Mr. Carver declined Signora Farnese’s offer of hospitality and, instead, stayed at the Savoy Hotel on the Piazza della Repubblica. “I don’t want to put anyone to any trouble,” he said. His real purpose was to speak to Willa privately. He took her to dinner at Trattoria dei Tre Cugini located next to the Arno near the Ponte Vecchio. The candlelit room glowed, and around them frescoed walls depicted scenes of opulent Renaissance banquets. Diners spoke in low tones interrupted only by the sounds of chiming glasses and restrained laughter. The maitre d’ seated them in a curved booth upholstered in dark leather.
“Daddy, won’t you at least come meet Gabriele?”
Mr. Carver shook his head. “There’s no need. We’re leaving in three days.” She understood that her father had made up his mind about her engagement long before his arrival. The prospect of leaving Orvieto, where she had not yet lived, seemed to Willa a profound loss and a certain end to her work as an artist, work that seemed to her more promising and probable with each new painting of country life. Until then, Willa had not let herself believe that returning to Erhart was a serious possibility. It was unimaginable! She believed something would surely work out to keep her from leaving Gabriele and Italy and life as a wife and artist.
“But, daddy, Gabriele and my work and my art are here…in Italy…in Orvieto. I love him and he loves me.”
The waiter came to take their orders. Willa inhaled the odors of garlic, herbs and wine from a passing cart. “I’d like whatever that is.”
“Vitello, signorina,” the waiter said.
Mr. Carver waved the menus away. “The vitello, please, and I’ll have steak, salad. We’ll have the antipasto misto now.”
“Daddy, did you get Gabriele’s second letter?”
“Yes. He wanted to clarify his intentions and his situation. I believe he means well toward you, but your interests aren’t what the Marcheschis have in mind. They need money.” The waiter returned with a platter. Willa took some prosciutto and melon in her fingers and bit into the sweet-salty morsel. “Signora Farnese’s friend says they made some unwise investments and lost a great deal during the Great War.”
“But, daddy, they own lots of land. They aren’t poor.”
Mr. Carver seemed to anticipate this objection. “It costs money to develop and maintain one’s land. I don’t want to become involved in supporting them.”
“Besides, it’s called un podere,” she said as if the name mattered. “Would you like to see the paintings I’ve already done of Orvieto? I’m thinking of having a show in a few months.”
Mr. Carver cleared his throat. “If you marry Gabriele and go to Orvieto, you won’t become an artist. You’ll become someone who works on a farm…a podere, if you wish. The consequences for you will be the same, no matter what name you give it.”
“Daddy, that’s not fair. At least meet Gabriele. Please!” The waiter served their main course. Willa looked down at her plate. “Wait! Vitello is veal!”
The waiter took out a stained paper from his vest pocket and ran his finger down a list. “Sì, signorina.”
Willa hesitated. “I forgot. That’s a baby animal.”
“It’s what you ordered,” Mr. Carver said. “Besides, veal tastes a lot like chicken, and you don’t mind eating that, do you?” Willa knew better than to get involved in two arguments at once with her father. Mr. Carver often said lawyers who did that were “muddleheaded” and “not worth their fees.”
“Daddy, please just meet Gabriele.” She knew from experience that convincing her father to change his mind required small steps rather than big leaps. If only he could see Orvieto and meet Gabriele and his family, he would feel differently. Of this she was certain.
“As long as you’re packed and ready on Thursday morning, I’ll meet this Gabriele fellow, if that’s what you want.”
Willa smiled. “Oh, thank you. I’m sure you’ll love him as much as I do.” They finished their meal. She ordered zuppa inglese for dessert. “We can go to Orvieto tomorrow. I’ll call and leave a message for Gabriele.” Mr. Carver nodded. Willa went to a public telephone. She waited for the operator to place the call, heard the phone trill at the other end. She counted that at least five people picked up their receivers. Their breathing and whispers punctuated her conversation with the telephone operator in Orvieto. When she said goodbye, she counted five clicks on the line before she hung up.
The elder Marcheschis shook Mr. Carver’s hand murmuring “benvenuto” and “piacere.” They repeated these greetings throughout the day, but there was little else they could say as Mr. Carver didn’t speak Italian. Gabriele, however, showed Willa’s father the Marcheschi lands, their winery, and later the city of Orvieto, discussing every aspect of the family business and his plans for the future. “We sell our wine throughout the area,” Gabriele said waving his arm in a wide arc.
“What about beyond the area?” Mr. Carver asked. “This region doesn’t have many people. How will you grow your business if you don’t grow your customer base?”
“We are a local winery,” Gabriele explained, “So our production is limited, but we sell all that we make.”
“How will you support my daughter and a family if you don’t have plans to expand your production?” Gabriele seemed unconcerned that he lacked an answer to this question. Perhaps he doesn’t understand what daddy is asking, Willa thought.
“He has no business plan beyond what he’s doing now,” Mr. Carver said to Willa when they were alone for a moment. “You’d find yourself poor and working for nothing.”
Willa stared at her father. “But we love each other, daddy. That’s what matters.”
Gabriele saw Willa’s tears. “What’s wrong?”
“She’s crying because I’ve told her that I won’t give my approval for your marriage until I see evidence that you can support her properly,” Mr. Carver said. Gabriele was offended and so were his parents when they understood Mr. Carver’s views.
“The Marcheschis always support their family,” Gabriele said.
Mr. Carver remained unconvinced. “It’s time to go,” he told Willa, “or we’ll miss our train.”
At the station, Gabriele took Willa aside. “We will marry anyway, and you’ll paint in Orvieto. It will be good luck to be married in our Chapel of the Lily. Our happiness is certain.”
But once Willa and her father boarded the train and found their seats, Mr. Carver voiced even more serious objections. “Do you understand how much work needs to be done just to make that house livable?” He took out a list he had made in the course of their visit. “The roof needs mending and perhaps the timbers beneath it. They apparently don’t have indoor plumbing and very little running water. What water they do have may not be clean. In some places the planks are coming off the floor. Somebody is going to get injured on that loose stairstep outside. The new winemaking equipment doesn’t work properly because they don’t seem to know how to configure it correctly. I could easily see that much of their work is done by hand, and most of their farm equipment belongs to another century. In their present situation, it would be very difficult to make a living even if you contributed your labor, and you don’t intend to do that because you say you’re planning to paint.”
“But Gabriele said that I can paint there.”
Mr. Carver shook his head. “That’s a pipe dream, Willa. If you’re serious about being an artist, you would be better off going to New York or Chicago to study. At least, then you would paint.”
It is an unfortunate truism that we are never more attached to something than at the moment we believe we are bound to lose it. This was the case for Willa, who understood her choice to be not just between Gabriele and her parents, but also between her vision of life and the more predictable and conventional life her parents envisioned for her. Once she saw her future in these terms, she thought only of how her soul would die without Gabriele; die if she couldn’t capture the light in the Piazza, the sunset over the vineyards, the faces along the Corso; die if she returned to America with her father on Thursday.
Mr. Carver took note of her silence. “What are you thinking?”
“I still want to be with Gabriele and paint here. In Orvieto.” Willa said.
Mr. Carver shook his head. “I also understand that you have not made a favorable impression on people. Have you considered how that will affect your future if you were to live there?” Willa was thinking of the people in Orvieto in artistic rather than personal terms. Their manner no longer seemed unfriendly to her but, rather, reserved. They were part of her larger canvas, one that concerned contemporary life in a small, Italian hill town. Daddy must be mistaken, she thought. Besides, artists are often misunderstood.
“Daddy, they don’t even know me yet. How could they think anything?”
Mr. Carver remained firm, and his firmness called up within Willa an intense and stubborn determination. “I’m going to marry him,” she said, certain of her love for Gabriele and of her wish to become his wife.