Jerry

CHAPTER V

After some delay—owing to Tony’s inability to balance the chafing-dish on Cristoforo Colombo’s back—they filed from the gateway, an imposing cavalcade. The ladies were on foot, loftily oblivious to the fact that three empty saddles awaited their pleasure. Constance, a gesticulating officer at either hand, was vivaciously   talking Italian, while Tony, trudging behind, listened with a sombre light in his eye. She now and then cast a casual glance over her shoulder, and as she caught sight of his gloomy face the animation of her Italian redoubled. The situation held for her mischief-loving soul undreamed-of possibilities; and though she ostensibly occupied herself with the officers, she by no means neglected the donkey-man.

During the first few miles of the journey he earned his four francs. Twice he reshifted the pack because Constance thought it insecure (it was a disgracefully unprofessional pack; most guides would have blushed at the making of it); once he retraced their path some two hundred yards in search of a veil she thought she had dropped—it turned out that she had had it in her pocket all of the time. He chased Fidilini over half the mountainside while the others were resting, and he carried the chafing-dish for a couple of miles because it refused to adjust itself nicely to the pack. The morning ended by his being left behind with a balking donkey, while the others completed the last ascent that led to their halting-place for lunch.

It was a small plateau shaded by oak trees with a broad view below them, and a mountain stream foaming down from the rocks above. It was owing to Beppo’s knowledge of the mountain paths rather   than Tony’s which had guided them to this agreeable spot; though no one in the party except Constance appeared to have noted the fact. Tony arrived some ten minutes after the others, hot but victorious, driving Cristoforo Colombo before him. Constance welcomed his return with an off-hand nod and set him about preparing lunch. He and Beppo served it and repacked the hampers, entirely ignored by the others of the party. Poor Tony was beginning to realize that a donkey-man lives on a desert island in so far as any companionship goes. But his moment was coming. As they were about to start on, Constance spied high above their heads, where the stream burst from the rocks, a clump of starry white blossoms.

‘Edelweiss!’ she cried. ‘Oh, I must have it—it’s the first I ever saw growing; I hadn’t supposed we were high enough.’ She glanced at the officers.

The ascent was not dangerous, but it was undeniably muddy, and they both wore white; with very good cause they hesitated. And while they hesitated, the opportunity was lost. Tony sprang forward, scrambled up the precipice hand over hand, swung out across the stream by the aid of an overhanging branch, and secured the flowers. It was very gracefully and easily done, and a burst of applause greeted his descent. He divided   his flowers into two equal parts, and sweeping off his hat, presented them with a bow, not to Constance, but to the officers, who somewhat sulkily passed them on. She received them with a smile; for an instant her eyes met Tony’s, and he fell back, rewarded.

The captain and lieutenant for the first time regarded the donkey-man, and they regarded him narrowly, red sash, earrings, stiletto and all. Constance caught the look and laughed.

‘Isn’t he picturesque?’ she inquired in Italian. ‘The head-waiter at the Hotel du Lac found him for me. He has been in the United States and speaks English, which is a great convenience.’

The two said nothing, but they looked at each other and shrugged.

The donkeys were requisitioned for the rest of the journey; while Tony led Miss Hazel’s mount, he could watch Constance ahead on Fidilini, an officer marching at each side of her saddle. She appeared to divide her favours with nice discrimination; it was not her fault if the two were jealous of one another. Tony could draw from that obvious fact what consolation there was in it.

The ruined fortress, their destination, was now exactly above their heads. The last ascent boldly skirted the shoulder of the mountain, and then doubled upward in a series of serpentine coils. Below them   the whole of Lake Garda was spread like a map. Mr. Wilder and the Englishman, having paused at the edge of the declivity, were endeavouring to trace the boundary line of Austria, and they called upon the officers for help. The two relinquished their post at Constance’s side, while the donkeys kept on past them up the hill. The winding path was both stony and steep, and, from a donkey’s standpoint, thoroughly objectionable. Fidilini was well in the lead, trotting sedately, when suddenly, without the slightest warning, he chose to revolt. Whether Constance pulled the wrong rein, or whether, as she affirmed, it was merely his natural badness, in any case, he suddenly veered from the path and took a cross cut down the rocky slope below them. Donkeys are fortunately sure-footed beasts; otherwise the two would have plunged together down the sheer face of the mountain. As it was it looked ghastly enough to the four men below; they shouted to Constance to stick on, and commenced scrambling up the slope with absolutely no hope of reaching her.

It was Tony’s chance a second time to show his agility—and this time to some purpose. He was a dozen yards behind and much lower down, which gave him a start. Leaping forward, he dropped over the precipice, a fall of ten feet, to a narrow ledge below. Running toward them at an   angle, he succeeded in cutting off their flight. Before the frightened donkey could swerve, Tony had seized him—by the tail—and had braced himself against a boulder. It was not a dignified rescue, but at least it was effective; Fidilini came to a halt. Constance, not expecting the sudden jolt, toppled over sidewise, and Tony, being equally unprepared to receive her, the two went down together rolling over and over on the grassy slope.

‘My dear, are you hurt?’

Mr. Wilder, quite pale with anxiety, came scrambling to her side. Constance sat up and laughed hysterically, while she examined a bleeding elbow.

‘N—no, not dangerously—but I think perhaps Tony is.’

Tony however was at least able to run, as he was again on his feet and after the donkey. Captain Coroloni and her father helped Constance to her feet while Lieutenant di Ferara recovered a side-comb and the white sun hat. They all climbed down together to the path below, none the worse for the averted tragedy. Tony rejoined them somewhat short of breath, but leading a humbled Fidilini. Constance, beyond a brief glance, said nothing; but her father, to the poor man’s intense embarrassment, shook him warmly by the hand with the repeated assurance that his bravery should not go unrewarded.

They completed their journey on foot;   Tony following behind, quite conscious that, if he had played the part of hero, he had done it with a lamentable lack of grace.

CHAPTER VI

Tony was stretched on the parapet that bordered the stone-paved platform of the fortress. Above him the crumbling tower rose many feet higher, below him a marvellous view stretched invitingly; but Tony had eyes neither for mediæval architecture nor picturesque scenery. He lay with his coat doubled under his head for a pillow, in a frowning contemplation of the cracked stone pavement.

The four other men, after an hour or so of easy lounging under the pines at the base of the tower, had organized a fresh expedition to the summit a mile farther up. Mr. Wilder, since morning, had developed into an enthusiastic mountain-climber—regret might come with the morrow, but as yet ambition still burned high. The remainder of the party were less energetic. The three ladies were resting on rugs spread under the pines; Beppo was sleeping in the sun, his hat over his face, and the donkeys, securely tethered (Tony had attended to that), were innocently nibbling mountain herbs. There was no obvious reason why, as he lighted a cigarette and stretched himself on the parapet, Tony should not have   been the most self-satisfied guide in the world. He had not only completed the expedition in safety, but had saved the heroine’s life by the way; and even if the heroine did not appear as thankful as she might, still, her father had shown due gratitude, and, what was to the point, had promised a reward. That should have been enough for any reasonable donkey driver.

But it was distinctly not enough for Tony. He was in a fine temper as he lay on the parapet and scowled at the pavement. Nothing was turning out as he had planned. He had not counted on the officers or her predilection for Italian. He had not counted on chasing donkeys in person while she stood and looked on—Beppo was to have attended to that. He had not counted on anything quite so absurd as his heroic capture of Fidilini. Since she must let the donkey run away with her, why, in the name of all that was romantic, could it not have occurred by moonlight? Why, when he caught the beast, could it not have been by the bridle instead of the tail? And above all, why could she not have fallen into his arms, instead of on top of him?

The stage scenery was set for romance, but from the moment the curtain rose the play had persisted in being farce. However, farce or romance, it was all one to him so long as he could play leading-man;   what he objected to was the minor part. The fact was clear that sash and earrings could never compete with uniform and sword and the Italian language. His mind was made up; he would withdraw to-night before he was found out, and leave Valedolmo to-morrow morning by the early boat. Miss Constance Wilder should never have the satisfaction of knowing the truth.

He was engaged in framing a dignified speech to Mr. Wilder—thanking him for his generosity, but declining to accept a reward for what had been merely a matter of duty—when his reflections were cut short by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. They were by no means noiseless footsteps; there were good strong nails all over the bottom of Constance’s shoes. The next moment she appeared in the doorway. Her eyes were centred on the view; she looked entirely over Tony. It was not until he rose to his feet that she realized his presence with a start.

‘Dear me, is that you, Tony? You frightened me! Don’t get up; I know you must be tired.’ This with a sweetly solicitous smile.

Tony smiled too and resumed his seat; it was the first time since morning that she had condescended to consider his feelings. She sauntered over to the opposite side and stood with her back to him examining the view. Tony turned his   back and affected to be engaged with the view in the other direction; he too could play at indifference.

Constance finished with her view first, and crossing over, she seated herself in the deep embrasure of a window close beside Tony’s parapet. He rose again at her approach, but there was no eagerness in the motion; it was merely the necessary deference of a donkey-driver toward his employer.

‘Oh, sit down,’ she insisted, ‘I want to talk to you.’

He opened his eyes with a show of surprise; his hurt feelings insisted that all the advances should be on her part. Constance seemed in no hurry to begin; she removed her hat, pushed back her hair, and sat playing with the bunch of edelweiss which was stuck in among the roses—flattening the petals, rearranging the flowers with careful fingers; a touch, it seemed to Tony’s suddenly clamouring senses, that was almost a caress. Then she looked up quickly and caught his gaze. She leaned forward with a laugh.

‘Tony,’ she said, ‘do you spik any language besides Angleesh?’

He triumphantly concealed all sign of emotion.

‘Si, signorina, I spik my own language.’

‘Would you mind my asking what that language is?’

He indulged in a moment’s deliberation. Italian was clearly out of the question, and French she doubtless knew better than he—he deplored this polyglot education girls were receiving nowadays.

He had it! He would be Hungarian. His sole fellow guest in the hotel at Verona the week before had been a Hungarian nobleman, who had informed him that the Magyar language was one of the most difficult on the face of the globe. There was at least little likelihood that she was acquainted with that.

‘My own language, signorina, is Magyar.’

‘Magyar?’ She was clearly taken by surprise.

‘Si, signorina, I am Hungarian; I was born in Budapest.’ He met her wide-opened eyes with a look of innocent candour.

‘Really!’ She beamed upon him delightedly; he was playing up even better than she had hoped. ‘But if you are Hungarian, what are you doing here in Italy, and how does it happen that your name is Antonio?’

‘My movver was Italian. She name me Antonio after ze blessed Saint Anthony of Padua. If you lose anysing, signorina, and you say a prayer to Saint Anthony every day for nine days, on ze morning of ze tenth you will find it again.’

‘That is very interesting,’ she said   politely. ‘How do you come to know English so well, Tony?’

‘We go live in Amerik’ when I li’l boy.’

‘And you never learned Italian? I should think your mother would have taught it to you.’

He imitated Beppo’s gestures.

‘A word here, a word there. We spik Magyar at home.’

‘Talk a little Magyar, Tony. I should like to hear it.’

‘What shall I say, signorina?’

‘Oh, say anything you please.’

He affected to hesitate while he rehearsed the scraps of language at his command. Latin—French—German—none of them any good—but, thank goodness, he had elected Anglo-Saxon in college; and thank goodness again the professor had made them learn passages by heart. He glanced up with an air of flattered diffidence and rendered, in a conversational inflection, an excerpt from the Anglo-Saxon Bible.

‘Ealle gesceafta, heofonas and englas, sunnan and monan, steorran and eorthan, hè gesceop and geworhte on six dagum.’

‘It is a very beautiful language. Say some more.’

He replied with glib promptness, with a passage from Beowulf—

‘Hie dygel lond warigeath, wulfhleothu, windige naessas.’

‘What does that mean?’

Tony looked embarrassed.

‘I don’t believe you know!’

‘It means—scusi, signorina, I no like to say.’

‘You don’t know.’

‘It means—you make me say, signorina,—“I sink you ver’ beautiful like ze angels in Paradise.”’

‘Indeed! A donkey-driver, Tony, should not say anything like that.’

‘But it is true.’

‘The more reason you should not say it.’

‘You asked me, signorina; I could not tell you a lie.’

The signorina smiled slightly and looked away at the view; Tony seized the opportunity to look sidewise at her. She turned back and caught him; he dropped his eyes humbly to the floor.

‘Does Beppo speak Magyar?’ she inquired.

‘Beppo?’ There was wonder in his tone at the turn her questions were taking. ‘I sink not, signorina.’

‘That must be very inconvenient. Why don’t you teach it to him?’

‘Si, signorina.’ He was plainly nonplussed.

‘Yes, he says that you are his father, and I should think–’

‘His father?’ Tony appeared momentarily startled; then he laughed. ‘He did not mean his real father; he mean—how   you say—his godfather. I give to him his name when he get christened.’

‘Oh, I see!’

Her next question was also a surprise.

‘Tony,’ she inquired with startling suddenness, ‘why do you wear earrings?’

He reddened slightly.

‘Because—because—der’s a girl I like ver’ much, signorina; she sink earrings look nice. I wear zem for her.’

‘Oh!—But why do you fasten them on with thread?’

‘Because I no wear zem always. In Italia, yes; in Amerik’, no. When I marry dis girl and go back home, zen I do as I please, now I haf to do as she please.’

‘H’m–’ said Constance, ruminatingly. ‘Where does this girl live, Tony?’

‘In Valedolmo, signorina.’

‘What does she look like?’

‘She look like–’ His eyes searched the landscape and came back to her face. ‘Oh, ver’ beautiful, signorina. She have hair brown and gold, and eyes—yes, eyes! Zay are sometimes black, signorina, and sometimes grey. Her laugh, it sounds like the song of a nightingale.’ He clasped his hands and rolled his eyes in a fine imitation of Gustavo. ‘She is beautiful, signorina, beautiful as ze angels in Paradise!’

‘There seem to be a good many people beautiful as the angels in Paradise.’

‘She is most beautiful of all.’

‘What is her name?’

‘Costantina.’ He said it softly, his eyes on her face.

‘Ah,’ Constance rose and turned away with a shrug. Her manner suggested that he had gone too far.

‘She wash clothes at ze Hotel du Lac,’ he called after her.

Constance paused and glanced over her shoulder with a laugh.

‘Tony,’ she said, ‘the quality which I admire most in a donkey-driver, besides truthfulness and picturesqueness, is imagination.’

CHAPTER VII

On the homeward journey Tony again trudged behind while the officers held their post at Constance’s side. But Tony’s spirits were still singing from the little encounter on the castle platform, and in spite of the animated Italian which floated back, he was determined to look at the sunny side of the adventure. It was Mr. Wilder who unconsciously supplied him with a second opportunity for conversation. He and the Englishman, being deep in a discussion involving statistics of the Italian army budget, called on the two officers to set them straight. Tony, at their order, took his place beside the saddle; Constance was not to be abandoned again to Fidilini’s caprice. Miss   Hazel and the Englishwoman were ambling on ahead in as matter-of-fact a fashion as if that were their usual mode of travel. Their donkeys were of a sedater turn of mind than Fidilini—a fact for which Tony offered thanks.

They were by this time well over the worst part of the mountain, and the brief Italian twilight was already fading. Tony, with a sharp eye on the path ahead and a ready hand for the bridle, was attending strictly to the duties of a well-trained donkey-man. It was Constance again who opened the conversation.

‘Ah, Tony?’

‘Si, signorina?’

‘Did you ever read any Angleesh books—or do you do most of your reading in Magyar?’

‘I haf read one, two, Angleesh books.’

‘Did you ever read—er—The Lightning Conductor, for example?’

‘No, signorina; I haf never read heem.’

‘I think it would interest you. It’s about a man who pretends he’s a chauffeur in order to—to– There are any number of books with the same motive; She Stoops to Conquer, Two Gentlemen of Verona, Lalla Rookh, Monsieur Beaucaire—Oh, dozens of them! It’s an old plot; it doesn’t require the slightest originality to think of it.’

‘Si, signorina? Sank you.’ Tony’s tone was exactly like Gustavo’s when he   has failed to get the point, but feels that a comment is necessary.

Constance laughed and allowed a silence to follow, while Tony redirected his attention to Fidilini’s movements. His ‘Yip! Yip!’ was an exact imitation, though in a deeper guttural, of Beppo’s cries before them. It would have taken a close observer to suspect that he had not been bred to the calling.

‘You have not always been a donkey-driver?’ she inquired after an interval of amused scrutiny.

‘Not always, signorina.’

‘What did you do in New York?’

‘I play hand-organ, signorina.’

Tony removed his hand from the bridle and ground ‘Yankee Doodle’ from an imaginary instrument.

‘I make musica, signorina, wif—wif—how do you say, monk, monka? His name Vittorio Emanuele. Ver’ nice monk—simpatica affezionata.’

‘You’ve never been an actor?’

‘An actor? No, signorina.’

‘You should try it; I fancy you might have some talent in that direction.’

‘Si, signorina. Sank you.’

She let the conversation drop, and Tony, after an interval of silence, fell to humming Santa Lucia in a very presentable baritone. The tune, Constance noted, was true enough, but the words were far astray.

‘That’s a very pretty song, Tony, but you don’t appear to know it.’

‘I no understand Italian, signorina. I just learn ze tune because Costantina like it.’

‘You do everything that Costantina wishes?’

‘Everysing! But if you could see her you would not wonder. She has hair brown and gold, and her eyes, signorina, are sometimes grey and sometimes black, and her laugh sounds like–’

‘Oh, yes, I know; you told me all that before.’

‘When she goes out to work in ze morning, signorina, wif the sunlight shining on her hair, and a smile on her lips, and a basket of clothes on her head– Ah, zen she is beautiful!’

‘When are you going to be married?’

‘I do not know, signorina. I have not asked her yet.’

‘Then how do you know she wishes to marry you?’

‘I do not know; I just hope.’

He rolled his eyes toward the moon which was rising above the mountains on the other side of the lake, and with a deep sigh he fell back into Santa Lucia.

Constance leaned forward and scanned his face.

‘Tony! Tell me your name.’ There was an undertone of meaning, a note of persuasion in her voice.

‘Antonio, signorina.’

She shook her head with a show of impatience.

‘Your real name—your last name.’

‘Yamhankeesh.’

‘Oh!’ she laughed. ‘Antonio Yamhankeesh doesn’t seem to me a very musical combination; I don’t think I ever heard anything like it before.’

‘It suits me, signorina.’ His tone carried a suggestion of wounded dignity. ‘Yamhankeesh has a ver’ beautiful meaning in my language—“He who dares not, wins not.”’

‘And that is your motto?’

‘Si, signorina.’

‘A very dangerous motto, Tony; it will some day get you into trouble.’

They had reached the base of the mountain, and their path now broadened into the semblance of a road which wound through the fields, between fragrant hedgerows, under towering chestnut trees. All about them was the fragrance of the dewy, flower-scented summer night, the flash of fireflies, the chirp of crickets, occasionally the note of a nightingale. Before them out of a cluster of cypresses, rose the square graceful outline of the village campanile.

Constance looked about with a pleased, contented sigh.

‘Isn’t Italy beautiful, Tony?’

‘Yes, signorina, but I like America better.’

‘We have no cypresses and ruins and nightingales in America, Tony. We have a moon sometimes, but not that moon.’

They passed from the moonlight into the shade of some overhanging chestnut trees. Fidilini stumbled suddenly over a break in the path and Tony pulled him up sharply. His hand on the bridle rested for an instant over hers.

‘Italy is beautiful—to make love in,’ he whispered.

She drew her hand away abruptly, and they passed out into the moonlight again. Ahead of them where the road branched into the highway, the others were waiting for Constance to catch up, the two officers looking back with an eager air of expectation. Tony glanced ahead and added with a quick frown—

‘But perhaps I do not need to tell you that—you may know it already?’

‘You are impertinent, Tony.’

She pulled the donkey into a trot that left him behind.

The highway was broad and they proceeded in a group, the conversation general and in English, Tony quite naturally having no part in it. But at the corners where the road to the village and the road to the villa separated, Fidilini obligingly turned stubborn again. His mind bent upon rest and supper, he insisted upon going to the village; the harder Constance   pulled on the left rein, the more fixed was his determination to turn to the right.

‘Help! I’m being run away with again,’ she called over her shoulder as the donkey’s pace quickened into a trot.

Tony, awakening to his duty, started in pursuit, while the others laughingly shouted directions. He did not run as determinedly as he might, and they had covered considerable ground before he overtook them. He turned Fidilini’s head and they started back—at a walk.

‘Signorina,’ said Tony, ‘may I ask a question, a little impertinent?’

‘No, certainly not.’

Silence.

‘Ah, Tony?’ she asked presently.

‘Si, signorina?’

‘What is it you want to ask?’

‘Are you going to marry that Italian lieutenant—or perhaps the captain?’

‘That is impertinent.’

‘Are you?’

‘You forget yourself, Tony. It is not your place to ask such a question.’

‘Si, signorina; it is my place. If it is true I cannot be your donkey-man any longer.’

‘No, it is not true, but that is no concern of yours.’

‘Are you going on another trip Friday—to Monte Maggiore?’

‘Yes.’

‘May I come with you?’

His tone implied more than his words. She hesitated a moment, then shrugged indifferently.

‘Just as you please, Tony. If you don’t wish to work for us any more I dare say we can find another man.’

‘It is as you please, signorina. If you wish it, I come, if you do not wish it, I go.’

She made no answer. They joined the others and the party proceeded to the villa gates.

Lieutenant di Ferara helped Constance dismount, while Captain Coroloni, with none too good a grace, held the donkey. A careful observer would have fancied that the lieutenant was ahead, and that both he and the captain knew it. Tony untied the bundles, dumped them on the kitchen floor, and waited respectfully, hat in hand, while Mr. Wilder searched his pockets for change. He counted out four lire and added a note. Tony pocketed the lire and returned the note, while Mr. Wilder stared his astonishment.

‘Good-bye, Tony,’ Constance smiled as he turned away.

‘Good-bye, signorina.’ There was a note of finality in his voice.

‘Well!’ Mr. Wilder ejaculated. ‘That is the first–’ ‘Italian’ he started to say, but he caught the word before it was out—‘donkey-driver I ever saw refuse money.’

Lieutenant di Ferara raised his shoulders.

‘Machè! The fellow is too honest; you do well to watch him.’ There was a world of disgust in his tone.

Constance glanced after the retreating figure and laughed.

‘Tony!’ she called.

He kept on; she raised her voice.

‘Mr. Yamhankeesh.’

He paused.

‘You call, signorina?’

‘Be sure and be here by half-past six on Friday morning; we must start early.’

‘Sank you, signorina. Good night.’

‘Good night, Tony.’