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- I. Youth
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I
YOUTH
I sprang from the Sorrento sailing-boat on
to the little beach. Swarms of boys were
playing about among the upturned boats or
bathing their shining bronze bodies in the surf,
and old fishermen in red Phrygian caps sat
mending their nets outside their boat-houses.
Opposite the landing-place stood half-a-dozen
donkeys with saddles on their backs and bunches
of flowers in their bridles, and around them
chattered and sang as many girls with the silver
spadella stuck through their black tresses and a
red handkerchief tied across their shoulders.
The little donkey who was to take me up to
Capri was called Rosina, and the name of the
girl was Gioia. Her black, lustrous eyes sparkled
with fiery youth, her lips were red like the string
of corals round her neck, her strong white teeth
glistened like a row of pearls in her merry laughter.
She said she was fifteen and I said that I was
younger than I had ever been. But Rosina was
old, “è antica,” said Gioia. So I slipped off the
saddle and climbed leisurely up the winding path
to the village. In front of me danced Gioia on
naked feet, a wreath of flowers round her head,
like a young Bacchante, and behind me staggered
old Rosina in her dainty black shoes, with bent
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