Chapter 4
The advance of regret can be so gradual that it is impossible to say"yesterday I was happy, today I am not." At no one moment did Liliarealize that her marriage was a failure; yet during the summer andautumn she became as unhappy as it was possible for her nature to be.She had no unkind treatment, and few unkind words, from her husband.He simply left her alone. In the morning he went out to do "business,"which, as far as she could discover, meant sitting in the Farmacia. Heusually returned to lunch, after which he retired to another room andslept. In the evening he grew vigorous again, and took the air onthe ramparts, often having his dinner out, and seldom returning tillmidnight or later. There were, of course, the times when he was awayaltogether--at Empoli, Siena, Florence, Bologna--for he delighted intravel, and seemed to pick up friends all over the country. Lilia oftenheard what a favorite he was.
She began to see that she must assert herself, but she could not seehow. Her self-confidence, which had overthrown Philip, had graduallyoozed away. If she left the strange house there was the strange littletown. If she were to disobey her husband and walk in the country, thatwould be stranger still--vast slopes of olives and vineyards, withchalk-white farms, and in the distance other slopes, with more olivesand more farms, and more little towns outlined against the cloudlesssky. "I don't call this country," she would say. "Why, it's not as wildas Sawston Park!" And, indeed, there was scarcely a touch of wildnessin it--some of those slopes had been under cultivation for two thousandyears. But it was terrible and mysterious all the same, and itscontinued presence made Lilia so uncomfortable that she forgot hernature and began to reflect.
She reflected chiefly about her marriage. The ceremony had been hastyand expensive, and the rites, whatever they were, were not those of theChurch of England. Lilia had no religion in her; but for hours at atime she would be seized with a vulgar fear that she was not "marriedproperly," and that her social position in the next world might be asobscure as it was in this. It might be safer to do the thing thoroughly,and one day she took the advice of Spiridione and joined the RomanCatholic Church, or as she called it, "Santa Deodata's." Gino approved;he, too, thought it safer, and it was fun confessing, though the priestwas a stupid old man, and the whole thing was a good slap in the facefor the people at home.
The people at home took the slap very soberly; indeed, there were fewleft for her to give it to. The Herritons were out of the question;they would not even let her write to Irma, though Irma was occasionallyallowed to write to her. Mrs. Theobald was rapidly subsiding intodotage, and, as far as she could be definite about anything, haddefinitely sided with the Herritons. And Miss Abbott did likewise. Nightafter night did Lilia curse this false friend, who had agreed with herthat the marriage would "do," and that the Herritons would come round toit, and then, at the first hint of opposition, had fled back to Englandshrieking and distraught. Miss Abbott headed the long list of those whoshould never be written to, and who should never be forgiven. Almostthe only person who was not on that list was Mr. Kingcroft, who hadunexpectedly sent an affectionate and inquiring letter. He was quitesure never to cross the Channel, and Lilia drew freely on her fancy inthe reply.
At first she had seen a few English people, for Monteriano was not theend of the earth. One or two inquisitive ladies, who had heard at homeof her quarrel with the Herritons, came to call. She was very sprightly,and they thought her quite unconventional, and Gino a charming boy, soall that was to the good. But by May the season, such as it was, hadfinished, and there would be no one till next spring. As Mrs. Herritonhad often observed, Lilia had no resources. She did not like music, orreading, or work. Her one qualification for life was rather blowsyhigh spirits, which turned querulous or boisterous according tocircumstances. She was not obedient, but she was cowardly, and in themost gentle way, which Mrs. Herriton might have envied, Gino made her dowhat he wanted. At first it had been rather fun to let him get the upperhand. But it was galling to discover that he could not do otherwise. Hehad a good strong will when he chose to use it, and would not have hadthe least scruple in using bolts and locks to put it into effect. Therewas plenty of brutality deep down in him, and one day Lilia nearlytouched it.
It was the old question of going out alone.
"I always do it in England."
"This is Italy."
"Yes, but I'm older than you, and I'll settle."
"I am your husband," he said, smiling. They had finished their mid-daymeal, and he wanted to go and sleep. Nothing would rouse him up, untilat last Lilia, getting more and more angry, said, "And I've got themoney."
He looked horrified.
Now was the moment to assert herself. She made the statement again. Hegot up from his chair.
"And you'd better mend your manners," she continued, "for you'd find itawkward if I stopped drawing cheques."
She was no reader of character, but she quickly became alarmed. As shesaid to Perfetta afterwards, "None of his clothes seemed to fit--toobig in one place, too small in another." His figure rather than his facealtered, the shoulders falling forward till his coat wrinkled across theback and pulled away from his wrists. He seemed all arms. He edged roundthe table to where she was sitting, and she sprang away and held thechair between them, too frightened to speak or to move. He looked at herwith round, expressionless eyes, and slowly stretched out his left hand.
Perfetta was heard coming up from the kitchen. It seemed to wake him up,and he turned away and went to his room without a word.
"What has happened?" cried Lilia, nearly fainting. "He is ill--ill."
Perfetta looked suspicious when she heard the account. "What did you sayto him?" She crossed herself.
"Hardly anything," said Lilia and crossed herself also. Thus did the twowomen pay homage to their outraged male.
It was clear to Lilia at last that Gino had married her for money. Buthe had frightened her too much to leave any place for contempt. Hisreturn was terrifying, for he was frightened too, imploring her pardon,lying at her feet, embracing her, murmuring "It was not I," striving todefine things which he did not understand. He stopped in the housefor three days, positively ill with physical collapse. But for all hissuffering he had tamed her, and she never threatened to cut off suppliesagain.
Perhaps he kept her even closer than convention demanded. But he wasvery young, and he could not bear it to be said of him that he didnot know how to treat a lady--or to manage a wife. And his own socialposition was uncertain. Even in England a dentist is a troublesomecreature, whom careful people find difficult to class. He hovers betweenthe professions and the trades; he may be only a little lower than thedoctors, or he may be down among the chemists, or even beneath them. Theson of the Italian dentist felt this too. For himself nothing mattered;he made friends with the people he liked, for he was that gloriousinvariable creature, a man. But his wife should visit nowhere ratherthan visit wrongly: seclusion was both decent and safe. The socialideals of North and South had had their brief contention, and this timethe South had won.
It would have been well if he had been as strict over his own behaviouras he was over hers. But the incongruity never occurred to him fora moment. His morality was that of the average Latin, and as he wassuddenly placed in the position of a gentleman, he did not see why heshould not behave as such. Of course, had Lilia been different--hadshe asserted herself and got a grip on his character--he mightpossibly--though not probably--have been made a better husband as wellas a better man, and at all events he could have adopted the attitude ofthe Englishman, whose standard is higher even when his practice is thesame. But had Lilia been different she might not have married him.
The discovery of his infidelity--which she made by accident--destroyedsuch remnants of self-satisfaction as her life might yet possess. Shebroke down utterly and sobbed and cried in Perfetta's arms. Perfetta waskind and even sympathetic, but cautioned her on no account to speak toGino, who would be furious if he was suspected. And Lilia agreed, partlybecause she was afraid of him, partly becau
se it was, after all, thebest and most dignified thing to do. She had given up everything forhim--her daughter, her relatives, her friends, all the little comfortsand luxuries of a civilized life--and even if she had the courage tobreak away, there was no one who would receive her now. The Herritonshad been almost malignant in their efforts against her, and all herfriends had one by one fallen off. So it was better to live on humbly,trying not to feel, endeavouring by a cheerful demeanour to put thingsright. "Perhaps," she thought, "if I have a child he will be different.I know he wants a son."
Lilia had achieved pathos despite herself, for there are some situationsin which vulgarity counts no longer. Not Cordelia nor Imogen moredeserves our tears.
She herself cried frequently, making herself look plain and old, whichdistressed her husband. He was particularly kind to her when he hardlyever saw her, and she accepted his kindness without resentment, evenwith gratitude, so docile had she become. She did not hate him, even asshe had never loved him; with her it was only when she was excited thatthe semblance of either passion arose. People said she was headstrong,but really her weak brain left her cold.
Suffering, however, is more independent of temperament, and the wisestof women could hardly have suffered more.
As for Gino, he was quite as boyish as ever, and carried his iniquitieslike a feather. A favourite speech of his was, "Ah, one ought to marry!Spiridione is wrong; I must persuade him. Not till marriage does onerealize the pleasures and the possibilities of life." So saying, hewould take down his felt hat, strike it in the right place as infalliblyas a German strikes his in the wrong place, and leave her.
One evening, when he had gone out thus, Lilia could stand it no longer.It was September. Sawston would be just filling up after the summerholidays. People would be running in and out of each other's housesall along the road. There were bicycle gymkhanas, and on the 30th Mrs.Herriton would be holding the annual bazaar in her garden for the C.M.S.It seemed impossible that such a free, happy life could exist. Shewalked out on to the loggia. Moonlight and stars in a soft purple sky.The walls of Monteriano should be glorious on such a night as this. Butthe house faced away from them.
Perfetta was banging in the kitchen, and the stairs down led past thekitchen door. But the stairs up to the attic--the stairs no one everused--opened out of the living-room, and by unlocking the door at thetop one might slip out to the square terrace above the house, and thusfor ten minutes walk in freedom and peace.
The key was in the pocket of Gino's best suit--the English check--whichhe never wore. The stairs creaked and the key-hole screamed; butPerfetta was growing deaf. The walls were beautiful, but as they facedwest they were in shadow. To see the light upon them she must walk roundthe town a little, till they were caught by the beams of the risingmoon. She looked anxiously at the house, and started.
It was easy walking, for a little path ran all outside the ramparts.The few people she met wished her a civil good-night, taking her, in herhatless condition, for a peasant. The walls trended round towards themoon; and presently she came into its light, and saw all the roughtowers turn into pillars of silver and black, and the rampartsinto cliffs of pearl. She had no great sense of beauty, but she wassentimental, and she began to cry; for here, where a great cypressinterrupted the monotony of the girdle of olives, she had sat with Ginoone afternoon in March, her head upon his shoulder, while Caroline waslooking at the view and sketching. Round the corner was the Siena gate,from which the road to England started, and she could hear the rumble ofthe diligence which was going down to catch the night train to Empoli.The next moment it was upon her, for the highroad came towards her alittle before it began its long zigzag down the hill.
The driver slackened, and called to her to get in. He did not know whoshe was. He hoped she might be coming to the station.
"Non vengo!" she cried.
He wished her good-night, and turned his horses down the corner. As thediligence came round she saw that it was empty.
"Vengo..."
Her voice was tremulous, and did not carry. The horses swung off.
"Vengo! Vengo!"
He had begun to sing, and heard nothing. She ran down the road screamingto him to stop--that she was coming; while the distance grew greaterand the noise of the diligence increased. The man's back was black andsquare against the moon, and if he would but turn for an instant shewould be saved. She tried to cut off the corner of the zigzag, stumblingover the great clods of earth, large and hard as rocks, which laybetween the eternal olives. She was too late; for, just before sheregained the road, the thing swept past her, thunderous, ploughing upchoking clouds of moonlit dust.
She did not call any more, for she felt very ill, and fainted; and whenshe revived she was lying in the road, with dust in her eyes, and dustin her mouth, and dust down her ears. There is something very terriblein dust at night-time.
"What shall I do?" she moaned. "He will be so angry."
And without further effort she slowly climbed back to captivity, shakingher garments as she went.
Ill luck pursued her to the end. It was one of the nights when Ginohappened to come in. He was in the kitchen, swearing and smashingplates, while Perfetta, her apron over her head, was weeping violently.At the sight of Lilia he turned upon her and poured forth a flood ofmiscellaneous abuse. He was far more angry but much less alarming thanhe had been that day when he edged after her round the table. And Liliagained more courage from her bad conscience than she ever had from hergood one, for as he spoke she was seized with indignation and feared himno longer, and saw him for a cruel, worthless, hypocritical, dissoluteupstart, and spoke in return.
Perfetta screamed for she told him everything--all she knew and allshe thought. He stood with open mouth, all the anger gone out ofhim, feeling ashamed, and an utter fool. He was fairly and rightfullycornered. When had a husband so given himself away before? She finished;and he was dumb, for she had spoken truly. Then, alas! the absurdity ofhis own position grew upon him, and he laughed--as he would have laughedat the same situation on the stage.
"You laugh?" stammered Lilia.
"Ah!" he cried, "who could help it? I, who thought you knew and sawnothing--I am tricked--I am conquered. I give in. Let us talk of it nomore."
He touched her on the shoulder like a good comrade, half amused and halfpenitent, and then, murmuring and smiling to himself, ran quietly out ofthe room.
Perfetta burst into congratulations. "What courage you have!" she cried;"and what good fortune! He is angry no longer! He has forgiven you!"
Neither Perfetta, nor Gino, nor Lilia herself knew the true reason ofall the misery that followed. To the end he thought that kindness and alittle attention would be enough to set things straight. His wife wasa very ordinary woman, and why should her ideas differ from his own?No one realized that more than personalities were engaged; that thestruggle was national; that generations of ancestors, good, bad, orindifferent, forbad the Latin man to be chivalrous to the northernwoman, the northern woman to forgive the Latin man. All this might havebeen foreseen: Mrs. Herriton foresaw it from the first.
Meanwhile Lilia prided herself on her high personal standard, and Ginosimply wondered why she did not come round. He hated discomfort andyearned for sympathy, but shrank from mentioning his difficulties in thetown in case they were put down to his own incompetence. Spiridione wastold, and replied in a philosophical but not very helpful letter. Hisother great friend, whom he trusted more, was still serving in Eritreaor some other desolate outpost. And, besides, what was the good ofletters? Friends cannot travel through the post.
Lilia, so similar to her husband in many ways, yearned for comfort andsympathy too. The night he laughed at her she wildly took up paper andpen and wrote page after page, analysing his character, enumerating hisiniquities, reporting whole conversations, tracing all the causes andthe growth of her misery. She was beside herself with passion,and though she could hardly think or see, she suddenly attained tomagnificence and pathos which a practised stylist
might have envied. Itwas written like a diary, and not till its conclusion did she realizefor whom it was meant.
"Irma, darling Irma, this letter is for you. I almost forgot I have adaughter. It will make you unhappy, but I want you to know everything,and you cannot learn things too soon. God bless you, my dearest, andsave you. God bless your miserable mother."
Fortunately Mrs. Herriton was in when the letter arrived. She seizedit and opened it in her bedroom. Another moment, and Irma's placidchildhood would have been destroyed for ever.
Lilia received a brief note from Harriet, again forbidding directcommunication between mother and daughter, and concluding with formalcondolences. It nearly drove her mad.
"Gently! gently!" said her husband. They were sitting together on theloggia when the letter arrived. He often sat with her now, watching herfor hours, puzzled and anxious, but not contrite.
"It's nothing." She went in and tore it up, and then began to write--avery short letter, whose gist was "Come and save me."
It is not good to see your wife crying when she writes--especially ifyou are conscious that, on the whole, your treatment of her has beenreasonable and kind. It is not good, when you accidentally look over hershoulder, to see that she is writing to a man. Nor should she shake herfist at you when she leaves the room, under the impression that you areengaged in lighting a cigar and cannot see her.
Lilia went to the post herself. But in Italy so many things can bearranged. The postman was a friend of Gino's, and Mr. Kingcroft nevergot his letter.
So she gave up hope, became ill, and all through the autumn lay in bed.Gino was distracted. She knew why; he wanted a son. He could talk andthink of nothing else. His one desire was to become the father of a manlike himself, and it held him with a grip he only partially understood,for it was the first great desire, the first great passion of his life.Falling in love was a mere physical triviality, like warm sun or coolwater, beside this divine hope of immortality: "I continue." He gavecandles to Santa Deodata, for he was always religious at a crisis, andsometimes he went to her himself and prayed the crude uncouth demands ofthe simple. Impetuously he summoned all his relatives back to bear himcompany in his time of need, and Lilia saw strange faces flitting pasther in the darkened room.
"My love!" he would say, "my dearest Lilia! Be calm. I have never lovedany one but you."
She, knowing everything, would only smile gently, too broken bysuffering to make sarcastic repartees.
Before the child was born he gave her a kiss, and said, "I have prayedall night for a boy."
Some strangely tender impulse moved her, and she said faintly, "You area boy yourself, Gino."
He answered, "Then we shall be brothers."
He lay outside the room with his head against the door like a dog. Whenthey came to tell him the glad news they found him half unconscious, andhis face was wet with tears.
As for Lilia, some one said to her, "It is a beautiful boy!" But she haddied in giving birth to him.