The Fortnightly Review: No. CCCCLXIII, New Series [‎662r] (214/239)

NOSTALGIA.
183
distant hearth, the grey night illumined by the snow. Behind the
voices and the laughter which vibrated from the dining-room, behind
the painful screech of the trams, behind the buzz of the merry
making city, she heard the whistling of trains in the station. Some
of the whistles laughed, some wept; one, faint and tender seemed
the voice of a questioning child; one was like a zigzag on a black
sky; one mocked at Regina. “Are you ready to go? Not you!
not you! It’s your own fault. Here you’ve come, and here you
stay! Good-bye! Good-bye! ’’
She worked herself into a passion. She was angry even with his
Excellency who had looked in at Dagnino’s window, fixing his gold
eyeglasses. She asked, exasperated, who were all those strange
people laughing and joking in the dining-room?
Antonio soon joined her. She pretended to sleep. He was
solicitous and touched her gently. Feeling her very cold, he drew
nearer to warm her. She was moved, but did not open her eyes.
The hours passed. The city became silent. It slept, like a greedy
child to whom dainties are promised. Regina could not sleep, but
she was not insensible to the kindness and the warmth. The little
snail had looked out from the window of its shell and seen the sun
shining on the grass. Melodious sound of bells trembled and
oscillated on the quiet night. One seemed to come from beyond
a river, grave, sonorous, nostalgic. To her surprise Regina found
herself repeating certain lines of Prati’s, which she was not conscious
of having known before. Whence did they arise? Perhaps from
the depths of her subconsciousness, evoked by the nostalgic song of
the bells on that first Christmas of exile.
“ Dreaming of home and of the country ways,
The village feastings and the green spring days.”
She repeated the lines many times to herself with singsong
monotony, which ended by putting her asleep. She dreamed she
was at home. Her young sister played “ Stefania ” on her
mandoline. Regina saw the mandoline distinctly and its inlaid
picture of a troubadour with a mandola. The little black cat was
listening, rather bored, and yawning ostentatiously. Outside fell the
evening, violet-grey, velvety, silent. Suddenly a perplexed visage
with gold rimmed eyeglasses started up behind the window parses.
Regina laughed so loud that she woke her husband.
“ What ever is it? ’’ he asked in alarm.
“ His Excellency,” she murmured, still dreaming.
Next morning on awakening Antonio found Regina in tears.
“ You were laughing last night—now you cry,” he said, with
slight impatience. “ Can’t you explain what on earth’s the matter
with you ? ”
“ Nothing.”
“ Nothing! You’re crying! What are you crying about? I can’t
bear it any longer! Why do you torment me like this? ”
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