Читать книгу Patience Sparhawk and Her Times - Gertrude Franklin Horn Atherton - Страница 10

“My own Medora, sure thy song is sad!”

Francesca and Paola gazed at each other across a table:—

“That day no further leaf we did uncover.”

A castle which looked older than the book loomed massively from the page:—

“Lake Leman lies by Chillon’s walls.”

Never having heard of Byron, she was unable to enlarge her knowledge at once with his most celebrated creations; but she liked the looks of Conrad and Medora, and plunged into their fortunes. She read every line of the poem, and when she had finished she read it over again. Then she stared at the breakers booming to the rocks on the opposite horn of the crescent, her eyes expanded and filled with a wholly new light. She might be unlettered in woman’s wisdom, but the transcendent passion, the pounding vitality of the poet, carried straight to intuition. The insidious elixir drifted into the crystal stream. That incomparable objectivity sang the song of songs as distinctly into her brain as had it gathered the sounds of life for twenty years. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were bright. She felt as if she were a musical instrument upon which some divine unknown music were vibrating; and as she was wont to feel in the tower—but with a substratum of something quite different. She was filled with a soft tumult which she did not in the least comprehend, and happy. She looked almost beautiful.

After a time she read “The Bride of Abydos,” and dreamed over that until she discovered that she was hungry. She had forgotten to order dinner, and went to the kitchen to beg a crust.

Lola, large, unwhaleboned, vibrating porcinely with every motion, her brown coarsely moulded face beaming with good nature, her little black eyes full of temper and kindness, her black hair in a neat small knot, an unspotted brown and yellow calico garment secluding her person, stood at a sink in a kitchen as brilliantly clean as a varnished boot. Even the corners shone like glass, Patience often observed with a sigh. The two tables were scrubbed daily. The stove was black, the windows white. Not a pan nor a dish save those in the sink was in sight.

Patience made a sudden dash, a leap, and alighted on Lola’s back, encircling the yielding waist with her supple legs. The woman emitted a hoarse shriek, then laughed and pinched the legs. Patience plunged her cold hands into the creases of Lola’s neck, gathering a quantity into the palms. She was unrebuked. There were a few persons that loved Patience, and Lola was of them.

“Pobrecita!” she exclaimed. “You are cold, no?”

“Mucho frizo,” murmured Patience, sliding the back of her hands down the mountainous surface of Lola’s. “And hungry, madre de dios.”

“Hungry? You no have the dinner? When you coming?”

“Hours ago, Lola. How cruel of you not to call me to dinner! How mean and piggish to eat it all yourself!”

“Ay, no call me the names. How I can know you are here si you no tell? Why you no coming here straight before going to the librario?”

“I forgot, Lola mia; and then I became—interested. But do give me something to eat.”

“Si.” And with Patience still on her back Lola waddled to the cupboard and lifted down the remains of a corn cake rolled about olives and cheese and peppers.

“An enchilada!” said Patience. “Good.”

Lola warmed the compound, and spread a napkin on a corner of one of the tables; then, suddenly unloosening Patience’s arms and legs, tumbled her headlong into a chair, laughing sluggishly as she ambled off. Patience ate the steaming enchilada as heartily as had Byron never been. In a moment she begged for a cup of chocolate.

“Si,” said Lola, “I have some scrape already;” and she brewed chocolate in a little earthen pot, then beat it to froth with her molinillo. Patience kicked her heels together with delight, and sipped it daintily while Lola stood by with fat hands on fat hips in reflex enjoyment.

“Like it, niña?”

“You bet.” Then after a moment she asked dreamily: “Lola, were you ever in love?”

“Que! Sure. Was I not marry? Poor my Pedro! How he lika the enchilada and the chocolaty; and the lard cakes and the little pig cooking with onions. And now the worms eating him. Ay, yi!” and Lola sat herself upon a chair and wept.