title: Vengeance of the female,
text: t'. ' :^ -' • i' ■■->.' ■ -‘'^ 1 '. <'■«! ^ - V ^ . . j-^ ■ -■• ■' Vi f.vi^.v.^ . “r^’Vv- «•> >/v r <«. y. i ^' \ ;4 •. o >' V « t * A « V : '•" W ' J - ■' ' «I W -,-: ' «K S^!r ’ifr* 'Vf ' ife ' , . ,.. XIX Italian Courtesy Less than nineteen hundred years ago, but nearer the time of Christ’s death than of our life to-day, a Latin baby took her first walk in the open air, out and away under the olive trees that surrounded her father’s house. It was the earliest warm day of her second year. ^‘The ground was so dry now,” her nurse had said — saying this in corrupt Latin — ‘‘that Naia might be allowed to put in practice the lessons she had received when, in-doors, through the inclement months that had passed, she balanced on incautious legs.” So nurse and Naia went out together, prattling cor- rupt Latin, both of them, but one with a babyish difference; and they went hand in hand, until, in a moment when the nurse’s hand relaxed its slight grasp, Naia started away alone in her earliest freedom, for her first adventure, with her first self-assertion ; doing with joy unspeakable the first thing 189 VENGEANCE OF THE FEMALE she had ever done, having all the world be- fore her, for her own sake ; all her kindling desire carrying her out among these things so wholly new, so entrancing; away, until she fell — beating heart and flushed cheek pressed against the warm bosom of the earth. There was only one experience more beautiful than this in Naia’s life. That was when the story of Christ’s life came to her, years afterward. The story which was against all authority come from the center of persecution, stealing its way along, insist- ing that it should be heard, yet fearful lest it should be overheard, bringing a deadly message of freedom. The slave woman who had led Naia out under the olive trees^ when she was a child, told her in secret the story of Christ. Then another new world, more lovely and alluring and more unlimited than the earth had seemed, lay open before Naia. Again she started away alone, in her earliest free- dom of the spirit, in childish confidence and with joy unspeakable, doing unto others the first things she had ever done, with all the hopeless world before her, for Christ’s sake; all her kindling desire carrying her 190 ITALIAN COURTESY out and away from security in the old faith to martyrdom in the confession of the new. But it would be impossible to think of her fate as a dark tragedy. It has never seemed more distressing than as though a child had fallen painlessly to the earth; and at least one valley of Liguria has her still as its patroness, its patron saint, a present and a healing influence. There she is still Our Lady of the Valley, who may be seen in her white stone church half-way up the steep eastern slope. It is a valley that the soft beauty of the Mediterranean Sea would seem to have compelled from the rugged Maritime Alps; it sets inward and northward so bravely, carpeted with violets and vines; and its red wine has a fugitive perfume stolen from vio- lets. There is a stream down the centre, crossed by a Roman bridge. The converg- ing hills on either side are very high, and are terraced half-way up, showing even lines of masonry and gray-green olive trees ; then above the olives are bleak walls of rock, cliffs, and such impassable things. You may walk away from the violets up to the snow line and bitter winds, if you have good legs, in half an hour. The north 191 VENGEANCE OF THE FEMALE wind leaps from that barrier, and falls upon the sea a whole league from shore ; you may see the white caps out there. One is the more secure, by contrast, in the valley. And one is most secure, they say, by reason of Our Lady of the Valley, who looks mildly down from her white stone church, built near the upper boundary of the belt of olives on the eastern side. A miracle-working picture makes Our Lady of the Valley visible to those who come in sorrow, with prayers for sick friends. One day Vincent came from San Remo, coming on foot, as a pilgrim should ; and, having hours of leisure in the middle of the day, he was tempted to follow the stream upward to the point at which it entered the valley through a gorge, where the air itself was held still, and the light falling through it at mid-day was golden. The stream of water, white with froth and spray — and as though with fear when it came to the brink — fell over a dull brown cliff, and falling, falling, until it was noth- ing but froth and spray, came to its confi- dent self again at the bottom of the gorge, and moved away southward between steep dull brown walls of rock. And the gorge 192 SAN REMO ■ T • ‘ ? « r • ' ► '■' V « * ^•k : 9 •« • ' rl Ci >.0 K" * • m • ■ V*- ' fc J ^ • ^.r •t fc 1 J^lt I t "l 7 j * * . t - - *4 ' . •■ 4 - * 1 '• ' • I * f., W ' * :V - .- i..- . J' V ■ 5 K”- '.' ir- ■ -’ • ^ . ., ». ■ Wt*-.- ,.•v^ r*' - .-. ■: </^WM / 4 ,’’i c . ■ T ‘ .- A . • . 7 - 1 ^.,-v/ ■ " - . V • -^v - K' , •'“.’M - * '’^* IW' - T ' *> ' I ■'%■'.'■'> ^ ’ - ■ ^ "■ ' M - /r •> y- r'cr I. ri« - ; T ^4 ^ ITALIAN COURTESY was so narrow that the sunlight, pouring over its edges, and falling, falling, seemed to be pressed together and to become heavier in descent, even as the water of the stream became lighter. At the bottom the white stream received all the light, and in the silence of that lonely place there was really nothing but a stream of white water and a stream of golden light, that moved away between near dull cliffs toward the valley and the Mediterranean Sea. But presently came a shadow that slid and slipped along over the surface of the stream of water, and showed for an instant, with sudden increase, on the side of the gorge, and again slipped back and slid, circling, crossing, hiding, reappearing, searching, seeking. For there was a great bird soaring on steady pinions between the sun and the gorge. At high noon the sun looked in upon the stream between the cliffs, and saw, what it made, the shadow of an eagle which seemed to be nearer to the sun than to the earth — but only while the morning hesitated to become afternoon. Then the shadow hid itself in a tuft of gray brush that grew at the foot of the cliff ; the great bird had darted south- ward. 193 VENGEANCE OF THE FEMALE Under the gray brush and dry leaves, where the shadow disappeared, there was a small bed of a pink-tipped flower. So the shadow, in delicate representation of Naia’s death, had been looking for the flower. Such significance in things that are com- monly unremarked, Vincent found in the whole valley. The day was perfect, and a perfect day in the Riviera makes strange things possible. And when he stood before the miracle-working picture of Our Lady of the Valley, it scarcely seemed an imperti- nence that the old fellow who opened the church for him and drew aside the curtain that hid the picture asked : ‘‘Are you married?” (The idiom let him ask it more politely.) “Yes,” said Vincent. He looked at the painting with disappointment, for its work- manship was hardly above mediocrity, although it represented a very sweet and noble face that had been young when the Christian era was young, and had never grown old. “And you have children, sir?” Vincent said that he had a daughter at the Villa Mora in San Remo, and with a friendly impulse he mentioned her name. 194 ITALIAN COURTESY ‘‘Eh? . . . Ah!’' said the old fellow. He went nearer to the painting, and crossed himself; and then he spoke the courteous word: “Your wife and child, sir — if they are ever sick, you will bring them here to be cured? — to please Our Lady — for Her sake.’’ 195 XX A Bare Head in Liguria — H — — 1» ^ 1 j 1 ^ iL ^ ^ 1 ^ i_^ ^ These notes of the bugle sound the even- ing summons (the ritirata they call it in Italy) from the barracks. Some high white walls still gleam in sun- shine, but there is deep shade in the nar- row, crooked streets of San Remo. For the very reason that the day’s work is over, it is a stirring hour. Villagers are going away, going up the steep paths that lead from town to their homes among the foothills of the Maritime Alps, driving their mules before them with sarcastic words of love. In Vittorio Emanuele Street shop- keepers are ‘^putting the head out for a breath,” as they say, which means that they stand in the doorways to gossip with neigh- bors expansively, after the narrowing effects 196 A BARE HEAD IN LIGURIA of a day spent in trade. The poorest peo- ple — so poor that they economize even their indulgence in church-going — are on their way to or from “a little prayer.” Officers of the Bersaglieri strut along by twos and threes, with some unavoidable noise of swords and spurs, as they come from the promenade. Their fatigue caps are tilted forward and almost rest upon their noses, yet they succeed in eyeing the women. Past the chattering dealer in mosaics, past the embroidery shop and the jeweler’s, these handsome fellows go until they reach a caffi, where they seat themselves at small tables that stand on the sidewalk. Common sol- diers of the same regiment, with cock-feather plumes waving from wide-brimmed hats, and shaken rhythmically in time to vigorous short steps, hurry along toward the bar- racks at the sound of the ritirata. From the lower window of a house in the old quarter a girl is leaning. Below, in the street, stands a soldier. He is begging for the flower she holds between her white teeth. In the opposite doorway are two women watching the courtship. One of these women holds in her arms a baby who is crying lustily, while the mother lets it 197 VENGEANCE OF THE FEMALE make playthings of her long ear-rings, hop- ing thus to quiet it in order that she may hear what her pretty neighbor is saying to the Bersagliere, ‘‘Why do you want my rose?” asks the girl at the window. “To keep as a souvenir of your lovely face,” is the answer. “Give it to me, gioja hella. ' ’ “Do not listen to him, Marianna,” the motherly neighbor interrupts. “They are all alike — those soldiers!” She sways from side to side to quiet her child. “I remem- ber when I was young. Ah, those cock’s feathers have brushed many a cheek, be- lieve me. Keep to your town sweethearts, I say. They are steady, while these sharp- shooters are always on the march.” At the same moment the ritirata sounds again. *^Ecco!'' the woman exclaims con- clusively. “Did I not tell you so?” she urges, as the soldier turns his face barrack- ward and begins to run, calling back over his shoulder: ^^Addio! addio! I shall come to-morrow to beg it from your lips, sweet Marianna. Do not listen to that woman!” While the three neighbors join in easy 198 A BARE HEAD IN LIGURIA laughter the soldier disappears; and then that frankness in regard to love affairs that characterizes Italians of all classes has free play. Marta, you are a very witch!” her com- panion exclaims. “You must have been in league with the devil to have made the ritirata sound at your words.” Here they all laugh again, and there appears at Marta’s door a stout man with a pipe in his mouth and yellow slippers on his feet. “The joke, the joke,” he cries. “Let me laugh also,” — taking the child from his wife’s arms. Marianna explains : “Friend Pietro, your Marta is a dangerous woman for young girls to have near; she sends their sweethearts about-face too quickly,” — smiling as she twirls the flower in her brown hands. “No, no, little one, ’ ’ the good woman pro- tests, advancing to the window, her strong soft arms akimbo. “I speak to you in ear- nest. Your Giulio, down in the town, earn- ing his money daily, is worth a whole dozen soldati. This other fine fellow, with his white gaiters, his plumes, and his Neapolitan tongue, is just a rogue like all his comrades. He has a sweetheart at Bordighera, Ospeda- 199 VENGEANCE OF THE FEMALE letti, Colla, and every town within running distance. They always have. ’Twould be a pity to match your good dowry and household linen against a handsome face and a penny a day — eh? . . . Ah!” ^•You speak truly,” the young girl admits, still twirling the flower and looking down at it to keep her friends (quick read- ers of every expression) from seeing her eyes. How that rose, for which only a moment before he had been pleading, now pleads for him — recalling his presence, his flattering words. And, even more persuasive than his smooth Southern tongue, his ardent Southern glance — how hard its pleading — with only a penny a day ! A sigh almost escapes her lips, but is retained in the full bodice^ for now Pietro is speaking like an echo of common-sense. ‘‘Yes, yes,” he says, “a penny a day is the soldier’s pay. A fine house with his wife’s money, while he marches away to make love in the next town. You are right, Marta, you are right.” “And it is always money for tobacco,” chimes in Marta’s companion, who is too fat for many words, but is considered an amiable conversationalist, inasmuch as she 200 A BARE HEAD IN LIGURIA nods her head approvingly at all her neigh- bors’ sayings. ‘‘Soon the soup goes, and only the herbs remain on the cold stove.” When her friends return slowly to their respective doorsteps, Marianna is herself again. The idea of nothing but herbs, sweethearts in other towns, and money for tobacco which is not tobacco, appeals to the chief Ligurian virtues ; and she arranges her thick glossy hair in soft curls before the little mirror in her bedroom, making ready to go with her friend Lucia to meet Giulio, the wood-carver, on his way home from the town below. The market-place in San Remo is a large, irregular, roughly-paved square, with a fountain and several trees in the centre. Its narrow outlets are the dark over-arched alleys of the old jammed-together quarter where the right of way is freely and frankly accorded to the donkey. As for that stub- born loiterer, the stolid expression of his grave face says unmistakably that this part of town he considers his domain, and by his half-closed eyes he shows that he does not mean to treat you here as he is obliged to treat you on the fine new promenade, where his life is made a burden by shouts, kicks. 201 VENGEANCE OF THE FEMALE and cracking and lashing of whips, forcing him to the right or to the left. “Now and here,“ he seems to say to the human animal, ^^you will turn aside, if you please.” The buildings that line the market-place are held at a high price, for their indwellers realize that their value increases from trad- ing generation unto trading generation, and assert that nothing less than an earthquake can dislodge them. Then, too, the church which almost fills the upper side of the place — the principal church in which the most interesting civic events connected with birth, marriage, and death are cele- brated — is a consideration not less real than the advantage of being always under shelter of one’s own house on market days. Between six and eleven o’clock in the morning, the market-place is alive with undressed good-nature. In the matter of little clothing the Ligurian women are always suspects: the mule-drivers’ sashes have a more coming-off effect here than when seen elsewhere; ragged children abound ; officers and soldiers, home from an early march, are covered with dust and otherwise not coated ; military body-servants in shirt sleeves are drawing water at the 202 A BARE HEAD IN LIGURIA hydrants for their masters’ toilet ; each one excusing his appearance to all the rest, and all the rest politely (and self-consciously) accepting the excuses offered. As the large church clock strikes eleven, Marianna, in her short skirts, which show her neat shoes and a bit of white stocking, appears in the market-place. The smooth coils of her well-dressed hair shine in the sun, a soft shawl is folded over her bosom, and all about her is that mellowness which the Italian climate lends to its women for a few years of maturity before it begins to dry them like plump grapes which are to be raisins. On her arm she carries a small basket, the position of which she changes frequently in order to hold her elbows close to her side and thereby keep the shawl in place. Although her head is bent, her eyes scan the groups of townspeople inquiringly. EccOy Marianna,” a little old woman calls out from under a big red umbrella. ‘^Are you looking {ox mammarn? It is but one-half minute since she left her market- basket at the church door and passed in with her mistress.” Marianna’s mother (the mammam referred to) is cook at the Villa Mora; and as her 203 VENGEANCE OF THE FEMALE wages are thus adapted to the princely for- eign standard in such matters, being eighty lire per month, with many perquisites, she has been able to put aside for her daughter a dowry which all envy, admire, or covet, according to temperament and sex. Out of her earnings this good Tommasina has also bought what she terms a baracca, which is a tiny house on a grape-growing strip of land, far up on the mountain side. This bit of land is cultivated by Tommasina’s one-eyed husband, and, in addition to the wine, it produces many vegetables. In winter the man lodges in two rooms with his daughter in the town, where Marianna cooks and sews for him, and makes lace when she has time. ‘‘My husband,” Tommasina has been heard to say, “because of his blindness in one eye, is only fit to help me at the villa during the winter, blacking shoes, pumping water, running errands, and attending strictly to church days, as I am unable to do so myself.” Her church time she is obliged to use, she says, “for the benefit of her family, ” — which means going the rounds of shops where Vincent pays his bills at irregular intervals for provisions sent to the 204 A BARE HEAD IN LIGURIA villa, and where she as irregularly receives her percentage and reward for uncritical patronage ; or perhaps, for the benefit of her family, she has only to sell back wine bot- tles to the merchants who supply the villa. At any rate, her church time is all used up, and her husband is required to ‘‘attend strictly.'’ But now at last she has actually come to church as well as to market in the course of duty, in attendance upon her mistress. Marianna thanks the little market woman for her information, and presently stands before the stuccoed edifice in which Liguri- ans confess and pray after selling and buy- ing. At the entrance she searches for her mother’s well-known head-basket among the many overflowing panniers that line the vestibule walls. Only one donkey is hitched in the vestibule, where iron rings fastened to the stonework offer accommodation for a number; he stands waiting for some wor- shiping master, and exposed to sore temp- tation amid these heaps of green vegetables and fruit, with lettuce leaves on top. Mari- anna makes her way into the church, and then it needs but a minute to touch fore- head and breast with holy water, to accus- 205 VENGEANCE OF THE FEMALE tom her eyes to the dim light, and to discover her mother in the half-filled build- ing. Tommasina is doing the honors of the church to her mistress by bringing a camp- chair and placing it quite near the altar for the lady, after which she herself falls on her knees on the bare stones. Evidently she feels at home here, with all the Italian peasant’s homely proprietary sense — as though it were just her house, her finer house, of which her little baracca up among the vines and olives might be called the humble annex. Now the priest is making the memento for the dead, standing in silence with hands joined before his breast. Only a slender golden bar is shot across this mystic light from all the glare of sunshine in the market- place. On the uplifted faces of the wor- shipers one reads forgetfulness of the body. But no sooner has the holy bread been taken than there is a stir, a careless moving about, a shuffling of chairs and feet, and the most of those present commence making their way slowly toward the door. Marianna puts her hand on her mother’s arm. 206 A BARE HEAD IN LIGURIA ‘^Ah, little one, what are you doing here?” have to buy fish for dinner,” Mari- anna replies, dropping a courtesy to Gloria and with the others they come out into the bright sunlight. Souls seem to have been left behind in the incense of the church, but to the genial warmth outside hearts re- spond — especially Marianna’s, as she catches sight of a dark face smiling beneath cock’s feathers. Tommasina does not see the nod of recognition; but after her basket has been found and firmly planted on her head she looks around for her daughter, who at that instant happens to make a little warn- ing sign for the benefit of the Bersagliere, to let him know that the time is not propi- tious. Tommasina excuses herself to her mistress and catches Marianna by the shoul- der. ‘‘Who is your new friend, child?” she asks hurriedly. ‘‘A friend of your Giulio? Tell me!” Hot blood rushes to the girl’s face. ‘‘No, mother, only a soldier from the barracks who” — hesitating — “who teases me.” “Teases you! How? For what?” ‘ ‘ Oh, nothing. J ust for a rose, yesterday. 207 VENGEANCE OF THE FEMALE Teased you for roses yesterday, and is looking out for you to-day! Listen, Mari- anna,” — in genuine alarm. ‘‘You are a sensible girl. Remember all the years your mother, who loves you, has worked and saved for your dowry. Not a lira of it will ever go into uniform pockets ! Could you live on a penny a day?” With these words she moves away to join her mistress, her head-basket shading an anxious face. Always the same “penny a day,” Mari- anna thinks, as she walks quickly to the fish stall. The little fish-woman is trying to wait on all her six or seven customers at once, dealing out to this one, receiving money from another, in a whirl of trade and good nature. “I shall wait on you in two minutes by the church clock, my little Mari- anna, ” she calls out, as the girl picks up some fresh sardines by their tails, from the bucket in which they swim. “Do you really know how to stuff those fine fellows for dinner, pretty Marianna?” a melodious voice asks over her shoulder. The Bersagliere has come up behind her and looks hungrily at the sardines. ‘ ‘ What can you not do?” he continues. “What is there about you that is not attractive? Eh ! 208 A BARE HEAD IN LIGURIA Tell me yourself, for I shall never discover it.” ”Go and say the same thing to your sweethearts in Ospedaletti, Colla, and all the other towns within running distance,” answers the girl, quoting from the advice she had received the evening before, but blushing furiously. ”Ah, gipsy that you are! to make me vow again and again that I was born blind, and only received sight on looking upon you ! But tell me, who has put into your heart of gold so much lead? The one who just now took you by the shoulder? Say, is that your mother? Only show her to me again, that I may ask her to be my main- marn also.” “Here, my fine bird!” interrupts the fishwife, bustling up to them and flirting his cock-feather plume with her little scaly hand, “don’t waste time making pretty speeches to our Marianna. Her lover, the wood-carver, in the shop not many streets from here, will make an olivewood coffin for you, for all you are a soldier.” Nothing could please the Neapolitan bet- ter than the opportunity thus furnished him to indulge in a little blustering talk, with 209 VENGEANCE OF THE FEMALE jocular reference to musket-balls and knives> making the desired impression upon the women; and truly he seems to them not less poetical than fierce when he compares Marianna’s favor to the sunlight and the wood-carver to a thief, ‘Vho would keep the rays of the sun from shining on others.” Then with an air of easy triumph he tells the girl that he will come for her rose at sunset. “No, no!” says Marianna, quickly, thinking of her neighbors’ disapproval. “Not there.” “Then will you walk in the public garden this evening?” He guesses the nature of her objection, and mentions the giardino publico because, when the band plays there, every one meets everybody, and lovers may come together as though by accident. “Say yes quickly; I must go,” he urges, an officer appearing in the market-place. “Yes, I am going to the music, but — ” How can she tell him that it must be with Giulio? She hesitates, but he forces the favorable conclusion, and crying, “Then until to-night, addio!"' he is gone. “How handsome he is, eh?” Rosetta, the fish-woman, says, coming back with a 210 A BARE HEAD IN LIGURIA brown paper full of sardines, which she thrusts into Marianna’s basket. “I always wish I were young again when I see the soldiers. What a pity that they are so expensive to marry.” You may be sure there is a warm place for this fat little fishwife in Marianna’s heart as she turns into the town. It is not yet time to cook dinner, so she can go into the shop where Lucia works for the fine milliner in the Via Vittorio Emanuele, and buy a piece of red ribbon to wear to-night. And, of course, she thinks of Giulio, too, for it has been her habit to think of him when- ever she turned her face toward Vittorio Emanuele Street; and truly, she reasons with herself, ought she not to be proud of him, even if he does stoop a little from his confining work? Do not all the serious- minded girls in town envy her? But yet, but yet — it would be a fine thing to have a soldier for her husband instead of going bareheaded all her life. With pride she imagines herself walking arm-in-arm with her Neapolitan through the streets of large towns where the Bersaglieri would be sta- tioned. Once away from her native place, she would wear a bonnet and jacket for the VENGEANCE OF THE FEMALE first time. She would then forget the days of bare head and shawl, and she would rise superior to the bareheaded peasants among whom she had lived. Her Neapoli- tan would think her lovely in a bonnet, accustomed as he was to women in large cities. Giulio, on the contrary, would be shocked at even the suggestion of such use- less finery, such unsuitable ornaments, and would laugh her to scorn for trying to look like a donna.” ^‘Such extravagance, too,” he would be sure to say. By this time she has come before the win- dows of a neat shop where every kind of ornament made from olivewood is dis- played. In the doorway sits a young man bent over his work, which is a picture-frame inlaid with swallows and bars of music. His face wears an anxious look as he glances up at the sound of her step. ” Marianna. ” ”How pale you are. What is it?” she asks quickly. ”My mother,” he begins in a broken voice as he rises and leads her into the shop. She sits on the wooden bench offered her, while he stands before her, his back to the light, trying to conceal the tears that are 212 A BARE HEAD IN LIGURIA filling his eyes. This effort is made, how- ever, solely with the purpose of saving her feelings and not because he is ashamed to show emotion. “I have been there, at home, four times since breakfast,” he continues. ^‘It is her old pain about the heart.” ‘Hs the pain so bad to-day?” He does not answer directly, but looks into her eyes with an appeal for sympathy. “You know how good a mother she has always been to me, and her pain is surely my own. I must be with her whenever I can — she is so old now. Ah, little Mari- anna, how can I ask you to forego the pleas- ure of the music to-night? — for I cannot go—” “Giulio mio, the girl replies, tenderly, springing up to put her hand before his mouth, “do not think of me for an instant. I will go to see your mother, and, if she wishes, stay with her this afternoon. I don’t care a bit about the music now, and if I did Lucia might go with me.” “Really? Are you not disappointed? You sweet little girl. Take that’ ’ — kissing her — “to my mother from me.” The wood-carver’s gentleness and his dis- 213 VENGEANCE OF THE FEMALE tress work a momentary change of heart in the young girl ; still it is with heightened color and shining eyes that she goes on her way to find Lucia, for the sympathetic pang she had felt for Giulio is forgotten in the happiness of this unexpected freedom. This one evening will be hers to enjoy in her own way. She means to give herself up to a dream for once — for just this once. She finds Lucia at the back of a small millinery shop, with a delicate creation of tulle and flowers in her hands, to which she is just giving the finishing touches. ‘‘Are you alone?” she asks mysteriously, and glancing quickly about. “Yes. Where do you come from, with such a pair of cheeks?” “Giulio will not go to the public garden to-night. Can I go with you?” This is said so eagerly that they both laugh. Lucia understands at once, and merely asks: “At what hour shall I call for you ?” “Eight, without fail. And, Lucia, I want a bit of red ribbon for my throat.” Lucia rises and takes down a box from the shelf. The hat she has been making is no sooner on the counter than Marianna 214 A BARE HEAD IN LIGURIA takes it up, and, standing before the mirror, glancing admiringly at her reflection, turn- ing from side to side, tempts herself. Lucia sees her and cries: ‘‘Lovely! Precious! Like a bride! Ah, what a pity that you must marry Giulio and can never wear a hat.” Marianna tears it from her head in a rage. “Why do you always remind me of this?” she demands bitterly. “Each time I come here and try on a hat you make the same remark. The only time in my life when I shall ever wear a hat is in this shop. I knew it as well as you. . . . Why not let me enjoy the thing for one minute?” “Forgive me,” Lucia says, and her pro- • fessional eye rests in sorrow upon the poor head that is condemned to make an unadorned journey through life. “See,” she goes on in a cooing voice, “this shade will make you lovely” — holding a piece of ribbon under her friend’s chin. Marianna is propitiated, for the color is really most becoming. And thus a fifty-franc hat (that Lucia trimmed) was the pretty devil, bringing together a bareheaded Ligurian girl and a Neapolitan soldier, and, when they were 215 VENGEANCE OF THE FEMALE fast together, leaving them condemned to each other. To be sure there was an encounter be- tween Giulio and the Neapolitan, in which encounter the pale wood-carver was the aggressor and the sun-burned soldier cut so poor a figure that he was discharged from his regiment for cowardice. To put it plainly, he took a good beating. But although his pockets were no longer mili- tary, they never held a lira of Tommasina’s savings. Then there was a short-lived attempt at gayety in Naples, where for a time Marianna wore gilt bells on her garters. But the middle of their story seems just unrelieved dull distress, in spite of the gilt bells tinkling, until the distress was unbearable ; and then there came a padrone, going about as the agent of a steamship company among such people as Marianna and her husband, persuading and enabling them to emigrate to America. And finally the two immigrants, with their happiness in the past, have in their cheerless present a hand-organ which still can produce the notes of the Ritirata,'' of the bugle-call, and of the song that begins with those notes, just as written at the head of this chapter. 216 A BARE HEAD IN LIGURIA They have turned up in your street, per- haps, in.the course of their wanderings; and, if so, you may have noticed that Marianna, with a tin cup for pennies in her hand, had a bright cotton handkerchief tied like a bon- net over her head and under her chin. Well, Villa Mora was occupied by Vincent and Gloria (coming from London) one happy winter, when the little boy was hav- ing his first year at a New England school, and in his stead a still smaller girl had be- come the centre of their family life — the one indispensable person. And that, of course, is the reason why Marianna^s story became known. 217 XXI Vincent and Mademoiselle Mora For a few weeks after their arrival in San Remo the Vincents were somewhat at the mercy of incompetent Italian coachmen — I mean the drivers of public carriages. Fi- nally, in order to be rid of them, Vincent bought a little victoria with red wheels, and, to make these wheels spin properly, a willing young iron-gray horse of the Lom- bard stock. This was really on Gloria’s account, for she did not care for walking, while he usually preferred walking to driv- ing; but one day he appropriated the car- riage to his own use. You see he wanted to visit Bussana, where the earthquake did so much damage in 1887, and from Bussana he thought of going on to Taggia, where good oranges and violets and excellent red wine are to be found. The distance was not great, but the day promised to be hot. Then there was the victoria standing ready at the gate. He got in. 218 MADEMOISELLE MORA ‘‘To Bussana, Michele!” “A bad road, signore,” Michele pro- tested. He did not like going into the country, and all roads leading away from San Remo were bad roads to him. In the country there were no acquaintances of his to be saluted with a loud crack of the whip, no rival coachmen to envy this smart little carriage over which he presided. “Never mind the road,” said Vincent; “I’d trust you to reach a place even if there were no road at all.” Mollified by this tribute to his ability, Michele shook the reins and uttered the peculiar “Oop!” — like the cooing of a mammoth dove — that an Italian horse understands. It signifies: “Go, for the love of me, my dear; and if you don’t go. I’ll take your hide off.” So they started at a rattling pace, which was maintained along the level highway until, with a sharp turn to the left, they began to ascend a hill which proved to be steep and rough, as Michele had said. At the roughest point in this road, where the inhabitants of the ruined village were engaged in building new homes for them- selves, they came on an old woman who 219 VENGEANCE OF THE FEMALE was plodding along up the hill; so Vincent made her get in beside him, and with this strange companion to answer questions about the earthquake, paid his first visit to Bussana. Of course he supposed she would be pleased to be carried to her destination in this comfortable fashion, and perhaps still more pleased to receive a piece of sil- ver for her services as guide; but she gave no lively evidence of satisfaction. On the contrary, she replied to inquiries as briefly as possible, and with averted face. In fact, she seemed so dull and ill at ease that he was glad to let her go as soon as they had driven into the town. But then suddenly, after she had disap- peared, she became interesting, for Michele leaned down from the box to say: “Does the signore know who that is? No? That is Mademoiselle Mora, who owns your villa. And she has other houses, too. The signore may not believe it, but she is not so old by any means as she looked. And quite hand- some she is, really. She just makes up that way, and goes out to beg, although she is rich, rich, rich!” “Nonsense, Michele!” Vincent said, as little pleased as people usually are on being 220 MADEMOISELLE MORA told that they have been blind to a transpar- ent fraud. Michele replied by pointing with his whip at one of the buildings that had been most severely dealt with by the earthquake. More than half of the entire structure had fallen to the ground. ‘‘That belongs to her also,” he added, indifferently, as though he did not care how much or how little impor- tance was attached to the statement. 221 XXII The Villa and the Town To an amiable house courtesy is easily proffered, as it is to an amiable person ; and we need not content ourselves with saying that it shares the family life which it makes possible. Such a villa is not merely recep- tive. It has its expression, and its own point of view. Villa Mora looked out upon the Mediter- ranean sea, from an olive grove above the town. It was not at all a grand house, although to be sure an old beggar at the gate saluted Vincent with the question, ‘^Are you the lordship of this palace?” {Signoria di quest' palazzof') The garden was small, being only a narrow strip between the house and the olives, with just about room in it for a few hedges of geranium, a lot of heliotrope, half a dozen small palms with as many orange trees, and an abundance of roses. A much larger but less comfortable house, 222 THE VILLA AND THE TOWN in which the German Prince Frederick had fought with death, was not far away. Between the two places was a narrow path leading by a flight of rough stone steps quite directly to the town ; and this path, this mule path, was continued above the house, passing along by the high garden wall up the hillside. There was a mountain beyond, and still the mule path kept on — up — up — I can’t say how far. Sturdy peasants clattered up and down pretty con- stantly, going to or from a village set back among the hills, or with baskets full of olives on their heads, or with a thin-legged ass or two carrying bales of goods and casks of wine. Many of the girls were beautiful, and altogether Vincent liked the look of the people. They were strong and brown, and polite enough, and appeared to take work and poverty with a good grace. Both men and women had a way of blending shades — or fades — of red and blue in their dress, so that if Vincent happened to lie awake at night and recall the figures he had seen during the day, it was like turning a kaleidoscope. Not that they had delicate taste in dress; rather the contrary. They bought the bright, crude colors, and then 223 VENGEANCE OF THE FEMALE wore them until they had faded to soft tints. So the poorest old gowns were the prettiest, and the poorest old hag might wear the prettiest fades. Early and late and forever they would sing out-of-doors, throughout the day for their own amuse- ment and throughout the evening for pay.* The most candid beggar among them was one of these open-air musicians — a thin man with a long, red nose, who sang “Santa Lucia,” “Funiculi, Funicula, ” and such popular melodies under the Vincents’ win- dows, tooting between the verses on a pipe. 