IX
When Thérèse finally lost sight of the Ferruccio, it was quite dark. She had dismissed the boat which she had hired in the morning at Spezzia, and paid for in advance. When the boatman rowed her ashore from the steamer, she had noticed that he was drunk; she was afraid to return to Spezzia alone with him, and, expecting to find some other boat on the shore, she had dismissed him.
But when she thought seriously about returning, she remembered that she was absolutely destitute. Nothing could be simpler, of course, than to go back to the Maltese Cross at Spezzia, where she and Laurent had passed the preceding night, to have the boatman paid at the office, and to await Palmer’s arrival there; but the idea of being entirely destitute, and of being obliged to owe her breakfast the next day to Palmer, caused a feeling of repugnance, puerile, perhaps, but insurmountable, considering the existing relations between them. Furthermore, she was more than a little disturbed as to the real explanation of his conduct toward her. She had noticed the heart-rending sadness of his glance when she left Florence. She could not refrain from thinking that an obstacle to their marriage had suddenly arisen, and she saw in the projected union so many real drawbacks for Palmer, that she considered it her duty not to contend against the obstacle in whatever quarter it might arise. Thérèse adopted an altogether instinctive solution of the problem, which was to remain for the present at Porto Venere. In the small bundle which she had brought with her to guard against emergencies, she had enough clothes to pass four or five days anywhere. In the way of jewels, she had a gold watch and chain; these she could leave in pawn until she had received the pay for her work, which should have reached Genoa in the form of a banker’s draft. She had directed Vicentino to call for her letters at Genoa and forward them to Spezzia.
She must pass the night somewhere, and the appearance of Porto Venere was not inviting. The tall houses along the narrow passage out to sea, which reach to the water’s edge, are so nearly on a level with the top of the cliff in the rear, that in many places one must stoop in order to pass under the overhanging roofs which reach nearly to the middle of the street. That steep, narrow street, paved with rough cobble-stones, was crowded with children, hens, and large copper vessels placed at the angles formed by the roofs to catch the rain-water during the night. These vessels are the barometer of the locality: fresh water is so scarce there, that as soon as a cloud appears in the direction from which the wind is blowing, the housewives hasten to place all practicable receptacles in front of their doors, in order not to lose a drop of the blessing sent by Heaven.
As she passed before those yawning doorways, Thérèse caught a glimpse of one interior which seemed cleaner than the others and which exhaled a somewhat less acrid odor of oil. In the doorway was a poor woman whose pleasant and honest face inspired confidence; and the woman anticipated her by speaking to her in Italian or something approaching it. Thus she and Thérèse were able to understand each other. The goodwoman asked her pleasantly if she were looking for any one. She went in, looked about, and asked if she could hire a room for the night.
“Yes, to be sure, a better room than this, and you will be much quieter than at the inn, where you would hear the sailors singing all night long! But I am not an innkeeper, and if you don’t want me to have quarrels on my hands, you will say publicly in the street to-morrow that you knew me before you came here.”
“Very well,” said Thérèse, “show me the room.”
She was led up several steps and found herself in an enormous, miserable room, which commanded a panorama of vast extent on the bay and on the open sea; she took a liking to the room at first sight, for no special reason, unless it was that it seemed to her a sort of refuge against new bonds which she did not wish to be forced to accept. In that room she wrote on the following day to her mother:
“MY DEAREST LOVE:
“For twelve hours I have been at peace and in full possession of my free will for—I know not how many days or years. Everything is unsettled again in my mind, and you shall form your own opinion of the situation of affairs.
“That fatal love which alarmed you so is not renewed and never will be. You may set your mind at rest on that point. I came here with my patient, and put him aboard ship last night. If I have not saved his poor heart, and I hardly dare flatter myself that I have, I have made it better at all events, and through me it has enjoyed the sweet pleasure of friendship for a few moments. If I could have believed him, he was cured forever of his tempestuous outbreaks; but I could see plainly enough, from his contradictions and his relapses with respect to me, that the foundation of his nature is still unchanged, and the something still exists that I cannot define otherwise than as the love of that which is not.
“Alas! yes, that child would like to have for his mistress some one like the Venus de Milo, enlivened with the breath of my patron Sainte Thérèse, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the same woman should be Sappho to-day and Jeanne d’Arc to-morrow. It is most unfortunate for me that I ever believed that, after adorning me in his imagination with all the attributes of the Divinity, he would not open his eyes the next day! It must be that, without suspecting it, I am very vain, to have accepted the task of inspiring a cult! But, no, I was not, I give you my word! I did not think of myself; on the day when I allowed myself to be placed on that altar, I said to him: ‘Since you absolutely insist upon adoring me instead of loving me, which I should much prefer, why, adore me, reserving the right to crush me to-morrow!’
“And he has crushed me! But of what can I complain? I anticipated it, and resigned myself to it beforehand.
“But I was weak, undignified, and wretched when that horrible moment came. My courage returned, however, and God permitted me to recover more quickly than I hoped.
“Now, I must speak to you of Palmer. You wish me to marry him, he wishes it, and I, too, did wish it! Do I wish it still? What shall I say, my beloved? I still am tortured by scruples and fears. Perhaps it is his fault. He could not or would not pass with me the last moments that I passed with Laurent; he left me alone with him three days, three days which I knew would be, and which actually were, without danger for me; but did he, Palmer, know it, and could he be sure of it? or—which would be much worse—did he say to himself that he must find out how far he could depend on me? There was on his part either a display of romantic unselfishness or an exaggerated discretion, which, in such a man, can come only from some worthy sentiment, but which has given me food for reflection none the less.
“I have written you what took place between us; it seemed to me that he had taken it upon himself as a sacred duty to rehabilitate me by marriage, after the affronts to which I had been subjected. I felt the enthusiasm of gratitude and the emotion that follows profound admiration. I said yes, I promised to be his wife, and to-day I feel that I love him as much as it is in my power to love.
“And yet to-day I hesitate, because it seems to me that he repents. Am I dreaming? I have no idea; but why could he not come here with me? When I learned of my poor Laurent’s terrible illness, he did not wait for me to say: ‘I am going to Florence;’ but he said to me: ‘Let us go!’—The twenty nights that I passed at Laurent’s bedside, he passed in the next room, and he never said to me: ‘You are killing yourself!’ but simply: ‘Take a little rest, so that you can go on with it.’—I have never detected the shadow of jealousy in him. It seemed that in his eyes I could never do too much to save the ungrateful boy whom we had both of us adopted, as it were. He knew, noble heart, that his confidence and generosity increased my love for him, and I was infinitely grateful to him for understanding it. In that way he raised me in my own eyes, and made me proud to belong to him.
“Very well; then why this whim or this obstacle at the last moment? An unforeseen obstacle? With the strong will that I know him to possess, I hardly believe in obstacles; it seems more probable that he wished to test me. That humiliates me, I confess. Alas! I have become horribly sensitive since I fell! Is it not natural? why did not he, who understands everything, understand that?
“Or, perhaps he has thought better of it, and has said to himself all that I said to him, from principle, in order to prevent his thinking of me; what would there be surprising in that? I had always known Palmer as a prudent and sensible man. When I discovered in him stores of enthusiasm and trust, I was greatly surprised. Might he not be one of those who take fire when they see others suffer, and who fall to loving the victims passionately? That is a natural instinct in those who are strong, it is the sublime pity of pure and happy hearts! There were moments when I said that to myself, in order to reconcile me with myself,—when I loved Laurent, for it was his suffering, before and above all else, that attached me to him!
“All this that I am saying to you, my dearest love, I should not dare to say to Richard Palmer if he were here. I should be afraid that my doubts would cause him horrible pain, and I am sorely embarrassed, for I have these doubts in spite of myself, and I am afraid, for to-morrow at all events, if not for to-day. Will he not cover himself with ridicule by marrying a woman whom he has loved, he says, for ten years, to whom he has never lisped a word of anything of the sort, and whom he decides to attack on the day that he finds her crushed and bleeding under the feet of another man?
“I am sojourning in a horrible yet magnificent little seaport, where I passively await the command of my destiny. Perhaps Palmer is at Spezzia, three leagues away. That was where we had arranged to meet. And I, like a sulking, or rather like a timid, child, cannot make up my mind to go to him and say: ‘Here I am!’—No, no! if he suspects me, no further relations between us are possible! I forgave the other five or six insults a day. With this one I could not overlook the shadow of a suspicion. Is this unjust? No! henceforth I must have a sublime love or nothing! Did I seek his love? He forced it upon me, saying: ‘It will be heaven!’—The other had told me that perhaps what he brought me would be hell. He did not deceive me. Nor must Palmer deceive me, while deceiving himself; for, after this new error, nothing would be left for me but to deny everything, to say to myself that, like Laurent, I have forfeited forever, by my own fault, the right to believe; and I do not know whether, with that certainty, I could endure life!
“Forgive me, my beloved; my perplexities distress you, I am sure, although you would say that I must spare you none of them! At all events, have no anxiety concerning my health; I am exceedingly well, I have the loveliest bit of ocean before my eyes, and over my head the loveliest sky that can be imagined. I lack nothing, I am boarding with excellent people, and it is likely that I shall write you to-morrow that my uncertainties have disappeared. Do not forget to love your Thérèse, who adores you.”
Palmer had actually been at Spezzia since the preceding night. He had purposely arrived just an hour after the sailing of the Ferruccio. Not finding Thérèse at the Maltese Cross, and learning that she had planned to put Laurent on board at the mouth of the bay, he awaited her return. At nine o’clock, the boatman she had hired in the morning, who belonged to the hotel, returned alone. The worthy man was not accustomed to drink too much. He had been surprised by a bottle of Cyprus, which Laurent gave him after his lunch on the grass with Thérèse, and which he drank during their stay on the Isola Palmaria; so that he remembered well enough that he had put the signor and signora aboard the Ferruccio, but had no remembrance of having afterward taken the signora to Porto Venere.
If Palmer had questioned him calmly, he would soon have discovered that the man’s ideas were not very clear on the latter point; but the American, notwithstanding his serious and impassive manner, was very irritable and very passionate. He believed that Thérèse had gone with Laurent, gone shamefacedly, afraid or unwilling to confess the truth to him. He was thoroughly convinced, and returned to the hotel, where he passed a terrible night.
We have not undertaken to tell the story of Richard Palmer. We have entitled our tale She and He, that is to say, Thérèse and Laurent. Of Palmer, therefore, we shall say no more than it is necessary to say to make it possible to understand the events in which he was involved, and we think that his character will be sufficiently explained by his conduct. Let us hasten to say simply this, that Richard was as ardent as he was romantic, that he had an abundance of pride, pride in the good and the beautiful, but that the strength of his character did not always come up to the idea he had formed of it, and that, while striving constantly to rise above human nature, he cherished a noble dream, but one probably impossible of realization in love.
He rose early, and walked by the shore of the bay, thinking seriously of suicide, from which he was turned aside, however, by a feeling of something like contempt for Thérèse; then the fatigue of a night of intense agitation asserted itself and gave him sensible advice. Thérèse was a woman, and he should not have subjected her to a hazardous trial. But since he had done so, since Thérèse, whom he had placed so high in his esteem, had been vanquished by a deplorable passion after her sacred promises, why, he must never believe in any woman, and no woman deserved the sacrifice of a good man’s life. Palmer had progressed thus far when he saw a graceful black cutter drawing near the place where he stood, with a naval officer at the stern. The eight oarsmen who pulled the long and narrow craft swiftly through the smooth water tossed their white oars by way of salute, with military precision; the officer stepped ashore and walked toward Richard, whom he had recognized in the distance.
It was Captain Lawson, in command of the American frigate Union, which had been stationed in the bay for a year. It is common knowledge that the different maritime powers are accustomed to station war vessels, for months or even for years, all over the globe to safeguard their commercial interests.
Lawson had been a friend of Palmer’s from boyhood, and Thérèse was provided with a letter of introduction to him, in case she should care to visit the ship while rowing about the harbor.
Palmer thought that Lawson would mention her, but he did not. He had received no letter, had had no visit from any friend of Palmer’s. He invited him to breakfast on board, and Richard made no objection. The Union was to leave the station at the end of the spring. He conceived the idea of seizing the opportunity to return to America in her. Everything seemed to be at an end between Thérèse and him; however, he determined to remain at Spezzia, the sight of the sea having always had a strengthening influence upon him in the critical moments of his life.
He had been there three days, living on board the American vessel much more than at the Maltese Cross, making an effort to revive his interest in the study of navigation, which had occupied the greater part of his life, when a young ensign, at breakfast one morning, declared, half-laughing and half-sighing, that he had fallen in love the day before, and that the object of his passion was a problem concerning which he should be glad to have the opinion of a man of the world like Palmer.
She was a woman apparently twenty-five to thirty years old. He had simply seen her at a window at which she was seated making lace. Coarse cotton lace is made by women all along the Genoese coast. It was formerly a flourishing branch of commerce, which the looms have ruined, but which still affords occupation and a trifling profit to the women and girls of the coast. Therefore the young woman of whom the ensign was enamored belonged to the artisan class, not only because of the work she was doing, but because of the poverty of the house in which he had seen her. And yet the cut of her black dress and the distinction of her features caused some doubt in his mind. She had wavy hair, which was neither dark nor light; dreamy eyes, a pale complexion. She had seen that the young officer was gazing curiously at her from the inn, where he had sought refuge from the rain. She had not condescended to encourage him or to avoid his glances. She had presented a distressing image of indifference personified.
The young seaman also stated that he questioned the innkeeper’s wife at Porto Venere. She had told him that the stranger had been there three days, living with an old woman who said that she was her niece and who probably lied, for she was an old schemer who let a miserable bedroom to the detriment of the genuine, licensed public-house, and who apparently presumed to invite and entertain guests, but who must feed them very badly, for she had nothing, and for that reason deserved the contempt of all well-to-do people and self-respecting travellers.
As a result of this harangue, the young ensign lost no time in going to the old woman and asking her for lodgings for a friend of his whom he was expecting, hoping, by means of this fable, to induce her to talk, and to learn something about the stranger; but the old woman was impenetrable, yes, and incorruptible.
The portrait that the officer drew of this young unknown aroused Palmer’s attention. It might be Thérèse; but what was she doing at Porto Venere? why was she hiding there? Of course, she was not alone; Laurent must be hidden in some other corner. Palmer deliberated whether or not he should go to China in order not to witness his misfortune. However, he adopted the more sensible course, which was to find out the truth of the matter.
He crossed at once to Porto Venere, and had no difficulty in discovering Thérèse, lodged and occupied as he had been told. They had an earnest and frank explanation. They were both too sincere to sulk; so they both confessed that they had been angry, Palmer because Thérèse had not let him know where she had concealed herself, Thérèse because Palmer had not sooner sought and found her.
“My dear,” said he, “you seem to reproach me most of all for having, as it were, exposed you to some danger. I did not believe that danger existed!”
“You were right, and I thank you. But in that case, why were you so depressed and despairing when I left you? and how does it happen that you did not discover where I was the very first day after you arrived here? Did you suppose that I had left, and that it was useless to search for me?”
“Listen to me,” said Palmer, evading the question, “and you will see that I have had, during the last few days, much rough experience that may well have made me lose my head. You will also understand why, having first known you when you were very young and when it was possible for me to think of marrying you, I let slip a happiness which I have never ceased to dream of and to regret. I was at that time the lover of a woman who has deceived me in a thousand ways. For ten years I considered myself in duty bound to keep her on her feet and shelter her. At last, she put the finishing-touch to her ingratitude and treachery, and I was able to leave her, to forget her, and to dispose of myself as I chose. But I fell in with that woman, whom I supposed to be in England, in Florence, just as Laurent was about to leave. Abandoned by a new lover who had taken my place, she desired and expected to recapture me: so many times before had she found me generous or weak! She wrote me a threatening letter, and, feigning an utterly absurd jealousy, she declared that she would come to insult you in my presence. I knew that she was a woman who would recoil from no scandal, and I would not for anything in the world have had you see her in one of her fits of frenzy. I could not persuade her not to appear on the scene, except by promising to have an explanation with her the same day. She was living in the same hotel where we were living with our sick man, and when Laurent’s carriage was at the door, she was on hand, determined to make a scene. Her detestable and ridiculous plan was to exclaim before all the hotel people and the whole street that I shared my new mistress with Laurent de Fauvel. That is why I sent you away with him, and why I remained behind, in order to have done with that mad woman without compromising you, and without exposing you to the necessity of seeing her or listening to her. Now, do not say again that my purpose was to subject you to a test by leaving you alone with Laurent. I suffered enough on that account, God knows! don’t reproach me! And when I thought of your having gone with him, all the demons of hell attacked me.”
“And that is what I reproach you for,” said Thérèse.
“Ah! what can you expect!” cried Palmer; “I have been so miserably deceived in my life! That wretched woman stirred up a whole world of bitterness and contempt in me.”
“And that contempt overflowed on me!”
“Oh! don’t say so, Thérèse!”
“But I, too, have been deceived,” she rejoined, “and I believe in you none the less.”
“Let us say no more about it, my love; I regret that I have been driven to tell you the story of my past. You will believe that it may react on my future, and that, like Laurent, I shall make you pay for the treachery with which I have been sated. Come, come, my dear Thérèse, let us have done with these depressing thoughts. This place you are in is enough to give one the blues. The boat is waiting; come and take up your quarters at Spezzia.”
“No,” said Thérèse, “I shall stay here.”
“What? what does this mean? hard feeling between us?”
“No, no, my dear Dick,” she replied, offering him her hand; “I can never be angry with you. Oh! I implore you, let our affection be ideally sincere; for my part, I will do all that it is possible for a trustful heart to do to that end; but I did not know that you were jealous, whereas you were and you admit it. Be sure that it is not in my power to avoid suffering keenly from your jealousy. It is so entirely opposed to what you promised me, that I cannot help asking myself whither we are going now, and why it was necessary that, on making my escape from a hell, I should enter a purgatory, when I aspired to naught save repose and solitude.—Not for myself alone do I dread these new tortures which seem to be brewing for me; if it were possible that in love one of the two should be happy while the other suffers, the path of self-sacrifice would be all marked out and easy to follow; but, as you see, that is not the case: I cannot have a moment’s pain that you do not feel. So here am I, who sought to render my life inoffensive, in a fair way to ruin your life, and I am beginning to make a man unhappy! No, Palmer, believe me, we thought that we knew each other, but we did not. What attracted me in you was a trait which you have already lost—confidence. Don’t you understand that, debased as I was, I needed that, and nothing else, in order to love you? If I should now accept your affection with its blemishes and weaknesses, with its doubts and tempests, would you not be justified in saying to yourself that I was influenced by selfish motives in marrying you? Oh! do not say that idea will never occur to you; it will occur to you in spite of yourself. I know too well how a person goes from one suspicion to another, and what a steep incline hurries us from a first disenchantment to humiliating repulsion! Now I, for my part, have drunk enough of that gall! I want no more of it, and I do not assume too much in saying I am no longer capable of undergoing what I have undergone; I told you so the very first day, and, although you may have forgotten it, I remember it. Let us put aside this idea of marriage,” she added, “and remain friends. I retract my promise provisionally, until I can rely upon your esteem, such esteem as I supposed that I possessed. If you are not willing to submit to a trial, let us part at once. As for myself, I swear that I do not propose to owe anything to you, not even the most trivial service, while I am in my present position. I must tell you what that position is, for you must fully understand my purpose. I have board and lodging here on the strength of my word, for I am absolutely penniless, I gave all I had to Vicentino to pay the expenses of Laurent’s journey; but it happens that I can make lace quicker and better than the women hereabout, and, pending the arrival of my money from Genoa, I can earn enough from day to day to pay my excellent landlady for the very frugal board with which she supplies me, if not to reward her. I am neither distressed nor humiliated by this state of things, and it must continue until my money arrives. Then I will see what it is best to do. Until then, return to Spezzia, and come to see me when you choose; I will make lace as we chat.”
Palmer had to submit, and he submitted with a good grace. He hoped to regain Thérèse’s confidence, which he felt that he had shaken by his own fault.