She had exquisite little white ears, with little coral earrings, like
drops of blood; and a perfect rosebud mouth, a mouth that matched her
eyes for innocence and sweetness. Her scarlet hat burned in the sun, and
her brown hair shook gently under it. She had plump little soft white
hands.
Presently, when I had begun to feel more at my ease, I hazarded a
question. “You are a republican, Signorina?”
“No,” she assured me, with a puzzled elevation of the brows.
“Ah, well, then you are a cardinal,” I concluded.
She gave a silvery trill of laughter, and asked, “Why must I be either
a republican or a cardinal?”
“You wear a scarlet hat—a bonnet rouge,” I explained.
At which she laughed again, crisply, merrily.
“You are French,” she said.
“Oh, am I?”
“Aren’t you?”
“As you wish, Signorina; but I had never thought so.”
And still again she laughed.
“You have come from church,” said I.
“Già,” she assented; “from confession.”
“Really? And did you have a great many wickednesses to confess?”
“Oh, yes; many, many,” she answered, simply.
“And now have you got a heavy penance to perform?”
“No; only twenty aves. And I must turn my tongue seven times in my
mouth before I speak, whenever I am angry.”
“Ah, then you are given to being angry? You have a bad temper?”
“Oh, dreadful, dreadful,” she cried, nodding her head.
It was my turn to laugh now. “Then I must be careful not to vex
you.”
“Yes. But I will turn my tongue seven times before I speak, if you
do,” she promised.
“Are you going far?” I asked.
“I am going nowhere. I am taking a walk.”
“Shall we go to the Villa Nazionale, and watch the driving?”
“Or to the Toledo, and look at the shop-windows?”
“We can do both. We will begin at the Toledo, and end in the Villa.”
“Bene,” she acquiesced.
After a little silence, “I am so glad I met you,” I informed her,
looking into her eyes.
He eyes softened adorably. “I am so glad too,” she said.
“You are lovely, you are sweet,” I vowed, with enthusiasm.
“Oh, no!” she protested. “I am as God made me.”
“You are lovely, you are sweet. I thought—when I first saw you,
above there, in the piazza—when you came out of church, and gave the
soldo to the old beggar woman—I thought you had the loveliest smile I
had ever seen.”
A beautiful blush suffused her face, and her eyes swam in a mist of
pleasure. “É vero?” she questioned.
“Oh, vero, vero. That is why I followed you. You don’t mind my
having followed you?”
“Oh, no; I am glad.”
After another interval of silence, “You are not Neapolitan?” I said.
“You don’t speak like a Neapolitan.”
“No; I am Florentine. We live in Naples for my father’s health. He
is not strong. He cannot endure the cold winters of the North.”
I murmured something sympathetic; and she went on, “My father is a
violinist. To-day he has gone to Capri, to play at a festival. He will
not be back until to-morrow. So I was very lonesome.”
“You have no mother?”
“My mother is dead,” she said, crossing herself. In a moment she
added, with a touch of pride, “During the season my father plays in
the orchestra of the San Carlo.”
“I am sure I know what your name is,” said I.
“Oh? How can you know? What is it?”
“I think your name is Rosabella.”
“Ah, then you are wrong. My name is Elisabetta. But in Naples
everybody says Zabetta. And yours?”
“Guess.”
“Oh, I cannot guess. Not—not Federico?”
“Do I look as if my name were Federico?”
She surveyed me gravely for a minute, then shook her head pensively.
“No; I do not think your name is Federico.”
And therewith I told her my name, and made her repeat it till she could
pronounce it without a struggle.
It sounded very pretty, coming from her pretty lips, quite Southern and
romantic, with its r’s tremendously enriched.
“Anyhow, I know your age,” said I.
“What is it?”
“You are seventeen.”
“No—ever so much older.”
“Eighteen then.”
“I shall be nineteen in July.” VIII
Before the brilliant shop-windows of the Toledo we dallied for an hour
or more, Zabetta’s eyes sparkling with delight as they rested on the
bright-hued silks, the tortoiseshell and coral, the gold and silver
filagree-work, that were there displayed. But when she admired some one
particular object above another, and I besought her to let me buy it for
her, she refused austerely. “But no, no, no! It is impossible.”
Then we went on to the Villa, and strolled by the sea-wall, between
the blue-green water and the multicoloured procession of people in
carriages. And by-and-by Zabetta confessed that she was tired, and
proposed that we should sit down on one of the benches. “A café would
be better fun,” submitted her companion. And we placed ourselves at
one of the out-of-door tables of the café in the garden, where, after
some urging, I prevailed upon Zabetta to drink a cup of chocolate.
Meanwhile, with the ready confidence of youth, we had each been
desultorily autobiographical; and if our actual acquaintance was only
the affair of an afternoon, I doubt if in a year we could have felt that
we knew each other better.
“I must go home,” Zabetta said at last.
“Oh, not yet, not yet,” cried I.
“It will be dinner-time. I must go home to dinner.”
“But your father is at Capri. You will have to dine alone.”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t. Come with me instead, and dine at a restaurant.”
Her eyes glowed wistfully for an instant; but she replied, “Oh, no; I
cannot.”
“Yes, you can. Come.”
“Oh, no; impossible.”
“Why?”
“Oh, because.”
“Because what?”
“There is my cat. She will have nothing to eat.”
“Your cook will give her something.”
“My cook!” laughed Zabetta. “My cook is here before you.”
“Well, you must be a kind mistress. You must give your cook an evening
out.”
“But my poor cat?”
“Your cat can catch a mouse.”
“There are no mice in our house. She has frightened them all away.”
“Then she can wait. A little fast will be good for her soul.”
Zabetta laughed, and I said, “Andiamo!”
At the restaurant we climbed to the first floor, and they gave us a
table near the window, whence we could look out over the villa to the
sea beyond. The sun was sinking, and the sky was gay with rainbow tints,
like mother-of-pearl.
Zabetta’s face shone joyfully. “This is only the second time in my
life that I have dined in a restaurant,” she told me. “And the other
time was very long ago, when I was quite young. And it wasn’t nearly
so grand a restaurant as this, either.”
“And now what would you like to eat?” I asked, picking up the bill
of fare.
“May I look?” said she.
I handed her the document, and she studied it at length. I think,
indeed, she read it through. In the end she appeared rather bewildered.
“Oh, there is so much. I don’t know. Will you choose, please?”
I made a shift at choosing, and the sympathetic waiter flourished
kitchenwards with my commands.
“What is that little green nosegay you wear in your belt, Zabetta?”
I inquired.
“Oh, this—it is rosemary. Smell it,” she said, breaking off a
sprig and offering it to me.
“Rosemary—that’s for remembrance,” quoted I.
“What does that mean? What language is that?” she asked.
I tried to translate it to her. And then I taught her to say it in
English. “Rrosemérri—tsat is forr rremembrrance.”
“Will you write it down for me?” she requested. “It is pretty.”