The Strand Magazine, Vol. 01, January 1891: An Illustrated MonthlyVarious
General
The Strand Magazine, Vol. 01, January 1891: An Illustrated Monthly
Various
English literature -- Periodicals; Short stories, English -- Periodicals
He sat himself down on the hard bed, and felt that a storm was raging
within him. Once or twice he half rose up to hasten to her and tell her
that he had only thus wounded her in order to comfort her afterwards.
Then he stamped on the floor, vexed at his own soft-heartedness. "It is
the only thing left for me to do," he said to himself, "unless I would
add to my guilt. Seven years, poor child!" Mechanically he took in his
hand a comb ornamented with little pieces of metal that was lying on the
table. This recalled to him her splendid hair, the proud neck on which
it lay, the noble brow round which the curls clustered, and the dusky
cheek. At last he tossed the tempting object into the chest, in which he
saw dresses, kerchiefs, and all sorts of little ornaments neatly and
tidily put away. Slowly he let fall the lid and turned to look out at
the hole in the wall.
The room was at the back of the house, and none of the other huts in
Treppi interfered with the view across the mountains. Opposite was the
bare ridge of rock rising up from behind the ravine, and all lit up by
the moon, then just over the house. On one side were some sheds, past
which ran the road leading down to the plain. One forlorn little
fir-tree, with bare branches, was growing among the stones; otherwise
the ground was covered with heather only, and here and there a miserable
bush. "Certainly," thought he, "this is not the place to forget what one
has loved. I would it were otherwise. In truth, she would have been the
right wife for me; she would have loved me more than dress and gaiety,
and the whisperings of gallants. What eyes my old Marco would make if I
suddenly came back from my travels with a lovely wife! We should not
need to change the house; the empty corners were always so uncanny. And
it would do me good, old grumbler that I am, if a laughing child--but
this is folly, Filippo, folly! What would the poor thing do left a widow
in Bologna? No, no! no more of this! Let me not add a fresh sin to the
old ones. I will wake the men an hour earlier, and steal away before
anyone is up in Treppi."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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