A Spirit in Prison. Robert Hichens

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      “Isn’t he a jolly boy, Madre?”

      “Yes,” said Hermione.

      She spoke in a low voice. Her eyes were still on the sea where the boat had passed.

      “Yes,” she repeated, almost as if to herself.

      For the first time a little cloud went over Vere’s sensitive face.

      “Madre, how horribly I must have disappointed you,” she said.

      The mother did not break into protestations. She always treated her child with sincerity.

      “Just for a moment, Vere,” she answered. “And then, very soon, you made me feel how much more intimate can be the relationship between a mother and a daughter than between a mother and any son.”

      “Is that true, really?”

      “I think it is.”

      “But why should that be?”

      “Don’t you think that Monsieur Emile can tell you much better than I? I feel all the things, you know, that he can explain.”

      There was a touch of something that was like a half-hidden irony in her voice.

      “Monsieur Emile! Yes, I think he understands almost everything about people,” said Vere, quite without irony. “But could a man explain such a thing as well as a woman? I don’t think so.”

      “We have the instincts, perhaps, men the vocabulary. Come, Vere, I want to look over into the Saint’s Pool and see what those men are doing.”

      Vere laughed.

      “Take care, Madre, or Gaspare will be jealous.”

      A soft look came into Hermione’s face.

      “Gaspare and I know each other,” she said, quietly.

      “But he could be jealous—horribly jealous.”

      “Of you, perhaps, Vere, but never of me. Gaspare and I have passed through too much together for anything of that kind. Nobody could ever take his place with me, and he knows it quite well.”

      “Gaspare’s a darling, and I love him,” said Vere, rather inconsequently. “Shall we look over into the Pool from the pavilion, or go down by the steps?”

      “We’ll look over.”

      They passed in through a gateway to the narrow terrace that fronted the Casa del Mare facing Vesuvius, entered the house, traversed a little hall, came out again into the air by a door on its farther side, and made their way to a small pavilion that looked upon the Pool of San Francesco. Almost immediately below, in the cool shadow of the cliff, the boat was moored. The two men, lying at full length in it, their faces buried in their hands, were already asleep. But the boy, sitting astride on the prow, with his bare feet dangling on each side of it to the clear green water, was munching slowly, and rather seriously, a hunch of yellow bread, from which he cut from time to time large pieces with a clasp knife. As he ate, lifting the pieces of bread to his mouth with the knife, against whose blade he held them with his thumb, he stared down at the depths below, transparent here almost to the sea bed. His eyes were wide with reverie. He seemed another boy, not the gay singer of five minutes ago. But then he had been in the blaze of the sun. Now he was in the shade. And swiftly he had caught the influence of the dimmer light, the lack of motion, the delicate hush at the feet of San Francesco.

      This time he did not know that he was being watched. His reverie, perhaps, was too deep, or their gaze less concentrated than it had been before. And after a moment, Hermione moved away.

      “You are going in, Madre?”

      “Yes.”

      “Do you mind if I give something to that boy?”

      “Do you mean money?”

      “Oh no. But the poor thing’s eating dry bread, and—”

      “And what, you puss?”

      “Well, he’s a very obedient boy.”

      “How can you know that?”

      “He was idling in the boat, and I called out to him to jump into the sea, and he jumped in immediately.”

      “Do you think because he heard you?”

      “Certainly I do.”

      “You conceited little creature! Perhaps he was only pleasing himself!”

      “No, Madre, no. I think I should like to give him a little reward presently—for his singing too.”

      “Get him a dolce, then, from Carmela, if there is one. And you can give him some cigarettes.”

      “I will. He’ll love that. Oh dear! I wish he didn’t make me dissatisfied with myself!”

      “Nonsense, Vere!”

      Hermione bent down and kissed her child. Then she went rather quickly away from the pavilion and entered the Casa del Mare.

CHAPTER II

       Table of Contents

      After her mother had gone, Vere waited for a moment, then ran lightly to the house, possessed herself of a dolce and a packet of cigarettes, and went down the steps to the Pool of San Francesco, full of hospitable intentions towards the singing boy. She found him still sitting astride of the boat’s prow, not yet free of his reverie apparently; for when she gave a low call of “Pescator!” prolonging the last syllable with the emphasis and the accent of Naples, but always softly, he started, and nearly dropped into the sea the piece of bread he was lifting to his mouth. Recovering himself in time to save the bread deftly with one brown hand, he turned half round, leaning on his left arm, and stared at Vere with large, inquiring eyes. She stood by the steps and beckoned to him, lifting up the packet of cigarettes, then pointing to his sleeping companions:

      “Come here for a minute!”

      The boy smiled, sprang up, and leaped onto the islet. As he came to her, with the easy, swinging walk of the barefooted sea-people, he pulled up his white trousers, and threw out his chest with an obvious desire to “fare figura” before the pretty Padrona of the islet. When he reached her he lifted his hand to his bare head forgetfully, meaning to take off his cap to her. Finding that he had no cap, he made a laughing grimace, threw up his chin and, thrusting his tongue against his upper teeth and opening wide his mouth, uttered a little sound most characteristically Neapolitan—a sound that seemed lightly condemnatory of himself. This done, he stood still before Vere, looking at the cigarettes and at the dolce.

      “I’ve brought these for you,” she said.

      “Grazie, Signorina.”

      He СКАЧАТЬ