"I like that idea," said Fru Bjork.

She felt that it would be good for both girls to have some interest.

Astrid's light-hearted flirtations in Rome, and Ragna's long solitary rambles appeared almost equally reprehensible, besides, drawing was a harmless, ladylike pursuit. She determined to push the matter and after some further discussion it was arranged that Dr. Ferrati should bring his artist friend to meet the ladies, the second evening after their arrival in Florence.

Ragna listened to it all, taking no part in the conversation, a.s.senting listlessly to Fru Bjork's good-natured questions; her first eagerness had pa.s.sed and she had fallen again into the slough of indifference.

Ferrati had not failed to notice her too eager a.s.sent to his random suggestion, and her subsequent apathy. "She needs some occupation," he thought, and urged the project more than with his habitual prudence, he would have thought advisable. "It will be an excellent thing for Valentini, too," he said to himself; "it will give him an interest and take him out of himself."

CHAPTER VIII

Egidio Valentini was a young man of about thirty, a Roman born, full of the civic pride that even now stirs the bosom of those who can say: "_Civis Roma.n.u.s sum_"--flaunting the superiority conferred on her children by the Eternal City, in the face of less fortunate mortals.

Educated by the Jesuit Fathers, spoiled by an indulgent family, he knew no law but his own pleasure, no restraint but that imposed by policy or incontrovertible circ.u.mstance. Endowed with a high degree of cleverness, and with a dominant personality, he was one who would undoubtedly mould his surroundings. Of medium stature with small hands and feet, muscular and well proportioned, he yet lacked the careless grace characteristic of his countrymen. His head, well set on broad shoulders had a n.o.bility of modelling about the forehead curiously belied by the sensual mouth and obstinate chin. His eyes were dark and of a peculiar brilliance, shaded by beetling black brows which almost met at the base of his well shaped nose--slightly twisted to the right, however. This slight crookedness of the nose gave to his face, in certain aspects, an expression of low cunning. In spite of these defects, his appearance was distinctly pleasing, and if, to the close observer, faults of character corresponding to those of feature might be apparent, the blunt bonhomie of his manner, and its too insistent sincerity conveyed to most people the impression of st.u.r.dy honesty, while his carefully timed and placed liberality gave him the reputation of open-handed generosity. He never gave or lent where the transaction would not redound to his credit or interest, but the public could not know that. He lived for the house tops and whatever his own closet may have seen of him, there was none to repeat.

People said of him: "His bark is worse than his bite," and showed him an indulgence not always accorded to brusquerie.

He had come to Florence a few months previously, his family having lost the greater part of a fortune in unsuccessful speculations. Cast on his own resources, he turned to account the decided artistic talent he possessed, and even in so short a time had succeeded in winning recognition as one of the foremost rising young artists of the time.

This was not accomplished without hard work, but a love of work, and especially of his chosen profession, with a tenacity of purpose rarely equalled, were among Egidio's best qualities. One would have thought that the congenial occupation and the promise of success would have brought contentment, but Valentini never ceased to lament the change in his fortunes and his lost inheritance, which growing daily in his imagination soon increased from the modest competency it had been, to a princely fortune. He never tired of repeating the story.

"My friends, it was terrible! In one day, from being a prince to become a beggar!"

Let it be said, however, that his pride kept him from asking the a.s.sistance of any man, and if he rose, it was by his own unaided effort.

It was this quality of independence that, as much as anything, had drawn to him the friendship of Enrico Ferrati. They had been at school together as boys, but for years their lives had laid apart. Ferrati, on taking his degree, had settled in Florence, where a flourishing practice rewarded his effort, and it was to Florence that Egidio also betook himself, his pride rebelling against life in Rome in the changed conditions of his fortunes. Ferrati at once seized the opportunity of renewing the old intimacy and his sympathy and respect were as balm to the wounds of Valentini. Ferrati, on his part, attributed to the severe disappointment undergone, the changes he could not fail to remark in his friend, though indeed in his company Valentini was at his best; the devoted friendship of Ferrati called out all that was best in his nature, and Enrico never saw the depths underlying the surface manner.

It would, perhaps, be better to say that in the company of Ferrati, the underlying meannesses vanished; the affection Valentini had for him was the one pure, disinterested love of his selfish nature.

Valentini heard with slight enthusiasm Ferrati's plan of a course of drawing lessons to two young Norwegian girls.

"Carissimo," he said, "pot-hooks are not in my line." He was sitting with Ferrati, over a gla.s.s of wine at the end of their dinner in a modest _trattoria_.

"I think you will teach them more than pot-hooks, Egidio; one of them, at least could be taught to see and appreciate, besides you must keep the pot boiling, you know."

"It would be a loss of time. Why should I lose my time teaching girls what they should have learnt at school? Let them get a governess, or a guide-book!"

"I had thought it would interest you."

"Are they pretty, at least?"

"One is pretty, the other is something more," said Ferrati, lighting with care a black Tuscan cigar. Valentini followed suit, and they puffed away in silence some moments.

"One of them is more than pretty, you said?"

"Yes, she suggests possibilities, she has an interesting face. But I was thinking of you, really, more than of the girls. It would do you the world of good, Egidio, it would take you out of yourself. You need humanising, disinfecting, if I may say so. How do you pa.s.s your time?

You paint all day, you eat a bad dinner, and sometimes work all evening, or else you go to the Circolo degli Artisti and play billiards and smoke more '_Toscani_' than is good for you--and all the time you mope. Now these lessons will give you something else to think about, they will bring in some money which is a consideration, and moreover, I believe you will be doing a good action, for I think that one of these girls has had some trouble and needs distraction quite as much as you do."

"Is that the pretty one?" asked Valentini. "I don't mind consoling pretty girls. It is easier than teaching them to draw. They all want to do sweet things like Raphael's cherubs, and when you won't hear of it they sulk."

Ferrati drew out his watch.

"Well, will you take them on as pupils or will you not? I must be getting home."

"There's no hurry, your wife's away."

"Still, I must get back, I have some work to do. Tell me, Egidio, will you give these lessons?"

"Oh, I suppose I shall--"

"Then you will come with me to the pension to-morrow evening to be presented to the ladies?"

Egidio yawned and stretched his arms. "How insistent you are! I'll come and have a look at them, _e poi vedremo_! Understand, I reserve the right to withdraw if they don't please me."

Ferrati laughed.

"You might be the Great Mogul from the way you talk instead of a struggling painter! Your airs may impress the ladies but they don't me."

They went out into the clear, cool air, and walked up the Via Calzaioli towards the Piazza della Signoria. The street was brilliantly lit, and thronged by a mixed crowd of young men of the town, officers, tradespeople, and women. It was a good-humoured crowd, out for amus.e.m.e.nt. Groups of girls with linked arms smiled saucily at the young men they met, meeting impudent remarks with equally impudent retorts,--the _ciane_ of Florence have always been celebrated for their mordant wit. Others caught up the jests and quips and bandied them about, tossed them farther afield with additions and modifications. Now and again a s.n.a.t.c.h of song rose and bands of young men of the _becero_ cla.s.s, a soft felt hat jammed on the back of the head, thumbs in armholes, rolled along sliding their feet and intoning a chorus, "_E se la vuoi regirar la ruota_."

Ferrati sauntered slowly up the street, absorbed in thought; Egidio's eyes wandered restlessly from side to side, scrutinizing the glances turned on him, seeking to read approval of his person in the eyes of the women, curiosity, recognition or admiration in those of the men. By the church of Orsammichele they parted, Egidio going to his little apartment consisting of a studio and a small bedroom, on the top floor of one of the grim old tower-like houses of which there are many in that part of the city. He climbed up the long stair leading to his floor and letting himself into his rooms with a c.u.mbrous latchkey locked the door behind him. It was the studio he had entered, a large bare room, the ceiling rather lower than is usual in Italian houses, being just under the roof.

The moonlight falling on a livid patch from the sky-light showed a disordered litter of sketches and painting materials, a model's throne, on which stood a lay figure, some ordinary wooden chairs, a table, and near the window, an easel with a picture on it, a chair and a small Turkish stool supporting the palette and brushes. A small doorway at the farther side opened into the bedroom.

Valentini lit the hanging lamp and drawing the upright easel under it settled himself to work. He was preparing the drawing of a water colour study of costume. He worked steadily for half an hour or so, then pushed back the easel with an expression of disgust and walked to the window, lighting a _toscano_ as he did so. The moonlight lay clear and cold over the city roofs, throwing the endless variety of chimney-pots into bold relief. As he stood looking out the clocks of the city struck ten--not in unison, each striking in turn and making the most of it. The bells of S. Spirito across the river pealed the hour. A carriage rattled over the stone pavements a street or two away, but just below all was dark and silent, from the Via Calzaioli around the corner came the subdued hubbub of the promenading crowd.

The young man closed the window and went back to his seat, pa.s.sing his hand wearily over his forehead.

"Another of those headaches, and this thing must be finished by to-morrow noon!" he groaned, and set resolutely to work.

At the same hour, Ragna was leaning out of her window, gazing at the silvery Arno, bordered by its golden chain of lamps and barred by its light crowned bridges.

The pension was on the Lung Arno Acciajoli between the Ponte Vecchio, and the St. Trinita bridge, so that to the right she saw the Carraja bridge, and beyond that the long sweeping curve of the river towards the Cascini, and on the other hand above the Ponte Vecchio, the cypress crowned height of S. Miniato shadowy against the star-powdered sky.

"Here I shall find peace," she said to herself.

The dark spire of S. Spirito across the river drew her gaze, and beyond and behind it, on Bellosguardo, a white house stood out softly in the moonlight. The river rippled by gently, slipping past the stained walls of the gloomy old houses opposite overhung by the mystery of their forbidding black height, and out again into the light, reflecting the brightness of moon and stars, in a thousand flickering wavelets; from the _pescaja_ far below came the m.u.f.fled sound of the water flowing over the dam.

Down on the street some men were playing mandolins and guitars, and singing in mellow pa.s.sionate voices; the plaintive minor refrain of the _stornelli_ rose in the still night, and the girl's heart ached with the beauty of it all. Then silently, slowly, tears fell from her eyes; she suddenly felt lonely, miserable, shut out from love, shorn of the illusions that should be hers by right. The hated face of Mirko interposed itself between her and the beauty of the night, and the old shame gripped her by the throat. With a choking sob she flung the cas.e.m.e.nt to and crept into bed. From below the words of the song, swelling in the soft spring air, floated up to her: "_Metti anche tu, la veste bianca--_"

Ah, yes, the bride's dress of virgin white was indeed for her!

CHAPTER IX

The day had been a tiring one, for Estelle Hagerup had obliged the girls to spend it with her, sight-seeing, and the Uffizi and Pitti galleries stretched in endless dreary miles of painted canvas and chilly statuary in Ragna's tired head. Dinner was over and the motley collection of old maids, mothers with bevies of plain daughters and travelling clergymen had settled themselves for the evening in the tawdry drawing-room. Fru Bjork had taken out her knitting, Estelle was setting down in her diary the doings of the day. Astrid was deep in a book, only Ragna sat idle, her hands lightly clasped in her lap, her head resting against the back of the chair, the eyes half closed, the lips slightly parted. Ferrati nudged Valentini's arm as they entered the _salotto_.