CHAPTER I

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THE PATRIOT

(PICCOLO MONDO ANTICO)

by

ANTONIO FOGAZZARO

Author of "The Saint"

Translated from the Italian by M. Prichard-Agnetti

G. P. Putnam's Sons

New York and London

The Knickerbocker Press

Copyright, 1906

by

G. P. Putnam's Sons

INTRODUCTION

_The Patriot (Piccolo Mondo Antico)_ was published in Milan in 1896, and

has reached its forty-fourth edition, which is in itself sufficient

proof of its popularity; for Italians do not purchase books largely, and

one volume will often make the tour of a town, coming out of the

campaign in rags and a newspaper cover.

Although _The Patriot_ is not an historical novel in the true sense of

the term, it certainly throws a wonderful side-light on those ten years

of "deadly cold and awful silence," a silence broken only from time to

time by the cries of the martyrs of Mantua, by the noise of inward

strife in the Papal States, and by the weeping of mothers who saw their

sons disappear behind the clanging doors of Austrian fortresses. These

ten years stretched drearily from the disastrous field of Novara to the

glorious days of Magenta, Solferino and San Martino (1849-59).

Antonio Fogazzaro, born in Vicenza in 1842, was a child when the battle

of Novara was fought and lost; but when the French drove the Austrians

from the bloody field of Magenta, he, a youth of seventeen, was ready to

be fired with patriotic enthusiasm.

During those years, there was little the patriots could do save to feed

the fire of hatred against the foreign oppressors, and prepare, as best

they could, in secret and in constant danger of death, for the moment

when Piedmont should once more give the signal of revolt.

In the night that succeeded the battle of Novara, King Carlo Alberto,

who had risked all for the freedom of the rest of Italy--for it must be

remembered that his own kingdom of Sardinia was independent of

Austria--discouraged, mortified, and impoverished, abdicated in favour

of his son, Victor Emmanuel. It was no longer possible to continue

hostilities, and Carlo Alberto hoped that his son, whose wife, Maria

Adelaide, was the daughter of an Austrian grand-duke, might obtain more

favourable conditions from Austria for his unhappy country. On the

following day the young King and Field-Marshal Radetzky met, and a peace

was signed, the conditions of which Victor Emmanuel found great

difficulty in persuading his parliament to ratify. But in the end

Piedmont paid Austria an indemnity of seventy-five million francs.

Victor Emmanuel had not, however, abandoned the idea of United Italy,

and could say with Massimo D'Azeglio: We will begin over again, and do

better! Count Camillo Benso di Cavour, one of the greatest statesmen of

modern times, stood by the King from the first. They immediately turned

their attention towards bettering the condition of their impoverished

country, and soon succeeded in rendering the little capital, Turin, one

of the brightest and most prosperous cities of the Continent. The

patriots, the best men in Italy, flocked to Turin from all those states

where Austria or her tools held sway. The Piedmontese government granted

subsidies to some of these refugees, and found employment for others,

receiving all with open arms.

Meanwhile, Mazzini and Garibaldi were working, sometimes at home,

sometimes in exile, while in Mantua brave patriots, among them several

saintly priests, were suffering torture and death at the hands of the

Austrians. The records of their trials revealed such palpable and

flagrant violation of all justice, all law, that when the Austrians were

at last expelled from Mantua, they were careful to remove these to

Vienna, where they are still preserved. The aged mother of one of the

priests who suffered execution appealed to the young Empress Elisabeth,

begging that her son's body might be restored to her, and receive burial

in consecrated ground. But Elisabeth was deaf to the unhappy woman's

prayers. During the long and desolate years of her own affliction, how

often must the unfortunate Empress have thought of the tears of blood

the mothers of Italy had shed! It was Field-Marshal Haynau of inglorious

memory, he who for his cruelties in that city had been dubbed the "hyena

of Brescia," who tortured these martyrs of Mantua and signed their

death-warrants.

All these things were happening during those ten years of heavy silence

when Fogazzaro was a child. We can fancy how eagerly he listened to the

accounts of these horrors, and to the long and animated discussions his

father (Franco Maironi of _The Patriot_) and his uncle (Uncle Piero)

held with the brilliant company that assembled at Casa Fogazzaro. His

father took an active part in the defence of Vicenza in 1848, while his

mother, whom he has portrayed for us in the lovely character of Signora

Luisa Rigey, busied herself with scraping lint and making cockades for

the soldiers. These events and scenes, which so deeply impressed the

child, were ever present to the mind of the man, and the long cherished

project of immortalising those personages and places which were both

familiar and dear to him, was at last realised in the pages of _The

Patriot_, in which, evoking personal memories of the past, he gives us a

stirring account of the petty persecutions and base meanness to which

the mighty Austria stooped during that period of suspense and anxiety.

The intrigues of the rogue Pasotti, the skirmishes of the wicked old

Marchesa with the adjutant of the great Radetzky himself, fill us with

indignation and contempt, while we thrill with patriotic emotion when

Luisa raises her glass and whispers: "Hurrah for Cavour!"--_whispers_

the words, because in those days the very walls had ears, and in her

toast there breathed sedition!

As the years passed and peace and prosperity settled over United Italy,

another question, that of the religious life, began to occupy the

master-mind of Antonio Fogazzaro. Intensely but broadly religious

himself, he could not fail to introduce into his work the burning

question of belief or unbelief which, from long contemplation and study,

had become, as it were, a part of himself. The artistic motive of the

book, the struggle between an unbelieving wife and an intensely

religious husband, came to the Italian reader as a new revelation. Had

Fogazzaro been influenced by certain works which had already excited

much comment and discussion in England and America? Perhaps so; but at

all events he has treated the subject differently, and in his own

masterly fashion; he has spared us the long and tedious tirades of

personages who are, after all, simply mouthpieces, and has given us

instead two warm and palpitating human beings, who live and act in

accordance with their opinions, and whose innermost souls are laid bare

to us by their own deeds, their own actions. Franco and Luisa do not

discuss and argue, they simply _feel_, feel intensely, and by a few

burning words here, a few delicate touches there, our author leads us to

feel with them, to understand and sympathise with their impulses, their

passions, and their weaknesses.

We may not agree with Fogazzaro's conclusions, but we cannot but admire

the masterly delineation of character, the unstudied and thoroughly

artistic arrangement of the work, and the skilful handling of so many

different elements.

The very simplicity and directness of his language give to his style a

grandeur all its own, and lend a peculiar charm to his descriptions of

nature, which form some of the most fascinating pages of _The Patriot_.

With a few broad strokes, he spreads before us a landscape of ineffable

beauty, or shows us the fury of the maddened elements. How marvellous in

its solemn grandeur is the picture of the struggle between the sun and

the fog, which Uncle Piero witnesses from the terrace at Oria! How

wonderful in its awe-inspiring realism is the story of Franco's journey

across the mountains, in the darkness of a moonless night! And that

glorious picture of the sunrise, when Franco's crushed and tortured soul

soars upwards again with the growing light, and, inspired and comforted,

he once more squares his shoulders, and takes up his heavy burden of

care!

Infinite sweetness breathes from the pages which deal with the short and

sunny life of dear little Maria, and there are passages full of humour

and whimsical reflections that must remind the English reader of

Dickens.

Perhaps when Fogazzaro wrote _The Patriot_, he had already planned the

trilogy of which it forms the first volume, but certainly the trilogy

was rather evolved than planned, evolved from the union of two such

characters as Franco and Luisa; and probably, while writing the first,

the author was, to a certain extent, ignorant of what the second and

third volumes would contain; for Luisa and Franco, Jeanne and Piero are

not puppets which have been fitted into a story, but the story is in

every particular the outcome of their personalities.

Certain it is that when we read the promise contained in the closing

lines of _The Patriot_, we look forward eagerly to the succeeding

volumes of the trilogy; and when, after that marvellous scene in the

gardener's house, we reluctantly bid farewell to the Saint, our first

thought is a hope that the master may soon resume his magic pen and

continue the struggle for the purification and regeneration of the

Faith, and, through the Faith, of Mankind.

MARY PRICHARD-AGNETTI.

BERCETO, ITALY,

_October, 1906_.

CONTENTS

_PART FIRST_

PAGE

CHAPTER I

RISOTTO AND TRUFFLES 1

CHAPTER II

ON THE THRESHOLD OF A NEW LIFE 25

CHAPTER III

THE GREAT STEP 39

CHAPTER IV

CARLIN'S LETTER 68

CHAPTER V

THE ROGUE AT WORK 85

CHAPTER VI

THE OLD LADY OF MARBLE 109

_PART SECOND_

CHAPTER I

FISHERMEN 117

CHAPTER II

THE MOONSHINE AND CLOUD SONATA 133

CHAPTER III

THE GLOVED HAND 169

CHAPTER IV

THE HAND WITHIN THE GLOVE 180

CHAPTER V

THE SECRET OF THE WIND AND THE WALNUT TREES 201

CHAPTER VI

THE TRUMP CARD APPEARS 214

CHAPTER VII

THE PROFESSOR PLAYS HIS TRUMP CARD 230

CHAPTER VIII

HOURS OF BITTERNESS 240

CHAPTER IX

FOR BREAD, FOR ITALY, FOR GOD 285

CHAPTER X

SIGNORA LUISA, COME HOME! 305

CHAPTER XI

SHADOWS AND DAWN 331

CHAPTER XII

PHANTOMS 352

CHAPTER XIII

FLIGHT 366

_PART THIRD_

CHAPTER I

THE SAGE SPEAKS 391

CHAPTER II

THE SUMMONS TO ARMS 411

Part First

CHAPTER I

RISOTTO AND TRUFFLES

On the lake a cold _breva_[A] was blowing, striving to drive away the

grey clouds which clung heavily about the dark mountain-tops. Indeed,

when the Pasottis reached Casarico on their way down from Albogasio

Superiore, it had not yet begun to rain. The waves beat and thundered on

the shore, jostling the boats at their moorings, while flashing tongues

of white foam showed, here and there, as far as the frowning banks of

the Doi over yonder. But down in the west, at the end of the lake, a

line of light could be seen, a sign of approaching calm, of the

diminishing _breva_, and behind the gloomy Caprino hill appeared the

first misty rain. Pasotti, in his full dress black overcoat, a tall hat

on his head, his hand grasping a thick bamboo walking-stick, was pacing

nervously along the shore, peering now in this direction, now in that,

or stopping to beat his stick upon the ground, and to shout for that

ass of a boatman, who had not yet appeared.

The little black boat, with its red cushions, its red and white awning,

its movable seat, used only on special occasions, fixed crosswise in its

place, the oars lying ready amidship, was struggling, buffeted by the

waves, between two coal barges, which hardly moved.

"Pin!" shouted Pasotti, growing more and more angry. "Pin!"

The only answer was the regular, constant thundering of the waves on the

shore, and the bumping of one boat against another. At that moment one

would have said there was not so much as a live dog in the whole of

Casarico. Only a plaintive, old voice, like the husky falsetto of a

ventriloquist, groaned from beneath the portico--

"Hadn't we better walk?"

At last Pin appeared in the direction of San Mamette.

"Hurry up, there!" shrieked Pasotti, raising his arms. The man began to

run.

"Beast!" Pasotti roared. "It was with good reason they gave you the name

of a dog!"

"Hadn't we better walk, Pasotti?" groaned the plaintive voice. "Let us

walk!"

Pasotti continued to abuse the boatman, who was hastily unfastening the

chain of his boat from a ring, fixed in the bank. Presently he turned

towards the portico, with an authoritative air, and jerking his chin,

motioned to some one to come forward.

"Let us walk, Pasotti!" the voice groaned once more.

He shrugged his shoulders, made a rough gesture of command with his

hand, and started down towards the boat.

Then an old lady appeared under one of the arches of the portico, her

lean person enveloped in an Indian shawl, below which a black silk skirt

showed. Her head was surmounted by a fashionable bonnet, spindling, and

lofty, trimmed with tiny yellow roses, and black lace. Two black curls

framed the wrinkled face; the eyes were large and gentle, and the wide

mouth was shaded by a faint moustache.

"Oh Pin!" she exclaimed, clasping her canary-coloured gloves, and

pausing on the bank to gaze helplessly at the boatman. "Can we really

venture out with the lake in this state?"

Her husband made a still more imperious gesture, and his face assumed a

still sourer expression. The poor woman slipped down to the boat in

silence, and was helped in, trembling violently.

"I commend myself to Our Lady of Caravino, my good Pin!" she said. "What

a dreadful lake!"

The boatman shook his head, smiling.

"By the way!" Pasotti exclaimed, "have you brought the sail along?"

"It is up at the house," Pin answered. "Shall I go for it? But perhaps

the Signora here, might be frightened. Besides, here comes the rain!"

"Go and fetch it," said Pasotti.

The Signora, who was as deaf as a post, had not heard a word of this

conversation, and, greatly amazed at seeing Pin run off, asked her

husband where he was going.

"The sail!" Pasotti shouted into her face. She sat, bending forward, her

mouth wide open, striving in vain, to catch, at least, the sound of his

voice.

"The sail!" he repeated, still louder, his hands framing his mouth.

She began to think that she understood. Trembling with fright she drew a

questioning hieroglyphic in the air with her finger. Pasotti answered by

drawing an imaginary curve in the air, and blowing into it; then he

silently nodded his head. His wife, convulsed with terror, started to

leave the boat.

"I am going to get out!" said she in an agonised voice. "I am going to

get out! I want to walk!"

Her husband seized her by the arm, and pulled her down into her seat,

fixing two flaming eyes upon her.

Meanwhile the boatman had returned with the sail. The poor woman writhed

and sighed; tears stood in her eyes, and she cast despairing glances at

the shore, but she was silent. The mast was raised, the two lower ends

of the sail were made fast, and the boat was about to put out, when a

voice bellowed from the portico--

"Hallo! Hallo! The Signor Controllore!" and out popped a big, rubicund

priest, with a glorious belly, a large, black straw hat, a cigar in his

mouth, and an umbrella under his arm.

"Oh! Curatone!" Pasotti exclaimed. "Well done! Are you invited to the

dinner also? Are you coming to Cressogno with us?"

"If you will take me," the curate of Puria answered, going down towards

the boat. "Well, I never! The Signora Barborin is here also."

The expression of his big face became supremely amiable, his great voice

became supremely sweet.

"She is devilish frightened, poor creature!" Pasotti grinned, while the

curate was making a series of little bows, and smiling sweetly upon the

lady, who was more terrified than ever at the prospect of this added

weight. She began to gesticulate silently, as if the others had been

more deaf than she herself. She pointed to the lake, to the sail, to the

bulk of the enormous curate, raising her eyes to heaven, hiding her face

in her hands, or pressing them to her heart.

"I don't weigh so very much," said the curate laughing. "Hold your

tongue, will you?" he added, turning to Pin, who had murmured

disrespectfully: "A good, big fish!"

"I'll tell you how we can cure her of her fright!" Pasotti exclaimed.

"Pin, have you a little table, and a pack of _tarocchi_[B] cards?"

"I have a pack," Pin replied. "But they are rather greasy."

They had great difficulty in making Signora Barbara--generally called

_Barborin_--understand the matter in hand. She would not understand, not

even when her husband forced the pack of filthy cards into her hands.

For the present, however, playing was out of the question. The boat was

being laboriously rowed forward towards the mouth of the river of San

Mamette, where they would be able to hoist the sail. The surf, flung

back from the shore, clashed with the in-coming waves, and the little

boat was tossing about among the seething, foaming crests. The lady was

weeping and Pasotti was swearing at Pin, who had not stood out into the

lake far enough. At last the fat curate seized a couple of oars, and

planting his big person firmly in the middle of the boat, bent to his

work with such good will that a few strokes sufficed to send them

forward and out of difficulty. Then the sail was hoisted, and the boat

glided quietly and smoothly onward, rocking slowly and gently, while the

water gurgled softly under its keel. Then the smiling priest sat down

beside Signora Barborin, who had closed her eyes and was muttering. But

Pasotti drummed impatiently on the table with the cards, and play they

must.

Meanwhile the grey rain was creeping slowly towards them, veiling the

mountains, and stifling the _breva_.

The lady's breath returned in proportion as the wind's breath

diminished, and she played resignedly, calmly oblivious to her own gross

mistakes, and her husband's consequent outbursts of rage. When the rain

began to rustle on the boat's awning, on the lifeless waves, which in

the now almost breathless atmosphere, were rolling in against the rocks

of the Tention; when the boatman, judging it best to lower the sail,

took to the oars once more, then, at last, Signora Barborin breathed

freely. "Pin, my good fellow!" she said tenderly, and began playing

_tarocchi_ with a zeal, an energy and an expression of beatitude, which

neither mistakes nor scoldings could trouble.

Many days of _breva_ and of rain, of sunshine and of storm have dawned

and faded away over the Lake of Lugano, over the hills of Valsolda since

that game of cards was played by Signora Pasotti, her husband, the

retired controller of customs, and the big curate of Puria, in the boat

which coasted slowly along the rocky shore between San Mamette and

Cressogno in the misty rain.

The times were grey and sleepy, in keeping with the aspect of sky and

lake, after the _breva_ had subsided, the breeze which had so terrified

Signora Pasotti. The great _breva_[C] of 1848, after bringing a few

hours of sunshine, and striving awhile with the heavy clouds, had

slumbered for three years, allowing one breathless, gloomy, silent day

to follow another in those places where the scene of this humble tale of

mine is laid.

The king and queens of _tarocchi_, the _mondo_, the _matto_ and the

_bagatto_, were imported personages at that time, and in those parts;

minor powers tolerated benevolently by the great, silent Austrian

empire; and their antagonisms, their alliances, their wars, were the

only political questions which might be freely discussed. Even Pin, as

he rowed, eagerly poked his hooked and inquisitive nose into Signora

Barborin's cards, withdrawing it reluctantly again. Once he paused in

his rowing, and let his nose hover above the cards, to see how the poor

woman would extricate herself from a difficult position; what she would

do with a certain card it was dangerous to play, and equally dangerous

to hold. Her husband thumped impatiently on the little table, the big

curate sorted his cards with a blissful smile, while she clasped hers to

her bosom, now laughing, now groaning, and rolling her eyes from one to

the other of her companions.

"She holds the _matto_," the curate whispered.

"She always goes on like that when she has the _matto_," said Pasotti,

and called to her, thumping the table one more--

"Out with the _matto_!"

"I will throw him into the lake!" said she. She cast a glance towards

the prow, and, as an excuse, remarked that they were nearing Cressogno,

and that it was time to stop playing.

Her husband fumed awhile, but finally resigned himself to putting on his

gloves.

"Trout to-day, curate!" he observed, while his meek wife buttoned them

for him. "White truffles, grouse, and wine from Ghemme."

"Then you know!" the curate exclaimed. "I know it also. The cook told me

yesterday at Lugano."

"And besides, some ladies have been invited; the Carabellis, mother and

daughter. Those Carabellis from Loveno, you know."

"Indeed!" the curate exclaimed. "Is there any scheme----? There is Don

Franco, now, in his boat. But what a strange flag the young man is

flying! I never saw him with it before."

Pasotti raised the awning and looked out. At a little distance a boat

flying a white and blue flag rose and fell in unison with the weary

motion of the waves. In the stern, under the flag, sat Don Franco

Maironi, the grandson of the old Marchesa Orsola, who was giving the

dinner.

Pasotti saw him rise, grasp the oars, and pull away, rowing slowly

towards the upper lake, towards the wild gulf of the Doi, the white and

blue flag spread wide, and floating above the boat's trail.

"Where is that eccentric young man going?" said he. And he muttered

between his teeth; in the strained and husky voice of a Milanese

rough--"A surly fellow!"

"They say he has great talents," the priest observed.

"An empty head," the other declared. "Much arrogance, little learning,

no manners!"

"And half rotten," he added. "If I were that young woman----"

"Which?" the curate questioned.

"Why, Signorina Carabelli."

"Mark my words, Signor Controllore! If the grouse and white truffles are

meant for that Carabelli girl, they are thrown away!"

"Do you know something?" Pasotti inquired, his eyes flaming with

curiosity.

The priest did not answer because, at that point, the bow grated on the

gravel, and touched the landing-stage. He got out first; Pasotti, with

rapid and imperious gestures, gave his wife some orders of unknown

purport. Then he himself left the boat. Last to get out was the poor

woman, wrapped in her Indian shawl, bending under the tall, black bonnet

with the little, yellow roses, staggering, and stretching out her big

hands in the canary-coloured gloves. The two curls, hanging on either

side of her meek ugliness, gave her a special air of resignation, under

the umbrella of her husband, proprietor, inspector and jealous custodian

of so much elegance.

The three went up to the portico, by means of which the little Villa

Maironi spans the road leading from the landing-stage to the

parish-church of Cressogno. Between two happy sighs, the curate and

Pasotti sniffed an indistinct, warm odour, which floated out from the

open vestibule of the villa.

"Ah! _risotto! risotto!_" the priest whispered, with a greedy glow on

his face.

Pasotti, who had a keen nose, shook his head, knitting his brows in

manifest contempt for that other nose.

"It is not _risotto_," said he.

"What do you mean by saying it is not _risotto_?" the priest exclaimed

in vexation. "It _is risotto_; _risotto_ with truffles. Don't you

smell it?"

Both stopped half way across the vestibule, sniffing the air noisily

like a couple of hounds.

"Do me the favour, my dear curate, to confine your remarks to

_posciandra_," said Pasotti, after a long pause, alluding to a certain

coarse dish the peasants prepare, with cabbage and sausages. "Truffles

there are, but _risotto_ there is not!"

"_Posciandra! posciandra!_" the other grumbled, somewhat offended. "As

to that----"

The poor, meek lady understood that they were quarrelling, and, much

alarmed, began pointing upward towards the ceiling, with her right

forefinger, to warn them that they might be overheard up above. Her

husband seized her uplifted arm, signed to her to sniff, and then blew

into her wide open mouth the word: "_Risotto_."

She hesitated, not having heard distinctly. Pasotti shrugged his

shoulders. "She don't understand anything," said he. "The weather is

going to change," and he went up stairs, followed by his wife. The stout

curate wished to take another look at Don Franco's boat. "The

Carabellis, indeed!" he mused, but he was immediately recalled by

Signora Barborin, who begged him to sit beside her at the table; she was

so timid, poor creature!

The fumes of the pots and kettles filled the stairs with warm fragrance.

"It is not _risotto_," the vanguard murmured. "It is _risotto_," the

rearguard answered in the same tone. And thus they continued, ever more

softly: "It is not _risotto_; it is _risotto_," until Pasotti pushed

open the door of the red room, where the mistress of the house was

usually to be found.

A hideous, lean, little dog trotted, barking, towards Signora Barborin,

who was endeavouring to smile, while Pasotti was putting on his most

obsequious expression, and the curate, entering last, his big face all

sweetness, was really, in his heart, consigning the cursed little beast

to hell.

"Friend, come here, Friend!" the old Marchesa said placidly. "Dear

Signora, dear Controllore, and the curate!"

Her gruff nasal voice was pitched in the same calm tone to the guests

and to the dog. She had risen to receive Signora Barborin, but did not

move a step from the sofa, and stood there, a squat figure, with dull,

torpid eyes beneath her marble forehead, and her black wig, which

rounded out over her temples in the shape of two big snails. Her face

must once have been handsome, and still retained in its pallor, tinged

with yellow like old marble, a certain cold majesty, which--like her

glance and her voice--never varied with the varying emotions of her

soul. The big curate, standing at a distance, made her two or three

jerky bows, but Pasotti kissed her hand, while Signora Barborin, who

felt her blood turn to ice under the old lady's lifeless glance, did not

know how to move, nor what to say. Another lady had risen from the sofa

when the Marchesa rose, and was staring with an insolent air at Signora

Pasotti, at that poor little bundle, old within, and new without!

"Signora Pasotti and her husband," said the Marchesa. "Donna Eugenia

Carabelli."

Donna Eugenia hardly bowed her head. Her daughter, Donna Carolina, was

standing at the window, talking with one of the Marchesa's favourites,

the niece of the agent.

The Marchesa did not consider it necessary to disturb her in order to

present the new arrivals, and when she had invited them to be seated,

she resumed her quiet conversation with Donna Eugenia concerning mutual

friends in Milan, while Friend, sniffing and sneezing, circled slowly

round Signora Barborin's shawl, which smelt of camphor, or rubbed

himself against the curate's calves, studying Pasotti the while, with

those pitiful, watery eyes of his, but never once touching him, as if he

understood that the master of that Indian shawl, in spite of his amiable

expression, would have liked to ring his--Friend's--neck!

And the Marchesa Orsola talked on in her usual guttural, sleepy voice,

and Donna Carabelli, in answering, strove to give her loud, imperious

voice an amiable ring. But to Pasotti's penetrating glance, and cunning

shrewdness it was quite clear that the two old ladies were concealing a

certain dissatisfaction, which was greater in the Marchesa Maironi than

in Donna Eugenia. Every time the door opened the dim eyes of the one and

the dark eyes of the other were turned in that direction. Once it

admitted the prefect of the _Santuario della Caravina_, with little

Signor Paolo Sala, called _el Paolin_--little Paul--and Signor Paolo

Pozzi, called _el Paolon_--big Paul--who were inseparable companions.

Again there entered the Marchese Bianchi, of Oria, a former officer of

the kingdom of Italy, with his daughter. He was a noble type of the

gallant, old soldier, as he stood beside the attractive and vivacious

young girl.

On both occasions a shadow of vexation passed over Donna Carabelli's

face. Her daughter also turned her eyes swiftly towards the door when it

was thrown open, but presently she would begin chatting and laughing

again, more gaily than ever.

"And Don Franco, Marchesa? How is Don Franco?" said the cunning Pasotti,

in a mellifluous voice, as he offered his open snuff-box to his hostess.

"Thank you," the Marchesa answered, bending forward a little and dipping

her fingers into the snuff. "Franco? To tell the truth I am rather

anxious about him. This morning he was not feeling very well, and he has

not appeared yet. I trust----"

"Don Franco?" said the Marchese. "He is out in his boat. We saw him a

few minutes ago, rowing like any boatman."

Donna Eugenia spread her fan open.

"Well done!" said she, fanning furiously. "A most delightful pastime."

Then she closed the fan with a bang, and began biting at it with her

lips.

"Probably he needed the air," the Marchesa observed, in her unruffled,

nasal drawl.

"Probably he needed a wetting," the prefect of the Caravina murmured,

his eyes sparkling with fun. "It is raining!"

"Don Franco is coming now, Signora Marchesa," said the agent's niece,

after a glance at the lake.

"That is good," the sleepy, nasal drawl replied. "I hope he is feeling

better. If not, he will not speak two words. He is a perfectly healthy

boy, but very apprehensive about himself. By the way, Signor

Controllore, why does not Signor Giacomo make his appearance?"

"_El sior Zacomo_," Pasotti began, in imitation of Signor Giacomo

Puttini, an old bachelor from the Veneto, who had lived at Albogasio

Superiore, near Villa Pasotti, for the last thirty years. "_El sior

Zacomo_----"

"Tut, tut!" said the old lady, interrupting him. "I cannot allow you to

make fun of the Venetians, and besides, it is not true that they say

_Zacomo_ in the Veneto."

She herself was a native of Padua, and although she had lived in Brescia

for half a century, still her Lombard accent was not entirely free from

certain chronic suggestions of her Paduan origin. While Pasotti was

protesting, with ceremonial horror, that he had only intended to imitate

the voice of his beloved friend and neighbour, the door opened a third

time. Donna Eugenia, well aware who was coming, did not condescend to

look round, but the Marchesa allowed her dull eyes to rest on Don Franco

with the greatest unconcern.

Don Franco, sole heir to the name of Maironi, was the son of the

Marchesa's son who had died when only eight-and-twenty. He had lost his

mother at his birth, and had always lived under the rule of his

grandmother Maironi. He was tall and slender, and wore a tangle of

rather long, dark hair, and this had procured for him the nickname of

_el scovin d'i nivol_, "the cloud sweeper." He had eloquent, light blue

eyes, a keen, animated and pleasing face, quick to blush or turn pale.

Now that frowning face was saying very plainly: "Here I am, but I am

much put out!"

"How do you feel, Franco?" his grandmother inquired, and added quickly,

without waiting for an answer: "Donna Carolina is anxious to hear that

piece by Kalkbrenner."

"Oh! not at all!" said the girl, turning to the young man with an air of

indifference. "I did indeed say so, but then I am not fond of

Kalkbrenner, I had much rather chat with the young ladies."

Franco seemed quite satisfied with the reception he had received and,

without waiting for further remarks, went over to talk with the big

curate about a fine old picture they were to inspect together, in the

church at Dasio. Donna Eugenia Carabelli was quivering with indignation.

She had come from Loveno, with her daughter, after certain secret

diplomatic transactions, in which other powers had had a hand. Should

this visit be paid or not; would the dignity of the house of Carabelli

permit it; did that probability of success which Donna Eugenia exacted,

really exist? Such were the final questions, which diplomacy had been

called upon to answer, for, notwithstanding the acquaintance of long

standing which existed between Mamma Carabelli and Grandmamma Maironi,

the young people had met only once or twice, and then but for a few

minutes. They were being drawn together by their surroundings of wealth

and nobility, of relationships and friendships, as a drop of salt water

and a drop of fresh water are mutually drawn together, though the

microscopic creatures, which have their being in the one and in the

other be condemned to perish if the two drops mingle. The Marchesa had

carried her point. It had been decided--apparently out of respect for

her age, but really out of respect for her money--that the interview

should take place at Cressogno; for, though Franco himself was possessed

only of his mother's modest fortune, amounting to eighteen or twenty

thousand Austrian _lire_, his grandmother was enthroned in all her calm

dignity upon several millions. And now Donna Eugenia, observing the

young man's conduct, was furious with the Marchesa, as well as with

those who had exposed her daughter and herself to such humiliation. If,

at a single blow, she could have swept away the old woman, her grandson,

the gloomy house and the tiresome company, she would have done so with

joy; but she must hide her feelings, feign indifference, swallow the

indignity and the dinner.

The Marchesa preserved her external, marble placidity, though her heart

was filled with anger and rancour against her grandson. Two years

before he had dared to ask her consent to his marriage with a young

girl of Valsolda, of good family, but neither rich nor of noble birth.

His grandmother's decided refusal had rendered the union impossible, and

indeed the girl's mother had felt obliged to forbid Don Franco the

house; but the Marchesa was convinced that those people still had their

eyes on her millions. She had therefore determined to find a wife for

Franco, at once, in order to avert all danger. She had sought for a girl

who should be rich, but not too rich; of noble, but not too noble birth;

intelligent, but not too intelligent. Having discovered one of the right

sort, she suggested her to Franco who flew into a rage, and declared he

had no desire to marry. The answer had a very suspicious ring, and she

redoubled her vigilance, watching every movement of her grandson and of

that "Madam Trap," that being the pleasing title she had bestowed upon

Signorina Luisa Rigey.

The Rigey family, consisting of the two ladies only, lived at Castello,

in Valsolda, so it was not difficult to watch their movements.

Nevertheless the Marchesa could not discover anything. But one evening

Pasotti told her, with much hypocritical hesitation and many horrified

comments, that the prefect of the Caravina, while chatting with Pasotti

himself, with Signor Giacomo Puttini and with Paolin and Paolon, in the

chemist's shop at San Mamette, had made the following remark: "Don

Franco is going to keep quiet until the old lady is really dead!" The

Marchesa having listened to this delicate piece of wit, answered: "A

thousand thanks!" through her placid nose, and changed the subject.

Later she learned that Signora Rigey--always more or less of an

invalid--was suffering from hypertrophia of the heart, and it appeared

to her that Franco's spirits were much affected by this illness. It was

then that Signorina Carabelli was suggested to her. Carolina Carabelli

was perhaps not entirely to her taste, but with that other danger

threatening she could not hesitate. She spoke to Franco. This time he

did not fly into a rage, but listened in an absent-minded way, and said

he would think the matter over. This was perhaps the one act of

hypocrisy of his whole life. Then the Marchesa boldly played a high

card, and sent for the Carabellis.

She saw plainly enough now, that the game was lost. Don Franco had not

been present when the ladies arrived, and later had appeared only once

for a few minutes. During those few minutes his manner had been

gracious, but not so his expression. As usual his face had spoken so

plainly that--though the Marchesa immediately invented an indisposition

for him--no one could have been deceived. But in spite of all this, the

old lady was not convinced that she had played her cards unskilfully.

Ever since she had reached the age of discretion it had been a rule with

her never to recognise in herself a single defect or mistake, never

wittingly to wound her own noble and beloved self. Now she preferred to

believe that, after her sermon on matrimony, some honeyed but poisonous

and ensnaring word had mysteriously reached her grandson. If her

disappointment was somewhat mitigated, this was due to the conduct of

Signorina Carabelli, whose lively resentment was but ill concealed. This

was not pleasing to the Marchesa. The prefect of the Caravina was not

mistaken--though he perhaps erred slightly in the form of his discourse,

when he said, softly, of her: "She is Austria itself." Like the old

Austria of those days, the old Marchesa did not wish for any bold

spirits in her empire. Her own iron will would not tolerate others in

its neighbourhood. Such an indocile Lombardy-Venice as was Franco was

already too much, and the Carabelli girl, who appeared to have a mind

and a will of her own, would probably prove a troublesome subject of the

house of Maironi, a species of turbulent Hungary.

Dinner was announced. The footman's shaven face, and ill-fitting, grey

livery reflected the Marchesa's aristocratic tastes, which, however, had

been tempered by habits of economy.

"And where is this Signor Giacomo, Controllore?" she said, without

rising.

"I fear he is not coming, Marchesa," Pasotti replied. "I saw him this

morning, and said to him: 'Then we shall meet at dinner, Signor

Giacomo?' But he squirmed as if he had swallowed a snake. He twisted and

turned and at last puffed out: 'Yes, probably. I don't know! Perhaps. I

can't say!--Uff! uff. Well really now, my good Controllore, indeed I

don't know!--Uff, uff!'--and I could get nothing more out of him."

The Marchesa summoned the footman to her side, and gave him an order in

a low tone. He bowed and withdrew. In his longing for the risotto, the

curate of Puria was rocking his body to and fro, and stroking his knees.

But the Marchesa on her sofa, seemed turned to stone, so he also became

petrified. The others gazed mutely at one another.

Poor Signora Barborin, who had seen the footman, and was surprised at

this immobility and these astonished faces, arched her eyebrows,

questioning with her eyes, first her husband, then Puria, then the

prefect, until a lightning glance from Pasotti petrified her as well.

"Perhaps the dinner is burnt!" she reflected, assuming an expression of

indifference. "If they would only send us home! What luck that would

be!" But in a minute or two the servant returned, and bowed.

"Let us go," the Marchesa said, rising.

In the dining-room the company found a new personage; a little, crooked,

old man, with kind eyes and a long nose, that drooped towards his chin.

"Indeed, Signora Marchesa," he began, humbly and timidly, "I have

already dined."

"Sit down, Signor Viscontini," the Marchesa replied, who, like all those

who are determined to make their world bend to their own comfort and

tastes, was well versed in the insolent art of feigning deafness.

The little man did not dare to answer, neither did he dare to sit down.

"Courage, Signor Viscontini!" said Paolin, who stood near him. "What are

you doing here?"

"He is filling a gap!" muttered the prefect. In fact, the excellent

Signor Viscontini, by trade a tuner of pianos, had that morning come

from Lugano to tune the Zelbis' piano at Cima, and Don Franco's also,

and at one o'clock he had dined at Casa Zelbi. Then he had come to Villa

Maironi, and was now called upon to act as substitute for Signor

Giacomo, because, without him, the company would have numbered thirteen.

A brown liquid was smoking in the silver soup-tureen.

"It is not risotto!" Pasotti whispered to Puria, passing behind him. But

the big, mild face gave no sign of having heard.

The Casa Maironi dinners were always lugubrious affairs, and this one

promised to be more than usually so. But as a compensation, it was much

finer than usual. While they were eating, Pasotti and Puria often

exchanged glances of admiration, as if congratulating one another on

the exquisite delight they were enjoying; and if ever Puria failed to

catch one of Pasotti's glances, Signora Barborin, seated beside him,

would apprise him of it by a timid touch of her elbow.

The voices which predominated were those of the Marchesa and Donna

Eugenia. Bianchi's large aristocratic nose, and his shrewd but gallant

and courteous smile were often turned towards the lady's beauty, which

though already fading, had not, as yet, departed. Both belonged to

Milanese families of the best blood, and were united by a certain sense

of superiority, not only over the other middle-class guests, but over

their hosts as well, whose nobility was only provincial. The Marchese

was affability itself, and would have conversed amiably with the

humblest of his fellow-guests, but Donna Eugenia, in the bitterness of

her soul, in her disgust for the place and the persons, attached herself

to him as to the only one worthy of her attention, markedly singling him

out, in order, also, to offend the others. She embarrassed him by

remarking in a loud tone that she did not see how he could ever have

taken a fancy to this odious Valsolda. The Marchese, who for many years

had led a life of quiet and retirement in this region, where, moreover,

the birth of his only daughter, Donna Ester, had taken place, was,

first, greatly disconcerted, for this remark was calculated to wound

several of their fellow-guests; but finally he burst into a brilliant

defence of the place. The Marchesa showed no feeling; Paolin, Paolon,

and the prefect, all natives of Valsolda, were silent and abashed.

Then, in pompous language, Pasotti sang the praises of Niscioree, the

villa belonging to Bianchi, near Oria. These praises did not seem to

please the Marchese, who, himself a most loyal man, had not always found

Pasotti to his liking, in the past. He invited Donna Carabelli to come

to Niscioree. "You must not go on foot, Eugenia," said the Marchesa,

well aware that her friend was tormented by the fear of growing stout.

"The road from the Custom House to Niscioree is so narrow! You could not

possibly pass." Donna Eugenia protested hotly. "It is not, indeed, the

Corso of Porta Renza," said the Marchese, "but neither is it _le chemin

du Paradis_--unfortunately!"

"That it is not! Most certainly not! You may take my word for it!"

exclaimed Viscontini, heated, as ill luck would have it, by too many

glasses of Ghemme. All eyes were turned upon him, and Paolin said

something to him in a low tone. "Crazy?" the little man retorted, his

face aflame. "Not by any means! I tell you----" And here he related how,

coming from Lugano that morning, he had felt cold in the boat, and had

gotten out at Niscioree, intending to pursue his journey on foot; how

there, between those two walls, where the path was so narrow an ass

could not turn round in it, he had met the customs-officers, who had

first abused him for getting out at Niscioree, and had then taken

him back to the beastly custom-house. He said that beast of a

Ricevitore--the receiver of customs--had confiscated a roll of

manuscript music he had with him, taking the crotchets and quavers for a

secret political correspondence.

Profound silence followed this recital. Presently the Marchesa declared

that Signor Viscontini was entirely in the wrong. He should not have

landed at Niscioree; it was forbidden. As to the Ricevitore, he was a

most worthy man. Pasotti, with a solemn face, confirmed this statement.

"Excellent official," said he. "Excellent rascal!" muttered the prefect

between his teeth. Franco, who at first appeared to be thinking of

something else, roused himself, and cast a contemptuous glance at

Pasotti.

"After all," the Marchesa added, "it seems to me that, in the disguise

of manuscript music, there might easily----"

"Certainly," said Paolin, who played the Austrian from fear while the

mistress of the house was Austrian from conviction.

The Marchese, who in 1815 had broken his sword in two that he might not

be obliged to serve the Austrians, smiled saying quietly: "_La! C'est un

peu fort!_"

"But every one knows that the Ricevitore is a beast!" Franco exclaimed.

"I beg to differ with you, Don Franco," said Pasotti.

"Nonsense; beg to differ!" the other retorted. "He is a perfect beast!"

"He is a conscientious man," said the Marchesa, "an official who does

his duty."

"Then his masters are the beasts!" Franco exclaimed.

"My dear Franco!" drawled the emotionless voice, "I will not tolerate

such language in my house! Thank God we are not in Piedmont!" Pasotti

grinned his approval. Then Franco, lifting his plate with both hands

shivered it upon the table, with a furious blow. "Holy Mother!" gasped

Viscontini, and Paolon, interrupted in the laborious operations of a

toothless glutton, uttered an exclamation of alarm. "Yes, yes!" said

Franco, rising, his face distorted, "I had better go!" And he left the

room. Donna Eugenia at once turned faint, and had to be led away. All

the ladies, except Signora Pasotti, followed her out at one door, while

the footman entered at another, bearing a great risotto pie. Puria cast

a triumphant glance at Pasotti, but Pasotti pretended not to notice. All

had risen. Viscontini, the apparent culprit, kept repeating: "I can't

make it out! I can't make it out!" and Paolin, much vexed at seeing the

dinner thus interrupted, grumbled at him: "What business have you to try

to make anything out?" The Marchese was frowning fiercely, but kept

silent. At last Pasotti, the real culprit, assuming an air of

affectionate sadness, said, as if speaking to himself: "What a pity!

Poor Don Franco! A heart of gold, a good head, but such a disposition!

It is indeed unfortunate."

"Alas!" exclaimed Paolin, and Puria added despairingly: "Truly a great

misfortune!"

They waited and waited, but the ladies did not return. Then some one

moved. Paolin and Puria, their hands clasped behind them, walked slowly

towards the sideboard, lost in contemplation of the risotto pie. Puria

called sweetly to Pasotti, but Pasotti did not move. "I only wished to

observe," the big curate said, hiding his triumph so that it might or

might not be apparent, "I only wished to observe that there are white

truffles in it."

"I should say that black truffles[D] are not wanting here either,"

remarked the Marchese pointedly, and slightly accentuating the words.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] _Breva_: local name for a sudden, violent wind blowing from the

north, and sweeping over the Italian lakes. [_Translator's note._]

[B] _Tarocchi_: a game of cards once much in vogue in Italy. The

"_Mondo_," the "_Matto_," the "_Bagatto_," which will be referred to

later on, are all picture cards used in this game. [_Translator's

note._]

[C] The _breva_ of 1848 means the revolution which swept over Italy in

that year, after which the country sunk into apparent calm, but all the

while the people, chafing under the Austrian yoke, were preparing for

the mighty effort which, at last, set them free. [_Translator's note._]

[D] _Tartufo_: often used to indicate those who are hypocritically

pious. The word "black" refers to the priest's black robe.

[_Translator's note._]

CHAPTER II

ON THE THRESHOLD OF A NEW LIFE

"Scoundrels!" snorted Don Franco, climbing the stairs that led to his

room. "Silly ass of an Austrian!" He was venting his wrath on Pasotti,

as he could not hurl insults at his grandmother, and the very letters of

the word _Austrian_ served so well to grind between his teeth, as he

ground his rage, crushing it and enjoying its flavour. When he reached

his room his burning indignation died out.

He threw himself into a chair opposite the open window, and gazed at the

lake, lying still and mournful in the cloudy afternoon, and at the

lonely mountains beyond the sheet of water. He drew a long breath. Ah!

how well he felt here all alone! Ah! what peace! How different the

atmosphere was to that of the drawing-room! What a precious atmosphere,

full of his thoughts and of his loves! He felt a great need of giving

himself up to them, and they at once took possession of him, driving

from his mind the Carabellis, Pasotti, his grandmother and that

egregious beast, the receiver of customs. They? No, one thought alone; a

thought composed of mingled love and reason, of anxiety and joy, of so

many sweet memories, and at the same time, of tremulous expectancy, for

something solemn was drawing near, and would come to him in the shadows

of the night. Franco looked at his watch. It wanted a quarter to four

o'clock. Seven hours longer to wait. He rose, and leaned with folded

arms upon the window sill.

In seven hours another life would begin for him. Beyond the few persons

who were to have a part in the event, not even the air itself knew that

that same evening, towards eleven o'clock, Don Franco Maironi would wed

Signorina Luisa Rigey.

For some time Signora Teresa Rigey, Luisa's mother, had, in all

sincerity, begged Franco to bend to his grandmother's will, to abstain

from visiting their house, and to think no more of Luisa, who, on her

part, was content, for the dignity of the family, and out of respect for

her mother, that all official relations with Don Franco should cease.

She did not, however, doubt that he would remain faithful to her, and

considered herself bound to him for life. His grandmother was not aware

that he was now privately reading law, in order that by following a

profession, he might be able to maintain himself. But, as a result of so

much anxiety, Signora Rigey contracted a heart trouble, which grew

suddenly worse towards the end of August, 1851. Franco wrote to her,

begging to be allowed at least, to visit her, since it was not possible

for him to nurse her "as would have been his duty." The lady did not

feel justified in consenting to this, and the young man, in despair,

gave her to understand that he looked upon Luisa as his affianced wife

before God, and that he would rather die than to give her up. Then the

poor mother, conscious that her life was ebbing day by day, distressed

by the uncertain position of her beloved child, and convinced of the

young man's strength of purpose, conceived a great longing that--as the

marriage would surely take place--it should be celebrated as soon as

possible. Everything was arranged in haste, with the aid of the curate

of Castello and of Signora Rigey's brother, the civil engineer Ribera,

of Oria, who was in the service of the Imperial and Royal Office of

Public Works, at Como. The understanding was as follows: The marriage

should be celebrated secretly; Franco should remain with his

grandmother, and Luisa with her mother, until such a time as they should

deem it opportune to acknowledge their union to the Marchesa. Franco

relied greatly upon the support of Monsignor Benaglia, Bishop of Lodi,

and an old friend of the family, but before he was asked to interfere,

the decisive step must be taken. If (as in all probability would be the

case) the Marchesa hardened her heart against them, the young couple and

Signora Rigey would take up their abode in a house in Oria, belonging to

the engineer Ribera, a bachelor who was supporting his sister's family,

and would now accept Franco in place of a son.

* * * * *

In seven hours then!

The window overlooked the landing-place and the strip of garden in front

of the villa, on the lake side. When he first fell in love, Franco used

to stand there and watch for the coming of a certain boat, from which

would spring a slim little person, as light as air, but who never, never

looked towards his window. At last, one day he had gone down to meet

her, and she had waited a moment before jumping out, that she might

accept his helping hand--which, indeed, was most unnecessary. Down there

in the garden he had given her a flower, for the first time, the

sweet-smelling flower of the _Mandevilia suaveolens_. Down there, on

another occasion, he had cut his finger rather deeply with his penknife,

while gathering a little branch of roses for her, and she, by the

anxiety she displayed, had given him a sweet proof of her love. How many

excursions to the solitary slopes of Monte Bisgnago, on the other side,

he had made with her and with other friends, before his grandmother

found out! How many lunches and suppers at the little inn at Doi! Franco

would come home with the sweetness of the many glances exchanged still

lingering in his heart, and shutting himself up in his room, would

recall them all, revelling in them in memory. These first emotions of

his love now rushed into his mind, not one by one, but all together,

from the waters and from the gloomy shores, where his fixed gaze seemed

to lose itself in the shadowy past rather than in the misty present.

Thus, as he neared the goal, he thought of the first steps he had taken

on this long road, of the unforeseen incidents, of the aspect of this

much-longed-for union, so different in reality from what it had appeared

in his dreams. He looked back upon the time of the _mandevilia_ and the

roses, of the excursions on the lake and among the hills. Certainly, at

that time, he did not dream he would attain his object thus, secretly,

and surrounded by so many difficulties, so much pain. Still, he thought

that if the wedding had taken place openly, with the customary proem of

official ceremonies, of contracts, congratulations, visits, and dinners,

all this would have been even more wearisome and repugnant to his love

than the opposition he had met with.

He was aroused by the voice of the prefect, calling to him from the

garden, to announce the departure of the Carabellis. Franco reflected

that if he went down he would be obliged to offer some apologies, and he

preferred not to make his appearance. "You should have smashed the plate

on his face!" the prefect called up to him, his hands framing his mouth.

"You should have smashed it on his face!"

Then he turned away, and Franco saw the Carabellis' boatman go down to

the shore to prepare the boat. He left the window, and returning to the

thoughts which had occupied him first of all, he opened his chest of

drawers, and stood absently contemplating an embroidered shirt front,

where certain small diamond studs his father had worn at his own

wedding, were already sparkling. He disliked the idea of going to the

altar without some outward sign of festivity, but of course, this sign

must not be too apparent.

In the iris-scented chest of drawers everything was arranged with that

order which denotes a cultured spirit, and no one was allowed to touch

its contents save Franco himself. But the chairs, the writing table, the

piano, were heaped with such disorder that it would seem as if a

hurricane of books and papers had swept in at the two windows. Certain

law books were slumbering under an inch of dust, but not a single leaf

of the little gardenia, growing in a pot on the sill of the east window,

showed a speck of dust. These indications were sufficient to suggest the

whimsical rule of a poet. A glance at the books and papers would have

given conclusive proof of this.

Franco was passionately fond of poetry, and was a true poet in the

exquisite delicacy of his instincts. As a writer of verse he could be

ranked only as an indifferent amateur, wanting in originality. His

favourite models were Foscolo and Giusti. He worshipped them fervently,

and pillaged them both, for his genius, which was both satirical and

enthusiastic, was not capable of creating a style of its own, and must

content itself with imitating others. It is only fair to remark that

young men in those days generally possessed a classical culture such as

has since become most exceptional, and that through the classics

themselves they learned to respect the art of imitation, as a

praiseworthy and virtuous practice.

Franco liked to improvise on the piano with some of these verses before

his eyes. Even more devoted to music than to poetry, he had himself

purchased this piano for one hundred and fifty _svanziche_, from the

organist at Loggio, because the poor Viennese instrument, belonging to

his grandmother, which was always wrapped up and must be handled

carefully, like a gouty member of the family, was not adapted to his

requirements. The organist's instrument, which had been thumped and

banged upon by two generations of hands, hardened by contact with the

pickaxe, now sent forth only a funny little nasal voice, which rose

above a faint tinkling, as of many tiny glasses standing too close

together. Franco was almost oblivious to this. As soon as he had placed

his hands upon the instrument his imagination would take fire; the

composer's enthusiasm would enter into him, and, in the heat of the

creative passion, a thread of sound sufficed to permeate him with the

spirit of music, and absolutely to intoxicate him. An Erard would have

embarrassed him, would have left less room for fancy, would, in a word,

have been less dear to him than his spinet.

Franco possessed too many talents, too many different inclinations, too

much impetuosity, too little vanity and perhaps also, too little

will-power to undertake that tiresome, methodical, manual labour, which

is indispensable in order to become a pianist. Nevertheless, Viscontini

was enthusiastic about the style of playing, and his fiancee Luisa,

though she did not entirely share his classical tastes, honestly admired

his touch. When, being pressed to do so, he would make the organ at

Cressogno roar and groan in the approved classic manner, the good

people, overwhelmed by the music and the honour, would stare at him with

open mouths and reverent eyes, as they would have stared at some

preacher, whose sermon they did not understand. But notwithstanding all

this, Franco could not have held his own in a city drawing-room, against

the majority of feeble amateurs, incapable even of understanding and

loving music. All, or almost all of them would have shown themselves his

superiors in agility and in precision, and would have gathered in more

applause, even though no one of them had succeeded in making the piano

sing as he made it sing, especially in the adagios of Bellini and of

Beethoven, playing with his soul in his throat, in his eyes, in the

muscles of his face, in the tendons of his hands, which seemed one with

the chords of the piano.

Another passion of his was for old pictures. The walls of his room held

several, most of which were daubs. Never having travelled he had little

experience. His fancy was quick to take fire, and, obliged as he was to

fit his ample desires to his scant means, he was credulous concerning

the alleged good fortune of other ignorant purchasers, and often allowed

himself to be influenced by them, to be blinded and led into buying

certain dirty rags, which, if they cost little, were worth still less.

The only passably good things he possessed were a head, in the style of

Morone, and a Madonna and Child, after the manner of Carlo Dolci.

Franco, however, baptised these two little pictures with the names of

Morone and Carlo Dolci, without further qualification.

When he had re-read and enjoyed some lines inspired by the hypocritical

Pasotti, he once more hunted in the chaos of his desk, and drew forth a

small sheet of notepaper, upon which he intended to write to Monsignor

Benaglia, the only person who, in the future, might be able to influence

his grandmother in his favour. He felt it his duty to inform him of the

step he was about to take, of the reasons which had forced his fiancee

and himself to resort to this painful subterfuge, of the hope they

cherished that he would help them when the time came to confess all to

the Marchesa. He was still reflecting, pen in hand, when the Carabellis'

boat passed beneath his window. Soon after he heard the Marchese's

gondola glide by, followed presently by Pin's boat. He expected that his

grandmother would send for him, now that she was alone, but she did not

do so. He waited some time, expecting to be summoned, then he began to

think of his letter again, and reflected so long, re-wrote the

introduction so many times, and got on so slowly, that before he had

finished he was obliged to light the lamp.

The end was easier. He begged the old Bishop's prayers for his Luisa and

for himself, and expressed a faith in God so perfect and so pure, that

the most unbelieving heart must have been touched by it.

Fiery and impetuous as he was, still Franco possessed the calm and

simple faith of a little child. Entirely free from pride, a stranger to

philosophical meditations, he was ignorant of that thirst for

intellectual liberty which torments young men, when their senses begin

to find themselves hampered by that strong curb--positive beliefs. He

had never for an instant doubted his religion, and performed all the

duties it prescribed without once asking himself if it be reasonable to

act and believe thus. Still he had nothing of the mystic or of the

ascetic. His intellect, though ardent and poetic, was, at the same time,

clear and positive. Devoted as he was to nature and to art, and

attracted by all the pleasing aspects of life, he would naturally shrink

from mysticism. He had not acquired his faith; he had never concentrated

all his thoughts upon it for any length of time, therefore it was not

possible that it should have penetrated all his sentiments. Religion was

to him what science is to the student, whose first thought is school,

where he studies diligently, having no peace until he has done his home

tasks, and is prepared for the next lesson, but who, once his duty is

performed, thinks no more either of teachers or of books, and does not

feel the need of regulating his actions according to scientific

conclusions or scholastic programmes. Therefore it would often seem that

Franco's life was influenced by nothing else than his warm and generous

heart, his passionate inclinations, his lively impressions, and the

impulses of his honest nature, which was offended by every kind of

untruth and meanness, while he chafed under contradiction, and was

incapable of deceit.

He had just sealed his letter when some one knocked at the door. The

Marchesa had sent to summon Don Franco downstairs to recite the Rosary.

At Casa Maironi they recited the Rosary every evening between seven and

eight, and the servants were obliged to be present. The Marchesa herself

intoned the prayers, enthroned on her sofa, her sleepy eyes roving over

the backs and legs of the worshippers, kneeling, some in one position,

some in another, some in the light best adapted to set off a devotional

attitude, and others in the shadow which would favour a comfortable, but

forbidden nap. Franco entered the room as the nasal voice was repeating

the sweet words: "_Ave Maria, gratia plena_," with that drawling unction

which always inspired him with a wild desire to become a Turk. The young

man flung himself down in a dark corner, and never opened his lips. It

was impossible for him to answer that irritating voice with fitting

devotion. He fell to imagining what the coming interview would be like,

and preparing caustic answers.

When the Rosary was finished the Marchesa waited a moment and then

pronounced the words consecrated by long usage--

"Carlotta, Friend."

It was the duty of Carlotta, the Marchesa's old maid, to take Friend in

her arms, and carry him off to bed, as soon as the Rosary was finished.

"He is here, Signora Marchesa," said Carlotta.

But Friend, though indeed he had been there, was somewhere else when she

bent down with outstretched hand. That evening old Friend was in good

spirits, and determined to play at not being caught. He would tempt

Carlotta, and then slip through her fingers, taking refuge under the

piano, or under the table, from whence he would peer out at the poor

woman with ironical waggings of his tail, while Carlotta's lips said,

"Come, come, dear!" and her heart said, "Ugly beast!"

"Friend!" exclaimed the Marchesa. "That will do, Friend! Be good!"

Franco was boiling. The nasty little monster, imbued with his mistress'

arrogance and egotism, paused at his feet, and Franco rolled him roughly

towards Carlotta, who grabbed him, and punished him with an angry

squeeze, and then carried him off, answering his whines with deceitful

words of pity. "What did they do to you, poor Friend? What did they do

to you? Tell us all about it!"

The Marchesa made no remarks, nor did her marble countenance betray her

feelings. She ordered the footman to tell the prefect of the Caravina,

or any one else who might call, that his mistress had retired. Franco

started to leave the room behind the servants, but checked himself at

once, that he might not appear to be running away. He took a number of

the _Imperial and Royal Gazette_ of Milan from the mantel-shelf, and

seating himself near his grandmother, began reading while he waited.

"I congratulate you heartily on the good manners and fine sentiments you

displayed to us to-day," the sleepy voice began, almost immediately.

"I accept your congratulations," Franco retorted, without raising his

eyes from his paper.

"Well done, my dear!" his immovable grandmother replied, and added: "I

am glad that young girl had the opportunity of seeing you as you are,

because, supposing she may have heard of a certain project, she will now

be very glad it is no longer thought of."

"Then we are both satisfied!" said Franco.

"You cannot in the least tell if you are going to be satisfied.

Especially if you still hold the views you once held."

Upon this, Franco put his paper down, and looked his grandmother full in

the face.

"What would happen," he said, "if I still held the same views I once

held?"

This time he did not speak in a challenging tone, but with quiet

seriousness.

"Ah! That is right!" the Marchesa exclaimed. "Let us speak plainly! I

hope and believe that a certain event will never take place, but should

it take place, do not flatter yourself that there will be anything for

you at my death, for I have already arranged matters so that there will

be nothing."

"Oh! as to that----" the young man began, with indifference.

"That is the score you would have to settle with me," the Marchesa

continued. "Then there would be a score to settle with God."

"How is that?" Franco questioned. "God shall come first with me, and you

afterwards!"

When the Marchesa was caught in a mistake she always talked straight on

as if nothing had happened.

"And it will be a heavy score," said she.

"But it must be settled first!" Franco insisted.

"Because," the formidable old woman continued, "a good Christian is in

duty bound to obey his father and his mother, and I represent both your

father and your mother."

If the one was obstinate, the other was no less so.

"But God comes first!" said he.

The Marchesa rang the bell and closed the conversation thus--

"Now we understand each other perfectly."

When Carlotta entered she rose from the sofa, and said, placidly--

"Good-night."

"Good-night," Franco answered, and resumed the _Milan Gazette_.

As soon as his grandmother had left the room he flung the paper aside,

clenched his fists, and giving vent to his anger in a sort of furious

snort, sprang to his feet, saying aloud--

"Ah! It is better so! Better, better so!" It was better so, he continued

to assure himself mutely. Better never to bring Luisa to this accursed

house, better never to oblige her to bear this rule, this arrogance,

this voice, this face! Better to live on bread and water, and look to

hard work for the rest, rather than to accept anything from his

grandmother's hand. Better become a gardener, d---- it! a boatman, or a

charcoal burner!

He went up to his room determined to break with all obligations. "A

score to settle with God!" he exclaimed, banging the door behind him. "A

score to settle with God if I marry Luisa! Ah! after all, what do I

care? Let them see me, spy upon me, bring her the news. Let them tell

her, let them sing it to her in every key. I shall be delighted!"

He dressed himself in feverish haste, knocking against the chairs, and

closing the drawers with a bang. In his recklessness he put on a black

suit, went noisily downstairs, called the old footman, told him he

should be out all night, and, not heeding the half-astonished,

half-terrified face of the poor fellow, who was devoted to him, rushed

into the street, and was lost in the darkness.

* * * * *

He had been gone two or three minutes when the Marchesa, who was already

in bed, sent Carlotta to see who had come running downstairs. Carlotta

reported that it was Don Franco, and was at once dispatched again on a

second errand. "What did Don Franco want?" This time the answer was,

that Don Franco had gone out for a few moments. The "few moments" was

added out of kindness by the old servant. The Marchesa told Carlotta to

go away, but not to put out the light. "You will return when I ring,"

said she.

It was past midnight when the bell sounded.

The maid hurried to her mistress.

"Is Don Franco still out?"

"Yes, Signora Marchesa."

"Put out the light. Take your knitting and wait in the ante-room. When

he returns come and tell me."

Having given these orders, the Marchesa rolled over on her side, turning

her face towards the wall, and leaving the amazed and ill-pleased maid

to stare at that white, smooth, impenetrable enigma, her night-cap.

CHAPTER III

THE GREAT STEP

That same evening at exactly ten o'clock the engineer Ribera knocked

gently twice on the door of Signor Giacomo Puttini's house at Albogasio

Superiore. Presently a window above his head was opened, and a little,

old, clean-shaven face of "Sior Zacomo" himself appeared in the

moonlight.

"Most worshipful engineer, my respects!" said he. "The servant is coming

down to let you in."

"That is not necessary," the other answered. "I am not coming up. It is

time to start, so you had better join me at once."

Signor Giacomo began to puff and wink hard.

"You must pardon me," he said, in his peculiar dialect, which was a

mixture of many elements. "You must pardon me, most worshipful engineer,

but I really need----"

"Need what?" said the engineer, somewhat annoyed. The door opened, and

the keen and yellow face of the servant appeared.

"Oh! _Scior Parento!_ Sir Relative!" said she respectfully. She claimed

I know not what degree of relationship with the engineer's family, and

always addressed him thus. "At this hour? Have you perhaps been to see

the _Sciora Parenta_? The Lady Relative?"

The "Lady Relative" was the engineer's sister, Signora Rigey.

Ribera answered shortly: "Oh! Marianna! How are you?" and went upstairs

followed by Marianna, carrying the light.

"My respects," Signor Giacomo began, coming towards him with another

light. "I understand and recognise the great inconvenience I am causing,

but really----"

Signor Giacomo's small, clean-shaven, pink face, rose above an enormous

white stock, and a lean little body, buttoned up in a great, black

overcoat, and in the convulsive workings of his lips and eyebrows as

well as in his troubled eyes, the most comical anxiety was expressed.

"What is the matter now?" asked the engineer, somewhat sharply. He, the

most upright and straightforward man alive, had little sympathy with the

hesitation of poor, timid Signor Giacomo.

"Allow me," Puttini began, and, turning to the servant, said harshly:

"Begone, you! Go into the kitchen. You will come when I call for you.

Go, I say! Why don't you do what I tell you? Where is your respect for

me? I command here! I am the master!"

It was the servant's curiosity, her insolent disregard for the orders of

her superior, which had provoked this outburst of despotic fury in

"Sior Zacomo."

"Whew! What a violent man!" she said, lifting the lamp on high. "There

is no need to shout in that way! What do you think of it, _Scior

Parento_?"

"Look here!" the engineer exclaimed. "Would it not be better for you to

take yourself off, instead of standing there and jabbering?"

Marianna went away grumbling, and Signor Giacomo began to communicate

his most secret thoughts to the worshipful engineer, interlarding his

sentences with many _buts_ and _ifs_, _that is_ and _reallys_. He had

promised to be present in the capacity of witness at Luisa's secret

marriage, but now, when it was time to start for Castello, he was

assailed by an overpowering fear of compromising himself.

He was "first political deputy," as the highest communal authority was

then called. If the worshipful Imperial and Royal Commissary of Porlezza

should get wind of this affair, how would he look upon it? And the

Marchesa? "A terrible woman, most worthy engineer! A vindictive woman!"

Besides he had so many other worries! "There is that cursed bull!" This

bull, a bone of contention between the town and the _alpador_, or tenant

of the hill-pastures, had, for the last two years, been a moral incubus

to poor Signor Giacomo, who, in speaking of his troubles and trials,

always began with "that perfidious servant," and ended with "that

cursed bull!" In speaking these words he would raise his small face, his

eyes full of pained execration, and stretch out accusing hands towards

the brow of the hill which overhung his house, towards the home of that

fiendish beast. But the engineer, whose fine, honest features betrayed

marked disapproval and a growing contempt for this cowardly little man,

who stood wriggling there before him, exclaimed several times

impatiently: "Oh, dear me!" as if pitying himself for the poor company

he was in. Finally, his patience entirely exhausted, he extended his

arms with the elbows turned outwards, and shaking them as if he were

holding the reins of a lazy old horse, exclaimed: "What is all this?

What is all this? It is absurd! This is the language of a fool, my good

Signor Giacomo! I would never have believed that a man like you, a man

let us say----"

Here the engineer, being really at a loss for a suitable phrase

wherewith to describe his companion, simply puffed out his cheeks,

emitting a long-drawn-out rumble, a sort of rattling noise, as if he had

an epithet in his mouth which was so big that he could not spit it out.

Meanwhile Signor Giacomo, who had turned very red, was protesting

eagerly: "Enough! Enough! Pray excuse me! I am quite ready! I will come!

Don't get excited! I only expressed a doubt, most worshipful engineer.

You know the world. So did I, at one time, but I know it no longer."

He withdrew for a moment to reappear again presently carrying an

enormously high hat with a broad brim, which had seen Ferdinand enter

Verona in 1838, the so-called "emperor's year."

"I feel this sign of respect and satisfaction is fitting," said he.

When the engineer caught sight of the thing, he once more ejaculated his

"What is all this?" But the little man, who had a ceremonious spirit,

stuck to his point. "It is my duty, my duty!" and he called to Marianna

to light them down stairs. When the servant saw her master with that

immense "sign of satisfaction" on his head, she gave voice to her

astonishment. "Hold your tongue!" puffed the unfortunate Signor Giacomo.

"Be quiet!" and as soon as he was out of the door his wrath burst forth.

"There is no doubt about it, that cursed servant will be the death of

me!"

"Why don't you send her away, then?" the engineer enquired.

Signor Giacomo had already placed one foot on the first step of the

narrow lane that leads upwards on one side of the Puttini house, when he

was brought to a stand-still by this pointed question, which pierced his

conscience like a dagger.

"Alas!" he replied, sighing.

"I understand," said the engineer.

"Besides, what good would that do?" the other went on, after a short

pause. "This is the same as that!"

This old Venetian saying concerning the unfortunate identity of the two

relative pronouns, Signor Giacomo pronounced as an epilogue, and then,

puffing loudly, emitted a loud breath, and once more started forward.

Puttini leading and the engineer following, they climbed steadily for a

few minutes, up the steep and narrow path, dimly lighted by the moon

which was hidden among the clouds. No sound was heard save their slow

steps, the thumping of their sticks on the stones, and Signor Giacomo's

regular puffing: "Apff! Apff!" At the foot of the narrow stairway

leading to Pianca, the little man stopped, removed his hat, wiped away

the perspiration with a big, white handkerchief, and glancing up at the

great walnut-tree, and the stables of Pianca to which he must ascend,

puffed harder than ever.

"By the body of the rogue Bacchus!" he ejaculated.

The engineer encouraged him. "Up with you, Signor Giacomo. It is all for

love of Luisina."[E]

Signor Giacomo started on again without a word, and when they reached

the stables, beyond which the path becomes less rough, he seemed to

forget the stairs, his scruples, the perfidious servant, the Imperial

and Royal Commissary, the vindictive Marchesa and the cursed bull, and

began talking of Signora Rigey with great enthusiasm.

"There is no doubt about it, when I have the honour of being in the

company of your niece, of Signorina Luisina, I assure you I really feel

as if I were back into the days of Signora Baratela and the Filipuzze

girls, of the three Sparesi sisters from San Piero Incarian, and of many

others, whose graces used to charm me, in the old days. From time to

time I go to see the Marchesa, and I sometimes meet the girls of to-day

there. No--no--no, they do not behave in a becoming manner. They are

either sullenly silent or over-talkative. But just look at Signorina

Luisina, how easy is her manner with every one! She knows how to behave

with young and old, rich and poor, the servant and the priest. I really

fail to comprehend why the Marchesa----"

The engineer interrupted him.

"The Marchesa is right," said he. "My niece is neither of noble birth,

nor has she a penny. How can you expect the Marchesa to be satisfied?"

Signor Giacomo stopped short, rather disconcerted, and stared at the

engineer, blinking his sorrowful eyes.

"How is this? You don't really mean to say she is right?"

"I never approve of acting contrary to the wishes of parents, or of

those who represent the parents. But I, dear Signor Giacomo, am an

old-fashioned man like yourself, a man of the time of Carlo Umberto, as

they say hereabouts. Now, the world wags differently, and we must let it

wag. Therefore, having expressed my opinions on this point, I said to my

relatives: 'Now do as you like. But when you have decided one way or

another, let me know what is to be done, and I shall be ready!'"

"And what does Signora Teresina say?"

"My sister? My sister, poor creature, says: 'If I can see them settled

in life, I shall no longer dread death.'"

Signor Giacomo breathed hard, as was his habit whenever he heard that

last, unpleasant word pronounced.

"But it is surely not so bad as that?" said he.

"Who can tell?" the engineer replied, very seriously. "We must trust in

the Almighty."

They had reached a sharp bend where the narrow path, passing the last of

the small fields belonging to the territory of Albogasio, turns towards

the first of those belonging to Castello, and winds on, on the left,

along the top of a jutting crag, suddenly coming in sight of a deep

cleft in the mountain's bosom, of the lake far below, of the villages of

Casarico and San Mamette, crouching on the shore as if in the act of

drinking. Castello is perched a little higher up, and not far distant,

facing the bare and forbidding peak of Cressogno, the whole of which is

visible, from the gorges of Loggio to the sky. It is a beautiful spot

even at night in the moonlight, but if Signor Giacomo paused there,

striking a contemplative attitude and forgetting to puff, it was not

because he considered the scene worthy of any one's attention, to say

nothing of that of a political deputy, but because, having a weighty

argument to expound, he felt the necessity of concentrating all his

strength in his brain, and of suspending all other effort, even that of

the legs.

"That is a fine maxim," said he. "Let us trust in the Almighty. Yes, my

dear sir. But permit me to observe that in our time we were always

hearing of prayers being answered, of conversions and miracles. Am I not

correct? But now the world is not the same, and it appears to me the

Almighty is sick of it all. The world is in much the same condition as

our parish church at Albogasio, which the Almighty used to visit once a

month. Now He comes only once a year."

"Listen, my good Signor Giacomo," said the engineer, who was impatient

to reach Castello. "The Almighty is not to blame because the parish has

been transferred from one church to another. However, we will push on,

and let the Almighty arrange things as He thinks best."

Whereupon he started forwarded so briskly that presently Signor Giacomo

was obliged to stop again, puffing like a pair of bellows.

"Pardon me," said he, "if I yield, in a measure, to that curiosity which

is inborn in man. Might one inquire your worshipful age?"

The engineer understood the hidden meaning of his question, and

answered in a low tone, with triumphant and ironical meekness--

"I am older than you!"

And he started off again at the same cruel pace.

"I was born in '88, you know," Puttini groaned.

"And I, in '85!" Ribera flung over his shoulder, without stopping. "Now

come along."

Fortunately for Puttini they had only a few steps more to go. There was

the great wall that supported the consecrated ground about the church of

Castello, and there was the narrow stairway leading up to the entrance

of the village. Now they must turn into the dark passage below the

priest's house, feeling their way along like blind men through this

black hole, in which Signor Giacomo's imagination pictured so many

treacherous and slippery stones, so many accursed, deceitful steps, that

he stopped short, and, resting his clasped hands on the knob of his

stick, spoke as follows--

"By the body of the rogue Bacchus! No, most worshipful engineer, no, no,

no! Really I cannot. I shall remain here. They will surely come to

church. The church is near by. I shall wait here. Body of the rogue

Bacchus!"

This last "Body!" Signor Giacomo ground privately between his teeth,

like the close of an inward soliloquy concerning the accessories

surrounding the exceeding discomfort he was undergoing.

"Wait a minute," said the engineer.

A thread of light appeared under the church door. The engineer entered

and presently came out again, accompanied by the sacristan, who had been

preparing the hassocks for the bride and groom. He now brought to

Puttini's rescue the long pole with a lighted taper at the end, which

was used to light the candles on the altars. Thus, standing in the

church door, he moved the taper along in front of Signor Giacomo's feet

as far as the pole would reach, while that gentleman, but ill-satisfied

with this religious illumination, groped his way forward, grumbling at

the darkness, the miserable, sacred taper, and at him who held it, until

at last, abandoned by the sacristan, and seized by the engineer, he was

dragged along, much like a pike at the end of a line, and, in spite of

his mute resistance, was finally landed on the threshold of Casa Rigey.

* * * * *

At Castello the houses which stand in unbroken line on the winding

hill-top, enjoying the sun and the view of the lake far below, all white

and smiling on the side towards the open, all dark on the side towards

that other row of less fortunate houses, which rise sadly behind them,

resemble certain favoured individuals, who, brought into too close

contact with misery, assume a hostile demeanour, and press close to one

another that, thus united, they may hold the others in check. Among

these fortunate ones Casa Rigey is one of the darkest on the side facing

the poverty of the common houses, one of the brightest on the side

facing the sun.

From the street door a long and narrow corridor leads to a small, open

loggia, from which, by means of a few steps, one may descend to the

little white terrace which, between the reception room and a high,

windowless wall, stretches out to the edge of the hill, looking down

into the ravines from which issues the Soldo, looking down upon the

lake, as far as the green gulfs of the Birosin and of the Doi, as far as

the quiet sweeps beyond Caprino and Gandria.

Signor Rigey, born in Milan of a French father, had been professor of

the French language at Madame Berra's boarding school, but he had lost

his position there, and most of his private pupils, because it was

rumoured of him that he was irreligious. In 1825 he had purchased this

little house, and retired to it from Milan, wishing to live economically

and peacefully. He had, soon afterwards, married the sister of the

civil-engineer Ribera. Dying in 1844 he left his wife with a daughter of

fifteen, the house and a few thousand _svanziche_.[F]

Hardly had the engineer knocked somewhat noisily at the door, when

light, swift steps were heard in the corridor. The door was thrown open

and a voice neither low nor silvery, but indescribably harmonious,

whispered: "What a noise, Uncle!" "Noise indeed!" her uncle replied

with mock dignity. "Am I then expected to knock with my nose?" His niece

placed one hand over his mouth, and with the other drew him inside; then

she saluted Signor Giacomo gracefully, and closed the door. All this was

accomplished in the twinkling of an eye, while Signor Giacomo himself

was puffing out: "Your most humble servant! I am really delightful----"

"Thank you, thank you!" said Luisa. "Pray go in, I have a word to say to

Uncle."

The little man went forward, hat in hand, and the young girl tenderly

embraced her old uncle, kissing him, pressing her face to his breast,

and clasping her arms about his neck.

"Won't that do now?" said the engineer, almost as if to check these

caresses, for in them he felt a gratitude which he feared would

presently take the form of words. "There, there! That is enough! How is

Mamma?" Luisa's only reply was a tightening of her embrace. This uncle

was more than a father to her, he was the special Providence of the

house, but, in his great and simple bounty, he never dreamed that he had

the slightest claim to the gratitude of his sister and niece. Whatever

would these poor women have done without him, possessing only that

meagre sum of twelve or fifteen thousand _svanziche_ which Rigey had

left? As civil-engineer, employed on public works, Ribera enjoyed a good

salary. He lived frugally at Como with an old housekeeper, passing his

savings on to Casa Rigey. At first he had openly and heartily

disapproved of Luisa's attachment for Franco, for it seemed to him that

such a union would be but ill-assorted; but the young people being

determined, and his sister having consented, he made up his mind to help

them in every possible way, keeping his opinions to himself.

"And Mamma?" he repeated.

"She was feeling very well this evening because she was so happy, but

now she is agitated, for Franco came about half an hour ago, and told

her he has had something of a scene with his grandmother----"

"Oh dear me!" the engineer exclaimed. Whenever he heard of a misfortune

befalling any one else he always uttered this expression of

self-commiseration.

"No, Uncle! Indeed Franco is right!"

Luisa pronounced these words with sudden warmth. "Yes indeed!" she

exclaimed, her uncle having uttered a doubtful "Hm!" "He is perfectly

right. But," she added in a low tone, "he says he left home in such a

manner that his grandmother will probably discover everything."

"It will be better so," said her uncle, starting towards the terrace.

The moon had set and it was dark. Luisa whispered: "Mamma is here."

Signora Teresa, who was suffering for want of breath, had had herself

drawn out into the terrace in her easy-chair, hoping to find relief in

the open air.

"What do you say to this, Piero?" said a voice resembling Luisa's in

tone, but sweeter and with a tired ring; a voice that seemed to come

from a gentle heart which the world has used harshly, and which must

yield. "What do you say to this? After all, our precautions will be of

no avail."

"No, no, Mamma. We are not sure of that. We cannot say so yet!"

While Luisa was speaking, Franco, who was in the salon with the curate,

came out to embrace the engineer.

"Well," said Ribera, extending his hand, for embraces were little to his

taste. "What has happened?"

Franco related what had taken place, softening somewhat certain too

offensive expressions of his grandmother's concerning the Rigeys,

concealing her threat of not leaving him a penny, and blaming his own

over-susceptibility rather than the old-woman's ill-nature, and finally

confessing that he had purposely let it be known that he intended to

remain out all night. This could have no other effect than that of

leading his grandmother to an immediate discovery, for she would

question him concerning this absence, and his silence would be a

confession, for he did not intend to lie about this matter.

"Listen!" Uncle Piero exclaimed, with the ringing voice and open

countenance of the perfectly straightforward man who, being smothered to

the point of suffocation with precautions and dissimulations, finally

strikes out from the shoulder and, casting them off, breathes freely

once more. "I admit you were wrong to irritate your grandmother, for,

after all, old people must be respected even when they err; I see that

the consequences may be serious, but nevertheless I am glad things are

as they are, and I should be more glad if you had told your grandmother

everything, clearly and roundly. I have never had any patience with all

this secrecy, all this feigning and hiding. The honest man openly

confesses his actions. You desire to marry against your grandmother's

wishes? Well do so, but, at least, don't deceive her."

"But Piero!" Signora Teresa exclaimed, who, besides a delicate

perception of what life should be, possessed an accurate sense of what

life really is, and, being much more given to religious exercises than

her brother, and standing on a more familiar footing with the Almighty,

could most easily persuade herself that He would make certain

concessions in the matter of form, when some substantial benefit was to

be gained.

"But Piero! You don't think! If the Marchesa finds out about the

marriage this way, she will, of course, refuse to receive Luisa into her

house, and then what are the children to do? Where can they go? There is

no room here, and even if there were, nothing is ready. At your house

it is the same. You must consider all these points. If we wished to keep

the marriage a secret for a month or two, it was not in order to

deceive, it was to gain time in which to win over Franco's grandmother,

and if she would not yield, to prepare one or two rooms at Oria."

"Oh, dear me!" said the engineer, "Does it take two months to do that?

It seems incredible!"

At this point a prolonged puff in the shadow reminded them of Signor

Giacomo's presence; he was leaning against the wall in one corner not

daring to move, because it was so dark.

Signora Teresa had not yet welcomed him.

"Oh, Signor Giacomo!" she now hastened to say. "I beg your pardon. I am

really so very, very much obliged to you! Pray come this way. Did you

hear what we were saying? Do let us have your opinion."

"Your very humble servant," said Signor Giacomo from his corner. "Really

I dare not move, for with my poor sight----"

"Luisa!" Signora Teresa called. "Bring a lamp. But did you hear, Signor

Giacomo? What do you think about it? Do tell us."

In his profound wisdom Signor Giacomo emitted three or four little hasty

puffs which meant: Ah, this is indeed an embarrassing question!

"I cannot say," he began hesitatingly, "I cannot say at present, being

in the dark----"

"Luisa!" Signora Teresa called once more.

"No, no, Signora! I mean being in the dark on so many points. I feel

that in my ignorance I may not pronounce an opinion. Still I will say it

seems to me that perhaps it might ... well, at any rate, I am here at

your service and at the service of this most respected family, though

indeed I should not be astonished if the Imperial and Royal

Commissary--a most excellent person, but very punctilious.... But

enough, we will not talk of that, for here I am. But I do say, it seems

to me that we might wait a little while, and our most noble friend Don

Franco here might be able to wheedle and persuade.... Well, well, well.

Do as you like. It is all the same to me."

A furious protest on Franco's part had caused Signor Giuseppe to face

about thus suddenly. Luisa seconded this protest, and Signora Teresa,

who now would perhaps have been in favour of a postponement, did not

venture to oppose their wishes.

"Luisa, Franco," said she, "take me back to the salon."

The two young people pushed the easy-chair into the salon, followed by

Uncle Piero and Signor Giacomo.

On the threshold Luisa, bending over her mother, kissed her hair, and

murmured: "You will see. All will be for the best."

She had expected to find the curate in the salon, but he had slipped

away through the kitchen.

Hardly had Franco and Luisa pushed the invalid's chair up to the table

upon which stood the lamp, when the sacristan came to say that

everything was ready. Signora Teresa asked him to inform the curate that

the bride and groom would go to church in half an hour.

"Luisa!" said she, glancing meaningly at her daughter.

"Yes, Mamma," the girl replied, and turning to her lover, said in a low

tone: "Franco, Mamma wishes to speak with you."

Signor Giacomo understood, and went out to the terrace. The engineer did

not understand at all, and his niece had to explain to him that her

mother was to be left alone with Franco. The simple-minded man could see

no reason for this, but she took his arm and, smiling, led him away to

the terrace.

Signora Teresa silently held out her beautiful hand, which was still

youthful in its curves, and Franco, kneeling, kissed it.

"Poor Franco," said she gently.

Then she made him rise from his knees and sit close to her. She must

speak to him, she said, and her breath was so short. But he would

understand much from a few words, would he not?

In speaking these words her voice was infinitely sweet.

"You must know," she began, "that I had not intended to say this to you,

but I thought of it when you spoke about breaking the plate at the

dinner-table. I beg you to be careful on account of Uncle Piero's

position. In his heart he feels as you do. If you only could have seen

the letters he wrote me in 1848! But he is a servant of the Government.

It is true his conscience is perfectly easy, for he knows that by

engineering roads and water-works he is serving his country and not the

Germans. But he must and will take certain precautions, and you--for

love of him--must be cautious also."

"The Germans will soon be gone, Mamma!" Franco replied. "But do not

worry; you shall see how prudent I will be."

"Oh, my dear! I have little more to see, I have only to see you two

united and blessed by the Lord. When the Germans go, you will come to

Looch to tell me of it."

Those small fields where the little cemetery of Castello is situated go

by the name of Looch.

"But I had intended to speak to you of another matter," Signora Teresa

went on, without giving Franco time to protest. He took her hands and

pressed them, with difficulty restraining his tears.

"I must speak to you of Luisa," she said. "You must know your wife

well."

"I do know her, Mamma! I know her as well as you do, and perhaps even

better."

As he pronounced these words his whole being glowed and quivered in his

passionate love for her who was the life of his life, the soul of his

soul.

"Poor Franco!" said Signora Teresa, smiling tenderly. "No, listen to me,

for there is something you do not know, of which you should be informed.

Wait a moment."

She needed to rest. Her emotion made her breathing more laboured, and

she spoke with greater difficulty than usual. She motioned to Franco not

to move, for she saw he was about to rise, that he might do something to

relieve her. Only a little repose was necessary, and she took it,

resting her head against the chair-back.

Presently she roused herself. "You have probably heard many evil

accounts of my poor husband, at your own home. You will have heard that

he was an unprincipled man, and that I did very wrong to marry him. It

is true he was not religious, and for that reason I hesitated some time

before deciding to accept him. I was advised to do so because it was

thought I might have a good influence over this man, who had a most

noble soul. He died a Christian, and I have every hope of meeting him in

Heaven, if the Lord, in His mercy, shall see fit to receive me there.

But up to the very last hour it seemed as if I were not to accomplish

anything. Now, I fear my Luisa has her father's tendencies in her heart.

She hides them from me, but I feel they are there. I commend her to you;

study her, advise her; she is gifted and has a great heart, and if I

have not known how to do well by her, you must do better. You are a good

Christian: see that, with all her heart, she also becomes one. Promise

me this, Franco."

He promised, smiling, as if he considered her fears groundless, and were

making this superfluous promise simply to satisfy her.

The invalid gazed sadly at him. "Believe me," she added, "these are not

fancies. I cannot die in peace if you do not take this matter

seriously." And when the young man had repeated his promise, this time

without smiling, she said--

"One word more. When you leave here you will go to Professor

Gilardoni's, will you not?"

"That was my first plan. I was to have told my grandmother that I was

going to sleep at Gilardoni's house, as we were to start on an excursion

together in the morning. But now, you know how I left home."

"Still you had better go there. I had rather you went there, and

besides, he expects you, does he not? So you must go. Poor Gilardoni! He

has never been here since his fit of madness, two years ago. You know

about that, do you not? Luisa has told you?"

"Yes, Mamma."

This Professor Gilardoni, who lived like a hermit at Casarico, had

fallen most romantically in love with Signora Teresa some years before,

and had timidly presented himself to her as a suitor. She had received

his proposal with such utter amazement that he had lacked courage to

appear before her again.

"Poor man!" Signora Rigey continued, "that was a most stupid action, but

he has a heart of gold, and is a true friend. I wish you to cherish him.

The day before he had that mad fit, he confided a secret to me. I may

not repeat to you what he said, and moreover, I beg you not to mention

the subject to him unless he speaks to you about it; but it is, in fact,

something which, under certain circumstances, might be of great

importance to you two, especially if you have children. If Gilardoni

should confide in you, reflect seriously before telling Luisa. She might

look at the matter in a wrong light. Consider the question carefully,

consult Uncle Piero, and then speak or remain silent according to the

line of action you may have determined to adopt."

"Yes, Mamma."

There was a gentle tap at the door, and Luisa's voice said: "Have you

finished?"

Franco looked at the invalid. "Come in," said she. "Is it time to go?"

Luisa did not answer, but threw one arm around Franco's neck, and

together they knelt before the mother, their heads buried in her lap.

Luisa tried her best to restrain her tears, knowing well that her mother

should be spared all violent emotion, but her heaving shoulders betrayed

her.

"No, Luisa, no, dear, no!" said her mother, caressing her bowed head. "I

am grateful to you, for you have always been a good daughter dear; such

a good daughter! Calm yourself; I am so happy! You will see, I shall

get better. Now go. Kiss me, both of you, and then go. You must not keep

the curate waiting. May God bless you, Luisa, and you also, Franco!"

She asked for her prayer-book, drew the lamp towards her, had the

windows and the door leading to the terrace thrown open that she might

breathe more easily, and then dismissed the maid, who was prepared to

keep her company. When the young couple had left the room, the engineer

came in to greet his sister before going to church.

"Good-by, Teresa."

"Good-by, Piero. Another load is laid on your shoulders, my poor Piero."

"Amen!" the engineer answered, calmly.

When she was alone Signora Rigey sat listening to the receding

footsteps. The heavy steps of her brother and Signor Giacomo bringing up

the rear, prevented her hearing those others, which she strained her ear

to follow as far as possible.

Another moment and the sounds ceased. She realised that Luisa and Franco

were going away together into the future, whither she might follow them

only for a few months, perhaps only for a few days; that she could

neither divine nor foresee what their fate would be. "Poor children!"

she thought. "Who knows what they may have passed through in five years,

in ten years." She listened again, but the silence was profound; the

open window admitted only the far-away thundering of the cascades of

Rescia, over across the lake. Then, thinking that they must already have

entered the church, she took her prayer-book, and read attentively.

But she soon grew weary; her brain was confused, and the words of the

book blurred before her eyes.

Her mind was becoming drowsy, her will-power was lost. She foresaw the

approach of a vision of unreal things, but she knew she was not asleep,

she understood that this was not a dream, but a condition produced by

her malady. She saw the door leading to the kitchen open, and there

entered old Gilardoni from Dasio, called "el Carlin de Das," father of

the Professor and agent of the Maironi family, for the estates in

Valsolda--he had been dead five-and-twenty years. The figure came

forward, and said, in a natural voice: "Oh, Signora Teresa! Are you

quite well?" She thought she answered--"Oh, Carlin! I am quite well; and

how are you?" But in reality she did not speak.

"I've got the letter here," the figure continued, waving a letter

triumphantly. "I've brought it here for you!" And he placed the letter

on the table.

Signora Teresa saw it quite plainly. A letter, soiled and yellowed by

time, without an envelope, and still bearing traces of a little red

wafer, lay before her and she experienced a sense of lively

satisfaction. She thought she said: "Thank you, Carlin. Are you going to

Dasio, now?"

"No, Signora," Carlin replied. "I am going to Casarico to see my son."

The invalid could no longer distinguish Carlin, but she saw the letter

on the table, saw it distinctly. Still she was not sure it was there; in

her sluggish brain the vague memory of other past hallucinations still

endured, the memory of the disease, which was her enemy, her cruel

master. Her eyes were glassy, her breathing laboured and rapid.

The sound of hastening footsteps roused her, and recalled her almost

completely to herself. When Luisa and Franco came swiftly into the room

from the terrace they did not notice that their mother's face was

distorted, for the lamp was heavily shaded. Kneeling before her they

covered her with kisses, attributing that laboured breathing to emotion.

Suddenly the invalid raised her head from the chair-back and stretched

out her hands, pointing to something at which she was looking fixedly.

"The letter!" she said.

The young people turned, but saw nothing.

"What letter, Mamma?" Luisa asked. At the same moment she noticed her

mother's expression, and warned Franco by a glance. This was not the

first time that Signora Teresa had suffered from hallucinations since

her illness began. At the question, "What letter?" everything became

clear to her. "Oh!" she exclaimed, and withdrawing her hands, buried her

face in them, weeping silently.

Comforted by her children's caresses she soon composed herself, kissed

them, extended her hand to her brother and Signor Giacomo, who did not

in the least understand what had happened, and then motioned to Luisa to

go and get something. It was a question of a cake and a precious bottle

of wine from Niscioree, which, together with some others, had been sent

some time before by the Marchese Bianchi, to whom Signora Teresa was an

object of special veneration.

Signor Giacomo, who was longing to be off, began to fidget and puff, and

glance towards the engineer.

"Signora Luisina," said he, seeing the bride about to leave the room.

"Pray excuse me, but I was just going to take leave of----"

"No, no!" Signora Rigey exclaimed, with only a thread of voice. "Wait a

little longer."

Luisa disappeared, and Franco slipped out of the room behind his wife.

Signora Teresa was suddenly assailed by scruples, and signed to her

brother to call him back.

"Nonsense!" said the engineer.

"But Piero!"

"Well?"

The ancient and austere traditions of her house, a delicate sense of

dignity, perhaps also a religious scruple, because the young couple had

not yet received the benediction of the nuptial Mass, would neither

allow Signora Teresa to approve of their withdrawing together, nor to

explain her views on the subject. Her reticence and Uncle Piero's

fatherly benevolence gave Franco time to place himself beyond the

possibility of recall. Signora Teresa did not insist.

"Forever!" she murmured presently, as if speaking to herself. "United

forever!"

"You and I," said the engineer, addressing his colleague in celibacy in

the Venetian dialect, "you and I, Signor Giacomo, never go in for any

such nonsense!"

"You are always in good spirits, most worshipful engineer!" Signor

Giacomo answered, while his conscience was telling him that in his time

he had gone in for far worse "nonsense."

The bride and groom did not return.

"Signor Giacomo," the engineer continued, "there will be no going to bed

for us to-night."

The unfortunate man writhed, puffed and winked hard but did not reply.

Still the bride and groom were absent.

"Piero," said Signora Teresa, "ring the bell."

"Signor Giacomo," the engineer began, composedly, "shall we ring the

bell?"

"That would seem to be the Signora's wish," the little man replied,

steering his course as best he could between the brother and sister.

"However, I express no opinion."

"Piero!" his sister pleaded.

"Come, let us have an answer," Uncle Piero continued without moving.

"What would you do? Would you, or would you not ring this bell?"

"For pity's sake!" Signor Giacomo groaned. "You really must excuse me."

"I will excuse nothing!"

The young people were still absent, and the mother growing more and more

anxious, repeated--

"Piero, I tell you to ring!"

Signor Giacomo, who was dying to get away, and who could not leave

without saluting the bride and groom, encouraged by Signora Teresa's

insistence, made a great effort, turned very red and finally pronounced

an opinion: "I should ring."

"My dear Signor Giacomo," the engineer exclaimed, "I am surprised,

amazed and astonished!" Who can say why, when he was in good spirits,

and had occasion to use one of these synonyms, he would always string

the three together? "However," he concluded, "let us ring."

And he proceeded to ring very gently.

"Listen, Piero," said Signora Teresa. "Remember that when you leave,

Franco is to go with you. He will return at half-past five for the

Mass."

"Oh dear me!" Uncle Piero exclaimed. "How many difficulties! But after

all, are they or are they not husband and wife?--Well, well," he added,

seeing that his sister was beginning to grow excited, "do just as you

like!"

Instead of the young couple the maid appeared, bringing the cake and the

bottle, and told the engineer that Signorina Luisina begged him to come

out to the terrace for a moment.

"Now that something good is coming at last, you send me outside!" said

the engineer. He jested with his usual serenity of spirit, perhaps

because he did not fully realize his sister's serious condition, perhaps

because of his naturally pacific attitude towards all that was

inevitable.

He went out to the terrace where Luisa and Franco were waiting for him.

"Listen, Uncle," his niece began. "My husband says that his grandmother

will surely discover everything at once; that he will not be able to

remain at Cressogno any longer; that if Mamma were stronger we might all

go to your house at Oria, but, unfortunately, that is not possible as

matters stand at present. So he thinks we might arrange a room here--any

way to get it ready quickly. We had thought of poor Papa's study. What

do you say to this plan?"

"Hm!" ejaculated Uncle Piero, who was slow to take up with new ideas.

"It seems to me a very hasty resolution. You will be incurring expense

and turning the house upside down, for an arrangement which can only be

temporary."

His one idea was to have the whole family at Oria, and this expedient

did not suit him. He feared that if the young people once settled down

at Castello they would remain there. Luisa used every argument to

persuade him that there was no other way, and that neither the outlay

nor the trouble would be great. On leaving home her husband would go

directly to Lugano, and bring back what few pieces of furniture were

absolutely indispensable. Uncle Piero asked if Franco could not take up

his quarters at Oria, remaining there until such a time as she and her

mother could join him. "Oh, Uncle!" Luisa exclaimed. Had she known about

the bell she would have been still more astonished by a similar

proposal. But sometimes this good man had artless ideas of this sort, at

which his sister smiled. Luisa had no difficulty in finding arguments

against his plan for banishing Franco, and she used them with warmth.

"Enough!" said Uncle Piero calmly, though he was not convinced; and he

arched his wide-spread arms with the gesture of the _Dominus vobiscum_,

more charitably inclined, more ready to enfold poor humanity in a tender

embrace than before. "_Fiat!_ Oh, by the way," he added, turning to

Franco, "how about money?"

Franco shivered, much embarrassed.

"You know he is our father!" his wife said.

"Not by any means your father," Uncle Piero observed placidly. "Not by

any means, but what is mine is yours; so I shall line your pockets as

well as my means will permit."

And he suffered, without returning it, the embrace which told of their

gratitude, almost as if vexed by this unnecessary demonstration, vexed

that they should not accept more simply an act which to him seemed so

simple and natural. "Yes, yes!" said he, "now let us go in and drink;

it will be far more profitable!"

* * * * *

The wine of Niscioree, clear and red as a ruby, at once delicate and

strong, flattered and soothed the inner-man of the impatient Signor

Giacomo, who, in those years of _oidium_, seldom wet his lips in

undiluted wine, but gloomily sipped the Grimelli wine, of watery memory.

"_Est_, _est_,[G] is it not, Signor Giacomo?" said Uncle Piero, seeing

Puttini gaze with devoted eyes into the glass he held. "But here at

least, there is no danger of expiring like a certain man: _et propter

nimium est dominus meus mortuus est_."

"I feel as if I were being resuscitated," Signor Giacomo answered,

speaking very slowly and almost under his breath, his gaze still fixed

on the glass.

"Then you must give us a toast," the other said, rising. "But if you

will not speak, why then I must do so," and he recited merrily--

"Long live he and long live she,

And now we'll be off, and leave them free!"

Signor Giacomo emptied his glass, puffed loudly and winked hard, in

consequence of the varied sentiments which were running riot in his

soul, while the last perfume, the last flavour of the wine were fading

in his mouth. He offered his duty to the "most revered" Signora Teresa,

his devotion to the "most amiable" little bride, his respects to the

"most accomplished" young husband. Then, gesticulating with head and

arms, he declared himself undeserving of the thanks which were being

lavished upon him, and taking his great hat and his stick, he

started--humble and puffing, with mingled feelings of relief and

regret--to follow the placid bulk of the "most worshipful" engineer.

"And you, Franco?" Signora Teresa enquired immediately.

"I am going," he replied.

"Come here," said she. "I received you so badly when you returned from

church, my poor children! You see I had had one of my bad attacks; I

think you understood. But now I feel so well, so peaceful! Lord, I thank

Thee! it seems to me I have set my house in order, have put out the fire

and said my prayers; and now I am going to sleep, so well satisfied! But

not so very soon, dear, not at once. I leave you my Luisa, dear; I leave

you Uncle Piero. I know you will love them very much, will you not? But

you must remember me also. Ah, dear Lord! how sorry I am I shall not see

your children! That is indeed a grief to me! You must give them a kiss

every day for their poor grandmother ... every day. And now go, my son,

but you will be back by half-past five? Yes, dear.... Good-by ... now

go."

She spoke caressingly to him, as to a child who does not yet understand,

and he wept silently, with tender emotion, kissing her hands over and

over again, and glad Luisa was present to witness this scene, for in his

immense tenderness for the mother, there was his immense joy at being

one with the daughter, and an intense desire to love all that his wife

loved, and in the same measure.

"Go," Mamma Teresa repeated, fearing her own increasing emotion. "Go,

go!"

At last he obeyed and went out with Luisa.

On this occasion also Luisa was absent a long time, but even the holiest

souls have their little weaknesses, and although the maid was

constantly coming and going between the kitchen and the salon, Signora

Teresa, touched by the affection which Franco had displayed for her,

never once ordered her to ring the bell.

FOOTNOTES:

[E] _Luisina_: little Luisa, _ina_ being a diminutive. [_Translator's

note._]

[F] _Svanziche_: a coin varying from 90 to 95 centimes. [_Translator's

note._]

[G] _Est_, _est_: Canon Johannes Fugger of Augsburg travelling in Italy in

the twelfth century, directed his steward to precede him, and inscribe

the word _Est_ on the door of the inn where the best wine was to be had.

On reaching Montefiascone, the worthy canon found the word _Est_ written

three times on the tavern door, and indeed, the muscatel of this

district proved so much to his taste that he never left Montefiascone,

but ended his days there in the year 1113 or thereabouts, and was buried

in the church of S. Flaviano, where his tomb may still be seen. His

steward caused the following inscription to be carved upon the

sarcophagus:

Est, Est, Est. Propter nimium est,

Johannes de Fuc., D. meus, mortuus est.

It is said that the wine-loving prelate left orders that a barrel of the

very best muscatel should be spilled over his tomb every year on the

anniversary of his death, and this ceremony was faithfully performed

down to the end of the seventeenth century, when it was forbidden by a

certain Cardinal Barbarigi, of unconvivial memory. The best wine of

Montescone is still called _Est_, _Est_. [_Translator's note._]

CHAPTER IV

CARLIN'S LETTER

Franco went down the hill very, very slowly, absorbed in the world of

things within him, so crowded with thoughts and with new sensations.

Stopping every now and then to contemplate the grey road and the small

dark fields, he would touch the leaves of a grape-vine or the stones of

a low wall, in order to feel the reality of the external world, to

convince himself that he was not dreaming. Not until he had reached the

Contrada dei Mal'ari in Casarico, and was standing before the little

door of Gilardoni's tiny house, did he recall Mamma Teresa's dark words

concerning the secret Gilardoni had imparted to her, and he wondered

what this mystery could be, which must not be revealed to Luisa. To tell

the truth the mother's advice had not satisfied him entirely. "How could

I ever hide anything from my wife?" he thought as he knocked at the

door.

Professor Beniamino Gilardoni, son of "Carlin de Daas," had been

educated at the expense of old Don Franco Maironi, Marchesa Orsola's

husband, an eccentric man, capricious and violent, but at the same

time, very generous. When Carlin died it became apparent that Maironi's

generosity had not been necessary. Beniamino inherited quite a little

hoard, and this maddened Don Franco, who held him responsible for the

paternal hypocrisy, turned his back upon him, and would have nothing

more to do with him for the short time he survived his agent. The young

man chose the career of teacher, was professor of Latin at the gymnasium

of Cremona, and of philosophy at the lyceum of Udine. Of a delicate

constitution, apprehensive of physical suffering, and extremely

misanthropical, he resigned his professorship in 1842, and came to

Valsolda to enjoy the modest fortune his father had left him. Dasio, his

native village, perched just below the dolomitic rocks of the Arabione,

was too high up and inconvenient for him. He sold his possessions there,

purchased the olive-grove of Sedorgg above Casarico, and a small villa

on the edge of the lake, in Casarico itself. It was so small as to be

almost a toy villa, and from its shape he called it the "Greek _II_ or

Pi" in imitation of the "Digamma" of Ugo Foscolo. From the Contrada dei

Mal'ari a short passage led to the little courtyard flanked by a tiny

portico, open on the lake-side and surrounded by tall oleanders. It

overlooked six miles of water, green, grey or blue, according to the

hour, as far as Monte S. Salvatore there in the distance, stooping,

under the burden of its melancholy hump, towards the humble hills of

Carona beneath it. On the east of the little house there was a

kitchen-garden, fabulously large for that part of the world, the

dimensions of which Engineer Ribera was wont to define by means of the

following surveyor's description: "Large field called _il Campone_,

measuring seven _tavole_." Now seven _tavole_ correspond to twenty or

twenty-two square metres! The Professor cultivated it with the aid of

his little servant Giuseppe, called Pinella, and of a small collection

of French treatises. He sent to France for the seeds of the most highly

esteemed qualities of vegetables, which sometimes came up in shameless

disregard of their certificates of baptism, and indeed of any honestly

baptised family. It would then happen that philosopher and servant,

stooping over the beds, their hands on their knees, would raise their

eyes from these mocking sprouts, and gaze at each other, the philosopher

honestly disappointed, the servant hypocritically so. In one corner of

the garden, in a little stable constructed according to the most

approved principles, dwelt a small Swiss cow, which had been purchased

after three months of diligent study, and had turned out as delicate and

fleshless as the master himself, who--in spite of the Swiss cow and four

Paduan hens--often found it impossible to make himself a cup of custard

in his own house. In the wall supporting the garden on the lake-side,

against whose base the _breva_ drove the swelling waves, he had made

some openings in which, following Franco Maironi's advice, he had

planted many American aloes, many roses and some caper-bushes, thus

binding together the substantial contents of his kitchen-garden, as he

was wont to say, with poetic elegance of form. And for the love of the

poetic, he had left a small corner of his kitchen-garden uncultivated.

The tallest of reeds had sprung up there, and in front of these reeds

the Professor had erected a sort of belvedere, a lofty, wooden platform,

very rustic and primitive, where, in pleasant weather, he passed many

happy hours with the mystic books he loved, enjoying the coolness of the

_breva_, and the murmuring of reeds and waves. At a distance the colour

of the platform could not be distinguished from that of the reeds, and

the Professor looked as if he were seated on air, book in hand, like any

magician. In the little salon he kept the small collection of works on

kitchen-gardening, the mystic books, the treatises on necromancy, and

gnosticism. The writings on hallucinations and dreams he kept in a tiny

study adjoining his bedroom, a sort of ship's cabin, into which lake and

sky seemed to pour through the window.

After the death of old Maironi the Professor had once more taken to

visiting the family, but the Marchesa did not please him particularly,

and her son Don Alessandro, Franco's father, pleased him still less. So

he ended by going there only once a year. When the lad Franco entered

the lyceum his grandmother--his father had been dead some time--begged

Gilardoni to give him some lessons during the Autumn. Master and pupil

resembled each other in their easy enthusiasms, in their fits of violent

but fleeting passion, and both were ardent patriots. When the necessity

for lessons no longer existed they continued to meet as friends, though

the Professor was some twenty years older than Franco. Gilardoni admired

his pupil's genius, but Franco, on the other hand, held the

half-Christian, half-rationalist philosophy of his master, and his

mystical tendencies, in small esteem. He laughed at the other's passion

for books and theories on horticulture and landscape gardening, a

passion which was entirely devoid of all common sense. But nevertheless,

he loved him sincerely for his goodness, his candour, his ardent soul.

Franco had been the Professor's confidant at the time of his unfortunate

passion for Signora Rigey, and later, Franco, in his turn, confided in

the Professor. Gilardoni was much affected by the news, and told Franco

that, his heart being still full to overflowing of that unchanging

devotion, he should feel as if he were, in a way, becoming Franco's

father, even though Signora Teresa herself would have none of him.

Franco showed little appreciation of this metaphysical paternity. This

passion for Signora Rigey seemed to him simply an aberration, and he was

more than ever confirmed in his opinion that the Professor's head was

not worth much, but that his heart was of gold.

So he knocked at the door, and Beniamino himself came to open it,

bearing a little oil lamp. "Well done," said he. "I was beginning to

think you were not coming, after all."

Gilardoni was in his dressing-gown and slippers, with a sort of white

turban on his head, and he exhaled a strong odour of camphor. He looked

like a Turk, like Gilardoni Bey, but the thin, sallow face which smiled

beneath the turban had nothing Turkish about it. Encircled by a short,

reddish beard, pompously embellished in the middle by a fine, big nose,

red and pimply, the face was lighted up by two beautiful blue eyes,

still very youthful, and full of simple kindness and poetry.

As soon as Franco had closed the door behind him his friend whispered:

"Is it done?" "It is done," Franco answered. The other embraced him and

kissed him in silence. Then he took him up stairs to the little study.

On the way he explained that, _secundum_ Raspail, he had applied a

compress of some sedative water to his head, for he was threatened with

a headache. He was an apostle of Raspail, and had converted Franco--who

often suffered from inflammatory sore throats--from leeches to camphor

cigarettes.

In the little study there was another very close and long embrace. "So

much! So much! So much!" Gilardoni exclaimed, meaning a world of things.

Poor Gilardoni, his eyes were glistening. He himself had longed in vain

for a happiness similar to his friend's! Franco understood and, much

embarrassed, did not know what to say to him, and a silence so

significant followed that Gilardoni could not stand it, and set about

lighting a little fire to heat some coffee he had prepared. Franco

offered to do this for him, and the Professor accepted, pleading his

headache, and began unrolling his turban before a basin of the sedative

water. "Well," said he, controlling his emotion by an effort of his

will, "tell me all about it." Franco told him everything, from his

grandmother's dinner-party, to the wedding ceremony in the church at

Castello, except of course, his private talk with Signora Teresa.

Professor Beniamino, meanwhile, had replaced his turban, and now

summoned up all his courage. "And----" said he, substituting a sort of

low groan for the beloved name, "how is she?" Upon learning of the

hallucination he exclaimed: "A letter? She thought she saw a letter? But

what letter?" This Franco did not know. A hissing on the fire

interrupted the conversation; the coffee was boiling hard and bubbling

over.

Gilardoni also resembled his young friend in that his heart might be

read from his face. The young friend who was, however, a far cleverer

and quicker reader of faces than he, at once perceived that he had

thought of some special letter, and inquired, while the coffee was

settling, if he could explain this hallucination. The Professor

hastened to say "no," but no sooner had he uttered that "no" than he

weakened it by adding several other negatives, mingled with inarticulate

grumblings: "Ah, no!--no indeed!--I cannot say--certainly not!" Franco

did not insist, and another extremely significant silence ensued. When

he had taken his coffee, with many involuntary signs of uneasiness, the

Professor promptly proposed that they go to bed. Franco, who must leave

before daybreak, preferred not to go to bed, but wished his friend to do

so, and, after an infinite number of protests and ceremonies, after

hesitating on the very threshold, his basin of sedative water in his

hand, the Professor suddenly faced about, and throwing a "good-night"

over his shoulder, disappeared.

When he was alone Franco put out the lamp and stretched himself in an

easy-chair with the good intention of going to sleep, seeking sleep in

some indifferent thought if he could possibly fix his mind on such a

thought. Not five minutes had passed when there was a knock at the door

and immediately the Professor rushed in, without a light, and

exclaiming: "Well, here I am again!" "What is the matter?" Franco

inquired. "I am sorry I put out the light." At the same moment he felt

the arms of the worthy Beniamino about his neck, his beard brushed

Franco's face, and he smelt the camphor and heard the voice. "Dear,

dear, Don Franco! I have an enormous load on my heart! I did not intend

to speak now; I wanted to leave you in peace, but I cannot, I cannot!"

"But speak! Calm yourself, calm yourself!" said Franco, gently freeing

himself from that embrace.

Gilardoni let him go, and pressed his hands to his forehead, groaning:

"Oh, what a stupid fool, what a stupid fool, what a stupid fool I am! I

might have left him alone; I might have waited until to-morrow or the

next day. But now it is done! It is done!"

He seized Franco's hand. "I tell you I had begun to undress when a sort

of giddiness came over me, and then it was all up with me. I must needs

put on the dressing-gown again, and rush in here without a light, like a

lunatic. In my haste I even tipped over the basin of sedative water."

"Shall we light the lamp?" Franco asked.

"No, no, no, we had better talk in the dark, better talk in the dark!

See, I am going way over there!" And he sat down at his writing-desk, to

escape the faint glimmer of light which fell through the window. Then he

began. He always spoke in a nervous and disorderly fashion, and it may

easily be imagined how he spoke now, in his present state of agitation.

"Shall I begin? Goodness knows what you will say, dear Don Franco! These

are all useless words, but what would you have--alas! patience--! Well,

I will begin--but where shall I begin? Oh, Lord! just see what a fool I

am, not even knowing where to begin! Ah, that hallucination! Yes, I told

you a lie just now; I can easily guess the origin of that hallucination.

It has to do with a letter; a letter I showed Signora Teresa two years

ago, a letter from Don Franco, your grandfather. Well, now let us begin

at the beginning.

"During his last days my poor father spoke to me of a letter from Don

Franco which I should find in the strong-box, where all the important

papers were kept. He told me to read it, to preserve it carefully, and,

when the time came, to act in accordance with the dictates of

conscience. 'But' said he, 'it is almost certain there will be nothing

to be done.' My poor father passed away. I searched the strong-box for

the letter, but did not find it. I hunted the whole house over, but in

vain. What could I do? I contented myself with reflecting that there was

nothing to be done, and thought no more about the matter. A fool, was I

not? A real idiot! Say so freely, I deserve it. I have said so to myself

so many times! But let us continue. Do you know how your grandfather's

estate was settled? Do you know how the affairs of your house were

arranged? You will forgive me for speaking to you of these matters, will

you not?"

"I know my grandfather died without a will, and that I have nothing,"

Franco replied. "But let us pass that over, and proceed."

To Franco it was truly a painful subject. At old Maironi's death no

will had been found. In perfect love and harmony, the widow and the son,

Don Alessandro, had divided the estate equally between them. In order to

secure this arrangement the son had made a very large grant to his

mother, declaring that he was only carrying out the paternal wishes,

which had not found a means of expression. This depraved young man, a

spendthrift and a gambler, was already caught in the toils of usurers at

the time of his father's death. In the seven years he survived him he

managed to spend everything, not leaving a penny to his only son,

Franco, who found himself reduced to some twenty thousand _svanziche_,

the fortune of his mother who had died in giving him birth.

"Yes, yes, let us get on," Gilardoni continued. "Three years ago, three

years ago, I say, I received a letter from you. I remember it was the

second of November, all Souls' Day. Curious circumstance, mysterious

circumstance! Very well. That night I went to bed, and dreamed a dream.

I dreamt of your grandfather's letter. Note that I had never thought of

it again. I dreamt I was hunting for it, and that I found it in an old

box I keep in the attic. I read it, still dreaming. It said there was a

great treasure in the cellar of Casa Maironi at Cressogno and that that

treasure was to come to you. I awoke in intense excitement, convinced

that this had been a prophetic dream. I got up, and went to look in the

box. I found nothing; but two days later, being about to sell certain

lands which I owned at Dasio, I got out an old deed of purchase, which

my father kept in the strong-box, and, in turning over the leaves, a

letter fell out. I glanced at the signature and saw: Nobile Franco

Maironi. I read the letter. It was the one in question! Thus you see,

the dream...."

"Well," said Franco, interrupting him, "and what did this letter say?"

The Professor rose, took a match half a cubit long, ran it in among the

live coals in the little fireplace, and lit the lamp.

"I have it here," he said with a great, despairing sigh. "Read it."

He took from his pocket and handed to Franco a small yellowish letter,

without an envelope, and still showing traces of the little red wafer.

The yellow-black lines of writing inside showed through here and there,

almost in relief.

Franco took it, held it near the lamp, and read aloud as follows:

"Dear Carlin,--

"You will find my last will enclosed in this letter. I have

written it in duplicate. One copy I am keeping. This is the

other, and I charge you to publish it if the first be not

forthcoming. Do you understand? Very well then; and when we

meet I forbid you absolutely to worry me with your advice, as

is your d----d custom. You are the only person in whom I have

confidence, but, after all, it is my right to command, and your

duty to obey. Therefore all advice is useless and will not be

tolerated. Good-bye.

"Your affectionate master,

"FRANCO MAIRONI.

"CRESSOGNO, _22 Sept., 1828_."

"Now here is the will," said Gilardoni dolefully, handing Franco another

yellow document, "but don't read that aloud."

The document read as follows:

"I, the undersigned, Nobile Franco Maironi, desire that my

estate be divided in accordance with this, my last will and

testament.

"Donna Orsola Maironi, born Marchesa Scremin, having deigned to

accept my homage as well as that of many others, I bequeath to

her, in proof of my gratitude, the sum of ten thousand Milanese

Lire, to be paid once and for all, and what, to her, is the

most precious jewel of my household, namely Don Alessandro

Maironi, duly inscribed in the parish-registers of the

Cathedral of Brescia as my son.

"I bequeath to my said son that part of my property which is

lawfully due to him, and three _parpagliole_[H] a day more, in

token of the special esteem in which I hold him.

"I leave to my agent in Brescia, Signor Grigi, should he be

still in my employ at the time of my death, all that he has

stolen from me.

"I leave to my agent in Valsolda, Carlino Gilardoni, upon the

same condition as above, four Milanese Lire a day, during his

natural life.

"I desire that, during the life of Donna Orsola Maironi

Scremin, a Mass be celebrated daily in the Cathedral of

Brescia, for the good of her soul.

"I name and appoint my grandson, Don Franco Maironi, son of Don

Alessandro, residuary legatee of all the rest of my property.

"As witness my hand, this fifteenth day of April, 1828.

"FRANCO MAIRONI."

Franco read--and, half dazed and without a word, passed the sheet of

paper back to the Professor. He was shaken, but felt vaguely that he

must control himself, that he must restrain his own agitation, collect

his thoughts, and strive to get a clear view of this matter and of

himself.

"What do you say to that?" the Professor exclaimed.

At this point Gilardoni's intense excitement reached a climax.

"Why did I not speak before, eh?" he continued. "The thing is that I

can't possibly give a clear, precise and positive reason for not having

done so. Those papers were a horror to me! If I myself and my own father

and mother had been involved in such a question, I would rather have

let a million slip than ask for it with those documents in my hand.

There! I have been a fool again, to have said that! Just forget those

last words, for in your place ... it is a different thing. I was

speaking for myself. Good Lord, of course I was speaking for myself!

Well, I thought--see what an ass I was--I thought your grandmother just

doted on you, and that your grandfather's property would go to you

anyway. And with that idea...! After a while I consulted Signora Teresa,

and showed her the letter and the will. She said I should have informed

you at once, as soon as I had made the discovery, but that she could not

give me any advice because now her daughter was, in a way, an interested

party. Besides, she said.... But that is of no consequence. In short I

saw the will was a horror to her also. Anyway, I was convinced your

grandmother would end by accepting this marriage, and I did not speak.

Tonight you come and tell me the Marchesa has used threats. Fancy that!

Now you understand that I could not wait, that I could not keep these

documents a moment longer. There--they are yours--take them!"

Franco, absorbed in his own thoughts, heard only these last words. "No,"

said he, "I will not take them. I know myself too well. With them in my

possession I might be led into doing something rash, or into acting

prematurely. You keep them for the present." Gilardoni would not hear

of keeping them, and drove Franco into one of his fits of impatience.

There was indeed nothing so irritating to his nerves as the inconclusive

outpourings of kind-hearted but brainless persons. Gilardoni's

opposition angered him, and he gave him to understand that this wish to

rid himself of the documents at all costs, was selfishness pure and

simple, and that those who have blundered must bear the consequences.

The words he uttered amounted to this, but the angry and harsh

expression of his face said much more. Gilardoni, whose face was

crimson, shuddered at the accusation of selfishness, but controlled

himself and putting on a grim frown in his turn, hastily pocketed the

documents, repeated a string of "well, well, well, wells," and abruptly

left the room. To appease his own conscience Franco at once set to work

trying to convince himself that Signor Beniamino was entirely in the

wrong. He had done wrong in not having given him the documents much

sooner, and now he was doing wrong in taking offence. As he was quite

sure he should make his peace with the inconclusive philosopher, he

thought no more about him, put out the lamp, and, returning to his

easy-chair, became once more engrossed in his previous meditations.

Now he was beginning to see clearly. He could not with dignity make use

of that will, which, both in form and in substance was dishonouring to

his grandmother, arousing as it did, when the letter was considered, a

suspicion of criminal suppression. The will also reflected little honour

upon his father. No, never. He must tell the professor to burn both

documents.

"Thus, Madam Grandmother, shall I triumph over you!" thought Franco,

"Making you a free gift of the property, and of your honour as well,

without even taking the trouble to tell you of it!" Revelling in this

thought Franco felt almost as if he were lifted above the earth, and he

drew a long breath, vastly pleased with himself, his soul illumined and

soothed by a sentiment of mingled generosity and pride. With all his

faith and his acts of Christian piety, he was very far from suspecting

that such a sentiment was not entirely good, and that a less

self-conscious magnanimity would have been more noble.

He let himself sink back in his easy-chair, more disposed to rest than

he had been before, thinking quietly of what he had read, of what he had

heard, as one who has been on the verge of embarking upon some perilous

speculation, and looks back upon the anxiety and the calamities from

which he has escaped forever. Old memories were also beginning to stir

in the depths of his soul. He recalled a certain tale an old servant had

told concerning the riches of the house of Maironi, which, she said, had

been stolen from the poor. He was a child then, and the woman had not

hesitated to speak in his presence. But the child had received a deep

impression, and this impression had been re-awakened in his early

boyhood, by the words of a priest, who had confided to him, with an air

of great secrecy and solemnity, and perhaps not without intention, that

the Maironi fortune was the fruit of a law-suit which had been unjustly

won against the Ospedale Maggiore of Milan.

"So, through me," thought Franco, "everything has gone back to the

devil."

It struck him that perhaps it was late, so he lighted the lamp once

more, and consulted his watch. It was half-past three. Now, it would be

impossible for him to rest. The moment which would re-unite him to Luisa

was too near at hand, his fancy was too greatly excited. One hour and a

half more! He looked at his watch every two minutes; it seemed as if the

tedious time would never pass. He took a book, but could not read. He

opened the window; the air was soft, the silence profound, the lake was

bright over towards S. Salvatore, and the heavens were studded with

stars. At Oria he could see a light. Perhaps it would be his fate to

live there in Uncle Piero's house. Gazing absently at that luminous

spot, he began to imagine what the future would be, and ever-changing

phantoms rose before him. At about half-past four he heard a bell ring

on the lower floor, and presently Pinella came with a message from his

master to the effect that if he wished to make the _ascent of the

Boglia_ it was time to start. The master had a severe headache, and

could neither rise nor receive him. Franco searched on the

writing-table for a sheet of paper, and wrote:

"_Parce mihi, domine, quia brixiensis sum._"

He went out, Pinella accompanying him with the light as far as the dark

arcade, where the road to Castello begins. Then he disappeared.

* * * * *

The Marchesa Orsola rang her bell at half-past six, and ordered the maid

to bring her chocolate as usual. She swallowed more than half of it

before asking with the utmost composure, at what hour Don Franco had

returned.

"He has not yet returned, Signora Marchesa."

The old woman must have received an inward shock, but not a muscle of

her face twitched. She placed her lips on the edge of her cup of

chocolate, looked at the maid, and said calmly:

"Bring me one of those little biscuits we had yesterday."

Towards eight o'clock the maid came back to say that Don Franco had

returned, but only to go directly to his room for his passport, coming

down again immediately, and he had then ordered the footman to find a

boatman who would take him to Lugano. The Marchesa said never a word,

but later in the day she sent word to her confidant Pasotti that she was

expecting him. Pasotti took in the situation at a glance, and remained

with her more than half an hour. The lady was determined to find out

where and how her grandson had spent the night. Pasotti had already

heard some rumours, which he now repeated, concerning a nocturnal visit

of Don Franco's to Casa Rigey; but more reliable and precise information

was desired. The cunning _Tartufo_, by nature as curious as a hound,

that goes about following every scent, poking his nose into every hole,

and rubbing it against every pair of trowsers, promised to furnish the

Marchesa with such information in the course of a day or two, and then

took himself off, his eyes sparkling, rubbing his hands in anticipation

of a pleasant chase.

FOOTNOTE:

[H] _Parpagliota_: a small coin then in circulation, and worth about

twenty centimes (?). [_Translator's note._]

CHAPTER V

THE ROGUE AT WORK

The next morning, Pasotti having imbibed his coffee and milk, lay

pondering the plan of the chase until half-past ten, when he summoned

Signora Barborin, who slept in another room because her snoring

disturbed the "Controller," as she respectfully called her husband. "He

is quite right," the poor deaf woman would say, "it is a terribly bad

habit, this snoring of mine!" She was older than Pasotti, whom she had

accepted as her second husband because her heart was very susceptible,

and to whom she had brought certain moneys which he had long coveted,

and was now enjoying. The Controller was fond of her in his own way; he

obliged her to make calls, to go on boating excursions, to take long

walks in the hills, all of which things were torments to her. He made

fun of her deafness, sent her out covered with silks and feathers, and

at home made her work like any drudge. In spite of all this she

respected and served him like a slave, in fear and trembling it is true,

but not without affection. When she did not call him "the Controller"

she called him "Pasotti," but she never allowed herself to use a more

familiar appellation.

Pasotti, with a face as stern as any satrap, ordered her by gestures to

go to the drawer for a white shirt, to the wardrobe for his second-best

suit, to a cupboard for a pair of boots. When his wife had prepared

everything, hunting anxiously here and there, continually facing about

to follow the eyes and gestures of the master who several times called

her a fool, when she would stare open-mouthed at him, striving to catch

the word she had only seen, Pasotti stuck his legs out of bed, and said:

"Here you are!"

Signora Barborin knelt before him, and began pulling on his stockings,

while the Controller, stretching out his arm to the pedestal, took his

snuff-box, and, having opened it, continued his previous meditations,

his fingers buried in the snuff. He intended to make several visits of

discovery, but in what order should he arrange them? From what his

farmer had told him, he judged that Signor Giacomo Puttini's Marianna,

and perhaps even Signor Giacomo himself must know something about Don

Franco, and certainly something must be known in Castello. While Signora

Barborin was tying the second shoe-lace, Pasotti remembered that it was

Tuesday. Every Tuesday Signor Giacomo, with a few friends, was in the

habit of going to the market at Lugano, or rather to the tavern called

"del Lordo," in order to vary the daily wine of Grimelli by a weekly

glass of an undiluted vintage, and he often came home in an

affectionate and communicative frame of mind. It would therefore be

better to call upon him late in the day, say between four and five. In

fancy Pasotti was already holding him in his hand, and managing him as

he liked. With a malicious smile he raised his fingers from the

snuff-box, shook the pinch to the proper dimensions by means of a few

gentle, even raps, enjoyed it at his leisure, and then his wife having

given him his handkerchief, he rewarded her by mumbling with a benign

expression of countenance, as he rolled the handkerchief into a ball:

"Poor woman! poor creature!"

When, after half an hour's labour he had put on and buttoned up his

coat, he exclaimed, seriously: "What d---- hard work!" and went to the

glass. Then his wife ventured to edge cautiously towards the door,

saying very timidly--

"Can I go now?"

Pasotti turned round frowning and imperious, and beckoning to her to

approach, he drew about her head and person certain lines in the air,

which meant a hat and shawl. She did not understand, and stood staring

at him, with her mouth open. Then she pointed her forefinger at his

breast, questioning him with her eyes, and her lifted eyebrows, as if

suspecting he wanted those articles for himself. Pasotti answered this

questioning in the same manner, with three stabs of his forefinger,

which signified: "you, you, you!" Then, making the motions of cutting

something with his open hand, he gave her to understand that she was to

go out with him. She started several times, astonished and protesting,

opened her eyes extremely wide, and said in that voice of hers which

seemed to come from the cellar:

"Where?"

The Controller's only answer was a fulminating glance and a gesture:

"march!" He did not intend to give any further information.

Signora Barborin struggled a little longer.

"I have not breakfasted yet," she said.

Her husband took her by the shoulders, drew her towards him, and shouted

into her face:

"You will breakfast later."

Only at Albogasio Inferiore, in front of the Annunziata, did he inform

her, by pointing to the place with his stick, that they were going to

Cadate, to that old manor-house planted in the lake between Casarico and

Albogasio, and generally known as "the Palace," where there lived, all

alone, in the small rooms of the upper story, the priest, Don Giuseppe

Costabarbieri and his servant Maria, called "Maria of the Palace."

Pasotti knowing well that both were eager listeners, but extremely

cautious in talking, wished to examine them one at a time, without

seeming to do so, and, if he found any soft spot, he intended to press

it very gently. He had brought his wife with him that she might help him

in this delicate matter of taking them one at a time, and she, poor

innocent, trotted on behind him with short, quick steps, and followed

him down the flight of one hundred and twenty-nine steps called the

"Calcinera," never suspecting the perfidious part she was to act.

The lake was like oil, and Don Giuseppe, a fine, pursy priest, short and

fat, with white hair, a ruddy complexion and small glistening eyes, was

seated near the fig-tree in his garden, with a black straw hat on his

head, and a white handkerchief round his neck, angling for carp, certain

big, fat carp, grown old and wary, that might be seen moving about very

slowly under the water, all for love of the figs, and that were as

inquisitive and, at the same time, as cautious as the priest and his

servant. This latter was not visible. Pasotti finding the street-door

open, went in, calling out for Don Giuseppe and Maria. As no one

answered he planted his wife in a chair and went down into the garden,

making straight for the fig-tree, where Don Giuseppe was sitting, who,

on catching sight of him, went into a fit of ceremonious convulsions. He

threw down his fishing-rod and went towards Pasotti vociferating: "Oh,

Lord! Oh, Lord! Oh, dear me! In this state! My dear Controller! Come

up-stairs! Come up-stairs! My dear Controller! In this state! I hope you

will excuse me! I hope you will excuse me!" But Pasotti would not hear

of "going up," he was bound to remain where he was. Don Giuseppe began

bawling for "Maria! Maria!" Presently Maria's big face appeared at a

window in the upper story.

Don Giuseppe called to her to bring down a chair. Then the Controller

revealed the presence of his wife, whereupon the big face disappeared

and Don Giuseppe had another fit.

"How is this? How is this? Signora Barborin? She here? Oh, Lord! Come

up-stairs!" and he started forward impelled by obsequiousness, but

Pasotti reduced him to obedience, at first catching him by the arm, and

then declaring that he wished to see him take one or two of those

monstrous carp; and notwithstanding Don Giuseppe's protests: "It is no

use! I sha'n't catch anything! They're far too cunning, these fish.

_They see!_" in the end he was obliged to throw his line.

At first Pasotti pretended to watch him, but finally he also threw his

line.

He began by asking Don Giovanni how long it was since he had been to

Castello. Upon being informed that he had been there the day before to

see his friend, the curate Intrioni, the good Tartuffe, who could not

abide Intrioni, burst into a perfect panegyric of him. What a jewel,

this curate of Castello! What a heart of gold! And had Don Giuseppe been

to Casa Rigey? No, Signora Teresa was too ill. More panegyrics

concerning Signora Teresa and Luisa. What a splendid creature! What

circumspection, what high principles, what sentiment! And the Maironi

affair? It was still going on, was it not? Had it gone far?

"I know nothing, nothing, nothing!" Don Giuseppe said sharply.

At that hasty denial Pasotti's eyes sparkled. He took a step forward.

Oh, come now. It was not possible that Don Giuseppe did not know

anything! It was not possible that he had not discussed the matter with

Intrioni! Was not Intrioni aware that Don Franco had spent the night at

Casa Rigey?

"I know nothing about it, nothing at all!" Don Giuseppe repeated.

Then Pasotti declared that by this concealment of certain well known

circumstances, many were led to suspect evil. What the deuce! Don Franco

had of course gone to Casa Rigey with the most honourable intentions,

therefore----

"A bite! A bite!" whispered Don Giuseppe hurriedly, and he leaned far

out over the parapet, grasped the end of the pole firmly, and fixed his

gaze on the water as if a fish were about to seize the hook. "A bite!"

Pasotti, much vexed, gazed into the water also, but declared he could

see nothing.

"He has made off, the wretch! But his mouth almost touched the hook. He

must have felt the prick!" said Don Giuseppe, sighing and straightening

himself up. He also had felt the prick of the hook, and was trying to

"make off" as the fish had done.

The other renewed his attack, but in vain. Don Giuseppe had seen

nothing, heard nothing, talked of nothing, knew nothing. Pasotti was

silent, and the priest in turn, threw out a bit of timid malice: "They

don't bite well to-day,--there must be something in the air."

In the house, meanwhile, the dialogue between Maria and Signora Barborin

had proceeded most unsatisfactorily, after the first affectionate

exchange of greetings, which had been a great success. Maria proposed by

gestures that they go into the garden, but Signora Pasotti begged with

clasped hands, to be allowed to remain in her chair. Then the big Maria

took another chair, and seating herself beside her guest tried to talk

to her. But she found it impossible to make her understand, no matter

how she shrieked, so gave up in despair, and taking her great cat upon

her lap, talked to him instead.

Poor Signora Barborin, who was quite resigned, watched the cat with her

great black eyes, dimmed by age and grief. Ah! here was Pasotti at last,

with Don Giuseppe, who at once began to puff out his:

"Oh, good Lord! My dear Signora Barborin! Pray excuse me!" Maria having

confessed to the _Scior Controlor_ that his wife and she had not been

able to understand each other, her master--as a mark of respect for

Signora Pasotti--called the servant a "block head," and, as she

attempted to justify herself, he prudently checked her by an imperious

wave of the hand and a string of "there, there, there's." Then he

signalled to her mysteriously with his head, and she left the room.

Pasotti followed her, and told her that his wife really felt obliged to

call on the Rigeys, but was in doubt as to how she should act, having

heard certain rumours which were current, and that she had greatly hoped

to gain some information from Maria, for "Maria always knew everything."

"What foolish talk!" said Maria, much flattered. "I never know anything;

but I can tell you to whom your wife must apply. To Signor Giacomo

Puttini. It is Signor Giacomo Puttini who always knows everything."

"Well done!" thought Pasotti, adding these remarks to what the farmer

had said, and concluding he was on the track at last. At the same time

he shrugged his shoulders incredulously. Signor Giacomo might perhaps be

aware of what was going on in the moon, but that was all; he never knew

anything else. Maria insisted, and the old fox began to press her with

questions, beating cautiously about the bush; but he found her obdurate,

and presently he saw that he should have his labour for his pains, and

that he must be satisfied with that one bit of information. He became

silent, and half satisfied, half preoccupied, returned to the room where

Don Giuseppe was explaining to Signora Barborin, by means of appropriate

gestures, that Maria was going to bring her something to eat. In fact

the woman appeared presently with a square, glass jar, full of

brandy-cherries, a renowned specialty of Don Giuseppe's, who was in the

habit of offering them solemnly to his guests, in his own peculiar

Italian:

"Allow me to offer you something! Will you try a few of my cherries?

_Magara con un tochello di pane?_ Perhaps with a slice of bread?" And

then, lapsing into dialect once more: "_Maria, tajee gio un poo de

pan_--cut off a bit of bread."

Signora Barborin feasted on bread alone, following the advice of her

satanic husband, who himself took cherries without bread. Then they went

away together, and she was permitted to return to Albogasio, while the

Controller set off in the direction of Casa Gilardoni.

"That Pasotti is a rogue," said Maria when she had bolted the

street-door.

"He is not only a rogue, but an extra big rogue! A _bargnif_!" Don

Giuseppe exclaimed, remembering the hook; and by the application of the

dialect title of "Bargnif," which means the arch-fiend, considered in

the light of his great cunning, these two mild beings found relief for

their feelings, and a compensation for so many things given unwillingly:

courtesies, smiles and cherries.

* * * * *

Professor Gilardoni was reading perched on his belvedere in the

kitchen-garden, when he caught sight of Pasotti coming towards him

behind Pinella, between the rows of beets and turnips. He had little

liking for the Controller, with whom he had exchanged only one or two

calls, and who had the reputation of being a _tedescone_, a rank German.

Nevertheless, being inclined to think the best of those with whom he was

only slightly acquainted, he found no difficulty in extending to him the

same cordial courtesy which it was his habit to show to every one. He

went to meet his guest, velvet cap in hand, and after a skirmish of

compliments which proved an easy victory for Pasotti, Gilardoni returned

to the belvedere with him.

Pasotti, on the other hand, felt a lively dislike for the Professor, not

so much because he knew him to be a Liberal, as because, though

Gilardoni did not go to Mass as often as he himself did, he lived like a

Puritan, loving neither the table nor the bottle, neither tobacco nor

certain loose discourses. Moreover he did not play _tarocchi_. One

evening, when talking in the kitchen-garden with Don Franco, of the

tremendous bouts of eating and drinking which Pasotti and his friends

often celebrated in the taverns of Bisnago, the Professor had said

something which was overheard by the big curate, one of the gluttons,

whose boat, in which he himself sat fishing, happened to be gliding

along very softly, close to the walls. "Miserable knave!" the most

worthy Controller had exclaimed when the words were repeated to him, his

face wearing the expression of a _bargnif bilioso_, of Satan with a

bilious attack. The exclamation had been followed by a contemptuous

snarl, after which the Controller spat protestingly. This, however, did

not prevent him from overflowing on the present occasion with excuses

for having unduly postponed his visit, nor from immediately spying out

the volume resting on the rustic table of the belvedere. Gilardoni saw

him glance at it and, as the book in question was one of those forbidden

by the government, he took it up almost instinctively as soon as he had

started the conversation, and rested it on his knee in such a manner

that Pasotti could not read the title. This precaution disturbed

Pasotti, who was just then praising the little villa and the garden in

all their particulars, and in the tone best adapted to each part; the

beets, with amiable familiarity, the aloes, with serious and frowning

admiration. An angry light flashed in his eyes, and then disappeared.

"Fortunate man," he sighed. "If my affairs would permit it, I myself

should like to live in Valsolda."

"It is a peaceful spot," said the Professor.

"Yes, a peaceful spot; and, besides, nowadays those who have served the

Government are not comfortable in the big towns. People make no

distinction between a faithful official who attends strictly to his own

duties, as I have done, and a police-spy. We are exposed to many

suspicions, many humiliations----"

The Professor turned red, and was sorry he had removed the book from the

little table. In fact, notwithstanding his assumption of humility,

Pasotti was too proud to act the spy, and, owing to this pride, or

perhaps to some good strain in him, he had never done so. Thus in his

words there was a grain of sincerity, a grain of gold, which sufficed to

give them the ring of true metal. Gilardoni, touched by this, offered

his guest a glass of beer, and hastened away in search of Pinella, glad

of an excuse for leaving the book on the little table.

Hardly had the Professor disappeared when Pasotti snatched up the

volume, and gave it an inquisitive glance; then he laid it down on the

same spot, and stationed himself at the top of the steps, toying with

the snuff in the box he held open in his hand, and smiling a smile half

of beatitude, half of admiration, at the lake, the hills and the sky.

The book was a volume of Giusti, pretending to have been published in

Brussels or rather _Brusselle_, and bearing the title: _Italian Poems,

from manuscripts_. Written across one corner of the fly-leaf was the

name: "Mariano Fornic." It needed less keenness than Pasotti possessed

to perceive at once in that heteroclite, the anagram of Franco Maironi.

"How lovely! What a paradise!" said he softly, while the Professor was

coming up the steps followed by Pinella with the beer.

Presently, between two sips of beer, he confessed that his visit was not

entirely of a disinterested nature. He declared that he was in love

with the blossoming wall that upheld the kitchen-garden on the

lake-side, and that he wished to copy it at Albogasio Superiore, where,

though the lake was wanting, there were plenty of bare walls. Where did

the Professor get those aloes, those roses and caper-bushes?

"Why," the other answered frankly. "Maironi gave them to me."

"Don Franco?" Pasotti exclaimed. "Well done! I will appeal to Don

Franco, who is always very kind to me."

And he took out his snuff-box. "Poor Don Franco," said he, with all the

tenderness of a compassionate rogue as he scrutinised and fingered the

snuff. "Poor young man! He sometimes flies into a passion, but, after

all, he is a splendid fellow. A heart of the best! Poor young man! Do

you see him often?"

"Yes, quite often."

"If only his hopes could be realised, poor young man! His hopes and hers

also, of course. That affair is not off, is it?"

Pasotti put this question with the skill of a great actor, with

affectionate but discreet interest, with no more curiosity than was

fitting, and with the intention of lubricating and softening somewhat

Gilardoni's closed heart, that it might open of itself, little by

little. But Gilardoni's heart, instead of spreading itself open at that

gentle touch, contracted and closed tighter than ever.

"I don't know," the Professor replied, feeling the colour mounting to

his face, and indeed he turned scarlet. In his mental note-book Pasotti

immediately made a note of the embarrassed manner, and of the heightened

colour. "He would be unwise to throw up the game. It is only natural

that the Marchesa should create difficulties for them, but after all,

she is a good creature, and devoted to him. Poor woman, what a fright

she had the other night!"

He glanced at the Professor who was frowning in uneasy silence, and

reflected: You will not speak? Then you know. "Just think of it! Not to

say where he was going! What do you think of that?"

"But I know nothing about it, I don't understand." Gilardoni exclaimed,

frowning more darkly still and growing ever more uneasy.

And now Pasotti, who was aware that the Professor had long since ceased

to visit the Rigeys, but was ignorant of the reason why, made a move

which was worthy only of a novice in roguery.

"You might enquire about it at Castello." said he, with a malicious

simper.

At this point Gilardoni, who was already boiling with rage, overflowed.

"Pray oblige me by dropping this subject," said he, angrily, "oblige me

by dropping it."

Pasotti grew sullen. Ceremonious, insinuating, and given to adulation

though he was, his pride would not allow him to suffer an unpleasant

word calmly, and he took offence at every shadow. He said no more, and

in a few minutes took his leave with dignified coolness, and retired

through the beets and the turnips, nursing his wrath. On reaching the

top of the Contrada dei Mal'ari, the _bargnif_ paused a moment to think,

resting his chin on his hand, then he started towards the shore of

Casarico, moving slowly, his head bent low, but with glistening eyes,

like the poodle that smells the hidden truffle in the air. Don

Giuseppe's frightened denials, Maria's obstinate denials, and the

Professor's embarrassment and outburst of temper, told him that a

truffle really existed, and that it must be a big one. He had thought of

going to Loggi where dwelt Paolin and Paolon, both of whom were well

informed, but then he had remembered that it was Tuesday, and that

probably he would not find them. No, it would be better to go directly

up to Castello from Casarico, and sniff and hunt about in the house of a

certain Signora Cecca, an admirable woman, all heart, and famous for the

assiduous watch she kept from her window over the entire Valsolda by

means of a powerful spy-glass. She could tell you any day who had gone

to Lugano with the boatman Pin, or with Panighet; noted the

conversations the unhappy Pinella held with a certain Mochet in front of

the church at Albogasio, half a mile distant; she knew how many days it

had taken Engineer Ribera to drink the little cask of wine which his

boat carried back empty from the house at Oria to the cellar at S.

Margherita. If Franco had been to Casa Rigey Signora Cecca must surely

know it.

In the passage that leads from Casarico to the narrow street of

Castello, Pasotti heard hurried steps behind him, and then some one

brushed past him in the darkness and he believed he had recognised a man

nicknamed "legora fugada" or the "hunted hare," because of the furious

pace at which he always walked. This honest man, who was even more

inquisitive than Pasotti, was a most worthy person who loved to know

things just for the sake of knowing them, and for no other reason. He

always went about alone, was everywhere, appearing and disappearing like

a flash, sometimes in one place, sometimes in another, like certain

large, winged insects, which pass with a glance, a whirr, a touch, and

then, hush! they are neither heard nor seen again until there comes

another glance, another whirr, another touch. He had seen the Pasottis

enter the "Palace," and the unusual hour had caused him to suspect

something. Lying flat in a small field he had seen Signora Barborin turn

homewards, and the Controller start towards Casarico. Then, having

followed at a distance, this individual had posted himself behind one of

the pilasters of the portico of Casarico while Pasotti was calling on

Gilardoni, and now he had slipped past him, taking advantage of the dark

passage, and hastening to reach Castello before him, that he might watch

his movements from some point of vantage.

In fact he saw him enter Signora Cecca's house.

The old lady, who had the goitre, was in her little parlour, holding a

small urchin on her left arm, while with her free hand she supported a

very long and slender pasteboard tube, which was struck slanting across

the window like a wall-gun and pointed down at the sparkling lake, at a

white sail, filled with the _breva_. On the entrance of Pasotti, who

came forward with stooping shoulders, his face suffused with a most

gentle gaiety, the kindly and hospitable old dame hastened to put down

the monstrous pasteboard nose, which she was so fond of poking into the

most distant affairs of others, where her own parchment nose, though it

was long beyond measure, could not reach. She received the Controller as

she might have received a saintly miracle-worker, who had come to remove

her goitre.

"Oh, how kind of you! Dear _Sior Controlor_! Oh, how kind! What a

pleasure! What a pleasure!"

And she made him sit down and nearly suffocated him with her offers of

hospitality.

"A piece of cake! A bit of nut-candy! Dear _Sior Controlor_! A little

wine! A taste of _rosoho_!--You must excuse me," she added, for the

youngster had begun to whine. "He is my little grandson, you know. My

little pet."

Pasotti took a great deal of urging, having not only Don Giovanni's

cherries, but also Gilardoni's beer in his stomach, but finally he was

obliged to yield, and resign himself to gnawing a piece of that accursed

almond cake, while the urchin clung to his grandmother's goitre.

At this the sarcastic rogue said pathetically, laughing in his sleeve

the while: "Poor Signora Cecca! Twice a mother!" When he had enquired

for her husband and for all her descendants even unto the third

generation, he brought forward Signora Teresa Rigey. How was that poor

lady? Bad! Really very bad? But since when had she been worse? Had there

been any cause? Some trouble, perhaps? The old troubles were well known,

but had there been some fresh ones? Perhaps on Luisina's account? About

the marriage? And did Don Franco come to Castello? Ah, not in the

daytime, but perhaps----?

As the patient who is being questioned and examined by the surgeon

searching for the painful, hidden spot, answers ever more briefly, ever

more fearfully as the hand draws nearer and nearer to the point, and

starts and draws back as soon as the spot is touched, so Signora Cecca

answered Pasotti ever more briefly, ever more cautiously, until, at that

"but" which touched the painful spot so delicately, she started,

exclaiming--

"A little more cake, _Sior Controlor_! It is a cake light enough for

young girls."

Pasotti in his heart cursed the "young girls" and their cake, a

concoction of honey, chalk and almond oil, but deemed it prudent to

swallow another mouthful before once more touching, or rather pressing

the tender spot he had discovered.

"I know nothing! I know nothing! Absolutely nothing!" Signora Cecca

exclaimed. "Try sounding Puttini. Try Signor Giacomo. And pray don't ask

me anything more." Again! Pasotti's face shone at the prospect of

getting the unlucky Signor Giacomo into his clutches. Thus the eyes of a

falcon might shine at the joyous prospect of snatching a frog, and of

holding him in his claws, to toy with at pleasure. Presently he took his

departure well satisfied with everything save with the chalky cake,

which lay like lead in his stomach.

* * * * *

Casa Puttini, which, within its minute, genteel appearance, resembled

the little old gentleman who ruled it, in a black coat and white stock,

stood just below that stately pile, Casa Pasotti, on the road to

Albogasio Inferiore. The falcon went there in the afternoon, towards

five o'clock, with a cunning expression on his face. He knocked at the

door and then listened. He was there! The unlucky frog was there! And he

was quarrelling as usual with the perfidious servant. Pasotti knocked

louder. "Go down!" said Signor Giacomo, but Marianna would not hear of

going down to open the door. "Go down! I am the master!" It was all in

vain. Pasotti knocked again, knocked like a battering-ram. "Who the

devil can it be!" scolded Puttini, and he came down puffing: "Apff!

apff!" to open the door. "Oh, most gracious Controller!" said he winking

hard, and raising his eyebrows pathetically. "Pray excuse me! That awful

servant! I am quite worn out! You would not believe the things that go

on in this house!"

"That is a lie!" Marianna cried from above.

"Hold your tongue, you!" And then Signor Giacomo began telling his woes,

stopping from time to time to silence the protests of the invisible

servant.

"Just fancy! This morning I went to Lugano. I got home about three

o'clock. On the doorstep--look there--I saw some splashes. Hold your

tongue, you! I did not heed them, and went straight in. At the head of

the kitchen-stairs there were more splashes. Be quiet, will you?--What

can have been spilled? said I to myself, and I stooped and touched the

spots with my finger. It was something greasy; I smelt it, it was oil.

Then I followed the splashes, touching and sniffing, sniffing and

touching. All oil, most gracious Controller! So I said to myself again:

Either it came in, or it went out. If it came in, the farmer brought it,

and in that case there will be splashes outside the door, and they will

extend upwards, if it went out, that means that this accursed.... Hold

your tongue, I say!... took it to S. Mamette and sold it, and then the

splashes outside will extend downwards. So back I went, always

following the splashes and presently I found myself here at the door.

Most gracious Controller, those splashes all extended downwards! That

d----"

At this point the servant's voice rang out like the bell on an

alarm-clock, and no "hold your tongue" was strong enough to stem that

shrill flow of angry words. Pasotti tried, and not succeeding, flew into

a passion himself, and shouted: "Oh, you cheat!" following up that title

with a string of insults, at each of which Signor Giacomo gave a low

grunt of satisfaction. "Yes, yes, give it to her! that's right! I am

much obliged to you. Yes, shout,--that's right. You torment, you!--I am

really greatly obliged to you, most gracious Controller! Really greatly

obliged!"

When Marianna had been overpowered and reduced to silence, Pasotti told

Signor Giacomo that he must speak a few words with him. "I am really not

up to it," the little man complained. "You must excuse me, for I feel

quite ill."

"Not up to it, not up to it, indeed!" shouted Marianna who had revived.

"You had better tell us how you wear yourself out going up to Castello

at night to see the girls!"

"Hold your tongue," Puttini shrieked, while Pasotti exclaimed, with a

fiendish grin: "What, what, what!" Seeing that Puttini was becoming

furious, he took him by the arm, and calming him with peaceful and

affectionate language, dragged him away to his own house where he at

once summoned his wife, and started a game of three-handed _tarocchi_,

with the purpose of soothing the poor frog, and getting a firmer grip of

him.

* * * * *

If Signora Barborin played badly, Signor Giacomo, meditating, pondering

and puffing, played worse. He was an extremely timid player, and never

set himself up alone against the other two, but to-day at the very first

deal, he discovered that he held such extraordinary cards that he was

seized with a fit of courage, and, to use the language of the game, he

_entered_. "Goodness knows what sort of a hand he has!" Pasotti growled.

"I don't say.... I don't say.... There certainly are several friars who

walk in slippers."

Signor Giacomo's "I don't say" meant that he held marvellous cards, and

the friars in slippers, in his lingo, were the four kings of the game.

While he was getting ready to play, feasting his eyes upon his cards,

and feeling each one in turn, Pasotti took the opportunity of opening

fire, hoping to make him lose the game, into the bargain. "Come now,"

said he, "tell us about it! When was it you went to Castello at night?"

"Oh Lord! Oh Lord! Don't talk about it," Signor Giacomo replied, growing

very red and sorting his cards faster than ever.

"Well, well, play away then. We can talk later. I know the whole story

any way!"

Poor Signor Giacomo, how could he play with that bone in his throat? He

sorted and puffed, led when he should not have done so, blundered in

adding up the points, lost two of the friars and their slippers as well,

and in spite of his splendid hand, left several markers in the clutches

of Pasotti who was grinning with delight, and several more on the little

plate beside Signora Barborin, who kept repeating with clasped hands:

"What have you done, Signor Giacomo? what have you done?"

Pasotti gathered up the cards and began shuffling them, casting sardonic

glances at Signor Giacomo, who did not know where to look.

"Certainly," said he, "I know everything. Signora Cecca told me the

whole story. I assure you, my dear Political Deputy, you will be called

upon to answer for this before the Imperial and Royal Commissary of

Porlezza."

With these words Pasotti passed the cards to Puttini, that he might cut.

But Puttini, hearing that dreaded name, began to groan:

"Oh Lord! Oh Lord! What is that you say?... I know nothing.... Oh Lord!

The Imperial and Royal Commissary?... I assure you I can't see what

for! ... apff!"

"Certainly," Pasotti repeated. He was waiting for a word that should

enlighten him, and by pointing first to the door and then to his own

mouth, he made his wife understand that she was to fetch something to

drink.

"And that dreadful engineer as well!" Signor Giacomo exclaimed, as if

speaking to himself.

As the fisherman who, pulling hard on the long, heavy line quivering, he

fancies, with the weight of the one big fish he has been angling for so

long, finally redoubles his caution and skill, as, with a thrill, he

sees two great shadowy fishes instead of one rising from the depths, so

Pasotti, upon hearing this allusion to the engineer, was thrilled and

amazed, and began preparing, with the most exquisitely delicate touch,

to draw out this secret concerning Signor Giacomo and Ribera.

"Certainly," said he, "you did wrong."

Silence on Signor Giacomo's part.

Pasotti insisted.

"You did very wrong."

But just then Signora Barborin entered, smiling genially, and bearing a

tray with the bottle and glasses. The wine was of a dark red, shot

through with ruby lights, and Signor Giacomo contemplated it if not yet

tenderly, at least benevolently. This wine had an aroma of austere

virtue, and Signor Giacomo smelt of it affectionately, gazed at it with

emotion, and then smelt of it again. This wine had that mellow richness

which fills both palate and soul with its flavour, and indeed it

possessed exactly that honest and pure tartness that its aroma

pre-announced, and Signor Giacomo sipped it and wished it were not

liquid and evanescent, tasted it, smacked his lips over it, and rolled

it under his tongue. When, from time to time, he rested his glass on the

little table, neither his hand nor his languid gaze were withdrawn from

it.

"Poor Engineer! Poor Ribera!" Pasotti exclaimed. "He is a most upright

man, but ..."

And as he pulled and pulled the unlucky Signor Giacomo began to rise to

the hook and the line.

"I myself did not wish it," he said. "'Twas he made me go--'Come along,'

said he. 'Why do you not wish to go? There will be no harm done. The

thing is honest.' 'Yes!' I answered, 'so it seems to me also, but all

this secrecy?' 'On account of the grandmother,' he replied. 'But then,'

I asked, 'what sort of a figure shall you and I cut?' 'We are just a

couple of simpletons!' he answered, with that way of his--honest,

old-fashioned soul that he is,--that always gets round me. 'I will go,'

said I."

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, and had 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 persuade

Signor 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 discovery _in 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."

CHAPTER VI

THE OLD LADY OF MARBLE

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 it was 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 few minutes. 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, in some 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

the _Pater_, the _Ave_ and the _Requiem_ over 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

the Marchesa, 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."

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 hands above 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 actions _toto 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 miserable little 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 know if 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, intelligent face 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.

Part Second

CHAPTER I

FISHERMEN

Dr. Francesco Zerboli, Imperial and Royal Commissary of Porlezza, landed

at the Imperial and Royal _Ricevitoria_--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 called _el me 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. Zerboli, 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 a _convocato_--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 sacramental union 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--that

_moschetta_--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 yet I 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 German documents 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 of _tarocchi_, and his _Milan 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 save that 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."

Zerboli 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----"

"_Te chi, te chi!_ 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, _Sur 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 cafe, 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 three _svanziche_ a 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 many _svanziche_ to 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 promotion _in 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 when you 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----" Zerboli

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 the _pelargonia_ also?

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 so

delighted!" 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 Rati, and his father calls him Ratu, 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?"

Rati 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, enter

Paradise, and be duly rewarded for my virtuous actions."

"Well done, well done, well done!" said Zerboli, caressing Rati. "Always

walk in the path of virtue."

"You be quiet, _Sur 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," Rati 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-rod and the _polenta_, 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 of _polenta_, 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 the _sedentario_, 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 Custant,

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, was lost 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, called _el Signoron_, the _fine 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 humanity might 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 Custant, 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 Zerboli had suggested to him. "You

see, my dear Receiver," Zerboli 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 understand this 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 that the 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 thickly populated, 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. "The _guadell_, the _guadell_!" The customs-guard turned round

enviously: "Have you got him, _Scior Recitor_?" Custant, consumed with

envy, gave no sign, not even turning his tall hat. Rati and Signora

Peppina came rushing up, the latter bringing the _guadell_, 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. Rati 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 Rati. 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 Rati, 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 Rati, caught his wife by the shoulder, and shook her like a bag

of nuts, loading her with reproaches. "Has it made off, _Scior

Recitor_?" asked the customs-guard mellifluously. Custant 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, called _la 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] Kufstein was one of the Austrian fortresses where "politicals" were

imprisoned. [_Translator's note._]