La Tarantula
By Giddings H. Ballou
It was scarce past the meridian of a warm summer’s day, when from the inn of old Gaspar Varni, underneath the heights of Sorento, might have been heard the sound of viols, and the deep notes of the bassoon ringing clear from amidst the clash of merry voices. Music and careless mirth, the never failing concomitants of an Italian holiday, were here in full ascendency; for the birthday of the portly host happening to fall on the anniversary of St. Geronimo, the yearly festival which served to celebrate the two in one, was a matter of no small interest to the villagers. The dining room was filled almost to suffocation, and it were a matter admitting of doubt, whether the chagrined few who chanced by lateness of arrival, or other causes, to be excluded from seats at table, were not to be envied rather than pitied in the endurance of their deprivation.
Such a doubt, perhaps, was entertained by an individual dressed in a peasant’s frock and a slouched hat, who, pausing in the open doorway, regarded the mixed assembly with a half smile, not wanting a certain superciliousness which in other circumstances would have provoked instant observation. Now, however, the full swing of common enjoyment rendered every one blind to what the looker-on took no trouble to conceal. Nor did he at all lower his disdainful regard, when a veteran clad in a sort of military undress, arose from the opposite side of the tables, and waving a wine-cup in his hand, drew on himself the general attention.
“Comrades,” he said, “I give to you, Napoleon! my noble master, who, six years ago, delivered me with his own hand the shoulder-knot of a sergeant of the guard. Napoleon!—the soldier’s true friend, and the greatest man on earth. Green be his memory forever!”
The words were scarce out of his mouth, when a youth, some twenty years of age, sprang up and hastily replied:
“What right hast thou, Jean Maret, thus to celebrate in our midst, the praises of our tyrant? Dost thou deem our spirits dead to all generous emotion? A curse on the usurper who burned our country with fire, and poured out the blood of its children like water! May just Heaven pour down indignation on his head!”
This speech produced an instant commotion. Angry words were bandied back and forth, and bright steel already flashed in the light, when the sturdy voice of old Gaspar surmounted the din.
“What means this tumult?” he cried. “Shall a few wine-warmed words thus set you all agog, my merry men? Come, you forget yourselves in giving way to such causeless rage. And thou, Gulielmo, leave thy saucy quips. How darest thou thus spoil good cheer?”
The youth, with a grieved countenance, turned to go.
“’Tis not,” he said, “that I fear for threats, especially from Master Jean. Yet since thou commandest, I needs must yield.”
So saying, he passed out of the door, while the tumult having ceased, a whisper went round the room:
“Gaspar has a fine daughter; ’tis she who commands through him.”
The mirth, for a moment rudely stayed, again proceeded. Goblets clinked and wine flowed merrily, till the host, striking his hand on the table, again addressed the company:
“Good people and neighbors all,” he said, “I pledge you here my future son-in-law. Drink deep then; the wine is good, I trust, and at all events the toast merits our good will.”
The wine was forthwith lifted to lip, and at the word, the generous liquid, blushing with deeper hue than even did the landlord’s jolly nose, was drained to the uttermost drop, and the cups, turned bottom up, were replaced on the board. As the ring of the metal ceased, Master Jean, grizzle-haired and scarred with the marks of war, rose up and grimly smiled around.
“Mates,” he said, “I am not apt at making fine speeches, though I can feel as many thanks as another. I’ll give you then, our jolly host and his sweet daughter. Than he, no better rules the roast between here and the salt sea. And what maiden can compare with her in loveliness?”
This speech was received with the most decided applause by the rest of the company, who seemed eager to evince their approbation of all things at present said and done, by steadfast application to the festivities of the occasion.
Meantime, far removed from their boisterous cheer, sat within her little chamber the maiden, weeping at thought of the dreaded marriage-day, towards which the hours were rapidly hastening.
“O, Gulielmo!” such were the thoughts which she murmured, “shall I be able to support life forever removed from thee? Alas! the fate which so ruthlessly severs our mutual loves!”
Meanwhile, Gulielmo roamed the hills, his heart swelling with sadness. What use in longer adherence to home and the lowly shepherd’s lot? No, he would no longer tamely submit to poverty and the contempt which it entailed on its victim. The moment was now arrived when he must bid adieu to Rosa, loved in vain, and to Sorento, spot hitherto so loved and lonely. Thus musing, he began to trace on the sandy soil a rude outline, which certainly bore a striking resemblance to Rosa’s pretty features.
“Well done, Master Gulielmo!” suddenly exclaimed a strange voice.
The startled youth looked up, and in so doing cast his eye on a face which seemed not altogether unknown to his remembrance. The stranger possessed a visage bold and finely formed, a piercing eye, and a strongly-marked mouth set beneath a classic nose; while his tawny color told a life exposed to daily wind, and sun, and rain.
“Art thou a student of the art which is our country’s pride?” continued the latter, “or does love inspire the skill which thou hast here displayed?”
“I am no student,” Gulielmo replied; “and yet I daily try, in my unknowing way, to counterfeit the forms which I see.”
“It were pity then,” rejoined the other, “that such as thou should idly waste those talents which when duly trained would surely bring their owner fame and wealth. Suppose for instance that some great lord, or other noble patron of the arts, should send thee a couple of years to Rome;—but I forget. Perchance the maid whom thou hast pictured here, might interpose her pretty face to spoil so fair a plan?”
“Alas!” said Gulielmo, quickly, “she is not for me. And though I see that you are jesting, I tell you truly that I would go where any chance might lead me, so that I might never see her or Sorento again.”
“I do not jest,” answered the stranger. “Indeed, I know your story already. I was present just now at the inn, when you and Jean Maret fell at variance. And, friend Gulielmo, I know of a certain lord who I am confident will do you the office which your talents require. He is a Russian prince, of generous hand, although of a somewhat rough exterior. Take courage; perchance affairs may have a better turn. And if the Russian, as no doubt he will, shall take thee under his wing, mayhap old Gaspar’s purpose may yield some grace to thy ill-prospered love. Hie home then, and wait a little for the flood of fortune. I’ve faith that thy ill-luck will shortly change to good.”
The stranger turned away. Gulielmo, in mute surprise, watched his steps a while, and then hastened along the winding path which led him back to his own cottage door.