A Spirit in Prison. Robert Hichens
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The two men, lying at full length in it, their faces buried in their hands, were already asleep. But the boy, sitting astride on the prow, with his bare feet dangling on each side of it to the clear green water, was munching slowly, and rather seriously, a hunch of yellow bread, from which he cut from time to time large pieces with a clasp knife. As he ate, lifting the pieces of bread to his mouth with the knife, against whose blade he held them with his thumb, he stared down at the depths below, transparent here almost to the sea bed. His eyes were wide with reverie. He seemed another boy, not the gay singer of five minutes ago. But then he had been in the blaze of the sun. Now he was in the shade. And swiftly he had caught the influence of the dimmer light, the lack of motion, the delicate hush at the feet of San Francesco.
This time he did not know that he was being watched. His reverie, perhaps, was too deep, or their gaze less concentrated than it had been before. And after a moment, Hermione moved away.
“You are going in, Madre?”
“Yes.”
“Do you mind if I give something to that boy?”
“Do you mean money?”
“Oh no. But the poor thing’s eating dry bread, and—”
“And what, you puss?”
“Well, he’s a very obedient boy.”
“How can you know that?”
“He was idling in the boat, and I called out to him to jump into the sea, and he jumped in immediately.”
“Do you think because he heard you?”
“Certainly I do.”
“You conceited little creature! Perhaps he was only pleasing himself!”
“No, Madre, no. I think I should like to give him a little reward presently—for his singing too.”
“Get him a dolce, then, from Carmela, if there is one. And you can give him some cigarettes.”
“I will. He’ll love that. Oh dear! I wish he didn’t make me dissatisfied with myself!”
“Nonsense, Vere!”
Hermione bent down and kissed her child. Then she went rather quickly away from the pavilion and entered the Casa del Mare.
CHAPTER II
After her mother had gone, Vere waited for a moment, then ran lightly to the house, possessed herself of a dolce and a packet of cigarettes, and went down the steps to the Pool of San Francesco, full of hospitable intentions towards the singing boy. She found him still sitting astride of the boat’s prow, not yet free of his reverie apparently; for when she gave a low call of “Pescator!” prolonging the last syllable with the emphasis and the accent of Naples, but always softly, he started, and nearly dropped into the sea the piece of bread he was lifting to his mouth. Recovering himself in time to save the bread deftly with one brown hand, he turned half round, leaning on his left arm, and stared at Vere with large, inquiring eyes. She stood by the steps and beckoned to him, lifting up the packet of cigarettes, then pointing to his sleeping companions:
“Come here for a minute!”
The boy smiled, sprang up, and leaped onto the islet. As he came to her, with the easy, swinging walk of the barefooted sea-people, he pulled up his white trousers, and threw out his chest with an obvious desire to “fare figura” before the pretty Padrona of the islet. When he reached her he lifted his hand to his bare head forgetfully, meaning to take off his cap to her. Finding that he had no cap, he made a laughing grimace, threw up his chin and, thrusting his tongue against his upper teeth and opening wide his mouth, uttered a little sound most characteristically Neapolitan—a sound that seemed lightly condemnatory of himself. This done, he stood still before Vere, looking at the cigarettes and at the dolce.
“I’ve brought these for you,” she said.
“Grazie, Signorina.”
He did not hold out his hand, but his eyes, now devoted entirely to the cigarettes, began to shine with pleasure. Vere did not give him the presents at once. She had something to explain first.
“We mustn’t wake them,” she said, pointing towards the boat in which the men were sleeping. “Come a little way with me.”
She retreated a few steps from the sea, followed closely by the eager boy.
“We sha’n’t disturb them now,” she said, stopping. “Do you know why I’ve brought you these?”
She stretched out her hands, with the dolce and the cigarettes.
The boy threw his chin up again and half shut his eyes.
“No, Signorina.”
“Because you did what I told you.”
She spoke rather with the air of a little queen.
“I don’t understand.”
“Didn’t you hear me call out to you from up there?”—she pointed to the cliff above their heads—“when you were sitting in the boat? I called to you to go in after the men.”
“Why?”
“Why! Because I thought you were a lazy boy.”
He laughed. All his brown face gave itself up to laughter—eyes, teeth, lips, cheeks, chin. His whole body seemed to be laughing. The idea of his being lazy seemed to delight his whole spirit.
“You would have been lazy if you hadn’t done what I told you,” said Vere, emphatically, forcing her words through his merriment with determination. “You know you would.”
“I never heard you call, Signorina.”
“You didn’t?”
He shook his head several times, bent down, dipped his fingers in the sea, put them to his lips: “I say it.”
“Really?”
There was a note of disappointment in her voice. She felt dethroned.
“But then, you haven’t earned these,” she said, looking at him almost with rebuke, “if you went in of your own accord.”
“I go in because it is my mestiere, Signorina,” the boy said, simply. “I go in by force.”
He looked at her and then again at the cigarettes. His expression said, “Can you refuse me?” There was a quite definite and conscious attempt to cajole her to generosity in his eyes, and in the pose he assumed. Vere saw it, and knew that if there had been a mirror within reach at that moment the boy would have been looking into it, frankly admiring himself.
In Italy the narcissus blooms at all seasons of the year.
She was charmed by the boy, for he did his luring well, and she was susceptible to all that was naturally picturesque. But a gay little spirit of resistance sprang up like a flame and danced within her.
She let her hands fall to her sides.
“But you like going in?”
“Signorina?”
“You enjoy diving?”
He shrugged his shoulders, and again used what seemed with him a favorite expression.
“Signorina, I must enjoy it, by force.”
“You do it wonderfully. Do you know that? You do it better than the men.”
Again the conscious look came into the boy’s face and body, as if his soul were faintly swaggering.
“There