Leghorn, the gay, sun-blanched Tuscan watering-place known to Italians
as Livorno, is at its brightest and best throughout the month of August.
To the English, save those who reside permanently in Florence, Pisa, or
Rome, its beauties are unknown. But those who know Italy--and to know
Italy is to love it--are well aware that at "cara Livorno," as the
Tuscans call it, one can obtain perhaps the best sea-bathing in Europe,
and enjoy a perfectly delightful summer beside the Mediterranean.
It is never obtrusive by its garishness, never gaudy or inartistic; for
it makes no pretension to being a first-class holiday resort like Nice
or Cannes. Still, it has its long, beautiful Passeggio extending the
whole of the seafront, planted with tamarisks, ilexes, and flowing
oleanders; it has its wide, airy piazzas, its cathedral, its Grand
Hotel, its pensions, and, lastly, its little open cabs in which one can
drive two miles for the not altogether ruinous fare of sixpence
halfpenny. Its baths, ingeniously built out upon the bare brown rocks
into the clear, bright sea, take the place of piers at English seaside
resorts, and here during the afternoon everybody, clad in ducks and
muslins, lounge in chairs to gossip beneath the widespread awnings,
while the waves beat with musical cadence up to their very feet. At
evening there are gay, well-lit open-air cafes and several theatres,
while the musical can sit in a stall at the opera and hear the best
works performed by the best Italian artists for the sum of one and
threepence.
But life at Livorno is purely Tuscan. As yet it is unspoilt by
English-speaking tourists; indeed, it is safe to say that not three
Cookites set foot within the city in twelve months. In its every aspect
the town is beautiful. From the sea it presents a handsome appearance,
with its lines of high white houses with their red roofs and closed
sun-shutters, backed by the distant blue peaks of the Lucca Mountains,
and the serrated spurs of the purple Apennines, while in its
sun-whitened streets the dress of the Livornesi, with their well-made
skirts of the palest and most delicate tints of blue, grey, and rose,
and with their black silk scarves or lace mantillas twisted about their
handsome heads, is the most artistic and tasteful in all fair Italy.
The men are happy, careless, laughing fellows, muscular, and bronzed by
the sun; the women dark-eyed, black-haired, and notable throughout the
length and breadth of Europe for their extreme beauty and their grace of
carriage.
Little wonder is it that stifled Florentines, from shopkeepers to
princes, unable to bear the heat and mosquitoes beside the muddy Arno,
betake themselves to this bright little watering-place during August and
September, where, even if the heat is blazing at midday, the wind is
delightfully cool at evening, and the sea-baths render life really worth
living. Unless one has spent a summer in Tuscany, it is impossible to
realise its stifling breathlessness and its sickening sun-glare. Unless
one has lived among the sly, secretive, proud but carelessly happy
Livornesi, has shared their joys, sympathised with their sorrows,
fraternised with them and noted their little peculiarities, one can
never enjoy Livorno.
At first the newly arrived foreigner is pointed at by all as one apart,
and considered an imbecile for preferring Livorno to Florence, or
Milano; every shopkeeper endeavours to charge him double prices, and for
every trifling service performed he is expected to disburse princely
tips. But the Tuscan heart is instantly softened towards him as soon as
he seems likely to become a resident; all sorts and conditions of men do
him little kindnesses without monetary reward; grave-faced monks will
call at his house and leave him presents of luscious fruits and
fresh-cut salads; and even his cabman, the last to relent, will one day,
with profuse apology for previous extortions, charge only his just fare.
The Italians are indeed an engaging people. It is because they are so
ingenuous, so contented, so self-denying, so polite yet so sarcastic,
that one learns to love them so well.
Along the Viale Regina Margherita, or esplanade--better known perhaps by
its ancient name, the Passeggio--are a number of baths, all frequented
by different grades of society, the one most in vogue among the
better-class residents and visitors being a handsome establishment with
cafe and skating-rink attached, known as Pancaldi's.
It was here, one evening soon after the mysterious death of Vittorina in
London, that two persons, a man and a woman, were sitting, watching the
ever-changing hues of one of those glorious blazing sunsets seen nowhere
else in the world but in the Mediterranean. The broad, asphalted
promenade, covered by its wide canvas awnings, was almost blocked by the
hundreds of gaily dressed persons sitting on chairs chattering and
laughing, and it seemed as though all the notable people of Florence and
Bologna had assembled there to enjoy the cool breeze after the terrific
heat of the August day. Along the Viale the road was sun-bleached, the
wind-swept tamarisks were whitened by the dust, and the town that day
had throbbed and gasped beneath the terrible, fiery August glare. But
here, at Pancaldi's, was light, happy chatter--in Italian of various
dialects, of course--a cool, refreshing breeze, and that indefinable air
of delicious laziness which Italy alone claims as her birthright.
The pair sitting together at the end of the asphalted walk, at some
distance from the crowd, were young and, to a casual observer, well
matched. Unlike all others round about her, the woman was of fair
complexion, about twenty-five, with that gold-brown hair that Titian
loved to paint, eyes of a deep and wondrous blue, a small, adorable
mouth, the upper lip of which possessed that rare attribute, the true
Cupid's bow, a face sweet, almost childlike in expression, prefect in
its purity. Her great beauty was well set off by her black dress and
tiny black bonnet, but from the crown of her head to the toe of her
pointed patent-leather shoe there was a chic and daintiness about her
which, to an English eye, stamped her as foreign, even though her face
bore no trace of Italian blood.
Half that gay, gossiping crowd, attracted by her beauty, had already set
her down as English, perhaps because her fairness was uncommon in
Tuscany, perhaps because they detected by the cut of her companion's
clothes that he was English. But Gemma Fanetti was really a native of
Florence, a true-bred Tuscan, who knew not half a dozen words of
English. She could chatter French a little, and could gabble the nasal
Milanese dialect, but it always amused her to be taken for an
Englishwoman.
Her dress, although black, and only relieved by a little white lace at
the throat and wrists, was made in the latest mode, and fitted her
perfectly. On her slim wrist was a single bangle of diamonds, which
flashed in the dying sunlight with all the colours of the spectrum as,
in chatting idly with her companion, she slowly traced semicircles on
the ground with the point of her black sunshade. Undoubtedly she was
strikingly beautiful, for men in twos and threes were passing and
repassing solely for the purpose of obtaining a glance at her.
Utterly unconscious of their admiration, of the whisperings of those
about her, or of the glorious wealth of colour spread before them as the
sun sank deep into the grey, glittering sea, they both chatted on,
glancing now and then into each other's eyes.
Her companion was about twenty-eight, good-looking, dark-eyed, with a
merry face and an air of carelessness as, in a suit of cool, white
ducks, and his straw hat tilted slightly over his brow to shade his
eyes, he sat back in his chair, joining in her low, well-bred laughter.
Truth to tell, Charles Armytage was desperately in love.
For seven years--ever since he came of age and succeeded to his father's
property in Wales--he had led a wild, rather dissipated life on the
Continent, and had found himself world-weary before his time. His
college career had terminated somewhat ignominiously, for he had been
"sent down" on account of a rather serious practical joke; he had
studied for the Bar, and failed; he had done the whole round of the
public gaming establishments, Monte Carlo, Ostend, Spa, Dinant, Namur,
and Trouville, losing heavily at each; he had idled on the sands of
Scheveningen, flirted on the Promenade des Anglais at Nice, tasted the
far-famed oysters at Arcachon, the bouillabaisse at Marseilles, and
bathed on San Sebastian's golden sands. Once he had taken a fit into
his head to visit all the spas, and, beginning with Royat, he made a
tour of all the principal ones as far as Carlsbad. Thus had he
developed into a thorough cosmopolitan, travelling hither and thither
just as his fancy led him, his only hobby being in occasionally writing
a short story or travel article for one or other of the English
magazines.
It was in his restless, dejected mood that, six months before, he had
arrived in Florence, and by mere chance had first met the woman who was
now beside him. He had one morning been walking along the Via
Tornabuoni when he first saw her, accompanied by her servant. Suddenly
something fell to the pavement, and an urchin instantly snatched it up.
Armytage ran after him, recovered the little golden charm, and handed it
to its owner, being rewarded by a few words of thanks. Her grace, her
beauty, her soft, musical voice rekindled within him a desire for life.
Instantly he became fascinated by her wondrous beauty, and she, too,
seemed content to chat with him, and to listen to his very faulty
Italian, which must have been exceedingly difficult for her to
understand.
They did not meet often, but always casually. Once or twice he
encountered her cycling in the Cascine, and had joined her in a spin
along the shady avenues. They had exchanged cards, but she had never
invited him to call, and he, living at a hotel, could scarcely invite
her. Italian manners strictly preserve the _convenances_. No unmarried
lady in any Tuscan city, not even a woman of the people, ever dreams of
going out alone. Even the poorest girl is chaperoned whenever she takes
an airing.
Suddenly, just when Armytage found himself hopelessly infatuated, he one
morning received an urgent telegram calling him to London, and he had
been compelled to leave without a word of farewell, or any knowledge of
her address.
As soon as he could, he returned to Florence, but the weather had then
grown hot, and all who were able had left the sun-baked city. Then,
disappointed at not finding her after an active search, he drifted down
to the sea at Livorno, and within three days was delighted to see her
strolling in the Passeggio with her ugly, cross-eyed serving woman. The
recognition was mutual, and after one or two meetings she explained that
she had a flat for the season in one of the great white houses opposite,
and expressed a hope that he would call.
He lost no time in renewing the acquaintance, and now they were
inseparable. He loved her.
"Do you know, Gemma," he was saying seriously, "when I left Florence in
March, I left my heart behind--with you."
She blushed slightly beneath her veil, and raising her clear blue eyes
to his, answered with a slight sigh in her soft Italian--
"You say you love me, caro; but can I really believe you?"
"Of course you can, dearest," he answered earnestly, speaking her tongue
with difficulty. "I love no other woman in the whole world but you."
"Ah!" she exclaimed sadly, gazing blankly away across the sea, now
glittering crimson in the blaze of the dying day. "I sometimes fear to
love you, because you may tire of me one day, and go back to some woman
of your own people."
"Never," he answered fervently. "As I told you yesterday, Gemma, I love
you; and you, in return, have already given me your pledge."
"And you can actually love me like this, blindly, without inquiring too
deeply into my past?" she whispered, regarding him gravely with those
calm, clear eyes, which seemed to penetrate his very soul.
"Your past matters not to me," he answered in a deep, intense voice
under his breath, so that passers-by should not overhear. "I have asked
you nothing; you have told me nothing. I love you, Gemma, and trust to
your honour to tell me what I ought to know."
"Ah! you are generous!" she exclaimed; and he saw beneath her veil a
single tear upon her cheek. "The past life of a man can always be
effaced; that of a woman never. A false step, alas! lives as evidence
against her until the grave."
"Why are you so melancholy this evening?" he asked, after a pause.
"I really don't know," she answered. "Perhaps it is because I am so
happy and contented. My peace seems too complete to be lasting."
"While you love me, Gemma, I shall love you always," he exclaimed
decisively. "You need never have any doubt about my earnestness. I
adore you."
Her breast heaved and fell beneath its black lace and jet, and she
turned her fine eyes upon him with an expression more eloquent than any
words of assurance and affection.
Then, after a brief silence, he glanced around at the crowd about them,
saying--
"It is impossible to speak further of our private affairs here. You
will dine with me to-night. Where shall it be?"
"Let's dine at the Eden. There's plenty of air there. We can get a
table facing the sea, and stay to the performance afterwards. Shall
we?" she asked, her face brightening.
"Certainly," he replied. "I'll go across to the hotel and dress, while
you go along home and put on another frock. I know you won't go in
black to a _cafe chantant_," he added, laughing.
"You'll call for me?" she asked.
"Yes, at eight."