My Friend Prospero

by Henry Harland

  IV

  Under a gnarled old olive, by the river's brim, Annunziata sat on theturf, head bowed, so that her curls fell in a tangle all about hercheeks, and gazed fixedly into the green waters, the laughing, dancing,purling waters, green, and, where the sun reached them, shot with seamsand cleavages of light, like fluorspar. In the sun-flecked,shadow-dappled grass near by, violets tried to hide themselves, but werebetrayed by their truant sweetness. The waters purled, a light breezerustled the olive-leaves, and birds were singing loud and wild, as birdswill after rain.

  Maria Dolores, coming down the path that followed the river's windings,stood for a minute, and watched her small friend without speaking. Butat last she called out, "_Ciao_, Annunziata. Are you dreaming dreams andseeing visions?"

  Annunziata started and looked up. "Sh-h!" she whispered, with anadmonitory gesture. She stole a wary glance roundabout, and then spokeas one fearful of being overheard. "I was listening to the music ofDivopan," she said.

  Maria Dolores, who had come closer, appeared at a loss. "The musicof--what?" she questioned.

  "Sh-h!" whispered Annunziata. "I would not dare to say it aloud. Themusic of Divopan."

  "Divopan?" Maria Dolores puzzled, compliantly guarding her tone. "Whatis that?"

  "Divo--Pan," said Annunziata, dividing the word in two, and always withan air of excessive caution.

  But Maria Dolores helplessly shook her head. "I'm afraid I don'tunderstand. What is Divo--Pan?"

  "Don't you know what a _divo_ is?" asked Annunziata, her clear grey eyessurprised.

  "Oh, a _divo?_" said Maria Dolores, getting a glimmer of light. "Ah,yes, a divo is a saint, I think?

  "Not exactly," Annunziata discriminated, "but something like one. Thesaints, you see, are always very good, and _divi_ are sometimes bad.But they are powerful, like saints. They can do anything they wish. DivoPan is the divo who makes all the music that you hear out of doors,--themusic of the wind and the water and the bird-songs. But you must becareful never to praise his music aloud, lest Divo Apollone should hearyou. He is the divo that makes all the music you hear on instruments--onharps and violins and pianos. He is very jealous of Divo Pan, and if hehears you praising him, will do something to you. You know what he didto King Mida, don't you?"

  "What did he do?" asked Maria Dolores.

  Annunziata stole another wary glance about.

  "Once upon a time," she recounted, always in her lowest voice, "manyyears ago, hundreds of years ago, the King of this country was namedMida. And he loved very much the music of Divo Pan. He loved to sit bythe river here, and to listen to the music of the water, and of theleaves, and of the birds. I love to do it too, and I think he was quiteright. But one day, in his house, there came a musician with a harp, andbegan to play to him. And the King listened for a while, and then hetold the musician to stop. 'Your music is very good,' he said, 'but nowI am going into the fields and by the river, where I can hear a music Ilike better.' But the musician with the harp was really Divo Apollonehimself; disguised. And this made him very angry and jealous. And topunish King Mida he changed his ears to long hairy ears, like an ass's.So, if you love the music of Divo Pan, you must be very careful not tolet Divo Apollone hear you praise it, or he will do something to you."

  And to drive home this application of her theme, she held up a warningfinger.

  Maria Dolores had listened, smiling. Now she gave a gay little laugh,and then for a moment mused. "That is a very curious bit of history,"she said, in the end. "How ever did it come to your knowledge?"

  Annunziata shrugged. "Oh," she answered, "everybody knows that. I haveknown it for years. My grandmother who lived in Milan told it to me.Doesn't the water look cool and pleasant?" was her abrupt digression, asshe returned her gaze to the Rampio. "When it is hot like this, Ishould like to lie down in the water, and go to sleep. Wouldn't you?"

  "I'm not so sure," said Maria Dolores. "I should rather fear I might bedrowned."

  "Oh, but that wouldn't hurt," said Annunziata, with security. "To bedrowned in such beautiful green water, among all those beams of light,would be nice."

  "Perhaps you are not aware," said Maria Dolores, "that when people aredrowned they die?"

  "Oh, yes, I know that," said Annunziata. "But"--she raised calm pellucideyes--"wouldn't you like to die?"

  "Certainly not," said Maria Dolores, a shadow on her face.

  "I would," said Annunziata, stoutly. "It must be lovely to die."

  "Hush," Maria Dolores rebuked her, frowning. "You must not say suchthings."

  "Why not say them, if you think them?" asked Annunziata.

  "You mustn't think them either," said Maria Dolores.

  "Oh, I can't help thinking them," said Annunziata, with a movement. "Itsurely must be lovely to die and go to Heaven. If I were perfectly sureI should go to Heaven, I would shut my eyes and die now. But I shouldprobably have to wait some time in Purgatory. And, of course, I might goto Hell."

  Maria Dolores' face was full of trouble. "You must not talk like that,"she said. "You must not. It is wicked of you."

  "Then, if I am wicked, I _should_ go to Hell?" inquired Annunziata,looking alertly up.

  Maria Dolores looked about her, looked across the river, down thevalley, as one in distress scanning the prospect for aid. "Of course youwould not," she said. "My dear child, can't we find something else totalk of?"

  "Do you think I shall have a very long and hard Purgatory?" askedAnnunziata.

  Maria Dolores threw a despairing glance at the horizon.

  "No, no, dear," she answered uneasily. "You will have a very short andgentle one. Anyhow, you'll not have to consider that for years to come.Now shall we change the subject?"

  "Well," said Annunziata, with an air of deliberation, "if you areperfectly sure I shall not go to Hell, and that my Purgatory will notbe long and hard, I think I will do what I said. I will lie down in thewater and go to sleep, and the water will drown me, and I shall die."

  Maria Dolores' face was terrified. "Annunziata!" she cried. "You don'tknow what you are saying. You are cruel. You won't do anything of thesort. You must give me your solemn word of honour that you won't doanything of the sort. It would be a most dreadful sin. Come. Come withme now, away from here, away from the sight of the river. You must nevercome here alone again. Give me your hand, and come away."

  Annunziata got up, gave her hand, and moved off at Maria Dolores' side,towards the Castle. "Of course," she said, "if I want to die, I don'tneed to lie down in the water. I can die at any moment I wish, by justshutting my eyes, and holding my breath, and telling my heart seventimes to stop beating. Heart, stop beating; heart, stop beating;--thatway, seven times."

  "For the love of Mercy," wailed poor Maria Dolores, almost writhing inher misery.... Then, suddenly, she breathed a deep sigh of relief, andfervently exclaimed, "Thank God." John was advancing towards them, downthe rugged pathway.

  "Do please come and help me with this perverse and maddening child," shecalled to him, in English. "She's frightening me half out of my wits bythreatening to die. She even threatened to drown herself in the Rampio."

  "Children of her complexion can't die," said John, in Italian, (andAnnunziata pricked up her ears). "They can only turn into monkeys, andthen they have to live in the forests of Africa, where it is alwaysdark, and all the men and women are negro savages, and all the otheranimals (except the mosquitos and the snakes) are lions and tigers.Besides, if Annunziata were to turn into a monkey, she couldn't have thesugared chestnuts that somebody or other has brought her from Roccadoro.On the chest of drawers in my room there has mysteriously appeared a boxof sugared chestnuts. I thought they were for her, but they're not,unless she will promise never to turn into a monkey."

  Annunziata's eyes had clouded.

  "Of course I won't turn into a monkey," she said, in accents at once ofdisillusion and disdain. "I did not know there was any such danger. Ishould hate to be a monkey." Then her eyes brightened again. "May I goand get them now?" she aske
d, wistful and impatient.

  "Yes," said John; "be off with you." And she went running lightly up thehill.

  He turned to Maria Dolores. Her face (clear-cut, with its dark hair,against the red background of her sunshade) was white and drawn withpain. But she smiled, rather wanly, as her gaze met his, and said, in aweak voice, "Oh, I am so glad you came. I can't tell you how she wasfrightening me." And all at once her eyes filled with tears.

  I needn't say whether John was moved, whether it was his impulse to takeher in his arms and dry her tears with kisses. He did actually, on thatimpulse, give a perceptible start towards her, but then he restrainedhimself. "The child ought to be whipped," he broke out angrily. "Youmust not take her prattle so seriously."

  "But _she_ was so serious," said Maria Dolores. "Oh, when shethreatened to lie down in the river, and let herself be drowned--!" Hervoice failed her, as at the inexpressible.

  "No fear of that," said John. "The first touch of the cold water (andicy-cold it is, a glacier-stream, you know) would bring her to hersenses. But come! You must not think of it any more. You have had a badshock, but no bones are broken, and now you must try to banish it allfrom your mind."

  "What an unaccountable child she is!" said Maria Dolores. "Surely it isunnatural and alarming for a child to have her head so teeming withstrange freaks and fancies. Oh, I pray God to grant that nothing mayhappen to her."

  "The most serious evil that's likely to happen to her for the present,"said John, "will be an indigestion of marrons glaces."

  Maria Dolores' tears had gone now. She smiled. But afterwards she lookedgrave again. "Oh, I wish I could get the dread of something happening toher out of my heart. I wish she wasn't so pale and fragile-looking," shesaid. Then there came a gleam in her eyes. "But you were going for awalk, and I am detaining you."

  "The object of my walk has been accomplished," said John.

  "Oh?" questioned she.

  "I was walking in the hope, on the chance, that I might meet you," hehardily explained. "It's such an age since I've seen you. Are you makingfor the garden? I pray you to be kind, and let me go with you. I've beenan exile and a wanderer--I've been to Roccadoro."

  She had rebegun her ascension of the hill. The path was steep, as wellas rugged. Sometimes John had to help her over a hard bit. The touch ofher hand, soft and warm, and firm too, in his; the sense of hercloseness; the faint fragrance of her garments, of her hair,--thesethings, you may be sure, went to his head, went to his heart. The gardenlay in a white blaze of sunshine, that seemed almost material, like anincandescent fluid; but the entrance to the avenue was dark andinviting. "Let us," he proposed, "go and sit on a marble bench under theglossy leaves of the ilexes, in the deep, cool shade; and let's playthat it's a thousand years ago, and that you're a Queen (white QueenBlanche, like a queen of lilies), and that I'm your minstrel-man."

  "What song will you sing me?" asked she gaily, as they took their placeson the marble bench. It was semicircular, with a high carved back,(carved with the armorials of the Sforzas), and of course it waslichen-stained, grey and blue and green, yellow and scarlet.

  "_White Queen Blanche, like a queen of lilies, Fairer and dearer than dearest and fairest, To hear me sing, if it her sweet will is,-- Sing, minstrel-man, of thy love, an thou darest_,"

  trolled John, in his light barytone, to a tune, I imagine, improvisedfor the occasion. "But if it's a thousand years ago," he laughed, "thatsong smacks too much perhaps of actuality, and I had best chooseanother."

  Maria Dolores joined in his laugh. "I did not know you sang," she said."Let me hear the other."

  "A song," reflected he, "that I could sing with a good deal of feelingand conviction, would be 'Give her but the least excuse to love me.'"

  Maria Dolores all at once looked sober.

  "Oughtn't you to be careful," she said, "to give her no excuse at all tolove you, if you are really resolved never to ask her to be your wife?"

  "That is exactly what I have given her," answered John, "no excuse atall. I should sing in a spirit purely academic,--my song would be theutterance of a pious but hopeless longing, of the moth's desire for thestar."

  "But she, I suppose, isn't a star," objected Maria Dolores. "She'sprobably just a weak human woman. You may have given her excuses withoutmeaning to." There was the slightest quaver in her voice.

  John caught his breath; he turned upon her almost violently. But she wasfacing away from him, down the avenue, so that he could not get hereyes.

  "In that case," she said, "wouldn't you owe her something?"

  "I should owe myself a lifetime's penance with the discipline," John ona solemn tone replied, hungrily looking at her cheek, at the littletendrils of dark hair about her brow. "God knows what I should owe toher."

  "You would owe it to her," said Maria Dolores, always facing away, "totell her your love straightforwardly, and to ask her to marry you."

  John thrilled, John ached. His blue eyes burned upon her. "What else doyou think I dream of, night and day? But how could I, with honour? Youknow my poverty," he groaned.

  "But if she has enough, more than enough, for two?" softly urged MariaDolores.

  "Ah, that's the worst of it," cried he. "If we were equals in penury, ifshe had nothing, then I might honourably ask her, and we could live onherbs together in a garret, and I could keep her respect and my own. Oh,garret-paradise! But to marry a woman who is rich, to live in luxurywith her, and to try to look unconscious while she pays the bills,--shewould despise me, I should abhor myself."

  "Why should she despise you?" asked Maria Dolores. "The possession ofwealth is a mere accident. If people are married and love each other, Ican't see that it matters an atom whether their money belonged in thefirst place to the man or to the woman,--it would belong henceforward tothem both equally."

  "That is a very generous way of looking at it, but it is a woman's way.No decent man could accept it," said John.

  "Up to a certain point," said Maria Dolores, slowly, "I understand yourscruples. I understand that a poor man might feel that he would not liketo make the advances, if the woman he loved was rich. But suppose thewoman loved him, and knew that he loved her, and knew that it was onlyhis poverty which held him back, then _she_ might make the advances. Shemight put aside her pride, and go halfway to meet him, and to remove hisdifficulties and embarrassments. If, after that, he still did not askher, I think his scruples would have become mere vanity,--I think itwould show that he cared more for his mere vanity than for herhappiness."

  Her voice died out. John could see that her lip quivered a little. Histhroat was dry. The pulses were pounding in his temples. His brain wasall a confusion. He hardly knew what had befallen him, he hardly knewwhat she had said. He only knew that there was a great ball of fire inhis breast, and that the pain of it was half an immeasurable joy.

  "God forgive me," the absurd and exaggerated stickler for the dignity ofhis sex wildly cried. "God knows how I love her, how I care for herhappiness. But to go to her empty-handed,--but to put myself in theposition of being kept by a woman,--God knows how impossible it is."

  Maria Dolores stood up, still looking away from him.

  "Well, let us hope," she said, changing her tone to one of unconcerneddetachment, "that we have been discussing baseless suppositions. Let ushope that her heart is quite untouched. And for both your sakes," sheconcluded, her head in the air, "let us hope that you and she will nevermeet again. Good-bye."

  She gave him a curt little nod, and walked lightly, rapidly up theavenue.

  John's brain was all a confusion. He looked after her helplessly. Heonly knew that there was a great ball of fire in his breast, and thatthe pain of it was now unmixed.