To Leeward. F. Marion Crawford
Читать онлайн книгу.
lace handkerchief, while Batiscombe sat looking at her and wondering why he had never thought her beautiful before. Indeed, she was superb in her simple, raw silk gown, with fresh-cut roses at her waist.
"It seems to me, Marchese, that you are very enthusiastic," said Batiscombe to Marcantonio.
"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed the other, shrugging his shoulders, "one cheers these things as one would cheer fireworks, or a race. It signifies nothing."
"Oh, of course," said Leonora; "and besides, it is so pretty."
"I think it is horrible," said Batiscombe, suddenly.
"Why—what?"
"To see a nation squandering money in this way, when the taxes on land are at sixty per cent. and more, and the people emigrating by the shipload because they cannot live in their own homes."
"Oh, for that matter, you are right," said Marcantonio, turning grave in a moment. "I could tell you a story about taxes."
"What is it?" asked Leonora. "Those things are so interesting."
"Last autumn I was in the Sabines; I have a place up there, altogether ancient and dilapidated—a mere ruin. I own some of the land, and the peasants own little vineyards. One day I saw by the roadside a poor old man, a sort of village crétin, whom every one knew quite well. We used to call him Cupido; he was half idiotic and quite old. He was weeping bitterly, poor wretch, and I asked him what was the matter. He pointed to a little plot of land by the road, inclosed by a stone wall, and said the tax-gatherer had taken it from him. And then he cried again, and I could not get anything more out of him."
"Poor creature!" exclaimed Leonora, sympathetically.
"Well," continued Marcantonio, "I made inquiries, and I found that he had owned the little plot, and that the tax-gatherer had first seized the wretched crop of maize—perhaps a bushel basket full—to pay the tax; and then, as that did not cover his demands, he seized the land itself and sold it or offered it for sale."
"Infamous!" cried Leonora, and the tears were in her eyes.
"A cheerful state of things," remarked Batiscombe, "when the whole crop does not suffice to pay the taxes on the soil!"
"N'est-ce pas?" said Marcantonio. "Well, I provided for the poor old man, but he died in the winter. It broke his heart."[1]
"I love the Italians," said Batiscombe; "but their ideas of economy are peculiar. I suppose that without much metaphor or exaggeration one might say that the poor crétin's bushel of corn is gone into that ridiculous ironclad over there."
"But of course it is," said Marcantonio. "The whole thing probably paid for one rivet. You, who write books, Monsieur Batiscombe, put that into a book and render it very pathetic."
"It needs little rendering to make it that," said Batiscombe, and he looked at Leonora's eyes that were not yet dry.
By this time the royal marionettes had been bundled off to their boats, and the crowd of small craft on the water began to disperse. Batiscombe's six men fell to their oars and the boat shot out from the breakwater. Presently they hoisted the bright lateen sails to the breeze. Batiscombe perched himself on the weather rail, and took the tiller, as the brave little craft heeled over and began to cut the water. The wind fanned Leonora's cheek, and she said it was delightful.
Batiscombe suggested that they should run into one of the great green caves that honeycomb the cliffs near Sorrento, and make it their dining-room. So away they went, rejoicing to be out of the heat and the noise. It was twelve o'clock, and far up among the orange groves the little church bells rang out their midday chime, laughing together in the white belfries for joy of the sunshine and the fair summer's day.
"I should like to be always sailing," said Leonora, who had now quite forgotten her woes and enjoyed the change.
"Ma chère," said her husband, "there is nothing simpler."
"You always say that," she answered rather reproachfully; "but this is the very first time I have been on the water since we came."
"My boat and my men are always at your disposal, Marchesa," said Batiscombe, looking down at her, "and myself, too, if you will condescend to employ me as your skipper."
"Thanks, you are very good," said she. "But I thought you were only passing, and were to be off in a few days?" She glanced up at him, as though she meant to be answered.
"Oh, it is very uncertain," said Batiscombe. "It depends," he added in a lower voice and in English, "upon whether you will use the boat." It was rather a bold stroke, but it told, and he was rewarded.
"I should like very much to go out again some day," she said.
Those little words and sentences, what danger signals they ought to be to people about to fall in love! Batiscombe knew it; he knew well that every such speech, in her native language and in a half voice, was one step nearer to the inevitable end. But he was fast getting to the point when, as far as he himself was concerned, the die would be cast. His manner changed perceptibly during the day, as the influence gained strength. His voice grew lower and he laughed less, while his eyes shone curiously, even in the midday sun.
The boat ran into the cave, which was the largest on the shore, and would admit the mast and the long yards without difficulty. Within the light was green, and the water now and again plashed on the rocks. The men steadied the craft with their oars and the party proceeded to lunch. Most of "society" has a most excellent appetite, and when one reflects how very hard society works to amuse itself, it is not surprising that it should need generous nourishment. The unlucky cook had done his best, and the result was satisfactory. There were all manner of things, and some bottles of strong Falerno wine. Batiscombe drank water and very little of it.
"Somebody has said," remarked Marcantonio with a laugh, "that one must distrust the man who drinks water when other people drink wine. We shall have to beware of you, Monsieur Batiscombe." He had learned the name very well by this time.
"Perhaps there is truth in it," said Batiscombe, "but it is not my habit I can assure you. The origin of the saying lies in the good old custom of doctoring other people's draughts. The man who drank water at a feast two hundred years ago was either afraid of being poisoned himself, or was engaged in poisoning his neighbours."
"Oh, the dear, good old time!" exclaimed Leonora, eating her salad daintily.
"Do you wish it were back again?" asked Batiscombe. "Are there many people you would like to poison?"
"Oh, not that exactly," and she laughed. "But life must have been very exciting and interesting then."
"Enfin," remarked Marcantonio, "I am very well pleased with it as it is. There was no opera, no election, no launching of war-ships; and when you went out you had to wear a patent safe on your head, in case anybody wanted to break it for you. And then, there was generally some one who did. Yes, indeed, it must have been charming, altogether ravishing. Allez! give me the nineteenth century."
"I assure you, Marchesa," said Batiscombe, "life can be exceedingly exciting and interesting now."
"I dare say," retorted Leonora, "for people who go round the world in boats in search of adventures, and write books abusing their enemies. But we—what do we ever do that is interesting or exciting? We stay at home and pour tea."
"And in those days," answered Batiscombe, "the ladies stayed at home and knit stockings, or if they were very clever they worked miles and miles of embroidery and acres of tapestry. About once a month they were allowed to look out of the window and see their relations beating each other's brains out with iron clubs, and running each other through the body with pointed sticks. As the Marchese says, it was absolutely delightful, that kind of life."
"You are dreadfully prejudiced," said Leonora.
"But I am sure it was very nice."
And so they talked, and the men smoked a little, till they decided that