The Black Mask by E. W. Hornung (read after .TXT) 📕

I got taken on as tame sailorman and emergency bottle-washer. The wages were the noble figure of a lira and a half, which is just over a bob, a day, but there were lashings of sound wine for one and all, and better wine to bathe in. And for eight whole months, my boy, I was an absolutely honest man. The luxury of it, Bunny! I out-heroded Herod, wouldn’t touch a grape, and went in the most delicious danger of being knifed for my principles by the thieving crew I had joined.

“It was the kind of place where every prospect pleases⁠—and all the rest of it⁠—especially all the rest. But may I see it in my dreams till I die⁠—as it was in the beginning⁠—before anything began to happen. It was a wedge of rock sticking out into the bay, thatched with vines, and with the rummiest old house on the very edge of all, a devil of a height above the sea: you might have sat at the windows and dropped your Sullivan-ends plumb into blue water a hundred and fifty feet below.

“From the garden behind the house⁠—such a garden, Bunny⁠—oleanders and mimosa, myrtles, rosemarys and red tangles of fiery, untamed flowers⁠—in a corner of this garden was the top of a subterranean stair down to the sea; at least there were nearly two hundred steps tunnelled through the solid rock; then an iron gate, and another eighty steps in the open air; and last of all a cave fit for pirates, a-penny-plain-and-twopence-colored. This cave gave upon the sweetest little thing in coves, all deep blue water and honest rocks; and here I looked after the vineyard shipping, a potbellied tub with a brown sail, and a sort of dingy. The tub took the wine to Naples, and the dingy was the tub’s tender.

“The house above was said to be on the identical site of a suburban retreat of the admirable Tiberius; there was the old sinner’s private theatre with the tiers cut clean to this day, the well where he used to fatten his lampreys on his slaves, and a ruined temple of those ripping old Roman bricks, shallow as dominoes and ruddier than the cherry. I never was much of an antiquary, but I could have become one there if I’d had nothing else to do; but I had lots. When I wasn’t busy with the boats I had to trim the vines, or gather the grapes, or even help make the wine itself in a cool, dark, musty vault underneath the temple, that I can see and smell as I jaw. And can’t I hear it and feel it too! Squish, squash, bubble; squash, squish, guggle; and your feet as though you had been wading through slaughter to a throne. Yes, Bunny, you mightn’t think it, but this good right foot, that never was on the wrong side of the crease when the ball left my hand, has also been known to

‘crush the lees of pleasure
From sanguine grapes of pain.’ ”

He made a sudden pause, as though he had stumbled on the truth in jest. His face filled with lines. We were sitting in the room that had been bare when first I saw it; there were basket-chairs and a table in it now, all meant ostensibly for me; and hence Raffles would slip to his bed, with schoolboy relish, at every tinkle of the bell. This afternoon we felt fairly safe, for Theobald had called in the morning, and Mrs. Theobald still took up much of his time. Through the open window we could hear the piano-organ and “Mar⁠—gar⁠—rì” a few hundred yards further on. I fancied Raffles was listening to it while he paused. He shook his head abstractedly when I handed him the cigarettes; and his tone hereafter was never just what it had been.

“I don’t know, Bunny, whether you’re a believer in transmigration of souls. I have often thought it easier to believe than lots of other things, and I have been pretty near believing in it myself since I had my being on that villa of Tiberius. The brute who had it in my day, if he isn’t still running it with a whole skin, was or is as cold-blooded a blackguard as the worst of the emperors, but I have often thought he had a lot in common with Tiberius. He had the great high sensual Roman nose, eyes that were sinks of iniquity in themselves, and that swelled with fatness, like the rest of him, so that he wheezed if he walked a yard; otherwise rather a fine beast to look at, with a huge gray moustache, like a flying gull, and the most courteous manners even to his men; but one of the worst, Bunny, one of the worst that ever was. It was said that the vineyard was only his hobby; if so, he did his best to make his hobby pay. He used to come out from Naples for the weekends⁠—in the tub when it wasn’t too rough for his nerves⁠—and he didn’t always come alone. His very name sounded unhealthy⁠—Corbucci. I suppose I ought to add that he was a Count, though Counts are two-a-penny in Naples, and in season all the year round.

“He had a little English, and liked to air it upon me, much to my disgust; if I could not hope to conceal my nationality as yet, I at least did not want to have it advertised; and the swine had English friends. When he heard that I was bathing in November, when the bay is still as warm as new milk, he would shake his wicked old head and say, ‘You are very audashuss⁠—you are very audashuss!’ and put on no end of side before his Italians. By God, he had pitched upon the right word unawares, and I let him know it in the end!

“But that bathing, Bunny; it was absolutely the best I ever had anywhere. I said