AN ITALIAN NOVELETTE

I.

Many large and small boats were dancing merrily on the Bay of Castellamare, so richly populous with many rare species of fish. The mirrorlike blue surface was only ruffled by the small steamers on their way to and from Sorrento, carrying throngs of pleasure-seeking tourists from all parts of the world.

On the right hand shore, extended on a high promontory receding a little from the shore, stands peacefully dreaming and forgotten, by the outer world, the little village of Vico Ecquenso.

The innumerable small fishing smacks belonging to the villagers ("paesani") dot the bay as far as Castellamare, and every morning they make their way thither, carrying to market their nightly catches of tunny fish, anchovies and other dumb subjects of Neptune.

The valleys, perfumed throughout their length with odorous herbs, palms and gigantic cactus in wild profusion, change their character a little further away, by taking on the indescribable charm of the picturesquely draughted olive trees, which often slope down to the water's edge, while on green hillside terraces most magnificent grapes gleam from afar, like red glittering rubies to the eyes of the delighted tourist.

On the left side, amid palms and chestnut trees, one catches a glimpse of the lifeless unroofed ruins of Pompeii, once a populous city, which was overwhelmed by her mighty neighbor, the terrible Vesuvius on the 22nd of August in the year 79, and remained under ground for about eighteen centuries, until Charles the III ordered its excavation on the 1st of April, 1748. Amid all these buried treasures of art of long perished races, Seneca had spent his youth and Cicero had written his biting rhetorical masterpieces, which earned him a sixteen months' banishment from the court of the Emperor Claudius, whose gigantic statue of Persian marble, in the robe of "Pontifex Maximus" was lately excavated at Pesto.

The high mountains were already casting long shadows through the little village of Vico Ecquenso, and the hot evening sun, now about to sink into the gently splashing waves, gilded with its last beams the weather-beaten, centuries-old convent of Santa Croce, built upon a high summit on green hilltops.

The peaceful sound of the old convent bell, inviting those to pious meditations and evening prayer, was sounding now with wondrous sweetness over land and sea, even as far as the desolate altars of the heathen Gods of Pompeii tumbled down from their gilded pedestals, and the shrunken mummies in the "theatrum tragico," where the people perished without the help of the heathen gods, listened dumb and petrified,—the sightless eyes wide open,—to the sounds of the new religion calling them again and again morning and evening. The vast oppressiveness of the ghostly solitude there, contrasted strangely with the uncommon bustle perceptible that evening among the simple minded inhabitants of the quaint little village, who usually went so quietly about their work.

A joyous excitement sparkled in the eyes of both old and young, who had assembled in front of the only village tavern, "Osteria," to witness the approach of the festal procession of youth and maidens coming home from the vineyards, laden with baskets of grapes and flowers.

The wealthiest man in the place, the farmer Niccolo Gallioti, who had just before devoutly lit six immense wax candles in honor of the Holy Madonna, was today giving a feast to the young people of the place. The ingathered harvest had filled all his granaries to the roofs and so surpassed all his expectations that it had to be celebrated with eating and drinking, music and dancing. An hour before, he had been seen walking up towards the vineyards at the side of his beautiful daughter, Concetta, and as yet there was no sign of their return. The expecting crowd shuffled up and down impatiently, and craned their necks.

"There! There! Corpo di bacco! they're coming now," cried a small bare-footed lazzaroni, greatly excited, running breathlessly to meet them, and vainly trying at the same time to hold up the torn, shapeless breeches, which actually had no right to that name. They were fastened by a cord on the top and reached from the shoulders to his feet.

All the inhabitants of the village seemed to be present, and pressed forward in a confused mass, each one anxious to be the first one to greet the festal train, principally Galiotti the liberal host and dispenser of the best wine.

In the rear, unobserved, stood a man of about twenty-eight years, in an elegant summer suit, apparently belonging to a better class, looking sneeringly at the great excitement of the "Paesani."

His dark, sparkling eyes, encased in blue-shaded rings, had a demoniacal glitter. He was a tall, athletic man, with a constant sneer on his red lips. The fairly chiseled lineaments were blotted by dissipation, and blackened and distorted by the baleful fire of fierce passions. The bushy eyebrows, that nearly met each other, were of the kind to exercise an uncanny attraction upon trusting innocent girls by looking into their depths.

The distant strains of three gaily-clad musicians with fiddles and horns seemed to electrify the crowd. The ragged youth began to dance, the old paesani threw their shabby looking caps, in the air, while the little barefooted lazzaroni, his face black with dirt, ran ahead of the anxiously expected procession, splitting his throat with shrill cries of "Evviva," and gesticulating frantically.

Only the tall gentleman, with a constant sneer on his red lips, stood apparently unmoved in the same place, gazing at the scene enacted before his eyes with great contempt. Observing him at close range one could perceive, in his dark sinister eyes, the consuming fire of a sinful passion, a volcanic fire it seemed, like that which rose and fell on the summit of the neighboring Vesuvius, devastating in its destructiveness.

He had seen the fair Concetta at Castellamare for the first time, and since then he could not forget her lovely face; day and night it haunted him, that merry, mirthful face that spoke of pure maidenliness. The sweetness and childlike pureness of the girl's exterior attracted him. It was something new in his dissipated life, something he had to conquer.

Even at the gaming tables of Nice and Monte Carlo, and at the wild orgies carried on there by the dissipated sons of nobility, he seemed to see her standing before him, smiling sweetly, while her blue innocent-looking eyes shone at him like spotless mirrors.

After a short time he had discovered that she came twice a week to Castellamare, on Mondays in her father's fishing boat, while on Saturdays in the company of a maid carrying stone pitchers to the well, "Stabilimento," where six different healing springs gush out of the mountain side. When the flames on top of the Vesuvius burst forth vehemently illuminating Naples, Castellamare and all other little hamlets far and near the springs are overflowing with boiling water, but the moment the flame diminishes, the water grows cold and gradually disappears.

The young rogue made good use of these days; as if by chance, he always strolled along the same path to the springs. If it rained, he was promptly at hand with an umbrella; if, on the other hand, the sun shone down oppressively on the overheated Concetta, the same rescuer in need was at hand again, gallantly offering his English parasol, and always walking a little further with her. The sunny nature of the young girl shone out of her splendid blue eyes, bright and beaming as a May morning. She trusted every one, and especially this handsome gentleman, who treated her always with such exquisite courtesy, as if she had been one of the daughters of the Lords of Torre del Greco, whom she saw passing on the Corso di Santa Lucia, either on horseback or in a luxurious carriage. Who would be likely to have any evil designs against her? Old and young loved her in the village, and the poor and sick had learned to bless her for three miles round. Having grown up in her village home, and blossomed there like a wild rose, she had only known one great sorrow in her young life, that of losing her beloved mother when she was very young. Her merriment, her happy singing, brightened up the dark, lonely house of the gloomy old man.

However, since she had made the acquaintance of the gentleman with the ensnaring eyes, she had changed greatly. She was often lost in amazement—though not in his company, but when alone in her little bed-chamber, where the observing eyes of her anxious father could not watch her.

There she sat, her large blue eyes staring out of the window, with a feeling of overflowing joy, that filled her heart, a feeling she could not explain to herself, especially at his approach, the violent beating of something within her that threatened at times to take her breath away.

"Mia cara Concetta, I love you madly," had he not long since whispered in her ear. He has said that to her, the common-place daughter of the "Paesano" Niccolo Gallioti. But his dark, passionate-looking eyes made her tremble. She did not know why.

"If he could see me now in my new Sunday dress!" she thought, her glance sweeping over the crowd, as she passed along, surrounded by all the youths and maidens of the village, in her red petticoat and bodice of black silk, with snow white muslin sleeves. "There! Santissima Madonna." "He is waiting for me," she whispered happily, while a blush brighter than the red silk of her dress overspread her lovely face.

But not for all the bunches of red grapes she was so fond of would she have raised her eyes, for fear the youths and maidens might have read in them the delight of her heart at seeing the man she loved and was loved by such a man!—the violent beating within her increased at this thought. "Madonna!" She looked at the soft blue sky and the waving cactus plants in the distance. Tears of joy filled her eyes, while the golden sunshine filled every nook and corner in Nature's great realm.

Arriving at the house, she found the maid busily engaged in preparing the feast. The men were beginning to place large tables in the garden under the orange trees. Then they rolled out large casks of the new wine from the cellar. Concetta had just put on her apron, busily engaged in carrying out a tray full of dishes into the gaily decorated garden, when the door burst open. Her father stood at the entrance, with his cap in his hand, bowing reverentially to a gentleman, begging him to honor his house by entering and participating in the general frolic of the day.

A loud crash was heard. Concetta recognized him at once, the gentleman with the ensnaring eyes, and, delighted as she was, had dropped the large Sunday tray, with all the special dishes which only appeared on the Sunday table for special occasions. She was startled and happy at the same time, and hardly heard the irate father's words of blame. The voice of the little lazzaroni was heard outside singing "Napoli Bella." She looked through the window, and San Francesco, on his pedestal, smiled at her. She turned about, and met his burning glances. Her cheeks crimsoned; she was in a confusion when those dark fascinating eyes actually followed her wherever she went.

He sat by her side at the table, calling her, Concetta Gallioti, endearing names, and squeezing her hand tenderly whenever the father was not looking in their direction. And when she found his eyes constantly fastened upon her face, she felt like crying and laughing at the same time, though it looked as if she were even too shy for that.

Her innocent face was like the clear water of the Spring at Castellamare. He observed her closely, knew the symptoms and smiled maliciously, considering it an auspicious omen in his well-tried loving-making scheme.

The evening breezes rose and sank solemnly through the little green olive trees in the distance. The tables were cleared away, the meal was over and the three grotesque musicians, who had been feasting convivially, were sounding their instruments with special vigor. The dance began. All eyes were turned on Concetta, as she opened the rustic ball with the interesting stranger beneath the orange trees.

Her little heart felt as though it would burst with joy in the consciousness that he had eyes and ears for none but her, and scarcely seemed to see the most renowned beauties of the village. The whole evening he danced only with her—and what things he whispered in her ear! Her fair cheeks still clothed themselves in red—and the more they did so, the more eloquent grew his lips and the more terrifying in its passion his burning gaze.

II.

At Torre del Greco, in his dining-hall with its lofty windows, the Baron di Pavichino sat at breakfast. His bushy eyebrows contracted darkly when the long-expected visit of his nephew Luigi was announced to him.

Luigi di Pavichino, the passionate lover of the fair Concetta, now entered the room, pale and weary-eyed. For four days he had not been seen in the Palazzo di Pavichino, although not long before he had become engaged to his rich cousin. The fear of exposing himself to her displeasure now brought him here, after changing his clothes for a little more formal attire than that in which he had appeared at the peasants' festival, to explain his absence by a plausible story.

"Per Bacco! Lucetta was looking for you in vain yesterday and the day before!" began the old Baron sternly, plucking at his gray beard in a way that betokened displeasure. "If you are beginning already to provide such disappointments for your future wife, my dear Luigi, then it would possibly be more sensible to call the engagement off while there is yet time."

Luigi trembled at these words of his wealthy uncle. In fact, this marriage was his only plank of salvation, to which he clung with desperate grasp like a man fighting for life in the waves—to which he must cling in order to bring any order into his ruined financial position, which he carefully concealed from his suspecting uncle, and which had to be retrieved as soon as possible.

The fact that the estate inherited from his father, including farms and factories, was mortgaged up to the last cent, would have been sufficient to jeopardize his relations to his unattractive but richly-dowered cousin. He knew the verdict. A long-drawn sigh was the only answer he gave to himself, and besides, there was his incapability of meeting his notes indorsed by friends, falling due within a short time for considerable amounts contracted at the gaming table. Sums which had to be paid because they were debts of honor, for which he pledged his "parole d'honneur."

"Forgive me, dear uncle," he began stumblingly, with these reflections in mind.

"I went to see the Padre at the Monastery to tell him of my engagement and there—the kind monk—the harvest—the new wine—"

The weatherbeaten features of the old nobleman took on a more cheerful expression at these words.

"Per bacco!" he began, smacking his lips and winking slyly, "it must have been the new Lacrima Christi wine I sent him last week, which has made all the mischief. Ho! ho! if that's the case, my dear boy, you will soon taste the wine that will be worth the tasting," he added with a broad grin, smacking his lips again in a manner attributable to the thorough knowledge of an old wine gourmand.

"Yes, my boy, the same Lacrima Christi will be served at your wedding next month."

The atmosphere was sultry, but he shivered; and if a mirror could have been held before his eyes he would have startled back alarmed from the gray stony face so unlike his.

"Next month?" he stammered.

Until now he tried to forget the whole affair; her image was so utterly driven from his fickle heart as if it were buried twenty feet under the ruins of Herculaneum.

"Yes, my dear Luigi, I shall write at once to Torre Annunziata, and then we will celebrate a merry wedding and invite all—Why, what's the matter?" he asked greatly bewildered. "What a wry face you are making?"

"It is the pleasure—the unlooked-for surprise,—" stammered Luigi with difficulty, while his pale face grew a shade paler. The sweet face of Concetta, with the bewitching dimples from which little mocking Cupids seemed to peep out, challenging him like a siren to a kiss; her silvery laughter, her deep blue eyes like a fairy's—all that came up before his interior vision with intoxicating strength, while the thought that in four weeks he would be called upon to plight his troth to his unlovely cousin made him shudder.

Still he was careful not to drop the veil that hid his real thoughts so carefully in the presence of his suspicious uncle.

CONFESSING ALL TO THE WONDER-WORKING SAINT

"Pleasure? Ho! ho! my dear Luigi, I thought as much. Young men, young men! I have not forgotten my own youth yet—a little wild it was." He chuckled half to himself, in a low voice.

"Can I—see my fiancee now?" Luigi asked, in a half stifled voice.

"Now? So early? No, dear boy, she is still among her pillows—dreaming of you! Per Dio! today, though, is the great festival of Saint Cecelia. Our good neighbors from Torre del Greco, Portici, and Torre Annunziata will be sure to gather at Castellamare. We must go too. You shall go with Lucetta in my victoria with the four fiery Arabs, and I will follow the happy pair in a plainer carriage," continued the old baron with nods of pleasure.

It was at the same festival, at the chapel of Saint Cecelia, that he hoped this very evening to meet Concetta. The room seemed to spin round him and grow dark. "By your leave, my dear uncle, I must go at once to the club. You know, the joyful news—"

"Of your engagement?"

"Haven't you mentioned it yet to your friends," he cried, a picture of wild-eyed amazement.

"To be sure I have, but—the early date of the wedding—" he hastened to reply in a dull voice, wiping the cold perspiration from his brow.

Catching up his hat and cane, he took a hasty leave from his Uncle, with the promise to come back punctually at four o'clock. He rushed away tortured by this dreaded thought in mind; but he had to see the small army of creditors and keep them at bay with their insolent demands for money, which were becoming intolerable until after the most dreaded wedding.

III.

In Castellamare every year little shrines are erected for the feast of St. Cecelia as far as the Hotel di Stabia, which is close to the beautiful bay of Naples, known to the tourists of all nations. In these shrines, decorated with silken draperies of different colors, immense wax tapers are burning, amid which roughly painted images of the wonder-working saint are seen shining out mercifully in the brilliant afternoon sun.

She looked down with mild eyes, upon the devout multitude, that hung up their votive offerings of waxen hands, feet and hearts with tearful eyes. Then deep in prayer they besought through her the blessed Virgin's help for their various ills and woes; kissing devoutly the silken drapery.

Concetta in her new Sunday dress stood there among the praying throng. After praying for a while she moved towards the Holy shrine; her eyes moistened when she fastened with trembling hands a little waxen heart to the drapery looking up imploringly.

She saw her benignant gaze, and knelt down, confessing all to the wonder-working saint, and besought her to heal her sick heart. She hardly knew what oppressed her so, and what made her so immensely happy, at the same time. To her, woods and fields were indeed vocal, every flitting bird and gurgling brook, every passing cloud and whispering breeze brought messages of love from him. To the mercy of God and the love of Christ she now committed her love. Today in the boundless reverence and religious enthusiasm she felt the need of his presence so much more.

She looked right and left. "Something must have happened," she murmured to herself, greatly disappointed, as it was almost twilight, and nowhere was to be seen the tall imposing figure of the fascinating man so dear to her. The sun had gone down and the shadows of the summer evening commenced to gather in the near forest, and climbed, like trooping spirits, up the rocky mountain side.

"He was always so punctual," her voice faltered suddenly, and it grew dark before her eyes; she trembled so that she was obliged to grasp one of the large candle-holders near her in order to keep her from falling to the ground.

An elegant carriage with four horses had just dashed by, in which she fancied she saw her lover with a richly dressed lady; her heart contracted painfully. Sadly, with downcast eyes praying continually, she took her way back to the village.

Although with her pure and simple views of life, there was no room for doubt in her loving heart, still the disquieting thoughts that he must be rich and of high position, she could not keep altogether away. How else could he be driving about with a signora apparently of nobility? Involuntarily, hot tears trickled down her red cheeks out of the great blue eyes, like drops of rain from a patch of blue sky.

When Luigi came to the village on the following day he found Concetta's eyes swollen with weeping. She scarcely dared to raise them, still heavy with tears, to his face, for fear he should read in them her great love for him.

Luigi Pavichino, the young roue, who had succeeded quickly enough with his flattering words in making her forget the cause of her secret grief, now laughed lightly with a merriment that had none too pleasant a sound, as if he were well used to such scenes of jealousy. He called her his dear little bride, whom he loved and would always love, and therewith he kissed her rosy lips passionately, assuring her on his honor that he had been driving in no carriage, but had been at the monastery with the Padre, and then at five o'clock had come to Saint Cecelia's shrine, without seeing her.

The nearer the wedding day approached, the oftener Luigi came to the village, assuring her always of the unchangeableness of his love.

IV.

The old cloister of Santa Croce, with its classic columns, had today a festive appearance. In front of the garden, sloping down at the mountain's side, one gets a glimpse at the river Sarno, where the Porta di Stabia once was located, and the image of Minerva in terra cotta—the guardian Deity of Pompeii, was excavated intact, now in the Museum at Naples.

The old chapel was gayly decorated with rare flowers and tropical plants today, and the finest adornments of the ancient cloister, which had slumbered peacefully and been forgotten in their cupboards for a century, were brought out by the serving brothers, and cleansed and dusted of their cobwebs. They whispered excitedly putting their heads together, for the marriage of a high-born couple was a rare event within these ancient walls.

The fat prior smiled in the triple folds of his chin, on all the preparations, with quite unusual benevolence. His little steel-gray eyes, keen and shrewd in their glance, fairly sparkled as he thought of the rich fee which would come to his cloister on such an occasion from a generous noble house.

The cook of the monastery, Brother Salvatore, had some days earlier announced the festive event to Concetta's father, who supplied them with fish on fast-days. Concetta was quite childishly delighted. A noble wedding—the handsome pair—the rich costumes—all that she had never seen in her whole life; so she teased her father until he promised to take her to the wedding. Her cheeks glowed, her big eyes sparkled with pleasure, when she was sitting in the boat in her Sunday best and thinking of all the splendors that were going to be exhibited before her.

"If I understood aright the look Saint Cecelia gave me, I shall soon be standing there too!" she whispered to herself with a happy smile, while her father sat opposite her and plied the oars with accustomed hands. "Oh, the happiness, the happiness of belonging to him!" she went on in her whispered colloquy with herself, both hands clasped before her face, blushing with maidenly modesty.

Gloomy clouds began to obscure the sun. The magnificent landscape was in a few minutes wrapped, as it were, in a dark veil of mist. With shining eyes she sat in the boat watching the sky, and drinking draughts of joy with which mingled no drop of sin or selfishness in its crystal waves of purity; for she had grown up with nature as ignorant as her plants at home, of the roar and strife, the burning hate and cunning intrigue of the great world of men and women.

Frequent puffs of wind made the boat now tremble and rock. The fear of an approaching storm had laid hold of the animal world as well; the terrified sea-gulls flew wildly over Concetta's head, while a hideous owl in the neighboring olive-grove uttered its long-drawn, harsh notes, which floated out over the river. Concetta saw and heard nothing. Her thoughts were with the man to whom she had given herself in almost superhuman love, whom she was tempted to adore like the holy image of Christ before which she knelt in lowly reverence, imploring His blessing on her beloved.

She heard the sound of the great bell, which was only rung on great occasions; the nearer she came, the more joyfully beat her heart. A gaily-decked steamer lay already at the landing stage, so that they had to go a little further in order to land. They had no sooner found a place where they could moor their boat than Concetta with impatient haste sprang ashore. They then climbed the steep hill as quickly as possible. Great raindrops fell again, and began to wet Concetta's Sunday dress.

At last they reached the cloister; but they had come near missing the ceremony. The solemn tones of the organ were still sounding impressively through the chapel. Concetta, with shining eyes and wet through and through, was standing near the chapel door, contemplating the undreamed-of splendor of costumes of the high-born ladies. The bridal pair, surrounded by wedding guests congratulating them heartily, were not yet visible.

"Now! now!" there was a general movement towards the outer door of the chapel.

"Here they are coming now," whispered Concetta with sparkling eyes full of expectation, to her father, whose head was bowed reverently. Everybody rushed on in order to have an advantageous place when the bridal party passed.

Girls all in white came first, carrying bouquets in their hands, and then Luigi—pale and haggard—looking like a bad conscience personified; and on his arm came the bride all in white!

Concetta saw and heard no more.

The tortured image of Saint Antoni in the entrance stared ghostly at her, dripping drops of blood. The decaying walls of the old cloister tottered about her, flames sprang up towards her from yawning abysses; lightning shot across her brain, and Beelzebub with his infernal band gnashed his teeth at her in a laugh of malicious triumph.

She recoiled, dazed with awe-struck terror without a sound, without a cry she moved unobserved by the jostling crowd behind Luigi. Her blue eyes wide open never turned from him an instant, as if struck dumb by a horror too great for words or cry.

A little keen steel blade was glistening in her hand, and the next instant Luigi was stabbed through his treacherous heart. He fell senseless at the feet of his newly wedded bride.

The frightened wedding guests, fearing a fainting spell, rushed to him, but the blood was now flowing freely from the spot where she had stabbed him. Nobody saw her do it. He was quickly carried into the monastery, followed by the wedding guests.

Concetta uttered a wild cry, and rushed weeping aloud down the hill towards the harbor. It was already dark; the wind was now blowing with the vehemence of a hurricane over the foaming waters, and the roar of thunder shook the bathing-houses on the left hand side of the harbor. Concetta, with a sudden headlong rush, breathless and horrified had reached the landing pier. With a loud cry she threw herself into the foaming waves and disappeared.

At the same moment her father and brother Salvatore, running after her, had reached the water.

Poor Niccolo, trembling in every limb, was at first rendered almost helpless with horror; but the despair which began to hold sway over him gave him now superhuman strength. With frantic haste he unfastened his little boat, and rowed gesticulating wildly to the spot where he had seen her sink. He loved his only daughter with a love that was akin to idolatry. His grey hair fluttered wildly about his furrowed and heated brow; great tears trickled down his dark cheeks, and panting aloud he gazed down into the foaming gloomy depths.

"Santissima!" he cried aloud, "Madonna! My greatest treasure—my only child! Have mercy!"

A vivid flash of lightning illuminated the stormy surface and then—he saw the red dress floating upon the waves. "Cara mia!" he cried, with a stammering tongue, wild with joy when he had grasped her and dragged the dear form into the boat. Calling her ceaselessly by endearing names, he pressed her to his heart as though to bring back warmth and life to her young body, and covered her dear face with passionate kisses, but the beautiful head fell back pale and lifeless; the great blue eyes were closed; she was dead.

With horror in his wide strained eyes, and pallor on his quivering lips, he gazed at the prostrate form before him, the lifeless eyes staring now blankly at the sky,—the hue of life and exuberant health still glowing on the full cheeks adorned with every grace of youth and beauty.

"Morte—morte!" stammered the father, frantic with grief, tearing his grey hair despairingly. No merry glance, no roguish smile she had any more for him.

"Figlia mia morte!" he cried, beating his breast wildly. "You will be avenged, none of them will escape!" And holding the dead Concetta in his arms, he stood there erect with flaming eyes and panting breath swearing the oath of the deadly feud between him and the family, clenching his fists threateningly. The mighty grief tore at his heart strings and finally, brought bitter tears to his burning eyes, great drops streaming down over his grief-stricken face.

On the pier, Brother Salvatore had sunk upon his knees and clasped the silver crucifix, which hung at his side by a cord. Holding it out towards the boat, he raised his voice, "Benedizione!" he cried aloud. A shiver shook his emaciated frame as if the spectacle which he beheld, would have burned itself indelibly upon his memory.

The lightning flashes showed from afar the silver cross as it were—a symbol of atonement and—forgiveness.