LEILA

BY

ANTONIO FOGAZZARO

AUTHOR OF "THE SAINT"

TRANSLATED BY MARY PRICHARD AGNETTI

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY NEW YORK

Publishers in America for Hodder & Stoughton

Printed in 1911

[Pg v]

[Pg vi]

CONTENTS

[Pg vii]

[Pg 2]

CHAPTER I A MYSTIC PRELUDE

I

"Signorina!" called Giovanni the footman, entering the dining-room breathlessly, after looking for her in the garden, in the drawing-room, and in her own chamber. It was nine o'clock, and his master and Signorina Leila had finished dinner before eight. The master had withdrawn to his study almost immediately; the Signorina had gone into the garden. But now she was in the dining-room again by the window.

Her eyes were fixed on the grove of chestnuts to the east, over beyond the ravine, where a brawling stream makes its way from a small lake hidden behind the green shoulders of the lofty peak of Priaforà. But she was straining her ear to catch a far-away sound that rose and fell—the rumbling of a distant train speeding towards the Val d'Astico above which the villa is situated. She turned suddenly at the servant's call, crushing a letter in her hands.

"What is the matter?"

"The master is unwell."

Leila uttered an exclamation.

The fellow gazed stupidly at her. She started forward, then, pausing, spoke again to the slow-witted footman.

"Where is he?"

"In the study, I think."

Leila ran towards the salon and met the maid Teresina coming towards her with outstretched hands.

"It is nothing—nothing," Teresina said quietly, diverting Leila's attention to a locket that had fallen open from her belt. The girl chafed with impatience while the maid carefully closed it for her. Nevertheless, the action calmed her.

"Giovanni, go and prepare the guests' room," said Teresina, addressing the footman, who stood listening, half dazed, half curious.

Leila trembled. "Is there something Giovanni must not know?" she asked.

"No, Signorina, no!" said Teresina, speaking with the accent of her native Trent.

But it struck Leila that the maid was deliberately delaying her explanation.

"Why don't you speak?" she burst out.

Teresina cast a quick glance towards the study door. She was anxious to spare the Signorina, who was delicate and nervous, and so easily excited.

"If he should come out," she whispered, "and find us here talking, he might suspect something. We had better go away."

Followed by Teresina, Leila hurried across the salon and entered the dining-room. Anxious though she was to hear the maid's story, she listened a moment to the whistle of the train, wondering whether it was signalling from San Giorgio or from the station of Seghe. Then....

"Tell me!" she demanded.

Well, as usual, Teresina had carried the master's letters to him in his study. From the threshold she had seen him bend his head first backwards and then towards his left shoulder, close his eyes, open them with a wild stare, and again close them, only to strain them wide once more, so that the balls showed white. She had sprinkled some water upon his face and had sent the footman in search [Pg 3]of the Signorina, for, to tell the truth, she had really felt somewhat startled at first. Meanwhile the master had sighed deeply and had muttered something about a sudden drowsiness. Then he had opened his letters and papers, and seeing that she was hesitating whether to leave the room or to remain, he had dismissed her. Outside she had listened, but had heard only the rustle of papers. So....

A bell sounded twice.

"The master!" Teresina exclaimed, and hurried away.

Leila followed her a few steps, but stopped in the drawing-room, watching the maid's retreating figure, watching the billiard-room door, that closed softly behind her, listening, and waiting for Teresina to come back.

Meanwhile the train was whistling beneath the heights of Santa Maria, just before running into the terminus station of Arsiero. From the station it was a walk of some ten minutes to "La Montanina," the villa, so called because, with its gabled roofs and its back to the hill, among groves and fields that stretch downwards to the deep Posina, it is so like one of those peasant women who come wearily down from the steeps of Priaforà, and pause to rest awhile upon the bundle of wood they have gathered in the forests. In this villa lived Leila and Signor Marcello Trento.

Teresina, as devoted to Signor Marcello as she had been for twenty years to his wife, who had now been dead two years, knocked at the study door, trembling lest her master might have been seized again with illness. Encouraged by the sound of his "Come in!" she entered, smiling, that he might not notice any signs of her recent fright.

The door opened on the left of the easy-chair in which Signor Marcello was seated at a table littered [Pg 4]with papers, and in the light of an antique Florentine brass lamp, which had shone upon his father's grey head, and now shed its glow upon his own, in which the grey and auburn were mingled. His hair was wild and rough and of that coarse texture perhaps characteristic of virile natures. As Teresina entered he turned towards her a face showing a moustache and tuft upon the chin that were lighter in tone than his hair, and, beneath a low and wrinkled brow, eyes that were terrible in anger but most gentle in moments of tenderness. Just now it was the face of the unrelenting inquisitor, and the woman was conscious of a blush that flamed to the roots of her hair.

"How is it," he demanded, "that I am all wet?"

"I don't know," she answered.

"You don't know, indeed? Who poured water upon my hair? Don't you understand me?"

Teresina felt that further denial would only make matters worse.

"You fell asleep," she began, "and I thought you had fainted, so I sprinkled a little water over you. I beg your pardon!"

"How stupid you are!" Signor Marcello exclaimed. "At first I could not understand, but then I guessed it must have happened in that way. But it was stupid of you."

"Yes, sir, I fear it was."

Teresina was greatly relieved. She could hardly have hoped for anything better than that her master should believe he had been asleep. She was about to withdraw when Signor Marcello stopped her with a wave of his hand.

"I want to know whether the train from Schio has arrived."

"I don't know—non so no," Teresina stammered, and then quickly begged him to excuse a phrase savouring of the dialect of Trent, which never failed to irritate Signor Marcello. She passed slowly in [Pg 5]front of her master and took up the snuffers, intending to mend one of the wicks of the Florentine lamp, which had begun to smoke.

"Let it alone!" he growled. "Do you suppose I cannot snuff a wick better than you can?"

Again the servant asked his pardon and left the room, walking on tiptoe lest the noise of her steps should cause him further irritation. She had hardly begun to tell Leila about her master, when she was once more summoned by the double ring.

"What does he want now?" Teresina wondered anxiously.

She saw at once that Signor Marcello's face had changed—that it was now all gentleness.

"Forgive me," he said kindly. "Perhaps, after all, it is I who am stupid. Were my eyes open or closed when I was asleep?"

"They were closed."

"Did I not open them at all? Did you not see the white of my eyeballs?"

Teresina's blood ran cold, and she hesitated an instant before answering in the negative. Her master was scrutinising her with that inquisitorial glance that always made her shiver. She became confused, and instead of insisting in her denial, declared she really could not remember.

"And where did you get the water?" Signor Marcello asked quietly.

Teresina had filled a glass at the washstand in his bedroom beyond the study. She saw that by confessing this she would be admitting that the questionable nap had lasted a certain length of time. She failed, however, to find a fitting lie on the spur of the moment, and so answered truthfully, but with the hesitation of one who confesses reluctantly.

Signor Marcello gazed searchingly at her a little longer, and then said gently:

"You can go now, my dear. Let me know when Signor Alberti arrives."

[Pg 6]

Teresina left the room, alarmed, she knew not why, by his extreme gentleness. It was the third time in two-and-twenty years that he had addressed her as "my dear." He had pronounced the words carelessly enough the first time, when she had presented herself to him on entering his service. He had uttered them a second time, impelled by profound emotion, upon the death of his only son, Andrea, when he had thanked her for her part in the nursing which she had shared with himself, the mother being incapacitated by the disease that killed her a year and a half later. The quiet tenderness of this third cara was something quite new.

Alone once more, Signor Marcello rose slowly to his feet. His face was colourless. Turning to the broad window, he joined his hands as in prayer, gazing with reverent eyes at the dark sky above the Torraro and the army of mighty chestnuts extending from the slope of Lago di Velo to the ravine of the Posina. He was close upon his seventy-second year—his father's age on that night when a similar attack of arteriosclerosis had overcome him, and the doctor's verdict had prepared the family for the old man's death five months afterwards.

The silent flame of the lamp that had been found burning by his dead father's side seemed a living symbol of that tragedy. But to Signor Marcello the moment was not tragic; it was the solemn warning of the coming of a welcome day, the happiest that God could now grant him, of departure and eternal reunion with beloved ones. His heart was full of tenderness, and yet fear of the God of love who is also the God of justice swayed him. His soul glowed and quivered, but was speechless, like the wavering flame of the lamp.

Teresina suspected that her master had been thinking of his father's death. She said nothing [Pg 7]of this, however, to the Signorina, who was probably ignorant of those circumstances. She determined only to inform the doctor of what had happened and, for to-night at least, to spare Signor Marcello an interview with young Alberti, who had been his poor Andrea's dearest friend. Alberti was really coming to Velo to visit the curate of Sant' Ubaldo, but the priest, being unable to put him up, had begged the hospitability of the Montanina for his friend.

"And of course he must needs arrive on this particular evening!" grumbled Teresina.

Leila thought she heard steps in the garden.

"It is surely he," said the maid. "The train whistled long ago."

Leila started. "Don't call me!" she ordered, and ran out by the door to the servants' stairway, which she ascended very slowly, pausing at intervals to listen. In her own room she crossed to the window. There was no sound of steps, nor could she hear voices. Impatient with herself, she thought: "After all, what is it to me?" and turning from the window, she once more read the crumpled letter. She read it with knitted brow, from time to time raising her eyes—strange eyes of an indefinable colour—letting their stern glance follow some thought from the letter seemingly into space. Again her hand crushed the sheet, and she flung it on the floor.

At that moment the sound of distant voices floated through the open window. Leila started and raised her head to listen. The voices came from lower down, from the foot of the garden by the entrance, close to the tiny church of Santa Maria ad Montes. Her light eyebrows contracted quickly once more, and her small, whimsical face assumed an indescribable expression of fierce pride. She rose, picked up the letter, and closed the window. What was this Alberti to her?

She was neither the daughter nor a relation of [Pg 8]Signor Marcello. She was a pure flower that had blossomed amidst foulness upon an evil stem. The only son of the house of Trento, poor Andrea, had loved her when she was still little more than a child, and had wished to make her his wife. When he died his parents, who had always strenuously opposed this marriage, had taken Leila into their home, buying her, as it were, with gold, that this maiden who had been so dear to him might be preserved from the corruption of this world, and prompted also perhaps by a sense of affectionate remorse for the grief they had caused their beloved.

From her earliest girlhood Leila had had no illusions about her parents, especially her mother, whom she judged with precocious insight that sprang from the early recognition of certain tendencies within herself, when the experiences of her own home seemed to tell her that life held no further secrets. These tendencies she despised and hated with all the strength of her proud spirit, as in her heart she despised her mother, her contempt at times breaking through her rigid self-imposed restraint. From the age of twelve to fifteen she went to the convent school of the Sacred Heart, where she was distinguished for her talents, her love of study, and her pronounced musical ability. At sixteen she became engaged to Andrea, who was then about eighteen, and was studying mathematics at Padua, her native town. Her parents, Signor Girolamo Camin and his wife Chiara, had appropriated the "da," denoting noble origin, and were known as da Camin. Signor Girolamo was a vulgar intriguer, who had more than once been declared insolvent, and also dabbled in politics.

Signora Chiara, who had seen much and not inglorious service in the ranks of gallantry, left her husband unceremoniously at about the time the student Andrea Trento was beginning to fall in love with her daughter. Although already middle-aged, [Pg 9]she settled in Milan in the company of an elderly Austrian, who died almost immediately, and left her a comfortable fortune. She then gave herself up to a life of piety, and opened her house to priests, friars, and nuns, who were easily led to believe her a widow. Girolamo, on his part, employed a vulgar woman as his housekeeper, carefully concealing his weakness for her, but showing himself too tolerant of the airs of a mistress which the coarse creature was quick to assume.

Motives of gratitude and a girlish sense of vanity at being admired and desired, rather than love, had prompted Leila to accept Andrea. He was too young for her, too light-hearted, too immature to understand the moral conflict that was stirring in the depths of her soul. Handsome, intelligent, and generous, Andrea Trento was humble of mind, underrating his own talents but quick to admire those of others.

Of all his friends Massimo Alberti of Milan was his favourite. The ties that bound them were rather those resulting from a long friendship between the two families than any that had sprung from their university life together. Massimo Alberti, who was several years older than Andrea, was at Padua finishing the medical course he had begun in Rome when Andrea entered the university. His friend's talents, his broad culture, and the sobriety of his mode of life filled Andrea with admiration. Leila he also looked upon as vastly superior to himself, and often talked to her of Alberti, whom she had never seen. On one occasion he even told her, in a transport of love and humility, that Alberti was much more worthy than himself to become her husband. Leila, who was far from meek, and whose habit it was to follow any assertion to its ultimate consequences, had reflected that such language was doubtless virtuous, but most unpleasant and inopportune. This was not her idea of love. On one [Pg 10]pretext and another she had always managed to avoid meeting her lover's friend.

Andrea's death grieved her so deeply that she formed an exaggerated estimate of her affection for him, confusing it with her compassion. When her father whiningly informed her that he had been asked to make a great sacrifice for her benefit, that Andrea's parents wished her to live with them as their daughter in memory of the son they had lost, and that, although his heart might bleed, he was prepared to accept a proposal so advantageous to her, she immediately guessed the nature of the bargain he was hiding from her, and flung out an indignant refusal in a transport of offended pride, vindicating, for the moment, her right to maintain the family honour, so ill defended by this despicable father of hers. But afterwards, since her rage against him was so great and her loathing of the filth he had dared to drag to the very hearthstone was so intense, she withdrew her refusal, her thoughts dwelling the while on the poor lad who was dead.

She accepted the Trentos' offer, but the act of entering their house as a thing paid for was a severe trial. She soon perceived that one of the conditions of the bargain was that her father should not enter the precincts of the Montanina, and this condition was a source of relief and yet of sorrow to her. Her attitude towards the Trentos was at first cold. She seemed to be trying to show them silently that she felt no gratitude; that she was aware they had desired her only as a sort of relic of their dead son; that, after all, they were the persons benefited, and that she had consented to become their benefactress only in memory of him, and not from motives of affection towards themselves. Under these conditions Signor Marcello's fiery temper made a rupture probable, and, after his first most affectionate welcome, many storms did indeed arise [Pg 11]between them. But Signora Trento's gentleness and Leila's musical accomplishments combined to save the situation. The husband softened under the influence of his wife's gentle virtues and at sight of the

suffering which soon brought her to the grave. Music did the rest. Signor Marcello, who was a fair pianist, found in music a mystic expression of his deepest grief, hope, vague memories, and regrets. He and Leila both brought to the piano the same intense passion and the same tastes. Secret antagonism might indeed long dwell within the hearts of both, but their sympathy in music facilitated a mutual recognition—albeit measured and intermittent—of the beauty that lay in the nature of each, and a mutual tolerance, also measured and intermittent, of what in one was displeasing to the other.

Signora Trento's death brought about a crisis in their relations to each other. Little by little Leila had allowed herself to be won over by the lady's gentle ways; and her care of the poor invalid had softened Signor Marcello's heart. His attitude towards Leila grew day by day more tender and paternal; day by day he failed somewhat both in look and bearing and grew more indifferent to the things of this world, except music and, to a certain extent, flowers, becoming ever more absorbed in thoughts of the things of eternity; and thus at last the girl came to feel a filial reverence for him, and the feelings she had experienced on entering his house for the first time no longer ruled her. This recent loss of consciousness, which Signor Marcello had failed to realise, and Teresina's face, more than her words, stirred Leila deeply, despite the fact that her mind was so full of the expected arrival of Massimo Alberti. Three years had passed since Andrea's death, and since his friend's funeral Alberti had not visited the Montanina; but he never allowed