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The great business of the evening began when the eating was over, and the decanters filled with new wine of Mirano circulated freely. The four best singers of the party drew together; and the rest prepared themselves to make suggestions, hum tunes, and join with fitful effect in choruses. Antonio, who is a powerful young fellow, with bronzed cheeks and a perfect tempest of coal-black hair in flakes upon his forehead, has a most extraordinary soprano sound as a bell, strong as a trumpet, well-trained, and true to the least shade in intonation. Piero, whose rugged Neptunian features, sea-wrinkled, tell of a rough water-life, boasts a bass of resonant, almost pathetic quality. Francesco has a mezza voce, which might, by a stretch of politeness, be called baritone. Piero's comrade, whose name concerns us not, has another of these nondescript voices. They sat together with their glasses and cigars before them, sketching part-songs in outline, striking the keynote now higher and now lower till they saw their subject well in view. Then they burst into full singing, Antonio leading with a metal note that thrilled one's ears, but still was musical. Complicated contrapuntal pieces, such as we should call madrigals, with ever-recurring refrains of "Venezia, gemma Triatica, sposa del mar," descending probably from ancient days, followed each other in quick succession. Barcaroles, serenades, love-songs, and invitations to the water were interwoven for relief. One of these romantic pieces had a beautiful burden, "Dormi, o bella, o fingi di dormir," of which the melody was fully worthy. But the most successful of all the tunes were two with a sad motive. The one repeated incessantly "Ohimé! mia madre morì;" the other was a girl's love lament: "Perchè tradirmi, perchè lasciarmi! prima d'amarmi non eri così!" Even the children joined in these; and Catina, who took the solo part in the second, was inspired to a great dramatic effort. All these were purely popular songs. The people of Venice, however, are passionate for operas. Therefore we had duets and solos from "Ernani," the "Ballo in Maschera," and the "Forza del Destino," and one comic chorus from "Boccaccio," which seemed to make them wild with pleasure. To my mind, the best of these more formal pieces was a duet between Attila and Italia from some opera unknown to me, which Antonio and Piero performed with incomparable spirit. It was noticeable how, descending to the people, sung by them for love at sea, or on excursions to the villages round Mestre, these operatic reminiscences had lost something of their theatrical formality, and assumed instead the serious gravity, the quaint movement, and marked emphasis which belong to popular music in Northern and Central Italy. An antique character was communicated even to the recitative of Verdi by slight, almost indefinable, changes of rhythm and accent. There was no end to the singing. "Siamo appassionati per il canto," frequently repeated, was proved true by the profusion and variety of songs produced from inexhaustible memories, lightly tried over, brilliantly performed, rapidly succeeding each other. Nor were gestures wanting lifted arms, hands stretched to hands, flashing eyes, hair tossed from the forehead unconscious and appropriate action which showed how the spirit of the music and words alike possessed the men. One by one the children fell asleep. Little Attilio and Teresa were tucked up beneath my Scotch shawl at two ends of a great sofa; and not even his father's clarion voice, in the character of Italia defying Attila to harm "le mie superbe citt
"That was coming to us with Peppina, do you mean?" "I don't know, Madre." "Are you thinking of Giulia's foolish words about the evil eye?" "No. It's all vague, Madre. But Peppina's cross sometimes seems to me to be a sign, a warning come into the house. When I see it it seems to say there is a cross to be borne by some one here, by one of us." "How imaginative you are, Vere!" "So are you, Madre!
"And the people all swore that there were two snakes coiled up in La Madre's eyes then, and they hissed, and struck out with their fiery tongues, and the crowd fell on their knees, and the neighbors all set up a great shout of 'La Madre Ilkana, so that they quite drowned the voice of the man with the big feather." "Is that all?" asked Mae, as Lisetta paused. "What did the soldiers do?"
Leboucher called to his mother. "Madre mia! Como estas tu?" Cries rang out in French, in Tahitian and in English. Islanders, returning, demanded information as to health, business ventures, happenings. Merry laughter echoed from the roof of the great shed, and I felt my heart suddenly become joyous. The girls and women absorbed the attention of passengers not of Tahiti.
This holy love for thy little one shall bide ever with thee and grow with thy life. It is thy breath of Heaven! It shall nerve thee to do the work of thy child to live for the people he would have ruled. Him thou shalt love forever it is the will of the Madre Beatissima: but after thy child shall come his people."
I told you, madre, my own Emmy, I forgave you for marrying, because it was a soldier. 'Perhaps a soldier is to be the happy man. But you have not told me a word of yourself. What has been done with the old Crossways? 'The house, you know, is mine. And it's all I have: ten acres and the house, furnished, and let for less than two hundred a year. Oh! how I long to evict the tenants!
Youth is terribly quick to feel hostility, however subtle. The thought that her mother could be hostile to her had never entered Vere's head. Nevertheless, the mother's faint and creeping hostility for at times Hermione's feeling was really that, thought she would doubtless have denied it even to herself disagreeably affected the child. "What can be the matter with Madre?" she thought.
And while we are enjoying the protection of the soldiers it must be our business to so strengthen the defences of the town that Madre de Dios! what is happening now?"
"I see an ugly little girl: that is all." The next day the boat returned, and brought back five persons the old grandfather, Felipa, Drollo, Miguel of the island and Edward Bowne. "Already?" I said. "Tired of the Madre, Kitty: thought I would come up here and see you for a while. I knew you must be pining for me." "Certainly," I replied: "do you not see how I have wasted away?"
Not until it was done was Cleofonte permitted to see. It would spoil the pose. And then! Che magnifico pitture! It was nothing short of a miracle! The nose perhaps a little shorter but Madre Dio! what could one expect in twenty minutes! Did not the mustache need a little smoothing? Upon the morning of the performance it was Cleofonte's custom to dress it with pomatum.
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