Читать книгу Giannella - Hugh Mrs. Fraser - Страница 4

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Mariuccia only stayed two days in her native town; then she bade farewell to Giannella (who had already made friends with the eldest niece and the youngest pig) and returned, very light-handed, to seek for a new master in Rome. She had made up her mind to find a quiet, well-regulated bachelor to care for this time. No more heartaches over young mothers and forsaken orphans for her. She realized fully the responsibility she had assumed for the Brockmann baby, and courageously faced the likelihood of having to meet most of its expenses herself. Those young gentlemen were kind, yes, but they were just boys, and would probably forget until she reminded them; and then it was always doubtful whether they would have any money to give for their dead friend's child. She had made light of this part of the question in speaking to them, but she was resolved that Stefano and Candida, with their own large family to provide for, should not be out of pocket on Giannella's account; neither must they ever imagine that the payments for the little girl come from anyone but the supposed rich relations who were to hear such good news of her progress under their care. With all their goodness, it would have wounded them deeply to think that Mariuccia's spare cash, which would have helped to start the nephews and nieces in the world, was being spent on the child of strangers. She had two hundred and fifty scudi in the Savings Bank of the Pietá, an institution which, with its merciful pawnbroking department, its safe investments for the poor people's earnings, and its all-embracing Foundling Hospital and affiliated Training Schools, met the wants of the lower classes in those opulent days in a fairly complete manner. In her steady Roman way, Mariuccia had thought out her own case, and was resolved to find a quiet and solvent padrone with whom she could live in peace and security for many years to come. So she went to consult Fra Tommaso, the lay brother who acted as sacristan at San Severino, a popular church served by some Marist Fathers, down in the oldest quarter of the city, near the Tiber. Fra Tommaso was an old friend, like herself a native of Castel Gandolfo, and the deep-seated clan feeling imposed obligations of mutual helpfulness on the compatriots. Ever careful of the courtesies, she had brought him a present of fruit and wine, and a couple of plump pigeons, from the place of his birth, and counted on his being able to interest the Fathers in finding a good place for her. They knew everybody in the district and were the general referees for a thousand matters civic and domestic.

San Severino had an imposing entrance from the Via Ripetta, where it stood, a little back from the street, in a semi-circular piazzale of its own. A series of low, broad steps led up to the rounded platform, wide enough to accommodate the blind man, the woman with the footless baby, and the parish epileptic, who all had their authorized stations in a row near the door in order to receive the never-failing alms of weekday worshipers and Sunday congregations. They brought their chairs with them in the morning, and, after hearing the first Mass, settled themselves for the day; their little stores of food were slipped under the chairs; the woman had her stocking to knit (for the baby always held out its hand for the coppers); the blind man had his tin box to rattle at each approaching footstep; the epileptic had to put his wooden alms bowl at his feet, since his hands trembled too much to hold it. Among these three there was much good fellowship, but they looked askance at the privileged cripple whose crutches reposed all day against a battered arm-chair close to the church door, and who in his turn held aloof from them. For he was an ancient man of decent standing, having been in his day a mason who lost the use of his limbs through a fall from the cupola of San Severino; he now considered that he was as much a part of the church and its organization as the Father Rector himself. He never solicited alms when, by an ingenious arrangement of cords round his hand and the back of his chair, he raised the heavy, padded leather curtain for people to pass into the church; but many a silver paoletto or double baiocco was dropped into the hat on his knees in the course of the day, and the calm, contented expression of his face bespoke a mind at rest from earthly cares.

Mariuccia nodded to the little parade of incurables as she came up the steps on the morning after her return from Castel Gandolfo. She was of the people, and they would have scorned to beg from her, but she found a sugar-plum in her pocket for the baby's grimy little palm, a packet of snuff for the blind man (who was accused of seeing fairly well after dark) and a copper for the epileptic; they would all pray for her and further her success. To Sor Checco, the cripple, she spoke a cheery good-morning, and begged his acceptance of a small flask of "vino santo," which, she assured him, would be good for his health. Then she inquired whether Fra Tommaso were about? She was anxious to speak to him.

At that moment Fra Tommaso emerged from under the opposite side of the leather curtain, broom in hand, and began to sweep down the steps. When he had finished his task, accompanying it with his invariable grumblings at the dirt that people would track up with them, he declared himself at his countrywoman's disposal, and led her through the church to a dark disused side-chapel where he kept his brooms and pails, his oil and candles, and where there was one old chair which he could offer to a visitor.

After many preambles Mariuccia preferred her request. Did Fra Tommaso know of a place for a respectable woman, over thirty, who could cook and wash and iron with anybody? Yes, it was not to boast, but she could say that she knew her business, and as for the marketing—well, she could make a paolo go as far as any housekeeper in Rome.

Fra Tommaso pondered, his chin in his hand, his eyes on the ground, and Mariuccia watched him anxiously. He was a thin, wiry man of forty or thereabouts, with a rather hollow face and very bright eyes. Hardy old age was stamped on every seam and fold of his black cassock, with its wide shoulder cape and leathern girdle, from which dangled various keys and a heavy rosary. The Church, which finds a use for all faithful enthusiasms, had taken him into her service many years before; seeing that no amount of patient teaching could induct the knowledge of Latin into his head, she had made him one of the doorkeepers of the House of the Lord, and he was perfectly happy and contented in that capacity. He had elevated sacristanship to a fine art. The three or four dozen oil lamps which lighted the various altars and shrines were always replenished, always bright, and the oil was measured out as carefully as if it had been molten gold. The candlesticks were burnished, every candle end utilized, and the droppings of virgin wax collected and sold again to the Chandlers for the benefit of the Church. The chairs were piled high at the far end of the nave and the floor swept within half-an-hour after the last Mass of the day had been said: and Fra Tommaso was a walking terror to the unruly urchins who would try to slip in to chatter and play near the door when the sun was too hot or the rain too chill in the streets. He was a little severe on idlers and beggars, but for all the respectable poor he had a friendly interest, taking a good deal of pride in the position of trust which enabled him to lay their requests and perplexities before one or other of the Fathers. The saint of the community, wise, detached old Padre Ambrosio, still looked upon Fra Tommaso as a boy, and sometimes warned him not to let himself be drawn too closely into the thousand distracted interests of the world. "Even charity, my son," he would say, "has its limitations. Beware of letting these good people (especially the women, who would almost drive an archangel out of heaven with their chatter) distract your mind from higher things. You must become a saint, you know. No Latin is needed for that. Only recollection, and prayer and faithfulness to the duties of your state."

"You are right, Padre," Fra Tommaso would say, feeling duly contrite under the gentle rebuke, "I will certainly be more careful." But do what he would, his lively interest in the affairs of his fellow-creatures sprang into life again the moment he came in contact with them. He knew all the habitués of the church by sight; the stories and circumstances of most of them were familiar to him; he would lie awake at night sometimes, wondering if that poor Rosina were getting on better with her mother-in-law, whether Rachel's boy had got the place at the baker's, how much that brigand of a doctor was going to charge the shoemaker for pulling his wife through the fever. If a new face appeared, Fra Tommaso had to know all about its owner within a given time, or he must invent a history for it before he could say his prayers in peace. Padre Ambrosio was so old—and so holy! How could he understand that a poor, uninstructed lay brother, who was running about the church day in, day out, must feel more concerned with the people than he, who now only descended from the steps of the altar to give himself up to contemplation and prayer in his quiet, distant room? And, when one came to think of it, the "Santissimo" and the blessed Addolorata, and the kind, smiling Saints, were all in the church. They would surely forgive their poor servant for taking pleasure in thinking about his brothers and sisters and managing to be useful to them at the same time.

When Mariuccia explained her needs, Fra Tommaso's mind began to work rapidly over his little map of humanity, and stopped, like a divining rod, over the precise place for her. But certain hesitations and discussions must be gone into, otherwise he and she would miss much pleasant talk. He looked up and met her anxious eyes.

"It is a good idea of yours, commara," he said; "a padrone without family, and of regular habits. Yes, you would do well to find such an one. Let me see—we must think a little. We shall find him in time. Who goes softly goes safely, and also far. Now the other day, a gentleman spoke to me—"

"Yes?" said Mariuccia eagerly. "Who was he? Did he want a servant?"

"He wanted to get rid of one—an extravagant woman, who, he said, was ruining him. But of course he could not send her away till he had found somebody to replace her?"

"Tell me his name. I will present myself at once," exclaimed Mariuccia, rising and reaching for her umbrella.

Fra Tommaso made a dignified gesture of the hand, which commanded her to sit down again and listen patiently. She obeyed with a sigh. Then the sacristan continued, "he is a professor at the university, Signor Carlo Bianchi, a most learned man, who knows more about antiquities than anybody in the world. Capperi! He can tell you who built the palace of the Cæsars, and San Pietro, and the Colosseo. Whenever a statue is found they send for Professor Bianchi, and he does not even need to look at it—he wets his finger in his mouth and feels the marble, and he says, 'Signorimiei, this is the work of Praxiteles, or Scanderbeg, or—or Saint Thomas Aquinas.' Just like that! And they put a ticket with the name on the pedestal and never ask another question. Oh, a man of immense instruction! But they say ..." and Fra Tommaso shook his head mysteriously, "that he has one ugly vice."

Mariuccia's hand went up to her mouth, imitating the action of drinking, and her eyebrows asked a question.

"Macché!" exclaimed her adviser, looking much shocked, "not he? A man of that instruction? No, to tell the truth—he is terribly stingy."

"So am I," Mariuccia replied, laughing with relief. "We shall get on well together."

"You are economical, Sora Mariuccia," Fra Tommaso looked at her approvingly, "but this poor Professor is truly avaricious. He is afraid even to eat enough, and is as thin as the miller's donkey that carries the grain and never gets any. One day some buffoon of a student stole his purse as he was entering the lecture-room—oh, he gave it back to him afterwards—but meanwhile the lecture had gone to little pieces—clean out of his head. When the young rascal handed him his purse back he nearly fainted, and they had to give him cognac before he could walk home."

"Poverino," Mariuccia cried indignantly, "it was a cruel joke! I am not afraid of this vice, as you call it. He will have to pay me my wages, and that is all that matters to me. I am indifferentissima as to victuals. By the way, what does he pay?"

"Ask for four scudi a month," Fra Tommaso commanded briskly. He had caught sight of a sunbeam that suddenly shot through the round window in the dome and lit, like a golden arrow, on the crown of the Addolorata. That meant noon in a moment—and his bells to ring. "You ask four, and he will give you three. Go to him to-day—Professor Carlo Bianchi, Palazzo Santafede—it is close by here, you know. You can go out at the back door of the church. Say I sent you. But no, no thanks—for me it is a pleasure to serve you, commara, at any time. Arrivederci!"

The report of a cannon rent the hot, still air, the midday gun from Castel Sant' Angelo. Instantly every church bell in Rome broke into peals of sound, echoing the announcement of high noon to the city. Fra Tommaso had leaped to his ropes and was working like a demon, trying to outring all the neighboring bells, and especially the one of Santa Eulalia, the convent on the other side of the river; between it and San Severino there was on this point an ancient rivalry which deafened all who lived near either.

Mariuccia departed well content, and at once made her way to the indicated address. The Palazzo Santafede was a huge pile belonging to the prince of that name, and running the whole length of the street which separated the Ripetta from a large quiet piazza, where five well-known palaces had faced each other in dignified seclusion for some centuries past, while many a tragedy and comedy had been played in the great rooms behind their tall, impenetrable walls. The Santafede residence stretched four-square round a vast sunny courtyard where a fountain bubbled in the center, and battered statues of more or less doubtful merit stood on pedestals under the deep colonnade which ran round three sides and afforded shelter for the prince's stables. The present prince was a very young man, with pronounced sporting tendencies, and beautiful English carriage horses and Irish hunters were groomed under the colonnade in the morning. The Princess Mother lived with her son on the "piano nobile," the first floor of the palace, in solemn and unchanging state. All the other apartments, there being no married sons to be housed, were let to tenants whose worldly importance diminished with each flight of stairs they climbed—monsignori, diplomatists, nobles who had no dwelling of their own in Rome paid high rents for spacious suites of rooms on second and third floors. Above these came modest apartments occupied by humbler individuals; and the vast attics, which a couple of centuries ago had accommodated four or five hundred retainers, were now let out, even in single rooms, to all who could satisfy the maestro di casa of their respectability.

The reigning family was away at this time of year and the porter was taking his ease in his shirt sleeves in the shade of the great doorway when Mariuccia marched in and inquired for Professor Bianchi.

"Third staircase to the right, fourth floor," was the reply. And as the inquirer went on under the colonnade, the porter remarked to his wife, who was sitting on the lodge steps nursing her baby, "I wager there goes another cook for Professor Scortica sassi (Skin-the-stones). I wonder how long she will stay?"

Mrs. Porter glanced after the receding figure. There was something impressive in that dragonlike stride; the brown hand gripped the thick umbrella as if it had been a saber. "She looks pretty resolute, that female," Mrs. Porter remarked. "I shouldn't wonder if he had found his match this time. I'd rather not be in her place, though."

Mariuccia stood before the green door on the fourth landing of the third staircase. Her first ring at the bell elicited no response, but at the second, footsteps approached and a thin, rasping voice asked the regulation question: "Who is it?"

Mariuccia gave the equally invariable reply, "Friends." Then the shutter behind a tiny grating was pushed back and a pair of spectacled eyes were applied to the bars. The next moment the door was open and Mariuccia stood face to face with a slight, dark man, hooked of nose and hollow of cheek, but much younger than she had expected to behold.

He understood her errand at once. Her costume and attitude were those of the respectable servant at that time. Quite a gleam of joy came into his eyes. His cook had departed in a rage the evening before, and the unfortunate man of science had burnt a hole in his coat and nearly asphyxiated himself in trying to light the charcoal fire to make his coffee that morning. He led the new applicant for that honor through a long, dark passage, where, as he passed, he hastily closed an open door; but Mariuccia had caught sight of an unmade bed and personal belongings in sad disorder. Instantly a maternal pity for the helpless man took possession of her. That cook must have had a heart of stone to leave the poor fellow like this! He conducted her into a study filled with books, papers, plaster casts and fragments of marble, all arranged carefully enough; but the confusion of his mind and his destitute condition were illustrated by a breakfast tray which had been deposited on the floor, flooded with coffee from an overturned pot which still lay on its side.

This was more than Mariuccia's soul could bear. Before entering on any negotiation she picked up the depressing object and carried it out to where her instinct told her she would find the kitchen. Here she paused for a moment, tray in hand, to survey the possibilities of the place. She nodded approvingly. "Here I remain," she informed herself. "A kitchen of this noble size—full of light—with two windows on the street. Capperi, one does not find that every day." She glanced out of the window and saw that the opposite wall was that of the long building, running back from San Severino, the building which had housed the Fathers and their schools. Nothing could be better—she felt at home already.

The last occupant of the noble kitchen had left things in a horrible condition, certainly; rubbish everywhere, coppers that could not have been cleaned since Easter—a hecatomb of damaged crockery on the dust-laden shelves. Never mind, all that would be changed in a day. And now for the padrone. He would be wondering what had become of her.

She made her way back to the study and stood at the open door for a moment. The Professor seemed to have forgotten all about her. He was examining some fragments of dirty earthenware on which a pattern was dimly visible; fitting one to another with delicate care, he was murmuring to himself, "Spurious, spurious. That poor Cardinal! Any villain can take him in with rubbish that was baked last year and buried in the right sort of earth! Etruscan indeed. I wonder what he gave for this robaccia? What is it?" He had thrown the fragments down on the table and caught sight of Mariuccia. "Ah yes, I remember—you have come about the donna's place, I think. Who sent you to me?"

"Fra Tommaso of San Severino," she replied; and the Professor looked pleased. "I see the signore is busy, so I will, with his permission, say that I can do everything he will require, and I respectfully ask what wages he gives. I had five scudi a month with my last padrone."

The Professor's hands flew up in the air and an expression of deepest pain came across his countenance. Mariuccia's spirits rose; the delightful excitement of bargaining was about to begin.

The duel lasted three-quarters of an hour, with varying fortune, first to one and then to the other, of the disputants. Twice Mariuccia seized the cotton umbrella and made as if to depart, outraged at having her just claims disregarded. The second time she almost meant to go; but a deep sigh from her adversary softened her heart. Poor young man, he was really quite "simpatico"—and so forlorn. She paused at the door—and then she knew that she had won the day, for he came after her and laid a hand on her arm.

"It is ruinous, that four scudi a month," he said woefully, "and fifteen baiocchi a day for your food is an insanity—you will die of apoplexy, I know it. But—there—it is said. I must sacrifice myself. Now do go and get me something to eat. That demon would not cook any supper for me last night and I faint, my good woman, I faint."

"Leave it all to me!" she replied. "Poverino! you shall suffer no more." And at once she marched off to take possession of her kingdom.

Within a week the Professor knew that he was in good strong hands; in a month he suspected that he had found a ruler; but he was well satisfied. Excepting the daily wrangle over the money for his marketing (the sums he proffered, Mariuccia told him, were quite inadequate to the maintenance of his respected health), all went smoothly and silently, as he liked it to go, in the quite shabby rooms filled with books and flooded with sunshine, where he passed his studious life. Three times a week he lectured at the university, and on other days spent much time among the excavations which constantly brought new treasures to light from Rome's inexhaustible soil. Few visitors ever mounted those steep stairs; occasionally he spent an evening with his illustrious and learned friend, Cardinal Cestaldini, but otherwise he sat in his study after supper, perfectly happy with his lamp, his books, and his cigar; and in all his habits he was regular as clockwork. Mariuccia lay down night after night in her dark bedroom off the passage, thanking Heaven for having bestowed on her the padrone she had dreamed of. She laughed to herself as she thought of his prophecy that she would die of apoplexy. She had brought her own living expenses down to one-half of the sum which she had quite justly claimed. The rest was put by for the baby she had left with Candida at Castel Gandolfo. If no rich relations turned up—and if those nice young friends of poor Signor Brockmann (of good memory) never sent any money for la Giannella—there would be anxious times ahead for her only protector. The Madonna and San Giuseppe would help—that could be counted upon; but one must make what provision one could—with six nephews and nieces on one's conscience!