CHAPTER XXI.
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 pa.s.sionately 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 cl.u.s.tering curls of gold. SHE thought this gesture was one of blessing. _I_ thought--G.o.d 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 sh.o.r.es 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 pa.s.sed--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 pa.s.sengers 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 sc.u.m 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 appet.i.to e un sorriso della Madonna!"--(a good appet.i.te 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 a.s.sembled 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 mori de pa.s.sione Zompa llari llira!"
[Footnote: 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 antic.i.p.ations 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 impa.s.sioned 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, pa.s.sionate, 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 f.a.gged. 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 vallet 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--grat.i.tude. 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 impa.s.sibility, 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 Giacoma 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 clown 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 n.o.bility 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 pa.s.sed 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 sanct.i.ty; 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 hara.s.s 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 s.p.a.ce 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 Olfva, 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."
CHAPTER XXII.
Christmas Eve! The day had been extra chilly, with frequent showers of stinging rain, but toward five o"clock in the afternoon the weather cleared. The clouds, which had been of a dull uniform gray, began to break asunder and disclose little shining rifts of pale blue and bright gold; the sea looked like a wide satin ribbon shaken out and shimmering with opaline tints. Flower girls trooped forth making the air musical with their mellow cries of "Fiori! chi vuol fiori" and holding up their tempting wares--not bunches of holly and mistletoe such as are known in England, but roses, lilies, jonquils, and sweet daffodils. The shops were brilliant with bouquets and baskets of fruits and flowers; a glittering show of etrennes, or gifts to suit all ages and conditions, were set forth in tempting array, from a box of bonbons costing one franc to a jeweled tiara worth a million, while in many of the windows were displayed models of the "Bethlehem," with babe Jesus lying in his manger, for the benefit of the round-eyed children--who, after staring fondly at His waxen image for some time, would run off hand in hand to the nearest church where the usual Christmas creche was arranged, and there kneeling down, would begin to implore their "dear little Jesus,"
their "own little brother," not to forget them, with a simplicity of belief that was as touching as it was unaffected.
I am told that in England the principle sight on Christmas-eve are the shops of the butchers and poulterers hung with the dead carcases of animals newly slaughtered, in whose mouths are thrust bunches of p.r.i.c.kly holly, at which agreeable spectacle the pa.s.sers-by gape with gluttonous approval. Surely there is nothing graceful about such a commemoration of the birth of Christ as this? nothing picturesque, nothing poetic?--nothing even orthodox, for Christ was born in the East, and the Orientals are very small eaters, and are particularly sparing in the use of meat. One wonders what such an unusual display of vulgar victuals has to do with the coming of the Saviour, who arrived among us in such poor estate that even a decent roof was denied to Him.
Perhaps, though, the English people read their gospels in a way of their own, and understood that the wise men of the East, who are supposed to have brought the Divine Child symbolic gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh, really brought joints of beef, turkeys, and "plum-pudding," that vile and indigestible mixture at which an Italian shrugs his shoulders in visible disgust. There is something barbaric, I suppose, in the British customs still--something that reminds one of their ancient condition when the Romans conquered them--when their supreme idea of enjoyment was to have an ox roasted whole before them while they drank "wa.s.sail" till they groveled under their own tables in a worse condition than overfed swine. Coa.r.s.e and vulgar plenty is still the leading characteristic at the dinners of English or American parvenus; they have scarcely any idea of the refinements that can be imparted to the prosaic necessity of eating--of the many little graces of the table that are understood in part by the French, but that perhaps never reach such absolute perfection of taste and skill as at the banquets of a cultured and clever Italian n.o.ble. Some of these are veritable "feasts of the G.o.ds," and would do honor to the fabled Olympus, and such a one I had prepared for Guido Ferrari as a greeting to him on his return from Rome--a feast of welcome and--farewell!
All the resources of the hotel at which I stayed had been brought into requisition. The chef, a famous cordon bleu, had transferred the work of the usual table d"hote to his underlings, and had bent the powers of his culinary intelligence solely on the production of the magnificent dinner I had ordered. The landlord, in spite of himself, broke into exclamations of wonder and awe as he listened to and wrote down my commands for different wines of the rarest kinds and choicest vintages.