or cards, all playing; or there was singing, with the accordion, and
sometimes a rough mountain peasant with a guitar.
But it is all passing away. Giovanni is in America, unless he has come
back to the War. He will not want to live in San Gaudenzio when he is a
man, he says. He and Marco will not spend their lives wringing a little
oil and wine out of the rocky soil, even if they are not killed in the
fighting which is going on at the end of the lake. In my loft by the
lemon-houses now I should hear the guns. And Giovanni kissed me with a
kind of supplication when I went on to the steamer, as if he were
beseeching for a soul. His eyes were bright and clear and lit up with
courage. He will make a good fight for the new soul he wants--that is,
if they do not kill him in this War.
_5_
THE DANCE
Maria had no real licence for San Gaudenzio, yet the peasants always
called for wine. It is easy to arrange in Italy. The penny is paid
another time.
The wild old road that skirts the lake-side, scrambling always higher as
the precipice becomes steeper, climbing and winding to the villages
perched high up, passes under the high boundary-wall of San Gaudenzio,
between that and the ruined church. But the road went just as much
between the vines and past the house as outside, under the wall; for the
high gates were always open, and men or women and mules come into the
property to call at the door of the homestead. There was a loud shout,
'Ah--a--a--ah--Mari--a. O--O--Oh Pa'o!' from outside, another wild,
inarticulate cry from within, and one of the Fiori appeared in the
doorway to hail the newcomer.
It was usually a man, sometimes a peasant from Mugiano, high up,
sometimes a peasant from the wilds of the mountain, a wood-cutter, or a
charcoal-burner. He came in and sat in the house-place, his glass of
wine in his hand between his knees, or on the floor between his feet,
and he talked in a few wild phrases, very shy, like a hawk indoors, and
unintelligible in his dialect.
Sometimes we had a dance. Then, for the wine to drink, three men came
with mandolines and guitars, and sat in a corner playing their rapid
tunes, while all danced on the dusty brick floor of the little parlour.
No strange women were invited, only men; the young bloods from the big
village on the lake, the wild men from above. They danced the slow,
trailing, lilting polka-waltz round and round the small room, the
guitars and mandolines twanging rapidly, the dust rising from the soft
bricks. There were only the two English women: so men danced with men,
as the Italians love to do. They love even better to dance with men,
with a dear blood-friend, than with women.
'It's better like this, two men?' Giovanni says to me, his blue eyes
hot, his face curiously tender.
The wood-cutters and peasants take off their coats, their throats are
bare. They dance with strange intentness, particularly if they have for
partner an English Signora. Their feet in thick boots are curiously
swift and significant. And it is strange to see the Englishwomen, as
they dance with the peasants transfigured with a kind of brilliant
surprise. All the while the peasants are very courteous, but quiet. They
see the women dilate and flash, they think they have found a footing,
they are certain. So the male dancers are quiet, but even grandiloquent,
their feet nimble, their bodies wild and confident.
They are at a loss when the two English Signoras move together and laugh
excitedly at the end of the dance.
'Isn't it fine?'
'Fine! Their arms are like iron, carrying you round.'
'Yes! Yes! And the muscles on their shoulders! I never knew there were
such muscles! I'm almost frightened.'
'But it's fine, isn't it? I'm getting into the dance.'
'Yes--yes--you've only to let them take you.'
Then the glasses are put down, the guitars give their strange, vibrant,
almost painful summons, and the dance begins again.
It is a strange dance, strange and lilting, and changing as the music
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