Avellino is one of those dreamy, quiet and picturesque towns which have
not as yet been desecrated by the Vandal tourist. Persons holding
“through tickets” from Messrs. Cook or Gaze do not stop there—there are
no “sights” save the old sanctuary called _Monte Virgine_ standing
aloft on its rugged hill, with all the memories of its ancient days
clinging to it like a wizard’s cloak, and wrapping it in a sort of
mysterious meditative silence. It can look back through a vista of
eventful years to the eleventh century, when it was erected, so the
people say, on the ruins of a temple of Cybele. But what do the sheep
and geese that are whipped abroad in herds by the drovers Cook and Gaze
know of Monte Virgine or Cybele? Nothing—and they care less; and quiet
Avellino escapes from their depredations, thankful that it is not
marked on the business map of the drovers’ “_Runs_.” Shut in by the
lofty Apennines, built on the slope of the hill that winds gently down
into a green and fruitful valley through which the river Sabato rushes
and gleams white against cleft rocks that look like war-worn and
deserted castles, a drowsy peace encircles it, and a sort of
stateliness, which, compared with the riotous fun and folly of Naples
only thirty miles away, is as though the statue of a nude Egeria were
placed in rivalry with the painted waxen image of a half-dressed
ballet-dancer. Few lovelier sights are to be seen in nature than a
sunset from one of the smaller hills round Avellino—when the peaks of
the Apennines seem to catch fire from the flaming clouds, and below
them, the valleys are full of those tender purple and gray shadows that
one sees on the canvases of Salvator Rosa, while the town itself looks
like a bronzed carving on an old shield, outlined clearly against the
dazzling luster of the sky. To this retired spot I came—glad to rest
for a time from my work of vengeance—glad to lay down my burden of
bitterness for a brief space, and become, as it were, human again, in
the sight of the near mountains. For within their close proximity,
things common, things mean seem to slip from the soul—a sort of
largeness pervades the thoughts, the cramping prosiness of daily life
has no room to assert its sway—a grand hush falls on the stormy waters
of passion, and like a chidden babe the strong man stands, dwarfed to
an infinite littleness in his own sight, before those majestic monarchs
of the landscape whose large brows are crowned with the blue circlet of
heaven.
I took up my abode in a quiet, almost humble lodging, living simply,
and attended only by Vincenzo. I was tired of the ostentation I had
been forced to practice in Naples in order to attain my ends—and it was
a relief to me to be for a time as though I were a poor man. The house
in which I found rooms that suited me was a ramblingly built,
picturesque little place, situated on the outskirts of the town, and
the woman who owned it, was, in her way, a character. She was a Roman,
she told me, with pride flashing in her black eyes—I could guess that
at once by her strongly marked features, her magnificently molded
figure, and her free, firm tread—that step which is swift without being
hasty, which is the manner born of Rome. She told me her history in a
few words, with such eloquent gestures that she seemed to live through
it again as she spoke: her husband had been a worker in a marble
quarry—one of his fellows had let a huge piece of the rock fall on him,
and he was crushed to death.
“And well do I know,” she said, “that he killed my Toni purposely, for
he would have loved me had he dared. But I am a common woman, see
you—and it seems to me one cannot lie. And when my love’s poor body was
scarce covered in the earth, that miserable one—the murderer—came to
me—he offered marriage. I accused him of his crime—he denied it—he said
the rock slipped from his hands, he knew not how. I struck him on the
mouth, and bade him leave my sight and take my curse with him! He is
dead now—and surely if the saints have heard me, his soul is not in
heaven!”
Thus she spoke with flashing eyes and purposeful energy, while with her
strong brown arms she threw open the wide casement of the sitting-room
I had taken, and bade me view her orchard. It was a fresh green strip
of verdure and foliage—about eight acres of good land, planted entirely
with apple-trees.
“Yes, truly!” she said, showing her white teeth in a pleased smile as I
made the admiring remark she expected. “Avellino has long had a name
for its apples—but, thanks to the Holy Mother, I think in the season
there is no fruit in all the neighborhood finer than mine. The produce
of it brings me almost enough to live upon—that and the house, when I
can find _signori_ willing to dwell with me. But few strangers come
hither; sometimes an artist, sometimes a poet—such as these are soon
tired of gayety, and are glad to rest. To common persons I would not
open my door—not for pride, ah, no! but when one has a girl, one cannot
be too careful.”
“You have a daughter, then?”
Her fierce eyes softened.
“One—my Lilla. I call her my blessing, and too good for me. Often I
fancy that it is because she tends them that the trees bear so well,
and the apples are so sound and sweet! And when she drives the load of
fruit to market, and sits so smilingly behind the team, it seems to me
that her very face brings luck to the sale.”
I smiled at the mother’s enthusiasm, and sighed. I had no fair faiths
left—I could not even believe in Lilla. My landlady, _Signora_ Monti as
she was called, saw that I looked fatigued, and left me to myself—and
during my stay I saw very little of her, Vincenzo constituting himself
my majordomo, or rather becoming for my sake a sort of amiable slave,
always looking to the smallest details of my comfort, and studying my
wishes with an anxious solicitude that touched while it gratified me. I
had been fully three days in my retreat before he ventured to enter
upon any conversation with me, for he had observed that I always sought
to be alone, that I took long, solitary rambles through the woods and
across the hills—and, not daring to break through my taciturnity, he
had contented himself by merely attending to my material comforts in
silence. One afternoon, however, after clearing away the remains of my
light luncheon, he lingered in the room.
“The _eccellenza_ has not yet seen Lilla Monti?” he asked,
hesitatingly.
I looked at him in some surprise. There was a blush on his olive-tinted
cheeks and an unusual sparkle in his eyes. For the first time I
realized that this valet of mine was a handsome young fellow.
“Seen Lilla Monti!” I repeated, half absently; “oh, you mean the child
of the landlady? No, I have not seen her. Why do you ask?”
Vincenzo smiled. “Pardon, _eccellenza_! but she is beautiful, and there
is a saying in my province: Be the heart heavy as stone, the sight of a
fair face will lighten it!”
I gave an impatient gesture. “All folly, Vincenzo! Beauty is the curse
of the world. Read history, and you shall find the greatest conquerors
and sages ruined and disgraced by its snares.”
He nodded gravely. He probably thought of the announcement I had made
at the banquet of my own approaching marriage, and strove to reconcile
it with the apparent inconsistency of my present observation. But he
was too discreet to utter his mind aloud—he merely said:
“No doubt you are right, _eccellenza_. Still one is glad to see the
roses bloom, and the stars shine, and the foam-bells sparkle on the
waves—so one is glad to see Lilla Monti.”
I turned round in my chair to observe him more closely—the flush
deepened on his cheek as I regarded him. I laughed with a bitter
sadness.
“In love, _amico_, art thou? So soon!—three days—and thou hast fallen a
prey to the smile of Lilla! I am sorry for thee!”
He interrupted me eagerly.
“The _eccellenza_ is in error! I would not dare—she is too innocent—she
knows nothing! She is like a little bird in the nest, so soft and
tender—a word of love would frighten her; I should be a coward to utter
it.”
Well, well! I thought, what was the use of sneering at the poor fellow!
Why, because my own love had turned to ashes in my grasp, should I mock
at those who fancied they had found the golden fruit of the Hesperides?
Vincenzo, once a soldier, now half courier, half valet, was something
of a poet at heart; he had the grave meditative turn of mind common to
Tuscans, together with that amorous fire that ever burns under their
lightly worn mask of seeming reserve.
I roused myself to appear interested.
“I see, Vincenzo,” I said, with a kindly air of banter, “that the sight
of Lilla Monti more than compensates you for that portion of the
Neapolitan carnival which you lose by being here. But why you should
wish me to behold this paragon of maidens I know not, unless you would
have me regret my own lost youth.”
A curious and perplexed expression flitted over his face. At last he
said firmly, as though his mind were made up:
“The _eccellenza_ must pardon me for seeing what perhaps I ought not to
have seen, but—”
“But what?” I asked.
“_Eccellenza_, you have not lost your youth.”
I turned my head toward him again—he was looking at me in some alarm—he
feared some outburst of anger.
“Well!” I said, calmly. “That is your idea, is it? and why?”
“_Eccellenza_, I saw you without your spectacles that day when you
fought with the unfortunate _Signor_ Ferrari. I watched you when you
fired. Your eyes are beautiful and terrible—the eyes of a young man,
though your hair is white.”
Quietly I took off my glasses and laid them on the table beside me.
“As you have seen me once without them, you can see me again,” I
observed, gently. “I wear them for a special purpose. Here in Avellino
the purpose does not hold. Thus far I confide in you. But beware how
you betray my confidence.”
“_Eccellenza_!” cried Vincenzo, in truly pained accents, and with a
grieved look.
I rose and laid my hand on his arm.
“There! I was wrong—forgive me. You are honest; you have served your
country well enough to know the value of fidelity and duty. But when
you say I have not lost my youth, you are wrong, Vincenzo! I _have_
lost it—it has been killed within me by a great sorrow. The strength,
the suppleness of limb, the brightness of eye these are mere outward
things: but in the heart and soul are the chill and drear bitterness of
deserted age. Nay, do not smile; I am in truth very old—so old that I
tire of my length of days; yet again, not too old to appreciate your
affection, _amico_, and”—here I forced a faint smile—“when I see the
maiden Lilla, I will tell you frankly what I think of her.”
Vincenzo stooped his head, caught my hand within his own, and kissed
it, then left the room abruptly, to hide the tears that my words had
brought to his eyes. He was sorry for me, I could see, and I judged him
rightly when I thought that the very mystery surrounding me increased
his attachment. On the whole, I was glad he had seen me undisguised, as
it was a relief to me to be without my smoked glasses for a time, and
during all the rest of my stay at Avellino I never wore them once.
One day I saw Lilla. I had strolled up to a quaint church situated on a
rugged hill and surrounded by fine old chestnut-trees, where there was
a picture of the Scourging of Christ, said to have been the work of Fra
Angelico. The little sanctuary was quite deserted when I entered it,
and I paused on the threshold, touched by the simplicity of the place
and soothed by the intense silence. I walked on my tiptoe up to the
corner where hung the picture I had come to see, and as I did so a girl
passed me with a light step, carrying a basket of fragrant winter
narcissi and maiden-hair fern. Something in her graceful, noiseless
movements caused me to look after her; but she had turned her back to
me and was kneeling at the shrine consecrated to the Virgin, having
placed her flowers on the lowest step of the altar. She was dressed in
peasant costume—a simple, short blue skirt and scarlet bodice, relieved
by the white kerchief that was knotted about her shoulders; and round
her small well-shaped head the rich chestnut hair was coiled in thick
shining braids.
I felt that I must see her face, and for that reason went back to the
church door and waited till she should pass out. Very soon she came
toward me, with the same light timid step that I had often before
noticed, and her fair young features were turned fully upon me. What
was there in those clear candid eyes that made me involuntarily bow my
head in a reverential salutation as she passed? I know not. It was not
beauty—for though the child was lovely I had seen lovelier; it was
something inexplicable and rare—something of a maidenly composure and
sweet dignity that I had never beheld on any woman’s face before. Her
cheeks flushed softly as she modestly returned my salute, and when she
was once outside the church door she paused, her small white fingers
still clasping the carven brown beads of her rosary. She hesitated a
moment, and then spoke shyly yet brightly:
“If the _eccellenza_ will walk yet a little further up the hill he will
see a finer view of the mountains.”
Something familiar in her look—a sort of reflection of her mother’s
likeness—made me sure of her identity. I smiled.
“Ah! you are Lilla Monti?”
She blushed again.
“_Si, signor_. I am Lilla.”
I let my eyes dwell on her searchingly and almost sadly. Vincenzo was
right: the girl was beautiful, not with the forced hot-house beauty of
the social world and its artificial constraint, but with the loveliness
and fresh radiance which nature gives to those of her cherished ones
who dwell with her in peace. I had seen many exquisite women—women of
Juno-like form and face—women whose eyes were basilisks to draw and
compel the souls of men—but I had never seen any so spiritually fair as
this little peasant maiden, who stood fearlessly yet modestly regarding
me with the innocent inquiry of a child who suddenly sees something
new, to which it is unaccustomed. She was a little fluttered by my
earnest gaze, and with a pretty courtesy turned to descend the hill. I
said gently:
“You are going home, _fauciulla mia_?”
The kind protecting tone in which I spoke reassured her. She answered
readily:
“_Si signor_. My mother waits for me to help her with the
_eccellenza_’s dinner.”
I advanced and took the little hand that held the rosary.
“What!” I exclaimed, playfully, “do you still work hard, little Lilla,
even when the apple season is over?”
She laughed musically.
“Oh! I love work. It is good for the temper. People are so cross when
their hands are idle. And many are ill for the same reason. Yes,
truly!” and she nodded her head with grave importance, “it is often so.
Old Pietro, the cobbler, took to his bed when he had no shoes to
mend—yes; he sent for the priest and said he would die, not for want of
money—oh no! he has plenty, he is quite rich—but because he had nothing
to do. So my mother and I found some shoes with holes, and took them to
him; he sat up in bed to mend them, and now he is as well as ever! And
we are careful to give him something always.”
She laughed again, and again looked grave.
“Yes, yes!” she said, with a wise shake of her little glossy head, “one
cannot live without work. My mother says that good women are never
tired, it is only wicked persons who are lazy. And that reminds me I
must make haste to return and prepare the _eccellenza_’s coffee.”
“Do you make my coffee, little one?” I asked, “and does not Vincenzo
help you?”
The faintest suspicion of a blush tinged her pretty cheeks.
“Oh, he is very good, Vincenzo,” she said, demurely, with downcast
eyes; “he is what we call _buon’ amico_, yes, indeed! But he is often
glad when I make coffee for him also; he likes it so much! He says I do
it so well! But perhaps the _eccellenza_ will prefer Vincenzo?”
I laughed. She was so naive, so absorbed in her little duties—such a
child altogether.
“Nay, Lilla, I am proud to think you make anything for me. I shall
enjoy it more now that I know what kind hands have been at work. But
you must not spoil Vincenzo—you will turn his head if you make his
coffee too often.”
She looked surprised. She did not understand. Evidently to her mind
Vincenzo was nothing but a good-natured young fellow, whose palate
could be pleased by her culinary skill; she treated him, I dare say,
exactly as she would have treated one of her own sex. She seemed to
think over my words, as one who considers a conundrum, then she
apparently gave it up as hopeless, and shook her head lightly as though
dismissing the subject.
“Will the _eccellenza_ visit the Punto d’Angelo?” she said brightly, as
she turned to go.
I had never heard of this place, and asked her to what she alluded.
“It is not far from here,” she explained, “it is the view I spoke of
before. Just a little further up the hill you will see a flat gray
rock, covered with blue gentians. No one knows how they grow—they are
always there, blooming in summer and winter. But it is said that one of
God’s own great angels comes once in every month at midnight to bless
the Monte Vergine, and that he stands on that rock. And of course
wherever the angels tread there are flowers, and no storm can destroy
them—not even an avalanche. That is why the people call it the Punto
d’Angelo. It will please you to see it, _eccellenza_—it is but a walk
of a little ten minutes.”
And with a smile, and a courtesy as pretty and as light as a flower
might make to the wind, she left me, half running, half dancing down
the hill, and singing aloud for sheer happiness and innocence of heart.
Her pure lark-like notes floated upward toward me where I stood,
wistfully watching her as she disappeared. The warm afternoon sunshine
caught lovingly at her chestnut hair, turning it to a golden bronze,
and touched up the whiteness of her throat and arms, and brightened the
scarlet of her bodice, as she descended the grassy slope, and was at
last lost to my view amid the foliage of the surrounding trees.