Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  Aliandra’s life had been very like that of any other provincial girl of the middle class. She had been educated in a small convent, while her excellent father, whose wife was dead, laboured to accumulate a little dowry for his only child. At fifteen years of age, she had returned to live with him, and he had entertained good hopes of marrying her off before she was seventeen. In fact, he thought that he had only to choose among a number of young men, of whom any one would be delighted to become her husband.

  Then, one day, Tebaldo and Francesco Pagliuca came riding down from Camaldoli, and stopped at the notary’s house to get a small lease drawn up; and while they were there, in the dusty office, doing their best to be sure of what old Basili’s legal language meant, they heard Aliandra singing to herself upstairs. After that they came to Randazzo again, both separately and together, and at last they persuaded old Basili that his daughter had a fortune in her voice and should be allowed to become a singer. He consented after a long struggle, and sent her to Messina to live with a widowed sister of his, and to be taught by an old master of great reputation who had taken up his abode there. Very possibly Basili agreed to this step with a view to removing the girl to a distance from the two brothers, who made small secret of their admiration for her, or about their jealousy of each other; and he reflected that she could be better watched and guarded by his sister, who would have nothing else to do, than by himself. For he was a busy man, and obliged to spend his days either in his office, or in visits to distant clients, so that the motherless girl was thrown far too much upon her own resources.

  Tebaldo, on the other hand, realised that so long as she lived in Randazzo, he should have but a small chance of seeing her alone. He could not come and spend a week at a time in the town, but he could find an excuse for being longer than that in Messina, and he trusted to his ingenuity to elude the vigilance of the aunt with whom she was to live. In Messina, too, he should not have his brother at his elbow, trying to outdo him at every turn, and evidently attracting the young girl to a certain extent.

  To tell the truth, Aliandra’s head was turned by the attentions of the two young noblemen, though her father never lost an opportunity of telling her that they were a pair of penniless good-for-nothings and otherwise dangerous characters, supposed to be on good terms with the brigands of the interior, and typical ‘maffeusi’ through and through. But such warnings were much more calculated to excite the girl’s interest than to frighten her. She had an artist’s nature and instincts, and the two young gentlemen were very romantic characters in her eyes, when they rode down from their dilapidated stronghold, on their compact little horses, their beautiful Winchester rifles slung over their shoulders, their velvet coats catching the sunlight, their spurs gleaming, and their broad hats shading their dark eyes. Had there been but one of them, her mind would soon have been made up to make him marry her, and she might have succeeded without much difficulty. But she found it hard to decide between the two. They were too different for comparison, and yet too much alike for preference. Tebaldo was a born tyrant, and Francesco a born coward. She was dominated by the one and she ruled the other, but she was not in love with either, and she could not make up her mind whether it would on the whole be more agreeable to love her master or her slave.

  Meanwhile she made rapid progress in her singing, appeared at the opera in Palermo, and almost immediately obtained an engagement in Rome. To her father, the sum offered her appeared enormous, and her aunt was delighted by the prospect of going to Rome with her during the winter. Aliandra had been successful from the first, and she seemed to be on the high road to fame. The young idlers of rich Palermo intrigued to be introduced to her and threw enormous nosegays to her at the end of every act. She found that there were scores of men far handsomer and richer than the Pagliuca brothers, ready to fall in love with her, and she began to reflect seriously upon her position. Artist though she was, by one side of her nature, there was in her a touch of her father’s sensible legal instinct, together with that extraordinary self-preserving force which usually distinguishes the young girl of southern Italy.

  She soon understood that no one of her new admirers would ever think of asking her to be his wife, whereas she was convinced that she could marry either Tebaldo or Francesco, at her choice and pleasure. They were poor, indeed, but of as good nobility as any of the rich young noblemen of Palermo, and she was beginning to find out what fortunes were sometimes made by great singers. She dreamed of buying back the old Corleone estates and of being some day the Princess of Corleone herself. That meant that she must choose Tebaldo, since he was to get the title. And here she hesitated again. She did not realise that Francesco was actually a physical coward and rather a contemptible character altogether; to her he merely seemed gentle and winning, and she thought him much ill used by his despotic elder brother. As for the third brother, Ferdinando, of whom mention has been made, she had rarely seen him. He was probably the best of the family, which was not saying much, and he was also by far the least civilised. He was undoubtedly in close communication with the brigands, and when he was occasionally absent from home, he was not spending his time in Messina or Randazzo.

  Time went on, and in the late autumn Aliandra and her aunt went to Rome for the season. As has been seen, it pleased fortune that the Pagliuca brothers should be there also, with their mother and sister, Ferdinando remaining in Sicily. When the question of selling Camaldoli to San Giacinto arose, Ferdinando at first flatly refused to give his consent. Thereupon Tebaldo wrote him a singularly temperate and logical letter, in which he very quietly proposed to inform the government of Ferdinando’s complicity with the brigands, unless he at once agreed to the sale. Ferdinando might have laughed at the threat had it come from anyone else, but he knew that Tebaldo’s thorough acquaintance with the country and with the outlaws’ habits would give him a terrible advantage. Tebaldo, if he gave information, could of course never return to Sicily, for his life would not be safe, even in broad daylight, in the Macqueda of Palermo, and it was quite possible that the mafia might reach him even in Rome. But he was undoubtedly able to help the government in a raid in which many of Ferdinando’s friends must perish or be taken prisoners. For their sakes Ferdinando signed his consent to the sale, before old Basili in Randazzo, and sent the paper to Rome; but that night he swore that no Roman should ever get possession of Camaldoli while he was alive, and half a dozen of the boldest among the outlaws swore that they would stand by him in his resolution.

  Aliandra knew nothing of all this, for Tebaldo was far too wise to tell anyone how he had forced his brother’s consent. She would certainly have been disgusted with him, had she known the truth, for she was morally as far superior to him and to Francesco as an innocent girl brought up by honest folks can be better than a pair of exceedingly corrupt young adventurers. But they both had in a high degree the power of keeping up appearances and of imposing upon their surroundings. Tebaldo was indeed subject to rare fits of anger in which he completely lost control of himself, and when he was capable of going to any length of violence; but these were very unusual, and as a general rule he was reticent in the extreme. Francesco possessed the skill and gentle duplicity of a born coward and a born ladies’ man. They both deceived Aliandra, in spite of her father’s early warning and her old aunt’s anxious advice.

  Aliandra was successful beyond anyone’s expectations during her first engagement in Rome, and she was wise enough to gain herself the reputation of being unapproachable to her many admirers. Only Tebaldo and Francesco, whom she now considered as old friends of her family, were ever admitted to her room at the theatre, or received at the quiet apartment where she lived with her aunt.

  On the night of the dinner-party at the Palazzo Saracinesca, Aliandra was to sing in Lucia for the first time in Rome. Both the brothers had wished that they could have been at the theatre to hear her, instead of spending the evening in the society of those very stiff and mighty Romans, and both made up their minds separately that they w
ould see her before she left the Argentina that night. Tebaldo, as usual, took the lead of events, and peremptorily ordered Francesco to go home with their mother and sister in the carriage.

  When the Corleone party left the palace, therefore, Francesco got into the carriage, but Tebaldo said that he preferred to walk, and went out alone from under the great gate. He was not yet very familiar with the streets of Rome, but he believed that he knew the exact situation of the palace, and could easily find his way from it to the Argentina theatre, which was not very far distant.

  The old part of the city puzzled him, however. He found himself threading unfamiliar ways, dark lanes, and winding streets which emerged suddenly upon small squares from which three or four other streets led in different directions. Instinctively he looked behind him from time to time, and felt in his pocket for the pistol which, like a true provincial, he thought it as necessary to carry in Rome as in his Sicilian home. Presently he looked at his watch, saw that it was eleven o’clock, and made up his mind to find a cab if he could. But that was not an easy matter either, in that part of the city, and it was twenty minutes past eleven when he at last drew up to the stage entrance at the back of the Argentina. A weary, gray, unshaven, and very dirty old man admitted him, looked at his face, took the flimsy currency note which Tebaldo held out, and let him pass without a word. The young man knew his way much better within the building than out in the streets. In a few moments he stopped before a dingy little door, the last on the left in a narrow corridor dimly lit by a single flame of gas, which was turned low for economy’s sake. He knocked sharply and opened the door without waiting for an answer.

  There were three persons in the small, low dressing-room, and all three faced Tebaldo rather anxiously. Aliandra Basili, the young Sicilian prima donna who had lately made her appearance in Rome, was seated before a dim mirror which stood on a low table covered with appliances for theatrical dressing. Her maid was arranging a white veil on her head, and beside her, very near to her, and drawing back from her as Tebaldo entered sat Francesco.

  Tebaldo’s lips moved uneasily, as he stood still for a moment, gazing at the little group, his hand on the door. Then he closed it quickly behind him, and came forward with a smile.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘I lost my way in the streets and am a little late. I thought the curtain would be up for the last act.’

  ‘They have called me once,’ answered Aliandra. ‘I said that I was not ready, for I knew you would come.’

  She was really very handsome and very young, but the mask of paint and powder changed her face and expression almost beyond recognition. Even her bright, gold-brown eyes were made to look black and exaggerated by the deep shadows painted with antimony below them, and on the lids. The young hand she held out to Tebaldo was whitened with a chalky mixture to the tips of the fingers. She was dressed in the flowing white robe which Lucia wears in the mad scene, and the flaring gaslights on each side of the mirror made her face and wig look terribly artificial. Tebaldo thought so as he looked at her, and remembered the calm simplicity of Corona Saracinesca’s mature beauty. But he had known Aliandra long, and his imagination saw her own face through her paint.

  ‘It was good of you to wait for me,’ he said. ‘I daresay my brother helped the time to pass pleasantly.’

  ‘I have only just come,’ said Francesco, quickly. ‘I took our mother home — it is far.’

  ‘I did not know that you were coming at all,’ replied Tebaldo, coldly. ‘How is it going?’ he asked, sitting down by Aliandra. ‘Another ovation?’

  ‘No. They are waiting for the mad scene, of course — and my voice is as heavy as lead to-night. I shall not please anyone — and it is the first time I have sung Lucia in Rome. My nerves are in a state—’

  ‘You are not frightened? You — of all people?’

  ‘I am half dead with fright. I am white under my rouge. I can feel it.’

  ‘Poor child!’ exclaimed Francesco, softly, and his eyes lightened as he watched her.

  ‘Bah!’ Tebaldo shrugged his shoulders and smiled. ‘She always says that!’

  ‘And sometimes it is true,’ answered Aliandra, with a sharp sigh.

  A double rap at the door interrupted the conversation.

  ‘Signorina Basili! Are you ready?’ asked a gruff voice outside.

  ‘Yes!’ replied the young girl, rising with an effort.

  Francesco seized her left hand and kissed it. Tebaldo said nothing, but folded his arms and stood aside. He saw on his brother’s dark moustache a few grains of the chalky dust which whitened Aliandra’s fingers.

  ‘Do not wait for me when it is over,’ she said. ‘My aunt is in the house, and will take me home. Good night.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ said Tebaldo, looking intently into her face as he opened the door.

  She started in surprise, and perhaps her face would have betrayed her pain, but the terribly artificial rouge and powder hid the change.

  ‘Come and see me to-morrow,’ she said to Tebaldo, in a low voice, when she was already in the doorway.

  He did not answer, but kept his eyes steadily on her face.

  ‘Signorina Basili! You will miss your cue!’ cried the gruff voice in the corridor.

  Aliandra hesitated an instant, glancing out and then looking again at Tebaldo.

  ‘To-morrow,’ she said suddenly, stepping out into the passage. ‘To-morrow,’ she repeated, as she went swiftly towards the stage.

  She looked back just before she disappeared, but there was little light, and Tebaldo could no longer see her eyes.

  He stood still by the door. Then his brother passed him.

  ‘I am going to hear this act,’ said Francesco, quietly, as though unaware that anything unusual had happened.

  Before he was out of the door, he felt Tebaldo’s hand on his shoulder, gripping him hard and shaking him a little. He turned his head, and his face was suddenly pale. Tebaldo kept his hand on his brother’s shoulder and pushed him back against the wall of the passage, under the solitary gaslight.

  ‘What do you mean by coming here?’ he asked. ‘How do you dare?’

  Francesco was badly frightened, for he knew Tebaldo’s ungovernable temper.

  ‘Why not?’ he tried to ask. ‘I have often been here—’

  ‘Because I warned you not to come again. Because I am in earnest. Because I will do you some harm, if you thrust yourself into my way with her.’

  ‘I shall call for help now, unless you let me go,’ answered Francesco, with white lips. Tebaldo laughed savagely.

  ‘What a coward you are!’ he cried, giving his brother a final shake and then letting him go. ‘And what a fool I am to care?’ he added, laughing again.

  ‘Brute!’ exclaimed Francesco, adjusting his collar and smoothing his coat.

  ‘I warned you,’ retorted Tebaldo, watching him. ‘And now I have warned you again,’ he added. ‘This is the second time. Are there no women in the world besides Aliandra Basili?’

  ‘I knew her first,’ objected the younger man, beginning to recover some courage.

  ‘You knew her first? When she was a mere child in Randazzo, — when we went to her father about a lease, we both heard her singing, — but what has that to do with it? That was six years ago, and you have hardly seen her since.’

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Francesco, scornfully.

  He had gradually edged past Tebaldo towards the open end of the passage.

  ‘How do you know that I did not often see her alone before she went to Messina, and since then, too?’ He smiled as he renewed the question.

  ‘I do not know,’ said Tebaldo, calmly. ‘You are a coward. You are also a most accomplished liar. It is impossible to believe a word you say, good or bad. I should not believe you if you were dying, and if you swore upon the holy sacraments that you were telling me the truth.’

  ‘Thank you,’ answered Francesco, apparently unmoved by the insult. ‘But you would probably believe Aliandra, would you not?’
/>
  ‘Why should I? She is only a woman.’

  Tebaldo turned angrily as he spoke, and his eyelids drooped at the corners, like a vulture’s.

  ‘You two are not made to be believed,’ he said, growing more cold, ‘I sometimes forget, but you soon remind me of the fact again. You said distinctly this evening that you would go home with our mother—’

  ‘So I did,’ interrupted Francesco. ‘I did not promise to stay there—’

  ‘I will not argue with you—’

  ‘No. It would be useless, as you are in the wrong. I am going to hear the act. Good night.’

  Francesco walked quickly down the passage. He did not turn to look behind him, but it was not until he was at the back of the stage, groping his way amidst lumber and dust towards the other side, that he felt safe from any further violence.

  Tebaldo had no intention of following. He stood quite still under the gaslight for a few seconds, and then opened the door of the dressing-room again. He knew that the maid was there alone.

  ‘How long was my brother here before I came?’ he asked sharply.

  The woman was setting things in order, packing the tinsel-trimmed gown which the singer had worn in the previous scene. She looked up nervously, for she was afraid of Tebaldo.

  ‘A moment, only a moment,’ she answered, not pausing in her work, and speaking in a scared tone.

  Tebaldo looked at her and saw that she was frightened. He was not in the humour to believe anyone just then, and after a moment’s silence, he turned on his heel and went out.

  CHAPTER VI

  ‘WHAT STRANGE PEOPLE there are in the world,’ said Corona Saracinesca to her husband, on the morning after the dinner at which the Corleone family had been present.

  Giovanni was reading a newspaper, leaning back in his own especial chair in his wife’s morning room. It was raining, and she was looking out of the window. There are not many half-unconscious actions which betray so much of the general character and momentary temper, as an idle pause before closed window panes, and a careless glance down into the street or up at the sky. The fact has not been noticed, but deserves to be. Many a man or woman, at an anxious crisis, turns to the window, with the sensation of being alone for a moment, away from the complications created by the other person or persons in the room, free, for an instant, to let the features relax, the eye darken, or the lips smile, as the case may be — off the stage, indeed, as a comedian in the side scenes. Or again, when there is no anxiety, one goes from one’s work, to take a look at the outside world, not caring to see it, but glad to be away from the task and to give the mind a breathing space. And then, also, the expression of the features changes, and if one stops to think of it, one is aware that the face is momentarily rested. Another, who has forgotten trouble and pain for a while, in conversation or in pleasant reading, goes to the window. And the grief, or the pain, or the fear, comes back with a rush and clouds the eyes and bends the brow, till he who suffers turns with something like fear from the contemplation of the outer world and takes up his book, or his talk, or his work, or anything which can help him to forget. With almost all people, there is a sudden change of sensation in first looking out of the window. One drums impatiently on the panes, another bites his lip, a third grows very still and grave, and one, perhaps, smiles suddenly, and then glances back to the room, fearing lest his inward lightness of heart may have betrayed itself.