“Signorina.” Mae was passing down the long hall when she heard the
whisper. She turned and saw Lisetta, with shining eyes and pink cheeks,
standing at her side. Her pretty plump shoulders were only half covered,
and the array of colors about her transformed her into a sort of
personified rainbow. This was Lisetta’s Carnival attire, and very proud
she was of it.
“Why, Lisetta, what do you want, and what makes you so happy?” called
Mae.
“O, Signorina, the cousins are here,--and others,--all in mask. They
fill Maria’s rooms quite full. It is very gay out there, and they all
want to see you, Signorina. I have told them how well you speak Italian
and how you love Italy, and to-night, they say, you shall be one of us.
So come.” All this while Lisetta had been leading Mae swiftly down the
corridor, until as she said these last words, she reached and pushed
open the door. A great shout of laughter greeted Mae’s ear, and a pretty
picture met her eyes--gaily decked youths and maidens clapping their
hands and chattering brightly, while the padrona was just entering the
opposite doorway, bearing two flasks of native wine, and some glasses.
“‘Tis genuine Orvieto,” she called out, and this raised another shout.
Then she caught sight of Mae and bowed low towards her. “Here is the
little foreign lady,” she cried, and a dozen pairs of big black eyes
were turned eagerly and warmly on Mae. She bowed and smiled at them,
and said in pleading tones, “O, pray do not call me the ‘little foreign
lady’ now. Play I am as good an Italian as my heart could wish I were.”
This speech was received with new applause, and the padrona handed
around the glasses saying: “We must drink first to the health of our new
Italian. May she never leave us.”
“Yes, yes,” called Lisetta, lifting high her glass. “Yes, yes,” cried
all, and Mae drank as heartily as any of them. Then she shook her head
and gazed very scornfully down on her dark, stylish clothes. “I am not
thoroughly Italian yet,” she cried. “Here, and here, and here,” cried
one and another, proffering bits of their own gay costumes, and in a
moment Mae had received all sorts of tributes--a string of red beads
from one, a long sash from another, a big-balled stiletto from a third,
so that she was able from the gleanings to trim herself up into at least
a grotesque and un-American Carnival figure. Then the Italians with
their soft tongues began to flatter her.
“How lovely the Signorina would look in a contadina costume--the home
costume,” said Lisetta gravely. “It is so beautiful, is it not?” And
then those two or three privileged ones, who had seen Lisetta’s
home, went into ecstasies over its many charms. Lisetta, next to the
Signorina, was the heroine of the occasion. She was from a distance, was
handsome and clever, and the padrona gave glowing accounts of her full
purse, and two pretty donkeys, and house by the sea.
They had a very gay time. Such singing, and then dancing and frolicking,
and such a feline softness in all their gaiety. None of the German or
Saxon bullying, and barking and showing of teeth; in no wise a game of
dogs, which always ends in a fight; but a truly kittenish play, with
sharp claws safely tucked out of sight behind the very softest paws,
and a rich, gentle curve of motion, inexpressibly witching to our little
northern maiden, who was fast losing her head amid it all. Mae did not
reflect that felines are treacherous. She only drew a quick, mental
picture of the parlor on the other side of the hall, which she compared
to this gay scene. Mrs. Jerrold filling in dull row after row of her
elaborate sofa cushion, which was bought in all its gorgeousness of
floss fawn’s head and bead eyes, Edith and Albert hard at work over
their note books, or reading up for the sights of to-morrow, Mr. Mann
with his open book also, all quiet and studious. Eric, alone, might be
softly whistling, or writing an invitation to Miss Hopkins to climb up
St. Peter’s dome with him, or to visit the tomb of Cecilia Metella, or
the Corso, as the case might be, while here--
As Mae reached this point in her musings, the Italians were forming for
a dance, so she sprang up to join them. Two or three peasants from the
country south had wandered up with the world to Rome, for Carnival time,
then for Lent. They had brought with them their pipes and zitterns.
In the mornings they made short pilgrimages, playing in front of the
shrines about the city, or roaming out on the campagna to some quiet
church. In the evening time they wandered up the stone stairways of the
great houses, and paused on the landings before the different homes. If
all was still they passed on, but if there was noise, laughter, sound of
voices, they laid aside their penitential manner, and struck into dance
music, flashing their velvety eyes, and striking pretty attitudes,
aided greatly by their Alpine hats and sheep-skins and scarlet-banded
stockings.
Three of these peasants had appeared at the padrona’s doorway, by a sort
of magic. They bowed and smiled, and commenced to play. Every one sprang
up. “Dance,” cried they all, and flew for their partners. Mae found
herself in the midst of the crowd, and having the most willing and
nimble of feet, she soon toned and coaxed the fashionable waltz on
which she had started into accord with the more elastic footsteps of her
companion. There was something in the serpentine, winding and unwinding
motion, the coaxingness of the steps, that was deliciously intoxicating
to Mae. The color came to her cheeks, the smile played around her lips,
and when she paused to breathe, she found the Italians showing their
white teeth, and clapping their brown hands in her honor, while the
tallest musician gazed at her from the dark doorway, with the rapt
reverence he gave to all things beautiful and thrilling. She was a new
song to him.
“The Signorina is the veriest Italian of us all,” cried Lisetta.
“She honors our Italy,” called Mae’s last partner.
“Her feet are those of a chamois,” said one from the north.
“Nay, she flies,” replied another.
They all spoke in their earnest manner, and the praises, that fall in
fulsome flattery in English, were delicate and stimulating as they
slid in soft Italian from their full, red lips. Mae tossed her head
carelessly, but she sipped the praises and found them sweet.
“Now for the Tarantella,” said the padrona, so Lisetta shook her
tambourine wildly, and the very prettiest girl of them all, and a big,
brown boy (happy fellow!) began that coquettish bit of witchery. The
pretty girl tripped around and around and wreathed her arms over her
head, and the boy knelt appealingly and sprang up passionately again
and again, until the clock struck ten, and the party broke up. Mae
shook hands with a new friend. He was a stone-cutter, and was soon to be
married, and he poured out all his plans and hopes into her sympathetic
ears, and told of his pretty bride to be, and of her dowry. Mae, in
turn, sent her love to the happy bride, and took a charm from her
watch-chain to go with it, a tiny silver boat, and she sent it with a
hope that some day they might both sail over to America. At which the
bridegroom shook his head very decidedly, and kissed Mae’s hand and
bowed himself out. Then, after she had disrobed her of her borrowed
plumes, all the others kissed her hand and bowed themselves out, and
Roberto and Giovanni awaked, and got up from the corner, and stood on
their heads and hallooed as loud as ever they pleased, and the evening
was over, and Lisetta and the padrona and the boys and Mae were alone.
“Oh, oh, oh,” cried Mae, “how perfectly perfect. Do you always have such
good times as this?”
“At home, yes,” replied Lisetta, folding her hands and smiling. “We have
many a play-day on the bay of Naples.” Then she roused herself: “Good
night, Signorina,” she said, “keep your ears open.”
Mae had barely reached her room when she appreciated Lisetta’s last
words. She heard music in the street below. She raised her window; Eric
and Norman lifted the parlor window at the same moment, “Come in here,”
they cried. So in she ran, took a place between them, and they silently
listened to the maskers’ serenade. The musicians sang at first the
gayest of tunes, but suddenly, by some subtile impulse, they changed to
quieter minor airs, and sang songs full of tears and passion and love
and tenderness. Then they silently turned to go. Norman Mann touched Mae
on the shoulder. He handed her a bunch of Carnival flowers. They were
Bero’s, but she flung them unhesitatingly into the street, leaning far
out to watch the singers catch them and separate them in the moonlight.
They called out loud their thanks--their “Grazie, grazie,” as sweet as
any lily just broken from its stem--and as they turned to go Mae saw
that each one was decked with a sprig from the bouquet, pulled through
his button-hole or the riband of his hat.
Only the tallest musician, who walked somewhat apart, carried his flower
tightly clasped in his hand, and now and again he raised it to his lips.
He probably dreamed over it that night, and played his dream out in
a gentle, wistful, minor adoration before the Madonna at the Quattro
Fontane the next morning.
O, the dreams and poems and songs without words that drop into our lives
from the sudden flash of stranger eyes, or the accidental touch of an
unknown hand, or the tender warmth of a swift smile! And if our eyes,
our touch, our smiles may only have floated off in like manner--as
dreams and poems and melody--to give added rhythm and harmony to other
lives.
Mae drew a long sigh, one of those delightful, contented sighs, with a
smile wrapped up in it. “I am glad you are so happy,” said Norman Mann,
smiling down at her. When Norman spoke like that Mae felt only, O, so
very content. She quite forgot all grudges against him; she would have
liked just at that moment to have the world stand quite still. This was
very different from the ordinary Mae. Usually she longed that it might
go faster, and would put her pink and white ear quite close to the brown
earth to hear if it were turning as swiftly as ever it could. “I like
it to hurry, hurry, hurry,” said eager, restless Mae. “I love to live
quickly and see what’s coming next.”
But Mae was not in that mood to-night. She leaned out of the window all
untroubled. If the sun could stand still off behind the world--as he is
now--and the moon could stand still right before us--as she is now--and
we could stay right here, we three. Why, no, Eric has gone in and is
walking up and down nervously. Thus Mae thought, and was quiet. “What
are you thinking about?” asked Norman. She told him naturally, with her
eyes on his until she reached the words “and we.” Then her eyes fell,
and she paused.
“Yes,” replied Norman, “I have the same feeling,” and there was a great
deal more on the very tippest tip of his tongue. But Mae turned her face
from him slightly; the moon stole softly behind the flimsiest little
cloud that any one could have seen through, and he paused, silly fellow.
These slight withdrawals, that should have urged him on, deceived him.
He stopped, and then he remembered Mae’s past doings, her recklessness,
her waywardness. It was not time yet to speak what he had in his heart
to say, and what quivered on his tongue. So he only asked abruptly: “You
will go with me to-morrow night for one of your gayest frolics, will you
not? We will go down on the Corso for all the Mocoletti fun. I am very
anxious to be in another of your good times.”
“O, would you like it?” said Mae; “I am so glad. I should delight in it.
It will be almost too good.” She stopped abruptly again, and gave him a
quick, soft glance, just as the moon rode triumphantly out from behind
the filmy, flimsy veil, and shone full down on her eyes and hair. It
fell on a bright, round, glistening ball, tucked in among some half
curls behind her ear. “What is that?” asked Norman.
“That”--Mae put up her hand and drew it out--“that is my stiletto. I
forgot to give it back to Lisetta. It is pretty, isn’t it?”
Norman took the long needle from her hand and looked at it. “It is not
as pretty as the flowered stiletto. Why didn’t you get one of those?”
“Why, do you not know that those are not worn by free maidens? They are
one of the added glories of a matron. I like my round, smooth ball
a great deal better. It means liberty.” And she plunged the steel
tremulously back into her hair.
“We had better go in now; this night air is bad for you.” The moon
blazed scornfully down on Norman Mann as he said this. She had had a
wide experience, and had rarely seen such a stupid, cowardly fellow, so
she thought. Yet, after all, Norman only acted in self-defense. Here was
a girl by his side who gloried, as it seemed to him, in her freedom, and
that being so, he must get away as soon as possible from that window,
that moon, and that little girl.
“Well, Norman,” cried Eric, advancing eagerly as they turned from the
window, “when do you really suppose it will come off?”
“Suppose what will come off?” inquired Mae.
“O, I forgot you were here. Well, don’t tell any one else. Norman is to
fight a duel.”
“To fight a duel--and be killed?” gasped Mae.
“You have but a poor opinion of my powers,” laughed Norman, “although
the German looked a veteran duellist from his scars. His face was fairly
embroidered or fancy-worked with red lines. A sort of hem in his nose,
and tucks and seams all over his cheeks. Notice my knowledge in this
line, Miss Mae. You ought to be ashamed, Eric, to have spoken of it.”
“Isn’t it all a joke?” asked Mae, pushing her head out of the window
again, to hide the sudden white terror in her face. “I didn’t suppose
Americans fought duels when they were off pleasuring.” This sentence Mae
meant to pass as a gay, light, easy speech, to prove that Norman Mann
and a duel were not such a very dreadful combination to her feminine
mind.
“NO, it is no joke, but dead earnest,” replied Eric. “I am to be his
second, and you must keep it a great secret, Mae, till it is all over.”
“All over!”--a sudden vision of Norman lying white and motionless with
a deep wound across his soft, brown temple. Mae closed her eyes. “I
suppose I might as well tell you about it,” said Norman, “now that this
stupid Eric has let out about the affair, although it may never come to
anything. I was dining to-night at a little restaurant on the Felice, a
quiet, homelike place, which a good many artists, and especially women,
frequent. There is a queer, crazy little American, who thinks herself
a painter, and is a harmless lunatic, who is a regular guest at this
restaurant. Everybody smiles at her absurdities, but is ready enough to
be kind to the poor old creature. To-night, however, I was hardly seated
when in came a party of Germans, all in mask and Carnival costume. One
of them was arrayed in exact imitation of this old lady. He had on a
peaked bonnet and long, black gloves, with dangling fingers, such as she
invariably wears. These he waved around mockingly and seating himself
opposite her, he followed her every motion. The ladies at the same table
rose and went away. Then up gets this big ruffian and sits down on the
edge of the old lady’s chair. I could stand it no longer, but jumping in
front of him, showered down all the heavy talk I knew in German,
Italian and French, subsiding at last into my mother tongue, with her
appropriate epithets. Having sense enough left to know that he could not
reap the full benefit of English, I pulled out my card, wrote my
address on it, and threw it on the table, and I rather think that was
understood. There’s no country that I have heard of where men don’t know
what ‘we’ll fight this out, means.’” Norman was striding up and down the
room now almost as restlessly as Eric had done, but he seated himself
again as Mae asked for the rest.
“The rest is very simple, Miss Mae--mere business. I turned to go away,
and one of his friends approached me to ask for the name of my second.
I gave Eric’s here. He bowed and said: ‘He shall hear from me this
evening, and I came home. The evening has advanced to midnight, but not
a word yet. No, it is not quite eleven, I see.”
“You’ll have the choice of weapons if they challenge you,” said Eric;
“you’ll take pistols, I suppose? Just think of my living to really
assist in a ‘pistols-and-coffee-for-two’ affair!”
“I daresay it will be coffee for two, served separately, and with no
thought of pistols. I don’t really believe it will come to anything.
There are ways of getting out of it,” said Norman, lighting a cigarette.
“Will you refuse to fight?” asked Mae, and her heart, which had been
white with fear for Norman the second before, flashed now with quick,
red scorn. Even the Huguenot maiden would, after all, have despised her
lover if he had quietly allowed her to tie the white handkerchief to
his arm. Believe it, she loved him far, far better as she clung to him,
pressed closely to his warm, living heart, because she realized in an
agony that his honor was strong enough to burst even the tender bonds of
her dear love, and that he would break from her round arms to rush into
that ghostly, ghastly death-embrace on the morrow, at the dreadful knell
of St. Bartholomew bells.
Suppose he had yielded. Suppose we saw him in the picture standing
quietly, unresistingly, as her soft fingers bound the white badge, that
meant protection and life, to his arm. Would not she, as well as he,
have known that it was a badge of cowardice, and that he wore a heart as
white?
And afterwards, would she have loved the living man, breathing in
air heavy with the hearts’ life of his brothers and friends, as she
worshiped the dead man, whose cold body rested forever down deep in
mother earth’s brown, soft bosom, but whose very life of life swelled
the great throng of heroes and martyrs who have closed their own eyes
upon life’s pictures, that those pictures might shine clearer and
brighter to other eyes?
If the man had yielded, and the picture showed him thus, would we see
the Huguenot lovers adorning half the houses of the land? Most often
they are found in that particular corner of the home belonging to some
maiden--that sacred room of her own, where she prays her prayers, and
lives her most secret life. I have often wondered at the many girls who
hang that especial picture over their fire-places. It must be a case of
unconscious ideality. They realize that love must be so subject to honor
that heart-strings would break for the sake of that honor, if need be,
even though the harmonious love-song of two hearts is hushed; and what
is the love-song of any two beings compared to a life-song of honor
for the world--those wonderful life-songs that we all know? One of them
sings itself so loudly to me now, over ages of romance and history, that
I must let my simple story wait and give way to it for a minute.
There was a man who lived once. If God did not create him, Homer did.
The Oracle told him that the first man who put foot on the Trojan shores
would die. He knew this before he started on his voyage for Greece. He
left a wife and home behind him, whom he dearly loved. I wonder if he
used to pace the deck of the rich barge, and listen to the men
chatting around him, and smile as they planned of returning, proud and
victorious, to their homes and their wives.
All the while under his smile he knew he was to die, not in the glory
of fight, although his sword swung sharp and bright at his side, in any
thrilling fashion, to be sung of and wept of by his fellows.
All the while the heavy barge sailed on, and at last land came in sight.
I wonder if his heart was full when he saw it? Did he remember his wife
and his home? Did he feel his life strong within him, and eager as a
battle-horse, as he neared the land where wars were to be fought, and
glories won?
All the while his heart was firm. He stood the very foremost of them
all, as they drifted quite in to the green, green shore. Around him
men talked and laughed, and the sun shone. He may have laid his hand
commandingly on some youthful shoulders and pushed back the eager boy
who longed to bound first into this new world. He may have saved him
thus from death for life. We do not know.
All we do know is, that with his own brave feet he marched ahead of them
all, solemnly, smilingly, with the oracle in his heart. From the vessel
to the green, green shore--such a little step. He leaps from the Grecian
barge to the Trojan land, alive. Does he turn to look at his comrades
and off eastwards, beyond homewards, with a great thrill before he falls
dead? We do not know.
All we do know is, that WE thrill now as we see him leaping to his
death, even over this gap of ages, through these shadows of unreality.
We have left Mae flashing scorn at Norman for a long while, a much
longer while than she really needed for her flash, for Norman’s angry
start, violent exclamation, and indignant glance convinced her of her
mistake before he answered her.
“I refuse to fight--I--Great--I beg your pardon, Miss Mae, but of course
I’ll fight. I only hope the fellow isn’t such a craven as to let it blow
over. However, I strongly suspect policy and his friends will keep him
from it. For my part, I would like to break my lance for the poor woman.
Any good blow struck for the fair thing, helps old Mother earth a bit, I
suppose.”
“That’s your idea of life?” queried Eric, rather gravely. “My efforts
are all to push Eric Madden on his way a bit.”
“And I haven’t any idea; I just live,” said Mae, “like a black and
tan dog. I wish I were one. Then the only disagreeable part of me, my
conscience, would be out of the way. But what has all this to do with
the duel?” “That has something to do with it, I fancy,” said Eric,
rising and leaving the room hastily, as the bell rang. “No, stay where
you are. I’ll receive him in the little salon.” Mae rose and walked to
the fireside, and looked down on the two small logs of wet wood that
sizzled on the fire-dogs. The faint, red flame that flickered around
them, looked sullen and revengeful, she thought, as she watched the
feeble blaze intently. It seemed hours since Eric had left the room.
What was Norman thinking? What was the stranger saying out in the little
salon? No, no, she would not think thus. She would repeat something to
quiet herself--poetry--what should it be? Ah, here is Eric.
It was Eric. His face was flushed. His lip curled. “Coward! craven!” he
exclaimed, “Coward, craven.”
“Well, tell us about it,” said Norman, coolly, but a wave of color
rushed over his face.
“O, palaver and stuff. Somebody’s dreadfully ill--dying, I believe, and
that somebody is wife, or mother, or son to this brute you challenged.
He’s got to go, the coward. If you are ever in his vicinity again, and
send him your card, he will understand it and meet you at such place and
with such weapons as you prefer. Bah--too thin!” and Eric concluded with
this emphatic statement.
Mae leaned her head against her two clasped hands which rested on the
mantel-piece. How strangely everything looked; even the dim fire had a
sort of aureole about it, as her eyes rested there again; but when one
looks through tears, all things are haloed mistily. Norman turned and
looked at Mae, as Eric walked impatiently about. She did not move or
speak. He walked to her side, and stood looking down at her. The faint
mist in her left eye was forming into a bright, clear globe as large as
any April raindrop. Mae knew this, and knew it would fall, unless she
put up her hand and brushed it away, and that would be worse. The color
rose to her cheeks as she waited the dreadful moment. She was perfectly
still, her hands clasped before her, her head bent, as the crystal drop
gathered all the mist and halo in its full, round embrace, and
pattered down upon the third finger of her left hand--her wedding-ring
finger--and lay there, clear and sparkling as a diamond!
Norman Mann stooped and laid his hand over it. “You are glad, then!” “I
should be sorry to have you die,” said Mae, but her dimples and blushes
and drooping eye-lids said, oh, a great deal more. “Good night,” she
fluttered, and ran off.