The Hill of Venus

by Nathan Gallizier

  CHAPTER III

  AN INTERLUDE

  Meantime, the atmosphere of this secular court was not distasteful toFrancesco. The love of poetry and the arts which had made Naples inthe twelfth century the literary centre of Europe, still lingered; andhe found pleasant intercourse on lines along which he had long beenlonely.

  Of Ilaria he saw little. She carried herself with a strange, newdignity and seemed to avoid him even more sedulously than he hadplanned to avoid her. He heard her spoken of as among the chiefbeauties of the court. The Regent, it was said, had shown her marks ofespecial favor, the more noteworthy as the Frangipani were on the sideof the empire, fighting against Clement and Charles of Anjou. But hisonly opportunity of seeing her was at the court functions, which itwas his duty to attend. To men of Francesco's temperament the absenthas a more constraining force than the present; the dream-Ilaria, withher wavering smile, had borne, it would seem, more intimate relationsto his life than the woman he watched from afar. But his restlessnessincreased with the certainty that Ilaria avoided him; a circumstancetheir meeting had not led him to fear.

  Thus a week dragged on.

  The African wind, which carries with it clouds of hot sand from thedepths of the Sahara, was raging in the upper regions of the air. Onearth there was still absolute calm. The leaves of the palm and thebranches of the mimosa hung motionless; the sea alone was agitated.Huge, formless ridges swelled up here and there, dashing themselvesagainst the shore. The west was shrouded in dense gloom, and the sun,in the metallic, cloudless haze, was seen dimly, as through a smokedopal.

  The Castello of Astura in the distant plains of Torre del Greco shonewhite against the black smoke that rose from Vesuvius as from somemighty furnace, spreading out in the shape of a long cloud fromCastellamare to Posilippo. For weeks the mountain had displayed asinister activity, and at night the red fires were visible far away,over land and sea, like the glow of some great subterranean furnace.The peaceful altar of the gods had been transformed into the terribletorch of the Eumenides.

  There were dire forebodings of coming disaster in the air and in thewinds. At Torre del Greco penitential processions made the rounds ofthe sun-baked streets, with lighted candles, subdued chanting and loudsobbing. In Resina and Portici dull terror reigned. And the glare ofthe August sun had become almost insufferable, as it fell full overthe waters to the pencilled line of the southern horizon, where a longcircle divided the misty, shimmering dove-color of the Tyrrhene Seafrom the hazy skies.

  Then, like the knell of doom, the tidings of the fatal battle ofTagliacozzo were wafted to Naples. Conradino's army had been utterlyrouted. Charles of Anjou was the victor of the day.

  The fate of the Swabian youth and that of his companions was still amatter of surmise. They had fled from the battle-field. No one knewthe direction of their flight.

  And for days Francesco went about as one dazed. The Neapolitanslaughed his exhortations to scorn, and seemed to invite the interdictrather than to submit to the Vulture of Provence.

  He was ruminating over the situation, wishing for some inspiration,wishing for Ilaria, and noting idly how the soft siesta lights playedupon the sea, when Francesco perceived a little pleasure barqueskirting the coast, and heading apparently for his favoritespot,--where he had met Ilaria on coming to Naples. As the breezeimpelled it nearer, music floated over the waters. A few moments, andhe descried within the boat three of the most charming of the youngerwomen of the court, with their attendant cavaliers. He eyed the littleboat longingly, as it approached like some swift sprite of the sea. Itwas at hand now, moored to the tiny wharf, and one of the women calledout gaily:

  "Messer Eremito, we have found your cell!"

  "And like many hermits," laughed Stefano Maconi, "he appears towelcome the intrusion."

  "To be welcomed by Messer Francesco," suggested another, "we should beon the barque which Charon is rowing across the Styx."

  Francesco found his tongue at last.

  "Beauty should always have precedence over departed souls," he saidwith a smile. "Is it your pleasure to land and to enliven thissolitude?"

  "No, but to lure you out upon the waters," said the woman who hadspoken.

  Francesco, carried away by the spirit of the moment, ran down themarble steps of the terrace and leaped lightly into the boat.

  "Violetta made a wager that you would not come,--Petronella that youwould," said a third. "As for myself--I was neutral. But my fears werewith Violetta."

  As the sun sank lower, the wind dropped, and the men bent singing totheir oars.

  "We were playing a game, Messere," said the Countess Violetta. "We aretrying to decide who is the fairest lady of this court, exclusive, ofcourse,--of us three. If we can agree, we shall plan a surprise forthat most lovely one!"

  "My vote," said Messer Romano Vivaldi, "is for Madonna Ghisola. Thedusk of her hair is as soft as that of the thickest smoke of Vesuvius,and, as in the smoke, there are red reflections in it!"

  "Beware of the volcano," laughed Petronella. "A merry beauty for me,"she improvised, speaking half verse, half prose like the others."Rose-white as asphodel blossom, and fragrant as the cyclamen of thehills. What say you to the Contessa Leonora? Who can hear her laughwithout remembering what some one has said: 'Laughter is the radianceof the soul?'"

  "To my mind," said one of the cavaliers, who had not yet spoken, "theCountess Ilaria Frangipani is the fairest woman of the court."

  The eyes of Stefano Maconi flashed emphatic assent.

  "She is too sad," objected Violetta, who was the youngest of theparty.

  "So was the sea beneath the clouds of dawn," said the cavalier. "Itsighed of sorrows without end. The clouds melted, and the gray watersbrightened to turquoise, but whether under clouds or sun, the sea is amystery."

  "She has the grace of the swaying wave," assented Petronella.

  "And its light in her eyes," added Camilla.

  "The lady is fair," acknowledged Messer Romano, "but toounapproachable for me!"

  Startled, Francesco saw, or fancied he saw, a complacent smile flitacross the countenance of Stefano Maconi.

  "What thinks Messer Francesco of her beauty?" asked

  Violetta. "I believe that each new age sees men and women fairer thanthe last."

  "I think, that cannot be," said the Countess Petronella, naively. "Wasnever woman so fair as Madama Elena of Troy, and she lived before thecoming of our Saviour."

  "I agree with Madonna Violetta," said Francesco dreamily. "Gazing atMadonna Ilaria I think there is come into the world something strangeand new, revealed to us to our joy and our undoing!"

  The sun had set. The boatmen were singing together.

  "Non senti mai Achille, Per Pulisena bella, Le cocenti faville Quant' io senti per quella.

  "Udendo sua favella Angelica e venozza, Parlar si amorosa In su la fresca erbetta."

  "The beauty of this coast," said Francesco, speaking low, "is as thebeauty of woman. It transcends all I have imagined, yet is it everalien. I have felt it in Rome, but not so strongly. In Umbria, inTuscany all is more pure, more distant, yet more clear. The eye isdrawn afar to where earth meets sky; here it seeks to draw all toitself. It is a beauty unhallowed: The triumph of the Pagan World!"

  "Is there a city in Italy more Catholic than Naples?" protestedVioletta, while the others joined in a chorus of protestation.

  "Where in Europe shall you find more priests?" asked Stefano Maconi,shrugging his shoulders. "Where shall you find more churches?"

  Francesco had been musing. Now the spirit of contradiction was uponhim.

  "Even in your churches," he said suddenly, turning to Camilla, "I findsomething strange. They are sumptuous indeed; yet there steals over mea fearsome feeling, as if the worship were given not to the Deity thatis, but to deities long dead,--or worse than dead!"

  A slight shudder ran over one or two of the hearers; the boatmen weresinging softly.

  The stars were out, the boat was nearing the
shore. And still theboatmen were singing, as the moon shed her spectral light over thecrooning, murmuring waves.

  "We are all agreed, are we not, that the Countess Ilaria Frangipani isthe fairest?" asked Camilla, as they prepared to land.

  "Allow me," said Stefano Maconi, "to be responsible for the proposedsurprise. It shall, with your pleasure, take the form of a Festa inthe groves of Circe!"

  "It will be fair weather to-morrow!" said Violetta. "We shall all bethere!"

  After they had departed Francesco passed swiftly to and fro along theterrace.

  Strange feelings were at work within him. Love, hatred, jealousy werecontending for the mastery. He hated the oily cavalier with thesmooth, pleasant temper; he hated the man who dared aspire to Ilaria'slove. To Raniero he gave not even a thought. He had never felt jealousof the Frangipani. But now Ilaria's name was on the wind! The seashouted it; the flowers exhaled it. It floated on the night-air; themoon and the stars seemed to whisper it. Ilaria! Ilaria! He was oncemore abandoned to the older gods!

  "I shall not be there!" he murmured to himself, thinking of the Festa.Yet, when the morning came, he was among the first to arrive.