your knees and thank the Virgin for giving us such a merciful, mild old
man as Pietro. You brought on his stroke; but what did he do? He just
took what you gave him, and went away so forgivingly--the soul of a
dove, the spice-cake soul!"
* * * * *
In January, the short, sharp winter of Italy had possession of Assisi.
One day towards the last of the month a bitter wind was driving through
the bleak, stony little street, sending clouds of gritty, frozen dust
before it. The dark, fireless dwellings were colder than the outside
air, and the people, swathed in heavy layers of clothing, to which all
sorts of old cloaks and shawls and mufflers had been added, were
standing about near the open doors of their shops and dwellings, various
prominences under apron or coat betraying the hidden scaldino, the
earthen dish which Italians tightly hug in winter with the hope that
the few coals it contains will keep their benumbed fingers warm. All
faces were reddened and frost-bitten. The hands of the children who were
too young to hold a scaldino were purple-black.
Prudence Guadagni, with her great basket strapped on her back, came
along, receiving but two or three greetings as she passed. Few knew her;
fewer still liked her, for was she not a foreigner and a pagan? Besides,
what could you do with a woman who drank water, simple water, like a
toad, and never touched wine--a woman who did not like oil, good, sweet,
wholesome oil! Tonio's children were much commiserated for having fallen
into such hands.
Prudence was dressed as she had been in September, save that she now
wore woollen stockings and coarse shoes, and tightly pinned round her
spare person a large shawl. This shawl (she called it "my Highland
shawl") had come with her from America; it was green in hue, plaided;
she thought it still very handsome. Her step was not as light as it had
been; rheumatism had crippled her sorely.
As she left the town and turned up the hill towards home, some one who
had been waiting there joined her. "Is that you, Bepper? Were you coming
up to the house?" she said.
"Yes," answered Beppa, showing her white teeth in a smile. "I'm bringing
you some news, Denza."
"Well, what is it? I hope you're not going to leave your place?"
"I'm going to leave it, and that's my news: I'm going to be married."
"My! it's sudden, isn't it?" said Prudence, stopping.
"Giuseppe doesn't think it's sudden," said Beppa, laughing and tossing
her head; "he thinks I've been ages making up my mind. Come on, Denza,
do; it's so cold!"
"I don't know Giuseppe, do I?" said Prudence, trudging on again; "I
don't remember the name."
"No; I've never brought him up to the house. But the boys know
him--Paolo and Pasquale; Augusto, too. He's well off, Giuseppe is; he's
got beautiful furniture. He's a first-rate mason, and gets good wages,
so I sha'n't have to work any more--I mean go out to work as I do now."
"Bepper, do you _like_ him?" said Prudence, stopping again. She took
hold of the girl's wrist and held it tightly.
"Of course I like him," said Beppa, freeing herself. "How cold your
hands are, Denza--ugh!"
"You ain't marrying him for his furniture? You love him for himself--and
better than any one else in the whole world?" Prudence went on,
solemnly.
"Oh, how comical you do look, standing there talking about love, with
your white hair and your great big basket!" said Beppa, breaking into
irrepressible laughter. The cold had not made her hideous, as it makes
so many Italians hideous; her face was not empurpled, her fine features
were not swollen. She looked handsome. What was even more attractive on
such a day, she looked warm. As her merriment ceased, a sudden change
came over her. "Sainted Maria! she doubts whether I love him! Love him?
Why, you poor old woman, I'd die for him to-morrow. I'd cut myself in
pieces for him this minute." Her great black eyes gleamed; the color
flamed in her oval cheeks; she gave a rich, angry laugh.
It was impossible to doubt her, and Prudence did not doubt. "Well, I'm
right down glad, Bepper," she said, in a softened tone--"right down
glad, my dear." She was thinking of her own love for the girl's father.
"I was coming up," continued Beppa, "because I thought I'd better talk
it over with you."
"Of course," said Prudence, cordially. "A girl can't get married all
alone; nobody ever heard of that."
"I sha'n't be much alone, for Giuseppe's family's a very big one; too
big, I tell him--ten brothers and sisters. But they're all well off,
that's one comfort. Of course I don't want to shame 'em."
"Of course not," said Prudence, assenting again. Then, with the awakened
memories still stirring in her heart: "It's a pity your father isn't
here now," she said, in a moved tone; "he'd have graced a wedding,
Bepper, he was so handsome." She seldom spoke of Tonio; the subject was
too sacred; but it seemed to her as if she might venture a few words to
this his daughter on the eve of her own marriage.
"Yes, it's a pity, I suppose," answered Beppa. "Still, he would have
been an old man now. And 'tain't likely he would have had a good coat
either--that is, not such a one as I should call good."
"Yes, he would; I'd have made him one," responded Prudence, with a spark
of anger. "This whole basket's full of coats now."
"I know you're wonderful clever with your needle," said the girl,
glancing carelessly at the basket that weighed down her step-mother's
shoulders. "I can't think how you can sew so steadily, year in, year
out; I never could."
"Well, I've had to get stronger spectacles," Prudence confessed. "And
they wouldn't take my old ones in exchange, neither, though they were
perfectly good."
"They're robbers, all of them, at that shop," commented Beppa,
agreeingly.
"Now, about your clothes, Bepper--when are you going to begin? I suppose
you'll come home for a while, so as to have time to do 'em; I can help
you some, and Nounce too; Nounce can sew a little."
"No, I don't think I'll come home; 'twouldn't pay me. About the
clothes--I'm going to buy 'em."
"They won't be half so good," Prudence began. Then she stopped. "I'm
very glad you've got the money laid up, my dear," she said,
commendingly.
"Oh, but I haven't," answered Beppa, laughing. "I want to borrow it of
you; that is what I came up for to-day--to tell you about it."
Prudence, her heart still softened, looked at the handsome girl with
gentle eyes. "Why, of course I'll lend it to you, Bepper," she said.
"How much do you want?"
"All you've got won't be any too much, I reckon," answered Beppa, with
pride. "I shall have to have things nice, you know; I don't want to
shame 'em."
"I've got twenty-five francs," said Prudence; "I mean I've got that
amount saved and put away; 'twas for--for a purpose--something I was
going to do; but 'tain't important; you can have it and welcome." Her
old face, as she said this, looked almost young again. "You see, I'm so
glad to have you happy," she went on. "And I can't help thinking--if
your father had only lived--the first wedding in his family! However,
_I'll_ come--just as though I was your real mother, dear; you sha'n't
miss that. I've got my Sunday gown, and five francs will buy me a pair
of new shoes; I can earn 'em before the day comes, I guess."
"I'm afraid you can't," said Beppa, laughing.
"Why, when's the wedding? Not for two or three weeks, I suppose?"
"It's day after to-morrow," answered Beppa. "Everything's bought, and
all I want is the money to pay for 'em; I knew I could get it of you."
"Dear me! how quick! And these shoes are really too bad; they're clear
wore out, and all the cleaning in the world won't make 'em decent."
"Well, Denza, why do you want to come? You don't know any of Giuseppe's
family. To tell the truth, I never supposed you'd care about coming, and
the table's all planned out for (at Giuseppe's sister's), and there
ain't no place for you."
"And you didn't have one saved?"
"I never thought you'd care to come. You see they're different, they're
all well off, and you don't like people who are well off--who wear nice
clothes. You never wanted us to have nice clothes, and you like to go
barefoot."
"No, I don't!" said Prudence.
"'Tany rate, one would think you did; you always go so in summer. But
even if you had new shoes, none of your clothes would be good enough;
that bonnet, now--"
"My bonnet? Surely my _bonnet's_ good?" said the New England woman; her
voice faltered, she was struck on a tender point.
"Well, people laugh at it," answered Beppa, composedly.
They had now reached the house. "You go in," said Prudence; "I'll come
presently."
She went round to the wood-shed, unstrapped her basket, and set it down;
then she climbed up on the barrel, removed the hay, and took out her
work-box. Emptying its contents into her handkerchief, she descended,
and, standing there, counted the sum--twenty-seven francs, thirty
centimes. "'Twon't be any too much; she don't want to shame 'em." She
made a package of the money with a piece of brown paper, and, entering
the kitchen, she slipped it unobserved into Beppa's hand.
"Seems to me," announced Granmar from the bed, "that when a girl comes
to tell her own precious Granmar of her _wedding_, she ought in decency
to be offered a bite of something to eat. Any one but Denza would think
so. Not that it's anything to me."
"Very well, what will you have?" asked Prudence, wearily. Freed from her
bonnet and shawl, it could be seen that her once strong figure was much
bent; her fingers had grown knotted, enlarged at the joints, and clumsy;
years of toil had not aged her so much as these recent nights--such long
nights!--of cruel rheumatic pain.
Granmar, in a loud voice, immediately named a succulent dish; Prudence
began to prepare it. Before it was ready, Jo Vanny came in.
"You knew I was up here, and you've come mousing up for an invitation,"
said Beppa, in high good-humor. "I was going to stop and invite you on
my way back, Giovanni; there's a nice place saved for you at the
supper."
"Yes, I knew you were up here, and I've brought you a wedding-present,"
answered the boy. "I've brought one for mamma, too." And he produced two
silk handkerchiefs, one of bright colors, the other of darker hue.
"Is the widow going to be married, too?" said Beppa. "Who under heaven's
the man?"
In spite of the jesting, Prudence's face showed that she was pleased;
she passed her toil-worn hand over the handkerchief softly, almost as
though its silk were the cheek of a little child. The improvised feast
was turned into a festival now, and of her own accord she added a second
dish; the party, Granmar at the head, devoured unknown quantities. When
at last there was nothing left, Beppa, carrying her money, departed.
"You know, Jo Vanny, you hadn't ought to leave your work so often," said
Prudence, following the boy into the garden when he took leave; she
spoke in an expostulating tone.
"Oh, I've got money," said Jo Vanny, loftily; "_I_ needn't crawl." And
carelessly he showed her a gold piece.
But this sudden opulence only alarmed the step-mother. "Why, where did
you get that?" she said, anxiously.
"How frightened you look! Your doubts offend me," pursued Jo Vanny,
still with his grand air. "Haven't I capacities?--hasn't Heaven sent me
a swarming genius? Wasn't I the acclaimed, even to laurel crowns, of my
entire class?"
This was true: Jo Vanny was the only one of Tonio's children who had
profited by the new public schools.
"And now what shall I get for you, mamma?" the boy went on, his tone
changing to coaxing; "I want to get you something real nice; what will
you have? A new dress to go to Beppa's wedding in?"
For an instant Prudence's eyes were suffused. "I ain't going, Jo Vanny;
they don't want me."
"They _shall_ want you!" declared Jo Vanny, fiercely.
"I didn't mean that; I don't want to go anyhow; I've got too much
rheumatism. You don't know," she went on, drawn out of herself for a
moment by the need of sympathy--"you don't know how it does grip me at
night sometimes, Jo Vanny! No; you go to the supper, and tell me all
about it afterwards; I like to hear you tell about things just as well
as to go myself."
Jo Vanny passed his hand through his curly locks with an air of
desperation. "There it is again--my gift of relating, of narrative; it
follows me wherever I go. What will become of me with such talents? I
shall never die in my bed; nor have my old age in peace."
"You go 'long!" said Prudence (or its Italian equivalent). She gave him
a push, laughing.
Jo Vanny drew down his cap, put his hands deep in his pockets, and thus
close-reefed scudded down the hill in the freezing wind to the shelter
of the streets below.
By seven o'clock Nounce and Granmar were both asleep; it was the most
comfortable condition in such weather. Prudence adjusted her lamp, put
on her strong spectacles, and sat down to sew. The great brick stove
gave out no warmth; it was not intended to heat the room; its three
yards of length and one yard of breadth had apparently been constructed
for the purpose of holding and heating one iron pot. The scaldino at her
feet did not keep her warm; she put on her Highland shawl. After a
while, as her head (scantily covered with thin white hair) felt the cold
also, she went to get her bonnet. As she took it from the box she
remembered Beppa's speech, and the pang came back; in her own mind that
bonnet had been the one link that still united her with her old Ledham
respectability, the one possession that distinguished her from all these
"papish" peasants, with their bare heads and frowzy hair. It was not
new, of course, as it had come with her from home. But what signified an
old-fashioned shape in a community where there were no shapes of any
kind, new or old? At least it was always a bonnet. She put it on, even
now from habit pulling out the strings carefully, and pinning the loops
on each side of her chin. Then she went back and sat down to her work
again.
At eleven o'clock Granmar woke. "Yam! how cold my legs are! Denza, are
you there? You give me that green shawl of yours directly; precisely, I
am dying."
Prudence came out from behind her screen, lamp in hand. "I've got it on,
Granmar; it's so cold setting up sewing. I'll get you the blanket from
my bed."
"I don't want it; it's as hard as a brick. You give me that shawl; if
you've got it on, it'll be so much the warmer."
"I'll give you my other flannel petticoat," suggested Prudence.
"And I'll tear it into a thousand pieces," responded Granmar,
viciously. "You give me that shawl, or the next time you leave Nounce
alone here, _she_ shall pay for it."
Granmar was capable of frightening poor little Nounce into spasms.
Prudence took off the shawl and spread it over the bed, while Granmar
grinned silently.
Carrying the lamp, Prudence went into the bedroom to see what else she
could find to put on. She first tried the blanket from her bed; but as
it was a very poor one, partly cotton, it was stiff (as Granmar had
said), and would not stay pinned; the motion of her arms in sewing would
constantly loosen it. In the way of wraps, except her shawl, she
possessed almost nothing; so she put on another gown over the one she
wore, pinned her second flannel petticoat round her shoulders, and over
that a little cloak that belonged to Nounce; then she tied a woollen
stocking round her throat, and crowned with her bonnet, and carrying the
blanket to put over her knees, she returned to her work.
"I declare I'm clean tired out," she said to herself; "my feet are like
ice. I wouldn't sew any longer such a bitter night if it warn't that
that work-box 'ain't got a thing in it. I can't bear to think of it
empty. But as soon as I've got a franc or two to begin with again, I'll
stop these extry hours."
But they lasted on this occasion until two o'clock.
* * * * *
"It don't seem as if I'd ever known it _quite_ so baking as it is
to-night." It was Prudence who spoke; she spoke to Nounce; she must
speak to some one.
Nounce answered with one of her patient smiles. She often smiled
patiently, as though it were something which she was expected to do.
Prudence was sitting in the wood-shed resting; she had been down to town
to carry home some work. Now the narrow streets there, thrown into shade
by the high buildings on each side, were a refuge from the heat; now the
dark houses, like burrows, gave relief to eyes blinded by the yellow
glare. It was the 30th of August. From the first day of April the broad
valley and this brown hill had simmered in the hot light, which filled
the heavens and lay over the earth day after day, without a change,
without a cloud, relentless, splendid; each month the ground had grown
warmer and drier, the roads more white, more deep in dust; insect life,
myriad legged and winged, had been everywhere; under the stones lurked
the scorpions.
In former summers here this never-ending light, the long days of burning
sunshine, the nights with the persistent moon, the importunate
nightingales, and the magnificent procession of the stars had sometimes
driven the New England woman almost mad; she had felt as if she must
bury her head in the earth somewhere to find the blessed darkness again,
to feel its cool pressure against her tired eyes. But this year these
things had not troubled her; the possibility of realizing her
long-cherished hope at last had made the time seem short, had made the
heat nothing, the light forgotten; each day, after fifteen hours of
toil, she had been sorry that she could not accomplish more.
But she had accomplished much; the hope was now almost a reality.
"Nounce," she said, "do you know I'm 'most too happy to live. I shall
have to tell you: I've got _all_ the money saved up at last, and the
men are coming to-morrow to take away the cow-shed. Think of that!"
Nounce thought of it; she nodded appreciatively.
Prudence took the girl's slender hand in hers and went on: "Yes,
to-morrow. And it'll cost forty-eight francs. But with the two francs
for wine-money it will come to fifty in all. By this time to-morrow
night it will be gone!" She drew in her breath with a satisfied sound.
"I've got seventy-five francs in all, Nounce. When Bepper married, of
course I knew I couldn't get it done for Fourth of July. And so I
thought I'd try for Thanksgiving--that is, Thanksgiving _time_; I never
know the exact day now. Well, here it's only the last day of August, and
the cow-shed will be gone to-morrow. Then will come the new fence; and
then the fun, the real fun, Nounce, of laying out our front yard! It'll
have a nice straight path down to the gate, currant bushes in neat rows
along the sides, two big flowerin' shrubs, and little flower beds
bordered with box. I tell you you won't know your own house when you
come in a decent gate and up a nice path to the front door; all these
years we've been slinking in and out of a back door, just as though we
didn't have no front one. I don't believe myself in tramping in and out
of a front door _every_ day; but on Sundays, now, when we have on our
best clothes, we shall come in and out respectably. You'll feel like
another person, Nounce; and I'm sure _I_ shall--I shall feel like Ledham
again--my!" And Prudence actually laughed.
Still holding Nounce's hand, she went round to the front of the house.
[Illustration: "STILL HOLDING NOUNCE'S HAND, SHE WENT ROUND TO THE FRONT
OF THE HOUSE"]
The cow-shed was shedding forth its usual odors; Prudence took a stone
and struck a great resounding blow on its side. She struck with so
much force that she hurt her hand. "Never mind--it done me good!" she
said, laughing again.
She took little Nounce by the arm and led her down the descent. "I shall
have to make the front walk all over," she explained. "And here'll be
the gate, down here--a swing one. And the path will go from here
straight up to the door. Then the fence will go along here--palings, you
know, painted white; a good clean American white, with none of these
yellows in it, you may depend. And over there--and there--along the
sides, the fence will be just plain boards, notched at the top; the
currant bushes will run along there. In the middle, here--and here--will
be the big flowerin' shrubs. And then the little flower-beds bordered
with box. Oh, Nounce, I can't hardly believe it--it will be so
beautiful! I really can't!"
Nounce waited a moment. Then she came closer to her step-mother, and
after looking quickly all about her, whispered, "You needn't if you
don't want to; there's here yet to believe."
"It's just as good as here," answered Prudence, almost indignantly.
"I've got the money, and the bargain's all made; nothing could be surer
than that."
The next morning Nounce was awakened by the touch of a hand on her
shoulder. It was her step-mother. "I've got to go down to town," she
said, in a low tone. "You must try to get Granmar's breakfast yourself,
Nounce; do it as well as you can. And--and I've changed my mind about
the front yard; it'll be done some time, but not now. And we won't talk
any more about it for the present, Nounce; that'll please me most; and
you're a good girl, and always want to please me, I know."
She kissed her, and went out softly.
* * * * *
In October three Americans came to Assisi. Two came to sketch the Giotto
frescos in the church of St. Francis; the third came for her own
entertainment; she read Symonds, and wandered about exploring the
ancient town.
One day her wanderings led her to the little Guadagni house on the
height. The back gate was open, and through it she saw an old woman
staggering, then falling, under the weight of a sack of potatoes which
she was trying to carry on her back.
The American rushed in to help her. "It's much too heavy for you," she
said, indignantly, after she had given her assistance. "Oh dear--I mean,
_e troppo grave_," she added, elevating her voice.
"Are you English?" said the old woman. "I'm an American myself; but I
ain't deef. The sack warn't too heavy; it's only that I ain't so strong
as I used to be--it's perfectly redeculous!"
"You're not strong at all," responded the stranger, still indignantly,
looking at the wasted old face and trembling hands.
A week later Prudence was in bed, and an American nurse was in charge.
This nurse, whose name was Baily, was a calm woman with long strong
arms, monotonous voice, and distinct New England pronunciation; her
Italian (which was grammatically correct) was delivered in the vowels of
Vermont.
One day, soon after her arrival, she remarked to Granmar, "That yell of
yours, now--that yam--is a very unusual thing."
"My sufferings draw it from me," answered Granmar, flattered by the
adjective used. "I'm a very pious woman; I don't want to swear."
"I think I have never heard it equalled, except possibly in lunatic
asylums," Marilla Baily went on. "I have had a great deal to do with
lunatic asylums; I am what is called an expert; that is, I find out
people who are troublesome, and send them there; I never say much about
it, but just make my observations; then, when I've got the papers out,
whiff!--off they go."
Granmar put her hand over her mouth apprehensively, and surveyed her in
silence. From that time the atmosphere of the kitchen was remarkably
quiet.
Marilla Baily had come from Florence at the bidding of the American who
had helped to carry the potatoes. This American was staying at the
Albergo del Subasio with her friends who were sketching Giotto; but she
spent most of her time with Prudence Wilkin.