Ombra
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‘I do not know—I cannot tell,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘Take the tray, mia buona amica. You shall know when I know. And now I think I must get up. One can’t stay in bed, you know, all day.’
When her mistress thus changed the subject, Francesca saw that it was no longer convenient to continue it. She was not satisfied that Mrs. Anderson did not know, but she understood that she was in the meantime to make her own observations. Keener eyes were never applied to such a purpose, but at the present moment Francesca was too much puzzled to come to any speedy decision on the subject; and notwithstanding her love for Ombra, who was supreme in her eyes, Francesca was moved to a feeling for Kate which had not occurred to the other ladies. ‘Santissima Madonna! it is hard—very hard for the little one,’ she said to herself, as she mused over the matter. ‘Who is to defend her from Fate? She will see them every day—she is young—they are young—what can anyone expect? Ah! Madonna mia, send some good young marchesino, some piccolo principe, to make the Signorina a great lady, and save her from breaking her little heart. It would be good for la patria, too,’ Francesca resumed, piously thinking of Kate’s wealth.
She was a servant of the old Italian type, to whom it was natural to identify herself with her family. She did not even ‘toil for duty, not for meed,’ but planned and deliberated over all their affairs with the much more spontaneous and undoubting sentiment that their affairs were her own, and that they mutually belonged to each other. She said ‘our Ombra’ with as perfect good faith as if her young mistress had been her own child—and so indeed she was. The bond between them was too real to be discussed or even described—and consequently it was with the natural interest of one pondering her own business that Francesca turned it all over in her mind, and considered how she could best serve Kate, and keep her unharmed by Ombra’s uncertainty.
When Count Antonio Buoncompagni came with his card and his inquiries, the whole landscape lighted up around her. Francesca was a Florentine of the Florentines. She knew all about the Buoncompagni; her aunt’s husband’s sister had been cameriera to the old Duchessa, Antonio’s grandmother; so that in a manner, she said to herself, she belonged to the family. The Contessina, his mother, had made her first communion along with Francesca’s younger sister, Angiola. This made a certain spiritual bond between them. The consequence of all these important facts, taken together, was that Francesca felt herself the natural champion of Count Buoncompagni, who seemed thus to have stepped in at the most suitable moment, and as if in answer to her appeal to the Madonna, to lighten her anxieties, and free her child Ombra from the responsibility of harming another. The Count Antonio was young and very good-looking. He addressed Francesca in those frank and friendly tones which she had so missed in England; he called her amica mia, though he had never seen her before. ‘Ah! Santissima Madonna, quella differenza!’ she said to herself, as he went down the long stair, and the young Englishmen, who had known her for years, and were very friendly to the old woman, came up, and got themselves admitted without one unnecessary word. They had no caressing friendly phrase for her as they went and came. Francesca was true as steel to her mistress and all her house; she would have gone through fire and water for them; but it never occurred to her that to take the part of confidante and abettor to the young Count, should he mean to present himself as a suitor to Kate, would be treacherous to them or their trust. Of all things that could happen to the Signorina, the best possible thing—the good fortune most to be desired—would be that she should get a noble young husband, who would be very fond of her, and to whose house she would bring joy and prosperity. The Buoncompagni, unfortunately, though noble as the king himself, were poor; and Francesca knew very well what a difference it would make in the faded grand palazzo if Kate went there with her wealth. Even so much wealth as she had brought to her aunt would, Francesca thought, make a great difference; and what, then, would not the whole fabulous amount of Kate’s fortunes do? ‘It will be good for la patria, too,’ she repeated to herself; and this not guiltily, like a conscious conspirator, but with the truest sense of duty.
She carried in Count Antonio’s card to the salone where the ladies were sitting with their visitors. Ombra was seated at one of the windows, looking out; beside her stood Bertie Hardwick, not saying much; while his cousin, scarcely less silent, listened to Kate’s chatter. Kate’s gay voice was in full career; she was going over all last night’s proceedings, giving them a dramatic account of her feelings. She was describing her own anger, mortification, and dismay; then her relief, when she caught sight of the two young men. ‘Not because it was you,’ she said gaily, ‘but because you were men—or boys—things we could dance with; and because you knew us, and could not help asking us.’
‘That is not a pleasant way of stating it,’ said Bertie Eldridge. ‘If you had known our delight and amaze and happiness in finding you, and how transported we were–’
‘I suppose you must say that,’ said Kate; ‘please don’t take the trouble. I know you could not help making me a pretty speech; but what I say is quite true. We were glad, not because it was you, but because we felt in a moment, here are some men we know, they cannot leave us standing here all night; we must be able to get a dance at last.’
‘I have brought the Signora a card,’ said Francesca, interrupting the talk. ‘Ah, such a beautiful young Signor! What a consolation to me to be in my own country; to be called amica mia once again. You are very good, you English Signori, and very kind in your way, but you never speak as if you loved us, though we may serve you for years. When one comes like this handsome young Count Antonio, how different! “Cara mia,” he says, “put me at the feet of their Excellencies. I hope the beautiful young ladies are not too much fatigued!” Ah, my English gentlemen, you do not talk like that! You say, “Are they quite well—Madame Anderson and the young ladies?” And if it is old Francesca, or a new domestic, whom you never saw before, not one word of difference! You are cold; you are insensible; you are not like our Italian. Signorina Katta, do you know the name on the card?’
‘It’s Count Antonio Buoncompagni!’ said Kate, with a bright blush and smile. ‘Why, that was my partner last night! How nice of him to come and call—and what a pretty name! And he dances like an angel, Francesca—I never saw any one dance so well!’
‘That is a matter of course, Signorina. He is young; he is a Buoncompagni; his ancestors have all been noble and had education for a thousand years—what should hinder him to dance? If the Signorina will come to me when these gentlemen leave you, I will tell her hundreds of beautiful stories about the Buoncompagni. We are, as it were, connected—the sister-law of my aunt Filomena was once maid to the old Duchessa—besides other ties,’ Francesca added, raising her head with a certain careless grandeur. ‘Nobody knows better than I do the history of the Buoncompagni; and the Signorina is very fond of stories, as Madame knows.’
‘My good Francesca, so long as you don’t turn her head with your stories,’ said Mrs. Anderson, good-humouredly. And she added, when the old woman had left the room, ‘Often and often I have been glad to hear Francesca’s stories myself. All these Italian families have such curious histories. She will go on from one to another, as if she never would have done. She knows everybody, and whom they all married, and all about them. And there is some truth, you know, in what she says—we are very kind, but we don’t talk to our servants nor show any affection for them. I am very fond of Francesca, and very grateful to her for her faithful service, but even I don’t do it. Kate has a frank way with everybody. But our English reserve is dreadful!’
‘We don’t say everything that comes uppermost,’ said one of the young men. ‘We do not wear our hearts on our sleeves,’ said the other.
‘No,’ said Ombra; ‘perhaps, on the contrary, you keep them so covered up that one never can tell whether you have any hearts at all.’
Ombra’s voice had something in it different from the sound of the others; it had a meaning. Her words were not lightly spoken, but fully intended. This consciousness startled all the little party. Mrs. Anderson flung herself, as it were, into the breach, and began to talk fast on all manner of subjects; and Ombra, probably repenting the seriousness of her speech, exerted herself to dissipate the effect of it. But Kate kept the Count’s card in her hand, pondering over it. A young Italian noble; the sort of figure which appears in books and in pictures; the kind of person who acts as hero in tale and song. He had come to lay himself at the feet of the beautiful young ladies. Well! perhaps the two Berties meant just as much by the clumsy shy visit which they were paying at that moment—but they never laid themselves at anybody’s feet. They were well-dressed Philistines, never allowing any expression of friendship or affectionateness to escape them. Had they no hearts at all, as Ombra insinuated, or would they not be much pleasanter persons if they wore their said hearts on their sleeves, and permitted them to be pecked at? Antonio Buoncompagni! Kate stole out after a while, on pretence of seeking her work, and flew to the other end of the long, straggling suite of rooms to where Francesca sat. ‘Tell me all about them,’ she said, breathlessly. And Francesca clapped her hands mentally, and felt that her work had begun.
CHAPTER XXXIX
‘It is very interesting,’ said Kate; ‘but it is about this Count’s grandfather you are talking, Francesca. Could not we come a little lower down?’
‘Signorina mia, when one is a Buoncompagni, one’s grandfather is very close and near,’ said Francesca. ‘There are some families in which a grandfather is a distant ancestor, or perhaps the beginning of the race. But with the Buoncompagni you do not adopt that way of reckoning. Count Antonio’s mother is living—she is a thing of to-day, like the rest of us. Then I ask, Signorina Katta, whom can one speak of? That is the way in old families. Doubtless in the Signorina’s own house–’
‘Oh, my grandpapa is a thousand years off!’ said Kate. ‘I don’t believe in him—he must have been so dreadfully old. Even papa was old. He married when he was about fifty, I suppose, and I never saw him. My poor little mother was different, but I never saw her either. Don’t speak of my family, please. I suppose they were very nice, but I don’t know much about them.’
‘Mademoiselle would not like to be without them,’ said Francesca, nodding her little grey head. ‘Mademoiselle would feel very strange if all at once it were said to her, “You never had a grandpapa. You are a child of the people, my young lady. You came from no one knows where.” Ah, you prefer the old ones to that! Signorina Katta. If you were to go into the Buoncompagni Palazzo, and see all the beautiful pictures of the old Cavalieri in their armour, and the ladies with pearls and rubies upon their beautiful robes! The Contino would be rich if he could make up his mind to sell those magnificent pictures; but the Signorina will perceive in a moment that to sell one’s ancestors—that is a thing one could never do.’
‘No, I should not like to sell them,’ said Kate, thoughtfully. ‘But do you mean that? Are the Buoncompagni poor?’
‘Signorina mia,’ said Francesca, with dignity, ‘when were they rich—our grand nobili Italiani! Not since the days when Firenze was a queen in the world, and did what she would. That was ended a long, long time ago. And what, then, was it the duty of the great Signori to do? They had to keep their old palaces, and all the beautiful things the house had got when it was rich, for the good of la patria, when she should wake up again. They had to keep all the old names, and the recollections. Signorina Katta, a common race could not have done this. We poor ones in the streets, we have done what we could; we have kept up our courage and our gaiety of heart for our country. The Buoncompagni, and such like, kept up the race. They would rather live in a corner of the old Palazzo than part with it to a stranger. They would not sell the pictures, and the belle cose, except now and then one small piece, to keep the family alive. And now, look you, Signorina mia, la patria has woke up at last, and ecco! Her old names, and her old palaces, and the belle cose are here waiting for her. Ah! we have had a great deal to suffer, but we are not extinguished. Certainly they are poor, but what then? They exist; and every true Italian will bless them for that.’
This old woman, with her ruddy-brown, dried-up little face, and her scanty hair, tied into a little knot at the top of it—curious little figure, whom Kate had found it hard work to keep from laughing at when she arrived first at Shanklin—was a politician, a visionary, a patriot-enthusiast. Kate now, at eighteen, looked at Francesca with respect, which was just modified by an inclination, far down at the bottom of her heart, to laugh. But for this she took herself very sharply to task. Kate had not quite got over the natural English inclination to be contemptuous of all ‘foreigners’ who took a different view of their duty from that natural to the British mind. If the Buoncompagni had tried to make money, and improve their position; if they had emigrated, and fought their way in the world; if they had done some active work, instead of vegetating and preserving their old palaces, she asked herself? Which was no doubt an odd idea to have got into the Tory brain of the young representative of an old family, bound to hate revolutionaries; but Kate was a revolutionary by nature, and her natural Toryism was largely tinctured by the natural Radicalism of her age, and that propensity to contradict, and form theories of her own, which were part of her character. It was part of her character still, though it had been smoothed down, and brought under subjection, by her aunt’s continual indulgence. She was not so much impressed as she felt she ought to have been by Francesca’s speech.
‘I am glad they exist,’ she said. ‘Of course we must all really have had the same number of grandfathers and grandmothers, but still an old family is pleasant. The only thing is, Francesca—don’t be angry—suppose they had done something, while the patria, you know, has been asleep; suppose they had tried to get on, to recover their money, to do something more than exist! It is only a suggestion—probably I am quite wrong, but–
‘The Signorina perhaps will condescend to inform me,’ said Francesca, with lofty satire, ‘what, in her opinion, it would have been best for our nobles to do?’
‘Oh! I am sure I don’t know. I only meant—I don’t know anything about it!’ cried Kate.
‘If the Signorina will permit me to say so, that is very visible,’ said Francesca; and then, for full five minutes, she plied her needle, and was silent. This, perhaps, was rather a hard punishment for Kate, who had left the visitors in the drawing-room to seek a more lively amusement in Francesca’s company, and who, after the excitement of the ball, was anxious for some other excitement. She revenged herself by pulling the old woman’s work about, and asking what was this, and this. Francesca was making a dress for her mistress, and Mrs. Anderson, though she did not despise the fashion, was sufficiently sensible to take her own way, and keep certain peculiarities of her own.
‘Why do you make it like this?’ said Kate. ‘Auntie is not a hundred. She might as well have her dress made like other people. She is very nice-looking, I think, for her age. Don’t you think so? She must have been pretty once, Francesca. Why, you ought to know—you knew her when she was young. Don’t you think she has been–?’
‘Signorina, be so good as to let my work alone,’ said Francesca. ‘What! do you think there is nothing but youth that is to be admired? I did not expect to find so little education in one of my Signorinas. Know, Mademoiselle Katta, that there are many persons who think Madame handsomer than either of the young ladies. There is an air of distinction and of intelligence. You, for instance, you have the beauté de diable—one admires you because you are so young; but how do you know that it will last? Your features are not remarkable, Signorina Katta. When those roses are gone, probably you will be but an ordinary-looking woman; but my Signora Anderson, she has features, she has the grand air, she has distinction–’
‘Oh! you spiteful old woman!’ cried Kate, half vexed, half laughing. ‘I never said I thought I was pretty. I know I am just like a doll, all red and white; but you need not tell me so, all the same.’
‘Mademoiselle is not like a doll,’ said Francesca. ‘Sometimes, when she has a better inspiration, Mademoiselle has something more than red and white. I did not affirm that it would not last. I said how do you know? But my Signora has lasted. She is noble!—she is distinguished! And as for what she has been–’
‘That is exactly what I said,’ said Kate.
‘We do not last in Italy,’ said Francesca, pursuing the subject with the gravity of an abstract philosopher. ‘It is, perhaps, our beautiful climate. Your England, which has so much of mist and of rain, keeps the grass green, and it preserves beauty. The Contessa Buoncompagni has lost all her beauty. She was of the Strozzi family, and made her first communion on the same day as my little Angiolina, who is now blessed in heaven. Allow me to say it to you, Signorina mia, they were beautiful as two angels in their white veils. But the Contessina has grown old. She has lost her hair, which does not happen to the English Signore, and—other things. I am more old than she, and when I see it I grieve. She does not go out, except, of course, which goes without saying, to the Duomo. She is a good woman—a very good woman. If she cannot afford to give the best price for her salad, is it her fault? She is a great lady, as great as anybody in all Firenze—Countess Buoncompagni, born Strozzi. What would you have more? But, dear lady, it is no shame to her that she is not rich. Santissima Madonna, why should one hesitate to say it? It is not her fault.’
‘Of course it cannot be her fault; nobody would choose to be poor if they could help it,’ said Kate.
‘I cannot say, Signorina Katta—I have not any information on the subject. To be rich is not all. It might so happen—though I have no special information—that one would choose to be poor. I am poor myself, but I would not change places with many who are rich. I should esteem more,’ said Francesca, raising her head, ‘a young galantuomo who was noble and poor, and had never done anything against the patria, nor humbled himself before the Tedeschi, a hundred and a thousand times more than those who hold places and honours. But then I am a silly old woman, most likely the Signorina will say.’
‘Is Count Buoncompagni like that?’ asked Kate; but she did not look for an answer.
And just then the bell rang from the drawing-room, and Francesca put down her work and bustled away to open the door for the young Englishmen whose company Kate had abandoned. The girl took up Francesca’s work, and made half a dozen stitches; and then went to her own room, where Maryanne was also at work. Kate gave a little sketch of the dresses at the ball to the handmaiden, who listened with breathless interest.
‘I don’t think anyone could have looked nicer than you and Miss Ombra in your fresh tarlatane, Miss,’ said Maryanne.
‘Nobody took the least notice of us,’ said Kate. ‘We are not worth noticing among so many handsome, well-dressed people. We were but a couple of girls out of the nursery in our white. I think I will choose a colour that will make some show if I ever go to a ball again.’
‘Oh! Miss Kate, you will go to a hundred balls!’ cried Maryanne, with fervour.
Kate shrugged her shoulders with sham disdain; but she felt, with a certain gentle complacency, that it was true. A girl who has once been to a ball must go on. She cannot be shut up again in any nursery and school-room; she is emancipated for ever and ever; the glorious world is thrown open to her. The tarlatane which marked her bread-and-butter days would no doubt yield to more splendid garments; but she could not go back—she had made her entry into life.
Lady Caryisfort called next day—an event which filled Mrs. Anderson with satisfaction. No doubt Kate was the chief object of her visit; and as it was the first time that Kate’s aunt and cousin had practically felt the great advantage which her position gave her over them, there was, without doubt, some difficulty in the situation. But, fortunately, Ombra’s attention was otherwise occupied; and Mrs. Anderson, though she was a high-spirited woman, and did not relish the idea of deriving consequence entirely from the little girl whom she had brought up, had yet that philosophy which more or less is the accompaniment of experience, and knew that it was much better to accept the inevitable graciously, than to fight against it. And if anything could have neutralised the wound to her pride, it would have been the ‘pretty manners’ of Lady Caryisfort, and the interest which she displayed in Ombra. Indeed, Ombra secured more of her attention than Kate did—a consoling circumstance. Lady Caryisfort showed every inclination to ‘take them up.’ It was a thing she was fond of doing; and she was so amiable and entertaining, and so rich, and opened up such perfectly good society to her protégées, that few people at the moment of being taken up realised the fact that they must inevitably be let down again by-and-by—a process not so pleasant.
At this moment nothing could be more delightful than their new friend. She called for them when she went out driving, and took them to Fiesole, to La Pioggia, to the Cascine—wherever fashion went. She lent them her carriage when she was indolent, as often happened, and did not care to go out. She asked them to her little parties when she had ‘the best people’—a compliment which Mrs. Anderson felt deeply, and which was very different from the invitation to the big ball at the Embassy, to which everybody was invited. In short, Lady Caryisfort launched the little party into the best society of English at Florence, such as it is. And the pretty English heiress became as well known as if she had gone through a season at home previous to this Italian season. Poor Uncle Courtenay! Had he seen Antonio Buoncompagni, who danced like an angel, leading his ward through the mazes of a cotillon, what would that excellent guardian’s feelings have been?
CHAPTER XL
We have said that Ombra’s attention was otherwise occupied. Had it not been so, it is probable that she would have resented and struggled against the new and unusual and humiliating consciousness of being but an appendage to her cousin; but fortunately all such ideas had been driven out of her head. A new life, a new world, seemed to have begun for Ombra. All the circumstances of their present existence appeared to lend themselves to the creation of this novel sphere. Old things seemed to have passed away, and all had become new. From the moment of the first call, made in doubt and tribulation, by the two Berties, they had resumed again, in the most natural manner, the habits of their former acquaintance, but with an entirely new aspect. Here there was at once the common bond which unites strangers in a new place—a place full of beauty and wonder, which both must see, and which it is so natural they should see together. The two young men fell into the habit of constant attendance upon the ladies, with a naturalness which defeated all precautions; and an intercourse began to spring up, which combined that charming flavour of old friendship, and almost brotherhood, with any other sentiment that might arise by the way. This conjunction, too, made the party so independent and so complete. With such an escort the ladies could go anywhere; and they went everywhere accordingly—to picture-galleries, to all the sights of the place, and even now and then upon country excursions, in the bright, cold Winter days. ‘The boys,’ as Kate called them, came and went all day long, bringing news of everything that was to be seen or heard, always with a new plan or suggestion for the morrow.