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قراءة كتاب The Italians A Novel
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
under the table. Into this drawer she deposits all that lies before her, her fingers still clinging to the gold.
After a while she rises, and casting a parting glance at the portrait of Castruccio—among all her ancestors Castruccio was the object of her special reverence—she moves leisurely onward through the various apartments lying beyond the presence-chamber.
The doors, draped with heavy tapestry curtains, are all open. It is a long, gloomy suite of rooms, where the sun never shines, looking into the inner court.
The marchesa's steps are noiseless, her countenance grave and pale. Here and there she pauses to gaze into the face of a picture, or to brush off the dust from some object specially dear to her. She pauses, minutely observing every thing around her.
There is a dark closet, with a carved wooden cornice and open raftered roof, the walls covered with stamped leather. Here the family councils assembled. Next comes a long, narrow, low-roofed gallery, where row after row of portraits and pictures illustrate the defunct Guinigi. In that centre panel hangs Francesco dei Guinigi, who, for courtesy and riches, surpassed all others in Lucca. (Francesco was the first to note the valor of his young cousin Castruccio, to whom he taught the art of war.) Near him hangs the portrait of Ridolfo, who triumphantly defeated Uguccione della Faggiola, the tyrant of Pisa, under the very walls of that city. Farther on, at the top of the room, is the likeness of the great Paolo himself—a dark, olive-skinned man, with a hard-lipped mouth, and resolute eyes, clad in a complete suit of gold-embossed armor. By Paolo's side appears Battista, who followed the Crusades, and entered Jerusalem with Godfrey de Bouillon; also Gianni, grand-master of the Knights Hospitallers of St. John—the golden rose presented to him by the pope in the corner of the picture.
After the gallery come the armory and the chapel. Beyond at the end of the vaulted passage, lighted from above, there is a closed door of dark walnut-wood.
When the marchesa enters this vaulted passage, her firm, quick step falters. As she approaches the door, she is visibly agitated. Her hand trembles as she places it on the heavy outside lock. The lock yields; the door opens with a creak. She draws aside a heavy curtain, then stands motionless.
There is such a mist of dust, such a blackness of shadow, that at first nothing is visible. Gradually, as the daylight faintly penetrates by the open door, the shadows form themselves into definite shapes.
Within a deep alcove, inclosed by a balustrade, stands a bed—its gilt cornice reaching to the ceiling, heavily curtained. This is the nuptial-chamber of the Guinigi. Within that alcove, and in that bed, generation after generation have seen the light. Not to be born in the nuptial-chamber, and in that bed within the ancestral palace, is not to be a true Guinigi.
The marchesa has taken a step or two forward into the room. There, wrapped in the shadows, she stands still and trembles. A terrible look has come into her face—sorrow, and longing, and remorse. The history of her whole life rises up before her.
"Is the end, then, come?" she asks herself—"and with me?"
From pale she had turned ashy. The long shadows from the dark curtains stretch out and engulf her. She feels their dark touch, like a visible presence of evil, she shivers all over. The cold damp air of the chill room comes to her like wafts of deadly poison. She cannot breathe; a convulsive tremor passes over her.
She totters to the door, and leans for support against the side. Yet she will not go; she forces herself to remain. To stand here, in this room, before that bed, is her penance. To stand here like a criminal! Ah, God! is she not childless? Why has she (and her hands are clinched, and her breath comes thick), why has she been stricken with barrenness?
"Why, why?" she asks herself now, as she has asked herself year after year, each year with a fresh agony. Until she came, a son had never failed under that roof. Why was she condemned to be alone? She had done nothing to deserve it. Had she not been a blameless wife? Why, why was she so punished? Her haughty spirit stirs within her.
"God is unjust," she mutters, half aloud. "God is my enemy."
As the impious words fall from her lips they ring round the dark bed, and die away among the black draperies. The echo of her own voice fills her with dread. She rushes out. The door closes heavily after her.
Once removed from that fatal chamber, with its death-like shadows, she gradually collects herself. She has so long fortified herself against all sign of outward emotion, she has so hardened herself in an inner life of secret remorse, this is easy—at least to outward appearance. The calm, frigid look natural to her face returns. Her eyes have again their dark sparkle. Not a trace remains to tell what her self-imposed penance has cost her.
Again she is the proud marchesa, the mistress of the feudal palace and all its glorious memories.—Yes; and she casts her eyes round where she stands, back again in the retiring-room. Yes—all is yet her own. True, she is impoverished—worse, she is laden with debt, harassed by creditors. The lands that are left are heavily mortgaged; the money received from Count Nobili, as the price of the palace, already spent in law. The hoard she has just counted—her savings—destined to dower her niece Enrica, in whose marriage lies the sole remaining hope of the preservation of the name (and that depending on the will of a husband, who may, or may not, add the name of Guinigi to his own) is most slender. She has been able to add nothing to it during these last years—not a farthing. But there is one consolation. While she lives, all is safe from spoliation. While she lives, no creditor lives bold enough to pass that threshold. While she lives—and then?
Further she forbids her thoughts to wander. She will not admit, even to herself, that there is danger—that even, during her own life, she may be forced to sell what is dearer to her than life—the palace and the heirlooms!
Meanwhile the consciousness of wealth is pleasant to her. She opens the cupboards in the wall, and handles the precious vessels of Venetian glass, the silver plates and golden flagons, the jeweled cups; she examines the ancient bronzes and ivory carvings; unlocks the caskets and the inlaid cabinets, and turns over the gold guipure lace, the rich mediaeval embroideries, the christening-robes—these she flings quickly by—and the silver ornaments. She uncloses the carved coffers, and passes through her long fingers the wedding garments of brides turned to dust centuries ago—the silver veils, bridal crowns, and quaintly-cut robes of taffetas and brocade, once white, now turned to dingy yellow. She assures herself that all is in its place.
As she moves to and fro she catches sight of herself reflected in one of the many mirrors encased in what were once gorgeous frames hanging on the wall. She stops and fixes her keen black eyes upon her own worn face. "I am not old," she says aloud, "only fifty-five this year. I may live many years yet. Much may happen before I die! Cesare Trenta says I am ruined"—as she speaks, she turns her face toward the streaks of light that penetrate the shutters.—"Not yet, not ruined yet. Who knows? I may live to redeem all. Cesare said I was ruined after that last suit with the chapter. He is a fool! The money was well spent. I would do it again. While I live the name of Guinigi shall be honored." She pauses, as if listening to the sound of her own voice. Then her thoughts glance off to the future. "Who knows? Enrica shall marry; that may set all right. She shall have all—all!" And she turns and