"I shall call you," said Daphne to the lamb on the fourth day of his
life with her, "I shall call you Hermes, because you go so fast."
Very fast indeed he went. By garden path, or on the slopes below the
villa, he followed her with swift gallop, interrupted by many jumps and
gambols, and much frisking of his tail. If he lost himself in his
wayward pursuit of his mistress, a plaintive bleat summoned her to his
side. On the marble stairs of the villa, even in the sacred precincts
of the salon, she heard the tinkle of his hard little hoofs, and she
had no courage to turn him back. He bleated so piteously outside the
door when his lady dined that at last he won the desire of his heart
and lapped milk from a bowl on the floor at her side as she ate her
salad or broke her grapes.
"What scandal!" muttered Giacomo every time he brought the bowl. The
Contessa would discharge him if she knew! But he always remembered,
even if Daphne forgot, and meekly dried the milk from his sleek black
trousers whenever Hermes playfully dashed his hoof, instead of his
nose, into the bowl. As Giacomo explained to Assunta in the kitchen,
it was for the Signorina, and the Signorina was very lonely.
She was less lonely with Hermes, for he spoke her language.
"It is almost time to hear from Eustace," Daphne told him one day, as
she sat on a stone under an olive tree in the orchard below the house.
Hermes stood before her, his head down, his tail dejectedly drooped.
"Perhaps," she added, dreamily looking up at the blue sky through its
broken veil of gray-green olive leaves, "perhaps he does not want me
back, and the letter will tell me so."
Hermes gave an incredible jump high in the air, lighted on his four
feet, pranced, gamboled, curveted.
"It is very hard to know one's duty or to do it, Hermes," said Daphne,
patting his woolly brow. Hermes intimated, by means of frisking legs
and tail, that he would not try.
"I believe you are bewitched," said the girl, suddenly taking him up in
her arms. "I believe you are some little changeling god sent by your
master Apollo to put his thoughts into my head."
He squirmed, and she put him down. Then she gave him a harmless slap
on his fleecy side.
"But you aren't a good interpreter, Hermes. Some way I think that his
joyousness lies the other side of pain. He never ran away from hard
things."
This was more than the lambkin could understand or bear, and he fled,
hiding from her in the tall fern of a thicket in a corner of the field.
The days were drifting by too fast. Already the Contessa Accolanti had
been away three weeks, and her letters held out no hope of an immediate
return. Giacomo and Assunta were very sorry for their young mistress,
not knowing how little she was sorry for herself, and they tried to
entertain her. They had none of the hard exclusiveness of English
servants, but admitted her generously to such of their family joys as
she would share. Giacomo introduced her to the stables and the horses;
Assunta initiated her into some of the mysteries of Italian cooking.
Tommaso, the scullion, and Pia, the maid, stood by in grinning delight
one day when the Contessa's sister learned to make macaroni.
"Now I know," said Daphne, after she had stood for half an hour under
the smoke-browned walls of the kitchen watching Assunta's manipulation
of eggs and flour, the long kneading, the rolling out of a thin layer
of dough, with the final cutting into thin strips; "to make Sunday and
festal-day macaroni you take all the eggs there are, and mix them up
with flour, and do all that to it; and then you boil it on the stove,
and make a sauce for it out of everything there is in the house, bits
of tomato, and parsley, and onion, and all kinds of meat. E vero?"
"Si," said Assunta, marveling at the patois that the Signorina spoke,
and wondering if it contained Indian words.
The very sight of the rows of utensils on the kitchen walls deepened
the rebellious mood of this descendant of the Puritans.
"Even the pots and pans have lovely shapes," said Daphne wistfully, for
the slender necks, the winning curves, the lines of shallow bowl and
basin bore testimony to the fact that the meanest thought of this
people was a thought of beauty. "I wonder why the Lord gave to them
the curve, to us the angle?"
When the macaroni was finished, Assunta invited the Signorina to go
with her to a little house set by itself on the sloping hill back of
the kitchen.
"E carin', eh?" demanded Assunta, as she opened the door.
Fragrance met them at the threshold, fragrance of fruit and of honey.
The warm sun poured in through the dirty, cobwebbed window when Assunta
lifted the shade. Ranged on shelves along the wall stood bottles of
yellow oil; partly buried in the ground were numerous jars of wine,
bottles and jars both keeping the beautiful Etruscan curves. On
shallow racks were spread bunches of yellow and of purple grapes, and
golden combs of honey gleamed from dusky corners.
"Ecco!" said Assunta, pointing to the wine jar from which she had been
filling the bottle in her hand. "The holy cross! Does the Signorina
see it?"
"Si," said Daphne.
"And here also?" asked Assunta, pointing to another.
The girl nodded doubtfully. Two irregular scratches could, by
imaginative vision, be translated into a cross.
"As on every one, Signorina," said Assunta triumphantly. "And nobody
puts it there. It comes by itself."
"Really?" asked the girl.
"Veramente," replied the peasant woman. "It has to, and not only here,
but everywhere. You see, years and years ago, there were heathen
spirits in the wine, and they made trouble when our Lord came. I have
heard that the jars burst and the wine was wasted because the god of
the wine was angry that the real God was born. And it lasted till San
Pietro came and exorcised the wicked spirit, and he put a cross on a
wine jar to keep him away. Since then every wine jar bears somewhere
the sign of the cross."
"What became of the poor god?" asked Daphne.
"He fled, I suppose to hell," answered Assunta piously.
"Poor heathen gods!" murmured Daphne.
The sunshine, flooding the little room, fell full on her face, and made
red lights in her brown hair.
"There was a god of the sun, too, named Apollo," she said, warming her
hands in level rays. "Was he banished too?"
Assunta shrugged her shoulders.
"Who knows? They dare not show their faces here since the Holy Father
has blessed the land."
Hermes bleated at the door, and the trio descended the hill together,
Assunta carrying a basket of grapes and a bottle of yellow oil, Daphne
with a slender flask of red wine in her hand.
The next day the heavens opened, and rain poured down. The cascades
above the villa became spouting waterfalls; the narrow path beside them
a leaping brook. The rain had not the steady and persistent motion of
well-conducted rain; it came in sheets, blown by sudden gusts against
the windows, or driven in wild spurts among the cypresses. The world
from the villa windows seemed one blur of watery green, with a thin
gray veil of mist to hide it.
Daphne paced the mosaic floors in idleness, or spelled out the meaning
of Petrarchan sonnets in an old vellum copy she had found in the
library. Sometimes she sat brooding in one of the faded gilt and
crimson chairs in the salon, by the diminutive fireplace where two or
three tiny twigs burned out their lives in an Italian thought of heat.
What did a Greek god do when sunshine disappeared? she wondered. Or had
the god of the sun gone away altogether, and was this deluge the
result? The shepherd Antoli had been taken home, Giacomo assured her,
but he was exceedingly reticent when asked who was herding the sheep,
only shrugging his shoulders with a "Chi lo sa?"
On the second day of the rain Daphne saw that the flock had come near
the house. From the dining-room window she could see the sheep, with
water soaking into their thick wool. Some one was guarding them. With
little streams dashing from the drooping felt hat to the sheepskin clad
shoulders, the keeper stood, motionless in the pelting rain. The sheep
ate greedily the wet, juicy grass, while the shepherd leaned on his
staff and watched. Undoubtedly it was Antoli's peasant successor,
Daphne thought, as she stood with her face to the dripping window pane.
Then the shepherd turned, and she recognized, under the wet hat brim,
the glowing color and undaunted smile of her masquerading god. Whether
he saw her or not she could not tell, but she stood by the storm-washed
window in her scarlet house gown and watched, longing to give him
shelter.