"I shall never write again. Writing," he generalised, and
possibly not without some reason, "when it is n't the sordidest
of trades, is a mere fatuous assertion of one's egotism.
Breaking stones in the street were a nobler occupation; weaving
ropes of sand were better sport. The only things that are
worth writing are inexpressible, and can't be written. The
only things that can be written are obvious and worthless--the
very crackling of thorns under a pot. Oh, why does n't she
turn up?"
And the worst of it was that at any moment, for aught he knew,
she might turn up. That was the worst of it, and the best. It
kept hope alive, only to torture hope. It encouraged him to
wait, to watch, to expect; to linger in his garden, gazing
hungry-eyed up the lawns of Ventirose, striving to pierce the
foliage that embowered the castle; to wander the country
round-about, scanning every vista, scrutinising every shape and
shadow, a tweed-clad Gastibelza. At any moment, indeed, she
might turn up; but the days passed--the hypocritic days--and
she did not turn up.
Marietta, the kind soul, noticing his despondency, sought in
divers artless ways to cheer him.
One evening she burst into his sitting-room with the effect of
a small explosion, excitement in every line of her brown old
face and wiry little figure.
"The fireflies! The fireflies, Signorino!" she cried, with
strenuous gestures.
"What fireflies?" asked he, with phlegm.
"It is the feast of St. Dominic. The fireflies have arrived.
They arrive every year on the feast of St. Dominic. They are
the beads of his rosary. They are St. Dominic's Aves. There
are thousands of them. Come, Signorino, Come and see."
Her black eyes snapped. She waved her hands urgently towards
the window.
Peter languidly got up, languidly crossed the room, looked out.
There were, in truth, thousands of them, thousands and
thousands of tiny primrose flames, circling, fluttering,
rising, sinking, in the purple blackness of the night, like
snowflakes in a wind, palpitating like hearts of living
gold--Jove descending upon Danae invisible.
"Son carin', eh?" cried eager Marietta.
"Hum--yes--pretty enough," he grudgingly acknowledged. "But
even so?" the ingrate added, as he turned away, and let himself
drop back into his lounging-chair. "My dear good woman, no
amount of prettiness can disguise the fundamental banality of
things. Your fireflies--St. Dominic's beads, if you like--and,
apropos of that, do you know what they call them in America?
--they call them lightning-bugs, if you can believe me--remark
the difference between southern euphuism and western bluntness
--your fireflies are pretty enough, I grant. But they are
tinsel pasted on the Desert of Sahara. They are condiments
added to a dinner of dust and ashes. Life, trick it out as you
will, is just an incubus--is just the Old Man of the Sea.
Language fails me to convey to you any notion how heavily he
sits on my poor shoulders. I thought I had suffered from ennui
in my youth. But the malady merely plays with the green fruit;
it reserves its serious ravages for the ripe. I can promise
you 't is not a laughing matter. Have you ever had a fixed
idea? Have you ever spent days and nights racking your brain,
importuning the unanswering Powers, to learn whether there was
--well, whether there was Another Man, for instance? Oh, bring
me drink. Bring me Seltzer water and Vermouth. I will seek
nepenthe at the bottom of the wine-cup."