Maiden Voyages (18 page)

Very delightful were the demonstrations of attachment interchanged between these two. Mai Noie bore the child in her arms to and from the school, fed her, humoured her every whim, fanned her naps, bathed and perfumed her every night, and then rocked her to sleep on her careful bosom, as tenderly as she would have done for her own baby. And then it was charming to watch the child’s face kindle with love and comfort as the sound of her friend’s step approached.

Suddenly a change; the little princess came to school as usual, but
a strange woman attended her, and I saw no more of Mai Noie there. The child grew so listless and wretched that I was forced to ask the cause of her darling’s absence; she burst into a passion of tears, but replied not a word. Then I inquired of the stranger, and she answered in two syllables—
My ru
(“I know not”).

Shortly afterward, as I entered the school-room one day, I perceived that something unusual was happening. I turned toward the princes’ door, and stood still, fairly holding my breath. There was the king, furious, striding up and down. All the female judges of the palace were present, and a crowd of mothers and royal children. On all the steps around, innumerable slave-women, old and young, crouched and hid their faces.

But the object most conspicuous was little Wanne’s mother manacled, and prostrate on the polished marble pavement. There, too, was my poor little princess, her hands clasped helplessly, her eyes tearless but downcast, palpitating, trembling, shivering. Sorrow and horror had transformed the child.

As well as I could understand, where no one dared explain, the wretched woman had been gambling again, and had even staked and lost her daughter’s slaves. At last I understood Wanne’s silence when I asked her where Mai Noie was. By some means—spies probably—the whole matter had come to the king’s ears, and his rage was wild, not because he loved the child, but that he hated the mother.

Promptly the order was given to lash the woman; and two Amazons advanced to execute it. The first stripe was delivered with savage skill; but before the thing could descend again, the child sprang forward and flung herself across the bare and quivering back of her mother.

Ti chan, Tha Moom!
^*
Poot-thoo ti chan, Tha Mom!
(“Strike
me
, my father! Pray, strike me, O my father!”)

The pause of fear that followed was only broken by my boy, who, with a convulsive cry, buried his face desperately in the folds of my skirt.

There indeed was a case for prayer,
any
prayer!—the prostrate woman, the hesitating lash, the tearless anguish of the Siamese child,
the heart-rending cry of the English child, all those mothers with grovelling brows, but hearts uplifted among the stars, on the wings of the Angel of Prayer. Who could behold so many women crouching, shuddering, stupefied, dismayed, in silence and darkness, animated, enlightened only by the deep whispering heart of maternity, and not be moved with mournful yearning?

The child’s prayer was vain. As demons tremble in the presence of a god, so the king comprehended that he had now to deal with a power of weakness, pity, beauty, courage, and eloquence. “Strike
me
, O my father!” His quick, clear sagacity measured instantly all the danger in that challenge; and though his voice was thick and agitated (for, monster as he was at that moment, he could not but shrink from striking at every mother’s heart at his feet), he nervously gave the word to remove the child, and bind her. The united strength of several women was not more than enough to loose the clasp of those loving arms from the neck of an unworthy mother. The tender hands and feet were bound, and the tender heart was broken. The lash descended then, unforbidden by any cry.

(1862–1940)

from
LOVE AMONG THE BUTTERFLIES

When I arrived at Palermo, though it was scarcely more than 4
A
.
M
. the sun was up, and had already left the mountains golden. Oh, that I were there now! I never spent one dull moment when I was at Palermo. I will not endure the loneliness I have known in the past ever again, and I was determined wherever I was to make friends with all who I met. My first step was to hunt up Signor Ragusa, a well-known Sicilian entomologist; he was the proprietor of the Grand Hotel des Palmes, so
I lost no time in repairing thither. The information he gave me was most valuable, for
M. Pherusa
, the butterfly I most wished to find, was, I knew, like all butterflies of that genus, most local in its habits; it was therefore a grand point for me to hear the precise locality for it, at the foot of Monte Cuccio, about five miles from Palermo.

I would drive to Bocco di Falco, a straggling dirty village, full of hens and goats, and spend the long hours of those sweet summer days hunting the
Pherusa
, a wild, wind-blown creature who would often lead me a long and arduous chase over the loose stones and tangled herbage, to escape in the end, but they were so common in this one spot that to lose sight of one was soon to see another, so I always returned home with a crowded pocket box. Then I would spend my time setting them in my bedroom at the Hotel de France, till it was nearly dinner time, when I would go down, always trying to make myself agreeable to anyone I happened to be sitting next, probably to find myself the only woman at the table with some fifteen to twenty men.

So the long, happy, sunny days went by and I loved each one as it passed, though I will not say I altogether cared for the attention I attracted when I walked along the Corso in butterfly attire—net, knapsack and all complete. But all the same, every empty “carrozza” seemed to think I was sufficiently respectable, the sponge man never failed to solicit my custom, and the beggars seemed to consider me a person of means. Another time when I would be dressed to my best advantage, going along the same Corso for shopping or what not, I would wonder however I dared to make my appearance in butterfly attire among so many smartly dressed people.

A new epoch was beginning in my life which I attributed almost entirely to my having discovered a new and very becoming way of doing my hair! (A foolish reason, but Uncle Edward always used to say, the difference between a pretty woman and an ugly one was the way she did her hair.) The very first day I walked out (not, however, in butterfly attire) with this new fashion adopted, I was followed and finally joined by three Palermo youths, who afterwards on their own evidence I found belonged to the fastest set in the town. I spent the morning with them, and pleasantly enough too; we all went together to see the view from Santa Maria di Jesu, a walk some way out into the country, along dusty
white roads, hot enough for anything. Then I and these boys (for they really were only boys, compared with the weight of years
I
carried on my shoulders!) sat down in a lemon garden, and drank lemon water, and ate the white skins of the lemons, a fourth having joined the party, an indescribably comical youth who evidently considered that he was my champion, and as I had no objection to having the flowers etc. carried for me, I graciously accepted his attentions.

He did not come the whole way back to Palermo, but with much importance explained that he was obliged to return to look after his peasants who, he said, would be lazy without his supervision. But before he went, he had persuaded me to say (rather against my better judgement) that I would go to the theatre that evening with him and his companions.

Now, there was staying in the hotel a tall Italian with a dark beard, who had shown me some little civilities, such as lending me his Baedeker. This man spoke English extremely well, and as I had rather suspected him of taking a slight interest in me, I resolved to relate to him at dinner my adventures of the morning and ask his opinion about the discretion of my going to the theatre. He listened with some interest, and only said: “Very kind of them.”

“So you advise me to go?” I asked.

“If you think you would care to go to the theatre this evening, yes, by all means, but will you not come out with me?”

“How can I, if I am going with them?” I innocently enquired. So it was left so, and I went up to my room not without some misgivings but knowing that I had a head on my shoulders and ought, at my age, to be able to take care of myself. I had not been there long when a knock came at the door. “Avanti!” I said at once, thinking it was the waiter come to announce the arrival of my knights below, but only another knock came, so I opened the door.

Two figures were standing outside in the dim light in the passage. They neither of them spoke, so I stepped out, and having moved into a better light, soon recognised the comical youth, and one of his friends. They seemed slightly embarrassed at their own boldness, and I didn’t wonder at it. However, they recovered their composure and said they had come to inform me that tonight it was a “Riposo” at the theatre,
but if I would like a walk they were at my disposition. It was a hot, dark summer’s night, and we walked along the Marina, down by the sea, and talked gaily enough. The comical youth said he did not wish me to think of him as “comico” but rather as “simpatico.” Of course, I soon saw the bent of his inclinations, and was wondering how I should parry the blow, when it came in this wise: “Signorina, a che ora va a’ letto?” (What time do you go to bed?) I replied early, adding, and up early in the morning. This voluntary, additional information put him off his stroke for a moment, but only for a moment. I knew an improper proposition was coming, and soon enough out it came. “Signorina, when you go to bed, do you go to sleep quickly?” I replied that I always did go to sleep very quickly and pretended not to understand his meaning.

Nothing daunted, the comical youth returned to the charge; “Signorina,” he began somewhat plaintively, “I would so much like to see your butterflies.”

I gave my consent and said he might see them tomorrow, as they looked prettier in the day time. This was a poser, for a moment, and then he persisted in saying that to
him
they would look prettier at night. And then I followed the idea, he evidently conjectured that to see my butterflies would entail a visit to my bedroom, but as I did not intend to have my virgin room invaded by him or anybody else, I said, “Very well, so you shall see them, and if you and your friend like to go and wait in the Salon, I will bring them down and show them to you.” This was one too many for him; he was quite disconcerted at last. I wished them both goodnight just inside the hotel, and never again did I set eyes on the comical youth and his companions.

The tall Italian, with the dark beard, was more attentive than ever the next day, begging hard that I would not decide to leave for Syracuse, so soon as the following Saturday. But I was obdurate. The more he wished me to stay, the more for that very reason alone, if for no other, did I intend to go. However, when he took it almost as a matter of course that I should go out with him that evening, I raised no objections, and the next day we spent the long afternoon in the Villa Belmonte, a wild, rambling garden, half cultivated, half left to run to ruin. It came on to rain, a soft, warm saturating rain, which made me feel I was in
England, as I heard the rain-drops dripping on the leaves, and smelt the sweet scent. But he never forced himself upon me as others might have done, through those long hours we spent alone together, for he was a high-bred gentleman, though I did not then know that he was a baron.