an upper chamber, where he made them all repose their honored persons upon his sofas. He ordered up his housekeeper to make them coffee, which he served with his own hands, excusing its hurried feebleness, and he stood by, rubbing his palms together and smiling, while they refreshed themselves.
“They need never tell me again that the Austrians are tyrants,” said Mrs. Vervain in undertone to the consul.
It was not easy for Ferris to remind his host of the malefactors; but he brought himself to this ungraciousness. The commissary begged pardon, and asked him to accompany him below, where he confronted the accused and the accusers. The tragedy was acted over again with blood- curdling effectiveness by the Chiozzotti; the gondoliers maintaining the calm of conscious innocence.
Ferris felt outraged by the trumped-up charge against them.
“Listen, you others the prisoners,” said the commissary. “Your padrone is anxious to return to Venice, and I wish to inflict no further displeasures upon him. Restore their rope to these honest men, and go about your business.”
The injured gondoliers spoke in low tones together; then one of them shrugged his shoulders and went out. He came back in a moment and laid a rope before the commissary.
“Is that the rope?” he asked. “We found it floating down the canal, and picked it up that we might give it to the rightful owner. But now I wish to heaven we had let it sink to the bottom of the sea.”
“Oh, a beautiful story!” wailed the Chiozzoti. They flung themselves upon the rope, and lugged it off to their boat; and the gondoliers went out, too.
The commissary turned to Ferris with an amiable smile. “I am sorry that those rogues should escape,” said the American.
“Oh,” said the Italian, “they are poor fellows it is a little matter; I am glad to have served you.”
He took leave of his involuntary guests with effusion, following them with a lantern to the gondola.
Mrs. Vervain, to whom Ferris gave an account of this trial as they set out again on their long-hindered return, had no mind save for the magical effect of his consular quality upon the commissary, and accused him of a vain and culpable modesty.
“Ah,” said the diplomatist, “there’s nothing like knowing just when to produce your dignity. There are some officials who know too little,– like those guards; and there are some who know too much,–like the commissary’s superiors. But he is just in that golden mean of ignorance where he supposes a consul is a person of importance.”
Mrs. Vervain disputed this, and Ferris submitted in silence. Presently, as they skirted the shore to get their bearings for the route across the lagoon, a fierce voice in Venetian shouted from the darkness, “Indrio, indrio!” (Back, back!) and a gleam of the moon through the pale, watery clouds revealed the figure of a gendarme on the nearest point of land. The gondoliers bent to their oars, and sent the boat swiftly out into the lagoon.
“There, for example, is a person who would be quite insensible to my greatness, even if I had the consular seal in my pocket. To him we are possible smugglers; [Footnote: Under the Austrians, Venice was a free port but everything carried there to the mainland was liable to duty.] and I must say,” he continued, taking out his watch, and staring hard at it, “that if I were a disinterested person, and heard his suspicion met with the explanation that we were a little party out here for pleasure at half past twelve P. M., I should say he was right. At any rate we won’t engage him in controversy. Quick, quick!” he added to the gondoliers, glancing at the receding shore, and then at the first of the lagoon forts which they were approaching. A dim shape moved along the top of the wall, and seemed to linger and scrutinize them. As they drew nearer, the challenge, “_Wer da?_” rang out.
The gondoliers eagerly answered with the one word of German known to their craft, “_Freunde_,” and struggled to urge the boat forward; the oar of the gondolier in front slipped from the high rowlock, and fell out of his hand into the water. The gondola lurched, and then suddenly ran aground on the shallow. The sentry halted, dropped his gun from his shoulder, and ordered them to go on, while the gondoliers clamored back in the high key of fear, and one of them screamed out to his passengers to do something, saying that, a few weeks before, a sentinel had fired upon a fisherman and killed him.
“What’s that he’s talking about?” demanded Mrs. Vervain. “If we don’t get on, it will be that man’s duty to fire on us; he has no choice,” she said, nerved and interested by the presence of this danger.
The gondoliers leaped into the water and tried to push the boat off. It would not move, and without warning, Don Ippolito, who had sat silent since they left Fusina, stepped over the side of the gondola, and thrusting an oar under its bottom lifted it free of the shallow.
“Oh, how very unnecessary!” cried Mrs. Vervain, as the priest and the gondoliers clambered back into the boat. “He will take his death of cold.”
“It’s ridiculous,” said Ferris. “You ought to have told these worthless rascals what to do, Don Ippolito. You’ve got yourself wet for nothing. It’s too bad!”
“It’s nothing,” said Don Ippolito, taking his seat on the little prow deck, and quietly dripping where the water would not incommode the others.
“Oh, here!” cried Mrs. Vervain, gathering some shawls together, “make him wrap those about him. He’ll die, I know he will–with that reeking skirt of his. If you must go into the water, I wish you had worn your abbate’s dress. How _could_ you, Don Ippolito?”
The gondoliers set their oars, but before they had given a stroke, they were arrested by a sharp “Halt!” from the fort. Another figure had joined the sentry, and stood looking at them.
“Well,” said Ferris, “_now_ what, I wonder? That’s an officer. If I had a little German about me, I might state the situation to him.”
He felt a light touch on his arm. “I can speak German,” said Florida timidly.
“Then you had better speak it now,” said Ferris.
She rose to her feet, and in a steady voice briefly explained the whole affair. The figures listened motionless; then the last comer politely replied, begging her to be in no uneasiness, made her a shadowy salute, and vanished. The sentry resumed his walk, and took no further notice of them.
“Brava!” said Ferris, while Mrs. Vervain babbled her satisfaction, “I will buy a German Ollendorff to-morrow. The language is indispensable to a pleasure excursion in the lagoon.”
Florida made no reply, but devoted herself to restoring her mother to that state of defense against the discomforts of the time and place, which the common agitation had impaired. She seemed to have no sense of the presence of any one else. Don Ippolito did not speak again save to protect himself from the anxieties and reproaches of Mrs. Vervain, renewed and reiterated at intervals. She drowsed after a while, and whenever she woke she thought they had just touched her own landing. By fits it was cloudy and moonlight; they began to meet peasants’ boats going to the Rialto market; at last, they entered the Canal of the Zattere, then they slipped into a narrow way, and presently stopped at Mrs. Vervain’s gate; this time she had not expected it. Don Ippolito gave her his hand, and entered the garden with her, while Ferris lingered behind with Florida, helping her put together the wraps strewn about the gondola.
“Wait!” she commanded, as they moved up the garden walk. “I want to speak with you about Don Ippolito. What shall I do to him for my rudeness? You _must_ tell me–you _shall_,” she said in a fierce whisper, gripping the arm which Ferris had given to help her up the landing-stairs. “You are–older than I am!”
“Thanks. I was afraid you were going to say wiser. I should think your own sense of justice, your own sense of”–
“Decency. Say it, say it!” cried the girl passionately; “it was indecent, indecent–that was it!”
–“would tell you what to do,” concluded the painter dryly.
She flung away the arm to which she had been clinging, and ran to where the priest stood with her mother at the foot of the terrace stairs. “Don Ippolito,” she cried, “I want to tell you that I am sorry; I want to ask your pardon–how can you ever forgive me?–for what I said.”
She instinctively stretched her hand towards him.
“Oh!” said the priest, with an indescribable long, trembling sigh. He caught her hand in his held it tight, and then pressed it for an instant against his breast.
Ferris made a little start forward.
“Now, that’s right, Florida,” said her mother, as the four stood in the pale, estranging moonlight. “I’m sure Don Ippolito can’t cherish any resentment. If he does, he must come in and wash it out with a glass of wine–that’s a good old fashion. I want you to have the wine at any rate, Don Ippolito; it’ll keep you from taking cold. You really must.”
“Thanks, madama; I cannot lose more time, now; I must go home at once. Good night.”
Before Mrs. Vervain could frame a protest, or lay hold of him, he bowed and hurried out of the land-gate.
“How perfectly absurd for him to get into the water in that way,” she said, looking mechanically in the direction in which he had vanished.
“Well, Mrs. Vervain, it isn’t best to be too grateful to people,” said Ferris, “but I think we must allow that if we were in any danger, sticking there in the mud, Don Ippolito got us out of it by putting his shoulder to the oar.”
“Of course,” assented Mrs. Vervain.
“In fact,” continued Ferris, “I suppose we may say that, under Providence, we probably owe our lives to Don Ippolito’s self-sacrifice and Miss Vervain’s knowledge of German. At any rate, it’s what I shall always maintain.”
“Mother, don’t you think you had better go in?” asked Florida, gently. Her gentleness ignored the presence, the existence of Ferris. “I’m afraid you will be sick after all this fatigue.”
“There, Mrs. Vervain, it’ll be no use offering _me_ a glass of wine. I’m sent away, you see,” said Ferris. “And Miss Vervain is quite right. Good night.”
“Oh–_good_ night, Mr. Ferris,” said Mrs. Vervain, giving her hand. “Thank you so much.”
Florida did not look towards him. She gathered her mother’s shawl about her shoulders for the twentieth time that day, and softly urged her in doors, while Ferris let himself out into the campo.
IX.
Florida began to prepare the bed for her mother’s lying down.
“What are you doing that for, my dear?” asked Mrs. Vervain. “I can’t go to bed at once.”
“But mother”–
“No, Florida. And I mean it. You are too headstrong. I should think you would see yourself how you suffer in the end by giving way to your violent temper. What a day you have made for us!”
“I was very wrong,” murmured the proud girl, meekly.
“And then the mortification of an apology; you might have spared yourself that.”
“It didn’t mortify me; I didn’t care for it.”
“No, I really believe you are too haughty to mind humbling yourself. And Don Ippolito had been so uniformly kind to us. I begin to believe that Mr. Ferris caught your true character in that sketch. But your pride will be broken some day, Florida.”
“Won’t you let me help you undress, mother? You can talk to me while you’re undressing. You must try to get some rest.”
“Yes, I am all unstrung. Why couldn’t you have let him come in and talk awhile? It would have been the best way to get me quieted down. But no; you must always have your own way Don’t twitch me, my dear; I’d rather undress myself. You pretend to be very careful of me. I wonder if you really care for me.”
“Oh, mother, you are all I have in the world!”
Mrs. Vervain began to whimper. “You talk as if I were any better off. Have I anybody besides you? And I have lost so many.”
“Don’t think of those things now, mother.”
Mrs. Vervain tenderly kissed the young girl. “You are good to your mother. Don Ippolito was right; no one ever saw you offer me disrespect or unkindness. There, there! Don’t cry, my darling. I think I _had_ better lie down, and I’ll let you undress me.”
She suffered herself to be helped into bed, and Florida went softly about the room, putting it in order, and drawing the curtains closer to keep out the near dawn. Her mother talked a little while, and presently fell from incoherence to silence, and so to sleep.
Florida looked hesitatingly at her for a moment, and then set her candle on the floor and sank wearily into an arm-chair beside the bed. Her hands fell into her lap; her head drooped sadly forward; the light flung the shadow of her face grotesquely exaggerated and foreshortened upon the ceiling.
By and by a bird piped in the garden; the shriek of a swallow made itself heard from a distance; the vernal day was beginning to stir from the light, brief drowse of the vernal night. A crown of angry red formed upon the candle wick, which toppled over in the socket and guttered out with a sharp hiss.
Florida started from her chair. A streak of sunshine pierced shutter and curtain. Her mother was supporting herself on one elbow in the bed, and looking at her as if she had just called to her.
“Mother, did you speak?” asked the girl.
Mrs. Vervain turned her face away; she sighed deeply, stretched her thin hands on the pillow, and seemed to be sinking, sinking down through the bed. She ceased to breathe and lay in a dead faint.
Florida felt rather than saw it all. She did not cry out nor call for help. She brought water and cologne, and bathed her mother’s face, and then chafed her hands. Mrs. Vervain slowly revived; she opened her eyes, then closed them; she did not speak, but after a while she began to fetch her breath with the long and even respirations of sleep.
Florida noiselessly opened the door, and met the servant with a tray of coffee. She put her finger to her lip, and motioned her not to enter, asking in a whisper: “What time is it, Nina? I forgot to wind my watch.”
“It’s nine o’clock, signorina; and I thought you would be tired this morning, and would like your coffee in bed. Oh, misericordia!” cried the girl, still in whisper, with a glance through the doorway, “you haven’t been in bed at all!”
“My mother doesn’t seem well. I sat down beside her, and fell asleep in my chair without knowing it.”
“Ah, poor little thing! Then you must drink your coffee at once. It refreshes.”
“Yes, yes,” said Florida, closing the door, and pointing to a table in the next room, “put it down here. I will serve myself, Nina. Go call the gondola, please. I am going out, at once, and I want you to go with me. Tell Checa to come here and stay with my mother till I come back.”
She poured out a cup of coffee with a trembling hand, and hastily drank it; then bathing her eyes, she went to the glass and bestowed a touch or two upon yesterday’s toilet, studied the effect a moment, and turned away. She ran back for another look, and the next moment she was walking down to the water-gate, where she found Nina waiting her in the gondola.
A rapid course brought them to Ferris’s landing. “Ring,” she said to the gondolier, “and say that one of the American ladies wishes to see the consul.”
Ferris was standing on the balcony over her, where he had been watching her approach in mute wonder. “Why, Miss Vervain,” he called down, “what in the world is the matter?”
“I don’t know. I want to see you,” said Florida, looking up with a wistful face.
“I’ll come down.”
“Yes, please. Or no, I had better come up. Yes, Nina and I will come up.”
Ferris met them at the lower door and led them to his apartment. Nina sat down in the outer room, and Florida followed the painter into his studio. Though her face was so wan, it seemed to him that he had never seen it lovelier, and he had a strange pride in her being there, though the disorder of the place ought to have humbled him. She looked over it with a certain childlike, timid curiosity, and something of that lofty compassion with which young ladies regard the haunts of men when they come into them by chance; in doing this she had a haughty, slow turn of the head that fascinated him.
“I hope,” he said, “you don’t mind the smell,” which was a mingled one of oil-colors and tobacco-smoke. “The woman’s putting my office to rights, and it’s all in a cloud of dust. So I have to bring you in here.”
Florida sat down on a chair fronting the easel, and found herself looking into the sad eyes of Don Ippolito. Ferris brusquely turned the back of the canvas toward her. “I didn’t mean you to see that. It isn’t ready to show, yet,” he said, and then he stood expectantly before her. He waited for her to speak, for he never knew how to take Miss Vervain; he was willing enough to make light of her grand moods, but now she was too evidently unhappy for mocking; at the same time he did not care to invoke a snub by a prematurely sympathetic demeanor. His mind ran on the events of the day before, and he thought this visit probably related somehow to Don Ippolito. But his visitor did not speak, and at last he said: “I hope there’s nothing wrong at home, Miss Vervain. It’s rather odd to have yesterday, last night, and next morning all run together as they have been for me in the last twenty-four hours. I trust Mrs. Vervain is turning the whole thing into a good solid oblivion.”
“It’s about–it’s about–I came to see you”–said Florida, hoarsely. “I mean,” she hurried on to say, “that I want to ask you who is the best doctor here?”
Then it was not about Don Ippolito. “Is your mother sick?” asked Ferris, eagerly. “She must have been fearfully tired by that unlucky expedition of ours. I hope there’s nothing serious?”
“No, no! But she is not well. She is very frail, you know. You must have noticed how frail she is,” said Florida, tremulously.
Ferris had noticed that all his countrywomen, past their girlhood, seemed to be sick, he did not know how or why; he supposed it was all right, it was so common. In Mrs. Vervain’s case, though she talked a great deal about her ill-health, he had noticed it rather less than usual, she had so great spirit. He recalled now that he _had_ thought her at times rather a shadowy presence, and that occasionally it had amused him that so slight a structure should hang together as it did–not only successfully, but triumphantly.
He said yes, he knew that Mrs. Vervain was not strong, and Florida continued: “It’s only advice that I want for her, but I think we had better see some one–or know some one that we could go to in need. We are so far from any one we know, or help of any kind.” She seemed to be trying to account to herself, rather than to Ferris, for what she was doing. “We mustn’t let anything pass unnoticed”…. She looked at him entreatingly, but a shadow, as of some wounding memory, passed over her face, and she said no more.
“I’ll go with you to a doctor’s,” said Ferris, kindly.
“No, please, I won’t trouble you.”
“It’s no trouble.”
“I don’t _want_ you to go with me, please. I’d rather go alone.” Ferris looked at her perplexedly, as she rose. “Just give me the address, and I shall manage best by myself. I’m used to doing it.”
“As you like. Wait a moment.” Ferris wrote the address. “There,” he said, giving it to her; “but isn’t there anything I can do for you?”
“Yes,” answered Florida with awkward hesitation, and a half-defiant, half-imploring look at him. “You must have all sorts of people applying to you, as a consul; and you look after their affairs–and try to forget them”–
“Well?” said Ferris.
“I wish you wouldn’t remember that I’ve asked this favor of you; that you’d consider it a”–
“Consular service? With all my heart,” answered Ferris, thinking for the third or fourth time how very young Miss Vervain was.
“You are very good; you are kinder than I have any right,” said Florida, smiling piteously. “I only mean, don’t speak of it to my mother. Not,” she added, “but what I want her to know everything I do; but it would worry her if she thought I was anxious about her. Oh! I wish I wouldn’t.”
She began a hasty search for her handkerchief; he saw her lips tremble and his soul trembled with them.
In another moment, “Good-morning,” she said briskly, with a sort of airy sob, “I don’t want you to come down, please.”
She drifted out of the room and down the stairs, the servant-maid falling into her wake.
Ferris filled his pipe and went out on his balcony again, and stood watching the gondola in its course toward the address he had given, and smoking thoughtfully. It was really the same girl who had given poor Don Ippolito that cruel slap in the face, yesterday. But that seemed no more out of reason than her sudden, generous, exaggerated remorse both were of a piece with her coming to him for help now, holding him at a distance, flinging herself upon his sympathy, and then trying to snub him, and breaking down in the effort. It was all of a piece, and the piece was bad; yes, she had an ugly temper; and yet she had magnanimous traits too. These contradictions, which in his reverie he felt rather than formulated, made him smile, as he stood on his balcony bathed by the morning air and sunlight, in fresh, strong ignorance of the whole mystery of women’s nerves. These caprices even charmed him. He reflected that he had gone on doing the Vervains one favor after another in spite of Florida’s childish petulancies; and he resolved that he would not stop now; her whims should be nothing to him, as they had been nothing, hitherto. It is flattering to a man to be indispensable to a woman so long as he is not obliged to it; Miss Vervain’s dependent relation to himself in this visit gave her a grace in Ferris’s eyes which she had wanted before.
In the mean time he saw her gondola stop, turn round, and come back to the canal that bordered the Vervain garden.
“Another change of mind,” thought Ferris, complacently; and rising superior to the whole fitful sex, he released himself from uneasiness on Mrs. Vervain’s account. But in the evening he went to ask after her. He first sent his card to Florida, having written on it, “I hope Mrs. Vervain is better. Don’t let me come in if it’s any disturbance.” He looked for a moment at what he had written, dimly conscious that it was patronizing, and when he entered he saw that Miss Vervain stood on the defensive and from some willfulness meant to make him feel that he was presumptuous in coming; it did not comfort him to consider that she was very young. “Mother will be in directly,” said Florida in a tone that relegated their morning’s interview to the age of fable.
Mrs. Vervain came in smiling and cordial, apparently better and not worse for yesterday’s misadventures.
“Oh, I pick up quickly,” she explained. “I’m an old campaigner, you know. Perhaps a little _too_ old, now. Years do make a difference; and you’ll find it out as you get on, Mr. Ferris.”
“I suppose so,” said Ferris, not caring to have Mrs. Vervain treat him so much like a boy. “Even at twenty-six I found it pleasant to take a nap this afternoon. How does one stand it at seventeen, Miss Vervain?” he asked.
“I haven’t felt the need of sleep,” replied Florida, indifferently, and he felt shelved, as an old fellow.
He had an empty, frivolous visit, to his thinking. Mrs. Vervain asked if he had seen Don Ippolito, and wondered that the priest had not come about, al day. She told a long story, and at the end tapped herself on the mouth with her fan to punish a yawn.
Ferris rose to go. Mrs. Vervain wondered again in the same words why Don Ippolito had not been near them all day.
“Because he’s a wise man,” said Ferris with bitterness, “and knows when to time his visits.” Mrs. Vervain did not notice his bitterness, but something made Florida follow him to the outer door.
“Why, it’s moonlight!” she exclaimed; and she glanced at him as though she had some purpose of atonement in her mind.
But he would not have it. “Yes, there’s a moon,” he said moodily. “Good-night.”
“Good night,” answered Florida, and she impulsively offered him her hand. He thought that it shook in his, but it was probably the agitation of his own nerves.
A soreness that had been lifted from his heart, came back; he walked home disappointed and defeated, he hardly knew why or in what. He did not laugh now to think how she had asked him that morning to forget her coming to him for help; he was outraged that he should have been repaid in this sort, and the rebuff with which his sympathy had just been met was vulgar; there was no other name for it but vulgarity. Yet he could not relate this quality to the face of the young girl as he constantly beheld it in his homeward walk. It did not defy him or repulse him; it looked up at him wistfully as from the gondola that morning. Nevertheless he hardened his heart. The Vervains should see him next when they had sent for him. After all, one is not so very old at twenty-six.
X.
“Don Ippolito has come, signorina,” said Nina, the next morning, approaching Florida, where she sat in an attitude of listless patience, in the garden.
“Don Ippolito!” echoed the young girl in a weary tone. She rose and went into the house, and they met with the constraint which was but too natural after the events of their last parting. It is hard to tell which has most to overcome in such a case, the forgiver or the forgiven. Pardon rankles even in a generous soul, and the memory of having pardoned embarrasses the sensitive spirit before the object of its clemency, humbling and making it ashamed. It would be well, I suppose, if there need be nothing of the kind between human creatures, who cannot sustain such a relation without mutual distrust. It is not so ill with them when apart, but when they meet they must be cold and shy at first.
“Now I see what you two are thinking about,” said Mrs. Vervain, and a faint blush tinged the cheek of the priest as she thus paired him off with her daughter. “You are thinking about what happened the other day; and you had better forget it. There is no use brooding over these matters. Dear me! if _I_ had stopped to brood over every little unpleasant thing that happened, I wonder where I should be now? By the way, where were _you_ all day yesterday, Don Ippolito?”
“I did not come to disturb you because I thought you must be very tired. Besides I was quite busy.”
“Oh yes, those inventions of yours. I think you are _so_ ingenious! But you mustn’t apply too closely. Now really, yesterday,– after all you had been through, it was too much for the brain.” She tapped herself on the forehead with her fan.
“I was not busy with my inventions, madama,” answered Don Ippolito, who sat in the womanish attitude priests get from their drapery, and fingered the cord round his three-cornered hat. “I have scarcely touched them of late. But our parish takes part in the procession of Corpus Domini in the Piazza, and I had my share of the preparations.”
“Oh, to be sure! When is it to be? We must all go. Our Nina has been telling Florida of the grand sights,–little children dressed up like John the Baptist, leading lambs. I suppose it’s a great event with you.”
The priest shrugged his shoulders, and opened both his hands, so that his hat slid to the floor, bumping and tumbling some distance away. He recovered it and sat down again. “It’s an observance,” he said coldly.
“And shall you be in the procession?”
“I shall be there with the other priests of my parish.”
“Delightful!” cried Mrs. Vervain. “We shall be looking out for you. I shall feel greatly honored to think I actually know some one in the procession. I’m going to give you a little nod. You won’t think it very wrong?”
She saved him from the embarrassment he might have felt in replying, by an abrupt lapse from all apparent interest in the subject. She turned to her daughter, and said with a querulous accent, “I wish you would throw the afghan over my feet, Florida, and make me a little comfortable before you begin your reading this morning.” At the same time she feebly disposed herself among the sofa cushions on which she reclined, and waited for some final touches from her daughter. Then she said, “I’m just going to close my eyes, but I shall hear every word. You are getting a beautiful accent, my dear, I know you are. I should think Goldoni must have a very smooth, agreeable style; hasn’t he now, in Italian?”
They began to read the comedy; after fifteen or twenty minutes Mrs. Vervain opened her eyes and said, “But before you commence, Florida, I wish you’d play a little, to get me quieted down. I feel so very flighty. I suppose it’s this sirocco. And I believe I’ll lie down in the next room.”
Florida followed her to repeat the arrangements for her comfort. Then she returned, and sitting down at the piano struck with a sort of soft firmness a few low, soothing chords, out of which a lulling melody grew. With her fingers still resting on the keys she turned her stately head, and glanced through the open door at her mother.
“Don Ippolito,” she asked softly, “is there anything in the air of Venice that makes people very drowsy?”
“I have never heard that, madamigella.”
“I wonder,” continued the young girl absently, “why my mother wants to sleep so much.”
“Perhaps she has not recovered from the fatigues of the other night,” suggested the priest.
“Perhaps,” said Florida, sadly looking toward her mother’s door.
She turned again to the instrument, and let her fingers wander over the keys, with a drooping head. Presently she lifted her face, and smoothed back from her temples some straggling tendrils of hair. Without looking at the priest she asked with the child-like bluntness that characterized her, “Why don’t you like to walk in the procession of Corpus Domini?”
Don Ippolito’s color came and went, and he answered evasively, “I have not said that I did not like to do so.”
“No, that is true,” said Florida, letting her fingers drop again on the keys.
Don Ippolito rose from the sofa where he had been sitting beside her while they read, and walked the length of the room. Then he came towards her and said meekly, “Madamigella, I did not mean to repel any interest you feel in me. But it was a strange question to ask a priest, as I remembered I was when you asked it.”
“Don’t you always remember that?” demanded the girl, still without turning her head.
“No; sometimes I am suffered to forget it,” he said with a tentative accent.
She did not respond, and he drew a long breath, and walked away in silence. She let her hands fall into her lap, and sat in an attitude of expectation. As Don Ippolito came near her again he paused a second time.
“It is in this house that I forget my priesthood,” he began, “and it is the first of your kindnesses that you suffer me to do so, your good mother, there, and you. How shall I repay you? It cut me to the heart that you should ask forgiveness of me when you did, though I was hurt by your rebuke. Oh, had you not the right to rebuke me if I abused the delicate unreserve with which you had always treated me? But believe me, I meant no wrong, then.”
His voice shook, and Florida broke in, “You did nothing wrong. It was I who was cruel for no cause.”
“No, no. You shall not say that,” he returned. “And why should I have cared for a few words, when all your acts had expressed a trust of me that is like heaven to my soul?”
She turned now and looked at him, and he went on. “Ah, I see you do not understand! How could you know what it is to be a priest in this most unhappy city? To be haunted by the strict espionage of all your own class, to be shunned as a spy by all who are not of it! But you two have not put up that barrier which everywhere shuts me out from my kind. You have been willing to see the man in me, and to let me forget the priest.”
“I do not know what to say to you, Don Ippolito. I am only a foreigner, a girl, and I am very ignorant of these things,” said Florida with a slight alarm. “I am afraid that you may be saying what you will be sorry for.”
“Oh never! Do not fear for me if I am frank with you. It is my refuge from despair.”
The passionate vibration of his voice increased, as if it must break in tears. She glanced towards the other room with a little movement or stir.
“Ah, you needn’t be afraid of listening to me!” cried the priest bitterly.
“I will not wake her,” said Florida calmly, after an instant.
“See how you speak the thing you mean, always, always, always! You could not deny that you meant to wake her, for you have the life-long habit of the truth. Do you know what it is to have the life-long habit of a lie? It is to be a priest. Do you know what it is to seem, to say, to do, the thing you are not, think not, will not? To leave what you believe unspoken, what you will undone, what you are unknown? It is to be a priest!”
Don Ippolito spoke in Italian, and he uttered these words in a voice carefully guarded from every listener but the one before his face. “Do you know what it is when such a moment as this comes, and you would fling away the whole fabric of falsehood that has clothed your life–do you know what it is to keep still so much of it as will help you to unmask silently and secretly? It is to be a priest!”
His voice had lost its vehemence, and his manner was strangely subdued and cold. The sort of gentle apathy it expressed, together with a certain sad, impersonal surprise at the difference between his own and the happier fortune with which he contrasted it, was more touching than any tragic demonstration.
As if she felt the fascination of the pathos which she could not fully analyze, the young girl sat silent. After a time, in which she seemed to be trying to think it all out, she asked in a low, deep murmur: “Why did you become a priest, then?”
“It is a long story,” said Don Ippolito. “I will not trouble you with it now. Some other time.”
“No; now,” answered Florida, in English. “If you hate so to be a priest, I can’t understand why you should have allowed yourself to become one. We should be very unhappy if we could not respect you,–not trust you as we have done; and how could we, if we knew you were not true to yourself in being what you are?”
“Madamigella,” said the priest, “I never dared believe that I was in the smallest thing necessary to your happiness. Is it true, then, that you care for my being rather this than that? That you are in the least grieved by any wrong of mine?”
“I scarcely know what you mean. How could we help being grieved by what you have said to me?”
“Thanks; but why do you care whether a priest of my church loves his calling or not,–you, a Protestant? It is that you are sorry for me as an unhappy man, is it not?”
“Yes; it is that and more. I am no Catholic, but we are both Christians”–
Don Ippolito gave the faintest movement of his shoulders.
–“and I cannot endure to think of your doing the things you must do as a priest, and yet hating to be a priest. It is terrible!”
“Are all the priests of your faith devotees?”
“They cannot be. But are none of yours so?”
“Oh, God forbid that I should say that. I have known real saints among them. That friend of mine in Padua, of whom I once told you, became such, and died an angel fit for Paradise. And I suppose that my poor uncle is a saint, too, in his way.”
“Your uncle? A priest? You have never mentioned him to us.”
“No,” said Don Ippolito. After a certain pause he began abruptly, “We are of the people, my family, and in each generation we have sought to honor our blood by devoting one of the race to the church. When I was a child, I used to divert myself by making little figures out of wood and pasteboard, and I drew rude copies of the pictures I saw at church. We lived in the house where I live now, and where I was born, and my mother let me play in the small chamber where I now have my forge; it was anciently the oratory of the noble family that occupied the whole palace. I contrived an altar at one end of it; I stuck my pictures about the walls, and I ranged the puppets in the order of worshippers on the floor; then I played at saying mass, and preached to them all day long.
“My mother was a widow. She used to watch me with tears in her eyes. At last, one day, she brought my uncle to see me: I remember it all far better than yesterday. ‘Is it not the will of God?’ she asked. My uncle called me to him, and asked me whether I should like to be a priest in good earnest, when I grew up? ‘Shall I then be able to make as many little figures as I like, and to paint pictures, and carve an altar like that in your church?’ I demanded. My uncle answered that I should have real men and women to preach to, as he had, and would not that be much finer? In my heart I did not think so, for I did not care for that part of it; I only liked to preach to my puppets because I had made them. But said, ‘Oh yes,’ as children do. I kept on contriving the toys that I played with, and I grew used to hearing it told among my mates and about the neighborhood that I was to be a priest; I cannot remember any other talk with my mother, and I do not know how or when it was decided. Whenever I thought of the matter, I thought, ‘That will be very well. The priests have very little to do, and they gain a great deal of money with their masses; and I shall be able to make whatever I like.’ I only considered the office then as a means to gratify the passion that has always filled my soul for inventions and works of mechanical skill and ingenuity. My inclination was purely secular, but I was as inevitably becoming a priest as if I had been born to be one.”
“But you were not forced? There was no pressure upon you?”
“No, there was merely an absence, so far as they were concerned, of any other idea. I think they meant justly, and assuredly they meant kindly by me. I grew in years, and the time came when I was to begin my studies. It was my uncle’s influence that placed me in the Seminary of the Salute, and there I repaid his care by the utmost diligence. But it was not the theological studies that I loved, it was the mathematics and their practical application, and among the classics I loved best the poets and the historians. Yes, I can see that I was always a mundane spirit, and some of those in charge of me at once divined it, I think. They used to take us to walk,–you have seen the little creatures in their priest’s gowns, which they put on when they enter the school, with a couple of young priests at the head of the file,– and once, for an uncommon pleasure, they took us to the Arsenal, and let us see the shipyards and the museum. You know the wonderful things that are there: the flags and the guns captured from the Turks; the strange weapons of all devices; the famous suits of armor. I came back half-crazed; I wept that I must leave the place. But I set to work the best I could to carve out in wood an invention which the model of one of the antique galleys had suggested to me. They found it,–nothing can be concealed outside of your own breast in such a school,–and they carried me with my contrivance before the superior. He looked kindly but gravely at me: ‘My son,’ said he, ‘do you wish to be a priest?’ ‘Surely, reverend father,’ I answered in alarm, ‘why not?’ ‘Because these things are not for priests. Their thoughts must be upon other things. Consider well of it, my son, while there is yet time,’ he said, and he addressed me a long and serious discourse upon the life on which I was to enter. He was a just and conscientious and affectionate man; but every word fell like burning fire in my heart. At the end, he took my poor plaything, and thrust it down among the coals of his _scaldino_. It made the scaldino smoke, and he bade me carry it out with me, and so turned again to his book.
“My mother was by this time dead, but I could hardly have gone to her, if she had still been living. ‘These things are not for priests!’ kept repeating itself night and day in my brain. I was in despair, I was in a fury to see my uncle. I poured out my heart to him, and tried to make him understand the illusions and vain hopes in which I had lived. He received coldly my sorrow and the reproaches which I did not spare him; he bade me consider my inclinations as so many temptations to be overcome for the good of my soul and the glory of God. He warned me against the scandal of attempting to withdraw now from the path marked out for me. I said that I never would be a priest. ‘And what will you do?’ he asked. Alas! what could I do? I went back to my prison, and in due course I became a priest.
“It was not without sufficient warning that I took one order after another, but my uncle’s words, ‘What will you do?’ made me deaf to these admonitions. All that is now past. I no longer resent nor hate; I seem to have lost the power; but those were days when my soul was filled with bitterness. Something of this must have showed itself to those who had me in their charge. I have heard that at one time my superiors had grave doubts whether I ought to be allowed to take orders. My examination, in which the difficulties of the sacerdotal life were brought before me with the greatest clearness, was severe; I do not know how I passed it; it must have been in grace to my uncle. I spent the next ten days in a convent, to meditate upon the step I was about to take. Poor helpless, friendless wretch! Madamigella, even yet I cannot see how I was to blame, that I came forth and received the first of the holy orders, and in their time the second and the third.
“I was a priest, but no more a priest at heart than those Venetian conscripts, whom you saw carried away last week, are Austrian soldiers. I was bound as they are bound, by an inexorable and inevitable law.
“You have asked me why I became a priest. Perhaps I have not told you why, but I have told you how–I have given you the slight outward events, not the processes of my mind–and that is all that I can do. If the guilt was mine, I have suffered for it. If it was not mine, still I have suffered for it. Some ban seems to have rested upon whatever I have attempted. My work,–oh, I know it well enough!–has all been cursed with futility; my labors are miserable failures or contemptible successes. I have had my unselfish dreams of blessing mankind by some great discovery or invention; but my life has been barren, barren, barren; and save for the kindness that I have known in this house, and that would not let me despair, it would now be without hope.”
He ceased, and the girl, who had listened with her proud looks transfigured to an aspect of grieving pity, fetched a long sigh. “Oh, I am sorry for you!” she said, “more sorry than I know how to tell. But you must not lose courage, you must not give up!”
Don Ippolito resumed with a melancholy smile. “There are doubtless temptations enough to be false under the best of conditions in this world. But something–I do not know what or whom; perhaps no more my uncle or my mother than I, for they were only as the past had made them–caused me to begin by living a lie, do you not see?”
“Yes, yes,” reluctantly assented the girl.
“Perhaps–who knows?–that is why no good has come of me, nor can come. My uncle’s piety and repute have always been my efficient help. He is the principal priest of the church to which I am attached, and he has had infinite patience with me. My ambition and my attempted inventions are a scandal to him, for he is a priest of those like the Holy Father, who believe that all the wickedness of the modern world has come from the devices of science; my indifference to the things of religion is a terror and a sorrow to him which he combats with prayers and penances. He starves himself and goes cold and faint that God may have mercy and turn my heart to the things on which his own is fixed. He loves my soul, but not me, and we are scarcely friends.”
Florida continued to look at him with steadfast, compassionate eyes. “It seems very strange, almost like some dream,” she murmured, “that you should be saying all this to me, Don Ippolito, and I do not know why I should have asked you anything.”
The pity of this virginal heart must have been very sweet to the man on whom she looked it. His eyes worshipped her, as he answered her devoutly, “It was due to the truth in you that I should seem to you what I am.”
“Indeed, you make me ashamed!” she cried with a blush. “It was selfish of me to ask you to speak. And now, after what you have told me, I am so helpless and I know so very little that I don’t understand how to comfort or encourage you. But surely you can somehow help yourself. Are men, that seem so strong and able, just as powerless as women, after all, when it comes to real trouble? Is a man”–
“I cannot answer. I am only a priest,” said Don Ippolito coldly, letting his eyes drop to the gown that fell about him like a woman’s skirt.
“Yes, but a priest should be a man, and so much more; a priest”–
Don Ippolito shrugged his shoulders.
“No, no!” cried the girl. “Your own schemes have all failed, you say; then why do you not think of becoming a priest in reality, and getting the good there must be in such a calling? It is singular that I should venture to say such a thing to you, and it must seem presumptuous and ridiculous for me, a Protestant–but our ways are so different.”… She paused, coloring deeply, then controlled herself, and added with grave composure, “If you were to pray”–
“To what, madamigella?” asked the priest, sadly.
“To what!” she echoed, opening her eyes full upon him. “To God!”
Don Ippolito made no answer. He let his head fall so low upon his breast that she could see the sacerdotal tonsure.
“You must excuse me,” she said, blushing again. “I did not mean to wound your feelings as a Catholic. I have been very bold and intrusive. I ought to have remembered that people of your church have different ideas–that the saints”–
Don Ippolito looked up with pensive irony.
“Oh, the poor saints!”
“I don’t understand you,” said Florida, very gravely.
“I mean that I believe in the saints as little as you do.”
“But you believe in your Church?”
“I have no Church.”
There was a silence in which Don Ippolito again dropped his head upon his breast. Florida leaned forward in her eagerness, and murmured, “You believe in God?”
The priest lifted his eyes and looked at her beseechingly. “I do not know,” he whispered. She met his gaze with one of dumb bewilderment. At last she said: “Sometimes you baptize little children and receive them into the church in the name of God?”
“Yes.”
“Poor creatures come to you and confess their sins, and you absolve them, or order them to do penances?”
“Yes.”
“And sometimes when people are dying, you must stand by their death- beds and give them the last consolations of religion?”
“It is true.”
“Oh!” moaned the girl, and fixed on Don Ippolito a long look of wonder and reproach, which he met with eyes of silent anguish.
“It is terrible, madamigella,” he said, rising. “I know it. I would fain have lived single-heartedly, for I think I was made so; but now you see how black and deadly a lie my life is. It is worse than you could have imagined, is it not? It is worse than the life of the cruelest bigot, for he at least believes in himself.”
“Worse, far worse!”
“But at least, dear young lady,” he went on piteously, “believe me that I have the grace to abhor myself. It is not much, it is very, very little, but it is something. Do not wholly condemn me!”
“Condemn? Oh, I am sorry for you with my whole heart. Only, why must you tell me all this? No, no; you are not to blame. I made you speak; I made you put yourself to shame.”
“Not that, dearest madamigella. I would unsay nothing now, if I could, unless to take away the pain I have given you. It has been more a relief than a shame to have all this known to you; and even if you should despise me”–
“I don’t despise you; that isn’t for me; but oh, I wish that I could help you!”
Don Ippolito shook his head. “You cannot help me; but I thank you for your compassion; I shall never forget it.” He lingered irresolutely with his hat in his hand. “Shall we go on with the reading, madamigella?”
“No, we will not read any more to-day,” she answered.
“Then I relieve you of the disturbance, madamigella,” he said; and after a moment’s hesitation he bowed sadly and went.
She mechanically followed him to the door, with some little gestures and movements of a desire to keep him from going, yet let him go, and so turned back and sat down with her hands resting noiseless on the keys of the piano.
XI.
The next morning Don Ippolito did not come, but in the afternoon the postman brought a letter for Mrs. Vervain, couched in the priest’s English, begging her indulgence until after the day of Corpus Christi, up to which time, he said, he should be too occupied for his visits of ordinary.
This letter reminded Mrs. Vervain that they had not seen Mr. Ferris for three days, and she sent to ask him to dinner. But he returned an excuse, and he was not to be had to breakfast the next morning for the asking. He was in open rebellion. Mrs. Vervain had herself rowed to the consular landing, and sent up her gondolier with another invitation to dinner.
The painter appeared on the balcony in the linen blouse which he wore at his work, and looked down with a frown on the smiling face of Mrs. Vervain for a moment without speaking. Then, “I’ll come,” he said gloomily.
“Come with me, then,” returned Mrs. Vervain,
“I shall have to keep you waiting.”
“I don’t mind that. You’ll be ready in five minutes.”
Florida met the painter with such gentleness that he felt his resentment to have been a stupid caprice, for which there was no ground in the world. He tried to recall his fading sense of outrage, but he found nothing in his mind but penitence. The sort of distraught humility with which she behaved gave her a novel fascination.
The dinner was good, as Mrs. Vervain’s dinners always were, and there was a compliment to the painter in the presence of a favorite dish. When he saw this, “Well, Mrs. Vervain, what is it?” he asked. “You needn’t pretend that you’re treating me so well for nothing. You want something.”
“We want nothing but that you should not neglect your friends. We have been utterly deserted for three or four days. Don Ippolito has not been here, either; but _he_ has some excuse; he has to get ready for Corpus Christi. He’s going to be in the procession.”
“Is he to appear with his flying machine, or his portable dining-table, or his automatic camera?”
“For shame!” cried Mrs. Vervain, beaming reproach. Florida’s face clouded, and Ferris made haste to say that he did not know these inventions were sacred, and that he had no wish to blaspheme them.
“You know well enough what I meant,” answered Mrs. Vervain. “And now, we want you to get us a window to look out on the procession.”
“Oh, _that’s_ what you want, is it? I thought you merely wanted me not to neglect my friends.”
“Well, do you call that neglecting them?”
“Mrs. Vervain, Mrs. Vervain! What a mind you have! Is there anything else you want? Me to go with you, for example?”
“We don’t insist. You can take us to the window and leave us, if you like.”
“This clemency is indeed unexpected,” replied Ferris. “I’m really quite unworthy of it.”
He was going on with the badinage customary between Mrs. Vervain and himself, when Florida protested,–
“Mother, I think we abuse Mr. Ferris’s kindness.”
“I know it, my dear–I know it,” cheerfully assented Mrs. Vervain. “It’s perfectly shocking. But what are we to do? We must abuse _somebody’s_ kindness.”
“We had better stay at home. I’d much rather not go,” said the girl, tremulously.
“Why, Miss Vervain,” said Ferris gravely, “I’m very sorry if you’ve misunderstood my joking. I’ve never yet seen the procession to advantage, and I’d like very much to look on with you.”
He could not tell whether she was grateful for his words, or annoyed. She resolutely said no more, but her mother took up the strain and discoursed long upon it, arranging all the particulars of their meeting and going together. Ferris was a little piqued, and began to wonder why Miss Vervain did not stay at home if she did not want to go. To be sure, she went everywhere with her mother but it was strange, with her habitual violent submissiveness, that she should have said anything in opposition to her mother’s wish or purpose.
After dinner, Mrs. Vervain frankly withdrew for her nap, and Florida seemed to make a little haste to take some sewing in her hand, and sat down with the air of a woman willing; to detain her visitor. Ferris was not such a stoic as not to be dimly flattered by this, but he was too much of a man to be fully aware how great an advance it might seem.
“I suppose we shall see most of the priests of Venice, and what they are like, in the procession to-morrow,” she said. “Do you remember speaking to me about priests, the other day, Mr. Ferris?”
“Yes, I remember it very well. I think I overdid it; and I couldn’t perceive afterwards that I had shown any motive but a desire to make trouble for Don Ippolito.”
“I never thought that,” answered Florida, seriously. “What you said was true, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was and it wasn’t, and I don’t know that it differed from anything else in the world, in that respect. It is true that there is a great distrust of the priests amongst the Italians. The young men hate them–or think they do–or say they do. Most educated men in middle life are materialists, and of course unfriendly to the priests. There are even women who are skeptical about religion. But I suspect that the largest number of all those who talk loudest against the priests are really subject to them. You must consider how very intimately they are bound up with every family in the most solemn relations of life.”
“Do you think the priests are generally bad men?” asked the young girl shyly.
“I don’t, indeed. I don’t see how things could hang together if it were so. There must be a great basis of sincerity and goodness in them, when all is said and done. It seems to me that at the worst they’re merely professional people–poor fellows who have gone into the church for a living. You know it isn’t often now that the sons of noble families take orders; the priests are mostly of humble origin; not that they’re necessarily the worse for that; the patricians used to be just as bad in another way.”
“I wonder,” said Florida, with her head on one side, considering her seam, “why there is always something so dreadful to us in the idea of a priest.”
“They _do_ seem a kind of alien creature to us Protestants. I can’t make out whether they seem so to Catholics, or not. But we have a repugnance to all doomed people, haven’t we? And a priest is a man under sentence of death to the natural ties between himself and the human race. He is dead to us. That makes him dreadful. The spectre of our dearest friend, father or mother, would be terrible. And yet,” added Ferris, musingly, “a nun isn’t terrible.”
“No,” answered the girl, “that’s because a woman’s life even in the world seems to be a constant giving up. No, a nun isn’t unnatural, but a priest is.”
She was silent for a time, in which she sewed swiftly; then she suddenly dropped her work into her lap, and pressing it down with both hands, she asked, “Do you believe that priests themselves are ever skeptical about religion?”
“I suppose it must happen now and then. In the best days of the church it was a fashion to doubt, you know. I’ve often wanted to ask our friend Don Ippolito something about these matters, but I didn’t see how it could be managed.” Ferris did not note the change that passed over Florida’s face, and he continued. “Our acquaintance hasn’t become so intimate as I hoped it might. But you only get to a certain point with Italians. They like to meet you on the street; maybe they haven’t any indoors.”
“Yes, it must sometimes happen, as you say,” replied Florida, with a quick sigh, reverting to the beginning of Ferris’s answer. “But is it any worse for a false priest than for a hypocritical minister?”
“It’s bad enough for either, but it’s worse for the priest. You see Miss Vervain, a minister doesn’t set up for so much. He doesn’t pretend to forgive us our sins, and he doesn’t ask us to confess them; he doesn’t offer us the veritable body and blood in the sacrament, and he doesn’t bear allegiance to the visible and tangible vicegerent of Christ upon earth. A hypocritical parson may be absurd; but a skeptical priest is tragical.”
“Yes, oh yes, I see,” murmured the girl, with a grieving face. “Are they always to blame for it? They must be induced, sometimes, to enter the church before they’ve seriously thought about it, and then don’t know how to escape from the path that has been marked out for them from their childhood. Should you think such a priest as that was to blame