Читать книгу Castellinaria, and Other Sicilian Diversions - Henry Festing Jones - Страница 7

So she gave me the baby as a reward and slapped her husband’s cheek as a punishment. Peppino naturally retaliated, and in a moment they were rolling over and over and bear-fighting like a couple of kittens at play, while Carmelo and I sat and laughed at them, and the baby crowed and clapped his hands and grew so excited I could scarcely hold him.

There came a pause and Peppino said: “My dear, if you will leave off boxing my ears I will tell you a secret.”

Brancaccia instantly desisted and went and sat apart to recover herself.

Peppino continued: “I knew the compare would refuse to eat the baby. He does not like our Sicilian dishes. Every time he comes to see us it is a penitenza for him, because he cannot eat food grown in our island. But I know what I shall do. I shall send a telegram to London: ‘English gentleman starving in Castellinaria. Please send at once one chop, one bottle of stout.’

“Look here,” he continued, suddenly sitting up and becoming serious. “It is the clime. Here is the country not adapted to the beast, few rain, few grass, few beefs, few muttons, and all too thin and the land is good only for the goats and we must be eating such things that are doing bad to the stomaco—the little chickens and the poor fishes and the pasta—not other. In England shall be falling always the rain and plenty grass shall be growing and the beefs and the muttons shall be fat and much nourishment shall come to those who are eating them.”

I said that if I could have chops and stout instead of the few odds and ends which Carmelo had managed to scrape together for our ridiculously inadequate luncheon, of course I should stay at Castellinaria and never go home any more.

So that was settled for the time, and Brancaccia, having put herself tidy, proposed a visit to the grottoes. Carmelo packed up his kitchen and took it off to the cart. On the way he met his cousin, borrowed his boat and came rowing in it—for Carmelo is also a fisherman. We got in and rowed round the promontory and into the caves. The baby was a good deal puzzled, he thought he was indoors, and yet it wasn’t right, but he was pleased. When we were tired of the grottoes we rowed back, restored the boat to Carmelo’s cousin, packed ourselves into the cart and Guido Santo took us up the zig-zags to Castellinaria after a day which we all enjoyed very much; Ricuzzu, who understood least, perhaps enjoyed it most, but then this baby enjoys everything. If we could have remanded his festa for a few years, instead of only a few days or weeks or whatever it was, he might have understood more and enjoyed less.

Ricuzzu did not come to the theatre, he was supposed to be tired, so Brancaccia put him to bed and, leaving him with Carmelo, accompanied Peppino and me to see Il Diavolo Verde. We took our seats while the fiancée of Don Giuseppe, assisted by her lady’s-maid, was endeavouring to make up her mind. The difficulty was that Don Giovanni, the brother of Giuseppe, had sent her a case of jewels and, like Margherita, in Faust, she could not resist the temptation to try them on in front of a looking-glass. We saw in the glass the reflection of a devil in green with pink trimmings. He appeared to be standing behind her, looking over her shoulder, but he was not really present; it must have been a magic mirror. Don Giovanni came and denounced his brother who, he said, was a bastard and no gentleman, proving his words by the production of their father’s will written on a sheet of brown paper which he always carried in his belt. This convinced the lady, and she went off with Giovanni. Don Giuseppe, who had been carried away by armed men, escaped and returned to meditate on the crisis of his life. Remembering that the green devil was a retainer of his family, he summoned him and laid the case before him. This time the devil really came and told Giuseppe that there was a way out of his trouble, but that it would involve (1) the perdition of two souls, (2) the shedding of blood, (3) sacrilege, (4) perjury, and (5) all his courage. Don Giuseppe agreed and the curtain fell.

The next act was in the cemetery in front of the tomb of the father of the two brothers. Don Giuseppe and the green devil came in, carrying another will, engrossed on brown paper, but not executed, a bottle of ink, and a quill pen. They stood in front of the door of the tomb and spoke some sacrilegious words. The door opened and revealed the corpse of the father like a Padre Eterno, standing upright, clothed in white, with a white face, a flowing white beard and white kid gloves. Brancaccia was, I believe, really as much frightened as Don Giuseppe pretended to be and I did not like it. The green devil encouraged his master to approach the corpse, which he did, first dipping the pen in the ink-bottle. He offered the pen and held in a convenient manner the new will which would put everything straight, begging his father to sign it. The corpse slowly raised its stiff right arm, took the pen in its hand and signed the will; it then dropped the pen on the ground, lowered its stiff right arm and the door of the tomb closed. Except for this, it did not move and it did not speak at all. It was a ghastly scene and the house was as still as though it had been empty.

In the next act we returned to Don Giovanni whom we found playing dice with Fernando at an inn. When Fernando had lost his money and his jewellery and his lands and his castle and his furniture, he played for his wife, and Don Giovanni won her also. Whereupon Fernando wrote two letters to his wife, one, which they sent by a messenger, told her to come to the inn at once, the other was for Don Giovanni to give to her when she came. Fernando then went away, leaving the coast clear, and the lady entered.

Don Giovanni: Donna Inez, I love you.

Donna Inez: Silence, Sir. I am here to meet my husband. Where is he?

Don G (giving her the second letter): He left this for you.

Donna I (reads): “Dear Inez: We have been playing dice. Don Giovanni has won. You now belong to him. Your affectionate husband, Fernando.” It cannot be! ’Tis false! My husband would never behave in so ungentlemanly a manner.

Giov: On the contrary, Madama. And is not this his handwriting?

In: Now that I look at it again, it is. Ah, Cielo! Betrayed! Surely, Sir, you do not expect me to consent?

Giov: Certainly I do.

In: Never. I am a Spanish lady of high degree.

Giov: Inez, I love you. Be mine.

In: Are you of noble birth?

Giov: Yes.

In: Are you valorous?

Giov: Yes.

In: Don Giovanni (hiding her face), I love you!

Giov: My own, my beautiful one!

In: There is, however, one little difficulty about which, of course, you could have known nothing. Some years ago I foolishly took an oath. I swore I would be true to my husband during his life.

Giov: Well, but—let me see—yes, I did bring my sword with me. Suppose I were to step round and run him through the heart—if you don’t mind waiting?

In: I’m afraid it would be troubling you?

Giov: Not at all. Any little thing of that kind. So glad you mentioned it.

In: Thanks. I suppose you could not manage to bring it off within sight of the window?

Giov: I don’t see why not. Anyhow, I’ll do my best.

[Exit Giov.

In: Waiter! (Enter Waiter.) Lay the cloth for two (She meditates while the waiter lays the cloth. Exit Waiter.) Being a Spanish lady of high degree, the only course open to me is suicide. Fortunately, this ring contains a dose of poison strong enough for two, otherwise I should have had to die unavenged or to send round to the chemist’s for more. (She pours out two glasses of wine, splits the contents of her ring between them, and goes to the window.) Ah! here they come. It is annoying that they are so far off. I cannot distinguish them in the dark; however, they are fighting. Now one is killed and the other is coming in. I wonder which it will be.

Enter Don Giovanni.

Giov: There! my own, my beautiful one. I’m afraid you did not have a very good view, but your poor husband was such a damned bad swordsman that I inadvertently killed him before I could get him as near as I intended.

In: Well, I confess I should like to view the body, just to make sure you have not killed the wrong gentleman–-if you’ve no objection?

Giov: None whatever. You’ll find him in the gutter up the street, under the third lamp post. (Exit Donna Inez. Don Giovanni observes the two glasses of wine and smells them suspiciously. Re-enter Donna Inez.)

In: Perfectly satisfactory and I thank you.

Giov: My own, my beautiful one! I love you! Be mine.

In: Shall we not first have a little supper? You must be fatigued after your exertions. And see! here is a nice glass of wine for you.

Giov: After you, Madama. (Donna Inez hesitates to drink.) You see, my beautiful one, I have had some experience in these matters, and now I never drink anything poured out for me by a lady unless she drinks some of it herself.

In (aside): Being a Spanish lady of high degree I cannot possibly refuse. I can only trust that as he is of noble birth and valorous, he won’t be such a blackguard as not to drink. (Drinks.)

Giov: Brava! But—do you know?—after all, I think I should prefer a fresh bottle, if it’s quite the same to you, my beautiful one. (He empties his glass upon the floor; the wine flows about the stage in a stream of fire. Donna Inez dies in agony. Exit Don Giovanni laughing. Curtain.)

During the applause that followed, Brancaccia rose, exclaiming:

“Such a thing could not possibly happen.”

She collected her wraps and we left the theatre, although the play was in nine acts and we had only seen three. As soon as we got home, she retired. I said to Peppino:

“I wish we had not gone to that play. I am sure Brancaccia has been frightened by it.”

“No,” said he, “not frightened.”

“But she’s gone away to recover herself?”

“Look here, Brancaccia don’t be thinking of the drama. She don’t be thinking of nothing—only the baby. She go to see if Ricuzzu is sleeping.”