FOR a moment I lost my self-possession. I scarcely remember now what I
did. I know I clasped her almost roughly in my arms—I know that I
kissed her passionately on lips, throat and brow—and that in the fervor
of my embraces, the thought of what manner of vile thing she was came
swiftly upon me, causing me to release her with such suddenness that
she caught at the back of a chair to save herself from falling. Her
breath came and went in little quick gasps of excitement, her face was
flushed—she looked astonished, yet certainly not displeased. No, SHE
was not angry, but I was—thoroughly annoyed—bitterly vexed with myself,
for being such a fool.
“Forgive me,” I muttered. “I forgot—I—”
A little smile stole round the corners of her mouth.
“You are fully pardoned!” she said, in a low voice, “you need not
apologize.”
Her smile deepened; suddenly she broke into a rippling laugh, sweet and
silvery as a bell—a laugh that went through me like a knife. Was it not
the self-same laughter that had pierced my brain the night I witnessed
her amorous interview with Guido in the avenue? Had not the cruel
mockery of it nearly driven me mad? I could not endure it—I sprung to
her side—she ceased laughing and looked at me in wide-eyed wonderment.
“Listen!” I said, in an impatient, almost fierce tone. “Do not laugh
like that! It jars my nerves—it—hurts me! I will tell you why.
Once—long ago—in my youth—I loved a woman. She was _not_ like
you—no—for she was false! False to the very heart’s core—false in every
word she uttered. You understand me? she resembled you in
nothing—nothing! But she used to laugh at me—she trampled on my life
and spoiled it—she broke my heart! It is all past now, I never think of
her, only your laughter reminded me—there!” And I took her hands and
kissed them. “I have told you the story of my early folly—forget it and
forgive me! It is time you prepared for your journey, is it not? If I
can be of service to you, command me—you know where to send for me.
Good-bye! and the peace of a pure conscience be with you!”
And I laid my burning hand on her head weighted with its clustering
curls of gold. _She_ thought this gesture was one of blessing. _I_
thought—God only knows what I thought—yet surely if curses can be so
bestowed, my curse crowned her at that moment! I dared not trust myself
longer in her presence, and without another word or look I left her and
hurried from the house. I knew she was startled and at the same time
gratified to think she could thus have moved me to any display of
emotion—but I would not even turn my head to catch her parting glance.
I could not—I was sick of myself and of her. I was literally torn
asunder between love and hatred—love born basely of material feeling
alone—hatred, the offspring of a deeply injured spirit for whose wrong
there could scarce be found sufficient remedy. Once out of the
influence of her bewildering beauty, my mind grew calmer—and the drive
back to the hotel in my carriage through the sweet dullness of the
December air quieted the feverish excitement of my blood and restored
me to myself. It was a most lovely day—bright and fresh, with the savor
of the sea in the wind. The waters of the bay were of a steel-like blue
shading into deep olive-green, and a soft haze lingered about the
shores of Amalfi like a veil of gray, shot through with silver and
gold. Down the streets went women in picturesque garb carrying on their
heads baskets full to the brim of purple violets that scented the air
as they passed—children ragged and dirty ran along, pushing the
luxuriant tangle of their dark locks away from their beautiful wild
antelope eyes, and, holding up bunches of roses and narcissi with
smiles as brilliant as the very sunshine, implored the passengers to
buy “for the sake of the little Gesu who was soon coming!”
Bells clashed and clanged from the churches in honor of San Tommaso,
whose festival it was, and the city had that aspect of gala gayety
about it, which is in truth common enough to all continental towns, but
which seems strange to the solemn Londoner who sees so much apparently
reasonless merriment for the first time. He, accustomed to have his
reluctant laughter pumped out of him by an occasional visit to the
theater where he can witness the “original,” English translation of a
French farce, cannot understand _why_ these foolish Neapolitans should
laugh and sing and shout in the manner they do, merely because they are
glad to be alive. And after much dubious consideration, he decides
within himself that they are all rascals—the scum of the earth—and that
he and he only is the true representative of man at his best—the model
of civilized respectability. And a mournful spectacle he thus seems to
the eyes of us “base” foreigners—in our hearts we are sorry for him and
believe that if he could manage to shake off the fetters of his insular
customs and prejudices, he might almost succeed in enjoying life as
much as we do!
As I drove along I saw a small crowd at one of the street corners—a
gesticulating, laughing crowd, listening to an “_improvisatore_” or
wandering poet—a plump-looking fellow who had all the rhymes of Italy
at his fingers’ ends, and who could make a poem on any subject or an
acrostic on any name, with perfect facility. I stopped my carriage to
listen to his extemporized verses, many of which were really admirable,
and tossed him three francs. He threw them up in the air, one after the
other, and caught them, as they fell, in his mouth, appearing to have
swallowed them all—then with an inimitable grimace, he pulled off his
tattered cap and said:
“_Ancora affamato, excellenza_!” (I am still hungry!) amid the renewed
laughter of his easily amused audience. A merry poet he was and without
conceit—and his good humor merited the extra silver pieces I gave him,
which caused him, to wish me—“_Buon appetito e un sorriso della
Madonna_!”—(a good appetite to you and a smile of the Madonna!) Imagine
the Lord Laureate of England standing at the corner of Regent Street
swallowing half-pence for his rhymes! Yet some of the quaint conceits
strung together by such a fellow as this _improvisatore_ might furnish
material for many of the so called “poets” whose names are mysteriously
honored in Britain.
Further on I came upon a group of red-capped coral fishers assembled
round a portable stove whereon roasting chestnuts cracked their glossy
sides and emitted savory odors. The men were singing gayly to the
thrumming of an old guitar, and the song they sung was familiar to me.
Stay! where had I heard it?—let me listen!
“Sciore limone
Le voglio far morì de passione
Zompa llarì llirà!”[4]
[4] Neapolitan dialect.
Ha! I remembered now. When I had crawled out of the vault through the
brigand’s hole of entrance—when my heart had bounded with glad
anticipations never to be realized—when I had believed in the worth of
love and friendship—when I had seen the morning sun glittering on the
sea, and had thought—poor fool!—that his long beams were like so many
golden flags of joy hung up in heaven to symbolize the happiness of my
release from death and my restoration to liberty—then—then I had heard
a sailor’s voice in the distance singing that “_ritornello_,” and I had
fondly imagined its impassioned lines were all for me! Hateful
music—most bitter sweetness! I could have put my hands up to my ears to
shut out the sound of it now that I thought of the time when I had
heard it last! For then I had possessed a heart—a throbbing,
passionate, sensitive thing—alive to every emotion of tenderness and
affection—now that heart was dead and cold as a stone. Only its corpse
went with me everywhere, weighing me down with itself to the strange
grave it occupied, a grave wherein were also buried so many dear
delusions—such plaintive regrets, such pleading memories, that surely
it was no wonder their small ghosts arose and haunted me, saying, “Wilt
thou not weep for this lost sweetness?” “Wilt thou not relent before
such a remembrance?” or “Hast thou no desire for that past delight?”
But to all such inward temptations my soul was deaf and inexorable;
justice—stern, immutable justice was what I sought and what I meant to
have.
May be you find it hard to understand the possibility of Scheming and
carrying out so prolonged a vengeance as mine? If you that read these
pages are English, I know it will seem to you well-nigh
incomprehensible. The temperate blood of the northerner, combined with
his open, unsuspicious nature, has, I admit, the advantage over us in
matters of personal injury. An Englishman, so I hear, is incapable of
nourishing a long and deadly resentment, even against an unfaithful
wife—he is too indifferent, he thinks it not worth his while. But we
Neapolitans, we can carry a “vendetta” through a life-time—ay, through
generation after generation! This is bad, you say—immoral, unchristian.
No doubt! We are more than half pagans at heart; we are as our country
and our traditions have made us. It will need another visitation of
Christ before we shall learn how to forgive those that despitefully use
us. Such a doctrine seems to us a mere play upon words—a weak maxim
only fit for children and priests. Besides, did Christ himself forgive
Judas? The gospel does not say so!
When I reached my own apartments at the hotel I felt worn out and
fagged. I resolved to rest and receive no visitors that day. While
giving my orders to Vincenzo a thought occurred to me. I went to a
cabinet in the room and unlocked a secret drawer. In it lay a strong
leather case. I lifted this, and bade Vincenzo unstrap and open it. He
did so, nor showed the least sign of surprise when a pair of richly
ornamented pistols was displayed to his view.
“Good weapons?” I remarked, in a casual manner.
My valet took each one out of the case, and examined them both
critically.
“They need cleaning, _eccellenza_.”
“Good!” I said, briefly. “Then clean them and put them in good order. I
may require to use them.”
The imperturbable Vincenzo bowed, and taking the weapons, prepared to
leave the room.
“Stay!”
He turned. I looked at him steadily.
“I believe you are a faithful fellow, Vincenzo,” I said.
He met my glance frankly.
“The day may come,” I went on, quietly, “when I shall perhaps put your
fidelity to the proof.”
The dark Tuscan eyes, keen and clear the moment before, flashed
brightly and then grew humid.
“_Eccellenza_, you have only to command! I was a soldier once—I know
what duty means. But there is a better service—gratitude. I am your
poor servant, but you have won my heart. I would give my life for you
should you desire it!”
He paused, half ashamed of the emotion that threatened to break through
his mask of impassibility, bowed again and would have left me, but that
I called him back and held out my hand.
“Shake hands, _amico_” I said, simply.
He caught it with an astonished yet pleased look—and stooping, kissed
it before I could prevent him, and this time literally scrambled out of
my presence with an entire oblivion of his usual dignity. Left alone, I
considered this behavior of his with half-pained surprise. This poor
fellow loved me it was evident—why, I knew not. I had done no more for
him than any other master might have done for a good servant. I had
often spoken to him with impatience, even harshness; and yet I had “won
his heart”—so he said. Why should he care for me? why should my poor
old butler Giacomo cherish me so devotedly in his memory; why should my
very dog still love and obey me, when my nearest and dearest, my wife
and my friend, had so gladly forsaken me, and were so eager to forget
me! Perhaps fidelity was not the fashion now among educated persons?
Perhaps it was a worn-out virtue, left to the _bas-peuple_—to the
vulgar—and to animals? Progress might have attained this result—no
doubt it had.
I sighed wearily, and threw myself down in an arm-chair near the
window, and watched the white-sailed boats skimming like flecks of
silver across the blue-green water. The tinkling of a tambourine by and
by attracted my wandering attention, and looking into the street just
below my balcony I saw a young girl dancing. She was lovely to look at,
and she danced with exquisite grace as well as modesty, but the beauty
of her face was not so much caused by perfection of feature or outline
as by a certain wistful expression that had in it something of nobility
and pride. I watched her; at the conclusion of her dance she held up
her tambourine with a bright but appealing smile. Silver and copper
were freely flung to her, I contributing my quota to the amount; but
all she received she at once emptied into a leathern bag which was
carried by a young and handsome man who accompanied her, and who, alas!
was totally blind. I knew the couple well, and had often seen them;
their history was pathetic enough. The girl had been betrothed to the
young fellow when he had occupied a fairly good position as a worker in
silver filigree jewelry. His eyesight, long painfully strained over his
delicate labors, suddenly failed him—he lost his place, of course, and
was utterly without resources. He offered to release his fiance from
her engagement, but she would not take her freedom—she insisted on
marrying him at once. She had her way, and devoted herself to him soul
and body—danced in the streets and sung to gain a living for herself
and him; taught him to weave baskets so that he might not feel himself
entirely dependent on her, and she sold these baskets for him so
successfully that he was gradually making quite a little trade of them.
Poor child! for she was not much more than a child—what a bright face
she had!—glorified by the self-denial and courage of her everyday life.
No wonder she had won the sympathy of the warmhearted and impulsive
Neapolitans—they looked upon her as a heroine of romance; and as she
passed through the streets, leading her blind husband tenderly by the
hand, there was not a creature in the city, even among the most
abandoned and vile characters, who would have dared to offer her the
least insult, or who would have ventured to address her otherwise than
respectfully. She was good, innocent, and true; how was it, I wondered
dreamily, that I could not have won a woman’s heart like hers? Were the
poor alone to possess all the old world virtues—honor and faith, love
and loyalty? Was there something in a life of luxury that sapped virtue
at its root? Evidently early training had little to do with after
results, for had not my wife been brought up among an order of nuns
renowned for simplicity and sanctity; had not her own father declared
her to be “as pure as a flower on the altar of the Madonna;” and yet
the evil had been in her, and nothing had eradicated it; for even
religion, with her, was a mere graceful sham, a kind of theatrical
effect used to tone down her natural hypocrisy. My own thoughts began
to harass and weary me. I took up a volume of philosophic essays and
began to read, in an endeavor to distract my mind from dwelling on the
one perpetual theme. The day wore on slowly enough; and I was glad when
the evening closed in, and when Vincenzo, remarking that the night was
chilly, kindled a pleasant wood-fire in my room, and lighted the lamps.
A little while before my dinner was served he handed me a letter
stating that it had just been brought by the Countess Romani’s
coachman. It bore my own seal and motto. I opened it; it was dated,
“_La Santissima Annunziata_,” and ran as follows:
“Beloved! I arrived here safely; the nuns are delighted to see me, and
you will be made heartily welcome when you come. I think of you
constantly—how happy I felt this morning! You seemed to love me so
much; why are you not always so fond of your faithful
“NINA?”
I crumpled this note fiercely in my hand and flung it into the leaping
flames of the newly lighted fire. There was a faint perfume about it
that sickened me—a subtle odor like that of a civet cat when it moves
stealthily after its prey through a tangle of tropical herbage. I
always detested scented note-paper—I am not the only man who does so.
One is led to fancy that the fingers of the woman who writes upon it
must have some poisonous or offensive taint about them, which she
endeavors to cover by the aid of a chemical concoction. I would not
permit myself to think of this so “faithful Nina,” as she styled
herself. I resumed my reading, and continued it even at dinner, during
which meal Vincenzo waited upon me with his usual silent gravity and
decorum, though I could feel that he watched me with a certain
solicitude. I suppose I looked weary—I certainly felt so, and retired
to rest unusually early. The time seemed to me so long—would the end
NEVER come? The next day dawned and trailed its tiresome hours after
it, as a prisoner might trail his chain of iron fetters, until sunset,
and then—then, when the gray of the wintry sky flashed for a brief
space into glowing red—then, while the water looked like blood and the
clouds like flame—then a few words sped along the telegraph wires that
stilled my impatience, roused my soul, and braced every nerve and
muscle in my body to instant action. They were plain, clear, and
concise:
“From Guido Ferrari, Rome, to _Il Conte_ Cesare Oliva, Naples.—Shall be
with you on the 24th inst. Train arrives at 6:30 P.M. Will come to you
as you desire without fail.”