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BOOK III - THE CHOICE: CHAPTER 4
In the pitying darkness of the gondola she lay beyond speech, her hand
in his, her breath coming fitfully. Odo waited in suspense, not daring
to question her, yet sure that if she did not speak then she would never
do so. All doubt and perplexity of spirit had vanished in the simple
sense of her nearness. The throb of her hand in his was like the
heart-beat of hope. He felt himself no longer a drifting spectator of
life but a sharer in its gifts and renunciations. Which this meeting
would bring he dared not yet surmise: it was enough that he was with
Fulvia and that love had freed his spirit.
At length she began to speak. Her agitation was so great that he had
difficulty in piecing together the fragments of her story; but for the
moment he was more concerned in regaining her confidence than in seeking
to obtain a clear picture of the past. Before she could end, the gondola
rounded the corner of the narrow canal skirting the garden-wall of Santa
Chiara. Alarmed lest he should lose her again he passionately urged her
to receive him on the morrow; and after some hesitation she consented. A
moment later their prow touched the postern and the boatman gave a low
call which proved him no novice at the business. Fulvia signed to Odo
not to speak or move; and they sat listening intently for the opening of
the gate. As soon as it was unbarred she sprang ashore and vanished in
the darkness of the garden; and with a cold sense of failure Odo heard
the bolt slipping back and the stealthy fall of the oars as the gondola
slid away under the shadow of the convent-wall. Whither was he being
carried and would that bolt ever be drawn for him again? In the sultry
dawn the convent loomed forbiddingly as a prison, and he could hardly
believe that a few hours earlier the very doors now closed against him
had stood open to all the world. They would open again; but whether to
him, who could conjecture? He was resolved to see Fulvia again, but he
shrank from the thought of forcing himself upon her. She had promised to
receive him; but what revulsion of feeling might not the morrow bring?
Unable to sleep, he bade the boatmen carry him to the Lido. The sun was
just rising above the Friulian Alps and the lagoon lay dull and smooth
as a breathed-on mirror. As he paced the lonely sands he tried to
reconstruct Fulvia's broken story, supplementing it with such details as
his experience of Venetian life suggested. It appeared that after her
father's death she had found herself possessed of a small sum of money
which he had painfully accumulated for her during the two years they had
spent in Pavia. Her only thought was to employ this inheritance in
publishing the great work on the origin of civilisation which Vivaldi
had completed a few days before his last seizure. Through one of the
professors of the University, who had been her father's friend, she
negotiated with a printer of Amsterdam for the production of the book,
and the terms being agreed on, despatched the money and the manuscript
thither by a sure hand. Both were duly delivered and the publisher had
advanced so far in his work as to send Fulvia the proof-sheets of the
first chapters, when he took alarm at the renewed activity of the Holy
Office in France and Italy, declared there would be no market for the
book in the present state of affairs, and refused either to continue
printing it, or to restore the money, which he said had barely covered
the setting-up of the type. Fulvia then attempted to recover the
manuscript; but the publisher refusing to surrender it, she found
herself doubly beggared at a stroke.
In this extremity she turned to a sister of her father's, who lived near
Treviso; and this excellent woman, though persuaded that her brother's
heretical views had doomed him to everlasting torment, did not scruple
to offer his child a home. Here Fulvia had lived for two years when her
aunt's sudden death left her destitute; for the good lady, to atone for
having given shelter to a niece of doubtful orthodoxy, had left the
whole of her small property to the Church.
Fulvia's only other relations were certain distant cousins of her
mother's, members of the Venetian nobility, but of the indigent class
called Barnabotti, who lived on the bounty of the state. While in
Treviso she had made the acquaintance of one of these cousins, a
stirring noisy fellow involved in all the political agitations of the
state. It was among the Barnabotti, the class most indebted to the
government, that these seditious movements generally arose; and Fulvia's
cousin was one of the most notorious malcontents of his order. She had
mistaken his revolutionary bluster for philosophic enlightenment; and,
persuaded that he shared in her views, she rashly appealed to him for
help. With the most eloquent expressions of sympathy he offered her a
home under his own roof; but on reaching Venice she was but ill-received
by his wife and family, who made no scruple of declaring that, being but
pensioners themselves, they were in no state to nourish their pauper
relatives. Fulvia could not but own that they were right; for they lived
in the garret of a half-ruined house, pawning their very beds to pay for
ices in the Piazza and sitting at home all the week in dirty shifts and
night-caps that they might go to mass in silk and powder on a Sunday.
After two months of wretchedness with these unfriendly hosts, whom she
vainly tried to conciliate by a hundred little services and attentions
the poor girl resolved to return to Milan, where she hoped to obtain
some menial position in the household of one of her father's friends.
Her cousins, at this, made a great outcry, protesting that none of their
blood should so demean herself, and that they would spare no efforts to
find some better way of providing for her. Their noble connections gave
Fulvia the hope that they might obtain a small pension for her, and she
unsuspiciously yielded to their wishes; but to her dismay she learned a
few weeks later, that, thanks to their exertions, she was to be admitted
as a novice to the convent of Santa Chiara. Though it was the common way
of disposing of portionless girls, the liberal views of her cousins had
reassured Fulvia, and she woke to her fate too late to escape it. She
was to enter on her novitiate on the morrow; but even had delay been
possible she knew that both the civil and religious authorities would
sustain her family in their course.
Her cousins, knowing her independent spirit, and perhaps fearing an
outcry if they sequestered her too closely, had thought to soften her
resistance by placing her in a convent noted for its leniencies; but to
Fulvia such surroundings were more repugnant than the strictest monastic
discipline. The corruption of the religious orders was a favourite topic
with her father's friends, and the Venetian nuns were noted throughout
Italy for their frivolous and dissipated lives; but nothing that Fulvia
had heard or imagined approached the realities that awaited her. At
first the mere sense of imprisonment, of being cut off forever from the
world of free thought and action which had been her native element,
overwhelmed every other feeling, and she lay numb in the clutch of fate.
But she was too young for this merciful torpor to last, and with the
returning consciousness of her situation came the instinctive effort to
amend it. How she longed then to have been buried in some strict order,
where she might have spent her days in solitary work and meditation! How
she loathed the petty gossip of the nuns, their furtive reaching after
forbidden pleasures! The blindest bigotry would have been less
insufferable than this clandestine commerce with the world, the
strictest sequestration than this open parody of the monastic calling.
She sought in vain among her companions for an answering mind. Many,
like herself, were in open rebellion against their lot; but for reasons
so different that the feeling was an added estrangement. At last the
longing to escape over-mastered every other sensation. It became a fixed
idea, a devouring passion. She did not trust herself to think of what
must follow, but centred every faculty on the effort of evasion.
At this point in her story her growing distress had made it hard for Odo
to gather more than a general hint of her meaning. It was clear,
however, that she had found her sole hope of escape lay in gaining the
friendship of one of the more favoured nuns. Her own position in the
community was of the humblest, for she had neither rank nor wealth to
commend her; but her skill on the harpsichord had attracted the notice
of the music-mistress and she had been enrolled in the convent orchestra
before her novitiate was over. This had brought her into contact with a
few of the more favoured sisters, and among them she had recognised in
Sister Mary of the Crucifix the daughter of the nobleman who had been
her aunt's landlord at Treviso. Fulvia's name was not unknown to the
handsome nun, and the coincidence was enough to draw them together in a
community where such trivial affinities must replace the ties of nature.
Fulvia soon learned that Mary of the Crucifix was the spoiled darling of
the convent. Her beauty and spirit, as much perhaps as her family
connections, had given her this predominance; and no scruples interfered
with her use of it. Finding herself, as she declared, on the wrong side
of the grate, she determined to gather in all the pleasures she could
reach through it; and her reach was certainly prodigious. Here Odo had
been obliged to fall back on his knowledge of Venetian customs to
conjecture the incidents leading up to the scene of the previous night.
He divined that Fulvia, maddened by having had to pronounce the
irrevocable vows, had resolved to fly at all hazards; that Sister Mary,
unconscious of her designs, had proposed to take her on a party of
pleasure, and that the rash girl, blind to every risk but that of delay,
had seized on this desperate means of escape. What must have followed
had she not chanced on Odo, she had clearly neither the courage nor the
experience to picture; but she seemed to have had some confused idea of
throwing herself on the mercy of the foreign nobleman she believed she
was to meet.
So much Odo had gathered; and her voice, her gesture, the disorder of
her spirit, supplied what her words omitted. Not for a moment, either in
listening to her or in the soberer period of revision, did he question
the exact truth of her narrative. It was the second time that they had
met under strange circumstances; yet now as before the sense of her
candour was his ruling thought. He concluded that, whatever plight she
found herself in, she would be its immediate justification; and felt
sure he must have reached this conclusion though love had not had a
stake in the verdict. This perhaps but proved him the more deeply taken;
for it is when passion tightens the net that reason flaps her wings most
loudly.
Day was high when he returned to his lodgings, impatient for a word from
Fulvia. None had come; and as the hours passed he yielded to the most
disheartening fancies. His wretchedness was increased by the thought
that he had once inflicted on her such suspense he was now enduring; and
he went so far as to wonder if this were her revenge for Vercelli. But
if the past was intolerable to consider the future was all baffling
fears. His immediate study was how to see her; and this her continued
silence seemed to refuse him. The extremity of her plight was his best
ally; yet here again anxiety suggested that his having been the witness
of her humiliation must insensibly turn her against him. Never perhaps
does a man show less knowledge of human nature than in speculating on
the conduct of his beloved; and every step in the labyrinth of his
conjectures carried Odo farther from the truth. This rose on him at
nightfall, in the shape of a letter slipped in his hand by a lay-sister
as he crossed the square before his lodgings. He stepped to the light of
the nearest shrine and read the few words in a tumult. "This being
Friday, no visitors are admitted to the convent; but I entreat you to
come to me tomorrow an hour before benediction." A postcript added: "It
is the hour when visitors are most frequent."
He saw her meaning in a flash: his best chance of speaking with her was
in a crowd, and his heart bounded at the significance of her admission.
Now indeed he felt himself lord of the future. Nothing counted but that
he was to see her. His horizon was narrowed to the bars through which
her hand would greet him; yet never had the world appeared so vast.
Long before the hour appointed he was at the gate of Santa Chiara. He
asked to speak with Sister Veronica and the portress led him to the
parlour. Several nuns were already behind the grate, chatting with a
group of fashionable ladies and their gallants; but Fulvia was not among
them. In a few moments the portress returned and informed Odo that
Sister Veronica was indisposed and unable to leave her cell. His heart
sank, and he asked if she had sent no message. The portress answered in
the negative, but added that the abbess begged him to come to her
parlour; and at this his hopes took wing again.
The abbess's parlour was preceded by a handsome antechamber, where Odo
was bidden to wait. It was doubtless the Reverend Mother's hour for
receiving company, for through the door beyond he heard laughter and
music and the sound of lively talk. Presently this door opened and Mary
of the Crucifix entered. In her monastic habit she looked coarse and
overblown: the severe lines and sober tints of the dress did not become
her. Odo felt an insurmountable repugnance at seeing her. He could not
conceive why Fulvia had chosen such an intermediary, and for the first
time a stealing doubt tainted his thoughts of her.
Sister Mary seemed to read his mind. "You bear me a grudge," said she
gaily; "but I think you will live to own that I do not return it. Come
with me if you wish to speak with Sister Veronica."
Odo flushed with surprise. "She is not too unwell to receive me?"
Sister Mary raised her eyebrows in astonishment. "To receive her cousin?
Her nearest male relative, come from Treviso purposely to visit her? The
saints forbid!" she cried. "The poor child is indeed dying--but only to
see her cousin!" And with that she seized his hand and hurried him down
the corridor to a door on which she tapped three times. It opened at
once, and catching Odo by the shoulder she pushed him laughingly over
the threshold and cried out as she vanished: "Be careful not to agitate
the sufferer!"
Odo found himself in a neat plain cell; but he had no eyes for his
surroundings. All that he saw was Fulvia, dressed in her nun's habit and
seated near the window, through which the afternoon light fell softly on
her white coif and the austere folds of her dress. She rose and greeted
him with a smile.
"You are not ill, then?" he cried, stupidly, and the colour rose to her
pale face.
"No," she said, "I am not ill, and at first I was reluctant to make use
of such a subterfuge; but to feign an indisposition was the only way of
speaking with you privately, and, alas, in this school one soon becomes
a proficient in deceit." She paused a moment and then added with an
effort: "Even this favour I could not have obtained save through Sister
Mary of the Crucifix; but she now understands that you are an old friend
of my father's, and that my motive for wishing to see you is not what
she at first supposed."
This was said with such noble simplicity and so direct a glance, that
Odo, confused by the sense of his own doubts, could only murmur as he
bent over her hand: "Fuoco di quest' incendio non v' assale."
She drew back gently and signed him to a seat. "I trust not," she said,
answering his citation; "but I think the flame through which Beatrice
walked must have been less contaminating than this morass in which I
flounder."
She was silent a moment and he had leisure to steal a closer look at
her. It was the first time since their meeting that he had really seen
her face; and he was struck by the touch of awe that had come upon her
beauty. Perhaps her recent suffering had spiritualised a countenance
already pure and lofty; for as he looked at her it seemed to him that
she was transformed into a being beyond earthly contact, and his heart
sank with the sense of her remoteness. Presently she began to speak and
his consciousness of the distance between them was increased by the
composure of her manner. All signs of confusion and distress had
vanished. She faced him with the same innocent freedom as under her
father's roof, and all that had since passed between them seemed to have
slipped from her without a trace.
She began by thanking him for coming, and then at once reverted to her
desperate situation and to her determination to escape.
"I am alone and friendless," she said, "and though the length of our
past acquaintance" (and here indeed she blushed) "scarce warrants such a
presumption, yet I believe that in my father's name I may appeal to you.
It may be that with the best will to help me you can discover no way of
doing so, but at least I shall have the benefit of your advice. I now
see," she added, again deeply blushing, but keeping her eyes on his,
"the madness of my late attempt, and the depth of the abyss from which
you rescued me. Death were indeed preferable to such chances; but I do
not mean to die while life holds out a hope of liberation."
As she spoke there flashed on Odo the reason of her remoteness and
composure. He had come to her as a lover: she received him as a friend.
His longing to aid her was inspired by passion: she saw in it only the
natural impulse of benevolence. So mortifying was the discovery that he
hardly followed her words. All his thoughts were engaged in reviewing
the past; and he now saw that if, as she said, their acquaintance scarce
warranted her appealing to him as a friend, it still less justified his
addressing her as a lover. Only once before had he spoken to her of
love, and that under circumstances which almost forbade a return to the
subject, or at least compelled an added prudence in approaching it. Once
again he found himself the prisoner of his folly, and stood aghast at
the ingenuity of the punishment. To play the part she ascribed to him
was his only portion; and he resolved at least to play it like a man.
With what composure he might, he assured Fulvia of his desire to serve
her, and asked if she had no hope of obtaining her release from the Holy
See. She answered: none, since enquiry must reveal that she was the
daughter of a man who had been prosecuted for heresy, and that after his
death she had devoted the small sum he had left her to the publication
of his writings. She added that his Holiness, resolved to counteract the
effects of the late Pope's leniency, had greatly enlarged the powers of
the Inquisition, and had taken special measures to prevent those who
entered the religious life from renouncing their calling.
"Since I have been here," she said, "three nuns have tried to obtain
their release, and one has conclusively proved that she was forced to
take the vows by fraud; but their pleas have been rejected, and mine
would meet the same fate. Indeed, the only result would be to deprive me
of what little liberty I am allowed; for the three nuns I speak of are
now the most closely watched in the convent."
She went on to explain that, thanks to the connivance of Sister Mary of
the Crucifix, her actual escape might be effected without much
difficulty; but that she was now awake to the madness of taking so
desperate a step without knowing whither it would lead her.
"To be safe," she said, "I must cross the borders of Switzerland. If I
could reach Geneva I should be beyond the arm of the Holy Office, and at
the University there I should find friends of my father who would surely
take pity on my situation and help me to a living. But the journey is
long and difficult, and not to be safely attempted without some
assurance of shelter on the way."
It was on Odo's lips to declare that he would provide her with shelter
and escort; but at this moment three warning taps announced the return
of Sister Mary of the Crucifix.
She entered merrily and at once laid one hand on Fulvia's brow and
caught her wrist in the other. "The patient's pulse has risen," she
declared, "and rest and a lowering treatment are essential. I must ask
the cavaliere to withdraw."
Fulvia, with an air of constraint, held out her hand to Odo.
"I shall see you soon again?" he whispered; and Sister Mary, as though
she had guessed his words, cried out, "I think your excellency may count
on a recurrence of the seizure two days hence at the same hour!"
Content of BOOK III - THE CHOICE: CHAPTER 4 [Edith Wharton's novel: The Valley Of Decision]
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