By Matilda Serao
Translated by Elise Lathrop.
Sofia did not raise her eyes from her work, and her slim fingers fairly flew over the delicate lace. But Lulu wandered about the room, moving the ornaments on the shelves or opening a drawer to gaze absently into it. It was clear that she wished either to do or to say something, but was abashed by her elder sister’s grave manner. She hummed a few bars of a song, recited a verse, but Sofia appeared not to hear. Then Lulu, who was not blessed with too much patience, decided to put the question boldly, and, planting herself in front of her sister, she asked:
“Sofia, do you know what Mademoiselle Jeannette told me?”
“Assuredly nothing very interesting.”
“Now that is an answer dry and cold enough to give one a chill even in summer! Where do you get your ice, oh, my glacial sister?”
“Lulu, you are a veritable baby!”
“Now, that is just where you mistake, idol of my heart. I am not a baby, for I am going to be married.”
“What?”
“And that is just what Jeannette told me.”
“What nonsense! I do not understand a word of what you are saying.”
“Very good, I will now tell you all, as they say in plays. It will be a narrative—but will Your Seriousness lend me your whole attention?”
“Yes, yes, but be quick.”
“The day of the races at the Field of Mars is the time and place. You were not there; you preferred your everlasting books.”
“If you wander so from the subject I will not listen to you any longer.”
“You must listen to me; this secret is suffocating me, killing me.”
“Are you beginning again?”
“I will stop, I will stop. Well, then, at the races we sat in the front row on the grand stand. Paolo Lovato came and presented a handsome young man to us, Roberto Montefranco. After the usual greetings and vague compliments, they found places directly behind us; we exchanged a few words until the signal for the start of the horses was heard. You remember that I favored Gorgon, without foreseeing how ungrateful she was to be to me—one must resign one’s self to ingratitude even with beasts. A cloud of dust quite hid the horses. ‘Gorgon wins!’ I cried. ‘No,’ said Montefranco, smilingly, ‘Lord Lavello.’ I was vexed at his contradiction; but he continued smiling and contradicting me; we ended by making a wager. Finally, after half an hour of palpitation and anxiety, I learned that Gorgon had played me false, that I had lost and Montefranco had won; only fancy! I tell him that I will pay at once; he bows and replies that there is plenty of time. I meet him on the Chiaja, throw him an interrogative glance, and he contents himself with bowing and smiling in a mysterious manner. It is the same at the theatre, everywhere. I live in the greatest curiosity. Roberto is handsome, twenty-six years old, and this morning Montefranco père, my future father-in-law, had a two hours’ conference with mama.”
“Oh!”
“Signs of attention on the part of my audience? Well, I knew about his visit from Jeannette. So the marriage is arranged. One momentous detail remains to be settled; when shall I go to the mayor’s office, and shall I wear a gray or a tan colored gown? Shall I wear a hat with streamers or without?”
“How you run on!”
“Run? Why, of course; there are no obstacles. Roberto and I will love each other madly, our parents are content—”
“And you would marry a man that way?”
“What does ‘that way’ mean? It is such an elastic word.”
“Without knowing him, without loving him?”
“But I do know him, I have seen him at the races and when out walking. I adore him! Day before yesterday I refused to take luncheon because I had not seen him, and instead drank three cups of coffee, trying to commit suicide.”
“And he?”
“He wishes to marry me, therefore he loves me!” replied Lulu, triumphantly. But seeing Sofia’s face pale, she repented of this imprudent remark, and bending over her sister, asked affectionately:“Have I said anything wrong?”
“No, dear, no; you are right. When one loves one marries. It is difficult to awaken love,” and she sighed softly.
“Awaken love, awaken love!” repeated Lulu, in an irritated manner. “It is very easy, Sofia; but when one has a serious brow, like you, sad eyes, and unsmiling lips; when one goes and sits in a corner thinking, while every one else is dancing and jesting; when one reads instead of laughing, and instead of living, dreams; and when one cultivates an old and lackadaisical manner, though still young, then it is difficult to be loved.”
Sofia lowered her head and made no reply. Her lips quivered slightly, as though she were suppressing a sob.
“Have I hurt you again?” asked Lulu. “It is because I should like to see you beloved, surrounded with affection, to see you a bride—. How nice it would be if we were to be married on the same day!”
“That is foolish; I shall be an old maid.”
“No, miss, I forbid it, you wicked creature. If Roberto is a nice fellow he absolutely must have a bachelor brother; I wish it!”
At this moment their mother entered the room in walking dress.
“Are you going out, mama?” asked Lulu.
“Yes, dear, I am going to the notary’s.”
“Oh! to the notary’s. That is a serious business.”
“You will soon learn, Miss Tease. Sofia, come with me for a moment.”
“And has Sofia, too, some dark dealings with the notary?”
“Lulu, when will you learn to be serious?”
“Very soon, mama; you will see.”
She opened the door for her mother and sister to pass out, made two low courtesies, murmuring: “Madame, Mademoiselle!” When they had left the room she called to them from the threshold, with a burst of laughter:
“Talk, talk away! I will pretend that I know nothing about it.”
II
As a general thing Roberto Montefranco was not a great thinker; he had not time to be. What with luncheons, horseback rides, calls, and dinners, his days flew by, and his evenings he passed pleasantly with his fiancée, Lulu. Then there were tiresome matters to be attended to, some appointments with his lawyer, contracts to be signed, some old debts to be settled, to say nothing of preparations for his house and for the wedding trip. He had barely time even for his half-hour’s reading and fifteen minutes’ loitering at the door of his café. So he was never seen absorbed in profound reflection, nor was he ever known to be engaged in solving some social problem, for Roberto had nothing of the tragic or heroic in his character. Rather, he was of a serene temperament, and many envied him for it.
But this afternoon he lay stretched out in an armchair, one leg crossed over the other, a book in his hand, with the fixed determination of reading. The book was interesting; yet, new and strange as it may seem, the reader had become very absent-minded. In fact, he was more than that; he was nervous and restless. He never turned a page, because after reading a couple of lines the letters seemed to leave their printed places, to dance about, become confused, disappear. Roberto had involuntarily taken a journey into the unknown regions of thought.
“Papa is satisfied, my aunts all have sent me their blessings, my girl cousins are angry, my friends at the café congratulate me ironically, my true friends clasp my hand; therefore I am doing well to marry. I can not deny that Lulu is very pretty; when she fixes her eyes so full of mischief upon me, when she laughs and shows her little white teeth, I want to take her charming little head between my hands and kiss her over and over again. And she has an excellent disposition, a character of gold, always merry, good-natured, ready for a jest, witty, full of pranks, never melancholy. We shall agree excellently. I can not endure serious looks, especially in people I love. It always seems to me that such looks conceal a secret grief, a grief with which I am unacquainted, and which I can not alleviate, or of which I am perhaps the involuntary cause. Sofia, my future sister-in-law, has the faculty of irritating me with her cold, impassive face. Whenever she appears my intelligence seems to shrivel up, the smile leaves my lips; and even should the most beautiful spring sun be shining, for me it turns into a gray November day. I no longer have the courage to joke even with Lulu; that Sofia drives all joy away. She may have noticed the unpleasant impression she makes upon me, for she speaks to me without looking at me, does not shake hands, answers in the fewest possible words. She has noticed my dislike for her. Perhaps she is offended by it.
“Lulu always laughs. She is very young. She never says a serious word to me, and even if she wishes to it always seems as though she were ridiculing. She loves me, but not madly. To be frank, mine is not a mad passion either; better so. For my part, I have two theories firmly established in my mind: an engaged couple should be of like dispositions, and, secondly, they should never begin with a violent passion. This is our case, and Lulu and I will be very happy. We shall take a trip through Italy, but without haste, taking short journeys, enjoying every comfort, stopping where we please, seeing even the most insignificant things. We will thus occupy three months; no, that will not be enough, let us say four months; I shall be glad to get Lulu away for a certain time from the doleful society of Sofia. But, I ask, is it natural that that girl should be so serious at her age? She must be twenty-three. She is not plain. In fact, she has beautiful eyes, and the carriage of a queen. If she were not so severe she would please. I wager that she will be an old maid; perhaps that is her secret torment, perhaps a love affair, some unfortunate love affair—I am curious to know the cause of her seriousness—I shall ask Lulu when we are alone—
“Lulu is fond of bonbons, she told me so that second evening I went to her house. How she nibbles them! How they disappear between her little red lips, and after a moment what a false air of compunction she assumes—because there are no more. She is dear, dear, dear! She confided to me in a low tone that when it thunders she is frightened, and goes and hides her head among the pillows; that she has always dreamed of having a gown of black velvet, with a very long train, and with white lace at the neck and sleeves. She assures me that she shall be jealous, jealous as a Spaniard, and that she shall buy a little dagger with a handle inlaid with gold, with which to take vengeance. She is adorable when she repeats these absurdities to me, with her childish air of conviction. Even Sofia is forced to smile sometimes, and how it brightens her face! That Sofia, that Sofia! who will ever learn to know her!”
The book fell from his knees to the floor, the young man started at the sound, looked about in surprise, as though unable to recognize himself. It was actually he, Roberto Montefranco, caught in flagrante delicto, meditating.
III
Twilight was descending like a rain of gray ashes. Sofia, standing at the window that opened out on to the balcony, was gazing down into the crowded, noisy street. It was the hour in which the Via Toledo becomes dangerous because of the great number of large and small carriages that pass up and down in a continuous stream. Sofia seemed looking for some one; suddenly a vivid flush passed over her face, she bent her head slightly, then suddenly paled, and turned back into the room. A minute later Lulu entered like a whirlwind, slamming doors, overturning chairs that she might hurry the more.
“What are you doing here, Donna Sofia Santangelo? Are you reading?”
“Yes, I was reading.”
“And you did not even care to stand on the balcony?”
“And if I had?”
“Pshaw! I had to stay upstairs, for Albina, the dressmaker, had brought my gown for this evening, and all the while I was trembling with impatience, for I wanted to be here. Yesterday evening I told Roberto to wear his gray overcoat, to have Selim harnessed to the cart, and to pass at half-past six. Who knows if he obeyed me!”
“Roberto passed here in the cart, and wearing his gray overcoat.”
“Good gracious! How do you know all this? I thought you were reading?”
“I was in the window.”
“And you recognized Roberto, although you never look at him? Wonderful! Did he bow to you?”
“Yes.”
“How did he take off his hat?”
“Why—as he always does.”
“And you bowed to him?”
“Do you think me lacking in manners?”
“At least you smiled at him?”
“No—that is, I do not know.”
“You are not nice, Sofia. And yesterday evening Roberto spoke to me about you.”
“Telling you that I was not nice?”
“No, but asking me the cause of your reserved character, so different from mine. Then I recited a fine panegyric to him; I told him that you were better, more amiable, more loving than I, that your only fault was in concealing all these good qualities. Only fancy, he listened to me with the greatest interest; finally, he asked me about your aversion to him—”
“Aversion!”
“That is what he said, and, do you know, he is not so entirely wrong; you treat him with so little cordiality. But even on this point I defended you; I told a fib, for I said that you liked him very much indeed, and that you esteemed him greatly—”
“Lulu!”
“I know that it is not true, but Roberto is so fond of you, is it not ungrateful of you to treat him like a stranger?”
Sofia threw her arms around her sister’s neck and kissed her; Lulu held her for an instant, and murmured in a caressing voice:
“Why do you not love Roberto a little?”
The other made a sudden abrupt movement and drew away, without saying a word.
“Oh, well!” said Lulu, shrugging her shoulders and changing the subject. “Are you really not coming with us this evening?”
“No, I have a headache; you can go with mama.”
“As usual. I shall go just the same, because I shall have a very good time.”
“Is—Roberto going with you?”
“No; he is going to his club, where there is a directors’ meeting. I am going to profit by it and go to the Dellinos’ ball, and shall dance until to-morrow morning.”
“And when he knows of it?”
“So much the better. He will learn from now on to leave me free; I do not wish him to acquire bad habits.”
“You love him very little, it seems to me.”
“Very much, in my own way. But I must hurry away to dress. It will take me at least two hours.”
Sofia stood listening to the noise of the departing carriage which bore away her mother and sister. She was left alone, quite alone, as she had always wished to be left. As a child, when some wrong or injustice had been done her, she had cried all alone, when she was in bed, in the dark, and the habit had remained with her. Now, alone in the great drawing-room, beneath the brightly lighted chandelier, her hands inert, her head resting against the back of her chair, her face wore an expression of great sorrow, the vivid reflection of a serious inward conflict. Certainly in these moments of complete solitude the consciousness of a great grief came over her; the sentiment of the reality, long repulsed, became clear, distinct, cruel.
The sound of footsteps startled her. It was Roberto. Seeing her alone, he paused, hesitating; but supposing the rest of the family to be in another room, he advanced. Sofia had risen at once, agitated.
“Good evening, Sofia.”
“Good evening—”
They were both embarrassed.
“Heavens, how unpleasant this Sofia is!” thought Roberto.
Meanwhile the girl recovered herself, composing her features, which once more took on a severe expression. They sat down at some distance from each other.
“Your mother is well?”
“Quite well, thank you.”
“And—Lulu?”
“She, too, is very well.”
There was silence. Roberto experienced a strange sensation as of joy filled with bitterness.
“Lulu is occupied?” he asked.
Sofia checked a slight movement of impatience.
“She is at the Dellinos’ ball with mama,” she continued rapidly, as if to anticipate other questions.
Since Sofia was alone, then, and if he did not wish to be the most discourteous of men, he ought to remain and chat with her. At this thought Roberto was seized with an almost irresistible desire to flee. Yet he did not move.
“I came here because there was not the required number of us at my club,” he finally said, as if to excuse his presence.
“Lulu did not expect you—I am sorry—”
“Oh, it does not matter,” interrupted Roberto.
The interruption was too quick, and hardly flattering to the absent one.
“And you did not go?” he resumed.
“No, you know I am not very fond of balls.”
“Do you prefer reading?”
“Yes, very much.”
“Are you not afraid of doing yourself harm?”
“I have good eyes,” replied Sofia, raising them to the face of her questioner.
“And beautiful ones,” thought Roberto, “but expressionless. I meant—”
“Moral injury, perhaps. I do not think so. From the books that I read I always derive great peace.”
“Do you need peace?”
“We all need peace.”
Sofia’s voice was grave, resonant. Roberto took pleasure in it, as though he were hearing it for the first time. He seemed to find himself face to face with a woman hitherto unknown to him, and who was revealing herself to him in every word and gesture. Sofia had lost her coldness, she even looked at him, smiled at him, and spoke to him as to a friend. What had been between them before this? What was happening now?
“When I like a book,” continued Roberto, “I always feel the greatest desire to know the author, to know if he or she is good, if he has suffered, if he too has loved—”
“Perhaps you would be disillusioned. Authors always describe the love of others, never their own.”
“Possibly out of respect?”
“From jealousy, I think. There are cases in which love is the only treasure hidden in a soul.”
But the voice of Sofia did not change as she said these words. Her face wore such a frank expression, her tone was so simple, so pure, so convinced, that Roberto felt no surprise at hearing her discuss love with such sureness. Nothing now surprised him; everything seemed natural, to be expected. Even this evening, passed alone with this strange girl, seemed to him something predestined and long awaited. When they separated they gazed directly into each other’s faces, as though they wished to be sure of recognizing each other again. Sofia held out her hand, Roberto took it and bowed over it; a portière fell heavily behind him. They were parted.
When the charm of Sofia’s presence and conversation had ceased, Roberto felt confused, his brain in a turmoil. He was both gay and melancholy, would have liked to die, and was yet full of life. He did not know what to think of Lulu, of himself, or of his future.
Sofia was very happy, very happy. For this reason she wept, sobbing heartily, her head buried in her pillow.
IV
Three months had passed, Lulu’s marriage was still postponed. Every once in a while her mother, who did not understand this delay, would call her daughter aside and ask her the cause.
“I wish to wait,” Lulu always replied; “I need to know Roberto better.”
In fact, the girl had become observing. She went about as usual, sang as usual, laughed, joked, but often interrupted these pleasant occupations to study her sister, or to listen closely to Roberto’s every word. The former was often seen with lips compressed, her eyebrows drawn together with an air of great attention.
Then Lulu looked about her. And about her strange things were happening. Roberto was no longer serene and hilarious as usual, but thoughtful, pale, and agitated. He spoke briefly and absently; to many things in which he had formerly been interested he now seemed quite indifferent; sometimes with a great effort he succeeded in controlling himself, and becoming once more what he had been before, but only for a short time. He had never been accustomed to dissimulation, and succeeded badly; his passion and inner torment were revealed in his eyes.
A different Sofia, too, made her appearance at this time; that is to say, a nervous, restless Sofia, who at times embraced her sister with effusion, sometimes remained for hours without seeing her, rather avoiding her. Fleeting blushes rose to her cheeks, feverish flushes; a flame burned in her eyes; her voice was now deep and full of emotion, now dry and strident; her hands shook. At night she did not sleep. Lulu often rose, and went with bare feet to listen at her door and heard Sofia toss about and weep. If questioned, Sofia declared that there was nothing the matter; always the same reply.
When Roberto and Sofia met—and this happened every day—the change that had taken place in both of them became evident. Remarks were rare, replies were either too prompt or too vague, there were odd glances; sometimes for whole evenings they did not speak, but each studied the movements of the other. They never sat beside each other; yet Roberto always found an excuse for picking up the work or the book that Sofia had touched. Sometimes when she did not come into the room, Roberto, always more and more uneasy, stared at the closed door, answering absently to what was said. Sometimes only five minutes after Sofia’s appearance he would take his hat and leave. The girl was growing pale, black circles appeared under her eyes. Finally, she decided not to let herself be seen. Every evening for a week she shut herself in her room, trembling with impatience, trying to smother her unhappiness.
One evening Lulu entered her room. “Will you do me a favor?” she asked.
“What do you want?”
“I have a note to write,” said Lulu. “Roberto is alone, out on the terrace. Will you go and keep him company?”
“But I—”
“Do you wish to stay shut up here? Does it cost you so much to please me?”
“Will you come back soon?”
“I only want time to write four lines.”
Sofia turned toward the terrace, trying to summon courage for the ordeal. She paused on the threshold. Roberto was walking up and down; she went up to him.
“Lulu sends me,” she said in a low voice.
“You forced yourself to come?”
“Forced—no.”
She trembled throughout her whole frame; Roberto was near her, his face transfigured with passion.
“What have I done to you, Sofia?”
“Nothing, you have done nothing. Do not look at me like that,” she implored, terrified.
“You know then, Sofia, that I love you very dearly?”
“Oh! hush, Roberto, for pity’s sake hush! If Lulu were to hear us!”
“I do not love Lulu. I love you, Sofia.”
“That is treachery.”
“I know it, but I love you. I will go away—”
“Well?” cried Lulu in the distance, appearing from another door. “Well, have you two made peace?”
But there was no reply. Sofia fled, hiding her face in her hands; and Roberto remained motionless, silent, as though stunned.
“Roberto!” cried Lulu.
“Lulu.”
“What has happened?”
“Nothing; I am going.”
And without even taking leave of her, he too went away with a despairing gesture. Lulu followed him with her eyes, and stood there absorbed in thought.
“One here, the other there,” she murmured; “and previous to that? Enough! I must take a hand in it.”
V
“And so for all these excellent reasons I can not marry Roberto Montefranco,” Lulu finally said to her mother.
“They are absurd reasons, my daughter,” replied the mother, shaking her head.
“In short, must I tell you frankly and plainly that Roberto does not please me, and that I am not going to marry him?”
“It is at least frank; but it is no more than a whim. Roberto loves you.”
“He will console himself.”
“You have exchanged promises.”
“We can retract them. We are no longer living in the days when people were married by force.”
“What will the world say?”
“Mother, let us define the world.”
“People.”
“And who is Mr. People? I do not know him; I am not obliged to be unhappy for the sake of Mr. People.”
“You are a terrible girl! But how am I to arrange it with Roberto? What am I to say to him?”
“What you wish. That is what you are my mother for.”
“Oh, indeed! To remedy the wrongs you have done. There will be a scandal.”
“I do not think so; you can say it politely, with pretty manners. Indeed, I think you might even speak badly of me—call me capricious, frivolous, childish; say that I would be a very bad wife, that I am not at all serious, that I am lacking in dignity, that my sister is—”
“Your sister? Are you losing your mind, Lulu?”
“Pshaw! you could easily say that. At present Roberto and Sofia are indifferent to each other, but if they come to know each other better they might appreciate each other, and then—who can say? You would be praised as a good mother for having married off the elder daughter first.”
“In fact—”
“I shall not go husbandless; I am barely eighteen years old. And I wish to amuse myself; I wish to dance a great deal; I wish to enjoy my happy youth with my dear, kind little mother—”
“You are a little rogue,” replied the mother, moved, and embracing her daughter.
“Then we understand each other? Announce the ugly news to Roberto politely, but add that we must always be friends, that we hope to see him often. If these two are to fall in love with each other they will do so; it is predestined.”
“But do you believe, naughty Lulu, that matters will all come right? You know that I hate quarrels.”
“Oh, unconvinced mother! Oh, mother, more unbelieving than Saint Thomas! Yes, yes, out of my wide experience I assure you that there will be no scandal. Roberto is a gentleman, and will not expect me to marry him without loving him.”
“What seems to me impossible is the affair with Sofia—”
“Nothing is more possible than the impossible,” gravely replied Lulu.
“My dear, so many axioms! Enough. Let us leave it all to time; perhaps time will regulate our affairs. All of which does not change the fact that you are a scatterbrain.”
“And very capricious—”
“Lacking in judgment—”
“And a whimsical creature. I am everything you like; lecture me, I deserve it. Come; have you nothing to say? I am waiting.”
“Give me a kiss, and go to bed. Good night, baby.”
“Thank you, mama. Good night.”
“It is better so,” thought the good mother. “Lulu is too young yet. Every day one sees the sad consequences of these marriages of convenience. May Heaven free us from them! It is better so.”
“Uff!” said Lulu, taking a deep breath. “What diplomacy I was forced to use, what art in order to convince mama! I would make a perfect ambassador. What a triumph! Not like a triumph of love, to be sure, but it is Lulu’s triumph!”
She paused outside her sister’s door and listened. She heard every now and then a repressed sigh. Poor Sofia had lost her peace of mind.
“Sleep, Sofia, sleep,” Lulu murmured softly, kissing the lock of the door almost as though she were kissing her sister’s brow; “calm yourself and rest. I have worked for you this evening.”
And the generous girl fell asleep, happy and content in the thought of the happiness of the sister she loved.
Time, good old time, the eternal wise old gentleman, accomplished his task. Lulu asked herself whether this unmarried sister who acted as bridesmaid should wear a gown of blue silk or a simple one of straw-colored foulard with lace. She asked Roberto if there would be a great many bonbons for her, and Sofia if she would give her that pretty embroidered handkerchief that was like a zephyr, a cloud. Roberto and Sofia, knowing what the girl’s heart was capable of, smiled at her gay thoughtlessness, and loved her, and looked upon her as their Providence.
“For I have always maintained,” said Roberto Montefranco to a friend, speaking of his marriage, “that a couple should be of opposite tastes. Extremes touch. Thus they will understand each other, will mingle, will form a complete whole, while those of similar tastes are like two parallel lines; they walk on together, but never meet. And then when there is love—! I have always said so.”
