Betsy and the Great World / Betsy's Wedding Page 19

  “Understand,” he said, “I don’t expect you to feel as I do! Not yet! But you’re going to be here six weeks. That ought to be time enough…in Venice.”

  He asked her again about the letters. “The ones that didn’t come from your family. Were quite a few from some one person?”

  “No,” answered Betsy, smiling.

  “You aren’t in love with anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever been in love with anyone?”

  “I thought I was one time.” She told him about Joe. “He’s a wonderful person. I liked him all through high school and college. But we quarreled.”

  “How could anyone quarrel with you?”

  “It was my fault.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “It really was, Mr. Regali…” But he didn’t want to be called Mr. Regali any more.

  “I am Marco for the Saint, and the Cathedral, and the Square, and Marco Polo. He was born in Venice; I’ll show you the court.”

  “All right, Marco. My name’s Betsy.”

  “It’s Elisabetta, and I shall call you Betta.” He had another inspired idea. “After this, I shan’t whistle just two lines of our song.

  “For, I adore,

  I adore you, Giannina mia…”

  “I shall always whistle four lines.

  “More, more and more,

  I adore you, Giannina mia.”

  Betsy was enchanted.

  But that night when the whistle sounded…unexpectedly, for she thought he was working…there were only two lines.

  “For, I adore,

  I adore you, Giannina mia…”

  “He forgot!” Betsy thought in disappointment. Glancing at the mirror, she went to the window. But when she put her head out, the four college girls were grinning up at her.

  Fortunately, they moved on the next day to the Italian Lakes, and after that there were always four lines whistled, and it was always Marco, leaning against an arbor, gazing up.

  “Only an Italian could do it,” Betsy often thought, for he was never awkward or self-conscious but always graceful and at ease.

  He was usually asking her to come down and go some place, and she usually went.

  They saw a wedding—and a funeral. The funeral had a band, and the mourners carrying the casket to the black-draped gondola marched in time to the music, followed by boys with candles, and a priest. The silent gondolier, standing behind the casket, dipped his oar and Betsy thought of the Lily Maid of Astolat floating downstream. But this boat was one of a long procession. The cemetery was on a nearby island, Marco said.

  “I believe we’ve seen every one of those hundred islands you told me Venice was built on,” Betsy remarked, for on foot and by gondola, steamboat, and ferry, they had traversed the city from end to end. “I’m glad people thought of building this heavenly place. They were running away from the Huns; weren’t they?”

  “Yes. Back in the fifth century. And they built a cluster of reedy little islands into a great Republic. I wish we could have seen it in the days of the Doges, Betta.”

  “It couldn’t,” Betsy answered positively, “have been any nicer than it is right now.”

  She was happier than she had been since she left home. Up to now a nagging homesickness had been with her all the time…except when she was with Tilda or Helena. But here she was completely free of it.

  And how grand, she thought, to have a man to bat with! Because she had known no men in Munich, she had seldom gone out at night and hadn’t had a single party. It was glorious to dress up and curl her hair and go to St. Mark’s Square in the evening with Marco.

  They went whenever the band played, and they drank coffee, and ate casata, and watched the crowd. Marco knew many of the people who went by, artists and musicians and some architects like himself.

  They always took a gondola home. From the Grand Canal the lighted Square stood out like a stage setting. People floating around them were singing…everything from Il Trovatore to “Funiculi, Funicula.” Betsy and Marco sang with them.

  When their gondola left the Grand Canal and went gliding down dark waterways to the House of the Yellow Roses, they kept on singing.

  Although he had told her he loved her, and repeated it every day in Italian, French, and English, Marco never touched her, which pleased Betsy, for if he grew mushy she would have to stop seeing him. And oh, she didn’t want to have to do that!

  “Dear darling family,” she wrote home. “To say that I’m happy as the day is long doesn’t express it. I wake up happy. I go to bed happy. Oh, my beautiful, beautiful Venezia! (As Marco likes me to call it. That’s the Italian name.)”

  She liked her Italian lessons and studied two hours every day. She tried this new language on the maids and in the shops. (German seemed like an old friend now. One day at Florian’s she heard some people speaking German and for a second she thought they were speaking English, because she could understand.)

  She loved the garden at the House of the Yellow Roses, and often had it to herself. She sat in a low wicker chair, pretending to write, but really dreaming, enjoying the scent of the flowers, the buzzing of the bees, and the circling of white butterflies.

  The other guests were out sightseeing, of course…rushing about in the heat, staring up at the ceilings of the Doge’s Palace, marching through St. Mark’s Cathedral with their Baedekers in their hands. How sensible she was, thought Betsy, just to live in Venice, to dawdle about this sunny garden, and take walks and stroll down with Marco to watch the sun set over the Giudecca!

  They were doing that one evening when they saw a steamer starting for Fusina, the nearest point on the mainland, and on an impulse they boarded it. They didn’t get off at the little town but came directly back. Venice was outlined by lights against black sea and sky.

  Betsy and Marco stood out in the bow gazing.

  “What is it like at Fusina in the daytime?” Betsy asked.

  “I’ll take you someday, and you’ll see.”

  18

  The Second Moon in Venice

  ONE MORNING WHEN BETSY was studying Italian, she heard “Giannina mia” under her window and looked out to see Marco smiling up at her. The sun was shining on his wavy black hair, his eager face.

  “How about a walk?”

  “I’m working.”

  “So was I, but I stopped. Besides, I can teach you Italian down on the Giudecca.”

  “Will you hear me say verbs?” asked Betsy, and she caught up her red jacket and ran down to the garden where the aunts were shelling peas, looking as alike as peas themselves. Smiling at Marco, Betsy said “buon giorno” nicely as Aunt Angela had taught her.

  “Bene!” cried Marco, and Aunt Angela gazed at them fondly. Aunt Beatrice twinkled at them, but Aunt Eleanora, Betsy thought, looked a little grave. Aunt Eleanora liked her, she felt sure. And she had done nothing the aunts had not approved. Could Aunt Eleanora be worried for fear she and Marco were getting serious? Didn’t she know it was just that they were young, and in Venice in June?

  On the Giudecca there was a lively breeze. The water was rippling, boats were rocking. The clouds, Betsy remarked, all seemed to be going some place.

  “We ought to do the same,” Marco replied. And just as before, they heard a steamer whistling its departure. “Here’s your chance to see Fusina in the daytime.”

  “Marco Polo! I’m not even wearing a hat!”

  “We’ll just make the round trip. Be home for lunch,” he said.

  But when they reached the little town they got off for a moment. And beside the station, a meadow rolled down to the sea. It seemed to belong to the sea, although its grass was sprinkled with poppies, and a goat was browsing. But the small trees were wind-blown; there was salt in the air. Children were playing down on the beach.

  “Let’s stay!” Marco pleaded.

  “But your aunts would be worried.”

  “I can telephone from the station house.”

  “Well, I’m sta
rving, and I don’t see any restaurant!”

  “Restaurant!” said Marco scornfully. “We’re going to eat in this meadow. You pick the spot.”

  “Ecco!” said Betsy, dropping down. Her green skirts spread out around her. Marco looked at her, nodded judicially, and strode back to the station.

  The sea spread a fan of cerulean blue, and Betsy looked off in great content. The steamer whistled two or three times.

  “It won’t do you any good,” she said.

  Marco returned, smiling. “The Signora Station House is killing a chicken.”

  “For us?”

  “For us. We’re going to eat it on this identical spot. ‘Exactly where the signorina is looking so beautiful among the poppies!’ That’s what I said, and she understood.”

  He sat down beside her and the steamer with a last reproachful whistle sailed away.

  “If they want passengers,” said Marco, “why do they build their station house so close to this meadow?”

  “Isn’t it stupid of them?” Betsy asked. “I feel a thousand miles from Venice.”

  “So do I. I feel as though you and I were alone in the world.”

  “Except for a goat.”

  “Oh, yes! The goat.”

  “And a station master.” For he was approaching with a table. His daughter followed with two chairs. Laying the cloth, she turned her eyes wonderingly from Marco to Betsy.

  The children too had come within staring distance. The goat was indifferent for a time. But when the chicken appeared, trailing savory odors, he galloped around on his small hoofs.

  “I’m astonished. I thought goats were herbivorous,” said Betsy. This one didn’t seem to be. Marco brandished a chair. The children jumped and squealed with delight. Betsy laughed until she was weak.

  The station master’s daughter came out with a stick at last and drove the beast away.

  “My family,” Betsy said, “writes me that they are always saying, ‘I wonder what Betsy is doing now.’ Well, if they’re saying that this moment they’d have a hard time guessing. They’d never think of me eating lunch with you in a meadow by the Adriatic.”

  The chicken was served with rice, and peas, and little hard rolls. Marco had the sour red wine Italians are so fond of, and Betsy had very strong coffee. For dessert there were strawberries, and the sun shone down on the little sea meadow.

  “This is just about the loveliest time I ever had in my life,” Betsy said.

  After the table was taken away, Betsy and Marco went down to the point where the rough grass met the sand. There they could look out at the orange-colored sails, dancing over the sea. Betsy was feeling as gay as the waves, but Marco grew serious. He stopped talking. Sprawled on the grass, he pulled out rough blades and chewed them moodily.

  “Betta,” he said at last, sitting up and turning toward her. “I’ve been thinking for several days that I’d better have a talk with you.”

  “What about?” Betsy asked.

  “About us. About loving you. I can’t go on this way.”

  “This way? But we’re so happy, Marco…” Betsy didn’t want him to say any more.

  But he cut her off short, and went on grimly, “All I want to know is whether I have a chance.”

  “You couldn’t really expect me to be in love with you in three weeks,” she answered in a small, weak voice. “I don’t believe you’re really in love with me.”

  “I can answer for myself,” he said shortly. “As for you, I know you couldn’t tell me you love me and promise to marry me so soon. I’ve not yet had a chance to meet your family. But you must know whether I have a chance or not. You see…if I haven’t, I’d better go away. If I let myself go much farther, I may never get over it.”

  At his mention of marriage, Betsy was suddenly panic-stricken. She didn’t know what to do or say. Staring off at the water, she thought of how much she liked him. She had written her family that he was her guardian angel. He had taken her in charge from the very first, and had been so immensely kind and thoughtful.

  Perhaps because they were both artists, they were completely congenial. Betsy never tired of him and he never tired of her. He didn’t care how she looked, or if she was tired or quiet or had a headache.

  “He loves me the same way Tacy does, and Tib and the family,” Betsy thought. And yet not exactly that way or he would be content to keep on being friends, and plainly he wasn’t.

  She had noticed him with his aunts, and knew his affectionate disposition. She loved that about him. It was one of the things that made her so happy with him. It was one thing that had driven her homesickness so far away that it seemed strange now to think she had ever had it. And yet…

  Something wasn’t there. Something she had felt for Joe Willard—and maybe still felt, although she had hardly thought of him since she got to Venice.

  She glanced at Marco’s strong, handsome profile. He looked more serious now than she had ever seen him. She had to be careful what she said; she had to tell the truth. It seemed to her that her heart would break if he went away, but maybe it would be better for him if he did. She drew a deep breath and squared her chin.

  “You know how much I like you,” she said. “That’s so obvious it isn’t worth mentioning, but that’s all I feel. Just liking you an awful, awful lot.”

  He didn’t turn. “Do you think that liking will ever change to anything else?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know.”

  They sat in miserable silence and stared out at the Adriatic.

  “Is it because I’m not of your nationality?”

  “No…I don’t think so. I love your being an Italian. But…I can’t imagine you outside of Venice.”

  “I like the United States. I’ve lived there. I may go back some day. I would, if you wanted me to, Betta. You could live right next door to that family you’re so crazy about. I could practise my profession there. They have architects, don’t they, at the Minnehaha Falls?” Which made Betsy smile a little, but there were tears in her eyes.

  “Are you in love with anyone else?”

  “You asked me that before, Marco, and I told you all there was to tell. That boy I used to go with, Joe Willard. I think I was in love with him, but we don’t even correspond any more.”

  “Is he the reason you can’t love me?”

  “I don’t know,” said Betsy wretchedly. “The way I feel now, I don’t want to marry you or Joe or anybody else for years and years.”

  She put her head down on her knees. She had told the truth; but now he would go away. And at the thought, all her homesickness came back. Her tears began to flow.

  Marco didn’t notice for a minute, because he was still looking at the Adriatic with a frozen face. But when he heard a sniffle he turned, and he changed at once.

  “Betta mia! You mustn’t cry. I won’t have it. I can’t stand it.” He put his arms around her. He found a wet cheek and kissed it.

  “Don’t be so sorry for me! I’m not feeling so badly. You have been so sincere in saying no, that I’ll know you are sincere when you say yes. And the next time you’ll say yes.”

  “No, I won’t,” said Betsy, thinking that if it had to end, it might as well end now. She might not be able to be so firm again. “I wish I would. But I know I won’t.”

  “Why do you wish you would?”

  “Because I like you so much.”

  “Is that the only reason?”

  “Because…I don’t want you to go away.”

  “Do you think you could drive me away?” he asked. He jumped to his feet and pulled her after him, laughing down at her. “You are going to be here for three weeks and a half! In Venice! And, Betta, there’s going to be a moon! What kind of a man would I be, not to take advantage of that opportunity to get something I want as much as I want you?”

  Betsy dried her eyes. Her hair was loose, her nose was red, and she knew she looked awful. “I’m going to the station house an
d ask if I can wash up, and let’s take the next boat back to Venice.”

  “All right,” he answered.

  “It was a wonderful picnic, Marco.”

  “Yes, it was. And now, please be happy again, carissima. We won’t talk about this any more for a while.”

  He put his arm about her shoulders and kissed her wind-blown hair as they moved off through the waving grass.

  When they got home, it was dinner time, and after dinner Betsy went straight to her room. She had stopped crying at Fusina, but she wasn’t through crying. She flung herself on the bed and sobbed. She felt guilty. She wanted to talk with her mother. She didn’t know if she was doing wrong or right in staying on in Venice, in letting Marco stay.

  She heard Marco’s whistle, but she didn’t answer it. She had not turned on a light; perhaps he would think she had gone for a walk. But after a moment she heard a soft thud on the floor, and then another, and another, and another! Betsy jumped out of bed. Coming through the open window were roses and carnations, roses and carnations. By the time the shower ended there were enough to fill her water pitcher to overflowing.

  “He knows how I’m feeling,” she thought.

  She put on her pink kimono and poked her head out of the window.

  “Grazie,” she said in a small voice.

  “Good night, Betta mia,” he answered.

  But Betsy could not sleep. The room was full of the scent of flowers, and she was very troubled. After an hour or two, she went to the window again. He was still standing there in the garden, looking at her window.

  “An American man would never do anything like that. He couldn’t,” Betsy thought. “And if he did, he would look silly.”

  But not Marco, standing down in the garden with folded arms.

  Betsy went back to bed and cried some more.

  After that they were together even more than before. The aunts understood; Marco had told them. And sometimes he and Betsy still had fun together. Swinging hands, they went through the lanes and over the bridges of Venice. They went to the Rialto and watched the bargaining. They went to St. Mark’s Square and ate casata. They took the steamboat to the Lido.