The Watercolourist Read Online Free PDF Page A

himself.
    ‘You will live within our family,’ he specified in the letter. ‘Ours is a simple life, far from everyday distractions.’
    ‘Sounds like an interesting fellow,’ her father added. ‘It seems as though he understands what he needs and despite his profession has managed to free himself from the lures of
fame. It’s admirable, I’d say. See it as a great adventure, Bianca. And I will be here, waiting for you, if you don’t take a different path along the way. Though, of course, I
will be happy either way.’
    ‘What other paths?’ she protested. ‘The only right path is the one that will bring me back here.’
    ‘Anything can happen,’ he said solemnly.
    And like that, they made up their minds.

    Anything can happen.
    His disease arrived swiftly. They had been out on one of their favourite walks, at La Rocca. As always, the lake looked different from so high up. She wished she could fly over it and see their
little white house, the details of their garden, and the winding, rocky path that disappeared into the shadows of the parkland.
    ‘Look at the lake, Papa,’ she had said. ‘It looks like it’s made of turquoise.’
    She turned back and saw him bent over, speechless with pain, deathly pale. Bianca knelt down beside him, overcome with fear. And yet, amazingly, she managed to contain it. They waited together
for the pain to subside a little and then set out homewards. He leaned on her out of caution. She was his walking stick in flesh and blood.
    ‘It’s nothing,’ he said reassuringly at the dinner table that night, still quite pale but stronger now. ‘It’s just a sign that I’m growing old, Bianca.
I’m not made for La Rocca any more.’
    ‘Then we will simply have to take our walks at the Cavalla,’ she answered, relieved. ‘There’s a nest of baby geese near Villa Canossa. I will show it to you tomorrow. The
goslings are about to hatch.’
    Instead, she went alone. He chose to stay at home and rest. The baby geese had just been born and were grey, damp and snug. The mother’s beak was red, ready to cut into something. Bianca
kept her distance and sketched them on the pad she always carried with her. On her return trip, she saw the doctor’s carriage from a distance. Her father died two days later, seized by
another attack, this time fatal.
    Everything had been decided far in advance: the property was entrusted to Bartolomeo, some of the money went to Zeno to finance his military career, and some went to Bianca, who was granted
lifetime occupancy of her own little quarter of the household. Thank heavens Bianca still had somewhere of her own. Bartolomeo, who had filled out after his successful nuptials, and his pregnant
wife quickly started eyeing the home and the garden with the cynicism of new proprietors. To watch them wander about the beloved rooms talking about carpets and decorations made her unbearably sad.
They had agreed that Bianca’s rooms would remain locked and intact until her return, but it was still torture for her to say goodbye to her collection of silhouettes and miniatures, her small
rosewood desk, and her balcony that looked out onto the lake. It had been torture but also a relief, because it was evident that the spirit of the home had departed with their father. Her leaving
had come at the right moment.
    Her neighbour Count Rizzardi was, as ever, a gentleman.
    ‘Remember,’ he said, ‘there will always be a room for you in my home.’
    But all of a sudden he had seemed so old to her, as if her father’s death had forced him, too, closer to that threshold.
    Zeno had his own opinion about work and women.
    ‘You’re a girl, for heaven’s sake.’
    ‘So what?’
    ‘So it isn’t right that you go prancing off alone, waving that letter around. It’s a passport to trouble, I’m telling you.’
    ‘What should I do then, according to you?’
    ‘You could get married. Girls tend to do that, you know.’
    ‘Not all of us.’
    ‘But you’re