Vendetta! | Page 9

came and stayed with us, and while the cholera, like a
sharp scythe put into a field of ripe corn, mowed down the dirt- loving
Neapolitans by hundreds, we three, with a small retinue of servants,
none of whom were ever permitted to visit the city, lived on
farinaceous food and distilled water, bathed regularly, rose and retired
early, and enjoyed the most perfect health.
Among her many other attractions my wife was gifted with a beautiful
and well-trained voice. She sung with exquisite expression, and many
an evening when Guido and myself sat smoking in the garden, after
little Stella had gone to bed, Nina would ravish our ears with the music
of her nightingale notes, singing song after song, quaint stornelli and
ritornelli--songs of the people, full of wild and passionate beauty. In
these Guido would often join her, his full barytone chiming in with her
delicate and clear soprano as deliciously as the fall of a fountain with
the trill of a bird. I can hear those two voices now; their united melody
still rings mockingly in my ears; the heavy perfume of orange-blossom,
mingled with myrtle, floats toward me on the air; the yellow moon
burns round and full in the dense blue sky, like the King of Thule's
goblet of gold flung into a deep sea, and again I behold those two heads
leaning together, the one fair, the other dark; my wife, my friend--those
two whose lives were a million times dearer to me than my own. Ah!
they were happy days--days of self-delusion always are. We are never
grateful enough to the candid persons who wake us from our
dream--yet such are in truth our best friends, could we but realize it.
August was the most terrible of all the summer months in Naples. The
cholera increased with frightful steadiness, and the people seemed to be
literally mad with terror. Some of them, seized with a wild spirit of
defiance, plunged into orgies of vice and intemperance with a reckless
disregard of consequences. One of these frantic revels took place at a
well-known cafe. Eight young men, accompanied by eight girls of
remarkable beauty, arrived, and ordered a private room, where they
were served with a sumptuous repast. At its close one of the party
raised his glass and proposed, "Success to the cholera!" The toast was
received with riotous shouts of applause, and all drank it with delirious
laughter. That very night every one of the revelers died in horrible

agony; their bodies, as usual, were thrust into flimsy coffins and buried
one on top of another in a hole hastily dug for the purpose. Dismal
stories like these reached us every day, but we were not morbidly
impressed by them. Stella was a living charm against pestilence; her
innocent playfulness and prattle kept us amused and employed, and
surrounded us with an atmosphere that was physically and mentally
wholesome.
One morning--one of the very hottest mornings of that scorching
month--I woke at an earlier hour than usual. A suggestion of possible
coolness in the air tempted me to rise and stroll through the garden. My
wife slept soundly at my side. I dressed softly, without disturbing her.
As I was about to leave the room some instinct made me turn back to
look at her once more. How lovely she was! she smiled in her sleep!
My heart beat as I gazed--she had been mine for three years--mine
only!--and my passionate admiration and love of her had increased in
proportion to that length of time. I raised one of the scattered golden
locks that lay shining like a sunbeam on the pillow, and kissed it
tenderly. Then--all unconscious of my fate--I left her.
A faint breeze greeted me as I sauntered slowly along the garden
walks--a breath of wind scarce strong enough to flutter the leaves, yet it
had a salt savor in it that was refreshing after the tropical heat of the
past night. I was at that time absorbed in the study of Plato, and as I
walked, my mind occupied itself with many high problems and deep
questions suggested by that great teacher. Lost in a train of profound
yet pleasant thought, I strayed on further than I intended, and found
myself at last in a by-path, long disused by our household--a winding
footway leading downward in the direction of the harbor. It was shady
and cool, and I followed the road almost unconsciously, till I caught a
glimpse of masts and white sails gleaming through the leafage of the
overarching trees. I was then about to retrace my steps, when I was
startled by a sudden sound. It was a low moan of intense pain--a
smothered cry that seemed to be wrung from some animal in torture. I