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 clustering curls of gold. She thought this gesture was one of blessing. I thought—God 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 shores 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 passed—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 passengers 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 scum 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 appetito e un sorriso della Madonna!”—(a good appetite 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 assembled 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 morì de passione
Zompa llarì llirà!”[[4]]