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A Spirit in Prison

R >> Robert Hichens >> A Spirit in Prison




Then there was an interval--and she came again. He was waiting at the
station of Cattaro. Outside stood the little train of donkeys,
decorated with flowers under his careful supervision. Upon Monte
Amato, in the Casa del Prete, everything was in readiness for the
arrival of the Padrona--and the Padrone. For this time his Padrona was
not to be alone. And the train came in, thundering along by the sea,
and he saw a brown eager face looking out of a window--a face which at
once had seemed familiar to him almost as if he had always known it in
Sicily.

And the new and wonderful period of his boy's life began.

But it passed, and in the early morning he stood in the corner of the
Campo Santo where Protestants were buried, and threw flowers from his
father's terreno into an open grave.

And once more his Padrona was alone.

Far away from Sicily, from his "Paese," among the great woods of the
Abetone he received for the first time into his untutored arms his
Padroncina. His Padrone was gone from him forever. But once more, as
he would have expressed it to a Sicilian comrade, they were "in
three." And still another period began.

And now that period was ended.

As Gaspare rowed slowly on towards the island, in his simple and yet
shrewd way he was pondering on life, on its irresistible movement, on
its changes, its alternations of grief and joy, loneliness and
companionship. He was silently reviewing the combined fates of his
Padrona and himself.

Behind him for a long while there was silence. But when the boat was
abreast of the sloping gardens of Posilipo Artois spoke at last.

"Hermione!" he said.

"Yes," she answered.

"Do you remember that evening when I met you on the sea?"

"After I had been to Frisio's? Yes I remember it."

"You had been reading what I wrote in the wonderful book."

"And I was wondering why you had written it."

"I had no special reason. I thought of that saying. I had to write
something, so I wrote that. I wonder--I wonder now why long ago my
conscience did not tell me plainly something. I wonder it did not tell
me plainly what you were in my life, all you were."

"Have I--have I really been much?"

"I never knew how much till I thought of you permanently changed
towards me, till I thought of you living, but with your affection
permanently withdrawn from me. That night--you know--?"

"Yes, I know."

"At first I was not sure--I was afraid for a moment about you. Vere
and I were afraid, when your room was dark and we heard nothing. But
even then I did not fully understand how much I need you. I only
understood that in the Palace of the Spirits, when--when you hated
me--"

"I don't think I ever hated you."

"Hatred, you know, is the other side of love."

"Then perhaps I did. Yes--I did."

"How long my conscience was inactive, was useless to me! It needed a
lesson, a terrible lesson. It needed a cruel blow to rouse it."

"And mine!" she answered, in a low voice.

"We shall make many mistakes, both of us," he said. "But I think,
after that night, we can never for very long misunderstand each other.
For that night we were sincere."

"Let us always be sincere."

"Sincerity is the rock on which one should build the house of life."

"Let us--you and I--let us build upon it our palace of the spirits."

Then they were silent again. They were silent until the boat passed
the point, until in the distance the island appeared, even until the
prow of the boat grated against the rock beneath the window of the
Casa del Mare.

As Hermione got out Gaspare bent to kiss her hand.

"Benedicite!" he murmured.

And, as she pressed his hand with both of hers, she answered:

"Benedicite!"



That night, not very late, but when darkness had fallen over the sea,
Hermione said to Vere:

"I am going out for a little, Vere."

"Yes, Madre."

The child put her arms round her mother and kissed her. Hermione
tenderly returned the kiss, looked at Artois, and went out.

She made her way to the brow of the island, and stood still for a
while, drinking in the soft wind that blew to her from Ischia. Then
she descended to the bridge and looked down into the Pool of San
Francesco.

The Saint's light was burning steadily. She watched it for a moment,
and while she watched it she presently heard beneath her a boy's voice
singing softly the song of Mergellina:

"Oh, dolce luna bianca de l' estate
Mi fugge il sonno accanto a la marina;
Mi destan le dolcissime serate,
Gli occhi di Rosa e il mar di Mergellina."

The voice died away. There was a moment of silence.

She clasped the rail with her hand; she leaned down over the Pool.

"Buona notte, Ruffino!" she said softly.

And the voice from the sea answered her:

"Buona notte, Signora. Buona notte e buon riposo."

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