THE FOOL ERRANT - World eBook Library - World Public Library

and above all Tuscany, took sacred air from her; there grew to be an aureole about everything which owned kinship with her. I
was a severe ritualist, as every lover is: it became a blasphemy in me to think of Aurelia in any form of words but those of her
own honey tongue. And that was of the purest in the land. She had very little Venetian at any time, and kept what she had for
her husband and household management. To me she employed her native speech, not the harsh staccato of Florence, a stringent
compound of the throat and the teeth, but the silken caressing liquids of Siena, the speech of women to their lovers, of St.
Catherine to her Spouse. So I became expert in Tuscan, and after the same fashion in Tuscany also. She was deeply and
burningly proud of that land of art and letters; she knew something of its history, something (if not much) of its monuments. Such
as it was it sufficed me. Inspired by her, I began the study of literature, and if at first I read disingenuously, I went on to read
with profit. The "Vita Nova" of Dante enabled me, perhaps, to touch upon topics with her which I could not have dared to do
without its moving text; but it won me to the heart of the great poet. I walked the dire circles of Hell, I scaled the Mount of
Purgatory, I flew from ring to ring of the Heaven of pure light. Aurelia was my Beatrice; but the great Florentine and his lady
were necessarily of the party. And then I began, as men will, to take the lead. Aurelia had exhausted her little store when she
had named Giotto and Dante: I took her further afield. We read the Commentaries of Villani, Malavolti's History of Siena, the
Triumphs of Petrarch, his Sonnets (fatal pap for young lovers), the Prince of Machiavelli, the Epics of Pulci and Bojardo, and
Ariosto's dangerously honeyed pages. Here Aurelia was content to follow me, and I found teaching her to be as sweet in the
mouth as learning of her had been. I took enormous pains and consumed half the night in preparation for the morrow's work. I
abridged Guicciardini's intolerable History, I hacked sense out of Michael Angelo's granite verses, weeded Lorenzo of
disgustfulness, Politian of pedantry. The last thing we read together was the Aminta of Tasso; the last thing I had of her was the
"Little Flowers of St. Francis," a favourite book of her devotion. My Saint, she called St. Francis of Assisi—as in one sense no
doubt he was; but, "Aurelia," I had replied, kissing both her hands, "you know very well who is my saint. I should have been
named Aurelius." She had said, "It is a good name, Aurelio. There are many who have it in my country." "You shall call me
nothing else, "said I then; but she shook her head, and hung it down as she whispered softly, "I like best Francesco," and then,
so low as to be hardly audible, "Checho," the Sienese diminutive for my name of Francis. Old Nonna came in to hound me from
the room. That night—it was my last but one—Aurelia came to the door with me, and let me kiss her two hands again.
I have come to the hour of my destruction—the 16th of June, 1722. The smouldering fires which had laboured in my breast for
nine months burst into a flame which overwhelmed both Aurelia and me. I committed an unpardonable sin, I endeavoured to
repair it with an act of well-nigh incredible temerity. What occurred on that night is, in fact, the origin of these Memoirs and their
sole justification. The dawn of that momentous day found her a loving and honoured wife; and its close left her, innocent as she
was, under the worst suspicion which can fall upon a good woman. It found me a hopeful gentleman of means and prospects;
and I went out of it into the dark, a houseless wanderer, to consort with profligates, thieves and murderers.
CHAPTER IV. FATAL AVOWAL
I shall not deny that the overnight's tenderness may have wrought in me the dangerous ecstasy which was to prove so cruel a
requital of it; for it is of the nature of love to be inflamed by the least hint of a neighbouring, answering fire. I believe that I could
have been for ever Aurelia's mute, adoring, unasking slave, but for the fact that she had sighed, and whispered me "Checho,"
and twice suffered me to kiss her hands. Fatal benevolence that lifted suddenly the meek! Fatal wealth bestowed that made the
pauper purse-proud! I had passed the night in a transport of triumphant joy; throughout the day succeeding it I felt my wings.
"Nunc," I could exclaim with Propertius.
"Nunc mihi summa licet sidera contingere plantis." And that exalted strain, which was my perdition, alas, was hers also!
That which followed was a very hot still night, with thunder in the Euganean hills; and Aurelia may have been lax or languid, or in
my miserable person some of the summer's fire may have throbbed. It was late, near nine o'clock; already old Nonna had given
three warnings of the hour, and was only delaying the last while she stirred the ingredients of the doctor's minestrone over the
fire. The knowledge that she must come in, and I go out, shortly, at any moment, fretted my quick senses to fever. I looked for
ever at Aurelia with a wildly beating heart; she, on her side, was aware of my agitation, and breathed the shorter for the
knowledge. She sat by the open window mending a pair of stays; at her side was her work table, upon that her three-wicked
lamp. I leaned over a chair exactly in front of her, watching every slight tremor or movement, just as a dog watches a morsel
which he longs for but is forbidden to touch. Thrice a dog that I was! I felt like a dog that night.
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