POSTSCRIPT. - Here are two samples of youthful love-letters from my
collection.
1. - From a disappointed maiden, aged 13. Interesting, because
intermediate between the archaic and pink-paper stages:
"IDOL OF MY HEART,
"Do not the stars call you when you look to Heaven? Does not the moon
tell you, the black-cap on the willow when it says farewell to the sun?
The birds of nature, the dreary country sadly covered by a few flowers
that remain there? Once your look was passionate and pierced me like a
sunny ray, now it seems the flame of a day. Does nothing tell you of
imperishable love?" I love you and love you as (illegible) loves its
liberty, as the corn in the fields loves the sun, as the sailor loves
the sea tranquil or stormy. To you I would give my felicity, my future;
for one of your words I would spill my blood drop by drop.
"Of all my lovers you are the only ideal consort (consorto) to whom I
would give my love and all the expansion of my soul and youthful
enthusiasm (intusiamo), the greatest enthusiasm (co-tusiamo) my
heart has ever known. O cruel one who has deigned to put his sweet
poison in my heart to-day, while to-morrow you will pass me with
indifference. Cold, proud as ever, serious and disdainful - you
understand? However that may be, I send you the unrepenting cry of my
rebellious heart: I love you!
"It is late at night, and I am still awake, and at this hour my soul is
sadder than ever in its great isolation (insolamende); I look on my
past love and your dear image. Too much I love you and (illegible)
without your affection.
"How sadly I remember your sweet words whispered on a pathetic evening
when everything around was fair and rosy. How happy I then was when life
seemed radiant with felicity and brightened by your love. And now
nothing more remains of it; everything is finished. How sad even to say
it. My heart is shipwrecked far, far away from that happiness which I
sought."
(Three further pages of this.)
2. - From a boy of 14 who takes the initiative; such letters are rare.
Note the business-like brevity.
"DEAR MISS ANNE,
"I write you these few lines to say that I have understood your character
(carattolo). Therefore, if I may have the honour of being your
sweetheart, you will let me know the answer at your pleasure. I salute
you, and remain,
"Signing myself, "SALVATORE.
"Prompt reply requested!"
XII
MOLLE TARENTUM
One looks into the faces of these Tarentines and listens to their casual
conversations, trying to unravel what manner of life is theirs. But it
is difficult to avoid reading into their characters what history leads
one to think should be there.
The upper classes, among whom I have some acquaintance, are mellow and
enlightened; it is really as if something of the honied spirit of those
old Greek sages still brooded over them. Their charm lies in the fact
that they are civilized without being commercialized. Their politeness
is unstrained, their suaveness congenital; they remind me of that New
England type which for Western self-assertion substitutes a yielding
graciousness of disposition. So it is with persistent gentle upbringing,
at Taranto and elsewhere. It tones the individual to reposeful
sweetness; one by one, his anfractuosities are worn off; he becomes as a
pebble tossed in the waters, smooth, burnished, and (to outward
appearances) indistinguishable from his fellows.
But I do not care about the ordinary city folk. They have an air of
elaborate superciliousness which testifies to ages of systematic
half-culture. They seem to utter that hopeless word, connu! And what,
as a matter of fact, do they know? They are only dreaming in their
little backwater, like the oysters of the lagoon, distrustful of
extraneous matter and oblivious of the movement in a world of men beyond
their shell. You hear next to nothing of "America," that fruitful source
of fresh notions; there is no emigration to speak of; the population is
not sufficiently energetic - they prefer to stay at home. Nor do they
care much about the politics of their own country: one sees less
newspapers here than in most Italian towns. "Our middle classes," said
my friend the Italian deputy of whom I have already spoken, "are like
our mules: to be endurable, they must be worked thirteen hours out of
the twelve." But these have no industries to keep them awake, no sports,
no ambitions; and this has gone on for long centuries, In Taranto it is
always afternoon. "The Tarentines," says Strabo, "have more holidays
than workdays in the year."
And never was city-population more completely cut off from the country;
never was wider gulf between peasant and townsman. There are charming
walks beyond the New Quarter - a level region, with olives and figs and
almonds and pomegranates standing knee-deep in ripe odorous wheat; but
the citizens might be living at Timbuctu for all they know of these
things. It rains little here; on the occasion of my last visit not a
drop had fallen for fourteen months; and consequently the country
roads are generally smothered in dust. Now, dusty boots are a scandal
and an offence in the eyes of the gentle burghers, who accordingly never
issue out of their town walls. They have forgotten the use of ordinary
appliances of country life, such as thick boots and walking-sticks; you
will not see them hereabouts. Unaware of this idiosyncrasy, I used to
carry a stick on my way through the streets into the surroundings, but
left it at home on learning that I was regarded as a kind of
perambulating earthquake.
