THE CONFECTIONER'S SHOP BANKRUPT
Cesare and Luisella Fragalà had shut the shop that rainy summer
evening at nine o'clock, half an hour earlier than usual, because
with that bad weather, that boisterous, warm scirocco wind, which
made the hot rain whirl round, few people were in the streets, and
no one would come out to buy coffee, a bottle of brandy, or a fancy
chocolate-box, at that hour in the storm. Only some purchaser of a
penny-worth of cough-lozenges came in occasionally, bringing in a
puff of wind into the hot shop, dirtying the marble floor with his
wet shoes. The evening had been unsuccessful, like the rest of the
summer.
Luisella, who was suffering from low spirits, had not had the courage
even to go to Santo Jorio for country quarters; it is one of the
villages round Naples favoured by the towns-folk. She saw too many
clouds coming down on her family peace, just as in the Naples skies,
to dare to go from home and leave the shop. The humble pride of a
rich tradesman's wife who stays at home with her children and does
not think about the shop was all over. She left Rossi Palazzo, that
had been the joy of her middle-class ambition, early, only to come
back at the dinner-hour, go out again at once, and just come back in
the evening to sleep. It was quite another affair from staying with
the children.
Little Agnesina, who was three years old now, was a florid, quiet,
well-behaved little creature, and often came to see her mother in the
shop. She did not ask for sweets or tarts, but, hidden behind the
tall counter, she cut out silently those slips of paper that are put
like cotton-wool between one sweet and another in the boxes sent to
country places. Agnesina made herself useful without making any noise
or giving trouble, so that she should not be sent away nor be left
at home with the cook and housemaid, who were always bickering. The
mother, when she weaned her, would have liked to indulge in a nurse,
a Tuscan by preference, so that she should not learn the Naples
dialect; but just as she was going to get one, on thinking it over,
she felt the subtle bitterness of a presentiment, and gave up the
idea. The little girl would have grown up with no training; so, not
to be separated so long nor see her unhappy, Luisella allowed her to
be brought to the shop now and then.
When Agnesina saw her mother go away in the morning, she ran after
her, not crying nor yelling, not saying anything, just looking up
in a questioning way. The compassionate mother understood, and to
console her, seeing her so quiet and obedient, she made her a promise
she might come to the shop later on. That made the tiny arms let go,
quite satisfied, as if she had made up her mind to wait. When she
opened the big glass door, coming in in her plain cotton frock and
big straw hat, she smiled at her mother as if she was a big child
already. She silently went to put down her hat in the back-shop
without any outburst of greed, very happy to stay beside her mother
behind the high counter. Only her mother, after the moment of the
little one's arrival was over, got sad. She had never thought of
this, of coming to the shop every day for twelve hours to sell
caramels and chocolate, to fill paper bags and wooden boxes, always
to have to be ready to serve the public, whilst her little one cut
paper strips, not saying a word, as neatly as a big girl. She had
never dreamt her baby would be a shop-girl, too.
Luisella certainly did not despise a tradesman's life; but she would
have liked to be a house, and not a shop, keeper, a housewife,
and not a sweetmeat-seller. She had not dreamt of this. She would
have liked to sew white work, make her baby's clothes, teach her
something--carols at Easter and Christmas, the way to knit stockings,
sewing, embroidery, all that is the humble but glorious inheritance
of happy wives. But instead she spent her life in public with a
stereotyped smile on her lips, not able to say a word privately to
her husband and daughter, nor collect her thoughts a single moment.
She had taken up that duty of selling in the shop from feeling
the financial embarrassments her husband was in. It seemed to her
that the shop-lads robbed him, or that they had bad ways with the
customers--that, in short, there was need of a woman. For this she
gradually sacrificed her whole day. Now no source of commercial
aggrandisement was beyond her; while she was a zealous counter-up of
pence, she kept house on a still more economical footing always. That
was not enough, evidently, because her husband's low spirits began to
be still more frequent. It must have to do with large transactions,
buying sugar, flour, coffee, liqueurs--matters she could not go into.
Cesare kept them out of her reach purposely. Still, she knew the
price of goods, and it made her wonder the more at the discomfort
they were in. When Cesare, not able to hide the straits he was in,
ended by owning that he could not pay a bill, that he had not the
weekly money to pay the workmen in the bakeries, she raised her
eyebrows in sad surprise, saying:
'I cannot make it out. I do not see why we are so short of money.'
Cesare tried to humbug her, talking some nonsense about Customs and
colonial tariffs. He spoke vaguely about losses by some speculations
he was not responsible for, saying the whole trade was going to the
bad. So she, getting thoughtful, ended by saying:
'Then it would be better to shut up shop.'
'No, for goodness' sake, don't say that!' he cried out.
Ah! she had found out what her misfortune was in the end. Three or
four times, without intending it, she had discovered that Cesare was
not so honest as he used to be, that he told lies. This made her
start with fright, dreading worse evils. When they made up accounts
together, he said he had paid so much, at such a price, and it was
not true, or he had paid a part of it only. He had got to be a
bad payer. The two landlords of the flat and the shop complained
several times; they had their burdens, too; they could not wait so
long for their money. She had discovered this with a sharp, secret
anguish. When she questioned her husband severely, he got pale and
red, stammered, letting out his hidden sin by his whole attitude.
For a moment Luisella thought she was deserted for another woman,
and the flames of jealousy scorched her blood; but Cesare was always
so tender and loving, so sincerely and thoroughly in love with
his wife, that she was reassured. No, it was not that. She could
hardly make out at first what subtle, dissolving element melted
away the money in the house. She discovered that the increasing
debts were always getting fatally larger, from her husband's growing
absent-mindedness, in spite of the sad lies he told her. She could
not make out by what tiny wound the blood of the Fragalà house was
going drop by drop. It was in vain that the shop was successful, that
she did wonders in economy: the money disappeared all the same. She
felt a hollowness under the seeming solidity of their commerce; she
felt the incurable languor of a body losing all its blood. But she
saw no reason for it. It was not a woman, in so far; then who and
what was it? Only by dint of searching minutely and lovingly into
her husband's daily life had she ended by understanding what it was.
First of all, Cesare Fragalà had fallen into the habits of all keen
Cabalists; instead of tearing up the lottery tickets he played each
week, he was so foolish as to keep them, to compare and study them.
One day, in a jacket-pocket, Luisa found a whole sheaf, a week's
collection of lottery tickets, four or five hundred francs thrown
thus to the greedy Government, given to an impersonal, hateful being,
to try for an elusive fortune. Perhaps, in spite of the fright she
got then, amid the blaze of light that blinded her, she thought it
was the aberration of one week only. But Cesare was too simple about
deceiving, for her to go on thinking so. Luisa's clever eyes now
saw that Friday was a day of the greatest excitement with him. She
saw his nervousness in the early hours of Saturday, and the evening
depression. Now, Luisa's heart was divided by two sharp sorrows that
opposed each other: first, seeing their prosperity always flying
away, then finding Cesare to be a victim to an incurable moral fever.
That fatal period began with her when one may suffer from seeing
a loved one given over to a tragic passion, and yet dare not even
oppose his self-indulgence, or show one is aware of it. She was still
patient, for she disliked the idea of having a grand explanation with
her husband, of confronting him with his vice; she still hoped it
would be a fleeting fancy.
But, to dash her hopes, day after day she saw Don Pasqualino De Feo,
the medium, in the distance, circling round her husband continually,
trying not to let her see him; but she guessed he was there, as a
woman guesses her rival's presence. She felt the ill-omened, mean
beggar was in the back-lane, at the street corner, or under the
gateway waiting for Cesare, so as to draw more money out of him,
and incite him to gamble again by saying silly fantastic things for
Cesare to draw lottery numbers from, figures that would never come
out of the urn. Now and then, in spite of Don Pasqualino's prudence
that also seemed to be fear, Luisella found him at the doorway, or at
the street corner, and looked so coldly and disdainfully at him that
he cast down his eyes and went off in his awkward way like a man who
does not know what to do with his body. Once Cesare Fragalà named
Don Pasqualino De Feo before his wife, watching to see if her face
changed; her sweet, affable look went off: she got to have a cold
expression, and frowned. He dared not name the medium again. Indeed,
he had had to warn him of his wife's ill-will, so Don Pasqualino got
still more cautious; if he wanted to call Fragalà when he was at
business, he sent a newsboy from the Bianchi corner. But Luisella
found out whence these mysterious calls came also; she shook her head
as she saw her husband go out of the shop with an affectation of
carelessness.
The more the medium circled around, always dressed like a pauper,
still torn and dirty, always a sucker-up of money, of everything, the
more she felt her husband's rage for the lottery was not a temporary
caprice, but incurable vice. Now, on Friday nights, he came in
very late; she, pretending to sleep, heard quite well that he was
awake, uneasy, turning in his bed, knocking his head on the pillows.
Besides, while Cesare's fever did not go down, the shop's prosperity
did visibly. The wholesale dealers, seeing that Fragalà was always
asking for renewals of bills, or that he barely paid a part of
them, got suspicious; they put off sending the goods, they even got
to sending them on consignment, which is a grave proof of want of
confidence commercially, a thing that ruins a trader; for he has to
keep the goods in the Custom-house, not having money to take them
out. He goes on paying storage, knowing all the time that the things
are deteriorating.
The warning that Fragalà was not quite solvent must have run from
Napoli Square to other parts, for he began to find all doors shut if
he did not come money in hand; his having signed money-lenders' bills
spoilt his credit altogether. Still, his reputation and means stood
it so much the more that it was the reputation of all the Fragalàs
together. But that could not last. One final blow, and his commercial
standing would go also.
Now the bad summer season had come, with a scarcity of country
visitors, which caused a languor of all Naples' forces, a crisis
that went on increasing among all classes; for everyone lives off
strangers in that town of no commerce. It was no use for Luisella
Fragalà to give up her change to the country that year for the first
time; nothing had come of it. Goods were short in the storehouses
from the suspiciousness of dealers, and customers were still scarcer
from the bad weather.
Luisella could not manage to keep down her depression now; the pretty
young face had got to have a grave expression, her head was often
down on her breast. She thought and thought, as if her soul was
absorbed in a most difficult problem; for one thing, she saw that her
husband's mental malady was always getting worse. He was so sorrowful
at some moments, it wrung one's heart to look at him. Besides, the
bad weather affected her, too; all suffered from it, rich, well to
do, and poor, for in this great country everything radiates, joy as
well as grief, good fortune as well as bad. Now she had decided to
speak, to question her husband's heart, for the situation was getting
gradually worse, it was desperate; in a short time he would be ruined.
Being quite decided now in her loving, strong, womanly heart, having
made up her mind to act, she kissed her dear little one, who was so
quiet and prettily behaved, saying to herself she would speak, she
would bring out everything. Her life was already grievous from her
responsibilities as wife and mother; the gay, idyllic time was past
for ever, the long sad hour was come when she needed all her courage
to influence and convince Cesare. It was really a battle she intended
to hold that evening in the steamy shop, whilst the summer rain
rattled sadly outside.
It was Friday; still, for a wonder, Cesare Fragalà had not left the
shop that evening, as he had got into the habit of doing every week
at dusk, not to return till three in the morning, the time the last
lottery-shop shut. He went backwards and forwards nervously; twice
the usual newspaper boy had come to call him for Don Pasqualino:
he answered that the person must wait, because he was busy. Pale
and trembling, feeling she had got to an important crisis, his wife
followed, with a side-glance, her husband's wanderings. Outside, the
rain beat sadly on the windows, the gas-flame looked sickly.
'Shall we shut up shop now?' Fragalà said impatiently.
'It would be best, no doubt,' she said, with a slight sigh,
'especially as no one will be coming in.'
The two shopmen, helped by the porter and message-boy, made haste to
put up the iron gates, put out the outside gas, and give a general
cleaning up before going away by the little back-shop door in Bianchi
Lane. Quickly they said good-night and set off, one by one. The white
shop, its shelves brilliant with colour from the chocolate-boxes, was
now lit by one gas-jet only. Luisella was seated behind the counter,
as usual, and little Agnesina had gone to sleep in her chair, her
knees covered with shreds of paper. Cesare often disappeared into the
back-shop, as if he could get no peace. Neither of them could make up
their mind to speak, feeling that it was a grave crisis that they had
come to. She, above all, felt herself choking. It was he who spoke
first.
'Look here, Luisella,' he said, in a low voice: 'you know what a bad
season we have had.'
'Yes, a wretched one,' she muttered.
'It is a real disaster, I assure you, my dear--enough to make one
give up keeping shop. You carry out economies, I work hard ... and it
goes from bad to worse.'
'I know that,' she muttered again, as if tired of those grumbles.
'You cannot know the full extent of it ... you would have to deal
directly with the wholesale houses to know what ruin----'
'Come to the point,' she said, rather bitterly.
'Are you angry with me?' Cesare asked humbly.
'No, it is not that,' she replied, in a curious tone.
'Well, I want you to do me a favour--a great favour, so great I am
ashamed to ask it, even.'
'Say what it is,' she just uttered, keeping down the pained feeling
her husband's words caused her.
'I have a payment to make to-morrow morning....'
'To-morrow, in the morning, do you say?'
'Yes; it is a bill that falls due. I had forgotten it. It is a big
bill.'
'Still, you had forgotten it?'
'You know I have got rather confused lately ... in short, I must pay,
and I am not ready. I asked in vain for a renewal or if I might pay
part only. Everyone wants his money just now. I cannot pay, and there
is no money to be had.'
'Then, what is it that you want of me?' she said, looking coldly at
him.
'You could help me; you could get me out of this momentary
embarrassment. I will give you back the money at once.'
'I have no money.'
'You have some valuables. Those diamond earrings I gave you: they are
worth a great deal. One could get a lot for them.'
'Would you like to sell them?' said she, shutting her eyes as if she
saw something horrible.
'I would pledge them--just take them to the pawn-shop, only for a few
days. They will be redeemed at once.'
'Do you intend to pawn the diamond earrings?'
'And the star--the star Don Gennaro Parascandolo gave you,' he said
hurriedly, in an anxious tone.
She said nothing, just kept her head down and looked at the baby
quietly sleeping. Then, in a whisper, with an irrepressible shudder,
she said to her husband:
'You want to pawn my jewels so as to stake on the lottery.'
'That is not true!' he cried out.
'Do not tell lies. Can you say before me and your daughter that you
won't use the money for the lottery?'
'Do not speak to me like that, Luisella!' he stammered out, with
tears in his eyes.
'You want them to stake on the lottery with. Have the courage of your
vices; don't load your conscience with lies,' his wife answered with
the cruelty of desperation.
'It is not a vice, Luisa; it is for good ends I gambled, for good
motives, for your sake and Agnesina's.'
'A father of a family does not gamble.'
'It was to open the new shop in San Ferdinando Square. Seventy
thousand francs were needed for it, and I had not got it. You know
all our money is in use.'
'A family man ought not to play.'
'It was for the happiness of us all, Luisella. I swear to you,
believe me, it was because of my love for Agnesina.'
'You don't love her. If you cared for her, you would not gamble.'
'Luisella, don't humiliate me--don't make me out mean. Be kind. You
know how much I loved you--how I do love you!'
'It is not true. If you loved me, you would not gamble.'
He threw himself on an iron seat, leant his arms and head on a marble
table, and hid his face, not able to bear his wife's anger and his
own remorse. He felt great grief and sorrow, only surmounted by that
sharp, piercing need of money. With that agony he raised his head
again, and said:
'Luisella, if my honour is dear to you, don't force me to make a
poor figure to-morrow. Give me your jewels; I will give them back on
Monday.'
'Take the jewels; they belong to you,' she said slowly, with her eyes
down; 'but do not say you will give them back on Monday, because it
is not true. All gamblers lie like that, but pledged goods never come
back to the house. Take all the jewellery. What can I say against
your taking it? I was a poor girl with no dowry, and you, a rich
merchant, condescended to marry me, and gave me a higher position.
Should I not thank you for that all my life? Take everything; be
master of the house, of me and my daughter. To-day you will take the
jewels and stake them; next time you will take the best furniture,
the kitchen coppers, the house linen; it always goes on like that.
The Marquis di Formosa, too, who lives above us--has he not done
that? His daughter has not a bit of bread to put in her mouth now:
and if Dr. Amati did not help them secretly, both would die of
hunger. Who will help us when, in a year or six months, we are like
them? Who knows? Perhaps I will go mad, too, as the poor young lady
up there threatens to do. Her father makes her see spirits. It is a
scandal amongst all those who know her. But what are we women to do?
Fathers, husbands, are the masters. Take the diamonds, pawn them,
sell them, throw them into the gulf where your money has fallen and
is lost; I do not care for them now. They were my pride as a happy
wife. When I put them in my ears and hair, when I opened the casket
to look at them, I blessed your name, because, among other pleasures,
you had given me this. It is ended; it is all over. We are done with
pleasures now; we are at the last gasp.'
'Luisella, have some charity!' he screamed out, feeling his flesh and
soul burn from these red-hot words.
'Charity! we will soon be asking for it. The diamonds go to-day,
the other valuables next; then all, everything we possess, will
disappear. It will all be a flying dream,' she replied, looking in
front of her as if she already saw the frightful vision of their ruin.
'Still, I need them; it is necessary for me to take them!' he cried
out with the doleful persistence of a desperate man who only feels
his evil tendencies pushing him on.
'Who is denying you anything? Even Agnesina has pearl earrings. Put
them in; it will make a larger sum. Her cradle has antique lace on
it; Signora Parascandolo presented it to her. It is valuable. Take
it; it will bring up the sum.'
'Look here, Luisa,' her husband began saying pantingly, emotion
choking his utterance, 'I swear to you the money is not intended for
gambling; I would not have dared to ask it from you, a good woman, if
it was. You have such good reasons to despise me already. But it is a
debt for former stakes I made--a terrible debt to a money-lender. He
threatens to protest it to-morrow--to seize my goods. This cannot be
allowed to happen; a merchant whose bills are protested ought to die.'
'That is true,' she said, hanging her head.
'It may be,' he added after a short hesitation. 'Perhaps I would
have taken some of it to gamble with--just a little, only to try and
recoup myself--only for that, Luisella.'
'In short, you cannot keep from gambling!' his wife cried out in a
rage.
He trembled like a guilty boy, and did not answer.
'Can you not keep from it?' she asked again, attacked by a most
terrible fear.
'Look here, this is how it is: it is a perfidious passion. You do not
know what it is; you must have felt it to know; you must have panted
and dreamt, or you cannot think what it is like. One starts gambling
for a joke, out of curiosity, as a little challenge to fortune.
One goes on, pricked to the quick by delusions, excited by vague
desires that grow. Woe to you if you win anything--an _ambo_, a small
_terno_! It is all up with you, for your chance of winning seems
certain. Do you see? You feel certain of winning a large sum, as you
have managed to get a small amount, and you put back not only all
you have gained, but you double, treble the stake in the weeks that
follow your success. It is the devil's money going back to hell. What
a passion it is, Luisella! It is bad for one to win, and bad not
to win. Then the dream, that for seven days keeps you alive, on the
eighth day gives you a bitter disappointment; it ends by setting your
blood on fire, and to increase your chances of winning at any cost,
your stakes increase frightfully; the desire of winning gets to be a
madness. The soul gets sick; it neither sees nor hears anything. No
family ties, position, nor fortune, can stand against this passion.'
'My God!' she said softly, just as if she were going to fall into a
chasm.
'You are right, Luisella, to ill-use me, to strike at me with your
scorn; you have a right to do it. I am a bad husband, a worse father;
I have beggared my family. You are quite right,' Cesare said again
convulsively. 'I was a cheerful, industrious young fellow; all wished
me well; my business was going splendidly; you were a joy, and
Agnesina a pleasure to me. What fascination has overcome me? That
cursed idea I had of winning seventy thousand francs at the lottery
to open a shop at San Ferdinando with--a cursed idea that has put
the fire of hell into my blood. I wanted to enrich you by gambling,
whereas grandfather and father taught me by example that only by
being content with a little, by putting sou upon sou, one gets rich.
What folly was it seized me? What was the infection? Where did I
catch it? What a horrible passion gambling is!'
The poor woman listened to that anguished confession, pale, her
lips shaking from the effort she made to restrain her sobs, leaning
against the elbows of the chair, feeling crushed by a nameless agony.
'How much have I staked?' Cesare went on. He seemed to be speaking to
himself now, without seeing his wife or hearing his sleeping child's
breathing. 'I do not know, I do not remember now. The lottery is a
great melter-down of money; it is like a crucible the metal runs out
of. At first I played moderately; I tried to be moderate and wise
about it, as if the lottery was not the most laughable trick that
fortune plays on man. At that time I wrote down the money I staked
in a pocket-book where I note my ordinary expenses; but afterwards
the fever seized me, and has grown so, I remember no more. I do not
remember how many thousands of francs I threw away so madly in an
ugly dream, a delirium that came back again every Friday. Luisella,
you do not know it, but we are ruined.'
'I do know it,' she said very softly, looking at the little one's
pink face sleeping in childish serenity.
'You do not know, you cannot know, everything. I have given bills for
the money put aside for yearly payments; I have staked the thousand
francs we put in the savings bank for Agnesina; I have robbed her
of the money I gave her--her own money; I have failed to carry out
my bargains commercially. Our correspondents have no confidence in
my soundness; they will have no more to do with me; they send me no
goods. You see the shop is getting empty; I have no ready money to
fill it again. I have not even paid the insurance money; if the shop
was burnt down to-morrow, I would not get a farthing. I am a bad
payer. You do not know--you can't. I have tried for money everywhere
in desperation; put myself in a money-lender's hands, mostly in Don
Gennaro Parascandolo's, and they have eaten me up to the bone.'
'Did you borrow money from Agnesina's godfather?' Luisella exclaimed
sadly, hiding her face in her hands.
'In money matters no relationship counts; money hardens all hearts.
These debts are my shame and torment. A tradesman who takes money
at eight per cent. a month is thought to be ruined, and they are
right. Money-lending is dishonest both in the borrower and lender.
What shall I do? The season is a very bad one for poor and rich;
but even if it was a splendid one, the gains would not be enough
even to pay the interest on my debts. Just think; it is a miracle
that Cesare Fragalà, the head of the Fragalà house, has not yet been
declared bankrupt, and a discreditable bankrupt; for a merchant
cannot take creditors' money to stake on the lottery. It is theft,
you understand, theft, and thieves go to the gallows. After reducing
my family to wretchedness, I will take their honour from them by this
hellish madness.'
Not able to bear his unhappiness any longer, he burst into sobs,
choking and crying like a child. She, shaking with emotion, feeling
in her heart a great pity for her husband and a great fear for the
future, raised her head resolutely.
'There is no remedy, then?' she said, in her firm voice, like a good,
loving woman.
'There is none,' he answered, opening his arms in a despairing way.
'We are on a precipice. I understand--I see it. But there must be
some way of mending matters,' she reiterated obstinately, not willing
to give in without a struggle.
'Pray to the Virgin for help--pray!' he whispered, like a child--more
lost than a child.
'Let us try and find some cure,' she still answered softly.
'You try; I can do no more. I have no will or strength left. You must
search for it. I am lost, and nothing will save me.'
The despairing words seemed to echo in the gay, white shop, shining
with satin and porcelain. There was a deep silence between the
couple. She, wrapped in thought, with the firm, introspective glance
of a strong woman, counted over the extent of her misfortune. She
did not feel angry now. All rage had fallen at the young fellow's
agonized voice. He had been so easy and merry, and now he stammered
out piteously his irreparable mistake. What she had heard, the
anguish bursting forth from her husband's inward heart, what she had
guessed at, and that grievous, impressive spectacle, had done a work
of cleansing. All personal resentment had gone from her generous
mind. She only felt a strong desire for self-sacrifice, for saving
her husband and his home. The littleness that sometimes limited
her womanly mind had gone. Her soul rose to unselfish heights of
sacrifice. He kept to earth, tied down by his engrossing passion.
He did not show even the Marquis di Formosa's greatness under it.
His grief, his lamentation, were as monotonous and rhythmical as
a child's. She, on the other hand, on meeting misfortune became
spiritualized, and let the noblest part of her character rule her.
After that wild confession she felt more like a helpful sister, a
compassionate mother, than a young wife; more like a high magnanimous
protector. She forgot all her natural pretences and affectations as a
woman and wife.
He was weeping, with his head down on his arm against the table, like
a wretched creature whose unhappiness is really infinite and not to
be cured, while she, deep in thought, pondered over means of setting
things right. But all at once, with a hush, she told him to say no
more. Agnesina had wakened, very gently, as usual, without weeping
or crying. Seated queerly on her tiny chair, she was looking at her
mother with wide-open, mildly-sparkling eyes. Luisella lifted her
out of the chair she was fastened into and bent over to kiss her
little one, as if she got strength from that kiss and her requited
love.
The tiny one looked at her father without speaking, seeing his head
down on the table; then she said, 'Is father asleep?'
'No, no, he is not sleeping,' said her mother under her breath, as
she went into the back-shop to take her mantle and hat. 'Go and give
him a kiss. Go and say this to him, "Father, it is nothing--it is
nothing."'
The obedient infant went to her father, leant her tiny head against
his knee, and, in her pretty, singing voice said:
'Father, give me a kiss; it is nothing, nothing.'
Then the poor young fellow's swollen heart burst. The most scalding
tears rained on his little one's head.
While tying her bonnet-strings, Luisella, as she heard these
desperate sobs, shivered to keep back her tears. But she did not
interfere. She let the desolate heart find a vent and take comfort in
kissing the little one. She, full of wonder, went on saying under the
tears and kisses, 'Father, father, it is nothing.'
'Let us go home,' said Luisella, coming into the shop again, biting
her lips, trying to harden her heart.
Still moved, Cesare Fragalà took his little girl in his arms, as he
did every evening when she went to sleep in the shop, and put on her
woollen hood, tying it under the chin. Luisella went on tidying up
the shop a little, taking the key out of the strong box, feeling if
all the drawers of the counter were properly shut, with that instinct
for working with their hands all healthy, good young women have.
They put out the gas, and Luisella lit a taper. Then they went away
through the back-shop and the small door that led into Bianchi Lane.
It was still raining. The warm scirocco wind beat the tepid summer
rain in their faces; but they were not far from home. Cesare put up
his umbrella, his wife took his arm to shelter from the rain, the
child was perched on his other arm and put her head on his shoulder.
All three went along, bowed under the summer storm, not speaking,
clinging one to the other as if only love could save them from
life's tempest that threatened to overwhelm them. At night, under
the rage of heaven, it seemed as if they were going on and on to a
sorrowful destiny. But the two innocent ones pressed close to the
unhappy, guilty man, seeming to pray for him. They would bring him
into safety. They said nothing till they got home, where the servant
was waiting for them at the open door. She held out her arms to take
Agnesina and carry her to her room to undress her and put her to bed.
But the little one, as if she had understood the importance of the
time, asked her father and mother to kiss her again, saying, in her
gentle, baby tongue, 'Bless me, mother; bless me, father.'
At last they were alone again in their bedroom, where the silver lamp
burned before the Mother of Jesus, the holy grieving Mother. Cesare
was depressed. But Luisella opened the glass door of the wardrobe at
once, where she kept her most valuable things, and stood for a little
searching in that half-light. Then she pulled two or three dark
leather jewel-cases out.
'Here they are,' she said, offering the jewels to her husband.
'Oh, Luisella! Luisella!' he cried out, agonized.
'I give them to you willingly, for the sake of your honour. I would
not dare to keep these stones when we are in danger of failing in
honesty. Take them. But by all that has been sweet in our past, by
all that may be frightful in our future, by the love you bore me,
that I bear you, for our dear child's sake, whose head you wept over
this evening, I implore you with my whole heart, as one prays to
Christ at the altar, give me a promise.'
'Luisella, you want to kill me!' he cried out, putting his hands
through his hair.
'Do you promise to leave all your trade affairs in my hands--debts
and dues, buying and selling?'
'I do promise.'
'Will you promise to give me all the money you have or may get, and
not try to get money without my knowledge?'
'I will give it to you--all, Luisa.'
'Promise to believe me, only to listen to my advice and what I say.'
'I promise that.'
'Promise that no one will have more influence than me; promise to
obey me as you did your mother when you were a child.'
'I will obey you as I did her.'
'Swear to all that.'
'I swear it to the Madonna, who is listening to us.'
'Let us pray now.'
Both piously knelt before the holy images. They said the Lord's
Prayer in a whisper, louder at the end. She raised her eyes, and
said, 'Lead us not into temptation,' and he rejoined, very humbly and
disconsolately, 'Lead us not into temptation.'