Chapter VI: In the Tower of Pride

I

The engineer Luigi Alberti, Massimo's uncle, descended from a family of solid and respectable Milanese burghers, had a small apartment on the third floor of a house in Via San Spirito. The apartment was simple, furnished in an old-fashioned style, with old furniture, pictures, some of which were really good, and books, but devoid of modern conveniences, and a faithful reflection of its master's character. Luigi Alberti often used to say, in his Milanese dialect: "Sont un andeghee" ("I am an antique--a man of the past!"), and this with the air of one who has voluntarily withdrawn from the world, and lives in a solitary and cherished corner of his own. His humble spirit, his disregard for this world's goods, the purity of his life, his unostentatious generosity, marked him as a Christian of apostolic days. Parsimonious with himself, he was free-handed with his nephew Massimo, an orphan of insufficient means, of whom he was fond from a sense of duty rather than from any promptings of affection. His heart was engrossed in a sacred cult, the memory of his poor wife, who had died some years before, leaving him childless. She had been a woman of exemplary Christian virtues, with a keen intellect and gentle manners, and she had loved her husband devotedly, despite his few physical attractions, his ineptitude for social life, certain strange little ways, and his aversion to a rational modern spirit, to which she would gladly have opened their doors and adapted their mode of life. He would not take his nephew into his home, that he might not be obliged to change his own old-fashioned habits and those of his old servants, a man cook and a maid, who were devoted to him. Instead he set apart for Massimo three rooms on the second floor of his house, where the cook's wife waited upon him. In his intercourse with his nephew the engineer was always somewhat ill at ease, and kind rather than cordial. Massimo's father and mother had squandered their fortune by living beyond their means, and Massimo's refined ways appeared to fill his uncle with awe. In offering him, as his nearest relative, his generous assistance, a comfortable lodging, an allowance, and the hospitality of his board whenever he felt inclined to accept it, he had done so almost apologetically, and as if his offering had been unworthy of Massimo's position. Massimo himself was painfully conscious of the distance between his uncle and himself, not only in externals but in ideas. The engineer was intolerant in his political opinions to the verge of madness, and though not a "Clerical," being always guided in political matters by the _Perseveranza_, and voting even when this was forbidden by the ecclesiastical authorities, he had the fierce Clerical hatred of Modernism and religious reform. He disapproved of priests taking part in public life, and of their associating themselves with the political press. But in church and sacristy he respected their authority unquestioningly. So when he heard Massimo spoken of as a disciple of Benedetto, and Benedetto branded as a heretic and rebel, he was greatly distressed. He questioned several priests who he believed could inform him accurately, for he lacked the courage to speak openly to his nephew. He found some who told him that it was unfortunately true, that his nephew was identifying himself with those who refused to admit the fundamental doctrines of Catholicism, the Sacraments, and the authority of the Pope. Others assured him that this was not so. He continued to avoid mentioning the matter to Massimo, fearing to be dragged into a discussion, and his simple faith would not admit of discussion. Only once, in a letter, had he alluded to these fears of his. The young man's plain and entirely orthodox answer had reassured him, but only for a time. It was also a matter of regret to him that Massimo had not tried to put his medical studies to some use. He heard much talk of other studies of a theological and literary nature, of lectures on Science and Faith, and on Christian Socialism. "Bellissim rob!" ("Fine nonsense!") he had said to one who praised Massimo's activity. "Fine unprofitable nonsense!" But not even on this point would he express himself to Massimo. He felt it would be useless, and that he must be resigned to being unable to understand this specimen of the rising generation, and to being misunderstood by him. Reason decreed that Massimo should be his heir, and he fully intended to dispose of his belongings according to the dictates of reason, but his mental refrain was ever, "He will find only what he will find!"

Since his wife's death the engineer had kept no account of his expenditure. A very small portion of his not inconsiderable income sufficed for his own personal needs, the rest being divided between Massimo--to whom he made a fixed allowance--such needy persons as appealed to him, subscriptions to charitable institutions, and gifts to the small country town where he and his wife had spent many summers.

A month before his journey to Val d'Astico, Massimo had delivered two lectures at the Università Popolare, on "The Italian Reformers of the Sixteenth Century," wherein he had put forward the argument that had these men, many of whom were distinguished both for genius and virtue, not rebelled against the authority of the Church, their views would have been more widely accepted, and that the Church would have gained thereby. The engineer was scandalised by these lectures, as were the majority of Milanese Conservatives, who joined hands with Radicals and Socialists in crying anathema upon the lecturer. To the Conservatives he was a canting heretic, to the Radicals and Socialists a weakling, almost a coward, and to all a dreamer. The engineer expressed his opinion freely to several persons, and, among others, to a priest, Don Santino Ceresola by name, a warm-hearted creature, zealous in promoting good works, who at that very time was cherishing a plan for the founding of a most admirable institution, quite, however, beyond his means. He had often obtained large sums from the engineer for other purposes, and now he could not help reflecting that, should a rupture occur between uncle and nephew, his much dreamed of Home for Grammar School Students might gain by it. When his mind was taken up with a project such as this, the good man lost all sense of proportion, especially of the proportion of their means that his friends might be expected to subscribe, and his persistent harping on the one subject exasperated most people and rendered himself and his special charity alike odious. But he went on his way, rejoicing in this easy form of martyrdom, his bearing fully justifying the nickname of "Beata Ciapasü" ("Blessed Take-what-you-give-her!"), which he owed to his face, like that of an aged nun, his squeaking voice, and the beatitude with which he accepted money and insult alike. He had several times mentioned the Home to the engineer, who, having a level head, had always sought to convince him that he would not succeed in raising money enough even to buy the land. One day, after Massimo's departure for Velo d'Astico, the priest appeared in Via San Spirito in great delight, and with the news that an old lady had presented him with two thousand square metres of land at Porta Vittoria. He inwardly echoed the engineer's amazed "Is it possible?" and promptly determined to renew his siege upon the fund that had so often assisted him before. He began by begging the engineer to draw him a plan, just a little plan, just a sketch to begin with, with a rough estimate, just a few short lines. The engineer saw quite clearly what he was aiming at with all his diminutives and at first refused; but at last, yielding to the other's insistence, he exclaimed: "Well, listen, then! I will do my best with the plan, but as to money...!" And his laugh was full of meaning. The blessed one protested, "The idea!" He had never thought of asking him for money. Nevertheless the wedge had entered, and Don Santino's visits became frequent. The engineer was induced to go to Porta Vittoria with him on several occasions. Once the priest failed to find him at home, and so waited for him, talking the while with the maid, Bigin, whose confessor he was, and who was as simple at sixty as she had been at twelve. Don Santino told her his plans, first swearing her to secrecy, and then instructed her what to do to further them, almost going the length of promising her Paradise if she should manage to get his Home mentioned in her master's will. He inquired casually concerning the relations between uncle and nephew, and learned that on one occasion the uncle had spoken of his nephew's life as being wasted. Bigin could not promise much, because: "The Lord preserve me from speaking to him of his belongings! He will never stand any meddling on that subject!" However, should the occasion present itself.... But the occasion failed to present itself, mainly because it would have taken the good creature a century to grasp the true purpose of this _Pensionato_, this Home, which at first she took to be some superannuated and poverty-stricken clerk or employée whom her master was to be asked to support. "No, no; that is not it at all!" cried Don Santino gravely. "That is not it?" she queried. But after this she contented herself with committing to memory the five words, "_Il Pensionato_--Don Santino's Home," and with repeating to her master, in season and out, that if she were rich she would give Don Santino her shirt, a thing she did not do, but which, after all, she might have done easily enough, despite her lack of riches.

II

Having left Arsiero at six in the evening, Massimo reached Milan shortly after six the next morning. They were not expecting him at San Spirito. The engineer, who had been not very well for a couple of days, was still in bed, but the cook and his wife gave the young master an exceptionally warm welcome, the reason for which it would have been difficult to perceive. The pair had soon guessed the motive of Don Santino's frequent visits ... it was evidently some plan to get a lot of money out of their master. "You will see," Peppina had said to her husband, Togn. "That priest will keep at it until he has got everything away from him." It was easy to arrive at the conclusion that the master would die impoverished, and there would be no comfortable little pensions to the servants. Togn and Peppina united in blaming the stupidity of Bigin, who could not be made to see that, in speaking on behalf of her confessor, she was working for her own beggary. The good creature would retort, in horrified accents: "Aren't you ashamed to think of such things? Aren't you ashamed?"

The two, therefore, gave Massimo an unusually warm welcome, because they looked upon him as being equally involved in the threatened danger, and their only hope lay in his intervention. They decided to warn him at once, but this, they saw, must not be done too abruptly, nor before they had studied the best means of introducing the subject. Peppina, who was more grasping, more hot-headed and impatient, than her husband, would have liked to speak that very morning; but while they were still arguing, Massimo left the house on his way to Porta Magenta, where Don Aurelio's friend dwelt, not a stone's-throw from the Monastero Maggiore.

He walked slowly, thinking of Velo, of the silence of the chestnut-groves, of the deep voice of Posina; thinking also, against his will, of Leila. The vulgar façades of the houses on either side oppressed him, and he shrank from the noise and bustle of the city. He longed to see Don Aurelio again. It would be like another glimpse of Lago. The stones of Milan seemed to breathe a spirit of antagonism, the very spirit of the long letter he had received just before leaving the Montanina, and which he had read over and over again on the journey, enjoying the bitter satisfaction of realising its painfulness to the utmost. It had been written by a friend whom Massimo suspected of none too much loyalty either to himself or to the opinions he professed, and was a minute recital of hostile acts and words that had been directed against Massimo from the camps of the most unyielding Clericals and of the Modernists and from sceptical Milanese society. The society of St. Vincent de Paule had decreed the explusion of this member who had virtually constituted himself the apologist for the Italian heretics of the sixteenth century. The sale of his lectures had been prohibited, and there had been allusions in the Clerical press and in the pulpits to their insidious nature. In one Clerical house it had been reported that Massimo had gone to Velo d'Astico to seek Don Aurelio's assistance in preparing for the publication of a Modernist periodical. Moreover, most unedifying reports had been circulated concerning Massimo's relations with a certain married woman. This was the only part of the letter that amused Massimo, for the woman referred to was a most estimable person, and the reverse of all that is beautiful, graceful, and fascinating. In the Modernist camp they despised Massimo for a poor, priest-ridden, lukewarm, timid creature, who was incapable of freeing himself from the fetters of tradition and of rebelling against the Church's tyranny over the conscience. They looked upon him as an old young man, twenty years behind his times, not quite a Clerical, but differing only slightly from one, and they laughed at him.

In society the women, with but few exceptions, were more strongly opposed to him than the men. The latter set him down as a creature of indecision, a mediocrity given to half-measures. The women, even many who went to church regularly, accused him of pharisaism and of cowardice. His friend wrote that one evening he alone had defended him against the goddess major and the goddess minor of a certain aristocratic house, a mother and a daughter who were among his most bitter enemies, but the act was set forth more in the light of a virtue than as if the writer had really been convinced of the justice of his arguments.

None of these details were new to Massimo, who had left Milan in the midst of the storm; but as he had the feeling of having been absent a hundred years, he had been unprepared to find it still raging so severely on his return. Don Aurelio, in his place, would have prayed meekly for the malicious offenders, and would have consoled himself with the words of the "Imitation of Christ": "_Quid sunt verba nisi verba?_" But Massimo merely felt a supreme contempt for all this uproar; and if, during the past weeks, he had ever doubted his own faith, and had ever been tempted to withdraw from all religious controversy, now, confronted as he was by this host of hostile, mocking, or compassionate faces, he burned to show them how unyieldingly he stood his ground.

Don Aurelio and his friend had both gone out. The servant believed they had gone to see the Archbishop, but they might return at any moment, and Massimo met them on the stairs as he was going away. At first Don Aurelio hardly recognised him. In Milan? How was this? On catching sight of Massimo the other priest's face darkened. He was a most excellent man, unbending as regards doctrine, but just and charitable, incapable of playing the spy and of hypocrisy. He defended Don Aurelio because his Rosminian views were known to him, as were his exemplary life and great piety. But he had disapproved of Massimo's lectures, and knowing the young man but slightly, believed a certain amount of the scandal that had been circulated concerning him.

Massimo understood, and instead of detaining Don Aurelio, asked him to come and see him towards noon. Then, notwithstanding the early hour--it was barely ten o'clock--he decided to call upon the very lady whose name had been so maliciously coupled with his. She had sent him a note to San Spirito on the previous day, begging him to come and see her at any hour, as soon as he reached Milan. Massimo now went out of courtesy, but not willingly, despite the affinity in political and religious views that had once drawn them together in a common effort at propaganda. The good lady, possessed not only of a husband to whom his wife's visionary schemes were a constant trial, but of four big sons as well, each more badly brought up and ill-mannered than the others, received Massimo with an embarrassing outburst of affectionate anxiety. At last! At last! But, dear Alberti!... What had he been doing? Why had he run away? Why had he stayed away so long? What had he taken into his head? Did he not know that things had been getting worse and worse here? Did he not know they were all against him? Had he been here he might have defended himself, might have convinced them--but instead he had disappeared, and no one had known anything about him. There had even been a rumour that he had entered a convent, like that master of his--some said at Subiaco, some at Praglia. And did he know this and had he heard that? Hereupon the lady who, in theory, professed a lofty contempt for the world and its doings, but in practice revelled in every bit of slightly improper gossip that was brought to her, related to Massimo more or less the same things that his friend's letter had contained. On reaching the most delicate point, she covered her far from youthful face with both hands and exclaimed, between groans and laughter: "Dio! Dio! Alberti! Don't you know you should not be here? that perhaps I am doing wrong to receive you? Have you heard what they have dared to say?"

Now, the lady had a very good-looking parlourmaid, and Massimo, who was irritated beyond measure by the torrent of gossip that had spread in so many directions, and who was also keenly alive to the ridiculous side of the situation, could not resist saying:

"What have they said? That I come here to make love to your parlourmaid?"

For a moment his hostess was perplexed, but she was too simple and good-natured to take offence, and was even relieved by his mistake, for she believed Alberti to be incapable of deceit. Not until after his departure, when she paused to examine the nature of his mistake, did she ask herself how he had happened to notice the girl's youth and grace, and in her simple heart she exclaimed, "Just think of that, now!" But at the time she promptly changed the subject, with a hasty, "Enough, enough! We had better not discuss it!" And she brought forward a plan about which she was enthusiastic--a plan for a third lecture. He really must deliver a third lecture to explain the first and the second, and correct certain impressions, especially that of subservient submission to authority.

She had consulted several of her women friends, and was in a position to suggest a subject that was at once most interesting and most appropriate--"From Döllinger to Loisy." "My dear friend," said Massimo, "if I take up the pen again, which I doubt, it will be to use it as a lash."

On reaching home towards noon he found a telegram from Donna Fedele announcing Signor Marcello's death. The news filled him with astonishment, and grieved him most deeply. He had not realised how fond he was of the old man. He went in to greet his uncle with the telegram in his hand, his face wearing an expression of sorrow. Usually their meetings were painfully silent, both uncle and nephew--the younger man especially--racking their brains to find topics of conversation that would not lead to an unpleasant clashing of views. On this occasion the sad news relieved them of the difficulty. The telegram contained the information that another would follow, stating the day and hour of the funeral.

"Shall you go?" the engineer inquired.

Massimo hesitated slightly. A "yes" rose to his lips, but he answered "No" resolutely, in order to bind himself and to avert all danger of yielding to a possible weakness. The engineer made no comment, but his expression said plainly that the "no" struck him as strange. "You will want to send a telegram," said he, and offered to send the cook out with it after luncheon. But Massimo declared this would be unnecessary. He would send it himself. He lunched with his uncle and then withdrew to his own apartment, his heart full of visions of Leila alone and in tears in the villa over which hung the shadow of death. He took up his pen to write the telegram. Once more the desire assailed him to go--to see her again. He flung down his pen, crying aloud in an angry voice:

"Good God! How weak I am!"

He glanced anxiously about him, fearful lest some one might have heard. Once more he seized his pen and reflected. He sought for unusual words, words that should adequately express his sentiments towards the dead man and towards the living woman. But they would not come. Then he decided that a telegram, couched in conventional terms, would be more fitting. And what if, instead of a telegram, he should send a letter? He decided at last to telegraph to Donna Fedele and to write to the Signorina, and rapidly wrote as follows:

"SIGNORINA,--I feel sure that you are mourning for one who has been a father to you. I myself mourn for him even more deeply perhaps, grateful above everything for his affection and esteem. I bless his memory as I do that of his son.

"MASSIMO ALBERTI."

Peppina announced Don Aurelio. The sad news that Massimo had to tell him filled him with sorrow, but did not surprise him. He had foreseen this, but had not expected it to happen so soon. Poor Signor Marcello! After his last confession he had spoken of Signorina Leila, expressing grief that he must leave her, soon probably, alone and unprotected, exposed to the danger of falling into her father's hands again, and to a destiny no one could foresee. Here Don Aurelio paused and looked inquiringly at Massimo. Massimo replied without waiting for further questions.

"You see, I am here." Don Aurelio gave silent sympathy. Presently he asked softly if his friend were going to the funeral. "No," said the young man; "I shall write. Or rather, I have already written. Read this." And he handed him the letter. Don Aurelio studied it for a while.

"That is good," he said at last. "I can see why you have used the word 'affection,' but I cannot say why you say 'esteem' as well."

"Believe me," said Massimo, "it is the right word."

Don Aurelio returned the letter with a sigh, and without demanding further explanations, which he felt would be distressing. Then he told of his visit to the Archbishop, to whom he had presented a letter from the Bishop of Vicenza. His Eminence had received him most kindly, and promised to take him into his diocese. Naturally, it might be some time before the right place was found for him, and meanwhile, in order that he might earn something, they would get him some pupils. The autumn was approaching, there were the October examinations in view, and it was a favourable time. Finally, assuming a fatherly air, the Archbishop had advised him to keep much to himself, and then, with a smile, that was also fatherly, he had alluded to the priests of Velo d'Astico. "I can fancy what they are like," he had said. "Good men, but the sort that see heretics everywhere. I know a priest who came to me to denounce a colleague of his as a heretic because he so disliked wine that he made his salad with lemon instead of vinegar!" In a word, Don Aurelio was more than satisfied with his visit. And how about his books? What would become of them? Massimo reassured him. Donna Fedele would attend to everything. He was curious to know what Don Aurelio's friend had said of him, after their meeting on the stairs.

"I noticed the face he pulled," said Massimo.

Don Aurelio smiled.

"He told me several unpleasant things about you, but all in perfect good faith, poor man, for he was only repeating what he had heard! He informed me that you were a Theosophist, that you did not believe in the divinity of Christ, in the Resurrection, in the Real Presence, and so forth and so on. To tell the truth, I had all I could do to convince him that he was mistaken. Once convinced, however, he was greatly relieved. Nevertheless, he advised me not to see too much of you."

"We will write to each other," said Massimo. "Besides, I do not intend to stay long in Milan."

He proceeded to enlighten his friend concerning the troubles and vexations that made life in Milan a burden to him, and then he opened his heart to him about certain other anxieties that would prevent his going away again immediately. In his own right he possessed only forty thousand lire, which sum was invested in a mortgage that would shortly be paid off. His uncle, besides the hospitality that was always open to him, made him an allowance of two hundred lire a month. The sixteen hundred lire that his own capital produced represented the small foundation of his independence. Notwithstanding his affection and respect for his uncle, Massimo could not help fearing that the deep-rooted, though unacknowledged, disparity in their views would one day bring about a crisis which would make it impossible for him to continue to accept his uncle's generosity. Therefore, as he was disinclined to practise medicine, and his favourite occupations not being of a money-producing nature, he must find some profitable investment for his small fortune. He told Don Aurelio these things with a melancholy smile for having to consider such matters which harass even the most fervent idealist. The conditions made it imperative for him to look out for some one who wished to borrow capital, to go through formalities with notaries, and draw up contracts, or he might be obliged to make inquiries into the stability of bank shares, of shares in industrial enterprises, or to consider other similar undertakings. He could not think of Government bonds, for at the rate of interest they were then producing his income would have been diminished by two hundred lire. "And two hundred lire," he said, "represents a sum which may mean much to me."

The friends went out together, Don Aurelio to pay a call which he hoped would result in two lessons a week, and Massimo to post his letter and telegraph to Donna Fedele.

III

The next morning Peppina informed Massimo that her husband begged for an audience. The man came in, and Peppina also put in an appearance again, but remained standing near the door, a few steps behind her husband, and in an attitude of reinforcement. Hardly had Togn uttered his introductory, "Well, you see...." than he began to flounder in an ocean of excuses for what he was going to say. "Begging your pardon, sir.... It may not be my place.... It is not fitting.... I know that.... But, after all.... Well, there!... Certain goings on.... It is entirely on your account.... One can't always hold one's tongue.... Certain goings on.... Ain't that so, wife?..." Peppina, thus appealed to, murmured, "Exactly!" and with a final, "Well, there!" Togn brought his preamble to a close.

He began the second part of his oration in much the same manner, however: "Well, you see...." And, looking over his shoulder from time to time to solicit confirmation from his wife with an "Ain't that so, Peppina?" he proceeded to relate the manœuvres of Blessed Take-what-you-give-her! He briefly sketched the priest's career, dwelling especially upon this last episode, the institution to be erected at Porta Vittoria, the gift of land, and the frequent, almost daily visits to the engineer. Thus he prepared a final effect in which his language became somewhat stronger, and was coloured by that special form of cant, the prophecy of evil: "Well, I can solemnly assure you that this Ciapasü will be the ruin of this house! I warn you because it is my duty to do so--which is the wife's opinion also--ain't it, Peppina? And you can trust us. Now I had better tell you exactly how matters stand."

But Massimo did not hear the prophetic recital of the machinations that threatened the engineer's "pile," because he promptly interrupted the orator as soon as he had grasped the true meaning of the discourse. How was this? Was the engineer not master of his own money? What right had they to complain if he spent it in one way rather than another? Seeing the evil turn matters had taken, the couple protested that they had dared this step solely in Massimo's interest, whereupon the young man became so furious that the unfortunate pair made a hasty exit, leaving behind them a string of frightened excuses.

Later in the day Massimo went to see his notary. On his way home he met the friend who had written him the famous letter, and who had been to San Spirito in search of him, wishing to carry him off to lunch at the house of a certain lady with whom both were acquainted. Massimo declined the invitation, but his friend insisted. He had received a note from the lady, couched in terms of Napoleonic firmness. "I know that Alberti is in Milan. Bring him to lunch to-morrow, dead or alive." Massimo's friend himself had had his invitation three days before, and believed it was going to be a large gathering. This hostess, who was clever, selfish, sentimental, and cultured, sometimes indulged in the amusement of inviting a lot of people of the most opposite tendencies, demanding only, if they were stupid, that they be either rich or titled; if intellectual, that they have a clean shirt, but even accepting certain celebrities with a dirty one. Some few objected to these gatherings, and never went a second time, but most of her guests were glad to come again, some because of her chef's skill, or the quality of her wines, some because of their hostess's clever conversation and the splendour of her house, so that they might boast of their invitation and either praise or abuse everything. Massimo was convinced that the lady wished to have him simply in order to play him off against his enemies. He could already imagine her self-justification: "I asked you out of pure friendship, in order that you might have an opportunity of explaining your position." Whereas, in reality, her sole motive would have been that she might enjoy the spectacle of a struggle between clever adversaries. She might accuse him of cowardice, but what was that to him? Under no conditions and from no one would he accept an invitation to lunch while poor Signor Marcello still lay upon his deathbed. His friend declared that this was going too far, but failed to move Massimo by his arguments.

The young man lunched with his uncle, whom he found quite restored to his usual health, and in conversation with Don Santino. On catching sight of Massimo the priest hurried away almost in a state of panic. His uncle did not mention this visit until after coffee was served, and Bigin, who had waited upon them, had gone to have her own lunch. Then he spoke softly, in a tone that was exaggeratedly confidential, and as if by the simple words, "You saw that priest?" he had been divulging a secret concerning the safety of his money. His confidential communications rambled on, always in an undertone, always good-natured, unusually affectionate in tone if somewhat confused in substance, owing to his preoccupation with the thought of a fixed goal, and his anxiety lest he should be checked by some one or something before reaching it. The engineer's face wore a pleased expression, and, in the beginning, his chuckles almost outnumbered his words. The chuckles were evoked by thoughts of the cook and his wife, who could not endure the sight of the priest. Their master had noticed this, had guessed their secret fears and laughed at them, for his great kindness to his domestics did not prevent his valuing them at their real worth, and, perhaps, at a little less. And so he had guessed that they hated the sight of the priest because they feared he might "reduce them to their shirts." The cook had once said to him, "That priest knows what he is about when he comes here!" The parlourmaid was different. She was all devotion to Don Santino. The engineer had one day told Bigin that he was prepared to give this holy man everything he possessed, for he was sure she would repeat this to the cook. He had said more or less the same thing to Peppina also. "On purpose, you know!" said he in a soft falsetto, and chuckling with satisfaction at his own cunning. Then he began talking seriously of the priest's plans and his own intentions. He had made up his mind to give his assistance as architect, plus a sum of five thousand lire. The priest was hoping to get much more out of him, but as to that ... and the excellent man concluded, "He has got his head turned!" He added that he knew his own duty, and not only his duty towards his servants. Massimo reflected that his uncle must have heard of his interview with Togn, and that by this discourse of his he was simply seeking to reassure him. This greatly annoyed the young man. He protested that his uncle had no obligations save those towards his domestics. While he was speaking the engineer kept mumbling, "Well, well, well!" his eyes fixed upon the tablecloth, his hands moving as if to ward off his nephew's words. When he could, he ejaculated, "Just listen to me now!" and then proceeded to make a sort of testamentary declaration of principles, in that tone of gentle firmness he sometimes assumed. He was entirely free to do what he liked with the income derived from his profession, but what he had inherited from his parents must go to relatives. Hereupon Massimo protested even more warmly. The engineer frowned, appearing to wish to convey to him that this was a matter of duty rather than of affection, and finally exclaiming excitedly, "Well, we will drop the subject--we will drop it--for now I must take my 'constitutional' for the sake of my digestion!" he rose from the table and so dismissed his nephew. When he was taking his constitutional, by walking fifty times backwards and forwards through a suite of four small rooms, he always preferred to be alone. Massimo went out, fully determined to leave Milan, to provide for himself, to do all that lay in his power in order that his uncle might have no reason to look upon him as a burden and a check upon his works of charity.

IV

Before dinner the same friend came to look up Massimo again. The hostess, disappointed at not having him to lunch, hoped to see him in the evening. It was not a reception night, and Alberti would meet only a few friends.

He went there towards half-past nine, and found his hostess alone with her unmarried daughter, a girl of about five-and-twenty. The Signora had not expected him so early, and seemed almost disappointed, for she was secretly alarmed lest he had come early in order to leave early, which intention would have upset her plans. She was most gracious, and at once referred to his sorrow, inquiring about the dead man, the villa, and the country. But she had soon buried poor Signor Marcello and forgotten him, and passing easily from the tone of condolence to that of jest, she inquired with a smile, but without offering any explanation for her question, if Praglia was far from Velo d'Astico. Massimo's face flushed hotly, and he was on the point of retorting that it was as far from it as all the Milanese tongues--save her own--were from telling the truth, when fortunately two men and two women were announced. These new-comers received a cordial welcome from the unmarried daughter, who had been hardly civil to Massimo, and had sat reading a newspaper while he was telling of the Montanina and of Signor Marcello. The two women were foreigners. One, who was young and very handsome, was a Russian. The other, old and ugly, was a Swiss. The elder of the two men was a professor at Pavia, a big, stout man, clumsily built and noisy, and very gallant. The other, who was young and slim, was a politician, who took a lively interest in intellectual matters, and who also was a ladies' man, but possessed of far greater refinement than the professor. Massimo was more or less well acquainted with all four. The name of the handsome Russian, a mystic Theosophist, had even been coupled with his by the Milanese world. She had, indeed, displayed a liking for him, and Massimo could forgive her her theosophic mythology in consideration of her beauty, her cleverness, and also of her mysticism. The elderly Swiss, who was a frigid Positivist, always spoke of Massimo as bigoted and retrograde. The politician was strongly inclined to esteem this young man, who was so full of idealism, and whom so many were attacking. But not having much moral courage, he would not have dared to take up the cudgels in his defence.

As soon as the four appeared Massimo realised that his hostess proposed to start a discussion. He was glad of the presence of the professor and the elderly Swiss woman, who stimulated the spirit of strife within him. None of the new arrivals took much notice of him at first, and the professor and the Swiss immediately began to quarrel. Their opinions were really identical on all points, but when, in a discussion, his elderly friend found herself confronted by another woman, both young and attractive, the professor would at once join forces with the latter. Hereupon the Swiss would show her irritation so plainly, and say so many sharp things to the professor, that his delight knew no bounds, and when occasion presented he never failed to introduce a discussion with this end in view. The kindling which he most frequently used to set the fire ablaze was some outrageous proposition concerning love. But this would no longer serve, for the old lady had become over familiar with the trick. This time the professor chose a fresh opening. Russia, he said, should declare war against Switzerland on account of the Nihilist refugees. The Swiss dame immediately attacked him, with coarse personal allusions.

Every one laughed, the Russian girl and the professor most heartily of all, while the elderly woman continued her tirade in French, declaiming against "_cet homme insupportable_." The politician, to whom the subject of Russia appealed, offered to negotiate peace at St. Petersburg. Hereupon the old woman turned upon him and was backed by the professor, until at last the hostess succeeded in making her voice heard--a small, husky voice, like the high notes of a diminutive piano, enclosed in a packing-case and played upon by spirits. "Enough, enough! I myself shall dictate the terms of peace! And what do you say, Alberti? Say something!"

The name of Alberti rather than her imperious "Enough!" had the effect of oil upon the waters, and the sudden silence seemed to say, "What has he to do with it? What can he say?" As a matter of fact Alberti answered that he had nothing to say--really nothing, but as there was strife going on, he should take refuge in armed neutrality. "Then you will have us all against you!" said the Swiss. The Russian woman, who had, as yet, hardly opened her lips, here murmured, "Yes, indeed!" and the hostess's unmarried daughter smiled meaningly. The professor was taking careful note of all these bad symptoms. Things were looking black for this Alberti. "But Alberti is armed," said the politician pleasantly. The hostess, greatly pleased at the turn the conversation was taking, gave it a final push.

"You were wise to arm yourself, Alberti," said she, laughing, "for Signorina Grüssli has warlike intentions."

"Yes, indeed!" cried the sexagenarian Grüssli. "And I am glad to be able to tell Signor Alberti so, because we have talked a great deal together in the past, and although our views differed, I have never been so displeased with him as I am now. Oh, no!"

"But why, why?" demanded the hostess, anxious to fan the flame.

"It is needless to say. All present know, and Signor Alberti best of all."

"I assure you I do not," said Alberti with a cold smile. "But in any case----"

"You mean you don't care a rap for me? But there are others I fancy for whom you will care. If you don't know I am going to tell you. I attended your lectures on the heretics of the sixteenth century, my dear sir, and I and many others with me did not approve of your saying they should have held their tongues and obeyed! Ask these ladies and gentlemen here!"

The professor protested, declaring himself to be too much of a Positivist, too far removed from Alberti's ideas and from any religious sentiment to care whether heretics be spoken of in one way rather than another. To him there was no difference between heretics of whatever shade and Catholics of whatever school. He might, perhaps, admit that unyielding Catholics, being the most logical, were therefore the least uncongenial to him. The Swiss dame caught him up sharply. She admitted there was little to choose between heretics, Modernists, and Papists, but there was the moral question, the question of self-respect, of honesty. "I should think so!" said the daughter of the house. But it was the handsome Làlina, the Russian, who added fuel to the fire.

"I am not a Positivist," she began, speaking in French, "but my disappointment was far greater than Signorina Grüssli's, and I am glad to be able to tell Signor Alberti so. I hold Anne Besant's views, but I might perhaps have become a Catholic had the ideas contained in Signor Alberti's articles been recognised by his Church. I was enthusiastic about those articles. I thought their author would prove an apostle full of faith and ready to accept martyrdom. But his lectures showed me plainly enough that he is no such apostle, that he would not even seek a stone-cold pile."

Here the daughter of the house laughed, putting as much impertinence as possible into her laugh; and her mother sought to ease matters by saying, not without a flash of mirth in her eye:

"Oh, poor Alberti! How they are abusing him!"

"As to the pile," said the politician, "it seems to me Alberti went out of his way to find it, and that he is standing upon it at the present moment. It may not be a pile of the Holy Inquisition, and it is probably of '_bois de sandale_,' but nevertheless I can smell the odour of burning. But as far as that goes, Signorina Grüssli, I also burn without any pile at all."

"That may be," cried the Swiss woman, "but there is no odour of burning about _you_--only of cooking!"[3]

Meanwhile Alberti was thinking: "Shall I refrain from telling these foolish creatures the truth, just because they are women? If they keep it up I certainly shall speak out!" His hostess claimed his attention.

"Why don't you speak, Alberti? Why don't you defend yourself?"

"He has been burnt at the stake," the professor cried gaily. "Let us at least respect his ashes!"

"No," said Massimo, delighted to have hit upon a harsh answer. "I will not defend myself. I should be in danger of convincing many. I have isolated myself, and you cannot think how delightful it is to be alone. I do not feel the slightest desire to defend myself. Allow me to remain silent. Should I speak, I might utter words of too defiant, too violent a nature."

"But we don't ask you for humility and gentleness. We ask you for reasons," the hostess retorted.

"No, no, dear lady, I have not heard any one ask for reasons!"

"But I do--I ask for them," she pressed.

"Ah, you only!" said Massimo. He was silent for a moment and then went on, smiling: "I have something to ask for also. I would not accept Signorina Làlina's 'stone-cold pile' because it would not even serve to make a cup of tea. I should like to know if this other terrible pile upon which they tell me I am standing will heat a cup for me?"

"Don't get furious, Alberti!" his hostess warned, while her daughter murmured:

"He will bite us presently!"

"Oh, no, Signorina!" said Massimo, laughing. "You may beware of me in the future, but at present I am muzzled."

Tea was served in another room. His hostess took Massimo aside.

"Why did you refuse to defend yourself?" said she. "It was a mistake. The professor raised a great to-do against you, even at the University."

"What is that to me?" said Massimo, and he entered into conversation with the two foreigners, showing himself in a more amiable mood. He made no effort, however, to be amiable to the daughter of the house. Signorina Grüssli and the Russian might not be very level-headed, and they were not deliberative nor sufficient, intellectually, for the part they wished to play, but they were at least honest, and enthusiastic in support of their own views. The hostility displayed by the daughter of the house was based upon conceit and ignorance.

* * * * *

On leaving, the politician offered to accompany Massimo. "Well, well, my dear Alberti," he began, taking the young man's arm as they reached the street. "You did quite right not to get into a discussion. Those are people who reason little and poorly. The professor is about as clever as a rhinoceros, and as to the women--they do what they can, poor things! Even the Russian! She is awfully pretty, but there are other topics besides religion I should like to discuss with her. She certainly is awfully pretty. But never mind that. I wish you would kindly enlighten me a little, for I am really very much in the dark. Answer me seriously, exactly as you honestly feel, and I promise not to betray you. Do you really believe that this old bark of St. Peter's will not end at last in some shed connected with the Navy Department? Or, at least, do you really believe it can go on being propelled by oars or by wind, and that St. Peter himself will not sooner or later be forced to get a motor? You are not to answer me as you would do in public. I know well enough how you would answer there. Of course you call yourself a Catholic. One might as well put such a question to the Cardinal of Milan. I am asking you for your private opinion--here--between ourselves. Will you give it to me?"

"Why not?" said Massimo. "I will answer you as Pius IX answered those cardinals who were saying how safe was the bark amidst the tempest. The bark will neither sink, nor run aground, nor end in a shed. But as to the crew--that is quite another matter."

"Words, words!" said his disappointed interlocutor. "This is a jest. I did not ask you for a jest."

"I beg your pardon, but the matter of the shed, the oars, and the motor was a jest also. But if you really wish it I will answer you seriously. If I believed that the Church to which I belong could fall, I would not wait for an earthquake, but leave it at once. But I assure you that not even an earthquake could drive me out of it, such is my faith in its foundations."

"Happy man!" cried the honourable deputy, stopping, and dropping Massino's arm. "But look here--besides the visible Church you Catholics have an invisible one, have you not? Well, then, in your place, I should feel a great deal safer in the invisible Church in case of an earthquake."

They were standing in front of Café Cova, where a group of friends were awaiting the politician. "Listen to me," said he. "You are young and I am almost old. I have a great liking for you, and I am going to take the liberty of giving you a piece of advice. Don't think so much about religion. Be satisfied with your own beliefs and practices, but don't meddle with religious questions for the general public. Our public gets out of patience when too much religion is forced upon it. It cannot understand that a young man like you should be so deeply interested in matters that concern another world than this. Do you see?" The political personage pronounced that smiling and familiar "Do you see?" with all the warmth of his liking for the young man, and also with somewhat of gentle authority, the authority of that world that did not understand Massimo, of a great and powerful world composed of men who have reached comfortable places, and are persuaded that the great essential is to get as much enjoyment as possible out of life--and of other men who have not yet "arrived," who are engrossed in politics, and who, not in words but in their secret souls, set slight value upon everything that is devoid of political importance, and is outside the field of the struggle for political power.

"No, I don't see!" Massimo replied, laughing. "I must tell you that I delight in vexing the public."

"A strange taste, my boy!" said the elder man, and entered the café.

Finding himself alone, Massimo started homewards. He was pleased with himself--bitterly, fiercely pleased. His tower of pride was a comfortable place, whence he could look out upon Leila, his uncle, the hostile world, the scoffing world, the indifferent world. In his thoughts he raised it as high as the clouds, covered it with gold and steel, and joyed in dwelling alone in his impregnable stronghold. In his preoccupation, instead of turning out of Via Manzoni into Via Monte Napoleone, he kept straight on as far as the arches of Porta Nuova. Now it was a question of choosing a place somewhere outside of Milan, whither he might transport his tower. Thinking and searching, he passed the arches. The idea of applying for a post as parish doctor somewhere in the mountains, which had flashed across his mind at the Montanina, again took possession of him. Meanwhile, he wandered onward as far as the railway bridge, where he was once more aroused by the sense of topographical reality.

On reaching home he sat down to write to Donna Fedele to excuse his absence from the funeral. But while writing, it occurred to him that he might pay a visit to the Velo cemetery instead in the course of a few days. He could easily go there from the Seghe station, between two trains. He tore up his note and wrote another, announcing that on the 4th of July, at one o'clock, he would leave the train at Seghe for this visit, and expressing the hope that his friend would bear him company.

FOOTNOTES:

[3] To be cooked, in colloquial Italian, means to be over head and ears in love.--TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.