“I’ll dress in the boat,” said Colin. “But there’s that story of Tiberio which you wouldn’t tell me when the signora was with us.”
“Indeed a story of Tiberio is not fit for the signora. A fat, bald old man was Tiberio; and as ugly as a German. Seven palaces he had on Capri; there was one here, and so shameful were the things done in it that, so the priests say, the sea rose and swallowed it. But I do not know that the priests are right. They say that, do you think, signor, to frighten us from the wickedness of Tiberio? And one day Tiberio saw—scusi, signor....”
How attractive was the pagan gaiety of these young islanders! They believed in sunshine and wine and amusement, and a very good creed it was. They took all things lightly, except the scirocco. Love was a pleasant pastime, an affair of eager eyes and a kiss and a smile at parting, for had he not seen Nino himself in a corner of the piazza yesterday making signals to his girl (or one of them), and then strolling off in the warm dark? They were quite without any moral sense, but it was ludicrous to call that wicked. Pleasure sanctified all they did; they gave it and took it, and slept it off, and sought it again. How different from the bleak and solemn Northerners!
Imagine, mused Colin, as this really unspeakable history of Tiberio gaily unfolded itself, encouraging a gardener’s boy to regale you with bawdy tales. How he would snigger over the indecency, thus making it indecent; how heavy and dreary it would all be! But here was Nino with his dancing eyes and his laughing mouth and his “scusi, signor,” and all was well. These fellows had charm and breeding for their birthright, and, somehow, minds which vice did not sully.
The end of the story was rapidly told, with gestures to help out the meanings of recondite words, for they were approaching the Marina, and Colin’s signora was waiting for him there, as Nino had already seen with a backward glance.... An amazing moral was tacked on the conclusion of those dreadful doings of Tiberio, for when Tiberio died, God permitted the devil to torture him from morning to night as the anniversary of that orgy came round.
“But that’s not likely, Nino,” said Colin, deeply interested. “If Tiberio were so wicked, the devil would not want to torture him. He would be the devil’s dear friend.”
Nino took both oars in one hand for a second and crossed himself.
“What do you do that for, Nino?” asked Colin.
“It is safer,” said Nino. “Who knows where the devil is?”
Colin made an admirably apposite remark: a thing that Neapolitans said, so Mr. Cecil had told him, when they found themselves talking about the devil, and Nino was duly appreciative.