The sun was sinking behind the brow of Monte BrÈ and darkness was rapidly covering the precipitous shores and the houses of Oria, stamping the purple and gloomy profile of the hill on the luminous green of the waves, which were running obliquely towards the west, still high, but foamless in the tired breva. The lights in Casa Ribera had been the last to go out. Standing against the steep vineyards of the mountainside dotted with olives, it spanned the narrow road that follows the coast-line, its modest faÇade rising from the clear water, and flanked on the west, towards the village, by a little hanging-garden, divided into two tiers, on the east, towards the church, by a small terrace raised on pillars, which framed a square of church ground. In this faÇade there was a small boathouse where at that time the boat belonging to Franco and Luisa lay rocking on the jostling waves. Above the boathouse a slender gallery united the hanging-garden on the west and the terrace on the east, and looked out upon the lake by means of three windows. They called it a loggia, perhaps because it really had been one in olden times. The old house bore incrusted here and there several of these venerable, fossil names, which had survived through tradition, and represented, in their apparent absurdity, the mysteries of the religion of domestic walls. Behind the loggia was a spacious hall, and there were two rooms more behind that. On the west was the small dining-room, its walls covered with little, illustrious, paper men, each under his own glass and in his own frame, each in a dignified attitude, like the illustrious in flesh and blood, looking as if his colleagues did not exist at all, and the world was gazing at him alone. On the east was the alcove-room, where next to her parents, in her own little bed, slept Signorina Maria Maironi, born in August, 1852.

From the great rococo chests to the bed-rooms, the kitchen cupboard, the black clock in the little dining-room, the sofa in the loggia, with its brown cover, sprinkled with red and yellow Turks; from the straw-bottomed chairs to the armchairs with disproportionately high arms, the furniture of the house all belonged to the epoch of the illustrious men, most of whom wore the wig and pigtail. Even though it did appear to have just descended from the garret, it seemed, nevertheless, to have regained in the light and air of its new surroundings certain lost habits of cleanliness, a decided interest in life, and the dignity of old age. Thus a collection of disused words might to-day be composed by the breath of some aged and conservative poet, and reflect his serene and graceful senility. Under the mathematical and bureaucratic rule of Uncle Piero, chairs and armchairs, tables large and small, had lived in perfect symmetry, and the privilege of immobility had been extended to the very mats themselves. The only piece of furniture which might have been called movable, was a grey and blue cushion, an abortive mattress, which the engineer, during his short visits at Oria, carried with him when he moved from one easy-chair to another. When he was absent the caretaker respected all relics of him to such an extent as never to dare touch them familiarly, or dust the less visible parts. This caused the housekeeper to fly into a rage, regularly, every time they returned to Valsolda. The master, vexed that a little dust should cause so much scolding of a poor peasant, would reprimand her, and suggest that she do the dusting herself; and when the woman—by way of a scornful retort—would demand, wrathfully, if she was to kill herself with dusting the house every time they came, he would answer good-naturedly: "If you kill yourself once, that will be sufficient."

The cultivation of the little garden as well as of a kitchen-garden he owned to the east of the church grounds, he left entirely to the caprice of the caretaker. Only once, two years before Luisa's marriage, arriving at Oria at the beginning of September, and finding six stalks of maize growing on the second terrace of the little garden, did he allow himself to say to the man: "Look here, my friend. Couldn't you really get along without those six stalks of Indian corn?"

Those liberal poets, Franco and Luisa, had breathed upon things and changed their aspect. Franco's poetry was more ardent, fervid and passionate; Luisa's more prudent. Thus Franco's sentiments always flamed out in his eyes, his face, his words, while Luisa's seldom burst into flames, and only tinged the depths of her penetrating glance, and her soft voice. Franco was conservative only in matters of religion and art; he was an ardent radical as far as the domestic walls were concerned, always planning transformations of ceilings, walls, floors, and drapery. Luisa began by admiring his genius, but as nearly all the funds came from her uncle, and there was little margin for extraordinary undertakings, she persuaded him, very gently and little by little, to leave the walls, the ceilings, and the floors as they were, and to study how best to arrange the furniture without seeking to transform it. And she would make suggestions without appearing to do so, letting him believe the ideas were his own, for Franco was jealous of the paternity of ideas, while Luisa was quite indifferent to this sort of maternity. Thus, together, they arranged the hall as a music-room, drawing-room, and reading-room; the loggia as a card-room, while the terrace was sacred to coffee and contemplation. This small terrace became in Franco's hands the lyric poem of the house. It was very tiny and Luisa felt that here a concession might be made, and an outlet provided for her husband's enthusiasms. It was then that the king of Valsoldian mulberry-trees fell from his throne, the famous and ancient mulberry of the churchyard, a tyrant that deprived the terrace of the finest view. Franco freed himself from this tyrant by pecuniary means; then he designed and raised above the terrace an airy context of slim rods and bars of iron which formed three arches surmounted by a tiny cupola, and over this he trained two graceful passion-flower vines, that opened their great blue eyes here and there, and fell on all sides in festoons and garlands. A small round table and some iron chairs served for coffee and contemplation. As to the little hanging-garden, Luisa would have been willing to put up even with maize, with that tolerance of the superior mind which loves to humour the ideas, the habits, the affections of inferior minds. She felt a sort of respectful pity for the horticultural ideals of the poor caretaker, for that mixture of roughness and gentleness he had in his heart, a great heart, capable of holding at once, reseda and pumpkins, balsam and carrots. But Franco, generous and religious though he was, would not have tolerated a carrot or a pumpkin in his garden for love of any neighbour. All stupid vulgarity irritated him. When the unfortunate kitchen-gardener heard Don Franco declare that the little garden was a filthy hole, that everything must be torn up, everything thrown away, he was so dazed and humiliated as to excite pity; but when, working under his master's orders, tracing out paths, bordering them with tufa-stones, planting flowers and shrubs, he saw how skilful Franco himself was with his hands, and how many terrible Latin names he knew, and what a surprising talent he possessed for imagining new and beautiful arrangements, he conceived, little by little, an almost fearful admiration for him, which soon—in spite of many scoldings—developed into devoted affection.

The little hanging garden was transformed in Franco's own image and likeness. An olea fragrans in one corner spoke of the power of gentle things over the hot, impetuous spirit of the poet; a tiny cypress, not over-acceptable to Luisa, spoke in another corner of his religiosity; a low, brick parapet, in open-work pattern, ran between the cypress and the olea, supporting two parallel rows of tufa-stones, between which blossomed a smiling colony of verbenas, petunias, and wall-flowers, and spoke of the singular ingenuity of its author; the many rose-bushes scattered everywhere spoke of his love of classic beauty; the ficus repens which decked the walls towards the lake, the twin orange-trees between the two tiers, and a vigorous carob-tree, revealed a chilly temperament, a fancy turning always towards the south, insensible to the fascination of the north.

Luisa had worked far harder than her husband, and still continued to do so, but whereas he was proud of his labours and glad to speak of them, Luisa, on the contrary, never mentioned hers, nor was she in the least proud of them. She laboured with the needle, the crochet, the iron, the scissors, with a wonderful, calm rapidity; working for her husband, her child, the poor, herself, and for the adornment of her house. Each room contained some creation of hers; dainty curtains, rugs, cushions, or lamp-shades. It was also her duty to arrange the flowers in the hall and the loggia; no flowers in pots, for Franco did not have many, and did not wish them shut up in rooms; no flowers from the little garden, for to gather one of those was like tearing it out of Franco's heart. But the dahlias, the gladioles, the roses, and the asters of the kitchen-garden were at Luisa's disposal. These, however, were not sufficient, and as the village loved "Sciora Luisa" best after the Almighty, St. Margherita, and St. Sebastian, at a sign from her, its children would bring her wildflowers and ferns, and ivy to festoon between the great bunches, stuck in metal rings on the walls. Even the arms of the harp that hung from the ceiling of the hall, were always entwined with long serpents of ivy and passion-flower.

If they wrote to Uncle Piero of these innovations he would answer little or nothing. At most he would caution them not to keep the kitchen-gardener too busy, but to leave him time for his own work. The first time he came to Oria after the transformation of the little garden he paused and contemplated it as he had contemplated the six stocks of maize, and murmured under his breath: "Oh dear me!" He went out to the terrace, looked at the little cupola, touched the iron bars, and pronounced an "Enough!" that was resigned, but full of disapproval of so much elegance, which he considered above the position of his family and himself. But when he had examined in silence all the nosegays and bunches of flowers, the pots and the festoons of the hall and the loggia, he said, with his good-natured smile: "Look here, Luisa! Don't you think it would be better to keep a couple of sheep with all this fodder?"

But the housekeeper was delighted that she no longer need kill herself for dust and cobwebs, and the kitchen-gardener was for ever praising the wonderful works of "Signor Don Franco," so that Uncle Piero himself soon began to grow accustomed to the new aspect his house had assumed, and to look without disapproval upon the little cupola, which, indeed, afforded a most grateful shade. At the end of two or three days he asked who had made it, and he would sometimes pause to examine the flowers in the garden, to inquire the name of one or another. At the end of eight or ten days, standing with little Maria at the door leading from the hall to the garden, he would ask her: "Who planted all those beautiful flowers?" and teach her to answer: "Papa!" He exhibited his nephew's creations to an employÉ of his who one day came to visit him, and listened to his expressions of approval with a fine assumption of indifference, but with the greatest satisfaction. "Yes, yes, he is clever enough." Indeed he ended by becoming one of Franco's admirers, and would even listen, in the course of conversation, to other projects of his. And in Franco, admiration and gratitude were growing for that great and generous bounty that had vanquished conservative nature, and the old aversion for elegance of every description; for that same bounty that at all such opposition rose silently and even higher behind the uncle's resistance, until it surmounted all, covered all in a broad wave of acquiescence, or at least with the sacramental phrase: "However, fate vobis; do as you like." One innovation only Uncle Piero had not been willing to accept—the disappearance of his old cushion. "Luisa," said he, gingerly lifting the new, embroidered cushion from the easy-chair, "Luisa, take this away." And he would not be persuaded. "Will you take it away?" When Luisa, smiling, brought him the little abortive mattress he sat down upon it with a satisfied, "That's it!" as if he were solemnly taking possession of a lost throne.

At the present moment, while the violet dusk was invading the green of the waves and running along the coast from village to village, eclipsing, one after another, the shining white houses, the engineer was seated upon his throne holding little Maria on his knees, while out on the terrace Franco was watering the pots of pelargonia, his heart and his face as full of affectionate satisfaction as if he had been slaking the thirst of Ishmael in the desert. Luisa was patiently untangling a fishing-line belonging to her husband, a frightful snarl of string, lead, silk, and hooks. She was talking, meanwhile, with Professor Gilardoni, who always had some philosophical snarl to untangle, but who greatly preferred a discussion with Franco, who always contradicted him, right or wrong, believing him to possess an excellent heart, but a confused head. Uncle Piero, his right knee resting on his left, held the child on this elevation, and for the hundredth time at least, was repeating a little scrap of verse to her, with affected slowness, and a slight distortion of the foreign name—

As far as the seventh word the child would listen, motionless and serious, with earnest eyes; but when he reached "MissipipÌ," she would burst out laughing, pound hard with her little legs, and clap her tiny hands over the uncle's mouth, who would also laugh merrily, and after a short pause he would begin again, speaking slowly, slowly, in the same approved tone:

The child did not resemble either father or mother; she had the eyes, the delicate features of Grandmother Teresa. She exhibited a strange impetuous tenderness for the old uncle, whom she so seldom saw. Uncle Piero did not use sweet words to her; indeed, when necessary, he would even chide her gently, but he always brought her toys, often took her out to walk, danced her upon his knee, laughed with her, and repeated comic verses to her—the one beginning with the "MissipipÌ," and that other, ending with the words:

Who may this BarucabÀ have been, and what had they been asking him? "Toa BÀ! Toa BÀ! BarucabÀ again! BarucabÀ again!" and once more the uncle would recite the poetic tale to the child, but there is no one now to repeat it to me.

This is what Professor Gilardoni was discussing in his timid, gentle voice with Luisa; the Professor, grown just a little older, just a little more bald, just a little more sallow. "Who knows," Luisa had said, "if Maria will resemble her grandmother in soul as she does in face." The Professor replied that it would indeed be a miracle to find two such souls in the same family, and separated by so short an interval of time. Then wishing to explain to how rare a species he conceived the grandmother's soul to have belonged, he gave voice to the following tangle: "There are souls," said he, "that openly deny a future life, and live according to their opinions, solely for the present life. Such are few in number. Then there are souls that pretend to believe in a future life, and live entirely for the present. These are far more numerous. There are souls that do not think about the future life, but live so that they may not run too great a risk of losing it if, after all, it should be found to exist. These are more numerous still. Then there are souls that really do believe in the future life, and divide their thoughts and actions into two categories, which are generally at war with each other; one is for heaven, the other for earth. There are very many such. And then there are souls that live entirely for the future life, in which they believe. These are very few, and Signora Teresa was one of them."

Franco, who hated psychological disquisitions, passed frowning, with his empty watering-pot, on his way to the little garden, and thought: "Then there are those souls that are bores!" Uncle Piero who, by the way, was slightly deaf, was laughing with Maria. When her husband had passed, Luisa said softly: "Then there are souls that live as if there were only the future life, in which they do not believe. And of such there is one." The Professor started, and looked at her in silence. She was hunting in the tangle of the line for a double thread with a ring that must be drawn through, and though she did not see his glance, still she felt it, and quickly nodded towards her uncle. Had she really been thinking of him when speaking those words? Or had there been in her some occult complication? Had she alluded to her uncle without conviction, simply because she dare not name, even in thought, another person to whom her words might more justly apply? The Professor's silence, his searching glance which she had felt without meeting, revealed to her that he suspected her. It was for that reason she had hastily nodded towards Uncle Piero.

"Does he not believe in a future life?" the Professor asked.

"I should say not," Luisa answered, and then at once her heart was filled with remorse, for she felt that her reasons for affirming this were not sufficient, that she had no right to answer thus. In fact her uncle had never taken the trouble to meditate on religion. In his conception of honesty were included the continuation of the ancient, family practices and the profession of the inherited faith, accepted carelessly, as it stood. His was a good-natured God like himself, who, again like himself, cared little for genuflections and rosaries; a God well pleased to have honest, hearty men for His ministers, as Uncle Piero was well pleased to have such for his friends, even though they might be merry eaters and drinkers, life-long devotees of tarocchi, open tellers of spicy but not filthy stories, as a lawful outlet for that prurient hilarity which is in all of us. Certain joking remarks of his, certain aphorisms uttered thoughtlessly upon the relative importance of religious practices and the absolute importance of honest living, had struck her, even as a child, especially as they greatly vexed Signora Teresa, who would entreat her brother not to "talk nonsense." She suspected that he went to church simply because it was fitting to do so. Perhaps this was not true; one must overlook the aphorisms of a man who had grown old in self-sacrifice and self-abnegation, and who was wont to say: Charitas incipit a me. Besides, even if her uncle did hold religious practices in slight esteem, there was a vast difference between that and denying a future life. Indeed, as soon as Luisa had uttered her opinion and had heard how it sounded, she felt it was false, saw more clearly within herself and realised that she had been seeking in her uncle's example, a prop and a comfort for herself.

The Professor was greatly moved by this unexpected revelation.

"This one soul," said he, "that lives as if thinking only of a future life in which it does not believe, is indeed in error, but nevertheless, we are bound to admire it as the most noble, the greatest of all. It is something sublime!"

"But are you then sure that this soul is in error?"

"Oh, yes, yes!"

"And you yourself, to which category do you belong?"

The Professor really believed he was of the few who rule their actions entirely according to an aspiration towards a future life, but he would have been embarrassed had he been called upon to demonstrate that his earnest study of Raspail, his zeal in the preparation of sedative water and camphor cigarettes, his horror of dampness and of draughts, were proofs of slight attachment to the present life. However, he would not answer, but said that though he did not belong to any church, he nevertheless, believed firmly in God and the future life, and that he could not judge of his own conduct.

Meanwhile, Franco, watering the little garden, had discovered that a new verbena had blossomed, and setting down his watering-pot, had come to the door of the loggia and was calling to Maria, to whom he wished to point it out. Maria let him call, and demanded "MissipipÌ" again, whereupon the uncle put her down, and himself led her to her father.

"But, Professor," Luisa said, emerging by means of the living word from a course of occult ponderings, "do you not think one may believe in God and still be in doubt concerning the future life?"

Speaking thus she had dropped the tangled maze of net, and was looking the Professor straight in the face, with an expression of lively interest, and a manifest desire that he might answer yes. As Gilardoni did not speak she added—

"It seems to me some one might say: What obligation is God under to give us immortality? The immortality of the soul is an invention of human selfishness, which, after all, simply wishes to make God serve its own convenience. We want a reward for the good we do to others, and a punishment for the evil others do to us. Let us rather resign ourselves to complete death, which comes to every living thing, being just with ourselves and with others as long as we live, without looking for future reward, but simply because God wishes it, as he wishes every star to give light, and every tree to give shade. What do you think about it?"

"What can I say?" Gilardoni answered. "It seems to me a thought of great beauty! I cannot say: a great truth. Indeed I do not know. I have never thought about it, but it is very beautiful! I will say that Christianity has never had, has never even imagined a Saint so sublime as this some one! It is very beautiful, very beautiful!"

"And besides," Luisa continued after a short silence, "it might also be maintained that this future would not mean perfect happiness. Can there be happiness if we do not know the reasons of all things? If we may not explain all mysteries? And will this longing to know all things be satisfied in the future life? Will there not always remain one impenetrable mystery? Do they not teach us that we shall never understand God perfectly? Therefore, in our longing to know, shall we not end by suffering as at present, perhaps even more, because in a higher life that longing must become stronger? I can only see one way of arriving at a knowledge of everything, and that would be to become God——"

"Ah! You are a pantheist!" the Professor exclaimed, interrupting her.

"Hush!" said Luisa. "No, no, no, I am a Catholic Christian. I am only repeating what others might say."

"Pardon me, but there is a pantheism——"

"Philosophy still?" exclaimed Franco, coming in with the little one in his arms.

"Oh, misery!" grumbled Uncle Piero behind him.

Maria held a beautiful white rose in her hand. "Look at this rose, Luisa," said Franco. "Maria, give Mamma the flower. Look at the shape of this rose, its pose, its shading, the veins in its petals; look at that red stripe, and inhale its perfume. Now drop philosophy."

"You are an enemy of philosophy?" the Professor said, smiling.

"I am a friend of that simple and sure philosophy which even roses can teach me," Franco answered.

"Philosophy, my dear Professor," Uncle Piero put in solemnly, "is all contained in Aristotle. You can get all you want from that source."

"You are jesting," the Professor said, "but you yourself are a philosopher." The engineer placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Listen, dear friend! My philosophy could all be put into eight or ten glasses."

"Mercy on us! Eight or ten glasses!" grumbled the housekeeper, who had caught her most temperate master's words of boastful intemperance, as she came in. "Eight or ten fiddlesticks!"

She had come to announce Don Giuseppe Costabarbieri, whose hollow but jolly voice was just then heard in the hall, saying heartily, "Deo gratias." Then the red and wrinkled face, the lively eyes, and the grey hair of the gentle priest appeared.

"We are discussing philosophy, Don Giuseppe," said Luisa when greetings had been exchanged. "Come here and let us have your valuable opinion."

Don Guiseppe scratched his head, and then turning it slightly towards the engineer, with the expression of one who desires something for which he hardly dares to ask, gave utterance to this flower of his philosophical opinions.

"Wouldn't a little game of primero be better?"

Franco and Uncle Piero, who were only too glad to escape from Gilardoni's philosophy, sat merrily down to the little table with the priest.

As soon as he and Luisa were alone, the Professor said softly—

"The Marchesa left yesterday."

Luisa, who had taken Maria upon her lap, pressed her lips to the child's neck passionately.

"Perhaps," continued Gilardoni, who had never known how to read in the human heart, or to touch its chords correctly, "perhaps sometime—it is only three years, yet—perhaps the day may come when she will yield."

Luisa raised her face from Maria's neck. "Perhaps she may yield!" said she. The Professor did not understand, and giving way to the evil genius that invariably suggested to him the worst word at the worst moment, he persisted instead of breaking off. "Perhaps, if she could see Maria!" Luisa pressed the little girl to her breast, and looked at him so fiercely that he was confused, and stammered, "I beg your pardon!" Maria, in this close embrace, raised her eyes to her mother's strange face, grew very red, pressed her lips tight together, cried two great tears, and began to sob.

"No, no, dear!" Luisa murmured tenderly to her, "be quiet, be quiet! You shall never see her, never!"

As soon as the child was comforted the Professor, distressed at the mistake he had made, at having offended this Luisa, who seemed to him a superhuman being, wished to explain, to justify himself, but Luisa would not allow him to speak. "Pardon me, but that will do," said she, rising. "Let us go and watch the game."

But, as a matter of fact, she did not go near the players. She sent Maria to amuse herself in the church-grounds with her little nurse, Veronica, and herself went to carry a piece of pudding to an old villager who had a voracious appetite and a small voice, with which he would every day promise his benefactress the same precious recompense, "Before I die, I will give you a kiss."

Meanwhile the Professor was filled with scruples and remorse for the unfortunate step he had taken. Not knowing whether to go or to remain, whether the lady would or would not return, whether it would or would not be indiscreet to go in search of her, after having looked out towards the lake as if seeking advice from the fishes, towards the hills to see if she or some one of whom he could inquire about her happened to be at one of the windows, he finally went to watch the game.

Each one of the players kept his eyes fixed on the four cards he held in his left hand, placed one upon the other in such a way that the second and third projected above the others just enough to be recognisable, while the fourth remained carefully hidden.

The Professor reflected that he also held a secret card, a trump, and he was undecided whether to play it or not. He held old Maironi's will. A few days after Signora Teresa's death, Franco had told him to destroy it, and never breathe a word about it to Luisa. He had obeyed only so far as keeping silence was concerned. The document still existed, though of this Franco was ignorant, because its custodian had determined to await the development of events, to see if Cressogno and Oria would come to terms, or if, in consequence of prolonged hostilities, Franco and his family would be reduced to want, in which case he himself intended to do something. What he should do, he did not really know. He was nurturing the germs of several foolish plans in his head, and trusted that one or other of them would have ripened before the time for action arrived. Now, as he watched Franco play, he wondered how that man, so engrossed in his desire to win a pasteboard king, could ever have refused that other precious card, not even wishing to inform his wife of its existence. He attributed this silence to modesty, to a desire to hide a generous action, and although he had suffered more than one sharp rebuff from him, and felt that Franco esteemed him lightly, still he looked upon him with a respect full of humble devotion.

"Give me the cards! Give me the cards!" the priest exclaimed, and he shuffled them eagerly. Then the game, symbol of the universal struggle between the blacks and the reds, began once more.

The lake now lay sleeping, covered and encircled by shadows. Only on the east the great, distant mountains of the Lario were still in a glory of purple and rich, yellow gold. The first breath of the evening breeze out of the north, moved the tender branches of the passion-flowers, ruffled, in spots, the surface of the grey waters towards the upper lake, and wafted a perfume of cool woods. When Luisa returned the Professor had been gone some time.

"Ah, here is Sciora Luisa!" said Don Giuseppe, who was feeling quite satisfied, having had his fill of primero, and he gently stroked the modest rotundity of his ribs and belly. Then this little personage of the world of long ago remembered the second object of his visit. He had wished to speak a little word to Signora Luisa. The engineer had gone out to take his usual short walk as far as the Tavorell hill, which he jokingly called the St. Bernard, and Franco, after a glance at the moon which was just then sparkling above the black brow of the Bisgnago, and below, in the undulations of the water, began improvising on the piano outpourings of ideal sorrow, that floated out of the open windows upon the deep sonorousness of the lake. His musical improvisations were more successful than his elaborate poems because in music his impulsive feelings found a mode of expression more facile, more complete, and the scruples, the uncertainties, the doubts which rendered the labour of language most wearisome and slow, did not torment his fancy at the piano. There he would give himself up, body and soul, to the poetic rage, and quivering to the roots of his hair, his clear, speaking eyes reflecting every little shade in the musical expression, while his face worked with the continuous movement of inarticulate words, his hands, though neither very agile nor very supple, would make the piano sing ineffably. At the present moment he was passing from one tone to another, breathing hard, and putting all the strength of his intellect into those passages, eviscerating the instrument, as it were, with his ten fingers, and almost with his glowing eyes as well. He had begun to play under the spell of the moonshine, but as he played, sad clouds had arisen from the depths of his heart. Conscious that as a youth he had dreamed of glory and that later he had humbly laid aside all hope of attaining it, he said, almost to himself, with his sad and passionate music, that in him there was indeed some glow of genius, some of the fire of creation seen only by God, for not even Luisa exhibited that esteem for his intellect which he himself lacked, but which he could have wished to find in her; not even Luisa, the heart of his heart. She praised his music and his poetry in measured terms, but she had never said: "Follow this path, dare, write, publish." He was thinking of this as he played on in the dark hall putting into a tender melody the lament of his love, the timid, secret lament he would never have dared to put into words.

Out on the terrace in the quivering light-and-shade formed by the breath of the north wind and the passion-flower vines, by the moon and its reflection in the lake, Don Giuseppe was telling Luisa that Signor Giacomo Puttini was angry with him on account of Signora Pasotti, who had repeated to him the false report that he, Don Giuseppe, was going about preaching the necessity of a marriage between Puttini and Marianna. "May I be struck dead," the poor priest protested, "if I ever breathed a single word! Not a single word! It is all a lie!" Luisa would not believe poor Barborin guilty, but Don Giuseppe declared he had it straight from the Controller himself. Then she understood at once that the cunning Pasotti was indulging in a joke at the expense of his wife, Signor Giacomo, and the priest, and declining to interfere in the matter as Don Giuseppe wished her to do, she advised him to speak to Signora Pasotti herself. "She is so terribly deaf!" said the priest, scratching his head; and he finally departed, dissatisfied, and without saluting Franco, whom he did not wish to interrupt. Luisa went towards the piano on tiptoe, and stopped to listen to her husband, to hear the beauty, the richness, the fire of that soul which was hers, and to which she belonged for ever. If she had never said to Franco, "Follow this path, write, publish!" it was perhaps because in her well-balanced affection she believed, and with reason, that he would never be able to produce anything superior to mediocrity, but it was above all, because, although she had a fine feeling for music and poetry, she did not really esteem either of much account. She did not approve of a man's dedicating himself wholly to either, and she had an ardent longing that her husband's intellectual and material activity should flow in a more manly channel. Nevertheless, she admired Franco in his music more than if he had been a great master; she found in this almost secret expression of his soul something virginal, something sincere, the light of a loving spirit, most worthy to be loved.

He did not perceive her presence until two arms brushed his shoulders and he saw two little hands hanging on his breast. "No! no! Play, play!" Luisa murmured, for Franco had grasped the hands; but, without answering, his head thrown back, he sought her, sought her lips and her eyes, and she kissed him and then raised her face, repeating, "Play." He drew the imprisoned wrists still farther down, silently praying for the sweet, sweet mouth: then she surrendered, and pressed her lips upon his in a long kiss, full of understanding, and infinitely more exquisite, more exhilarating than the first. Then she once more whispered, "Play."

And in his happiness he played the music of triumph, full of joy and of cries. For at that moment it seemed to him he possessed the soul of this woman in its entirety, whereas sometimes, even though convinced that she loved him, he seemed to feel in her that lofty reason, towering serene and cold, above love itself, and far beyond the reach of his enthusiasms. She would often place her hands upon his head, and from time to time kiss his hair softly. She was aware of her husband's doubts, and always protested that she was all his, but in her heart she knew he was right. There was in her a tenacious, fierce sense of intellectual independence which withstood love. She could judge her husband calmly, recognising his imperfections, but she felt he was not capable of doing the same, felt how humble he was in his love, in his boundless devotion. She did not think she was unjust to him, she felt no remorse, but she was touched with loving pity when she pondered these things. Now she guessed the meaning of this joyous musical outpouring, and, deeply moved, she embraced Franco and the piano became suddenly silent.

Uncle Piero's slow, heavy step was heard on the stairs; he was returning from his St. Bernard.

It was eight o'clock, and the usual tarocchi-players, Signors Giacomo and Pasotti, had not yet arrived, for in September Pasotti himself became a regular visitor at Casa Ribera, where he pretended to be in love with the engineer, with Luisa, and even with Franco. Franco and Luisa suspected some duplicity, but Pasotti was an old friend of the uncle's, and must be tolerated out of respect to him. As the players failed to appear Franco proposed to his wife that they should go out in the boat to enjoy the moon. First, however, they went to see Maria, who was asleep in her little bed in the alcove, her head drooping towards her right shoulder, one arm under her pillow, and the other resting across her breast. They looked at her and kissed her smiling, and then the silent thoughts of both flew to Grandmamma Teresa, who would have loved her so dearly. With serious faces, they kissed her once more. "My poor little one!" said Franco. "Poor, penniless, Donna Maria Maironi!"

Luisa placed her hand upon his mouth. "Be quiet!" said she. "We are fortunate, we who are the penniless Maironis."

Franco understood, and did not answer at once, but presently, when they were leaving the room to go to the boat, he said to his wife, forgetting one of his grandmother's threats, "It will not always be thus."

This allusion to the old Marchesa's wealth displeased Luisa. "Do not speak of it to me," she said. "I would not soil my fingers by touching that money."

"I was thinking of Maria," Franco observed.

"Maria has us. We can work."

Franco was silent. Work! That was one of the words that chilled his heart. He knew he was leading a life of indolence, for were not music, books, flowers, and a few verses now and then, merely vanities and a waste of time? And he was leading this life almost entirely at the expense of others, for how could he possibly have managed with only his one thousand Austrian lire a year? How could he have maintained his family? He had taken his collegiate degree, but without deriving the slightest profit from it. He doubted his own ability, felt himself too much of an artist, too foreign to forensic wiles, and he was well aware that the blood of earnest labourers did not flow in his veins. His only hope was in a revolution, a war, in the freedom of his country. Ah! When Italy should be free, how well he would serve her, with what great strength, what joy! This poetry he had indeed in his heart, but he lacked the energy, the constancy to prepare himself by study for such a future.

While he was rowing away from the shore in silence, Luisa was wondering how it was that her husband could pity the child because she was poor. Did not this sentiment stand in contradiction to Franco's faith, to his Christian piety? She recalled Professor Gilardoni's categories. Franco believed firmly in a future life, but in practice he clung passionately to all that is beautiful and good in this earthly life, clung to all its lawful pleasures, including cards and dainty dinners. One who obeyed the precepts of the Church so scrupulously, who was so careful to abstain from flesh on Fridays and Saturdays, to listen to a sermon every Sunday, should conform his daily life far more strictly to the evangelical ideal. He should rather fear than desire riches.

"A pleasant sail to you!" Uncle Piero called out from the terrace, catching sight of the boat and Luisa seated in the prow in the moonlight. Opposite black Bisgnago all Valsolda, from Niscioree to Caravina lay spread out in the glory of the moon; all the windows of Oria and of Albogasio, the arches of Villa Pasotti, the tiny white houses of the most distant villages, Castello, Casarico, S. Mamette, Drano, seemed to be gazing as if hypnotised, at the great, motionless eye of the dead orb in the heavens.

Franco drew the oars into the boat. "Sing," said he.

Luisa had never studied singing, but she possessed a sweet mezzo-soprano voice and a perfect ear, and had learned many operatic airs from her mother, who had heard Grisi, Pasta, and Malibran, during the golden days of Italian opera.

She began the air from Anne Boleyn:

The song of the soul which at first descends, little by little, and finally, in greater sweetness gives itself up to its love, to rise again, locked in his embrace, in an impulse of desire towards some distant light which shall complete its happiness. She sang, and Franco, carried away, fancied that she longed to be united to him in that lofty region of the soul from which she had, until now, excluded him; that in this perfect union, she longed to be guided by him towards the goal of his ideals. A sob rose in his throat, and the rippling lake, the great tragic mountains, those eyes of things fixed upon the moon, the very light of the moon itself, everything, was filled with his indefinable sentiment. And so, when beyond the broken image of the orb, silver lights flashed for a moment as far as Bisgnago, and even into the shadowy gulf of the Doi, he was moved, as if they had been mysterious signals concerning him, which lake and moon were exchanging, while Luisa finished the verse:

Pasotti's voice called from the terrace—

"Brava!"

And Uncle Piero shouted—

"Tarocco!"

At the same moment they heard the oars of a boat coming from Porlezza, and a bassoon mimicked the air of Anne Boleyn. Franco, who had seated himself in the stern of his boat, started to his feet, crying delightedly—

"Who goes there?" A fine, big, bass voice answered him—

They were his friends from the Lake of Como, the lawyer V. of Varenna and a certain Pedraglio of Loveno, who were in the habit of coming to make music openly, and discuss politics in secret; this was known only to Luisa.

They called from the terrace— "Well done, Don Basilio!—Bravo, bassoon!" And in the interval the voice could be heard of some one who was begging to be excused from tarocco: "No, no, most gracious Controller, it is late! The time is too short; really too short. Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord! Indeed you must excuse me. I cannot, I cannot. Most worshipful Engineer, I appeal to you!"

But they made the little man play, promising that they would not go beyond two games. He puffed very hard, and sat down to the little table with the engineer, Pasotti, and Pedraglio. Franco seated himself at the piano, and the lawyer placed himself beside him with the bassoon.

Between Pasotti and Pedraglio, two terrible quizzers, poor Signor Giacomo passed a short half-hour which was full of tribulation. They did not leave him alone a minute. "How goes it, Scior Zacomo?—Badly, badly! Scior Zacomo, are there no friars walking about in slippers?—Not one. And the bull, how is the bull, Scior Zacomo?—Stop, stop—A most accursed beast, eh?—Yes, indeed, Sir. And the servant, Scior Zacomo?" "Hush!" exclaimed Pasotti at this impertinent question of Pedraglio's. "Be prudent. On this point Signor Giacomo is having a great deal of trouble, through the indiscretion of certain individuals." "Let us not discuss it, most gracious Controller, let us not discuss it!" Signor Giacomo exclaimed, writhing all over, and the engineer advised him to send his tormentors to the devil. "But how is this, Scior Zacomo," Pasotti went on, undaunted, "don't you call that little priest indiscreet?" "I call him an ass!" Signor Giacomo answered angrily. Then Pasotti, smiling and triumphant, because this joke was really of his own making, ordered Pedraglio to be quiet, and started the game afresh, although Pedraglio was bursting with curiosity to hear the story.

Franco and the lawyer were studying a new composition for piano and bassoon, continually making mistakes and beginning over again. Presently Signora Bianconi came in on tiptoe that she might not interrupt the melody. No one noticed her entrance save Luisa, who made her sit down beside her on the little sofa near the piano.

Signora Peppina with her cordial good-nature, her long tongue, and her foolishness was irritating to Franco, but not to Luisa. Luisa liked her, but she was careful on account of Carlascia. From her garden Peppina had heard that "lovely song," and then the bassoon and the greetings; she had imagined there was going to be music, and she was "so madly fond of music, you know!" There was that lawyer who "blows into that shiny thing," to say nothing of Don Franco with those fingers of his "that seem bewitched." To hear the piano played with such precision was as good as hearing a barrel-organ, and she was "so awfully fond" of barrel-organs! She added that she had been afraid she should disturb them, but that her husband had encouraged her to come. And she asked if that other gentleman from Loveno did not play also; if they were going to stay long; and observed that both must be passionately fond of music.

"I'll be even with you, you rascal of a Receiver," thought Luisa, and she proceeded to stuff his wife with the most ridiculous tales of the melomania of Pedraglio and the lawyer, inventing more and more as she grew more and more angry with those odious persons against whom one was obliged to defend one's self by lying. Signora Peppina swallowed all the stories scrupulously down to the very last, accompanying them with gentle notes of pleased wonder: "Oh, how strange!—Just fancy!—Just think of that!" Then, instead of listening to the diabolical dispute going on between the piano and the bassoon, she began to talk of the Commissary, saying he intended to come and see Don Franco's flowers.

"He may come," said Luisa, coldly.

Then Signora Peppina, taking advantage of the storm Franco and his friend were raising, risked a little private speech, which would have cost her dear had her Carlascia overheard it, but fortunately that faithful mastiff was asleep in his own bed, his night-cap drawn well down over his ears.

"I am so devoted to these dear flowers!" she began. It was her opinion the Maironis would do well to pet the Commissary a little. He was one of the Marchesa's intimates, and it would be awful if he should take it into his head to cause them trouble. He was a terrible man, this Commissary! "Now my Carlo barks a little, but he is a good creature; the other one doesn't bark, but—you understand?" She herself knew nothing about it, had not heard anything, but if, for example, that lawyer and the other gentleman had come for something else than music, and the Commissary should find it out——! Then the Lord have mercy on us!

The moon was dragging its splendour across the lake towards the western waters; the game had come to an end, and Signor Giacomo was preparing to light his little lantern, in spite of Pasotti's remonstrances. "A light, Scior Zacomo? You are mad! A light with such a moon!" "At your service," Puttini replied. "In the first place there is that accursed Pomodoro to cross, and then—cossa vorla—the moon nowadays! Besides I must tell you it is the August moon, for although we are in September, still the moon belongs to August. Well, once upon a time, my dear sirs, August moons were fine and big, as large as the bottom of a cask at least; now they are no better than moonlets, good-for-nothing moons——no, no, no." And his lantern lighted, he departed with Pasotti, the impertinent Pedraglio accompanying them as far as the gate of the little garden, with his usual fire of antiphones about the bull and the servant. Then the little man turned towards the cavernous streets of Oria, greatly comforted by Pasotti's exclamations: "Ill-bred people, Scior Zacomo! Vulgar people!" exclamations uttered in a tone calculated to reach the others, and add to their amusement.

A loud gape from the engineer put Signora Peppina to flight. A few minutes later, having drunk his cup of milk, Uncle Piero took leave of the company in verse—

The two guests also asked for a little milk, but Franco, who understood their Latin, went for an old bottle of the wine from the small but excellent vineyard of MainÉ.

When he returned Uncle Piero was no longer present. The dark, bearded lawyer, the picture of strength and placidity, raised both hands silently, summoning Luisa and Franco, one to either side of him. Then he said softly, in his voice like a violoncello, warm and deep—

"Great news!"

"Ah!" ejaculated Franco, opening his eager eyes wide. Luisa turned pale, and clasped her hands in silence.

"Yes, indeed!" said Pedraglio calmly and seriously, "we have succeeded!"

"Speak out! Speak out!" Franco begged. The lawyer answered him:

"We have Piedmont allied with France and England! To-day war with Russia, to-morrow with Austria! Are you satisfied?"

With a sob Franco sprang to embrace his friends.

The three stood clinging to one another in silence, pressing close in the intoxication of the magic word: War! Franco forgot that he still held the bottle. Luisa took it from him. Then he tore himself impetuously from the other two, rushed between them, and seizing each round the waist, dragged them into the hall like an avalanche, repeating: "Tell all, tell all, tell all!"

There, when they had prudently closed the glass door leading to the terrace, the lawyer and Pedraglio disclosed their precious secret. An English lady, spending her holiday at Bellagio, who was a devoted friend of Italy, had received a letter (of which the lawyer possessed a translation) from another lady, a cousin of Sir James Hudson, English Minister at Turin. The letter stated that secret negotiations were being carried on in Turin, Paris, and London, to obtain the armed co-operation of Piedmont in the Orient; that the matter was looked upon as settled by the three cabinets, but that there still remained a few formal difficulties to arrange, as Count Cavour demanded the greatest consideration for the dignity of his country. At Turin they were confident the official and open invitation from the Western powers to accede to the treaty of the tenth of April, 1851, would come to hand not later than December. It was even affirmed that the troops forming the contingent would be under the command of the Duke of Genoa.

The lawyer read, and Franco held his wife's hand tight. Then he wanted to read the letter himself, and after him Luisa read. "But," said she, "war with Austria? How is that?"

"Most certainly," said the lawyer. "Do you suppose Cavour is going to send the Duke of Genoa with fifteen or twenty thousand men to fight the Turks unless he already holds the war with Austria in his hand? You may believe me, Madam, it will come about before a year is passed."

Franco shook his fists in the air, his whole body quivering.

"Hurrah for Cavour!" whispered Luisa.

"Ah!" the lawyer exclaimed, "Demosthenes himself could not have praised Cavour with greater efficacy."

Franco's eyes were filling with tears. "I am a fool!" he said. "I don't know what to say!"

Pedraglio asked Luisa where the deuce she had hidden the bottle. Luisa smiled and went out, returning again immediately with the wine and glasses.

"Count Cavour!" said Pedraglio in a low tone. All raised their glasses repeating: "Count Cavour!" Then they drank, even Luisa, who never took wine.

Pedraglio refilled the glasses and again rose to his feet. "War!" said he.

The three others sprang up, clutching their glasses in silence, too deeply moved to speak.

"We must all go!" said Pedraglio.

"All!" Franco repeated. Luisa kissed him impetuously on the shoulder. Her husband seized her head in both hands, and imprinted a kiss upon her hair.

One of the windows towards the lake was open. In the silence that followed the kiss, they heard the measured dip of oars.

"The customs-guards," whispered Franco. While the guards' long-boat was passing beneath the window, Pedraglio said: "D—— hogs!" in such a loud tone, that the others hushed him. The long-boat floated past. Franco looked out of the window.

It was cool; the moon was sinking towards the hills of Carona, streaking the lake with long, gilded stripes. What a strange sensation it gave him to contemplate that quiet solitude, with a great war so near at hand! The dark, sad mountains seemed to be thinking of the formidable future. Franco closed the window, and the conversation began again in low tones round the little table. Each one had his own suppositions concerning future events, and all spoke of these events as of a drama, of which the manuscript was lying quite ready, down to the very last verse, with all its stops and commas in place, in Count Cavour's writing-desk. V., who was a Bonapartist, saw clearly that Napoleon intended to avenge his uncle, overthrowing one after another, the parties to the Holy Alliance; to-day Russia, to-morrow Austria. But Franco, on the other hand, who was mistrustful of the emperor, attributed the Sardinian alliance to the good-will of England, but acknowledged that as soon as this alliance would be proclaimed, Austria, sacrificing her own interests to principles and hatred, would cast in her lot with Russia, and therefore Napoleon would be obliged to fight her. "Listen," said his wife, "I am afraid Austria will come over to the side of Piedmont," "Impossible!" said the lawyer. Franco felt alarmed, and admired the acuteness of the observation, but Pedraglio exclaimed: "Nonsense! Those blockheads are too great asses to think out a trick like that!" This argument appeared decisive, and no one save Luisa gave the possibility another thought. They began discussing plans for the campaign, plans for insurrections, but here they could not agree. V. knew the men and the mountains of the Lake of Como from Colico to Como and Lecco, better perhaps than any one else. And everywhere all along the lake, in Val Menaggio, in Vall 'Intelvi, in Valsassina, in the Tre Pievi, he knew those who were devoted to the cause, and even ready to strike the blow at a sign from the Scior AvocÂt. He and Franco considered any insurrectional movement useful that might serve to distract part of the Austrian forces even for a moment. But Luisa and Pedraglio were of opinion that all the able-bodied men should hasten to swell the Piedmontese battalions. "We women will make the revolution," said Luisa, with her mock gravity. "I, for my part, will pitch Carlascia into the lake!"

They still conversed in an undertone, with an electric current in their veins that flashed from their eyes, and made their nerves tingle; enjoying this hushed talk behind closed doors and windows, the danger of being in possession of that letter, the glowing life they felt in their blood, and those intoxicating words they were always repeating: Piedmont, War, Cavour, Duke of Genoa, Victor Emmanuel, Cannon, Bersaglieri.

"Do you know what time it is?" said Pedraglio, consulting his watch. "It is half-past twelve! Let us go to bed."

Luisa went for the candles, and lighted them, standing the while, but no one moved, so she also sat down again. When he saw the candles lighted, even Pedraglio himself lost his desire to go to bed.

"A fine kingdom!" said he.

"Piedmont," said Franco, "Lombardy-Venice, Parma, and Modena."

"And the Legations!" [L] V. added.

More discussions followed. All wished for the Legations, especially the lawyer and Luisa, but Franco and Pedraglio were afraid to touch them, fearing to stir up difficulties. They grew so warm that Pedraglio entreated his companions to "scream" in an undertone. "Scream softly, children!" Then it was V.'s turn to propose going to bed. He took his candle in his hand but did not rise.

"Body of Bacchus!" said he, not knowing whether he meant it as a conclusion or an exhortation. Indeed he had a terrible desire to talk, and to hear others talk, but could find nothing new to say. "Body of Bacchus it is indeed!" Franco exclaimed, who was in much the same state of mind. A long silence ensued. At last Pedraglio said, "Well?" and rose. "Shall we go?" said Luisa, leading the way. "And the name?" the lawyer asked. They all stopped. "What name?" "The name of the new Kingdom!" Franco set down his candle at once. "Well done!" said he, "the name!" as if it had been a point that must be settled before going to bed. Fresh discussions followed. Piedmont? Cisalpino? Upper Italy? Italy?

Luisa also was quick to put down her candle, and as the others were not willing to accept his "Italy," Pedraglio set his down also. But finding the debate promised to be a long one, he resumed it, and ran away, repeating: "Italy, Italy, Italy, Italy!" heedless of the "hushes" and admonitions of the others, who were following on tiptoe. They all stopped once more at the foot of the stairs that Pedraglio and the lawyer must ascend to reach their room, and exchanged good-nights. Luisa entered the neighbouring alcove-room; Franco waited to watch his friends upstairs. "Look here!" he suddenly exclaimed. He had been going to speak to them from the foot of the stairs, but finally decided it was better to go up to them. "And what if we are defeated?" he whispered.

The lawyer simply uttered a contemptuous "Nonsense!" but Pedraglio turning like a hyena, seized Franco by the throat. They struggled gaily there on the landing, and then once more said good-night. Pedraglio rushed upwards, while Franco flung himself downstairs.

His wife was waiting for him, standing in the centre of the room, her eyes fixed on the door. When she saw him enter she moved gravely towards him, and folded him in a close embrace. When, after a few moments had elapsed, he moved as though to draw away, she silently pressed him closer. Then Franco understood. She was embracing him now as she had kissed him before, when they had talked of all going to the war. He pressed her temples between his hands, kissed her again and again on the hair, saying gently: "Dearest, think how great she will be afterwards, this Italy!" "Yes, yes!" said she. She raised her face to his, and offered him her lips. She was not crying, but her eyes were moist. To feel himself gazed upon like this, to be kissed thus, was indeed worth a few years of life, for never, never before had her tenderness towards him contained this humility.

"Then," said she, "we shall no longer live in Valsolda. You will be obliged to assume the duties of a citizen, will you not?"

"Yes, yes, certainly!"

They began to talk eagerly, both he and she, about what they should do after the war, as if to banish the thought of a terrible possibility. Luisa let down her hair, and went to look at Maria in her little bed. The child had probably been roused some time before, and had put a tiny finger in her mouth, which, little by little, as sleep returned, had slipped out. Now she was sleeping with her mouth open, and the little finger resting on her chin. "Come here, Franco," said her mother. Both bent over the bed. Maria's small face held the sweetness of paradise.

Husband and wife lingered over her in silence, and then rose, deeply moved. The interrupted conversation was not resumed.

When they were in bed and the light put out, Luisa murmured, on her husband's lips—

"If that day should come, you will go; but I shall go also."

And she would not allow him to answer.

[L] The Legations were provinces of the Roman state, governed by a legate from Rome. The Marches, Romagna and Umbria. [Translator's note.]