The Cardinal's Snuff Box

"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."