The strain of Sicilian blood that was in him worked in him curiously,
making her sometimes marvel at the mysterious power of race, at the
stubborn and almost tyrannical domination some dead have over some
living, those who are dust over those who are quick with animation and
passion. Everything that was connected with Sicily and with Sicilian life
not only reached his senses and sank easily into his heart, but seemed
also to rouse his mind to an activity that astonished her. In connection
with Sicily he showed a swiftness, almost a cleverness, she never noted
in him when things Sicilian were not in question.
For instance, like most Englishmen, Maurice had no great talent for
languages. He spoke French fairly well, having had a French nurse when he
was a child, and his mother had taught him a little Italian. But till now
he had never had any desire to be proficient in any language except his
own. Hermione, on the other hand, was gifted as a linguist, loving
languages and learning them easily. Yet Maurice picked up--in his case
the expression, usually ridiculous, was absolutely applicable--Sicilian
with a readiness that seemed to Hermione almost miraculous. He showed no
delight in the musical beauty of Italian. What he wanted, and what his
mind--or was it rather what his ears and his tongue and his lips?--took,
and held and revelled in, was the Sicilian dialect spoken by Lucrezia and
Gaspare when they were together, spoken by the peasants of Marechiaro and
of the mountains. To Hermione Gaspare had always talked Italian,
incorrect, but still Italian, and she spoke no dialect, although she
could often guess at what the Sicilians meant when they addressed her in
their vigorous but uncouth jargon, different from Italian almost as
Gaelic is from English. But Maurice very soon began to speak a few words
of Sicilian. Hermione laughed at him and discouraged him jokingly,
telling him that he must learn Italian thoroughly, the language of love,
the most melodious language in the world.
"Italian!" he said. "What's the use of it? I want to talk to the people.
A grammar! I won't open it. Gaspare's my professor. Gaspare! Gaspare!"
Gaspare came rushing bareheaded to them in the sun.
"The signora says I'm to learn Italian, but I say that I've Sicilian
blood in my veins and must talk as you do."
"But I, signore, can speak Italian!" said Gaspare, with twinkling pride.
"As a bear dances. No, professor, you and I, we'll be good patriots.
We'll speak in our mother-tongue. You rascal, you know we've begun
already."