Читать книгу The Italians - Frances Minto Dickinson Elliot - Страница 9

Many carriages wait outside the cathedral, in the shade near the fountain. The fountain—gushing upward joyously in the beaming sunshine out of a red-marble basin—is just beyond the atrium, and visible through the arches on that side. Beyond the fountain, terminating the piazza, there is a high wall. This wall supports a broad marble terrace, with heavy balustrades, extending from the back of a mediaeval palace. Over the wall green vine-branches trail, sweeping the pavement, like ringlets that have fallen out of curl. This wall and terrace communicate with the church of San Giovanni, an ancient Lombard basilica on that side. Under the shadow of the heavy roof some girls are trying to waltz to the sacred music from the cathedral. After a few turns they find it difficult, and leave off. The men in livery, waiting along with the carriages, laugh at them lazily. The girls retreat, and group themselves on the steps of a deeply-arched doorway with a bass-relief of the Virgin and angels, leading into the church, and talk in low voices.

A ragged boy from the Garfagnana, with a tray of plaster heads of Victor Emmanuel and Garibaldi, has put down his wares, and is turning wheels upon the pavement, before the servants, for a penny. An old man pulls out from under his cloak a dancing dog, with crimson collar and bells, and collects a little crowd under the atrium of the cathedral. A soldier, touched with compassion, takes a crust from his pocket to reward the dancing dog, which, overcome by the temptation, drops on his four legs, runs to him, and devours it, for which delinquency the old man beats him severely. His yells echo loudly among the pillars, and drown the rich tide of harmony that ebbs and flows through the open portals. The beggars have betaken themselves to their accustomed seats on the marble steps of the cathedral, San Martin of Tours, parting his cloak—carved in alt-relief, over the central entrance—looking down upon them encouragingly. These beggars clink their metal boxes languidly, or sleep, lying flat on the stones. A group of women have jammed themselves into a corner between the cathedral and the hospital adjoining it on that side. They are waiting to see the company pass out. Two of them standing close together are talking eagerly.

"My gracious! who would have thought that old witch, the Guinigi," whispers Carlotta—Carlotta owned a little mercery-shop in a side-street running by the palace, right under the tower—to her gossip Brigitta, an occasional customer for cotton and buttons, "who would have thought that she—gracious! who would have thought she dared to shut up her palace the day of the festival? Did you see?"

"Yes, I did," answers Brigitta.

"Curses on her!" hisses out Carlotta, showing her black teeth. "Listen to me, she will have a great misfortune—mark my words—a great misfortune soon—the stingy old devil!"

Hearing the organ at that instant, Brigitta kneels on the stones, and crosses herself; then rises and looks at Carlotta. "St. Nicodemus will have his revenge, never fear."

Carlotta is still speaking. Brigitta shakes her head prophetically, again looking at Carlotta, whose deep-sunk eyes are fixed upon her.

"Checco says—Checco is a shoemaker, and he knows the daughter of the man who helps the butler in Casa Guinigi—Checco says she laughs at the Holy Countenance. Domine Dio! what an infamy!" cries Carlotta, in a cracked voice, raising her skinny hands and shaking them in the air. "I hate the Guinigi! I hate her! I spit on her, I curse her!"

There is such venom in Carlotta's looks and in Carlotta's words that Brigitta suddenly takes her eyes off a man with a red waistcoat whom she is ogling, but who by no means reciprocates her attention, and asks Carlotta sharply, "Why she hates the marchesa?"

"Listen," answers Carlotta, holding up her finger. "One day, as I came out of my little shop, she"—and Carlotta points with her thumb over her shoulder toward the street of San Simone and the Guinigi Palace—"she was driving along the street in her old Noah's Ark of a carriage. Alas! I am old and feeble, and the horses came along quickly. I had no time to get into the little square of San Barnabo, out of the way; the wheel struck me on the shoulder, I fell down. Yes, I fell down on the hard pavement, Brigitta." And Carlotta sways her grizzly head from side to side, and grasps the other's arm so tightly that Brigitta screams. "Brigitta, the marchesa saw me. She saw me lying there, but she never stopped nor turned her head. I lay on the stones, sick and very sore, till a neighbor, Antonio the carpenter, who works in the little square, a good lad, picked me up and carried me home."

As she speaks, Carlotta's eyes glitter like a serpent's. She shakes all over.

"Lord have mercy!" exclaims Brigitta, looking hard at her; "that was bad!" Carlotta was over eighty; her face was like tanned leather, her skin loose and shriveled; a handful of gray hair grew on the top of her head, and was twisted up with a silver pin. Brigitta was also of a goodly age, but younger than Carlotta, fat and portly, and round as a barrel. She was pitted by the small-pox, and had but one eye; but, being a widow, and well-to-do in the world, is not without certain pretensions. She wears a yellow petticoat and a jacket trimmed with black lace. In her hair, black and frizzly as a negro's, a rose is stuck on one side.—The hair had been dressed that morning by a barber, to whom she paid five francs a month for this adornment.—Some rows of dirty seed-pearl are fastened round her fat throat; long gold ear-rings bob in her ears, and in her hand is a bright paper fan, with which she never ceases fanning herself.

"She's never spent so much as a penny at my shop," Carlotta goes on to say. "Not a penny. She'd not spare a flask of wine to a beggar dying at her door. Stuck-up old devil! But she's ruined, ruined with lawsuits. Ruined, I say. Ha! ha! Her time will come."

Finding Carlotta wearisome, Brigitta's one eye has again wandered off to the man with the red waistcoat. Carlotta sees this, watching her out of her deep-set, glassy eyes. Speak Carlotta will, and Brigitta shall listen, she was determined.

"I could tell you things"—she lowers her voice and speaks into the other's ear—"things—horrors—about Casa Guinigi!"

Brigitta starts. "Gracious! You frighten me! What things?"

"Ah, things that would make your hair stand on end. It is I who say it," and Carlotta snaps her fingers and nods.

"You know things, Carlotta? You pretend to know what happens in Casa Guinigi? Nonsense! You are mad!"

"Am I?" retorts the other. "We shall see. Who wins boasts. I'm not so mad, anyhow, as the marchesa, who shuts up her palace on the festival, and offends St. Nicodemus and all the saints and martyrs," and Carlotta's eyes flash, and her white eyebrows twitch.

"However"—and again she lays her bony hand heavily on Brigitta's fat arm—"if you don't want to hear what I know about Casa Guinigi, I will not tell you." Carlotta shuts up her mouth and nods defiantly.

This was not at all what Brigitta desired. If there was any thing to be told, she would like to hear it.

"Come, come, Carlotta, don't be angry. You may know much more than I do; you are always in your shop, except on festivals. The door is open, and you can see into the street of San Simone, up and down. But speak low; for there are Lisa and Cassandra close behind, and they will hear. Tell me, Carlotta, what is it?"

Brigitta speaks very coaxingly.

"Yes," replies the old woman, "I can see both the Guinigi palaces from my door—both the palaces. If the marchesa knew—"

"Go on, go on!" says Brigitta, nudging her. She leans forward to listen. "Go on. People are coming out of the cathedral."

Carlotta raises her head and grins, showing the few black teeth left in her mouth. "Are they? Well, answer me. Who lives in the street there—the street of San Simone—as well as the marchesa? Who has a fine palace that the marchesa sold him, a palace on which he has spent—ah! so much, so much? Who keeps open house, and has a French cook, and fine furniture, and new clothes, and horses in his stable, and six carriages? Who?—who?" As old Carlotta puts these questions she sways her body to and fro, and raises her finger to her nose.

"Who is strong, and square, and fair, and smooth?" "Who goes in and out with a smile on his face? Who?—who?"

"Why, Nobili, of course—Count Nobili. We all know that," answered Brigitta, impatiently. "That's no news. But what has Nobili to do with the marchesa?"

"What has he to do with the marchesa? Listen, Madama Brigitta. I will tell you. Do you know that, of all gentlemen in Lucca, the marchesa hates Nobili?"

"Well, and what then?"

"She hates him because he is rich and spends his money freely, and because she—the Guinigi—lives in the same street and sees it. It turns sour upon her stomach, like milk in a thunder-storm. She hates him."

"Well, is that all?" interrupts Brigitta.

Carlotta puts up her chin close to Brigitta's face, and clasps her tightly by the shoulder with both her skinny hands. "That is not all. The marchesa has her own niece, who lives with her—a doll of a girl, with a white face—puff! not worth a feather to look at; only a cousin of the marchesa's husband; but, she's the only one left, all the same. They are so thin-blooded, the Guinigi, they have come to an end. The old woman never had a child; she would have starved it."

Carlotta lowers her voice, and speaks into Brigitta's ear. "Nobili loves the niece. The marchesa would have the carbineers out if she knew it."

"Oh!" breaks from Brigitta, under her breath. "This is fine! splendid!

Are you sure of this, Carlotta? quite sure?"

"As sure as that I like meat, and only get it on Sundays.—Sure?—I have seen it with my own eyes. Checco knows the granddaughter of the man who helps the cook—Nobili pays like a lord, as he is!—He spends his money, he does!—Nobili writes to the niece, and she answers. Listen. To-day, the marchesa shut up her palace and put a chain on the door. But chains can be unloosed, locks broken. Enrica (that's the niece) at daybreak comes out to the arched gate-way that opens from the street into the Moorish garden at the farther side of the palace—she comes out and talks to Nobili for half an hour, under cover of the ivy that hangs over the wall on that side. Teresa, the maid, was there too, but she stood behind. Nobili wore a long cloak that covered him all over; Enrica had a thick veil fastened round her head and face. They didn't see me, but I watched them from behind Pietro's house, at the corner of the street opposite. First of all, Enrica puts her head out of the gate-way. Teresa puts hers out next. Then Enrica waves her hand toward the palace opposite, a side-door opens piano, Nobili appears, and watches all round to see that no one is near—ha! ha! his young eyes didn't spy out my old ones though, for all that—Nobili appears, I say, then he puts his hand to his heart, and gives such a look across the street!—Ahi! it makes my old blood boil to see it. I was pretty once, and liked such looks.—You may think my eyes are dim, but I can see as far as another."

And the old hag chuckles spitefully, and winks at Brigitta, enjoying her surprise.

"Madre di Dio!" exclaims this one. "There will be fine work."

"Yes, truly, very fine work. The marchesa shall know it; all Lucca shall know it too—mark my words, all Lucca! Curses on the Guinigi root and branch! I will humble them! Curses on them!" mumbles Carlotta.

"And what did Nobili do?" asks Brigitta.

"Do?—Why, seeing no one, he came across and kissed Enrica's hand; I saw it. He made as if he would have knelt upon the stones, only she would not let him. Then they whispered for, as near as I can guess, half an hour—Teresa standing apart. There was the sound of a cart then coming along the street, and presto!—Enrica was within the garden in an instant, the gate was closed, and Nobili disappeared."

Any further talk is now cut short by the approach of Cassandra, a friend of Brigitta's. Cassandra is a servant in a neighboring eating-house, a tall, large-boned woman, a colored handkerchief tied over her head, and much tawdry jewelry about her hands and neck.

"What are you two chattering about?" asks Cassandra sharply. "It seems entertaining. What's the news? I get paid for news at my shop. Tell me directly."

"Lotta here was only relating to me all about her grandchild," answers Brigitta, with a whine.—Brigitta was rather in dread of Cassandra, whose temper was fierce, and who, being strong, knocked people down occasionally if they offended her.

"Lotta was telling me, too, that she wants fresh stores for her shop, but all her money is gone to the grandchild in the hospital, who is ill, very ill!" and Brigitta sighs and turns up the whites of her eyes.

"Yes, yes," joins in Carlotta, a dismal look upon her shriveled old face. "Yes—it is just that. All the money gone to the grandchild, the son of my Beppo—that's the soldier who is with the king's army.—Alas! all gone; my money, my son, and all."

Here Carlotta affects to groan and wring her hands despairingly.

The mass was now nearly over; many people were already leaving the cathedral; but the swell of the organs and the sweet tones of voices still burst forth from time to time. Festive masses are always long. It might not seem so to the pretty ladies in the boxes, still perseveringly fanning themselves, nor to the golden youths who were diverting them; but the prospect of dinner and a siesta was a temptation stronger than the older portion of the congregation could resist. By twos and threes they slipped out.

This is the moment for the three women to use their eyes and their tongues—very softly indeed—for they were now elbowed by some of the best people in Lucca—but to use them.

"There's Baldassare, the chemist's son," whispers Brigitta, who was using her one eye diligently.

"Mercy! That new coat was never cut in Lucca. They need sell many drugs at papa-chemist's to pay for Baldassare's clothes. Why, he's combed and scented like a spice-tree. He's a good-looking fellow; the great ladies like him." This was said with a knock-me-down air by Cassandra. "He dines at our place every day. It's a pleasure to see his black curls and smell his scented handkerchief."

A cluster of listeners had now gathered round Cassandra, who, conscious of an audience, thought it worth her while to hold forth. Shaking out the folds of her gown, she leaned her back against the wall, and pointed with a finger on which were some trumpery rings. Cassandra knew everybody, and was determined to make those about her aware of it. "That's young Count Orsetti and his mamma; they give a grand ball to-night." (Cassandra is standing on tiptoe now, the better to observe those who pass.) "There she goes to her carriage. Ahi! how grand! The coachman and the valet with gold-lace and silk stockings. I would fast for a week to ride once in such a carriage. Oh! I would give any thing to splash the mud in people's faces. She's a fine woman—the Orsetti. Observe her light hair. Madonna mia! What a train of silk! Twelve shillings a yard—not a penny less. She's got a cavaliere still.—He! he! a cavaliere!"

Carlotta grins, and winks her wicked old eyes. "She wants to marry her son to Teresa Ottolini. He's a poor silly little fellow; but rich—very rich."

"Who's that fat man in a brown coat?" asks Brigitta. "He's like a maggot in a fresh nut!"

"That's my master—a fine-made man," answers Cassandra, frowning and pinching in her lips, with an affronted air, "Take care what you say about my master, Brigitta; I shall allow no observations."

Brigitta turns aside, puts her tongue in her cheek, and glances maliciously at Carlotta, who nods.

"How do you know how your master is made, Cassandra mia?" asks

Brigitta, looking round, with a short laugh.

"Because I have eyes in my head," replies Cassandra, defiantly. "My master, the padrone of the Pelican Hotel, is not a man one sees every day in the week!"

A tall priest now appears from within the church, coming down the nave, in company with a rosy-faced old gentleman, who, although using a stick, walks briskly and firmly. He has a calm and pleasant face, and his hair, which lies in neat little curls upon his forehead, is as white as snow. One moment the rosy old gentleman talks eagerly with the priest; the next he sinks upon his knees on the pavement, and murmurs prayers at a side altar. He does this so abruptly that the tall priest stumbles over him. There are many apologies, and many bows. Then the old gentleman rises, dusts his clothes carefully with a white handkerchief, and walks on, talking eagerly as before. Both he and the priest bend low to the high altar, dip their fingers in the holy-water, cross themselves, bend again to the altar, turning right and left—before leaving the cathedral.

"That's Fra Pacifico," cries Carlotta, greatly excited—"Fra Pacifico, the Marchesa Guinigi's chaplain. He's come down from Corellia for the festival."—Carlotta is proud to show that she knows somebody, as well as Cassandra. "When he is in Lucca, Fra Pacifico passes my shop every morning to say mass in the marchesa's private chapel. He knows all her sins."

"And the old gentleman with him," puts in Cassandra, twitching her hook nose, "is old Trenta—Cesare Trenta, the cavaliere. Bless his dear old face! The duke loved him well. He was chamberlain at the palace. He's a gentleman all over, is Cavaliere Trenta. There—there. Look!"—and she points eagerly—"that's the Red count, Count Marescotti, the republican."

Cassandra lowers her voice, afraid to be overheard, and fixes her eyes on a man whose every feature and gesture proclaimed him an aristocrat.

Excited by the grandeur of the service, Marescotti's usually pale face is suffused with color; his large black eyes shine with inner lights. Looking neither to the right nor to the left, he walks through the atrium, straight down the marble steps, into the piazza. As he passes the three women they draw back against the wall. There is a dignity about Marescotti that involuntarily awes them.

"That's the man for the people!"—Cassandra still speaks under her breath.—"He'll give us a republic yet."

Following close on Count Marescotti comes Count Nobili. There are ease and conscious strength and freedom in his every movement. He pauses for a moment on the uppermost step under the central arch of the atrium and gazes round. The sun strikes upon his fresh-complexioned face and lights up his fair hair and restless eyes.—It is clear to see no care has yet troubled that curly head of his.—Nobili is closely followed by a lady of mature age, dark, thin, and sharp-featured. She has a glass in her eye, with which she peers at every thing and everybody. This is the Marchesa Boccarini. She is followed by her three daughters; two of them of no special attraction, but the youngest, Nera, dark and strikingly handsome. These three young ladies, all matrimonially inclined, but Nera specially, had carefully watched the instant when Nobili left his seat. Then they had followed him closely. It was intended that he should escort them home. Nera has already decided what she will say to him touching the Orsetti ball that evening and the cotillon, which she means to dance with him if she can. But Nobili, with whom they come up under the portico, merely responds to their salutation with a low bow, raises his hat, and stands aside to make way for them. He does not even offer to hand them to their carriage. They pass, and are gone.

As Count Nobili descends the three steps into the piazza, he is conscious that all eyes are fixed upon him; that every head is uncovered. He pauses, casts his eyes round at the upturned faces, raises his hat and smiles, then puts his hand into his pocket, and takes out a gold-piece, which he gives to the nearest beggar. The beggar, seizing the gold-piece, blesses him, and hopes that "Heaven will render to him according to his merits." Other beggars, from every corner, are about to rush upon him; but Nobili deftly escapes from these as he had escaped from the Marchesa Boccarini and her daughters, and is gone.

"A lucky face," mumbles old Carlotta, working her under lip, as she fixes her bleared eyes on him—"a lucky face! He will choose the winning number in the lottery, and the evil eye will never harm him."

The music had now ceased. The mass was over. The vast congregation poured through the triple doors into the piazza, and mingled with the outer crowd. For a while both waved to and fro, like billows on a rolling sea, then settled down into one compact current, which, flowing onward, divided and dispersed itself through the openings into the various streets abutting on the piazza.

Last of all, Carlotta, Brigitta, and Cassandra, leave their corner. They are speedily engulfed in the shadows of a neighboring alley, and are seen no more.