[Illustration]
THE LAND OF COCKAYNE
A Novel
_By_
MATILDE SERAO
AUTHOR OF
"FAREWELL LOVE!" "FANTASY" "THE CONQUEST OF ROME" ETC.
[Illustration]
HARPER & BROTHERS NEW YORK AND LONDON PUBLISHERS--1901
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE LOTTERY DRAWING 1
II. AGNESINA FRAGALÀ'S CHRISTENING 23
III. IN THE CAVALCANTIS' HOUSE 47
IV. DR. AMATI 62
V. CARNIVAL AT NAPLES 82
VI. DONNA CATERINA AND DONNA CONCETTA 99
VII. DON GENNARO PARASCANDOLO'S BUSINESS 111
VIII. IN DON CRESCENZIO'S LOTTERY-SHOP 124
IX. BIANCA MARIA'S VISION 142
X. MAY AND SAN GENNARO'S MIRACLE 155
XI. AN IDYLL AND MADNESS 174
XII. THE THREE SISTERS--CHIARASTELLA THE WITCH 197
XIII. THE CONFECTIONER'S SHOP BANKRUPT 215
XIV. THE MEDIUM'S IMPRISONMENT 231
XV. SACRILEGE--LOVE'S DREAM FLED 254
XVI. PASQUALINO DE FEO'S WILL 279
XVII. BARBASSONE'S INN--THE DUEL 294
XVIII. TO LET 308
XIX. DON CRESCENZIO'S TRIALS 316
XX. BIANCA MARIA CAVALCANTI 348
CHAPTER I
THE LOTTERY DRAWING
The afternoon sun crept into the Piazzetta dei Banchi Nuovi,
broadening from Cardone's, the engraver, to Cappa's, the chemist,
lengthening on from there up the whole Santa Chiara Road, spreading
a light of unusual gaiety over the street, which always wears, even
in its most frequented hours, a frigid, claustral aspect. But the
great morning traffic, of people coming from the northern districts
of the town--Avvocata, Stella, San Carlo all' Arena, San Lorenzo--to
go down to the lower quarters of Porto, Pendino and Mercato, or _vice
versâ_, had been slowly slackening since mid-day; the coming and
going of carts, carriages and pedlars had ceased; everybody seemed
to be taking short cuts by the Chiostro di Santa Chiara and the Vico
1^o Foglia towards Mezzocannone Alley, the Gesù Nuovo, San Giovanni
Maggiore. Presently the sun's brightness lit up a street by then
quite deserted. The shopkeepers on the right side of Santa Chiara--as
the left side is only the high, dark enclosure wall of the Poor
Clares' Convent--dealers in old dusty or wretched mean new furniture,
coloured engravings, shiny oleographs, wooden and stucco saints, were
at the back of their dark shops, eating over a corner of wine-stained
tablecloth, with a caraffe of Marano small wine, closed by a twisted
vine-leaf, standing by a big dish of macaroni. The porters, seated on
the ground at the shop entrance, were eating lazily at a small loaf
of bread, cut in two to hold some tasty viand--fried gourd soaked in
vinegar, parsnips in green sauce, pomegranates seasoned with vinegar,
garlic and pepper. The sharp, greasy smell of the quantity of
tomatoes all this macaroni was cooked in, from one end of the street
to the other, mingled with the acute odour of sour vinegar and coarse
spices. From some passing fruitseller, carrying a nearly empty basket
of figs on his head, or pushing a barrow with purple plums, and tough
spotted peaches at the bottom of the baskets, the shopkeepers,
clerks and porters, lips still red from tomatoes or shining with
grease, bargained for a penny-worth of fruit, to finish their
meal; two workmen, in front of the Martello printing-shop, where
the small visiting-card press had stopped, deeply coveted a yellow
melon; and two seamstresses were waiting on a doorstep chattering,
till the seller of _pizza_ passed, which is the shredded rind of
tomato, garlic, and wild marjoram, cooked in the oven, and sold at
a farthing, a half-penny, a penny, the piece. The _pizzaiuolo_ did
pass, in fact, but he was carrying his wooden tray, shining with oil,
under his arm, without a bit of _pizza_; he had sold everything, and
was going off to eat his own meal, down to the Porto quarter, where
his shop was. The two disappointed seamstresses consulted each other;
one of them, a blonde, with a golden aureole round her pale gentle
face, moved off with that undulating step that gives an Oriental
touch to a Neapolitan woman's charm. She went up Santa Chiara Road,
bending her head so as not to get the sun in her face, and went
into Impresa Lane, towards the wine-seller's dark shop--which was
a drinking-shop, too--almost opposite the Impresa Palace; she was
going to buy something to eat for her friend and herself. The Impresa
Lane had got empty, too, after mid-day, when all go back to their
houses and shops to eat, as the summer heat gets greater, and the
_controra_--the time of the Neapolitan day that corresponds to the
Spanish siesta--begins with food, rest and sleep for tired folk. The
dressmaker, a little frightened by the darkness of the cellar, out
of which came a sour smell of wine, had stopped on the threshold;
blinking, she looked on the ground before going in, feeling that an
open underground cave, with a black gaping mouth, was dangerous. But
the shop-boy came towards her to serve her.
'Give me something to eat with my bread,' she said, swaying herself a
little.
'Fried fish?'
'No.'
'A little dried cod with sauce?'
'No, no'--with disgust.
'A morsel of tripe?'
'No, no.'
'What do you want, then?' the boy asked, rather annoyed.
'I would like--I would like three-halfpence-worth of meat; we will
eat it with our bread--Nannina and I,' said she, with a pretty greedy
grimace.
'We don't cook meat to-day; it is Saturday. Only tripe for
unbelievers on Saturday.'
'Well, give me the salt cod,' she murmured, withholding a sigh. Then
she looked into the Impresa court with curiosity, while the youth
disappeared into the black depths of the cellar to get the cod. A
little ray of sunshine coming from the top turned the court golden;
every now and then some man or woman's form crossed it. Antonietta,
the seamstress, went on staring, humming a popular dirge, slightly
swaying on her hips.
'Here is the cod,' said the youth, coming back. He had put it in
a small plate; there were four big bits falling into flakes, in a
reddish sauce strongly seasoned with pepper, the sauce, as it waved
about, leaving yellow oily marks on the edges of the gray plate.
'Here is the money,' Antonietta murmured, pulling it out of her
pocket. But she stood with the plate in her hand, looking at the cod
falling to pieces in the juice.
'If I were to take a _terno_,' she said, as she went on her way,
holding the plate carefully, 'I should like to gratify my wish of
eating meat every day.'
'Meat and macaroni,' the boy called back, laughing.
'Just so--meat and macaroni,' the seamstress shouted triumphantly,
her eyes still fixed on the plate, not to let the sauce fall.
'Morning and evening,' called out the boy from the doorway.
'Morning and evening,' Antonietta answered back.
'You should apply to that youth,' the boy shouted gaily from the
cellar, indicating the Impresa court with his eyes.
'I'll come back later,' said the seamstress from the corner of the
street; 'I'll bring you the plate.'
Again the Impresa Lane was deserted for a long time. In winter it is
much frequented at mid-day by the young students coming out of the
University, who take the shortcut to the Gesù and Toledo; but it was
summer--the students had their holidays. Still, every now and then,
as the hour went on, someone came round the corner from Santa Chiara
or Mezzocannone, and stopped in the Impresa gateway--some with a
cautious look, others feigning indifference. One of the first had
been a shoeblack, with his block--a lame old dwarf, who carried it on
his raised hips; he was bent in two, wrapped up in an old great-coat,
green, stained and patched, a cap with no peak over his eyes.
He had put down his block under the Impresa portico, and stretched
himself out on the ground, as if awaiting customers; but he forgot
to beat those two dry claps with the brush on the wood to claim it.
Deeply engrossed with a long list of ticket numbers in his hand,
the old dwarf's yellow, distorted face was transformed by intense
passion. As the hour got near, people went on passing before him, and
a murmur of hoarse, strident Neapolitan voices rose in the court.
A man, a workman, stopped near the shoeblack; he might have been
thirty-five, but he was wan, and his eyes were dull; his jacket was
thrown over his shoulder, showing a coloured calico shirt.
'Do you want a shine?' the bootblack asked mechanically, laying down
his list of numbers.
'Just so,' replied the other, grinning; '_I_ want a shine. If I
had another half-penny, I would have played a last ticket at Donna
Caterina's to-day.'
'The _small_ game?' asked the shoeblack in a whisper.
'Yes, a little for the Government and a little to Donna Caterina.
They are all thieves--all thieves,' the workman afterwards added,
chewing his black stump of a cigar, and shaking his head with a look
of great distrust.
'You have taken a half-holiday to-day?'
'I never go there on Saturday,' said the other, giving a sickly
smile. 'I go to look for Fortune; I must find her some Saturday
morning!'
'When do you get your week's money?'
'Eh!' he said, shrugging his shoulders--'generally on Fridays: I have
nothing to get.'
'How do you manage to gamble?'
'One can always get it for gambling. Donna Caterina's sister--she of
the _small_ game--lends money.'
'Does she take big interest?'
'A sou for each franc every week.'
'Not bad--not bad,' said the shoeblack, with a convinced look.
'I have seventy-five francs to give her,' said the glove-cutter.
'Every Monday there is a storm. She waits for me outside the factory
door, shouting and swearing. She is really a witch, Michele. But what
can I do? One day or other I will take a _terno_, and I will pay her.'
'What will you do with the rest of your winnings?' Michele asked,
laughing.
'I know what I will do,' cried Gaetano, the cutter. 'In new clothes,
a pheasant's feather in my cap, in a carriage with bells, we will all
go to amuse ourselves at the Due Pulcinelli, at Campo di Marte.'
'Or at Figlio di Pietro, at Posellipo.'
'At Asso di coppe, at Portici.'
'Inn after inn.'
'Meat and macaroni.'
'And Monte di Procida wine.'
'Just so, one only lives once,' the glove-cutter philosophically
concluded, pulling his jacket up on his shoulder.
'I don't get into debt,' the shoeblack added, after a minute's
silence.
'Lucky you!'
'I would get no one to lend me a sou, anyhow. But I play everything.
I have no family; I can do what I like.'
'Lucky you!' Gaetano repeated, with a troubled look.
'Three sous for a sleeping-place, five or six for food,' went on the
shoeblack, 'and who says a word to me? I did not want to marry; I had
a rage for gambling: it stands in place of everything.'
'May he that invented marriage be hanged!' blasphemed Gaetano,
getting clay colour.
Four o'clock was approaching, and the Impresa court filled up with
people. In that space of a hundred metres was a crowd of common
people pressed together, chattering in a lively way or waiting in
resigned silence, looking up to the first-floor at the covered
balcony, where the lottery drawing was to come off. But all was shut
up above, even the wooden shutters, behind the glass of the great
balcony. As other people came up continually, the crowd reached to
the wall of the court even. Women that were pushed back had squatted
on the first steps of the stair; others, more bashful, hid under
the balcony among the pillars that held it up, leaning against a
shut stable door. Another woman, still young, but with a pallid,
worn, fascinating face, rather strange, melancholy black eyes,
hollow-rimmed, and thick black locks loose on her neck, had climbed
on a stone left in the courtyard, perhaps from the time the palace
was built or restored. She looked very thin in her dyed black gown,
that went in folds over her lean breast; she was swinging one foot
in a broken, out-at-heel shoe, pulling up on her shoulders now and
then a wretched little shawl, dyed also. She overlooked the crowd,
gazing at it with downcast, sad eyes. It was almost entirely composed
of poor people--cobblers who had shut up their bench in the dens
they lived in, had rolled their leather aprons round their waists:
in shirt-sleeves, cap over the eyes, they pondered in their minds
the numbers they had played, slightly moving their lips; servants
out of place, who, instead of trying for a master, used up the last
shilling from the pawned winter coat, dreaming of the _terno_ that
from servants would make them into masters, whilst an impatient
frown crossed the gray faces, where the beard, no longer shaven,
grew in patches. There were hackney coachmen, who had left their cab
in the care of a friend, brother, or son, waiting patiently, hands
in pocket, with the stolidity of a cabman used to waiting hours for
a hire; there were letters of furnished rooms, hirers of servants,
who in summer, with all the strangers and students gone, sat pining
in their chairs under the board that forms their whole shop, at the
corners of San Sepolcro Lane, Taverna Penta, Trinità degli Spagnuoli;
having played a few sous taken from their daily bread, they came to
hear the lottery drawn, being unemployed--and lazy. There were hands
at humble Neapolitan trades, who, leaving the factory, warehouse,
or shop, giving up their hard, badly-paid work, clutching in their
worn-out waistcoat pocket the five sous ticket, or bundle of numbers
at the _little game_, had come to pant over that dream that might
become a reality. There were still more unlucky people--that is to
say, all those who in Naples do not live by the day even, but by the
hour, trying a hundred trades, good at all, but unable, unluckily, to
find safe remunerative work; unfortunates without home or shelter,
shamefully torn and dirty, they had given up their bread that day to
play a throw. One read in their faces the double marks of fasting and
extreme abasement.
Some women were noticeable among the crowd--slovenly women, of
no particular age, nor beauty; servants out of place, desperate
gamblers' wives, who gambled themselves, dismissed workwomen, and
among them all Carmela's pale, fascinating face, the girl seated on
the stone--a faded face with big, tired eyes. Later on, as the hour
for the drawing got near, and the noise increased, among the few gray
women's faces and torn calico dresses, discoloured from too frequent
washings, quite a different woman's face showed. She was a tall,
strong woman of the lower class, with a high-coloured dark face; her
chestnut hair was drawn back, elaborately dressed--the fringe on her
narrow forehead had even a touch of powder; and heavy earrings of
uneven, round, greeny-white pearls pulled down her ears, so that she
had had to secure them by a black silk string, fearing they would
break the lobes; a gold necklace and a thick gold medallion hung
over the white muslin vest, all embroidered and tucked with lace.
She pulled up a transparent black silk crape shawl on her shoulders
every now and then, to show her hands, which were covered with thick
gold rings up to the second joint. Her eye was grave and quiet, with
a slight look of quiet audacity, her mouth settled and severe; but on
going through the crowd, on her way to sit on the third step of the
stair, to see and hear better, she kept that bend of the head, rather
coquettish and mysterious, peculiar to the Neapolitan lower class,
and the swaying of her body under the shawl that a Naples woman
dressed in the French fashion soon loses. Still, in spite of the
natural sympathy that womanly figure inspired among the crowd, there
was almost a hostile murmur and something like an indignant movement.
She shrugged her shoulders disdainfully, and sat alone, upright, on
the third step, keeping the shawl up on her shoulders, her ring-laden
hands crossed in front. The murmur went on here and there. She looked
at the crowd severely twice or thrice--rather proudly. The voices
ceased; the woman's eyelids fluttered, as if from gratified pride.
But, finally, over all the others--over Carmela, with her faded
face and great sad eyes; over Donna Concetta, with her ringed
fingers and powdered fringe, the handsome, healthy, rich Concetta,
the usurer, sister to Donna Caterina, the holder of the _small_
game--above the crowd in the court, entrance, and street, a woman's
form stood out, drawing at least one look from the people gathered
together. It was the woman on the first-floor of the Impresa Palace,
sitting sideways behind the balcony railings; one saw her profile
bending over the bright steel fittings of a Singer sewing-machine,
lifting her head now and then, whilst her foot, coming from under
a modest blue-and-white striped petticoat, beat evenly on the iron
pedal, regularly rising and falling. Among the stir of voices, the
conversations from one end of the court to the other, and stamping
of feet, the dull quaver of the sewing-machine was lost; but the
seamstress's figure stood out in profile on the balcony's gloomy
background, her hands pushing the bit of white linen under the
machine needle, her foot untiringly beating the pedal, her head
rising and bending over her work, with no ardour, but no weariness,
evenly on. A thin, rather pink cheek was shown in profile, and a
thick chestnut tress neatly arranged close to the nape of the neck,
the corner of a fine mouth, and the shade of long eyelashes thrown on
the cheeks, could also be seen. During the hour the crowd was pouring
into the court, the young seamstress had not looked down twice,
giving a short indifferent glance and lowering her head again, taking
the piece of linen slowly along in her hands, so that the seam should
be quite straight. Nothing distracted her from her work--neither
angry voice or lively remarks, nor the noise or the increasing
trampling of the crowd; she had never looked at the covered balcony,
where in a short time the drawings would be called out. The people
from below stared at the delicate, industrious white sewer, but she
went on with her work as if not even an echo of that half-covered,
half-open excitement came up to her; she seemed so far off, so
reserved, so wrapped up in a quite detached, different world, that
one could fancy her more a statue than a reality--more of an ideal
figure than a living woman.
But all at once a long shout of satisfaction burst out from the
crowd in all varieties of tone, rising to the most stridulent and
going down to the deepest note: the big balcony on the terrace
had opened. The people waiting in the road tried to get in at the
entrance, those standing there crushed into the court; it was quite
a squeeze, all faces were raised, seized by burning curiosity and
anguish. A great silence followed. Looking keenly, one could see
by the moving of some woman's lips that she was praying, whilst
Carmela, the girl with the attractive, worn face and very sad black
eyes, played with a black string tied round her neck that had a
medallion of our Lady of Sorrows and a forked bit of coral. There
was universal silence of expectation and stupor. On the terrace two
Royal Lottery ushers had arranged a long narrow table covered with
green cloth, and three armchairs behind it for the three authorities
to sit in--a Councillor of the Prefecture, the Lottery Director at
Naples, and a representative of the municipality. The urn for the
ninety numbers was placed on another little table. It is a big urn,
made of transparent metal, lemon-shaped, with brass bands going from
one end to the other, surrounding it as the meridian line goes round
the earth: these shining bands make it strong without spoiling its
transparency. The urn is slung in the air between two brass pegs;
a metal handle by one, when touched, makes the urn twist round on
its axis. The two ushers who had brought out all these things to
the terrace were old, rather bent, and sleepy-looking. The three
authorities, in great-coats and tall hats, seemed bored and sleepy
too, sitting behind the table; the Prefecture Councillor, with his
deep, black dyed moustaches, was drowsy: he looked as if he had
touched them in in brown on his sleepy dark face; it was the same
with the secretary, a youth with a dark beard. These folk moved
slowly, like automatons, so that a common man from the crowd called
out, 'Move on! move on!' Silence again, but a great wave of emotion
when the little boy who was to take the numbers out of the urn
appeared on the balcony.
He was a boy dressed in the gray poor-house uniform, a poor little
fellow from the _serraglio_, as the Naples folk call these deserted
creatures' asylum, a poor _serragliuolo_ with no father nor mother, a
son of parents who from cruelty or want had deserted their offspring.
Helped by one of the ushers, the little boy put on a white woollen
tunic over his uniform and a white cap, because lottery superstition
requires the little innocent to wear innocence's white dress. He
climbed nimbly on to a stool, so as to stand as high as the urn.
Below, the crowd tossed about: 'Pretty lad, pretty lad!' 'May you be
blessed!' 'I commend myself to you and to St. Joseph!' 'The Virgin
bless your hand!' 'Blessed, blessed!' 'Holy and old--live to be holy
and old!' Everyone said something, good wishes, blessings, requests,
pious invocations, prayers. The child was silent, looking from him,
his little hand resting on the urn's metal net. At a little distance,
leaning against the balcony rail, was another _serraglio_ child,
very serious, in spite of his pink cheeks and fair hair cut on the
forehead. It was the little boy who was to take out the numbers next
Saturday; he came to learn, to get used to the working of the urn and
the people's shouts. No one cared about him--it was the one dressed
in white for that day to whom all the numerous exclamations were
addressed; it was the innocent little soul in white that made that
crowd of distracted beings smile tenderly, that brought tears to the
eyes of those who hoped in Fortune only. Some women had raised their
own boys in their arms, and held them out to the _serragliuolo_. The
tender, agitated, distressed voices went on: 'He looks like a little
St. John, really!' 'May you always find grace, if you do me this
favour!' 'Mother's darling, how sweet he is!' Suddenly there was a
diversion. One of the ushers took a number to put into the urn; he
showed it unfolded to the people, called it out in a clear voice, and
passed it to the three authorities, who cast a distracted eye over
it. One of the three, the Prefecture Councillor, shut up the number
in a round box; the second usher passed it to the white-robed child,
who threw it quickly into the urn, into its small open mouth. At
every number that was called out there were remarks, shrieks, grins,
and laughter. The people gave each number its meaning, taken from
the 'Book of Dreams,' or from the 'Smorfia,' or that popular legend
that grows without books or pictures. There were shouts of laughter,
coarse jokes, frightened or hopeful ejaculations--all accompanied by
a dull noise, as if it was the minor chord of the tempest.
'Two.'
'A baby girl.'
'The letter.'
'Bring me out this letter, sir.'
'Five.'
'The hand.'
'... in the face of him who ill-wished me.'
'Eight.'
'That is the Virgin--the Virgin.'
But as every tenth number, enclosed within its little round gray box,
was thrown into the urn by the _serragliuolo_, the second usher shut
its mouth and turned the handle, giving it a spin on its axis that
made the numbers roll round, dance, and jump. From below there were
cries of:
'Spin, turn it round, old man.'
'Another spin for me.'
'Give me full measure.'
The Cabalists did not speak, they did not even look at the urn
spinning: the innocent babe was nothing to them, the meaning of
the numbers, nor the slow lively twirl of the big urn; for them
the Cabal is everything, the obscure but still transparent Cabal,
great, powerful, imperious Fate that knows all, and does all, without
any power, human or divine, being able to oppose it. They alone
kept silence, thoughtful, absorbed, disdaining that loud popular
rejoicing, wrapped up in a spiritual, mystical world, waiting with
deep confidence.
'Thirteen.'
'... that means the candles.'
'... the thick candle, the torch. Let us put out the torch!'
'... put it out--put it out!' the chorus echoed.
'... twenty-two.'
'... the madman!'
'... the little silly!'
'... like you.'
'... like me.'
'... like him that plays the small game--_alla bonafficiata_.'
The people got excited. Long shivers went through the crowd; it
swayed about as if it was moved by the sea. Women especially got
nervous, convulsive; they clutched the babies in their arms so hard
as to make them grow pale and cry. Carmela, seated on the high
stone, crumpled the Virgin's medallion and the forked coral in her
hand; the usurer, Donna Concetta, forgot to pull up the black crape
shawl, which fell over her heavy hips, while her lips gave a slight
convulsive flutter. No one cared any more about the sewing-machine's
dull quaver nor the industrious white sewer. The Naples folks'
feverishness got higher and higher as the dream that was to become
a reality got nearer, getting a livelier, longer sensation when a
popular, a lucky number was drawn.
Thirty-three!
These are Christ's years!
_His_ years.
'... this comes out.'
'... it will not come out.'
'... you will see that it will.'
'Thirty-nine!'
'... the hanged rogue!'
'... take him by the throat--by the throat!'
'... so I ought to see what I said.'
'... squeeze him--squeeze him!'
Unmoved, the authorities, the ushers, the boy in white, went on with
their work as if all this popular noise did not reach their ears;
only the other infant, new to all that extraordinary sight, looked
down from the railing, stupefied, pale, with swollen red lips, as if
he wanted to cry--an unconscious, amazed little soul amid the storm
of deep human passion. The business on the platform went on with the
greatest calm; as every new tenth number was put into the urn, the
usher made it twirl longer, making the little balls jump in a lively
way inside the open network. Not a word nor a smile was exchanged up
there: the fever stayed at the height of the people in the court, it
did not rise to the first floor. Down there the gravest people now
laughed convulsively, in a subdued way, shaking their heads as if the
infection had seized them in its most violent form. The affair seemed
to be hurrying to the end. Renewed shouts received seventy-five,
which is Punch's number, and seventy-seven, the devil's; but loud,
drawn-out applause saluted the ninetieth, the last number, partly
because it was the last, also ninety is a very lucky number: it means
fear, also the sea; it means the people too; it has five or six other
meanings, all popular. All in the court cheered, men, women, and
children, at the great ninety, which is the omega of the lottery.
Then all at once, like enchantment, a great silence fell: these faces
and forms all kept motionless, and the great excited crowd seemed
petrified in feelings, words, gestures and expression.
The first usher, the one who called out the ninety numbers, brought
a long, narrow wooden board with five empty squares to the railing,
such as bookmakers use on a race-course, whilst the other gave the
urn its last twirl with all ninety numbers in it. The board was
turned towards the crowd. Then the Councillor rang a bell; the urn
stopped; another usher put a bandage over the white-clad infant's
eyes; he slowly put his little hand into the open urn and searched
for a minute only, quickly drawing out a ball with a number. Whilst
the ball passed from hand to hand, a deep, dull, anguished sigh came
out of those petrified bosoms down there.
'Ten!' shouted the usher, putting it quickly in the first square.
A murmur and agitation among the crowd; all those who had hopes of
the first drawing were disappointed. Another ring of the bell; the
child put in its slender hand the second time. 'Two!' shouted the
usher, announcing the number taken out and putting it into the second
square. Some muttered oaths mingled with the rising murmur; all
those who had played the second drawing were disappointed, and those
who had hoped to take four numbers, those who had played the great
_terno_ in one, greatly feared to come out badly, so much so that,
when the lad's small hand went into the urn the third time, someone
called out in anguish:
'Search well; make a good choice, child.'
'Eighty-four!' shouted the usher, calling out the number and placing
it in the third space. Here an indignant yell burst out, made up
of oaths, lamentations, angry cries. This third number, being bad,
was decisive for the drawing and the gamblers. With eighty-four,
the hopes of all those who had played the first, second, and third
drawing were frustrated; all those who had played the five sequence,
fourths, the two treys, or these doubled, which is the hope and
joy of Naples folk, hope and desire of all desperate players,
and those that only play once on chance, saw they had missed it.
The _terno_ is the essential word of all these longings, needs,
necessities, and miseries. A chorus of curses arose against bad
luck, evil fate, against the lottery and those who believe in it,
against the Government, against that bad boy with such unlucky hands.
_'Serragliuolo! Serragliuolo!_' was shouted from below, to insult
him, and fists were shaken at him. The little one did not turn to
look; he stood motionless, with his eyes down. Some minutes passed
between the third and fourth numbers; it happened so every week. The
third number brought the frightful expression of the infinite popular
disappointment. 'Seventy-five,' the usher said in a feebler voice,
putting the number drawn in the fourth space. Among the angry voices
that would not be soothed, some hisses sounded revengefully. Abuse
poured on the child's head, but the greatest curses were against
the lottery, where one could never win, never, where everything is
arranged so that no one ever wins, especially against poor people.
'Forty-three,' the usher called out for the last time, placing the
fifth and last number. A last gust of rage among the people--nothing
more. In a minute all the cold lottery machinery disappeared from
the terrace: the children, the three authorities, the urn with the
eighty-five numbers and its pedestal, tables, chairs, and ushers, all
went out of sight, the glass and shutters of the great balcony were
shut in a minute; only the cruel board remained, straight against the
balustrade, with its five numbers--these, these, the great misfortune
and delusion!
Very slowly and unwillingly the crowd cleared out of the court. On
those most excited by gambling passions the wind of desolation had
blown, and overthrown them all. They felt as if their arms and legs
were broken; their mouth had a bitter taste from anger. Those who
that morning had played all their money, feeling no need of eating,
drinking, nor smoking, feeding themselves with vivid visions of
Cockaigne, dreaming for that Saturday evening, Sunday, and all the
days following, quite a bellyful of fat, rich dinners, tasting them
in their imagination, held their hands feebly in their empty pockets.
One could read in their desolate eyes the childish physical grief of
the first pangs of hunger; and they had not, knew they could not get,
bread to quiet their stomachs. Others, the maddest, fallen from the
height of their hopes in a minute, experienced that long movement of
mad anguish in which people will not, cannot, believe in bad luck.
Their eyes had that wandering look that sees the shape of things no
longer; their lips stammered incoherent words. It was these desperate
fools who still kept their eyes on the board with the numbers, as if
they could not yet convince themselves of the truth, and mechanically
compared them with the long list of their tickets. The Cabalists,
to conclude, did not go away yet; they held discussions among
themselves, like so many philosophers or logicians, still wrapped
up in lottery mathematics, where dwell the _figure_, the _cadenze_,
the _triple_, the algebraic explanation of the _quadrato Maltese_,
and Rutilio Benincasa's immortal lucubrations. But with those who
went away, as with those who stayed, nailed to the spot by their
excitement; those who discussed it violently, as with those who bent
their heads, deadly white, courage all gone, without strength to move
or think, the form of the desolation varied, but the substance of it
was the same--deep, intense, making the inward fibres bleed, tending
to destroy the very springs of life.
Michele, the lame shoeblack, still seated on the ground, with his
black box between his crooked legs, had heard the drawing without
getting up, hidden behind people who pressed around him. Now, while
the crowd was slowly going off, he hung down his head, and the yellow
shade of his rickety old face got green, as if all his bile had gone
to his brain.
'Have you got nothing?' asked a dull voice beside him.
He raised his gray eyes with pink lids mechanically and saw Gaetano,
the glove-cutter, who showed in his chalky face the depression of
disappointed hopes.
'No, nothing,' said the shoeblack shortly, lowering his eyes.
'There is nothing for me, either. If you have a few sous for a
combination, old fellow, I will give them back on Monday.'
'Where could I get them? If you get hold of ten, we could make up
five each,' the shoeblack muttered desperately.
'Good-bye, old fellow! Good-bye!' said the glove-cutter in a rough
voice.
While Gaetano was going off under the gateway, Donna Concetta came
alongside of him, slow and grave, her eyes down, the gold chain
waving on her breast and ringed fingers.
'Have you won nothing, Gaetano?' she asked with a slight smile.
'I have been hit by an arrow!' shouted he, provoked to be so near
the usurer, who reminded him of all his wretchedness, annoyed by her
question at such a moment.
'All right--all right,' she returned coldly. 'We see each other on
Monday--don't forget.'
'I don't forget; I keep you in my heart like the Virgin,' he called
out, alongside of her, in a hissing voice.
She shook her head as she went off. She did not come there for her
own interests, because she never gambled; nor even to worry some of
her debtors, like Gaetano. She came in her sister's interest, Donna
Caterina, the holder of the _small game_, for she dared not show in
public. Donna Caterina told her sister which numbers she dreaded
most--that is to say, those she had played most on, for which she
would have to pay the largest sums. Then Donna Concetta sent off a
lad to her sister, who quickly made off, so as to pay no one. Three
times already she had gone bankrupt so, with the gamblers' money in
her pocket. She had fled once to Santa Maria, at Capua, once to
Gragnano, once to Nocera dei Pagani, staying there two months. She
had had the courage to come back and face the cheated gamblers, using
audacity with some and giving a few sous to others, beginning the
game again, while the robbed, cheated, and disappointed gamblers came
back to her, incapable of denouncing her, seized by the fever again,
or kept in awe by Donna Concetta, to whom they all owed money. So the
concern went on. The money passed from one sister to another--from
the one who held the bank and knew how to fail in time, to the
money-lender who was daring enough to face the worst-intentioned of
her debtors. Nor was her flight looked on as a crime, as cheating, by
Donna Caterina and her customers; for did not the Government do the
same thing, perhaps, on a larger scale? A gift of six million francs
has been settled for each drawing for every _ruota_ of eight: when,
by a very rare combination, the winnings go above six millions, does
not the Government fail too, making the entire profits smaller?
But that day there was no need for Donna Caterina to fail, to make
off; the numbers drawn were so bad, perhaps not one of her clients
had won; and Donna Concetta climbed up the Chiara way very easily,
not hurrying at all, knowing it was a desolate Saturday for all
gambling Naples, getting ready for her battle of usury on Monday. All
these unhappy creatures with broken hopes passed near her; she shook
her head wisely over human aberrations, and clutched the hem of her
crape shawl in her ringed fingers. A woman who was coming quickly
down the street, dragging a little boy and girl behind her, and
carrying a baby, touched her in passing on her way into the Impresa
court, where some people were still lingering. She was very poorly
dressed; her calico skirt was so frayed and dirty it filled one with
pity and disgust, and she had a ravelled woollen shawl round her
neck; her face was so lean and worn, her teeth so black, and hair so
sparse, that the children, who were neither ragged nor dirty, looked
as if they did not belong to her. The sucking child only was rather
slight--it laid its head on her shoulder to sleep; but the poor thing
was so agitated she did not notice it. Seeing Carmela, her sister,
still seated on the high stone, her hands loose in her lap, and head
sunk on the breast, all alone, as if petrified in speechless grief,
she went up to her, and said:
'Carmela!'
'Good-day, Annarella,' said Carmela, starting, giving a sickly smile.
'Are you here too?' she asked in a sad, surprised tone.
'Yes, I came,' Carmela answered, with a resigned gesture.
'Have you seen my husband, Gaetano?' Annarella asked anxiously,
letting the baby's head slide from her shoulder to her arm, so that
it could sleep more comfortably.
Carmela raised her big eyes to her sister's face, but seeing her so
dishevelled and ugly from privation and misery, so old already, so
doomed to illness and death, asking the question so despairingly, she
dared not tell her the truth. Yes, she had seen her brother-in-law
Gaetano, the glove-cutter; she had first seen him trembling and
anxious, thin, pale and downcast, but she felt too sorry for her
sister, the delicate, sleeping baby, and the other two who were
gazing around them, and she lied.
'I have not seen him at all.'
'He must have been here,' Annarella muttered in her rough drawl.
'I assure you he was not here, really.'
'You will not have seen him,' Annarella repeated, obstinate in
her sad incredulity. 'How could he not come? He comes here every
Saturday. He might not be at home with his little ones; he might not
be at the glove factory, where he can earn bread; but he can't be
anywhere else than here on Saturday to hear the numbers come out:
here is his ruling passion and his death.'
'He plays a lot, doesn't he?' said Carmela, who had grown pale and
had tears in her eyes.
'All that he can spare and more than he has got. We might live very
well, without asking anything from anyone; but instead, with his
_bonafficiata_, we are full of debts and mortifications; we only eat
now and then, when I bring in something. These poor little things!'
Her voice was so broken with maternal agony that Carmela's tears
fell, overcome by infinite pity. Now they were almost alone in the
court.
'Why do you come to hear this lottery drawn?' Annarella asked,
suddenly enraged against all those that play.
'What am I to do?' said the other in her sweet, broken voice. 'You
know I would like to see you all happy, mother, and you, Gaetano,
your babies, and my lover Raffaele--and somebody else. You know
your cross is mine, that I have not an hour's peace thinking of what
you suffer. So all that is over of my earnings I play: the Lord must
bless me some day or other. I must get a _terno_ then; then I'll give
it all to you.'
'Poor sister!' said Annarella, with melancholy tenderness.
'That day must come--it must,' she whispered passionately, as if
speaking to herself, as if she already saw that happy day.
'May an angel pass and say _amen_,' Annarella murmured, kissing her
baby's forehead. 'Where can Gaetano be?' she went on, care coming
back.
'Say truly,' begged Carmela, getting down from the stone on her way
off, 'you have nothing to give the children to-day?'
'Nothing,' was the answer in that feeble voice.
'Take this half-franc, take it,' said the other, pulling it out of
her pocket and giving it to her.
'God reward you.'
They looked at each other with such mutual pity that only shame of
the passers-by kept them from bursting into sobs.
'Good-bye!'
'Good-bye, Carmela!'
The suffering girl kissed the baby softly. Annarella, with the
languid step of a woman who has had too many children and worked
too hard, went off by the Santa Chiara cloister, pulling her two
other little ones behind her. Carmela, pulling her discoloured shawl
round her, dragging her down-at-heel shoes, went down towards Banchi
Nuovi. It was just there a cleanly-dressed youth, his trousers tight
at the knees and wide as bells over the ankle, with a neat jacket,
and hat over one ear, stopped her with the look of his clear, cold,
light-blue eyes, biting lips, as red as a girl's, under his fair
little moustache. Stopping before she spoke to him, Carmela looked
with such intense passion on the young fellow she seemed to wish to
enfold him in an atmosphere of love. He did not seem to notice it.
'Well, have you won anything?' he asked in a hissing little ironical
voice.
'Nothing,' said she, opening her arms desolately. She held down her
head so as not to weep, looking at the point of her shoes, which had
lost their varnish and showed the dirty lining through a split.
'How do you account for that?' the young fellow cried out angrily. 'A
woman is always a woman!'
'Is it my fault if the numbers won't come out?' the love-lorn girl
said humbly and sadly.
'You should look out for the good ones. Go to Father Illuminato that
knows them, and only tells women; go to Don Pasqualino, he that the
good spirits help to find out the right numbers. Get it out of your
head, my girl, that I can marry a ragged one like you.'
'I know--I know!' she muttered humbly. 'Say no more about it.'
'You seem to forget it. Masses are not sung without money. Let us say
good-bye.'
'Won't you come this evening?' she dared to ask.
'I have something to do. I must go with a friend. Send me a couple of
francs.'
'I have only one,' she exclaimed, quite red and mortified, taking it
out of her pocket.
'May you die in want!' he cursed, chewing his stump of Naples cigar.
'Give it here! I will try to arrange my affairs better.'
'Won't you pass by the house?' she begged with her eyes.
'If I do pass, it will be very late.'
'It does not matter; I'll wait for you on the balcony,' she said,
persisting in her humiliation.
'I can't stop.'
'Well, give a whistle. I'll hear you, and sleep quieter, Raffaele.
What trouble will it be to whistle in passing?'
'All right,' he agreed indulgently. 'Good-bye, Carmela!'
'Good-bye, Raffaele!'
She stopped to look at him as he went away quickly in the direction
of Madonna dell' Aiuto. The patent-leather shoes creaked as the youth
walked in the proud way peculiar to the lower-class _guappi_.
'May the Virgin bless every step you take,' the girl said to herself
tenderly as she went off. But as she went along she felt discouraged
and weak. All the bitterness of that deceptive day, the sorrow she
bore for others' grief--for her mother, a servant at sixty; for
her sister, who had no bread for her children; her brother-in-law,
who was going to ruin; her affianced, that she would have liked to
make rich and happy as a lord, and who never had a franc in his
pockets--all these sorrows, and still deeper ones, the greatest of
all, the most afflicting grief, her own powerlessness, poured into
her mind, her whole being. It was not enough for her to work at
that nauseating trade at the tobacco factory for seven days a week;
that she had not a decent dress to wear, nor a pair of whole shoes,
so that she was coldly looked on at the factory. She fasted four
times a week to give her mother a franc, Raffaele two, her sister
Annarella half a franc; what was over went to the lottery. It was no
use, she never could do anything for those she loved; her hard work,
wretchedness, hunger, did no one any good.
She felt so miserable as she went down San Giovanni Maggiore steps
at Mezzocannone, getting nearer as she was to her saddest charge,
that she could have killed herself for being so helpless and useless.
Still, she went on into an out-of-the-way court in the Mercanti,
that looked like a servants' yard, then stopped and leant against
the wall as if she could go no further. It was a dirty place, with
greasy water, fruit-skins, and a woman's broken old hat thrown into
a corner. Three windows of the first-floor had half-open green
jalousies, just letting in a ray of light--mean little windows and
faded jalousies, on which dust, rain, and the sun had left their
mark; then a little doorway, with a damp step broken to bits, and a
narrow black passage like a gutter. Carmela looked inside, her eyes
wide open from curiosity and fear. Rather an old woman, a servant,
came out, holding up her skirt not to dirty it in the gutter. Carmela
knew her, evidently, for she turned to her frankly:
'Donna Rosa, will you call Filomena?'
The woman looked to see who it was; then, without going into the
house again, she called from the courtyard towards the first-floor
windows:
'Filomena! Filomena!'
'Who is it?' a hoarse voice answered from inside.
'Your sister wants you--come down.'
'I am coming,' said the voice more gently.
'Thanks, Donna Rosa,' said Carmela.
'Glad to serve you,' said the other briefly as she went off.
Filomena kept her waiting two or three minutes; then a regular beat
of wooden heels came along the passage, and she appeared. She wore
a white muslin skirt, with a high flounce of white embroidery, a
cream woollen bodice, much trimmed with knots of velvet ribbon at
the wrists and waist. She had a pink chenille shawl round her
neck; patent-leather shoes with high heels, and red silk stockings
showed under the skirt. In face she was like both her sisters, but
her well-dressed hair, with light shell pins, and the rouge on her
colourless cheeks, made one forget the likeness to Annarella, and
made her much more attractive than Carmela. The two sisters did not
kiss nor shake hands, but they gave each other so intense a look that
it sufficed for everything.
'How are you?' asked Carmela in a trembling voice.
'I am well,' said Filomena, shaking her head, as if her health did
not matter. 'How is mother?'
'Just as an old woman always is.... Poor mother!'
'How is Annarella?'
'She is full of trouble....'
'Wretched, eh?'
'Yes, she is wretched.'
They both sighed deeply as they looked at each other; a blush and a
pallor altered their faces.
'I bring you bad news to-day, too, Filomena,' Carmela said at last.
'Have you won nothing?' Filomena asked.
'No, nothing!'
'My luck is bad,' Filomena said. 'I have made many vows to the
Virgin--not, indeed, to the Immaculate one; I am not even worthy to
name her--but to our Lady of Sorrows, who understands and pities my
disgrace; but nothing has come.'
'Our Lady of Sorrows will grant us this grace,' Carmela said softly.
'Let us hope that next Saturday----'
'We will hope so,' the other answered humbly.
'Good-bye, Filomena!'
'Good-bye, Carmela!'
Filomena turned her back and disappeared into the passage, her wooden
heels making her steps rhythmical; then Carmela was going to rush
after her to call her, but she was already in the house. The girl
went off, wrapping herself convulsively in her shawl, biting her
lips not to sob. All the other bitternesses--all, even going without
bread--were nothing in comparison to what she left behind: that came
by itself, a constant poison, an eternal shame, to her heart.
* * * * *
At half-past five the Impresa court was quite empty and silent; no
one came in, not even to look at that solitary board with the five
numbers: they had already been put up at all the lottery-shops in
Naples; there was a group of people before each, all through the
town. No one went into the Impresa court; the crowd would only come
back in seven days. Then there was a noise of footsteps. It was the
lottery usher, leading the two poor-house children by the hand--the
one who had drawn the numbers, and he who was to draw them next
Saturday. The usher was taking them back to the asylum, where he
would leave the twenty francs, the weekly payment the Royal Lottery
gives to the child that draws the numbers. The two boys trod on each
other's heels behind the usher, chattering gaily. The white sewer,
working at her machine, raised her head and smiled at them. Then
she began to beat her foot on the pedal and pull the bit of linen
straight under the needle; she went on quietly, indefatigably, a pure
humble image of labour.