Here he paused. Pasotti waited a while, and then gave the line a cautious jerk. "The trouble is," said he, "that the story leaked out at Castello."
"Yes, Sir, and I was sure it would. The family and the engineer might keep the secret, and of course I should never speak, but the priest and the sacristan would surely talk."
The priest? The sacristan? Ah! at last Pasotti understood. He staggered! He had not expected such a tremendous disclosure. He filled the unhappy Signor Giacomo's glass, andhad little difficulty in getting all the particulars of the wedding out of him. Then he tried to find out what plans for the future the young people had formed, but in this he did not succeed. He began shuffling the cards with the intention of continuing the game, but Signor Giacomo looked at his watch, and found that it wanted only nine minutes to seven, at which hour he was in the habit of winding his clock. Three minutes in the street, two minutes on the stairs, and there remained only four minutes for leave-taking. "Reckon it out for yourself, most gracious Controller. It is as I say: there is no doubt about it."
Signora Bardorin, noticing this consultation, questioned her husband about it. Pasotti raised his hands to his mouth, and shouted into her face: "He wants to go and see his sweetheart!" "What nonsense! What nonsense!" poor Signor Giacomo exclaimed, turning all colours; and Signora Pasotti, having understood by a miracle, opened her mouth enormously wide, not knowing whether or no to believe her husband. "His sweetheart? Oh, what nonsense. It is foolish talk, is it not, Signor Giacomo? Of course you might have a sweetheart, I don't deny that. You're not old, but...!" Seeing that he really intended to be off, she tried to detain him, telling him she had some chestnuts from Venegono on the fire, which were nearly done, and begging him to accept some of them. But neither the chestnuts nor Pasotti's reproaches could persuadeSignor Giacomo, and he departed with the spectre of the Imperial and Royal Commissary in his heart, harassed by unpleasant twinges of conscience, and a vague sense of dissatisfaction with himself, which he could not explain, and feeling instinctively that the perfidious servant's insolence was, after all, preferable to Pasotti's cajoleries.
As to the latter, his eyes shone even brighter than usual. He intended going to Cressogno at once. Being an indefatigable walker he expected to get there by eight o'clock. He was hugely pleased at the prospect of going to the Marchesa with his great discoveryin pectore, of acting mysteriously, of dropping the most artful hints, one by one, and of obliging her to wrest the particulars from him. For his own gratification he was already preparing a gentle and soothing little speech to lay upon the wound of the imperturbable old dame, so that she might not be able to hide it, and that no one might complain of him, not even Franco. He went to the kitchen where he got them to light a lantern for him, for the night was very dark, and then he set out.
At the door he met his steward who was just coming in. The steward greeted him, and carried a large basket of fruit into the kitchen, and, having helped the maid put it away, he seated himself by the fire, and said placidly:
"Signora Teresa of Castello has just passed away."
The door was opened a little way, very, very softly; the maid looked in, and called to Franco, who was absorbed in prayer, kneeling by a chair near the couch upon which the dead woman lay. Franco did not hear, and it was Luisa who rose. She went to listen to the woman's whispered request, said something in reply, and when the maid had withdrawn, stood waiting for some one. As no one appeared she pushed the door open and said aloud: "Come in, come in." A great sob answered her. Luisa stretched out both hands and Professor Gilardoni seized them. They stood some time thus, motionless, fighting their sorrow with tightly pressed lips, he more shaken than she. Luisa was the first to move. She gently withdrew one hand, and, with the other, led the Professor into the chamber of death.
Signora Teresa had passed away in the drawing-room in the armchair from which she had never been able to rise after the night of the wedding. They had made the sofa into a funeral couch, and laid her out upon it. The sweet face rested there on the pillow, showing waxen in the light of the four candles, the lips were slightly parted, and itwas as if a smile shone through the closed eyelids. The couch and the clothes were strewn with autumn flowers; cyclamen, dahlias and chrysanthemums. "See how beautiful she is," said Luisa, in a tender, quiet tone that went to the heart. The Professor stood leaning upon a chair at some distance from the bed.
"Do you realise it, Mamma," Luisa said softly, "how much you are beloved?"
She knelt down, and taking one of the dead hands, began kissing it, caressing it, and murmuring sweet words over it in a low voice; then she was silent, and, replacing the hand, she rose, kissed the brow and contemplated the face with clasped hands. She recalled her mother's reproofs in past years, remembering every one since her childhood, for she had always felt them deeply. Once more she fell upon her knees, and pressed her lips to the icy hand with an impulse of affection more ardent than if she had been dwelling upon past caresses. Then taking a cyclamen from her mother's shoulder, she rose and offered it to the Professor. He took it, weeping, and going to Franco, whom he now met for the first time since that night, he embraced him with silent emotion, and felt his embrace returned. Then, stepping very softly, he left the room.
It was striking eight o'clock. Signora Teresa had died the night before at six; in twenty-six hours Luisa had never rested for a moment, and had left the room only four or five times for a fewminutes. Franco it was who often went out, and remained away a long time.
Summoned in secret he had reached Castello just in time to see the poor mother alive, and it had fallen to his lot to perform all the sad offices which death imposes, for Uncle Piero, in spite of his years, had not the slightest knowledge of these matters, and was greatly bewildered by them.
Now, hearing it strike eight, he went to his wife and gently urged her to take a little rest, but Luisa answered him at once in a way that put an end to his insistence. The funeral was to take place the next morning at nine o'clock. She had wished it to be postponed for as long as possible, and intended to remain with her mother to the last. In her slim person there was an indomitable vigour capable of withstanding still greater trials. For her, her mother was there still, on that narrow couch, among the flowers. She did not think that a part of her was elsewhere, did not look out of the west window, seeking her among the tiny stars that trembled above the hills of Carona. Her one thought was that in a few hours, the darling mother, who had lived so many years for her alone, caring for naught else on earth save her happiness, would be laid away to sleep for ever under the great walnut-trees of Looch, in the shadowy solitude where the little cemetery of Castello rests in silence, while she herself would continue to enjoy life, the sun, and love. She had answered Franco almost sharply as if, insome way, affection for the living were an offence to the affection for the dead. Then, fearing she had hurt him, she repented, kissed him and endeavoured to pray, knowing that in this she would be pleasing him, and that certainly her mother would have expected this of her. She began reciting thePater, theAveand theRequiemover and over again, but without deriving the slightest comfort from them, experiencing, rather, a secret irritation, an unwelcome drying up of her grief. She had always practised religion, but, after the ardour of her first Communion had died out, her soul had ceased to be associated in religious observance. Her mother had lived rather for the next world than for this; she had regulated her every action, her every word, her every thought with that end in view. In her precocious intellectual development, Luisa's ideas and sentiments had taken another direction, with that determined vigour which was one of her characteristics. She covered these views, however, with certain half-conscious, half-unconscious dissimulations, partly for love of her mother, partly because some germ of religion, sown by maternal precepts, fostered by example, and strengthened by habit, had not died out. Since her fourteenth year she had been growing ever more inclined to look beyond this present life, and at the same time not to consider herself; to live for others, for the earthly good of others, but always, however, according to a strong and fierce sense of justice.She went to church, performed the external duties of her religion, without incredulity, but also without the conviction that they were pleasing to God. She had a confused conception of a God so great, so lofty, that no immediate contact was possible between Him and mankind. Sometimes, indeed, she feared she might be mistaken, but her possible error seemed to her of a nature such as no God of infinite goodness might punish. She herself did not know how she had come to think thus.
The door opened very softly once more, and a low voice called, "Signor Don Franco." When Luisa was alone she ceased to pray, and resting her head upon her mother's pillow, she pressed her lips to the dear shoulder, closed her eyes and let the flood of memories flow over her that sprung from that touch, from that familiar odour of lavender. Her mother's dress was of silk, her best, and had been a present from Uncle Piero. She had worn it only once, some years before, on the occasion of a visit to the Marchesa Marioni. The odour of the lavender brought back this memory also, and with it came scalding tears, acrid with tenderness and with another sentiment that was not actually hatred, that was not actually anger, but that held the bitterness of both.
Franco could not at once account for the shudder that shook him when he heard his name called. Early that morning Uncle Piero had written to theMarchesa, announcing his sister's death in simple but most respectful language, and had enclosed a note from Franco himself, which ran as follows:
"Dear Grandmother,—I have not time to write to you because I am here, but I will tell you all by word of mouth to-morrow evening. I hope you will listen to me as my father and mother would have listened."
"Dear Grandmother,—I have not time to write to you because I am here, but I will tell you all by word of mouth to-morrow evening. I hope you will listen to me as my father and mother would have listened."
No answer had as yet come from Cressogno, but now a man from Cressogno had brought a letter. Where was this man?—Gone; he would not stop a minute. Franco took the letter and read the address: "Al. preg. Signor Ingegnere Pietro Ribera." At the same time he recognised in the writing, the hand of the agent's daughter. He went up to Uncle Piero's room at once. The engineer, who was worn out, had gone to bed.
When Franco brought him the letter he showed neither surprise nor curiosity, but said, calmly:
"Open it."
Franco placed the light on the chest of drawers, and opened the letter, keeping his back to the bed. As he stood, he seemed turned to stone; he neither breathed nor moved.
"Well?" said the uncle.
Silence.
"I understand," the old man added. Then Franco let the letter fall, and stretching his handsabove his head, he uttered a long "Ah!" deep and hoarse, and laden with amazement and horror.
"Come, come!" Uncle Piero repeated, "what about this letter?"
Franco roused himself, and hastened to embrace him, hardly able to restrain his sobs.
The placid man bore this storm calmly and patiently for a time, but presently he began to defend himself, and demanded the letter. "Let me see it, let me see it," said he, and he muttered, "What can that blessed woman have written?"
Franco brought the light and the letter, which he handed to Uncle Piero. His grandmother had written never a word, never a syllable; she had simply returned the engineer's letter and Franco's note. It was some time before the uncle could grasp this. He was never quick to understand things, and this thing was utterly incomprehensible to him! When at last he did make it out, he could not help saying: "Certainly this is very hard!" Then, seeing how beside himself Franco was, he added, with the big solemn voice he used when judging human actionstoto corde, "Listen. It is, I should say——" (and he searched for the right word, in his own peculiar fashion puffing out his cheeks, and emitting a sort of rattling sound)"——an injustice! But I am by no means so extremely astonished as you are. Not all the wrong is on her side, my dear fellow, and so——However, I am sorry for you two, who will have to eat plain food and live in this miserablelittle town; but how about me? For my part, I gain by all this, and I may even say, I feel inclined to thank your grandmother. You see I have never founded a family of my own; I have always counted upon this family. Now my poor sister is dead, and if your grandmother had opened her arms to you, I should have been of no more use than an old cabbage stock. So you see——"
Franco was careful not to let his wife know about this matter, and although she was aware that the letters had been sent to Cressogno, she did not ask if his grandmother had answered, until after the funeral, until some hours after the funeral. The little drawing-room, the little terrace, the little kitchen, had been full of people all day long, from nine o'clock in the morning until nine in the evening. At ten Luisa and Franco left the house without a lantern, turned to the right, went very slowly and silently through the darkness of the village, and, passing the bright and windy turning to which rises the deep roar of the river of S. Mametti, stood among the shadows and the pungent odours of the walnut-trees of Looch. Shortly before they reached the cemetery, Luisa said softly to her husband: "Have you heard nothing from Cressogno?" He would have liked to hide at least part of the truth from her, but he could not. He said his note had been returned to him; and then Luisa wanted to knowif his grandmother had sent a word of condolence to Uncle Piero. Franco's "no" was almost timid, and so uncertain that, after they had gone on a few steps a suspicion flashed across Luisa's mind, and she suddenly stopped, and seized her husband's arm. Before she had uttered a word Franco understood and embraced her as he had embraced Uncle Piero, only still more impetuously, telling her to take his heart, his soul, his life, to seek for nothing else in this world. He felt she was trembling violently in his arms, but neither then nor afterwards did a word on this subject pass between them. At the gate of the cemetery they knelt together. Franco prayed with the fervour of faith. Luisa, with eager eyes, pierced the earth where it had been disturbed near the entrance; pierced the coffin, and, in thought, fixed her gaze on her mother's mild and serious face; once more, in thought, but with an impulse so violent that the bars of the gate shook, she bent forward, lower and lower, pressed her lips to the lips of the dead woman, imprinting upon them a violence of affection, stronger than all the insults, than all the baseness of this world.
Towards eleven o'clock she tore herself reluctantly away from the spot. Going slowly down the slippery and stony path beside her husband there suddenly arose before her mind's eye a vision of a future meeting with the Marchesa. She stopped, drawing herself up and clenching her fists, and from her handsome, intelligentface there shone forth such fierceness that, could the old lady of marble have seen her thus, have met her at that moment, she might not have surrendered, perhaps, but she would certainly have hastened to put herself on the defensive.
Dr. Francesco Zérboli, Imperial and Royal Commissary of Porlezza, landed at the Imperial and RoyalRicevitoria—the custom-house—at Oria, on the tenth day of September, 1854, just as a truly imperial and royal sun was rising above the ponderous bastions of Galbiga, glorifying the little pink custom-house and the oleanders and beans of Signora Peppina Bianconi, and summoning to his office, in accordance with the regulations, Signor Carlo Bianconi, her husband, that same Receiver of Customs who had scented conspiracy in manuscript music. Bianconi, whom his wife calledel mè Carlascia,—"my big Charley"—and the people,el Biancon, a tall man, fat and solid, with a clean-shaven chin, a grey moustache, and the large dull eyes of a faithful mastiff, went down to meet that other clean-shaven Imperial and Royal one, of higher rank. There was no resemblance between the two, save in the Austrian nudity of their chins. Zérboli, dressed in black and carefully gloved,was short and stout, and wore a pair of fair moustaches flattened against his sallow face, out of which peered two small, sarcastic, and scornful sparks of eyes. His hair grew so low on his forehead that he was in the habit of shaving off a strip, and at times a shade showed there, that gave him the appearance of some strange beast. Quick in his movements, in his glance, in his speech, he spoke, with easy courtesy, a nasal Italian, having the modulations of the province of Trento. He now informed the Receiver that he had come to hold aconvocato—the communal council of those days—at Castello, and that he had preferred to come early and climb the hill while it was cool, from Oria rather than from Casarico or Albogasio, that he might have the pleasure of greeting the Receiver.
The big, faithful mastiff did not at once understand that the Commissary had a second end in view, and poured forth his thanks in a medley of obsequious phrases, and short, silly laughs, rubbing his hands and offering coffee, milk, eggs, and the open air of the little garden. The other accepted the coffee, but declined the open air with a motion of his head and a wink so eloquent, that Carlascia, after shouting upstairs, "Peppina!" ushered him into the office where, feeling himself transformed (such was his double nature) from a receiver of customs into a police-officer, he composed himself, and put on an expression of austerity, as if about to enter into a sacramentalunion with the monarch himself. This office was a miserable hole on the ground floor, with iron gratings at the two small windows; an infectious and primitive cell, that already stunk of the great empire. The Commissary seated himself in the middle of the room, looking at the closed door that led from the landing-stage to the ante-room, the one leading from the ante-room to the office having been left open by his orders.
"Tell me something of Signor Maironi," said he.
"He is still watched," Bianconi answered, and continued in the Italian of Porta Tosa. "By the way—wait a moment—I have a report here that is nearly finished." And he began hunting and fumbling among his papers, in search of the report and of his glasses.
"You will send it in, you will send it in!" exclaimed the Commissary, who had a dread of the big mastiff's prose.
"Meanwhile speak. Tell me everything."
"He is as ill-intentioned as ever. We knew before he was ill-intentioned, but now it is very evident," the eloquent Receiver continued. "He has begun to wear that beard—you know—that midget—thatmoschetta—that pointed tuft, that filthy——"[I]
"Pardon me," said the Commissary, "you see I am new to the place. I have my instructions and I have received some information, but as yetI have no exact knowledge of the man and his family. You must describe them to me as minutely as you can. Let us begin with him."
"He is a proud man, violent and overbearing. He has quarrelled here at least fifty times over questions of duty. He will never give in, and he wants to teach me and the guard also. His eyes flash as if he were going to eat the custom-house. But it is no use being overbearing with me, even if he——For indeed he knows almost everything, and that is a fact! He knows law, finance, music, flowers, fish, and the devil knows what all else."
"And she?"
"She? Oh, she is a sly puss, but when she shows her claws they are worse than his; much worse! When he is angry he turns red and makes a great row, she turns pale and is devilish insolent. Of course I never tolerate her insolence, but—well, you understand. She is a talented woman, I can tell you. My Peppina is devoted to her. She is a woman who makes friends everywhere. Here in Oria they often send for her instead of sending for the doctor. If there is a quarrel in a family, they send for her. If an animal has the stomach-ache, she must come. All the children run after her, and she even makes little dolls for them at Carnival time. You know, those little puppets. Moreover this woman can play on the spinet, and knows French and German. I am so unfortunate as not to speak German, so I have been to her several times to get Germandocuments explained, when such come to the office."
"Ah! So you go to the Maironis' house?"
"Yes, sometimes, for that purpose."
In truth the big mastiff also went there to get Franco to explain certain enigmatical passages in the customs-tariff to him, but he did not say so.
The Commissary continued his examination.
"And how is the house furnished?"
"Well, very well. Fine Venetian floorings, painted ceilings, sofas heavily draped, a spinet, a splendid dining-room all hung with portraits."
"And the Engineer-in-Chief?"
"The engineer is a jolly, old-fashioned, kind man; he resembles me, though he is older. But he is not here much. He comes for two weeks about this time of the year, and two weeks more in the Spring, and he pays a few short visits in between. Just leave him alone, and let him have his milk in the morning, his milk at night, his flask of Modena for dinner, his game oftarocchi, and hisMilan Gazette, and Engineer Ribera is perfectly happy. But to return to Signor Maironi's beard. There is something even worse! I discovered yesterday that the gentleman has planted a jasmine in a wooden box painted red!"[J]
The Commissary, a man of parts, and probably in his secret heart, indifferent to all colours savethat of his own complexion and his own tongue, could not refrain from slightly shrugging his shoulders. Nevertheless, he presently asked—
"Is the plant in blossom?"
"I don't know. I will ask the woman."
"Ask whom? Your wife? So your wife goes to Casa Maironi also?"
"Yes, from time to time."
Zérboli fixed his two little scornful eyes on Bianconi's face, and put the following question, enunciating every syllable very distinctly.
"Does she, or does she not, go there from good motives?"
"Well, as to that, it depends! She imagines she goes as a friend of Luisina's, to talk about the flowers, their sewing, and for little bits of gossip, and they chatter and chirp away as women will; you know the way. But I get out of her——"
"Tè chì, tè chì!Behold, behold!" Signora Peppina Bianconi exclaimed in her Porta Ticinese dialect, as she came forward with the coffee, smiling pleasantly. "The Commissary! What a pleasure it is to see you! I am afraid the coffee isn't very good, but any way it is fresh made. It is a great nuisance not being able to have it from Lugano!"
"Tut, tut, tut!" grumbled her husband crossly.
"Well, what harm is that? I only said so in fun. You understood, didn't you,Sür Commissari? That blessed man there never understands anything. I never get any coffee for myself,anyway. I am taking mallow-water now for a dizzy head."
"Don't talk so much, don't talk so much!" her husband interpolated, and the Commissary, setting down the empty cup, told the good woman that he was coming to see her flowers presently, and this gallantry was like the act of one who, at a café, throws the money upon the tray, that the waiter may take it and be gone.
Signora Peppina understood, and awed by the ferocious eyes of her Carlascia, withdrew in haste.
"Listen, listen, listen," the Commissary exclaimed, covering his brow with his left hand, and pressing his temples. "Oh!" he ejaculated, suddenly remembering, "I have it! I wanted to inquire if Engineer Ribera is in Oria at present."
"He is not here now, but I believe he is coming very shortly."
"Does Engineer Ribera spend much money on this Maironi family?"
"He certainly must spend a great deal. I don't believe Don Franco has more than threesvanzichea day of his own, and she——" The Receiver blew across the palm of his hand. "So you see——! They keep a servant. They have a little girl about two years old, and so they must needs keep a maid to look after the child. They send away for flowers, books, music, and all sorts of things. Of an evening they play cards, and there is always a bottle of wine. It takes a good manysvanzicheto live in this way, you know."
The Commissary reflected a moment with a clouded brow, and eyes rolled up to the ceiling, and then, in short, disjointed sentences that sounded like fragments of an oracle, he let it be understood that Engineer Ribera, an Imperial and Royal official, recently favoured by the Imperial and Royal government with a promotionin loco, should exert a better influence over his nephew's family. Then with further questionings and further observations touching the engineer's present weaknesses, he intimated to Bianconi that his paternal attention should be directed with special secrecy and delicacy towards their Imperial and Royal colleague, in order that—should this become necessary—they might be able to enlighten their Superiors concerning certain acts of tolerance which would be scandalous. He ended by inquiring if Bianconi was aware that the lawyer V. from Varenna and another individual from Loveno were in the habit of visiting the Maironis quite often. The Receiver knew this, and had learned from his Peppina that they came to make music. "I don't believe it," the Commissary announced, with sudden and unusual asperity. "Your wife does not understand at all. If you go on like this, my dear Bianconi, they will lead you by the nose. Those two are a couple of rascals, who would be better off at Kufstein.[K]You must seek for more information, and whenyou have obtained it, you will pass it on to me. And now let us go into the garden. By the way, when anything comes from Lugano for the Marchesa Maironi——" Zérboli finished the sentence with a gesture of amiable munificence, and started forward, followed by the deeply mortified mastiff.
Signora Peppina allowed them to find her in the garden watering the flowers aided by a small boy. The Commissary looked, admired, and found a means of giving the subaltern police-officer a little lesson. By praising her flowers he easily led Signora Bianconi to mention Franco, but, as if quite indifferent to that gentleman, he did not dwell a moment upon him, but stuck to the flowers, declaring that Maironi could not possibly have finer ones. Little cries, groans, and ejaculations broke from the humble Signora Peppina, who was really embarrassed by such a comparison. But the Commissary insisted. How? Even the Casa Maironi fuchsias were finer? The heliotrope and thepelargoniaalso? How about the jasmine?
"The jasmine!" Signora Peppina exclaimed. "Why, Signor Maironi has the finest jasmine in the whole Valsolda, my dear sir!"
Thus, in the most natural way possible, did the Commissary presently discover that the famous jasmine had not yet blossomed. "I should like to see Don Franco's dahlias," said he. The ingenuous creature offered to accompany him to Casa Ribera that very day. "They will be sodelighted!" But the Commissary expressed his desire to wait the coming of the Imperial and Royal Engineer-in-Chief, that he might have an opportunity of greeting him, whereupon Signora Peppina said approvingly: "That is right." Meanwhile the mastiff, humiliated by that superior skill, and wishing to show in some way that, at least, he was zealous, seized the boy with the watering-pot by the arm, and presented him:
"My nephew. Son of a sister of mine, married to an Imperial and Royal doorkeeper, at the police station in Bergamo. He has the honour to bear the names,Francesco Giuseppe—Francis Joseph—bestowed upon him by my express desire. Of course, you see, it would not be respectful to use these names ordinarily——"
"His mother calls him Ratì, and his father calls him Ratù, fancy that!" Aunt Peppina put in.
"Be quiet!" said his uncle. "I call him Francesco. He is a well-behaved boy, I must say; a very well-behaved boy. Now tell us, Francesco, what are you going to do when you are a man?"
Ratì rattled off his answer as if he were reciting his catechism.
"When I am a man I shall always comport myself as behooves a faithful and devoted subject of His Majesty our Emperor, and a good Christian; and I hope, with the help of the Lord, to become some day, an Imperial and Royal Receiver of Customs like my uncle, that I may, at last, enterParadise, and be duly rewarded for my virtuous actions."
"Well done, well done, well done!" said Zérboli, caressing Ratì. "Always walk in the path of virtue."
"You be quiet,Sür Commissari," Peppina once more burst out. "This morning the little villain ate half the sugar out of the sugar-basin!"
"What, what, what?" Carlascia exclaimed, forgetting his part in his astonishment. He remembered himself at once however, and declared: "It was your own fault. Things should be put away. Is not that true, Francesco?"
"Perfectly," Ratì answered; and the Commissary vexed at this wrangle, and at the twist his paternal admonition had received, took himself off without ceremony.
Hardly had he disappeared when Carlascia scolded angrily: "You take the sugar again if you dare, you!" and hit Francis Joseph a formidable knock on the side of the head. This worthy had expected quite different treatment, and ran off to hide among the beans. Then Bianconi had it out with his wife, scolding her roundly, and swearing that in the future he would look after the sugar himself; and upon her daring retort: "What business is it of yours, after all?" he flung out: "Everything is my business, everything is my business!" and turning his back upon her, strode off, puffing and tingling, to the spot where his attentive wife had prepared the fishing-rodand thepolenta, and began to bait the two great hooks he used in catching tench. In the olden days that little world was even more completely isolated from the great world than at present, and was, even more than at present, a world of silence and of peace, in which the functionaries of both State and Church, and, following their venerable example, many faithful subjects as well, dedicated several hours a day to edifying contemplation. Seated first on the West, the Receiver cast two hooks attached to a single line, two tempting mouthfuls ofpolenta, as far out from the shore as possible; when the line was stretched tight, when the float seemed firmly anchored in quiet expectation, the Imperial and Royal personage placed the short rod delicately upon the low wall, and sat down to contemplate. To the east of him thesedentario, as the customs-guard was then called, crouching on the humble landing-stage in front of another float, smoked his pipe and contemplated. A few steps beyond old, half-starved Cüstant, a retired white-washer, sacristan and churchwarden, one of the patricians of the village of Oria, sat in contemplation, on the prow of his boat, a lofty, prehistoric, tall hat on his head, the magic wand in his hand, his legs dangling above the water, and his soul concentrated on his own particular float. Seated on the edge of a small field, in the shade of a mulberry-tree and a large, black, straw hat, the puny, thin, be-spectacled Don Brazzova, parish-priest of Albogasio, waslost in contemplation, his image reflected in the clear water. In a kitchen-garden of Albogasio Inferiore, between the banks of the Ceron and that of Mandroeugn, another patrician in a jacket and high boots, the churchwarden Bignetta, calledel Signoron, thefine gentleman, sitting stiff and solemn, upon an eighteenth century chair, with the famous rod in his hand, watched and contemplated. Under the fig-tree at Cadate, Don Giuseppe Costabarbieri sat in contemplation. At S. Mamette the doctor, the grocer, and the shoemaker were hanging over the water and contemplating most diligently. At Cressogno the Marchesa's florid cook was contemplating. Opposite Oria, on the shady deserted shore of Bisgnago, a dignified arch-priest from lower Lombardy was in the habit of leading a life of contemplation for forty days every year. All alone he sat, with three rods resting at his feet, while with the air of a bishop, he contemplated the three floats belonging to these rods—two with his eyes, one with his nose. If some one, passing far out on the lake could have seen all these brooding figures without perceiving the rods, the lines, and the floats, he would have thought himself in a country inhabited by hermits and ascetics, who, weary of the earth, were contemplating the sky in this liquid mirror, simply for the sake of greater convenience.
As a matter of fact, all these ascetics were fishing for tench, and no mystery the future of humanitymight contain could be of more importance to them than those mysteries at which the little float secretly hinted, when, as if possessed by a spirit, it showed signs of growing unrest, and, at last, even of mental derangement; for, after dipping and jerking, now forward, now backward, it would at last, in the utter confusion of its ideas, choose the desperate course of plunging head foremost into the depths. These phenomena, however, occurred only at rare intervals, and some of the contemplators would pass whole half-days without noticing the slightest movement in their floats. Then each one, removing his eyes from the bit of cork, would follow a line of thought running parallel with the line attached to the rod. Thus it sometimes happened that the arch-priest would land an episcopal see, the "fine gentleman," a wood that had once belonged to his ancestors, the cook, a tench from the hills, rosy and fair, and Cüstant, an order from government to whitewash the peak of Cressogno. As to Carlascia, his second line was usually of a political nature, and the reason of this will be more readily grasped if we reflect that the main line, the one attached to the rod, often awoke in his big, dull head certain political considerations which the Commissary Zérboli had suggested to him. "You see, my dear Receiver," Zérboli had once said, when discoursing weakly about the events which had taken place on the sixth of February in Milan, "you who fish for tench, can easily understandthis matter. Our great monarchy is fishing with a line. The twin baits are Lombardy and the Venetian provinces; two round and tempting morsels, with iron inside. Our monarchy has cast them there at its feet, opposite the lurking-place of that foolish little fish, Piedmont. In 1848 it grabbed at the bait Lombardy, but eventually succeeded in spitting it out and making off. Milan is our float. When Milan moves, it means that the little fish is just beneath. Last year the float moved a wee bit, but the dear little fish had only sniffed at the bait. But wait, some day there will be a violent movement, and we shall give a jerk; there will be some struggling, some floundering, but we shall land our little fish, and never let it escape again, the little white, red, and green pig!"
Bianconi had laughed heartily at this, and often when he sat down to fish, he would amuse himself by ruminating on this graceful simile, from which would generally arise other subtle and profound political musings. That morning the lake was quiet and most favourable to contemplation. The tallest grass of the precipitous bottom could be seen standing erect, a sign that there was no under-current. The baited hook cast far out, sunk straight and slowly, the line stretched evenly and smoothly below the float which sailed behind it a little way, surrounded by a series of tiny rings, that told of the ticklings of small carp, and then sunk into repose, a sign thatthe bait was resting on the bottom, and that the carp no longer worried it. The fisherman placed the short rod on the low wall, and fell to thinking of Engineer Ribera.
Though he was not aware of it Bianconi had a large dose of meekness in one corner of his heart which God, without informing him of it, had made with a false bottom. The world had proof of this in 1859, when the dear little fish, having swallowed the bait Lombardy, with the hook, the line, the rod, the Commissary, and everything else, Bianconi took to planting national and constitutional cabbages at Precotto. In spite of this hidden meekness, as he now laid down his rod and reflected that poor, old Engineer Ribera was to be fished for, he experienced a singular satisfaction, neither in his heart, nor his head, nor in any of the usual senses, but in a particular sense of his own, purely Imperial and Royal! Indeed he had no consciousness of himself as distinct from the Austrian governing organism. Receiver at a small frontier customs-house, he considered himself the point of the nail on a finger of the state; then, as a police-agent, he considered himself a microscopic eye under that nail. His life was that of the monarchy. If the Russians tickled the skin of Galicia, he felt the itching at Oria. The greatness, the power, the glory of Austria inflated him with unbounded pride. He would not admit that Brazil was vaster than the Austrian Empire, or that China was more thicklypopulated, or that the Archangel Michael could take Peschiera, or the Almighty Himself take Verona. His real Almighty was the Emperor; he respected the One in Heaven as an ally of the one at Vienna.
So, although he had never suspected that Engineer Ribera was an unfaithful subject, the Commissary's words—gospel truth to him—had carried conviction with them, and the idea of getting hold of this untrustworthy servant fired the zeal of the royal eye and the imperial finger nail. He called himself an ass for not having seen through this man before. Oh, but there was still time to catch him and hold him fast, fast, fast! "You just leave it to me! Just leave it to me, Signor Comm——"
He broke off suddenly and seized the rod. Gently, almost without moving, the float had printed a ring on the water, the sign of a tench. Bianconi clutched the rod tight, holding his breath. Another dip of the float, another and larger ring; the float moved slowly, slowly upon the water, and then stopped. Bianconi's heart was beating violently; the float moved still a little further on the surface, and then went under; zag! Bianconi gave a jerk, and the rod bowed with the tugging on the line of a hidden fish. "Peppina, I've got him!" shouted Carlascia, losing his head. "Theguadèll, theguadèll!" The customs-guard turned round enviously: "Have you got him,Scior Recitòr?" Cüstant, consumedwith envy, gave no sign, not even turning his tall hat. Ratì and Signora Peppina came rushing up, the latter bringing theguadèll, a long pole with a large net at the end of it, used for bagging the tench in the water, for it would be a desperate risk to lift it up by the line. Bianconi took the line and began drawing it in very slowly. The tench was not yet visible, but must surely be enormous. The line came in smoothly for a few feet, and then was jerked violently back; then it began to come in again, nearer, ever nearer, until, far down below the surface, underneath the very noses of the three personages, something yellow flashed, a monstrous shadow! "Oh, the beauty!" said Signora Peppina under her breath. Ratì exclaimed: "Madone, Madone!" But Bianconi spoke never a word, and only pulled and pulled cautiously. It was a fine, big fellow, short and fat, with a dark back and a yellow belly, this fish that was coming up from the depths, nearly exhausted and moving crosswise with evident reluctance.
The three faces did not please the fish, for it suddenly turned tail upon them, and once more dived furiously towards the depths. At last, however, completely exhausted, it followed the line, and appeared at the foot of the wall, its gilded belly uppermost. Signora Peppina, almost upside down on the parapet, plunged her rod as far as it would go, seeking in vain to bag the unhappy fish. "By the head!" shouted her husband."By the tail!" piped Ratì. At the noise, at sight of that terrible net, the fish struggled and dived. Peppina worked harder than ever, but could find neither head nor tail. Bianconi pulled and the tench rose to the surface once more, coiled itself up, and with a mighty jerk, snapped the line, and shot off amid the foam. "Madone!" exclaimed Ratì, while Peppina continued to hunt about in the water with her rod. "Where is that fish? Where is that fish?" Bianconi, who had sat as one petrified, still grasping the line, now faced about in a rage; he kicked Ratì, caught his wife by the shoulder, and shook her like a bag of nuts, loading her with reproaches. "Has it made off,Scior Recitòr?" asked the customs-guard mellifluously. Cüstant turned his tall hat just a little, glanced towards the scene of the disaster, and then, returning to the contemplation of his own placid float, mumbled in an indulgent tone: "Minga pratich!Not skillful!"
Meanwhile the tench had returned to its native grass-grown depths, melancholy but free, like Piedmont after Novara. It is, however, doubtful if the poor Engineer-in-Chief will be equally fortunate.
Footnotes[I]A short, pointed beard, calledla mosca, and worn by patriots in those days. [Translator's note.][J]Box, red; leaves, green; flower, white. The Italian colours, so the worthy Receiver scents sedition. [Translator's note.][K]Box, red; leaves, green; flower, white. The Italian colours, so the worthy Receiver scents sedition. [Translator's note.]
[I]A short, pointed beard, calledla mosca, and worn by patriots in those days. [Translator's note.]
[J]Box, red; leaves, green; flower, white. The Italian colours, so the worthy Receiver scents sedition. [Translator's note.]
[K]Box, red; leaves, green; flower, white. The Italian colours, so the worthy Receiver scents sedition. [Translator's note.]
The sun was sinking behind the brow of Monte Brè and darkness was rapidly covering the precipitous shores and the houses of Oria, stamping the purple and gloomy profile of the hill on the luminous green of the waves, which were running obliquely towards the west, still high, but foamless in the tiredbreva. The lights in Casa Ribera had been the last to go out. Standing against the steep vineyards of the mountainside dotted with olives, it spanned the narrow road that follows the coast-line, its modest façade rising from the clear water, and flanked on the west, towards the village, by a little hanging-garden, divided into two tiers, on the east, towards the church, by a small terrace raised on pillars, which framed a square of church ground. In this façade there was a small boathouse where at that time the boat belonging to Franco and Luisa lay rocking on the jostling waves. Above the boathouse a slender gallery united the hanging-garden on the west and the terrace on the east, and looked out upon the lake by means of three windows. They called it a loggia, perhaps becauseit really had been one in olden times. The old house bore incrusted here and there several of these venerable, fossil names, which had survived through tradition, and represented, in their apparent absurdity, the mysteries of the religion of domestic walls. Behind the loggia was a spacious hall, and there were two rooms more behind that. On the west was the small dining-room, its walls covered with little, illustrious, paper men, each under his own glass and in his own frame, each in a dignified attitude, like the illustrious in flesh and blood, looking as if his colleagues did not exist at all, and the world was gazing at him alone. On the east was the alcove-room, where next to her parents, in her own little bed, slept Signorina Maria Maironi, born in August, 1852.
From the great rococo chests to the bed-rooms, the kitchen cupboard, the black clock in the little dining-room, the sofa in the loggia, with its brown cover, sprinkled with red and yellow Turks; from the straw-bottomed chairs to the armchairs with disproportionately high arms, the furniture of the house all belonged to the epoch of the illustrious men, most of whom wore the wig and pigtail. Even though it did appear to have just descended from the garret, it seemed, nevertheless, to have regained in the light and air of its new surroundings certain lost habits of cleanliness, a decided interest in life, and the dignity of old age. Thus a collection of disused words might to-day be composed by the breath of some aged and conservativepoet, and reflect his serene and graceful senility. Under the mathematical and bureaucratic rule of Uncle Piero, chairs and armchairs, tables large and small, had lived in perfect symmetry, and the privilege of immobility had been extended to the very mats themselves. The only piece of furniture which might have been calledmovable, was a grey and blue cushion, an abortive mattress, which the engineer, during his short visits at Oria, carried with him when he moved from one easy-chair to another. When he was absent the caretaker respected all relics of him to such an extent as never to dare touch them familiarly, or dust the less visible parts. This caused the housekeeper to fly into a rage, regularly, every time they returned to Valsolda. The master, vexed that a little dust should cause so much scolding of a poor peasant, would reprimand her, and suggest that she do the dusting herself; and when the woman—by way of a scornful retort—would demand, wrathfully, if she was to kill herself with dusting the house every time they came, he would answer good-naturedly: "If you kill yourself once, that will be sufficient."
The cultivation of the little garden as well as of a kitchen-garden he owned to the east of the church grounds, he left entirely to the caprice of the caretaker. Only once, two years before Luisa's marriage, arriving at Oria at the beginning of September, and finding six stalks of maize growing on the second terrace of the little garden,did he allow himself to say to the man: "Look here, my friend. Couldn't you really get along without those six stalks of Indian corn?"
Those liberal poets, Franco and Luisa, had breathed upon things and changed their aspect. Franco's poetry was more ardent, fervid and passionate; Luisa's more prudent. Thus Franco's sentiments always flamed out in his eyes, his face, his words, while Luisa's seldom burst into flames, and only tinged the depths of her penetrating glance, and her soft voice. Franco was conservative only in matters of religion and art; he was an ardent radical as far as the domestic walls were concerned, always planning transformations of ceilings, walls, floors, and drapery. Luisa began by admiring his genius, but as nearly all the funds came from her uncle, and there was little margin for extraordinary undertakings, she persuaded him, very gently and little by little, to leave the walls, the ceilings, and the floors as they were, and to study how best to arrange the furniture without seeking to transform it. And she would make suggestions without appearing to do so, letting him believe the ideas were his own, for Franco was jealous of the paternity of ideas, while Luisa was quite indifferent to this sort of maternity. Thus, together, they arranged the hall as a music-room, drawing-room, and reading-room; the loggia as a card-room, while the terrace was sacred to coffee and contemplation. This small terrace became in Franco's hands the lyric poemof the house. It was very tiny and Luisa felt that here a concession might be made, and an outlet provided for her husband's enthusiasms. It was then that the king of Valsoldian mulberry-trees fell from his throne, the famous and ancient mulberry of the churchyard, a tyrant that deprived the terrace of the finest view. Franco freed himself from this tyrant by pecuniary means; then he designed and raised above the terrace an airy context of slim rods and bars of iron which formed three arches surmounted by a tiny cupola, and over this he trained two graceful passion-flower vines, that opened their great blue eyes here and there, and fell on all sides in festoons and garlands. A small round table and some iron chairs served for coffee and contemplation. As to the little hanging-garden, Luisa would have been willing to put up even with maize, with that tolerance of the superior mind which loves to humour the ideas, the habits, the affections of inferior minds. She felt a sort of respectful pity for the horticultural ideals of the poor caretaker, for that mixture of roughness and gentleness he had in his heart, a great heart, capable of holding at once, reseda and pumpkins, balsam and carrots. But Franco, generous and religious though he was, would not have tolerated a carrot or a pumpkin in his garden for love of any neighbour. All stupid vulgarity irritated him. When the unfortunate kitchen-gardener heard Don Franco declare that the little garden was a filthy hole,that everything must be torn up, everything thrown away, he was so dazed and humiliated as to excite pity; but when, working under his master's orders, tracing out paths, bordering them with tufa-stones, planting flowers and shrubs, he saw how skilful Franco himself was with his hands, and how many terrible Latin names he knew, and what a surprising talent he possessed for imagining new and beautiful arrangements, he conceived, little by little, an almost fearful admiration for him, which soon—in spite of many scoldings—developed into devoted affection.
The little hanging garden was transformed in Franco's own image and likeness. Anolea fragransin one corner spoke of the power of gentle things over the hot, impetuous spirit of the poet; a tiny cypress, not over-acceptable to Luisa, spoke in another corner of his religiosity; a low, brick parapet, in open-work pattern, ran between the cypress and theolea, supporting two parallel rows of tufa-stones, between which blossomed a smiling colony of verbenas, petunias, and wall-flowers, and spoke of the singular ingenuity of its author; the many rose-bushes scattered everywhere spoke of his love of classic beauty; theficus repenswhich decked the walls towards the lake, the twin orange-trees between the two tiers, and a vigorous carob-tree, revealed a chilly temperament, a fancy turning always towards the south, insensible to the fascination of the north.
Luisa had worked far harder than her husband,and still continued to do so, but whereas he was proud of his labours and glad to speak of them, Luisa, on the contrary, never mentioned hers, nor was she in the least proud of them. She laboured with the needle, the crochet, the iron, the scissors, with a wonderful, calm rapidity; working for her husband, her child, the poor, herself, and for the adornment of her house. Each room contained some creation of hers; dainty curtains, rugs, cushions, or lamp-shades. It was also her duty to arrange the flowers in the hall and the loggia; no flowers in pots, for Franco did not have many, and did not wish them shut up in rooms; no flowers from the little garden, for to gather one of those was like tearing it out of Franco's heart. But the dahlias, the gladioles, the roses, and the asters of the kitchen-garden were at Luisa's disposal. These, however, were not sufficient, and as the village loved "Sciora Luisa" best after the Almighty, St. Margherita, and St. Sebastian, at a sign from her, its children would bring her wildflowers and ferns, and ivy to festoon between the great bunches, stuck in metal rings on the walls. Even the arms of the harp that hung from the ceiling of the hall, were always entwined with long serpents of ivy and passion-flower.
If they wrote to Uncle Piero of these innovations he would answer little or nothing. At most he would caution them not to keep the kitchen-gardener too busy, but to leave him time for his own work. The first time he came to Oria afterthe transformation of the little garden he paused and contemplated it as he had contemplated the six stocks of maize, and murmured under his breath: "Oh dear me!" He went out to the terrace, looked at the little cupola, touched the iron bars, and pronounced an "Enough!" that was resigned, but full of disapproval of so much elegance, which he considered above the position of his family and himself. But when he had examined in silence all the nosegays and bunches of flowers, the pots and the festoons of the hall and the loggia, he said, with his good-natured smile: "Look here, Luisa! Don't you think it would be better to keep a couple of sheep with all this fodder?"
But the housekeeper was delighted that she no longer need kill herself for dust and cobwebs, and the kitchen-gardener was for ever praising the wonderful works of "Signor Don Franco," so that Uncle Piero himself soon began to grow accustomed to the new aspect his house had assumed, and to look without disapproval upon the little cupola, which, indeed, afforded a most grateful shade. At the end of two or three days he asked who had made it, and he would sometimes pause to examine the flowers in the garden, to inquire the name of one or another. At the end of eight or ten days, standing with little Maria at the door leading from the hall to the garden, he would ask her: "Who planted all those beautiful flowers?" and teach her to answer:"Papa!" He exhibited his nephew's creations to an employé of his who one day came to visit him, and listened to his expressions of approval with a fine assumption of indifference, but with the greatest satisfaction. "Yes, yes, he is clever enough." Indeed he ended by becoming one of Franco's admirers, and would even listen, in the course of conversation, to other projects of his. And in Franco, admiration and gratitude were growing for that great and generous bounty that had vanquished conservative nature, and the old aversion for elegance of every description; for that same bounty that at all such opposition rose silently and even higher behind the uncle's resistance, until it surmounted all, covered all in a broad wave of acquiescence, or at least with the sacramental phrase: "However,fate vobis; do as you like." One innovation only Uncle Piero had not been willing to accept—the disappearance of his old cushion. "Luisa," said he, gingerly lifting the new, embroidered cushion from the easy-chair, "Luisa, take this away." And he would not be persuaded. "Will you take it away?" When Luisa, smiling, brought him the little abortive mattress he sat down upon it with a satisfied, "That's it!" as if he were solemnly taking possession of a lost throne.
At the present moment, while the violet dusk was invading the green of the waves and running along the coast from village to village, eclipsing, one after another, the shining white houses, theengineer was seated upon his throne holding little Maria on his knees, while out on the terrace Franco was watering the pots of pelargonia, his heart and his face as full of affectionate satisfaction as if he had been slaking the thirst of Ishmael in the desert. Luisa was patiently untangling a fishing-line belonging to her husband, a frightful snarl of string, lead, silk, and hooks. She was talking, meanwhile, with Professor Gilardoni, who always had some philosophical snarl to untangle, but who greatly preferred a discussion with Franco, who always contradicted him, right or wrong, believing him to possess an excellent heart, but a confused head. Uncle Piero, his right knee resting on his left, held the child on this elevation, and for the hundredth time at least, was repeating a little scrap of verse to her, with affected slowness, and a slight distortion of the foreign name—