"
"She was here just now,- she must have disappeared in the
bustle; shall I look for her?
"She was here just now,- she must have disappeared in the
bustle; shall I look for her?
Warner - World's Best Literature - v22 - Sac to Sha
Despite her versatility and her need of money, it seems to
have been always her aim to do the best of which she was capable;
and thus her work was always a means of development to her talent.
She married Signor Eduardo Scarfoglio, and with him established
the Corriere di Roma. They afterwards removed to Naples, where
they edited the Corriere di Napoli. In 1881 and 1883 she published
two long romances, and gathered into volumes those of her short
stories which she deemed worthy to live. She is fond of studying
child life; and in her story 'Little Minds,' written for grown peo-
ple, she pictures the little woes and pleasures and philosophies of
children with that detail and objective passion which is characteristic
of her.
## p. 13134 (#572) ##########################################
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MATILDE SERAO
'An Unsteady Heart' was her first long novel, and was followed
by 'Fantasia. This is the story of a morbid and fanatically reli-
gious invalid, who through her sickly romanticism is led into sinful
feeling. She infatuates the husband of her dearest friend, and finally
leaves her own husband to run away with him; but, overcome with
remorse, evades her lover, and smothers herself with charcoal, to
secure the happiness of the deserted wife.
Madame Serao's plots are usually tragedies, and are worked out
with precision and refinement of passion. She is a painter of details;
no incident or expression is too trivial for her observation, and she
loves the minutest traceries of life, which she sees purely from its
emotional side. She is sometimes called "La petite Sand Italienne":
but while her mind has perhaps been influenced by French realists,
her stories are essentially the creations of a more southern tempera-
ment. She is the best exponent of the new literary movement in
Italy, which was born among the hot breezes of Naples.
FROM A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM ›
M
ASSIMO was alone. A friend of his youth whom he had not
seen for years until to-day, when he had accidentally met
him in the street, had returned to dine with him at seven
o'clock after the happy recognition took place. Massimo was en-
during wearily the burden of a summer in town. Always before
he had gone to the country in June; but he had looked forward to
this as a happy evening of memories in the companionship of his
recovered friend. Between the pleasures of dinner, of cigarettes,
and of wine, they had indeed passed two cozy hours in chatting
of old times. They began all their sentences by saying "Do you
remember? " They laughed deliciously at dear memories which
crowded upon their minds; interrupting each other occasionally
by an exclamation of regret or a sigh of longing for the return
of those old days.
Yet in the very midst of the friendly merriment which filled
their hearts, they had become conscious of a sense of melancholy.
The two men had traveled different paths through life, and had
become very unlike in everything. They had set out from the
same point, and had studied together. But the friend was now a
well-known lawyer in one of the provinces; he had a wife and
family, was guided by simple, practical ideas, and by a mind and
## p. 13135 (#573) ##########################################
MATILDE SERAO
13135
temperament somewhat slow and deliberate. Massimo, on the
contrary, had wandered for ten or fifteen years in foreign coun-
tries, connected now with this legation, now with that; a diplo-
mat without enthusiasm; indolent, and unable on account of his
laziness to build up a career. He was content or not, according
to his mood, with his position of secretary. He was a handsome
man of the southern type, but had already lost the freshness of
youth; his hair was growing thin over his forehead, and his
eyes were lustreless. He had comfortable means without being
extremely rich, and was now playing the martyr in Naples on a
leave of absence; his friends called it a penance. Massimo was
refined, and a man of spirit and intelligence; but he was con-
sumed by the monotony of his existence, and also oppressed by
private cares and sorrows. His friend was a man of talents, but
strong and quiet; rather stout and lethargic in his appearance;
controlled always by sound provincial common-sense, which con-
demns originality as folly, and sacrifices the pleasures of the
present for the sake of enjoying a too distant future.
Thus, while one man told the story of his life, the other
listened and judged it according to his temperament; judged it
coldly in his heart, though for the sake of the old friendship he
was not too honest in his expressions, but gently modified his
speech. Nevertheless, they felt the distance which was between
them. At one juncture they even searched each other's face
in doubt, so much like strangers did they seem; but they said
nothing. Perhaps in his heart Massimo envied the provincial
lawyer of reputation, with his limited ambition and his power
of assiduous work, envied him his fat, peaceful family, so well
sheltered from the storms of life, and his comfortable house,
which had been the house of his ancestors and which would
become the home of his descendants; envied him his practicality,
his seriousness and equilibrium, and indeed all those possessions
which were lacking to himself. And the lawyer envied Massimo
his vagabond life of an aristocrat in foreign courts; his future,
which he had the power to make splendid; his bachelor freedom,
and the adventures of his ideal existence; and the elegant and
exquisite apartments which he shared with no one. These were
dreams which had never disturbed his provincial sleep.
Simultaneously they sighed. The evening was hot; the door
was open between the room where they smoked and the balcony,
but no breath of air came to them; only a heavy fragrance of
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MATILDE SERAO
jessamine. They were conscious of having grown sad. They
had recalled too much of the past, had unearthed too many
buried monuments, evoked too many lost friends who had once
been dear, and too many dead loves. This cannot be done with-
out a mingled feeling of sadness and pleasure; and the pleasure
soon vanishes, while the sadness remains. They smoked on in
silence, their heads resting on the high back of the sofa. Then
the lawyer looked at his watch, and said out of courtesy:
―
"Will you come out with me? "
Had they not said all which they had to say? Had they
not, perhaps, done foolishly in telling so much? Massimo replied
politely that he was obliged to write some urgent letters, but
that he would be at the villa later, at about eleven o'clock. The
lawyer replied in an indifferent tone that he too would be there
then; and the friends separated, each assured that they would not
meet again this evening,- perhaps indeed that they would never
meet again. However sweet the past has been, it is dead; and
phantoms, however beautiful they may be, trouble the soul of the
most courageous.
When he was alone, Massimo regretted that he had brought
this friend to his house. So many closed wounds had begun
again to bleed in these last two hours! While he continued to
smoke, he heard his servant arranging things in the small dining-
room. After a little, the boy came to ask if his master had
need of him this evening; if not, he wanted to go out with a
few friends and find relief from the heat. Massimo dismissed
him readily; the door closed, and he was entirely alone. But his
evening was lost. He had imprudently ascended the river of the
past in company with a person whom he had loved; the voyage
had discouraged him, had made him lose all which had remained
to him of moral force, through which he had been enabled to
endure the loneliness and discomforts of a Neapolitan summer.
In his hours of rebellion, when he was spiritually prostrated and
the victim of excessive physical inertia, and when his heart rose
within him resentfully, he was wont to smoke certain soothing
Egyptian cigarettes, which usually in the end quieted him. On
this summer evening, however, the cigarettes went out between
his drawn lips, and he threw them away one by one when they
were but partly burned. He went to the balcony. He lived on
the third floor of a large palace in the Via Gennaro Serra; and
because on account of the slope of the street the houses in front
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13137
of him were lower than his, he had a glimpse of the sea and saw
a great sweep of starry sky.
The night was most beautiful; the Milky Way was trembling
luminously: but no breeze stirred, and the air hung heavy. His
head seemed on fire. Though alone and weary, he could not keep
still; he took a pen and tried to write. Suddenly his face grew
whiter than the paper in front of him; it was as though he had
seen a vision among the shadows of the room. There was a con-
tinuous rumble of carriages in the Via Gennaro Serra.
Serra. All the
people were coming out of their houses and walking the streets in
search of air to breathe; they wanted to look at the stars, and to
enjoy the Neapolitan night, beautiful, and even cool in the small
hours. Again he went to the balcony; he was suffocating. He
returned to his desk to write, but was unable to do so. Why
should he write? Of what use are black letters traced on white
paper when one is suffering from passionate loneliness? The
parent or friend or sweetheart to whom they are addressed will
perhaps read them aloud to some stranger, and laugh unsympa-
thetically at their expressions. Too much time and too many
events lie between the moment of writing and that of reading.
A hand-organ began to play in the Piazza Monte de Dio. It
played in slow, measured time a song which should have been
gay, but which thus became curiously sad. Massimo was irritated.
by this sentimental or tired organ-grinder, who changed a taran-
tella into a funeral march. Perhaps he was old, however; per-
haps his day had been poor: surely he must be an unhappy
creature, or he would not grind out such a mournful funeral
dirge. Massimo leaned over the balcony railing, and impulsively
threw him a two-franc piece. After a moment the music ceased,
and Massimo was sorry. He felt more lonely, more comfortless,
more desperate, than ever before during his stay in Naples.
What could he do? Where could he go? where could he carry
his weary soul and body? Was there any one at hand whom he
knew, in whose company, no matter how insipid and unpleasing
it might be, he could pass this summer night? He felt that he
could not sleep. He knew indeed that there was no help for his
melancholy.
XXII-822
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MATILDE SERAO
[The passages from 'Fantasy' are reprinted with the permission of the Amer-
ican Publishers' Corporation, publishers. ]
THE BOARDING-SCHOOL
From 'Fantasy. ' Copyright 1890, by Henry Harland
HE discipline for to-morrow is this," said the preacher, read-
from a small card: "You will sacrifice to the Virgin
Mary all the sentiments of rancor that you cherish in
your hearts, and you will kiss the schoolfellow, the teacher, or
the servant whom you think you hate. "
In the twilight of the chapel there was a slight stir among
the grown-up girls and teachers: the little ones remained quiet;
some of them were asleep, others yawned behind tiny hands, and
their small round faces twitched with weariness. The sermon
had lasted an hour, and the poor children had not understood
a word of it. They were longing for supper and bed. The
preacher had now descended from the pulpit, and Cherubina
Friscia, the teacher who acted as sacristan, was lighting the
candles with a taper. By degrees the chapel became flooded
with light. The cheeks of the dazed, sleepy little girls flushed
pink under it; their elders stood immovable, with blinking startled
eyes and weary indifferent faces. Some prayed with bowed
heads, while the candle-light played with the thick plaits of their
hair coiled close to their neck, and with certain blonde curls.
that no comb could restrain. Then when the whole chapel was
lighted for the recital of the 'Rosary,' the group of girl scholars
in white muslin frocks, with black aprons, and the various colored
ribbons by which the classes were distinguished, assumed a gay
aspect, despite the general weariness. A deep sigh escaped Lucia
Altimare.
"What ails thee? " queried Caterina Spaccapietra, under her
breath.
“I suffer, I suffer," murmured the other dreamily. "This
preacher saddens me. He does not understand Our Lady, he
does not feel her. " And the black pupils of her eyes, set in
bluish-white, dilated as in a vision. Caterina did not reply. The
directress intoned the 'Rosary in a solemn voice, with a strong
Tuscan accent. She read the Mystery' alone. Then all the
voices in chorus, shrill and low, accompanied her in the 'Gloria
Patri' and in the 'Pater. '
I
## p. 13139 (#577) ##########################################
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13139
She repeated the 'Ave Maria' as far as the "Frutto del tuo
ventre"; the teachers and pupils taking up the words in unison.
The chapel was filled with music, the elder pupils singing with a
fullness of voice that sounded like the outpouring of their souls:
but the little ones made a game of it. While the directress,
standing alone, repeated the verses, they counted the time, so
that they might all break in at the end with a burst; and nudg-
ing each other, tittered under their breath. Some of them would
lean over the backs of the chairs, assuming a devout collected-
ness; but in reality pulling out the hair of the playfellows in
front of them. Some played with their rosaries under their pina-
fores, with an audible click of the beads. The vigilant eye of the
directress watched over the apparently exemplary elder girls: she
saw that Carolina Pentasuglia wore a carnation at the buttonhole
of her bodice, though no carnations grew in the college gardens;
that a little square of paper was perceptible in the bosom of
Ginevra Avigliana, beneath the muslin of her gown; that Arte-
misia Minichini, with the short hair and firm chin, had as usual
crossed one leg over the other, in contempt of religion: she saw
and noted it all. Lucia Altimare sat leaning forward, with wide-
open eyes fixed upon a candle, her mouth drawn slightly on one
side; from time to time a nervous shock thrilled her. Close to
her, Caterina Spaccapietra said her prayers in all tranquillity, her
eyes void of sight as was her face of motion and expression.
The directress said the words of th 'Ave Maria' without think-
ing of their meaning; absent, preoccupied, getting through her
prayers as rapidly as possible.
The restlessness of the little ones increased. They twisted
about, and lightly raised themselves on their chairs, whispering
to each other, and fidgeting with their rosaries. Virginia Friozzi
had a live cricket in her pocket, with a fine silken thread tied
round its claw; at first she had covered it with her hand to
prevent its moving, then she had allowed it to peep out of the
opening of her pocket: then she had taken it out and hidden it
under her apron; at last she could not resist showing it to the
neighbors on her right and on her left. The news spread, the
children became agitated, restraining their laughter with difficulty,
and no longer giving the responses in time. 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
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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) ##########################################
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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) ##########################################
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) ##########################################
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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) ##########################################
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.
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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.
have been always her aim to do the best of which she was capable;
and thus her work was always a means of development to her talent.
She married Signor Eduardo Scarfoglio, and with him established
the Corriere di Roma. They afterwards removed to Naples, where
they edited the Corriere di Napoli. In 1881 and 1883 she published
two long romances, and gathered into volumes those of her short
stories which she deemed worthy to live. She is fond of studying
child life; and in her story 'Little Minds,' written for grown peo-
ple, she pictures the little woes and pleasures and philosophies of
children with that detail and objective passion which is characteristic
of her.
## p. 13134 (#572) ##########################################
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MATILDE SERAO
'An Unsteady Heart' was her first long novel, and was followed
by 'Fantasia. This is the story of a morbid and fanatically reli-
gious invalid, who through her sickly romanticism is led into sinful
feeling. She infatuates the husband of her dearest friend, and finally
leaves her own husband to run away with him; but, overcome with
remorse, evades her lover, and smothers herself with charcoal, to
secure the happiness of the deserted wife.
Madame Serao's plots are usually tragedies, and are worked out
with precision and refinement of passion. She is a painter of details;
no incident or expression is too trivial for her observation, and she
loves the minutest traceries of life, which she sees purely from its
emotional side. She is sometimes called "La petite Sand Italienne":
but while her mind has perhaps been influenced by French realists,
her stories are essentially the creations of a more southern tempera-
ment. She is the best exponent of the new literary movement in
Italy, which was born among the hot breezes of Naples.
FROM A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM ›
M
ASSIMO was alone. A friend of his youth whom he had not
seen for years until to-day, when he had accidentally met
him in the street, had returned to dine with him at seven
o'clock after the happy recognition took place. Massimo was en-
during wearily the burden of a summer in town. Always before
he had gone to the country in June; but he had looked forward to
this as a happy evening of memories in the companionship of his
recovered friend. Between the pleasures of dinner, of cigarettes,
and of wine, they had indeed passed two cozy hours in chatting
of old times. They began all their sentences by saying "Do you
remember? " They laughed deliciously at dear memories which
crowded upon their minds; interrupting each other occasionally
by an exclamation of regret or a sigh of longing for the return
of those old days.
Yet in the very midst of the friendly merriment which filled
their hearts, they had become conscious of a sense of melancholy.
The two men had traveled different paths through life, and had
become very unlike in everything. They had set out from the
same point, and had studied together. But the friend was now a
well-known lawyer in one of the provinces; he had a wife and
family, was guided by simple, practical ideas, and by a mind and
## p. 13135 (#573) ##########################################
MATILDE SERAO
13135
temperament somewhat slow and deliberate. Massimo, on the
contrary, had wandered for ten or fifteen years in foreign coun-
tries, connected now with this legation, now with that; a diplo-
mat without enthusiasm; indolent, and unable on account of his
laziness to build up a career. He was content or not, according
to his mood, with his position of secretary. He was a handsome
man of the southern type, but had already lost the freshness of
youth; his hair was growing thin over his forehead, and his
eyes were lustreless. He had comfortable means without being
extremely rich, and was now playing the martyr in Naples on a
leave of absence; his friends called it a penance. Massimo was
refined, and a man of spirit and intelligence; but he was con-
sumed by the monotony of his existence, and also oppressed by
private cares and sorrows. His friend was a man of talents, but
strong and quiet; rather stout and lethargic in his appearance;
controlled always by sound provincial common-sense, which con-
demns originality as folly, and sacrifices the pleasures of the
present for the sake of enjoying a too distant future.
Thus, while one man told the story of his life, the other
listened and judged it according to his temperament; judged it
coldly in his heart, though for the sake of the old friendship he
was not too honest in his expressions, but gently modified his
speech. Nevertheless, they felt the distance which was between
them. At one juncture they even searched each other's face
in doubt, so much like strangers did they seem; but they said
nothing. Perhaps in his heart Massimo envied the provincial
lawyer of reputation, with his limited ambition and his power
of assiduous work, envied him his fat, peaceful family, so well
sheltered from the storms of life, and his comfortable house,
which had been the house of his ancestors and which would
become the home of his descendants; envied him his practicality,
his seriousness and equilibrium, and indeed all those possessions
which were lacking to himself. And the lawyer envied Massimo
his vagabond life of an aristocrat in foreign courts; his future,
which he had the power to make splendid; his bachelor freedom,
and the adventures of his ideal existence; and the elegant and
exquisite apartments which he shared with no one. These were
dreams which had never disturbed his provincial sleep.
Simultaneously they sighed. The evening was hot; the door
was open between the room where they smoked and the balcony,
but no breath of air came to them; only a heavy fragrance of
## p. 13136 (#574) ##########################################
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MATILDE SERAO
jessamine. They were conscious of having grown sad. They
had recalled too much of the past, had unearthed too many
buried monuments, evoked too many lost friends who had once
been dear, and too many dead loves. This cannot be done with-
out a mingled feeling of sadness and pleasure; and the pleasure
soon vanishes, while the sadness remains. They smoked on in
silence, their heads resting on the high back of the sofa. Then
the lawyer looked at his watch, and said out of courtesy:
―
"Will you come out with me? "
Had they not said all which they had to say? Had they
not, perhaps, done foolishly in telling so much? Massimo replied
politely that he was obliged to write some urgent letters, but
that he would be at the villa later, at about eleven o'clock. The
lawyer replied in an indifferent tone that he too would be there
then; and the friends separated, each assured that they would not
meet again this evening,- perhaps indeed that they would never
meet again. However sweet the past has been, it is dead; and
phantoms, however beautiful they may be, trouble the soul of the
most courageous.
When he was alone, Massimo regretted that he had brought
this friend to his house. So many closed wounds had begun
again to bleed in these last two hours! While he continued to
smoke, he heard his servant arranging things in the small dining-
room. After a little, the boy came to ask if his master had
need of him this evening; if not, he wanted to go out with a
few friends and find relief from the heat. Massimo dismissed
him readily; the door closed, and he was entirely alone. But his
evening was lost. He had imprudently ascended the river of the
past in company with a person whom he had loved; the voyage
had discouraged him, had made him lose all which had remained
to him of moral force, through which he had been enabled to
endure the loneliness and discomforts of a Neapolitan summer.
In his hours of rebellion, when he was spiritually prostrated and
the victim of excessive physical inertia, and when his heart rose
within him resentfully, he was wont to smoke certain soothing
Egyptian cigarettes, which usually in the end quieted him. On
this summer evening, however, the cigarettes went out between
his drawn lips, and he threw them away one by one when they
were but partly burned. He went to the balcony. He lived on
the third floor of a large palace in the Via Gennaro Serra; and
because on account of the slope of the street the houses in front
## p. 13137 (#575) ##########################################
MATILDE SERAO
13137
of him were lower than his, he had a glimpse of the sea and saw
a great sweep of starry sky.
The night was most beautiful; the Milky Way was trembling
luminously: but no breeze stirred, and the air hung heavy. His
head seemed on fire. Though alone and weary, he could not keep
still; he took a pen and tried to write. Suddenly his face grew
whiter than the paper in front of him; it was as though he had
seen a vision among the shadows of the room. There was a con-
tinuous rumble of carriages in the Via Gennaro Serra.
Serra. All the
people were coming out of their houses and walking the streets in
search of air to breathe; they wanted to look at the stars, and to
enjoy the Neapolitan night, beautiful, and even cool in the small
hours. Again he went to the balcony; he was suffocating. He
returned to his desk to write, but was unable to do so. Why
should he write? Of what use are black letters traced on white
paper when one is suffering from passionate loneliness? The
parent or friend or sweetheart to whom they are addressed will
perhaps read them aloud to some stranger, and laugh unsympa-
thetically at their expressions. Too much time and too many
events lie between the moment of writing and that of reading.
A hand-organ began to play in the Piazza Monte de Dio. It
played in slow, measured time a song which should have been
gay, but which thus became curiously sad. Massimo was irritated.
by this sentimental or tired organ-grinder, who changed a taran-
tella into a funeral march. Perhaps he was old, however; per-
haps his day had been poor: surely he must be an unhappy
creature, or he would not grind out such a mournful funeral
dirge. Massimo leaned over the balcony railing, and impulsively
threw him a two-franc piece. After a moment the music ceased,
and Massimo was sorry. He felt more lonely, more comfortless,
more desperate, than ever before during his stay in Naples.
What could he do? Where could he go? where could he carry
his weary soul and body? Was there any one at hand whom he
knew, in whose company, no matter how insipid and unpleasing
it might be, he could pass this summer night? He felt that he
could not sleep. He knew indeed that there was no help for his
melancholy.
XXII-822
## p. 13138 (#576) ##########################################
13138
MATILDE SERAO
[The passages from 'Fantasy' are reprinted with the permission of the Amer-
ican Publishers' Corporation, publishers. ]
THE BOARDING-SCHOOL
From 'Fantasy. ' Copyright 1890, by Henry Harland
HE discipline for to-morrow is this," said the preacher, read-
from a small card: "You will sacrifice to the Virgin
Mary all the sentiments of rancor that you cherish in
your hearts, and you will kiss the schoolfellow, the teacher, or
the servant whom you think you hate. "
In the twilight of the chapel there was a slight stir among
the grown-up girls and teachers: the little ones remained quiet;
some of them were asleep, others yawned behind tiny hands, and
their small round faces twitched with weariness. The sermon
had lasted an hour, and the poor children had not understood
a word of it. They were longing for supper and bed. The
preacher had now descended from the pulpit, and Cherubina
Friscia, the teacher who acted as sacristan, was lighting the
candles with a taper. By degrees the chapel became flooded
with light. The cheeks of the dazed, sleepy little girls flushed
pink under it; their elders stood immovable, with blinking startled
eyes and weary indifferent faces. Some prayed with bowed
heads, while the candle-light played with the thick plaits of their
hair coiled close to their neck, and with certain blonde curls.
that no comb could restrain. Then when the whole chapel was
lighted for the recital of the 'Rosary,' the group of girl scholars
in white muslin frocks, with black aprons, and the various colored
ribbons by which the classes were distinguished, assumed a gay
aspect, despite the general weariness. A deep sigh escaped Lucia
Altimare.
"What ails thee? " queried Caterina Spaccapietra, under her
breath.
“I suffer, I suffer," murmured the other dreamily. "This
preacher saddens me. He does not understand Our Lady, he
does not feel her. " And the black pupils of her eyes, set in
bluish-white, dilated as in a vision. Caterina did not reply. The
directress intoned the 'Rosary in a solemn voice, with a strong
Tuscan accent. She read the Mystery' alone. Then all the
voices in chorus, shrill and low, accompanied her in the 'Gloria
Patri' and in the 'Pater. '
I
## p. 13139 (#577) ##########################################
MATILDE SERAO
13139
She repeated the 'Ave Maria' as far as the "Frutto del tuo
ventre"; the teachers and pupils taking up the words in unison.
The chapel was filled with music, the elder pupils singing with a
fullness of voice that sounded like the outpouring of their souls:
but the little ones made a game of it. While the directress,
standing alone, repeated the verses, they counted the time, so
that they might all break in at the end with a burst; and nudg-
ing each other, tittered under their breath. Some of them would
lean over the backs of the chairs, assuming a devout collected-
ness; but in reality pulling out the hair of the playfellows in
front of them. Some played with their rosaries under their pina-
fores, with an audible click of the beads. The vigilant eye of the
directress watched over the apparently exemplary elder girls: she
saw that Carolina Pentasuglia wore a carnation at the buttonhole
of her bodice, though no carnations grew in the college gardens;
that a little square of paper was perceptible in the bosom of
Ginevra Avigliana, beneath the muslin of her gown; that Arte-
misia Minichini, with the short hair and firm chin, had as usual
crossed one leg over the other, in contempt of religion: she saw
and noted it all. Lucia Altimare sat leaning forward, with wide-
open eyes fixed upon a candle, her mouth drawn slightly on one
side; from time to time a nervous shock thrilled her. Close to
her, Caterina Spaccapietra said her prayers in all tranquillity, her
eyes void of sight as was her face of motion and expression.
The directress said the words of th 'Ave Maria' without think-
ing of their meaning; absent, preoccupied, getting through her
prayers as rapidly as possible.
The restlessness of the little ones increased. They twisted
about, and lightly raised themselves on their chairs, whispering
to each other, and fidgeting with their rosaries. Virginia Friozzi
had a live cricket in her pocket, with a fine silken thread tied
round its claw; at first she had covered it with her hand to
prevent its moving, then she had allowed it to peep out of the
opening of her pocket: then she had taken it out and hidden it
under her apron; at last she could not resist showing it to the
neighbors on her right and on her left. The news spread, the
children became agitated, restraining their laughter with difficulty,
and no longer giving the responses in time. 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) ##########################################
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) ##########################################
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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) ##########################################
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) ##########################################
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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.
