A Spirit in Prison - Robert Hichens

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mistake in the world to bother about to-morrow’s maccheroni.”

       Table of Contents

      Three days after Artois’ conversation with Hermione in the Grotto of Virgil the Marchesino Isidoro Panacci came smiling into his friend’s apartments in the Hotel Royal des Etrangers. He was smartly dressed in the palest possible shade of gray, with a bright pink tie, pink socks, brown shoes of the rather boat-like shape affected by many young Neopolitans, and a round straw hat, with a small brim, that was set slightly on the side of his curly head. In his mouth was a cigarette, and in his buttonhole a pink carnation. He took Artois’ hand with his left hand, squeezed it affectionately, murmured “Caro Emilio,” and sat down in an easy attitude on the sofa, putting his hat and stick on a table near by.

      It was quite evident that he had come for no special reason. He had just dropped in, as he did whenever he felt inclined, to gossip with “Caro Emilio,” and it never occurred to him that possibly he might be interrupting an important piece of work. The Marchesino could not realize work. He knew his friend published books. He even saw him sometimes actually engaged in writing them, pen in hand. But he was sure anybody would far rather sit and chatter with him, or hear him play a valse on the piano, or a bit of the “Boheme,” than bend over a table all by himself. And Artois always welcomed him. He liked him. But it was not only that which made him complaisant. Doro was a type, and a singularly perfect one.

      Now Artois laid down his pen, and pulled forward an arm-chair opposite to the sofa.

      “Mon Dieu, Doro! How fresh you look, like a fish just pulled out of the sea!”

      The Marchesino showed his teeth in a smile which also shone in his round and boyish eyes.

      “I have just come out of the sea. Papa and I have been bathing at the Eldorado. We swam round the Castello until we were opposite your windows, and sang ‘Funiculi, funicula!’ in the water, to serenade you. Why didn’t you hear us? Papa has a splendid voice, almost like Tamagno’s in the gramophone, when he sings the ‘Addio’ from ‘Otello.’ Of course we kept a little out at sea. Papa is so easily recognized by his red mustaches. But still you might have heard us.”

      “I did.”

      “Then why didn’t you come unto the balcony, amico mio?”

      “Because I thought you were street singers.”

      “Davvero? Papa would be angry. And he is in a bad temper to-day anyhow.”

      “Why?”

      “Well, I believe Gilda Mai is going to bring a causa against Viviano. Of course he won’t marry her, and she never expected he could. Why, she used to be a milliner in the Toledo. I remember it perfectly, and now Sigismondo—But it’s really Gilda that has made papa angry. You see, he has paid twice for me, once four thousand lire, and the other time three thousand five hundred. And then he has lost a lot at Lotto lately. He has no luck. And then he, too, was in a row yesterday evening.”

      “The Marchese?”

      “Yes, in the Chiaia. He slapped Signora Merani’s face twice before every one.”

      “Diavolo! What! a lady?”

      “Well, if you like to call her so,” returned Doro, negligently. “Her husband is an impiegato of the Post-office, or something of the kind.”

      “But why should the Marchese slap her face in the Chiaia?”

      “Because she provoked him. They took a flat in the house my father owns in the Strada Chiatamone. After a time they got behind with the rent. He let them stay on for six months without paying, and then he turned them out. What should he do?” Doro began to gesticulate. He held his right hand up on a level with his face, with the fingers all drawn together and pressed against the thumb, and moved it violently backwards and forwards, bringing it close to the bridge of his nose, then throwing it out towards Artois. “What else, I say? Was he to give his beautiful rooms to them for nothing? And she with a face like—have you, I ask you, Emilio, have you seen her teeth?”

      “I have never seen the Signora in my life!”

      “You have never seen her teeth? Dio Mio!” He opened his two hands, and, lifting his arms, shook them loosely above his head, shutting his eyes for an instant as if to ward off some dreadful vision. “They are like the keys of a piano from Bordicelli’s! Basta!” He dropped his hands and opened his eyes. “Yesterday papa was walking in the Chiaia. He met Signori Merani, and she began to abuse him. She had a red parasol. She shook it at him! She called him vigliacco—papa, a Panacci, dei Duchi di Vedrano! The parasol—it was a bright red, it infuriated papa. He told the Signora to stop. She knows his temper. Every one in Naples knows our tempers, every one! I, Viviano, even Sigismondo, we are all the same, we are all exactly like papa. If we are insulted we cannot control ourselves. You know it, Emilio!”

      “I am perfectly certain of it,” said Artois. “I am positive you none of you can.”

      “It does not matter whether it is a man or a woman. We must do something with our hands. We have got to. Papa told the Signora he should strike her at once unless she put down the red parasol and was silent. What did she do, the imbecile? She stuck out her face like this,”—he thrust his face forward with the right cheek turned towards Artois—“and said, ‘Strike me! strike me!’ Papa obeyed her. Poom! Poom! He gave her a smack on each cheek before every one. ‘You want education!’ he said to her. ‘And I shall give it you.’ And now she may bring a processo too. But did you really think we were street singers?” He threw himself back, took the cigarette from his mouth, and laughed. Then he caught hold of his blond mustache with both hands, gave it an upward twist, at the same time pouting his big lips, and added:

      “We shall bring a causa against you for that!”

      “No, Doro, you and I must never quarrel. By the way, though, I want to see you angry. Every one talks of the Panacci temper, but when I am with you I always see you smiling or laughing. As to the Marchese, he is as lively as a boy. Viviano—”

      “Oh, Viviano is a buffone. Have you ever seen him imitate a monkey from whom another monkey has snatched a nut?”

      “No.”

      “It is like this—”

      With extraordinary suddenness he distorted his whole face into the likeness of an angry ape, hunching his shoulders and uttering fierce simian cries.

      “No, I can’t do it.”

      With equal suddenness and self-possession he became his smiling self again.

      “Viviano has studied in the monkey-house. And the monk looking the other way when he passes along the Marina where the women are bathing in the summer! He shall do that for you on Sunday afternoon when you come to Capodimonte. It makes even mamma die of laughing, and you know how religious she is. But then, of course, men—that does not matter. Religion is for women, and they understand that quite well.”

      The Marchesino never made any pretence of piety. One virtue he had in the fullest abundance. He was perfectly sincere with those whom he considered his friends. That there could be any need for hypocrisy never occurred to him.

      “Mamma would hate it if we were saints,” he continued.

      “I am sure the Marchesa can be under no apprehension on that score,” said Artois.

      “No, I don’t think so,” returned the Marchesino, quite seriously.

      He had a sense of humor, but it did not always serve him. Occasionally it was fitful, and when summoned by irony remained at a distance.

      “It is true, Emilio, you have never seen me angry,” he continued, reverting to the

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