y Stories -of Italy 
 
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 "Books that you may carry 
 I to the fire, and hoi J readily 
 1 1 II yc^iir hand, are the most 
 ■useful after all " 
 
 — JOHNSON
 
 STORIES OF ITALY
 
 STORIES FROM SCRIBNER 
 
 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 A 
 
 
 NEW YORK 
 CHARLES SCRIBNERS SONS 
 
 1893
 
 Copyright, i8g^, by 
 Charles Scribner's Sons 
 
 Trow Print
 
 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 espero gorgoni, gondolier 
 by f. hopkinson smith 
 
 The Anatomist of the Heart 
 by t. r. sullivan 
 
 The Song of the Comforter 
 
 BY JOHN J A'BECKET 
 
 The House on the Hilltop 
 
 BY grace ELLERY CHANNING 
 
 1703845
 
 ESPERO GORGONI 
 GONDOLIER 
 
 Bv F. HoPKiNsoN Smith 
 IVit/i Illustrations by the Author
 
 -A 
 
 Poor old Ingenio — my gondolier of five 
 years before — dear old Ingenio, with his 
 white hair and gentle voice ; Ingenio with 
 the little, crippled daughter and the sad- 
 faced wife, who lived near the church be- 
 hind the Rialto, had made his last cross- 
 ing. At least the sacristan shook his head 
 and pointed upward when I sought tidings
 
 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 of him ; and the old, familiar door with the 
 queer gratings was locked, and the win- 
 dows cobwebbed and dust-begrimed. 
 
 None of the gondoliers at the Rialto 
 landing knew, nor did any of the old men 
 at the water-steps — the men with the 
 hooked staffs who steady your boat while 
 you alight. Five years was so very long 
 ago, they said, and then there had been 
 the plague. 
 
 So I looked up wistfully at the windows 
 of the old palace where I had called to 
 him so often — I can see him now, with lit- 
 tle Giulietta in his arms, peering at me 
 through the gay, climbing flowers which 
 she watered so carefully— looked long and 
 wistfully, as if he must surely answer back, 
 " ^V, sio-/!flre, immcdialamoitc," and turned 
 sadly away. 
 
 But then tliere was the same old gon- 
 dola-landing, blue poles, bridge, and all, 
 with its flock of gondolas hovering around, 
 and a dozen lusty fellows ready to spring
 
 14 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 to their oars and serve me night and day 
 for a pittance that elsewhere a man would 
 starve on. My lucky star once sent me 
 Ingenio, who floating past caught my sig- 
 nal ; why not another ? 
 
 This is why I am on the quay near the 
 Rialto this lovely morning, in Venice, over- 
 looking the gondolas curving in and out, 
 and watching the faces of the gondoliers 
 as with uplifted hands, like a row of whips, 
 they call out their respective numbers and 
 qualifications. 
 
 In my experience there is nothing like a 
 gondola to paint from, especially in the 
 summer — and it is the summer time. 
 Then all these Venetian cabs are gay in 
 their sunshiny attire, and have laid aside 
 their dark, hooded cloaks, their rainy- 
 day mackintoshes — their /c/si — and have 
 pulled over their shoulders a frail awning 
 of creamy white, wath snowy draperies at 
 sides and back, under which you paint in
 
 ESPERO GORGONI, GONDOLIER 15 
 
 State or lounge luxuriously, drinking in 
 the beauty about you. 
 
 I have in my wanderings tried all sorts 
 of moving studios : tar tanas in Spain, 
 volatites in Cuba, broad-sailed luggers in 
 Holland, mules in Mexico, and cabs 
 everywhere. One I remember with de- 
 light — an old night-hawk in Amsterdam — 
 that offered me not only its front seat for 
 my easel, its arm-rest for my water-bottle, 
 and a pocket in the door-flap for brushes 
 (I am hkely to expect all these conven- 
 iences in even the most disreputable of 
 cabs), but insisted on giving me the ad- 
 ditional luxury of a knot-hole in its floor 
 for waste water. 
 
 But with all this a cab is not a gondola. 
 
 In a gondola you are never shaken by 
 the tired beast resting his other leg, nor 
 by the small boy who looks in at the win- 
 dow, nor by the cabby, who falls asleep 
 on the box and awakes periodically with a 
 start that repeats a shiver through your
 
 l6 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 brush hand, and a corresponding wave- 
 line across your sky. 
 
 In place of this there is only a cosey 
 curtain-closed nest— a little boudoir with 
 down cushions and silk fringes and soft 
 morocco coverings, kept afloat by a long, 
 lithe, swan-like, moving boat, black as 
 an Inquisitor's gown save for the dain- 
 ty awning ; a something bearing itself 
 proudly with head high in air — alive or 
 still, alert or restful, and obedient to your 
 lightest touch — half sea-gull revelling in 
 the sunlight, half dolphin cutting the dark 
 water. 
 
 If you are hurried, and the splash of the 
 oar comes quick and strong, in an instant 
 your gondola quivers with the excitement 
 of the chase. You feci the thrill through 
 its entire length as it strains every nerve ; 
 the touch of the oar, like the touch of the 
 spur, urging it to its best. If you would 
 rest, and so slip into some dark waterway 
 under the shadow of overhanging lialcony
 
 ESPERO GORGONI, GONDOLIER I7 
 
 or mouldy palace wall, your water-swal- 
 low becomes a very lasagnone, and will go 
 sound asleep, and for hours, or loll lazily, 
 the little waves lapping about its bow. 
 
 In Venice my gondola is always my 
 home, and my gondolier always my best 
 friend ; and so when my search for In- 
 genio ended only in a cobwebbed door 
 and an abandoned balcony, and that 
 mournful shake of the sacristan's head, 
 and I stood scanning anxiously the up- 
 turned faces below me, it was some min- 
 utes before I selected his successor and 
 returned Espero's signal. 
 
 I cannot say why I singled him out, ex- 
 cept, perhaps, that he did not press for- 
 ward with the rest, rushing his bow ahead ; 
 but rather held back, giving his place to a 
 gray-headed old gondolier, who in his 
 haste had muffed his oar awkwardly, at 
 which the others laughed. 
 
 Perhaps, too, it might have been his 
 frank, handsome, young face, with its
 
 l8 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 merry, black eyes ; or the inviting look of 
 the cushions beneath the white awning, 
 with the bit of a rug on the floor ; or the 
 picturesque effect of the whole ; or all of 
 them together, that caught my eye. Or 
 it might have been the perfect welding 
 together of man and boat. For, as he 
 stood erect in the sunlight, twisting the 
 gondola with his oar, his loose shirt, with 
 throat and chest bare in highest light 
 against the dark water, his head bound 
 with a red kerchief, his well-knit, grace- 
 ful figure swaying in the movement of the 
 whole, blending with and yet controlling 
 it, both man and boat seemed but parts 
 of one organism, a sort of marine Centaur, 
 as free and frearless as that wonderful 
 myth of the olden time. \\niatever it 
 was, my lucky star peeped out at the 
 opportune moment, and the next instant 
 my sketch-traps were tumbled m. 
 
 " To the Salute !" 
 
 The gondolier threw himself on his oar,
 
 ESPERO GORGONI, GONDOLIER I9 
 
 the sensitive craft quivered at the touch, 
 and we glided out upon the broad waters 
 of the Grand Canal. 
 
 Nowhere else in the wide world is there 
 such a sight. A double row of creamy- 
 white palaces tiled in red and topped 
 with quaint chimneys. Overhanging bal- 
 conies of marble, fringed with flowers, 
 with gay awnings above and streaming 
 shadows below. Two lines of narrow 
 quays crowded with people flashing bright 
 bits of color in the blazing sun. Swarms 
 of gondolas, barcos, and lesser water- 
 spiders darting in and out. Lazy red- 
 sailed luggers, melon-loaded, with crin- 
 kled green shadows crawling beneath their 
 bows ; while at the far end over the glis- 
 tening highway, beaded with people, 
 curves the beautiful bridge — an ivory arch 
 against a turquoise sky. 
 
 Espero ran the gauntlet of the skimming 
 boats, dodging the little steamers puffing 
 away all out of breath with their run from
 
 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 the Lido, shot his boat into a narrow 
 canal, and out again upon the broad 
 water, until the edge of her steel blade 
 touched the water-stairs of the Salute. 
 
 This beautiful church is always my 
 rendezvous. It is half-way to everything : 
 to the Public Garden ; across the Giudec- 
 ca ; away over to the Lagoon where the 
 fishermen live ; to the Rialto and beyond. 
 
 In the freshness of the morning, when 
 its lovely dome throws a cool shadow 
 across its piazza, there is no better place 
 for a painter to make up his mind as to 
 where he would work. Mine required but 
 a few minutes ; I would paint near the 
 Fondimenta della Pallada ; a narrow, 
 short canal where the fishermen moor 
 their boats. 
 
 " What is your name, gondolier? " 
 
 " Espero Gorgoni." 
 
 The voice was sweet and musical, and 
 the answer was given with a turn of the 
 head as graceful as it was free.
 
 " Do you know the Pallada ? " 
 
 " Perfectly." 
 
 " Stop, then, where the crab-baskets are 
 moored to the poles." 
 
 A turn of the wrist, a long, bending 
 sweep of the oar across the Giudecca, 
 and we enter a waterway leading to 
 the Lagoon. Here live the fishermen, in 
 great, rambling houses three and four 
 stories high — warehouses probably in the 
 old days — running sheer into the water.
 
 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 Outside of the lower windows lie their 
 boats, with gay-colored sails, and next to 
 these stand a row of poles anchoring the 
 huge wicker crab- and fish-baskets filled 
 with their early morning catch. 
 
 Espero ran the gondola behind a pro- 
 tecting sail, and in five minutes I was at 
 work. 
 
 The experience was not new to him. I 
 saw that from the way he opened the awn- 
 ing on the proper side, unstrapped my 
 easel, and spread out the contents of my 
 trap on the cushions, which he reversed to 
 protect from waste water ; and from the 
 way he stepped ashore, so that my gon- 
 dola should lie perfectly still, joining 
 later a group of children who were watch- 
 ing me from the doorway above. (Half 
 an hour after they were laughing at 
 his stories, the two youngest in his lap. 
 A considerate, good-natured fellow, I 
 thought, this gondolier of mine, and 
 fond of children ; and I kept at work.
 
 ESPERO GORGONI, GONDOLIER 23 
 
 When the fisherman awoke and came 
 down to make ready his boat for the 
 morning, and I began the customary pro- 
 test about the lowering of the sail, thus 
 spoiling my sketch, Espero sprang up, 
 locked his arm through that of the in- 
 truder, and led him gently back into the 
 house, calling to me, five minutes there- 
 after, from across the canal, to keep at 
 work and not to hurry, as the fisherman 
 and he would have a mouthful of wine 
 together. And a man of tact, too ! Real- 
 ly, if my gondolier develops like this, I 
 shall not miss Ingenio so much. 
 
 The next day we were across the La- 
 goon, and the day following up the Giu- 
 decca, by the storehouses where the light- 
 ers unload, and before the week was out 
 I had fallen into my old habits and was 
 sharing my breakfast and my cigarette- 
 case with my gondolier, who, day by day, 
 won his way by some new trait of useful- 
 ness or some new charm of manner.
 
 24 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 Oh, these breakfasts in the gondola in 
 the early morning ; the soft, fresh air of 
 the sea in your face, the cool plash of the 
 water in your ears ! On the floor of the 
 boat, smoking hot, rests the little copper 
 coffee-pot ; above in the wooden side- 
 pockets, your store of fruit and rolls. 
 With what a waste and recklessness is the 
 melon split and quartered, and the half- 
 eaten crescents thrown overboard ! What 
 savory fish ! What delicious bread ! 
 What luscious figs ! And yet Espero had 
 gathered them all up at a caffe, a fruit- 
 stand, and a baker's ; and a bit of silver 
 no larger than my thumb-nail had paid 
 for it all. 
 
 When the wind freshens and the boats 
 from Chioggia begin spreading their sails, 
 Espero turns his prow toward the Public 
 Garden — their mooring-ground — and we 
 follow them out over the broad water until 
 my sketch-book is filled with their varying
 
 9H
 
 26 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 forms and colors. On our way back we 
 board the wood boats, drifting in with the 
 tide, or land under the old garden-walls, 
 which Espero scales, regaining the gon- 
 dola loaded with flowers, which he fes- 
 toons over the awning, trailing the blos- 
 soming vines in the water behind. Or we 
 circle about the Salute, composing it now 
 on the right, with some lighter boats in 
 the distance ; now on the left, with the 
 Dogana and the stretch of palaces be- 
 yond. Or we haunt the churches, lis- 
 tening to the music, or follow with our 
 eyes the slender, graceful Venetians who 
 come and go. 
 
 In all these rambles there was one little, 
 crooked canal near the Salute that, what- 
 ever our course, Espero always dodged 
 into. Long -way around or short way 
 over, it was always the same. Somehow 
 Espero must get into this waterway to get 
 out somewhere else. At last I caught him. 
 She wore a yellow silk handkerchief tied
 
 ESPERO GORGONI, GONDOLIER 27 
 
 under her pretty chin and was waving her 
 hand from a balcony filled with oleanders 
 high up on the wall of a crumbling old 
 palace. These were our days ! 
 
 Then came the twilights, with palace, 
 tower, and dome purple in the fading 
 light, the canal all molten gold, the gon- 
 dolas, with lamps alight, gliding like fire- 
 flies. 
 
 On one of these purple-laden twilights 
 we had floated over to San Giorgio, 
 moored the gondola to a great iron ring 
 in the water-soaked steps that might once 
 have held a slave-laden galley, and had 
 sat down to watch the darkness as it slow- 
 ly settled over the dreaming city. Away 
 off to the right stood the Campanile, its 
 cone-shaped top pink and gold, while 
 behind, against the deepening blue, rose 
 its twin tower. 
 
 The scene awoke all the old memories, 
 and I began talking to Espero, who was 
 stretched out on the marble steps below
 
 28 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 me, of the olden times when this same 
 harbor was full of ships of every clime, 
 with sails of gold and cargoes of spice, and 
 of the great regattas, and the two-decked 
 war barges, with slaves double-banked 
 rowing beneath ; and from this to the 
 wonderful Bucentaur, the Doge's barge, 
 encrusted with gold, rowed by the mem- 
 bers of the Arsenalotti — a sort of guild or 
 corporation formed of the workmen at 
 the Arsenal. How, every year, occurred 
 the ceremony of the Espousal of the 
 Adriatic, and how, when the Bucentaur 
 returned, there was a grand banquet, at 
 which the Arsenalotti dined at the public 
 expense, with the privilege of carrying off 
 everythmg on the table — even the linen, 
 vessels, and glass, 
 
 Espero's attitude and face, as he lis- 
 tened, led me on. He had an odd way of 
 lifting his eyebrows quickly when I told 
 him something that interested him — a 
 questioning, yet deferential expression,
 
 ESPERO GORGONI, GONDOLIER 29 
 
 which I generally accepted as a tribute 
 to my superior intelligence. He never 
 formulated it in words. It was only one 
 of the many flashes that swept over his 
 face, but it was always a grateful en- 
 couragement. 
 
 And so, with the glamour of the scene 
 about me, and with Espero's eyes fastened 
 on mine, his well-shaped head clear cut 
 against the fading sky, I rambled on, tell- 
 ing him of those things I thought would 
 please him the most. Of how these 
 Arsenalotti became gondoliers, joining the 
 Castellani — the gondoliers at that time 
 being divided into two parties, the Castel- 
 lani, who wore red hoods, and the Nicol- 
 letti, who wore black hoods. Of how 
 these Castellani were aristocrats and had 
 portioned out to them the eastern part of 
 the city where the Doge lived, his resi- 
 dence being in the Piazza of San Marco ; 
 while the Nicolletti were only publicans. 
 That, besides attending to the Doge in
 
 30 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 public, many of these Castellani had 
 served him in private, thus being of great 
 service to the state. 
 
 Espero hstened to every word, raising 
 his head and looking at me curiously when 
 I mentioned the Castellani, and laughing 
 outright at my description of the banquet 
 tables in the hands of the Arsenalotti. 
 Nothing else dropped from his lips except 
 the grim remark that if he had lived in 
 those days he would, perhaps, have owned 
 his own gondola, and not have had to use 
 his grandfather's, who was now too old to 
 row. I remembered afterward that a cer- 
 tain thoughtful expression overspread his 
 face, as if my talk had awakened some 
 memory of his own. 
 
 A passing music-boat cut short my dis- 
 sertation, and in a moment more we were 
 following in its wake, threading our way 
 in and out of the tangle of gondolas 
 massed about it. Then a twist of the oar, 
 and Espero glided alongside the lantern-
 
 ESPERO GORGONI, GONDOLIER 3I 
 
 hung barge and leaned over to speak to 
 the leader. The musicians were going to 
 the Piazza, would I care to hear them sing 
 under the Bridge of Sighs ? 
 
 In five minutes we had picked our way- 
 through the labyrinth of surrounding gon- 
 dolas, and in five more had entered the 
 close, narrow canal, where the beautiful 
 bridge, buttressed by two great masses of 
 gloom — the palace and the prison— over- 
 hung the sluggish, sullen water. 
 
 There is never a lantern now along this 
 weird and grewsome waterway. One only 
 sees the twinkling lamps of the gondolas, 
 like will-o'-the-wisps, drift past — the boats 
 themselves lost in the blackness of the 
 shadows— the glimmer of the pale light of 
 some slow-moving barge, or the reflec- 
 tion of the stars above. All else is dark 
 and ghostly. 
 
 The music-boat drifted sideways, and 
 the bass-viol, who was standing, twisted a 
 lisfht cord throuq-h an iron ring in the
 
 32 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 slimy, ooze-colored palace. Espero drifted 
 against the opposite wall — the prison. 
 
 " What shall they sing, signor? " 
 
 " As you please, Espero." 
 
 I have heard the Miserere chanted at 
 dead of night in the streets of an old Ital- 
 ian town, the flare of the torches lighting 
 the upturned face of the ghastly dead ; 
 my eyes have filled when, with knee to 
 marble floor, I have listened to the pathos 
 of its harmonies sighing through the 
 many -pillared mosque of Cordova; I 
 have drunk in its cadences in curtained 
 alcoves with the breath of waving fans 
 and flash of gems about me ; but never 
 has its grandeur and majesty so stirred my 
 imagination and entranced my soul as on 
 this night in Venice, under the deep blue 
 of the soft Italian sky, the frowning, blood- 
 stained palace above, the treacherous si- 
 lent water beneath. 
 
 I could stretch out my hand and touch 
 the very stones that had coffined the liv-
 
 ESPERO GORGONI, GONDOLIER 33 
 
 ing dead. I could look down into the 
 same depths along the edge of the water- 
 soaked marble where had lain the head- 
 less body, with sack and cord, awaiting 
 the sure current of the changing tide ; 
 and from my cushions in the listing 
 gondola I could see, high up against the 
 blue in the starlight, the same narrow 
 window in the fatal arch, through which 
 the hopeless had caught a last glimpse of 
 light and life. 
 
 When the last low strains had died 
 away, Espero raised himself erect, walked 
 slowly the length of the gondola, and, 
 bending down, said in a voice tremulous 
 with emotion: " Signor, did your hear 
 the tramp of the poor fellows over the 
 bridge, and the moans of the men dying 
 under the wall ? Holy God ! Was it 
 not terrible ? " 
 
 At that instant the barge floated past. 
 I looked at him in wonder — Espero's eyes 
 w^ere full of tears !
 
 34 STORIES OP ITALY 
 
 This man began to interest me in- 
 tensely. Only an every-day, plain, Ve- 
 netian gondolier, in a blue shirt, and 
 patched at that, with hardly a franc he 
 could call his own, and yet there was 
 something about him that made his pres- 
 ence a delight. It was not the graceful 
 swing of his beautiful body, nor his musi- 
 cal laugh, nor his honest kindness to every 
 human being. It was rather an unde- 
 fined, courteous, well-bred independence. 
 
 When it came to rowing a gondola, it 
 never seemed to me that he rowed be- 
 cause it was his duty and his livelihood. 
 He rowed because he loved it, and be- 
 cause he loved the sunshine across his 
 face and the flash of the water on his oar- 
 blade — the swing and freedom of it all. 
 My happening to be a passenger was but 
 one of those necessary evils attending the 
 earning and payment of five francs a day. 
 And yet, not altogether an evil ; for he 
 loved me, too, as lie did everything else
 
 ESPERO GORGONI, GONDOLIER 35 
 
 that brought him companionship and air 
 and light and life. 
 
 Nothing seemed to tire him. Day or 
 night, or all night, if I wished it — for of- 
 ten we were whole nights together in the 
 soft summer air, floating back to the sleep- 
 ing city in the gray dawn, stopping to listen 
 to early mass at the Pieta, or following the 
 fruit-boats or fishermen in from the Lido. 
 
 And thus it was that we ransacked 
 Venice from San Giorgio to Murano ; 
 and thus it was that every day I caught 
 some fresh glimpse of the sweetness of 
 his inner nature, and every day loved him 
 the better. Nobody could have helped 
 it. There was that touch about him one 
 could not resist. Once on the Giudecca, 
 when the sea was polished steel and the 
 tide turning ebb, Espero ran the gondola 
 up under the lee of a melon-boat, its sail 
 limp and useless in the breathless air, 
 sprang over her rail, caught the oar from 
 the captain, fagged out with the long pull
 
 ^6 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 from the Lido, and threw his weight 
 against the drooping blade. And all this 
 with a laugh and a twist of his foot in 
 pirouette, as if it was the merriest fun in 
 the world to save a tide and a market 
 for a man he had never seen in his life 
 before. 
 
 On another morning he was just in 
 time to save Beppo from a plunge over- 
 board — old Beppo who for centuries (no- 
 body knows how old Beppo is) has hooked 
 his staff into myraids of gondolas land- 
 ing at the Salute steps. It had happened 
 that some other mediaeval ruin, a few 
 years Beppo's junior, had crowded the 
 old man from his place, and Espero's 
 righteous wrath was not appeased until 
 he had driven the usurper from the piazza 
 of the church, with the parting reminder 
 that he would break every bone in his 
 withered old skin if he ever caught him 
 there again. 
 
 And yet, with all my opportunities for
 
 ESPERO GORGONI, GONDOLIER 37 
 
 intimacy, I really got no nearer to the 
 inner side of Espero than the day I hired 
 him. To him I was still only the painter 
 from over the sea, his patron, to whom he 
 was loyal, good-natured, happy-hearted, 
 and obliging ; but nothing more. Noth- 
 ing more was for sale for five francs a day. 
 What his home or life might be outside 
 the hours I called my own, I knew no 
 more than of the hundred other gondo- 
 liers who filled the canal with their cries 
 and their laughter. The one sole con- 
 necting link was the pretty Venetian of 
 the little, crooked canal, who waved her 
 hand whenever we passed, and who once 
 tossed down a spray of oleander which fell 
 at his feet ; and yet I could not even have 
 found her doonvay, much less have told 
 her name. 
 
 One beautiful, bright Sunday morning, 
 perplexed at this unequal exchange of 
 confidences, this idea took possession of 
 me. Espero and I would breakfast to-
 
 38 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 gether — blue shirt, patch, and all ! Not 
 as we had often breakfasted before, in the 
 gondola under the shadow of a palace, or 
 down by the stalls of the fruit-market ; but 
 
 at the great Caffe Florian, in the Piazza 
 of San Marco, at twelve o'clock high 
 noon, in the midst of gold embroidered 
 officers with clanking swords and waxed 
 mustaches, and ladies of high degree in 
 dainty gowns and veils.
 
 ESPERO GORGONI, GONDOLIER 39 
 
 " Leave the gondola, Espero, in charge 
 of somebody, and come with me ! " 
 
 We twisted our way through the narrow 
 shts of streets, choked with awnings shad- 
 ing groups of Venetians sipping their 
 coffee, dodged under an archway, across 
 a narrow bridge, and so out upon the 
 bhnding, baking Piazza, dotted here and 
 there with hurrying figures, dogged by 
 ink-spilled shadows. 
 
 "Breakfast for two!" I said to the 
 startled waiter. "Take the seat by the 
 window, Espero ! " 
 
 His face lighted up, and an expression 
 of the greatest happiness and good humor 
 overspread it. But that was all. There 
 was no sign of humility ; nothing indicat- 
 ing that I had done him a kindness or had 
 conferred upon him any special favor. 
 He merely pointed to himself, and then to 
 the seat, as if making quite sure, saying, 
 " Me, signor?" and then sat himself down, 
 spreading his napkin, and all with the air
 
 40 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 of a man accustomed to that sort of thing 
 every day of his life. 
 
 I ordered nearly everything on the bill 
 of fare — fish, eggs, salad, broiled cutlet, 
 fruit, even a bottle of Chianti, with silk 
 tassels on its neck. Espero took each in 
 its course with the easy grace of a Ches- 
 terfield and the quiet refinement of a man 
 of the world. 
 
 The only person who put his astonish- 
 ment into words was the head waiter, who 
 caught his breath when I lighted Espero's 
 cigarette myself, recounting to his assist- 
 ant, and adding, " Ma foi, what funny 
 people these painters ! " 
 
 An hour later we were again afloat, 
 embarking at the water-steps of the Pi- 
 azza. 
 
 Just here, and for the first time in all 
 our intercourse, I noticed a change in 
 Espero's bearing. The touch of humility 
 — it had been only a trace, and, as I 
 always knew, only assumed that I might
 
 ESPERO GORGONI, GONDOLIER 4I 
 
 see he recognized the obligation of five 
 francs — even that slight touch was gone. 
 
 The change was not one that betokened 
 presuming familiarity, as if all social bar- 
 riers having now been swept away he 
 would insist upon sharing with me every- 
 thing I owned. It was more the manner 
 of a man clothed with the responsibilities 
 of a host ; a welcoming, generous, appro- 
 priating manner. Heretofore, when I 
 had stepped into the gondola, Espero 
 invariably offered me his bent elbow to 
 steady myself; but now he gave me his 
 hand. 
 
 Furthermore, he did not wait for in- 
 structions as to where the prow of the gon- 
 dola should be pointed. He said, in- 
 stead : 
 
 " There is a famous old Cortile that I 
 must show you. All the artists paint it. 
 We will go now ! " 
 
 With this he shot past our customary 
 landing-place, entered the little, crooked
 
 42 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 canal, and rounded the gondola in front 
 of an old marble archway curiously carved. 
 
 I began to wonder at the change that 
 had come over him. What was there 
 about this Cortile? If everybody had 
 painted it, why should he have kept it 
 hidden all summer from me ? 
 
 Espero's manner at this landing was, if 
 anything, more expressive than at the 
 last; for, after securing the gondola, he 
 waved his hand graciously and led me 
 along a damp, tunnel-like passage, until 
 we stepped into an abandoned cloister, 
 once the most beautiful Cortile in Ven- 
 ice. 
 
 When we entered the sun was blazing 
 against the opposite wall, the nearer col- 
 umns standing out strong and dark. In 
 the square, bounded by the low wall sup- 
 porting the pillars, which in turn supported 
 the living-rooms above, climbing vines 
 and grasses ran riot, while in the centre 
 of the tangled mass of weeds stood an old
 
 44 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 covered well, at which a girl was filling 
 her copper water-pail. 
 
 Espero watched my delight at its pict- 
 uresqueness, laughing outright at my de- 
 termination to begin work at once, and 
 then, with great deference, led me to a 
 doorway level with the flagging of the 
 mouldy pavement. Here he rang a bell 
 hung on the outside. The next instant a 
 shutter opened above and a pair of black 
 eyes peered out from between some pots 
 of oleanders. It was the same face I had 
 seen so often smiling at Espero from an 
 upper balcony. The cloister evidently 
 abutted on the little, crooked canal. This, 
 then, was what he was hiding ! But surely 
 he could not have thought that I would 
 have stolen his sweetheart ! 
 
 Another moment and the door was 
 opened by the same pretty Venetian, who 
 ushered us into a square hall having a 
 broad staircase which led to the floor 
 above. Here, on the wainscoted walls,
 
 ESPERO GORGONI, GONDOLIER 45 
 
 half-way to the ceihng, hung a collection 
 of old portraits, each one a delight to the 
 eye of a painter. They were of men, cos- 
 tumed in the time of the later Doges — one 
 in scarlet and black, another in a robe of 
 deep blue, while a third wore a semi-mili- 
 tary uniform and carried a short sword. 
 
 They all had one distinguishing feature : 
 each head was covered by a bright red 
 hood. 
 
 Espero never took his eyes from my 
 face as I looked about me in astonishment, 
 not even long enough to salute the pretty 
 Venetian who stood smiling at his side. 
 
 " Who lives here, Espero ? " 
 
 " My grandfather, signor, who is very 
 old, hves on this floor. My little wife, 
 Mariana," turning to the pretty Vene- 
 tian, "and I live on the floor above;" 
 and he kissed the girl on the forehead and 
 laid her hand in mine. 
 
 "And these portraits " 
 
 " Are some of the famous gondoliers of
 
 46 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 old. This one was chief of the Arsen- 
 alotti, and an intimate friend of the 
 Doge." 
 
 "And the others ? " 
 
 Espero's eyes twinkled, and a quizzical, 
 half-triumphant smile broke over his face. 
 
 "These are all my ancestors, signor. 
 "We have been gondoliers for two hun- 
 dred years. I am a Castellani ! "
 
 THE ANATOMIST OF THE 
 HEART 
 
 By T. R. Slllivan- 
 IFz't/i Illustrations by Albert Lynch
 
 Thou, stubborn heart, thyself hast willed it so ! 
 Happy wouldst thou be, forever happy, 
 Or forever desolate, stubborn heart, 
 And desolate thou art now. 
 
 Heine. 
 
 An hour after sundown on a summer 
 evening, when the last note of the second 
 Ave Maria^ called, of the dead, has died 
 aw^ay, there is commonly no quieter and 
 more unfrequented quarter in all Venice 
 than the long reach of the Grand Canal 
 between the Rialto Bridge and the Pa- 
 lazzo Foscari. Now and then the lantern 
 of some sohtary gondola skims noiselessly 
 over its dark surface like a luminous water- 
 fly. But the business of the day has 
 ceased, and the great barges of traffic are 
 tied up for the night ; the lines of palace- 
 front with their clustered arches and splen-
 
 50 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 dors of carving that shine out as miracles 
 in the daytime now look frowningly, blend- 
 ing all beauty of detail in uniform black- 
 ness. No hospitable light steals through 
 their closed shutters ; for the owners are 
 
 all absent, each under his vine and fig- 
 tree among the mountains of the mainland. 
 The stranger seeking pleasure is drawn 
 for it in other directions — to the music on 
 the Piazza or at the gate of the royal 
 palace. Nothing can be found here but 
 night and the stars and the peculiarly de-
 
 THE ANATOMIST OF THE HEART 51 
 
 pressing solitude of a deserted thorough- 
 fare. 
 
 On rare occasions, however, the Munic- 
 ipality undertakes to change all this for 
 the pleasure of the people. The simple 
 contrivance that effects the transformation 
 is unknown outside of Venice, for the 
 conditions existing there and there only are 
 essential to its success. An illuminated 
 raft with a military band upon it is drawn 
 slowly down through all these solemn pre- 
 cincts and beyond them, by the great 
 portico of the Salute Church and the fickle 
 Fortuna who turns her face toward every 
 breeze that blows, to the point where the 
 Canal Grande widens out into the lagoon. 
 Around the raft as it moves downward 
 many gondolas gather like a flock of sea- 
 birds in a steamer's wake disputing for 
 places, losing and regaining them, while 
 the music plays, and one after another the 
 ancient houses light up with colored fires. 
 Nature and the arts combine thus to give
 
 52 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 this fresco, as it is fitly named, a never- 
 failing charm that defies description. One 
 who knows the background may easily 
 supply the rest for himself, yet the live- 
 liest imagination, fortified by all augmen- 
 tatives and superlatives known to the Ital- 
 ian tongue, if bent upon recording the 
 scene would do it scanty justice. 
 
 The first fresco of the season had been 
 announced for the night of the Festa Na- 
 zionale, early in June. * The rosy tints of 
 sunset faded from a cloudless sky, and as 
 the gray twilight drew on all was bustle 
 and expectation around the huge archway 
 of the Rialto. Overhead, an eager throng 
 lined the parapet, and at the cafe below 
 red wine flickered in a hundred glasses. 
 All the tables were full, even to the water's 
 edge, the amiable, chattering crowd being 
 made up as usual of both sexes, young 
 and old together. The joys of domestic 
 life are nowhere more apparent than in 
 Venice, where so much of it passes out of
 
 THE ANATOMIST OF THE HEART 53 
 
 doors. When the day's work is done, 
 whole famihes clasp hands to plunge into 
 the black water of some side canal ; the 
 father, with a lantern on his head, smiles 
 up from the incoming tide as you glide by 
 him, and bids you observe how well his 
 boy, who is hardly old enough to walk, 
 has learned to swim ; in sea or on shore, 
 his wife and children share his recreation, 
 even though he turns night into day to 
 accomplish it. With a feast going on in 
 the quarter, bedtime may come for the 
 maimed, the halt, and the blind, but not 
 for them. 
 
 Just out of all this merry confusion a 
 private gondola, comfortably appointed, 
 drew up under the wall near the cafe-land- 
 ing. Both gondolier and passenger had 
 evidently played at this game before, and 
 knew that there was no better place to 
 await the beginning of the sport. The 
 former, a handsome fellow in livery, with 
 one gold ear-ring, went forward to light
 
 54 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 his lamp, and his master, settling himself 
 a little more luxuriously upon the cush- 
 ions, puffed his cigar with the air of a man 
 who has time at his command and can af- 
 ford to waste it. His keen, thoughtful 
 glance showed a certain interest in all the 
 little details upon which it rested ; he had 
 eyes for the golden lances of light shooting 
 deep into the water, as well as for the stout 
 waiter laden with wicker-covered wine- 
 flasks and perplexed by many contrary 
 commands. He even looked so good- 
 humoredly at a small plebeian just above 
 him, that the child laughed, and kissed its 
 chubby hand. The mother would have 
 hushed it, but at sight of the stranger's 
 friendly expression refrained from doing 
 so. Just then, the boat moved on a yard 
 or two, carrying him out of range ; he 
 smiled as he passed, and tossed a coin 
 into the child's lap. "An Englishman ! " 
 whispered the woman, pointing him out to 
 her husband, who, after a look, whispered
 
 THE ANATOMIST OF THE HEART 55 
 
 back: " Troppo gentile! I think he is 
 American." 
 
 An American he was, and on many ac- 
 counts one to be envied. He had heakh, 
 good looks, varied intellectual resources, 
 an ample fortune ; and he was still at an 
 age to reap the benefit of these advan- 
 tages. He had creative talent, too, in 
 one direction, with sufficient ambition to 
 develop it. Fortunately, perhaps, his 
 wealth, chiefly inherited, came somewhat 
 late, when his habits of application were 
 confirmed ; otherwise, he might have re- 
 mained a mere dilettante in his chosen 
 pursuit, which was that of a novelist. 
 Now, his art had become second nature 
 to him, and from the first his aim had been 
 a high one ; to do well was not enough, 
 he must do better if he would please him- 
 self. He had the satisfaction of knowing 
 that this strong endeavor did not go un- 
 recognized. The name of Malcolm Pow- 
 ell, if not yet ranked among the great
 
 56 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 ones, already commanded attention in 
 both hemispheres. One small book of 
 his had been translated into many lan- 
 guages. Even here, where modern art 
 in all its branches has but a meagre fol- 
 lowing, the Italian version of this story 
 was displayed in a dealer's window. As 
 it happened, the work so honored was 
 not the last that he had published. The 
 best judges maintained more or less 
 openly that a later book, while undenia- 
 bly clever, nevertheless fell somewhat 
 short of his own standard ; and he, when 
 the fever of its production subsided, found 
 himself reluctantly inclining to the same 
 belief. He determined, therefore, to take 
 a longer rest than usual, and to store 
 up new impressions. He was a bachelor 
 of forty, without ties, singularly alone in 
 the world ; so he went out into it, locking 
 his door one fine spring morning for an 
 indefinite stay abroad. Italy had been a 
 delight to him in earlier days, and from
 
 THE ANATOMIST OF THE HEART 57 
 
 the wear and tear of the London season 
 he fled southward over the St. Gotthard 
 to Lugano, where the clear air and the 
 Arcadian peacefulness of the lake-shore 
 almost tempted him to write again. But 
 he was not ready for this, and going on 
 to Venice found precisely what he needed 
 — entire freedom from social obligations, 
 yet interests enough to keep his mind em- 
 ployed for days together. Establishing 
 himself, therefore, in a quiet lodging on 
 the Riva, remote from the strangers' 
 quarter, he began to study churches and 
 pictures, to explore old libraries in which 
 he was the only reader, to note with an 
 artist's enthusiasm all lights and shades, 
 all strange manners and customs of the 
 life around him. The loneliness that to 
 another might have been disheartening, to 
 him had not yet suggested itself. Schemes 
 for future work went with him everywhere, 
 and, for the time being, he demanded noth- 
 ing better in the way of companionship.
 
 58 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 There was a momentary hush when the 
 raft, towed by a small steamer, came in 
 sight above the bridge ; then, while it 
 swung slowly into position, the noise re- 
 doubled with every form of excited com- 
 ment. The wooden framework was 
 masked by rows of lamps in red, white, 
 and green — the national colors ; its cen- 
 tral lights were arranged in the form of a 
 palm-tree with wide-spreading branches, 
 which by some hidden mechanism grew 
 in height as it cleared the arch, hundreds 
 of gleaming pendants making all the 
 space where the musicians stood below as 
 bright as day. The band struck up a 
 march, and at this signal a flaming star 
 flashed out upon the cafe-wall. The/^-es- 
 co had begun, and while the raft moved 
 ponderously forward, all the smaller craft 
 afloat, amid much splashing and shouting 
 and angry gesticulation, prepared to fol- 
 low. 
 
 The practised hand of Powell's gondo-
 
 THE ANATOMIST OF THE HEART 59 
 
 lier quietly overcame all obstacles ; so 
 that before long the American found him- 
 self in the very heart of the throng and 
 moving on with it, now swiftly, now at 
 a snail's pace, according to the circum- 
 stances of the moment. A few yards in 
 advance loomed up the glittering palm- 
 tree, and all around him through the 
 shadow black hulls of other gondolas 
 swayed in an undulating mass from shore 
 to shore. It amused Powell to watch the 
 occupants, natives for the most part, as 
 they hailed their acquaintances or com- 
 pared notes with them during the pauses 
 of the music. Owing to pressure from 
 without, that could neither be foreseen 
 nor controlled, his nearest neighbors were 
 continually changing. A talkative fam- 
 ily party gave place to an officer, who, 
 pulling the straw from his long Virginia, 
 begged a light for it ; then lifted his hat 
 gravely and was gone, to be succeeded 
 by a group of Americans, one of whom
 
 6o STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 flourished the national standard in httle. 
 Powell did not know these people, yet 
 nevertheless was inexpressibly reheved 
 when they passed on in their turn ; for 
 they were of the helpless sort, and with 
 any suspicion of his nationality would 
 surely have appealed to him for advice or 
 explanation. But some word of theirs 
 had set him thinking. With a sigh he 
 dropped his cigar into the water, and 
 yielding to the untimely thought, drifted 
 away into the past, lost for a while to all 
 consciousness of the agreeable present by 
 which he was surrounded. 
 
 A slight shock recalled him. The raft 
 had stopped suddenly before the Munic- 
 ipal Palace for a serenade in honor of 
 the City Fathers, and Powell's gondola 
 had bumped into one just in front of it. 
 No harm was done ; the gondoliers were 
 not even stirred into the usual recrimina- 
 tions. But this trifling accident served to 
 rouse Powell from his reverie. He looked
 
 up at the palace windows, all ablaze with 
 light, and seeing no figure of interest in 
 the official group, he idly resumed his 
 study of the crowd below. 
 
 They had reached the wider part of 
 the canal ; there was greater freedom of 
 movement, and everywhere he found new 
 faces. As the obstructing gondola came 
 slowly backward abreast of his own, Pow- 
 ell saw that the boatman wore mourning 
 livery, and that the boat was carved and
 
 62 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 gilded. A graceful woman, with black 
 lace about her head and shoulders, re- 
 clined in it alone. Powell waited eagerly 
 to see what she was like, and leaning for- 
 ward as she drew nearer, attracted her at- 
 tention. She turned, their eyes met, and 
 each gave a start of recognition. 
 
 " Marchesa ! " 
 
 " Signor Max ! " 
 
 Smiling, she held out her hand, which 
 he grasped warmly. " Who would have 
 thought to find the Marchesa Del Riso 
 here in June ! " 
 
 " Who would have imagined the distin- 
 guished Signor Powell to be in Italy ! " 
 she answered in English which the friend 
 thus graciously designated thought was 
 no worse for a musical intonation that did 
 not properly belong to it. "And alone 
 — that is very sad and gloomy," she con- 
 tinued lightly. " Pray accept my hospital- 
 ity, and take this seat — unless you have 
 better plans."
 
 THE ANATOMIST OF THE HEART 63 
 
 " None equal to the pleasure of being 
 literally in the same boat with you," said 
 Powell, laughing, as he stepped from his 
 gondola into hers. 
 
 " Ah ! " she replied, " if we are to flat- 
 ter each other I shall score two points to 
 your one ; you have grown so great since 
 our last meeting, while I " 
 
 " You are unchanged." 
 
 " Thank you. This light is most becom- 
 ing to me. You forget how time has flown. " 
 
 " Ten years, it must be — though that is 
 hard to believe." 
 
 " I knew you had forgotten. It is 
 twelve years and a half." 
 
 "The years and months are details," 
 he returned. "And I have the best of 
 excuses now for losing sight of them. 
 See how well I can remember the impor- 
 tant things. We were in Rome at the 
 Palazzo Altieri. The Marchese did not 
 come, and we sat alone together in a cor- 
 ner of the ball-room under the musicians'
 
 64 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 gallery. I was to go the next morning, 
 and you gave me your farewells. You 
 wished me success in art, success in love. 
 I answered that you desired too much, 
 that the two rarely associate themselves 
 in one man's life. But you doubted it, 
 and persisted in wishing for me the im- 
 probable, if not the impossible." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Well, I am still between the two fires 
 — both as far away as those stars are, and 
 as little likely to be attained." 
 
 His companion laughed gently. " You 
 Americans are strange creatures. It is 
 not enough to be great, you must always 
 rule the spheres." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " You are an excellent example of what 
 I mean. As to the art, for instance, men 
 have struggled all their lives to do what 
 you have done already. As to the love, 
 ci vuol pazienza, aviico mio ! Your life is 
 not yet over."
 
 THE ANATOMIST OF THE HEART 65 
 
 There was a little pause, during which 
 Powell sighed gloomily. Then he picked 
 up one of her long black gloves which 
 had fallen to the floor of the gondola, and 
 said : " I am tired of myself. Let us talk 
 of something else. You are well, I know^ 
 but " 
 
 " My husband died more than a year 
 ago," she e.xplained, drawing away the 
 glove. 
 
 " I beg your pardon — I did not under- 
 stand " 
 
 " Hush ! " said she. " We must listen 
 to the music. It is ' Ai'da,' — Come scordar 
 potrem ! " 
 
 She leaned forward with an air of rapt 
 attention. They were drifting close under 
 the terrace of one of the large hotels on 
 the lower canal ; the glare from its win- 
 dows enabled Powell to see her as dis- 
 tinctly as though the sun had shone, and 
 what he saw surprised him. Reckoned 
 by the details of years and months, her
 
 66 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 age exceeded his ; of that he was per- 
 fectly sure. She had made no attempt at 
 conceahnent ; there were gray hairs upon 
 her temples ; but, in spite of these, in 
 spite of dates and calendars, she had held 
 her own wonderfully well. Instead of a 
 faded beauty standing in need of the 
 adroit compliment he had paid instinc- 
 tively, the charm that gave her name in 
 earlier days a Continental reputation re- 
 mained unimpaired. By one of those in- 
 advertences in which time delights, this 
 woman was still young, still beautiful. 
 His compliment had been no compliment 
 at all. 
 
 So she was a widow at last, without the 
 smallest pretence of being inconsolable. 
 Come scordar potrem ! As the music rose 
 and fell, all the story of her marriage 
 flashed back into Powell's mind. There 
 had been little romance about it. She was 
 the daughter of a rich merchant who had 
 left no other child, and with her mother's
 
 THE ANATOMIST OF THE HEART 67 
 
 help she had frankly exchanged her riches 
 for a title. The old marchese was a brute, 
 it was said, neglecting her, treating her 
 abominably. If this were true the report 
 lacked confirmation by any sign of hers. 
 No breath of scandal had ever blurred 
 her name. She had fulfilled to the letter 
 her share of the bargain, walking erect, 
 uncomplaining, with a smile, as the Mar- 
 chesa del Riso should. But, that she had 
 never for one moment loved the man who 
 ennobled her, Powell knew by the best of 
 evidence — her own. On that last night in 
 Rome, moved by some impulse unex- 
 plained, she had confided so much of her 
 painful secret to the youiig American. 
 There are moments when the proudest 
 woman will reveal such things, and Powell 
 fancied that her choice of a confidant had 
 no direct significance, but that she had 
 told the tale merely as a matter of relief, 
 as she might have whispered it to a stock 
 or a stone, or any inanimate object. He
 
 68 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 was on the eve of departure, in all proba- 
 bility about to disappear forever beyond 
 her horizon's rim. His presence would 
 never serve to remind her of the indiscre- 
 tion. Telling him was practically telling 
 nobody, the appeal for pity being made 
 to one powerless to work her either good 
 or ill. Nevertheless, it was an appeal for 
 pity, and with the usual perversity of 
 mankind, Powell had blamed her for it. 
 Her attitude toward the world wore a be- 
 coming dignity that he admired greatly, 
 all the while suspecting the truth which he 
 would have preferred not to learn from 
 her lips. The discovery that she was a 
 little less a Spartan than he imagined 
 proved distasteful to him. He still ad- 
 mired her, but with a difference. So far 
 as he was concerned, she had suffered a 
 distinct loss by her confession. 
 
 She had it all now — the title, the free- 
 dom which must have figured in her cal- 
 culation as sure to come sooner or later,
 
 THE ANATOMIST OF THE HEART 69 
 
 which had come in good time. The dis- 
 turbing influence was dispelled, the long 
 anguish of it already dead and buried. As 
 she turned to Powell with the old sweet 
 smile, it was not surprising that he forgot 
 to blame her, that he thought himself ex- 
 tremely fortunate in this chance encounter, 
 that he began to wonder what her plans 
 were, whether or not she had a house in 
 Venice, how long she was likely to remain 
 here in this dull season. But letting these 
 subjects wait to unfold themselves natu- 
 rally, he asked no questions, talking, in- 
 stead, of the music, the other sounds and 
 sights peculiar to the festa, the incompar- 
 able beauty of the scene before them. So 
 they reached at last the broad lagoon, 
 where the palm-tree was lowered and ex- 
 tinguished, the band put up its instru- 
 ments, and all the crowd dispersed. Below 
 them, dazzling reflections from the branch- 
 ing Piazzetta lights made the water look 
 as though gold were steeped in it. Above
 
 70 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 rose the Ducal Palace like some fabric of 
 cloud in which the sunset after-glow still 
 lingers ; but night — deep, starry night — 
 had long since settled down upon the 
 domes of San Marco ; all their splendors 
 were put out ; the prancing horses, the 
 pillared saint and lion were lost in the 
 same shadow that obliterated the mosaics 
 and the marbles. Church and palace, 
 court and cloister and arcade lay muffled 
 in the darkness. Only the golden angel 
 on the summit of the Campanile seemed 
 to watch, gleaming high over all like a 
 heavenly guard. 
 
 The bronze giants of the clock-tower 
 struck the bell with their heavy hammers. 
 " Cinderella's hour ! " said the Marchesa. 
 " I must go home." 
 
 " But not like Cinderella, I hope," sug- 
 gested Powell. "Let me leave you at 
 your door, and learn the way to it. My 
 man will follow us to bring me back 
 acrain."
 
 THE ANATOMIST OF THE HEART 7I 
 
 " So much the better," she agreed. 
 ''Alia casa, Mattco T' 
 
 They turned in by the great wall of 
 the council-chamber, which is hardly less 
 gloomy than that of the prison opposite, 
 passing imder the Bridge of Sighs and the 
 lesser bridges beyond it ; then bore off 
 sharply to the left, to the right, to the left 
 again in an intricate course that even by 
 day would have been bewildering. The 
 darkness became oppressive. At every 
 turn the canals grew narrower and more 
 obscure, the bridge-arches lower ; nearing 
 one of these Powell bowed his head with 
 instinctive precaution that provoked his 
 companion to mockery. 
 
 "Courage, Signor," said she. "You 
 forget the gondoliers' motto : ' Where the 
 prow goes, all the rest goes too.' Look! 
 Ours has nearly a foot to spare." 
 
 "I thought I knew my Venice," he 
 pleaded, in exci:se. " But this is unknown 
 ground, or rather unknown water. I am
 
 72 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 curious to see at what landmark we shall 
 emerge." 
 
 He had no sooner spoken than they shot 
 out into the Grand Canal, at a familiar 
 point, and crossing it plunged on through 
 other and darker by-ways. 
 
 " My house is not down in the books," 
 she replied to his wondering glance. " I 
 live in a Venice the stranger never learns. 
 It is an old inheritance of my husband's, 
 rarely opened in his life-time — still more 
 rarely now. This is the garden," she 
 added, as they followed a high, crumbling 
 wall of mouldy brick behind which tall 
 tree-tops rustled. "And here is the land- 
 ing. You will come again, will you not ? 
 To-morrow, I hope. Ask for the Palazzo 
 del Riso in the Tolentini quarter. Every 
 child knows it." 
 
 A door swung open, showing him a dimly 
 lighted courtyard with a stone staircase, 
 up which she passed into the darkness. 
 Under a lower arch her gondolier slipped
 
 THE ANATOMIST OF THE HEART T^ 
 
 away, leaving room for his own ; to turn 
 would have been impossible otherwise, 
 since the canal was very narrow. All its 
 other buildings were dingy and squalid, 
 but Powell could see that this grim front, 
 though all awry, had stone mouldings and 
 capitals of a very early period. 
 
 " Do you know this house, Antonio ? " 
 he asked, as they pushed off. 
 
 ' ' Hoh ! Per Bacco ! Who does not ? " 
 answered the cheery Venetian, glad to 
 break his long silence. "But the Signor 
 has good luck. I have never seen the 
 palace open that I remember. It is old — 
 very old." 
 
 When the Signor returned the next day, 
 ,as, of course, he was in duty bound to do, 
 the melancholy charm of the place capti- 
 vated him at once. Weeds grew in the 
 crevices of the courtyard pavement ; its 
 well-curb was mutilated and moss-grown ; 
 the splendid railing of the staircase too 
 had lost a bit here and there. But all was
 
 74 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 dignified without and stately within. The 
 long rooms through which he was ushered 
 had an air of rigid order inconsistent with 
 the usages of daily life. In themselves 
 they were high and beautiful, but their 
 too evident abandonment made them 
 gloomy even with the afternoon sunlight 
 flickering over the vines at the windows. 
 In the last room, which showed more signs 
 of occupancy than the rest, there rose to 
 greet Powell a short, elderly woman whom 
 he recognized as the Signora Carrera, the 
 mother of his friend. She had a weak, in- 
 sipid face, very unlike her daughter's, and 
 Powell, believing that she was much to 
 blame for the ill-advised marriage, had 
 never fancied her. The unfavorable im- 
 pression reasserted itself in spite of the 
 cordial welcome she gave him. 
 
 " Placida will be here in a moment," 
 she stated. " We hoped that you would 
 come." 
 
 Placida — Placida del Riso ! Powell re-
 
 THE ANATOMIST OF THE HEART 75 
 
 membered perfectly how upon hearing 
 that name for the first time in the by-gone 
 days he had repeated it to himself, and 
 had decided that the Italian names were 
 the most musical in the world. 
 
 There were books upon the table, and 
 among them Powell noticed that best- 
 known work of his in its Italian version. 
 It was a new copy, freshly cut, with the 
 paper-knife still lying between the leaves. 
 Powell smiled at the thought that the Mar- 
 chesa, anticipating his coming, had prob- 
 ably procured it that very morning under 
 the arcade of the Piazza. At the sound of 
 a closing door he looked up and saw her 
 drawing nearer through the long vista of 
 the rooms — drawing nearer, yet for a mo- 
 ment the odd fancy struck him that she 
 was really going farther and farther away. 
 Perhaps it was due to her mother, whose 
 idle speech he was following mechanically, 
 that the old admiration became suddenly 
 darkened by the old disapproval. For his
 
 76 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 sake the Marchesa had tried to look her 
 best ; of that there could be no doubt, 
 and it was amazing to see how like her 
 former self that best remained. In another 
 moment she stood before him. smiling; 
 she was content to see him — very content, 
 she said. The working of his mind, could 
 she have seen that, would hardly have 
 contented her. " You are very charming, 
 but — " was the unfinished thought there, 
 as he returned her smile and the warm 
 pressure of her hand. 
 
 He was urged to smoke, both women 
 lighting their cigarettes too, as a matter 
 of course ; then their talk in the next few 
 moments wandered from one subject to 
 another somewhat vaguely, and under it 
 the Marchesa grew visibly restless. When 
 there came a pause, Powell, who had be- 
 gun by admiring the house, revived that 
 theme for want of something better ; there- 
 upon rising instantly, the Marchesa asked 
 him if he would like to sec more of it. He
 
 THE ANATOMIST OF THE HEART TJ 
 
 assented eagerly, and was accordingly led 
 by an inner door through a marble corri- 
 dor to the ball-room — a wonder in its way, 
 with a frieze by the younger Palma and a 
 brilliant ceiling by some later hand ; the 
 prevailing yellow tint of cornice, tapestries, 
 and hangings relieved this room from the 
 air of melancholy pervading the rest of the 
 piano tiobile. Only the guests were want- 
 ing to make it cheerfulness itself. They 
 went on into an ante-chamber, darkened 
 and gloomy, passing thence to the private 
 chapel, radiant with a small but very 
 lovely Madonna of Bellini. Here the win- 
 dow stood open, and the breeze brought 
 in a delicious fragrance of honeysuckles 
 and oleanders. Looking back, Powell 
 perceived that the Signora Carrera had 
 not followed them. 
 
 " Let us go down into the garden," said 
 he. 
 
 So by a narrow passage and a winding 
 staircase in the wall they descended to
 
 78 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 trim paths and sunny stretches of lawn 
 with flower-borders, tended by an old 
 gardener who lifted his hat as they passed. 
 All here was in good order, maintained, 
 as the Marchesa said, chiefly for the bene- 
 fit of the public, to whom right of entrance 
 was granted once a week. 
 
 " Such a garden is rare in Venice," she 
 concluded. 
 
 "And elsewhere too; one might look 
 long to find a lovelier spot than this," 
 said Powell, as crossing a rustic bridge 
 overgrown with ivy they came into a grove 
 of beeches where art had permitted nat- 
 ure to take the upper hand. The tall 
 trunks were green with moss, and the 
 ground on either side was a bed of ferns. 
 A sharp turn of the path brought them to 
 the basin of a fountain with lilies blossom- 
 ing in its quiet water under a marble 
 Cupid from whose quiver shot up a 
 shower of spray. Behind this figure the 
 leaves and branches had been cut away ;
 
 THE ANATOMIST OF THE HEART 79 
 
 SO that Powell suddenly found himself 
 looking beyond the garden, beyond Ven- 
 ice, beyond the world, straight out at the 
 western sky across the distant Euganean 
 hills. The lagoon, scarcely ruffled by the 
 faint breeze, filled all the foreground ; and 
 one red sail was reflected in it, the shadow, 
 as Powell pointed out to his companion, 
 appearing to reach down with perfect 
 accuracy of color and detail to an extra- 
 ordinary depth. 
 
 "Yes, it is very beautiful," sighed the 
 Marchesa. "Let us look at it a little 
 longer." And they seated themselves, 
 accordingly, upon a stone bench fronting 
 the unusual prospect. 
 
 " Even though it makes you sigh," said 
 Powell, smiling. 
 
 "Did I?" she asked in a tone which 
 showed that her momentary fit of depres- 
 sion had been an unconscious one. " The 
 fact is that I cannot care for Venice as 
 '3-ou do. There is an awful stillness in it.
 
 8o STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 Its beauty is like the fifth act of a tragedy, 
 too painful to be long endured. I feel al- 
 ways as if its mouldering walls might fall 
 and crush me. Something tells me that 
 the saddest hour of my life will come in 
 Venice." 
 
 "Life has sadness enough for us all, 
 Heaven knows," returned Powell, reflect- 
 ively. " Our best course, I think, is to 
 admit it only when it comes, and do with- 
 out presentiments." 
 
 "That is true, and my presentiments 
 are trivial. I am willing to let the future 
 take care of itself. The things that have 
 happened are the things that interest me ; 
 tell me something about them." 
 
 Powell laughed. "What on earth can 
 I find to tell you? " 
 
 " Dear Signor Max, do you not know it 
 is of yourself that I long to hear ? Your 
 triumphs I have learned ; I rejoice at 
 them as only an old friend can — to some 
 extent I have shared in them. But the
 
 THE ANATOMIST OF THE HEART 8l 
 
 friend who does no more is only half a 
 friend. The pleasure life allots you is 
 nothing to the pain. Will you not accept 
 the sympathy I offer, and let me share 
 that too?" 
 
 Powell laughed again, though now with 
 obvious effort. " What has given you 
 this impression of my hfe ? " he asked. 
 
 " Your own words, spoken and written," 
 she answered. ' ' There is an undercur- 
 rent of grief in all your work, and in your 
 talk last night it came again. Why will 
 you deny it? The great hope of your 
 life is unfulfilled. 
 
 "I do not attempt to deny it," said 
 Powell, gravely. " He who cannot hide 
 the scar, must, of necessity, admit that it 
 was once a wound. But a hope never to 
 be fulfilled passes, as mine has passed, 
 taking, as it were, the bloom of human 
 kindness with it. I often think I have no 
 kindness left. I am not a man, but a 
 machine for registering the woes and
 
 82 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 weaknesses, the vices and follies of the 
 world around me ; the possible reward, a 
 leaf of laurel withering in my hand. It 
 is a great destiny, a high ambition ! But 
 only see how pitiable our human nature 
 is ! Yesterday, I was bitterly envious of 
 my poor gondolier, who took me home to 
 see his wife and children." 
 
 " Home ! " repeated the Marchesa. " I 
 like that pretty English word of yours ; 
 it adds another charm to life, it promises 
 so much. How can you resist the prom- 
 ise ? Be happy, and let the other strivings 
 go. The way is very simple and very easy if 
 you would only see it. You should marry. " 
 
 She smiled as she said this, as if she 
 imagined that he would smile in return 
 and parry the home-thrust with some light 
 word. But he did not trust himself to 
 look at her. With his eyes fixed upon the 
 blue line of hills toward which the sun 
 was slowly sinking, he answered in a firm, 
 low voice :
 
 THE ANATOMIST OF THE HEART 83 
 
 " No ! I shall not marry. The hope is 
 gone forever." 
 
 The color came and went in her face ; 
 she turned away her eyes, but made no 
 
 other movement. Then, after a long si- 
 lence, broken only by the trickle of the 
 fountain, she spoke again in an altered 
 tone. 
 
 " So there is a woman — one, only one ? " 
 "Yes," he confessed. "There is a 
 woman.
 
 84 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 "I am very sorry for you," she con- 
 tinued gently. " But wherein lies the ob- 
 stacle ? The fault must be wholly yours. 
 You are too distrustful of yourself, perhaps. 
 It cannot be that she does not love you." 
 
 With a bitter smile Powell rose and paced 
 up and down in the path before her. 
 "Spare me the story," he said, at last. 
 " To tell you would not help me, and I 
 cannot do it. You must forgive the re- 
 serve which your friendship almost per- 
 suaded me to overcome. If I stop half- 
 way, it is because we do not know the 
 depth of our own feelings until they have 
 been sounded. You see for yourself my 
 scar goes far below the surface ; it is not 
 a scar, it is still a wound." 
 
 " Yes," assented the Marchesa. " I see, 
 too, that I had no right to question you. 
 Do not think the worse of me for my in- 
 discretion. Count me, rather, among 
 those whose wit and hands are at your 
 service, whenever they are needed."
 
 THE ANATOMIST OF THE HEART 85 
 
 He thanked her in words that he felt 
 were somewhat cold and formal. She in- 
 terrupted him with an impatient gesture, 
 and rising, suggested that they should go 
 back to the house. At the first turn in 
 the path a servant met them with a visiting- 
 card for the Marchesa, who smiled upon 
 reading it. 
 
 " The Commander Savelli. Dear soul ! 
 Do you know him ? " 
 
 " Not that I remember," said Powell. 
 " Who is he ? " 
 
 "A naval officer. You will like each 
 other, I am sure. He is an old friend of 
 mine. I call him the Commander of the 
 Faithful." 
 
 They heard his laugh as they went up, 
 and he met them at the door of the draw- 
 ing-room, where he had been entertain- 
 ing the Signora Carrera, He proved to 
 be short and plump, with closely-clipped 
 hair, prematurely white, in striking con- 
 trast to his dark mustache and eyebrows.
 
 86 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 His manners were of unaffected simpli- 
 city, he smiled frequently and pleasantly, 
 his laughter had a boyish ring in it. Al- 
 though he was not in uniform, the air of 
 the sea still clung to him, the cut and pre- 
 cision of his dress as well as his hearty 
 frankness denoting a sailor of many voy- 
 ages. 
 
 By the first words which passed be- 
 tween this new-comer and the Marchesa 
 Powell learned that the commander was 
 off duty, and that they had been together 
 somewhere in the mountains ; he also saw 
 by the twinkle of the man's eye that the 
 two had some joke in common, relating 
 probably to the sailor's unexpected visit. 
 She had given him the slip, it appeared. 
 Yet, evidently, he was not unwelcome. 
 Her tone in describing him to Powell had 
 indicated that, and she received him now 
 with the utmost cordiality. Both men 
 were urged to stay to dinner, for charity's 
 sake, the Marchesa said. Her entreaty
 
 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 had SO much the air of a command that 
 Powell immediately complied with it. Sa- 
 velli, for his part, needed no urging ; he 
 had expected to stay from the first. 
 
 Dinner was served in a high central 
 hall looking out upon the garden and all 
 aglow with the sunset. The windows 
 were wide open, and the fragrance of 
 flowers filled the air. The meal, well- 
 ordered and enlivened by a golden wine 
 of Pomino, old and rare, began merrily 
 and grew merrier still as the stars came 
 out in the darkening sky. Savelli was 
 the head and front of it. After a time the 
 others did little but listen to his talk, 
 which dashed brilliantly from one thing to 
 another, gilding all it touched with his 
 enthusiasm. He had strong tastes in art, 
 a passion for music and the theatre ; but 
 his opinions were modestly expressed 
 without a shade of arrogance. He told 
 tales of the sea, of adventure bj' night in 
 foreign cities, of strange people with whom
 
 THE ANATOMIST OF THE HEART 89 
 
 his experience had thrown him ; treating 
 all so lightly and so wittily that the room 
 resounded with the laughter in which he 
 did not scruple to lead off. Then candles 
 and cigars were brought ; and, reminding 
 the men that to sit long over their wine 
 was a brutal English fashion not to be 
 tolerated, the two women rustled away. 
 
 The commander moved nearer and be- 
 gan to talk of books, showing at once that 
 his reading had not been limited to the 
 masterpieces of his own language. He 
 knew his companion's work in its original 
 form. 
 
 " You write, of course ? " said Powell. 
 
 "I? Oh, no!" 
 
 "Why not, since you have so much to 
 say — with all your knowledge of the 
 world ? " 
 
 " I have neither the skill nor the pa- 
 tience," said Savelli, laughing. "And I 
 have told you all I know. My mind is 
 full, but it is a very little mind. It is like
 
 90 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 one of those small shops under the arcade 
 in Paris on the Rue de Rivoli. There is 
 no arrih-e boutique in it. All my wares 
 are in the window." 
 
 "Too much modesty!" Powell re- 
 torted. 
 
 " No," said the other, growing almost 
 serious for the moment ; " that is not my 
 failing. On the contrary, I am over-am- 
 bitious. My aim is high — much too high ; 
 but it is well to have the mountain-peak 
 in view, even if one never lives to reach it." 
 
 "Yes," said Powell, sympathetically; 
 " if one could not look a little above the 
 world to some such shining mark, life, no 
 doubt, would be intolerable." 
 
 There was a pause, during which they 
 heard faint notes of a piano softly played. 
 " The Marchesa makes sweet music," 
 said Savelli. "Let us go in." 
 
 They rose, and Powell, as he passed 
 the window, stopped to look down at the 
 quiet darkness. Far out in the lagoon a
 
 THE ANATOMIST OF THE HEART 91 
 
 point of light shone clearly, as if some 
 planet had fallen there into the sea. 
 
 " What is that light? " he asked. 
 
 Savelli joined him at the window. 
 "The Virgin's Shrine on the island of 
 San Giorgio in Alega," said he. " Do 
 you remember ? There is an old fort 
 with the Madonna at the angle of its 
 ruined wall. The sailors keep her lamp 
 always lighted. It is a pious duty — their 
 safety too." 
 
 "This is very beautiful," said Powell. 
 " How can one possess the Palazzo del 
 Riso and not live here to enjoy it ? " 
 
 " Because one is a woman, amico. Our 
 dear Marchesa detests her Venice cord- 
 ially." 
 
 " Why is she here then ? " 
 
 " Why, indeed ? We may not know — 
 we may only guess." 
 
 " But I cannot even do that." 
 
 Savelli stopped, holding the door half 
 open, and his eyes met Powell's with an
 
 92 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 intent look. "No?" he said; "then it 
 is you who err from excess of modesty, 
 not I. And yet it is your trade to dissect 
 the heart. Try a little." So, with a 
 laugh that was ironical this time, he led 
 the way to the drawing-room. They 
 found the Marchesa improvising at the 
 piano. At their request she played on, 
 but after a few moments broke off ab- 
 ruptly. " Sing us something, dear Com- 
 mander of the Faithful," said she. 
 
 " Eh ? What shall I sing to you ? " 
 
 " Whatever you please ? " 
 
 " Santo Cielo / why not ? I have found 
 some words in a book. I will find an air 
 also. They are charming — you will see." 
 Then he sat down, trying the keys, and 
 after a prelude breaking into song ex- 
 pressively. 
 
 " I am the moth of the night 
 Thy candle brings ; 
 In thy clear, roseate light 
 I burn my wings.
 
 THE ANATOMIST OF THE HEART 93 
 
 " Out of the window leaning. 
 Look down below, 
 That I, one last ray gleaning. 
 Thy lo\'e may know. 
 
 " I am the cloud m the sky. 
 Too near the sun ; 
 Of a look content to die, 
 If love be won." * 
 
 " Ebbeuef" he said, turning to his 
 hostess with a smile. 
 
 " That is very pretty — but it is very 
 sentimental," she replied. 
 
 " And being so, is it so much the bet- 
 ter — or so much the worse ? " 
 
 " The better, if it could be. There is 
 no love like that, I think. No matter ; 
 pray go on." 
 
 " No," said Savelli, rising ; " it is late. 
 And what you say reminds me of some 
 other words I have found in a book — an 
 English one. It is a little question for all 
 the company to answer." 
 
 * After Emilio Praga.
 
 94 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 "Good! An enigma! Let us have 
 it. What does the gentleman desire to 
 know ? " 
 
 " This," said Savelli, looking from one 
 to the other as he spoke. " Can a noble 
 heart, once broken, ever be repaired ? 
 Could Othello, Romeo, or Hamlet, for 
 example, have loved again, had some 
 antidote been provided for the dagger 
 and the poison-bowl ? What says the 
 company ? " 
 
 "What do you say yourself?" asked 
 the Signora Carrera. 
 
 " Frankly, I say no." 
 
 " Quite as frankly, then, I say yes," 
 she rejoined, with a smile of e.x'perience. 
 
 " And you — Signor Anatomist ? " 
 
 " I say yes, too," said Powell ; " since 
 the heart, however noble, is but human." 
 
 "Right — right!" cried the signora, 
 with gratified applause. 
 
 The Marchesa smiled and mused a 
 moment wlien licr turn came. "It is a
 
 THE ANATOMIST OF THE HEART 95 
 
 great qviestion," she said slowly, upon 
 being urged to speak. " I cannot answer 
 it, I confess." 
 
 " Che, chef" exclaimed the command- 
 er, impatiently. " I hoped that you, at 
 least, would agree with me." 
 
 " I neither agree nor disagree. My 
 answer can wait. Some day I will give it 
 to you." 
 
 " Bah ! Let us go to bed, and sleep, 
 Signor Americano. The ways of woman 
 are inscrutable." 
 
 " And, pray, is she the better or worse 
 for that ? " inquired the Marchesa, rising, 
 as they took leave. 
 
 "Ah, doiuia carissima," said Savelli, 
 stooping to kiss her hand. " One wom- 
 an has no best and no worst — she is per- 
 fection always. ' ' 
 
 So with jest and compliment the men 
 departed ; but not before the Marchesa 
 had bound Powell by appointment to 
 visit with her an out-of-the-wav church
 
 96 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 containing a fine Titian that he did not 
 know. When the great door of the pal- 
 ace closed behind them, Savelli, who 
 lodged near San Marco, proposed that 
 they should walk, since their way was the 
 same and he was sure of finding it. Up 
 and down they went, now close to the 
 water's edge, now far above it, over 
 crooked bridges and slippery stairways, 
 along streets that were hardly more than 
 crevices, where the echoing footfall sug- 
 gested thieves and murder. Then com- 
 ing to the Grand Canal and hailing a 
 ferry, they were set down at the corner 
 of the vast, empty square ; here Savelli 
 turned off with a hearty a 7-ivederIa, biion 
 anaiomista, to Powell, who strolled on 
 alone. 
 
 Their walk had been like a game of 
 follow-my-leader, with little opportunity 
 for conversation in it ; obviously, too, the 
 commander was suddenly disinclined to 
 talk. The interestincr after-dinner discus-
 
 THE ANATOMIST OF THE HEART 97 
 
 sion, therefore, had not been resumed, 
 and the probable cause of the Marchesa's 
 flight to Venice remained undetermined 
 by word or sign ; not so, in Powell's mind, 
 however. Reviewing carefully the events 
 of the last two days, he found that they 
 pointed to but one conclusion, which was 
 very flattering to his vanity and which 
 would certainly have been reached sooner 
 by a vainer man. The charming Mar- 
 chesa del Riso had come to Venice simply 
 because of the illustrious Signer Powell's 
 arrival there. Savelli did not doubt it ; 
 and it was confirmed by evidence that 
 Savelli did not know. Notably, that of 
 her altered demeanor in the garden when 
 she had wrung from him the admission that 
 there was a woman (not herself) for whom 
 he cared more than for anything else in 
 the world. In spite of that, this woman 
 loved him, it was clear ; perhaps had al- 
 ways loved him from the first, through all 
 these intervening years. Equally clear
 
 98 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 was it that Savelli in his turn loved her. 
 The open-hearted sailor had all the air of 
 one prostrate before his idol, regardless of 
 the by-standers. His love was the moun- 
 tain-top of his thinly-veiled metaphor, too 
 high to be attained. He was the speck of 
 cloud struggling with the invincible sun — 
 the night-moth, happy to hover about his 
 candle-flame with the full consciousness 
 tliat it promised him nothing but destruc- 
 tion. 
 
 Powell leaned over the parapet of one 
 of the Riva bridges, fronting the hull of a 
 great steamer at anchor under San Gior- 
 gio's tower in the still lagoon. " Poor 
 Commander of the Faithful ! " he thought ; 
 "he hasn't the ghost of a chance. He is 
 in my shoes, but he wears them with a 
 difference." Then remembering how he 
 had shrunk into himself at the allusion to 
 his own pain, Powell laughed bitterly. " I 
 might have told her," he added, with a 
 sigh. " It would not have taken long."
 
 THB ANATOMIST OF THE HEART 99 
 
 In truth, great sorrows are always sim- 
 ple, and the plot of Powell's tragedy 
 could be given in a few words. The girl 
 he loved had refused him, that was all. 
 He had known her all his life, and their 
 friendship had been so intimate that he 
 was startled and stunned by her answer, 
 which he could hardly believe to be the 
 true one. Within three weeks he had 
 begged for a reconsideration — by letter, 
 this time ; she had closed the correspond- 
 ence curtly and decisively. It would never 
 be possible to care for him "in that 
 way," she wrote ; yet they might always 
 remain good friends if he pleased — she 
 hoped, at least, that they would continue 
 to meet without bitterness. But half-way 
 measures were not at all to her lover's 
 liking. Five years had passed, during 
 which they had not exchanged a dozen 
 phrases, and in all that time she had never 
 been absent from his mind one hour. 
 Cruel and uncompromising as he some-
 
 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 times thought her, she was still his type, 
 his high ideal. She had figured in his work 
 under twenty different disguises. All other 
 women he met were compared with her 
 and found wanting. She had never mar- 
 ried, but if this fact afforded ground for 
 the hope of a reconciliation, he did not 
 admit the hope. The chilling words of 
 her letter remained her last for him. So 
 they were growing old apart, yet linked 
 together by a tender recollecton — his 
 only vulnerable point. For, as if the 
 weapon of her indifference had been 
 steeped in subtle poison, he felt a change 
 for the worse in his nature — the hardness 
 of his trade, he called it — slowly overcom- 
 ing him. She had condemned him to 
 walk alone through life, and he was work- 
 ing out the sentence, hardening, harden- 
 ing always. The joys and sorrows of other 
 lives had become mere items for his note- 
 book ; his capacity for enjoyment grew 
 less and less, and all experience was
 
 THE ANATOMIST OF THE HEART lOI 
 
 marred by the effort to make it profitable. 
 He magnified men's faults, diminishing 
 their virtues proportionately ; and he 
 moved among them with sharpened wits, 
 keen-eyed and callous as a surgeon in 
 the operating-theatre of some public hos- 
 pital. 
 
 A puff of white smoke went up from the 
 steamer, and there was a stir upon her 
 deck. Powell looked at his watch. "She 
 is off for Trieste in an hour," said he. 
 "Why not pack on board of her, and 
 go." He strode on briskly toward his 
 hotel, but soon slackened his pace. " It 
 is always so," he reflected; "when the 
 woman advances, the man retreats. He 
 must pursue, not be pursued. But why 
 should I run away merely because this 
 one flings me her hand and I don't care 
 to pick it up ? I am a fool ! The Mar- 
 chesa is excellent material — a most inter- 
 esting study ! Let me stay a while, and 
 study her ; positively, it is my duty. There
 
 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 will be other steamers for Trieste." Then, 
 smiling at the thought, he went to his 
 room, and watched this one weigh anchor 
 and steam off with flashing lights between 
 the islands to the sea. 
 
 When Powell went over to the Lido the 
 next morning for a dip in the Adriatic, 
 the first figure he found there was Sa- 
 velli's, in clinging red garments, rolling 
 over and over through the lines of surf 
 like a crimson porpoise. The day was 
 very fine ; a fleet of fishermen dotted the 
 horizon with sails of many hues ; the sea 
 
 r
 
 THE ANATOMIST OF THE HEART IO3 
 
 had put on its most inviting blue, and its 
 temperature, as recorded by a placard at 
 the landing, had risen to an incredible 
 height. Savelli, having been in the water 
 an hour already, seemed disincUned to 
 leave it. He was armed with a huge 
 india-rubber ball which he tossed into a 
 merry cloud of splashing Italians who 
 buffeted the plaything about. It was 
 finally knocked over the line into the 
 space allotted to female bathers, where 
 Savelli, going to its rescue, remained with 
 it. By the time that Powell went ashore, 
 after a moderate swim, the commander 
 had developed into a professor of aquatic 
 sport, and was trying to inspire a very 
 stout Venetian woman with sufficient con- 
 fidence to float. He sent word, however, 
 that his bath was over, appearing upon 
 the terrace shortly afterward fully clothed 
 and ready, after his glass of vermouth, for 
 the return to town. As the two men land- 
 ed at the Piazzetta the sharp report of the
 
 104 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 noon gun sent up a cloud of doves that 
 fluttered out from every window-ledge 
 and cornice-angle. 
 
 "Silly birds!" said Savelli, as they 
 beat the air with startled wings ; " to hear 
 that every day, and still be frightened by 
 it. And men are just as weak ; experience 
 can teach them nothing." 
 
 " Doubted ! " commented Powell. " Ex- 
 perience has taught me much." 
 
 "Ah! But you are strong — you, who 
 were set apart for purposes of dissection. 
 With me it is different ; if I had twenty 
 lives to live, I should do in all of them 
 precisely what I am doing now." 
 
 "And what is that?" asked Powell, 
 laughing. 
 
 ' ' Nothing at all ! I have a hunger of the 
 sea. Let us go to breakfast. " 
 
 They sat long over the table in one of 
 the cool, shaded windows of the Quadri, 
 discussing many things, from a possible 
 future state to the splendid detail of the
 
 THE ANATOxMIST OF THE HEART I05 
 
 cathedral they looked out upon. But not 
 until Powell, remembering his appoint- 
 ment, abruptly rose to go, did the Com- 
 mander of the Faithful touch upon one 
 special problem which interested them 
 both. 
 
 "Tell me," he asked, "has the science 
 of your experience taught you why a cer- 
 tain enchanting friend of ours comes to 
 Venice? " 
 
 "Yes, commander, if I read the signs 
 correctly." 
 
 " All the better, then. Success to her ; 
 I drink it." 
 
 "That means," said Powell, "that I 
 should drink success to you." 
 
 Savelli put down his glass with a trou- 
 bled look in his face. 
 
 " Signor Powell," he said, solemnly; 
 " she is a star in heaven, and I am of the 
 earth." 
 
 "And what am I, then?" asked the 
 other, with a bitter laush.
 
 I05 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 Savelli's face cleared, and, smiling, he 
 offered his hand. " Do not deceive your- 
 self," he said ; " you are a man of genius, 
 born to make her happy, it appears. Good 
 luck go with you." 
 
 " Thank you," said Powell, shaking 
 hands warmly. " It may be that I have 
 found my mission in the world." 
 
 At the door he looked back. Savelli 
 had resumed his place at the table ; but 
 his face was turned away ; he sat with his 
 cheek resting upon his hand in a thought- 
 ful attitude, motionless as a statue, star- 
 ing out of the window at the cathedral 
 doors. " How the fellow's eyes glistened ! " 
 thought Powell, as he brushed rapidly 
 through the crowded arcade. "That is 
 true devotion. It is her happiness he 
 cares for — not his own. With what sub- 
 lime unconsciousness a man may prove 
 himself a hero ! A smile will do it. And 
 what am I to do? Pshaw! He is out of 
 the question, absolutely, with his stars and
 
 THE ANATOMIST OF THE HEART I07 
 
 candle-flames. Marchesa, by your leave, 
 I'll study you." 
 
 He hired the first gondolier who hailed 
 him, and found her waiting at her palace- 
 gate. The tide was at the flood, and 
 even in the lesser canals it kept its pure, 
 transparent green, rippling so clearly 
 above the weedy foundations that the 
 smallest crab at rest upon them could be 
 discerned. Through the shining after- 
 noon the gondola glided on along old 
 walls of brick, salt-encrusted, and dyed 
 by wind and wave with soft Venetian 
 tints of yellow, green, and brown, into 
 quiet regions where only the splash of 
 their own oars broke the delicious silence ; 
 where scarlet clusters of the trumpet-flow- 
 er overhung them, and the smooth white 
 arch of every bridge caught its fine trac- 
 ery of shadows, changing like the forms 
 in a kaleidoscope at each new motion 
 of the playful water. They passed an 
 abandoned church with high pointed win-
 
 lo8 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 dows all in ruins, and a few turns more 
 brought them to the steps of a small 
 square, flanked by the portal of San Mar- 
 ziale where was the picture they had come 
 to see, 
 
 A smiling boy, hardly big enough to 
 wield his boat-hook, drew in their prow, 
 and was then dispatched for the custodi- 
 an, only to return without him. But half 
 the neighborhood was now interested in 
 the matter, and the important function- 
 ary, sought this way and that, finally hur- 
 ried up with jingling keys. He was pro- 
 fuse in his apologies. It would have been 
 a grave misfortune if the distinguished 
 strangers had failed to see his treasure, 
 which, he complained, was rarely visited. 
 There it hung, on the left, above the first 
 altar. The light was good, but it would 
 be better in the morning. The signor 
 must bring his wife again. Then he hob- 
 bled away into the sacristy, leaving the 
 master's eloquent silence to speak for itself.
 
 THE ANATOMIST OF THE HEART IO9 
 
 The picture is a large one, illustrating 
 the story of Tobit ; remarkable for a 
 glorious figure of the angel in a flowing 
 crimson garment, leading his charge by 
 the hand, and looking down upon him 
 tenderly. It is Titian at his best. For 
 color, strength, and beauty this heroic 
 conception, striding across the dim land- 
 scape with perfect freedom of action, im- 
 presses itself instantly upon the mind, to 
 hold its place there ever afterward unri- 
 valled. The sacristan's absurd blunder, 
 which had brought a flush to the Mar- 
 chesa's cheek, was at once forgotten, and 
 the two sat before his priceless jewel for 
 some time without a word. 
 
 "It is hopelessly fine," said Powell at 
 last. 
 
 " Yes," she sighed. " Ah ! If one had 
 faith that in this poor life of ours there 
 could be a guardian angel ! " 
 
 " We have gone beyond it," he returned, 
 lightly; "perhaps because we no longer
 
 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 need such intervention. Some of us, at 
 least, do not — one, in particular, who is 
 perfection always." 
 
 The Marchesa knit her Vjrows with a 
 look of irritation. " It was Savelli who 
 said that," she replied. 
 
 " Yes, it was Savelli," said Powell, re- 
 calling involuntarily that patient silhou- 
 ette left behind in the cafe - window. 
 " Yes, Savelli." 
 
 She turned upon him suddenly with 
 restless eagerness. "You are most per- 
 plexing," she protested. " Tell me ; why 
 did you say ' yes ' to his question about 
 the cure for a broken heart — you, who 
 pretend to carry with you a grief that is 
 eternal? " 
 
 " I thouglit I should puzzle you," he 
 explained, laughing. " Of course I took 
 that ground merely for purposes of argu- 
 ment." 
 
 " So you have not changed your 
 mind? "
 
 THE ANATOMIST OF THE HEART III 
 
 "Oh, no! One does not change his 
 mind twice a day." 
 
 She looked away from him now, ner- 
 vously tapping with her foot a l)lock in 
 the pavement that bore traces of heraldic 
 emblems. 
 
 "You are all wrong," she declared. 
 ' ' You have no right to brood upon a 
 loss that is irreparable. You belong to 
 the present, and should accept its joys, 
 its obligations. The past is past — dead, 
 like that poor fellow at our feet whose 
 name we cannot read." 
 
 "Go on, my dear Signora ! You 
 mean, of course " 
 
 " I mean that you should marry." 
 
 " As you said yesterday. All I can say 
 is that you do not know your man. You 
 do not dream what a love hke mine can be." 
 
 " No," she admitted, speaking now less 
 warmly. "That is your secret, upon 
 which even an old friend may not venture 
 to intrude. But I have still some friendly
 
 THE ANATOMIST OF THE HEART II3 
 
 curiosity that may be gratified without be- 
 traying secrets. Pray what is she hke, 
 this woman, who has inspired a love hke 
 yours ? " 
 
 " She is tall and fair," said Powell, for- 
 getting himself completely in all he con- 
 jured up by his description. " Her eyes 
 are gray, and her smile is the sweetest in 
 the world. She is as radiant in her beauty 
 as that angel there above our heads ; she 
 is good and pure, and true to herself, di- 
 vinely true. Why should I hesitate to tell 
 the truth ? I cannot make her love me — 
 that is all. She regrets this ; she pities 
 me, I know. That she can do no more is 
 a source of unhappiness to her, but it is 
 not to be remedied. She will not feign 
 what she has never learned to feel ; she 
 cannot give me her whole heart, and so 
 she gives me nothing. She is one whom 
 no motives of self-interest could force into 
 a marriage ; one who would die rather 
 than practise such deceit ; one who "
 
 114 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 He Stopped at a movement of his com- 
 panion, who had turned pale as death. 
 She gave him an appealing look with 
 eyes that were full of tears. He did not 
 need to be told the reason. In drawing 
 his ideal portrait, he had unconsciously- 
 drawn the reverse of it in the same breath. 
 By a word of his, spoken at her own re- 
 quest, the Marchesa, with her title, dear- 
 ly-bought, had been condemned. 
 
 He took her hand, speaking again in a 
 tone of unwonted gentleness. 
 " I am sorry I said that to you." 
 She flung herself into his arms, sob- 
 bing. 
 
 " You can never love me, then ? " 
 For answer he bent his head to hers, 
 and kissed her. But he was moved to 
 this act by an impulse of compassion, not 
 of love. She understood the motive. 
 With a cry of pain, as if he had struck her, 
 she pushed him away, and, springing up, 
 covered her face for shame.
 
 Il6 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 " How could I do that ! " she moaned. 
 " How could I ! " 
 
 He would have followed her, but she 
 stopped him angrily. 
 
 " I hate you ! " she cried. " Never let 
 me see your face again." 
 
 " Marchesa " 
 
 " Don't speak to me ! Go ! Go — only 
 go! " 
 
 He hesitated for a moment longer, then 
 turned upon his heel, and strode off in the 
 direction that the sacristan had taken. 
 The man was setting the room in order, 
 with no thought beyond his small affairs. 
 
 " I will go out this way," said Powell, 
 fumbling for his fee. 
 
 " Certainly, Signer. And the Sig- 
 nora ? " 
 
 Powell looked back into the dreary, 
 vacant church. " She is already gone," 
 said he. 
 
 "Ah! The Signor will come again in 
 the mornin" lisrht ? "
 
 THE ANATOMIST OF THE HEART II7 
 
 "Undoubtedly. Good day to you. " 
 " Good day, Signor, and many thanks." 
 Setting forth on foot, Powell soon lost 
 his way in the unfamiliar quarter. Such 
 directions as he could obtain only made 
 matters worse, and not a gondola was to 
 be found. At last he hailed a barge 
 laden with cherries from the Island of 
 Mazzorbo, and was slowly poled along to 
 the Rialto, where he knew his ground. 
 As he came out ten minutes later upon 
 the Riva, his eye was attracted by a brill- 
 iant red buoy that marked an unoccupied 
 m.ooring a few hundred feet from the 
 shore. "There will be no steamer for 
 Trieste to-night," he muttered. "No 
 matter ; I can take the morning train." 
 
 The ne.xt day, when he was on the point 
 of embarking for the station, there came 
 a letter, unsigned, and containing only 
 these words in a blurred hand that he had 
 quite forgotten : 
 
 " I have been pacing my room for half
 
 Il8 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 the night, trying to forget. I can neither 
 forgive myself, nor understand myself. 
 Think of me as one who despises her own 
 weakness, and then put me forever from 
 your mind. May all happiness be yours. 
 May you live to possess the love you long 
 for, and may your ideal prove to you, as 
 to herself, divinely true. Addio eto na- 
 me iitc." 
 
 Powell tore this in two ; then his ruling 
 passion conquered him, and, instead of 
 flinging away the pieces, he stuffed them 
 into his pocket. " Very excellent mate- 
 rial ! " said he. 
 
 His work goes on, and it is known the 
 world over. He is a shrewd observer 
 with a firm touch, quoted and admired as 
 one of the great writers in his generation. 
 If this fame does not survive the day, it 
 will be because a full measure of human 
 sympathy has been denied him. He lacks 
 the woman's heart that, where genius is,
 
 THE ANATOMIST OF THE HEART II9 
 
 always reveals itself beneath the man's 
 strong hand. He would have done better 
 to marry, his friends say. And were this 
 said in his presence, he would readily ad- 
 mit it to be true. 
 
 He hears, by chance, from Italy, that 
 his former friend, the Marchesa, goes 
 much into the world, and has been per- 
 plexed by many suitors, one of whom 
 seems irresistible. He is a dozen years 
 her junior, and a foreign prince of one of 
 the oldest houses. His name, his famous 
 jewels are at her feet. She will stoop for 
 them, and die a princess, if the world is 
 to be trusted. Meanwhile, her Com- 
 mander of the Faithful still waits for his 
 reward. He is a good sailor with a stout 
 heart, and with enduring faith in all the 
 virtues of his idol. Whatever happens, 
 his lamp will burn unquenched at the 
 Madonna's shrine.
 
 THE SONG OF THE COM 
 PORTER 
 
 By John J. a'Becket
 
 . . . From the rough yellow road led 
 a path to a small wayside chapel, while 
 higher up, its white walls rising above the 
 encircling green like the soft breast of 
 a dove, stood the Convent of the Com- 
 forter, a thin blue smoke oozing indolently 
 from one of its chimneys. Over all, like
 
 124 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 a sapphire, stretched the pure serenity of 
 a cloudless sky. 
 
 Up the road slowly came a young girl. 
 Her lagging steps and drooping head were 
 a pathetic strain of dissonance in the sym- 
 phony of the buoyant spring. In nature 
 such joyous energy in its calm, vernal 
 functions ; in her, such a protest against 
 the weariness of being. It was like a tear 
 in a circle of brilliants. 
 
 Climbing to the lichen-covered top of a 
 rock by the roadside, she sank down. 
 
 Not ungrateful to the tender fellowship 
 of the bright spring-tide, she wondered 
 wearily whether time would bring her ever 
 again into unison with happiness, or would 
 Death, which had passed her by as she 
 waited wistfully for his coming, return 
 again and take her ? 
 
 She had been a year in Europe, alone. 
 Through a long ordeal of severe study she 
 had labored unfalteringly to perfect an 
 exquisite voice, sustained by an ardent
 
 THE SONG OF THE COMFORTER I25 
 
 desire to compass the highest that her art 
 could yield. Her master, so sensitive to 
 artistic excellence as to be crabbed, and 
 so independent, through success in teach- 
 ing, as to be merciless to mediocrity, de- 
 voted himself to her progress with an un- 
 flagging vigor. Six weeks ago he had 
 said to the girl, with a brusque wave of 
 his hand: 
 
 " Go, and conquer the world ! I can do 
 no more for you. You have a voice which 
 God can listen to with complacency. The 
 world will listen to it, too." She had se- 
 cured a good engagement. Her master 
 and his friends had made the verdict of the 
 public a matter of little doubt. She her- 
 self, with the fervid exultation of a musical 
 temperament, felt that she was about to 
 gather a plenteous harvest of glory and of 
 riches by her powers. It was the dawn of 
 her day of triumph. 
 
 Then— oh, the agony of reverting to it! 
 her sorrows came. Time might soften the
 
 126 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 death of her mother to her. Perhaps in 
 years to come the sense that she had been 
 absent from that New England death-bed 
 where a lonely woman yearned for the 
 touch and glance of a daughter, might 
 grow less a reproach. Now, it was hope- 
 lessly bitter to think of the pitilessness of 
 death in taking her as the term of her sac- 
 rifice ended, and reward to the hundred- 
 fold was about to begin. 
 
 Yet this was a wound of Nature, and 
 Nature has her antidotes. But for him ! 
 Could the time ever come when the thought 
 of what he had done would not be like the 
 stroke of a whip? She could not recall 
 that cruel letter of his without a flush rising 
 in her cheeks as if she had been buffeted ? 
 It had struck her down with such double 
 force, coming so fast on her mother's death. 
 Her first instinct on rallying from the an- 
 guish of that stroke had been to turn to 
 him; to think what she was to him, what 
 he was to her. The world was not empty
 
 THE SONG OF THE COMFORTER I27 
 
 while that frank, faithful, blue-eyed New 
 Englander wore her in his heart, that noble 
 soul whom she was proud to honor and love. 
 
 There was the pang! Each time she re- 
 called him, it was to go through this brutal 
 task of correcting herself again. The man 
 she had worshipped was a phantom, b^he 
 had created it and set it like an idol in her 
 heart, and he had cast it out. She had 
 put him there for what she thought him, 
 and he had forced her to dethrone him for 
 what he was. 
 
 She had been very ill. But the fibre 
 that feels most is the fibre that parts last. 
 She did not die ; she regretted even yet 
 that she had not. But in spite of her wait- 
 ing at the open portal with more than 
 resignation, Death had passed her by. A 
 languid woman had come back to life ; a 
 woman who awoke in the morning with a 
 pang to recovered consciousness, and wlio, 
 at night, sank into sleep's oblivion with a 
 sigh of relief
 
 128 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 She had not sung once since her sorrows 
 had stricken her. They had cared for her 
 till she reached convalescence. Then, 
 with his dogmatic kindness, Ferrari had 
 told her to go to the mountains and rest in 
 the soft spring till she felt the need of 
 music again. 
 
 "When you wish to sing, you are 
 cured," he said. 
 
 vShe had come obediently. It was com- 
 fort to have someone assume the mastery 
 and direct her course when she felt such a 
 listless indifference to all things that she 
 could determine herself to nothing. She 
 had come here to this little village, cling- 
 ing to the slope of the mountain, and had 
 gone to a simple, good-hearted cotitadina, 
 whose deference was not without dignity. 
 She had a room about whose windows 
 vines clambered, and looking forth from 
 them she saw the woods rising above her, 
 and the red-tiled roof of the Convent of 
 the Comforter pricking through the trees.
 
 THE SONG OF THE COMFORTER I29 
 
 The little church could not be seen. 
 Bianca used to go there on Sundays and 
 hear one of the Brotherhood sing the Mass. 
 
 Each day the girl walked forth, submit- 
 ting with patient resignation to the burden 
 of a life despoiled of appetite, aim, and 
 vigor. This gladsome day of spring was 
 the first that had seemed to quicken her 
 vitality ; and she rested in its peace and 
 almost forgot. 
 
 So she sat there on the great rock, the 
 waves of melancholy lapping her soul, with 
 her dark eyes looking up to the blue of the 
 overhanging sky. As she let them fall they 
 descended on the figure of a young monk, 
 slowly walking down the road saying his 
 Office from the Breviary which he carried 
 in his hands. He was in perfect harmony 
 with the scene. Tall, broad-shouldered, 
 supple, with the sinuous movement which 
 goes with elastic muscles, there was a 
 rhythmic smoothness in his gait. His eyes 
 were riveted on his book. The thick
 
 130 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 brown hair clustered about his broad fore- 
 head, and his cheeks, with their clear olive' 
 tint, sank in slightly below the cheek-bones. 
 His eyelids were large and full, with long, 
 thick lashes. 
 
 For some nameless cause the girl felt 
 an instant affinity with him. The sugges- 
 tion of strength and calm control was sup- 
 porting. He turned up the little path 
 which led off from the road to the church 
 and disappeared. It seemed a loss as he 
 passed from view, and she felt drawn after 
 him. He looked so simple, so true ; and 
 what was true came home to her. And to 
 her sore heart there was something ap- 
 pealing in the thought that he was cut off 
 from the world, buried here in the white 
 convent, mother and sisters left behind 
 him forever down in the plain below. 
 
 As she sat in her revery the tones of 
 an organ came to her from the church. 
 It must be he who had gone there and 
 was playing. Soft and low tlie strains
 
 THE SONG OF THE COMFORTER I3I 
 
 were borne to her in faint gusts of melody. 
 She felt her soul stirring beneath the in- 
 fluence of the music as it had not since 
 her life had grown so dark. 
 
 She slipped down from the rock and 
 slowly made her way up the path. The 
 music sounded fuller as she approached. 
 She went on until she stood at the porch 
 of the church and saw it was empty. She 
 hesitated a moment, and then entered ; 
 the interior was bare and poor ; the walls 
 were whitewashed. At the end was an 
 altar, in front of which hung a brass lamp, 
 suspended by a long chain from the ceil- 
 ing. In it glowed a spark of red, where a 
 burning taper shone through the thick 
 ruby glass. On the right-hand side of the 
 little sanctuary was a Pieta, the Mother 
 of the Christ with her dead Son stretched 
 across her lap. Through the cold, bare 
 church surged the music. The monk was 
 apparently improvising, for there was no 
 strict development of theme ; only the
 
 132 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 merging of one phrase into another as 
 they occurred to him. 
 
 She put an old chair which stood near, 
 back against the wall, and sitting down, 
 closed her eyes and abandoned herself to 
 the sweetness of the music. The monk 
 had a musician's soul in him ; she could 
 tell that by the way in which his wander- 
 ing fancy touched the keys. There were 
 sudden transitions, though all he played 
 was grave and sweetly sombre. Her 
 soul lived with new life as she sat there 
 motionless, while the waves of music 
 rolled through the little church, broke 
 about the Mother and her dead Son, and 
 flowed back upon her in rippling consola- 
 tion. 
 
 Oh, the restfulness of it ! She uttered 
 a sigh of thanksgiving that music could 
 still so master her spirit. No converse 
 could have done for her what that digni- 
 fied harmony did ; it was a messenger of 
 peace. She sat there, unable to move.
 
 THE SONG OF THE COMFORTER I33 
 
 and uncaring, till she heard the flow of 
 music cease, and then a slight sound as 
 the cover was placed over the key-board. 
 She rose at once with a long sigh and hast- 
 ily left the church. She did not wish the 
 monk who had gone there and played his 
 soul out on the organ in the sacred confi- 
 dence of solitude, to know that another, 
 and that other a woman, had listened to 
 his communings with his spirit. She felt 
 that he had expressed himself as natu- 
 rally and as artlessly through this medium 
 as the birds moving through the cloister 
 of the woods. He was singing his spring- 
 song — a song, like theirs, without words, 
 but a song grave and sweet, and with 
 soul in it. 
 
 She walked slowly back to Bianca's 
 cottage, where the vines clustered so 
 thickly about her windows. The good 
 peasant woman looked at her when she 
 came in, and sighed to herself. Under 
 the pale cheeks of the girl was a delicate
 
 134 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 pink color, and there was a brilliant light 
 in her large eyes. They were signs of 
 greater vigor, perhaps, yet they only 
 seemed to accentuate her frailty ; but the 
 good Bianca kept these thoughts within 
 her heart. To the girl she spoke cheer- 
 fully of the bright spring day. Had her 
 walk refreshed her ? Yes ; she felt better 
 than she did when she went out. She 
 felt stronger. She did not tell Bianca 
 that the monk's music had sent the blood 
 coursing through her more than the rav- 
 ishing day. That was her secret. Un- 
 told, it seemed so much more a solace all 
 her own. 
 
 The Italian spring held many of these 
 days of delicate brightness as the earth 
 ripened on into the flush of summer. 
 The girl took her way up the mountain 
 road with a lighter heart, even if her 
 steps had not a more elastic tread. She 
 knew no tonic could do her such good as 
 that pure music with its mellow chords
 
 THE SOXG OF THE COMFORTER I35 
 
 and subtle transitions, like a change from 
 tears to a smile. The thought that 
 pleased her most was that the young 
 monk was pouring out his soul into these 
 strains of music. And she gp-asped them 
 so clearly ! There were sadness and 
 resignation, and at times, jubilant meas- 
 ures of hope in his chords ; never despair, 
 nor the bitter unrest which beats against 
 bars. 
 
 She began to feel that she was getting 
 better. As she sat and listened to the 
 pleading tones the feeling within her was 
 not happiness, not excitement, not melan- 
 choly ; but it participated in them all. 
 It was rest and comfort. She could have 
 sat for hours in this glad emancipation 
 from her weary self. When the music 
 ceased it was an effort to rise and hasten 
 forth, the mantle of her sorrow falling 
 heavily about her again. 
 
 She always felt this desire, that the 
 strong monk should not learn she was
 
 136 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 there. Should she know that he was 
 playing with the consciousness that one 
 was listening to him, even were he to 
 play the self-same music (and she was 
 sure he would not), it would have ap- 
 pealed to her in not this subtle, comfort- 
 ing way. His soul exhaled some sorrow 
 to itself, alone, and her soul felt it, un- 
 known. The charm lay there. 
 
 The monk was so recollected that he 
 never remarked her. Two or three times 
 he had passed her on the mountain road. 
 But his eyes were either fixed upon his 
 Breviary, for he seemed to be saying his 
 Office much of the time, or else they were 
 modestly cast down. After a while she felt 
 safe in meeting him, it v/as so hard to dis- 
 tract him from this concentration. It was 
 only through his music that he seemed to 
 go forth from himself, and then it was a 
 flight toward heaven. 
 
 Happily for the girl, he went almost 
 every day to the church and played upon
 
 THE SONG OF THE COMFORTER 137 
 
 the organ. There were certain airs which 
 he played frequently, and she got to know 
 them and to look for their recurrence. 
 One in particular appealed to her more 
 than any other. The monk gave it with 
 an intensity of expression that showed 
 how deeply he felt it. It was a series of 
 aspirations, prayerful, but exultant withal ; 
 the softly pleading tones of the prelude 
 would swell into greater strength, and, as 
 if soaring higher and higher with the in- 
 creasing fervor of the suppliant, closed in 
 a very ecstasy of impassioned entreaty. 
 She got quickly to know it by heart, and 
 often as she sat at the vine-clad window 
 of Bianca's cottage and saw the night 
 draw down over the mountain, the music 
 sang itself in her heart, while she watched 
 the stars pierce through the dusky blue 
 of the sky. 
 
 One morning, a few weeks later, Bianca 
 had sallied forth to mass in the little 
 church. When she returned and they
 
 138 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 were eating their simple breakfast, she 
 said to the girl : " Signora, I remembered 
 you to-day in church. It is the feast of 
 the Holy Ghost. They call Him the 
 Comforter, you know, and I prayed that 
 He would comfort you, in body and in 
 mind. The hymn to Him is very beauti- 
 ful, dear lady." 
 
 " Then that white convent in the woods 
 is the Convent of the Holy Ghost, is it 
 not?" she returned. "They call it the 
 Convent of the Comforter." 
 
 " Yes," answered Bianca. " Would 
 you like to read the hymn in the Breviary 
 to the Holy Ghost ? I have it m my 
 prayer-book with the Italian words," and 
 Bianca got her leather-covered prayer- 
 book and pointed out tlie well-fingered 
 page. The Italian translation was not 
 necessary except for a few words, as tlie 
 girl had learned Latin in the High School 
 of her town, and had sung many church 
 arias written in it. Ferrari had taught
 
 THE SONG OF THE COMFORTER I39 
 
 her the soft Italian pronunciation of the 
 old Roman tongue. But the invocations 
 and petitions of the hymn were sooth- 
 mg to her. The very title of Comforter, 
 given to the Holy Ghost, stirred a devo- 
 tional sense in her heart. She read it 
 through meditatively, and slipped the 
 shiny little book into her pocket when she 
 was done. 
 
 That day she was a little later than 
 usual in climbing up the road, but as she 
 drew near she saw the monk, her com- 
 forter, striding up the pathway to the 
 church. The afternoon was waning into 
 twilight, and when she followed him and 
 heard the organ, the music took on new 
 grace in the golden brown of the fading 
 light. 
 
 He preluded with short, quick chords, 
 some of them harsh, and between them 
 little trembling flights of notes. There 
 was a disquiet in his music that seemed to 
 have an artistic, or at least emotional, jus-
 
 I40 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 tification. It was a tentative reaching 
 forth for something, the delicate eager- 
 ness of the runs and hurried melodic 
 phrases seeming yearning impatience, and 
 the nervous, strong chords the moaning 
 gasps of frustration. It was a joy to hear 
 at last, firm and full, the prayerful melody 
 which had so grown into her soul, melting 
 on the air. What soul he was throwing 
 into it! 
 
 Suddenly, her blood gave a leap and 
 her body quivered with its tingling rush 
 through her veins. It was a delight that 
 was almost pain. A tenor voice, clear 
 as a bell and vibrating with sympathetic 
 feeling", soared through the dim church. 
 Never had she heard such tones before. 
 So firm, so crystalline, of so velvety a 
 quality. The monk was singing the song, 
 and singing it like an angel from God. 
 She pressed her hand to her breast, breath- 
 ing quickly through her parted lips, the 
 ringing voice calling a sudden moisture of
 
 THE SONG OF THE COMFORTER I4I 
 
 joy to her eyes. There was such pathos 
 in the round tones as they dilated to 
 greater fulness. She could feel that not 
 half the power of the voice was drawn on 
 in that overflow of melody. Ah ! if he 
 would pour the full strength of his superb 
 lungs into those heavenly tones. 
 
 As a rich note welled forth and then 
 died away in a perfect diminiiefido, the in- 
 tensity of her delight weakened her and 
 she clung to the chair. But what was he 
 singing with such overpowering feeling? 
 She bent her head to catch the words. 
 " Veni^ Pater paupcriim, Voii, Inmai co?'- 
 dium, Veni, Dator minicriiiu." They were 
 the words she had read that morning in 
 Bianca's prayer-book ! This air that had 
 sung itself into her heart was the hymn to 
 the Holy Ghost. 
 
 She knew the next phrase in the music. 
 It was the one that had always moved her 
 most. Even on the organ that sudden 
 change to a minor kev, and the notes sat-
 
 142 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 urated with tears, had thrilled her through 
 and through. And now to hear it sung, 
 and by such a voice ! 
 
 She remembered that the little prayer- 
 book was still in her pocket, and she hast- 
 ily drew it forth and turned to the place. 
 She had scarcely found it when the plead- 
 ing voice broke into the melody : 
 
 ' ' Consolaior cptinie, 
 Diilcis hospes ajiimce, 
 Dulce refrigerium. 
 
 Ah, should she not have known that it 
 was a tearful cry to the Comforter. What 
 words could so well have been wedded to 
 such strains. " O best of Comforters, My 
 soul's dear host, O sweet refreshment, 
 Thou! " There was intoxication to her in 
 the high, tremulous tones with their throb- 
 bing pathos of entreaty, their melting ten- 
 derness. They took her out of herself, 
 and she shook with her swelling emotion. 
 As the last note, a peal of sweetness, sur-
 
 THE SONG OF THE COMFORTER I43 
 
 charged the church, she rose involuntarily 
 to her feet, erect and tense. 
 
 Then she heard his strong fingers play 
 the prelude again. He could not leave 
 it. With one wild yearning to give her 
 soul its needed outlet, she broke into the 
 exquisite song. She felt herself singing 
 as she had never sung before, not even on 
 that day when Ferrari and his friends had 
 shouted " bravas " over her voice. Never 
 had such a passionate exultation of feeling 
 swept down upon her and borne her off on 
 the strong pinions of song. The voice of 
 the monk had fired her ; her whole soul 
 was in her glorious voice, crying to the 
 Comforter with the thrilling tones which 
 God had given her, and which had been 
 so long unused. 
 
 She felt that a fuller accompaniment 
 from the organ was supporting her. The 
 instrument had seldom yielded such rich 
 chords, even to the monk's touch. He was 
 inspired, too. And in the overmastering
 
 144 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 delight of singing again with all her sovtl 
 was an undercurrent of delight that for 
 once her music was stirring him. 
 
 The passion which controlled her made 
 her pour forth her voice without con- 
 sciousness of effort or of pain. There 
 was the rapture of singing, and singing as 
 she knew she was. 
 
 ' ' Consolator opt i me, 
 Dulcis hospes aiilmce, 
 Diilce refrigerium." 
 
 The last note rang out full, trium- 
 phant, ecstatic. Then something within 
 her seemed utterly to give way, obstacles 
 seemed swept aside, and a warm tide 
 gushed from her mouth. She hastily 
 raised her handkerchief to her lips. It 
 was drenched in a moment, and she saw 
 her light gown stained with the flow. 
 
 She could not utter a sound. Above 
 her head, the organ pealed forth a tumult 
 of chords, and the music seemed sweep-
 
 THE SONG OF THE COMFORTER 145 
 
 ing over and submerging her. She could 
 not support herself, and sank upon her 
 knees, clutching the bench in front of her, 
 while her eyes involuntarily turned to 
 where the Mother and her dead Son stood 
 palely forth from the shadow. She felt 
 herself dissolving with weakness, but with- 
 out pain, without fear, without regret. 
 
 She heard the strong voice ring through 
 the church again like a spirit's cry. The 
 walls rocked with the jubilant rush of the 
 monk's song, as he poured forth unstint- 
 ingly the magnificent fulness of his voice. 
 
 " In labor e rcquics. 
 In cBstu tempcries. 
 In Jletu solatium.'' 
 
 Not all the sweet notes reached her, but 
 she heard the passionate ardor that pulsed 
 in the first few words. ' ' In labore rcqtiies." 
 "In toil, repose." Then she heard no 
 more music from the organ-loft. Lower 
 and lower she had sunk down. But when
 
 146 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 the strong voice poured forth, firm as iron, 
 but vibrant and mellow, on the words " /// 
 JletM solatium," they smote her ears as 
 they did those of the marble mother in 
 the dim extremity of the church. 
 
 His head erect, his eyes flashing through 
 the thick lashes, the young monk waited 
 with his long fingers pressed lightly on the 
 keys, expectant of the Voice. But there 
 was only an aching stillness. 
 
 He waited two or three moments and 
 then let his fingers fall reluctantly from 
 the keys, sighed lightly, and made a low- 
 lier reverence than usual to the altar, 
 where the ruddy light kindled a point of 
 fire in the gloom. 
 
 As he came slowly down the creaking 
 wooden steps from the organ-loft, he was 
 erect and glad at the burning thought that 
 a Voice from heaven had sung to him. 
 
 When he reached the foot of the stairs 
 he saw her lying on the worn, blue flags, 
 her gown with dark stains upon it. Then
 
 THE SONG OF THE COMFORTER I47 
 
 he knew that the being who had sung 
 to him was of a nature kindred with his 
 own. 
 
 " When you wish to sing, you are 
 cured," Ferrari had said. She had sung 
 and her ills were over.
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE 
 HILL-TOP 
 
 A TALE OF MODERN ETRURIA 
 
 Bv Grace Ellerv Channing 
 
 IVitk Illustrations by L. Marchetti
 
 GiULiA, bent over her machine, pulled 
 the threads with flying fingers. Outside 
 the sun beat straight down on the stone 
 steps and the stones of the little court in 
 which the steep road ended. " Sole di 
 Maggio," murmured the peasants going 
 up and down the hill, in the same tone of 
 warning with which they had said " Sole 
 d' Aprile " a month before, and would 
 say " Sole di Jiignio " a month later. 
 
 It was not yet seven o'clock in the 
 morning, but Giulia had long ago eaten 
 her wedge of black bread which Assunta 
 cut from the huge loaf for all of them — 
 'Tonio, Delia, Gemma, and herself — and 
 ever since her fingers had flown without 
 pausing. She had not stopped to look up 
 when Gemma, coughing and shivering in 
 the hot sunshine, passed her on her way
 
 152 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 to the fabbrica ; nor when 'Tonio, bent 
 double with rheumatism, Hmped pain- 
 fully down the hill. The little household 
 worked always, but nowadays Giulia was 
 the most industrious of them all, and had 
 her frame drawn to the doorway to catch 
 the light and was busily clicking before 
 even Delia sat down to the pile of straw 
 which daily she converted into fans. Poor 
 stupid DeHa, who had had "fear of a dog" 
 once in her youth, and fallen, and now 
 was only good to be the household drudge 
 and make fans all day long and every 
 day. Her highest ambition was to make 
 twenty fans daily ; those large, round 
 fans, which shut between two slender 
 sticks, and have a rosette on either side. 
 Sometimes she made only fifteen, but 
 these were bad days. 
 
 Giulia wove the braided patterns for 
 straw-hats, and Gemma at the factory 
 made baskets, which the fine ladies who 
 came up to F'iesole from Florence carried
 
 -*V^ o^ ' ^^ "-^Tt* I
 
 154 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 away on their arms. The father, 'Tonio, 
 worked at carpentering, but he had been 
 so long ill with rheumatism that he worked 
 less, and never had there been so hard a 
 winter, and never so little money as just 
 now when there was such special need of it. 
 So Giulia's fingers i^ew, and she sat pa- 
 tiently all day at her frame. Delia no 
 longer had to find fault with her wayward- 
 ness, or scold her for running out into the 
 bright sunshine the moment her back was 
 turned, to jump about with Fuffi from 
 sheer gayety. Fuffi disconsolately lay at 
 her feet, or jumped by himself; for was 
 she not about to "finish her thirteenth 
 year," as they say in Tuscany, when they 
 mean one will be fourteen years old — and 
 was she not to take her First Communion 
 in three weeks in the cathedral, together 
 with eleven other girls and sixteen boys ? 
 Assuredly ; and there was crying need of 
 whole francs to be expended upon the 
 dress and veil, without which she would
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE HILL-TOP 155 
 
 never feel that she had properly been 
 confirmed at all. For there are two in- 
 dispensable, inexorable needs in a Tus- 
 can maiden's life — a white gown and veil 
 for the privta coDumaiione and a black 
 gown for marriage. Everybody doesn't 
 marry, but everybody — at least, if he be 
 not an actual heathen — is confirmed at 
 some time. 
 
 But when one has so much work to live, 
 there is so little, little, to buy white gowns 
 and veils with. The whole family had 
 worked and planned willingly all winter 
 that the bambina might not be disappointed, 
 but the bambina herself must do her share. 
 
 Presently the mother came out, her 
 black handkerchief with green strawber- 
 ries stamped on it knotted, Tuscan fashion, 
 about her plain, homely, energetic face, 
 a clean blue apron tied about her waist, 
 the faded purple skirt showing below and 
 the dingy plaid waist above. 
 
 Assunta was in a hurry, as she always
 
 156 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 was ; a Tuscan hurry, which is quite a 
 different thing from a New England hurry, 
 and has in it a good deal of aimless hither- 
 and-thither running, and rapid idling with 
 one's neighbor, compensated by more 
 hasty rushing afterward. She stopped a 
 moment, however, on her way for the Sig- 
 norina's cream and butter, to look at Giu- 
 lia's braid, and caution Delia against 
 cutting too much bread for lunch — Assun- 
 ta herself never lunched. She patted 
 Giulia's shoulder : 
 
 " Work, work always, bambina, and 
 who knows — " She finished with a smile 
 and a nod. 
 
 Pretty Giulia started up and threw her 
 arms about her mother eagerly. 
 
 "Oh, Mamina ! do you think I can 
 have the ribbon ? " 
 
 " Who knows, chi lo sa?" replied As- 
 sunta, with mingled doubt and hope. 
 Oh, how much she had thought about 
 that ribbon herself!
 
 ■t»"-#-?' 
 
 l^;:^ 
 
 >-b
 
 158 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 " Chi lo sa ? " she said again, hopefully. 
 
 At that moment Tesita came by — Te- 
 sita, on her way to Piazza San Domenico 
 with her blind and one-armed father, 
 there to beg of all the strangers. Just so 
 they went by every day of the year, Te- 
 sita a little more ragged and dirty each 
 day, and every day in the year Assunta 
 eyed them with the same disfavor. Every 
 day also Tesita and Giulia looked at one 
 another. Giulia had been forbidden to 
 have anything to do with her former play- 
 mate since Beppe lost his sight at the 
 burning of the car-factory and Tesita had 
 become a street-beggar — a " niente di 
 buona," Assunta said, with grieved indig- 
 nation. She was sorry for the povcro, 
 yes ; but bring up a girl on the streets ! 
 — why didn't they teach her to weave 
 straw instead ? A girl who lives on the 
 streets soon will not work, and when a 
 girl will not work, what happens ? ' ' Ni- 
 ente di buona — no good." She knew very
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE HILL-TOP 159 
 
 well, however, why they didn't teach her 
 to make straw ! He who begs makes 
 three soldi, while he who works makes 
 one ! Assunta drew her lips together 
 scornfully. Some people will do any- 
 thing for money — yes, even sell their souls ! 
 
 So Giulia and Tesita only eyed each 
 other in silence each day. To-day Giulia 
 sat up straighter. 
 
 "Wait until she sees my white gown 
 and veil ! " she thought, her heart already 
 swelling with pride . 
 
 Tesita wrinkled her small nose scorn- 
 fully. As if everyone in all Fiesole had 
 not known for weeks that Assunta's Giu- 
 lia was to make her first communion ! 
 
 "Huh!" thought Tesita in her sinful 
 little soul, " she thinks she's very big be- 
 cause she's going to wear a veil ! and 
 work, work, work all day for it ! My Bab- 
 bo could give me two veils if it pleased 
 him. She needn't be so proud ; wasn't 
 my Babbo a Sant' Apostolo only last Holy
 
 l6o STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 Thursday ? " A cloud passed over her 
 impudently gay small fiice as she said it. 
 For had not the priest taken that very 
 proud occasion, when he paid the five 
 francs to each holy apostle, to look hard 
 at her (though she made herself as small 
 as never was, behind the apostle's robe), 
 and to say that she was really quite too 
 large to be always on the street, and 
 Beppe should begin to think of sending 
 her for holy instruction, and confirming 
 her ; it was ill for a ragazza to run the 
 streets at her age. And Beppe, still under 
 the influence of his apostolic dignity and 
 the clean stockings and linen robe he had 
 worn for the occasion — perhaps of the five 
 francs too — had talked seriously of taking 
 rosy, blue-eyed Annina with him in future. 
 Tesita had had all the trouble in the world 
 to change his mind ; she had had to re- 
 mind him how beautifully she talked to 
 the strangers, and how cleverly she ar- 
 ranged him on his knees in piteous post-
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE HILL-TOP l6l 
 
 ures, for Festas, before Beppe had relented 
 and decided to risk the Father's displeas- 
 ure yet a little longer. Since then Tesita 
 had grown adroit in whisking Beppe round 
 a corner whenever a black gown came in 
 sight ; not a difficult task to escape the 
 easy-going, rotund Father. 
 
 Still, the evil day loomed in the future, 
 and darkened Tesita's horizon at moments 
 — when she saw Giulia especially. To 
 leave off begging meant work — work, ab- 
 horred of Tesita's very soul, as only a 
 creature of her untrammelled life could 
 abhor it. True, it rained half the year at 
 Fiesole, and the other half it blistered be- 
 neath the sun ; and in rain and sun alike 
 the wind blew, either whirling white dust 
 in clouds, or driving sleet down one's 
 throat and through one's clothes ; but 
 never mind ! how far preferable one's 
 freedom even so. To sit on stone walls, to 
 curl up on the pavements or in the dust 
 itself, and listen to the cabmen and con-
 
 l62 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 tadhii swearing and talking volubly ; to 
 thrust out one's hand at the Foresticri, 
 and rehearse one's plea: '' Signore, 7in 
 poverino ! Signoritta, tin povero vecchiet- 
 to / " before lame Ghigo or armless Gigi 
 could get in a word— these were simple 
 pleasures, but sufficing. Giulia, with her 
 veils and her white gowns and her straw- 
 work and her industry, made the soul of 
 Tesita sick ! She grunted audibly as she 
 led Beppe by, and Assunta watched her 
 with that compression of the lips which 
 means disapproval, and said, as usual : 
 ''Ni elite di biiona/" as she hurried after 
 the Signorina's cream. 
 
 The stones of the road almost fitted 
 tViemselves automatically to Assunta's 
 feet, she had trodden them so often. 
 Twenty-three years ! Ever since she and 
 'Tonio went to housekeeping in that house 
 on the utmost peak of Fiesole ; a peak 
 which embraced in vision all Val d' Arno 
 and its watching mountains, and which
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE HILL-TOP 163 
 
 now and then an enterprising tourist 
 climbed to, for the view, and boasted of for 
 weeks after. Assunta did not boast, how- 
 ever many times she plodded up and down 
 daily. It had good air, " buon aria," she 
 was fond of saying, and a ''bella viste ; " 
 for Italian eyes can no more help being 
 conscious of beauty than other eyes of 
 bread and meat before them. But now- 
 adays Assunta concerned herself little with 
 the view. As she hastened down the hill 
 she was busy calculating — she had been 
 calculating for months past. 
 
 " Say so many lire for the waist, so 
 many more for the skirt ; say three lire for 
 the making (the sarfa said four, but that 
 might be cut down to three) ; a lire for 
 buttons and the like ; four lire. Then 
 stockings, and boots, and the veil, also 
 ribbon." The folds in her forehead deep- 
 ened at each item. "Also the fornaio 
 must be paid this week, he said, for his 
 daughter too makes her communion."
 
 164 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 Assvinta sighed ; but for all her sighing 
 she did not slacken her steps or forget the 
 Signorina's cream and butter. The milk- 
 man's wife poured out the first into a wee 
 glass flask and wrapped the second in 
 dewy grape-leaves. 
 
 " They are good and fresh? " inquired 
 Assunta, with that jealousy she always 
 exhibited in her Signorina's interest. 
 
 " ^ they are fresh!" exclaimed the 
 sposu, with reassuring enthusiasm. " And 
 how stands it at your house, Assunta?" 
 she added, condescendingly. 
 
 " As always ; thanks." 
 
 " 'Tonio goes to work ? ' 
 
 " As he can." 
 
 " And the Gemma ? " 
 
 " Also the Gemma." 
 
 "And the hambiiia makes her com- 
 munion ? " said the sympathetic sposa. 
 
 A smile of pride dawned on Assunta's 
 face. 
 
 " Yes, Madame."
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE HILL-TOP 165 
 
 "Ah!" exclaimed the s^osa's husband, 
 heartily, " that will be a de//a i-agazza 
 some day ! " 
 
 " And a good one," added his wife, re- 
 provingly. " And the gown and veil ? " 
 
 Assunta's face fell. "At this hour," 
 she admitted, reluctantly, " they do not 
 tind themselves." 
 
 "Ah! " said the sposa, sympathetically, 
 " it has been a hard winter. Courage — 
 they will be found." 
 
 " Let us hope so ! " responded Assunta, 
 fervently, appropriating the cream and 
 butter, and departing with so many saluta- 
 tions, and " until we see each other again." 
 
 She continued down the hill, taking that 
 winding Way which goes from where once 
 loomed the mighty Etruscan citadel, past 
 the gray walls of villas nodded over with 
 pink roses, down to the city, and at every 
 zigzag turn opens out to show you all Val 
 d' Arno with Florence on its breast, lifting
 
 l66 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 her towers and spires as thickly as the 
 lilies she supplanted. It is a Way where 
 one may see a ghost in every tree and 
 pluck memories plenteous as the roses on 
 the walls, but Assunta, Fiesolana born 
 and bred, knew and cared nothing for that. 
 What was it to her if the feet of all the 
 Etruscan Lars, of all the legions of Han- 
 nibal and Caesar, of eager Catiline's fol- 
 lowers, of the entire riotous Florentine no- 
 bility had preceded hers over these roads ? 
 What should it be to her that once a 
 slender Mantuan scholar, with bent brows 
 beneath the hood, paced here as every 
 day of her life she saw the Frati doing ? — 
 or that a gay idler with the Decameronian 
 chaplet about his head had strayed hither? 
 Truly, nothing. She passed straight un- 
 der the shadow of Lorenzo's villa and did 
 not lift her eyes. 
 
 " Seven lire — it could scarce be less — 
 and boots and stockings— to say nothing 
 of the ribbon for the garland. Dio will
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE HILL-TOP 167 
 
 that 'Tonio may keep about, and Gem- 
 ma, it might yet be possible then. And 
 who knows but the Signorina will have 
 errands in the city." 
 
 Assunta's heart smote her a little even 
 at the wish. They were the only things 
 she had on her conscience toward the 
 Signorina — those trips to town. She had 
 never been rightly able to satisfy herself 
 that when the Signorina dispatched her 
 in haste for something, she was quite fair 
 to the Signorina to take her tram-fare and 
 walk the six miles to town and back. And 
 the fact that the Signorina was none the 
 wiser (for she found no fault, merely 
 looked a little impatient and said " Va 
 bene!" or some such phrase in her sin- 
 gular Italian) only half-soothed her con- 
 science. But, what would you ? — when 
 times are so hard, to let an honest soldo 
 pass you was little less than wicked ; and 
 the Virgin knew she never took a centesi- 
 mo from the Signorina in all the market-
 
 <^^^c\.'*<^-
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE HILL-TOP 169 
 
 ing, though the Signorina hardly glanced 
 at the change if she had a pen in her hand 
 — as she usually did. Still, it was with a 
 shadow of compunction that she opened 
 the gate of the villa and hurried upstairs. 
 
 The Signorina greeted her with the cord- 
 iality of one who has been impatiently 
 waiting for breakfast a long time, and she 
 poured the cream into her coffee and but- 
 tered her roll and began in a preoccupied 
 way to eat it without her usual inquiries 
 for the household on the hill ; for the Sig- 
 norina was anxious and troubled about 
 many things. 
 
 She had been casting up her accounts 
 — never a good thing to do before break- 
 fast — and had decided that beggary was 
 near at hand. Not being born to it — like 
 Tesita — the prospect depressed her spir- 
 its. Editors, she concluded, were a worth- 
 less set, and literature a profitless profes- 
 sion. Any number of unpleasant facts 
 stared her in the face. Decidedly she
 
 I70 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 must give up the new summer hat and 
 patronize second-best dressmakers — and 
 the Signorina hated second-best things 
 on principle as well as by instinct. The 
 charming hem-stitched linen which the 
 ricamitrice made for almost nothing must 
 also be renounced — the Signorina looked 
 disgustedly at the plain cloth on the ta- 
 ble — and all like frivolous indulgences 
 must be denied. She began to think, too, 
 that she must make a rule of visiting the 
 galleries on free days — a practice particu- 
 larly abhorrent to the Signorina, whom 
 Nature had so framed that she never felt 
 a desire to look at a picture on Sundays, 
 but hungered and thirsted after them on 
 Saturdays and Mondays. She was so 
 troubled at all these things that she did 
 not look up until Assunta had twice said 
 " Signorina ! " in an accent of reproach. 
 
 " The Signorina is very naughty [molto 
 caitiva)," said Assunta the third time. 
 " She slept again with her window open."
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE HILL-TOP I7I 
 
 " I have told you fifty times, Assunta," 
 responded the Signorina, listlessly, " that 
 I can't sleep at all without." 
 
 ' ' And therefore the Signorina is palli- 
 dissima this morning," went on Assunta, 
 calmly. " And it is bad for the eyes." 
 
 The Signorina opened hers widely. 
 
 " Nonsense ; when there isn't a ray of 
 light — not so much as a firefly." 
 
 " And now the Signorina eats nothing. 
 Eat, eat, Signorina, and fatten." 
 
 Thus adjured, as she was three times 
 a day, the Signorina — nowise remarkable 
 for pallor or emaciation among her pallid 
 countrywomen, but who, since she came 
 to Italy, had often been made to feel that 
 she was created in the image of a tallow- 
 candle — made an effort to swallow the 
 other half of her roll. 
 
 " How is your husband to-day, Assun- 
 ta ? " she asked, with languid interest. 
 
 " Badly, badly, Signorina," answered 
 Assunta, cheerfully, cutting bread. " Po-
 
 172 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 verino ! — when he goes to work he walks 
 so." She dramatically doubled herself 
 up and limped a few steps, then, straight- 
 ening up, pushed the butter toward the 
 Signorina, saying cheerily: "Eat, eat, 
 Signorina, mia." 
 
 "Goes to work?" echoed the Signo- 
 rina, " but he has been in bed for weeks ; 
 how can he work ? " 
 
 Assunta shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "What would you? There were but 
 two lire left remaining when we paid 
 ih& fornaio Saturday, and the Signorina 
 knows two lire is little for five persons." 
 
 " But there is always the straw-work ? " 
 
 "Truly, yes (the Signorina is not eat- 
 ing) — there is the straw-work," assented 
 Assunta. " Yesterday the Delia made 
 twenty fans." 
 
 "Twenty fans! that must be a long 
 day's work, Assunta ? " 
 
 "From six to eight — every, every, 
 EVERY minute, Signorina."
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE HILL-TOP I73 
 
 " Dear me ! " thought the Signorina, 
 " /should Hke to make twenty fans a day 
 — and sell them ! How much does she 
 get for a fan, Assunta ? " 
 
 "A centesimo, Signorina." 
 
 The Signorina, with a spoonful of coffee 
 at her lips, dropped it. 
 
 " A centesimo ! " she repeated. 
 
 " What misfortune ! " ejaculated As- 
 sunta, hastily wiping up the coffee. 
 
 While she did so the unmathematical 
 Signorina made a hasty calculation. A 
 centesimo is the fifth of a cent ; twenty 
 centesimi are four cents ; then if one 
 works " every, every, every minute " for 
 fourteen hours one may live to make four 
 cents a day. "And the fans sell for a 
 franc and a half or two francs apiece ; 
 worse than literature / " concluded the 
 Signorina grimly to herself. 
 
 "It is not much," said Assunta, se- 
 renely, "but what would you? The 
 fabbricante makes all. The Giulia, how-
 
 174 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 ever," she went on, encouragingly, " can 
 now make from eight to ten arms of braid 
 a day, and receives twenty-five centesimi 
 for fourteen arms.' 
 
 "And Gemma?" suggested the Sig- 
 norina, faintly. 
 
 "The Gemma makes three francs a 
 week at the fabbrica, hni—poverina / — 
 she is always ill. The Signorina has 
 eaten nothing! " 
 
 The Signorina turned at the door of her 
 room. 
 
 "And the gown for the first commun- 
 ion, Assunta ? " she asked. 
 
 Assunta clasped her hands. 
 
 " Chi lo sa / — it does not find itself^as 
 yet." 
 
 " And the veil, the ribbon? " 
 
 Assunta's face faded still more. 
 
 "The veil — and the ribbon— also the 
 boots — do not find themselves either, 
 Signorina," she replied, despondent-
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE HILL-TOP IJS 
 
 The Signorina looked at the downcast 
 countenance. 
 
 " Never mind ! " she said, encourag- 
 ingly. " I daresay they will, and, by and 
 by, could you go to the city for me ? " 
 
 " Willingly, Signorina ! " responded 
 Assunta, with alacrity ; and as she spoke 
 her heart smote her. 
 
 It smote her again when she stood in 
 the Piazza San Domenico with the Sig- 
 norina's franc in her hand. It would cost 
 her eighty centimes to go and return, and 
 the Signorina was wont to bestow the re- 
 maining twenty on her. The sun was at 
 white heat ; there stood the tram on one 
 side, and on the other the winding Way 
 of Boccacio, three miles of it, between 
 stone walls which gathered the heat and 
 reflected it straight to the lime-dust of the 
 road. She hesitated ; beholding on the 
 one hand her waiting Signorina, who 
 could do no more work without paper, 
 and on the other the metre and a half of
 
 176 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 ribbon which might be bought for eighty- 
 centimes. 
 
 "It is a sin to waste it and I will run 
 every step of the way ! " she thought, and 
 set hastily off down the burning road. 
 
 " Ecco, Signorina ! " she exclaimed, 
 hours later, depositing a heavy package 
 on the table before which the Signorina, 
 in the thinnest of cool, white muslins, sat, 
 feeling like a burden. She glanced at 
 her messenger's purple face, but said 
 nothing. 
 
 " How it is cool and fresh here! " re- 
 marked Assunta, easily, " but in those 
 trams, Dio mio, what a heat ! Here are 
 the twenty centesimi." The Signorina 
 pushed them silently back. 
 
 " Thank yovi," she said, gently. 
 
 "Dio ;«/<7 /" moaned Assunta to her- 
 self as she toiled up the hill, "Dio mio/ 
 Dio tnio / " She said it all the way until 
 she came in sight of tlic little house on 
 the liill-toj:), and Giulia bending over the
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE HILL-TOP I77 
 
 frame, her cheeks pale with the long, hot 
 day's work. 
 
 Then Assunta's eyes brightened. 
 
 " Guarda, Giulia ! " she exclaimed, joy- 
 ously, holding up her franc, " the ribbon 
 finds itself! " 
 
 Giulia, with a cry of delight, threw her 
 arms about her ; and the last sting of re- 
 morse vanished at that touch. 
 
 " I ran all the way," she said to herself, 
 justifyingly. 
 
 " Gemma, oh, Gemma! " cried Giulia, 
 darting to greet her as she dragged up 
 the steps, and dancing about her. " The 
 ribbon finds itself ! " 
 
 She stopped short, perceiving Tesita, 
 hot and dirty from a day's lolling in the 
 dust, but with many soldi in her — or 
 rather Beppe's — pocket. Tesita heard. 
 
 " Huh ! " she said to herself, contemp- 
 tuously. " Now she's got her old rib- 
 bon ! " 
 
 Not for anything in the world would
 
 178 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 Tesita have admitted to herself a pang of 
 envy. 
 
 " Huh ! " she said again, scornfully. 
 
 Assunta, smiling still with exultation 
 and beginning to fan the fire for the 
 7ninestra, paused to shake her head and 
 murmur, as usual : 
 
 " Niente di biiona .' " 
 
 " Dio mio!" Assunta said it often, 
 in the intervening weeks, as the days 
 dragged along, loaded with calamities. 
 
 " Dio ?nio / " She said it very often. 
 
 First 'Tonio took to his bed, doubled 
 up with rheumatism so that it was no 
 longer possible to sit up — much less 
 work. And instead of ten francs a week 
 — " and he has been known to make as 
 much as fourteen," said Assunta, with sad 
 pride — there was nothing at all. And 
 then — as if there were no reason in any- 
 thing -his stomach refused the good food, 
 bread and ?ninestra, such as he had eaten
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE HILL-TOP I79 
 
 every day of his life, except such days as 
 they had not been able to afford the 
 minestra, when he ate the bread alone. 
 
 " Seven pounds and a half of bread 
 and half a kilo of mi?iestra every day," 
 said Assunta, " and the bread a whole 
 franc ! The Signorina sees, what with a 
 bit oi carbo?ie to cook the mi?iestra and a 
 drop of petrolio to work by nights, and 
 the rent, it is not possible to live on much 
 less than twelve francs, or even fourteen, a 
 week." 
 
 The Signorina, grown expert in doing 
 many little sums lately, computed rap- 
 idly : fourteen francs a week ; one hun- 
 dred and forty-five dollars a year ; divide 
 by five — twenty-nine dollars a year apiece ; 
 divide by twelve — two dollars and forty 
 cents a month apiece. No, she did not 
 find it unreasonable. 
 
 "But we must all work," said As- 
 sunta, " and if 'Tonio cannot eat he 
 cannot work, and if he cannot eat good
 
 l8o STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 bread — ! " she looked as if divided be- 
 tween compassion and impatience. 
 
 The Signorina was no longer surprised 
 at anything — even 'Tonio's unreason. 
 
 " Biion giorfio, Signorina; has she 
 slept well?" always greeted her ears, in 
 the same tone of unvarying, cheerful in- 
 terest, each morning. Assunta might 
 have a trouble or two at heart, but who 
 was she that she should bring her clouds 
 into the Signorina's atmosphere ? It was 
 not until the Signorina herself, in the 
 pauses of her type-writing or her writing, 
 looked up and asked specific questions, 
 that she extracted such news as there was. 
 
 "Yes, 'Tonio had taken to his bed 
 again," or "Gemma had again an ab- 
 scess" (for people will even have afflic- 
 tions that are not pretty or pleasing) ; 
 but " pazienza / what would you ? " 
 
 There was, in truth, a trouble at As- 
 sunta's heart. It was not the sickness — 
 that she had known before. It was not
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE HILL-TOP l8l 
 
 the lacking minestra nor the bread faUing 
 short — these she had lived through be- 
 fore ; but a First Communion can neither 
 be given up nor postponed. It repre- 
 sented all the/cjA7Jofa girl's lifetime in 
 one, and its robe took the place of a so- 
 ciety belle's hundred party-gowns. Gem- 
 ma had taken her communion thre eyears 
 before, and the bambina — what a misery 
 it would be if she should miss it ! The 
 bambi/ia was working day in and out, and 
 Delia made her score of fans nearly 
 every day ; but what with the baker, and 
 now a plaster for 'Tonio and another for 
 Gemma, and no wages — it was a desper- 
 ate outlook for the gown. Assunta shut 
 her eyes to it and went ahead. 
 
 What she did and didn't do those 
 weeks, no one but herself precisely knew. 
 The Signorina grew accustomed to seeing 
 her arrive breathlessly, with the butter 
 and cream and an apology — she had had 
 a bit to do, or an errand to run, and the
 
 l82 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 Signorina would graciously "have pa- 
 tience." Or late in the evenings, when 
 she had (presumably) been at home for 
 hours, the Signorina strolling in the ilex- 
 walks would hear a cheery "Good-even- 
 ing, Signorina! a pleasant walk!" and 
 behold her late servitor up to her elbows 
 in the stone washing-trough, or ironing 
 for dear life on a table set in the shrine 
 beneath the life-size Crucifixion. 
 
 Once in a while — but rarely — the Sig- 
 norina let fall some commiserating word. 
 
 " What would you ? " was the invariable 
 reply, accompanied by a shrug; " I have 
 never been less poor, Signorina." 
 
 But as the days passed, bringing noth- 
 ing but more debt and less hope, Assunta 
 clasped her hands and dropped more than 
 one tear upon that ironing-table, while she 
 fervently implored the saints and Madonna 
 for aid. The Madonna herself ought to 
 take an interest in it, for surely she 
 couldn't want Giulia to march in her pro-
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE HILL-TOP 183 
 
 cession wearing things so shabby that 
 they could only be characterized by end- 
 ing them in a scornful " accio," " scarpac- 
 cio," and the like. 
 
 Whether the Madonna took this view of 
 it or not, one day Assunta fairly flew up- 
 stairs and announced joyfully : 
 
 "Signorina! Signorina! the veil finds 
 itself! " 
 
 The Signorina dropped her pen and 
 clapped her hands. 
 
 "It is most beautiful — and a gift!" 
 Assunta continued, ecstatically. ' ' So large 
 and also long and beautiful — beautiful, 
 Signorina ! " 
 
 It is true, if dark clouds have silver lin- 
 ings, silver clouds have dark ones as often ; 
 the next morning Gemma coughed blood. 
 Assunta's voice broke as she told it, and 
 she wrung her hands passionately for a 
 moment. " Dio mio ! if it should be — all 
 her father's people went so ! Che pas- 
 sione /"
 
 184 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 The Signorina looked helplessly about 
 her. 
 
 "But Giulia is well," she said, "and 
 Delia is never ill." 
 
 A shadow crossed Assunta's face. 
 
 "No danger!" she said, briefly, with 
 the only approach to bitterness the Sig- 
 norina ever heard. 
 
 Poor, homely, stupid Delia ! the only one 
 of the three always well and robust. While 
 pretty Gemma 
 
 The Signorina tried again ; she too had 
 coughed blood, but I hardly think her 
 physicians would have recognized her case 
 from her description. She was very elo- 
 quent over it. When she had finished 
 Assunta regarded her respectfully, as a 
 miracle, and the Signorina felt a little like 
 a miracle herself. According to her it was 
 less than nothing, if it were not indeed a 
 healthy symptom, to cough blood; all the 
 long-lived people she was able to remem- 
 ber had coughed for many years. One
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE HILL-TOP 185 
 
 could argue nothing from a trifle of that 
 kind. Assunta.was more than consoled. 
 
 "And the Signorina slept again with 
 her window open! " she remarked, catch- 
 ing sight of it as she wiped away the last 
 tear. "How naughty she is! And the 
 veil, Signorina, you should see how it is 
 beautiful!" she added, gayly, from the 
 threshold, as she went. 
 
 The Signorina leaned back in her chair, 
 deeply conscious that she had been mak- 
 ing an idiot of herself. 
 
 " Cosa vuole — what would you?" she 
 said to herself in Assunta's extenuating 
 phrase, a little palely. 
 
 She was so tired that she underwent a 
 revulsion later, and was glad when Assunta 
 brought in strawberries for her to look at, 
 and she could survey them discontentedly 
 and find them poor, and dear at the price. 
 
 Assunta agreed that they ought to be 
 far finer for the Signorina, and suggested 
 that it might be well for her to go in
 
 l86 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 search of others at Fiesole — or even to the 
 city. 
 
 Which brought the Signorina to her 
 senses. 
 
 "This is my festa, Assunta," said the 
 Signorina, looking up from the pile of 
 birthday letters and gifts on her table. 
 
 Assunta, with a copper water-jar in either 
 hand, stopped short. 
 
 "Truly, Signorina! it is also mine!" 
 she exclaimed. "And how many years 
 has the Signorina?" she asked, with in- 
 terest. 
 
 " Twenty-eight." 
 
 The copper jars went down to the floor. 
 
 "Truly! How well the Signorina car- 
 ries them ! " 
 
 The Signorina, who never before had 
 realized her antiquity, felt actually 
 abashed. 
 
 "And hov/ many years have you, As- 
 sunta? " she asked.
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE HILL-TOP 187 
 
 " I finish forty, Signorina." 
 
 In her turn the Signorina stared ; twelve 
 years only between herself and the worn, 
 wrinkled, thin -haired, almost toothless 
 woman before her. 
 
 "Yes, Signorina," went on Assunta, 
 tranquilly. " Forty years ago my mother 
 put me in the world. I was born on the 
 roadside, the Signorina remembers, and 
 she carried me home in her apron, so ! " 
 gathering up her blue apron to illustrate. 
 Then letting it fall again : " And the Sig- 
 norina has twenty-eight years ! Who 
 would believe it? " 
 
 "I think I should like some very nice 
 strawberries for my fcsta — if you can go to 
 the city for me," said the Signorina, to 
 change the subject. 
 
 "Signorina, I am here to obey you," 
 replied Assunta, gravely, in spite of her 
 inward emotion. A whole franc toward 
 the boots ! 
 
 And while she was hurrying down the
 
 l88 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 hill and over the white road, the Signorina, 
 in the midst of her pretty gifts and the 
 pleasant mood they awakened, was expe- 
 riencing an unwonted fit of benevolence. 
 
 " Poor Assunta!" she thought, " I should 
 like to give her something for her festa — 
 if I were not so poor;" and she fell to 
 wondering what in all the world Assunta 
 would best like to have. Not that edition 
 of Shelley, surely, which had made her 
 own eyes sparkle with delight, nor yet the 
 dainty linen worked by dear hands ; As- 
 sunta wanted nothing for herself 
 
 " I know! " thought the Signorina, with 
 conviction. 
 
 She went into her room, and sitting 
 down before her bureau, drew out one by 
 one the fourteen gowns which were its 
 contents. 
 
 " I will certainly do it," she said to her- 
 self, and after some pondering she selected 
 the plainest and the oldest — a white cash- 
 mere — and spread it out on her lap.
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE HILL-TOP 189 
 
 The smile of satisfaction deepened on 
 her lips. 
 
 " I should not wear it six times more — 
 and even if I do miss it," she said to her- 
 self, generously, "I should be willing to 
 make a sacrifice now and then. I will 
 certainly do it." 
 
 Her heart grew light. "How pleased 
 Assunta will be ! " She was so pleased 
 with herself for thinking of it, that she shut 
 up the other thirteen gowns gayly and 
 went in to dinner, still smiling. There is 
 nothing so sweet, the sages tell us, as a 
 self-approving conscience. 
 
 One good action begets another. 
 
 "Does Gemma like strawberries?" 
 asked the Signorina, languidly, as she filled 
 her saucer for the third time, while Assunta 
 stood beaming near. 
 
 " Chi lo sa?" answered Assunta, tran- 
 quilly. 
 
 At this remarkable reply the Signorina 
 raised her eyes in astonishment.
 
 I90 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 " She has never tasted them," explained 
 Assunta. " They are so dear — the Signo- 
 rina knows " 
 
 "Never tasted them!" repeated the 
 Signorina. "Do not you have fruit — all 
 the fruit you want — in Tuscany? " 
 
 " Oh, there is plenty of fruit, Signorina," 
 responded Assunta, cheeringly, "but for 
 poor people it costs too much. Some- 
 times," she added, " we have tasted figs ; 
 yes, more than once in my life have I 
 eaten them fresh " (the Signorina had an 
 instant vision of them, purple and luscious, 
 and sixteen for a soldo), "but dried — 
 never ; as for oranges and other fruits — 
 the Signorina knows what they cost — I 
 and my people have never tasted them. 
 Are not the strawberries good, that the 
 Signorina is leaving them ?" 
 
 " Give them to Gemma," said the Sig- 
 norina, with a gesture of loathing, walking 
 away. 
 
 Presently she returned with something
 
 white in her arms, but no triumph in her 
 expression. 
 
 "Assunta," she said, hesitatingly, "if 
 you can use this for GiuHa " — she laid it 
 on the sofa. 
 
 Assunta fell on her knees before it.
 
 192 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 " Don't ! " said the Signorina, " don't ! " 
 and she fled. 
 
 '' Dio mio ! Dio mio ! " murmured As- 
 sunta all the way up the hill, tears drop- 
 ping through every smile, but not one 
 upon the precious cashmere. 
 
 " Giulia, oh, Giulia! arrive below ', " she 
 shouted up the stairs, and then she opened 
 her apron. 
 
 Oh, the rapture! Giulia laughed and 
 cried for joy ; Delia rejoiced unselfishly ; 
 Gemma, coughing painfully, came and 
 looked wistfully — hers had not been so fine 
 nearly ; and this would have many, many 
 tucks. 
 
 In their hearts all had begun to de- 
 spair, but now that the dress had found 
 itself the rest would surely follow. Giulia 
 flew back to her frame, and her fingers 
 flew also with fresh activity ; from time to 
 time she crept away to peep at the won- 
 derful dress all wrapped away in paper, 
 and then flew back again. Delia began
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE HILL-TOP I93 
 
 a new fan, and Gemma — pale Gemma — 
 took up the straw in her thin fingers and 
 began to weave a little basket for the Sig- 
 norina. Even 'Tonio, on the strength of 
 the great rejoicing, crept back to work the 
 next day ; for he thought he might at least 
 make enough for shoes for the bambina — 
 and he did. 
 
 "If the Signorina can spare me," said 
 Assunta, tremulous with pride, " Giulia is 
 coming at half-past twenty-one o'clock to 
 go to the city." 
 
 The Signorina looked up quickly. Could 
 it be? 
 
 The smile trembling on Assunta's lips 
 ran over and overflowed her furrowed 
 face — one might say her soul smiled. 
 
 " Si, Signorina," she answered the 
 look; "we go to buy the shoes, also the 
 stockings, also " — her voice trembled with 
 this culminating triumph — " the ribbon." 
 
 The Signorina clapped her hands. 
 
 ' ' Brava / Brava / ' '
 
 194 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 Assunta moved softly and ecstatically 
 about, doing her work; but that her mind 
 was full of its own bliss the Signorina, 
 tripping steadily away and affecting to 
 hear nothing, could tell. 
 
 " Beautiful little things! beautiful little 
 things!" she could hear her sigh ecstat- 
 ically, as she lifted the Signorina's thrice- 
 patched number fours and surveyed them 
 with lingering admiration — perhaps pictur- 
 ing a pair as fair on Giulia's feet. And 
 she spent a most unusual care upon the 
 toilet-table and all its knick-knacks, as if 
 they had a suddenly acquired relation 
 through the splendors about to be Giulia's, 
 
 She kept that bright-eyed and exultant 
 little maiden waiting long after the hour, 
 while she scrupulously fulfilled every ser- 
 vice ; for nothing was permitted to take 
 precedence of the Signorina's comfort. 
 At length, however, they departed, As- 
 sunta quite stiff with importance, Giulia 
 openly dancing at her side. They walked,
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE HILL-TOP I95 
 
 of course ; for who could dream of spend- 
 ing twice eighty centimes on a tram ? — 
 and what were six miles — with the boots 
 at their end! Giulia looked about her 
 secretly at the Piazza — she would have 
 liked Tesita to see her going to the city 
 to shop, just like a signorina ; but Tesita 
 was not there. 
 
 The Signorina could scarcely wait for 
 the next morning, but when it came she 
 had her question out almost before she 
 heard the door open. 
 
 "The boots — are they beautiful, As- 
 sunta ? And the ribbon ? " 
 
 " ^ they are beautiful, Signorina! — 
 five lire they cost me in Florence ! And 
 the stockings, Signorina ! — beautiful black 
 ones for half a lira ! As for the ribbon — 
 two metres and a half— so wide, a franc 
 and a half. Giulia is pazza, pazza with 
 joy ! — and the sarta finishes the dress at 
 this hour — the Signorina will see if it is 
 beautiful ! "
 
 ig6 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 "And Gemma — and 'Tonio ? " asked 
 the Signorina, smiling. 
 
 Alas ! why had she asked ! 
 
 Assunta found her voice in a moment. 
 
 " Chilo sa, Signorina? " she said, sadly ; 
 " the Gemma stays in bed this morning." 
 
 " And 'Tonio ? " 
 
 "'Tonio also stays in bed; the good 
 and the bad come always together — it is 
 necessary to have patience." 
 
 " Tesita also is ill," announced Assunta, 
 later in the day. " She has the ///"<?." 
 
 "Ah! I hope she is not very ill," re- 
 plied the Signorina. 
 
 "It would be better that she should 
 die," said Assunta, with sorrowful stern- 
 ness. " When a girl stays on the streets 
 it is better that she dies ; she will come 
 to nothing good. There are persons who 
 will do anything for money." Then her 
 indignation melting into a smile, she 
 added: 
 
 ♦' The Signorina will not forget that she
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE HILL-TOP I97 
 
 has promised — to-morrow at eight she 
 will be in the Duomo ? " 
 
 " She will not forget, Assunta ; she will 
 be there." 
 
 It had come at last, the g^eat day ; and, 
 for a miracle of miracles, rain came not 
 with it. Up on the hill-top they were stir- 
 ring with the daylight, for how was it pos- 
 sible to sleep with those boots in plain 
 sight and the knowledge of that gown in 
 the drawer? 
 
 Giulia flew from room to room, but not 
 more excitedly than her mother and Deha. 
 The whole family convened to assist at the 
 ceremony of dressing, and as article after 
 article went on, Assunta, standing by, cal- 
 culated the cost. That added immensely 
 to the impressiveness. 
 
 First the beautiful black stockings : 
 "Half a franc," murmured Assunta, 
 breathlessly, as they were drawn on, slow- 
 ly, without a jerk or a pull, lest they should
 
 198 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 tear. Then the boots — miles too large and 
 quite shapeless, for who would be so in- 
 credibly reckless as to buy boots for five 
 francs only large enough for a foot as it is, 
 and take no thought for next year or the 
 year after ? They had patent leather tips, 
 however, and Giulia could hardly stand up 
 in them for pride. Then came the skirt, 
 with many tucks and all the fulness in 
 front, as Fiesolan dresses are wont to have 
 it ; and the waist, also tucked in every 
 possible direction, lengthwise and breadth- 
 wise, to allow for the years of letting out 
 and down ; naturally, one could not hope 
 to have a second gown like this. 
 
 " Three francs for the sarta and half a 
 franc for the buttons," commented As- 
 sunta, as Delia fastened them ; for Giulia's 
 fingers were useless, they shook so. 
 
 Then the veil : a splendid square of cur- 
 tain muslin, falling quite to the bottom of 
 the short skirt and gathered full about the 
 rosy face under the ribbon garland.
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE HILL-TOP I99 
 
 " Two metres and a half — a franc and a 
 half it cost," murmured Assunta. 
 
 There was yet something lacking, the 
 white cotton gloves Gemma had worn three 
 years before. Immensely large they made 
 Giulia's slender brown hands look, and 
 the fingers were worn through, but still 
 they were truly magnificent. 
 
 They all stood off and gazed. 
 
 At last! 
 
 "Ten lire and a half I spent for it!" 
 said Assunta, with a sigh of unutterable 
 content. " How much it is beautiful — 
 Qiianto e bclla! " 
 
 " Quatito e bella! " The Signorina said 
 the same words an hour later, as she 
 entered the dim and still Duomo from 
 the morning sunlight, and the sixteen 
 little boys and twelve little brides of 
 Heaven carried up their flowers to the 
 Madonna. 
 
 Nearly all Fiesole was there, and not 
 only priests and acolytes in due profu-
 
 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 sion, but a bishop and an archbishop in 
 white and gold before the altar. 
 
 The little brides knelt on one side and 
 the little boys on the other, and twenty- 
 eight pairs of small hands in gloves rested 
 on the chancel railing ; while twenty-eight 
 heads bent devoutly, with now and then a 
 furtive side-glance at one's veil to be sure 
 it was down, or at one's ribbons to be sure 
 they were still there. 
 
 The Bishop prayed and the archbishop 
 exhorted ; then the archbishop prayed 
 and the bishop exhorted ; and finally, 
 after all the ceremony had been duly ob- 
 served, the sixteen little boys went up two 
 by two and knelt to receive the holy wafer. 
 Then came the turn of the twelve little 
 brides, and the prettiest of them all was 
 Assunta's Giulia in the much-tucked dress, 
 with the beautiful boots creaking as she 
 went, and the long veil fluttering about 
 the rosy face, sweetly serious for the mo- 
 ment and forgetful of all her finery, I
 
 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 really think. The huge cotton gloves were 
 devoutly folded over a white prayer-book, 
 lent for the occasion. And as they went, 
 
 " Verbum caro, panem verum 
 Verbo carnem efficit, 
 Fitque Sanguis Christi merum 
 
 Et si sensus deficit : 
 Ad firmandum cor sincerum 
 Sola fides sufficit," 
 
 rose the voices all about them. 
 
 Eight small brides had knelt and risen ; 
 now it was Giulia's turn. The Signorina 
 leaned forward ; two little figures knelt ; 
 the archbishop popped something into 
 two rosy mouths, opened like a bird's to 
 be fed ; then two little figures rose and 
 the next two advanced. The great mo- 
 ment was over ; Giulia had taken her first 
 communion, and — 
 
 " O Salutaris Hostia ! qui coeli pandis ostia ! " 
 
 sang the voices softly. 
 
 But all was not over ; not until each had
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE HILL-TOP 203 
 
 received a silver crucifix (to wear until 
 one's second communion, eight days later) , 
 a pictured saint's card, a medal with a 
 pink ribbon which the archbishop himself 
 threw over the bent heads and the mam- 
 mas and sisters stealthily adjusted from 
 behind; and, last of all, a loaf of conse- 
 crated bread to take home for the collazione 
 after the service. Then the archbishop 
 blessed the little flock, and everyone 
 pressed forward to see the little boys and 
 the brides, but especially the brides, be- 
 cause they were so much more fine to see ; 
 and so, all whispering and admiring, the 
 crowd poured from the Duomo, not for- 
 getting to cross one's self with holy water 
 at the font. 
 
 Giulia, escorted by a group of admiring 
 friends, walked demurely, casting a glance 
 to see if haply Tesita was witnessing her 
 triumph ; but Tesita was not there. The 
 Signorina, however, was there and stopped 
 to admire everything — from the white
 
 204 
 
 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 gown and veil to the crucifix and medal. 
 Then they started up the hill, the little 
 bride blushing with pleasure and modesty, 
 
 her hands demurely clasping the l)ook and 
 all her train following. As they went up 
 on one side, another little procession came 
 down on the other — black-masked Brothers
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE HILL-TOP 205 
 
 of Mercy carrying a small black bier. 
 Everyone stepped aside to let them pass, 
 and Giulia crossed herself twice, like a 
 pious little maiden, once at the crucifix, 
 once at the bier. But nobody dreamed it 
 was Tesita going by in such state, until 
 the next day, when rosy Annina appeared 
 on the piazza with Beppe and lisped out, 
 " SigJiorine — poverino !" in funny imita- 
 tion of Tesita. It was, however, "a 
 pr ovi den za, " Assunia declared then, "for 
 it was certain she would have come to 
 nothing good." 
 
 Far from any thought of Tesita, Giulia 
 sped on up the steep hill till the little 
 house came in sight ; and there on the 
 threshold, with such a face as the angels 
 may wear, stood Assunta, watching the 
 triumph of her child. 
 
 The little bride, finery and all, flew into 
 her arms ; oh, it had been so beautiful! 
 
 Assunta turned her beaming eyes upon 
 the group. The Signorina had kept her
 
 206 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 promise. She had seen it all — the pro- 
 cession to the Madonna — the archbishop 
 — all; and it was beautiful, non e vero? 
 Perhaps she had even seen the bambina 
 take her communion, at the very moment 
 itself. 
 
 The very precise moment, even to the 
 opening and shutting of the rosy mouth ; 
 it had been most beautiful, and 
 
 "Oh, Assunta, Assunta ! " exclaimed 
 the Signorina, taking the hard hand in 
 hers, with sorrowful passion, "why were 
 you not there ? " 
 
 Assunta laughed, a little, short, happy, 
 shame-faced laugh. 
 
 "Oh, Signorina mia ! " she said, de- 
 precatingly ; "in this gown and these 
 boots! how was it possible? Rut it was 
 truly beautiful, was it not?" she added, 
 gleefully. "And the Signorina saw my 
 bambina ; " her eyes rested proudly on 
 the small white figure holding court in 
 the dingy room.
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE HILL-TOP 207 
 
 Never was such a day ! To be sure, 
 there was no collation — it had been man- 
 ifestly impossible to compass that ; but 
 the neighbors came flocking all day long 
 to admire and declare that within memory 
 there had not been a prettier communi- 
 cant — no, nor one that deserved better. 
 
 'Tonio sat proudly by, and Gemma, 
 propped up among pillows, listened and 
 shared unenviously in her little sister's 
 triumph, while Delia ran about waiting 
 on everybody. As for Assunta, she only 
 stood and smiled and smiled. Never was 
 such a day ! 
 
 But the longest and the happiest day 
 must end at last, and presently the white 
 gown was taken off— oh, how carefully — 
 and folded away against the festa of Cor- 
 pus Domini, and the veil was also laid 
 away, and the fine prayer-book sent home, 
 while the beautiful boots were stood on 
 the bureau where everyone could look at 
 them.
 
 208 STORIES OF ITALY 
 
 Then the soft night of Tuscany came 
 down — luminous and fragrant and ahve 
 with silence — and everybody slept. 
 
 Tesita, alone for the first time in her 
 hfe in the stanza morluaria, slept with 
 wide-open eyes and the sound of slowly 
 dripping water near by. And in the house 
 on the hill-top, worn out with excitement, 
 all slept. 'Tonio, forgetful of his rheu- 
 matism, and tired Delia, and even Gemma 
 ceasing to cough for a time, lay sleeping 
 with the little red-stained handkerchief in 
 her hot hand. In the other room Giulia, 
 clasping the silver crucifix, dreamed that 
 it was already Corpus Domini. But As- 
 sunta, a smile of fathomless content still 
 on her thin lips, slept dreamlessly — the 
 sleep of profound exhaustion. 
 
 Only the Signorina down in the villa 
 could not sleep for thinking of many 
 things.
 
 B 000 002 129 5
 
 
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