FOOTNOTES:

[1] About eighty cents.

THE YOUNG GIRL OF TREPPI

BY PAUL JOHANN LUDWIG HEYSE

[Illustration]

_Heyse, creator in the art of poetry, fiction, and the drama,

is opposed to the new materialism._

_First known as one of Germany’s most original writers of

narrative poetry, he gradually worked his way into the short

story. Brandes, most influential of living critics, once said

of these “Novellen” of Heyse’s: “The Novelle, as he has made

it, is an entirely original and independent creation, his

actual property.”_

_Heyse was born in Berlin in 1830. After devoting himself

to the study of languages, he settled in Munich, and with a

collection of “Märchen” began that remarkable series of tales

which he has brought, as Robert König says, to such genuine

artistic perfection. Popular as they all are, the two best are

thought to be “L’Arrabiata” and “The Young Girl of Treppi,” in

which his peculiar talent, the portrayal of strong, passionate

feminine nature, is signally displayed._

_Heyse’s style has been called the most perfect of modern

Germany._

[Illustration]

THE YOUNG GIRL OF TREPPI

BY PAUL HEYSE

Translated by R. W. Howes, 3d.

Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier & Son.

On a height of the Apennines where the mountains rise between Tuscany

and the northern part of the Papal States stands a lonely village of

herdsmen called Treppi. The paths that lead up to it are none of them

accessible by wagon. The road for post and vetturino, away toward

the south, many an hour’s travel, goes winding in and out over the

mountains in a wide, roundabout course. By way of Treppi pass only

the peasants who have business with the herdsmen, and occasionally a

painter or pedestrian who wishes to avoid the highways, and during the

night-time the contrabbandieri, or smugglers, with their pack-horses

that know better than any of them the way over the rocky passes leading

to the desolate village.

It was about the middle of October, a time when the evenings on these

heights usually grow clearer. But now, after the heat of the day, a

fine mist had rolled up out of the ravines and was spreading itself

slowly over the bare, rocky outlines of the majestic highlands. It was

perhaps nine o’clock at night. In the lowly, scattered huts of stone,

which by day were guarded only by the very old women and the very young

children, still feebly glimmered the lights of their hearth-fires.

Around the hearths, over which the big kettle swung, the herdsmen and

their families lay sleeping; the dogs stretched themselves beside the

ashes; on a heap of hides some sleepless old grandmother was still

sitting up, perhaps, mechanically plying her spindle back and forth

while she mumbled prayers or rocked a child that slept restlessly in

its cradle. Through holes in the walls, as big as your hand, the night

air oozed damp and earthy, and from the hearth-fire that was quickly

burning out, smothered by the fog, the smoke choked thickly back and

rolled along the ceiling of the huts without seeming to trouble the old

woman in the least. After a while she, too, slept as well as she could,

with her eyes wide open.

In one home alone was there sign of life. Like the others, this hut

was but one story high; but the stones were better laid, the door was

wider and higher, and against the broad, square building that formed

the dwelling proper were supported various sheds, lean-tos stalls, and

a well-bricked oven. Before the door of the house stood a group of

packed horses, from whose noses a young lad was tugging away at the

empty meal-bags, while from the house came six or seven armed men out

into the mist and hastily got their horses ready. As they started, a

very old dog that was lying near the door waved his tail in a leisurely

fashion; then he lifted himself wearily from the ground and swung

slowly into the hut, where the fire was still burning brightly. By

the hearth stood his mistress, facing the fire, her straight figure

motionless, her arms hanging down by her hips. As the dog touched

her hand with his soft nose, she turned, startled out of a reverie.

“Fuoco,” she said, “poor dog, you are sick!” The dog whined and moved

his tail gratefully. Then he crept near to the hearth onto an old hide

and stretched himself there, coughing and moaning.

In the mean time some of the servants had come in and seated themselves

around the great table before the empty platters which the departing

contrabbandieri had just left. An old maid-servant now filled them

again with polenta from the great kettle, and taking her own platter

sat down with the others. As they ate, not a word was spoken; the

fire crackled, the dog moaned hoarsely in his sleep, the grave young

girl sat down on the stone slab of the hearth, leaving untouched the

small plate of polenta which the maid had placed before her, and gazed

about the hall, lost in self-forgetfulness. The mist was now standing

before the door like a white wall. But behind the edge of the crags the

half-moon rose clear into the heavens.

Up the street came a sound like the beating of hoofs and footsteps.

“Pietro!” called the young mistress of the house in a quiet, reminding

tone. A tall fellow rose quickly from the table and disappeared into

the fog.

The footsteps and voices were now heard coming nearer; at length the

horse stopped before the hut. Still a little while and three men

appeared under the doorway and entered with a curt “good evening.”

Pietro approached the young woman who was gazing without interest into

the fire. “They are two men from Porretta,” he said to her, “without

any merchandise; they are guiding a signor over the mountains, whose

passport is not in order.”

“Nina!” called the young woman. The old serving-maid got up and came

toward the hearth.

“It isn’t that they only want to eat, padrona,” continued the fellow.

“Maybe the signor can have a night’s lodging, too. He wishes to go no

farther before daybreak.”

“Make up a straw bed for him in the lean-to.” Pietro nodded and went

back to the table.

The three had taken their places without the servants deigning to give

them any particular attention. Two of them were contrabbandieri, well

armed, their cloaks thrown lightly about them, their hats drawn well

down over their foreheads. They nodded a friendly greeting to the

others, as to old acquaintances, and after they had given place to

their companion, they made the sign of the cross, and began to eat.

The gentleman who had come with them ate nothing. He removed the hat

from his high brow, passed his hand through his hair, and let his eyes

wander over the place and the company. On the walls he read the sacred

texts drawn in charcoal, saw in the corner the picture of the Madonna

with the little lamp burning before it, and close by the fowls asleep

on their perches; then the ears of corn, strung in rows, hanging from

the ceiling; a board with jugs and wicker bottles on it, hides and

baskets arranged in rows one upon the other. At last his eyes were

arrested by the young woman at the hearth. Her dark profile showed

severe and beautiful against the flickering glow of the fire, a great

mass of black braids coiled low on her neck, her hands were lying

locked together over one knee, while her other foot rested on the stone

floor of the hall. What her age was he could not guess. But by her

bearing he knew that she was mistress of the house.

“Have you any wine in the house, padrona?” he then asked. Scarcely had

he spoken these words when the young girl sprang up as if struck by

lightning, and stood rigidly by the hearth with both arms supporting

her against the ledge. At the same instant the dog, too, started out of

his sleep. A savage growl broke from his coughing breast. The stranger

saw all at once four kindling eyes fastened upon him.

“May I not ask if you have wine in the house, padrona?” he now

repeated. Before the last word was finished, the dog, howling loudly,

sprang upon him with unaccountable fury and with his teeth tore the

cloak from the man’s shoulders, and would have broken loose upon him

again and again had not a sharp command from his mistress restrained

him.

“Back, Fuoco, back! Peace, be quiet!” The dog stood in the middle

of the room, beating heavily with his tail, his eyes fixed on the

stranger. “Shut him up in the stall, Pietro!” said the young woman,

half-aloud. She stood at the hearth, rigid as always, and, as Pietro

hesitated, repeated the order. For the nightly place of the old dog had

been for years by the hearth. The servants whispered one to the other,

the dog followed reluctantly, and from without the howling and whining

penetrated unpleasantly into the room until it seemed to cease from

sheer exhaustion. In the mean time the maid-servant, at a sign from

her mistress, had brought wine. The stranger drank, handed the beaker

to his companion, and fell into silent reflection over the surprising

disturbance he had so unwittingly caused. One after the other the

servants put down their spoons and passed out with a “good night,

padrona!” At last the three were alone with their hostess and the old

serving-maid.

“The sun rises at four o’clock,” said one of the contrabbandieri to the

stranger. “Excellency, it is not necessary to start much earlier to be

at Pistoja in good time. It’s on account of the horse, that must have

his six hours’ rest.”

“Very good, my friend. Go and sleep!”

“We will awaken you, Excellency.”

“By all means,” replied the stranger. “Though Madonna knows, I do not

often sleep six hours at a stretch. Good night, Carlone; good night,

Master Giuseppe!”

The men removed their hats respectfully and stood up. One went to the

hearth and said: “Padrona, I have a message from Costanzo from Bologna,

who wants to know if it was at your house he left his knife lying last

Saturday.”

“No,” she said sharply and impatiently.

“I told him you would have sent it back to him long ago if it had been

there. And then--”

“Nina,” she broke in, “show them the way to the lean-to if they have

forgotten it.”

The maid-servant rose. “I was only going to say, Padrona,” continued

the man calmly, with a quiet twinkle in his eyes, “that this gentleman

here would not look twice at his money if you gave him a softer bed

than ours. That is what I wanted to tell you, Padrona, and now may the

Blessed Virgin send you a good night, Signora Fenice!”

With that he turned to his companion, and, like him, bowed low before

the picture in the corner, crossed himself, and with the serving-maid

both left the room. “Good night, Nina!” called the young girl. The old

woman turned at the threshold, made a sign of inquiry, then closed the

door behind her quickly and obediently. Scarcely were they alone, when

Fenice took up the brass lamp that stood at the side of the hearth and

quickly lighted it. The fire was gradually dying out in the hearth; the

three tiny, red flames of the lamp lighted only one small corner of the

room. The darkness seemed to have made the stranger drowsy, for he was

sitting at the table, his head lying on his arms, his cloak wrapped

close about him, as if he intended to pass the night that way. Then he

heard his name called; he looked up. The lamp was burning on the table

before him; opposite stood the young padrona who had called him. With

irresistible power her look drew his toward her. “Filippo,” said she,

“don’t you know me any more?” For a long time he looked searchingly

into the beautiful face which was all aglow in the light of the lamp,

and still more so from anxiety. The long, yielding eyelashes, as they

slowly lifted and fell, softened the severity of the forehead and of

the slenderly formed nose. Her mouth was a bloom of the rosiest youth;

only, when it was silent it had a touch of resignation, sorrow, and

wildness, which the dark eyes did not contradict.

And now, as she stood at the table, the stern beauty of her figure

showed itself, especially the superb lines of her neck and throat.

Nevertheless, after a minute’s thought, Filippo said:

“Truly, I do not know you, Padrona.”

“It is not possible,” she said, in a strange, deep tone of assurance.

“You have had seven years to be thinking about me. It is a long

time--surely long enough for the picture to have made an impression.”

This unlooked-for reply seemed all at once to break the spell of his

preoccupation. “Of course, my girl,” said he, “who thinks for seven

years of nothing else save the beautiful head of a young woman must

come at last to know it by heart.”

“Yes,” said she with meaning, “it is quite true, you said so then, that

you would think of nothing else.”

“Seven years ago? Seven years ago I was a light-hearted, joking fellow.

And you believed that in good faith?”

She nodded three times, earnestly. “Why should I not believe it?

Indeed, I have even learnt it through my own experience that you said

right.”

“Child,” said he with a relenting look that well became his determined

features, “I am sorry. Seven years ago, very likely, I still thought

all women knew that the tender words of men were worth little more than

the counters which we occasionally exchange for ringing gold, a matter

of course that has been expressly agreed upon beforehand. What did I

not think of you women seven years ago! Now, truly, I seldom think

of you at all. Dear child, there are things so much more important to

think about.”

She was silent, as if she understood nothing of all this and was

willing to wait quietly until he said something that really concerned

her.

“It is surely beginning to dawn upon me,” he said after a moment’s

thought, “that I have traveled over this part of the mountain before.

Perhaps I should have recognized this village and this house if it had

not been for the mist. Yes, yes, it is the place in the mountains, of

course, where the doctor sent me seven years ago, and where I stormed

up and down the most inaccessible places, like a fool.”

“I was sure of it,” she said, and a little ray of joy lighted on

her lips. “I was sure you could not have forgotten. The dog, Fuoco,

certainly did not forget it, neither his old hate of you--nor I--my

old love.” She said this so cheerfully and with such assurance that he

looked at her with increasing surprise.

“I do seem to remember now a young girl,” said he, “whom I met once

on a height of the Apennines, and who guided me to the home of her

parents. I should otherwise have been obliged to pass the night on the

cliffs. I even remember that I was pleased--”

“Yes,” she broke in, “very much!”

“But I didn’t please the maiden. I had a long conversation with her,

to which she contributed not above ten words. When I thought at last

to awaken the sleeping, sullen, sad little mouth with a kiss--I see

her now as she sprang away from me to one side and picked up a stone

in each hand, so that I hardly came off without being well stoned. If

_you_ are the maiden, how is it that you now talk to me about your old

love?”

“I was fifteen years of age, Filippo, and very shy. I was always

defiant and solitary, and did not know how to express myself. And then,

too, I was afraid of my parents, who were still living at that time,

as you afterward came to know. My father controlled many herds and

herdsmen, and this inn here. There has been little change since then.

Only he orders and scolds here no more--may his soul rest in Paradise!

And before my mother I was shyest of all. Do you not know, you were

sitting then at this very spot and praised the wine we had brought from

Pistoja? I heard no more than this. My mother was looking sharply at

me, so I went out and placed myself behind the window so that I could

still look at you. You were younger, of course, but not better looking.

You have to-day the same eyes with which you used to conquer when you

wished, and the same mysterious voice which so aroused the jealousy of

the dog, poor beast! Till then I had loved no one but him! He knew it,

that I loved you more, he knew it better than you did.”

“He was like a mad dog that night, and justly,” said Filippo. “A

wonderful night! But you had seriously bewitched me, Fenice. I know

that I had no rest when you were unwilling to return to the house

again, that I started up and went out to look for you. I caught one

glimpse of the little white kerchief you wore on your head, and then no

more of you, for you sprang into the room next to the stable.”

“That was my bedroom, Filippo. You did not dare to go in there.”

“But I was going to. I still remember how long I stood and knocked and

begged, bad fellow that I was, and thought that I should lose my head

if I could not see you once more.”

“Your head? No, your heart, you said. I remember all the circumstances,

the words, everything!”

“Yet you wished to know nothing of them then.”

“I was in a mood to die. I stood in the farthest corner and thought

that if only I could still the beating of my heart, creep to the door,

put my mouth to the crack through which you were speaking, I could feel

your breath.”

“Foolish, doting time of youth! If your mother had not come I might

have been standing there still; for in the mean time you might have

opened the door. I am almost ashamed, even now, to think how I went

away in vexation and fury, and had a long dream about you all that

night.”

“I sat up in the dark and watched,” said she. “Toward morning I fell

asleep, and when I awoke and saw the sun--where were you? No one spoke

of it to me, and I dared not ask. To see a human face was hateful to

me, just as if they had killed you so that I should not see you any

more. Out I rushed, running and then stopping still, up and down the

mountain, all the time calling for you, cursing you, for because of you

I could now love no more. At last I came down into the valley; then I

got frightened and turned back again. I had been away two days when

I got home. My father beat me and my mother would not speak to me.

They knew very well why I had run away. And the dog went with me, good

Fuoco; but when I shouted your name out into the stillness, he growled.”

There followed a pause, while the eyes of the two rested on each other.

Then Filippo spoke: “How long have your parents been dead?”

“Three years. They died that same week--may their souls rest in

Paradise! Then I went to Florence.”

“To Florence?”

“Yes, you said you were going to Florence. The wife of the café-keeper

outside the walls over there by the side of San Miniato, to her some of

the smugglers directed me. For one month I lived there, and every day

they sent into the city to make inquiries about you. In the evenings I

went down there myself and looked for you. At last we heard that you

had gone long since--no one quite knew whither.”

Filippo stood up and restlessly paced the room. Fenice turned toward

him, her eyes followed him, yet she showed no sign of agitation, such

as now moved him. Finally he came up to her, looked at her a moment,

and then said:

“And to what purpose do you confess all this to me, poveretta?”

“I have been seven years getting my courage together. Oh! if I had only

confessed to you then, it would not have caused me so much sorrow, this

cowardly heart. But I knew that you must come back, Filippo; only that

it would last for such a long time, that I did not know--that made me

sad. I am a child to speak so. Why trouble myself about what is past?

Filippo, you are there, and I am here and yours always, always!”

“Dear child,” he began softly, and then silenced what was on the tip of

his tongue. But she did not perceive how quietly and thoughtfully he

was standing before her, staring vacantly beyond her toward the wall.

She continued speaking calmly; it was as if the words had long become

familiar to her, as if she had imagined them a thousand times in her

loneliness: He will come and thus and so will you speak to him.

“I had many an opportunity to marry up here, and while I was at

Florence. I wanted you only. When they implored me and spoke honeyed

words to me, your voice sounded out of that far-away night, your

speeches that were sweeter than all other words in the world. For

several years now they have been leaving me in peace, although I am

not old yet, and am still as--fair as ever I was. It was as if they

all knew you were coming back soon.” Then again: “Where are you going

to take me now? Will you remain up here? No, for you, that will never

do. Since I was in Florence I have learned that life in the mountains

is dreary. We will sell the house and the herds, then I shall be rich.

I am tired of the wild life of these people up here. In Florence they

had to teach me all a young city woman should know, and they were

astonished how quickly I learned everything. Truly I had little time to

spare, and all my dreams kept telling me that it would be up here where

you would seek me again. I inquired, too, of a fortune-teller, and it

has all turned out just as she said.”

“And if I already have a wife?”

She looked straight at him from her full height. “You are only wishing

to prove me, Filippo! You have no wife. That, too, the fortune-teller

told me. But where you lived, that she did not know.”

“You are right, Fenice, I have no wife. But whence does she know, or

you, that I shall ever be willing to take one?”

“How could you _not_ wish for me?” said she with unshaken confidence.

“Sit down here by me, Fenice! I have much to tell you. Give me your

hand; promise that you will hear me patiently to the end, my poor

little friend!” As she did none of all these things, he continued with

a quickening pulse, standing in front of her, his eyes resting sadly

upon her, while her own, as if foreboding something that would threaten

her very life, now closed and now strayed to the ground.

“For years I have been compelled to keep away from Florence,” he began.

“As you know, there were at that time those political uprisings, that

kept wavering so long, this way and that. I am a lawyer, and so know

hosts of people, and write and receive a great number of letters

throughout the year. Added to this, I was an independent, spoke my mind

when it was necessary and was heartily hated, although I never wished

to thrust any hand of mine into their secret game. Finally it became

necessary for me to fly if I wished to escape an endless trial and

imprisonment that would be neither for profit nor purpose. I went to

Bologna, practised law for a living, and saw few people, women least

of all; for of the gay young fellow for whom you have been wearing

your heart out for seven years, there is nothing left, except that my

head, or my heart, if you will, is still ready to burst if I can not

be conquering something--in these days to be sure something other than

the bolt of a pretty girl’s bedroom door. You have heard, perhaps, how

at the last there was also a disturbance at Bologna. They had arrested

certain highly respected men, among them one whose way of living I had

known for a long time, and knew, too, that his spirit was far from

these matters. After that a miserable government undertook to reform

matters, much as if a sickness had broken out among your sheep and you

sent a wolf into the fold. But that is neither here nor there. Enough

that my friend begged me to plead his cause for him, and that I helped

him to gain his freedom. No sooner had this become known, when one day

a wretched fellow came running up to me on the street and covered me

with insults. I could not get rid of him except by thrusting him aside

with my arm against his chest, for he was intoxicated. Scarcely had I

found myself out of the crowd and had stepped into a café, when there

came toward me a relative of this man, also intoxicated, not with wine

but with venom and anger, and upbraided me as if I had been guilty of

answering words with blows, instead of doing what every man of honor

would have done. I answered as calmly as I could, for I now perceived

that the whole affair was a preconcerted plan of the government to

force me shamelessly into a duel. So one word led to another until my

enemy at last won his game. He pretended that he was obliged to go into

Tuscany, and insisted that the affair should be settled over there. I

agreed, for it was time that one of us calm members should prove to the

hot-heads that the cause of our restraint was not lack of spirit, but

simply the hopelessness of all private intrigue when opposed to such

superior power. But when, the day before yesterday, I applied for a

passport, it was refused me--unless I were willing to give my reasons;

these were the orders of the supreme authority, so they said. It was

now clear to me that they wanted either to draw me into disgrace by

causing me to miss the duel, or to force me to steal over the border in

some sort of disguise, where I could safely be caught in ambush. Then

they would have pretext enough to bring legal action against me and to

prolong the trial to suit their convenience.”

“The wretches! The God-forsaken!” broke in the young girl, and clenched

her hands.

“So nothing remained but to trust myself to the contrabbandieri in

Poretta. Early in the morning, so they tell me, we can reach Pistoja.

The duel is arranged for the afternoon, in a garden just outside of the

town.”

Impetuously she grasped his hand in both of hers. “Do not go down

there, Filippo,” she said. “They will murder you.”

“Of course, that is what they want, child, nothing less. But how do you

know it?”

“I know it here and--here!” and with her finger she touched her

forehead and her heart.

“You also are a witch, a soothsayer,” he continued, laughing. “Yes,

I think they do wish to murder me. My adversary is the best shot in

Tuscany. They have done me the honor to oppose to me a distinguished

foe. Now I, too, will not altogether disgrace myself. Yet who knows

how regular the proceedings will be? Who can tell? Or perhaps you have

magic enough to prophesy that too? But what good would it do, child? It

could not alter facts.”

“Now you must drive it out of your mind,” he continued after a short

silence, “this following the bent of your foolish old love. Perhaps

everything has had to turn out so, that I might not leave the world

until I had set you free, free from yourself and your unhappy loyalty,

poor child. Think, we may have been poorly suited to one another.

Your loyalty was given to another Filippo, a young coxcomb with giddy

lips, and carefree except for love. What would you have done with a

melancholy brooder, a hermit?” During the last half of the sentence he

spoke to himself, pacing up and down, but now he went up to her, and

as he was about to seize her by the hand he stopped, shocked by the

expression of her face. All the gentleness had gone from her manner,

all the color from her lips.

“You do not love me!” she said, slowly and dully, as if another spirit

were speaking out of her, as if she were listening to her own words in

order to learn what was really meant. Then she drew back her hand with

a cry, so that the tiny flames in the lamp threatened to go out. And

from without the ear was suddenly chilled by an angry whine and howl

from the dog.

“You do not love me, no, no!” she cried, as if beside herself. “Can you

give yourself over to death rather than into my arms? Can you speak

calmly of your death as if it were not mine, too? It were better for me

if these eyes were blind rather than see you again, and these ears had

become dumb before they were forced to hear the cruel voice by which I

live and die. Why did the dog not tear you to pieces before I knew that

you had come? Why did your foot not slip on the edge of the precipice?

Alas! Alas! Behold my sorrow, O Madonna!”

She flung herself before the picture, lay with her forehead to the

ground, her hands spread far from her, and seemed to pray.

Between the murmurs and groans of the unhappy girl the man heard

the alarm of the dog, while the moon now gained its full power and

illuminated the whole room. And now before he could collect himself or

speak a word he felt her arms about his neck again, her mouth on his

throat and hot tears falling over his face.

“Do not go to your death, Filippo!” sobbed the poor girl. “If you stay

here with me, who will ever find you? Let them talk as they will, the

crowd of murderers, the cowardly wretches, more detestable than the

wolves of the Apennines! Yes,” she said, and looked up at him through

her streaming tears, “you will stay. The Madonna has sent you to

me--that I might save you. Filippo, I do not know what angry words

I spoke, but that they were angry I felt by the icy contraction here

at my heart from which the words relieved me. Forgive me for that. It

puts me in hell to think that love can be forgotten and loyalty trodden

under foot. Let us sit down here and consider the matter. Do you wish a

new house? We will build one. A change of company? We will send every

one away, even Nina, even the old dog shall go. And if you think then

they may betray you--why we will go ourselves, even to-day, now. I

know all the paths, and before the sun rises we will be deep among the

ravines on our way toward the north, and wandering, wandering to Genoa,

to Venice, wherever you will.”

“Stop!” said he sternly. “It is enough folly. You can not be my wife,

Fenice. Even if they do not kill me to-morrow, it will not be for long,

for I know how I am in their toils.” Quietly but firmly he released his

neck from her arms.

“See! my child,” he continued, “things are unhappy enough as they

stand, and we ought not to make them worse through want of reason.

Perhaps when you hear of my death later, your eyes will be resting on a

husband and beautiful children, and you will be thankful the dead man

of this night had more wisdom than you, even as in that other night you

had more wisdom than he. Let me go to rest now. Go you, too, and take

care we do not see each other again in the morning. You have a good

reputation, as I learnt from my contrabbandieri on the way here. Should

we see each other in the morning, and should you make a scene--you

understand, my child? And now, good night, good night, Fenice!” Then

once more he begged her earnestly for her hand. But she did not give

it to him. She looked absolutely white in the moonlight; her brows and

lowered eyelashes all the darker.

“Have I not sufficiently atoned for having enjoyed seven years ago

one long night of too much happiness? And now he wills that this

thousand-times accursed happiness shall make me unhappy again, and this

time for the length of an eternity? No, no, no! I will never let him

go! I would dishonor myself before all men if he should go away and

die.”

“Did you not hear,” he broke in sharply, “that it is my will to rest?

Why do you talk with such infatuation, making yourself ill? If you can

not feel that honor must tear me from you, then you can never be fit

for me. I am no doll on your lap to be fondled and joked with. My paths

I have marked out before me, and they are too narrow for two. Show me

the hide on which I am to pass the night and then--let us forget each

other!”

“Though you drive me from you with blows, I will not leave you! If

death places himself between us, with these good arms I will save you

from him. In death and life--you are mine, Filippo!”

“Be still!” he cried aloud. The color rose suddenly to his forehead,

as with both arms he pushed the impetuous figure from him. “Be still!

And now it is over--now and forever. Am I a _thing_ that can be dragged

to any one that calls for it--to any one whose eyes take a fancy to

it? You have been sighing for me for seven years--does that give you

the right to make me untrue to myself in the eighth? If you wished to

corrupt me, your method was badly chosen. Seven years ago I loved you

because you were different from what you are to-day. If you had flown

to my neck then, and had hoped to win my heart by boldness, I would

have set boldness against boldness, as I do to-day! Now, all is over

between us, and I know that the pity that moved me before was not love.

For the last time, where is my room?”

Sharply and coldly he said this, and in the silence that followed

he felt pain at the tone of his own voice. Yet he added not a word,

wondering in the stillness that she took it so much more calmly than he

had feared. Far rather would he now have soothed some stormy outburst

of her sorrow with kinder words. But she went past him coldly, threw

open a heavy wooden door not far from the hearth, in silence pointed to

the iron bolt, and then returned to the hearth again.

He entered and bolted the door behind him. Yet for a moment he stood

standing by the door, to listen to what she might be doing. But there

was not a sound of life in the room and not a stir could be heard in

the whole house save the restlessness of the dog, the pawing of the

horses in their stalls, and the whistling of the wind without which

was fast driving away the last streaks of the mist. The moon in all

its glory was now shining in the heavens, and it flooded the room as

Filippo drew a great bunch of heather out of a hole in the wall which

served as a window. He now plainly saw he was in Fenice’s room. There

against the wall stood her neat, narrow bed, near it a chest unlocked,

a small table, a little wooden bench, the walls hung with pictures of

saints and madonnas, a little bowl of holy water under the crucifix by

the door.

He now threw himself on the hard bed and felt the storm raging within

him. A few minutes, and he raised one foot about to hasten out and tell

her that he had hurt her only that he might heal her; then he stamped

on the ground, vexed at such effeminate weakness. “It is the one thing

that remains,” he said to himself, “if crimes and misfortunes are to

increase no more. Seven years, poor child!” A heavy comb, decorated

with little pieces of metal, lay on a small table; he took it up

mechanically in his hand. This brought to mind again the abundance of

her hair, the proud neck on which it rested, the noble forehead round

which it curled, and the browned cheeks. Then he threw the tempter into

the trunk, where he saw the neat dresses, kerchiefs for the head, and

bits of finery of all sorts, folded together carefully and in order.

Slowly he let the lid fall again, and then went to the hole in the wall

and looked out.

The room lay in the rear of the house, so that none of the other huts

of Treppi obstructed his view over the chasm-cleft highlands. Opposite,

stretching behind the ravine, was the naked ridge of rocks, bathed in

the moon that must now be standing directly over the house. At one

side he saw a few sheds, past which a path ran down into the abyss.

A forlorn little pine tree, with bare twigs, was trying to take root

among the stones; besides this only heather covered the ground, with

here and there some pitiable little bush. “Surely,” said he in the

stillness, “this is not a place in which to forget what one has loved.

I would it were otherwise! Yes, yes, she who has loved me more than

finery and flirting and the whispering of cox-combs would be the right

wife for me, after all. What eyes would my old Marco make if he saw me

suddenly return from my journey with a beautiful wife. Not once would

we need to change our abode; and how unhomelike are the innumerable

corners of solitude! And it would be good for me, at times--an old

grumbler, a laughing child--but folly, folly, Filippo! What would the

poor thing do as a widow in Bologna! No, no, none of that! No new sins

added to the old mass! I will rise an hour before the others, and steal

out and away before a soul in Treppi awakes.”

He was about to turn from the window to stretch his form on the bed,

worn out from the long ride, when he saw a womanly figure move out from

the shadow of the house into the moonlight. She did not look round, but

in his mind there was no doubt that it was Fenice. With quiet steps and

long, she turned from the house in the direction of the path that led

down into the ravine. A shudder crept over him, for at the same moment

the suspicion entered his mind that she intended to harm herself.

Without a moment’s thought he sprang to the door and tore violently at

the bolt. But the old rusty iron had imbedded itself so stubbornly in

the clamps that in vain he used every effort. A cold sweat stood on

his brow; he shouted, shook, and pounded against the door with fists

and feet, but could not force it. At length he gave over and rushed

back to the window hole. The stone was already yielding to his fury

when suddenly he saw again the figure of the young girl rise on the

path and wind its way toward the hut. She was carrying something in

her hand, which by the uncertain light he could not make out, only her

face he saw distinctly; it was earnest and thoughtful, but without

passion. Not a look did she cast toward his window, and again she

disappeared into shadow, while he stood there, breathing heavily from

anxiety and exertion. He heard a distinct noise, which seemed to come

from the direction of the old dog, but it was neither bark nor whine.

The mystery oppressed him uncomfortably. He leaned his head far out of

the opening, but nothing was he conscious of save the still night in

the mountains. All at once sounded a short, sharp cry, followed by the

heart-rending moan of the dog, and then long and anxiously he listened;

not another sound the whole night long, save once when the door of the

neighboring chamber slammed and Fenice’s step could be heard on the

stone floor. In vain he stood for long at the bolted door, listening,

questioning, imploring the girl for one short word. All was quiet

next to him. He now threw himself on the bed, as in a fever, and lay

there watching and thinking, until at last a few hours before midnight

the moon sank and weariness became lord of his thousand fluctuating

thoughts. As sleep left him, a twilight surrounded Filippo; yet when

his mind was fully awake and he had raised himself in bed, he became

aware that it was not like the twilight that comes before sunrise.

From one side there stole toward him a feeble ray of sunlight, and he

soon noticed that the hole in the wall which he had left open before

he went to sleep had now become stuffed with brushwood. He pulled it

out and the full morning sun blinded him. In highest wrath at the

contrabbandieri, his sleep, and most of all at the young girl to whom

he attributed this piece of trickery, he went instantly to the door,

whose bolt now easily gave way to a moderate push, and entered the

neighboring room.

He met Fenice alone, left sitting at the hearth as if she had been long

expecting him. From her face had vanished every trace of yesterday’s

storm, not one motion of the sorrow, not so much as a line of her

violent self-control met his dark eyes.

“You have managed well that I should sleep away the hours,” he said

sharply.

“Yes,” she said, indifferently. “You were tired out. You will arrive in

Pistoja early enough, if you do not have to meet the murderers until

the afternoon.”

“I did not ask you to concern yourself about my weariness. Are you

still going to force yourself upon me? It will do you no good, girl.

Where are my men?”

“Gone.”

“Gone? Do you intend to make a fool of me? Where are they? Silly woman,

as if they would go without being paid!” And he strode hastily toward

the door, about to go out.

But Fenice remained sitting motionless, and kept speaking in the same

even tone: “I have paid them. I told them that you needed sleep and

that I would accompany you down there myself; it happens that the

supply of wine has given out and I must buy new, an hour this side of

Pistoja.”

For a moment anger prevented him from speaking. “No!” he broke out

at last, “not with you, never with you! Treacherous serpent! It is

laughable that you still think to ensnare me in your slippery coils. We

are now as completely separated as ever. I despise you that you hold

me weak and pitiable enough to be won over by these little artifices.

I will not go with you! Let me have one of your servants and then--pay

yourself for the price of the contrabbandieri.”

He threw a purse to her, and opened the door to search for some one

who might conduct him down the mountain. “Put yourself to no trouble,”

said she, “you will find none of the servants; they are all away in the

mountains. And, besides, there is no one in Treppi who could serve you.

Poor, feeble, old women, old men and children, they are still in their

huts. If you do not believe me--look!

“And apart from all else,” she continued, as he stood at the threshold

irresolute, in fury and vexation, and turned his back on her. “Why,

think you, is the way so impossible and dangerous if I guide you? I had

a dream last night by which I see that you are not intended for me.

It is true, I shall still always like you a little, and it will give

me pleasure still to chat with you for a few hours. Must I, for that

reason, be laying snares for you? You are free to go from me wherever

you will, to death or to life. Only, I would go along with you a

little way. I will swear to you, if that will appease you, that it will

be for only a short way--by my life, not so far as Pistoja. Only so far

until you have struck the right path. For if you go off on your own

account you will soon lose your way, so that you can go neither forward

nor back. You ought to know that, indeed, from your former tramps over

the mountain.”

“Pest!” he murmured, and bit his lip. But he saw that the sun was

rising, and after all, perhaps, what serious grounds had he for

anxiety? He turned about and looked at her, and believed that he could

trust the evidence of the clear-tempered look in her great eyes, that

no kind of treachery lurked behind her words. She seemed to him to have

become altogether another person since yesterday, and he had to confess

that there was a feeling of uneasiness, mingled with his surprise,

that yesterday’s attack of violent passion had passed over so soon and

without leaving a trace. He looked at her a while longer, but she gave

cause for no suspicion whatever.

“If you have grown reasonable, then,” he said, “let it be so. Come!”

Without any special sign of pleasure, she rose and said: “We must eat

first; we will not find anything on the way.” She set a plate before

him and a jug, and then she herself began to eat, standing by the

hearth, but of wine she drank not a drop. He, on the contrary, to make

a quick end of the matter, ate a few spoonfuls, gulped down the wine,

and lighted his cigar at the coals on the hearth. During all this

time not a look had he vouchsafed in her direction, but he saw as he

looked at her by chance, for she was standing near him, that there was

a bright spot on each of her cheeks and something like triumph in her

eyes. She rose impetuously, seized the jug, and at one fling shattered

it on the stone floor.

“No one else shall drink out of this,” said she, “since your lips have

hung upon it.”

He started up in surprise; for a moment the suspicion crossed his mind:

“Has she given me poison?” But immediately he preferred to believe that

it was only the dying flame left of the love-worship she had forsworn,

and without further ado he followed her out of the house.

“They have taken the horse on with them to Poretta,” she remarked, for

by his eyes he seemed to be looking for the animal. “You could not

have ridden away, either, without danger. The roads are steeper than

yesterday.”

She now went on before him, and soon they left behind them the huts

that stood out in the sharp sun, lifeless and without the tiniest cloud

of smoke issuing from the chimneys.

Now for the first time Filippo noticed the perfect majesty of the

wilderness, over which was hanging a clear, transparent sky. Their

way, scarcely discernible by the somewhat obscured traces over the

hard rocks, lay northward along a wide ridge, and now and then, where

the line of the parallel ridge opposite curved downward, a strip of

sea gleamed along the horizon on the left. Far and wide was still

no vegetation save the dwarfed mountain shrubs and the lichens. But

now they left the heights and descended into the ravine which had to

be crossed in order to mount to the opposite ridge. Here they soon

came upon the pines and oaks that sprung up in the ravine, and heard

the rushing of the waters far below. Fenice was now walking ahead,

stepping with sure foot over the firmest stones, without looking about

or speaking a word. He could not help but let his eyes hang upon her

and admire the supple power of her limbs. Her great white headkerchief

wholly concealed her face from him, but whenever it became necessary

for them to walk together side by side, he was compelled to look about

him and away from her, so forcibly did the features of the noble scene

attract him. Now, in the full sunlight, he noticed for the first time

her peculiar childlike expression, without being able to say in what

it particularly lay, as if, perhaps, there still remained something of

seven years ago in her face, while everything else had been developing.

At last he began to speak of herself, and she gave him frank,

reasonable answers. Only that her voice, which was ordinarily not hard

and hollow, as is usually the case with women reared in the mountains,

to-day was monotonous and sounded most melancholy over things of

least account. These paths over which they were traveling had of late

years been very generally frequented by political fugitives, most of

whom had, of course, rested at Treppi on the way. Filippo inquired of

the girl about them and certain others of his acquaintance whom he

described; but few of them could she call to mind, although she was

aware that the smugglers had allowed many a stranger to pass the night

at her house. Of one of these she had only too vivid a recollection.

At the description of him the blood mounted to her face and she stood

still.

“He is a bad one!” she said sullenly. “That night I woke the servants

and had him locked out of the house.”

During this talk the lawyer did not notice how high the sun was rising

and that not a glimpse of the Tuscan plain had yet appeared. He was

thinking, too, in a disconnected way, of the approaching end of the

day. It was so refreshing to be tramping along this path, overgrown

with bushes, fifty feet above the torrent, to feel the fine spray of

the waterfall dash up against his face, to see the lizards slipping

over the stones, and the graceful butterflies chasing the furtive

sunlight, that he was not once conscious of how they were wandering

up-stream and not yet turning westward at all. There was a magic in the

voice of his guide that made him forget everything that had yesterday,

in the company of the smugglers, been so incessantly in his mind. But

now, as they ascended out of the ravine, and the boundless, utterly

strange mountain wastes, with new heights and cliffs, desolate and

parched, lay before them, he awoke all at once from his day-dream,

stood still and looked into the sky. He now understood clearly that

they had been wandering in the opposite direction, and quite two hours

farther away from his goal than when they set out.

“Halt!” said Filippo. “I see in time that you have betrayed me after

all. Is that the way to Pistoja, you traitress?”

“No,” said she, fearlessly, but her eyes fell to the ground.

“Now, then, by all the power of hell, the devil can easily take lessons

and learn hypocrisy of you. A curse on my blindness!”

“Man is all-powerful, man is mightier than the devil and the angels, if

he loves,” she said in a deep, melancholy tone.

“No,” he cried, in a flash of sudden fury, “you have not triumphed yet.

Do not exult yet, overconfident girl, not yet! What a crazy girl calls

love can not break the will of a man. Turn back with me to the place

and show me the shortest way--or I will choke you with these hands--you

fool, who can not see I must hate you, you who are willing to make me

appear before all the world as a good-for-nothing.” He stepped up close

in front of her, with clenched hands; he completely forgot himself.

“Ah! Do choke me!” She spoke with a loud but trembling voice. “Only do

it, Filippo! But when you have done it, you will throw yourself over

my body and weep blood from your eyes, that you can not bring me to

life again. Your place will be here by me, you will struggle with the

vultures that try to tear my flesh to pieces; the sun will scorch you

by day, the dew of night will wet you, until you rot away as I do--but

to leave me you are utterly incapable. Do you think a poor foolish

thing that has been brought up among the mountains will throw away

seven years as easily as she does a day? I know what those years have

cost me, how dear they were, and that I am paying a good round price

when I wish to buy you with them. Should I let you go to your death?

The idea is one to be laughed at. Once turn away from me and you will

soon be aware that I am drawing you back to me forever. For in the wine

that you drank to-day there was mixed a love-charm which no man under

the sun has ever yet withstood.”

Royal she looked as she cried out these words, her arms stretched

toward him as if her hand were holding out a sceptre to one that owed

her allegiance. But he laughed at it and said: “Your love-charm has

rendered you poor service, for I never hated you more than I do at this

moment. But I am a fool to hate a fool. May you be cured as well of

your love as of your superstition, when you see me no more. I do not

need your guidance. I see over on yonder slope a shepherd’s hut with

the herd about it. There’s a fire gleaming. There they will undoubtedly

put me in the right way. Farewell, poor serpent, farewell!”

* * * * *

She answered nothing as he went away, and sat down quietly in the

ravine, in the shadow of a rock, in the gloomy green of the fir trees

that grew down by the stream, her great eyes lowered to the ground.

He had not gone long from her before he found himself without a path,

between cliffs and bushes; then, much as he might like to deny it, the

words of this strange girl kept exercising on his heart a disturbing

influence that turned his thoughts all inward. Meanwhile he kept

ever in view the heath-fire in the meadow opposite, working his way

through to reach the valley. By the position of the sun he reckoned

that it must now be about the tenth hour. But when he had climbed down

the mountain steep he found a sunless path beneath, and soon after a

narrow bridge that crossed a new mountain stream and led up along the

opposite side, and promised to open out into the meadow. He followed

this, and at first the path ran steep up, but afterward, by a great

circuit, far away to the foot of the mountain. He saw now that this

would not bring him straight to his goal; yet over the more direct

way hung inaccessible, precipitous crags, and unless he preferred to

return, he must trust himself to this path. Now he walked on briskly,

at first like one released from the fetters over yonder, and peering

out intently every once in a while for the hut that kept continually

receding. By and by, as his blood began to pulse more evenly, there

came into his mind again all the details of the scene through which he

had just passed. The picture of the beautiful girl he now saw before

him vividly, and not as before, through the mist of sudden anger. He

could not resist a feeling of profound pity. “She is over there now,”

he said to himself. “The poor, deluded child sits building castles with

her magic art. It was for that she left the hut yesterday at night,

and by the light of the moon to gather who knows what harmless herbs.

I remember; did not even my own brave smugglers, too, point out to

me some special white blossoms among the rocks, and say they were

powerful in exciting love for love? Innocent flowers, how they have

slandered you! And it was for that she shattered the jug, for that

the wine tasted so bitter on my tongue. The older innocence grows,

the stronger and more worthy of honor it becomes. How like the Cumæan

Sibyl she stood before me, so truth-compelling, almost like that Roman

as she flung her books into the fire. How beautiful and afflicted your

delusions have made you!”

The farther he went, the stronger did he feel the pathetic splendor of

her love and the power of her beauty which separation was now beginning

to make clear to him.

“I ought not to have made her suffer because she wished in perfect good

faith to save me, to set me free from my inevitable duties. I should

have taken the hand she offered me and said: ‘I love you, Fenice, and

if I am still alive, I will come back to you and take you home.’ How

blind I was not to have thought of this way out! Shame upon the lawyer!

I ought to have taken leave of her with kisses, like a bridegroom,

then she would have had no suspicion that I was deceiving her, instead

of which I have insisted with the stubborn girl and only made matters

worse.”

Now he became absorbed in the dream of such a leave-taking and fancied

he felt her breath and the touch of her fresh young lips upon his own.

It was as if he almost heard his name called. “Fenice!” he cried back

passionately, and stood still with violently beating heart. The stream

rushed beneath him, the branches of the firs hung motionless, far and

wide a shady wilderness.

Her name was again upon his lips, when just in time the shame of what

the world thinks sealed his mouth--shame and a fear as well. He struck

himself upon the brow. “Am I still so far gone that I even dream of

her while I am awake?” he cried. “Is she to prove right that no man

under the sun is able to withstand this magic? Then, indeed, I should

be worthy of nothing better than what she thought to make of me, to

be called a Squire of Dames all my life long! No, to hell with you,

beautiful, deceiving she-devil!”

He had regained for the moment his self-control, but now he saw that

he had also been led astray from his path. He could not go back unless

he was willing to run into the arms of danger. So now he concluded to

reach again, at any price, some height from which he could look about

him for the lost shepherd’s hut. The bank of the stream along which

he was walking, rushing far below, was much too steep. So he flung

his cloak over his shoulder, chose a secure footing, and at one leap

was on the other side of the ravine, whose walls came close together

here. In better spirits, he now mounted the opposite slope and soon

came out into the broad sunshine. The sun beat on his head cruelly and

his tongue was parched with thirst, as with a great effort he worked

his way up. Now all at once anxiety came upon him that in spite of all

his pains he might never reach the goal. Thicker and thicker the blood

mounted to his head; he blamed the devil’s wine that he had tossed

down in the morning, and again he had to think of the white blossoms

they had pointed out to him yesterday on the way. Here they were

growing again--his flesh crept. “If it should be true,” he thought; “if

there are powers that can master our hearts and minds and bend the will

of a man to the caprice of a maid--rather let the worst come than this

disgrace! Rather death than slavery. But no, no, no, a lie can conquer

only him who believes in it. Be a man, Filippo; forward, the height is

there before you; only a short time, and this cursed mountain with its

ghosts will lie behind you forever!”

And yet he could not cool the fever in his blood. Every stone, every

slippery place, every pine-bough hanging heavily before him was a

reminder which he had to conquer by force, with an exertion of will out

of all proportion. When at last he arrived at the height, holding on by

the last bushes and with a swing gained the top, the blood was dripping

from his eyes so, and the sudden glare of the sun so dazed him, that he

could not look about. Angrily he chafed his forehead, and lifting his

hat brushed his hand through the tangled hair. Then again he heard his

name called, this time in very truth, and started terrified toward the

spot from which they were calling him. And opposite, a few steps from

the rock, as he had left her, sat Fenice, looking at him with calm,

happy eyes.

“Have you come at last, Filippo!” she said heartily. “I expected you

sooner.”

“Phantom of Hell!” he cried, beside himself with fear, as all the

passion of longing struggled within him, “do you still mock me because

I am led astray by pain and the sun is melting everything in my brain?

Do you triumph because I am forced to see you once more, in order that

I may amuse you once more? If I have found you again, by God Almighty,

it is not because I have looked for you, and you shall lose me in spite

of it!”

She shook her head, laughing strangely. “It draws you without your

knowing it,” she said. “You would find me if all the mountains in the

world were between us, for in your wine I mixed seven drops of the

dog’s heart’s blood. Poor Fuoco! He loved me and he hated you. So the

Filippo that you once were you shall hate as you hated me and shall

have no peace again until you love me. Filippo, do you not see now that

I have conquered you? Come now, I will show you the way again to Genoa,

my beloved, my husband, my hero!”

With that she stood up, and was about to encircle him with her two

arms, when suddenly she shrank back from his face. He had become

deathly pale, except for the red in the whites of his eyes, his lips

moved without giving a sound, his hat had fallen from his head, with

his hands he hastily waved off every approach.

“A dog! a dog!” were his first painfully spoken words. “No! no! no! You

shall not conquer, demon! Better a dead man than a living dog!” At that

rang out a frightful laugh from his lips, and heavily, as if he were

struggling by force for every step, his eyes fixed staringly at the

girl, he turned, staggering, and fell headlong backward down into the

ravine which he had just left.

Before her eyes it was night; with both hands she tore at her heart and

sent out a cry that rang through the ravine like the cry of a falcon,

as she saw the tall figure disappear over the edge of the precipice.

She tottered a few steps, then stood firm and upright, her hands

always crushed against her heart. “Madonna!” she cried, without giving

a thought to anything. Always looking down ahead of her, impetuously

she now approached the ravine and began to climb down the stone wall

between the firs. Her lips, breathing heavily, murmured words without

meaning; with one hand she gripped fast her heart, with the other she

let herself down by the stones and branches. Thus, until she came to

the base of the fir trees--there he was lying. He had his eyes closed,

his forehead and hair covered with blood, his back leaning against the

trunk of a tree. His coat was torn and his right leg, moreover, seemed

to be wounded. Whether he lived she could not make out. She took him up

in both arms, then she felt that he still moved. His cloak, which he

had worn closely about his shoulders, seemed to have broken the force

of his fall. “Christ be praised!” she said, breathing once more. It was

as if the strength of a giant had come to her, as she climbed up the

steep again with the helpless man against her breast. It was long work.

Four times she laid him down among the moss and rocks, still the life

slept in him. When at last she arrived at the top with her unfortunate

burden, her own knees gave way, and she lay for a moment in a faint

and in complete unconsciousness. Then she stood up and turned away in

the direction in which lay the shepherd’s hut. When she had come near

enough she set up a shrill call throughout the width of the valley. The

echo answered first, then a human voice. She called a second time, and

then turned back without waiting for the answer. When she again came

to the helpless man, she moaned sorrowfully and dragged him into the

shadow of the rock where she had been sitting before and waiting for

him. There he found himself when consciousness feebly returned and he

first opened his eyes again. He saw two shepherds by him, one an old

man, the other a young lad of seventeen years. They were sprinkling

water in his face and rubbing his temples. His head was resting softly;

he did not know that he was lying in the lap of the young girl.

He seemed altogether to have forgotten her. He heaved a deep sigh that

shook him from head to foot, and then closed his eyes again. At last

he begged with faltering voice: “One of you good people, will you go

down--quickly--to Pistoja. They are waiting for me. May God’s mercy

reward him who tells the landlord of the Fortuna--how it is with me. I

mean--” his voice and consciousness failed again.

“I will go,” said the girl. “You two, in the meanwhile, carry the

master to Treppi, and lay him on the bed which Nina will show you. She

must call the surgeon, the old woman, and have the master healed and

bandaged by her. Lift him up, you, Tommaso, by the shoulders; you,

Beppo, by the feet. So, lift him! Softly! Softly! But stop--dip this in

water and lay it on his brow and wet it again at every spring. Do you

understand?”

She tore from her head a great piece of the linen kerchief, soaked it

and bound it about the bloody head of Filippo. Then he was lifted up,

the men bore him on to Treppi, and the girl, gazing after him with the

life entirely gone from her eyes, picked up her skirts quickly and went

along the rough path down the mountain.

* * * * *

It was about three o’clock in the afternoon when she reached Pistoja.

The Fortuna inn lay some hundred feet beyond the city, and at this, the

hour of siesta, there was but little sign of life within. In the shadow

of the broad overhanging eaves wagons were standing, unhitched, while

the drivers were asleep on the cushions; in the great smithy opposite,

all work was at rest, and through the thickly dusted trees along the

highway not a breeze was stirring. Fenice went over to the spring

in front of the house, whose stream, the only busy thing about, was

pouring down into the great stone trough, and refreshed her hands and

face. Then she drank, slow and deep, to still both thirst and hunger,

and went into the tavern.

The landlord lifted himself sleepily from the bench in the wine-room,

but lay down again when he saw that it was a girl from Treppi that

disturbed his rest.

“What do you want?” he addressed her sharply. “If you want something

to eat or some wine, go into the kitchen.”

“Are you the landlord?” she asked quietly.

“Who else but me? You know me, I should think--Baldassare Tizzi of the

Fortuna. What have you got for me, my pretty daughter?”

“A message from Signor Filippo Mannini, the lawyer.”

“Eh, eh, that’s it, is it? That’s something different, to be sure,”

and he got up quickly. “Didn’t he come himself, child? There are some

gentlemen over there waiting for him.”

“Then bring me to them.”

“Ei, ei, the sphinx! Can’t a man know what he has to say to the

gentlemen?”

“No.”

“There, there, very good, child, very good. Every one has his own

secret, this pretty stubborn-head as well as the tough skull of old

Baldassare. Eh, eh, so he is not coming; that will be very displeasing

to the gentlemen; they appear to have important business with him.” He

became silent and looked at the girl sidewise. But as she gave no sign

of taking him into her confidence, but opened the door, he put on his

straw hat and went out with her, shaking his head.

A little wine-garden lay at the back of the court through which she

passed as the old man continued breaking out into questions and

exclamations to which she returned not a word. At the end of the middle

arbor-walk lay an unpretentious summer house; the shutters were closed,

and on the inside over the glass door hung down a heavy curtain. A

few steps from the pavilion, the landlord told Fenice to wait--and he

went alone to the door, which opened at his knock. Fenice then saw the

curtain thrust aside and a pair of eyes look out at her. Then the old

man came back to her and said that the gentlemen would speak with her.

As Fenice entered the pavilion a man who had been sitting at the table

with his back to the door rose and shot a quick, piercing glance at

her. Two others remained seated on their chairs. On the table she saw

flasks of wine and glasses.

“The signor, the lawyer, is not coming, as he promised?” said the men

before whom she stood.

“Who are you, and what have you brought as evidence of your mission?”

“I am a girl from Treppi, Fenice Cattaneo, sir. Evidence? I have none,

other than that I am telling the truth.”

“Why does the signor, the lawyer, not come? We thought he was a man of

honor.”

“He is none the less honorable because he has suffered a violent fall

from the cliffs and has been wounded in the head and in the leg, so

that he has lost consciousness.”

The questioner exchanged glances with the other men, and then continued:

“You tell the truth, to be sure, Fenice Cattaneo, because you know how

to lie so badly. If he has lost consciousness, how could he send you

here to announce it to us?”

“Speech came back to him for a moment. Then he said that he was

expected at the Fortuna; that it should be made known there what had

happened to him.”

A dry laugh was audible from one of the other men.

“You see,” said the speaker, “these gentlemen here put no great faith

in your tale. Truly, it is easier to play the poet than the man of

honor.”

“If you mean, signor, that out of cowardice Signor Filippo does not

come, it is an abominable lie, which may Heaven put down to your

account,” she said firmly, and looked at each of the men in turn.

“You are warm, little one,” mocked the man. “Are you, perhaps, the very

good friend of the gentleman, the lawyer, heh?”

“No, the Madonna is witness!” said she, in her richest voice. The men

whispered together, and she heard one of them say: “The Aerie,[2] too,

is in Tuscany. You do not really believe in this trick, do you?” The

third interrupted him: “He lies no more in Treppi than--”

“Come and see for yourself,” Fenice broke into their whispering. “But

you shall not carry weapons, if I am to guide you.”

“Little fool,” said the first speaker. “Think you that we will risk our

lives for such a trim little creature as you are?”

“No, but for him; that I know.”

“Have you any other special conditions to impose, Fenice Cattaneo?”

“Yes, that a surgeon accompanies us. Is there one among you, Signori?”

She received no answer. Instead of which the three men put their heads

together. “As we came by, I saw him by chance in front of his house; it

is to be hoped that he has not yet returned to the city,” said one of

them, and then left the pavilion. He returned after a short time with a

fourth, whom the company did not seem to know.

“Will you do us the kindness of going up with us to Treppi?” The

spokesman addressed him. “You will be informed on the way what is the

business in hand.”

The other bowed silently, and they all left the pavilion. As they

passed the kitchen, Fenice provided herself with some bread and took a

few bites of it. Then she went on ahead of the company again and struck

into the path leading to the mountain. She paid no attention to her

companions, who were talking excitedly among themselves, but hurried

on as fast as she could, so that they had to call her several times

for fear they should lose her from their sight. Then she stopped and

waited, and in hopeless brooding gazed out into empty space, her hand

pressed close to her heart. So the evening wore on before they arrived

at the height.

The village of Treppi looked no livelier than usual. Only the faces of

a few children stirred in curiosity at the windows, and a few old women

appeared under their doorways as Fenice passed by with her companions.

She spoke with no one, but went straight to her home, returning the

neighbors’ greetings with a curt wave of the hand. Here before the door

stood a group of men deep in conversation, servants were busy with

packed horses, and contrabbandieri were going to and fro. When they saw

the strangers coming, there was a panic among the people. They drew

aside and let the company pass. Fenice exchanged a few words with Nina

in the great hall and then opened the door of her room. In there, in

the dimness, could be seen the wounded man, stretched out on the bed,

and kneeling on the ground beside him a very old woman of Treppi.

“How is he getting on, chiaruccia?” (chirurgeon) asked Fenice.

“Not badly, praise the Madonna!” answered the old woman, and with sharp

glances inspected the gentlemen who were entering behind the young girl.

Filippo started up from a half sleep and his pale face suddenly glowed:

“It is you!” said he.

“Yes, I am bringing the gentlemen with whom you intended to fight, that

they may see for themselves that you could not come. There’s a surgeon

here, also.”

The feeble glance of the man lying there stole slowly over the four

strange faces. “He is not among them,” he said. “I do not know any of

these gentlemen.”

As he spoke, and was about to close his eyes again, the spokesman

stepped out from among the three and said: “It is enough that we know

_you_, Signor Filippo Mannini. We have orders to wait and to arrest

you. Letters of yours have been seized, from which it appears that you

have set foot in Tuscany again not only in order to settle the duel,

but also to establish a certain society for the purpose of lending aid

to your party at Bologna. You see before you the Commissary of Police

and here are my orders.”

He drew a paper from his pocket and held it before Filippo’s face.

But the latter only stared at it, as if he understood nothing of the

matter, and fell back again into his sleep-like stupor.

“Examine the wound, Doctor”--the Commissary now turned to the surgeon.

“If his condition will allow it at all, we must carry the gentleman

down without delay. I saw some horses outside there. We can accomplish

two acts of the law at once if we take possession of them, for they are

laden with smuggled goods. It is a lucky thing one knows what sort of

people visit Treppi when one wants to know it.”

As he said this, and the surgeon approached Filippo, Fenice disappeared

from the room. The old chirurgeon remained quietly sitting and mumbling

to herself. Voices were heard without and an unusual disturbance of

going to and fro, and at the hole in the wall faces looked in and

quickly disappeared again.

“It is possible,” the surgeon now said, “for us to take him down if we

bind him tight with a twofold bandage. Frankly, he would recover more

rapidly if he were left here in this peaceful spot and in the care of

this old witch, whose medicinal herbs put the most learned physician

to shame. The fever may endanger his life on the way, and I will in no

case take the responsibility, Mr. Commissary.”

“Unnecessary, unnecessary,” replied the other. “_How_ to get rid of him

does not enter into the question. So bind your rags about him, as tight

as you can, so that none of them may slip, and then forward. We have

the moonlight and are taking a young fellow along with us as guide.

Meanwhile, go out, Molza, and secure the horses.”

The police officer whom the order concerned opened the door of the room

quickly and was about to go out when an unexpected sight turned him to

stone. The room adjoining was occupied by a crowd of village folk, at

whose head stood two contrabbandieri. Fenice was still addressing them

as the door opened. Now she stepped to the threshold of the room, and

said, with sharp emphasis:

“You will leave this room instantly, gentlemen, and without the wounded

man, or you will never see Pistoja again. No blood has ever yet flowed

in this house as long as Fenice Cattaneo has been mistress of it, and

may the Madonna prevent any such crime for all time to come. Do not

try to return, either, with more men. You still bear in mind, perhaps,

the spot where one has to climb up, one by one, the rock staircase.

A single child can defend this pass, if he rolls down the steep the

stones that lie scattered up on top as if sown there. We will place a

watch there until this gentleman is in safety. Now, go and boast abroad

of your heroism, how you have played a young girl false and wished to

murder a wounded man.”

The faces of the officers turned paler and paler, and after the last

words there followed a pause. Then, as if at a word of command, they

all three drew from their pockets the pistols that had up to now been

concealed, and deliberately the Commissary said: “We come in the name

of the law. If you do not respect it yourself, will you still hinder

others from executing it? It may cost six of you your lives if you

compel us to procure the law by force.”

A murmur passed through the crowd of the others. “Be still, friends,”

cried the resolute girl. “They dare not do it. They know that every man

they shoot will bring a sixfold death upon the murderer. You speak like

a fool,” she said, turning again to the Commissary. “The fear that sits

on your brows speaks, at least, more reasonably. Do as fear advises

you. The way is open, gentlemen!”

She stepped back and pointed with her left hand toward the front door

of the house. Those in the room whispered a few words together, then

with conciliatory bearing they walked through the excited crowd,

which with ever-increasing curses made way for them. The surgeon was

undecided which he should follow; but at an imperious nod from the

young girl, he hastily joined his companions.

This whole scene had been witnessed by the big eyes of the sick man in

the chamber, who had half risen. Now the old woman went back to him and

smoothed his pillow for him.

“Lie still, my son!” said she, “there is no danger. Sleep, sleep, poor

son, the old chiaruccia watches, and that you may be still more secure,

that is our Fenice’s care, the blessed child! Sleep, sleep!” She

crooned him to sleep with monotonous songs, like a child. But he took

the name of Fenice with him into his dreams.

* * * * *

Filippo was ten days up there in the mountains and in the care of the

old woman, slept much by night, and by day, sitting before the door,

enjoyed the clear air and the peacefulness of it all. As soon as he was

able to write again, he sent a messenger with a letter to Bologna, and

the next day received an answer. Whether welcome or unwelcome was not

to be read in his pale face. Except to his nurse and the children of

Treppi he spoke to no one, and he saw Fenice daily during the evening,

when she was kept busy about the house. At sunrise she left the house

and remained all day in the mountains. Formerly it had been otherwise,

as he gathered from her chance utterances. But even when she was at

home there was never an opportunity to speak to her. She went about in

general as if perfectly unconscious of his presence, and appeared to be

ordering her life as formerly, yet her face had become like stone and

her eyes as dead.

When Filippo, one day, enticed by the beautiful weather, had wandered

farther than usual from the house, and with the feeling of new strength

was climbing an easy height, he was startled as he turned the corner of

a rock and unexpectedly saw Fenice sitting on the moss near a spring.

She had distaff and spindle in her hands, and during the spinning

appeared to be much absorbed. At Filippo’s step she looked up, but

spoke not a word, yet the expression of her face changed, and she

quickly gathered up all her tools. Then she went away, without heeding

his call, and was soon out of sight.

The morning after this incident, he had just risen and his first

thoughts were again turned to her, when the door of his room opened and

the young girl calmly appeared before him. She remained standing at the

threshold, and signed to him imperiously with her hand, as he was about

to approach her hastily from the window.

“You are cured once more,” she said coldly. “I have spoken with the old

woman. She thinks you have strength to travel again by short day stages

and on horseback. You will leave Treppi early in the morning, and never

return. This promise I demand of you!”

“I promise it, Fenice, on one condition.”

She was silent.

“That you go with me, Fenice!” He spoke with great, uncontrolled

emotion.

A dark frown of anger overclouded her brow. But she restrained herself,

and said, holding on to the door-knob: “In what way have I deserved to

be made sport of? Make the promise without condition. I expect it on

your _honor_, Signor!”

“Will you so thrust me aside, after you have instilled your love charm

into me to the very core and made me your own forever, Fenice?”

She calmly shook her head. “There is no longer any charm between us,”

she said in a hollow voice. “You lost blood before the drink worked;

the spell is broken. And it is well that it is so, for I have done

wrong. Do not let us speak of it any more and only say that you will

go. A horse will be ready and a guide for wherever you will.”

“If it is no longer magic that binds me to you, there is surely

something else, for which you have no remedy. May God be gracious to

me--”

“Be still!” she interrupted him, and closed her lips tightly. “I am

deaf to such words as you are going to speak. If you think there is

something due to me and are trying to pity me--then go and the account

is therewith balanced. You shall not think that this poor head of mine

can learn nothing. I know now that one can not buy a human being--as

little by the pitiable services that go as a matter of course, as by

seven years of waiting--which is also a matter of course, before God.

You shall not think that you have made me unhappy. You have cured me!

Go, and take my thanks with you!”

“Answer me, before God!” he cried, beside himself, and went nearer to

her, “have I cured you also of your _love_?”

“No,” she said firmly. “What is that to you? That is my affair; you

have neither right nor power over it. Go.”

With that she stepped back and over the threshold. The next moment he

had fallen on the stones at her feet and was clasping her knees.

“If it is true, what you say,” he cried in greatest sorrow, “then save

me, receive me, take me up to you, or this brain, which only a miracle

has kept together, will burst in pieces, along with the heart that you

wish to thrust aside. My world is empty, my love the prey of hate, my

old and my new home banished me; what have I to live for, if I must

also lose you!”

Then he looked up at her and saw the bright tears breaking from her

closed eyes. Her face was still motionless; then she took a deep

breath, her eyes opened, her lips moved, still without words. At one

touch life was again blossoming in her. She bent down over him, her

strong arms lifted him up--“You are mine!” she whispered trembling. “So

will I be yours.”

* * * * *

The sun as it rose the next day saw the pair on their way to Genoa

where Filippo decided to retire before the plots of his enemies. The

tall, pale man rode upon a safe horse, which his wife was leading by

the bridle. On both sides extended in the clearness of the autumn the

heights and depths of the beautiful Apennines; eagles circled above the

ravines, and far away in the distance glistened the sea. And calm and

shining like the ocean there the future lay before the wanderers.