The Patriot Part 42

Luisa, moved by an impulse of grat.i.tude, fell on her knees before her friend and buried her face in her lap. "You know," she said, "I no longer believe in G.o.d. At first I thought there must be a cruel G.o.d, but now I do not believe in the existence of any G.o.d. But if a loving G.o.d, such as He in whom you believe, did really, surely exist, He would not condemn a poor mother who has lost her only child, and who is struggling to persuade herself that a part of that child still lives!"

Ester made no reply. Almost every night for two years Luisa and her husband had evoked the spirit of the dead child. Professor Gilardoni, in whom there was a strange mingling of the free-thinker and the mystic, had read with great interest the marvellous tales that were told concerning the Fox sisters--Americans--and the experiments of Eliphas Levi, and had closely followed the spiritualistic movement which had spread rapidly in Europe, in the form of a mania that upset both heads and tables. He had spoken to Luisa about this movement, and Luisa, possessed and blinded by the idea that she might ascertain if her child did still exist, in which case she might in some way be able to communicate with her, seeing nothing else in all the marvellous facts and strange theories save this one luminous point, had besought him to make some experiments with Ester and herself. Ester believed in nothing supernatural outside the doctrines of Christianity, and did not, therefore, take the matter seriously. She willingly consented to place her hands on a small table, in the company of her friend and her husband, who, on the contrary, exhibited great zeal, and had faith in their chances of success. The first experiments were disappointing.

Ester, who found them tedious, would have liked to discontinue the attempts, but one evening, after twenty minutes of waiting, the little table tipped to one side, lifted a leg in the air, righted itself, and then tipped again, to Ester's great chagrin, but to the great joy of Luisa and the professor. The next night five minutes sufficed to make the table move. The professor taught them the alphabet, and then tried to summon a spirit. The table responded, knocking with its leg upon the floor according to the alphabet that had been arranged. The spirit evoked gave its name: Van Helmont. Ester was frightened and trembled like a leaf; the professor was trembling also, but with excitement. He wished to tell Van Helmont that he had his works in his library, but Luisa besought him to inquire where Maria was. Van Helmont answered: "Near!" Then Ester rose, as pale as a ghost, protesting that she would not continue, and neither Luisa's tears nor entreaties could move her.

It was sinful, sinful! Ester's religious sense was not deep, but she had a wholesome fear of h.e.l.l and the devil. For some time it had been impossible to resume the seances--she had a horror of them, and her husband did not venture to oppose her wishes. It was Luisa who, by dint of prayers and entreaties, at last obtained a compromise. The seances were resumed, but Ester took no part in them.

She did not even wish to know what took place. Only, whenever her husband seemed worried or preoccupied, she would throw out an uneasy allusion to the secret dealings in the study. Then he would be troubled, and offer to desist, but Ester had not the courage to face Luisa. For she had discovered indirectly that Luisa really believed she held communication with the child's spirit. Once she had said: "I shall not come to-morrow night because Maria does not wish it." At another time she had said: "I am going up to Looch because Maria wants a flower from her grandmother's grave." To Ester it seemed incredible that a head so clear and strong could be thus deluded. At the same time she realised the extreme difficulty of convincing her by gentle means, and all the cruelty of using harsh measures with her.

The professor lit a candle and went upstairs to the study, followed by Luisa. We are acquainted with this study that was like a ship's cabin, its shelves filled with books, its little fireplace, its windows overlooking the lake and the armchair in which Maria had gone to sleep one Christmas Eve. The room now contained something else. Between the fireplace and the window stood a small round table, with one central leg only, that branched out into three feet, about a hand's breadth from the floor.

"I am very sorry to cause Ester so much pain," said the professor as they entered the room. He placed the light on the writing-desk, but instead of preparing the little table and the chairs as usual he went to look out of the window at the pale light on the water and in the sky, amidst the surrounding shadows of night. Luisa stood motionless, and suddenly he faced about as if some magnetism had revealed her anguish to him. He saw appalling anguish on her face, and understood that she believed he had made up his mind to stop the seances, whereas he had only been tempted to do so, and, greatly moved, he seized her hands, telling her that Ester was good, that she loved her so much, that neither he nor she would ever willingly cause her suffering. Luisa did not answer, but the professor had all he could do to prevent her kissing his hand. While he was arranging the little table and the two chairs in the centre of the floor, she sank into the armchair, in a state of great depression.

"There!" said the professor.

Drawing a letter from her pocket Luisa handed it to him.

"I need Maria and you so much to-night," said she. "Read that. It is from Franco. You can begin with the fourth page." The professor did not hear these last words, but going to the light, began to read aloud:

"Turin, _February 18, 1859_.

"My OWN LUISA,--

"Do you know you have not written to me for a fortnight!"

"You can skip that," said Luisa, but at once corrected herself.

"No, perhaps you had better read it." The professor continued.

"This is my third letter to you since yours of the sixth.

Perhaps I was too violent in my first letter, and wounded you.

What a temper is this of mine, that makes me speak, and sometimes even write such harsh words when my blood is up! And what blood is this of mine that at two-and-thirty is as quick to boil as at two-and-twenty! Forgive me, Luisa, and permit me to return to the subject, and take back those words that may have offended you.

"At present there is no more talk here either of tables or of spirits, but only of diplomacy and war; in former years, however, spiritualism was very widely discussed, and several persons I both respect and esteem believed in it. I knew positively that many among them were simply deluded but I never doubted their good faith when they told me of conversations they had had with spirits. It would indeed seem that our imagination, when inflamed, can make us see and hear things that do not really exist. But I am willing to admit that in your case you are not deceived by your imagination; that your little table does really move and express itself exactly as you say. I was wrong to doubt this--I confess it--in the first place because you are so sure of not being mistaken, and secondly, because I am well aware of Professor Gilardoni's honesty. But to me this is a question of sentiment. I know that my sweet Maria lives with G.o.d, and I cherish the hope that some time I, with other souls dear to me, may go where she is. If she should appear before me unbidden, if, without having summoned her, I should hear the sound of her voice, clear and distinct, perhaps I should not be able to bear such joy. But I could never summon her, never force her to come to me. The thought is repugnant to me; it is contrary to that sense of veneration I feel for a Being who is so much nearer G.o.d than I am. Dear Luisa, I also speak to our treasure every day, speak to her of myself and of you as well; I am convinced that she sees us, that she loves us, that she can still do much for us even in this life. How I wish that your intercourse with her might be of the same nature! If, in answering your letter in which you allude to a communication from her I expressed myself too harshly, forgive me, not only in consideration of my hasty temper, but still more in consideration of my sentiments, which are indeed a part of my nature.

"Forgive me also in consideration of the atmosphere of intense excitement in which I am living here. My throat is perfectly well. Since war has been talked of, I have cast aside both camphor and sedative waters, but my nerves are in a state of such extraordinary tension that it seems as if, were they touched, sparks must fly from them. All this is partly due to the amount of work to be accomplished at the Home Office, where it is no longer a question of regular hours, but where even the humblest secretary, if he be conscientious, must strain every muscle. When I first obtained this position through the kindness of Count Cavour, I felt I was not really earning the bread the government gave me. This is no longer the case, but I am about to withdraw from this field of strenuous labour; and this brings me to another topic, to something I have long had in my heart, and which I now impart to you with feelings of indescribable emotion.

"In a week my friends and I are going to enlist in the army as volunteers, for the duration of the coming campaign. We are entering the ninth infantry regiment, stationed in Turin. Here at the Home Office they would like to keep me some time longer, but I intend to become familiar with my duties in the regiment before the campaign opens, and I have therefore simply promised not to leave the Office until the day before we enlist.

"Luisa, we have not seen each other for three years and almost five months! It is true you are under police surveillance, and that you may not go to Lugano, but I have several times proposed means to you of meeting me, at least at the frontier, or on the mountains, and you have never even answered. I believed I knew why. It was because you could not tear yourself away even for a short time, from a certain sacred spot. This seemed too much, and I confess I had many bitter feelings. Then I reproached myself, I felt I was selfish, and I forgave you.

Now, Luisa, circ.u.mstances have changed. I have no forebodings of evil; indeed, it seems impossible that I should be destined to end my days on a battlefield, nevertheless this is not impossible. I am going to take part in a war that promises to be one of the greatest, one of the longest and most desperate, for if Austria is risking her Italian provinces, we, and perhaps Emperor Napoleon as well, are risking everything. It is said we shall spend next winter beneath the walls of Verona.

Luisa, I cannot run the risk of dying without seeing you once more. I shall have only twenty-four hours, I cannot come to the frontier or to Lugano, and I should not be satisfied to spend ten minutes with you. Ask Ismaele to get you to Lugano in some way on the morning of the twenty-fifth of this month. Leave Lugano in time to reach Magadino at one o'clock, for you cannot go by way of Luino. At Magadino you must take the boat that leaves at about half-past one. At four or thereabouts you will reach Isola Bella, where I shall arrive at about the same hour from Arona. At this time of year Isola Bella is a desert. We can spend the evening together, and in the morning you will leave for Oria, I for Turin.

"I am writing to Uncle Piero to ask his forgiveness for depriving him of your company for one day.

"I do not apprehend any danger. The Austrians are thinking only of their arms, and their police are letting thousands of young men escape them, young men who come here to take up arms. The Austrians would be terrible the day after a victory, but, G.o.d willing! that day shall never dawn for them.

"Luisa, can it be possible I shall not find you at Isola Bella, that you may think you are pleasing Maria by not coming? But don't you know that if some one had said to my Maria, to my poor little darling--run and say good-bye to your papa, who is perhaps going away to die--how fast----"

The reader's voice trembled, broke, and was lost in a sob. Luisa hid her face in her hands. He placed the letter on her knees, saying with difficulty: "Donna Luisa, can you hesitate?"

"I am wicked," Luisa murmured. "I am mad!"

"But do you not love him?"

"Sometimes I think I love him very much, at other times not at all."

"My G.o.d!" the professor exclaimed. "But now? Are you not moved by the thought that you may never see him again?"

Luisa was silent, she seemed to be crying. Suddenly she started to her feet, pressing her hands to her temples, and fixed her eyes on the professor's face, eyes in which there were no tears, but in which there shone a sinister and angry light. "You don't know," she cried, "what there is here in my head! What a ma.s.s of contradictions, how many opposite thoughts that are struggling together, and always changing places with each other! When I received the letter I cried bitterly, and said to myself. 'Yes, my poor Franco, this time I will go!'--And then there came a voice that spoke here in my forehead, and said: 'No, you must not go because--because--because----'"

She ceased speaking, and the professor, terrified by the flashes of madness he saw in those eyes that were fixed on his, did not dare to ask for an explanation. The eyes, which still stared into his, gradually softened and became veiled with tears. Luisa took his hands, and said gently, timidly: "Let us ask Maria."

They sat down at the table and placed their hands upon it. The professor sat with his back to the light, which fell full upon Luisa's face. The little table was in the shadow. After eleven minutes of profound silence, the professor murmured:

"It is beginning to move."

In fact the table was gradually leaning over to one side. Presently it righted itself, and knocked once, lightly. Luisa's face brightened.

"Who are you?" said the professor. "Answer with the usual alphabet."

There came seventeen, then fourteen, then eighteen knocks, and then one alone. "Rosa," said the professor softly. Rosa was a little sister of his wife's who had died in infancy, and the table had knocked out this name on several previous occasions. "Go away," said Gilardoni. "Send Maria to us."

The table soon began to move again, and knocked out the words:

"It is I, Maria!"

"Maria, Maria, my own Maria!" whispered Luisa, her face a.s.suming an expression of intense joy.

"Do you know the contents of the letter your father has written to your mother?" Gilardoni inquired.

The table answered:

"Yes."

"What is your mother to do?"

Luisa was trembling from head to foot in anxious suspense. The table did not move.

"Answer," said the professor.

This time the table moved, but knocked out only an incomprehensible confusion of letters.

"We do not understand. Repeat."

The little table did not move again. "Repeat, I tell you!" said the professor, rather sharply.

"No, no!" begged Luisa. "Don't insist. Maria does not wish to answer."

But the professor was bound to insist. "It is not admissible that a spirit should not answer. You know very well we have often before been unable to understand what they said."

Luisa rose, greatly agitated, saying that rather than force Maria she should prefer to cut the seance short. The professor remained seated, lost in thought. "Hush!" said he at last.