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CORLEONE




THE NOVELS OF F. MARION CRAWFORD.

_New Uniform Edition. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. each._


MR. ISAACS: A Tale of Modern India.
DOCTOR CLAUDIUS: A True Story.
ROMAN SINGER.
ZOROASTER.
TALE OF A LONELY PARISH.
KHALED: A Tale of Arabia.
WITCH OF PRAGUE.
THREE FATES.
MARION DARCHE: A Story without Comment.
CHILDREN OF THE KING.
KATHERINE LAUDERDALE.
MARZIO'S CRUCIFIX.
PAUL PATOFF.
WITH THE IMMORTALS.
GREIFENSTEIN.
SANT' ILARIO.
CIGARETTE-MAKER'S ROMANCE.
PIETRO GHISLERI.
DON ORSINO.
RALSTONS.
CASA BRACCIO.
ADAM JOHNSTONE'S SON.
ROSE OF YESTERDAY.
TAQUISARA. A Novel.
CORLEONE.

VIA CRUCIS. A Romance of the Second Crusade. Crown 8vo. 6s.
IN THE PALACE OF THE KING. Crown 8vo. 6s.
MARIETTA: A Maid of Venice. Crown 8vo. 6s.
WHOSOEVER SHALL OFFEND. Crown 8vo. 6s.
THE HEART OF ROME: A Tale of the "Lost Water." Crown 8vo. 6s.
CECILIA: A Story of Modern Rome. Crown 8vo. 6s.
LOVE IN IDLENESS. A Bar Harbour Tale. Fcap. 8vo. 2s.


MACMILLAN AND CO., LTD., LONDON.




CORLEONE

A Tale of Sicily

BY F. MARION CRAWFORD


London

MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED

NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

1905

_All rights reserved_


COPYRIGHT
1896

BY
F. MARION CRAWFORD

_First Edition (2 Vols. Globe 8vo) 1897_
_Second Edition (Crown 8vo) 1898_
_Reprinted 1902, 1905_




CHAPTER I


'If you never mean to marry, you might as well turn priest, too,' said
Ippolito Saracinesca to his elder brother, Orsino, with a laugh.

'Why?' asked Orsino, without a smile. 'It would be as sensible to say
that a man who had never seen some particular thing, about which he has
heard much, might as well put out his eyes.'

The young priest laughed again, took up the cigar he had laid upon the
edge of the piano, puffed at it till it burned freely, and then struck
two or three chords of a modulation. A sheet of ruled paper on which
several staves of music were roughly jotted down in pencil stood on the
rack of the instrument.

Orsino stretched out his long legs, leaned back in his low chair, and
stared at the old gilded rosettes in the square divisions of the carved
ceiling. He was a discontented man, and knew it, which made his
discontent a matter for self-reproach, especially as it was quite clear
to him that the cause of it lay in himself.

He had made two great mistakes at the beginning of life, when barely of
age, and though neither of them had ultimately produced any serious
material consequences, they had affected his naturally melancholic
temper and had brought out his inherited hardness of disposition. At the
time of the great building speculations in Rome, several years earlier,
he had foolishly involved himself with his father's old enemy, Ugo del
Ferice, and had found himself at last altogether in the latter's power,
though not in reality his debtor. At the same time, he had fallen very
much in love with a young widow, who, loving him very sincerely in her
turn, but believing, for many reasons, that if she married him she would
be doing him an irreparable injury, had sacrificed herself by marrying
Del Ferice instead, selling herself to the banker for Orsino's release,
without the latter's knowledge. When it was all over, Orsino had found
himself a disappointed man at an age when most young fellows are little
more than inexperienced boys, and the serious disposition which he
inherited from his mother made it impossible for him to throw off the
impression received, and claim the youth, so to speak, which was still
his.

Since that time, he had been attracted by women, but never charmed; and
those that attracted him were for the most part not marriageable, any
more than the few things which sometimes interested and amused him were
in any sense profitable. He spent a good deal of money in a careless
way, for his father was generous; but his rather bitter experience when
he had attempted to occupy himself with business had made him cool and
clear-headed, so that he never did anything at all ruinous. The hot
temper which he had inherited from his father and grandfather now
rarely, if ever, showed itself, and it seemed as though nothing could
break through the quiet indifference which had become a second outward
nature to him. He had travelled much, of late years, and when he made an
effort his conversation was not uninteresting, though the habit of
looking at both sides of every question made it cold and unenthusiastic.
Perhaps it was a hopeful sign that he generally had a definite opinion
as to which of two views he preferred, though he would not take any
trouble to convince others that he was right.

In his own family, he liked the company of Ippolito best. The latter was
about two years younger than he, and very different from him in almost
every way. Orsino was tall, strongly built, extremely dark; Ippolito was
of medium height, delicately made, and almost fair by comparison. Orsino
had lean brown hands, well knit at the base, and broad at the knuckles;
Ippolito's were slender and white, and rather nervous, with blue veins
at the joints, the tips of the fingers pointed, the thumb unusually
delicate and long, the nails naturally polished. The elder brother's
face, with its large and energetic lines, its gravely indifferent
expression and dusky olive hue, contrasted at every point with the
features of the young priest, soft in outline, modelled in wax rather
than chiselled in bronze, pale and a little transparent, instead of
swarthy,--feminine, perhaps, in the best sense of the word, as it can be
applied to a man. Ippolito had the clear, soft brown eyes which very
gifted people so often have, especially musicians and painters of more
talent than power. But about the fine, even, and rather pale lips there
was the unmistakable stamp of the ascetic temperament, together with an
equally sure indication of a witty humour which could be keen, but would
rather be gentle. Ippolito was said to resemble his mother's mother, and
was notably different in appearance and manner from the rest of the
numerous family to which he belonged.

He was a priest by vocation rather than by choice. Had he chosen
deliberately a profession congenial to his gifts, he would certainly
have devoted himself altogether to music, though he would probably never
have become famous as a composer; for he lacked the rough creative power
which hews out great conceptions, though he possessed in a high degree
the taste and skill which can lightly and lovingly and wisely impart
fine detail to the broad beauty of a well-planned whole. But by vocation
he was a priest, and the strength of the conviction of his conscience
left the gifts of his artistic intelligence no power to choose. He was a
churchman with all his soul, and a musician with all his heart.

Between the two brothers there was that sort of close friendship which
sometimes exists between persons who are too wholly different to
understand each other, but whose non-understanding is a constant
stimulant of interest on both sides. In the midst of the large and
peaceable patriarchal establishment in which they lived, and in which
each member made for himself or herself an existence which had in it a
certain subdued individuality, Orsino and Ippolito were particularly
associated, and the priest, when he was at home, was generally to be
found in his elder brother's sitting-room, and kept a good many of his
possessions there.

It was a big room, with an old carved and gilded ceiling, three tall
windows opening to the floor, two doors, a marble fireplace, a thick old
carpet, and a great deal of furniture of many old and new designs,
arranged with no regard to anything except usefulness, since Orsino was
not afflicted with artistic tastes, nor with any undue appreciation of
useless objects. Ippolito's short grand piano occupied a prominent
position near the middle window, and not far from it was Orsino's deep
chair, beside which stood a low table covered with books and reviews.
For, like most discontented and disappointed people who have no real
object in life, Orsino Saracinesca read a good deal, and hankered after
interest in fiction because he found none in reality. Ippolito, on the
contrary, read little, and thought much.

After Orsino had answered his remark about marriage, the priest busied
himself for some time with his music, while his brother stared at the
ceiling in silence, listening to the modulations and the fragments of
tentative melody and experimental harmony, without in the least
understanding what the younger man was trying to express. He was fond of
any musical sound, in an undefined way, as most Italians are, and he
knew by experience that if he let Ippolito alone something pleasant to
hear would before long be evolved. But Ippolito stopped suddenly and
turned half round on the piano stool, with a quick movement habitual to
him. He leaned forward towards Orsino, tapping the ends of his fingers
lightly against one another, as his wrists rested on his knees.

'It is absurd to suppose that in all Rome, or in all Europe, for that
matter, there is nobody whom you would be willing to marry.'

'Quite absurd, I suppose,' answered Orsino, not looking at his brother.

'Then you have not really looked about you for a wife. That is clear.'

'Perfectly clear. I do not argue the point. Why should I? There is
plenty of time, and besides, there is no reason in the world why I
should ever marry at all, any more than you. There are our two younger
brothers. Let them take wives and continue the name.'

'Most people think that marriage may be regarded as a means of
happiness,' observed Ippolito.

'Most people are imbeciles,' answered Orsino gloomily.

Ippolito laughed, watching his brother's face, but he said nothing in
reply.

'As a general rule,' Orsino continued presently, 'talking is a question
of height and not of intelligence. The shorter men and women are, the
more they talk; the taller they are, the more silent they are, in nine
cases out of ten. Of course there are exceptions, but you can generally
tell at a glance whether any particular person is a great talker. Brains
are certainly not measurable by inches. Therefore conversation has
nothing to do with brains. Therefore most people are fools.'

'Do you call that an argument?' asked the priest, still smiling.

'No. It is an observation.'

'And what do you deduce from it?'

'From it, and from a great many other things, I deduce and conclude that
what we call society is a degrading farce. It encourages talking, when
no one has anything to say. It encourages marriage, without love. It
sets up fashion against taste, taste against sense, and sense against
heart. It is a machinery for promoting emotion among the unfeeling. It
is a--'

Orsino stopped, hesitating.

'Is it anything else?' asked Ippolito mildly.

'It is a hell on earth.'

'That is exactly what most of the prophets and saints have said since
David,' remarked the priest, moving again in order to find his
half-smoked cigar, and then carefully relighting it. 'Since that is your
opinion, why not take orders? You might become a prophet or a saint, you
know. The first step towards sanctity is to despise the pomps and
vanities of this wicked world. You seem to have taken the first step at
a jump, with both feet. And it is the first step that costs the most,
they say. Courage! You may go far.'

'I am thinking of going further before long,' said Orsino gravely, as
though his brother had spoken in earnest. 'At all events, I mean to get
away from all this,' he added, as though correcting himself.

'Do you mean to travel again?' inquired Ippolito.

'I mean to find something to do. Provided it is respectable, I do not
care what it is. If I had talent, like you, I would be a musician, but I
would not be an amateur, or I would be an artist, or a literary man. But
I have no talent for anything except building tenement houses, and I
shall not try that again. I would even be an actor, if I had the gift.
Perhaps I should make a good farmer, but our father will not trust me
now, for he is afraid that I should make ruinous experiments if he gave
me the management of an estate. This is certainly not the time for
experiments. Half the people we know are ruined, and the country is
almost bankrupt. I do not wish to try experiments. I would work, and
they tell me to marry. You cannot understand. You are only an amateur
yourself, after all, Ippolito.'

'An amateur musician--yes.'

'No. You are an amateur priest. You support your sensitive soul on a
sort of religious ambrosia, with a good deal of musical nectar.