The Kenna record. (Kenna, Roosevelt County, N.M.) 190?-1924, 1914-05-08
CHAPTER III.
The ReautIfuI rIareas.

The Beautiful Tleress.
Flora Desimone had been born in a
Calabrian peasants hut, and she had
rolled In the dust outside, yelling Wig
orouely at all times. Specialists de-
singers coming from lowly origin is
found In this early development of the
throat. Parents of means employ
nurses or sedatives to suppress or at
least to smother these infantile pro-
tests against being thrust inconsider-
ately into the turmoil of human be-
ings. Flora yelled or slept, as the
case might be; her parents were
equally Indifferent They were too
busily concerned with the getting OF
bread and wine. Moreover, Flora was
one among many. The gods are ar
ways playing with the Calabrian PEN
insula, heaving It up here or throwing
1t down there; II terremoto, the earth
quake, the terror. Here nature tink-
ers vicariously with souls; and she sell
dom has time to complete her work
Constant communion with death
makes for callosity of feeling; and the
Calabrians and the Sicilians are the
cruelest among the civilized peoples.
Flora was ruthless.
She lived amazingly we'll in the pre-
mier of an apartmenthotel in the
hamps-Elysees. In England and
America she had amassed a fortune.
Given the warm beauty of the south
ern Italian, the passion, the tempera-
ment, the love of mischief, the natural
cruelty, the inordinate craving for at
tention and flattery, she enlivened the
nations with her affairs. And she new
er put a single beat of her heart into
any of them. That is why her voice is
still splendid and her beauty unchang-
ing. She did not dissipate; calcula-
ton always barred her inclination;
rather, she loitered about the Forbid
den Tree and played that she had
plucked the Apple. She had an ex-
ample to follow; Eve had none.
Men scattered fortunes at her feet
as foolish Greeks scattered floral Of
ferings at the feet of their marble
gods-without provoking the sense of
reciprocity or generosity or mercy.
She had worked; ah, no one would
ever know how hard. She had been
crushed, beaten, cursed, starved. That
she had risen to the heights In spite Of
these bruising verbs In no manner en-
larged her pity. but dulled and vitiated
the little there was Of it. Her mental
attitude toward humanity was child
ish as, when the parent strikes, the
child blindly strikes back. She was
determined to play. to enjoy life. to
give back blow for blow, nor caring
where she struck. She was going to
press the juice from every grape. A
thousand odd years gone. she would
have led the cry in Rome-"Bread and
the circus!" or ITO the lions!" She
would have disturbed Nero's compla-
cency, and he would have played an
obbligato instead OF solo at the burn
ing. And she was malice incarnate.
They came from all climes-her low
ers- with roubles and lire and francs
and shillings and dollars; and those
who finally escaped her enchantment
did so involuntarily, for lack of further
funds. They called her villas Circe's
isles. She hated but two things in the
world; the man she could have loved
and the woman she could not surpass.
Some one was at the speaking-tube.
The singer crossed the room impa-
tiently. What is it?" she asked in
French.
The voice below answered with a
query in English. us this the Signo-
rina Desimone"
Yes. And now that my identity is
established. who are you and what do
you want at this tirue of night?"
Il am Edward Courtlandt."
'Well, what is II you wish ?" amiably.
you once did me an III turn" came