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 FIAMMETTA. 
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FIAMMETTA. 
 
This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever 
 Ran on the greensward : nothing she does or 
 But smacks of something greater than herself, 
 Too noble for this place. 
 
 Winter s Tale, Act IV. Sc. 3. 
 
FIAMMETTA 
 
 A SUMMER IDYL 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM WETMORE STORY 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 
 1886 
 
Copyright, 1885, 
 BT WILLIAM W. STORY. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 The Riverside Press, Cambridge: 
 Electrotyped and Printed by II. 0. Iloughton & Co. 
 
FIAMMETTA. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE last days of June had come and gone 
 in Rome, and July, still, hot, and breathless, 
 spread its cloudless sky over the city. In the 
 villas and under the dark-green ilexes night 
 ingales were still pouring forth their songs 
 of woe ; larks, far up in the sky, drowned in 
 its light, filled the air of the Campagna with 
 a continuous ripple of far fine warblings. 
 The silent stone-pines poised their spreading 
 green canopies in the hot sunshine, and cast 
 their shadow on the burnt grass. Flocks 
 of goats crept under the shade of the lush 
 hedges, or the lower hollows. The great 
 gray oxen, tormented by flies, plunged into 
 the watercourses and lashed their sides in 
 vain to drive away those pertinacious pests. 
 A continuous hum of insects filled the air ; 
 bees were busy in the flowers ; ants pursuing 
 their strange voyages everywhere along the 
 1 
 
 292023 
 
2 FI/.MMETTA. 
 
 eartn ; "butterflies floating aimlessly about, as 
 idle as the ants were busy. A delicate pur 
 ple veil shrouded the distant mountains 
 where here and there gleamed a village or 
 town along their slopes. The last edge of 
 snow had vanished from the highest peak of 
 the Leonessa, and surrendered to the piercing 
 arrows of the sun. The grain was ripe and 
 yellow in the plains, and scarcely waved its 
 heavy head in the still air. The gorgeous 
 poppies were drooping amid the corn. The 
 locusts which shrilled and sawed all the long 
 morning and seemed to heat the air, paused 
 and took their siesta after noon ; and they 
 and the grilli again took up their strain when 
 evening came on. Summer had come. Pan 
 was sleeping at high noon, and a mystery of 
 silent sunshine was over all. 
 
 In the city, the sun flashed back from 
 houses and pavements with a blinding glare. 
 Shops were closed at mid-day, blinds were 
 shut, curtains drawn, work stopped the 
 world of Rome took its siesta. The streets 
 were comparatively empty, and the few who 
 were abroad sought the narrow strips of 
 shade, and crept slowly along close to the 
 walls. Workmen abandoned their toil, and, 
 stretched in the shadow and along the church 
 
FJAMMETTA. 3 
 
 steps, slept prone upon the stones. Nothing 
 was cool save the fountains, that flashed as 
 they flung up their glittering columns in the 
 sun, broke into pearl-showers of spray, or 
 welled with a hollow gurgle into the broken 
 and mossy marble troughs of many a shadowy 
 courtyard. 
 
 As the afternoon came on, the world again 
 awoke ; shutters and blinds were opened, and 
 the streets began to fill with a sauntering 
 crowd. As the sun sloped down to the west, 
 and twilight drew near, life revived, crowds 
 thronged into the piazzi, and sat under the 
 awnings of the restaurants and took their 
 ices and coffee. Carriages rolled through 
 the streets towards the Villa Borghese ; and 
 there was a steady stream on foot going forth 
 to breathe the cooler air, to lie on the grass 
 under the shadows, and to saunter along its 
 green alleys. Newsboys screamed their even 
 ing papers through the streets. Limonari 
 were busy again in the kiosks. Contadini 
 and workmen rolled their boccie along the 
 narrow roads outside the walls of the city ; 
 or, returning from their work, shouted their 
 songs, that came softened by distance to the 
 ear. In the osterias on the Campagna, 
 groups were gathered in the open air, laugh- 
 
4 F 1 AM M ETTA. 
 
 ing and talking, and strolling * home as the 
 sun dropped below the horizon. In the city, 
 all the thronging world drew a long sigh 
 of relief, as the shadows of twilight grew 
 longer, and the sharp sun pierced no longer 
 into the narrow streets. 
 
 It was towards the close of a hot summer s 
 day, in the early part of July, that Marco 
 Stenoni was still working in his studio. His 
 model, a tall dark girl from the Abruzzi, was 
 standing on a platform before him, draped 
 in oriental robes and shawls, with a tall 
 sword in her hand, and a weary look in her 
 eyes ; while he was nervously busy in trans 
 ferring her to a large canvas, representing 
 Judith after the slaying of Holofernes. The 
 picture was nearly completed to all appear 
 ances ; but it was evident from the excited 
 movements of the artist, as he brushed away 
 his hair, moved back hurriedly from the can 
 vas, stared alternately at the portrait and 
 the model, then rushed up to the picture and 
 added a stroke to it, and muttered to himself, 
 that he was not satisfied. Neither spoke. 
 He was too busy, in his mind as well as with 
 his hand. She was totally uninterested in 
 his hero and tired, and was wishing for the 
 sitting to close. A quarter of an hour passed 
 
F 1AM M ETTA. 5 
 
 thus. Then Marco, after looking at the pic 
 ture attentively for a minute s space, laid 
 down his palette suddenly, and said " Basta. 
 That will do. I cannot see any more. Take 
 off these things and dress yourself. The 
 light is gone, and I am tired." 
 
 So saying, he sank down into a large arm 
 chair ; stretched his arms at full length over 
 his head, yawned, exclaimed, " Bah ! how 
 hot it is ; " and then gave himself up to si 
 lent thought. 
 
 The model retired behind the screen to 
 change her dress. 
 
 For a few minutes there was silence. At 
 last she said, " When shall I come again, 
 signore? To-morrow?" 
 
 " No," he answered ; " I have no need of 
 you for the present. I shall let the picture 
 alone now. It is getting too hot to work 
 here in Rome, and I am going away." 
 
 " Going away ! " she said with surprise. 
 " I am sorry." 
 
 " Why are you sorry ? " 
 
 "Because then I must go too. Every 
 body is going away or rather, everybody 
 is gone but you and I shall have no more 
 work." 
 
 " And where shall you go ? " 
 
6 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 Back to my people in the Abruzzi, for 
 the summer." 
 
 " And what will you do there ?" 
 
 " Work ! siynore. Work in the fields 
 and in the sun. It will be hard work, too. 
 We poor people cannot do as you do, and 
 go to travel and to be idle all summer long. 
 How I should like to travel ! " 
 
 " Oh, I am not going to travel. I am go 
 ing back into the country, just as you are, 
 and to my people ; or rather, to where my 
 people, as you call them, used to be, for un 
 fortunately I have not any people. I am the 
 last of my tribe." 
 
 " I wish you would take me with you." 
 
 " I think so, indeed. What could I do 
 with you?" 
 
 " Oh, I would work for you, and do any 
 thing you want." 
 
 " Ah, well, Nanna ; but that s impossible, 
 you know." 
 
 " I suppose so of course naturally. 
 You ? 11 be back in the autumn, I hope ? " 
 
 " I hope so." 
 
 " If I can serve you then as model, I hope 
 you won t forget me. I shall be back by 
 October." 
 
 " I won t forget you, Nanna." 
 
FIAMMETTA. 1 
 
 " A rivederla, then, signore ; a pleasant 
 summer to you, and a good turn at the lot 
 tery." 
 
 " Andfigli maschi, I suppose." 
 
 She laughed ; said " Of course," then 
 shook hands with him and went out. 
 
 He sat still and mused. The twilight 
 was growing grayer and grayer, but there 
 was still a fair light in the studio. It was 
 a picturesque room, the walls fantastically 
 hung with pieces of old brocade, some ut 
 terly faded, some merely toned down by 
 age, of various hues and patterns and sizes ; 
 old vases, majolica jars, and plates stood 
 here and there on the tables or affixed to 
 the walls; an antique Venetian lantern 
 of worked brass hung from the ceiling ; 
 prints, photographs, engravings, and sketches 
 in color were scattered everywhere about. 
 Two large divans, covered with faded stuffs, 
 were on either side, with large cushions ; 
 and a number of odd chairs of various pat 
 terns and ages stood here and there, reckless 
 of order. In fact, there was no order any 
 where, and it was this very absence of stiff 
 order which lent the charm to the room. 
 Everything was accidental and scattered 
 about, as it happened to fall, without dis- 
 
8 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 tinct purpose and arrangement. Still it was 
 all harmonious and picturesque, and the 
 fading light and deepening shadows made 
 it seem even more so ; and lent it a certain 
 peace and quiet which soothed the senses. 
 
 For a good quarter of an hour Marco sat 
 and mused, half-definitely, half-indefinitely 
 dreaming. While he dreams, we will give 
 a glance at his life and history, and sketch 
 his portrait. 
 
 He was a handsome young man of twenty- 
 five years of age, rather above the middle 
 size, firmly built but slender in his propor 
 tions. His forehead was high and full, with 
 lifted eyebrows, his nose slightly aquiline, his 
 mouth full and large, his eyes a reddish- 
 brown, and his hair, which thickly curled 
 over his head, blond and inclined to red, his 
 skin fair and thin, with a good deal of color, 
 his temperament nervous, excitable, and im 
 patient. He was, as he had said to Nanna, 
 the last of his tribe an orphan with neither 
 brothers or sisters of a decayed family of 
 Counts, who little by little had squandered 
 their patrimony, and fallen into poverty. 
 His mother had died when he was young. 
 His two sisters, both older than he, having 
 no dowry or means of support, save what 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 9 
 
 their father could give them for their daily 
 needs while under his roof, found no pretend 
 ers to their hands, and at last, disappointed 
 and disgusted with the dull life they were 
 living, betook themselves to the usual re 
 source of girls in a similar situation in Italy 
 the convent where they became nuns, 
 and after pining away in utter inanity for a 
 few years in a cloister, died like birds in a 
 cage. The elder brother, after making ducks 
 and drakes of the small sum he had inherited 
 from his mother and of the allowance given 
 him by his father, joined the volunteers under 
 Garibaldi, and perished in battle. Marco 
 was thus left alone with his father. They 
 lived together, until he had attained the age 
 of fifteen, in a villa in the Apennines, the 
 last remains of the fortune of the family 
 a dull, sad, eventless life, with no companions 
 or friends save the farmers and fattori of 
 the neighborhood and their children, and 
 with restricted means. His father, who was 
 proud and somewhat stern of nature, fretted 
 constantly against the restrictions of his life 
 and the meanness of his fortune, and sought 
 with what little money he could raise to en 
 large his means by speculation. But all his 
 projects turned out ill, and each left him 
 
10 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 poorer than before. He had faith, however, 
 that his son, somehow or other, would re 
 trieve the fortune of the family. He was 
 a bright-spirited boy, full of ambition and 
 hopes; but during his early years he had 
 been without associates of his own class, and 
 had for the most part lived with persons be 
 neath his position, and though his father 
 had given him a fair education, his tastes 
 and character were without much develop 
 ment. It happened, however, that by ac 
 cident Carlo Franzini, an artist of some 
 celebrity, strayed into the neighborhood one 
 summer to make some sketches of scenery, 
 and with him Marco made an acquaintance 
 which soon ripened into one of those en 
 thusiastic friendships which are formed only 
 in youth. He followed his new friend every 
 where, when he shot, when he fished, when 
 he strolled, when he painted ; and a strong 
 desire came over him to be an artist himself. 
 His friend, who liked his company, and was 
 pleased with his enthusiasm and an admiration 
 which was given without stint, put a pencil 
 and brushes in his hand, and gave him his 
 first lessons in painting. lie soon developed 
 a decided talent for art, and after the summer 
 was past and Carlo was about to take leave 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 11 
 
 of the country and return to Rome, he pro 
 posed to Marco s father to take charge of 
 him, carry him to Rome, and educate him as 
 a painter. The old count was delighted to 
 accept this offer ; and so it was arranged that 
 Marco should accompany his friend. The 
 only question was one of money, but this was 
 soon settled. Little was needed. Marco 
 promised to restrict his expenditure within 
 the smallest limits. The old count squeezed 
 out of his purse all that he could command, 
 and Marco set forth delighted. 
 
 Rome was to him a new world of experi 
 ences and delights. There were seductions 
 on every side, to idleness, to extravagance, 
 and to vice, as well as to art. But the reso 
 lution of Marco was strong. He lived sparely 
 and worked hard, and soon began to attract 
 attention among the artists, and to do fair 
 work. His ambition was great, his talent 
 decided. Little by little he found purchasers 
 of his sketches and pictures, and began to 
 make a name for himself, and after a few 
 years he earned enough by his profession to 
 support himself without assistance from his 
 father. At first he had restricted himself 
 almost solely to his studio and to his artist 
 friends ; but as his prospects grew better, 
 
12 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 he went more into society, though it seemed 
 to exercise little influence on his life and 
 thoughts. Essentially a dreamer and of a 
 poetic temperament, he found little pleasure 
 in the scandal and personal talk which was 
 the current coin of the society he frequented, 
 and his main delight was his studio. 
 
 Two years previous to the time when we 
 now find him, he suddenly received a letter 
 announcing the grave illness of his father, 
 and requesting his immediate presence if he 
 wished to see him again alive. He instantly 
 hurried back to the old villa, and arrived 
 there but a few hours before the old man s 
 death. The count stretched out his hand to 
 him feebly as he entered the room, smiled, 
 and said, " I was afraid I should not see you 
 again, Marco. But I am glad to see you. 
 I thank you for coming." 
 
 His son bent over him, kissed him, and 
 took his hand. His father pressed it feebly, 
 and after a moment s silence said 
 
 " I am going very fast and it will 
 soon be over, and I am not sorry. I have 
 made a poor hand of it in this great game 
 of life, and I shall be glad to throw up my 
 cards." 
 
 Here his son interfered, and began to say 
 
FIAMMETTA. 13 
 
 some consoling words, but his father stopped 
 him 
 
 " Don t interrupt me. Listen to me. I 
 have very little breath. Let me say what I 
 have got to say while I can. I have done 
 ill with my life ; don t follow my example. 
 I am afraid I shall leave you almost nothing. 
 My debts, my debts how they have tor 
 mented me ! How they still continue to tor 
 ment me ! But you will pay them off as 
 you can if you can. I have hopes, great 
 hopes, of you. You must raise the fallen 
 fortunes of the family. You must, you will 
 do better than I. Don t speculate don t 
 play don t waste your life as I have mine. 
 God bless you. You have been a good boy 
 a good son." 
 
 Here he fell back exhausted, while Marco, 
 with his eyes full of tears, gazed at him, 
 and said some words of encouragement, and 
 hoped he would still get well, and that he 
 must not give up life. But the old man 
 scarcely seemed to hear him. He was wan 
 dering away in mind, and struggling with a 
 thought which worried and tormented him. 
 
 "It is sadly encumbered, the old place," he 
 murmured. " How shall I pay it off ? There 
 will be almost nothing left. Those debts ! " 
 
14 F1AMMETTA. 
 
 Then he roused again. 
 
 " I trust you, Marco. I believe in you. 
 Good boy good-by pray for me." 
 
 Then he dropped away, and seemed to 
 lose all sense of outward things, and after 
 an hour passed silently out of this world. 
 
 After the funeral, when Marco began to 
 look carefully into the condition of the prop 
 erty, he found that his father s previsions 
 proved only too true. The estate was 
 deeply mortgaged ; there was almost nothing 
 to pay the present debts. Creditors were 
 imperious ; and there was nothing to be 
 done but to sell out nearly everything. The 
 house itself, however, with a couple of farms, 
 he was able to reserve, on assurance that he 
 would pay the interest on the mortgage ; and 
 this, hard as it pressed upon him, he did. 
 He could not bear to give up the old villa 
 where his youth had been spent. " I will 
 keep this, at least," he said; "and perhaps 
 perhaps if all goes well, some time I 
 may be able to buy back the rest." 
 
 So, having settled this point, and retained 
 the old steward and stewardess to look after 
 the farms and house in his absence, he re 
 turned to Rome and to his work in the studio. 
 
 After this his prospects began to grow 
 
FIAMMETTA. 15 
 
 brighter and brighter. His pictures sold 
 well and at good prices ; and he steadily 
 laid by all he could spare to carry out his 
 project of redeeming the old place. 
 
 Two years had thus gone by, when we 
 find him at the close of a hot day in July - 
 the work of the day done dreaming wide 
 awake in his chair. 
 
 From his musings he was aroused by a 
 knock at the door. " Come in ! " he cried, 
 and the door was opened by his friend Carlo. 
 
 " Ah ! " said Carlo, " I am glad to find 
 you in. It is so late, that I was afraid you 
 would have gone." 
 
 " Yes, it is late," said Marco. " But I am 
 tired of work, and was sitting here dream- 
 ing. Take a seat. I am glad you have 
 come in, for I was going to see you, as soon 
 as I had cleaned my palette and brushes, to 
 say good-by." 
 
 " Good-by ! Are you going away ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I am tired of my work. It does 
 not satisfy me, and it is growing too hot 
 here. I am off to-morrow for the summer." 
 
 " Where are you going ? " 
 
 " Up to the villa. The fact is, I ought to 
 go there. I have not been there, you know, 
 since my father died, and the eye of the 
 
16 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 master, you know, etc. ; and besides, I have 
 not had a holiday for so long, and I need it. 
 It will give me new life. I want to breathe 
 the country air again, and to lie under the 
 trees. This hot, stifling breath of the city 
 enervates me : all my faculties seem to stag 
 nate here. I should like to feel the rough 
 grasp of a peasant s hand, to hear the hearty 
 old greetings of the country folks, to swing 
 an axe, to delve in the soil, to wander 
 through the lonely woods, to stretch myself 
 on the breast of dear Mother Earth, as I 
 used to do in the good old days of boyhood. 
 Ah, yes ! all the days of boyhood are good 
 old days : we forget the troubles, and only 
 remember the pleasures. I want to get 
 nearer to nature to be blown upon by the 
 free air ; to be drenched by the pouring rain ; 
 to clamber over the mountains ; to hear the 
 wild torrents dash from their boulders ; to 
 listen to the bleat of sheep, the low of cows, 
 the cheering clarion of cocks in fact, to 
 be at home again. Home ! yes, for home is 
 always where we grew up as boys. Here I 
 am, sick at heart, sick of eternal trouble 
 and scandal, and sick of jealousies that 
 gnaw the green out of life s leaves : sick of 
 art and models, and pictures and cities. I 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 17 
 
 need a new bath in nature. I am getting 
 into a rut : nothing answers my wishes even 
 in art. Look at that picture that I am now 
 painting I hate it ! I am sick of Judith 
 and Holofernes, and the whole lot of them ! 
 Something is evidently the matter with me, 
 for nothing answers nothing goes right." 
 
 " Ah ! yes," answered Carlo ; " you have 
 overworked yourself, and it is time for you 
 to have some change. You are right : go 
 into the country it will revive you. I 
 wish I could go with you." 
 
 " Do, do ! ah, that would be delightful ! 
 Come with me. I can give you a room 
 aye, as many rooms as you like and the 
 freedom of the place, and rough country 
 fare. Come, and we will revive the old days 
 and be boys again." 
 
 " Impossible at least for the present. 
 Later, if you are still there, I will try to 
 find you. But now it is simply impossible." 
 
 " Well, only promise me that you will 
 come. You will find me there all summer, 
 and I shall always give you the warmest 
 welcome. I never forget what I owe you. 
 You made me and saved me." 
 
 " Nonsense ! You made and saved your 
 self." 
 
 2 
 
18 Fl AMU ETTA. 
 
 " "Well, we won t banter words. What 
 is is, and nothing will alter it. If I had 
 never had the luck to know you, I should 
 probably have stayed where I was, and 
 rotted my life away to no purpose. You 
 know that as well as I. You need not 
 shake your head. But I 11 say no more 
 about it. To change the subject, what do 
 you think of my Judith ? Tell me frankly 
 -I hate it." 
 
 " That is going too far. You are tired of 
 it, that s all. That is a mood which comes 
 over every artist at certain times ; all his 
 work looks wretched to him, however good 
 it be." 
 
 " But speak frankly. You know how I 
 value your opinion. Is it worth anything or 
 not ? " 
 
 " Of course it is. It is very clever." 
 
 " Clever ! I hate the word clever. That 
 means that it has no soul in it." 
 
 " No ! I do not mean that exactly. If 
 you ask my honest opinion and of course 
 you do I will tell you what I think. The 
 work is clever in parts, very clever 
 perhaps too clever. It has spirit, vigor of 
 touch, and excellent brush-work. That man 
 tle, for instance, is admirable ; that fringe 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 19 
 
 masterly. One sees at once that you know 
 your technique that you know how to 
 paint. The background is excellent, and 
 the figure comes well off from it. But " 
 
 Here Carlo paused and hesitated. 
 
 " But oh, yes ; but I know what that 
 means but it has no soul in it. I told you 
 that was what you meant when you said it 
 was clever. Out with it! " 
 
 " Perhaps it is that is, with certain 
 qualifications. What I was going to say, 
 however, was that, well as you have rendered 
 your subject, despite the skill and knowledge 
 you have displayed in the treatment, it does 
 not, in my opinion, as a subject, suit your 
 peculiar genius. Your heart was not really 
 in it. Your path lies in a different direc 
 tion, and one must do what his own nature 
 prescribes really to succeed. It is useless 
 to kick against the pricks : each must follow 
 the bent of his own genius. Yours does not 
 lie in the direction of the cruel, the violent, 
 the stern ; but rather in the poetic, the ideal. 
 Even the fantastic suits you better than the 
 intense ; grace is your gift more than power ; 
 why not follow the natural lead of your im 
 agination, rather than force it into artificial 
 paths ? Those of your pictures which have 
 
20 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 pleased me the most some of them have 
 pleased me greatly are in the vein of senti 
 ment, of romance, of refinement. The heroic 
 is another sort of thing, alien to your powers. 
 Now, Judith is nothing unless she is heroic, 
 stern, powerful. Why did you seek such a 
 subject ? In the first place, it is utterly worn 
 out; galleries everywhere are peopled with 
 Judiths all black-haired, all with a great 
 sword, all after a certain prescribed pattern. 
 For my part, I think her a detestable crea 
 ture, and I have had enough of her ; but that 
 is neither here nor there. If I could even 
 see any one picture of real power and origi 
 nality of conception, I could admire it despite 
 of it being Judith ; but I never do see one, 
 nor do I ever see a David that is not an ugly 
 little gamin, with the head of an ogre at his 
 side to represent Goliath. Last year s ex 
 hibition was full of them. I am, therefore, 
 I suppose, not a fair judge of such pictures ; 
 I am prejudiced against them at the very 
 outset. Why did you select Judith ? " 
 
 " I don t know. I suppose for variety. I 
 got tired of myself, and weary with doing the 
 same sort of thing over and over again. But 
 what you say is true I acknowledge it. I 
 have never had any heart in this picture, and 
 
FIAMMETTA. 21 
 
 now I hate it! It drives me away from 
 Rome. I ve a great mind to destroy it." 
 
 " No, no ! That is going too far the other 
 way. Many, I dare say, will admire it. It 
 will appeal to their minds ; but I confess, to 
 speak frankly, I do not care for it, despite 
 its talent and its good work. Technique 
 is admirable as a means, abominable as an 
 end; and nowadays art seems to me to be 
 running solely into mere technique the 
 hand is of more value than the head. But 
 you have real imagination, and I shall be 
 sorry to see you following the lead of certain 
 artists of our day, whose only desire seems 
 to be to startle and surprise, even by the 
 sacrifice of all beauty ; and who go so far as 
 to preach loudly the gospel of the ugly and 
 the common, and to cry out wildly that, as 
 nature is ugly often very ugly so art 
 should be; that perfection exists nowhere, 
 and ought not to be sought for ; that the real 
 is never ideal ; and that what art has to do is 
 to copy nature just as it happens to be, even 
 though ugly and deformed. My notion is 
 absolutely the contrary. Art, in my opinion, 
 is no slave to nature, and no art is worth 
 anything except in so far as it is ideal 
 that is, that it uses nature as a language and 
 
22 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 means to express an idea a conception 
 a creation of the imagination. But I will 
 not preach any more." 
 
 " Oh, preach on ! preach on ! I like to 
 hear you." 
 
 " No ! I will preach no more ; but I will 
 give you an instance, a personal instance, of 
 what I think of your powers. Your Judith 
 has many fine qualities as work, but it has 
 no originality of conception, and it is not in 
 your way. Now I do remember a sketch 
 you once showed me that struck me as thor 
 oughly adapted to your genius, and which I 
 thought eminently original and full of charm. 
 It represented a naiad seated on a mossy 
 boulder, one foot dropped into a clear, brown, 
 pebbly pool, which caught the reflections of 
 the overhanging trees. She was utterly 
 alone utterly unconscious. The torrent 
 which fed this pool sang as it foamed and 
 sparkled over the rocks. There was a whis 
 per of trees, through which the sun glinted 
 far up the distance ; and yet silence brooded 
 over the whole place, and serenity filled the 
 air, and there was a feeling of the antique 
 in the simplicity, the self -surrender, the abso 
 lute unconsciousness of any beholder, which 
 charmed me. There was a thought, a feel- 
 
FIAMMETTA. 23 
 
 ing, a conception in this sketch which touched 
 me like a poem. It was a little poem in fact. 
 It was quite outside of our workaday world. 
 It was not mere talk and twaddle, as many 
 of our pictures are, but language in verse 
 and rhythm in a word, an idyl of nature. 
 You will say the subject is not much of a 
 subject. But it is not the subject ; it is the 
 mode in which it is rendered which makes it 
 prosaic or poetic. It is not that a thought 
 is grammatically expressed that makes it a 
 poem, and it is not literal imitation of nature 
 that makes a work of art enchanting. Yes ; 
 enchanting is the word. Artists must en 
 chant as poets do ; and nature is never good 
 in art until it is enchanted by the soul of the 
 artist." 
 
 " Oh ! you overestimate that little sketch. 
 It is really nothing of itself. You have 
 added, by your gracious interpretation, all 
 the poetry." 
 
 " Have I said anything you did not feel 
 when you made it ? " 
 
 u No ; I admit that was what I sought to 
 say. But what I had to say and what I felt 
 was too fine to express, and I did not ex 
 press it." 
 
 " Where is the sketch ? Let me see it 
 again." 
 
24 FJAMMETTA. 
 
 Marco went to the side of the studio, 
 pulled out a page portfolio, and turned over 
 its leaves for a few moments. At last he 
 said, " Ah, yes, here it is at last ! I am not 
 a little ashamed to show it to you after all 
 your panegyric." 
 
 " Let me see it." 
 
 And Marco gave it to him. Carlo took it, 
 looked at it carefully for some minutes with 
 out saying a word. 
 
 " Well," said Marco, " what do you think 
 now?" 
 
 " Of course it is a sketch ; but it has the 
 element of all I said I saw in it. The ques 
 tion is, can you ever carry out that sketch 
 without losing its soul ? Can you keep that 
 feeling of innocence, privacy, serenity that 
 is here simply indicated, when you elaborate 
 it into a picture ? It is now a suggestion 
 full of delicacy and refinement ; but can you 
 preserve this light volatile spirit, and make 
 your Ariel do the magician s work ? If you 
 can, you will make a charming picture. 
 But where will you find your naiad ? They 
 have abandoned our streams, and in their 
 stead sits a vulgar factory girl, and counts 
 her wages. If you can find the naiad, all 
 well ; but if you paint the factory girl, good- 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 25 
 
 by to all the sentiment which charms in 
 this sketch." 
 
 "And you really advise me to paint 
 this?" 
 
 " I do ; and let it be your summer s work. 
 You are going into the country, among the 
 wild forests and glens of the Apennines, and 
 perhaps you may find there your inspira 
 tion as well as your facts ; only don t let the 
 facts smother the inspiration. If you take 
 my advice, you will paint this picture this 
 summer. You have nature to choose from, 
 and good luck be with you." 
 
 " I will do so. At all events, I will take 
 the sketch with me, and see what I can do." 
 
 " And when do you go ? " 
 
 " To-morrow, by the half-past ten train." 
 
 " Half-past ten. I will be there then, 
 and see you off. I will leave you now, for 
 you must have a good deal to do in putting 
 your things together." 
 
 So saying, Carlo left his friend to huddle 
 together, after the fashion of man, the 
 things he intended to take, and to crowd 
 them into his portmanteau in a way that 
 would have made a woman weep. Boots 
 and shirts and portfolios, and coats and 
 boxes and bottles, were crammed pell-mell 
 
26 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 in, to fight it out as they could with each 
 other ; and Marco was well pleased at last, 
 when, after sitting on the portmanteau, and 
 crowding the hasp of the lock into its place, 
 he succeeded in turning the key, and stood 
 up flushed and panting with his exertions. 
 
CHAPTEK II. 
 
 THE next morning, true to his word, Carlo 
 was at the train. There is nothing more 
 boring both to the traveller and his friends 
 than this meeting to say "Good-by" at a 
 train. Conversation is impossible. The trav 
 eller s mind is occupied with his luggage, 
 in getting his seat and settling himself, and 
 thinking whether he has left this or that thing 
 behind; and when this is all arranged, his 
 thoughts are still astray and disorganized. 
 He shakes hands and talks spasmodically, 
 and suddenly recollects something, and feels 
 after his pocket-book to see that that is all 
 right, and sends messages to his friends 
 which will never be delivered; and his 
 friends wish him a good journey and a pleas 
 ant summer over and over again, and try to 
 think of something to say, and smile and 
 stand about, and ask idle questions, and tell 
 him the day is charming, and hope he will 
 not find it too hot or too cold, and wish they 
 were going with him, and say they suppose 
 
28 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 he will return at such or such a time, and if 
 he sees Blank, to tell him or her they are 
 well, and send him or her greetings ; and 
 finally, to the satisfaction of all, the bell 
 rings, and the guards begin to shut the doors ; 
 and then he shakes hands again and says 
 Good-by, and mounts into the carriage and 
 again looks up at the rack and counts his 
 luggage, and feels in his pocket to see if his 
 tickets are there and his luggage receipt, 
 and finding them all right, he leans on both 
 elbows out of the window, to the annoyance 
 of the other passengers within ; and all the 
 company look at their watches or at the 
 great clock in the station, and the engine be 
 gins to puff, and makes a feint of starting 
 and then stops ; and all are interested in a 
 late traveller, who, hot and perspiring and 
 out of breath, is hurried along the platform 
 and shuffled into a place, glad to find any 
 thing to occupy their attention ; and when 
 he is fairly in, and the bell rings, and the 
 train begins to move, all cry out again Good- 
 by, for the twentieth time, and wave their 
 handkerchiefs or lift their hats and smile, 
 and watch the train as it clatters out of the 
 station, and then, with a long sigh of relief 
 that it is over, turn away, and go home. 
 
FIAMMETTA. 29 
 
 The last words that Carlo said were, 
 " Good luck to you ! and I hope you 11 find 
 your naiad. Let me know if you do." 
 
 It was with a sense of satisfaction, as if 
 he had thrown off a weight from his shoul 
 ders, that Marco leaned back at last in his 
 seat when the agitations of getting off were 
 over, and saw the Campagna slip by him. 
 The day was delightful, a light breeze fanned 
 through the carriage, and he had the boon 
 of silence ; all his work was behind him, 
 and he was glad to be away from it. His 
 fellow-travellers were strangers, and he could 
 give himself up to his own thoughts and re 
 flections, and gaze undisturbed at the scene 
 that rolled out before him with ever-varying 
 lights and shadows, the mountains veiled 
 in violet mists ; the many fields of ripening 
 grain ; the gleaming watercourses ; the con- 
 tadini toiling in the sun ; the groups of reap 
 ers that stopped from their work to gaze 
 at the passing train ; the great gray oxen, 
 wandering here and there in herds, or gath 
 ered in groups in the shadow of some tall 
 tree, or along the green clumps and thickets 
 overhanging some stream or pool ; the broad 
 fields, painted with masses of scarlet poppies 
 and snowy daisies, golden buttercups, dande- 
 
30 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 lions, mustard, and a myriad wild flowers. 
 The air was scented with the odors of new- 
 mown hay ; larks were raining a mist of 
 songs from the blue heights of the sky ; and 
 all these sights and sounds and odors lulled 
 his senses, and passed like a vision before 
 him. He had nothing to do but to drink in 
 this beauty, as the meadows drank in the 
 sunshine. 
 
 And so the hours slipped away, with per 
 petual beauty, perpetual change, the dream 
 interrupted now and then by the nightmare 
 of some hideous station, with its dreary prose, 
 its grimy walls, its foul odors of smoke and 
 oil, its noise, cattle, confusion, and vulgarity. 
 
 It was towards evening that he arrived at 
 the station where he was to stop. As usual, 
 there was assembled on the platform a little 
 group of ladies and gentlemen who had villas 
 in the vicinity, and to whom, in the dull 
 routine of their aimless life, the evening ar 
 rival of the train from Rome was an event 
 of interest. Who knows what friend they 
 might catch a glimpse of in passing, and 
 shake hands with, and ask the news of the 
 city, for which they pined while they were 
 away ? For it is only the exceptional Ital 
 ian who looks at his country life in any 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 31 
 
 other light than that of exile, and who does 
 not long to be back again in the crowded 
 city, and to sit in the cafes and watch the 
 life in the piazzi, and wander on the public 
 promenades and listen to the bands, and 
 talk gossip. Among them, however, Marco 
 found no acquaintances, and was well pleased 
 ,to find none. As he hurriedly got out his 
 luggage and stepped on the platform, how 
 ever, he caught the well-known face of Pas- 
 quale, the vetturino, who had so often driven 
 him over the mountains when he was a boy. 
 Pasquale s red face lighted up with a smile 
 as he recognized him, and coming forward 
 and taking off his hat, he cried, 
 
 "But how is this? You here, Signer 
 Conte ! and how are you ? Well, I hope ; 
 and what can I do for you ? " 
 
 " All right," answered Marco ; " and you 
 the same, I hope." 
 
 " All well, and a thousand thanks, except 
 Maria. You know the little Maria? she 
 has taken some medicine to-day ; a little dis 
 turbance, not serious. She will be all right 
 to-morrow." 
 
 When an Englishman says, " How do you 
 do ? " his friend replies, " How do you do ? " 
 and neither answers the question. But an 
 
82 F1AMMETTA. 
 
 Italian invariably gives you a complete ac 
 count of himself, stating all the particulars 
 of his health if he is not quite well, and 
 what he has done for himself, and what med 
 icines he has taken, and he expects you to 
 do the same. It is not with them a mere 
 formality of salutation. 
 
 " But," continued Pasquale, after these 
 preliminaries were settled, " where is your 
 luggage ? What can I do for you ? " 
 
 "You are just the man I want," said 
 Marco. " I am going up to the old place to 
 spend a month or two, and I want a good 
 little bagasino one horse, you know to 
 carry me there one horse will do." 
 
 " I ve exactly the thing for you, if you 
 have not much luggage." 
 
 " Oh no, a couple of valises, and a port 
 folio and paint-box. There they are." 
 
 " Ah ! I think we can manage those." 
 
 " Well, stir about ! I m in a hurry ; and 
 it will take us two good hours to get there 
 at least, if your horse is good." 
 
 " The best little horse in the place, no mat 
 ter what the other is. And here he is just 
 outside." 
 
 So that was all settled. The bagasino 
 was a little one-seated trap, with a rope-net- 
 
FIAMMETTA. 33 
 
 ted bottom and two wheels, such as is used 
 to go over the mountains, and the horse was 
 one of those sturdy Tuscan ponies that will 
 stand any amount of work, and are not want 
 ing either in speed. 
 
 In a few moments the luggage was in ; 
 the beggars who thronged about them ceased 
 their litany of whining when Marco tossed 
 among them a few soldi, for which they 
 scrambled and fought ; and off went the 
 pony at a good round pace, Pasquale mak 
 ing the streets of the little village echo to 
 the continuous crack of his whip, saluting 
 the villagers that nodded to him on either 
 side as he passed, his little Pomeranian dog 
 barking like mad at everybody and every 
 thing, as he whirled about on the back of 
 the vehicle right and left, the wheels rat 
 tling over the pavement with a grinding din, 
 and the bells on the pony s neck ringing 
 merrily. Once off the pavement and out of 
 the town, the bagasino rolled easily along 
 to the chime of the bells, and the din was 
 over. 
 
 " A capital little pony this of yours," said 
 Marco. 
 
 This simple remark was a key which 
 opened endless rooms, suite after suite, of 
 
34 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 horse-talk, the age of the pony, where he 
 was found, how he was bargained for, how 
 Pasquale had been offered double his price 
 for him, how he would not part from him 
 for the best pair of horses in town, how lit 
 tle he ate, how many miles he could go, how 
 capital he was as a saddle-horse, and then 
 followed long stories about his feats, and 
 about other horses, that lasted an hour at 
 least ; and Pasquale had not even then told 
 the half he had to tell. 
 
 Meanwhile the sun was westering, the 
 shadows were sloping low, the sunset clouds 
 grew rosy in the west, the cool breeze began 
 to come damply up the valleys, the cows 
 were wandering home, the sheep were fol 
 lowing the shepherd to their fold, and gradu 
 ally a gray veil spread over the whole earth. 
 The road, which for some miles had been 
 nearly level, now began to rise and grow 
 steeper and steeper; sometimes clinging 
 along the side of a precipitous slope, some 
 times traversing a bridge under which a tor 
 rent flowed weakly, that in winter was a fu 
 rious river, sometimes again descending for 
 a space, only to clamber up again. Little 
 by little the vineyards with their rich and 
 drooping festoons ceased ; and the smoky 
 
FIAMMETTA. 35 
 
 olives laid out in regular rows were no 
 longer seen, save as one looked down on to 
 the valley. And in their stead rose groves 
 of chestnuts and firs. Here and there was 
 a gray old farmhouse or villa, or ruin of an 
 old castle ; and at long intervals a grimy di 
 lapidated town. The air was every moment 
 growing cooler as they ascended, and night 
 came on. Against the still light sky great 
 shadowy mountains turned their dark sides, 
 silent and vague and mysterious. As the 
 light faded out of the west, a silvery splen 
 dor was seen in the east ; and the full 
 moon rose and brimmed the valleys with its 
 dim and ghostly pallor, and a silence came 
 over all nature, broken only by fitful gushes 
 of the nightingales, the long hoot of an 
 owl, the tinkle of the bells on the pony, and 
 the continuous whisper of the grilli on the 
 grass. Conversation had long ceased. It 
 seemed to Marco an impertinence to talk in 
 such a presence ; and even Pasquale seemed 
 to feel its influence, or, at all events, to per 
 ceive that his companion desired silence, and 
 he interupted it only now and then with a 
 chirrup to the pony. 
 
 Marco, as they went along, was dreaming 
 of many things and of nothing ; a confused 
 
36 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 stream of reminiscences, feelings, hopes, sor 
 rows, swept through his mind, without or 
 der or consequence. He was weary with 
 the heat and with the journey, and now and 
 then drowsed away into a half sleep, from 
 which he was constantly aroused by some 
 sharp jerk of the bagasino. 
 
 At last, after a three hours pull up the 
 hills, and when he had for the twentieth 
 time fallen into a drowse, he was startled 
 by the sharp crack of Pasquale s whip, rat 
 tling out on the air with a volley right and 
 left like pistol-shots, and waking he looked 
 about him. 
 
 " Ah ! " he cried ; " here we are at last." 
 " Yes, Signer Conte, here we are ; and 
 we have done it in good time, too." 
 
 So saying, he poured forth another volley 
 of cracks, and whistled shrilly. His whistle 
 was returned, and a light gleamed in the 
 villa toward which they were approaching 
 through an avenue of cypresses. 
 
 In a few minutes the bcKjasino stopped 
 before the door, which was opened by the 
 fattore, Pietro, and his wife, who held out 
 a lantern to light them, and greeted them 
 with loud cries of welcome. " Benvenuto I 
 benvenuto I Signor Conte." 
 
FIAMMETTA. 87 
 
 " Thank you ; thank you. You are both 
 well, I hope. Ah ! I see you are ; and you 
 received my letter. 
 
 " Yes, signor ; we are all well. Thanks 
 to the Madonna, all well ; and we received 
 your letter, and we have prepared the rooms 
 you wished the old rooms, you know, to 
 the west that you wished to occupy ; and we 
 have arranged a supper for you as well as 
 we could, at such a short notice ; for I half 
 suppose you will have a good appetite after 
 your long journey ; and there is a good flask 
 of wine, you may exist on that at least, if 
 the rest does not suit you ; and there is a 
 frittata of eggs, and a bistecca of vitella, 
 and some potatoes, and some cheese ; and 
 I am afraid that is all." 
 
 " Thanks, quite enough, and to spare ; 
 though I own I am hungry. So this is the 
 old house ; just the same as it was, though 
 I see you have turned the hall into a hay 
 loft ; but it smells sweet." 
 
 " We will have it cleared out to-morrow, 
 signor ; only we had not time to-day. But 
 truly, truly, I am glad to see you, signor, 
 again. Benvenuto ! benvenuto ! Ah yes, 
 we have n t seen you since the count, your 
 father, of blessed memory, died. Ah, me ! 
 
38 F 1 AM M ETTA. 
 
 Two years ago ; two years ago ; and you are 
 looking well and strong ; and you will be 
 glad to see the old house again ; and I and 
 Maria are right glad too to see you. Eh, 
 Maria?" 
 
 " Blessed be the Madonna and all the 
 saints ! "that we are," said Maria, and nod 
 ded and curtsied and smiled. 
 
 "And now, Maria," cried the oldfattore; 
 " via, quick into the kitchen and get ready 
 the supper, and I will light the signor up 
 to his room. He will want to wash off the 
 dust, I suppose ; and I will take up this 
 valise, and you, Pasquale, bear a hand with 
 the other, and look out, signor, for the step. 
 Ah ! you remember it, I see. It ? s the old 
 room to the west that you wished. Bravo ! 
 bravo ! This is as good as a terno at the 
 lottery. Everybody about here will say the 
 same. Eh, Pasquale ? And about the pony, 
 Signor Conte ? " 
 
 " Put him into the stable, Pasquale," cried 
 Marco ; " and give him a good feed, for he 
 has served us well." 
 
 " I told you, sir, he was a pony worth his 
 weight in gold. You won t find such an 
 other pony hereabouts." 
 
 "Aye, very true, very true," interrupted 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 39 
 
 Marco, for he had heard enough about the 
 pony s value ; " and for Pasquale himself, we 
 must give him a room for the night, and a 
 good feed too. He must be our guest for 
 to-night." 
 
 " Thanks," said Pasquale ; " I shall not 
 object to that for a few hours. The pony 
 must have a rest, and I can lie down any 
 where ; don t trouble yourself, signor, about 
 me. It will only be for a few hours. Be 
 fore daybreak I must be off and down to 
 
 N , for I have an engagement there. 
 
 Any other commands, Signor Conte ? " 
 
 " Nothing ; thanks. But I have n t paid 
 you yet." 
 
 " Oh, no matter for that ; any time will 
 do. No, no, signor." 
 
 " Oh yes, yes. No time is so good as the 
 present. And there it is. Is that right ? " 
 
 " Perfectly ; but it was not necessary, sig 
 nor. And now, if you have no other com 
 mands, I will go and look after the pony." 
 
 " And Pietro will look after you. So 
 good-night, and a good sleep." 
 
 " The same again to you, signor, and 
 thanks." 
 
 And Pasquale left them. And this was 
 Marco s welcome home. There was a heart- 
 
40 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 iness and good -nature in it that warmed 
 him to the heart, and he felt that he had 
 acted wisely in returning. When Pietro 
 and Pasquale had gone out, he gazed about 
 the room, where was all the old furniture he 
 had known as a boy, and then looked out of 
 the window and swept his eye over the land 
 scape and the garden below, that once was 
 so familiar, and then drew a long breath and 
 said to himself, " I am glad that I came." 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 REFRESHED by a long night s sleep, he 
 awoke the next morning in good spirits, and 
 went out before breakfast to take a look 
 about the place and see if there were any 
 changes. Pietro offered to accompany him, 
 but he chose to go alone. We will, how 
 ever, go with him unperceived, though we 
 shall not see, perhaps, with his eyes. 
 
 The house itself was a rectangular villa, 
 three stories high, built some three centuries 
 ago, with a broad platform in front, in the 
 centre of which was an old stone fountain, 
 now considerably dilapidated and covered 
 with moss, but from whose pipes still issued 
 a weak stream of water that filled its shell- 
 like basin and dropped. and oozed through 
 many a crack into the round enclosure below, 
 whose surface was paved with broad green 
 leaves, under which a family of frogs had 
 made their home, and creeping out over the 
 rim chanted at nightfall their low guttural 
 chorus. The platform was bounded by a 
 
42 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 wall, with stone posts at intervals, on which 
 still stood three or four old broken and rot 
 ting busts, each wanting its nose, and all of 
 them with broken necks, clamped with rusty 
 braces. But ivy had hung its dark-green 
 draperies about them to cover their deform 
 ity, and the wild rose and honeysuckle clam 
 bered over them now and filled the air at 
 twilight with fragrance. Beyond this plat 
 form opened a magnificent view over a vast 
 valley below, sprinkled here and there with 
 villas and farmhouses and little gray villages, 
 that in the distance looked more like rocky 
 outcrops from the hillsides and eminences to 
 which they clung than habitations built by 
 the hands of man. Through the lowest plain 
 a sinuous river curved and gleamed in the 
 sun, like a silver ribbon dropped carelessly 
 upon its bosom. The whole valley, with its 
 varied outlines and prominences, viewed from 
 above seemed like a rolling sea of waves 
 that had been suddenly struck into silence 
 by some tremendous fiat, and now stood 
 calm and motionless and serene, all their 
 agitations over, in a dream of delicate mist. 
 As Marco leaned on the parapet and looked 
 out over it, bathed in the fresh morning 
 light, he thought he had never seen a more 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 43 
 
 exquisite panorama. Here and there faint 
 blue lines of smoke rose and wavered in the 
 air and melted away in the light from some 
 house or village. From the convent perched 
 upon a breezy cliff rang the far sound of 
 bells. The voices of peasants, calling to 
 each other or singing wild snatches of song, 
 came up softened by distance. Nightingales 
 were pouring forth their love trills. Chaf 
 finches were warbling their fainter strains. 
 The cuckoo was reiterating his call that 
 summer was come, and a myriad of birds 
 were chanting their matin songs. 
 
 On either side of the house slopes of for 
 est rose, stretching up the mountain sides as 
 far as the eye could reach, here clothed with 
 dark-haired firs, there green with beeches, or 
 whitened with chestnuts, that were now cov 
 ered with drooping clusters of pale, juicy 
 blossoms; and behind rose a bare hill, 
 shaven of all its taller growth of trees, but 
 robed by broad glowing masses of golden 
 gorse, that were now in the full splendor 
 of their bloom, and glorified its nakedness. 
 Through these mountains were cloven here 
 and there precipitous defiles, where dark 
 shadows made their lair, while steep cliffs 
 and escarpments of rock, rising almost per- 
 
44 FIAMME TTA. 
 
 pendicularly, frowned over them. The whole 
 scenery on this side was wild and serious 
 and solitary, untrained by the hand of man, 
 and ruled in its natural grandeur, where one 
 might range for days beyond the reach of 
 civilization, so called, among the wild haunts 
 of nature ; where the storms of winter might 
 rage at their will, and tear the forests and 
 uproot the oaks of a century, and crowd the 
 swollen foaming torrents over the boulders 
 till they roar, then return to the lamenting 
 trees and heap the hollows with snow, and 
 drench the mountains with hail and lashing 
 rain ; or where peaceful summer might sleep 
 and dream in soft shadows, lulled by purling 
 brooks, the whisper of infinite leaves, the 
 warble of happy birds, and the murmurous 
 hum of swarms of innumerable insects. 
 
 The house itself was, as I have said, rec 
 tangular in shape. A great portone in the 
 centre led at once into a large square hall 
 paved with stone, occupying the entire depth 
 of the house, and opening behind into a large 
 balcony. Out of this on one side were the 
 offices and storerooms, and on the other was 
 a broad staircase leading to the first floor, 
 where again was a great central hall of the 
 full height of the house, out of which opened 
 
FIAMMETTA. 45 
 
 all the bedrooms and the dining-room. 
 The rooms occupied by Marco were in one 
 corner, and the windows on either side were 
 surrounded by a balcony which embraced 
 them all. This had been his room as a boy, 
 and here he had wished to return. 
 
 The house, which had originally been 
 handsome, was now in very bad repair. Lit 
 tle by little the greater part of the antique 
 furniture had been sold by the old count to 
 raise money ; and only here and there re 
 mained a large carven wardrobe, a worm- 
 eaten chest, a range of old benches with 
 backs, a few ancient chairs, and a consider 
 able number of old pictures. All the valu 
 able pictures had long since gone, and what 
 remained were of little value as works of art, 
 though they still served to garnish the walls. 
 Among them were stiff portraits of the 
 family, pictures of old dried-up saints, a few 
 Holy Families, some Santa Susannas, and 
 one or two large battle-pieces. Beside these 
 were a considerable number of old prints, 
 framed and hung in various rooms, some of 
 them interesting, many of them curious, rep 
 resenting all sorts of subjects, from carica 
 tures of the fashions of previous centuries in 
 odd costumes to proof impressions of Maro 
 
46 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 Antonio. But throughout there was a look 
 of dilapidation. The wainscotings were 
 soiled and stained, the ceilings defaced, the 
 floors without a vestige of a carpet, and no 
 repairs had evidently been made for years, 
 save those which were absolutely necessary. 
 
 The stables, which were large, lay behind 
 the house, but they harbored now only a 
 donkey and a cow ; and in the square court 
 yard were a score or two of hens, who were 
 running and cackling about, under the su 
 pervision of two or three masterful cocks, 
 the sultans of the yard, with their coral 
 crests and wattles, brilliant necks and wav 
 ing tails, who strutted proudly and daintily 
 about, picking their steps and lording it over 
 their meek harems with a magnificent supe 
 riority. A few extremely foolish turkeys 
 bridled up as Marco entered the court, and 
 swelled their wattles and thrust out their 
 necks and gabbled at him as if they had some 
 thing of importance to say, whereas, in point 
 of fact, their gabbling was quite as senseless 
 as the talk of the most fashionable saloons. 
 
 After making a general survey of the 
 whole place, Marco returned, took his break 
 fast, and inquired all the news of the place 
 and the people about, and Pietro and Maria 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 47 
 
 answering by turns, and sometimes both to 
 gether, told him that " Oliva was still 
 quite well and strong, though Julia, her lit 
 tle girl signor, you remember Julia was 
 cosi cosi only, and they had sent her down 
 to the sea for baths. And Narcisso, si sig 
 nor, Narcisso Stam, bene, and was going to 
 marry Marietta, the daughter of Nina of the 
 Padre Nuoro; and the old priest was well 
 too, God be praised ! a good man, always 
 ready to do what he could for his flock. 
 And poor old Fidele, he died during the 
 winter ; and it was true, as Padre Anselmo 
 said, that he was spared any more suffering, 
 for he did suffer, you know, very much, poor 
 man, with a toad in his stomach, they say. 
 But who can tell. Ser Mimo, our doctor, 
 said that was all nonsense. It was only 
 brown kitties in his throat. But I don t see 
 that that was much better. However, 
 whether it was a toad or brown kitties, he 
 died, and peace be with him. And the win 
 ter had been hard, very hard, for all the 
 poor people. But what will you ? Winter 
 is always hard upon the poor. Now they 
 are doing well, with the strawberries and 
 mushrooms and raspberries in the forests. 
 Mushrooms ! I think so, by thousands, sig- 
 
48 F1AMMETTA. 
 
 nor. Oh yes ; now is the time for them, as 
 many as you like the woods are full of 
 them. Aclone was here only yesterday with 
 two great baskets full, which he was taking 
 down to Revi for sale. The Lord bless us ! 
 why did we not take some for you? Ah, 
 what a pity ! But then we did n t know you 
 were coming, that s true. Your letter only 
 got here after he had gone. The garden! 
 Oh yes, signor ; it s a picture to see. The 
 peas are all up well, and as many as you 
 want ; and the beans too great big ceccini 
 beans, that you like so much. Oh yes ; I 
 remember how you used to like them, you 
 and the count of blessed memory, your fa 
 ther, and that other signor that came here 
 now and then, and said, Come, Marietta, 
 you have n t forgotten the beans, have you ? 
 No, Signor Principe, I said, l not I. And 
 then how merry all used to be. Well, well, 
 no one comes now, pazienza ; but, as I was 
 saying, the beans are ripening now, and finer 
 beans you will not find ; and the tomatoes 
 are coming on well. Of course they re not 
 ripe yet. I know you like them too ; and 
 the beets and the carrots, and the zucche and 
 the potatoes. Oh, you won t starve here for 
 want of vegetables ! Beppa ? Oh yes ; she 
 
FIAMMETTA. 49 
 
 is well. She was asking the other day 
 about you, signer, and when you were com 
 ing. And I had to say, 4 Dio mio ! who 
 knows ? She will be glad to see you. As 
 soon as they know you are here, they will 
 all be up to see you. We can t do what 
 they can do in Rome for you ; but, pazienza, 
 we will try and do all we can. Too good, 
 too good, in you, signer, to say so. We are 
 only poor people, and cannot do much ; 
 but as Padre Anselmo says, A plate of 
 beans from a friend is better than a fat ox 
 of an enemy, with good will, you know, sig- 
 nor ; and that at least we have. And speak 
 ing of oxen, we shall have to have a couple 
 of oxen, I am afraid, signer. We sold the 
 others well at the fair last autumn ; but we 
 cannot get along without them. And next 
 week there is the fair up at Bolena. Well, 
 well ; we will talk about that later when you 
 have looked about. I know where there is 
 a good pair. Leave that to me, signor. A 
 man will have to get up early in the morn 
 ing to deceive me about an ox. But we are 
 chattering here and making a noise, when 
 we ought to be at work. Come, Maria, 
 be off, the Signor Conte has heard enough 
 for the present ; and I, too, must be off. I 
 4 
 
50 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 suppose you, signor, will like to look over 
 the place, at your convenience I mean, at 
 your convenience. You won t like to be 
 troubled to-day with business, and all s go 
 ing on right. And have you any com 
 mands now? Ah, none. Le riverisa, sig- 
 nor." And off the worthy pair went. 
 
 This was somewhat different from Rome, 
 and Marco felt that he was in another world. 
 He smiled to himself as he finished his 
 breakfast, and then wandered through the 
 house and into all the rooms, so full of 
 reminiscences, and passed in review all the 
 old pictures and prints, and peered into 
 every odd closet and nook, and mounted 
 into the attic and gazed curiously at its old 
 brown rafters, and smelled again the dusty 
 odor that brought him back so vividly all 
 the old days of youth. There is nothing 
 like odors to recall the past, and verify in 
 our minds the life that is gone, one whiff 
 of a flower will turn the key that opens the 
 door to a thousand thronging memories. 
 And wandering through these rooms, almost 
 at moments the years fell off from him, and 
 he felt a boy again, he heard the voice 
 of his father calling him from below, the 
 shout of his playmates hiding in corners of 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 51 
 
 the attic. He stumbled over an old wooden 
 horse, with broken legs and battered head, 
 that once was the pride of his boyhood, 
 and that lay in a dim corner of the attic, 
 thrown away, who knows,- how many a year 
 ago, and he took it up and gazed earnestly 
 at it, and smiled, and moisture came into 
 his eyes. Then he sighed and laid it down 
 again carefully, and said to himself, 
 "Poor Carlino, where is he now? and where 
 are the days when we played together, care 
 less of the future, pleased with the present, 
 never foreseeing nor caring to foresee. Poor 
 Carlino, where are you now ? Gone where 
 no voice of mine can reach you, and where 
 no voice of yours will ever reach me." 
 
 Then he left the attic and went down to 
 his room, and the passing memory fled like 
 a dream. Next to this room was another 
 opening out from it, in which the library 
 was kept. He opened the windows, to drive 
 away the musty smell and let the sunshine 
 in, and gave a glance over the books. They 
 were mostly old, printed centuries ago, and 
 bound in limp vellum ; books that none but 
 a student ever opens, and which have no 
 current breath of modern life in them ec 
 clesiastical histories and lives of the saints, 
 
52 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 and sermons and tracts and windy essays, 
 and geography, and the works of the fathers 
 and the priests. Among them, however, 
 were the Latin poets and writers, the stand 
 ard works of Italian literature of a later 
 date, a few French books and romances, 
 and, of course, the Italian poets and novel 
 ists of a previous age. " Some day I must 
 look carefully over these," he thought. 
 " Possibly there may be some of real inter 
 est and value ; at all events, the poets are 
 here, and they live forever, and here I shall 
 find quiet friends, ready to be taken up and 
 put down at my will, never presuming, and 
 never forcing themselves upon me, at whom 
 I can laugh without hurting their feelings, 
 whom I can criticise without any self-justifi 
 cation or argument on their parts, whom I 
 can even abuse without rousing their anger." 
 After lingering here for an hour he went 
 out; and the rest of his day was spent in 
 going over the place, looking at the fields 
 that were planted, examining all the build 
 ings, wandering about the woods, and ex 
 changing a word or two now and then with 
 some of the peasants whom he met. The 
 day thus pleasantly slipped away, and he 
 was glad at night to go to bed early and take 
 a long refreshing sleep. 
 
CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 UNEVENTFULLY the days went by. The 
 silence, the solitude charmed him. He joyed 
 in the delicious breath of the summer, that, 
 stealing perfume from the myriad wild flow 
 ers profusely blooming everywhere, fanned 
 his brow and cheek, and awakened many a 
 poetic thought, or feeling at least, in his 
 mind. After the hot, stifling air of the city, 
 and its noisy vanities, the fresh unbreathed 
 wind of the mountains filled him with 
 strength and purpose and hope. Work was 
 distasteful to him. He desired to be lazy, 
 aimless, solitary, to be at friends with Na 
 ture, not to question or dispute with her, but 
 to lay out his heart to her influence, and let 
 her say and do what she would. He wished 
 not to torment her, but to open his heart to 
 her, and leave her free to sow her wandering 
 seeds and breathe her influence over him, 
 without labor or conscious effort on his part, 
 just as the broad fields that lie open to the 
 sunshine, and without effort let the sun and 
 
54 F I AMU ETTA. 
 
 the air grow their harvest in her bosom. 
 He was tired of his studies, tired of cate 
 chising Nature, and wilfully plucking her 
 fruits, and persistingly demanding her fa 
 vors, and thus tormenting her and himself. 
 " She will give me what she chooses now," 
 he said ; " I will not be a beggar, nor impor 
 tune her more. Now for long fallow days 
 of idleness. I will turn Art out of doors, 
 and let her stray, and wander at her own 
 free will, nor longer chain and harness her 
 to work. And for myself, Pegasus has been 
 too long under the yoke. I feel my imag 
 ination narrowing. Let him free his wings 
 and soar away wherever his impulse guides 
 him." 
 
 So Marco took no sketch-book with him 
 to hunt down Nature and despoil her. lie 
 said, " When the time comes, I will work ; 
 but out of this aimless communion something 
 at last, not wilfully sought for, may come. 
 At all events, I will give myself a chance." 
 
 Day after day he roamed up and down 
 the forests and the valleys, sometimes climb 
 ing some stony bridle-path that more resem 
 bled the rocky bed carved out by a swollen 
 torrent than a road. Sometimes lying for 
 hours at length under the shade of the beech- 
 
F1AMMETTA. 55 
 
 trees, gazing at their sunny wavering roof 
 of light and dark green leaves, that seemed 
 paved against the blue sky beyond. Some- 
 ^imes wandering for miles through the 
 cathedral aisles of tall firs, whose serried 
 columns reared high up above his head, and 
 swayed and whispered with a sea-like mur 
 mur as the wind sifted through them, and 
 then when wearied flinging himself on their 
 carpet of brown needles to rest. Sometimes 
 seeking for mushrooms, that thrust their 
 brown heads out of the soil ; or plucking 
 some wild flower, and pondering its curiously 
 exquisite forms ; or watching the busy trains 
 of ants, endlessly at work on who knows 
 what ; or the idle butterflies drifting here 
 and there ; or the hot and restless bees, that 
 bustle from flower to flower to rifle them of 
 their sweetness, weighing them down and 
 plunging into them their slender trunks ; or 
 the swarms of unknown winged insects, that 
 circled around and around and gleamed in 
 the sunshine. 
 
 At times, as he lay dreaming, the voices 
 of peasants came to him through the far 
 aisles of the forest, and then passed by, some 
 with a great load of fagots on their heads, 
 some with a couple of baskets poised on a 
 
56 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 stick over their shoulders, old and young, 
 maidens and men and old women, all bear 
 ing the spoils of the forest to the neigh 
 boring villages. Pausing, they saluted him 
 with a greeting now and then, asked him for 
 a xous, and once in a while stopped and 
 talked with him for a few moments, and 
 then moved on. He watched them as they 
 walked erectly through the trees, picturesque 
 in their colored cotton gowns, each of the 
 women with a red figured handkerchief 
 bound about her head, and all busy all in 
 tent on something. 
 
 "Nothing seems idle here," he thought, 
 " save the butterflies. Even that great hawk 
 that poises far up in the blue, and sweeps 
 majestically and easily in broad circles and 
 curves, though he seems scarcely to move his 
 wings, and to hover there in pure enjoy 
 ment, is still at work seeking for his prey. 
 All are busy, all preying on something or 
 anxious for something. There seems to be 
 no such thing as entire rest and peace in all 
 this swarming life. The very wind is busy, 
 the clouds are travelling somewhere ; and in 
 this very rest of mine there is no rest, for 
 my thoughts are going without my will and 
 beyond my will, in a sort of aimless course. 
 
FIAMMETTA. 57 
 
 " Rest, I suppose, would be death. There 
 is nothing living that is at rest." 
 
 In dreamy thoughts like these, at times he 
 would fall asleep and doze for a time ; and 
 then rousing, would plunge deeper into the 
 forest, or climb some precipitous height, and 
 hot and panting would take off his hat and 
 feel the fresh breeze bathe his forehead, and 
 draw in large draughts of invigorating air, 
 and stretch out his arms, and feel a whole 
 some delight in being alone and out of the 
 world. 
 
 Then he would return to the house, wan 
 der in the garden and watch the peas and 
 beans as they grew day by day, twining up 
 their trellis of frascM, and blossoming and 
 swelling their pods ; or lie upon the balus 
 trade of the wall, and idly pick from the 
 corners the weeds that grew beneath his 
 hand ; or sit on the old stone trough in the 
 courtyard, and watch the cocks and hens, 
 and scatter crumbs and grain to them to eat 
 as they gathered about him ; or hunt for 
 their eggs in the hay; or pat the donkey, 
 and talk to him and flatter him, idling 
 about, now here, now there, with no fixed 
 purpose, simply living and drinking in the 
 air, and tormenting his spirit with no agita 
 tion of work. 
 
58 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 And so went on some ten days, and then 
 this utter idleness began somewhat to weary 
 him. His spirit, sick at first, had needed 
 it ; but as the fresh air gave him new life, 
 the sluggish current of his thoughts began 
 to stir in him, and now and then when he 
 went out he carried his fishing-rod and line, 
 and amused himself by catching some of the 
 trout that abounded in the torrent that 
 poured down the clefts of the mountains ; or 
 took some volume from the library in his 
 pocket, and read it as he lay under the 
 shade ; or dotted down verses of his own, 
 when some casual expression in one of the 
 poets he was reading set fire to his own 
 thoughts. Gradually, too, art began to re- 
 assume its rights and insist upon its claim, 
 and would not longer be dismissed. Many a 
 happy accident of light and shade and form 
 and color met him everywhere, and seemed to 
 cry out to him, and beseech him so strenu 
 ously that he could not resist their persua 
 sion, and even against his will he found him 
 self forced to yield and to sketch them. Old 
 habits came back, and he began to forecast 
 many a picture to be worked out on canvas. 
 
 Returning home towards twilight from 
 one of these excursions into the woods, he 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 59 
 
 heard the sound of voices in the hall. One 
 of these voices was that of old Maria ; the 
 other was evidently that of some young girl, 
 clear, penetrating, and of a singularly sweet 
 vibration. He paused for a moment, won 
 dering who it could be. It was evidently 
 not that of a peasant, so he thought at least, 
 nor of any one whom he knew. His curios 
 ity was roused. Suddenly the girl laughed 
 a low laugh, and said : " Well, Sera Maria, 
 night is coming on and I must go. Addio^ 
 then, and the strawberries you will give to 
 the Signor Conte from the Nonna, who 
 wishes him all happiness, and hopes some 
 day to see him, as soon as she is rid of her 
 rheumatism. Poverina, she is not able to 
 take such a walk now, or she would have 
 come before. Addio." 
 
 Both came to the door together, and Maria 
 then saw Marco. " Ah ! here is the padrone 
 now," she cried. " This is Fiammetta, Sig 
 nor Conte, the granddaughter of Antonio 
 and Gigia of the Casetta. She has just 
 come to bring you some strawberries from 
 the Nonna. You remember her, do you 
 not?" 
 
 " Fiammetta ! " said Marco. " This can 
 not be little Fiammetta. How she has 
 grown and changed ! " 
 
60 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 " Ah ! signer," cried Maria, " the years 
 go by ; we all change, and some of us not 
 for the better. Pazienza ; but this is Fiam- 
 metta. You remember the Signor Conte, 
 Fiammetta?" 
 
 "Oh yes, I remember him," said Fiam 
 metta, simply. 
 
 " How tall you have grown ! " said Marco, 
 as he looked at her steadily. " Whatever 
 Maria may say, you have not changed for 
 the worse." 
 
 The girl smiled, and then a sudden rush 
 of blood came into her face ; but she did 
 not cast her eyes down or look away. On 
 the contrary, she gazed steadily at Marco, 
 and for a moment there was a silence as 
 they stood looking intently at each other. 
 Then Marco stretched out his hand to her 
 and she to him, and they shook hands. 
 
 " I am glad to see you again," he said, 
 " though I should never have recognized 
 you ; you have so changed since I last saw 
 you. You were then a little child." 
 
 " Grazie, signor," she answered. " Yes ; 
 I was a child then." 
 
 " And you are still at the Casetta with 
 your grandmother." 
 
 " Yes, signor." 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 61 
 
 " That is some five miles away from here." 
 
 " Yes, signor ; I believe so." 
 
 " Please thank your Nonna for the straw 
 berries. It was very kind of her to send 
 them to me, and tell her I hope she will 
 soon be well of her rheumatism ; and and 
 tell her I will come and see her soon." 
 
 " I will do as you bid me, signor." 
 
 " You will have a long walk, and it is get 
 ting late." 
 
 " It is nothing to me," she answered, and 
 smiled. 
 
 " Oh, Fiammetta does not care for five 
 miles more than I do for going out to the 
 garden," exclaimed Maria. " What are five 
 miles to a lass like that ? nothing, nothing, 
 absolutely nothing." 
 
 " But," said Marco, " the path is wild 
 and lonely; and are you not afraid to go 
 alone ? " 
 
 " Afraid ! " she cried, " of what ? I am 
 afraid of nothing." 
 
 " No ; that she is not," cried Maria. 
 " Are you, Fiammetta ? " 
 
 She laughed, and drew herself up ; and a 
 gleam flashed out of her eyes, but she said 
 nothing. 
 
 " You must keep her here to-night, Maria," 
 
62 F1AMMETTA. 
 
 said Marco. " I do not like to let her go 
 alone in the dark over the mountains. Give 
 her a bed here, and she will return in the 
 morning." 
 
 "Certainly, signor," said Maria. "You 
 had better stay perhaps, Fiammetta. We 
 can put you up and make you comfortable." 
 
 " Thank you, Signor Conte," she an 
 swered. " You are very good, but I cannot 
 stay. Nonna will expect me. She will 
 worry about me if I do not return, and I 
 am not afraid. No one would dare to touch 
 me. Let them try it if they like," and she 
 laughed. " None the less, a thousand thanks 
 to you, and a rivederla, Signor Conte ; and 
 addio, Maria." 
 
 So saying, she walked away. Marco 
 watched her until her figure was lost in the 
 trees, and then turning away said : " What 
 a beautiful girl ! " 
 
 And so in truth she was. She was not 
 only beautiful, but of a singular character 
 of beauty, difficult to describe. Scarcely 
 above the middle height, but so slender that 
 she looked even taller than she was ; pliant 
 of figure, delicate in the waist, with full 
 rounded bosom and arms, and small hands 
 and feet, and in her motions quick, agile, 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 63 
 
 buoyant. Her eyes were large and dark, 
 and lay couched under low square brows, 
 with a clear light in them, and an expres 
 sion of shyness and yet directness and fear 
 lessness, like what one sees at times in the 
 eyes of some wild free animal, ready to 
 brave attack or to yield to affection. Her 
 nose was straight ; her nostrils thin ; her 
 mouth and chin full; her complexion dark 
 and bronzed like a gypsy s; and when she 
 smiled she showed a range of milk-white 
 teeth, such as one rarely sees except in the 
 peasant class. Her dark face, when at rest, 
 was serious ; but when she smiled, it seemed 
 as when a sudden burst of sunshine comes 
 out of a thunder - cloud and illuminates it 
 with splendor. On her head she wore a 
 red -figured handkerchief tied behind in a 
 knot ; and from beneath this, tendrils of 
 black hair, crisp and curling, issued and 
 played over her brow and cheeks. Her 
 dress was of the simplest kind made of a 
 colored print, which many a washing had 
 faded into a delicate tone with short 
 sleeves reaching scarcely to the elbow, low 
 in the neck, fitting closely over the shoul 
 ders, and loosely girdled in at the waist. 
 Her figure was spoiled by no corsets, her 
 
64 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 under dress was evidently very slight, and 
 the graceful contours of her shoulders, young 
 bosom, and hips showed in every movement. 
 She was in figure the type of the Youthful 
 Huntress of the silver bow : lithe, long- 
 limbed, and smoothly rounded. The sun 
 had burnt her to a glowing brown ; her 
 cheeks were like a ripe summer fruit, and 
 she looked as if she had only been a com 
 panion of the winds and the streams and the 
 mountains, and had never known the pollut 
 ing civilization of a city. 
 
 Marco watched her silently as she disap 
 peared among the trees ; once only she 
 turned at the last point at which she was 
 clearly visible, paused a moment, looked 
 back, cried with a clear ringing voice, " Ad- 
 dio ! and sprang away out of sight like a 
 fawn. 
 
 " So that is Fiammetta," said Marco, 
 turning round to Maria. " What a wonder 
 ful beauty she is ! " 
 
 " Yes," said Maria ; " she is a beautiful 
 girl, and a strange girl too ; but she does 
 not seem to care about her looks. She will 
 have nothing to say to any of the men about 
 here, and will not listen to them nor their 
 compliments, not she she has not the 
 
F JAM M ETTA. 65 
 
 least idea of what you call love. Oh, 
 blessed Virgin, no ! Love indeed ! let 
 anybody try to make love to her, and she 
 will burst into a fit of laughter, snap her 
 fingers and leap away, crying out to her 
 suitor, Sciocco ! fool. She s a curious 
 creature, indeed fierce as a snake, when 
 she is roused ; and as she told you herself, 
 afraid of nobody and nothing. Nobody has 
 ever been able to tame her, though she is 
 gentle enough, too, if you are kind to her. 
 But her old Nonna can t get much work out 
 of her, though she is now well sixteen years 
 old, when we others have to take our share 
 of burdens and work. But no, signer, no ; 
 she will do nothing of the kind. She will 
 take care of the hens and the ducks, and the 
 cow and the donkey ; but she will not work, 
 as the others do. A queer girl, indeed. 
 She will fling her arms round the old cow s 
 neck and kiss her and sing to her, and go on 
 sometimes like a mad girl ; but no men for 
 her. They ve all tried it again and again 
 and given it up. Hour after hour, day after 
 day, she is gone by herself in the woods, and 
 nobody knows what she does there. Eoams 
 about there like a sort of wild creature, and 
 gathers strawberries and raspberries, and any 
 
66 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 wild fruit she can find. But she won t sell 
 them no, siguor ; and then she knows how 
 to charm the birds. Yes, signor, she does ; 
 she charms the birds. How she does it, I 
 don t know ; but somehow or other she does 
 it." 
 
 " What do you mean when you say she 
 charms the birds ? " asked Marco. 
 
 " Oh, she just charms them, with a sort 
 of incantation." 
 
 44 How does she do it ? " 
 
 " She just sits down, signor I have seen 
 her do it a hundred times on the bank of 
 any stream, and then she will lift up her 
 hands slowly and wave them about in a cir 
 cle, as if she was drawing figures in the air, 
 and then she will begin to croon a little, low 
 song, that sounds for all the world, signor, 
 like the running of a brook ; and, after a 
 time one after another the birds will 
 begin to gather in the air, far up, and then 
 down, down, down they will come and flutter 
 and flutter, and then come lower down and 
 light on her shoulders and lap ; and she will 
 go on singing and play with them as if they 
 belonged to her. Oh! you may smile, sig 
 nor ; what I tell you is true as true as 
 Gospel. I have seen her do it twenty times. 
 
FIAMMETTA. 67 
 
 I do not know what her secret is, nor what 
 she says ; but, signor, the birds do, and they 
 come to her when she calls. Blessed Vir 
 gin ! it is strange ; but it does not seem to 
 be evil, signor. Some say she is a magi 
 cian, but I don t know. They go to her for 
 charms against diseases all kinds of dis 
 eases and what she gives them I don t 
 know ; but they say she can drive away fe 
 ver and all that. I scarcely believe it, but 
 the people around here say so." 
 
 " But what does her grandmother say to 
 all this?" 
 
 " Oh, poverina, she is used to her by this 
 time, and well she may be ; and as she finds 
 she cannot control her, she lets her go as 
 she will, and do as she chooses. And after 
 all she is a good girl I must say that. I 
 never knew her do any harm to any one. A 
 kind, good girl, ready to do any kindness to 
 any one ; and she never talks against her 
 neighbors, and hates noise and quarrelling, 
 and runs away when it begins. There are 
 people enough, signor, that like to talk 
 against everybody, but she does n t, and she 
 is good-tempered, too, if she is treated kindly. 
 But if any one attempts to oppose her vio 
 lently, or to abuse and insult her, she is like 
 
68 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 a tiger-cat. I never saw eyes flame as hers 
 will ; and those long, slender little hands of 
 hers I should not like to have round my 
 throat, as once Adone had, when he insulted 
 her and swore at her (poor fellow, he was 
 half-drunk when he did it) but he seized 
 her once and swore she should kiss him. 
 But he counted without his host, signor. 
 He did indeed. One might as well have 
 tried to hold a snake; and her fingers made 
 marks in his throat that he wore for a week. 
 He was sorry for it, and so was she, when 
 he said he was sorry and begged her pardon. 
 But he never tried that game again. * 
 
 " No ; I should think not. She does not 
 look like a girl that would stand that sort 
 of nonsense," said Marco. 
 
 " Not she ; ah, it s in her blood. You 
 see, one can never get rid of one s blood." 
 
 " In her blood ! What do you mean by 
 that?" 
 
 " Why, signor, you know her history, 
 don t you?" 
 
 " No ; I know nothing of her history, save 
 that ! remember her as a queer little girl 
 that I once used to see years ago." 
 
 "Don t you remember her mother, too? 
 You must have seen her when you were a 
 little boy." 
 
FIAMMETTA. 69 
 
 " If I ever knew her, she has gone out of 
 my memory." 
 
 " Ah, but she has n t out of mine. I shall 
 never forget her and her doings." 
 
 " Tell me her history." 
 
 " Well, it was this, signor. She was the 
 only child of Antonio and Gigia that is, 
 the only one that lived and grew up all 
 the others died young. Only Tonietta lived, 
 and a brave, striking-looking girl she was, 
 not so good-looking as Fiammetta, but, via, 
 something of that kind. Dark and tall and 
 proud and fierce, and had high notions of 
 herself, and always hated her work; and 
 looked down, I know not why, upon all of 
 us. Well, it so happened, when she was 
 about eighteen perhaps nineteen a gen 
 tleman came to stay here, and he hired that 
 little house that we call the Fossetta. You 
 remember it over the hills there near 
 the Marchese Alessandro. He was not an 
 Italian, but he came from a far-away coun 
 try. Stop ! what did they call it ? up 
 there among the Polacchi, or Russii, or 
 Spagnoli, or Ainericani ; but it was not there 
 he came from some place near there be 
 ginning with a B. Beemy, I think it was." 
 
 " Bohemia," suggested Marco. 
 
70 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 " Ah, yes ! that was it Beemia. He 
 was a tall handsome man, young, maybe 
 some thirty years of age, more or less, and 
 he wore a queer kind of dress, all over frogs 
 and buttons, and had high boots, and such a 
 costume as I never saw before. Well, he 
 came here to spend a few weeks during the 
 summer, to roam about and collect flowers, 
 and to shoot partridges and quails, and I 
 know not what. Well, while he was shoot 
 ing in the woods one day, he met Tonietta, 
 and he stopped and talked with her a long 
 while ; and Tonietta was very proud of this, 
 and again and again he met her, and he kept 
 staying on at the Fossetta long into the au 
 tumn ; and every day he used to saunter 
 down towards Gigia s house, and Tonietta 
 would make some excuse to go with him; 
 and at last Gigia told her she must stay at 
 home, and that no good would come of such 
 goings on, and that the gentleman was only 
 amusing himself with her and making a tool 
 of her, and that the end of it would be her 
 ruin. But Tonietta was headstrong and 
 would not listen, and thought she knew bet 
 ter than all the world. And Antonio had a 
 long talk with her one day, and told her 
 that if he caught her again walking with 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 71 
 
 this foreign gentleman, playing the civetta, 
 he would lock her up in her room and keep 
 her there till the gentleman went away. But 
 the next day the same thing happened, and 
 Antonio saw them through the trees, and he 
 called out loudly to her, and she fled away 
 home. And then, blessed Virgin, what a 
 row there was ! There was the devil s own 
 porridge boiling in the house. Antonio 
 called her a fool, and worse than a fool, and 
 abused her roundly, and said she would dis 
 grace her family, if she had n t already, and 
 that he would look to it now. So he locked 
 her up in her room, and took the key away, 
 and that, he thought, would end the matter. 
 But the next day the cage was empty 
 Tonietta was gone ! She had slipped out of 
 the window early in the morning or late at 
 night nobody knew when only they 
 knew that was the way she got out, because 
 the bed-clothes were knotted together into a 
 
 O 
 
 sort of rope, and hanging to the sill of the 
 window out of which she had got. Well, of 
 
 o 
 
 course, they sought for her everywhere, but 
 they could not find her, and could get no 
 news of her ; and the poor people were 
 topsy-turvy with anxiety and fear. At last, 
 after about a week, Pasquale our Pas- 
 
72 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 quale, you know came and made it all 
 plain. He had been sent for by the gentle 
 man to drive him down to N , and when 
 
 they were half-way there who should they 
 see but Tonietta sitting on a stone under the 
 trees, just off the road at the four corners 
 where the cross is, and out got the stranger, 
 and off he went with her into the wood, tell 
 ing Pasquale to wait ; and Pasquale did 
 wait, and after an hour or so they came 
 back together and got into the carriage, and 
 the stranger cried to him, Now be off, and 
 let s see if your horses can go ! And go 
 they did, for Pasquale s horses know how 
 to go, and soon they were there; and the 
 stranger went in to buy the tickets for the 
 railroad, and left Tonietta there alone. And 
 Pasquale said to her, 4 Well, my beauty, 
 says he, 4 do you expect to go back with me ? 
 If you do, you are mistaken, for I have got 
 to go on for another job, and shall be away 
 for several days/ says he ; 4 so you 11 have a 
 long walk of it, Tonietta, and a pretty mess 
 you have made ! But she said, You need 
 not trouble yourself it s all right. 4 1 
 should think so, says he; and says she, 
 * You attend to your own affairs ; and says 
 he, * I just will ; but if you 11 take a friend s 
 
F1AMMETTA. 73 
 
 advice, you will go back as you came and at 
 once, though it s none of my business, says 
 he. 4 Oh ! says she, 4 Pasquale, says she, 
 never you mind, nor never you bother your 
 head about me it s all right. But you can 
 do me one service, says she. And what s 
 that ? says he. And it s this, says she ; 
 tell them at home that they need not expect 
 to see me for some time at least. I am go 
 ing to be married to this gentleman, says 
 she, and to be a lady, says she, ; and to go 
 away, far, far off, and live in a great palace, 
 says she, c and I shall sepd them money and 
 clothes ; and give them my love, and tell 
 them I can t write anything now, and tell 
 them I was sorry not to say good-by, says 
 she ; but they would never have let me go 
 if I had, says she. And say good-by for 
 me, and all sorts of things, you know ; and 
 don t forget and give them my love, and tell 
 them not to trouble about me it s all 
 right! 
 
 " Well, well ; so it was, and so Pasquale 
 said ; and the poor old people were grieved 
 enough at first, and shook their heads, and 
 wondered how it would all turn out, and 
 hoped for the best, but did not have much 
 faith of any good end. And so the months 
 
74 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 went on and on ; and the winter came, and 
 the spring, and the summer, and the autumn 
 again, and no Tonietta, and no news of her 
 nor of the stranger ; and they were all alone, 
 and the evenings were dreary to them as 
 they sat and looked into the coals and sighed, 
 and sometimes talked about her, and some 
 times sat and gazed and said nothing of all 
 that was working in their minds. 
 
 " And so, as I said, the autumn came ; 
 and it was a dreary autumn and cold very 
 cold, I remember, that year and there 
 came on a great st^rm one night at the end 
 of November. - It was the storm that blew 
 down that great chestnut, some two hundred 
 years old, they said, that stood over at the 
 falls ; and the rain beat against the panes 
 and lashed them furiously, and the trees 
 roared and groaned as in torment ; and the 
 blast came down the mountains howling like 
 a mad spirit of the devil, and shaking the 
 very house. And Antonio was sitting alone 
 that night over the embers, as usual, mend 
 ing a hoe for Gigia had already gone to 
 bed when he thought he heard a cry as of 
 a human voice. He listened ; but it was not 
 repeated, and he thought it might be a fiend, 
 and he crossed himself and said, 4 Domini , 
 
FIAMMETTA. 75 
 
 patre nostore, ora per nobi ! and went on 
 mending his hoe. And after a minute or 
 two he heard a knock at the door, and this, 
 he thought too, was imagination, for who 
 could be there at such a time ? And then 
 the knock came again, and a cry like what 
 he heard before, and he said to himself, he 
 said, Some one of the neighbors must be 
 dying, and he got up and went to the door 
 and opened it, and the wind and storm burst 
 in and blinded him at first, and then he saw 
 out in the dark the dim form of a woman, 
 with a shawl drawn over her head and cov 
 ering her face, and he cried out, Who are 
 you ? and what do you want ? for he could 
 not see for the wind and the rain, and the 
 dim light within and the darkness without : 
 and there was no answer. Who are you ? 
 cried he again ; come in out of the storm ! 
 And then the woman cried out, Oh, babbo, 
 babbo ! don t you know me ? Antonio s 
 knees, he said, shook under him ; he thought 
 it must be a ghost ; he could not speak ; and 
 then the figure tottered forward to him, and 
 cried out again, Oh, babbo, babbo ! and fell 
 senseless upon the door-sill. And he bent 
 down and lifted her shawl from her face, and 
 cried out 4 Tonietta ! and then he rushed to 
 
76 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 the stairs, and called out, 4 Gigia ! Gigia ! 
 quick! come down! Here is Tonietta, and 
 dying ! And Gigia hurried down all like a 
 mad person, without stopping to put on any 
 thing but an old shawl ; and they lifted up 
 Tonietta, who was quite gone in a faint, and 
 laid her upon a settle ; and when they took off 
 the old shawl they saw that she clasped to her 
 breast a bundle, and this they unwrapped, 
 and there was a little baby ; but they hadn t 
 any time to think of that, and they laid it 
 down softly, and attended to Tonietta ; and 
 after a time she opened her eyes as if she 
 were dazed, and stared at them, and then 
 felt in her bosom and cried out, My baby ! 
 It s all safe, said Gigia ; and then Toni 
 etta burst into a fit of crying, and said, 
 Bablo, babbo ! oh, babbo ! oh, mamma, 
 mamma ! Is it a dream ? are you here ? 
 are you here, really ? really ? O Dio ! Dio ! 
 Dio ! have pity on me ! and then she got up 
 staggering, and fell upon her mother s breast 
 and wept, and cried all sorts of things. 
 And they soothed her at last, and took off 
 her wet clothes and put her to bed, and gave 
 her some wine and rubbed her fvell, for she 
 was nearly frozen ; and the baby, too, they 
 laid on the bed at her side. Poor little 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 77 
 
 thing ! she had kept it warm against her 
 heart all that cold, bitter night, when she 
 herself was nearly frozen." 
 
 " And that baby was Fiammetta ? " said 
 Marco. 
 
 " Yes, signer, that baby was Fiammetta 
 or Gitana, as we call her because she has 
 such a gypsy look and something so odd 
 about her." 
 
 " And Tonietta, her mother, what became 
 of her?" 
 
 " Oh, poor thing ! she never looked up 
 after that night never again was strong, 
 and slowly pined away. What with the 
 disgrace and the sufferings she had under 
 gone, and the disappointment and that cruel 
 night, she was beaten down to the earth and 
 broken like a tree snapped in the tempest. 
 She went about looking like a shadow of 
 her former self ; never laughed, and her 
 smile was sad enough to make you cry. 
 And to make a long story short for I am 
 afraid I have been talking too much she 
 slowly pined away, like a wounded creature 
 that some hunter has shot ; and at last we 
 carried her up to the churchyard, and there 
 she lies at peace at last ! " 
 
 "Did she never tell the story of what 
 happened to her during her absence ? " 
 
78 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 " Oh, yes, signer ; little by little it all 
 came out, and Gigia has often told it to me. 
 The gentleman carried her away off to a far, 
 far country ; and at first he was very kind 
 to her, and gave her beautiful dresses and 
 necklaces, and was proud of her; and she 
 lived in a beautiful house and had no work 
 to do, and was happy, and he kept saying 
 he would marry her and make a great lady 
 of her. But after a time, oh dear me, 
 signor, it is all the old story, just what, of 
 course, any one might guess without being 
 much of a magician, he began to go away, 
 and be gone for weeks on some excuse or 
 other ; and at last, after being gone for more 
 than a month, he came back, and somehow 
 she saw by his face and his looks that some 
 thing had happened, he was so altered. He 
 tried, she said, to be kind ; but there was 
 some strange difference. He had some 
 thing on his mind and she knew it, and 
 begged him to tell her what it was. But 
 he would not say ; and then at last, after he 
 had been there a few days, he came into the 
 room, and sat down beside her and took her 
 hands, and said, Tonietta, this cannot go 
 on any longer. It is of no use I might 
 as well tell you first as last I must leave 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 79 
 
 you ; I am going to be married. You have 
 been very good ; but 
 
 " Married ! she cried ; aghast, poor 
 thing. Have you not always promised to 
 marry me ? 
 
 " i Be reasonable, he said ; that you 
 know is impossible. 
 
 "" Why, impossible. Did you not prom 
 ise me on your honor to marry me ? Why 
 did you make me come away with you ? 
 
 " Whether I promised or not is not the 
 question. What I wish you to understand is, 
 that it is impossible now ; for I am pledged 
 to marry another. 
 
 " And who is she ? said Tonietta. 
 
 " 4 No matter who she is, he said. 
 
 " c I will find her out. I will tell her all. 
 If she has any heart she will never let me 
 be cast away thus. Oh, it is horrible ! it 
 is horrible ! What shall I do ? I will find 
 her; I will. 
 
 " No ; you will never find her, he said ; 
 and it would be useless if you did. You 
 need not storm and cry. That will do no 
 good. 
 
 " Oh, I could not believe you would be so 
 base, so infamous ! she cried. To bring 
 me away here, where I am all alone, and 
 
80 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 then to break your word, and abandon me, 
 and ruin me. Oh, what a fool I have been ! 
 and she wept and grieved and begged ; but 
 he remained like a stone. Yes, like a stone, 
 she said. 
 
 " l And so you throw me off, and leave me 
 here a beggar, in a far land beyond all my 
 friends. 
 
 " 4 Ah, no ! not that, he said. l You shall 
 not say that. You shall not be a beggar as 
 you say. You shall, on the contrary, be 
 cared for, and be rich, and be able to do 
 what you will. 
 
 "And then he took out of his pocket a 
 great pocket-book, and a purse, and said, 
 4 There are, I don t know how many 
 thousands of francs he said ; but it was a 
 very large sum, more than I ever saw, sig- 
 nor. That is yours to do with it what you 
 like ; to go back to your country if you will ; 
 to stay here if you will, and he laid the 
 money down on the table. 
 
 " Then she rose, wiped away her tears, 
 took the pocket-book and purse and flung 
 them on the ground, and said, I will have 
 none of them ; not one sous ; I will go ; I 
 will buy my way back. Nothing will I have 
 of yours. You are an infamous man ! 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 81 
 
 " c You 11 think better of it when the 
 morning comes, he said. Don t be a fool. 
 Take the money : it is yours, and you have 
 a right to it. 
 
 " 4 It is the wages of sin, she cried. I 
 will not touch it. While you loved me, or 
 saicl you did at least, I would take anything 
 from you. What was mine was yours, and 
 what was yours was mine. Now it is dif 
 ferent. You are a base man. I gave you 
 my love freely, trustingly. You have be 
 trayed me. My curse shall be on you 
 wherever you go. 
 
 " There is no use, he said, to talk with 
 you now. You are too excited to reason. I 
 will leave you and come to see you to-mor 
 row, when you are quieter. I leave the 
 money. If you will not touch it, I will not. 
 There it is. 
 
 " And then he went away and left her ; 
 and she stormed and cried for hours all the 
 long evening ; and then she sat down and 
 leaned her face on both her hands, and 
 thought what she should do ; and then she 
 went into her bedroom and selected out of 
 all her clothes a few of the stoutest, some 
 that she had bought in the first days of 
 their love, and those she bound up in a 
 
82 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 bundle ; and then she looked over the 
 drawers where her ornaments were, and out 
 of these she chose a few rings, and a neck 
 lace or two, and a couple of bracelets, and she 
 said to herself, c These at least I can take ; 
 they were the gifts of love, they belong to 
 me ; and what can I do without money, as 
 he says, here, so far away from everybody. 
 Then her spirit revolted, for Tonietta was 
 very proud, and she laid them all down 
 again, and said, No ! I will have nothing of 
 his nothing. I will go away as I came. 
 Then she lay down on the bed, and after a 
 while she fell asleep, crying bitterly, poor 
 thing, and got a little rest. At the earliest 
 break of day she rose, dressed herself, en 
 closed all the money in a letter addressed to 
 him, and left it on the table, then took her 
 bundle, placed it on her head as she used to 
 do, as we all do here, and walked out of the 
 house. Where she was going she did not 
 know. She did not care. The whole world 
 was nothing to her now. She only wanted 
 to go somewhere and die. Somewhere to 
 hide herself in, where he should not find her. 
 " And so she went on, the whole day, out 
 of the town into the high-road, and when 
 night came on, worn-out and hungry, she 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 83 
 
 stopped at a house and begged for a crust of 
 bread, and the people were kind and gave it 
 to her, for she was a stranger, and there was 
 something in her manner and voice that 
 touched them, and then she thanked them 
 and journeyed on, and slept that night 
 under a hay-rick ; and in the morning she 
 was off again by daybreak, and inquired the 
 way to Italy of some persons she met on the 
 road; but some of them knew of no such 
 place, and some knew not how she should go. 
 At last, however, she met a gentleman, and 
 she inquired of him, and he looked at her, 
 and asked her if she was an Italian, and said 
 it was a long way off, and he seemed to pity 
 her, and told her the way, and spoke to her 
 in her own language, and asked her how she 
 expected to get there, and why she did not 
 take a coach or diligence; and she smiled 
 sadly, and said, Ah ! signer, how can I go 
 in a diligence ? I have not a sous even to 
 buy my bread. And then he said, There s 
 a gold piece for you. For me ? she said ; 
 4 Why, I did not ask for money. But you 
 will need it, says he, and take it, please. 
 You make me think of the happy days I 
 spent in Italy. You will do me a pleasure 
 if you will take it. May God bless you ! 
 
84 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 said she, and she took it and went on. So 
 day after day passed, and one evening she 
 came upon an encampment of gypsies, and 
 she walked up to them. They were boiling 
 a kettle over a fire of sticks, and the savor 
 of the mess was good to her nostrils, for she 
 was very tired ami hungry, and she looked 
 wistfully at it. An old woman was seated 
 there, and two stately girls stood beside her, 
 and two or three men were moving about 
 the tents, and she said, 4 Buona, sera ! 
 and they all looked at her for a moment, 
 and then one of the girls came forward and 
 spoke to her in a language she did not 
 understand, and she shook her head and 
 smiled ; and the girl again spoke, and again 
 she shook her head, and said, Sono Itali- 
 anaj and then the girl said, also in Italian, 
 4 1 thought you were a gypsy too at first, 
 and they all nodded their heads. Then 
 they asked her to sit down, and they gave 
 her of their broth, and they were kind to 
 her, and she told them she was poor and 
 was going back to Italy, and did not know 
 if she should ever get there. And they 
 said, Will you go with us ? we are going 
 that way. And she said she would. So 
 she went with them, and she worked for 
 
FIAMMETTA. 85 
 
 them, and they told her they knew she was 
 a gypsy though she would not acknowledge 
 it ; and tKe two girls became her great 
 friends, and she told them her story, and 
 they were kinder than ever, and then they 
 taught her to tell fortunes by the hand, 
 signor, and all sorts of things they taught 
 her, and they were very careful of her, for 
 they saw she was approaching her time to 
 have a child. Their journeys were short, 
 and when she was tired they gave her a seat 
 in their great wagon. And so they came 
 down into Italy. And one beautiful au 
 tumn day, while the encampment was rest 
 ing for a week or two, she gave birth to a 
 little girl, our little Fiammetta. She was 
 very ill after this ; but the gypsies nursed 
 her well, and gradually she grew stronger, 
 though she could not walk long, and most of 
 the journeys she was in the wagon. Ah! 
 she said, signor, she never could forget all 
 their kindness. It was all as if she had come 
 upon a band of Maritani like those in the 
 Holy Book that Father Anselmo tells us 
 about, who, he said, poured oil into wounds 
 of a man who had been assassinated, though 
 I never heard oil was good for wounds, that 
 is, unless it had the St. John s wort leaves 
 
86 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 in it, which they say are good for wounds. 
 However, he meant to be kind, this Signor 
 Maritano, and that is what I mean. 
 
 " Well, well, signer ; there is not much 
 more to tell, and I know I tell it badly ; but 
 what would you ? I am only an ignorante. 
 But to finish my story. At last Tonietta 
 began to have a yearning for her home and 
 her babbo and mamma, and had many a 
 heartache when she thought of them, and she 
 longed to see the old place. Ah ! we all of 
 us do, signor, no matter how poor it may be. 
 It keeps growing and growing and growing 
 in our imaginations when we are away from 
 it, and all the little pleasures live in our 
 memories, and all the pains and troubles die, 
 and there comes a sort of glory over the 
 meanest things. Madonna miaf what a 
 farm it seems to me was ours ; how big the 
 house seems where I lived when I was a 
 girl! I suppose it is a poor little place 
 enough, really, but it never seems so, and 
 Pietro stops me instantly when I am brag 
 ging about it. 
 
 " Well, all good things end at last, and so 
 do all bad ones, too, for that matter ; and 
 the autumn is always melancholy somehow 
 or other, who knows why ? and when the 
 
FIAMMETTA. 87 
 
 cold days came and the rains set in, the open 
 life in the country with her friends the gyp 
 sies, kind as they were, was more than she 
 could bear, for she was no longer the stout, 
 proud lass that she was when she went away, 
 but sad and weak and broken in health and 
 spirits ; and one day she said to them that 
 she must go. They urged her to stay ; but 
 it was of no use. She had to go ; it was in 
 her mind that she must. It was not a mat 
 ter of reasoning, nor of duty, nor of anything 
 she could explain ; but it was just as a stream 
 must go on and on, whether it will or no 
 of necessity, not of will. 
 
 " And when the time came to go her heart 
 came all up in her throat, she said ; and she 
 cried till her eyes were red ; and she kissed 
 and blessed all of them ; and they went with 
 her a couple of miles, and then said a last 
 good-by. And she had never thought of 
 how she should get on without money, though 
 she had a long, tedious journey before her, 
 and was weak, and had her baby to carry ; 
 and it was not till she had walked nearly all 
 day, and was utterly tired out, that she began 
 to ask herself what she should do. Then a 
 sort of despair came over her, and she 
 wished she had never left her friends ; for 
 
88 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 there she was alone without a sous, and weak 
 and unable to bear fatigue, and her baby 
 dependent on her for milk, and a weary 
 weight to bear, and the winds at night so 
 cold even in the valleys that she dared not 
 lie on the grass ; and what was she to do. 
 As these thoughts came over her in a rush 
 all together, she sank down on a stone by the 
 wayside, and as she did this she heard some 
 thing strike the stone with a clink. * What 
 was it ? she thought. 4 1 do not remember 
 that I have anything in my pocket to make 
 a clink like that. Then she put her hand 
 into her pocket, and found a little purse with 
 six silver pieces in it, that the gypsies must 
 have slipped in without her knowledge. 
 Down she knelt on the grass and prayed for 
 them ; and then revived, she went on ; and 
 she soon found a shelter and a supper. Ah, 
 signer ! to have nothing at such a time is 
 terrible when famine comes, and grins at 
 us like a wild beast through the bars of a 
 cage, and our sleep is full of fearful dreams. 
 " After a week s toiling on, at last that 
 fearful November night she came up the 
 mountains. You know those stony, steep, 
 hard paths. Poor creature ! it was all that 
 she could do to climb up them, resting every 
 
FIAMMETTA. 89 
 
 now and then for breath, chilled to the heart, 
 wet to the skin. The wind raved the 
 storm drenched and beat against her all 
 the devils of the Inferno were in the trees 
 screaming at her. She could scarcely see 
 her footing she constantly slipped down 
 and had she not known the path well, she 
 could never have reached her home. But, 
 blessed be the Virgin and all the saints! 
 she did arrive at last, as I have told you. 
 
 " And that, Signor Conte, is what Gigia 
 told me, and, I suppose, it is true. But I 
 spoil it all in the telling." 
 
 " It is a sad story enough," said Marco. 
 " Poor Tonietta ! Let us hope that Fiam- 
 metta will have better luck." 
 
 " Let us hope so ; but who knows ? She 
 is so strange. She does not seem like one 
 of us has odd notions about everything. 
 She must have got it from her father, I 
 think, though there is a good deal of her 
 mother in her too, I think sometimes ; but, 
 Madonna mia ! what right have I to think 
 about it ? No matter ; what will be will be, 
 sign or, as the saying goes." 
 
 " Does she know all this story about her 
 mother ? " 
 
 " I don t know ; I suppose so that is, 
 
90 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 generally. I suppose she knows that her 
 father was not one of us, and was a gentle 
 man and a foreigner ; but how much more 
 she knows I cannot say. Blood, signer, 
 blood will tell ; and one cannot expect she 
 should be like us, and as for who her father 
 was, I don t think even Gigia knows ; and 
 if she did, she would not tell Fiammetta. 
 It would only give her wrong notions about 
 herself, and make her discontented, and set 
 her to dreaming about possibilities that can 
 never occur. She might be expecting him 
 to come and take her away, and make a 
 grand lady of her, and give her a fortune, 
 or any such foolish thing." 
 
 " And nothing has ever been heard of 
 him since ? " asked Marco. 
 
 " Nothing, signor. He went out of all 
 our knowledge, and of Tonietta s too, like 
 a candle blown out by the wind. He came 
 and he went, and that is all we know. "\Vlio 
 he was nobody knows, not even the Mar- 
 chesa, who used to meet him, and talk with 
 him ; but he was a gentleman, that we know. 
 You could not see him without knowing that, 
 for he had certain high ways about him, and 
 his hands were white and small, and long- 
 fingered, just like Fiammetta s, if you looked 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 91 
 
 at them, but I suppose you did not : they are 
 long and small too. But, dear me, how I am 
 talking on ! Pray excuse me, Signor Conte, 
 I am afraid I have tired you out, and, with 
 permission, I will go and prepare your sup 
 per now, if you please. It is getting late, 
 and I have been chattering here too long." 
 
 "Thanks! thanks!" said Marco. "You 
 have, on the contrary, interested me very 
 much. It is a very curious story, and a 
 very interesting one." 
 
 And Maria then went away. Marco stood 
 at the door and looked out and mused. The 
 dying light was faint in the west ; the vast 
 shadows were filling the valley; the moun 
 tains became dark silhouettes against the 
 sky ; the grilli were chirping a continuous 
 low song in the grass, and a mystery was 
 spreading over all the world. The story that 
 Maria had told profoundly interested him, 
 and the peculiar figure and expression of Fi- 
 ammetta, her voice, her bearing, the look in 
 her eyes, short as their interview had been, 
 had left a singular impression on his mind. 
 He stood there silently, looking up towards 
 the woods, where he had caught the last 
 glance of her figure as it vanished from 
 sight, and his imagination followed her on 
 
VJZ F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 her way, after she had passed beyond his vis 
 ion ; figuring her as she passed through the 
 solemn woods and climbed the steep paths 
 all alone, and going with her in spirit. 
 
 So he stood musing and dreaming for a 
 half hour, and then he was roused from his 
 reverie by the call of Maria, 
 
 " Signor Conte, at your convenience, sup 
 per is ready." 
 
 Prose, dull prose, after all the poetry. 
 The voice of Maria jarred on him ; the 
 fact of supper jarred. It woke him from a 
 dream that he willingly would have pro 
 longed. He had no appetite. Eating seemed 
 but a wretched material animal necessity, 
 after the spiritual manna of dreams upon 
 which his thoughts had been feeding. He 
 still lingered, but the spell was broken, and 
 then Maria s voice was heard again, 
 
 " Signor, with permission, the frittata is 
 growing cold." 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 FIAMMETTA, after saying her last addio, 
 pursued her way lightly through the trees, 
 leaping the watercourses and climbing the 
 hills; her mind and thoughts stirred by a 
 strange agitated sense, which she could not 
 account for. Few words had been spoken 
 between her and Marco, only a few glances 
 had passed between them ; but they had 
 left a sudden and strange influence on her, 
 of gladness, of excitement, and of doubt. 
 Long as the way was, it seemed short to 
 her. Through the shadowy dark of the firs, 
 over the open spaces where the yellow gorse 
 glowed, she rapidly moved, noticing nothing, 
 and walking as in a dream the face of 
 Marco constantly before her, the voice of 
 Marco ringing in her ears. Nothing else 
 did she hear or see; her mind, as it were, 
 listening, her spirit magnetized. She could 
 not account for this. Something had hap 
 pened, so new, so strange, so sweet; and 
 yet what it was she could not tell. Some- 
 
94 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 thing had happened. What? and as she 
 asked herself this question, she smiled, took 
 a quicker step, and then sighed and said 
 aloud, " Nonsense. What is he to me ? 
 What am I to him?" 
 
 Never had she known anything like this 
 before. Her heart was virgin, her spirits 
 untamed. The flatteries of all the men she 
 had ever met had been to her but as the idle 
 wind that blows upon dead leaves. They 
 had stirred no pulse in her veins, love she 
 had laughed at, nothing had ever wakened 
 a response in her heart. She was to all 
 their advances as hard as the granite rock. 
 But now a breath passed over her, which 
 was as it were nothing, and yet it had stirred 
 her spirit to its depths, and created a sud 
 den tumult in her thoughts which she could 
 neither understand nor explain. It was as 
 when a warm wind of spring dissolves the 
 rigid surface of ice which had long locked 
 up and frozen the genial current of some 
 placid stream, and where was once stillness 
 and silence is now the wild turbulent hurry 
 of an impetuous torrent, overflowing its 
 banks, and sweeping it knows not where. 
 As yet the ice in her nature was not melted, 
 the course of her thoughts not impetuous ; 
 
FIAMMETTA. 95 
 
 but the sense of a change had come, and the 
 prophetic feeling of something, she knew 
 not what, yet to come. 
 
 There was apparently no sufficient cause 
 for this change ; but a change there was, and 
 she felt it without acknowledging it, and 
 yielded to it simply. Her life had been in 
 the fields and moors and by the streams, 
 a child of nature, fed by its genial influence, 
 a playmate of the seasons, loving all natural 
 things, troubled by no self -introspections, 
 philosophical questionings, and worldly am 
 bitions, she had lived her life from day to 
 day, as the flowers live, as the trees live, as 
 any wild animal lives. Her strong affec 
 tions had never been roused and concen 
 trated on any one person or thing, but scat 
 tered on every side, on all forms of beauty 
 and grace, wherever she met them. Now 
 she was vibrating to a touch unknown be 
 fore, which brought from her spirit a thrill 
 of a strange new music, to which she lis 
 tened with surprise, and with a sense of rest 
 less pleasure. 
 
 The five miles she had to traverse seemed 
 to her shorter than she had ever known them 
 before, so busy were her thoughts. Thoughts 
 is too strong a word, however, to express 
 
96 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 what was passing in her mind. There was 
 nothing definite in them ; they went to no 
 end, and were animated by no distinct pur 
 pose or wish, save one, perhaps, to see Marco 
 again. Rather were they like the moonlit 
 misty haze which hid the depths of the val 
 ley below her and lent to it a sweet mysteri 
 ous beauty ; or like the faint breathings of 
 the air, that played in the leaves, with soft 
 and tender sighings, now rising and now 
 falling, as if the earth was whispering in its 
 sleep. 
 
 It was already dark when she came in 
 sight of the house where she lived. A light 
 was shining in the windows, where she knew 
 her grandmother and grandfather were wait 
 ing for her. When she arrived on the plat 
 form of green meadow before the house, she 
 paused. She was sorry her walk was over, 
 it had been so pleasant, never so pleasant 
 before, and now she must go in, now it must 
 end. Yet she stood still and did not move : 
 she could not bring her mind to go in. All 
 would be so different inside, the grand 
 mother would ask questions, and she did not 
 wish to talk ; and her grandfather tell her 
 she had stayed out too late, and they would 
 make her eat something, and all the prose 
 
FIAMMETTA. 97 
 
 would come again, and out under the stars 
 was so silent, so tender, so gentle, almost she 
 wished she could lie down and sleep all night 
 on the grass, so that she might not be obliged 
 to talk, and so she stood for a time dream 
 ing. 
 
 At last she heard the door open and saw 
 her grandfather come and peer out into the 
 night. "Ah, it is all over," she said to 
 herself now, and she moved forwards to 
 him. 
 
 " Alt, that is you at last, Fiammetta," he 
 cried, " how late you are ? Come in, child ! 
 Your Nonna has been wondering for the 
 last half hour where you were, and whether 
 something might not have happened to you." 
 
 " Am I late ? " said Fiammetta. 
 
 " Very late come in ; " and she went in. 
 
 Her grandmother was sitting by the table 
 knitting a pair of stockings. She looked up, 
 and said, " How late you are, child ; where 
 have you been ? " 
 
 " You know, Nonna, you sent me down to 
 the Villa." 
 
 " Have you been nowhere else ? " 
 
 " No ; nowhere." 
 
 " And did you see the Signer Conte ? " 
 
 " Yes, Nonna." 
 
 7 
 
98 FJAMMETTA. 
 
 "And did you give him the strawber 
 ries?" 
 
 " Yes, Nonna." 
 
 " And what did he say ? " 
 
 "He thanked you very much, and said 
 you were very kind to think of him." 
 
 "Anything else?" 
 
 " Yes, Nonna. He was very sorry for 
 your rheumatism." 
 
 " Is anything the matter with you, child ? 
 Why don t you tell me all about him ? What 
 else did he say? How did he look ? " 
 
 " He said he would come up and see you." 
 
 " Sant Antonio ! will he, indeed. I shall 
 be so happy to see him again. He always 
 was a good kind youth was n t he, To- 
 nio?" 
 
 " Aye ; he was," said the grandfather. 
 
 " Well, well ; to think of his being grown 
 up to be a man now. Let me see, it is how 
 many years since I saw him ? Eh, Tonio ? " 
 
 " Some ten years, I think that is, some 
 where about ten years. Let me see it was 
 just about the time when we bought our don 
 key, and that must be some ten years ago." 
 
 " So long, so long ; how the years go by ! 
 He was a handsome youth then. How does 
 he look now, Fiammetta? Tell us all about 
 
FIAMMETTA. 99 
 
 him. Has he grown up to be as handsome 
 as he promised ? Did he remember you ? " 
 1 " Yes ! No ! I don t know," said Fiam- 
 metta. 
 
 " Bless me, Fiammetta, have you lost your 
 tongue ? Can t you tell me how he looked ? 
 Is he tall ? Is he handsome ? Did you like 
 him?" 
 
 " Yes, he is tall, I think ; he is handsome, 
 I suppose." 
 
 "Well, if that is all you can say, it is 
 pretty plain that he did not make much im 
 pression on you. I don t believe you even 
 looked at him enough to tell me how he 
 looked. But no matter, he is coming here, 
 and I shall see and judge for myself." 
 
 Then the grandmother looked steadily at 
 Fiammetta with a scrutinizing glance, and 
 said, "Is anything the matter with you, 
 child?" 
 
 " No, nothing, Nonna." 
 
 " What makes you look so, then ?" 
 
 " I don t know, Nonna ; nothing is the 
 matter with me." 
 
 " I am afraid you have walked too far and 
 too fast. You look feverish. Did anything 
 happen to you on the road or down at the 
 Villa?" 
 
100 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 " No, Nonna ; not that I know." 
 " Well, go to bed ; that is the best thing 
 for you, and perhaps to-morrow you will be 
 able to find your tongue and tell us some 
 thing more." 
 
 Glad to get away, Fiammetta took her 
 light and left the room after saying good 
 night. Yes ; she was glad to be alone again, 
 and to have no questions asked, and to be 
 cross-examined no further. How could she 
 answer such questions ? How could she tell 
 what he looked like ? How could she say 
 whether she liked him, and what was the 
 matter with her? She did not know her 
 self. Perhaps it was a fever, who could tell ? 
 Perhaps in the morning, when she had slept, 
 she should wake up and find everything dif 
 ferent from what it was now, and like what 
 it used to be ? Perhaps, and then again, 
 perhaps he had cast a spell upon her ? 
 There is no doubt, she thought, that some 
 persons can cast spells on persons and cat 
 tle and sheep, and then what is to be done ? 
 " But I don t care," she said, as she got into 
 bed and blew out her light ; " I don t care if 
 he has ; no, I don t care if he has." 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE next morning, when Marco arose, a 
 strong desire seized him to go to work again. 
 He had been so long idle, mooning about and 
 doing nothing, that he began to weary of it 
 art again claimed him. " At this rate," 
 he said, " I shall do nothing all summer, and 
 I will take my sketch-book to-day and see if 
 I can find anything that will really make a 
 picture. After all, laziness begins to pall at 
 last, and I have had enough of it." 
 
 So he took his sketch-book, and wandered 
 out into the woods, almost without any in 
 tention to go to any place at least so he 
 thought ; yet almost, perhaps not quite, un 
 consciously his steps took the direction of 
 the Casetta, as it was called, where Antonio 
 and Gigia lived. 
 
 As he walked along, and sometimes paused 
 and threw himself on the grass, the image 
 of Fiammetta pursued him. He could not 
 get her out of his thoughts. Her beauty, 
 her wild grace, as of some uncultivated 
 
102 .FIAXtfSTJ A. 
 
 flower, haunted him. " What eyes ! what 
 eyes ! " he said to himself. " They fairly 
 magnetized me. And what a figure ! There 
 is something in the child that affects me 
 more than I like to own to myself. How 
 she looked at me! Who could have been 
 her father ? There is evidently in her veins 
 the blood of some noble race everything 
 shows it. It is not mere peasant blood 
 no, no ! but some high graft of civilization 
 on a sturdy wild peasant stock. That must 
 be it. There is a sort of fatality about her. 
 What a smile ! Poor Tonietta I that was a 
 sad story enough, but all that passion of 
 hers, all that strength that comes from suf 
 fering, must have passed into this poor 
 child s soul, though she knows it not." 
 
 Thus wandering along, and communing 
 with himself despite himself thinking con 
 stantly of Fiammetta he at last came to 
 an opening of the woods, and down on the 
 side of the hill saw the old farmhouse of the 
 Casetta, where Gigia and Antonio lived. 
 
 Here he paused, and reasoned with him 
 self. " I should better not go in," he 
 thought. " It will be better for me and 
 Fiammetta that I should not go there. For 
 somehow or other I seem to feel that that 
 
FIAMMETTA. 103 
 
 well that I should better not go. But 
 why not ? I promised Fiammetta to go and 
 call upon old Gigia, and one ought to keep 
 one s promises; and, besides, I know the 
 poor old woman will be glad to see me, and 
 I ought to thank her for the strawberries. 
 She cannot come to me, and she will think 
 it an honor (God bless the mark, what poor 
 creatures we all are !) if I go to see her. 
 But, I know not why, there is something 
 within me tells me not to go tells me it is 
 a step on a shelving precipice. Yet why? 
 Lead me not into temptation. Bah ! Every 
 thing is a temptation in life that has any 
 worth in it. All depends on what the temp 
 tation is. Should we confine ourselves to 
 the fruit that is sour and bitter and unripe, 
 because it does not tempt us? and is it 
 wrong to take the ripe luscious fruit that 
 does tempt us ? Does God make beauty 
 only to tempt us? That, I should think, 
 was rather the devil s work. But here there 
 is no temptation to wrong. It is simply a 
 matter of courtesy to go and see the old wo 
 man ; and if Fiammetta is there, is that my 
 fault ? And then, again, let me not lie to 
 myself, I must see Fiammetta again. Why ? 
 She can live without seeing me, and of course 
 
104 F1AMMETTA. 
 
 I can live without seeing her. Perhaps, if I 
 see her again, the impression I received from 
 her yesterday will be cancelled at once. It 
 was the magic of the twilight and the sur 
 prise that lent her that peculiar grace and 
 charm. In broad daylight all things wear a 
 different aspect. Besides, I am curious to 
 see if she again will look as she did last 
 night. Here I am inventing obstacles that 
 are mere shadows, and working up a mighty 
 mystery out of nothing. I must be a little 
 out of sorts. I to fall in love with a peasant 
 girl ! I ! This is my foolish way of going 
 on, and poetizing about mere common facts. 
 The fact is, I must cure myself of it." 
 
 Having thus resolved, he went straight to 
 the Casetta, and there he found Gigia alone. 
 She overwhelmed him with thanks for his 
 kindness in coming to see her, and told him 
 how he had grown, and how well she remem 
 bered him when he was a boy a bright lit 
 tle boy only so high, you know, and now 
 to think that he was such a piece of a man, 
 and was a great painter, so she was told. 
 "No! no! not like the old Count, though 
 there is a little kind of something like him. 
 But, oh dear ! yes, so like the Countess of 
 blessed memory, his mother ah, a good, 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 105 
 
 good woman. You don t remember her, I 
 suppose ? Ah no, how could you ? you were 
 so small. Yes ; do you really ? you do re 
 member her. Ah yes ; you were five when 
 she died, so you might remember her. I 
 wondered how you looked, and I asked Fi- 
 ammetta last night all about you ; but I 
 could get nothing out of her, she would not 
 say anything. She was tired, I suppose. It 
 was a long walk, not that it is a long walk 
 for her, for she is gone sometimes the whole 
 day. But I was afraid that she was a little 
 feverish, she looked so. But no, this morn 
 ing she seemed all right, and for a wonder 
 she has stayed near the house all the morn 
 ing. She must be here now, I think. Fiam- 
 metta ! Fiammetta ! where are you ? Come 
 here, the Signor Conte is here." 
 
 No answer was made, and Gigia went and 
 looked out of the door and called again, but 
 all in vain. 
 
 " Ah, well," she said at last, " she s not 
 here ; she s gone away somewhere. Ah, 
 here s Tonio. I say, Tonio, here s the Sig 
 nor Conte." 
 
 So Tonio came in and shook hands, and 
 was proud to see the Conte in his house, and 
 asked the same questions that Gigia had, 
 
106 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 and told about his farm and the cattle, and 
 the weather, and all the stock subjects, and 
 then Gigia said, 
 
 " Tonio, when you came in I was just call 
 ing for Fiammetta. Have you seen her? 
 She was here a little while ago. She would 
 like, I am sure, to see the Signor Conte. 
 Where is she now, I wonder ? " 
 
 " Up at the cascata, I think it probable," 
 said Tonio. " It s a favorite haunt of hers, 
 and I think I heard her voice, singing, as I 
 came down the hill. But who can tell where 
 she is ? she is as wild as a partridge, and I 
 wonder sometimes," he added with a laugh, 
 " whether she will not fly off like them and 
 never return." 
 
 " Ah, Tonio, don t say that," cried Gigia. 
 " Madonna mia ! I pray not. Ah, sig- 
 nor! signor! it was once our fate, and it 
 broke our hearts. Her mother, you know." 
 
 " Ah, yes ! I know," said Marco, sympa 
 thetically. 
 
 " But," continued Gigia, " that is all over 
 now, all but the wound that never quite 
 heals; but I beg your pardon, I did not 
 mean to bother you with our troubles. Every 
 one has enough of his own, and the Lord 
 preserve you from all evils of every kind I 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 107 
 
 But, basta ; yes, I dare say she is up at the 
 cascata" 
 
 " And where is that? " asked Marco. 
 
 " Oh, up the valley there. You see those 
 trees that shelve down on both sides to a 
 deep defile. Well, there is a mountain 
 stream which pours down there, and just 
 above is a fall of water about a mile up, 
 that we call the cascata. Fiammetta is 
 pretty sure to be somewhere about there. I 
 am sorry she is not at home. And will you, 
 signor, have a glass of wine, or of milk, and 
 a bit of cheese. Our cheese is pretty good, 
 and the milk, if you like milk, I can truly 
 recommend. Pray, let me bring you some." 
 
 Marco thanked her, and accepted her of 
 fer ; and she brought him a bowl of sweet 
 milk, which he drank, saying, " Excellent, 
 excellent. I never tasted better milk." 
 
 Then he lingered and chatted with them 
 a while, in the hope that Fiammetta might 
 return ; but he was disappointed, and after 
 waiting a good half hour, he bade them 
 good-by, saying, " Remember me to Fiam 
 metta." 
 
 At first he turned his footsteps homeward ; 
 but after going a little way he stopped, 
 thought a few minutes, and altered his di- 
 
108 F1AMMETTA. 
 
 rection towards the valley where Tonio told 
 him the cascata lay. Silently he made his 
 way along, sometimes hesitating and stop 
 ping, and then pursuing his path, as if he 
 could not decisively make up his mind what 
 to do. There was scarcely any definite road, 
 only here and there were vestiges of paths, 
 for the most part entirely overgrown with 
 grass, and showing that but few persons had 
 travelled over them. At last he found his 
 way down a steep slope of firs, on whose car 
 pet of brown needles his foot fell softly, and 
 came upon a mountain torrent that was bub 
 bling and foaming down its rocky bed, and 
 finding its way through massive boulders, so 
 old and huge that they seemed as if they had 
 been flung there by the Titans of old in some 
 desperate contest. The beauty of the place 
 arrested him. High overhead towered on 
 either slope a magnificent growth of beeches, 
 some throwing out their branches over the 
 stream as if in protection, and weaving a 
 tessellated roof of quivering leaves against 
 the sky. Looking up the gorge into the dis 
 tance, there was a deep dell of green, illu 
 minated by the sun, and over-canopied by a 
 mass of delicate foliage, through which the 
 light, piercing here and there, gleamed on 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 109 
 
 the smooth trunks of the beeches and the 
 shadows of the leaves as they wavered to and 
 fro, and the delicate breeze played fitfully 
 across them. The boulders were crusted and 
 diapered over with cushions of variegated 
 mosses, and against them sunlit ferns spread 
 out their traceries and printed their fingered 
 shadows. Adown the shelving rocks on 
 either side clung and trailed in lush confu 
 sion a tangled growth of brambles, eglantine, 
 and ivy, whose groping sprays, stretching out 
 for support, wavered to and fro in the light 
 breeze. The banks were enamelled with 
 purple, blue, and golden wild-flowers, that 
 glowed amid the fine spiring grasses and 
 broken brown earth ; and groups of bushes 
 fringed here and there 4ihe torrent. All was 
 silent ; no noise disturbed the serenity of 
 the place, where only was heard the whisper 
 of the trees and the gurgle of the stream 
 as it sang its low perpetual song over the 
 stones. Here and there the clear waters 
 rounded into brown pools with pebbled bot 
 toms, over which skated groups of water- 
 flies in rapid circles, and in whose depths 
 were mirrored the overhanging trees and the 
 still blue sky beyond. Slender dragon-flies 
 poised gleaming over the water, darting to 
 
110 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 and fro in the sunshine on their glassy iris- 
 huecl wings ; and now and then some little 
 bird fluttered through or rested to drink at 
 the clear basins, and piped a little song and 
 then vanished. The world and all its vani 
 ties seemed a thousand miles away, and as 
 if it never existed. 
 
 Tired and hot, Marco here rested, took 
 off his hat to feel the cool wind on his brow, 
 sat down on one of the mossy stones, and 
 gave himself up to reverie. Here was peace. 
 The murmurous sounds lulled him, and a 
 dreamy sense of calm came over him as he 
 surrendered himself up to the influence of 
 the place, not struggling against Nature, 
 but yielding to her will and gentle sway, 
 and content for the time to live, even as the 
 trees and flowers. 
 
 Suddenly he heard at a short distance up 
 the valley, a sweet argentine voice singing, 
 as it were, to the accompaniment of the gur 
 gling stream. It came low and faint to his 
 ear, and he could not catch the words, but 
 the air was one of those natural melodies 
 that are so common in Italy a sweet, and 
 yet somewhat melancholy strain, with pro 
 longations of each final note as the line or 
 verse closed, and pauses, and then the next 
 
FIAMMETTA. Ill 
 
 line taken up and sung. He listened en 
 chanted. Something there was in it so re 
 fined, so in harmony with the scene, that it 
 seemed like the voice of Nature singing to 
 itself, as if the spirit of the brook had taken 
 voice and was singing to itself. Who could 
 it be ? What could it be ? he asked himself, 
 and half held his breath, fearing it would 
 come to an end. 
 
 And so, after a few minutes, it did ; and 
 the butterflies wavered about, and the insects 
 hummed, and the brook gurgled, and the 
 trees rustled, but the voice and the singing 
 ceased. 
 
 Curious to know whence the song came, 
 he slowly advanced up the valley, keeping 
 to the watercourse, stepping from stone to 
 stone across it, pausing at intervals, peering 
 forward, and moving as noiselessly as he 
 could. At last he came to a sudden turn of 
 the brook, and through the trees saw the 
 figure of a girl sitting on one of the boulders. 
 It was Fiammetta. Hidden by the trees, he 
 was invisible to her, and he stopped and 
 gazed at her as she sat in the half light, 
 dappled with the shadows of the trees, half 
 turned away from him, and utterly uncon 
 scious of the presence of any human being. 
 
112 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 She had taken off her shoes and stockings, 
 and one foot was dipped into the pool of 
 brown water beneath, into which she was 
 looking. Her head was uncovered, her upper 
 dress had been loosened, and exposed her 
 shoulders and bosom, over which fell, in long, 
 black, curling masses, her rich and beautiful 
 hair. Apparently she had been bathing, or, 
 perhaps, secure of her privacy, and heated 
 by exercise, she had half undressed herself 
 to enjoy the coolness of the breeze and of the 
 water ; and now, when Marco first caught 
 sight of her, she was looking down into the 
 water, lost in reverie, and, as it were, com 
 muning with herself. 
 
 Marco stood transfixed, and gazed at her 
 for a time in silence and surprise, taking in 
 the whole scene, the secluded beauty of 
 the place, the grace and perfectness of the 
 figure, as if in fear that he should lose 
 this exquisite picture, for picture it was to 
 him. For a moment the artist subdued the 
 man. Imagination drove out all feeling of 
 personality. She was not Fiammetta ; he 
 was not Marco, and he murmured to him 
 self, " How beautiful ! It is my naiad, that 
 I dreamed of, but never hoped to see. This 
 is the picture I must paint. Here is my 
 summer s work." 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 113 
 
 Silently he gazed, not moving, but drink 
 ing in the whole scene ; striving to satiate 
 the thirst of his eyes and imagination ; fear 
 ing to lose anything, and impressing as well 
 as he could on his memory all its effect and 
 all its detail. He stood there entranced, as 
 Actaeon might have stood when he suddenly 
 surprised Artemis and her nymph. But 
 Actaeon was only the hunter and the man ; 
 Marco, for the moment, was only the artist. 
 
 As he bent forward, a dead branch cracked 
 under his foot. Fiammetta heard it, and in 
 stantly looked up, her large dark eyes search 
 ing the wood. Marco then advanced, and 
 cried, " Fiammetta, is that you ? " 
 
 She sprang to her feet in an instant ; drew 
 her dress hurriedly together, and fixed her 
 steady eyes on him a moment in alarm, and 
 then she cried, " Oh, Signor Conte ! " 
 
 There was no bashfulness, no sense of be 
 ing surprised, no indication of offended mod 
 esty in her reception of him. Why should 
 there be ? She was perfectly innocent, and 
 the mere fact that her arms, bosom, and legs 
 were nude, did not carry with it to her mind 
 any idea of impropriety. The legs and arms 
 of half the girls that toiled over the hills 
 were bare as hers were then. That meant 
 
 8 
 
114 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 nothing, and never had meant anything to 
 her mind, or to the mind of any of the peas 
 ants with whom she lived. All such ideas are 
 merely the result of habit and convention. 
 
 Nor for a moment did Marco attach any 
 significance to this. He was an artist, and 
 he knew how little nudity had to do with 
 modesty. All that impressed him was her 
 singular beauty ; her correspondence to the 
 idea he had conceived of a naiad ; her per 
 fection as a model for the picture he desired 
 to paint. 
 
 Nor was she surprised to see him. All the 
 long morning he had been in her thoughts ; 
 and remembering that he had promised to 
 visit her grandmother, she had lingered, con 
 trary to her custom, near the house, lest if 
 he should take a fancy to come that day, she 
 might miss seeing him. But as noon came 
 on and he did not make his appearance, she 
 gave up all hope of his coining, and betook 
 herself to this spot, which was one of her 
 favorite haunts during the summer. There 
 she had been for an hour, listening to the 
 music of the woods, and lost in reverie ; one 
 idea despite herself hunting persistently 
 through her thoughts, and returning perti 
 naciously, however she strove to drive it 
 
FIAMMETTA. 115 
 
 away. So filled was her mind with his im 
 age, that when she looked up and beheld him 
 standing before her, it scarcely startled her. 
 
 "And what are you doing here, Fiam- 
 metta? " at last he said. 
 
 " Nothing, Signor Conte ; only dreaming." 
 
 " Of what were you dreaming ? Of whom, 
 Fiammetta?" 
 
 Then a rosy blush rushed into her cheeks, 
 and she was silent. 
 
 " Then you won t tell me what you were 
 thinking of. It is a secret, I suppose." 
 
 " No, signor," she answered. " It is not 
 a secret, and it is nothing wrong ; but it is 
 not worth telling. I cannot tell you. Why 
 should you care to know ? " 
 
 " Oh, I beg your pardon," said Marco. 
 " I did not mean anything. I did not wish 
 to force your confidence. Only you seemed 
 so abstracted that I was curious, imperti 
 nently perhaps, to know what so occupied 
 your thoughts." 
 
 " I should rather not tell you," she said. 
 " You would not understand." 
 
 " Certainly ; don t tell me. Let me tell 
 you rather what I was thinking of when I 
 saw you here. But no matter ; perhaps you 
 would not understand." 
 
116 F 1 AM M ETTA. 
 
 She looked at him with a peculiar expres 
 sion, as the thought passed suddenly across 
 her that as she had been thinking of him, so 
 perhaps he had been thinking of her ; and 
 she felt a certain thrill at the thought. But 
 
 O 
 
 what could he have been thinking of her? 
 Then she said, 
 
 " Did you know I was here, signor? " 
 
 " No," he answered. " No ; that is, not 
 exactly. I have been to call on your grand 
 mother. I promised, you know, to go and 
 see her." 
 
 " Yes, signor." 
 
 " And you were not at home, you know, 
 and I asked how you were, and where you 
 were, as I did not see you ; and she told me 
 you were up here in this direction at the 
 cascata, as she called the place. So I strolled 
 along through the woods to see what sort of 
 a place it was that you selected as your fa 
 vorite haunt ; and, Fiammetta I may call 
 you Fiammetta, may I not ? " 
 
 She looked at him with surprise. " Why 
 not? that is my name." 
 
 44 But you know that in the city we don t 
 call young ladies of your age by their first 
 name, unless we are old friends." 
 
 "Don t you?" said she. "How odd I 
 
FIAMMETTA. 117 
 
 But I am not a young lady, and so it is all 
 different." 
 
 " And as I was saying," he went on, " I 
 wandered in this direction in the hope that 
 I might see you." 
 
 " You wished to see me, signor. "Why ? " 
 
 " Ah ! that is difficult to explain ; but I 
 did wish to see you, and I am very glad I 
 came. Yes ; very glad indeed." 
 
 " So am I," she said, simply ; " that is, if 
 you are. I did not think you would wish to 
 see me again." 
 
 " Now it is my turn to ask you why. 
 Why should not I wish to see you ? " 
 
 " I don t know why you should, signor. 
 It is very kind of you to say so." 
 
 " Very kind of me to say so ? Ah ! I 
 don t see that. But I mean what I say. I 
 was afraid you would have too long a walk 
 last night and be tired ; and I wished to as 
 sure myself that nothing had happened to 
 you. The woods are so lonely at night, and 
 there are dangers sometimes to a handsome 
 girl like you, all unprotected. Your grand 
 mother ought not to allow you to be out so 
 late all alone." 
 
 "Oh, I am not afraid, signor. Nobody 
 would harm me." 
 
118 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 " I don t know that. You must promise 
 me not to do this any more." 
 
 " Why should you care, signer?" 
 
 " Well, I do care. Will you make me 
 this promise ? " 
 
 " I will do anything you ask me to do ; " 
 and then she paused, and added "no mat 
 ter what it is." 
 
 " That is having a very great confidence 
 in me." 
 
 " Si, signer." 
 
 " Why should you have any confidence in 
 me? You don t know me. You don t 
 know what I might ask you to do. I might 
 ask you to do something very wrong." 
 
 " No, signor ; you never would." 
 
 " How do you know ? " 
 
 " I trust you. I don t know how I know ; 
 but I look in your face, and I know. You 
 will never tell me to do anything wrong. 
 You will always be good to me. I see it 
 I see it as I see that tree, and know it is a 
 tree. I do not need to think about it. When 
 one sees a thing, one sees it that is all. I 
 shall never more believe in anybody or any 
 thing, if I am deceived in this." 
 
 " My dear Fiammetta ! " he said, for he 
 was touched by this utter confidence ; " you 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 119 
 
 are right. You may trust me. I will never 
 ask you to do anything that is wrong. I 
 promise you that." 
 
 He had seated himself on the grass at her 
 feet, and she had resumed her place on the 
 boulder. As he said these last words he 
 looked up in her face, and she looked down 
 at him. There was something singularly 
 winning in this child s simplicity, he thought. 
 She was seventeen. She was still a child in 
 many things, and her eyes seemed filled with 
 deep still radiance, and were suffused by a 
 tearlike gleam as she looked at him. A 
 thousand unspoken vague presentiments and 
 feelings and impulses stirred in him, and a 
 tender strange interest drew him to her. 
 Something had grown up between them sud 
 denly ; without speech, or hidden within 
 their speech, and made manifest only by 
 tones and looks, and that subtle influence of 
 one soul over another which we call magnet 
 ism. 
 
 He said nothing ; but leaning over, bent 
 down his eyes and plucked the spires of 
 grass, and she looked vaguely into the 
 water. It was only a moment s silence, but 
 it might have been an hour for all she 
 knew ; and when he again spoke, it was as 
 
120 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 if she had been far, far away on a vague 
 journey, and now was recalled home. 
 
 "Fiammetta," he said, "I have a favor 
 to ask of you. Will you grant it? " 
 
 " I will if I can, signor, and gladly. 
 What is it?" 
 
 " I want you to be my model my 
 naiad." 
 
 " What is that, signor ? " she said ; and 
 she trembled, not knowing what he meant. 
 
 " A naiad," he answered, " is the protect 
 ing spirit of the stream, the torrent, the 
 brook. They do not exist except in fable ; 
 but they none the less live in the heart of all 
 who love nature, as you do." 
 
 " Oh yes, signor. I love nature ; I love 
 everything in nature the birds, the flow 
 ers, the insects, the trees, the brooks. Ah, 
 yes! most of all I love the brooks. They 
 talk to me forever ; they tell me I know not 
 what ; and I listen and listen for hours to 
 them, and wonder what they are saying, 
 that is so fine, so far, so sweet. Tell me 
 more about these spirits. Are they saints ? " 
 
 " No, not what we mean by saints. The 
 ancient people who used to live here and in 
 Greece, long, long centuries ago, loved and 
 worshipped nature, and they imagined that 
 
FIAMMETTA. 121 
 
 there were spirits and gentle creatures who 
 guarded and protected the trees and the 
 mountains and the brooks. They were 
 beautiful and immortal, and were sometimes 
 seen by mortals. The guardians of the 
 mountains were called oreads, and those of 
 the trees dryads, and those of the brooks 
 naiads." 
 
 " I think these old people were right. I 
 sometimes think I see such creatures such 
 spirits and I know I hear them at times 
 in the mountains while I am roaming alone 
 in the trees when they are talking with 
 the winds in the brooks, too. Ah, yes ! 
 in the brooks, certainly. Listen to this now, 
 signer, and tell me what it says. Something 
 it says. And then, again, I hear them 
 shriek when the great trees are struck by 
 the axe. Ah ! it sounds so cruel that ring 
 of the axe ; and when with a crash they fall 
 to the earth, that is always horrible to me. 
 I pray them to save the trees ; but they 
 laugh at me. Perhaps they are right ; but 
 it hurts me to hear a tree fall." 
 
 " Those that you hear shrieking when the 
 trees fall are the dryads. But what I want 
 you to be is a naiad, the spirit of the brook 
 of this very brook." 
 
122 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 " I don t know exactly what you want me 
 to do ; but I will do it if I can." 
 
 " I will tell you. A year ago I made a 
 sketch of a naiad sitting on a mossy boulder 
 over a torrent, that foamed along as this 
 does. It was the spirit that protected the 
 torrent ; and it sat there, dreaming and gaz 
 ing into just such a brown, shallow, pebbly 
 mirror of water as this. It was only a 
 sketch, but it pleased one of my dearest 
 friends ; and when I was coming awaj 7 from 
 Rome he said, c Take that sketch with you, 
 and paint it, or something like it, this sum 
 mer from nature. There you will find your 
 inspiration, and your mountain torrents will 
 give you your facts. What you will not 
 find, I am afraid, is your naiad. That, in 
 deed, will be difficult ; but seek for her. 
 Well, I promised, and came away, and since 
 then I have not thought of it until to-day 
 until an hour ago I came up the valley in 
 search of you, as I told you, but I found 
 you not ; and at last, tired and hot, I sat 
 down on one of the rocks below, just out of 
 sight, never imagining that you were near 
 me. As I was sitting there, I heard your 
 voice singing up the defile, and I rose and 
 came forward ; and I saw you sitting here, 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 123 
 
 half in sun and half in shade, with the 
 brook beneath you, and the trees above you ; 
 and I cried out to myself, with a pang of 
 pleasure, Ah ! there is my naiad. Fiam- 
 metta shall be my naiad, and this shall be 
 the stream which she presides over and pro 
 tects. Now, Fiammetta, will you be my 
 naiad ? Will you be my model, and let 
 me paint this beautiful place, and you sit 
 ting on the rocks and guarding it ? " 
 
 " Yes," she said ; " but I must sit there 
 then and let you paint me. Will it take a 
 long time ? " 
 
 " Yes. I am afraid it will, and I shall 
 have to ask you to come here a good many 
 mornings. Will it bore you very much ? I 
 will do it as fast as I can, and I shall count 
 it a very great favor." 
 
 " Oh, signer ; is that all ? Ah, that will 
 never bore me. No, no ! But I am afraid 
 I am not fit to serve you as a model." 
 
 " Ah well ; leave that to me. I am satis 
 fied. I want nothing different from you 
 if I can only make you as you are." 
 
 "And then I shall be with you all the 
 mornings every morning ? " 
 
 " Yes ; all the mornings, if you will." 
 
 " Oh yes ; I wiU, certainly." 
 
124 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 " Tell your grandmother I want you, and 
 tell her all about it. I do not think she will 
 object. And as for all the time you lose in 
 sitting to me, I will make that all right to 
 her." 
 
 "Signor!" 
 
 " Certainly. I have no right to take up 
 your time." 
 
 " If you say that again, signer, I will not 
 come at all ! " And she stood up, and a fire 
 flashed out of her eyes. Then she turned 
 away, and covered her face with her hands. 
 
 " Fiammetta, Fiammetta mia ! " said 
 Marco, " have I offended you ? " 
 
 " I did not think you could say that," she 
 answered. " I will not be bought by any 
 body. I will come for you if you wish for 
 me, freely, without recompense, or I will not 
 come at all. Nothing, nothing on earth shall 
 induce me to take money for it. Oh, signer, 
 signer, how you have mortified me ! " and 
 she burst into a passion of tears. 
 
 Marco was quite taken aback. He came 
 forward to her, took her hands in his, looked 
 in her face, and said, " I am sorry, Fiam 
 metta ; I did not mean to offend you. Pray 
 do not cry. Forgive me ! I will take you 
 freely, as you offer yourself, and thank you 
 
FIAMMETTA. 125 
 
 from the bottom of my soul. Fiammetta, 
 look at me, and say you forgive me." 
 
 She smiled at him through her tears. The 
 brief thunderstorm went by, and the sun 
 shone out over her face. 
 
 " There is nothing to forgive, signor. You 
 did not mean to hurt me ; but you did hurt 
 me. Let us think no more about it. It is 
 past. When shall I come to you ? " 
 
 " I will begin to-morrow, if you like." 
 
 "And at what hour?" 
 
 " Let me see it is now six o clock. The 
 shadows are getting too long and deep in this 
 valley. Let us say two o clock, and then I 
 shall have the light I had when I first saw 
 you, and it will give me time to draw in the 
 general outline and mass. I shall perhaps 
 come earlier, so as to begin and not to 
 trouble you so long." 
 
 " I told you it was no trouble, signor. I 
 always speak the truth. Whatever else I 
 am, I am sincere. I do not like lies." 
 
 " Ah, you don t know yet what a bore it 
 is to sit for one s picture." 
 
 " No, signor ; but I don t think it will be 
 to me to you it may be." 
 
 " Certainly not to me," said Marco, with 
 a laugh. " Most certainly not to me, as long 
 as you are my model." 
 
126 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 So it was agreed, and as the sun was west 
 ering, and Marco had a long walk before 
 him, he said good-by. 
 
 " Do you know your shortest way ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 " Pretty well. I think I can find it." 
 
 " I will go with you, and show you a 
 little way at least if you have no objection. 
 I can show you a short cut." 
 
 " Thank you. You are very kind. It is 
 on your way home, is it not ? " 
 
 44 Part of the way it is." 
 
 So they walked along together for a little 
 distance, and said little, both occupied with 
 their own thoughts. At last Fiammetta said, 
 " I have been thinking, signor, that you 
 will have things to bring over to-morrow to 
 work with, a bag, perhaps, that it will 
 trouble you to carry. Shall I come over and 
 carry them for you ? " 
 
 44 Good gracious ! Fiammetta, what are 
 you thinking of? Do you suppose I would 
 let you carry my things for me ? " 
 
 44 1 am very strong, signor, though perhaps 
 you do not think so. I can carry them all 
 on my head." 
 
 44 My dear Fiammetta, I would not have 
 you do it for the world. No ! no ! no ! and 
 
FIAMMETTA. 127 
 
 a thousand times no ! I should be ashamed 
 to do such a thing ; all the same I thank you 
 for your kind thought. I will bring them 
 all over on the donkey. That will be best." 
 
 " As you will, signor," said she, humbly. 
 
 " You know I thank you all the same." 
 
 " Yes, signor ; but I should have liked to 
 carry them for you." 
 
 At a turning of the valley Fiammetta 
 pointed out to Marco his way. And they 
 shook hands. 
 
 " We are friends. You have forgiven me 
 really ? " said he. 
 
 She nodded her head and smiled, and they 
 parted. 
 
 " A strange girl," he said to himself, as he 
 walked along ; "so simple, so sensitive, so 
 fiery, so gentle. I wonder what Carlo would 
 say to all this?" 
 
 She walked slowly home, and said nothing 
 to herself. What was there to say? She 
 did not yet quite know what it all meant ; 
 but she was none the less aware that the 
 twilight air was different, and that all the 
 world had changed. Faithful to her word, 
 she told her grandmother all that had oc 
 curred, and her grandmother made no objec 
 tion to her sitting to Marco as his model. 
 
128 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 " But you must dress yourself differently, 
 child," she said, " and tie up your hair neatly, 
 and put on your best frock and shoes. It 
 will never do to go looking as you do now." 
 
 " He did not say so," said Fiammetta. 
 "No, Nonna, I shall wear the same old 
 things, until he tells me to change them. 
 He knows what he wants, and we do not." 
 
 " Very well," said her grandmother, " do 
 as you think best for to-morrow ; but you 
 know you do look like a fright in that old 
 dress." 
 
 " He did not say so," she repeated. 
 
 " Of course he did n t. He did not like 
 to. But do you ask him to-morrow." 
 
 " Yes ; I will do that," she said. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE next morning Marco busied himself 
 in arranging for his picture. He unrolled 
 his canvas and fastened it on its stretcher, 
 looked carefully over all his colors and 
 brushes, and saw that all was in order. 
 Then he took from his portfolio the sketch, 
 and examined it, and pondered it long. " It 
 is curious," he thought ; " this sketch seems 
 to prefigure the very spot and the very scene 
 of yesterday, and even the figure of the 
 naiad is not unlike that of Fiammetta. Al 
 most it seems as if it were, as they say, a 
 sort of second-sight, or foresight, such as one 
 sometimes has in dreams. I suppose Fate 
 willed that I should paint this picture. 
 After all, how little, with all our preten 
 sions, we order the events of our life. A 
 secret power seems to drive us along the 
 predestined path we are to tread, and 
 whether we will or not we must take it. A 
 good genius or a bad genius leads us where 
 we are to go ; and since we cannot refuse its 
 
130 F1AMMETTA. 
 
 leading, how are we responsible? It is a 
 comfortable philosophy, at all events, to be 
 lieve this. How can we prearrange the 
 course our life is to take ? Willy, nilly, we 
 go as we are directed." 
 
 Then he sat and thought of Fiammetta 
 not so much of her as she really was, but as 
 he intended her to be in his picture ; how 
 he should pose her, what her dress should 
 be " Well, we will leave that to chance," 
 he thought, " or what we call chance. I will 
 let her alone to take what attitude she 
 chooses. I have a feeling that she and Na 
 ture will arrange all that for me better than 
 I can arrange it for myself." 
 
 "Let me see whether I have everything 
 easel, charcoal, oil, turpentine, canvas, 
 brushes, palette - knife, pocket - knife, rags. 
 Stop, let me see. I had better find another 
 rag. This is too much soiled." So saying, 
 he went to his drawer to see if he could 
 find any ; and turning its contents over, he 
 came upon a little box, which he opened. 
 " Corals ! " he exclaimed, " that is just the 
 thing. Now, see what chance does. I 
 should never have thought of this. I will 
 put it on her neck ; and she shall have it to 
 keep, after she has ceased to be my naiad, 
 for remembrance." 
 
FIAMMETTA. 131 
 
 Having arranged everything, he called 
 Pietro and told him he was going out to 
 paint a picture up near the Casetta, " and 
 as I cannot carry all these things myself," 
 he said, "I must have the donkey; so get 
 him ready at once." So Pietro put the 
 great heavy saddle on the donkey, and all 
 the things were piled upon it and safely se 
 cured. 
 
 " Shall I go with you ? " said Pietro. 
 
 " No ; I shall manage it very well alone." 
 
 And off he set. The way was long, the 
 day was hot, and what with stoppages to 
 breathe and cool himself, it was a good hour 
 and a half before he arrived. But there 
 was Fiammetta waiting for him. 
 
 " Ah, you are here before me," he cried. 
 
 " I have been here an hour, signor." 
 
 " Bah, how hot I am ! " he exclaimed, as 
 he flung himself down on the grass. " It s 
 a long pull, Fiammetta." 
 
 " Lie down and rest," said she, " and I 
 will look after the donkey and take off all 
 the things. Leave all that to me, signor." 
 
 " No, no ! I will do it myself in a few 
 minutes ; there is no hurry." 
 
 " No, signor ; you must let me do it. I 
 am used to it. Please let me do it." 
 
132 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 He consented, and lay on the grass and 
 watched her as she moved about, and 
 thought how deftly she did it all, and how 
 graceful she was. Every now and then she 
 turned to him and said, " Is that right ? " 
 and smiled. And he smiled back and said, 
 "All right." It was a pleasure to them 
 both to him to be waited on and cared 
 for ; to her to wait upon him. It seemed to 
 bring them nearer together, and to be some 
 how or other the most natural thing in the 
 world. 
 
 " And the donkey," she said, after she had 
 unloaded him. " I think we will tie him up 
 in the woods ; he will find enough to browse 
 on there." 
 
 We will tie him up we, not I. That 
 little word seemed to make them one. 
 
 " Yes ; that will be best," said he. 
 
 She led him away, was gone for a few 
 minutes, and then returned. 
 
 " Do you know," said he, " it is very pleas 
 ant to be waited upon by you, Fiammetta ? " 
 
 " It is so little, signor, that I can do." 
 
 " I don t know whether it is little or much, 
 but it is very pleasant. I should like to be 
 here all day and look at you moving about 
 me. I ve a great mind to do nothing else, 
 
FIAMMETTA. 133 
 
 but let you do all there is to do. It is so 
 delightful to be lazy and to have one s work 
 done for one, when it is done so prettily and 
 kindly. You shall take the canvas and the 
 brushes and paint for me." 
 
 "Ah! I think so," she said. And she 
 laughed a merry and musical laugh, and 
 seemed much amused at the idea. " I wish 
 I could." 
 
 " Suppose you should try." 
 
 " I try ? Nonsense, signor ; you are laugh 
 ing at me." 
 
 " No ; I am laughing with you. It is de 
 lightful, perfectly delightful here. I don t 
 think we should better do any work; it 
 seems a foolish thing to work. The trees 
 do not work ; the flowers do not work. Man 
 is the only creature that works ; all other 
 things and creatures play." 
 
 " The bees and the ants, signor." 
 
 " Oh yes ; and I hate them for it. Why 
 do they keep up such an everlasting work 
 ing, setting such a bad example to us all ? 
 I think the Evil One invented work; and 
 his children are the bees and the ants and 
 the flies, though these last do not work ; 
 they are only made to irritate and provoke 
 us, little black messengers of Satan, I think. 
 
134 F 1 AM M ETTA. 
 
 Let us do no work to-day ; let us sit and 
 talk." 
 
 "As you please, signor. I am satisfied, 
 if you are." 
 
 " Well, I am thoroughly satisfied. You 
 were not born for work, Fiammetta. You 
 were made to be beautiful and graceful, and 
 to live like the flowers, and to be happy, and 
 to be without care." 
 
 " Ah ! I don t think that, signor. Nonna 
 don t think so, at all events." And she 
 laughed gayly. 
 
 " Ah, but your Nonna does not know you 
 as well as I do ! " 
 
 " Not as well as you do ? Why, you have 
 only seen me twice, and Nonna has known 
 me all my life." 
 
 " That makes no difference. We do not 
 rightly see persons or things when they are 
 too near us ; and then your Nonna sees you 
 through such different spectacles. Have you 
 ever seen what is called a Claude glass ? " 
 
 " No, signor ; what is it ? " 
 
 " It is a glass with various colored discs, 
 that all open and shut as one chooses. Here 
 is one. Now look at the landscape through 
 this slide " (and he opened one). " Do you 
 see? It is all purple, is it not? And now 
 
FIAMMETTA. 135 
 
 through this, it is all yellow and golden; 
 and now through this, it is all obscured and 
 dark." 
 
 " So it is, signor ; how strange ! Every 
 thing changes as I change the glasses ; every 
 thing is the same, but so different. I sup 
 pose Nonna sees me through the dark glass, 
 you would say." 
 
 "Yes, and I see you through the yellow 
 one ; and I see you more clearly, and there 
 is about you a golden haze and glory." 
 
 " So there is about you, signor. When I 
 look at you through this glass your hair is 
 all gold, and you look as St. John looks in 
 the picture over the altar in the church." 
 
 " Well, Fiammetta, always look at me 
 through that glass if you can, and see me 
 not as I am, but as I ought to be. Ah, well, 
 all things are as they seem, and not as they 
 are, and we need these Claude glasses in 
 life." 
 
 " Not those who love, signor ; not the 
 poets, to them life is always beautiful al 
 ways glorious. They do not see things as 
 others do." 
 
 " Sometimes they see them all in mourn 
 ing sad, obscure, dismal." 
 
 " Ah ! that is when death and sorrow and 
 despair blacken everything." 
 
136 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 " Well, we won t let any glass blacken life 
 for us to-day, Fiammetta. Let us enjoy 
 what we have. Nature is very kind, and 
 there is beauty everywhere if we choose to 
 see it, so let us choose to see it." 
 
 " We cannot always however we choose," 
 said Fiammetta. " We are sometimes pow 
 erless and helpless, and we have to cry, for 
 all we wish for slips away from us, and 
 everything comes wrong to us, and we are 
 afraid sometimes to enjoy even what we 
 have, and we do not know how long even 
 what we own will be ours to keep, and then 
 we do not always dare to be as happy as we 
 are. There is always a fear in our happi 
 ness ; it may be a temptation, it may be a 
 wrong ; and then when we feel sure, some 
 times our light suddenly goes out and leaves 
 us in the dark, and we go stumbling about 
 and hurt ourselves, and then everything 
 seems the worse and the darker, because of 
 the light that we had." 
 
 Marco looked at her with surprise as she 
 said this, and did not reply. There was a 
 depth of feeling in this utterance of hers 
 that silenced him. He had opened a hum 
 ble door, and had a glimpse into a world of 
 emotions unsuspected by him. His hand 
 
F1AMMETTA. 137 
 
 had carelessly swept the strings of what 
 seemed but a humble, unresponsive instru 
 ment, and he was startled by the sweet, pa 
 thetic vibration that followed. She had 
 never spoken so long a sentence before. As 
 yet, in all her intercourse with him, her 
 spirit had only, as it were, hopped from 
 branch to branch; now suddenly it had 
 taken wing, and lifted to a longer flight into 
 the sky. 
 
 After a pause Fiammetta continued, 
 " Ah, signor, to such as you life always 
 smiles. If you turn to the right or to the 
 left it is sunlight. You can do as you please, 
 and go where you please, and live as you 
 please. When you are weary of the moun 
 tains and the trees and the solitudes, as you 
 will be soon, you can go away to the city, to 
 the sea anywhere, everywhere, all the 
 world is before you you are free. I am 
 here like a caged bird ; no matter what I 
 wish, no matter what I long for, here I am, 
 and here I must stay, whether I sing my 
 song gayly or pine and fret against the bars." 
 
 " But you are happy, Fiammetta, are you 
 not, to live this life ? You would not ex 
 change it for another, would you ? " 
 
 " I do not know what I want, I know so 
 
138 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 little, I have seen so little. Yes, I have 
 always been happy here. If it could all be 
 always as it is now ; if I was sure of myself 
 or of anything. But this is silly. Yes, sig- 
 nor, I am happy now. How could any one 
 help being happy such a day as this ? Hap 
 piness, I suppose, is in ourselves, not in the 
 accidents of life and fortune, not in where 
 we are, but in what we are. Sometimes I 
 am happy, I know not why ; sometimes I 
 am unhappy, I know not why. Now I am 
 happy. Everybody is kind to me, and even 
 you are kind, who have no reason to be." 
 
 " On the contrary, t is you that are kind 
 to me." 
 
 " Ah ! that of course. How could I help 
 that ? That is different." 
 
 " You might, you know, if you chose. 
 When I whistled you might say, I hear you, 
 but I won t come. But you see you have 
 kindly offered to do me a great favor. Some 
 girls would have refused." 
 
 " It seems to me that nobody, like me, 
 could refuse." 
 
 " No I nobody like you, perhaps ; but very 
 few are like you, in any way." 
 
 " I suppose I am odd ; at least Nonna 
 tells me so constantly. But she does not un- 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 139 
 
 derstand me, and we think so differently 
 about everything. But that is very natural. 
 She wishes me to but this cannot interest 
 you, signer. I beg your pardon. I did not 
 mean to say all this. I don t know why I 
 did." 
 
 " You knew I should sympathize with you ; 
 that is the reason." 
 
 " I suppose it is." 
 
 And again there was a silence, and Marco 
 shut his eyes and fell to dreaming, and she 
 sat still and looked into the sky. 
 
 " Hark ! " said Marco suddenly, and lift 
 ing up his hand, " there is the nightingale." 
 And they listened, as a gush of low liquid 
 notes came from the woods. 
 
 " He is a late lover," said Marco, as the 
 song ceased. " I thought all the nightingales 
 had told their love-tale before now, and 
 become demure and silent like married men. 
 I have not heard one before for several 
 days." 
 
 " Yes," she said ; " the cuckoo has gone, 
 and only now and then we shall hear the 
 nightingale now ; but the chaffinch has come, 
 and he will stay with us all summer, and the 
 woods never want for music here. There is 
 the fringuello" 
 
140 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 " Ah ! " he said ; " but there is nothing 
 like the nightingale. None sing the strong, 
 passionate thrilling note of love that he pours 
 forth to the world. Others warble their 
 love ; but his full soul is prodigally lavished 
 in his strain, without reserve or stint. Hark ! 
 there he is again. Who could resist such 
 love-making as that ? " 
 
 " Ah, signor, he only sings his love while 
 he is young, and when the spring is here, 
 and the early summer, and he sings it all out 
 then, and has nothing more to say. But the 
 fringuello sings better and better as he grows 
 older. His love lasts, and when he is old he 
 sings his best. There are very few men and 
 women who do that. And more, signor, if 
 you catch the fringuello^ and put out his 
 eyes, and prison him in a cage, he sings per 
 haps then better than ever ; and cruel people 
 do this, and they make out of his pain and 
 privation their pleasure. It makes my heart 
 sick to think of it, and they are so pretty 
 too, the fringuelli, and they turn all their 
 pain and sorrow into song." 
 
 "Like the poets, Fiammetta. One of 
 them says, And learn in suffering what 
 they teach in song. You are fond of birds, 
 Fiammetta, so I am told." 
 
FIAMMETTA. 141 
 
 "Who told you?" 
 
 " Maria ; and she says that you can charm 
 them. Do it now, won t you, for me ? " 
 
 " Please, some other time, signor. I must 
 be in the mood, and I am not now." 
 
 " Oh, when you will, then. You are fond 
 of birds?" 
 
 " I am fond of all animals. They are 
 faithful ; they return your kindness ; they 
 do not quarrel with you, even when you 
 wrong them, and we are always doing them 
 wrong ; and besides they are grateful and 
 patient and forgiving; and there is some 
 thing in their eyes, signor, that is in no hu 
 man eyes. How shall I say it ? appealing, 
 pathetic more than that sympathetic. 
 They are always a puzzle to me. I cannot 
 understand them. They seem always wish 
 ing to tell me something." 
 
 Fiammetta had risen as she was speaking, 
 and began to walk to and fro, and Marco 
 lay watching her. After a moment she 
 sprang to the centre of the torrent, and 
 seated herself on one of the great boulders, 
 in an attitude so free, so naive, so graceful 
 and natural, that Marco cried out to her, 
 " Don t move, Fiammetta ! Stay just as you 
 are. Don t move ! " 
 
142 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 "No, signer; I will not." 
 
 He sprang to his feet, and made a hasty 
 sketch of her precisely as she was. And 
 she sat perfectly still and silent, as if she 
 feared to move. He, too, was so busy that 
 he did not speak ; and a half hour flew by 
 to him as if it were a minute. Then, sud 
 denly, it came over him that he was keeping 
 her too long fixed in one attitude, and he 
 said, 
 
 "I am afraid I have tired you. Move 
 now." 
 
 " I can sit still longer if you wish," she 
 said, though she was really rigid with keep 
 ing motionless for such a length of time. 
 
 " No, no ! Move now ; I have done all 
 that is necessary. Would you like to see 
 it?" 
 
 "May I?" 
 
 " Certainly ; it is nothing yet, but it will 
 do me a good service." 
 
 She came over to him and looked at the 
 sketch. " Oh, that is beautiful ! " she said. 
 " Too beautiful for me. I only wish I 
 looked like that ! " 
 
 " But you do ; only this does not do you 
 justice. This is only a sketch. Wait till I 
 have painted you really." 
 
F1AMMETTA. 143 
 
 " Does it look like me to you ? " 
 
 44 Yes, a little ; only it does not do you 
 justice, as I told you. You know you are a 
 great deal more beautiful than that." 
 
 44 Oh, no, no ! but I am glad I look any 
 thing like that to you." 
 
 " To me ! You do to everybody." 
 
 44 1 don t care for everybody. I only care 
 for what persons whom I like think." 
 
 44 Then you do like me? Thank you, Fi- 
 ammetta. I think we shall get on together 
 very well." 
 
 She turned very red, and said nothing. 
 He examined his sketch, and his mind was 
 far off from her personally. He was think 
 ing how this figure would come into his pic 
 ture and compare with the rest of the scene ; 
 and he glanced from it to the brook and the 
 rocks and the trees, utterly lost to her. 
 Then he said to himself, 44 Yes ; I think that 
 will do," and laid it down, and took out 
 his watch. 
 
 44 Per Bacco ! how the time goes ! " he 
 cried ; 44 1 had no idea it was so late. If I 
 am to do anything to-day, I must begin at 
 once." And he busied himself in selecting 
 the exact point of view he should take. 
 
 " What do you think, Fiammetta ? " he 
 
144 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 said. " Does it look best from this point? 
 Look ! come here just where I am. 
 There, what do you say? or here? per 
 haps this is the best. The trees come in 
 better from here, don t they ? what do you 
 think?" 
 
 " How should I know ? " said she ; but 
 delighted that he should ask her opinion. 
 " Both seem right to me." 
 
 " But what do you think is best ? I in 
 cline to think this is." 
 
 " So do I, signor." She would have said 
 the same had he chosen the other view. 
 But whatever he thought, she thought. 
 
 " Well, then, we will choose this. Come, 
 Fiammetta, help me place the easel just 
 here. Yes ; that is right. Now for the box 
 of colors," and he settled himself down to 
 sketch in the place on the canvas in outline. 
 
 " Shall I go and sit there again ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 " No ; that is not necessary yet. Amuse 
 yourself ; I won t bore you any longer now." 
 
 " May I look at you while you work? " 
 
 " Certainly. We will make an artist of 
 you, Fiammetta. You never tried to paint, 
 did you?" 
 
 " Who ? I ? Oh, signor ! I never." 
 
FIAMMETTA. 145 
 
 " Well, everybody has to begin. So you 
 will see how it is done : an outline in char 
 coal, see, first ; and then we will use the col 
 ors. The outline first, so as to see that all 
 the parts come in to the canvas." 
 
 She stood at his side and watched him 
 attentively, and a great feeling of content 
 came over her. She said very little, only 
 now and then answering his casual ques 
 tions; but happy at being near him, and 
 happy in the kind of confidence he showed 
 her. It seemed all so natural and simple, 
 and yet so new and unlike what she had ex 
 perienced before. She felt that he was kind 
 to her, and kind in a way that others were 
 not ; but she did not analyze her sensations. 
 She only felt that the day was charming and 
 life pleasant, and wished, as far as she 
 framed any definite wish in her mind, that 
 it might always go on so, and the day might 
 be eternal. 
 
 His mind was intent upon his work, and 
 he thought of nothing else. Still the pres 
 ence of the girl at his side was pleasant to 
 him and unconsciously influenced him, and 
 he worked well and rapidly. At last he 
 turned to her and smiled, and said, " Now I 
 shall put you in," and pinning his sketch to 
 10 
 
146 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 the upper part of his canvas, he drew in the 
 outline of her figure. 
 
 " What do you think of that, Fiammetta ? 
 Is that right?" 
 
 " Exactly right. Oh, how well it conies 
 in just there ! " 
 
 " Does it really ? Well, I think it does 
 too. I am rather pleased with the begin 
 ning, and to-morrow," he cried, jumping up, 
 " to-morrow, Fiammetta, we will begin to 
 work seriously with color, you know. 
 Now there is nothing. But to-morrow we 
 will make it laugh and sing, and it shall 
 frown no longer in black. For to-day I 
 have done. I must go now, for it is getting 
 late. The light is beginning to go." 
 
 So it was : the thought that the day was 
 over made her sigh ; and the light was be 
 ginning to go from her as well as the place. 
 
 " But what shall we do with this canvas 
 for the night ? " he said ; " we can hide the 
 easel and the paint-box ; but the canvas ? 
 Eh?" 
 
 " Let me carry them down to Nonna s. 
 It is very near, and then they will be safe." 
 
 " Bravo ! we will, we will, we will," he 
 said. " Now get the donkey, and we will 
 be off." 
 
FIAMMETTA. 147 
 
 So Fiammetta brought the donkey, and 
 they took their way to the Casetta, and the 
 grandmother was delighted, she said, to take 
 charge of them ; and so it was all arranged. 
 Marco then shook hands with them both 
 and mounted the donkey, and nodded to 
 them and cried out, " Addio a rivederci 
 to-morrow at the same hour, you know, 
 Fiammetta ! " and off he went ; and Fiam 
 metta watched him till he was out of sight ; 
 and her grandmother stood at her side, and 
 watched with her, and said, 
 
 " He has a pleasant face and pleasant 
 ways with him, has n t he, Fiammetta ? Not 
 a bit like his father who was a cold, 
 proud man. He takes after his mother, and 
 looks like her too. How do you like him, 
 Fiammetta? Was he pleasant to you to 
 day ? Why don t you answer, child ? 
 Don t you like him ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Fiammetta, " I like him." 
 
 " Don t you want to go there and let 
 him paint you and make a picture of you ? " 
 
 " Yes ! " said Fiammetta. 
 
 "Well, it seems as if you did not care 
 about it much." 
 
 " Oh yes. I do." 
 
 " Well, why don t you say so ? " 
 
148 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 " I do." 
 
 " Well, child, come in now." 
 
 " In a moment, Nonna." 
 
 " Don t wait long. I ve something for 
 you to do ; " and so saying Gigia went in, 
 and left Fiammetta gazing down the road, 
 and there she stood for a half hour. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE next day Marco came on the donkey 
 to the Casetta, to get his things and carry 
 them to the torrent, where he was painting. 
 Gigia met him at the door as he came up 
 and was dismounting, and cried, 
 
 " Buon giorno ! " and then added, " Oh, 
 you have come for your things, Signer 
 Conte. Fiammetta has carried them all to 
 the place an hour ago. She thought you 
 might arrive earlier, and you will find every 
 thing right and ready for you there." 
 
 " I am sorry she took that trouble. They 
 are heavy, and the donkey could take them 
 up very well." 
 
 " No ! She thought she would carry them 
 up herself, and put them all in order." 
 
 " It was very kind of her. Well, good- 
 by, Gigia. I 11 be off at once, so as to 
 lose no time." 
 
 When he arrived he found everything 
 ready and in order, as Gigia had said ; and 
 Fiammetta greeted him with a smile, and he 
 
150 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 lifted his finger at her and shook his head, 
 and said, 
 
 " Oh, Fiammetta, you should not have 
 done this. These things are too heavy for 
 you to carry. You must not do it again." 
 
 " Oh," she laughed, " they are no weight 
 at all, signor ; I am used to it ; and I thought 
 I would have everything here and ready for 
 you, so as to save time. I am not a lady, 
 signor. What was it to me to bring these 
 things up ? nothing but a pleasure. But 
 if you don t like it " 
 
 " It was very kind ; but you must not 
 take so much trouble for me. Another time 
 we will bring them up on the donkey." 
 
 " As you command, signor," and her face 
 clouded a little. 
 
 Marco perceived it, and said, " It is no 
 command of mine, Fiammetta. I thought 
 of you only, and wanted to save you this 
 trouble. I cannot bear to think of you car 
 rying all this weight on your head through 
 the sun." 
 
 Then her face lightened, and she went 
 and tied the donkey in the shadow, and 
 came back smiling, and Marco made all his 
 preparations, and began at once to work. 
 
 " You do not wish me to go and sit on 
 the rock, as I did before ? " 
 
FIAMMETTA. 151 
 
 " Not yet ; a little later, when I have laid 
 in a little of the general effect, and blotted 
 on a little color." 
 
 She looked at him for a time as he worked, 
 curious and interested, and then she seated 
 herself on the grass at his feet, and plucked 
 the flowers that were growing profusely 
 everywhere. And the brook murmured, and 
 the trees rustled, and the birds sang, and 
 a white cloud now and then strayed over 
 the sky, and floated calmly and slowly along, 
 and the idle butterflies wavered about, and 
 all was calm and tender and exquisite a 
 day for dreaming. They did not talk much, 
 only at intervals, for he was busy at his 
 work, and thinking of that : and she it 
 would be difficult to say what she was think 
 ing of ; nothing, she would have said, had 
 you asked her. 
 
 " I do not see that I am of much help to 
 you," at last she said. 
 
 " Oh yes, you are. I shall want you to 
 take your place on that boulder in a few 
 minutes, and meantime you help me too by 
 sitting near me." 
 
 " How, signor ? " 
 
 " No matter how. The air helps me, the 
 whisper in the trees helps me, the sound of 
 
152 F1AMMETTA. 
 
 the brook helps me, the song of the birds 
 helps me, and in the same way you do. 
 They are influences so are you. Do you 
 wish to go away ? " 
 
 "Oh no, signor; that was not what I 
 meant. I like to sit here, if I am not in 
 your way." 
 
 " Anything but that. Don t be troubled 
 because I do not talk to you. You see I 
 am very busy." 
 
 "Yes, signor; but I was afraid I might 
 be in your way, as I cannot do anything for 
 you." 
 
 " Well, Fiammetta, you can do something 
 for me. When I saw you here first you 
 were singing. Won t you sing me some 
 thing now? " 
 
 " Oh, signor, I do not know how to sing ; 
 and then I only know the little stornelli and 
 rispetti of the country. They would not 
 please you." 
 
 " Not please me I I beg your pardon. I 
 think they are charming. There is nothing 
 I like so much. Do you know many of 
 them?" 
 
 " Oh yes ; I know them all that is, all 
 that we sing here." 
 
 " Will you sing me one ? " 
 
FIAMMETTA. 153 
 
 " What will I sing you ? I don t know 
 
 which one to choose." 
 
 " Sing the first that you think of." 
 
 She paused a moment ; and then, without 
 
 making any excuses as if it was a matter 
 
 of course that she should do as he bade her 
 
 she began the following : 
 
 "Era di Maggio, e ben me ne ricordo 
 Quando ci cominciammo a ben volere. 
 Eran fiorite le rose dell orto 
 E le ciliego doventavan neri. 
 Le doventavan nere nella rama 
 Allor ti vidi, e fosti la mia dama. 
 Passo 1 estate, e gia cade la foglia 
 Di far teco all amor non ho piii voglia." 
 
 Her voice was sweet and silvery. She sang 
 these verses in half -voice, and in accord 
 with the whole scene. The air was plain 
 tive, and in the minor key, as nearly all the 
 popular airs are in Italy, and lent itself to 
 the melancholy sentiment of the words. 
 
 " Sing it again, it is exquisite ! " said 
 Marco ; and she sang it again. And when 
 she had finished, he said, " Sing me another, 
 please ; don t stop." Then she began again : 
 
 "Bella, bellina che ti ha fatto gli occhi 
 Chi te 1 ha fatto tanto innamorati 
 Di sotto terra caveresti i morti 
 Dal letto caveresti gli ammalati 
 De sotto terra caveresti noi 
 Mi son levato il cor per darlo a voi." 
 
154 F I AM MET T A. 
 
 " That, too, is beautiful. What a tender, 
 exquisite air, and how charmingly you sing, 
 Fiammetta! Your voice is so sweet, and 
 refined, and strong too, that you might make 
 your fortune if you would study for the 
 opera ! " 
 
 "Oh, signer! I have such a poor little 
 voice. You are laughing at me, I am afraid. 
 You should hear Olivia sing these songs. 
 Ah ! she has a voice worth hearing, and 
 mine is not." 
 
 " I don t care about hearing Olivia ; I VI 
 rather hear you. Sing me some more, won t 
 
 you?" 
 
 " If you wish," and again she sang, 
 
 " Fior d amaranto ! 
 Mi son sognato non m amavi punto 
 Quando mi son svegliato aveva pianto. 
 Volgite indietro bocchino da baci 
 Quanto mi piace nel farce al amor. 
 
 "Fiorin d a more ! 
 
 Quando soflia 1 aquilone s affosca il mare 
 Quando spunta 1 amore nasce il dolore. 
 Volgite indietro, etc. 
 
 " Fiorin d amore! 
 Tre cose non si possono scordare 
 La patria, 1 amicizia, ed il primo amore. 
 Volgite indietro," etc. 
 
 " ; Fior d amaranto again," said Marco ; 
 and she did as he requested. 
 
FIAMMETTA. 155 
 
 " That is sad, sad enough. Why are all 
 these songs so sad ? " said he. 
 
 " Because, I suppose, that love is always 
 sad in the end, at least with people in our 
 condition. I don t know how it is with 
 persons in such a high condition as yours. 
 But with us, love is a flower of youth that 
 blooms in spring for an hour, and then fades 
 and has no fruit ; or if it has, the fruit is 
 only bitter and poisonous berries, like the 
 belladonna, signor." 
 
 " Oh, not always, certainly not always." 
 
 " I don t know ; but I am afraid it almost 
 always is killed by hard work and want and 
 privation, frost-struck." 
 
 " You take a melancholy view." 
 
 " I look at life around me as I see it. I 
 dare say it looks different to you, and I am 
 glad it does. I hope, signor, it always will." 
 
 " And I hope to you it will always be like 
 to-day, bright and clear. You are happy 
 now, at all events." 
 
 " Ah, signor, I fear most when I am hap 
 piest, and I am happy now." 
 
 " Well, sing me one more song, I will 
 only ask you for one more." 
 
 And again she sang as follows : 
 
156 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 "Con quclle occhi neri neri 
 Tu mi hai rapito, Tu mi hai rapito, il cuor a me 
 Ma non do le sian sinceri 
 Si il tuo cuore, Si il tuo cuore, pensa a me 
 Tu mi fai struggere a pocr. a poer 
 Mi fai morire di dolor. 
 Tu mi fai struggere a poer, a poer 
 Mi fai morire di dolor." 
 
 " Thank you, Fiammetta," said Marco, as 
 she finished. "And these occhi neri neri, 
 I will believe to be sinceri, sinceri" 
 
 "Ah, that they are, signor, if you mean 
 mine ; and I don t think they will ever make 
 anybody die of dolor." 
 
 " Ah, who knows, Fiammetta ? Is there 
 nobody, nobody, nobody ? " 
 
 " No, signor ; nobody, nobody, nobody." 
 
 " Are you sure, sure, sure ? " 
 
 " Yes, signor ; I am sure, sure, sure, as 
 you say." 
 
 " Then perhaps you will take a seat on 
 that boulder, just as you were yesterday." 
 
 She sprang up to the rock, and poised 
 herself lightly there, with the natural uncon 
 scious grace of some wild animal, and turn 
 ing round, said, " Like this? Am I right?" 
 
 " A little more towards me, not quite 
 so much. Your foot a little lower. That s 
 right. Don t stir. You will never better 
 that." 
 
FIAMMETTA. 157 
 
 And it would have been difficult to better 
 it, it was so charming. There was a kind of jf ^ 
 
 sweet frank radiance in her face, as if it had 
 taken in all the charm of the place ; a happy 
 tender look too, as of a faint veil of pensive- 
 ness such pensiveness as does not detract 
 from happiness, but lends to it an added 
 charm and refinement. 
 
 " It is strange," he thought, " where did 
 this girl get that expression ? Ah ! if I 
 could only convey to my canvas fire and 
 light and sparkle and tenderness too. The 
 mind, the music breathing from her face, 
 he muttered to himself. 
 
 " Heavens ! how much better nature is 
 than art. Art is all very well but but 
 ah, if I could only breathe this soul on 
 to my canvas ! Ah yes ! And beauty born 
 of murmuring sound shall pass into thy 
 face that is exactly it. The brook s 
 murmur is in her face, and its sparkle too ; " 
 and he hummed it over and over again. 
 " And beauty born of murmuring sound 
 shall pass into her face. " 
 
 When the artist s heart and soul are in 
 his work, and his imagination is alive, the 
 hand is a servant, and must yield its obe 
 dience. Unwillingly indeed at times ; but 
 
158 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 when the happy hour comes, willingly, and 
 so it was now. Marco painted fast, and all 
 that he sought for was before him, to pluck 
 and make his own if he could. Fortunately 
 the hand was not rebellious, and when at 
 last he laid down his brush, he was content 
 with his day s work. " If I do not lose what 
 I have got, I think this will be my best pic 
 ture," he thought. " But, ah ! it is so easy 
 to lose. I will let the face alone for to-day ; 
 and now," he cried to Fiammetta, " I have 
 done, I will keep you no longer. Poor child ! 
 you must be tired. But you have been so 
 good, I thank you a thousand times ; " and 
 then he began to sing, 
 
 " Fior d amaranto ! 
 Mi son sognato non m amavi punto." 
 
 And she joined in, 
 
 "Quando mi son svegliato aveva pianto." 
 
 " No ! no ! " he interrupted, " we will have 
 no pianto to-day," and then he sang, 
 
 " Era di Luglio, e ben me ne recordo 
 Quando ci cominciammo a ben volere, 
 Eran tiorite le rose dell orto 
 E le ciliego doventavan neri." 
 
 " No, signor," said Fiaminetta ; " Era di 
 Maggio, it begins." 
 "What did I say?" 
 
FIAMMETTA. 159 
 
 " Era di Luglio." 
 
 " Well ; I must be right, for, you see, it 
 was when the cherries were growing black 
 and ripe, and that is July here." 
 
 " So it is, signer. I never thought of that 
 before." 
 
 Then she came round behind him, saying, 
 " With permission, may I ? " and looked at 
 the canvas, and exclaimed, " Oh, signor ! oh, 
 signor ! " 
 
 " What is it, Fiammetta ? " 
 
 " Oh, signor ! signor ! it is so " and 
 then she stopped, and went on : " But it 
 does not look like me. No, no ! never ! " 
 
 "That s the way you look to me, Fiam 
 metta." 
 
 " Ah no, signor ! that cannot be." 
 
 " Why cannot it be?" 
 
 " I don t know ; but it cannot no,- it 
 cannot ! " and she looked into his face, and 
 the tears came into her eyes, and then she 
 turned away abruptly. 
 
 "What is the matter with the girl?" 
 thought Marco. " This is very odd." 
 
 " You don t like it then, Fiammetta ? " he 
 said. 
 
 "Oh, signor! like it? Oh yes! I think 
 it is beautiful too beautiful for me a thou 
 sand times ! " 
 
160 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 " Nonsense, Fiammetta. Did you want nie 
 to make you ugly ? " 
 
 " I wanted you to do just what you have 
 done only no matter, signor. I cannot 
 say what I mean, only I was so surprised. 
 You will excuse me, signor, won t you? I 
 am only an ignorante." 
 
 Marco did not understand ; but he saw 
 she was confused, and remained silent. Then 
 he said gayly, " Well, now we must bid good- 
 by for to-day to the Naiad s Nook. Let us 
 call this place the Naiad s Nook, Fiammetta. 
 It has another name, I suppose ; but no mat 
 ter. We will have a name of our own to 
 call it by, no matter whether anybody else 
 knows what we mean, if we know ourselves. 
 You shall be the Naiad, and this your nook ; 
 and you shall sing to its music, and protect 
 it, and be its guardian spirit ; and I will be 
 - what will I be ? I will be out of the 
 question, or an intruder, say ? " 
 
 "No, signor; you shall be the magician 
 that makes the Naiad come forth and show 
 herself ; and you shall robe her with beauty 
 that she has not, and you shall wave your 
 wand and make her look like an angel, and 
 the whole place you shall enchant ; and when 
 others come here to see the Naiad, they will 
 
F1AMMETTA. 161 
 
 see only a common little brook to drink from, 
 and a plain little peasant girl sitting on a 
 rock, looking stupid ; and that shall be the 
 difference between the magician and poet 
 and the stupid boor, who comes only to 
 quench his thirsty lips." 
 
 " I am content to be the magician, if, when 
 I wave my wand, my Naiad comes forth and 
 smiles on me." 
 
 " And she will always." 
 
 " Always is a long time, Fiammetta. Noth 
 ing delightful comes to us always ; only once 
 in a while, when it chooses, on summer days 
 like this." 
 
 " Oh if summer would last forever ! " 
 " Oh if youth would leave us never! (he continued.) 
 Oh if the joy we have in the spring 
 Forever its happy song would sing, 
 And love and friendship never take wing, 
 
 But stay with us forever ! 
 Then ah then ! if such gifts were given, 
 Who of us mortals would ask for heaven V " 
 
 "I never heard that rispetto before," said 
 Fiammetta. 
 
 "Nobody ever did," he answered; "I 
 never did myself. You began it and I fin 
 ished it, so we both invented it. There is 
 nothing new in it. It is the song we are 
 
 always singing everybody is always sing- 
 11 
 
102 F1AMMETTA. 
 
 ing sometimes to one air and sometimes 
 to another." 
 
 " Won t you sing it again ? " 
 
 " I cannot ; it is gone. The birds fly away 
 when we try to catch them." 
 
 " I have set a trap for them in my mem 
 ory, signor. Wait a minute ; " and she 
 stopped and looked up into the sky sideways 
 for a minute, and then she clapped her hands 
 and cried, " I have caught them, signor ; I 
 have caught the birds ! " and then she re 
 peated the words. 
 
 u Bravo ! " he cried ; " what a memory 
 you have ! " 
 
 " Oh ! that is easy enough. The rhymes 
 make me remember them," and then she 
 sang, - 
 
 " Oh if summer would last forever ! 
 Oh if youth would leave us never ! 
 Oh if the joy we have in the spring 
 Forever its happy song would sing, 
 And love and friendship never take wing, 
 
 But stay with us forever ! 
 Then ah then ! if such gifts were given, 
 Who of us mortals would ask for heaven ? " 
 
 " I shall sing that now, signor, all summer 
 long, and all winter long perhaps." And 
 thus the day drew to a close ; and they 
 walked towards home together, carrying all 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 163 
 
 his things to the Casetta ; and then she ac 
 companied him a little way on, till they came 
 to the turning of the hill. There they shook 
 hands, and parted. He had hardly gone one 
 hundred paces when, on putting his hand 
 into his pocket, he felt the little box of corals, 
 that he had quite forgotten. Then he cried 
 out, " Ho ! Fiammetta ! " She had not 
 moved from the place, but was looking af 
 ter him as he disappeared and reappeared 
 through the trees. She came running to 
 wards him. 
 
 "What is it, signor?" 
 
 He held out the box and said, " Here is 
 something I brought for you this morning, 
 and I quite forgot to give it to you. I want 
 you to take it and wear it to-morrow. It 
 will be just a little bit of color on your neck 
 that I wish to put into the picture ; or, stop ! 
 let me put it on for you." 
 
 She smiled, and came forward to him, and 
 he clasped it on her neck. " There ! " he 
 said, " it is just the thing I wanted, and it 
 just suits your complexion. Be sure you 
 don t forget to wear it." 
 
 " I will take good care of it, signor," she 
 said. 
 
 Then he said good-by again, and went 
 
164 F 1 AM M ETTA. 
 
 away. She lingered a few moments, and 
 then slowly sauntered homewards. As soon 
 as she thought he had gone so far that it 
 would be impossible for him to see her, she 
 put her hands up to her neck, unclasped the 
 coral necklace, gazed at it for a few minutes, 
 and then pressed it to her lips, and kissed it 
 again and again. Poor Fiammetta ! she did 
 not quite understand what it all meant that 
 was passing in her mind, but she was happy 
 and pleased ; and the yrilli that sang their 
 tiny chimes to her all the way home chirped 
 a low murmuring accompaniment of pleasure 
 to her dreaming thoughts. All the world 
 looked gentle and kind, and seemed to smile 
 on her that evening. 
 
 Again and again she stopped, looked at 
 the necklace, and kissed it, and then clasped 
 it round her neck ; and as she did this the 
 thought came over her : " What will Nonna 
 say when she sees this ? " and this troubled 
 her for a moment. But give it up she could 
 not, let Nonna say and think what she chose. 
 
 Just as she anticipated, the first words 
 that Nonna spoke after she came into the 
 house were: " What is that you have on your 
 neck, Fiammetta ? It looks like coral." 
 
 "It is coral, Nonna." 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 165 
 
 " Where did you get it ? Did the Signer 
 Conte give it to you ? " 
 
 " No," said Fiammetta ; " he did not give 
 it to me. He lent it to me, and asked me 
 to wear it, so that he could paint it in his 
 picture." 
 
 " Oh ! " said her grandmother, " that alters 
 matters. Let me look at it," and she exam 
 ined it closely. " They are beautiful, very 
 beautiful corals," she said. " I know some 
 thing about such things, and I don t know 
 that I ever saw such beautiful ones. And 
 what is this stone in the clasp? Why, Fi 
 ammetta, it is a diamond ! " 
 
 " A diamond ? " cried Fiammetta. 
 
 " Yes, yes ! I remember this very string 
 and this very clasp. It belonged to the 
 Countess his mother. I have often seen her 
 wear it, years ago. You must be very care 
 ful of it, Fiammetta. It is very valuable, 
 and what would he say if you lost it ? " 
 
 " I will be very careful. I will not lose 
 it, Nonna. I will keep it on my neck, so 
 that I cannot lose it." 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE days and the weeks went away, and 
 autumn was drawing near. Every day Marco 
 came to the Naiad s Nook, and every day 
 Fiammetta was there, and the picture was 
 nearly finished. Sometimes now the weather 
 changed the sky was overcast, or it rained 
 and Marco did not come; and all those 
 days Fiammetta was sad, uneasy, and listless, 
 and could interest herself in nothing, but 
 would sit at the window and silently gaze at 
 the gray world outside in its shroud of mist, 
 or watch the trickling tears of rain drag 
 down the bleared panes, wondering if the 
 day would ever come to an end, so lonely 
 and wearisome was her heart. And then the 
 sun would shine out again, and Marco would 
 arrive, and she was again happy. But as 
 the autumn came on, she began to think 
 that the time was coming, and coming all 
 too fast, when the picture would be finished ; 
 and he would go away and return no more, 
 and she would be left alone, and then what 
 should she do? 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 167 
 
 Little by little the child s whole heart had 
 been given to him. He had never spoken 
 a word of love to her, though he had always 
 been kind and affectionate. Long before 
 she acknowledged it to herself, she had loved 
 him. She could not help it. She did not 
 wish to help it. Her love was a secret joy 
 that illuminated all her life, and was inex 
 tricably mingled with her every thought and 
 act. She had hidden it as well as she could, 
 with jealous care, but sometimes she could 
 not help asking herself why he did not see 
 it ; and oh ! if he did, what could become 
 of her ? what right had she to love him, he 
 was so far above her ? It was like the desire 
 of the moth for the star, of the day for the 
 morrow. It was pure and tender, yet pas 
 sionate at times ; and at times she gave way 
 when alone to fits of wild weeping and al 
 most of despair. But when he came and 
 was near her, and talked with her, it all 
 changed again ; and she looked at him and 
 felt his presence cheer and lift her, and 
 give color to all her life, and she was happy. 
 
 Did he love her? Was it possible that 
 he could love her ? she asked herself. Yes, 
 she thought, as a master loves his dog that 
 follows him, and is unhappy at his absence. 
 
168 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 But more than that ah, no ! more than 
 that she must not ask for. Was she not 
 satisfied that he was so constant, so kind, so 
 affectionate ; that he had never taken ad 
 vantage of her love, which it was impossible 
 that he did not feel ? Was it all purely in 
 his mind was there nothing in his senses 
 that drew him to her ? Did he never long 
 to take her in his arms as she longed to 
 throw her arms about him, and pour out her 
 whole heart to him ? Sometimes she thought 
 that she should not be able to resist the im 
 pulse that came wildly over her to fling her 
 self upon his breast and cry, " I love you ! 
 I love you ! " Sometimes when he stood 
 beside her, and she felt his breath upon her 
 cheek, she thought, "Why does he not seize 
 me and carry me with him ? I am his ; he 
 must know it. Does he never have such im 
 pulses ? " 
 
 Ah, yes ! Fiammetta, he knew them too 
 well. It was only with the utmost self-con 
 trol that he could resist them. At times the 
 blood mounted into his brain as she stood 
 at his side ; all his senses were aflame; he 
 longed to seize her and clasp her to his heart 
 and smother her with kisses, and his heart 
 sometimes so throbbed that he knew not 
 
FTAMMETTA. 169 
 
 what he was doing. His struggles with him 
 self were often desperate. Was it possible 
 that this girl should stand at his side her 
 love beaming out of her every look, thrill 
 ing at every casual touch and he not 
 know it ? He knew it but too well, and he 
 saw it with fear. 
 
 But he remembered the sad story of her 
 mother. It had made a deep, an indelible 
 impression on him ; and from the first he 
 had sworn to himself a solemn oath that he 
 would never injure her, and never take ad 
 vantage of her ignorance or her love. Firm 
 as he was of character obstinate even in 
 many things this resolution, hard as it 
 was to keep, he adhered to. He was at 
 tracted deeply touched and moved in 
 every fibre by her but " No ! " he said to 
 himself, " I will never break her heart : I 
 will never ruin her. I will not have that 
 crime on my conscience ! " And then he ac 
 knowledged to himself that he loved her. 
 Strongly as he fought against this, he had 
 to acknowledge it, and this made it still 
 harder. But " No ! " he said, " I cannot 
 marry her. That would be a folly." " But 
 why not marry her?" he then would ask 
 himself. " She is pure she is good she 
 
170 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 is beautiful she is devoted to me. She 
 loves me as probably nay, certainly no 
 one will ever love me again." And then 
 he imagined what would happen if he did 
 marry her, and took her back with him to 
 a totally different life and society and sur 
 roundings. Here alone with nature, in the 
 woods, among the trees, or by the mountain 
 torrent, nothing could be more charming, 
 more in harmony with everything. She was 
 simply a child of nature, and here the whole 
 framework of her life lent a beauty and 
 grace to her every act and word, a fra 
 grance as of a wild flower exhaled from her, 
 as of a wild flower one plucks from the 
 rugged mountain top, where it grows all 
 alone. But that very flower transplanted 
 into the garden or the greenhouse, among 
 the rarest products, the most perfect exotics, 
 brought to perfection by careful selection 
 and cultivation, how would it look there? 
 These questions tormented him, and he knew 
 no solution to them. His heart pressed him 
 in one direction, his reason in another. 
 
 Once only had he given way, and then but 
 for a moment. He had worked later than 
 usual one afternoon, and twilight had al 
 most overtaken him ere he was aware of it. 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 171 
 
 Suddenly he perceived that the light had 
 almost gone, and he hurried to put his things 
 in order, and go away. He was detained at 
 the Casetta by Antonio, who wished to con 
 sult him on a little affair ; and evening had 
 already drawn down when he took leave. 
 Fiammetta insisted on accompanying him as 
 usual to the bend of the road, which they 
 had named II Dono, because he had there 
 clasped the corals on her neck. The even 
 ing was exquisite. The moon had already 
 risen, and poured its silvery light over all 
 the pure, cloudless sky. Scarcely a breath 
 of air was astir. Here and there the faint 
 stars shone, almost lost in the full radiance 
 of the larger light. The grilli were trilling 
 a myriad infinitesimal bells in the grasses. 
 It was one of those tender evenings that stir 
 the soul and touch it with a thrill, and 
 awaken dim memories and fond hopes. 
 
 They had been walking side by side, and 
 for some minutes had not spoken. Yet each 
 felt the presence of the other with a mag 
 netic thrill. At last he stretched out his 
 hand to her to say good-by. She did the 
 same, and as her tender eyes looked into his 
 with a wistful earnestness, he suddenly drew 
 her to him, clasped her to his breast, and 
 
172 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 kissed her. She fell into his arms with a 
 low cry, and a moment passed that seemed 
 an age, such was the wild tumultuous hurry 
 of feeling that pulsed through every nerve. 
 Then he came as it were to himself, and sud 
 denly dropped her hand. " Oh, signor ! sig- 
 nor ! " she cried, and could say nothing else. 
 No words could express all that she felt at 
 that moment. 
 
 But he recovered himself, after a fierce 
 struggle, and without saying anything, he 
 flung out his arms with clenched hands, and 
 turned away his face ; and she stood with her 
 arms fallen and looking down and waiting. 
 What was to come next ? What would he 
 say and do now ? Ah, how she loved him ! 
 and he must love her. Why did he not say 
 so? 
 
 Finally he said, " I ought not to have 
 kissed you. Forgive me, Fiammetta. I will 
 not do it again. Good-by, and God bless 
 you, dear Fiammetta ! I do not dare to 
 stay." And he plunged away wildly into 
 the wood and was gone. 
 
 And she, utterly overcome, dropped down 
 on her knees, and wept as she had never 
 wept before, and then she brushed away her 
 tears and rose and threw out her arms after 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 173 
 
 him ; and then she smiled a radiant smile, 
 and cried out, " Oh, he loves me ! he loves 
 me ! but why did he not say so ? Why did 
 he rush away ? " 
 
 She had a dim idea why, but she did not 
 quite understand it. Still she felt through 
 all that he loved her, and that was sunrise 
 to her heart. Whatever might come of it, 
 he loved her. She wandered about in the 
 moonlight vaguely, anywhere, thinking it all 
 over for more than an hour. She heard her 
 grandmother call for her from the Casetta, 
 but she would not answer. She could not 
 go in. She could not bear to be spoken to. 
 She could not bear the house, and the prose, j 
 the dull prose, of the house. The heavens 
 were with Tier. The stars understood her. 
 She had no need to feign before them. She 
 could utter all her heart to them without 
 fear. But at last she had to go in and hear 
 her grandmother s reproaches, and answer 
 her questions as well as she could. 
 
 " Ah, you will go just as your mother did 
 at last," Gigia cried ; " it is in the blood. 
 You shall not go with the Conte again." 
 
 Fiammetta could say nothing, but " I have 
 done no wrong, Nonna. Indeed, indeed, I 
 have not. You must not scold me. No, 
 
 f 
 
174 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 Nonna, indeed you must not. You must let 
 me go as I have. Indeed, I will go. What 
 ever happens, I will go. Nothing shall pre 
 vent me. No ! nothing ; nothing ; nothing." 
 
 And she ran out of the room. 
 
 Marco, on his part, in agitation and half- 
 remorse pursued his way home. He saw 
 that he had made a false step, and he blamed 
 himself for it. " But who can be always 
 master of himself ? " he said. " After all, 
 fortunately I said nothing. I pledged my 
 self to nothing, and I will be more careful 
 for the future." Still his conscience pricked 
 him. " It is of no use to make excuses," 
 he went on to himself. " I have led her on 
 to love me, and she knows I love her. If I 
 do not marry her, I shall none the less have 
 ruined her happiness, if I have taught her 
 to love me. I am not such a fool as to pro 
 fess that I do not think she does love me. 
 But how can I help that? How could I 
 help that ? " " Ah, but you could, had you 
 chosen," whispered conscience ; " and now 
 what will you do?" 
 
 He had not much consolation in his 
 thoughts ; but he determined to be careful 
 for the future, and promised himself that he 
 would not go back to her for two or three 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 175 
 
 days. " But that will seem strange, will it 
 not ? The evil is done ; the steed is stolen ; 
 what use to lock the door now ? " 
 
 Still for a couple of days he did not re 
 turn, and when he did he was not persuaded 
 that he had bettered matters. Fiammetta s 
 eyes sparkled as she met him, and he had 
 great difficulty in explaining his absence. 
 Indeed he had to invent an excuse, and pre 
 tend that he had been obliged to write let 
 ters, and had work to do at the Villa. 
 
 This was partially true. After returning 
 home, he wrote a long letter to his friend, 
 Carlo, from which we make some extracts : 
 
 " I wish you were here to see the picture 
 I have been painting, and to give me your 
 advice about it. I followed your counsel, 
 and have done what I think myself is my 
 best work. Accidentally I came across a 
 place here which exactly responds to my 
 idea an exquisite spot, that it was a de 
 light to paint. And more than this, I found 
 my Naiad there a beautiful girl, quite out 
 of all my hopes to find in such a place 
 simple, graceful, and with such eyes as you 
 never saw. She has been my constant com 
 panion ever since I came here. Indeed, she 
 has been my only companion, for, as you 
 
176 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 may well imagine, there is no society here, 
 and not a friend or even acquaintance. So 
 Fiammetta (that is the name of my Naiad) 
 and I have led a sort of an idyllic life for 
 the last two months. I wish in what we call 
 good society I might ever hope to find such a 
 girl, so true, so beautiful, and sympathetic ; 
 so full of high poetic sense and native refine 
 ment. You will laugh at me, I know, and 
 think I am mad to talk in this way about a 
 girl who in condition is so far, as you would 
 say, below me. But she is below me in 
 nothing, not even as I suspect in birth, at 
 least on the father s side. Her story is a cu 
 rious one, but I will not write it down here. 
 It would be too long. When we meet I will 
 give you all the details as I have learned 
 them : at all events there is a strain of gen 
 tle blood in her, like the graft of a pre 
 cious fruit upon a strong wild stock ; and I 
 confess, dear friend, that she has quite 
 bewitched me. You promised you would 
 make me a visit in the autumn, and the au 
 tumn is now here. I hold you to your 
 promise. Come, and we will talk together, 
 as one cannot talk on paper. You will find 
 enough to do here if you wish to work : the 
 walks are delightful ; there are passages 
 
F1AMMETTA. 177 
 
 everywhere to sketch of exceeding beauty ; 
 and you will see my Naiad in the flesh, and 
 she is worth seeing, and she will sing to you 
 the most enchanting little songs, in a voice 
 such as you will rarely hear. Besides, I 
 want your counsel about other things than 
 my picture. You are my best and dearest 
 friend, and I want you here." 
 
 This was his letter, and this his excuse 
 for not coming. When he met Fiammetta 
 again she did not question the truth of the 
 excuse. She was only too glad to see him 
 again, and find there was any reason for his 
 staying away. 
 
 "But I hope you have not missed me 
 much," he foolishly said. 
 
 " Oh yes, I have." 
 
 " What have you been doing? " 
 
 " Waiting for you. Every day I have 
 come here, and spent all the day, thinking 
 every moment that you would come ; but 
 you did not, so I carried home all the things 
 at night, and brought them back in the 
 morning." 
 
 " Oh, I am sorry you had all that trouble, 
 Fiammetta." 
 
 " It was no trouble ; the only trouble I 
 
 had was, that I was afraid, as you did not 
 12 
 
178 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 come, that you might not be well. But I 
 went down yesterday as far as the Villa, 
 when it was getting too late to expect you, 
 and there I waited near by till I saw Pietro, 
 and he told me you were well, and then I 
 came back." 
 
 " It was very thoughtless in me not to send 
 you word. I had no idea you would be put 
 to so much trouble, and would come down to 
 the Villa to assure yourself I was well." 
 
 " But supposing you had been ill, I could 
 not be at rest till I knew you were well." 
 
 They were neither of them quite at their 
 ease for a time. The recollection of their 
 last parting was in both their memories, and 
 too strongly impressed not to create a little 
 awkwardness. Marco was determined, if 
 possible, to keep guard over all he said and 
 did ; and Fiammetta had a feeling that all 
 was not exactly as it had been before, and 
 her spirit was not free. This, however, 
 slowly wore away as the day went on, and 
 their previous relations were in great meas 
 ure resumed. He busied himself with his 
 work or rather pretended to busy himself 
 more than he really did. His thoughts, de 
 spite himself, kept running away with him, 
 and there were long silences. Suddenly he 
 said, 
 
FIAMMETTA. 179 
 
 "Do you remember your mother, Fiam- 
 metta ? " 
 
 " Yes, signer, I just remember her ; but 
 you know she died when I was very young. 
 I was scarcely five years old. I remember 
 one day, in particular, when she took me out 
 to walk. She was very ill, I suppose, then, 
 for she walked very slowly, and constantly 
 stopped to rest, and we sat down on a rock 
 together. It was in the autumn, only a short 
 time before she died. All at once she seized 
 me in her arms, and pressed me to her bosom 
 so closely that I could hardly breathe ; and 
 I was a little frightened, it was so sudden ; 
 and she burst into a fit of tears, and cried, 
 and cried, and cried, so that I did not know 
 what to do ; and I began to cry too. And 
 then she said, Oh, infame ! infame ! 
 How can I ever pardon you ? Oh, I cannot, 
 I cannot ! Try as I will, I cannot. And 
 then she almost fainted away, and lay back 
 on the grass for a while. I did not know 
 what she meant, and I cried, and was more 
 frightened. And by and by she sat up and 
 said, Don t cry, Fiammetta, and be a 
 good girl always ; and may God bless you, 
 and make you happy happier than your 
 poor mother ; and oh, Madonna mia I let 
 
180 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 her never be deceived as I was. And after 
 a time she got up, and we went home." 
 
 " Poor woman ! " said Marco. " You did 
 not know what she meant, then, I suppose ? " 
 
 "No, signer; but I always remembered 
 that day, and the words she said. You know 
 that in one s memory there are always some 
 moments, some scenes, some words, that are 
 stamped in deeper than others, though we 
 know" no reason why they should be. Some- 
 times what we remember is so trivial, when 
 all that was important is lost. What she 
 meant then I did not know ; but I after 
 wards did, for Nonna told me that she was 
 very unhappy, because my father had gone 
 away and left her, and had treated her 
 cruelly." 
 
 " You know nothing about your father, I 
 suppose ? " 
 
 "Nothing. I don t know whether he is 
 living or dead. We have never heard any 
 thing about him. All that I know is that 
 he was a gentleman, and that my mother 
 went away with him, and came back without 
 him, and brought me home here with her. 
 And when Nonna is angry with me, she 
 taunts me about him, and says he was a cruel 
 man, and that my mother was a wilful, ob- 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 181 
 
 stinate woman, and deserved what she got, 
 and that she might have known better than 
 to trust him, and that if I do not mind I 
 shall come to the same fate. But that is 
 only when Nonna is angry ; and I know she 
 is sorry after she has said such things, for 
 she is kinder than ever as soon as her anger 
 is over. Poor mamma ! I often cry to think 
 of her, signor. How could she help it, sig- 
 nor ? She loved him, and how could she re 
 fuse to go with him if he insisted upon it ? 
 She could not know that he meant any 
 wrong to her ; she could not know that he 
 would be faithless to her and abandon her, 
 and leave her to die all alone." 
 
 " It was all very, very sad," said Marco. 
 
 The tears had come into Fiammetta s eyes 
 as she said this, and she sat for a time silent 
 and thoughtful ; and Marco, touched by her 
 simple words, resolved even more firmly 
 than before to guard his own words and ac 
 tions, and made a solemn vow to himself not 
 to betray her, and not to play with her af 
 fections, as conscience told him he had hith 
 erto so carelessly done. " No ! " he said, 
 " she shall not suffer from me. I have been 
 foolish, but I will not be base. There shall 
 come no sorrow to her through me if I can 
 
182 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 help it, if it is not already too late. I will 
 finish my picture at once. I will leave her 
 by degrees alone." 
 
 But such resolutions were easier to make 
 than to keep, and though his picture was 
 virtually completed, he still went back and 
 worked at it. This idyllic life had a charm 
 for him that he could not forego. He was 
 more deeply interested in Fiammetta than 
 he honestly owned to himself ; and when he 
 endeavored to stay away, he was listless and 
 uneasy, and desired to see her. He knew 
 the flame would burn, but he could not re 
 solve not to flit about it. He accused him 
 self of selfishness, but it was of no use. Then 
 he began seriously to consider whether he 
 might not marry her. Where could he find 
 a purer, sweeter, and more spirited character, 
 and a more self -forgetting devotion ? 
 
 The autumn had now come, and October 
 was in its glory. A pensive tenderness was 
 on the atmosphere, and a feeling of melan 
 choly veiled the world. The chestnuts were 
 golden in the sunlight, flinging their spiny 
 balls to the ground, and bursting to scatter 
 there their brown and shining nuts. The 
 luxuriant clematis wreathed with feathery 
 tufts every wall and tree. Blackberries were 
 
FIAMMETTA. 183 
 
 ripe on the hedges. The hawthorn and eg 
 lantine showed everywhere their coral hip 
 and haws. The late wild flowers enamelled 
 the brown earth. Jays shrieked in the 
 woods. Quails and partridges were calling 
 over the slopes. Hawks sailed far up in the 
 misty light on easy curves. Everything 
 tended to sentiment, and both Marco and 
 Fiammetta were subdued to it. All this 
 made it more difficult for him to end his 
 idyl, and so it went on. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE picture was now finished, and Marco 
 knew it was. There was really nothing more 
 to do. But he did not like to acknowledge 
 it, for then he should have no excuse to come 
 back, and the pleasant days would be over. 
 It would be like locking up his home to go 
 away, still he felt that it must come to an 
 end, and he had a certain sense of shame in 
 pretending that there was more to do. 
 
 One evening, when the day s work was 
 over and he was putting together his things 
 to carry them as usual to the Casetta, he 
 found strength to say to Fiammetta, 
 
 " Well, Fiammetta, the picture is done. 
 I think I shall work no longer at it. I am 
 afraid our sittings are over." 
 
 " Yes," she said, as she gazed at it, " it is 
 done, I suppose. It has seemed to me per 
 fect for a long time ; but I am only an iyno- 
 rante. But," she added with a sigh, " I am 
 sorry so sorry. You will not come, then, 
 any more. I shall not see you any more." 
 
F I AM MET T A. 185 
 
 " Not see me any more ! " he exclaimed ; 
 "and why not?" 
 
 " Ah," she said, " if the picture is finished 
 you will have no reason to come. Why 
 should you come ? " 
 
 " So you think I shall not want to see you 
 again, that now my picture is finished, you 
 will be nothing to me." 
 
 "No," she answered; " but it will not be 
 the same ; and oh, signor, you have been so 
 good to me, and I have been so happy all 
 these long days. But now the summer is 
 gone and the autumn has come, and the 
 picture is finished, and you too will be go 
 ing, and I feel that all is over." 
 
 " Oh no, Fiammetta, you will not get rid 
 of me so easily as that. You will see me 
 again to-morrow, and to-morrow, and a good 
 many to-morrows yet. I am not going away. 
 Do you think too that I shall not miss these 
 pleasant days with you ? See, Fiammetta, 
 this picture has really been finished many 
 days ago. I should have carried it away 
 long before, had it not been for you. I wish 
 it was not finished now, for then it would 
 give me an excuse to corne back." 
 
 " An excuse, signor ! but you need no ex 
 cuse." 
 
186 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 " Ah yes ! I do. I need it to myself and 
 to Nonna. What would she say if I should 
 keep coming back as before without any ex 
 cuse? But I shall come back, be assured 
 of that. We are not going to say good-by 
 now, unless you insist on it." 
 
 " Oh no ! I shall never insist on it. You 
 know that." 
 
 " Yes ; I think we are good friends enough 
 for that, Fiammetta." 
 
 " Good friends ! " The phrase did not 
 sound aright to Fiammetta ; it seemed to 
 separate him from her. Good friends ! and 
 was that all ? Well, was it not enough ? 
 What more did she expect ? Ah ! what she 
 expected what was possible was one 
 thing ; what she longed for what her 
 spirit blindly desired, in spite of all proba 
 bility, of all hope was something so very 
 different ; to which mere friendship, sweet 
 as it was, was but a mockery and a delu 
 sion. No ; her heart cried out for more 
 infinitely more but she said, 
 
 " Yes ; I know that we are friends." 
 
 They took their way towards the Casetta, 
 each oppressed with thought, and saying al 
 most nothing. As they arrived, they saw 
 come out of the house the figure of a young 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 187 
 
 man in uniform. He advanced rapidly to 
 wards them, and cried, " Fiammetta ! " 
 
 " Oh ! " cried she, " Andrea, is that you ? 
 Where did you come from ? This is Count 
 Sterroni," she added ; and he lifted his hat 
 and saluted Marco stiffly, and Marco re 
 turned his salutation. Then turning to 
 Marco, she said, " It is my cousin, Andrea." 
 
 "And where did you come from?" she 
 cried. 
 
 " I have just come over from the Fosse. 
 I had a leave of absence for a few days. I 
 arrived at home this morning, and have come 
 over to see aunt Gigia." 
 
 ^And you are well? " 
 
 " Very well ; and you ? " 
 
 " Very well." 
 
 He was a good-looking young fellow of 
 apparently some twenty-three years of age, 
 well built, stout, bronzed in the sun, and 
 wearing the uniform, low-brimmed hat, and 
 streaming green feathers of the BersaglierL 
 He took Fiammetta s hand, shook it warmly, 
 looked her steadily in the face, and said, 
 
 " I am glad to see you, Fiammetta, and I 
 hope you are half as glad to see me." 
 
 "I am glad to see you certainly, of 
 course," said she ; but there was a shadow 
 
FIAMMETTA. 
 
 of anxiety and trouble in her face, and the 
 words did not somehow ring honestly, as if 
 she were really glad to see him. He seemed 
 a little disappointed at her want of eager 
 ness, and hesitated, and looked at Marco. 
 
 Marco saw that he was in their way 
 at all events in Andrea s way and only 
 added to their embarrassment by his pres 
 ence. He therefore at once took his leave, 
 shook hands with Fiammetta, and said, 
 
 " I will leave the picture here to-night to 
 dry thoroughly. To-morrow I will come 
 again. Meantime I leave you to your cousin, 
 for you will doubtless have much to say to 
 each other. Good-night, and rivederci to 
 morrow ; " and bowing to Andrea, he de 
 parted. 
 
 " Who is this cousin ? " he thought. " This 
 is the first time I have heard of him. Why 
 did Fiammetta never mention him to me ? 
 A good-looking fellow, too. I wonder," and 
 he wondered a great many things in the 
 vager as he made his way home. 
 
 When the morning came he was still won 
 dering ; all sorts of notions flitted across his 
 mind. Was it possible that they had been 
 not only cousins, but lovers ? Ah no ! he 
 could not believe that. Andrea might have 
 
FIAMMETTA. 189 
 
 been a lover to her, who knows ? but she 
 no, she never could have been his lover. 
 Why not ? He did not see clearly why not ; 
 but he felt that it was not probable no, 
 nor even possible. 
 
 After lingering about the Villa for a time, 
 as the usual hour at which he went to the 
 Casetta returned, he felt a sort of inward 
 necessity to go there. He had nothing to do 
 at the Villa. He was bored by himself, and 
 almost without a decided intention he took 
 the same road that he had travelled so often, 
 and slowly wandered along, pausing now and 
 then, and then again going on again. He 
 was an hour later than usual when he came 
 in sight of the house, and here he stopped. 
 " Why should I go there to interrupt them?" 
 he asked himself. " I shall only be in the 
 way. They will have so much to talk over. 
 Better leave them alone to-day at least. To 
 morrow perhaps he will be gone." 
 
 While he was thus debating the question 
 with himself, he saw a woman s figure ad 
 vancing towards him through the trees, and 
 hidden partially by them. He thought at 
 first it might be Fiammetta ; but as it drew 
 near, he saw that it was Gigia. She came 
 forward to him, and after saying good-morn- 
 
190 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 ing, she hesitated and seemed so embarrassed 
 that Marco asked her if anything was the 
 matter. 
 
 "No, signer, not exactly, and yes, I 
 don t know how properly to say what I mean. 
 But" 
 
 "But what, Gigia; speak out frankly, 
 what is it?" 
 
 " I am afraid you will be displeased with 
 what I say." 
 
 " Oh no ; but tell me at once." 
 
 " Well, signor, I have been waiting to see 
 
 you for more than an hour, for I wanted to 
 
 ask you you will not be displeased, I hope 
 
 - 1 wanted to ask you not to come to-day, 
 
 if you please." 
 
 " Certainly, I won t come, if you wish. 
 But what does this mean, Gigia? Speak out, 
 my good woman, and tell me frankly what 
 you have to say." 
 
 " Well, signor, since you permit me, it is 
 this you do not know anything about it, 
 I know but while Andrea is there, I am 
 afraid that there might be trouble if you 
 came." 
 
 " But why should there be trouble ? He 
 seemed a very good fellow." 
 
 " Ah, signor, you do not know, and I must 
 
FIAMMETTA. 191 
 
 tell you. Andrea is Fiammetta s cousin, and 
 they grew up together as boy and girl, and 
 as he grew older, and got to be a man, he 
 fell in love with her and wanted her to marry 
 him. That was all very foolish, of course. 
 They were too young to marry, and he had 
 no means to support her, and besides that, 
 Fiammetta, though she was friendly to him, 
 never thought of him in that way oh no, 
 signor. She repulsed him very firmly, and 
 said if he ever talked to her of love, she 
 would have nothing to do with him even as 
 a friend. He must be content with that. 
 But he was not content, and he follows her 
 about and annoys her with his love-making. 
 At last he was drawn for the army, and was 
 forced to go away and leave Fiammetta free, 
 and now it is a long time since she has seen 
 him until he came yesterday, and this morn 
 ing he again, so Fiammetta says, persecuted 
 her and renewed his love-talk, and Fiam 
 metta told him once for all she would not 
 have him, and then he grew very angry, and 
 said it was all on account of your coming 
 here, and he abused you, and said you only 
 wanted to ruin Fiammetta, that you had 
 stolen her from him, and that when he saw 
 you he would give you a piece of his mind. 
 
192 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 He was very angry, and I hope you will ex 
 cuse him. He did not mean all that he said ; 
 but he is quick-tempered, and I thought I 
 thought it would be best that you and he 
 should not meet, and Fiammetta said, too, 
 Don t let II SignorConte come to-day as he 
 promised, and please let him know why, for 
 I am afraid of I know not what, and so I 
 came, and here I have waited for you to tell 
 you this." 
 
 " And are you sure that Fiammetta does 
 not love him, and that he will not finally 
 persuade her to marry him ? " 
 
 " Oh, I am afraid not. He is a good 
 youth, and we all like him, and we thought 
 that she could not do better than to marry 
 him ; but she will not hear of it, and it ex 
 cites her so to speak of it that we are con 
 tent to hold our tongues. No, signer, that 
 will never be. When Fiammetta has taken 
 anything into her head, she has taken it 
 there forever. She is a very good girl, but 
 there is no persuading her against anything 
 when she has set her heart on it. She 
 would willingly accept Andrea as a friend, 
 but never never as a lover." 
 
 " Perhaps with time," said Marco. 
 
 " No, signor, it is of no use. She is like 
 
FIAMMETTA. 193 
 
 her mother in that. You will excuse me, 
 signer, will you not ? and you will not come 
 to the house to-day, if you please ? " 
 
 " You have done very right, Gigia, and 
 I thank you. No ; I will go back, and will 
 return after Andrea has gone away. How 
 long does he remain ? " 
 
 " He is going away to-morrow, signor. He 
 is obliged to. His leave of absence is up, 
 and he must go." 
 
 "Tell Fiammetta not to be troubled. I 
 will keep out of his way and hers." 
 
 " And you excuse me, Signor Conte ? " 
 " Excuse you ! I thank you, rather." 
 So saying, they separated, each going their 
 own way. On his return home Marco found 
 a letter from his friend Carlo-, which ran as 
 follows : 
 
 MY DEAR MARCO, Many thanks for 
 your letter, which I received a day or two 
 ago. I read a great deal between its lines 
 which is not openly said, and I am persuaded 
 that it is high time for me to come to you 
 and give you a little good advice, not only 
 about your picture, which I am glad to hear 
 is so successful, but about other matters of 
 even more importance. I knew you would 
 
 13 
 
194 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 make a good picture if you gave yourself up 
 to your true inspiration for the ideal and 
 the poetic ; but I did not think you would 
 find the Naiad you sought for. I shall be 
 curious to see her. If she is all you say, she 
 is, indeed, a rara avis. They do not alight 
 by every brookside, nor are ordinarily to be 
 found among rustics. But the world is full 
 of wonders. Meantime, you will forgive 
 me, as far as the rustic Naiad herself is con 
 cerned, if, despite all your enthusiasms, I take 
 her with a good many grains of salt. How 
 ever, I am ready to be converted. We shall 
 see. 
 
 I have done little or nothing this sum 
 mer, and have been travelling about in Ger 
 many. But I will tell you all about my 
 journeyings and experiences when we meet. 
 I have seen so many people, and been dinned 
 to death by so much talk and so much clat 
 ter at hotels, that I shall be glad to get to a 
 quiet place, away from all this vanity and 
 vexation, with a friend. So count on me ; 
 
 I shall arrive at N on Wednesday, and 
 
 will at once come to you. Please tell Pas- 
 quale to be there to meet me at the evening 
 train from Bologna at six o clock. I think 
 it arrives at that time ; but he will know. 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 195 
 
 A rivederci, then, and believe me as ever, 
 your affectionate CARLO FBANZINI. 
 
 Marco was delighted. His friend his 
 best friend would be here in ^three days. 
 He had great confidence in his judgment, 
 and he meant to make a clean breast of all 
 that was weighing on him, and to take his 
 counsel. " What will he think ? what will 
 he say ? Of course I know what he will 
 think at first, but what will he say at last ? 
 That is the question." 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 WHAT took place at the Casetta after 
 Marco had left was this. Andrea, after his 
 long absence, had come back full of hope 
 for when are a lover s hopes utterly crushed ? 
 He hoped that absence might have changed 
 her feelings towards him. He had seen more 
 of the world, had developed in character and 
 spirit since she had seen him. He thought 
 his uniform itself might produce an effect 
 upon her. He had done well, and been 
 praised, and was now a sergeant, and was 
 proud of his shoidder-straps. He was no 
 more a mere rustic, but an officer, and on 
 the way to advancement in the best corps of 
 Italy. He could talk better and express 
 himself better than before ; and there was 
 nothing like despair about him when he 
 again saw Fiammetta. The evening was 
 spent in the house, talking over all family 
 matters and listening to his experiences, 
 which suffered no diminution in his recount 
 ing, and all went on in a friendly way. 
 
FIAMMETTA. 197 
 
 But the next morning he asked Fiammetta 
 to walk with him. She could not well refuse, 
 though she feared what might be the result. 
 Go, however, she did ; and they took an op 
 posite direction from the Naiad s Nook, so 
 that she might run no chance of meeting 
 Marco. But it was in the early morning, 
 and she knew that Marco would not come, 
 if he came at all, before the afternoon, so 
 that there were hours before them. 
 
 They had got but a little distance from the 
 house, when Andrea said, turning abruptly 
 to her, " Who was that Count that was with 
 you yesterday ? and what is he doing here ? " 
 
 The manner of the question was offensive ; 
 but she answered quietly, " It is Conte Marco 
 Sterroni. He has been painting a picture of 
 the torrent up beyond the house." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Andrea. " And how long has 
 he been coming here ? " 
 
 " For some weeks he has been painting, if 
 you mean that." 
 
 "I have seen his picture. Who did he 
 paint that figure from? " 
 
 " From me. He asked me to be his model, 
 and Nonna had no objection ; and I saw no 
 reason why I should not assist him, and I sat 
 for it." 
 
198 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 " Ah ! You see no reason why you should 
 not be his model ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " I see a good many reasons." 
 
 " I do not." 
 
 "I suppose he flattered you, and made 
 love to you, and made you think well, God 
 knows what he made you think." 
 
 "He neither flattered nor made love to 
 me." 
 
 " Ah, that is very well to say. You spent 
 weeks there with him in the woods all alone. 
 That you admit. Well, it hasn t a very 
 good look. What did you do ? " 
 
 " Andrea," said she, u I do not know what 
 right you have to question me in this way. 
 I do not like it. If you were not an old 
 friend, I should tell you that you are very 
 impertinent." 
 
 " You are ruining your reputation out 
 here in the woods day after day with a Sig- 
 nor Conte, as you call him. Who knows 
 what you have been about ? Do you dream 
 he will ever marry you? Ah, I think so, 
 Signora Contessa, vi faccio un inchino, as 
 they say in the play. No, no ! he will never 
 do that not he. What then will he do 
 except ruin you ? and you are sucli a fool as 
 
FIAMMETTA. 199 
 
 not to see it. He is a poor miserable scoun 
 drel that is what I think of him to wile 
 you on to this." 
 
 The blood mounted into Fiammetta s face, 
 and her eyes were aflame. She could bear 
 it as long as he spoke of her, for she felt 
 that she had been perhaps foolish ; but when 
 he used such expressions towards Marco, she 
 could not bear it. 
 
 " Addio, Andrea," she said. " I will talk 
 with you no longer. I will have nothing to 
 do with you. You have no respect for any 
 body, and the sooner you leave here the bet 
 ter. Addio ; I will see you no more." 
 
 So saying, she rapidly left him. He ran 
 after her, overtook her, and strove to stop 
 her. She struggled to get away from him ; 
 but he seized her round the waist, and then 
 catching both her arms in his strong clutch, 
 held her to him face to face. 
 
 " No, no, no ! " he cried, " you shall not 
 leave me. Do you not see, Fiammetta, that 
 I love you; that you are all the world to 
 me ; that I am eaten up with jealousy ; that 
 I am afraid to lose you? I will not say 
 anything to offend you. Listen to me. I 
 love you, and I cannot bear even the thought 
 that any one else should have you." 
 
200 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 " Enough, enough, Andrea. Loose me ; 
 let me go." 
 
 "No, no! Fiammetta, dearest Fiammetta, 
 I will not let you go. You are mine ; you 
 must be mine. * 
 
 " I am not yours, and I never will be 
 yours. Do you think you can force me by 
 violence to love you ? I have told you over 
 and over again I do not and I cannot love 
 you. I hoped that you remembered this, 
 and that we might be friends ; but unless 
 you let me go, we will not even be that." 
 
 All his answer was to draw her to him, 
 and kiss her on the lips. 
 
 " Shame ! beast ! " she cried. " I hate 
 you ! let me go ! " 
 
 " No ; you shall not go till I tell you all 
 I feel." 
 
 She struggled with him without speaking. 
 At last he let her go. She started back. 
 
 " I will never forgive you," she said. 
 I " You have insulted me. *I will tell my 
 grandfather and my grandmother, and they 
 shall drive you from the house." 
 
 The recollection of that kiss of Marco s 
 came over her. Andrea had profaned it, and 
 this she could not forgive him. In her out 
 raged sense she hated him for the moment, 
 
FIAMMETTA. 201 
 
 and would willingly have struck him dead 
 at her feet. Then she broke down, and cried 
 and sobbed like a child, and stammered out 
 convulsively, "Oh, I could not have be 
 lieved it ; I could not have believed it. Oh, 
 Andrea, why did you do this ? Dio mio ! 
 Dio mio ! " 
 
 Her weeping overcame him more than her 
 passion. It calmed him. He implored her 
 to forgive him. He was not master of him 
 self. He did not mean to hurt her. She 
 held up her arms piteously to him. The 
 marks of his clench were red upon them. 
 " I did not mean to hurt you," he said 
 again. 
 
 " Go away and leave me ! " she said. " I 
 cannot endure the sight of you. You have 
 hurt me infinitely more in my heart than in 
 my arms." 
 
 " Do you love that scoundrel ? " cried An 
 drea, his anger getting again the better of 
 him. 
 
 " Whether I do or not, you have no right 
 to ask." 
 
 " So you confess it ? " 
 
 " I confess nothing. You are not my mas 
 ter. I owe you no confessions." 
 
 "Let him look out for himself," cried 
 
202 F1AMMETTA. 
 
 Andrea. "Let him not come across my 
 path, Count or no Count. I will make short 
 work of him if I see him. Damn him, and 
 all his race ! " 
 
 "Andrea," she cried, " if you dare to in 
 sult him, or to touch a hair of his head, my 
 curse shall be on you, and God s curse. If 
 no one else does, I will avenge him." 
 
 " You will avenge him ! " he sneered ; 
 " and how, I pray ? " 
 
 " Leave it to me, and you will see. You 
 think because I am a weak girl that I can 
 do nothing. Do not push me to extremities. 
 I would fain be friends with you ; but if you 
 wish, I can be your enemy ; and, weak as I 
 am, I will bring your head and your heart 
 down to the dust. I am not afraid of you." 
 
 So saying, she left him, and he did not 
 follow her. She rushed to the house, wild 
 and haggard with excitement, and cried to 
 her grandmother, " Andrea has insulted me ! 
 he has threatened to kill the Conte if he 
 meets him. Run, Nonna, run down the 
 road ; meet him, find him, and tell him not 
 to come or there will be a quarrel ! Don t 
 lose a moment, Nonna. Andrea is just out 
 there," pointing to the spot where she had 
 left him, " and what he may do or where he 
 
FIAMMETTA. 203 
 
 may go I know not. But he is very angry 
 and very excited. He is jealous of the 
 Conte, and I am afraid of what may 
 happen." 
 
 So Gigia ran down, met the Count, and 
 prevented him from coming, as we have 
 seen. 
 
 After a time Andrea returned to the house, 
 somewhat calmed and somewhat ashamed of 
 his violent conduct. There he saw Gigia, 
 and he poured out his griefs to her ; and 
 when she attempted to laugh at him and to 
 show him that his jealousy was ridiculous, 
 that Marco had only wished Fiammetta as a 
 model ; that he had always been perfectly 
 proper and kind and gentle ; and that as for 
 his making love to her, that was all nonsense, 
 there was nothing between them, and never 
 had been and never would be, he cried : 
 
 " That is all very well ; but you are blind. 
 I see it all as plainly as this tree before me, 
 and you will find it out at last. Fiammetta 
 is no longer the same person that she was. 
 He has bewitched her, and he has done it 
 for no good purpose. It will end as it did 
 with her mother, you mark my words. He 
 is a scoundrel, and that is the long and the 
 short of it, and he means to ruin her, if he 
 
204 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 has not already ! I know I know I 
 know ; it is of no use to talk to me." 
 
 " It is all miserable jealousy on your part," 
 said Gigia, " and you ought to be ashamed 
 of it. You have insulted and frightened 
 Fiammetta, and this is a pretty way to win 
 her love. Why did you not hold your tongue ? 
 You know she cannot be driven in that way. 
 The Count will soon be gone, and if you had 
 let her alone, she would probably have come 
 round to you at last. But now you have 
 made a pretty mess of it." 
 
 " I suppose I have," he said, sullenly. 
 " But it s done ; there s no help for it now. 
 I can t undo it." 
 
 " What remains for you to do is to go and 
 beg her pardon, and make all the excuse you 
 can. She is very much irritated with you, 
 and if you hope ever to have any chance 
 with her, you must go to her at once and be 
 as abject as possible. There is no use in 
 being violent ; that is no way to win her." 
 
 " I suppose," he said, " you are right ; I 
 will do as you say. Will you call her, and 
 tell her I want to see her? " 
 
 Gigia went up to Fiammetta s room, into 
 which she had locked herself, and knocked 
 at the door. At first Fiammetta did not 
 
FIAMMETTA, 205 
 
 answer. She had thrown herself on the bed, 
 buried her face in the pillows, and was weep 
 ing bitterly. At last, after Gigia had called 
 her over and over again, she rose and opened 
 the door. 
 
 " Oh, Fiammetta mia I " she cried, when 
 she saw her, " what is the matter ? Why 
 are you crying so ? Don t fret like this, my 
 dearest child. It is all really nothing. Yes, 
 yes ; I know Andrea was violent, and lost 
 his temper ; but, Madonna mia ! we all do 
 that at times, lie has told me all about it, 
 Fiammetta mia ! and he is very sorry." 
 
 " He may well be," said Fiammetta. 
 
 " Well, he is, dear very, very sorry; 
 and he wants to see you and tell you so, and 
 to beg your pardon. Come down and see 
 him." 
 
 "No! " said Fiammetta, sternly ; "I will 
 not. I will have nothing to do with him 
 henceforward or forever." 
 
 " Oh yes, you will," said Gigia, tenderly ; 
 and she took the girl in her arms and strove 
 to soothe her. " He did not mean what he 
 said. You will forgive him ? " 
 
 "No ! " said Fiammetta, " I will not for 
 give him. He insulted me, and he insulted 
 the Count ; and he seized me and kissed me, 
 
206 FJAMMETTA. 
 
 and I will not forgive him. You may go 
 and tell him so." 
 
 " Oh, that was all because he did not un 
 derstand, and was jealous ; and nobody is 
 jealous unless they love, and you know he 
 loves you." 
 
 " Loves me ? loves me, indeed ! Then I 
 hate him all the more because of that. 1 
 never gave him any right, and I will not have 
 him, and you may tell him so, an<} I will not 
 see him. It is of no use trying to persuade 
 me, Nonna. I mean to stay here in my 
 room till he has gone." 
 
 It was vain to oppose her, and finally 
 Gigia gave it up, and went down and told 
 Andrea that she would not see him, and she 
 advised him that the best thing he could do 
 was to go away. " She will soften in time 
 towards you ; but now it is useless to do any 
 thing you will only provoke her more. 
 If you take my advice," she said, " you will 
 go away at once, and leave the rest to me 
 se e llosa Jiorira, as the saying goes." 
 
 " I suppose you are right. It is hard on 
 me very hard ; but I was a fool. I might 
 have known better." 
 
 " Yes ; you have n t done very well for 
 yourself." 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 207 
 
 " Well, I will go ; but let me wait here 
 till to-morrow morning. Perhaps she will 
 think better of it by that time." 
 
 " Well, stay if you choose ; but I do not 
 advise it." 
 
 So he remained, in no very pleasant con 
 dition of mind angry with himself, angry 
 with her, angry with Marco irritated, sorry, 
 and not knowing what to do. Fiammetta was 
 true to her resolution. She remained in her 
 room all day fleeing there for silence, and 
 to hide herself, like a wounded thing. For 
 all that Andrea had said, fiercely as she had 
 rejected it, weighed on her thought and troub 
 led her deeply ; and a pain came across her 
 that she had never felt before so acutely. 
 
 Nothing was said to Antonio ; and when 
 supper came, he asked for Fiammetta, and 
 why she did not come down, and he was told 
 that she was not well, and had a bad head 
 ache, and was lying down, and that it would 
 be best not to wake her ; and " I will take 
 her up something to eat by and by," said 
 Gigia, " when I am sure she is awake. We d 
 better leave her to rest now." 
 
 It was a melancholy supper all the life 
 had gone out of the house ; but they got 
 through it without a suspicion on the part of 
 Antonio, and so far so well. 
 
208 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 In the morning Andrea went up and 
 knocked at her door. 
 
 " It is I Andrea," he cried. " I am go 
 ing away, and have come to bid you good- 
 by. I am very, very sorry. Try to find 
 some excuse for me. Come and shake hands 
 with me, and say you forgive me." 
 
 " I forgive you," she said, " and good- 
 by ; " but she would not come out and see 
 him. 
 
 After she learned from Gigia that he had 
 gone, she came down ; but a change had 
 come over her. She said little, lingered 
 about the house or in the grounds near it, 
 so as to have it always in view, lest Marco 
 should come and find her gone, and waited 
 vainly for she knew not what. But Marco 
 did not come, and it was a miserable day. 
 
 The next morning, as she was standing at 
 the edge of the wood watching for him, she 
 saw the donkey approaching through the 
 trees. Her heart leaped up within her, and 
 she smiled a happy smile, and clapped her 
 hands, and cried to herself, " He has come ! " 
 
 But she was mistaken. Instead of Marco, 
 as the donkey drew near, she saw it was the 
 fattore, Pietro, and her heart went down 
 again. 
 
FIAMMETTA. 209 
 
 " Good-morning," said Pietro, gayly. 
 " How are you, Fiammetta ? " 
 
 " Well, thank you, Pietro ; and you ? " 
 
 " Well, thank you." 
 
 " And the Signer Conte ? " 
 
 " Well, too. He has sent me up to bring 
 down his picture and all his things, as he 
 could not come himself, and he bade me 
 give you this letter." 
 
 She seized it with impatience, which she 
 could not conceal, opened it, and read as 
 follows : 
 
 DEAR FIAMMETTA, I could not come 
 myself this morning, and you will know 
 why. If you do not, your grandmother will 
 tell you. So I have sent Pietro for the pic 
 ture, which I will thank you to give him, 
 with the paint-box and all the other things, 
 that I shall not need there, now that the 
 picture is finished. I hope to see you very 
 soon, when your cousin has gone, and I sup 
 pose he will go to-day, from what your grand 
 mother told me. But I am afraid I shall not 
 be able to come to-morrow, as I am expect 
 ing a great friend of mine to arrive, who is 
 coming to stay with me for a week or so. I 
 shall, with your permission, bring him to see 
 
210 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 you. A rivederci, then, my dear Fiammetta, 
 with all best wishes, from your affectionate 
 friend, MARCO STERKONI. 
 
 There was nothing that gave her any sat 
 isfaction in this letter except the words, " I 
 hope to see you soon," and " Your affection 
 ate friend." All the rest was a blow to her. 
 A friend coming who was it ? Ah, if any 
 friend was coming, that would end all the 
 old happy course of things, no matter who 
 he might be. She turned to Pietro and 
 said, 
 
 " The Signer Conte tells me that he is ex 
 pecting a friend to stay with him. Do you 
 know who it is ? " 
 
 " Oh yes ; it is the Signor Carlo Fran- 
 zini one of his oldest friends. He got a 
 letter from him the night before last, telling 
 him he would be here to-morrow. A good 
 friend lie is, too. It was he who took the 
 Signor Padrone away with him to Rome, 
 some ten years ago, and first taught him 
 how to paint. The Conte is very fond of 
 him." 
 
 " Ah yes," said Fiammetta. " I have 
 heard him speak of this friend often." 
 
 " The signer told me that your cousin 
 
FIAMMETTA. 211 
 
 Andrea was here, and told me to ask if lie 
 was gone." 
 
 "Yes ; he has gone. Please tell the Signor 
 Conte that he is gone. He went away yes 
 terday morning." 
 
 " He has grown to be a fine young fellow, 
 I hear, and has made a good step forward in 
 his company. They tell me he is a sergeant. 
 Is that true?" 
 
 " Yes," said Fiammetta. 
 
 " And he wore his uniform when he was 
 here ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I should like to have seen him with his 
 green feathers. I suppose he was proud 
 enough of them and of his advancement. 
 Well, I am glad to hear he is getting on so 
 well. I always liked him. He was a favor 
 ite of yours too, Fiammetta, I believe. Was 
 he not ? " 
 
 " We are cousins." 
 
 " Yes, yes. I know that, and perhaps 
 will be something more some day. Eh, 
 Fiammetta ? But I want to pry into no 
 secrets. What will be, will be ! and, as 
 the old proverb says, 4 Fate comes at last 
 to the slow and the fast. Well, well ! I 
 only wish for the best for you, Fiammetta." 
 
212 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 " Thank you for your good wishes ; but 
 Andrea is nothing but my cousin, and never 
 will be." 
 
 " Well, well ! Here I am chatting and 
 the time is going, and I must go in and see 
 your grandmother and grandfather, and get 
 the picture." 
 
 Fiammetta accompanied him, and all the 
 things were brought out and put upon the 
 donkey, and after a little chat with Gigia, 
 Pietro went off with them. 
 
 Fiammetta watched him go, with a sad 
 sinking of the heart. As long as they were 
 with her, she knew that Marco would return ; 
 but now, even if he came back, it would be 
 only now and then, and not as before. Be 
 sides, she had a strong presentiment that the 
 arrival of his friend Carlo would change all 
 
 O 
 
 their relations. There would, at best, be only 
 a meeting, at intervals more or less long. 
 He must give his time to his guest, and 
 when they met it would probably be only 
 in the presence of this friend, who would, 
 perhaps, influence Marco against her, and 
 perhaps would carry him away with him as 
 he did before. Nothing was clear to her 
 a cloud was everywhere on her horizon, 
 rising slowly and threatening to cover the 
 whole sky. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 CARLO arrived on Wednesday night, and 
 was greeted heartily by Marco. He was 
 thoroughly glad to see his old friend ; and 
 after supper they talked together of Carlo s 
 travels and experiences since they parted, 
 and of old friends and how they were, and 
 where they were. Nothing very intimate was 
 touched upon the first night ; and as Carlo 
 was tired with his long day s journey, he 
 soon went to bed, and left Marco to his soli 
 tary meditations. 
 
 The next morning they wandered about 
 and visited all the old haunts, and walked 
 through the woods for an hour or two, and 
 then returned to the house. 
 
 " Now," said Carlo, " let me see your pic 
 ture." Marco went into his room, brought 
 it out and set it on the easel ; and Carlo took 
 a long, careful look at it. Then he rose, and 
 patting Marco on his back, said, " Bravo ! I 
 like it immensely. It is full of poetry, and 
 has the essential romantic charm that should 
 
214 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 belong to such a conception. Your land 
 scape is admirable, the composition is very 
 harmonious, the color is good, the drawing 
 good. But what strikes me most of all is the 
 Naiad herself. Charming ! my dear fellow, 
 charming! full of grace and naivet and 
 simplicity, and with a tender pensiveness of 
 expression and character. That, of course, 
 came from you ; your model never had it, I 
 am sure." 
 
 " Ah, there you are wrong," said Marco. 
 " It is simply a portrait of the sweetest and 
 most charming creature you ever saw. No ; 
 I have not flattered her, though you shake 
 your head I have not, really. When you 
 see her, you will find that I have not even 
 done her justice." 
 
 "You were a lucky dog to find such a 
 model," said Carlo, smiling. " Whether I 
 shall see all that you saw in her is another 
 question, and I still say your imagination 
 lent her the charm that you reproduced in 
 this figure. Your imagination, or something 
 more personal of feeling and sentiment. Of 
 course, all tilings are as they seem to us, not 
 as they really are ; and you saw her through 
 deeply-colored glasses, if you tell me she 
 looked to you thus." 
 
FIAMMETTA. 215 
 
 " I painted what I saw only. Of course, 
 I don t know that she will look like this to 
 you. To me she did. You shall see her 
 yourself and judge. The fact is, that the 
 whole scene is a direct transcript from na 
 ture, with scarcely a change. I was not 
 thinking about the subject. It was only 
 vaguely in my mind, when, one day saunter 
 ing through the woods, I suddenly saw this 
 scene before me. There was the torrent, 
 and the woods just as I have painted them, 
 and there sat my Naiad on one of the boul 
 ders, just as she sits there, singing to herself. 
 I could not believe my eyes at first. I stood 
 and gazed, enchanted. She was not aware 
 of my presence. It was as if I had been 
 transported into another world. Then a 
 bough on which I stepped broke, and she 
 saw me." 
 
 " And she vanished, I suppose." 
 
 " No, I had met her before, and she rec 
 ognized me, and was not shy. And we sat 
 down and talked, and the end of it was 
 that she agreed to come and sit as my 
 model." 
 
 " No, that does not look as if she was very 
 shy." 
 
 " No, she is not shy. I understand your 
 
216 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 innuendo, but you are wrong. She is any 
 thing but a coquette. She is a simple child 
 
 a wild flower that has grown up in the 
 woods. She is neither shy nor conscious. 
 She has none of the arts that we know so 
 well in the city. She assented to my propo 
 sition that she should sit to me there as 
 my model, just as simply as she would have 
 gone to fill me a cup of water to drink had I 
 asked her. Besides, I made it all right with 
 the old people, her grandmother and grand 
 father, not by paying them anything, you 
 know that it would have been an offence 
 to offer. Everything has been done with 
 their knowledge and consent. No idea of 
 impropriety ever entered into their heads, 
 any more than it did into mine." 
 
 " Naive people, indeed," said Carlo. 
 " Well, there was no impropriety." 
 "No, really?" 
 " No, not a shadow." 
 
 " You won t tell me that that pretty rus 
 tic came to sit to you day after day for weeks 
 
 for you must have been weeks at your 
 work and that you never made love to 
 her?" 
 
 "No; never." 
 
 " Do you mean seriously to say to me that 
 
FIAMMETTA. 217 
 
 you never considered her in any other light 
 than as a mere model? " 
 
 " No, to be honest, I can t say that. She 
 charmed me. I became fond of her. I 
 liked to hear her voice. I " here Marco 
 paused, and looked down on the ground and 
 hesitated. 
 
 " I see ; you fell in love with her. Of 
 course you did. I saw that in your letter. I 
 see it now still more in your picture." 
 
 " To own the honest truth, I confess it was 
 something like that. Yes, I could not help 
 it." 
 
 " And she she fell in love with you, I 
 suppose she could not help it either." 
 
 " I will not say that." 
 
 " But you know it is a fact." 
 
 " I am afraid it is." 
 
 " And you told each other that you loved, 
 and all these delightful days were merely de 
 voted to love-making?" 
 
 " No. I never told her I loved her, and 
 she never told me she loved me." 
 
 " What! do you mean to say that day 
 after day you and she sat there together, and 
 walked together, and you never told her you 
 loved her, and never took any liberties of a 
 lover with her? " 
 
218 F 1 AM M ETTA. 
 
 " No ! I never even kissed her but once. 
 She was so confiding, so simple, so pure, that 
 I took an oath to myself that until I had 
 made up my mind to marry her, I never 
 would avow my love, and never would take 
 advantage of her or lead her astray." 
 
 "Till you had made up your mind to 
 marry her ! Do you mean seriously to 
 tell me that you ever entertained such a 
 thought? I could not suppose you would 
 be guilty o such folly as that even in 
 thought ; of course, in fact it is impossi 
 ble." 
 
 " Why impossible ? " 
 
 " Why impossible ? You know as well as 
 I. I am willing to grant all you say that 
 she is beautiful, pure, simple, naive all 
 that you will. But, after all, she is a mere 
 rustic, without education, without knowledge 
 of the usages of the world, without the veneer 
 (well, call it veneer, if you please) of civili 
 zation. She looks charming here, I doubt 
 not, in the woods all her graces have their 
 fitting framework ; but carry her to Rome 
 as your wife carry her into the salon and 
 ball-room, introduce her to your highly civi 
 lized and cultivated friends and artificial ac 
 quaintances of the world, as we call it 
 
FIAMMETTA. 219 
 
 and how would she look there ? This wild 
 creature would be wholly out of her ele 
 ment ; she would be confused and gauche, 
 and offend against all the usages of society. 
 She would be wanting in all tact, in all un 
 derstanding of the world into which you in 
 troduced her, and the scales would fall from 
 your eyes ; and she would be unhappy and 
 you would be annoyed, bored to the utmost, 
 and be aware of the sad mistake you had 
 made. And then would come reproaches 
 and scoldings, and lesson-giving and train 
 ing to fit her for her new life ; and then, per 
 haps, she \vould rebel, or perhaps she would 
 suffer and be silent, and daily life would be 
 a weight upon you both to kill your happi 
 ness. You would be ashamed of her ; not 
 because she had not all the high virtues pos 
 sible, but because she would trip over all the 
 petty convenances of society, and be laughed 
 at. Oh, the world is very hard ! and it would 
 make fun of you and her, and gossip and 
 chatter and buzz about you like flies, and in 
 vain you would try to drive them off." 
 
 " You draw a hard picture." 
 
 " I draw a true one." 
 
 " No ; I think not." 
 
 " I do not mean to say there would be any 
 
220 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 justice in all this criticism. No ; the world 
 is not just : it is carping and cruel ; but there 
 it is. We have to take it for what it is." 
 
 " But she would soon learn all that the 
 usages of society require. Of course, she at 
 first might make blunders and get laughed 
 at ; but she could easily be taught and 
 trained." 
 
 " It is unpleasant to teach and train one 
 whom we love, and particularly one s wife. 
 It leads to constant fault-finding, and fault 
 finding ruins one s peace of mind and dis 
 courages love, and irritates even the best 
 temper. And then, again, the question of 
 birth in this girl is a serious one. Blood al 
 ways speaks out. She is a rustic, but little 
 above a peasant, and do what you will she 
 will always have traces of that." 
 
 " No ! there you are wrong. She is not 
 a rustic. She is a born lady. When you 
 see her you will feel it in her every word 
 and motion" and thought. On one side, her 
 mother s, she is of no high birth though 
 she was an exceptional person, too but on 
 her father s side she comes of high noble 
 lineage." 
 
 " Pho ! Nonsense ! How can this be ? 
 Who was her father ? " 
 
F I AM MET T A. 221 
 
 " I cannot tell you ; all that I know is that 
 he was a nobleman, a person of education 
 and culture, with whom her mother eloped, 
 and who afterwards abandoned her." 
 
 Then Marco told the story of Tonietta. 
 
 " That is a sad story enough," said Carlo. 
 " A pitiable one ; but I do not see how it 
 rnends matters as to this girl. As far as I 
 understand it, she is illegitimate ; and though 
 this is not her fault, the world will visit it 
 on her as if it was. It visits the sins of the 
 fathers and mothers on the innocent children, 
 and thinks it is obeying Scripture. Ah, no ! 
 believe me, my friend, this will never, never 
 do." 
 
 " I have heard you," said Marco ; " but 
 you have not convinced me. I have said all 
 this to myself over and over again ; but after 
 all I feel that I love. Nothing will counter 
 balance that in my heart. I care little for 
 what the world thinks and says. I do not 
 marry to satisfy the world, but myself. All 
 your reasonings are good are unanswera 
 ble provided my object in marrying is to 
 please what is called society. But what do 
 I care what society may say or do, provided 
 I am happy in my choice ? Its approval 
 would not make me happy without love. 
 
222 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 Its condemnation would not make me 
 wretched with love. Life is not on the out 
 side ; it is in the inside. It is what we feel 
 and what we are that shapes the world to us, 
 and gladdens us with sunshine or shadows 
 us with gloom." 
 
 " Ah, yes. You talk as a man in love al 
 ways talks. Amor brevis furor est. Love 
 is a brief madness. It is difficult to reason 
 with a man in love." 
 
 " Real love is a permanent insanity not 
 a short madness." 
 
 " I know. All lovers think their love will 
 last forever. They will madly throw away 
 anything, everything, while the fit is on 
 them ; and then when it is too late mourn 
 over their folly. But tell me one thing, 
 Marco ; you say you have never uttered your 
 love to this girl that she does not know 
 you love her." 
 
 " Ah, that is one of my great difficulties. 
 I have never told her I loved her ; but of 
 course she knows it. How could she help 
 knowing it? It needed no words. When 
 one loves, it speaks out in every tone and act. 
 But if that were all, it would be easier for 
 me. What I fear why should I say fear ? 
 what I know is, that she loves me ; and if 
 
FIAMMETTA. 223 
 
 this be so, as I know it is, what can I do ? 
 If I leave her, I shall make her wretched. 
 Poor Fiammetta ! And if I marry her, I 
 shall not only make her equally unhappy in 
 the end, but myself too, as you say. I can 
 sacrifice myself easily. I should get over it, 
 for I should have other and absorbing inter 
 ests and occupations to engage my thoughts 
 and occupy my time. But this is not the 
 case with her. She must remain here 
 alone without occupation or interest ; liv 
 ing on the past hopeless and aggrieved. 
 I know, I know, I ought to have thought 
 of this before ; but I was tempted, and I 
 yielded." 
 
 " I think," answered Carlo, " you very 
 much exaggerate all this. I dare say she 
 has taken a fancy to you. She sees nobody 
 of your rank and position, and she is flat 
 tered by that, and I dare say she compares 
 others with you, greatly to your advantage. 
 I dare say, too, she will be sorry that all this 
 little idyl has come to an end, and will 
 think much about you ; build all sorts of 
 castles in the air, perhaps will mope about 
 a little after you are gone. But this will 
 all pass. This is but a little episode, a 
 little green halting-place on a long march, 
 
224 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 where the waters tasted sweet, and the 
 shadow was grateful. But one cannot stay, 
 and one does not stay, in such halting-places ; 
 one goes on, and only a pleasant memory 
 is left. I don t think you need trouble 
 yourself about that. It would be an act of 
 simple madness to marry her, and you must 
 promise me you will not even think of it ; 
 at all events, you must not take any rash 
 step now. There is always time. This at 
 least you must promise. Go away, leave 
 this place ; we will go together anywhere 
 you like. Return to Rome, occupy yourself 
 with your art ; think over the question 
 coolly, and let time and circumstance have 
 their chance. If you remain of the same 
 mind next summer, after you have thought it 
 all over, come back hero ; see her again ; see 
 if she seems to you the same ; and if she 
 does, I will oppose you no longer." 
 
 Marco sat silent for a long time, and then 
 said, " Perhaps you are right after all ; it 
 will do no harm to give myself time. If 
 she has faith in me, and I in her, we can 
 live the winter out easily ; at all events, easy 
 or not, we can live it out. Yes ; I think I 
 can promise to leave all as it is at present." 
 
 After all, perhaps, Marco overstated more 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 225 
 
 than he was aware all his feelings in this 
 conversation, leaning towards what he feared 
 for her rather than what he felt in himself. 
 He was undoubtedly under a strong impres 
 sion, and submitted to its charm. That he 
 was deeply in love with Fiammetta was 
 scarcely true ; rather, that he had a warm 
 sympathetic feeling towards her a sense 
 of attraction to her beauty, a tender pity for 
 her lot which he represented to be love. 
 She had irresistibly drawn him to her by 
 many little threads, which seemed to him 
 stronger and more durable than they per 
 haps really were. Whether his feeling for 
 her would stand the test of absence and 
 utter change of occupation was the question, 
 and the moment he satisfied himself that he 
 was not sacrificing her ultimate happiness, 
 he was willing to leave the decision of all to 
 the future. We are so much the victims of 
 accidents and circumstances, that we often 
 cannot discriminate truly between what is 
 permanent and what is temporary ; and 
 really he was not convinced that he was not 
 under an illusion of the moment. More 
 than this, the question of marriage had 
 never been other than a trouble to him. 
 Unless it was the only thing to do, he 
 thought it should be avoided. 
 
226 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 After this conversation, he felt more un 
 willingness to go to the Casetta ; and as he 
 had a good excuse in the fact that Carlo 
 was with him, he refrained from returning 
 for several days. 
 
 Those days were anything but happy to 
 Fiammetta. She watched for him in vain : 
 and as day after day passed and he came 
 not, she began to be greatly troubled in her 
 mind. "It was all Andrea," she said. " He 
 has driven him away. He is offended. I 
 shall see him no more." Then she ques 
 tioned her grandmother as to what she had 
 exactly said to him what were the very 
 words she used. Did she let him suppose 
 there was anything between her and An 
 drea? 
 
 44 No," Gigia said ; " she had told nothing 
 of the kind." 
 
 44 Yes," persisted Fiammetta ; " but you 
 must think ! " 
 
 And Gigia thought, and said, 4t No ; I 
 told him that you were old friends, and that 
 Andrea wanted you to marry him." 
 
 44 Oh! " interrupted Fiammetta, 44 you told 
 him that ? Oh, Noniia ! why did you say 
 so?" 
 
 44 It was true, Fiammetta ; but I told him 
 
FIAMMETTA. 227 
 
 you would Trot have Andrea, and that was 
 the reason why he was jealous." 
 
 "Oh, what have you done? what have 
 you done, Nonna ? Then he does not come 
 because he thinks I am to marry Andrea, 
 and he is vexed with me." 
 
 " But I told him you would not marry An 
 drea. But after all, why should you? It 
 was nothing to him who you married. That 
 could not have vexed him." 
 
 " Yes," said Fiammetta, sadly, " that is 
 true." 
 
 But if it were true, she thought if he 
 really could look upon her marriage with 
 Andrea as so simple and natural a thing 
 then, ah, then ! he did not love her ; and all 
 her hopes were visionary, and all her fancies 
 were follies ; and she had only been dream 
 ing, and she was a fool. " But no ! but no ! 
 that cannot be," she said. " Ah no ! I can 
 not believe that." Yet a doubt, a suspicion, 
 hung over everything ; and she waited and 
 waited, hoping that the cloud would pass. 
 Was it possible that he was jealous of An 
 drea ? Ah ! that would explain it. But 
 jealous of Andrea, so far beneath him ! No ; 
 it could not be. That would be too much 
 to believe. So fluctuating between hope and 
 fear these days went by. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 " I HAVE not seen your Naiad yet," said 
 Carlo one morning. " You must show her 
 to me." 
 
 " Come with me then, and we will go up 
 to the Casetta, and you shall see her. I do 
 not know what she will think of me, that I 
 have not been to see her for so many days." 
 
 " Let her think what she will. It is all 
 for the best that you should stay away." 
 
 So they went up together, lingering along 
 the road. As they approached the house, 
 Marco wished to go on in front and meet 
 Fiammetta, and then bring her down to meet 
 Carlo ; but he would not hear of it. " No, 
 no ; we will go together," he said ; " I want 
 to see just how she will receive you." 
 
 "If you wish to see that, let me go on 
 only a few minutes before you. If she sees 
 you with me, it will be quite a different 
 thing." 
 
 " So it will ; you are right. I will linger 
 behind for a few minutes, where I can see 
 you." 
 
FIAMMETTA. 229 
 
 As Marco went forward, Fiammetta caught 
 sight of him, and sprang eagerly to meet 
 him joy in her face, and lightness in her 
 step. 
 
 " Ah, signer," she cried, " you have come; 
 I am so happy. I thought you might be of 
 fended, and would come no more." 
 
 " Offended ? " he answered ; " why of 
 fended?" 
 
 " I don t know ; but I was afraid that 
 Nonna might have said something to offend 
 you when she asked you not to come the 
 other day." 
 
 " Oh, no ! not at all. I understood it." 
 
 " Ah, signor, are you sure ? " 
 
 " Sure very sure." 
 
 "But there is nothing between Andrea 
 and me nothing I beg you to believe. 
 It was all his doing, and he had no right to 
 behave as he did. I never, never gave him 
 any reason. He had no right to be jealous. 
 He is nothing to me." 
 
 " Has he gone ? " 
 
 " Yes, signor ; he has gone, thank heaven ! 
 and I hope it will be long before he returns. 
 I told him to go. I would not have him 
 here. He did nothing but make trouble." 
 
 " Oh ! no matter now, Fiammetta ; I hope 
 
230 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 he will trouble you no more. Don t let us 
 think of him. But you are not looking quite 
 well." 
 
 " Oh yes, signor, I am quite well now 
 that you have come back. I was afraid you 
 would not come again, and that troubled 
 me." 
 
 " No, Fiammetta ; you won t get rid of me 
 so easily." 
 
 " Oh, signor, I did not mean that. But 
 who is that signor coming up here ? " 
 
 " That ? Oh, that is my friend who is stay 
 ing with me. I brought him up with me to 
 show him the Naiad s Nook, and the Naiad, 
 too, if you will permit me." 
 
 Fiammetta s face clouded. He had not 
 come alone. She was not sure what this 
 meant. Here was a third person, who per 
 haps had come to prevent them from being 
 together to spy upon them, to do her an 
 injury. True, it was natural that he should 
 come, and that Marco should bring him, but 
 still she wished he had stayed away. 
 
 Marco observed this change, and said, 
 "You do not seem to be glad to welcome 
 him." 
 
 " Oh yes, signor ; he is your friend." 
 
 Carlo now came up, and Marco said, " This 
 
FIAMMETTA. 231 
 
 is my friend of whom I have spoken so often 
 to you my dearest friend ; and this, Carlo, 
 is the Signorina Fiammetta, who has done 
 me the honor to be my Naiad." 
 
 " Oh, signer," said she, " you must not 
 speak of me like that. I am no signorina ; 
 I am simply Fiammetta. I am happy to see 
 you, signor," she added, turning to Carlo. 
 "II Signor Conte has often, as he says, 
 spoken to me of you and of your kindness." 
 
 " I am delighted to make your acquaint 
 ance," said Carlo. " I was, I confess, curi 
 ous to see you, and see how far Marco had 
 called on his imagination in making the 
 Naiad of his picture. It is very like you 
 very like indeed." 
 
 " I do not know, signor ; I am no judge. 
 I could wish I looked like that ; but II Sig 
 nor Conte is a poet, and has seen more with 
 his imagination than with his eyes. He has 
 used a Claude glass," said she, smiling to 
 Marco. " But you will be interested to see 
 the place he has painted. Ah, that really is 
 beautiful ; that is worth seeing." 
 
 " Let us go there at once," said Marco. 
 " Will you come with us, Fiammetta ? " 
 
 " If you like, signor." 
 
 They walked along together. The day was 
 
232 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 charming, the influences pleasant. " And 
 after all," thought Fiammetta, " he is not so 
 much in the way as I feared only he keeps 
 staring at me so, that it puts me out of 
 countenance." It was true ; he did look at 
 her curiously and earnestly, watching her 
 every movement and expression, and heeding 
 her every word. He was struck very 
 much struck by her beauty, by her grace, 
 by her entire simplicity, and began to think 
 that after all Marco was not so wrong as 
 he had supposed. The slight shyness she 
 showed when he addressed her added a 
 charm to her bearing, and drew him towards 
 her sympathetically. Marco said very little. 
 The conversation was carried on mainly be 
 tween Carlo and Fiammetta. He tried to 
 draw her out, and she soon lost all sense of 
 irksomeness in his presence, and was simple 
 and natural as ever. 
 
 At last they came to the torrent. " That 
 is the place that the signer painted, and 
 named the Naiad s Nook," said she. " Is it 
 not beautiful ? " 
 
 " Beautiful indeed," said Carlo ; " a won 
 derful place ! Well, you have had luck, my 
 dear fellow, charming, exquisite ! " 
 
 " Is it not ? " said Fiammetta sympatheti- 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 233 
 
 cally. "It was always a favorite place of 
 mine, long before the Signor Conte came 
 here." 
 
 " Ay," said Marco, " she was sitting here 
 on that rock when I first saw it. In fact, 
 just as I have painted her in my picture." 
 
 "Are not these beech-trees beautiful?" 
 said Fiammetta. " I call them the gentle 
 men of the woods. They are so smooth and 
 polished in their straight trunks ; and their 
 very leaves are so delicate and refined, and 
 have no coarseness about them, and then 
 they have such pleasant movements. The 
 firs there are more serious, solemn, and 
 shaggy, and they are never happy, like the 
 beeches. They only moan and sway, and 
 are ever troubled by something or other, 
 and lift themselves as far from the ground 
 as they can, and talk mysterious secrets up 
 there in the air. And the chestnuts are 
 coarser, though they are* friendly and beau 
 tiful too ; but they are more like rustics, 
 more like us, signer, than the beeches, and 
 they throw about their great jagged arms, 
 and but" and here she paused, sud 
 denly overcome with shyness, and said, " I 
 beg your pardon." 
 
 " Ah," said Carlo, " I see you are as fond 
 of trees as I am." 
 
234 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 "Yes, signer, I am. I have lived with 
 them, and I love them." 
 
 " And flowers ? " 
 
 "Oh, signer, everybody loves flowers. 
 How could we help it ? Everything in na 
 ture is beautiful, if we know how to see it." 
 
 " Yes," said Carlo ; " but that is the great 
 difficulty that all true artists feel how to 
 see nature. But you were saying, Marco, 
 that when you first saw this place, your 
 Naiad was sitting on that boulder. Would 
 she mind sitting there now, only for a mo 
 ment ? Would you be so kind ? " turning 
 to Fiammetta. 
 
 " Willingly," she cried, " if you wish," 
 and she leaped to the boulder and assumed 
 the attitude in which Marco had painted 
 her. 
 
 "She is perfectly charming," whispered 
 Carlo to Maroo, as he looked at her. 
 
 "Is n t she?" 
 
 " 1 give it up. You have done no more 
 than justice to her. I don t know that you 
 have even done that." 
 
 " Thank you," said he at last, after gazing 
 at her for a while. " Don t trouble yourself 
 to sit there any longer." 
 
 "It is no trouble, signer. I will sit as 
 long as you wish." 
 
FIAMMETTA. 235 
 
 "Before you come down," cried Marco, 
 " Fiammetta, do us the kindness to sing a 
 stornello, as you were singing when I first 
 saw you here. Please, do." 
 
 " If it will give you any pleasure. Which 
 one ? Fior d amaranto ? " 
 
 " No ! not that. Sing Era di Maggio. " 
 
 " Era di Luglio, signer, you remember 
 you said it should be." 
 
 " Ah yes ! Era di Luglio. " 
 
 Carlo added his prayer, and then without 
 making any protestations and apologies, she 
 at once began, 
 
 "Era di Luglio e ben me ne rieordo 
 Quando ci cominciammo a ben volere. 
 Eran fiorite le rose dell orto 
 E le ciliego doventavan neri. 
 Le doventavan nere nella rama 
 Allor ti vidi, e fosti la mia dama. 
 Passo Testate, e gia cade la foglia 
 Di far teco all amor non ho piii voglia." 
 
 When she had finished, Carlo cried 
 " Charming ! beautiful ! One more, if you 
 please : no matter what any one." 
 
 " c Bella, bellina, " suggested Marco, " as 
 you sang before." 
 
 " Bella, bellina che ti ha fatto gli occhi 
 Chite 1 ha fatto tanto innamorati 
 Di sotto terra caveresti i morti 
 Dal letto caveresti gli ammalati 
 De sotto terra caveresti noi 
 Mi son levato il cor per darlo a voi." 
 
236 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 " What a beautiful voice, and how charm 
 ingly you sing ! " said Carlo, enthusiastically. 
 
 " Oh, signor, I do not sing. I have 
 never been taught. I only sing as the birds 
 sing, without any knowledge." 
 
 "Exactly," said Carlo, "and that is what 
 makes your singing so enchanting." 
 
 " Oh, signor, you should not flatter me." 
 
 " I do not ; I simply say what I think." 
 
 " Then I thank you." 
 
 An hour or two thus passed, and the 
 shadow was gone from Fiammetta. After 
 all, this friend was, or seemed to be, her 
 friend too, and little by little her suspicions 
 cleared away, if not entirely, at least so far 
 as not to lessen her enjoyment of the present. 
 She thrust from her all thoughts of the fu 
 ture. The present was pleasant. Let me 
 enjoy this, she thought, while it lasts. It 
 was not till the moment of parting came that 
 her fear rose like a spectre before her, and 
 she said to Carlo, 
 
 " I hope, signor, I shall have the pleas 
 ure of seeing you here again." 
 
 " I hope so, truly," he said, " for I have 
 enjoyed the morning very much ; and when 
 I return to this place I shall certainly desire 
 to renew so pleasant an acquaintance. But 
 

 F1AMMETTA. 237 
 
 I fear that I shall not be able to do so on 
 this visit ; for I am going away to Rome in 
 a couple of days." 
 
 " Going away ? " said she, " and so soon? " 
 And then it was that the spectre of fear 
 arose before her. 
 
 " Yes ; I must go. And I am going to 
 carry away the Conte with me if I can." 
 
 She looked at Marco. She could not 
 speak at first. It was as if a thunderbolt 
 had suddenly fallen out of a clear sky. 
 
 " Yes," said Marco, hesitating, " I am 
 afraid I ought to go. In fact I have stayed 
 here much longer than I intended and 
 and I in fact, I find that I must go." 
 
 " Oh yes," said Carlo. " His interests re 
 quire that he should go. I have had diffi 
 culty in persuading him to this, for he is too 
 careless of his own affairs ; but really he 
 ought not to stay here any longer, and he 
 knows it." 
 
 " Yes ; I am afraid I must go. I should 
 like so much to stay. It has been so charm 
 ing ; but it would not be right." 
 
 It was all clear to Fiammetta now. She 
 understood that Carlo was afraid to leave 
 Marco here, because of her; and that he 
 was carrying him away to put an end to 
 
 
238 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 everything. But she recovered herself after 
 a moment s pause, and said to Marco, 
 
 44 Are we to say good-by, now ? Shall I 
 not see you again ? " 
 
 Carlo made a gesture to Marco, to sig 
 nify, "Yes; say good-by now," but he could 
 not. It was too hard, too sudden. lie 
 would see her once more, and explain and 
 soften the blow. 
 
 " No ! oh no ! I shall see you again to say 
 good-by. I shall come and see you to-mor 
 row." 
 
 Carlo frowned, and shook his head nega 
 tively. 
 
 "It is only a rivederci at present. To 
 morrow I will see you again." 
 
 She was not convinced. She doubted 
 whether he really meant to come. 
 
 " Do you really mean to come? " she said. 
 " I am afraid you mean to say good-by now. 
 But I wish you would come." 
 
 " I will, I assure you ; and now only a ri 
 vederci." 
 
 So they parted. As soon as they were 
 out of earshot Carlo cried, 
 
 "You were very wrong. You ought to 
 have bade her addio then at once. It will 
 only be harder for you and for her to-mor- 
 
F1AMMETTA. 239 
 
 " I could not ; I could not ; it is no use 
 to talk to me. I could not, and I will not." 
 
 " It is very foolish ; that is my opinion." 
 
 " Don t reason and argue with me. Think 
 it over with yourself, and you must see that 
 this would have been hard and cruel." 
 
 " When a painful operation is to be per 
 formed, the sooner it is over the better. 
 What do you mean to say when you see her 
 again ? " 
 
 " I don t know ; but I mean to see her 
 and to see her alone. I have given you my 
 promise not to take an irretrievable step, 
 and I shall hold to it. That is all I can 
 say." 
 
 " You are very weak, Marco. It is all 
 folly." 
 
 Then they walked along for a consider 
 able distance without speaking, and Carlo 
 pressed the matter no more. He saw that 
 Marco s mind was made up, and that there 
 was no use of arguing with him. At last 
 Marco said, 
 
 "Well, Carlo, what did you think of 
 her?" 
 
 "I thought she was charming. She 
 made a most agreeable impression on me. 
 Certainly she is very handsome, and there 
 
240 F I AM M ETTA 
 
 is a singular simplicity as well as dignity in 
 all her bearing that is very attractive. I no 
 longer wonder at you. I think she might 
 bewitch me too in time ; but I should have 
 been wiser than you, perhaps, because I am 
 so much older. I should have fled from the 
 temptation; I should have feared that I 
 might become as entangled as you are now. 
 I have seen her once. Well ! I don t mean 
 to see her again.* 
 
 " Is she not all I told you ? " 
 " All, I dare say. I have only seen her 
 once, but that suffices to induce me to be 
 lieve that she is all you say. But this does 
 not alter the question. Beautiful, attractive, 
 simple, innocent as she is, you cannot marry 
 her, and I have told you why. It would be 
 an act of madness in my estimation. I will 
 not go over the argument again. You 
 know I am right. You must know it ; and 
 I am afraid, despite your promise, that to 
 morrow you will break down." 
 " No ; I will not," said Marco. 
 " So be it ; 1 will say nothing more." 
 But after a few minutes he began again : 
 " Think of Alfonso. He married a pretty 
 model, you remember ; and what became of 
 it ? It simply ruined him. Oh no ! he did 
 
FIAMMETTA. 241 
 
 not care for what the world said and thought. 
 Let it gossip as much as it chose. He would 
 have his own way in defiance of it, and he 
 did. I ask you honestly, do you think he 
 has not repented bitterly of it ever since the 
 honeymoon was passed ? " 
 
 " You would not compare her with Fiam- 
 metta?" 
 
 " No ; agreed. Fiammetta is a far finer 
 creature ; infinitely above her, if you please. 
 But the result would be the same." 
 
 " That is begging the whole question." 
 
 "No; it is simply stating facts as they 
 are. I know it hurts you to hear such com 
 parisons ; but I am a surgeon, who cuts deep 
 to extirpate the cancer, not heeding the pain. 
 Then there was Alfredo, too. He did pretty 
 much the same thing ; and what became of 
 that ? Well, name to me any one of them 
 that has made such a mesalliance that has 
 not suffered for it." 
 
 " I know, I know ; it is of no use. It 
 would be all very true ordinarily ; but this 
 is an exceptional case." 
 
 " Every man thinks his own case excep 
 tional. But I will say no more. You asked 
 my opinion. Now you know it, and you 
 must decide for yourself. I don t mean to 
 
 16 
 
242 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 make myself disagreeable. I only speak out 
 of the deepest friendship to you." 
 
 " I know you do," said Marco ; and he 
 took him by the hand. 
 
 They said no more on the subject. After 
 they returned to the Villa, they made their 
 arrangements to leave. Marco packed his 
 trunk, and his picture, and all his painting 
 materials ; and they passed the evening in 
 talking of other things. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 MARCO was as good as his word, and after 
 loitering about all the morning, he slowly 
 and on foot began to stray in the late after 
 noon towards the Casetta. He had, after 
 all, many misgivings as to whether he had 
 been wise in not following Carlo s counsel. 
 It was hard to say good-by so abruptly 
 hard to her as well as to himself ; but would 
 it be easier now when they were alone ? He 
 was afraid of himself, and afraid of what 
 he might say. He lingered and lingered 
 along the road, forecasting this interview ; 
 and it was not till evening was drawing in 
 that he arrived near the Casetta. 
 
 Fiammetta, who had been waiting there 
 for hours, anxiously looking out for him, 
 with many a fear and many a hope, came 
 rapidly forward to meet him, and cried, 
 
 " Oh, you have come, signer ! It is so 
 late that I was afraid I should not see 
 you." 
 
 " I promised you I would come, you 
 know ; and I never break my promise." 
 
244 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 " Ah ! but I know your friend did not 
 wish you to come." 
 
 " What makes you think that ? " 
 
 " I saw it in his face. He is carrying you 
 away against your will." 
 
 "Nonsense, Fiammetta! I do not want 
 to go no, indeed, I do not ; but I must go 
 I must. Indeed, I ought not to have 
 stayed so long ; but-it has been so pleasant 
 that I could not tear myself away." 
 
 " Yes," she answered ; " it has been very 
 pleasant." 
 
 " But come," he said ; " let us go to the 
 Casetta. It is late, and I want to say good- 
 by to your grandfather and grandmother; 
 and then you will walk with me, as you used 
 to, back to the turning, if you will." 
 
 She made no objection, and they went to 
 the Casetta. Gigia and Antonio were both 
 at home, and were surprised to hear that 
 Marco was going so soon. 
 
 " Ah ! but I suppose it is late for you, 
 signor," said Gigia, " to be here in the 
 mountains. The nights are getting chill, and 
 the winter will come soon ; and you will be 
 glad to get back to your friends and to the 
 city, of course." 
 
 " I shall be sorry to leave this place ; but 
 
FIAMMETTA. 245 
 
 I must. So good-by, Gigia, and good-by, 
 Antonio ; and I hope you will have a pleas 
 ant winter, and be all well." 
 
 " May the Madonna bless you, Signor 
 Conte ! " both exclaimed, " and bring you all 
 good things." And that was over. 
 
 At the door he turned and said, " Fiam- 
 metta is going down with me to the turning, 
 if you have no objection." 
 
 " Ma le pace" said both. " Go, Fiam- 
 metta ; and, Fiammetta, remember about 
 the " And she made a gesture of expla 
 nation. 
 
 " Oh yes, Nonna." 
 
 They walked out of sight of the house. 
 Fiammetta did not know what to say. She 
 was very sad and silent, and they walked 
 along scarcely speaking. 
 
 It was a lovely autumnal evening. The 
 moon was at its full, just rising over the 
 trees, and the last glory of the sun was fading 
 from the west. At their feet ran the brook, 
 murmuring as it went, and a stillness and 
 hush was over everything. Deep shadows 
 were sleeping in the hollows ; the crest of 
 the hills and the tips of the trees were bur 
 nished with the silvery mist of the moon, 
 and the moon itself, with a sad, pitying face, 
 was looking down upon them. 
 
2-46 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 They stood together without speaking for 
 some minutes after they had arrived at the 
 turning, and then Marco said, " Well, Fiam- 
 metta, I am afraid that we must here say 
 good-by. You have made this a very happy 
 summer to me, but all things come to an 
 end." 
 
 " Ah, signor ! " she said, and then she 
 began to sob. 
 
 " Dear Fiammetta," he said, " why do you 
 cry? Don t cry." 
 
 "No, I won t, signor, I won t. It is 
 foolish in me ; but I too have been happy, 
 and now it is all over ; and you have been 
 so good to me, and now you carry away all 
 the happiness with you." 
 
 " Oh no, Fiammetta ; you will be very 
 happy here. I shall always think of you 
 when I am far away, and think how good 
 and sweet you are, and I shall wish the old 
 days back many a time." 
 
 "Oh, will you? will you?" she said, 
 imploringly. " But they will never come 
 back for all our wishing no, they will never 
 come back." 
 
 " Oh yes, they will ; they will come back 
 next summer. I, too, shall come back then, 
 and we will renew them together." 
 
FIAMMETTA. 247 
 
 
 
 "Ah, signer, who knows that the next 
 summer will ever come ? All I know is that 
 this is gone, and now comes the winter, and 
 you tell me that you will come back ; but it 
 is long before the summer will come again, 
 and before you can return." 
 
 " Be hopeful, Fiammetta. You are too 
 young to be sad, and to take such gloomy 
 views. We will both meet again, as I said, 
 and will be even happier than we were or 
 are." 
 
 " Ah, than we are ! Yes, perhaps ; or at 
 least than I am." 
 
 Then she put her hand in her bosom, and 
 drew forth from it a little box, and held 
 it out to him. " This is yours, signor. 1 1 
 forgot to give it to you before," she said. 
 
 " What is it, Fiammetta ? " 
 
 "It is the coral necklace you bade me 
 wear while you were painting." 
 
 " Dear Fiammetta, that is yours. It is 
 not mine. I never meant you to return it 
 to me. Keep it and wear it for my sake, 
 and in memory of the Naiad s Nook. Stop ! 
 let me clasp it myself round your neck ; and 
 wear it always." 
 
 She smiled through her tears, for there 
 were tears in her eyes ; and he clasped it 
 
248 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 round her neck. Their faces were close to 
 gether. She was looking up into his eyes 
 with a look full of tenderness and sorrow. 
 His hands trembled as he finally clasped the 
 necklace. She felt them on her neck, and, 
 as he withdrew them, she suddenly, with an 
 irresistible impulse, flung her arms around 
 his neck, and fell upon his breast, crying, 
 
 " Oh, signor ! signer ! take me with you ! 
 take me with you! Don t abandon me. 
 I will serve you well. I will do all you 
 ask. I will be your slave ; but take me 
 take me with you ! " 
 
 Marco was thoroughly overcome. How 
 could he reject her ? How could he put her 
 away, when she thus appealed to him ? It 
 was a terrible moment. A great tide of feel 
 ing, like a mighty surf-wave, went over him. 
 His whole being swayed to and fro with the 
 impulses of passion and pity. God knows, 
 he himself never knew, how he overcame 
 himself. But somehow or other he did, after 
 he had pressed her to his heart and kissed 
 her passionately, as she looked up through 
 her tears into his face. A great sense of 
 sympathy and protection and sorrow came 
 over him that drove out his fiercer passions, 
 and he took her hand in his and put her 
 gently away, and said, 
 
FIAMMETTA. 249 
 
 " Fiammetta, Fiammetta ! you make me 
 very unhappy." 
 
 " Oh, signer ! I did not mean to do that. 
 But take me with you ; don t leave me." 
 
 " That is impossible ; you know it is im 
 possible, Fiammetta. Don t ask me to do 
 such a thing. Don t ask me to do what is 
 wrong." 
 
 "No! I suppose it is impossible. You 
 would not want me ; I should only be in your 
 way." 
 
 " No, not that not that ! You would 
 never be in my way ; but I have no right to 
 take you, however I might wish it. And 
 besides besides it is impossible. You 
 know that, don t you, dear Fiammetta ? " 
 
 " Yes. I see I was wrong. But you will 
 forgive me, signor, you will forgive me, 
 won t you? " 
 
 " There is nothing to forgive, Fiammetta. 
 I am sorry, so sorry, you feel thus. I wish 
 I could say anything to help you. Leave- 
 takings are never pleasant. One always fore 
 casts sorrows, that never come after all. But 
 all will be bright at last. I wish you every 
 happiness. You know I do, you know I 
 would do anything in my power to make you 
 happy." 
 
 
250 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 " Yes, signer ; I know you would. I am 
 very silly ; I did not mean to do anything 
 wrong. Say you forgive me, and will not 
 think the worse of me for my folly." 
 
 " I shall never think of you but kindly 
 most kindly. You may always count on me 
 as your steadfast friend, ready always to do 
 anything and everything that I can." 
 
 It cost Marco a good deal to say these 
 words. They were so cold he felt them to 
 be so cold but it was his only resource. 
 To say what he really felt was impossible. 
 Had he done so, the irretrievable step would 
 be taken, and he had pledged himself not to 
 take it. There would be no going back. 
 
 She tried to smile ; but it was only a pit 
 eous attempt. She knew not what to say. 
 She stood still, and looked down on the 
 ground as in a dream. At last she said, 
 " When are you going ? " 
 
 " To-morrow morning," he answered ; and 
 she mechanically repeated .the words. 
 
 A loud, long call startled her. " Fiam- 
 metta-ah-ah ! " it cried. " Fiaminetta-ah-ah ! 
 Ho-o^o-o!" 
 
 " It is my grandfather," she said. " He is 
 calling me : he is coming after me. I must 
 go, and you must go. He must not find 
 
FIAMMETTA. 251 
 
 us here. Good-by ! Addio, signer ! " and 
 she stretched out her hand to him. 
 
 " Addio, Fiammetta ! ? he said, as he 
 clasped her hand and held it firmly in his ; 
 " addio ! no, not addio ! a rivederci ! 
 next summer ; and God be with you ! " and 
 he turned away. 
 
 He was gone all the world was gone to 
 her. She stood transfixed for a few mo 
 ments. Then she hurriedly wiped her eyes, 
 smoothed back her hair, and turned to meet 
 her grandfather. 
 
 " I am here ! " she said. " Nonno, I am 
 coming." 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 MARCO found Carlo anxiously waiting for 
 him at the Villa when he arrived there. 
 
 " Well ? " said he, interrogatively, and 
 looking into the face of his friend. 
 
 u It is over," said Marco, in response. 
 " It is done. Ask me no more. It is all 
 over ; but I cannot talk about it now." 
 
 " Only one word did you keep your 
 promise to me? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " That is all I care to know for the pres 
 ent. You have taken a great load off my 
 mind. You stayed so long no matter, 
 however." 
 
 " I will go to my room and make myself 
 ready for supper," said Marco. 
 
 There was not much conversation that 
 evening between the two friends, and what 
 there was was trivial. Carlo took a book 
 and read it, or pretended to read it, glancing 
 at intervals at his friend, who sat moodily 
 gazing at the carpet, or pacing up and down 
 the room, engaged in his own thoughts. 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 253 
 
 "You don t mind if I leave you here ? " 
 he said at last. " I am tired I think I 
 will go to bed." 
 
 " Go, go ! " said Carlo. " To-morrow at 
 eight, is*tnot?" 
 
 "Yes; the carriage will be here at seven, 
 and we go at eight." 
 
 And they separated for the night. 
 
 The morning came, cool and bright ; a deli 
 cious fragrance was in the air. There was 
 not a cloud in the sky, whatever there was 
 in Marco s mind. The carriage punctually 
 arrived ; all the luggage was packed in. 
 They both took their seats, shook hands with 
 Pietro and Maria, who wished them all 
 sorts of happiness ; Pasquale executed a wild 
 flourish with his whip, that echoed from the 
 house and sounded down the road, and the 
 horse set off at a smart trot. % They had 
 scarcely gone a quarter of a mile, when 
 Marco s eye caught sight of a figure half 
 hidden by the trees, and near the road. 
 
 " Look ! " he said, touching Carlo s arm, 
 "it is Fiammetta." 
 
 Yes ; it was Fiammetta. She had come 
 down to catch a last look of Marco, and there 
 she had been sitting for hours. She had not 
 intended he should see her ; but she wanted 
 
254 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 the poor momentary consolation of one last 
 sight of him. As Marco caught sight of her, 
 he called " Fiammetta ! " and she came for 
 ward. As they pulled up the horse, 
 
 " Ah, Fiammetta," he cried, " you should 
 not have come down here." * 
 
 " It was to say good-by," she said, " to 
 you, and to the signer." 
 
 At their call she came up to the carriage 
 and they all shook hands. 
 
 " Good-by, signori," she said. 
 
 " No ; a rivederci" said Marco ; " a rive- 
 derci, Fiammetta. We will have another 
 pleasant summer together next year." 
 
 "Who knows?" she said. " May the 
 Madonna have you in her keeping ! " 
 
 And then the carriage drove on, and 
 Marco kept constantly looking back, and 
 waving hi handkerchief to her, till she was 
 lost to sight. 
 
 " Poor little thing ! " exclaimed Carlo, " I 
 am sorry for her." 
 
 Marco looked blankly out into the dis 
 tance. He could not speak. 
 
 For a time, as they drove on, little was 
 said ; but at last Marco gave an account of 
 their parting the previous night in full, and 
 Carlo was satisfied. 
 
FIAMMETTA. 255 
 
 "Well," he said; "now that chapter of 
 a pretty romance is closed, and you must 
 think of it no longer, for the present at 
 least." 
 
 " That is easy to say," answered Marco. 
 "Good advice it may be, but not easy to 
 follow. However, it is over, at all events, 
 for good or for ill, who can tell which? " 
 
 " For good for good, depend upon it. 
 Let us talk no more about it." 
 
 They did not. As they went on, Marco s 
 mood gradually gave way to lighter feelings. 
 The day was delightful. Carlo talked well 
 and steadily on all sorts of subjects, and 
 laid plans for the winter. There was the 
 excitement of coming again into the world 
 of people and noise and bustle ; and by the 
 time they arrived in Rome, Marco was him 
 self again. Once there, he began to occupy 
 himself in his studio, in visits to his friends, 
 in hearing their reports and news, seeing 
 the pictures that had been painted, and lis 
 tening to the gossip of the town, the 
 scandal, the jokes, the follies, the marriages, 
 the engagements, the politics ; in a word, all 
 the swarming interests of the busy world 
 and the episode of the summer began to look 
 different to him. 
 
256 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 His picture proved a great success. It 
 was not only much admired, but he had re 
 peated and most advantageous offers for it. 
 These, however, he refused ; he wished, at 
 least, to make a copy of it to keep for him 
 self in memory of Fiammetta, and until he 
 had done this he would not dispose of it. 
 This was, however, finally arranged ; and it 
 was bought at, for him, a large price, with 
 the understanding that he should keep it 
 and copy it at his leisure. 
 
 Other subjects now came in to paint, 
 and art resumed its claim on his time and 
 thoughts. He finished his Judith, and be 
 gan to make studies for a new picture, 
 and this he soon was busily engaged upon. 
 The weeks and the months went by busily 
 and rapidly, the winter came on. He fre 
 quented constantly the theatre and the opera 
 and the various concerts. He went more 
 into society, to the little reunions of his 
 friends, to balls and large receptions, and 
 was everywhere welcomed. He made some 
 new friends among the foreigners who fre 
 quented Home, and became interested in a 
 fresh set of ideas and feelings ; and it was 
 only now and then that the image of Fiam 
 metta came up before him ; always, indeed, 
 
FIAMMETTA. 257 
 
 pleasantly, but in a more prosaic way than 
 before. He began to think that, after all, 
 Carlo had been right. It would have been 
 a folly. True, she was charming, graceful, 
 naive, innocent, there, with the solitude and 
 surroundings of nature ; but here, in this 
 artificial world, that laughed at romance, she 
 would have been out of place. It had been 
 a dream, a very delightful dream ; but, after 
 all, had it been more than a dream ? No ; 
 on the whole, perhaps not. 
 
 It was a Ions; time before he came to this 
 
 O 
 
 conclusion. Months had passed away since 
 he had left her, and it was now February, 
 when the blood in the year is sluggish, and 
 romance has gone to sleep. Sometimes he 
 and Carlo talked over the matter, and, on 
 the whole, Marco admitted that he had been 
 right. It had been a charming little poem, 
 but life is not a poem, it is only prose ; one 
 cannot feed always on peaches and flowers, 
 however sweet and perfect, any more than 
 one can always play. 
 
 The attrition of the world and espe 
 cially of the world in a city is not conge 
 nial to romance. Little by little it wears out 
 the flowery and grass-covered road, and* re 
 duces it to hard, dry dust and gravel. This 
 
 17 
 
258 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 was not entirely the case with Marco. It 
 acted rather on him like a long drought that 
 fades the ever-springing grass and flowers, 
 despoils them of their freshness, and covers 
 them with the dust of the highway. Per 
 haps a sudden shower, a downfall of profuse 
 rain, might revive and reglorify them ; but 
 still, for the time, they have lost their charm 
 one feels regret at looking at them, not a 
 desire to gather and wear them. 
 
 This, in short, was the history of Marco 
 after he left Fiamnietta. With her the story 
 was different. She was alone ; there were 
 no interests of society to engage and occupy 
 her mind. Her life went on in the old mo 
 notonous path, over the same road of petty 
 uncongenial duties. The luxuriant peace of 
 summer had passed by ; autumn had gone, 
 with its gleams of pensive and melancholy 
 beauty ; and winter, drear and cold and un 
 friendly, had come. The sunshine, too, had 
 gone out of her life. After the delicious 
 draughts of joy and love that she had daily 
 drunk in during these glowing days, the 
 draught of common life now tasted bitter. 
 She had no one to talk to who could inter 
 est or sympathize with her, no one to whom 
 she could confide all the passionate longing 
 
F1AMMETTA. 259 
 
 of her heart, all the ideal dreams of her im 
 agination, all the tenderness of her regrets. 
 Gigia was kind and grandmotherly ; but 
 Gigia did not understand her could not 
 understand her and all that Fiammetta 
 felt was a sealed book to her. With Anto 
 nio it was even worse. There were none of 
 the girls in the neighborhood who were at 
 all on a level with her, or with whom she 
 could have aught but the most trivial and 
 external intercourse. Her world was not 
 their world; her nature was not their na 
 ture. Their coarse talk jarred on her ; their 
 loves and their wishes and interests were 
 on an entirely different plane. How could 
 she have any sympathy with them ? She 
 longed to pour out her feelings to some one, 
 to share her hopes and her griefs with some 
 one. But where could she find such an one ? 
 Her spirit was slowly dying of starvation 
 of inanition. 
 
 Sometimes, when the days were propi 
 tious, she would go back to the torrent, and 
 sit there for hours listening to the gurgle of 
 the waters, and dreaming of the days that 
 were gone. This was a sad pleasure ; and 
 at times she would weep as if in despair. 
 But she could not keep away from the 
 
260 F1AMMETTA. 
 
 place. It was so haunted with memories 
 that at moments she almost thought she 
 heard his step coming as he was wont to do. 
 The trees and the brook were alone her con 
 fidants ; but even they were not the same. 
 The brook had swollen with the autumnal 
 rains to a fierce and brawling torrent, and 
 no longer murmured softly as of old. The 
 beech-trees were riven of their leaves, and 
 only showed their bare branches against the 
 sky. The flowers were dead and gone ; all 
 was changed. Could it would it ever be 
 the same again? Would he ever come 
 back ? Ah no ! Had he loved her as she 
 loved him, never, never would he have left 
 her. And now, where was he, and what 
 was he doing ? He was smiling and talking 
 to others, and he had forgotten her. Not a 
 word had she heard from him, and nobody 
 could tell her anything about him. Ah, 
 yes; the old stornello was right that she 
 used to sing to him. And then she would 
 sing it in a sort of despair, 
 
 " Fior d amarar.to 
 Mi son sognato non ni anmvi punto 
 Quando mi son svegliuto aveva pianto." 
 
 And as she finished she would burst into 
 a passion of tears, and then, remembering 
 
FIAMMETTA. 261 
 
 those kisses of his that she still seemed to 
 feel on her lips, she would, in a broken 
 voice, sing the refrain, 
 
 " Volgite indietro bocchino da baci 
 Quanto mi piaci nel farce al amor." 
 
 And then again, when the cold winds of the 
 north blew down through the gorge and 
 chilled her, and whirled the dead leaves 
 about, and scattered them over the torrent, 
 she would murmur, " Ah me ! 
 
 " Quando soffia 1 aquilone, s affosca il mare 
 Quando spunta 1 amore nasce il dolor 
 Tu mi fai struggere a poer, a poer 
 Mi fai morire, mi fai morire di dolor. " 
 
 Thus many and many a day was spent dur 
 ing the late autumn and the early winter, 
 communing with these melancholy thoughts. 
 This soon began to show its effect upon her 
 health. She grew paler and thinner, and 
 more listless and unwilling to work ; and 
 often her grandmother would look at her 
 anxiously, and say, " How ill you look, child. 
 What is the matter with you ? Your eyes 
 look as if you had been crying them out ; 
 they are so hollow and dark. What is the 
 matter? You never used to look like this. 
 Has anything happened to you? Are you 
 ill ? " 
 
262 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 " I don t know, Nonna. No ; I am not 
 ill, but I am not in good spirits. I suppose 
 it is the weather and the winter." 
 
 " You never felt them before. You al 
 ways used to be so strong and well in all 
 sorts of weather, and now you are beginning 
 to lose all your strength." 
 
 " Yes, Nonna ; I do not feel very strong, 
 but it is nothing." 
 
 " Oh dear me ! " at times her grandmother 
 would say. " You remind me so of your 
 mother now. You never used to. She grew 
 pale and thin just as you do, and she always 
 said there was nothing the matter with her. 
 But then she had good reason, poor thing, 
 and you have not. Don t you think you had 
 better let me call in the doctor ? " 
 
 " Oh no, Nonna ; I shall get on well 
 enough. I don t wish to see a doctor. 
 When the weather grows warm again I shall 
 be well. It is the cold, I suppose." 
 
 " Yes ; and you expose yourself so. You 
 are constantly out in the woods, and they 
 are too cold and damp, and that makes you 
 feel unwell ; and you have begun to cough 
 lately. You must really be more prudent." 
 
 " I will, Nonna," she said quickly. 
 
 Antonio and Gigia sometimes talked over 
 
FIAMMETTA. 263 
 
 the matter together, but they did not fathom 
 it. And so gradual was the change from 
 day to day that they were less aware of it 
 than the neighbors, who now and then came 
 in, and exclaimed that she was looking like 
 a rag a mere rag and ought to take care 
 of herself. Still it made no permanent im 
 pression on the grandfather and grand 
 mother, who said, " Ah, it is the time you 
 know when girls always look pale. She 11 
 get over it." 
 
 After this Fiammetta stayed more within 
 doors ; but this did not raise her spirits or 
 strengthen her body. It was so monotonous, 
 so dull, that she seemed ever to grow paler 
 and weaker. She craved fresh air and the 
 exercise to which she was accustomed, and 
 she did nothing but think over and over 
 again all the past, in a sort of mute resigna 
 tion. Hope she had little fear, nothing 
 only a sort of benumbed feeling, which 
 prevented her from being interested in any 
 thing. When she went out, she almost al 
 ways went to the old church, and there she 
 kneeled down and said her prayers with a 
 certain kind of hopelessness ; but she got 
 also comfort from it. And sometimes she 
 talked with Padre Anselmo, who tried to 
 
264 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 cheer her up. But she told him nothing, 
 and he knew not how to help her, though he 
 had the best of will. She also made wreaths 
 to hang upon the picture of the Madonna, 
 and worked at an altar-cloth for the church, 
 in which Padre Anselmo took much interest. 
 But her hands would often fall while she 
 was working, and she could not see the 
 threads for the tears that brimmed up in her 
 eyes. 
 
 Gigia once told her that Andrea was com 
 ing to his people, and asked if she would 
 not like to see him. 
 
 " No, Nonna," she exclaimed. " No ; I 
 cannot see him. I forgive him, now he is 
 away, but do not let him come here. Re 
 member what he did and said when he was 
 here last," and her eyes fired up with a sud 
 den flame, and she became so excited that 
 Gigia said no more. And Andrea did not 
 come. 
 
 One day in February she had a sudden 
 irresistible longing to go up to the Naiad s 
 Nook. The day was not a favorable one. 
 There was snow on the ground, and the 
 clouds were heavy and threatening ; still she 
 felt that she must go. The cold would do 
 her good ; the exposure would do her good ; 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 265 
 
 the worse the wind blew, the better she 
 should like it. She told no one ; but slipped 
 out of the house, and took the old path, and 
 it really at first seemed to put life into her. 
 But the place was no longer the same, and 
 as she sat on the rock it seemed as if she 
 were in a different world from when she sat 
 there some four months previously. The 
 wind howled down the gorge, and wrestled 
 fiercely with the beech-trees, that groaned 
 and tossed their bare boughs. There was a 
 cold chill over everything, as of death. It 
 seemed like the cemetery wherein she had 
 laid all her hopes and joys, and she moaned 
 aloud, as Thekla might have done 
 
 "Mein Herz ist gestorben, die Welt ist leer, 
 Und weiter giebt sie dem Wiinschen nichts mehr. 
 Du Heilige rufe dein Kind zuriick ; 
 Ich habe genossen das irdische Gliick, 
 Ich habe gelebt und geliebet." 
 
 She had lived and loved, and that was all 
 over. 
 
 As she sat there, almost forgetting the 
 time, a fiercer blast than usual assailed the 
 trees, and the rain, cold and piercing, fell in 
 sheets. She rose, wrapped closely round her 
 her shawl, covering her head, and hastened 
 home. But she was weak ; the way was not 
 
266 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 short ; the woods were deluged with water. 
 Her shoes were soaked through, and her 
 dress was saturated, and clung to her skin ; 
 and when she arrived at the Casetta she was 
 chilled to the bone, and her teeth chattered 
 with the freezing cold. Nearly exhausted, 
 she pushed open the door, and stood before 
 her grandmother dripping wet, and \vith a 
 hot flush on her cheeks. 
 
 "Madonna mia!" cried Gigia, "where 
 have you been, child ? What a sight you 
 are ! I thought you were in your room. Go 
 up and change your dress, and put on some 
 dry things at once. Come ! I will go with 
 you and help you. How could you be so im 
 prudent?" 
 
 " I did not expect it would rain, Nonna. 
 It came so suddenly, and I was caught in 
 it." 
 
 Scolding and petting her alternately, Gigia 
 went to her room and helped her change her 
 dress, and then brought her down and bade 
 her sit before the fire and warm herself 
 thoroughly, for she was still very cold. But 
 it seemed to be of no use. She could not 
 get warm a creeping chill seemed to thrill 
 all over her; and Gigia was alarmed and 
 put her to bed, and gave her something warm 
 to drink. 
 
FIAMMETTA. 267 
 
 The next morning she was in a high fever, 
 and the doctor was at once sent for ; but he 
 unfortunately was away on his rounds, and 
 the message came that he had been called to 
 a poor woman some miles off, who was, it 
 was feared, dying; but perhaps he would 
 return that night, and perhaps the next day, 
 all depended on circumstances, but that he 
 would come up as soon as he returned and 
 see Fiammetta. Misfortunes always come 
 together, and, as it happened, the doctor was 
 detained by the old woman s illness, and by 
 some friends, who prevailed upon him to 
 stay for a couple of days ; and hearing noth 
 ing more of Fiammetta s illness, he did not 
 come till three days were past. Then he was 
 carried at once into her room. She was in 
 a high fever, and quite out of her mind; 
 sometimes laughing wildly, sometimes weep 
 ing and raving of all sorts of persons and 
 things, and crying out for some one, whose 
 name she never mentioned but as signor. 
 
 The doctor looked at her carefully, felt 
 her pulse, and made his diagnosis. " How 
 long has she been thus ? " he said. 
 
 " It is now three days," said Gigia, 
 ing. " Oh ! what shall we do for her ? " 
 
 " Why did you not call me before ? " 
 
268 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 " We sent for you three days ago, doctor : 
 but you were gone away." 
 
 " Very unfortunate," he said ; and he 
 looked very grave. 
 
 "Will she die?" cried Gigia. 
 
 " Oh, I hope not," said he. " We shall 
 pull her through, I hope." Then he gave 
 the most careful directions as to her treat 
 ment, and left her, promising to return the 
 next day. "But it is a long pull, you 
 know, Sora Gigia," he said. " It is nearly 
 eight miles, and I am not so young as I was. 
 However, I will come back surely. And 
 mind you do everything I have told you, 
 and be careful." 
 
 He kept his promise, and returned day 
 after day, and the fever soon began to 
 abate ; and after a week she was sane again, 
 though wretchedly weak and worn, and the 
 only question was if her strength would 
 hold out. 
 
 One day she turned to Gigia, and said, 
 " Nonna, I want you to ask Padre Anselmo 
 to come and see me. I should like to see 
 him." 
 
 " Of course I will, if you wish ; but what 
 can you want to see him for ? " 
 
 " I should like to see him ; I have a fancy 
 to see him," she said. 
 
FIAMMETTA. 269 
 
 Padre Anselmo was accordingly sent for, 
 and he came. He was an honest, simple- 
 hearted, good old man, who had made him 
 self beloved by all his parish tall, spare, 
 with large, dark, kindly eyes, and thin white 
 hair. 
 
 "Thank you, Padre, so much, for com 
 ing," said Fiammetta. "I wanted to talk 
 to you alone, please," she whispered this 
 to him, " alone send everybody out." 
 
 The room was accordingly cleared, and 
 Padre Anselmo took a seat by the bed, and 
 she stretched out her thin wan hand and 
 placed it in his. 
 
 " Well, my dear child, what did you wish 
 to say to me ? You have committed no 
 mortal sin, I suppose," he added, with a 
 smile, " of which you wish to make confes 
 sion and obtain absolution ? " 
 
 " No, Padre," she said ; " I do not know 
 that I have committed any mortal sin, but I 
 do want to make a confession." 
 
 44 Well, my dear, I will listen to it." 
 
 So she told her simple story : how Marco 
 had come and had wished her to be his 
 model for the Naiad ; how they had spent 
 long days together talking while he painted 
 his picture ; how kind and good and friendly 
 
270 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 he was to her ; how they had rambled to 
 gether through the woods, and sat by the 
 streams, and gradually a new world of sen 
 sations and feelings had opened before her ; 
 and how, almost before she knew it, he had 
 become the only one person on earth she 
 cared for. 
 
 "I could not help it, Padre. I loved 
 him I loved him ; and I love him still 
 with all my soul ! To me there is no one 
 else in the world. And he is gone, and I 
 never shall see him again, and I don t wish 
 to live any longer. There is nobody I can 
 say this to but you ; and oh ! I feel that I 
 must say it to somebody. I have done 
 nothing wrong, Padre, believe me I have 
 done nothing wrong ; but I am so unhappy." 
 
 " No," said Padre Anselmo. " As you 
 tell your story, you seem to me to have done 
 nothing wrong. If the wrong is anywhere, 
 it is on his side." 
 
 " Oh, no ! no, no ! Do not say that ! He 
 never did anything wrong, he could not." 
 
 " He stole your heart away in a care 
 less way at best. He should have knowii 
 better. He was not simple and true as you 
 have been, dear child." 
 
 " Oh, do not say anything against him ! " 
 she implored. 
 
F1AMMETTA. 271 
 
 "No, it is of no use now: I will not. 
 And he did lie not love you ? did he never 
 tell you so?" 
 
 " Never ; but I think he does love me 
 not as I love him, but he pities me; and, 
 after a certain way, he loves me. Yes: I 
 am sure he does." 
 
 " Did he never try to lead you astray ? " 
 
 "Lead me astray? Oh, no! He made 
 me love him, that is all, but that was not 
 his fault. Oh, Padre, I did once throw my 
 self upon his neck, when he was going away, 
 and beg him to carry me with him. I ought 
 not to have done that, I know ; but I was 
 afraid I should lose him forever, and I was 
 wretched, and I scarcely knew what I did." 
 
 " And what did he say ? " 
 
 " Ah ! he told me it was impossible, and 
 was wrong, and he tried to console me. Oh, 
 he was very good and kind ! " 
 
 " Ah," said the old Padre, and he shook 
 his head sadly, and then said, " Well, my 
 daughter, there has been no wrong done, as 
 far as I understand, and you must think no 
 more about it ; don t be troubled." 
 
 " Ah 5 that is impossible ! I lie here and 
 think it all over and over and over all the 
 words he said, all the happy days. Oh, Pa- 
 
272 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 dre mio ! there is only one thought, one wish 
 in my heart, and that is to see him again. 
 I must I must see him again before I 
 die!" 
 
 " Before you die, my child ? Oh, you are 
 not going to die, I hope, for many a long 
 day to come." 
 
 "Oh, yes, I am. I know it I feel it. 
 I am dying now; and all that I wish is to 
 see him once more only once. That would 
 make me happy. And I want to ask you to 
 do something for me." 
 
 " What is it, my daughter ? If it be pos 
 sible, I will do it." 
 
 " I want you to write to him, and to tell 
 him that I am dying do not shake your 
 head, I am, and I know I am and to say 
 to him that, if he will come and let me see 
 him once more, I shall die happy ! I think 
 he will come. I know it is asking a great 
 favor, but I do so long to see him. I can 
 not die without seeing him. Oh, Padre 
 mio! do this for me, and I will bless you 
 forever!" 
 
 She had fallen back on her pillow, and 
 gazed at him with her large eyes now 
 larger and deeper with the ravage of the 
 fever with so piteous an expression, that 
 
FIAMMETTA. 273 
 
 the tears came into the old Padre s eyes, and 
 he laid his hand gently on hers, and said, 
 after a few minutes, 
 
 "I will do it, my child I will do it. 
 Don t agitate yourself ; I will write to him 
 at once, and pray him to come. There can 
 be no harm in that ; and do you lie still and 
 strive to sleep, and leave it all to me." 
 
 She was still for a few minutes, her eyes 
 closed, her lips moving as if she were pray 
 ing. Then she opened her eyes, looked at 
 him, and said, 
 
 "I could not say this to Nonna. I am 
 afraid she would not understand, and I have 
 always kept this secret from her. I knew it 
 would make her unhappy. You must not 
 tell her, Padre." 
 
 " I will say nothing to her about it," he 
 answered. " Now lie still and try to sleep, 
 and believe that all will come right at 
 last. You must try to be quiet, and grow 
 stronger." 
 
 "I will," she said, "now that I may hope 
 to see him. You will write at once, will you 
 not ? There is no time to lose." 
 
 " I will go and write this very moment." 
 
 Padre Anselmo then went away, touched 
 by this sad story. There was no time, as he 
 
 18 
 
274 F I AM MET T A. 
 
 knew, to lose, and he wrote to Marco im 
 mediately the following letter : 
 
 " To the Most Honorable 
 
 The COUXT MARCO STERRONI, Rome. 
 
 " SIGNOR CONTE, I have just come from 
 the bedside of Fiammetta of the Casetta, 
 and it is at her special request that I write 
 to you. She is very ill, and I am afraid 
 there is but little hope that she will recover. 
 She has told me frankly the whole story of 
 her relations to you, and has begged me to 
 ask you, if it be possible, to come and see 
 her. The poor child has so set her heart on 
 this that I pray you, if it be possible, to 
 grant her request. It would be to her a 
 great consolation perhaps it might save 
 her. Alas ! we know so little how to help 
 each other in this life, that possibly your 
 presence might do for her what all our medi 
 cines and prayers may fail to effect. There 
 fore it is that I pray you earnestly to come. 
 She is very weak, very ill ; but she says she 
 cannot die without seeing you. Let us hope 
 that she will yet live ; but at all events come 
 if you can and at once if you wish to see her. 
 
 With much esteem, I am, your faithful 
 servant, PADRE ANSELMO, Curato" 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 IT was a chill night in February, and 
 Marco and Carlo were sitting before a good 
 fire, and talking gayly of many matters 
 art, friends, gossip. The rain beat on the 
 panes with frequent gusts of wind, and the 
 chimney roared as the flames quivered and 
 darted up its blackened throat. They had 
 been dining out together with a friend, and 
 now they were sitting and discussing calmly 
 some of the opinions which had there been 
 expressed. There was a comfort in feeling 
 well housed in a pleasant room, amid books 
 and pictures, while the storm raged with 
 out. Perhaps by way of contrast, while they 
 were talking and dropping into occasional 
 silences, or perhaps for some other hidden 
 reason, their thoughts went back to the sum 
 mer life of Marco, the idyl of the Naiad s 
 Nook and Fiammetta, and they began to 
 talk of her. -^ 
 
 " Sometimes," said Marco, " I have an in 
 satiable longing to see her again, and to 
 
276 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 hear her voice. Of course, she was very 
 sweet and gentle ; and at times the old at 
 traction draws me back to her just as it did. 
 I sit and look at that picture, and revive the 
 pleasant days we spent in the mountains 
 and by that torrent. It was an enchanting 
 spot. I shall go back next summer ; but I 
 suppose it can never be the same to me 
 again. I wonder what she is doing now, 
 dear little Fiainmetta?" 
 
 As he was saying this, a knock was heard 
 at the door. Marco rose and opened it, and 
 a letter was put in his hand, marked " Ur 
 gent " on the envelope. 
 
 " Who can this be from ? " he said, as he 
 examined the envelope ; " I do not recognize 
 the handwriting." Yet as he took it into 
 his hands an unaccountable thrill went over 
 him, of he knew not what a presentiment 
 of something wrong, and he almost hesitated 
 upon opening it, out of a vague fear. 
 
 " Is there any answer required ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " No, signer," was the answer ; " I was 
 told to leave it. There was no answer," and 
 the bearer went away. 
 
 Marco came to the light and opened it. 
 Carlo saw a sudden expression of horror 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 277 
 
 come over Marco s face, and exclaimed, 
 " What is it ? " 
 
 " Read," said Marco, throwing the letter 
 down before Carlo. " Good God ! " he ex 
 claimed, and paced the room, without an 
 other word, in a state of great agitation. 
 
 Carlo read the letter, and was shocked. 
 It was from Padre Anselmo. He looked at 
 Marco, and cried, " Poor Fiammetta ! You 
 will go, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Go ? Of course instantly. Good 
 God ! " 
 
 He could say no more, the shock was too 
 great. His hands trembled, he did not know 
 what he was doing for a few moments. He 
 took up and replaced book after book, arti 
 cle after article, on the table mechanically, 
 while his thoughts ran wild. Then he cried, 
 "There is not a moment to lose. When 
 does the train leave to-night ? " He looked 
 at his watch. " It is ten," he said. " The 
 train leaves at eleven, does it not ? " 
 
 -Yes." 
 
 " Look it out, will you ? " 
 
 " I am sure it does." 
 
 " There is not a moment to lose. Come 
 and help me put some things into my valise. 
 I don t know what I am about. Help me, 
 Carlo." 
 
278 F I AM M ETTA. 
 
 Carlo did so. They hurriedly packed the 
 fey necessary things into the valise, and 
 Carlo ran out to call a cab. It seemed an 
 hour to Marco before it arrived. "Poor 
 Fiammetta ! Poor Fiammetta ! " he cried ; 
 and stretched out his arms as if she could 
 hear him. " I am coming! I am coming ! " 
 All the old love rushed over him again, all 
 the old days came back, and a pity, a deep 
 and poignant pity, possessed him. " Live, 
 live ! Fiammetta ! dear little Fiammetta ! 
 I am coining! Good heavens! Where is 
 the cab ? I shall be too late. No ; there it 
 is at last." 
 
 He grasped his valise and hurried down 
 to meet it, and the two friends rushed as 
 fast as the horse could gallop to the train. 
 They were just in time to catch it. He 
 leaped in, shook Carlo by the hand, said, 
 " I will let you know as soon as I arrive. 
 Good-by," and he was off. 
 
 It was a dreary night. The train rattled 
 and clanged along through the dark. The 
 rain poured, the winds blew, and within 
 Marco s breast there was a storm that made 
 the outward world seem nothing. On and 
 on and on it went, oh ! so slow, so slow. It 
 seemed as if it had never gone so slowly, and 
 as if the night had never been so long. 
 
FIAMMETTA. 279 
 
 Meantime Fiammetta grew gradually 
 weaker ; but still a little light of hope 
 burned in her breast, though it flickered 
 often as a breath of fear blew upon it. 
 " Would he come ? would he come ? " This 
 was her perpetual thought. There was little 
 hope in the minds of those who surrounded 
 her ; and Gigia, after tending her as well as 
 she could, would creep into the corner, or 
 sit over the fire, and hide her face in her 
 hands and weep. 
 
 Sometimes Fiammetta saw this, and then 
 she said, " Don t cry, Nonna ; it is all for 
 the best." 
 
 " Oh, Fiammetta ! " she said, " don t say 
 so ; you must get well." 
 
 " Yes, Nonna," she answered, " if you 
 won t cry;" and then she would ask, "Is 
 Nonno well?" 
 
 Once, after lying still for a long time, and 
 apparently sleeping, she said, " Nonna ! " 
 
 " What, dear ? " 
 
 "Tell Andrea I forgive him, and I am 
 sorry I treated him so." 
 
 " Yes, dear ; but don t trouble yourself 
 about Andrea." 
 
 " I was very harsh and cruel to him, 
 Nonna. You must ask him to forgive me." 
 
280 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 And then she lay again silent, while Gigia 
 sat by the fire. It was sad enough in that 
 room. The flickering fire cast grotesque 
 shadows on the walls, that wavered and 
 hovered on the ceiling, as the flame died 
 down and then shot fitfully up again. The 
 rain beat on the windows, and a long con 
 stant lamentation was in the trees. It was 
 two days now since the letter of Padre An- 
 selmo had gone, and it should now have 
 arrived, she thought. 
 
 The old clock below ticked and ticked 
 away the seconds, one by one, as they went 
 irrecoverably away forever. At last it 
 buzzed a moment and struck. Fiammetta 
 counted it silently, but unconsciously, for 
 she was half asleep. As it struck the last 
 stroke for ten o clock, she started up, ex 
 tended her hands, a gleam of joy went over 
 her face, and she cried in a low voice, " He 
 is coming ! he is coming ! I see him ! he is 
 coming ! " 
 
 Gigia went to her side, and asked her 
 what she wanted. 
 
 " Nothing, now, Nonna. I am so much 
 better now." 
 
 For a while she lay still in a happy dream. 
 He was coming. She should see him. That 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 281 
 
 was all she wanted. Then she could die, 
 but she could not die till then. 
 
 Two other long, lingering nights passed. 
 Towards morning of the second night she 
 awoke from a peaceful sleep. Gigia had 
 also fallen asleep, wearied out with watching 
 and anxiety, and the footsteps of Antonio 
 were heard below, as he carefully opened a 
 window to let in the first morning light. 
 He, too, poor man, had been greatly trou 
 bled, and came constantly back from his 
 work to see how Fiammetta was, and to try 
 to cheer her ; but there was little cheer in 
 his heart to give. He could fix his mind 
 upon nothing but her. Though he felt that 
 he was worse than useless when he came, he 
 still came constantly to look at her. 
 
 Perhaps it was his footsteps below that 
 waked Fiammetta, but she did awake, and 
 in a moment cried, with a rapture in her 
 face as if a vision of joy had risen before 
 her, " He is there ! I see him ! he is com 
 ing through the wood ! he is coming ! " and 
 she strove to lift herself up, looking with 
 large visionary eyes out on the distance. 
 
 " Who is coming? " said Gigia. 
 
 " He ! he ! I see him. Oh, so fast he is 
 coming, and he is crying ; oh, don t cry, 
 
282 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 don t cry, signer ! He is not on foot ; he 
 is galloping, galloping. I am afraid Jiis 
 horse will stumble, he is urging him so fast. 
 He does not look well. But he is coming. 
 Yes ; there he is down by the turning. Yes, 
 I hear you. I will wait. I am so happy." 
 
 " What do you see, dear ? " said Gigia. 
 " You are dreaming." 
 
 " Don t speak, Nonna, or I can t hear him. 
 Silence ! listen ! listen ! there he is ! " 
 
 Gigia listened. The sound of a horse s 
 hoofs sounded in the court before the house. 
 The rider leaped from his horse. Gigia 
 heard a few muttered and hurried words. 
 She went to the window, but saw only the 
 horse reeking and panting. In a moment 
 footsteps were heard on the stairs, quickly 
 but lightly ascending. The door opened, 
 and Marco entered. 
 
 " Oh, signer ! " cried Fiammetta, " I knew 
 I should see you again. Oh, I am so happy ! " 
 and she lifted her wan arms towards him, and 
 a radiant smile was on her face. 
 
 " Dear Fiammetta ! " he cried, as he came 
 to her side, and took her hands, that she 
 held out to him, and bent over her and 
 gazed into her sad, worn face. " Dear Fiam 
 metta ! you see I have come. You must now 
 
F I AM M ETTA. 283 
 
 get well. Promise me you will get well. I 
 am so grieved to see you so ill and weak." 
 
 She looked up to him, and a radiant smile 
 illuminated her face, as she softly said, " Oh, 
 I am well now. I am happy so happy 
 so happy ! " 
 
 Then her arms unclasped from his neck, 
 round which she had thrown them, and she 
 sank back on her pillows. He leaned over 
 her, printed a kiss on her forehead, and 
 said, 
 
 "You will get well now, will you not, for 
 my sake ? " 
 
 But she did not answer. He looked at her 
 anxiously. " She has fainted ! " he cried ; 
 " some water ! " 
 
 No ; she had not fainted. She had gone, 
 with a beatified smile on her face, where 110 
 human voice could reach her to whisper of 
 love. It was all over ; the pain, the doubt, 
 the fear, the sweet human joy, and the Sum 
 mer Idyl. 
 
 They laid her away to rest in the village 
 cemetery, where four solemn cypresses cast 
 their creeping shadows over her grave, 
 slowly moving with the passing days from 
 morning till night, like gnomons of the dial 
 
284 F1AMMETTA. 
 
 of Time. Here, where she slept at last in 
 peace, Marco erected a marble cenotaph, on 
 which was simply inscribed her name, and 
 the dates of her birth and death, with these 
 few lines underneath 
 
 " Pura Fiammetta spandeva sa noi 
 Luce divina. Iddio 1 accese 
 Lascio brillarci per poco, e poi 
 Presto a se la riprese." 
 
 And here in the summer days many an hour 
 he spent, sadly musing and dreaming over 
 the joy that had gone never to return, and 
 burdened with an aching thought that lay 
 like a heavy stone on his conscience. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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