the Assumption, and there was a fair outside the Roman gate. Marc
Antonio was to be apprenticed the next day to a very decent _vetturino_,
and he had begged La Mamma to treat us all to some fried dumplings. We
were all day at the fair, though of course we bought nothing; but it was
a great pleasure to us to walk about and look at the booths full of gay
things. We were nearly ready to come home, when Teresina spied some
dolls and began to beg for one. She was such a sweet, good, gentle child
that La Mamma could not bear to refuse her, especially as she scarcely
ever asked for anything. And she seemed to have a passion for that doll,
so pretty it was, all in pink and spangles. At last, as she begged so
hard, La Mamma gave her ten centimes, and told her that if she could get
it for that she might have it; and Teresina bargained so well that she
got it for eight centimes; and then nothing would satisfy her but that
we all should have dolls. It was in vain that La Mamma said no; Teresina
would have her way. And so at last we all had dolls, and La Mamma, poor
soul! spent thirty-six centimes! It seemed a mortal sin to her; and she
has told me many a time how she lay awake that night and cried, and
prayed to God and the saints to forgive her for that wicked
extravagance. And yet she could not but feel glad to see how happy we
all were with our dolls. And she was glad afterward for another reason,
which I will explain presently. Little Teresina never went out again
after the Feast of the Assumption. She was the first to fall ill, but
before ten days were over we were all (all the girls, I mean,--Marc
Antonio was not at home) struck down with smallpox. Teresina suffered
most. I remember it well, how strange it seemed to me to hear her
calling constantly for water and other things,--strange, because she was
always the one who waited on the others, and never before thought of
herself. La Mamma did everything for her that could be done, but she
grew daily worse. Once mamma brought her doll and put it in her hands. I
can see now--my bed was opposite to hers--how mamma watched Teresina,
and how Teresina looked at the doll. In my own heart I thought, "Surely
she will get better, now that she has her pretty doll." It seemed to me
that she must do so. But in a moment she heaved a deep sigh, and said,
"Too tired! too tired!" And then she threw the doll away from her and
closed her eyes. _La povera Mamma_ picked up the doll and put it away in
a drawer, and then she sat still and looked at Teresina, with the tears
rolling down her face. Whenever I woke up in the night it was always the
same, mamma fanning Teresina or putting bits of ice in her mouth, and
never moving her eyes from her, and Teresina no longer restless, but
quite still,--so still that I had never seen anything like it. Quite
early the next day the archbishop came to confirm her, and while I was
looking at the grand robes he wore, and at the priests who came with
him, and watching the lighted tapers blow about in the wind, for the
window was open and there was a strong draught, suddenly I felt a pain
in my head which was worse than anything I had felt before,--a dreadful
pain, which made me feel giddy and confused. I felt myself sinking, and
I suppose I must have cried out, for I remember that some one lifted me
and put a wet cloth on my head. The last thing I saw was Teresina's
pale, quiet face, with the white and gold confirmation ribbon bound
about her brows. I never saw her again. When I came to myself, days
afterward, the corner where her bed used to stand was empty, and I knew,
without asking, that she was in Paradise.
Flavia and Fausta and I got well over it, but much disfigured, as you
see; and yet God is good, and has sent me as kind and loving a husband
as if I had been the most beautiful person in the world.
Well, the time went on, just as before, until Flavia was old enough to
be apprenticed to Madama Castagna, the grand dressmaker. She had always
been a good, steady, hard-working girl, and, thanks to the good Doratei
Sisters, she sewed so beautifully that very soon Madama allowed her
twenty centimes a day. She had to work from eight till eight; but of
course she could not expect more than twenty centimes while she was
learning.
Fausta was not so fortunate. She was a good girl, and the cleverest and
quickest of us all,--yes, indeed, cleverer than I am, although the
signora does think so well of me,--but she changed too often. First, she
wanted to learn how to bind shoes (I forgot to say that they taught that
in the convent), and so, while the rest of us were learning to sew and
knit, she was binding shoes. Then, suddenly, she thought she would like
to learn to weave, and she went to her godmother, the Contessa Minia,
and told her so. The contessa was good and generous, and she gave her a
loom, and Sister Annunziata taught her to weave. But just at the time
that Fausta ought to have been apprenticed, the silk-trade, which, as I
said before, had been going down for several years, failed altogether,
and Fausta had to sell her loom for what it would bring. Then she
thought that she would like to learn lace-mending: so the contessa got
her a lace-cushion, and apprenticed her to a lace-mender for four years.
Just as her time was out, poor Fausta had a bad fall, broke her right
arm and injured her leg, so that for many months she was confined to her
bed, and was unable to walk for more than a year. Then, as if the poor
girl were destined to trouble, she must needs fall in love, and with a
bad, good-for-nothing fellow. La Mamma would not consent, and we all
begged and prayed her not to have him, but Fausta was obstinate, and
married him. _Poverina!_ she has had one trouble after another, and will
have to the end.
As soon as I had passed my fourteenth birthday I was apprenticed to
Madama. Flavia was one of her best workwomen then, as she has been ever
since. After the first six months I received twenty centimes a day, and
at the end of the first year thirty centimes. We went away from home
every morning at seven o'clock. La Mamma gave us a good breakfast of
black bread and coffee before we set out, and black bread and onions or
apples for our dinner. Sometimes, instead of onions or apples, she would
give us ten or fifteen centimes; and that we liked better, because then
we could make a bank. Making a bank we called it when we put all our
money together. Madama had then twenty-five apprentices, and at
dinner-time we used to put all our money together and send out and buy
something. One would buy anchovies, another ham, another olives, another
cheese, and so on. There was one apprentice who always did the marketing
for us. Then we used to clear the work-table and set out our food, and
dine merrily enough. I was an apprentice at Madama's for five years, and
then began to work for myself. If Madama had been willing to pay me a
franc a day and give me my dinner besides, I dare say that I might have
been there now; but she would not, and so I plucked up my courage and
tried my hand alone. For some time before I left her I had been working
so well, at cutting out and fitting, finishing, and so on, that she used
to give me all the finest and most difficult work to do; but still she
never did and never would pay me more than eighty centimes [sixteen
cents] a day. None of us got more than that. What we always liked to do
was to carry the dresses home, because then the ladies usually gave us
something. And at Christmas, when we went to wish our patrons all
happiness, we got very nice presents. One Christmas we received thirty
francs. When we carried dresses home we generally got twenty or thirty
centimes. That made fifteen centimes for each of us, because we always
did errands in couples. One night at ten o'clock we had to go quite
across Florence in a driving rain to carry a lady a ball-dress. We were
dripping wet when we reached her palace, but the dress was in good
order, and we hoped, considering the lateness of the hour, and the bad
weather, and so on, that the lady would give us something handsome,
perhaps as much as half a franc. Well, she was very glad to see us, and,
after putting on the dress, she said that she must give us something.
And so she did,--five centimes [one cent] to each of us! I swallowed my
anger, and put the coin into my pocket, but my companion fitted hers
nicely into the key-hole of the hall door as soon as it was closed
behind us. "There!" says she; "now my lady miser will have to send for a
locksmith, and that will teach her not to be so stingy another time." So
we both ran home laughing, in spite of our disappointment. But we were
not so fortunate as to get off without a scolding. The next day the lady
came to Madama and complained of our impertinence. Madama scolded us a
little; but when she heard what a pitiful _buona mano_ the lady had
given us, she could not help laughing herself.
Still, she never thought of raising our pay, and as I improved, and felt
myself quite mistress of my trade, I began to work over hours, at one or
two houses where La Mamma had patrons, and in that way I got on very
quickly. It was a proud day for me, signora, when I first began to give
La Mamma something toward the housekeeping. I wanted to give her
two-thirds of all I earned, but she would not let me. When I began to
earn a franc and a half a day, she accepted half a franc, but she made
me put away the franc for my _dote_. La Mamma always walked with me to
the houses where I went to work, and in the evening either came for me
herself or sent Marc Antonio. And she bade me be very careful and
watchful and keep myself to myself. Often I thought her severe and
suspicious, but now I thank God for the mother he gave us. We owe all
the happiness of our lives to her.
I had been working for myself, as I have said, for more than five years.
I had plenty of patrons, and was well thought of. Plain as I am,
signora, I had not wanted for opportunities to go wrong; but, thank God,
I never did. Once, too, I had thought of being married, but, happily for
me, I found out in time that I had set my love on a bad man, so I broke
off my engagement, and put the thought of marriage away from me. Fausta
had been married a long time, and so had Marc Antonio. Flavia said that
she never would leave La Mamma, and I thought that I would do the same.
But it was not to be. One morning La Mamma, who had been sitting up with
a sick baby at the Albergo della Stella, came home and told me that I
was born to good fortune,--that Signorina Teodora, the landlord's
daughter, was going to be married, and that I was wanted to work at the
_trousseau_. It was all to be made at home, and the signorina engaged me
for three months. It was the first time that I had ever gone to an hotel
to work; and La Mamma gave me a great many counsels about my behavior.
Signorina Teodora was very kind, and the work was just exactly what I
liked to do. I used to sew in the _guarda-roba_ (linen-room), where the
linen-keeper, a very respectable woman, was busy all day, mending and
arranging the linen. That was all well enough, but at meal-times I was
very uncomfortable. I used to go down to the servants' dining-room, and
there the talk, and the manners too, were coarse and rude. I did not
like to complain, but my position was a very hard one. I had taught the
men to keep their distance, and they did so, but they were cross and
disagreeable to me, and nicknamed me "La Superba" (the proud one). The
women-servants all said that I gave myself airs, and if they could do
anything to annoy me they did. At last I proposed to Signorina Teodora
that I should be allowed to take my meals in the _guarda-roba_, so that
I might be nearer my work. But she said no, that would not do, but that
I might have them in a little room next the padrone's dining-room, and
that she would say that this was because I was wanted for trying on her
dresses just at the time that the servants' dinner was served. The first
time I went down to dinner alone I felt very much frightened; but my
dinner was put on the table very nicely, and one of the men-servants,
whom I had never spoken to before, waited on me. He did so just as
politely as if I had been a lady, but he was very quiet. The next day he
began to talk a little, and told me about his mother (who was dead), and
about his childhood, and the customs of the Abruzzi, because he came
from that part of Italy. We used to talk together so, day after day,
while he waited on me, and we became very good friends. At last, when
the time of my engagement was nearly run out, Luigi--that was the
waiter's name--became very silent, but he served my dinner as nicely and
carefully as ever. I was a little afraid that I had offended him,
because every evening he used to say, as I rose from the table, "Are you
coming back to-morrow?" And every time I said yes, he would answer,
"Well, then, I can say what I have to say to-morrow," At last one night,
when he said as usual, "Are you coming back to-morrow, _sarta_
[dressmaker]?" I answered no,--that my work was over. "Well, then," says
Luigi, "I must find courage to tell you to-night, _sarta_, that I love
you, and I want you to be my wife!"
I sat still a moment, quite thunder-struck, and then I jumped up and ran
out of the room. "I can say not a word," I said, as I passed him, "You
know you ought to have spoken to La Mamma first."
"If that's all," says he, following me to the foot of the stairs, "I can
speak to La Mamma to-morrow night."
"And then I may say no," I called out as I ran up-stairs.
Well, the next night he came to see La Mamma, and brought his uncle with
him. This uncle was a very decent man, who had been gardener for thirty
years in Count Gemiani's family. He was the only relation Luigi had in
the world, and he gave him an excellent character. But I would not say a
word. I told Luigi I could not tell whether I liked him or not until I
saw him _in borghese_ [_i.e._, dressed in ordinary clothes], because you
know, signora, I had only seen him dressed in black, with a white
cravat. Well, he was very patient, and, as soon as he was at liberty, he
came again, dressed _in borghese_, and then he pleased me, and I made up
my mind to have him.
But then came another trouble. The match was not well looked upon by La
Mamma and my brother and sisters, because Luigi was a person in service,
and that had never happened in our family before. Babbo, as I have said,
was a carrier; Mamma, a silk-weaver; Marc Antonio had married a
_cucitrice di bianco_ [shirt-maker]; Fausta, a candle-maker,--but, to be
sure, her marriage did not matter, because her husband was a bad man.
However, I was obstinate, and La Mamma liked Luigi in her heart, and so
at last we were engaged. He used to come and see me two evenings in the
week. Sometimes La Mamma sat with us, and sometimes Flavia. When it was
Flavia's turn Luigi used to laugh and say the sentinel was changed. We
had to keep our engagement very quiet, because you know that the
men-servants at Italian hotels are not allowed to marry, and, though
most of them are in reality married men, they always pretend to be
bachelors. Gradually we made our preparations. Luigi had nearly eight
hundred francs saved, and I had about four hundred. We spent about three
hundred in getting our furniture and linen and so on, and Luigi took an
apartment in the Borgo Santo Jacopo. I chose the house because it is
directly opposite the Albergo della Stella, and I knew that I should
feel happier if I could look across the river to the hotel lights and
think that my Luigi was there. We were married on the morning of the
30th of August, and when we had been _promessi sposi_ for six months.
The religious marriage was just after the early mass [five o'clock], and
we all walked over together to the church. I felt quite calm,--not
frightened at all; but when, four hours later, we had to go over to the
Palazzo Vecchio for the civil marriage, I was all tears and trembling.
However, that passed, like other things. We had quite a fine wedding
breakfast. Marc Antonio had brought a friend of his, a nice, quiet man,
who was a very good cook. He was out of place just then, and he had
offered to cook for us if we would give him his breakfast. We had a
mixed fry, and macaroni, and _ravaioli_, and a melon, one course after
another, just like signori. Everybody had a good appetite, except Luigi
and me, and La Mamma said that it did her soul good to hear the sound of
frying in the house. _Poverina!_ she did not often hear it. Well, after
breakfast we all took a walk in the country, and when we came home again
Flavia began to prepare supper, but Luigi said no, _we_ must go home,
that our supper was waiting for us there. So I put my bonnet on, and
then, when we were ready to say good-by, every one burst into tears,--La
Mamma, and Flavia, and Fausta, and Marc Antonio and his wife, and I, and
even Luigi, though he said afterward he was sure he did not know why.
And how we all embraced! The signora would have thought that we were
going over the sea, instead of just across the Ponte Vecchio. At last we
went away arm in arm, and when we got to our own home there I found that
Luigi had arranged the table so nicely, just as he used to do at the
_albergo_, and had put a bunch of flowers in the centre. So we sat down
to supper, and pretended to be signori just for that one evening.
The next day, being Sunday, we all went to high mass at the Duomo, and I
wore my new wedding-gown of black cashmere. In the afternoon we went
out to Certosa; and that was the end of my wedding-journey, for the next
morning Luigi had to go back to his work at the _albergo_, and I had to
take up my sewing again. It seemed so strange to be sitting down to work
in my own house, and to look across the Arno at the great _albergo_ and
think that I had a husband there. Luigi could not come home as often as
he longed to do, because he had but two free nights in the week. And he
dared scarcely look out of the window, for fear some one should suspect
that he was married, and then he would have lost his place. However,
everything went well. We have been married eight years now, and, what
with Luigi's fifty francs a month, and the _incerti_ [_pour-boires_] and
my work, we do pretty well. Luigi, thank God, is a good man, faithful
and true and kind. I have never heard an angry word from him yet. And
then he has no faults,--he does not smoke, or drink wine, or gamble; and
regularly every month he brings me all his money to take care of. He is
such a good son to La Mamma, too. He would never take a mouthful of food
until he had helped her; and if a famine came to Florence, and there was
but a piece of bread between Luigi and La Mamma, he would make her eat
it, I know. Si, signora, we all live together now; La Mamma takes care
of our little boy, and Flavia is head-woman in Madama Castagna's
workroom, while I go out by the day, as I always did. It is a little
harder for us this winter than usual, because there are so few
_forestieri_. It really seemed as if the _alberghi_ would never open.
Luigi said that every evening there would be a crowd of people--waiters,
and _facchini_, and so on--waiting at the door of the _albergo_ and
begging for work. And the _padrone_ [landlord] used to say, "Find me the
_forestieri_, and I'll find you the work." My Luigi is such a good
servant that the _padrone_ keeps him employed all the year round; but he
felt very anxious this winter when he saw how few _forestieri_ there
were, and tried to save in every possible way. But, thank God, he never
grudges La Mamma anything, and she often says that these are her
happiest days. She still works at knitting stockings, and braiding
straw, and such light work; and she takes our baby boy out to walk twice
a day, and every day at noon, rain or shine, she goes to mass. Many a
quiet hour she has now in church to pray for Babbo, whom she never
forgets, and for all of us. Then when we all come home from our work we
have such pleasant evenings. I tell about the fine gowns I make for my
ladies, and Luigi has so many stories about the grand _forestieri_ and
all their strange caprices, and then Marc Antonio and his wife come in,
and he tells us about the ladies and gentlemen he drives out in his
_vettura_, and she describes the fine linen she makes for her ladies.
Well, if signori live for nothing else, they give us a great deal of
pleasure.
Si, signora, we still live in the same apartment in the Borgo Santo
Jacopo, on the south side of the Arno. I would not go away, because when
my husband is at the _albergo_ I can look across the river and think
that he is there. Very often when I sit up late at my work, and all the
rest are asleep and Luigi at the _albergo_, I look over the river, and
the lights at the "Stella" seem to keep me company. Luigi, too, watches
my light. I always sit by my window and keep my lamp there, so that he
may know how late I work. Well, here is the signora's gown quite
finished, and the end of my poor story. So good-night, signora, and may
the good Lord send the signora a happy New Year!
MARIE L. THOMPSON.
FOOTNOTES:
[B] This true history--a picture, in its general features, of thousands
of lives--is given, as nearly as possible, exactly as it fell from the
lips of the narrator.
OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP.
Tourgéneff's Idea of Bazaroff.
A volume containing several hundred of Tourgéneff's letters was
published last winter in St. Petersburg by the "Society for Assisting
Impecunious Authors and Scholars." It is to be followed by a second, and
the proceeds are to be devoted to the foundation of a "Tourgéneff
Memorial Fund." The whole collection will, we may hope, be translated
into English. The following extracts relate chiefly to the character
which is considered by many readers his finest creation, but which, as
is well known, made him for a time very unpopular in Russia:
BOUGIVAL, August 18, 1871.
DEAR A. P.,--Although you do not ask me for a reply, and do not seem to
wish for one, yet the confidence which you have reposed in me and the
feeling of sympathy and respect which you have awakened in me make it my
duty to say a few words to you about your letter.... What? You say, too,
that I meant to caricature the youth of Russia in Bazaroff? you repeat
this--pardon the frankness of the expression--nonsensical accusation?
Bazaroff,--this is my favorite child, for whose sake I quarrelled with
Katkoff, upon whom I used all the color at my command. Bazaroff, this
fine mind, this hero, a caricature? But it seems that there is nothing
to be done in the case. Just as people accuse Louis Blanc to this day,
in spite of all his protestations, of having introduced the national
workshops, they attribute to me a wish to represent our youth as a
caricature. I have long regarded the slander with contempt: I did not
expect the feeling to be renewed on reading your letter.
Now to turn to your "elderly lady,"--that is, to current criticism, to
the public. Like every elderly person, she holds fast to preconceived
ideas, however preposterous they may be. For example, she is perpetually
asserting that since my "Annals of a Sportsman" my works are weak,
because, having lived abroad, I cannot know Russia. But this accusation
can touch only what I have written since 1863; for until then--_i.e._,
until my forty-fifth year--I lived almost uninterruptedly in Russia,
except in 1848-49, when I wrote the "Annals of a Sportsman," while
"Roudine," "A Nest of Nobles," "Ellen," and "Fathers and Sons" were
written in Russia. But all that means nothing to the "elderly person:"
_son siège est fait_.
The second weakness of the elderly one is that she persistently follows
the fashion. At present the fashion in literature is politics.
Everything non-political is for her rubbish and nonsense.
It is somewhat inconvenient to defend one's own works; but--fancy it!--I
cannot even admit that "Stuk-Stuk" is nonsense. "What is it, then?" you
will ask. It is this: it is a study of the Russian suicide epidemic,
which rarely presents anything poetic or pathetic, but almost always
results, on the contrary, from ambition, narrowness, with a mixture of
mysticism or fatalism. You will object that my study is not successful.
Possibly not; but I wished to point you to the right and fitness of
investigating purely psychological (non-political and non-social)
questions.
The elderly person reproaches me further with having no convictions. As
an answer to that, my thirty years of literary activity will suffice.
For no line which I have written have I had cause to blush, none have I
had occasion to repudiate. Let another say this of himself. However, let
the elderly person babble. I have not heeded her hitherto: I shall not
begin now.
I do not know whether I shall write my novel; and I know in advance that
it will have many defects.... But, permit me, dear A. P., why do not the
oncoming young people take this task upon themselves? The old ones
would gladly yield them place and honor, and would be the first to
rejoice at the accession of new forces. But in the literary arena there
figure the contributors to the "Djelo"[C] such as H.
You see, dear A. P., that you are not alone in being able to speak the
whole truth, regardless of consequences. I hope you too will not be
angry because of it, and will at least take notice of what I am saying.
I am still suffering from gout,--have reached Bougival, but still go
about upon crutches, and shall hardly reach Paris within a month. You
may be sure that I shall return the portfolio safely.
BOUGIVAL, September 11, 1874.