Part 36 (2/2)

On Santa Caterina's day, the 30th of April, there is a great _festa_ in the coast towns. They hold the saint in especial honour on this sh.o.r.e, for she did much kindness there in plague-time. Vagabonds with wares to sell have a good day. There was, on one Santa Caterina's day, a young man, with a small donkey-cart and a small child and a disreputable yellow dog, who was selling embroidery. He had worked it himself; he was working at it even now, in the piazza at Varenzano, when not otherwise engaged.

But a fair is too pleasantly distracting a thing to allow of much needlework being done in the middle of it. There are so many interesting things. There are the roulette tables, round which interested but cautious groups stand, while the owners indefatigably and invitingly twirl. The gambling instinct is not excessively developed in Varenzano.

There was, of course, the usual resolute and solitary player, who stood through the hours silently laying one halfpenny after another on clubs, untempted to any deviation or any alteration of stake, except that on the infrequent occasions when it really turned out clubs he stolidly laid and lost his gained halfpennies by the other. By nine o'clock in the morning he had become a character; spectators nudged new-comers and pointed him out, with ”_Sempre fiori, quello._” The young man with the embroidery was sorry about him; he had an expression as if he were losing more halfpence than he could well afford. The young man himself lost all the stakes he made; but he didn't gamble much, knowing himself not lucky. Instead, he watched the fluctuating fortunes of a vivacious and beautiful youth near him, who flung on his stakes with a lavish gesture of dare-devil extravagance, that implied that he was putting his fortune to the touch to win or lose it all. It was a relief to notice that his stakes were seldom more than threepence. When he lost, he swore softly to himself: ”_Dio mio, mio Dio, Dio mio_,” and then turned courteously to the embroidery-seller, who was English, with a free interpretation--”In Engliss, bai George.” This seemed to the embroidery-seller to be true politeness in misfortune. The beautiful youth seemed to be a person of many languages; his most frequent interjection was, ”_Dio mio_--Holy Moses--oh hang!” After which he would add an apology, addressed to the embroidery-seller, who had a certain air of refined innocence, ”_Bestemmiar, no. Brutto bestemmiare. Non gli piace, no_,” and resume his game.

Peter, who was selling embroidery, liked him so much that he followed him when he went to try his luck at the cigar game. Here Peter, who never smoked, won two black and snake-like cigars, which he presented to the beautiful young man, who received them with immense cordiality. A little later the young man, whose name was Livio, involved himself in a violent quarrel with the cigar banker, watched by an amused, placid and impartial crowd of spectators. Peter knew Livio to have the right on his side, because the banker had an unpleasant face and Livio accused him of being not only a Venetian but a Freemason. The banker in response remarked that he was not going to stay to be insulted by a Ligurian thief, and with violent gestures unscrewed his tin lady and her bunch of real lemons and put away his board. Livio burst into a studied and insulting shout of laughter, stopped abruptly without remembering to bring it to a proper finish, and began to be pleasant to the embroidery-seller, speaking broken American English with a strong nasal tw.a.n.g.

”My name is Livio Ceresole. Bin in America; the States. All over the place. Chicago, 'Frisco, Pullman cars, dollars--_you_ know. Learnt Engliss there. Very fine country; I _should_ smile.” He did so, and looked so amiable and so engaging that the embroidery-seller smiled back, thinking what a beautiful person he was. He had the petulant, half sensuous, spoilt-boy beauty of a young Antinuous, with a rakish touch added by the angle of his hat and his snappy American idioms.

So it came about that those two threw in their lots for a time. There was something about the embroidery-seller that drew these casual friends.h.i.+ps readily to him; he was engaging, with a great innocence of aspect and gentleness of demeanour, and a friendly smile that sweetened the world, and a lovable gift of amus.e.m.e.nt.

He had been wandering on this sh.o.r.e for now six months, and had friends in most of the towns. One cannot help making them; the people there are, for the most part, so pleasant. A third-cla.s.s railway carriage, vilely lighted and full of desperately uncomfortable wooden seats, and so full of warm air and bad tobacco smoke that Peter often felt sick before the train moved (he always did so, in any train, soon after) was yet full of agreeable people, merry and sociable and engagingly witty, and, whether achieving wit or not, with a warm welcome for anything that had that intention. There is a special brand of charm, of humour, of infectious and friendly mirth, and of exceeding personal beauty, that is only fully known by those who travel third in Italy.

From Varenzano on this _festa_ day in the golden afternoon the embroidery-seller and his donkey-cart and his small son and his yellow dog and Livio Ceresole walked to Castoleto. Livio, who had a sweet voice, sang s.n.a.t.c.hes of melody in many languages; doggerel songs, vulgarities from musical comedies, melodies of the street corner; and the singer's voice redeemed and made music of them all. He was practising his songs for use at the hotels, where he sang and played the banjo in the evenings, to add to his income. He told Peter that he was, at the moment, ruined.

”In Engliss,” he translated, ”stony-broke.” A shop he had kept in Genoa had failed, so he was thrown upon the roads.

”You too are travelling, without a home, for gain?” he inferred. ”You are one of us other unfortunates, you and the little child. Poor little one!”

”Oh, he likes it,” said Peter. ”So do I. We don't want a home. This is better.”

”Not so bad,” Livio admitted, ”when one can live. But we should like to make our fortunes, isn't it so?”

Peter said he didn't know. There seemed so little prospect of it that the question was purely academical.

They were coming to Castoleto. Livio stopped, and proceeded to pay attention to his personal appearance, moistening a fragment of yesterday's ”Corriere della Sera” in his mouth, and applying it with vigour to his dusty boots. When they shone to his satisfaction, he produced from his pocket a comb and a minute hand-mirror, and arranged his crisp waves of dark hair to a gentlemanly neatness. Then he replaced his pseudo-panama hat, with the slight inclination to the left side that seemed to him suitable, re-tied his pale blue tie, and pa.s.sed the mirror to Peter, who went through similar operations.

”Castoleto will be gay for the _festa_,” Livio said. ”Things doing,” he interpreted; adding, ”Christopher Columbus born there; found America.

Very big man; yes, _sir_.”

Peter said he supposed so.

Livio added, resuming his own tongue, ”Santa Caterina da Siena visited Castoleto. Are you a Christian?”

”Oh, well,” said Peter, who found the subject difficult, and was not good at thinking out difficult things. Livio nodded. ”One doesn't want much church, of course; that's best for the women. But so many English aren't Christians at all, but heretics.”

They came into Castoleto, which is a small place where the sea washes a s.h.i.+ngly sh.o.r.e just below the town, and the narrow streets smell of fish and other things. Livio waved his hand towards a large new hotel that stood imposingly on the hill just behind the town.

”There we will go this evening, I with my music, you with your embroideries.” That seemed a good plan. Till then they separated, Livio going to try his fortune at the fair, and Peter and Thomas and Francesco and Suor Clara (the donkey) establis.h.i.+ng themselves on the sh.o.r.e by the edge of the waveless sea. There Peter got out of the cart a tea-caddy and a spirit lamp and made tea (he was always rather unhappy if he missed his tea) and ate biscuits, and gave Thomas--now an interested and cheerful person of a year and a half old--milk and sopped biscuit, and produced a bone for Francesco and carrots for Clara, and so they all had tea.

It was the hour when the sun dips below the western arm of hills that shuts the little bay, leaving behind it two lakes of pure gold, above and below. The sea burned like a great golden sheet of liquid gla.s.s spreading, smooth and limpid, from east to west, and swaying with a gentle hus.h.i.+ng sound to and fro which was all the motion it had for waves. From moment to moment it changed; the living gold melted into green and blue opal tints, tender like twilight.

”After tea we'll go paddling,” Peter told Thomas. ”And then perhaps we'll get a fisherman to take us out while he drops his net. Santa Caterina should give good fis.h.i.+ng.”

In the town they were having a procession. Peter heard the chanting as they pa.s.sed, saw, through the archways into the streets, glimpses of it.

He heard their plaintive hymn that entreated pity:

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