The peasants below sat and listened intently, like children who hear and
do not understand, yet who are spellbound. The children themselves sit
spellbound on the benches till the play is over. They do not fidget or
lose interest. They watch with wide, absorbed eyes at the mystery, held
in thrall by the sound of emotion.
But the villagers do not really care for Ibsen. They let it go. On the
feast of Epiphany, as a special treat, was given a poetic drama by
D'Annunzio, _La Fiaccola sotto il Moggio_--_The Light under the Bushel_.
It is a foolish romantic play of no real significance. There are several
murders and a good deal of artificial horror. But it is all a very nice
and romantic piece of make-believe, like a charade.
So the audience loved it. After the performance of _Ghosts_ I saw the
barber, and he had the curious grey clayey look of an Italian who is
cold and depressed. The sterile cold inertia, which the so-called
passionate nations know so well, had settled on him, and he went
obliterating himself in the street, as if he were cold, dead.
But after the D'Annunzio play he was like a man who has drunk sweet wine
and is warm.
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