Читать книгу Giannella - Hugh Mrs. Fraser - Страница 3

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"And now, what are we to do about the child? Cannot you think of something, Carl?"

Carl stooped down to disentangle some very small fingers which had been busy with his bootlaces, and as the baby crawled away to find fresh mischief he straightened himself and watched her with a ruefully puzzled expression.

"Upon my word, Hans," he said at last, "I can think of nothing but the Pietá. It seems hard, but all the boys are as poor as ourselves. The only married one is Sigersen, and his wife is away—and not much good when she is at home. The Vice-consul said we had better put the child in the Rota—and I am afraid that is what we shall have to do. The nuns will keep any name and address they find pinned on her clothes, and if things go better with us, or if it should turn out that poor Brockmann had any relations, and they ever inquire for her, we shall know where to look for her."

The speakers were two Scandinavian painters, young and kind and poor, members of the little brotherhood which, year in, year out, finds its way from the shores of the bleak North Sea to the blue and gold of the Mediterranean, to the marbles and the ilexes, to the campagna and the hills; and have taken root in the classic, teeming soil which is Rome. A friend and comrade, Niels Brockmann, had died a day or two before this little colloquy took place, and he had left behind him a dismantled studio, some good but unfinished studies, and a baby girl whose pretty young mother had not survived her birth. Brockmann had idolized the flaxen-haired mite for one year, and then had ended his existence by catching a deadly chill while sketching in some beautiful but malarious spot. The brotherhood had nursed him loyally and buried him decently, but they were hopelessly perplexed as to how to dispose of his daughter. Most of them lived on two or three pauls a day, everything else being saved for studio rent and artists' materials; and when one was lucky enough to sell a picture, there was a jolly supper for everybody at the Lepre, with mighty songs and much beer; and then what remained of the money was unhesitatingly divided among the poor devils who were most deeply in debt to landlord or colorman.

There was no room for a baby in that straitly-lodged, big-hearted community, and Hans Stravenkilde had been driven to lay the case before the Vice-consul of his nationality, hoping that he would undertake the charge. But the official, a banker and a Roman, refused to be responsible for the child in any way. Indeed, he was indignant at the mere suggestion. He told Hans that if he were to take on all the destitute orphans that pauper foreigners left behind them, he would soon turn his house into a foundling hospital. And what was the Pietá for, but just such waifs, he would like to know? Pin the child's name on her clothes and drop her into the Rota. Good-morning.

And Hans had departed and walked home, much depressed. He had stopped a moment on his way, to look at the cushioned dumb-waiter open to the street in the wall of the Pietá; he knew that one or other of the nuns was stationed behind it through every minute of the night and day, to turn it inwards the instant a child had been laid on the pillow, to gather the poor abandoned little thing into safety and fellowship with many hundreds of others who were sheltered behind those huge charitable walls, and were better fed, better loved, better educated than most of them would ever have been in their own homes. Hans knew all about it, yet his heart ached at the thought of leaving this particular baby there, and Carl fully shared his unwillingness. He had just picked up Giannella and was making funny faces at her, so that the little creature first seemed inclined to cry; then she caught the smile in her tormentor's blue eyes and laughed aloud.

At this a thin, dark woman in peasant's dress raised herself from where she had been gathering up some littered papers in a corner, and came towards the young men, holding out her arms to the child, who at once sprang into them with the confidence of long familiarity. The woman smoothed down the rumpled skirt, wiped off the dust which the small pink palms had gathered on the floor, and then stood looking at the two friends of her late master. They had been speaking in their own language, but she knew they were talking about the baby, and she had caught the words "Pietá" and "Rota."

"Well," she said, in a deep masculine voice, "and what becomes of this one?"

"That is a hard question, Mariuccia," Hans replied. "There is nobody who wants her, except we poor devils of artists who have nowhere to put her—and the Signor Console told us we had better take her to the Pietá."

He had turned and looked out of the window as he spoke, and Carl followed his example. Neither cared to meet the woman's glance; they both knew how she loved the child.

Mariuccia's brows met in a dark line and her eyes flashed angrily. "A fine piece of advice," she cried. "That consul is an animal, without heart. The Pietá indeed, for my poor padrone's child! Is there no good lady who will take her and bring her up properly? Signor Brockmann of good memory was a gentleman—though he had no money, poverino, and this bit of sugar should be taken care of like a signorina."

"What can we do, Mariuccia?" Hans exclaimed. "All that you say is true, but there are no relations—and we and the other boys are not married—it will have to be the Pietá, I am afraid."

Mariuccia pondered, looking down at the small fluffy head on her shoulder. At last she spoke. "Give her to me. I will take her to my brother at Castel Gandolfo. His wife is a good woman. They have six children—one more will make no difference. And there is at least bread for all, and wine, and salad in the garden. She will do well there."

"That is splendid," cried Hans. "Bravo, Mariuccia. We will send some money for her whenever we can, and she will be happy with you."

"I shall not stay in the country," Mariuccia replied. "I have to earn my living. I must find another place, here in Rome. If the Signori can help me to do that I shall be glad. But I shall get to see Giannella sometimes, and when she grows big you signorini must manage to have her go to school. You are good boys—the Madonna will help you to sell your beautiful pictures—and then I will come and remind you of Giannella. For she is a lady. She cannot grow up to gather chestnuts and work in the fields. She must be instructed, like her poor papa."

This was a long speech for Mariuccia, who was a rather saturnine person generally. Evidently she had taken the matter deeply to heart, and her solution seemed such a satisfactory one that the young men were only too thankful to accept it.

So the studio was cleared out and the landlord took the key and some of the properties in lieu of rent due; a few feminine belongings left behind by poor Mrs. Brockmann were packed away by Mariuccia to be kept for Giannella; a coat and a pair of boots, almost all that had not been sold during the artist's illness to provide necessaries, she begged for as a propitiatory offering to her brother. Then the two young men went back to their work, their hard, cheery lives, and trusty comrades; and in a few hours they had managed to throw off the effects of the tragedy which had absorbed them for the last ten days, for, thank Heaven, the "Donna" had taken charge of the baby.

* * * * * * * * * *

The sun was striking low through the boles of the ancient elms which line the road from Albano to Castel Gandolfo. It was a hot September evening, and the dust rose in a yellow haze under the feet of a woman who was walking quickly towards the latter place. She was dressed in the costume of the hills; the short, full skirt swung wide at every step, the scarlet bodice gave easy play to her tall, spare figure. On her shoulders was the beautifully draped little shawl crossing over the bosom and showing the spotless camisole of heavy linen, ornamented with handmade lace of ancient pattern; round her neck were the dark red corals, and in her ears the long gold earrings—flashing now and again in the last sunbeams—which testified that she came of good stock and had inherited proper plenishings from the women of her race. She walked as if the road, the woods on either hand, the campagna below and the mountains beyond, belonged to her by right. The heavy basket on her head might have been an archaic crown, so lightly did it poise as she swung along, and she seemed equally untroubled by the weight of a sleeping child on one arm and a nondescript collection of bundles in the other.

Mariuccia was going home. It mattered little that the home was not her own, but her brother's, that its four stone rooms were crowded with children, and that she was bringing another to leave there, quite uncertain of its reception. She was in her own country, striding through the good dust instead of over the city pavements, smelling the hot, dry fragrance of the grapes hanging in masses from the stripped vines where the vineyards terraced down to the campagna on her left; hearing the chestnut burrs rustle to the ground in the woods on her right; heading for the place where she was born, for the grand sour bread and honest wine, the snowy beds piled mountains high under embroidered sheets and quilted coverlets, the blest palms and roses round the picture of the Immacolata on the wall—for the fountain in the piazza, the whispered greetings across the women's benches in the church, for the well-known faces and the broad speech of home.

It was three years since she had been there. Long ago she had made up her mind not to marry, telling her relations that since a woman must work for somebody, she chose to work for a master who would pay her, and whom she could leave if she chose, rather than for a husband who would give her no wages, would beat her if the fancy took him, and with whom she must remain all her life. So she had taken service in Rome, and, though her last venture had ended sadly, was on the whole contented with her lot. She had saved the greater part of her wages for the last ten years, had found kind, decent padroni of the genial middle-class sort, and was looked upon by the relations in the hills as a superior person of solid fortune whom it was well to treat politely. She was bringing presents for the family now—cakes and sweetmeats for the children, a bottle of rosolio and the boots and coat for her brother, and a roll of linen and a green rosary for the sister-in-law—and the rosary had been blessed by the Pope. Her old friend, the sacristan of San Severino, had asked the Curato, and the Curato had asked the Cardinal's secretary, and then the Cardinal himself had procured the Holy Father's blessing; and Mariuccia had put the sacred thing away till she should feel more worthy to use it. Now the moment had come to do something really great, so that sister Candida should be dazzled into receiving "la Pupa" with open arms, and the rosary must be sacrificed.

It is but a short distance from Albano, whither Mariuccia had traveled in the disjointed vettura which daily lumbered out from Rome over the Appian Way, to Castel Gandolfo, the summer sojourn of the Popes. As she entered the little town, the girls were gathered round the fountain, filling their urns and chattering as gaily as roosting sparrows; the young men lounged on the steps of the church, hands in pockets, a rose or carnation stuck behind the ear to show that they were in good spirits; and a gathering of thirsty, dust-parched carrettieri, their huge, brightly-colored carts obstructing the street, were drinking bumpers of red wine in the low, dark doorway of the Osteria, under the swinging bunch of broom which was its only sign. Smells of cooking, of freshly-baked bread, of wet linen hanging to dry from upper windows, and many less savory scents filled Mariuccia's nostrils with familiar pleasure. The Ave Maria was pealing from the tower, and she turned aside to kneel for a moment in the well-known church. Then she came out, turned up a side street and made for a little square house that stood in its own vineyard just beyond the farther gate of the town.

Ah, there was no doubt about her welcome. A tribe of black-eyed, red-cheeked children broke upon her like a tornado, with yells of joy; sister Candida came hurrying to the door and led her in rejoicing, taking baby and burdens from her without a question; while brother Stefano, who had just got his pigs safely home from the chestnut wood behind the house, came clamping in with earth-stained clothes and a week's beard on his beaming face, and kissed Mariuccia on both cheeks, inquired for her health, told his wife to get her some supper, all without more than one glance at the flaxen-haired infant who had been deposited safely out of reach of the children, in the very middle of the huge white bed which was the chief ornament of the room. Guests must not be questioned, whatever they choose to bring; Mariuccia would speak when she was ready.

That moment did not come till all the presents had been produced and rejoiced over, and the young ones had fallen asleep with open mouths and sticky fingers, and the three elders were sitting round the table by the light of the tall brass lamp in which all four burners had been kindled in honor of the visitor. The pure olive oil glowed brightly and cast a friendly radiance over the consultation. Mariuccia, desperately in earnest now, was stating her case as she considered it should be stated; not precisely as it really stood, of course; that would never have done. Giannella, Stefano and his wife learnt, was certainly an orphan, but there were rich relations in some barbaric country over there—Mariuccia's gesture indicated enormous vagueness—who would wish her to be well cared for, and who would pay splendidly for such care when they came to fetch her, as they would do before very long. She was a good-tempered little thing, and had never been ailing for a day since she was born—and so pretty. There was not such another blonde head in Rome. The people turned to look at her in the street when Mariuccia took her out on a Sunday. Candida hesitated a little, then went and looked at the sleeping child, all rosy and golden, on the white pillow. Stefano glanced at her questioningly as she returned. This was going to be her affair, not his, and she must decide.

"It is well, Mariuccia," she said, without even looking towards her husband. "You can leave her here. Is she baptised?"

"I saw to that," Mariuccia replied. "Here is the certificate from San Severino." And she drew out of her pocket a stiff paper which none of the three could read, but on which they recognized the big, round seal of the Keys and Tiara.

"I will keep it," Mariuccia said, "and if it is wanted you can send for it. Her name is Giannella, don't forget. She eats soup and bread, just what you gave your own babies at that age. Mamma mia, I am sorry to part with her, pretty heart! But I must go back to Rome and find a new, rich padrone, or how else can I leave a fortune to those fine nephews and nieces of mine by-and-by?"

"You are too good to the little rascals already," said Candida. She was not a mercenary person; but Stefano, who had the family cares on his mind, brightened up, and uncorked the rosolio. Three thimblefuls were drunk to the general health; then the tapers were lighted on the family altar, where a splendid Bambino Gesú, dressed in pink silk, held out his waxen hands under the glass globe and smiled on his disciples. The night prayers were said; one low light was left burning in each room—since only the animals sleep in the dark—and Mariuccia fell asleep beside Giannella in the best bed, with a great weight lifted off her heart.