question.
'_Si--molto bello_,' cries the woman, glad to have speech again.
The eyes of the wood-cutter flash like actual possession. He seems now
to have come into his own. With all his senses, he is dominant, sure.
He is inconceivably vigorous in body, and his dancing is almost perfect,
with a little catch in it, owing to his lameness, which brings almost a
pure intoxication. Every muscle in his body is supple as steel, supple,
as strong as thunder, and yet so quick, so delicately swift, it is
almost unbearable. As he draws near to the swing, the climax, the
ecstasy, he seems to lie in wait, there is a sense of a great strength
crouching ready. Then it rushes forth, liquid, perfect, transcendent,
the woman swoons over in the dance, and it goes on, enjoyment, infinite,
incalculable enjoyment. He is like a god, a strange natural phenomenon,
most intimate and compelling, wonderful.
But he is not a human being. The woman, somewhere shocked in her
independent soul, begins to fall away from him. She has another being,
which he has not touched, and which she will fall back upon. The dance
is over, she will fall back on herself. It is perfect, too perfect.
During the next dance, while she is in the power of the educated Ettore,
a perfect and calculated voluptuary, who knows how much he can get out
of this Northern woman, and only how much, the wood-cutter stands on the
edge of the darkness, in the open doorway, and watches. He is fixed upon
her, established, perfect. And all the while she is aware of the
insistent hawk-like poising of the face of the wood-cutter, poised on
the edge of the darkness, in the doorway, in possession,
unrelinquishing.
And she is angry. There is something stupid, absurd, in the hard,
talon-like eyes watching so fiercely and so confidently in the doorway,
sure, unmitigated. Has the creature no sense?
The woman reacts from him. For some time she will take no notice of him.
But he waits, fixed. Then she comes near to him, and his will seems to
take hold of her. He looks at her with a strange, proud, inhuman
confidence, as if his influence with her was already accomplished.
'_Venga--venga un po'_,' he says, jerking his head strangely to the
darkness.
'What?' she replies, and passes shaken and dilated and brilliant,
consciously ignoring him, passes away among the others, among those
who are safe.
There is food in the kitchen, great hunks of bread, sliced sausage that
Maria has made, wine, and a little coffee. But only the quality come to
eat. The peasants may not come in. There is eating and drinking in the
little house, the guitars are silent. It is eleven o'clock.
Then there is singing, the strange bestial singing of these hills.
Sometimes the guitars can play an accompaniment, but usually not. Then
the men lift up their heads and send out the high, half-howling music,
astounding. The words are in dialect. They argue among themselves for a
moment: will the Signoria understand? They sing. The Signoria does not
understand in the least. So with a strange, slightly malignant triumph,
the men sing all the verses of their song, sitting round the walls of
the little parlour. Their throats move, their faces have a slight
mocking smile. The boy capers in the doorway like a faun, with glee, his
straight black hair falling over his forehead. The elder brother sits
straight and flushed, but even his eyes glitter with a kind of yellow
light of laughter. Paolo also sits quiet, with the invisible smile on
his face.' Only Maria, large and active, prospering now, keeps
collected, ready to order a shrill silence in the same way as she orders
the peasants, violently, to keep their places.
The boy comes to me and says:
'Do you know, Signore, what they are singing?'
'No,' I say.
So he capers with furious glee. The men with the watchful eyes, all
roused, sit round the wall and sing more distinctly:
_Si verrą la primavera
Fiorann' le mandoline,
Vienn' di basso le Trentine
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