MARCIA woke at dawn with the sun in her eyes. She started up dazedly at
finding herself dressed in her white evening gown, lying on the couch
instead of in bed. Then in a moment the events of yesterday flashed
back. The floor was covered with broken glass, and on the wall opposite
a dark spot among the rose-garlands showed where Pietro’s misaimed
bullet had lodged. On the terrace balustrade below her window two
soldiers were sitting, busily throwing dice. They lent an absurd air of
unreality to the scene. She stepped to the open doors of the balcony
and drew a deep, delighted breath of the fresh morning air. Rome in the
west was still sleeping, but every separate crag of the Sabines was
glowing a soft pink, and the newly risen sun was hanging like a halo
behind the old monastery. It was a day filled with promise.
The next moment she had brought her thoughts back from the distant
horizon to the contemplation of homelier matters nearer at hand.
Mingled with the early fragrance of roses and dew was the subtly
penetrating odour of boiling coffee. Marcia sniffed and considered.
Some one was making coffee for the soldiers, who were to be relieved at
the ‘Ave Maria.’ She reviewed the possible cooks. Not Granton. The
soldiers were Italians, and, for all Granton cared, they could perish
from hunger on their way back to Palestrina. Not her aunt. In all
probability, she did not know how to make coffee. Not her uncle. He was
_hors de concours_ with his wounded arm. The Melvilles! They would not
have known where to look for the kitchen. She interrupted her
speculations to exchange last night’s evening gown for a fresh blue
muslin, and her hasty glance at the mirror as she stole out on tiptoe
told her that the slight pallor which comes from three hours’ sleep was
not unbecoming. She crept downstairs through the dim hall and paused a
second by the open door of the loggia; her eyes involuntarily sought
the spot outside the salon window. The rug was back in its place again,
and everything was in its usual order. She felt thankful to some one;
it was easier so to throw the matter from her mind.
She approached the kitchen softly and paused on the threshold with a
reconnoitring glance. The big stone-floored room, with its smoky
rafters overhead, was dark always, but especially so at the sunrise
hour; its deep-embrasured windows looked to the west. In the farthest,
darkest corner, before the big, brick-walled stove, some one was
standing with his back turned toward her, and her heart quickened its
beating perceptibly. She stood very still for several minutes, watching
him; she would hypnotise him to turn around; but before she had fairly
commenced with the business, he had picked up the poker by the wrong
end and dropped it again. The observation which he made in Italian was
quite untranslatable. Marcia tittered and he wheeled about.
‘That’s not fair,’ he objected. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything so bad
if I had known you were listening.’
‘Do you know what we do with Gerald when he swears in Italian?’
He shook his head.
‘We wash his mouth with soap.’
‘I hope it doesn’t happen often,’ he shuddered.
‘He speaks very fluent Italian—nearly as fluent as yours.’
‘Suppose we change the subject.’
‘Very well,’ she agreed, advancing to the opposite side of the long
central table. ‘What shall we talk about?’
‘We haven’t said good morning.’
She dropped him a smiling curtsy. ‘Good morning, Mr. Sybert.’
‘Mr. Sybert! You haven’t changed your mind overnight, have you?’
Her eyes were more reassuring than her speech. ‘N-no.’
‘No what?’
‘_Sir!_’ She laughed.
He came around to her side of the table, and faced her with his hands
in his jacket pockets.
‘You’ve never in your life pronounced my name. I don’t believe you know
it!’
She whispered.
‘Say it louder.’
‘It sounds too familiar,’ she objected, backing against the wall with
impudently laughing eyes. ‘You’re so—so sort of old—like Uncle
Howard.’
‘Oh, I know you’re young, but you needn’t put on such airs about it.
You don’t own all the youth in the world.’
‘Thirty-five!’ she murmured, with a wondering shake of her head.
‘Ah—thirty-five. A very nice age. Just the right age, in fact, to make
you mind me. Oh, you needn’t laugh; I’m going to do it fast enough. And
right here we’ll begin.’ He folded his arms with a very fierce frown,
but with a smile on his lips, quizzical, humorous, comprehending,
kindly—the finished result of so many smiles that had gone before.
‘The business in hand, my dear young woman, is to find out whether or
not you happen to know the name of the man you’ve promised to marry.
Come, let me hear it; say it out loud.’
Marcia looked back tantalizingly a moment, and then, after an inquiring
glance about the room as if she were searching to recall it, she
dropped her lids and pronounced it with her eyes on the floor.
‘Laurence.’
He unfolded his arms.
‘The coffee’s boiling over!’ Marcia exclaimed.
‘Kiss me good morning.’
‘The coffee’s boiling over.’
‘I don’t care if it is.’
The coffee boiled over with an angry spurt that deluged the stove with
hissing steam. Marcia was patently too anxious for its safety to give
her attention to anything else. Sybert stalked over and viciously
jerked it back, and she picked up the plate of rolls and ran for the
door. He caught up with her in the hall.
‘I know why you discharged Marietta,’ he threw out.
‘Why?’
‘If I were a French cook with a moustache and a goatee and a fetching
white cap, and you were a black-eyed little Italian nursemaid with gold
ear-rings in your ears, I should very frequently let things burn.’
‘Oh,’ Marcia laughed. ‘And I should probably let the little boy I ought
to be looking after fall over the balustrade and break his front tooth
while I was sitting on the door-step smiling at you.’
‘And so we should be torn apart—_there_ was a tragedy!’ he mused
compassionately. ‘I hadn’t realized it before. It proves that you must
suffer yourself before you can appreciate the sufferings of others.’
‘French cooks with fetching caps have elastic hearts.’
‘Ah,’ said he, ‘and so have black-eyed little Italian nursemaids—I’m
glad you’re not an Italian nursemaid, Marcia.’
‘I’m glad you’re not a French cook—Laurence.’ And then she laughed.
‘Will you tell me something?’
‘Anything you wish.’
‘Were you ever in love with the Contessa Torrenieri?’
‘I used to fancy I was something of the sort nine or ten years ago.
But, thank heaven, she was looking for a count.’
‘I’m glad she found him!’ Marcia breathed.
As they crossed the terrace to the little table at the corner of the
grove where the afternoon before—it seemed a century—Mrs. Copley and
Marcia had taken tea, one of the soldiers came hastily forward. ‘Permit
me, signorina,’ he said with a bow, taking the plate from her hands.
Marcia relinquished it with a ‘_Grazia tanto_’ and a friendly smile.
They were so polite, so good-natured, these Italians! Cups were
brought, the table was spread, and Marcia poured the coffee with as
much ceremony as if she were presiding at an afternoon reception. The
two, at the soldiers’ invitation, stayed and shared the meal with them.
Marcia never forgot that sunrise breakfast-party on the terrace—it was
Villa Vivalanti’s last social function.
She watched Sybert’s intercourse with these men with something like
amazement, feeling that she had still to know him, that, his character
was in the end the mystery it had seemed. With his hand on their
shoulders, he was chatting to the group as if he had known them all his
life, cordial, friendly, intimate, with an air of good-comradeship, of
perfect comprehension, that she had never seen him employ toward even
his staunchest friends of the Embassy. One of the soldiers, noticing
the direction of her glance, informed her that the signore had been up
all night, alternately talking to them and pacing the walks of the ilex
grove, and he added that the signore was a _galantuomo_—a gentleman
and a good fellow.
‘What did he talk about?’ she asked.
‘Many, many things,’ said the man. ‘Italia, and the people’s _miseria_,
and the priests, and the wine of Sicily, and the King and the Camorra,
and (he looked a trifle conscious) our sweethearts. He is not like
other _forestieri_, the signore; he understands. He is a good fellow.’
And then the young soldier—he was most confiding—told her about his
own sweetheart. Her name was Lucia and she lived in Lucca. She was
waiting for him to finish his service, and then they would be married
and keep a carved-wood shop in Florence. That was his trade—carving
wood to sell to the _forestieri_. It was a beautiful trade; he had
learned it in Switzerland, and he had learned it well. The signorina
should judge if she ever came to Florence. How much longer did he have
to serve? Four months, and then!—He rolled his eyes in the direction
where Lucca might be supposed to lie.
Marcia smiled sympathetically. Lucia was a beautiful name, she said.
Was it not a beautiful name? he returned in an ecstasy. But the
signorina should see Lucia herself! Words failed him at this point.
‘Santa Lucia,’ he murmured softly, and he hummed the tune under his
breath.
Marcia unclasped a chain of gold beads from her neck and slipped it
into his hand. ‘When you go back to Lucca give this to Lucia from
me—_con amore_.’
‘Here, here! what is this?’ said Sybert in English, coming up behind.
‘Do I find you giving love-tokens to a strange young man?’
Marcia flushed guiltily at the detection. ‘It’s for a friend of mine in
Lucca,’ she said, nodding over her shoulder to the young soldier as
they turned back toward the loggia.
Sybert laughed softly.
‘What are you laughing at?’ she asked.
‘I sent a wedding present to Lucia myself.’
They strolled to the end of the loggia and stood by the balustrade,
looking off into the hills. The fresh, dewy scents of early morning
were in the air, and all the world seemed beautiful and young. Marcia
thought of Sybert pacing up and down the dark ilex walks while the
villa slept, and of the dreadful thing he had spoken last night in that
wild moment of despair. She searched his face questioningly. There were
shadows under his eyes, the marks of last night’s vigil; but in his
eyes a steady calm. He caught the look and read her thoughts.
‘That’s all over, Marcia,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve fought it out. You
mustn’t think of it again. I don’t very often lose control of myself,
but I did last night. Once in thirty-five years,’ he smiled, ‘a man
ought to be forgiven for being a little melodramatic.’
‘Will you—really be happy?’ she asked.
‘Marcia, America is for me, as for so many poor Italians, the promised
land. I’m going home to you.’
She shook her head sadly. ‘That—won’t be enough.’
‘It’s all I have, and it’s all I want. There’s not room in my heart for
anything but you, Marcia.’
‘Don’t say that,’ she cried. ‘That’s why I love you—because there’s
room in your heart for so many other people. America is your own
country. Let it take the place of Italy.’
He studied the Campagna, silent, a moment, while a shadow crossed his
face. He shook his head slowly and looked back with melancholy eyes.
‘I don’t know, Marcia. That may come later—but—not just now. You
can’t understand what Italy means to me. I was born here; I learned to
speak the language before I did English; all that other men feel for
their country, for their homes, I feel for Italy. And these poor,
hard-working, patient people—I’ve done them harm instead of good. Oh,
I see the truth; Italy must do for herself. The foreigners can’t help,
and I’m a foreigner like the rest.’
‘Ah, Laurence,’ she pleaded, ‘don’t you see that you’re an American,
and that nothing, nothing can stamp it out? It’s all a mistake; your
place isn’t here—it’s at home. Every man can surely do his best work
in his own country, and America needs good men. Do you remember what
you said at Uncle Howard’s dinner that last night we were in Rome? That
to be a loyal citizen of the world was the best a man could do? But you
can’t be a loyal citizen of the world unless you are first of all a
loyal citizen of your own country. America may be crude and it may have
a good many faults, but it’s our country just the same, and we ought to
love it better than any other. You do love it, don’t you? Tell me you
do. Tell me you’re glad that you’re an American.’
She put her hands on his shoulders and looked up with glowing eyes and
cheeks that burned.
As he watched her a picture flashed over him of what it meant. He
thought of the vast country, with its richness, its possibilities, its
contrasts. He thought of its vitality and force; its energy and
nervousness and daring. And for a brief instant he felt himself a part
of it. A sudden wave swept over him of that strange, irrational,
romantic love of fatherland which is fundamental underneath the polish,
underneath the wickedness, in every man in every land. For a second he
thrilled with it too; and then, as his eye wandered to the great plain
beneath them, the old love—his first love—rushed back. He bent over
and kissed her with sudden tears in his eyes.
‘Some day, Marcia, I will tell you that I’m proud to be an American.
Don’t ask me just yet.’
And as they stood there, hand in hand, there was borne to them from the
mountain-top above the sweet, prophetic sound of the bells of Castel
Vivalanti ringing the Angelus; while below them on the horizon, like a
great, far-reaching sea, stretched the Campagna, haunting, mysterious,
insatiable—the Roman Campagna, that has demanded as sacrifice the
lives of so many miserable peasants, that has lured from distant homes
so many strangers and held them prisoners to its spell—the beautiful,
deadly, desolate land that has inspired more passionate love than any
land on earth.
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED,
BRUNSWICK ST., STAMFORD ST., S.E. 1, AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Transcriber’s Notes:
Punctuation errors repaired. Varied hyphenation was retained.
Page 12, “Father” changed to “Farther” (Farther away than)
Page 41, “Vhandeliers” changed to “chandeliers” (chandeliers of the
latter)
Page 49, “isesta” changed to “siesta” (siesta at noon)
Page 105, “peeple” changed to “people” (stirring up the people)
Page 119,
‘“Jammo ncappa, jammo, já . . .
Funiclui—funiculá.”’
changed to
‘“Jammo ‘ncoppa, jammo jà . . .
Funiculì—funiculà.”’
Page 150, “Heathcliffe” changed to “Heathcliff” (he’s exactly like
Heathcliff)
Page 248, “other’s” changed to “other” (other people’s troubles)
Page 254, “mind” changed to “mind” (of mine in Lucca)