better than the hapless
Beatrice
di Tenda,
tell you.
tell you.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v22 - Sac to Sha
Suddenly the cricket
dragged at the thread, and hopped off,- limping into the midst
of the passage which divided the two rows of chairs. There was
a burst of laughter.
## p. 13140 (#578) ##########################################
MATILDE SERAO
13140
"Friozzi will not appear in the parlor to-morrow," said the
directress severely.
The child turned pale at the harshness of a punishment which
would prevent her from seeing her mother.
Cherubina Friscia, the sacristan-teacher, of cadaverous com-
plexion and worn anæmic face, descended the altar steps and
confiscated the cricket. There was a moment of silence, and
then they heard the gasping voice of Lucia Altimare murmuring,
"Mary Mary Divine Mary! "
"Pray silently, Altimare," gently suggested the directress.
The Rosary' began again, this time without interruption.
All knelt down, with a great noise of moving chairs; and the
Latin words were recited, almost chanted, in chorus. Caterina
Spaccapietra rested her head against the back of the chair in
front of her. Lucia Altimare had thrown herself down, shudder-
ing, with her head on the straw seat and arms hanging slack at
her side.
"The blood will go to your head, Lucia," whispered her
friend.
-
"Leave me alone," said Lucia.
The pupils rose from their knees. One of them, accompanied
by a teacher, had mounted the steps leading to the little organ.
The teacher played a simple devotional prelude for the 'Litany
to the Virgin. ' A pure fresh voice, of brilliant quality, rang out
and permeated the chapel, waking its sleeping echoes; a young
yearning voice, crying with the ardor of an invocation, “Sancta
Maria! " And from below, all the pupils responded in the minor
key, "Ora pro nobis! " The singer stood in the light on the
platform of the organ, her face turned towards the altar.
was Giovanna Casacalenda, a tall girl whose white raiment did
not conceal her fine proportions; a girl with a massive head, upon
which her dark hair was piled heavily, and with eyes so black
that they appeared as if painted. She stood there alone, isolated,
infusing all the passion of her youth into her full mellow voice,
delighting in the pleasure of singing as if she had freed herself
and lived in her song. The pupils turned to look at her, with
the joy in music which is inherent in childhood. When the voice
of Giovanna came down to them, the chorus rising from below
answered, "Ora pro nobis! " She felt her triumph. With head
erect, her wondrous black eyes swimming in a humid light, her
right hand resting lightly on the wooden balustrade, her white
## p. 13141 (#579) ##########################################
MATILDE SERAO
13141
throat throbbing as if for love, she intoned the medium notes,
ran up to the highest ones, and came down gently to the lower,
giving full expression to her song: "Regina Angelorum! " One
moment of silence, in which to enjoy the last notes; then from
below, in enthusiastic answer, came childish and youthful voices:
"Ora pro nobis! " The singer looked fixedly at the altar, but she
seemed to see or hear something beyond it—a vision or music
inaudible to the others. Every now and then a breath passed
through her song, lending it warmth, making it passionate; every
how and then the voice thinned itself to a golden thread, that
sounded like the sweet trill of a bird, while occasionally it sank
to a murmur, with a delicious hesitation.
"Giovanna sees heaven," said Ginevra Avigliana to Artemisia
Minichini.
"Or the stage," rejoined the other skeptically.
Still, when Giovanna came to the poetic images by which the
Virgin is designated,- Gate of Heaven, Vase of Election, Tower
of David, the girls' faces flushed in the ecstasy of that won-
drous music: only Caterina Spaccapietra, who was absorbed, did
not join in, and Lucia Altimare, who wept silently. The tears
coursed down her thin cheeks. They rained upon her bosom and
her hands; they melted away on her apron; and she did not
dry them. Caterina quietly passed her handkerchief to her, but
she took no notice of it. The preacher, Father Capece, went
up the altar steps for the benediction. The Litany ended with
the 'Agnus Dei. ' The voice of the singer seemed overpowered
by sheer fatigue. Once more all the pupils knelt, and the priest
prayed. Giovanna, kneeling at the organ, breathed heavily. After
five minutes of silent prayer, the organ pealed out again slowly
over the bowed heads, and a thrilling resonant voice seemed to
rise from mid-air towards heaven, lending its splendor to the
sacrament in the Tantum Ergo. ' Giovanna was no longer tired;
indeed her song grew in power, triumphant and full of life,
with an ebb and flow that were almost voluptuous. The throb
of its passion passed over the youthful heads below, and a mys-
tic sensation caused their hearts to flutter. In the intensity of
their prayer, in the approach of the benediction, they realized
the solemnity of the moment. It dominated and terrified them,
until it was followed by a painful and exquisite prostration. All
was silent; then a bell rang three peals. For an instant Arte-
misia Minichini dared to raise her eyes; she was alone, looking at
(
―――――――
## p. 13142 (#580) ##########################################
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MATILDE SERAO
the inert forms upon the chairs, looking boldly at the altar; after
which, overcome by childish fear, she dropped her eyes again.
The holy sacrament, in its sphere of burnished gold, raised
high in the priest's hands, shed its blessing on those assembled
in the church.
"I am dying," gasped Lucia Altimare.
Ar the door of the chapel, in the long gas-lighted corri-
dor, the teachers were waiting to muster the classes, and lead
them to the refectory. The faces were still agitated; but the
little ones hopped and skipped about, and prattled together, and
pinched each other, in all the joyous exuberance of childhood
released from durance vile. As their limbs unstiffened, they
jostled each other, laughing the while. The teachers, running
after some of them, scolding others, half threatening, half coax-
ing, tried to range them in a file of two and two. They began
with the little ones, then came the elder children, and after them
the grown-up girls. The corridor rang with voices, calling:
«< The Blues, where are the Blues? " "Here they are, all of
them. " "Friozzi is missing. " "Where is Friozzi of the Blues? "
"Here! " "In line, and to the left, if you please. " "The Greens,
in line the Greens, or no fruit for dinner to-morrow. " "Quick!
the refectory bell has rung twice already. " "Federici of the
Reds, walk straight! " "Young ladies of the White-and-Greens,
the bell is ringing for the third time. " "Are the Tricolors all
here? " "All. " "Casacalenda is missing. " "She is coming;
she is still at the organ. " "Altimare is missing. "
"Where is Altimare? "
"She was here just now,- she must have disappeared in the
bustle; shall I look for her? "
"Look; and come to the refectory with her. "
Then the corridor emptied, and the refectory filled with light
and merriment. With measured, almost rhythmic step, Caterina
went to and fro in the deserted passages, seeking her friend
Altimare. She descended to the ground floor, called her twice.
from the garden: no answer. Then she mounted the stairs
again, and entered the dormitory. The white beds formed a line
under the crude gaslight: Lucia was not there. A shade of
anxiety began to dawn on Caterina's rosy face. She passed by
the chapel twice, without going in. But the third time, finding
the door ajar, she made up her mind to enter. It was dark
## p. 13143 (#581) ##########################################
MATILDE SERAO
13143
inside. A lamp burning before the Madonna scarcely relieved.
the gloom. She passed on, half intimidated despite her well-
balanced nerves; for she was alone in the darkness, in church.
Along one of the altar steps, stretched out on the crimson
velvet carpet, a white form was lying, with open arms and pallid
face, a spectral figure. It was Lucia Altimare, who had fainted.
―
THE fan of Artemisia Minichini, made of a large sheet of
manuscript, waved noisily to and fro. .
«Minichini, you disturb the professor," said Friscia, the assist-
ant teacher, without raising her eyes from her crochet work.
"Friscia, you don't feel the heat? " returned Minichini inso-
lently.
"No. "
"You are lucky to be so insensible. "
In the class-room where the Tricolor young ladies were tak-
ing their lesson in Italian history, it was very hot. There were
two windows opening upon the garden, a door leading to the
corridor, three rows of benches, and twenty-four pupils. On a
high raised step stood the table and arm-chair of the professor.
The fans waved hither and thither, some vivaciously, some lan-
guidly. Here and there a head bent over its book as if weighted
with drowsiness. Ginevra Avigliana stared at the professor, nod-
ding as if in approval, though her face expressed entire absence.
of mind. Minichini had put down her fan, opened her pince-nez,
and fixed it impudently upon the professor's face. With her nose
tip-tilted, and a truant lock of hair curling on her forehead, she
laughed her silent laugh that so irritated the teachers. The pro-
fessor explained the lesson in a low voice.
He was small, spare,
and pitiable. He might have been about two-and-thirty; but his
emaciated face, whose dark coloring had yellowed with the pal-
lor of some long illness, proclaimed him a convalescent. A big
scholarly head surmounting the body of a dwarf, a wild thick
mane in which some white hairs were already visible, proud yet
shy eyes, a small, dirty-black beard, thinly planted towards the
thin cheeks, completed his sad and pensive ugliness.
He spoke without gesture, his eyes downcast; occasionally
his right hand moved ever so slightly. Its shadow on the wall
seemed to belong to a skeleton, it was so thin and crooked. He
proceeded slowly, picking his words. These girls intimidated
him some because of their intelligence, others because of their
## p. 13144 (#582) ##########################################
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13144
impertinence, others simply because of their sex. His scholastic
austerity was perturbed by their shining eyes, by their graceful
and youthful forms; their white garments formed a kind of mi-
rage before his eyes. A pungent scent diffused itself throughout
the class, although perfumes were prohibited; whence came it?
And at the end of the third bench, Giovanna Casacalenda, who
paid not the slightest attention, sat, with half-closed eyes, furi-
ously nibbling a rose. Here in front, Lucia Altimare, with hair
falling loose about her neck, one arm hanging carelessly over the
bench, resting her brow against her hand and hiding her eyes,
looked at the professor through her fingers; every now and then
she pressed her handkerchief to her too crimson lips, as if to
mitigate their feverishness. The professor felt upon him the
gaze that filtered through her fingers; while, without looking at
her, he could see Giovanna Casacalenda tearing the rose to
pieces with her little teeth. He remained apparently imperturba-
ble, still discoursing of Carmagnola and the conspiracy of Fiesco,
addressing himself to the tranquil face of Caterina Spaccapietra,
who penciled rapid notes in her copy-book.
"What are you writing, Pentasuglia? " asked the teacher
Friscia, who had been observing the latter for some time.
"Nothing," replied Pentasuglia, reddening.
"Give me that scrap of paper. "
"What for? There is nothing on it. "
«Give me that scrap of paper. "
"It is not a scrap of paper," said Minichini audaciously, tak-
ing hold of it as if to hand it to her. "It is one, two, three,
four, five, twelve useless fragments"
To save her schoolfellow, she had torn it to shreds. There
was silence in the class: they trembled for Minichini. The
teacher bent her head, tightened her thin lips, and picked up her
crochet again as if nothing had happened. The professor ap-
peared to take no notice of the incident, as he looked through
his papers; but his mind must have been inwardly disturbed. A
flush of youthful curiosity made him wonder what those girls
were thinking of; what they scribbled in their little notes; for
whom their smiles were meant, as they looked at the plaster bust
of the King; what they thought when they drew the tricolor
scarves round their waists. But the ghastly face and false gray
eyes of Cherubina Friscia, the governess, frightened him
"Avigliana, say the lesson. "
## p. 13145 (#583) ##########################################
MATILDE SERAO
13145
The girl rose, and began rapidly to speak of the Viscontis,
like a well-trained parrot. When asked to give a few historical
comments, she made no reply: she had not understood her own
words.
>>>
"Minichini, say the lesson.
"Professor, I don't know it. "
"And why? "
"Yesterday was Sunday, and we went out, so I could not
study. "
The professor made a note in the register; the young lady
shrugged her shoulders.
"Casacalenda? "
This one made no answer. She was gazing with intense ear-
nestness at her white hands, - hands that looked as if they were
modeled in wax.
"Casacalenda, will you say the lesson ? "
Opening her great eyes as if she were dazed, she began,
stumbling at every word, puzzled, making one mistake upon
another; the professor prompted, and she repeated, with the win-
ning air of a strong, beautiful young animal; she neither knew
nor understood nor was ashamed- maintaining her sculpturesque
placidity, moistening her rustic Diana-like lips, contemplating her
pink nails.
The professor bent his head in displeasure, not dar-
ing to scold that splendid stupid creature, whose voice had such
enchanting modulations.
He made two or three other attempts; but the class, owing
to the preceding holiday, had not studied. This was the expla-
nation of the flowers, the perfumes, and the little notes: the
twelve hours' liberty had upset the girls. Their eyes were full
of visions; they had seen the world yesterday. He drew himself
together, perplexed; a sense of mingled shame and respect kept
every mouth closed. How he loved that science of history! His
critical acumen measured its widest horizons; his was a vast
ideal, and he suffered in having to offer crumbs of it to those
pretty, aristocratic, indolent girls, who would have none of it.
Still young, he had grown old and gray in arduous study; and
now, behold-gay and careless youth, choosing rather to live
than to know, rose in defiance against him. Bitterness welled up
to his lips, and went out towards those creatures, thrilling with
life and contemptuous of his ideal; bitterness in that he could not
like them be beautiful and vigorous, and revel in heedlessness,
## p. 13146 (#584) ##########################################
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MATILDE SERAO
and be beloved. Anguish rushed through his veins, from his
heart, and poisoned his brain, that he should have to humiliate
his knowledge before those frivolous, scarcely human girls. But
the gathering storm was held back; and nothing of it was per-
ceptible save a slight flush on his meagre cheek bones.
"Since none of you have studied," he said slowly, in a low
voice, none of you can have done the composition. "
«<
"Altimare and I have done it," answered Caterina Spaccapie-
tra. "We did not go home," she added apologetically, to avoid
offending her friends.
"Then you read, Spaccapietra: the subject is, I think, Beatrice
di Tenda. "
"Yes: Beatrice di Tenda. "
Spaccapietra stood up and read, in her pure, slow voice:-
"Ambition had ever been the ruling passion of the Viscontis of
Milan, who shrank from naught that could minister to the mainte-
nance of their sovereign power. Filippo Maria, son of Gian Galeazzo,
who had succeeded his brother Gian Galeazzo, differed in no way
from his predecessors. For the love of gain, this prince espoused
Beatrice di Tenda, the widow of a condottiere (a soldier of fortune);
a virtuous and accomplished woman of mature age. She brought
her husband in dowry the dominions of Tortona, Novara, Vercelli,
and Alessandria; but he tired of her as soon as he had satisfied his
thirst for wealth. He caused her to be accused of unfaithfulness to
her wifely duty, with a certain Michele Orombello, a simple squire.
Whether the accusation was false or made in good faith, whether
the witnesses were to be relied upon or not, Beatrice di Tenda was
declared guilty, and with Michele Orombello mounted the scaffold in
the year 1418, which was the forty-eighth of her life, she having
been born in 1370,"
Caterina had folded up her paper, and the professor was still
waiting; two minutes elapsed.
"Is there no more? "
"No. "
«<
Really, is that all? »
"All. "
"It is a very meagre composition, Spaccapietra. It is but
the bare narrative of the historical fact, as it stands in the text-
book. Does not the hapless fate of Beatrice inspire you with any
sympathy? "
## p. 13147 (#585) ##########################################
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13147
"I don't know," murmured the young scholar, pale with emo-
tion.
"Yet you are a woman. It so happens that I had chosen a
theme which suggests the manifestation of a noble impulse; say
of pity, or contempt for the false accusation. But in this form the
story turns to mere chronology. The composition is too meagre.
You have no imagination, Spaccapietra. "
"Yes, professor," replied the young girl submissively, as she
took her seat again, while tears welled to her eyes.
"Let us hear Altimare. "
Lucia appeared to start out of a lethargy. She sought for
some time among her papers, with an ever increasing expres-
sion of weariness. Then, in a weak inaudible voice, she began
to read, slowly, dragging the syllables, as if overpowered by an
invincible lassitude.
"Louder, Altimare. "
"I cannot, professor. "
And she looked at him with such melancholy eyes that he
repented of having made the remark. Again she touched her
parched lips with her handkerchief, and continued:-
-
-
«<
through the evil lust of power. He was Filippo Maria
Visconti; of a noble presence, with the eye of a hawk, of powerful
build, and ever foremost in the saddle. The maidens who watched
him pass, clad in armor under the velvet coat, on the breastpiece of
which was broidered the wily, fascinating serpent, the crest of the
lords of Visconti, sighed as they exclaimed, 'How handsome he is! '
But under this attractive exterior-as is ever the case in this mel-
ancholy world, where appearance is but part of the mise-en-scène of
life he hid a depraved soul. O gentle, loving women, trust not
him who flutters round you with courteous manner, and words that
charm, and protestations of exquisite sentiment: he deceives you.
All is vanity, all is corruption, all is ashes!
better than the hapless Beatrice di Tenda,
tell you.
None learnt this lesson
ose tale I am about to
"This youthful widow was of unblemished character and matchless
beauty: fair was her hair of spun gold, soft were her eyes of a blue
worthy to reflect the firmament; her skin was as dazzling white as
the petals of a lily. Her first marriage with Facino Cane could not
have been a happy one. He, a soldier of fortune,- fierce, blood-
thirsty, trained to the arms, the wine, and the rough speech of mar-
tial camps,- could scarcely have been a man after Beatrice's heart.
Woe to those marriages in which one consort neither understands nor
## p. 13148 (#586) ##########################################
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MATILDE SERAO
appreciates the mind of the other. Woe to those marriages in which
the man ignores the mystic poetry, the mysterious sentiments, of the
feminine heart! These be the unblessed unions with which, alas!
our corrupt and suffering modern society teems. Facino Cane died.
His widow shed bitter tears over him; but her virgin heart beat
quicker when she first met the valorous yet malefic Filippo Maria
Visconti. Her face turned as pale as Luna's when she drags her
weary way along the starred empyrean. And she loved him with all
the ardor of her stored-up youth, with the chastity of a pious soul
loving the Creator in the created, blending Divine with human love.
Beatrice, pure and beautiful, wedded Filippo Maria for love: Filippo
Maria, black soul that he was, wedded Beatrice for greed of money.
For a short time the august pair were happy on their ducal throne.
But the hymeneal roses were worm-eaten: in the dewy grass lay
hidden the perfidious serpent, perfidious emblem of the most per-
fidious Visconti. No sooner had he obtained possession of the riches
of Beatrice than Filippo Maria wearied of her, as might be expected
of a man of so hard a heart and of such depraved habits. He had
besides formed an infamous connection with a certain Agnese del
Maino, one of the most vicious of women; and more than ever he
was possessed of the desire to rid himself of his wife.
"There lived at the court of the Visconti a simple squire named
Michele Orombello, a young troubadour, a poet, who had dared to
raise his eyes to his august mistress. But the noble woman did not
reciprocate his passion, although the faithlessness and treachery of
Filippo Maria caused her the greatest unhappiness, and almost justi-
fied reprisals: she was simply courteous to her unfortunate adorer.
When Filippo Maria saw how matters stood, he at once threw
Michele Orombello and his chaste consort into prison, accusing them
of treason. Torture was applied to Beatrice, who bore it bravely
and maintained her innocence. Michele Orombello, being younger
and perchance weaker to combat pain, or because he was treacher-
ously advised that he might thereby save Beatrice, made a false
confession. The judges, vile slaves of Filippo Maria, and trem-
blingly submissive to his will, condemned that most ill-starred of
women and her miserable lover to die on the scaffold. The saintly
woman ascended it with resignation; embracing the crucifix whereon
the Redeemer agonized and died for our sins. Then, perceiving the
young squire, who, weeping desperately, went with her to death, she
cried: 'I forgive thee, Michele Orombello;' and he made answer: '
proclaim thee the purest of wives! ' But it availed not; the prince's
will must needs be carried out; the axe struck off the squire's dark
head. Beatrice cried, Gesù Maria! ' and the axe felled the blonde
head too. A pitiable spectacle, and full of horror for those as-
sembled! Yet none dared to proclaim the infamy of the mighty
## p. 13149 (#587) ##########################################
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13149
Filippo Maria Visconti. Thus it ever is in life: virtue is oppressed,
and vice triumphs. Only before the Eternal Judge is justice; only
before that God of mercy who has said, 'I am the resurrection and
the life. >>>
A profound silence ensued. The pupils were embarrassed,
and looked furtively at each other. Caterina gazed at Lucia
with frightened, astonished eyes. Lucia remained standing, pale,
panting, contemptuous, with twitching lips. The professor, deep
in thought, held his peace.
"The composition is very long, Altimare," he said at last.
"You have too much imagination. "
Then silence one more-and the dry, malicious, hissing voice
of Cherubina Friscia, "Give me that composition, Altimare. "
All trembled, seized by an unknown terror.
THE SCHOOLGIRLS' VOW
From (Fantasy›
THE
HERE was only one flickering jet of gas burning at the en-
trance to the dormitory that contained the little white beds.
in which the Tricolors passed the last night of their school
days. There had been short dialogues, interrupted by sighs, mel-
ancholy reflections, and regrets, until a late hour. They would
have liked to sit up all night to indulge in their grief. But
fatigue had melted their project away. When they could hold
out no longer, sleep mastered those restless beings, weary with
weeping. A languid "Good-night" was audible here and there;
gradually the irregular breathing had subsided, and the sobs had
died out. Complete repose reigned in the dormitory of the Tri-
colors.
When the great clock struck two after midnight, Lucia Alti-
mare opened her eyes. She had not slept; devoured by im-
patience, she had watched. Without rising, she gently and
noiselessly took her clothes from the chair near her bed and put
them on, thrust her bare feet into her slippers, and then crept
out of bed. She moved like a shadow, with infinite precaution,
casting in passing an oblique glance at the beds where her com-
panions slept. Now and again she looked towards the end of the
hall where Cherubina Friscia lay. There was no danger. Lucia
passed like a tall white phantom, with burning eyes, through the
heavy gloom to Caterina's bedside.
## p. 13150 (#588) ##########################################
13150
MATILDE SERAO
Her friend slept quietly, composedly, breathing like a child.
She bent down and whispered close to her ear:
"Caterina, Caterina! "
Caterina opened her eyes in alarm; a sign from Lucia froze
the cry that rose to her lips. The surprise on her face spoke
for her, and questioned her friend.
"If you love me, Caterina, dress and follow me. "
"Where are we going? " the other ventured to ask, hesitat-
ingly.
"If you love me
Caterina no longer questioned her. She dressed herself in
silence, looking now and then at Lucia, who stood there like a
statue, waiting. When Caterina was ready, she took her by the
hand to lead her.
>>>>
"Fear nothing," breathed Lucia, who could feel the coldness
of her hand. They glided down the passage that divided the
beds from the rest of the room. Artemisia Minichini was the
only one who turned in her bed, and appeared for a moment to
have opened her eyes. They closed again; but perhaps she saw
through her lids. No other sign of waking. They shrank closer
together when they passed the last bed, Friscia's, and stooped to
make themselves smaller. That moment seemed to them like a
century. When they got into the corridor, Caterina squeezed
Lucia's hand, as if they had passed through a great danger.
"Come, come, come! " murmured the siren voice of Lucia, and
suddenly they stopped before a door. Lucia dropped Caterina's
hand and inserted a key into the keyhole; the door creaked as
it flew open.
A gust of chill air struck the two young girls; a
faint diffuse light broke in upon them. A lamp was burning
before the image of the Virgin. They were in the chapel.
Calmly Lucia knelt before the altar, and lighted two candelabra.
Then she turned to Caterina, who, dazed by the light, was catch-
ing her breath, and once more said, "Come. "
They advanced towards the altar. In the little whitewashed
church, with two high windows open on the country, a pleasant
dampness tempered the heat of the August night. The faintest
perfume of incense still clung to the air. The church was so
placid and restful, the candelabra in their places, the tapers extin-
guished, the sacrament shut away in its pyx, the altar-cloth turned
up to cover it. But a quaintly fashioned silver arabesque, behind
which Lucia had lighted a taper, projected on the wall the profile
of a strange monstrous beast. Caterina stood there in a dream,
## p. 13151 (#589) ##########################################
MATILDE SERAO
13151
with her hand still clasped in Lucia's, whose fever it had caught.
Even at that unusual hour, in the dead of night, she no longer
asked herself what strange rite was to be solemnized in that
chapel illuminated only for them. She was conscious of a vague
tremor, of a weight in the head, and a longing for sleep; she
would fain have been back in the dormitory, with her cheek on
her pillow. But like one who dreams of having the well-defined
will to do a thing, and yet while the dream lasts has neither the
speech to express nor the energy to accomplish it, she was con-
scious, between sleeping and waking, of the torpor of her own
mind. She looked around her as one in a stupor, neither under-
standing nor caring to understand. From time to time her mouth
twitched with an imperceptible yawn. Lucia's hands were crossed
over her bosom, and her eyes fixed on the Madonna. No sound
escaped her half-open lips. Caterina leant forward to observe
her; in the vague turn of thought that went round and round
in her sleepy brain, she asked herself if she were dreaming, and
Lucia a phantom. She passed one hand across her brow, either
to awake herself or to dispel the hallucination.
"Listen, Caterina, and try and comprehend me better than I
know how to express myself. Do you give your whole attention ? »
«
"Yes," said the other with an effort.
"You alone know how we have loved each other here. After
God, the Madonna Addolorata, and my father, I have loved you,
Caterina. You have saved my life; I can never forget it. But
for you I should have gone to burn in hell, where suicides must
eternally suffer. I thank you, dear heart. You believe in my
gratitude? "
"Yes," said Caterina, opening wide her eyes the better to
understand her.
"Now we who so love each other must part.
«
You go to the
left, I to the right. You are to be married: I know not what
will happen to me. Shall we meet again? I know not. Shall
we again come together in the future? Who knows?
Do you
know? "
"No," replied Caterina, starting.
“Well, then, I propose to you to conquer time and space, men
and circumstances, should they stand in the way of our affection.
From afar, howsoever we may be separated, let us love each
other as we do to-day, as we did yesterday. Do you promise? "
"I promise. "
## p. 13152 (#590) ##########################################
13152
MATILDE SERAO
"The Madonna hears us, Caterina. Do you promise with a
vow, with an oath ? »
"With a vow, with an oath," repeated Caterina monotonously
like an echo.
"And I too promise that no one shall ever by word or deed
lessen this our steadfast friendship. Do you promise? "
"I promise. "
"And I too promise that neither shall ever seek to do ill to
the other, or willingly cause her sorrow, or ever, ever betray her.
Promise: the Madonna hears us. "
"I promise. "
“I swear it,—that always, whatever befalls, one shall try to
help the other. Say, do you promise? "
"I promise. "
"And I too. Besides, that either will be ever ready to sacri-
fice her own happiness to that of the other. Swear it; swear! "
Caterina thought for an instant. Was she dreaming a strange
dream, or was she binding herself for life? "I swear," she said
firmly.
"I swear," reiterated Lucia. "The Madonna has heard. Woe
to her who breaks her vow! God will punish her. "
Caterina bowed her assent. Lucia took her rosary from her
pocket. It was a string of lapis-lazuli bound together by little
silver links. From it depended a small silver crucifix, and a
little gold medal on which was engraved the image of the Ma-
donna della Saletta. She kissed it.
"We will break this rosary in two equal parts, Caterina.
Half of it you shall take with you, the other half I will keep.
It will be our keepsake, to remind us of our vow. When I pray
at night, I shall remember. You too will remember me in your
prayers. The missing half will remind you of your absent
friend. "
And taking up the rosary between them, they pulled hard
at it from either side. Lucia kept the half with the crucifix,
Caterina the half with the medal. The two girls embraced.
Then they heard the clock strike three. When silence reigned
once more in the college and in the empty chapel, both knelt
down on the steps of the altar, crossed their hands on their
bosoms, and with closed eyes repeated in unison
"Our Father — »
Translation of Henry Harland.
## p. 13152 (#591) ##########################################
## p. 13152 (#592) ##########################################
MARIE DE SEVIGNE.
## p. 13152 (#593) ##########################################
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VAR E DE SEVIONA
## p. 13152 (#595) ##########################################
13153
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
(1627-1696)
MONG the great writers of the world, Madame de Sévigné is
perhaps the only one except Lady Nairne whose purely lit-
erary fame was entirely posthumous. It is true that when
Louis XIV. became possessed of a number of her letters, upon the
arrest of her friend Fouquet the Superintendent of Finance, he pro-
claimed that their style was matchless in grace of thought and
expression; and the little court world which took from the King its
opinions, on matters of taste as in so much else, henceforth placed
Madame de Sévigné at the head of that group of charming women
who wrote charming letters in seventeenth-century France. Her sub-
sequent correspondence was frequently handed about from friend to
friend; but the interest it excited depended quite as much upon the
amusing news of the court and the salons which it contained, as
upon the style in which the agreeable gossip was related. That in
later times her name should stand high in the literature of France,
and her house be visited as the shrine of her gracious memory, was
anticipated by none of her contemporaries; least of all by herself.
Marie de Rabutin-Chantal, the only child of Celse Benigne de
Rabutin, Baron de Chantal, and of Marie de Coulanges his wife, was
born in the Château de Bourbilly, Burgundy, on February 5th, 1627.
Left an orphan when five years old, she was consigned to the care
of her uncle Philippe de Coulanges; and upon his death in 1636 she
became the charge of his brother Christophe de Coulanges, Abbé de
Livry. To the latter she was indebted for her careful education under
the best masters of the day, - among them Chapelain and Ménage.
Of the training received from "Le Bien-bon," as she termed her
uncle, she says: "I owed to him the sweetness and repose of my
life; all my gayety, my good-humor, my vivacity. In a word, he has
made me what I am, such as you have seen me; and worthy of your
esteem and of your friendship. ”
When sixteen years old, Marie de Rabutin-Chantal married Henri,
Marquis de Sévigné,- a profligate young noble of a distinguished
Breton family. It was said of him, "He loved everywhere; but never
anything so amiable as his own wife. " He was killed in 1651 in a
duel, undertaken in defense of an unworthy name, leaving his wife
with a young son and daughter. Madame de Sévigné spent the early
years of her widowhood with her children at "Les Rochers"— her
XXII-823
## p.
dragged at the thread, and hopped off,- limping into the midst
of the passage which divided the two rows of chairs. There was
a burst of laughter.
## p. 13140 (#578) ##########################################
MATILDE SERAO
13140
"Friozzi will not appear in the parlor to-morrow," said the
directress severely.
The child turned pale at the harshness of a punishment which
would prevent her from seeing her mother.
Cherubina Friscia, the sacristan-teacher, of cadaverous com-
plexion and worn anæmic face, descended the altar steps and
confiscated the cricket. There was a moment of silence, and
then they heard the gasping voice of Lucia Altimare murmuring,
"Mary Mary Divine Mary! "
"Pray silently, Altimare," gently suggested the directress.
The Rosary' began again, this time without interruption.
All knelt down, with a great noise of moving chairs; and the
Latin words were recited, almost chanted, in chorus. Caterina
Spaccapietra rested her head against the back of the chair in
front of her. Lucia Altimare had thrown herself down, shudder-
ing, with her head on the straw seat and arms hanging slack at
her side.
"The blood will go to your head, Lucia," whispered her
friend.
-
"Leave me alone," said Lucia.
The pupils rose from their knees. One of them, accompanied
by a teacher, had mounted the steps leading to the little organ.
The teacher played a simple devotional prelude for the 'Litany
to the Virgin. ' A pure fresh voice, of brilliant quality, rang out
and permeated the chapel, waking its sleeping echoes; a young
yearning voice, crying with the ardor of an invocation, “Sancta
Maria! " And from below, all the pupils responded in the minor
key, "Ora pro nobis! " The singer stood in the light on the
platform of the organ, her face turned towards the altar.
was Giovanna Casacalenda, a tall girl whose white raiment did
not conceal her fine proportions; a girl with a massive head, upon
which her dark hair was piled heavily, and with eyes so black
that they appeared as if painted. She stood there alone, isolated,
infusing all the passion of her youth into her full mellow voice,
delighting in the pleasure of singing as if she had freed herself
and lived in her song. The pupils turned to look at her, with
the joy in music which is inherent in childhood. When the voice
of Giovanna came down to them, the chorus rising from below
answered, "Ora pro nobis! " She felt her triumph. With head
erect, her wondrous black eyes swimming in a humid light, her
right hand resting lightly on the wooden balustrade, her white
## p. 13141 (#579) ##########################################
MATILDE SERAO
13141
throat throbbing as if for love, she intoned the medium notes,
ran up to the highest ones, and came down gently to the lower,
giving full expression to her song: "Regina Angelorum! " One
moment of silence, in which to enjoy the last notes; then from
below, in enthusiastic answer, came childish and youthful voices:
"Ora pro nobis! " The singer looked fixedly at the altar, but she
seemed to see or hear something beyond it—a vision or music
inaudible to the others. Every now and then a breath passed
through her song, lending it warmth, making it passionate; every
how and then the voice thinned itself to a golden thread, that
sounded like the sweet trill of a bird, while occasionally it sank
to a murmur, with a delicious hesitation.
"Giovanna sees heaven," said Ginevra Avigliana to Artemisia
Minichini.
"Or the stage," rejoined the other skeptically.
Still, when Giovanna came to the poetic images by which the
Virgin is designated,- Gate of Heaven, Vase of Election, Tower
of David, the girls' faces flushed in the ecstasy of that won-
drous music: only Caterina Spaccapietra, who was absorbed, did
not join in, and Lucia Altimare, who wept silently. The tears
coursed down her thin cheeks. They rained upon her bosom and
her hands; they melted away on her apron; and she did not
dry them. Caterina quietly passed her handkerchief to her, but
she took no notice of it. The preacher, Father Capece, went
up the altar steps for the benediction. The Litany ended with
the 'Agnus Dei. ' The voice of the singer seemed overpowered
by sheer fatigue. Once more all the pupils knelt, and the priest
prayed. Giovanna, kneeling at the organ, breathed heavily. After
five minutes of silent prayer, the organ pealed out again slowly
over the bowed heads, and a thrilling resonant voice seemed to
rise from mid-air towards heaven, lending its splendor to the
sacrament in the Tantum Ergo. ' Giovanna was no longer tired;
indeed her song grew in power, triumphant and full of life,
with an ebb and flow that were almost voluptuous. The throb
of its passion passed over the youthful heads below, and a mys-
tic sensation caused their hearts to flutter. In the intensity of
their prayer, in the approach of the benediction, they realized
the solemnity of the moment. It dominated and terrified them,
until it was followed by a painful and exquisite prostration. All
was silent; then a bell rang three peals. For an instant Arte-
misia Minichini dared to raise her eyes; she was alone, looking at
(
―――――――
## p. 13142 (#580) ##########################################
13142
MATILDE SERAO
the inert forms upon the chairs, looking boldly at the altar; after
which, overcome by childish fear, she dropped her eyes again.
The holy sacrament, in its sphere of burnished gold, raised
high in the priest's hands, shed its blessing on those assembled
in the church.
"I am dying," gasped Lucia Altimare.
Ar the door of the chapel, in the long gas-lighted corri-
dor, the teachers were waiting to muster the classes, and lead
them to the refectory. The faces were still agitated; but the
little ones hopped and skipped about, and prattled together, and
pinched each other, in all the joyous exuberance of childhood
released from durance vile. As their limbs unstiffened, they
jostled each other, laughing the while. The teachers, running
after some of them, scolding others, half threatening, half coax-
ing, tried to range them in a file of two and two. They began
with the little ones, then came the elder children, and after them
the grown-up girls. The corridor rang with voices, calling:
«< The Blues, where are the Blues? " "Here they are, all of
them. " "Friozzi is missing. " "Where is Friozzi of the Blues? "
"Here! " "In line, and to the left, if you please. " "The Greens,
in line the Greens, or no fruit for dinner to-morrow. " "Quick!
the refectory bell has rung twice already. " "Federici of the
Reds, walk straight! " "Young ladies of the White-and-Greens,
the bell is ringing for the third time. " "Are the Tricolors all
here? " "All. " "Casacalenda is missing. " "She is coming;
she is still at the organ. " "Altimare is missing. "
"Where is Altimare? "
"She was here just now,- she must have disappeared in the
bustle; shall I look for her? "
"Look; and come to the refectory with her. "
Then the corridor emptied, and the refectory filled with light
and merriment. With measured, almost rhythmic step, Caterina
went to and fro in the deserted passages, seeking her friend
Altimare. She descended to the ground floor, called her twice.
from the garden: no answer. Then she mounted the stairs
again, and entered the dormitory. The white beds formed a line
under the crude gaslight: Lucia was not there. A shade of
anxiety began to dawn on Caterina's rosy face. She passed by
the chapel twice, without going in. But the third time, finding
the door ajar, she made up her mind to enter. It was dark
## p. 13143 (#581) ##########################################
MATILDE SERAO
13143
inside. A lamp burning before the Madonna scarcely relieved.
the gloom. She passed on, half intimidated despite her well-
balanced nerves; for she was alone in the darkness, in church.
Along one of the altar steps, stretched out on the crimson
velvet carpet, a white form was lying, with open arms and pallid
face, a spectral figure. It was Lucia Altimare, who had fainted.
―
THE fan of Artemisia Minichini, made of a large sheet of
manuscript, waved noisily to and fro. .
«Minichini, you disturb the professor," said Friscia, the assist-
ant teacher, without raising her eyes from her crochet work.
"Friscia, you don't feel the heat? " returned Minichini inso-
lently.
"No. "
"You are lucky to be so insensible. "
In the class-room where the Tricolor young ladies were tak-
ing their lesson in Italian history, it was very hot. There were
two windows opening upon the garden, a door leading to the
corridor, three rows of benches, and twenty-four pupils. On a
high raised step stood the table and arm-chair of the professor.
The fans waved hither and thither, some vivaciously, some lan-
guidly. Here and there a head bent over its book as if weighted
with drowsiness. Ginevra Avigliana stared at the professor, nod-
ding as if in approval, though her face expressed entire absence.
of mind. Minichini had put down her fan, opened her pince-nez,
and fixed it impudently upon the professor's face. With her nose
tip-tilted, and a truant lock of hair curling on her forehead, she
laughed her silent laugh that so irritated the teachers. The pro-
fessor explained the lesson in a low voice.
He was small, spare,
and pitiable. He might have been about two-and-thirty; but his
emaciated face, whose dark coloring had yellowed with the pal-
lor of some long illness, proclaimed him a convalescent. A big
scholarly head surmounting the body of a dwarf, a wild thick
mane in which some white hairs were already visible, proud yet
shy eyes, a small, dirty-black beard, thinly planted towards the
thin cheeks, completed his sad and pensive ugliness.
He spoke without gesture, his eyes downcast; occasionally
his right hand moved ever so slightly. Its shadow on the wall
seemed to belong to a skeleton, it was so thin and crooked. He
proceeded slowly, picking his words. These girls intimidated
him some because of their intelligence, others because of their
## p. 13144 (#582) ##########################################
MATILDE SERAO
13144
impertinence, others simply because of their sex. His scholastic
austerity was perturbed by their shining eyes, by their graceful
and youthful forms; their white garments formed a kind of mi-
rage before his eyes. A pungent scent diffused itself throughout
the class, although perfumes were prohibited; whence came it?
And at the end of the third bench, Giovanna Casacalenda, who
paid not the slightest attention, sat, with half-closed eyes, furi-
ously nibbling a rose. Here in front, Lucia Altimare, with hair
falling loose about her neck, one arm hanging carelessly over the
bench, resting her brow against her hand and hiding her eyes,
looked at the professor through her fingers; every now and then
she pressed her handkerchief to her too crimson lips, as if to
mitigate their feverishness. The professor felt upon him the
gaze that filtered through her fingers; while, without looking at
her, he could see Giovanna Casacalenda tearing the rose to
pieces with her little teeth. He remained apparently imperturba-
ble, still discoursing of Carmagnola and the conspiracy of Fiesco,
addressing himself to the tranquil face of Caterina Spaccapietra,
who penciled rapid notes in her copy-book.
"What are you writing, Pentasuglia? " asked the teacher
Friscia, who had been observing the latter for some time.
"Nothing," replied Pentasuglia, reddening.
"Give me that scrap of paper. "
"What for? There is nothing on it. "
«Give me that scrap of paper. "
"It is not a scrap of paper," said Minichini audaciously, tak-
ing hold of it as if to hand it to her. "It is one, two, three,
four, five, twelve useless fragments"
To save her schoolfellow, she had torn it to shreds. There
was silence in the class: they trembled for Minichini. The
teacher bent her head, tightened her thin lips, and picked up her
crochet again as if nothing had happened. The professor ap-
peared to take no notice of the incident, as he looked through
his papers; but his mind must have been inwardly disturbed. A
flush of youthful curiosity made him wonder what those girls
were thinking of; what they scribbled in their little notes; for
whom their smiles were meant, as they looked at the plaster bust
of the King; what they thought when they drew the tricolor
scarves round their waists. But the ghastly face and false gray
eyes of Cherubina Friscia, the governess, frightened him
"Avigliana, say the lesson. "
## p. 13145 (#583) ##########################################
MATILDE SERAO
13145
The girl rose, and began rapidly to speak of the Viscontis,
like a well-trained parrot. When asked to give a few historical
comments, she made no reply: she had not understood her own
words.
>>>
"Minichini, say the lesson.
"Professor, I don't know it. "
"And why? "
"Yesterday was Sunday, and we went out, so I could not
study. "
The professor made a note in the register; the young lady
shrugged her shoulders.
"Casacalenda? "
This one made no answer. She was gazing with intense ear-
nestness at her white hands, - hands that looked as if they were
modeled in wax.
"Casacalenda, will you say the lesson ? "
Opening her great eyes as if she were dazed, she began,
stumbling at every word, puzzled, making one mistake upon
another; the professor prompted, and she repeated, with the win-
ning air of a strong, beautiful young animal; she neither knew
nor understood nor was ashamed- maintaining her sculpturesque
placidity, moistening her rustic Diana-like lips, contemplating her
pink nails.
The professor bent his head in displeasure, not dar-
ing to scold that splendid stupid creature, whose voice had such
enchanting modulations.
He made two or three other attempts; but the class, owing
to the preceding holiday, had not studied. This was the expla-
nation of the flowers, the perfumes, and the little notes: the
twelve hours' liberty had upset the girls. Their eyes were full
of visions; they had seen the world yesterday. He drew himself
together, perplexed; a sense of mingled shame and respect kept
every mouth closed. How he loved that science of history! His
critical acumen measured its widest horizons; his was a vast
ideal, and he suffered in having to offer crumbs of it to those
pretty, aristocratic, indolent girls, who would have none of it.
Still young, he had grown old and gray in arduous study; and
now, behold-gay and careless youth, choosing rather to live
than to know, rose in defiance against him. Bitterness welled up
to his lips, and went out towards those creatures, thrilling with
life and contemptuous of his ideal; bitterness in that he could not
like them be beautiful and vigorous, and revel in heedlessness,
## p. 13146 (#584) ##########################################
13146
MATILDE SERAO
and be beloved. Anguish rushed through his veins, from his
heart, and poisoned his brain, that he should have to humiliate
his knowledge before those frivolous, scarcely human girls. But
the gathering storm was held back; and nothing of it was per-
ceptible save a slight flush on his meagre cheek bones.
"Since none of you have studied," he said slowly, in a low
voice, none of you can have done the composition. "
«<
"Altimare and I have done it," answered Caterina Spaccapie-
tra. "We did not go home," she added apologetically, to avoid
offending her friends.
"Then you read, Spaccapietra: the subject is, I think, Beatrice
di Tenda. "
"Yes: Beatrice di Tenda. "
Spaccapietra stood up and read, in her pure, slow voice:-
"Ambition had ever been the ruling passion of the Viscontis of
Milan, who shrank from naught that could minister to the mainte-
nance of their sovereign power. Filippo Maria, son of Gian Galeazzo,
who had succeeded his brother Gian Galeazzo, differed in no way
from his predecessors. For the love of gain, this prince espoused
Beatrice di Tenda, the widow of a condottiere (a soldier of fortune);
a virtuous and accomplished woman of mature age. She brought
her husband in dowry the dominions of Tortona, Novara, Vercelli,
and Alessandria; but he tired of her as soon as he had satisfied his
thirst for wealth. He caused her to be accused of unfaithfulness to
her wifely duty, with a certain Michele Orombello, a simple squire.
Whether the accusation was false or made in good faith, whether
the witnesses were to be relied upon or not, Beatrice di Tenda was
declared guilty, and with Michele Orombello mounted the scaffold in
the year 1418, which was the forty-eighth of her life, she having
been born in 1370,"
Caterina had folded up her paper, and the professor was still
waiting; two minutes elapsed.
"Is there no more? "
"No. "
«<
Really, is that all? »
"All. "
"It is a very meagre composition, Spaccapietra. It is but
the bare narrative of the historical fact, as it stands in the text-
book. Does not the hapless fate of Beatrice inspire you with any
sympathy? "
## p. 13147 (#585) ##########################################
MATILDE SERAO
13147
"I don't know," murmured the young scholar, pale with emo-
tion.
"Yet you are a woman. It so happens that I had chosen a
theme which suggests the manifestation of a noble impulse; say
of pity, or contempt for the false accusation. But in this form the
story turns to mere chronology. The composition is too meagre.
You have no imagination, Spaccapietra. "
"Yes, professor," replied the young girl submissively, as she
took her seat again, while tears welled to her eyes.
"Let us hear Altimare. "
Lucia appeared to start out of a lethargy. She sought for
some time among her papers, with an ever increasing expres-
sion of weariness. Then, in a weak inaudible voice, she began
to read, slowly, dragging the syllables, as if overpowered by an
invincible lassitude.
"Louder, Altimare. "
"I cannot, professor. "
And she looked at him with such melancholy eyes that he
repented of having made the remark. Again she touched her
parched lips with her handkerchief, and continued:-
-
-
«<
through the evil lust of power. He was Filippo Maria
Visconti; of a noble presence, with the eye of a hawk, of powerful
build, and ever foremost in the saddle. The maidens who watched
him pass, clad in armor under the velvet coat, on the breastpiece of
which was broidered the wily, fascinating serpent, the crest of the
lords of Visconti, sighed as they exclaimed, 'How handsome he is! '
But under this attractive exterior-as is ever the case in this mel-
ancholy world, where appearance is but part of the mise-en-scène of
life he hid a depraved soul. O gentle, loving women, trust not
him who flutters round you with courteous manner, and words that
charm, and protestations of exquisite sentiment: he deceives you.
All is vanity, all is corruption, all is ashes!
better than the hapless Beatrice di Tenda,
tell you.
None learnt this lesson
ose tale I am about to
"This youthful widow was of unblemished character and matchless
beauty: fair was her hair of spun gold, soft were her eyes of a blue
worthy to reflect the firmament; her skin was as dazzling white as
the petals of a lily. Her first marriage with Facino Cane could not
have been a happy one. He, a soldier of fortune,- fierce, blood-
thirsty, trained to the arms, the wine, and the rough speech of mar-
tial camps,- could scarcely have been a man after Beatrice's heart.
Woe to those marriages in which one consort neither understands nor
## p. 13148 (#586) ##########################################
13148
MATILDE SERAO
appreciates the mind of the other. Woe to those marriages in which
the man ignores the mystic poetry, the mysterious sentiments, of the
feminine heart! These be the unblessed unions with which, alas!
our corrupt and suffering modern society teems. Facino Cane died.
His widow shed bitter tears over him; but her virgin heart beat
quicker when she first met the valorous yet malefic Filippo Maria
Visconti. Her face turned as pale as Luna's when she drags her
weary way along the starred empyrean. And she loved him with all
the ardor of her stored-up youth, with the chastity of a pious soul
loving the Creator in the created, blending Divine with human love.
Beatrice, pure and beautiful, wedded Filippo Maria for love: Filippo
Maria, black soul that he was, wedded Beatrice for greed of money.
For a short time the august pair were happy on their ducal throne.
But the hymeneal roses were worm-eaten: in the dewy grass lay
hidden the perfidious serpent, perfidious emblem of the most per-
fidious Visconti. No sooner had he obtained possession of the riches
of Beatrice than Filippo Maria wearied of her, as might be expected
of a man of so hard a heart and of such depraved habits. He had
besides formed an infamous connection with a certain Agnese del
Maino, one of the most vicious of women; and more than ever he
was possessed of the desire to rid himself of his wife.
"There lived at the court of the Visconti a simple squire named
Michele Orombello, a young troubadour, a poet, who had dared to
raise his eyes to his august mistress. But the noble woman did not
reciprocate his passion, although the faithlessness and treachery of
Filippo Maria caused her the greatest unhappiness, and almost justi-
fied reprisals: she was simply courteous to her unfortunate adorer.
When Filippo Maria saw how matters stood, he at once threw
Michele Orombello and his chaste consort into prison, accusing them
of treason. Torture was applied to Beatrice, who bore it bravely
and maintained her innocence. Michele Orombello, being younger
and perchance weaker to combat pain, or because he was treacher-
ously advised that he might thereby save Beatrice, made a false
confession. The judges, vile slaves of Filippo Maria, and trem-
blingly submissive to his will, condemned that most ill-starred of
women and her miserable lover to die on the scaffold. The saintly
woman ascended it with resignation; embracing the crucifix whereon
the Redeemer agonized and died for our sins. Then, perceiving the
young squire, who, weeping desperately, went with her to death, she
cried: 'I forgive thee, Michele Orombello;' and he made answer: '
proclaim thee the purest of wives! ' But it availed not; the prince's
will must needs be carried out; the axe struck off the squire's dark
head. Beatrice cried, Gesù Maria! ' and the axe felled the blonde
head too. A pitiable spectacle, and full of horror for those as-
sembled! Yet none dared to proclaim the infamy of the mighty
## p. 13149 (#587) ##########################################
MATILDE SERAO
13149
Filippo Maria Visconti. Thus it ever is in life: virtue is oppressed,
and vice triumphs. Only before the Eternal Judge is justice; only
before that God of mercy who has said, 'I am the resurrection and
the life. >>>
A profound silence ensued. The pupils were embarrassed,
and looked furtively at each other. Caterina gazed at Lucia
with frightened, astonished eyes. Lucia remained standing, pale,
panting, contemptuous, with twitching lips. The professor, deep
in thought, held his peace.
"The composition is very long, Altimare," he said at last.
"You have too much imagination. "
Then silence one more-and the dry, malicious, hissing voice
of Cherubina Friscia, "Give me that composition, Altimare. "
All trembled, seized by an unknown terror.
THE SCHOOLGIRLS' VOW
From (Fantasy›
THE
HERE was only one flickering jet of gas burning at the en-
trance to the dormitory that contained the little white beds.
in which the Tricolors passed the last night of their school
days. There had been short dialogues, interrupted by sighs, mel-
ancholy reflections, and regrets, until a late hour. They would
have liked to sit up all night to indulge in their grief. But
fatigue had melted their project away. When they could hold
out no longer, sleep mastered those restless beings, weary with
weeping. A languid "Good-night" was audible here and there;
gradually the irregular breathing had subsided, and the sobs had
died out. Complete repose reigned in the dormitory of the Tri-
colors.
When the great clock struck two after midnight, Lucia Alti-
mare opened her eyes. She had not slept; devoured by im-
patience, she had watched. Without rising, she gently and
noiselessly took her clothes from the chair near her bed and put
them on, thrust her bare feet into her slippers, and then crept
out of bed. She moved like a shadow, with infinite precaution,
casting in passing an oblique glance at the beds where her com-
panions slept. Now and again she looked towards the end of the
hall where Cherubina Friscia lay. There was no danger. Lucia
passed like a tall white phantom, with burning eyes, through the
heavy gloom to Caterina's bedside.
## p. 13150 (#588) ##########################################
13150
MATILDE SERAO
Her friend slept quietly, composedly, breathing like a child.
She bent down and whispered close to her ear:
"Caterina, Caterina! "
Caterina opened her eyes in alarm; a sign from Lucia froze
the cry that rose to her lips. The surprise on her face spoke
for her, and questioned her friend.
"If you love me, Caterina, dress and follow me. "
"Where are we going? " the other ventured to ask, hesitat-
ingly.
"If you love me
Caterina no longer questioned her. She dressed herself in
silence, looking now and then at Lucia, who stood there like a
statue, waiting. When Caterina was ready, she took her by the
hand to lead her.
>>>>
"Fear nothing," breathed Lucia, who could feel the coldness
of her hand. They glided down the passage that divided the
beds from the rest of the room. Artemisia Minichini was the
only one who turned in her bed, and appeared for a moment to
have opened her eyes. They closed again; but perhaps she saw
through her lids. No other sign of waking. They shrank closer
together when they passed the last bed, Friscia's, and stooped to
make themselves smaller. That moment seemed to them like a
century. When they got into the corridor, Caterina squeezed
Lucia's hand, as if they had passed through a great danger.
"Come, come, come! " murmured the siren voice of Lucia, and
suddenly they stopped before a door. Lucia dropped Caterina's
hand and inserted a key into the keyhole; the door creaked as
it flew open.
A gust of chill air struck the two young girls; a
faint diffuse light broke in upon them. A lamp was burning
before the image of the Virgin. They were in the chapel.
Calmly Lucia knelt before the altar, and lighted two candelabra.
Then she turned to Caterina, who, dazed by the light, was catch-
ing her breath, and once more said, "Come. "
They advanced towards the altar. In the little whitewashed
church, with two high windows open on the country, a pleasant
dampness tempered the heat of the August night. The faintest
perfume of incense still clung to the air. The church was so
placid and restful, the candelabra in their places, the tapers extin-
guished, the sacrament shut away in its pyx, the altar-cloth turned
up to cover it. But a quaintly fashioned silver arabesque, behind
which Lucia had lighted a taper, projected on the wall the profile
of a strange monstrous beast. Caterina stood there in a dream,
## p. 13151 (#589) ##########################################
MATILDE SERAO
13151
with her hand still clasped in Lucia's, whose fever it had caught.
Even at that unusual hour, in the dead of night, she no longer
asked herself what strange rite was to be solemnized in that
chapel illuminated only for them. She was conscious of a vague
tremor, of a weight in the head, and a longing for sleep; she
would fain have been back in the dormitory, with her cheek on
her pillow. But like one who dreams of having the well-defined
will to do a thing, and yet while the dream lasts has neither the
speech to express nor the energy to accomplish it, she was con-
scious, between sleeping and waking, of the torpor of her own
mind. She looked around her as one in a stupor, neither under-
standing nor caring to understand. From time to time her mouth
twitched with an imperceptible yawn. Lucia's hands were crossed
over her bosom, and her eyes fixed on the Madonna. No sound
escaped her half-open lips. Caterina leant forward to observe
her; in the vague turn of thought that went round and round
in her sleepy brain, she asked herself if she were dreaming, and
Lucia a phantom. She passed one hand across her brow, either
to awake herself or to dispel the hallucination.
"Listen, Caterina, and try and comprehend me better than I
know how to express myself. Do you give your whole attention ? »
«
"Yes," said the other with an effort.
"You alone know how we have loved each other here. After
God, the Madonna Addolorata, and my father, I have loved you,
Caterina. You have saved my life; I can never forget it. But
for you I should have gone to burn in hell, where suicides must
eternally suffer. I thank you, dear heart. You believe in my
gratitude? "
"Yes," said Caterina, opening wide her eyes the better to
understand her.
"Now we who so love each other must part.
«
You go to the
left, I to the right. You are to be married: I know not what
will happen to me. Shall we meet again? I know not. Shall
we again come together in the future? Who knows?
Do you
know? "
"No," replied Caterina, starting.
“Well, then, I propose to you to conquer time and space, men
and circumstances, should they stand in the way of our affection.
From afar, howsoever we may be separated, let us love each
other as we do to-day, as we did yesterday. Do you promise? "
"I promise. "
## p. 13152 (#590) ##########################################
13152
MATILDE SERAO
"The Madonna hears us, Caterina. Do you promise with a
vow, with an oath ? »
"With a vow, with an oath," repeated Caterina monotonously
like an echo.
"And I too promise that no one shall ever by word or deed
lessen this our steadfast friendship. Do you promise? "
"I promise. "
"And I too promise that neither shall ever seek to do ill to
the other, or willingly cause her sorrow, or ever, ever betray her.
Promise: the Madonna hears us. "
"I promise. "
“I swear it,—that always, whatever befalls, one shall try to
help the other. Say, do you promise? "
"I promise. "
"And I too. Besides, that either will be ever ready to sacri-
fice her own happiness to that of the other. Swear it; swear! "
Caterina thought for an instant. Was she dreaming a strange
dream, or was she binding herself for life? "I swear," she said
firmly.
"I swear," reiterated Lucia. "The Madonna has heard. Woe
to her who breaks her vow! God will punish her. "
Caterina bowed her assent. Lucia took her rosary from her
pocket. It was a string of lapis-lazuli bound together by little
silver links. From it depended a small silver crucifix, and a
little gold medal on which was engraved the image of the Ma-
donna della Saletta. She kissed it.
"We will break this rosary in two equal parts, Caterina.
Half of it you shall take with you, the other half I will keep.
It will be our keepsake, to remind us of our vow. When I pray
at night, I shall remember. You too will remember me in your
prayers. The missing half will remind you of your absent
friend. "
And taking up the rosary between them, they pulled hard
at it from either side. Lucia kept the half with the crucifix,
Caterina the half with the medal. The two girls embraced.
Then they heard the clock strike three. When silence reigned
once more in the college and in the empty chapel, both knelt
down on the steps of the altar, crossed their hands on their
bosoms, and with closed eyes repeated in unison
"Our Father — »
Translation of Henry Harland.
## p. 13152 (#591) ##########################################
## p. 13152 (#592) ##########################################
MARIE DE SEVIGNE.
## p. 13152 (#593) ##########################################
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VAR E DE SEVIONA
## p. 13152 (#595) ##########################################
13153
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
(1627-1696)
MONG the great writers of the world, Madame de Sévigné is
perhaps the only one except Lady Nairne whose purely lit-
erary fame was entirely posthumous. It is true that when
Louis XIV. became possessed of a number of her letters, upon the
arrest of her friend Fouquet the Superintendent of Finance, he pro-
claimed that their style was matchless in grace of thought and
expression; and the little court world which took from the King its
opinions, on matters of taste as in so much else, henceforth placed
Madame de Sévigné at the head of that group of charming women
who wrote charming letters in seventeenth-century France. Her sub-
sequent correspondence was frequently handed about from friend to
friend; but the interest it excited depended quite as much upon the
amusing news of the court and the salons which it contained, as
upon the style in which the agreeable gossip was related. That in
later times her name should stand high in the literature of France,
and her house be visited as the shrine of her gracious memory, was
anticipated by none of her contemporaries; least of all by herself.
Marie de Rabutin-Chantal, the only child of Celse Benigne de
Rabutin, Baron de Chantal, and of Marie de Coulanges his wife, was
born in the Château de Bourbilly, Burgundy, on February 5th, 1627.
Left an orphan when five years old, she was consigned to the care
of her uncle Philippe de Coulanges; and upon his death in 1636 she
became the charge of his brother Christophe de Coulanges, Abbé de
Livry. To the latter she was indebted for her careful education under
the best masters of the day, - among them Chapelain and Ménage.
Of the training received from "Le Bien-bon," as she termed her
uncle, she says: "I owed to him the sweetness and repose of my
life; all my gayety, my good-humor, my vivacity. In a word, he has
made me what I am, such as you have seen me; and worthy of your
esteem and of your friendship. ”
When sixteen years old, Marie de Rabutin-Chantal married Henri,
Marquis de Sévigné,- a profligate young noble of a distinguished
Breton family. It was said of him, "He loved everywhere; but never
anything so amiable as his own wife. " He was killed in 1651 in a
duel, undertaken in defense of an unworthy name, leaving his wife
with a young son and daughter. Madame de Sévigné spent the early
years of her widowhood with her children at "Les Rochers"— her
XXII-823
## p.
