I kept my face turned to the window while the coach rolled through the long, shining street of Toledo. My handkerchief stayed in my hand drying my tears.
Naples slid behind us in pale gold light, and only when the houses thinned into fields did I finally look around.
Beside me sat a man of about fifty, neat, bright eyed, his expression friendly.
Across from us were two young pretty women whose sight delighted my eyes. Their dresses were elegant without excess, their posture easy, their glances modest.
Everything about them suggested innocence carefully brought up, not ignorance. Under other circumstances I would have begun talking before the wheels had made ten turns.
That day I stayed silent.
We stopped at Aversa only long enough for the mules to drink.
No one stepped down.
From there to Capua the gentleman spoke almost without pause. The ladies answered in voices soft and musical, their Roman accent rounding every word.
I listened, smiled once or twice, and said nothing.
Five hours in the company of two pretty women and not a single compliment left my lips! I would not have believed it possible! 1
At Capua we were shown into a room with two large beds, a common arrangement on the road.
The Neapolitan turned to me with a courteous bow.
"Am I to have the honour of sleeping with the reverend gentleman?"
I answered gravely that he was free to choose any arrangement he preferred.
My seriousness made the ladies smile, particularly the one whom I preferred. I took this as a good omen.
Supper was served for all five of us, the driver included, as is the custom unless special terms are made.
Conversation wandered from subject to subject. The gentleman spoke with ease, the ladies with intelligence and restraint.
Their manners were polished without stiffness. Whatever their rank, they had lived among people who expected to be listened to.
Curiosity finally got the better of me.
After supper I went downstairs with the driver and asked who my companions were.
"The gentleman is an advocate," he said. "One of the ladies is his wife. As for which one, I cannot tell."
I returned to our room and, to spare the ladies any constraint, went to bed first.
At dawn I slipped out quietly and did not come back until I was summoned to breakfast.
The coffee was excellent. I praised it with feeling.
The lady I watched most closely smiled and said I should have the same every morning on the road.
A barber arrived after breakfast. The advocate shaved.
When the barber turned to me, I declined his services.
The rogue clicked his tongue and declared it slovenly to wear a beard.
Once we were again inside the coach, the advocate began complaining about the insolence of barbers.
"But we ought to decide first," said the lady, "whether or not it is slovenly to go bearded."
"Of course it is," said the advocate. "Beard is nothing but a dirty excrescence."
"You may think so," I replied. "but everybody does not share your opinion. Do we consider as a dirty excrescence the hair of which we take so much care, and which is of the same nature as the beard? Far from it; we admire the length and the beauty of the hair."
"Then," remarked the lady, "the barber is a fool."
I looked at her. "But tell me, do I even have a beard?"
"I thought you had," she answered, studying my face.
"In that case, I will begin to shave as soon as I reach Rome, for this is the first time that I have been convicted of having a beard."
"My dear wife," cried the advocate, "you should have held your tongue; perhaps the reverend abbe is going to Rome with the intention of becoming a Capuchin friar."
We all laughed.
Not wishing him to carry off the advantage, I answered that he had guessed rightly, that such had been my intention, but that I had entirely altered my mind since I had seen his wife.
"Oh! you are wrong," he replied cheerfully. "for my wife is very fond of Capuchins, and if you wish to please her, you had better follow your original vocation."
The jesting continued, light and easy, and the miles slipped by unnoticed.
That evening we found only a miserable supper at Garigliano, but good humor seasoned it better than any sauce.
The advocate's wife spoke to me with a warmth that no longer seemed accidental, and my growing inclination took fresh root. 2
The following day, once the coach was rolling again, she turned toward me and asked how long I meant to stay in Rome before returning to Venice.
I told her I knew no one there and feared the city might prove a lonely place.
"Strangers are liked in Rome," she said, "I feel certain that you will be pleased with your residence in that city."
"May I hope, madam," I asked, "that you will allow me to pay you my respects?"
"We shall be honoured by your calling on us," said the advocate.
I looked only at his wife.
A flush rose to her cheeks, and she lowered her eyes.
I went on speaking as if I had noticed nothing, and the road slipped past us in talk and laughter, as pleasantly as the day before.
We stopped for the night at Terracina.
Our room held three beds, two narrow ones with a large bed set between them. The two ladies chose the large bed.
While they undressed behind us, the advocate and I remained at the table, speaking of indifferent things and carefully keeping our backs turned.
When they were settled, the advocate took the bed where his nightcap had been laid out, and I lay down in the other.
My bed stood scarcely a foot from the large one.
I could not help observing that the lady who had captured my thoughts slept on the side nearest to me, and I allowed myself to think the arrangement had not been made by chance alone.
I blew out the candle and lay on my back, staring into the dimness.
A plan formed, faded, returned. I turned it over, then pushed it away.
Sleep would not come.
A thin wash of moonlight slipped through the shutters and showed me the outline of the large bed.
My eyes kept drifting there, though I told myself to stop.
An hour passed in that silent struggle.
Then she moved.
I saw her sit up, pause, and slide from the bed.
Bare feet touched the floor.
She crossed the room and slipped in beside her husband. He did not stir. His breathing never changed.
The sight cooled me like a dash of water.
I rolled onto my side and, at last, slept.
At dawn I woke with a start. She lay again in her own bed, still as before.
I dressed quickly and went out without a sound.
I walked until the air lost its chill, then returned at the hour fixed for departure. The advocate and the two ladies were already in the coach, waiting.
She greeted me with gentle reproach, lamenting that I had not come for the coffee she had promised me.
I excused myself with talk of an early walk. I did not look at her.
I pressed my hand to my cheek and claimed a raging toothache, then sat in my corner, silent.
At Piperno she leaned slightly toward me and murmured that my toothache deceived no one.
I was pleased with the reproach, because it heralded an explanation which I craved for, in spite of my vexation.
All that afternoon I kept to my role. I sat in my corner, sour and mute, until we reached Serinonetta, where we were to spend the night.
We arrived early. The air was soft, the sky clear.
She said that a little walk would do her good, then turned to me with perfect politeness and asked for my arm.
To refuse would have been brutal. Besides, I was tired of gnawing on my own sulks.
I offered my arm. Her husband followed at a distance with the sister, and we went on ahead along the quiet road.
When we were far enough from them, I risked a question.
"Why were you so sure my toothache was sham, madam"
"I am very candid," she said. "it is because the difference in your manner was so marked, and because you were so careful to avoid looking at me through the whole day. A toothache would not have prevented you from being polite, and therefore I thought it had been feigned for some purpose. But I am certain that not one of us can possibly have given you any grounds for such a rapid change in your manner."
"Yet something must have caused the change," I answered. "and you, madam, are only half sincere."
" You are mistaken, sir," she said. "I am entirely sincere; and if I have given you any motive for anger, I am, and must remain, ignorant of it. Be good enough to tell me what I have done."
"Nothing, for I have no right to complain."
"Yes, you have; you have a right, the same that I have myself; the right which good society grants to every one of its members. Speak, and show yourself as sincere as I am."
"You are certainly bound not to know, or to pretend not to know the real cause," I said, " but you must acknowledge that my duty is to remain silent."
"Very well; now it is all over;" she replied. "but if your duty bids you to conceal the cause of your bad humour, it also bids you not to show it. Delicacy sometimes enforces upon a polite gentleman the necessity of concealing certain feelings which might implicate either himself or others; it is a restraint for the mind, I confess, but it has some advantage when its effect is to render more amiable the man who forces himself to accept that restraint."
Her close argument made me blush for shame, and carrying her beautiful hand to my lips, I confessed myself in the wrong.
"You would see me at your feet," I exclaimed, "in token of my repentance, were I not afraid of injuring you---"
"Do not let us allude to the matter anymore," she answered.
And, pleased with my repentance, she gave me a look so expressive of forgiveness that, without being afraid of augmenting my guilt, I took my lips off her hand and I raised them to her half-open, smiling mouth.
Intoxicated with rapture, I went from gloom to delight in a single step, and at supper the advocate enjoyed a thousand jokes upon my toothache, so quickly cured by the simple remedy of a walk. 3
The next day we dined at Velletri and slept at Marino, where the town swarmed with soldiers, yet we still found two small rooms and a decent supper.
I could not have been on better terms with my charming Roman companion. The favor she had granted me had been swift, but very real.
In the coach our eyes had to be prudent, yet I sat opposite her, and our feet, hidden under the skirts and cloaks, carried on a very eloquent conversation of their own.
Author Note:
Me neither!
Of course!
Oh Mr advocate, it is a special kind of walk …