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 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY
 
 BOOKS BY MAURICE HEWLETT 
 
 Published by CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
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 LITTLE NOVELS OF 
 ITALY 
 
 BY 
 
 MAURICE HEWLETT 
 
 AUTHOR OF " THE FOREST LOVERS," " PAN AND THE YOUNG 
 SHEPHERD," "EARTHWORK OUT OF TUSCANY," ETC. 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 NEW YORK : : : : 1910
 
 Copyright, 1890, 
 By MAURICE HEWLETT. 
 
 Set up and electrotyped September, 1899. Reprinted November, 
 1899 ; October, 1901 ; November, 1906.
 
 So 
 
 HIS FRIEND 
 
 AND 
 
 ITALY'S 
 MAJOR-GENERAL JOSEPH BONUS, R.E. 
 
 THE AUTHOR 
 DEDICATES HIS BOOK
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 MADONNA OF THE PEACH-TREE . 
 IPPOLITA IN THE HILLS . 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA . 
 MESSER CINO AND THE LIVE COAL 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 
 
 PAGE 
 I 
 
 6 7 
 
 137 
 
 225 
 254
 
 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 MADONNA OF THE PEACH-TREE 
 
 VANNA IS BID FOR 
 
 Not easily would you have found a girl more 
 winning in a tender sort than Giovanna Scarpa 
 of Verona at one and twenty, fair-haired and 
 flushed, delicately shaped, tall and pliant, as she 
 then was. She had to suffer her hours of ill 
 report, but passes for near a saint now, in conse- 
 quence of certain miracles and theophanies done 
 on her account, which it is my business to declare ; 
 before those she was considered (if at all) as a girl 
 who would certainly have been married three 
 years ago if dowries had not been of moment in 
 the matter. In a city of maids as pretty as they 
 are modest — which no one will deny Verona to 
 be — there may have been some whose charms in 
 either kind were equal to hers, while their estate 
 was better in accord ; but the speculation is idle. 
 Giovanna, flower in the face as she was, fit to be 
 nosegay on any hearth, posy for any man's breast, 
 sprang in a very lowly soil. Like a blossoming 
 reed she shot up to her inches by Adige, and one 
 forgot the muddy bed wondering at the slim 
 grace of the shaft with its crown of yellow atop.
 
 8 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 Her hair waved about her like a flag ; she should 
 have been planted in a castle ; instead, Giovanna 
 the stately calm, with her billowing line, staid 
 lips, and candid grey eyes, was to be seen on her 
 knees by the green water most days of the week. 
 Bare-armed, splashed to the neck, bare-headed, out- 
 at-heels, she rinsed and pommelled, wrung and 
 dipped again, laughed, chattered, flung her hair 
 to the wind, her sweat to the water, in line with 
 a dozen other women below the Ponte Navi ; and 
 if no one thought any the worse of her, none, un- 
 happily, thought any the better — at least in the 
 way of marriage. It is probable that no one 
 thought of her at all. Giovanna was a beauty 
 and a very good girl ; but she was a washerwoman 
 for all that, whose toil fed seven mouths. 
 
 Her father was Don Urbano, curate of Santa 
 Toscana across the water. This may very easily 
 sound worse than it is. In Don Urbano's day, 
 though a priest might not marry, he might have a 
 wife — a faithful, diligent companion, that is — to 
 seethe his polenta, air his linen, and rear his 
 children. The Church winked at her, and so 
 continued until the Jesuits came to teach that 
 winking was unbecoming. But when Can Grande 
 II. lorded in Verona the Jesuits did not, and Don 
 Urbano, good, easy man, cared not who winked at 
 his wife. She gave him six children before she 
 died of the seventh, of whom the eldest was Gio- 
 vanna, and the others, in an orderly chain dimin- 
 ishing punctually by a year, ran down to Ferran- 
 tino, a tattered, shock-headed rascal of more inches 
 than grace. Last of all the good drudge, who had 
 borne these and many other burdens for her mas-
 
 MADONNA OF THE PEACH-TREE 3 
 
 ter, died also. Don Urbano was never tired of 
 saying how providential it was that she had held 
 off her demise until Giovanna was old enough to 
 take her place. The curate was fat and lazy, 
 very much interested in himself ; his stipend 
 barely paid his shot at the " Fiore del Marinajo," 
 under whose green bush he was mostly to be 
 seen. Vanna had to roll up her sleeves, bend her 
 straight young back, and knee the board by the 
 Ponte Navi. I have no doubt it did her good ; 
 the work is healthy, the air, the sun, the water- 
 spray, kissed her beauty ripe; but she got no hus- 
 band because she could save no dowry. Every- 
 thing went to stay the seven crying mouths. 
 
 Then, on a day when half her twenty-first year 
 had run after the others, old Baldassare Dardi- 
 cozzo stayed on the bridge to rest from the bur- 
 den of his pack — on a breezy March morning 
 when the dust filled his eyes and the wind emp- 
 tied him of breath. Baldassare had little enough 
 to spare as it was. So he dropped his load in 
 the angle of the bridge, with a smothered " Acci- 
 dente ! " or some such, and leaned to watch the 
 swollen water buffeted crosswise by the gusts, or 
 how the little mills amid-stream dipped as they 
 swam breasting the waves. In so doing he be- 
 came aware, in quite a peculiar way, of Vanna 
 Scarpa. 
 
 Baldassare was old, red-eyed, stiff in the back. 
 Possibly he was rheumatic, certainly he was 
 grumpy. He had a long slit mouth which played 
 him a cruel trick ; for by nature it smiled when 
 by nature he was most melancholy. Smile it 
 would and did, however cut-throat he felt : if you
 
 4 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 wanted to see him grin from ear to ear you would 
 wait till he had had an ill day's market. Then, 
 while sighs, curses, invocations of the saints, or 
 open hints to the devil came roaring from him, 
 that hilarious mouth of his invited you to share 
 delights. You had needs laugh with him, and he, 
 cursing high and low, beamed all over his face. 
 " To make Baldassare laugh " became a stock 
 periphrasis for the supreme degree of tragedy 
 among his neighbours. About this traitor mouth 
 of his he had a dew of scrubby beard, silvered 
 black ; he had bushy eyebrows, hands and arms 
 covered with a black pelt: he was a very hairy 
 man. Also he was a very warm man, as every- 
 body knew, with a hoard of florins under the flags 
 of his old-clothes shop in the Via Stella. 
 
 Having spat into the water many times, rubbed 
 his hands, mopped his head, and cursed most 
 things under heaven and some in it, Master Bal- 
 dassare found himself watching the laundresses 
 on the shore. They were the usual shrill, shrewd, 
 and laughing line — the trade seems to induce 
 high mirth — and as such no bait for the old 
 merchant by ordinary ; but just now the sun and 
 breeze together made a bright patch of them, set 
 them at a provoking flutter. Baldassare, prickly 
 with dust, found them like their own cool linen 
 hung out to dance itself dry in the wind. Most 
 of all he noticed Vanna, whom he knew well 
 enough, because when she knelt upright she was 
 taller and more wayward than the rest, and be- 
 cause the wind made so plain the pretty figure 
 she had. She was very industrious, but no less 
 full of talk : there seemed so much to say ! The
 
 MADONNA OF THE PEACH-TREE 5 
 
 pauses were frequent in which she straightened 
 herself from the hips and turned to thrust chin 
 and voice into the debate. You saw then the 
 sharp angle, the fine line of light along that 
 raised chin, the charming turn of the neck, her 
 free young shoulders and shapely head ; also you 
 marked her lively tones of ci and si, and how 
 her shaking finger drove them home. The wind 
 would catch her yellow hair sometimes and wind 
 it across her bosom like a scarf ; or it streamed 
 sideways like a long pennon ; or, being caught by 
 a gust from below, sprayed out like a cloud of 
 litten gold. Vanna always joined in the laugh at 
 her mishap, tossed her tresses back, pinned them 
 up (both hands at the business) ; and then, with 
 square shoulders and elbows stiff as rods, set to 
 working the dirt out of Don Urbano's surplice. 
 Baldassare brooded, chewing straws. What a 
 clear colour that girl had, to be sure ! What a 
 lissom rascal it was ! A fine long girl like that 
 should be married ; by all accounts she would 
 make a man a good wife. If he were a dozen 
 years the better of four and fifty he might — 
 Then came a shrug, and a " Ma ! " to conclude in 
 true Veronese Baldassare's ruminations. Shrug 
 and explosion signalled two stark facts: Baldas- 
 sare was fifty-four, and Vanna had no portion. 
 
 Yet he remained watching on the bridge, his 
 chin buried in his knotty hands, his little eyes 
 blinking under stress of the inner fire he had. 
 So it befell that La Testolina saw him, and said 
 something shrill and saucy to her neighbour. 
 The wind tossed him the tone but not the sense. 
 He saw the joke run crackling down the line, all
 
 6 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 heads look brightly up. The joke caught fire; 
 he saw the sun-gleam on a dozen perfect sets of 
 teeth. Vanna's head was up with the rest, sooner 
 up and the sooner down. Even from that height 
 the little twinkling beacons from the bridge shot 
 her through. He saw her colour deepen, head 
 droop ; she was busy long before the others had 
 wrung their joke dry. " Soul of a cat ! " grunted 
 Baldassare between his teeth, " what a rosy bag- 
 gage it is!" He waited a little longer, then delib- 
 erately passed the bridge, rounded the pillar by 
 the steps, and went down to the women like a 
 man who has made up his mind. Lizabetta of 
 the roving eye caught the first hint of his shadow. 
 Her elbow to Nonna's ribs, Nonna's " Pst ! " in 
 Nina's ear, spread the news. Vanna's cheeks 
 flew the flag. 
 
 " Buon' giorno, Ser Baldassare ! " shrilled La 
 Testolina, plump and black-eyed leader of mis- 
 chief. 
 
 " Giorno, giorno, La Testolina," growled the 
 old man. 
 
 Vanna, very busy, grew as red as a rose. The 
 others knelt back on their heels ; compliments of a 
 homely sort flew about, sped on by flashing teeth. 
 Baldassare's own were black as old channel-posts 
 in the lagoon, but in tongue-work he gave as 
 sharp as he got. Then a wicked wind blew 
 Vanna's hair like a whip across her throat, fit to 
 strangle her. She had to face the day. Bal- 
 dassare pondered her straight young back. 
 
 " When Vanna's a nun she'll have no more 
 trouble with her hair," quoth La Testolina, match- 
 maker by race.
 
 MADONNA OF THE PEACH-TREE 7 
 
 " When Vanna's a nun the river will be dry," 
 said Vanna from between her elbows. 
 
 " When Vanna's a nun the river, on the contrary, 
 will be in flood." This from Baldassare. 
 
 " Hey ! what's this ? " Caterina cried ; and 
 Nonna pinched her arm. 
 
 " Adige will go crying that she comes no more 
 to dip her arms," said the old man, with the 
 utmost gravity and a broad grin. The women 
 screamed their delight, slapped their knees, or 
 raised witnessing hands to heaven ; La Testolina 
 caught Vanna round the waist and gave her a re- 
 sounding kiss. 
 
 " Compliments, my little Vanna, compliments ! " 
 Her voice pealed like a trumpet. 
 
 " Vi ringrazio, signore," said Vanna under her 
 breath, and La Testolina held up a tress of her 
 long hair to the light. 
 
 " When Vanna's a nun you would bid for that, 
 eh, Baldassare ? " 
 
 " I will bid for whatever she will sell me," says 
 he, with a blink. Whereupon the matchmaker 
 made no more music. The scent was too hot for 
 that. 
 
 Yet for all his adventuring he got little reward ; 
 she turned him no more than the round of her 
 cheek. Vanna never stayed her work, and he, 
 ordinarily a silent man, paid no more compli- 
 ments — yet ceased not to look. 
 
 Going up the street at dinner-time, he made 
 his bid. He limped by the tall girl's side without 
 speech from either ; but at the door he looked up 
 queerly at her and pinched her ear. 
 
 " Go in and feed the youngsters, my chuck,"
 
 8 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 said he ; "I know where to meet Don Urbano, 
 and please Madonna you shall feed your own 
 before long." 
 
 " Yes, Ser Baldassare," says pretty Vanna in a 
 twitter. 
 
 The conference between the high contracting 
 parties was wordy, bristled with the gesticulations 
 of two pair of hands, and was commented on by 
 all the guests in the " Fiore del Marinajo." The 
 girl, said Don Urbano, was the very pride of his 
 eye, prop of his failing years, a little mother to 
 the children. She had had a most pious bringing- 
 up, never missed the Rosary, knew the Little 
 Hours of the Virgin, could do sums with notches 
 in a stick, market like a Jew's housekeeper, sew 
 like a nun, and make a stew against any wife in 
 the contrada. Dowry, dowry ! What did such 
 a girl as that want with a dowry ? She was her 
 own dowry, by Bacchus the Thracian. Look at 
 the shape of her — was that not a dowry? The 
 work she could do, the pair of shoulders, the 
 deep chest, the long legs she had — pick your 
 dowry there, my friends ! A young woman of her 
 sort carried her dowry on her back, in her two 
 hands, in her mouth — ah ! and in what she could 
 put into yours, by our Lord. Rather, it should be 
 the other way. What, now, was Ser Baldassare 
 prepared to lay out upon such a piece of goods ? 
 Baldassare shivered, grinned fearfully, and shook 
 his head many times. Money was money ; it was 
 limited ; it bore its value in plain figures upon its 
 face : you knew where you were with money. 
 But you could get wives cheaper than ducats, 
 and find them cheaper value, soul of a cat ! Be-
 
 MADONNA OF THE PEACH-TREE 9 
 
 sides, what was he ? A poor pedlar, by his faith ! 
 At this he spread out his arms and dropped them 
 with a flop upon his knees. The priest sat back 
 in his chair and cast appealing looks at the 
 rafters ; the company chuckled, nudged each 
 other, guffawed. Baldassare was made to feel 
 that he had over-coloured his case. True, he 
 admitted, he had a roof over his head, shared 
 fortune with the rats in that. But look at the 
 thing reasonably, comrades. Vanna would make 
 another to keep ; a girl of her inches must be an 
 eater, body of a dog ! Had his reverence thought 
 of that? His reverence made a supreme effort, 
 held up one pudgy forefinger, and with the other 
 marked off two joints of it. " Of mortadella so 
 much," he said; "of polenta so much" — and he 
 shut one fist; "of pasta so much" — and he 
 coupled the two fists; "and of wine, by the soul 
 of the world, not enough to drown a flea ! I 
 tell you, Baldassare," he said finally, emboldened 
 by the merchant's growing doubt — "I tell you 
 that you ask of me a treasure which I would 
 not part with for a cardinal's hat. No indeed ! 
 Not to be Bishop of Verona, throned and purfled 
 on Can Grande's right hand, will I consent to 
 traffic my Vanna. Eh, sangue di Sangue, because 
 I am a man of the Church must I cease to be a 
 man of bowels, to have a yearning, a tender spot 
 here ? " He prodded his cushioned ribs. " Go 
 you, Ser Baldassare Dardicozzo," he cried, rising 
 grandly in his chair — "go you; you have mis- 
 taken your man. The father stands up superb 
 in the curate's cassock, and points the door to the 
 chafferer of virgins ! "
 
 io LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 The tavern-room, on Don Urbano's side to a 
 man, beat the tables with their glasses ; Baldas- 
 sare had to surrender at discretion. The bargain, 
 finally struck, was written out by an obliging 
 notary on the scoring-slate. In the name of the 
 holy and undivided Trinity it was declared to all 
 men living and to be born, that Baldassare Dardi- 
 cozzo, merchant of Verona, was obliged to pay 
 to the reverend father in God, Urbano, curate of 
 Santa Toscana in the Borgo San Giorgio, the sum 
 of sixty florins Veronese and two barrels of wine 
 of Val Pulicella, under condition that if within 
 thirty days from those presents he did not lead in 
 marriage Giovanna, daughter of the said reverend, 
 he should be bound to pay the sum of one hun- 
 dred and twenty florins Veronese, and four barrels 
 of wine of Val Pulicella. 
 
 The notary executed a monstrous flourish at 
 the bottom — a foliated cross rising out of steps. 
 On the last step he wrote his own name, Bartolo 
 de Thomasinis ; and then Baldassare, smiling as 
 he should, but feeling as he should not, stuck his 
 seal upon the swimming wax, and made a cross 
 with the stile like the foundations of a spider's 
 web. 
 
 The affair was thus concluded ; before the 
 thirty days were up Vanna was taken to church 
 by her father, and taken from it by her new mas- 
 ter. Within a week she appeared at the door- 
 way of Baldassare's little shop, very pretty, very 
 sedate, quite the housewife — to sit there sewing 
 and singing to herself from grey dawn to grey 
 dusk.
 
 II 
 
 TERTIUM QUID 
 
 A year passed, two years passed. Vanna was 
 three and twenty, no more round but no less 
 blooming in face and figure ; still a reedy, golden- 
 haired girl. But Baldassare was fifty-seven, and 
 there was no sign of issue. The neighbours, who 
 had nudged each other at one season, whose heads 
 had wagged as their winks flew about, now ac- 
 cepted the sterile mating as of the order of things. 
 Pretty Vanna, mother as she had been to her 
 brothers and sisters, was to be a mother no more. 
 There was talk of May and December. Baldas- 
 sare was advised to lock up other treasure beside 
 his florins; some, indeed, of the opposite camp 
 gave hints none too honest to the forlorn young 
 wife. The Piazza Sant' Anastasia at the falling- 
 in of the day, for instance. Thus they put it. 
 All girls — and what else was Vanna, a wife in 
 name ? — walked there arm in arm. Others 
 walked there also, she must know. By-and-by 
 some pretty lad, an archer, perhaps, from the 
 palace, some roistering blade of a gentleman's 
 lackey, a friar or twinkling monk out for a frolic, 
 came along with an " Eh, la bellina ! " and then 
 there was another arm at work. So, for one, 
 whispered La Testolina, dipping a head full of 
 
 ii
 
 12 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 confidence and mystery close to Vanna's as the 
 girl sat working out the summer twilight. The 
 Via Stella was narrow and gloomy. The tall 
 houses nearly met in that close way. Looking 
 up you saw the two jagged edges of the eaves, 
 like great tattered wings spread towards each 
 other. When the green sky of evening deepened 
 to blue, and blue grew violet, these shadowing 
 wings were always in advance, more densely dark. 
 There it was that Vanna worked incessantly, 
 sewing seam after seam, patching, braiding, and 
 fitting the pieces. By no chance at all did a hint 
 of the sun fall about her; yet she always sang 
 softly to herself, always wore her pretty fresh 
 colours, and still showed the gold sheen in her 
 yellow hair. Her hair was put up now, pulled 
 smoothly back over her temples ; she spoke in a 
 low, sober, measured voice, and to La Testolina's 
 sly suggestions responded with a little blush, a 
 little shake of the head, and a very little sigh. 
 " Ser Baldassare is good to me," she would say; 
 "would you have me do him a wrong? Last 
 Friday he gave me a silver piece to spend in 
 whatsoever I chose. I bought a little holy-water 
 stoup with a Gesulino upon it, bowered in roses. 
 On Sunday morning he patted my cheek and 
 called me a good girl. To say nothing of the 
 many times he has pinched my ear, all this was 
 very kind, as you must see. With what do you 
 ask me to reward him ? Fie ! " La Testolina 
 snorted, and shrugged herself away. Vanna 
 went on with her sewing and her little song — 
 
 " Giovanottin, che te ne vai di fuora, 
 Stattene allegro, e cosi vo' far io.
 
 MADONNA OF THE PEACH-TREE 13 
 
 Se ti trovassi qualche dama nuova, 
 L'ha da saper che tua dama son io." 
 
 So sang she, innocently enough, whose sweet- 
 hearting went no farther than her artless lips. 
 There was not a spice of mischief in the girl. 
 What she had told La Testolina had been no 
 more than the truth : Master Baldassare was 
 good to her — better than you would have believed 
 possible in such a crabbed old stub of a man. He 
 was more of a father to her than ever Don Urbano 
 had been to anything save his own belly; but it 
 was incontestable that he was not father to any- 
 thing else. That alone might have been a griev- 
 ance for Vanna, but there is no evidence that it 
 was. Baldassare was by nature gruff, by habit 
 close-fisted : like all such men, the more he felt 
 the deeper he hoarded the thought under his ribs. 
 The most he would venture would be a hand on 
 her hair and a grunt when she did well ; so sure 
 as she looked up gratefully at him the old man 
 drew off, with puckered brows and jaws working 
 together. He may have been ashamed of his 
 weakness; it is dead certain that no one in 
 Verona, least of all Vanna herself, suspected 
 him of any affection for his young wife. Mostly 
 he was silent ; thus she became silent too when- 
 ever he was in the house. This was against 
 nature, for by ordinary her little songs bubbled 
 from her like a bird's. But to see him so glum 
 and staring within doors awed her: she set a 
 finger to her lips as she felt the tune on her 
 tongue, and went about her business mute. 
 Baldassare would go abroad, stooping under his 
 pack : she took her seat at the shop-door, threaded
 
 14 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 her needle, her fingers flew and her fancy with 
 them. The spring of her music was touched, 
 and all the neighbours grew to listen for the 
 gentle cadences she made. 
 
 So passed a year, so two years passed. Vanna 
 was twenty-three, looking less, when along there 
 came one morning a tall young friar, a Carmelite, 
 by name Fra Battista, with a pair of brown dove's 
 eyes in his smooth face. These he lifted towards 
 Vanna's with an air so timid and so penetrating, 
 so delicate and hardy at once, that when he was 
 gone it was to leave her with the falter of a verse 
 in her mouth, two hot cheeks, and a quicker heart. 
 
 This Fra Battista, by birth a Bergamask, ac- 
 credited to the convent at Verona by reason of 
 his parts as a preacher, was tall and shapely, like 
 a spoilt pretty boy to look at, leggy, and soft in 
 the palm. His frock set off this petted appear- 
 ance — it gave you the idea of a pinafore on him. 
 He did not look manly, was not manly by any 
 means, and yet not so girlish but that you could 
 doubt his sex. His eyes, which, as I say, were 
 soft as a dove's pair, he was not fond of showing ; 
 and this gave them the more searching appeal 
 when he did. His mouth, full and fleshy in the 
 lips, had a lovely curve. He kept it very demure, 
 and, when he spoke, spoke softly. This was a 
 young man born to be Lancilotto to some Gi- 
 nevra or other ; and, to do him justice, he had had 
 his share of adventure in that sort at an early 
 age. He had learned more out of Ovid than 
 from the Fathers of Divinity, you may believe. 
 Very popular he was in whatsoever convent he 
 harboured, as a preacher famous all over Lorn-
 
 MADONNA OF THE PEACH-TREE 15 
 
 bardy and the March, — in Bergamo, in Brescia, 
 even as far as Mantua he had been heard of. 
 The superior at Verona did his best to spoil him 
 by endearment, flattery, and indulgence ; but this 
 was difficult, since he had been spoilt already. 
 
 He passed down the Via Stella morning and 
 evening for a week. Morning and evening his 
 eyes encountered Vanna's. The third evening 
 he smiled at her, the fourth morning he saluted 
 her ; the fifth evening he stopped and slipped in 
 a gentle word ; the first evening of the second 
 week he stopped again, and that night, La Testo- 
 lina being by, there was quite a little conver- 
 sation. 
 
 La Testolina had black eyes, a trim figure, and 
 a way of wriggling which showed these to advan- 
 tage. Fra Battista's fame and the possibility of 
 mischief set her flashing ; she led the talk and 
 found him apt : it was not difficult to aim every 
 word that it should go through and leave a dart 
 in Vanna's timid breast. The girl was so artless, 
 you could see her quiver, or feel her, at every 
 shot. For instance, was his sanctity very much 
 fatigued by yesterday's sermon ? Eh, la bella 
 predica ! What invocations of the saints, what 
 heart-groping, what reachings after the better 
 parts of women ! It was some comfort to know 
 that a woman had a better part at all — by the 
 Saviour ! for their handling by men gave no hint 
 of it. Let Fra Beato — ah, pardon, Fra Battista 
 she should have said — send some such arrows 
 into men's hides ! See them, for the gross-feed- 
 ing, surly, spend-all, take-all knaves that they 
 were ! One or two she might name if she had
 
 1 6 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 a mind — ah ! one or two in this very city of 
 Verona, in this very Street of the Star, who — 
 But there! Vanna must go and hear the Frate's 
 next sermon, she must indeed. And if she could 
 take her old curm — Pshutt ! What was she say- 
 ing ? How she ran on ! She did indeed. Fra 
 Battista, leaning against the lintel, kept his eye- 
 lids on the droop, seemed to find his toes of 
 interest. But now and again he would look 
 delicately up, and so sure as he did the brown 
 eyes and the grey seemed to swim towards each 
 other, to melt in a point, swirl in an eddy of the 
 feelings, in which Vanna found herself drowning 
 and found such death sweet. La Testolina still 
 ran on, but now in a monologue. Fra Battista 
 looked and longed, and Vanna looked again and 
 thrilled. It grew quite dark; nothing of each 
 other could they see and little know, until the 
 friar put out his foot and found Vanna's. A 
 tremor, beginning at her heart, ran down to her 
 toes; Battista felt the flutter of it and was 
 assured. 
 
 When he left her that night he kissed her cold 
 hand, then La Testolina's, which he found by no 
 means cold, and moved off leisurely towards the 
 Piazza dell' Erbe. Neither woman spoke for a 
 while: La Testolina was picking at her apron, 
 Vanna sat quietly in the dark holding her heart. 
 She was still in a tremble, so ridiculously moved 
 that when her friend kissed her she burst out cry- 
 ing. La Testolina went nodding away; and the 
 end of the episode may be predicted. Not at one 
 but at many sermons of the tall Carmelite did 
 Vanna sit rapt ; not for one but for every dusk
 
 MADONNA OF THE PEACH-TREE 17 
 
 did he stoop to kiss her hand. All Verona saw 
 her devotion, — all Verona, that is, but one old 
 Veronese. The essence of comedy being that 
 the spectators shall chuckle at actors in a fog, 
 here was a comedy indeed. 
 c
 
 Ill 
 
 THE SEED OF DISCORD 
 
 When Vanna announced her condition the 
 neighbours looked slyly at each other; when her 
 condition announced Vanna, they chattered ; the 
 gossip sank to whispering behind the hand as 
 time went on, and ceased altogether when the 
 baby was born. That was a signal for heads to 
 shake. Some pitied the father, many defended 
 the mother: it did not depend upon your sex; 
 sides were taken freely and voices were shrill 
 when neither was by. Down by the river espe- 
 cially, upon that bleached board below the bridge, 
 ci and si whistled like the wind in the chimneys, 
 and the hands of testimony were as the aspen 
 leaves when storms are in. Some took one side, 
 some another; but when, in due season, it was 
 seen what inordinate pride Baldassare had in the 
 black-eyed bambino, there was no question of 
 sides. He had ranked himself with the unforgiv- 
 able party : the old man was an old fool, a gull 
 whose power of swallow stirred disgust. Vanna 
 had the rights of it, they said ; such men were made 
 to be tricked. As for Fra Battista's pulpit, it was 
 thronged about with upturned faces; for those 
 who had not been before went now to judge what 
 they would have done under the circumstances.
 
 MADONNA OF THE PEACH-TREE 19 
 
 Having been, there were no two opinions about 
 that. Messer Gabriele Arcangelo, some said, 
 judging by the honey-tongue ; San Bastiano, 
 others considered him, who went by his comely 
 proportions ; and these gained the day, since his 
 beardless face and friar's frock induced the idea 
 of innocence, which Sebastian's virgin bloom also 
 taught. The quality of his sermons did not grow 
 threadbare under this adventitious criticism : he 
 kept a serene front, lost no authority, nor failed of 
 any unction. There was always a file at his con- 
 fessional ; and at Corpus Christi, when in the 
 pageant he actually figured as Sebastian, his 
 plump round limbs roped to a pine-stock drew 
 tears from all eyes. 
 
 Unhappily you have to pay for your successes. 
 There were other preachers in Verona, and other 
 eloquent preachers, who, being honest men, had 
 had to depend upon their eloquence. These 
 were the enemy — Franciscans, of course, and 
 Dominicans — who got wind of something amiss, 
 and began to nose for a scandal. What they 
 got gave them something besides eloquence to 
 lean on: there were now other sermons than 
 young Fra Battista's, and the moral his person 
 pointed had a double edge. In fact, where he 
 pointed with his person, the Dominicans pointed 
 with their sharp tongues. The Franciscans, 
 more homely, pointed with their fingers. Fra 
 Battista began to be notorious — a thing widely 
 different from fame ; he also began to be uncom- 
 fortable, and his superior with him. They talked 
 it over in the cloister, walking up and down to- 
 gether in the cool of the day. " It has an ugly
 
 20 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 look, my dear," said the provincial ; " send the 
 young woman to me." 
 
 What of the young woman, meantime? Let 
 me tell the truth: motherhood became her so 
 well that she was brazen from the very begin- 
 ning. No delicacy, no pretty shame, no shrink- 
 ing — she gloried in the growing fact. When 
 she was brought to bed she made a quick recovery ; 
 she insisted upon a devout churching, an elabo- 
 rate christening of the doubtful son (whereat, if 
 you will believe me, no other than Fra Battista 
 himself must do the office !) ; thenceforth she 
 was never seen without her bimbo. While she 
 worked it lay at her feet or across her knee like 
 a stout chrysalis ; the breast was ever at its ser- 
 vice, pillow or fount ; when it slept she lifted up 
 a finger or her grave eyes at the very passers-by ; 
 her lips moulded a " Hush ! " at them lest they 
 should dare disturb her young lord's rest. The 
 saucy jade ! Was ever such impudence in the 
 world before ? It drew her, too, to old Baldas- 
 sare in a remarkable way. This the neighbours 
 — busy with sniffing — did not see. She had 
 always had a sense of the sweet root under the 
 rind, always purred at his stray grunts and pats, 
 taking them by instinct for what they were really 
 worth ; and now to watch his new delight filled 
 her with gratitude — and more, she felt free to 
 love the man. For one thing, it unlocked his 
 lips and hers. She could sing about the house 
 since Cola had come — they had christened him 
 after good Saint Nicholas — because Master Bal- 
 dassare was so talkative on his account. The old 
 man sat at home whenever he could, in his shiny
 
 MADONNA OF THE PEACH-TREE 21 
 
 armchair, his cup of black wine by his side, and 
 watched Vanna with the baby by the hour to- 
 gether, poring over every downward turn of her 
 pretty head, every pass of her fingers, every little 
 eager striving of the sucking child. There were, 
 indeed, no bounds to his content : to be a father 
 — poor old soul ! — seemed to him the most glori- 
 ous position in the world. Can Grande II. in the 
 judgment-seat, the bishop stalled in his throne, 
 the Holy Father himself in the golden chambers 
 of his castle at Avignon, had nothing to offer Ser 
 Baldassare Dardicozzo, the old-clothes man. 
 
 Though the neighbours knew nothing of this 
 inner peace, they could not deny that Monna 
 Vanna, brazen or no, was mightily become by her 
 new dignity or (as you should say) indignity. She 
 was more staid, more majestic ; but no less the 
 tall, swaying, crowned girl she had ever been. 
 She was seen, without doubt, for a splendid young 
 woman. The heavy child seemed not to drag 
 her down, nor the slant looks of respectable 
 citizens, her neighbours, to lower her head. She 
 met them with level eyes quite candid, and a 
 smiling mouth to all appearance pure. When 
 she found they would not discuss her riches she 
 talked of theirs. When she found them over- 
 satisfied with their children, she laughed quietly 
 as one who knew better. This was a thing to 
 take away a woman's breath, that she should 
 grow the more glorious for her shame. Party 
 feeling had been stormy, like crossing tides, be- 
 tween those who held Baldassare for a gull and 
 those who resented Vanna's unruffled brows. 
 But now there was but one party. It was very
 
 22 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 well to hoodwink an old skinflint ; but, by the 
 Mass, not honest to flaunt your methods in 
 the world's face. And since our own dignity is 
 the skin upon which we rely for all our protection, 
 while contempt for our neighbours is but a grease 
 we put upon it for its ease, it was self-defence 
 which brought it about that the party against 
 Vanna grew ominously large, while Baldassare 
 gained quite a host of sympathizers. The girl was 
 now shunned, ostentatiously, carefully shunned. 
 Even La Testolina was shy of her. But, bless 
 you, she saw nothing of it — or cared nothing. 
 She chattered to her grossly deceived husband, 
 went (nominally, you may be sure !) confessing 
 to the grossly deceiving friar, she cooed to her 
 baby, warbled her little songs, looked handsome, 
 carried herself nobly, as if she were the Blessed 
 Virgin herself, no less. This could not be en- 
 dured : a thousand tongues were ready to shoot 
 at her, and would have shot but for fear of old 
 Baldassare's grim member — reputed forked. 
 While he was in the way, fat-headed fool, there 
 was no moral glow to be won by a timely word. 
 The tongues lay itching; two or three barren 
 women in the Via Stella were hoarding stones. 
 
 Then, just about the time when the prior of the 
 Carmelites bid Fra Battista send him the young 
 woman, Baldassare took the road for a round of 
 chaffer which might keep him out of Verona a 
 week. The Via Stella felt, and Fra Battista knew, 
 that the chance had come.
 
 IV 
 
 THE HARVEST OF LITTLE EASE 
 
 Verona, stormy centre of strife, whose scarred 
 grey face still wears a blush when viewed from 
 the ramp of the Giusti garden, was in those times 
 a place of short and little ease. The swords were 
 never rusty. A warning clang from the belfry, 
 two or three harsh strokes, the tall houses dis- 
 gorged, the streets packed ; Capulet faced Mon- 
 tagu, Bevilacqua caught Ridolfi by the throat, and 
 Delia Scala sitting in his hall knew that he must 
 do murder if he would live a prince. It seems 
 odd that the suckling of a little shopkeeper should 
 lead to such issues ; but so it was. And thus it 
 was. 
 
 On the morning of Baldassare's setting-out for 
 the Mantuan road, La Testolina — at that time 
 much and unhealthily in Fra Battista's hire — 
 came breathless to the Via Stella. Craning her 
 quick head round the door-post, she saw Vanna 
 sitting all in cool white (for the weather was at 
 the top of summer), stooped over her baby, happy 
 and calm as always, and fingering her breast that 
 she might give the little tyrant ease of his drink. 
 That baby was a glutton. " Hist, Vanna, hist ! " 
 La Testolina whispered ; and Vanna looked up at 
 her with a guarded smile, as who should say, 
 
 23
 
 24 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 " Speak softer, my dear, lest Cola should strangle 
 in his swallow." 
 
 But La Testolina's eyes were like pin-points, 
 centring all her alarms. 
 
 " You must come to the Carmelites, Vanna. 
 There is a great to-do. The warden of San 
 Francesco has been to the bishop, and the bishop 
 is with Can Grande at this moment. You must 
 come, indeed, at once — subitissimo ! '" 
 
 Vanna laughed — the rich quiet laugh of a girl 
 whose affairs are in good train, and all other 
 affairs the scratch of a flea. 
 
 " Why, what have I to do with the bishop and 
 Can Grande, La Testolina ? " says she. " My 
 master is out, and I must mind the shop. There 
 is baby too." 
 
 " By Saints Pan and Silvanus, my girl, it will 
 be the worse for you if you come not," said La 
 Testolina, with a tragic sniff. " Eh, you little 
 fool, don't you know that it is you and your brat 
 have set all Verona by the ears ? " 
 
 Vanna had never thought of the ears of Verona, 
 and knew not how to think of them now; but 
 she saw that her friend was in a fever of sup- 
 pressed knowledge. Therefore she shawled her 
 head and her baby in her sea-blue cloak, locked 
 the shop-door, and followed La Testolina. 
 
 The sealed gates in the white convent wall 
 were barred and double-locked. A scared brother 
 cocked his eye through the grille to see who was 
 there. 
 
 " It is she," hissed La Testolina. 
 
 " Dio mio, the causa causans ! " cried he, and let 
 them in through a cranny. " Follow me, mis-
 
 MADONNA OF THE PEACH-TREE 25 
 
 tresses, and God give good ending to this adven- 
 ture," he prayed as he slippered up the court. 
 
 Vanna, blank and smiling, La Testolina with 
 wandering, fearful eyes, followed. 
 
 They found the prior sitting well back in his 
 ebony chair and in meditation, his chin buried in 
 his hand. Behind him (and behind his back his 
 hands) was Fra Corinto the pittanciar, pock- 
 marked, thin, and mortified. He looked the 
 prior's reproach, and was. 
 
 " Now, women," said the prior, testily — a fat 
 and flabby old man with a sour mouth — "now, 
 women, which of you is at the bottom of this 
 accursed business? Where is the baby? Let 
 me judge for myself." 
 
 La Testolina, protesting her remarkable inno- 
 cence by every quiver of her head, edged Vanna 
 to the front. Vanna stood up, straight as a candle, 
 and unveiled her bosom. 
 
 " Do you want to see my little son, reverend 
 prior? " she said. " Behold him here {Eccololi)" 
 She held him out proudly in her arms, as if he 
 were monstrance and she priest. 
 
 Now, whether it was that motherhood had fired 
 a comely girl with the beautiful seriousness of a 
 woman, so that she was transfigured before him ; 
 or whether some chance passage of the crossing 
 lights played tricks with his vision — which it was, 
 or whether it was both, I know not. He saw, or 
 thought he saw, a tall, smiling lady, hooded in 
 blue over white, holding up a child ; he saw, or 
 thought for a moment that he saw, the Image 
 of all Mothers displaying the Image of all Sons. 
 His fingers pattered over his scapular. " Eh, my
 
 26 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 Lady the Virgin ! What dost thou here, glorify- 
 ing this place ? " As soon as he had said it he 
 might have known that he was a fool ; but Vanna's 
 large grey eyes loomed upon him to swallow him 
 up, her colour of faint rose glowed over him and 
 throbbed. Vera incessu patuit deaf " By her 
 presence ye shall judge her," quoth the prior to 
 himself, and hid his eyes. 
 
 There was a hush upon all the group in the 
 chamber, during which you could have heard afar 
 off the nasal discords of the brethren in choir 
 droning through an office. No one spoke. The 
 prior's lips moved at his prayers ; Fra Corinto 
 looked frowningly before him ; La Testolina was 
 fidgety to speak, but dared not ; Vanna, her long 
 form like a ripple of moonlight in the dusk, cooed 
 under her voice to the baby; he, unheeding cause 
 of so much strife in high places, held out his pair 
 of puckered hands and crowed to the company. 
 So with their thoughts : the prior thought he had 
 seen the Holy Virgin ; Fra Corinto thought the 
 prior an old fool ; La Testolina hoped his rever- 
 ence had not the colic ; and Vanna thought of 
 nothing at all. 
 
 Fra Corinto it was (looking not for Madonna in a 
 baggage) who, by discreetly coughing, brought his 
 master back to his senses. The prior cleared his 
 throat once or twice, looked at the young woman, 
 and felt quite himself. Ridiculous what tricks a 
 flicker of sunlight will play on the wisest of men ! 
 
 " Monna Vanna," said he, " I have not brought 
 you here to judge between you and my brother 
 Battista, now at discipline in his cell. The flesh, 
 which he should have tamed, has raised, it ap-
 
 MADONNA OF THE PEACH-TREE 27 
 
 pears, a bruised head for one last spite. My 
 brother was bitten, and my brother fell into sin. 
 Whether, as of old, the tempter was the woman, 
 it is sure that, as of old, the eater was a man. I 
 will not condemn you unheard, lest I incur re- 
 proach in my turn. But our order is in peril ; 
 the enemy is abroad, with Envy, Hatred, and 
 Malice barking on their leashes. What can the 
 poor sheep do but scatter before the wolves? 
 Fra Battista, his penance duly done, must leave 
 Verona ; and you, my sister, must do penance, 
 that God be not mocked, nor the Veronese up- 
 raised to mock Him." 
 
 Of this solemn appeal, Vanna, to all seeming, 
 understood not one word. True, she blushed a 
 little, but that was because a prior was talking to 
 her: her honest grey eyes were quite untroubled, 
 her smile as tender as ever. She spoke as one 
 deprecating temerity — that she should speak at 
 all to so great a man — and by no means any 
 judgment. 
 
 " I am only a poor girl, reverend prior," said 
 she, " most ignorant and thick-witted. Pray, what 
 have I and my baby to do with these high mat- 
 ters of Fra Battista's error ? " 
 
 The prior grew angry. " Tush, my woman," he 
 grunted, " I beg you to drop the artless. It is 
 out of place here. Let me look at the youngster." 
 
 " Yes, yes, mistress, let us see the child," said 
 Fra Corinto, who croaked like a nightingale in 
 June. 
 
 Vanna moved forward on a light foot. " Will- 
 ingly, reverend fathers," said she. " He is a fine 
 child, they all say, and reputed the image of his
 
 28 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 father." A sublime utterance, full of humour- 
 some matter, if it had been a time for humours. 
 
 But it was not. La Testolina could not con- 
 tain her virtuous indignation — for who is so 
 transcendently righteous as your rascal for once 
 in the right ? 
 
 " Hey, woman!" she cried shrilly, "what gross- 
 ness is this ? Do you think the whole city don't 
 know about you ? " 
 
 Vanna turned quivering. " And what is it that 
 the whole city knows but does not say, if you 
 please ? " 
 
 The prior wagged helplessly his hands. Like 
 Pilate, he would have washed off the business if he 
 could. He looked at the two women. Eh, by 
 the Lord ! there would be a scene. But the whole 
 thing was too impudent a fraud: there must be 
 an end of it. He caught Fra Corinto's eyes and 
 raised his brows. Fra Corinto was his jackal — 
 here was his cue. He went swiftly to the door, set 
 it open, came back and caught Vanna roughly by 
 the shoulder. He turned her shocked face to the 
 open door, and his dry voice grated horribly 
 upon her ears. 
 
 " Out with you, piece ! " was what he said ; and 
 Vanna reeled. 
 
 For a full minute she gaped at him for a mean- 
 ing; his face taught the force of his words only 
 too well. She sobbed, threw up her high head, 
 bent it, like Jesus, for the cross, and fled. 
 
 The old porter leered by his open gates. " He ! 
 he ! They are all outside," he chuckled — " Mag- 
 pies and Dusty-hoods, Parvuses, Minors and 
 Minims, Benets, and Austins, every cowl in Ve-
 
 MADONNA OF THE PEACH-TREE 29 
 
 rona! Come along, my handsome girl, you must 
 move briskish this day ! " 
 
 She heard the hoarse muttering of the men, 
 and, a worse poison for good ears, the shrill 
 venom of the women. Out of the gates she 
 blindly went, and all the pack opened their music 
 upon her. Stones flew, but words flew faster and 
 stuck more deep. The mob, as she blundered 
 through the streets, shuffling, gasping, stumbling 
 at her caught gown, dry-eyed, open-mouthed, pant- 
 ing her terror, her bewilderment, her shame and 
 amaze — the mob, I say, dizzied about her like a 
 cloud of wasps ; yet they had in them what wasps 
 have not — voices primed by hatred to bay her 
 mad. There was no longer any doubt for her : the 
 pittanciar's word (which had not been " piece ") 
 was tossed from pavement to pavement, from bal- 
 cony to balcony, out at every open door, shot like 
 slops from every leaning casement, and hissed in 
 her ears as it flew. It was a mad race. The 
 Franciscans tucked up their frocks and discarded 
 stones, that they might run and shout the more 
 freely. The Dominicans soon tired: their end 
 was served. The cloistered orders were out of 
 condition ; the secular clergy came to weary of 
 what was, after all, but a matter for the mendi- 
 cants. The common people, however, had the 
 game well in hand. They headed her off the 
 narrow streets, where safety might have been, 
 and kept her to the Lung' Adige. Round the 
 great S the river makes she battled her blind 
 way, trying for nothing, with wits for nothing, 
 without hope, or understanding, or thought. She 
 ran, a hunted woman, straight before her, and
 
 3 o LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 at last shook off the last of her pursuers by San 
 Zeno. Stumbling headlong into a little pine-wood 
 beyond the gates, she fell, swooned, and forgot 
 
 It was near dark when she opened her loaded 
 eyes — that is, there was no moon, but a great 
 concourse of stars, which kept the night as a 
 long time of dusk. The baby was awake, too, 
 groping for food and whimpering a little. She 
 sat up to supply him : though in that act her 
 brain swam, it is probable the duty saved her. 
 Fearing to faint again, she dared not allow her- 
 self to think ; for children must be fed though 
 their mothers are stoned from the gates. Vanna 
 nursed him till he dropped asleep, and sat on with 
 her thoughts and troubles. Happily for her, he 
 had turned these to other roads than the Lung' 
 Adige. She knew that if he was to be fed again 
 she must feed also.
 
 THE MIRACLE O* THE PEACH-TREE 
 
 Directly you were outside the Porta San Zeno 
 the peach-trees began — acre by acre of bent trunks, 
 whose long branches, tied at the top, took shapes 
 of blown candle-flames: beyond these was an open 
 waste of bents and juniper scrub, which afforded 
 certain eatage for goats. 
 
 Here three herd-boys, Luca, Biagio,and Astorre, 
 simple brown-skinned souls, watched their flocks 
 all the summer night, sleeping, waking to play 
 pranks on each other, whining endless doggerel, 
 praying at every scare, and swearing at every 
 reassurance. Simple, puppyish folk though they 
 were, Madonna of the Peach-Tree chose them to 
 witness her epiphany. 
 
 It was a very still night, of wonderful star-shine, 
 but without a moon. The stars were so thickly 
 spread, so clear and hot, that there was light 
 enough for the lads to see each other's faces, the 
 rough shapes of each other. It was light enough 
 to notice how the square belfry of San Zeno cut 
 a wedge of black into the spangled blue vault. 
 Sheer through the Milky Way it ploughed a 
 broad furrow, which ended in a ragged edge. 
 You would never have seen that if it had not 
 been a clear night. 
 
 Still also it was. You heard the cropping of 
 
 31
 
 32 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 the goats, the jaws' champ when they chewed the 
 crisp leaves; the flicker of the bats' wings. In 
 the marsh, half a mile away, the chorus of frogs, 
 when it swelled up, drowned all nearer noise ; but 
 when it broke off suddenly, those others resumed 
 their hold upon the stillness. It was a breathless 
 night of suspense. Anything might happen on 
 such a night. 
 
 Luca, Biagio, and Astorre, under the spell of 
 this marvellous night, lay on their stomachs alert 
 for alarms. A heavy-wheeling, white owl had 
 come by with a swish, and Biagio had called aloud 
 to Madonna in his agony. Astorre had crossed 
 himself over and over again : this was the Angel 
 of Death cruising abroad on the hunt for goats 
 or goat-herds ; but " No, no ! " cried Luca, eldest 
 of the three, " the wings are too short, friends. 
 That is a fluffy new soul just let loose. She 
 knows not the way, you see. Let us pray for 
 her. There are devils abroad on such close 
 nights as this." 
 
 Pray they did, with a will, " Ave Maria," " O 
 maris Stella," and half the Paternoster, when 
 Biagio burst into a guffaw, and gave Luca a 
 push which sent Astorre down. 
 
 " Why, 'tis only a screech-owl, you fools ! " he 
 cried, though the sound of his own voice made 
 him falter ; " an old mouse-teaser," he went on in 
 a much lower voice. " Who's afraid ? " 
 
 A black and white cat making a pounce had 
 sent hearts to mouths after this: though they 
 found her out before they had got to " Dominus 
 tecum," she left them all in a quiver. It had been 
 a cat, but it might have been the devil. Then, be-
 
 MADONNA OF THE PEACH-TREE 33 
 
 fore the bristles had folded down on their backs, 
 they rose up again, and the hair of their heads 
 became rigid as quills. Over the brow of a little 
 hill, through the peach-trees (which bowed their 
 spiry heads to her as she walked), came quietly a 
 tall white Lady in a dark cloak. Hey ! powers of 
 earth and air, but this was not to be doubted ! 
 Evenly forward she came, without a footfall, with- 
 out a rustle or the crackling of a twig, without so 
 much as kneeing her skirt — stood before them so 
 nearly that they saw the pale oval of her face, and 
 said in a voice like a muffled bell, " I am hungry, 
 my friends ; have you any meat ? " She had a face 
 like the moon, and great round eyes ; within her 
 cloak, on the bosom of her white dress, she held 
 a man-child. He, they passed their sacred word, 
 lifted in his mother's arms and turned open-handed 
 towards them. Luca, Biagio, and Astorre, goat- 
 herds all and honest lads, fell on their faces with 
 one accord ; with one voice they cried, " Madonna, 
 Madonna, Madonna ! pray for us sinners ! ' 
 
 But again the Lady spoke in her gentle tones. 
 " I am very hungry, and my child is hungry. 
 Have you nothing to give me ? " So then Luca 
 kicked the prone Biagio, and Biagio's heel nicked 
 Astorre on the shin. But it was Luca, as be- 
 came the eldest, who got up first, all the same ; 
 and as soon as he was on his feet the others fol- 
 lowed him. Luca took his cap off, Biagio saw the 
 act and followed it. Astorre, who dared not lift 
 his eyes, and was so busy making crosses on him- 
 self that he had no hands to spare, kept his on 
 till Luca nudged Biagio, and Biagio cuffed him 
 soundly, saying, " Uncover, cow-face."
 
 34 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 Then Luca on his knees made an offering of 
 cheese and black bread to the Lady. They saw 
 the gleam of her white hand as she stretched it 
 out to take the victual. That hand shone like 
 agate in the dark. They saw her eat, sitting very 
 straight and noble upon a tussock of bents. 
 Astorre whispered to Biagio, Biagio consulted 
 with Luca for a few anxious moments, and com- 
 municated again with Astorre. Astorre jumped 
 up and scuttled away into the dark. Presently 
 he came back, bearing something in his two hands. 
 The three shock-heads inspected his burden; there 
 was much whispering, some contention, almost a 
 scuffle. The truth was, that Biagio wanted to 
 take the thing from Astorre, and that Luca would 
 not allow it. Luca was the eldest, and wanted to 
 take it himself. Astorre was in tears. " Cristo 
 amove!' 1 '' he blubbered, "you will spill the milk 
 between you. I thought of it all by myself. Let 
 go, Biagio ; let go, Luca ! " So they whispered 
 and tussled, pulling three different ways. The 
 Lady's voice broke over them like silver rain. 
 " Let him who thought of the kind act give me the 
 milk," she said ; so young Astorre on his knees 
 handed her the horn cup, and through the cracks 
 of his fingers watched her drink every drop. 
 
 That done, the cup returned with a smile pierc- 
 ingly sweet, the Lady rose. Saints on thrones, 
 how tall she was ! " The bimbo will thank you for 
 this to-morrow, as I do now," said she. " Good- 
 night, my friends, and may the good God have 
 mercy upon all souls ! " She turned to go the 
 way she had come, but Astorre, covering his eyes 
 with one hand, crept forward on three legs (as
 
 MADONNA OF THE PEACH-TREE 35 
 
 you might say) and plucked the hem of her robe 
 up, and kissed it. She stooped to lay a hand 
 upon his head. " Never kiss my robe, Astorre," 
 said she — and how under Heaven did she know 
 his name if she were not what she was ? — " never 
 kiss my robe, but get up and let me kiss you." 
 Well of Truth ! to think of it ! Up gets Astorre, 
 shaking like a nun in a fit, and the Lady bent 
 over him and, as sure as you are you, kissed his 
 forehead. Astorre told his village next day as 
 they sat round him in a ring, and he on the well- 
 head as plain to be seen as this paper, that he felt 
 at that moment as if two rose-leaves had dropped 
 from heaven upon his forehead. Slowly then, 
 very slowly and smoothly (as they report), did the 
 Lady move away towards the peach-trees whence 
 she had come. In the half light there was — for 
 by this it was the hour before dawn — they saw 
 her take a peach from one of the trees. She 
 stayed to eat it. Then she walked over the crest 
 of the orchard and disappeared. As soon as they 
 dared, when the light had come, they looked for 
 her over that same crest, but could see nothing 
 whatever. With pale, serious faces the three 
 youths regarded each other. There was no doubt 
 as to what had happened — a miracle ! a miracle ! 
 With one consent then — since this was plainly 
 a Church affair — they ran to their parish priest, 
 Don Gasparo. He got the whole story at last ; 
 nothing could shake them ; no detail was want- 
 ing. Thus it was : the Blessed Virgin, carrying 
 in her arms the Santissimo Bambino Gesu, had 
 come through the peach-trees, asked for and 
 eaten of their food, prayed for them aloud to
 
 36 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 Messer Domeneddio himself, and kissed Astorre 
 on the forehead. As they were on their knees, 
 she walked away, stopped, took a peach, ate it, 
 walked on, vanished — ecco! The curate rubbed 
 his head, and tried another boy. Useless: the 
 story was the same. Third boy, same story. He 
 tucked up his cassock with decision, took his 
 biretta and walking-staff, and said to the three 
 goat-herds — 
 
 " My lads, all this is matter of miracle. I do 
 not deny its truth — God forbid it in a simple 
 man such as I am. But I do certainly ask you 
 to lead me to the scene of your labours." 
 
 The boys needed no second asking: off they 
 all set. The curate went over every inch of the 
 ground. Here lay Luca, Biagio, and Astorre; 
 the belfry of San Zeno was in such and such a 
 direction, the peach-trees in such and such. Good: 
 there they were. What next ? According to their 
 account, Madonna had come thus and thus. The 
 good curate bundled off to spy for footprints in 
 the orchard. Marvel ! there were none. This 
 made him look very grave ; for if she made no 
 earthly footprints, she could have no earthly feet. 
 Next he must see by what way she had gone. 
 She left them kneeling here, said they, went 
 towards the peach-garden, stayed by a certain 
 tree (which they pointed out), plucked a peach 
 from the very top of it — this they swore to, 
 though the tree was near fourteen feet high — 
 stood while she ate it, and went over the brow of 
 the rising ground. Here was detail enough, it is 
 to be hoped. The curate nosed it out like a slot- 
 hound ; he paced the track himself from the scrub
 
 MADONNA OF THE PEACH-TREE 37 
 
 to the peach-tree, and stood under this last gazing 
 to its top, from there to its roots ; he shook his 
 head many times, stroked his chin a few: then 
 with a broken cry he made a pounce and picked 
 up — a peach-stone! After this to doubt would 
 have been childish; as a fact he had no more 
 than the boys. 
 
 " My children," said he, " we are here face to 
 face with a great mystery. It is plain that Messer 
 Domeneddio hath designs upon this hamlet, of 
 which we, His worms, have no conception. You, 
 my dear sons, He hath chosen to be workers for 
 His purpose, which we cannot be very far wrong in 
 supposing to be the building of an oratory or 
 tabernacle to hold this unspeakable relic. That 
 erection must be our immediate anxious care. 
 Meantime I will place the relic in the pyx of our 
 Lady's altar, and mark the day in our calendar 
 for perpetual remembrance. I shall not fail to 
 communicate with his holiness the bishop. Who 
 knows what may be the end of this ? ' 
 
 He was as good as his word. A procession 
 was formed in no time — children carrying their 
 rosaries and bunches of flowers, three banners, 
 the whole village with a candle apiece; next Luca, 
 Biagio, and Astorre with larger candles — half a 
 pound weight each at the least ; then four men to 
 hold up a canopy, below which came the good 
 curate himself with the relic on a cushion. 
 
 It was deposited with great reverence in the 
 place devoted, having been drenched with in- 
 cense. There was a solemn mass. After which 
 things the curate thought himself at liberty to 
 ruffle into Verona with his news.
 
 VI 
 
 THE VISITATION OF THE GOLDEN FISH 
 
 When a beast of chase — hart-royal, bear, or 
 wolf — has been bayed and broken up, the least 
 worthy parts are thrown to the curs which al- 
 ways come in at the heels of the pack. So it is 
 with a kingly seat: the best of the meats, after 
 the great officers of the household have feasted, 
 go to the dependants of these ; the peelings and 
 guttings, the scum and scour of the broth, are 
 flung farther, to the parasites of the parasites, 
 the ticks on ticks' backs. Round about the 
 Castle of Verona, where Can Grande II. misused 
 the justice which his forefathers had set up, lay 
 the houses of his courtiers; beyond them the 
 lodgings of the grooms ; beyond them again, 
 down to the river's brink, were the stews and 
 cabins and unholy dens, whose office was to be 
 lower than the lowest, that there might still be 
 degrees for the gentlemen of gentlemen's gentle- 
 men. And since even cockroaches must drink, 
 in this fungus-bed of misery there flourished a 
 rather infamous tavern by the sale of vino nos- 
 trano, black and sour, of certain sausages, black 
 also and nameless, speckled with white lumps, 
 and of other wares whom to name were to ex- 
 pose. This was the tavern of the Golden Fish. 
 
 On the evening of the day of the Translation 
 
 38
 
 MADONNA OF THE PEACH-TREE 39 
 
 of the Peach-stone, this tavern was full to suffo- 
 cation. Stefano, the purple-faced host, in shirt 
 and breeches, stood dealing the liquor from a 
 tub. Two outlaws lay under the benches, partly 
 for fear of a visit from the watch, partly because, 
 having already fallen there once, they feared to 
 fall there again if they rose. In one hand each 
 held his knife, in the other his empty mug. Two 
 ladies, intimates of theirs, Robaccia and Cruccia- 
 corda, sat immediately above them, with petticoats 
 ready to make ambush the moment a staff should 
 rattle at the door ; round the table half a dozen 
 shabby rogues bickered over their cards. Pica- 
 gente, the hairy brigand, lay snoring across the 
 threshold, and his dog on him ; on a barrel in 
 a corner a gigantic shepherd in leather, with 
 bandaged legs and a patch over one eye, shut the 
 other eye while he roared a hymn to Bacchus at 
 the top stretch of his lungs. The oil-lamp flick- 
 ered, flared, and gloomed, half drowned in the 
 fumes of wine. A smell of wicked bodies, foul 
 clothes, drink, and bad language made the air 
 well-nigh solid. The hour was at the stroke of 
 ten ; outside the streets seemed asleep. 
 
 In the middle of the uproar Stefano the host 
 looked up sharply, listening. 
 
 " Stop your devil's ferment, Malabocca ! " he 
 thundered at the shepherd ; " stop it, or I'll 
 split your crown." 
 
 " Bacco trionfante, 
 Amante e spumante, 
 Evviva P ubbriacchezza ! " 
 
 roared Malabocca, screwing up his eye.
 
 40 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 Stefano brought down a mug full of wine upon 
 his pate, which gave him a red baptism. 
 
 " Mum, you blockhead, mum ! " said his host. 
 " There is a stir outside the door I tell you ! " 
 
 The shepherd grew sober in a moment. 
 
 There was a brief scramble in the room — then 
 silence. The ladies' petticoats went farther than 
 they were ever intended to go ; Picagente rolled 
 over and over till he reached cover under the table ; 
 the cards were hidden, all the players' heads buried 
 in their elbows. Stefano blew out the light. Then 
 they heard distinctly a fluttering knock at the door, 
 timid but continuous. 
 
 Feigning a yawn, Stefano growled, " Who's there 
 at this hour?" 
 
 The answer came in a woman's voice, saying, 
 " Open, open, in the name of high God." It 
 brought every head into the air again, but hushed 
 every breath. 
 
 The shepherd broke the silence with a groan. 
 He brought his hand splashing on to his wet head, 
 then fell to his knees and began to confess his sins. 
 
 " My fault, my fault, my exceeding great fault ! 
 O Mary! O Jesus! O nobis peccatoribus ! " 
 
 Thus the shepherd, voicing the suspicions of 
 the rest. So he became their prophet as well as 
 their priest. He towered in the room. 
 
 " I tell you, comrades, that the hour of our visi- 
 tation is come. Not Can Grande and his hounds 
 are hunting us this night; not the tumbril, the 
 branding-irons, nor the cart's tail, are for us ; but 
 the pains of death, the fire eternal, the untirable 
 worm, the trumpet of the Last Things! Who 
 comes knocking in high God's name? Who saitb
 
 MADONNA OF THE PEACH-TREE 41 
 
 'Open'? — I will tell you: it is She who last 
 night lit upon my village and my own sister's 
 son. Eh! bodies of all dogs, what will become 
 of us sinners?" Here the shepherd beat the 
 drum of his breast as a signal before he fell flat 
 on the floor. 
 
 From behind his wailful voice the gentle knock- 
 ing was heard running on. It had never ceased ; 
 it was insistent! Crossing himself desperately, 
 Stefano slid back the bolts, then paused, then 
 turned the key, then paused again to breathe 
 hard, his hand upon the latch. He threw his 
 head forward with a gesture of abandonment to 
 what must be, flung wide the door, and dropped 
 upon his two knees. 
 
 Against a mild radiance, softer than any lamp 
 could shed, was a tall shrouded woman's figure. 
 They saw the round of her cloaked head, they 
 saw the white stream of her under-robe run from 
 a peak at her bosom in a broadening path to her 
 feet. They saw the pure grey moon of her face, 
 guessed by the dark rings where her eyes should 
 be, watched with quicker awe the slow movement 
 of her arms, lifted their own to what she held up, 
 and to the running under-current of the two sob- 
 bing drabs muttered in one voice their remem- 
 bered adoration. 
 
 The tall shepherd rose up by the help of the 
 table, swayed and spoke. No one knew his voice 
 again, hollow as it was like the sea-grumble. 
 
 "O Holiest, O Rose, O Stem of Sharon, O 
 Tree of Carmel ! " said he. " What wouldest thou 
 with us sinners?" 
 
 And the woman at the door said, " My friends,
 
 42 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 I have no roof to my head ; will you take me in ? 
 I am hungry; have you no meat for my child 
 and me ? " 
 
 The host in Stefano jogged the sinner to speak. 
 " Surely, surely, sweet Lady ! Surely, surely. I 
 entreat your Graciousness to enter, to step in, to 
 accommodate, to sit down, to be pleased to be 
 easy, to — to — to — " inspiration failed him — 
 " to sit down, in short," was his lame conclusion. 
 His sweat (as he said next day) would have blinded 
 any other man. 
 
 Through the backing ranks of the scared com- 
 pany — Robaccia leaning face to the wall, sobbing 
 her heart out ; Picagente, the hairy brigand, 
 breathing short and hard ; the shepherd, glorified, 
 exalted, bursting with prophecy; two thieves at 
 their prayers and a wanton taking the words from 
 them, — through such an assembly the Lady of 
 the Peach-Tree (who else, pray?) walked to the 
 table. A soft grey light from without filled the 
 room ; there was no need of a lamp, nor did any 
 eye then on watch fail to see all that followed. 
 Bread and wine were served by Stefano on bent 
 knee ; bread and wine (but sparingly) did the Lady 
 eat from cup and platter. That cup, that platter, 
 encased in gold leaves and crusted with tur- 
 quoise, are to this day in the Treasury. Crutches 
 have been cast before them, hearts innumerable 
 burn about them. When she had finished she 
 sat a little while with her white cheek against her 
 hand, whispering words in an unknown tongue 
 (they said, who knew no baby language) to the 
 child on her lap. He lifted up a little hand, and, 
 " Eh, my son, my son," she said, " wilt thou take
 
 MADONNA OF THE PEACH-TREE 43 
 
 of me ? " Then she gave him the breast, while 
 not a soul said anything but prayers for half an 
 hour. 
 
 When the child slept the Lady folded up her 
 dress, covered him with her cloak, and rose up in 
 their midst. 
 
 " Only the poor love the poor," said she, in 
 those low tones which all Verona came to know 
 by heart, " and only they who have little to eat 
 give to them that have less. My little son will 
 bless you for your charity ; and I, good friends, 
 will pray my Master to reward you when He 
 comes. Addio, addio, be with God." 
 
 Then she would have gone and left them 
 crying, had not Robaccia, the blowsy wench and 
 good-for-naught, wailed aloud and caught her by 
 the knees. 
 
 " Mother, mother, mother ! " whimpered this 
 hardy rascal, "bless me a little more than the 
 others, a very little more ! I am bad — eh, God, 
 I am vile, enough ! — but I will never let thee go 
 save thou kiss me." 
 
 You could have heard the roomful of them 
 catch breath together. Crucciacorda, the other 
 woman, laughed horribly; the shepherd made a 
 step forward to drag the slut away. But no ! 
 The light seemed to swell and grow towards that 
 point where it threatens to be music, so charged 
 with messages it is — it came undoubtedly from 
 the heart of the Lady through her smile. For 
 smile she did, as sweetly, as tenderly, as a break- 
 ing cloud. The sun of her smile was like a clean 
 breath in the stivy den ; and, behold, she took 
 Robaccia by the hand and lifted her up, she en- 
 
 °*A a*^-
 
 44 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 circled her with a mothering arm, and drew her 
 close to her own breast. Her lips touched the 
 bad girl's cheek, lingered for a moment there, 
 wistfully withdrew ; and Madonna of the Peach- 
 Tree, none staying her now, went out into the dead 
 street, and was seen no more of that company. 
 
 The sun at noon looked down upon Verona at 
 peace, upon her citizens at their prayers. Never 
 was such a scene in the stormy little city before. 
 All the bells of all the churches pealed all day — 
 with no lack of arms to pull them. Men and 
 women ran to and fro kissing whom they met, 
 with a "Save you, brother!" "Save you, sister! 
 well met, well met ! " The Grey Brethren, the 
 Black Brethren, the White Brethren of Carmel, 
 held hands, and confessed to each other as many 
 sins as they had time to remember. Can Grande 
 went unarmed about his own city, Bevilacqua un- 
 barred his door, Giusti married his mistress, the 
 bishop said his prayers. The cripples at the 
 church doors had no need to whine. As for 
 the tavern of the Golden Fish, it smelt of laven- 
 der and musk and bergamot the day through. At 
 one time there were eight litters with their bearers, 
 eleven stallions, trapped and emblazoned, held by 
 eleven grooms in livery, outside its door. The 
 ladies of the litters were in the room upon their 
 knees ; the knights of the horses, their great hel- 
 mets on their backs, knelt in the kennel praying 
 devoutly. The wail of " Dies Iras " went down 
 the Corso and up again, "Salve Regina" wavered 
 over the sunny spaces of the Bra. In the amphi- 
 theatre, after an open-air mass, the Cardinal-Legate 
 solemnly exposed the relics of last night's mira-
 
 MADONNA OF THE PEACH-TREE 45 
 
 cle, and a bodyguard of twenty noble youths, six 
 chaplains, and a Benedictine abbot went to the 
 suburb to escort into the city the curate with the 
 Peach-stone. It was a glorious day, never to be 
 forgotten in the annals of Verona. Charity and 
 the open heart went side by side with compunction 
 and the searching of the heart. Tears were shed 
 and kissed away ; kisses induced the fall of gentler 
 tears. It might be stoutly questioned whether 
 Verona held one unshriven soul, one sin un- 
 spoken, or one solace unawarded. 
 
 It might be reasonably questioned, yet it must 
 be denied. Within the walls of the friars of 
 Mount Carmel were two uneasy spirits. Fra 
 Sulpicio, the fat prior, was extended face down- 
 wards before the high altar; Fra Battista, the 
 eloquent preacher, chewed his thumb in his cell. 
 The pittanciar, on the other hand, was of the 
 common mind. He was ambling down the Via 
 Leoni with Brother Patricio of the Capuchins on 
 one arm and Brother Martino of the Dominicans 
 on the other, singing " In Exitu Israel " like a 
 choir-boy. But the prior, who had half believed 
 before, was sobbing his contrition into the pave- 
 ment, and Fra Battista was losing faith in himself, 
 the only faith he had.
 
 VII 
 
 LAST CONSIDERATIONS OF CAN GRANDE II. 
 
 You are not to suppose that the spectacle of 
 Verona garbed in a gown of innocence, singing 
 hymns and weaving chaplets of lilies, was to go 
 unnoticed by the ruling power. Can Grande II. 
 was lord of Verona, a most atrocious rascal, and 
 one of many; but, like his famous ancestor and 
 namesake, he had a gibing tongue, which was 
 evidence of a scrutiny tolerably cool of the shifts 
 of human nature. Human nature, he had ob- 
 served, must needs account to itself for itself. If 
 it met with what it did not understand, it was 
 prompt to state the problem in a phrase which it 
 could not explain. The simplicity of the plan 
 was as little to be denied as its convenience was 
 obvious. It was thus that Can Grande II. under- 
 stood the emotions of Verona; it was thus, in- 
 deed, that he himself, confronted with statements 
 and an explanation which did not satisfy him, ac- 
 counted to himself like any mother's son of his 
 lieges. He explained their explanation, but only 
 by another inexplicable formula. The energy 
 with which he expounded his own view to those 
 about him betrayed, perhaps, a lurking uneasiness 
 in the burly tyrant. 
 
 " Pooh, my good lord," said he to the bishop, 
 who had come full of the day's doings and night's 
 
 4 6
 
 MADONNA OF THE PEACH-TREE 47 
 
 report, "don't you know your own flock better 
 than this? Did you ever hear a man with a 
 broken limb attribute his mishap to other than 
 Domeneddio? However drunk he may have 
 been, however absurdly in a hurry — act of God ! 
 If it thunder and lighten of a summer night, if 
 it turn the milk — a judgment ! Luckily Monsi- 
 gnore has broad shoulders by all accounts ; per 
 Bacco! — He had need. Now then, look at this 
 case. A belated woman with a baby stumbles 
 upon a company of shepherds all in the twitter- 
 ing dark. Hearts jump to mouths, flesh creeps, 
 hairs stand tiptoe — Madonna, of course ! Whom 
 else could they call her, pray ? They don't know 
 the woman : name her they must. Well ! Who 
 is there they don't know whose name comes 
 readiest to the tongue ? Madonna, of course. 
 Good : Ecco Madonna ! " 
 
 This was very eloquently reasoned, but the 
 bishop shook his head. "It was not a brace of 
 goat-herds last night, Excellency, but a roomful 
 of brigands and their trulls in the Golden Fish. 
 The worst company in Verona, Excellency — the 
 most brazen, the most case-hardened. But the 
 story is the same from their mouths as from 
 the lads' ; not a detail is wanting ; not one point 
 gives the lie to another. Excellency, I would 
 bow to your wit in any case but this. The affair 
 is inexplicable short of a miracle." 
 
 Can Grande knit his black brows ; he objected 
 to be crossed, and the more so when he had a 
 sneaking thought that he was rightly crossed. 
 
 " I should like to see my Lady this night with 
 my own eyes, bishop," said he.
 
 48 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 " Hey, Excellency," cried the other, " there are 
 many devout souls in the same case." 
 
 Can Grande pished. " Devout jellyfish," he 
 grunted ; and then — " She seems to haunt one 
 quarter, eh ? " 
 
 " It is so, Excellency, save that yesterday she 
 must have passed through the Porta San Zeno 
 unseen of the guard." 
 
 " Have you interrogated the guard ? " asked the 
 tyrant, sharply. 
 
 " It was done, Highness. Nothing entered 
 between Compline and Prime but a couple of 
 bullock-carts and a cavalcade of merchants from 
 Brescia." 
 
 " What was in the bullock-carts, bishop ? " 
 
 " Birch-bark, Excellency, for the yards." 
 
 "H'm!" was all Can Grande had to say to this. 
 He changed the conversation. " I have had 
 the warden of the Minorites and the provincial 
 of the Dominicans here this morning," he said, 
 " about that accursed business of the rag-picker's 
 wife. It is another example of what I told you 
 just now, that these people attribute what they 
 cannot understand to persons they can only dream 
 about. They put down the whole of your miracles 
 to a special reward for their zeal in hounding 
 down the Carmelite and his mistress. They want 
 the order expelled ; I think they would like the 
 house razed and the church washed out with holy 
 water, or Fra Battista's blood — the latter for 
 choice. Now, I cannot pull down religious 
 houses, lord of Verona though I be, because a 
 herd of frightened peasants have gone capering 
 over the city singing, ' Salve festa dies.' I must
 
 MADONNA OF THE PEACH-TREE 49 
 
 really do the parties the honour of an interview 
 before I draw the sword. Let me be sure which 
 back I am going to score before I begin to carve. 
 You had better bring the prior and Fra Lancil- 
 lotto-Battista to me, and if you can collect the 
 young woman and her brat, so much the better." 
 
 " Alas ! Excellency, I fear the young woman is 
 in pieces," said the bishop. "She has never been 
 heard of since the day of her expulsion." 
 
 The advice, however, was good, the judgment 
 good enough ; but before it could be followed a 
 stroke more telling than any Can Grande's sword 
 could have made was wrought by Madonna of 
 the Peach-Tree. 
 
 On the night of that same day Can Grande 
 was sitting in the palace with two chosen com- 
 panions as dare-devil as himself, waiting the 
 hour of an assignation. It was about ten o'clock: 
 at half-past the hour they were to go out cloaked 
 into the streets, bent upon the lifting of a decent 
 burgess's wife from her bed. Hence they were 
 not in the castle, which is near San Zeno, but in 
 the Delia Scala Palace, in the very heart of the 
 city. The two accomplices were Baldo Baldi- 
 nanza, a grey villain, and young Francesco della 
 Rocca Rossa. All three were armed with swords 
 and daggers ; the cloaks lay with the masks on 
 the table. A servant came to the door, knocked, 
 and waited. Can Grande, who (to be just) feared 
 no eye upon his goings, shouted him into the 
 room. 
 
 " Well, son of a pig," was his greeting, " and 
 what is it now ? " 
 
 The fellow, whose teeth chattered in his head,
 
 50 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 announced a veiled lady, very tall, who would not 
 be denied. Baldinanza, grizzled and scarred as 
 he was, took a quick breath and glanced at Rocca 
 Rossa. The younger man was at no pains to 
 conceal his emotions. His face ran the gamut 
 from white to red, from red back again to white. 
 It ended ashen. Neither looked at his master. 
 
 " Let her in," said Can Grande ; and each 
 noticed how laboriously he spoke. 
 
 The servant turned to obey: there in the door- 
 way stood the Lady. 
 
 Tall enough she was, her head seemingly about 
 a foot from the cross-beam of the door. She was 
 cloaked from crown to foot ; nothing but the oval 
 of her face, colourless white with lips very wan, 
 and a droop to them inexpressibly sad, showed 
 out of the dark column she made. The servant 
 shrank into the passage and stayed there pray- 
 ing ; of the three men at the table only one, Can 
 Grande himself, had the spirit left to be courteous. 
 He got up ; the other two remained seated, Fran- 
 cesco with his face in his arms. 
 
 " Madonna," began the tyrant ; but she un- 
 cloaked her hand and put a finger to her sad lips. 
 
 " I may not stay," she said, in a voice so weary 
 that it drew tears to Baldinanza's wicked old eyes 
 — "I may not stay; but I must warn you, Can 
 Grande, before I go. Walk not in the streets 
 this night, walk not by the Piazza, pass not the 
 arched way; peril lies there. No sword shall 
 help you, nor the royal seat you have, — enter it 
 not. Now I have warned you ; let me go." 
 
 She put back her lifted hand under her cloak. 
 Can Grande saw the round head of the Babe
 
 MADONNA OF THE PEACH-TREE 51 
 
 asleep. For five minutes after her disappearance 
 no one spoke. 
 
 Francesco was the first. He groaned, " God 
 have mercy upon me a sinner," between his hands. 
 Then Baldinanza began to swear by all devils in 
 Christendom and Jewry, not blasphemously, but 
 in sheer desperate search for a little courage. Can 
 Grande shook his head like a water-clogged 
 hound, as if to get the ring of that hollow voice 
 out of his ears. The first to rise was the eldest 
 of the three. His eyes were very bright, and you 
 could see the long scar plainly shining on his 
 cheek. 
 
 " I am a sinner too," said he, " but this night 
 I will sleep clean." He made to go. 
 
 " Do you desert me, comrade ? " Can Grande 
 asked. 
 
 The old dog turned upon his master. 
 
 " Mother of Pity ! " he said in a whisper, " you 
 are never going after this ? " 
 
 " I am going, good sir. What of you ? " Baldi- 
 nanza blinked hard. " I am your servant, Can 
 Grande," he said shortly ; " where you go I follow. 
 That is how I read the Book of the Law." 
 
 " Well, Checco," the tyrant went on, turning 
 to the youngster still at the table, "what of 
 you r 
 
 Francesco threw up his arms. " Never, Excel- 
 lency, never ! " he groaned in his anguish. " I 
 dare not, I dare not ! " He concealed neither his 
 tears, nor his despair, nor his bodily fear. 
 
 Can Grande shrugged. " Are you ready, 
 Ubaldo ? " he asked. 
 
 Baldinanza bowed his head. The two men
 
 52 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 cloaked and masked themselves, and went out 
 of the palace. The moon shone broad over the 
 Piazza ; it was a cold white night. They crossed 
 at the farther corner, went up a few steps, and 
 then were lost in the glooms of the arched way. 
 They never came out alive. Six hired daggers 
 hacked the life out of them and their hearts from 
 their bodies. To this day the unwholesome place 
 is called for a testimony the " Volto Barbaro," the 
 horrid entry. So died in his sin Can Grande II., 
 a man who feared nothing and won nothing 
 but fear, and Can Signorio his son reigned in his 
 stead. You might trust the cloth-white lackey 
 and the stricken conscience of Francesco della 
 Rocca Rossa to spread the news they had.
 
 VIII 
 
 THE REPROACHES 
 
 A scared city of blank casements, a city of 
 citizens feverishly asking questions whose answers 
 they knew beforehand, a city of swift feet and 
 hushed voices, was Verona on the morrow of Can 
 Grande's murder. They carried the two torn 
 bodies covered with one sheet to Sant' Anastasia, 
 and laid them there, not in state but just huddled 
 out of sight, while the bishop and his canons sang 
 a requiem, and " Dirige " and " Placebo " went 
 whining about the timbers of the roof. Nobody 
 mourned the man, yet he had his due. His yel- 
 low-skinned wife knelt at his feet ; Can Signorio, 
 the new tyrant, frozen rigid, armed in mail, knelt 
 at his head. The mercenaries held the nave, the 
 bodyguard the door, archers lounged in the 
 Piazza. All this parade of force was mere super- 
 fluity ; Verona had no desire to revolt. The 
 Veronese were for rending their hearts and not 
 their rulers that day. 
 
 In the afternoon the show of a trial-at-law was 
 made. The depositions of the lackey, of Rocca 
 Rossa, of the finders of the murdered and the 
 hunters for the murderers, were taken and re- 
 corded by the Podesta in the presence of the 
 council. After that the six unknown dastards 
 
 53
 
 54 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 were publicly condemned to death by the civil 
 power from the loggia of the palace, and as pub- 
 licly excommunicated by the bishop from the 
 steps of the cathedral. It was felt on all hands 
 that on this occasion the bishop had wielded the 
 heavier arm : at least, in the absence of the crimi- 
 nals, he had brought his chances level. But 
 what gave him most weight was that which had 
 made the testimony of Francesco and the lackey 
 overshadow every event of a week full of events 
 — the interposition of Madonna of the Peach- 
 Tree. Not a soul in the city was left to doubt ; 
 it might be said that not a soul was left to save, 
 if faith can save you. The churches were packed 
 from dawn to dark, not an altar in a chapel went 
 bare of a mass. There were not enough of them. 
 Altars were set up in the squares, and the street- 
 ends blocked by a kneeling, bowing, weeping, 
 adoring crowd. The bishop spoke the common 
 mind when at Vespers that night he gave notice 
 that he should go forthwith to purge the Carmel- 
 ite church of the stain upon it, " at the request 
 of my reverend brother the Prior Provincial of 
 the Order." He set out then and there in solemn 
 procession of the whole cathedral chapter. Rank 
 formed on rank behind him till his ordered fol- 
 lowing trailed across Verona like a host. 
 
 Now, although, as it has been said, and truly 
 said, there was no soul in the city who doubted, 
 there was one soul very much in doubt. That 
 was Fra Battista's. The offer of purgation ha4 
 come in frenzy from the lips of his prior ; by its 
 acceptance Fra Battista saw himself driven to one 
 of two courses. He must destroy his reputation
 
 MADONNA OF THE PEACH-TREE 55 
 
 for obedience to heavenly commands which it had 
 been rank heresy in him to overlook, or that other 
 reputation he had won, for being a desperate lover, 
 upon which he shrewdly surmised some of his 
 fame depended. He may have been right about 
 that — I am not here to defend him. If he ad- 
 mitted his guilt, he would be unfrocked; he would 
 show like a chanticleer stripped of his hackles 
 before his hens. If he denied it, he could never 
 preach to the women again. Admit it ? Be de- 
 graded ? Eh, that would be a nasty shift! Deny 
 it ? Oh, preposterous ! The whole day he battled 
 with himself, voice crying against voice, without 
 result. Observe, it was a mere case of expediency : 
 he had no thought to own a fault or repudiate a 
 slander — the fellow had no conscience at all. Ex- 
 pediency, indeed, was his conscience, his attention 
 to it the ladder whereby he hoped to climb to the 
 only heaven he knew. No imagination had he, 
 but very tender senses. Applause — the hushed 
 church, the following eyes, the sobered mouths, a 
 sob in the breath — stood him foi glory. He had 
 worked for this, and, by the Lord ! he had won 
 it. And now he must lose it. Eh, never, never ! 
 Stated thus, he knew the issue of his battle. He 
 knew he could not give up these things — eye- 
 service, lip-service, heart-service — of which he had 
 supped so thirstily. Rather be unfrocked, driven 
 out of the city, reviled, and spit upon, than admit 
 such a shame as that other: to prove himself a 
 vapourer before his slaves, to be pricked like a 
 bulging bladder, slit open like a rotten bag — 
 God of the love of women, never, never in life ! 
 The other course, then ? He pictured himself,
 
 56 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 the tall and comely youth, standing up alone be- 
 fore the grim assembly of elders, flinty old men 
 who knew nothing of my Lord Amor, how he 
 rides afield in a rose-coloured garment, throwing 
 a flower and a dart to boy or girl as he goes. He 
 saw a dewy-eyed Battista owning himself Love's 
 priest. The women called him Sebastian for his 
 beauty. A Sebastian he was, per Dio ! stuck all 
 over with Amor's fiery darts. Like Sebastian, by 
 his persecutors he would be stripped bare ; like 
 that martyr's enemies, they would wound his ten- 
 der flesh ; like Sebastian he would endure, casting 
 his eyes upwards ; and like Sebastian he would 
 infallibly be wept by the women. 
 
 If women will weep for you they will bleed for 
 you ; the fount of tears feeds a river as well as 
 betrays a hidden well. Good, then ; good, then ! 
 He saw a future in all this. From the other 
 spike of the dilemma he saw nothing but his 
 impaling ; in this case, if he was impaled, balm at 
 least would be laid upon his wounds. Fra Bat- 
 tista determined to brazen it out before Verona. 
 
 They lit the tapers in the sanctuary betimes ; 
 and then all the brethren in their hoods sat in 
 choir awaiting the bishop. With him and his 
 clergy should come the reverend prior. Fra Bat- 
 tista was to stand on the rood-step to make his 
 purgation. He would be backed by the light. 
 So much of grace they would do him, that he 
 should face a sea of dark, and be seen but in 
 outline by it. 
 
 The bishop's procession, long announced by 
 the indefinable hum a great crowd breeds, swept 
 up the nave with a slippering of countless feet.
 
 MADONNA OF THE PEACH-TREE 57 
 
 The bishop in purple, his canons in scarlet, his 
 cross-bearer, his chaplains and singing-men, the 
 bearer of his mitre, his ring on a cushion ; after 
 these the archdeacon and his chaplains, the clergy 
 of the city, heads of religious orders, representa- 
 tives of the civil arm, Can Signorio with the offi- 
 cers of his household ; finally, the silent eager 
 people, edging past each other, whispering, cran- 
 ing their heads to see what there was and what 
 there was not to be seen. So came Verona in a 
 multitude to the great business of Fra Battista 
 and the rag-picker's wife, in reality thrilling with 
 but one thought: Madonna of the Peach-Tree 
 was in the city, for any waking soul to see ! 
 
 After the penitential psalms, a litany, and the 
 office appointed, the bishop stood with his back 
 to the altar, and spoke urbi et orbi from the text, 
 " God, who in divers times and in divers places," 
 etc. I cannot do more than report the sum of 
 his discourse, which was that, as it was plain 
 these late marvels had some root in the hidden 
 ways of men's hearts, so it behoved him as a 
 father to lay all such ways bare. That for him- 
 self, if he might speak as a man only, he was 
 conscious of no sin unpurged which the appari- 
 tions might condemn, and certainly (alas !) of no 
 graces of his own which they could have been 
 designed to reward. Let each speak for himself. 
 If there was any man in that vast assembly un- 
 shriven, let him confess now what his fault was ; 
 so that instant prayer might be made to their 
 glorious Visitant for forgiveness by intercession. 
 If, on the other hand, there was some Christian 
 virtue blossoming in secret, let them (brethren)
 
 5 8 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 find it speedily out, that thanks might be given 
 for mercies vouchsafed. It was noticed after- 
 wards that the death by butchery of the feudal 
 lord was passed by without a comment. There 
 might have been reason for this in the circum- 
 stance that Can Grande II. had been warned of 
 his sin, had nevertheless set out to commit it, and 
 had died in the act, as it had been foretold. To 
 discuss all this in the hearing of Can Signorio, 
 his successor, might have been a task too delicate 
 for the bishop. But I believe that the scent of 
 the miraculous, which was all about him, was too 
 much for him. He could nose out nothing be- 
 yond the line which that fragrance seemed to 
 point. All his thoughts, with those of his audi- 
 tors, were upon Madonna of the Peach-Tree, 
 whom there was nothing, absolutely nothing, to 
 connect with Fra Battista, his doings and undo- 
 ings. No one detected this, so Can Grande may 
 have been inspired. A great to-do, which no one 
 had the rights of, was followed by mysterious 
 appearances which no one pretended to under- 
 stand. What more natural than that one mys- 
 tery should be allowed to explain the other ? 
 
 The bishop having ended, the prior (who was 
 very nervous) began. There were certainly foxes 
 here and there in the vineyard, wild grapes on 
 the vines as well as grapes. No community was 
 so holy but that, through excess of zeal, over-in- 
 flamed by charity, it might nurture upon its bosom 
 a fanged snake. Might he not allude to the de- 
 testable and never-enough-to-be-condemned sin of 
 simony which, as they knew only too well, had 
 fattened in the Dominican convent at B ?
 
 MADONNA OF THE PEACH-TREE 59 
 
 What should he say of that Friar Minor, the fa- 
 mous preacher of S , who had been found 
 
 dead of a surfeit of melons and white wine ? 
 Alas! he brought the taint of gluttony — a 
 deadly sin — upon his order! Wonderful, then, 
 would it be in such days as these if the most re- 
 nowned of all orders and most venerable, that of 
 Mount Carmel, should pass unscathed through 
 the tempting fires! Not only wonderful, but in 
 itself a snare. What a temptation to the sin of 
 pride in the order! What a drawing on of others 
 (too disposed already) to the sin of envy, to un- 
 charitable speaking — ah, and to unlovely deal- 
 ing! Let sin be owned, therefore, since men were 
 born sinners; but let purgation be done, the 
 wicked member plucked out, etc. 
 
 He passed to the sin of Fra Battista — that 
 promising young apostle — handled it soberly yet 
 gingerly, hinted extenuating circumstances — the 
 pride of life, young blood, the snares of women, 
 Satan's favourite sitting-places, etc. — drew a tear 
 or two from his own eyes and floods from La 
 Testolina ; and then called Fra Battista to come 
 forth that he might purge himself or be purged 
 by the canon law. 
 
 Thus exhorted, Fra Battista, becomingly ton- 
 sured, delicately combed, with an aspect most 
 meek and hands at a pretty droop, came demurely 
 out of the friars' door into the full light of the 
 chancel. To the bishop he bowed, to the altar 
 he bent a knee, to his father in religion he bent 
 both ; to the hush in the nave he cast a glance of 
 wistful appeal. It was truly aimed. They could 
 see nothing of his face, nothing but the shape of
 
 60 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 him, yet the women were sure he made a wistful 
 appeal. Many were affected ; the anxiety to hear 
 him was intense, the squeezing fearful. An enor- 
 mous fish-seller from the Lago di Garda, who 
 had come in express, leaned over La Testolina 
 and ground a braized heel into her toes. " Achi!" 
 whimpered the little laundress; but "Snakes of 
 Purgatory!" said the other, "what's a toe more 
 or less when Madonna is round the corner with 
 a blessing for us in her maunch?" 
 
 In a rapt silence, with no preface at all, Fra 
 Battista made direct confession to all his gods 
 (whether remote or throned within the sanctuary- 
 rail) that he had committed the sin whereof he 
 was accused. A perceptible shiver of sensation 
 swept over the church, although everybody in it 
 was sure, before he had uttered a word, what that 
 word ought to be. Indeed, he had never denied 
 it; but not to deny is different from bold affirma- 
 tion. The prior, whose avowal had also been tacit, 
 looked pained: avowals are painful things. The 
 bishop, more used to avowals, did his best to look 
 shocked; the archdeacon (professionally enough) 
 thought avowal the most indecent part of an inde- 
 cent business. The Dominicans looked at each 
 other, frankly delighted; the Friars Minor told 
 each other what they had always said. What the 
 people thought can only be guessed, for the nave 
 was in darkness; but when Battista had made an 
 end, a shuddering sigh came from a woman far 
 down the church, and then stopped, hidden in some 
 hasty new movement there which could not be ac- 
 counted for. There seemed to be a stampede, 
 a sudden rush to the side, the surging of some
 
 MADONNA OF THE PEACH-TREE 61 
 
 great unsuspected wave, which broke, as it were, 
 in the midst of the throng, and washed an open 
 space to right and left. Up in the choir, after the 
 first surge of this wave (which made every heart 
 beat), all ears heard the long-drawn, following 
 "Ah!" — not fear only, not expectation made real, 
 but rather awe, expectation shown just. It began 
 low and hollow, ran up to a hiss: then the silence 
 was such that the cracking of a man's ankle-bone 
 by the door sounded like a carter's whip to him 
 upon the bishop's throne. In that deathly state 
 the whole body of people remained breathless, 
 waiting what was to ensue. 
 
 Out of the dark, stealing (it appeared) from 
 the middle of the nave and floating down the 
 church upon a bodily silence, came a cold voice. 
 Like a wind from the snow-mountains it came in 
 a thin stream, before which Fra Battista shrivelled 
 visibly. 
 
 "O thou craven!" it said, "thou wicked man! 
 what sin can be greater than thine? If thou 
 hadst done this thing thou ownest to, it had 
 gone better with thee than now, when thou stand- 
 est a liar and boaster in a filthy cause. Wilt thou 
 foul thyself, Battista, and think it honour? I tell 
 thee that it was more tolerable for that stoned 
 simple wretch than it shall be for thee; and it 
 were better that men should go unsouled like the 
 dogs, committing offence with their bodies, than 
 souled horribly like thee, thou sinner of the mind, 
 idolater of thine own image ! Dost thou yet make 
 slippery the ways of Mount Carmel, Battista? 
 Dost thou yet hang the pearls, which are the 
 tears of Mary, about thy neck ? It shall be in
 
 62 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 such case that Carmel will be her holy hill no 
 more, and those same pearls turned to leaden 
 bulls to seal thee in Tophet. There is no mercy 
 for the coward, and none for him that serves false 
 gods. Go forth, thou groper after vainglory, ken- 
 nel with the swine ! " 
 
 The voice ceased. Fra Battista, who had been 
 rocking under its chill breath, fell with a thud. 
 The bishop adored the altar; the rest — priests, 
 monks, people alike — broke into " Salve Regina," 
 so loud, so wild, the very church seemed to shake. 
 At that time the west doors flung open of them- 
 selves, and a roaring wind swept round, disastrous 
 to candles. A quick flicker of blue flame jagged 
 across the nave ; the thunder came instant, peal- 
 ing, crackling, braying ruin, fading at last to a 
 distant grumble ; and then the rain. No one got 
 home that night with a dry skin; but it was 
 Madonna who had quenched the doubting of 
 Fra Battista, and washed fragrant the memory 
 of Vanna to whomsoever had loved her once. 
 As her lovers in early days had been many, it 
 follows that they all forgot in the delight of remi- 
 niscence any harsh judgments she had received.
 
 IX 
 
 THE CROWNING PROOF 
 
 The week went its way without further miracle ; 
 but Verona had supped full of miracles, and had 
 need to digest. The signs and wonders she had 
 witnessed, as one soul, in the church of the Car- 
 melites had been so astonishing that you will 
 easily understand how all little differences be- 
 tween order and order were forgotten. The root 
 of disturbance — Vanna and her baby, Fra Battista 
 and his luxurious imaginings, Baldassare and his 
 addition — were also forgotten. Baldassare was 
 at Mantua, Vanna had been stoned to death 
 ("martyred" was now the word) — all was well. 
 Fra Battista had been quietly ridded the very 
 next morning : unfrocked, he took the way of the 
 Brenner and the mountains, and Veronese history 
 knows nothing further certainly of him. It is 
 thought he may have got so far as Prague, where 
 at any rate a perfervid preacher called Baptist 
 von Bern was burnt for heresy in the year 1389 
 — a spreader of anabaptistical doctrines he was, 
 Gospels of the Spirit, Philadelphianism, and 
 what not. Everything settled down to routine: 
 Can Signorio to tyranny and coquetting with 
 Visconti of Milan (who finally swallowed him 
 up) ; the bishop to accommodating the claims of 
 God, the Pope, and his temporal lord, to those of 
 
 63
 
 64 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 salvation and his stomach ; and in like manner did 
 every person in this narrative after his kind. 
 
 Then, on a bright morning in early September, 
 old Baldassare came limping up the Ponte Navi 
 with his pack on his back, paused a minute on 
 the bridge, as his habit was, to look down on the 
 busy laundresses by the water, spat twice, and 
 so doing was observed, threw a cracked " Buon' 
 giorno, La Testolina!" over the side, and went 
 on his slow way to the Via Stella. 
 
 It was still very early, but not so early that 
 Vanna was not in her shop-door sewing and 
 crooning to the baby on her lap. She heard his 
 step the moment he rounded the bottom corner 
 of the street, blushed prettily from neck to tem- 
 ples, caught up the child, and went out to meet 
 her lord. Standing before him in her cool cotton 
 gown, there was no sun in the dusky place but 
 what her halo of hair made, no warmth but that 
 of her welcoming mouth. Half shyly she stopped, 
 holding up the baby for him to see : it was not 
 for her to make advances, you must understand ; 
 but it needed no magic to make one believe that 
 what a man's wife should be to a man that was 
 young Monna Vanna to her rag-picker. Bal- 
 dassare blinked and tried to look harassed ; the 
 next minute he had pinched Vanna's cheek. She 
 put the baby into his wiry old arms — a very 
 right move of hers. 
 
 " Eh, bambinaccio" he muttered, highly pleased, 
 " it is good to see thee ! So thou art come out to 
 meet thy old dad — thou and thy little rogue of a 
 mother ? Come, the pair of ye, and see what my 
 pack has in store."
 
 MADONNA OF THE PEACH-TREE 65 
 
 The baby crowed and bubbled, Vanna nested 
 her arm closer in his ribs, and the trio went into 
 the house. 
 
 A keen shot from one eye sufficed to assure 
 the old fellow that as well as a little beauty he 
 had a domestic treasure to wife. The house was 
 as fresh as her cheeks, as trim as her shape. 
 " Now the saints be good to this city of Verona," 
 said he, " as to me they have proved not amiss." 
 This was great praise from Baldassare ; his gen- 
 erosity gave it point. From his pack came a pair 
 of earrings — wagging, tinkling affairs of silver and 
 coral ; next some portentous pins, shining globes 
 like prickly pears ; a coral and bells for Master 
 Niccola, and a sca/dmo of pierced brass for the 
 adornment of the house. " Thank you, Baldas- 
 sare," said Vanna to her blinking old master; 
 then she kissed him. Before she knew where she 
 was, before she could say " Gia ! " he put his arm 
 round her and whispered in her ear. Then she 
 clung to him, sobbing, laughing, breathing quick; 
 and the rest it were profanation to report. 
 
 Verona rubbed its eyes as it came out yawn- 
 ing to its daily work. There was the open shop, 
 ever the first in the street; there the padrone; 
 there, by the manger of Bethlehem, were the 
 padrona and the baby, whom they had last seen 
 huddling from their stones. Vanna wore her 
 colours that morning ; she was rosy like the dawn, 
 she was smiling, she had very bright eyes. But 
 there was a happy greeting for man or wife who 
 looked her way; and when La Testolina came 
 peeping to behold the discomfiture of Baldassare, 
 Vanna's gay looks found her out, and " Buon'
 
 66 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 giorno, La Testolina," came more cheerfully from 
 her than it had come from her husband on the 
 bridge. All the little woman could do was to 
 squat upon the threshold at her friend's feet and 
 pretend that she was troubled with spasms. 
 
 The crowning proof remains to be told. As 
 La Testolina (who blazed the story abroad) is 
 reported to have said, you might have drummed 
 the guard out with her heart-beats. Vanna, by 
 way of weaning her baby, it seems, was tempting 
 him with gobbets of peach from a wine-glass. 
 She bit a corner from the peach and tendered 
 it in her lips to the youngster on her lap. The 
 baby (a vigorous child) made a snap at it like 
 a trout at a fly, and a gulp so soon as he had 
 it. The peach was hard, the morsel had many 
 corners, — went down bristling, as it were. Cola 
 had his first stomach-ache, was hurt, was mis- 
 erable, prepared to howl. At that moment La 
 Testolina happened to look at him : she stared, 
 she gasped, she reeled against the door-post. 
 
 " Hey, Mother of Jesus ! " she cried ; " look at 
 the baby ! " 
 
 " It was a corner-piece, I'm afraid," said Vanna, 
 with great calmness ; " but the natural juices will 
 thaw it." 
 
 " No, no, no ! It is not that, woman," her friend 
 went on feverishly — " it is not that! Look at his 
 face, look at his face ! " 
 
 Vanna looked. " Well," she asked, " what of 
 his face ? " 
 
 The bambino, to express his agony, was grin- 
 ning from ear to ear. 
 
 This was the last miracle wrought by Madonna 
 of the Peach-Tree.
 
 IPPOLITA IN THE HILLS 
 
 THE GLORIOUS IPPOLITA 
 
 Almighty God, that supreme Architect, Who, 
 alone among craftsmen, knows when to give and 
 when to stay the rein, has chosen the Plain of 
 Emilia to be, as it were, the garden of Italy, a 
 garden set apart betwixt Alp and Apennine to 
 be adorned within a garden ; has filled it with 
 every sort of fruit and herb and flowering tree ; 
 has watered it abundantly with noble rivers; 
 neither stinted it of deep shade nor removed it 
 too far from the timely stroke of the sun ; has 
 caused it, finally, to be graced here and enriched 
 there with divers great and grave cities. Man, 
 who has it not in him to be thrifty in so prodigal 
 a midst, has here also thought it lawful to go free. 
 Out of that lake of rustling leaves rise, like the 
 masts of ships crowding a port, church-towers, the 
 belfries of pious convents, the domes and turrets 
 of great buildings walled into cities. Among 
 which, prized as they all are and honourably addi- 
 tioned — Vicenza, Treviso, Mantua, Verona, Fer- 
 rara, — there is none more considerable than 
 Padua, root of learning and grey cupolas, chosen 
 
 67
 
 68 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 to be the last resting-place of Antenor, King 
 Priam's brother, and the first of Titus Livy. 
 
 It is of Padua that I am now called upon to 
 report certain matters which may seem strange 
 to one who does not know her well : to the others, 
 verbum satis. Whether it is their University 
 (too famous, perhaps, for so quiet a place) or the 
 suspiration of their greatest citizen which has 
 kindled their wits ; whether that cauldron of 
 brick, the Santo, bubbling with silver domes, is 
 the stem or flower of their exaltation; whether 
 their seat at the head of a sun-steeped marsh (at 
 whose mouth is Venice) hath itself unseated them; 
 whether Petrarch set boiling what Saint Antony 
 could not allay ; what it was, how it was, who 
 gave them the wrench, I know not — but the fact 
 is that the people of Padua have been as freakish 
 a race as any in Italy ; at the mercy of any head 
 but the aggregate's, pack-mules of a notion, galley- 
 slaves of a whim, driven hither and thither in a 
 herd, like those restless leaves (souls once) whose 
 nearer sight first made Dante pitiful. Not that 
 they, for their part, asked for pity or got it. 
 Mostly they paid their tavern bills when the last 
 cup had been drained and the last chorus led. 
 When Ezzelin was master of the revels they 
 paid in blood : that tower of his by the river is 
 dark with it yet. Petrarch from his mountain- 
 vineyard at Arqua tipped them a brighter stave : 
 they broke their hearts for pretty women and had 
 every one the comfort of a swanlike end, since 
 sonnets are a knack. With Antony they flagel- 
 lated, with Carrara defended walls, with Gatteme- 
 lata knocked them down. Then Venice took
 
 IPPOLITA IN THE HILLS 69 
 
 what Padua could never keep ; the Euganeans 
 hailed on either side the Lion of Saint Mark ; the 
 Arts flourished ; Squarcione cut out small-clothes 
 and taught anatomy none the worse ; Mantegna 
 dreamed of Julius Caesar, smouldering while he 
 dreamed ; and Ippolita, the stone-mason's daugh- 
 ter, from too much courting fled in breeches to 
 the hills. She, like all the Padovani, paid her 
 score without flinching. It may have been run 
 up without leave asked, but it was run up in her 
 name. The rule in Padua was so. I never heard 
 that she repined. Maybe that she had her 
 money's worth ; but of that you will be able to 
 judge as well as I. 
 
 Padua is a city set in meadows full of light ; it 
 is well spaced, plentifully watered, arcaded, green 
 with gardens. The streets are like cloister- 
 walks ; as in Lucca, the plane is the sacred tree, 
 and next to that flag of green on a silver staff, 
 the poplar shows the city blushful in the spring 
 and thrilling all a summer with the memory. It 
 is a place of brick and marble, painted orange, 
 brown, yellow, and warm white, where every cor- 
 ner-stone and every twig is printed sharply on a 
 sky of morning blue. 
 
 " Quivi le mura son fatte con arte, 
 Che parlano, e rispondono a i parlanti." 
 
 A tale of Padua should have the edge of a cut 
 gem. So let Ippolita's be told. 
 
 In her day — that day when, at sixteen years 
 old or so, the sun briefly lit upon her golden 
 head and showed her for the lovely girl she was 
 — Padua was passing through a time of peace.
 
 7 o LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY ch. 
 
 Novello was dead at last, poor heroic gentleman, 
 Verona was shaken off; Venice was supreme — 
 easy, but unquestionably mistress of the Emilia. 
 There was time to make madrigals, to make eyes, 
 to make love, to imagine portraits. Mantegna 
 was painting giants in the Eremitani and Bellini 
 picking his brains, but not as yet a quarrel. The 
 classics, the ingenuous arts, lovely woman — 
 always interwoven when times are happiest — 
 flourished in that sunny place : it was not really 
 wonderful that Ippolita the stone-cutter's daugh- 
 ter, classically fair, indisputably a beauty, should 
 win all seeing eyes and be the despair of all 
 rhymers. Given the vision to the visionary (and 
 both came in their time), she might be trusted 
 with the rest; for she was remarkable by con- 
 trast; there were none like her. The Paduan 
 girls are all charming, and mostly pretty. Ippo- 
 lita was neither : she was beautiful, and when you 
 came to know her face, lovely. They are brown, 
 she was fair; they are little, she was very tall. 
 They have eyes like a dove's, glossed brown ; 
 hers were deeply blue, the colour of the Adriatic 
 when a fleeting cloud spreads a curtain of hya- 
 cinth over the sheeted turquoise bed. Beauti- 
 fully hued in mingled red and white, delicately 
 shaped, pliant, supple, and shy, such as she was 
 (an honest, good girl, Heaven knows !) she might 
 have lived and died in her alley — sweetheart 
 of some half dozen decent fellows, wife of the 
 most masterful, mother of a dozen brats, unno- 
 ticed save for her qualities of cheerful drudge and 
 brood-mare ; beautiful as a spring leaf till twenty, 
 ripe as a peach on the wall till thirty, keen-faced
 
 I IPPOLITA IN THE HILLS 71 
 
 and wise, mother and grandmother at forty ; and 
 so on — such she might have lived and died, and 
 been none the worse for her reclusion, had she 
 not leaned more than half out of her window in 
 the Vicolo one bright April morning of her six- 
 teenth year, to exchange lively banter with a friend 
 below, and been seen by Messer Alessandro del 
 Dardo, who within the cuirass of Sub-Prefect of 
 Padua nourished the heart of an approved Poet ; 
 been seen of him for the miracle of young beauty 
 she really was. Chance sparks kindle chance 
 tinder ; and so here. I am far from alleging the 
 heart of Messer Alessandro to be dry tow ; but 
 I do repeat it, Padua was a freakish cityful, 
 Ippolita lovely exceedingly, amorous poetry in 
 the air. 
 
 He, then, passing by, saw her stoop flushed 
 and sparkling from above him ; the sun caught 
 her shining hair; a loose white smock revealed 
 so much of her neck as to picture him the snowy 
 rest. Snow and rosebuds — O ye little gods! 
 As he stood in ecstasy she saw him at the end of 
 the lane, and blushing drew back with a finger in 
 her mouth, to thrill and giggle at ease. She 
 saw a great gentleman stare; he saw a rosy god- 
 dess stoop and laugh, then blush and hide. Vitas 
 hinnuleo me sinzilis, Chloe ! Away he went, his 
 heart leaping like a wood-fire, to report to Me- 
 leagro de' Martiri and Stazio Orsini, to Donna 
 Euforbia, Donna Clarice, and Donna Simpatica 
 — friends and poets alike — that he had had a 
 most rare vision. 
 
 " To me it seems," he said, " that that fair- 
 haired daughter of the Greeks, Madonna Elena,
 
 72 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY ch. 
 
 the slim, the rosy-fingered disturber of the repose 
 of cities, hath appeared to distract this our city 
 of Padua. Me at least she hath distraught. Fair 
 friends, sister and brother poets, you shall under- 
 stand that henceforth I devote myself to this lady 
 and her praise. More, I vow a vow, and call 
 upon you to register it in the Golden Book of 
 the Amorous Gests of Padua, that I will never 
 cut my nails again until I have enthroned her 
 sovereign lady of me, and of you all, and of this 
 our humane Commonwealth. By golden Venus 
 and her son, by Mars armipotent powerless in 
 such toils, and by Vulcan in chains too cunning 
 for his pincers; by Saints Ovid and Sappho, the 
 Chian, the Mantuan, and the Veronese, I swear 
 this oath." 
 
 " It is well done, Alessandro," assented the 
 listening company. 
 
 That evening in his fellowship, Meleagro and 
 Stazio, cloaked and lurking under the arcades, 
 saw Ippolita walk down the Via Pozzo Depinto 
 arm in arm with two shawled friends, trans- 
 parently in the ranks of the popol basso, but as 
 obviously not of them. Her golden head was 
 bare ; also by a head she sailed above them. 
 They followed her by the Via Zitelle, over the 
 Ponte della Morte, further yet, between garden 
 walls topped with lilac, into the Prato della Valle. 
 There the three unconscious girls mingled with 
 the concourse of those who took the air under 
 the still trees. Ippolita, that slim, tall marvel, 
 seemed not to be remarked by any ; Alessandro, 
 swooning on his friend's arms, could scarcely 
 believe it.
 
 I IPPOLITA IN THE HILLS 73 
 
 " Edge up, Alessandro, edge up — accost, 
 accost ! " said Meleagro ; but — 
 
 " Do you think I would profane the aura of 
 her by my abhorred presence ? " cried the lover. 
 " Ah, God of Love, I would die sooner ! I feel, 
 indeed, my Daemon at work. Let me sit upon 
 this bench — my tablets, ha ! " He sat. Finely 
 disordered verse, rime sciolte, resulted; but Ippo- 
 lita was so far unperturbed. 
 
 Gradually, however, it came to her notice that 
 she was watched. There was singing under her 
 windows at night ; the day brought parties of 
 noble youths into the Vicolo scarlet-capped, 
 feathered, slashed, and booted youths ; ladies 
 were with them as often as not ; garlanded ladies 
 with square-cut bodices showing half their 
 bosoms ; flowers came, verses, platters of Urbino, 
 Gubbio, Faenza. She was saluted in the street, 
 followed to the church -door, waited for at the 
 coming out from mass. It came, more or less, to 
 this, that whenever she went abroad by ways 
 where the honourable might pass, her going 
 resembled that of the processional Host rather 
 than of a respectable young woman. Her friends 
 were no protection : the girls thought it fun, 
 courted it, found stuff in it for giggling and 
 peering with the eyes into dark corners ; the lads 
 of her station shrugged at it, then sulked, and at 
 last fairly fought shy of such a conspicuous mate. 
 
 Ippolita herself tried to laugh it off, but failed 
 absurdly. She became plaintive. 
 
 " What do these signori mean by their my- 
 ladying? " she cried to Annina her bosom friend. 
 " Why do they send me these things ? Platters !
 
 74 
 
 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY ch. 
 
 What use are platters to the likes of us, who as 
 often as not have nothing to put on them ? " 
 
 Annina looked demurely. " It is easy to see 
 what they want of thee, dearest. What does a 
 gentleman always want of a poor girl that takes 
 his fancy ? " 
 
 Ippolita tossed her high head. 
 
 " Eh ! " she snapped. " They may fill the house 
 with crockery at that rate. I'm not rubbish ! " 
 
 She was not ; but she wronged her adorers, who 
 neither thought it nor hoped it of her. Messer 
 Alessandro was not growing his nails for that 
 sort of ware ; nor could he have treated the Pope 
 with more respect. He had never ventured to 
 speak, though he had never failed to salute her. 
 What he wrote was chiefly in verse, and as 
 Ippolita could not read, it really did not much 
 matter what his letters contained. Meleagro had 
 opened his mouth to pay her a compliment : he 
 won a frightened look out of her blue eyes, a 
 fine blush, and lived upon them for a week. 
 The ladies were bolder. Some of them had 
 walked with her once in the Prato. There was 
 very little to say, except that they loved her and 
 thought her like a goddess. Ippolita was rather 
 scared, laughed nervously, and said, " Chi lo sa ? " 
 Donna Euforbia then told her the story of the 
 original Ippolita, the Scythian queen ; of King 
 Theseus, and the child born to them in sea- 
 washed Acharnae. The Paduan Ippolita said 
 " Gia ! " several times, and asked if her namesake 
 was a good Catholic. Finding she was not, she 
 took no further interest in her fortunes than to 
 suppose her deep in hell for her pains. The
 
 I IPPOLITA IN THE HILLS 75 
 
 ladies asked her to come and be their queen ; she 
 said she couldn't leave her father. They offered 
 her jewels for her hair, neck, fingers, wrists, 
 ankles ; she laughed, and said that they were not 
 for the likes of her. They spoke of Alessandro, 
 the Poet. She asked if he were any relation to 
 the Signor Sotto-Prefetto. He was that same, 
 said they. 
 
 " Dio buono ! " cried Ippolita. " Is he the gen- 
 tleman who wants to undo me ? " 
 
 They were shocked. " He asks no more than 
 to sit at your feet, Ippolita, and read the secrets 
 of your beautiful eyes. It is your soul he loves ; 
 he asks nothing of your body." " They never do, 
 Madonna," said Ippolita; "but I am a poor girl, 
 so please you, who have to look every way at 
 once, as the saying is. Domeneddio is the only 
 Signore I ever heard tell of who could get on 
 with people's souls. Men want more of us than 
 that." 
 
 Protests were wasted, and Alessandro, watchful 
 of his nails, went mad in numbers. This it was 
 to be tall out of common, this to lift up in dark- 
 browed Padua a brave golden head ; this to carry 
 the bosom of an Oread beneath the smock of a 
 girl in her teens ; this, merciful Heaven, to be a 
 vortex when poets are swirling down the stream 
 of Time.
 
 II 
 
 MESSER ALESSANDRO THINKS TO CUT HIS NAILS 
 
 Not to weary you, it is clear that Ippolita was 
 the fashion. The poets, the courtiers, the painters, 
 of whom, in that age of peace, Padua was full, were 
 wild about this glowing girl, this sumptuous 
 nymph of the Via Agnus Dei ; they were melo- 
 diously, caperingly, symphonically wild, according 
 to their bents. She saw herself on plates of 
 faience, where the involutions of a ribbon revealed 
 " Ippolita Bella " to the patient eye ; she found 
 herself (or they found her) an inordinate tri-sylla- 
 ble for a canzone, saw her colours of necessity 
 reproduced on her lover's legs and shoulders as 
 colours of election. One by one she could ap- 
 praise her own possessions, and those they fabled 
 of her. Her hair was Demeter's crown of ripe 
 corn — she knew nothing of the lady, but hoped 
 for the best. Her eyes were dark blue lakes in a 
 field of snow — this she thought very fine. Her 
 lips were the amorous petals of a rose that needs 
 must kiss each other ; kissing, they made a folded 
 flower — ah ! 
 
 " La virtu della bocca, 
 Che sana ci6 che tocca," 
 
 sighed the poets. But, bless her good innocence ! 
 that sweet mouth had touched nothing more 
 
 76
 
 ch. ii IPPOLITA IN THE HILLS 77 
 
 mannish than her father's forehead or the feet of 
 the Crucified. Her cheeks, said they, were apple- 
 blossoms budded, her neck the stem of a chalice, 
 her breast — but I spare your blushes, though 
 they never spared hers. There is a book, " Gli 
 Ornamenti delle Donne," which will tell you what 
 that bastion of a fair girl should be ; and what it 
 should be those Paduan lyrists will more than 
 assure you Ippolita's was. Thus passionately they 
 fingered every part, dwelling here, touching there, 
 with no word that was not a caress. What she 
 had not, too, they gave her — the attributes she 
 sowed in them. She was "vagha," since they 
 longed ; " lontana," since she kept them at a dis- 
 tance ; " nascosa," since they drove her to it ; 
 cold, since she dared not be warm. 
 
 The painters, not to be behind, expressed what 
 the others hinted. She saw herself, first, as 
 Daphne behind a laurel-bush — the artist, kneel- 
 ing in the open, offered his heart smoking upon 
 a dish ; second, as Luna, standing in shrouded 
 white on a crescent moon — the artist, as Endym- 
 ion, asleep in a rocky landscape, waiting to be 
 kissed ; third, as Leda, naked in reeds beside her 
 pair of eggs — the plumed artist near by, ruffling 
 and flapping his wings. Luckily their allusive- 
 ness escaped her ; she knew nothing of the diver- 
 sions of the ancient gods. 
 
 But of all the vantage she gave them, none 
 equalled that for which her gossips should have 
 answered, her most commendable name of Ippo- 
 lita. The verses she received on that theme 
 would have made a Tkeseid, those she had to hear 
 would have kept the rhapsodists for a twelve-
 
 78 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY ch. 
 
 month, those she saw the very Sala del Consiglio 
 could not have contained. Ippolita at war with 
 the Athenian, or leading her Amazons afield ; 
 Ippolita turning her unmaimed side to an adoring 
 warrior (the painter) and you, or suckling Ippolita 
 (with the artist's strongly marked features) in an 
 ivied ruin with peacocks about it ; Ippolita in a 
 colonnade at Athens on the right hand of the 
 king — thus she saw herself daily; thus the old 
 palace walls of Padua, if they could yield up their 
 tinged secrets through the coats of lime, would 
 show her rosy limbs and crowned head. Man- 
 tegna has her armoured with greaves to the knee 
 and spiked cups on her breastplate. Gian Bellini 
 carried her to Venice, to lead Scythians in trousers 
 against Theseus in plate-armour and a blazoned 
 shield. Giorgione set her burning in the shade, 
 trying to cool her golden flank in deep mosses 
 by a well. 
 
 All this, and much more, Ippolita endured be- 
 cause she was a good as well as a beautiful girl. 
 Sometimes she wept in a friend's arms, some- 
 times (really frightened) she sought her parish 
 priest ; mostly it was the wonder-working Virgin 
 in Sant' Antonio or, at the greatest stress, the 
 Saint's own black sarcophagus in the lighted 
 chapel, to lay upon it a feverish palm or hot, in- 
 dignant cheek. By some such aids as these she 
 preserved entire her head, her heart, all her pre- 
 cious store, so that no flattery ever tarnished the 
 clear glass of her mind, no assaults, however 
 fierce, could bruise the root of modesty within 
 her. 
 
 Her father, vexed man, at first felt the glory
 
 II 
 
 IPPOLITA IN THE HILLS 79 
 
 of his daughter, shone by her reflected light, 
 guessed (and had reasonable grounds for guess- 
 ing) the profit it might be; but lastly, seeing 
 the suitors sought not to marry her, and she 
 would do no less, he grew disgusted with so 
 windy a business, beat her for what was no fault 
 of hers, and bade her be sold or begone. Ippo- 
 lita, who began her day's processioning with 
 music and flowers, ended it mostly in tears and 
 stripes. There seemed no escape. If she went 
 to draw water at the well the courtiers jostled for 
 her first salutation ; if she went to mass in the 
 grey of the morning, so, blinking, did they. The 
 priest who confessed her paid her compliments, 
 the blind beggar at the church door looked at 
 her out of one eye. She was incredibly the 
 fashion ; and the women, far from being jealous, 
 were as wild about her as the men. She could 
 have had a Court of Virgins, or gone like Artemis, 
 buskined through the thickets, with a hundred 
 high-girdled nymphs behind her, all for her sake 
 locked in chastity. They also made her presents, 
 which her father sold, until (learning to fear the 
 Greeks, their brothers) she gently forbore them. 
 Whereupon the honest stonemason had fresh 
 cause for chastisement of so incalculably calcu- 
 lating a child. 
 
 The hunted fair at last came to a point where 
 she must stand or deliver. From three desperate 
 lovers there seemed no sure road. All that was 
 possible she did. She consulted her priest; he 
 patted her cheek. A very old woman of her 
 intimacy advised her to look in the glass; she 
 did, and blushed at her own distressful face. A
 
 80 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY ch. 
 
 friar of the order of Saint Francis plumply told 
 her to choose the most solid of her pursuers and 
 make the most of him. " Such roses as yours, my 
 daughter," said he, "should be early to market. 
 You are sixteen now ; but remember that by the 
 mercy of Heaven you may live to be six and 
 sixty. That's the time when the pot wants lining. 
 If you have not the experience, pray how are you 
 to direct the young in the way they should go ? 
 Yet that is the trade for an old lady whose life 
 has been an easy one. For my part, I regret 
 that the rules of our convent do not allow me 
 to open the gate." 
 
 She pouted, and went out into the sun again, 
 to find her way to the Santo barred. The three 
 poets, with three lutes, were singing a madrigal 
 in her honour. They were understood to say 
 that her going was over the tired bodies of 
 lovers, that she went girdled with red hearts, 
 that her breast was cold ivory, and her own 
 heart carved in ice. Nymph rhymed with lymph 
 and Ippolita with insolita ; the whole, ingenious 
 as it was, was not ad rem; and as for the 
 poor subject of it all, her heart (far from being 
 ice) was hot with mutiny. She knew herself 
 for a simpleton — just a poor girl ; she knew her- 
 self made ridiculous by this parade; could see 
 herself as she was. Her crisping hair was over 
 her ears and knotted behind her neck, without 
 garland or fillet or so much as a brass pin ; her 
 green dress, though it was low in the neck, was 
 tightly drawn over her bust ; for what were glori- 
 ous to be shown in a great lady, in her had been 
 an immodesty. When she lifted her skirt out of
 
 II 
 
 IPPOLITA IN THE HILLS 81 
 
 the gutter you could see some inches of bare leg. 
 Her hands were brown with work, though her 
 neck was like warm marble in the sun. Eh, she 
 knew herself through and through just a low- 
 born wench ; and " O Gesu Re ! " her heart 
 cried within her, " why can they not leave me 
 alone ! " 
 
 The three poets — Stazio Orsini in white and 
 yellow, Alessandro del Dardo in white and green, 
 and Meleagro de' Martiri in a plum-coloured 
 cloak — accompanied her down the Via Pozzo 
 Depinto to her poor house in the quarter of 
 Santa Caterina; she lived in the Vicolo Agnus 
 Dei. To their florid exercises in the language of 
 courts she replied in monosyllables — "Sissign- 
 ore," " Grazie, Signore," or " Servo suo " ; the 
 humble words were as much her daily use as 
 Padre nostro or Ave Maria. At the door she 
 must have her hand kissed three times in face 
 of the nudging neighbours; and to each salute 
 her honesty prompted a fresh " Grazie, Signore," 
 a curtsy, and a profound blush. Meleagro beat 
 his forehead to see her so lovely and so unap- 
 proachable; Orsini bit his lip; but Alessandro, 
 mindful of his nails, and not to be Sub-Prefect 
 for nothing, went away to find the girl's father. 
 
 This worthy bowed to the earth before his 
 visitor. In what way could His Excellency be 
 served? By the acceptance, on Matteo's part, 
 of twenty ducats ? Benissimo, e tante grazie ! 
 
 " Matteo," said the Sub-Prefect, when this little 
 transfer was accomplished, " your daughter is the 
 most beautiful lady in all this city of Padua." 
 
 " She is a choice thing, I own it," said the good
 
 82 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 Matteo ; " and how dear to her old father your 
 honour hath no notion." 
 
 " I can very well imagine it," returned Messer 
 Alessandro; "and, indeed, I remember that you 
 are twenty ducats in hand." 
 
 " Oh, va bene, va bene ! " cried Matteo. " I am 
 your Excellency's humble servant. You shall 
 take her when you like and as you like." 
 
 " All will be done scrupulously," Alessandro 
 said with fervour. " We shall crown her Queen 
 of our College of the Muses ; she shall be priest- 
 ess, sacred image, and oracle ; and most hon- 
 ourably served." 
 
 " Honour of course," said Matteo, "comes into 
 the game. I have played it myself, and know 
 what I am talking about. There was Beppina, 
 that fat Venetian hussy — to see her eat ! But 
 she always had her whack. Eh, I have been a 
 blade in my day ! " 
 
 To this testimony the Sub-Prefect had no 
 comments ready. He returned to the object of 
 his thought. 
 
 " We shall in turn contemplate her excellence," 
 he explained, " and derive inspirations in turn. 
 A fine body of devotional rhyme should be the 
 result of this." 
 
 " The result," Matteo broke in, " will be a fine 
 one, I warrant your Excellency, if such things as 
 that are in your mind — and call it what you will, 
 she's as healthy as ever her mother was. And 
 she had seventeen of 'em, one way with another, 
 before I buried her." 
 
 " She shall be crowned with stars, rest upon beds 
 of roses, walk in flowery meadows, hide from the
 
 IPPOLITA IN THE HILLS S3 
 
 heat in thickets where water is — " Alessandro 
 went lilting on. " We will sing to her all day, and 
 of her all night. The saloon of the Villa Venusta 
 shall depict the story of her glorious arising." 
 
 " Pretty, pretty ! " cried Matteo. " I see that 
 your honour knows the rules of play. Now 
 when shall the game begin ? " 
 
 " My honest friend, the litter will be at your 
 door come daybreak," said Alessandro. " Three 
 noble ladies will attend Madonna to bathe and 
 dress her. After that, you shall leave her safely 
 in our keeping." 
 
 Matteo bowed. " Excellency, I am your ser- 
 vant. Everything shall be as you wish." 
 
 He did not add, though he might well have 
 added, that it was more than himself had dared 
 to hope for. 
 
 At time of sunset home he came, but not to 
 beat his beautiful daughter. On the contrary, 
 he made much of her. Fuddled he was, but not 
 drunk. He took her incontinent upon his knee 
 and began to deal in rather liberal innuendo. 
 Divining him darkly, she went to work with 
 such arts as she had to wheedle the worst out 
 of him. 
 
 " Carissimo padre " — so she coaxed him, with 
 hands interwoven about his scrubby face — " tell 
 me more of this gallantry of young blades." 
 
 "Chuck, chuck, chuck," he babbled, oozing 
 wine, " come and feed out of my hand. Bill me, 
 sweeting, and I bill thee. Ho, ho! Two doves 
 on a branch! What, turtle? Wilt thou mope 
 for ever ? " 
 
 She trembled. " Nay, nay, I'll mope no more,
 
 84 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 father," says she. " But do thou tell me who my 
 mate is to be." 
 
 Slyly he looked at her burning face and slyly 
 kissed it. Then he began to sing — 
 
 " Quell' drudo, Messer Amore, 
 Ha scelto un Dardo per cuore 1 
 Dardo acerbo, ardente, 
 Che fa gridare le genti — 
 Ohime ! Dolce dolore ! " 
 
 She had been a fool indeed to miss such a rebus. 
 So the peril was worse than her dread ! The lees 
 of twenty ducats shabby in his fist told her how 
 near the peril was. 
 
 Going to bed, he folded her in his arms, making 
 her prop while he mumbled comfort. 
 
 " It is all for the best, my beauty-bright," he 
 hiccoughed, "all clearly for the best. Messer 
 Alessandro is a lover in ten thousand. I shall 
 be as good as a father-in-law any day of the 
 week. Why, it's ' My honest friend ' that he hails 
 me already ! That is what a man may call climb- 
 ing up, I hope, when a poetical roaring blade cuts 
 out your ' servo suo ' in that fashion. And he's 
 Sotto-Prefetto, remember. That means all Padua 
 yours for the asking. Sleep sound, my pretty 
 bird, Ippolita bella ! After this night you shall 
 sleep by day." So he found, by good luck, his 
 bed, and she a time for tears.
 
 Ill 
 
 THE JEW IN THE VIA DELLA GATTA 
 
 If there is not much to be said for the Via 
 della Gatta in these days there was even less 
 when Ippolita was the reigning toast. It was 
 cloistered (as now), it was cobbled, shabby-white, 
 secret, blind ; it echoed silence, was a place for 
 slippering crones, for furtive cats, and the smell 
 of garlic and charcoal fires. Of nights, by the 
 same token, it was not the place to choose for an 
 after-supper walk. The watch used to go through 
 it with swords before and daggers behind. Lan- 
 terns were little use save to reveal the cut-throat 
 blackness all about. 
 
 Now, on the very night when Matteo was fud- 
 dled, Ippolita in tears, Alessandro in a fever, and 
 the more reputable Padovani turning down their 
 beds, the watch came rattling at the Sub-Prefect's 
 door to report a dead Jew in the Via della Gatta. 
 Of all nights in the year, this, the eve of the 
 Glorious Ippolita's home-bringing, to be vexed by 
 a dead Jew ! Messer Alessandro was exceedingly 
 annoyed. 
 
 " Take your accursed Jew," he said to the lieu- 
 tenant, " and stuff him underground. I am busy, 
 I am absorbed in work. When I have leisure I 
 
 85
 
 86 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 will attend to him. You can dig him up again. 
 And I take this opportunity to tell you, Lieuten- 
 ant, that your visit is most inopportune. For 
 six months you have brought me nothing of the 
 sort, and to-night, for example, you plump a Jew 
 on my doorstep. Bury your beastly Jew and 
 leave me in peace." 
 
 " But, Excellency," stammered the Lieutenant, 
 " your Excellency will see that I have no control 
 over the assassins of Padua. This Jew has not 
 died happily. There is a great hole under his 
 ribs. He is scarcely cold yet." 
 
 " That is soon remedied," said Alessandro; " put 
 him in the ground." 
 
 " But, Excellency, a murdered Jew, a Jew in 
 holes — " 
 
 " The Jews have been damned from the begin- 
 ning of our dispensation," cried the Sub-Prefect 
 in a rage. " Well, I add my malediction. I say, 
 Damn your Jew ! " And he shut the door in the 
 face of the watch. 
 
 The Lieutenant was hungry. If his chief could 
 damn the Jews, so could he. 
 
 " Corporal," says he, " I am going to supper. 
 Do what you like with the Jew, so long as you 
 put him decently away when you have finished. 
 Good night." 
 
 The Corporal conferred with his men. Here 
 was the Jew — what should they do with him? 
 One of the archers suggested a source of profit. 
 He might be shown in the wine-shops at a quat- 
 trino a head. Agreed. Off they set. 
 
 They showed him at the Codalunga — there 
 were some low-browed hovels there, as was usual
 
 IPPOLITA IN THE HILLS 87 
 
 about the gates : the Jew did well. Thence they 
 skirted the walls by the Riviera Santa Sofia, tried 
 him at the outer gate of the Carmine, worked 
 their way from tavern to tavern, till they came to 
 the Vicolo Agnus Dei. It was a thousand pities 
 Matteo was drunk in bed ; he had quattrini 
 enough and would not have missed the treat for 
 the world. Ippolita, whimpering in hers, won- 
 dered what the buzzing and sliding of shoes in 
 the street below could be about. She had troubles 
 of her own, poor girl, but she could not stand 
 this. Up she got: a single glance out of win- 
 dow was enough. She shuffled on a shift and 
 a petticoat, snatched a shawl, and tiptoed out. 
 Annina, her bosom friend, had no troubles. She 
 was half undressed, but she too slipped a shawl 
 over her head and went peering into the alley. 
 There she met Ippolita, and joined hands. Flar- 
 ing torches, a swarm of eager black heads, whispers, 
 grunting, the archers' plumed helmets — " Ma- 
 donna ! What's all this ? " cried the two girls 
 together in a stew of curiosity. A dead Jew? 
 A murdered Jew ? O Gesu ! They borrowed a 
 quattrino apiece from a neighbour and were richly 
 rewarded. Ah, the blood, the staring, his grey 
 old fingers ! There was a something, if you like, 
 to talk about at the house-door ; and a something 
 to dream of, per Bacco ! I believe the Jew en- 
 gulfed all her annoyances of the past and all 
 her fret over the immediate future. 
 
 When they had done with him came the ques- 
 tion of his interment. It was the small hours, 
 very near the time to relieve guard. The Jew's 
 hosts found themselves out by the Porta Santa
 
 88 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 Croce — an empty quarter of the town, abounding 
 in gardens. 
 
 "Over the wall with him," said the Corporal; 
 11 we'll plant him here." It was done. The Jew, 
 who, by the look of him, had earned more money 
 an hour after death than in all the years of his 
 life, was put a foot and a half underground 
 among the pumpkins in a garden of the Via di 
 Vanzo. Padua went to sleep.
 
 IV 
 
 IPPOLITA LIFTS UP HER EYES TO THE HILLS 
 
 Waking from a late troubled sleep, Ippolita 
 found her little room possessed by three noble 
 ladies — Emilia Malaspina, Euforbia di Ponterotto, 
 and Domenica di Campodarsego — dressed all in 
 saffron and white (her sacred colours, they told her), 
 who announced themselves, with much kneeling 
 and folding of arms over breasts, as her handmaids. 
 " Sagro cuor di Gesu ! " thought poor Ippolita, 
 " what a way to undo me ! " But aloud she only 
 murmured, " Tante grazie, gentildonne," and got 
 out of bed. 
 
 They had prepared for her a scented bath, into 
 which, in her dazed condition, she entered with- 
 out overmuch persuasion. True, she thought to 
 find her death in so much water, and crossed her- 
 self vehemently when first it touched her back ; 
 but there might be worse deaths (she supposed) 
 than drowning for a poor girl bought and sold, 
 and not so very long ago a Jew had been baptized 
 in Santa Giustina in water up to his neck. Noth- 
 ing, however, would induce her to sit down. They 
 dressed her then in silk, tired and garlanded her 
 hair, put a gold chain round her neck, silken 
 shoes on her feet — talking in quick whispers to 
 each other all the time ; and so announced with 
 
 89
 
 9 o LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 curtsies that she might enter the litter as soon 
 as she would. She was at the disposition of these 
 ladies, was her faltered reply. Emilia waved her 
 hand out of the little window ; chords of music 
 sounded from the street ; the voices of men and 
 ladies rose upon a madrigal — 
 
 " Fior' di Maggio — Soave, pio e saggio — 
 Salve, Ippolita ! " — the work of Alessandro's 
 muse upon that night of discord from the Jew. 
 So she went downstairs. 
 
 The Vicolo Agnus Dei — a blind alley of low 
 jutting houses over arcades, full of squalor, pink 
 wash, children, and cats — was on this early morn- 
 ing ablaze with colour and music. From wall 
 to wall (and eight feet will measure that) it 
 seemed packed with the nobility. Tousled heads 
 from above looked down curiously on heads 
 elaborately frizzed, on scarlet caps, on plumes, 
 on garlands, on jewelled necks. Poverty and 
 riches touch at their extremes, like houses in the 
 South. The shoulders of the ladies at play were 
 no barer than those of the slatterns who gaped 
 at them playing; but for Ippolita, who had al- 
 ways been a decent girl, let us hope her blushes 
 were a cloak. She felt naked. And the bath, 
 remember, had unnerved her. 
 
 What these neighbours of hers may have 
 thought is no concern of ours, since the actors 
 in the play took no concern in it. Twenty pieces 
 of silver had bought an incomparable peg for 
 their conceits. They were rescuing, they said 
 to each other, a lily from the gutter, taking a 
 jewel from a dirty finger, glorifying the glories 
 — a pious act which could not fail of returning
 
 IPPOLITA IN THE HILLS 91 
 
 honour to those who took honour in doing it. 
 The people ! Sacks to be filled with garlic and 
 black wine, liver and blood-puddings — grunting 
 hogs, let them keep their sty. Let them not 
 dare (and in truth it never occurred to them to 
 dare) interfere with the diversions of the great. 
 Yet as the veiled sacrifice went to mount the 
 litter, one brown-eyed rascal from an upper win- 
 dow, holding a towel over her neck, shrilled out 
 in homely patois, " A vederti, ' Polita mia ! " and 
 Ippolita turned her lovely head and showed for 
 a moment her shining wet eyes to those who 
 watched. She smiled tenderly at the send-off, 
 but " Addio, Annina, addio ! " she said softly, and 
 turned bowing to her bowing gaolers. 
 
 As the swaying litter of gold and white went out 
 into the Pozzo Depinto and turned up towards 
 the Pontecorbo Gate ; as the music and chanting 
 — "Candida Ippolita, premio d'Amore ! Grazia 
 insolita del sommo Fattore ! " — died away to a 
 murmurous underflow of sound, perhaps a tongue 
 or two was thrust into a cheek or two, perhaps 
 a bare shoulder shrugged or one shockhead 
 wagged to another. The air was sharp, beds 
 still warm — whose business was it ? The street 
 was left to the rats and snuffing dogs again. 
 
 But Annina had sparks of fire in her brown eyes, 
 and panted as she tugged at her staylaces. It 
 was not long before she clattered downstairs on 
 her clacking heels, and went to mark the cage 
 they had gilded for her dear Ippolita. 
 
 Those hierophants, that Collegio d'Amore (as 
 the new style ran), bearing in their midst the 
 garlanded victim — Goddess at once and Sacri-
 
 92 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 fice — awoke the echoes of the streets without 
 comment. The city gates were open, it is true ; 
 in some churches the doors stood wide for the 
 first mass ; they passed a priest or so just up, a 
 friar or so, furtive truants from their beds ; then, 
 at the edge of the Piazza del Santo, Ippolita 
 peeping through her curtains saw a little com- 
 pany of goatherds, blanketted, brown-legged, 
 shabby rogues, their feet white with country 
 dust, new in from the hills with their flocks. 
 They blinked to see the gay procession ; but 
 wistfully, longingly she looked after them from 
 her cage. They were not so much market-stuff, 
 per Dio ! They walked at large over bright hill- 
 sides, singing to the sky and the winds. They were 
 not pestered with love or fine buzzing ladies or 
 capering signori, who larded poor girls with com- 
 pliments, and showed their teeth most when they 
 meant least. Ah, if she could run away ! If she 
 could hide with them, lie on the hill-sides while 
 the goats cropped about her ; lie on her back, her 
 hands a pillow, and sing to the sky and the winds 
 because she was so happy ! The thought pos- 
 sessed her ; she ached for freedom ; felt the water 
 of desire hot in her mouth. The sleepy shep- 
 herds huddled in their rags watched her go by ; 
 they little knew what a craving the sight of their 
 dusty ease had stirred in a heart whose covering 
 was fine silk and strung pearls. Her wrongs 
 came back upon her like heaped waters of a flood. 
 That shameful bath — - ah, Soul of Christ, to strip 
 one naked, and let souse in hot water, like a pig 
 whose bristles must come off ! More than songs 
 which she did not understand, more than compli-
 
 IPPOLITA IN THE HILLS 93 
 
 ments which made her feel foolish and pictures 
 which made her look so, was this refined indig- 
 nity. Seethed in water like a dead pig — Ah, 
 Madonna! She arrived sulky — if so humble- 
 minded a girl could be sulky ; defiant, suspicious, 
 at least. 
 
 The place chosen for the new Collegio d'Amore 
 was the Villa Venusta, whose shady garden can 
 still be seen from the Riviera Businello. This 
 garden is full of trees, myrtle, wisteria, lilac, acacia 
 — flowering trees — with a complement of firs and 
 shining laurel to give a setting to so much golden- 
 green and white. It has a canal on two sides, is 
 a deep, leafy place, where nightingales sing day 
 and night ; it abounds in grass lawns, flowers, weep- 
 ing trees, and marble hernia?. The villa itself is 
 very stately, a three-storied house in the Venetian 
 style, from whose upper windows you can com- 
 mand a fine stretch of country; below you on 
 either hand the Piazza del Santo, the Prato della 
 Valle, with their enormous churches, pink and 
 grey ; beyond these the city walls, the green plain ; 
 lastly, the ragged outline of the far distant hills. 
 It has a courtyard with lemon trees, long, dim 
 rooms empty of all but coolness, shuttered against 
 the glare of noon ; above, a great saloon coffered 
 in the ceiling, frescoed on the walls, with a dais 
 and a throne; an open loggia full of flowers; 
 above all this again, raftered bedrooms smelling 
 of lavender. A roomy, stately place for those 
 whose lives move easily in such surroundings; 
 for Ippolita, the girl of the people, happy in her 
 dark tenement in the Vicolo, gossip of the upper 
 windows, shy beckoner to the street, burnisher of
 
 94 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 doorposts at sundown — for Ippolita this windy 
 great house was a prison, neither more nor less. 
 
 It was a prison, at least, conducted according to 
 the best rules of gallantry then obtaining. They 
 bowed her up the staircase to the refectory : they 
 sat her down and plied her on their knees with 
 fruit and cups of wine. They led her to the 
 throne room where, high above them all, she was 
 to sit, and (being crowned) hear them contend in 
 verse and prose for the privilege of her love for 
 the day. It was all arranged. She was to have 
 a favourite every day, man or maid. Favour was 
 to go by merit among her slaves. The theme 
 was always to be her incomparable virtues — her 
 beauty, discretion, wit (poor dumb fish !), her shin- 
 ing chastity, power of binding and loosing by one 
 soft blue ray from her eyes, etc. They displayed 
 her emblems on the walls — the peacock, because 
 her beauty was her pride, her pride her beauty ; 
 doves, because they were Aphrodite's birds; rab- 
 bits, because the artist understood rabbits; the 
 beaver, that glorious witness of virtue, who makes 
 himself less certainly a beaver that he may be 
 more safely a saint; the beaver, I say, in white 
 on a green field. Other symbols — the lily of 
 her candour, the rose of her glowing cheeks, the 
 crocus of her hair, the pink anemones which were 
 her toes, the almond for her fingers: she saw her- 
 self articulated; her fauna, her flora, her moral and 
 physical attributes cried at her from the four walls. 
 
 Ippolita sat very scared on her throne, and 
 endured what she could by catching firmly to 
 the knobs of it and blinking her eyes. One by 
 one they came creeping, these silken ladies, these
 
 IPPOLITA IN THE HILLS 95 
 
 slashed and curled young lords, to kiss her hand. 
 " Dio mio ! " thought she, " what is all this 
 about ? And are maids courted this way among 
 the great?" She knew very little about it, yet 
 was quite sure they were not. She wondered 
 when Alessandro's business was going to begin. 
 As a matter of fact, it had begun. He was now 
 removing several inches of superfluous finger-nail 
 with a sword. 
 
 For the first day that same Alessandro del 
 Dardo won her to himself by his descant upon 
 the theme, " How a gentleman may dismember 
 himself without dishonour for a lady's love ; and 
 how not." 
 
 " Now he has me," thought poor Ippolita, and 
 set her teeth. But he lay at her feet most of 
 the day, and though at night he led her into the 
 garden, if you will believe me, he never even 
 kissed her hand. 
 
 " Who is mad ? " thought she to herself, staring 
 from her bed into the shadowy angles of the 
 room. " Am I mad ? Are these signori all mad ? 
 Is this a mad-house ? Dio ! it soon should be at 
 this rate." She cried herself asleep at last. 
 
 Next day it was Meleagro who won her by a 
 careful consideration of the question, "Whether 
 or no, when a gentleman has served a lady for 
 ten years, and she falls sick of the small-pox, 
 he is ipso facto absolved of his vow ? " Meleagro 
 decided that he was not, and was accepted by 
 Ippolita, not because she admired his reasoning, 
 but because she thought it part of the game. 
 
 Next came the turn of Donna Emilia, a very 
 burning poetess, for a Sapphic ode ; and so on
 
 96 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 and so on. After three days Ippolita found 
 herself yawning her head off; the longing for 
 freedom returned, for the open country, the hills, 
 the goatherds. Not for her home in the Vicolo : 
 this everlasting love-making with its aftertaste of 
 stale sugar had turned her sick of Padua. The 
 whole city, to her mind, reeked of bergamot ; she 
 guessed a fawning lover at every street corner, a 
 pryer at every window — basta, basta, la citta ! 
 
 No : it was to the hills she lifted up her eyes, 
 to the hills and the swart goatherds free of their 
 mystery. That riviera across the canal, where 
 the budding planes made a mist of brown and 
 rose, was a favourite haunt of theirs. There 
 they assembled and milked their goats, thence 
 set out homewards at night. Sitting in the 
 pleached arbours, with two adoring ladies at her 
 feet and a little cluster of youths behind and be- 
 side her, she used to peer long and earnestly 
 through the branches to see them collect their 
 flocks and start for the hills at dusk. Lithe, 
 brown, sinewy lads they were ! What long legs 
 they had, with what bravery wore their ragged 
 cloaks ! One carried a great bulging skin under 
 his arm — bagpipes! She was sure they made 
 good music to each other in the green country 
 places. Very early in the morning she heard 
 them come in ; they were known by their bells. 
 She jumped out of her luxurious bed at the first 
 tinkle, and was at the shutter watching for them 
 before ever they rounded the angle of the Ponte 
 della Morte. There they came ! colour of dust, 
 with the straggling goats following after in a 
 cloud of it. Her impulse was to fling wide the
 
 IPPOLITA IN THE HILLS 97 
 
 casement, hold out both her arms, call to them 
 with all her might, " Ha ! help, in the name of the 
 Trinity! Take me with you to the green hills. 
 I am weary of life in this place ! " Then, knowing 
 she could not, she would hold herself back by 
 main force, stare about her, run back, throw her- 
 self on the bed, lie there sobbing wildly, and so 
 be found by her ladies who came to put her in 
 that detestable bath. She was sure her skin was 
 being rotted by so much water ; she used to feel 
 her arms and thighs secretly to see if they were 
 palpably more flabby. It stood to reason that 
 the water must soak in — where else could it go to ! 
 She thought that she walked like a bladder, sup- 
 posing a bladder were to take itself legs. The 
 whole affair was clean abominable; but she saw 
 no way out. 
 The way came. 
 
 H
 
 V 
 
 ANNINA AS DEMIURGE 
 
 They held a tournament in the courtyard of 
 the villa; quite a concourse thronged the painted 
 lists. Ippolita, a miracle of rose and gold, in a 
 white gauzy robe, her hair crowned with daisies, 
 was Queen of Love and Beauty, fanned by ladies 
 in red. Del Dardo tilted with Vittore Marzipane, 
 Gottardo de' Brancacci with Giacomo Feo, a 
 young lion from the Romagna. Messer Meleagro 
 very nearly fell off his horse. They were all in 
 gilt armour, their steeds blazoned with peacocks ; 
 but there was no dust, for the ground had been 
 wetted with rosewater; no bones were broken 
 and no blood drawn. The gallants of the Quat- 
 trocento could not abide what gave the salt to 
 their grandfathers' feasts. They had other ways 
 of deciding issues which appeared satisfactory; 
 and when at the end the conquering champion 
 went down on his two knees before the throne, 
 when Ippolita with deprecating hands and down- 
 cast eyes rose timidly to crown him, the silver 
 trumpets pealed as shatteringly as ever over a 
 blood-fray, and the company cried aloud to the 
 witnessing sky, " Evviva Ippolita bella ! " They 
 could have done no more for a sheaf of broken 
 necks. 
 
 9 8
 
 IPPOLITA IN THE HILLS 99 
 
 This was a great day ; but at the close of it its 
 glorious Occasion locked herself into her cham- 
 ber with breathless care, and sat tearful by the 
 window, with crisping hands and heaving bosom, 
 watchful of the happy idlers she could see afar 
 off in the broad green Prato. Under the shim- 
 mering trees there walked mothers, whose chil- 
 dren dragged at their skirts to make them look ; 
 handfasted lovers were there ; a lad teased a lass ; 
 a girl hunched her shoulder to provoke more 
 teasing. An old priest paused with a finger in 
 his breviary to smile upon a heap of ragged urchins 
 tumbling in the dust. The air breathed benevo- 
 lence, the peace of afternoon, the end of toil. 
 Round about, so still and easeful after the day's 
 labour, were the white houses, green-shuttered, 
 half hidden in the trees; the minarets, the domes, 
 the coursing swallows: over them the golden haze 
 of afternoon, a sky yellowing at the edge, beams 
 of dusty sunlight coming slant-wise, broad pools of 
 shadow ; further still, the far purple shoulders of 
 the hills. Ah, those velvet-sided, blue-bathing, 
 bird-haunted, wind-kissed hills ! 
 
 But what was that? The jangle of little 
 bells — the goatherds were going out of the city ! 
 This poor prisoner then, this watched and weary 
 beauty, whispered to herself of her despair. " Oh, 
 Madonna, Madonna, Madonna," she fretted, " let 
 me go ! " 
 
 As by miracle they announced a visitor : one 
 Annina, a girl of the town. Would her Majesty 
 see her ? 
 
 Ah, Heaven ! but her Majesty would ! In came, 
 staring and breathing hard, a brown-eyed girl
 
 ioo LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 with a shawl over her head, below it a blue stuff 
 gown, below all a pair of sturdy bare legs. " Cor- 
 paccio ! that's a lady ; that's never my 'Polita," she 
 stammered when she saw the white silk wonder 
 of the room, the jewels in her neck, the chains 
 of gold, the bosom. 
 
 " Oh, Annina ! Annina ! it is, it is your poor 
 Ippolita," panted the beauty, and fell into the red 
 arms of her friend. 
 
 " Sakes ! dear sakes ! Thou'lt spoil thy glory, 
 my lovely dear," cried the other; "but there 
 then, but there then, there's nothing to wail 
 about. Tell me the trouble, tell thy good Nan- 
 nina ! " So she petted her, like a mother her 
 child. 
 
 Donna Euforbia stood confused, but dutiful 
 ever. " Has her Majesty any further com- 
 mands ? " 
 
 " Grazie, grazie," said her kissing Majesty, 
 " niente ! " and so was left alone with all that 
 she held true in Padua. 
 
 " Oh, come, Nannina, come and sit with me ; 
 come to the window — let us have the air." She 
 led her there. " O lasso ! " said she then, and 
 sighed ; " how good it is to see thee, child ! " 
 
 Before the other could let out a "Madonna!" 
 she began her plaint. " They give me no rest, 
 Nannina, no rest at all. Day long, night long, 
 they are at their postures. I am dressed, un- 
 dressed, put to bed, taken out, fed, watered, like 
 a pet dog. They put me in a bath, they do my 
 hair out every day : to get me up in the morning 
 according to their fancies is an hour and a half's 
 work for three ladies. Figure it ! "
 
 IPPOLITA IN THE HILLS 101 
 
 "Christian souls!" cried Nannina, "what's the 
 meaning of this? A bath? What, water?" 
 
 " Full to the brim with water, on the faith of a 
 Catholic. Of course, if this continues I must 
 die." 
 
 "Oh, sicuro, sicurissimo ! " she agreed. "This 
 is very serious, Ippolita. Eh, let me feel you. 
 Are you ever dry, my poor child ? " 
 
 " Dry to the touch, Nannina, dry to the touch. 
 But it is within my body I fear it. I must be 
 sodden, dearest." 
 
 "Send for a priest, Ippolita, that is the only 
 chance. But, remember, when they have washed 
 you, they put clothes upon you like these. Ah, 
 but it is worth a girl's while to have silk upon 
 her, and these chains, and these pearls. Corpac- 
 cio ! there is no Madonna in Padua with such 
 stones as these, nor any bishop either, upon my 
 faith ! " 
 
 Ippolita shook her beautiful head. " They are 
 not worth the price of all that smelling water," she 
 complained. " Try it, Nannina, before you speak. 
 Seriously, I am very unhappy. Let me tell you 
 something." 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " No — come nearer. I'll whisper." 
 
 The two heads were very close together. Nan- 
 nina's eyes became a study — attention, suspicion, 
 justified prophecy, hopefulness ; then saucerfuls 
 of sheer surprise to smother every other emo- 
 tion. 
 
 " Ma ! Impossibile ! And they have never — ? " 
 
 " Never so much as a finger." 
 
 "But what? Are they — ? Don't they — ? w
 
 102 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 Ippolita shrugged, pouting. " Chi lo sa ? I 
 tell you, Nannina, I shall go mad in this place." 
 
 " And why not ? " cried the other with a snort. 
 " You have examples enough about you, my con- 
 science ! What is all their singing and stuff 
 about ? " 
 
 " I think it is about me, Nannina." 
 
 " And their disputing ? " 
 
 " It is about me." 
 
 " And the rhymes ? " 
 
 " They are about me." 
 
 " And you have never — ? " 
 
 " Never, never, never ! " 
 
 " What, not in the garden even ? " 
 
 " No, never, I tell you. Only my hand." 
 
 "Your hand — pouf! The nightingales sing 
 there, I suppose." 
 
 " All night." 
 
 " And there is moonlight ? " 
 
 " Floods of moonlight." 
 
 " Dio ! Dio santissimo ! " cried Nannina, strik- 
 ing her friend on the knee, "you must be out 
 of this, Ippolita ! This is unwholesome : I like 
 not the smell of this. Faugh, fungus ! Mawkish ! 
 I will see your father this very night." 
 
 Ippolita shook her head again. " My father is 
 paid by these signori." 
 
 " Then the priest must do it. Father Corrado 
 must do it." 
 
 " He dare not." 
 
 " A convent — ? " 
 
 " No, never ! That is worse than this. But 
 — oh, Nannina ! if I dared I would do such a 
 thing."
 
 IPPOLITA IN THE HILLS 103 
 
 " Well, let me hear. If it can be done it shall 
 be done." 
 
 " Ah," sighed Ippolita, with a hand on her 
 heart, " ah, but it cannot be done ! " 
 
 " Then why speak of it ? " 
 
 " Because I want so much to do it. Listen." 
 
 Then Ippolita, clinging to her friend's neck, 
 whispered her darling thought. The goatherds 
 on the hills! There was freedom — clean, untram- 
 melled freedom ! No philandering, for no one 
 would know she was a girl ; no ceremony, no 
 grimacing, no stiff clothes; no hair-tiring — she 
 must cut off her hair — no bathing, ah, Heaven ! If 
 she might go for a few months, a few weeks, until 
 the hue and cry was over, until the signori had 
 thought of a new game ; then she would come 
 back, and her father would be so glad of her that 
 he would not beat her more than she could fairly 
 stand. It was a great scheme ; indeed it was the 
 only way. But how to do ? How to do ? 
 
 " I suppose it is a dream of mine," sighed she, 
 knotting her fingers in and out of the gold chains. 
 
 Annina said nothing, but frowned a good deal. 
 " I see that you are not safe in Padua," she said 
 in the end. " You are really too handsome, my 
 child. You couldn't show your nose without 
 being known and reported. You must go outside 
 if you are to be in peace." 
 
 " But I can't go, Nannina ; you know it as well 
 as I do." 
 
 " I am not so sure. Do you mean what you 
 say, Ippolita ? " 
 
 "Ah, Nannina!" 
 
 " Then you shall go. It so happens that I know
 
 104 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 one of those goatherds — a rough lout of a fellow 
 called Petruccio. I could tell him that a young- 
 ster had got into trouble in the city and wanted 
 to lie quiet for a week or two. I can do it, Ippo- 
 lita." 
 
 " Oh ! And will you, will you ? " 
 
 " Corpaccio ! If you mean business." 
 
 " I mean nothing else." 
 
 " Then it is done." 
 
 They clung together and kissed. Annina was 
 to return the next evening at the same hour. 
 
 That night it was remarked on all sides that 
 Ippolita's beauty had never been so disastrous, 
 her eyes so starry bright, her colour so fire-flushed. 
 Messer Alessandro, who loved her like a maniac, 
 went shivering out alone into the moonlit garden 
 to expostulate with Nature. " Thou hast formed, 
 most cruel Mother," cried he, " an image of thy 
 fatal self, whose eyes are sharp swords, and her 
 breath poison of ineffable sweetness ; whose con- 
 summate shape killeth by mere splendour; to 
 whose tint of bright fire every arm must stretch 
 as moth to flame, and by it be blasted. All this 
 thou hast done, and not yet content, hast set this 
 glory so low that all may reach for it, and yet so 
 remote that none can touch. Burning-pure is 
 my Beloved, at whose approach I faint. What 
 hard miracle is this of thine, Goddess, that all 
 must love and none be found worthy ? " Thus 
 we may reflect, as Alessandro beat his resound- 
 ing forehead, to what a pass poetry may bring 
 a youth, who buys for twenty ducats what twenty 
 thousand cannot give him the use of. Pygmalion 
 made a woman one day, moulding all her gracious
 
 IPPOLITA IN THE HILLS 105 
 
 curves as his experience taught him. There went 
 his twenty ducats. But not he could warm that 
 image into glowing flesh, however much he sang 
 to it and hymned. That was another's affair. 
 So here. 
 
 Annina came on the morrow full of secrecy 
 and other things more equivocal still in appear- 
 ance. Her burden proved, however, to be a 
 bundle of rags which, she assured Ippolita, repre- 
 sented all that was necessary to the perfect goat- 
 herd. 
 
 "We will do what we can here, child," said 
 she, " in the way of staining your skin, cutting 
 off your hair, and such like. Then you shall 
 veil and come into the garden with me; but 
 whereas you shall come in as the Madonna of 
 these heathens, you shall leave, per Dio, as Sil- 
 vestro, who murdered the Jew in the Via della 
 Gatta and has to hide in the hills. Do you re- 
 member him, Ippolita ? " 
 
 " Of course I do," said Ippolita. " Have I killed 
 that Jew, Annina?" 
 
 " It is to be understood, my dear. Now come, 
 there is everything to arrange." 
 
 There was indeed. Del Dardo would have 
 swooned to see how Annina handled his Unap- 
 proachable. Her burnished hair was off with a 
 clip or two of the great shears ; a mixture of soot 
 and walnut-juice hid up her roses, and trans- 
 formed her ivory limbs to the similitude of a 
 tanner's. Ippolita did not know herself. Veiled 
 up close, she crept into the garden with her con- 
 fidante, and in a bower by the canal completed 
 her transformation. Not Daphne suffered a ruder
 
 106 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 change. A pair of ragged breeches, swathes of 
 cloth on her legs, an old shirt, a cloak of patched 
 clouts, shapeless hat of felt, sandals for her feet, 
 shod staff for her hand — behold the peerless 
 Ippolita, idol of half Padua, turned into a sheep- 
 ish, overgrown boy in tatters, whose bathing 
 could only have been in sweat, and the scent 
 of his garments the rankness of goats. On the 
 floor in a shining heap lay the silk robes, the 
 chains and jewels, only witness with Annina of 
 what had been done. That same Annina clasped 
 in her arms the tall boy. 
 
 " Oh, my dear, my dear ! " she said, half sob- 
 bing, " if any ill should come of this I shall kill 
 myself." 
 
 " No ill will come, Nannina, believe me," re- 
 plied Ippolita, quite calm. " You are sure they 
 expect me ? " 
 
 " I see them on the riviera now. Slip into the 
 boat. I will put you across." 
 
 On the other bank, Ippolita was received by 
 the herd-boys, all agog to see the champion who 
 had killed the Jew. 
 
 " Addio, Silvestro," said Annina, keeping up 
 the play. 
 
 " Addio, Nannina," said Silvestro, with a 
 chuckle. 
 
 " Are we ready, boys ? " Petruccio called out, 
 turning about him. " We must be careful what 
 we're doing." 
 
 " Hist, Silvestro," whispered one, with a nudge ; 
 " did he bleed much ? " 
 
 " Cosa terribile — a flood ! " Silvestro spread 
 out his hands.
 
 IPPOLITA IN THE HILLS 107 
 
 "Cristo! The glory of it!" 
 
 " Valentino, I scrag you, my man, if you speak 
 of the Jew till we are out of the Porta San Zuan," 
 growled Petruccio, the leader : " Avanti ! " And 
 the drab-coloured crew moved off towards the 
 sunset.
 
 VI 
 
 SILVESTRO 
 
 The guard at the Porta San Zuan let them go 
 unheeded ; one ragamuffin more or less made 
 no odds. The heart of the new-born Silvestro 
 gave a great bound as they cleared the gate, 
 and she saw before her the straight white road 
 with its border of silver stems and the spreading 
 tent-roof of golden green. These stems were so 
 obviously like the pillars of a church that Silves- 
 tro ventured to remark as much to her neighbour 
 — a broad-faced, thick fellow, not quite her own 
 height, but twice as big in the girth. His mouth 
 was large, his eyes were small and rather hot. 
 He blinked a good deal, was very sulky, and met 
 her advances with a grunt. " Chi lo sa ? " was 
 as far as he would go along with her in the mat- 
 ter of tree-trunks. 
 
 It was annoying. Every one had seemed 
 friendly at first. But being free, she could not 
 feel daunted long; and at the second bend of 
 the road the hills sailed into full vision — the 
 solemn hills in a long line of peak and hol- 
 low, velvety, dark, and brooding sleep, like a 
 bank of cloud edging the pale sky. The frogs 
 were singing vespers in the ditches, the sharp 
 chorus of the cicalas shrilled on all sides. At 
 
 108
 
 IPPOLITA IN THE HILLS 109 
 
 the sight of this enormous calm Silvestro forgot 
 rebuffs. For a murderer he was in a very cheer- 
 ful humour : he began to sing ; soon he had all 
 the boys (except that blinker) rapt to attention. 
 Andrea slewed round his bag and pipes and 
 began upon a winding air ; they all sang, going 
 at a trot. The goats pricked up their ears ; they 
 too began to amble ; it became a stampede. 
 The sun went down behind Monte Venda, the 
 bats came flickering out, the great droning cock- 
 chafers dropped on the road like splashes of rain. 
 The night found them still far from Abano, but 
 still talking and nearly all friends. Silvestro was 
 hand in hand with Petruccio and another boy, 
 called Mastino because he was heavy-jowled and 
 underhung. Their tongues wagged against each 
 other about nothing at all. Silvestro strength- 
 ened his position by hints and shrewd winks, but 
 it was decided that the Jew should be kept for 
 the night fire. That was too choice a morsel to 
 be eaten on the road ; that must be rolled on the 
 palate, to get the flavours. It was a pity, cer- 
 tainly, about the pig-eyed boy, who snorted when- 
 ever the exploit was mentioned — but " Never 
 mind him," thought Silvestro ; " I have all the 
 others." 
 
 They passed through Abano ; Monte Ortone 
 was ahead, a spur of the great body of the hills. 
 
 " There's the hermit's candle," said Petruccio. A 
 twinkling light showed deep in the trees. " There 
 was a most excellent miracle there — the Blessed 
 Virgin in a tree. Two girls saw her and thought 
 she was a kite entangled. But they fetched a 
 priest from Abano, and he knew better. So then
 
 no LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 they built an oracle or some such place, and paid 
 a hermit to pray there. And now, whoever has 
 ague, or is with child, or hath bandy-legged chil- 
 dren, or witch-crossed cows, always goes there; 
 and the hermit cures them. That was money 
 well laid out, I suppose." 
 
 " Per Bacco ! " cried Andrea, " I'll tell you some 
 more. Did you ever hear of Monna Betta's short 
 leg?" 
 
 Petruccio cuffed him well. " A palsy on her 
 leg, and a palsy strike thee," he thundered, "if 
 with thy old women's tales we miss the path ! 
 Go drive the goats in, thick-chops, and stay that 
 clapper of thine till they ask for a crow-keeper. 
 Move now, be off ! " 
 
 " Tis a hard thing, Petruccio," blubbered An- 
 drea, " if one may not tell the honour of his own 
 land to a stranger." 
 
 But Petruccio sent him flying with grit in his 
 ear. 
 
 By a brambly path they climbed Monte Ortone 
 — Petruccio first, the others after him, the new- 
 comer as best might be, then musically the goats. 
 That round-faced, blinking boy, whom they called 
 Castracane, was behind Silvestro now, much di- 
 verted by her panting efforts to go up without 
 panting what he could rise on with closed mouth 
 and scarcely any sharper whistling at the nose. 
 
 " Hey, comrade," said he, grinning, "one sees 
 that the Jew's stair was easier going for thee 
 than Ortone." And he prodded her with his 
 staff. 
 
 This was not friendly. Ippolita did her best 
 to humour him. " I go up as well as I can,
 
 IPPOLITA IN THE HILLS in 
 
 Castracane," she said. " But do you go first if 
 you will." 
 
 "Nay, nay," he replied, with a chuckle; "I 
 make very good practice in the rear." So saying 
 he caught her ankle in the crook of his staff, and 
 brought her down into the bushes like a running 
 ram. 
 
 Silvestro was hurt in his feelings; all the rest 
 laughed ; his late-won empire seemed slipping. 
 And it was very strange treatment for the Queen 
 of the Collegio d'Amore, if wholesome. She ar- 
 rived wet and breathless at the top, feeling more- 
 over that she must by all means make a friend 
 of this ugly fellow. 
 
 The fire was made, the pot put on, the pot 
 boiled. Then for a time, though jaws worked 
 like mill-clappers, it was to better purpose than 
 words. But when the last shred of garlic or last 
 gobbet of pork had been fished up, when the 
 wine-skin was flabby, the last crust's memory 
 faded from the toothpick, Petruccio slapped Sil- 
 vestro on the knee. 
 
 " Now, comrade," cried he, " we'll have the Jew 
 for dessert." 
 
 " The Jew, the Jew ! Now for the Jew ! " went 
 the chorus. 
 
 Silvestro coloured. " The Jew ? Eh, well, I 
 killed him — ecco ! " 
 
 The flaming logs lit up a ring of tense, pale 
 faces — not one of which, Silvestro saw, would 
 rest content with that. The interrogatories be- 
 gan, a dropping fire of them. 
 
 "How did you do it?" 
 
 " With my knife, of course."
 
 ii2 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 " Where did you strike ? " 
 
 " Under the ribs. I took him by his great 
 goat's beard, the old dog, and jerked up his head 
 — so. Then I drove in between his ribs — ping!" 
 
 Surely that would do? Not at all. 
 
 " The left ribs ? " 
 
 " Ah ! " 
 
 " Did he gurgle ? " 
 
 " Didn't he ! " 
 
 " Blood choked him — eh ? " 
 
 " Per Bacco ! " 
 
 " You stabbed him on the stair ? " 
 
 " Gia ! " 
 
 " Did he roll down ? " 
 
 " No, no; he just lay where he fell." 
 
 " Why did you kill him ? " said Castracane, sud- 
 denly — bolt upright. 
 
 This was awkward. Silvestro fenced. "Eh, 
 corpo di Bacco, why does one kill the Jews?" 
 
 The others at first took the same side. Why, 
 indeed ? The question seemed absurd. Did they 
 not crucify young children, and eat them after- 
 wards ? Did they not kill Gesu Cristo ? Every- 
 body knows that they did ; and, as for proof, look 
 at them with a dish of pork. Ugh ! 
 
 But Castracane blinked his small eyes, and 
 held to it. 
 
 "Did you kill him because of Gesu Cristo?" 
 he asked. 
 
 Silvestro shrugged. " It was partly that, of course." 
 
 " What else ? " 
 
 Silvestro grew hot — desperate. Why, after all, 
 would one kill a Jew? Something must be urged, 
 something solid.
 
 IPPOLITA IN THE HILLS 113 
 
 11 There was Annina, you know," said Silvestro, 
 at his wit's end. 
 
 " Annina — that girl you were with ? What of 
 her ? " Castracane licked his lips. 
 
 " Well, this Jew, you must understand, was a 
 limber young fellow — " 
 
 " Young ! " shouted the other. " You told me 
 he had a great grey beard like a goat." 
 
 " It wasn't very grey — not so grey as a goat's. 
 Well, he was always following Annina about, 
 making her presents, cadging for favours. Acci- 
 dente ! I couldn't stand it, you must know. So, 
 thinking of Annina, and of Gesu Cristo, and 
 one thing and another, I decided to follow him 
 back to the Via Gatta — and so I did." 
 
 Andrea leaned forward, hoarsely whispering 
 (blessed diversion ! ) — 
 
 " Say, Silvestro, what colour was the Jew's 
 blood ? " 
 
 Silvestro opened wide those blue eyes, which 
 had wrought such havoc among the Paduan 
 nobility. 
 
 " Black, Andrea ! " he whispered again ; " black 
 as pig's blood ! " 
 
 Andrea crossed himself. " Pio Cristo," he 
 prayed, " let me kill a Jew some day ! " 
 
 Even then Castracane, the sceptic, was not 
 satisfied. "All I know is," said he, "that I saw 
 a Jew cutting bread at the Albero Verde last 
 Martinmas, and he slipped into his own thumb, 
 and came off as red as a dog's tongue. Bah ! ' 
 
 "Damn the Jew," said Petruccio, yawning; 
 " let's go to sleep, boys."
 
 VII 
 
 CASTRACANE 
 
 She woke early, with the full light of day in 
 her eyes. She felt tired, but not inert, languid 
 and luxurious, rather, and explored to the full the 
 happiness of stretching. Round about her were 
 huddled the drowsy boys ; on the slopes of the 
 steep place where she lay she could see the goats 
 browsing on lentisk and juniper, acanthus, bram- 
 ble, mountain-ash. Misty on the blue plain lay 
 Padua, a sleeping city, white and violet — remote 
 now and in every sense below her and her con- 
 cerns. The sky was without cloud, very pale 
 still, glowing white at the edge ; the sun not yet 
 out of the sea. The freshness of the air fanned 
 her deliciously ; larks were climbing the sky sing- 
 ing their prick-song, scores of finches crossed the 
 slopes, dipping from bush to bush. Ippolita 
 clasped her hands behind her head, and looked 
 lazily at all this early glory. The freedom of her 
 heart seemed explicit in that of her limbs. What 
 she could do with her legs, for instance ! How 
 she could sprawl at ease ! She was just like all 
 the others — as ragged, as dirty, at least; and soon 
 she would be as brown. Dio buono, the splendid 
 life of a goatherd ! 
 
 114
 
 IPPOLITA IN THE HILLS 115 
 
 Then she found that Castracane was watching 
 her out of one wicked eye. He had rolled over 
 on to his belly, his face lay sideways on his hands ; 
 one eye was shrewdly on her. She considered 
 him, rather scared, out of the corner of hers. 
 Decidedly he was a sulky boy — ■ you might say an 
 enemy. As unconcernedly as she could she got 
 up, stretched herself with elaborate ease, and 
 strolled off along the edge of the hill. Castracane 
 followed her ; she affected not to know it ; but her 
 heart began to quicken, and when he was close 
 beside her she found that she had to look at 
 him. 
 
 "Good morning, Castracane," says Silvestro. 
 
 He grunted. " Look here, Silvestro," he began, 
 " about that Jew — " 
 
 The accursed Jew, who, so far from denying 
 the resurrection of the dead, seemed a standing 
 proof of it ! Was she never to have done with 
 the Jew? 
 
 " Well, what about him ? " 
 
 " Did you kill him or not ? That's what about 
 him." 
 
 " I told you last night." 
 
 " Yes, but I don't believe it." 
 
 II What ! " 
 
 II I don't believe it. Now then ? " 
 
 Silvestro looked about for help : they were out 
 of sight of the others, and there lay Padua, slum- 
 brous in the plain. It seemed as if Castracane 
 meant quarrelling. Well, what must be, must be. 
 
 " I don't care whether you believe it or not. 
 Now then ? " The blue eyes were steady enough 
 on the black by this time.
 
 n6 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 " Look here," said Castracane after a pause, 
 " I'll fight you if you like. That'll settle it." 
 
 Silvestro laughed nervously. "Why should 
 we fight, Castracane? Besides, we have no 
 knives. How can we fight ? " 
 
 " Like this," said the other between his teeth. 
 His left arm whipped out, like a lizard's tongue, 
 and Silvestro lay flat on his back among the 
 cistus flowers, seeing ink and scarlet clouds. 
 
 " Stick a Jew indeed ! " cried Castracane. " Stick 
 a grandmother ! Why, you're as soft as cheese ! " 
 
 Silvestro's shoulders told a tale. He had 
 turned on his face, but his shoulders were 
 enough. Lord, Lord, look at that! Scorn in 
 his conqueror gave way to amazement, amaze- 
 ment to disgust, disgust to contempt. Last came 
 pity. Who'd have thought such a leggy lad such 
 a green one ? He was crying like a girl. Cas- 
 tracane had no malice in him : he was sorry for 
 those sobbing shoulders. He stooped over the 
 wreck he had made, and tried to put it together 
 again. 
 
 "Come, Silvestro," he said gruffly, "I never 
 meant to hurt you." 
 
 The wet face was up in a moment — red and 
 wet and angry. 
 
 " It's not that! It's not that! I never killed 
 the Jew — there! But I was a stranger, and I 
 tried to be friendly, and you hated me. I hate 
 being hated. Why should you hate me ? What 
 have I done ? " 
 
 This was too subtle for the youth. " The trouble 
 was," he said, " that I hit you in the right place. 
 That's the knock-out blow, that one. Morte di
 
 IPPOLITA IN THE, HILLS 117 
 
 Ercole, and down you went! Well, I'm sorry; 
 will that do ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes — I want no more. Let us be friends, 
 Castracane." 
 
 " Benissimo." 
 
 He helped his late enemy up ; they kissed each 
 other, then sat together on the grass — admirable 
 friends. 
 
 " So you didn't kill the Jew ? " Castracane began. 
 " I knew it ! But what did you do to run away ? " 
 
 " Ah, you mustn't ask. Indeed, I can't tell you. 
 It was rather bad." 
 
 Castracane looked keenly at his new friend. 
 " Was it a girl ? " he said. 
 
 Silvestro blushed. " Yes, it was a girl." 
 
 " Ah, ah ! Then I say no more. I like girls 
 myself. But they get you into trouble quicker 
 than anything. You would rather not tell me 
 any more — quite sure ? " 
 
 " No, I can't indeed. Let's talk of something 
 else. How old are you ? " 
 
 " Seventeen." 
 
 " I'm not sixteen yet. Is Castracane your *eal 
 name ? " 
 
 Castracane looked pleased. 
 
 " I'm glad you asked. No ; they call me that 
 among ourselves, because of a little knack I have; 
 but my name is Pilade." 
 
 " That's a very nice name," said Silvestro. 
 
 11 1 believe you — it's a splendid name. There's 
 no better. It's the name of a Roman — Emperor 
 of Rome and Sultan of Padua he was — who 
 killed a giant called Oreste, having first caused 
 him to become a Christian."
 
 n8 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 " But why did he kill him when he had made a 
 Christian of him ? " asked Silvestro, greatly in- 
 terested ; " or why did he make him a Christian, 
 if he was going to kill him ? " 
 
 " Pouf ! What questions ! " cried Castracane. 
 " He made him a Christian because he was a good 
 Catholic himself, and killed him for being a giant, 
 of course. Or take it this way. If he hadn't 
 been a Christian, how could he have made a good 
 death ? He couldn't, naturally. So the Emperor 
 christened him first and killed him afterwards — 
 ecco ! It's always done like that, they tell me." 
 
 " I see it now," said Silvestro ; "it was very fine. 
 I like your name of Pilade best. I shall always 
 call you that, if you will let me." 
 
 " Call me what you like," says Pilade. " Let's 
 go and wake the others. I'm as hungry as the 
 devil with all this talking." 
 
 The result of this was that Silvestro became 
 Pilade's foot-boy, his slave. The lout was in 
 clover; nothing could have suited him so well. 
 No more goats to herd in the heat of the day — Sil- 
 vestro would do it; no share of foraging for him; 
 no more milk to carry into the valley; no more 
 fires to make up; nor strays to follow; nor kids to 
 carry to new pastures — Silvestro would do it. 
 The luxurious rascal lay out the daylight stretched 
 on his back with his hat over his eyes ; he woke 
 only for his meals. He would not be at the pains 
 even to swathe his own legs or strap his own san- 
 dals. Silvestro, bathed in sweat, his fair skin burnt 
 and blistered, his delicate hands and smooth legs 
 scratched by brambles, his slender neck bowed 
 beneath the weights he carried on shoulders
 
 IPPOLITA IN THE HILLS 119 
 
 stretched to cracking point — Silvestro worked 
 from dawn to dusk, rejoicing in the thankless 
 office. Thankless it was, since Master Pilade 
 took no sort of notice ; yet Silvestro gave thanks. 
 Pilade allowed the other to stoop to his shoe-ties, 
 to wind the swathes about his sturdy calves, to 
 carry his very cloak and staff, while he slouched 
 along with hands deep in breeches' pockets, and 
 his hat pulled down to his nose. Silvestro would 
 proudly have carried him too, had that been pos- 
 sible. Most unmanly of Silvestro, all this ; but 
 the rogue he petted was too snug to consider it. 
 At the falling-in of night, having his belly full of 
 meat and drink (which Silvestro had prepared and 
 served him with), he might, if the mood took him, 
 pull out his reed pipe. 
 
 " Silvestro," he might say, " you have been use- 
 ful to-day; perhaps I'll play you something." 
 
 And the beautiful Silvestro (tanned counterpart 
 of the Glorious Ippolita) would hang upon the 
 melancholy noise, and observe with adoring 
 interest every twitch and distension of the fat- 
 cheeked hero ; and at the end sigh his content, 
 saying — 
 
 " Ah, thank you, Pilade ; you have been very 
 kind to me." 
 
 " The truth is," Pilade would allow, "lama 
 good-natured devil if you take me the right way. 
 I'll tell you what, Silvestro; you have pleased 
 me to-day. You may sleep at my feet if you like : 
 it will keep them warm, to begin with, and you'll 
 be near me, don't you see ? " 
 
 " Thank you, thank you, dear Pilade," cried the 
 enraptured Silvestro.
 
 120 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 The world is a very odd one, and it is most 
 true that the man who is for taming hearts should 
 pursue, ostensibly, any other calling. Not that 
 Pilade had that in view. He only sought to be 
 comfortable, good lad.
 
 VIII 
 
 RESURRECTION OF THE JEW 
 
 This idyllic state of things might have lasted 
 no one knows how long, with Ippolita-Silvestro 
 finding joy in unreasonable service, and Pilade 
 both ease and reason. Where either partner was 
 so admirably suited it might have been interest- 
 ing to see what would have happened : whether 
 Ippolita would have betrayed herself or Pilade 
 found her out. She was over head and ears in 
 love, but he was vastly well served ; and there 
 is nothing like content for drugging the wits. 
 
 Things, however, fell out otherwise. The Jew, 
 to begin with, fell out of the grave to which he 
 had been hastily recommended, and most inse- 
 curely at that. He made himself felt in a variety 
 of ways, was discovered by the gardener in the 
 Via di Vanzo, and stuck into a gutter in the Via 
 Man di Ferro. He was discovered again by 
 some one who had either less to do among Chris- 
 tians or more among Jews than the generality 
 in Padua; and this time he was carried to the 
 Guard House. Being reported (reporting him- 
 self, indeed) to the watch, he was reported on to 
 the Capitano, by him to the Prefect. The Pre- 
 fect put the Sub-Prefect, who had met him before, 
 upon the look-out. 
 
 " The Most Serene Republic," said that author- 
 
 121
 
 122 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 ity, " cannot have unburied Jews adrift in the city 
 without finding out why the cemetery does not 
 hold them and why the gutter does. Inquire, 
 Alessandro mio, inquire ! There was a wound in 
 the man's ribs big enough for a nest of rats." 
 
 Alessandro bowed, but raised his fine eye- 
 brows. He was at that hour most happily un- 
 happy over the late disappearance of his Glorious 
 Lady. The peerless beauty of Padua, the incom- 
 parable Ippolita, was gone. His business was to 
 devise dirges, monodies, laments, descortz in the 
 Provencal manner ; to cry " Heigho J " and " Well- 
 a-day ! " not " Ban ! " or " Out, haro ! " To have 
 these high frenzies, these straining states of the 
 soul, disturbed by the unclaimed remains of a 
 resolving Jew, was a cruel test. Yet, he reflected 
 within himself, if his piercing love survived this 
 inquiry, it was founded on rock. And, indeed, 
 Alessandro believed that his heart was slowly 
 turning to stone. He felt a curious chill there 
 when he got up in the morning, a dead weight, 
 a mass to lift with every choked beat. Perhaps 
 the Jew would end what Ippolita had begun. If 
 so, well. But, ah, Ippolita, Ippolita bella, Ippolita 
 crudel ! Ah, ohime ! 
 
 Habit set him to work. He instructed his 
 officers, he visited the gates, questioned, took 
 notes, inspected the gutter in the Via Man di 
 Ferro, even inspected the Jew. He went to the 
 Via della Gatta, to the fatal staircase ; he bullied 
 two or three landlords of two or three low tav- 
 erns ; went to the stews, to the Ghetto ; talked 
 very loud, flourished his sword, drove his men 
 this way and that — in fine, did everything that
 
 IPPOLITA IN THE HILLS 123 
 
 becomes a young official of spirit. The result 
 of his labours was that the Jew got posthumous 
 fame out of all proportion to his merits. The 
 city fairly hummed with him ; nobody talked of 
 anything but the dead Jew. 
 
 The goatherds, coming in by the Porta San 
 Zuan a day later, were shrewdly scrutinised by 
 the Guard. They were numbered off, their names 
 taken ; they were pulled about and flustered, asked 
 questions, contradicted before they had time to 
 answer, and then called prevaricators because 
 they said nothing ; they were, in fact, brought to 
 that state of breathless hurry in which a boy will 
 say anything you choose. This, as everybody 
 knows, is the only way of getting at the truth. 
 
 " There were more of you fellows the other 
 night," said the Corporal of the Guard. " Where 
 are the rest of you? Come now, out with it; no 
 lies here ! " 
 
 Petruccio, who had some sense, shammed to 
 have none; but Andrea, less happy, was a real 
 fool. At this invitation he looked wise. 
 
 " Castracane is not here — true, but it wasn't 
 Castracane," he muttered, and found his neck in 
 a vice. 
 
 " Who was it then, son of a pig ? Who was it ? " 
 
 " Mercy, mercy, my lord ! I will tell the truth ! " 
 he whined as he twisted. 
 
 " Gesu morto ! Tell anything else and I cut thy 
 liver out, hound!" swore the man who held him. 
 
 "Ah, Dio! I will! I will! It was Silvestro 
 who killed the Jew ! " 
 
 " You shall come with me to the Signor Sotto- 
 Prefetto," said his holder. " There's a ducat for
 
 124 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 me in this affair." The poor little company were 
 driven into the gatehouse and there pent ; but 
 Andrea went off between two archers to be ex- 
 amined at greater length by Messer Alessandro, 
 and to give blubbering confirmation of the fact. 
 All the unfortunate particulars wrung out of 
 Silvestro on his first night of Monte Ortone — 
 the stab under the ribs, the Jew's beard, his black 
 blood, etc., etc. — were now screwed out of Andrea 
 and went to prove his story. 
 
 " By the twenty-four ears of the Twelve Apos- 
 tles," swore the Corporal, " we've got him at last, 
 Messere." 
 
 The Sub-Prefect felt that he must act upon this 
 news. So much insistence had been laid upon 
 the affair by his chief, he dared not send his Lieu- 
 tenant : he must go himself. This is what comes 
 of neglecting new-killed Jews ! he might have 
 thought. He little knew what was to come of it. 
 
 Two mounted men, Andrea with a rope round 
 his neck, himself very splendidly booted and cui- 
 rassed, made up a sufficient cavalcade to fetch 
 home one snivelling goatherd. It was four by 
 the time they were off, seven before they were 
 at Abano, eight when they reached the foot of 
 Monte Ortone and faced the deep chestnut woods 
 in which that precipice dips his flanks. But 
 though it was getting dusk there were eyes sharp 
 enough on the top of the mountain to watch for 
 what sharp ears had heard — a most unaccus- 
 tomed sound in those leafy solitudes — trotting 
 horses and jingling steel. Castracane from the 
 summit saw it all; and what is more, guessed 
 at once what Andrea in a halter meant.
 
 IX 
 
 PYLADES FINDS HIS ORESTES 
 
 " Silvestro," he called softly, without moving 
 from his ambush or turning his eyes from those 
 he watched, " Silvestro, come here ! " 
 
 The obedient stripling came eagerly, and knelt 
 as close to his master as he dared — just so as to 
 touch him. 
 
 " Eccomi, Pilade," says he. 
 
 " Get back over the brow as fast as you can," 
 said his friend, " and hide in the cave. Wait 
 there till I come. Go now; do as I bid you." 
 
 Silvestro went at once. 
 
 Castracane squared his jaw and waited. Every 
 now and then he muttered to himself, with lazy 
 lifted eyebrows. It was too much trouble to 
 shrug. " Poor little devil — it would be a shame ! 
 And I knocked him down for nothing. And he 
 loves me, per Bacco ! Certainly, I have never 
 been loved before — by a man, I mean — except 
 by my big old mother out yonder, and she is a 
 woman. She'll be sorry — she's old — eh, she's 
 horribly old ! Accursed, most rotten ass, Andrea! 
 The whole story out of him — and a lie at that. 
 Cospetto ! I can't let the poor lad swing. And 
 I did knock him down — and he cried like a 
 girl ; but not because I grassed him. By my soul, 
 I'll do it — there then ! " Then he mortised his 
 chin in his brown hands and blinked while he 
 waited. 
 
 125
 
 126 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 He had not so very long ; but you might have 
 given him an hour, it would have made no dif- 
 ference to Castracane then. The guard came 
 reeking to the brow of the hill ; Andrea, haltered, 
 was with them. Alessandro, mopping his head 
 and cursing the flies, came last. 
 
 " Look yonder, Marco," said one. The other 
 said " Ha ! " and pounced upon his treasure. 
 He had him by the ear and was pricking him 
 with his sabre in the fleshy parts. 
 
 " Easy, friend," said Castracane ; " I'm not run- 
 ning away." 
 
 He went like a sheep to the Sub-Prefect 
 Andrea watched him twittering. 
 
 " What is your name, fellow ? " said that heated 
 officer. 
 
 Andrea's eyes yearned for his mate's. Cas- 
 tracane gave him a terrible look. 
 
 " Silvestro is my name, Signore," says he ; and 
 Andrea knew his game. 
 
 " We have found our bird, I think," said Ales- 
 sandro, turning to his men. 
 
 "Yes, Excellency, this is the lad we want. 
 There was another of them — Castracane they 
 call him." 
 
 " Ah, yes. Where is Castracane, fellow ? " 
 
 " He is over Venda. Gone to Noventa, to his 
 mother," replied Castracane. 
 
 "Well, we don't want him so far as I know. 
 Now, attend to me. You are suspected of that 
 business in the Via della Gatta." 
 
 Castracane shrugged. " Chi lo sa ? " says he. 
 
 "We shall see about that. Meantime, what 
 have you to urge ? "
 
 IPPOLITA IN THE HILLS 127 
 
 Castracane scratched his head. " What would 
 you have me say, Messere? I am a poor lad. 
 You are many, and I am one." 
 
 Alessandro turned to his archers. " Bring him 
 down to the hermitage," he said. " I am going 
 to eat something. Tie him up and wait for me 
 there. You can let the other go. This is the 
 lad, fast enough. Avanti ! " 
 
 So the shackles were taken off Andrea's raw 
 wrists, and transferred to Castracane's ; the neck 
 halter was shifted ; Castracane was bond, Andrea 
 free. Then Messer Alessandro went down the 
 hill to what supper the hermit could afford. 
 
 In about half an hour Silvestro, who had been 
 fidgeting in the cave, came out, restless to have 
 stayed so long beyond sight or hearing of his 
 Pilade. His reception by Andrea was shocking. 
 The gaping boy sprang forward with his arms out. 
 
 " Ha ! Here is a terrible affair," he wailed. 
 
 " Our Castracane is taken, and for your fault ; he 
 will be hanged, and for you ! Make your supper 
 of it, you Jew-jerker. What sacrifice, Dio mio! 
 There has been nothing like it, I suppose, since 
 Giulio Cesare kissed Brutus, or Judas Gesu Cristo. 
 You kissed him this morning ; you know you did ! 
 You always do, you blush-faced sneak ! And for 
 that kiss he has taken your sins upon him, and 
 is to be hanged. Fie, Judas, fie ! Oh, Madonna 
 Maria, the terrible affair ! " 
 
 So ending as he began, he danced about the 
 hill-top, wringing his hands. 
 
 But Silvestro, very pale, came quickly up, and 
 laid hold of him. 
 
 " Tell me all, Andrea," says he ; " for I know
 
 i 2 8 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 nothing except that I love Castracane and will 
 save him. Who has taken him ? " 
 
 "It is a lord — the Sotto-Prefetto — the hook- 
 nosed gentleman with thin eyebrows; him they 
 call Messer Alessandro. Castracane is tied like 
 a netted calf — his hands behind him, and them 
 to his neck. What's the good of his strength? 
 He is as strong as the town bull ; but if he 
 writhes his hands he strangles, and if he thrusts 
 his neck he chokes. Ecco ! " 
 
 Silvestro was staring down into the valley. 
 " Where is Messer Alessandro, Andrea ? Tell 
 me quickly, for I can save Castracane." 
 
 " He is eating with the hermit in the wood. 
 But what can you do ? " 
 
 " You stay here," said Silvestro with decision ; 
 "that's what you can do. I'll go down." 
 
 The sound of breaking through undergrowth 
 was followed by rapping at the hermit's door. 
 
 " What do you want, boy ? " said the pious man 
 to the ragged figure in the dark. 
 
 " Messer Alessandro, my reverend — Messer 
 Alessandro at once." 
 
 " Are you come about the Jew ? He will hear 
 no more. He is eating. He tells me he knows 
 more about the Jew than he does about our holy 
 religion — which is a dangerous state of things, 
 except that he is sick to death of him." 
 
 " It is not about the Jew, father," said 
 Silvestro, out of breath. " Tell him it is 
 about — Ippolita." 
 
 " Va bene," said the hermit. " Stay where you 
 
 are." 
 
 Messer Alessandro dropped his tools with a
 
 IPPOLITA IN THE HILLS 129 
 
 clatter, wiped his mouth, beat his breast, and be- 
 gan to walk up and down the cell. 
 
 " Send him in, hermit, send him in ! Forty 
 ducats if he has any news, ten ducats in any case 
 for bringing my thoughts from Jews on earth to 
 Ippolita in Paradise. Despatch, despatch, send 
 me the goatherd." 
 
 The pale apparition of a fair-haired boy, timid 
 in rags, cloaked in rusty black, with bandaged 
 legs, and his old felt hat crushed against his 
 breast, stood in the doorway. 
 
 "Oh, boy!" cried Alessandro, gesticulating 
 with one hand, " may you be my Hermes, my 
 swiftfoot messenger. Tell me what you know 
 of the divine Ippolita ! " 
 
 " I know where she is, Signor Sotto-Prefetto," 
 says Silvestro huskily. 
 
 " Tell me, by Venus and all her doves ! " 
 
 For answer the blushing boy looked ap- 
 pealingly at Alessandro, with eyes so deeply, 
 limpidly, searchingly blue, with lips so tenderly 
 parted, with a smile fluttering so timidly, and 
 limbs so drooping under their disguise, yet so 
 quickly transformed from frightened lad's to bash- 
 ful beauty's, that — 
 
 " Saints of the Heavenly Court — ah, God of 
 Love ! " cried Alessandro ; and the Sub-Prefect 
 fell upon his knees before the goatherd. 
 
 Later you might have seen that same goat- 
 herd enthroned in the hermit's armchair, his 
 hands locked in his lap, his legs modestly dis- 
 posed, his head gracefully bowed, a blush on his 
 burnt cheeks, his long lashes casting a shade, his 
 breath coming and going with a pretty haste — 
 
 K
 
 i 3 o LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 and at his feet a splendid gentleman, booted and 
 cuirassed, who poured out voluble assurances of 
 eternal respect, of love undying, of the sov- 
 ranty of Venus Urania, and the communion of 
 beautiful minds. 
 
 " I will see you again ; yes, I will certainly see you 
 again, since you so desire it," said Silvestro, after 
 a good deal of this. " And I will give you what 
 you ask, if it is in my power. But you must trust 
 me so far : you must go away from here, and wait 
 till I send word. I shall owe you every gratitude, 
 every reward I can give you. Now, however, you 
 must let me go; and I must take with me the 
 goatherd, who is as innocent of the Jew's death as 
 I am." 
 
 " Ah, I will do all that you wish," sighed Ales- 
 sandro. " Sacred lady, I will do it. But surely 
 you will have pity upon a humble slave who has 
 served you long and faithfully, and now is putting 
 himself in peril for your pleasure. Pay me my 
 poor fee, lady. Enrich me boundlessly with what 
 costs you so little." 
 
 So he urged, until — 
 
 " Well," says Silvestro, " I will do it. Rise up, 
 Messere ; take what you will." 
 
 Messer Alessandro shut his eyes, and slowly 
 rose to his feet. Having kissed the goatherd's 
 hand, he very delicately kissed the goatherd's 
 proffered cheek. " I am paid immeasurably, most 
 holy one," he said. " Lead now ; I will do what 
 you desire." 
 
 Out sped Silvestro into the wood, the Sub- 
 Prefect bareheaded behind him. In a glade not 
 far from the hermitage sat the two archers. The
 
 IPPOLITA IN THE HILLS 131 
 
 horses were tethered to one tree, Castracane to 
 another. Seeing their chief, the men sprang to 
 attention; their astonishment at what followed 
 was no greater than Castracane's. Silvestro (that 
 timid slave), now as bold as brass, walked straight 
 to him, the Sub-Prefect tiptoeing behind. 
 
 " Loose him, Signore," says Silvestro. 
 
 The Sub-Prefect with a knife cut his bonds. 
 " Your will is done." 
 
 " Thank you, Signor Alessandro : God be with 
 you. Come, Pilade." 
 
 Silvestro took Castracane by the hand, but not 
 before the gentleman had kissed his own with 
 profound respect. Then Silvestro led his friend 
 away through the trees, and the Sub-Prefect was 
 understood to say — 
 
 " We have been on the wrong scent, men. 
 Mount. To the city — Avanti ! " 
 
 " What's all this ? Whither now ? " stammered 
 Castracane. 
 
 Silvestro squeezed his hand. " Oh, dearest, let 
 us go to the cave — let us go to the cave on the 
 hill ! " 
 
 Castracane felt his friend trembling. Trem- 
 bling is infectious; he began to tremble too. 
 
 " Yes, yes, we will go to our cave," he agreed 
 in a quick whisper.
 
 X 
 
 CYMON FINDS HIS IPHIGENIA 
 
 They struggled upwards through the bush- 
 wood and starry flowers. It was a scented night, 
 the air heavy with the burden of midsummer. 
 The fireflies spread a jewelled web before their 
 faces, great white moths flapped and droned about 
 them. On they pushed, their hands locked through 
 all hazards of brake or briar : neither would let go 
 for a whole world, but Silvestro was always in 
 front, leading Castracane for this once. One 
 knew the way as well as another; but Silvestro 
 led it. They rounded the hill-top. 
 
 " Here we are at last," said Silvestro. " Let us 
 sit here, and look at the splendour of the night. 
 Oh, Pilade! Oh, dear friend! How couldst thou 
 do so much for me ? " 
 
 " What else could I do ? " said he gruffly. " You 
 never killed the pig-Jew." 
 
 " Nor did you, Pilade. Tell me why you gave 
 yourself up." 
 
 " Because you didn't do it, of course." 
 
 " But you didn't do it either ? " 
 
 " Well, but I knocked you down." 
 
 " Did you do it because of that ; or because — 
 because you like me? " 
 
 Pilade grunted. " Suppose I did ? " 
 
 Silvestro sighed, and leaned his head on his 
 friend's shoulder. 
 
 132
 
 IPPOLITA IN THE HILLS 133 
 
 " O wondrous night ! " said he, whispering. 
 11 Look, the stars are like moons." 
 
 It was certainly a wonderful night — a night of 
 enormous silence, of great steady stars, of gold- 
 dusted air, of a sky like a purple dome encrusted 
 with jewelled lights. The two boys sat together, 
 blinking at so much speechless glory. Castra- 
 cane's arm was round his fellow's shoulder; that 
 fellow's lips parted, and his breath came soft and 
 eager — yet too quickly for ease. It was certainly 
 a night of wonder. 
 
 Castracane's arm slipped down to Silvestro's 
 waist; Silvestro sighed, and snuggled into the 
 haven it made. 
 
 " O holy night ! " said he. " Now might mira- 
 cles happen, and we be by." 
 
 " Ah," said Castracane, " the miracle of choice 
 would be an angel with a basket of bread and 
 cheese — or a beautiful maiden to come and lie 
 in one's arms." 
 
 Silvestro thrilled. Castracane gave a responsive 
 squeeze, and went on. 
 
 " I am not too sure, you must know, that one 
 has not happened already. To see you lead that 
 signore by the nose ! You came swimming 
 among the tree-stems like an angel. You might 
 have knocked me down with a feather. And how 
 he kissed your hand ! Miracles ! Why, if you 
 had been the maiden I dream about, he couldn't 
 have been more respectful. If you want miracles, 
 for example ! " 
 
 "I do want them, Pilade. I want them very 
 much. " Silvestro sighed again, and leaned his 
 cheek till it touched his friend's.
 
 i 3 4 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 A shock transfused Castracane ; he was caught 
 by the starry influences. Suddenly he turned 
 his mouth towards that blushing flower, and 
 kissed Silvestro. Silvestro thrilled but lay close. 
 
 " Buon' Dio, ecco miracolo ! " said Castracane 
 hoarsely, and kissed again. 
 
 Again his nestling companion gave no sign 
 but a quiver. 
 
 Castracane surveyed the stars. "A miracle has 
 certainly happened," he said. " I feel very queer. 
 My head swims, fingers and toes tingle ; I seem 
 to have hot lead in my legs. It may be that I 
 am empty. I think it is a miracle; but as yet 
 I see no angel." 
 
 Some quicker thrill of what he held made him 
 look at Silvestro. At the same moment Silves- 
 tro slowly turned his head, and looked at him. 
 What each saw in the other's face beyond a 
 white moon-shape, what shining of truth in the 
 eye, what expectancy, what revelation in the lips, 
 I know not. Two pair of lips, at least, met and 
 stayed together. 
 
 "O Dio!" 
 
 "Oh, Pilade! Oh, carissimo! " She abandoned 
 herself to joy. 
 
 " You are the angel, the miracle ! You are — " 
 
 " No, no, I am not an angel ; but oh, I love 
 you, dearly ! " 
 
 " Ah, la Madonna ! " 
 
 " I am Ippolita ! I love you ! " 
 
 " You love me ? You are mine then — come ! " 
 
 " Andrea," said Castracane next morning, " I 
 think the others will be back before noon. You 
 must wait here till they come. I am going to
 
 IPPOLITA IN THE HILLS 135 
 
 take Silvestro over La Venda to see my mother, 
 and confess to our curate. It is good for the soul." 
 
 " Silvestro looks well this morning," said An- 
 drea, with his mouth full of bread. " What a 
 colour of dawn ! What shining eyes ! He would 
 make a proper Madonna for a Mystery — eh ? " 
 
 " He would," said Castracane laconically ; " a 
 most proper Madonna. With a Bambino on 
 his lap — eh, Silvestro ? " 
 
 Silvestro blushed ; Castracane pinched his 
 cheek, which made matters worse. 
 
 They took the road together through the deep 
 hedges of the valley. Monte Venda rose before 
 them, dark with woods. Castracane's arm was 
 round Silvestro's waist : every twenty yards they 
 stopped. 
 
 " To think of it ! " cried Castracane, on one of 
 these breathless halts. " You to be like any one 
 of us — breeched, clouted, swathed — and a lovely 
 lass within your shirt — Madonna ! " 
 
 " Do you think me lovely ? " asked Ippolita 
 devoutly. " I have heard that till I have been 
 sick to death of it ; but from you I shall never be 
 tired of knowing it." 
 
 " Blessed Angel ! " 
 
 " Oh, Pilade, my love ! " 
 
 They loitered on. 
 
 " You see that I am not what you thought me," 
 said Ippolita, with an arch look. " You thought 
 I had killed a Jew." 
 
 " Never, per Bacco ! " cried Castracane. " That 
 I'll swear to." 
 
 " You thought I was a boy, even last night, 
 dearest."
 
 136 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 But that he denied. " Santissimo ! Did I treat 
 you like a boy, I ask you ? " 
 
 " You knocked me down once, Pilade." 
 
 " Every honest man knocks his wife down 
 once," said Pilade gravely. 
 
 " And then you kissed me." 
 
 " I can kiss you again," said Pilade ; and did. 
 
 I repeat, Padua is a freakish city. The Sub- 
 Prefect writes madrigals in vain. Castracane, the 
 goatherd, sends Silvestro sprawling, and wins 
 the golden Ippolita for a willing bride. What 
 are we to make of it ? Deus no&is hcsc otia fecit.
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 
 
 " L'Anima semplicetta, che sa nulla, 
 Salvo che, mossa da lieto fattore, 
 Volentier torna a cio che la trastulla." 
 
 — Purg. xvi. 88. 
 I 
 
 BOCCA BACIATA 
 
 " Not unprosperous is your Erasmus in Eng- 
 land," wrote that man of wiles to one Faustus, 
 a poet ; and then — " To touch upon one among 
 many delights, there are girls in this land divinely 
 fair — soft, easy, and more wooing than any of 
 your Muses. Moreover, they have a custom 
 which cannot be too much honoured. Where- 
 soever you go a-visiting, the girls all kiss you. 
 With kisses you come in, with kisses depart ; 
 returning, they kiss you again. Cometh one to 
 you, the kisses fly between ; doth she go away, 
 with kisses you are torn asunder; meeting in 
 any place, kisses abound. Go where you will, 
 it is all kisses. Indeed, my Faustus, had you 
 but once tasted of lips so fragrant and so soft, 
 not for a time only, but to your end of days, you 
 would choose to be a pilgrim in this England." 
 By no means the only stranger to be charmed 
 by our welcoming girls was Erasmus. Amilcare 
 Passavente, of a darker blood, found such kisses 
 sweet : those of one at least he vowed to call his 
 
 137
 
 138 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 own. What he made of them, what they of him, 
 what other diverting matter appertains to the 
 kisser and the kissed, you shall understand who 
 care to read. 
 
 Mary was her name in our Lord, Lovel that 
 of her father in the flesh, a respectable wharfinger 
 of Bankside. Molly, Mawkin, Moll Lovel, " Long 
 Moll Lovel," and other things similar she was to 
 her kinsfolk and acquaintance, who had seen her 
 handsome body outstrip her simple mind. Good 
 girl that she was, she carried her looks as easily 
 as a packet of groceries about the muddy ways 
 of Wapping, went to church, went to market, 
 gossiped out the dusk at the garden gate, or 
 on the old wharf, after the 'prentices had gone, 
 linked herself waist to waist with maiden friends. 
 Up river or down, she trafficked in a wherry, and 
 took the waterman's tender glances as part receipt 
 for his hire. In a word, this winsome, rosy 
 creature, grown hardy in a kind soil, adventured 
 herself at ease among them that might have been 
 her poets, adorers, or raveners, nor thought to be 
 cheapened by the liberty she employed. She was 
 rather shy with strangers, conscious of her height, 
 awkward under observation, blushing to know she 
 blushed ; but simple as the day, pleased with 
 flattery, pleased with other trifles — trinkets, 
 snatched kisses, notes slipped into the prayer-book, 
 etc. She told her mother everything before 
 she went to bed, sat on her father's knee when 
 she was too old and much too tall for it, dreamed 
 of lovers, hid trembling when they came, had 
 palpitations, never told a fib or refused a sweet- 
 meat; she was, in fact, just the honest, red-
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 139 
 
 cheeked, pretty, shy simpleton of a lass you will 
 meet by the round dozen in our country, who 
 grows into the plump wife of Master Church- 
 warden-in-broadcloth, bears a half-score children, 
 gets flushed after midday dinner, and would 
 sooner miss church than the postman any day 
 in the year. Such was Molly Lovel at nineteen, 
 honestly handsome and honestly a fool, whom in 
 Bankside they knew as Long-legged Moll. 
 
 To Amilcare Passavente, the young merchant- 
 adventurer from Leghorn, ravished as he was by 
 the spell of her cool lips, she became at once " La 
 divina Maria," or shorter, " La Diva " ; and in a 
 very light space of time, when his acquaintance 
 with her and hers with his tongue had ripened, 
 she had quite a nosegay of names : Madonna Col- 
 lebianca (my Lady Whitethroat), Donna Fiordi- 
 spina, La Bella Rosseggiante, were three among 
 three dozen flowers of speech, picked from a 
 highly scented garden of such for her adorning. 
 Amilcare translated them in his hoarse, eager 
 voice, helped on by his hands (which were rapid) 
 and his beseeching eyes (which had the flattery 
 of deference), not only to Molly apart, but to all 
 or any of her acquaintance who could listen with- 
 out giggling. Molly pressed her bosom ; her 
 friends, as they loitered home, said in each other's 
 ears, " Blessed Lord, what will become of Gregory 
 Drax ? " Gregory Drax was the broad-girthed 
 young master of a trading-smack which coasted 
 between London and Berwick, and was even at 
 that hour in Kirkley Roads, standing off Yar- 
 mouth. 
 
 All a summer this endured, but went no fur-
 
 i 4 o LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 ther while Amilcare, new to the blunt ways of 
 the English, was unable to stomach their cropped 
 speech any better than their sour beer. Those 
 who heard his florid paraphrase took it gravely, 
 yet held by their " Moll Lovel." They wished 
 that Gregory Drax might have a fair wind home ; 
 they wondered what Master Lovel was about; 
 trusted that the black-eyed rascal (whose speech 
 was too glib, surely, to be honest) would not make 
 a fool of the girl. He very soon showed them 
 that, whatever else he did, he intended to make 
 a woman of her. Let them hold, said he (for 
 once expressing his contempt), to their " Molly 
 Lovel " — the name was the Shadow. He would 
 hold, as at that moment he was very devoutly 
 holding, Molly herself — aha! the blessed Sub- 
 stance. And when the young Molly let herself 
 go whither her soft desires had long since fled ; 
 when she felt the heart of Amilcare jumping 
 against hers, his cheek, his lips, his soft sylla- 
 bling, her own breathless replies — then at last 
 Amilcare, quite enraptured, finding everything 
 about her wonder and delight, made shift to catch 
 up some waft of her very tongue, closer savour of 
 her very home, and called her on high his adora- 
 ble, his unending, his altogether soul-devastating, 
 destroying mistress, " Madonna Mollavella." Good 
 Master Lovel the wharfinger neither knew his 
 daughter nor his father's name in this long-drawn 
 compound of liquids ; he was troubled, very doubt- 
 ful, anxious for Gregory Drax ; but all Lombardy 
 and the Emilian March came to know it in time. 
 Amilcare rode down opposition. Eloquence! 
 Were ever such cries to great Heaven, such invita-
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA i 4I 
 
 tions to Olympus, slappings of the forehead, punch- 
 ings of ribs, in Wapping before ? Molly in tears 
 on her mother's breast, Amilcare on his knees, the 
 neighbours at the door : Master Lovel, good man, 
 abominated such scenes. Father Pounce mar- 
 ried them at St. Saviour's in Southwark ; money 
 abounded, the dowry passed from hand to hand. 
 On a gusty November morning there sailed out 
 of the London river the barque Santa Fina of 
 Leghorn, having on board Amilcare Passavente 
 and Donna Maria his wife, bound (as all believed) 
 for that port, and thence by long roads to their 
 country of adoption — not Pisa, nor Lucca, nor 
 any place Tuscan ; but Nona in the March of 
 Emilia. No; Erasmus was not the only trav- 
 eller whirled about by English kisses, nor Molly 
 Lovel the only simple witch in turn bewitched.
 
 II 
 
 amilcare: commerce and the affections 
 
 Molly was a handsome fool : let there be no 
 doubt about that. There was no romance in 
 her, though sentiment enough. She lacked the 
 historic sense; and if she thought of Rome at 
 all, supposed it a collocation of warehouses, 
 jetties, and a church or two — an unfamiliar 
 Wapping upon a river with a long name. Her 
 sensations on the voyage were those of sea-sick- 
 ness, on the golden-hazy Campagna those of 
 home-sickness unaffected. Affectation of any 
 sort was far from her. If she was happy she 
 showed her white teeth, if wretched she either 
 pouted or cried; if she liked you there were 
 kisses, if she distrusted you she grew red. But 
 she distrusted no one. Why should she ? Since 
 every act of hers was, in seeming, a caress of 
 personal intention, every one loved her. As for 
 her husband, when he was not sacramentally 
 engaged, he mutely raved to the stars, protesting 
 by his dimmed eyes, moving lips, and strained-out 
 arms how every breath she took was to him also 
 an inspiration. Her frankness, the truth lucent 
 in her eyes, her abounding receptivity — for she 
 believed everything she was told and objected to 
 nothing — her sweet long body, the tired grace 
 
 142
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 143 
 
 with which she carried her lovely head, her ten- 
 der, stroking ways, the evenness of her temper 
 (which only that of her teeth could surpass), — all 
 this threatened to make of Amilcare a poet or 
 a saint, something totally disparate to his imme- 
 diate proposals. His nature saved him for the 
 game which his nature had taught him. 
 
 In that great game he had to play Molly 
 (though he loved her dearly) must be, he saw, his 
 prime counter. Coming to England to negotiate 
 bills of exchange, he had Molly thrown in. She 
 would do more for him than rose-nobles. He 
 ecstatised over his adorable capture ; but saw no 
 reason in that why he should not lay it out to 
 advantage. It would not cheapen in the chaffer ; 
 on the contrary, give him the usufruct for a few 
 years, and he would be not only the happiest but 
 the most considerable of men. Triumphant 
 Bacchus ! (so he mused to himself) what had he 
 not gained ? A year's pay for his men, the con- 
 fidence of the " Signori " of Nona, the acclama- 
 tions of the Piazza and the Council Chamber at 
 once — and Molly Lovel. Hey! that was best of 
 all. For her sake, and by her means, he would 
 be Capitano del Popolo. What else ? That 
 would do for a beginning. If Molly could turn 
 his head, she could turn other heads, he supposed. 
 A turned head meant a disponable body, a bend- 
 ing back, an obsequious knee, even a carcase at a 
 quick hand's discretion ; votes in Council, delirium 
 in the Piazza, Te Deum in the Church. Amilcare 
 knew his countrymen : he that knows them half 
 as well will have no trouble in conceiving how 
 these trade-calculations can consist with a great
 
 i 4 4 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 deal of true love. And what was Amilcare's 
 trade ? His trade was politics, the stock whereof 
 was the people of Nona, the shifty, chattering, 
 light-weight spawn of one of those little burnt- 
 brick and white cities of the Lombard Plain — 
 set deep in trees, domed, belfried, full of gardens 
 and fountains and public places — which owed 
 their independence to being too near a pair of 
 rival states to be worth either's conquering. 
 There were some score of these strewn over 
 Southern Emilia and Romagna in those days, 
 and the time was almost at hand, and with it the 
 man, to sweep them all into one common net 
 of wretchedness. But Amilcare had no clear 
 thought of that. For the moment Nona was as 
 peaceful as Forli, or Rimini, or Pesaro, or Faenza, 
 thanks to him and his " Centaurs " — that famous 
 band of free riders he had levied from the 
 Tuscan hills. Very much at his mercy, safe 
 under the eye of his trusted Secretary, awaiting 
 his return, he fully intended that peace to con- 
 tinue when she fell huddling to him. It would, 
 indeed, be his care ; for it was a maxim of Italian 
 politics that no man willingly stirs after dinner. 
 
 The situation was still pretty delicate ; he had 
 done little more than win foothold. In the late 
 struggles with Parma he had intrigued with 
 great address; sold himself and his Centaurs 
 to Farnese, brought that thick-necked hero up 
 to the very walls of Nona, then (in the nick of 
 time) resold himself at double the price to the 
 city he was besieging, and routed his yester- 
 day's master by an attack in flank just as the 
 Nonesi were carrying the trenches in front. In
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 145 
 
 the excitement of that wonderful hour — Farnese 
 in full flight, himself borne on men's shoulders 
 round the Piazza, thanksgiving in the cathedral, 
 clouds of incense, clashing bells, wine running 
 in the Fontana delle Grazie — he had for a mo- 
 ment been tempted to believe the times ripe for 
 a proclamation: " Amilcar, Dei Gratia, Nona- 
 rum Dux," etc. He had his treble wages in his 
 pocket, the hearts of the whole city throbbing 
 at his feet. He was a young man : tempted 
 he certainly was. But Grifone (the Secretary) 
 touched his elbow and showed a straightened 
 lip. He would not risk it. He contented him- 
 self with a footing, the Palazzo Bagnacavallo 
 rent-free, and the title of " Gonfalonerius Popu- 
 lorum Libertatis," which looked passably well 
 about a broad seal. " Pater Patriae," " Nonarum 
 Dux," the control of the bread-tax, — all should 
 be added to him in time, if only the Borgia 
 could be fed elsewhere. At the thought of 
 that hearty eater stalled in the Vatican, he felt 
 that he might indeed thank God for his lovely 
 Molly. With her for decoy even that game- 
 bird might be lured. Lying on the poop of the 
 Santa Fina, his dark eyes questing over her face, 
 her hands among his curls, he seemed to Molly 
 the wonder of the world. So of her world he 
 was; but he meant to be that of his own — a 
 very different world. 
 
 He was a lithe, various creature, this Amilcare 
 Passavente, his own paradox. Quick as a bird 
 of prey he was, and at times as inert; dark as 
 night, eagle-faced, flat-browed, stiff and small in 
 the head, clean-featured, with decisive lips. A
 
 146 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 very fluent speaker, hoarse in voice, but cunning 
 in the vibrations he could lend it, he was in ac- 
 tion as light and fierce as a flame ; at rest as 
 massive as a block of stone, impervious to threats 
 or prayers or tears. Women loved him easily, 
 men followed him blindly, and both for the same 
 reason — that they believed him ruthless to all 
 but themselves. Ruthless, indeed, he had been, 
 and was to all and sundry. Molly was the one 
 apparent exception, and in her eyes he was per- 
 fect. For her immediate comfort this may have 
 been true of him. He was a brave lover. 
 
 He taught her to falter endearments in his own 
 tongue : he was carino, caro amico, anima mia, 
 sovrano del mio ctior, and many other things yet 
 more intimate. In return he gave her a homage 
 which was not without a certain depth because it 
 was done with foresight. He taught her to be his 
 slave by professing himself hers, and so touching 
 her generosity as well as her humility. At all 
 this she was very apt. There was a fund of deep 
 affection in the girl, the makings of an excellent 
 wife, a devoted mother — far more stuff than should 
 go to serve as toy for a man's idle hours. Also 
 she was very demonstrative, by no means averse 
 (quite the contrary, indeed) to demonstrations 
 on his part. She loved to walk belted by his 
 arm, loved to put her head on his shoulder, or 
 have her chin lifted that eyes or lips might be 
 kissed. These favours, which his nation was ac- 
 customed to keep at home, she wore without self- 
 consciousness abroad. It enchanted Amilcare, 
 not only as a thing beautiful in itself, but as a 
 clear source of profit in his schemes. He pic-
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 147 
 
 tured the havoc she would work in a hall full 
 of the signori — keen men all — when she sailed 
 through the rooms offering her lips to whoso 
 would greet them " English fashion." Why, the 
 whole city would be her slave — eh, and more 
 than the city ! Bentivoglio of Bologna, II Moro 
 of Milan, Ordelaffi, Manfredi, Farnese, the Borgia, 
 the Gonzaga, D'Este of Ferrara, Riario, Monte- 
 feltro, Orsini — by the Saint of Padua, he would 
 face them each with his beautiful wife ; charm 
 them, turn their heads, and then -ping! Let 
 the neatest wrist win the odd trick. Very pleasant 
 schemes of witchery and silent murder did he 
 make as the Santa Fina drove him through the 
 dark blue waters on his honeymoon, and at last 
 brought him up to point out to his adoring in- 
 strument a low golden shore, a darker line of 
 purple shadow beyond, and in the midst a white 
 tower which gleamed like snow. " Civitavec- 
 chia, my queen among ladies ! Rome beyond it ; 
 beyond that Nona- -Nona and glorious life for 
 thee and me ! " he cried, as he waved her towards 
 these splendid things. 
 
 But Molly snuggled closer to him and sighed. 
 
 He, very sensitive to alien moods, was con- 
 scious of the jar. " You are sad, beloved ? " he 
 asked her softly. "You are thinking of your 
 own land ? " 
 
 " No, no, dearest ; not that now. I was think- 
 ing only — but it is foolishness of a fool," said 
 Molly, hiding her face. 
 
 " You cannot be a fool, blessed one, since you 
 are not so much as human as I see you now," 
 he whispered, holding her close. " You are a
 
 i 4 8 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 rosy god at this moment, my treasure. You 
 are all colour of dawn, auroral, colour of tender 
 fires. Tell me your thought, my holy one." 
 
 She whispered it back. " It was — that you will 
 be full of business at Nona, Amilcare. You 
 will have no time to love your poor Molly." 
 
 The rogue was fishing for protestations, and 
 got them. 
 
 " Love you ! " he cried. " Ah, tell me how 
 long I have to live, and I will tell you the hours 
 of my love, O my soul ! " 
 
 " But you will be abroad, a-horseback, with 
 your captains, in the tents — " 
 
 " Why, yes, that must be so," he owned. " But 
 I shall love you the more for that, Molletta." 
 
 She pretended to pout, fidgeted in his arm, 
 arched her neck. 
 
 " But how shall I know it, Amilcare, if I am 
 not there ? " 
 
 " By what I do to you when I return, dearest 
 love," cried he ; and thereafter, speaking by signs, 
 was better understood.
 
 Ill 
 
 MARKET COVERT 
 
 They made Rome a day or two after that little 
 tender and exchange of vows, having disembarked 
 amid a crowd of clamorous Amilcares in rags — 
 she could see some dear trait of him in each ; 
 trailed across the bleached marches (with the 
 Sabine Hills like a blue hem beyond); caught 
 the sun at Cervetri, and entered the dusty town 
 by the Porta Cavalleggieri on one of those beaten 
 white noons when the shadows look to be cut 
 out of ebony, and the wicked old walls forbid- 
 den to keep still. The very dust seems alive, 
 quivering and restless under heat. St. Peter's 
 church, smothered in rush mats, was a-building, 
 the marble blocks had the vivid force of light- 
 ning ; two or three heretic friars were being hailed 
 by the Ponte Sant' Angelo to a burning in the 
 Vatican ; Molly was almost blind, had a head- 
 ache, a back-ache, and a heart-ache. Amilcare, 
 who had fallen in with a party of lancers by the 
 way, had ridden for a league or two in vehement 
 converse with their lieutenant. To him there 
 seemed more to say than ever to her. She felt 
 hurt and wanted to cry. 
 
 At their inn they learned the news — that is, 
 Amilcare learned it, for Molly was languishing 
 
 149
 
 150 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 upon a bed, forgotten and mercifully forgetting. 
 Pretty news it was. Don Cesare, it appeared, 
 had stabbed the Duke of Gandia, his brother, three 
 nights ago, and thrown him into the Tiber. The 
 body had only been fished out yesterday ; it had 
 nine wounds in it, including one in the throat big 
 enough to put your fist in. It was a sieve, not a 
 body: perforated! His Holiness? Ah, he could 
 be heard even here, howling in the Vatican, like 
 a bitch in an empty house. Don Cesare was in 
 hiding, reported at Foligno. To-morrow there 
 was to be a Holy Conclave — all the Cardinals. 
 God knew what Alexander had or had not in his 
 mind, the conscience-stricken old dog. It was 
 known what he had not in his house, at least. 
 Vannozza had been thrice refused admission ; so 
 also La Bella Lucrezia. Think of it! 
 
 This was very grave news to Amilcare's private 
 ear. Cesare was his deadly enemy, the one man 
 he honestly feared; the one man, consequently, he 
 wanted to meet. He was still brooding over it 
 when the broad-backed butcher they call II Drudo 
 slammed him on the back. 
 
 "Fortune is with you, Passavente — the slut! 
 She gives you time to breathe. The Borgia had a 
 sinking of the stomach ; he hankered after a fill- 
 ing of Lombard sausage a little while since. Gan- 
 dia cut in, and Cesare cut in, per Bacco ! But 
 mark my words, Amilcare, the appetite will return. 
 You will have the Duke in your March before 
 many days. Therefore my advice to you is — 
 Avoid Foligno; fortify Nona." 
 
 Amilcare looked his man in the face. "And 
 my advice to myself, Galeotto, is — Seek Foligno,
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 151 
 
 and so fortify Nona. Addio." He went out like 
 a man who has found his way. 
 
 " Now, what the devil did the fellow mean by 
 that ? " cried II Drudo, with his thick fingers 
 out. 
 
 " Devilry expresses it," said a sly secretary in 
 black. 
 
 Molly in dreams, soft as a child and glossy with 
 sleep, looked too beautiful for a disturbing hand 
 to dare anything that night. It would have been 
 the act of a brute, not Amilcare's act. In small 
 things he was all gentleness. He crept into bed 
 like a cat, fearful of waking her, and next morn- 
 ing contrived, by a fit of coughing, to waken her 
 no more than half. The rest he did by methods 
 equally adroit, until by imperceptible degrees she 
 learned that Rome might give no ease to her 
 feet. He had her in the saddle and all the bag- 
 gage-mules away an hour after the sun. 
 
 Arrived at Foligno, he found that his great 
 enemy was at sanctuary in the Convent of Oli- 
 vet, biting his nails in a red furne there. Hidden 
 behind spires of cypress, Olivet stood outside the 
 walls, a sun-dyed white building deep under brown 
 eaves. Cesare, it was reported, was quite alone 
 with his moods, now consumed by fidgety re- 
 morse for what he might have lost in his brother's 
 blood, now confident and inclined to blusterous 
 hilarity, now shuddering under an obsession of 
 nerves. In any guise he was dangerous, but worst 
 of all when the black fit of suspicion was upon 
 him. So he now seemed ; for being told who 
 waited upon him, he refused point-blank to see 
 anybody. Amilcare, at the door, heard his " Vat-
 
 152 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 tene, vattene ! Non seccami! " ("Out, out! Don't 
 pester me ! ") rocking down the dim passages of 
 the house ; and Molly, whom this sudden new 
 expedition had bereft of what wit she had, turned 
 pale to hear the roaring beast. 
 
 " Ah, love, love, love, let us run away ! I like 
 not this empty place," whimpered the girl, holding 
 her husband's arm ; but he gently removed her 
 hand, kissed it, and held it. 
 
 " Courage, dear one ; I shall be by thy side. 
 Much depends upon this adventure," he urged 
 in fervent whispers, knowing how much to a 
 tittle. 
 
 To the monk who came out, distended with 
 Cesare's explosives, he addressed himself in a 
 vernacular too fluid for Molly to catch up. 
 
 " I pray you, reverend brother, recommend me 
 yet once more to the feet of his Resplendency, 
 saying that not I alone supplicate his favours. 
 Add that I have with me, to present, my most 
 beautiful wife, that she may assure him with her 
 own lips how very much she is his slave." 
 
 The pantomime of piteous beseeching hands, of 
 eyebrows exquisitely arched, told more than his 
 words. They showed to a hair's breadth how 
 far he expected, how far was prepared, to 
 tempt his customer. No pedlar before a doorful 
 of girls' sidelong heads could more deftly have 
 marketed his wares. The monk, too, sidled his 
 head ; he pursed his mouth, furrowed with a 
 finger in his dewlap, tried to appraise the wares. 
 But to allow this would have been to forestall 
 the market. 
 
 " Ah, for love of the saints, go, my brother ! "
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 153 
 
 he was entreated, with gentle persistence ; and so 
 worked upon, he waddled away. 
 
 Amilcare let fall a hearty sigh, and considered 
 Molly with anxiety. He had not dared to say 
 a word to her of what her entertainer was, or 
 what her part should be. Premeditation might 
 throw her out of balance, conscious art might 
 exhibit her a scheming courtesan ; just in her art- 
 lessness lay all her magic. No, no ; he trusted her. 
 She was still adorably English — witness her on 
 the ship ! He could see how she would do, how the 
 sight would ravish him, lover as he was ; for the 
 rest, he must trust to his early calculations. Yes ! 
 he was ready to stake everything upon this move. 
 The Borgia would be at her feet : so at his feet 
 also. Oh, wise, wise Amilcare ! 
 
 " His Eminence the Duke will receive your 
 Lordship," said the returning monk, and turned 
 once more to lead the way. 
 
 " My saint, my lamb, my meek burnished 
 dove ! " breathed Amilcare in a glow, and pressed 
 her to his heart behind the frate's broad back. 
 
 Cesare, magnificently tawny in black velvet, was 
 in a window, raking with a white hand at his 
 beard, a prey evidently to cross-tides of fever. 
 When his visitors were announced he looked 
 sharply round ; but Molly was hooded, her face 
 deep in the shade. Of Passavente he had not the 
 slightest concern. That hero was prostrate, bow- 
 ing and chattering, and explaining with his 
 hands. 
 
 Molly stayed twittering by the door, wonderful 
 because she saw her King of Men cringing like 
 a footboy before a shorter than himself. True,
 
 154 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 it was case of a duke ; but she had not known 
 such dealings in Wapping. There men doffed 
 caps to my Lord or his Grace ; they gave and 
 took their due, but did not writhe on the floor. 
 And then this particular duke's blockish inatten- 
 tion to what her lord was saying filled her with 
 concern. There he leaned, and there he looked 
 out of window at the twinkling acacias, and there 
 he picked his beard. Amilcare's tact must have 
 deserted him, since he could let this simple 
 slave turn critic. But the part, in any case, was 
 difficult. Presently the Duke threw him a hasty 
 phrase, a sort of pish, man! which cut him off in 
 the midst of a period, and walked towards Molly 
 in the doorway. Amilcare flew before on tenter- 
 hooks. Cesare came graciously on — it was cu- 
 rious to see how his face had cleared. Molly 
 dropped a curtsy, covering herself closer with a 
 hand at the hood's tie. Cesare showed his teeth, 
 held out both his hands. Passavente, with a dis- 
 playing air full of alacrity and deference, unveiled 
 his wife, and she went forward to greet his Grace. 
 She had been uncovered as by a dealer, but 
 even so thrilled to feel his touch upon her shoul- 
 ders, and showed herself blushing with the emo- 
 tion, lovelier for love. Cesare was really startled 
 to see how vividly beautiful she was ; but, with 
 more command of himself than the other traf- 
 ficker, was careful not to show it. He smiled yet 
 more sunnily; his words were some pleasant, 
 friendly compliment. Molly, guessing it so, came 
 nearer, took his open hands, and put up her face 
 for his kiss. Caesar Borgia took a deep breath 
 before he accepted of the rest. Then he did kiss
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 155 
 
 her, twice. He was ridiculously pleased, very 
 much in confusion for a little while. Since he 
 could say nothing and she had nothing to say, 
 the pair of them stood hand-clasped, smiling, dim- 
 eyed and red in the face, like two glad children — 
 Amilcare, anxious mothering hen, clucking about 
 them. The Duke, having recovered himself, mur- 
 mured some courtesy, and led his captive to a 
 seat in the window. His half-dozen English words 
 and her six Italian, his readiness, her simplicity, 
 put matters on a friendly footing : very soon Molly 
 was chattering like a school-girl. Cesare was en- 
 chanted ; he recovered his gaiety, forgot his bloody 
 hands, his anxieties, schemes, fret at inaction. He 
 ordered a meal to be served at once, kept Molly 
 close to his side, heaped her plate, pledged her in 
 wine. He went so far as to forget all common pre- 
 cautions and eat whatsoever was put before him. 
 
 Be sure Amilcare missed nothing. He saw 
 all, perhaps more than all : he was used to deal 
 with men. Thought he to himself, " Hey ! If 
 this was my house of Nona, amico, and the time 
 six months hence, you would sleep where you 
 supped." But Cesare had no thought of Amil- 
 care until the end. Then he clapped him on 
 the shoulder. 
 
 " My Passavente," he cried, " you have gone far 
 on your pearl-fishing and dived deeper than most 
 of us, but by our hope of salvation you have found 
 a jewel of price ! And ah, Madonna," he said, with 
 his burning eyes on the girl, " you have brought 
 the sun into Italy. You shall be called Princi- 
 pessa della Pace, who heal all sorrow and strife 
 by the light of your face."
 
 156 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 " I humbly thank your Grace," said Molly, very 
 grateful ; but Amilcare dropped upon one knee. 
 
 " Splendour," says he, " deign to visit our poor 
 house in Nona, if you would learn what will- 
 ing service is." 
 
 " My friend, be sure of me," said the Borgia, 
 and meant it. "Do you bid me come, Prin- 
 cess ? " His looks ate her up. 
 
 Molly hung her head. " I shall in all things 
 serve your Grace," said she, with a curtsy. She 
 kissed him again, and then Amilcare took her 
 away. 
 
 The Borgia wrote sonnets that night. 
 
 " Mollavella, pearl of ladies," whispered her 
 ardent husband, when they were on the North 
 Road and in the thick of the violet Roman 
 night, " never have I felt such joy in you as 
 this day." He looked up at the massed company 
 of the stars. " Fiery in all that galaxy, yonder 
 I see my own star!" he cried in a transport. 
 " Behold, it points us dead to the North. O 
 Star, lit by a star ! 'Tis you have set it burning 
 clear, my glorious Princess." 
 
 " Dearest heart, I shall die of love," sighed 
 swooning Molly, out of herself at such praise. 
 " But indeed I have done little enough for you 
 as yet." 
 
 " More than you think, or can dream," he 
 answered, and spoke truly; for the girl saw noth- 
 ing in their late visit but a civility done to a great 
 lord. 
 
 " If the Duke comes to Nona, Amilcare, I 
 will try to put him at his ease," she said after 
 a little.
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 157 
 
 " Try, try, dear soul ; it is all that I wish." 
 " He seemed not so to me when first we went 
 to him, Amilcare." 
 
 Amilcare shrugged. " Eh, per la Madonna 
 — ! " he began, as who should say, " Being known 
 for his brother's butcher, how should he be?" 
 But he stayed in time. " He has many enemies," 
 he added quietly.
 
 IV 
 
 MARKET OVERT 
 
 Nona, little city of domes and belfries and 
 square loggias, all in a cluster behind brown 
 walls; with gates of Roman masonry, stolid 
 Lombard church, a piazza of colonnades and 
 restless poplar trees ; of a splayed fountain where 
 the Three Graces, back to back, spurt water from 
 their breasts of bronze — Nona, in our time, is 
 not to be discerned from the railway, although 
 you may see its ranked mulberry-trees and fields of 
 maize, and guess its pleasant seat in the plain well 
 enough. It is about the size of Parma, a cheer- 
 ful, leisurely place, abounding in shade and deep 
 doorways and cafes, having some thirty churches 
 (mostly baroque), a fine Palazzo della Ragione in 
 the principal square, and the remains of a cathe- 
 dral of the ninth century glooming behind a mon- 
 strous facade of the seventeenth, all whitewash, 
 cornucopias, and sprawling Apostles. Thus it 
 seems now to the strayed traveller who, breaking 
 his journey at Castel Bolognese, simmers for four 
 hours in an omnibus along with priests, flies, fleas, 
 and old women. The cortege from Papal terri- 
 tory saw a vastly different city of it when it 
 approached the gates in the early spring of 1494. 
 The young leafage shimmered like a veil of 
 
 158
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 159 
 
 golden gauze, the poplar buds were pink and 
 brown, the chestnuts had all their candles afire; 
 larks by dozens were abroad in the clear sky. 
 Below the old Rocca del Capitan Vecchio — a 
 grizzled and blind block of masonry on a spur of 
 limestone, which held not a few of Ezzelin's 
 secrets — two miles from Nona, stood a company 
 of boys and girls in white garments, their laps 
 full of flowers. Their shrill song of welcome 
 hailed the riders, and to the same hopeful music 
 they went on. The towers were all standing in 
 those days, the battlements intact ; at every gate 
 stood a guard. The Cathedral of the Santi Apos- 
 toli had no Apostles ; its great front was a cube of 
 unfinished brick ; but colonnades ran in all the 
 streets, row after row of beautifully ordered 
 arches; over them were jutting cornices enriched 
 with dancing children, sea monsters, tritons, dol- 
 phins, nymphs blowing conches, Nereus, Thetis, 
 and all their sleek familiars, moulded in red clay. 
 The fountain shone, the displayed Graces jetted 
 their crystal store ; from every window hung car- 
 pets, on every tower a gonfalon, from every church- 
 belfry came the riot of bells. The people were 
 massed at the gates, at the windows, on roofs and 
 loggias and balconies — a motley of orange and 
 blue, crimson and green. Soldiers lined the ways, 
 priests with banners were on the steps of their 
 churches. " Evviva Amilcare ! Evviva Madonna 
 Inglese ! " ran like a river of sound from the gates 
 about the streets, until, in the Piazza Grande, 
 where the Signoria waited in the solemn estate 
 of brocade and ermine, the volume of it had the 
 throbbing roll of breakers on a cliff. Thud upon
 
 160 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 thud came " Evviva ! " each with a shock which 
 made pale Molly catch her breath ; more than 
 once or twice her eyes swam, and she felt herself 
 wag helpless in the saddle. But Amilcare, snuff- 
 ing wine, was in his glory, idol of a crowd he de- 
 spised and meant to rule. Proud he looked and 
 very greatly a ruler, firm-lipped, with a high head, 
 and a flush on his dark cheeks. 
 
 At the steps of the Palazzo della Ragione he 
 halted, cap in hand. The trumpeters shrilled for 
 silence, the Secretary of the Republic read a Latin 
 speech; everybody applauded what nobody under- 
 stood. Amilcare, at the end of it, swung off his 
 horse and ran up the steps. He embraced the 
 orator, embraced the Signori one after another ; 
 greetings flashed about, tears, laughter, clappings 
 on the back. But he kept his head throughout: 
 it was seen that he wished to present his wife„ 
 Present her ! Enthusiasm grew frenzied ; he had 
 to battle his way down the steps to regain her side. 
 He lifted her lightly down; hand in hand they went 
 up the steps again. Molly excelled herself, was the 
 wonder of the whole city. How she curtsied 
 to their lordships — what a figure she had for that 
 grace — how tall, how supple, and how slim ! 
 When she gave her rosy cheek to each in turn, 
 there was a kind of caught sob audible in the 
 crowd. The simplicity of the act brought tears 
 to tender eyes : men laughed or looked haggard, 
 according as the trouble took them ; women, more 
 at home with tears, clung to each other as they 
 cried. A marvel all believed her — an angel clean 
 from heaven ; the kiss of peace, la bocca della 
 Carita ! A young Dominican became inspired ;
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 161 
 
 he showed the whites of his eyes, he spumed at 
 the lips, began to mutter, with gurglings in the 
 throat. At last his words broke strangling from 
 him — "O mouth of singular favour! O lips of 
 heavenly dew ! " he stuttered, with a finger on 
 high see-sawing to the rhythm : " O starry eyes 
 conversant with the aspect of angels ! " He 
 dropped down plump in a fit, barely heard at 
 the palace door ; but all the square surged with 
 his cry — " O mouth of singular favour ! O starry 
 eyes ! Evviva Madonna ! " 
 
 Men and women all told, Molly must have 
 been forty times kissed. Twice forty times 
 would not have sufficed for the candidates who 
 jostled, strained, and prayed between the soldiers' 
 pikes below the steps. It would be difficult to 
 say which sex her pretty artlessness pleased the 
 more: she made the women cry, the old men 
 prophesy, the young men dream dreams. Cer- 
 tainly there was nobody who thought ill of her 
 for a performance so glaringly counter to Italian 
 ways, whose men kiss each other while they keep 
 their women at home. The thing was so transpar- 
 ent, done in such pure good faith, there was no 
 room for judgment in it. She went among that 
 people as, in these days, a child still might go. To 
 those bullet-headed captains, grim and shaven close ; 
 to those painted great ladies, whose bare necks 
 looked the more naked for their jewels ; to those 
 cruddled, be-robed old men ; to the dapper sons of 
 them; to their stiff -laced daughters — Molly went 
 blushing, smiling, shy, and glad, and to each she 
 gave her fresh cheek and the balm of her Eng- 
 lish lips. O mouth of singular favour ! O starry 
 
 M
 
 1 62 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 eyes! She bereft them of compliments by her 
 speechless welcome, overcame policy by having 
 none, led captivity captive. Amilcare might 
 hover behind her with plots, a delighted and for- 
 gotten shade: Molly Lovel of Bankside was 
 Duchess of Nona, and might have been Queen 
 of Italy, if all Italy had stood in the Piazza 
 Grande. She was throned at a banquet, escorted 
 home by the Signoria bareheaded ; she was sere- 
 naded all night by relays of citizens, by straining 
 poets, by all kinds of music. She had not a wink 
 of sleep till morning, nor the faintest idea what it 
 was all about. 
 
 There was no withstanding the popular voice ; 
 the Nonesi went mad to be a Duchy, with Molly 
 for Duchess. Amilcare might be thrown in. 
 They besieged the Bagnacavallo C or tile ; they 
 wrote sonnets and madrigals, and sang them 
 day in day out. Amilcare, acting with admir- 
 able discretion, kept very much to himself; he 
 sent his beautiful wife on to the balcony twice 
 a day to be saluted, and (more sparingly) let 
 her work for him among the higher sort with 
 her lips, her blushes, and her friendly grey 
 eyes. He was humble in the Council, sober 
 beneath the heaped-up honours of the popular 
 voice, stern only with his mercenaries. A fort- 
 night of this swept him to the top of his hopes. 
 A deputation, with a laurel crown and the title 
 of Dux in a casket, waited upon him. He had 
 expected it for a week, and carefully dragooned 
 his Molly. 
 
 " I must refuse the thing," he told her, " for 
 your dear sake, my angel. The fatigues, the
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 163 
 
 affairs of a Ruler of State are incredible. I will 
 never let you bear them. The Signori may 
 pluck their beards out by the roots. I am re- 
 solved." Molly wept to hear him. 
 
 When the ereat mornins: came — a luminous 
 April day of showers and warm wind — he was 
 as good as his word. Molly, shining with pride 
 in him (herself wearing the day's " uncertain 
 glory "), saw him fold his arms in face of the 
 pompous line of men his seniors, compress his 
 mouth, shake his cropped head. The deputation 
 was much taken aback, the crowd drove hither 
 and thither; she saw head turned to head, 
 guessed at wounds which certainly any one there 
 was incapable of feeling. She, however, felt 
 them, rose up from her chair, laid a hand upon 
 her lord's arm : they saw her plead with him. Oh, 
 lovely sight ! with her they too began to plead : 
 " Pieta di Nona, S ignore ! Pieta di noi, Madonna ! " 
 She was their graceful choragus ; or rather, she, 
 like some slim daughter of the Greeks — Iphige- 
 nia or another — voiced the protagonist's part ; 
 and they wailed after her, a chorus of elders. 
 Finally, she knelt to him, wound her arms about 
 his hips, put up her entreating face. The com- 
 edy was played out. Amilcare showed him- 
 self shaken; he stooped to her, lifted her in his 
 arms, embraced her. " O mouth of singular 
 favour!" etc. The convocation broke up in 
 sobs, psalmody, and kisses on the cheek. Amil- 
 care and his wife were led to the broad window 
 and out on to the loggia. There stood Molly in 
 all the glow of her happy toil, quick-breathing, 
 enraptured, laughing and afire. The crown was
 
 1 64 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 on her head, by her side her sceptred lord; and 
 below the people cheered and howled. " Udite, 
 citt adini, il vostro Capitano ! " cried the heralds. 
 "Duca! duca ! Evviva Amilcare, Duca!" cried 
 the throng. Then Amilcare pointed to the 
 crowned girl. " Evviva la Madonna di Nona ! " 
 he brayed like a tube of brass. So as Madonna 
 di Nona they knew her to the end. Amilcare 
 was crowned with his laurel wreath in the Santi 
 Apostoli ; Te Deum was sung. Nona started on 
 her new career — benevolent despotism tempered 
 by a girl's kisses.
 
 V 
 
 GRIFONE AMATEUR OF SENSE 
 
 Grifone must now be lifted into the piece, 
 Grifone the grey-eyed, self-contained little Secre- 
 tary, whose brain seemed quicksilver, whose acts 
 those of a deliberate cat, whose inches were few, 
 whose years only tender. One of Amilcare's 
 rare acts of unpremeditated humanity had been 
 to snatch him, a naked urchin of nine, from 
 Barga, when (after a night surprise) he was rain- 
 ing fire and sword and the pains of hell upon 
 that serried stronghold of the hills. 
 
 " Eh, Signore, Signore ! " had whined the half- 
 famished imp, padding by the condottiere's 
 stirrup. 
 
 " Va via, vattene al diavolo ! " a musketeer 
 growled at him, and tried to club him down. 
 
 Amilcare looked, as one might idly glance at a 
 shrew-mouse in the path. He saw a brown body 
 pitifully lean, a shock black head, a pair of pierc- 
 ing grey eyes. Further, he saw that the child 
 had not on a stitch of clothing, and that he was 
 splashed to the knees with drying blood. 
 
 " What now, Baby ? " he asked. 
 
 " Lift me into the saddle, Signore," said the 
 boy, with a propitiating grin ; " I am getting my 
 feet wet." 
 
 The little dog had a humorous twist to his 
 
 165
 
 1 66 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 eyebrow, and it was true enough that the kennels 
 were running red. 
 
 " Whose blood is that on your legs, my lad ? " 
 Passavente stayed his charger. 
 
 Grif one shrugged. "Misericordia! Who knows? 
 My father's perhaps ; my mother's more certainly, 
 since my father ran away. My mother would 
 have run too, but she had no time. Eh, take me 
 up, Signore ! I cannot swim." 
 
 Amilcare swung him up by the hand, so saved 
 his life. Next day Grifone saved his. 
 
 They burnt a monastery in the plain and ran- 
 sacked a chestful of correspondence. 
 
 " Death of Christ," swore Passavente, " I can't 
 read this Latin. Go and fetch me a monk and a 
 rope." 
 
 The monk, a plausible rogue, began to read : 
 little Grifone stood by the table. At a certain 
 point he broke into the recital with an emphatic 
 word : " Liar ! " 
 
 " What the deuce does this mean ? " fumed 
 Amilcare in a rage. 
 
 " The monk is deceiving your Lordship," said 
 Grifone ; " the sense is the opposite of what he 
 reports." 
 
 It seemed that the boy knew Latin — at any rate, 
 enough to hang a few monks. Hanged the poor 
 devils were, and after that very much was made 
 of Grifone. Amilcare took him through all his 
 campaigns, had him well taught, gave confidence 
 for confidence, and found by the time he was at 
 Nona, making his " Gran Tradimento" of Farnese, 
 that he could not get on without him. The ac- 
 cepted remedy for such a state of the case was
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 167 
 
 to kill the youth at once. Amilcare did not do 
 that, and at first was able to bless himself for 
 his second forbearance. Grifone was privy to 
 all his master's hopes and safeguards ; Grifone 
 wrought upon the Signoria, cajoled the clergy, 
 bamboozled the popolani, descended even to the 
 ragamuffins in the gutters, and taught them how 
 to shout " Duca ! Duca ! " when his master went 
 proudly a-horseback, or to scribble his effigy in 
 great chalk circles on the city walls. Though 
 it may be true that Molly's graces brought Amil- 
 care the crown of Nona, it must be added that 
 neither Molly nor her Duke could have got in at 
 all if Grifone had not been there to oil the hinges 
 of the gates. 
 
 He had the soft purring ways of a cat, the tact 
 of a Jesuit, the penetration of a money-lender, 
 the sensibility of a musical amateur, and the 
 morals of a maid-of-honour. He had extraor- 
 dinary command over himself ; he seemed able to 
 do everything and wishful to win nothing. There 
 never was a young man (as a matter of fact) who 
 wanted so much or asked so little. It was the 
 very boundlessness of his desires which reined- 
 in him. The appetite of the Caesars would not 
 have represented his, all the gratification they 
 could have commanded would have been for him 
 but a whet. If he had a weak side it was his 
 own astuteness : he could not always see how 
 unutterably foolish a man might be if he were 
 let alone. Another foible he had — intellectual 
 appreciation of beauty pushed to fainting-point. 
 His senses were so straitly tied to his brains that 
 to pluck at one was to thrill the other. Made on
 
 1 68 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 a small scale, he was pretty rather than hand- 
 some, had quiet watchful eyes, a smiling mouth, 
 very little hands and feet. He seldom dressed 
 out of black velvet, and if he wanted a man 
 assassinated had the thing done at so many 
 removes that it was always entered "private 
 quarrel " or " love affair " in the reports of the 
 City Watch. He generally chose friars for busi- 
 ness of the sort, because they could be about 
 at night without suspicion, and their hanging 
 sleeves gave them such a pull. For cup or fruit 
 work he found ladies the only possible agents. 
 No one in Nona would dream of taking wine 
 from a man ; and as for presents of figs, Grifone 
 was maturely of opinion that the last and present 
 Pontiffs had exhausted that pretty artifice. Fi- 
 nally, you can easily understand how useful Duke 
 Amilcare found a demure lad of this kind in the 
 matter of moulding his new State. 
 
 When his master brought him a mistress he 
 gave her great attention. Like all clever fellows, 
 he was at first disposed to set down her simplicity 
 to her credit ; but after watching her for some 
 time, he decided that here was actually a soul 
 clear as glass — thing of inestimable value in a 
 country where lying was an axiom of politics — 
 and his respect for her quickened into something 
 more. If she had been only beautiful she would 
 never have attracted him as she did. There were 
 plenty of women in Italy handsome enough for 
 his needs (the flower of whose amours were mostly 
 for the mind) ; but simpletons were rarer. This 
 tall wistful girl told the truth — but told it in- 
 credibly ! Think of this. Shortly after the
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 169 
 
 coronation, Bentivoglio, the chalk-faced tyrant of 
 Bologna, came with an army on his way to 
 Fori!. He had an old grudge against Nona. 
 Finding himself within a league of its walls, his 
 men lusty and well-fed, his artillery in great train, 
 Nona (as he judged it) in ferment — he blockaded 
 the place, and in due time summoned it to sur- 
 render. Amilcare laughed at him, told his wife 
 (in secret) that he would attack on the morrow, 
 and went to the Council. While he was there 
 came a new summons from Bentivoglio, a mes- 
 senger with a white flag. Word was sent to the 
 Duke; the Duke could not be found. " Oh," said 
 one, " seek Madonna for answer." This was done. 
 
 " Tell the Lord of Bologna," says Molly, " that 
 we attack to-morrow." 
 
 The man bowed himself away. You should 
 have seen Amilcare's face when this was reported 
 to him ; he rated his lovely Molly like a fish-fag. 
 Then he had an interview with Grifone ; told him 
 the whole story. 
 
 Grifone stared. " Ebbene, Monsignore," said 
 lie, " your Grace will do well to attack." 
 
 " Attack, man ? when the fellow knows we are 
 coming ! Are you mad ? " 
 
 " Not so, my lord," replied the Secretary. 
 " Bentivoglio does not know you are coming. 
 What he knows is that you have said you are 
 coming." 
 
 Well, at last Amilcare saw what Grifone had 
 seen from the first, the mad results which might 
 be won by a truth-telling Duchess. The Nonesi 
 did attack. Bentivoglio, of course, not expecting 
 them, was scattered over the maize fields, and
 
 170 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 never collected his force again until his own terri- 
 tory was reached. That was why he could not help 
 the Lady of Forli. " Per Bacco," said Grifone to 
 himself, " truth in Italy is soused in the mud at 
 the well's bottom ; in England it seems to lie in 
 a pan. This pretty creature is as shallow as a 
 crystal cup, where you may study Truth, like a 
 blue jewel, in an inch of water." He went about 
 thoughtfully the rest of that day. This new- 
 discovered quality of Molly's was a thing very 
 beautiful in his eyes. The conclusion he came 
 to was that he was about to fall in love with 
 the lady. " And that, after all," was his com- 
 ment, " might not be a bad thing, if (as is probable) 
 it become necessary to make her my consort." 
 Then he went happily to sleep. 
 
 Grifone's proposals to himself were still very 
 simple. Shortly, they were to get a throne for 
 his master in order that he might the more eas- 
 ily acquire one for himself. " My legs," he said 
 frankly, " are too short to get up without a foot- 
 stool." Amilcare was to have been the footstool. 
 But then Molly came into play. At first she 
 seemed to make the simple thing simpler. Amil- 
 care was a strong man, but stiff. Grifone was 
 sure he would bungle in his handling of Molly ; 
 this truth-telling beauty, this flawless jewel in a 
 cup would baffle him ; he would neither see it the 
 fine nor the delicate tool it was. He worked best 
 with a bludgeon which, as it did brute's work, 
 might be brutishly handled. So far well — he 
 might trust Amilcare to wreck himself. Unfor- 
 tunately, it seemed only too likely he might 
 involve Molly in the mess. That danger was
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA i 7I 
 
 looming ; already he set her to decoy-work which 
 the girl herself (Grifone could see) did not relish. 
 The ladies of Nona were gay and free — too free. 
 Molly recoiled visibly, more than once. The men 
 were worse. Incredible as it seemed to Grifone, 
 they actually ravaged this tender honeysuckle 
 spray to drench themselves with the scent. Molly, 
 beautifully patient, courteous, meek as she was, 
 cast a scared, paling face about the assembly 
 now and again : some of the talk, too, cut her very 
 deep. Grifone was already too much interested in 
 her to stomach this. He decided to make dis- 
 creet love to his Duchess by a way of his own. 
 The Nonesi (gluttons !) abused her favours ; he 
 would refuse them. He would fast where Nona 
 feasted, and be the only unkissed guest at her 
 receptions.
 
 VI 
 
 GRIFONE ENTERS THE MARKET 
 
 The first opportunity he had he took. The 
 Palazzo Bagnacavallo was thrown open to all 
 worthy citizens, the rooms (since no one in those 
 courting days was held unworthy) were crowded. 
 Ladies, soldiers, churchmen, humanists in bro- 
 cade, poets in velvet, a Cardinal, a cross-eyed 
 Greek who had forsaken usury at Trebizond for 
 moral philosophy at Nona; Madonna Diamante, 
 too-receptive wife of the Count of Cornuto ; Ma- 
 donna Smeralda, her discreet friend; Madonna 
 Saphira ; Madonna Rubina ; frizzed young nobles 
 in parti-coloured hose; humble abbates, uncured 
 and incurable ; a monk crowned with laurel for a 
 sonnet; and a Knight of the Holy Ghost in retire- 
 ment; — these were some of the company among 
 whom Duchess Molly was paraded by her dis- 
 cerning lord, to carry her smiles of welcome and 
 her pretty ways. Grifone, grave, attentive, in 
 black, was there, be sure, waiting his turn. It 
 came, and with it Molly, blushing and over- 
 wrought, new from the very kindly salutations of 
 the Greek. To Grifone she proffered a greeting 
 which was no less kind because her heart was 
 troubled. Her well of trust in mankind was not 
 yet dry. Grifone took her hand and bent over 
 it ; it was as much as he did to brush it with his 
 lips. Molly wondered at him. 
 
 172
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 173 
 
 "You should be Messer Grifone, my lord's 
 secretary," she said, faltering. 
 
 " Alas ! I have that misfortune," replied the 
 youth, with averted eyes. 
 
 " Why, I know you very well," said Molly, " but 
 see now that I have offended you. What is my 
 injury, Signore ? What have I done?" 
 
 " Madonna," said Grifone (but so low that no 
 other could hear him), " believe me that the of- 
 fence is none of your wilful making. It is, how- 
 ever, irremediable. Nothing but misfortune could 
 overcome such misfortune as mine ; and that I 
 pray Heaven to keep far from you." 
 
 " Alack ! good Grifone, what sayings are these 
 for a day that should be happy ? " urged the 
 warm-hearted girl, with eyes ready to fill. 
 
 " Madonna, let me endure the thought of them 
 alone, I entreat your Grace." 
 
 " Never, while I live, Grifone. You make me 
 most unhappy. Will you not kiss me ? ' 
 
 " Never, while I live, Madonna, if I am to live 
 honest." 
 
 Molly went white and red, and stood hesi- 
 tating, uncertain whether to cry or be angry. 
 Either might have been a vent for her distress, 
 which was real. Commanding herself with 
 pains — 
 
 " I will require you to speak with me after sup- 
 per," she said, after a pause for the struggle. 
 
 Grifone bowed his head and backed away from 
 her. She, being boundless in capacity for the 
 affections of her kind, spent the interval with 
 an aching heart. 
 
 Directly supper was done she hunted for the
 
 174 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 Secretary. The affair had by now throbbed it- 
 self into a question of her physical ease. Her 
 heartstrings were at a dangerous stretch, she 
 quivering at the point of tears. Master Grifone, 
 for his part, had taken very good care that the 
 Duke of Nona should be occupied, and himself 
 not hard to find. Molly came upon him in a 
 gallery of arras; caught him crouching there 
 with his face hidden in his hands. She went 
 to him at once, full of the trouble he showed 
 her, sat by him, put her arm round his neck, 
 and tried to draw his head up. Grifone turned 
 her a white, miserable face. 
 
 " Ah ! " he said, husky with reproach, " ah ! you 
 have come with the ardours of an angel leaping 
 in you ; yet no cruelty could in truth be sharper." 
 
 " Cruel ? Cruel ? Oh, Grifone, nobody has ever 
 said this of me before ! " whimpered poor Molly. 
 She was swirling in wilder water than she knew. 
 
 " The cruelty is unconscious, yet none the less 
 bitter for that," he complained ; and then, all at 
 once, he turned fiercely to rend her. " What ! 
 When I throb for your footfall, or when I lean 
 swooning to the wall for the scent of your hair 
 as you pass ; when I urge against your chamber 
 door that I may feed upon the sound of your 
 breath, or hunt for broken bread under your table 
 that I may grow drunk on what your fingers have 
 touched ! When I go raving at night, weeping 
 by day, with a knife in my heart, tears that scald 
 my eyes ! When with these pains to endure, 
 these perils to skirt, heights to fly, you will speak, 
 touch me, breathe upon me, tempt me to greet 
 you with kissing of the lips — ah, heaven and
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 175 
 
 hell ! it is over-much. I would be an honest man, 
 look you. I have a master to serve, I bid you 
 remember. It is true enough that I love you out 
 of all measure ; there is no sin in that which I 
 cannot help ; but misery there is, by our Saviour. 
 The sin is gaping all about me, itching here, 
 aching there, gnawing and groping without cease, 
 or stint, or allay. Yes, yes, I know this is true — 
 God help me ! I love you deplorably ; but I will 
 not touch you. You are the ever-blessed thing 
 to me ; but I will make you the ever-abhorred 
 thing, anathema maranatha. I love you, I wor- 
 ship you, I adore you ; you are my saint, my 
 church, my altar, my soul's peculiar food ; you 
 shall be my devil, his hell, his cauldron, my veno- 
 mous offence. And all this you shall be that I 
 may love you yet more, yet incomprehensibly more, 
 and (withal) live honest. I will hate you because 
 I adore you. Ah ! and I will prove whether by 
 hating you most of all I cannot drown myself in 
 love." He threw himself out of her reach, and 
 rocked with hidden face. 
 
 Here was pretty hearing for a pretty bride. 
 Molly, with heaving bosom, stood abashed and 
 dumb, and troubled profoundly. Not only had 
 she never tried to stem so fierce a torrent of love, 
 nor ever shuddered under such dry heat in men's 
 words — she had never yet dreamed of so much 
 passion in men created. And glorious passion, 
 too, it seemed, so stern and repressed — a passion 
 which hugged a fetter, a splendid misery of denial. 
 Of course she had nothing to say ; she never had 
 anything to say ; yet she longed to say or do some- 
 thing. Her interest in all these fine things was
 
 176 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 painful, if delicious ; and it never occurred to her 
 for a moment that it could be a sin to listen where 
 it was evidently such a virtue to declare. She 
 was conscious of no disloyalty to Amilcare in so 
 listening, in being so troubled, in displaying her 
 trouble so unaffectedly. Poor, poor, good Grifone! 
 So very noble, so white and miserable ; Heaven 
 knows she would have satisfied him if she could. 
 With her, to feel was to touch (if I may so put it) ; 
 quite instinctively she stretched out her arms to 
 draw him home ; the good fool would have kissed 
 his tears away if he had had any, giving him for 
 comfort what he had screamed upon as a torment. 
 But that was a talent denied to Grifone : he could 
 not cry. All the same, she was at the point to 
 kiss him, when he once more prevented her — this 
 time without violence. 
 
 " Ah, my lady, my lady," he said, with a smile 
 whimsically sad, " have a little pity on a torturing 
 wretch ! " 
 
 Molly now covered her face and freely sobbed. 
 The scene was heartrending, and Grifone judged 
 that he might give the finishing stroke. He stood 
 over her where she was flung (the poor humble 
 soul), and laid his fingers lightly on her silken 
 shoulder. 
 
 " Love makes a good reader of a man," he said 
 slowly, drawling his words. " Long ago I dis- 
 cerned the clear stream of truth which is the 
 issue of your love. Henceforward there is a se- 
 cret pact between us two, a secret wholly honour- 
 able, since I have only told it that you might be 
 won over not to dare me too far. Being honour- 
 able, you (who are the fountain of honour) will
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 177 
 
 keep it. We go our two ways, we look not on 
 each other, we greet not, neither speak what 
 either knows. Chance will throw us much to- 
 gether ; yet this law we will punctually observe. 
 To me the hour will say — ' Guard thee, Grifone ; 
 thy sweet enemy draws near.' To you — ' Now, 
 goodness be thy guide, Molly, lest thou art a cause 
 of stumbling to thy brother.' So let it always 
 be." 
 
 He left her then, knowing very well that he had 
 sworn the good girl to faith inviolable, and given 
 her the subject of perennial thought. 
 
 And so he had. Molly kept his secret, hon- 
 oured it, honoured him. She came by tortuous 
 ways of her hoodblind heart to glory and exult in 
 both ; nor had she the wit to discern how or by 
 what stealthy degrees the pain and longing she 
 pitied in him grew to be more pitiable in herselfo 
 She watched him wonderfully in those crowded 
 days of court life which followed, and when she 
 was blinded by her tears, held him as a martyr 
 who, for her sake, lay quivering under the knife. 
 It shows the length of her road, that she was never 
 aware how much more in her sight he was than 
 Amilcare, the man of her election. Amilcare, it 
 is true, was greatly occupied: one cannot be a 
 duke for nothing. Not home affairs only (though 
 discontent was never far off) called him from 
 home : the times were full of the shock of alarms ; 
 thrones toppled ; there were rumours of moving 
 hosts beyond the Alps. Cesare, the flame-col- 
 oured Borgia, was still meditating his kingdom in 
 Romagna; already the Lady of Fori! was flog- 
 ging her sulky lieges into some sort of action for 
 
 N
 
 178 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 her defence. Now, Nona lay dead in the Borgia's 
 way, and unless the Borgia could be hoodwinked 
 again as he had been hoodwinked before, Nona 
 need not cease to be a Duchy, but Amilcare 
 would cease to be a Duke. No wonder the man 
 was a lacklove just now. He intended to play 
 Molly for his great stake ; meantime he must be 
 more of a duke than he was, recognised as such 
 by other powers, by dukes firmly rooted, by 
 grudging republics, or tyrants in thin veils. 
 
 And while he was consolidating his throne — 
 ruffling here, fawning there — Grifone was always 
 before Molly's eye ; always plucking at her poor 
 heartstrings ; always holding up his grave pa- 
 tience, his bleeding, his most eloquent refusals, for 
 her wonder. Wonder, indeed, she did, and much 
 more than that. The thought sat upon her like 
 a brooding evil spirit, frayed her nerves to waste. 
 He used to move her so much by this policy 
 of negation that she found herself panting as she 
 sat among her women ; or when from her throned 
 seat at table she saw his pale profile burn like 
 a silver coin in the dusk, the pain of her heart's 
 beating well-nigh made her suffocate. Her 
 troubles came to be day-long; he haunted her 
 by night. When she began to ask the Virgin 
 Mary how long she could endure, it was the sig- 
 nal to herself that she could endure no more. 
 She sent for him then, and implored him 
 brokenly — sobbing, kneeling before him — that 
 he would leave her. Grifone bowed his head. 
 
 Next day Amilcare (or some other) told her that 
 the Secretary was to be absent for some months 
 arranging alliances abroad. He went without
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 179 
 
 seeing her or bidding any farewells. She was 
 prostrate for three or four days, could hardly 
 drag herself to church, or away from it when 
 she had once gained its cool sanctuary aisles. 
 After that she got better and more her old self. 
 The relief was as delicious as the grief had been ; 
 she was really happy. Then she found that she 
 was beginning to dread his return. This was 
 exactly what he had desired: he was a most 
 astute young man.
 
 VII 
 
 a pedlar's round 
 
 Grifone's tour of negotiation lasted very nearly 
 six months — months of comparative ease for 
 Molly, neglected by husband and shadowing 
 lover alike. During this time the latter visited 
 every important court in Italy, except Naples, 
 whither he cared not, and Parma, whither he 
 dared not venture — the object of his journey 
 being, of course, to secure his master's acknow- 
 ledgment by a better title than the throats of a 
 marketed crowd. It would be as interesting as 
 it was surprising to see the little craftsman at 
 work, the ingenuity with which he plied his hand- 
 ful of tools, the proud patience with which he 
 endured snub after snub, his bland passivity and 
 extraordinary rebound. First of all, he went to 
 Rome, ever the pivot of danger to an Italian 
 diplomat. Molly's portrait, done in his best man- 
 ner by Dosso of Ferrara, was presented to Duke 
 Caesar of Valentinois. 
 
 In this, the lady with loose hair and a still looser 
 robe (spangled with stars it was, and slipped off 
 one white shoulder) was sitting in a green wilder- 
 ness feeding lions with confetti. On a cedar near 
 by, were several parrots and a pale owl, and 
 from a low-swinging branch a great speckled 
 snake stooped downward to embrace Molly's 
 
 180
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 181 
 
 waist in a dry fold, and with his head writhed 
 forward to lick her chin. It was a pleasing 
 piece ; Don Cesare was ravished. The seed 
 planted in him at Foligno germinated, produced 
 a bud, before long a triumphant flower. Not only 
 would he come to Nona, and that soon, but the 
 Holy Father sent the Golden Rose to " his dear- 
 est daughter in Jesus Christ, Maria, by the same 
 grace Duchess of Nona." O mouth of singular 
 favour ! 
 
 With the scent of this rare blossom, Grifone 
 went off to tickle the nostrils of the North. But 
 he must not delay us. Bologna he dared to visit : 
 thither the ducal pair must needs go anon. 
 Milan received him to some purpose ; Venice 
 received him to none at all. Barbarigo was not 
 Doge for nothing. Ferrara was busy with 
 thoughts of piety, the whole court barefoot, 
 howling " Fac me plagis " between the garden 
 walls. In other places he cried his wares, and 
 reached Nona again in the heats of July. 
 
 He found his lovely mistress in a shaking 
 fever, languid under the breathless heat of the 
 plain, yet never at rest. He found her large- 
 eyed and bodeful, horribly nervous of him. She 
 had been longing to see him, yet every day made 
 vehement prayer that she might never look on 
 him again. When she knew that he was indeed 
 in the palace, she shut herself into her chamber 
 with a crucifix, and spent the whole day at the 
 window peeping from behind a curtain. Grifone 
 saw the shape of her in it, saw her hand at the 
 selvage. 
 
 " Courage, Grifone, mio caro," he assured
 
 1 82 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 himself; "she is afraid of thee." He resumed 
 his state of armed respect, Molly her tossing 
 nights and pacing days. Affairs were some- 
 thing awry within the Duchy, yet Grifone as- 
 sured his Lord they were likely to be much more 
 awry out of it. Madonna Duchessa must cer- 
 tainly be shown about — otherwise, an avalanche. 
 Preparations were pushed on. By October the 
 Duke and Duchess, with a great train set out — 
 actually for Bologna, but nominally for Milanese 
 territory. Lodovico, of that great principality, 
 would have been mortally affronfed if he believed 
 Bentivoglio to have been considered first. There- 
 fore the visit to Bologna was to be a dead secret, 
 performed by the principals almost unattended. 
 Meantime Grifone (who loved mystification) pre- 
 pared litters with a dummy Duke and Duchess 
 to go under escort to Borgo San Donnino. He 
 and his wagging escort duly entered that city: 
 excuses to the Podesta secured him a covered 
 passage to the palace. Once there, unfortu- 
 nately, the populace clamoured for a view, 
 insisted upon their Graces' appearance. Grifone 
 had to set his dolls at a window. There they 
 stared, embraced, while three Ciceronian ora- 
 tions were delivered from the piazza, and all 
 the merchant-guilds marched round it with ban- 
 ners and torches. Next morning he got them off 
 safely by some stroke of good luck ; but his joke 
 got wind in time, came round to Cesare Borgia's 
 ears, and at last was repeated against Nona. For 
 no other reason could this absurd incident claim 
 your ears. 
 
 At Bologna, also, all had gone well with the
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 183 
 
 real adventurers — up to a certain point. Benti- 
 voglio the tyrant (whose name is surely the 
 grimmest of his pleasantries) having seen the 
 lovely Molly, was disposed to forgive her that 
 disastrous veracity which (you remember) had 
 prevented him before. He was so favourably 
 impressed that Amilcare (who never missed a 
 chance) left him alone with her for two hours in 
 the garden after supper. At the end of that 
 time Molly came to him, stumbling over her 
 dress in her haste, flushed and in tears. They 
 must leave Bologna at once, she declared ; she 
 would die else, or never look her husband in the 
 face. The man had insulted her, was horrible, 
 most wicked. Amilcare, her dear lord, must go 
 and avenge her, etc., etc. 
 
 Here was a pother. What could be done? 
 Grifone, of course, had he been there, would have 
 drawn his master's sword for him, dragged him 
 out of the room, and sent him back in half an 
 hour's time with a bloody testimony of nothing 
 on the blade. Molly would have been pacified, 
 Bentivoglio snug abed, the sword none the worse 
 for a little pig's blood. But Grifone was at Borgo 
 jigging his dolls and listening to Cicero, and 
 Amilcare lost his head. He pooh-poohed the 
 whole affair; Molly grew pale, stopped crying. 
 Amilcare began to feel himself — come, come, 
 she was reasonable after all. He condescended 
 to explain the fine uses of Italian statecraft, the 
 wife's part, the husband's part. He was most ex- 
 plicit ; Molly grew white, ended by fainting. 
 Amilcare carried her to bed ; she refused to sleep 
 with him. He raged ; she cared nothing. She
 
 1 84 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 was wild with terror, shame, discovery of her 
 lover's worth, and of her love's. He had to beg 
 her pardon on his knees, made an enemy of Ben- 
 tivoglio, a fool of himself, and left next morning 
 in a tearing passion. 
 
 Grifone, who met his master at Cremona, 
 lost no time in seeing that something had 
 gone counter, and very little in finding out 
 what it was. 
 
 " Leave it to me, my good lord," he said com- 
 fortably ; " I will explain it to Madonna in another 
 way." 
 
 Before they went to bed he had a little guarded 
 talk with his duchess, half-excusation of his ab- 
 sence which might have aggravated her alarms, 
 half -condemnation of Amilcare; the whole, con- 
 sequently, a veiled eulogy of himself. 
 
 Molly was very quiet at first, subdued and 
 miserable, but sincerely grateful. To express 
 this, she fell into her natural way, a way of little 
 timid tendernesses, little touchings of the arm, 
 urgings of the cheek. Grifone received them 
 rigidly; she was reduced to tears. Thereupon 
 he kissed her ardently, twice, and fled. She re- 
 mained a long while in the dark, breathless, 
 limp, awed, and absurdly happy. Next morning 
 he was as distant as the Alps and quite as frosty. 
 At dusk they reached Milan. 
 
 Whatever Duke Ludovic (titular of Bari, 
 actual of Milan) may have intended to ensue, 
 he gave them a proper reception. Cardinal 
 Ascanio himself came to the city gate with 
 clergy and the Council ; cavalry, a parti-coloured 
 array, pennoned and feathered, escorted them to
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 185 
 
 the castle. There, on the steps within the great 
 courtyard, the Moor himself, sumptuous in sil- 
 ver brocade, and Donna Beatrice his wife ; there 
 his tired sister, Duchess Bona, and her by no 
 means tired daughter, Bianca Maria of the 
 green eyes, stood panoplied to await them. 
 Trumpets announced the greetings that passed ; 
 yet another fanfare the greetings that were to 
 come when within the hall, at the foot of the 
 broad staircase, they found and kissed the hands 
 of the anxious little Duke Gian Galeazzo and 
 his pretty wife — pair of doomed children, even 
 then in the cold shadow of their fate. 
 
 Half-hearted, fainting Molly went through her 
 little part with the accustomed success. Her 
 pretty English-Italian, her English lips, again her 
 eager hands, so anxious to search friends out, 
 found their sure way to one at least. Bianca 
 Maria, affianced of the Roman King, delighted to 
 kiss and be kissed, announced herself the shy 
 girl's lover. Pleasure broke over her face, broke 
 the glaze of her bottomless eyes with a gleam 
 like the sun's, when in still water it betrays deep 
 green paths of light. 
 
 She was an enigmatic rogue, so clever that 
 to most she seemed of unplumbed stupidity. 
 Those blank green eyes of hers, that waxen face, 
 that scarlet impenetrable mouth, her even gait 
 and look of ruminating, look of a dolt — who 
 knew Bianca Maria? Not Maximilian, the mild- 
 mannered King ; not Duke Ludovic (that creased 
 traitor),who schemed her marriage ; not altogether 
 Lionardo, who painted half her portrait and 
 taught her much of his wisdom; certainly not
 
 186 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 poor Molly of Nona. All Milanese were her 
 lovers, and here was another heart, Molly's to 
 wit, laid open and soothed by the little witch's 
 quick hand-stroke. Bianca Maria had all her 
 secrets with all her love in the first hour of their 
 embracery. 
 
 The two girls sat clasped in one chair in that 
 pretty time of dressing when half is undone and 
 half's to do. Molly, feeling a fool but loving to 
 have it so, sat in the lap of the younger, who 
 mothered her. 
 
 After many days, Lionardo, who forgot nothing 
 and never her whom he thus happened on, glori- 
 fied her as the Virgin Mary on the knees of 
 Saint Anne. The indefinite smile, the innocent 
 consciousness, the tender maiden ways ! Wife, 
 mother, handmaid of High God, he thought of her 
 as of Molly in apotheosis ; dutiful for love's sake, 
 yet incurably a child, made for the petting place. 
 
 " Grifone the Secretary is your lover, my 
 Molly," said Bianca Maria the wise. 
 
 Molly admitted the sobering truth, and the other 
 pinched her lip. 
 
 " Take care of him, my dear. He is more 
 perilous than that stiff husband you now have. 
 The husband is a trading fool. He uses you 
 as a carrot to induce donkeys. The other is 
 more curious, and has no use for donkeys. He 
 will use you otherwise." 
 
 " Why, how will he use me, then ? " said open- 
 eyed Molly. She was vaguely ill at ease; but 
 the other shammed stupid. All she could be 
 brought to add was — 
 
 " I will take care of you if I can. You will
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 187 
 
 never do here, nor should ever have come — a 
 lamb among our Lombard wolves. Had you no 
 English lover, to kill Amilcare and prevent it ? " 
 
 Molly thought of Gregory Drax who had been 
 upon the North seas at the time. Gregory Drax 
 used to lean over the garden gate chewing straws. 
 This he did by the hour together, to the perfect 
 satisfaction of himself and understanding of the 
 neighbours. Molly could not think that it would 
 have led to the slaying of Amilcare. 
 
 " What was he like, this Gregorio ? " asked 
 Bianca Maria, suddenly alert when she had got 
 his name smoothly. 
 
 Molly did her best — ruddy, blue-eyed, always 
 blushing and laughing, fair-haired, very long arms. 
 He was a marinajo. 
 
 " He sounds to be so," said Bianca Maria. 
 Then she clapped her hands and summoned 
 Lionardo. 
 
 The great man had no sooner appeared (noise- 
 lessly in the doorway, the inscrutable grey-beard) 
 than she kissed her friend and bade her go with 
 her women to the appointed quarters of the 
 Nonesi. Lionardo gravely saluted her as she 
 went rosy out. He had seen the Virgin in the 
 lap of Saint Anne and cared no more for the poor 
 original. 
 
 " Dear Lionardo," said the girl in the chair to 
 the most learned man of her day, " you shall do 
 me the favour to write a letter in Latin to a certain 
 English lord, Messer Gregorio Dras, Marinajo, 
 Londra." 
 
 " Principessa," said the great man, " I am ready. 
 Recite your letter."
 
 1 88 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 " To her very singular good lord," the letter 
 began — the only one, so far as I know, written 
 by the Empress Bianca Maria to England; cer- 
 tainly the only one she ever wrote to Wapping. 
 The conceit of it was as follows : That the lovely 
 Lady Molly was at Nona on the confines of Emilia 
 and Romagna, wife of a man who would shortly 
 be murdered in order that she might become the 
 mate of the assassin ; that a very great lord, son 
 of the Holy Father, was intending for those parts, 
 and would probably take the same means to secure 
 himself the position of her third husband. The 
 writer proposed that the Lord Gregorius, whose 
 virtue and celerity of judgment were well known 
 throughout Italy, should journey out to Nona with 
 all reasonable despatch and repossess himself of the 
 lady. " Thus your lordship," it concluded, " may 
 happily become fourth husband of a lady, whose 
 charms are of a sort so noble and perdurable that 
 they are unlikely to suffer from the arduous duties 
 their excellence involves. Yet such haste as is 
 compatible with your worshipful degree in the 
 realm of England may be recommended. From 
 Milan, etc., in the year of our thankful Redemption 
 1494." 
 
 " How shall we send our letter speediest, my 
 Merlin ? " His enchantress laid her emerald 
 spell over him — O incomparable witch ! Such 
 sorcery exalted him always. He lifted her ques- 
 tion upon one of his towering flights. 
 
 " The wings of birds, if we could use them, 
 were admirable for the purpose, Princess," he re- 
 plied. " But, for the moment, the difficulty of 
 instructing such messengers is insuperable. And
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 189 
 
 not only so, but it is probable that the Lord Gre- 
 gorio, seeing such an envoy to his hand, might put 
 a bolt into it, and itself into the pot, without inter- 
 rogatories delivered or answers made. So messen- 
 ger and message would alike be boiled. Another 
 way occurs to me, which arises out of this con- 
 sideration. We stand, each bather of us, in a 
 lake of air. A lake? Rather, an illimitable 
 ocean of it spread over land and sea, in which 
 the very mountain-tops do blink. Should not, 
 then, the pulsing of our thought, as it rings out- 
 ward from us, be discernible in the ripples about 
 the Lord Gregorio's ears ? Obviously it should. 
 But the reading of such ripples would be a nice 
 matter; and again we lack means, and again the 
 time, to instruct his lordship. Once more — " 
 
 " Ah, you dream your subtleties, and my letter 
 gets cold," said Bianca Maria, pouting. " You are 
 now just as you sit watchfully, when you should 
 be painting my picture." 
 
 " It is then that I am painting my hardest, Prin- 
 cess Saint Anne," he returned. " But leave with 
 me your letter. It shall go in a man's bosom to- 
 morrow morning." 
 
 High affairs of State are not settled in a week, 
 nor dukes so apt at billing as a pair of girls. 
 Duke Ludovic would not declare himself to every 
 adventurer; Duke Amilcare was too patently 
 adventurous to disclose all his hand. Then came 
 Grifone, with a game of his own. Blind each of 
 one eye, they set to dealing their cards for beggar- 
 my-neighbour. 
 
 Now, Ludovic feared one man in all Italy, and 
 so did Amilcare. That was the one man in all
 
 190 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 Italy whom Grifone respected, on whom he 
 thought he could honestly rely. Thought he 
 to himself, " Can their Serenities be leagued 
 against this man in my service ? Can they not, 
 by our risen Lord ? " He fancied that they might. 
 
 To this end he proposed to his master, very 
 shortly, the assassination of Borgia by means of 
 the lovely Molly. Let her, at a private banquet, 
 inveigle him to drink a cup. 
 
 " Suggest this to the Duke of Bari," he said. 
 " I think your lordship will not be disappointed. 
 Substantial pledges must be exacted, of course; 
 he must tread in deep enough to leave a footmark 
 or two visible 'twixt Milan and Nona." 
 
 Amilcare thought well of this advice and fol- 
 lowed it. Ludovic, incredulous at first and breath- 
 less, took a fortnight to ponder. He consulted 
 Cardinal Ascanio, consulted his astrologers, took 
 the test of the opening Virgil. His eye lighted 
 upon the portentous words: "Tantae molis erat 
 Romanam condere gentem." Who would have 
 twittered after those ? He sought his guest and 
 told him roundly that if the thing went well he 
 would send an envoy to the court at Nona, and 
 support the new Duchy with moral force. 
 
 Amilcare did not believe him, naturally, nor did 
 he greatly care for moral forces. He stipulated 
 for an envoy at once, an invitation for himself and 
 his wife to Bianca Maria's wedding, and for a loan 
 of twenty thousand ducats in specie. 
 
 Ludovic boggled horribly at this ; but they ac- 
 corded at last. The envoy was to go then and 
 there, the invitation should be sent when the 
 Borgia had agreed to visit Nona, and the money
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 191 
 
 when he was within a day's ride of that city. 
 Reduced to cipher-writing, this treaty was placed 
 below the visible Host on the high altar of Sant' 
 Eustorgio ; the allies received the Communion, 
 and after another week's festivities the Duke and 
 Duchess of Nona went home. 
 
 At parting the two girls clung together. 
 
 " We shall never meet again, child," cried the 
 chosen Empress. " I am sure of it." 
 
 Molly kissed her. " Are we not to come to 
 your marriage, dear Bianca ? " 
 
 " My marriage ? " cried the other. " You will 
 as likely see me there as that shadow of a name 
 which will be my bridegroom. You will see my 
 simulacrum, a plastered effigy of me. I shall be 
 stiff with gold-dust and diamonds ; a doll mar- 
 rying a doll's bed-gown. Why should I be there 
 if his ever-august Majesty is represented by a puff 
 of silly breath? Pray never look for Bianca Maria 
 in the Queen of the Romans. The Queen of the 
 Romans is a doll, windy ruler of the name of a 
 people ; Bianca Maria Sforza, daughter of thieves, 
 has been your friend, as you will see. She has 
 provided for your third husband an honest man. 
 Now kiss me for the last time and, by Heaven, go 
 quickly, or I shall keep you here for my soul's 
 health." 
 
 The fierce little hungry creature threw her 
 arms round Molly's neck and kissed her like a 
 lover. 
 
 Molly was melted into tears. " Oh, Bianca, you 
 bewilder, you terrify me ! What is this of hus- 
 bands and your soul?" 
 
 " Ah, my soul ! " cried she. " Do you think so
 
 1 92 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 highly of it as to suppose it will survive this mar- 
 riage, or so lightly as not to care ? My soul, poor 
 child, is in the case with your lovely body. It is 
 the tied bird of all these fowlers." 
 
 " Alas, alas ! But I cannot understand," Molly 
 wailed ; but the other caught her the closer. 
 
 " That you do not understand, Carina, is your 
 salvation. It proves you immortal. Now go. 
 No ! kiss me, kiss me ! " 
 
 They were parted at last ; and though they did 
 meet again, they kissed no more.
 
 VIII 
 
 PRIVATE TREATY 
 
 To a most elaborately penned invitation the 
 Borgia responded by half a dozen words scrawled 
 by his secretary. He would be in the March at 
 such and such a time, and would spend such and 
 such a day in Nona. 
 
 He had heard from Amilcare; he replied to 
 Molly. The insult was glaring, even to her. 
 
 "Is this tolerable, my lord?" said the meek 
 beauty, incensed at last. 
 
 Amilcare shrugged. " It may not have to be 
 borne very long," said he. " For my part I am 
 accustomed to reckon a gift by its use to me, not 
 by the sacking round about it." He was now 
 beyond his wife's depth : she neither followed nor 
 tried to follow him. 
 
 In these days she saw but little of her lord, and 
 could have wished it less. He, who in action was 
 as cheerful a soul as you could wish to serve, was 
 harassed by the long expectances of diplomacy, 
 and in the routine work of governing most grim. 
 The Nonesi had come to hate him a good deal, 
 but to fear him more. Expenses were incalculable, 
 the taxes grew ; there were riots. Savage snaps 
 of speech in the Council did harm ; imprisonments 
 followed, then some unaccountable sudden deaths. 
 High and low alike, none knew where the blow 
 might fall, but all flinched at it. 
 o 193
 
 i 9 4 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 In these distresses Molly served him well, for 
 she at least was universally loved. If the Duke 
 had a man stabbed, the Duchess took such sweet 
 consolation to the widow that none could mur- 
 mur long. To watch her warm tears flow was 
 in itself a solace; to feel her arms, to win her 
 kissing mouth, quickened those doubtful poor 
 souls. 
 
 Furtively also, Grifone was on her side ; a neat 
 phrase here and there made her position plain to 
 the most infidel in the city. It is true that while 
 he helped her there he tortured her otherwhere 
 inexpressibly. He hardly ever left her now, and 
 her heart bled to see him go in fear of her ; she 
 prayed night and day that he might have strength 
 to shake off this biting, cruel love. It never 
 entered her head that she could console him by 
 perfidy to a perfidious husband ; it had entered 
 Grifone's head a hundred times, but he always 
 put it out. He could afford to wait for what, 
 after all, he only valued as a concession to vulgar 
 opinion. In thought she had been his for a year; 
 and in the mind he lived most deliciously. It was, 
 no doubt, his full intent to make her his in all 
 the grossness of the fact, but not until he had 
 got rid of Amilcare, or induced Amilcare to get 
 rid of himself. This was what the stiffnecked 
 Condottiere was now doing as fast as his best 
 enemies could have wished. His people hated 
 him so bitterly that he would certainly have worn 
 mail — had not Molly been his mail. They spared 
 him because they loved her, and believed that he 
 still had her heart. " Amilcar, uxoris gratia, Dux," 
 was now the fact. Grifone could have destroyed
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 195 
 
 belief and him together by a lift of the eyebrow; 
 but he wanted more than that, so waited on. 
 
 The little fellow was really extraordinary. Lux- 
 urious as he was to the root, and effeminate; 
 hating as he did cold water, cold food, the cold 
 shoulder ; one and all of these shuddering things 
 he had schooled himself to bear without a blink. 
 He grew even to take a stern pleasure in the 
 bitterness they cost him, as he turned them to 
 his uses and reckoned up his balance at the bank. 
 Amilcare snarled at him, cut his words out of his 
 mouth, struck him, kicked him once like a yard- 
 dog. Grifone added it all to his store. 
 
 But as the day for Duke Cesare's visit drew 
 near, Molly began to be much again in her hus- 
 band's thoughts — how far she would go in this 
 maturer time. She had charmed the man once 
 before, at Foligno ; she had charmed everybody. 
 But then she had been charmed herself. Sub- 
 sequently she had charmed Bentivoglio, not so 
 happily but that she endangered her own spell. 
 That was the present trouble, for hitherto her 
 charm had lain precisely in herself, in the little 
 everyday acts which were her own nature. Ben- 
 tivoglio had reasonably wanted more: so would 
 Borgia want very much more. Could Molly be 
 brought, not to surrender all he wanted, but to 
 make him want? Amilcare, growing tense be- 
 tween his difficulties, felt that explanations must 
 be given and received, felt also that they must 
 come from himself — in fact, Grifone had de- 
 clined them — and felt that he was not strong 
 in such work. Direction he could give, but not 
 explanation. However, he must try.
 
 196 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 On a vivid morning of early summer, when 
 the lemon-trees in the cortile looked as if they 
 had been cut out of metal, and the planes and 
 very poplars were unwinking in the thick blue 
 air, Amilcare came into his wife's room. She 
 had not expected him; he found her lying di- 
 shevelled and unbusked, with all her glossy hair 
 tumbled loose. Very much a maiden still, not- 
 withstanding her year and a half of troublous mar- 
 riage, she jumped up directly she saw him, and, 
 blushful, covered her neck. Amilcare, finding 
 her and the act adorable together, took her in his 
 arms and kissed her ; then he led her back by the 
 hand to the window-cushions, and made her sit 
 upon his knee. He began to play with her hair. 
 " What a silken mesh, my Molly ! What a snare 
 for a man in this lovely cloud ! How fragrant of 
 roses ! Ah, most beautiful wife, you could lead 
 all Italy by a strand of this miraculous hair." 
 
 She was pleased with his praises, touched and 
 grateful ; she kissed him for them. So they grew 
 more friendly than they had been ever since the 
 Bentivoglio had shocked her modesty and faith 
 in him at once. Amilcare rattled on; love-talk 
 comes easily to the Italian tongue, whose very 
 vocables are caresses. 
 
 Gradually he drew in and in to the Borgia, 
 centre of all his spinning thought. 
 
 "There is a lover of yours, for instance!" he 
 said, comically aghast ; and Molly laughed. 
 
 " Why, Amilcare, you make all the world to 
 be my lover, all the world to look at me through 
 your eyes. Believe it, they see me truer than you 
 do. I am a very simple person."
 
 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 197 
 
 Amilcare began to count upon his fingers, one 
 hand meeting the other round Molly's caught 
 waist. 
 
 " The Borgia, the Count of Cavalcalupo, Oreste 
 Colonna, Negroponte, three Bishops at Sesto, 
 Bianca Maria, Cardinal Ascanio Sforza, Orde- 
 laffi, Benti " 
 
 She stopped him there with a hand on his 
 mouth. " Pah, the horrible man ! " 
 
 Amilcare gaily struggled for vent, and — 
 " voglio ! " he concluded the word. " You may 
 not relish the trophy, my wife ; but him you 
 undoubtedly charmed. And now Don Cesare is 
 coming. Him also it will be as needful as easy 
 to please." 
 
 Molly turned in her husband's arms to con- 
 sider him. Something in his tone (rather than 
 the words he had used) struck bodefully upon 
 her. Amilcare was kissing her hair and would 
 not give over: she cast down her eyes unsatisfied. 
 
 " I hope I may always please my lord's friends," 
 she said in a low voice. 
 
 Amilcare settled himself yet more luxuriously 
 in his cushions, and looked at the ceiling. 
 
 " You must charm him, my soul," he said 
 intensely; "you must charm him. I am in his 
 hands, in his way; he has sought my ruin and 
 I believe still seeks it. Twice he has tried to 
 poison me, once to have me stabbed ; if he tries 
 again he will succeed. Nothing can turn Don 
 Cesare from his path but a woman. Therefore, 
 you must charm him, ravish his eyes. You 
 know very well how to do that." 
 
 Molly stared, grew red, began to stammer.
 
 19S LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 " But how can I — ? Oh, Amilcare, what do you 
 ask of me ? " 
 
 Then he looked at her, severely but without 
 malice. She noticed for the first time the cold- 
 steel hue in his eyes, the complete absence of 
 friendliness — a tinge which his men knew very 
 well, and other men's men even better. 
 
 " I ask of you, my Molly, that the man be put 
 at his ease," he said deliberately (happy in order- 
 ing at last) ; " more, that his direction be turned. 
 He must be made high-hearted, full of glorious 
 hope, not counting cost, keen in pursuit. He 
 must blow off the cobwebs of his doubt ; rather, 
 these must shred from him as he flies in chase. I 
 cannot afford his distrust. I can do nothing with- 
 out you. Light of Heaven ! am I asking too much ? 
 Or do you suppose that my safety with the 
 Borgia is not yours also ? " He shrugged his 
 intolerable indignation and threw back his head. 
 Thus he avoided to look at his wife. 
 
 She still sat upon his knee, but like an alien, 
 bolt upright, reasoning out her misery with wide 
 tearless eyes, and a hand to press her bosom down. 
 Shocks were no more for her — she had learned 
 too much; but these things seemed like hard 
 fingers on a familiar wound, which opened the 
 old sore and set it aching. The part he now put 
 to her had only to be named to be shown for hor- 
 rible ; was yet too horrible to be named ; yet had 
 to be named. 
 
 " You ask of me to charm your enemy," she said 
 in a still, fascinated voice (as if she were forced by 
 a spell to speak obscenity) : " to beguile your enemy 
 — to make him — make him — seek me? Him,
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 199 
 
 the man who tried to murder you ? Charm him ? 
 Charm him ? Lead him to pursue ? " 
 
 She could hardly drag the words out of her, but 
 Lord ! what a fool she was. At least, Amilcare 
 thought so. The plainest duty, the easiest ; this 
 childish woman's game ! He jumped up, quiver- 
 ing with nerves on edge, and the sympathy be- 
 tween the pair lacked even touch. Molly found 
 her feet, stood brooding before him, all her hair 
 about her lowered face. 
 
 To see her thus, a mute, a block, maddened 
 Amilcare. He clenched his fists. " Yes, Madam " 
 — his words bit the air — " you shall charm this 
 enemy of mine, if you please; this assassin, this 
 ravener of other men's goods. You shall charm 
 him in the way you best know — you and your 
 nation. Bentivoglio I excused you : he was not 
 worth your pains. Borgia I shall not excuse you. 
 I showed you to him with this only view ; I asked 
 him here, I speak to you now, with this only view. 
 You are adorable in every part, if you choose to 
 be. Italy has no woman like you, so winning, 
 so much the sumptuous child : such tall buds 
 shoot only in the North. To it, then! Charm 
 him as you charmed me. Teach him — Santo 
 Dio ! — teach him to die for a smile. At least 
 afford him the smile or the provocation of it: 
 the rest shall be my affair. Soul of Christ ! am 
 I to miss this astounding opportunity? Never 
 in the world. I bid you by all you hold sacred 
 to do your duty. Am I plain enough ? " 
 
 He was. She had grown as grey as a cloth, 
 could say nothing, only motion with her dry lips. 
 But she bent her head to him, and stretched out 
 her hands in token of obedience to law.
 
 200 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 " Good," said Amilcare ; " my wife understands 
 me." And he went out then and there to his 
 Council. His conviction of her submissiveness 
 (and of other things about her to modify it) may 
 be gauged by the fact that he never saw her again 
 (except ceremonially) until a certain moment after 
 the dinner with Borgia. 
 
 Grifone saw her all the more for that. What 
 he saw satisfied him that she was in terrible 
 trouble. She slunk about, to his view, as if beaten 
 down by shame. He had seen young girls in 
 that strait very often, when the first step had 
 been taken, the first flush faded from the venture, 
 the first after-knowledge come. They always 
 went as though they were watched. More than 
 that, he discerned that she was nearly broken 
 for want of a counsellor : he caught her long gaze 
 fixed upon him sometimes. She seemed to be 
 peering through him, spoke to herself (he thought) 
 as she sat vacantly upon her throne, or at table 
 among the quick wits, with all her spying ladies 
 to fence her in. If any one addressed the word to 
 her she flushed suddenly and began to catch after 
 her breath. He could see how shortlv that 
 breath came, and how it seemed to hurt her. If 
 she answered at all, it was stupidly and beside 
 the purpose ; then she would look conscious of 
 her dulness, grow uncomfortably red, be at the 
 point to cry. All this, while it could not but 
 gratify him, made him a little sorry too. 
 
 One night, at a very brilliant assembly given 
 by the notorious Donna Smeralda Buonaccorso, 
 he saw her standing forlorn on the terrace, like a 
 lonely rock in the sea — the most beautiful woman
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 201 
 
 in Nona and the most splendidly attired, absolutely 
 alone in all that chattering, grimacing crowd. 
 The Duchess of Nona ! This consideration alone 
 moved him to real pity — for to be great and 
 unfortunate has a freakish way of touching your 
 heart — it moved him quietly towards her, to whis- 
 per in her ear — 
 
 "Madonna" — (and Heaven! how she started) 
 " Madonna, what you need now is the courage of 
 your race. But courage, I well know, comes only 
 by confidence, and confidence is what I can give 
 you. Trust for trust : will you hear me ? " 
 
 But she looked piteously at him, as if she had 
 been found out, and put her hands to her ears. 
 
 " I dare not hear you ! I dare not ! How can 
 you speak to me when I have never asked — 
 never thought — ? Ah, leave me, Grifone. I have 
 not heard you yet: ask me not — but go!" 
 
 It was she that went, that hurried from him, 
 stumbling in her haste, like a hunted thing. He 
 could see no more of her that night, so with a 
 shrug turned to his quiet amusement. There 
 were women there pleasant enough. It was true 
 that he wanted but one woman superlatively ; but 
 it was eminently Grifone's maxim that, failing 
 that which you need, you should take that which 
 you can get. 
 
 The last stage in the education of Molly, Amil- 
 care found must positively be left to the Secre- 
 tary. 
 
 On the night before Duke Cesare's arrival, 
 when every other preparation had been made, 
 Grifone came into his master's room, late. He 
 said nothing, nor got any greeting; but he placed
 
 202 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 a little phial on the table, and waited. Amilcare 
 looked at it, did not touch it. It was a very small 
 phial, half full of a clear liquid. 
 
 " You prepared it yourself, Grifone ? " 
 
 Grifone nodded pleasantly. 
 
 " Then I may rest assured — ? " 
 
 " You may, my lord." 
 
 " I will ask you to make all arrangements, Gri- 
 fone. When the time comes you will take the 
 cup to Madonna Duchessa, with a hint of so much 
 as may be necessary to provide against mischances. 
 Will this be done ? " 
 
 " Punctually and surely, Excellence." The Sec- 
 retary retired with his bottle. 
 
 Amilcare sat on with a tight smile which 
 neither waxed nor waned, but seemed frozen on 
 his face. He may thus have sat for two or three 
 hours, his eyes fixed on a point at the table's edge. 
 That point, whatever it was, a speck of dust, may 
 be, seemed to grow and grow till it was monstrous 
 and a burden intolerable to endure. Amilcare, 
 with an effort, stretched out his hand and cuffed 
 at it. He knocked a book off the table by this 
 means, then started, then swore at himself. Twice 
 after this he spoke, smiling all the while. " Is it 
 now indeed ? " he asked, raising one eyebrow ; " is 
 it now indeed ? " Then he got up, stretched him- 
 self noisily, and lay down as he was on the sofa, 
 to sleep in a moment. 
 
 Molly lay with a young maid of hers that night 
 and never had a wink.
 
 IX 
 
 THE LAST BIDDING 
 
 That golden Duke of Valentinois had a pom- 
 pous reception from his august ally of Nona. 
 Amilcare, riding like Castor, at one with his 
 horse, went out at the head of his court to meet 
 him. The Centaurs lined the way with a hedge 
 of steel. Hat in hand, the Duke of Nona rode 
 back with his guest to the garlanded gates. There, 
 a fluttered choir, all virgins and all white, strewed 
 flowers ; from that point to the Piazza Grande 
 one song came leaping on the heels of another. 
 On the steps of the Duomo were the clergy in 
 brocade, a mitred bishop half -smothered under his 
 cope in their midst. The two Dukes dismounted, 
 and hand in hand entered the church ; the organ 
 pealed ; the choir burst out with the chant, Ecce, 
 Rex tuus venit ; and then (seeing Cesare had 
 once been a Cardinal), Ecce Sacerdos magnus. 
 The smoke of incense went rolling to the roof, 
 Te Deum spired between the rifts ; an Archbishop 
 intoned the Mass of the Holy Ghost. Cesare, in 
 white satin, golden-headed, red-gold in the beard, 
 cloaked and collared with the Golden Fleece, 
 knelt in the middle of the dome ; beside him the 
 hawk-faced Amilcare, splendid in silver armour, 
 knelt also — but stiffly; whereas the Borgia (grace- 
 ful in all that he did) drooped easily forward on 
 
 203
 
 204 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY i 
 
 his prie-dieu, like the Archangel Gabriel who 
 brought the great tidings to Madonna Maria. 
 Amilcare, at that rate, was like Michael, his more 
 trenchant colleague, that " bird of God." 
 
 The Bishop, who knew perfectly well why the 
 Duke had come to Nona, and why Nona's Duke 
 wanted him there, preached a sermon which the 
 saving Italian virtue of urbanity prevented from 
 being either monstrous or ridiculous. Before the 
 altar the two lords kissed each other. One of 
 them had tried and the other was about to try 
 murder as a political expedient; but that was no 
 reason why good manners should not prevail. 
 Decent ceremony was always a virtue of the race. 
 
 Half an hour before dinner Grifone (who had 
 not been to church) stood before his mistress, 
 who had not been suffered to go. He had a 
 flagon in his hands, of silver gilt, like the calyx 
 of a great flower whose stem was sheathed in 
 the clustered wings of angels, whose base was 
 their feet. He held it in both hands as if it 
 were a chalice. 
 
 Molly, beaten out and white, looked at it dully, 
 but did not seem to see it. 
 
 " Madonna mia," said the youth, " this is the 
 loving-cup which I am to hand to you after 
 dinner, and which you are to hand to Duke 
 Cesare." 
 
 He hardly heard her answer, but judged by 
 the shaping of her lips that it was, " Well, 
 Grifone ? " 
 
 " Duke Cesare will ask you to sip of it first, 
 Madonna." 
 
 His looks were piercing; yet she was too far
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 205 
 
 gone to be disturbed by such as those. She even 
 smiled faintly at his emphasis. 
 
 " Well, Grifone ? " she asked again, in that 
 same dry whisper. " How shall that be harm to 
 him if I do it ? " 
 
 Grifone blew out his lips. " Harm, per Dio ! 
 None at all, but common prudence on his part. 
 No harm to him, lady ; but to you obeying him, 
 destruction, death ! " 
 
 Molly stared. Her breath came hollow from 
 her mouth. 
 
 " Death, Grifone ? " she faltered, and then 
 pored over his face again. 
 
 He nodded his words into her. 
 
 " Death, Madonnina." 
 
 The girl tottered to her feet — had to balance 
 like a rope-dancer to keep upon them. 
 
 " But then— but then — O Saviour ! " 
 
 She threw her arms up. He thought she would 
 fall, so put one of his round her waist. He felt 
 her heart knocking like a drum, pressed her 
 closer, drew her in and kissed her, with a coaxing 
 word or two. She tried to collect herself — alas! 
 her wits were scattered wide. Her head drooped 
 to his shoulder. 
 
 After that there began the most pitiful busi- 
 ness. She was pleading with him in a whining, 
 wheedling, silly voice, which would have broken 
 down an Englishman. Grifone himself was 
 pricked. It was like a child, frightened into sly- 
 ness, coaxing its mother. 
 
 "Dear Grifone, dear Grifone! You will not 
 hand me the cup. Oh, please, please, please ! " 
 
 Grifone kissed her. " Why, what can I do ? "
 
 206 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 he said. " My lord has ordered it so, dear 
 one." 
 
 She took no notice of his familiarities ; indeed, 
 the tone they lent his voice may have soothed 
 the poor affectionate wretch. But she only wrung 
 her hands at his news. 
 
 "No, no, no! Tis impossible! No, no, he 
 could never do it!" 
 
 " I can repeat his words," said the inexorable 
 Grifone ; " he said — " 
 
 Then she sprang away from him as if he had 
 whipped her, and crouched in a corner, at bay. 
 She began to rave, seemingly in a high delirium, 
 pointed at him, wagged her arm at him, mowing 
 the air. 
 
 " Never repeat them, never repeat them. I 
 shall die if you do ! " 
 
 Grifone set down his cup, ran forward and em- 
 braced her. " My lovely lady, my adorable Molly ! " 
 he murmured, in a passion of admiration for her 
 transformed, unearthly beauty. 
 
 She noticed nothing of him or his doings, lay 
 lax in his arms. She stared, gulping down hor- 
 ror; she looked like some shocked Addolorata 
 come upon the body of her dead Son. And so, 
 perhaps (since all good women mother their 
 lovers or lords), she was face to face with her 
 dead. Tears came to blot out her misery, she 
 could not stay their fall. They anointed also the 
 burning cheeks of young Grifone, and drove him 
 outside himself with love. He kissed her softly 
 again, with reverence, and whispered — 
 
 " Courage, sweet lady ; I shall be with you. 
 I have it all in hand. The end for you and me
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 207 
 
 shall be happiness undreamed of yet. The Duke 
 comes in a quarter of an hour." Then he left her 
 alone. 
 
 " The affair will go by clockwork," he assured 
 himself. " Neither fast nor slow, but by clock- 
 work." He had an ingenious mind, and loved 
 mechanics.
 
 X 
 
 WITH ALL FAULTS 
 
 At the coming out from church the two Dukes 
 (mentally at least) separated; their paths coin- 
 cided, but not their thoughts, nor their behaviour. 
 By common consent, as it appeared, Amilcare at 
 once resumed the obsequious, Cesare the overbear- 
 ing port. Amilcare talked profusively, smirked, 
 grimaced, pranced by the other's side, writhed 
 his hands, in copious explanation of nothing at 
 all. Cesare shrugged. The amount of disdain 
 an Italian can throw into a pair of dull eyes or 
 an irritable shoulder, the amount of it another 
 will take without swallowing, can still be studied 
 whenever a young lieutenant of the line sits down 
 to breakfast in a tavern, and the waiter slaves for 
 his penny fee. Yet, depend upon it, the cringer 
 has balanced to a nicety the sweets and sours of 
 boot-blacking against the buona mano ; the rest 
 is pure commerce. So now, the deliberate inso- 
 lence of the flushed Borgia towards his host was a 
 thing to be dumb at; yet Passavente redoubled 
 his volubility. 
 
 Going up the steps of the Palazzo Bagnaca- 
 vallo, the guest plumply told his entertainer to 
 bring out the woman and go to the devil with his 
 
 208
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 209 
 
 cackling. Amilcare laughed all over his face at 
 the best joke in the world, and bowed to the earth. 
 Thus humoured they went in to dinner. 
 
 Molly, in fold over fold of silk gauze which let 
 every lovely limb be seen as glorified in a rosy 
 mist, met them in the ante-room, and thenceforth 
 the Borgia had eyes for nothing but the beauty 
 of her. The moment he saw her, he drew, as once 
 before, a sharp breath ; she greeted him in her 
 fashion; he was moved to a fit of trembling. 
 
 From that time forth Amilcare was as though 
 he were not. The Roman waited for no invitation 
 and disregarded those he got. Would his Grace 
 be pleased to dine ? His Grace went on pouring 
 out his talk to the wonderful rose-coloured lady. 
 Amilcare, patient to excess, watched. Presently 
 Cesare said, " Madama, shall we go to dinner ? " 
 and to dinner they went, Amilcare rubbing his 
 hands behind them. 
 
 They found the table prepared — a very low 
 one ; divans to sit upon ; none but Grifone, pale 
 and respectful, in the little painted chamber. 
 
 All this had been carefully provided. The 
 Duke's suite dined in another wing of the palace ; 
 the choir of minstrels, who held the passage be- 
 tween them, had mail under their cassocks, and 
 two-edged swords made for thrusting. They were 
 fifty strong. Every page-in-waiting in the hall 
 and long cool passages was a " Centaur " armed 
 to the teeth. Don Cesare, it seems, had walked 
 into a steel trap at last. Do you wonder that 
 Amilcare could afford a supple back ? 
 
 But as the delicate meats succeeded each other 
 — each duly tasted by Grifone before a morsel
 
 210 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 went to plate — there was one, in the surge of her 
 terrors, struck dumb with what was, rather, won- 
 der. The magnificent Cesare went his road over 
 the feelings of his host; the host bowed and 
 waved his hands. Why should he not ? Never 
 one word of answer, never a gleam of attention 
 did he win from the Roman. Why should he 
 care ? His wife was doing her duty, his enemy 
 was webbed : what else could matter ? The 
 Italian shrug goes deeper than the shoulders ; 
 sometimes it strokes the heart of a man. The 
 very indignities heaped upon the adventurer made 
 his revenge the sweeter nursling. 
 
 But Molly, the tall English girl, burning in her 
 shameful robe, saw it vastly otherwise. That a 
 man could bend so low! That she should ever 
 have loved a man with such a stooping back ! 
 To think of that made (for the moment) every 
 other degradation light. Her part as yet was 
 one of sufferance : to look handsome, languid 
 with the excess of her burden of beauty; to 
 smile slowly, to keep her eyes on her lap. Pure 
 passivity all this, under which the miserable soul 
 could torture in secret. As she often had a back- 
 ache, it was easy to wilt among her cushions ; as 
 she was always mute before flattery, to smile was 
 as simple as to frown (and meant no more) ; as 
 she was ashamed of herself and her husband, she 
 could hardly hope to lift her honest eyes or 
 temper her furious blushing. 
 
 It would be untrue to say that the Borgia's 
 eager under-current of love-language stirred her 
 not at all. Even to her the man's fame made 
 his homage a tribute ; something it was, beyond
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 211 
 
 doubt, to be courted by the greatest prince in 
 Italy. And he had not touched her yet. Amilcare, 
 whose desperate grinning made his jaws ache, 
 noticed so much as he watched her, fidgeting in 
 his place. His nails were for ever at his teeth : 
 when the fruit should come in he was to slip out, 
 and Grifone to crown the work. Meanwhile, the 
 flagrant unconcern for his whereabouts shown by 
 the victim might have stung a blind worm to bite, 
 or excused any treachery. Amilcare had no rage 
 at all and felt the need of no excuse. All his 
 anxiety was that Cesare should enmesh himself 
 deep enough ; and then — ! The thought of what 
 should happen then set his head singing a song 
 as mad as Judith's. 
 
 The still Grifone stood behind his mistress 
 and saw Cesare 's golden head sink near and yet 
 nearer to her shoulder. He watched his arm 
 over the back of her seat, and how his other hand 
 crept towards the lady's idle pair. The room held 
 those four, and them not long. In his time Amil- 
 care muttered some excuse and tiptoed out. 
 
 Cesare was saying, " Ah, give me love — love 
 only — else I must die!" 
 
 Molly answered nothing with her lips, but in 
 her bosom prayed ceaselessly for pity. 
 
 " Love me, pledge me with your lips, let me 
 drink of you, O my soul ! " sighed the Duke. 
 
 " Ecco, Madonna," said Grifone, and handed 
 her the cup. 
 
 " The chalice of love ! " cried Cesare, straining 
 towards the white girl. " Drink to me, my heart, 
 and I will drink from thee ! " 
 
 Molly still held the cup, though the liquor
 
 212 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 curved brimming at the lip. Her eyes were 
 sightless, her head shaking with palsy. 
 
 " Drink, drink, my soul ! " 
 
 " Yes, my lord, yes, yes ; I must drink very 
 deep," she said, and raised the cup. 
 
 " Pshutt ! " said Grifone. 
 
 She turned like a caught beast, wild and 
 blanched with horror. She rose suddenly, sway- 
 ing on her feet, entangled one of them in her long 
 robe and stumbled forward to stay herself by the 
 table. She looked like some spurred Bacchante, 
 lurching over the board with the great flagon 
 a-nod in her hand. Cesare made to catch her 
 in his arms, and reached for the cup ; but then 
 she screamed with all her might and threw the 
 accursed thing crash upon the pavement. 
 
 " Treachery ! Treachery ! " Molly shrieked ; and 
 again, " Treachery ! O God, he has made me a 
 devil ! " She threw her head up, herself tumbled 
 back upon the cushions; knew nothing of Grifone's 
 " Go, go, go, my lord ; the house is quick with mur- 
 der ! " and when she opened her eyes at last saw 
 Amilcare standing grim and grey before her. 
 
 Who can say what shall best reveal a man, 
 whether love or hate or fear ? Or how to know 
 which of these three passions stripped her this 
 Amilcare naked ? Naked he was now, and she 
 found that she had never known him. The colour 
 of his face was that of old white wax ; his mouth 
 seemed stretched to cracking point, neither turned 
 up at the corners nor down, but a bleak slit jag- 
 ged across his face. He fastened her with his hard 
 eyes, which seemed smaller than usual, and had a 
 scared look, as if he was positively disconcerted at
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 213 
 
 what he read as they glimmered over his wife. 
 In one of his hands (never still) he had a long 
 knife, very lean in the blade. 
 
 " Ah, what do you want of me more, Amilcare ? " 
 It was Molly spoke first, in a whisper. 
 
 He croaked his reply. " I am going to kill you." 
 
 " Oh ! oh ! You are going to kill me, my lord ? " 
 
 " You have sold me to my enemy. He is your 
 lover." 
 
 " No, no ! I have no lover, Amilcare ; I have 
 never had a lover." 
 
 " Liar ! " he thundered. " If he had not been 
 your lover you would not have spared his life. 
 There can be no other reason. I am not a fool." 
 
 To Grifone that was just what he appeared. 
 To her some ray of her own soul's honest logic 
 showed at the last. 
 
 " Amilcare ! " she cried out, on her knees, 
 " Amilcare, listen, I pray you. I have done you 
 no wrong ; I implore you not to hurt me ; I have 
 done you honour. It was because I loved you 
 that I saved his life. I speak the truth, my lord, I 
 speak the truth." 
 
 " I have never thought you to speak otherwise ; 
 but I have been wrong, it appears. The excuse 
 is monstrous. I am going to kill you." 
 
 The miserable girl turned him a pinched face. 
 She searched for any shred of what she had 
 known in him, but all the deadly mask of him she 
 saw told her nothing. She began to be witless 
 again, to wring her hands, to whimper and whine. 
 
 Amilcare looked fixedly at her, every muscle 
 in his face rigid as stone. So, as he ruminated, 
 some whisp of his racing thought caught light
 
 2i 4 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 from his inner rage, flared blood-bright before him, 
 and convulsing him drove him to his work. 
 
 " Gross trull ! " He sprang at her with his 
 knife in the air. Molly shrieked for mercy; and 
 before he could be on her Grifone whipped out his 
 dagger and stabbed his master under the stabbing 
 arm. 
 
 Amilcare jerked in mid-career, constricted and 
 turned half. But the blow had gone too deep 
 and too true. He fell horribly, and Molly knew 
 no more.
 
 XI 
 
 FROM AN AMATEUR'S CABINET 
 
 Grifone received his swooning lady into his 
 arms and held her there to his great content, 
 triumphing in her beauty and successful capture. 
 Truly the adventure had gone by clockwork : he 
 might say (he thought) that there was not one 
 step in it but had been schemed to an eighth of 
 an inch ; and when you have to bring tempera- 
 mental differences into account, the chances of 
 Italian politics, the influence of climate, the panic 
 alarms of a ridden mob — and still succeed, why, 
 then you may lawfully be happy. Happy he 
 was, but Molly was tall and he a light-weight. 
 Moreover, he wanted to wipe his blade and be 
 off. He judged it prudent, therefore, to bring 
 her to herself again, and so did by sousing her 
 liberally with cold water. 
 
 Molly, as soon as she could see, was aware of 
 him kneeling by her side and of his arms about 
 her. Before she had done gasping he began to 
 kiss her. 
 
 " My heart of hearts, my lovely soul, my lady 
 Moll ! Mine altogether by the act of my arm ! " 
 were some of his fiery words. 
 
 There were others yet more explicit, which left 
 no doubt of his passion, nor any ray of doubt 
 of his intentions. Grifone took everything for 
 granted, as he had from the beginning. 
 
 215
 
 216 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 " My charmer," he said, " I have saved you 
 from ignominious death ; but I have saved my- 
 self also from a death by no means agreeable 
 to me. It was impossible that our love could 
 have held us much longer at a distance from each 
 other, impossible that we could have still suf- 
 fered a third person to usurp our privileges. 
 If that stabbed stabber under the table had not 
 misunderstood you so grotesquely — the gross- 
 witted hog ! — he would have lived, and I died of 
 jealousy. A far from pleasant death, you will 
 allow ; worse in that it would have involved your 
 own. For I should have had to kill you too, my 
 dearest joy : so much would have been owing to 
 my self-respect. Things, you see, could not have 
 turned out more fortunately; the fellow trapped 
 himself. We may be happy — we will be wildly 
 happy — you shall see ! " 
 
 It may be doubted whether Molly heard any- 
 thing of this exposition ; she may well have missed 
 one or two steps in a carefully reasoned argu- 
 ment. Hers was that state of absorbent lassitude 
 when the words and acts put to you sink into 
 the floating mass of your weakness. The late 
 shocking grief hovers felt about you : a buzz of 
 talk, a rain of caresses, hold the spectre off, and 
 so are serviceable — but no more. The cold 
 cheek, the clay-cold lips, the long, lax limbs of the 
 poor doll were at his service. She saw nothing 
 through her dim eyes, made no motion with her 
 lips, sobbed rather than breathed, endured tear- 
 lessly rather than lived awake her misery. Misery 
 is not the word : she had been sent down to hell 
 and had come back dumb to earth, neither know-
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 217 
 
 ing why such torment was hers, nor thinking how 
 to fly a second questioning. Had she been capa- 
 ble of a wish, a prayer, or of begging a favour, 
 who can doubt what it would have been ? Death, 
 oh, death ! 
 
 Grifone's face was so near to hers, that not to 
 kiss her would have been an affectation ; but 
 when he began to make plans, he released her, 
 sat up, and spoke as though he were discussing 
 theory. 
 
 " There is very much to do, my love," said he, 
 " but I think I see my way clear. It is instant 
 flight, to begin with, for one of the household 
 may be here any moment, or Don Cesare return. 
 Such an one would have but to open the window 
 and cry, ' Treason, ho ! ' to secure our being torn 
 to pieces — not for any love the Nonesi bear 
 that carrion, but because not one of them could 
 resist the chance of kicking his benefactors. It 
 is reasonable, after all. Instant flight, my dear, 
 if you please. But whither ? you will ask. Luck- 
 ily I can take you to a pretty safe place, of which 
 I have the key and custodes goodwill in my 
 pocket. You know the Rocca del Capitan Vec- 
 chio outside the Latin Gate ? We go there for 
 our terrestrial paradise. Shawl your lovely head, 
 therefore, stoop your glorious shoulders, and obey 
 me exactly." 
 
 He got up as he made an end of speech, drew 
 her gently to her feet, and showed her how to 
 muffle herself in the hood of a man's cloak. He 
 bound the rest of the garment about her waist 
 with his belt, pinned up her skirt and petticoat 
 as high as her knees, and gave her his own stock-
 
 218 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 ings and shoes. Then he helped himself to his 
 dead master's pair, to his sword and velvet gown ; 
 and — 
 
 "Now," he said, "we may start by the privy 
 garden." 
 
 He led the way. It was a golden afternoon of 
 late summer ; the shadows were lengthening as 
 the air grew tired and cool, all the place was full 
 of that vast peace in which a day of strenuous heat 
 sinks to rest. The faint breeze in the myrtles 
 was like a sleeper's sigh : — 
 
 " Majoresque cadunt altis de montibus um- 
 brae — " murmured Grifone to himself, as he 
 slipped among the cypresses over the grass. Molly 
 followed him with faltering knees, nearly spent. 
 As always, she was at the mercy of a clear head, 
 never masterless when a man was near her. Mor- 
 ally, nervously, she seemed to be dead ; so she fol- 
 lowed her new lord as meekly as she had followed 
 her old — that one to Nona across the seas, this 
 one by gloomy, pent ways through the stale- 
 smelling streets of the city to the Rocca del 
 Capitan Vecchio. 
 
 Meekly enough she went, yet not so far nor 
 so meekly but that she gave Grifone a genuine 
 surprise. It seems that the air, the exercise, 
 precautions, what-not, had cried back her 
 escaped wits : certain it is that, once in the 
 storm-bitten old fortress, she thanked her leader 
 and rescuer with a tremulous sweetness all her 
 own, and then — by Heaven and Earth ! — urged 
 him gently to go back, " lest her honour should 
 be breathed upon." 
 
 Her honour! Grifone, the romancer, turned
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 219 
 
 sick with amazement. He was dumbfounded, 
 could not believe his ears, nor yet his eyes; that 
 there before him should stand that drooping, 
 flagged, pitiful beauty, always at his discretion, 
 now wholly at his mercy within nine-foot walls, 
 and talk to him with wet eyes and pleading lips 
 of the Cardinal Virtues. 
 
 As soon as he could collect himself he put 
 this before her in a whirl of words. 
 
 Santo Dio ! Timidity, prejudice, after what 
 had passed ! In what possible way, or by what 
 possible quibble of a priest could anything stay 
 them now from the harvest of a sown love — two 
 years' sowing, by the Redeemer, two years' tor- 
 ture ; and now — a solid square fortress on a 
 naked rock, deemed impregnable by anything 
 but black treachery! Let him make assurance 
 incredibly secure : say the word, and he would 
 go and silence the old custode for ever. It was 
 done in a moment — what more could he do ? 
 
 So he prayed; but Molly was a rock at last. 
 She ignored everything but the fact that she could 
 never survive the night if he stayed in the fortress- 
 tower. Such, she assured him, was the fixed habit 
 of her extraordinary race. She made no pretence 
 of mourning her dead husband ; indeed her hor- 
 ror of him set her shuddering at his mere name ; 
 nor did she affect to deny that she loved Gri- 
 fone. It made no difference. She was luminously 
 mild, used her hands like a Madonna in a picture, 
 was more lovely and winning in the motions of 
 her little head, the wistful deeps and darks of her 
 eyes, the pathetic curve of her mouth, than any 
 Madonna short of Lionardo's. Grifone threw up
 
 220 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 his arms ; such a pass confounded him ; he had 
 no tools to pick this sort of lock. Oh, but the 
 thing was impossible ! Two years' longing, the 
 husband dead — why, they might marry, even, if 
 she would. Perhaps that was what she needed ? 
 If so, he would risk his life in the city again to find 
 a priest. But, think of it, formalities at this hour ! 
 
 Molly smiled and blushed ; she was sorry for 
 her friend and would have consoled him if she 
 could ; but the thing was so obvious. Did not 
 Grifone see ? 
 
 Grifone did not see; he tore his hair, he 
 threatened, prayed, raved, commanded, coaxed, 
 swore by God and the Devil, clung to her knees 
 — useless! 
 
 " Dear friend," she said, and stroked his hot 
 hair, " you have served me well. Never serve me 
 now so ill." 
 
 She beat him. From that moment, when love 
 was dead, he began to hate her. She was safe 
 from what she feared. Everything he might 
 have waived but that, a clean blow at his own 
 conceit. The end was near. 
 
 Their colloquy, so frenzied on his part, so staid 
 and generous at once on hers, was barely over 
 before the hum of many voices crept upon them, 
 a slow, murmurous advance, out of which, as the 
 hordes drew near, one or two sharp cries — " Seek, 
 seek ! ' " Death to the traitor! " — threw up like 
 the hastier wave-crests in a racing tide. Again 
 they heard (and now more clearly), " Evviva 
 Madonna ! La Madonna di Nona ! " and then 
 (more ominous than all) a cry for Cesare Borgia : 
 — "Chiesa! Chiesa!"
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 221 
 
 At this last Grifone, who had been biting his 
 fingers shrewdly, wrung a nail apart till the blood 
 came. His was the desperate caught face of a 
 stoat in a trap. 
 
 " What is this crying without ? " said Molly in 
 a hush. 
 
 " Pest ! I must find out," said Grifone. 
 
 He climbed to a high window and looked down 
 into the moonlight. " The Nonesi in force. Ce- 
 sare Borgia and the troops. Hist ! He is going 
 to speak to them ; they are holding him up." He 
 strained to listen — and it seems that he heard. 
 
 " Citizens," said the Borgia, in fact, " I pledge 
 you my sacred word that the Duchess shall be 
 delivered to you whole and in honour. She shall 
 be in the Palace within an hour. The Secretary 
 who has her there, who stabbed his master and (as 
 I learn from Milan) hatched all the plot, must be 
 left to me. Madonna Maria saved my life at the 
 peril of her own. She has no more devoted ser- 
 vant than I am. Trust me to prove it." 
 
 "Chiesa! Chiesa! Madonna! Heed the Duke!" 
 cried the mob. And then, " Let the Duke go up 
 and win us our lady." 
 
 " That he shall never do," said Grifone, and 
 came down from the window. 
 
 Molly, seeing the cunning in his eyes, backed 
 to the wall. 
 
 Time does not serve, and pity forbids, that I 
 should dwell upon this misery. What she may 
 have wailed, what he withstood who loved her 
 once, I have no care to set down at large. He 
 strangled her with cruel, vivacious hands, and 
 then (since time had pressed, and all his passion
 
 222 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 not been pent in one wicked place) fell to 
 kissing the flouted clay. Getting up from this 
 tribute, he was faced by Cesare Borgia and his 
 men ; by Cesare who, used to such stratagems as 
 this of late, had had the whole story out of 
 Ludovic at Milan, and forestalled Nona by buy- 
 ing up the troop of " Centaurs " before ever he 
 entered the city. Thus had Amilcare been sold 
 by his own purchase, and thus Grifone griped 
 in his own springe. Cesare found him, I say, 
 and Grifone knew in the first crossing of their 
 eyes that his hour had come. 
 
 He bore it without a wink, and lucky he might 
 think it that for Cesare also the time was short. 
 He was sooner dead than he dared to hope, and 
 died cursing the name of Borgia. But that was 
 a seasoned name. 
 
 " The populace is on fire, Highness," reported a 
 breathed captain. " It clamours for the Duchess 
 of Nona. We can hardly hold them much longer, 
 strong as we are. We must show her, though 
 I perceive that her Excellency has fainted." 
 
 " She is dead, man," said Cesare shortly, 
 wiping his pair of daggers. 
 
 "It is a pity, Highness. Ma /" He 
 
 shrugged the end to his period. 
 
 Cesare looked at the girl, and shrugged in his 
 turn. 
 
 " Luckily it is dark. We must play them that 
 trick they played on Borgo San Domino. She 
 must be put in a litter, and at the palace see to 
 it that the lights are behind her before ever you 
 set her up in the window. Do what you can for 
 us, Ercole."
 
 THE DUCHESS OF NONA 223 
 
 They worked their best to compose that pitiful 
 dead. She had suffered much, and showed it. 
 Her wide eyes were horrible. And there was 
 little time for more than to order her dress and 
 neck-jewels, and to smooth out her brown hair. 
 
 " H'm," said Cesare, "you have made little of 
 it; but at a distance it may serve our turn until 
 the troops arrive. Is the litter below? Good. 
 Avanti ! " 
 
 The church bells rang all night, and all night 
 the Piazza Grande was alive, a flickering field 
 of torches and passing and repassing throngs. 
 " Evviva Madonna! Hail, Duchess of Nona!" 
 were the cries they gave. And above, at an 
 arched window, haloed by candle-light, the star- 
 ing lady of the land, stiffened and relaxed, played 
 out the last functions of her generous body, in 
 return for the people's acclamation. 
 
 Bianca Maria, Queen of the Romans by virtue 
 of proxy and the Sacrament, spurred into the 
 city of Nona next noon at the head of a plumed 
 escort. There, at the fatal window, she saw the 
 whole truth in a flash. 
 
 " O lasso ! Her third husband was her last, 
 I see," she said, and bit her lip to sting the tears 
 back. 
 
 " Majesty," said Cesare, hat in hand at her stir- 
 rup, " it is not quite so. Grifone was not quick 
 enough for the other fellow. Messer Death is 
 actually her second husband." 
 
 " Now I have something for which to thank our 
 Lord God," said Bianca Maria. " Let her be de- 
 cently buried, but not here." 
 
 It was, however, explained that for reasons of
 
 224 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 policy the Duchess of Nona must share tombs 
 with the Duke. Serviceable in death as in life, 
 there where she was marketed lies her fragrant 
 dust; fragrant now, I hope, since all the passion is 
 out. 
 
 I almost despair of winning your applause for 
 poor Molly Lovel, yet will add this finally in her 
 justification. Women are most loved when they 
 are lovely, most lovely when they are meek. 
 This is not to say that they will be worthily loved 
 or loyally: there are two sides to a bargain. 
 Yet this one thing more : they are neither meek 
 nor lovely unless they love. And since Molly 
 Lovel, on my showing, was both in a superlative 
 degree, it follows that she must have loved much. 
 She was ill repaid while she lived; let now that 
 measure be meted her which was accorded an- 
 other Molly, whose surname was Magdalene.
 
 MESSER CINO AND THE LIVE 
 
 COAL 
 
 I 
 
 It is not generally known that the learned Aris- 
 totle once spent the night in a basket dangled 
 midway betwixt attic and basement of a castle; 
 nor that, having suffered himself to be saddled for 
 the business, he went on all-fours, ambling round 
 the terrace-walk with a lady on his back, a lady 
 who, it is said, plied the whip with more hearti- 
 ness than humanity. But there seems no doubt 
 of the fact. The name of the lady (she was 
 Countess of Cyprus), the time of the escapade, 
 which was upon the sage's return from India in 
 the train of the triumphant Alexander — these 
 and many other particulars are at hand. The 
 story does not lack of detail, though it is note- 
 worthy that Petrarch, in his " Trionfo d'Amore," 
 decently veils the victim in a periphrasis. " Quell' 
 e'l gran Greco" — there is the great Grecian, 
 says he, and leaves you to choose between the 
 Stagyrite, Philip of Macedon, and Theseus. The 
 painters, however, have had no mercy upon him. 
 I remember him in a pageant at Siena, in a straw 
 hat, with his mouth full of grass ; the lady rides 
 him in the mannish way. In pictures he is 
 
 Q 225
 
 226 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 always doting, humbled to the dust or cradled in 
 his basket, when he is not showing his paces 
 on the lawn. By all accounts it was a bad case 
 of green-sickness, as such late cases are. You 
 are to understand that he refused all nourish- 
 ment, took delight in no manner of books, could 
 not be stayed by the nicest problems of Physical 
 Science — such as whether the beaver does indeed 
 catch fish with his tail, the truth concerning the 
 eyesight of the lynxes of Bceotia, or what gave 
 the partridge such a reputation for heedless gal- 
 lantry. But it would be unprofitable to inquire 
 into all this ; Aristotle was not the first enam- 
 oured sage in history, nor was he the last. And 
 where he bowed his laborious front it was to 
 be hoped that Messer Cino of Pistoja might do 
 the like. It is of him that I am to speak. The 
 story is of Selvaggia Vergiolesi, the beautiful 
 romp, and of Messer Guittoncino de' Sigibuldi, 
 that most eminent jurist, familiarly known as Cino 
 da Pistoja in the affectionate phrasing of his 
 native town. 
 
 Love-making was the mode in his day (which 
 was also Dante's), but Master Cino had been all 
 for the Civil Law. The Digest, the Pandects, the 
 Institutes of Gaius and what not, had given him 
 a bent back before his time, so that he walked 
 among the Pistolese beauties with his eyes on the 
 ground and his hands knotted behind his decent 
 robe. Love might have made him fatter, yet he 
 throve upon his arid food ; he sat in an important 
 chair in his University; he had lectured at 
 Bologna (hive of sucking Archdeacons), at Siena, 
 at Perugia. Should he prosper, he looked to
 
 MESSER CINO AND THE LIVE COAL 227 
 
 Florence for his next jump. As little as he could 
 contrive was he for Pope or Emperor, Black or 
 White, Farinata or Cerchi ; banishment came that 
 road. His friend Dante was footsore with exile, 
 halfway over Apennine by this time ; Cino knew 
 that for him also the treading was very delicate. 
 Constitutionally he was Ghibelline with his friend 
 Dante, and such politics went well in Pistoja for 
 the moment. But who could tell? The next 
 turn of the wheel might bring the Pope round ; 
 Pistoja might go Black (as indeed she did in more 
 senses than one), and pray where would be his 
 Assessorship of Civil Causes, where his solemn 
 chair, where his title to doffing of caps and a 
 chief seat at feasts ? Cino, meditating these 
 things over his morning sop and wine, rubbed 
 his chin sore and determined to take a wife. His 
 family was respectable, but Ghibelline ; his means 
 were happy ; his abilities known to others as well 
 as to himself. Good ! He would marry a sober 
 Guelphish virgin, and establish a position to 
 face both the windy quarters. It was when his 
 negotiations to this end had reached maturity, 
 when the contract for his espousals with the hon- 
 ourable lady, Monna Margherita degli Ughi, had 
 actually been signed, that Messer Cino of Pistoja 
 was late for his class, got cold feet, and turned 
 poet.
 
 II 
 
 It was a strange hour when Love leaped the 
 heart of Cino, that staid jurisconsult, to send him 
 reeling up the sunny side of the piazza heedless 
 of his friends or his enemies. To his dying day 
 he could not have told you how it came upon 
 him. Being a man of slow utterance and of a 
 mind necessarily bent towards the concrete, all 
 he could confess to himself throughout the ter- 
 rible business was, that there had been a cata- 
 clysm. He remembered the coldness of his feet; 
 cold feet in mid-April — something like a cata- 
 clysm ! As he turned it over and over in his 
 mind a lady recurred with the persistence of a 
 refrain in a ballad ; and words, quite unaccus- 
 tomed words, tripped over his tongue to meet 
 her. What a lovely vision she had made ! — "Una 
 donzella non con uman' volto (a gentle lady not 
 of human look)." Well, what next ? Ah, some- 
 thing about " Amor, che ha la mia virtu tolto 
 (Love that has reft me of my manly will)." Then 
 should come amore, and of course cuore, and disib, 
 and ancli io! This was very new; it was also 
 very strange what a fascination he found in his 
 phrenetic exercises. Rhyme, now: he had called 
 it often enough a jingle of endings ; it were more 
 true to say that it was a jingle of mendings, for 
 it certainly soothed him. He was making a god- 
 dess in his own image ; poetry — Santa Cecilia ! 
 
 228
 
 MESSER CINO AND THE LIVE COAL 229 
 
 he was a poet, like his friend Dante, like that 
 supercilious young tomb-walker Guido Caval- 
 canti. A poet he undoubtedly became; and if 
 his feet were cold his heart was on fire. 
 
 What happened was this, so far as I am in- 
 formed. At the north angle of the church of 
 San Giovanni fuori Civitas there is a narrow 
 lane, so dark that at very noon no sunlight comes 
 in but upon blue bars of dust slant-wise overhead. 
 This lay upon Cino's daily beat from his lodgings 
 to the Podesta ; * and here it was that he met 
 Selvaggia Vergiolesi. 
 
 She was one of three young girls walking hand 
 in hand up the alley on their way from early mass, 
 the tallest where all were tall, and, as it seemed to 
 him when he dreamed of it, astonishingly beauti- 
 ful. Though they were very young, they were 
 ladies of rank; their heads were high and 
 crowned, their gowns of figured brocade; they 
 had chains round their necks, and each a jewel 
 on her forehead ; by chains also swung their little 
 mass-books in silver covers. Cino knew them 
 well enough by sight. Their names were Sel- 
 vaggia di Filippo Vergiolesi, Guglielmotta Aspra- 
 monte, Nicoletta della Torre. So at least he had 
 always believed ; but now, but now ! A beam of 
 gold dust shot down upon the central head. This 
 was Aglaia, fairest of the three Graces ; and the 
 other two were Euphrosyne and Thaleia, her hand- 
 maids. Thus it struck Cino, heart and head, at 
 this sublime moment of his drab-coloured life. 
 
 1 So the Pistolesi described at once their government and the 
 seat of it.
 
 230 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 Selvaggia's hair was brown, gold-shot of its 
 own virtue. In and out of it was threaded a fine 
 gold chain ; behind, it was of course plaited in a 
 long twist, plaited and bound up in cloth of gold 
 till it looked as hard as a bull's tail. Her dress 
 was all of formal brocade, green and white, to her 
 feet. It was cut square at the neck; and from 
 that square her throat, dazzlingly white, shot up as 
 stiff as a stalk which should find in her face its 
 delicate flower. She was not very rosy, save about 
 the lips ; her eyes were grey, inclined to be green, 
 the lashes black. As for her shape, sumptuous as 
 her dress was, stiff and straight and severe, I ask 
 you to believe that she had grace to fill it with 
 life, to move at ease in it, to press it into soft and 
 rounded lines. Her linked companions also were 
 beauties of their day — that sleek and sleepy Nico- 
 letta, that ruddy Guglielmotta; but they seemed 
 to cower in their rigid clothes, and they were as 
 nothing to Cino. 
 
 The lane was so narrow that only three could 
 pass abreast ; it was abreast these three were com- 
 ing, as Cino saw. On a sudden his heart began 
 to knock at his ribs ; that was when the light fell 
 aslant upon the maid. He could no more have 
 taken his eyes off Selvaggia than he could have 
 climbed up the dusty wall to avoid her. Lo, here 
 is one stronger than I ! At the next moment the 
 three young rogues were about him, their knitted 
 hands a fence, — but the eyes of Selvaggia ! Ter- 
 rible twin-fires, he thought, such as men light in 
 the desert to scare the beasts away while they 
 sleep, or (as he afterwards improved it for his 
 need) like the flaming sword of the Archangel,
 
 MESSER CINO AND THE LIVE COAL 231 
 
 which declared and yet forbade Eden to Adam 
 and his wife. 
 
 Selvaggia, in truth, though she had fourteen 
 years behind her, was a romp when no one was 
 looking. There were three brothers at home, but 
 no mother ; she was half a boy for all her straight 
 gown. To embarrass this demure professor, to 
 presume upon her sex while discarding it, was a 
 great joke after a tediously droned mass at San 
 Jacopo. Nicoletta would have made room, even 
 the hardier Guglielmotta drew back; but that 
 wicked Selvaggia pinched their fingers so that 
 they could not escape. All this time Messer 
 Cino had his eyes rooted in Selvaggia's, reading 
 her as if she were a portent. She endured very 
 well what she took to be the vacancy of confusion 
 in a shy recluse. 
 
 " Well, Messer Cino, what will you do ? " said 
 she, bubbling with mischief. 
 
 " Oh, Madonna, can you ask ? " he replied, and 
 clasped his hands. 
 
 " But you see that I do ask." 
 
 " I would stop here all the day if I might," said 
 Messer Cino, with a look by no means vacant. 
 Whereupon she let him through that minute and 
 ran away blushing. More than once or twice she 
 encountered him there, but she never tried to 
 pen him back again. 
 
 Little Monna Selvaggia learned that you can- 
 not always put out the fire which you have kindled. 
 The fire set blazing by those lit green swords of 
 hers was in the heart of an Assessor of Civil 
 Causes, a brazier with only too good a draught. 
 For love in love-learned Tuscany was then a
 
 232 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 roaring wind ; it came rhythmically and set the 
 glowing mass beating like the sestett of a sonnet. 
 One lived in numbers in those days ; numbers 
 always came. You sonnetteered upon the battle- 
 field, in the pulpit, on the Bench, at the Bar. 
 Throughout the moil of his day's work at the 
 Podesta those clinging long words, in themselves 
 inspiration, disio, piacere, vaghezza, gentilezza, di- 
 letto, affetto, beautiful twins that go ever embraced, 
 wailed in poor Cino's ears, and insensibly shaped 
 themselves coherent. He thought they were like 
 mirrors, so placed that each gave a look of Sel- 
 vaggia. Before the end of the day he had the 
 whole of her in a sonnet which, if it were as good 
 as it was comfortable, should needs (he thought) 
 be excellent. The thrill which marked achieve- 
 ment sent the blood to his head; this time he 
 gloried in cold feet. He wrote his sonnet out 
 fair upon vellum in a hand no scribe at the Papal 
 Court could have bettered, rolled it, tied it with 
 green and white silk (her colours, colours of the 
 hawthorn hedge ! ), and went out into the streets 
 at the falling-in of the day to deliver it. 
 
 The Palazzo Vergiolesi lay over by the church 
 of San Francesco al Prato, just where the Via 
 San Prospero debouches into that green place. 
 Like all Tuscan palaces it was more fortress than 
 house, a dark square box of masonry with a 
 machicollated lid ; and separate from it, but ap- 
 purtenant, had a most grim tower with a slit or 
 two halfway up for all its windows. Here, under 
 the great escutcheon of the Vergiolesi, Cino de- 
 livered his missive. The porter took it with a 
 bow so gracious that the poet was bold to
 
 MESSER CINO AND THE LIVE COAL 233 
 
 ask whether the Lady Selvaggia was actually 
 within. 
 
 "Yes, surely, Messere," said the man, "and 
 moreover in the kitchen with the cookmaids. For 
 there is a cake-making on hand, and she is never 
 far away from that business." 
 
 Cino was ravished by this instance of divine 
 humiliation ; so might Apollo have bowed in the 
 house of Admetus, so Israel have kept sheep for 
 Rachel's sake. He walked away in most exalted 
 mood, his feet no longer cold. This was a great 
 day for him, when he could see a new heaven and 
 a new earth. 
 
 " Now I too have been in Arcady ! " he thought 
 to himself, with tears in his eyes. " I will send a 
 copy of my sonnet to Dante Alighieri by a sure 
 hand. He should be at Bologna by this." And 
 he did. 
 
 Madonna Selvaggia, her sleeves rolled up, a 
 great bib all about her pretty person, and her 
 mouth in a fine mess of sugar and crumbs, re- 
 ceived her tribute sitting on the long kitchen- 
 table. It should have touched, it might have 
 tickled, but it simply confused her. The maids 
 peeped over her shoulder as she read, in ecstasy 
 that Madonna should have a lover and a poet of 
 her own. Selvaggia filched another handful of 
 sugar and crumbs, and twiddled her sonnet while 
 she wondered what on earth she should do with 
 it. Her fine brows met each other over the puz- 
 zle, so clearly case for a confidence. Gianbattista, 
 her youngest brother, was her bosom friend ; but 
 he was away, she knew, riding to Pisa with their 
 father. Next to him ranked Nicoletta; she would
 
 234 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 be at mass to-morrow — that would do. Mean- 
 time the cook produced a most triumphal cake hot 
 and hot, and the transports of poor Messer Cino 
 were forgotten. 
 
 Dante's reply to his copy was so characteristic 
 that I must anticipate a little to speak of it. He 
 confined himself almost entirely to technicalities, 
 strongly objecting to the sestett with its three 
 rhymes in the middle, upon which Cino had 
 prided himself in no small degree. The only 
 thing he seemed to care for was the tenth line, 
 " A dolce morte sotto dolce inganno," which you 
 may render, if you like, " To a sweet death under 
 so sweet deceit " ; but he said there were too 
 many " o's " in it. " As to the subject of your 
 poem," he wrote in a postscript, " love is a thing 
 of so terrible a nature that not lightly is it to be 
 entered, since it cannot be lightly left ; and, seeing 
 the latter affair is much out of a man's power, he 
 should be wary with the former, wherein at pres- 
 ent he would appear to have some discretion, 
 though not very much." This was chilly com- 
 fort ; but by the time it reached him Cino was be- 
 yond the assault of chills. 
 
 Equally interesting should it be to record the 
 conversation of Monna Selvaggia with her dis- 
 creet friend Nicoletta ; yet I cannot record every- 
 thing. Nicoletta had a lover of her own, a most 
 proper poet, who had got far beyond the mere acci- 
 dence of the science where Cino was fumbling now; 
 you might say that he was at theory. Nicoletta, 
 moreover, was sixteen years old, a marriageable 
 age, an age indeed at which not to have a lover 
 would have been a disgrace. She had had son-
 
 MESSER CINO AND THE LIVE COAL 235 
 
 nets and canzoni addressed to her since she was 
 twelve ; but then she had two elder sisters and 
 only one brother — a monk ! This made a vast 
 difference. The upshot was that when Cino met 
 the two ladies at the charmed spot of yester- 
 day's encounter he uncovered before them and 
 stood with folded hands, as if at his prayers. 
 Consequently he missed the very pretty air of 
 consciousness with which Selvaggia passed him 
 by, the heightened colour of her, the lowered 
 eyes and restless ringers. Also he missed Nico- 
 letta's demure shot askance, demure but critical, 
 as became an expert. A sonnet and a bunch of 
 red anemones went to the Palazzo Vergiolesi that 
 evening ; thenceforth it rained sonnets till poor 
 little Selvaggia ran near losing her five wits. It 
 rained sonnets, I say, until the Cancellieri brought 
 out the black Guelphs in a swarm. Then it 
 rained blood, and the Vergiolesi fled one cloudy 
 night to Pitecchio, their stronghold in the Apen- 
 nine. For Messer Cino, it behoved him also to 
 advise seriously about his position. To sonnet- 
 teer is very well, but a lover, to say nothing of a 
 jurisconsult, must live ; he cannot have his throat 
 cut if there is a way out. 
 
 There was a very simple way out which he 
 took. He went down to Lucca in the plain and 
 married his Margherita degli Ughi. With her 
 Guelph connections he felt himself safer. He be- 
 stowed his wife in the keeping of her people for 
 the time, bought himself a horse, and rode up to 
 Pitecchio among the green maize, the olive-yards, 
 and sprouting vines to claim asylum from Filippo, 
 and to see once more the beautiful young 
 Selvaggia.
 
 Ill 
 
 There is hardly a sonnet, there are certainly 
 neither ballate, canzoni, nor capitoli which do not 
 contain some reference to Monna Selvaggia's fine 
 eyes, and always to the same tune. They scorch 
 him, they beacon him, they flash out upon him in 
 the dark, so that he falls prone as Saul (who got 
 up with a new name and an honourable addition) ; 
 they are lodestones, swords, lamps, torches, fires, 
 fixed and ambulatory stars, the sun, the moon, 
 candles. They hold lurking a thief to prey upon 
 the vitals of Cino ; they are traitors, cruel lances ; 
 they kill him by stabbing day after day. You can 
 picture the high-spirited young lady from his book 
 — her noble bearing, her proud head, her un- 
 flinching regard, again the sparks in her grey- 
 green eyes, and so on. He plays upon hex forte 
 nome, her dreadful name of Selvaggia; so she 
 comes to be Ferezza itself. " Tanto e altiera," he 
 says, so haughtily she goes that love sets him 
 shaking; but, kind or cruel, it is all one to the 
 enamoured Master Cino ; for even if she " un 
 pochettin sorride (light him a little smile)," it 
 melts him as sun melts snow. In any case, there- 
 fore, he must go, like Dante's cranes, trailing his 
 woes. It appears that she had very little mercy 
 upon him ; for all that in one place he records that 
 she was " of all sweet sport and solace amorous," 
 
 236
 
 MESSER CINO AND THE LIVE COAL 237 
 
 in many more than one he complains of her 
 bringing him to " death and derision," of her 
 being in a royal rage with her poet. At last he 
 cries out for Pity to become incarnate and vest 
 his lady in her own robe. It may be that he 
 loved his misery; he is always on the point of 
 dying, but, like the swan, he was careful to set it 
 to music first. Selvaggia, in fact, laughed at him 
 (he turned once to call her a Jew for that) egged 
 on as she was by her brother and her own viva- 
 cious habit. She had no Nicoletta at Pitecchio, no 
 mother anywhere, and a scheming father too busy 
 to be anything but shrugging towards poets. She 
 accepted his rhymes (she would probably have 
 been scared if they ceased), his services, his 
 lowered looks, his bent knee ; and then she 
 tripped away with an arm round Gianbattista's 
 neck to laugh at all these praiseworthy attentions. 
 As for Cino, Selvaggia was become his religion, 
 and his rhyming her reasonable service. His 
 goddess may have been as thirsty as the Scythian 
 Artemis ; may be that she asked blood and stripes 
 of her devotees. All this may well be ; for, by the 
 Lord, did she not have them ? 
 
 Ridolfo and Ugolino Vergiolesi, the two elder 
 brothers of Selvaggia, had stayed behind in Pistoja 
 to share the fighting in the streets. They had 
 plenty of it, given and received. Ridolfo had his 
 head cut open, Ugolino went near to losing his 
 sword arm ; but in spite of these heroic suffer- 
 ances the detested Cancellieri became masters of 
 the city, and the chequer-board flag floated over 
 the Podesta. Pistoja was now no place for a 
 Ghibelline. So the two young men rode up to
 
 238 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 the hill-fortress, battered, but in high spirits. 
 Selvaggia flew down the cypress-walk to meet 
 them ; they were brought in like wounded heroes. 
 That was a bad day's work for Messer Cino the 
 amorist; Apollo and the Muses limped in rags, 
 and Mars was the only God worth thinking about, 
 except on Sundays. 
 
 Ridolfo, with his broken head-piece, was a bluff 
 youth, broad-shouldered, square-jawed, a great 
 eater, grimly silent for the most part. Ugolino 
 had a trenchant humour of the Italian sort. 
 What this may be is best exampled by our harle- 
 quinades, in which very much of Boccaccio's bent 
 still survives. You must have a man drubbed if 
 you want to laugh, and do your rogueries with a 
 pleasant grin if you are inclined to heroism. 
 Ridolfo, reading Selvaggia's sheaf of rhymes that 
 night, was for running Master Cino through the 
 body, jurist or no jurist; but Ugolino saw his way 
 to a jest of the most excellent quality, and pre- 
 vailed. He was much struck by the poet's pre- 
 occupation with his sister's eyes. 
 
 "Candles, are they," he chuckled, "torches, 
 fires, suns, moons, and stars? You seem to 
 have scorched this rhymester, Vaggia." 
 
 " He has frequently told me so, indeed," said 
 Selvaggia. 
 
 " It reminds me of Messer San Giovanni Van- 
 gelista," Ugolino continued, " who was made to 
 sing rarely by the touching of a hot cinder." 
 
 Selvaggia snatched the scrolls out of her broth- 
 er's hand. " Nay, nay, but wait," she cried, with 
 a gulp of laughter ; " I have done that to Messer 
 Cino, or can if I choose." She turned over the
 
 MESSER CINO AND THE LIVE COAL 239 
 
 delicate pen-work in a hurry. " Here," she said 
 eagerly, " read this ! " 
 
 Ugolino scampered through a couple of qua- 
 trains. " There's nothing out of common here," 
 said he. 
 
 " Go on, go on," said the girl, and nudged him 
 to attend. 
 
 Ugolino read the sestett : — 
 
 " ' His book is but the vesture of her spirit ; 
 So too thy poet, that feels the living coal 
 Flame on his lips and leap to song, shall know, 
 To whom the glory, whose the unending merit ; 
 Nor faltering shall his utterance be, nor slow 
 The mute confession of his inmost soul.' " 
 
 Reading, he became absorbed in this fantastic, 
 but not unhandsome piece ; even Selvaggia pond- 
 ered it with wide eyes and lips half parted. It 
 was certainly very wonderful that a man could say 
 such things, she thought. Were they true? 
 Could they be true of any one in the world — 
 even of Beatrice Portinari, that wonderful dead 
 lady ? She had never, she remembered, shown 
 this particular sonnet to Nicoletta. What would 
 Nicoletta have said? Pooh, what nonsense it 
 was, what arrant nonsense in a man who could 
 carry a sword, if he chose, and kill his enemies, 
 or, better still, with his head outwit them — that 
 he should turn to pens and ink and to fogging a 
 poor girl ! So Selvaggia, not so Ugolino. He 
 got up and whispered to the scowling Ridolfo; 
 Ridolfo nodded, and the pair of them went off 
 presently together. 
 
 Oblique looks on Cino were the immediate out- 
 come. He knew the young men disliked him, but
 
 2 4 o LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 cared little for that so long as they left him free 
 to his devotions. A brisk little passage, a rally of 
 words, with a bite in some of them, should have 
 warned him ; but no, the stage he had reached 
 was out of range of the longest shots. 
 
 Said Ugolino at supper: " Messer Giuriscon- 
 sulto, will you have a red pepper ? " 
 
 " Thank you, Messere," replied Cino, " it is over 
 hot for my tongue." 
 
 The huge Ridolfo threw his head back to laugh. 
 " Does a burnt man dread the fire, or is he only 
 to be fired one way ? Why, man alive, my sister 
 has set a flaming coal to your lips, and I am told 
 you burst out singing instead of singeing." 
 
 Cino coloured at this lunge ; yet his respect for 
 the lady of his mind was such that he could not 
 evade it. 
 
 " You take the language of metaphor, Messere," 
 said he, rather stiffly, " to serve your occasions. 
 You are of course within your rights. However, 
 I will beg leave to be excused the red pepper of 
 Messer Ugolino." 
 
 " You prefer coals ? " cried Ugolino, starting up. 
 " Good ! you shall have them." 
 
 That was all ; but the malign smile upon the 
 dark youth's face gave a ring to the words, and 
 an omen. 
 
 Late that night Cino was in his chamber writ- 
 ing a ballata. His little oil-lamp was by his side ; 
 the words flowed freely from his pen ; tears hot 
 and honest were in his eyes as he felt rather than 
 thought his exquisite griefs. Despised and rejected 
 of men was he — and why? For the love of a 
 beautiful lady. Eh, Mother of God, but that was
 
 MESSER CINO AND THE LIVE COAL 241 
 
 worth the pain ! She had barely lifted her eyes 
 upon him all that day, and while her brothers 
 gibed had been at no concern to keep straight 
 her scornful lip. Patience, he was learning his 
 craft ! The words flowed like blood from a vein. 
 
 " Love struck me in the side, 
 And from the wound my soul took wing and flew 
 To Heaven, and all my pride 
 Fell, and I knew 
 There was no balm could stay that wound so wide." 
 
 At this moment came a rapping at his door. 
 He went to open it, dreaming no harm. There 
 stood Ridolfo and Ugolino with swords in their 
 right hands ; in his left Ugolino carried a brazier. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said Cino, " what is the meaning 
 of this? Will you break in upon the repose of 
 your father's guest? And do you come armed 
 against an unarmed man ? " 
 
 The pair of them, however, came into the room, 
 and Ridolfo locked the door behind him. " Look 
 you, Cino," said he, " our father's guests are not 
 our guests, for our way is to choose our own. 
 There is a vast difference between us, and it 
 lies in this, that you and the like of you are 
 word-mongers, phrasers, heart-strokers ; whereas 
 we, Master Cino, are, in Scripture-language, doers 
 of the word, rounding our phrases with iron, and 
 putting in full-stops with the point when they are 
 needed. And we do not stroke girls' hearts, Cino, 
 but as often as not break men's heads." 
 
 Cino, for all his dismay, could not forbear a 
 glance at the speaker's own damaged pate. 
 "And, after all, Messer Ridolfo, in that you do
 
 242 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 but as you are done by, and who will blame 
 you ? " 
 
 " Hark'ee, Master Giurista," broke in Ugolino, 
 " we have come to prove some of these fine words 
 of yours. It will be well for you to answer ques- 
 tions instead of bandying them. Now did you 
 or did you not report that my sister Selvaggia 
 touched your lips with a coal and set you off 
 singing ? " 
 
 Cino, with folded arms, bent his head in assent : 
 " I have said it, Messere." 
 
 " Good ! Now, such singing, though it is not 
 to her taste, might be very much to ours. In 
 fact, we have come to hear it, and that you might 
 be robbed of all excuse, we have brought the key 
 with us. Brother, pray blow up the brazier." 
 
 Ridolfo, with his great cheeks like bladders, 
 blew the coals to a white heat. " Now then," he 
 said, grinning to Ugolino, " now then, the concert 
 may begin." 
 
 Cino, who by this time had seen what was in the 
 wind, saw also what his course must be. What- 
 ever happened he could not allow a poet to be 
 made ridiculous. It was ridiculous to struggle 
 with two armed men, and unseemly ; but suffer- 
 ing was never ridiculous. Patience, therefore! 
 He anticipated the burly Ridolfo, who, having 
 done his bellows-work, was now about to pin his 
 victim from behind. 
 
 " Pray do not give yourself the pain to hold me, 
 Messere," said he ; "I am not the man to deny 
 you your amusement. Do what you will, I shall 
 not budge from here." 
 
 He stood where he was with his arms crossed,
 
 MESSER CINO AND THE LIVE COAL 243 
 
 and he kept his word. The red cinder hissed 
 upon his lips ; he shut his eyes, he ground his 
 teeth together, the sweat beaded his forehead and 
 glistened in his hair. Once he reeled over, and 
 would have fallen if Ridolfo had not been there 
 to catch him ; but he did not sing the tune they 
 had expected, and presently they let him alone. 
 So much for Italian humour, which, you will see, 
 does not lack flavour. It was only the insensate 
 obtuseness of the gull which prevented Ugolino 
 dying of laughter. Ridolfo was annoyed. 
 
 " Give me cold iron to play with another time," 
 he growled ; " I am sick of your monkey-tricks/' 
 This hurt Ugolino a good deal, for it made him 
 feel a fool. 
 
 Will it be believed that the infatuate Master 
 Cino spent the rest of the night in a rapture of 
 poetry? It was not voiced poetry, could never 
 have been written down ; rather, it was a torrent 
 of feeling upon which he floated out to heaven, 
 in which he bathed. It thrilled through every 
 fibre of his body till he felt the wings of his soul 
 fluttering madly to be free. This was the very 
 ecstasy of love, to suffer the extreme torment for 
 the beloved ! Ah, he was smitten deep enough 
 at last ; if poetry were to be won through bloody 
 sweat, the pains of the rack, the crawling anguish 
 of the fire, was not poetry his own ? Yes, indeed; 
 what Dante had gained through exile and the 
 death of Monna Beatrice was his for another 
 price, the price of his own blood. He forgot 
 the physical agony of his scorched mouth, forgot 
 the insult, forgot everything but this ineffable 
 achievement, this desperate essay, this triumph,
 
 244 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 this anointing. Cino, Cino, martyr for Love ! 
 Hail, Cino, crowned with thy pain ! He could 
 have held up his bleeding heart and worshipped 
 it. Surely this was the greatest hour of his 
 life. 
 
 Before he left Pitecchio, and that was before 
 the dawn came upon it, he wrote this letter to his 
 mistress. 
 
 " To his unending Lady, the image of all lovely 
 delight, the Lady Selvaggia, Cino the poet, martyr 
 for love, wisheth health and honour with kissing 
 of feet. Madonna, if sin it be to lift over high the 
 eyes, I have sinned very grievously; and if to 
 have great joy be assurance of forgiveness, then 
 am I twice absolved. Such bliss as I have had 
 in the contemplation of your excellence cometh 
 not to many men, )ret that which hath befallen 
 me this night (concerning which your honourable 
 brothers shall inform you if you ask them) — this 
 indeed is to be blessed of love so high, so rarely, 
 that it were hard to believe myself the recipient, 
 but for certain bodily testimony which, I doubt 
 not, I shall carry about me to my last hour. I 
 leave this house within a little while and go to 
 the hermitage of Santa Marcella Pistoiese, there to 
 pray Almighty God to make me worthy of my 
 dignities and to contemplate the divine image of 
 you wherewith my heart is sealed. So fare you 
 well ! — The most abject of your slaves, 
 
 " Cino." 
 
 His reason for giving the name of his new 
 refuge was an honourable one, and would appeal
 
 MESSER CINO AND THE LIVE COAL 245 
 
 to a duellist. His flight, though necessary, should 
 be robbed of all appearance of flight; if they 
 wanted him they could find him. Other results it 
 had — results which he could never have antici- 
 pated, and which to have foreseen would have 
 made him choose any other form of disgrace. 
 But this was out of the question ; nothing known 
 to Cino or his philosophy could have told him the 
 future of his conduct. He placed his letter in an 
 infallible place and left Pitecchio just as the 
 western sky was throbbing with warm light. 
 For the present I leave him on his way.
 
 IV 
 
 The third act of the comedy should open on 
 Selvaggia in her bed reading the letter. Beauti- 
 ful as she may have looked, flushed and loose- 
 haired at that time, it is better to leave her alone 
 with her puzzle, and choose rather the hour of 
 her enlightenment. Ridolfo and Ugolino were 
 booted and spurred, their hooded hawks were on 
 their wrists when she got speech of them. They 
 were not very willing witnesses in a cause which 
 now seemed to tell against themselves. Selvag- 
 gia's cheeks burned as with poor Cino's live coal 
 when she could piece together all the shameful 
 truth ; tears brimmed at her eyes, and these too 
 were scalding hot. Selvaggia, you must under- 
 stand, was a very good girl, her only sin being 
 none of her accomplishment; she was a child who 
 looked like a young woman. Certainly she could 
 not help that, though all the practice of her race 
 were against her. She had never sought love, 
 never felt to need it, nor cared to harbour it when 
 it came. Love knocked at her heart, asking an 
 entry ; her heart was not an inn, she thought, let 
 the wayfarer go on. But the knocking had con- 
 tinued till her ears had grown to be soothed by 
 the gentle sound ; and now it had stopped for 
 ever, and, Pitiful Mother, for what good reason ? 
 Oh, the thing was horrible, shameful, unutterable I 
 
 246
 
 MESSER CINO AND THE LIVE COAL 247 
 
 She was crying with rage ; but as that spent itself 
 a great warm flood of genuine sorrow tided over 
 her, floated her away : she cried as though her 
 heart was breaking ; and now she cried for pity, 
 and at last she cried for very love. A pale ethe- 
 real Cino, finger on lip, rose before her ; a halo 
 burned about his head ; he seemed a saint, he 
 should be hers ! Ugolino and Ridolfo, helpless 
 and ashamed before her outburst, went out 
 bickering to their sport; and Selvaggia, wild 
 as her name, untaught, with none to tutor her, 
 dared her utmost — dared, poor girl, beyond her 
 strength. 
 
 Late in the afternoon of that day Cino, in the 
 oratory of his hermitage, getting what comfort he 
 could out of an angular Madonna frescoed there, 
 heard a light step brush the threshold. The sun, 
 already far gone in the west, cast on the white 
 wall a shadow whose sight set his head spinning. 
 He turned hastily round. There at the door 
 stood Selvaggia in a crimson cloak ; for the rest, 
 a picture of the Tragic Muse, so woebegone, so 
 white, so ringed with dark she was. 
 
 Cino, on his feet, muttered a prayer to himself. 
 He covered his scarred mouth, but not before the 
 girl had caught sight of it. She set to wringing 
 her hands, and began a low wailing cry. 
 
 " Ah, terrible — ah, terrible ! That I should 
 have done it to one who was always so gentle 
 with me and so patient ! Oh, Cino " — and she 
 held out her hands towards him — " oh, Cino, 
 will you not forgive me ? Will you not ? I, only, 
 did it ; it was through me that they knew what 
 you had said. Shameful girl that I am ! " She
 
 248 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 covered her face and stood sobbing before him. 
 But confronted with this toppled Madonna, Cino 
 was speechless, wholly unprepared by jurispru- 
 dence or the less exact science of love for such a 
 pass. As he knew himself, he could have written 
 eloquently and done justice to the piercing 
 theme ; but love, as he and his fellows understood 
 it, had no spoken language. I do not see, how- 
 ever, that Selvaggia is to be blamed for being 
 ignorant of this. 
 
 Yet he had to say something, since there stood 
 the weeping girl, all abandoned to her trouble. 
 " I beseech you, Madonna," he was beginning, 
 when she suddenly bared her face, her woe, and 
 her beauty to his astonished eyes, looking passion- 
 ately at him in a way which even he could not 
 misinterpret. 
 
 " Cino," she said brokenly, " I am a wilful girl, 
 but not wicked, ah, no ! not hard-hearted. I think 
 I did not understand you ; I heard, but would not 
 hear ; it was wantonness, not evil in me, Cino. 
 You have never wearied of telling me your devo- 
 tion ; is it too late to be thankful ? Now I am 
 come to tell you what I should have said long be- 
 fore, that I am grateful, proud of such love, that I 
 receive it if still I may, that — that " — her voice 
 fell to a thrilled whisper — " that I love you, Cino." 
 Ah, but she had no more courage ; she hid her 
 blushes in her hands and felt that now she should 
 by rights sink into the earth. 
 
 Judge you, who know the theory of the matter, 
 if this were terrible hearing for Messer Cino. 
 Terrible ? It was unprecedented hearing ; it was 
 a thing which, so far as he knew, had never hap-
 
 MESSER CINO AND THE LIVE COAL 249 
 
 pened to a lover before. That love should go 
 smooth, the lady smile, the lady love, the lady 
 woo ? Monstrous ! The lady was never kind. 
 Where was anguish ? Where martyrdom ? Where 
 poetry and sore eyes ? Yet stay, was not such a 
 thing in itself a torment, to be cut off your 
 martyrdom ? 
 
 Cino gasped for breath. " You love me, Ma- 
 donna ? " he said. " You love me ? " 
 
 Selvaggia nodded her head in her hands ; she 
 felt that she was blushing all over her body. 
 
 Cino, at this new stab, struck his forehead a re- 
 sounding smack. " This is terrible indeed ! " he 
 cried out in his distress; whereupon Selvaggia 
 forgot to be ashamed any more, she was so taken 
 by surprise. 
 
 " What do you mean, Cino ? " she began to 
 falter. " I don't understand you." 
 
 Cino plunged into the icy pool of explanation, 
 and splashed there at large. " I mean, I mean " 
 — -he waved his hands in the air — "it is most dif- 
 ficult to explain. We must apprehend Love aright 
 — if we can. He is a grim and dreadful lord, it 
 appears, working out the salvation of the souls of 
 poets, and other men, by great sufferings. There 
 is no other way, as the books teach us. Such 
 love is always towards ladies; the suffering is 
 from them, the love for them. They deal the 
 darts, and receive the more devotion. It is not 
 to be otherwise — could not be — there can be 
 no poetry without pain; and how can there be 
 pain if the lady loves the poet ? Ah, no, it is im- 
 possible ! Anciently, very long ago, in the times 
 of Troy, maybe, it was different. I know not
 
 250 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 what to say ; I had never expected, never looked, 
 nor even asked — ah, Madonna," he suddenly 
 cried, and found himself upon his knees, " what 
 am I to say to you for this speech of yours ? ' 
 
 Selvaggia, white enough now, froze hard. " Do 
 you mean," she said slowly, in words that fell one 
 by one, like cuts from a deliberate whip, " do you 
 mean that you do not love me, Messer Cino, after 
 all ? " 
 
 " You are a light to my eyes and a lantern to 
 my feet," Cino murmured : but she did not seem 
 to hear. 
 
 " Do you mean," she went on, " that you are not 
 prepared to be — to be my — my betrothed ? " 
 
 It was done : now let the heavens fall ! She 
 could not ask the man to marry her, but it came 
 to the same thing ; she had practically committed 
 that unpardonable sin ; she had approached love 
 to wedlock, a mystery to a bargain, the rapt con- 
 verse of souls in heaven to a wrangle over the 
 heeltaps in a tavern parlour. She was a heretic 
 whom any Court of Love must excommunicate. 
 The thing was so serious that it brought Cino to 
 his feet, severe, formal, an Assessor of Civil 
 Causes. He spread out his hands as if to wave 
 aside words he should never have heard. He had 
 found his tongue, for he was now contemplating 
 the Abstract. 
 
 " Be very sure, most sacred Lady," said he, 
 " that no bodily torment could drive me to such 
 sacrilege as your noble humility leads you to con- 
 template. No indeed ! Wretchedly unworthy 
 as I am to live in the light of your eyes, I am not 
 yet fallen so far. There are yet seeds of grace
 
 MESSER CINO AND THE LIVE COAL 251 
 
 within me — of your planting, Madonna, of your 
 planting ! " She paid no heed to his compli- 
 ments; her eyes were fixed. On he hurried. 
 " So far, indeed, as those worldly concerns go, 
 whereof you hint, I am provided for. My wife is 
 at Lucca in her father's house — but of such 
 things it is not fitting we should speak. Rather 
 we should reason together of the high philosophy 
 of love, which — " 
 
 But Selvaggia was gone before he could invite 
 her on such a lofty flight ; the wife at Lucca sent 
 her fleeting down the mossy slopes like a hare. 
 It was too dark for men to see her face when she 
 tiptoed into Pitecchio and slipped up to her 
 chamber. Safe at last there, she shivered and 
 drowsed the night away ; but waking or sleeping 
 she did not cease her dreary moan. 
 
 Cino, after a night of consternation, could 
 endure the hermitage no more ; the problem, he 
 was free to confess, beat him. Next day, there- 
 fore, he took horse and rode over the mountains 
 to Bologna, intent upon finding Dante there ; but 
 Dante had gone to Verona with half of his " In- 
 ferno " in his saddlebag. Thither Cino pursued 
 and there found him in the church of St. Helen, 
 disputing with the doctors upon the Question of 
 the Land and the Water. What passed between 
 the great poet and the less I cannot certainly re- 
 port, nor is it material. I think that the tinge of 
 philosophy set here and there in Cino's verses, to 
 say nothing of a couplet or two which give more 
 than a hint of the " Vita Nova," may safely be 
 ascribed to that time. I know at least that he did 
 not cease to love his beautiful and wild Selvaggia
 
 252 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 so far as he understood that delicate state of the 
 soul which she, perverse child, had so signally 
 misapprehended. The truth may well be that he 
 was tolerably happy at Verona, able to contem- 
 plate at his ease the divine image of his lady with- 
 out any interference from the disturbing original. 
 He was, it is said, meditating an ambitious work, 
 the history of the Roman Polity from Numa to 
 Justinian, an epic in five-and-twenty books, where- 
 in Selvaggia would have played a fine part, that 
 of the Genius of Natural Law. The scheme 
 might have ripened but for one small circum- 
 stance ; this was the death of Selvaggia. 
 
 That healthy, laughing girl, Genius of Nature 
 or not, paid the penalty of her incurable childish- 
 ness by catching a malaria, whereof she died, as it 
 is said, in a high delirium of some eight hours. 
 So it seems that she was really unteachable, 
 for first she had spoiled Cino's martyrdom, and 
 next, by the same token, robbed the world of an 
 epic in twenty-five books. Cino heard of it some 
 time afterwards, and in due season was shown her 
 tomb at Monte della Sambuca high on the Apen- 
 nine, a grey stone solitary in a grey waste of 
 shale. There he pondered the science of which, 
 while she was so strangely ignorant, he had now 
 become an adept ; there, or thereabouts, he com- 
 posed the most beautiful of all his rhymes, the 
 canzone which may stand for an elegy of the Lady 
 Selvaggia. 
 
 " Ay me, alas ! the beautiful bright hair, — " 
 Ay me, indeed ! And thus he ends :
 
 MESSER CINO AND THE LIVE COAL 253 
 
 " Ay me, sharp Death ! till what I ask is done 
 And my whole life is ended utterly, — 
 Answer, — must I weep on 
 Even thus, and never cease to moan ay me ? " 1 
 
 He might well ask. It should be accorded him 
 that he was worthy of the occasion : the poem is 
 very fine. But I think the good man did well 
 enough after this ; I know that if he was sad he 
 was most melodiously sad. He throve ; he be- 
 came a professor ; his wife bore him five children. 
 His native city has done him what honour she 
 could, ousted his surname in favour of her own, 
 set up a pompous monument in the Cathedral 
 Church (where little Selvaggia heard her dull 
 mass), and dubbed him once and for all, L* amoroso 
 Messer Cino da Pistoja. That should suffice 
 him. As for the young Selvaggia, I suppose her 
 bones are dust of the Apennine. 
 
 1 The translation is Rossetti's.
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 
 
 "Unde proverbii loco etiamnunc usurpatur, praeteriisse Borsii 
 tempora." — Este Chronicle. 
 
 I 
 
 THE ADVENTURERS 
 
 It is happily as unnecessary as it would be 
 unwise to inquire into the ancestry of Bellaroba, 
 a meek-eyed girl of Venice, with whom I have here 
 some concern. Her mother was La Fragiletta, of 
 the Old Ghetto, and her father may have been of 
 the Council of Ten, or possibly a Doge. No one 
 could deny it, for no one knew his name. It 
 is certain that his daughter was not christened 
 as she was called, equally certain that the nick- 
 name fitted her. Bella roba, a pretty thing, she 
 always had been for her mother's many friends ; 
 bella roba in truth she looked, as La Fragiletta 
 fastened her dark red dress, stuck a bunch of 
 carnations in the bosom of it, and pulled up the 
 laces round her slim neck, on a certain May 
 morning in or about the year 1469. " The shape 
 you are, child," said that industrious woman, " I 
 can do nothing for you in Venice. It is as timid 
 
 254
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 255 
 
 as a nun's. Ferrara is the place of all the world 
 for you. I look forward to your speedy estab- 
 lishment in a city where a girl may be like a 
 flagstaff and yet not thought amiss." 
 
 Bellaroba looked humbly at herself in the glass; 
 though she could see that she was pretty, it was 
 not to be denied that she was thin. Ah, no ; she 
 did not take after her mother. Here she sighed 
 to remember that her bosom friend Olimpia 
 Castaneve took after hers only too well, and was 
 to accompany her fortune-hunting in Ferrara for 
 precisely opposite reasons. Was this fair? she 
 wondered. She, Bellaroba, was to go because 
 she was of a piece with the Ferrarese ; Olimpia, 
 because she could furnish a provoking contrast. 
 She was an affectionate, docile creature, this 
 shrinking Bellaroba, absurdly young, absurdly 
 your servant; but tears smarted in her eyes as 
 she stood adorned for sacrifice — in her tight 
 crimson dress, lace at her neck and wrists, a 
 jewel on her forehead, a chain in her hair, and a 
 cold block of lead dragging at her heart. She 
 had never denied any one anything, and certainly 
 not her mother. Her tears glistened as she 
 blinked, her lip was shaky ; she was kissed a 
 good-bye none the less, and went down the steps 
 to join Olimpia huddled in the gondola. 
 
 " Good-bye, my child," cried Madam Fragiletta 
 from the doorway. " Be wise ; remember what I 
 have told you. Never see a priest the wrong 
 side of the grille, and obey Monna Nanna in 
 everything. I shall have a mass for you at San 
 Zan to-morrow, and another on your birthday, 
 which I shall never forget."
 
 256 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 The morning was misty and sharp, Madam 
 Fragiletta was very much undressed, and loved 
 her bed. She waved her hand gallantly to Bella- 
 roba, who still stood up wistful in the gondola ; 
 she did not wait for it to shoot the bridge or 
 round the square corner of the rio, but turned 
 shrugging to the house. There was no reason- 
 able probability that these two would ever meet 
 again. Short outlooks govern La Fragiletta's 
 trade, and Providence, it seems, has little to do 
 with it. 
 
 Olimpia Castaneve, the muffled brooder in the 
 poop, was cold, cross, and still. Bellaroba sniv- 
 elled, but she was scornful under her cloak, and 
 no word passed between the pair until they were 
 in the great blunt-nosed barge, heading against 
 a crisping tide for Chioggia. Then, as the sun 
 shot through the mist and revealed the lagoon, 
 one broad sheet of silver and blue, the shawls 
 were opened, limbs went luxuriously at the 
 stretch ; you could see and hear chatter the 
 couple of adventurers if you cared. Bellaroba 
 you have seen already — very gentle, very simple, 
 very unformed without and within. She had 
 pretty ways, coaxing and appealing ways. When 
 she asked a question it was with lifted eyebrows 
 and a head on one side. She would take your 
 hand without art, and let you hold it without 
 afterthought. It was the easiest thing in the 
 world to kiss her, for she suffered it gladly 
 and quite innocently ; it came as naturally as to 
 a cat to rub his cheek on your chair or swinging 
 foot. Yet the girl was as modest as a Clare. 
 If you had presumed on your licence to make
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 257 
 
 love to her, it would not have been her scorn 
 (for she had none), but her distress that would 
 have set you back in your place. God knows 
 what La Fragiletta might have taught her. It 
 is certain she was all unlettered in love up to 
 that hour. Bellaroba was not only modest by 
 instinct, but that better thing, innocent by pre- 
 occupation. 
 
 In all this she was a dead contrast to her hand- 
 some friend Olimpia Castaneve, who was really a 
 beauty of the true Venetian mould. As sleek 
 and sumptuous as a cat, as splendidly coloured 
 as a sunburnt nectarine, crowned with a mass of 
 red-gold hair, as stupid as she was sly, and as 
 rich as she was spendthrift, the lovely Olimpia 
 had been sent adventuring to the bees of Ferrara, 
 not as lacking honey for Venice, but as being 
 too great a treasure for her mother's house. 
 Her mother was La Farfalla — a swollen but- 
 terfly in these days — and frankly said that she 
 could not afford such a daughter. Olimpia 
 had no instructions ; in fact, needed none. She 
 went cheerfully out to what Monna Nanna and 
 the Blessed Virgin should prepare for her, with- 
 out kisses (which she garnered against the lean 
 years) and without reserves. She neither con- 
 demned her mother nor approved. Perhaps she 
 had not the wit ; assuredly she lacked the energy. 
 She was remarkably handsome in her hot, Vene- 
 tian way, richly coloured, brown-eyed, crimson- 
 lipped, bosomed like a goddess and shaped like 
 a Caryatid. She half closed her eyes, half opened 
 her lips, smiled and drowsed and waited. You 
 would have thought her melting with love ; she
 
 258 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 was ciphering a price, but being slow at figures, 
 she hid herself (spiderwise) in a golden mesh. 
 Olimpia was nearly always complaisant, had no 
 reticences, no conscience, few brains. She was 
 luxury itself, fond of the fire, fond of her bed, 
 fond of her dinner. Admittedly self-absorbed, 
 she was accustomed to say that she knew far too 
 much about love to fall into it. It was a reflec- 
 tion as serious as she could make it; but Love 
 is very apt to take such sayings amiss. Olimpia 
 out of love might make men miserable ; in it, 
 what might she not do ? I am about to tell you. 
 
 At Chioggia they were to await a shipload of 
 merchants and pack-mules expected from An- 
 cona; but the wind proved counter when their 
 barge had weathered Malamocco, and that which 
 dis-served them befriended the northering freight. 
 They found the train of beasts awaiting them, 
 saddled and loaded, restless to be off. Chioggia 
 to Ferrara, by the road they would go, is a hand- 
 some fifty miles. 
 
 In that company, as they neared, they observed 
 a calm-eyed youth with a delicate, girlish face, 
 and wonderful shock of light gold hair all about 
 it. He stood alone on the mole, one knee bent, 
 a hand to his hip, and soberly surveyed the group 
 on the barge. He made a charming little pic- 
 ture there — seemed indeed posed for some such 
 thing ; he was charmingly pretty himself, but for 
 all that, he had a tragic touch upon him, a droop 
 of the lip, or the eyelid, perhaps. One could 
 hardly say, yet never miss it. Even Olimpia no- 
 ticed the shadow across him. As they touched 
 — " Look, look, Bellaroba," she whispered, and
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 259 
 
 nudged her friend — " that boy ! Did you ever 
 see such a lovely child ? " 
 
 Bellaroba drew a long breath. " I think he is 
 as lovely as an angel," she replied, her eyes fasci- 
 nated. And her saying was equally true. He was 
 such a demure boy-angel, bright-haired, long and 
 shapely in the limb, as the painters and carvers 
 loved to set in Madonna's court, careful about 
 her throne, or below the dais fiddling, or strum- 
 ming lutes to charm away her listlessness. More- 
 over, Angioletto was the name he went by, though 
 he had been christened Dominick. And he came 
 from Borgo San Sepolcro — far cry from windy 
 Chioggia — a place among the brown Tuscan 
 hills, just where they melt into Umbria; and he 
 was by trade a minstrel, and going to Ferrara. 
 Of so much, with many bows, he informed the 
 two girls, being questioned by Olimpia. But he 
 looked at Bellaroba as he spoke, and she lis- 
 tened the harder and looked the longer of the 
 two. 
 
 Everything about him seemed to her alto- 
 gether gracious, from the silky floss of his gold 
 hair to his proper legs, sheathed in scarlet to the 
 thighs. He was as soft and daintily coloured as 
 a girl, had long curved lashes to his grey eyes, 
 a pathetic droop to his lip, the bloom as of a 
 peach on his cheeks. But you could never mis- 
 take him for a girl. His eyes had a critical blink, 
 he looked to have the discretion of a man. A 
 fop he might be; he had a wiry mind. A fop, 
 in fact, he was. He had a little scarlet cap on 
 his head, scarlet stockings, peaked scarlet shoes : 
 for the rest he was in green cloth with a blue
 
 2 6o LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 leather belt about his waist. He had fine lace 
 ruffles at his wrists, a fine line of white at his 
 throat, and in his ears (if you could have seen 
 them) gold rings. Just the pampered young 
 minion of any Tuscan court, a precocious wrap- 
 page of wit, good manners, and sensibility, he 
 looked what he spoke, the exquisite Florentine, 
 to these broad-vowelled Venetian lasses ; did not 
 smile, but seemed never out of temper ; and was 
 certainly not timid. Self-possessed, reticent he 
 was ; but not timid. That was proved. 
 
 When the cavalcade was on the point to start, 
 Angioletto stepped forward and took Bellaroba 
 by the hand. 
 
 " Little lady," says he to his blushing captive, 
 " I have a mule for the road which I am assured 
 is a steady pacer. Will you be my pillion ? " 
 
 " Oh yes, Messere," said Bellaroba in a twitter, 
 and dropped him a curtsy of her best. 
 
 " Excellent ! " he cried gaily. " I can see that 
 we are to be friends." So she was led away. 
 
 He helped her on to the mule in no time, 
 showed her how she must hold him round the 
 middle, how closely and how constantly ; he ex- 
 plained how little there was to fear, for all that 
 such a manner of going was as venturesome to 
 her as a steamer would have seemed to Ulysses, 
 that great captain. It was then that Olimpia 
 (watching all this) proved Angioletto not timid, 
 for she saw him conclude his precepts to her 
 friend by kissing her cheek in the easiest man- 
 ner. " H'm," thought the wise Olimpia, " I pray 
 that Bellaroba may be careful." 
 
 She herself accepted the services and part of
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 261 
 
 the horse of a lean Ravennese, a Captain of Lances 
 — two yards of sinew and brown leather — who 
 told her that his name was Mosca, and his heart 
 bleeding at her feet. Olimpia smiled beautifully 
 upon him, but was careful ; took a share of the 
 courser, but gave in return nothing more than a 
 hand on its master's belt. He wanted much 
 more, and showed it. Olimpia, far from coy, 
 hinted an exchange. She needed her bearings ; 
 did this apparent hero know Ferrara? The 
 Mosca snorted, threw back his head at the word. 
 Ferrara ? cried he, did he know it ! Saints and 
 Angels, who could know it better ? " Ferrara ? " 
 he went on to shout, appealing to gods and men, 
 "the gayest court in all Italy — the cleanest air, 
 the most laughing women, the — pest ! It is 
 a place of holy days and feasts — all music, loving 
 and delight ! But you will see, my dear ; I will 
 see that you see." Olimpia must know more 
 exactly than this, and so she told the Mosca. 
 He could deny her nothing ; so as they rode be- 
 tween the grey swamps of the lagoon, he poured 
 out his understanding in his own fashion. His 
 oaths made her gasp, but the facts atoned for 
 that. By the bones of God, but he served a 
 great lord of that city — Guarino Guarini by 
 name, whose blade was the longest, the oftenest 
 out, and the cleanest cutter, as himself was 
 the lightest heart, and most trenchant carver of 
 men in Borso's fief. The good captain carried 
 his loyalty to the edge of his simplicity, and left 
 it there for Olimpia to handle. " By the cheeks 
 of the Virgin, my dear, I know what I know. 
 My young master has an eye which, whether it
 
 262 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 say • Come ' or ' Go,' needs not say it twice. He 
 is as fine and limber as a leopard on the King 
 of England's shield, of a nature so frank and 
 loving that I suppose there is hardly a lady in 
 Ferrara could not testify to it — unless she were 
 bound to the service of his Magnificence the 
 Duke. Why! Yourself might make a shift to 
 be my little friend, and never repent it, mind 
 you — No, no, I may be battered, my dear, but 
 I am seasoned ; I have great experience : you 
 would not repent, and shall not, by the Face on 
 the Handkerchief! But happen you see my 
 master, happen he wear his brocade of white and 
 gold — it is all peacocks' eyes, my seraphic heart, 
 in gold and blue upon snowy white — happen 
 again he look, 'Come' at you — Why, off you 
 trot as a hound to the platter, and I speed you 
 thither with open heart. Thus walks his world 
 Guarino Guarini, my noble master." 
 
 Olimpia had a colour, and flew it now most be- 
 comingly in her cheeks. It was a wholesome, 
 healthy, happy colour, born of her growing excite- 
 ment; the Captain highly approved of it. She 
 thus earned more information. Guarino Guarini, 
 it appeared, though not of the reigning family, was 
 very near the throne. He had married one of 
 the d'Este ladies, Madama Lionella, legitimised 
 daughter of Duke Borso, and was now ignoring 
 the fact to his own and her entire satisfaction. 
 Upon the Countess's score, Captain Mosca had 
 not very much to say. " A great-hearted lady, 
 amorous, generous, a great lover," he allowed; 
 "a pretty taste for music and singing she has, 
 is a friend of poets and such like. The ante-
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 263 
 
 chamber is full of them ; and there they are — on 
 promotion, you understand. But though she has 
 a wonderful free spirit, she is no beauty, you must 
 know. Her mouth is too big, and her eyes are 
 too small. It is a kissing mouth, as we say, my 
 dear, and a speaking eye — and there you have 
 Madama Lionella, who loves minstrels." 
 
 " Tell me," said Olimpia here, " who is that 
 pretty gentleman with my friend ? Is he not a 
 minstrel ? " 
 
 The Captain turned in his saddle and, when he 
 had observed, snorted his disdain. 
 
 " That sprout, my deary ? " said he. " Some 
 such dapper little chamber-fellow, I'll warrant 
 you. A lap-dog, a lady's toy, with a piping voice 
 and an eye for mischief. Yes, he'll be for climbing 
 by Madama Lionella's back-stair. He has the 
 make of it — just the doll she loves to dandle." 
 Which was all the Captain had to say for 
 Angioletto. 
 
 Little as it was, it was more than Angioletto 
 had to say for Mosca. He was, indeed, serenely 
 indifferent to the lean brown man. From the 
 moment of their setting out, he and Bellaroba 
 had wagged tongues in concert, and before they 
 had made a dozen miles each knew the other's 
 story to the roots. Angioletto's was no great 
 matter. The Capuchins at Borgo had taught 
 him his rudiments, his voice had taken him into 
 the choir, his manners into the sacristy. He had 
 been Boy-Bishop twice, had become a favourite 
 of the Warden's, learnt Latin, smelt at Greek, 
 scribbled verses. Then, one Corpus Christi, he 
 got his chance. There was to be a Pageant —
 
 264 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 "Triumph," he called it — a Triumph of Love 
 and a Triumph of Chastity, wherein by the good 
 offices of his friend the Warden he was chosen 
 for the part of Love. It was to be assumed that 
 he pleased, for Chastity (who was a great lady of 
 the place) took him into her service ; and there 
 he stayed until, as he explained, she married 
 again. She had been a widow, it seems, when 
 she took part in the Triumphs. 
 
 Bellaroba was much interested. 
 
 " Was the lady kind to you, Angioletto ? " 
 
 " Oh, very kind." 
 
 " But you had to go, you say ? " 
 
 " Yes, It was judged better." 
 
 " But I don't quite see. If she was kind I 
 wonder why you judged it better to go, or why 
 she did ? " 
 
 " It did not rest wholly with us," said Angioletto. 
 
 Bellaroba did not pursue the subject. But 
 after a short pause — 
 
 " And are you now from her house ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 Angioletto shook his head. " That was a very 
 long time ago," said he ; " two years at least. I 
 am eighteen, you must know. When I left the 
 Marchioness she gave me a handsome present. 
 It sufficed to take me to Perugia — to the Uni- 
 versity there ; it afforded me two years' study in 
 the liberal arts, and my outfit for this present 
 venture into the bargain." 
 
 " And do you know what you will do at 
 Ferrara, Angioletto ? " 
 
 " Yes, quite well." 
 
 " What will you do ? "
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 265 
 
 " I will marry you, Bellaroba," the boy replied, 
 as he turned suddenly, put his arms about her 
 and took a long kiss. 
 
 Bellaroba, in a bath of love, made him free 
 of her lips. For a while the mule had to do 
 his pacing alone. 
 
 " Oh, Angioletto, Angioletto," whispered the 
 girl, with a hidden face, " I have never been happy 
 like this before." 
 
 " You will never be unhappy again, dearest, for 
 I shall be with you." 
 
 For the time there was no more talk, since the 
 broken murmurs of their joy and wonder cannot 
 be so described. The billing of two doves on an 
 elm was not more artless than their converse on 
 the mule's back. 
 
 The girl brought prose in again, as became a 
 daughter of Venice. What had led Angioletto 
 to Ferrara? 
 
 " The Blessed Virgin," he promptly replied, 
 and she sighed a happy acquiescence in so pious 
 a retort. 
 
 " But what else ? " 
 
 For answer Angioletto drew a silk-bound letter 
 from his breast. " This epistle," he said, " promises 
 me employment and fame almost as certainly as 
 you promise me bliss. It is from a Cardinal 
 of my acquaintance to a noble lady of Ferrara, 
 by name Lionella, daughter of Duke Borso him- 
 self, and wife to one Messer Guarino Guarini, 
 a very great lord. The lady is patroness of all 
 poets and minstrels. Consider our fortunes made, 
 my joy." 
 
 " They must be made since you believe it,
 
 266 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 Angioletto," said Bellaroba with faith. " I have 
 never seen any one like you, so beautiful and so 
 wise at once." 
 
 The compliment provoked kisses. Angioletto 
 embraced her again ; again conversation became 
 ejaculatory, and again the mule tripped over the 
 reins. He learned before the day was out to 
 allow for this new hindrance to his way; he 
 tripped no more. The lovers continued their 
 rapt intercourse all that May-day journey through 
 the rice-fields, until at Rovigo (half hidden in a 
 mist of green) they halted for the night.
 
 II 
 
 ARMS AND THE MANNIKIN 
 
 The hubbub of the inn-yard, where shouting 
 merchants wrestled for porters, and donkeys 
 brayed them down, the narrowed eyes of Olimpia, 
 the sardonic grin of the gaunt Mosca, brought 
 our lovers back into the real world. They faced 
 their foes together with insensible meeting and 
 holding of young hands. Angioletto did his best 
 not to feel a detected schoolboy, and did succeed 
 in meeting the Captain's terrific looks. Bellaroba 
 made no attempt at heroism. Her blush was a 
 thing to be seen. 
 
 " Bellaroba, come with me, my child," said 
 Olimpia, severely; but Angioletto kept her hand. 
 
 Captain Mosca fiddled at his sword-hilt. 
 
 " Would you like spitted lark for supper, Ma- 
 donna ? " he asked with meaning. 
 
 Olimpia burst into a shrill laugh, and Angio- 
 letto, who had the pluck of a little gamecock, 
 turned to his partner in guilt. 
 
 " And you, Madonnetta," he said sweetly, "what 
 do you say to boars head larded ? " 
 
 Bellaroba giggled in spite of herself — for she 
 was terribly frightened — but again Olimpia, 
 the grand indifferent, pealed her delight. The 
 Captain glared round about him over a tossing 
 
 267
 
 268 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 sea of bales and asses' ears; getting small joy 
 of that, he scowled portentously at the little 
 minstrel and took a stride forward. 
 
 " Look you, sprigling," said he, " you have to 
 do with a man of deeds ; a man, by Saint Her- 
 cules, of steel." 
 
 Angioletto was fired, cheek and eye. He never 
 faltered. 
 
 " I wish I had to do with a man of sense," he 
 said. 
 
 " If you do not drop that lady's hand, my lad — " 
 growled the Mosca. 
 ' "What then, sir?" 
 
 " Then," the Captain roared, " by the antecham- 
 bers of Paradise, she shall cling to carrion ! " 
 
 Bellaroba with a little cry fell to her knees ; 
 Olimpia bit her finger; Angioletto shrugged. 
 
 " You have better lungs than manners, Cap- 
 tain," he said quietly. " These ladies of ours are 
 fatigued with travel and tired of fasting. More- 
 over, I apprehend a bale of carpets on my back 
 at every moment. We will, so please you, sup. 
 If you and the lady whom you escort will do me 
 the honour of sharing my table we can arrange 
 other matters at our leisure. I have always 
 understood that encounters before ladies are 
 make-believe; but your experience should inform 
 you how far that is true. By leave, Signor Capi- 
 tano." 
 
 Whereupon he lifts up the praying Bellaroba, 
 kisses her forehead, and hands her into the inn 
 as bold as a Viscount. One or two tongues 
 were in one or two cheeks; one hand at least 
 clapped him on the shoulder for a " little assas-
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 269 
 
 sin " — a compliment : the honours were his to 
 that present. Olimpia followed after him, very 
 much impressed with the thought that the sooner 
 she could exchange Mosca for Mosca's master 
 the better for her. In the rear of the procession 
 stalked that gaping hero, swearing rapidly under 
 his breath to keep himself in some sort of coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 Angioletto's assurance, and with it his luck, 
 held out the evening. Not otherwise could he 
 have cleared himself of the mess. He fairly froze 
 Mosca by the coolness of his assumptions. 
 
 " I will fight you as soon as you choose, and 
 with your own weapons, after supper," said he, 
 " but it is only fair to warn you that you will be 
 killed." 
 
 " How so, by the King of Glory ? " cried the 
 Captain. 
 
 " The wagging finger of Fate, sir," replied 
 Angioletto readily, "and the conjunctions of the 
 stars. My horoscope was taken at Foligno with 
 the utmost exactitude. Mars himself, for reasons 
 of his own, seems to have presided over my be- 
 getting. More than that, though I have not the 
 least desire to take your life — should not, indeed, 
 know what to do with it — it will be impossible 
 for me to avoid it. I am really very sorry. Your 
 case is just on a parallel with that of the younger 
 Altopasso who, on this very day a year ago, in- 
 sisted upon fighting with me. It is true that I 
 do not pretend to love or even to approve of you, 
 Captain; I consider that your legs have out- 
 grown your brains. But for all that, I should be 
 sorry to think that for want of a little ordinary
 
 270 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 politeness, or for shanks out of due measure, an 
 honest man had lost his life. However, I fear 
 the affair has gone too far." 
 
 The Captain grew purple and green by turns. 
 The room of full tables was all agog. He let out 
 an oath which I omit. 
 
 " The affair has not gone so far as this blade 
 shall go, turkey-poult," he thundered. 
 
 " Make yourself quite easy on that point, my 
 good sir," said Angioletto, cracking a walnut; 
 " your sword shall fly the length of the room. I 
 have a pass that is irresistible. You cannot fight 
 planets, Captain." 
 
 " I have never tried yet, by our Lord," the Cap- 
 tain admitted, " but no one has dared to doubt 
 my valour, and, planet or no planet, I'll run you 
 through." 
 
 Angioletto smiled at another walnut. " I find 
 the conceit admirable," said he, "yet you will 
 perish so sure as this city is Rovigo and a titular 
 fief of my mistress's master." 
 
 " A straw for your mistress, little egg" cried 
 the suffocating Captain. 
 
 " I will give it to Countess Lionella as your 
 dying gift, Signor Capitano." 
 
 The name smacked him in the face ; he shook 
 his head like a worried bull, or as a dog shakes 
 water from his pelt. Olimpia, too, was interested, 
 and for the first time. With face fixed between 
 her hands, she leaned both elbows on the table, 
 watching. 
 
 " Is the Countess Lionella your mistress ? " she 
 asked. Angioletto made her a bow; the com- 
 pany applauded a popular name. Olimpia turned
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 271 
 
 a glance upon her Captain, which said as plainly 
 as she could have spoken, " Finish him for your 
 master's sake." But it had no meaning for the 
 champion, who possibly knew more about his 
 master than he had been minded to declare. 
 
 Angioletto tapped the ground with his toe. 
 " Come, Master Captain," he said, " before your 
 blood cools." 
 
 " Have no fear, bantam," said a jolly Dominican 
 in his ear, " that toad's blood was never hot." It 
 certainly looked like it. The Captain scratched 
 his head. 
 
 " Look ye now, youngster," he said at last, " I 
 serve his worship Count Guarino Guarini, who is 
 the husband of Madama Lionella ; and lucky for 
 you that service is. Otherwise, by the truly 
 splintered Cross, it had gone hard with you this 
 night." 
 
 " Oh, brava, brava ! " cheered the dining-room, 
 and then hooted the Captain to his bench. 
 
 Angioletto put up his little hanger with a curt 
 nod in his enemy's direction. " For the Countess's 
 sake I spare you to the Count, Captain Mosca; 
 though what precisely your value may be to his 
 Excellency I do not at present understand." 
 
 Thereupon he turned to his poor Bellaroba, 
 took her in his arms before them all, kissed her 
 eyes dry of tears, and ended by drawing a rueful 
 smile from her lips. The dining-room found 
 him admirable throughout; but Olimpia got up, 
 yawning. 
 
 " Come, child, it is time for bed," she declared. 
 " I suppose even this entertainment must have a 
 term." There was no gainsaying it. The lovers
 
 272 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 were torn apart by the moral force of Olimpia's 
 attendance; but not until it was demonstrated that, 
 though good-night is a word of two syllables, it 
 needs four lips, and is therefore capable of infinite 
 extension. 
 
 " Well, my child, I hope you are satisfied with 
 this little day's work," said Olimpia, half-un- 
 dressed. 
 
 For answer, Bellaroba, upon her friend's neck, 
 dissolved in a flood of happy tears.
 
 Ill 
 
 HOW THEY CAME TO FERRARA 
 
 That was a fair sight which greeted the travel- 
 lers at the close of the next day — the towers of 
 Ferrara rising stately out of a green thicket. The 
 lovers trilled their happiness to each other : surely 
 nothing but pleasure and a smooth life could come 
 out of so treeful a place ! 
 
 " In our Venice, you must know," said Bella- 
 roba, " we set great store by green boughs, hav- 
 ing so few of them. We think that harshness 
 and clamour may hunt the canals, but that birds 
 can sing in gardens of a world really joyful. 
 What a cloud of green trees — look, look how 
 near the sky comes to them ! Oh, my Angio- 
 letto, we are going to be so happy ! " And the 
 young girl laid her hot cheek on her lover's 
 shoulder. 
 
 He, though her premises were undeniable, had 
 his doubts. Her words set him wondering what 
 was to be the end of this light-hearted adventure. 
 
 " My dear," said he, " if trees get in a man's 
 way of villainy or incommode his pleasures he 
 will cut them down, depend upon it." 
 
 "Well, silly boy," she cried, and gave him a 
 
 peck of a kiss, " and does not that prove what I 
 
 say, that there are no villainies in Ferrara ? For, 
 
 see, the trees are as thick as a forest." She made 
 
 t 273
 
 274 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 him laugh again before many paces. His ringing 
 tones caught the ears of Captain Mosca, and set 
 that great man scowling. 
 
 " If I don't get a crumb down that yapping 
 gullet, call me not Mosca," he grumbled. 
 
 " Speak a little louder, Signor Capitano," said 
 his pillion. 
 
 " Your pardon, Madonna Olimpia," he answered, 
 " but I believe I was breathing a prayer on ac- 
 count of the little love-boy yonder." 
 
 Olimpia laughed. " I love him as much as you 
 do, I dare swear," said she ; " but he may be very 
 useful. Remember that I am but a poor gentle- 
 woman with my fortune to make." 
 
 " Give me the making of it, my angel," cried 
 the Captain, crushing his heart with his fist. " You 
 shall have the most crowded cortile in Ferrara. 
 May I give you a humble bit of advice ? " 
 
 " Certainly you may." 
 
 " It will be this, then, that you hold off from 
 Monna Nanna and keep yourself very much to 
 yourself. Between us we can arrange a pretty 
 future. I know Monna Nanna better than be- 
 comes me. Believe me, the acquaintance would 
 become you still less. But with such talents as 
 I have — and they are all yours — I can arrange 
 for you a most proper dwelling-place which shall 
 cost little and bring much in." 
 
 " But we cannot live there alone, Captain." 
 
 "Hey! I am beforehand. I parry with the head, 
 my duchess," cried the delighted Mosca. " I have 
 thought of all that. There is an old lady of my 
 friendship in the city, by name Donna Matura. 
 She is something decayed in estate o' these days,
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 275 
 
 has fewer crusts than teeth, poor soul, but has 
 mingled with the highest. She will be all that 
 you could wish, and you more than she could 
 hope for. Think of it, lady, think of it." 
 
 " I will," said Olimpia, who had already done 
 so. There is no doubt that she and the Mosca 
 understood each other. 
 
 They were now riding up the long lime-tree 
 avenue which leads to the Sea-Gate of Ferrara ; 
 soon they entered Ferrara itself, that city of warm 
 red brick, of broad eaves, of laughter and, as it 
 were, a fairy-tale, bowered in rustling green. The 
 streets ran wide between garden walls and the 
 massy fronts of great square houses; they were 
 full of a traffic which seemed that of a prosperous 
 people bent upon pleasure. Happy ladies rode 
 by with hawks or leashed dogs, or crowns of 
 flowers. Cavaliers, in white and yellow, rib- 
 boned, slashed, curled, and feathered, went in 
 and out of the throng to keep an assignation, 
 or to break one. The priests joked with the 
 women, the very urchins coaxed for kisses. 
 Every street corner had its lovers' tryst, never 
 a garden walk without its loitering pair, never a 
 lady came out of a church door but there stood 
 a devout adorer to beg a touch of holy water 
 from her finger-tip. 
 
 " How happy this people is," cried Bellaroba, 
 flushed and sparkling, to her little lord. " Every- 
 body loves everybody else." 
 
 " My dear, we have nothing to do with their 
 loves ; we are going to be married," replied Angio- 
 letto, looking straight before him. 
 
 " Yes, Angioletto," said she, as meek as a mouse.
 
 276 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 Olimpia, who was not thinking of marriage, was 
 highly entertained. There was a press of grooms 
 and led horses, richly caparisoned, outside the open 
 doors of a new and very spacious palace. Round 
 about them crowded people of a meaner sort, and 
 beggars not a few; but a lane was kept to the 
 gateway by soldiers in red and yellow, who bore 
 upon their breasts a quartered coat of eagles and 
 lilies. 
 
 " Hist ! " said Mosca, pulling up his horse. 
 " This is the fine new palace of the Duke's, which 
 he calls his Schifanoia. He is evidently expected 
 in from his hawking. The greatest falconer you 
 ever knew, my life ! I do assure you." 
 
 " That may very well be," said Olimpia, " for I 
 have never known one at alL" 
 
 " You shall know this one before I die, and 
 another who is my most noble master," cried 
 Mosca, " or I am your kennel-dog for nothing." 
 
 " Let us wait a little and see this hawking Duke 
 of yours," Olimpia said, with a gentle pressure of 
 her arms about the Captain's middle. 
 
 " Blood of blood," sighed the Mosca, " I am as 
 wax in the candle of you, my soul." 
 
 Olimpia pulled down her hood. Her patience 
 was rewarded in no long time by the sound of an 
 approaching cavalcade; presently she saw the 
 nodding plumes of riders and their beasts at the 
 end of the street. Knights, squires, and ladies 
 rode with their reigning prince : he himself with 
 two young men, magnificently dressed, came in 
 advance of the troop, and at a great pace. 
 
 Olimpia judged her time well. At the moment 
 Duke Borso drew rein to turn into his gates she
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 277 
 
 threw back her hood and looked him full in the 
 face, as if to dower him with all the splendour of 
 her beauty. The sly, humorous face of the old 
 fox twitched as his eyes caught the girl's. He 
 looked a prude with a touch of freakishness in 
 him; his pursed mouth seemed always to be 
 strangling a smile, the issue of the strife always 
 in doubt. Now, for instance, though Olimpia 
 said to herself that she was satisfied, she could 
 never have denied that he disapproved of her, 
 while nobody could have maintained it. Borso 
 had shot upon her a piercing glance the minute 
 in which he had turned his horse; Mosca had 
 had the benefit of another; then he had acknow- 
 ledged in military fashion the waving caps and 
 kerchiefs at the gates and had passed into the 
 courtyard. 
 
 " Oh, you may be satisfied, my soul," said the 
 Mosca. " Borso will never forget us now: it is 
 not his way. But look, look ! " Another pair of 
 eyes was at work, belonging to a very handsome, 
 ruddy youth who had been at the Dukes left 
 hand. Olimpia needed no nudge from the 
 Captain to tell her who this noble rider might 
 be. Guarino Guarini for a florin ! And so it 
 was. 
 
 " Yes," said Mosca, " that is my most intrepid 
 master. The flaxen lad in silver brocade, who 
 was on the other side, is Teofilo Calcagnini, of 
 whom I know little more than that he is Duke 
 Borso's shadow. You shall hardly see them 
 apart. The other, my charmer, the other is our 
 man. Leave me to deal with him. Come now to 
 the inn. To-morrow you shall have your hired
 
 278 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 house, and the next day company for it more to 
 your taste than lean old Mosca." 
 
 " I shall never forget you, my Captain," said the 
 really grateful Olimpia; and said truer than she 
 knew. " Come," she added, " we should seek out 
 Bellaroba and her little sweetheart. There must 
 be an end of that pretty gentleman, my friend." 
 
 " By the majesty of King Solomon, there shall 
 be an end," Mosca swore, and pricked his horse. 
 
 Angioletto and his lady-love had been better 
 exercised than to think of dukes. They had 
 thought of religion. 
 
 They passed by the Schifanoia at a sober walk, 
 regardless of the crowd. 
 
 " My heart," Angioletto said, " there is here 
 what I suppose to be the most famous shrine in 
 Romagna. I mean that of the Madonna degli 
 Greci, a pompous image from Byzantium, which 
 proceeded undoubtedly from the bottega of Saint 
 Luke. If that Signore had been as indifferent a 
 painter as he was great Saint (which is surely im- 
 possible), we should do well to visit his Madonna. 
 Her holiness is past dispute; there are very few 
 miracles which she could not perform if she chose. 
 As well as burning a candle apiece before her 
 face, we could lay our prayers and new love at her 
 feet. Beyond question she will hear and bring us 
 good luck. What do you think ? " 
 
 " I think as you think, Angioletto," said Bella- 
 roba, and held him closer. 
 
 " Let us go, then. I know the way very 
 well." 
 
 So they went to the tune which the young lad 
 sang under his breath, and before long came to a
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 279 
 
 piazza, not very broad, but flagged all over and 
 set about with stately brick buildings, having on 
 the left the stone front of a great church, tier 
 upon tier of arches interlaced. The door of it 
 was guarded by two stone lions, and above the 
 porch was the figure of a buxom lady, with a 
 smile half saucy, half benevolent, to whom Angio- 
 letto doffed his cap. 
 
 " They call her Donna Ferrara," he explained. 
 " This is the Duomo. Let us go in." 
 
 They dismounted ; a lame boy held the mule ; 
 they entered the church. 
 
 It was very large, very dark, and nearly empty. 
 Angioletto put his arm round Bellaroba's waist, 
 and they began to pace the aisle in confidential 
 talk. 
 
 " Where are you going to live in this place, 
 Bellaroba ? " he asked her. 
 
 " I don't know. Olimpia knows. There was a 
 Monna Nanna we were to live with, I think. But 
 Olimpia will decide. I must do as she wishes." 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 " She is older than I am — two years. Besides, 
 I always have. And my mother commanded it." 
 
 " Your last appears to me the only reason 
 worth a thought. Do you not want to know 
 what I think of it, Bellaroba ? " He bent his 
 head towards her. Her answer, the flutter of a 
 quick little kiss, pleased him. " Well, I will tell 
 you," said he. " I think we should be married at 
 once — this very minute. I do indeed." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Bellaroba, blushing beautifully. 
 
 " I can see that you are pleased at this, my 
 dear," Angioletto said, looking at her. They
 
 2 8o LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 were head for head level, these children. " But 
 what would Olimpia say ? " 
 
 Bellaroba paused for strength to tell the pain- 
 ful truth. 
 
 " She would say ' Fiddlesticks,' Angioletto." 
 
 Angioletto frowned. " Ah ! what is to be 
 done?" he asked. 
 
 Bellaroba looked down, plucked at her skirt, 
 saw Angioletto's hand peeping round her waist. 
 It seemed difficult to say, and yet what she did 
 say was very simple : " We have not asked 
 Olimpia, you know." 
 
 " No," Angioletto answered; " we have had no 
 time yet. But we will, of course." 
 
 " Oh, of course," said she, who kept her eyes 
 hidden, and spoke very low. " Oh, of course. 
 But—" 
 
 " Well, dearest ? " 
 
 " Could we not — would it not be wiser — of 
 course you know best, Angioletto! — -might we 
 not ask her — afterwards ? " 
 
 Angioletto kissed her. 
 
 " You are as wise as you are lovely, my little 
 wife. Come, let us find the Madonna degli 
 Greci." And he led her away by the hand. 
 
 They found her in the north transept, in a little 
 fenced chapel all starry with tapers and gleaming 
 gold and silver hearts. As it was the eve of 
 Pentecost she was uncovered ; they could see her 
 dark outline with its wrought metal ring about the 
 head. Halfway down was another metal ring; 
 Bambino's head should be in there. 
 
 Both the hand-fasted pilgrims fell to their 
 knees: Bellaroba crossed herself, and then hid
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 281 
 
 her face with her left hand, Angioletto with his 
 right. After a silence, about the space of two 
 Hail Mary's, the youth looked resolutely up at 
 Madonna, and began to speak to her. 
 
 " Holy and most glorious Virgin, Mother of 
 God," said he, " we, thy children, have sought 
 thee first in this famous city of Ferrara, because 
 we are sure that thou wilt love us even more than 
 we love each other, and wilt be glad to share our 
 secret. We are going to marry each other at 
 this moment, Madonna, and thou shalt be the 
 priest. There can be none better, since thou 
 hadst in thy womb for many months the great 
 Priest of all Christians, our sublime Redeemer. 
 Now, behold, Madonna, how I wed this my wife, 
 Bellaroba. With this ring, which was given me 
 by a very great lady," and he took a ring from 
 his breast, " I wed my wife, placing it upon her 
 finger in the name of the Father, and of the 
 Son, and of the Holy Ghost. I do not endow 
 her with my worldly goods, for thou knowest I 
 have none. I do not worship her with my body 
 at this moment, but in the meantime I worship 
 her unfeignedly with my mind, just as I worship 
 thee with my soul. It appears, therefore, that I 
 have wedded her enough. It is useless, most 
 sacred Lady, to ask her whether she will honour 
 and obey me, because of course she will, seeing 
 that she loves me with all her good heart. Such 
 as we are — very young, quite poor, but much 
 thy servants — thou knowest whether thou canst 
 be happy in this mating. I believe that thou 
 canst. Now, therefore, since she is mine, she 
 shall say with me three Aves and a Paternoster,
 
 282 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 likewise the Credo, or so much of it as she can 
 remember. And, O Madonna, trust me to cherish 
 her, and do thou intercede for us. Per Christum 
 Dominum nostrum — Amen." 
 
 " Bellaroba, my wife, look at me," he said, and 
 the girl looked up wondering. He took her 
 happy face between his hands, and kissed her 
 two eyes, her forehead, and her mouth. Then 
 they said the appointed prayers, and rose to 
 their feet to return ; nor did they forget the 
 candles, but purchased them at the door of an 
 old lady, who had a basketful to sell. 
 
 Coming out of the church into the sun again, 
 they encountered the scrutiny of Olimpia. Cap- 
 tain Mosca, slapping his booted leg, was holding 
 the horse. 
 
 " Where have you two children been ? " said 
 Olimpia. "Mischief in a corner, eh? You have 
 missed the sight of Duke Borso and a gilded 
 company." 
 
 " We have been saying our prayers to Madonna 
 of the Greeks," said Bellaroba meekly. 
 
 " There are red flames in your cheeks, child, 
 and a ring on your finger. Did you find those 
 in the church ? " 
 
 " Madonna gave them to me, Olimpia." 
 
 " So, so, so ! Do you begin by robbing a 
 shrine, pray ? " 
 
 " Ah, Madama Olimpia," said Angioletto, " we 
 have only taken from the shrine what is our due." 
 
 Not the least of the minstrel's parts was that of 
 speaking as though he had something weighty in 
 reserve. Olimpia, though by nature dull, was also 
 sly. She had a suspicion about Angioletto now;
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 283 
 
 but a quick-shifting glance from one to the other 
 of the pair before her revealed nothing but seren- 
 ity in the boy, and little but soft happiness in the 
 girl. She opened her lips to speak, snapped them 
 to again, and turned to the Captain and affairs 
 more urgent than the love-making of babies. It 
 was the hour of supper; the question was of a 
 lodging. Captain Mosca knew an inn — the 
 Golden Sword — where decent entertainment 
 could be had for the night. As no one could 
 deny what nobody knew anything about, it was 
 decided. They sought and found the Golden 
 Sword, and put up with it, and in it. The sup- 
 per party was, at least, merry, for Angioletto led 
 it. He sang, he joked, made love, spent money, 
 was wise, unwise, heedless, heedful. He charmed 
 a grin at last into the very Captain's long face. 
 That warrior, indeed, went so far as to drink his 
 health in wine of Verona. He and his Olimpia 
 — unhesitatingly his in the gaiety of the moment 
 — drank it out of the same glass. " Love and 
 Ferrara ! " cried Captain Mosca, with a foot on 
 the table. " Love in Ferrara," said Angioletto, 
 and stroked Bellaroba's hair. So everything was 
 very friendly and full of hope. At a late hour, 
 and for excellent reasons, Olimpia kissed Bella- 
 roba good-night, was herself kissed by Angioletto, 
 and withdrew. Captain Mosca prayed vehemently 
 for further and better acquaintance with his friend 
 " the divine poet," and his pretty mistress. So 
 went Bellaroba's marriage supper.
 
 IV 
 
 "WHY COME YE NAT TO COURTE?" 
 
 " Le donne e i cavalier, gli affanni e gli agi, 
 Che ne invogliava amore e cortesia." 
 
 The little house — discreet affair of eaves 
 modest as drooped eyelids, of latticed windows, 
 of wistaria before and a bower of willows behind 
 
 — was found and furnished out of the girls' store 
 and the Captain's credit. Donna Matura, a brown 
 old woman, hideous, toothless, and inclined to 
 swooning, was installed as duenna. She was, in- 
 deed, owner of the house and furniture, for which 
 Olimpia paid and the Captain promised to pay; 
 but that did not appear until much later. There 
 was a great charm, not without a certain deal of 
 luxury, in the place. Of course there was a 
 garden — a bright green nest of flowering trees 
 and shrubs; in the middle was a grass plat; in 
 that, again, a bronze fountain, which had the form 
 of three naked boys back to back, and an inscrip- 
 tion to the effect that it had been set up by a 
 certain Galeotto Moro, in the days of Marquess 
 Lionel, " in honour of Saints Peter and Paul and 
 of the Virgin Deipara," upon some special occa- 
 sion of family thanksgiving. The weeping willows 
 
 — themselves fountains of green — sprayed over a 
 stone seat. The whole bore signs of an honour- 
 
 284
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 285 
 
 able past; it was falling now gently to a comely 
 decay; but it answered every purpose. All 
 promised well. So much Captain Mosca was 
 given to understand ; yet it was hinted that his 
 promises were not complete. " My life and soul," 
 cried he on his knees in the garden, " the little 
 affair is a matter of three minutes." It proved 
 to be a matter of more than three months and 
 was then accomplished in another way and with 
 other results than had been looked for. Thus 
 it was. 
 
 When Angioletto had been assured of the 
 nesting of his mate, he dressed himself point- 
 device and went to Court to deliver his creden- 
 tials. He found the lady, upon whom so much 
 depended, at the Schifanoia. Madama Lionella 
 d'Este, wife of the Count Guarino Guarini, was a 
 fresh-coloured, lusty young woman of three-and- 
 twenty, not at all in love with her husband, but 
 very much in love with love. The Captain of 
 Lances had said truly when he shrugged her off 
 as no beauty. Large-limbed she was, the shape 
 of a boy, with a long mouth and small eyes, full- 
 lipped, big in foot and hand. Yet she was a very 
 merry soul, frank if not free in her speech and 
 gesture, and though liable to bursts of angry 
 temper, for the most part as innocent of malice 
 as a tiger -cub. If you remember her an Este, 
 you will forgive her much, excuse her everything, 
 and rather like her. 
 
 Angioletto, who found her sitting on the grass 
 among her ladies, advanced with great ceremony 
 and many bows. Madama did not get up; no 
 one did ; so Angioletto had to step gingerly into
 
 286 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 a ring of roguish women to deliver his letter. 
 Lionella scampered through it, reddening with 
 pleasure; she beckoned him with smiles to sit 
 beside her. 
 
 " We are making rose-garlands to adorn our 
 pretty heads," she said, laughing. " Come and 
 sit by me, Angioletto, and sing to us. Who 
 knows but what, if you are good, we shall not 
 crown you with one of them ? " 
 
 It was a great merit of Angioletto's that he 
 always took things and men (especially women) 
 as he found them. Such as they were he could 
 be for the time. He was by no means waxen ; 
 elastic rather. Down he plumped, accordingly, 
 cross-legged by his new mistress, and warbled a 
 canzone to the viola which enchanted the lady. 
 
 " More, more, more ! " she cried, clapping her 
 hands. " Oh, boy, I could have you a prince for 
 less than that ! What a throstle-pipe you have ! " 
 
 It was, as he afterwards found out, of her habit 
 to be for ever at extremes; but just now, not 
 knowing how to take her, he sang on all the 
 better for her praise ; and he had her next wrig- 
 gling in an ecstasy over a trifle he made up on 
 the spur of the moment — a snatch wherein roses 
 and a girl's face (Bellaroba's, be sure) took turns 
 to be dominant. At the end of this pretty piece 
 the Countess Lionella fairly took his own face 
 between her hands, crumpled his lips into a 
 bud and kissed them full. Angioletto coloured, 
 though no one else did. It was evidently quite 
 harmless, and afterwards he was ashamed of his 
 shame. 
 
 As it was, a diversion of a different order
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 287 
 
 broke in upon the next song which, so soon 
 as he had picked up his nerve, he adventured. 
 One of the Maids of Honour looked quickly over 
 her shoulder, and " Hist, Madama ! The Duke ! " 
 she said, with wide eyes and a blush. 
 
 The song ceased; the whole company, Lionella 
 included, scrambled to their feet. Duke Borso, 
 his portly body swaying like a carriage on springs, 
 his hands behind him, and attended by a tall young 
 man, very splendid and very blonde, came across 
 the grass towards them. Angioletto could not 
 decide whether to think him rogue or prude. 
 His puckered face twitched, his eyes twitched, his 
 pursed-up lips worked together; it was again as 
 if he were struggling with a laugh. He wore his 
 tall square cap well off his forehead, and looked 
 what he really was — a strong man tired, but not 
 yet tired out, of kindness. The benevolence 
 seemed inborn, seemed fighting through every 
 seam of the pompous face. " Madonna! his gen- 
 erous motions work him into creases, as if he 
 were volcanic soil," thought Angioletto. Watch- 
 ing him narrowly as he came, he decided that this 
 was a master to be loved if not admired, respected 
 but not feared. " I should get the worst of a bout 
 with him," thought he ; " but I had rather it were 
 with him than with Apollo." That title was 
 just, as the reflection shrewd. Teofilo Calcag- 
 nini would have made a terrible tutor to Master 
 Phaeton. 
 
 Duke Borso bowed shortly to the standing 
 maids, and favoured Angioletto with a keen eye 
 before he set a hand on his daughter's shoulder. 
 She looked a pleased welcome as he began to
 
 288 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 stroke her hair. " Ah, they love the man," 
 thought Angioletto ; " good ! " 
 
 " Why, chick," said Duke Borso, " you are like 
 a cage of singing-birds scared by the cat." 
 
 " Your Grace shall judge whether we are too 
 scared to sing," replied his laughing daughter. 
 " Come," she added, turning to Angioletto, " tune 
 your viol and pipe to it again, my little poet." 
 
 The Duke made a wry mouth. " Hey, I have 
 no ear for music, my dear," said he. 
 
 Angioletto was ready for him. " If your Mag- 
 nificence will permit," he said, " I will take care 
 not to offend his honourable ear. I will say my 
 piece, with no more music than will serve to tie 
 word to word. May it be so, Magnificence ? 
 Have I liberty, Madama ? " He bowed, smiling, 
 from one to the other of the great people. 
 
 He was a very courtly and charming little per- 
 son, this Tuscan youth. Above all, he had a 
 ready address. So bright and strong, and yet 
 so deferential did he look, pleading his cause 
 among them, Lionella could have kissed him 
 again for nothing more than his dexterity. 
 
 " Ah, you shall do whatever you like, Angio- 
 letto ! " she cried. 
 
 Borso's eyes twinkled, and he primmed his lips. 
 " I do not go so far as Madama, Master Angio- 
 letto, but I shall be pleased to hear what you are 
 pleased to give me." He fell into an attitude of 
 profound attention. 
 
 Angioletto, having bowed once more, began. 
 
 It so happened that Lorenzo de' Medici, that 
 monster of genius, had not long printed his 
 Caccia col falcone. Angioletto had it by heart
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 289 
 
 against his need ; using it now he could never have 
 made a better choice — as, indeed, he guessed. 
 It was as good as a play to watch Borso's wary 
 eyes at the commencement of this piece, and to 
 see them drop their fence as the declamation 
 went on. Lorenzo begins with a pretty descrip- 
 tion of the dawn on Tuscan hilltops — 
 
 " Era gia rosso tutto l'oriente, 
 E le cime de' monti parien d'oro," etc. 
 
 Borso, neither approving nor disapproving, kept 
 his head disposed for more. At 
 
 " Quando fui desto da certi rumori 
 Di buon sonagli ed allettar di cani " 
 
 he began to blink; with the quick direction to 
 the huntsman — 
 
 "Deh, vanne innanzi, presto, Capellaio," 
 
 he stifled a smile. But the calling of the hounds 
 by their names broke down his guard. Angio- 
 letto shrilled them out in a high, boyish voice : — 
 
 " Chiama Tamburo, Pezuolo e Martello, 
 La Foglia, la Castagna e la Guerrina, 
 Fagiano, Fagianin, Rocca e Capello, 
 E Friza, e Biondo, Bamboccio e Rossina, 
 Ghiotto, la Torta, Viola e Pestello, 
 E Serchio e Fuse e'l mio Buontempo vecchio, 
 Zambraco, Buratel, Scaccio e Pennecchio . . . ." 
 
 Every muscle of the keen old hunter was now 
 quivering; his eyes were bright, his smile open 
 and that of a child. To the last word of the 
 poem — and it has length — he followed without 
 breath the checks, the false casts, the bickering 
 
 u
 
 290 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 of the huntsmen, the petty incidents of a breezy 
 morning in the marshes, nodding at every point, 
 missing nothing, cracking his fingers, cheering 
 under his breath, with delight undisguised and 
 interest unalloyed. The moment it was ended 
 he seemed prime for a burst of heedless com- 
 ment; but he stopped, shut his lips with a snap, 
 and became the inscrutable ruler of a fief of the 
 Empire once more. But Angioletto knew that 
 he had pleased him, for all that he walked off as 
 he had come, without word or sign. 
 
 He had pleased every one. Homing to his 
 nest in the Borgo, he caught his little Bellaroba 
 in his arms with a rapture none the less because 
 it had been earned at a stretch. It was long 
 before he could find time and breath to lead her 
 into the garden and have the story out. Olimpia, 
 coming down to look for them in the dusk, found 
 that a seat for two would easily hold one more. It 
 should be added of Angioletto that he suppressed 
 the incident of the Countess Lionella's salute. 
 
 At supper there were evidences that, whatever 
 had been Angioletto's fate, all had not gone so 
 well with the Captain of Lances. Not that appe- 
 tite failed him; indeed, he ate the more for his 
 taciturnity. Yet not repletion made him sigh, 
 for he sighed consumedly before he began and 
 rather less when he had finished, as though the 
 kindlier juices of our nature had got to work to 
 disperse the melancholic. Angioletto rallied him 
 upon his gloom, but to no purpose. The meal 
 was a silent one; almost the only conversation 
 was that of the minstrel's foot with Bellaroba's 
 under the table.
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 291 
 
 The truth was, that of conversation the Captain 
 had had enough before supper — a very short 
 colloquy with his Olimpia. In it he was brought 
 to confess that he had seen his patron that 
 morning. "Well?" had been Olimpia's com- 
 mentary — a shot which raked the Captain fore 
 and aft. Well, he desperately admitted, there 
 was nothing actually arranged : patienza ! His 
 most noble master had been greatly harassed 
 with affairs — the Duke's approaching visit to 
 Rome, the precise forms which must be observed, 
 the punctilios, the hundred niceties of etiquette: 
 " Ah, patienzaf" urged the sweating Mosca. 
 
 Patience, she saw, was the only wear; but, per 
 Bacco, he should learn it too ! She was in a high 
 rage. The Captain was given to know that Fer- 
 rara was a great city, with more houses in it than 
 one ; in fine, he was shown the door. Supper 
 first was an extreme and contemptuous conde- 
 scension of Olimpia's, urged by the thought that 
 a fed Mosca might be a more desperate Mosca, 
 while a lean one would be desperate only for a 
 meal. 
 
 A true relation of what passed in the Palazzo 
 Guarini may serve to show how just she had 
 been. The Count had received news of his 
 henchman's attendance with a nod, had kept him 
 waiting two hours in the cortile, then remembered 
 him and bid him upstairs. 
 
 "Well, dog," said the young lord, from his 
 dressing-table, "and why the devil are you so 
 late to report yourself?" 
 
 " Ah, Excellence, believe me — " began to stut- 
 ter the Captain.
 
 2 9 2 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 " That is exactly what I will not do, my man. 
 Who was that wench at your back yesterday ? " 
 
 The Captain rubbed his hands. " Excellence, 
 a wench indeed! A golden Venetian — glorious! 
 Dove-eyed, honey-tongued, and very much your 
 lordship's servant, I do assure you." 
 
 " You are so completely and at such length a 
 fool, Mosca," said Count Guarini, with a yawn, 
 " and strive so desperately to be rascal in spite of 
 it, that I am almost sorry for you. Tie me these 
 points, my good fellow, get me my sword, and go 
 to the devil with your golden Venetian." 
 
 That, believe me, had been all. Therefore 
 Captain Mosca, as he slunk out into the dark 
 after supper in obedience to his inexorable Olim- 
 pia, felt that he must be more ingenious than he 
 had supposed. At the same time it is only fair 
 to say that when he had spoken so hopefully of 
 his affair to the lady on the pillion he had be- 
 lieved every word of his own story. A man 
 puts on spectacles to suit his complexion : the 
 Captain's was sanguine.
 
 V 
 
 FORTUNE WITH THE DOUBLE BLADE 
 
 "Similemente agli splendor mondani 
 Ordino general ministra e duca, 
 Che permutasse a tempo li ben vani, 
 Di gente in gente, e d'uno in altro sangue." — Inf. vii. 77. 
 
 Angioletto had cause to believe in that star of 
 his, for it never wavered in the course it held. 
 Borso's court found him much to its taste. The 
 men, however tall, of looks however terrible, bent 
 their height and unbent their scowls to him ; he 
 was the pet of all the women ; the very Fool, 
 saturnine as he was (with a bite in every jest), had 
 no gibe to put him to the blush withal. He made 
 money, or money's worth, as fast as friends. A 
 gold chain with a peregrine in enamel and jewels 
 came to him by the hands of the Chamberlain ; 
 nothing was said, but he knew it was from the 
 Duke. Countess Lionella could not reward him 
 enough — now a jewel, now a gold cup, at one 
 time a purse, at another a crystal phial rilled with 
 Jordan water. And so it went, the star waxing 
 ever. He could have maintained the discreet 
 house by Porta Angeli out of his earnings, and 
 he did; but you have to pay for your luck 
 somehow, and it very soon happened that he 
 could not maintain himself in it. He was only 
 too popular. The Count Guarino wanted him 
 
 293
 
 294 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 at the Palazzo Guarini; the Countess insisted 
 that he should remain in bond at the Schifanoia; 
 the august couple wrangled publicly over his 
 little body. 
 
 " What, madam," cried the Count, " is it not 
 enough that you absent yourself from my house ? 
 Must you keep my friends out of it also ? " 
 
 " He was accredited to me, my lord," said the 
 lady; " to me, therefore, he shall come." 
 
 " Good madam," returned Guarini, " I admire 
 your taste as a man, but deplore it as a husband. 
 I think the little poet will do better with me." 
 
 " Stuff ! " cried the Countess, " I might be his 
 mother." 
 
 Said the Count: " Madam, I need not deny it ; 
 yet it is very evident that you are not his mother." 
 He spoke with some heat. 
 
 Lionella was mightily amused. " Jealousy, my 
 lord ? " She arched her fine brows. 
 
 " I don't know the word, madam," he answered 
 her, touched on a raw. Jealousy appeared to him 
 as the most vulgar of the vices. 
 
 " Prove that to me ! " the Countess pursued 
 him. Guarini made her a bow. 
 
 " Perfectly, Contessa," said he. " You shall 
 have your poet, and he shall be my friend." 
 Wherein the Count showed that to be a gentle- 
 man it may sometimes be necessary to appear a 
 fool. 
 
 The matter was thus settled, and Angioletto 
 ravished from his nest. 
 
 His last night at home — a casa, as he loved to 
 call it — need not be dwelt upon. Bitter-sweet it 
 was, yet his courage made it more sweet than
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 295 
 
 bitter. Bellaroba was tearful, clung to him, kissed 
 and murmured incoherently because of sobbing. 
 He loved her more than ever for that, but as be- 
 came a prudent husband, thought to say a word 
 in season. 
 
 " My dear," he said in her ear, as he held her 
 close, "you are very young to be a wife, and too 
 young to be properly left alone with such com- 
 panions as your Olimpia, whom I distrust, and 
 Monna Matura, whom I abhor. But what can I 
 do ? I must make our fortunes, and pray to God 
 that your beauty do not mar them. Follow my 
 advice, my injunctions even, and it will not. 
 Keep much at home, go not abroad unattended 
 or uncovered. Your hooded head makes you 
 surpassingly beautiful ; you need not fear to be a 
 figure of fun. At the same time it shields most 
 of your sacred person from profane eyes. The 
 great shield of all, however, is to have business 
 before you when you are from house. Go briskly 
 about this — whether it be market, Mass, or mis- 
 chief — and no one will look at you twice. At 
 home it should be the same. There may be 
 visitors ; if Monna Olimpia can contrive it, there 
 will be a good many. You may judge of their 
 quality by her anxiety to receive them. Be 
 guarded, then, my dear, and go by contraries. 
 They will not find the pattern of the carpet so 
 interesting as you should do. Give them prose 
 for their poetry, vinegar for their sweet wine, 
 bitter herbs when they look to you for cane of 
 sugar. Keep your honeycomb for him who is 
 trying to earn it. Think where I am going, my 
 Bellaroba! To what temptations, blessed Lord.'
 
 296 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 to what askings, to what suggestion of wanton 
 dealing! Remember that in all this I shall have 
 your honour to keep, as you have mine. Say a 
 great many prayers, my little heart, for the welfare 
 of my soul and of yours; lock your door at night; 
 let Monna Matura go with you to Mass and con- 
 fession ; and — and — oh ! my wife, my little wife, 
 but I love not the leaving of you ! " And so these 
 poor children cried on each other's breasts, and so 
 fell to the unspoken tongue of Love's elect. Next 
 morning he went early, leaving her kissed in bed. 
 He saw her once again, spent a most blissful 
 two hours in her company, before the Countess 
 Lionella took it into her head to shelter from the 
 summer heats in a villa she had above Monselice. 
 Thither Angioletto was forced to go in her train. 
 He found it intolerable, went with a heart of lead; 
 for so cheerful a soul he was what he looked, 
 parched and wan. This lasted a week. Then 
 came a paper, scrawled with brown ink marks, 
 which, after much study, he took to imply — 
 
 " My love Angileto, I love you more every 
 day. I cry a good deal for lack of you. I kiss you 
 two hundred times, and will be good and happy, 
 
 " Your dutiful Belaroba." 
 
 This revived him amazingly : he went singing 
 about the gardens which hung upon the side of the 
 grey hill, and composed a pastoral comedy to be 
 acted by the Countess's ladies in the Temple grove. 
 
 Lionella very openly and without afterthought 
 made love to him. He was a charming little lad, 
 it is true ; but quite apart from that, he was the 
 only male creature above servant rank in the
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 297 
 
 household. I describe him so because I cannot 
 bring myself to call him a man ; but he was quite 
 man enough for the lady's intent. It is a surpris- 
 ing instance of the tact there was innate in the 
 youth that he checked every undue liberty on the 
 part of his mistress without endangering her self- 
 respect or his own high favour. Perhaps he al- 
 lowed matters to go a little too far. His were 
 times of artless Art and of franchise — immoral, 
 yet mainly innocent. Children call each other 
 pet names, hold hands, kiss, and no one is hurt. 
 So it was in Ferrara when Borso ruled it. Prce- 
 teriere Borszi tempora ! True enough. There 
 were those who saw that tuneful time in the shap- 
 ing ; we, alas ! look down on the splintered shards. 
 But we know that if Assyrian balm was ever for 
 the world's chaffer it was in the days of Borso, the 
 good Duke. 
 
 Angioletto loved his Bellaroba with all his 
 heart : no debonair Lionella could decoy him to 
 be untrue. But he was debonair himself, of high 
 courage, and mettlesome ; and he may have gone 
 a little too far. He was now become her confi- 
 dant, secretary, bosom-friend. Whence came the 
 shock of crisis. 
 
 One morning Lionella called for him in a hurry. 
 He found her, an amused frown on her broad 
 brows, pacing the terrace walk, holding an open 
 letter in her hand. The moment he came in sight 
 the Countess ran towards him, drew his arm in 
 hers, and began to speak very fast. 
 
 " My dear boy," she said, " I am in a fix. You 
 shall advise me how to act, the more willingly I 
 hope, as you are in a sense the contriver of all the
 
 298 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 mischief. You know the Count my husband well 
 enough to agree with me that he is a man of 
 gallantry. He has proved it, for it is plain that 
 he would never have left me (to my great content) 
 to go my own gait unless it had been worth his 
 while. I do him perfect justice, I believe. He 
 has never thwarted me, nor frowned, nor raised 
 an eyebrow at an act or motion of mine. Never 
 but once, and that was when I proposed to take 
 you into my service. Don't blush, Angioletto, it 
 is quite true. He then raised, not his eyebrows — 
 at least I think not — but some little objections. 
 I said that I was old enough to be your mother — 
 no, no, that also is true, my dear! He answered, 
 ' No doubt ; but it is very evident that you are not 
 his mother.' That again may be true, I suppose ? 
 However, the affair ended in great good-humour 
 on both sides, and here you are, as you see ! But 
 now the Count sends me this letter, in which he 
 says — let me see — ah ! ' Your ladyship will re- 
 member my not ungenerous conduct in the matter 
 of the little poet, Angioletto, on whose account you 
 had certain benevolent dispositions to gratify ' — 
 neatly turned, is it not ? ' I have now to propose 
 to you, turn for turn, a like favour to myself, which 
 is that you shall take into your service a young 
 gentlewoman of Venice, who is but newly come to 
 Ferrara' — What is the matter, Angioletto ? You 
 put me out. Where was I? Oh, yes — 'She is 
 respectably bred, very modest, very diligent, very 
 pious, moderately handsome.' — My dear boy, if 
 you want to sit down, by all means say so. We 
 will sit together here. — ' The name she goes by 
 with those who know her is Bellaroba.' — Bella-
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 299 
 
 roba, indeed ! Well — 'I am very sure that you 
 will have no reason to regret my excellent choice 
 on your behalf ; and it is the more timely because 
 I learn from Fazio that one of your women has 
 fallen sick of the small-pox ' — and so on. The 
 Count is occasionally sublime. I like particularly 
 the list of the young lady's qualifications and the 
 reference to his own kindness to myself. Now, 
 what am I to say? I see you are puzzled. Well, 
 I will give you time." 
 
 What Angioletto himself was to say is more to 
 the purpose. I think it much to his credit that 
 his first ascertainable emotion after the buffet of 
 assault was one of wildest exultation at the pros- 
 pect. It shows that he had never for a moment 
 distrusted the meek little partner of his fortunes. 
 Whisps of such doubt did afterwards float across 
 his pretty morning picture, but he put them away 
 at once. Next came worldly wisdom. True Tus- 
 can that he was, his instinct was to decline peril- 
 ous rapture if waiting might bring it on easy 
 terms. For a long time he weighed instant joy 
 against policy. Finally, as he was more Italian 
 than Tuscan, and more boy than either, he de- 
 cided to jump the danger. The vision of Bella- 
 roba shy in the rose-garden, of himself crowning 
 her soft hair, bending over her, kissing her up- 
 turned face ; of the Countess behind one thicket 
 looking for him, and the Count behind another 
 looking for Bellaroba — it was too much to re- 
 sist ! 
 
 " Madama," he said, " it is hardly for me to ad- 
 vise in such delicate matters. I should not, by 
 right, dare say what I am about to say upon your
 
 3 oo LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 invitation. Yet if I were his nobility, Count Gua- 
 rino Guarini, not the least of my pleasant moments 
 would be that in which I could say, ' I have a 
 noble lady to wife, for she honours me as I have 
 honoured her.'" 
 
 That was a very dextrous remark, vastly pleas- 
 ing to the Countess. She kissed the speaker 
 then and there, wrote her letter hot-head, talked 
 about it all that day, and worked herself into such 
 a fever of curiosity that she cut short her villeg- 
 giatura by six weeks, so as the sooner to see the 
 girl who could inspire her with such admirable 
 ideas of her own magnanimity. She even grew 
 quite enthusiastic upon her husband's account, 
 almost sentimental about him. This much the 
 wily Angioletto (who did not study character 
 for nothing) had allowed for in his calcula- 
 tions. 
 
 It is by no means certain that the Countess 
 was as wise as her guide. The facts which in- 
 duced the letter were these. Guarini had chanced 
 upon an early mass at San Cristoforo and Bella- 
 roba kneeling at her prayers. She, all unconscious 
 of any presence but her own and her Saviour's, 
 was looking up to the Mother who had made Him 
 so, dim-eyed, and smiling rather tenderly. Her 
 lips framed petitions for the coming home of An- 
 gioletto. She had hooded her head as he com- 
 manded, and it became her as he had foreseen. 
 With her added cares of wifely duty this gave a 
 sober look to her untameable childish bloom ; 
 she was almost a business-like beauty now. To 
 Guarino the pathetic appealed more nearly ; to 
 him she seemed a pretty nun, a wood-bird caged.
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 301 
 
 He never took his eyes off her — she caught him 
 in a soft mood and ravished him. A little saint 
 in bud, he swore ; a wholesome, domestic little 
 household goddess, meek and very pure, who 
 would carry home her beauties unaware and oil 
 the tousled heads of half a dozen brothers and 
 sisters. Homeliness is neither Italian word nor 
 virtue ; but just as it describes Bellaroba, so an 
 inkling of its charm thrilled the young lord who 
 saw her. Could one cage such a gossamer thing ? 
 Fate had done it, why not he ? At least he could 
 not lose sight of her. He tracked her to the 
 house under the wall, saw the door scrupulously 
 shut upon her, wandered up and down the street 
 for half an hour, returned a laggard to his palace 
 — and yet had her full in vision. She pos- 
 sessed him until mass-time following : the same 
 things happened. Guarino was hit hard ; he took 
 certain steps and got information which tallied 
 with his better instincts. It guided also his sub- 
 sequent efforts, for obviously the more direct rem- 
 edies would not meet his case. Therefore, he 
 wrote to the Countess, as you have seen. Her 
 reply delighted him, and the rest was very easy. 
 Borso signed the order of appointment, boggling 
 only at her name. " Buonaroba I know," said 
 he. "What am I to think of Bellaroba, Gua- 
 nno r 
 
 " Your Grace shall be pleased to think that his 
 daughter has chosen her for her own person," said 
 the Count. 
 
 " Hum," said Borso, and signed the parchment. 
 
 Then came another scrawl for " my love An- 
 gilotto," in which the miraculous news was told.
 
 3 02 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 "Olimpia took it very ill," she wrote, "but the 
 Signor Capitano talked her happier — at least, he 
 stayed a long time. I hope you will think it all 
 for the best. I am very good, and kiss you many 
 
 times ' " Your Belarobba." 
 
 Olimpia had indeed been very cross, as Cap- 
 tain Mosca would have testified. She had not, 
 at any rate, talked him any happier : that he 
 would have upheld with an oath. The experi- 
 enced man knew the whip of sleet on his bare 
 skin ; but this was worse than any winter cam- 
 paign ; it left him dumb and without the little 
 ease which shivering gives you. It had not been 
 a question so much of talking as of keeping his 
 feet. Olimpia, when the news came, had raged 
 like a shrieking wind about the narrow house. 
 " My dearest life ! Soul of my soul ! " was all the 
 Captain had to fend the blast. It was no time 
 for endearments — Olimpia raved herself still. 
 Tears, floods of them, followed, whereat the Cap- 
 tain melted also and wept. He did foolishly. 
 Demoniac gusts of laughing caught and flung 
 him to the rafters, chill rages froze him where he 
 fell. He lost his little store of wit, sagged like a 
 broken sunflower, and was finally pelted from the 
 door by a storm of Venetian curses, in which all 
 his ancestors, himself, and any descendants he 
 might dare to have, were heavily involved. Bella- 
 roba, trembling in her bed, heard him go with a 
 sinking heart. " Olimpia will come and murder 
 me now," she said to herself. 
 
 But Olimpia slept long where she fell, and next 
 morning decided to garner her rage.
 
 VI 
 
 ENDS AND MEANS 
 " Amor die a null' amato amar perdona." 
 
 Bellaroba, who pleased the Countess, for the 
 same reasons, no doubt, did not please the Count. 
 It is possible to be too demure, and very little 
 good to have domestic charm if you shut the door 
 upon the amateur. Lionella had never had so 
 much of her lord's society as during the month 
 that followed her return to Ferrara. She did not 
 complain of this ; on the contrary, the more the 
 maid held off and the man pursued, the more 
 Lionella was entertained. Angioletto, invited to 
 share her sport, proved dull. She confessed to 
 more than one of her women (including Bella- 
 roba) that if she had not been very much in love 
 with the poet she would have thought him a fool. 
 You see that she made no secret of her weakness. 
 The fact is, she did not consider it a weakness ; 
 whereby you have this remarkable position of 
 affairs at the Schifanoia, that Bellaroba was in- 
 vited to be a student of her husband's amours, 
 and he of hers. Considering the state of their 
 secret hearts this might have led to matter of 
 tragic concern ; if they had loved less it would 
 have done so. As it was, they were quite indif- 
 ferent. Their hours were a series of breathless 
 
 303 
 
 /
 
 3 04 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 escapades — romance at fever heat. Stolen meet- 
 ings before dawn among the dewy rose-bushes, 
 chance touchings, chance kisses, embraces half 
 tasted, and looks often crossed — of such were 
 their days at the Schifanoia. Meantime a coiled 
 ladder watched out the sun from a myrtle 
 thicket, of which and its works came their happy 
 nights. Then, as she lay in his arms, the Maid 
 of Honour vanished in the child who was so lovely 
 because she so loved ; she could prattle, in the 
 soft Venetian brogue, of boundless faith in her 
 little lord, of her simple admiration of him and 
 all he did, of her wonder and delight to be loved. 
 She could tell him of what she could do, and of 
 how much she could never do, to please him and 
 pay him honour. And Angioletto would nod 
 gravely at each point that she made, and kiss her 
 now and then very softly to show her that he was 
 perfectly satisfied. So soon as the first swallow 
 twittered in the eaves, or the first pale line of 
 light trembled at the casement, he had to fly. 
 But he waited in the rosery till she came tiptoe 
 out ; and then the day's alarms and the day's de- 
 light began. Eh ! It was a royal month, a 
 honeymoon indeed ! 
 
 But it could not last — barely saw its round of 
 eight-and-twenty days. Lionella was a lady born, 
 as it were, in the purple. Command sat lightly 
 on her; she had never been disobeyed. She now 
 grew querulous, exacting, suspicious, moody, some- 
 times petulant, sometimes beseeching. It gave 
 Angioletto the deuce's own time now and then ; 
 but he might yet have weathered the rocks — for 
 his tact was only equalled by his good temper — if
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 305 
 
 the Countess had not precipitated matters. There 
 came a day, and an hour of a day, when she spoke 
 to him. She had spoken before ; her ambitions 
 had always been verbal — but now they were lit- 
 eral, all the " t's " were crossed. That was a mo- 
 ment for Angioletto to take with quick breath. 
 
 He took it so. Instead of hinting at his duty, 
 or hers, he blundered out the fact that he did not 
 love her. 
 
 "Dog," cried the Countess, "do you dare to 
 tell me that ? " 
 
 " Madama, I do indeed," he answered sadly, for 
 he saw his house about his ears. 
 
 Lionella checked herself; she bit her lip, put 
 her hands ostentatiously behind her back. 
 
 " You had better leave the house, Master 
 Angioletto," said she, drily, " before I go further 
 and see to it." 
 
 He bowed himself out. Then he sought his 
 poor Bellaroba, found her in the garden, drew 
 her aside without trouble of a pretext, and told 
 her the whole story. 
 
 " My lovely dear," he said, " I am a broken 
 man. There has been a terrible scene with 
 Madama, in which she got so much the worst of 
 it that I was very triumphantly ruined. You be- 
 hold me decked with the ashes of my scorched 
 prosperity. What is to be done with you ? For 
 I must go." 
 
 " Oh, Angioletto," cried Bellaroba, trembling 
 and catching at his breast, " won't you — can't 
 you — ruin me too? Then we shall be happy 
 again." 
 
 He pressed her to his heart. " Dearest dear,"
 
 306 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 he said, half laughing, half sobbing, "you are 
 quite ruined enough. Stay as you are. I will 
 see you every night. What ! By the Mass, are 
 you not my wife ? " 
 
 " Of course I am, Angioletto. But nobody 
 thinks so — not even any priest." 
 
 "Eh!" he cried, "but that is all the better. 
 Only you and I and Madonna the Virgin of the 
 Greeks know it. She never blabs secrets, and 
 you dare not, and I can't. So you see it is well 
 arranged." 
 
 She loved him most of all in this gay humour, 
 and provoked him to new flights. 
 
 " But, you wild boy, how can you see me when 
 you are ruined ? " she asked, all her roses in 
 flower at the fun of the thing. " How can you 
 be in the Schifanoia if you are thrust out of it ? " 
 
 Angioletto, with a mysterious air, kissed her 
 for answer. " Leave that to me, my dear," he 
 said. " Never have another of the maids to sleep 
 with you, and lock your chamber door. Now I 
 must go, because I am kicked out. Good-bye, 
 my bride; I shall see you long before another 
 dawn." 
 
 She let him go at last, and turned to her duties 
 with less sighing than you would have supposed, 
 and no tears at all. Her belief in the wisdom, 
 audacity, and decision of her Angioletto was 
 absolute. She had never known him to fail. 
 Yet if she chanced to think of the towering 
 Count Guarini plying her with flowers and 
 sweatmeats, she shivered to remember her cita- 
 del naked of all defences. This made her feel 
 homesick for her lover's arms. Like a sensible
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 307 
 
 girl, therefore, she thought of the Count as little 
 as possible; still less of another sinister appari- 
 tion, that of the obsequious Captain Mosca, cran- 
 ing his lean neck round the corners of her vision, 
 grinning from ear to ear. 
 
 Free of the Schifanoia (whose dust he was yet 
 careful to keep upon his shoes for the sake of 
 her it harboured), Angioletto walked briskly down 
 the street, shaping his course for the Borgo. He 
 had been rounding a plan even while he was 
 announcing to Bellaroba that he had it cut and 
 dried; and now he was to execute it. True, it 
 was a little extravagant, depended too much, per- 
 haps, upon other people's estimations of him 
 tallying with his own ; but you will have found 
 out by this time that the youth was a realist. 
 Ideas stood for things with him ; and, as he 
 said, if he could not make them stand so to 
 his auditory he was no poet. This was a heresy 
 he could not allow even supposititiously. The 
 idea was excellent; the thing, therefore, no less. 
 Therefore he concluded that he should not fail 
 of his plan. 
 
 Beyond the Porta Angeli, in Borso's day, was 
 to be found a huddle of tenements — fungus- 
 growth upon the city wall — single-storied, single- 
 roomed affairs, mostly the lodging of artificers 
 in the lesser crafts. Among them all there was 
 but one of two floors, a substantial red-brick 
 little house with a most grandiloquent chimney- 
 stack. And very rightly it was so, for it belonged 
 to the Court chimney-sweep. 
 
 On this eventful noon Sor Beppo, the sweep, 
 was sitting on his doorstep in the sun, eating an
 
 3 o8 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 onion, one of many which reposed in a vinegar 
 bath on his knees. He was quite black, save 
 where a three-days' beard lent a gleam of snow 
 to chaps and chin; being toothless, he was an 
 indifferent performer upon the onion. But his 
 hearing was as keen as his eyesight. He caught 
 Angioletto's vivacious heeltaps upon the flags, 
 and peered from burly brows at the smart little 
 gentleman, cloaked, feathered, and gaudy, who 
 looked as suitable to his dusty surroundings as 
 a red poppy to a rubbish heap. 
 
 Angioletto, stopping before him, took off his 
 scarlet cap with a flourish. 
 
 " Well, young stabbing blade," said Beppo, "and 
 who may you be ? " 
 
 " Sir," replied the youth, " I am a poet." Beppo 
 rubbed his shooting chin with a noise like the 
 scraping of nutmegs. 
 
 " Well," said he, " I'll not deny that it's a trade, 
 and a lawful trade; but for my part I sweep 
 noblemen's chimneys and am proud of it. Shake 
 hands, poet." 
 
 They shook hands, with great cordiality on the 
 poet's part. 
 
 " Sit down, poet," said Beppo. 
 
 Angioletto sat on the doorstep beside him 
 without a word. 
 
 " Will you have an onion, my friend ? " the old 
 fellow went on to ask. 
 
 "Thank you, Sor Beppo, but I have already 
 dined. Let me rather talk to you while you 
 finish your meal." 
 
 " It is not so much a meal as a relish," said the 
 sweep. "But talk away — we'll never quarrel 
 over terms."
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 309 
 
 "I hope not," Angioletto took him up; "be- 
 cause I have done with poetising and have a 
 mind to try your trade." 
 
 Beppo, his mouth full of onion, paused in his 
 bite to gape at this dapper page, who, all scarlet 
 and white as he was, talked after such a fashion. 
 
 "How'll that be now?" he said. "You've 
 never come all this way to crack a joke ? " 
 
 " Ah, never in the world, my friend," cried 
 Angioletto. " I am in earnest." 
 
 " You may be as earnest as a friar in the pulpit, 
 and yet pretty bad at chimney- work, young mas- 
 ter. What do you know of it, pray ? " 
 
 " Nothing at all," replied Angioletto, as if that 
 helped him. 
 
 " Look at that now," cried the triumphant Sor 
 Beppo. 
 
 " Pardon me, Master Beppo," said the youth, 
 " you cannot look at it yet, but you very soon 
 shall. Have you a chimney to hand ? " 
 
 " Ah, I might have that," the old man agreed, 
 with a chuckle which ended as a snort. " There 
 might be a chimney in my house that's not been 
 swept for thirty year, having little time and less 
 inclination to sweep 'em for nothing but glory. 
 But, happen there were such a piece of work, 
 what then ? " 
 
 Angioletto pointed into the house. " Is that 
 the chimney, Beppo ? " 
 
 Beppo nodded. " That might be the chimney 
 in question, my gentleman." 
 
 With a " By your leave, Sor Beppo," Angioletto 
 stepped delicately into the room. He threw down 
 cloak and cap, unstrapped girdle and hanger,
 
 310 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 stripped off his doublet, and stood up in shirt and 
 breeches. Beppo watched him, all agape, too 
 breathless to chew. Before he could interfere — 
 
 " By the Saints, but he's in ! " he cried with 
 arms thrown up. " Eh, master, come you back, 
 come you back ! " 
 
 "What do you want?" a muffled voice came 
 from the chimney. Beppo sawed the air. 
 
 " Don't you play the fool up there, my boy, 
 don't you do it ! That's as foul as the grave, that 
 chimney is. I'll have ye on my soul as long as I 
 live, and I can ill afford it, for I've a queasy con- 
 science in my black shell." He seemed to be 
 treading on pins. 
 
 He was answered, " We will talk of your con- 
 science and its shell when I come back. Take 
 off my shoes, will you ? " 
 
 A neat leg was pushed into the fireplace ; then 
 another. Beppo did the office, meek as an aco- 
 lyte. Then he sighed, for the legs drew up the 
 chimney and vanished in dust. 
 
 " There goes a lad of spirit to his gloomy end," 
 murmured brokenly the sweep, as he looked at the 
 little red shoes in his hand. " I would not have 
 had that come to pass for twenty gold ducats. 
 But, Lord ! who'd 'a thought it of a Court spark, 
 that he should be as good as his word ? Not I, 
 used to Courts as a man may be." He fell to 
 scratching his head. 
 
 " Hey, hey ! " he cried, as there was a prodigious 
 scuffling up the chimney. " Now he strangles, 
 now he strangles ! " A shower of soot came 
 down. Beppo flacked about the room ; then two 
 heavy objects fell. Beppo crept up. " Mary Vir-
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 311 
 
 gin, he's killing birds," he said, in an awed whisper, 
 and picked up two owls with wagging heads. The 
 recesses of the chimney were still very lively. 
 " Eh, there he is again," said the old sweep. 
 " What now ? " Down came a rat, squeaking for 
 its life, then three in succession, very silent because 
 their necks were wrung. " This is better than a 
 cat any day of the seven," said Sor Beppo. " What 
 a diamond of a poet ! He should be crowned 
 with laurel-twigs if I were Duke Borso in all his 
 glory. Being but Beppo the sweep, he shall be 
 free of my mystery the moment he's free of my 
 chimney-stack." 
 
 He could await Angioletto's coming now with 
 equal mind. The lad had approved himself. I 
 leave you to judge of the welcome he got when, 
 breathless, scratched, and sable as the night, he 
 showed his white teeth at the door. Beppo, in 
 fact, fell weeping on his neck. By this simple 
 device Angioletto was enabled to keep his word, 
 and Bellaroba to find him black but comely.
 
 VII 
 
 THE CAPTAIN'S TREADINGS 
 
 While Angioletto and his Bellaroba dwelt in 
 a paradise, none the less glorious for being as 
 sooty as the darkness which veiled it, the estate 
 of Captain Mosca, that hungry swordsman, was 
 most unhappy. Divorced from bed and board, 
 cast off by his mistress, and not yet adopted by 
 his master, the poor man felt dimly about for 
 supports, conscious that his treadings had well- 
 nigh slipped. At such a time the gentle eyes of 
 Bellaroba — nobody's enemy — courted him, like 
 a beam of firelight on a rain-scoured street, with 
 a smiling invitation to share the peace within 
 doors. He hung uneasily about the gateways in 
 these days, cold-elbowed by the lackeys, ignored 
 by the higher sort, unseen by the quality ; he bur- 
 nished the lintels with his shoulder-blades, chewed 
 many straws, counted the flagstones, knew the 
 hours by the signals of his stomach. Then, if by 
 hazard Bellaroba should come dancing by with a 
 " Good morning, Signor Capitano," a " Come sta?' 
 or, prettier still, a bright "Sta bene ? " what wonder 
 if the man of rage humbled himself before the 
 little Maid of Honour ? What wonder, again, if 
 she, out of the overflowings of her happiness, 
 should give him an alms ? 
 
 No wonder at all, but pity there should be ; for 
 
 312
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 313 
 
 the Captain played an unworthy part. I suppose 
 his standard was not very high. I know he was 
 hungry ; I know that nothing degrades a man so 
 low as degradation — since what he believes him- 
 self, that he is ; but I find it hard to excuse him 
 for draining Bellaroba of her little secrets. Judas 
 that he was, he took her sop, and then sold her 
 for thirty pieces of silver. 
 
 The draining of a well so limpid was the easiest 
 thing in the world. She was too absurdly happy, 
 too triumphant altogether in the successful craft 
 of her brilliant little lord, to be continent. She 
 dealt in semi-transparent mystery with her manip- 
 ulator from the moment he had won her com- 
 passion. Her secret was none from the first, or 
 it was like the secret which a child will tell you, 
 all the louder for being said in your ear. 
 
 " My dear little friend," said the smirking Cap- 
 tain, when he had it, " what you tell me there is 
 as wine in my blood. I declare it sets me singing 
 tunes." 
 
 " Ah, but he is wonderful, my Angioletto," said 
 she, and her eyes grew larger for the thought of 
 him. 
 
 " For a stripling of his inches he beats any cock 
 that ever fought a main," Mosca declared ; " blood 
 of Blood, but he does ! What and if he did square 
 up to me — do I bear a grudge? Never, upon 
 my body." 
 
 " You will not — you would not — ah, tell Olim- 
 pia of this, Signor Capitano ? " she hazarded. The 
 Captain stroked one eye with the back of his 
 finger. He looked pityingly upon her with the 
 other.
 
 3 i4 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 " Ah, my dear soul," he said, sighing, " could 
 you think it of old Mosca ? " 
 
 Bellaroba hastened to disclaim. " No, no, no, 
 I did not think it, Signor Capitano. But for a 
 minute I had a little fear. Olimpia never loved 
 Angioletto at all, and I don't think she loves me 
 very much — now." 
 
 " To be plain with you, my lamb," said the 
 Mosca, " she has no such vasty love for me. I 
 have not set foot within her door since a certain 
 day you may remember." 
 
 The girl shivered. " If I remember it ! Ah, 
 Madonna delle Grazie, she had a devil that day ! " 
 
 " She had seven, I'm sure of it," cried the Cap- 
 tain. " So I leave you to judge how much of 
 your story she may worm out of me." 
 
 He so beamed upon her, kissed her hands with 
 such a lofty stoop, that she felt ashamed of her- 
 self, and begged his pardon. 
 
 This brought the Captain to his knees. " By 
 the God who made the Jews," he swore, " I leave 
 not this raw flagstone till you have unsaid those 
 words ! " 
 
 In the end, after a prodigious fuss, he drifted 
 away down the corridor and left her to go about 
 her business. 
 
 But he drifted not very far. He felt himself 
 full of affairs which were as meat and drink to his 
 spirit starved by neglect. It was so great a thing 
 to have a pretext for approaching Count Guarini. 
 That young lord had a way like a keen-edged 
 knife. You might weave a whole vestment about 
 your errand, fold upon fold of ingenious surmise, 
 argument pro, argument con ; Guarino Guarini
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 315 
 
 would dart eyes upon you — slash ! he had rent 
 your fabric and discovered you naked underneath, 
 a liar ready for the whip. Nor, to do him justice, 
 did he ever fail to apply it. Truth was, indeed, 
 the only key to Guarino's chamber. 
 
 Truth, and timely truth, was what the Captain 
 felt he had at last. With it he braved the super- 
 cilious doorkeeper ; with it he forced the fellow to 
 lift his intolerable eyelids. 
 
 " By the powers of darkness, my friend," he 
 said, " it will be a bad day's work for you if you 
 deny me this time." So he won his admission 
 and faced his master. 
 
 " Now, Mosca, your lie," said the Count, with his 
 cold-steel delivery. Mosca did not stumble. 
 
 " Master," he said, " I can do you service." 
 
 " Do it then," whipped in the Count. 
 
 " I can tell your Excellence why he succeeds 
 no better with La Bellaroba." 
 
 " Ah ! ' The Count was suspicious, but inter- 
 ested. 
 
 " The little lady has a lover." 
 
 " Body of a dog ! " 
 
 " Body of Angioletto, Excellence." 
 
 " Angioletto ? That spaniel ? How many 
 more laps will he cradle in? Cut his tongue 
 out, my good fellow, and then come to me 
 again." 
 
 " Excellence, may I speak ? " 
 
 " I suppose so. Speak." 
 
 The Captain waited no further invitation, but 
 told the whole story from the beginning. Gua- 
 rino thought upon it for a moment. 
 
 " He will come to-night ? " he asked.
 
 3 i6 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 " Certain, Excellence." 
 
 " Then we have him. You have done well, 
 Mosca — it was time, my friend, for you are an 
 expensive hack to keep at grass. Now listen. 
 Take Bellaroba away — command of the Con- 
 tessa, of course. Take her to the little house in 
 the Borgo. Make all fast, and return here in 
 time for the steeple-jack. When you have him 
 in the trap, run him through the body, raise the 
 devil's uproar, and denounce him to the patrol. 
 Do you understand me ? " 
 
 " Perfectly, Excellence." 
 
 " Take my purse from the table and off with 
 you, then." 
 
 Captain Mosca bowed to the ground and 
 backed out.
 
 VIII 
 
 FIRST MIDNIGHT CONVERSATION 
 
 The Borgo of Borso's day was, as you might 
 say, a sucker of the city of the Po, a flowery crop 
 of villas and gardens about the city's root. There 
 was the discreet house which Captain Mosca had 
 once chosen for his Olimpia ; there also was that 
 which Guarino Guarini maintained for his (or 
 any) Bellaroba. It is probable that there were 
 many such houses in the Borgo; it was a very 
 pleasant place, heavy scented with lilac and 
 hawthorn in the spring, drowsy all the summer 
 through with rustling leaves and the murmur of 
 innumerable bees. The place was quiet ; there 
 was no traffic, no hint of the city bustle ; on the 
 other hand, there was the notoriety which must 
 always attach to any act done where no others 
 are doing. Time, day-time especially, hangs 
 heavy in the Borgo. One machinates in the face 
 of many green shutters, which are not necessarily 
 dead because they are shut. 
 
 This reasoning does not attack the sagacity of 
 Count Guarini, for the only circumstance which 
 could give it force was entirely unknown to him. 
 He did not know that the Borgo held Bellaroba's 
 friend, Olimpia, or that it sheltered under the 
 same roof Olimpia, the Captain's enemy. He 
 knew nothing of Bellaroba's friends and cared 
 
 3»7
 
 318 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 nothing for the Captain's enemies. But, as a 
 matter of history, the proceedings of Mosca upon 
 that eventful day were of the greatest possible 
 interest to Signorina Castaneve. Donna Matura, 
 trust her, had not failed to report his first appear- 
 ance, stork-like, in the Borgo. No subsequent 
 voyage of his into those parts (and he made 
 many) was lost upon Olimpia. Captain Mosca, 
 honest man, made a preposterous accomplice. 
 His rusty cloak, the white of his observant 
 eye, the craning of his neck, the very angle of 
 his sword — cocked up for frolic like a wren's 
 tail — spoke the profuse conspirator. He spent 
 money liberally, seemed to have plenty more, 
 had his finger to his nose with every other 
 word. He brought a troop of underlings; a bevy 
 of young women under his orders turned the 
 little shuttered house out of doors — at every 
 window carpets, curtains, hangings of all sorts, 
 fluttered as if for a triumphal procession. Flow- 
 ers came in stacks: "H'm! " said Olimpia, "there's 
 a woman in this." A couple of asses brought 
 skins of wine. " That will be wash for the lean 
 hog himself," she added. From that time forth 
 she never left her shutter. To make herself the 
 more sure she gave orders to Donna Matura to 
 close all the shutters alike. Captain Mosca, on 
 one of his returns to the Borgo, looked up at the 
 blind green eyes of his former haven and, chuck- 
 ling, rubbed his hands. This artless outlet to 
 his feelings was interpreted for what it was worth 
 behind the shutter. 
 
 By six of the evening Mosca, seeing Olimpia's 
 house still keep a dead face, threw off the last
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 319 
 
 remnant of his cares and bade himself be merry. 
 " My handsome friend is either asleep or on a 
 journey, it appears," said he to himself. " That, 
 on the whole, is well. I cannot think she would 
 be pleased at the advent of little Bellaroba riding 
 pillion to me. Still less would the honour about 
 to be paid the young lady afford her any gratifi- 
 cation. Least of all would her observations on 
 the subject tend to clear the air. No, no. Every- 
 thing is for the best, it seems, and the world still 
 a tolerable place. Now for my little wood-bird." 
 He paid and dismissed his work-people, then rode 
 off himself to fetch Bellaroba. And Olimpia, 
 from her shutter, watched him go. 
 
 There was no trouble on the child's score. 
 The Countess was away ; a feigned message from 
 her was enough. Had she been at home and in 
 a good humour, she would have accorded a real 
 one, no doubt ; so the deceit was quite harmless. 
 Bellaroba demurred a little that she could not 
 in person warn Angioletto, but the Captain 
 begged her to have no fears. Time pressed; 
 it was evident the Countess's service was urgent. 
 Yet the Captain swore by all that he held sacred 
 — to be sure no great things, but Bellaroba 
 could not know that — to deliver her message to 
 the lad with his own hand. " For," said he, and 
 confirmed it with an oath, " if I don't see him this 
 very night it will be a pity : " words which were 
 afterwards thought to have been prophetic by the 
 curious in such matters. So Bellaroba entrusted 
 him with her scrawl to " My love Angilotto," and 
 the Captain chewed and swallowed it when she 
 was not looking. Then he lifted her to his horse
 
 320 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 and rode with her into the green sheltered Borgo, 
 just as it was settling into twilight. And Olim- 
 pia, from her shutter, saw them come. 
 
 I spare you the picture of her fury : it was not 
 seemly, for all it was very white and still. The 
 sight of a handsome girl shuddering in a cold 
 stare under the grip of an evil spirit can never 
 be pleasant; and where the experienced Donna 
 Matura shrank from what she saw and heard, it 
 becomes not me to tread. Donna Matura was 
 of her country, that cheerful, laughing Midland 
 of the Po, and neither felt the Venetian throb of 
 pleasure nor conceived the excesses of Venetian 
 pain. Extremes touch on the Lagoon. Donna 
 Matura saw her gold-haired mistress white and 
 drawn, saw her witless shaking, saw her tear and 
 rend herself, heard her jerked words of loathing, 
 blasphemy, and obscene defiance — and fairly 
 fled the house. " For," as she said, " if words 
 of man or woman could bring the rafters about 
 our ears, or open a pit to send us lightly whither 
 we all must go who have heard them, those words 
 which Madam Olimpia spat about her must 
 surely do it." So much she confessed to after- 
 wards, but no more; for she stayed nothing 
 more. 
 
 Olimpia may have leaned twisting against her 
 wall for about an hour, mouthing insane babble 
 from her blued lips. It was at least quite dark 
 when she came to herself, lit the lamp, wiped 
 the cold beads from her forehead, smoothed and 
 bound her hair. She was not herself, nor looked 
 to be so; she had a face completely colourless, 
 lips like grey mould, and burning black eyes.
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 321 
 
 But her hand was steady ; she hardly winked ; 
 her breath, which came through her nose, was 
 even, though it whistled rather sharply. What- 
 ever she was about — and she seemed to be act- 
 ing a part — she did with extraordinary care, 
 down to the changing of her crimson dress for 
 a dark green one. The former had been loose 
 and clinging, made of velvet ; the dark green was 
 of cloth, fitted her close and, as she ascertained 
 by a few gestures, gave free play to her arms. 
 She knocked off her heeled Venetian shoes, 
 whose clatter was familiar to the house, and 
 bound on flat-soled sandals instead. Over her 
 head she had a black lace scarf, on her hands 
 leather gauntlets. Lastly, she took from a press 
 a long, double-edged knife, felt its temper, and 
 stuck it inside her stocking, under the garter. 
 She made a final hasty sweep of the room with 
 her unquiet eyes as she went out of it. 
 
 The door of the house she knocked upon was 
 opened by a page, who asked her business. 
 
 " Mosca, Captain Mosca, is my business," said 
 she in a whisper. 
 
 " The Signor Capitano is occupied, Madonna," 
 replied the boy. 
 
 " I know it, I know it," she answered. " But 
 my business is the lady's business also. I must 
 see them both — and at once. Let me pass." 
 
 The page vowed and swore by all the company 
 of Heaven that those were her actual words. 
 He was put to the torture and cried in the most 
 heartrending manner; but he held to it, so long 
 as he could hold to anything, that the visitor had 
 said " her business was the other lady's business.''
 
 322 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 What a further application of the question might 
 have brought we cannot tell, since he fainted 
 before it could be tried. " The boy Gasparo ap- 
 peared to take no further interest in the elucida- 
 tion of the truth," reported the judges, " and 
 we recommend that he be chastised for contu- 
 macy." He was, at any rate, no witness of the 
 scene which followed Olimpia's entry. There 
 was that about her, a subdued haste, a delibera- 
 tion, a kind of intensity got by rote, which fas- 
 cinated the youngster and left him staring in the 
 hall. 
 
 Olimpia walked across it alone, went straight 
 to a door at the bottom on the right-hand side, 
 turned the handle, and entered. There was a 
 table spread with supper; there was Captain 
 Mosca seated at it eating a peach from his wine- 
 glass ; there was Bellaroba, flushed and marred 
 with tears, leaning against the further wall. She 
 gave a little gasp of fear when she saw what the 
 doorway framed; after that she followed Olim- 
 pia about the room with the same incurable fas- 
 cination which the page-boy had felt. Olimpia 
 shut the door as softly as she had opened it, and 
 as softly shot the bolt. 
 
 Then it seemed that Mosca felt her presence, 
 for he turned, saw, and jumped up with a cry 
 mingled of fear and rage. It was found out af- 
 terwards that he was unarmed. This will ex- 
 plain his alarm. Disastrous honesty ! his sword 
 was upstairs in the bed. 
 
 There followed a most curious scene. The 
 Captain stood up by the table and dogged Olim- 
 pia with his narrow eyes. When she advanced,
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 323 
 
 he backed; when she stopped, he stopped. In 
 this manner, eying each other without a blink, 
 they made the round of the table. Bellaroba cow- 
 ered by the wall ; pursued and pursuer brushed 
 against her in turn. She shivered and moaned 
 a little at every touch ; but they were too intent 
 upon their game to know that she was there. In 
 the second round, Mosca, who was again close 
 to her, reached out his hand for a knife from the 
 table. Quick as thought Olimpia was at him, 
 reached across and drove her knife through his 
 hand into the wood. Mosca howled, but his fear 
 by now was such that he must be free to run as 
 before, though he maimed himself. He tore his 
 hand away and left Olimpia holding a fixed blade. 
 She wrenched it out and made a pounce. The 
 miserable Mosca turned to Bellaroba. He laid 
 what he had left of hands upon her shoulders; 
 he pulled her from the wall; he set her before 
 him and hugged her close to his breast. Thus 
 he made her back a shield against the long 
 knife, and with her he fenced and held off his 
 enemy for minutes more. Olimpia, horribly busy, 
 scorched the girl's neck with her breath — but 
 she never made to hurt her. 
 
 Then came the end. Olimpia made a lunge 
 at his right side. The Captain hugged Bella- 
 roba there. At the next moment the long knife 
 was below his left arm, buried to the hilt, and 
 defender and defence rolled heavily to the floor. 
 Olimpia walked to the table and helped herself 
 to the Captain's Val Pulicella. 
 
 The watch (whom the page had roused after 
 Mosca's first cry) broke in by the window, disen-
 
 3 2 4 
 
 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 tangled Bellaroba, bound the hands of both pris- 
 oners behind their backs, and marched them and 
 the boy off to the Castle. Count Guarini, com- 
 ing in an hour later, found his murdered lieuten- 
 ant for his only guest.
 
 IX 
 
 SECOND MIDNIGHT CONVERSATION 
 
 In that same night of mine and countermine 
 Duke Borso, who had broken up the circle early 
 by reason of his toothache, went wandering the 
 long corridors of the Schifanoia under the sting of 
 his scourge. He found his spacious pleasure- 
 house valueless against that particular annoy, but 
 (as always) he was the more whimsical for his 
 affliction. Nothing works your genuine man of 
 humour so nearly as himself. The sight of his 
 own image, puffed and blinking in nightcap, bed- 
 gown, and slippers, when he came upon it in a 
 long mirror, set him chuckling. He paused be- 
 fore the absurd epitome to apostrophise, wagged 
 a finger at it, and got wag for wag. " We might 
 be two drolls in a pantomime ! " said he to his 
 double. " Your arm, gossip : " he crooked an 
 elbow. " It seems," he continued, " that we are 
 both sufferers, my poor fellow! Magnificence 
 goes drooping ; a swollen estate does not forbid a 
 jowl of the same proportions ; and give me leave 
 to tell you, brother, that we have each of us been 
 better dressed in our day. Fie ! what a pair of 
 quills below your gown ; and what a sorry diadem 
 to stand for two duchies and a marquisate of 
 uncertain age ! Duke and my brother, if we 
 
 325
 
 326 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 were to be spied upon by any of our Court just 
 now, what sort of a reverence should we get, 
 think you? Eh, you rogue, as much as we 
 deserve ! I will tell you, good Borso, my own poor 
 opinion of these things. A Duke who cannot be 
 dukely in his shirt, a Pope who is but an afflicted 
 biped between the blankets, is no Duke at all, is a 
 Pope by toleration. There should be some such 
 test at every crowning of our sort. Souse a 
 Bishop in his bath before you let him warm his 
 chair ; cry ' Fire ! ' on the stairs of the Vatican 
 and watch your Pontiff-elect scudding over the 
 Piazza in his sark, before the Conclave sing Veni 
 Creator. Judge of your Emperor with a swollen 
 nose, blacken your Dukes in the eye : if they re- 
 main Dukes and Emperors you may safely obey 
 them. They are men, Borso, they are men ! Yes, 
 you spindle-shanked rascal, you may well wince. 
 Do you ponder how you would stand assay ? So 
 do I ponder it, brother, and doubt horribly." He 
 clapped his hand to his face. " Steady now, 
 steady, here comes another bout. Ah, Madonna 
 of the Este — but this is a shrewd twinge ! Fare 
 you well, brother Fat-chops. I must walk this 
 devil out of me." He waved a hand to his 
 brother of the looking-glass and slippered away, 
 groaning and sniggering to himself. So he 
 walked and was philosophical till two of the 
 morning. At that hour he was ready to drop 
 with fatigue ; but his pains had left him. " I will 
 sleep, by the grace of Heaven," he said. He 
 plumped down in the embrasure of a door, pre- 
 pared to follow his humour : the door yielded and 
 he with it. " Who am I to outrage a lady's
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 327 
 
 chamber ? " he muttered, half asleep. " To be 
 sure she seems to invite me. Let us look at this 
 complaisant sleeper." He went into the room. 
 A glimmering lamp burned before a shrine, 
 enough to show him to a decent four-post bed, 
 empty. " By the great god Pan ! " cried Borso, 
 "my luck holds. Courage! I am not a Duke 
 for nothing, then." He shut and bolted the door, 
 slipped into the bed and was asleep in three 
 minutes. It was twenty minutes after two. 
 
 At the stroke of three, with a scarcely percep- 
 tible rustling, Angioletto slid down the chimney 
 and stepped into the room. He carefully brushed 
 himself with a brush which hung by the hearth. 
 The chimney was by now thoroughly clean, how- 
 ever. He next washed his face and hands, un- 
 dressed, and crept softly to the bed. Very 
 quietly he inserted himself between the sheets, 
 very softly kissed the shoulder of the sleeper; 
 very soon he was as sound as his bedfellow. 
 
 The Duke awoke, as his habit was, with the 
 first light, and saw the curly head on the pillow 
 beside him. He whistled softly to himself. 
 
 " Now, by the tears of the Virgin," said he, 
 " how did this lady come in ? It would be as well 
 to know it, since plainly I must go out." He sat 
 up in bed, clasped his knees, and frowned a little. 
 " It is clean against the traditions of my house," 
 he ruminated, " but I think I will go. And the 
 sooner the better." 
 
 Suiting action to word, he had one foot on 
 the floor when Angioletto, with a long sigh, 
 opened his eyes, turned over, and saw him. 
 
 " The devil ! " said Duke Borso.
 
 328 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 " Madonna," was his second venture, when he 
 had recognised the impropriety of his first, " Ma- 
 donna, I am this moment about to retire — " 
 
 Angioletto, whose eyes had attained their 
 fullest stretch of wonder, opened his mouth — but 
 not to speak. He gaped at the lord of the land. 
 
 " Madonna — " Borso began once more. Then 
 the other found his voice — 
 
 " Alas, my lord Duke, it is Madonna I thought 
 to find. Where is my wife ? " 
 
 That was Borso's cue to stare. 
 
 " Your wife ? " he cried, " your wife ! Heaven 
 above us, man, why the devil should your wife be 
 in my bed ? " 
 
 Angioletto, with the deepest respect always, 
 suffered a smile to play askew about his lips. 
 
 " Alas, Magnificence," he said, " if I dared I 
 would ask him, why the devil he should be in my 
 wife's bed ? " 
 
 It was the youth's way to preface his audacities 
 by the assurance that he dared not utter them. 
 But the retort pleased Borso. His eyes began to 
 twinkle. 
 
 " Look ye, young gentleman," said he, sup- 
 pressing his wish to chuckle, "if this is your 
 wife's bed, I am sorry for you, for I give you my 
 word she has not been in it to-night. But I con- 
 fess I should like to know why your wife has a 
 bed in my house." 
 
 Angioletto nodded gravely. 
 
 " I should be the last person to deny your 
 Grace's right to all information. Bellaroba is my 
 dear wife's name, her country is Venice, her 
 duties are to be about Madama Lionella's person.
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 329 
 
 My own duties are to be about hers, so far as I 
 may." 
 
 "Fair and softly, my friend," said the Duke; 
 " not so fast, if you please. Do you know that 
 Maids of Honour may not marry without permis- 
 sion, and, in any case, may not be visited by their 
 husbands during their service ? " 
 
 " Magnificence, she was not married without 
 permission. Or rather, she was married before 
 permission was needed." 
 
 " Eh, how may that be now ? " said Borso, 
 tucking in his chin. " Did she come here as 
 Signora Qualcosa ? " 
 
 " She came here as Bellaroba, Magnificence. 
 No one knows of our marriage but your Grace 
 and the Holy Virgin." 
 
 " Then you are not married, but should be. 
 That is your meaning — eh ? " 
 
 " Ah, by Heaven, Magnificence," cried Angio- 
 letto, "we are the most married couple in the 
 world ! " 
 
 " H'm," was all Borso had to say to that. 
 " And who made her of Madama's Court ? " 
 
 " It was your Grace." 
 
 " Oh, of course, of course, man ! But why the 
 deuce did I do it? " 
 
 " It was at the request of Count Guarino 
 Guarini, Magnificence ? " 
 
 " Eh, eh ! now I recollect. Ah, to be sure ! 
 That must be a very agreeable reflection for you 
 at this moment, my friend," he said, with a sly look. 
 
 Angioletto took the equivoque with dignity, 
 " I have perfect confidence in my wife, my lord 
 Duke."
 
 33Q LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 Borso shrugged. "Well, it is your affair — not 
 mine," he said. Then he changed his tone. " I 
 think, however, we will come back to what is my 
 affair as well as yours. Be so good as to tell me 
 how you came here." 
 
 " I came down the chimney," said Angioletto 
 calmly. " I am by calling a chimney-sweep." 
 
 " Upon my word," Borso said, " this is a fine 
 story I am piecing together! How long have 
 you been of that trade, pray ? " 
 
 Angioletto received this shot with firmness, 
 even dignity. " I was formerly a poet attached 
 to the Court, Magnificence. But when Madama 
 turned me away it became necessary that I 
 should see my young wife ; so I became a chim- 
 ney-sweep for the purpose." 
 
 The Duke's mouth twitched too much for his 
 own dignity. He pulled the bedclothes up to 
 his nose, therefore, before he asked — 
 
 " Why did Madama turn you away, sir? " 
 
 Angioletto, for the first time, was confused. 
 He hung his head. 
 
 " I hope your Grace will not insist upon an 
 answer," he replied in a troubled voice. 
 
 Borso looked keenly at him for a time. " No, 
 I think I will not," said he. " Are you the lad 
 who sang me the Caccia col/alcone ? " 
 
 " The same, my lord Duke." 
 
 " I thought so. Now, sir, to come back to this 
 performance of yours, which I suppose is not the 
 first by any means — eh ? " 
 
 "It appears to be the last, my lord," said 
 Angioletto, ruefully. 
 
 " I think it is the last," replied the Duke; "for
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 331 
 
 I hope you understand that I can have you 
 clapped into gaol for it." 
 
 " Pardon, Magnificence — he can do more. 
 He can have me hanged for it." 
 
 " I don't agree with you," said Borso. " If my 
 name were Ferdinand of Arragon, or Sforza, or 
 della Rovere, yes ; but being Borso d'Este, no." 
 
 " Your Grace puts me to shame," said Angio- 
 letto, with feeling. " I am to take it, then — " 
 
 " You shall take it as you please, my friend," 
 
 Borso rejoined, with his chin once more upon his 
 
 clasped knees. " For my part I propose to take 
 
 you and keep you under lock and key for a season 
 
 — as at present advised." 
 
 Angioletto bowed, as well as one may who is 
 sitting up in a very soft bed. His voice was 
 quite meek. 
 
 " I shall in all duty obey your Grace's direc- 
 tions, and will leave behind me but one small 
 request, which I am persuaded Borso d'Este will 
 not refuse his prisoner." 
 
 " And what is that, my good friend ? " 
 
 " It is the care for the person and honour of 
 my wife, my lord Duke," answered Angioletto. 
 
 This set Borso rubbing his nose. He thought 
 before he spoke again. 
 
 " As for your wife's person, my man," said he, 
 " it will be as safe in my dominions as all persons, 
 whatever their ages or conditions. Her honour 
 is another affair. That is neither for me nor my 
 laws, but for herself. And perhaps you will let 
 me add that if to-night is a sample of her course 
 of living, you are putting upon me a rather oner- 
 ous charge."
 
 332 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 " My Lord, my Lord," cried Angioletto here, 
 " I will answer for my wife's honour with my last 
 drop of blood. It is her person I cannot answer 
 for if I am in prison." 
 
 " I have told you that I will answer for her 
 person, master poet. I would much rather leave 
 her honour to you and your drops of blood. So 
 you may go to the Castle with a clear mind. To 
 the Castle, moreover, you shall undoubtedly go, 
 if it is only to teach you that the possession of a 
 wife is no passport to other men's chimneys. 
 First, however, I will ask you to do me a small 
 service, which is to go to my bedchamber and 
 send me my gentlemen, my dresser, and my 
 clothes. I am, you perceive, entirely at your 
 mercy. You will follow these persons back to 
 me here, and will then give yourself up as I shall 
 direct.'^ 
 
 Angioletto, out of bed by this time, knelt to 
 the Duke's hand. 
 
 " I am your Grace's servant," said he. He 
 hastily dressed himself and went about the busi- 
 ness he was bidden on. 
 
 " Madam the Virgin," said Borso, with a half- 
 laugh, " that is a fine young man ! If he had 
 not made so free with my chimneys I would 
 advance him. Advanced he shall be ! " he cried 
 out after a while. " Zounds ! has not Guarino 
 made free with his wife ? Eh, but I fear it." 
 He shook his nightcap at the thought. " A 
 couple of days' reflection in a half light will do 
 the lad no harm. He'll dream of his wife, or 
 compose me some songs. Bellaroba, he called 
 her. I remember the jade — a demure, rosy-
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 333 
 
 cheeked little cat, for ever twiddling her fingers 
 or her apron-ends. Those sleek ones are the 
 worst. Poor boy ! I'll advance him. He shall 
 be librarian, go secretary to Rome or Florence. 
 I'll have him about my own person. By the Sons 
 of Heaven, but he's as good as gold ! Ah, I hear 
 him." 
 
 The Duke's gentlemen bowed themselves into 
 the room, followed by the dresser. 
 
 " Good morning, my friends," said Borso. " But 
 where is my messenger ? " 
 
 " Magnificence, he is at the door," said the 
 usher. 
 
 " Bring him in, Foppa, bring him in," cried the 
 Duke ; " we know each other by now." 
 
 Angioletto was introduced. 
 
 " Master Angioletto," the twinkling old tyrant 
 said, " get you downstairs to the Captain of the 
 Archers. Say to him as follows : ' Captain, my 
 lord the Duke begs you to conduct me surely to 
 the Castle, and keep me prisoner there during his 
 Grace's pleasure.' Will you oblige me so far ? " 
 
 " I shall obey you exactly, my lord Duke," said 
 Angioletto, making a reverence. 
 
 He went at once and gave himself up. In 
 some quarter of an hour's time he was lodged in 
 the Castle, in a cell upon the level of the moat. 
 Next door to him on either side (though he knew 
 nothing of it) were two women who had been 
 brought in with a page-boy overnight upon a 
 charge of murder. Their case, indeed, was one 
 of the first matters which engaged the attention 
 of Duke Borso after mass.
 
 X 
 
 ORDEAL BY ROPE 
 
 The prison chills made Olimpia shiver, the 
 prison silences made her afraid. The wavering 
 moan of the page-boy, who had been tumbled on 
 to a straw bed after his first bout of the question, 
 drove home the reality of her situation, and made 
 her sick. Olimpia was one of your snug, pretty 
 women ; she loved to be warmed, coaxed, petted ; 
 liked her bed, her fire ; liked sweetmeats, and to 
 see people about her go smiling. Mostly, too, 
 she had had her way in these matters, for she was 
 a beautiful creature, smooth and handsome as a 
 Persian cat. Jealousy, on this account, was a 
 new experience ; she had never suffered it before, 
 did not realise it now. Besides, it was over; she 
 had killed her faithless lover. But the dark, the 
 cold, the silence, the calm enmity of the dim walls 
 — these were but an intensification of familiar 
 discomforts. She had always been afraid of the 
 dark, often cold, often quelled by quiet, made sul- 
 len by indifference. She hated all this, and felt 
 it all, in spite of the glory of the Captain's killing. 
 It seemed more awful now, more unendurable 
 than ever, because — she knew there was no good 
 disguising it — because it stood for something 
 else. Ah, ah ! she was in danger. So sure as 
 she thought of this, Olimpia's heart stood still, 
 and then suddenly throbbed as if it must break. 
 
 334
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 335 
 
 It surged up into her throat. Her tongue clove 
 to her palate, she felt the bristling of her flesh, 
 could hear her heart quite loud making double 
 knocks at her side. The page-boy moaned to 
 himself through it all; a rat hidden somewhere 
 bore him company by scratching most diligently 
 at the brickwork. She could not hear anything 
 of Bellaroba — the only familiar thing in this vast 
 black horror. The panic gained upon her till 
 her head swam in it. She could not die ! Ah, 
 never, never, never, by Christ on His throne ! 
 
 The sickening futility of that final word, Never, 
 in the face of the dead certainty announced by 
 the inexorable walls, served to make the wretch's 
 case the more desperate. Panic, chalk-white, 
 staring panic-fear, swallowed her up: the next 
 few hours flew by as minutes, while she was cow- 
 ering and gibbering in a corner. Before the in- 
 evitable you either resign or rave yourself mad — 
 there is no middle course. Bellaroba took the 
 first. Sitting in her cell with her cheek pressed 
 against the wall which (though she knew it not) 
 penned also her Angioletto, she never opened her 
 eyes, nor cried, nor moaned ; but where she set- 
 tled herself at her entry there she was found when 
 they came to hale her to the judgment. She 
 gave no trouble, made no sign ; but she let down 
 her hair to cover her bare neck, and if she blushed 
 it was that folks should see her blood-smirched 
 evening finery by the light of day. She was a 
 very decent girl always, and this seemed to her 
 horrible even in a pit of horrors. Olimpia, cling- 
 ing to life, was driven upon the second course. 
 It took two halberdiers to hold her up.
 
 336 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 Borso had before him the deposition of the 
 page-boy and the report of the watch. From the 
 words of the first he suspected that both women 
 were concerned — until he had heard the second. 
 This was to the effect that the Captain's head 
 had been cut off. 
 
 " No, no," said Borso to himself, " I am heartily 
 sorry for my young friend the chimney-sweeping 
 poet, but I can't think him a fool. He would 
 never have married a woman who could cut off a 
 man's head. Yet stay! It may be that she 
 floored the Captain and that the other rounded 
 off the job with that gratuitous touch. She — 
 that other — was eating walnuts when the watch 
 came, I gather. She could have cut a dead man's 
 head off, never doubt it. Well, let us see, let us 
 see." 
 
 Then it was that he gave the order : " Bring 
 the two women before me." 
 
 He did justice ever in the open. A broad 
 green field outside one of the gates served him 
 for court. Two gibbets and an open pit stood 
 for the terror of the law; he himself, on a gilt 
 chair under a canopy, for the majesty of it. The 
 day was bright, breezy, and white-clouded. The 
 poplars twinkled innumerably, the long Este gon- 
 falon flacked and strained in the wind. Specta- 
 tors with soldiery to hedge them kept a wide 
 square about the plain. From their side the 
 figures in the midst — the red, gold, and white 
 about the pavilion, the steel of the soldiers, the 
 drooping women between them — were about as 
 real as a handful of marionettes. It seemed im- 
 possible such puppets could decide issues of life
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 337 
 
 and death. But the red hangman and his ma- 
 chines were grim touches for a puppet-show. 
 
 Olimpia Castaneve was brought forward first. 
 She was more composed by now — the air, the 
 sun, the cheerful colours of the court had warmed 
 her. She stood alone facing Borso. He, at first 
 glance, remembered every shred of her; but he 
 betrayed nothing. There was no one more 
 blankly cool in this world than Borso on the 
 judgment-seat. 
 
 " What is your name, mistress ? " 
 
 " Magnificence, I am well known in Fer- 
 rara." 
 
 " Your name," thundered the Duke, " by the 
 face of the sky ! " 
 
 " Olimpia Castaneve." 
 
 " Did you cut off the head of the Captain of 
 Lances, who was called II Mosca ? " 
 
 Olimpia was looking very handsome, and knew 
 it. 
 
 " Magnificence," she said, " my hand is on my 
 heart." It was. 
 
 " What the devil has that got to do with it ? ' 
 asked Borso, looking about him for a reason. 
 
 " Serenity, if my heart were guilty, it would 
 burn my hand. If my hand were red, it would 
 soil my heart." 
 
 " Pouf ! " said Borso, and puckered his face. 
 " Stand back, Castaneve. Now for the little one. 
 How are you called, baggage ? " 
 
 Bellaroba shivered a very little, and looked 
 solemn. 
 
 " Bellaroba, my lord." 
 
 " Very pretty ; but I must have more."
 
 338 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 "There is no more, my lord. I am wife of 
 Angioletto." 
 
 " Well, well. I know Master Angioletto, and 
 he me. We'll have him here, I think. Hi, you ! " 
 said he, turning to an officer of his guards. " Go 
 and fetch the chimney-sweep." 
 
 Ten minutes passed ; then Angioletto came up 
 between a detachment of men, unbound. He 
 was not observed to falter throughout his course 
 over the broad field; but his eyes were fever 
 bright, and colour noticeably high. Bellaroba 
 did not look up at him ; her eyelids fluttered, but 
 she kept her head hung, and as for her blushes 
 they were curtained by her long hair. He, on 
 the contrary, directly he had bent his knee to the 
 Duke, turned to where she stood, and, in face of 
 the whole city, put his arms about her, and found 
 a way to kiss her cheek. The broad ring of on- 
 lookers wavered ; the twitches played like summer 
 lightning over Borso's face. 
 
 " Come here, Angioletto," he said. Angioletto 
 drew near the throne. 
 
 " You see now, my friend," the Duke continued 
 in a low voice, " what may happen to one's wife 
 if she keeps not her bed o' nights. A certain 
 Captain Mosca has been stabbed. More than 
 that, his head was attacked when he had ceased 
 to take any interest in it, and cut off. I ask no 
 words from you, no comments, no adjurations, for 
 you are a prejudiced party. Your wife and this 
 other woman between them have done the Cap- 
 tain's business. Mine is to find out how. Stand 
 aside now and listen." 
 
 Angioletto started, opened his mouth to speak
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 339 
 
 — but the Duke put up his hand. " Young man," 
 said he sternly, " I am Duke of Ferrara, and you 
 are my prisoner. Be good enough to remember 
 that." 
 
 Angioletto hung his head. Borso turned again 
 to Bellaroba, but kept the other in his eye. 
 
 " Now, missy, what had you to do with Captain 
 Mosca's headpiece ? " 
 
 " Nothing, my lord." 
 
 " What ! " he roared. " Did you not cut it off?" 
 
 " No, my lord." 
 
 " Why not, girl ? He was your enemy, I sup- 
 pose r 
 
 " I think he was, my lord." 
 
 " Think ! Do you not know it? What did he 
 want of you ? " 
 
 " He wanted to make me bad, my lord." 
 
 " Ah ! So you stabbed him, eh ? " 
 
 " No, my lord." 
 
 " Come now, come now, girl. Look at your 
 frock." 
 
 She did look and was silent. 
 
 " Well ! " Borso continued, after a sharp glance 
 at Angioletto. " Did your husband cut it off ? ' 
 
 " No, my lord, he wasn't there — but — " 
 
 "Well — but what?" 
 
 "He would have killed him, my lord." 
 
 " Oh, the devil he would ! Why ? " 
 
 " Because he loves me, my lord." 
 
 " H'm. Well, Miss Bellaroba, where's your 
 hand ? " 
 
 She held it out. " Here, sir." 
 
 " What a little one ! Well, put it on your heart. 
 Now, how does it feel ? "
 
 340 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 " It jumps, my lord." 
 
 " Does it burn you, child ? " 
 
 " No, my lord ; it's quite cold." 
 
 " Stand down, Bellaroba. Castaneve, come for- 
 ward." 
 
 His face just now was a sight to be seen — * 
 crumpled, infinitely prim, crow-footed like an 
 ivied wall ; but extraordinarily wise ; with that 
 tempered resolve which says, " I know Evil and I 
 know Good, and dare be just to either." He was 
 thinking profoundly; every one could see it. 
 Best of the company before him Angioletto, the 
 little Tuscan, read his thought. His own was, 
 " Unless I fear Justice I need not fear Borso. 
 Dante saw the death of his lady to be just. 
 Courage then ! " 
 
 " Mistress Castaneve," said Duke Borso, " you 
 declare yourself innocent ? " 
 
 " Excellency, I do, I do ! Ah, Mother of God ! " 
 The panic was creeping up Olimpia's legs, to 
 loosen the joints of her knees. 
 
 The Judge turned half. " Mistress Bellaroba, 
 you also declare yourself innocent ? " 
 
 " Yes, my lord," she said. 
 
 " Diavolo ! " muttered Angioletto, " he is not 
 ' my lord ' ; he is ' Magnificence.' I must scold 
 her for this afterwards." 
 
 " The position of affairs is this," said the Duke 
 aloud. " One of these prisoners is guilty of the 
 deed, and the guilty one is the liar. Now, I will 
 not put an innocent person to death if I can 
 avoid it ; and I will not put these women to the 
 question, because I should wring a confession of 
 guilt from each, and be no more certain than I
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 341 
 
 was before. I may have my own opinion, and may 
 have proved it on various grounds. That, again, 
 I do not care to obtrude. I do not see that I can 
 better the precedent set me by a very wise man 
 and patriarch, King Solomon of Zion. Let the 
 women judge each other. My judgment is that 
 the innocent of these two shall hang the guilty." 
 
 The bystanders were silent, till one man 
 shivered. The shiver swept lightly through the 
 company like a wind in the reeds, and ran wider 
 and wider till it stirred the farthest edge of the 
 field. All eyes were upon the prisoners. Borso's 
 blinked from below his shaggy brows, young 
 Teofilo Calcagnini's were misty, Angioletto's 
 hard and bright. Bellaroba had been motionless 
 throughout, except when her lips moved to speak ; 
 she was motionless now. But Olimpia was pant- 
 ing. The unearthly quiet was only broken by 
 that short sound for ten minutes. 
 
 " Bellaroba," then said the Duke, " what say 
 you ? You declare that you are innocent. Will 
 you hang the guilty and go free ? " 
 
 For the first time she looked up, but not at her 
 judge. It was at Angioletto she looked, Angio- 
 letto at her. 
 
 " No, my lord, I cannot," said Bellaroba in the 
 hush. The wind shivered the reeds again, then 
 fainted down. 
 
 " Castaneve," said the dry voice, " what say you ? 
 You declare that you are innocent. Will you 
 hang the guilty and go free ? " 
 
 The drowning Olimpia threw up her hands to 
 clutch at this plank in the sea-swirl. Free ! O 
 God! The word turned her.
 
 342 LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY 
 
 " Magnificence, I must, I must, I must ! " She 
 wailed, and fell a heap to the ground. Bellaroba 
 covered her eyes. Teofilo Calcagnini shook the 
 tears from his. Borso sat on immovably, working 
 his jaws. 
 
 It is at this point that the conduct of Angio- 
 letto touches the sublime — a position never ac- 
 corded by posterity to his verse. It proves him, 
 nevertheless, the greater artist to this extent, that 
 he was equally the slave of the Idea, though work- 
 ing in more intractable stuff: himself, namely; 
 his own little heart throbbing in his own young 
 body. Therefore he deserves well of posterity, 
 which finds his verses thin. Said Angioletto: 
 " Yes, Bellaroba is my adorable wife, loved be- 
 yond all women, deserving beyond all price. Yet 
 if she killed the Captain she is guilty of death, 
 and the sentence is just whoever perform it. 
 And if, being guiltless, she is hanged by the 
 guilty, the action will glorify her; for it is the 
 price she pays for clean hands." 
 
 Then, in the midst of that waiting assembly, he 
 called the girl to him by her name, took her face 
 in both his hands and kissed it very tenderly, 
 smiling all the time through his quick tears. 
 
 " My dear little heart," said he, " your husband 
 is proud of you. All that you have done is admir- 
 able in this black business. In a very short time 
 I shall see you again. Though it is a higher 
 flight than the Schifanoia chimney, it is quicker 
 done. Trust me, Bellaroba; you know I have 
 never failed you yet." 
 
 He could say no more, but took her in his 
 arms and held her there, speechless as he was
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO 343 
 
 with inspiration. She, seeming to burn in the 
 fire that consumed him, lay quite still, neither 
 sobbing any more, nor shivering. So they clung 
 together for a little. Then Angioletto lifted up 
 his face from her cheek, and put her gently away 
 from him. 
 
 " Let justice be done, Excellency," he called out 
 in his shrill boy's voice, " we have said our say to 
 each other." 
 
 Borso spoke. 
 
 " Justice shall be done. The innocent has con- 
 demned the guilty: let that woman be hanged. 
 We have learned the value of clean hands this 
 day. Mistress Bellaroba, you have a man in ten 
 thousand ; Angioletto, my friend, you have what 
 you deserve, a woman in ten million. It is not 
 fair that the worth of you two should be known 
 only to me and the Blessed Virgin ; you shall tell 
 it now to a priest. Come along, and let me have 
 the whole story with my breakfast." 
 
 Thus Duke Borso did judgment for his good 
 town of Ferrara in times very remote from our 
 own. The Ferrarese used to say that it needs 
 a sound lawyer to know how to break the laws. 
 
 THE END
 
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