Fiammetta. A Summer Idyll

Front matter

WORKS BY W, W, STORY, This Day is Published. POEMS. In Two Volumes. Fcap. 8vo, 7s. 6d. VOL. I.— PARCHMENTS. AND PORTRAITS. VOL II. —MONOLOGUES AND LYRICS. HE AND SHE ; Or, A Poet's Portfolio. Fcap., 3s. 6d VALLOMBROSA. Post 8vo, 5s. NERO ; A Historical Play. Fcap. 8vo, 6s. W. BLACKWOOD & SONS, Edinburgh and London. FIAMMETTA " This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever Ran on the greensward : nothing she does or seems But smacks of something greater than herself, Too noble for this place." — Winter's Tale, Act ia-. sc. 3. FIAMMETTA A SUMMEB IDYL BY W. W. STOBY >c AUTHOR OF ' ROBA DI ROMA,' 'GRAFFITI D'lTALIA,' 'HE AND SHE,' 'CASTLE ST ANGELO,' ' VALLOMEROSA,' ETC. WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS EDINBURGH AND LONDON MDCCCLXXXVI All Rights reserved TO MY WIFE AND DAUGHTER, EMELYN STORY and EDITH MARION PERUZZI. this little story, which was written during the summer at the lago di vallombrosa, I READ TO YOU ON three beau tiful mornings, as we sat under the shadows of its whispering pines, you thought well of it — TOO well, I FEAR — AND ENCOURAGED ME TO PRINT IT.

TO YOU, THEREFORE, I DEDICATE IT, WITH MY TRUEST LOVE, AND IN MEMORY OF THOSE HAPPY SUMMER DAYS IN THE "ETRURIAN SHADES." W. W. STORY. Rome, October 1SS5. FIAMMETTA. 1 CHAPTEE I. The last days of June had come and gone in Eome, and July, still, hot, and breathless, spread its cloudless blue over the city. In the villas and under the dark-green ilexes nightingales were still pouring forth their songs of love. Larks, high up in the sky, drowned iu its light, thrilled the air of the Campagna with a continuous ripple of far, fine warblings. The silent stone-pines poised their spreading green canopies in the hot sunshine, and cast their shadows on the burnt grass. Flocks of goats crept under the shade of the lush hedges,- or the lower hollows. The great grey oxen, tor- A FIAMMETTA. mented by flies, plunged into the water-courses and lashed their sides in vain to drive away those pertinacious pests.

A continuous hum of insects filled the air ; bees were busy in the flowers; ants pursuing their strange voy ages everywhere along the earth ; butterflies floating aimlessly about, as idle as the ants were busy. A delicate purple veil shrouded the distant mountains — where here and there gleamed a village or town along their slopes. The last edge of snow had vanished from the highest peak of the Leonessa, and surrendered to the piercing arrows of the sun. The grain was ripe and yellow in the plains, and scarcely waved its heavy head in the still air. The gorgeous poppies were drooping amid the corn. The locusts which shrilled and sawed all the long morning and seemed to heat the air, paused and took their siesta after noon ; and they and the grilli again took up their strain when evening came on.

Chapter II

The next morning, true to his word, Carlo was at the train. There is nothing more boring both to the traveller and his friends than this meeting to say " Good-bye " at a train. Con versation is impossible. The traveller's mind is occupied with his luggage, in getting his seat and settling himself, and thinking whether he has left this or that thing behind ; and when this is all arranged, his thoughts are still astray and disorganised.

He shakes hands and talks spasmodically, and suddenly recollects some thing, and feels after his pocket-book to see that that is all right, and sends messages to his friends which will never be delivered ; and his friends wish him a good journey and a pleasant summer over and over again, and try to think FIAMMETTA. of something to say, and smile and stand about, and ask idle questions, and tell him the day is charming, and hope he will not find it too hot or too cold, and wish they were going with him, and say they suppose he will return at such or such a time, and if he sees Blank, to tell him or her they are well, and send him or her greetings ; and finally, to the satisfaction of all, the bell rings, and the guards begin to shut the doors ; and then he shakes hands again and says Good-bye, and mounts into the carriage and again looks up at the rack and counts his luggage, and feels in his pocket to see if his tickets are there and his luggage receipt, and finding them all right, he leans on both elbows out of the window, to the annoyance of the other passengers within ; and all the com pany look at their watches or at the great clock in the station, and the engine begins to puff, and makes a feint of starting and then stops ; and all are interested in a late traveller, who, hot and perspiring and out of breath, is hurried along the platform and shuffled into a place, glad to find anything to occupy their attention ; FIAMMETTA. 31 and when he is fairly in, and the bell rings, and the train begins to move, all cry out again Good-bye, for the twentieth time, and wave their handkerchiefs or lift their hats and smile, and watch the train as it clatters out of the station, and then, with a long sigh of relief that it is over, turn away, and go home.

The last words that Carlo said were, " Good luck to you ! and I hope you'll find your Naiad. Let me know if you do." It was with a sense of satisfaction, as if he had thrown off a weight from his shoulders, that Marco leaned back at last in his seat when the agitations of getting off were over, and saw the Campagna slip by him. The day was de lightful, a light breeze fanned through the carriage, and he had the boon of silence ; all his work was behind him, and he was glad to be away from it. His fellow-travellers were strangers, and he could give himself up to his own thoughts and reflections, and gaze undis turbed at the scene that rolled out before him with ever -varying lights and shadows — the mountains veiled in violet mists ; the waving FIAMMETTA. fields of ripening grain ; the gleaming water courses ; the eontadini toiling in the sun ; the groups of reapers that stopped from their work to gaze at the passing train ; the great grey oxen, wandering here and there in herds, or gathered in groups in the shadow of some tall tree, or along the green clumps and thickets overhanging some stream or pool ; the broad fields, painted with masses of scarlet poppies and snowy daisies, golden buttercups, dande lions, mustard, and a myriad wild flowers.

The air was scented with the odours of new mown hay ; larks were raining a mist of song from the blue heights of the sky ; and all these sights and sounds and odours lulled his senses, and passed like a vision before him. He had nothing to do but to drink in this beauty, as the meadows drank in the sunshine. And so the hours slipped away, with per petual beauty, perpetual change, the dream interrupted now and then by the nightmare of some hideous station, with its dreary prose, its grimy walls, its foul odours of smoke and oil, its noise, rattle, confusion, and vulgarity. FIAMMETTA. It was towards evening that he arrived at the station where he was to stop. As usual, there was assembled on the platform a little group of ladies and gentlemen who had villas in the vicinity, and to whom, in the dull routine of their aimless life, the evening ar rival of the train from Rome was an event of interest.

Who knows what friend they might catch a glimpse of in passing, and shake hands with, and ask the news of the city, for which they pined while they were away ? For it is only the exceptional Italian who looks at his country life in any other light than that of exile, and who does not long to be back again in the crowded city, and to sit in the cafes and watch the life in the Piazze, and wander on the public promenades and listen to the bands, and talk gossip. Among them, however, Marco found no acquaintances, and was well pleased to find none. As he hurriedly got out his luggage and stepped on the platform, how ever, he caught the well-known face of Pas quale, the vetturino, who had so often driven him over the mountains when he was a boy. c FIAMMETTA. Pasquale's red face lighted up with a smile as he recognised him, and coming forward and taking off his hat, he cried — " But how is this ?

You here, Signor Conte ! and how are you ? Well, I hope ; and what can I do for you ? " " All right," answered Marco ; " and you — the same, I hope." " All well, and a thousand thanks, except Maria. You know the little Maria ? she has taken a purge to-day (speaking with all due respect); a little disturbance, a matter of nothing. She will be all right to-morrow." When an Englishman says, "How do you do ? " his friend replies, " How do you do ? " and neither answers the question. But an Italian invariably gives you a complete account of himself, stating all the particulars of his health if he is not quite well, and what he has done for himself, and what medicines he has taken, and he expects you to do the same. It is not with them a mere formality of salu tation. " But," continued Pasquale, after these pre- FIAMMETTA. 35 liminaries were settled, " where is your lug gage ?

What can I do for you ? " " You are just the man I want," said Marco. " I am going up to the old place to spend a month or two, and I want a good little bagarino — one horse, you know — to carry me there ; one horse will do." " I've exactly the thing for you, if you have not much luggage." "Oh no; a couple of valises, and a portfolio and paint-box. There they are." " Ah ! I think we can manage those." " Well, stir about ! I'm in a hurry ; and it will take us three good hours to get there at least, if your horse is good." " The best little horse in the place, no matter what the other is. And here he is just outside." So that was all settled. The bagarino was a little one-seated trap, with a rope-netted bottom and two wheels, such as is used to go over the mountains, and the horse was one of those sturdy Tuscan ponies that will stand any amount of work, and are not wanting either in speed.

FIAMMETTA. In a few moments the luggage was in ; the beggars who thronged about them ceased their litany of whining when Marco tossed among them a few coppers, for which they scrambled and fought ; and off went the pony at a good round pace, Pasquale making the streets of the little village echo to the continuous crack of his whip, saluting the villagers that nodded to him on either side as he passed, his little Pomeranian clog barking like mad at everybody and every thing, as he whirled about on the back of the vehicle right and left, the wheels rattling over the pavement with a grinding din, and the bells on the pony's neck ringing merrily. Once off the pavement and out of the town, the bagarino rolled easily along to the chime of the bells, and the din was over. "A capital little pony this of yours," said Marco.

This simple remark was a key which opened endless rooms, suite after suite, of horse-talk, — the age of the pony, where he was found, how he was bargained for, how Pasquale had been offered double his price for him, how he FIAMMETTA. would not part with him for the best pair of horses in town, how little he ate, how many miles he could go, how capital he was as a saddle-horse, — and then followed long stories about his feats, and about other horses, that lasted an hour at least ; and Pasquale had not even then told the half he had to tell. Meanwhile the sun was westering, the sha dows were sloping low, the sunset clouds grew rosy in the west, the cool breeze began to come damply up the valleys, the cows were wandering home, the sheep were following the shepherd to their fold, and gradually a grey veil spread over the whole earth.

The road, which for some miles had been nearly level, now began to rise and grow steeper and steeper ; sometimes clinging along the side of a precipitous slope — sometimes traversing a bridge under which a torrent flowed weakly, that in winter was a furious river — sometimes again descend ing for a space, only to clamber up again. Little by little the vineyards with their rich and drooping festoons ceased ; and the smoky olives laid out in regular rows were no longer FIAMMETTA. seen, save as one looked clown upon them in the valley, and in their stead rose groves of chest nuts and firs. Here and there was a grey old farmhouse or villa, or ruin of an old castle, and at long intervals a grimy dilapidated town. The air was every moment growing cooler as they ascended, and night came on. Against the still clear sky great shadowy mountains turned their dark sides, silent and vague and mysterious.

As the light faded out of the west, a silvery splendour was seen in the east ; and the full moon rose and brimmed the valleys with its dim and ghostly pallor, and a silence came over all nature, broken only by fitful gushes of the nightingales, the long hoot of an owl, the tinkle of the bells on the pony, and the continuous whisper of the crickets in the grass. Conversation had long ceased. It seemed to Marco an impertinence to talk in such a presence ; and even Pasquale seemed to feel its influence, or, at all events, to perceive that his companion desired silence, and he in terrupted it only now and then with a chirrup to the pony. FIAMMETTA. Marco, as they went along, was dreaming of many things and of nothing. A confused stream of reminiscences, feelings, hopes, sorrows, swept through his mind, without order or consequence.

He was weary with the heat and with the journey, and now and then drowsed away into a half sleep, from which he was constantly aroused by some sharp jerk of the bagarino. At last, after a three hours' pull up the hills, and when he had for the twentieth time fallen into a drowse, he was startled by the sharp crack of Pasquale's whip, rattling out on the air with a volley right and left like pistol shots, and waking he looked about him. " Ah ! " he cried ; " here we are at last ! " " Yes, Signor Conte, here we are ; and we have done it in good time, too." So saying, he poured forth another volley of cracks, and whistled shrilly. His whistle was returned, and a light gleamed in the villa to ward which they were approaching through an avenue of cypresses. In a few minutes the bagarino stopped before the door, which was opened by the FIAMMETTA.

Fattore Pietro, and Maria, who held out a lantern to light them, and greeted them with loud cries of welcome. " Benvenuto ! benvenuto! Signor Conte." " Thank you ; thank you. You are both well, I hope. Ah ! I see you are ; and you received my letter." " Yes, Signore ; we are all well. Thanks to the Madonna, all well ; and we received your letter, and we have prepared the rooms you wished — the old rooms, you know, to the west, that you used to occupy ; and we have arranged a supper for you as well as we could, at such a short notice ; for I half suppose you will have a good appetite after your long journey ; and there is a good flask of wine — you may rely on that at least, if the rest does not suit you ; and there is a frittata of eggs, and a bisteeca of pork, and some potatoes, and some cheese ; and I am afraid that is all."

" Thanks, quite enough, and to spare ; though I own I am hungry. So this is the old house ; just the same as it was, though I see you have turned the hall into a hayloft ; but it smells sweet." FIAMMETTA. " We will have it cleared out to-morrow, Sig nore ; only we had not time to-day. But truly, truly, I am glad to see you, Signore, again. Benvenuto ! benvenuto ! Ah yes, we haven't seen you since the Count, your father, of bles sed memory, died. Ah me ! Two years ago — two years ago ; and you are looking well and strong ; and you will be glad to see the old house again ; and I and Maria are right glad too to see you. Eh, Maria ? " " Blessed be the Madonna and all the saints ! that we are," said Maria ; and nodded and curtsied and smiled. "And now, Maria," cried the old Fattore, "via, quick into the kitchen and get ready the supper, and I will light the Signore up to his room.

He will want to wash off the dust, I suppose ; and I will take up this valise, and you, Pasquale, bear a hand with the other, and look out, Signore, for the step. Ah ! you remember it, I see. It's the old room to the west that you wished. Bravo ! bravo ! This is as good as a temo at the lottery. Everybody about here will say the same. Eh, Pasquale ? And about the pony, Signor Conte ? " FIAMMETTA. " Put him into the stable, Pasquale," cried Marco ; " and give him a good feed, for he has served us well." " I told you, sir, he was a pony worth his weight in gold. You won't find such another pony hereabouts." "Ay, very true, very true," interrupted Marco, for he had heard enough about the pony's value ; " and for Pasquale himself, we must give him a room for the night, and a good feed too. He must be our guest for to-night."

"Thanks," said Pasquale; "I shall not object to that for a few hours. The pony must have a rest, and I can lie down anywhere ; don't trouble yourself, Signore, about me. It will only be for a few hours. Before daybreak I must be off and down to N- , for I have an engagement there. Any other commands, Sig nor Conte ? " " Nothing ; thanks. But I haven't paid you yet." " Oh, no matter for that ; any time will do. No, no, Signore." FIAMMETTA. 43 " Oh yes, yes. No time is so good as the present. And there it is. Is that right ? " " Perfectly ; but it was not necessary, Sig nore. And now, if you have no other commands, I will go and look after the pony." " And Pietro will look after you. So good night, and a good sleep." " The same again to you, Signore, and thanks." And Pasquale left them. And this was Marco's welcome home.

There was a heartiness and good-nature in it that warmed him to the heart, and he felt that he had acted wisely in return ing. When Pietro and Pasquale had gone out, he gazed about the room, where was all the old furniture he had known as a boy, and then looked out of the window and swept his eye over the landscape and the garden below, that once was so familiar, and then drew a long breath and said to himself, " I am glad that I came."

Chapter III

Refreshed by a long night's sleep, he awoke the next morning in good spirits, and went out before breakfast to take a look about the place and see if there were any changes. Pietro offered to accompany him, but he chose to go alone. We will, however, go with him unper ceived, though we shall not see, perhaps, with his eyes. The house itself was a rectangular villa, three storeys high, built some three centuries ago, with a broad platform in front, in the centre of which was an old stone fountain, now con siderably dilapidated and covered with moss, but from whose pipes still issued a weak stream of water that filled its shell - like basin and dropped and oozed through many a crack into FIAMMETTA. the round enclosure below, whose surface was paved with broad green leaves, under which a family of frogs had made their home, and creep ing out over the rim chanted at nightfall their low guttural chorus.

The platform was bounded by a parapet, with stone posts at intervals, on which still stood three or four old broken and rotting busts, each wanting its nose, and all of them with broken necks, clamped with rusty braces. But ivy had hung its dark-green draperies about them to cover their deformity, and the wild rose and honeysuckle clambered over them now and filled the air at twilight with fragrance. Beyond this platform opened a magnificent view over a vast valley below, sprinkled here and there with villas and farmhouses and little grey vil lages, that in the distance looked more like rocky outcrops from the hillsides and eminences to which they clung than habitations built by the hands of man. Through the lowest plain a sinuous river curved and gleamed in the sun, like a silver ribbon dropped carelessly upon its bosom.

The whole valley, with its varied out lines and prominences, viewed from above seemed FIAMMETTA. like a rolling sea of waves that had been sud denly struck into silence by some tremendous fiat, and now stood calm and motionless and serene, all their agitations over, in a dream of delicate mist. As Marco leaned on the parapet and looked out over it, bathed in the fresh morning light, he thought he had never seen a more exquisite panorama. Here and there faint blue lines of smoke rose and wavered in the air and melted away in the light from some house or village. From the convent perched upon a breezy cliff rang the far sound of bells. The voices of peasants, calling to each other or sing ing wild snatches of song, came up softened by distance. Nightingales were pouring forth their love trills.

Chaffinches were warbling their fainter strains. The cuckoo was reiterating his call that summer was come, and a myriad of birds were chanting their matin songs. On either side of the house slopes of forest rose, stretching up the mountain-sides as far as the eye could reach, here clothed with dark haired firs, there green with beeches, or whitened with chestnuts, that were now covered with FIAMMETTA. drooping clusters of pale, plumy blossoms ; and behind rose a bare hill, shaven of all its taller growth of trees, but robed by broad glowing masses of golden gorse, that were now in the full splendour of their bloom, and glorified its naked ness. Through these mountains were cloven here and there precipitous defiles, where dark shadows made their lair, while steep cliffs and escarpments of rock, rising almost perpendicu larly, frowned over them.

The whole scenery on this side was wild and serious and solitary, untrained by the hand of man, and rude in its natural grandeur, where one might range for days beyond the reach of civilisation, so called, among the wild haunts of nature ; where the storms of winter might rage at their will, and tear the forests and uproot the oaks of a century, and crowd the swollen foaming torrents over the boulders till they roared in return to the lamenting trees, and heap the hollows with snow, and drench the mountains with hail and lashing rain ; or where peaceful summer might sleep and dream in soft shadows, lulled by purling brooks, the whisper of infinite leaves, FIAMMETTA. the warble of happy birds, and the murmurous hum of swarms of innumerable insects. The house itself was, as I have said, rectan gular in shape.

A great portal in the centre led at once into a large square hall paved with stone, occupying the entire depth of the house, and opening behind upon a wide balcony. Issuing from this on one side were the offices and store rooms, and on the other was a broad staircase leading to the first floor, where again was a great central hall of the full height of the house, out of which opened all the bedrooms and the dining-room. The rooms occupied by Marco were in one corner, and the windows on either side were surrounded by a balcony which em braced them all. This had been his room as a boy, and here he had wished to return. The house, which had originally been hand some, was now in very bad repair. Little by little the greater part of the antique furniture had been sold by the old Count to raise money ; and only here and there remained a large carven wardrobe, a worm-eaten chest, a range of old benches with backs, a few ancient chairs, and FIAMMETTA. 49 a considerable number of old pictures.

All the valuable pictures had long since gone, and what remained were of little value as works of art, though they still served to garnish the walls. Among them were stiff portraits of the family, pictures of old dried-up saints, a few Holy Families, some Santa Susannas, and one or two large battle-pieces. Besides these was a con siderable number of old prints, framed and hung in the various rooms, some of them interesting, many of them curious, representing all sorts of subjects, from caricatures of the fashions of previous centuries, in odd costumes, to proof-im pressions of Marc Antonio. But throughout there was a look of dilapidation. The wain scotings were soiled and stained, the ceilings defaced, the floors without a vestige of a carpet, and no repairs had evidently been made for years, save those which were absolutely necessary.

The stables, which were large, lay behind the house, but they only harboured now a donkey and a cow; and in the square courtyard were a score or two of hens, which were running and cackling about, under the supervision of two r> FIAMMETTA. or three masterful cocks, the sultans of the yard, with their coral crests and wattles, brilliant necks and waving tails, that strutted proudly and daintily about, picking their steps and lord ing it over their meek harems with a magnificent superiority. A few extremely foolish turkeys bridled up as Marco entered the court, and swelled their wattles and thrust out their necks and gabbled at him as if they had some thing of importance to say, whereas, in point of fact, their gabbling was quite as senseless as the talk of the most fashionable saloons. After making a general survey of the whole place, Marco returned, took his breakfast, and inquired all the news of the place and the people about ; and Pietro and Maria answering by turns, and sometimes both together, told him that — " Oliva was still quite well and strong ; though Julia, her little girl — Signore, you remember Julia — was cost cosl only, and they had sent her down to the sea for baths.

And Narcisso, yes, Signore, Narcisso also was well, and was goino* to marry Marietta, the daughter of Nina of the Podere Nuovo ; and the old priest was well too, FIAMMETTA. 51 God be praised ! — a good man, always ready to do what he could for his flock. And poor old Fidele, he died during the winter ; and it was true, as Padre Anselmo said, that he was spared any more suffering, for he did suffer, you know, very much, poor man, with a toad in his stomach, they say. But who can tell ? Ser Mimo, our doctor, said that was all nonsense. It was only brown kitties in his throat. But I don't see that that was much better. However, whether it was a toad or brown kitties, he died, and peace be with him. And the winter had been hard, very hard, for all the poor people. But what will you ? Winter is always hard upon the poor.

Now they are doing well, with the strawberries and mushrooms and raspberries in the forests. Mushrooms ? I think so, by thou sands, Signore. Oh yes ; now is the time for them, as many as you like — the woods are full of them. Adone was here only yesterday with two great baskets full, which he was taking down to Revi for sale. The Lord bless us ! why did we not take some for you ? Ah, what a pity ! But then we didn't know you were FIAMMETTA. coming, that's true. Your letter only got here after he had gone. The garden ? Oh yes, Signore ; it's a picture to see. The peas are all up well, and as many as you want ; and the beans too — great big ceccini beans, that you like so much. Oh yes ; I remember how you used to like them, you and the Count of blessed memory, your father, and that other Signore that came here now and then, and said, ' Come, Marietta, you haven't forgotten the beans, have you?' 'No, Signor Principe,' I said, 'not I.' And then how merry all used to be !