Bianchi judged it prudent to prolong his relapse in order to profit
by the softening of heart it had induced in his attendants. He
obeyed Mariuccia's commands with touching submission and kept her
affectionately uneasy about him by well-timed sighs and complaints. She
would not leave the house till he should be better, and she would not
leave Giannella alone with him; in fact she bade her keep out of his
sight altogether, hoping rather forlornly that his mad project would
disappear with the other symptoms of his alarming indisposition.
So Giannella went alone to Mass and marketing, and came home each day
with more pink in her cheeks, more light in her eyes. Her spirits
seemed to have returned and she hummed little tunes over her work, just
as she had done when she first came back from the convent. Some of the
moist sweetness of the summer morning followed her in when Mariuccia
opened the door to her and her parcels at seven o'clock; and through
the long hot days of July she looked as fresh and bright as an opening
rose in the first sunbeam.
The inhabitants of the Via Tresette knew all about it long before
Giannella did. The dairyman's wife told her lord that the Signorino
Goffi was as good as in love, "bello che innamorato," with the
Biondina. "Don't tell me," she declared, "that a young fellow like
that would go to church every day at five o'clock--and bring down a
clean handkerchief to kneel on every blessed morning--if he were not
in love! He is rich. Has he not a splendid vigna outside Porta San
Giovanni, from which he received fruit and wine but yesterday? The man
who brought it told me all about him. He is disinterested, one can see
that, for he did not bargain more than a day over the rooms, and he has
never tried to beat me down on the eggs and ricotta--oh, he will marry
Mariuccia's Biondina, and was I not the cleverest of women to insist on
your building a good apartment that could accommodate a family, instead
of just a studio and a cubbyhole of a kitchen as you wished to do?"
Sora Rosa opposite nodded her old head in approval of these sentiments,
delivered in clarion tones on the dairyman's doorstep. She had seen it
happening for a week now, had seen Giannella come down the street from
Palazzo Santafede with the sun behind her and Rinaldo with the sun on
his face emerge from his door at the same moment; had seen them meet
at the low entrance to the San Severino courtyard, pause an instant,
smile involuntarily, and then disappear as the heavy old portal swung
to behind them.
Fra Tommaso too knew all about it. Divided between sympathy for
the youth and romance, and jealousy for the respect due the sacred
precincts, he had watched his old and his new parishioner closely, but
had found nothing to criticise in their behavior. "Good children, good
children," he said to himself as he saw Giannella go out and Rinaldo
follow her, with proper deliberation. Of course he had obtained the
young man's history in full from the communicative lady of the dairy,
and indulged in a little self-approval for having been the immediate
instrument of obtaining for the Biondina the fine instruction which
would fit her to be the sposa of that superior young gentleman,
Signorina Goffi. Padre Anselmo might talk about the evils of human
distractions, but there could not be anything very dangerous in them
when they had such splendid results at this.
Things were nothing like so clear to the hero and heroine of the
popular little romance. They had traveled no farther than the outer
garden of love's fairy habitation, and Giannella at any rate did not
dream that anything sweeter or more perfect could lie beyond. The
thrilling excitement of seeing Rinaldo coming to meet her at the
doorway, the silent passage to their places in the chapel, the kneeling
so near each other for the blessed half hour--this had seemed enough
at first to bring her happiness for the day. But when on the fourth
morning Rinaldo had overtaken her in the court, and, with profound
apologies, returned to her the purse and key which she had left lying
on the chair--when, baring his head he looked in her face and she
saw the glow on his and heard his voice for the first time--then
Giannella's heart beat so wildly that she could find no words to say
and her trembling fingers almost dropped the objects he held out to her.
Together they had left the courtyard, and Rinaldo, lifting his hat
respectfully, had turned away fearing she might think he was going to
have the presumption to accompany her. But when, on looking round, he
saw her entering the dairy, he reached the threshold in two strides,
for here was his opportunity. Sora Amalia, the proprietress, should
introduce him properly. Then Giannella would know as much about him as
he already knew about her. After that--leave it to him to make the most
of the acquaintance.
As he entered the dark cool shop, Giannella was burying her face in
a huge posy of carnations which stood on the marble counter midway
between the butter and the fresh eggs. Sora Amalia gave him a cheery
good-morning, and Giannella lifted her face, all rosy, and dewy from
the flowers, and drew back a little as if to wait her turn until the
new-comer should have been attended to. Rinaldo, with a quick movement
of the head, manifested his wish to Sora Amalia, who, smiling broadly,
said: "Signorina Giannella, this is Signor Goffi, the great painter,
who has taken our apartment. Some day, if you like, I will take you
upstairs and show you his pictures. For to me he is already like a son.
Oh, signorino, that salad you gave me from your vigna--it was a cream,
a flower of tenderness. That of Sora Rosa over there is material,
tough, compared to it. And the wine--of a sincerity we had a treat last
night, Pippo and I."
She chattered on, to give the young people time to look at each other,
and also to impress Giannella with the importance of the new lodger. As
soon as she ceased, Rinaldo caught at the proposal contained in her
speech.
"My pictures are nothing to mount the stairs for, signorina," he said
eagerly, "but the view--if you would condescend, and Sora Amalia could
come up now?"
"Oh, not now, I am afraid I have not time," Giannella interposed,
addressing Sora Amalia; "another day, perhaps, if you can come--and
Signor Goffi permits?" she added, looking up at him and flushing
divinely. "Now I have still to go to the apothecary with this
prescription--and he is not very near--and does take so long to prepare
the medicine--and you know, Sora Amalia, there is much to do at home."
"Is there illness in the family, signorina?" Rinaldo inquired with
concern. "It grieves me to hear it."
Sora Amalia touched his hand as it lay on the counter and gave him
a broad wink with the eye Giannella could not see. "Illness?" she
exclaimed, "there is indeed. The Signor Professore has been in bed for
a week. Now, signorino, if you wish to do him a good turn--and get a
nice walk in the morning air for your health's sake--you will take
this prescription and get it made up, and bring it yourself to Sora
Mariuccia, who will thank you for sending Giannella home so quickly."
She had whisked the paper from the girl's hand and held it out to him,
laughingly defending it from the rightful owner, who was trying to get
it back.
"Oh, please, Sora Amalia," Giannella pleaded, "how can you imagine that
I would let Signor Goffi take all that trouble for us? I will go for
it myself, of course."
But Rinaldo was quick to seize the golden opportunity. The paper
vanished into his pocket and he was making for the door when Giannella
ran after him. "Please, please, since you are determined to be so
charitable," she said, "here is the money to pay for it," and she
tendered a silver coin. He took it gravely, and they both paled a
little at the touch of hand and hand.
"I will bring the medicine to the palazzo," he said rather huskily.
"How could you, Sora Amalia?" Giannella remonstrated when he was gone;
"what will he think of being asked to do such a thing for a stranger?"
"I will show you to-morrow what he thinks," replied the good woman,
"and perhaps I will give you some of it. There will be a pile of fruit
and vegetables a yard high, from his vigna, on this counter to-morrow
morning. Run along and tell Sora Mariuccia all about it--and be sure to
open the door to him yourself when he brings the medicine."
Giannella was rather reticent with Mariuccia, however, and gave her
story of how Sora Amalia's lodger had run off with the prescription in
as few words as possible. She expected to receive a good scolding for
the indiscretion she must have committed--or permitted--before things
reached such a pass, though she could not quite see where she had been
in fault.
Mariuccia had no such doubts. "That blessed Sora Amalia!" she
exclaimed, her eyebrows meeting in rhadamanthine severity across her
low forehead. "What a want of education! Could she not perceive that
she was taking the most indiscreet liberty--imposing on the gentleman's
good nature, so that he must have been deeply displeased? I will
apologize to him when he comes. I will tell him that we are shocked at
that woman's imprudence. Four flights of stairs to climb, and his time
wasted! I wonder you did not die of shame, Giannella, at being made the
occasion of such inconvenience to him."
Giannella remembered Signor Goffi's ecstatic alacrity and ventured to
say that he did not seem at all annoyed, on the contrary, very happy to
be of service.
"Then," thundered Mariuccia, "you have spoken to him before. You
have permitted him to make your acquaintance--in secret. Oh, this is
terrible. How can I ever let you out of my sight again?"
"I never spoke to him till this morning," cried the girl. "I have
seen him, yes, how could I help it? He comes to Mass every day. Is
the church my private chapel? Is no one else to enter it while her
Excellency, Giannella Brockmann, is saying her prayers there? How dare
you say that I have made his acquaintance in secret? I will not hear
such things. You speak as if you believed evil of me."
Was this Mariuccia's submissive Giannella, this outraged young woman
with scarlet cheeks and flashing eyes standing up to her inquisitor
with rebellion in every tone of her voice? Mariuccia drew back from her
in surprise, and before she had recovered enough to reply, the doorbell
tinkled hoarsely.
"There he is," said Giannella. "You must open to him yourself. I will
not. He would see that you have been pouring shame over me." And she
turned her back and sat down to her work, shaking with indignation.
Mariuccia went to the door, nothing loth. "I shall see what he is like
at any rate," she told herself in the passage. "Some silly dandy who
thinks he can make eyes at a poor girl because she has to go out alone.
That's the kind. But I'll settle him." And she opened the door with
a jerk and stood squarely on the threshold as if barring the way to
impertinent intruders.
"With permission?" inquired a courteous voice, and one hand held out
a small parcel while the other removed the hat from a handsome young
head. "I took the liberty--Sora Mariuccia will pardon me, I trust. I
have heard of her so much from Fra Tommaso--and I knew she was anxious
to have this as soon as possible. How is the chiarissimo Professore
this morning?"
If the young man felt any chagrin at the substitution of this janitress
for a prettier one he effaced all signs of it from his address. He
was so good-looking, so urbane, there was such honest kindness in his
smile, that the hardest feminine heart must have softened to him.
Mariuccia thawed at once. What if he were to prove--but she chased away
the rosy dream, and answered his inquiry about the padrone's health,
thanked him for his amiability and, remembering that the Professor
was safe in bed, was actually going to ask Rinaldo to enter. It went
against all her traditions to keep anyone standing at the threshold.
But Rinaldo had his traditions too. One did not impose oneself as a
visitor on the strength of a rendered service. "Levo l' incommodo" (I
remove the inconvenience of my presence), he said, bowing and turning
to depart. Then a thought struck him, and he came back to ask: "Can
I be of any service in the way of commissions while the Professor is
ill? it would be for me a pleasure. I live over the dairy in the Via
Tresette, close by. A word to Sora Amalia, and I am at your disposal at
any time, day or night. Arrivederci, Sora Mariuccia."
"A beautiful youth," she remarked to herself when she had thanked him
and closed the door. "And well brought up. He would not even come in.
I do not believe he is running after Giannella at all. Poor child--it
might be a good thing for her if he did--if he has any money. San
Giuseppe mio, send us a good husband for her, and restore my little
padrone to his right mind. I will never complain of his faults any more
if only he drops his crazy idea of marrying Giannella. Eccomi quá, here
I come!" This in answer to a querulous call from the invalid's room.
When she returned to the kitchen Giannella's bad temper had
disappeared. She was standing at the window amusing herself with
feeding Fra Tommaso's pigeons, who looked upon her as their
supplementary Providence, since she always had crumbs and corn in store
for them. The wide window sill so near the deep palace eaves was
shady in the hot hours, and the pretty tame creatures often haunted
it, strutting up and down, carrying on their little sham fights over
tempting morsels or boldly hopping on Giannella's shoulder to ask for
more. She was quite unconscious that she was ever watched from across
the way at these moments, but, to tell the truth, Rinaldo trespassed
unwarrantably on Fra Tommaso's premises and wasted a good deal of time
in the occupation of feeding his eyes on the sight of his goddess and
the preoccupation of preventing her or anyone else from finding it out.
Themistocles was bolder. He had taken to Fra Tommaso's loggia and his
own kin there very kindly, and had wheeled towards Giannella's window
more than once in the wake of the rest; but he had never settled there
till this morning, when he at last permitted himself to be courted and
captured.
"Fra Tommaso has got a new pigeon and a fine name for it too," said
Giannella as Mariuccia entered. She had made up her mind to pardon her
old friend and this seemed a good way of opening up a reconciliation.
"See, is he not a beauty? And he has a silver band round his neck, with
'Themistocles' on it. What grandeur! Fra Tommaso grows extravagant in
his old age. Ah, ungrateful one," she cried, as the bird slipped from
her hand and soared away over the convent roof, "being full you depart,
but you will return with great love when you are hungry again."
"That reminds me," Mariuccia replied, catching at the flag of truce,
"that gentleman who brought the medicine just now spoke of Fra Tommaso.
He seems a nice quiet young man."
"Who? Fra Tommaso?" Giannella asked. "He seems to me a nice talkative
old one." And she laughed, being too full of happiness to quarrel long
with anyone to-day. Her troubles seemed to have vanished into air.
The padrone was out of sight and mind, and the sun was rising on her
horizon at last.
After this it was impossible to refuse to speak to Rinaldo when she met
him in the mornings, and the little conversations in the back court of
San Severino became very friendly and intimate. Rinaldo always began
with eager inquiries after the health of the illustrious Professor, as
if his peace of mind depended on the answer. Then he hoped that the
most respectable Sora Mariuccia was well. After that, conventionalities
were forgotten. In the most natural way in the world each came to know
all about the other. Rinaldo had learned Giannella's limited life
story from her own lips, had had to avow his admiration of Mariuccia's
goodness--"She is an angel, that woman," Giannella declared one
morning, her eyes suffused with emotion; "she seems cross and rough,
but she has a heart of gold. Oh, you will love her when you know her
better."
And Rinaldo, his heart quite full of another love, proclaimed that
he already felt for the good woman the affection of a son. There was
nothing he would not do to prove it. Let Giannella try him. Meanwhile,
would she not persuade Sora Mariuccia to bring her to his studio some
Sunday afternoon? They could have a little refreshment on the terrace,
and he would get his friend, Peppino Sacchetti, who sang divinely, to
come and bring his mandolin, and though indeed the pictures were not
worth looking at, the signorina would be amused at the antics of the
pigeon, Themistocles, who would dance about when Peppino played, and
was altogether a most sagacious bird.
The first part of this speech opened up a dizzy vista of happiness not
to be contemplated for a moment when one had only one old frock and
one's shoes were going to pieces. So, with a determined gulp, Giannella
ignored it and replied to the last words only.
"Oh, he is yours then, the one with the silver collar? I thought he
belonged to Fra Tommaso. Why, he comes to see me every day."
"Beato lui, too happy bird!" cried Rinaldo, with sudden passion in eyes
and voice. "My little sister sent him to me from Orbetello, saying
he would bring me good fortune. It is he who is fortunate." Then, as
the color flushed up in Giannella's cheek at his cry, he went on more
quietly, "Signorina, I am coming to-morrow to bring Sora Mariuccia
something from the vigna--poor stuff, but fresher than we get in the
city. Then I shall myself invite her for next Sunday. What kind of
ice-cream do you like best."
"Framboise," she replied, without a moment's hesitation. Then
she remembered. Such pleasures were not for her. She turned away
to hide the silly tears that would come into her eyes, and said
chokingly, "Oh, please do not speak of it, Signor Goffi. It is quite
impossible--there are good reasons. We never go anywhere--we could not
come."
Rinaldo was silent, looking at the averted head where the gold gleamed
royally through the carefully mended lace. His trained eye took in the
poverty of the thin black dress with its neat little darns here and
there; it clothed the delicate young form very kindly, but it was a
thousand times unworthy of such honor. Being artist as well as lover,
he understood, and his heart was so hot with love and pity that for
the first time in his life words failed him. Giannella moved towards
the outer gate of the court, and he followed dumbly, aching to find
expression for what he felt. But there was nothing to say which would
not have been an offense; he could not offer sympathy where he had no
right to seem to understand. His Latin tact came to his aid, however,
as he held the door open for her to pass out.
"We will put off our party a little, then, signorina," he said, gentle
detaining her. "The weather is warm just now. Perhaps it would please
you better to come to the vigna, some day when the grapes are ripe? It
will be cooler then." And he added to himself, "And by that time, my
beautiful heart, you will have a Sunday dress of splendid blue silk,
and a gold chain to match your hair, and you will go to your own, for
the vigna will belong to you. We will be married on the first Sunday in
October, and what a sposina you will make!"
Giannella murmured something and hastened away towards the Piazza
Santafede, and Rinaldo stood looking after her till she disappeared.
Then he regained his studio in haste, and applied himself to the
picture for the rich foreigner. He was to receive five hundred scudi
for it, and that was just the sum he wanted to put the apartment in
order and buy his wedding gifts for his bride. He had been tempted to
commit the extravagance of having a living model this time, so as to
get on faster; but he reflected that the hired peasant would not look
much more like a real cardinal than the ever-obedient but rickety clay
figure, and then--three pauls an hour! No, it was not to be thought
of--when one had set one's mind on that other extravagance, that holy
folly of marriage.
"Come along, your Eminence," he exclaimed as he knocked Themistocles
off the ragged head and crowned it with a red skullcap. Then he got
his old friend seated in the cherub-crowned chair, pinned the red
tablecloth round him in dignified folds, and in half-an-hour had
forgotten that he was not contemplating a live dignitary of the Church.
Towards evening the friend of whom he had spoken to Giannella, Peppino
Sacchetti, came to tempt him away to the Tiber for a row and a swim
before the sun went down.
"Capperi, Nalduccio," he cried as he looked from the model to the
picture, "but you have a fine big imagination! I could not have drawn
that from our old manikin. I see Themistocles has been trying to mend
that bump on its nose. When are you going to have living models? You
are a rich man, you rascal, and you can pay for them now. I wish I
could."
"Peppino mio," replied Rinaldo, as he worked his palette off his thumb
and prepared to wash his brushes, "I shall have a living model, and
a very beautiful one, next October. Meanwhile I have an imagination
which is neither fine nor big--but, thank Heaven, extremely obedient.
It saves me much money. While I am painting, I see a cardinal, and I
am most respectful to him. I address that person in the tablecloth
as 'your Eminence' and push him into his place with reverence when
he tumbles down. When the rich foreigner receives the picture, he
also sees a cardinal, and he admires him, for he has probably never
cast eyes on a real one. The picture goes with him to his nasty cold
heretic country where there are no cardinals. Everybody admires it,
and the naturally good of heart wish that they belonged to a Church
governed by noble ecclesiastics with pink cheeks and Chinese white
hair and beautiful taper fingers (I always draw the hands from those
same old casts), and if God is good to them they come to Rome and save
their souls. I obtain all these fine results and save many precious
scudi--because I have an obedient imagination. Cultivate one, Peppino
mio, it is as good as a savings bank."