“When is Miss Lockwood expected to be in Venice?”
“What has that to do with your new play, Countess?”
The Countess appeared to feel some difficulty in giving that question its fit reply. She mixed another tumbler full of maraschino punch, and drank one good half of it before she spoke again.
“It has everything to do with my new play,” was all she said. “Answer me.” Francis answered her.
“Miss Lockwood may be here in a week. Or, for all I know to the contrary, sooner than that.”
“Very well. If I am a living woman and a free woman in a week’s time—or if I am in possession of my senses in a week’s time (don’t interrupt me; I know what I am talking about)—I shall have a sketch or outline of my play ready, as a specimen of what I can do. Once again, will you read it?”
“I will certainly read it. But, Countess, I don’t understand—”
She held up her hand for silence, and finished the second tumbler of maraschino punch.
“I am a living enigma—and you want to know the right reading of me,” she said. “Here is the reading, as your English phrase goes, in a nutshell. There is a foolish idea in the minds of many persons that the natives of the warm climates are imaginative people. There never was a greater mistake. You will find no such unimaginative people anywhere as you find in Italy, Spain, Greece, and the other Southern countries. To anything fanciful, to anything spiritual, their minds are deaf and blind by nature. Now and then, in the course of centuries, a great genius springs up among them; and he is the exception which proves the rule. Now see! I, though I am no genius—I am, in my little way (as I suppose), an exception too. To my sorrow, I have some of that imagination which is so common among the English and the Germans—so rare among the Italians, the Spaniards, and the rest of them! And what is the result? I think it has become a disease in me. I am filled with presentiments which make this wicked life of mine one long terror to me. It doesn’t matter, just now, what they are. Enough that they absolutely govern me—they drive me over land and sea at their own horrible will; they are in me, and torturing me, at this moment! Why don’t I resist them? Ha! but I do resist them. I am trying (with the help of the good punch) to resist them now. At intervals I cultivate the difficult virtue of common sense. Sometimes, sound sense makes a hopeful woman of me. At one time, I had the hope that what seemed reality to me was only mad delusion, after all—I even asked the question of an English doctor! At other times, other sensible doubts of myself beset me. Never mind dwelling on them now—it always ends in the old terrors and superstitions taking possession of me again. In a week’s time, I shall know whether Destiny does indeed decide my future for me, or whether I decide it for myself. In the last case, my resolution is to absorb this self-tormenting fancy of mine in the occupation that I have told you of already. Do you understand me a little better now? And, our business being settled, dear Mr. Westwick, shall we get out of this hot room into the nice cool air again?”
They rose to leave the café. Francis privately concluded that the maraschino punch offered the only discoverable explanation of what the Countess had said to him.
XX
“Shall I see you again?” she asked, as she held out her hand to take leave. “It is quite understood between us, I suppose, about the play?”
Francis recalled his extraordinary experience of that evening in the re-numbered room. “My stay in Venice is uncertain,” he replied. “If you have anything more to say about this dramatic venture of yours, it may be as well to say it now. Have you decided on a subject already? I know the public taste in England better than you do—I might save you some waste of time and trouble, if you have not chosen your subject wisely.”
“I don’t care what subject I write about, so long as I write,” she answered carelessly. “If you have got a subject in your head, give it to me. I answer for the characters and the dialogue.”
“You answer for the characters and the dialogue,” Francis repeated. “That’s a bold way of speaking for a beginner! I wonder if I should shake your sublime confidence in yourself, if I suggested the most ticklish subject to handle which is known to the stage? What do you say, Countess, to entering the lists with Shakespeare, and trying a drama with a ghost in it? A true story, mind! founded on events in this very city in which you and I are interested.”
She caught him by the arm, and drew him away from the crowded colonnade into the solitary middle space of the square. “Now tell me!” she said eagerly. “Here, where nobody is near us. How am I interested in it? How? how?”
Still holding his arm, she shook him in her impatience to hear the coming disclosure. For a moment he hesitated. Thus far, amused by her ignorant belief in herself, he had merely spoken in jest. Now, for the first time, impressed by her irresistible earnestness, he began to consider what he was about from a more serious point of view. With her knowledge of all
