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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bed1d80 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #54614 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/54614) diff --git a/old/54614-8.txt b/old/54614-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index b1caee2..0000000 --- a/old/54614-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,17076 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Land of Cockayne, by Matilde Serao - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: The Land of Cockayne - -Author: Matilde Serao - -Release Date: April 26, 2017 [EBook #54614] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAND OF COCKAYNE *** - - - - -Produced by Andrés V. Galia, Charlie Howard, Chris Curnow -and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at -http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images -generously made available by The Internet Archive/American -Libraries.) - - - - - - - - - - [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. - - - - - CHAPTER II - - AGNESINA FRAGALÀ'S CHRISTENING - - -'Agnesina Fragalà, papa's lovely daughter,' said the young father, -leaning over the brass cradle that shone like gold, holding open -the lace curtains with rose-coloured ribbons, and petting with -words, glances, and smiles the pink new-born babe that was placidly -sleeping. 'Agnesina, Agnesina,' he went on saying playfully, 'I think -you are very pretty.' - -'Be quiet, Cesare; you will wake the baby,' the mother said in a -whisper, from the toilet-glass she was sitting at. - -'She will have to be wakened later on, at any rate; ought we not to -show her to our guests?' - -'Yes; I just hope she won't begin screaming in the drawing-room!' the -young mother replied, smiling, half from nervous fears, half from -motherly pride. - -'Bah!' said the young father, leaving the cradle and coming near to -his wife. 'The guests will be taken up eating cakes, sweets, and -ices. You will see a gourmandizing, Luisella!' - -The light edifice of Luisa Fragalà's intensely black hair was -skilfully and prettily arranged; some curls shaded her short brown -forehead, with its black eyebrows in the youthful oval face; and the -long Eastern eyes of sparkling gray, soft and piquant, the rather -long, broad, though well-shaped nose, and baby mouth, pink as a -carnation, had a charm of youth and freshness that made her still -enamoured husband smile with pleasure. - -Cesare Fragalà was young and handsome, too--rather effeminately -handsome, perhaps; his skin was as white as a woman's; his chestnut -hair curled all over up to the temples, showing in places the white -skin underneath; his face was round, rather boyish still, in spite -of his being twenty-eight; but his close-shaven cheeks had a warm -Southern pallor that was quite manly, and a thick curly moustache -corrected that effeminate, boyish look. Both of them of burgher -rank, of no degenerate race, they had the characteristics of -Neapolitan youth. The man was strong, but indolent; good-looking and -rather inclined to care for his appearance; his softness was visibly -mixed with roguishness, from the contrasts in his face, where a -coarse look was tempered by good-nature. The woman, dark and elegant, -with that blood that seems to have dull flashes, that resoluteness of -will in the profile and chin that shows a secret latent force in a -woman's heart, ready for passion and sacrifice. - -The surroundings were like themselves, from the rather vulgar luxury -of pink and cream brocade that covered the furniture and the bed, the -French paper on the walls of much the same design, the toilet-glass -draped in white lace--precious work done by the bride's own hands -before the wedding--to the great wardrobe of dark wood, with gold -lines and three looking-glass doors, the height of luxury at that -time; from the numerous images of saints--Saint Louis in silver, -the face in wax; a Saint Cesare of stucco in a monk's habit, with -rosaries, reliquaries, and Easter candles, forming a trophy, on each -side of the bed--up to the silver lamp, lighted, before the Infant -Jesus, in a niche; and in the same conjugal apartment, from plebeian -tenderness, and that strong patriarchal feeling of Neapolitans, was -the cradle, gay with ribbons, where the little one of a month old -was sleeping. Everything was striking, even their clothes. Cesare -Fragalà, expecting his guests shortly, had on his coat already, a -handkerchief stuck in his shirt, and his curly hair smooth by dint -of hard brushing; but his watch-chain was too bright, his studs too -large, and his necktie was white silk instead of white batiste. Luisa -looked very pretty in her yellow silk, with a white muslin wrapper -over it while her hair was done, but she sparkled too much from -diamonds in her ears, on her neck, and on her arms. Just then the -hair-dresser put a brilliant star in front as a finish. - -'Is nothing more needed?' she asked, rather thinking she had too few -ornaments. - -'No,' said the hair-dresser decisively; 'the fewer things put in the -hair, the better.' - -'Do you think so?' - -'Let yourself be guided by one who knows his trade,' the artist -added, gathering up his combs and curling-irons. - -'You look very nice,' the husband whispered, on an inquiring glance -from his wife. He looked at her tenderly, carefully, to see if -anything was wanting. 'If my combination comes off,' Cesare added, -whilst the barber took leave silently, so as not to waken the baby, -after getting five francs and one more as a tip--'if my combination -comes off, Luisella, I will buy you a string of diamonds for your -neck.' - -'What combination are you speaking of?' she asked, as she put some -powder on her bare arms. She frowned, with a woman's sudden suspicion -of all affairs she does not know about. - -'I will tell you afterwards,' he said, stammering. - -'Tell me now,' she demanded, standing with her long gloves in her -hand. - -'There is nothing really yet to tell, Luisella,' he said, rather put -out at having let out something. - -'Promise me never to decide on anything without asking me first,' she -said, raising one hand. - -'I promise,' he said with deep sincerity. - -She was appeased, and sat down reassured, putting on her gloves, -while her husband stood before the looking-glass twirling the points -of his moustache, smiling at his own image and at life. The Fragalà -family counted up no less than eighty years of commercial prudence -and rising fortunes. Cesare's grandfather had begun with a wretched -shop in Purgatorio ad Arco Street in the Pendino quarter, rather -worse, said the envious, for he was a wandering salesman of cakes -at a half-penny each, heaped on a wooden board carried on his head, -under the arm, or by a leather band round the neck. In fact, either -on the board or in that shop, these sweets were made of middling -flour, sugar of third quality, eggs of doubtful freshness, and very -often cooked in rancid lard, filled oftener with apples or quinces -roasted under ashes than peach or black-cherry preserve. But what -did it matter? All Southerners, men and women, young and old, love -sweets, spicy cakes and biscuits sprinkled with aniseed and sugar; -the pastry at a half-penny appeared and disappeared in Fragalà's -shop, also sticky coloured caramels and cakes called _ancinetti_. -Grandfather Fragalà soon managed, by dint of heaping up halfpence, to -produce pastry at three-halfpence, the so-called _sfogliatella_, of -which there are two qualities--the _riccia_, broad, thin, and flat, -that falls into fine flakes, crackling under the teeth, whilst the -cream in it melts on the tongue; and the _frolla_, thick and fat, two -fingers' width of pastry that powders as you eat it, a thick layer of -cream inside that covers your lips and jaws. It is true Grandfather -Fragalà was accused of mixing a lot of dirty noxious ingredients in -his _sfogliatella_: starch, gum, raw sugar, beef-fat, strong glue, -and even bran. But what did it matter? On Sundays and all the other -appointed feasts the _sfogliatella_ sold like bread, or, rather, more -so, from nine to two o'clock in the afternoon; then Fragalà shut his -shop, because he had no more to sell, however many he had made, also -because he was a God-fearing man. He quietly opened another shop in -San Pietro a Maiella, putting in one of his sons; then, later on, -another shop at Costantinopoli Street, towards the Bourbon Museum, -with another son; and, finally, at his death, his eldest dared to -aspire to Toledo Street, but in the upper part, opening a pastry-shop -with _three doors_--that is to say, three shops--at the corner of -Spirito Santo, a gorgeous place. The pastry-shops of Purgatoria ad -Arco, San Pietro a Maiella, and Costantinopoli Streets still exist, -owned by the younger brothers, all more or less black and dirty, -full of buzzing flies, but giving out that intoxicating smell of -burnt sugar, apples, fruit, and crumbling pastry that all Naples -boys, women, and old men long for. Even at Purgatoria ad Arco the -tarts were sold at a penny, halfway between grandfather's price and -the three-halfpence of the modern shop. But the three shops in one -in Toledo Street rejoiced in the inscription '_Founded in 1802_,' -in gold letters on black marble--it was all white marble, shining -plate-glass windows full of coloured sweets, bright metal boxes, and -clear glasses with biscuits, tall round vases of pastils, strong -and sweet, for disordered stomachs or for coughs, and glass shelves -with all kinds of pastry in rows. Via Toledo confectionery was -superb, but among its innovations it had not neglected the safe old -Neapolitan speciality, _sfogliatella_, always popular and long-lived, -in spite of innovations in sweetmeats, in its two forms of _riccia_ -and _frolla_; on Sundays, all the patriarchal families that come out -from Mass from so many churches round--Spirito Santo, Pellegrini, San -Michele, San Domenico Soriano--bought in passing some six or eight -_sfogliatella_, to give the final festive touch to the Sunday dinner. -Cesare Fragalà's father had added to the _sfogliatella_ all the -other specialities in sweets eaten by Naples folk at all the feasts -in the year: almond or royal paste at Christmas; _sanguinaccio_ at -Carnival; Lenten biscuits, the _mastacciolo_ and _pastiera_, at -Easter; _l'osso di morto_ (dead men's bones), made of almonds and -candied sugar, for All Souls' Day; the _torrone_ for St. Martin's; -and others--_croccante_, _struffoli_, _sosamiello_--all Parthenope's -sweets, made of almonds, sugar, and chocolate, delightful to -the palate and heavy to digest; but they are the joy of Naples -crowds--they are sent into the provinces, every holiday, in all -sizes of boxes by the waggon-load. Still among the Fragalàs' jealous -rivals there were some whispers about the mysterious ingredients in -these sweets; but it was harmless malignity, to which customers paid -no heed; even if they believed it, they cared little about it. The -Naples philosopher, Peppino, Fragalà's customer, said: 'If one knew -what one was eating, no one would wish to eat anything.' The Fragalà -house was solid: Cesare had inherited a good fortune and unbroken -credit from his father. - -It is true he had, as a rich citizen, an instinctive contempt -for his uncles' and cousins' dark shops, where the flies buzzed -annoyingly, as if cloyed and ill with indigestion from the bad sugar -and honey; but he was prudent too--he did not scorn his origin, he -willingly received his relations at family dinners, and when he had -to make changes in his Toledo shop, he thought them over, and took -advice--mostly from his wife. Luisa thought of all this as she put -on her gloves slowly, whilst her husband went to the kitchen to see -if the refreshments were ready, and that the extra servants, hired -for the occasion, were properly dressed. She rose, and, picking up -her yellow train, went to lift the lace curtain of the cradle, and -passionately gazed on her daughter Agnesina. Never, never would her -husband do anything without consulting her; he had married her for -love, without a half-penny, against everyone's wishes, and he treated -her like a lady, as if she had brought twenty thousand ducats as a -dowry. Now that there was Agnesina too, father's lovely daughter, as -he said playfully, it was impossible he would ever hide anything from -her, his child's mother. Who knows? Perhaps it had to do with the -pastry-shop in San Ferdinando Piazza, in the centre of the richest -part of Naples, quite a modern shop, that Cesare had been dreaming -about opening for some time past without daring to risk so much -capital. Perhaps if was that, and the fresh, pleasant-faced mother -blessed the little one, and prayed God would bless her father's plans -and her mother's hopes. - -On leaving the room she met her husband. - -'Where is nurse?' she asked. - -'In the room next the kitchen with Donna Candida.' - -'Let us go and see them,' she said, going forward, followed by her -husband. They crossed to the back part of the house, where were the -servants' rooms, and came to the pantry. The wet-nurse from Fratta -Maggiore, a fine, stout woman, with pink cheeks, great prominent -eyes, and a calm, serene expression, wore her pale blue damask dress, -trimmed with a broad yellow silk band, which went in such deep folds -she seemed to swim at every step she took--it was stiff like a stuff -building. She wore a white crape handkerchief, and a gold necklace of -three rows of big hollow beads over it; the front of her dress was -covered by a batiste apron, over which she spread her well-ringed -hands. Her chestnut hair was tightly held back by a silver comb, from -which fell a big bow of blue ribbon. Donna Candida, the midwife, -was beside her, a guest who had to be asked; she had put on her red -silk dress for big christenings, the portrait of her late husband, -Don Nicodemo, in a brooch, and a red cotton camellia in her gray -hair. Both she and the nurse, most important people, were waiting -patiently, saying a few words to each other. - -'I wish you all happiness,' called out the old nurse on seeing her -patient. - -'Thank you, Donna Candida. You have come early. Does waiting not -bore you? Will you take something, nurse?' Luisella's voice showed -tenderness for her little one's nurse. - -'As your excellency pleases,' said the nurse, raising her soft, -oil-coloured, rather stupid eyes. - -Cesare went off, and brought a waiter with marsala and cakes for the -women. The husband and wife stood looking at them quite touched, and -when they stopped eating Luisella pushed the tray towards them. Donna -Candida, who was a polite woman, held up her first glass of marsala, -and called out: - -'To Donna Agnesina's health!' - -'To my little one's health!' said the other, laughing. - -The husband and wife looked at each other with happy tears in their -eyes, nodding their thanks. Suddenly the mother said: - -'Nurse, the baby is crying.' - -The nurse hurriedly dried her lips, put down the candy she was -eating, and rushed off with a great rustle, opening her bodice as she -went with an instinctive maternal movement. - -But the guests were already coming into the reception-room, which -was furnished with couches and easy-chairs in pomegranate brocade, -their woodwork gilded; large _carcels_, placed on gray marble and -gilt brackets, as well as big gilt-bronze lamps with crystal pendants -cut in facets, lighted it up. Those who knew each other had joined in -groups, and spoke to each other in a lively way under their voice, -to look like people of spirit, society folk, and did not even look -at the unknown guests; these had got into the corners by families, -and brought easy-chairs and seats together to make a fortress for -themselves, from whence they cast shy, inquisitive glances on the -people and the furniture, suddenly dimmed by lowered eyelids if they -felt themselves caught staring. - -The family of Don Domenico Mayer (a clerk in the Finance Department) -were like that. They lived in an apartment on the fifth floor in the -Rossi Palace, a tall, deep building at Mercatello Square that looks -on to four different streets, where the neighbours often do not know -each other even by name, and can live for years without meeting, two -large stairs besides two smaller ones make it such a puzzle. Don -Domenico Mayer, with a misanthropic look and bureaucratic overcoat, -led in a misanthropic family, composed of his wife, with flabby, -colourless cheeks, always suffering from neuralgia; his daughter -Amalia, a tall, stout girl, with prominent eyes, thick nose and lips, -and heavy black tresses, who suffered from hysterical convulsions; -and Alfonso, the son, called Fofò by everyone, who was troubled by a -growing silliness and a huge appetite. The misanthropic family had -formed into a square; the women pulled in their poor though tidy -gowns round their chairs, and father and son sat at the edge of -theirs stiff and silent. Like them, other families held themselves -apart--clerks, little tradesmen, managers--with serious looks, -keeping their elbows to their sides, passing their hands mechanically -over their shiny, not to say glazed, beavers; whilst on the other -side were all the Fragalàs, and with them the Naddeos, great ironware -dealers at Rua Catalana; the Antonaccis, prosperous cloth merchants -at the Mercanti; and the Durantes, great dealers in dry cod at -Pietra del Pesce--the men in broad-cloth, the women in brocade or -silk, with jewels, especially bracelets, like Luisella Fragalà. -Her charming presence in the drawing-room was hailed by a general -movement: all rose; the boldest or most intimate left their places -and surrounded her, while the shy ones kept at a little distance, -waiting composedly till they were seen and greeted. - -All rejoiced with her on her restored health, calling her 'Mama, -Mama,' wishing her in the Southern style this _and a hundred_ others, -all in good health--that is to say, a hundred more children, no -less. She got pink with pleasure, bent her head in giving thanks, -which made the diamond star in her hair sparkle: it was a subject -for comment to the other Fragalàs, the Naddeos, the Antonaccis, and -Durantes; it was the secret-sighing admiration of all the other -humble guests, the so-called _mezze signore_. Then, while Cesare -Fragalà chattered with the men, laughing, passing his gloved hand -through his curly hair, there was a general return to the couches and -easy-chairs: all sat down. - -Luisella Fragalà, standing in the middle of the room, went to meet -each lady that she saw coming in at the door, greeted her smilingly, -and led her to an easy-chair, making a large feminine circle, where -fans waved slowly over opulent bosoms encased in brocade. Only the -middle couch remained empty--it was the post of honour; all were -looking at it and towards the door, waiting the unknown guests who -were to sit there: for they knew the party would not really begin -without them, and no refreshments would be offered till the guests of -high rank appeared; in fact, Luisella and Cesare as the time passed -gave each other inquiring glances. Suddenly, as a couple came into -the room, Luisella made a quick, joyful gesture, effusively embraced -the lady, and pressed the gentleman's hand smilingly; a whisper -went through the room, someone got up, a name was breathed. It was -really him, Don Gennaro Parascandolo, the famous Don Gennaro, a tall, -strong, agreeable man, with a countenance breathing honesty, good -faith, good temper; his hand-shake was hearty, his smile cheered -the most low-spirited people, his glance put life into one; a very -rich man--in short, little Agnesina's godfather, a rich man with no -children. - -He had had children--he and his sickly wife with the grayish hair and -sad eyes. She liked to stay shut up in her sumptuous silent house, -and when she went about with him looked like a woman's shadow, a -living image of grief. They had had three lovely children, two boys -and a girl, healthy and strong, for whom Don Gennaro Parascandolo had -worked at his cold terrible trade of aristocratic usurer to make them -rich. He never lent less than five thousand francs or more than two -hundred thousand at one time, always at 10 per cent. a month--cruel -for his children's sake. But diphtheria had come into his house, -furtively, irremediably; in twenty-five days the most distinguished -doctors' science, father and mother's despair, money poured out, -were found useless: nothing could save the three children. All died -choking in such a painful way that Signora Parascandolo's reason -seemed to give way for a time. Even the strong man seemed to reel for -a moment; he only recovered very slowly. He travelled a great deal, -he showed at all first nights, gave flowers and jewels to famous -dancers--all with the greatest indifference, not as if he was bored, -but with no brightness nor gaiety. Now and then, very seldom, his -wife went out with him, a colourless taciturn creature, incapable -of distracting her thoughts even for a moment from her three dead -children; but at these times Don Gennaro got gay: he came out with -a heavy commercial wit to which his wife responded with a slight -distracted smile. - -As Don Gennaro Parascandolo had persuaded his poor shadow to leave -the shade that evening, he was quite lively; whilst Luisella led the -signora to the divan of honour, he went about, followed by Cesare, -joking and laughing; all made a chorus to him wherever he passed, -with that tendency to worship riches that all, and Southerners in -particular, are apt to have. The Naddeos, Antonaccis, Durantes, -and Fragalàs were rich people; but things may change in this world -from one day to another. And Don Gennaro was so rich he really did -not know what to do with his money! As to the little people in the -room--clerks, tradesmen, managers--they looked respectfully at him -from afar, impressed by his broad shoulders, deep chest, and leonine -head. His name was whispered here and there, with comments in a lower -voice: 'Don Gennaro Parascandolo.' - -But Cesare and Luisella seemed to get an electric shock when the -third person they were waiting for arrived. She was an old lady, who -came forward solemnly, in a very old maroon silk, stiff as a board, -made in the fashion of thirty years before, with organ-pipe pleats -and very wide sleeves. She wore a black lace shawl that was very old, -too, fastened with a turquoise and ruby brooch, black lace mittens -on her old, withered hands, that clutched a black velvet bag worked -in point stitch--on one side a little dog on a cushion, a peasant -woman with a broad straw hat on the other. Luisella, pulling up her -train, ran to meet her, made a deep curtsy, and stooped to kiss the -hand that the old woman held out; she had an old coquette's peevish -expression, with round gray eyes and a drooping nose. Another whisper -went through the room: 'The godmother, the Marchioness.' No one said -she was the Marchioness of Castelforte; she was the godmother--that -was all. There was only one Marchioness godmother in the Fragalà -family; she was Luisella's godmother and patron, a lady respected and -feared by the whole connection--in short, a Marchioness, a titled -person, of superior race. Even Don Parascandolo, who had no need of -anyone, as all knew, went to bow before her, while the old woman -closely examined him. - -Now there was no more room on the seat of honour. Luisella sat in -the middle, the Marchioness on her right, and Signora Parascandolo -on her left, in Parisian costume, covered with magnificent jewels, -but bowing her head under the weight of remembrances, always and -unfailingly. As all got seated, there was perfect silence for two -minutes. All were waiting, still looking at the door furtively, -pretending to think about something else. Ladies hid a little yawn -behind their fans; girls had that sleep-walking look that makes them -seem detached from all human interests; men twirled their moustaches; -and the boys had that absolutely idiotic look of which Fofò Mayer was -the highest exponent. - -But Cesare Fragalà disappeared. Refreshments came in two minutes -after that silence. Then all set to talking, loudly, noisily, to -have an easy bearing, pretending not to care for refreshments. But -they came in from all sides continuously, spreading through the -room, to the delight of all who longed for sweets--men and women, -boys and girls. To ices thick and round as a full moon, so hard the -teaspoon had to be pressed down, followed Portuguese cream, fruit, -strawberries, white and Levant coffee, chocolate; smaller ices of -all shapes, prettily arranged in pink or blue glass shells with gold -rims; sponges--half cream and half ice, of different flavours: -chocolate, mandarin punch, pistachio, strawberries and cream, honey -and milk. After sponge-cakes, the delight of women and boys, followed -peach and almond tarts, and coffee and lemon ices, served in milky -white porcelain glasses. For ten minutes nothing was heard but the -rattling of plates, spoons, and glasses; but when the ladies saw the -trifles coming, they cried out enthusiastically about their lovely -colours, with the white foam in the middle, and held out their hands -involuntarily, whilst others, quieter and more active, ate up one -thing after the other to compare them. - -Conversation got animated with such joy. Gentlemen ran here and -there, fetching a plate or glass, serving the ladies and themselves -too, speaking from a distance, asking questions, calling up the -waiters with the trays, making them lose their heads in the confusion. - -'A sponge-cake for Signora Naddeo.' - -'Would you like an almond tart?' - -'Take a glass of champagne punch. There is nothing better for -digesting the rest.' - -'Who will change a strawberry ice for a coffee ice?' - -'I assure you it comes to nothing, after all; the ices are water -really. What shall it be--strawberries?' - -'I have one.' - -'Mama, give me the cream.' - -Quite pleased, Cesare ran from one side to the other, leading the -waiters, as every tray came up, towards the Marchioness, who was -always the first to take some. Signora Parascandolo was the next; -but she hardly took a spoonful, when she put down her plate and cast -down her eyes again distractedly, as if she neither saw nor heard -what was going on around her. The Marchioness, on the other hand, -without hurrying, ate slowly of everything with her fallen-in mouth -and toothless gums, her jaw going continually and her hooked nose -trembling over her upper lip. - -'My lady, try this pistachio. Would you like mandarin better, my -lady?' - -She nodded 'Yes,' like an old Chinese idol. Her withered hands had -let go the bag, after taking a big white handkerchief out of it to -put under her plate. - -Very happy, Luisella tossed her head, laughing at all that cheerful -noise. Every now and then her husband stopped before her. - -'Won't you take something?' - -'No, no! Help the other ladies.' - -'Take something, Luisella.' - -'No; I like looking on better.' - -The view all around was so interesting! The ladies, who were more -affected in their greed, sipped the sherbet delicately, keeping -the plate on the point of their gloved fingers, raising the little -finger every time they put in the spoon, keeping a lace handkerchief -on their knees, and biting their lips after each spoonful. Some men -quietly followed the waiter's tray step by step, so as to make a -good choice, after which they went into a corner to eat comfortably. -Little children put their ices on a chair, covering themselves -with cream up to their eyes, and stuck out their pink lips, their -innocent eyes showing their delight as they slowly licked the spoon; -whilst the sleepy-headed-looking girls refused this and that, and -ended by taking a little of everything, leaving the half of it, not -really fond of eating yet. Even the Mayer family had got over their -misanthropy; the lady thought no more of her neuralgia, and Don -Domenico hesitated between a sponge and an ice, whilst Amalia and -Fofò exchanged ices, to get the taste of each. - -In the other rooms, everywhere, in the passages, even in the cook's -bedroom and the kitchen, the same jingling of glasses and spoons went -on, and the joy was even greater. The servants from every floor in -the Rossi Palace had run in. The porter came up; the hair-dresser -returned; the nurse's husband, the Naddeos' and the Antonaccis' -coachmen--for they kept carriages--came in; even the newspaper boy -of the Tarsia corner and the postman, still in uniform from his last -round, with letter-bag round his neck, stood beside Gelsomina and -Donna Candida. All these humble common folk that love sweets and -sherbet had a feast, by the master's orders, and he came out every -now and then to the kitchen, delighted to see them enjoy themselves. -He replied to the servants' congratulations, speaking to them -familiarly in dialect. - -Now there spread a feeling of gastronomic repose; people quieted -down, got a composed look, and smiled happily after the first burst -of gourmandizing. Conversation, languid at first, had taken the mild -tone of quiet, easy people, full of good breeding. The ladies smiled -slightly; the girls waved their fans; men set mild discussions agoing -solemnly--about their affairs, about the small politics of the day, -the stagnant state of trade, from which all suffered. They stood in -groups, gesticulating and solemnly nodding. - -The Marchioness had picked up her velvet bag and crossed her -hands over it--a torpor came over her, and she looked like an old -sleeping mummy; whilst Signora Parascandolo, with her head down, -gazed abstractedly at her fan, a precious antique her husband must -have got from some desperate debtor by forced sale. Luisella began -to feel very much bored between these two silent women; her lively -temperament made her feel inclined to get up and speak to her friends -and relations, still more to go and see what Agnesina was doing, and -what was going on in the kitchen and the dining-room to cause such a -noise; but her post of honour was on the divan--it would have been a -breach of etiquette to leave it; so she went on being bored, smiling -to her friends at a distance, and waving her gold-spangled fan. All -at once, she called her husband--she could stand it no longer--and -whispered to him; he nodded assent and went off to arrange the -procession. The guests, knowing the usual programme, understood, and -began looking towards the door, occasionally, for another part of -the show to begin. Some affectionate smiles began already; a slight -whisper ran along. The procession appeared at the chief door. Little -Agnesina, in a white cap with pale blue ribbons that made her face -quite red, wore an embroidered batiste robe that covered the pink -little hands. She was laid out on a _portabimbi_ of pale blue silk -and lace, her head raised on a cushion; this forms a bed, a cradle, -a bag, and a garment, all in one; it lay on the strong arm of the -Fratta Maggiore nurse, Gelsomina, who carried it with the deepest -devotion, as a cleric carries the missal from one end of the altar -to the other, not taking her eyes off Agnesina, who stared placidly -at her with the clear crystal eyes of a new-born infant. Beside her -was Donna Candida, all in the gravity of her office; to mark its -continuity she laid her hand on the baby's pillow; then followed the -father, Cesare Fragalà, and a little further back the waiters with -trays of candy, sweets, and dried fruits, caramels, jujubes, then -other trays with marsala, malaga, Lunel; and farther back still, -venturing to peep in, some inquisitive servant gazing with open eyes. - -The christening-party was not unexpected; the guests all knew the -baby would be shown, so long, noisy applause greeted it, with a -clapping of gloved hands, and a chorus burst out: - -'Long live Agnesina!' - -'May you grow up holy!' - -'How lovely, how sweet she is!' - -'Agnesina! Agnesina!' - -'Cheers for Agnesina's papa and mamma!' - -In the meanwhile the baby was carried straight to her godmother, the -Marchioness, to be kissed; she had held her at the font that morning, -and now kissed her lightly on the forehead, while she put a white -paper into the nurse's hand, with a discontented movement of her long -nose over her fallen-in mouth. - -Applause followed the Marchioness's kiss. Then, bending down, Don -Gennaro, the godfather, kissed her; his broad face was rather pale -and contracted as by some evil thought: perhaps other christenings, -his sons', passed through his mind. But he recovered quickly, and -received the company's still noisier applause with a smile. After the -mother had kissed the baby there was a long minute's silence among -the joyous party; she kept her head down over the baby's face, as if -inhaling its breath, blessing it, calling down on it blessings from -heaven. A great noise followed; as baby was carried triumphantly -round the room, the women gave little screams of motherly emotion, -and kissed her enthusiastically, which made her whimper. Raising her -head, Luisella suddenly noticed a queer figure leaning against a -door-post; she did not know who he was; her curiosity was aroused. -She tried to remember ever having seen him before, but vainly: it -was someone new. Who could he be? Perhaps he had been brought by a -friend or relation, without asking leave, with that calm familiarity -that from the Naples populace rises to the highest classes. It was -certainly someone unknown. - -Whilst the overkissed baby went on whimpering, the nurse and the -ladies trying to console it by loving little words in a singing tone, -and the room was again filled with the joy of eating, Luisella, -curiously interested, possessed by an inward feeling, could not keep -her eyes off that queer, motionless figure. He was a man of between -thirty-five and forty, with the pallid, cadaverous face of one who -has made a long, disastrous voyage; a rather curly, ill-kept black -beard on his sickly red-streaked cheeks hid all traces of linen -or necktie; the forehead showed the same bloodless pallor, and two -deep lines formed at every movement of the eyebrows; his chestnut -hair was thrown back untidily, leaving the temples bare, it being -rather sparse there, and a network of rather swollen blue veins -showed to an observing eye. When he moved his head, the muscles of -his lean neck stood out like a dead fowl's sinews; his loose-hanging -hands were fleshless, too. The man was very poorly dressed: his -pepper-and-salt trousers were too short, showing the ill-brushed -shoes tied by a rusty ribbon; his waistcoat and jacket--yes, really a -jacket--were of dark maroon. The man's whole appearance was sickly, -mysterious, wretched, and mean; his dull eyes wandered here and there -without settling a minute on the same spot; even his expression was -mysterious and ignoble. - -'Who can the ragged fellow be?' Luisella said to herself with an -angry, frightened feeling. - -All were rejoicing again round the sweet-trays, the choicest sweets -in the Toledo Street shop. To a natural love of sweets was added -curiosity to taste new kinds they had often admired in pretty boxes. -Dates and pistachio cream, to which a glass of malaga gives such a -good flavour; while comfits of roses, with a dash of lemon-peel to -excite the palate, suits marsala best, they found; all that soft, -attractive, enchanting odour of vanilla from the chocolates and -creams, the sharp flavour of mint, cooling and exciting, for it burns -the mouth and causes thirst--all these things, pleasant to the eye -and palate, delicious in odour, gave a new excitement to the party, -to which freely-poured-out wine added a slight intoxication. - -'Who can that dirty fellow be?' Luisella was still saying to -herself, feeling hurt in her pride as mistress of the house, in her -love of tidiness, by that sickly, wretched, dirty man. She got up -mechanically to find out from someone about that queer, ragged fellow -who had got into her house, leaving the Marchioness, who again spread -out her handkerchief and heaped all kinds of sweets on it, munching -at them slowly; leaving the rich, unhappy Signora Parascandolo, who -was following little Agnesina about with her eyes full of tears. Just -then Luisella Fragalà overtook the little retinue where her baby -was now shrilly crying, having nearly made the round of the room. -Gelsomina was going to stop before the queer individual as if she -wanted to make him kiss the baby, but as he came forward to do so -Luisella broke in instinctively and sharply, and scornfully eyeing -the unknown, she said to the nurse, putting her hands on Agnesina's -pillow to protect her: - -'Go away, nurse; baby is crying too much.' - -The nurse went out at once, followed by Donna Candida, whilst the -mother looked at them through the door as they went off through the -other rooms, as if still to protect her from some unknown evil. As -she went back into the room the sight of the carpet amused her; paper -cases of candied fruit, gold and silver paper, were scattered over -it; the seats, tables, and brackets had little heaps of sweets from -the pillaged trays; ladies had taken off their gloves to hold the -bit of candy or caramel they were eating; men were leading from one -tray to another children who whimpered, all covered with sugar and -chocolate; others, having asked leave of Cesare Fragalà, who granted -it laughingly, gathered up the sweets in a handkerchief, taking care -not to crush them; whilst others, including Cesare himself, sent for -paper to make into bags to hold what was left in the trays. All hands -were sticky and mouths shiny. On the tables were red or yellow rings -from glasses of wine put down, and a loud continuous clatter went on -through the devastation. - -'Cesare!' called out Luisella to her husband. - -'What do you want, darling?' he answered, while tying a -three-coloured string with the knack of a professional. - -'Tell me one thing.' - -'Two if you like.' - -'Who is that man there, near the door?' - -'That one?' he said, peering as if he did not see well; 'it is -Giovanni Astuti, the money-changer.' - -'No, no! I know him--that other one.' - -'Oh, it is somebody or other,' he said, rather embarrassed. - -'Who is it?' said she severely. - -'A friend of mine.' - -'A friend--that ragged fellow a friend?' - -'One can't always have rich friends,' was the answer, with rather a -forced laugh. - -'I know; but that is no reason for bringing a dirty fellow among -decent people, even if he is your friend.' - -'How excitable you are, dear! Be charitable.' - -'Charity is one thing, decency is another,' she replied obstinately. -'Don't you see how untidy he is?' - -'Untidy!' he muttered, with his usual good-nature; 'he is a -philosopher--he does not care about clothes.' - -'Well, I want him to go away.' - -'How can it be done?' he asked, confused and mortified by his wife's -persistence. - -'Tell him so!' - -'I'll first give him a glass of wine; be patient, then I will make -him go away.' - -In fact, Cesare went up to the unknown to offer him sweets and wine, -speaking in a whisper, and looking him in the eyes. He agreed, -with a smile on his discoloured lips. He began to eat slowly, with -a little grimace, as if he could not swallow well. The mysterious -person looked at the sweets Cesare offered him with an undecided -air, before putting them into his mouth; but he made up his mind to -eat them at last, still with that nervous, pained look of having a -narrow swallow. He was standing with that embarrassed shame of his -own person that is some people's constant unhappiness; and he broke -an almond noisily, gulped over big mouthfuls of Margherita paste, -gazing vaguely around, as if he dared not lower his eyes on his -legs and shoes. Then he slowly went on eating; for Cesare had had a -tray put on a table beside him, and went on handing him chocolates, -vanilla almonds, mandarins in syrup. A tray of wine-glasses was set -down also; the queer fellow took three glasses, one after the other, -without taking breath between, lifting his pale, streaked face and -hospital convalescent's sickly beard. Cesare Fragalà, with a set, -preoccupied smile, looked in the man's eyes, as if he wanted to read -his soul, all the time this feeding went on. - -In the meanwhile Luisella, to amuse herself, to calm the impatience -that had burst out so suddenly, wandered about, chattering and -laughing with her relations and friends. Now came a rumour that the -diamond star in her hair was a gift from the baby's godfather, one -worthy of so rich a man. In their hearts all the merchants' wives -thought Luisella had been very sly, under cover of politeness, to -choose so rich a godfather; they made up their minds, with their -next babies, to do the same, to choose a godfather who knew his -duty and would do it like that dear Don Gennaro. Malicious little -aphorisms ran around: 'Those who think out a thing well are not -sorry afterwards.' 'A gentleman is always a gentleman.' 'Live with -someone richer than you, and get him to pay.' As Luisella Fragalà -got near, this was all changed into a chorus of admiration of the -magnificent jewel. She acknowledged it, and bent her head, blushing -proudly, as the star sparkled in her black hair. The women gave that -long, admiring murmur that flutters the giver and receiver--full -of gratified pleasure, self-satisfied affection, whilst their eyes -languished or flashed. Some, to be still more amiable, even if it was -humbug, asked: 'Is it from the godfather?' 'Yes,' said Luisella, with -a slight sigh. 'It could not be otherwise,' the other whispered, as -if she had guessed well. Elsewhere Luisella had twice been obliged -to take the pin out of her hair, because ladies wished to hold -the precious star in their hands. A group formed, women's faces -bent over, full of curiosity and that love of jewellery that is at -the bottom of every woman's heart, however modest and obscure she -is. There were shrieks of admiration; questions and interjections -arose at the flash of the brilliants. Someone got to asking the -price, even; but Luisella gave a shrug to show her ignorance, which -increased the stone's value; this mystery, this unknown cipher, -acquired a breadth in the feminine mind that imposed respect. So that -at a certain point eight or ten ladies surrounding Luisella, with a -growing burst of enthusiasm, called out, 'Hurrah for the godfather!' - -Don Gennaro Parascandolo, pretending to hear nothing, ran up eagerly, -with the easy good-nature of a travelled Neapolitan. He modestly -disclaimed compliments: it was a nothing at all--two insignificant -stones, bits of glass; the ladies, in lively contradiction, praised -him, and overwhelmed him with civilities, from a deep womanly -instinct that makes them profuse in words and smiles, knowing -something may come of it. When he said Donna Luisa Fragalà was worthy -of a starry crown, applause drowned his voice. In the meanwhile the -mistress of the house had given side-glances now and then towards -the shabby fellow who was so much on her nerves; but he went on -evenly eating and drinking, with that slow movement of the muscles -of his neck that was like a hen's claw. However, something more -extraordinary was going on around, which Luisella had to give heed -to, at the time the phenomenon burst out in the room. Whilst the -horrid fellow pillaged the sweets, making a circle of cut-out paper -round his feet, and prune-stones as well, he had drawn the attention -of those who had finished eating ices. In these gourmands' vague -hour of digestion, quite satisfied with a packet of sweets to carry -home, having nothing to do, their eyes wandered round, and they -noticed that queer beggar Cesare Fragalà was feeding so attentively; -gradually one pointed him out to the other: by that glance, a poke -with the elbow, raised eyebrows, or a smile, that makes the most -expressive of languages, they showed each other that silent devourer, -who began when they were finished, but looked as if he would never -finish until he had demolished the last sweet and drunk the last -glass of wine. Some looked at him rather admiringly, sorry they -could not imitate that continual guzzling; some smiled indulgently; -others had a compassionate look in their eyes for an unlucky fellow -that seemed never to have eaten or drunken enough. Some phrases, -here and there, jocular and good-natured, were repeated from one to -another: 'What a digestion!' 'It is St. Peter's Church!' 'Health -and protection to him!' 'I would make him a coat rather than feed -him!' 'Santa Lucia keep him his sight, because he has no need of an -appetite!' - -But they were the usual rather coarse remarks about a great eater. -Some man in search of amusement had come close to Cesare and the -silent gobbler to watch them. Little by little, all now in the -drawing-room had their eyes on the great eater. Luisella blushed with -shame to think that everyone had now noticed the wretched ragged -fellow her husband had brought into the house, that she had to submit -to having in her room. Vainly she tried, by going about talking and -laughing, joking and waving her fan, to distract attention: it was -useless. - -The people brought together in the drawing-room had eaten and -drunken, praised the baby, the diamond star, and the giver of it; -now, not knowing what else to do, they had fixed their attention on -that queer ragged fellow, who was certainly out of place in Luisella -Fragalà's drawing-room. She was a good woman, but very proud; though -charitable, she would never have brought a pauper into her room. It -was useless for her to fly in a passion, feeling tears come to her -eyes. Now all had noticed the beggarly gobbler, all were looking at -him, even the women and the sleepy-headed girls who looked as if they -never saw anything. The same compassionate, laughing, tolerating -smiles were on the women's faces as on the men's, except that their -stronger curiosity could not constrain itself. Signora Carmela -Naddeo leant forward behind her fan, and asked Luisella: - -'Who is that starving fellow, my dear?' - -'Who knows?' said the other impatiently. - -'Cesarino certainly does; he is handing him glasses of wine.' - -'Cesare gathers these wretched people up by the cart-load,' said she, -shaking with rage. - -But suddenly a subdued whispered word ran from man to man, woman -to woman--a syllable breathed rather than pronounced. Who first -said this hissing word? Who was it that recognised him, and softly -breathed it in his neighbour's ear? Who had let it out, the unknown -secret? No one knows! But in a second, quick as a flash of gunpowder, -all knew and repeated the mystic word throughout the crimson room. -It came back on itself, its letters making a magic circle that -went round, and everyone with it. When they all knew who the man -was, they were seized with stupefaction; the lamps seemed to be -suddenly lowered, their lively faces got pale, even the covers of the -furniture lost colour; there was a deep silence, where the magic word -still lingered feebly: 'The medium--the medium.' - -Luisella herself, the intrepid, grew pale; her hands trembled as they -grasped her fan. The medium had given up feeding; now he was resting -quietly, casting his vague, uncertain glances about, not knowing what -to do with his lean yellow hands. A little blood had risen in his -pale cheeks, under the black beard; but it was in streaks, a sickly -colour, the effect of fever. Still, ugly, dirty, miserable as he -was, all attention was concentrated on him--inquisitive, wheedling, -obsequious glances were directed on him, in which was combined -fantastic fear, especially on the women's part. For even the women, -in a nervous tremor, said to one another, 'It is the medium.' A -circle gradually surrounded him, getting nearer, as if by a strong -natural attraction--rather anxious faces, where one could notice -the vivid working of Southern imaginations, in this land of dreams -and fantasies. Shy folk were now joining the bolder ones who had -come near at first, overcome, dreaming of the train of ministering -spirits, good and bad, who are ever warring around the medium's soul. -Don Gennaro Parascandolo, one of the first to come up, found himself -so hemmed in that he turned to Cesare Fragalà, and said, smiling -rather sceptically: - -'Cesarino, introduce me to this gentleman.' - -Cesare was much embarrassed, but, seeing no way out of it, he caught -at this request, and said quickly: - -'Don Gennaro Parascandolo, Pasqualino De Feo, a friend of mine.' - -The medium smiled vaguely and held out his hand, which Don Gennaro -found icy cold, though damp with perspiration, one of those repulsive -hands that make one shudder. But not a word was said. The women -standing outside the circle, not daring to come near, asked each -other, troubled by a deep longing: - -'What does he say?' - -'He says nothing,' Donna Carmela Naddeo answered; she was nearest, -and never took her eye off him. - -The women bit their lips, the men's presence intimidated them; too -bashful to go near, they shivered with impatience to hear the fateful -words of the man living in constant communication with the world -of spirits, who heard all the hidden truths of life from the good -spirits, who was told by them every week five, or at least three, of -the lottery numbers. - -What was he saying? Nothing. For long hours these people stand -concentrated, lost, perhaps, in a great interior conflict, listening -to the high voices that speak to them. Now and then, torn from -their visions, they pronounce some fateful phrase that contains the -secret, wrapped up in mysterious words, often without form, that -those of strong faith and hope can miraculously understand. All, men -and women, overcome by a great dream, suddenly shaken out of daily -realities into the ardent, burning region of visions, forgetting the -present moment, listened to the medium as if to a superhuman voice. - -Don Gennaro Parascandolo certainly kept up a well-informed -traveller's smile; he had a large, secure fortune, but in the bottom -of his heart the old Parthenope instinct, for big gains, illicit, -if not guilty, costing no trouble, unforeseen, owed to chance, -combination, or getting the better of Government, all came so -naturally to a man who knew the secrets of hidden things. Certainly -all these, Fragalàs, Antonaccis, Naddeos, Durantes, were accustomed -to sell stale sweets, rough earthenware, moth-eaten cloth, and -stinking cod, in dark shops, in cold storehouses in Via Tribunali, -Mercanti, Petra del Pesce, Marina; they were used to all the dulness, -vulgarity and meanness of commerce, where year after year, by putting -one penny on another, after two or three generations, a fortune came; -they all knew the value of money, of work, of economy, of industry: -but what did that matter? To be able, by means of a mysterious -phrase that only cost the trouble of picking up, of interpreting, -to gain big sums with a small stake, get in one day the gains of -twenty years' trade in dry cod, or forty years' trade in sugar and -sandy coffee, was so delightful a gift, so dazzling a vision, to -middle-class ideas! - -Certainly all these clerks and tradesmen looked forward to a modest -future. They had lived on nothing; they were living on very little; -they wanted to have a little more, only that: humble in their wishes, -even. But the sight of the medium, a shabby fellow, yet so powerful, -who spoke every night with supernal and infernal spirits, suddenly -threw them into a fantastic world, where poor folk get miraculously -rich, where they, obscure working people, might become gentlemen. -Ah! Don Domenico Mayer, the nephew, son, brother, and uncle of -clerks, had faith only in sacred bureaucracy--a cold career of silent -suffering. Still, buttoned up in his overcoat, he left his family in -the corner and joined the group round Pasqualino De Feo, the medium, -and his anxious, severe expression wavered as he, too, waited for -the phrase that was to draw him away in a day from the sepulchral -atmosphere of the Finance Department. But the women's imaginations -were the most feverish. Certainly at least ten of them, by birth, -marriage, by their own efforts, or by their relations or husbands, -were rich; their fortunes were easy, their children's future secure. -Ten at least enjoyed the middle-class luxury of brocaded sofas, -jewels, any amount of linen. All the others, by their modesty, good -sense, and economy, by their own virtues or their parents', had -everything that was necessary; but a lively passion for dreams had -awakened and burned in them. Their souls were filled with visions of -comfort, riches, luxury; they flew through the regions of desire with -womanly tremblings, with the force and intensity the quietest women -put into these sudden follies. An overwhelming wish to know the great -secret seized them; crumbling pyramids of gold and jewels lit flames -in their eyes. Even the old Marchioness of Castelforte, so crooked, -such a ruin of a woman, a solitary remnant, the only one of her -family, with no relations or heirs, seventy years old, and nothing -but the tomb in front of her, got up, carrying her velvet bag, and -set her coquettish profile between two men's shoulders. Even Donna -Carmela Naddeo strained her ears, trembling with curiosity, rich and -lucky as she was, whispering to herself: 'If he tells me the numbers, -I will buy a diamond star like Luisella's.' - -The medium still kept silence, so that Don Gennaro Parascandolo, -feeling the impatience of the whole room behind him, risked a -question: - -'Have you enjoyed the party, Don Pasqualino?' - -He opened his mouth; at last a low, feverish voice came from the thin -blue lips. - -'Yes,' he said; 'it is a fine christening. The baptism of Christ on -the Jordan was fine, too.' - -At once there was an agitation in the room, commenting on the phrase, -trying to explain it. They formed into circles and groups, the women -discussing it among themselves, whilst the number thirty-three, the -Redeemer's number, ran from mouth to mouth. - -Placidly, as if he was taking a note of a bill of exchange, Don -Gennaro Parascandolo put down the remark in his note-book. Don -Domenico Mayer took it, too, hiding behind a curtain, without losing -his bureaucratic and misanthropic gravity. The old Marchioness, who -was deaf, went about asking wildly: 'What did he say? What did he -say?' She ended by asking Luisa Fragalà, who sat motionless with -staring eyes beside the melancholy Signora Parascandolo. Luisa could -only say: 'I don't know, my lady; I did not hear.' However, Don -Parascandolo was not satisfied; he went on: - -'Did you enjoy the sweets, Don Pasqualino? I noticed you seemed to -like them.' - -'Yes,' he muttered; 'I eat, but I don't masticate.' - -'Have you no teeth?' - -'No, I have not.' - -He cast his eyes around vaguely, without meeting anyone's glance, -as if he saw things from _beyond_, and made a sign with his hand, -leaning three fingers on his cheek. - -Again the same murmur and agitation; there was uncertainty, too. The -phrase was ambiguous, very. What did the motion with three fingers -mean? Even Don Gennaro Parascandolo, whilst taking a note, stopped -to think. The mystery of that second phrase, of the gesture, let -loose all these already shuddering fancies of a supernatural world. -Faith, faith, that was what was needed to understand the medium's -words! Everyone, calling together all the powers of his soul, tried -to have a sublime burst of faith, to know the truth, how to translate -it into numbers, to exchange it into lottery money. - - * * * * * - -Late at night, when the house was emptied of people, Cesare Fragalà, -with the sleepy servants, went putting out the lights, shutting the -doors, as he prudently did every evening. When he came back to the -bedroom, he found Luisella sitting half dressed in the shade. - -Agnesina's cradle had been taken into the nurse's room; the couple -were alone. Fatigue seemed to keep them silent. Still, on coming up -to his young wife, he saw she was crying quietly, big tears rolling -down her cheeks. - -'What is the matter, Luisella? what is it?' kissing her, trembling -with emotion himself. - -'There is nothing the matter,' she said, still weeping silently in -the shadow. - - - - - CHAPTER III - - IN THE CAVALCANTIS' HOUSE - - -Prostrate on the dark old carved wood kneeling-desk, her elbows -resting on velvet cushions, head slightly bent, her face hidden in -her hands, Donna Bianca Maria Cavalcanti seemed to meditate after -praying. As long as twilight lighted up the little private chapel -the girl went on reading a chapter of the 'Imitation of Christ,' -attentively, in her usual thoughtful attitude. But the shadows had -grown deeper round her, first faintly purple, then gray, enfolding -the little altar and a figure of Our Lady of Sorrows, with seven -silver swords radiating from her heart, hiding a three-quarter -figure of Jesus Christ bound to the column, the Ecce Homo, crowned -with thorns, and bleeding in the face, hands, and side, blotting out -Bianca Maria's slender, neat figure. Then she quietly closed the -torn volume, put it on the cushion, and hid her face in her hands. -Only the faint light before Our Lady of Sorrows shone on the white, -clasped hands and the knot of dark brown hair on her neck. She kept -so motionless for some time that the white figure in the shadow of -the little chapel looked like one of those praying statues that -medieval piety placed on tombs to kneel in constant prayer. She -seemed not to feel the hours passing over her nor the faint, cold -breath the autumn evening brought into the chapel. Gazing through her -fingers at the Virgin's sad face, she seemed to go on praying and -meditating as if nothing could wrest her from it. - -Still, as evening came on the little chapel got very gloomy. In the -daytime it was a poor, cold place, being only a narrow inside room, -badly lighted by a window looking into a narrow court of the Rossi, -formerly the Cavalcanti Palace. Once a wretched carpet covered the -floor, but it was so old and dusty that Bianca Maria had it taken -away. The floor was bare now, of shiny, icy bricks. The little altar -was painted dull blue, an ecclesiastical shade, covered by a rather -fine bit of linen, though yellow with age, as was also the lace -round it. Everything was old and shabby--the candle-sticks, the -printed prayers in metal cases, the red-leather-covered missal, the -poor silver sprays of leaves placed as sacred ornaments, and the -little gilt wooden door, behind which was the Pyx. By day Our Lady -of Sorrows, in black silk, embroidered in gold, with a batiste nun's -head-dress, and the seven swords in her heart, looked wretched and -poor, carrying a lace and batiste handkerchief in her pink stucco -hands. The great Ecce Homo, too, life size, of wood and stucco, -looked as poor as its surroundings. In spite of the carved wood -chairs, with the Cavalcanti crest on the velvet cushions, the chapel -had a look of frozen wretchedness, showing by daylight faded colours, -tarnished metals, stains in the velvet. Even the two lamps that -burned night and day before the Virgin and the Saviour were only two -yellow sputtering tongues of flame. - -But at night--and that night, curiously enough, only one lamp was -burning, that before the Virgin--the wretchedness disappeared; only -great fluttering shadows filled the chapel. One could not see the -colour of the wood and metal; only the white altar-cloth was visible. -There were no sparks of brightness, only in the trembling light -Mary's sad face seemed agonized; and as the flame, shaken by an -invisible breath of wind, bent to the right or left, Jesus' hands and -side seemed really to bleed. - -Bianca Maria was deep in thought, and, accustomed to the chapel, she -felt neither the cold nor the gloom. Suddenly she trembled, thinking -she heard a great noise in the room. It was then she noticed the lamp -before Christ was out. She shivered with cold and fear. The Virgin -seemed to weep over her bleeding Son's agony. Bianca Maria went -quickly out of the chapel, taking her book with her, crossing herself -hurriedly as if followed by some evil spirit. - -In the antechamber an old servant in the Cavalcanti livery--dull -blue, piped with white--sat reading an old newspaper by the light of -one of those old brass lamps with three spouts one still sees in the -provinces and in very aristocratic houses. He rose as he heard Bianca -Maria's light step, looking her in the eyes. - -'Giovanni,' she said, in her pure harmonious voice, 'in the chapel -the lamp before the Ecce Homo has gone out.' - -The old servant looked at her, and hesitated a little before -answering. - -'I did not light it,' he then muttered, casting down his eyes, and -crushing up the paper in his lean hands. - -'Perhaps you had no oil?' she asked, with a little tremor in her -voice, turning her anxious face towards him. - -'No, my lady, no,' the servant eagerly answered at once. 'There is -lots of oil in the pantry. It was by the Marquis's orders I did not -light the lamp.' - -'Did he give you such an order?' she asked, amazed, arching her -eyebrows. - -'Yes, my lady.' - -'For what reason?' - -But she regretted the question at once. It seemed to fail in the -profound respect she owed her father. Still, the word had rushed out. -She would have liked to go away and not hear the answer, whatever it -was; but she feared to make matters worse, and listened with open -eyes, ready to restrain her astonishment and fear. - -'The Marquis is in a rage with Jesus Christ,' the servant said, in -that humble but familiar tone in which the common folk in Naples -often speak of the Deity. 'Last Saturday he asked a great favour -of that miracle-working Ecce Homo, but he did not get it. Then the -Marquis gave orders the lamp was not to be lighted again.' - -'Did the Marquis tell you that?' - -'Yes, my lady; but if you like, I will go and light it.' - -'Obey the Marquis,' she murmured coldly, as she went on towards the -drawing-room. - -As she wandered about alone in the spacious room, ill-lighted by a -petroleum-lamp, she searched for her work-basket and could not find -it, though she passed it twenty times without seeing it. She still -bitterly repented having asked the servant that question, since -throughout the ever-increasing family decay what most embittered her -was to be obliged to judge her father before servants or strangers. -It was in vain she shut her eyes so as not to see, that she spent her -days in her room, the chapel, and the Sacramentiste convent where her -aunt was; in vain she kept silence, trying not to hear what others -said: Margherita, who was the maid, and Giovanni's wife's remarks, -her aunt the nun's uneasy questions, and the hints of some old -relations who came to see her now and then; they spoke so pityingly, -it brought tears to her eyes. She had to lower her eyes, for she -could not help judging her father inwardly as they shook their -heads, pitying her. What shook her most throughout the financial -difficulties she vainly tried to hide in that decent poverty that -could not be kept secret much longer were her father's unexpected, -vexatious, often wild, eccentricities. - -Now, quieted down a little, seated by a square baize card-table, -where the single lamp was placed, she worked at her fine pillow-lace, -moving the bobbins and thread quickly over the pinned-out pattern. -Perhaps she would have liked better to call in Margherita to work -with her at mending the house linen, which the old woman blinded -herself at in her little room. But Don Carlo Cavalcanti, Marquis -di Formosa, was very proud; he never would have allowed a servant -in the drawing-room, nor permitted his daughter to stoop to such -humble work. Bianca Maria would have liked to spend the evening in -her own room reading or working, but her father liked to find her -in the drawing-room when he came in every evening. He called it the -_salone_ pompously, not noticing its bareness; for the four narrow -sofas of discoloured green brocade, the twelve slight hard chairs -put along the wall, the couple of painted gray marble brackets, and -two card-tables, with small bits of carpet before each sofa and -chair, being lost in the immensity, increased the deserted look. The -petroleum-lamp, too, just lit up the table Bianca Maria was sitting -at, and her hands, whiter than the thread, as they moved over the -dark pillow-lace. She stopped sometimes, as if an engrossing thought -occupied her; the hands fell down as if tired; the young, thoughtful -face gave a quiver. - -'Good-evening,' said a strong voice at her elbow. - -She got up at once, put down the pillow-lace, went up to her father, -and bent down to kiss his hand. The Marquis di Formosa accepted the -homage; then he lightly touched his daughter's forehead with his -hand, half tenderly, half as a blessing. She stood a minute waiting -for him to sit before she did; but seeing he had begun to walk up and -down through the room, as he had a habit of doing, she looked at him -for permission. He gave it with a nod, and went on with his walk. On -sitting down, she took up her work, waiting to be addressed before -speaking. - -The Marquis di Formosa's still springy, firm step filled the empty -room with echoes. He was a fine-looking man, in spite of his sixty -years and his snow-white hair. Tall, graceful, dried up rather -than thin, even at that advanced age there was much nobleness and -strength in his head and his whole person, but sudden flushes over -his face gave him a violent look. The gray eyes, strong nose, the -thick white moustache and ample forehead inspired respect. It was -said that when the Marquis di Formosa was young he had made more -than one woman of Ferdinand II.'s Court to sin. He was said to have -been a successful rival to the King himself with a Sicilian dame, -and that in the bloodless strife of gallantry he had got the better -of the greatest gallant in the Bourbon Ministry, the Don Juan of -his day, the celebrated Minister of Police, Marquis del Carretto. -His imperiousness certainly, which had increased with age, gave the -Marquis a hard look, and rather a disagreeable expression sometimes. - -But his family's antiquity, that boasted descent from the great Guido -Cavalcanti, his high position and natural haughtiness authorized some -imperiousness. Now the Marquis was growing old: his sparkling glance -was often dulled, his tall majestic figure stooped in spite of his -leanness. Still, he imposed great respect. His daughter Bianca Maria -gave a respectful shiver when she saw him coming, and all her own and -other people's unfavourable judgments on him went out of her mind. - -'Were you at the convent to-day?' asked the Marquis on passing near -his daughter. - -'Yes, father.' - -'Is Maria degli Angioli well?' - -'She is quite well. She would like to see you.' - -'I have no time now; I have important business--most important,' he -said, with a wave of his hand. - -She kept silence, working diligently to keep herself from asking -questions. - -'Did Maria degli Angioli complain much of me?' he asked, without -stopping his excited walk. - -'No,' she said timidly; 'she would like to see you, as I said.' - -'To see me--see me? To recount her woes, and hear all about mine? A -fine way of filling up the time. Well, if she liked, if she chose, -our woes would soon be ended.' - -Bianca Maria's trembling hand entangled the thread round the bobbins -and pins of the pattern. - -'These holy women,' the Marquis di Formosa went on slowly, as if he -were speaking in a dream--'these holy women, who are always praying, -have pure hearts; they are in God's favour and the saints'; they -enjoy special protection; they see things we poor sinners cannot. -Sister Maria degli Angioli might save us if she liked, but she won't. -She is too saintly, she does not care for earthly things. Now, our -sufferings don't signify to her; she knows nothing about them. She -never will tell me anything; never--never.' - -Bianca Maria looked up, let the work fall from her hands, and gazed -at her father, her eyes full of wondering pain. - -'You have never asked her for anything, have you, Bianca?' he said, -stopping beside his daughter. - -'For what?' she asked, wondering. - -'Maria degli Angioli loves you. She knows you are unhappy; she would -have told you everything, to help you. Why did you not ask her?' he -went on in an excited voice, a storm of rage rising in it. - -'What should I ask?' she repeated, still more frightened. - -'You pretend not to understand!' he shouted, in a fury already. -'These women are all alike, a flock of sheep, silly and egotistical. -What do you speak about by the hour together in the convent parlour? -Whose death do you weep over? Think of the living! Don't you see the -Cavalcanti family is going down to misery, dishonour, and death?' - -'May God avert it!' she whispered, crossing herself devoutly. - -'Women are selfish fools!' he shouted, enraged at her softness, at -finding no resistance; 'and I who think of nothing else from morning -till night, who kneel before the holy images morning and evening, for -the preservation of the Cavalcanti! And you who, by asking your aunt -the secrets of her dreams, could save me and the name by a word--you -pretend not to understand! Ungrateful and treacherous, like all -women!' - -She put down her head and bit her lips, so as not to burst into sobs. -Then, in a trembling voice, she replied: - -'I'll ask her at some other time.' - -'Ask her to-morrow,' her father retorted imperiously. - -'I will do it to-morrow, then.' - -Quickly his rage fell, suddenly calmed. He came up to her and touched -her bent forehead, with his usual caress and blessing. Then, as if -she could not help it, feeling her heart bursting, she began to cry -silently. - -'Don't cry, Bianca Maria,' he said quietly. 'I have great hopes. We -have been so long unhappy, Providence must be getting ready a great -joy for us. It is not given to us to know the time, naturally, but -it can't be far off. If it is not one week, it will be another. What -are hours, days, months, in comparison to the great fortune getting -ready for us in secret? We will be so rich, all this long past of -privation and obscurity will seem a short dream of agony, an hour of -darkness faded in the light of the sun. Who knows what instrument -Providence will use?--perhaps Maria degli Angioli, who is a good -soul. You will ask her to-morrow, won't you? Perhaps some other good -spirit among my friends who _see_ ... perhaps myself, unworthy sinner -as I am--but I feel Providence will save us. But by what means? If -I could only know!' He had started walking up and down again, still -speaking to himself, as if he was accustomed to think aloud. Only now -and then, in the midst of his excitement, he noticed his daughter, -and took up his obstinate harping on one idea with her again: 'Where -else, Bianca, can rescue come from? Work? I am old; you are a girl. -The Cavalcantis have never known how to work, either in youth or old -age. Business? We are people whose only business was to spend our own -money generously. Only a large fortune, gained in a single day.... -You will see, we'll get it. I am sure of it; a thousand dreams and -revelations have told me so. You will see. You will have horses and -carriages again, Bianca Maria: a victoria for the promenade on the -Chiai shore, where you will take your place again; an elegant shut -carriage to go to San Carlo in the evening. You'll see. I want to buy -you a pearl necklace--eight strings joined by a single sapphire--and -a diamond coronet, as all the women of the Cavalcanti family have -had, till your mother.' He stopped as he mentioned her, as if a -sudden emotion seized him; but gazing on his dream of luxury and -splendour quickly distracted him. 'Open house every day. We will -think of the poor and starving--so many want help; we will pour out -alms--so many suffer. I have made a vow, too, to give dowries to -honest poor girls. I have made so many other vows so as to get this -favour.' - -He stopped speaking, as if gazing through the room's darkness on -fortune's splendid mirage that excited fancy brought before his eyes. -His daughter got calm and thoughtful again as she listened to him. -Her father's voice in the usual rhapsodies of his overheated soul -sounded in her heart with anguished echoes, like a slow torment. - -It is true she did not believe in the visions, but her father's -impetuous, angry, tender phrases frightened her every evening. She -could not get accustomed to these bursts of passion that made her -peace-loving soul start and shiver. - -'Signor Marzano,' Giovanni announced. - -A little bent old man came in with a rough, pepper-and-salt -moustache, his eyes piercing and at the same time soft. He was very -plainly dressed. On passing near Bianca Maria he greeted her gently, -and silently asked permission to keep his hat on. He held his Indian -cane, too. Falling into step with the Marquis, the two walked up and -down together, speaking in a very low voice. When they passed near -the light, one saw the advocate's eyes sparkling with satisfaction, -and his rather military moustache moving as if he was making mental -calculations. Sometimes Bianca Maria, who busied herself more and -more in her work so as not to hear, caught involuntarily some -cabalistic jargon of her father's or Marzano's. - -'The _cadenza_ of seven must win.' - -'We might also get the two of _ritorno_.' - -'Playing for _situazione_ is too risky.' - -'A _bigliettone_ is needed.' - -They went on speaking, quite absorbed, their eyes flashing, lost in -these fancies that falsely take the precision and fascination of -mathematics, when Giovanni again came in, to announce, 'Dr. Trifari.' - -A man about thirty came in, strong-limbed and stout, with a big head, -too short a neck, a red curly beard that made his face even redder -than it was, swollen lips, and blue, staring, suspicious eyes that -did not inspire confidence. He was roughly dressed: a tight collar -rasped his neck, a big sham diamond pin shone in his black silk tie, -and he still had a provincial air, in spite of his University degree. -He hardly greeted Bianca Maria, put his hat on a side-table, and went -to the Marquis di Formosa's other side. All three marched up and down -more quietly. Sometimes Dr. Trifari said a word, or gesticulated -violently, speaking in a whisper all the same, his squinting glance -questioning his audience and the shades around as if he feared to be -betrayed. - -The learned Marquis di Formosa kept up his vivacious look like a -headstrong old man; Marzano persisted in laughing good-naturedly with -his cunning, gentle eyes; whilst Dr. Trifari went about cautiously, -as if he always feared being cheated. When the two old men raised -their voices a little, he quickly signed to them repressively, -pointing at the doors and windows; he went so far as to point to -Bianca Maria. The Marquis waved his hand tolerantly, as if to say she -was an innocent creature, when again Giovanni came in, to announce, -'Professor Colaneri.' - -At once on seeing him, one guessed he was an unfrocked priest. A -thick black beard had grown on his shaven cheeks; but the hair cut -short on the forehead, and growing thinly over the tonsure, kept the -ecclesiastical cut. The shape of his hand, where the crooked thumb -seemed joined to the first finger; the way he settled his spectacles -on his nose; his trick of putting two fingers in his collar to widen -it, as if it was the tight priest's collar; his way of making his -glance fall from above--his features and movements altogether were so -clerical, one quickly understood his character. - -Formosa received him rather coldly, as usual; the apostate gave -his religious mind a repulsive shudder. Colaneri, too, spoke very -cautiously; four could not walk about without speaking aloud, so they -stood in a dark window recess. It was there Ninetto Costa came to -join them, a dark, handsome fellow, showing the whitest of teeth in -a continuous smile; he was one of the luckiest stockbrokers on the -Naples Exchange. - -Last of all, Giovanni announced one man in a whisper, negligently, -'Don Crescenzio,' a type between a clerk and an agent, who slipped -into the room rather timidly; still, he was treated as an equal. The -discussion between the six men grew warm in the window recess, but -they kept their voices low. - -Bianca Maria went on working mechanically. She felt dreadfully -embarrassed; she dared not go away without asking her father's -permission, and she felt she was out of place in the room. This -mysterious talk, in an incomprehensible, mad jargon, all so excited -and eager, rolling their eyes about so sternly; a growing madness in -their glances; their faces pale and then flushed from making such -violent gestures, disturbed her at first, and ended by frightening -her. Her father especially seemed lost in the midst of all these -madmen, some of them coldly, others wildly, interested, and all -extremely obstinate. She looked at him sometimes in despair, as if -she saw him drowning, and could not take a step or give a cry to -help him. Just then the six men came slowly filing out of the window -recess, and sat down round another card-table, where there was no -light. They drew in their chairs to get closer together, put their -elbows on the table, leaning their heads on their hands, and all -began talking at once in the half-light, whispering in each other's -faces, breathing out the words, looking each other straight in the -eyes, as if they were using magic and charms. - -Bianca Maria could stand it no longer. Making as little noise as -possible, she wrapped up her lace pillow in a strip of black linen, -got up without moving her chair, so as not to make a sound, and went -out of the big room quickly, as if she feared to be called back, -with a frightened feeling as if someone were following her. She was -slightly reassured only as she got into her own room. It was plain -and clean, rather cold-looking, a good, pious girl's room, full of -holy images, rosaries, and Easter candles. Margherita, the servant, -came to join her, having heard her step. With humble affection she -asked if she was going to bed. - -'No, no; I am not sleepy. I will wait. I have not said good-night to -my father.' - -'The Marquis will sit up till all hours,' the maid muttered. 'You -will get tired waiting here all alone.' - -'I will read. I wish to wait.' - -The old servant obediently disappeared. - -Bianca Maria took from a little shelf a religious novel of Pauline -Craven's, 'Le Mot de l'Énigme,' a pious, consolatory book. But -her mind would not be soothed that evening by the French author's -gentle words. Sometimes the girl listened intently to find out if -her father's friends were going away or if others were coming. There -was nothing--not a sound. The great weekly mysterious conspiracy was -going on, breathed out from face to face as if it was a frightful -piece of witchcraft. This impression grew so on Bianca Maria's mind, -that now even the silence frightened her. She tried again two or -three times to read the charming book, but her eyes rested on the -printed lines without seeing them. The sense of the words she forced -herself to read escaped her. Her whole mind was taken up listening -to the noises in the drawing-room. Silence still, as if not a living -soul was there. She shut the book and called the servant, not feeling -able to bear that solitude full of ghosts. - -Margherita hastened in, and silently awaited her young mistress's -orders. - -'Let us say the Rosary,' she whispered. - -Sometimes, when the hours seemed longest to the lonely scion of -the Cavalcanti, when sleeplessness kept her eyes open, when her -fancies got too lugubrious, she loved to pray aloud with her maid to -cheat time, hours of watching, nervousness. She dreaded speaking to -servants--her natural pride made her avoid it; but praying together -seemed to her only a simple act of Christian humility. - -'Let us say the Rosary,' she repeated, seating herself by her white -bed. - -Margherita sat near the door, at a respectful distance. Bianca Maria -said the first prayers, the Mystery, and half of the _Pater Noster_; -Margherita said the other part. The same with the _Ave Marias_: the -first part Bianca Maria said; Margherita took it up and finished -it. They prayed in a low tone, but one could easily distinguish the -voices, always taking up their part of the prayer in time. At every -ten _Ave Marias_, or Stations of the Rosary, they piously crossed -themselves, and bent their heads low in reverence to the Holy Ghost -at every _Gloria Patri_. - -Thus, between mystical absorption in prayer, the natural emotion -these familiar, but poetical supplications aroused, and the sound -of her own voice, the girl forgot for a little the great drama -developing round her father. The whole Rosary was said thus, slowly, -with the piety of real believers. Before beginning the Litany to the -Virgin she knelt at her chair, with her elbows on the seat, and the -maid knelt in her corner. The girl invoked the Virgin in Latin, with -all the tender names her devotees use, and the servant answered 'Ora -pro nobis.' But from the beginning of the Litany a rising sound of -voices reached from the drawing-room. This noise disturbed Bianca -Maria's prayers. She tried not to listen to it by raising her voice -more; but it was impossible now to abstract herself from that clash -of voices getting excited and angry. - -'What can it be?' she said, stopping in her intercessions. - -'It is nothing,' said Margherita. 'They are speaking about lottery -numbers.' - -'They seem to me to be quarrelling,' Bianca Maria timidly replied. - -'They will make friends again on Saturday evening,' Margherita -muttered, with her commonplace philosophy. - -'How so?' the girl asked, letting herself be drawn into the -discussion. - -'Because none of them will win anything.' - -'Let us pray,' said Bianca, raising her eyes to the ceiling, as if -gazing on the starry firmament. - -It was impossible now to finish the Litany. The discussion in the -drawing-room had got so warm, they heard it all, the voices coming -near and going off, as if the Cabalists had risen from the table and -were walking up and down again, with the need excited people have of -going backwards and forwards and round about. - -'Shall I shut the door?' asked Margherita. - -'Shut it; we are praying,' Bianca Maria said resignedly. - -The voices did not come in so distinctly. They could follow the -Litany to the end without interruption. But the girl's mind was no -longer in the words she was saying. She was quite distracted, and -hurried through the finishing _Salve Regina_ as if time pressed. - -'The Madonna bless your ladyship!' said Margherita, getting up after -crossing herself. - -'Thank you,' the young girl answered simply, sitting down again -beside her bed, where she spent so many hours of the day thinking and -reading. - -Margherita had left the door open as she went away. Now the voices -burst out angrily. The enraged Cabalists argued furiously with each -other, each one boasting loudly of his own way of getting lottery -numbers, his own researches, his own visions, each one trying to -take the word from the other, interrupting, screaming louder, being -interrupted in turn. - -'You don't believe in Cifariello the cobbler's talent?' Marzano the -lawyer shouted with the white fury of very gentle, good-natured -people. 'Perhaps because he is a cobbler, and perhaps because he -writes out his problems with charcoal on a dirty bit of white paper! -Here it is, here it is! Twenty-seven has come out second instead of -fourth, but it came out! Here is eighty-four, that turned round -and became forty-eight, but it did come out! Here is the _ambo_ -made up of fourteen and seventy-nine I was so unlucky as to give up -playing; it came out three weeks after I gave it up. These are facts, -gentlemen--facts, not words!' - -'They are the sixty francs a month you give him to leave off cobbling -and work out numbers for you!' Dr. Trifari interrupted sharply. - -'Cifariello is ignorant, but sincere; he gave me fourteen and -seventy-nine, and I did not go on with it.' - -'Father Illuminato gave me fourteen and seventy-nine, too,' Dr. -Trifari retorted, 'but it was the right week.' - -'And you won without letting your friends know?' the Marquis di -Formosa asked excitedly. - -'I won nothing. I divided it into two different tickets. I did not -understand what a fortune Father Illuminato was giving me. He is the -only one that knows numbers. He holds our fortunes, our future, in -his hands. It is a queer thing. When I felt his pulse to see if he -had fever, I went trembling all over.' - -'Father Illuminato is an egotist!' Professor Colaneri hissed out in a -sarcastic, biting voice. - -'You say that because he turned you out of his house one day. You -tried to get the numbers out of him by force. He won't give them -to priests who have thrown off the habit. Father Illuminato is a -believer.' - -'I see the numbers myself!' Colaneri called out shrilly. 'It is -enough for me to take no supper the night before, when I go to bed, -and to meditate an hour or two before sleeping: then I see them, you -know.' - -'But they don't come out right!' shouted the Marquis di Formosa. - -'They don't come out right because my mind is clouded by human -interests; because I can't free myself from a longing to win; because -one must have a pure soul, lay aside disturbing passion, raise one's -self into the region of faith, to see clearly. I see them, but often, -almost always, a malignant spirit darkens my sight.' - -'Look here,' said Ninetto Costa, the smart, rich stock-broker, -loudly. 'I have done more. I knew that a young woman, a milliner that -lives in Baglivo Uries Lane, had the name of giving good numbers. She -can't play them, as you know; they can't do so without losing the -power. But she gives them. I made up to her, pretended to fall madly -in love with her, gave her presents. I see her morning and evening. I -have even got to promising her marriage.' - -'Has she given you any?' the Marquis di Formosa asked anxiously. - -'Nothing yet. She changes the subject, when I mention it, timidly; -but she will give them--she will.' - -How Bianca Maria wished that the Rosary she had recited so -absent-mindedly was still going on, so as not to hear this mad talk, -that she caught every word of! It made her brain reel, as if her soul -was drawn into a whirlpool. How she would have liked not to hear the -ravings of their disturbed brains so set on one idea! Now the Marquis -di Formosa was speaking resoundingly. - -'The cobbler's simple science, Father Illuminato's saintliness, our -friend Colaneri's dazzling visions, are all very well; but what is -the result? What comes of it? We who play our collar-bones every -week, drawing money from stones, all of us, winning in a hundred -years or so a wretched little _ambo_, or, worse still, one single -number. Stronger hands are needed! a higher strength is needed! We -need miracles, gentlemen. We must induce my sister, the nun, to -give lottery numbers. My daughter must get her to do it. We need my -daughter herself, an angel of virtue, kindness, and purity, to pray -to the Supreme Being for numbers!' - -A deep silence followed these last words. The entrance-door bell -rang. Bianca Maria, shaking all over, dragged herself to her -door-curtain and saw a wretchedly-dressed man pass, mean-looking, -with pale, red-streaked cheeks, the beard like a hospital -convalescent's. It was a painful, alarming vision. In spite of the -extraordinary man going into the room, the silence was unbroken, as -if the unknown had brought in a mysterious tranquillity. - -Bianca Maria strained her ear anxiously, leaning on the door-post. -Perhaps the Cabalists had gone back to their little table, taking the -new arrival with them. The silence lasted a long time. Motionless, -almost rigid, she clutched at the doorposts, not to fall; what she -had heard was so sad and cruel it broke her heart. She was seized -with humiliation and anguish, as if she could feel nothing but this -sorrow. She suffered every way in her natural pride and outraged -maidenly reserve, and from her father throwing her name about in a -mad dispute. She felt ashamed for him and for herself, as if he had -boxed her ears in public. Her anguish nearly suffocated her; it rose -to her brain, and seemed to burn her in its hot embrace. How long -she stood, how long the silence went on in the drawing-room, she -could not tell; only, through her distress, she heard her father's -friends pass behind her curtain and go out cautiously, like so many -conspirators. Then, mechanically, she left her room to look for him. -But the drawing-room was dark, so was the study, where the Marquis di -Formosa sometimes consulted an old book of necromancy. Bianca Maria -searched anxiously for her father. In the end a light guided her. The -Marquis di Formosa had gone into the little chapel, filled up the -lamp before the Virgin, and lighted the lamp before the Ecce Homo, -put out by his orders, also the two wax candles in the candelabra, -and set them before Jesus Christ. Not satisfied with that, he had -carried the big lamp into the little chapel. In that illumination -he had thrown himself down despairingly before Christ, trembling, -shaking, sobbing. Praying aloud, he said to the Redeemer: - -'O Lamb of God, forgive me! I am ungrateful and ignorant, a miserable -sinner. Forgive me, forgive! Do not make me suffer for my sins. -Do me this grace for the sake of my languishing, dying daughter. -I am unworthy, but bless me for her sake. O sorrowful Virgin, who -hast suffered so much, understand and help me! Send a vision to -Sister Maria degli Angioli. O blessed spirit, Beatrice Cavalcanti, -my saintly wife, if I caused you sorrow, forgive me! Forgive me if -I shortened your life! Do it for your daughter's sake: save your -family. Appear to your daughter--she is innocent and good; tell her -the words to save us, blessed spirit! blessed spirit!' - -The girl, who beard it all, was so frightened she fled with her -eyes shut, holding her head. When she got to her room, she thought -she heard a deep, sad sigh behind her, and felt a light hand on her -shoulder. Mad with terror, she could not cry out; she fell her whole -length on the ground, and lay as if she were dead. - - - - - CHAPTER IV - - DR. AMATI - - -Not once for a month past had Dr. Antonio Amati seen that thoughtful, -delicate girl's face between the yellowish old curtains in the -balcony opposite his study window, which looked into the big court -of Rossi Palace, formerly Cavalcanti. Two years had passed from the -day that one of the youngest, though one of the most distinguished, -Naples doctors had come to take up his abode there alone, with one -man-servant and a housekeeper, but bringing a crowd of old and new -patients after him, filling the spacious, but rather dark, stairs -with a going and coming of busy, preoccupied people. From the very -first day he had noticed opposite his study window in passing that -pure oval, the faintly pink, delicate complexion, those proud, soft -eyes, that touched the heart from their gentleness. He saw all that -at once, in spite of the windows opposite being dull from old age -and her appearing for a short time only. He was a quick observer; -in fact, a great part of his medical skill was owing to his quick -glance, his lively, true, deep intuition. - -'A heart with no sun,' he said to himself, turning round to put -his heavy scientific volumes into his carved oak shelves. Nor was -he surprised when the Rossi Palace door-keeper, humbly consulting -him under the portico, as he got into his carriage for his round of -afternoon visits, about a feverish illness that had inflamed her -spleen, told him, amongst a flood of other gossip, that that angel -opposite his balcony was Lady Bianca Maria Cavalcanti, a lady of -high birth, but reduced in circumstances, poor girl, not by her own -fault.... 'But perhaps she will become a nun,' the woman ended up. 'A -heart with no sun,' Dr. Antonio Amati thought again as he went away, -after prescribing for the sickly, talkative door-keeper. - -But he had no time to remark or think of aristocratic ladies -come down by bad luck, or their parents' sins, to obscurity and -wretchedness; he could not let his fancy linger long on that -melancholy life alongside of his, but so different from it. He was -a silent, energetic man of action; a Southerner not fond of words, -who put into his daily work all the strength other Southerners put -into dreams, talk, and long speeches, accustoming himself to this -self-government, calling up every day the violence of his fiery -temper to conquer it by strength of will, and make use of it for -scientific practical work, keeping always in touch with life, books, -and suffering humanity, which at thirty-five had made him famous. He -was proud of his great reputation, but not conceited, though lucky -fortune had not made him mean or lowered him. No, he could not dream -about Bianca Maria's lily face; too many around him were ill of -typhus, smallpox, consumption, and a hundred other severe, almost -incurable, illnesses that required his daily help and energies. Too -many people called to him, implored him, stretched out their hands -for help, besieging his waiting-room and the hospital door, watching -for him at the University and other sick people's doors patiently and -submissively, as if waiting for a saviour. Too many were suffering, -sick and dying, for him to dream about that slight apparition, and -admire the pale, thoughtful face bending under the weight of black -tresses. - -Still, through that life of useful work for himself and others, -through the seeming hardness, hurry, even scientific brutality of -his constant activity, which was made up for by his noble daily -sacrifices, that silently attractive figure pleased Dr. Antonio -Amati's fancy. Gradually it took its place each morning among the -things he admired and liked to find in their places every day: his -books, old leather note-books, some mementos of childhood and youth, -a wax model of his dead sister's little hand, an old photograph of -his mother, who lived in Campobasso province, a local accent he had -not lost, in spite of living eighteen years in Naples and his travels -in France and Germany. - -Bianca Maria came into this harmonious atmosphere, that gently -satisfied this strong man's eyes and heart. Antonio Amati did not -try to see her oftener, nor to know and speak to her; it was enough -to see her in the early morning, behind her balcony windows, look -down vaguely into the dull, damp court, then disappear as slowly as -she came--a quiet, solitary figure, not sorrowful, but not smiling. -Between one patient going and another coming, Dr. Amati got up -from his desk, and went as far as the balcony; in one or other of -these little walks, that seemed to serve him as a pause, a rest, a -distraction between one bit of work finished and another begun, he -caught sight of Bianca Maria's pale, thoughtful face; and for two -years that satisfied him. It is true that sometimes in these two -years he had met her on the stairs, or in the Rossi Palace dark -entrance, with her father or Margherita; he took off his hat, and she -acknowledged his bow unsmilingly. She, too, knew him well, seeing him -every day; but she looked him in the face frankly, with none of that -extreme reserve, half smile, half sham indifference, or any of the -little coquetries of commonplace girls. Frankly and innocently she -looked at him a minute, returned his bow, and then her proud, gentle -eyes took their vague thoughtful expression again. - -They did not make daily appointments to see each other--he was -too serious, too engrossed in duty to do so, and she was a simple -creature, living too solitary an inward life to think of it--only -they saw each other every day, and got accustomed to it. - -'But perhaps she is to be a nun,' the door-keeper repeated sometimes. -She had got over her illness, and employed herself over other -people's ailments, moral and physical. - -But the doctor walked on without replying, thinking of the sad chorus -of lamentations that went on around him, from rich and poor, for -real, present, imminent sorrows, almost hopeless to cure, but worthy -of his courage and talent to attempt. Still, in that damp, south-east -wind this autumn morning, whilst bad coughs, heart complaints, fevers -came by turns dolefully in his list of cases, this sickly atmosphere -of bad weather in Naples making them worse, he had, as usual, filled -up his leisure by going to the balcony; and not seeing Bianca Maria, -he felt annoyance of a latent, indefinite kind, which every new -country or suburban patient made him forget; but it came back when -the patient left. The forenoon passed in the gloom of the great -writing-table, covered with maroon; of these colourless, anxious -faces held up to him; these weak, complaining voices; lean breasts, -or flabby with unhealthy fat, that were bared for him to find traces -of consumption or atrophy, with wheezing, funereal coughs. Never had -he felt the disagreeables of his profession so much as that day. -Bianca Maria did not appear. - -'She is ill,' he thought momentarily. Having thought of this, he felt -as sure as if someone had told him or if he had seen her ill himself. -She was sick. He at once thought of helping her, with that instinct -to save life all great doctors have. He thought it over a minute; but -his mind came back to the realities of life at once. It was folly to -be taken up about a person he did not know, and who probably did not -care to have him. If they needed his skill, they would have called -him. For all that, he was sure Bianca Maria was ill. - -But another patient came into the room. There were two, rather--a -youth and a girl of the lower class. He recognised the girl at once -from her hollow, worn face and sad, black-encircled eyes, the lock of -untidy hair. He had cured her of typhoid at San Raffaele hospital, -when the epidemic was raging in Naples. - -'Is it you, Carmela?' - -'Good-day to you, sir,' said the girl, rushing forward to kiss the -doctor's hand, which he quickly drew back. - -'Are you ill?' he asked. - -'As if I was ill,' she said, smiling, in a faint, melancholy way, -while the doctor was trying to recognise the young fellow's face. 'I -am going to have a misfortune that is worse than an illness, sir.' -She turned to her companion as she spoke, and called out: 'Raffaé!' -Then Amati saw the young fellow in all the _guappesca_ style of -bell-trousers, small folded cap, silver chain with a bit of coral, -shiny squeaking shoes, and the half-scampish, impudent look of a lad -of twenty who has given up the knife, the traditional _sfarziglia_ -of his ancestors in the Camorra, for the modern revolver. 'This is -my lover, sir,' she said, humbly and proudly, whilst Raffaele looked -straight before him, as if it was not his business. She gave the -youth so intense a look, so full of tenderness and passion, that the -doctor had to restrain an impatient shrug. - -'Is he ill?' he asked. - -'No, sir; he is very well, thank God! But he has--that is to say, -we have--another misfortune coming on us; or, indeed, it is my -misfortune, as I must lose him. They want to take him for the levy,' -said she, in a trembling voice, her eyes filling with tears. - -'That is natural enough,' answered the doctor, smiling. - -'How can you say so, sir? It is infamous of the Government to take a -fine lad that ought to marry. If you won't help me, sir, what will I -do?' - -'And what can _I_ do?' - -Raffaele, in the meanwhile, stood with one hand at his side, hanging -his hat between two fingers; sometimes he looked Carmela up and down -absent-mindedly and haughtily, as if it was out of mere good-nature -he allowed her to look after his affairs; then he cast an oblique but -dignified glance on the doctor. - -'You are so kind, sir,' Carmela murmured. 'I want you to give -Raffaele a medicine to make him ill, and get him scratched off the -list.' - -'It is impossible, my dear girl.' - -'Why so, sir?' - -'Because there are no such miraculous medicines.' - -'Oh, sir, you mean you don't wish to do me this kindness. Think if -they take him for three years!--three years! What could I do without -him for three years? And, then, he won't go, sir! If you knew what he -says----' - -'I told her,' Raffaele interrupted emphatically, pulling down his -waistcoat, a common _guappa_ trick, 'that if they take me by force, -we will hold a little shooting; someone will be wounded, they take me -to prison, and what happens? A year's imprisonment at most. I must go -to San Francesco some day, at any rate.' - -'Don't speak that way--don't say that!' she called out in admiring -terror. 'Beg the professor to give you the medicine.' - -'Are you to be married soon?' asked the doctor, who no longer -wondered at anything, from knowing the people so well. - -'Very soon,' Carmela answered by herself, while Raffaele looked -before him. - -'When are you to be?' - -'When we get the _terno_,' she retorted, quietly and with certainty. - -'Then, not for some time yet,' the doctor replied, laughing. - -'No, no, sir; Don Pasqualino De Feo, the medium, has promised me a -safe number. We will be married very soon. But you must get Raffaele -off.' - -'There is no need of my services. Raffaele will be rejected, because -he has a narrow chest,' concluded the doctor, after looking carefully -at the dandy. - -'Do you say so, really?' - -'Really it is so.' - -'God bless you, sir! if I had to have this sorrow too, I would die. -So many sorrows--so many,' she said in a low tone, pulling up her -shabby shawl on her shoulders; 'I am the mother of sorrows,' she -added, with a sad smile. - -'Good-day, sir,' said Raffaele. 'When you come to Mercato or Pendino -district, ask for Raffaele--I am called Farfariello--and let me serve -you in any way I can.' - -'Thank you--thank you,' replied the doctor, sending them off. - -The two again repeated their farewells on their way out--she with a -smile on her suffering face, he with the look of a man that despises -women. Other patients came in requiring his medical skill up to -twelve o'clock, when the time for receiving visits was over. Bianca -Maria had not appeared. She was ill, therefore. - -He took breakfast very hurriedly, and ordered the coachman to bring -round the carriage to go to the hospital at one o'clock. The day -was getting more and more unpleasant, from the scirocco's damp, -ill-smelling breath. He went out quickly, as he was rather late, and -on the stairs, half in shadow, he met Bianca Maria going down also, -with Margherita, her maid. - -'Then, she is not ill,' thought the doctor. - -But with the sharp eyes of an observing man, who finds out the truth -from the slightest symptoms, he saw the girl was walking undecidedly; -her face, as she looked up to bow, was intensely pale, so that again -his medical instinct was to help her. He was just going to speak, -to ask her brusquely where the pain was, but her proud, gentle eyes -were cast down again absent-mindedly; her mouth had that severe -silent look that imposes silence on others. She disappeared without -his saying anything. Dr. Amati shrugged his shoulders as he got into -the carriage, and buried himself in a medical journal, as he did -every day, to fill up even the short drive usefully. The carriage -rolled along silently over the thin layer of mud; the damp obscured -the windows, and the doctor felt the scirocco in himself and in the -air. Even the hospital could not soothe the doctor's discomfort, -though to take his thoughts off it he went deeper into practical -medical work and scientific explanations to the pupils than usual. -He went backwards and forwards from one bed to another, followed by -a crowd of youths, taller than any of them, with an obstinate man's -short forehead, marked by two perpendicular lines, from a constant -frown, showing a strong will and absorption in his work; his thick -brush of black hair was roughly set on his forehead, with some -white tufts showing already. So great was his activity of thought, -words, and action, one expected to see the smoke of a volcano coming -out. His orders to the assistants and his class, even to the nuns, -were given harshly; they all obeyed quickly and silently, feeling -respect for the iron will, in spite of his rough commands, mingled -with admiration for the man who was looked on as a saviour. Even the -room he had charge of looked more melancholy and wretched that day -than ever; the dulness of the air saddened the invalids, the heavy, -evil-smelling damp made them feel their pains more. A whispered -lament, like a long, laboured breath, was heard from one end of the -room to the other, and the sick folks' pale faces got yellow in that -ghastly light; their emaciated hands on the coverlets looked like wax. - -In spite of trying to stun himself with work and words, Dr. -Amati felt the disagreeables of his profession more than ever. -Through that long, narrow room, full of beds in a row, and yellow, -suffering faces, and the constant smell of phenic acid; through -the scirocco mist and damp, that made even the nuns' pink cheeks -bloodless-looking, he had a dream, a passing vision of a sunny, -green, warm, clear, sweet-smelling country place, and his heart ached -for this idyll, come and gone in a moment. - -'Good-bye, gentlemen,' Amati said brusquely to the students, -dismissing them. - -They knew that when he so greeted them he wished to be left alone; -they knew, they understood, the Professor was in a bad humour; -they let him go. One of the ambulance men brought him two or three -letters that came while he was going his rounds; they were summonses, -urgent letters from sick people longing for him, from a father who -had lost his head over a son's illness, from despairing women. He -shook his head as he read them, as if he had lost confidence--as if -all humanity sorrowing discouraged him. He went--yes, he went; but -he felt very tired, which must have come from his mind, for he had -worked much less than usual. He was going along absent-mindedly, -when a shadow rose before him on the hospital stairs. It was a -poor woman, of no particular age, with sparse grayish hair, black -teeth, prominent cheek-bones, her clothes torn and dirty, whilst the -slumbering babe she carried was clean, though meanly clad. - -'Sir--please, sir!' she called out in a crying voice, seeing the -doctor was going on without troubling himself about her. - -'What do you want? Who are you?' the doctor asked roughly, without -looking at her. - -'I am Annarella, Carmela's sister--you saved her life,' said Gaetano -the glove-cutter's wretched wife. - -'Your sister in the morning, and now you!' the doctor impatiently -exclaimed. - -'Not for me, sir--not for me,' the gambler's wife said in a low tone. -'I can die. I don't signify. I do so little in the world I can't even -find bread for my children.' - -'Get out of the way--get out of the way.' - -'It is for this little creature, for my sick son, sir;' and she bent -to kiss the little slumberer's forehead. 'I don't know what is the -matter, but he falls off every day, and I don't know what to give -him. Cure him for me, sir.' - -The doctor leant over the little invalid, with its pretty, delicate, -pallid face, purple eyelids, hardly perceptible breathing, and lips -slightly apart; he touched its forehead and hands, then looked at the -mother. - -'You give it milk?' he asked shortly. - -'Yes, sir,' said she, with a slight smile of motherly content. - -'How many months old is he?' - -'Eighteen months.' - -'And you still suckle him? You are all the same, you Naples women. -Wean him at once.' - -'Oh, sir!' she exclaimed, quite alarmed. - -'Wean him,' he repeated. - -'What am I to give him?' she said, almost sobbing. 'I often want -bread for myself and the other two, but never milk. Must this poor -little soul die of hunger too?' - -'Does your husband not work?' asked the doctor ponderingly. - -'Yes, sir, he does work,' she said, shaking her head. - -'Does he keep another woman?' - -'No, sir.' - -'What does he do, then?' - -'He plays at the lottery.' - -'I understand. Wean the child. He has fever. Your milk poisons him.' - -After gazing at the doctor and her child, she just said 'Jesus' in a -whisper, and a sob burst out from her motherly breast. - -Amati wrote out a prescription in pencil on a leaf of his -pocket-book. He went down the stairs, followed by Annarella, whose -tears fell over the child's face, her dull sobs following him in -lamentation. - -'This is the prescription; here are five francs to get it with,' said -the doctor, motioning to her not to thank him. - -She looked at him with stupefied eyes while he crossed the big cold -hospital court to his carriage; she began to cry again when she was -alone; gazing on the baby, the prescription in her hand shook--it was -so bitter for her to think of having poisoned her son with her milk. - -'It must be cholera,' she kept saying to herself, for among Naples -common folk stomach disorders are often called cholera. - -Dr. Amati shook his head again energetically, as if he had lost -confidence altogether in the saving of humanity. As he was opening -the carriage door to get in, a woman who had been chattering with the -hospital porter came up to speak to him. It was a woman in black, -with a nun's shawl, and black silk kerchief on her head, tied under -the chin. She had coal-black eyes in a pale face--eyes used to the -shade and silence. She spoke very low. - -'Sir, would you come with me to do an urgent kindness?' - -'I am busy,' the doctor grumbled, getting into his carriage. - -'The person is very, very ill.' - -'All the people I have to see are ill.' - -'She is near here, sir, in the Sacramentiste convent. I was sent to -the hospital to find a doctor. I can't go back without one ... she is -so very ill....' - -'Dr. Caramanna is still up there--ask for him,' Amati retorted. 'Is -it a nun that is ill?' he then added. - -'The Sacramentistes are cloistered; they can't call men into the -convent,' said the servant, pursing her lips. 'It is someone who got -ill in the convent parlour, not belonging to the convent....' - -'I will come,' Amati said quickly. - -He pushed the servant into the carriage, got in and shut the door. -The carriage rolled along the Anticaglia road, which is so dark, -muddy, and wretched from old age; and they did not say a word to each -other in the short drive. The carriage stopped before the convent -gate; instead of ringing the bell, the servant opened the door with -a key. The doctor and she first crossed an icy court overlooked by a -number of windows with green jalousies, then a corridor with pillars -along the court; complete solitude and silence was everywhere. They -went into a vast room on the ground-floor. Along the white-washed -walls were straw chairs, nothing else; at the end a big table, with -a seat for the porter lay Sister. A crucifix was nailed on one wall. -Along the other were two narrow gratings with a wheel in the middle, -to speak through and pass things to the nuns. Near this wall, on -three chairs, a woman's form was stretched out; another woman was -kneeling and bending over her face. Before the doctor got as far as -the woman lying down, the servant went up to the grating and spoke: -'Praise to the Holy Sacrament----' - -'Now and for ever,' a very feeble voice answered from inside, as if -it came out of a deep cave. - -'Is the doctor here?' - -'Yes, Sister Maria.' - -'That is well;' and a long, feverish sigh was heard. - -In the meantime Dr. Amati had gone up to the fainting girl. -Margherita was bathing her forehead with a handkerchief steeped in -vinegar, and whispering: 'My darling! my darling!' - -The doctor put his hat on the ground, and knelt down too, to examine -the fainting girl. He felt her pulse, and gently raised one eyelid; -the eye was glassy. - -'How long has she been like this?' he asked in a whisper, rubbing her -icy hands. - -'Half an hour,' the old woman replied. - -'What have you done for her?' - -'Nothing but use the vinegar. They gave it to me through the wheel; -they have nothing else; it is a convent under strict rules.' - -'Does she often faint?' - -'Last night ... she had another swoon. I found her on the ground in -her room. I called my master.' - -'Did she recover of herself ... last night?' - -'Yes.' - -'Had she got a fright?' - -'I don't know ... I don't think so,' she said in a hesitating way. - -They were speaking in a whisper, whilst the servant stood right at -the grating, as if mounting guard. - -'Is she better?' the feeble voice inside asked. - -'Just the same,' replied the servant in a monotonous voice. - -'Oh God!' the voice called out in anguish. - -Meanwhile the doctor bent down to hear the breathing better. He -seemed thoughtful and preoccupied. Margherita looked at him with -despairing eyes. - -'Did she get a fright, half an hour ago, in here?' he began again to -ask, whilst he carefully raised Bianca's head and placed it against -his breast. - -'No! ... certainly not!' Margherita whispered. 'I was in church. I did -not hear what was said; they called to me.' - -'Who is that nun?' he asked, pointing to the grating. - -'It is Sister Maria degli Angioli--the aunt.' - -Then he got up and went to the grating. The serving Sister pursed up -her lips to remind him of the cloistral rule, almost as if she wanted -to prevent any conversation between him and the nun. - -'Sister Maria----' he said very gently. - -'Now and for ever,' the feeble voice said hurriedly, hearing a man's -voice. - -'Has your niece had a fright?' - -Silence on the other side. - -'Did she tell you of anything disagreeable that had happened to her?' - -'Yes, yes!' the voice breathed out, trembling. - -'Can you tell me what it was about?' - -'No, no!' she went on quickly, still trembling. 'Something very -sad ... I can't tell you.' - -'Very well--thank you,' he whispered, getting up again. - -'How is she? Are you giving her anything?' the Sister's voice asked. - -'We are going to take her to the house. Nothing can be done here.' - -'We are poor nuns,' the Sister murmured. 'How will you carry her?' - -'In the carriage,' he said shortly. Then, going up to Margherita, he -went on in a low, forcible voice: 'I am coming with my coachman just -now. She can't stay here; I can't do anything for her here. We will -carry her out to the carriage and go home.' - -'In this state?' she asked undecidedly. - -'Do you want her to die here?' he interrupted brusquely. - -'Please forgive me, sir.' - -He had already gone out, without his hat and overcoat, across the -passage and icy court. After a minute he came back with the coachman, -who had evidently got his orders. - -The doctor gently raised the fainting girl's body from under the -arms, resting her head on his breast, while the coachman raised -her feet. She was almost rigid and very heavy. The coachman had -a frightened look; perhaps he thought he was carrying out a dead -woman, all in black, through that bare parlour, deserted corridor, -and chilly court; and although the sight of physical suffering was -not new to him, being in a successful doctor's service, the idea of -carrying a young woman's cold body, a corpse perhaps, gave him such -a shudder he turned away his head. Old Margherita, coming behind, -looked yellower, more like wrinkled parchment than ever, in the -bright court. The procession of the anxious doctor, the frightened -man, the rigid figure in black, and the old servant sadly bent by -a strange new anguish, moved silently across the silent, tomb-like -cloister, like a funeral. Gently, with the care needed not to waken a -sleeping baby, the two men placed the poor lifeless creature in the -carriage, her head against the cushions and her feet on the opposite -seat. She had not given a sign of life whilst she was being carried; -the two lines deepened between Dr. Amati's eyebrows, lines showing -a strong will and deep thought, but which gave him an absent-minded -look. Margherita still gently tried to rearrange the girl's loosened -tresses that had fallen down, but she did not manage it, her lean -hands trembled so; she, too, had got into the broad landau; she -gathered up her mistress's hair caressingly, and the doctor heard her -mutter, 'My darling! my darling!' - -He had lowered the blue blinds against indiscreet eyes; the carriage -went at a foot-pace; and in that bluish, misty shade the slow pace -kept up the idea of a funeral still more. However, the carriage -stopped at one point; after a little the coachman opened the door, -and handed in to the doctor a hermetically sealed phial, which he -held to the unconscious girl's nose. A sharp smell of ether at once -spread through the carriage, which was still going very slowly. -Bianca Maria never moved; after a little there was one sign of -feeling: her closed eyelids got red, big tears burst out between the -lashes and ran down her cheeks. The doctor did not take his eyes off -her for a minute, keeping her hand in his. She went on weeping, still -unconscious, without giving another sign of life: as if she still -felt sorrow through her unconsciousness, as if through her loss of -memory one bitter recollection still remained--only one. She did not -recover consciousness. - -When they got to the Rossi Palace courtyard, hardly was the door -opened when a murmuring noise broke out, gradually growing stronger, -impossible to restrain. Beside the carriage door the porter's wife -called out and screamed as if the girl was dead. All the windows -looking into the courtyard, all the landing-place doors, had opened -to see the poor, fainting, pale creature in black, with hair hanging -down, taken out of the carriage. The doctor vainly tried to insist on -silence, but the cry of surprise and compassion grew louder, rising -in the heavy air. - -On the first-floor landing-place Gelsomina, Agnesina Fragalà's nurse, -came out, holding the pretty, healthy infant in her arms; the happy -mother, Luisella Fragalà, came behind her, dressed to go out, with -her bonnet on. But she lingered, leaning on the iron railing, smiling -vaguely at her baby, and looking pityingly on the strange escort. She -had felt rather tired and preoccupied for some time past, for she had -been going every day to the Santo Spirito shop, from an instinct, a -presentiment, that was stronger than her pride, tying up the parcels -of sweets and cakes with her ring-covered, white hands. - -'Poor thing! poor thing!' Luisella Fragalà muttered; her compassion -had a deeper, acuter feeling in it than the other people's had. - -Raising the heavy yellow brocade curtains behind her double -windows on the first-floor, Signora Parascandolo's bloodless face -appeared--the rich usurer's wife who had lost all her children. - -She seldom went out; she stayed shut up in her gorgeous apartment, -full of rich furniture now quite useless and dreary, as she never -received anyone since her sons died; only she looked out of the -window now and then in a silly kind of way that had grown on her. -On seeing Bianca Maria carried up in that way, the poor woman, who -took an interest in nothing usually, opened the window, and her voice -was added to the rising tumult, crying in prayer and supplication, -'Jesus, Jesus, help us!' All Domenico Mayer's misanthropic family -came out on the third-floor landing, leaving their three-roomed -little flat that looked on to the Rossi Theatre. First came the -father's long, peevish face, and, having just left some copying -work brought home from the Finance Office, he had sleeves on to -save his coat; then Donna Christina, the mother, who had got rid of -the tooth-ache but had a stiff neck instead; next Amalia, with her -staring eyes, thick nose and lips, and sulky look of a girl who has -not yet got a husband; and Fofò, still afflicted by the hunger which -his relations said was a mysterious illness. The whole family nearly -threw themselves over the railings out of curiosity, and shrieked out -in a chorus: 'Poor girl! poor girl!' A woman in a muslin cap and a -man in a blue sweeping-apron were at the window--even the doctor's -housekeeper; nor did they stop gazing when their master came up, so -overpowering was the excitement in all the Rossi Palace. - -That carrying up the stair, amid the noisy compassion of all these -different people, the frightened, pitying shrieks, that had a false -ring about them, seemed endless to Dr. Amati; as for old Margherita, -she shook with annoyance and shame, as if that noise and publicity -were insulting to her mistress. - -When the door was shut behind them, she asked Giovanni in a fright: -'Is milord not in? Milady is ill.' - -'No,' he said, making way for the bearers. - -Margherita shook her head despairingly. She went with the doctor and -his man into Bianca Maria's room; the girl was laid on the bed. The -man-servant went away. The doctor again tried to bring her back with -ether--no result. He bit his lip; he said twice or thrice, 'It is -impossible!' Once again he raised the violet eyelids, looking at her -eyes. She was alive, but she did not recover consciousness. - -'Where is her father?' he asked, without turning round. - -'I don't know,' the old woman muttered. - -'There will be some place he goes every day; send for him.' - -'I will send, as you order me to,' she said, still hesitating; and -she went out. - -He sat down by the bedside, and laid down the ether bottle, -convinced now it was useless. That bare, cold little room, with a -look of childish purity, had calmed somewhat the scientist's dull -anger at not being able to cure nor find out the reason of the -illness. He had seen, a hundred times, long, queer fainting fits; -but they were from nervous illnesses, from abnormal temperaments, -out of order from the beginning, and ordinary methods had overcome -them. The colourless young girl seemed to be sleeping heavily, and -she might remain so for many hours, wrapped up in the dark regions of -unconsciousness. He armed himself with patience, turning over in his -mind medical books that spoke of such fainting fits. Twice or thrice -Margherita had come back into the room, questioning him with an -agonized look; he shook his head, 'No.' Then he asked her for brandy. -She stood hesitating; there was none in the house. Amati told her to -go and ask for it in his flat next door. With a teaspoon, a wretched -one that had lost its plating, he opened the girl's lips, and poured -the strong liquor through her closed teeth, with no result. Again, he -asked Margherita, who was fidgeting about, to heat flannel cloths; -seeing her still embarrassed, he told her to go to his house, and ask -the housekeeper for some. - -Whilst she was away, Giovanni came back out of breath; he panted as -he spoke. - -'I have not found the Marquis anywhere, not at Don Crescenzio's -lottery stand, nor at the Santo Spirito assembly, nor in Don -Pasqualino the medium's house, where they meet every day.' - -'Who meet?' asked the doctor distractedly, hardly listening to what -he said. - -'The Marquis's friends.... But I left word wherever he is to come -back to the house, because her ladyship is ill.' - -'Very good; send out this prescription,' said the doctor, who as -usual wrote it with a pencil on a leaf from his pocket-book. - -The old servant's pale face looked disturbed. The doctor, always -taken up about his patient, did not notice him. - -'Go, and get it,' he said, feeling Giovanni was still there. - -'It is because ...' the poor man stammered out. - -Then the doctor, just as he had done for Annarella, the -glove-cutter's wretched wife, pulled ten francs out of his purse and -gave them to him. - -'... the master not being in and not being able to tell the -mistress,' Giovanni muttered, wishing to account for the want of -money. - -'Very good--all right,' said the doctor, turning to his patient. - -But a loud ring at the bell sounded all through the flat. A -resounding step was heard, and the Marquis di Formosa came in. He -seemed only to see his daughter stretched out on the bed. He began -kissing her hand and forehead, speaking loudly in great anguish. - -'My daughter, my daughter, what is the matter with you? Answer your -father. Bianca, Bianca, answer! Where have you the pain? how did it -come? My darling, my heart's blood, my crown, answer me! It is your -father calling you. Listen, listen, tell me what it is! I will cure -you, dear, dear daughter!' - -And he went on exclaiming, crying out, sobbing, pale and red in the -face, by turns, running his fingers through his white hair, his still -graceful, strong figure bent, while the doctor looked at him keenly. -In a silent interval the Marquis noticed Amati's presence, and -recognised him as his celebrated neighbour. - -'Oh, doctor,' he called out, 'give her something--this daughter is -all I have!' - -'I am trying what I can,' the doctor said slowly, in a low voice, as -if he was chafing against the powerlessness of his science. 'But it -is an obstinate faint.' - -'Has she had it long?' - -'About two hours. It came on in the Sacramentiste parlour.' - -'Ah!' said the father, getting pale. - -The doctor looked at him. They said no more. The secret rose up -between them, wrapped in the thickest, deepest obscurity. - -'Do something for her,' Formosa stammered, in a trembling voice. - -But he was summoned; Giovanni whispered to him; the Marquis was -undecided for a minute. - -'I will come back at once,' he said as he went off. - -The doctor had wrapped the invalid's little feet in warm clothes; now -he wanted to wrap up her hands. All at once he felt a slight pressure -on his hand: Bianca Maria with open eyes was quietly looking at him. -The doctor's forehead wrinkled a little with surprise just for a -moment. - -'How do you feel?' he asked, leaning over the invalid. - -She gave a tired little smile, and waved her hand as if to tell him -to wait, that she could not speak yet. - -'All right, very good,' the doctor said heartily. 'Don't speak;' and -he made Margherita, who was coming in, keep silence, too. - -The servant's poor tired eyes shone with joy when she saw Bianca -Maria smiling. - -'Are you better? Make a sign,' the doctor asked tenderly. - -She made an effort, and very low, instead of a sign, she pronounced -the word 'Better.' The voice was low, but quiet. With a medical man's -familiarity, he took one of her hands in his to warm it. - -'Thank you!' said she after a time. - -'For what?' he said, rather put out. - -'For everything,' she replied, smiling again. - -Now, it seemed, she had quite got back the power of speaking. She -spoke, but kept quite still, only living intensely in her eyes and -smile. - -'For everything--what do you mean?' he asked, piqued by a lively -curiosity. - -'I understood,' said she, with a profound look. - -'You were conscious all the time?' - -'All. I could neither move nor speak, but I understood.' - -'Ah!' said he thoughtfully. He sent Margherita to let the Marquis -know that his daughter had recovered consciousness. - -'Were you in pain?' - -'Yes, a great deal, from not being able to come out of my faint. I -wept; I felt a pain at my heart.' - -'Yes, yes,' he said. 'Don't speak any more--rest.' - -The doctor made a sign to the Marquis, who was coming in, to keep -silence. Formosa leant over his daughter's bed and touched her -forehead with his hand, as if he was blessing her. Her eyelids -fluttered and she smiled. - -'Your daughter was conscious during her swoon--the rarest kind of -fainting fit.' - -'Was she conscious?' the Marquis asked in a strange voice. - -'Yes; she saw and heard everything. It comes from sensitiveness -carried to excess.' - -Then he poured out more brandy in the teaspoon for Bianca Maria to -take. Don Carlo Cavalcanti's face twitched. He leant over the bed, -and asked: - -'What did you see? Tell me--what did you see?' - -The daughter did not answer. She looked at her father in such sad -surprise that the doctor, turning round, noticed it and frowned. He -had not heard what the father asked his daughter, and he again felt -the great family secret coming up, seeing Bianca Maria's gentle, sad -glance. - -'Don't ask her anything,' the doctor said brusquely to the Marquis di -Formosa. - -The old patrician restrained a disdainful shrug. He brooded over his -daughter's face, as if he wanted to get the secret out by magnetism. -She lowered her eyelids, but suffering was in her face; then she -looked at the doctor, as if she wanted help. - -'Do you want anything?' he asked. - -'There is a man at my door: make him go away,' she whispered in a -frightened tone. - -The doctor started; so did her father. In fact, outside the door, -in his invariable wretched waiting attitude, was Pasqualino De Feo, -dirty, ragged, with unkempt beard and pale, streaky red cheeks. The -Marquis had left him in the drawing-room, but he slid along to Bianca -Maria's room with the timid, quiet step of a beggar who fears to be -chased from all doors. - -'Who is that man?' said the doctor in that rough tone of his, going -up to the door, as if to chase him away. - -'He is a friend,' the Marquis answered, hurrying forward in a vague, -embarrassed way. - -'Send him away!' the doctor said sternly. - -Outside the door the Marquis and Don Pasqualino chattered in a lively -whisper. Bianca Maria looked as if she could hear what her father -said outside; at one point she shook her head. - -'Do you want that man sent away from the house?' - -'Leave him,' she said feebly. 'It would annoy my father.' - -Ah! the doctor knew nothing at all. Even now, on coming back to -stern realities, he blamed himself for the sad, dark romance coming -into his life; but an overmastering feeling entangled him, which he -thought was scientific curiosity. Hours were passing, evening was -coming on; he had made none of his visits, and he stayed on in that -poor aristocratic sick lady's room, as if he could not tear himself -away. - -'I ought to go,' he said, as if to himself. - -'But you will come back?' she asked in a whisper. - -'Yes ...' he said, determined to conquer himself and not come back -again. - -'Do come back!' in a humble voice, beseechingly. - -'I am here--just next door. If you are in pain, send for me.' - -'Yes, yes,' she replied, quieted at the idea of being protected. - -'Adieu, madame!' - -'À Dieu!' she said, pointedly separating the two words. - -Margherita went with him, thanking him softly for having saved her -mistress; but he had again become an energetic, busy man, inimical to -words. - -'Where is the Marquis?' he insisted on knowing. - -'In the drawing-room, Professor.' - -And she took him there. It was just so. Don Carlo Cavalcanti, Marquis -di Formosa, and Pasqualino De Feo were walking up and down silently. -It was almost dark: still, the doctor examined the medium with a -scrutinizing, suspicious eye. - -'How is Bianca Maria?' asked Formosa, coming out of a dream. - -'Better now,' the doctor replied in a short, cold tone; 'but she has -been struck prematurely, owing to a growing want of balance, moral -and physical. If you don't give her sun, movement, air, quiet, and -cheerfulness, she may die--from one day to another.' - -'Don't say so, doctor!' the father cried out, angry and grieved. - -'I must tell you, because it is so. I don't know the reason of -to-day's illness--I don't want to know it; but she is ill, you -understand--ill! She needs sun and peace--peace and sun. If you want -a doctor, I am always near; that is my profession. But I have made -out a prescription. Send your daughter to the country. If she stays -another year in this house, only seeing you and going to the nunnery, -she will die, I assure you,' he persisted coldly, as if this truth -ought to be announced decisively, as if he wanted to convince his own -unwilling mind also. - -'Doctor, doctor, do not say that!' Formosa moaned, asking for mercy. - -'She is ill; she will die. To the country--the country! Good-evening, -Marquis!' - -He went off, as if trying to escape. The Marquis and the medium, who -had not said a word, went on again with their silent walk. Now and -then Formosa sighed deeply. - -'The Spirit that helps me----' the medium breathed out. - -'Eh?' the other cried out, starting. - -'Warns me that Donna Bianca Maria has had a heavenly vision ... and -that she will tell you it in an allegory.' - -'What do you say? Is it possible? Has the Supreme Being granted me -this favour? Is it possible?' - -'The Spirit does not deceive,' the medium said sententiously. - -'That is true--it is true!' Formosa murmured, looking into the -darkness with wild eyes. - - - - - CHAPTER V - - CARNIVAL AT NAPLES - - -From the first days of January, Naples was taken with a mania for -work that spread from one house and shop to another, from street to -street, quarter to quarter, from fashionable parts to the poorest, -with a continuous movement, rising and falling. A stronger noise of -saws, planes and hammers came from the factories and workshops: in -the shops, with doors left ajar, and in the houses they sat up late: -the smallest as well as the big industries seemed to have got a -mysterious impulse, a breath of new life, into their half-dying state. - -The demand for gloves had increased beyond bounds, especially white -and dove-coloured ones: the humblest general shops kept them. In -the artificial-flower shops, that compete with the French trade -with growing success, a great quantity of boughs, bunches, wreaths -of flowers, and ferns were got ready; big and small bouquets of -bright, warm-coloured flowers to take the eye--the finest intended -for ladies' hair and bosoms, the coarser for decorating houses, -shops, horses and carriages. Roses, camellias, pinks, were most -in request. At all the tailors' and dressmakers', satin, velvet, -gauze, crape, were draped in all styles, made into dresses, mantles, -hoods, and scarves; whilst at the shoe-makers', binders spent ten -hours a day making pink, blue, white, gray, and lilac shoes, fancy, -gold-embroidered boots, and some bound in fur. The glove, flower, -dress, and shoe makers' work began the first hours in the morning -and ended at eleven at night; but the only others that came up to -them were the cardboard shops. Here paper, in men and women's hands, -was bent into a thousand shapes and sizes. It was painted, cut out, -twisted, even curled up; it was made up with straw, metal, and rich -brocade stuff, starting from the twisted paper that holds a sweet or -cracker to the big expensive box. From the little chocolate-box, -made of cardboard and a scrap of satin, to the handsome, neat satchel -with a second cardboard lining; from the roll, made of two or three -old gambling cards, a little Bristol board, and bright-coloured -pictures, to straw cornucopias, covered with ribbons; from ugly, -mean things to lovely and expensive ones, the work was never-ending. -All this paper-work was arranged on large boards; the colours were -dazzling and took the eye. Every day they were sent off to the -sweet-shops, where they were filled with confetti, dainties, sweets, -and sugar almonds. - -Yes, the work was hardest, always, in the confectioners', from -the humble Fragalà of San Lorenzo quarter and the gorgeous but -middle-class Fragalà of Spirito Santo up to the exquisite fashionable -confectioner in Piazza San Ferdinando. Above all, there was a -grand making of caraways, white and coloured, of all sizes, with -caraway-seeds and a powdery sugar covering; there were whole stores -of them in tins, canisters of all sizes, overflowing baskets -made like canisters, all kept carefully from damp, which ruins -caraways. Such a stock!--if it had been gunpowder, there would have -been enough to conquer an army. The other heavy work was getting -sausages and black-puddings ready, all covered with yellow bits of -Spanish bread--pig's blood, that is to say--made up with chocolate, -pistachios, vanilla, lemon, and cinnamon, so presented as to hide the -coarseness. In the back-shops they weighed cinnamon, sliced lemons, -crushed pistachio nuts, boiled sweets of all colours and kinds; -ovens roared, stoves were made red-hot, kettles boiled and gurgled, -and workmen, in shirt-sleeves and caps, with bare arms and necks, -stirring with big ladles, beating pestles in marble mortars, looked -like odd figures in purgatory, lighted up by the furnace flames. - -All trades were busy: advertisements were put up; whole sheets of -them were spread on the city walls. Fashionable barbers took on -new lads; the three celebrated Naples _pizzaiuoli_ of Freddo and -Chiaia Lanes, of Carità Square, of Port Alba, informed the public, -which loves _pizza_ with Marano and Procida wine, that they would -be open till morning. The Café Napoli, the Grande, and the Europa -covered their windows with thick cloths, and held a grand cleaning -up all through the rooms; the theatres announced four times more -illuminations, whilst at the door of fancy shops, the windows of -miserable or fashionable bazaars, were shown black velvet masks, -wax noses, and huge cardboard heads, three times the natural size, -and much uglier than Nature; network masks, to protect the face from -caraways, ladles for throwing them, long tongs for handing up sweets -or flowers to the balconies, scarves and ribbons, fantastic ballroom -decorations, and entire costumes of tissue-paper. Along the streets -in Monte Calvario quarter, across and parallel to Toledo, in the -darkest old-clothes shops and retail dealers', dominos hung on wooden -pegs for the popular balls: Mephistopheles costumes in red and blue, -Spanish grandees in cotton velvet, harlequins made up of old carpets, -Sorrento peasant women's dresses in gay colours, Pulcinellos, and -almost white dress; above all, shining helmets, with cuirass of -cardboard to match, and wooden swords. Masquerading costumes were on -hire everywhere for a few francs; they gave a jocular tone to these -dull lanes, hanging even from the first-floor balconies, sticking out -in a row from the damp, dark shops with grinning, devilish masks, or -showing sickly faces of white or greeny-blue satin. - -Wherever one went, in lower class neighbourhoods as well as in -aristocratic parts, one could see a lively movement, cheerful labour, -a noisy bustling about, a never-ending activity, a daily and nightly -ferment of all forces, the constant, lively, energetic action of -a whole peaceful, laborious town, intent upon one single piece of -work, given up to it heart and mind, hand and foot, using up its -nerves, blood, and muscles in this one tremendous work. Everywhere, -everywhere, one guessed or knew it; it caught the eye; it was written -up what this great work was--'_For the coming carnival festivities_.' - -Nothing else but the carnival. The great city gave itself over to -that impetuous, joyous exertion, not for love of work in itself--for -work that is the cause and consequence of well-doing, which in itself -is the ground-work of goodness and respectability. The great town -had not given itself over to that lively activity for any immediate -civic reason, for hygienic improvements, industrial art exhibitions, -changing old quarters or making new ones: it was for the carnival -only--a carnival by official decree of the Prefecture and of the -Municipal Palace; a carnival warmed up by committees, associations, -commissions, set agoing by thousands of people, arranged and carried -out as a great institution, widely spread in the minds of the whole -five hundred thousand inhabitants, made to resound as far as the -southern provinces, echoing even to Rome and to Florence, putting -in the place of any other project, initiative or work, this of -the carnival; nothing but the carnival--enthusiastically, even -deliriously. - -But, as at the bottom of all joyous things in this land of Cockayne, -there is an ever-flowing vein of bitterness. This carnival, that -turned all the gravest persons and things in the town into fun and -masquerade--this carnival was a merciful thing. From autumn to -January the damp, grievous scirocco had blown in Naples' streets, -overcoming the energies of healthy people, and making invalids' -maladies worse. The winter crowd of foreigners was smaller than -usual. Many works had been stopped for a time, and those just -starting had been delayed, so that many poor people slept on the -church steps under San Francesco di Paola portico and the Immacolata -obelisk in Piazza Gesù. A great wind of fasting had blown with the -scirocco, so that the official carnival, carried out by the desire of -thousands, was intended, if it succeeded, to satisfy for ten days at -least a lot of starving people, from shoe-binders to flower-makers, -from tailors to shop-clerks, from wandering salesmen to the small -shopkeepers. Twenty days' carnival!--that is to say, ten days' -bread, and a relish with it. The idea had been taken up at once. All -helped, even the least enterprising, knowing they were putting out -their money at good interest. Carnival, carnival, in the streets and -balconies, in the gateways and houses! - -On that Shrovetide Thursday the damp winter scirocco had got a spring -softness. Toledo Road, where the carnival spread from one end to -the other, both in its popular and fashionable form, had put on an -extraordinary appearance. All the big shops were shut. The tradesmen -and their ladies wished to enjoy the day's outing, also they were -nervous about their plate-glass windows. All the signs were covered -with linen or tow, as were the gas-lamps. As to the common smaller -shops, they had taken out the glass and put up wooden platforms, and -the owners, with their friends and children, sat with a store of -caraways, having to do battle almost face to face with the people on -the pavement; but they bravely flourished their ladles all the same. -The balconies on the first floor were all differently draped with -bright, cheap muslins, put up with a few nails or pins, with a very -Southern and rather barbarous love of gay colours, some in the style -of church decorations, blue, red, white, and gold, some tucked back -with big camellias, roses, and dahlias, to make the balcony look like -an alcove, an actress's room, a saint's niche, or a wild beasts' show -even. The finest and smartest hangings began near Santa Brigida. Some -Swiss gentlemen had had a chalet put up in their balcony, and the -ladies wore simple, rather silly costumes, with hair down, a big cap, -and gold crosses at their necks. Just after that, at Santa Brigida, a -great man's natural son had hung his balconies with dark-blue velvet, -covered with a silver net, which might represent the firmament, the -kingdom of the moon, or the sea, but, at any rate, it surprised the -good Naples folk. A balcony near the Conte di Mola Lane was made into -a kitchen, with a stove, kettle, frying and stew pans, and eight or -ten youths of good family worked as cooks and scullions, with white -caps and aprons. A famous beautiful woman, whose beauty brought her -wealth and led her into deadly sin, had changed her balcony into a -Japanese hut, all stuffs and tapestries. Now and then she appeared -wrapped in flowing, soft robes, just gathered in at the waist, with -her black hair caught up in a shiny knot held by pins, her eyebrows -arched in an unvarying look of surprise. - -The common people smiled admiringly as they passed. They said, with -their vague one idea of the East, 'The Turk, the Turk!' All these -balconies, draped from one end of the street to the other, and the -shop decorations, began to make one dizzy with bright colours, -firing the imagination, giving that quick feeling of voluptuous joy -Southerners get from outside impressions. Towards eleven, wandering -salesmen began to go about, shrieking out their wares. They sold -little boxes of inferior sweets made in bright colours--red bags, -green and white boxes, lilac and yellow horns, carried in big, flat -baskets in one hand. They sold artificial flowers also, made into -sprays, cockades, and bunches, tied on to long poles. Real flowers -were sold, too--white camellias and perfumed violets, from big -baskets; also masks, ladles, linen bags for caraways, red and yellow -paper sunflowers, that twirled round at every breath of wind like -wild things. They sold a bad quality of caraways, bought cheap, -intended to be sold dear in the blind, furious time of the battle. - -At mid-day the traffic in sweetmeat-boxes, flowers, musks, and -windmills began. Already the crowd began to fill the balconies and -pavements, running up hurriedly from all the side-streets. On the -first-floor windows and balconies a living, many-coloured hedge of -women swayed about. There was a shimmer of girlish forms brightly -dressed; their faces gently moved up and down like big pink and -white flower-heads, with a blood-red touch now and then from an open -parasol or scarlet hat. The balconies and windows of the second -story were filled with still more excited people, whilst on the -fourth children and girls here and there had thought of letting down -a basket tied to a long bit of ribbon to fish with, smiling from -above on some courteous unknown, who put a flower, some sweets, or a -chocolate-box into the baskets of these smiling beings so near the -sky. The people increased everywhere. Traffic with the hawkers went -on from the balconies to the streets, with loud discussions, offers, -and rejections, making the noise twice as great. - -Caraways were not to be thrown before two o'clock, by the committee's -express order, but some stray fights were started already. At San -Sepolcro corner a peasant nurse, slowly swinging her petticoats, was -fired at by some school-boys at close quarters. A grave gentleman, -in top-hat and long great-coat, was violently assaulted in Carità -Square. He tried to go at them with his stick, but he was hissed. -Then he called for the police, announcing pompously he was Cavaliere -Domenico Mayer, a State functionary; but the police would not help, -saying it was carnival, and that he should not tempt people with -his top-hat. And then the misanthropic Secretary of the Finance -Department, full of bitterness, had gone into the San Liborio Lane to -escape. A lady in a broad-brimmed hat, not able to move from one spot -in the pavement near San Giacomo, had a continuous shower of caraways -poured on her by a child on the third story. She heard it fall on her -felt and feathers without daring to move or raise her head, in case -she got the caraways in her face. - -At two o'clock exactly a cannon-shot was heard in the distance. Then -there was a sigh of relief from one end of Toledo to the other, from -the street to the upper stories, and the crowd swayed about. - -The four Rossi Palace balconies, first floor on the right, looking -into Toledo, were draped in blue and white linen, caught back by -big red camellias. Luisella Fragalà and her guests had thought of -white and blue dominoes, with high, ridiculous hats and red cockades, -and all the Naddeos, all the Durantes, all the Antonaccis, fat or -thin, young or old, wore dominoes made in the house themselves -to save their clothes from white powder, and, according to them, -give an elegant look to the balcony. Some looked like big bundles, -others like long ghosts; but the carnival madness had overcome these -middle-class women. Besides all, trade was flourishing in these -days. So many goods were sold; the men came back to the house in -high good-humour, whilst all winter had been one complaint, and -economy had got narrower and harder to bear. How happy they were, -all these placid, industrious little women! In this time of carnival -excitement they could share, in their blue and white fancy dresses -and red cockades. Luisella Fragalà had thought out the costume, and -that monkey Carmela Naddeo took up the idea at once and made others -follow suit. They were all there, ladles in hand, guessing what sort -of carriages were to appear, exaggerating, contradicting, shrieking, -laughing, hanging over the railings to see if any carriages were -coming round by the Museum. Only sometimes a cloud came over Luisella -Fragalà's face; some unhappy thought was behind her brown eyes. -Perhaps she was troubled by the thought that the balcony hangings -would be spoilt by the confetti. Perhaps she would have liked to keep -the shop open even on that profitable Carnival Thursday, her love of -selling having instinctively grown so great, as if by that alone she -saw a chance of being saved from imminent peril. Perhaps she secretly -regretted Cesare Fragalà's absence. He was often away lately, and had -disappeared early that Thursday, too. But these clouds were fleeting. -Luisella was going about from one balcony to another with her hood -down, vainly looking for places for the Mayer family, who had come -without being invited. All quietly snubbed them, so as not to give -up their places, saying to each other that the mother and daughter -had no dominoes, and they made a false note on the balcony. They set -themselves in the third row, the mother, as usual, rheumatic, and -wrapped in flannel to the finger-tips; the girl's big eyes still -dully misanthropic, as were her swollen, discoloured lips; the -brother, as usual, very hungry. - -'We will not get even a chocolate-box,' they grumbled one after the -other, muttering with their unending rage against humanity. - -But the great carnival wave, with ever-increasing force, swallowed -up their rage against mankind also. The noise among the carriages -got tremendous. The confetti war had begun between them and the -pony-carts, done up with myrtle as an attempt at decoration, all -being well filled with masqueraders of both sexes dressed in -bright-coloured calicoes. The Parascandolos, who lived on the other -side of the Rossi Palace, kept their balcony shut, for the Signora -considered herself in mourning; but Don Gennaro Parascandolo, in a -Russian linen dust-cloak and cap, with a bag of sweets hung round his -neck, after walking along Toledo, greeted from hundreds of balconies, -where his past, present, and future clients were, had gone to his -club at Santa Brigida, and from there, amid a group of young and old -boon companions, made a life of it, as they said there. They joked -about him, asked him how many cars he had lent money for, and if -it was true his collection of bills was increased by many princely -autographs. Ninetto Costa, the smart, lucky stock-broker, who had his -own reasons for making a fuss with him, said, to flatter him, that -not a handful of caraways was thrown that day he was not interested -in either providing or scattering. Don Gennaro Parascandolo laughed -paternally, not denying it. He answered those who asked him for -coppers as a joke, 'I have had to get the loan of forty pounds from a -friend to hold carnival with.' Others around shouted, whistled, but -always flattered him. One never knew when one might fall into his -hands. He stood out among them all by his great height and the little -cap oddly set on his big head, throwing ladlefuls of caraways at the -carriages and pony-carts. - -Slovenly, in her black dress, grown greenish, and her torn -shawl-fringe, Carmela the cigar-maker had set herself at the corner -of D'Affitto Lane, looking at the passing carriages with her hollow -eyes, her fine fresh mouth working impatiently, the only feature that -was still young in her worn face. Handfuls, ladlefuls of caraways -often new from the balconies and the street, frequently hitting her -face or back; but she only moved a little to avoid it, smiling at the -annoyance, and cleaned her face with a corner of her shawl. - -She was waiting there to see her lover, Raffaele, called -Farfariello, pass. He was in a carriage with four others, all dressed -alike; and, indeed, to get this dress, she had had to sell some -copper pans, a chest of drawers, and two long branches of artificial -flowers under a glass case, all things she was keeping for her -marriage. How it tore her heart to sell these things, bought bit by -bit by dint of hard saving! - -But Raffaele had insisted on having forty francs--blood from a -snail--because he was in despair at making a poor appearance among -his friends; and she, getting white when she heard him swear, had -sold all these things, and, like a fool, was quite pleased at heart -when she handed him the money, because he had smiled and promised to -take her and her mother to an inn at Campo the last Carnival Sunday -if she took as much as even an _ambo_ on Saturday. She, quite proud -of this fantastic promise, kept down her heart's bitterness, and went -as slovenly as a beggar that carnival day, her hair falling on her -neck, without a sou in her pocket, to see her handsome lover passing -proudly in a carriage, smoking a Naples cigar, in new clothes and -hat on one side, with that intensely indifferent look characteristic -of the _guappo_, or aspirants to it. She waited patiently, thinking -only of him, not caring about her day's work, as there was a holiday -at the factory. She quietly bore all the pushing about that noon-day -carnival that she took no part in, for she was wrapped up like a -Buddhist in contemplation of her lover. - -On the people went, on foot and in carriages, through the clouds of -caraways, flowers, chocolates, through the shower of coloured paper -from the upper stories, where, as they were not able to take part in -the caraway war, they amused themselves in that way. The noise got -clamorous, swaying about sonorously, rising to the skies that gentle -scirocco day. - -Carmela, confused by the noise and wild sights that noon-day, -when Naples' rejoicing became epic, screwed up her eyes, not to -lose sight of the two-horse carriages going along at a foot-pace, -white with powder. Now and then one of the large cars appeared. -There was the Parthenope Siren, a huge, pink lady with blonde hair -hanging down. She was made of cardboard, and the body ended up -in blue waves. This Siren was dragged along on a car full of men -dressed as fish--oysters, carp, bull-heads. One car represented a -merchant-vessel, a Tartana. The ship had rigging and sailors dressed -in pink and white stripes, also in blue and white with long red -caps. There was a car with eight or ten Jacks-in-the-box, from which -gentlemen dressed in satin burst out in the midst of flowers. On -one car all the Neapolitan masks were shown: Pulcinella, Tartaglia, -Don Nicolai, Columbrina, Barilotto the clown, the _guappo_, the old -woman--even to the newest mask of a pretentious, fast youth, Don -Felice Scioscimocca. - -When these cars passed, very slowly, almost quivering on their -wheels, showering down caraway, confetti, and presents, they were -much applauded. The Siren excited rather risky jokes; the Tartana -was thought picturesque; the Jacks-in-the-box luxurious and smart; -and the Naples masks were hailed with shouts of recognition and -quick-flying dialogues from all the balconies in dialect, which the -masks replied to in a lively way. There was one swaying movement from -the top to the bottom of Toledo, both in the balconies and the crowds -round the carriages. - -Carmela looked and looked. She saw the two sisters Concetta and -Caterina, pass in a carriage, the horses covered with flowers stuck -in the shiny brass harness. She owed Donna Concetta thirty-five -francs since ever so long, and managed to give her a few francs now -and then just for interest, and she had often staked on the _small -game_ with Donna Caterina when she had not enough money for the -Government Lottery, or, perhaps, only one penny left. The sisters -were in full dress, the hair done up like a trophy on the top of the -head with gold chains, and they wore heavy necklaces, pearl earrings, -thick rings, keeping up their usual discreet, severe expression, -casting oblique glances, and pursing up their lips. Two men were with -them in workmen's Sunday attire, with shiny long hair, hat over the -ear, in black jackets, with a spent cigar in a corner of the mouth. -The four, silent and solemn, looked at each other now and then with -serious, pleased glances of gratified pride, shaking their heads to -get rid of the caraways off their hat-brims, smiling at the people -who threw them. They looked to right and left haughtily, just like -rich, common people. - -Carmela bit her lips on seeing the two calm, ferocious heapers-up of -other people's money, but immediately after the usual words came from -her heart to her lips: - -'It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter.' - -But a very original car was coming down from the top of Toledo, -raising a colossal laugh, from right to left, up and down. It was -a great bed, with a bright pink cotton quilt, such as are used in -Naples. It had an open canopy, with images of the Virgin and patron -saints on the hangings. In bed, tucked in with white sheets, were two -people, with huge pasteboard heads, one an old man in a night-cap, -the other an old woman in a mob-cap. Very caressing, affected old -people; they nodded their great heads, pulled the coverlids from each -other with that selfish, shivering habit old people have; offering -snuff to each other, bowing, sneezing, and stretching themselves -out; greeting people in the balconies, thanking them for the shower -of caraways they got, and shaking them off the bed-clothes. It -was not found out who they were, but they displayed that familiar -caricature--a corner of a bedroom--without anyone thinking it too -risky; for Southerners are used to sleeping in the open air, they -live so much in public in this warm, easy-going country. - -What about it? Everyone laughed. Even the people in Don Crescenzio's -shop at Nunzio Corner, just beyond Carità Passage, laughed. It was -really the lottery bank, No. 117, a shop usually shut from Saturday -at noon till Tuesday, the crush beginning on Thursday up to Saturday -at twelve o'clock. - -Don Crescenzio, the lottery banker, a handsome man, with a red beard, -worked there with his two lads, who were anything but lads: one, an -old man of seventy, bent, half-blind, his nose always on the gambling -register, made people say their lottery numbers three times, to -make no mistakes, and wrote them very, very slowly. The other was a -colourless type of no particular age; his face had undecided lines, -his beard was an indefinite colour, one of those queer beings that -are employed as witnesses by ushers, as middlemen at the pawn-shop, -as distributors of handbills, and agents for furnished rooms. Don -Crescenzio lorded it over his two _young men_. That Thursday he had -quite changed his shop, putting up a gallery in it draped in white -and crimson, to which he invited his best customers. Yes, they were -all there, those that came every week to put down the best of their -income--money hardly earned, either snatched from domestic economies, -or got by cunning expedient, bold at first, and then shameful. - -All were there at the lottery shop, turned into a stand. The Marquis -di Formosa, Don Carlo Cavalcanti, with his lordly air; Dr. Trifari, -red of face, hair, and beard, bloated as if he were going to burst, -a suspicious look in his false blue eyes; Professor Colaneri, more -than ever that day, clearly showed the indelible marks of a priest -who has given up the Church; then Ninetto Costa, come from his club -in Don Gennaro Parascandolo's company, felt drawn by a powerful, -irresistible desire to his haunt; and other eight or ten--a court -judge, a steward of a princely house, a sickly painter of saints, -and Cozzolino the barber, who was a great Cabalist, down to the -shoeblack Michele, in a corner on the ground, a hunchback and lame, -his wrinkled old face full of irrestrained passion; beside him was -Gaetano, the glove-cutter, more worn and pale than before, his eyes -burning with discontent, uneasiness in every line of his face. Don -Crescenzio's clients held their carnival in the shop dear to their -ruling passion, and as they were tormented to buy caraways, they, -too, threw them at the carriages, but mostly at the passers-by, among -whom they found acquaintances sometimes. No one was surprised to see -such different sorts of people together--a Marquis, a stock-broker, -a court judge, a doctor, a professor, down to a workman. Carnival, -carnival! The gentle popular madness had seized all brains; the -warmish day, the bright colours, the whims in the thousands -of vehicles passing, the clamour of a hundred thousand people -overpowered even those suffering from another fever, which was pushed -back for a time into a corner of the mind. - -When Cesare Fragalà passed on foot, laughing and shouting, in a -Russia-linen dust-cloak and travelling-cap, two long bags of caraways -at his sides, which he emptied against balconies of his acquaintance -and went filling again at every corner of the street from wandering -salesmen, joking with everyone, fat, strong, and jovial, needing an -outlet to his spirits--when he passed before Don Crescenzio's shop -there was a chorus of greetings. Under the Rossi Palace, before -his own balconies, he had already had half an hour's fight from -below with his wife and her friends. Luisella, Carmela Naddeo, the -Durantes, and the Antonaccis had thought Cesare's idea so original -and he so charming that they had knocked him down by dint of caraway -showers; he had been obliged to run away, laughing, keeping down his -head, pulling his cap over his ears. There were noisy greetings, -therefore, from Don Crescenzio's shop, and calls for him to come in. -Was he not a customer, too, always hopeful of getting eighty thousand -francs hard cash to open a shop in San Ferdinando? But Cesare was -too satisfied wandering about alone, laughing and shrieking with -everyone, buffeted by the caraways, red, panting with health and fun. - -He went among the carts and carriages, borne by the crowd, through a -burst of excitement, which the time of day made keener. The quietest -did silly things now. Those standing on the cars, at first only -merry, looked like so many demons. Raffaele, nicknamed Farfariello, -loving Carmela's betrothed, passed in a carriage; to be seen better, -he and his friends had made up their minds to sit on the roof. From -there they waved white silk handkerchiefs, tied to sticks like flags, -at the crowd. Alas! he did not see her, the girl who waited so many -hours for him at the corner of D'Affitto Lane. She, having cried out, -waved her arms and a bit of white stuff, felt stunned at the neglect, -but whispered to herself as a consolation, 'It does not matter.' - -But she still stayed there, hemmed in by that growing carnival -frenzy. A thicker crowd closed in under the balcony where the lovely -lady dressed as a Japanese was. She, getting excited, began to send -down a shower of confetti by handfuls and boxfuls, as if she had a -store in the house, a servant handing them to her. A shout of rogues -and enthusiastic common folk rose to the skies, whilst she from -above, quite serious, but a pink flame in her cheeks, recklessly -flung down confetti, sweets, and chocolate-boxes. On the balcony -draped with blue and silver net, the exalted personage's son had -thought of the joke of tying a bottle of champagne, a game pie or a -big chocolate-box, to a long rod, and letting it down to the level -of the crowd's outstretched hands, pulling it up, dancing it about, -amidst the longing cries, uplifted hands, and open mouths of the -people below, until a shout of triumph announced some lucky one had -carried off the prize of the new Cockayne. The rod was pulled up, -and the young fellows, who had taken a mad fancy to the game, tied -on some other eatable or drinkable--a bottle of bourdeaux, a cheese -wrapped in silver paper, or a bag of confetti, and the game started -again, with an unutterable row and obstruction to traffic. The men -in the cars now, having taken in new stores as the evening went on, -danced, sang, and threw things, behaving like demons. - -It was at this most exciting time of the day that a new cart came -out from a side-street of Toledo, arriving late, the horses drawing -it at a foot-pace. It was queer and fantastic, being a philosopher's -chemical laboratory, where a wretched old Faust sat cursing all -human things in a frozen, melancholy way. It formed a dark room, -with two shelves of books, a furnace, and an alchemist's retort, and -there was an open Koran on a carved wooden desk. A bent old man in -a black velvet skull-cap, with a long yellowy-white beard, tottered -about the car, throwing boxes of sweets shaped like books, retorts, -alembics, furnaces, to the crowd in the streets and balconies, each -having a figure of Mephistopheles. But they were good sweets. Then -a chimerical touch got into the carnival fury. The sorcerer's car -seemed quite supernatural. The old man, whom the laughing women -in the balconies called the Devil, his bald head in the skull-cap -quivering, threw out things, magically producing them from beneath -the car. Now and then amid the clamour of the populace a shrill voice -called out to the decrepit sorcerer, 'Give us lottery numbers! give -us tips!' - -Having got to San Ferdinando, Faust's car turned to go back the same -way up Toledo, when a most curious, indescribable thing happened. The -old man took out of a copper alembic, beside the boxes of sweets, -long, narrow strips of yellow paper and threw them to the crowd, who -rushed furiously on them. A shout went before, and followed Faust's -car, 'These are _storni, storni_!' - -To carry out a new, splendid, eccentric generosity pleasing to the -people, the old man threw lottery-tickets of two or three numbers, -ready paid for next Saturday, at two sous each. They are called -_storni_. He nobly threw handfuls of them to the people, laughing in -his thick, white beard, forgetting he was old, holding his head back -with ferocious gaiety. - -What a shout everywhere, from the streets and windows up to the sky -paling at sunset! What a lengthened shout of desire and enthusiasm! -The whole population raised their hands and arms as if to seize the -promised land. They cast themselves on the ground and kicked each -other, so as to snatch a lottery-ticket, with its conditional promise -of ten or two hundred francs gain. What joyous excitement among -men, women, boys, rich and poor, needy and comfortably off! What -an irresistible rush, that from holy fear respected the sorcerer's -car; they made a triumph for him of glorious shouts from one end of -Toledo to the other! But when he had thrown ten thousand tickets to -the crowd he disappeared, no one knew where or how. - - * * * * * - -Antonio Amati met Margherita the maid on the staircase as she was -going in, too, rather tired. Brusquely, as if he would have preferred -not to speak, perhaps, he asked her: - -'How is your mistress?' - -'She is better,' the old domestic said in a low voice. 'Why have you -not been to see her, sir?' - -'I have a lot to do,' the doctor muttered, without, however, knocking -at his door. - -'That is true; but you are so kind, sir.' - -'And then there was no need of me,' he added in a hesitating tone. - -'Who can tell?' Margherita retorted in a still lower and mysterious -voice. 'Why don't you come in now, sir?' - -'I will come,' he said, with his head down, as if he was giving in to -a superior will. - -She put a key in the lock and opened it, going before the doctor -into the quiet house, right on to the drawing-room, and he, though -accustomed to keep down his own impressions, felt at once the cold -silence and emptiness of the big room. He found the girl in black -before him, smiling vaguely, holding out her hand--a long, cold, tiny -one, which he kept a minute in his, more as a doctor than a friend. - -'Are you quite well again?' - -He spoke in a low voice, feeling the oppressive surroundings. - -'Not altogether,' she said in her clear, tired voice. 'I had another -fainting-fit one night; but very short--at least, I think so.' - -'Did no one come to your help?' he said regretfully. - -'No; no one knew about it; it was at night, in my own room.... It -doesn't matter,' she added, with a slight smile. - -'Why did you not go to the country?' - -'My father hates the country,' she said. 'I will not leave him here -alone.' - -'But why do you not go out? It is carnival to-day; why did you not go -to see it? Do you want to die of melancholy?' - -'Signora Fragalà did ask me, but I hardly know her. I think I would -have had to wear a mask. My father does not like such things; he is -right.' - -She spoke in a gentle, pretty voice, with a tired sound in it. Amati, -who had been working all that day by sick-beds while others enjoyed -the carnival, felt rested by that harmonious voice and the tired, -delicate calmness of the young girl. They were alone, facing each -other--around them was a great silence; they hardly looked at each -other, but they spoke as if their souls had long lived together, in -joy and sorrow. - -'Where were you a little ago?' Antonio Amati asked brusquely. - -'I was in the chapel,' Bianca Maria answered, taking no offence at -the question. - -'Do you pray a great deal?' - -'Not enough,' she replied, raising her eyes heavenwards. - -'Why do you pray so much?' - -'I must do it.' - -'You don't sin,' the unbeliever muttered, trying to make a joke of it. - -'One never knows,' she said gravely. 'One must pray for those that -don't pray themselves.' - -So saying, she gave him a passing glance. He bent his head. - -'You spend too many hours in the cold church. It will do you harm.' - -'I don't think so; and, then, what does it matter?' - -'Don't say that,' interrupting her quickly. - -'Few things can hurt me,' she replied in a tone he understood and did -not want to inquire into. - -'Let us go and see the carnival from Signora Fragalà's windows. She -asked me, too;' and he got up promptly to carry her off. - -'Let us stay here,' Bianca gently retorted. 'Here at least there is -peace. Don't you think this calm and silence good for one, too?' - -'You are right,' Amati owned, sitting down again quite subdued. - -'My father has gone out with his friends to see the carnival,' she -went on quietly. 'Everyone in the palace is out on the balconies that -look on Toledo; no noise reaches here, you see.' - -They looked at each other frankly. That strange hour of -unconsciousness, when he saved her, and she knew he was saving her, -had set up something like an inward life between them. What she felt -was a humble need of protection, help, and counsel; his feeling was a -very tender pity. He could not keep back a question that rose to his -mind. - -'Is it true you wish to be a nun?' he asked in rather a choked voice. - -'I would like it,' she said simply. - -'Why should you?' - -'Just because,' she replied with a woman's favourite answer. - -'Why should you be a nun? No one wants to be a nun nowadays. Why -should you do it?' - -'Because, if there is one single person in the world that should go -into a convent, it is I; because I have neither desires, nor hopes, -nor anything before me. As that is so, you see, I must at least have -prayer across this void desert and the desolation that comes before -death.' - -'Don't say that--don't say it!' he implored, as if for the first time -fatality had breathed on his energy and destroyed it. - - - - - CHAPTER VI - - DONNA CATERINA AND DONNA CONCETTA - - -The two sisters, Donnas Caterina and Concetta, were sitting opposite -each other at the dinner-table. They were eating silently, with -their eyes down; and occasionally they bent down to wipe their lips -on a corner of the tablecloth that was all marked with bluish wine. -A large deep-rimmed dish stood on the table between the two, full -of macaroni cooked in oil, salted anchovies, and garlic, all fried -lightly in an earthen pan and thrown over the boiling pasta; the two -women plunged their forks now and then into the shiny oily macaroni, -put some in their plates, and began to eat again. There was a big -loaf of white underbaked bread, too--the _tortano_: they broke -off bits with their hands to eat the macaroni with. A greeny-blue -glass bottle full of reddish wine, that made bluish reflections, -stood on the tablecloth; big glasses, and a salt-cellar, also of -glass--nothing else. The sisters used leaden forks, and coarse -knives with black handles; they sometimes broke off a bit of bread -and dipped it in the fried oil at the bottom of the dish. Caterina, -who was the roughest and saw fewest people--she lived furtively -almost--put her bread into the macaroni dressing with her fingers; -Concetta, who was more refined, from always going about and seeing -people, put the bread neatly on her fork to dip it in the garlic, and -nibbled at it after examining it. At one point, indeed, Concetta, -finding a burnt bit of garlic, put it aside with a frown. Otherwise -the sisters were exactly alike in gestures, way of speaking, and -style of dress, though not so much so in features. Both had their -hair dressed by the same woman at two sous each: it was drawn up to -the top of the head, the coil fastened by big sham tortoise-shell -pins, and the fringe slightly powdered over the forehead. Both -wore the dress of well-to-do Naples common folk--a petticoat with -no jacket, merely a trimmed bodice, that keeps the Spanish name -_baschina_; and they never went without a thick gold chain round -the neck--it was the sign of their great power--and they wore high -felt boots, with noisy wooden heels. It being dinner-hour, they had -left their usual work--a great coverlet of calico, pink one side and -green the other, stuffed with cotton-wool--stretched over a big loom, -where they stitched at it in wheels, stars, and lozenges, working -quickly, one on each side of it, their heads down and noses on the -pattern, pulling the needle out and in monotonously. The loom was -pushed into a corner; the displaced chairs were noticeable. Now a -little servant of fourteen came in, red-haired, white-faced, and -marked with freckles, carrying the second course--a bit of Basilicata -cheese, like a dry cream cheese, called _provola_, and two big sticks -of celery. She glanced at Donna Caterina to know what to do with the -macaroni left in the dish. - -'Keep two bits for Menichella,' said the holder of the _small game_, -as she cut a big slice of cheese. - -'Yes, ma'am,' the girl said as she went out. - -Menichella was a poor old thing of sixty; her son, in the Municipal -Guard, had been killed in a fight with Camorrists in Pignasecca -Square by a revolver-shot in the stomach. She lived on alms, and -every Friday arrived at the Esposito sisters' house, where she got -a hot dish, half a loaf of bread, and some scraps. The Espositos -did this out of devotion to our lovely Lady of Sorrows, whose day -is Friday. On Wednesday they gave the same alms to a blind beggar -called Guarattelle, because for many years he kept a puppet-show; -this charity they dedicated to the Virgin of the Carmine, Wednesday -being her day. On Monday, too, they fed a deserted boy of ten, that -the whole Rosariello di Porta Medina Road were taken up about and -fed, while the Esposito sisters helped him that one day for the -sake of souls in Purgatory, their day being Monday. A beggar seldom -knocked at their door any day without getting something. 'Do it for -St. Joseph; his day has come round.' 'The Holy Trinity be praised! -to-day is Sunday; give alms.' Something to eat, a glass of wine, some -scraps, beggars always carried off--money never. The sisters had too -great a respect for sous to give them away. It was better charity, -they explained, to give food, than encourage vice by giving money. - -The beggars stayed on the landing; the sisters never let them in, -fearing always for the valuables in the house; they used to carry out -the dish of macaroni, vegetables, or salad. Sometimes the beggar ate -it on the stairs, muttering blessings. They had now eaten the smoked -cheese and bread, slowly, moving their jaws rather voluptuously, -tearing the celery off in strips, and munching it noisily, like -fruit, to take the taste of oil out of their mouths. When they were -done, they kept still for a little, gazing at the blue stains on -the tablecloth, with their hands in their laps, silently digesting -and making long mental calculations, as women of business. The -servant-girl, Peppina, carried off everything in a trice; the clatter -of her old shoes was heard in the kitchen next door, as she went -backwards and forwards to wash a few plates, stopping now and then to -turn her macaroni in the pan; she had set it to fry again, seeing it -was cold. - -Now the sisters got up, shook the crumbs out of their laps, and -went to take their place at the loom again, bending over it, the -right hand, covered with rings, rising methodically, the left held -under the loom, to stitch through. There was a ring at the bell; -the sisters glanced at each other, and quickly took up their work. -Besides what they earned from it, it served as a screen, morally and -physically. - -Two girls, dressmakers, came in, pushing each other forward. The -first, the bolder, was Antonietta, who worked with a dressmaker in -Santa Chiara Street, the same that went to buy lunch for Nannina and -herself at the wine-seller's opposite the lottery office. Both of -them were, wretchedly dressed, in poor woollen skirts, a gaudy but -shabby jacket of another colour, and a little black shawl, which they -liked to let slip down on their arms, to show their bust; a bunch -of red ribbon was tied at the neck. Nannina, the smallest, was a -relation of the Espositos; she had a holy terror of her aunts, with -their money and jewels, for they always received her with pensive and -intentional coldness. Still, they let her kiss their hands. - -The two girls were still standing near the loom, looking on at this -alert industry as if they were put out. - -'Have you not gone to work to-day?' Donna Caterina asked Nannina. - -'I have been at it,' the girl at once volubly answered, being prodded -by Antonietta's elbow. 'But our mistress sent us to buy some things -near here, and, as this friend of mine wants to ask a favour from -you, we came....' - -'Who do you want this favour from?' said Donna Concetta, raising her -head from her work. - -'From you, aunt,' stammered the niece. - -'You don't say so!' her aunt exclaimed, in an ironical tone, smiling -and shaking her head. - -The girls said nothing; they looked at each other: from the start the -thing was going badly. - -Caterina, as she took no interest in the subject now, cut the tacking -with a pair of scissors, where it had been already stitched, which -covered her maroon bodice with white threads. - -'Have you lost your tongues? What is it about?' Donna Concetta asked, -laughing. - -'Well, now I will tell you, ma'am,' the blonde began, biting her lips -to make them red. 'I would like a new dress for Easter, a pair of -boots, and cotton to make three or four chemises. If I was frugal, -and made them myself, after my day's work is done, forty francs would -do. I have not got it; it would take a year to save it. Knowing you -are good and kind to poor folk, I had an idea you might lend me these -forty francs.' - -'It was not a good idea of yours,' said the money-lender freezingly. - -'Why? I can pay off the debt at so much a week. I earn twenty-five -sous a day; I don't owe a penny to anyone. Ask Nannina; she is my -guarantee.' - -'Nannina ought to find a security for herself,' Donna Concetta -grumbled. 'But why do you need this dress? Is what you have on not -enough? If one has no money, get no dresses. When my sister and I had -no means, we got no clothes. You are all mad, you girls, nowadays!' - -'Aunt, aunt, do her this favour; she has a lover, and she is ashamed -to go ill-dressed,' the niece begged for her friend. - -'I have had a lover too,' Donna Concetta answered; 'he was not -ashamed when I was ill-dressed.' - -'Men nowadays are quite different,' Antonietta murmured. 'So do me -this favour.' - -'I don't know you, my dear.' - -'I work for Cristina Gagliardi, at No. 18, Santa Chiara, the -first-floor. I live at No. 3, Strettola di Porto; you can make -inquiries.' - -Silence followed, and the girls again gave each other an alarmed look. - -'At most--at most,' said Donna Concetta, looking up, 'I can give you -stuff to make a dress on credit, and cotton for the chemises.... -I will ask a merchant that knows me--a good man; but you will pay -dearer for your clothes.' - -'No matter, it doesn't matter,' Antonietta quickly interrupted; 'do -so.' - -'What colour is the stuff to be?' Donna Concetta asked maternally. - -'Navy blue or bottle green; I like navy blue best.' - -'It will suit you best--navy blue; you look well in it,' said -Nannina, in an important way. - -'It does not discolour so easily,' Donna Concetta settled it by -saying. 'How many yards do you need?' - -The girl counted to herself, moved her fingers as if she was -measuring, looked at her figure, and counted over again. - -'Ten metres--yes, that would be enough.' - -'Ten metres; Jesus! so you want to be in the fashion.' - -'Donna Concetta, be forbearing,' Antonietta answered smilingly. - -'Very good--very good; for each chemise four metres is -needed--sixteen in all.' - -'And the shoes?' the girl asked hesitatingly. - -'I know no shoemaker, my dear.' - -'You will give me the rest of the forty francs in money?' the sewing -girl risked saying. - -'Listen, my dear,' said Donna Concetta: 'I am going to-morrow, or -Saturday, to the dressmaker's to ask if you really get over a franc -a day, and if you have taken any money in advance. Then I'll arrange -with the dressmaker that, instead of giving you your whole pay for -the week, she keeps back two francs for me as interest on the forty -francs.' - -'Two francs?' the girl cried out, alarmed at this long story. - -'Of course. I should get four, a sou a week for each franc; but you -are a poor girl, and I really wish to help you. The dressmaker gives -me the two francs for interest. You pay off the rest of the debt as -it suits you, five or three francs at a time. Do you understand?' - -'Yes, ma'am, yes,' the terrified girl cried out. - -'The quicker you pay the better for you, and it will suit me. -However, I warn you, if you were to get the dressmaker to pay you in -advance, go away, or play any trick of the kind, I'll come to you, -my dear, and let you see who Concetta Esposito is. I would think -nothing of going to the galleys for my heart's blood.... Have I made -it plain?' - -'Yes, ma'am, yes,' Antonietta stammered, with tears in her eyes. - -'There is still time for you not to do it,' Donna Concetta ended up -icily, bending down again to stitch the coverlet. - -'No, no!' the girl screamed out--'whatever you like. Promise me to -come to-morrow to Santa Chiara Road.' - -'We see each other to-morrow,' said Donna Concetta, taking leave of -her. - -'You will bring the things and the money?' - -'I must think over it.' - -'Good-bye, aunt,' Nannina murmured, pale and more frightened than her -friend. - -'The Virgin go with you,' answered the Espositos in a chorus, -beginning to work again. - -The girls went off quite silently, with their heads down, not able to -speak or smile. A woman coming up, hurriedly, knocked against them; -and with a quick 'Excuse me!' she went to ring at the Espositos' -door. It was Carmela, the cigar-girl, with her big, sorrowful eyes -and worn face. Before going into the house she sighed deeply, and her -face flushed. - -'May I come in?' she said from the lobby, in a weak voice. - -'Come in,' was the answer from inside. 'Is it you, good soul?' said -Concetta, on recognising her; 'are you really come to give me back -that money? your conscience pricked you at last? Give it over here.' - -'You are joking, Donna Concetta,' said the poor thing, with a pale -smile. 'If I had thirty-four francs, I would give as many leaps in -the air.' - -'It is thirty-seven and a half francs, with last week's interest,' -the money-lender coldly corrected her. - -'As you like: who is denying it? As you say, it is thirty-seven and a -half, I am sure you are right.' - -'You have brought the interest, at least?' - -'Nothing, nothing,' the girl said desperately, holding down her head. -'I am eaten up by misery: I have got to earning a franc and a half a -day; now I might live like a lady, but----' - -'Why do you waste your money?' asked Donna Concetta, giving in to her -fad of preaching prudence to her debtors. 'You are a beast, that is -what you are!' - -'But why,' Carmela cried out desperately--'why should I not give a -bit of bread to my old mother? When my sister is dying of hunger with -her three children, and one of them wasting away piteously, can I -refuse her half a franc? When my brother-in-law, Gaetano, has nothing -to smoke, for all his vices, should I deny him a few sous? With what -heart could I do it?' - -'It is Raffaele that sucks you out--it is Raffaele!' the money-lender -sang out, threading a needle with red cotton. - -'What about that?' the girl cried out, throwing out her arms; 'he was -born to be a gentleman. In the meanwhile, if I don't pay the landlord -on Monday, he will turn me out. I owe him thirty francs: but I might -at least give him ten! If you would just do me this charity!' - -'You are mad, my dear.' - -'Donna Concetta, what are ten francs to you? I'll give them back, you -know: I have never taken a farthing from anyone. Don't have me thrown -on the streets, ma'am. Do it for the sake of your dead in paradise!' - -'No, no, no!' sang out the seamstress. - -'Listen, look here,' the other went on sorrowfully: 'these earrings -I am wearing my godmother paid seventeen francs for; I give them to -you--I have nothing else. You will give me them back when I give you -the ten francs.' - -'I never take a pawn,' Donna Concetta replied, glancing at the -earrings. - -'But it is not a pawn; it is a favour you are doing me. If I were -to pawn it, I would get five or six francs; they would take the -interest beforehand, with the money for the ticket, the box, and the -witness, and only three or four francs would be left. Do it only this -once, ma'am--the Virgin from heaven preserve you!' She convulsively -took out her rather worn earrings, rubbed them with a corner of her -apron, and put them gently on the coverlet, still looking at them -earnestly, taking leave of them. Donna Concetta took them with a -scornful grimace, and glanced at her sister, who just raised her head -and signed 'Yes,' with a wink. Donna Concetta got up stiffly; without -saying anything, she carried the earrings into the next room, where -the sisters slept; a noise of keys in locks was heard, an opening and -shutting of strong boxes, with silent intervals. Then Donna Concetta -came in again. She carried two rolls of yellow paper in her hand. - -'They are sous: count them,' she said shortly, putting them down -before Carmela. - -'It does not matter-they are sure to be right,' said the poor little -thing, trembling with emotion. 'The Eternal Father should give it -back to you in health, the kindness you do me.' - -'Very good,' Donna Concetta finished up with, sitting down again to -work. 'But I warn you I'll sell the earrings if you don't pay.' - -'Never fear,' Carmela murmured as she went off. - -For a little the sisters were alone, stitching. - -'The earrings are worth twelve francs in gold,' said Caterina. She -had sharp ears. - -'Yes,' said Concetta; 'but Carmela will pay; she is a good girl.' - -Again they heard the bell tinkle. - -'It sounds like the midwife's bell,' Caterina remarked. - -A dragging noise was heard, the sound of a box put down in the corner -of the stair, and Michele, the shoeblack, came in with his hip up, as -if he was still carrying his block. He greeted them in the Spanish -style, saying, 'La vostra buona grazia' (I am your humble servant), -whilst the thousand wrinkles on his rickety boy's face, grown old, -seemed to breathe out malice. The sisters looked patiently at him, -waiting till he spoke. - -'Gaetano Galiero, the glove-cutter, sends me----' - -'Fine honest fellow he is!' exclaimed Donna Concetta, putting a strip -of paper in her thimble--it had got too large. - -'If you don't make people speak, you can never get to understand each -other,' the hunchback rejoined philosophically. 'Gaetano is under -great obligations to you; but you are a fine woman, not wanting in -judgment, and you will forgive his failings. What does not happen in -a year comes the day you least expect it. Gaetano is here with the -money.' - -'Yes, yes,' the sisters said, grinning. - -'You will see him afterwards. But I have come to speak of an affair -of my own. I, thank God, work at a better trade than Gaetano does; I -stand beside the Café de Angelis in Carità Square. I don't say it out -of boasting, but I polish the shoes of the best nobility in Naples. I -can earn what I like; I laugh at ill fortune. When it rains, I stand -under the archway of the café door; the dirtier it is in the streets, -the more shoes I polish. My good woman, if I had a clear head, I -would be a gentleman now. But now, to carry out a big affair that -may bring me my carriage, I need a little money; and as you oblige -people that way, I have come to propose the business to you. Forty -francs would do for me; I would pay it off by three francs a week -until I have managed the _combination_; for then I will give you back -capital, interest, and a handsome present.' - -'Don't put yourself about,' said Donna Concetta ironically. - -'If you won't lend me money, who do you lend to?' the hunchback -asked audaciously. 'If I stand all day in front of the café, I -earn two francs, do you know. Not even a barber's lad can say as -much. So that stand is my fortune, my shop; if I go away from it, I -don't earn a half-penny, so I can't run away. Do you see? Ask the -coffee-house-keeper who Michele is. Your money is safe in my hands. -You will hear all about me from the café-owner.' - -'If he guarantees you, I'll give you the money,' Donna Concetta said -at once. - -'In that case, he would give it himself' the hunchback objected. 'No, -no, Michele has no need of a guarantee. Come to-morrow, Saturday, -at nine, to the café-owner; you will hear what he says; you will -willingly give me sixty instead of forty francs. I am an honest man; -I am subject to public scrutiny.' - -'Good; we see each other to-morrow. You know what the interest is?' -said Donna Concetta. - -'Whatever you like,' the hunchback gallantly answered; 'you can -have a cup of coffee, too, and a roll inside: I am master at the -coffee-house! Can I do anything for you?' - -'We wish for your prayers always,' the two women said in a low tone, -as he was going away. After working a little, Caterina observed: - -'You said yes to him too soon.' - -'I will make the coffee-house-keeper guarantee him. He is a -hunchback, too; that brings luck,' Donna Concetta replied. - -'If it brings luck, it ought to bring an end to this hard life of -ours,' Caterina began again. She liked to complain of her luck. - -'Oh,' the other sighed, 'we have no man to give us a helping hand, -ever; so we have to do justice for ourselves always. Ciccillo and -Alfonso are simpletons. It is no use....' - -'What can we do?' sighed the other. - -The two sisters gave up working, let their hands fall idle on -the red coverlet, and began to think of their secret sorrow--the -tormenting pain they confessed to no one--of their betrothed lovers, -two good workmen, brothers, at the arsenal, Jannacone by name, who -loved them, but would not marry them, either of the two, because of -their trade. The struggle between love and money had gone on for -three years, but Ciccillo and Alfonso Jannacone would not hear of -marrying a gambler or a money-lender; the whole arsenal would have -taunted them. They were good workmen, rather simple, very silent, -who did not spend their day's wages; they had some savings, and came -to spend the evening with the two sisters. Obstinate on that idea, -one of the few that got into their heads, neither love nor avarice -could overcome it. Several times the sisters, being keen on gain -and bitterly offended at that refusal, had quarrelled with their -lovers and chased them out of the house; but only for a short time: -peace was made, Concetta and Caterina naturally promising to give -over their business. The women must have made a lot of money, but -they never spoke of it, and, in spite of their love for Alfonso and -Ciccillo Jannacone, they themselves put off the marriages so as to -gain still more money, not knowing how to break through that round -of money-lending business. They did not wish to give up old loans, -and could not resist making new ones; they did not understand why -their lovers were so ashamed, and complained of it as an injustice. -The sisters thought themselves humane to lend money at usury; to -give lottery tickets at a sou or two seemed an act of charity to -them, because the Naples poor--skinned and flayed as they were -when they took money from Concetta to give it to Caterina and the -Government--thanked and blessed them with tears. When they were quite -alone, in expansive moments, the two complained of their fate; anyone -else but the Jannacone brothers would have been happy enough to have -such industrious, hard-working wives with dowries. But the workmen -would not given in; they persisted they would never marry unless that -way of gaining money was given up. Ciccillo especially, Caterina's -betrothed, was hard as a stone; indeed, he said to her sometimes: -'Caterina, one day or other you'll go to prison.' - -'I'll pay for bail and get out. Then the lawyer will get me off.' - -She knew the law and its intrigues. - -'If you go to prison, you don't see my face again,' Ciccillo -retorted, lighting his cigar. - -Yes, when they were alone the sisters despaired. But love of money -was so strong, it made them put off the time for the double marriage. -The two workmen waited patiently, slowly buying furniture with their -savings to set up house together, as they never left each other. - -'Wait till Easter,' the sisters said, thinking of ending up all their -affairs by then. - -'Good; at Easter,' the brothers agreed. - -'We will be ready by September,' said they in April, being more than -ever involved in a network of sordid business. - -'In September, then,' the workmen complied. - -Always when they were alone the women complained of being badly -treated by Fate, and of being misunderstood by the men they loved, -ending up with: 'Ciccillo and Alfonso are fools.' - -But they were not long alone that day, either. The wretched trade -went on till evening. There came a painter of saints, so far an -artist that he painted the face, hands, and feet of all the wooden -and stucco saints in Naples and its neighbourhood's thousand -churches: a sickly man, who asked for money, and only got it on -condition he brought a statuette of the Immaculate Conception in -blue, covered with stars, next day, that Madonna being Concetta the -money-lender's patron. Annarella, Carmela's sister, came in to ask -for a loan, being desperate: 'just two francs for the day, just as -a charity.' She wanted to make a little broth for her sick child. A -horrible scene followed: the women would not believe her; she just -wanted to fool them again, for Gaetano and she had a big debt, and -were not ashamed to take poor folk's blood and not give it back. -Annarella screamed, wept, and cried out that she would go and get -her baby, all burning with fever, to show to them. A stone would -pity him. Then she sobbed out that they said what was quite true; -but to pity the poor little thing, who was not to blame, and now -that he was weaned, she could take another half-day service, which -the Virgin would help her to find. At last, as Concetta felt bored, -to get rid of the crying and weeping she gave her the two francs, -cursing and taking her oath they were the last, as true as it was -Friday in March--perhaps the day our Lord died, as it is not known -what Friday in March Jesus died on. Other people, either embarrassed, -furious, or sorrowful, came to pay up old interest, to offer goods -in pledge, or ask for more money. The debtors went on from humility -to bitterness, from threats to beseeching, from solemn promises to -mean tricks. Concetta continued working opposite her sister through -the disputes, quarrels, and threats till evening came. She never got -tired, and always had an effective retort ready or some lucid remark, -finding out a good or bad payer at once. Only for one neatly-dressed, -discreet caller, shaved like a good class of servant, she got up and -went into the next room, where they chattered in a low tone for some -time. The usual noise of keys creaking in the locks, and opening and -shutting of strong boxes, was heard; the servant went out, still -looking reserved, followed by Concetta. - -'Is that the Marquis di Formosa's steward?' Caterina asked when he -had gone. - -'Yes, it is,' said Concetta, without adding more. - -That hard, fatiguing Friday came to an end. Now it was getting dark -the sisters had given up stitching the coverlet. Caterina, for -Saturday, her great day, got ready some thick registers, written in -shapeless characters, all ciphers, which she understood very well. -She leant over it under the oil-lamp, thinking whilst her lips moved; -and Concetta, seeing her deep in her important weekly work, kept -silence out of respect to that sagacious preparation, feeling sure -that next day money would be flowing in to them. - - - - - CHAPTER VII - - DON GENNARO PARASCANDOLO'S BUSINESS - - -With the odorous smoke of a Tocos cigarette filling the little -room, Don Gennaro Parascandolo was deeply wrapped up in the study -of his little pocket-book, turning over the pages of a ledger, and -comparing the long rows of figures in it with the dark, enigmatic -ciphers in the note-book; then he took the pen and wrote something -occasionally--one word or a figure--on the full side of the ledger. - -He was working very placidly in that little room of his flat in San -Giacomo Street, opposite the door of the Exchange. He had rented it -from time immemorial, and he called it the _study_; there he began, -unravelled, and finished all his business, with a discretion and -secrecy he kept up even with his wife. She was far off, isolated -for whole days in that sad, solemn, splendid suite of rooms in the -Rossi Palace. When it was said Don Gennaro Parascandolo was at his -_study_, all was said. Those who said it and those who heard it felt -respectful terror; a fearful vision of riches always increasing, a -magical flow of money running to money by enchantment, rose before -them. The study was the place where Don Gennaro Parascandolo, strong, -wise, audacious, and cold in his audacity, made his fortune grow -by leaps and bounds. It was composed of two rooms: one big one, -with two balconies, was quite full of valuable things gathered in a -queer way--pictures by good artists, foreign furniture, gilt-bronze -candelabra, curious antique pendulums, rolls of carpet and of -linen-cloth, terra-cotta statuettes, even a trophy of antique and -modern arms. - -It was quite a museum, that room. Salvatore, Don Gennaro's -confidential servant, spent half the day trying to keep it -clean, and it required the greatest care not to spoil or break -anything. Occasionally, some rarity left the museum, either sold -advantageously, exchanged for another, or given away in a fit of -calculated generosity. But the empty place was soon filled by a new -article, or by some of the things heaped on each other in the strange -museum. - -When Don Gennaro was alone, he sometimes opened his writing-room -door and stood on the threshold, smoking his everlasting cigarette, -to give a look over what he called his _omnibus_. But he did not -venture to go in, the accumulation was so great. The other room was -prettily enough furnished with the respectable pleasant luxury of -easy-chairs, sofas, small tables with smoking accessories, and a -writing-desk that seemed placed there purposely to make the name -'study' appropriate. The hangings were bright, but not gaudy; on the -desk were dainty knickknacks that Don Gennaro Parascandolo often -played with. Whoever came in there felt calmed; even if he had an -incurable sorrow in his mind, he was reconciled to existence for a -time. Don Gennaro Parascandolo's own genial face, clouded sometimes -by melancholy, his lively, frank manner, managed to give a benignant -look to the surroundings that overcame all fears, difficulties, and -prejudices, and gave a weak, morally defenceless guest into the -host's hands, vanquished beforehand. The whole round of Don Gennaro -Parascandolo's business was regulated by the minute hieroglyphics in -his pocket-book, and a ledger thickly written in also with names, -ciphers, and remarks. - -Whenever a caller was announced, Don Gennaro, without hurrying, shut -up the ledger in the safe, and put the note-book back in his pocket; -every trace of business disappeared. An inkstand of gilt bronze and -rock crystal, shaped like a jockey's cap, with racing accessories, -made a good show on the desk, as well as a silver paper-weight like a -book, with five seals made of old guineas, an ash-tray shaped like a -woman's shoe, and a long, carved ivory Japanese wand that Don Gennaro -trifled with. - -So that Friday in March, after breakfast, he went on smoking -his Tocos cigarette, gazing at the smoke; but when the faithful -Salvatore, clean-shaven and in black, like a high-class servant, a -discreet, silent fellow, came to say Signor Cesare Fragalà wished to -come in, Don Gennaro quickly shut up the ledger and put the note-book -in his pocket. - -'With your permission,' said Cesare Fragalà, coming in smiling. - -'My honoured patron, how are the wife and child?' - -'Very well indeed, Don Gennaro. They are Fragalàs, a strong house, -with no bad luck. You keep well, do you not?' - -'Quite well; but Naples bores me. Cesare, this is a beggarly country. -In a week I go off to Nice and Monte Carlo; after that I go to Paris.' - -'Do you play at Monte Carlo?' Fragalà asked, with a scrutinizing look. - -'Yes, a little. I often win; I have luck; I am learning to play.' - -'How will that serve you?' - -'It is good to know everything,' Parascandolo answered modestly. -'Have you never been there?' - -'No,' said Cesare thoughtfully, 'I have a wife and daughter; still, -it is a fine thing to gain twenty-five or a hundred thousand francs -in an evening!' One could read in his eyes, that filled at once with -melancholy avarice, a great passion for heavy, immediate gains, -depending on luck, and for the most part unlawful. - -'What would you do with it?' asked Don Gennaro, taking another -cigarette, and offering Cesare one from an elegant engraved-silver -Russian cigar-case. - -'What would I do with it? First of all I would let fifty thousand -melt away to enjoy life a little with my friends. I am not selfish, -and fifty thousand would do to open a shop with in San Ferdinando -Square. I will never gain it in the San Spirito shop,' Cesare ended -up low-spiritedly. - -'Still, in the carnival you must have made great profits,' said Don -Gennaro slowly, shaking off his cigar-ash. - -'Yes, yes, enough! but Monte Carlo, or something else, is needed; if -not, one must vegetate, and Agnesina's dowry won't be ready. Then I -am always pushed to it--so many calls.... Why, yesterday I should -have given you back those five hundred francs you lent me without -security--you know I am always punctual--but I could not.' - -'For one day it does not matter,' Don Gennaro said coldly, setting -his face like a stone the moment Cesare spoke of the debt, gazing at -his cigar-smoke as if not to look his friend in the face. - -'But I can't even pay you to-day,' said Cesare quickly, as if he -wanted to get rid of his worry all at once. 'I have had to take a lot -of sugar out of bond, and then----' - -Don Gennaro, quite indifferent to all this chatter, said not a word. - -'Be neighbourly, and complete the favour. I have a little bill due -to-morrow,' Fragalà said, passing through a sharp momentary agony; -'it is five hundred francs, and I have not got it. You might lend -them to me, and I will give you a thousand francs next Saturday ... -it is a great favour ... and you can be sure of my being punctual.' - -'I can't,' Don Gennaro said icily. - -'Why, you have the money,' Cesare cried out ingenuously. - -'Of course; but I can't lend it.' - -'Then, you think I am not solvent?' - -'Not at all; it is to carry out a rule. With intimate friends and -relations, people like you, I always lend five hundred francs; often, -nearly always, I get it back again. Then I willingly lend it a second -time; but once it has not been paid I never lend any more, so I can -only lose five hundred francs.' - -'But I am to give you back a thousand,' said the other in alarm. - -'He who can't give back five hundred is very unlikely to give back a -thousand. A man that fails to keep his word once may do it again,' -said Don Gennaro ponderously. - -'Still, I did not believe you would refuse such a favour to a -friend,' Cesare muttered. 'You put me into great embarrassment.' - -'I think I do well not to give you that money,' said Parascandolo, -opening a gold matchbox like Dellachà's paper ones, with -figure-painting on it. 'I think you are going a bad road; you -frequent very queer company....' - -'I have done some idiotic things, I allow,' said Cesare, with his -big-boy's honesty; 'but I did it with good intentions. Besides,' he -added, as if speaking to himself, 'that Pasqualino De Feo is always -needing some hundred francs. He is a poor man, with no profession nor -trade. The spirits torment him--beat him at night. I have to have -Masses said and prayers to appease them; if not, they drag him to -death. If I have thrown away some hundred francs, I had my reasons. -This business with spirits is important! You are clever, and have -travelled a lot; but if you knew all, you would see it is worth -knowing about.' - -'It may be,' nodded Don Gennaro assentingly; 'but you are going a bad -road.' - -'No, no!' cried out Cesare; 'something must be settled. Either in or -out. Perhaps we will get it this week--that is to say, to-morrow; or -it may be necessary to sacrifice some more, next week, and then win. -Really, you should oblige me,' he added, going back to his trouble. - -'I can't,' retorted Don Gennaro. - -'As a fact, I am an honest trader: anyone would do business with me!' -Cesare called out, beginning to get angry. - -'If it is business, that is another thing,' said Don Gennaro, giving -in suddenly. - -'Well, let us treat it as business,' said Cesare, calming down at -once. - -Then Don Gennaro quietly opened the safe and drew out a blank bill, -of a thousand francs' value. Taking a finely-carved wooden pen, with -a gold nib, he wrote the sum in figures and words, and asked, without -raising his head: - -'To fall due in a month?' - -'Yes, in a month,' agreed Fragalà. Don Gennaro handed the promissory -note to him. It was headed 'Domenico Mazzocchi.' 'Domenico -Mazzocchi--who is that?' asked Fragalà, astounded. - -'He is the capitalist I work for,' Parascandolo answered icily. -Seeing that after Fragalà signed he was going to put down his -dwelling-house, he stopped him warningly. 'Put down the address of -the shop.' - -'Why so?' - -'In business and commercial affairs it is better to take action at -the firm's address.' - -Fragalà felt a chill down his back. - -'There will be no need,' he thought it necessary to say, to -reassure himself. He gave back the promissory note to Don Gennaro -Parascandolo, who read it over carefully, twice; then he opened -another safe and took out bank-notes, and counted three hundred and -eighty francs twice over: he handed them to Fragalà, saying: - -'Three hundred and eighty francs. Count your money over again.' - -'Three hundred and eighty only?' asked the other, again astounded. - -'Twelve per cent. interest is taken off,' explained Don Gennaro. - -'Is that by the year?' asked Fragalà stupidly. - -'No; by the month.' - -Then there was silence. While Fragalà was counting the money -mechanically, he thought, but dared not say to Parascandolo, that -the interest had been calculated on the first five hundred francs, -too, that he, Don Gennaro, had lent him, and not the capitalist -Mazzocchi. He said nothing about it, though; indeed, in the innocency -of his soul, he remarked, as he got up to go away: - -'Thank you!' - -'Why thank me? It is business. Only, think of when it falls due. -Mazzocchi stands no nonsense--he is an ugly sort.' - -'Never fear,' said Fragalà, with a sickly smile. After taking leave, -he went off, with a colourless face and bitter mouth, as if he had -been chewing aloes. At once Don Gennaro set himself to his accounts. -But it was only for a few minutes, as Salvatore came to say Ambrogio -Marzano, the lawyer, was there, with another gentleman, wanting to -come in. He expected them, evidently, as he frowned slightly and -looked stiff. Marzano came in, with his usual gentle smile--he was -a lively, excitable old fellow; the one that looked put out was his -companion, a gentleman of about forty, fat but pale, with very clear -eyes that rolled vaguely and sadly. - -The greetings were short. For a fortnight Marzano and Baron Lamarra -had kept coming to San Giacomo Street to see Don Gennaro, on money -business. They talked it over, made suggestions, accepted and then -refused, then started the arguments over again. Baron Lamarra, son -of a sculptor, who had become a contractor by dint of chiselling in -the open air, and rich by dint of laying one son on another, had left -his son a lot of money, though he was now trying for a loan of three -thousand francs. He kept up his beggar-on-horseback airs at first, -but as the days went on, and difficulties came in the way, he dropped -them, and did nothing but play with the charms on his watch-chain; -his conceited blue eyes got to have a despairing expression, which -Don Gennaro studied sagaciously--perhaps it was for his benefit -that he looked so cold. Only Don Ambrogio Marzano went on smiling, -obstinate in his good nature. - -'The Baron is rather anxious to finish up the business now we -have talked it over for days,' said the little old man, trying to -encourage his client. - -'Let us finish it, then,' Don Gennaro answered, without lifting his -eyes. - -'You have not thought out a better arrangement?' Baron Lamarra -murmured. - -'No, I have not,' said Don Gennaro. - -The two looked at each other, hesitating; the Baron made the lawyer -an energetic sign to go on. - -'How would it be?' Marzano asked. - -'Here it is. My capitalist, Ascanio Sogliano, has no funds; but he -can dispose of about forty dozen Chiavari chairs at six francs each, -seventy-two francs the dozen, over two thousand seven hundred francs -in all. He would give these goods, which are easy to dispose of, on -a three months' promissory note, with the Baron and the Baroness -Lamarra's signatures, each bound for all, with the usual interest, in -advance, of three per cent; three times three, nine--that is to say, -ninety francs a month; three times ninety, two hundred and seventy -francs for three months.' - -'And you said there would be a buyer for these Chiavari chairs, did -you not?' Marzano replied, keeping up his frank tone. - -'Exactly so,' said Don Gennaro, still very cold. - -'Buyer at how much?' asked Baron Lamarra rather anxiously, knowing -the answer quite well, but almost hoping for a different one. - -'I told you: at two thousand francs.' - -The lawyer shook his head; the Baron fumed with rage. - -'It is too great a loss, far too great!' he cried out; 'and, then, my -wife's signature, too!' - -'Excuse me, Baron,' Don Gennaro remarked, 'you seem to be under -a wrong impression. I am doing you a favour, finding a tradesman -and a buyer. I am not taken up about this business. I often have -as good aristocratic names as yours on bills, I can tell you. This -is to clear up the position. You come here shouting as if you were -in brigands' hands and your ears were being cut off. Here we don't -cut off ears. If the affair does not suit you, let it go. It is -indifferent to me, I repeat.' - -As a sign of the greatest indifference, he lighted a Tocos cigarette, -and began smoking, looking up to the ceiling. Baron Lamarra, whose -face got flabbier and more unhealthy-looking in that annoying -struggle, was disturbed. Silence followed. Marzano shook his head -gently, as if he was lamenting over human weakness; he gazed at the -silver top of his cane, without saying a word. The Baron ran his -fingers through his black locks flecked with white; then he made up -his mind, and drew out a thick black pocket-book, took out a paper, -and put it on the table opposite Don Gennaro. - -'It is settled,' he said, in a choked voice. 'Here is the promissory -note.' - -Don Gennaro only fluttered his eyelids in assent. He opened the note -and looked at it a long time, the figures, dates, and signatures, -reading in a low voice, 'Maddalena Lamarra--Annibale Lamarra. -All right,' he ended up aloud, casting a scrutinizing glance at -the Baron, whose face got livid from suppressed rage or some -other feeling. 'Do you want to see the goods?' he then remarked -punctiliously. - -'What does it matter to me?' the Baron said sulkily, shrugging his -shoulders. 'Give me the money to use.' - -Don Gennaro nodded assent. As usual, he opened the middle drawer, -shut up the promissory note in it, opened the side drawer, took out -bank-notes, and counted them methodically. - -'Count your money over,' he said, handing the bundle to the Baron, -who had watched the appearance of bank-notes with a flashing eye. - -But he did not count; he put the notes into his pocket-book, and, -without saying a word, rose to go away. - -Marzano vaguely stammered some words of thanks and farewell, but the -Baron was already on the stairs, and the old man ran after him, not -to let him elude him. When he was alone, Don Gennaro Parascandolo -opened the drawer again and took out the Lamarra promissory note; -he studied the signatures a long time, saying over the syllables -ironically: 'Maddalena Lamarra ... bound for whole amount ...; -Annibale Lamarra for himself and the conjugal authorization.' He -ended up with a smile, and pushed it into the drawer again. - -Ninetto Costa had come in without being announced, and the dark, -lively, elegant stock-broker, in a suit of English check, a flower in -his buttonhole, ebony stick in hand, and big iron ring on his little -finger as a seal, seemed the pattern of happy youth. He stretched -himself in an arm-chair, threw his leg over, and lit a cigarette, -humming. - -'Good settling-day Monday was, eh?' Don Gennaro asked. - -'It was bad--bad!' sang out Ninetto Costa. - -'You don't seem much put out. It will be bad for your clients then, -and not for you,' said Parascandolo. - -'It is bad for me; I have thirty to forty thousand francs at stake,' -said the stock-broker, beating his trouser-leg with his stick in an -elegant way. - -'And how are you to pay?' - -'I will pay,' the other ended up by saying, in a vague way. - -'You have had several bad settling-days, it seems to me.' - -'So, so. It is Lillina that takes away everything,' he muttered, with -a not perfectly sincere gesture of regret. - -'Lillina? She says "No," 'remarked Don Gennaro. - -'Did she tell you so? She is the greatest liar among women! You can't -think what a liar she is, Gennaro!' and he cried out more against -her, rather in a sham rage. 'Have you got these jewels?' he added -anxiously, though he tried to seem indifferent. - -'Yes. Are they for Lillina?' - -'Yes--that is to say, I am not certain; she is too great a liar! -Besides, I have someone else in my eye.' - -'You are a devil, Ninetto!' Don Gennaro said laughingly. - -From the same drawer from which he had previously taken the money, -Parascandolo took out a leather case and opened it. The jewels -twinkled on the white velvet: there were a pair of solitaire -earrings, a row of diamonds, a bracelet, and an ornament for the -hair. Ninetto Costa looked at them, beating his lips with the knob -of his stick. He went further off, to judge them better. He did this -very gracefully; but a twitching of the muscles now and then made his -smile unpleasant. - -'They are fine, eh?' he asked Parascandolo. - -'I think so,' said the other modestly. - -'You would give them? You are a man of taste.' - -'I would give them--according to the woman. Not to Lillina.' - -'I don't know if I will give them to her--I don't know,' Costa burst -out again hurriedly. 'You think,' he added timidly--'you think they -are worth twenty thousand francs?' - -'It is not what I believe; Don Domenico Mazzocchi, who sold them to -you, thinks they are. I don't know about them. Besides, you can get -them valued. Remember, they will ask two per cent. for the valuation.' - -He said all this in such a cold, disdainful way that Ninetto Costa -tried to interrupt him more than once, without managing it. - -'Are you mad? What valuation? I would not do such a thing, with you -and your friend Mazzocchi. To take so much trouble! I would not -dream of it. It would be offensive to a friend--two friends.' - -'Have you noted the terms of payment?' - -'Yes, yes! at three, four, five, and six months--five thousand francs -at a time, with a consignment on my mother's revenues, and all the -necessary papers. All is going right. Do you wish nothing on the -Exchange? I'll buy for you.' - -'I don't do business; I have retired,' said Parascandolo, smiling and -bowing, as Costa went off, carrying the jewel-case. - -When he had gone, the other, being now alone, looked at the clock. -It was getting late. San Giacomo Street is dark naturally, and -already, at four o'clock, it looked as if the day was failing. Don -Gennaro was thinking whether he had given an appointment to anyone -else, and if he could go away, having finished his day's work, one -of those hard-working Fridays for all that provide money--bankers, -money-lenders, pawnbrokers. No, he thought, he had not given an -appointment to anyone, and he could go away. He felt sure his -coachman had brought round his carriage to take him to Carracciolo -Street. But once more the faithful Salvatore came in to say three -gentlemen wished to come in. - -'Are there three?' asked Don Gennaro, pondering. - -'Yes, three....' - -'Let them in,' his master said, recollecting. - -Dr. Trifari came in, fat, thick, red of beard and face, embarrassed -and suspicious, taking off the high hat he always wore, like all -provincials settled in Naples. Professor Colaneri was with him; -he had a false look behind his gold spectacles, and bowed in the -ecclesiastical style. A student, a fellow-countryman of Trifari's, -and Colaneri's pupil, was the third one--a youth of twenty-two, with -sticking-out teeth, a tartan necktie, and a decidedly silly look. The -two, while keeping an eye on each other, glanced now at Don Gennaro, -then at the embarrassed provincial lad, who seemed not to know what -to do with his teeth, quite unhappy at not being able to shut his -mouth. There was a curbed ferocity in Trifari's suspiciousness--it -was palpable in him morally and physically; while Colaneri's was -oblique, sly, cold, and hypocritical. The student looked like a fly -between them--a stupid little fly held between two spiders, one -cruel, the other treacherous. - -Don Gennaro looked at them with a smile, guessing all that. Only -to look at the wicked intentness of Dr. Trifari's eyes on the shut -desk, Professor Colaneri's humble but dishonest look, the student's -silliness--for he seemed to see nothing, or saw and heard without -understanding--explained Salvatore's hesitation. But Don Gennaro -Parascandolo, who loved artistic things, had taken up a long Japanese -carved-ivory scabbard, and half drew out, as if by accident, a -knife's shining blade. It was a book-cutter, though there was not a -shadow of a book on the desk. With a click he sheathed it and laid it -on the desk, but his fingers trifled with it. He smiled, smoking his -everlasting cigarette, without offering one, however, to his three -visitors. - -'So we have come on that business, Signor Parascandolo. What has -been done?' Dr. Trifari questioned, with a sham politeness that -ill-covered his roughness. - -'Yes. What do you refer to?' Parascandolo said. - -'The money--the bank bill,' the plethoric doctor burst out. - -'It is an ordinary affair enough,' remarked Parascandolo with an easy -air. - -'What do you say? With three signatures--mine, Professor Colaneri's, -and Signor Rocco Galasso's--you call it an ordinary affair? Whose -signature do you want--Rothschild's?' - -'Certainly I would prefer Rothschild's to all signatures,' was said, -with a mocking little smile. 'Business is business,' he added in his -solemn way. - -'We are honest men, it seems to me,' Professor Colaneri yelped out. - -'I have the highest respect for you,' said Parascandolo with -exaggerated politeness. 'But signatories must be solvent; that is -all. I have made inquiries on account of my principal, Ascanio -Sogliano. You will understand, I must prevent him making any loss, -as I make use of his money. Now, Dr. Trifari, here is an excellent -young fellow--he will become a light in the scientific world--but -his signature is not good for a thousand francs, nor is Professor -Colaneri's....' - -'This is infamous!' Dr. Trifari cried out. 'I did not come here to be -insulted, by Jove!' - -'These are slanderous statements!' shrieked Colaneri the hypocrite. - -'Where did you make inquiries?' Trifari asked, yelling. - -'In your own neighbourhood,' answered Parascandolo coldly. - -'Of course, in my own neighbourhood.... It is political hatreds ... -election struggles!' Colaneri and Trifari shouted in chorus. - -'That may be,' said Parascandolo; 'I cannot know about that, and -it does not matter to Sogliano. So there remains this worthy youth -here, Rocco Galasso; he is solvent. So, instead of three thousand -francs, Sogliano will give a thousand, with your three signatures as -a precaution.' - -'It is impossible for us to agree to that!' Trifari thundered, purple -with rage. - -'Impossible!' shrieked Colaneri, quite livid. - -'As you like,' said Parascandolo, getting up to go out. - -But the most dumfounded of the three was poor Rocco Galasso, the -student. He turned his stupefied eyes from Colaneri to Trifari and -gasped, as if his saliva choked him. The two left the office in -confusion, without saying 'Good-bye,' talking to each other, and -shoving the student before them like a silly sheep. Parascandolo -quietly called Salvatore to brush his great-coat. It was done -silently, while he filled his case with cigarettes. - -All at once, without being announced, the three burst again into the -room, looking queer: Colaneri and Trifari as if forcibly restraining -their rage, and Rocco Galasso, pale and humiliated, behind them, like -a beaten dog. - -'We are to do the business,' Trifari muttered, as if he was -swallowing the wrong way. 'One thousand francs, as you said.' - -Professor Colaneri agreed. Then the usual scene was repeated: The -money-lender pulled out a blank promissory note for a thousand francs -from the drawer and put it before Rocco Galasso, who dared not take -it, but went looking Colaneri and Trifari in the eyes one after the -other. The two, as if they were putting him to the torture, made him -sit at a corner of the desk, and bent over, one at each side, to give -him directions, and they dictated the formula word by word. He put -his nose down on the paper, being short-sighted and knowing nothing -about the business, never having signed a promissory note before. -Then, crushed down by the two leaning on his shoulders, he got -confused and frightened, and held his pen up hesitatingly. The work -took a long time. The poor fellow was just going to mis-state the -time of its falling due, when Trifori was down on him with a shout: -'At two months!' - -At last the work was ended, and the student's forehead dropped sweat -as he raised it that cool March day. Don Gennaro in the meanwhile -pulled money out of his drawer and counted it. - -'Seven hundred and sixty francs,' he said, holding out the bundle of -notes to Rocco Galasso. 'Count your money.' - -But the latter dared not take it. He looked again at his tutors. -Colaneri put out his fat, cold hand and pocketed the money quickly, -while Trifori glared at him. - -'You take the interest in advance?' asked Trifori with a sneer. - -'Yes, in advance.' - -'Could you not add it to the promissory note?' Colaneri retorted, -putting his hand in his pocket over the money. - -'No, I cannot,' said Parascandolo dryly, getting up again. - -The three went out silently. Colaneri rushed on in front; Trifori -followed precipitately, forgetting Rocco Galasso, who was now of no -use, while his greatest torment was that Parascandolo had made him -write his address at Tito di Basilicata; and the thought that his -father would know about it one day or other brought tears to his eyes. - -In spite of Don Gennaro's wish to go out, he had to wait five minutes -more. A little old woman, neatly dressed in black, a lady's-maid, had -arrived, bringing an introductory note from Signora Parascandolo. -Looking around her, she spoke to Don Gennaro in a whisper, and he -listened with a fatherly, amiable smile. Then she timidly showed -him something in a case, wrapped first in black cloth and then -paper, which he would not even look at. He pushed it away, but not -contemptuously. Then, after a few words to the old woman, he signed -to her to keep silence, as she wished to begin her speech again, and -he went to the desk, took out money, counted it, and handed it in an -envelope to her. She waited to thank him, but he, to cut her short, -asked: - -'How is Lady Bianca Maria?' - -'Not very well,' the old woman said, with a sigh. - -In a few minutes the victoria bore easy, contented Don Gennaro -Parascandolo to the Carracciolo promenade, where all his debtors, -past, present, and future, greeted him with smiles and raised hats; -and he smiled and bowed in return. - - - - - CHAPTER VIII - - IN DON CRESCENZIO'S LOTTERY-SHOP - - -Donna Bianca Maria Cavalcanti read that letter over eight or ten -times before putting it in her pocket. She was working at her lace -alone in the bare large room, thinking over what was in it, for she -knew the words by heart already. She saw it before her eyes, going -over its meaning in her mind. So the slender bobbins slipped from her -hands while she dreamt. - -The letter was honest and frank. It said that, as a doctor and -friend, he once more advised her to leave that lonely old house where -she just vegetated. He begged she would deign to accept a humble, -plain offer of hospitality in the country, in the village and home he -was born in, where his mother lived alone piously. Donna Bianca Maria -Cavalcanti should not despise this offer so frankly made. She could -go down there with Margherita. The air was good, the country around -fresh and green; it was an agreeable solitude. Dr. Amati could not go -because of his work; but his mother would be sure to be very fond of -her. She would be quite cured down there in that lifegiving, bright -air. He implored her tenderly not to say 'No,' to believe in his -devotion. He could not hide the real state of her health from her. -Travel and country air were necessaries of life to her. - -So the great doctor wrote in that short, precise style of his, -honest, like his face and voice; a deep, sincere vein of feeling ran -through each phrase. Feeling this, Bianca Maria shut her eyes to keep -down her emotion. When Margherita brought her the letter, she guessed -at once who it came from on seeing the clear, straight, precise -writing. She opened it quickly, without hesitation or false modesty. -After reading it, a country landscape, poor and humble, but bright -and perfumed with green, rose before her eyes with the sweetness of -an idyll; a flow of heat enlivened the slow blood in her veins; a -desire for life and happiness gnawed at her heart; a first rush of -youthful eagerness came. Antonio Amati's letter, read so often, was -fixed in her mind. As she thought it over that fresh Friday evening -in March, the blood rushed to her heart and her eyes filled with -tears. - -The Marquis di Formosa came in that evening, about eight o'clock. -He also was more excited than usual, with a quiver in his limbs and -features, which he got every week on Friday evening, as if he shortly -expected a great sorrow or a great joy. But his daughter took no heed -at first. She was distrait; though she went on working mechanically, -the good, decided words of the letter that begged her to save herself -buzzed in her mind, delightfully disturbing. - -'Well, is there nothing yet?' asked the Marquis. - -'What are you asking about? I do not understand,' she said, coming -back to herself. - -'What am I asking about? Why, the revelation the spirit is to make to -you. Perhaps you don't wish to tell it? Why not? You must tell me; I -expect to hear it from you.' - -'Dear father, I know nothing about it,' she answered, growing pale, -but trying to keep her voice steady. 'I will never know anything of -what you imagine.' - -'I don't imagine!' he cried out. 'They are truths and religious -mysteries. Don Pasqualino is a pious soul. He _sees_. You could see, -too, if you liked, but you don't want to. Tell the truth: you sup -before going to bed?' - -'No, I do not,' she said, keeping down her head, resigned to the -torture of the inquiry, touching Amati's letter in her pocket. - -'A full body is impure; it cannot have heavenly inspirations,' he -said in a mystical way. 'What do you do before sleeping?' - -'I pray.' - -'Do you not ask for this favour with all your strength? Do you ask -for it?' - -She looked at her father, and opened her mouth to say 'No.' She did -not utter it; but he understood her. - -'It is natural the vision does not come--quite natural. Faith is -needed,' said he, with deep disdain. 'But what do you pray for? What -do you ask for, unloving heart?' - -'I ask for peace,' she said gravely, waving her hand. - -He shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. - -'I will make Don Pasqualino pray,' he added. 'You will get the -vision, whether you like or not; the spirits will insist on it. They -command, you understand. They are masters in this world and the next. -You will have the spirit by you when you least expect it; you will -see it....' - -'God help me!' said she, crossing herself with an uncontrollable -shiver. - -'Are you afraid?' he asked sneeringly, no longer, in his mad -excitement, seeing how she suffered. - -'Oh yes, I am,' she said feebly, as if she were fainting. - -She clutched Antonio Amati's honest, affectionate letter -convulsively, as if to get strength from it. But the Marquis paid -no more heed to his daughter. He had rung the bell, and Giovanni -came in in his old livery. He looked undecidedly at his master as he -handed him his hat and stick, as if he were alarmed to see him go -out earlier on that than on other Fridays. But what he dreaded was -unavoidable, because the Marquis said to him, 'Come with me,' going -towards his bedroom, a poor, bare room like the rest of the house. -Giovanni lighted a wretched candle to hold their conversation by. The -servant respectfully stood right before his master, who kept up his -aristocratic bearing and natural haughtiness, which even vice could -not subdue. - -'Giovanni, have you any money?' he asked in a lordly way. - -The servant bowed; he did not dare to answer 'No' exactly, so he said -nothing. - -'You must have some,' the Marquis went on rather sternly. 'I gave it -to you two weeks ago. Have you spent it all? You waste the little I -have left.' - -'My lord, last Friday you took it almost all. We must live. You -would not like her ladyship to die of hunger,' said Giovanni in a -complaining voice. - -'Very good, very good; I understand,' the Marquis interrupted, -irritated, but concealing his rage. 'I need at least fifty francs. -I have a debt of honour to pay this evening. Then to-morrow -evening'--emphasizing the words--'I will give it to you back. I will -give you other money, too, a lot of money, so that you will not -accuse me of letting my daughter die of hunger.' - -'You are master, my lord; but if you knew what money it is----' And -he took a torn note-book from his pocket. - -'What is it you refer to?' said the Marquis, casting devouring eyes -on the pocket-book. - -'Nothing, my lord;' and he respectfully handed his master a -fifty-franc note. - -He did it in such a way as to try and prevent the Marquis seeing a -second one he had; but the old gentleman dared not ask for it just -then. - -'You can go,' he said to the servant, who went off. - -He walked up and down the room impatiently; then he rang the bell -twice. Margherita came forward in the same trembling, almost -hesitating way as her husband. The old nobleman, descended from Guido -Cavalcanti and ten generations of gentlemen, now stooped to cheat -like a rogue. - -'Margherita, do you know if Bianca Maria has money?' he asked -absently. - -'Who would give it to her? The few francs she gets from Sister Maria -degli Angioli and her godfather at Christmas she gives to the poor.' - -'I thought she had some,' he said, putting on his great coat. 'I am -much embarrassed; I have to pay a debt this evening, and I supposed -Bianca Maria would help her father. I am very much annoyed. Perhaps -you have some money, Margherita?' - -'I have money,' said she, not daring to deny it, out of respect and -fear of her master. - -'Can you give me some? I'll give it you back to-morrow evening.' - -'Really,' she replied, 'I have some money, but I wished to buy a -dress for her ladyship. Your lordship does not notice it; but at -twenty, and as lovely as a queen, my mistress has only had two -dresses in two years--one for summer, the other for winter. She does -not even notice it herself, poor soul!... I had thought of buying one -for her. Your lordship could have given me back the money at your -leisure.' - -'Sister Margherita, give me that money now, and _to-morrow evening_, -I promise you before God, Bianca Maria will have money for ten -dresses.' - -'Amen,' said Margherita sadly and resignedly. - -She could not resist the emotion in her master's voice. Pulling out -a silk purse from her bodice, she detached a hundred-franc note from -a roll of notes. He took it and hid it at once in his purse, and -went out, saying with wild joy, in a queer tone of certainty, 'Till -to-morrow evening.' And he said 'Till to-morrow evening' again as he -passed through the drawing-room, standing by his daughter at a window -which she had opened to get fresh air to try and recover from her -moral and physical weakness. - -The Marquis di Formosa went down the steps quickly, lively as a lad -going to a love-tryst. Someone, in fact, was waiting for him, walking -up and down before the door. It was Don Pasqualino De Feo, the -medium. His sickly, mean look was not changed at all; he still wore -his torn, dirty clothes, but that evening his eyes were sparkling -in his thin face. He put his hand on the Marquis di Formosa's arm. -Formosa, who had not noticed him, greeted him with a smile. - -'Have you the money?' asked Don Pasqualino, lowering his eyelids as -if to hide the flame alight in his eyes. - -'Yes; how much is needed?' - -'Four Masses must be paid for in four parishes to-morrow morning. We -will make it five francs each Mass. I must spend the night in prayer. -The _spirit_ told me to shut myself up in San Pasquale at midnight. -I have promised a gift of ten francs to the sacristan; otherwise it -would not be allowed. We agreed to light four candles before San -Benedetto's altar; it is his day to-morrow. Ten francs--forty; yes, -forty francs would be enough.' - -He made his calculation coldly, keeping his eyes cast down, but his -queer, mysterious talk was unusually clear. The Marquis di Formosa -agreed with a nod to every new expense that the medium enumerated, -thinking it reasonable. - -'And how much for yourself?' he asked, after counting forty francs -into Don Pasqualino's hands. - -'You know I need nothing,' said the other, waving it off. - -'When do we meet?' - -'To-morrow morning after my vigil, if the spirit leaves me alive. -Friday last I was so beaten I thought I was dying,' the medium said -emphatically, but in a whisper. - -'I trust in you,' Formosa murmured. - -'Let us trust in _him_,' retorted the other fervently, showing the -whites of his eyes. - -'Pray to him--pray to him!' the Marquis implored. - -They separated after the Marquis had pressed two soft, wet fingers -that Don Pasqualino held out to him. De Feo went up again towards -Tarsia; Formosa went down towards Toledo. He was going to the -lottery bank, No. 117, at the corner of Nunzio Lane, where the -handsome, chestnut-bearded Don Crescenzio was the banker, and where -Formosa and his friends were in the habit of staking. The shop, -lately white-washed, glittered with light. Three gas-jets were -burning at full cock above the broad wooden counter and high wire -grating that cut off the bottom of the shop from one wall to the -other. Behind this counter, seated on three high stools in front -of openings in the grating, Don Crescenzio and his two clerks were -working, his lads, so called, though one of them--Don Baldassare--was -seventy, and might have been a hundred, he looked so decrepit; though -the other had one of those colourless faces, with indefinite lines -and colouring, that might be any age. - -They kept a big register open before them, called '_To mother and -daughter_'--that is to say, with double yellow slips of paper. They -wrote the numbers on them with heavy, sharp-pointed pens, so as to -have a clear, strong hand-writing, putting down each number twice; -one could see their lips move as they repeated it. Then they cut the -ticket with a dry click of the great scissors held in the right hand, -passed it quickly through a wooden saucer of black sand to dry it, -and, after taking the money, handed it to the gambler. Don Crescenzio -had the fine contented look of a good macaroni-eater, smiling in his -dark beard; whilst Don Baldassare, so bent he seemed hunchbacked, -his crooked nose drooping into his toothless mouth, worked very -phlegmatically. Don Checchino, the pale clerk, wrote hurriedly, so as -to finish and go away. - -When the Marquis di Formosa came in about half-past nine, the shop -was full of people putting down their stakes. The game began feebly -on Friday morning, increasing at mid-day, and in the evening it got -to the flood. The Marquis di Formosa beckoned, and Don Crescenzio -opened his little door and attentively handed him a chair. The -Marquis always spent Friday evenings there, seated in a corner, -watching all the people gambling. He tried to get up an excitement -by the sight, and succeeded to a great extent. He had the lottery -numbers and the money in his pocket; but he never played when he -first came in. He tasted the joy a long time, from seeing others do -it. - -The shop was full of people. They came in by two wide-open doors, -one in Toledo Street, the other in Nunzio Lane. The flood rolled -in and out, beating against the wooden counter, which was shiny -from human contact. The crowd was of all ranks and ages, with every -variety of the human face: good-looking and ugly, healthy and sickly, -gay, sorrowing, stupefied, and dull. The crowd came from all the -streets around, from Chianche della Carità and Corsea, San Tommaso -di Aquino cloister and Consiglio ward, Toledo and San Liborio Lane. -Certainly there was another lottery bank a short distance off, one -in Magnocavallo Street, and another in Pignasecca Road. In a few -hundred steps' radius there were several, all flaming with gas and -overflowing with people. But if a lottery bank was opened for every -three other shops in Naples, from Friday to Saturday, each would have -its crowd. Besides, lottery banks go by favour, like other things; -some are popular, others are not. The one in Nunzio Lane, like the -Plebiscito Square and the Monte Oliveto Road ones, had a great name -for luck. Large sums had been gained there. Many people, therefore, -came from a distance to stake a franc, five francs, or a hundred, at -the bank. - -The three groups in front of the wickets in Don Crescenzio's lottery -bank melted into one, for ever flowing and ebbing; and the Marquis di -Formosa, his hat a little back on his head, showing his fine forehead -with some drops of sweat on it, looked on this sight with enchanted -eyes, holding his ebony stick between his legs. Sometimes, on -recognising a friend or acquaintance before one of the openings, his -eyes shone with delight, much flattered that so many distinguished -worthy people shared his passion. He opened his eyes wide to see it -all, to take in the ever-changing picture, stretching his ears to -hear the conversations and soliloquys--for lottery gamblers speak -to themselves out loud, even in public--to find out which number -among so many mentioned came oftenest into people's mouths, so as to -play it that night or next morning. It was warm, and the light was -strong in that crowded little shop. But the Marquis di Formosa felt -a curious pleasure, a full wide sensation of vitality; he felt young -again, and in the pride of health and strength. - -In the meanwhile the crowd was not getting smaller; it increased. -While in front of white-faced Don Checchino's wicket a lot of -students made a row, calling out their own numbers, laughing, and -pushing each other, at old Don Baldassare's, in front of the humble -crowd were two or three great gamblers, who gave a whole string of -numbers, staking tens and hundreds of francs on them. The old clerk -wrote slowly, phlegmatically, and read them out before handing -the tickets. At Don Crescenzio's, where the work was got through -quicker, the scene changed every minute: the clerk came after the -soldier-servant sent to stake for his Colonel, a sulky workman gave -place to a stupid-looking country nurse, the old lay Sister stuck -herself behind the retired magistrate--all were chattering, looking -ecstatic, or deeply, sadly engrossed. That was how Don Domenico Mayer -looked, the misanthropic Under-Secretary of Finance. He was now -standing before Don Crescenzio, his eyes cast down, his cavernous -voice dictating ten _terni_, _terni secchi_, on which he boldly -played two francs each, to win ten thousand francs, less the tax on -personal estate. At the third _terno_, he asked fiercely: - -'How much is the tax?' - -'Thirteen and twenty per cent,' Don Crescenzio replied playfully, -waving his fat white hand in a graceful style. - -'Cheat of a Government!' a shrill voice called out behind Don -Domenico. - -It was Michele the shoeblack, waiting to play his small Friday -evening game. He was to play higher stakes next day, when he got the -money from Donna Concetta. In the meanwhile he tasted the delight of -being there as he waited his turn. At the third _terno secco_ Don -Domenico explained his game. - -'I don't care about taking the _ambo_; fifteen francs are nothing to -me.' - -'Indeed!' said complacent Don Crescenzio. - -He took the twenty francs, folded the coupons neatly, and handed them -to him. Getting on tiptoe to reach the wicket, the lame hunchback was -already dictating his numbers. He gave the explanation of each. - -'This I have played for twenty years ... this is Father Giuseppe -d'Avellino's _terno_ ... this is the _ambo_ of the day ... this is -the _terno_ of the man killed in Piazza degli Orefici.' - -But they were small stakes, seven or eight francs in all, and -those waiting behind him got impatient. By a curious attraction, -big gamblers went to Don Baldassare, the old man. Ninetto Costa, -in evening dress, just showing under his overcoat, his _gibus_ -hat rather askew on his curly, scented hair, his very white -teeth uncovered by smiling red lips, handed his list over to the -accountant, while he smoked a Havana calmly, cheerful as usual. He -satisfied Don Baldassare's inquiries pleasantly. The sum staked had -to be repeated to him as a precaution, not because he wondered at the -largeness of it. - -'On the first ticket seventy on the _terno_, twenty on the -_quaterna_?' - -'Yes, that is it;' and he puffed out odorous smoke. - -'On the second _terno secco_ a hundred and fifty is it?' - -'Yes, a hundred and fifty.' - -'On the third the whole ticket, two hundred and forty francs. Is that -right?' - -'Two hundred and forty--that is right.' - -The Marquis di Formosa, who had exchanged a smile with Ninetto Costa, -strained his ears to hear the ciphers. He quivered, touched with a -little envy, regretting he had not so much money to stake. When he -heard the whole amount, six hundred and fifty francs, and saw Ninetto -Costa pull out this sum lightly to hand to Don Baldassare, he grew -pale, thinking how much he could win with so high a risk. He went -out, almost choking, to get air at the door. There Ninetto Costa -joined him. Both gazed down Toledo, on its crowd and lights, without -seeing them. - -'You are lucky,' stammered the old nobleman; 'you have money.' - -'If you knew all!' said the other, grown grave suddenly. 'I pawned -jewels I paid twenty thousand francs for, and I only got five -thousand. The pawnshops keep down the loans on Friday and Saturday; -they get such a lot of things.' - -'What does it matter?--you will win,' said the old man, rolling his -eyes, excited by the vision of success. - -'On Monday I have a settlement on the Exchange--twenty thousand -francs' loss, and not a penny in my pocket. If I don't take -something, where will I put my head?' - -'You have good numbers?' Formosa asked anxiously. - -'I have staked everything. Pasqualino De Feo wanted fifty francs -to soothe the spirit. He gave me three _ternos_, two _ambos_, and -a _situato_. Then that common girl I pay court to, I gave her a -watch. She gave me some numbers, but under a symbol. You understand? -Then there are the Cabal numbers we play together, and Marzano's -cobbler's ones, and so on. I know if I don't win, Marquis, and a big -sum, I must go bankrupt;' and the thoughtless stock-broker's voice -trembled tragically. 'I am going to a dance--good-evening,' he said -then, lighting his cigar again; and he went off with his nimble step. - -Excited by this talk, the Marquis di Formosa went into the -lottery-shop again. Now, before the pale, flabby Don Checchino's -grill, leaning her elbow on the counter, Carmela, the cigar-girl, -using the ten francs Donna Concetta gave her for her earrings, was -saying her numbers, faintly, with pauses, playing three or four -popular tickets. - -'Six and twenty-two--put half a franc on that; eight, thirteen, -and eighty-four--two sous for the _ambo_ of it, eight sous for the -_terno_; then eight and ninety, on the _ambo_ another four sous.' - -She stopped now and then, as if other sad thoughts distracted her; a -flush coloured her delicate cheeks. When Don Checchino made up the -account, four francs forty centimes, she took out a roll of copper -money and began to count slowly. - -'Hurry up! hurry up!' an impatient woman's voice cried out. - -She turned round and recognised the woman, an old servant, Donna -Rosa, she that served in the house where her unfortunate sister -lived. They spoke in a whisper. - -'Oh, Donna Rosa, and how is Filomena?' - -'She is well; but she is in distress. She sent me to play this -number--three girls are playing it, rather, as there has been a wound -given, unluckily.' - -'Oh, Jesus! God bless her, poor sister! And you--where do you come -from?' - -'I live in Chianche Road, and I am going home.' - -'Greet her for me,' Carmela whispered eagerly. - -Pulling her shawl round her, she went away, with her head down, as if -overpowered by tiredness. Next to Rosa, the unfortunates' servant, -came Baron Annibale Lamarra, fat, pale, panting with his hurried walk -from one lottery bank to another. He played many tickets of twenty, -fifty, a hundred francs each; but, fearing to be spied on by his -miserly wife, whose dower he wasted, in spite of terrible scenes, -afraid of being caught by his father, a self-made man, he had got up -the fraud of playing a ticket at each place. He ran panting from one -lottery to another, trying to believe he would win on Saturday and -take back the promissory note from Don Gennaro Parascandolo, the one -that had his wife's signature. The thought of it made him shiver with -fright. When he got out of Don Crescenzio's lottery-shop he breathed -again, and reckoned up mentally. Of the two thousand francs, he had -given two hundred to Ambrogio Marzano, the cheerful old lawyer, for -arranging with Parascandolo; then he had staked one thousand six -hundred francs in different banks. He had two hundred francs left. -He would stake them next day, for perhaps he would dream of some -good number at night. It was no use risking it all at once. In the -meanwhile, from the other door, just as he got out, Don Ambrogio -Marzano came in. He stopped to talk with the Marquis di Formosa. - -'Have you some good lottery numbers?' Formosa asked anxiously. He -clung to the pleasant old man as a bearer of luck. - -'I have a forty-nine _secondo_ that is a love, my lord!' whispered -the enthusiast, so as not to be heard. - -'Ah! and what else?' - -'Twenty-seven, you know, is the sympathetic number at the end of the -month.' - -'I have it, too. What do you say of the fourteenth?' - -'It is _very good_, my lord; but do you wish really to know the -lightning, the dazzling number?' - -'Tell me--tell me!' - -'I tell you in brotherly love, because when I have a treasure I can't -be selfish with it, and keep it to myself. You may have it as a proof -of affection--it is thirty-five!' - -'Ah!' said the Marquis in a stupor of admiration. - -In the meanwhile, still quite serene, Don Ambrogio Marzano went to -place his stakes with Don Crescenzio. It is true he had had to give -the usual fifteen francs to his Cabalist cobbler. He had given ten to -Don Pasqualino, though he did not believe in him much, and a journey -to Marano, to take Father Illuminato a tortoise-shell snuff-box, had -cost him thirty francs; but he had taken them from a prepayment of -law expenses he got from a client, so that the two hundred francs was -intact, and he paid it all. Gaetano the glove-cutter, Annarella's -husband, whose child was dying, was waiting his turn to stake; but -it was a hard week, he had not got the loan of a sou, and had had -difficulty in getting an advance of five francs from his master. He -staked four of them, keeping back one for the numbers he might think -of on Saturday morning. - -Now, as night came on, Don Crescenzio and his tired, stupefied clerks -had a sort of confused look, like those that have sat too long at -musical and dancing entertainments, with dazzled eye and deafened -ears; but they went on working. It was the grand weekly harvest, -a gathering in of thousands, hundreds, and tens of francs for the -Government. Don Crescenzio got a percentage of it, and on good -weeks he gave his 'lads' a little extra. Even the people coming in -constantly to stake had a queer look. Some were uneasy, some were -looking round them suspiciously; others dragged along in a tired way, -or their eyes were distracted, as if they were out of their senses. -There were those who had just found out numbers, or got money to -stake; servants, their day's work over, had run off to the lottery -before going to bed; shop-lads, that had just shut up shop, and -youths who had run out between two acts at the Fiorentino Theatre, -were coming in; and Cabalists from the Diodati Café, or the wine-room -of the Testa d'Oro Café, who were all Don Crescenzio's customers, and -after long discussion now ended by risking all they had that evening; -then a magistrate, weighed down by children and poverty, on his way -back from a game of _scopa_, at a sou, ventured the twenty francs -that was to feed them for four days; and the pale, sickly painter -of saints, having insisted on getting the money for a Santa Candida -beforehand, came in just then to stake it, and he was certain to play -next morning what Donna Concetta had promised him for the statue of -the Immaculate Conception. - -Even a very elegant little street carriage stopped, and a hand in -pearl-gray gloves, studded with diamonds at the wrist, handed a -paper and money to a gallooned footman. The Marquis di Formosa, who -had left his seat out of nervousness, and was wandering among the -gamblers who came out and in, recognised the profile of a lady of his -own set, the Spanish Princess, Ines di Miradois. - -'It is true, then, that Francesco Althan takes everything from her,' -the old lord thought to himself. - -He joined Dr. Trifari and Professor Colaneri as they now came in, -still quivering with rage. They quarrelled by the hour about dividing -poor Rocco Galasso's seven hundred and sixty francs. Trifari made -out he had induced his fellow-villager, Rocco Galasso, to sign, and -he wanted five hundred francs. Colaneri made out that Rocco Galasso -had signed the promissory note so as to get the examination papers -from him beforehand, and by giving them he had gravely compromised -himself; he might lose his post through it; therefore the five -hundred francs were his. The struggle had been tremendous. They -nearly came to blows twice; but Trifari very unwillingly, choking -with rage, gave in, because he knew Colaneri had revelations at -night--a thing he, a full-blooded heretical blasphemer, did not have. -And Colaneri gave in because Trifari brought him many students to do -business with for the examinations--a most dangerous thing to do, and -he himself was afraid of the risk, but he yielded to temptation to -satisfy his vices. In short, they divided the seven hundred and sixty -francs. They had met the medium, who asked them in an inspired tone -if they wished to do alms of five francs to St. Joseph. They gave it, -thinking the question meant numbers, and that they ought to play five -for the money and nineteen for St. Joseph's number. All the medium -says on Friday evening and Saturday morning means lottery numbers. -So that Trifari and Colaneri, after making their game on their -favourite numbers, came down at once to play these less probable -ones, according to them; then they played the popular numbers, which -were three and four, just in case; and at last, leaning on the great -wooden counter, they looked in each other's faces with an idiotic -grin, still thinking out if they had forgotten anything. - -In spite of the late hour, people went on crowding up Don -Crescenzio's lottery bank. He would get a large profit this last -Friday in March, owing to a flowing back of malignant fever, one -of those wild, gathered-up rushes of the slow disease that eats up -Naples' fortunes. There were people coming out of theatres who had -thought all evening about what ticket to play; they did not wish to -put off doing so till Saturday, for fear of forgetting it in the few -morning hours left. There were night-cabmen who stopped before the -shop, came down from the box, and waited their turn to play, the -inseparable whip in hand, with the patient eyes of those accustomed -to long waiting; there were those ragged, wretched, wandering -night-hawkers, shadowy figures, who shivered with fright in the -bright warm gaslight--vendors of newspapers, fritters, pickers-up -of cigar-ends, sellers of _pizze_, of beans, of grass for the horses -of night-cabs passing from time to time, calling out their wares; -and they, too, stopped at the lottery-stand, and went in, not able -to resist playing a franc, half a franc, a few sous. The driver and -two porters of the omnibus that takes travellers by the last train to -the Allegria Hotel came in; whilst the bus-conductors and drivers in -Carità Square, as soon as their day's run was over, which must have -made them dead-tired, had come to stake on the lottery before going -home. - -Formosa had not made up his mind to play yet, with that sort of -dallying with time all lovers and excitable people go in for. In a -corner of the entrance, so as to let people pass, he conversed with -Trifari and Colaneri, who did not want to leave either, though they -had nothing left to stake. They stood to enjoy that light, warmth, -and crowd, the money flowing in, the lottery-tickets going out, -pledges of fortune and riches, and to muse over which of them was the -right one. Which? which? Here was the tremendous, delightful doubt, -the immense, burning unknown, the mystery that smiled through the -veil that cannot be lifted. - -After taking a little walk through Toledo, being unable to resist the -attraction, Ambrogio Marzano, the lawyer, had come back, too, and -joined his little group of Cabalist friends, conversing with them -by fits and starts. Quite incapable of not mentioning his number, -his crowning stroke, he told them of thirty-five, so that Colaneri -and Trifari went in to play it, and he, Marzano, went in to play -seventy-three, which Colaneri had given him. No, Formosa was not -going to stake yet. But the end of his enjoyment was drawing near; he -felt the great moment coming on, and in one of his fervent, mystic -bursts he prayed silently to the Lord, the Casa Cavalcanti Madonna, -the Ecce Homo he worshipped in his family chapel, to enlighten and -inspire him, to do him the one great favour he had asked for years. -His friends, after tasting this other drop of pleasure, came out -again, and chatted vivaciously about numbers, getting excited with -the big shadows that now filled Toledo, broken by that square of -light the lottery lamp cast on the pavement. Just then they saw -Cesare Fragalà go in. After shutting his shop, the gay confectioner -always spent a couple of hours at his club to play dominoes with -other tradesmen--grocers, drapers, oilmen, fishmongers--putting down -a sou a game. On Friday evening he played these long games, too, but -rather distractedly, nervous, in spite of his youthful gaiety, and he -made off rather early to go to his dear Don Crescenzio's to make his -weekly large stake. - -Really, there was a little crabbedness in his gambling ardour, -something like a feeling of remorse, of shame at throwing away his -money in that way, so he came late to the lottery bank, when there -were fewer people about to see and know him. He was put out that -evening on Formosa greeting him; it annoyed him to be seen by his -neighbour. Then he shrugged his shoulders, and stood by his dearest -friend Don Crescenzio, who went on writing, stroking his fine beard, -making a lot of fine flourishes with his pen. He began to dictate his -numbers to him on and on, showing his white teeth in a smile. Don -Crescenzio wrote on quite unmoved. For the six months that Cesare -Fragalà played at his bank the stakes had gone on increasing. In that -flood of numbers dictated, Don Crescenzio, with his peculiar memory, -recognised the medium's numbers--that is to say, his symbols, that -everyone had interpreted differently, so that Formosa, Colaneri, -Trifari, Marzano, Ninetto Costa, Cesare Fragalà, and all who took -their luck on Don Pasqualino's words, played different numbers, and -a great many of them, and thus they all managed now and then to make -some small hazardous gain--fifteen or twenty crowns over a _situato_, -six hundred francs over an _ambo_--very seldom, it is true, but -often enough to fan their passion and make them all slaves to Don -Pasqualino's cloudy phrases. So with a slight smile, while he was -adding up the sum, Don Crescenzio said: - -'You, too, are one of Pasqualino De Feo's clients?' - -'You know him?' asked Fragalà anxiously. - -'Eh, we are friends,' Crescenzio muttered. - -'He knows the numbers, does he not?' Fragalà asked, with a quiver in -his throat. - -'Often he gets them right.' - -'How often?' - -'When his client is in God's favour,' the agent answered -enigmatically. Wishing to end the conversation, he politely handed -over the tickets, saying: 'Five hundred and forty francs.' - -Fragalà paid stolidly with a tradesman's calm, without changing -expression. But when he got out of the lottery-shop, at the door, -his smile faded; he remembered he had made his first debt to a -money-lender that day, and that he had given security on the shop -funds, having also taken out the whole balance to make up the big -sum he had staked. It was to get away from these sad thoughts that -he joined the group of Cabalists. At one in the morning, standing in -front of the gambling place, they neither felt the hours passing, -the lateness, nor the penetrating damp; for they burned with that -constant inward fire that flamed up from Friday to Saturday. They -began the same stories again, at great length, for the thousandth -time, interrupting each other, getting heated and excited, staring at -each other with wild, humid eyes, as if they were possessed. Cesare -Fragalà listened, trying to get the same fever, but not succeeding; -for he was only a weak soul, not mad, nor subject to nerves. When -they all went over the reasons that made them gamble, such and such -material and moral needs, urgent and impelling, that the lottery -alone could satisfy, he listened in a melancholy way. At one point he -said: - -'I--I need sixty thousand francs to open a shop towards San -Ferdinando, and make a marriage portion for Agnesina.' - -A deep sadness overpowered him. Good, honest, incapable of lying -about anything to his wife, he had deceived her for months, like a -cheat; he took the ledgers she often stopped to turn over out of her -hands, and with hourly caution he tried to hide his vice from her, -thus destroying his good temper and ease. - -'If it were not for this shop, if it were not for Agnesina----' he -muttered, a prey to inconsolable bitterness. - -Now, about half-past one, the time came to shut the lottery bank, -as the customers became fewer and fewer; and at last the Marquis di -Formosa made up his mind to go and stake. Notes in hand, he said the -lottery numbers slowly over to Don Crescenzio. There was a slight -tremor in his voice, and his eyes stared at the string of figures -on the paper, as if he was enjoying himself. The gambling-shop was -deserted now. His Cabalist friends, Colaneri, Trifari, Marzano, -bringing Fragalà with them, who was in very low spirits, got behind -the Marquis di Formosa to listen to his numbers, and either winked -approval or shook their heads unbelievingly--in short, they served -at Formosa's by no means short gambling operations with the gravity -of priests taking part in a Bishop's service. Don Baldassare, the -decrepit old man, and pale-faced Don Checchino, stood motionless -behind the counter, their eyes half shut, dead-tired with that ten -hours' gabbling, thinking of having to go through the same thing next -day, from seven till noon, with great heat the last hour. Only Don -Crescenzio kept up his calm, placid, Neapolitan felicity, that has -its plate of macaroni secure, and serenely watches others' excitement -from behind a phantom plate of macaroni, many plates of it in the -great imaginative country of Cockayne. The Marquis di Formosa, -greatly excited, played high. He put down what Giovanni got from -Concetta the money-lender, what the lady's-maid got from Don Gennaro -Parascandolo, and seventy francs he got from the pawn-shop for two -artistic antique gilt-bronze candle-sticks, found in a lumber-room in -his house--two hundred and twenty francs in all. He was still pallid, -discontented, and melancholy, suddenly mistrustful of the value of -some numbers, sorry not to be able to risk more on others, in despair -at the end at not being able to stake on all the others, all that -were in his calculations. - -So the lover, after a long-wished-for interview with his lady, having -got it, sees the moments fly past with frightful rapidity, and is -afterwards deeply grieved at not having said to the lady a word of -what he felt. This old man, whose ruling passion was not dulled by -age, bent his head, crushed suddenly, as if he had lived ten years -in a minute. He went out slowly and silently with the others, slow -and silent, too, through the dark street leading to his house. They -were all cold at that late hour. They shivered, and pulled their -great-coats round them, holding their heads down, not speaking to -each other. Thus they got as far as Dante Piazza, under the Rossi -Palace, where the cabalistic talk began again. They went two or -three times up and down the piazza, while the poet's stern white -statue seemed to scorn them with its blank eyeballs. They took poor -Fragalà with them, eaten up now by overpowering remorse for having -thrown away so much money that belonged to his family. But it was no -use. He gambled because he was a weak, cheerful creature, pricked on -by commercial ambition. He would never be a Cabalist. The others' -madness sadly surprised him, and they never could have infected him -with it. Still, he stayed with them, feeling that he had not the -strength to go home and lie by his wife's side with this remorse on -him for having thrown away five hundred francs. He began to look -distractedly and fixedly at the shadows, as if he saw some frightful -vision. At one point Marzano bowed and went off towards Porta Medina -archway, for he lived in Tribunale Road. But the others continued -to walk up and down, raving, in the darkness and cold, which they -no longer felt. The Marquis di Formosa was the most fervent of all. -His eyes sparkled, his figure stood out in the gloom, strong and -vigorous, like a man of thirty. Then Colaneri and Trifari took leave. -They both lived in a poor house in Cavone Street. Then Formosa went -on, with a monologue, speaking to Fragalà, the shadows, or himself. -They were going down very slowly towards Toledo once more, when a -quiet voice greeted them: - -'Good-night, gentlemen!' - -'Good-night, Don Crescenzio,' said the Marquis. 'Have you shut up, -eh? Was it a good day?' - -'Thirty-two thousand five hundred and twenty-seven francs was the sum -staked,' said the banker, all in one breath. - -Silence followed. - -'Do you not play, Don Crescenzio?' Fragalà asked. - -'No, never. Good-night.' - -'Good night.' - -He went off smartly, and they, seeing the lottery bank was shut now, -turned back heavily. It was with a sigh that they knocked gently at -the palace gate. They were sorry to go home. They parted on the first -landing with a hand-shake and a smile. - - - - - CHAPTER IX - - BIANCA MARIA'S VISION - - -Both the gamblers went upstairs very quietly, like evil-doers or -timid young fellows who have disobeyed their father's orders; each -carried a latchkey, and shut the door without any noise. On going -into his apartments and his own room, Cesare Fragalà, taking a -fit of penitence, shook like a child; only his sleeping wife's -placid breathing calmed him a little. He was afraid of awakening -her, in case she questioned him, and guessed the truth with that -extraordinary alarming intuition women have. He undressed by the -slender light of a lamp before St. Agnes, and got into bed with the -greatest caution, trembling--yes, trembling--lest he should wake his -wife; and in his humble, contrite, desolate heart he swore not to -stake another sou. Only this oath and his healthy constitution freed -him from sleeplessness, which sits at the bedhead of all gamblers. - -Sleeplessness had visited Formosa's pillows. He had vainly tried to -read Rutilio Benincasa's mathematical table, to calm his wandering -thoughts; the figures danced in a ring before his eyes. He vainly -tried to say the rosary, to fix his mind on prayer, to humiliate his -heart before the Eternal Will; prayer came coldly and haltingly from -his lips. A strong fever of fancy held him, and put his nerves on -the rack; it made him start up in his bed, quivering like a violin -string: a madness took hold of him, and, from the black darkness and -solitude, made itself all-powerful over his thoughts and feelings. He -could not stay in bed; in spite of the cold, he got up and dressed, -and began to walk about in his freezing room. He did not feel cold; -his hands and head were warm; the candle-flame seemed a great blaze -to him. All was silent in the house; he never allowed anyone to wait -up for him. The two poor old servants--Giovanni and Margherita--whom -he had despoiled of their money got on loan, to keep Bianca Maria -alive, were sleeping in the closet--tired and sorrowful, perhaps. -Bianca Maria was asleep in her cold room many hours ago certainly. -But the Marquis di Formosa, devoured by his gambling folly, hoping -and despairing of winning from one moment to another, implored God, -the Virgin, the saints, the souls of his dead, his guardian angel, -Fortune, all the powers of heaven and earth, to help him to win, to -get the victory; he forgot his fears as a man and a Christian so far -as to ask it from evil spirits, even. Formosa, burning with such -madness, could not bear that all in the house should sleep quietly, -placidly, while he was torn with anguish and hope. Ah no! he was not -afraid of solitude and night, little noises from old furniture, old -creaking ceilings, or noisy doors; he was afraid of nothing in that -icy house where his wife died of languor and sorrow, where her meek -shade still seemed to linger. Fear! He asked, he implored a voice, -a revelation, a vision; he would have been pleased, happy, and not -frightened, if he had seen something. But his soul was too stained -with sin, his heart was unclean from earthly desires; a white soul, a -virginal heart, was needed to get this heavenly grace, by which one -_saw_ what other human eyes were not allowed to see. Bianca Maria -was sleeping; she slept, cold creature! though so near to Grace, -and still refused to satisfy her father's wishes. He left his room, -crossed the passage in front of the drawing-room, and stopped at his -daughter's closed door. He listened--no sound. She was sleeping, -cold-hearted girl! She had no pity for her father's tortures, and -would not pray God and the Virgin for a vision. A dull rage mingled -with his Friday madness; he went up and down the passage more than -once, trying to go away from his daughter's room; but he could not -manage it: his curiosity was so strong to know from her the spirit's -revelation that she certainly must have had that night; it could not -have failed to come. Don Pasqualino, the medium, after a three days' -voluntary fast, after two nights' flagellation on his shoulders and -bare, thin breast, had heard from the spirit who helped him that -Bianca Maria would get the revelation. The spirit does not lie. Then -involuntarily, as if pushed by a force he must obey, he took hold of -the door-handle; it creaked, the door opened. But a sharp cry from -inside answered to the noise--a girl's cry, whose light, watchful -sleep had been disturbed. She rose up in bed, in her white nightgown, -her black hair loose on her shoulders, eyes wide open, and hands -clutching the coverlet. - -'It is I, Bianca--it is I,' the Marquis di Formosa murmured, coming -forward. - -'Who--who is it?' she asked, shaking with fear, not daring to move. - -'I--it is I, Bianca,' he repeated, getting impatient. - -She sighed deeply without saying anything, but her breathing was -still alarmed. The Marquis had got to his daughter's bed, guided by -the faint light of a lamp before a small image of the Virgin. - -The girl fell back on the pillows and looked at the ceiling. The -Marquis sat down by her bed, and his nervous fingers played with the -white fringe of the coverlid. - -'Why were you so frightened?' he asked, after a long silence. - -'I don't know; it is stronger than I am.' - -'When one is in the Lord's grace there is no need for fear,' he -remarked sententiously and severely. 'Have you some mortal sin on -your conscience?' - -'No ... I don't think so, at least,' she said, hesitating. - -They kept silence. The Marquis di Formosa looked into the shadows. - -'Has the spirit come?' he asked afterwards, in a whispered, -mysterious tone. - -'Oh, do not speak of that,' she said, sighing again, shutting her -eyes, and hiding her face in her hands. - -'Has it come?' he insisted; a gambler's cruelty was raging in him now. - -'For mercy's sake, if you love me, don't speak of that!' she said, -taking his hand and kissing it, so as to move him more. - -'Tell me, has it come?' he again repeated implacably. - -She, feeling she could not escape that persecution, looked -despairingly towards the Virgin, then hid her face in the pillows. - -'Tell me, tell me, if it has come!' he cried out, bending over the -pillows, as if to breathe his magnetic curiosity into his daughter's -face. - -'No, it has not,' she said, in a thread of a voice. - -'You are lying.' - -'I am not.' - -'You are lying. The spirit has been here, I feel it.' - -'Be good to me; say no more about this,' she said, trembling -dreadfully. - -'How did you see it? Awake? dozing? sleeping? It was a white figure, -was it not, with lowered eyelids, but smiling?... What did it say to -you? A very weak voice, wasn't it? Something you alone could have -heard?' - -'Father, you want to kill me,' she uttered desolately. - -These are womanly fears,' said he disdainfully. 'Who ever died -through a communication from on high? The meeting of soul and spirit -is a spring of life. Bianca Maria, don't be ungrateful, don't be -cruel; tell me all.' - -'You are trying to kill me,' she repeated, desperately and resignedly. - -'You are a fool! Do you wish me, your father, to pray to you? Well, I -will; there is nothing else to be done. Children are ungrateful and -wicked; they give back cruelty for our love. I pray to you, Bianca, I -beg of you, as if you were my patron saint, to tell me all.' - -'I will die of this, father,' she murmured, her voice choked in the -pillows that helped her to curb her crying and sobs. - -'Listen, Bianca,' he went on coldly, keeping in his anger; 'you must -believe me. I am a man, I am sane, I am in my senses, I can reason. -Well, it is an article of faith with me, as clear as the light, -as the sun, that you have had to-night, or will have, a spirit's -apparition. It will come to bless our family; it will tell you words -of happiness. If it has come, so much the better; your duty as an -obedient, loving daughter of the House of Cavalcanti is to tell me -all, at once.' - -'I know nothing,' she said dryly. - -'Do you swear it?' - -'I swear that I know nothing.' - -'Then this vision will come in the succeeding hours of the night. I -am going into the chapel, to pray. I am a sinner, but sinners, too, -can ask for grace. I will pray that you may see and feel the spirit.' - -'No, don't go away!' she cried out, getting up in her bed and -catching hold of his arm with a despairing clutch. - -'Why should I not?' - -'Don't go away, for the love of God! If you have any affection for -me, stay here.' - -'I must go and pray, Bianca,' he exclaimed, carried away by -excitement, not understanding his daughter's convulsive state. - -'No, no--stay; I can't be left alone here, or I'll die of fright.' -She spoke restlessly, quite pallid, her trembling hands still -clutching her father's arm. She dared not look round. With her head -down on her breast, she shut her eyes and bit her lips; while he, in -his mad obstinacy, looked fixedly at his daughter, thinking he saw -in her that spiritual disorder that must, by a fatality, go with the -great miracles that have to do with the soul. - -'How do you feel?' he questioned, very deeply and intensely, as if he -wished to tear the truth from her soul. - -'Stay here, stay here,' said she, her teeth chattering with terror. - -'You see something?' he asked suggestively, with an intensity in his -voice and will that was bound to influence that fragile feminine -frame, broken as it was by the nervous shock. - -'I am afraid to see--I am afraid!' she said, very low, leaning her -forehead on her father's arm. - -'Don't be afraid, dear; don't fear,' he whispered tenderly, -paternally caressing her black hair. - -'Be silent; keep silence,' said she, with a quick shiver. She -continued to lean on his shoulder, hiding her face, shrinking all -over. The Marquis put his arm round her waist, to keep up her -quivering, feeble body; she hid more, clinging to her father as to a -raft of safety. He sometimes felt her quiver all through her nerves. - -'What is the matter?' he asked then. - -'No, no!' she said, more by gesture than voice. - -'Look, look--don't be frightened,' suggested the deluded man. - -'Be silent!' she answered, shuddering. He held her up, waiting with -a madman's patience that would wait for hours, days, months, years, -provided the truth of his delusion were proved. - -'Bianca darling,' the Marquis murmured, sometimes encouraging -her tenderly. She answered with a sigh, that seemed a lamenting, -suffering child's sob. Holding her against his breast, Formosa -felt the strong rigidity of that young sickly frame shaken by long -shivers. When she trembled all over, he felt the rebound. It seemed -to him the implored revelation was imminent. He again said to her, -obstinately, pitilessly, 'How do you feel?' She waved her hand, in an -alarmed way, as if she wished to chase away a frightful thought or a -dreadful vision. What did the agony of that young breast matter to -him, the fatal want of balance in the nerves? In that chilly virginal -room, a circle of light on the ceiling from the Virgin's lamp alone -breaking the shadow, with the quivering form in his arms, the soul -trembling before Divine mysteries, he felt it a solemn moment; -time and space were not. He, Formosa, was facing at last the great -mystery. From his innocent daughter's lips he would know his life's -secret, his future: the fatal ciphers that contained his fortune--the -spirit would tell Bianca Maria everything, and she would tell him. - -'Bianca, Bianca, implore _him_ to come and tell you whether we are to -live or die. Pray to him, because _he_, the spirit, comes forth from -the Divine, to tell you the divine word; pray to him, if he is here -near you, or in you, if he is before your eyes or your fancy; pray to -him, Bianca, pray to him. Our life is at stake. Save us, Bianca, save -us!'... - -He went on speaking, incoherently, invoking the spirit's presence, -addressing the wildest, saddest prayers to her and to him. The girl, -trembling, shivering, her teeth chattering with terror, clung on her -father's neck, like a suffering child, fastened like a vice. She -said no more, but it was evident the hour, the surroundings, and her -father's voice increased her nervousness. A stifled sob came from her -breast, and a very faint, constant lament, like a dying child's, from -her lips. He spoke to her all the time, but when he got more urgent, -almost wrathful in his sorrow, he felt her arms twitching with -despair. Then gradually a change came. To begin with, Bianca's hands -and forehead were, as usual, icy cold; she was so bloodless, she had -lost her vital heat. Indeed, in that spasm the deluded old man had -felt that her whole body was frozen. Suddenly, at intervals, when -her teeth stopped chattering and her arms relaxed through debility, -he felt a slight heat rising under the skin on her hands and up to -her forehead. It seemed a current of heat spreading all through her -young body, which filled her impoverished veins with warm blood, and -made her forehead and hands burn. He beard her breathing get more -distressed; sometimes her breast rose with a long sigh, as if she -needed air. Twice he tried to put her head down on the pillow, but -she gave a frightened shiver. - -'Don't leave me alone, for the love of God!' she stammered, like a -baby. - -'I won't leave you. Tell me what you see,' he repeated, indomitable -and implacable. - -'It is dreadful, dreadful!' Bianca stammered, going on trembling, -trembling as if she had the body of an old woman of seventy. - -'What is dreadful? Speak, Bianca, tell me everything; tell me what -you have seen.' - -'Oh!' lamented she despondingly. - -Now the teeth had given up chattering, her short breathing came from -her throat faintly, she burnt all over, and her quick respiration -scorched her father's neck where her head leant; besides this, her -temples and pulse beat rapidly, but her father, possessed altogether -by his madness, in the mysterious half-light of that chilly night, -close to the poor drowsy soul in the tortured body, lost all sense of -realities. His sick fancy keenly enjoyed the hour's drama, without -taking in how cruel it was. He was quivering with joy, indeed, as he -believed the great moment of the spirit's revelation had come; the -fortunes of the House of Cavalcanti were to be decided that moment. -His daughter's uneasiness, terror, spasms, broken words, were easily -explained; it was the Favour drawing near. So much time, so long had -gone by in unhappiness and wretchedness; now all was to be changed. -To-morrow he and his daughter would be rich--have millions! Oppressed -and uneasy, Bianca Maria had slid down from her father's breast on to -the pillows; her whistling breath was very audible, her eyes shone -curiously. Nailed to the spot by his unhealthy curiosity, the Marquis -stood by the bed, watching his daughter's every movement by the -lamp-light, struck down as she was on that bed of sorrow. Suddenly, -as if by an electric shock, her hands clutched the coverlet wildly; a -hoarse cry came from her throat. - -'What is it?' the Marquis cried out, shaken also. - -'It is the spirit--the spirit!' she stammered, her voice changed to a -deep cavernous tone. - -'Where is it?' the father said in a whisper. - -'In the doorway! Look at it; it is there!' she said firmly and -forcibly, staring at the door. - -'I see nothing--nothing! I am a poor sinner!' Formosa cried out -despairingly. - -'The spirit is there,' she whispered, as if she heard nothing. - -'How is it clad? What is it doing? What does it say? Bianca, Bianca, -pray to it!' - -'It is clad in white ... it does not move ... it says nothing ...' -she murmured in a dreamy way. - -'Implore him--implore him to speak to you. You are free from sin, -Bianca.' - -'It does not speak ... it will not speak!' - -'Bianca, pray in God's name, by His strength and power.' - -They kept silence. The Marquis di Formosa kept his whole attention on -the door where his daughter alone saw the spirit, his whole soul in -prayer. She lay still more restless; her burning hands clutched the -folds of the sheet between her fingers. - -'What does it say?' - -'It says nothing.' - -'But why will it not speak? Why has it come if it will not speak?' - -'It does not answer me,' she replied, still in the same voice that -seemed to come from a distance. - -'But what is it doing?' - -'It looks at me ... looks at me steadily ... the eyes are so sad, so -sad. It looks pityingly at me, just as if I were dead. Am I dead, -then?' - -'Now it will go away without telling you anything!' Formosa shouted -out. 'Ask him what numbers come out to-morrow.' - -She gave an agonized moan. - -'I think it is weeping now, as if I were dead; it looks so to me. -Tears fall down its cheeks.' - -'Tears, sixty-five,' Formosa said to himself, as if he feared someone -would hear him. - -'It raises its hand to greet me....' - -'Look how many fingers it lifts--look well; make no mistake.' - -'Three fingers. It bows to me; it wants to go away....' - -'Tell him to come back; pray him to--pray....' - -'He signs "yes,"' Bianca Maria went on after a pause. 'It is going -away--it has gone; it has disappeared....' - -'Let us praise God!' Formosa cried out, kneeling at the foot of the -bed. 'The fingers three, the hand five, tears sixty-five; we must -find out the number for the dead girl. Let us thank God!' - -'Yes, yes,' the girl murmured in a queer tone; 'we must find out the -number for the dead girl--we must find out....' - -'We will find out,' exclaimed Formosa, laughing like a madman. - -He thought no more about his daughter, who was now in a state of -high fever with the violence of the _effimere_, that carries off -a life in twenty-four hours. She panted, drinking in the air with -her open mouth, like a dying bird. The blood beat so wildly in her -veins it seemed it would burst them; her whole slender form burned -like red-hot iron. But the Marquis di Formosa only felt a youthful -impatience; he had gone twice to the window to see if day was -breaking. No; he had still some hours to wait before he could play -the spirit's numbers. It occurred to him he had no more money. How -could he play? Not a franc. It was a cruel thing, this continual -thirst nothing could satisfy. But he would find the money, if he had -to sell the last of his furniture and pawn himself. He would get it, -by Gad! now he had got the revelation--now the ministering spirit had -deigned to enter his house. His fortune was in his hands; he would -put everything on the spirit's numbers. - -'Oh, Ecce Homo! Ecce Homo of Cavalcanti House! it was you did us -this favour. A new chapel must be added for you, and four lamps of -massive silver, always kept lit, in remembrance of what you have done -for us.' The Ecce Homo would help him to get the money too. Good and -powerful Ecce Homo, the family protector, give money--money to gamble -with! - -Overmastered by his fervent, passionate thoughts, the Marquis di -Formosa spoke aloud, gesticulating with his hands through his hair, -wandering about the room like a madman. - -Bianca Maria went on raving in a whisper, because her breath was -failing, softly, vaguely speaking of Maria degli Angioli, or with -deep melancholy of a fresh, laughing, green country place she would -like to live in, down there far, far off. But the old man, carried -away by his thoughts, no longer listened to her, and as the cold dawn -of March burst forth, two deliriums were confused together in that -room--father's and daughter's tragically. - - * * * * * - -In the livid cold light of dawn the Marquis di Formosa wandered in a -shaky way, with wild-looking eyes and pallid face, through his flat, -searching his empty drawers and sparse furniture for something to -sell or pawn. He found nothing. He opened the drawers with trembling -hands again, and groped in them, shaking them hard, then he looked -around with madness in his gaze, thinking he would like to sell or -pawn the bare walls of the house that had once been his. Nothing, -nothing! Little by little, eaten up by the lottery, valuable jewels -had disappeared, heavy antique and modern silver plate, pictures by -great masters, precious books, artistic rarities in bronze, ivory, -carved wood--the house was stripped, only the furniture that it would -have been disgraceful to part with was left. Alas! nothing could be -found to turn into money so as to play the spirit's number. He wrung -his hands despairingly; he had left Bianca Maria in a feverish, -oppressed stupor, a few confused words still came from her lips, -and the servants were still sleeping. He even went into the chapel, -wildly; but the lamps burning there were brass. He had bought the -altar vases himself when he sold the real silver ones, and had got -imitation silver instead. He thought a moment of taking the silver -crown from the Virgin's head, and the seven swords in her heart that -represent the great agonized Mother's sorrows, but a mysterious dread -restrained him. - -He went out without being able to say a prayer even, the night's -delusion and Saturday morning's feverish haste held him so strongly -that dawn. He thought who he could borrow money from, but could -not find anyone; he held his beating temples to keep his thoughts -together, so as to get what he wanted. All friends of his own -rank and his great relations kept away from him after his wife's -death; but only after he had laid them all under contribution for -his gambling. His present friends? They were all gamblers, all -making desperate attempts that morning to go on staking; they would -certainly not lend money--each one thought of himself, looked out for -himself. New friends? That passion prevented him from finding any, -except that morbid set of madmen, damned like himself. A great deal -of money was needed, as the spirit had deigned to reveal himself; a -fortune must be made that day or never. Suddenly a flash of light -struck him: a name came to his mind. He could give him the money; -he was a man of honour; he had a lot of money; he would not refuse -a Formosa a small loan. While he wrote to Dr. Antonio Amati at his -desk, on a leaf torn from a book full of ciphers, he thought he need -not feel ashamed to ask a loan from a stranger, for he would give it -back that very evening. After he had written, one thought made him -tremble: if Amati said 'No'? He was a mere acquaintance, a stranger; -money hardens all hearts. - -'Take this letter to Dr. Amati, and bring the answer back,' he said -to Giovanni, who came in, hardly awake, on being rung for. - -'He will be asleep....' - -'Take it!' Formosa ordered. He bit his lips, certain now that Amati -would refuse; he felt a blush of shame come to his cheek. But he -must have money--he must, at whatever cost! He flung himself in the -easy-chair, looking at the ciphers on bits of paper scattered on the -desk without seeing them; he felt overcome by that irrepressible rage -of his ruling passion, at war with realities. - -'When he awakes he will give the answer,' said Giovanni, coming in, -silently waiting his master's orders. - -'Giovanni, give me the rest of the money you have,' said Formosa -sullenly. - -'I haven't got any, sir,' the other answered, shaking all over. - -'Don't tell lies; you have other fifty francs. Give me them at -once....' - -'My lord, I took the loan of it from a money-lender. I must give it -back at so much a week; don't take it from me....' - -'That does not matter to me,' Formosa said haughtily. - -'Don't take it from me, my lord. If you knew what it was needed -for....' - -'It does not matter to me' the Marquis said fiercely. 'Give me the -fifty francs....' - -'They are for getting food for her ladyship....' - -'That does not matter to me!' Formosa yelled. - -'As that is so, I obey,' said the old servant despairingly, and he -took out the other fifty-franc note. The Marquis snatched at it like -a thief, and put it quickly in his pocket. - -'Your wife has money, too; get it from her,' Formosa went on again -coldly. - -'Where could my wife get it?' - -'She has some. Make her give it to you, and bring it here. Spare me -a scene. If your wife denies it, you can leave the house at once, -both of you.' - -'No, my lord--no; I am going at once,' said the servant humbly. - -But a scene followed in there; there was long, agitated talk between -the husband and wife. The woman did not wish to let her money be -carried off; she cried, wept, and sobbed. Silence at last, and then a -moaning. - -Giovanni came in again, with his old face distorted, and bent more, -as if struck by paralysis. As he put another fifty francs down on -the desk, silently, his eyes red with the rare, burning tears of old -age, the Marquis was so struck by his appearance that he suddenly -relented, and said good-naturedly: - -'It is three hundred francs, between yesterday evening and to-day. -This evening you will get it all.' - -'How am I to get to-day's dinner?' - -'I will see about it--at _four o'clock_,' the Marquis said vaguely. - -'Her ladyship is ill; she will want a little soup this evening,' the -servant muttered. - -Then, searching his pockets, with a miserly grimace, the Marquis di -Formosa gave three francs to the man, following them with a greedy -look. - -There was a knock. Formosa started. It was Dr. Amati's answer. It -did not matter now if he said 'No.' But as he got the envelope in -his hands, he knew by touch that the money he wanted was there, -and, red with delight, he put the envelope in his pocket without -opening it. He went out now, at eight in the morning, as if carried -by an irresistible breath of wind; he went without turning back to -look at his sick child, his bare house, his weeping servants, who -had given him everything, the neighbour whose visits he had not -paid for, and yet dared to ask a loan of money from--he went off, -taking three hundred and fifty francs with him, to put it all on the -spirit's numbers, while he had left his poor old servants fasting, -and had haggled over a little soup for Bianca Maria. No one in the -house saw him again till mid-day. His daughter lay in bed, in a -burning fever, breathing with difficulty, often asking for something -to drink--nothing else. Margherita sat down by the bed, saying the -Rosary over to herself to pass the time. She often put her hand -on the invalid's forehead, alarmed at its being so hot. The sick -girl said nothing; she was sleeping, breathing uneasily. Suddenly, -opening her eyes, she said distinctly to Margherita: - -'Call the doctor to me.' - -'He won't be at home now.' - -'When he comes back, then.' And she shut her eyes again. - -The doctor only came at half-past four. He stood at the door of the -little room, scenting the feverish air. - -'You might have called me before,' he said to Margherita roughly. - -'Oh, sir, if I could tell you----' - -He told her to hold her tongue. The invalid was looking at him, her -lovely, gentle eyes wide open, her hand held out to him. The strong -man, with the massive head, the good-natured, ugly face, got a look -of great tenderness before the fragile creature Affection welled up -from his heart. He felt at once that the fever would soon be over: it -was falling already, with the suddenness of malaria; but the thorn of -that miserable existence, trembling between life and death, victim -of a disease he could not find out the meaning of, would stay in his -heart. - -'Now I am going to order a medicine for you,' he said gently to the -sick girl, holding her hand in his. - -'No, do not,' she said softly. - -'Don't you want any?' - -'Listen, listen!' she said, pulling him to her to let him hear -better--'take me away!' She trembled as she said this, and Antonio, -paling suddenly, struck by an indescribable emotion, could not even -answer. 'Take me away!' she added humbly, as if imploring him. - -'Yes, dear--dear,' he stammered; 'wherever you like--at once.' - -'To the country--far off,' the poor thing whispered, 'where one -sees no ghosts in fever, where there are no shadows nor frightful -spectres.' - -'What do you say?' said he, surprised. - -'Nothing; take me away to the country, to greenness and peace with -your mother ... before God.' - -'Oh dear, dear!' He could say nothing else, this great man, in the -supreme emotion, the sweetness of the idyll. - -'Far away take me,' she still whispered, looking at him with great, -good eyes. - -Alone, very sweetly and modestly, they spoke of love without using -words. - - - - - CHAPTER X - - MAY AND SAN GENNARO'S MIRACLE - - -Gentle April opened all the flowers in the gardens, terraces, and -balconies in Naples; wherever there was a little earth warmed by the -sun, bedewed with rime, a flower sprang up. Common, uncultivated, -popular flowers, quite a humble flora without refinements, having -no exquisite colouring or scents, but bright, warm, bursting from -the earth with profuse vegetation and plump, full petals. April made -the big, sweet-smelling, blood-red roses blossom, and the pinks, -beloved of the people--white, pink, variegated--_written on_ as they -poetically call them, as if these stripes were mystic words; then -single and double stocks--white, yellow, red--that the town girls -love; they grow them on the damp north balconies of Foria Street; and -the mallow with green, perfumed leaves and little pink flowers; but -above all, everywhere, roses and pinks--magnificent, velvety, almost -arrogant roses, and rich, close pinks bursting their green envelope. - -In the damp, dark squares of the low-lying quarters, from Santa Maria -la Nova to Porto Piazzetta, from San Giovanni Maggiore to Santi -Apostoli, in all these half-popular and cloistral, middle-class -and archæological quarters, rose-sellers wandered about; some -queer-looking hawkers with big baskets full of cut roses or slips, -the root wrapped in a cabbage-leaf, giving such pathetic drawn-out -cries that they reached the hearts of sentimental girls. The -rose-girl comes into one of these little squares that are always -soaking, dripping with dirty, black water, puts the basket on the -ground, and sings on in a melancholy, drawn-out voice: 'Roses, -lovely roses!' Then women's heads stick out of shops, balconies and -gateways, attracted by the long, sad chant, full of melancholy, -almost painful, voluptuousness. - -Whoever has a few sous, or only one, buys these roses, the slips for -the balconies, or cut ones to put before the Virgin, and to scatter, -when faded, in the linen drawers. The girl, having sold part of her -merchandise, lifts the basket on her head, and goes off, taking up -her melancholy cry in the distance, dwelling on the roses' beauty. - -That warm May-day all the seamstresses going errands, who found their -lovers by chance at the street corners, carried a rose in their -hands; all the common folk walking about in the narrow streets round -Forcella wore pinks on their white muslin camisoles; the children out -from school playing in the streets had flowers; even the servants had -flowers on their market-baskets, laid on the provisions wrapped in a -white towel. - -Really, poetic sentiment was not the only reason that scattered -flowers everywhere--at the street corners, in women and children's -hands, on washing baskets, flour-sacks, fruit and tomatoes, in the -big frying shops at Purgatorio ad Arco, and the old-clothes shops -at Anticaglia; it was the quantity one could get for a penny: for -a smile, a word, and flowers are so precious to humble folk, who -love colour and are intoxicated with the slightest perfume. May-day! -In that noon-day sun many dull, gloomy houses of Trinità Maggiore, -Forcella, Tribunali, San Sebastiano, San Pietro a Maiella Streets, -besides the flowers in the balconies, had put bright-coloured flags, -old red damasks, yellow, bright, buttercup curtains, blue silk -hangings edged with gold and silver, and many coloured stuffs, kept -up in boxes for years, outside the railings for drapery. - -The people that live in these tall, black, melancholy palaces, that -only get the sun on the terraces, are patricians of old clerical -families, very devout and pious, under the influence of all the great -old churches around: the Gesù Nuovo, Santa Chiara, San Domenico -Maggiore, San Giovanni Maggiore, Pietra Santa, the Sacramentiste, -the Girolomini, San Severo, Donna Regina; and finally the influence -of the old minster, the grand cathedral, so old, they say, it was -a temple of the Sun in Naples' pagan times--or, rather, its early -pagan times. There are rich, stern old middle-class families also -in the high, dark houses who keep up the customs of their citizen -forefathers, and have rigid monastic tendencies. These people, that -bright May-day, had taken out of camphored chests silk draperies they -had bought at the great factory Ferdinand of Bourbon set up at Terra -di Lavoro, or from San Leucio, with its bright, gay factories, for -weddings and baptisms held in their private chapels and oratories. A -pious folk, that inherits faith in its blood, they are born, live, -and die without doubting for a moment. They put all the repressed -strength of fancy into that grand mystic dream that rises from the -terrors of Hell to the supreme ecstasies of Paradise, having a horror -of Purgatory, as if the flesh felt its warm flames; and, dreaming -and dreaming on, they come to the last moment with eyes shut in -invincible hope. - -Besides the May roses and the hedge of pinks blooming on the -balconies, in spite of want of sun, these pious folk had put out for -rejoicings this May-day their brocades, damasks, and watered silks. -May-day! The darkness of old Naples' streets was brightened up by -that general wealth of sweet-smelling flowers, with petals scattered -on the gray Vesuvian lava stones; and there being so many flowers -everywhere, it seemed the sun must be there too. Its presence was -felt up there, where the two narrow lines of tall palaces ended in a -clear streak of soft blue sky--spring's thin azure. It seemed as if a -white sun was down in these narrow openings, Tribunali and Forcella -Streets, because so many coloured stuffs, such vivid draperies, waved -from the balconies, windows, and terraces. In San Domenico Maggiore -Square, especially, the ancient De Sangro and Carigliano Palaces -had magnificent brocades; even San Severo Palace, that hides in a -dark lane its gloomy vestibule, was dazzling with ancient stuffs. -The fresh flowers in the shops, in the tiny balconies of poor houses -that come by turns in old Naples with magnates' palaces, on the flat -roofs and terraces, out in the air, between earth and heaven; the -flowers carried by women, children, humble working people, artisans, -beggars even--fresh flowers--formed the people's festival in honour -of Naples' protector. That was the explanation, too, of the silk -draperies, the gold and silver damasks, the tapestries; it was all -the tribute of the old Naples' nobility and burghers to Naples' great -patron. - -May-day is lovely in Naples, from the air's caressing breath, from -the vivid streak of blue sky that manages to make the darkest, -most villainous streets gay. May-day is lovely, from the roses -that bloom on all sides, seeming to grow from women and children's -hands even, as well as all the common garden and field flowers. It -is miracle-working San Gennaro's day. It is on May-day his relics -are carried from the cathedral crypts--called _Succorpo_, or San -Gennaro's Treasury--to Santa Chiara Church, so that the saint may -deign, on the prayers of the people, to do the miracle of liquefying -his blood. The Bishop of Pozzuoli's head, which was cut off by the -executioner's axe, is set in an old gold mask. It bears the Bishop's -mitre, enriched with precious stones, and sparkles with a thousand -fires. The other relic is the coagulated blood, kept in a very -fine crystal phial: through the cold dark clot of blood a straw is -visible, going across it and immovable. It was gathered by pious folk -present at the Bishop's martyrdom, and religiously preserved. This is -the day, the fourth of the flowery, sweet-smelling May calends, that -these relics go, borne in triumphant procession, from the cathedral -to Santa Chiara Church. - -Now, that year 188- it seemed as if the flower of faith grew more -vigorously in the people's heart--that devotion to the city's patron -burst forth more brightly; for since two in the afternoon the crowd -had been rushing along to old Naples, obstructing the narrow streets, -lanes and blind alleys. San Gennaro is profoundly popular in Naples, -much--a hundred thousand times--more than the real first Bishop of -Naples, Sant' Aspreno. But who remembers _him_? He is one of the -forgotten ones of the martyrology, which has its shipwrecks in the -sea of oblivion, such as happen in other seas. - -Sant' Aspreno's little church stands in a lane in the Porto quarter, -and is underground; one goes down thirty steps, below the level of -the soil; it is merely an oratory, rude, dark, damp, and alarming, -where Sant' Aspreno's stick is adored, the pastoral staff of Naples' -first pastor. But who goes to Sant' Aspreno's? A few devout people -and some lovers of archæological things. San Gennaro, before all -the other saints--before Sant' Anna, the powerful old woman, or -San Giuseppe, the patron of a good death, next in order to the -Immaculate Virgin and the Eternal Father, who are worshipped in -Santa Chiara. San Gennaro has the devotion of all lowly Neapolitan -hearts to himself. Above all, he was a Neapolitan, born in that -black, evil-smelling quarter, Molo Piccolo, where it seems his -descendants still live, and take great pride in such an ancestor. -He came of Naples common folk, and his family consists of some old -working-women, who spend their time between work and prayer, carrying -out the _spiritual life_--trying, at least, to reach their great -ancestor's perfection in piety. Glorious San Gennaro, the Bishop who -suffered martyrdom! His head was cut off by infidels at Pozzuoli, on -a great marble stone, which is still preserved: it has a large scar, -and three streaks of blood running down; the severed head, being -cast into the sea, swam from Pozzuoli to Naples, the face keeping a -deathly pallor from loss of blood. - -Nor from that day that the saint's head was picked up and preserved, -and the coagulated blood put into a phial, to this, has the saint -ever ceased to protect Naples. In the maritime suburb, on the -Maddalena Bridge, where the little stream Sebeto has to go under a -stone arch, the patron saint's statue in marble looks at Vesuvius -close at hand, and stands with two fingers raised in a commanding -attitude. By that gesture the saint has prevented lava from coming -into Naples during Vesuvius' tremendous eruptions; never will the -lava dare to pass that limit. San Gennaro, with uplifted finger, -says: '_Thou shalt go no further!_' From the most ancient times, -twice a year--in soft September, when his name-day occurs, and in -flowery May--San Gennaro does the miracle of liquefying his blood -before the people. Whilst here at Naples the blood in the phial -boils up, making the straw fixed in the cold, dry clot move about, -in Pozzuoli the blood on the marble block gets fresh and bright; and -whoso standing on the shore has the eyes of faith sees the saint's -livid, cut-off head floating in. The miracle is repeated twice every -year. When it is later than the usual hour, it is a bad sign; it -means a bad year: if he were not to do the miracle ... but the patron -saint could not forsake his faithful city. In eruptions, epidemics, -earthquakes, his hand is always raised to mitigate and overcome the -scourge. All the common people have their own legends about him, -besides the great legend of the miracles. The great saint was a -Naples man, poor, of the people; there has not been a king, a prince -or great lord who has visited San Gennaro's chapel without adding a -splendid gift to the patron's wealth. Naples' common folk, to cry up -their saint, go about saying proudly and tenderly, 'Even Vittorio! -Even Vittorio!' which means that the great King Victor Emmanuel also -brought his gift to the patron saint. In former days there were -knights of San Gennaro, and his treasury was guarded with hierarchal -pomp; the keys were under a solemn trust. There are no longer any -knights; indeed, the order is abolished, and the old patrician pomp -is rather diminished. But what of that? The saint is stronger than -ever, powerful, miracle-working, safe in the people's heart as in an -inviolable tabernacle. - -That year the people's love for San Gennaro came out stronger than -ever, as if a new rush of faith had fortified their souls. At a -certain hour the traffic through Forcella and Tribunali was stopped; -all who were leaving Naples or arriving had to make a long round to -the station by Marina or Foria Road. The cabman told any annoyed fare -who asked the reason of the endless journey, 'It was San Gennaro'; -and touched his hat with his whip in compliment to the saint. He -tried to hurry his horse, not for the sake of being obliging to his -fare, but that he himself, after putting up his cab or by taking his -stand with it at a street corner, might see San Gennaro's precious -blood pass. If all the little streets were crowded with people, all -the sumptuous balconies of the patricians' houses and the small, -mean balconies alongside were swarming, and in the wide street by -the cathedral the crowd was stupendous. That great road that goes -down rather too steeply from the hill to the sea from Foria Road -to Marina, which was the first surgical cut through old Naples -(an energetic cut, but not well carried out; rather ferocious and -ridiculous as regards architecture, but certainly sanitary--the Duomo -Road, which is the Toledo of old Naples), had then all the majesty of -its great days, when the popular flood alarms even those who count -over its numbers proudly. People stretched up to Gerolomini and -Pendino, above and below, in the two porticos to the right and left -of the cathedral; they stood on the broad flight of steps, climbed on -the gas-lamps, and even on the scaffolding that has been up so many -years for repairs to the west front; there were people there close -together, crushed in, choking in the open air, hanging on to iron -girders or a beam, and balancing themselves in an extraordinary way -on an insecure board. Sometimes a mother in the crowd held up her -child to let it get air, and it waved its legs and arms rejoicingly -for that throw into the gentle May air. The cathedral police vainly -tried to make way for the procession, which was already formed in the -church; but when they pushed back the crowd, it surged back again so -strongly it went up against the façade of the church. - -Suddenly from under the black arch of the great wide-open door, -where some torches were burning in the background, solemn psalmody -was heard, and the head of the procession appeared amidst silence -and stillness in the crowd. Very, very slowly, with an almost -imperceptible motion, the Naples religious orders came forward in -advance. White and black monks, brown, shoeless, or in sandals, with -cape or shaven head, singing holy San Gennaro's lauds, with wandering -eyes, and holding bent torches, whose slender flame was hardly -visible, being swallowed up by the sunlight. A little boy followed to -pick up the great wax drops that fell from the torches. Dominicans, -Benedictines, Franciscans, Verginisti, missionaries, Jesuits, monks, -and priests in double file were flowing along, carried by the crowd, -not looking at it, gazing at a far-off point on the horizon or on -the ground. All mouths were open to sing the Latin psalms--severe, -stem mouths, like the psalms that came from them, which rose in waves -over the crowd's head; and involuntarily, as the religious orders -moved along imperceptibly down towards Foria, the devout who knew -the Divo Gennaro's Latin prayers joined in the solemn song, while -many of the crowd, excited by the air and light and others singing, -intoned a wordless psalmody, seized by a mystical fervour. From the -bottom of the Duomo Road the crowd, advancing with the procession, -went with open mouths; thousands of voices were solemnly singing, -the wide sky swallowing up the sound. But those that went on towards -Forcella did not leave the Duomo Road open: others took their place, -and pushed them on; then, a string of parish priests and the canons -of San Giovanni Maggiore having passed, there was a lively tumult -among the people, showing evident interest and pleasure. It was -caused by the slow filing-out of saints that go with Saint Gennaro, -to do him honour in his chapel--there are forty-six of them, either -whole statues or busts, in silver. These saints stand on litters, -carried on four men's shoulders. These porters disappear among the -crowd, so that the saint seems to go along miraculously by himself, -all sparkling, over the people's heads. Very, very slowly, as I said, -for the crowd was so dense, so congested, the statues sometimes -stood motionless, while the people gazed on them with suffused eyes -lingeringly, for Naples' devotion loves to feed at length on the -sight of their special protectors, who are shut up in the treasury -all the year, and only come out that day to bless the poor folk. - -As every saint appeared under the dark vane of the great door and -went through the people on the way to Santa Chiara by Forcella, there -were shouts of joy. The first was Naples' other patron, one who comes -next to San Gennaro as a protector, Sant' Antonio. He carries a staff -with a tinkling bell on the top, and at his side is the head of the -animal he loved. The bell swayed as the saint moved, and rang out -cheerfully above the crowd, making them gay, so that they cried out: -'Sant' Antonio! Sant' Antonio!' - -Excited, almost sobbing, Carmela, the cigar-girl, asked the -saint's protection. He, too, loved an ugly beast, as she loved -that ungrateful, hard-hearted Raffaele, called Farfariello. She -had been pushed right into the telegraph-office in Duomo Road, and -her strained face following his figure showed her hard life and -privations plainer than ever. She gazed on the saint's shining face, -he who had resisted so many temptations, imploring him to take that -love out of her heart, and free her from love's temptations, for it -made her gnawing poverty twice as hard. - -'Sant' Antonio, Sant' Antonio!' the crowd shouted to the saint as he -went off. - -'Sant' Antonio, deliver me!' Carmela sobbed out, not knowing she had -cried out, and that her neighbours were listening. - -But one prays aloud in Naples, whether in the church or the street. -Now the Archangel Michael, the triumphant warrior, appeared, tall -and agile, in a splendid victorious pose, his dazzling corslet close -to his young figure, a helmet on the fair, triumphant head, lance in -hand to kill the dragon his foot presses down; Michael, mystic and -war-like, saint and hero. Seeing him appear so handsome and breathing -out triumph, with the devil wriggling vainly under his feet, the -devout had an artistic feeling in their enthusiasm: San Michele was -called on by thousands of voices. - -Leaning against a column of the portico, to the right of the -cathedral, was the Marquis di Formosa. He took off his hat in humble -greeting of the brilliant Archangel, for whom he had great devotion; -that combination of cherubim and warrior pleased his violent -disposition and love of fighting so much. As the splendid, handsome -saint came forward, for ever victorious, trampling on the dragon, -the old Marquis prayed passionately and fervently that he might be -enabled to overcome the dragon of poverty, shame and death that came -against him every day; he implored great Michael, overthrower of the -devil, to lend him his holy lance to kill the monster that threatened -to devour him. San Michele went down the road to the sea also; he was -so handsome, flaming with glory in the noon-day light, that the three -syllables of his name were repeated over and over again, up and down, -as fire runs along a powder-train: 'Michele! Michele! Michele!' - -But San Rocco made a diversion, the saviour of the plague-stricken, -the people's protector in all epidemics; he is dressed as a pilgrim, -with mantle, hood, and staff; he raises the tunic to show the bare -knee, with a sore carved on it, a sign of the plague. A faithful -little dog follows him--so faithful that people say: 'San Rocco -and his dog,' referring to inseparables. This strong friendship, -the saint's rather queer figure, in a short cloak, and the dog -following--this well-known story, excites affectionate hilarity among -the crowd. They look on San Rocco as a dear, indulgent friend they -can joke with, as he never gets in a rage. - -'Is your knee cold, Santo Rocco?' - -'Hi, hi, baldhead!' - -'Lend me your great-coat, Santo Rocco!' - -But the really devout were scandalized, and insisted on silence. The -lovely saint who was a sinner now appeared, the penitent Maddalena, -quivering over her bearers' heads, her fine hair falling down her -back, her eyes bedewed with petrified tears; behind her, curiously -enough, came another saintly sinner, Maria Egiziaca, consumed and -wasted by a not less ardent remorse than the Magdalene's. A sort of -dull shiver went through all those who saw the statues pass in their -midst--it was a quiet excitement that had no outburst. On the widest -low step of the flight, under the façade scaffolding, stood Filomena, -Carmela's unhappy sister, in blue skirt, gray silk bodice, a pink -ribbon round her neck, hair combed to the top of the head, cheeks -covered with rouge. She did not hear the insolent hints of those -around her. Pulling up her embroidered shawl, she prayed earnestly to -the two saints--sinners like herself, but still saints--in blessed -San Gennaro's name, to do her the grace of freeing her from her -disgraceful life, and she would offer up a solid silver heart. - -Then there was a great flutter among the women in the balconies -and street. After San Giuseppe and Sant' Andrea Avellino, both -patrons of a _good death_, and therefore very dear to imaginative -Neapolitans, who have the greatest fear of death; after San Alfonso -di Liguori, who is called 'wry-neck,' with loving familiarity, -because his head leans to one shoulder; after San Vincenzio Ferrari, -who bears the flame of the Holy Ghost on his head, and an open book -of the law in his hands--when all these popular saints passed amid -shouts, smiles, and affectionate greetings, a fine shining saint, -as if newly out of the engraver's hands, with a round, good-natured -face and open lowered hands to rain down blessings, came out of the -cathedral. It was San Pasquale Baylon, the girls' patron saint--he -they make a _novena_ to to get a husband; he sends husbands, being an -accommodating, joyous saint: all the lassies know the figure, they -recognise him at once. From a balcony with a dressmaker's signboard, -'Madama Juliana,' Antonietta the blonde, with her friend Nannina, let -fall a rose, that whirled slowly down on to San Pasquale's arm. All -felt the devotion, the longing, in that act; quantities of roses were -thrown from the balconies and street at San Pasquale. 'Like you, just -the same, oh, blessed San Pasquale,' prayed the girls, referring to -the husband they wanted. - -Now the procession hurried a little; the saints passed quicker, for -the impatience of the crowd in front of the cathedral and Duomo Road -got tremendous. Great shudders went through the people; all this -splendour of silver aureoles and faces, that singular walking over -people's heads, and going off towards Forcella, the continuous new -silvery apparitions in the great black vane of the cathedral door, -gave a nervous feeling even to quiet onlookers. - -Cesare Fragalà and De Feo the medium were standing in a little -coffee-house doorway to see the procession, but the mild little -confectioner, who fled from his shop every day he could, to follow -the mysterious lanky medium, had lost the old youthful joyousness and -certainty about life--his face had a sickly, care-lined look now. -The medium, though he pumped out money every week from the whole -cabalistic group, and from others too, still wore his dirty torn -clothes, unstarched, frayed linen, and cravat curled up like a wick; -his complexion was still yellow with dull-red, scirrhus-like streaks, -as if he had barely recovered from a severe fever. The medium always -brought Cesare Fragalà along with him now; he insisted on keeping up -with De Feo's fantastic ideas, though his simple commercial mind did -not understand them; but he was furious, enraged at himself for his -want of comprehension. He accused his own disposition, as being too -lively, healthy, and stupid to be able to take in the spirituality -and refinements of him who had the luck to be visited by the spirits. - -Now, Don Pasqualino had told all his devotees plainly enough that -a great fortune would come to them that May Saturday, sacred to -San Gennaro's precious blood. The gamblers listened greedily; for -many weeks, for ever so long, they had not won a half-penny. Except -Ninetto Costa, the stock-broker, who made a big profit off some -numbers he got from a wine merchant's lad who brought him an account -to settle, and Marzano, who got an _ambo_ of fifty francs from his -friend the cobbler's advice, no one else had got anything, in spite -of the inspired friar, or the medium, good spirits or bad, in spite -of all their prayers and magic. - -Now, Don Pasqualino, who had sucked up hundreds of francs that winter -and spring, said that San Gennaro would certainly grant a favour -that first Saturday in May, and all the Cabalists believed him, and -were scattered here and there among the crowd in Duomo Road, having -agreed to meet at Vespers in Santa Chiara. But Cesare Fragalà clung -the harder to the medium, the deeper he plunged in the gambling -gulf; he had staked a lot that Saturday, and was determined to keep -an eye on him. Whenever a saint appeared, the medium turned up his -eyes, and prayed in a whisper in the midst of the crowd; Fragalà, -alongside of him, crossed himself distractedly. He stretched his -ears to hear all the medium said when each saint came out. Now Santa -Candida Brancaccio passed, one of the first Naples Christian martyrs, -a young woman looking up to heaven, and in her right hand she held a -long arrow, that of divine love. A voice called out from the crowd, -supposing the arrow to be a pen: - -'Write a letter for me to the eternal Father, Santa Candida!' - -'The saint is writing for you,' the medium at once chimed in, turning -to Fragalà. - -'So we hope--that is my hope,' he humbly replied. - -A great noise greeted San Biagio, another Bishop of Naples; he -is shown blessing the town. For two or three years diphtheria and -quinsy had kept the hearts of Naples' mothers in terror, especially -among the lower classes. San Biagio is just the saint for throat -complaints. When the silver saint came out, amidst clamour, fathers -and mothers held out their children to the holy Bishop to get his -blessing, that they might escape the dreadful scourge that killed so -many innocents. - -'San Biase! San Biase!' screamed out the excited, sobbing mothers, -holding up their children. - -Annarella too, Carmela's and unhappy Filomena's sister, held up -her two remaining sons, for the smallest was dead, after having -languished a long time. Ah! he would never again be waiting for her -on the cellar doorstep, patiently munching a bit of bread till she -came back from work. Poor little Peppinello--he was dead! He died of -wretchedness in a damp, smelly cellar, from bad, coarse food, with -only his little garments to cover him when asleep, always clinging to -his mother for warmth. Mother's little flower was dead, starved by -the _bonafficciata_, by that terrible lottery that ruined Gaetano, -that drove him to steal his children's bread. Annarella would never -be consoled for that death. The two left to her were well-behaved -and strong, but they were not her blonde, delicate flower. They had -dragged her there to see San Gennaro, and when the wretched woman saw -so many little ones held up she lifted hers too, weeping and sobbing, -thinking her dear flower had not been saved either by San Biase, San -Gennaro, or all the saints in Paradise. But as the day went on, the -people's emotion increased; everyone was given up to strong emotions -that grew stronger every moment from the influence of those around -them. In the excited eyes of girls, mothers, the poor, the unhappy, -the guilty, all who needed help, whether moral or material, that show -of saints got to be like a dream; they saw a shining vision pass, -with silvery, dazzling reflections; the names got lost, but the whole -procession of the blessed images was impressed on them. - -The crowd, now confused and deafened, shaken by religious fervour, -did not recognise a group of saints of Naples' earliest ages--Sant' -Aspreno, San Severo, Sant' Eusebio, Sant' Agrippino, and Sant' -Attanasio, most antique saints, rather obscure and forgotten. A roar -like thunder greeted the five Franciscans who keep watch round San -Gennaro in the _succorpo_: San Francesco d'Assisi, Di Paolo, Di -Ceronimo, Caracciolo, and Borgia. Another shout when Sant' Anna, -the Virgin's mother, came out, to whom, say the people, no grace is -ever refused. No one troubled themselves much about San Domenico, -who invented the Rosary, as no one in the confusion of that noontide -hour recognised the proud Spanish monk, except the gloomy Finance -Secretary, Don Domenico Mayer. Being pushed by the crowd against a -wall, he kept his tall hat well over his eyes, and his arms were -crossed in a proud, gloomy way, his lips set in a sad, sceptical -smile. The saints went on and on, out of the cathedral's great dark -portal, towards Forcella, rather quicker now; the crowd swayed from -right to left, as if to free itself from the constraint of that close -attention. - -The saints' procession was just about finishing, having lasted -nearly an hour, from the slowness of the going, and it ended with -San Gaetano Thiene, the angelic San Filippo Neri, with the holy -doctors Tommaso and Agostino, Santa Irene, Sant' Maria Maddalena di -Pazzi, the great Santa Teresa in ecstasy, all ardour and passion, -that magnificent saint of Avila, who died of divine love. When the -long file of saints finished, and the first of the cathedral canons -came out, there was a great movement among the waiting people. All -stretched their heads to see better, not to lose a tittle of the -religious show; but the noise was unrestrained in spite of this close -attention. At last the canons ended also, and finally, under the -great embroidered, gold-fringed canopy, appeared the chief pastor -of the Neapolitan Church, pallid, his face radiant with a deeply -compassionate expression, his lips moving in prayer. Eight gentlemen -held up the poles of the canopy, eight choir-boys swung censers of -smoking incense around him. The Archbishop, a Cardinal Prince of the -Church, walked slowly, alone, under the canopy, his eyes fixed on his -own clasped hands; and the whole crowd of women stretching out their -arms, men praying, children lisping San Gennaro's name, gazed not at -the canopy, gold vestments, or jewelled mitre, but affectionately, -enthusiastically at the Archbishop's waxen, clasped hands, weeping, -crying, asking favours and pity, gazing fixedly at what he pressed in -his hands, now trembling with sacred respect. To it were directed all -glances, all sighs, all prayers. The Cardinal Archbishop of Naples -held the phial of the precious blood. - - * * * * * - -In Santa Chiara's fine church, all white with stucco and loaded with -gilding like a very spacious royal hall, the crowd was waiting for -San Gennaro's miracle. It was not yet night, but thousands of wax -tapers, on the high altar and in the side chapels, especially on -those dedicated to the Virgin and Eternal Father, lighted up the -vast, lovely, graceful church. On the high altar, San Gennaro's head, -in a gemmed mitre, the face ornamented with gold, was placed on a -white napkin in a gold dish. The two phials of the precious blood -stood more in the middle, for the adoration of the faithful. All -around the high altar and behind the antique carved wood balustrade -that cuts off a large space with the altar from the rest of the -church, stood the forty-six silver statues that form a guard of -honour to San Gennaro's relics. The Cardinal Archbishop and the -canons were doing service at the high altar to Naples' holy patron, -that he might perform the miracle; behind the balustrade, to the side -of the high altar, stood a solitary, favoured, happy group of old men -and women, all in black, with white neckerchiefs and cravats, the -men uncovered, the women with a black veil over their hair, a group -watched, commented on, and envied by all the other devotees. They -were San Gennaro's relations; they alone had the right to go up to -the high altar to see the miracle at half a yard's distance. - -Then came an immense crowd--in the great single nave of Santa -Chiara, in the side chapels, and even outside the two great doors, -on the steps and cloisters, where the latest arrivals stood on -tiptoe, dazzled by the thousands of tapers, trying to see something, -struggling vainly to push a step forward, for there was no more room -for anyone. All were agitated and disquieted, from the Cardinal -Archbishop kneeling in prayer before the altar to the humblest -little woman of the lower class; all were waiting till the heavenly -Gennaro carried out the miracle. Most fervently, with head bent over -the seat in front, with the trusting piety of a young heart, Bianca -Maria Cavalcanti was praying, as the miraculous moment drew near. She -prayed to San Gennaro, in the name of his precious blood, to give -peace to her father's heart, to give Amati faith; and sincerely, in -the great, wise, deep goodness of her heart, she asked nothing for -herself. It was enough for her that her father's sick, troubled, -tortured heart should have peace; that Antonio Amati's strong, hard -heart, besides its human love, should share the highest tenderness -of the Divine. Here in a short time one of the greatest miracles -of religion would be accomplished. Could not San Gennaro work a -miracle in their hearts, if she worshipped with her whole strength? -She prayed on, her cheeks flushed with an unwonted fire, a faint -blush over them, with a restrained force of mystic enthusiasm, a new -passion that had come into her frozen life and brightened it. - -At the high altar, his face turned to heaven, breathing intense -faith, his voice trembling with overpowering emotion, the Cardinal -Archbishop was saying the Latin prayers in honour of Naples' high -protector. The whole crowd responded with a long thundering 'Amen!' -'Amen!' came from Santa Chiara's patrician nuns, hidden behind the -choir grating. - -After the _Oremus_, a moment's silence followed; the fore-running -breath of great things seemed to pass over the praying people. San -Gennaro's relations at the high altar intoned the _Credo_ in Italian -impetuously, and the whole church took it up; that ended, there were -two minutes of uneasy waiting, to see if the miracle was beginning. -But a second, a third _Credo_ was soon taken up with vigour, as if -the whole people declared its belief, swore it on their conscience, -gave themselves over to faith in spirit and truth, impetuously. The -Cardinal Archbishop, kneeling, his hands covering his face, prayed -on in silence. The _Credo_ went on behind him, intoned at short -intervals by San Gennaro's relations, and carried on by the whole -people. A solemn note stood out here and there amid the general -rumble from a desolate heart, a sharp note struck off tortured -nerves.... 'I believe!' shouted the people, with a break in the voice -which seemed to denote a thousand prayers, vows, and hopes. - -Ah! Luisella Fragalà, too, seated in a corner beside the melancholy -Signora Parascandolo, was a profound believer. Tears, caused by -her excited religious feelings, ran down her cheeks silently. She -had a dark presentiment of coming misfortune; she felt it, without -seeing or making out what it was, but sure that it was on its way -inexorably. She asked San Gennaro for strength, such as he had in -his frightful martyrdom, to bear the mysterious catastrophe that -was coming on her. Signora Parascandolo was saying the Creed too -with the people in a feeble voice; but in the almost frightened -pauses, while waiting for the imminent miracle, she, bereaved of -her children, begged San Gennaro to grant her a grace, to take her -from this land of exile, whence all her children were gone, leaving -her alone, groping in the cold and darkness. Rosy Agnesina's happy -mother, just like the unhappy mother who was wounded in the past, as -she was to be in the future, asked for strength to conquer or to die. - -But at the fifteenth _Credo_ uneasiness began among the multitude; -the words of faith sounded shrilly, like a challenge flung to -unbelievers, but they had a quiver of secret dread; the pauses -between each _Credo_ got longer as the depression of waiting wore out -their nerves, then it was taken up again enthusiastically, as if the -renewed rush of feeling was terrible, as is the way with crowds. - -The wildest in mystic enthusiasm were the old people at the high -altar; from behind them a flame ran from one heart to another, -carrying the devouring fire into soft indolent temperaments, even -to the hearts of sceptics, who trembled as if a rude revolution had -struck them and was clearing their eyes. At the twenty-first _Credo_ -there was anguish in the expectation. All eyes went from the saint's -head on the gold dish to the clear crystal phial with its clot of -dark blood. The head, in its gemmed mitre and yellow gold mask, -sparkled with metallic, rather livid reflections; the blood was still -congealed, a stone that prayers could not break. At the twenty-second -_Credo_, intoned with a burst of rage, some shouts were heard, -calling out desperately: - -'San Gennaro! San Gennaro! San Gennaro!' - -The feverish prayers recited by the multitude in Santa Chiara, which -humbly, forcibly, tremblingly implored a miracle from Naples' holy -patron, were fervently said by two women kneeling in the crowd, -their elbows on straw seats, and faces hidden, absorbed soul and -body in the grace they implored. Donna Caterina, the clandestine -lottery keeper, and Donna Concetta, the money-lender, had taken a -vow together to San Gennaro for a bishop's heavy gold ring with a -large topaz, if he would do them the grace to end their sufferings: -either change their lovers, Ciccillo and Alfonso Jannacone's, hearts, -make them tolerant of the sisters' enterprises, or change their own -hearts, and free them from love of money. A ring, a magnificent -ring, to the miracle-working saint if he did that miracle for them; -so they both prayed in a whisper, saying their offer over again, -monotonously raising their imploring, tearful eyes to the high altar, -where the great mystery was imminent. But the people were in a panic -already from that delay; they felt a great terror that just that -year, after two centuries and a half, the saint, angry, perhaps, -with the sins of the people, should refuse to do the miracle that -is the proof of his benevolence. The Creed, taken up again after a -longer, deeper, and therefore more emotional pause of silence, had an -alarmed, almost angry, tone, and burst out with a despairing rush; -above all, the old women's voices at the high altar got angry and -frightened, trembling with sorrow and terror. In a silent pause, -suddenly one of them said, in a voice shaken by devout familiarity, -meek jocularity, and uncontrollable impatience: - -'Old cross-patch, you want to keep us waiting, eh?' - -'San Gennaro! San Gennaro! San Gennaro!' yelled the populace, -curiously excited. - -Down there, at the bottom of the church, near the wall, where that -sweet, faded Madonna, said to be Giotti's, calms the eye with its -subdued colouring, Don Pasqualino stood in an attitude that was -all prayer; he was standing, but his head and shoulders were bent -forward obsequiously, and now and then, when he raised his head from -tiredness or inspiration to look at the gilded, painted sky in the -church, the whites of his eyes looked enormous, out of proportion, -and all colour had left his cheeks; his livid pallor went on -increasing. By a magnetic attraction, all those who believed in him -and his visions had gathered round him, all disturbed-looking, full -of repressed despair, that showed itself in some faces as if they -were deep down in sorrow's abyss, for that Saturday, too, had brought -them a great disappointment, two hours before, when the lottery -figures came out; all were bent by a gnawing remorse, for they -felt guilty towards others and themselves. The Marquis di Formosa -was bowed, his fine figure looked almost decrepit, for he felt the -shame of his disreputable life; he was losing everything, even his -daughter, in a slow agony of bad health and wretchedness. Cesare -Fragalà's commercial standing was always getting more compromised; -he felt his trading correspondents' coldness, his wife's evident low -spirits and secret dread, hoping always, but in vain, to set it all -right with a big haul. Ninetto Costa was pallid, but smiling, his -eyes hollow from sitting up at night and anxiety; he often thought of -the catastrophe, choosing in his mind between dishonourable flight -and the revolver shot that does not clear scores, but softens people. -Baron Lamarra was there, big, fat and flabby, cursing his ambitious -beggar-on-horseback dreams, shuddering at the idea of that promissory -note signed by himself and his wife. Marzano's gentle smile had -got rather idiotic, for he increased his frugality every week so -as to be able to gamble; he had given up snuff, smoking and wine, -had pawned his pension papers, and was now getting compromised in -queer affairs. Colaneri and Trifari were getting no more pupils; the -first especially felt himself suspected, discredited, fearing every -morning, as he entered the school, to be turned out by order of a -superior, or knocked down by the students. All, all, were attacked -by that Saturday-evening desolation, the black, terrible hour when -conscience alone speaks, loudly, sternly, inflexibly. Still, they -were in church, and the most indifferent and unbelieving murmured -some words of prayer; they still surrounded the medium, eagerly -looking at him as he prayed. One could see from that fascination that -he still had power over them, and judge from their eager glances that -once the momentary discouragement was past the passion would grow -again. Ah! but that hour in the midst of the crowd, breathing out -all its unhappiness in prayer, was as frightful for them, who were -guilty, as the fatal night of Gethsemane was for the great sinless -One. - -Despairingly, all fixed their eyes on the high altar, where the -burning candles cast reflections on the saint's face. - -'San Gennaro! San Gennaro!' the people shouted out as every _Credo_ -ended. - -A wind of terror that the miracle would not come blew over them and -burst out in their voices. San Gennaro's relatives were torn with -sorrow and rage; they had got to the thirty-fifth _Credo_, and the -time was going by with threatening slowness; they, feeling at once -offence at their holy ancestor's delay and despair at his anger, -called out to him things like this: - -'San Gennaro, face of gold, don't keep us waiting any longer!' - -'You are in a rage, eh? What have we done to you?' - -'Old cross-patch, do the miracle for your people!' - -The feeling of rage, tenderness, devotion, and agitation that -breathed in these reproaches and pious invocations cannot be -expressed. The legend says San Gennaro likes to be pressed, and does -not get offended at the remarks his relatives and the populace make -to him, and the people's emotion was such that at the thirty-eighth -_Credo_ each sentence of the prayer was said desperately, as if every -word was dragged out by overpowering agony; cries burst out far back: - -'Green face!' - -'Ugly yellow face!' - -'Not much of a saint!' - -'Do this miracle--do it!' - -The thirty-eighth _Credo_ was clamorous; everyone said it from one -end of the church to the other: the Cardinal, the priests, men, -women, and children, everyone was seized by a mystical rage. All of -a sudden, in the great silent pause that followed the prayer, the -Archbishop turned to the people; his face, irradiated by an almost -divine light, seemed transfigured; his uplifted hands displayed the -phial. The precious blood in its thin crystal covering was bubbling -up. What a shout! The old church's foundations seemed shaken by it; -the echoes were so loud and long that passers-by in neighbouring -streets were alarmed; the sonorous bells in the tower seemed to -quiver of themselves; the weeping--the sob of a whole kneeling -people, cast down on the ground, kissing the cold marble, holding out -their arms, quivering with the vision of the blood--was endless. - -At the high altar the old relatives lay as if they were dead; one -single powerful force bent the whole crowd; there was one lament, -sob, prayer; in that long moment everyone mentioned with warm tears -and shaking voice his own sorrow and need. At the high altar the -Archbishop and clergy now stood up, and sang the anthem in full tones -above the organ notes. - - - - - CHAPTER XI - - AN IDYLL AND MADNESS - - -Dr. Antonio Amati was deeply in love with Bianca Maria Cavalcanti. -That rugged heart that had got like iron in its conflict with -science, men and things, that had had to drink up all its tears -again, and look on calmly at all kinds of wretchedness--that iron -heart which had a great deal of coldness in its simplicity, which, -as regards sentiment, was virginal, childishly pure, had opened -out slowly, almost timidly, to love. At first.... How had it been -at first? The habit of seeing the white, melancholy figure at the -balcony windows every day, noticing that gentle, slender apparition -among the shadows of the court in these melancholy surroundings. At -first it had been nothing but habit, which is often the beginning -of love; it creates, strengthens, and makes it invincible. Then -came pity, a lively source of tenderness--a source that often hides -underground, disappears, seems lost; but, later on, further on, it -burst forth gaily, flowing inexhaustibly. - -While Bianca Maria's fainting-fit was going on, from the -Sacramentiste parlour to her bare room in the Rossi Palace, her -transparent face, shut eyelids with their violet shadows, lips as -pale as the tender pink of a rose, made him fear more than once -she was dead. He often saw that youthful figure again in his mind -in a death-like torpor; he saw her as if dead. Pity twined itself -round his heart on recalling the sorrowful expression that often -crossed the girl's face, as if a terrible secret, a physical and -moral torture, went through her soul and nerves; pity led him to -wish to save her from her suffering. The day the idea flashed into -the great doctor's mind to snatch the pure creature from death, -sickness, and unhappiness, whenever his life-saving instinct warned -him the struggle was beginning, when he felt the appeal to his -intuitive perception of life, to his energy and courage, when his -whole strength was summoned up to save Bianca Maria, he knew the -word was said that not only the scientist, the man, wished the girl -health and happiness, but that the lover was shaking at the idea of -losing her. The slight touch of the thin hand, now frozen as if it -had no life, then burning with fever, sent flames of passion to his -brain. The word was spoken with a lad's simple tenderness and a man's -strong resolution, swaying from the purest idyll to violent dramatic -possibilities. He was in love. Why not? For one day, one single -moment, he had tried to conquer himself, from the natural egotism of -a man who has fought and triumphed alone; but accustomed to accept -all his responsibilities in life to the utmost, he bowed to love. -Why not? He never had loved, for passing attractions towards women, -short caprices, leave no trace in the heart. Being children of the -imagination, born of a hard, impetuous life, they come back sometimes -like a dream, but as indefinite and undecided as dreams; the heart is -not concerned. - -Dr. Amati, a lonely man, of strong brain and heart, had gained his -fortune and reputation at a bound, and up to thirty-eight he wished -to know no other joy but helping men, no ease but satisfied ambition. -Now he was so completely in love that everything seemed to lose its -colour and taste if Bianca Maria was not present, if he did not hear -her feeble, sensitive voice. - -In love. Why not? In the humblest, meanest, most obscure lives, -that warm, bright hour comes--an hour of such vast capacity that -it includes all time and space. So, in lives outwardly successful, -when the pomp of earthly things opens out, the warm, deep hour -comes, inward and intense; all is gathered up in the heart, the soul -trembles with passionate strength. Being intensely in love, with -all the greater force and violence from any expression of feeling -having been rare in past years, a heart like Antonio Amati's gathers -up all the friendships missed or neglected: affection for relatives -and congenial people; poetic admiration for women that was kept -down, never shown, conquered sometimes at the very beginning, and -almost always quickly forgotten; all the thousand attachments, petty -and great, the human heart fritters itself away on. He was in love -knowingly, willingly, tasting all the sweetness of this late fruit -of his soul. He found in his retarded passion the thousand and one -characteristics and feelings of the love affairs and attachments he -had never had. He was done with the great renunciation; he was in -love knowingly. - -Bianca Maria was in love without knowing it. She was simple and -right-minded; she had lived a solitary life, with no conflicts, -thinking and praying a great deal; her soul was refined by solitary -musing, not by the rough, sore pounding down of a struggling life. -From her mother, who had led a sad life, she got a keen, but silent, -sensitiveness; from her father she had taken a headstrong loyalty, -pride without haughtiness, and uncalculating generosity that delights -in giving without interested motives. Over it all was a deep, inbred -faith that seemed to be rooted in her, the food of her spiritual -life, just as the lamps lighted before the saints are fed on the -purest oil, and draw the prayers of the faithful from a distance by -their constant, feeble light. She loved unconsciously. Who could have -told her anything about it? Her mother had passed away seven or eight -years before from a lingering, fatal illness, suffering no pain or -sharp spasms; but her heart was pierced with agony for her almost -mad husband, who was hacking down the poor feeble stem of the House -of Cavalcanti and throwing its branches into an abyss--agony for the -poor daughter she left behind to her mad father's guidance, who was -going forward to wretchedness, perhaps dishonour. - -Bianca Maria remembered; she recalled her mother's face when she -was dying, the colour of clay from agonizing thoughts, inconsolable -at having to die so soon. These ineffaceable recollections left -her grave, made her youth austere, and took away from her all the -longings, ambitions, and coquettishness of her age. What did she -know of love? Nothing. She lived in a dull way, with no enjoyments, -beside a father she respected; but alarmed by his fatal passion, -she felt threatened by something obscure, but imminent, and already -pinched by poverty, she took to heart the necessary doleful shifts -to keep up appearances. She felt an unknown danger in herself like -the seeds of death; and now, a wise, strong, good man--an ark of -safety in danger, formed to overcome obstacles, to give help; a giver -out of consolation, whose presence and voice brought security and -hope, strong to lean against; a name never associated with anything -foolish; a vanquisher of sickness, pure of any stain--this man held -out his hand to save her. Well, she took his hand; it was natural; -she could not think of doing anything else but take it and love him. - -Unconsciously she loved him, because she must. From her age, -temperament, and surroundings, her whole existence, she felt that -innocent sort of love that weak natures, beaten down by tempests, -have for strong ones. - -When Bianca Maria was alone in the dreary suite of rooms where the -sparse furniture had got to have a still older, more wretched look, -with these old servants always in low spirits, busied in hiding their -poverty, in giving it an air of respectable ease, she felt chilled to -the heart; she seemed to be old, poor, and neglected like the house -and furniture, doomed to languish on in want of everything. And when -her father came in, uneasy always, led by his violent passions, his -one idea, credulous over vain dreams, giving in to mystic alarms, -calling around him a terrifying world of phantoms, she lost her -tranquillity at once; her brain whirled, and she saw curious ghostly -things with fatal effects. She could not get rid of the nightmare; -she felt so weak, so unfit to defend herself from the assaults of -that cabalistic madness; she shook all over from the jar to her -nerves, from the fever going up to the brain and making it reel. - -She always felt very wretched when she was alone or with her father; -helpless, without a guide, knocked about by a rushing wind, drawn -in by a whirlpool. But if Antonio Amati showed his manly face, his -genial strength; if she heard his firm, rather rough voice, that was -smooth for her; if his hand just touched hers, so that she felt a -magnetic influence, warmth, youthful vivacity, go through her nerves, -she knew she was guided, protected, started on the way of life and -happiness. The black clouds moved off with one breath; she saw the -blue sky; the fever grew milder, went off altogether, and the sombre -ghosts, the fears that blanched her lips, went off at the same time; -she quieted down as if a heavenly benediction enfolded her in its -sphere of help. She felt like a child again when he was there: Amati -was the firmest, safest, strongest. - -So she loved him, innocently, unconsciously. This kind of love allows -of great humility, great tenderness; it was pure and fervent, it -refreshed her. With their different ground-work, the two sorts of -love understood each other, melted into and completed one another. -That spiritual harmony that is the soul's finest, but also rarest and -shortest, experience began the first day she from her dull balcony, -he from his stern study, that saw so much agony, beheld each other. -Wherever the two minds, feelings, personalities met, the harmony got -greater. When she raised her great thoughtful eyes to his, asking in -all simplicity for help and affection, he felt his heart bound with a -longing for sacrifice. They understood each other perfectly without -speaking. - -He came from the land, from a small, out-of-the-way provincial town -that had little communication with Naples; he had made his name and -fortune by struggling with life and death, with men's indifference -and hatred, thus getting a formidable idea of his own powers, and -only believing in himself. He had plebeian blood and a powerful mind; -none of the refinement that comes from breeding and surroundings, the -triumph of ideals. - -How different from her! She was the daughter of a noble house, -refined by instinct, breeding, and surroundings; used to live in -meditation and prayer, without a particle of self-reliance to stand -out against the ruin of her family, or withstand her father's ruling -passion, to save her name or herself. She lived amid privations and -discomforts; she had set out too early on the sorrowful stages of the -Via Crucis; an unhappy future was before her. How different and far -off these two were! - -Still, they understood each other, as the secret, mysterious law -of love decrees. It mingles everything--feelings, tradition, -origin; puts force next to weakness, and binds two persons together -irrevocably by their very differences. She did not consider she -lowered herself by loving the obscure Southern peasant become a -great doctor; he did not consider he stooped to this decaying -family, impoverished in blood, means, and courage. The two souls -that had to love one another had set out far apart, had had to run -through infinite spiritual space to meet, know, join together. It is -Plato's grand love theory, that only fools and heartless folk dare -to laugh at; the grand theory of falling in love, once more, after -a million instances, was to be realized. Did it not seem arranged -purposely, that this unknown, common man should reach to fame and -riches by his own efforts, getting to know science and life so that -he could console the high-born girl's cold, faded, sorrowful youth, -languishing in solitude and secret poverty? - -When the serving Sister in the Sacramentiste convent ran from the -chilly parlour, where Bianca Maria fell in a faint, to the hospital -for a doctor, and obstinately insisted Antonio Amati should come to -help the invalid, that was the hour of the decisive meeting. The icy, -bloodless hands were at last enfolded in the doctor's strong, healthy -ones; once more the wonderful attraction by which loving souls -overcome time, space, a thousand obstacles, this attraction--unlucky -he who has not felt its power--brought together those who were bound -to be united. How could it be these two were not to understand -each other, if only Antonio Amati could, by his knowledge, save -Bianca Maria from the disease sapping her vital forces, if only he -could give her health, riches, and happiness? How not come to an -understanding if that innocent gentleness, that mild poesy, that -source of every affection, if all that was wanting in Antonio Amati's -laborious, stern life, could only reach him through Bianca Maria's -slight, modest personality? - -He was strength, with a serene, just conscience; she was goodness, -all unconscious tenderness and mercy. That strength and that goodness -called to each other to unite. They were obeying destiny's order -to join, so that love should create once more a fine miracle of -harmony. When she _had_ to will something, she lifted her eyes to her -lover's face and drank in will power. When he looked at her he felt -the stretched cords of his energy slacken and the great flower of -benignity blossom in his heart. - -But it was destined that all Amati's experiences in life were to -be conflicts, that every reward men of talent and energy get in -this life should only be gained by him after a fierce struggle. -With love it was the same. A serious obstacle arose between him and -Bianca Maria Cavalcanti. It was her father, the Marquis. The first -time Amati saw the proud, deluded, violent man, he felt a painful -suspicion rise in his mind. He divined dull hostility in Formosa. -Perhaps birth, past and present conditions, divided them, the -opposite ideas they had of life and its responsibilities. Perhaps the -one that came from the earth, bringing forth good like her, scorned -this falling away in health, fortune, and respectability. Perhaps -he who lived by the arrogant rules of a life given up to luxury, -pleasure, and generosity, despised the obstinate, unpolished worker, -sparing in pleasures, unfavourable to them, too hard on himself and -on others. Perhaps the one guessed the other's scorn, and felt -miles apart, with such different ideas that they could never meet. -Perhaps the reason of the mutual antipathy, of Amati's coldness and -Formosa's hostility, was more inward, deeper, more mysterious. It may -be neither dared confess it to himself. In short, it was suspicion, -distrust, an unconscious hostility. Indeed, Amati saw in Carlo -Cavalcanti the unknown danger that might wreck Bianca Maria's reason -and life. It was vaguely, but obstinately, without well knowing why -or wherefore; but he felt the danger was there. And Carlo Cavalcanti -felt Antonio Amati was his judge--his enemy, I would almost say. -Twice, when the doctor was present at Bianca Maria's fainting-fit and -at the attack of fever, that made her delirious a day and a night, -he said harsh things to the Marquis di Formosa about his daughter's -health. The old man listened, quivering with rage, fretting inwardly. -He submitted to this deliverer from a dark hour, but he looked -haughtily at him, and shrugged his shoulders when he threatened that -the girl would die. By what blindness did he always refuse to take -Bianca Maria away from that cold, mean house, where all her youthful -strength was languishing? At any rate, he obstinately refused, -quivering with emotion every time the doctor touched on the subject. -It seemed to be from affection, pride, and nervousness, as if he knew -what the right remedy was, and could not, would not, make use of it. -Full of doubt, the doctor got always nearer to something shady, but -he checked himself, fearing to wound certain susceptibilities. The -Marquis was poor: how could he change houses? It was natural for him -to redden with fright and melancholy when he was told his daughter -was fading away to a fatal ending, to frown with offended pride when -offers of service were made. Still, his pride had had to give way -that Saturday morning he asked Amati for a loan, saying he would give -it back during the day. His pride had had to go altogether several -other times, always on Saturday, with an urgent note in a large, -shaky hand asking for money--more money out of Amati's purse, always -promising to give it back the same day, always failing to do so. - -He blushed a little as he wrote, his old head bent to weep over his -lost dignity as an old man and a gentleman; but his passion was so -strong he would have made money out of anything. When the doctor -sent him the money in an envelope, and then another sheet of paper, -so that the servant should not notice what it was, the Marquis -felt mortified, and opened the envelope roughly with a sharp tear, -and the blood went to his head. Amati never wrote a reply, but he -never refused. In the evening, when father and daughter were in the -drawing-room, she working at her fine lace, he going up and down -the room to quiet his excited nerves, the doctor would come in. The -Marquis could hardly restrain his annoyance, but went forward to meet -his visitor with sham heartiness, his face pale. They greeted one -another in an embarrassed way, while Bianca Maria's face sparkled. -In spite of service rendered, no cordiality grew up between them. -They were cold, and took stock of each other, feeling they were -enemies. When the doctor, from his native audacity, and that which -love gave him, went to sit opposite Bianca Maria and asked her about -her health, when they gazed in each other's eyes, the Marquis was -troubled, an angry quiver came into his voice. He was the obstacle. -It was in vain every time his ruling passion obliged him to ask Amati -for money that Amati gave it without hesitation, more delicately each -time. It was lowering all the same. This queer intimacy could not -rid them of suspicion, want of confidence, antipathy. Perhaps these -loans, asked with a lying excuse, lying promises, only dug that gulf -of sorrow, shame, and humiliation that is between him who asks and -him who gives. Formosa's great dream now was to get money--a lot of -money, so as to lead a grand life, after throwing the doctor's sous -in his face and turning him out. He ended by hating him for these -benefits it was so hard to ask for, that his wretched passion drove -him to take. - -Antonio Amati understood; he knew Formosa stood in the way. -Naturally, he knew what was the greedy mouth that swallowed up all -the old man's money, and some that was not his; he knew the fever -that destroyed his gentlemanly feeling, that the wretchedness was -the result of sin; he knew an irresistible force obliged him to ask -for these loans. His only wish was that Bianca Maria should not -suffer, that she should get out of these sad, poverty-stricken, mad -surroundings, ever since the time she had, in a low state of health, -bodily and mentally, induced by fever, told him she loved him and -begged him to take her away. He renewed the offer of his country -house, where his mother was, more than once. She shook her head, -smiled sadly, and said nothing. One evening when she was suffering -very much, choking with heat in that flat, airless in summer, icy -in winter, he made the offer to Formosa, bringing it out naturally, -trying to be cordial. Formosa thought it over a moment. His daughter -looked anxiously at him, awaiting his answer. - -'It is impossible,' said the Marquis di Formosa concisely. - -'Why so?' the doctor asked boldly. - -'Just because I choose,' the old man retorted obstinately. - -'And you, my lady; what do you say?' - -The doctor looked earnestly at her, to give her the strength to -rebel. The poor girl's eyelids fluttered once or twice. She looked at -her father, then said: - -'As my father says, it is impossible.' - -He would have liked to remind her then of the sweet words she said -to him one day, to take her out of that pit, to carry her far off to -the sunny, green country; but he noticed a sudden coldness in her -cast down eyes and stern mouth; he felt her soul was escaping from -him. He understood he had come into conflict with filial obedience -of that deep, unshakable, almost hierarchical kind one meets with in -the upper classes, where paternal authority is blindly respected and -family reigns absolute. Rage rose in the doctor's heart. He fretted -against the obstacle, seeing the power of love crumble in a moment -before a simpler but older feeling or instinct, an affection which, -besides the ties of blood, had tradition and life in common for it -also. He did not say a word, nor cast a reproving glance, as he saw -it was a superior power rising against him that for twenty years had -held the girl's heart. Love seemed suddenly to have lost its power, -as at a word from her father she had been able to give up the idyll -she had dreamt over so long in her empty room. - -After a little the doctor went away, cold, frozen, like the father -and daughter, who looked like ghosts in that great deserted house. He -went off with his first love disappointment, which is the bitterest, -quivering with rage and grief. When he was alone in his handsome, -solitary house, he vainly tried to amuse himself by reading a -scientific review. He was wounded in his love and in his self-love. - -Like a love-lorn youth, to cheat that bitterness and give a vent -to his excitement, he sat down to write a long, incoherent letter -full of love and rage. But when he finished it he calmed down. It -seemed unjust to accuse Bianca Maria of indifference and cruelty. -On reading it over, he thought it ridiculous. He was a man, not a -boy; he had white hairs; he ought not to give himself over to boyish -outbursts. - -'I will tear up the letter,' he said. But he afterwards felt -discouraged. The first, purest flower of his poetic love was cut off; -the idyll had vanished; the whole future could only be a tragedy. - -Yes, the combat between Antonio Amati and Carlo Cavalcanti was secret -but obstinate, subtle but very acute. The old man had great power -over his daughter; one might say he bent her will to his with an -imperious, fascinating glance. He did not wish anyone else should -get power over her; he feared to lose his influence. From paternal -self-love, that exaggerated jealousy that hates from the beginning -those who love their children, or some other mysterious reason, -he set himself between his daughter and Antonio Amati when he saw -the latter's sway might increase. When they were alone they never -mentioned him--on her part out of obedience, for she always waited -for her father to speak first, and he never named the doctor. The -maiden was sensitive about this reserve, and got more and more -self-contained, already seeing the first sad symptoms of the struggle. - -Amati had written her just one letter; she treasured it and read it -over and over, because it breathed of honesty, peace, strength, which -were altogether wanting in her wretched, disturbed life, with its -saddening past, hurrying on to a dark future. She bent her head, even -now feeling that love could not save her, for she seemed tied by a -sad fatality, by a charm cast over her life. When Antonio Amati came -back in the evening, determined not to yield to this extraordinary -tyranny of the father's, she looked up timidly at them; the false -cordiality and vivacity with which the men greeted each other -encouraged her. A pink colour came to her pale cheeks; but if her -father frowned or the doctor's voice got hard she became pale and -alarmed again. Her father had carefully hidden that he got pecuniary -help from the doctor; he was ashamed to confess this loss of dignity -his ruling passion had dragged him into. The good, pale maiden took -courage when she saw the healthy, hearty hand held out to her to pull -her out of her unhealthy surroundings; but when her father abruptly, -roughly put away that hand, she trembled; she did not ask why. Her -mother had pined away too resignedly for her to dare to rebel. Only -she just lived from day to day without going into the disagreements -between her father and Amati, letting herself go to the sweetness -of the new feeling, trying to escape from her bitter presentiments. -But he, a man of science and much given to observation, finding -her father's conduct incomprehensible, tried to curb himself so as -to tear the secret out of Formosa's heart. He knew the gambling -fever devoured him. Sometimes, when he was with Bianca Maria in the -drawing-room, two or three of the Cabalist group would come in to ask -for the Marquis. He got rather embarrassed. Once he shut himself up -in his study with them; voices reached them from there, deadened and -indistinct. Twice he went out with them, the doctor's presence making -him impatient and nervous. - -'Who are those people?' the doctor asked. - -'They are friends,' she said, turning away her head. - -'Are they yours?' - -'No; my father's.' - -She let him see she did not wish to speak about them, so he held his -tongue. Another time, one Friday evening, Don Pasqualino De Feo came -in, with his sickly look and torn, dirty clothes. At once the doctor -remembered he had seen him. Yes, at the hospital, where he arrived -black and blue, knocked about as if he had got a severe licking; and -he remembered his fantastic talk. While the medium was whispering -with the Marquis in a window recess, the doctor asked Bianca quietly: - -'Is he a friend, too?' But he noticed she got so pale, her eyes so -frightened, crushed by fear of something he knew nothing about, -that he said no more. He remembered that, on recovering from her -long faint, she had tried to send the medium out of the house. 'You -dislike him, don't you?' - -'No, no,' said she. 'I am foolish.' - -She was afraid Amati would interrupt her father's conversation; but -finding their talk prevented, they got up to go away. The medium went -past with his eyes down, but Amati called out to him: - -'You have got over that licking, De Feo?' - -He started, rubbed his forehead, and answered, without looking at the -doctor: - -'I have had favour from him who sent me the misfortune.' - -'From whom?' asked the doctor, with a mocking laugh. - -The medium said nothing. Formosa got flushed. His eyes sparkled as he -answered, in a shaky voice: - -'From the spirit.' - -'What spirit?' said the doctor jokingly. - -'Caracò, the spirit that helps Don Pasqualino,' the Marquis said -emphatically. - -'Do you believe that, my lord?' Amati retorted, casting on him a -scrutinizing glance. - -'It is as clear as light,' answered the noble, raising his eyes to -heaven ecstatically. - -'And you, my lady, do you believe it?' the doctor asked Bianca, -examining her face. - -She was just going to answer she did not believe, that she was afraid -to believe, when a wild look from her father froze the words on her -lips. One saw the effort she made to send back a sorrowful cry. -Vaguely she waved her hand, and said: - -'I know nothing about it.' - -The medium cast an oblique glance at the doctor. For the first time -an enraged look came over his face and mingled with his mysterious -humility. He twisted his neck, as if a hard bone was choking him. -He pulled the Marquis's sleeve in an underhand way to get him to -go away; but by Amati's words and grin had he found out his utter -incredulity, and, like all deluded folk, he felt his faith in the -aiding spirit increased doubly, together with a great desire to -convince Amati. - -'You don't believe in the spirit, doctor?' - -'No,' said the latter dryly. - -'Neither in good nor bad spirits?' - -'In neither.' - -'Why?' - -'Because there are no such things.' - -'Who told you so?' - -'Science and facts are enough, it seems to me,' the doctor said -plainly. - -'Science is sacrilege,' shouted the Marquis, getting in a rage. 'It -has been proved spirits do exist; I can prove it to you.' - -'It is no use; I would not believe you'--with a slight smile. - -'There are spirits; the so-called incredulous deny their existence -in bad faith--yes, because they don't know the facts, and then say -they are false; because they see nothing, their eyes being blinded by -scepticism, they say there is nothing--insincerely altogether.' - -The doctor smiled at his excitement, but, glancing at Bianca Maria, -he saw she was in torment; he guessed that behind this discussion was -the secret of the hostility. Being accustomed to sick and excited -people's outbursts, he examined the Marquis with a doctor's eye, -following the violent stages of his excitement. - -'Quite insincere--quite!' the Marquis screamed out, going up and down -the room, speaking to himself. 'Hundreds of honest men, scientists, -gentlemen, ladies, have seen, touched, spoken with the spirits, -held important interviews with them; there are printed books, thick -volumes, about the very thing you deny totally. What do you think -this help from the spirits is?' - -He stopped in front of Amati to ask him the question. Although the -doctor did not want to make him angrier by contradiction, the demand -was too direct not to answer it. He glanced at the Lady Bianca, and -saw in her face such secret anxiety to know the truth, and such -agitation, he brought it out straight: - -'I believe it is an imposture.' - -The medium cast up his eyes, swimming in tears. Bianca Maria's face -got serene, but Formosa's voice hissed with rage: - -'Then, you think me a fool?' - -'No; but your soul is too loyal and generous not to be easily -cheated.' - -'Nonsense!' the Marquis called out, quivering--'nonsense! You can't -get out of it; Don Pasqualino is a cheat, and I am a donkey.' - -'I deny the second part,' said the doctor dryly. - -'But you agree to the first?' - -'Yes, I do,' said the doctor boldly. - -'How do you prove it?' - -'There is no need to prove it; I answer because you question me. -Besides, now I remember, Don Pasqualino was beaten by two gamblers, -enraged because they did not get the right lottery numbers. He told -you it was the spirit Caracò.' - -'It was all a pretence, the gamblers beating him, so as to keep the -spirit's secret.' - -'But the two that assaulted him were arrested and confronted with -him at the hospital; they had to spend a month in prison.' - -'Is that true, Don Pasqualino?' the Marquis asked severely. - -The medium looked distressed, as if it were impossible for him to -defend himself against an unjust accusation. But the doctor was -offended at that request for confirmation. - -'My lord,' he said solemnly, 'I am too serious a man and take too -little interest to care to go into the business with that fellow. If -you have any esteem for me, I beg you to spare me further discussion.' - -'All right--very good,' the Marquis said at once, his proud spirit -being open to any appeal to good feeling. 'Let us have no more of it; -discussions between sceptics and believers can only be unpleasant. -Let us go away, Don Pasqualino; perhaps the doctor will do you -justice some day. Let us go; I see Bianca Maria is pained also. -You must convince the doctor, my dear,' the father added rather -maliciously. - -'In what way is she to do that?' asked he, astonished. - -'She will tell you,' Formosa replied, grinning; and on getting a -dismayed look from his daughter, he added: 'Tell him--tell him what -you know; I allow you, Bianca. Perhaps he will believe you. You -are harmless; you have no interest in cheating; you are not a sham -apostle. Tell him all about it; perhaps you will convince him.' - -Resolutely he put on his hat and took the medium's arm, as if to -give him a proof of affectionate confidence after the way the doctor -had abused him. The old noble, Guido Cavalcanti's descendant, with -a lineage of six centuries, put his arm into that mean cheat's, who -had been shown up as a liar a few minutes before. But who noticed -that act that showed Formosa had again shipwrecked his dignity? The -two were out of the house already. Bianca Maria and the doctor stood -silently; the whole drama of their love seemed to ripen in that -silence. With unscrupulous cunning, telling his daughter to speak, -let the doctor know all, leaving them alone with that secret between -them, the Marquis took his revenge for Amati's scepticism and his -daughter's passiveness. He gaily and cruelly lighted the match of a -mine, and then went off just as it was catching fire, so that all -love's edifice should come down. - -'Well, what have you to tell me?' said the doctor at last, keen to -know the truth. - -'What is it?' she said faintly, coming out of her sad musing. - -'Have you not something to tell me? Did your father not -advise--almost order you to do so?' - -She started. Amati spoke sharply; she had never heard him speak so. -She was offended, and became reserved. - -'I know nothing,' she said very low. 'I have nothing to tell you.' - -He bit his lip angrily. What evil influence had induced him to come -between father and daughter in these queer, mad surroundings, all -sickness, wretchedness, and vice? What was he doing, with his rough -honesty, his vulgar integrity, in that half insane, poverty-struck -life? What bonds, what perplexities, was he not making for his own -heart, that up to then had kept pure and unmoved? The decisive hour -had come. He must break it off sharply if he wanted to escape the -fetters that smothered all his old instincts. He was going to make an -end of these romantic complications--that subtle, annoying tragedy; -his life was a plain one. He got up determinedly, saying: - -'Good-bye!' - -She rose too. She understood that her father first, then she, had -exhausted the lion's patience. Feebly she asked: - -'You will come to-morrow?' - -'No, I will not.' - -'Some other day, then?' - -'No.' - -'Some other day when you are not busy?' - -'No.' - -The three 'No's' were said very decidedly. Bianca Maria gave a -shiver. He was going away; he would never come back. He was right. -He was a strong, serious man, devoted to his work--a work of love -and saving others. He was getting involved in a falling away from -reason and dignity in the society of people he was helping and being -friendly to, and as a return he had been slighted and insulted; and -now a charlatan, a cheat, was preferred to him. He was right to go -away, never to come back. But she felt lost, a prey to insanity, if -she let him go. Looking beseechingly at him, she implored him: - -'Don't go away--stay.' - -'What is there for me to do here? Ought I to wait for your father to -turn me out to-morrow? Because I stood that scene a little ago, must -I stand another?' - -'I did not do anything to you,' said she, wringing her hands to keep -down her sorrow. - -'Good-bye!' he said, and nothing else. - -'Don't go away--don't go away!' - -Two big tears she could not keep back rolled down her cheeks. He had -refused to give in to her voice, beseeching pallor, and excitement, -but he gave in to her tears. He was a hard man in his success, but a -child's, a woman's tears made him forget everything. When she saw him -come back and sit down, his good nature making him yield, she did not -restrain her choking tears. She sank into her chair again, her face -hid in her handkerchief, sobbing. - -'Don't cry,' he muttered, feeling that it did her good, but that he -could not bear it. - -A good deal of time was needed before she could calm herself. She -had kept in her feelings too much for the outburst to be otherwise -than long and noisy. The June evening was very warm; the scirocco's -breath depressed sickly nerves. The only sound was a skilfully played -wailing mandoline in the distance up Pontecorvo Hill. - -'Listen,' the doctor began, not harshly, but coldly, when he saw -she had got quieter. 'I hope you will listen to me quietly. I am an -intruder in your family. Don't interrupt me; I know what you would -say. I cured you twice; but that is my work; you have no need to feel -obliged to me. Don't protest; I know the limits of human feeling. I -am an intruder, then. There is nothing in common between you and me; -we are different kinds. It does not matter. I, who am not dreamy, -seeing you are fading away, that you need the wide, healthy country -and solitude, tried to get you away from here. If my dream has not -come true, whose fault is it--yours or mine?' - -'It is mine,' she said humbly. - -'One day,' the doctor went on rather slowly, as if he was thinking -over what had happened--'one day you yourself told me to take you -away. Do you remember?...' - -'I remember....' - -'... I thought ... it is no use saying what I thought. I must have -been mistaken; but any man in my place would have been. Well, when -our dream might have come true, Bianca, tell me, who was it let it -fade away?' - -'I myself. It was I.' - -'You see, then, that I, a man of realities and action, dreamt too -much. To your father and you I am a sort of intruder, meddling in -your affairs without having any right to, and ineffectually. On the -other hand, Bianca, believe me, my whole life has been disturbed -through wishing to see you healthy and happy, and from the useless -struggle my efforts lead to, for you oppose me yourself. Would I not -do well, then, to go away and never come back?' - -'You are right,' she said, with a despairing gesture. - -'... Still,' Amati went on, striving to hide his agitation, 'I -believe--rather, I know--leaving you would cause me great pain. It -may be, you too would suffer?' questioning her face. - -'I should die of it,' she brought out, sincerely moved. - -'Don't say that. But if I am to stay near you, Bianca, to try, -against your will and your own weakness, to save your health and -fortune, I must be your friend--your greatest, only friend; do you -understand? I must have your whole confidence and faith; after God, -you must believe in me. I can see that here, in this house, there -is a sad secret which your father and you vainly try to hide; but -the Marquis di Formosa's feverishness lets it out darkly every -minute. Besides this fever, that is at the same time a disease, an -overmastering passion and vice, there is something that escapes me, -something crueller that tortures you, and you, out of filial piety, -respect to your father--fear, perhaps--hide it from me. Bianca, if I -am not to know everything, I must go away for ever, and let your life -and mine be ruined irretrievably.' - -'I love you so,' she said, abandoning her soul to him. - -'Darling!' he whispered, patting her brown hair as her head leant for -a moment on his strong, faithful heart. - -'Promise me one thing ...' she asked in a babyish way. - -'Say what it is....' - -'Promise me you won't think ill of my father--promise! He is the -best of fathers; any girl would be proud to have him. Nothing could -shake my respect and love for him. I want you not to blame him -for anything--promise me! His fatal tendency is only part of his -kindness. He is so unhappy at heart!' - -'I promise you, Bianca, to be as indulgent as you could be.' - -'That is enough. He is an unhappy man. For years and years our house -has been going down. Since when or why I don't remember. I was very -little. I don't even know whose fault it is. I don't wish to. I only -remember that my mother was pale and sickly; her hands were always -cold....' - -'Like yours, poor dear!' - -'Like mine?' she answered with a pale smile. - -'What did your mother die of?' - -'Bloodlessness and languor. She faded away ... at the last, she was -not in her senses all the time.' - -'Did she rave?' - -'Yes, slightly,' she answered, blushing to her forehead. - -'Don't think of that,' he said, guessing the reason of her blush. - -'My father felt mother's sufferings so much! For years a dream had -taken hold of him: it was to build up the Cavalcanti fortune, to let -mother and me live in style, keep open house, and in one day pour out -in charity what now serves to keep us for a year,' she added, with a -lump in her throat. - -'Keep calm, dear-don't get excited.' - -'No, no, let me speak; if I don't I'll choke. A great dream, as large -as his heart, noble and generous as his soul, so much so that my -mother and I felt gratitude that will not end with life, but must -go on beyond the tomb, where one still hears, loves, and prays. -But, with his excited fancy, he longed for quick, ample methods of -realizing this fortune: methods suited to the case, for a Cavalcanti -neither works nor speculates ...' - -'It was the lottery,' Amati finished up for her. - -'Yes, the lottery; how do you know?' - -'I do know.' - -'Our misfortune is known to everyone who comes near us,' she went on, -quivering with grief. 'Such a misfortune, to crown the others! Mother -died of it, from physical and moral weakness. Our whole means are -sacrificed to it; it has taken my father's heart from me; when it has -destroyed all that is dearest, it will hand me over to wretchedness -and death.' - -'Don't be afraid, don't fear; everything has a remedy,' he said -vaguely, trying to cut short that despairing outflow. - -'It can't be cured,' she said earnestly. 'My dying mother, in a lucid -interval, said as she kissed me: "Don't judge your father--never -be hard on him; obey, be obedient. The passion that eats him up, -and is killing me, can only increase with years. This fever will -get higher: I have not cured it, neither will you. Leave him to -this dream--don't annoy him; if you are unhappy, ask God's help; -but respect his years. He only desires our happiness--he is killing -me for it; he will make you suffer frightfully, though he is noble -and generous. Be merciful to him. It is only so that I can die, as -I do, with a quiet conscience." Mother was right. With years he -has got unhappier, more eccentric; he is incurable now; he forgets -everything, everything--you know what I mean. Some day or other I -fear my noble old father, whose gray hairs I ought to honour--that I -want everyone to respect--may forget the laws of honour in some dark -gambling combination.' - -'May God keep him from it!' said Amati, starting. - -'May God hear you!' she cried out; 'but I pray so much, and the -evil gets worse. If you knew! We are in want of everything: it is -the first time I have told anyone. I am quivering with shame, but I -can't hide anything from you. He has sold everything: first works of -art, then furniture, down to a few jewels mother kept for me--and he -adored her!--even the Cavalcanti portraits--though he is proud of his -race!--even the silver lamps in the chapel--and he is religious! I -live with these two old servants, so faithful neither sin nor poverty -has taken them from us! They are not paid: they serve us of the -House of Cavalcanti without pay. Do you know, it is by their clever -contrivances that the house goes on, that we have enough to eat, -and that there is oil in the lamps! I am raising for you the veil -of sacred family decency--don't betray us!' He bent and kissed the -hand Bianca held out to him, to seal his promise. 'All that money, -and more that he gets somewhere--I know not where and have no wish -to know--goes in gambling. Friday and Saturday he is wild. Other -wretches, like that medium, come for him: his very name makes me -shiver with fright and shame; they have queer alarming consultations; -they get excited, shout, and quarrel; they use a queer jargon. These -are his friends; men of his own rank, his relations, have left him. -It may be he asked money from them, got it, and did not give it back, -perhaps; it may be the whisper, even, of wickedness makes them -avoid us. These Cabalists, men who _see_'--she shivered and looked -round--'take his money from him and incite him to play. The day is at -hand when he will have nothing left, and he won't be able to gamble. -God, God open his eyes, if we are not to perish altogether, the name -and the family!' - -'Bianca, Bianca, I implore you to be calm,' he said, alarmed at her -excitement, following its phases with a doctor's mind and a man's -heart. - -'I can't,' she cried. 'I have not told you all. Listen: I am a -poor, weak creature; the blood runs poor and slow in my veins, you -know--you told me so. I have lived either in this sad house or my -aunt's convent--that is to say, with my father, always full of his -fancies, or with my aunt, whose faith gives her almost prophetic -visions. Mother died here; as the gambling passion filled my father's -mind, the delusion began to filter into mine against my will. -Father speaks to me of ghosts, phantoms, spirits, at all hours, -especially in the evening and at night, and I believe in them; you -see how frightful that is. The sunlight, seeing people, chases fears -away; but evening comes, the house gets full of shadows, my blood -freezes; when father speaks of the spirit my heart stops or goes at -a gallop; I feel as if I was dying of fear. I get queer singings in -my ears. I hear light steps, smothered voices. I see in my mind's eye -white-robed figures--they look at me and weep; shadowy hands smooth -my hair. I seem to feel icy breaths on my cheek; my nights now are -one long watch, or light sleep broken by dreams.' - -'There are no such spirits, Bianca,' said he, in a gentle, firm voice. - -'I am so weak, so unfit to get rid of delusions. When I have got -calmer, father, from his own fancies or the medium's infamous -suggestions, comes to torment me. He wishes me to _see_ without -caring about my feebleness, my fears, not knowing how he tortures me. -He speaks of the spirit, wants me to call it up, for I am young and -innocent. I try to go against him; vainly I struggle and ask him to -spare me, not to make me drink this bitter cup. But it is no use: he -is obstinate and blinded; he wants me to see the spirit, and ask what -numbers to play. Father has such influence over me, he makes me share -his madness to a frightful extent. I shall end by being like him, a -poor deluded thing, worn out by night watches and daily delusions.' - -She hid her face in her hands, quivering. The doctor looked at her -astounded, not daring to say anything. - -'And you don't know all yet,' she went on excitedly. 'One day you -wrote me a kind, comforting letter, suggesting I should go off to -your mother's. What comfort it was! I would have got out of this -house at last, where every black doorway frightens me in the evening, -and the furniture looks ghostly. I would have gone where there was -light, sun, heat, and joy. Well, that night father took an extra mad -fit: he came to my room. Wakened from sleep at so late an hour, in -the flickering lamp-light, his words put me into a panic; he wouldn't -listen to my entreaties, he didn't know he was torturing me, and for -two hours he spoke about the spirit that was to appear, that I must -evoke; he would teach me the sacred word. He held on to my hands, -breathed in my face, filling me with his enthusiasm and faith, and so -he gained his end.' - -'In what way?' - -'I saw the spirit, dear.' - -'How? You saw it?' - -'As I see you.' - -'It was fever; there is no such thing, Bianca,' he said harshly, to -bring back her wandering mind to peace. - -'You say so; I believe you. But when you are gone, when I have -finished my prayers and reading, when I am alone in my room with -the shadows the lamps throw, I shall see again that night's vision: -my head will swim, my brain whirl, my teeth chatter. Father is in -despair now because that night's numbers did not come right; he says -I don't know how to interpret; he wants me to call up the spirit -again. He thinks now I am a medium, and he gives me no peace. I am -not his daughter now; he only looks on me as a mediator between him -and Fortune. He watches every word I say, looks enviously at me or -haughtily, and goes about thinking of some queer discipline, some -privations or other to enable me to see the spirit again, to make my -soul pure like my body, and my sight clear. He leaves me alone at -the beginning of the week, but on Thursday night he comes and begs -me--fancy, he implores me--to call the spirit; that aged man, whose -hand I kiss respectfully, kneels before me, as at the altar, to -soften me. On Friday he gets wild; he never notices how frightened -I get; he thinks it is the coming of the spirits that excites me. -The other night, to get away from the torture I find unbearable, I -locked my door: I was so bold as to deny father access to my room. -Well, he came, knocked, softly at first, then loudly; he spoke to -me entreatingly, he ordered me to see the spirit--in a rage first, -and then abjectly. I stopped my ears not to hear him, put my head -down in the pillows; I bit the sheet to choke my sobs. Twenty times -I wanted to open the door, but terror nailed me to my bed. Father -wept. Mother, mother, I disobeyed you! You could die for father, but -I could not do that for him.' - -'Poor darling!' he murmured, trying to calm her down with gentle, -compassionate words, petting her hands, as if he wanted to set her to -sleep or magnetize her. - -'Yes, yes, pity me, for I am so wretched, so unhappy, I envy any -beggar on the street. Pity me, because the one person who should -love me, take care of my health and happiness, dreams instead about -getting money for me, a great lot, and makes me suffer in body, in -mind, for it; pity me, for I am an unhappy woman, doomed to a dark -ending. In all the wide world, I only have you to care for me!' - -They said no more. Bianca Maria's pallid cheeks had got some colour, -her eyes shone; her whole heart had been poured out as she spoke, -now she kept silence. She had said everything. The bitter secret -that implacably tortured her whole existence, on being evoked by -love, had come out and had given a shudder of alarmed astonishment -to the strong man listening. He said nothing, trying to keep down -his own amazement, to arrange his confused ideas. He was accustomed, -certainly, to hear lugubrious stories of all kinds of misery, both -of body and mind, from his patients; he had lifted the veil from all -kinds of shame and corruption; the sorrowful and contrite came to him -as to a confessor, and hearts that hid the most horrifying secrets -of humanity opened to him. But Bianca's sorrow was so profound, the -very source of life being attacked, that it frightened him to see -such unutterable wretchedness. Also this girl, wasted by an obscure, -unnatural malady, tortured by her own father, that lovely, dear -creature, was the woman he loved, that he could not live without, -whose happiness was dearer to him than his own. Disturbed, not -knowing yet how to set to work before that complicated problem of -sickness and delusion, that made the Marquis di Formosa the family -destroyer, he found nothing to say to comfort Bianca. - -She was worn out now; she felt a vague remorse at having accused her -father. But was not Amati to deliver her? Did she not feel quite -safe, strong, when he was there? Rousing herself from her exhaustion, -she raised her eyes to his timidly, humbly, saying: - -'You don't think me bad and ungrateful, do you?' - -'No, dear, I do not.' - -'Do not judge badly of him.' - -'I will cure him,' he said thoughtfully. - - - - - CHAPTER XII - - THE THREE SISTERS--CHIARASTELLA THE WITCH - - -The summer of that year was a bad one for the Neapolitans, morally -and materially. Above all, from the end of June the summer scirocco -had gone on dissolving into rain; storms covered the bay with black -clouds, lightning played behind Posillipo, thunder rumbled from -Capodimonte, sudden heavy summer showers raised a pungent smell of -dust, and went rushing down the city roads from the hill to the sea -like little waterspouts, making the passers-by start aside and run. -The poor cabmen, with no umbrellas, ragged, with shabby hats crushed -down on their heads, could do nothing but stick their hands in the -pockets of their worn-out jackets and keep their heads down. It was -a devilish summer, a real correction from God; that was why San -Gennaro had been so long in working the miracle that year. He makes -no mistakes. - -The rushing scirocco lashed up the waves in the bay furiously; they -got livid with rage, and foamed under the chill curtain of clouds, -and all the bathing-places from Marinella to Posillipo had to take up -the boards of their wooden huts to let the raging sea pass through, -or they would have been broken to pieces. There lay the great -irrecoverable loss, for the long files of provincial people that come -from Calabria, Basilicata, Abruzzi, and Molise, to take sea-baths, -and fill up the inns and second-class eating-houses, who sit four -in a carriage that barely holds two--these country people, who are -Naples' summer source of revenue, being afraid of the bad weather, -always went on intending to start for Naples the next week, and ended -by never leaving their villages at all. Those who had arrived the -first week in July, intending to stay till the end of August, on -finding they could only have a bathe on one day out of five, and then -have to face a stormy sea, got frightened and discouraged, and ended -by going back to Campobasso, to Avellino, Benevento, and Potenza, to -the great sorrow of the girls and young fellows. It was a lost season. - -At the _Fiori_ Inn, in Fiorentini Square, the _Campidoglio_, in -Municipio Square, and the _Centrale_, at Fontana Medina, there was a -void; as for the _Allegria_, in Carità Square, one of the greatest -resorts of country people, it was a desert. - -Very warm days came at times between the stormy ones, which were very -exhausting. It was a real African climate, and the bathing-places--De -Crescenzio, Cannavacciuolo, Sciattone, Manetta and Pappalordo--had -five days' emptiness to one day of too large a crowd of people. The -owners shook their heads despondingly, whilst the bronzed, thin, -black-toothed, hoarse-voiced bathing-women, shoeless, in shift, -petticoat and straw hats, ran after sheets of doubtful whiteness on -the dirty brown sands, where the wind caught them and threatened to -cast them into the sea. What rain! what rain! The eating-houses in -the centre of Naples had poor business, but those who put tables out -in the open air on Santa Lucia causeway, the eating-houses that go -from Mergellina to Posillipo, the _Bersaglio_, the _Schiava_, the -_Figlio di Pietro_, all those whose slender existence depends on fine -weather, summer and winter, these suffered most; no one had anything -to do, from the cook yawning in the kitchen to the few waiters left, -who sat sleepily in the steamy atmosphere that even the storms -did not freshen up. Only crawling flies buzzed on the uselessly -prepared tables. There was a general idleness; a chorus of oaths -and lamentations arose at every new outburst of showers. Even the -evenings at the Villa, round the bandstand, where the municipal band -plays its old polkas and variations on 'Forza del Destino' of ancient -date, where a penny for a seat is all that is needed to be able to -enjoy the pleasant sight of a middle-class crowd, seated or wandering -round the band, just a penny to sit in the open air and hear the -modest concert--even these simple, economical, popular evenings were -spoilt. Among the tradesmen's daughters, for whom the Villa means -an occasion to show their humble white frocks, sewn and starched at -home, to see their lovers, even at a distance, under the flickering -gas-lamps, to go a step further on the road, often a long one, that -leads to marriage--among these girls there was secret weeping. The -chair-hirer wandered through the deserted, damp avenues, full of -snails, to see if no one would come to brave the bad weather, or, -driven desperate, he settled himself in a corner of Vacca Café to -talk over his woes with one of the waiters. What a season! - -Don Domenico Mayer's son and daughter, who in other years went every -evening to the Villa, walking there and back, so as to spend only -fourpence, this year nearly expired with heat and boredom in their -Rossi Palazzo flat. Their father was so stern. Their mother was even -more sickly and doleful than usual. It was a bad season for the -three sisters scattered in different parts of Naples--Carmela, the -cigar-maker; Annarella, the servant; and Filomena, the young girl who -lived in sin. Above all, their mother was dead in the cellar where -she had lived with Carmela, and in spite of having got a pauper's -coffin for her from the Pendino district authorities, and her being -thrown into the common pit on the great heap of the wretched at -Poggio Reale, Carmela still had had to pay seventy or eighty francs -for burial expenses, without even having the consolation of knowing -that her mother had had a separate grave. For some time Carmela had -paid a small weekly sum to a pious _Congregazione_ so as to have at -her own death, or any of her family's, a separate carriage following -and a grave; but debts and wretchedness, gambling resorted to in -desperation, had prevented her from going on paying the fees, and she -had lost her claim. She was left alone, with no mother, in that damp, -dark cellar, in debt up to the eyes, not having twelve francs even to -get a black dress or any mourning; she wore a light-coloured cotton -with a black kerchief at her neck, and her neighbours criticised -her for her heartlessness. Her everlasting lover, Raffaele, had now -risen to the highest grades of the Camorrist hierarchy from having -taken part in two duels, or _dichiaramenti_, and from having a mark -against him with the police; he had got still more haughty to her, -especially after her mother's death; he fled from Carmela, and when -she went after him at inn doors and suburban taverns, he treated her -brutally, all the more that she had got into a wretched condition; -she could not give him five francs ever now, or even the two francs -he haughtily asked for and she humbly gave. - -A subtle suspicion was growing in the girl's mind, and from her -mother's death, her excessive poverty, and Raffaele's suspected -false-dealing, she lost her head. She often failed to go to -the tobacco factory, and lost her day's work, or worked so -absent-mindedly, so badly, she was fined and got very little on -Saturday. Often during the week she broke her fast with a penny-worth -of dry bread dipped in macaroni-water, that a neighbour, not so -poor as herself, treated her to. It was too hard, too hard, for one -who only wished for others' happiness, to see her mother die of -privation, and then thrown into a common paupers' ditch, to mingle -her bones with theirs; to see her lover going down gradually the -whole ladder of vice, even to prison, perhaps to capital crime; and -also to see her sisters fading away for want of moral and physical -comfort. Now, with her mother gone to her eternal rest--how Carmela -envied her sometimes!--and with Raffaele always going farther off -from her, she, feeling her heart as cold as her stomach, went oftener -to see her sisters. She thought of going to live with Annarella, for -economy's sake, and not to live in such a lonely way; but Annarella -lived in a cellar in Rosariella di Porta Medina--she, her husband, -and two children, already getting of a good size--in a cellar with -a beaten earth floor and walls not white-washed for years. The -husband and wife slept on a bed made of two iron trestles, with -three squeaking boards laid over them lengthwise, and a big mattress -stuffed with maize leaves--the _paglione_, which has an opening in -the middle to put in the hand when the bed is made. The girl slept by -the mother in the big conjugal bed, and they made up a little bed for -the boy every evening upon two broken chairs. - -Frightful, utter misery had gradually fallen on the glove-cutter's -family. He not only staked his whole week's pay on the lottery, but -on Friday evening and Saturday morning he beat his wife, enraged if -she had only one or two francs to give him. Now the children were -beginning to earn something. The girl worked at a dressmaker's, the -boy as a stable-hand; and when he could not get anything from his -wife, Gaetano went to the dressmaker's where his little girl worked -by the week, called her down, and, by dint of lies, wheedling, or -blows, one after the other, he managed always to draw some pence from -the child, who got the dressmaker to advance them on her week's pay. -With his son, now a boy of twelve, Gaetano behaved still worse. The -stable-boy often refused him money, taunting him with his vice and -the wretchedness he had reduced his mother to. The father rained -down blows on him. The boy, choking with tears, shouted, swore, and -struggled. People came up to hear a son call his father a scoundrel, -an assassin. Once, when his father gave him a blow on the nose, -making the blood flow, he got enraged and bit his hand. On Saturday -evening, when they came back to their home, the children carried -the marks of their father's blows. The mother, who had forgotten -the blows she got herself, found the marks, and wept over her poor -children, asking them: - -'How much has he taken away from you?' - -'Fourteen sous,' Teresina answered sadly. - -'He took half a franc from me,' said Carmine, raging. - -'Merciful God!' the mother cried out, weeping. - -But what she could not get out of her mind was her -two-and-a-half-year-old baby, which died from bad milk, bad -nourishment, from languishing in that black cellar, which dripped -from damp summer and winter. If Peppino was named by chance, she grew -pale, and nothing could get it out of her head that her husband's -vice had killed her little son. She had religiously kept the big -swinging basket that poor Naples children are cradled in (the -_sportone_); but she first sold the pillow, then the little maize -mattress, and one day of great hunger, not knowing where to get a -half-penny, she sold the cradle. Parting from it was so agonizing -that the mother sat on the doorstep, not caring who passed, and wept -for an hour, with her head in her apron. 'You know, Peppino--you -know!' she whispered, as if she was asking pardon of the tiny dead -for having sold his cradle. - -Now that summer had come in so unsettled and stormy, it had made -the family position worse than ever. Of the two half-days' service -she did, she had lost one, which meant ten francs. It was the -lodging-house keeper: as she had empty rooms, she dismissed her -servant. The girl Teresina had had her weekly pay reduced, as the -dressmaker had no work; but, not wishing to dismiss the girl straight -off, she let her do the house-work out of charity. The coachman that -Carmine was stable-boy to went off with his master's family to the -country for four months, and would have taken the boy with him; but -Gaetano, the lad's father, knowing he could always get some pence out -of the boy if he stayed in Naples, by threats, arguments, or blows, -prevented him from going to the country. He ordered him to look out -for another service in Naples. Carmine shrieked, wept, cursed, -threatening to go away secretly. - -'I am going away, mother; I am going off secretly, and father won't -see a farthing of my money, you know. I will send it to you in a -letter; father is not to have any of it.' - -'What can I say, darling? You are right to go,' his mother lamented. -And that going away of her son tore her heart also. - -But the debts they had with Donna Concetta, the usurer, were -Carmela's greatest agony, also Annarella's and Gaetano's. Even she -had suffered from the bad season, as the debtors almost all failed -to pay, and had not even money to pay the interest with by the week. -She did not lend a farthing more to anyone; she was embittered -and fierce, for even she was feeling the pinch of other people's -wretchedness. She shut herself up in the house at night behind iron -bars, for she had pension papers and savings-bank books in the house; -and that put her in a state of constant fury. She wandered about all -day from one street to another, from cellar to attic, from shop to -factory, running after her own money, till she was out of breath; -for she always went on foot. Devoured with rage from the constant -refusals, she began by asking for her interest at least, coldly -insistent, and ended up by making a scene, yelling, demanding her -'blood,' as she passionately called her money. But those who most -enraged her were Gaetano, Annarella and Carmela. Between them they -had got about two hundred francs from her, and she could not get even -a centime of the weekly ten francs' interest. Oh, these three! these -three! She went to the Bossi factory at Foria, where Gaetano cut out -gloves, and had the workman called down sometimes; but, warned by a -companion, he got them to say he was not at the factory that day. But -she persisted, being suspicious and unbelieving; she walked about in -front of the door, and he ended by going down to her, a black cigar -ever in his mouth. - -The scene began in a whisper, short, energetic, violent: sometimes -Gaetano, grinning--for the lottery made him lose all sense of -shame--repeated to her the motto of Naples' bad payers: 'If I had -it and could, I would pay; but not having it, I can't and won't -pay.' But she set to yelling, said she would go to Carlo Bossi to -complain, or to the judge; and Gaetano, in a rage, but controlling -himself, made answer. What would she gain by getting him turned out -of the factory? She would not get another farthing then. The judge? -What could he do? The prison for debtors no longer exists in Naples; -the Concordia prison has been abolished by gentlemen who could not -pay their big debts. Then she got in a rage like a witch; the whole -neighbourhood came out to the doors and balconies. He listened, very -pale, biting at his black cigar-stump. One day he threatened in a -whisper to cut her in pieces. Muttering vague, threatening words, -pulling her shawl round her angrily, Donna Concetta went off with -the swinging step of rich, lazy women of the lower class, her head a -little to one side, her face still discomposed after the scene. - -Since she happened to be at Foria, and the cigar-makers' work ended -at four o'clock, she went to stand at the door of the factory in -Santi Apostoli Square, waiting till Carmela came out, to ask her for -her money. She was not the only one that was waiting; other women -were at the door who had lent money or clothes to the workers at -high interest; and they knew and recognised each other, feeling they -had a strong, mutual interest in the laws of usury; they made a long -lament together over the tardiness in paying and inexactness of their -clients. They all said they were ruined by the bad season and the -ill-will of their debtors; the words '_my blood, our blood_' came -up always like a wail, as they spoke of the money lost. It was not -allowable to send up for any workgirl, but the money-lenders waited, -like the cake and fruit sellers, till the workpeople came out. The -poor women who were coming from the factory, with sickly faces from -the bad tobacco fumes, their hands stained up to the wrist, stopped -to buy something to carry home to feed their families on, after their -day's work. The money-lenders mingled with pot-herb-sellers, and -vendors of parsnips in vinegar and pancakes, and waited patiently, -pulling their shawls up on their shoulders--that common trick. At -last the women, after being searched, one by one, by an overseer to -find out if they had stolen any tobacco, came out. Some slipped away, -others stopped to buy broccoli, radishes, potatoes, or some pancake; -but the palest certainly were those who were caught outside by their -creditors. The palest of all, and not from tobacco fumes, but shame, -was Carmela. She tried to lead off Donna Concetta towards Vertecoeli -Street or Santi Apostoli steps, so as not to let her friends hear -what was said; but Donna Concetta went slowly and raised her voice. -She wanted her money, her blood; it was a shame not to give it to -her; she would have the interest, at any rate. If Carmela had any -shame, she must at least give her the interest. The cigar-girl's -eyes filled with tears at that abuse, and, having a few pence in -her purse, it was impossible to hold out. She handed them to Donna -Concetta; but it was so little always that, although she sacrificed -her day's meal, it only got her the more abuse. She listened, with -her head bent, to Donna Concetta's taunts up Arcivescovato Street and -Gerolomini Road; after a time Donna Concetta recognised that the girl -had no more money, and that it was useless to worry her. - -But Carmela, even when Donna Concetta had gone off, felt the shiver -of shame that bitter voice had sent through her, saying such -offensive words; and tired, crushed, without a farthing in her pocket -after working a whole day, she again felt envy of her dead mother. -Of course, she, too, had that vice of gambling, but it was for good -ends--to give money to everyone, to make all her friends happy, if -she won, to let Raffaele, or Farfariello, as he was called, draw -money from her; but to be so severely punished for this venial sin -cut her to the heart. Ah! on some days how willingly she would have -thrown herself into the well of the building where the factory was, -so as not to hear or feel anything more! But Donna Concetta's thirst -was not at all quenched by that drop of water, Carmela's pence, and -on her way home every evening, before going in at her door, she -hurried to the Rosariella Street cellar where Annarella lived. She -was generally seated near the bed, and often in the dark, for she had -nothing to buy oil with, saying the Rosary with her daughter. Donna -Concetta crossed herself and waited till the Rosary was ended, to -ask for her loan back, uselessly as it happened every day. Annarella -could do nothing now but answer with a sigh or lament, and when Donna -Concetta burst into eloquence she began to cry. Then Teresina broke -in, speaking to both women. - -'Don't cry, mother, to please me.' And to the money-lender: 'Do you -not see, Donna Concetta, that mother has not got any money?' - -'Dear girl, my darling!' sobbed her mother, choked by all the sorrows -of her life. - -The money-lender would not be appeased; she was so accustomed to the -sham tears of those who wished to cheat her of her money that she no -longer believed in any sorrow; it was only when she had exhausted her -whole vocabulary of abuse that she decided to go away, slowly, with -that sleek walk of hers, muttering that she would do justice with her -own hands, against robbers of her blood. The mother and daughter were -left alone in the damp, dark cellar's unhealthy heat, and the poor -charwoman, responding to an inward thought, exclaimed: - -'Soul of Peppinello, do me this grace!' - -When Carmela and Annarella afterwards met in the street or the -Rosariella cellar, there was a long outpouring of sorrows and -interchange of news, when the physical and moral bitterness of their -sad existences burst out. - -'That lottery! what bad luck, what infamous luck, it was, for it -never to give a farthing's winnings, and to take their all--even the -bit of bread that just kept them alive!' Sometimes, through speaking -about their wretchedness and solitariness, Filomena, the third -unfortunate sister, was referred to. 'What was she doing? How could -she bear that life of sin?' - -Carmela had twice gone to seek her in the alley behind Santa Barbara -Steps: once she was out; the other time she found her so cold, so -changed, as if struck by remorse, that Carmela, filled with emotion, -ran away at once. Another time Annarella had met Filomena in the -street, in blue and yellow, with the usual red ribbon at her neck; -she asked her why she wore no mourning for her mother. - -'I am not worthy,' Filomena had answered, casting down her eyes, -and going off with that sliding step on high-heeled, shiny shoes. -All through this Carmela felt, besides her open griefs, besides -the sequence of wretchedness and humiliation, something she could -not take hold of, as if a new misfortune was coming on her head, a -crowning fatality was hemming her in, with no way of escape. What -was it? She could not say what it was. Perhaps it was Raffaele's -increasing coldness, and the brutal way he treated her when they met; -it may have been her brother-in-law Gaetano's fierce expression, or -that queer look that Filomena gave her: she dared not go to ask for -her now. - -For some time Annarella and she had been making up a plan to put an -end to their difficulties. Among all Naples common folk there are -women famed as witches--_fattucchiare_, as they call them--whose -witchcraft, philtres and charms cannot be resisted. Some, indeed, -have a large practice, much larger than a doctor's would be in the -same neighbourhood; almost every quarter boasts of its witch, who can -do the most extraordinary miracles, always, however, by God's help -and the Virgin's. Well, Chiarastella, the great sorceress, who lived -up there at Centograde Lane, near the Corso Vittorio Emanuele, had a -tremendous reputation: there was not a shop, cellar, road, square, or -street corner where Chiarastella's marvellous deeds were not known -and spoken of. It was said everywhere that, to get Chiarastella's -spells, you must ask for things that were not against God's will; -but no one who attended to this rule had come home disappointed from -her little place in Centograde Lane. No one among the mass of Naples -common folk dared to throw a doubt on Chiarastella's magic powers. -If in the provision stores and macaroni shops, where young and old -women love to gossip, or in front of herb-sellers' baskets and -barrows, where small folk haggle for three-quarters of an hour over -a bundle of borage, and at basement doors, where such long, animated -talk goes on; any ignorant woman, on hearing of the Centograde -witch's miracles, raised her eyebrows in surprise and unbelief, -twenty anxious, excited voices told her of all the deeds done by -Chiarastella. In one place a traitor husband had been brought back to -his young wife; then a young fellow dying of consumption was cured -when the doctors had given him up. Another case was a dressmaker who -had lost her customers, and had got them all back gradually by the -witch's influence; then there was a heartless girl who drove her -lover to an evil life and crime by her coldness, and Chiarastella -had set things right. Above all there was the tying of the tongue: -that--that was Chiarastella's grand feat. Everyone who had a lawsuit -coming off, or a trial in which they might be overcome by their -adversary or by justice, where money, honour, liberty or life would -be at stake, rushed in desperation for Chiarastella's magic. After -hearing about the case, if she considered it moral and in accordance -with God's will, she promised to tie the tongue of the adversary's -lawyer. The spell consisted of a magic cord with three knots in it -to represent the number of persons in the Trinity. Means must be -found to put it on the advocate's person, either in his pocket or -in the lining of his clothes, on the decisive morning of the trial, -and by the help of prayer the rival's advocate would not be able to -say over any of his arguments, even if he had them in his mind--his -tongue was tied, the suit was lost to him, the spell had secured -its object. Examples were quoted where the innocent and oppressed, -suffering from man's injustice, had been thus saved by Chiarastella. -Carmela and Annarella had thought of applying to Chiarastella for -some time, Carmela to try and awaken in Raffaele's heart renewed love -for her, she never having had his love, and now it was less hers than -ever. Annarella required a spell to get her husband Gaetano to give -up gambling at the lottery. - -Carmela had been up already at Centograde Lane to make inquiries -about getting the magic; she found five francs were necessary; and, -besides, there were some small ingredients that had to be bought. -Afterwards, if it was successful, just as God willed it, the two -sisters would make the witch a good present. Chiarastella certainly -never promised anything; she spoke mysteriously, in a doubtful way, -and kept deep silence at certain questions. It seemed as if she did -not care about money; she contented herself with a small fee for her -support, counting on people's gratitude to get a better gift if it -was God's will that the thing turned out well later on. Meanwhile, -ten francs at least were needed; without them nothing whatever -could be done. Whatever privations the sisters might endure that -bad summer, they never would have been able to put aside ten francs -between them. - -But days went by, and moral wretchedness was as urgent of care as -their bodily wants required looking to: it was the only remedy left, -so, though much against the grain, Carmela made up her mind to sell -her old marble-topped chest of drawers, the chief bit of furniture in -her room, that had been bought by her mother as a bride. She barely -got twelve francs for it--everyone was selling furniture that hateful -summer; there was not a dog left that would buy a farthing's worth of -things. She put her few pieces of linen in a covered basket under her -bed, and hung her poor clothes on a bit of string from two nails in -the wall, where they got damp, but she had her twelve francs. - -It was one Sunday at the end of August, after hearing Mass in Sette -Dolori Church, that the sisters went towards Centograde Lane. -Carmela had shut up her home and carried the key in her pocket. -Annarella left her daughter Teresina at home mending a torn dress, -after working till mid-day at the dressmaker's. For eight days now -Carmela had not succeeded in finding Raffaele, though she wandered -through Naples in her free hours. Gaetano, Annarella's husband, had -not come home on Saturday night, nor that morning. In Sette Dolori -Church, kneeling at a dark wooden form that the poor must use, as -they cannot pay for seats, they prayed earnestly during Mass. Now -they were laboriously going up the steps of the steep incline that -leads from Sette Dolori Street to Vittorio Emanuele Corso, not -speaking, wrapt up in vague hopes and fears. Chiarastella, the witch, -lived appropriately in a dark alley. It was quiet, but well enough -lighted, and stood to the right of the steep steps that lead from -the principal street up the hill to the little outlets Pignasecca, -Carità, and Monte Santo. There was a great quietness in that blind -alley, but the damp summer scirocco had covered the flint pavement -with a thin coating of mud, so they had to walk carefully not to -fall, and they made no noise. - -'Does she expect us?' Annarella asked, hardly moving her lips. She -was panting after going up the steps. - -'Yes, she does,' said Carmela in a whisper, as she went in at the -door. - -They went up to the first-floor, on to the narrow landing. There -were two doors facing each other; one was shut fast; indeed, it was -fastened by a chain and a heavy iron padlock. It looked as if the -dwellers there had gone off after a misfortune, shutting up their -dull abode for ever. The door on the left was half open; but the -sisters, on hearing a muffled sob, dared not go in without knocking. -It was startling for Carmela to pull a brown monkey's paw joined -to a big-ringed iron chain the bell inside was hung to. The black, -mummified paw gave one a shudder; it was hairy above and pink -underneath. It seemed like finding a bit of a swarthy murdered child. -The bell tinkled long and shrilly, as if it would never give over. -A very old, decrepit, bent servant, with a pointed nose that seemed -to wish to go into her toothless mouth, appeared. She signed to the -two women to come into the bare, narrow lobby, which was rather damp -underfoot. The choked sobbing went on behind another closed door. -Soon after the door opened, and a girl of the people, a seamstress -(Antonietta the blonde it was), crossed the lobby, her shawl off her -shoulders, weeping, her handkerchief at her eyes. Nannina, her short -friend, kept one arm round her waist, as if she wanted to hold her -up, and went on repeating, to console her: - -'It does not matter; never mind about it.' - -But on the sobbing getting louder the old woman opened the outer door -and sent the girls off, almost pushing them out; then she disappeared -without saying a word to Annarella or Carmela. They, already moved -by the feelings that induced them to invoke the witch's power, were -very sympathetic with the two girls, one so inconsolable, the other -so vainly trying to soothe. Leaning at the lobby window, they waited, -their eyes cast down and hands crossed over their aprons, tightly -holding the ends of their shawls, not saying a word to each other. A -great silence was around, in the damp summer sultriness of that long -summer noon. Annarella, being gentler, more saddened, and at the same -time less infatuated than Carmela, bent her shoulders to her fatal -destiny, feeling an increasing want of confidence in any means of -salvation, being almost sure that Gaetano would never be brought back -to reason by any prayer nor charm. She felt nothing but a growing -fear all through her low spirits. Carmela, instead, having an ardent, -loving soul that nothing could subdue, felt the flame of passion -light up within her. She was not afraid; no, she would have dared -any sight or danger to get Raffaele's heart again. But the decrepit -servant, bent into a bow, as if she wanted to reach the earth again, -appeared in the lobby and made a sign to Carmela to come in. Without -making a sound, the sisters disappeared into the other room, and the -door shut behind them. - -'Here is my sister that I told you of,' whispered Carmela, standing -aside to present Annarella, who stood just behind her. - -Chiarastella nodded as a salutation. The witch was of middle height, -or a little below it, very thin, with long lean hands, the skin of -them shiny from sticking to the bones; her body moved automatically, -as if she could stiffen every muscle at will. She had a small -head, and short face covered with deep red blotches, the jaw very -prominent; her complexion was of a warm vivid pallor, and the nose -a short one. But her eyes were the interesting thing in the witch's -neurotic face; they had a very mobile glance, and the colour varied -from gray to green, with always a luminous point, a sparkle, in -them; the glance was sometimes shy, then frightened-looking, then -seemingly carried away in a spiritual ecstasy; her whole vitality -was summed up in them. Chiarastella looked as if she were more -than forty, but her hair remained very black, and her forehead was -marked by a single deep wrinkle; but when her eyes lighted up, an -irradiation of youthfulness spread over her face and person. She wore -a black woollen dress, simply made, the usual cut among the common -people, only it was ornamented with white silk buttons, and a white -silk ribbon hung at her waist, in a knot with two long ends, at the -side. White and black are the colours worn by the votaries of Our -Lady of Sorrows. A thick crooked red coral horn hung from her neck -on a thin black silk cord; in making some careless gesture, the -witch often touched this horn. She was seated at a big walnut table -that had a closed iron box on it, of deep-cut, artistic workmanship, -an antique, evidently. A big black cat slept beside her, its paws -gathered up under it. Set round the small room were a little sofa of -faded chintz and five or six chairs; that was all that was in it. On -the wall was a black wooden crucifix; the figure of Christ, carved in -ivory, was a work of art also. She kept silence, with her eyes down. -The sisters felt that a great mystery was coming near, and would -envelop them. - -'We have brought the ten francs,' Carmela said timidly, taking them -out of the corner of her handkerchief and putting them on a table by -Chiarastella's hand. - -The witch did not move an eyelash; only the black cat raised its -head, showing fine yellow eyes like amber. - -'Have you heard Mass this morning?' Chiarastella asked, without -turning her head. - -'Yes, we have,' the sisters muttered shyly. - -She had a low, hoarse voice--one of those women's voices that seem -always charged with intense feeling--and it caused deep emotion in -the heart and brain of the hearers. - -'Say three _Aves_, three _Pater Nosters_, three _Glorias_, out loud,' -commanded the witch. - -Standing in front of her, the sisters said the words of prayer; she -said them too, in her vibrating voice, her hands clasped in her lap -on her black apron. The cat rose on its long black legs, holding down -its head. Then, altogether, the three women, after bowing three times -at the _Gloria Patri_, said the _Salve Regina_. The prayers were -ended. The witch opened the wrought-iron casket, holding the lid so -as to hide what was in it, and groped with her fingers a long time. -Then, taking out some little things, still hiding them in her hands, -she got mortally pale, her eyes became wild, as if she saw a terrible -sight. - -'Holy Virgin, help us!' Annarella uttered in a low tone, shaking with -fear. - -Now Chiarastella, with a yellow lighted taper, burnt two queer -scented pastilles, which were pungent and heavy at the same time; -she gazed intently at the flying smoke-rings; her eyes dilated, -showing the whites streaked with blue, as if she was trying to read -a mysterious word. When the smoke had disappeared, only a heavy -smell was left; the sisters felt stupefied already, from that smell, -perhaps. Monotonously, not looking at them, Chiarastella asked: - -'Have you made up your mind to work a spell on your husband?' - -'Yes, provided that he does not suffer in health from it,' Annarella -replied feebly. - -'You want to tie his hands, two or three times, so that he never at -any time can stake at the lottery, do you not?' - -'Yes, that is it,' the other answered eagerly. - -'Are you in God's grace?' - -'I hope I am.' - -'Ask the Virgin's help, but under your breath.' - -Whilst Annarella raised her eyes as if to find heaven, the witch took -out of the iron casket a thin new cord, looked at it, muttered some -queer irregular verses in the Naples dialect, invoking the powers of -heaven, its saints, and some good spirits with queer names. The chant -went on; the witch, still holding the cord tight in her hand, looked -at it as if filling it with her spirit; she breathed on it and kissed -it devoutly three times. Whilst she was carrying out this deed of -magic, her thin brown hands shook, and the cat went up and down the -big table excitedly, spreading its whiskers. - -Annarella now repented more than ever of having come, of trying -to cast a spell on her husband. It would have been better, much -better, to resign herself to her fate, rather than call out all -these spirits, and put all that mystery into her humble life. She -deeply repented; her breathing was oppressed, her face saddened. She -wanted to fly at once far off to her dark cellar; she preferred to -endure cold and wretchedness there. It was her sister who had led -her into such an extreme measure; she had done it more out of pity -for her, seeing her so melancholy, desolate, and worn out by sorrow -from Raffaele's desertion. It was not right--no, it could not be--to -try and find out God's will by witchcraft and magic in any case. No -witchcraft, however powerful, would conquer her husband's passion. -She had read one Saturday in his eyes, grown suddenly ferocious, -how unconquerable the passion was. She had seen him ill-treat his -children with that repressed rage that is capable of even greater -cruelty. That witchcraft, you see, with its alarming prelude and -continuation, seemed to her another big step on the way to a dark, -fatal end. - -Now Chiarastella, with sharpened features, her skin more shiny and -eyes burning, made three fatal knots in the twine, stopping at each -to say something in a whisper. At the end she threw herself all at -once from the chair to kneel on the ground, her head down on her -breast. The black cat jumped down too, as if possessed, and went -round and round the witch in the convulsive style of cats when going -to die. - -'Mother of God, do not forsake me!' Annarella called out, shaking -with fear; but the witch, after crossing herself wildly several -times, got up and said in solemn tones to the gambler's wife: - -'Take--take this miraculous cord. It will tie your husband's hands -and mind when Beelzebub tells him to gamble. Believe in God; have -faith; hope in Him.' - -Trembling, feeling hot all over from excessive emotion, Annarella -took the witch's cord. She was to put it on her husband without his -noticing it. She would have liked to go away now, to fly, for she -felt the sultriness of the room, and the perfume was turning her -brain; but Carmela, pale, disturbed from what she had seen and the -commotion in her own mind, turned an appealing look on her to get her -to wait. - -Chiarastella had already begun the charm to make Raffaele love -Carmela again. She called Cleofa, her decrepit servant, and said -something in her ear. The woman went out, and came back carrying with -great care a deep white porcelain dish full of clear water, looking -at it as if hypnotized, not to spill a drop; then she disappeared. -Chiarastella, with her face close to the dish, muttered some of her -mysterious words over the water. She put in one finger, and let three -drops fall on Carmela's forehead, who at a sign had leant forward to -her. Then the witch lit a big wax candle Carmela had brought, and -went on muttering Latin and Italian words. The candle-wick spluttered -as if water had been thrown on the flame. - -'Did you bring the lock of hair cut from your forehead on Friday -evening when the moon was rising?' Chiarastella's hoarse voice -demanded in the middle of the prayer. - -'Yes, I have it,' said Carmela, with a deep sigh, handing a tress of -her black hair to the witch. - -From the iron casket Chiarastella had taken a platinum dish with -some hieroglyphics on it, as shiny as a mirror. On this she put the -hair, and raised it up three times, as if making a sacrifice to -heaven. Then she held the black tress a little above the crackling -flame, which stretched up to devour it; a second after there was a -disagreeable smell of burnt hair, and nothing was seen on the dish -but a morsel of stinking ashes. The incantation went on, Chiarastella -singing under her voice her great love-charm, which was a queer -mixture of sacred and profane names--from Belphegor's to Ariel's, -from San Raffaele's, the girl's protector, to San Pasquale's, patron -saint of women--partly in Naples dialect, partly in bad Italian. -She afterwards took a small phial from the wrought-iron box, which -held all the ingredients for her charms, and put three drops from it -into the plate of water, which at once became a fine opal colour, -with bluish reflections. The witch looked again to try and decipher -that whitish cloud which whirled round in spirals and volutes, and -dropped the ashes of the hair in. Gradually under her gaze the water -got clear and limpid again in the dish; then she told Carmela to hand -her a new crystal bottle, bought on Saturday morning after making her -Communion, and she filled it slowly with water from the dish. The -love-philtre was ready. - -'Take it,' the witch said in her solemn tones, ending the -incantation--'take and keep it jealously. Make Raffaele drink some -drops of it in wine or coffee. It will inflame his blood and burn in -his brain; it will make his heart melt for love of thee. Believe in -God, have faith, and hope in Him.' - -'It is not poison, is it?' Carmela ventured to ask. - -'It will do him good, and not harm. Have faith in God.' - -'And what if he goes on despising me?' - -'Then, that means that he is in love with someone else, and this -charm is not enough. You must find out who the woman is that he has -left you for, and bring me here a bit of her chemise, petticoat, or -dress, be it wool, linen, or cotton. I will make a charm against her. -We will drive in a bit of her chemise or dress with a nail and some -pins into a fresh lemon; then you must throw this bewitched lemon -into the well of the house where the woman lives. Every one of these -pins is a misfortune; the nail is a sorrow at the heart of which she -will never be cured. Do you see?' - -'Very well, I will try and find out,' said Carmela, in despair at the -very idea of Raffaele being unfaithful. - -'Let us go away,' said Annarella, who could bear no more. - -'Thank you for your kindness, ma'am,' said Carmela. - -'Thank you so much,' added Annarella. - -'Thank God! thank Him!' the witch cried out piously. - -She cast herself down again, kneeling, fervently praying, while the -big black cat gently mewed, rubbing its pink nose on the table. The -two women went out, thoughtful and preoccupied. - -'That witchcraft is not good,' said Annarella, in a melancholy way to -her sister. - -'Then, what should be done--what can be done?' the other asked, -wringing her hands, her eyes filled with tears. - -'Nothing can be done,' said Annarella, in a solemn voice. - -They went down slowly, tired, worn out by that long scene of -witchcraft, which was above their intellectual capacity, and -depressed by the tension on their nerves. A man went up the steps of -Centograde Lane quickly, turning towards the witch's house. It was -Don Pasqualino De Feo. The sisters did not see him; they went on, -feeling the weight of their unhappy life heavier, fearing to have -gone beyond the limits allowable to pious folk, and that they had -drawn God's mysterious vengeance on the heads of those they loved. - - - - - CHAPTER XIII - - 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.' - - - - - CHAPTER XIV - - THE MEDIUM'S IMPRISONMENT - - -The summer rain beat sadly on the pavement; two broad yellow gutters -went down the sides of Nardones Road; the sickening sulphurous smell -of August storms was in the air. In San Ferdinando Square the cabs -had their hoods up, and were shiny all over with rain, dripping on -all sides. The long thin horses stood with their heads down, drenched -to the bones, and running down with water. The drivers sat huddled -up, their shapeless hats over their eyes, keeping their heads down -and hands spasmodically fixed in the pockets of their torn capes, -as they patiently bore the deluge from the sky. All around was -dreary-looking--the royal palace, the porch of San Francesco di Paolo -Church, the Prefecture, barracks, and large coffee-houses--all were -dreary, in spite of the grandeur of the buildings and the numbers -of lights behind the plate-glass windows. There was the majestic -edifice of San Carlo Theatre also; but the whole night landscape -was wrapped up in the noisy tempest that never rested, and seemed -to draw new force from its weariness to beat on houses, streets, -and men. There were few passers-by, and these looked like unhappy -folks' ghosts walking under dripping umbrellas, or, having no -umbrella, they scraped along the wall with coat-collar raised and -soft hat soaked with rain. Some few wanderers turned the corner from -Toledo Street into Nardones Road, which is a broad enough street in -the best quarter of the town; but it has an equivocal appearance, -all the same, as if it was uninhabited and unsafe. It had no -shady corners, but shutter-closed windows, ill-lit balconies, and -half-open doors, where the gaze was checked by a dark passage, had -a suspicious appearance. Some great door now and then broke through -this doubtful impression, from the brightness of the gas and width -of its courtyard, but a shop with far from clean windows, obscured -by reddish stuff curtains carefully drawn, a feeble light coming -through and small or large shadows showing behind, gave a new feeling -of suspicion and uneasiness to the minds of people going home that -way who might be bending under the weight of cares and long fatigue. - -At one point a woman with a black shawl barely covering her yellow -dress and white bodice turned the corner from Toledo Street and went -up Nardones Road slowly, holding the corners of the handkerchief on -her head tightly between her teeth, sheltering from the rain under a -very small umbrella. She went along very cautiously, lifting her feet -so as to wet her bright leather shoes as little as possible, lifting -her skirt to let red cotton stockings be seen. When she passed under -a lamp-post's reddish light she raised her head and showed the face, -now sad and tired, for all its commonplace beauty, of Filomena, -Annarella and Carmela's unfortunate sister. She got as far as the -suspicious-looking shop with the red curtains, and stopped before -the plate-glass door as if she was trying to see someone or find out -what was going on, and did not dare to open the door. She could make -out nothing but some dark shadows with hats on moving about. After -hesitating a little, she decided to put her hand on the knob of a -small window and open it. She put in her head timidly, and called: - -'Raffaele! Raffaele!' - -I am coming immediately,' the young Camorrist's voice answered from -inside in rather an impatient tone. - -She quickly shut the window again and set herself to wait in the -rain. A man passed, and cast a queer look at her, his curiosity -aroused by meeting anyone in that strange stormy weather at so late -an hour. But she cast down her eyes as if she was ashamed, and -watched the end of Nardones Road to see who came round the corner, -evidently being much afraid of being recognised. Suddenly she gave -a start. Two working men were coming along, going up Nardones Road, -not speaking to each other, getting all the rain on their shoulders. -The one man, old, hump-backed, dragging his leg, turned out to be -Michele, the shoeblack, not carrying his block for once; the other, -tall and thin, with burning eyes in hollow sockets, was Gaetano, the -glover. On recognising her sister Annarella's husband, Filomena gave -a frightened shiver and got closer to the wall, as if she wanted to -get to the other side of it. She lowered her umbrella, and prayed -silently, with lips that could hardly stammer out the words, that -Gaetano should not recognise her. She shivered and trembled, fearing -the shop door would open and that Gaetano would see the man who was -coming out. But Gaetano, as he was getting the full force of the rain -on his head, took no notice of the people on the road, luckily for -Filomena, nor did the shop door open as he passed. Instead of that, -the working men disappeared, one after the other, into a gateway, -forty paces off, where some other men had gone in before them. But -Filomena felt her cheeks icy under the rouge, from the fright she had -got, and she opened the door again to beg and beseech in a whisper: - -'Raffaele, do come!' - -'I am coming--I am coming,' the young fellow answered in a bored -tone, not even noticing that the poor woman was waiting all this time -in the rain, at night, in a wind-swept road. - -She sighed deeply. Her eyes had no need now of bistre, for a deep -line of fatigue went under them, and they were filled with tears. The -rain now had soaked through her green cotton umbrella and come down -on her head. It soaked her shiny black hair and ran down her face and -neck, a warm water, like tears. But she did not even feel the rain -trickling, for she felt nothing. She did not see three or four other -men come out of Toledo Street, go on to the top of Nardones Road, and -disappear into the gateway where Michele and Gaetano had rushed in. - -Inside the shop the shadows moved about, and a noise of voices in -discussion arose. She got up closer and strained her ears anxiously -as she heard Raffaele cursing and threatening. She could not stand -the noise of angry voices. Again she opened the door, crying out -beseechingly: - -'Raffaele, Raffaele, do come!' - -Still angrier words burst out on all sides from those drinking and -gambling in that wretched coffee-house; then Raffaele came out of the -shop, putting on his hat with a bang, as if he was being pushed from -inside. On finding himself confronted by Filomena's humble figure, -soaking, the rouge running down her cheeks, her face distorted by -fear, he cursed impiously, and gave her an ugly shove. - -'Come on home--do come!' said she, taking no notice of the push and -the curses. - -The Camorrist furiously told her to go and kill herself. But it was -raining, and he had no umbrella; his short jacket did not shelter him -well, so he got under her umbrella, still cursing. - -'Be patient with me, be kind,' she said, lengthening her steps on the -pavement to keep alongside of him, and lowering the umbrella to his -side, so that he should not get soaked. - -'But you know you should not come to the billiard-saloon,' said the -young fellow, with suppressed rage. 'It bores me to look like a -schoolboy being fetched home--it bores me.' - -'Be patient with me. I could not help it,' she whispered, drinking in -the tears that ran down her cheeks, not being able to wipe them. - -'I will leave you--as true as death, I'll leave you! You have -your sister's fault. She was so ragged she disgusted me. She came -everywhere to look for me, and made my friends laugh at me. I left -her for that. Do you understand?' - -'Poor sister!' she moaned out. - -'You are not ragged, but you get me laughed at just the same. Do you -hear?' - -'Yes, I know.' - -'If you don't give over, I will leave you, as I did Carmela. I am a -young fellow of honour, you know.' - -'Yes, I know that.' - -'Don't come here again.' - -'Very well, I never will.' - -They still went on with this talk, for he felt enraged at losing -his game and at being laughed at by his friends, also at not having -any money. She was penitent, feeling that ill-treatment was her -just punishment for playing her sister false; so, while he bit at -his spent cigar in a corner of his mouth and went on abusing her, -taunting her with her unhappy life, calling her every bad name, she -went alongside, silent and pale, for all the rouge had run down -with the rain. Her wet chemise stuck to her shoulders, and her hair -was glued to her forehead with damp. She went on, keeping down the -umbrella to his side, bearing his insults; for she was carried away -by sorrow and repentance, and said mechanically over and over again: -'It is little to what I deserve.' - -Up there all those who went in at the gateway on the right side of -Nardones Road had gone up a stair of one flight, opposite the chief -staircase, which was a little broader. They went into an apartment -of two rooms that was let for an office--so called by the owner -because it had no kitchen. But the two rooms were so low in the -ceiling, so badly lighted by two small windows, the red brick floors -were so cold, the wall-paper so dirty, and the paint of the doors -and windows so greasy, that no small notary, poor advocate, doctor -without practice, or dealer in doubtful business, stayed there more -than a month. The cobbler who served as a porter and the inmates -who went down the big stair were accustomed, therefore, to see new -faces for ever going up and down the small stair--young and old men, -ushers and commission agents, a string of white-faced people, often -very queer-looking. Who troubled themselves about the people living -there? No one--not even the porter. He got no pay from the occupiers -of the flat, and did not care therefore if the tenants were changed. -On the big stair busy people lived: house-agents, writing-masters, a -third-rate dentist, a midwife, and others of queer professions. They -went up and down, taken up about their own interests and business, -their decent poverty or unsuccessful ill-doing. They were people who -took little notice of their neighbours, so that one might call the -office, that always was having new tenants or being left vacant, -rather isolated. The ticket 'To Let' stood there on the door the -whole year round; every month it was the same. When the apartment was -let, then the tenant carried off the key at dusk; when it was vacant, -the cobbler kept it on his counter, or, if he was away, he handed it -over to the charcoal-dealer opposite. The stair of the apartment was -broken in places, slippery and dangerous for those who had not good -legs and sharp eyes. - -Now, that August the little place had been occupied for a couple of -months by a neatly-dressed young gentleman, affecting the style of -a provincial trying to be fashionable. He was fat and thick, with -a bull-like neck, and his red hair, joined to a florid complexion, -gave him an apoplectic look. So the office was opened several times a -week for a few hours, and two or three men, or sometimes more, came -in. They disappeared up the staircase, and nothing more was heard, -nothing showed behind the dirty window-panes; only after an hour or -so these men appeared again, one by one, some red in the face, as if -they had shouted for a long time, others pallid, as if gulping down -repressed rage. They vanished each one by his own road, without even -the porter seeing them sometimes. - -But one evening of the week, always the same one, seven or eight men -met in the office, and then a dirty petroleum lamp, covered by a -shade that might cost threepence, lighted up the dirty room. Its only -furniture was a rough table and eight or ten chairs, of odd patterns. -On that evening the confabulation lasted till past midnight; often -some gesticulating shadow showed queerly against the panes; sometimes -the men leant out of the window, and looked stolidly into the dull -black court, as if they saw the ghosts of their own excited minds. -The cobbler, tired with his hard day's work, casting an indifferent -glance at the windows of the office, saw it was still lighted up, -and, shrugging his shoulders, went off to sleep in his den, a hole -under the staircase. The courtyard was not lighted up; the street -door was left half open; some people still went out and came in -cautiously from the so-called great staircase. Some mysterious -night-patient of the dentist, some hurried client to call the -midwife, who opened the door mysteriously to go out. - -It was after midnight when Dr. Trifari's guests went away from the -meeting, all together, silently, hurrying down one after the other to -get away as quickly as possible. The last one pulled the office door -behind him, and it gave the creaking noise of old rotten wood. The -two small rooms that formed the office returned to their solitude, -and, with hearts beating high in the excitement of their dream, the -party melted away through the town. But this dreary evening the poor -cobbler had gone to bed at dusk, wrapping himself up in his ragged -bed-covering and torn cape he had worn all day, feeling the chill of -the tertian fever and the damp of the stormy weather in his bones. -So, in the confusion of the fever that had come on like a block of -ice on his chest, he heard the clatter of those going up and down -the big stair. Two or three times he seemed to hear voices raised -in the office, where there was a window open, and the scirocco wind -carried the rain rushing in, and made the oil-lamp flicker. The -rain went on falling in the badly-paved court, covering any other -noise; then the window was shut, and no more could be heard. Later -on the shutters were fastened too, and everything sank again into -deep shadow. Still, there was a meeting going on there. Trifari, the -master of the house, had been the first to arrive; he lighted the -lamp, and went through to the second room to arrange some things, -going and coming from it, with his hat a little on the back of his -head. In spite of the scirocco wind, it was the first time the colour -had gone out of his red face, and some drops of sweat came out on his -forehead. Sometimes he stood still, as if he repented of what he was -going to do or thought of doing; but he quickly recovered from that -momentary depression. When the shrill bell rang the first time, Dr. -Trifari gave a start and stood still uncertainly, as if he dared not -open it. Still, he went, but he only half opened the folding-door, -with great caution, to let Colaneri pass through. The ex-priest's -face was rather gloomy, and his shoulders were dripping wet; for -his small umbrella, a very shabby one, only protected his head. -They said good-evening to each other in a whisper; Colaneri, with -cautious glances from behind his spectacles, dried his wet hands with -a doubtfully white handkerchief--the fat, flabby, whitish hands that -are peculiar to priests. They said nothing to each other. The same -complicated anguish bore down on them, so that their Southerners' -loquacity was subdued; all the past excitement, beaten down by -disappointments following each other, had ended by sapping their -strength. - -Suddenly, raising his head, Colaneri asked: 'Is he to come?' - -'Yes, he is coming,' Trifari breathed between his lips. - -'Has he no suspicion of what we are going to do?' - -'None at all.' - -A gust of wind came into the room and nearly put out the light. It -was then Trifari went to shut the window. - -'We are only doing what is an absolute necessity,' Professor Colaneri -replied, repeating aloud the excuse with which he had been soothing -his conscience for some days. - -'It is impossible to go on any longer like this,' the doctor remarked -in a dull voice; then he lighted a cigar to try and look at his ease, -but he did not manage it: he let the match go out. - -'The report made against me to the governors is frightful,' said -Colaneri in a whisper, with his eyes down. 'I have a lot of -enemies--lads I ploughed in the examinations, you know. They reported -me to the President of the University as having sold the exercises -to some students. They put down the names, too....' - -'How could they know all that?' the doctor asked slowly. - -'Who can tell? I have so many enemies. The President made a dreadful -report; I am threatened....' - -'With being turned out?' - -'Not only that; there is to be a lawsuit....' - -'You don't say so?' - -'I have so many enemies, Trifari. It is a serious threat. How will I -be able to prove my innocence?' - -'You have sold these exercises, then?' the doctor muttered cynically, -throwing away his cigar. - -'The pay is so wretched, Trifari, and the examinations are all a -fraud, too.' - -'If they take you to law it will be bad for you.' - -'I am ruined if they do. I must have money in hand at any cost this -time, do you understand; if not, I am ruined. There is nothing left -but to shoot myself, if they take me to law. We must win, Trifari.' - -'We will win,' the other affirmed sternly. 'I have a lot of trouble, -here and at my home. My father has sold everything; my brother, -instead of coming home after his service as a soldier, out of poverty -has enlisted in the military police; my sister is not to be married, -she has not a farthing of dowry now; she is reduced to making dresses -for rich peasants. We had very little, and I have eaten all there -was, and there are a number of debts, of calls.... The father of -the student whom we forced to sign a promissory note at Don Gennaro -Parascandolo's wants to denounce me as a cheat.... We must win, -Colaneri; we cannot live another week without winning.... I am more -ruined than you are.' - -Here the bell rang very gently. - -'Perhaps it is him, do you think?' Colaneri asked with a little shake -in his voice. - -'No, no,' Trifari answered; 'he is to come later, when we are all -here....' - -'Who took the message to him?' - -'Formosa took it.' - -'He has no suspicion, then?' - -'No, none.' - -'Then, the spirit has not told him anything?' - -'It looks as if the spirit could not go against Fate, for it tells -him nothing about this.' - -'It is Fate, I suppose?' - -Another ring came. Trifari went to open the door. It was Marzano, -the lawyer, the sprightly, good-natured, smiling old man. But -sudden decrepitude seemed to have come over him; his pallor had got -yellowish, his pepper-and-salt moustache was quite white, and had got -thin over his mouth. His smile had gone for ever; evidently, as death -drew near, his good opinion of life had gone. He came in sighing. He -was soaking, his overcoat shone with drops of water all over, and -his lean hands trembled. He sat down saying nothing, and kept his -hat well down over his ears, only his mouth kept up the old habit -of moving, always chewing ciphers. Now he leant his pointed chin, -where a neglected beard was growing, on his stick, being so wrapt in -thought he did not even hear what Trifari and Colaneri were saying -to each other. Suddenly he, too, having the same engrossing thought, -asked: 'Will he come, do you think?' - -'Of course he will,' the other two answered together. - -'Has he not guessed?' - -'He knows nothing about it.' - -'These mediums either see a lot or they see nothing.' - -'Better so,' the other two muttered. - -Dr. Trifari, on hearing knocking at the door, went first into the -second room to fetch three or four other chairs, and arranged them -round the shabby table. Ninetto Costa and Don Crescenzio, the -lottery banker at Nunzio Lane, came in. The stock-broker had lost -all his smartness. He was dressed anyhow--in a morning coat; his -too light overcoat had big splashes of wet on it; not even a pebble -breast-pin shone on his black silk necktie. His fine lucky man's -bright smile that showed his teeth had gone too with the smartness. -The stock-broker was going on with difficulty from one settling-day -to another, taking no more risks, not daring to gamble; he had lost -all his audacity; he only managed to keep his creditors at bay: they -still had faith in him; because his name was known on the Exchange, -because his father had been a model of honesty and he himself had -been so lucky, all still believed in his fortune. But the unhappy man -knew that the hour of the crisis had come, that he would not even -be able to pay the interest on his debts soon, that Ninetto Costa's -name would be on the bankrupt list. He had put down everything--his -handsome house, carriages, luxurious appliances, journeys, dinners, -and English clothes from Poole. But this sacrifice was not enough, -for the cancer that gnawed his breast, that ate into everything, was -not rooted out. He still desperately played at the lottery, being -taken by it now soul and body, shutting his eyes to the storm so -as not to see the waves coming that would drown him. Alongside of -him Don Crescenzio, with his handsome, serene face and well-combed -chestnut beard, had the traces also of beginning to fall off in -prosperity. By dint of being in contact with feverish people, just -as if he had been touching too hot hands, something of the gambling -fever had been affecting him, and through the desperate insistence of -the gamblers he had got to giving them credit. How could he resist -the imploring demands of Ninetto Costa, Trifari and Colaneri's -pretexts, that had a vague threat under them, the Marquis di -Formosa's grand promises?--all used different forms of supplication. -To begin with, he let them have credit from Friday till Tuesday, the -day he got ready the State profits; they, doing a renewed miracle -every week, managed to give him what they owed, so that he might be -ready on Wednesday; but at last, their resources being exhausted, -some of them began to pay a part only, or not to pay anything, and he -began to put his own money into it, so that his caution money should -not be seized by the State. The gamblers dared not show again till -they had got money; then they paid off part of the debt and staked -what they had over. One client had disappeared altogether--Baron -Lamarra, son of the mason who had got to be a contractor and a rich -man. He owed Don Crescenzio more than two thousand francs, and when -Don Crescenzio had waited for him two or three weeks, he went to look -for him at his house. He found the wife in a furious state. Baron -Lamarra had forged her signature on a number of bills, and she had -to pay unless she wanted to be a forger's wife; but she was already -trying for a separation. Baron Lamarra had fled to Isernia, and from -there gave not a sign of life. Don Crescenzio was rudely turned away -from the door--that was two thousand francs and more lost! He swore -not to give more credit to anyone; but, in spite of the debtors -paying him a little now and then, seven or eight thousand francs were -still risked, with little hope of getting them back. Eight thousand -francs was the exact sum of his savings for several years. Besides, -he could not press his debtors much--they had nothing now but a few -desperate resources that only came to light from a wicked, burning -love of gambling. He now took a lively interest in their gambling, -and was anxious for them to win, so as to get his savings back, to -recover the money left so imprudently in the hands of these vicious -fellows. He watched the gamblers so that they should not go to play -elsewhere, now uneasy and sick himself from coming in contact with -so many infected people. It was for this reason that the evening's -mysterious design was made known to him; they all owed him money, and -could hide nothing from him. And in spite of a secret friendship, we -would almost say complicity, between Don Pasqualino, the medium, and -him, he told him nothing about the mysterious plan; by his silence he -seemed to approve of it. - -There were five of them already in the small room, seated round the -table in different thoughtful or rather absent-minded attitudes. They -were not speaking: some held their heads down, and scribbled with -their nails on the dusty table; others looked at the smoky ceiling, -where the petroleum lamp threw a small ring of light. - -'Seven hundred thousand francs have been paid out in Rome,' said Don -Crescenzio to break that weighty silence. - -'Lucky they! lucky they!' two or three cried out, with a stirring of -envy against the lucky Roman winners. - -'If what we are doing is successful,' Colaneri muttered darkly, and -his spectacles gave a sad twinkle, 'the Government will pay Naples -three or four millions of francs.' - -'We must succeed,' Ninetto Costa retorted. - -'The urn will be under command this time,' said Marzano mysteriously. - -Now came renewed knocking, very gently, as if timidity had enfeebled -the hand at the door. Trifari disappeared to open it, after asking -through the door who it was; he had suddenly grown suspicious. The -answer was 'Friends!' and he recognised the voice. The two common -folk, Gaetano the glover and Michele the shoeblack, came in; they -took off their caps, saying 'Good-evening!' and stood at the entrance -of the room, not daring to sit down in such good company. - -Outside the wind and rain grew furious, a gutter full of water -emptied into the court with a loud swish. Now, under the -window-frames, a stream of water came in at the cracks, wetting -the window-sills and trickling to the ground, the closed but -broken-ribbed umbrellas leaning against the walls in the corners -of the room dripped moisture on the dusty floor, and the wet shoes -made mud-pies. The men sitting down never moved: they kept up a -solemn stiffness and lugubrious silence, as if they were watching -a dead person and were overwhelmed with fatigue and the oppression -of their funereal thoughts. The two working men standing, one lean, -colourless, with a cutter-out's round shoulders, the hair thinned -already on the forehead and temples, the other man crooked and -hunchbacked, twisted like a corkscrew and old, though his rugged, -sharp face was lively still, kept silence too, waiting. Only -Ninetto Costa, to give himself a careless look, had taken out an -old pocket-book, the remnant of his old smartness, and was writing -ciphers in it with a small pencil, wetting the point in his mouth. -But they were fancy figures, and his hand trembled a little. His -friends said it was from his fast life that it shook. Thus they spent -about fifteen long slow minutes that lay heavily on the souls of all -those waiting there to carry out their mysterious plan. - -'What bad weather we are having,' said Ninetto Costa, passing his -hand over his forehead. - -'The sky has opened,' Don Crescenzio remarked, yawning nervously. - -'What o'clock is it, doctor,' asked old Marzano in a trembling, -decrepit little voice. - -'It is five minutes to ten,' said the doctor, taking out an ugly -nickel watch, the sort that cannot be pawned, attached to a sordid -black cord. - -'What hour is the appointment for?' asked Colaneri, trying to look as -if he was indifferent. - -'It was to have been ten o'clock, but who knows whether he will -come?' the doctor replied, lowering his voice, putting all his -uncertainty and doubt into what he said. - -'Who can tell?' said Ninetto Costa profoundly. A long sigh relieved -his breast, as if he could not bear the weight that bore him down. - -'Are you feeling ill?' Colaneri asked him. - -'I wish I was dead,' muttered the stock-broker desolately. Someone -shook his head, sighing; another one had the same feeling, evidently, -from the expression of his face, and the sad words spread through -the damp dirty room under the smoky lamp. Then for a little the -summer storm calmed down, fewer drops rattled on the window, and -again there came a great silence. Through the wall, no one knew from -where, like a slow warning voice, a solemn clock gave ten melancholy -strokes. There was a pause between each stroke, and it cast a breath -of fear among the men gathered there to plot some cruel device or -other. - -'That will be the Spirit,' said Don Crescenzio, trying to joke. - -'Don't let us jest,' Trifari said, in a severely reproving tone; 'we -are occupied about serious matters here.' - -'No one wants to make jokes!' Ninetto Costa said chidingly. 'We all -know what we are doing.' - -'There is no Judas here, is there?' said the doctor, looking round at -everyone. - -There was a protesting murmur, but it was feeble. No, none of them -was Judas, nor was there a Christ among them; but all felt vaguely -at the bottom of their hearts that they were going to carry out a -betrayal. - -'No one is Judas--no one,' cried out the doctor impetuously. 'Swear -before God that if there is he must make a bad end.' - -'Don't swear, don't swear,' said old Marzano, quite frightened. - -Again the bell rang; they all caught each other's eye suddenly, pale -and shivering; their fault rose before them. No one moved to open the -door, just as if there was a serious peril behind it. - -'It will be him,' Colaneri dared to say, not raising his eyes. - -'Perhaps it is,' Costa muttered, twisting his pocket-book absently in -his hand. - -At once all of them regretted that the medium was outside the door. -The same shadow of furious disappointment disfigured their faces, -hardening them, from the cruelty of a wicked man who sees his prey -escaping. The furious instinct that sleeps at the bottom of all -human hearts, urged by long unsatisfied passion, burst forth in -that delirious form that vice produces in young and old, gentleman -and working man. The faces were reserved and hard, strong in their -ferocity. Dr. Trifari went forward in an energetic way to open the -door. To let the company know for certain that the medium was there, -he greeted him and the Marquis di Formosa at once, aloud. - -'Good-evening, good evening, Don Pasqualino; we are all expecting -you.' - -He stood aside to let them go in; the men in the room took a long -breath with fierce joy; there was no danger now that the medium would -escape them. And he that spoke every night with spirits, who had -especial communication by favour with wandering souls, he that ought -to have known all the truth, went quietly into the little room where -the meeting was, without suspecting anything. He cast, as usual, an -oblique glance all round, but the Cabalists' faces said nothing new -to him. They had the pallor, contortions, and feverish excitement -usual on Friday evening, but he saw nothing else. Only the Marquis -di Formosa, who was coming in with him, shivered two or three times; -it almost looked as if he wanted to turn back. But the Marquis had -been very excitable for some time past. He stammered in speaking, his -noble countenance was now degraded by traces of his ignoble passion, -he was badly dressed and untidy, had dirty shoes and a frayed collar, -and his ill-shaved beard was disgusting and pitiable. He had got so -excitable since he no longer had any money, since his daughter's -engagement to Dr. Amati. The medium could get no more money out of -him, so avoided him, and only saw him at the Friday evening meetings -in Nardones Road. But that evening the intimacy had begun again, the -Marquis had looked everywhere for the medium, and during the day had -given him fifty francs, making an appointment for the evening at ten -o'clock; indeed, he had anxiously insisted on this appointment, and -the medium had put it down to a disappointed gambler's eagerness to -get lottery numbers. - -The Marquis's manner on the way to the office had been peculiar, -still, Don Pasqualino was accustomed to gamblers' eccentricities, and -took no notice of it. He went to sit at his usual place every week -near the table, putting one hand over his eyes to shelter them from -the glare of the lamp. Around the deep silence still held, broken -by a sigh now and then, and on looking at all their pallid, dumb, -excited faces the medium felt his first suspicion. He tried to do his -usual fantastic humbugging work. - -'It rains, but the sun will come out at midnight.' - -'That is idle chatter,' shouted Trifari, bursting into an ironical -laugh. - -The others around muttered sneeringly. Now there was no longer any -belief in Don Pasqualino's mysterious words. This want of faith stood -out so plainly that the medium drew back as if he wanted to parry an -attack. But he tried again, thinking he could profit as usual from -the feverish imaginations of the Cabalists by striking a sympathetic -chord. - -'It rains, the sun will come out at midnight, but he who wears the -Virgin's scapulary does not get wet.' - -'Don Pasqualino, you are joking,' the glove-cutter said ironically. -The medium darted a look of rage at him. 'You need not look at me -as if you wanted to eat me, Don Pasqualino. Asking the gentlemen's -pardon, you are trying to make fools of us, and we are not the people -to allow it.' - -'My lord, make that ass hold his tongue,' muttered the medium, making -a scornful gesture. - -'He is not such an ass after all, Don Pasqualino,' said Formosa, -keeping down his excitement with difficulty. - -'What do you mean, my lord?' asked Don Pasqualino sharply, getting -up to go away; but Trifari, who had never left the medium's -neighbourhood, put a hand on his shoulder without speaking, and -obliged him to sit down again. The medium sank his head on his breast -a minute to think it over, and gazed sideways at the door. - -'Sit still, Don Pasqualino,' said Formosa slowly, 'we have a lot to -talk about here.' - -A slightly agonized expression went over the caller-up of spirits' -face. Once more looking round the company, he only saw hard, anxious -faces, determined on success. He understood now confusedly. - -'Gaetano the glover is not an ass for saying you are making fools of -us. What you have been doing for three years past looks like a trick. -For three years, you see, you have gone on saying the most disjointed -things with the excuse that the spirits said these things to you. For -three years you have made us stake the very bones of our necks upon -this nonsense of yours; every one of us has not only gained nothing, -but thrown his whole means away, from following your rubbish, and we -are full of woes, some of them incurable. What sort of a conscience -have you? We are ruined!' - -'Yes, we are ruined--ruined!' shouted a chorus of agonized voices. - -The speaker with spirits had often heard these lamentations, -especially lately; but faith had come again into the souls of his -followers. Now, he understood they no longer believed in him. Still, -hiding his fear, he tried to brazen it out. - -'It is not my fault, it is your want of faith.' - -'Rubbish!' the old lord shouted in a rage, whilst the others stormed -against the medium for repeating to them his invariable reason to -account for disappointment. 'Rubbish! how can we have failed in -faith when we have believed in you as in Jesus Christ? How can you -say faith is wanting when, to reward your overflow of chatter, we -have paid through the nose? You have pocketed thousands of francs in -these three years. Don't deny it. Have we no faith? We, who have had -Masses, prayers, and rosaries said; we, who have knelt and beat our -breasts, asking the Lord's favour--have we no faith? Why, we must -have had it! How can you account otherwise for the squandering of -money, for the way we wasted our own means and our families', thus -causing such unhappiness that it would have been nothing but a crime -if we had not believed in you? You say we have no faith; you have -been our God for three years, you have deceived us, and we never said -anything, but went on believing in you after you had taken every -penny from us.' - -'Everything--you have taken everything!' shouted the company. - -'You insult me, that is enough,' said the medium, getting up -resolutely. 'I am going away. Good-evening.' - -'You do not leave this till we get satisfaction!' the Marquis di -Formosa cried out. 'Is it not the case that he will not get out of -this till he does?' he asked the assembled Cabalists. - -'No, no, no!' the company of these cruel madmen shouted ferociously. - -The medium understood, a deadly hue spread over his pallid cheeks, -his frightened glance wandered round in a desperate attempt to fly; -but the fierce gamblers had got up and made a circle round him. Some -of them were very pale, as if they were keeping down strong emotion, -the others were red with rage. In all their eyes the medium read the -same implacable cruelty. - -'I wish to go away,' he said in a whisper, with that hoarse tone -that gave such a mysterious attraction to his voice. - -'None of us would wish to detain you,' said the Marquis di Formosa -with ironical deference, 'if we had not need of you. If you do not -give us lottery numbers, you don't leave this!' he ended up by -shouting in a fit of fury. - -'Lottery numbers, lottery numbers!' hissed Colaneri's thin voice. - -'If not, you don't get out of this!' shrieked Ninetto Costa. - -'Either give numbers, or you stay here!' thundered Dr. Trifari. - -'An end to your fooling; give us the real tip for the lottery,' said -Gaetano, grinding his teeth. - -'Don Pasqualino, make up your mind that those gentlemen won't let you -go away till you have given them lottery numbers--make up your mind -to it,' Don Crescenzio remarked wisely. He wished to pretend he was -not interested in the question. - -'Next week. I promise them to you then; now I have not got them, I -swear it upon the Virgin!' stammered the medium, turning his eyes to -heaven despairingly. - -'What good is next week?' all yelled out. 'It must be to-night, for -to-morrow--quick!' - -'I have not got them, I have not got them,' he stammered again, -shaking his head. - -'You must give them. We will make you give them,' the Marquis roared. -'We can do no more. Either we win this week, or we are ruined. Don -Pasqualino, we have waited long enough; we have believed too much; -you have treated us unfairly. The spirit tells you the real figures, -you know them, you always have known them; but you went on mocking -at us, telling us silly things. We can't wait till next week; before -that we may die, or see someone else die, or go to the galleys. This -evening or to-morrow we must have the true numbers. You understand?' - -'The true--the true ones!' hissed Colaneri. - -'Do not go on talking nonsense; it is past the time for that now,' -shouted Ninetto Costa, with the greatest indignation. - -Still, in spite of feeling conquered and taken hostage to the -unreasonable fury that he had set on fire himself, the medium tried -to fight on. - -'The spirit does not give numbers by force,' he slowly announced. -'You have offended him. He will not speak to me again.' - -'Lies--you are telling lies! A hundred--a thousand times you have -told us that the spirit obeys you, that you do what you like with -him,' retorted the Marquis. 'A hundred thousand times you have told -us that the urn is under orders. Tell the truth; it will be best for -you, I assure you. You are at a bad pass, Don Pasqualino; the spirit -ought to help you. Our patience is exhausted, so is our money, and -other people's, too. The spirit must give you the right numbers.' - -Then the medium stood silent for a little, as if he was collecting -himself, his eyes turned up showing the whites. Everyone looked at -him, but coldly, being accustomed to these antics of his. - -'In a little the camellias will flower,' he said suddenly, trembling -all over. - -But not one of the company troubled himself about this mystic giving -out of lottery numbers. Dr. Trifari, who always carried a book of -dreams in his pocket, did not even take out the torn book to see what -figures corresponded to the camellias. - -'In a little the camellias will flower by the sea, on the mountain,' -repeated the medium, still trembling. - -No one stirred. - -'In a little the camellias will flower by the sea, on the mountain,' -he repeated the third time, trembling with anxiety, looking his -persecutors in the face. - -An incredulous snigger answered him. - -'But what do you want from me?' he cried out, with a gasp of fear. - -'The _real_ numbers,' said Formosa coldly. 'We don't believe these -that you are telling us can be the right ones; that is to say, just -on the chance we will play the numbers corresponding to the mountain, -the sea-coast, and flowering camellias. But the _real_ figures must -be different. While waiting for them, we will play these three, but -we will keep you shut up here in the meanwhile.' - -'Until when?' he asked hurriedly. - -'Until your numbers come out,' retorted the Marquis harshly. - -'Oh, God!' said the medium softly under his breath. - -'You understand, Don Pasqualino, these gentlemen wish to have a -guarantee, and they intend to keep you as a pawn,' the lottery-banker -explained, trying to make out that shutting him up was lawful. 'What -does it signify to you? What trouble is it to tell the truth? If you -have kept them in error up till now, it is time to speak seriously, -Don Pasqualino. These gentlemen have a right to be enraged, and I -know it. Speak, Don Pasqualino, send us off satisfied. You will stay -here till to-morrow at five. When the lottery drawing is over, we -will come and take you in a carriage for an airing. Come, come; do -what you ought to do.' - -'I can't do it,' said the medium, opening out his arms. - -'Don't tell lies. You can, but you won't. The spirits obey you,' said -Colaneri, letting himself go in a passion of rage. - -'Tell them this evening; it will be better for you,' Gaetano the -glover muttered in an ill-natured tone. - -'Get rid of this obstinacy,' Ninetto Costa advised in a brotherly way. - -'Give us the truth--the truth,' stammered the old lawyer, Marzano. - -'I can't tell you,' the medium still said, looking at the doors and -windows. - -Then the Cabalists, on a sign from the Marquis di Formosa, gathered -in the window recess. Only Trifari stayed beside the medium. With a -threatening, cruel face he put his fat, hairy hand on his shoulder. -They spoke to each other a long time, and disputed in a ring, all -heads close together; then, having decided, they turned round. - -'These gentlemen say they are firmly resolved--as they have a right -to be--to get the real lottery numbers, after having made so many -sacrifices,' the Marquis di Formosa said coldly, 'and that therefore -Don Pasqualino will remain shut up here until he makes up his mind -to satisfy our just demands. He cannot go away from here; besides, -Dr. Trifari, who is afraid of nothing, will stay with Don Pasqualino. -To make a noise would be useless, as the neighbours would not hear; -and if by chance Don Pasqualino wished to right himself by going to -law, we have an action ready for him as a cheat, with witnesses and -documents enough to send twenty mediums to prison. It is better, -therefore, to bow your head this time, and try to get off by giving -the right numbers. We are quite decided. Until Don Pasqualino allows -us to win, he will not get out; Dr. Trifari will sacrifice himself to -keep him company. In that other room there is sleeping accommodation -for two and food for several days. Between to-night and to-morrow one -of us by turns will come every four hours to see if he has made up -his mind. We hope he will do so soon.' - -'You are trying to kill me,' said the medium with angelic resignation. - -'You can free yourself when you choose. We wish you good-night,' the -Marquis ended up with, implacably. - -And the seven wicked Cabalists passed in front of the medium, wishing -him good-night ironically. The medium stood there near the table, his -hand lightly placed on the wooden surface, with a tired, suffering -expression on his face. He looked now at one, then at another of the -Cabalists, as if he were questioning their faces to see if any of -them were more civil, and would say a word of release to him. But sad -delusions had hardened these men's hearts; the excitement prevented -them from understanding they were committing a crime. They went in -front of the medium, greeting him, saying a cold phrase or word of -condolence without heeding his suffering expression, his entreating -eyes. - -'Good-night, Don Pasqualino. God enlighten you!' said old Marzano, -shaking his head. - -'We ask too much of God,' the medium answered in a very melancholy -voice. - -'Good-night; quiet sleep,' the glover ironically wished him. His -words, countenance, and voice had all become cutting. - -'So I wish you,' the medium answered darkly, lowering his eyelids to -deaden the cruel flash of revenge that shone in his eyes. - -'Good-night, good-night, Don Pasqualino,' Ninetto Costa muttered -rather regretfully; his frivolous nature was so opposed to tragedy. -'We will soon meet each other again.' - -'Of course,' the man of the spirits muttered with a slight grin. - -'Good-night,' Michele the shoeblack ventured to remark. He was a keen -accomplice in that gentlemanly plot, and thought it made a gentleman -of him to be mixed up in it. 'Good-night; keep in good health.' - -The medium did not answer him even. He scorned to cast a glance at -the deformity, who belonged to the common folk he came from himself, -out of whom he could never get any money. - -'Pasqualino, do you intend to give these _true_ numbers?' asked -Colaneri, passing in front of him, still wild with rage. - -'I cannot give them like this, being bullied into it.' - -'You are joking. We are all your friends here,' squeaked the -Professor. 'Do as you like. Good-night.' - -'Good-night; the Madonna go with you,' the medium muttered piously, -intensifying the mysticism of his voice. - -'Dear Don Pasqualino, come, be good-natured before we go,' said the -Marquis di Formosa with sudden affability. 'Give us real numbers, and -your prison will last only till to-morrow evening at five o'clock.' - -'I know nothing,' said the medium, darting a look of hatred at the -Marquis, since it was the noble lord who had brought him to this bad -pass. - -They joined each other at the door to go out, leaving him alone with -Dr. Trifari, who went backwards and forwards quietly and coldly from -the room alongside, with that icy determination born villains have in -carrying out a misdeed. Up till then the medium, except for a shadow -crossing his face, leaving its traces of boredom and sorrow, but for -a humble, beseeching glance, had given tokens of sufficient courage; -but when he saw the others were going away, when he felt he was to be -left alone with Dr. Trifari for long hours, days, and weeks, perhaps, -all his courage fell, the cowardice of an imprisoned man rose up, -and, stretching out his arms, he called out: - -'Don't go away! don't go away!' - -At that agonized cry the accomplices in that imprisonment stood -still; their faces, set like stern judges till then, got suddenly -pale. That was the only moment of the whole gloomy evening they -realized they were condemning a human creature, a fellow-Christian, -a man like themselves, to a frightful punishment. It was the only -moment they saw the whole extent of what they were doing in its -legal and moral bearings. But the demon of gain had taken possession -of them, soul and body, completely. Every one of them, turning -back, surrounded the medium, still asking him for lottery numbers, -certain real numbers, that he knew, and up till then would not give -them. Then, choking with emotion, understanding they were turning -the weapons against him that he had wounded them with, the man who -had gradually brought the waves of a slow shipwreck over them, who -had taken their money and their souls, when confronted with that -persistent, malignant cruelty that nothing could soften, that demon -his own voice had called up, that real evil spirit he had truly got -in communication with, the cowardly medium felt a tremendous fear, -and began to sob like a child. The others, alarmed and disturbed, -gazed at him; but the demon was stronger than all their wills -together. The supreme hour of their life had come for old and young, -gentlemen and working men--the tragic hour when nothing can prevent a -tragedy, when everything pushes men forward to a tragedy. - -Hearing the medium weep like a child, drying his tears with a -flaming, torn pocket-handkerchief, none of them felt pity. All felt -the warmer, keener desire for lottery numbers to save them from the -ruin that threatened them. They left him, to weep meanly, like a -frightened fool; one by one, making no noise, they went slowly from -that house that had become a prison. He, still going on sobbing, -stretched his ears, and heard the door shut dolefully, with that sort -of noise that gives echoes in the soul. Trifari, standing behind the -door, went putting up chains and bolts, shutting himself up with -the new prisoner, with no fear either of the man or of the spirits -he might evoke. The hairy red face, when it showed in the shining -circle of the lamp, had something animal in it; it showed cruelty -and obstinacy in cruelty. On coming in again, the doctor breathed -in a relieved way. He looked around, as if the departure of the -Cabalists, his friends who had deputed him to be gaoler, pleased him. -Now he still went and came from the next room, carrying backwards and -forwards all sorts of things. Then he came back from the bedroom, -having changed his clothes; he had put on an old jacket instead -of his frock-coat. The medium followed all his gaoler's movements -closely, for, like all prisoners, he studied his only companion with -profound observation. At one point they exchanged a cold, hard glare -as from prisoner to turnkey. - -'Do you want to smoke?' the doctor asked from a corner of the room. - -'I don't smoke,' the medium answered sulkily. - -'Won't you sit down?' Trifari asked the medium in a whisper. - -'Thank you, I will,' he replied, letting himself down on a chair. - -'Do you wish to sleep?' - -'No, thank you.' - -The doctor sat down, too, then, beside the table, putting one hand -over his eyes as if to shield them from the light. There was deep, -nocturnal silence. Outside the rain had ended; inside the long, -gloomy vigil began. - - - - - CHAPTER XV - - SACRILEGE--LOVE'S DREAM FLED - - -Bianca Maria Cavalcanti and Antonio Amati's love for each other -had got stronger and sadder. Indeed, the secret sorrow gave some -attractive flavour of tears to their passion; what had been an -idyll between the innocent pious girl of twenty and the man of -forty had acquired dramatic force and depth. Innocently, with the -trustingness of hearts that love for the first time, they had -dreamt of living, spending their life together, holding each other -by the hand as they went on the long road; but Formosa's hostile -face rose continually between them. In that troubled summer which -had unhinged the Marquis di Formosa's mind more, the position of -the lovers had gone on getting worse, together with the old lord's -increasing moroseness. People cannot live with impunity alongside -of physical or moral infirmities, even if they are heroic or -indifferent; and neither Bianca Maria nor Antonio Amati was selfish -or indifferent. They did not manage to shut themselves from moral -contact with Carlo Cavalcanti, nor to give themselves up entirely -to their deep love. Moral as well as physical fevers fill the air -with miasma; there is an infectious warmth that sets the atmospheric -elements out of balance and poisons the air subtly and heavily, so -that the healthiest have to bend their heads, feeling oppressed and -suffocated. They were good, honest, and pitiful, their souls were -purely filled with love, so that no acid, however powerful, could -corrode the noble metal; but the air around was poisoned by Carlo -Cavalcanti's moral disease, and they could hardly exist now in that -atmosphere. - -It was an unhealthy summer. Whatever means of persuasion Dr. Amati -used, he could not get Carlo Cavalcanti to send his sickly daughter -to the country. Stronger than any argument or anger was the obstinacy -of the hardened gambler; he looked on his daughter as a spiritual -source of lottery numbers, and put her to torture, so that she might -fall into visions again, and he with his disturbed brain, like an old -fool, tried to force her to _see_. When the doctor, in despair and -anger, insisted she must go to the country, the Marquis, who felt -no shame now in asking money from him, promising always to give it -back, took up a tone of offended pride, and the doctor, intimidated -at bottom by the old lord's grand airs, gave up insisting, and put -off the attack till another time. Once he very nearly got Carlo -Cavalcanti to go away too, with his daughter, by describing to him -the healthy freshness of this out-of-the-way country place, and -the old noble almost got ready to start. But he must have made -inquiries, and found out that in that small village there was no -lottery shop; it was necessary to write or telegraph to Campobasso. -Even the telegraph-office was in another village; there were endless -difficulties in playing a ticket, and he must have felt at that time -more than ever chained to Naples, to the company of gamblers, and -to Don Crescenzio's lottery shop. He bluntly refused to go, without -giving any reason. The girl bent her head before his decision; she -had always obeyed him, and she could not rebel. Amati trembled with -rage, angry with her as well; but at once a great pity subdued him. -The poor, innocent, suffering girl was wasting away; she could not -bear that her lover should refuse to submit. She gazed at him so -earnestly with astonished sad eyes that he forgave her for her filial -submission. - -It was an unhealthy summer. Each year the doctor had kept up the -attentive habit of spending a month with his mother, the good -old peasant woman in the country, doing the simplest kinds of -work--resting, not reading, neither calling nor seeing visitors, -keeping always with his mother, speaking the peasant's dialect again, -building up his physical and moral health by rustic habits. Well, -that year, tied by love's chain, he put off his start from day to day -to Molise, feeling all the loss of putting it off, growing pale every -time a letter came from his mother, dictated by her to the estate -agent--letters that were full of melancholy summonses to come to her. -The doctor stayed on in Naples, displeased with himself and others, -worshipping Bianca Maria, hating the Marquis. The poor thing's dreams -were always disturbed by her father's delusions; she fell off daily -in health, and the doctor could do nothing to cure her. All he could -manage was that, by offering his carriage, Bianca Maria should take -long drives by the sea on the gentle slopes that lovingly enclose -Naples. Old Margherita went with her, and sometimes the doctor also -dared to go out with the young girl. When he heard of such a thing, -the Marquis di Formosa frowned, the old family blood boiled; he -felt inclined to punish the bold plebeian, who behaved as if he was -affianced to the high-born maiden. But he held his tongue; he had -had so many money transactions with Amati, and went on having them -every day, keeping up still more pride, decorum, and honour with it. -Besides, everyone said, with a compassionate smile, that Dr. Amati -would soon marry the Marchesina Cavalcanti, as if the doctor would be -doing a kindly act to marry her. - -Up there, in green Capodimonte woods, with its hundred-year-old -trees, its fields carpeted with flowers, down there along the -charming Posillipo Road, that goes down to the vapoury Flegrei -fields, the lovers' idyll began again before Nature, ever lovely in -Naples, with its gentle lines and colouring. The maiden's delicate, -bloodless cheeks, with the sun and the open air going round her head, -got coloured by a thin pink flush, as if her impoverished blood was -moving quicker. She smiled sometimes, and threw back her head to -drink in the pure air; she managed to laugh, showing white teeth and -pinky gums that anæmia had made colourless. Then the doctor, become -a boy again, chattered and laughed with her, looking into her eyes, -taking her by the hand, sometimes loading her with field flowers. -They forgot old Margherita, who forgot them, as she sat on the grass -stupefied by the free summer air, as old people are apt to be; but -they were so loving and modest with it, that the forgetfulness was no -sin. The maiden went back to the house intoxicated with light, sun, -and love, her hands full of flowers, her pink nostrils dilated fully -to breathe in the pure air still; but as the carriage got into the -city streets her youthful smile died away, and when they went under -the Rossi Palace entrance she bent her diminished head. - -'What is the matter with you?' the doctor asked her anxiously. - -'It is nothing,' she replied, the great answer of timid, distracted -women who hide their fears. - -She went up to her bare, sad room very slowly, but still had a smile -for Antonio Amati on the threshold. She went into the house with a -resolute look, as if she were keeping down alarm or distaste. Often -Carlo Cavalcanti came to meet her, coldly angry, his face distorted -by his bad hours of passion. She shivered, while his very look made -the blood fly from her face, and chased away the whole idyll of love, -took away all the sweetness from the sun and from love. When she -got into the drawing-room, she put her big bundle of flowers down -on a corner of the table. The old lord questioned her anxiously and -greedily about what road she had gone and what she had seen. Bianca -answered feebly in short phrases, turning her head away; but he -persisted--he wanted to know all she had seen. Nowadays, everything -his daughter saw filled him with uncertainties, curiosity, and -sorrow; he tried continually to find out in whatever she saw a mystic -source of the cipher of lottery numbers. He now considered she was -a medium, a much better one than Don Pasqualino, because she was a -woman, an innocent maiden, and unconscious of her powers. She did -not know it, but she was a medium. Had she not seen the spirit that -fatal night weeping and hailing her? He went on wildly with his close -questioning, obliging his daughter to follow him in his freaks. - -'What have you seen? what have you seen?' the gambler, who forgot he -was a father, asked in anguish. - -How love's young dream flew away, with its light and happiness! how -all the oppressive ghosts of the bare old house gathered round her -from that old man raving alarmingly, and obliging her to go through -the same terror. Also, every time she mentioned the name of Antonio -Amati, her preserver, friend, and lover, the Marquis di Formosa -reddened with rage. She saw that her father had ended by hating -Amati thoroughly for the very services he had done him, for the -very gratitude he owed him. Formosa's face grew so hard and fierce -that Bianca Maria was frightened. Her heart was torn between her -unwavering daughterly respect and her love for Antonio Amati. Once -Margherita hinted before Formosa at rumours of a marriage between -her ladyship and the doctor. The Marquis got into a fury and said -'No!' with such a yell that Margherita put her hands to her ears in a -fright. - -'Still, her ladyship must marry some day,' she remarked timidly and -maternally, 'and the doctor might be better than another.' - -'I said no,' the Marquis retorted darkly. - -From that time forward he spoke in a still more wild and eccentric -way. Sometimes in the middle of the many mysterious ghostly -incoherencies his mind wandered amongst he came back in speaking to -his daughter to a ruling thought--to love looked on as a stain, a -sin, an ingrained want of purity in soul and body. The girl often -blushed in her simplicity on hearing the abuse heaped on love, and -then he praised the chastity that keeps the heart in a state of -grace--that allows human eyes to see supernatural visions, and go -through life in a sweet, dreamy state. He would get excited, and -curse love as the source of all defilement, all evils and sorrow. -Bianca Maria hid her face in her hands, as if all her father's -strictures fell on her head. - -'My mother was a saintly woman, and she loved you,' she remarked one -day, repenting at once of her audacity. - -'She died from that love,' he answered darkly, as if he was speaking -to himself. - -'I would like to die like her,' the maiden whispered. - -'You will die accursed--cursed by me, remember that!' he shouted, -like a demon. 'Woe to the daughter of Casa Cavalcanti who stifles -her heart in the shame of an earthly love! Woe to the maiden who -prefers the vulgar horrors of earthly passion to the purest heights -of spiritual life!' - -She bent her head without answering, feeling that iron hand ever -weighing more on her life to bend and break it. She dare not tell -her lover of such scenes; only sometimes, breaking momentarily the -bonds of respect her father held her in, she repeated to Amati her -despairing cry: - -'Take me away--take me away!' - -He, too, now had lost all his calm. He himself was taken by this -plan of carrying her off, of taking the maiden away as his comrade, -his adored companion--of freeing her from the dark nightmare of a -life that was a daily agony to her. Yes, he would carry off the poor -victim from the unconscious executioner; he would tear her from -that atmosphere of vice, mystery, and sadness; bring her into his -house, his heart; defend her against all this folly, these tempests. -The Marquis di Formosa would be left to struggle with his passion -alone. He would no longer drag to the abyss of desolation he was -plunging into this poor meek, innocent girl. Every day this longing -to save her grew in his heart, until it became all-powerful. He -longed to speak so that his grand dream should become a reality. -Gravely and solemnly he had promised Bianca Maria that sad evening -she had confided her sad family secret to him that he would save -her, and an honest man must keep his promise, even if it induce -in him the wildest ecstasies or bring on a sorrowful depression -at certain times. He longed to do it. In the meanwhile the days -ran on. Some uncertainty still withheld him, even when he was most -strongly resolved to ask Formosa for his daughter's hand. He vaguely -felt that the answer would be decisive--that after it was said his -life would be settled for him. But an important incident all of a -sudden made him come to a decision. The Marquis di Formosa, amidst -the fluctuations of his mind, kept up his mystical piety, and every -Friday he spent hours in prayer in the chapel before Our Lady of -Sorrows and the life-sized pierced Ecce Homo crowned with thorns. -With that faith of Southerners which has bursts of enthusiasm, but is -also bound in by a close net of the commonplace keeping it down to -the earth, he constantly mingled heavenly things with all the worldly -complications of his ruling passion, and sometimes in his despair he -made the responsibility of his ruin rest on his Creator. - -'You allowed this to happen; it is all Your fault, Jesus Christ!' -the Marquis called out in his prayer. But on terrible days his faith -became still more accusing and sacrilegious, unjust. 'It is all Your -fault; You allowed it to happen!' he cursed on, tears burning his -eyes, his voice choked. Indeed, one evening when Bianca Maria thought -her father had gone out, on passing the chapel door she heard angry, -sorrowful words coming from it. She put in her head, and saw her -father kneeling with his arms thrown round the Ecce Homo. First he -deplored his misfortunes; then he set to calling out blasphemies, -cursing all the names of the Godhead impiously; then he repented -quickly, asking pardon for his untrue and sacrilegious words, until -a new outburst of rage came on, and he unclasped the holy image with -scorn and threatening words. In his raving he threatened Jesus Christ -his Saviour, bound to the column, to punish Him--yes, punish Him--if -by next week He did not allow him to win a large sum at the lottery. -Bianca Maria, horrified, seeing no end now to his sacrilegious -madness, fled, hiding her face in her hand; and, shut up in her own -room, she prayed the Lord all night that her father's ignorant -heresy should not be punished. Now she always shut herself up at -night, to shield her slumbers from her father's influence, because -he always wanted her to call up the spirit, and spoke to her of -those ghosts as of living persons--in short, keeping her constantly -under that frightful nightmare. But she slept very little, in spite -of the solitude and silence of her room; for her strained nerves -shook at the slightest noise, because she was always afraid that -her father would knock at her door, and try to open it with another -key, to get her to ask the ministering spirit for lottery numbers. -While she was slumbering in a light sleep from which the slightest -noise wakened her, she started as if excited voices were calling -her, and gazed into the shadow with wide-open eyes, as if she saw a -spectre rising up by her bed. How often she got up, half dressed, -and ran bare-footed over the floor, because she thought a light -hand scratched on the pillow, touched her forehead, or patted her -hair! One night, a Saturday, she heard her father going up and down, -as she lay awake, all through the house, passing before her door -several times, in the wild cogitations of his storm-tossed soul. In a -whisper she called down on him Heaven's peace--the peace that seemed -to have deserted his mind altogether. But just as she was going to -sleep again, a queer, dull noise wakened her, quivering; it was as -if a very heavy body was being pulled along, making the doors and -windows shake with that dull rumble. Sometimes the mysterious noise -quieted down and was silent; after about a minute's pause it began -again, stronger, and at the same time more deadened. She remained -raised on her pillows, fastened there by an unknown iron hand: what -was happening there? She would have liked to cry out, ring the bell, -get hold of people, but that rumble deprived her of voice; she kept -silence in a cold sweat, the whole nerves of her body strained to -hear only. The noise, like an earthquake, was getting nearer and -nearer to her door; she clasped her hands in the dark, and shut her -eyes hard not to see, praying she might not see. Together with that -dragging of a heavy, unsteady object, she heard laboured breathing, -as if someone was attempting a task above his strength; then a hard -knock, as if her door had been hit by a catapult. She thought her -door had violently burst open, and fell back on her pillows, not -hearing or seeing anything else, losing her feeble senses. Later on, -a good time after, she recovered consciousness, frozen, motionless; -she stretched her ears, but she heard nothing else for a long time. -In the confusion there now was between her dreams and realities, she -believed that all she had heard was only a doleful nightmare that had -oppressed her with its terrors. Had she dreamt it, therefore--that -queer earthquake, that laboured breathing, that strong blow on her -door? - -In the morning, having rested a little, she got up easier, and, after -saying her prayers, went to her father's room, as she had to do -every day, to wish him good-morning. But she did not find him; the -bed was unused. Several times lately the Marquis di Formosa had not -come home at night. The first time it had caused Bianca Maria and -the servants great alarm, but when his lordship came in, he scolded -them for having sent to look for him, saying he would not stand being -spied upon, he would do what he liked. Still, every time Bianca Maria -knew that he had spent the night out of the house she got uneasy; -he was so old and eccentric; his madness led him into dangerous -company, and made him weak and credulous. She always feared some -danger would befall him one of these nights on the road, or in some -secret Cabalist meeting. She trembled that morning, too, and went on -into the other rooms, thinking over what had happened at night, again -asking herself if all that did not point to a dreadful mystery. She -found Giovanni sweeping carefully. - -'Did his lordship not come home last night?' she asked with pretended -carelessness. - -'He did come in, but he went out very soon again,' answered the -servant. - -'He did not go to bed, I think,' she said in a low voice, casting -down her eyes. - -'No, my lady, he did not,' said old Giovanni. - -Margherita came up just then; she said something hurriedly to her -husband, who agreed to it, and vanished into the kitchen. - -'I asked Giovanni to draw the bucket of water from the well this -morning,' the old waiting-woman said. 'I am not strong enough to-day.' - -'Poor thing! it tires you too much,' Bianca Maria remarked -compassionately, her eyes full of tears. - -'I am rather old, but I could do anything for you,' said the faithful -one in a motherly voice. 'But I don't know what has come to the -bucket this morning; it is so heavy I can't pull it up. I begged -Giovanni, who is stronger than I am, to take my place.' - -Both went away from there, because Margherita held to the honour of -combing out Bianca Maria's thick black tresses. But Giovanni came and -interrupted the combing. He called his wife out, not daring to come -in, and they chattered together some time, while Bianca Maria waited, -her black hair loose over her white wrapper. Margherita came back in -disorder; the comb shook in her hand. - -'What is the matter?' asked Bianca Maria. - -'Nothing, nothing,' the woman uttered hastily. - -'Tell me what it is,' the other persisted, looking at the old woman. - -'It is that Giovanni, even, cannot pull up the bucket.' - -'Well, but why are you alarmed?' - -'Giovanni says there is something in the way.' - -'Something in the way? What do you mean?' - -'He has called Francesco, the porter. They will pull together. -Perhaps they will get over the difficulty.' - -'What can it be?' the girl stammered, growing deadly pale. - -'I don't know, my lady--I don't know,' said the old woman, trying to -begin her combing again. - -'No,' said the other firmly, waving off the hand with the comb, and -gathering up her hair with a pin--'no; we had better go and see.' - -'My lady, my lady, what can we do? Giovanni and Francesco are there. -We had best stay here.' - -'I am going there,' the girl insisted, going towards the kitchen. - -Old Giovanni and Francesco in their shirt-sleeves were pulling at the -rope with all their strength, and it hardly moved, creaking as if it -was going to break. Both Giovanni's and Francesco's faces showed, -besides the great fatigue they were enduring, that they were in a -great fright. - -Occasionally, with heaving sides and cramped arms, they gave up -pulling, and cast a frightened look at each other. From the kitchen -doorway, in a white wrapper, with her hair down, Bianca Maria looked -on, while Margherita, standing behind her, begged her in a whisper to -go away for the love of the Virgin! to go away, in God's name! - -'But, in any case, what can it be?' asked Bianca Maria steadily, -turning to the two men, whose growing fears deprived them of strength. - -'Who can tell, my lady?' Giovanni stammered. 'This weight is not a -good thing.' - -But while all kept their eyes fixed on the well, waiting on in -anguish, all feeling a shudder from the delay and fear of the -unknown, the _thing_ the two men were pulling up hit twice against -the sides of the well, noisily from right to left. The dull, heavy -noise echoed in Bianca Maria's heart, for it was the same she had -heard at night. A little frightened cry came from her mouth; she -pressed her nails right into her flesh, wringing her hands to keep -down her alarm before the servants. But once more, with a stronger, -nearer sound, the _thing_ beat against the side of the well. - -'It is coming,' said the message-boy affrightedly. - -'It is coming,' Giovanni repeated in consternation. - -Margherita, standing behind Bianca Maria, could not command her -strained nerves; she prayed in a trembling whisper, 'Madonna, help -us! Madonna, deliver us!' But what came up to the well-brink, -bounding, quivering, with the bucket-rope wound three times round its -neck, the chain hanging on the breast, made her yell with fright. It -was a man's trunk, water and blood dripping from the forehead over -the sorrowful cheeks and bared breasts, water and blood flowing from -the wounded side; blood and tears were in his eyes, and over the face -and breast, which all had death's livid hue. - -Yelling from fright, Francesco and Giovanni ran off, calling -for 'Help! help!' The women, mistress and maid, rushed to the -drawing-room and fell in each other's arms, the one hiding her -face on the other's breast, not daring to raise it, haunted by the -frightful sight of the murdered body. It was quite livid, bloody -in the face, breast, and enfolded arms, with a despairing look in -the eyes and half-open mouth, which seemed to be sobbing. It stood -against the parapet dripping blood and water, bound by the cord and -chain. The message-boy and the butler had flung downstairs, calling -out there was a dead man, a murdered man. At once, on the stairs, the -gateway, the whole neighbourhood, the news spread that a murdered -man's body had been found in the Rossi Palace well. - -Everyone opened doors and rushed to windows; but Francesco and -Giovanni's confused, breathless story caused such fright no one -dared go in at the Marquis di Formosa's open door, or to the kitchen -where the corpse lay. The women were still clinging to each other in -the drawing-room; though Margherita tried to command herself for her -mistress' sake, she felt the girl's body grow flabby from want of -vital force--sometimes it stiffened as in a nervous convulsion. But -the great whispering in the palace had got even into the doctor's -flat, and his heart was always quivering, expecting a catastrophe. -He put his head out of the window and saw people everywhere; the -sound of voices came up even to him, saying that a murdered man had -been found in the Rossi Palace well, and that the body was in the -Cavalcantis' kitchen. Just then Giovanni, on thinking it over that -the two women had been left alone, felt sorry that he had made such -a fuss, for he knew the scandal would be reflected on the Cavalcanti -family, and he was going upstairs again. - -'Is there really a dead man?' Amati asked him, not managing to -conceal how disturbed he was, in spite of his strength of mind. - -'Yes, sir, there really is,' said the butler, with desperation in his -eyes and voice. - -'Who saw it?' - -'Everyone saw it.' - -'What! everyone? Did your mistress see it, too?' - -'Yes, sir, she did.' - -The doctor cast a furious look at him and went into the fatal house, -where a tragic breath had always blown from the first moment he put -his foot in it, where any queer, doleful tragedy was possible to -happen. He wandered about the rooms like a madman in search of Bianca -Maria, and found her sitting on a large drawing-room chair, so pale, -so terrified, so silent, that Margherita was kneeling before her in -alarm, holding her hands, begging her to say a word--only a word. - -Bianca Maria glanced at Amati, but seemed not to know him; she kept -cold and inert and stiff in her frightened attitude. - -'Bianca,' said the doctor gently. She still kept silence. 'Bianca,' -he said louder, and he took her hand. At the light touch she -quivered, gave a cry, and came back to consciousness. 'My love, my -love! speak to me--weep,' he suggested, looking at her magnetically, -trying to put his strong will and courage into her. All of a sudden, -as if that will and strength had unsealed her lips, she began to cry -out: - -'The dead man! take him away--take away the dead man!' - -'Now, now, don't be frightened; we are taking him away; keep calm,' -the doctor said to her. - -'The dead man--the dead man!' she cried out, covering her face with -her hands wildly. 'For goodness' sake take the dead man away, or -he will carry me off. Do not let him take me away, I entreat you, -darling, if you love me.' - -The doctor gave Margherita a look bidding her take care of Bianca, -and went into the kitchen, followed by Giovanni. In the lobby were -some people who were already speaking of calling the magistrate; -there were the porter, his wife, the Fragalà and the Parascandolos' -servants, and Francesco the errand boy, but not one of them dared -enter the kitchen, even after the doctor went in. They let him go -alone, waiting on silently in the pantry, still wild with fear. The -doctor, though accustomed to see dead bodies, being shaken by that -catastrophe that affected him so particularly, broken-spirited with -the thought of the consequences, went into the kitchen a victim to -the deepest melancholy, and the sight of the bleeding forehead, -weeping eyes, the tied, wounded hands, the livid trunk, wounded, -bleeding, and bound, increased the feeling. But the coolness of a man -of science, accustomed to see death, took the upper hand; going right -up to it, he saw the head had a crown of thorns, and with perfect -stupefaction he understood it all. - -It was the Ecce Homo. The wooden, life-sized half-figure of the -Redeemer tied to the column, powerfully carved and painted, had all -the disagreeable appearance of a bleeding corpse; the well water it -had fallen into had discoloured the flesh and the vermilion blood, -making it run, with the double magical effect of murder and drowning. -Still, Dr. Amati felt his heart tighten on finding out this doleful -farce--that mixture of cruelty and grotesqueness. Amazement was his -predominant feeling; the strong man only thought of Bianca Maria's -great suffering, of her sickness and sorrow, now mortally wounded, -perhaps, by this gloomy, mystical, childish madness that the Marquis -di Formosa was proud of. All that was urgent now was to save her. - -'It is the Ecce Homo,' he said shortly, as he went out to the people -assembled in the pantry. - -'What do you say, sir?' Giovanni cried out, feeling the same -astonishment, increased by horror, of the sacrilege. - -'It is the Ecce Homo,' he repeated, looking coldly at them all with -that imperious look of his that permitted of no reply. 'Go into the -kitchen, dry it, and take it back to the chapel.' - -They looked at each other, asking opinions; having got over the -horror of a dead man, the outrage on the Divinity shocked them. - -'You may send for the priest afterwards,' he said, 'to give a -blessing;' for he knew the heart of the Naples folk. - -The girl was still lying on the armchair, her eyes covered with her -hands, always muttering to herself: - -'The dead man--the dead man, dear love! Take him away. Get the dead -man carried away.' - -'There is no dead man, dear,' he said, with the gentleness that came -from his great pity. - -'Yes, yes there was,' she whispered, shaking her head in a melancholy -way, as if nothing would convince her to the contrary. - -'There was no dead man,' he answered gravely, feeling it was -necessary to bring her back to reason. - -He tried to take her hands from her eyes, but they stiffened, and an -agonized expression came over the girl's face. - -'Look at me for a moment,' he whispered in an insinuating tone. - -'I can't--I can't!' she said in a sad, mysterious voice. - -'Why not?' - -'Because I would see the dead man, love--my love!' she said, still -with that deep sadness that brought tears to the doctor's eyes. - -'Dear, I swear to you that there is no dead man,' he replied again -gently, as persistent as with a sick child. - -In the meanwhile he tried to feel her pulse, and the temperature of -her skin. Strange to say, while she seemed almost delirious, her hand -was icy and the pulse was slow and feeble. It gave him a pang at the -heart, for that want of life and strength showed him a continuous -incurable wasting away. He would have liked to find out about that -curious disease which made the blood so feeble and the nerves so -irritable, but his heart loved Bianca Maria too well for his science -to keep its clear-sightedness. He could not find out the secret of -the impoverished blood or the disordered nerves; he only understood -thus, darkly, that her constitution was wasting away from weakness -and sensitiveness. He did not think of medicine or rare remedies; -he just thought, in a confused way, he must save her--that was all. -Ah, yes, he must snatch her at once from that madman's claws--this -poor innocent girl that was subjected daily to being startled by this -hopeless folly; he must take her away from that growing wretchedness -of soul and body, from that fatal going downhill to sin and -death--his poor darling who only knew how to suffer without rebellion -or complaint. He must act at once; he was a man and a Christian. He -must save this unhappy girl, as he so often had saved people from -hydrophobia, or as, on one occasion, he had saved a wretched man who -had got tetanus. At once--at once--he must save her, or he would not -be in time. Where was the Marquis, then? Where was the cruel madman -that staked his name, his honour, his daughter? - -'Sir, it is done,' said Giovanni, putting in his head at the door. -The old servant was very pale. After being relieved from the -terrifying impression of what he thought was a murdered corpse, the -serious insult his master had done to the Godhead came to disturb -his humble religious conscience. That figure of the Redeemer, with -the cord round His neck, hung down in the well, as if it was the -mangled remains of a murdered man--to see that representation of the -meek Jesus so scorned made him think that his master's reason had -given way; such sacrilege must bring a curse on the house. He called -out Margherita, to tell her what had happened, while the neighbours -round about--on the stair, at the entrance, and in the shops--were -going about saying that the Ecce Homo of Cavalcanti House had done -a miracle, resuscitating a man that had been murdered, by putting -Himself in his place. Everywhere, in different ways, they got lottery -numbers out of the extraordinary event. - -'The dead man, poor fellow!' the girl went on, half unconscious, the -voice like a faint breath from her lips. - -'Do not say that again, Bianca Maria. Believe what I say,' the doctor -replied with gentle firmness. 'There was no dead man; it was the Ecce -Homo statue.' - -'Who was it?' she cried out, getting up and looking wildly at him. - -He gave a start. He thought it was the crisis, her mind having -wandered so long, so he repeated, trying to influence her by his -steady gaze: - -'It was the Ecce Homo figure. Your father flung it in the well, with -a rope round its neck.' - -'My God!' she shrieked in a loud voice, raising her arms to heaven. -'God forgive us!' - -She fell on her knees and bent forward, touching the ground with her -lips. Weeping, praying, sobbing, she went on imploring the Lord to -forgive her and her father. Nothing served to quiet her, to get her -up from the ground, where she often burst out in long crying-fits. -The doctor vainly tried gentleness, kindness, force, violence; he did -not succeed in quieting her. Bianca Maria's excitement increased, -though there were some stupefied intervals, after which it burst -out louder again. Sometimes, while she seemed to be keeping calm, a -quick thought crossed her brain, and she threw herself on the ground, -crying out: 'Ecce Homo! Ecce Homo, forgive us!' - -The doctor looked on, shuddering, his head down on his breast, -feeling his will powerless, his science useless. What was to be -done? He called in Giovanni and wrote two lines on a card--an order -for morphia, which he sent for to the druggist's. But he was afraid -to use it: Bianca Maria was not strong enough to bear it. She -despairingly, with strong, queer vitality, beat her breast, muttering -the Latin words of the _Miserere_, weeping always, as if she had an -inexhaustible fountain of tears. - -This had gone on for an hour, when quietly the Marquis came into the -room. He looked older, wearied, and broken with the weight of life. - -'What is the matter with Bianca Maria?' he asked timidly. 'What have -you done to her?' - -'It is you that are killing her,' the doctor said freezingly. - -'You are right--quite right. Darling, I am an assassin!' shrieked the -old man. - -That man of sixty cast himself at his daughter's feet, trembling with -shame and humiliation, shaken by dry sobs. Under the doctor's eyes -the scene went on, with filial and paternal positions reversed. That -bald, gray-haired father, with his tall, failing form, full of dread -and sorrow, shedding old folks' rare burning tears, feeling the whole -horror of his fault, bent before his young daughter, begging her to -forgive him, with a childish stammer in his voice, just like a boy -relieving his childish repentance by crying. The daughter was still -trembling from the great wound his inconsiderate cruelty had given -her soul; it was quivering with the gall his cruelty still poured -into it, while her father's humiliation made her groan still more -dolefully. To the strong man, whose life had always been an honest, -noble struggle, directed always towards the highest ideals, both of -them seemed so weak, so wretched, so utterly unhappy--the one as -torturer, the other as victim--that he once more regretted the time -when the tragic Cavalcanti family had not got hold of his heart, to -grind it to powder. But it was too late; that misery, unhappiness, -and weakness struck him so directly now that Amati, strong man as he -was, suffered in all these spasms, and could not control his instinct -to give help, the feeling that was the secret of his noble soul. - -'Forgive me, dear--forgive your old father; trample on me, I deserve -it--but forgive me,' the Marquis di Formosa went on saying, seized -with a wild, grovelling humility. - -'Do not say that--do not say it. I am a wretched sinner; ask -forgiveness of Ecce Homo, whom you have insulted, or our house is -accursed, and we will all die and be damned. For the sake of our -eternal salvation ask Ecce Homo to forgive you.' - -'Whatever you wish, whatever you order me, I will do,' he answered, -still grovelling, holding out his hands beseechingly; 'but Ecce Homo -deserted me, Bianca Maria--he betrayed me again, you see,' he ended -by saying, again seized with the rage that had led him to do the -sacrilegious, wicked, grotesque act. - -'You frighten me,' she cried out, stepping back and putting out her -arms to prevent him touching her: 'you--a man--wanted to punish the -Divine Jesus. Ask for forgiveness if you do not want us all to die -damned.' - -'You are right,' he muttered, frightened, humbled again. 'Do what you -like with me. I will do penance. I will obey you as if you were my -mother. I am a murderer, a scoundrel.' - -The Marquis threw himself into a chair, broken down, his breast -upheaving, his head bent, and keeping a glassy stare on the ground. -His daughter was standing in a white dressing-gown that modestly -covered her from head to foot, her black hair loose on her shoulders, -and she had the dreamy, sorrowful look of one walking in her sleep, -wakened from wandering, pleasant dreams. The doctor broke in: - -'Bianca Maria,' he said. - -'What is it you want?' she replied, feebly looking at her father, who -was still plunged in deep dejection. - -'Your father is much distressed; you are in pain--you must both -forget this sad scene. Will you listen to kindly good advice from me?' - -'You are goodness and kindness itself,' she whispered, raising her -eyes to heaven. 'Speak--I will obey you.' - -'This has been a very sad time, Bianca Maria, but it may bring good -fruit. Your father and you have wept together--tears cleanse. By your -common sufferings, by the love you bear him, you ought to ask your -father not to humiliate himself so far as to ask your pardon, but to -promise you, in the name of all you have suffered, to do what you -will request him later on, when you are calmer; tell him so, Bianca -Maria.' - -The girl's mobile face, which had been drawn and quivering, at the -doctor's commanding, quiet, amiable words, at that voice that had -the magic power of giving her ease and faith in life, was getting -tranquillized. Her soul, broken and tired, was resting. - -'So be it,' she whispered, as if she was finishing an inward prayer -aloud. Going up to the big chair, where her father lay looking quite -broken down, she bent towards him, and in a very gentle voice said: - -'Father, you love me, do you not?' - -'Yes, dear,' said he. - -'Will you do me a favour?' - -'I will do everything--all, Bianca Maria.' - -'I only want one favour for my good, for my future health and -happiness; promise to do it.' - -'Whatever you like, dear; I am your servant.' - -'It is a great favour. I will tell you later on, when we are in God's -grace again, when we are both quieter, what it is. I have your word, -father, your word--you have never failed.' - -'You have my word,' he said, panting as if he were not fit to go on -talking. - -She understood; she bent with her usual filial submission and -touched his hand with her lips; he lightly touched her forehead as -a blessing. She went to Amati, held out her hand, and looked at -him with such loving intensity that he grew pale, and, to hide his -emotion, bowed down to kiss her hand. Slowly dragging her slender -person, from failing strength, she went out of the room, leaving -the two alone. The old man seemed wrapped in deep and rather sad -reflections, for he raised his face to heaven and cast it down in an -anguished way, shaking his head as if discouraged. The doctor saw -that the right moment had come. - -'Can you listen to me?' he asked very coldly. - -'I would prefer ... I would like to wait for some other day, rather,' -the Marquis answered in a feeble voice. - -'It will be better to have the talk out to-day,' Amati said, with the -same commanding coldness. - -'I am much disturbed ... very.' - -'It may be that from what I tell you you will find something to -soothe you. You know that I am devoted to you.' - -'Yes, yes,' the other said vaguely. - -'I cannot say much to prove my devotion; I try when I can to act in -that spirit. I am sincerely attached to both of you.' - -'We know it; our debt of gratitude is great.' - -'Do not speak of that. For some time past I have wished to tell -you of a hope of mine, and I dared not. You know me better than to -suppose that any material interest would influence me. You see, my -lord, I do not want to recall the past to your memory, it is so -sorrowful, but it is necessary to do it. You and your daughter have -been in poor circumstances for some years, and it is certainly not -your daughter's fault. Your intentions are loving and holy; they -have a high motive all honest men must approve of--the setting up of -your house and fortune, to get happiness for your daughter; it is a -good intention, I do not deny it. I myself admire this noble wish of -yours.' - -The Marquis held up his head now and then, glanced at the doctor with -a flutter of his eyelids, showing approval of what he was saying, -with such care and delicacy not to offend, not to cast an old man -down more, for he suffered so much from his humiliation. - -'But the means,' the doctor went on to say--'the means were risky, -hazardous, very dangerous. Your passionate desire for fortune made -you go beyond bounds, made you forget all the sufferings you were -unconsciously spreading around you. Do you not see, my lord? You have -sickness, wretchedness, around you, and in you. Passion has carried -you away, and the loveliest, dearest of women, your daughter, must -fall into the abyss with you.' - -'Poor darling! poor darling!' the Marquis muttered pityingly. - -'You love your daughter, do you not?' Dr. Amati asked, wishing to -touch all the chords of feeling. - -'I love no one but her; I love her above everything,' Formosa said -quickly, with tears in his eyes again. - -'Well, there is a way of protecting that innocent young life from -all the physical and moral anguish that daily eats it up; there is a -means of taking her out of these unhealthy surroundings of decent but -stern poverty that she suffers from in every nerve; there is a means -of securing her a healthy, comfortable future, with the peace and -quietness her pure soul deserves; there is a way for her to recover, -and it is in your hands.' - -'I tried it, you know,' the Marquis di Formosa said despairingly; -'but I did not succeed.' - -'You do not take my meaning,' the doctor went on, barely keeping in -his impatience, as he saw that the Marquis was still blinded. 'I am -not speaking of the lottery, which has been so disastrous to your -family, a torment to your daughter, the despair of all who love -you and wish you well. How can you suppose I was referring to the -lottery?' - -'Still, it is the only way to make money--a lot of money. Only with -that can I save Bianca Maria.' - -'You are making a mistake,' the doctor answered still more coldly. -'I am speaking of something else; ease and fortune can be found -elsewhere.' - -'It is not possible. There is no limit to what one can win at the -lottery....' - -'My lord, I am speaking seriously. This madness of your Cabalist -friends does not influence me; indeed, it infuriates me when I think -of the sorrow it causes. I can recognise the good intentions, but -they stand for an unpardonable frenzy. Never refer to it with me -again--never!' - -Formosa looked up; his face, which till then was undecided and -disturbed, got icy and hard. That 'never,' said so firmly by Antonio -Amati, made him frown rather. - -'What methods are you referring to, then?' he asked in a queer voice, -in which Amati noted hostility again. - -'Perhaps to-day we are too excited; let us put off talking about it -till another occasion,' muttered Amati, who saw he was about to lose -an important advantage. 'To-morrow will do.' - -'There is no use in delaying,' the Marquis di Formosa insisted coldly -and politely. 'As it has to do with Bianca Maria's welfare, I am -ready.' - -'Give me your daughter for my wife,' said Dr. Amati quickly and -energetically. - -The Marquis di Formosa shut his eyes for a moment as if a bright -light dazzled them, as if he wanted to hide his flashing glance, and -did not answer. - -'I think I am offering your daughter a position worthy of the name -she bears,' the doctor went on again at once, determined to go to the -bottom of it, 'for my work has brought me money and credit; it is no -use being modest. I will work still harder, so that she may be rich, -very rich, happy, and in an assured position, protected by my love -and strength.' - -'You love Bianca Maria, do you?' Formosa said, without looking Amati -in the face. - -'I worship her,' he said simply. - -'Does she love you?' - -'Yes, she loves me.' - -'You are a liar, sir!' the Marquis di Formosa answered, in a deep -voice. - -'Why insult me?' asked the doctor, determined to stand everything. -'An insult is no answer.' - -'I tell you that you are lying, and that you have no ground for -saying you are loved.' - -'Your daughter told me that she loves me.' - -'That is all lies.' - -'She wrote it to me.' - -'Lies. Where are the letters?' - -'I will bring them.' - -'They are not genuine. All lies.' - -'Ask her.' - -'I will not ask her. My daughter cannot love without having told her -father.' - -'Ask her about it.' - -'No, she confides in me. You lie.' - -'Question her on the subject.' - -'She would have spoken to me before; my daughter is obedient; she -tells me everything.' - -'It does not look as if she did.' - -'I am her father, by Gad!' - -'You have often forgotten that you are; she may have forgotten it -this time.' - -'Dr. Amati, don't go on speaking on this subject,' the Marquis said, -with cold, ironical politeness. - -'I insist on it, it is my right; I have not lied. Besides, I spoke -distinctly; I offer myself to your daughter, who is sick, poor -and sad, as husband, friend, protector, to care for her, body and -soul, to love and serve her as she deserves. Will you give me your -daughter? You ought to answer this.' - -'I will not give her to you.' - -'Why will you not?' - -'There is no need for me to give my reasons.' - -'As the refusal is insulting, I have a right to ask them. Perhaps it -is because it is I am not of noble birth?' - -'It is not for that.' - -'Do you not think me young enough?' - -'It is not that, either.' - -'Have you a particular dislike to me?' - -'No, I have not.' - -'Why is it, then?' - -'I repeat that I do not choose to tell you the reason; I can only -answer "No."' - -'You will not agree even if I wait?' - -'No.' - -'You give me no hope for the future?' - -'None.' - -'Not in any circumstances?' - -'Never,' the Marquis said decisively. - -They said no more. Both were vexed in a different way. - -'Do you want your daughter to die?' said the doctor, after thinking a -minute. - -'Never fear, she won't die; there is something keeps her up.' - -'To-morrow she, a Cavalcanti, will be a beggar.' - -'I will make her a millionaire, sir; I alone have the right to enrich -her.' - -'I told you that I love her.' - -'Nothing can equal my affection.' - -'But woman's destiny is love in marriage, and to have children.' - -'Of common, vulgar women, but not of Bianca Maria Cavalcanti. She has -a very high mission, if she will carry it out.' - -'My lord, you will ruin her.' - -'I am saving her. I assure her immortal fame and immortal life.' - -'My lord, I beg, you see how I implore, I who have never prayed to -anyone. Don't say "No" so obstinately without even consulting Bianca -Maria. You are preparing a new, heavy sorrow for her. You give me no -chance of living for her, and insult me, an honest man, like this for -no reason. I beg you think over it; don't make up your mind at once.' - -'To-morrow or any other time would be the same. It is "No"--always -"No"; nothing else but "No." You will not get Donna Bianca Maria -Cavalcanti,' he said, grinning devilishly. - -'Think it over, my lord. If you still say "No" to me, I must go away -for ever. Do not sever our ties so roughly.' - -'You are free to go as far as you like. We will not see each other -again. Perhaps it would have been better had we never met.' - -'That is true. I am going.' - -'Go, certainly. Good-bye, sir.' - -'Before going away, however, I want to question your daughter here, -before you. We are not in the Middle Ages; a girl's will goes for -something, too.' - -'It does not.' - -'You are mistaken. I will ask her. I will go away when she tells me -to go. Call her, if you are loyal and a gentleman.' - -The old lord, challenged in the name of honour, got up, rang the -bell, telling Giovanni to send in his daughter. The two enemies stood -in silence until she came in. She had got back all her calm with the -facility of all very nervous temperaments, but a glance at the two -she loved disturbed her mind at once. - -'I leave the word to you,' said the doctor politely, bowing to the -Marquis. - -'Bianca Maria,' the other began, in a solemn voice, 'Dr. Amati says -he loves you. Did you know that?' - -'Yes, father.' - -'Did he tell you?' - -'Yes, he did.' - -'Did you allow him to tell you?' - -'Yes; I listened to him.' - -'You have committed a great fault, Bianca Maria.' - -'We are all apt to do that,' she said in a low tone, looking at Amati -to gain courage. - -'But there is something much worse. He says that you love him. I told -him that he lied--that you could not love him.' - -'Why did you call him a liar?' - -'Can you possibly ask me, Bianca Maria? Is it possible that you are -so lost to all sense of shame and modesty as to love him and tell him -so?' - -'My mother loved you also, and told you so: she was a modest woman.' - -'Keep to the point--do not call witnesses. Answer me, your father. Do -you love this doctor?' - -'Yes, I love him,' she said, opening out her arms. - -'I will never forgive you for saying so, Bianca Maria!' - -'May God be more merciful than you, father!' - -'God punishes disobedient children. Dr. Antonio Amati asked me for -your hand. I said "No": "No" now, to-morrow--for ever "No"!' - -'You do not wish me to marry Dr. Amati, then?' - -'No, I do not. In reality you do not wish it, either.' - -She did not answer; two big tears rolled down her cheeks. - -'Answer, my lady,' said Amati, in so anguished a tone that the poor -girl shivered with grief. - -'I have nothing to say.' - -'But did you not say that you loved me?' - -'Yes, I said so; I repeat it--I will always love you.' - -'Still, you refuse me?' - -'I do not refuse you. It is my father who rejects you.' - -'But you are free; you are not a slave. Girls have a right to choose. -I am an honest man.' - -'You are the best, truest man I have ever known,' said she, clasping -her fragile hands, as if in prayer. 'But my father will not allow me: -I must obey.' - -'You know you are causing me the greatest sorrow of my life?' - -'I know, but I must obey.' - -'Do you know you are breaking my life?' - -'I know, but ... I cannot do otherwise. Mother would curse me from -heaven, father would curse me on earth. I know it all: I must obey.' - -'Will you give up health, happiness, and love?' - -'I give it up out of obedience.' - -'So be it,' he cried out, with a quick gesture, as if he were -throwing off all his weakness. 'We will only say one word more. -Good-bye.' - -'Will you never come back? Are you going away?' said she, shaking -like a tree under a tempest. - -'I must go. Good-bye!' - -'Are you going?' - -'Yes; good-bye.' - -'Will you never return?' - -'Never.' - -She looked at her father. He made no sign. But she felt so desperate -for herself and for Antonio Amati that she made another trial. - -'A little while ago, father, you promised me, in a time of terror -and repentance, to do whatever I wanted. I ask you to do this one -thing. It is this: let me marry Antonio Amati. A gentleman's word, a -Cavalcanti's, is sacred. Will you break it?' - -'I have my reasons--God sees them,' the Marquis said mysteriously. - -'Do you refuse?' - -'For ever.' - -'Would nothing influence you--neither our prayers, nor your love for -me, nor my mother's name--would nothing induce you to consent?' - -'Nothing.' - -'He says "No," love,' she whispered, turning, looking around her with -a wandering eye. But Antonio Amati was too mortally wounded to feel -compassion for another's suffering. Now one single wish possessed -him, that of all strong minds, to lock up the great catastrophe of -his life, scorning barren sympathy, and fly to solitude. He needed -darkness, silence, a place to hide, to weep in, to cry out in his -sorrow. The girl before him was the image of desolation, but he saw -nothing, felt nothing: compassion had gone out of his heart; he felt -all the unforgiving selfishness of great suffering. 'My love, love!' -she still repeated, trying to give expression to the anguish of her -passion. - -Do not say that, Bianca Maria,' he said, with the bitter grin of the -disappointed man; 'it is no use--I do not ask you for it. We have -spoken too much. I must go.' - -'Stay another minute,' she said, as if it meant putting off death for -a little while. - -'No, no--at once. Good-bye, Bianca Maria.' He bowed low to the -Marquis. - -The cruel, impassible old man, whom nothing would move, for his eyes -saw nothing but his mad vision, returned his bow. When the doctor -passed in front of the girl to leave the room she held out her hand -humbly, but he did not take it. She made a resigned gesture, and -looked at him with as much passion as an exile for ever banished -from his country can express. It was no time for words or greeting; -divided by violence, they were leaving each other for ever; words -and greetings were of no use now. He went away, followed by Bianca -Maria's magnetic gaze, without turning back, going away alone to -his bitter destiny. She listened longingly for the last sound of -the beloved foot-step, that she would never hear again. She heard -the entrance door shut quietly, like a secret prison door. All was -ended, then! Her father sat down in a big chair, thoughtful but easy, -leaning his forehead on his hand. Quietly she came to kneel by him, -and, bending her head, said: - -'Bless me.' - -'God bless you--bless you, Bianca Maria!' said the Marquis de Formosa -piously. - -'Your daughter is dead,' she whispered; and, stretching out her arms, -she fell back, livid, cold, motionless. - - - - - CHAPTER XVI - - PASQUALINO DE FEO'S WILL - - -Don Gennaro Parascandolo, the money-lender, had for some time past -been coming very often to the big gateway in Nardones Road. He went -up the big stairs to the second floor, where he enjoyed real love -with a poor good girl, a flower of delicacy and innocence he had -found on a doorstep one evening. The wretched girl was just going -to ruin. He, with his usual money-lender's prudence, had made her -believe he was a poor clerk, a widower with no children, who would -certainly marry her if she proved good and faithful. - -The unlucky Felicetta, whose name was a mockery, lived like a -recluse, served by a rough girl, her only companion. She spent her -time longing for her lord and master's presence, though she did not -even know his real name; and, in spite of a physical distaste, she -was full of gratitude to this good Don Gennaro, who had freed her -from the danger of a dreadful fall by promising to marry her when, -later on, she had ended her probation of virtue and faithfulness. -She was a tiny, neat little woman, with rather fine features, and a -quantity of fair hair, too great a weight for her small head. Cast -out on the world by a curious fate, she would certainly have fallen -into an abyss if she had not met at a decisive moment Don Gennaro, -who spoke to her kindly, gave her something to eat, took her to an -inn, and finally hired a little flat for her in Nardones Road, where -she spent her time crocheting and getting her humble marriage outfit -ready, expecting Don Gennaro's visits daily, and smiling to him with -lips and eyes, like the good girl she was! Besides, the money-lender, -who took off his diamond rings and gold studs when he went to see -her, was quite paternal with her. Every little gift--for he kept her -in decent comfort only--was made so pleasantly that it brought tears -to Felicetta's eyes. Though he was her lover, Don Gennaro treated -her so respectfully that she went pondering in her innocent, grateful -heart how she could show her gratitude and affection. - -Don Gennaro, the hard money-lender, who had seen so much weeping -and despair without troubling himself, was very tender with her. He -often spoke sadly to her of his two handsome sons who had gone to the -dark world of spirits. He got sentimental, and brought flowers like -a timid young lover, asking her to pray for him; also for his dead -little ones, he added, wishing to join these two loves that were so -curiously different. - -'For them it is no use,' replied Felicetta humbly; 'they are angels.' - -Little by little Don Gennaro had gone deeper into this love-affair, -more than he would have desired, still using all precautions, so -that Felicetta should find out nothing about him, and no one should -know about his love-affair with the poor girl. He could not restrain -himself. His man's heart of ripe years, familiar with life, flamed -with youthful passion. He came every day now to Nardones Road, -changing the time, but spending long hours in Felicetta's simple, -loving company. At the end of that stormy summer he had given up his -usual autumn trip, and was forgetting his precautions, bringing gifts -to the girl, who took them rather astonished; but he explained he had -just succeeded to a little money. - -'Then, we will get married,' the young woman said timidly, for she -felt her bad position. - -'I am getting my papers sent from my village,' Don Gennaro answered, -sighing, regretting to the bottom of his heart he had a wife. - -But one holiday, after taking a few turns in Toledo Street, when he -had gone down by Sant' Anna di Palazzo to Nardones Road, carrying a -bag of sweets in his hand for his lady-love, as he was going up the -stairs, he heard a sort of call or whistle behind him, evidently -to make him turn his head. He did turn, though he could not quite -make out if it was a whistle or a loud signal that had called his -attention. It had been a mysterious call, that was all, one of those -voices that come from the soul. However much he looked round, above -and beneath, going close to the railing, he saw nothing, could find -out nothing. Annoyed at being detained on that stair, where he was -always afraid of being discovered, he hurried into Felicetta's rooms. -Still, all the time of the visit he was put out; he thought, secrecy -being the foundation of his happiness, it had crumbled away with that -voice calling to him. Indeed, next day, right under the entrance, he -met the Marquis di Formosa coming down the small stair, looking as -if he were in a dream. Really, they were not on speaking terms now, -though they knew each other; but that day, both feeling put out, they -stopped in front of each other, watching one another. - -'Busy as usual,' the Marquis di Formosa muttered, in a hoarse voice -that gave an idea of emotion, for it looked as if rage had made him -lose his voice. - -'Yes, like yourself,' Don Gennaro replied darkly. - -'I have no business to do,' Formosa replied, in a still more -undecided and shy manner. 'Is Signora Parascandolo well?' - -'She is quite well,' Parascandolo said, at once suspecting something -under the question. 'How is Lady Bianca Maria?' - -'She is rather in poor health,' the old man said, hanging his head. - -'Good-morning, my lord,' Parascandolo answered at once, taking the -opportunity to go off. - -'Good-morning, sir,' Formosa said, touching his hat, and looking -after the usurer mechanically. - -He went slowly up the big stair, frightfully bored by that meeting, -thinking at once he must change houses and carry Felicetta off to -a far-away part; and he slackened his steps to see if the Marquis -were asking the porter where Don Gennaro Parascandolo was going to. -But Formosa had gone off. When the usurer got to the second landing, -again he heard a whiff; a flash passed before his eyes, as if the -mystical warning was being repeated persistently because he had -taken no notice the first time. Again holding on to the railings, he -thought over where that call could come from, and told himself he -must be dreaming, as there was nothing about. That love, carefully -hidden, made him as superstitious as a woman. - -'There must be spirits in this house,' he said to Felicetta during -his call, as he could not get over his absent-mindedness. 'Twice in -coming upstairs I felt as if someone was calling me, and I could not -make out where the voice came from, or if it really was a voice.' - -'Do you believe in spirits, then?' - -'Well, who can tell?' - -'This house has certainly a queer lot of lodgers,' said the girl. -'Day and night a number of suspicious-looking people come and go. The -other evening, as I was watering my flowers on my balcony, I thought -I heard cries and complaints coming from the first-floor. Then all -was silent; I heard no more.' - -'They must have been spirits,' said Don Gennaro, laughing -unwillingly. 'Would you like to go to another house?' - -'Yes, very much--a small house, with more sun.' - -'On the Vittorio Emanuele Corso would you like?' - -'It would be too grand for me.' - -Don Gennaro was still thoughtful when he went away. As he was on the -first-floor landing, he thought he saw two people he knew go down the -small stair--the advocate Marzano and Ninetto Costa. They, heated -in argument, did not see or pretended not to see him, because they -owed him a lot of money, and he held a heap of stamped paper against -them. But the money-lender was put out; he felt a mystery growing -around him, while a burning curiosity took hold of him to know the -truth. So that the next day, after wandering about all morning to -find a new house for Felicetta, having found her a nook in that open -quarter between Vittorio Emanuele Corso and Piedi Grotta, as he -was coming back to tell her so, he stood on the stair on purpose, -waiting. And the call, the fluttering, the secret voice, was heard -like a suppressed summons. He peered about; this time he saw. He saw -two windows of the flat that looked on to the great door, one with -closed shutters, the other of obscured glass half open. There, just -for a second, through the glass, an emaciated, despairing face showed -that cast an imploring look at him, then disappeared, and a thin hand -and white handkerchief waved to call him. Then the hand went out of -sight. The darkened window was slammed violently, and the shutters -were closed as on the other window. Don Gennaro turned round to go -down at once to the isolated flat, but then he stood still, confused. -What did it matter to him what was going on there? Who was it who -showed himself imprisoned inside there? He remembered his features -vaguely, though he barely had seen them. He did not know him. It had -to do with a stranger; but whether he was a stranger or not, Don -Gennaro's mature prudence took the alarm. Perhaps it would be best -to go and give the alarm at the police court. He thought better of -that, too; for many reasons it was best to have nothing to do with -the police. But the idea that someone was shut up, calling for help, -for days past, who would perish perhaps without his help, put him -in a great state. A mysterious crime was going on; his Southerner's -curiosity burned within him, and his coolness as a man who had seen -many ugly scenes encouraged him to help the unlucky man. At last he -went downstairs, and, crossing the small yard, he went up the damp, -broken stairs. After thinking a minute, he knocked and rang. The -little bell tinkled mournfully, but no sound came from inside. He -knocked again; not a sound. Then time about with ringing the bell, -he knocked with his ebony stick. The silence was like that of an -empty house. Twice he stooped to the keyhole, and said: 'Open, by -Gad! or I will go and call the police.' The second time, when he had -shouted louder, he thought he heard a whisper, and he waited again. -No one came to open at the loud ring he gave. Then he began to go -downstairs, determined to call the police authorities. It was on the -last step that he again met the Marquis di Formosa. The latter raised -his head and grew pale as he recognised Don Gennaro. Still, he had -the courage to ask: - -'How come you here?' - -'There is something wrong going on up there, my lord,' said the -money-lender coldly, lighting a cigarette. 'I am going to a -magistrate.' - -'Why should you call in a magistrate?' the old man stammered, in a -nervous way. - -'I tell you that up there a disgraceful thing has happened, or will -happen, and, as I am an honest man, I cannot allow it. Will you come -with me to the magistrate?' and he looked him straight in the eyes. - -'Don Gennaro, don't let us exaggerate. Perhaps it is a joke among -friends, or a just punishment,' said Formosa, getting excited. - -'I do not wish to know anything about it. I only know that a man -asked my help. I know I knocked, and they would not open.' - -'What exaggerated talk are you going on with?' - -'Something bad is going on.' - -'We will go upstairs. I will induce them to open,' said the Marquis, -making up his mind to have as little of a catastrophe as possible, as -it had to be. - -Silently they went up together. Formosa gave two long rings, the -known signal. - -'Who is it?' asked a muffled voice, speaking through the keyhole. - -'It is I, doctor; open, please.' - -'But you are not alone.' - -'It doesn't matter--open.' - -'If you are not alone I will not open, as you know,' Trifari said -angrily from inside. - -'Open the door; it will be better for everyone, doctor,' the Marquis -di Formosa negotiated. 'If you do not open the ruin will be greater. -Don Gennaro Parascandolo here knows all; he wants to go to a -magistrate.' - -'At any rate, I am not going away,' Parascandolo said from outside. -'I will only go for the purpose of calling the police.' - -'Oh dear! oh dear!' Formosa muttered with a senile quiver. - -A step was heard going and coming, then a slow rattle of chain-links, -and Trifari's face, with long, red hair growing unevenly on it, -showed in a slit of the door. - -'Open, open!' said the money-lender, grinning, going on, without -seeing the bloodthirsty glance Trifari cast on him. - -On going in, a smell of smoky oil caught the nostrils, of cooking -done in an airless place, of not very clean people, who have lived -shut up for a long time. The front-room and the so-called dining-room -were dirtier than ever, with dust, lampblack, bread-crumbs, and -fruit-skins. The house was like an animals' lair, when they have been -shut up in their dens for days and weeks from fear of the huntsman. -On a chair, pale, with hollow cheeks, pinched nostrils, bloodless -ears, his blue lips half open, as if he could hardly breathe, the -medium lay stretched out, his limbs flaccid, his beard long and -dirty, his hair hanging in curls on his neck. - -Trifari, to make him stand up, gave him two blows, one on the arm, -the other on the shoulder. It brought quite a new sort of doleful -expression on the unlucky impostor's face. - -'What are you doing? Are you not ashamed?' shouted Don Gennaro, quite -scandalized. - -'He treats me so at all hours of the day,' the medium muttered in a -thread of a voice. - -'Keep up your courage; you will come away with me,' said the -money-lender, handing him a flask of brandy that he always carried. - -'I shall not have the strength, sir,' said the other feebly. 'They -have killed me, shut up here, with no air nor light, with this stink -that makes me sick. I have generally fasted or got poor food, and -been worried all the time to give lottery numbers. I was often beaten -by this hyena of a doctor, that the Lord has brought into existence, -for my sins. It is agonizing, sir; I am in agony.' - -'How could you do that to a man--a fellow-Christian?' Parascandolo -asked severely, looking at the other two. - -'See who is preaching!' shouted Trifari. His impudence was -indomitable. - -'You, my lord, a gentleman!' said Parascandolo, making out he would -not speak to Trifari. - -'What would you have? Passion carried me away,' said the old man, -quite humiliated, shivering from other remembrances also. - -Just then came in at the door, which had been left open, Colaneri, -the viperish professor, and Don Crescenzio the lottery-banker. On -seeing a stranger, recognising Don Gennaro, they understood all, and -looked at each other dismayed, especially Don Crescenzio, who was a -Government official, as he said. - -The money-lender went on smoking coolly, whilst the medium, getting -weaker, let his head fall back on the chair. The house, which had -been a prison for a month now, had an ugly, sordid look, and the -artificial light of the lamp in full day wrung the heart like the wax -tapers round a bier. Really, Don Pasqualino looked like a corpse. - -'Have so many of you set on one man?' the money-lender asked, without -directly addressing anyone. - -'Why did he not give the lottery numbers at once?' yelled Colaneri, -pulling at his collar with a priestly gesture. 'No one would have -done anything to him then.' - -'You could be sent to the galleys for this, you know,' said the -usurer rather icily. - -'Don't you speak of the galleys; you ought to have been there long -ago!' hissed the ex-priest. - -The other shrugged his shoulders, then said: - -'Don Pasqualino, have you the strength to get up? I want to take you -away.' - -The four looked at each other, grown pale suddenly. It was natural -that, the thing being discovered, the medium should go away; but the -idea that he would be taken away to the open air, free to come and -go, and to tell what had happened--this escape from persecution made -them very frightened. - -'I have no strength to move, sir,' said Don Pasqualino complainingly. -'If they wanted to kill me, they could not have found a better way. -God will punish them;' and he sighed deeply. - -There were two knocks at the door, and two other couples came -in--Ninetto Costa and Marzano, Gaetano the glover and Michele the -shoeblack. Not content with coming every day, every two hours, in -turn, to ask for lottery numbers, with the monotonous perseverance -of the Trappist monk who says to his fellow, 'We must all die,' on -Friday there was always a full meeting. Then it was a case of torture -in the mass; it was the reckless conduct of those fallen to the -bottom of the abyss, who still hope to get up out of it--of those -hardened by passion, who see light no longer. Indeed, their cruel -obstinacy had increased, because of the evil action they were doing -and the persecution they had carried out against Don Pasqualino. -Instead of feeling remorse, they were in a frightful rage, because -even their violence had had no effect, since not one of the lottery -numbers, whether given by symbol or straight out by the medium during -his imprisonment, had come from the urn. The first cold douche on -their wrongheadedness came when Don Gennaro Parascandolo arrived. It -was only then they noticed the wretchedness and dirt of the prison -where they had kept the man shut up, the cruelty of Trifari the -gaoler's face, and the suffering look on the prisoner's--then only -they understood that they might be prosecuted for such a crime, -and that they were at Don Pasqualino's and Don Gennaro's mercy. -Dumb, frozen, amazed, they did not even ask how the prison had been -discovered. They now felt the heavy weight on the heart that is the -first moral personal punishment of sin. The Marquis di Formosa was -the most humiliated of all; he remembered he had brought the medium -there, and he already saw his name dragged from the police-court to -prison, then to the assizes. Now the Cabalists turned imploring -looks on the two arbiters of their fate. Don Gennaro Parascandolo -methodically went on smoking. - -'Above all, doctor,' he said, throwing the smoke in the air, 'put out -the light and open the window.' - -'I won't take orders from you!' Trifari shouted. He was the only one -unsubdued; he was wild at his prey escaping. - -'Do you really want to go to San Francesco,' Parascandolo asked -quietly, meaning the largest prison in Naples. - -'They ought to put you there!' yelled the liverish Cabalist, who had -got half mad from having to watch Don Pasqualino. - -'I will wait till you pay me the lot of money you owe me,' remarked -Parascandolo. - -'Don't you wish you may get it!' said Trifari impudently. - -'Someone will pay--father or mother--to avoid a trial for cheatery,' -the money-lender added without putting himself about at all. - -All the men looked at each other, shivering. Each of them owed money -to the usurer, even Don Crescenzio. The only two who did not--Gaetano -and Michele--were worried as much by Donna Concetta. Even Trifari -held his tongue; the idea of being shamed in his village before those -old peasants, whose secret plague he was, made him groan already like -a wounded beast. Stolidly he went to open the windows and put out -the smoking lamp that gave out a horrid smell of blackened wick. The -bystanders' eyelids fluttered at that strong light of day; all faces -were white, and the medium's was like a dying man's. The usurer gave -him another sip of brandy, which he drank drop by drop, being hardly -able to get it down. - -'Now we will call up a cab,' said Don Gennaro. - -'What! are you going to take him away?' asked Ninetto Costa in -despair. - -'Do you want me to leave him here for you to carry off a corpse?' - -'What an exaggeration!' muttered the other vaguely. 'Don Pasqualino -is accustomed to living shut up.... You are ruining us, Don Gennaro.' - -'Think of your other woes,' said the money-lender gravely. - -The other, struck by his words, said no more. All of them trembled, -seeing the medium was trying to rise; slowly, leaning on the table, -and only by a great effort, taking breath every minute, opening his -livid mouth with its blackened teeth, did he succeed. The enchantment -was broken altogether; now the medium was escaping for good. He would -go to the police-court, and accuse them of keeping him in custody--of -cruelty and ill-treatment. But at heart they thought this of less -consequence than the medium's getting away, for, to revenge himself, -he would never give them lottery numbers again. Would they were sent -to gaol, if only they got right lottery numbers, for they would be -able to corrupt justice and escape. The dream had fled; the source of -riches was going, flying off. Nothing, nothing now would induce the -medium to give them lottery numbers--certain, infallible ones. Every -step he tried to take on his thin, shaky legs gave them a pang. - -'If you don't take heart, Don Pasqualino, we shall stay here till -evening,' Don Gennaro remarked. - -He was in a hurry to be off. Indeed, his position among them was not -very safe. All owed him money. If they had been bold enough to carry -out one imprisonment, they might well carry out another more useful -and profitable. Don Gennaro, indeed, took the command by his coolness -and strength, but were not these men desperate? Yet they were feeling -that break-up of moral and bodily strength, that weakness, that comes -to the most finished scoundrels when they have carried out some -wicked deed, having put all their real and fictitious strength into -the enterprise and obtained no result. At any rate, it was better to -go out. - -'Gentlemen, I wish you good-morning,' he said, taking his hat and -cane, seeing the medium was scratching at his coat with skinny hands -to clean it. - -'I would like to say a word to each of these gentlemen,' the medium -requested. - -There was a whispering. All crowded round him who spoke with the -spirits, while Parascandolo was already in the lobby and held the -door open as a precaution. - -'One at a time,' said the medium. 'It is a kind of will I am making. -I want to leave a remembrance to every one.' - -He took them aside one by one in the window recess. He looked them in -the face and touched their hands with his feeble, cold fingers. The -first was Ninetto Costa. - -'Look here, Ninetto: don't give up hope; remember, there is always a -revolver for a finish up.' - -'That is true,' he said, trying to find a number in the words. - -The second was Colaneri, the ex-priest. - -'There is the gospel for you; it opens its arms,' whispered the -medium. - -'Thank you for reminding me,' said the other, half cheerfully, half -sadly, taking the double meaning of the advice. - -The third was Gaetano, the glover. - -'Why are you a married man? I would have advised you to marry Donna -Concetta, who has so much money.' - -'Has she a lot?' - -'Yes, a great deal.' - -'You are right, it is hard luck.' - -The fourth was Michele, the shoeblack, the hunchbacked dwarf. - -'If you were not so crooked and old, I would advise you to marry -Donna Caterina, she that has the small lottery.' - -'But I am crooked,' said the shoeblack sadly. - -'Well, work hard.' - -The fifth was Marzano, the lawyer, his head shaking, but still -burning with the frenzy. - -'You know, thousands of sheets of stamped paper are sold in Naples: -why do you not try for a license?' - -He whispered rather than said it, and the old man looked wonderingly, -suspiciously at him, and went off hanging his head. - -The sixth that came up was Dr. Trifari. He hesitated, for he had -ill-treated the medium too much in the prison days. Still, he was -treated with great civility. - -'To get rid of your worries, why do you not sell all in your village -and bring your parents here?' - -'I never thought of it. I will consider it.' - -The seventh was Don Crescenzio, the lottery-banker at Nunzio Lane, -whom Don Pasqualino had had a long intimacy with. They spoke in a -whisper. No one could hear what was said. - -'How foolish Government is!' said the medium. - -'What is that you are saying?' cried out the other, alarmed. - -'I say, how stupid Government is.' - -'I don't know what you mean.' - -'You do perfectly.' - -The eighth to come up was the Marquis di Formosa. He was rather -timid, too, feeling that he had done most wrong to Don Pasqualino. - -'The spirit spoke to me again, my lord.' - -'What did he say?' - -'He told me that Donna Bianca Maria Cavalcanti was a perfectly lucid -soul, but that, as I said, man's touch would defile her; it would -make her obtuse and unlucky, unable to have further visions.' - -'Donna Bianca shall die a virgin. Tell the spirit so,' the old man -said proudly. - -'Well, Don Pasqualino, are we to stay here till evening?' said the -money-lender, coming in. 'Have you finished with these gentlemen?' - -'Yes, I have done,' said the other in a strange voice, as if he had -got back his strength in some queer way. - -While the medium looked in his pockets to see if he had a torn -handkerchief and a dirty pack of cards he always carried with him, -and then put on his shabby hat, the Cabalists had gathered in a -group, but they were not speaking. What he had said in its true and -symbolical sense as a hint, a suggestion, had deeply moved them. - -'Gentlemen, may God forgive you!' the medium cried out in a queer -way, with a slight smile, as he went off. - -They hardly greeted him, but glanced at him remorsefully. None of -them dared make an excuse for the ill they had done him; each of them -felt the nail riveted that the medium had driven in. The two went -down the small stair very slowly, for the medium often threatened -to fall. The usurer did not go so far as to offer him his arm; the -medium was much too dirty. When he came to the doorway and looked -around, drinking in the free air, tears came to his eyes. - -'I thought I would never get out alive,' he said as he got to the -carriage. - -'Where do you wish to go?' asked Parascandolo. - -'To the police-court,' said the other in a feeble voice again. - -He was spread out in the carriage like a serious invalid. Don Gennaro -frowned rather, and, not to make people stare, he had the carriage -hood put up. They went on to Concezione Street. - -'Do you intend to denounce them?' Parascandolo asked. - -'You do not know how they have tortured me,' muttered the other, -knocking his head against the carriage hood whenever there was a -jostle, as if he could not keep his head straight on his shoulders. - -'So you will take them up, will you?' - -'For thirty days I, an unhappy man, in bad health, was shut up with -no air nor light and a stinking oil-lamp, whilst they who behaved so -badly to me took their exercise.' - -'Why did you not give them the lottery numbers?' - -'Just because----' said the medium mysteriously. - -'Don Pasqualino, you don't know the lottery numbers,' said Don -Gennaro, laughing. - -'What does it matter to you?' - -'Nothing at all; but you must be frank with me.' - -'Yes, sir, yes, sir,' said the medium humbly; 'but why did they -endanger my life? What harm had I done them?' - -'Don Pasqualino, you ate up several thousand francs belonging to -these gentlemen, to my knowledge,' Parascandolo went on in the same -laughing tone. - -'It was all charity, sir--charity.' - -'Really, was it all charity?' Don Gennaro sneered wickedly. - -'There was some little thing for myself, sir,' Don Pasqualino sighed -out, with a flash of malicious amusement in his eyes. - -'Then, there is no use in going to the police-court?' - -'We had better go there, all the same; you will be satisfied with me.' - -They got down at the big gateway in Concezione Street, where the -guardians of the public safety were going and coming. It was a -tremendous effort to the medium to go up the stairs; he lost his -breath at every step. - -'Rather an effort, eh?' the usurer said more than once. - -'Don't leave me, don't desert me!' the medium sighed out. - -At last they got to the first-floor, where Don Gennaro, respectfully -saluted by the ushers, asked if there was a magistrate present. There -was not. The head-clerk was there; he had them shown in at once, and -was most ceremonious. - -'Here is Signor Pasqualino De Feo; he wants to make a statement,' -said the money-lender, setting to smoking a cigarette, after -offering the head-clerk one, looking the medium straight in the eyes. - -'I wished to know,' said he feebly, 'if anyone has come to say I had -disappeared.' - -The inspector took a thick ledger, and turned it over as he smoked. - -'Yes, sir,' he said. 'Chiarastella De Feo, living in Centograde Lane, -wife of Pasqualino De Feo, stated that her husband was unaccountably -absent. She feared imprisonment or misfortune.' - -'What misfortune, what imprisonment, could there be?' the medium -called out, smiling ironically. 'Women always talk nonsense.' - -'She said it had happened to you before, though she could not state -under what circumstances.' - -'Why should they have shut me up?' - -'To drag lottery numbers from you.' - -'Did my wife say that I knew lottery numbers?' said the medium with a -little laugh. - -'Do not believe it, inspector; it is nonsense,' Parascandolo added -laughingly. - -'I wish to state, to avoid mistakes, that, being at Palma Campania, -at Don Gennaro Parascandolo's villa there, I was so ill I had to stay -there a month without being able to write to my wife. Then I thought -every day I would soon be able to return.' - -'You witness that this is true, do you, sir?' said the inspector -carelessly, not giving it any importance. - -'Yes, I do, sir.' - -'Then it is all right. He would have given you lottery numbers during -this month's illness of his, I suppose?' asked the police official, -still grinning. - -'Of course he did,' said Parascandolo, in high good-humour. - -'But what use are they to you? With a poor employé like me it would -be different.' - -'Don Pasqualino, if you are strong enough, give the inspector lottery -numbers.' - -'You are making a fool of me,' muttered the medium. - -They said good-bye, and the inspector advised De Feo to go to his -wife's house at once, as she would be anxious. - -'Did you not see that I did as you wished, sir? I forgave those who -had offended me,' said Don Pasqualino as they went downstairs. - -'You are too good,' the other answered, rather ironically. - -'I do not intend to make a merit of it, for there is none. I would -never have accused these gentlemen.' - -'Ah!' said the other, standing still for a moment. 'Why is that?' - -'It would not suit me to do it.' - -'I see. But why did we come here, then?' - -'It was necessary to make a statement, for the police were looking -for me.' - -'Is your wife such a simpleton?' - -'What! my wife? She is very fond of me; she is nervous for me, and -says we must retire from the profession.' - -'What profession is it?' - -'Don't you know? She is the famous witch of Centograde, Chiarastella.' - -'Ah, I remember. Her witchcraft is like your knowing lottery numbers, -is it?' - -'Her magic is true,' said Don Pasqualino thoughtfully and sincerely. - -'And does she believe in your being a medium?' - -'Yes, she does,' said the other, hanging his head. 'My wife is in -love with me.' - -'In love with you?' - -'Yes, with me.' - -'You are a queer lot,' said the money-lender philosophically. 'And, -meanwhile, you have saved the eight scoundrels.' - -'How have I saved them? Did you understand the advice I gave them -all?' - -'No, I did not,' Don Gennaro answered, surprised at the malicious -tone of his voice. - -'I left them each a remembrance,' the medium replied, in a shrill -voice. - -'Will they obey you, do you think?' - -'As sure as death,' said the medium dolefully. - -He bowed to Don Gennaro, and, with renewed strength, went off quickly -towards Municipio Square. Parascandolo looked at him as he went off, -and felt for the first time a shudder at cold malignity. - - - - - CHAPTER XVII - - BARBASSONE'S INN--THE DUEL - - -In the little Barbassone inn, on the road that goes down from -Moiariella di Capodimonte to Ponte Rossi, there were no customers -that clear winter morning. It was really an outhouse on pillars, -roughly built, and on the ground-floor there was a big, smoky kitchen -with a wide, grimy fireplace and a large hall, where rustic tables -were set out for eating and drinking. On the upper floor, which was -reached by a queer outside staircase, the host and his wife slept in -the room over the kitchen. The other bare room, used as a storeroom, -was full of black sausages and stinking cheese, strings of garlic -hung on the walls, and bunches of onions and winter marrows strung on -osier withes. Below, in front of the inn, were two or three arbours, -that must have been covered thick with leaves in spring and summer, -but now they were bare, showing the wooden framework. Under the -arbours were dusty, broken tables covered with dry, rustling leaves; -and at the side of the inn was a bowling-green, surrounded by a low -myrtle hedge. The host had had a wooden stair made inside, leading -from the ground-floor to the upper rooms; and a door at the back -opened on to the fields. From the first-floor windows could be seen -the suburbs of Naples, Reclusorio Road, the railway-station, the -swamps outside the town, and the Campo Santo Hill. Two roads went up -to the inn; one came from Moiariella, the other from Ponte Rossi. -There was the way from the fields also, but it did not count. - -However, if the neighbourhood of the country inn was deserted, some -company were certainly expected, for the servant in the kitchen that -fine quiet morning was giving hard blows to some pork chops on a -big table. On the stove a kettle was boiling for a macaroni. Before -the inn door the host, a sagacious-looking peasant, was washing -fennel and salad in a bowl on the ground, throwing away the bad -leaves to the thin fowls that were clucking about. The hostess of -the Barbassone was away; her husband often sent her out when it -suited him, to buy fresh fish, tripe, or whatever could not be got -at Capodimonte market. He stayed at home with the old servant, who -was busy in the kitchen helping him; and there was a son of his, -about twelve years old, who waited on the customers. This boy was -now employed in the kitchen grating down some white nipping Cotrone -cheese, that looks like chalk and burns the throat, but Naples -throats do not object to it. - -It was a soft, quiet time near noon. The host often looked to -see if anyone was coming from the low road of Ponte Rossi, or if -anyone was coming down Moiariella road, but Barbassone's keen -face was as serene as the December morning. He bent down again to -soak the lettuce-leaves in the already earthy water of the basin, -when, without his having seen her, a black figure of a woman rose -before him. She was a girl a little over twenty, but so worn with -fatigue, want and sorrow she looked years older, and her great black -eyes burned in her lean face. She was Carmela, the cigar-girl, -Annarella and Filomena's unhappy sister, Raffaele or Farfariello's -despised love. She had come on foot, so naturally made no noise. A -thinly-veiled excitement was mingled in her face with the weariness -after her long walk. She was dressed like a vagrant in a cotton frock -quite washed out, with a rag of a red shawl round her neck and a -rumpled cotton apron at her waist. - -'Good-day, gossip,' she said, greeting the host with Naples common -folk's favourite title. - -'Good-morning, lass,' he answered, looking at her suspiciously. - -'Can I have a glass of wine?' she asked, keeping down a tremble in -her voice. - -'Are you alone?' - -'What about it? Am I not able to pay for a glass?' - -'You may drink the whole cellar,' the host said in a tone of affected -carelessness, and he stood aside to let her into the room, following -her to a table. - -She sat down on a rough chair, after glancing round quickly. There -were no customers. - -'Is it Gragnano wine you want?' - -'Yes, sir.' - -'Half a pint of Gragnano wine!' shouted the host towards the kitchen, -cleaning the table with his apron. - -'Do you wish anything to eat?' he then added, still staring at the -girl. - -'I am not hungry; I am thirsty,' said Carmela, casting down her eyes. -'Give me a penny-worth of dry chestnuts.' - -The host slowly went to get those white, shrivelled, hard chestnuts -that provoke thirst. In the meanwhile the boy brought a caraffe of -greenish glass full of dark wine, stoppered by the usual vine-leaf. -Carmela began to munch the chestnuts slowly, drinking a mouthful of -wine at times. - -'Will you do me the pleasure?' she said to the host, who was hovering -about rather uneasily. - -'Thank you, I will,' he said. - -He never refused, and, as there was only one glass, he took a long -pull at the bottle, making the wine gurgle, then drying his lips. - -'How quiet you are out here!' said the girl, trying to start a -conversation. 'Have you customers always?' - -'Not always. It is according to the weather.' - -'People from Naples come, do they not?' - -'Yes, I have them sometimes.' - -'Here are two francs. Buy a cap for your boy,' she said, seeing the -host was suspicious. - -He took the money unhesitatingly and pocketed it, then stood to be -questioned. - -'A set of young fellows are to come here at mid-day, are they not?' - -'Yes, I expect some.' - -'One Farfariello is to be with them, I believe?' - -'Yes, I heard that.' - -She gave a deep sigh. - -'Is he your brother?' the inn-keeper asked. - -'He is my lover.' - -'There are no women with them,' the host remarked carelessly. - -'I know that,' she said, shaking her head. 'But not only they are -coming. Don't you expect others?' - -'Another set of men may be coming.' - -'What to do?' she cried out, feeling her fears justified. - -'To get dinner, of course.' - -'Is there nothing else?' - -'Nothing. At Barbassone's it is the only thing to do.' - -'On your honour, is that all?' - -'I give you my word. While they are in my house nothing can happen.' - -'Yes, but what about afterwards?' - -'I have nothing to do with that. When they have gone three yards -away, I have no more to do with them, do you see.' - -She said no more, and got quite thoughtful. A wine-stain was on the -table, and she lengthened it with her finger, making a pattern with -the wine. - -'Gossip, will you do me a kindness?' - -'Don't speak like that.' - -'A real charity, gossip, that God will give you back on that -handsome son of yours. Let me be present at this dinner in some room -aloft--any hole where I can see without being seen.' - -'My dear, Barbassone never meddles with doubtful affairs.' - -'If you love your son, do not say no to me. It is not a plot, I swear -it by the Virgin! It is an idea, a fancy of mine. I want to see what -my lover is doing.' - -'Yes, to make a scene--a quarrel.' - -'I will not move, sir; I swear it by my eyes! I just want to look on -at this dinner--nothing more.' - -'Do you promise not to come out of the room?' - -'I swear I will not.' - -'Nor try to speak to anyone?' - -'No, no, I won't.' - -'If you are found out, do not say that I put you there.' - -'Of course not.' - -'Come with me,' he said sharply. - -She started after the host, who left the hall and went up the outside -stair to the second-floor. Carmela gave a glance from the parapet -up the two roads that lead from Naples to Barbassone's inn, but -they were quiet and deserted. Not the slightest noise of a carriage -or footsteps came up in that noontide silence. The inn-keeper took -Carmela across the room where he and his wife slept, and opened the -door of the smaller one alongside where the inn provisions were kept. -A whiff of rancid lard and ripe cheese caught Carmela by the throat -and made her cough. - -'You will be all right here, my dear,' Barbassone said to her, -leading her to a window that looked to the front of the inn. 'If -these honest fellows come, they will dine down there in the arbour. -You will see their every movement. Only you must promise you will -stay behind the window-glass.' - -'Yes, sir, I will,' Carmela promised. - -'You are not to go down, whatever happens. Do you understand? I don't -want to get into a scrape with my customers.' - -'Yes, sir; I will not go down, never fear,' she said in a low tone, -half shutting her eyes, as if she saw a frightful sight before her. - -'If not, I will shut you in.' - -'There is no need of that. As I love the blessed Virgin, I won't -move.' - -'Good-bye in the meanwhile,' said he, going away. - -'God will reward you,' the girl called out after him. - -The long waiting began, and to the love-lorn maiden these minutes -had the weight of lead. Still, she stood motionless behind the dull, -dirty window, and her warm breath dulled the panes more. There were a -couple of bottomless chairs and a wooden stool in the room, but she -did not think of sitting down. She was too anxious to mount guard at -the window, looking at the two sunny roads that mild winter's day, -examining the peaceful landscape, where city noises were silent. Only -twice she went backwards and forwards in that room full of black -sausages and brown cheese, choked by their bad smell, and she saw -there was another window that looked to the back of the inn, over the -fields going up to Capodimonte. It was perfectly silent on that side -too. - -As time passed, a sharp anguish caught her heart. Perhaps the man who -had told her of Farfariello's and his friend's trip to Barbassone's -inn had cheated her, or she might have misunderstood what he meant. -Farfariello, his friends, and the others, perhaps at that time were -already in some other place, and all might be happening far off, -without her being able to stop it. Perhaps it had happened already. -She often turned her eyes to heaven, praying that it should not be -so. At one time, not managing to keep down her uneasiness, she pulled -her rosary from her pocket and began to say _Ave Marias_ and _Pater -Nosters_ mechanically, thinking of something else. Seeing a dreadful -vision, that made her despairing heart go out to the Virgin, for her -to save Raffaele from misfortune '_and in the hour of our death_,' -she caught herself saying aloud once. It was just then a noise of -wheels and a cracking of whips came from Capodimonte Road, and -Raffaele and three other youths, almost the same age, appeared in a -cab. - -'Oh, Our Lady of Sorrows!' sobbed out Carmela from behind the window. - -Raffaele paid for the cab, and, contrary to the usual habit in -these country trips, that the driver always shares the pleasures of -the day, this time the horse turned round and went back the way it -came. The young fellows, with trousers tight at the knee and caps -hanging by one hair, were now making a great uproar in the lower -room, perhaps because dinner was not ready. The boy quickly spread -the cloth on one of the tables which ought to have been shaded -by the leaves of the arbour, but it was bare. In the meanwhile, -quite calmly, these youths set to playing bowls, waiting till the -macaroni was ready. Raffaele especially went about quietly, with that -low-class ease that charmed Carmela's heart. - -'May you be blessed!' she whispered, rather reassured by that -calmness. - -Now, seated at four sides of the table, pulling macaroni into their -plates from a big dish in the middle, Raffaele and his friends ate -straight on with youthful appetites, improved by the wintry country -air. They drank a lot, and often lifted their glasses of bluish dark -wine, and, looking fixedly at each other, said something and drank it -off at a gulp, without winking. Carmela, though she heard no voices, -understood that they were drinking healths, or to the success of -something. - -Up till then, everything had gone on like a commonplace joyous -winter trip, on a fine sunny day in a quiet country place: the inn, -the host in the doorway, the boy serving the table, and the four -fellow-guests, looked perfectly easy, in sympathy with the quietness -around. But again there was a noise of wheels from Ponte Rossi Road, -and an ostentatious whip-cracking. Raffaele and his friends looked -up, as if out of mere curiosity, while Carmela, cut to the heart -by that sound, felt her legs giving way, and she prayed the Lord -silently to give her the strength not to die just then. - -It was a party like the first one--of four young fellows with light -trousers, tight at the knees, and neat black jackets, wearing -their caps over one ear. Carmela recognised the one that led the -party--Ferdinando, called the l'Ammartenato Teaser. He said something -to the driver on paying him; the man listened, bending down, then -went off slowly the road he had come, without turning his head. The -two parties looked straight at each other solemnly, and bowed very -punctiliously. Raffaele and his friends went on eating quietly; the -other four took off their hats and hung them on the bare boughs. -Macaroni was much quicker served for them, perhaps because the host -had got ready enough for the two parties, so that at one time, as -Raffaele's friends were eating slower and Ferdinando's were hurrying -their mouthfuls, they got to the same stage, then went on together -to the next course, swallowing, in two gulps, pork chops and lettuce -salad, and drinking glasses of wine one after another as if they -were water. While they were drinking, the two tables glanced at each -other now and then quite indifferently. In spite of the quantity -of wine swallowed they seemed to keep very cool; some of them lay -back in their chairs occasionally in a calm way. Still, all that -calm and free-and-easiness was the same at each table, curiously -alike, as if the two sets had made a tacit agreement; but it fell -short of the gaiety natural to Neapolitans on an outing, when -laughter, shouts, and songs rise to heaven. Sometimes the youths -round Raffaele, nicknamed Farfariello, bent towards him, and he -smiled proudly; it was the only sign of cheerfulness in the company. -Ferdinando--Ammartenato as his nickname was--did not smile even; his -set tossed glasses of wine down their throats always, not moving a -muscle. Carmela looked on from above; her lover's smiles, the wine -drunk off by the two sets, and their peaceful free-and-easiness, -did not reassure her. Amongst other things, she saw the movement -of the lips, but did not hear the words. It seemed to her that a -deep silence was between these people, who understood each other -by signs; it was a doleful silence, in the midst of country peace. -A slow, ever-increasing anguish oppressed her breathing, as if her -heart had contracted and only beat at intervals; her whole will was -in abeyance. She stood, leaning with her forehead against the dusty -window, rigid, her sad eyes fixed on Raffaele's face, as if she -wanted to read what was passing through his mind. Now the inn-keeper -and his boy brought the fruit--that is to say, dried chestnuts and a -bundle of celery with white stalks and long, thin green leaves--and -with it more wine. Then, all of a sudden, after his father had -whispered something in his ear, the little boy took off his apron, -put on his cap, and started off running up the Ponte Rossi Road. -As it was getting near the end of the meal, Carmela felt her brain -giving way; she had one single desire growing in her mind to go down, -take Raffaele by the arm, and carry him off with her, afar, where -neither _cammorristi_ nor _guappi_ could reach. She dared not. For a -month before that Raffaele had been cold and hard to her, avoiding -her persistently, so that she got to places he had been at always ten -minutes after he had left. He had let her know, too, that it was no -use; in any case, he would have nothing to do with her. - -'He might at least tell me why, and I would go away satisfied,' she -cried out, weeping, to those who had repeated Raffaele's words. - -But she had not seen him for a month; in fact, if she knew that two -sets of Hooligans were going that day to a mysterious appointment at -the Barbassone inn at Ponte Rossi, it was from an indiscretion of a -chum of Raffaele's. He had said it, looking her straight in the eyes, -with a secret meaning she could not help guessing, so that she left -him at once, and on foot, from her low-lying quarter, she had dragged -herself up there, panting, sorrowful, biting her lips, not to cry out -nor weep. - -She dared not go down; she felt Raffaele would abuse her and chase -her away rudely, as he had always done lately. She shook at his -angry voice and contemptuous words. Now the dinner was coming to -an end very quietly; the two sets were smoking cigars, gazing into -vacancy with the solemn satisfaction of people who have dined well -and are getting ready to digest. For a time the peace that rose from -the surroundings was such, and the youths were all so quiet, that -for a moment Carmela felt her anguish soothed, and she hoped it -was a tragic dream. Only for a moment, to fall deeper again into a -sorrowful abyss, where the moments passed with dramatic slowness. - -Ferdinando's party rose. The four young fellows, with the usual cheap -swell gestures, pulled up their trousers, tightening the straps, -dragged down their jackets, and set their caps haughtily across their -heads. They went away, passing beside Raffaele's table solemnly; -then they all touched their hats, and the others answered, saying -the same word. Carmela could not bear what; it was 'Greeting.' They -went away; she gave a sigh of relief. But instead of returning by -Ponte Rossi, whence they came, and where perhaps the carriage was -waiting for them, Carmela saw them go round the house, and one by -one. She had run to the window that looked on to the inn-keeper's -garden and the fields, and saw them disappear behind a green screen -of trees. Panting, she ran again to the other window, that looked on -to the inn-yard, where Raffaele's party were getting ready to go off -also. All was safe if they took the Capodimonte Road, whence they had -come. It would only mean that there had been two dinners, with no -after-thought nor consequences. The preparations had been somewhat -slow, but at a signal from Raffaele all hurried, while he, with a -spent cigar in a corner of his mouth, paid the reckoning quietly. -He got up, stretching his arm for his cap, which was hanging from a -bough; in doing it his waistcoat pulled up, and Carmela saw something -shining at his trousers belt. It was a revolver. Yet for a last -moment she still hoped. Perhaps they were going away peacefully by -the quiet country roads to the noisy town; and, at any rate, Raffaele -always carried a revolver, a small-sized one. But in a moment the -horrid fact she dreaded looked to her like a certainty. Very quietly -Raffaele and the other three youths turned, not by Capodimonte Road, -but behind the inn, through the garden, following the same road as -the other set, and making up to them--that is to say, walking quietly -with their springy step one after the other. She could bear it no -longer; she felt something give way within. She ran to the storeroom -door; the man had locked her in, evidently, for it would not open. -She, wild, blind with grief and rage, began to shake the door, which -was old and worm-eaten, so that it offered little resistance. The -bolt the host had drawn broke with the rattling, and she very nearly -fell on the landing from the shock. She went down the outside stair -at a bound, but on the last steps she found the host, his shrivelled -peasant's face very pale, for he had heard all the noise. He stood in -her way. - -'Where are you going?' - -'Let me pass--let go!' - -'Where are you going? Are you mad?' - -'Let me go, I say!' - -He caught hold of her wrists and looked her in the eyes. - -'Are you the woman they are going to kill each other for?' - -'Holy Virgin, help me! Let me go!' - -'Do you want to get killed?' - -'Yes, yes! Let go of my wrists!' - -'Do you want them to kill you?' - -'It doesn't matter if they do,' she cried, slipping from his grasp -with a powerful wrench. - -Running, panting, sobbing, her hair loose, clapping on the nape of -her neck, her dress beating against her legs and throwing her down, -then getting up again, crying, filling that serene country silence -with her despair, she ran after the two sets of men by the same road, -turning behind the same hill with green trees. She found herself in -a narrow country road, and instinctively followed it, feeling it was -the right one. She went on and on very swiftly, bursting with sobs, -her ears alert, questioning the silence. But on the right a harsh, -sharp sound made her jump; just after it came another shot, then -another. She rushed into the field where the two files of low-class -duellists were going on firing at each other at a short range. -Throwing herself on Raffaele, she shrieked wildly. - -'Go away!' he said, trying to free himself. - -'No, I will not!' she shrieked. - -'Go away!' - -'I will not.' - -'It is not for you; go away!' - -'That doesn't matter.' - -All this took place in a minute; the shots went on echoing dolefully -in the country air. In an interval she slipped down on the ground, -her arms spread out, with a bullet in her temple. Carmela's fall -was the signal for flight, especially as, the virginal stillness -of the country air having been broken by the many revolver-shots, -people from Capodimonte village were heard arriving by Ponte Rossi -Road. Hurriedly the two sets went off across the fields by a marked -path, and quickly disappeared. On the duelling-ground only Carmela -was left lying on the grass, blood flowing from her temple. Beside -her, Raffaele, looking pale, tried to stanch the wound with a wet -handkerchief. But the blood went on spouting like a fountain, making -a red pool round the girl's head. She opened her eyes feebly. - -'Tell me who it was for.' - -'Don't think about that. Think of your own health,' he said in an -agitated way, looking around. - -'People are coming now; make your escape,' she said, thinking only of -his safety. - -'Can I leave you like this?' - -'It does not matter; someone will help me. Fly, or you will be -arrested.' - -'Adieu,' he said, feeling relieved. 'We will see each other again at -Pellegrini Hospital; I will come and ask for you.' - -'Yes, yes,' she whispered, shutting her eyes and opening them again. -'Fly! Adieu.' - -He rushed off, too, very quickly, without looking back; she followed -him with her glance, half sitting up, holding the handkerchief to her -forehead, while the blood flowed down her neck and shoulders into -her lap. She was alone. She was holding her head down in her great -weakness, when some peasants, a magistrate from Capodimonte with some -police, and a gardener from the Royal Palace grounds came up at the -same moment. They had to put her into a chair that the Barbassone -inn-keeper had brought out, and carry her. They went slowly, the same -road as she had come. She lay with her legs swinging against the -chair, her arms limp, her head going hither and thither, and at every -shake of the chair spilling big drops of blood on the ground. Before -the inn, where the two tables with wine-stained cloths still stood, -the chair was put down. - -'Would you like anything?' asked the magistrate, a swarthy man. - -'Only a little water to drink,' she said, opening her eyes slowly, as -if her eyelids were too heavy. - -Meanwhile they put a cold-water bandage on the wound till a cab could -be got to take her to Pellegrini Hospital. - -'How do you feel?' asked the magistrate. He wanted to go on with the -inquiry, as he saw that her strength was failing. - -'I feel better; it is nothing.' - -'Who was it did this to you?' - -'Nobody,' she said quietly. - -'Who did this to you? Tell me! I will find out, at any rate,' the -magistrate insisted. - -'No one touched me' Carmela muttered. - -'It was a duel, was it not? How many were there?' the magistrate -asked loudly, his heart hardened by now. - -'I don't know.' - -'How many were there?' - -'I know nothing about it.' - -'Take care, or afterwards I will have you put in prison.' - -'It doesn't matter,' she said, shutting her eyes. - -'It was for you, was it, that these shots were fired? Was it for your -sake?' - -'No, no, it was not,' she said, her face suddenly growing sorrowful. - -'Who was it for, then?' - -'I don't know; I know nothing,' she added decisively, as if she was -not going to answer any more. - -The magistrate shrugged his shoulders in a rage. But another inquirer -was coming along Ponte Rossi Road--a woman dressed in green cloth, -embroidered in pink, and a pomegranate bodice, her shiny black -hair dressed high, and cheeks covered with rouge. It was Filomena, -Carmela's unfortunate sister. - -She came up panting, her face discomposed, her hair not kept up by -the silver comb, the patent-leather shoes quite dusty, holding a -handkerchief at her mouth to keep back her sobs. When she saw the -crowd evidently round a wounded person, she rushed into the group; -crying out wildly, and pushing people aside, she fell on her knees by -her sister, showing the self-forgetfulness of a frightful sorrow, and -groaned out: - -'Carmela dear, how did this happen?' - -The other opened her eyes--her face showed a sorrowful amazement; she -tried to caress Filomena's black hair with her weak hands, but her -livid fingers trembled. - -'How did it happen?' Filomena exclaimed, sobbing noisily, while warm -tears ran down her cheeks and washed off the rouge. - -'It happened just like that,' said Carmela, and nothing more. - -'Carmela, who had the audacity to do this to you? Who was the -assassin? Bring him to me,' cried Filomena. - -'Try and find out the truth,' the magistrate whispered in the woman's -ear. He made a sign to the others to stand aside for a little and -leave the sisters alone. Now they had bound the girl's head up -roughly, and under the bandages her face seemed tinier, more worn, as -if rubbed down smaller by the hand. - -'My sweet sister, my sweet sister!' Filomena went on saying, still -kneeling before Carmela. - -'Don't cry--why do you cry?' said the wounded girl, in a curious, -solemn, deep voice. - -'Tell me who did it!' Filomena said her. 'It was for Raffaele, was it -not? Was there a fight? I knew it--I knew it; but I did not get here -in time. Holy Virgin, why did you not let me get here in time? I have -to see my sister like this because of not getting here in time.' - -A livid look had come over the wounded girl's face on hearing this; -her eyes had got wide open. With a violent effort she raised her head -a little, and said to Filomena, staring at her: - -'Tell me the truth.' - -'What do you wish, sweetheart?' - -'I want you to tell me--but think of the state I am in, think of that -first.... I want you to tell me all.' - -Then the other, fallen into deeper affliction, shook all over and -held her tongue. - -'They have had a duel,' Carmela brought out with difficulty, keeping -her eyes on her sister. 'There were eight of them; Raffaele was -there, and Ferdinando the Ammartenato--they were fighting for a -woman.' - -'Holy Virgin!' Filomena said, going on weeping with her face in her -hands. - -'Who was the woman?' asked the wounded girl, putting her hand on her -sister's head, and almost obliging her to raise it. Filomena only -looked at her, her eyes filled with tears. - -'It was you--it was you,' the wounded girl said in a cavernous voice. - -The bad woman threw herself back, raised her arms heavenward, and -cried: - -'I am a murderer--I am the cause of your death!' - -Carmela's face got clay colour; in a whisper, stammering, as if she -could not use her tongue, she too said: - -'Murderer! murderer!' - -'You are right--you are right, Carmela: I am a wretch!' Filomena -cried, stretching out her arms. A moment after, the blood soaked the -bandage round the wounded girl's head, and blood began to drop from -her nose. The magistrate, who had run up, frowned, and signed to the -cabman, who had come forward to take the girl to Pellegrini Hospital, -to stop. - -'Forgive me, dear,' Filomena wept out, cast down at the foot of the -chair. But Carmela no longer heard her. Blood flowed from her mouth -and trickled down from her nose, falling on her breast; the earthy -pallor of the face spread to the neck; her half-open eyes showed the -whites only; her hands, lying on her knees, pulled at her wretched, -dull dress, as if searching, with that motion that gives a frightful -impression of terror and sorrow. All of a sudden she opened her -mouth--her breath was failing her. - -'Carmela darling!' Filomena cried out, understanding, getting up on -her knees, panting. But from her mouth, black already, a loud, long -cry came out, as profound as if it came from her tortured vitals, -sorrowful as if all the complaints of a life-long agony were in it--a -cry so loud and doleful it seemed to shake everything around--men -and things--and make the neighbourhood lose colour. Carmela's light -hand was still vaguely searching for something, and ended by finding -Filomena's head, where it rested, grew cold and stiffened. The dead -woman's face was quite cold, but it was tranquil now. Silently bent -forward under the forgiving hand, the survivor sat there, and the -country around was silent also. - - - - - CHAPTER XVIII - - TO LET - - -The fourth of January, 188--, very early in the morning, the porter's -wife at Rossi Palazzo, formerly called Cavalcanti, put a step-ladder -against the architrave of the entrance door, to the right, and stuck -three bits of paper on the pipernina stone, with 'To Let' printed on -each piece. The three notices said that three large suites of rooms, -so many in each suite, were available, and could be seen at such an -hour. Coming down the ladder, the woman sighed dolefully. For years -none of the Rossi Palazzo suites had been to let; everyone was very -comfortable and stayed on. She had got to know them all well. In -the four months houses are looked for in Naples, from the fourth of -January to the fourth of May, she had peacocked about at her ease -always. She had not to go up and down stairs with house-hunters, as -the Rosa Mansion woman next door or the Latilla woman had to do; she -did not risk changing tenants that liked her for new ones that might -be unpleasant. Instead of which, this very year three large flats -were empty at the same time: one on the first floor--the Fragalàs'; -two suites on the second floor--Dr. Amati's and the Marquis di -Formosa's. It was a real catastrophe for the porter's wife, who never -would get any rest for four months, and get no pay for her trouble. -Altogether, three large suites to be empty was really a misfortune. -'Just like my luck,' said the porter's wife to those who condoled -with her and asked the reason of these changes. She told the reason -the tenants were going at once, so that people should not believe -Rossi Palazzo was damp, that it threatened to fall, or that the -owner had got an idea of raising the rents. Nothing of the sort. It -was misfortunes. All are liable to them. It was natural Don Cesare -Fragalà and that good soul Donna Luisa should leave the house where -they had been married. It was splendid, really--a gorgeous apartment, -but they could not pay the high rent any longer. The husband had -gambled everything away at the lottery; he was loaded with debts -and ruined. Also, his confectioner's shop in Santo Spirito Square -had gone out of his possession, for his wife, fearing bankruptcy -was at hand, had decided to sell everything: jewels, plate, and -furniture were all to be sold, everything luxurious got rid of, and -a composition be made with their creditors. They were to go into a -small house, and look out for a clerk's place for her husband, to -keep the family agoing. The porter's wife and her gossiping friend -remembered the two gorgeous parties for Cesare's marriage with -Luisella and at little Agnesina's birth--all the great style of these -receptions, the sweets, wine, and ices. It was an overthrow. - -'Good gracious!' muttered the inquirer, man or woman. 'Did he lose -all that at the lottery?' - -'He lost all. They are left without a farthing, if they pay their -debts; and Donna Luisa insists on paying. She may die from it, but -she will pay.' - -'What a scoundrel of a husband she has got!' - -'We are not masters of ourselves,' the porter's wife prosed solemnly; -'we are all flesh.' - -She was sorry, very, that the Fragalàs were going off to who knew -where. She would never see them again. Most of all, she was sorry for -little Agnesina; she was so good, placid, and obedient. She already -went to the infants' school, tiny little body! Her mother went with -her and brought her back carefully every day. They were a good sort, -and it had to be seen who would come in their place. - -The Cavalcantis' going away was a thing that had been foreseen for -some time. The Marquis had paid no rent for several months, and -Signor Rossi had stood it. He had allowed something to be paid on -account now and then, partly because the Marquis di Formosa had been -the old owner of the house and sold it to him, and he did not want to -turn him out forcibly. How patient he had been! Now he could stand -it no longer. In the Cavalcanti household they were often short of -five francs for food. The Marquis had carried off the most necessary -furniture piece by piece, selling it to a dealer in Baracchi Square. -Donna Bianca Maria, poor soul! often dined off a hot dish that her -aunt, Sister Maria degli Angioli, sent her from the Sacramentiste -convent. The two old servants, Giovanni and Margherita, tried for -outside work. The woman darned stockings and silk-knitted goods; -the man copied papers for a magistrate's clerk. They were in such -wretchedness that but for feeling shame the door-keeper would often -carry up a dish of her macaroni or hot vegetable soup; but she dared -not. They were gentlefolk, and bore their wretchedness silently. -Besides, for want of a dower, Donna Bianca Maria Cavalcanti had been -rejected as a sister of charity. By the new laws it was not allowable -to go into other monasteries or orders; the new Government would not -even let one be a nun. - -'Then are they going away in May?' asked the inquirer rather -pityingly. 'Where are they going?' - -'Who can say? But I can tell you that her ladyship will not see that -day. She is so ill; she wastes away like a taper; she says nothing, -but when she has the strength to show at the window, she looks like -a shadow. She does not go out now; indeed, she has no clothes to go -out with, and if she had them she would not have the strength to go a -step. Poor lady! to think her father could have got her married if he -had chosen.' - -'To whom? Why would he not allow it?' - -Here began the woman's third sorrowful recital, the departure of the -third tenant, Dr. Amati, that she earned such a lot of money by, from -his sudden summonses to sick people. Alas! he was going away; indeed, -he had gone, putting her on the street, poor woman, for she would -never earn another farthing. Just fancy that Dr. Amati, who was so -rich now, and earned as much as he liked, just out of charity, he was -such a good man, had wanted to marry the Marchesina, she was so sweet -and lovely; and she had been in love with the doctor, too, from her -soul, because he had helped her in her illness--because she had known -no other man--in short, because he only could get her out of that -beggary. Well, it was not to be believed, but the Marquis di Formosa -had said 'No,' and had persisted in saying 'No,' always making his -daughter lose that bit of good luck she would never have again. - -'What do you say?' her questioner cried out. 'It seems impossible.' - -'Indeed, yes, it looks like a lie, but the Marquis di Formosa said -"No." He felt quite honoured and pleased that Dr. Amati had asked -for his daughter's hand, but some forbears of his long ago had left -a written paper, in which it was said the last woman child of the -family was not to marry--she must die a maid; and if this command was -not carried out, a great punishment from God would come on her. No -one knew what tears the Marchesina had shed, but her father had been -firm. So that Dr. Amati--one evening they had had a great dispute--to -avoid further occasions for anger, and to get the idea out of his -head, had taken a month's leave from the hospital, left all his -patients, and gone off to his native village to see his mother. -Then he came back to Naples, but he would not even put his foot in -Rossi Palazzo; he had gone to live in a furnished house in Chiaia -Road. At Rossi Palazzo his flat was closed with all his furniture -and books which the doctor no longer read; sometimes the housekeeper -came to dust, and went away again. In a short time now the furniture -and books would be carried away, too, and in May the flat would be -empty. Poor Donna Bianca Maria, how often she had seen her come to -the window of the inner court and gaze on Dr. Amati's closely-shut -balcony! She made one's heart sore, that poor child of the Virgin, -wasting away with sickness, melancholy, and wretchedness. Really -it looked as if there was no more oil in the lamp. Margherita, her -maid, when she spoke about her, cast down her eyes not to show she -was weeping. But the Marquis was not wrong to obey his grandsire's -wishes; there is no trifling with God's vengeance.' - -'Ah! it was written,' remarked the gossip approvingly, quite -thoughtful. 'It was written, my dear. When it is God's will, what is -to be done?' - -House-hunters began to flock in to inspect the flats to let in Rossi -Palazzo, and the door-keeper's hard times began--it was never-ending, -from ten in the morning to four in the afternoon, up and down the -stairs. Every time a family arrived in front of the office and made -the usual inquiries, she shook her head and got up, sighing, to go -with them to the first or second floor. She went in front, going up -very slowly, turning round to chat with the usual familiarity of -small people in Naples, making her keys rattle, as they hung from her -waist; asking if they wanted to see the doctor's rooms, for he had -given her charge of them. Monotonously wandering through the huge -rooms, rather severely furnished, where the stern moral impression of -a great science--a great will--was still present, and all the human -misery that had come there to ask help, she praised up the house -and Dr. Amati, the famous doctor that all Naples admired, or, as she -said, the whole world. - -'Ah,' said the visitors, much impressed; 'and why did he leave this -house, then?' - -Very hastily she replied that the doctor was going to marry and -needed a larger house, or that his business had gone in another -direction, or that he was going to a smaller apartment, having taken -a consulting-room at the hospital; in short, any lie that came -into her head--such hurried, unlikely lies that the house-hunters, -endowed with natural suspiciousness, would not take it in at all, -and interrupted her with: 'All right; we will come back.' But they -did not come back at all; indeed, the solemn, solitary look of the -flat, with too many books, too many surgical appliances, and even -the chair-bed of black leather that the sick lay on to be examined, -that looked like the first step towards the tomb, left rather a sad -impression, so they went away hurriedly, speaking low, still more -alarmed by the doctor being away, the feared and respected god of -medicine. They fled, never to return, a cloud over their spirits, -not at all anxious to come back to be dispirited by these solemn, -thought-inspiring surroundings. - -The door-keeper, standing in the doorway, saw them go off quickly -towards Toledo Street, where there was movement, light, and gaiety, -and in spite of their vague promises, hesitatingly made, she knew -they would never come back. 'Nothing is arranged, dear,' she often -said, with a wearied air, to the neighbouring door-keeper at the Rosa -Mansion. Nothing was settled, even for the flats that the Fragalà and -Cavalcanti families were leaving. It looked as if the house-hunters -noticed the bad luck that came from these two flats, where so many -tears had been shed, where so many were still being shed. In the -Fragalàs' house, brave, melancholy Luisella had got rid of a great -part of the furniture; the fine red drawing-room was now bare of -its old brocade couches, and the child slept in its parents' room. -Their way of living was of a sudden meaner, smaller, being restricted -to the bedroom and dining-room. Sometimes the visitors found the -family at dinner at two o'clock. Cesare Fragalà kept his eyes on -his plate, eating stolidly. Luisella said nothing, but kept rolling -bread-pellets in her fingers. Little Agnesina, well-behaved and good -as usual, looked at her father and mother alternately, taking care -to make no noise with her spoon and fork, not to disturb them. When -the visitors came in, the father of the family got paler and the -mother cast down her eyes. Both of them at each visit felt having to -leave the house: their wounds smarted and bled afresh. The little one -looked at them, and said over in a whisper: - -'Mamma, mamma!' - -The visitors, led in by the door-keeper, felt they were in the -way, and excused themselves, going on into other rooms while the -woman spoke volubly to take off their attention. When they saw the -drawing-room, parlour, and lobby empty, they gave queer glances at -each other, so that the door-keeper shivered with impatience, cursing -in her heart all who go away from houses and those who go looking for -them, also those who go round to show them--that is to say, herself, -who had this hard fate. The visitors asked the stock questions rather -suspiciously: - -'Why are they going away?' - -Then she made up her mind and whispered: - -'They have failed in business.' - -'Ah, is that it?' exclaimed the visitors, much interested. - -On the stair she gave particulars--told the reason of the failure, -spoke of their former riches and the want of any comforts now; -told about Signora Luisella's courage and her husband's rage for -gambling on the lottery, and poor little Agnesina's good behaviour. -She seemed to understand having come into the world and grown up -at a bad season. The house-hunters listened full of interest, with -that skin-deep emotion peculiar to Southerners; but from what they -had seen, as well as from what they had heard from the door-keeper, -they got a singular impression of evil fate--a doom weighing down an -innocent, good family; a hard destiny, destroying all the sources of -happiness and energy. - -The house-hunters turned their backs on the Fragalà household -and Rossi Palazzo slowly; but they still felt sad, and spoke to -each other about there being implacable, unforeseen, overpowering -disasters, sometimes coming on humanity. Some attributed it to -perfidious fate, some to the evil eye; others were philosophical over -the passions of humanity, especially for gambling, still repeating -the phrase that includes all the indulgence and forgiveness of -Naples' folk: 'We are not our own masters.' - -It was difficult to get into the Marquis di Formosa's flat. Often -Margherita objected to anyone seeing the house, in spite of its being -the right hours for visits. The door-keeper talked her over, feeling -rather annoyed. She raised her voice and asked, 'How ever would -a house be let, if no one could get in to see it?' Sometimes she -managed to get in by slipping through the half-open door. All stopped -speaking at once, for from the freezing bare lobby to the bare frozen -drawing-room there was such cold, such a smell of old dust displaced, -that it gave one a shudder. Big dull stains on the walls marked -the outline of large pieces of furniture that had once been there, -which the Marquis had sold to use what they fetched for staking on -the lottery. One saw the big hooks and nails that the pictures had -been hung from, and a heap of old yellow paper lay on the ground in -a corner of one empty room. Where curtains had been fastened to the -doors and balcony windows, there were holes in the plaster, for they -seemed to have been violently torn away. - -The chapel, too, had not a saint left. Our Lady of Sorrows and the -Ecce Homo had been sold, also the vases and ornaments--even the fine -napkins with old lace, so that the despoiled altar had a doleful, -desecrated look. Sometimes the visitors, on going through the house, -met a slight girlish figure in black, her shoulders wrapped in a -shabby shawl, the lady's heavy black tresses seeming to make her face -still more bloodless. She gazed at the visitors with her sorrowful -eyes as if she did not know what was going on; a shade of grief -reanimated them for a moment when she remembered it meant they had -to leave that roof, their only refuge. The woman said in a whisper, -'It is the Marchesina!' nothing else, and that apparition was like -the outline of an irreparable disaster. Sometimes the house-hunters, -followed by Margherita and the door-keeper, came to a closed -door. The waiting-woman rather hesitated, but on a hint from the -door-keeper she made up her mind to knock. - -'My lady, may we come in?' - -'Yes, yes; come in,' a feeble voice answered. - -Then all saw a wretched maidenly room, freezing with cold, where a -pale creature in black, wrapped in a worn shawl, was seated by the -bedside, or getting up quickly from her kneeling-desk. Then, abashed, -they just gave a quick look round, muttered vaguely some excuse, and -went off, the maiden following them with her thoughtful, sorrowing -eyes. On the stair they dared to speak. They asked the woman, as if -speaking of dead people or things: - -'_What was their name?_' - -'The Cavalcantis; he is a Marquis,' said the door-keeper. - -Then the visitors would go off, taking with them a deep impression of -people and things that are extinct. - - - - - CHAPTER XIX - - DON CRESCENZIO'S TRIALS - - -Coming out of the Finance Department, from the Secretary's room, -having got to the lobby, Don Crescenzio staggered and had a singing -in his ears. - -'Do you feel ill?' asked the usher anxiously, for he knew him. - -'No, it is nothing; it is from this first heat of spring,' he -stammered. And he brought his hands across his forehead, which was -covered with cold drops of sweat. Still, to try to look at ease, he -pulled out a cigar and lit it. - -'Is business good?' the usher asked the lottery banker, while he was -carefully putting out the match. - -'Well, just so-so,' said the other, giving a sketchy sort of smile. - -'It would be grand to get the right figures,' the usher muttered; -'one would like to spit in this infamous Government's face,' he added -in a whisper. - -'But no one knows the right figures--no one does,' the other cried -out as he went away. But when he was under the portico and got out -to the open air, he felt dizzy again; he had a singing in his ears -and nearly fell. He had to stand a good minute, leaning on the stone -posts of San Giacomo Palazzo door, which opens on to Toledo Street, -seeing the usual crowd in that thoroughfare swim before his eyes. -It was larger than usual, from its being the first fine spring day, -which brought out more people than usual. He only saw a confused -crowd without distinct outlines. He heard a great noise without -distinguishing either words or voices. Only, while he went on smiling -instinctively, he saw sharply marked in his mind the corner of the -writing-room where the Finance Secretary had turned his cold, severe -glance on him. He heard the exact sound of the Secretary's words -ringing out as clear as if they had just struck the drum of his ear. -The Secretary had been very stern with him. He could no longer be -lenient to the lottery banker, for he had been too lenient already; -he did not want to seem an accomplice of his fraud. 'Fraud,' he -said and repeated, in spite of the deadly pallor that came over Don -Crescenzio's face on hearing the cruel word. - -One cannot play tricks with the State; it gives no credit. Every -week lately, when Don Crescenzio came to hand over the profits, he -was short of money, and had had to ask the Minister of Finance at -Rome to make allowances for him and give him time. This had happened -every week. But the State is not a bank which can grant delays. It -makes others wait, but it will not. Every time he mentioned the State -the word filled the Secretary's mouth severely and sonorously, and -he frowned a little. Don Crescenzio listened, with his head down, -starting when he heard named that mysterious being who gets all and -gives nothing; who has no heart or bowels, and holds out open hands -to take and carry off everything. Ah! the Secretary had been decisive -in his cruelty. By Wednesday he must pay up all in full--stakes and -the debt in arrears; if not, the downfall was unavoidable: the State -would seize the caution money and prosecute Don Crescenzio for his -indebtedness. He had just given one sob at the Secretary's last words. - -'You lose the caution money, and you go to prison if you don't pay -up,' the worthy official wound up his remarks with. - -Don Crescenzio had set to imploring then. He had a wife and children; -if he had been so foolish as to give the gamblers credit, was he to -be ruined for that? If they would give him time, he would force the -men to pay; he would give back the State the uttermost farthing. He -was an honest man; in short, he was cheated, slain. - -'You gamble too, and on credit,' the Secretary said haughtily. - -'I only did it to try and recoup myself.' - -'An honest lottery keeper never plays himself. It is immoral in a -citizen to play.' - -'Then the State is immoral also.' - -'The State cannot be immoral, remember that. Think of how you are to -pay; I can do no more for you.' - -Still, he had begged, sobbing, that they would not cast him into -prison; indeed, they could not require a man's death, being men and -Christians. But he had made that scene before twice, and had managed -to get a month's, a fortnight's grace. This time the Secretary -looked so freezingly at him that Don Crescenzio had understood. This -was the end, really. He must either pay or go to prison. He took -leave, always feeling that word _Wednesday_, _Wednesday_, cut into -his brain. It was true he had a young wife and two babies; a small -family, that with Neapolitan good-heartedness and good-nature he had -accustomed to living freely, going from a fine holiday dinner at home -to a grander country excursion, and to celebrate all the feast-days -with good eating. They gave each other presents of heavy gold -jewellery, and, though contenting themselves with hired carriages, -had always a secret wish to keep a carriage of their own; and he -bought earrings, rings, and brooches for his wife, and presented her -with shiny jet mantles such as our towns-folk love. And all this -came while living off the income from the lottery bank; indeed, he -speculated a little with Government money, but did not gamble on the -lottery ever. This was past, the time of purity and innocence. When -had he staked the first time--he, who ought to have kept himself from -that contagion, and only lived off the lottery, without letting it -fasten on him, live off it as one may drink poison without dying of -it, though the same poison laid on an open wound will kill? When had -he first staked? He did not remember now; he saw confusedly a great -_Wednesday_ stand out with such vivid heat that it seemed like a live -coal, as if it must burn him. It was all a confusion, in which the -mental disorder of the Cabalists who crowded into his shop, touching -him with their feverish hands and infecting him, and their money--got -God knows how or where--passing from their hands to his, all gave him -the impression of a tragedy. That mental malady that burned in their -blood, young and old, rich and poor, powerful and insignificant, had -passed on to him; from being with them, breathing their atmosphere, -it had soaked through everything, and come into his very life. First -of all, greed of gain had made him give credit to the Cabalists, -keeping back always so much per cent. off their stakes when they -played on credit, while he asked for delay from the Government; -then, as the deviations became continually larger, as the hole got -deeper till there was a precipice down to it, he began to gamble too, -unlucky wretch, tempting Fate, having the delusion he was in her -favour, and playing on credit, with the huge delusion that he might -win a large, an immense sum. - -Ah! the unlucky wretch, he knew quite well that hardly anyone ever -wins. He was well acquainted with the frightful law of averages, that -shows that winning is so rare it is difficult to find cases of it. -It is an infinitesimal chance, like one planet meeting another every -two or three hundred years by inflexible sidereal laws. He knew well -that Government always wins, always; that it takes sixteen million -francs from Naples alone every year--from all Italy, sixty million of -francs. But what did that signify? He went on giving credit to the -Cabalists; he showed at their meetings; he lent a hand to imprison -Don Pasqualino, being blinded himself. The vulgar luxury of his house -increased; his wife got fat, she was red and shiny from eating too -much, and now she was going to have another child. She wore a cream -silk dress covered with lace; her fat hands, laden with rings, lay on -her already rounded figure with that quietly satisfied air of women -easy in their feelings. What a disaster if on Wednesday he did not -bring the money to the Secretary! He, his wife and children, and the -one to be born, would be in wretchedness, and he himself in prison. - -Now, every time the word 'Wednesday' came to the mind of the handsome -lottery banker, with his well-kept chestnut beard and white hands, a -little warm blood flowed into his pale cheeks, and he felt them burn -like two flames of fire. He had dragged himself away from the San -Giacomo doorposts, and was going among the crowd, letting himself be -carried along, feeling a slight dizziness that came from his being -wrapt up always in the same maddening idea. He must do something, -gain money, try and get it from those who owed it to him and had it, -so that on Wednesday he and his family would not be ruined. Where -was he to go? He must look for money at any cost; he would drag it -from his debtors' vitals. He was not going to die for them; he would -not go to San Francesco for these four scoundrels, who had drawn him -into dishonest courses. Money, money was what he wanted; he thirsted, -hungered for it; it was his soul--his body asked for that only. -Money, or he would die; that was all. - -Now, having made up his mind, he set out on the search for some of -those indebted to him. They had gradually all deserted his shop, -not being able to stand his constant demands for money. They took to -some other lottery bank the few pence they managed to get hold of by -some dark miracle, God knows how or where. Out of fear for his just -anger, they had even taken away his profits, ungrateful now, as well -as dishonest. However, he knew where they all lived; he wished to -set on them; he would not let them go till they felt his despair as -if it was their own. He would wait at their homes, at their doors, -in the streets they went through; he would speak to them, shout at -them, and weep. He would give them such a fright that the State money -would be got out of them, dragged out by his rush of despair. It was -a question of life and death; his wife and children were not to be -sent to beggary because he had been too easy, too weak, too much of -a boy. He must get the money--he must. The crowd had now carried him -to the upper part of Toledo Street, while he was making up a good -plan in his head how to carry out best this burning desire to save -himself in a way likely to effect his purpose. Let us see: where -would he go first that springtide noon? Where would he say his first -word? He must make no mistake; he must try and strike a sure blow, or -otherwise.... He could not think of non-success; it was a notion he -could not bear. Now he had stopped in Carità Square, fixing his eyes, -which had a thick cloud before them, on Carlo Poerio's statue. The -people passing hustled him on all sides; the shouts of street-sellers -and voices of passers-by struck him as a vague, indistinct noise. He -thought a minute of going to the Marquis di Formosa's, the person -most largely indebted to him; but amongst them all the Marquis was -the one he was sorriest for, from his own misfortunes; also he was -the one least likely to have money. Now, Don Crescenzio did not want -to begin by being unkind to an unhappy man, nor did he want to make -a bad start; he was too much afraid of not succeeding--he was too -discouraged. He would go last to the Marquis di Formosa--afterwards, -as a last resource. The safest of those he had given credit to was -Ninetto Costa, the stock-broker--the safest because, in spite of -his falling behind with his payments, he always could get money to -borrow; some still believed in his star. Ninetto Costa had got into -debt several times with him, but had always paid until the last time, -when it was for rather a large sum; but for three weeks past he had -got so out of pocket he could not give a farthing to Don Crescenzio. -What did it matter? Costa was a moneyed man. - -The lottery banker went forward towards the Exchange, knowing this -was an hour that Ninetto Costa would be there for certain. But among -the band of bankers, stockbrokers, merchants, and outside brokers, -who were chattering, talking things over, and vociferating, he -looked vainly for him for a quarter of an hour. Then he asked two -or three men for him, and got a bad reception. Some shrugged their -shoulders, others gave an ironical smile, and all set at once to -speak of their own business, leaving Don Crescenzio alone. He, who -with the extraordinary trustingness of people in desperation had -gone in there quite quieted down, already sure of a good result, -felt a burning from his mouth to the pit of his stomach. But where -was Ninetto Costa, then? He remembered having gone to call on him -once at Carolina Road, where the smart stock-broker had a set of -rooms furnished with striking youthful luxury; but he had changed -his house some time before--it was at the beginning of his downfall. -Now Don Crescenzio remembered having gone with him one evening, on -leaving the meeting in Nardones Road, up Taverna Penta Road to a very -ordinary house there, which Costa was reduced to, just opposite San -Giacomo Road. He must find him, at any rate, whether alive or dead. -Ninetto Costa would give him the eleven hundred francs he owed him, -and at least a part of the debt to Government would be paid; a small -part, it is true, but something, at least. He went up again towards -Taverna Penta Road, and the sulky door-keeper looked at him, and said: - -'Fourth-floor.' - -'But is he at home?' - -'I don't know,' she grumbled. - -Patiently, determined not to be discouraged by anything, he went up -the narrow, steep stair, and from the landings and doors came out the -sound of children's whining and women's quarrelling voices and noisy -sewing-machines. On Ninetto Costa's door was a torn visiting-card -fastened up by four pins. He knocked twice. No one came; there was no -sound from inside. He knocked louder, the third time--nothing yet. -The fourth time he gave the bell a hard pull, and a very light step -could be heard; then no sound nor movement, as if the person who had -come to the door was listening intently. - -'Don Ninetto, it is I. Open--especially as I know that you are in the -house, and I won't go away,' the lottery banker said in a loud voice. - -There was a few minutes' pause again. Then the door opened softly, -and the stock-broker's face appeared, sadly altered. Now all his -youthfulness, prolonged by high living and cosmetics, had fled. -His hair was sparse on the temples and on the top of his head. Two -flabby, yellowish bags underlined his eyes, and thousands of small -wrinkles came down in all directions, marking the face indelibly. The -jacket that hardly covered him had the collar turned up, as if he -were cold or wished to hide his linen. - -'Is it you?' he asked, with a sickly smile. - -He brought Don Crescenzio into the parlour, a shabby lodging-house -sitting-room with red chair-covers and curtains dulled by smoke, and -sat down opposite to him, looking at him with dull eyes which had -lost all expression. - -'It is I. I went to look for you at the Exchange. Have you not been -there to-day?' Don Crescenzio asked, feeling a burning at his stomach -again. - -'No, I did not go to-day.' - -'Why not?' - -'No matter.' - -'Have you not been there for some time?' - -'Not for--yes ... for three or four days.' - -'What have you been doing?' Don Crescenzio asked anxiously. - -'Nothing,' said the other, with a gesture that was too clear. - -'Have you gone bankrupt?' - -Ninetto Costa shut his eyes, shivering, as if he did not want to see -something; then he said: - -'Yes, I have.' - -'This is ruin, ruin!' shouted Don Crescenzio, throwing up his arms -heavenwards. - -The other bit his moustache convulsively. - -'At least, you have kept something. That eleven hundred francs you -owe me--you must have kept it, have you not?' - -Ninetta Costa looked at him dreamily. - -'If I do not get this eleven hundred francs by Tuesday evening, I -must go prison!' the lottery banker shrieked out. - -Ninetto Costa hung his head. - -'I must go to prison, and my family will have no bread. You must give -me the eleven hundred francs, you know!' shrieked Don Crescenzio in a -great rage. - -'I have not got it.' - -'Look for it.' - -'I shall not find it. No one will give it to me.' - -'You must find it; I cannot go to prison for you. Find it.' - -'It is impossible, Don Crescenzio,' said the stock-broker, with tears -in his eyes. - -'Nothing is impossible when it has to do with a debt like this, when -it is a question of saving an honest man from ruin. For pity's sake, -Don Ninetto; you know how dear honour is.' - -'Yes, I do,' said the other, turning his face away. - -'For pity's sake don't forsake me. I have done you a favour; don't be -so ungrateful.' - -'I have not got a farthing, and I cannot find one.' - -'But have you no friends or relations left?' - -'None--not one. I have gone bankrupt; that is enough.' - -'What will you do?' - -'I am going--going to Rome,' the stock-broker brought out, after a -slight hesitation. - -'What to do?' - -'Who knows? Perhaps I shall make my fortune there.' - -'But you ought not to forsake me; you, a man, must give me the eleven -hundred francs before you leave.' - -'I have not got it. I can't get it. Don't torment me, Don Crescenzio; -I have not a farthing.' - -'Give me your signature to a bill; some banker that you are -acquainted with will cash it.' - -'All my bills are presented.' - -'Pawn your jewellery.' - -'I have sold it all.' - -'Then give me your watch.' - -'It is sold.' - -'Then ask your mother or your uncle.' - -'My uncle will perhaps do me the kindness to support my mother. The -mother of a bankrupt, you understand, is never very well received.' - -'For how much have you failed?' - -'For two hundred thousand francs.' - -'All through the lottery, was it?' - -'I lost all there,' Ninetto Costa said, with a decided gesture. - -'But how can you leave me to such ruin?' Don Crescenzio rejoined, -nearly crying; 'how have you the heart?' - -'How have I the heart?' the other said, in a shaky voice. 'I am -leaving my mother with nothing to support her, you know. I am going -to Rome. If I make any money I will send you some.' - -'When do you go?' - -'To-morrow.... Yes, to-morrow.' - -'Can you send me money by Tuesday?' - -'I don't think so, Don Crescenzio--I don't think so,' Ninetto Costa -said, with desperate calmness. - -'It must be by Wednesday, you know; if not, I am ruined.' - -'I was ruined three days ago.' - -'Holy Virgin! who has blinded me?' the lottery-keeper said, crying. - -'You want to kill me before the time,' Ninetto Costa muttered. - -'What are you saying?' - -'Nothing. But keep calm. Everything may come right gradually.' - -'Wednesday is the last day I have got--Wednesday.' - -'Perhaps Government will give you time. Find out some way; write to -the Minister, write to the King. I must start off.' - -He pointed to a small bag, not half full, with a feeble smile. - -'But, really, can you not give me anything?' - -'I would do it, Don Crescenzio, but I swear to you that I have not -got a farthing. I am off to Rome; then I will see....' - -Disappointed and excited, Don Crescenzio got up to go away, half -angry and half sorry for Costa. He wanted to rush off in search of -his other clients; he wanted to find money, to leave that sad house, -the sad company of a man more desperate than himself. He wanted to -go away. Ninetto Costa looked at him in a dull way, keeping up that -pallid smile on his white lips, the absent-minded smile of a man -quite indifferent to earthly affairs. Still, the other once more -insisted in a vague way, as if in justice to himself, thinking he had -not done enough to get his money. But the stock-broker gave him such -a suffering look he said no more. - -'Good-bye, Don Crescenzio; for--give me.' - -'Good-bye, Don Ninetto; don't forget me at Rome.' - -'Have no doubt of it,' said the other, in a weak, queer voice. - -They took each other's hands without pressing them--cold, feeble -hands, both. As in a dream, Ninetto Costa went to the door with the -lottery banker; silently they looked at each other, but did not -speak. Then the door shut again with such a queer _decisive_ sound -that the lottery banker, going slowly downstairs, gave a start. He -felt almost inclined to turn back; it came to his mind that Costa had -told him he had not a farthing, and, then, that flabby travelling bag -with nothing in it. But the thought of his own sorrows distracted -him from his pity and from any suspicion of greater misfortune. Now, -still on foot, to spare the money for a cab even, he began to run up -Toledo Street, as if prodded by a goad, to go to San Sebastiano Road, -where Marzano, the old lawyer, lived, another indebted to him. He, -too, because of his professional position, even if he had no money -to pay up at once, would be able to get a loan; at any rate, he owed -eight hundred francs to Don Crescenzio, and he would give them to -him; indeed, Don Crescenzio would sit there till he got them, even if -he had to wait till night. He knew his house very well, a poor house -indeed: for Marzano staked everything--all he earned--and he even -supported a cobbler at sixty francs a month, a Cabalist, who wrote -lottery numbers with charcoal on dirty pieces of paper. - -Don Crescenzio went up the steps four at a time, running, because -a voice in his heart told him he would find the money at Signor -Marzano's; he felt a good presentiment. Still, when he put his hand -to the iron ring that hung from a greasy cord, a sudden alarm took -him, the fear of not succeeding, a horrible fear that paralyzed his -strength, the nervousness of the unfortunate when life and death are -at stake. A dragging step was heard, and a shrill voice asked: - -'Who is it?' - -'Friends--a friend,' the lottery banker stammered hastily. - -The door opened suspiciously, and the cobbler's mean face showed, -all marked with pimples. His blear, red, stupid eyes stared at Don -Crescenzio. - -'Do you want to see the lawyer?' he asked, drying his hands on a -dirty apron. - -'Yes, sir.' - -'He cannot attend to you.' - -'Is he busy?' - -'He is ill.' - -'Ill, is he? Not much the matter, I hope?' - -'He has had a stroke. Wishing you better health----' - -'Good God!' shouted Don Crescenzio, throwing his hat down on the -ground in despair. - -'It was the lottery did it.... Indeed, he always starved himself; he -did not live well. He ate very little and drank water, you see.' - -'Oh, God! God!' Don Crescenzio whispered in lamentation. - -'It is God's will,' the cobbler said softly, pulling out a little bit -of dirty paper and taking a pinch of yellowish snuff. 'When it is -God's will, what can one do?... Don't despair. Till the last there is -hope.' - -'I know that; it is why I am so despairing!' shrieked Don Crescenzio. - -'I have a right to complain,' the silly fellow rejoined. 'I would -have got him a fortune. I expected peace in my old days from him, and -in the meanwhile, by his own folly, he is at death's door, and leaves -me to wretchedness. Do you see?' - -'But how was it? how did it happen?' - -'Wait a minute. I am just coming.' And he went out of the room. - -Don Crescenzio looked round him, stupefied with sorrow. The wretched -room had no other furniture but some old lawyer's bookcases, -choke-full of dusty papers, a small table, and two soiled straw -chairs. There was a glass on the table, with two fingers of bluish -wine in it--the thick, heavy Sicilian wine. The floor had not been -swept for a long time, the wall was full of spiders' webs, the -window-panes were covered with dust, and a smell of dirty staleness -and mustiness caught the throat. And this was the lawyer's house--of -him that had been one of the best advocates of his day, and had -earned thousands of pounds in his profession! Don Crescenzio felt his -heart bleed; his hands were like ice. Had he come here, to this abode -of poverty, shame, and death, to look for his eight hundred francs to -save himself? What madness, what madness his had been! Would it not -be better to run away, as he was finding everywhere the same traces -of dishonour and wretchedness--everywhere? But the cobbler came back. - -'What is he doing?' Don Crescenzio asked in a whisper. - -'He is in a stupor.' - -'Is he asleep?' - -'No; it is from the disease.' - -'What has been done for him?' - -'He has been bled; then, he has an ice blister on his head, and -another on his chest.' - -'Does he speak at all?' - -'He does not understand what is said.' - -'Has he become powerless?' - -'Only on his right side.' - -'What does the doctor say?' - -'What can he say? It is a case of death.' - -'Is the doctor coming back?' - -'Who can say? There is nothing to pay him with. I found seven francs -and a nickel watch that won't pawn. I have spent three francs already -on ice. When the seven francs are done, we are at an end of our -resources.' - -'But how did it happen? how did it happen?' Don Crescenzio asked -again desperately. - -'Humph! there has been such a lot of things. He has had some -unpleasantnesses, you see. A man is always a man.... He needed -money ... he tried to get it in all sorts of ways.' - -'What did he do?' asked the other, alarmed. - -'Evil-minded people say he forged stamped paper--washing, you know, -what was written on it already, and putting it to use again. But it -can't be true. He leaves me to beggary; he has been ungrateful to -me; but it can't be true. I will never believe it. It seems that -the ill-natured people got at the President of the Consiglio dell' -Ordine, who called him rather ugly things. It seems, in short, there -were unpleasantnesses.' - -'Poor man! poor man!' Don Crescenzio called out in a low voice. - -'This summons to the President was a fatal thing for him. You may -think for an honest man to feel himself insulted is unbearable. -Signor Marzano wished to go away to some village where there is -better breeding.' - -'To go away at his age with seven francs in his pocket!' - -'I would have gone with him,' the silly cobbler muttered modestly. -'I was getting ready to go with him, out of love to him; and as to -the money--that is the real reason of the stroke.' - -'How could it be?' - -'You know, sir, that my mathematical labours, with God's help, have -always brought in some money to the advocate.' - -'Yes, some small sum every three or four months,' Don Crescenzio -remarked sceptically. - -'You are mistaken; one may say that I benefited him, and these -wretched sixty francs he gave me every month, for me not to clap on -soles any longer, but work at necromancy, were not even the hundredth -part of what he won each month. Now he is leaving me, ungrateful -fellow! like this ... enough: I may tell you I had given certain -numbers to him symbolically, numbers that must necessarily come out; -and they did come, you know.' - -'Then, he won?' - -'No, nothing; he did not understand--he staked on others' -figures--his mind is not trustworthy now. When he knew it he got the -stroke.... To your health, sir.' - -'But had you really told him what were good numbers?' - -'I swear it before God; but he did not understand.' - -'Why did you not play them?' - -'You know quite well that _we_ cannot play.' - -'Ah, yes, that is true.' - -They stopped speaking; the cobbler put the glass to his lips and took -a sip of wine. - -'I would like to see him,' Don Crescenzio said suddenly. - -They went into the small bedroom; it was poor and dirty like the -study. Marzano, the advocate, lay on a wretched iron bed, raised on -pillows, whose covers were of doubtful whiteness; a lump of ice was -on his bald head, another on the bare, skeleton-like breast, and his -thin, small body was covered by a brown horse-blanket. On the night -table was a tumbler of water with a bit of ice in it; the dying man's -right hand was wrapped in the blood-letting bandages. All his right -side, from the face to the foot, was struck rigid, numb already, -while his left hand went on trembling, trembling, and all the left -side of his face often twitched convulsively. A confused stammering -came from his lips; all his gentle, good-natured expression was gone, -leaving on that old face, half belonging to death already, the marks -of a passion that had got to be shameful. - -'Signor Marzano! Signor Marzano!' Don Crescenzio called out, leaning -over his bed. - -The sick man set his eyes, veiled by a curious cloud, on the -lottery-keeper's face, but the expression did not change nor the -stammering stop. - -'He doesn't recognise you,' said the cobbler, taking snuff. - -Don Crescenzio left the room at once, feeling the nightmare of it -weighing on his mind. - -'You are his friend: will you leave him something?' the cobbler -asked. 'I have only four francs; he will die like a dog.' - -Then all Don Crescenzio's suppressed sorrow burst out. - -'He owes me eight hundred francs, and I am ruined if I do not get it -by Wednesday. He is dying; but I am left, and I am tortured. He will -die; but my children will sleep on church steps in a month. He at -least is dying, but we shall all come to desperate straits, you see.' - -'Excuse me, I did not know,' the cobbler said, alarmed. - -'I have been assassinated,' sobbed out the other. - -'Be quiet, he may hear you; what can you expect from him?' And he -took the last sip of the bluish wine left in the bottom of the -tumbler. - -Don Crescenzio fled. Now at intervals he felt his head going, and -he needed to say the word '_Wednesday_' to gather himself together. -Still, instinctively, with that automatic style of moving of unhappy -people who go to meet their destiny, he went up by Porto Alba again -towards Bagnara Lane, where Professor Colaneri lived. He, too, owed -him money, and promised to give it week by week, but had always -sent him away with empty hands or put him off with small sums. The -ex-priest lived on the fourth-floor of a house in Bagnara Lane, with -an unlucky clear-starcher who had given heed to his blandishments and -passed for his wife. They had four unhealthy children with big heads -and crooked legs, and all lived in two rooms--quarrelling, crying, -beating each other, and weeping all day. He had hidden from the -clear-starcher that he had been a priest; the unlucky woman, thinking -to become a lady, gave in to him, and for six years had lived in a -state of servitude, between holding children and doing servant's work -of the roughest kind amid indecent wretchedness, among that brood -of ugly, howling, for ever hungry children, whom she avenged herself -on by slaps for the blows her husband was liberal with towards her. -It was a hellish house, where the father was always sulkily thinking -over mean, sometimes guilty, methods of getting money for gambling. -Twice Don Crescenzio had gone there, but he had been present at such -disgusting scenes that he had rushed away, hunted out almost by the -laundress's bad words and the four demons' howls. But now what did -that matter? Colaneri owed him seven hundred francs and more; of a -debt of nine hundred francs he had only paid two hundred in three or -four months, or rather less. Colaneri, by Gad! was not ruined like -Ninetto Costa, or apoplectic like Marzano--Colaneri must pay. - -'Is Professor Colaneri at home?' - -'Yes, sir,' an old woman who acted as door-keeper said. - -Then he went up quickly; the laundress came to the door to open, -unkempt, a greasy kitchen apron over a shabby dress. Her cheeks were -fallen in, her breasts emaciated, and a tooth was wanting in front, -through which she whistled a little. - -'I would like to see Professor Colaneri.' - -'He is not here,' she said quickly, leaving the other still outside. - -'He is in--I know he is,' said Don Crescenzio in a rage. 'At any -rate, it is no use denying it. I will wait for him on the stairs: he -must come out some time.' - -'Then come in,' she said unwillingly. As the lottery-keeper was -coming in, a dirty boy with water on the head got a slap. Whilst he -waited in the room that served as a parlour, study and dining-room, -from beyond--that is to say, the kitchen, in the bedroom, and even -the landing-place--cries burst out from the quarrelsome family. But -in a silent interval the Professor came in, putting on an old jacket -all spotted with grease, and setting his spectacles on his nose with -an ecclesiastical gesture. - -'I have come for my money,' Don Crescenzio said brutally. - -'I have got none,' the debtor answered sulkily. - -'That does not matter to me. You must give it to me.' - -'I have no money.' - -'Find some. I must have my seven hundred francs, you know.' - -'I have not got it.' - -'Give a lien on your salary: get a loan that way.' - -'I have not got a salary now.' - -'What! are you not a professor now?' - -'No; I have been dismissed from my post.' - -'What! are you dismissed?' - -'Yes--turned out by force. I was accused of selling the examination -papers to the students.' - -'It was not true, of course?' - -'Of course not. But the plot to ruin me was well arranged. The Senate -advised me to resign.' - -'So you are on the pavement?' - -'Yes; I am destitute.' - -Then only Don Crescenzio noticed that Professor Colaneri's face was -pallid and distorted. But this third disappointment enraged him. - -'I don't know what to do to you; you must give me the seven hundred -francs, at any rate.' - -'Have you got five francs to lend me?' - -'Don't talk nonsense! I want my money--for to-morrow at latest, mind.' - -'Crescenzio, you are putting a man already on the rack to torture.' - -'That is fine chatter. I can't go to San Francesco on your account. -You are so many murderers. I go to Costa for money, and find that he -has failed--that he is going off to Rome, to do he knows not what. -If it is true, he is going to Rome ... and I get no money. I go to -Marzano, and find him half dead. Here you tell me you are on the -pavement and have no money.' - -'We are all ruined--all of us,' muttered the ex-priest. - -'Well, you all want to kill me, do you? But when you needed credit -I gave it to you ... and now you want to kill me and my family! But -you have got sons also; you must think about feeding them--to-morrow -and every other day; you ought to do something. You will think of -me--think of my babies--think that we are Christians, too!' - -'Do you know what I must do to-morrow to give my little ones bread?' - -'What do I care? I know you will give it to them. I know that my -children are not to go fasting while yours get their food.' - -'Well, listen: I am not a priest now; I have been excommunicated, -I am outside the pale of the Church; therefore I will get no help -there. I had a professor's post, a good safe thing, but I have lost -it; I needed money too much. Don't ask me for sad confessions. I will -not get my post again, nor any other; I am a marked man.' - -'But what is the use of telling me about these sorrows? I know about -them. I know they will do my affairs no good.' - -'Look here, then: I have no outlook; now, as I have put unlucky -beings into the world, I feel that it is my duty to give them -bread--at least that. I have gambled away on the lottery what they -had as a certainty, an unfailing resource; but it is folly to think -of that. Therefore I have taken the great decision, once for all.' - -'What are you referring to?' asked Don Crescenzio, much astonished. - -'To-morrow I am going to accept the offer the Evangelical Society has -made me. I will become a Protestant pastor.' - -'Oh, God!' said the lottery-keeper, astonished above measure. - -'As you say,' said the other, gulping as if he could hardly swallow. - -'And you will give up our religion?' - -'I am leaving it through hunger.' - -'And that other ... do you believe in it?' - -'No, I do not.' - -'And how will you set about preaching?' - -'I will do it; I will get accustomed to it.' - -'You will have to abjure, will you?' - -'Yes, I have to do that.' - -'Will it be a grand ceremony?' - -'A very grand one.' - -They spoke in a whisper, and Colaneri's cynical face was distorted, -as if he could not stand the idea of abjuring. Don Crescenzio, too, -in his astonishment, had forgotten his sorrow. - -'You have got to apostatize?' - -'Yes, I must apostatize.' - -'Well, your priest's orders have been taken from you.' - -'Still, to deny the faith is a different thing,' said Colaneri darkly. - -'Then, it distresses you very much to do it?' - -'I hate to do it.' - -'How much will you gain by it?' - -'Two hundred francs a month in some village they will send me to.' - -'It is hardly enough for bread.' - -'To each of my boys that turn Protestant they will give a small sum. -I will be able to marry their mother.' - -'But to have to leave Christ's religion!' exclaimed Don Crescenzio, -with that horror of Protestantism that is in all humble Neapolitan -consciences. - -'What would you have? It is hunger drives me to it,' Colaneri -muttered desperately. - -He seemed now altogether changed, even in his character; it was -clear to him now how fatal his rage for gambling had been; he saw -what he had done against himself and his own gifts, and he felt -an unconquerable distaste for that apostasy. He had done wicked -things; he had descended to crime, even, of a coarse kind, having -got corrupted in that unhealthy atmosphere; but now he found the -punishment in front of him, he trembled and lost all his bravery; he -trembled at having to deny his faith, his God, for a loaf of bread. - -Don Crescenzio looked at him and said nothing, amazed. He had always -thought Colaneri a scoundrel, and, if he had given him credit, it -was only because he thought he could seize his salary. But now, on -this decisive day, he saw him cast down, moved to his inmost soul by -an awful fear of the Divinity he had already betrayed and insulted, -whom he was again outraging by his apostasy. Don Crescenzio, although -small-minded, felt the agony of that conscience that was now fighting -in its last outpost, having got to the stage where human endurance -ends, the hardest, most wearing hours in life. So he dared not say -anything more to him about the money. He stammered: - -'Your wife--what does she say?' - -'She would like to prevent me doing it, except for the children's -sake.' - -'The poor children, must they lose their souls also?' - -'They are innocent. The Lord sees; He will be just. Besides, why has -He set me with my back to the wall? For each child that enters the -Protestant Church they give me a small sum.' - -'When will this come off?' Don Crescenzio asked, after hesitating. - -'In a month. A month of instruction is needed for the poor -innocents.' - -'It will be too late for me,' the other said in a low tone, still -thinking of his money. - -'I will give you a receipt if you like, then.' - -'It is too late. I am ruined.' - -'What a punishment--what a punishment!' the apostate said, hiding his -face in his hands. - -'I am going away,' Don Crescenzio said, prostrate now, in a state of -utter depression. - -'Be patient.' - -'What is the use of patience? it is a punishment! You spoke the truth -just now: it is a chastisement! I am going away; good-bye.' - -They did not look at each other nor say another word; both of them -felt seized and cowed by the frightfulness of the punishment, not -feeling any more rage or rancour in that breaking-down of all pride -and vanity that the Divine chastisement brings. When he was on the -stairs, Don Crescenzio was seized with such faintness that he had -to sit down on a step, and stay there confused, neither seeing nor -hearing in that moral numbness that comes on after great excitement. -How long did he stay there? In the end, it was the step of someone -going up and brushing past him that roused him, and with that start -all his frightful pain came back unbearably. He rushed downstairs -helter-skelter, and ran through the streets like one in a dream, -urged on as if someone with a straight, unbending weapon were pushing -him with the point. He got to Guantai Street, to the little inn, -Villa Borghese, a resort of country people, where for four months -past Trifari had lived with his father and mother, who had left -their village at his bidding. The two humble peasants had managed, -from youth to old age, to put some pence together and buy some bits -of land by working eighteen hours a day and eating stale black -bread, being content with beet soup cooked in water, with no salt, -and sleeping all in one large room, with only a bed and a chest in -it, upon a straw pallet; and this they bore for the sake of making -their son a doctor, handing on to him all their peasant's vanity, -making him have an unbounded longing to be a gentleman, a great man, -superior to everyone in the country-side, so giving him, unknowingly, -that rage for gambling that, according to him, was to make him grow -rich suddenly, very rich, so as to crush everyone with his power and -luxury. - -But in a few years his whole professional career was ended, for he -scorned it and gave it up; he had begun to lead a life of shameless -indebtedness, expedients, and dodges. He had begun by deceiving his -parents, and had ended by weaving for himself nets of intrigues and -embarrassments. His father and mother gloomily, in the silence of -their peasant souls that know of no outlet, had sold off everything -gradually, going on sacrificing themselves for this son that was -their idol, whom they adored because he was made of better clay than -themselves. They were at last so reduced, so chastened in their -pride, they waited in their old house for their son to send them -ten of twenty francs now and then for food. And he did it; bound -to his old folk by a fierce love made up of filial instinct and -gratitude, he shivered with shame and grief every time they told -him, resignedly, that in spite of being well on in years they would -have to go back to work in the fields to earn their daily bread, so -as not to be a burden upon him. But these helps had got to be less -frequent; the rage for gambling blinded him so he could not even -take ten francs off his stakes to send to the unlucky peasants. The -finishing stroke was when he wrote imperiously, ordering them to sell -the last house they had left, the old home with its sparse furniture -and kitchen utensils, to bring the money and come and live in Naples -with him; they would spend less there, and be more comfortable. - -It was a dreadful blow, for these unhappy folk held so to the habit, -now become a passion, of living in their own house and village, and -the very word Naples frightened them. Still, saying not a word of -their sufferings, they kept up their pride, told the villagers they -were going to live as gentlefolk with their gentleman son at Naples, -and had obeyed. They had haggled for a long time over the price of -the old house and those few bits of old furniture they got at the -time of their marriage; but at last, hoarding up the few hundred -francs they had got for them carefully in a linen bag, and travelling -third class, they got to Naples, frightened, not sad, but buried in -that dumbness that is the only sign of a peasant's ill-humour. - -They had lived four months at that inn, in two dark rooms; for they -were on the first-floor with their son, who always came in at a -very late hour, sometimes when they were getting up. They had no -occupation, and never spoke to each other; staying up in their -own room, they looked with melancholy, surprised eyes on all the -extraordinary Naples people that moved about in that narrow, populous -road, Guantai Nuova. They stayed hours and hours, wrapt up in gazing -on a sight that stupefied them; but they were incapable, however, -of making any complaint, though they were suspicious of everything, -of the spring bed, of the bad, greenish glass of the mirror, of the -miserable dinners served in their own rooms. As it was a thing they -were not accustomed to, they thought they were living in unheard-of -luxury. They disliked the servants, who scoffed at the two peasants, -and the washerwoman, who brought back their coarse shifts all in -holes, and loaded them with abuse in the true Naples style if they -made any remarks. - -Sometimes, getting over their instinctive shyness about speaking, -they told their son to take them away from the inn and hire a small -house, where his mother would cook and do the house-work; but he -pointed out to them that would require too much money, and they would -do it later, when he had got the fine fortune he was expecting from -day to day. - -In the meanwhile, their fortune grew smaller, and every time they -loosened the linen purse at the end of the week, their hearts gave a -twinge. Often, when they pulled out the money, they saw their son's -eyes brighten up, as if an irresistible love-longing filled them; but -he never asked them for it--one could see he put a check on himself -not to ask. But each day he became gloomier, wilder; he no longer ate -with his parents, and spent his nights outside, not coming back to -the inn, so that even into these peasants' dull minds had come the -idea of some danger threatening. - -The mother told her beads for hours, that the Lord would have -pity on their old age; whilst the father, being sharper, and more -experienced, thought that perhaps some bad woman was making his son -unhappy. But they said nothing to him; even the luxury they lived in, -as they thought, although they paid for it themselves, seemed to them -a condescension on their son's part, a favour he did his parents. -Like him, without understanding or knowing why, they began to hope -for this fortune that was to turn up, some day or another, to make -them gentlefolk. The old peasant-woman's purple lips were constantly -moving, saying prayers, in the small, mean, dark room of the Guantai -Street hotel, whilst the old man went out every day, going always -the same road, that is to say, into Municipio Square, and from there -to the Molo, to gaze at the blackish sea, the ships in the mercantile -port, and the men-of-war in the military one; he was fascinated and -struck only with that in all the great town, going nowhere else, -knowing nothing of the rest of Naples, being afraid of the noise -of carriages, and dreading thieves perhaps. He retraced his steps -slowly, looking round him suspiciously. - -They never went out with their son--never, as they were just peasants -and so dressed. They always refused when he feebly invited them to -go out with him, guessing, in spite of their dulness, that it would -not please him to show himself with them. He was so handsome, such a -gentleman, in his great-coat and tall hat. But one evening he came -in more excited than usual. Quickly, in rather a hard voice, such -as he had never used to them, Dr. Trifari told his parents that -his business, his big affair, his plan for getting rich, in short, -required money to be laid out, so they should hand him over these -last few hundred francs they were keeping in reserve; do him this -last great sacrifice, and he would give it all back a hundredfold. He -spoke quickly, with his eyes down, as if he did not wish to intercept -the dreadful, chilled, despairing look the two peasants exchanged, -feeling struck to the heart, frozen. The father and mother held -their tongues, looking on the ground; then he, speaking quicker, -in an anxious tone, trying to soften his harsh voice, implored and -implored, begging them, if they loved him, to give him the money if -they did not want to see his death. They, without making any remark, -glanced assent at each other, and with senile, quivering hands the -father undid the linen bag and took out the money, counting it slowly -and carefully, starting again at each hundred francs, following the -money with a troubled eye and a convulsive movement of the lower lip. - -There were four hundred and twenty francs, the whole fortune of the -three. Pale at first, the doctor got very red, his eyes filled with -tears, and before either of them could stop him, he bent down and -kissed his father's and mother's old brown, rugged, horny hands that -had worked so hard. Not another word had been said between them, and -he was gone. He did not come back to the hotel in the evening; but -now they did not take any notice of his being absent. Still, the -next day he did not come back to dinner; it was the first time it had -happened. They waited till evening, but he did not come. The peasant -woman told her beads, always beginning again; they ended by dining -off a bit of bread and two oranges they had in their room. - -Dr. Trifari did not come back the second night either, and it was -about noon of the second day that a letter, with a half-penny stamp, -by the local post, came, addressed to Signor Giovanni Trifari, Villa -Borghese. Ah! they were peasants, with dull intellects and simple -hearts; they never imagined things, or even thought much; they were -curt, silent people. But when that letter was brought to them, and -they recognised their son's well-known and loved writing, they both -began to tremble, as if a sudden, overpowering palsy had come on. -Twice or thrice, his rough spectacles shaking on his nose, with the -slowness of a man not knowing how to read well, and having to keep -back his tears, the old peasant read over his son's letter, in which, -just before starting for America, he said good-bye to them filially -and tenderly; and, feeling the gentle, terrible letter getting well -printed on her mind, the old woman kissed her beads and gave a low -groan. Twice an inn servant came in, with the sceptical look of one -accustomed to all the chances and changes of life. He asked them if -they wanted anything to eat; but they, blind, deaf, and forgetful, -did not even answer. When, towards six o'clock, Don Crescenzio came -in, after knocking fruitlessly, he found them, almost in the dark, -seated near the balcony in perfect silence. - -'Is the doctor here?' - -Neither of the two answered, as if death's stupor had overcome them. - -'I wished to know if Dr. Trifari was here.' - -'No, sir, he is not,' the old father said. - -'Has he gone out?' - -'Yes, he is out.' - -'How long has he been absent?' - -'He has been away a long time,' the old peasant muttered, and a groan -from his wife echoed him. - -'When is he coming back?' shouted Don Crescenzio, very agitated, -taking an angry fit. - -'I can't tell you; we don't know,' the old man said, shaking his head. - -'You are his father; you must know.' - -'He did not tell me.' - -'But where is he gone? Where is that scoundrel gone?' - -'To America--to Buenos Ayres.' - -'Good Lord!' Don Crescenzio just managed to bring out, falling full -weight on a chair. - -They said no more. The mother devoutly clutched her rosary. But both -Trifari's parents seemed so tired that Don Crescenzio felt desperate, -finding everywhere different forms of misfortunes, and greater ones -than his own. Still, he clutched at a straw; above everything, he -wished to know all about it, with that bitter enjoyment a man feels -in tasting the full agony of his misfortune. He, too, had fled, then; -he, too, had escaped him; that money, too, was lost--lost for ever. - -'But who gave him the money to get away?' he cried out in an -exasperated tone. - -'Are you really friendly to him?' - -'Yes, yes, I am.' - -'Truly are you?' - -'Yes, I tell you.' - -'Here is his letter. Take it; you will find out from it.' - -Then by the faint light of fading day he read the unhappy man's long -letter. Eaten up by debts and his ruling passion, not knowing where -to lay his head, he wrote to his parents, taking leave of them on -going to make his fortune in America. Of the four hundred francs it -had taken about three hundred and fifty to pay for a third-class -ticket on a steamer, counting in a few francs for his keep the first -two or three days in Buenos Ayres. He owned up to everything. He was -the cause of his own ruin and of his family's. He cursed gambling, -fate, and himself, swearing at bad luck and his own bad conscience. -He sent back a few francs to the two poor old folks, begging them -to go back to their village, to get on as well as they could, until -he was able to send them something from Buenos Ayres. He told them -to go home, and he would not forget them, and the money would just -serve for two third-class fares to their village; nothing would be -left over to buy food even. He begged them on his knees to forgive -him, not to curse him. He had not had the courage to kill himself, -for their sakes; still, he begged them to forgive him. Though he was -leaving them like this, he implored them not to give him a curse as a -parting provision on this wretched journey of his. He was starting -with no luggage or money, and would be cast into the ship's common -sleeping-place. The letter was full of tenderness and rage: abuse of -the rich, of gentlemen and Government, came alternately with prayers -for forgiveness and humble excuses. - -Don Crescenzio read twice over that agonized letter written by a man -enraged at himself and mankind, feeling himself wounded in the only -tender feeling of his life. He folded it absent-mindedly, and looked -at the two old people. It seemed to him that they were centenarians, -falling to pieces from decrepitude and hard work, bent by age and -sorrow. - -'What are you going to do now?' he asked in a whisper, after a short -time. - -'We are going to our village,' the old man muttered. 'To-morrow we -will go by the first train.' - -'Yes, yes, we are going back,' the poor old woman groaned, without -looking up. - -'What are you to do there?' he rejoined, wishing to find out the full -extent of all that misfortune. - -'We are to work by the day in the fields,' said the old man simply. - -He examined the two, so old, tired, and bent, now making ready to -begin life again so as to get bread, to dig the ground with shaking -arms, bending their brown faces and sparse white hair, under the -summer sun. Struck to the heart by this last blow, feeling the chorus -of misfortune growing around him, he did not open his mouth about the -money he was to have got from Trifari; indeed, feverishly, he felt -such pity for the two old folk that he said to them: - -'Can I do anything for you?' - -'No, no, thank you,' the two said, with the despairing gestures of -those who expect no more help. - -'Keep up your courage, then.' - -'Yes, yes, thank you,' they muttered again. - -He left them without saying more. It was night now when he went down -into the street. For a moment, feeling confused and dismayed, he -thought, Where was he to go? Anew, set along by quite a mechanical -goad, he took courage, and, crossing Toledo Street, went up to the -high part by San Michele Church, where the Rossi Palace stood out -dark and lofty. In that mansion lived the last of those largely -indebted to him, the most desperate of all. So as not to have a bad -omen at the beginning of the day, he had kept them to the last. But -he had found money nowhere; and now, with the natural rebound of the -unhappy who fight against their misfortunes by that strength of hope -which never dies, now he began again to believe that Cesare Fragalà -and the Marquis di Formosa would give him the money in some way--that -it might rain down from heaven. - -When he went into Cesare Fragalà's flat, led across an empty dark -room by little Agnesina, who came to open the door, carrying a -half-burnt candle, he had at once regretted he had come. Husband, -wife and daughter were seated at a small table, with a cloth too -small for it, taking their supper silently, looking at every little -bit of fried liver they put in their mouths for fear of leaving -too little for the others. The child especially, having a healthy -youthful appetite, measured her mouthfuls of bread so as not to eat -too much of it. Cesare Fragalà sat very solemnly, all traces of a -smile having gone from his face, and looked at the tablecloth with -his brows knit. His wife, the good Luisella, with her big black eyes, -on whose brow the happy mother's diamond star had shone, had now a -humble, subdued look in a plain stuff gown. Quietly with her calm -eyes the child looked serenely, with a martyr's patience, at the -visitor, as if she understood and expected the request he was about -to make. Before that gentle, thoughtful child's eye Don Crescenzio -felt his tongue tied, so it was with an effort he stammered out: - -'Cesare, I am come about that business.' - -A flame of fire burned in Cesare's cheeks. The wife gave up eating, -and the child cast down her eyelids as if the blow were coming on her -own head. - -'It is difficult for me to do anything for you, Crescenzio; you don't -know all our embarrassments,' Cesare said faintly. - -'I do know--I know,' said the other, hardly able to keep down his -feelings; 'but I am in a worse state than you are.' - -'I don't believe you can be,' muttered the merchant, who had gone -through the bankruptcy court a few days before, in a dreary tone; 'I -don't think you can be.' - -'Your honour is safe, Cesare, but I am not to save mine. What can I -say? I add nothing more.' - -And, not able to bear it any longer, feeling Agnesina's sympathetic -eyes on him, he began to weep. A little evening breeze coming from -a half-shut balcony made the lamp quiver. It was a fantastically -wretched group, the husband, wife, and daughter clinging to each -other, all most unhappy, looking at that wretched man sobbing. - -'Could we not give him something, Luisella?' Cesare timidly whispered -in his wife's ear, while the other mourned vaguely. - -'How much do you owe him?' said Luisa thoughtfully. - -'Five hundred francs ... it was more. I paid part of it.' - -'Was it a gambling debt?' she asked coldly. - -'Yes, it was.' - -'What was he saying about honour?' - -'He gave us credit. If he is not paid, Government will have him put -in prison.' - -'Has he children?' - -'Yes, he has.' - -She went out of the room. The two men looked sadly at each other, and -the girl gazed at them both with her kindly, encouraging eyes. After -a little Luisa came back looking rather pale. - -'This is our last hundred-franc note,' she said, in her pleasant -voice. 'There is only a little small change left for ourselves; but -the Lord will provide.' - -'God will provide,' the child repeated, taking the hundred-franc note -from her mother's hands and giving it to Don Crescenzio. - -Ah! at that moment, before these poor people, who counted their -mouthfuls of bread, who stinted themselves of the last remnant of -their money to help him; at that moment, in the midst of sad, gentle -expressions on the faces of ruined folk, who still kept faith and -compassion, he felt his heart break; he shook as if he was going to -faint. For a minute he thought of not taking the money; but it seemed -to him charmed, made sacred by passing through that good woman's -hands and the brave little girl's. He only said quiveringly: - -'Forgive me, forgive me for taking it.' - -'It is nothing,' Cesare Fragalà said at once, with his easy -good-nature. - -'You are so kind, so kind,' Crescenzio muttered, as he took leave, -looking humbly at the two--the woman and the child--who bore -misfortune so bravely. - -Cesare went out of the room with him. - -'I am sorry it is so little,' he said; 'it won't do you any good.' - -'It is worth a hundred thousand, as far as the heart is concerned!' -the lottery-keeper exclaimed sadly. 'But I have to give four thousand -six hundred francs to Government, and this is all I have got.' - -'Have the others given you nothing?' - -'Nothing. I found nothing but misfortunes and bad luck everywhere. I -am going up to the Marquis di Formosa's now.' - -'Don't go there,' said Fragalà, shaking his head; 'it is no use.' - -'I will try.' - -'Don't try for it. They are worse off than we are. They dread every -day they will lose Lady Bianca Maria. Her father has lost his senses.' - -'Who knows? I might get it.' - -'Listen to me: don't go. You might come in for some ugly scene.' - -'Some ugly scene! What do you mean?' - -'Yes, the Marchesina gets convulsions; she cries out frightfully -in them. Every time we hear her we leave the house. She cries out -always, "Mother! Mother!" It is agonizing.' - -'Is she mad?' - -'No, she is not. She calls for help in her fits. They say that she -sees.... Don't go there; it is no use. Do what is right.' - -'Very well. Thank you,' said the other. - -They embraced, as sad and excited as if they were never to see each -other again. - -Now, when Don Crescenzio got to the Rossi Palazzo entrance, after -hurriedly going downstairs almost as if he feared to hear the Lady -Bianca Maria Cavalcanti's dying cries behind him--when he got out -on the street alone, amid the people going and coming from Toledo -Street that soft spring evening, he suddenly thought it was all -over. The hundred francs his weeping had dragged from the Fragalàs' -wretchedness was shut up in his otherwise empty purse in his -great-coat pocket. Just there he felt something like an increasing -heat, for that money was really destiny's last word. He would get -no more; all was said. His desperate resolutions, his growing -emotion, his day's struggle, running, panting, speaking, telling -his wrongs, weeping, and the great dread of ruin tarrying with him, -had done nothing but drag the last mouthful of bread from his most -innocent debtor. A hundred francs--a mockery to the sum he had to -pay on Wednesday, without fail. A hundred francs, no more; a drop -of water in the desert. He felt it, for he had used up a lot of -strength and excitement, and had only managed to drag these few -francs from the Fragalà family's honesty; so he felt flabby, weak, -and exhausted. That was the last word. Then there was no more money -for him; he must look on himself as ruined--ruined, with no hope of -salvation. A cloud--perhaps it was tears--swam before his eyes. The -flow of the crowd took him to the bottom of Toledo Street; he let -himself be carried along. He felt that he was the prey of destiny, -with no strength to resist; he was like a dry leaf turned over by -the whirlwind. He could do nothing more--nothing; all was ended. -Some other people still owed him money. Baron Lamarra, Calandra the -magistrate, and two or three others owed him small sums. But he did -not want to go to them even; it was all useless, all, since, wherever -he had gone, wherever he had taken his despair, he had found the -marks of a scourge like his own--the gambling scourge--that had sent -them all to wretchedness, shame, and death like himself. - -He dared not go back to his home now, though it was getting late. He -had gone down by Santa Brigida and Molo Road to Marina Street, where -he lived in one of those tall, narrow houses one reaches by gloomy -alleys from Porto, which look on to rather a dull sea between the -Custom-house and the Granili, and from Marina Road, where fishermen's -luggers and boats are anchored and tied up. Among the thousands of -windows he gazed at the lighted-up one where his wife was putting -the babies to bed. But he dared not go in--no. Was it not all ended? -His wife would read the sentence, the condemnation, in his face, and -he could not bear that. An increasing feebleness took hold of him; -he felt as if his arms and legs were broken, and in the darkness and -silence--where only the cabs taking travellers to the evening trains, -only the trams going to the Vesuvian districts, gave a touch of life -to the dark, broad Marina Road--not able to stand, he sat down on one -of the seats in the long, narrow Villa del Popolo, the poor folk's -garden that goes along the seashore. From there he still saw, though -further off in the distance, like a star, the lighted window in his -little home. How could he go in to bring tears and despair into that -peaceful, happy little atmosphere! That innocent infant and the other -about to come into the world, the mother so proud of her husband, -of her little boy: must he--_he_--make them quiver with grief and -shame that evening? This would be unbearable for him. How tremendous -a punishment it was, falling on everyone's head, as if all were -accursed, and destroying health, honour, fortune, everything! - -In a dream, going on from one thing to another, he knit together -all the threads of that chastisement that started from himself and -returned to him, going on from his despair to that of others, while -he still gazed at the slight beacon where his family were waiting -for him. He saw again Ninetto Costa's pale, worn face, setting out -for a much longer journey certainly than to Rome, leaving his mother -a bankrupt suicide's name; he saw Marzano the advocate struck with -apoplexy, his lips bloated, amid the frightful wretchedness that left -no money to buy more ice, whilst a dishonouring accusation had been -made against him, shaming his gray hairs; then Professor Colaneri, -chased away from the school, accused of having sold his conscience -as a teacher, and, after having cast off the clerical robe, now -obliged to give up the religion he was born in, of which he had been -a priest; he saw Dr. Trifari sailing in an emigrant ship, without a -farthing, short of everything, while his old parents had to go back -to dig the hard earth so as to earn their living; and Cesare Fragalàs -resigned surrender, which ended the name of the old firm, and left -him to confront a future of wretchedness. Finally, above everything, -the illness Lady Bianca Maria Cavalcanti was dying of, while her -father had not a bit of bread to put in his mouth. All, all were -being punished, great and small, nobles and common folk, innocent -and guilty, and he with them--he and his family, struck in all he -held dearest--his means, home, happiness, and honour--a band of -unfortunates, where the innocent were the ones that had to weep most, -where little infants, girls, and women paid for grown men's mistakes, -and old people, too--a band of wretched ones--to whom, in his mind, -he added others that he knew and remembered. Baron Lamarra, with the -accusation of forgery held over him by his wife, had gone back to -work as a contractor, in the sun on the streets, among buildings in -course of construction; and Don Domenico Mayer, the hypochondriacal -official, who one day in despair, not being able to move for debt, -had thrown himself from a fourth-floor window, dying at once; and -Calandra the magistrate, who had twelve children, was so badly -reported on that every six months he ran the chance of being put on -the shelf; and Gaetano the glover, who had killed his wife Annarella -with a kick on the stomach when she was two months gone with child: -but no one knew anything about it except his children, who hated -their father, as every Friday he promised to kill them also, if they -did not give him money. All--all of them were at death's door, yet -living on, amidst the pinching of need and the canker of shame. And -he, finally, who had his family there in the little house waiting, -while he had not the courage to go back, feeling that the first -announcement of their misfortune would burn his lips. It was all one -chastisement, one frightful punishment--that is to say, the hand of -the Lord bearing heavily on the wicked, the guilty, and striking -them to the seventh generation; or, rather, the same sin, the same -guilt, that infamous, cursed gambling, had got to be an instrument -of chastisement against those who had made an idol of it; for the -gambling passion, like all others that are outside of life and real -things, had the germ, the seed of bitter repentance, in the vice -itself. They were struck where they had sinned, or, rather, by the -sin itself. It was just one long burst of weeping from all eyes, even -the purest ones, a burst of sobs from the cleanest lips; a crowd -of poor, honest, innocent creatures struggling amidst hunger and -death, paying for others' mistakes, giving the guilty the remorseful -thought that they had cast the people they loved best into this great -abyss. Not one safe, not one, of those who had given up their life -to gambling, to infamous, wicked gambling, that eater-up of blood -and money. Not even he or his family were safe; he, too, was broken; -his children were to be reduced to holding out their hands. The -punishment was too great; it was unbearable. What had he done to have -to go to prison like an evil-doer, that his wife should be ashamed -of belonging to him, and his children would never mention his name? -What had he done to have to stay there in the street like a beggar, -who dare not go back to his den, having got no alms from hard-hearted -men? Ah! it was too much, too much! What fault had he committed? - -A couple of policemen went through Marina Street, and cast searching -glances into the darkness of the footpaths in Villa del Popolo; but -the shadows were deep, and the men did not notice Don Crescenzio -lying at full length on a seat. But he, by a quick change of scene, -saw before him his lottery shop in Nunzio Lane, on glowing Friday -evenings and anxious Saturday mornings, when the gamblers crowded to -the three wickets in his shop, their eyes lighted up by hope, their -hands quivering with emotion. He saw again the placards in blue and -red letters that incited gamblers to bring more money to the lottery. -He saw again the number of advertisements of Cabalists' newspapers -and the mottoes: 'So you will see me'; 'It will be your fortune'; -'The people's treasure'; 'The infallible'; 'The secret unveiled'; -'The wheel of fortune.' He remembered the medium's frequent visits -and his fatal intimacy with all the other Cabalists, spiritual -brothers, and mathematicians, who excited the gamblers with their -strange jargon and impostures. He saw it again at Christmas and -Easter weeks, when the gambling became wild, fierce; for people have -such a longing to get into the long-dreamt-of Land of Cockayne. And -he always saw himself pleased with their illusions that ended in a -sad disappointment; pleased that that mirage should blind the weak, -the foolish, the sick, the poor, the sanguine--all those who live for -the Land of Cockayne; pleased that everyone should get the infection, -that no one was safe; quite delighted when, at great festivals, -the rage increased and the stakes augmented his percentage. He saw -it all clearly: his own figure bending to write the cursed ciphers -and the lying promises in the ledger, the gamblers' crimson or pale -faces distorted by passion. He bowed his head, crushed, feeling -he had deserved the punishment, he himself, his family, on to the -seventh generation. The lottery was a disgrace that led to illness, -wretchedness, prison--every sort of dishonour and death. And he had -kept a shop for the infamous thing! - - - - - CHAPTER XX - - BIANCA MARIA CAVALCANTI - - -For three days in the Marquis di Formosa's house a deep silence -had reigned. The doors, oiled in their hinges and locks, shut and -opened with no noise. The two old servants, Giovanni and Margherita, -walked on tiptoe, not saying a word, like shadows gliding over the -floor--or, rather, they made no movement. Giovanni, seated on the -single straw chair that furnished the lobby, Margherita seated at the -sick girl's bedside, gazing at the pale face sunk in heavy stupor -in the sickly slumber of high fever, both kept quite still. The -doctor, some sort of a medical man, called in from Berriolas', the -neighbouring druggists, said that above everything any noise would -have a bad effect on the patient's brain, and at once in the house -every sound, even sighs, were hushed. Not a word was said above the -breath, for those old servants were accustomed to being silent and -motionless. It looked already as if they had been overtaken by the -long last rest. Then the doctor asked for the family practitioner. -When they mentioned Dr. Amati's name, he at once proposed to send -for him. He needed him. The Marquis di Formosa's anxious face got -icy, and the two servants looked just as sorrowful. Then he suspected -something, shook his head, and set to treating the patient himself, -covering her burning head with ice, giving her quinine every two -hours to try and bring down the high fever, the raging typhoid, -giving her strong nourishment, but without making any improvement, -never managing to overcome the state of coma she was in, except by -raising a queer delirium, mingled with spasmodic nervous convulsions; -for the blood-poisoning by typhoid was complicated by serious nervous -disorders. - -'What do you say about it, doctor--what is your verdict?' asked the -Marquis di Formosa on the stair landing. - -'If it was only typhoid there might be some hope; but the whole -nervous system is overthrown. We run the risk of meningitis. I tell -you again, you must call Dr. Amati in; he knows the patient.' - -'It is impossible to do so,' the Marquis answered sharply. - -'Then I do not answer for the consequences,' said the other, going -off. - -Going back into his daughter's room, the Marquis di Formosa stiffened -his pride against the doctor's request, which tortured his fatherly -heart. That man, who had taken his daughter's heart from him, would -never enter his house again and bring his evil influence on her. -Bianca Maria was young and strong; she would get over the illness. -Thus he persisted in his haughtiness, and went back to sit at his -sick daughter's bedside. He leant over that face that always got more -bloodless, and called to his daughter just above his breath. - -She was lying sunk in that torpor of typhoid, with a lump of ice on -her motionless head, her hands joined as if in prayer, the usual -attitude of typhoid patients. Still, she heard that breath of a -voice. She did not answer, she did not open her eyes, but, with a -slight contraction of her muscles, she drew her eyebrows together -frowningly, as if annoyed; and her hand made a constant motion, -always the same, obstinate, discouraging, to keep her father at a -distance. He leant down again, hurt and offended, saying in a whisper -that it was her father--her own father, who loved her so fondly, who -wanted to make her well; he was the only person who really loved her. - -But the bored expression got stronger on the poor invalid's face--the -patient, as the doctor called her--and the slender, obstinate, uneasy -hand went on driving away the Marquis di Formosa. The old man had -difficulty in keeping down a rush of anger that rose to his brain, -and he went to sit a little distance off, folding his arms across -his breast, his head down, submitting, humbling himself. Margherita -alone got an answer when she asked Bianca Maria anything--if she -would drink any of that strong beverage, marsala, beaten up egg and -soup, that is given to typhoid patients, or if she wanted the ice-bag -changed. The girl, without opening her eyes, answered either way by a -wave of her slight hand. And the Marquis di Formosa was obliged, if -he wished to know anything, to watch the old waiting-woman's face. -At certain times, in despair at that obstinate ostracism, he went -out of Bianca Maria's room and began to walk up and down in the -drawing-room; but often his excited footsteps made too much noise, -and Margherita's worn face came to the doorway. He stood still. She -made him a sign to be quiet; the noise did harm to Bianca Maria. - -'Here, too, do I annoy her?' he asked, quivering. - -And as Margherita agreed, 'Yes, it was true,' even in the distance -he made her suffer, to keep down a feeling of rage, he took his -hat and went out of the house. Then the flat fell back again into -its great stillness; Giovanni slumbered sadly in the hall, whilst -Margherita leant over the invalid's pallid, burning face to breathe -out some gentle word to her. Making an effort, the poor girl smiled -for a single minute, and the old servant, satisfied, went back to her -chair, muttering words of prayer to herself, without taking her eyes -off Bianca Maria. - -Very, very late, after having wandered through the streets, tiring -himself by walking, ill-dressed, unbrushed, having lost all care for -his appearance, quite unrecognisable, the Marquis di Formosa came -home to find the door open, as if they had heard his footsteps from -a distance. Margherita came up to him in the dark with her ghost-like -step. - -'How is she?' he asked. - -'Just the same,' she sighed out. - -'What does the doctor say?' - -'He orders ice and quinine. He again asked for Dr. Amati to be sent -for.' - -'I told you never to mention that scoundrel's name!' - -'Hush!' she hissed out respectfully, and she went away. - -The Marquis was seized by so profound an anguish that, the old faith -rising again in his heart, he sought for a place to kneel down and -pray the Lord that He would save his daughter, and free him from -that agony. Alas! the small room used as a chapel at first, where -Bianca Maria and he had prayed together so often, was empty: he, -after having abused the saints and the Virgin, after having done -the sacrilege of punishing Ecce Homo, had sold the saints, Virgin, -and Ecce Homo to stake the money at the lottery. There were no more -guardian saints in Cavalcanti House; the Virgin and her Divine Son -had withdrawn their saddened eyes from insult. There was nothing left -in that house, nothing. During these last days, throughout the poor -girl's illness, they had lived on alms; that is to say, off some -allowance inexhaustible pity of Gennaro Parascandolo the usurer's -wife had granted to Margherita and Giovanni's tears and entreaties. - -The Cavalcantis were holding out their hands for alms now! For many -weeks he had had no money to stake, and he avoided Don Crescenzio's -lottery bank, as he had not the many francs he owed him to give back; -but when Friday came, though he knew they were reduced to private -begging, knowing that what he did was a domestic crime, he came -to Margherita to implore her to give him two francs, or only one, -to gamble with. Only on that Friday, confronted by Bianca Maria's -illness, he had not dared; he was struck incurably. That girlish -body, stretched on what perhaps might be her death-bed; that head -crushed down under the heavy bag of ice; that profile, pinched as -if it was rubbed down by an inward hand; that eyebrow, that frowned -on hearing his voice only; and that hand, that hand above all, that -chased him away constantly, obstinately, a victim to a dumb, lively -horror--all that had broken down the last energies of his old age. - -Illnesses of old people make the old thoughtful and melancholy, but -young people's illnesses frighten them as a thing against the order -of Nature. Ah! in these moments of anguish, he felt so weak, so old, -so worn-out, an organism with no vitality, a lamp with no oil. And -shaking, trembling, not even looking towards his daughter's bed, he -went to sit in his usual place, letting himself go, as if he had to -sit there and wait for death. - -Only one thing could give him back a flash of energy--that is to say, -a flash of hatred--and it was the name of the loathed doctor, which -was repeated from time to time by the new doctor or mentioned by his -own servants, who referred to him in spite of his express orders -against it. She, Bianca Maria, had never mentioned it. In the doleful -convulsions that had come on before that typhoid she had raved at -great length, cried out over and over again, calling for her mother, -'Mama, mama!' like a child in danger, like a lost child; nothing -else. Vainly in these low ravings, in that confused muttering, -that long, disconnected chatter, he had stretched his ears to hear -his own name or the scoundrel's who had taken his daughter's heart -from him. She had always called for her mother, no one else. And he -trembled, shivered, in case of hearing that name coming from her -lips, still keeping up in his old age and tiredness, in his growing -weakness, that dull rage, that implacable hatred. Sometimes, when the -delirium got higher and higher and haunted him, he ran away from the -room, stopping his ears, always fearing she would call on that name. -Outside he stood thus, waiting, undecided, and very agitated. - -'What is she speaking about?' he asked Margherita when she, stupefied -and frightened, came out of the room. - -'She wants her mother,' the other muttered, crying silently, for it -seemed to her a forerunner of death. - -And the typhoid went on, finishing its first week, not yielding to -the ice or the quinine, keeping always between a hundred and four and -a hundred and five degrees, as if the mercury in the thermometer had -stuck at that doleful figure, a funereal cylinder that nothing was of -any use now to bring down. - -'How much is it?' the old father made inquiry with anxious eyes from -Margherita, who was looking at the thermometer held against the sick -girl's burning skin. - -'A hundred and four degrees,' she muttered under her breath with -infinite despair. - -Implacable figure! To bring down the fire that burned away Bianca -Maria's blood and nerves, seeing that quinine taken by the mouth -in large doses had no proper effect, quinine was now injected with -a tiny, pretty silver syringe into the patient's arm. Not having -the strength to open her eyes, she raised herself with difficulty, -propped up on pillows, and held up in Margherita's arms, and her head -shook, the black hair stuck to her temples, and dripped moisture -from the chill of the ice-bag. They had to hold up her head, too, -for it went from side to side. Then, baring the poor arms all -dotted by the silver needle, a new burning, painful puncture was -added to the others. She started, but only slightly, as if no pain -was worse than that sleep. Sometimes she opened her eyes, and set -them on Margherita's face, and they were so sad in their expression -of weariness, so muddy in colour, dry, and indifferent now to all -earthly sights, that a glance from them wrung the heart. It looked as -if they had emptied out the fountain of tears. When her father and -Margherita saw these doleful eyes in front of them, they gave a start. - -'My child! my child!' the old man said to her, holding her hands. - -Then she, disturbed and tired, lowered her eyelids at once, and -sank anew into that stupefied state in which the only two signs of -vitality were her laboured breathing and the high temperature. Very -seldom did the quinine injections succeed in bringing down the high -fever; there was a slight discouraging variation, nothing more. - -Only on the morning of the tenth day she seemed, all of a sudden, in -a better state. It was sleep instead of torpor, and in the comforting -sleep a cold sweat ran over her forehead, which Margherita wiped off -carefully. The poor old woman followed tremblingly every minute of -that sleep, as if she guessed intuitively Bianca Maria's life was to -depend on it; and while she said her prayers over mentally, her whole -attention was fixed on the loved face sharpened by illness, that -seemed to be getting back renewed brightness. Whilst the sound sleep -lasted, Margherita's vigilant ear heard a noise in the flat. She got -up on tiptoe and went out. It was the Marquis di Formosa coming in -again, and he questioned her with his eyes anxiously. - -'She is resting; she is better--she is much better,' muttered the -poor old woman, putting a finger to her lips to enjoin silence. - -The father's dry eyes filled with tears; it was the first good news -in ten days' anguish and fears. He, too, went into his daughter's -room, sitting down in his usual place, watching the thin face, where -the great nervous tension seemed to have given way to a favourable -crisis. - -Margherita, so as not to disturb Bianca Maria's sleep, dared not make -use of the thermometer to find out her temperature, but her heart -told her the fever had certainly gone down. Then, both silent, she -praying inwardly and the Marquis di Formosa fishing up some shreds -of prayer from the depths of his clouded conscience, they spent two -hours watching over the invalid's quiet sleep. It was dusk when she -opened her eyes--the large eyes that had been shut for ten days by -fever's burning, leaden hand, and at once Margherita leant over her, -questioning her: - -'How do you feel?' - -To her astonishment, the girl, instead of answering with a wave of -the hand or a nod, said in a very feeble voice: - -'I am better.' - -Also the Marquis di Formosa had come up beside the bed, and, -quivering with joy, he said over and over again: - -'My child! my child!' - -'Do you want anything?' the waiting-woman asked, for the sake of -hearing the feeble voice which had gone to her heart. - -'No, nothing; I feel better,' the invalid whispered, with a sigh of -relief from her unburdened breast. - -Her father had taken hold of her hand, gazing affectionately at his -daughter. And she, who for ten days had driven him away from her bed -by her look and the waving of her hand, smiled on him this time. It -was a flash of light. He could do nothing but stammer out: - -'My child! my child!' - -And Margherita went out of the room cheerfully, as if her young -mistress were safe--safe for ever from the frightful danger she had -gone through for ten days. The Marquis di Formosa had sat down at the -head of the sick girl's bed, and, holding her slight hand in his, he -felt his darling's fleshless fingers pressing now and then a little -harder on his own, as a loving caress. Twice or thrice he leant over -and asked, 'Would you like anything?' She had not replied, but that -rapid flash of a smile had come back. It was night already, and faces -could not be made out any longer, when, on a new question from her -father, Bianca Maria replied: 'Yes, I do.' - -'What do you want? Tell me at once!' - -'I want the doctor at once,' she said. - -'Do you feel ill?' the old man asked, misunderstanding her. - -'No; I want Dr. Amati.' - -Her father put his hand over the girl's on the coverlet, but he said -nothing. - -'Do you hear? I wish for Dr. Amati,' she repeated in a louder voice, -that already had a quiver of annoyance in it. - -'No, my dear, it cannot be,' he replied, trying to restrain himself, -thinking of her illness, and remembering her danger. - -'I want Dr. Amati,' she said in a loud voice, raising her head from -the pillow with a peculiar motion. It seemed, indeed, to the old man -that she had ground her teeth after having announced for the fourth -time her strange demand. - -'It is not possible, my dear,' he muttered, trying to hold in his own -burning rage. - -'Go and call Dr. Amati! Go at once!' she shouted, as if giving him an -order. - -'You are mad!' he cried out, rising from his seat. 'I will never go.' - -'Yes, yes, you will!' she yelled, rising on the pillow, clutching at -the sheet with her clenched hands; 'you will go at once, and bring -him here directly. I want Amati beside me--always with me. Go at -once!' - -'No, no, I will not!' he shouted in his turn, not knowing what he was -doing. 'He will never put a foot in here while I am alive.' - -Margherita had run in, quite upset, in despair a second time, but -still more despairing from the new turn the illness had taken. Hardly -had Bianca Maria seen her, when she called out to her: - -'Margherita, if you love me, go and call Dr. Amati.' - -'I forbid you to; do you hear?' the old Marquis shrieked to the -woman. He was so exasperated that his hands shook, his eyes gave out -sparks. - -'For goodness' sake, miss, do not get in such a state; remember you -are talking to your father. Please, my lord, remember my lady is ill; -she is not in her right mind.' - -'I am not mad; I want Dr. Amati,' the girl still cried out, clenching -her fists, grinding her teeth, rolling her eyes so convulsively that -only the white of the eyeball could be seen. - -'Holy Virgin! Holy Virgin!' Margherita went on sobbing out. - -'For the love of God, if you are fond of me, go and call Dr. Amati!' -the sick girl sobbed out, her head swaying about, sometimes rising -from the pillow and falling back upon it. - -'She is mad! she is mad!' shouted the old man, raving. - -'My lord, go away outside; I beg of you, go away,' Margherita -implored, seeing that his daughter fixed her eyes, now full of -intense rage, then with keen sorrow, on her father, and that the -sight of him made her still more frantic. - -'I am going away--I am going away; but she will not see Dr. Amati!' -he shouted, going outside, feeling he could bear it no longer. - -But from the drawing-room, whither he had borne his anger, he heard -a loud shriek, loud and agonizing, as if the patient were driving -her nails into her flesh; and after that shriek another, lower, -but equally agonizing, such a cry of unbearable sorrow quivered in -it, and words spoken now loudly, now in low tones, that came to him -confusedly. The girl had fallen into convulsions. Suddenly the sounds -quieted down, and then, still trembling from a mixed feeling of rage, -pity and fear, he went near the room; but he did not go in, merely -calling Margherita to the door. - -'How is she?' - -'She is worse, much worse,' she said, weeping silently. - -'But what is she saying?' - -'She wants Dr. Amati.' - -'That she will never get.' - -These short discussions, however, though the invalid sank at -intervals into a state of coma, were heard by her, and twice on -coming out of that torpor the loud shrieks had burst out anew, with -a quivering of all her muscles, especially with a frightful knotting -together of the muscles in the nape of the neck. Throughout the cries -that name, the name the poor thing had worshipped so long in secret, -that name that had been for her the sign of salvation--that name -came up again always obstinately in her delirium, proclaimed by the -soul that knew no fetters now; imperiously, gently, despairingly, -with such an outflow of love that Margherita and Giovanni, who -ran in to keep down the hysterical girl's arms, felt their hearts -breaking. From the other room, as the sick girl raised her voice, -sometimes shrill, then deep, calling upon Dr. Amati, the Marquis di -Formosa started and shuddered, with that obstinate, blind hatred of -old people who cannot forgive. Vainly, vainly he tried to think of -something else--not to hear, not to feel the despairing sorrow of -that appeal. It was no use keeping down his head and stopping his -ears, trusting to the farthest-off room in the house; that clamorous -complaint still reached him persistently--nothing could be done to -check it. It was a nightmare now, and in spite of the distance, in -spite of closed doors, he heard clearly and distinctly the words of -love and sorrow in which Bianca Maria called on Dr. Amati; the words -got printed on his mind, and hammered on his brain like a persecution. - -That went on for an hour and a half, and she did not quiet down nor -stop speaking, finding new strength, nervous strength, to call, and -call as if her voice, as if her calls, were to go through the wall, -across the streets, were to get to the man she longed for to save -her. Oh, that nightmare, that nightmare! to hear his daughter's -ravings! She who had thrust him away from her bed, now was making -desperate appeals to another man. Now and then, as if to put an end -to that talking, imploring madness, he went close to the room door, -and heard Margherita's level voice, as she held her mistress clasped -in her arms, trying to calm her, whilst she went on as if she had -no ear for other voices, as if she had to call for Dr. Amati until -she saw him come into her room. And her old father went off wild -and desperate, shaking with rage and anguish, not knowing what to -do; now grovelling, now ferocious, still unsubdued; keeping up his -hatred, not able to calm down, his blood boiling in his veins, and a -shortness of breath oppressing him. But at a certain stage he heard -the bell ring, and someone go into the flat, and then into Bianca -Maria's room. Formosa stood still, motionless, astounded. Who had -come in then? - -When Margherita came into the room where he had taken refuge, and -called him with a wave of her hand, he followed her meekly. Beside -the sick girl's bed, holding her twitching arms and looking into her -eyes, was the doctor in charge, Morelli, whom poor Margherita had -called in. But Bianca Maria, even under the doctor's strong hands, -even under his scrutinizing glance, went on trembling; her head rose -convulsively from the pillow, her neck stretched forward, getting -rigid, and then her head fell back again, worn out, still with a -continued slight movement backwards and forwards, whilst unweariedly -she went on saying, sometimes low, then shrilly, 'Amati ... Amati ... -Amati ... I want Amati....' - -'But what is the matter with her?' asked Formosa, clasping his hands, -with tears in his eyes. - -'She must have had some strong excitement two or three hours ago: had -she not?' - -'Yes, I fear so.' - -'Was it from some alarm, some noise?' - -'I ... I don't ... quite know.' - -'Well, she got excited? Did she cry out?' - -'Yes ... she did.' - -'Why did you let her get excited? Why did you not let her have what -she wanted? Do you know the danger your daughter is running?' - -'I do not know ... I know nothing. What do you expect me to know?' -the old man shouted, holding out his hands, beseeching like a child. - -'The danger is of meningitis,' said the doctor through his clenched -teeth. - -Now the invalid had half opened her eyes. The doctor examined her -pupils. Her eye seemed glassy, rigid, as her whole person had got. - -'Doctor, what is it? is she dead?' yelled the old man, as if he were -mad. - -'It is temporary paralysis, from meningitis.' - -'What is to be done?' - -'Well, we will see. Meanwhile I beg you to have Dr. Amati called in.' - -The old man looked at him, disordered. - -'What do you say?' - -'Send and call Amati. Do you not see she wants him?' - -'... She is raving.' - -'Yes, sir; but when she asked for him, she must have been conscious; -and even in delirium you must obey her, my lord.' - -'Am I to obey?' - -'Your daughter is in a serious state; it is better to satisfy her.' - -'Is she in danger?' - -'You may lose her from one hour to another. She has no strength to -bear up against meningitis.' - -'Doctor, doctor, do not say that!' - -'My dear sir, do you want me to tell you the truth, especially as -the poor patient cannot hear us? First of all, you would not allow -Amati to be called; then you let the young lady get into this state -of exasperation.... You will not go on with this refusal? The girl is -dying....' - -'O holy God!' blasphemed the Marquis. - -'I will go to Amati's house,' Morelli said. - -'... He will not come.' - -'Why should he not? Was he not the doctor in charge? He is an honest -man; he is a great doctor.' - -'... He will not come,' Formosa repeated. - -'Then go yourself, my lord.' - -Now, whilst Formosa made a despairing gesture, the sick girl had -started up, and again rapidly through her clenched teeth she had -begun to say: 'Amati! ... Amati! ... I want Amati!...' - -'Do you hear?' said Morelli. - -'But I cannot!' shouted Formosa, 'for I turned that man out of my -house. I would not let my daughter marry him. I cannot humble myself -to him.' - -'Very well, but my lady is dying,' said the doctor, holding down the -girl's hands, which were clapping together. - -'Go and call Amati! For mercy's sake, for the love of God, do not -give me up! Call Amati!' groaned the invalid. - -'My God! what a punishment! what a punishment!' the old man cried -out, tearing his hair. 'But, doctor, give her something; do not let -her die!' - -'... Amati! ... Amati! ... I want Amati!' she said, raving, rolling -her eyes fearfully. Then, falling back again, worn out, on the bed -with a fresh stroke of paralysis, the only living thing in her was -her voice, asking for Amati; still the only idea of her wandering -reason was Amati, Amati, Amati. - -'I will write to him,' the old man said desolately, going to another -room whilst the doctor was trying to put new ice on Bianca Maria's -burning head. - -The Marquis di Formosa was writing, but it was unbearable, the shame -of having to give in, and the words would not come from his pen. He -tore two sheets. At last a short letter came out, in which he asked -Dr. Amati to come to his house, as his daughter was ill--nothing -more. When he had to write the address he nearly smashed the pen. -Then, not looking Giovanni in the face, he told him to run to -Dr.--yes, to Dr. Amati's. The poor old thing ran, whilst Morelli -gave calomel pills to his delirious patient, who was crying out, -for the pain in her head had got unbearable, frightful. Her father, -having carried out his first sacrifice, felt he was going mad with -these howls, fearing lest he should begin to howl and howl like her, -as if he had caught meningitis from her. Now that he had written -the letter, carried out an unbearable sacrifice, the Marquis di -Formosa began to wish that Dr. Amati would come soon, at least. It -was impossible for him to bear these cries, laments, and groans any -longer, where one name came up continuously. Now he was counting the -minutes for Giovanni to come back, straining his ears if he heard -the noise of a door opening. Time was passing, and the sick girl, in -spite of ice, in spite of calomel, was raving, with glaring eyes, a -prey to the inflammation that seemed to be burning up her brain. -Here was a door opening; someone was coming towards the room where -the Marquis di Formosa had taken refuge in his desperation. It was -Giovanni alone, and he looked so tired, so old, so sad, that the -Marquis shivered as he asked him: - -'Well?' - -'Dr. Amati is not coming.' - -'Was he not at home?' - -'He was not. I waited for him under the portico; then he came -back....' - -'Well, then, what happened?' - -'He read the letter ... and he said he was too busy; that the young -lady was sure to have a good doctor.' - -'Did you not ... beg ... him to come.' - -'I did, my lord. He got severe then, and went away muttering -something that I did not understand.' - -'You ought to have gone upstairs and insisted.' - -'I had not the courage.' - -'But do you not know my lady is dying for want of him? Do you not -know that?' - -'I do know it, my lord; but the doctor used me ill. I am a poor -servant.' - -'He is right,' said the old man slowly; 'I insulted him deeply.' - -'My lord, my lord, go yourself; he will not refuse you.' - -'You are mad.' - -'For the young lady's sake.' - -'He will refuse. He will insult me.' - -'For her sake.' - -'No, no; it is too much to expect....' - -'But, my lord, you said it yourself: my lady is dying.' - -'Go away!' shouted the Marquis brutally, driving his servant away. - -He was left alone. His pride rebelled against the idea of humbling -himself before the man he had abused. He suffered frightfully; his -daughter's voice, now muttering in a low tone, now yelling shrilly, -calling out 'Amati,' gave him a feeling of physical pain, of a -red-hot iron scorching his flesh. Within him, however, as time -passed, as the girl's danger increased, a work of clearing away was -going on, in which all the old and the new rebellions of his haughty -feelings went on tumbling down, and in place of the pride came a -tremendous pity, a great affection, an immense sorrow. The hours -flew by whilst he walked up and down, gnawing at the curb of the -last chains in which his heart was bending, till at last it sank to -the earth; and that eternal delirious voice which could say nothing -but the name of Antonio Amati never ceased. He no longer shook with -anger; hatred was silent, and when Dr. Morelli, having gone away and -come back, asked for Amati, he replied: - -'He has not come. I am going myself.' - -'Will you bring him?' - -'Yes, I will.' - -It was very late, however, when he set out on foot to go to Santa -Lucia Road, where Dr. Amati was now living. It was nearly midnight, -and people had turned out in Toledo in the mildness of the April -evening. In spite of being old, the Marquis ran through the streets, -urged by a nervous force, and when he got to the big gateway of the -palazzo Amati lived in, he went up the stairs rapidly, not giving any -answer to the porter, who asked where he was going. - -'Tell Dr. Amati that the Marquis di Formosa is here,' he told the -housekeeper, who came to open the door to him. - -'Really ... he is studying.' - -'Tell him, I beg of you. It is very urgent ...' the old man -implored; his pride was completely gone. She went off, and came back -again at once, making the Marquis a sign to come in. He crossed -two sitting-rooms, and came to a study all in shadow, where the -lamp-light was concentrated on a large table scattered with papers -and books. But Dr. Amati was standing in the middle of the room, -waiting. These two men, who had hated each other so much, looked at -one another, with the same sorrow they had in common, and pity for -the unhappy dying girl cut short all rancour. They looked at each -other. - -'What is it?' Amati asked in a weak voice. - -'She is dying,' said Formosa with a despairing gesture. - -'Of what?' - -'Of meningitis.' - -An earthy pallor spread over the doctor's face, and two lines formed -themselves about his lips. And he dared not make the Marquis any -reproaches. Had he not himself forsaken the poor girl, though he had -promised and sworn to save her? Had he not through pride left the -delicate, sickly flower a prey to all moral and physical evils? Both -of them were guilty, both. - -'Let us start, then,' he said. They went out together, called for a -cab, and had the hood put up, as if they wanted to hide their sorrow. -They did not speak during the drive. Only whilst he bit at his spent -cigar Dr. Amati from time to time asked some medical questions. - -'How long has she had meningitis? is this the first day of it?' - -'Yes; but she has had typhoid fever for nine days.' - -'Had she high fever?' - -'It went up to a hundred and four and a hundred and five.' - -'Had she bad headaches?' - -'Frightful headaches.' - -'Did she have convulsions?' - -'Yes, at intervals.' - -'Does she roll her eyes about?' - -'Yes, she rolls her eyes.' - -'Do the muscles at the nape of her neck contract?' - -'Yes, they do.' - -'Was there some reason for it?' - -'Yes,' said the father humbly, almost sobbing out his monosyllable. - -'Did she get calomel?' - -'Yes; Morelli gave that.' - -'Did it not soothe her?' - -'No, not a bit. Often she is paralyzed, but for a short time.' - -'It is just meningitis,' the doctor muttered thoughtfully. - -The carriage went on and on, as well as it could with an ordinary -night horse. They were not getting there yet, and they had already -urged the driver to hurry. - -'Is she delirious?' the doctor asked again. - -'I do not know--I am not sure if it is delirium; but she is always -speaking convulsively.' - -'What does she say?' - -'She calls out for you.' - -'For me?' - -'Yes--always for you.' - -Ah! the doctor's heart broke on hearing that. The old father heard -him say, like a frightened prayer, 'My God!' They said nothing -more. They found the door open. Poor old Giovanni had waited for -them on the landing, leaning over the railing, looking into the -entrance-hall, anxious to see them arrive, but certain that the -doctor would come. - -'How is she?' asked her father at once; he had a constant need of -being reassured. - -'Just as she is bound to be,' sighed the old butler, going on in -front. 'She is much the same.' - -'Is she still delirious?' - -'Yes, still delirious.' - -They went in very softly to the small room. Dr. Morelli had gone away -a little while before, leaving a short note for Dr. Amati. But he -went straight to the sick girl's bed. Her voice, tired now, but still -impassioned, went on always repeating Amati's name, but her head was -sunk in the pillows, and her eyes half shut. He saw everything at -once, and the disorder of his mind must have been tremendous, for he -could not manage to control his face--he, the strong, invincible man. -And he hesitated a minute before replying to the unhappy, raving girl -who went on calling to him, fearing to cause too strong an impression -on her nerves; but he could not resist the feeble voice that went -straight to his heart and made it bleed with tenderness; he said: - -'Bianca Maria.' - -What a cry the answer was! She got up, her face suddenly flaming; her -eyes grew enormous. She threw her arms round his neck, and leant her -head on his breast, crying out: - -'Oh, my love! my love! how long you have been in coming! Do not leave -me again--never forsake me; it is so long since I have been calling -for you--do not leave me.' - -'Do not fear; I will not leave you ...' he muttered, trying to -overcome his emotion, petting her fine, ruffled, tumbled hair. - -'Never go away from me again--never!...' she cried out passionately, -clinging with her arms round his neck. 'If you forsake me I shall -die.' - -'Keep quiet, Bianca Maria, be quiet--do not say such things.' - -'I will say so!'--she raised her voice, irritated at being -contradicted--'if I have not you it is death for me. But you will not -let me die? Ah, do not leave me to die!' - -'My darling, be quiet--be quiet,' he said, not able to control -himself, trying to loosen the chain of her arms round his neck. - -'Do not lift me from here! do not make me let go!' she shrieked, -making desperate motions with her head. 'If you make me let go, I -feel that death will take hold of me....' - -'Oh, Bianca, Bianca, be quiet, for my sake! do not kill me!' said the -strong man, now become the weakest and wretchedest among men. - -'Death will catch hold of me! it is here behind me! I feel it! You -alone can save me! Do not let me die--I do not wish to die: you know -I do not wish to die!' - -'You will not die. Hush, my dear, or you will get worse. I am here: I -will not go away ever again--I will not leave you!' - -'... I do not wish to die!' she ended up, again getting a little -quieter. They remained like that for some time. The father was -standing at the foot of the bed, leaning against the bed-rail, with -his eyes down, feeling in his broken pride, in his wounded soul, the -full weight of the chastisement the Lord was heaping on him, as a -punishment for his lengthened sin. - -Very softly, seeing that the girl had stopped speaking, that her eyes -were closing, Dr. Amati tried to put her head back on the pillow; -but she felt the movement, and while he bent down she drew him to -her at the same time, and he had to stoop, since her arms would not -let go. They remained like that, she dozing, he leaning over in an -uncomfortable position, in such anguish at her state and his own -powerlessness that the sensation of physical discomfort did not -affect him. Grief took such a violent hold of him that he seemed -about to suffocate, not being able to weep, cry out, or speak now -the unhappy girl was dozing; but sometimes she gave a start, and an -expression of painful annoyance came over her fleshless face. An idea -seemed to come into her mind: either she heard a voice the others did -not, or saw some fanciful sight, for her eyelids fluttered and her -lips drew back from her whitish gums. Then she opened her eyes, as -if she had found out where that noise, that sight, that disagreeable -impression, came from, and with a thread of voice, which only the -doctor heard, she called: - -'Love!' - -'What is it you want?' - -'Send him away.' - -'Who do you mean?' - -'My father.' - -The doctor turned pale, and did not answer. He gave a side-glance at -the old man, who was still standing at the foot of the bed with his -eyes cast down in sorrowful thought. - -'I beg of you, send him away,' she began again, speaking into his ear. - -'But why do you wish it?' - -'Just because--I don't wish to see him. Send him away. He must go -away.' - -'Bianca Maria, remember he is your father.' - -'Look here--listen,' she said, pulling him nearer to her, so that she -could speak lower. 'He is my father,' she whispered; then, with a -smothered fear and an immense bitterness, 'but he has killed me!' - -'Do not speak like that,' he replied, turning his head the other way -that she might not see his feelings. - -'I tell you I am dying through him. I am not raving, you know; I am -in my senses,' she replied, opening her eyes wide with that babyish -trick of dying children that drives mothers mad with grief. - -He shook his head, as if he could not tell what to do nor what to say. - -'Send him away!' she insisted, in a rage, with the fatal outbursting -fury of meningitis. - -'I cannot do it, Bianca Maria....' - -'If you do not send him away yourself, I will get up and shriek out -to him to go away, never to come before me again--never, for the -future: do you hear?' - -'Wait a moment,' he said, as he made up his mind, resigned. - -And he left her, loosening himself from her, putting back her thin -arms on the coverlet. She followed him with her glance, never taking -her eyes off him, as if through them she could know what Dr. Amati -was saying to her father in a low tone. - -Dr. Amati, with great delicacy and a shudder of grief that made his -voice shake uncontrollably, was explaining to him that meningitis -is a frightful malady which burns the brain, breaks the nerves, and -makes the unlucky patients attacked by it rave for days and days: it -incites them to constant anger, and fury, even. Poor Bianca Maria was -a victim to this fancy, that she could not bear to have anyone in -her room; and that if he loved his daughter, if he did not wish to -hear her burst out into wild talk, would he be so kind as to go into -another room?... - -'Did my daughter tell you that?' the old man asked, deadly pale, with -his eyebrows knitted. - -'Yes, it was she who said it.' - -'Does she wish to have no one in her room?' - -'No, no one.' - -'Except yourself, is that it?' - -'Yes, I may stay.' - -'Does my daughter turn me out?' shrieked the old man. - -'For goodness' sake, my lord, do not get irritated! Have pity on your -daughter, yourself, and me.' - -'I will not go away unless she tells me herself, do you hear? Bianca -Maria!' the Marquis called out, going up close to the bed. - -She looked at her father with the greatest intensity, as if she was -answering him. - -'Bianca Maria,' shouted the exasperated old man, 'is it true that you -do not want to have me in your room? Say yourself if it is true. I do -not believe this man. You must say it yourself.' - -'It is true,' she said in a very clear voice, looking at her father. - -He cast down his eyes, where the last tears of old age were showing, -and his head sank on his breast, overcome by the inflexible -punishment that came to him from the raving girl--from his dying -victim. He went out without turning round. And stooping, as if he -were a hundred years old, alone, speechless, he went away to what -had been his study, where only an old table and a chair were left. -There, lying forward with his face in his hands, with no conception -either of time or things, the old sinner sank into the immeasurable -bitterness of his punishment. Sometimes Bianca Maria's voice came to -him, feeble or loud, ever telling Amati: - -'I do not want to die--I will not die! Save me! save me! I am only -twenty! I will not die!' - -The voice, the despairing words, said in delirium, but which still -seemed to be a lament and a curse, had a cruel effect on him. He had -not strength left to get up and go out, to leave the house alone, to -die like a dog on some church steps, unwept for and unregretted. He -did not get up to go beside the dying girl, for his daughter had -turned him out, keeping by her the only person she had loved. - -'I will not die, love! I will not die!' the delirious girl was saying. - -'She is right--she is right,' her father thought, giving a start. - -Whilst the hours went by he heard, from where he was, the doctor -going backwards and forwards, in his effort to save the girl's life, -the hurried orders, Giovanni going out and the assistant doctor -coming in. He had no right now to come forward and know what was -going on, and, in fact, he was forgotten there, as if he had been -dead for years and years, as if no Marquis di Formosa had ever -existed. Would it not be better for him if he were dead, since -everyone had forsaken him? 'It is what I deserve,' he thought to -himself. - -He strained his ears sometimes, as if the noises that came to him -were to tell him that his daughter was getting better, that the -doctor was giving her strong, effective remedies; but, except for the -servants, the assistant, and the doctor going about their work, he -heard nothing else but the constant agonizing cry: 'I will not die! I -will not die! Love, save me!' - -He sank into a slumber, with his old head resting on his arms, -towards dawn, still hearing in this slight unconsciousness that same -cry of anguish. It was Giovanni who wakened him, at full daylight, -by bringing him a cup of coffee. The father, turned out of his -daughter's room, questioned the servant with his eyes. - -'She is still in the same state--just the same.' - -'Then, not even Amati can save her--not even him?' - -'He is trying to, but he is in despair.' - -The Marquis di Formosa spent three days and nights in that room -alone, not seeing a bed and hardly touching the little food that was -brought in for the three days and nights that Bianca Maria's dying -agony lasted. The old man's face, always of a reddish tinge, in -spite of his age, was now streaked with purple, his white hair, when -Giovanni and Margherita came to him, was tragically disordered. Only, -from seeing their crushed state, he asked them no more questions. -Did he not hear her still raving, crying out that at her age she did -not want to die, she would not die, adding the most heartrending -supplications and cries? - -The two servants told him nothing; his hearing had got more acute, -and not a word of the raving went past unheard. Still, that very -vitality of nervous strength, that strong voice, deluded him as -being a sort of health, and in the short intervals of silence he -almost wished the raving would begin again. But the third day, in -the morning, a new painful sensation drew him out of that stupor. -The delirious girl, in a choked voice, was calling for her mother, -begging _her_ not to let her die. Sometimes she stopped speaking; he -looked round him, alarmed at these sudden silences, which got longer, -starting when again Bianca Maria began to cry out: - -'Mother, I will not die! I will not--I will not, mother dear!' - -About two hours after midnight, on the third day, still seated by his -small table, slumber came upon him, with the raving still echoing in -his ears. How long did he sleep? When he wakened, the silence was so -profound that it frightened him. He waited to hear the voice crying -out not to die yet. There was nothing. He counted the time from the -wasting of the candle; two hours must have gone by. - -A horrible fear took hold of him; he dared not move. He looked under -the doorway arch, and saw Margherita's white face looking at him. He -understood. Still, mechanically he asked: - -'How is Donna Bianca?' - -'She is well,' the old woman said feebly. - -'When did it happen?' - -'An hour ago.' - -'Did she not ... did she not ask for me?' - -'No, my lord.' - -He tried to get up; he could not. He thought that death would lay -hold of him there, on that seat, at once, since young people of -twenty die before old men of sixty. Now Dr. Amati had come into the -room. He was unrecognisable; a deadly weight had broken down all his -moral and physical energies. Great silent, child's tears rolled down -his cheeks. They said nothing for a time. - -'Did she suffer a great deal?' the father asked. - -'Yes, frightfully....' - -'Were you not able to do anything to ...' - -'No, I was able to do nothing,' the doctor said, beaten, holding out -his arms as he owned to the most horrible of his failures. - -The old man, his face now rigid in tragic expression, was not crying. -Like a child who is not to be comforted, Dr. Amati took him by the -hand, lifted him from his chair, and said gently: - -'Come and see her.' - -They went. The Marchesina di Formosa Bianca Maria Cavalcanti was -lying on her small white bed, her head rather sloping on one -shoulder, the waxen hands, with discoloured fingers, clasped over -a rosary. A soft white robe had been put over her wasted body. The -violet-shaded mouth was half open, the clayey eyelids lowered. She -seemed very much smaller, like a girl in her teens. On her face there -was only the haughty seal of death, that soothes all and forgives -all. It was not serenity, but peace. - -From the doorway the two men gazed on the small figure, with long, -black hair flowing over it. They did not go in; motionless, both kept -their eyes on the mortal remains, and Amati repeated gently, as if to -himself, like a child whom nothing could comfort: - -'There should be flowers--flowers....' - -The old man did not hear him. He looked at his dead daughter, saying -not a word, giving no sigh; he bent his great frame and knelt down -in the doorway, holding out his arms for forgiveness, like old Lear -before the sweet corpse of Cordelia. - - - THE END - - - BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD - - * * * * * - - TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES - -Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. - -A number of words in this book have both hyphenated and -non-hyphenated variants. The trend in the original book was to -hyphenate compound words. Therefore the hyphenated variant was chosen -in most of the cases. - -Obvious punctuation and other printing errors have been corrected. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Land of Cockayne, by Matilde Serao - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAND OF COCKAYNE *** - -***** This file should be named 54614-8.txt or 54614-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/4/6/1/54614/ - -Produced by Andrés V. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: The Land of Cockayne - -Author: Matilde Serao - -Release Date: April 26, 2017 [EBook #54614] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAND OF COCKAYNE *** - - - - -Produced by Andrés V. Galia, Charlie Howard, Chris Curnow -and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at -http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images -generously made available by The Internet Archive/American -Libraries.) - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 504px;"> -<img id="coverpage" src="images/cover.jpg" width="504" height="799" alt="book_cover" /> -</div> - -<h1>THE LAND OF<br /> -COCKAYNE</h1> - -<p class="center" style="margin-top: 2em;">A Novel<br /> -<em>By</em><br /> -<br /> -MATILDE SERAO<br /> -<br /> -AUTHOR OF<br /> -<br /> -"FAREWELL LOVE!" "FANTASY"<br /> -"THE CONQUEST OF ROME" ETC.<br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 265px;"> -<img src="images/title_page.jpg" width="265" height="455" alt="title_page" /> -</div> - -<p class="center">HARPER & BROTHERS<br /> -NEW YORK AND LONDON<br /> -PUBLISHERS—1901<br /> -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_i" id="Page_i">[i]</a></span></p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CONTENTS</h2> - -</div> - -<div class="center"> -<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="CONTENTS"> - -<tr> -<td class="tcn">CHAPTER</td> -<td class="tdl"> </td> -<td class="tcn">PAGE</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="chn">I. </td> -<td class="tdl">THE LOTTERY DRAWING</td> -<th class="pag"><a href="#Page_1">1</a> </th> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="chn">II. </td> -<td class="tdl">AGNESINA FRAGALÀ'S CHRISTENING</td> -<th class="pag"><a href="#Page_23">23</a> </th> -</tr> - - -<tr> -<td class="chn">III. </td> -<td class="tdl">IN THE CAVALCANTIS' HOUSE</td> -<th class="pag"><a href="#Page_47">47</a> </th> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="chn">IV. </td> -<td class="tdl">DR. AMATI</td> -<th class="pag"><a href="#Page_62">62</a> </th> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="chn">V. </td> -<td class="tdl">CARNIVAL AT NAPLES</td> -<th class="pag"><a href="#Page_82">82</a> </th> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="chn">VI. </td> -<td class="tdl">DONNA CATERINA AND DONNA CONCETTA</td> -<th class="pag"><a href="#Page_99">99</a> </th> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="chn">VII. </td> -<td class="tdl">DON GENNARO PARASCANDOLO'S BUSINESS</td> -<th class="pag"><a href="#Page_111">111</a> </th> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="chn">VIII. </td> -<td class="tdl">IN DON CRESCENZIO'S LOTTERY-SHOP</td> -<th class="pag"><a href="#Page_124">124</a> </th> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="chn">IX. </td> -<td class="tdl">BIANCA MARIA'S VISION</td> -<th class="pag"><a href="#Page_142">142</a> </th> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="chn">X. </td> -<td class="tdl">MAY AND SAN GENNARO'S MIRACLE</td> -<th class="pag"><a href="#Page_155">155</a> </th> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="chn">XI. </td> -<td class="tdl">AN IDYLL AND MADNESS</td> -<th class="pag"><a href="#Page_174">174</a> </th> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="chn">XII. </td> -<td class="tdl">THE THREE SISTERS—CHIARASTELLA THE WITCH</td> -<th class="pag"><a href="#Page_197">197</a> </th> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="chn">XIII. </td> -<td class="tdl">THE CONFECTIONER'S SHOP BANKRUPT</td> -<th class="pag"><a href="#Page_215">215</a> </th> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="chn">XIV. </td> -<td class="tdl">THE MEDIUM'S IMPRISONMENT</td> -<th class="pag"><a href="#Page_231">231</a> </th> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="chn">XV. </td> -<td class="tdl">SACRILEGE—LOVE'S DREAM FLED</td> -<th class="pag"><a href="#Page_254">254</a> </th> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="chn">XVI. </td> -<td class="tdl">PASQUALINO DE FEO'S WILL</td> -<th class="pag"><a href="#Page_279">279</a> </th> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="chn">XVII. </td> -<td class="tdl">BARBASSONE'S INN—THE DUEL</td> -<th class="pag"><a href="#Page_294">294</a> </th> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="chn">XVIII. </td> -<td class="tdl">TO LET</td> -<th class="pag"><a href="#Page_308">308</a> </th> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="chn">XIX. </td> -<td class="tdl">DON CRESCENZIO'S TRIALS</td> -<th class="pag"><a href="#Page_316">316</a> </th> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="chn">XX. </td> -<td class="tdl">BIANCA MARIA CAVALCANTI</td> -<th class="pag"><a href="#Page_348">348</a> </th> -</tr> - -</table> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p> - -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER I</h2> - -<p class="p2">THE LOTTERY DRAWING</p> - - -<p>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 <em>vice versâ</em>, 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<sup>o</sup> 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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span> -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 <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">pizza</i> 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 <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">pizzaiuolo</i> did pass, in fact, but he -was carrying his wooden tray, shining with oil, under his -arm, without a bit of <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">pizza</i>; 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 -<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">controra</i>—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.</p> - -<p>'Give me something to eat with my bread,' she said, -swaying herself a little.</p> - -<p>'Fried fish?'</p> - -<p>'No.'</p> - -<p>'A little dried cod with sauce?'</p> - -<p>'No, no'—with disgust.</p> - -<p>'A morsel of tripe?'</p> - -<p>'No, no.'</p> - -<p>'What do you want, then?' the boy asked, rather -annoyed.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span></p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>'We don't cook meat to-day; it is Saturday. Only tripe -for unbelievers on Saturday.'</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>'If I were to take a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">terno</i>,' she said, as she went on her -way, holding the plate carefully, 'I should like to gratify -my wish of eating meat every day.'</p> - -<p>'Meat and macaroni,' the boy called back, laughing.</p> - -<p>'Just so—meat and macaroni,' the seamstress shouted -triumphantly, her eyes still fixed on the plate, not to let the -sauce fall.</p> - -<p>'Morning and evening,' called out the boy from the doorway.</p> - -<p>'Morning and evening,' Antonietta answered back.</p> - -<p>'You should apply to that youth,' the boy shouted gaily -from the cellar, indicating the Impresa court with his eyes.</p> - -<p>'I'll come back later,' said the seamstress from the corner -of the street; 'I'll bring you the plate.'</p> - -<p>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. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'Do you want a shine?' the bootblack asked mechanically, -laying down his list of numbers.</p> - -<p>'Just so,' replied the other, grinning; '<em>I</em> want a shine. -If I had another half-penny, I would have played a last -ticket at Donna Caterina's to-day.'</p> - -<p>'The <em>small</em> game?' asked the shoeblack in a whisper.</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>'You have taken a half-holiday to-day?'</p> - -<p>'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!'</p> - -<p>'When do you get your week's money?'</p> - -<p>'Eh!' he said, shrugging his shoulders—'generally on -Fridays: I have nothing to get.'</p> - -<p>'How do you manage to gamble?'</p> - -<p>'One can always get it for gambling. Donna Caterina's -sister—she of the <em>small</em> game—lends money.'</p> - -<p>'Does she take big interest?'</p> - -<p>'A sou for each franc every week.'</p> - -<p>'Not bad—not bad,' said the shoeblack, with a convinced -look.</p> - -<p>'I have seventy-five francs to give her,' said the glove-cutter. -'Every Monday there is a storm. She waits for -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span> -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 <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">terno</i>, and I will pay her.'</p> - -<p>'What will you do with the rest of your winnings?' -Michele asked, laughing.</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'Or at Figlio di Pietro, at Posellipo.'</p> - -<p>'At Asso di coppe, at Portici.'</p> - -<p>'Inn after inn.'</p> - -<p>'Meat and macaroni.'</p> - -<p>'And Monte di Procida wine.'</p> - -<p>'Just so, one only lives once,' the glove-cutter philosophically -concluded, pulling his jacket up on his shoulder.</p> - -<p>'I don't get into debt,' the shoeblack added, after a -minute's silence.</p> - -<p>'Lucky you!'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'Lucky you!' Gaetano repeated, with a troubled look.</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'May he that invented marriage be hanged!' blasphemed -Gaetano, getting clay colour.</p> - -<p>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, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span> -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 <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">terno</i> 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 <em>little game</em>, 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.</p> - -<p>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, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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 <em>small</em> 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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>He was a boy dressed in the gray poor-house uniform, a -poor little fellow from the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">serraglio</i>, as the Naples folk call -these deserted creatures' asylum, a poor <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">serragliuolo</i> 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, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span> -was another <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">serraglio</i> 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 <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">serragliuolo</i>. 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.</p> - -<p>'Two.'</p> - -<p>'A baby girl.'</p> - -<p>'The letter.'</p> - -<p>'Bring me out this letter, sir.'</p> - -<p>'Five.'</p> - -<p>'The hand.'</p> - -<p>'... in the face of him who ill-wished me.'</p> - -<p>'Eight.'</p> - -<p>'That is the Virgin—the Virgin.'</p> - -<p>But as every tenth number, enclosed within its little round -gray box, was thrown into the urn by the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">serragliuolo</i>, 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:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Spin, turn it round, old man.'</p> - -<p>'Another spin for me.'</p> - -<p>'Give me full measure.'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'Thirteen.'</p> - -<p>'... that means the candles.'</p> - -<p>'... the thick candle, the torch. Let us put out the -torch!'</p> - -<p>'... put it out—put it out!' the chorus echoed.</p> - -<p>'... twenty-two.'</p> - -<p>'... the madman!'</p> - -<p>'... the little silly!'</p> - -<p>'... like you.'</p> - -<p>'... like me.'</p> - -<p>'... like him that plays the small game—<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">alla bonafficiata</i>.'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Thirty-three!</p> - -<p>These are Christ's years!</p> - -<p><em>His</em> years.</p> - -<p>'... this comes out.'</p> - -<p>'... it will not come out.'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span></p> - -<p>'... you will see that it will.'</p> - -<p>'Thirty-nine!'</p> - -<p>'... the hanged rogue!'</p> - -<p>'... take him by the throat—by the throat!'</p> - -<p>'... so I ought to see what I said.'</p> - -<p>'... squeeze him—squeeze him!'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span> -deep, dull, anguished sigh came out of those petrified bosoms -down there.</p> - -<p>'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 <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">terno</i> 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:</p> - -<p>'Search well; make a good choice, child.'</p> - -<p>'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 <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">terno</i> 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. <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">'Serragliuolo! Serragliuolo!</i>' 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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span> -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!</p> - -<p>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 -<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">figure</i>, the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">cadenze</i>, the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">triple</i>, the algebraic explanation of the -<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">quadrato Maltese</i>, 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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'Have you got nothing?' asked a dull voice beside him.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'No, nothing,' said the shoeblack shortly, lowering his eyes.</p> - -<p>'There is nothing for me, either. If you have a few sous -for a combination, old fellow, I will give them back on -Monday.'</p> - -<p>'Where could I get them? If you get hold of ten, we -could make up five each,' the shoeblack muttered desperately.</p> - -<p>'Good-bye, old fellow! Good-bye!' said the glove-cutter -in a rough voice.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'Have you won nothing, Gaetano?' she asked with a -slight smile.</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>'All right—all right,' she returned coldly. 'We see each -other on Monday—don't forget.'</p> - -<p>'I don't forget; I keep you in my heart like the Virgin,' -he called out, alongside of her, in a hissing voice.</p> - -<p>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 -<em>small game</em>, 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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span> -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 <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">ruota</i> 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?</p> - -<p>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:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Carmela!'</p> - -<p>'Good-day, Annarella,' said Carmela, starting, giving a -sickly smile.</p> - -<p>'Are you here too?' she asked in a sad, surprised tone.</p> - -<p>'Yes, I came,' Carmela answered, with a resigned gesture.</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'I have not seen him at all.'</p> - -<p>'He must have been here,' Annarella muttered in her -rough drawl.</p> - -<p>'I assure you he was not here, really.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'He plays a lot, doesn't he?' said Carmela, who had -grown pale and had tears in her eyes.</p> - -<p>'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 <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">bonafficiata</i>, we are full of debts and -mortifications; we only eat now and then, when I bring in -something. These poor little things!'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'Why do you come to hear this lottery drawn?' Annarella -asked, suddenly enraged against all those that play.</p> - -<p>'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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span> -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 <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">terno</i> then; then I'll -give it all to you.'</p> - -<p>'Poor sister!' said Annarella, with melancholy tenderness.</p> - -<p>'That day must come—it must,' she whispered passionately, -as if speaking to herself, as if she already saw that -happy day.</p> - -<p>'May an angel pass and say <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">amen</i>,' Annarella murmured, -kissing her baby's forehead. 'Where can Gaetano be?' -she went on, care coming back.</p> - -<p>'Say truly,' begged Carmela, getting down from the stone -on her way off, 'you have nothing to give the children -to-day?'</p> - -<p>'Nothing,' was the answer in that feeble voice.</p> - -<p>'Take this half-franc, take it,' said the other, pulling it -out of her pocket and giving it to her.</p> - -<p>'God reward you.'</p> - -<p>They looked at each other with such mutual pity that only -shame of the passers-by kept them from bursting into sobs.</p> - -<p>'Good-bye!'</p> - -<p>'Good-bye, Carmela!'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'Well, have you won anything?' he asked in a hissing -little ironical voice.</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span></p> - -<p>'How do you account for that?' the young fellow cried -out angrily. 'A woman is always a woman!'</p> - -<p>'Is it my fault if the numbers won't come out?' the love-lorn -girl said humbly and sadly.</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'I know—I know!' she muttered humbly. 'Say no -more about it.'</p> - -<p>'You seem to forget it. Masses are not sung without -money. Let us say good-bye.'</p> - -<p>'Won't you come this evening?' she dared to ask.</p> - -<p>'I have something to do. I must go with a friend. Send -me a couple of francs.'</p> - -<p>'I have only one,' she exclaimed, quite red and mortified, -taking it out of her pocket.</p> - -<p>'May you die in want!' he cursed, chewing his stump of -Naples cigar. 'Give it here! I will try to arrange my -affairs better.'</p> - -<p>'Won't you pass by the house?' she begged with her eyes.</p> - -<p>'If I do pass, it will be very late.'</p> - -<p>'It does not matter; I'll wait for you on the balcony,' -she said, persisting in her humiliation.</p> - -<p>'I can't stop.'</p> - -<p>'Well, give a whistle. I'll hear you, and sleep quieter, -Raffaele. What trouble will it be to whistle in passing?'</p> - -<p>'All right,' he agreed indulgently. 'Good-bye, Carmela!'</p> - -<p>'Good-bye, Raffaele!'</p> - -<p>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 <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">guappi</i>.</p> - -<p>'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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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:</p> - -<p>'Donna Rosa, will you call Filomena?'</p> - -<p>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:</p> - -<p>'Filomena! Filomena!'</p> - -<p>'Who is it?' a hoarse voice answered from inside.</p> - -<p>'Your sister wants you—come down.'</p> - -<p>'I am coming,' said the voice more gently.</p> - -<p>'Thanks, Donna Rosa,' said Carmela.</p> - -<p>'Glad to serve you,' said the other briefly as she went off.</p> - -<p>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. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>'How are you?' asked Carmela in a trembling voice.</p> - -<p>'I am well,' said Filomena, shaking her head, as if her -health did not matter. 'How is mother?'</p> - -<p>'Just as an old woman always is.... Poor mother!'</p> - -<p>'How is Annarella?'</p> - -<p>'She is full of trouble....'</p> - -<p>'Wretched, eh?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, she is wretched.'</p> - -<p>They both sighed deeply as they looked at each other; a -blush and a pallor altered their faces.</p> - -<p>'I bring you bad news to-day, too, Filomena,' Carmela -said at last.</p> - -<p>'Have you won nothing?' Filomena asked.</p> - -<p>'No, nothing!'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'Our Lady of Sorrows will grant us this grace,' Carmela -said softly. 'Let us hope that next Saturday——'</p> - -<p>'We will hope so,' the other answered humbly.</p> - -<p>'Good-bye, Filomena!'</p> - -<p>'Good-bye, Carmela!'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span></p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>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.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span></p> - -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER II</h2> - -<p class="p2">AGNESINA FRAGALÀ'S CHRISTENING</p> - - -<p>'Agnesina Fragalà, papa's lovely daughter,' said the -young father, leaning over the brass cradle that shone like -gold, holding open the lace curtains with rose-coloured -ribbons, and petting with words, glances, and smiles the -pink new-born babe that was placidly sleeping. 'Agnesina, -Agnesina,' he went on saying playfully, 'I think you are -very pretty.'</p> - -<p>'Be quiet, Cesare; you will wake the baby,' the mother -said in a whisper, from the toilet-glass she was sitting at.</p> - -<p>'She will have to be wakened later on, at any rate; ought -we not to show her to our guests?'</p> - -<p>'Yes; I just hope she won't begin screaming in the -drawing-room!' the young mother replied, smiling, half -from nervous fears, half from motherly pride.</p> - -<p>'Bah!' said the young father, leaving the cradle and -coming near to his wife. 'The guests will be taken up -eating cakes, sweets, and ices. You will see a gourmandizing, -Luisella!'</p> - -<p>The light edifice of Luisa Fragalà's intensely black hair -was skilfully and prettily arranged; some curls shaded her -short brown forehead, with its black eyebrows in the youthful -oval face; and the long Eastern eyes of sparkling gray, -soft and piquant, the rather long, broad, though well-shaped -nose, and baby mouth, pink as a carnation, had a charm of -youth and freshness that made her still enamoured husband -smile with pleasure.</p> - -<p>Cesare Fragalà was young and handsome, too—rather -effeminately handsome, perhaps; his skin was as white as a -woman's; his chestnut hair curled all over up to the temples, -showing in places the white skin underneath; his face was -round, rather boyish still, in spite of his being twenty-eight; -but his close-shaven cheeks had a warm Southern pallor -that was quite manly, and a thick curly moustache corrected -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span> -that effeminate, boyish look. Both of them of burgher rank, -of no degenerate race, they had the characteristics of Neapolitan -youth. The man was strong, but indolent; good-looking -and rather inclined to care for his appearance; his -softness was visibly mixed with roguishness, from the contrasts -in his face, where a coarse look was tempered by good-nature. -The woman, dark and elegant, with that blood -that seems to have dull flashes, that resoluteness of will in -the profile and chin that shows a secret latent force in a -woman's heart, ready for passion and sacrifice.</p> - -<p>The surroundings were like themselves, from the rather -vulgar luxury of pink and cream brocade that covered the -furniture and the bed, the French paper on the walls of -much the same design, the toilet-glass draped in white lace—precious -work done by the bride's own hands before the -wedding—to the great wardrobe of dark wood, with gold -lines and three looking-glass doors, the height of luxury at -that time; from the numerous images of saints—Saint Louis -in silver, the face in wax; a Saint Cesare of stucco in a monk's -habit, with rosaries, reliquaries, and Easter candles, forming -a trophy, on each side of the bed—up to the silver lamp, -lighted, before the Infant Jesus, in a niche; and in the same -conjugal apartment, from plebeian tenderness, and that strong -patriarchal feeling of Neapolitans, was the cradle, gay with -ribbons, where the little one of a month old was sleeping. -Everything was striking, even their clothes. Cesare Fragalà, -expecting his guests shortly, had on his coat already, -a handkerchief stuck in his shirt, and his curly hair -smooth by dint of hard brushing; but his watch-chain -was too bright, his studs too large, and his necktie was -white silk instead of white batiste. Luisa looked very -pretty in her yellow silk, with a white muslin wrapper over -it while her hair was done, but she sparkled too much -from diamonds in her ears, on her neck, and on her arms. -Just then the hair-dresser put a brilliant star in front as a -finish.</p> - -<p>'Is nothing more needed?' she asked, rather thinking she -had too few ornaments.</p> - -<p>'No,' said the hair-dresser decisively; 'the fewer things -put in the hair, the better.'</p> - -<p>'Do you think so?'</p> - -<p>'Let yourself be guided by one who knows his trade,' the -artist added, gathering up his combs and curling-irons.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span></p> - -<p>'You look very nice,' the husband whispered, on an inquiring -glance from his wife. He looked at her tenderly, -carefully, to see if anything was wanting. 'If my combination -comes off,' Cesare added, whilst the barber took leave -silently, so as not to waken the baby, after getting five -francs and one more as a tip—'if my combination comes off, -Luisella, I will buy you a string of diamonds for your neck.'</p> - -<p>'What combination are you speaking of?' she asked, as -she put some powder on her bare arms. She frowned, with -a woman's sudden suspicion of all affairs she does not know -about.</p> - -<p>'I will tell you afterwards,' he said, stammering.</p> - -<p>'Tell me now,' she demanded, standing with her long -gloves in her hand.</p> - -<p>'There is nothing really yet to tell, Luisella,' he said, -rather put out at having let out something.</p> - -<p>'Promise me never to decide on anything without asking -me first,' she said, raising one hand.</p> - -<p>'I promise,' he said with deep sincerity.</p> - -<p>She was appeased, and sat down reassured, putting on -her gloves, while her husband stood before the looking-glass -twirling the points of his moustache, smiling at his -own image and at life. The Fragalà family counted up no -less than eighty years of commercial prudence and rising -fortunes. Cesare's grandfather had begun with a wretched -shop in Purgatorio ad Arco Street in the Pendino quarter, -rather worse, said the envious, for he was a wandering -salesman of cakes at a half-penny each, heaped on a wooden -board carried on his head, under the arm, or by a leather -band round the neck. In fact, either on the board or in -that shop, these sweets were made of middling flour, sugar -of third quality, eggs of doubtful freshness, and very often -cooked in rancid lard, filled oftener with apples or quinces -roasted under ashes than peach or black-cherry preserve. -But what did it matter? All Southerners, men and women, -young and old, love sweets, spicy cakes and biscuits -sprinkled with aniseed and sugar; the pastry at a half-penny -appeared and disappeared in Fragalà's shop, also -sticky coloured caramels and cakes called <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">ancinetti</i>. Grandfather -Fragalà soon managed, by dint of heaping up halfpence, -to produce pastry at three-halfpence, the so-called -<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">sfogliatella</i>, of which there are two qualities—the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">riccia</i>, broad, -thin, and flat, that falls into fine flakes, crackling under the -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span> -teeth, whilst the cream in it melts on the tongue; and the -<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">frolla</i>, thick and fat, two fingers' width of pastry that powders -as you eat it, a thick layer of cream inside that covers your -lips and jaws. It is true Grandfather Fragalà was accused -of mixing a lot of dirty noxious ingredients in his <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">sfogliatella</i>: -starch, gum, raw sugar, beef-fat, strong glue, and even bran. -But what did it matter? On Sundays and all the other -appointed feasts the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">sfogliatella</i> sold like bread, or, rather, -more so, from nine to two o'clock in the afternoon; then -Fragalà shut his shop, because he had no more to sell, -however many he had made, also because he was a God-fearing -man. He quietly opened another shop in San -Pietro a Maiella, putting in one of his sons; then, later on, -another shop at Costantinopoli Street, towards the Bourbon -Museum, with another son; and, finally, at his death, his -eldest dared to aspire to Toledo Street, but in the upper -part, opening a pastry-shop with <em>three doors</em>—that is to say, -three shops—at the corner of Spirito Santo, a gorgeous -place. The pastry-shops of Purgatoria ad Arco, San -Pietro a Maiella, and Costantinopoli Streets still exist, owned -by the younger brothers, all more or less black and dirty, -full of buzzing flies, but giving out that intoxicating smell -of burnt sugar, apples, fruit, and crumbling pastry that -all Naples boys, women, and old men long for. Even at -Purgatoria ad Arco the tarts were sold at a penny, halfway -between grandfather's price and the three-halfpence of the -modern shop. But the three shops in one in Toledo Street -rejoiced in the inscription '<em>Founded in 1802</em>,' in gold letters -on black marble—it was all white marble, shining plate-glass -windows full of coloured sweets, bright metal boxes, -and clear glasses with biscuits, tall round vases of pastils, -strong and sweet, for disordered stomachs or for coughs, -and glass shelves with all kinds of pastry in rows. Via -Toledo confectionery was superb, but among its innovations -it had not neglected the safe old Neapolitan speciality, -<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">sfogliatella</i>, always popular and long-lived, in spite of innovations -in sweetmeats, in its two forms of <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">riccia</i> and <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">frolla</i>; on -Sundays, all the patriarchal families that come out from -Mass from so many churches round—Spirito Santo, Pellegrini, -San Michele, San Domenico Soriano—bought in passing -some six or eight <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">sfogliatella</i>, to give the final festive -touch to the Sunday dinner. Cesare Fragalà's father had -added to the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">sfogliatella</i> all the other specialities in sweets -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span> -eaten by Naples folk at all the feasts in the year: almond -or royal paste at Christmas; <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">sanguinaccio</i> at Carnival; -Lenten biscuits, the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">mastacciolo</i> and <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">pastiera</i>, at Easter; <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">l'osso -di morto</i> (dead men's bones), made of almonds and candied -sugar, for All Souls' Day; the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">torrone</i> for St. Martin's; and -others—<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">croccante</i>, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">struffoli</i>, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">sosamiello</i>—all Parthenope's sweets, -made of almonds, sugar, and chocolate, delightful to the -palate and heavy to digest; but they are the joy of Naples -crowds—they are sent into the provinces, every holiday, -in all sizes of boxes by the waggon-load. Still among -the Fragalàs' jealous rivals there were some whispers about -the mysterious ingredients in these sweets; but it was -harmless malignity, to which customers paid no heed; even -if they believed it, they cared little about it. The Naples -philosopher, Peppino, Fragalà's customer, said: 'If one -knew what one was eating, no one would wish to eat anything.' -The Fragalà house was solid: Cesare had inherited -a good fortune and unbroken credit from his father.</p> - -<p>It is true he had, as a rich citizen, an instinctive contempt -for his uncles' and cousins' dark shops, where the flies -buzzed annoyingly, as if cloyed and ill with indigestion from -the bad sugar and honey; but he was prudent too—he did -not scorn his origin, he willingly received his relations at -family dinners, and when he had to make changes in his -Toledo shop, he thought them over, and took advice—mostly -from his wife. Luisa thought of all this as she put on her -gloves slowly, whilst her husband went to the kitchen to see -if the refreshments were ready, and that the extra servants, -hired for the occasion, were properly dressed. She rose, -and, picking up her yellow train, went to lift the lace -curtain of the cradle, and passionately gazed on her daughter -Agnesina. Never, never would her husband do anything -without consulting her; he had married her for love, without -a half-penny, against everyone's wishes, and he treated her -like a lady, as if she had brought twenty thousand ducats -as a dowry. Now that there was Agnesina too, father's -lovely daughter, as he said playfully, it was impossible he -would ever hide anything from her, his child's mother. -Who knows? Perhaps it had to do with the pastry-shop in -San Ferdinando Piazza, in the centre of the richest part of -Naples, quite a modern shop, that Cesare had been dreaming -about opening for some time past without daring to risk so -much capital. Perhaps if was that, and the fresh, pleasant-faced -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span> -mother blessed the little one, and prayed God would -bless her father's plans and her mother's hopes.</p> - -<p>On leaving the room she met her husband.</p> - -<p>'Where is nurse?' she asked.</p> - -<p>'In the room next the kitchen with Donna Candida.'</p> - -<p>'Let us go and see them,' she said, going forward, followed -by her husband. They crossed to the back part of the house, -where were the servants' rooms, and came to the pantry. -The wet-nurse from Fratta Maggiore, a fine, stout woman, -with pink cheeks, great prominent eyes, and a calm, serene -expression, wore her pale blue damask dress, trimmed with -a broad yellow silk band, which went in such deep folds -she seemed to swim at every step she took—it was stiff like -a stuff building. She wore a white crape handkerchief, and -a gold necklace of three rows of big hollow beads over it; -the front of her dress was covered by a batiste apron, over -which she spread her well-ringed hands. Her chestnut -hair was tightly held back by a silver comb, from which -fell a big bow of blue ribbon. Donna Candida, the midwife, -was beside her, a guest who had to be asked; she had put -on her red silk dress for big christenings, the portrait of her -late husband, Don Nicodemo, in a brooch, and a red cotton -camellia in her gray hair. Both she and the nurse, most -important people, were waiting patiently, saying a few words -to each other.</p> - -<p>'I wish you all happiness,' called out the old nurse on -seeing her patient.</p> - -<p>'Thank you, Donna Candida. You have come early. Does -waiting not bore you? Will you take something, nurse?' -Luisella's voice showed tenderness for her little one's nurse.</p> - -<p>'As your excellency pleases,' said the nurse, raising her -soft, oil-coloured, rather stupid eyes.</p> - -<p>Cesare went off, and brought a waiter with marsala and -cakes for the women. The husband and wife stood looking -at them quite touched, and when they stopped eating -Luisella pushed the tray towards them. Donna Candida, -who was a polite woman, held up her first glass of marsala, -and called out:</p> - -<p>'To Donna Agnesina's health!'</p> - -<p>'To my little one's health!' said the other, laughing.</p> - -<p>The husband and wife looked at each other with happy -tears in their eyes, nodding their thanks. Suddenly the -mother said:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Nurse, the baby is crying.'</p> - -<p>The nurse hurriedly dried her lips, put down the candy she -was eating, and rushed off with a great rustle, opening her -bodice as she went with an instinctive maternal movement.</p> - -<p>But the guests were already coming into the reception-room, -which was furnished with couches and easy-chairs in -pomegranate brocade, their woodwork gilded; large <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carcels</i>, -placed on gray marble and gilt brackets, as well as big gilt-bronze -lamps with crystal pendants cut in facets, lighted it -up. Those who knew each other had joined in groups, and -spoke to each other in a lively way under their voice, to -look like people of spirit, society folk, and did not even look -at the unknown guests; these had got into the corners by -families, and brought easy-chairs and seats together to -make a fortress for themselves, from whence they cast shy, -inquisitive glances on the people and the furniture, suddenly -dimmed by lowered eyelids if they felt themselves caught -staring.</p> - -<p>The family of Don Domenico Mayer (a clerk in the Finance -Department) were like that. They lived in an apartment on -the fifth floor in the Rossi Palace, a tall, deep building at -Mercatello Square that looks on to four different streets, -where the neighbours often do not know each other -even by name, and can live for years without meeting, -two large stairs besides two smaller ones make it such a -puzzle. Don Domenico Mayer, with a misanthropic look -and bureaucratic overcoat, led in a misanthropic family, -composed of his wife, with flabby, colourless cheeks, always -suffering from neuralgia; his daughter Amalia, a tall, stout -girl, with prominent eyes, thick nose and lips, and heavy -black tresses, who suffered from hysterical convulsions; and -Alfonso, the son, called Fofò by everyone, who was troubled -by a growing silliness and a huge appetite. The misanthropic -family had formed into a square; the women pulled -in their poor though tidy gowns round their chairs, and father -and son sat at the edge of theirs stiff and silent. Like them, -other families held themselves apart—clerks, little tradesmen, -managers—with serious looks, keeping their elbows -to their sides, passing their hands mechanically over their -shiny, not to say glazed, beavers; whilst on the other side -were all the Fragalàs, and with them the Naddeos, great -ironware dealers at Rua Catalana; the Antonaccis, prosperous -cloth merchants at the Mercanti; and the Durantes, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span> -great dealers in dry cod at Pietra del Pesce—the men in broad-cloth, -the women in brocade or silk, with jewels, especially -bracelets, like Luisella Fragalà. Her charming presence -in the drawing-room was hailed by a general movement: -all rose; the boldest or most intimate left their places and -surrounded her, while the shy ones kept at a little distance, -waiting composedly till they were seen and greeted.</p> - -<p>All rejoiced with her on her restored health, calling her -'Mama, Mama,' wishing her in the Southern style this -<em>and a hundred</em> others, all in good health—that is to say, a -hundred more children, no less. She got pink with pleasure, -bent her head in giving thanks, which made the diamond -star in her hair sparkle: it was a subject for comment -to the other Fragalàs, the Naddeos, the Antonaccis, and -Durantes; it was the secret-sighing admiration of all the -other humble guests, the so-called <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">mezze signore</i>. Then, -while Cesare Fragalà chattered with the men, laughing, -passing his gloved hand through his curly hair, there was a -general return to the couches and easy-chairs: all sat down.</p> - -<p>Luisella Fragalà, standing in the middle of the room, -went to meet each lady that she saw coming in at the door, -greeted her smilingly, and led her to an easy-chair, making -a large feminine circle, where fans waved slowly over -opulent bosoms encased in brocade. Only the middle -couch remained empty—it was the post of honour; all were -looking at it and towards the door, waiting the unknown -guests who were to sit there: for they knew the party -would not really begin without them, and no refreshments -would be offered till the guests of high rank appeared; in -fact, Luisella and Cesare as the time passed gave each other -inquiring glances. Suddenly, as a couple came into the -room, Luisella made a quick, joyful gesture, effusively -embraced the lady, and pressed the gentleman's hand -smilingly; a whisper went through the room, someone got -up, a name was breathed. It was really him, Don Gennaro -Parascandolo, the famous Don Gennaro, a tall, strong, -agreeable man, with a countenance breathing honesty, good -faith, good temper; his hand-shake was hearty, his smile -cheered the most low-spirited people, his glance put life into -one; a very rich man—in short, little Agnesina's godfather, -a rich man with no children.</p> - -<p>He had had children—he and his sickly wife with the -grayish hair and sad eyes. She liked to stay shut up in her -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span> -sumptuous silent house, and when she went about with him -looked like a woman's shadow, a living image of grief. -They had had three lovely children, two boys and a girl, -healthy and strong, for whom Don Gennaro Parascandolo -had worked at his cold terrible trade of aristocratic usurer -to make them rich. He never lent less than five thousand -francs or more than two hundred thousand at one time, -always at 10 per cent. a month—cruel for his children's -sake. But diphtheria had come into his house, furtively, -irremediably; in twenty-five days the most distinguished -doctors' science, father and mother's despair, money poured -out, were found useless: nothing could save the three children. -All died choking in such a painful way that Signora Parascandolo's -reason seemed to give way for a time. Even the -strong man seemed to reel for a moment; he only recovered -very slowly. He travelled a great deal, he showed at all first -nights, gave flowers and jewels to famous dancers—all with -the greatest indifference, not as if he was bored, but with -no brightness nor gaiety. Now and then, very seldom, his -wife went out with him, a colourless taciturn creature, incapable -of distracting her thoughts even for a moment from -her three dead children; but at these times Don Gennaro -got gay: he came out with a heavy commercial wit to which -his wife responded with a slight distracted smile.</p> - -<p>As Don Gennaro Parascandolo had persuaded his poor -shadow to leave the shade that evening, he was quite lively; -whilst Luisella led the signora to the divan of honour, he -went about, followed by Cesare, joking and laughing; all -made a chorus to him wherever he passed, with that -tendency to worship riches that all, and Southerners in -particular, are apt to have. The Naddeos, Antonaccis, -Durantes, and Fragalàs were rich people; but things may -change in this world from one day to another. And Don -Gennaro was so rich he really did not know what to do -with his money! As to the little people in the room—clerks, -tradesmen, managers—they looked respectfully at -him from afar, impressed by his broad shoulders, deep -chest, and leonine head. His name was whispered here -and there, with comments in a lower voice: 'Don Gennaro -Parascandolo.'</p> - -<p>But Cesare and Luisella seemed to get an electric shock -when the third person they were waiting for arrived. She -was an old lady, who came forward solemnly, in a very old -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span> -maroon silk, stiff as a board, made in the fashion of thirty -years before, with organ-pipe pleats and very wide sleeves. -She wore a black lace shawl that was very old, too, fastened -with a turquoise and ruby brooch, black lace mittens on her -old, withered hands, that clutched a black velvet bag worked -in point stitch—on one side a little dog on a cushion, a -peasant woman with a broad straw hat on the other. -Luisella, pulling up her train, ran to meet her, made a -deep curtsy, and stooped to kiss the hand that the old -woman held out; she had an old coquette's peevish expression, -with round gray eyes and a drooping nose. Another -whisper went through the room: 'The godmother, -the Marchioness.' No one said she was the Marchioness -of Castelforte; she was the godmother—that was all. There -was only one Marchioness godmother in the Fragalà family; -she was Luisella's godmother and patron, a lady respected -and feared by the whole connection—in short, a Marchioness, -a titled person, of superior race. Even Don Parascandolo, -who had no need of anyone, as all knew, went to bow before -her, while the old woman closely examined him.</p> - -<p>Now there was no more room on the seat of honour. -Luisella sat in the middle, the Marchioness on her right, -and Signora Parascandolo on her left, in Parisian costume, -covered with magnificent jewels, but bowing her head under -the weight of remembrances, always and unfailingly. As all -got seated, there was perfect silence for two minutes. All -were waiting, still looking at the door furtively, pretending -to think about something else. Ladies hid a little yawn -behind their fans; girls had that sleep-walking look that -makes them seem detached from all human interests; men -twirled their moustaches; and the boys had that absolutely -idiotic look of which Fofò Mayer was the highest exponent.</p> - -<p>But Cesare Fragalà disappeared. Refreshments came in -two minutes after that silence. Then all set to talking, -loudly, noisily, to have an easy bearing, pretending not -to care for refreshments. But they came in from all sides -continuously, spreading through the room, to the delight of -all who longed for sweets—men and women, boys and girls. -To ices thick and round as a full moon, so hard the teaspoon -had to be pressed down, followed Portuguese cream, fruit, -strawberries, white and Levant coffee, chocolate; smaller ices -of all shapes, prettily arranged in pink or blue glass shells -with gold rims; sponges—half cream and half ice, of different -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span> -flavours: chocolate, mandarin punch, pistachio, strawberries -and cream, honey and milk. After sponge-cakes, the -delight of women and boys, followed peach and almond tarts, -and coffee and lemon ices, served in milky white porcelain -glasses. For ten minutes nothing was heard but the rattling -of plates, spoons, and glasses; but when the ladies saw the -trifles coming, they cried out enthusiastically about their -lovely colours, with the white foam in the middle, and held -out their hands involuntarily, whilst others, quieter and more -active, ate up one thing after the other to compare them.</p> - -<p>Conversation got animated with such joy. Gentlemen -ran here and there, fetching a plate or glass, serving the -ladies and themselves too, speaking from a distance, asking -questions, calling up the waiters with the trays, making -them lose their heads in the confusion.</p> - -<p>'A sponge-cake for Signora Naddeo.'</p> - -<p>'Would you like an almond tart?'</p> - -<p>'Take a glass of champagne punch. There is nothing -better for digesting the rest.'</p> - -<p>'Who will change a strawberry ice for a coffee ice?'</p> - -<p>'I assure you it comes to nothing, after all; the ices are -water really. What shall it be—strawberries?'</p> - -<p>'I have one.'</p> - -<p>'Mama, give me the cream.'</p> - -<p>Quite pleased, Cesare ran from one side to the other, -leading the waiters, as every tray came up, towards the -Marchioness, who was always the first to take some. Signora -Parascandolo was the next; but she hardly took a spoonful, -when she put down her plate and cast down her eyes again -distractedly, as if she neither saw nor heard what was going -on around her. The Marchioness, on the other hand, without -hurrying, ate slowly of everything with her fallen-in -mouth and toothless gums, her jaw going continually and -her hooked nose trembling over her upper lip.</p> - -<p>'My lady, try this pistachio. Would you like mandarin -better, my lady?'</p> - -<p>She nodded 'Yes,' like an old Chinese idol. Her withered -hands had let go the bag, after taking a big white handkerchief -out of it to put under her plate.</p> - -<p>Very happy, Luisella tossed her head, laughing at all -that cheerful noise. Every now and then her husband -stopped before her.</p> - -<p>'Won't you take something?'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span></p> - -<p>'No, no! Help the other ladies.'</p> - -<p>'Take something, Luisella.'</p> - -<p>'No; I like looking on better.'</p> - -<p>The view all around was so interesting! The ladies, who -were more affected in their greed, sipped the sherbet delicately, -keeping the plate on the point of their gloved fingers, -raising the little finger every time they put in the spoon, -keeping a lace handkerchief on their knees, and biting their -lips after each spoonful. Some men quietly followed the -waiter's tray step by step, so as to make a good choice, after -which they went into a corner to eat comfortably. Little -children put their ices on a chair, covering themselves with -cream up to their eyes, and stuck out their pink lips, their -innocent eyes showing their delight as they slowly licked -the spoon; whilst the sleepy-headed-looking girls refused -this and that, and ended by taking a little of everything, -leaving the half of it, not really fond of eating yet. Even -the Mayer family had got over their misanthropy; the lady -thought no more of her neuralgia, and Don Domenico hesitated -between a sponge and an ice, whilst Amalia and Fofò -exchanged ices, to get the taste of each.</p> - -<p>In the other rooms, everywhere, in the passages, even in -the cook's bedroom and the kitchen, the same jingling of -glasses and spoons went on, and the joy was even greater. -The servants from every floor in the Rossi Palace had run -in. The porter came up; the hair-dresser returned; the -nurse's husband, the Naddeos' and the Antonaccis' coachmen—for -they kept carriages—came in; even the newspaper -boy of the Tarsia corner and the postman, still in uniform -from his last round, with letter-bag round his neck, stood -beside Gelsomina and Donna Candida. All these humble -common folk that love sweets and sherbet had a feast, by -the master's orders, and he came out every now and then to -the kitchen, delighted to see them enjoy themselves. He -replied to the servants' congratulations, speaking to them -familiarly in dialect.</p> - -<p>Now there spread a feeling of gastronomic repose; people -quieted down, got a composed look, and smiled happily after -the first burst of gourmandizing. Conversation, languid at -first, had taken the mild tone of quiet, easy people, full of -good breeding. The ladies smiled slightly; the girls waved -their fans; men set mild discussions agoing solemnly—about -their affairs, about the small politics of the day, the stagnant -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span> -state of trade, from which all suffered. They stood in groups, -gesticulating and solemnly nodding.</p> - -<p>The Marchioness had picked up her velvet bag and -crossed her hands over it—a torpor came over her, and she -looked like an old sleeping mummy; whilst Signora Parascandolo, -with her head down, gazed abstractedly at her -fan, a precious antique her husband must have got from -some desperate debtor by forced sale. Luisella began to -feel very much bored between these two silent women; her -lively temperament made her feel inclined to get up and -speak to her friends and relations, still more to go and see -what Agnesina was doing, and what was going on in the -kitchen and the dining-room to cause such a noise; but her -post of honour was on the divan—it would have been a -breach of etiquette to leave it; so she went on being bored, -smiling to her friends at a distance, and waving her gold-spangled -fan. All at once, she called her husband—she could -stand it no longer—and whispered to him; he nodded assent -and went off to arrange the procession. The guests, knowing -the usual programme, understood, and began looking -towards the door, occasionally, for another part of the show -to begin. Some affectionate smiles began already; a slight -whisper ran along. The procession appeared at the chief -door. Little Agnesina, in a white cap with pale blue ribbons -that made her face quite red, wore an embroidered batiste -robe that covered the pink little hands. She was laid out -on a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">portabimbi</i> of pale blue silk and lace, her head raised on -a cushion; this forms a bed, a cradle, a bag, and a garment, -all in one; it lay on the strong arm of the Fratta Maggiore -nurse, Gelsomina, who carried it with the deepest devotion, as -a cleric carries the missal from one end of the altar to the -other, not taking her eyes off Agnesina, who stared placidly -at her with the clear crystal eyes of a new-born infant. -Beside her was Donna Candida, all in the gravity of her -office; to mark its continuity she laid her hand on the -baby's pillow; then followed the father, Cesare Fragalà, -and a little further back the waiters with trays of candy, -sweets, and dried fruits, caramels, jujubes, then other trays -with marsala, malaga, Lunel; and farther back still, -venturing to peep in, some inquisitive servant gazing with -open eyes.</p> - -<p>The christening-party was not unexpected; the guests all -knew the baby would be shown, so long, noisy applause -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span> -greeted it, with a clapping of gloved hands, and a chorus -burst out:</p> - -<p>'Long live Agnesina!'</p> - -<p>'May you grow up holy!'</p> - -<p>'How lovely, how sweet she is!'</p> - -<p>'Agnesina! Agnesina!'</p> - -<p>'Cheers for Agnesina's papa and mamma!'</p> - -<p>In the meanwhile the baby was carried straight to her -godmother, the Marchioness, to be kissed; she had held -her at the font that morning, and now kissed her lightly on -the forehead, while she put a white paper into the nurse's -hand, with a discontented movement of her long nose over -her fallen-in mouth.</p> - -<p>Applause followed the Marchioness's kiss. Then, bending -down, Don Gennaro, the godfather, kissed her; his broad -face was rather pale and contracted as by some evil thought: -perhaps other christenings, his sons', passed through his -mind. But he recovered quickly, and received the company's -still noisier applause with a smile. After the mother -had kissed the baby there was a long minute's silence among -the joyous party; she kept her head down over the baby's -face, as if inhaling its breath, blessing it, calling down on -it blessings from heaven. A great noise followed; as baby -was carried triumphantly round the room, the women gave -little screams of motherly emotion, and kissed her enthusiastically, -which made her whimper. Raising her head, -Luisella suddenly noticed a queer figure leaning against a -door-post; she did not know who he was; her curiosity was -aroused. She tried to remember ever having seen him -before, but vainly: it was someone new. Who could he -be? Perhaps he had been brought by a friend or relation, -without asking leave, with that calm familiarity that from -the Naples populace rises to the highest classes. It was -certainly someone unknown.</p> - -<p>Whilst the overkissed baby went on whimpering, the -nurse and the ladies trying to console it by loving little -words in a singing tone, and the room was again filled with -the joy of eating, Luisella, curiously interested, possessed -by an inward feeling, could not keep her eyes off that queer, -motionless figure. He was a man of between thirty-five -and forty, with the pallid, cadaverous face of one who has -made a long, disastrous voyage; a rather curly, ill-kept -black beard on his sickly red-streaked cheeks hid all traces -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span> -of linen or necktie; the forehead showed the same bloodless -pallor, and two deep lines formed at every movement of the -eyebrows; his chestnut hair was thrown back untidily, -leaving the temples bare, it being rather sparse there, and a -network of rather swollen blue veins showed to an observing -eye. When he moved his head, the muscles of his lean -neck stood out like a dead fowl's sinews; his loose-hanging -hands were fleshless, too. The man was very poorly dressed: -his pepper-and-salt trousers were too short, showing the -ill-brushed shoes tied by a rusty ribbon; his waistcoat and -jacket—yes, really a jacket—were of dark maroon. The -man's whole appearance was sickly, mysterious, wretched, -and mean; his dull eyes wandered here and there without -settling a minute on the same spot; even his expression -was mysterious and ignoble.</p> - -<p>'Who can the ragged fellow be?' Luisella said to -herself with an angry, frightened feeling.</p> - -<p>All were rejoicing again round the sweet-trays, the choicest -sweets in the Toledo Street shop. To a natural love of -sweets was added curiosity to taste new kinds they had often -admired in pretty boxes. Dates and pistachio cream, to -which a glass of malaga gives such a good flavour; while -comfits of roses, with a dash of lemon-peel to excite the -palate, suits marsala best, they found; all that soft, attractive, -enchanting odour of vanilla from the chocolates and -creams, the sharp flavour of mint, cooling and exciting, for -it burns the mouth and causes thirst—all these things, -pleasant to the eye and palate, delicious in odour, gave a -new excitement to the party, to which freely-poured-out -wine added a slight intoxication.</p> - -<p>'Who can that dirty fellow be?' Luisella was still saying -to herself, feeling hurt in her pride as mistress of the house, -in her love of tidiness, by that sickly, wretched, dirty man. -She got up mechanically to find out from someone about -that queer, ragged fellow who had got into her house, -leaving the Marchioness, who again spread out her handkerchief -and heaped all kinds of sweets on it, munching at -them slowly; leaving the rich, unhappy Signora Parascandolo, -who was following little Agnesina about with her eyes -full of tears. Just then Luisella Fragalà overtook the little -retinue where her baby was now shrilly crying, having -nearly made the round of the room. Gelsomina was going -to stop before the queer individual as if she wanted to make -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span> -him kiss the baby, but as he came forward to do so Luisella -broke in instinctively and sharply, and scornfully eyeing -the unknown, she said to the nurse, putting her hands on -Agnesina's pillow to protect her:</p> - -<p>'Go away, nurse; baby is crying too much.'</p> - -<p>The nurse went out at once, followed by Donna Candida, -whilst the mother looked at them through the door as they -went off through the other rooms, as if still to protect her -from some unknown evil. As she went back into the room -the sight of the carpet amused her; paper cases of candied -fruit, gold and silver paper, were scattered over it; the -seats, tables, and brackets had little heaps of sweets from -the pillaged trays; ladies had taken off their gloves to hold -the bit of candy or caramel they were eating; men were -leading from one tray to another children who whimpered, -all covered with sugar and chocolate; others, having asked -leave of Cesare Fragalà, who granted it laughingly, gathered -up the sweets in a handkerchief, taking care not to crush -them; whilst others, including Cesare himself, sent for paper -to make into bags to hold what was left in the trays. All -hands were sticky and mouths shiny. On the tables were -red or yellow rings from glasses of wine put down, and a -loud continuous clatter went on through the devastation.</p> - -<p>'Cesare!' called out Luisella to her husband.</p> - -<p>'What do you want, darling?' he answered, while tying a -three-coloured string with the knack of a professional.</p> - -<p>'Tell me one thing.'</p> - -<p>'Two if you like.'</p> - -<p>'Who is that man there, near the door?'</p> - -<p>'That one?' he said, peering as if he did not see well; -'it is Giovanni Astuti, the money-changer.'</p> - -<p>'No, no! I know him—that other one.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, it is somebody or other,' he said, rather embarrassed.</p> - -<p>'Who is it?' said she severely.</p> - -<p>'A friend of mine.'</p> - -<p>'A friend—that ragged fellow a friend?'</p> - -<p>'One can't always have rich friends,' was the answer, -with rather a forced laugh.</p> - -<p>'I know; but that is no reason for bringing a dirty fellow -among decent people, even if he is your friend.'</p> - -<p>'How excitable you are, dear! Be charitable.'</p> - -<p>'Charity is one thing, decency is another,' she replied -obstinately. 'Don't you see how untidy he is?'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Untidy!' he muttered, with his usual good-nature; 'he -is a philosopher—he does not care about clothes.'</p> - -<p>'Well, I want him to go away.'</p> - -<p>'How can it be done?' he asked, confused and mortified -by his wife's persistence.</p> - -<p>'Tell him so!'</p> - -<p>'I'll first give him a glass of wine; be patient, then I will -make him go away.'</p> - -<p>In fact, Cesare went up to the unknown to offer him -sweets and wine, speaking in a whisper, and looking him in -the eyes. He agreed, with a smile on his discoloured lips. -He began to eat slowly, with a little grimace, as if he could -not swallow well. The mysterious person looked at the -sweets Cesare offered him with an undecided air, before -putting them into his mouth; but he made up his mind to eat -them at last, still with that nervous, pained look of having a -narrow swallow. He was standing with that embarrassed -shame of his own person that is some people's constant unhappiness; -and he broke an almond noisily, gulped over -big mouthfuls of Margherita paste, gazing vaguely around, -as if he dared not lower his eyes on his legs and shoes. -Then he slowly went on eating; for Cesare had had a tray -put on a table beside him, and went on handing him chocolates, -vanilla almonds, mandarins in syrup. A tray of wine-glasses -was set down also; the queer fellow took three -glasses, one after the other, without taking breath between, -lifting his pale, streaked face and hospital convalescent's -sickly beard. Cesare Fragalà, with a set, preoccupied smile, -looked in the man's eyes, as if he wanted to read his soul, -all the time this feeding went on.</p> - -<p>In the meanwhile Luisella, to amuse herself, to calm the -impatience that had burst out so suddenly, wandered about, -chattering and laughing with her relations and friends. Now -came a rumour that the diamond star in her hair was a gift -from the baby's godfather, one worthy of so rich a man. -In their hearts all the merchants' wives thought Luisella had -been very sly, under cover of politeness, to choose so rich a -godfather; they made up their minds, with their next babies, -to do the same, to choose a godfather who knew his duty -and would do it like that dear Don Gennaro. Malicious little -aphorisms ran around: 'Those who think out a thing well are -not sorry afterwards.' 'A gentleman is always a gentleman.' -'Live with someone richer than you, and get him to pay.' -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span> -As Luisella Fragalà got near, this was all changed into a -chorus of admiration of the magnificent jewel. She acknowledged -it, and bent her head, blushing proudly, as the star -sparkled in her black hair. The women gave that long, admiring -murmur that flutters the giver and receiver—full of -gratified pleasure, self-satisfied affection, whilst their eyes -languished or flashed. Some, to be still more amiable, even if -it was humbug, asked: 'Is it from the godfather?' 'Yes,' -said Luisella, with a slight sigh. 'It could not be otherwise,' -the other whispered, as if she had guessed well. Elsewhere -Luisella had twice been obliged to take the pin out of her hair, -because ladies wished to hold the precious star in their hands. -A group formed, women's faces bent over, full of curiosity and -that love of jewellery that is at the bottom of every woman's -heart, however modest and obscure she is. There were -shrieks of admiration; questions and interjections arose at -the flash of the brilliants. Someone got to asking the price, -even; but Luisella gave a shrug to show her ignorance, -which increased the stone's value; this mystery, this unknown -cipher, acquired a breadth in the feminine mind that -imposed respect. So that at a certain point eight or ten -ladies surrounding Luisella, with a growing burst of enthusiasm, -called out, 'Hurrah for the godfather!'</p> - -<p>Don Gennaro Parascandolo, pretending to hear nothing, -ran up eagerly, with the easy good-nature of a travelled -Neapolitan. He modestly disclaimed compliments: it was -a nothing at all—two insignificant stones, bits of glass; the -ladies, in lively contradiction, praised him, and overwhelmed -him with civilities, from a deep womanly instinct that makes -them profuse in words and smiles, knowing something may -come of it. When he said Donna Luisa Fragalà was worthy -of a starry crown, applause drowned his voice. In the meanwhile -the mistress of the house had given side-glances now -and then towards the shabby fellow who was so much on her -nerves; but he went on evenly eating and drinking, with -that slow movement of the muscles of his neck that was like -a hen's claw. However, something more extraordinary was -going on around, which Luisella had to give heed to, at the -time the phenomenon burst out in the room. Whilst the -horrid fellow pillaged the sweets, making a circle of cut-out -paper round his feet, and prune-stones as well, he had drawn -the attention of those who had finished eating ices. In these -gourmands' vague hour of digestion, quite satisfied with a -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span> -packet of sweets to carry home, having nothing to do, their -eyes wandered round, and they noticed that queer beggar -Cesare Fragalà was feeding so attentively; gradually one -pointed him out to the other: by that glance, a poke with the -elbow, raised eyebrows, or a smile, that makes the most expressive -of languages, they showed each other that silent -devourer, who began when they were finished, but looked -as if he would never finish until he had demolished the last -sweet and drunk the last glass of wine. Some looked at him -rather admiringly, sorry they could not imitate that continual -guzzling; some smiled indulgently; others had a -compassionate look in their eyes for an unlucky fellow that -seemed never to have eaten or drunken enough. Some -phrases, here and there, jocular and good-natured, were -repeated from one to another: 'What a digestion!' 'It is -St. Peter's Church!' 'Health and protection to him!' 'I -would make him a coat rather than feed him!' 'Santa -Lucia keep him his sight, because he has no need of an -appetite!'</p> - -<p>But they were the usual rather coarse remarks about a -great eater. Some man in search of amusement had come -close to Cesare and the silent gobbler to watch them. Little -by little, all now in the drawing-room had their eyes on -the great eater. Luisella blushed with shame to think -that everyone had now noticed the wretched ragged fellow -her husband had brought into the house, that she had to -submit to having in her room. Vainly she tried, by going -about talking and laughing, joking and waving her fan, to -distract attention: it was useless.</p> - -<p>The people brought together in the drawing-room had -eaten and drunken, praised the baby, the diamond star, -and the giver of it; now, not knowing what else to do, they -had fixed their attention on that queer ragged fellow, who -was certainly out of place in Luisella Fragalà's drawing-room. -She was a good woman, but very proud; though -charitable, she would never have brought a pauper into her -room. It was useless for her to fly in a passion, feeling -tears come to her eyes. Now all had noticed the beggarly -gobbler, all were looking at him, even the women and the -sleepy-headed girls who looked as if they never saw anything. -The same compassionate, laughing, tolerating smiles -were on the women's faces as on the men's, except that -their stronger curiosity could not constrain itself. Signora -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span> -Carmela Naddeo leant forward behind her fan, and asked -Luisella:</p> - -<p>'Who is that starving fellow, my dear?'</p> - -<p>'Who knows?' said the other impatiently.</p> - -<p>'Cesarino certainly does; he is handing him glasses of -wine.'</p> - -<p>'Cesare gathers these wretched people up by the cart-load,' -said she, shaking with rage.</p> - -<p>But suddenly a subdued whispered word ran from man to -man, woman to woman—a syllable breathed rather than -pronounced. Who first said this hissing word? Who was -it that recognised him, and softly breathed it in his neighbour's -ear? Who had let it out, the unknown secret? No -one knows! But in a second, quick as a flash of gunpowder, -all knew and repeated the mystic word throughout the -crimson room. It came back on itself, its letters making -a magic circle that went round, and everyone with it. -When they all knew who the man was, they were seized -with stupefaction; the lamps seemed to be suddenly -lowered, their lively faces got pale, even the covers of the -furniture lost colour; there was a deep silence, where the -magic word still lingered feebly: 'The medium—the -medium.'</p> - -<p>Luisella herself, the intrepid, grew pale; her hands -trembled as they grasped her fan. The medium had -given up feeding; now he was resting quietly, casting -his vague, uncertain glances about, not knowing what to -do with his lean yellow hands. A little blood had risen in -his pale cheeks, under the black beard; but it was in -streaks, a sickly colour, the effect of fever. Still, ugly, dirty, -miserable as he was, all attention was concentrated on him—inquisitive, -wheedling, obsequious glances were directed on -him, in which was combined fantastic fear, especially on the -women's part. For even the women, in a nervous tremor, -said to one another, 'It is the medium.' A circle gradually -surrounded him, getting nearer, as if by a strong natural -attraction—rather anxious faces, where one could notice -the vivid working of Southern imaginations, in this land -of dreams and fantasies. Shy folk were now joining the -bolder ones who had come near at first, overcome, dreaming -of the train of ministering spirits, good and bad, who are -ever warring around the medium's soul. Don Gennaro -Parascandolo, one of the first to come up, found himself -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span> -so hemmed in that he turned to Cesare Fragalà, and said, -smiling rather sceptically:</p> - -<p>'Cesarino, introduce me to this gentleman.'</p> - -<p>Cesare was much embarrassed, but, seeing no way out of -it, he caught at this request, and said quickly:</p> - -<p>'Don Gennaro Parascandolo, Pasqualino De Feo, a friend -of mine.'</p> - -<p>The medium smiled vaguely and held out his hand, -which Don Gennaro found icy cold, though damp with -perspiration, one of those repulsive hands that make one -shudder. But not a word was said. The women standing -outside the circle, not daring to come near, asked each other, -troubled by a deep longing:</p> - -<p>'What does he say?'</p> - -<p>'He says nothing,' Donna Carmela Naddeo answered; -she was nearest, and never took her eye off him.</p> - -<p>The women bit their lips, the men's presence intimidated -them; too bashful to go near, they shivered with impatience -to hear the fateful words of the man living in constant -communication with the world of spirits, who heard all the -hidden truths of life from the good spirits, who was told by -them every week five, or at least three, of the lottery -numbers.</p> - -<p>What was he saying? Nothing. For long hours these -people stand concentrated, lost, perhaps, in a great interior -conflict, listening to the high voices that speak to them. -Now and then, torn from their visions, they pronounce -some fateful phrase that contains the secret, wrapped up in -mysterious words, often without form, that those of strong -faith and hope can miraculously understand. All, men and -women, overcome by a great dream, suddenly shaken out -of daily realities into the ardent, burning region of visions, -forgetting the present moment, listened to the medium as if -to a superhuman voice.</p> - -<p>Don Gennaro Parascandolo certainly kept up a well-informed -traveller's smile; he had a large, secure fortune, -but in the bottom of his heart the old Parthenope instinct, -for big gains, illicit, if not guilty, costing no trouble, unforeseen, -owed to chance, combination, or getting the better of -Government, all came so naturally to a man who knew the -secrets of hidden things. Certainly all these, Fragalàs, -Antonaccis, Naddeos, Durantes, were accustomed to sell stale -sweets, rough earthenware, moth-eaten cloth, and stinking -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span> -cod, in dark shops, in cold storehouses in Via Tribunali, -Mercanti, Petra del Pesce, Marina; they were used to all -the dulness, vulgarity and meanness of commerce, where -year after year, by putting one penny on another, after two or -three generations, a fortune came; they all knew the value -of money, of work, of economy, of industry: but what did -that matter? To be able, by means of a mysterious phrase -that only cost the trouble of picking up, of interpreting, to -gain big sums with a small stake, get in one day the gains -of twenty years' trade in dry cod, or forty years' trade in -sugar and sandy coffee, was so delightful a gift, so dazzling -a vision, to middle-class ideas!</p> - -<p>Certainly all these clerks and tradesmen looked forward -to a modest future. They had lived on nothing; they were -living on very little; they wanted to have a little more, only -that: humble in their wishes, even. But the sight of the -medium, a shabby fellow, yet so powerful, who spoke every -night with supernal and infernal spirits, suddenly threw them -into a fantastic world, where poor folk get miraculously rich, -where they, obscure working people, might become gentlemen. -Ah! Don Domenico Mayer, the nephew, son, brother, -and uncle of clerks, had faith only in sacred bureaucracy—a -cold career of silent suffering. Still, buttoned up in his overcoat, -he left his family in the corner and joined the group -round Pasqualino De Feo, the medium, and his anxious, -severe expression wavered as he, too, waited for the phrase -that was to draw him away in a day from the sepulchral -atmosphere of the Finance Department. But the women's -imaginations were the most feverish. Certainly at least ten -of them, by birth, marriage, by their own efforts, or by their -relations or husbands, were rich; their fortunes were easy, -their children's future secure. Ten at least enjoyed the -middle-class luxury of brocaded sofas, jewels, any amount -of linen. All the others, by their modesty, good sense, and -economy, by their own virtues or their parents', had everything -that was necessary; but a lively passion for dreams -had awakened and burned in them. Their souls were filled -with visions of comfort, riches, luxury; they flew through -the regions of desire with womanly tremblings, with the -force and intensity the quietest women put into these sudden -follies. An overwhelming wish to know the great secret -seized them; crumbling pyramids of gold and jewels lit flames -in their eyes. Even the old Marchioness of Castelforte, so -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span> -crooked, such a ruin of a woman, a solitary remnant, the only -one of her family, with no relations or heirs, seventy years -old, and nothing but the tomb in front of her, got up, carrying -her velvet bag, and set her coquettish profile between two -men's shoulders. Even Donna Carmela Naddeo strained -her ears, trembling with curiosity, rich and lucky as she -was, whispering to herself: 'If he tells me the numbers, I -will buy a diamond star like Luisella's.'</p> - -<p>The medium still kept silence, so that Don Gennaro Parascandolo, -feeling the impatience of the whole room behind -him, risked a question:</p> - -<p>'Have you enjoyed the party, Don Pasqualino?'</p> - -<p>He opened his mouth; at last a low, feverish voice came -from the thin blue lips.</p> - -<p>'Yes,' he said; 'it is a fine christening. The baptism of -Christ on the Jordan was fine, too.'</p> - -<p>At once there was an agitation in the room, commenting -on the phrase, trying to explain it. They formed into circles -and groups, the women discussing it among themselves, -whilst the number thirty-three, the Redeemer's number, ran -from mouth to mouth.</p> - -<p>Placidly, as if he was taking a note of a bill of exchange, -Don Gennaro Parascandolo put down the remark in his note-book. -Don Domenico Mayer took it, too, hiding behind a -curtain, without losing his bureaucratic and misanthropic -gravity. The old Marchioness, who was deaf, went about -asking wildly: 'What did he say? What did he say?' She -ended by asking Luisa Fragalà, who sat motionless with -staring eyes beside the melancholy Signora Parascandolo. -Luisa could only say: 'I don't know, my lady; I did not hear.' -However, Don Parascandolo was not satisfied; he went on:</p> - -<p>'Did you enjoy the sweets, Don Pasqualino? I noticed -you seemed to like them.'</p> - -<p>'Yes,' he muttered; 'I eat, but I don't masticate.'</p> - -<p>'Have you no teeth?'</p> - -<p>'No, I have not.'</p> - -<p>He cast his eyes around vaguely, without meeting anyone's -glance, as if he saw things from <em>beyond</em>, and made a sign with -his hand, leaning three fingers on his cheek.</p> - -<p>Again the same murmur and agitation; there was uncertainty, -too. The phrase was ambiguous, very. What -did the motion with three fingers mean? Even Don -Gennaro Parascandolo, whilst taking a note, stopped to -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span> -think. The mystery of that second phrase, of the gesture, -let loose all these already shuddering fancies of a supernatural -world. Faith, faith, that was what was needed to -understand the medium's words! Everyone, calling together -all the powers of his soul, tried to have a sublime burst of -faith, to know the truth, how to translate it into numbers, -to exchange it into lottery money.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Late at night, when the house was emptied of people, -Cesare Fragalà, with the sleepy servants, went putting out -the lights, shutting the doors, as he prudently did every -evening. When he came back to the bedroom, he found -Luisella sitting half dressed in the shade.</p> - -<p>Agnesina's cradle had been taken into the nurse's room; -the couple were alone. Fatigue seemed to keep them -silent. Still, on coming up to his young wife, he saw she -was crying quietly, big tears rolling down her cheeks.</p> - -<p>'What is the matter, Luisella? what is it?' kissing her, -trembling with emotion himself.</p> - -<p>'There is nothing the matter,' she said, still weeping -silently in the shadow.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span></p> - -</div> - - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER III</h2> - -<p class="p2">IN THE CAVALCANTIS' HOUSE</p> - - -<p>Prostrate on the dark old carved wood kneeling-desk, -her elbows resting on velvet cushions, head slightly bent, -her face hidden in her hands, Donna Bianca Maria Cavalcanti -seemed to meditate after praying. As long as twilight -lighted up the little private chapel the girl went on reading -a chapter of the 'Imitation of Christ,' attentively, in her -usual thoughtful attitude. But the shadows had grown -deeper round her, first faintly purple, then gray, enfolding -the little altar and a figure of Our Lady of Sorrows, with -seven silver swords radiating from her heart, hiding a three-quarter -figure of Jesus Christ bound to the column, the -Ecce Homo, crowned with thorns, and bleeding in the face, -hands, and side, blotting out Bianca Maria's slender, neat -figure. Then she quietly closed the torn volume, put it on -the cushion, and hid her face in her hands. Only the faint -light before Our Lady of Sorrows shone on the white, -clasped hands and the knot of dark brown hair on her neck. -She kept so motionless for some time that the white figure -in the shadow of the little chapel looked like one of those -praying statues that medieval piety placed on tombs to kneel -in constant prayer. She seemed not to feel the hours -passing over her nor the faint, cold breath the autumn -evening brought into the chapel. Gazing through her -fingers at the Virgin's sad face, she seemed to go on praying -and meditating as if nothing could wrest her from it.</p> - -<p>Still, as evening came on the little chapel got very gloomy. -In the daytime it was a poor, cold place, being only a narrow -inside room, badly lighted by a window looking into a narrow -court of the Rossi, formerly the Cavalcanti Palace. Once -a wretched carpet covered the floor, but it was so old and -dusty that Bianca Maria had it taken away. The floor was -bare now, of shiny, icy bricks. The little altar was painted -dull blue, an ecclesiastical shade, covered by a rather fine -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span> -bit of linen, though yellow with age, as was also the lace -round it. Everything was old and shabby—the candle-sticks, -the printed prayers in metal cases, the red-leather-covered -missal, the poor silver sprays of leaves placed as -sacred ornaments, and the little gilt wooden door, behind -which was the Pyx. By day Our Lady of Sorrows, in -black silk, embroidered in gold, with a batiste nun's head-dress, -and the seven swords in her heart, looked wretched -and poor, carrying a lace and batiste handkerchief in her -pink stucco hands. The great Ecce Homo, too, life size, of -wood and stucco, looked as poor as its surroundings. In -spite of the carved wood chairs, with the Cavalcanti crest -on the velvet cushions, the chapel had a look of frozen -wretchedness, showing by daylight faded colours, tarnished -metals, stains in the velvet. Even the two lamps that -burned night and day before the Virgin and the Saviour -were only two yellow sputtering tongues of flame.</p> - -<p>But at night—and that night, curiously enough, only one -lamp was burning, that before the Virgin—the wretchedness -disappeared; only great fluttering shadows filled the chapel. -One could not see the colour of the wood and metal; only -the white altar-cloth was visible. There were no sparks of -brightness, only in the trembling light Mary's sad face -seemed agonized; and as the flame, shaken by an invisible -breath of wind, bent to the right or left, Jesus' hands and -side seemed really to bleed.</p> - -<p>Bianca Maria was deep in thought, and, accustomed to -the chapel, she felt neither the cold nor the gloom. Suddenly -she trembled, thinking she heard a great noise in the -room. It was then she noticed the lamp before Christ was -out. She shivered with cold and fear. The Virgin seemed -to weep over her bleeding Son's agony. Bianca Maria went -quickly out of the chapel, taking her book with her, crossing -herself hurriedly as if followed by some evil spirit.</p> - -<p>In the antechamber an old servant in the Cavalcanti -livery—dull blue, piped with white—sat reading an old -newspaper by the light of one of those old brass lamps with -three spouts one still sees in the provinces and in very -aristocratic houses. He rose as he heard Bianca Maria's -light step, looking her in the eyes.</p> - -<p>'Giovanni,' she said, in her pure harmonious voice, 'in -the chapel the lamp before the Ecce Homo has gone -out.'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span></p> - -<p>The old servant looked at her, and hesitated a little before -answering.</p> - -<p>'I did not light it,' he then muttered, casting down his -eyes, and crushing up the paper in his lean hands.</p> - -<p>'Perhaps you had no oil?' she asked, with a little tremor -in her voice, turning her anxious face towards him.</p> - -<p>'No, my lady, no,' the servant eagerly answered at once. -'There is lots of oil in the pantry. It was by the Marquis's -orders I did not light the lamp.'</p> - -<p>'Did he give you such an order?' she asked, amazed, -arching her eyebrows.</p> - -<p>'Yes, my lady.'</p> - -<p>'For what reason?'</p> - -<p>But she regretted the question at once. It seemed to -fail in the profound respect she owed her father. Still, the -word had rushed out. She would have liked to go away -and not hear the answer, whatever it was; but she feared -to make matters worse, and listened with open eyes, ready -to restrain her astonishment and fear.</p> - -<p>'The Marquis is in a rage with Jesus Christ,' the servant -said, in that humble but familiar tone in which the common -folk in Naples often speak of the Deity. 'Last Saturday he -asked a great favour of that miracle-working Ecce Homo, but -he did not get it. Then the Marquis gave orders the lamp -was not to be lighted again.'</p> - -<p>'Did the Marquis tell you that?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, my lady; but if you like, I will go and light it.'</p> - -<p>'Obey the Marquis,' she murmured coldly, as she went -on towards the drawing-room.</p> - -<p>As she wandered about alone in the spacious room, ill-lighted -by a petroleum-lamp, she searched for her work-basket -and could not find it, though she passed it twenty -times without seeing it. She still bitterly repented having -asked the servant that question, since throughout the ever-increasing -family decay what most embittered her was to be -obliged to judge her father before servants or strangers. It -was in vain she shut her eyes so as not to see, that she spent -her days in her room, the chapel, and the Sacramentiste -convent where her aunt was; in vain she kept silence, trying -not to hear what others said: Margherita, who was the -maid, and Giovanni's wife's remarks, her aunt the nun's uneasy -questions, and the hints of some old relations who came -to see her now and then; they spoke so pityingly, it brought -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span> -tears to her eyes. She had to lower her eyes, for she could -not help judging her father inwardly as they shook their -heads, pitying her. What shook her most throughout the -financial difficulties she vainly tried to hide in that decent -poverty that could not be kept secret much longer were her -father's unexpected, vexatious, often wild, eccentricities.</p> - -<p>Now, quieted down a little, seated by a square baize -card-table, where the single lamp was placed, she worked -at her fine pillow-lace, moving the bobbins and thread -quickly over the pinned-out pattern. Perhaps she would -have liked better to call in Margherita to work with her at -mending the house linen, which the old woman blinded -herself at in her little room. But Don Carlo Cavalcanti, -Marquis di Formosa, was very proud; he never would -have allowed a servant in the drawing-room, nor permitted -his daughter to stoop to such humble work. Bianca Maria -would have liked to spend the evening in her own room -reading or working, but her father liked to find her in the -drawing-room when he came in every evening. He called -it the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">salone</i> pompously, not noticing its bareness; for the -four narrow sofas of discoloured green brocade, the twelve -slight hard chairs put along the wall, the couple of painted -gray marble brackets, and two card-tables, with small bits -of carpet before each sofa and chair, being lost in the -immensity, increased the deserted look. The petroleum-lamp, -too, just lit up the table Bianca Maria was sitting at, -and her hands, whiter than the thread, as they moved over -the dark pillow-lace. She stopped sometimes, as if an -engrossing thought occupied her; the hands fell down as if -tired; the young, thoughtful face gave a quiver.</p> - -<p>'Good-evening,' said a strong voice at her elbow.</p> - -<p>She got up at once, put down the pillow-lace, went up to -her father, and bent down to kiss his hand. The Marquis -di Formosa accepted the homage; then he lightly touched -his daughter's forehead with his hand, half tenderly, half as -a blessing. She stood a minute waiting for him to sit -before she did; but seeing he had begun to walk up and -down through the room, as he had a habit of doing, she -looked at him for permission. He gave it with a nod, and -went on with his walk. On sitting down, she took up her -work, waiting to be addressed before speaking.</p> - -<p>The Marquis di Formosa's still springy, firm step filled -the empty room with echoes. He was a fine-looking man, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span> -in spite of his sixty years and his snow-white hair. Tall, -graceful, dried up rather than thin, even at that advanced -age there was much nobleness and strength in his head and -his whole person, but sudden flushes over his face gave him -a violent look. The gray eyes, strong nose, the thick white -moustache and ample forehead inspired respect. It was -said that when the Marquis di Formosa was young he had -made more than one woman of Ferdinand II.'s Court to -sin. He was said to have been a successful rival to the -King himself with a Sicilian dame, and that in the bloodless -strife of gallantry he had got the better of the greatest -gallant in the Bourbon Ministry, the Don Juan of his -day, the celebrated Minister of Police, Marquis del Carretto. -His imperiousness certainly, which had increased with age, -gave the Marquis a hard look, and rather a disagreeable -expression sometimes.</p> - -<p>But his family's antiquity, that boasted descent from the -great Guido Cavalcanti, his high position and natural -haughtiness authorized some imperiousness. Now the -Marquis was growing old: his sparkling glance was often -dulled, his tall majestic figure stooped in spite of his leanness. -Still, he imposed great respect. His daughter -Bianca Maria gave a respectful shiver when she saw him -coming, and all her own and other people's unfavourable -judgments on him went out of her mind.</p> - -<p>'Were you at the convent to-day?' asked the Marquis on -passing near his daughter.</p> - -<p>'Yes, father.'</p> - -<p>'Is Maria degli Angioli well?'</p> - -<p>'She is quite well. She would like to see you.'</p> - -<p>'I have no time now; I have important business—most -important,' he said, with a wave of his hand.</p> - -<p>She kept silence, working diligently to keep herself from -asking questions.</p> - -<p>'Did Maria degli Angioli complain much of me?' he asked, -without stopping his excited walk.</p> - -<p>'No,' she said timidly; 'she would like to see you, as I -said.'</p> - -<p>'To see me—see me? To recount her woes, and hear all -about mine? A fine way of filling up the time. Well, if -she liked, if she chose, our woes would soon be ended.'</p> - -<p>Bianca Maria's trembling hand entangled the thread -round the bobbins and pins of the pattern.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span></p> - -<p>'These holy women,' the Marquis di Formosa went on -slowly, as if he were speaking in a dream—'these holy -women, who are always praying, have pure hearts; they are -in God's favour and the saints'; they enjoy special protection; -they see things we poor sinners cannot. Sister Maria -degli Angioli might save us if she liked, but she won't. She -is too saintly, she does not care for earthly things. Now, -our sufferings don't signify to her; she knows nothing about -them. She never will tell me anything; never—never.'</p> - -<p>Bianca Maria looked up, let the work fall from her hands, -and gazed at her father, her eyes full of wondering pain.</p> - -<p>'You have never asked her for anything, have you, -Bianca?' he said, stopping beside his daughter.</p> - -<p>'For what?' she asked, wondering.</p> - -<p>'Maria degli Angioli loves you. She knows you are unhappy; -she would have told you everything, to help you. -Why did you not ask her?' he went on in an excited voice, -a storm of rage rising in it.</p> - -<p>'What should I ask?' she repeated, still more frightened.</p> - -<p>'You pretend not to understand!' he shouted, in a fury -already. 'These women are all alike, a flock of sheep, silly -and egotistical. What do you speak about by the hour -together in the convent parlour? Whose death do you -weep over? Think of the living! Don't you see the -Cavalcanti family is going down to misery, dishonour, and -death?'</p> - -<p>'May God avert it!' she whispered, crossing herself -devoutly.</p> - -<p>'Women are selfish fools!' he shouted, enraged at her softness, -at finding no resistance; 'and I who think of nothing -else from morning till night, who kneel before the holy -images morning and evening, for the preservation of the -Cavalcanti! And you who, by asking your aunt the secrets -of her dreams, could save me and the name by a word—you -pretend not to understand! Ungrateful and treacherous, -like all women!'</p> - -<p>She put down her head and bit her lips, so as not to burst -into sobs. Then, in a trembling voice, she replied:</p> - -<p>'I'll ask her at some other time.'</p> - -<p>'Ask her to-morrow,' her father retorted imperiously.</p> - -<p>'I will do it to-morrow, then.'</p> - -<p>Quickly his rage fell, suddenly calmed. He came up to -her and touched her bent forehead, with his usual caress and -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span> -blessing. Then, as if she could not help it, feeling her -heart bursting, she began to cry silently.</p> - -<p>'Don't cry, Bianca Maria,' he said quietly. 'I have great -hopes. We have been so long unhappy, Providence must -be getting ready a great joy for us. It is not given to us to -know the time, naturally, but it can't be far off. If it is -not one week, it will be another. What are hours, days, -months, in comparison to the great fortune getting ready -for us in secret? We will be so rich, all this long past of -privation and obscurity will seem a short dream of agony, -an hour of darkness faded in the light of the sun. Who -knows what instrument Providence will use?—perhaps -Maria degli Angioli, who is a good soul. You will ask her -to-morrow, won't you? Perhaps some other good spirit -among my friends who <em>see</em> ... perhaps myself, unworthy -sinner as I am—but I feel Providence will save us. But by -what means? If I could only know!' He had started -walking up and down again, still speaking to himself, as if -he was accustomed to think aloud. Only now and then, in -the midst of his excitement, he noticed his daughter, and -took up his obstinate harping on one idea with her again: -'Where else, Bianca, can rescue come from? Work? I -am old; you are a girl. The Cavalcantis have never known -how to work, either in youth or old age. Business? We -are people whose only business was to spend our own money -generously. Only a large fortune, gained in a single day.... -You will see, we'll get it. I am sure of it; a thousand -dreams and revelations have told me so. You will see. -You will have horses and carriages again, Bianca Maria: a -victoria for the promenade on the Chiai shore, where you -will take your place again; an elegant shut carriage to go -to San Carlo in the evening. You'll see. I want to buy -you a pearl necklace—eight strings joined by a single -sapphire—and a diamond coronet, as all the women of the -Cavalcanti family have had, till your mother.' He stopped -as he mentioned her, as if a sudden emotion seized him; -but gazing on his dream of luxury and splendour quickly -distracted him. 'Open house every day. We will think of -the poor and starving—so many want help; we will pour out -alms—so many suffer. I have made a vow, too, to give -dowries to honest poor girls. I have made so many other -vows so as to get this favour.'</p> - -<p>He stopped speaking, as if gazing through the room's -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span> -darkness on fortune's splendid mirage that excited fancy -brought before his eyes. His daughter got calm and -thoughtful again as she listened to him. Her father's voice -in the usual rhapsodies of his overheated soul sounded in -her heart with anguished echoes, like a slow torment.</p> - -<p>It is true she did not believe in the visions, but her -father's impetuous, angry, tender phrases frightened her -every evening. She could not get accustomed to these -bursts of passion that made her peace-loving soul start and -shiver.</p> - -<p>'Signor Marzano,' Giovanni announced.</p> - -<p>A little bent old man came in with a rough, pepper-and-salt -moustache, his eyes piercing and at the same time soft. -He was very plainly dressed. On passing near Bianca -Maria he greeted her gently, and silently asked permission -to keep his hat on. He held his Indian cane, too. Falling -into step with the Marquis, the two walked up and down together, -speaking in a very low voice. When they passed near -the light, one saw the advocate's eyes sparkling with satisfaction, -and his rather military moustache moving as if he was -making mental calculations. Sometimes Bianca Maria, who -busied herself more and more in her work so as not to hear, -caught involuntarily some cabalistic jargon of her father's or -Marzano's.</p> - -<p>'The <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">cadenza</i> of seven must win.'</p> - -<p>'We might also get the two of <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">ritorno</i>.'</p> - -<p>'Playing for <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">situazione</i> is too risky.'</p> - -<p>'A <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">bigliettone</i> is needed.'</p> - -<p>They went on speaking, quite absorbed, their eyes flashing, -lost in these fancies that falsely take the precision and fascination -of mathematics, when Giovanni again came in, to -announce, 'Dr. Trifari.'</p> - -<p>A man about thirty came in, strong-limbed and stout, -with a big head, too short a neck, a red curly beard that -made his face even redder than it was, swollen lips, and -blue, staring, suspicious eyes that did not inspire confidence. -He was roughly dressed: a tight collar rasped his neck, a -big sham diamond pin shone in his black silk tie, and he still -had a provincial air, in spite of his University degree. He -hardly greeted Bianca Maria, put his hat on a side-table, and -went to the Marquis di Formosa's other side. All three -marched up and down more quietly. Sometimes Dr. Trifari -said a word, or gesticulated violently, speaking in a whisper -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span> -all the same, his squinting glance questioning his audience -and the shades around as if he feared to be betrayed.</p> - -<p>The learned Marquis di Formosa kept up his vivacious -look like a headstrong old man; Marzano persisted in -laughing good-naturedly with his cunning, gentle eyes; -whilst Dr. Trifari went about cautiously, as if he always -feared being cheated. When the two old men raised their -voices a little, he quickly signed to them repressively, -pointing at the doors and windows; he went so far as to -point to Bianca Maria. The Marquis waved his hand -tolerantly, as if to say she was an innocent creature, when -again Giovanni came in, to announce, 'Professor Colaneri.'</p> - -<p>At once on seeing him, one guessed he was an unfrocked -priest. A thick black beard had grown on his shaven cheeks; -but the hair cut short on the forehead, and growing thinly -over the tonsure, kept the ecclesiastical cut. The shape of -his hand, where the crooked thumb seemed joined to the first -finger; the way he settled his spectacles on his nose; his -trick of putting two fingers in his collar to widen it, as if it -was the tight priest's collar; his way of making his glance -fall from above—his features and movements altogether were -so clerical, one quickly understood his character.</p> - -<p>Formosa received him rather coldly, as usual; the apostate -gave his religious mind a repulsive shudder. Colaneri, too, -spoke very cautiously; four could not walk about without -speaking aloud, so they stood in a dark window recess. It -was there Ninetto Costa came to join them, a dark, handsome -fellow, showing the whitest of teeth in a continuous -smile; he was one of the luckiest stockbrokers on the -Naples Exchange.</p> - -<p>Last of all, Giovanni announced one man in a whisper, -negligently, 'Don Crescenzio,' a type between a clerk and -an agent, who slipped into the room rather timidly; still, he -was treated as an equal. The discussion between the six -men grew warm in the window recess, but they kept their -voices low.</p> - -<p>Bianca Maria went on working mechanically. She felt -dreadfully embarrassed; she dared not go away without -asking her father's permission, and she felt she was out of -place in the room. This mysterious talk, in an incomprehensible, -mad jargon, all so excited and eager, rolling their -eyes about so sternly; a growing madness in their glances; -their faces pale and then flushed from making such violent -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span> -gestures, disturbed her at first, and ended by frightening -her. Her father especially seemed lost in the midst of all -these madmen, some of them coldly, others wildly, interested, -and all extremely obstinate. She looked at him sometimes -in despair, as if she saw him drowning, and could not take -a step or give a cry to help him. Just then the six men -came slowly filing out of the window recess, and sat down -round another card-table, where there was no light. They -drew in their chairs to get closer together, put their elbows -on the table, leaning their heads on their hands, and all -began talking at once in the half-light, whispering in each -other's faces, breathing out the words, looking each other -straight in the eyes, as if they were using magic and -charms.</p> - -<p>Bianca Maria could stand it no longer. Making as little -noise as possible, she wrapped up her lace pillow in a strip -of black linen, got up without moving her chair, so as not -to make a sound, and went out of the big room quickly, as -if she feared to be called back, with a frightened feeling as -if someone were following her. She was slightly reassured -only as she got into her own room. It was plain and clean, -rather cold-looking, a good, pious girl's room, full of holy -images, rosaries, and Easter candles. Margherita, the -servant, came to join her, having heard her step. With -humble affection she asked if she was going to bed.</p> - -<p>'No, no; I am not sleepy. I will wait. I have not said -good-night to my father.'</p> - -<p>'The Marquis will sit up till all hours,' the maid muttered. -'You will get tired waiting here all alone.'</p> - -<p>'I will read. I wish to wait.'</p> - -<p>The old servant obediently disappeared.</p> - -<p>Bianca Maria took from a little shelf a religious novel of -Pauline Craven's, 'Le Mot de l'Énigme,' a pious, consolatory -book. But her mind would not be soothed that evening by -the French author's gentle words. Sometimes the girl -listened intently to find out if her father's friends were going -away or if others were coming. There was nothing—not a -sound. The great weekly mysterious conspiracy was going -on, breathed out from face to face as if it was a frightful -piece of witchcraft. This impression grew so on Bianca -Maria's mind, that now even the silence frightened her. -She tried again two or three times to read the charming -book, but her eyes rested on the printed lines without seeing -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span> -them. The sense of the words she forced herself to read -escaped her. Her whole mind was taken up listening to -the noises in the drawing-room. Silence still, as if not a -living soul was there. She shut the book and called the -servant, not feeling able to bear that solitude full of ghosts.</p> - -<p>Margherita hastened in, and silently awaited her young -mistress's orders.</p> - -<p>'Let us say the Rosary,' she whispered.</p> - -<p>Sometimes, when the hours seemed longest to the lonely -scion of the Cavalcanti, when sleeplessness kept her eyes -open, when her fancies got too lugubrious, she loved to pray -aloud with her maid to cheat time, hours of watching, -nervousness. She dreaded speaking to servants—her -natural pride made her avoid it; but praying together -seemed to her only a simple act of Christian humility.</p> - -<p>'Let us say the Rosary,' she repeated, seating herself by -her white bed.</p> - -<p>Margherita sat near the door, at a respectful distance. -Bianca Maria said the first prayers, the Mystery, and half -of the <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Pater Noster</i>; Margherita said the other part. The -same with the <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Ave Marias</i>: the first part Bianca Maria -said; Margherita took it up and finished it. They prayed -in a low tone, but one could easily distinguish the voices, -always taking up their part of the prayer in time. At every -ten <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Ave Marias</i>, or Stations of the Rosary, they piously -crossed themselves, and bent their heads low in reverence -to the Holy Ghost at every <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Gloria Patri</i>.</p> - -<p>Thus, between mystical absorption in prayer, the natural -emotion these familiar, but poetical supplications aroused, -and the sound of her own voice, the girl forgot for a little -the great drama developing round her father. The whole -Rosary was said thus, slowly, with the piety of real -believers. Before beginning the Litany to the Virgin she -knelt at her chair, with her elbows on the seat, and the -maid knelt in her corner. The girl invoked the Virgin in -Latin, with all the tender names her devotees use, and the -servant answered 'Ora pro nobis.' But from the beginning of -the Litany a rising sound of voices reached from the drawing-room. -This noise disturbed Bianca Maria's prayers. -She tried not to listen to it by raising her voice more; but -it was impossible now to abstract herself from that clash of -voices getting excited and angry.</p> - -<p>'What can it be?' she said, stopping in her intercessions.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span></p> - -<p>'It is nothing,' said Margherita. 'They are speaking -about lottery numbers.'</p> - -<p>'They seem to me to be quarrelling,' Bianca Maria -timidly replied.</p> - -<p>'They will make friends again on Saturday evening,' -Margherita muttered, with her commonplace philosophy.</p> - -<p>'How so?' the girl asked, letting herself be drawn into -the discussion.</p> - -<p>'Because none of them will win anything.'</p> - -<p>'Let us pray,' said Bianca, raising her eyes to the ceiling, -as if gazing on the starry firmament.</p> - -<p>It was impossible now to finish the Litany. The discussion -in the drawing-room had got so warm, they heard -it all, the voices coming near and going off, as if the Cabalists -had risen from the table and were walking up and down -again, with the need excited people have of going backwards -and forwards and round about.</p> - -<p>'Shall I shut the door?' asked Margherita.</p> - -<p>'Shut it; we are praying,' Bianca Maria said resignedly.</p> - -<p>The voices did not come in so distinctly. They could -follow the Litany to the end without interruption. But the -girl's mind was no longer in the words she was saying. -She was quite distracted, and hurried through the finishing -<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Salve Regina</i> as if time pressed.</p> - -<p>'The Madonna bless your ladyship!' said Margherita, -getting up after crossing herself.</p> - -<p>'Thank you,' the young girl answered simply, sitting -down again beside her bed, where she spent so many hours -of the day thinking and reading.</p> - -<p>Margherita had left the door open as she went away. -Now the voices burst out angrily. The enraged Cabalists -argued furiously with each other, each one boasting loudly -of his own way of getting lottery numbers, his own researches, -his own visions, each one trying to take the word -from the other, interrupting, screaming louder, being interrupted -in turn.</p> - -<p>'You don't believe in Cifariello the cobbler's talent?' -Marzano the lawyer shouted with the white fury of very -gentle, good-natured people. 'Perhaps because he is a -cobbler, and perhaps because he writes out his problems with -charcoal on a dirty bit of white paper! Here it is, here it -is! Twenty-seven has come out second instead of fourth, -but it came out! Here is eighty-four, that turned round -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span> -and became forty-eight, but it did come out! Here is the -<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">ambo</i> made up of fourteen and seventy-nine I was so unlucky -as to give up playing; it came out three weeks after -I gave it up. These are facts, gentlemen—facts, not words!'</p> - -<p>'They are the sixty francs a month you give him to leave -off cobbling and work out numbers for you!' Dr. Trifari -interrupted sharply.</p> - -<p>'Cifariello is ignorant, but sincere; he gave me fourteen -and seventy-nine, and I did not go on with it.'</p> - -<p>'Father Illuminato gave me fourteen and seventy-nine, -too,' Dr. Trifari retorted, 'but it was the right week.'</p> - -<p>'And you won without letting your friends know?' the -Marquis di Formosa asked excitedly.</p> - -<p>'I won nothing. I divided it into two different tickets. -I did not understand what a fortune Father Illuminato was -giving me. He is the only one that knows numbers. He -holds our fortunes, our future, in his hands. It is a queer -thing. When I felt his pulse to see if he had fever, I went -trembling all over.'</p> - -<p>'Father Illuminato is an egotist!' Professor Colaneri -hissed out in a sarcastic, biting voice.</p> - -<p>'You say that because he turned you out of his house one -day. You tried to get the numbers out of him by force. He -won't give them to priests who have thrown off the habit. -Father Illuminato is a believer.'</p> - -<p>'I see the numbers myself!' Colaneri called out shrilly. -'It is enough for me to take no supper the night before, -when I go to bed, and to meditate an hour or two before -sleeping: then I see them, you know.'</p> - -<p>'But they don't come out right!' shouted the Marquis di -Formosa.</p> - -<p>'They don't come out right because my mind is clouded -by human interests; because I can't free myself from a -longing to win; because one must have a pure soul, lay -aside disturbing passion, raise one's self into the region of -faith, to see clearly. I see them, but often, almost always, -a malignant spirit darkens my sight.'</p> - -<p>'Look here,' said Ninetto Costa, the smart, rich stock-broker, -loudly. 'I have done more. I knew that a young -woman, a milliner that lives in Baglivo Uries Lane, had the -name of giving good numbers. She can't play them, as -you know; they can't do so without losing the power. But -she gives them. I made up to her, pretended to fall madly -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span> -in love with her, gave her presents. I see her morning and -evening. I have even got to promising her marriage.'</p> - -<p>'Has she given you any?' the Marquis di Formosa -asked anxiously.</p> - -<p>'Nothing yet. She changes the subject, when I mention -it, timidly; but she will give them—she will.'</p> - -<p>How Bianca Maria wished that the Rosary she had recited -so absent-mindedly was still going on, so as not to hear this -mad talk, that she caught every word of! It made her -brain reel, as if her soul was drawn into a whirlpool. How -she would have liked not to hear the ravings of their disturbed -brains so set on one idea! Now the Marquis di -Formosa was speaking resoundingly.</p> - -<p>'The cobbler's simple science, Father Illuminato's saintliness, -our friend Colaneri's dazzling visions, are all very -well; but what is the result? What comes of it? We -who play our collar-bones every week, drawing money from -stones, all of us, winning in a hundred years or so a wretched -little <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">ambo</i>, or, worse still, one single number. Stronger -hands are needed! a higher strength is needed! We need -miracles, gentlemen. We must induce my sister, the nun, -to give lottery numbers. My daughter must get her to do -it. We need my daughter herself, an angel of virtue, kindness, -and purity, to pray to the Supreme Being for numbers!'</p> - -<p>A deep silence followed these last words. The entrance-door -bell rang. Bianca Maria, shaking all over, dragged -herself to her door-curtain and saw a wretchedly-dressed -man pass, mean-looking, with pale, red-streaked cheeks, the -beard like a hospital convalescent's. It was a painful, -alarming vision. In spite of the extraordinary man going -into the room, the silence was unbroken, as if the unknown -had brought in a mysterious tranquillity.</p> - -<p>Bianca Maria strained her ear anxiously, leaning on the -door-post. Perhaps the Cabalists had gone back to their -little table, taking the new arrival with them. The silence -lasted a long time. Motionless, almost rigid, she clutched -at the doorposts, not to fall; what she had heard was so sad -and cruel it broke her heart. She was seized with humiliation -and anguish, as if she could feel nothing but this sorrow. -She suffered every way in her natural pride and outraged -maidenly reserve, and from her father throwing her name -about in a mad dispute. She felt ashamed for him and for -herself, as if he had boxed her ears in public. Her anguish -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span> -nearly suffocated her; it rose to her brain, and seemed to -burn her in its hot embrace. How long she stood, how -long the silence went on in the drawing-room, she could not -tell; only, through her distress, she heard her father's -friends pass behind her curtain and go out cautiously, like -so many conspirators. Then, mechanically, she left her -room to look for him. But the drawing-room was dark, so -was the study, where the Marquis di Formosa sometimes -consulted an old book of necromancy. Bianca Maria -searched anxiously for her father. In the end a light guided -her. The Marquis di Formosa had gone into the little -chapel, filled up the lamp before the Virgin, and lighted the -lamp before the Ecce Homo, put out by his orders, also the -two wax candles in the candelabra, and set them before -Jesus Christ. Not satisfied with that, he had carried the -big lamp into the little chapel. In that illumination he had -thrown himself down despairingly before Christ, trembling, -shaking, sobbing. Praying aloud, he said to the Redeemer:</p> - -<p>'O Lamb of God, forgive me! I am ungrateful and -ignorant, a miserable sinner. Forgive me, forgive! Do not -make me suffer for my sins. Do me this grace for the sake -of my languishing, dying daughter. I am unworthy, but -bless me for her sake. O sorrowful Virgin, who hast -suffered so much, understand and help me! Send a vision -to Sister Maria degli Angioli. O blessed spirit, Beatrice -Cavalcanti, my saintly wife, if I caused you sorrow, forgive -me! Forgive me if I shortened your life! Do it for your -daughter's sake: save your family. Appear to your daughter—she -is innocent and good; tell her the words to save us, -blessed spirit! blessed spirit!'</p> - -<p>The girl, who beard it all, was so frightened she fled with -her eyes shut, holding her head. When she got to her -room, she thought she heard a deep, sad sigh behind her, -and felt a light hand on her shoulder. Mad with terror, she -could not cry out; she fell her whole length on the ground, -and lay as if she were dead.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span></p> - -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER IV</h2> - -<p class="p2">DR. AMATI</p> - - -<p>Not once for a month past had Dr. Antonio Amati seen -that thoughtful, delicate girl's face between the yellowish old -curtains in the balcony opposite his study window, which -looked into the big court of Rossi Palace, formerly Cavalcanti. -Two years had passed from the day that one of the -youngest, though one of the most distinguished, Naples -doctors had come to take up his abode there alone, with one -man-servant and a housekeeper, but bringing a crowd of old -and new patients after him, filling the spacious, but rather -dark, stairs with a going and coming of busy, preoccupied -people. From the very first day he had noticed opposite his -study window in passing that pure oval, the faintly pink, -delicate complexion, those proud, soft eyes, that touched the -heart from their gentleness. He saw all that at once, in -spite of the windows opposite being dull from old age and -her appearing for a short time only. He was a quick -observer; in fact, a great part of his medical skill was owing -to his quick glance, his lively, true, deep intuition.</p> - -<p>'A heart with no sun,' he said to himself, turning round -to put his heavy scientific volumes into his carved oak -shelves. Nor was he surprised when the Rossi Palace -door-keeper, humbly consulting him under the portico, as he -got into his carriage for his round of afternoon visits, about -a feverish illness that had inflamed her spleen, told him, -amongst a flood of other gossip, that that angel opposite his -balcony was Lady Bianca Maria Cavalcanti, a lady of high -birth, but reduced in circumstances, poor girl, not by her -own fault.... 'But perhaps she will become a nun,' the -woman ended up. 'A heart with no sun,' Dr. Antonio -Amati thought again as he went away, after prescribing for -the sickly, talkative door-keeper.</p> - -<p>But he had no time to remark or think of aristocratic -ladies come down by bad luck, or their parents' sins, to -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span> -obscurity and wretchedness; he could not let his fancy -linger long on that melancholy life alongside of his, but so -different from it. He was a silent, energetic man of action; -a Southerner not fond of words, who put into his daily work -all the strength other Southerners put into dreams, talk, and -long speeches, accustoming himself to this self-government, -calling up every day the violence of his fiery temper to -conquer it by strength of will, and make use of it for -scientific practical work, keeping always in touch with life, -books, and suffering humanity, which at thirty-five had made -him famous. He was proud of his great reputation, but not -conceited, though lucky fortune had not made him mean or -lowered him. No, he could not dream about Bianca Maria's -lily face; too many around him were ill of typhus, smallpox, -consumption, and a hundred other severe, almost -incurable, illnesses that required his daily help and energies. -Too many people called to him, implored him, stretched out -their hands for help, besieging his waiting-room and the -hospital door, watching for him at the University and other -sick people's doors patiently and submissively, as if waiting -for a saviour. Too many were suffering, sick and dying, -for him to dream about that slight apparition, and admire -the pale, thoughtful face bending under the weight of black -tresses.</p> - -<p>Still, through that life of useful work for himself and -others, through the seeming hardness, hurry, even scientific -brutality of his constant activity, which was made up for -by his noble daily sacrifices, that silently attractive figure -pleased Dr. Antonio Amati's fancy. Gradually it took its -place each morning among the things he admired and liked -to find in their places every day: his books, old leather -note-books, some mementos of childhood and youth, a wax -model of his dead sister's little hand, an old photograph of -his mother, who lived in Campobasso province, a local -accent he had not lost, in spite of living eighteen years in -Naples and his travels in France and Germany.</p> - -<p>Bianca Maria came into this harmonious atmosphere, -that gently satisfied this strong man's eyes and heart. -Antonio Amati did not try to see her oftener, nor to know -and speak to her; it was enough to see her in the early -morning, behind her balcony windows, look down vaguely -into the dull, damp court, then disappear as slowly as she -came—a quiet, solitary figure, not sorrowful, but not smiling. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span> -Between one patient going and another coming, Dr. Amati -got up from his desk, and went as far as the balcony; in -one or other of these little walks, that seemed to serve him -as a pause, a rest, a distraction between one bit of work -finished and another begun, he caught sight of Bianca -Maria's pale, thoughtful face; and for two years that satisfied -him. It is true that sometimes in these two years he had -met her on the stairs, or in the Rossi Palace dark entrance, -with her father or Margherita; he took off his hat, and she -acknowledged his bow unsmilingly. She, too, knew him -well, seeing him every day; but she looked him in the face -frankly, with none of that extreme reserve, half smile, half -sham indifference, or any of the little coquetries of commonplace -girls. Frankly and innocently she looked at him a -minute, returned his bow, and then her proud, gentle eyes -took their vague thoughtful expression again.</p> - -<p>They did not make daily appointments to see each other—he -was too serious, too engrossed in duty to do so, and she -was a simple creature, living too solitary an inward life to -think of it—only they saw each other every day, and got -accustomed to it.</p> - -<p>'But perhaps she is to be a nun,' the door-keeper repeated -sometimes. She had got over her illness, and employed -herself over other people's ailments, moral and physical.</p> - -<p>But the doctor walked on without replying, thinking of the -sad chorus of lamentations that went on around him, from -rich and poor, for real, present, imminent sorrows, almost -hopeless to cure, but worthy of his courage and talent to -attempt. Still, in that damp, south-east wind this autumn -morning, whilst bad coughs, heart complaints, fevers came by -turns dolefully in his list of cases, this sickly atmosphere -of bad weather in Naples making them worse, he had, as -usual, filled up his leisure by going to the balcony; and not -seeing Bianca Maria, he felt annoyance of a latent, indefinite -kind, which every new country or suburban patient made -him forget; but it came back when the patient left. The -forenoon passed in the gloom of the great writing-table, -covered with maroon; of these colourless, anxious faces held -up to him; these weak, complaining voices; lean breasts, or -flabby with unhealthy fat, that were bared for him to find -traces of consumption or atrophy, with wheezing, funereal -coughs. Never had he felt the disagreeables of his profession -so much as that day. Bianca Maria did not appear.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span></p> - -<p>'She is ill,' he thought momentarily. Having thought of -this, he felt as sure as if someone had told him or if he had -seen her ill himself. She was sick. He at once thought of -helping her, with that instinct to save life all great doctors -have. He thought it over a minute; but his mind came -back to the realities of life at once. It was folly to be taken -up about a person he did not know, and who probably did -not care to have him. If they needed his skill, they would -have called him. For all that, he was sure Bianca Maria -was ill.</p> - -<p>But another patient came into the room. There were -two, rather—a youth and a girl of the lower class. He -recognised the girl at once from her hollow, worn face and -sad, black-encircled eyes, the lock of untidy hair. He had -cured her of typhoid at San Raffaele hospital, when the -epidemic was raging in Naples.</p> - -<p>'Is it you, Carmela?'</p> - -<p>'Good-day to you, sir,' said the girl, rushing forward to -kiss the doctor's hand, which he quickly drew back.</p> - -<p>'Are you ill?' he asked.</p> - -<p>'As if I was ill,' she said, smiling, in a faint, melancholy -way, while the doctor was trying to recognise the young -fellow's face. 'I am going to have a misfortune that is -worse than an illness, sir.' She turned to her companion -as she spoke, and called out: 'Raffaé!' Then Amati saw -the young fellow in all the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">guappesca</i> style of bell-trousers, -small folded cap, silver chain with a bit of coral, shiny -squeaking shoes, and the half-scampish, impudent look of a -lad of twenty who has given up the knife, the traditional -<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">sfarziglia</i> of his ancestors in the Camorra, for the modern -revolver. 'This is my lover, sir,' she said, humbly and -proudly, whilst Raffaele looked straight before him, as if it -was not his business. She gave the youth so intense a -look, so full of tenderness and passion, that the doctor -had to restrain an impatient shrug.</p> - -<p>'Is he ill?' he asked.</p> - -<p>'No, sir; he is very well, thank God! But he has—that -is to say, we have—another misfortune coming on us; or, -indeed, it is my misfortune, as I must lose him. They want -to take him for the levy,' said she, in a trembling voice, her -eyes filling with tears.</p> - -<p>'That is natural enough,' answered the doctor, smiling.</p> - -<p>'How can you say so, sir? It is infamous of the Government -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span> -to take a fine lad that ought to marry. If you won't -help me, sir, what will I do?'</p> - -<p>'And what can <em>I</em> do?'</p> - -<p>Raffaele, in the meanwhile, stood with one hand at his -side, hanging his hat between two fingers; sometimes he -looked Carmela up and down absent-mindedly and haughtily, -as if it was out of mere good-nature he allowed her to look -after his affairs; then he cast an oblique but dignified -glance on the doctor.</p> - -<p>'You are so kind, sir,' Carmela murmured. 'I want you -to give Raffaele a medicine to make him ill, and get him -scratched off the list.'</p> - -<p>'It is impossible, my dear girl.'</p> - -<p>'Why so, sir?'</p> - -<p>'Because there are no such miraculous medicines.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, sir, you mean you don't wish to do me this kindness. -Think if they take him for three years!—three years! -What could I do without him for three years? And, then, -he won't go, sir! If you knew what he says——'</p> - -<p>'I told her,' Raffaele interrupted emphatically, pulling -down his waistcoat, a common <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">guappa</i> trick, 'that if they -take me by force, we will hold a little shooting; someone -will be wounded, they take me to prison, and what happens? -A year's imprisonment at most. I must go to San Francesco -some day, at any rate.'</p> - -<p>'Don't speak that way—don't say that!' she called out in -admiring terror. 'Beg the professor to give you the medicine.'</p> - -<p>'Are you to be married soon?' asked the doctor, who no -longer wondered at anything, from knowing the people so -well.</p> - -<p>'Very soon,' Carmela answered by herself, while Raffaele -looked before him.</p> - -<p>'When are you to be?'</p> - -<p>'When we get the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">terno</i>,' she retorted, quietly and with -certainty.</p> - -<p>'Then, not for some time yet,' the doctor replied, laughing.</p> - -<p>'No, no, sir; Don Pasqualino De Feo, the medium, has -promised me a safe number. We will be married very soon. -But you must get Raffaele off.'</p> - -<p>'There is no need of my services. Raffaele will be rejected, -because he has a narrow chest,' concluded the -doctor, after looking carefully at the dandy.</p> - -<p>'Do you say so, really?'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Really it is so.'</p> - -<p>'God bless you, sir! if I had to have this sorrow too, I -would die. So many sorrows—so many,' she said in a low -tone, pulling up her shabby shawl on her shoulders; 'I am -the mother of sorrows,' she added, with a sad smile.</p> - -<p>'Good-day, sir,' said Raffaele. 'When you come to -Mercato or Pendino district, ask for Raffaele—I am called -Farfariello—and let me serve you in any way I can.'</p> - -<p>'Thank you—thank you,' replied the doctor, sending them -off.</p> - -<p>The two again repeated their farewells on their way out—she -with a smile on her suffering face, he with the look of a -man that despises women. Other patients came in requiring -his medical skill up to twelve o'clock, when the time for receiving -visits was over. Bianca Maria had not appeared. -She was ill, therefore.</p> - -<p>He took breakfast very hurriedly, and ordered the coachman -to bring round the carriage to go to the hospital at one -o'clock. The day was getting more and more unpleasant, -from the scirocco's damp, ill-smelling breath. He went -out quickly, as he was rather late, and on the stairs, half -in shadow, he met Bianca Maria going down also, with -Margherita, her maid.</p> - -<p>'Then, she is not ill,' thought the doctor.</p> - -<p>But with the sharp eyes of an observing man, who finds -out the truth from the slightest symptoms, he saw the girl -was walking undecidedly; her face, as she looked up to -bow, was intensely pale, so that again his medical instinct -was to help her. He was just going to speak, to ask her -brusquely where the pain was, but her proud, gentle eyes -were cast down again absent-mindedly; her mouth had that -severe silent look that imposes silence on others. She disappeared -without his saying anything. Dr. Amati shrugged -his shoulders as he got into the carriage, and buried himself -in a medical journal, as he did every day, to fill up even the -short drive usefully. The carriage rolled along silently over -the thin layer of mud; the damp obscured the windows, and -the doctor felt the scirocco in himself and in the air. Even -the hospital could not soothe the doctor's discomfort, though -to take his thoughts off it he went deeper into practical -medical work and scientific explanations to the pupils than -usual. He went backwards and forwards from one bed to -another, followed by a crowd of youths, taller than any of -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span> -them, with an obstinate man's short forehead, marked by -two perpendicular lines, from a constant frown, showing a -strong will and absorption in his work; his thick brush of -black hair was roughly set on his forehead, with some white -tufts showing already. So great was his activity of thought, -words, and action, one expected to see the smoke of a volcano -coming out. His orders to the assistants and his class, even -to the nuns, were given harshly; they all obeyed quickly -and silently, feeling respect for the iron will, in spite of his -rough commands, mingled with admiration for the man who -was looked on as a saviour. Even the room he had charge -of looked more melancholy and wretched that day than -ever; the dulness of the air saddened the invalids, the -heavy, evil-smelling damp made them feel their pains more. -A whispered lament, like a long, laboured breath, was heard -from one end of the room to the other, and the sick folks' -pale faces got yellow in that ghastly light; their emaciated -hands on the coverlets looked like wax.</p> - -<p>In spite of trying to stun himself with work and words, -Dr. Amati felt the disagreeables of his profession more than -ever. Through that long, narrow room, full of beds in a -row, and yellow, suffering faces, and the constant smell of -phenic acid; through the scirocco mist and damp, that -made even the nuns' pink cheeks bloodless-looking, he had -a dream, a passing vision of a sunny, green, warm, clear, -sweet-smelling country place, and his heart ached for this -idyll, come and gone in a moment.</p> - -<p>'Good-bye, gentlemen,' Amati said brusquely to the -students, dismissing them.</p> - -<p>They knew that when he so greeted them he wished to -be left alone; they knew, they understood, the Professor -was in a bad humour; they let him go. One of the -ambulance men brought him two or three letters that -came while he was going his rounds; they were summonses, -urgent letters from sick people longing for him, from a -father who had lost his head over a son's illness, from -despairing women. He shook his head as he read them, -as if he had lost confidence—as if all humanity sorrowing -discouraged him. He went—yes, he went; but he felt very -tired, which must have come from his mind, for he had -worked much less than usual. He was going along absent-mindedly, -when a shadow rose before him on the hospital -stairs. It was a poor woman, of no particular age, with -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span> -sparse grayish hair, black teeth, prominent cheek-bones, -her clothes torn and dirty, whilst the slumbering babe she -carried was clean, though meanly clad.</p> - -<p>'Sir—please, sir!' she called out in a crying voice, seeing -the doctor was going on without troubling himself about her.</p> - -<p>'What do you want? Who are you?' the doctor asked -roughly, without looking at her.</p> - -<p>'I am Annarella, Carmela's sister—you saved her life,' -said Gaetano the glove-cutter's wretched wife.</p> - -<p>'Your sister in the morning, and now you!' the doctor -impatiently exclaimed.</p> - -<p>'Not for me, sir—not for me,' the gambler's wife said in a -low tone. 'I can die. I don't signify. I do so little in the -world I can't even find bread for my children.'</p> - -<p>'Get out of the way—get out of the way.'</p> - -<p>'It is for this little creature, for my sick son, sir;' and she -bent to kiss the little slumberer's forehead. 'I don't know -what is the matter, but he falls off every day, and I don't -know what to give him. Cure him for me, sir.'</p> - -<p>The doctor leant over the little invalid, with its pretty, -delicate, pallid face, purple eyelids, hardly perceptible -breathing, and lips slightly apart; he touched its forehead -and hands, then looked at the mother.</p> - -<p>'You give it milk?' he asked shortly.</p> - -<p>'Yes, sir,' said she, with a slight smile of motherly content.</p> - -<p>'How many months old is he?'</p> - -<p>'Eighteen months.'</p> - -<p>'And you still suckle him? You are all the same, you -Naples women. Wean him at once.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, sir!' she exclaimed, quite alarmed.</p> - -<p>'Wean him,' he repeated.</p> - -<p>'What am I to give him?' she said, almost sobbing. 'I -often want bread for myself and the other two, but never -milk. Must this poor little soul die of hunger too?'</p> - -<p>'Does your husband not work?' asked the doctor -ponderingly.</p> - -<p>'Yes, sir, he does work,' she said, shaking her head.</p> - -<p>'Does he keep another woman?'</p> - -<p>'No, sir.'</p> - -<p>'What does he do, then?'</p> - -<p>'He plays at the lottery.'</p> - -<p>'I understand. Wean the child. He has fever. Your -milk poisons him.'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span></p> - -<p>After gazing at the doctor and her child, she just said -'Jesus' in a whisper, and a sob burst out from her motherly -breast.</p> - -<p>Amati wrote out a prescription in pencil on a leaf of his -pocket-book. He went down the stairs, followed by Annarella, -whose tears fell over the child's face, her dull sobs -following him in lamentation.</p> - -<p>'This is the prescription; here are five francs to get it -with,' said the doctor, motioning to her not to thank him.</p> - -<p>She looked at him with stupefied eyes while he crossed -the big cold hospital court to his carriage; she began to -cry again when she was alone; gazing on the baby, the -prescription in her hand shook—it was so bitter for her to -think of having poisoned her son with her milk.</p> - -<p>'It must be cholera,' she kept saying to herself, for -among Naples common folk stomach disorders are often -called cholera.</p> - -<p>Dr. Amati shook his head again energetically, as if he -had lost confidence altogether in the saving of humanity. -As he was opening the carriage door to get in, a woman -who had been chattering with the hospital porter came up -to speak to him. It was a woman in black, with a nun's -shawl, and black silk kerchief on her head, tied under the -chin. She had coal-black eyes in a pale face—eyes used to -the shade and silence. She spoke very low.</p> - -<p>'Sir, would you come with me to do an urgent kindness?'</p> - -<p>'I am busy,' the doctor grumbled, getting into his -carriage.</p> - -<p>'The person is very, very ill.'</p> - -<p>'All the people I have to see are ill.'</p> - -<p>'She is near here, sir, in the Sacramentiste convent. I -was sent to the hospital to find a doctor. I can't go back -without one ... she is so very ill....'</p> - -<p>'Dr. Caramanna is still up there—ask for him,' Amati -retorted. 'Is it a nun that is ill?' he then added.</p> - -<p>'The Sacramentistes are cloistered; they can't call men -into the convent,' said the servant, pursing her lips. 'It is -someone who got ill in the convent parlour, not belonging -to the convent....'</p> - -<p>'I will come,' Amati said quickly.</p> - -<p>He pushed the servant into the carriage, got in and shut -the door. The carriage rolled along the Anticaglia road, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span> -which is so dark, muddy, and wretched from old age; and -they did not say a word to each other in the short drive. -The carriage stopped before the convent gate; instead of -ringing the bell, the servant opened the door with a key. -The doctor and she first crossed an icy court overlooked -by a number of windows with green jalousies, then a -corridor with pillars along the court; complete solitude and -silence was everywhere. They went into a vast room on -the ground-floor. Along the white-washed walls were straw -chairs, nothing else; at the end a big table, with a seat for -the porter lay Sister. A crucifix was nailed on one wall. -Along the other were two narrow gratings with a wheel in -the middle, to speak through and pass things to the nuns. -Near this wall, on three chairs, a woman's form was -stretched out; another woman was kneeling and bending -over her face. Before the doctor got as far as the woman -lying down, the servant went up to the grating and spoke: -'Praise to the Holy Sacrament——'</p> - -<p>'Now and for ever,' a very feeble voice answered from -inside, as if it came out of a deep cave.</p> - -<p>'Is the doctor here?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, Sister Maria.'</p> - -<p>'That is well;' and a long, feverish sigh was heard.</p> - -<p>In the meantime Dr. Amati had gone up to the fainting -girl. Margherita was bathing her forehead with a handkerchief -steeped in vinegar, and whispering: 'My darling! -my darling!'</p> - -<p>The doctor put his hat on the ground, and knelt down -too, to examine the fainting girl. He felt her pulse, and -gently raised one eyelid; the eye was glassy.</p> - -<p>'How long has she been like this?' he asked in a whisper, -rubbing her icy hands.</p> - -<p>'Half an hour,' the old woman replied.</p> - -<p>'What have you done for her?'</p> - -<p>'Nothing but use the vinegar. They gave it to me -through the wheel; they have nothing else; it is a convent -under strict rules.'</p> - -<p>'Does she often faint?'</p> - -<p>'Last night ... she had another swoon. I found her on -the ground in her room. I called my master.'</p> - -<p>'Did she recover of herself ... last night?'</p> - -<p>'Yes.'</p> - -<p>'Had she got a fright?'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span></p> - -<p>'I don't know ... I don't think so,' she said in a -hesitating way.</p> - -<p>They were speaking in a whisper, whilst the servant -stood right at the grating, as if mounting guard.</p> - -<p>'Is she better?' the feeble voice inside asked.</p> - -<p>'Just the same,' replied the servant in a monotonous voice.</p> - -<p>'Oh God!' the voice called out in anguish.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile the doctor bent down to hear the breathing -better. He seemed thoughtful and preoccupied. Margherita -looked at him with despairing eyes.</p> - -<p>'Did she get a fright, half an hour ago, in here?' he began -again to ask, whilst he carefully raised Bianca's head and -placed it against his breast.</p> - -<p>'No! ... certainly not!' Margherita whispered. 'I -was in church. I did not hear what was said; they called -to me.'</p> - -<p>'Who is that nun?' he asked, pointing to the grating.</p> - -<p>'It is Sister Maria degli Angioli—the aunt.'</p> - -<p>Then he got up and went to the grating. The serving -Sister pursed up her lips to remind him of the cloistral -rule, almost as if she wanted to prevent any conversation -between him and the nun.</p> - -<p>'Sister Maria——' he said very gently.</p> - -<p>'Now and for ever,' the feeble voice said hurriedly, hearing -a man's voice.</p> - -<p>'Has your niece had a fright?'</p> - -<p>Silence on the other side.</p> - -<p>'Did she tell you of anything disagreeable that had -happened to her?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, yes!' the voice breathed out, trembling.</p> - -<p>'Can you tell me what it was about?'</p> - -<p>'No, no!' she went on quickly, still trembling. 'Something -very sad ... I can't tell you.'</p> - -<p>'Very well—thank you,' he whispered, getting up again.</p> - -<p>'How is she? Are you giving her anything?' the Sister's -voice asked.</p> - -<p>'We are going to take her to the house. Nothing can be -done here.'</p> - -<p>'We are poor nuns,' the Sister murmured. 'How will -you carry her?'</p> - -<p>'In the carriage,' he said shortly. Then, going up to -Margherita, he went on in a low, forcible voice: 'I am -coming with my coachman just now. She can't stay here; -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span> -I can't do anything for her here. We will carry her out -to the carriage and go home.'</p> - -<p>'In this state?' she asked undecidedly.</p> - -<p>'Do you want her to die here?' he interrupted brusquely.</p> - -<p>'Please forgive me, sir.'</p> - -<p>He had already gone out, without his hat and overcoat, -across the passage and icy court. After a minute he came -back with the coachman, who had evidently got his orders.</p> - -<p>The doctor gently raised the fainting girl's body from -under the arms, resting her head on his breast, while the -coachman raised her feet. She was almost rigid and very -heavy. The coachman had a frightened look; perhaps he -thought he was carrying out a dead woman, all in black, -through that bare parlour, deserted corridor, and chilly -court; and although the sight of physical suffering was not -new to him, being in a successful doctor's service, the idea -of carrying a young woman's cold body, a corpse perhaps, -gave him such a shudder he turned away his head. Old -Margherita, coming behind, looked yellower, more like -wrinkled parchment than ever, in the bright court. The -procession of the anxious doctor, the frightened man, the -rigid figure in black, and the old servant sadly bent by a -strange new anguish, moved silently across the silent, tomb-like -cloister, like a funeral. Gently, with the care needed -not to waken a sleeping baby, the two men placed the poor -lifeless creature in the carriage, her head against the -cushions and her feet on the opposite seat. She had not -given a sign of life whilst she was being carried; the two -lines deepened between Dr. Amati's eyebrows, lines showing -a strong will and deep thought, but which gave him an -absent-minded look. Margherita still gently tried to rearrange -the girl's loosened tresses that had fallen down, but -she did not manage it, her lean hands trembled so; she, -too, had got into the broad landau; she gathered up her -mistress's hair caressingly, and the doctor heard her mutter, -'My darling! my darling!'</p> - -<p>He had lowered the blue blinds against indiscreet eyes; -the carriage went at a foot-pace; and in that bluish, misty -shade the slow pace kept up the idea of a funeral still more. -However, the carriage stopped at one point; after a little -the coachman opened the door, and handed in to the doctor -a hermetically sealed phial, which he held to the unconscious -girl's nose. A sharp smell of ether at once spread -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span> -through the carriage, which was still going very slowly. -Bianca Maria never moved; after a little there was one -sign of feeling: her closed eyelids got red, big tears burst -out between the lashes and ran down her cheeks. The -doctor did not take his eyes off her for a minute, keeping -her hand in his. She went on weeping, still unconscious, -without giving another sign of life: as if she still felt sorrow -through her unconsciousness, as if through her loss of -memory one bitter recollection still remained—only one. -She did not recover consciousness.</p> - -<p>When they got to the Rossi Palace courtyard, hardly was -the door opened when a murmuring noise broke out, gradually -growing stronger, impossible to restrain. Beside the -carriage door the porter's wife called out and screamed as if -the girl was dead. All the windows looking into the courtyard, -all the landing-place doors, had opened to see the -poor, fainting, pale creature in black, with hair hanging -down, taken out of the carriage. The doctor vainly tried -to insist on silence, but the cry of surprise and compassion -grew louder, rising in the heavy air.</p> - -<p>On the first-floor landing-place Gelsomina, Agnesina -Fragalà's nurse, came out, holding the pretty, healthy -infant in her arms; the happy mother, Luisella Fragalà, -came behind her, dressed to go out, with her bonnet on. -But she lingered, leaning on the iron railing, smiling vaguely -at her baby, and looking pityingly on the strange escort. -She had felt rather tired and preoccupied for some time past, -for she had been going every day to the Santo Spirito shop, -from an instinct, a presentiment, that was stronger than her -pride, tying up the parcels of sweets and cakes with her -ring-covered, white hands.</p> - -<p>'Poor thing! poor thing!' Luisella Fragalà muttered; -her compassion had a deeper, acuter feeling in it than the -other people's had.</p> - -<p>Raising the heavy yellow brocade curtains behind her -double windows on the first-floor, Signora Parascandolo's -bloodless face appeared—the rich usurer's wife who had lost -all her children.</p> - -<p>She seldom went out; she stayed shut up in her gorgeous -apartment, full of rich furniture now quite useless and -dreary, as she never received anyone since her sons died; -only she looked out of the window now and then in a silly -kind of way that had grown on her. On seeing Bianca -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span> -Maria carried up in that way, the poor woman, who took an -interest in nothing usually, opened the window, and her voice -was added to the rising tumult, crying in prayer and supplication, -'Jesus, Jesus, help us!' All Domenico Mayer's -misanthropic family came out on the third-floor landing, -leaving their three-roomed little flat that looked on to the -Rossi Theatre. First came the father's long, peevish face, -and, having just left some copying work brought home from -the Finance Office, he had sleeves on to save his coat; then -Donna Christina, the mother, who had got rid of the tooth-ache -but had a stiff neck instead; next Amalia, with her -staring eyes, thick nose and lips, and sulky look of a girl -who has not yet got a husband; and Fofò, still afflicted by -the hunger which his relations said was a mysterious illness. -The whole family nearly threw themselves over the railings -out of curiosity, and shrieked out in a chorus: 'Poor girl! -poor girl!' A woman in a muslin cap and a man in a blue -sweeping-apron were at the window—even the doctor's -housekeeper; nor did they stop gazing when their master -came up, so overpowering was the excitement in all the -Rossi Palace.</p> - -<p>That carrying up the stair, amid the noisy compassion of -all these different people, the frightened, pitying shrieks, -that had a false ring about them, seemed endless to -Dr. Amati; as for old Margherita, she shook with annoyance -and shame, as if that noise and publicity were insulting -to her mistress.</p> - -<p>When the door was shut behind them, she asked Giovanni -in a fright: 'Is milord not in? Milady is ill.'</p> - -<p>'No,' he said, making way for the bearers.</p> - -<p>Margherita shook her head despairingly. She went with -the doctor and his man into Bianca Maria's room; the girl -was laid on the bed. The man-servant went away. The -doctor again tried to bring her back with ether—no result. -He bit his lip; he said twice or thrice, 'It is impossible!' -Once again he raised the violet eyelids, looking at her eyes. -She was alive, but she did not recover consciousness.</p> - -<p>'Where is her father?' he asked, without turning round.</p> - -<p>'I don't know,' the old woman muttered.</p> - -<p>'There will be some place he goes every day; send for him.'</p> - -<p>'I will send, as you order me to,' she said, still hesitating; -and she went out.</p> - -<p>He sat down by the bedside, and laid down the ether -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span> -bottle, convinced now it was useless. That bare, cold little -room, with a look of childish purity, had calmed somewhat -the scientist's dull anger at not being able to cure nor find -out the reason of the illness. He had seen, a hundred times, -long, queer fainting fits; but they were from nervous illnesses, -from abnormal temperaments, out of order from the -beginning, and ordinary methods had overcome them. The -colourless young girl seemed to be sleeping heavily, and she -might remain so for many hours, wrapped up in the dark -regions of unconsciousness. He armed himself with patience, -turning over in his mind medical books that spoke of such -fainting fits. Twice or thrice Margherita had come back into -the room, questioning him with an agonized look; he shook -his head, 'No.' Then he asked her for brandy. She stood -hesitating; there was none in the house. Amati told her to -go and ask for it in his flat next door. With a teaspoon, a -wretched one that had lost its plating, he opened the girl's -lips, and poured the strong liquor through her closed teeth, -with no result. Again, he asked Margherita, who was -fidgeting about, to heat flannel cloths; seeing her still embarrassed, -he told her to go to his house, and ask the housekeeper -for some.</p> - -<p>Whilst she was away, Giovanni came back out of breath; -he panted as he spoke.</p> - -<p>'I have not found the Marquis anywhere, not at Don -Crescenzio's lottery stand, nor at the Santo Spirito assembly, -nor in Don Pasqualino the medium's house, where they -meet every day.'</p> - -<p>'Who meet?' asked the doctor distractedly, hardly listening -to what he said.</p> - -<p>'The Marquis's friends.... But I left word wherever he -is to come back to the house, because her ladyship is ill.'</p> - -<p>'Very good; send out this prescription,' said the doctor, -who as usual wrote it with a pencil on a leaf from his -pocket-book.</p> - -<p>The old servant's pale face looked disturbed. The doctor, -always taken up about his patient, did not notice him.</p> - -<p>'Go, and get it,' he said, feeling Giovanni was still there.</p> - -<p>'It is because ...' the poor man stammered out.</p> - -<p>Then the doctor, just as he had done for Annarella, the -glove-cutter's wretched wife, pulled ten francs out of his -purse and gave them to him.</p> - -<p>'... the master not being in and not being able to tell -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span> -the mistress,' Giovanni muttered, wishing to account for the -want of money.</p> - -<p>'Very good—all right,' said the doctor, turning to his -patient.</p> - -<p>But a loud ring at the bell sounded all through the flat. -A resounding step was heard, and the Marquis di Formosa -came in. He seemed only to see his daughter stretched -out on the bed. He began kissing her hand and forehead, -speaking loudly in great anguish.</p> - -<p>'My daughter, my daughter, what is the matter with -you? Answer your father. Bianca, Bianca, answer! -Where have you the pain? how did it come? My darling, -my heart's blood, my crown, answer me! It is your father -calling you. Listen, listen, tell me what it is! I will cure -you, dear, dear daughter!'</p> - -<p>And he went on exclaiming, crying out, sobbing, pale -and red in the face, by turns, running his fingers through -his white hair, his still graceful, strong figure bent, while -the doctor looked at him keenly. In a silent interval the -Marquis noticed Amati's presence, and recognised him as -his celebrated neighbour.</p> - -<p>'Oh, doctor,' he called out, 'give her something—this -daughter is all I have!'</p> - -<p>'I am trying what I can,' the doctor said slowly, in a low -voice, as if he was chafing against the powerlessness of his -science. 'But it is an obstinate faint.'</p> - -<p>'Has she had it long?'</p> - -<p>'About two hours. It came on in the Sacramentiste -parlour.'</p> - -<p>'Ah!' said the father, getting pale.</p> - -<p>The doctor looked at him. They said no more. The -secret rose up between them, wrapped in the thickest, -deepest obscurity.</p> - -<p>'Do something for her,' Formosa stammered, in a -trembling voice.</p> - -<p>But he was summoned; Giovanni whispered to him; the -Marquis was undecided for a minute.</p> - -<p>'I will come back at once,' he said as he went off.</p> - -<p>The doctor had wrapped the invalid's little feet in warm -clothes; now he wanted to wrap up her hands. All at once -he felt a slight pressure on his hand: Bianca Maria with -open eyes was quietly looking at him. The doctor's forehead -wrinkled a little with surprise just for a moment.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span></p> - -<p>'How do you feel?' he asked, leaning over the invalid.</p> - -<p>She gave a tired little smile, and waved her hand as if to -tell him to wait, that she could not speak yet.</p> - -<p>'All right, very good,' the doctor said heartily. 'Don't -speak;' and he made Margherita, who was coming in, keep -silence, too.</p> - -<p>The servant's poor tired eyes shone with joy when she -saw Bianca Maria smiling.</p> - -<p>'Are you better? Make a sign,' the doctor asked tenderly.</p> - -<p>She made an effort, and very low, instead of a sign, she -pronounced the word 'Better.' The voice was low, but -quiet. With a medical man's familiarity, he took one of -her hands in his to warm it.</p> - -<p>'Thank you!' said she after a time.</p> - -<p>'For what?' he said, rather put out.</p> - -<p>'For everything,' she replied, smiling again.</p> - -<p>Now, it seemed, she had quite got back the power of -speaking. She spoke, but kept quite still, only living intensely -in her eyes and smile.</p> - -<p>'For everything—what do you mean?' he asked, piqued -by a lively curiosity.</p> - -<p>'I understood,' said she, with a profound look.</p> - -<p>'You were conscious all the time?'</p> - -<p>'All. I could neither move nor speak, but I understood.'</p> - -<p>'Ah!' said he thoughtfully. He sent Margherita to let -the Marquis know that his daughter had recovered consciousness.</p> - -<p>'Were you in pain?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, a great deal, from not being able to come out of -my faint. I wept; I felt a pain at my heart.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, yes,' he said. 'Don't speak any more—rest.'</p> - -<p>The doctor made a sign to the Marquis, who was coming -in, to keep silence. Formosa leant over his daughter's bed -and touched her forehead with his hand, as if he was blessing -her. Her eyelids fluttered and she smiled.</p> - -<p>'Your daughter was conscious during her swoon—the -rarest kind of fainting fit.'</p> - -<p>'Was she conscious?' the Marquis asked in a strange -voice.</p> - -<p>'Yes; she saw and heard everything. It comes from -sensitiveness carried to excess.'</p> - -<p>Then he poured out more brandy in the teaspoon for -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span> -Bianca Maria to take. Don Carlo Cavalcanti's face -twitched. He leant over the bed, and asked:</p> - -<p>'What did you see? Tell me—what did you see?'</p> - -<p>The daughter did not answer. She looked at her father -in such sad surprise that the doctor, turning round, noticed -it and frowned. He had not heard what the father asked -his daughter, and he again felt the great family secret -coming up, seeing Bianca Maria's gentle, sad glance.</p> - -<p>'Don't ask her anything,' the doctor said brusquely to the -Marquis di Formosa.</p> - -<p>The old patrician restrained a disdainful shrug. He -brooded over his daughter's face, as if he wanted to get the -secret out by magnetism. She lowered her eyelids, but -suffering was in her face; then she looked at the doctor, as -if she wanted help.</p> - -<p>'Do you want anything?' he asked.</p> - -<p>'There is a man at my door: make him go away,' she -whispered in a frightened tone.</p> - -<p>The doctor started; so did her father. In fact, outside -the door, in his invariable wretched waiting attitude, was -Pasqualino De Feo, dirty, ragged, with unkempt beard and -pale, streaky red cheeks. The Marquis had left him in the -drawing-room, but he slid along to Bianca Maria's room -with the timid, quiet step of a beggar who fears to be chased -from all doors.</p> - -<p>'Who is that man?' said the doctor in that rough tone of -his, going up to the door, as if to chase him away.</p> - -<p>'He is a friend,' the Marquis answered, hurrying forward -in a vague, embarrassed way.</p> - -<p>'Send him away!' the doctor said sternly.</p> - -<p>Outside the door the Marquis and Don Pasqualino chattered -in a lively whisper. Bianca Maria looked as if she -could hear what her father said outside; at one point she -shook her head.</p> - -<p>'Do you want that man sent away from the house?'</p> - -<p>'Leave him,' she said feebly. 'It would annoy my -father.'</p> - -<p>Ah! the doctor knew nothing at all. Even now, on -coming back to stern realities, he blamed himself for the -sad, dark romance coming into his life; but an overmastering -feeling entangled him, which he thought was scientific -curiosity. Hours were passing, evening was coming on; he -had made none of his visits, and he stayed on in that poor -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span> -aristocratic sick lady's room, as if he could not tear himself -away.</p> - -<p>'I ought to go,' he said, as if to himself.</p> - -<p>'But you will come back?' she asked in a whisper.</p> - -<p>'Yes ...' he said, determined to conquer himself and not -come back again.</p> - -<p>'Do come back!' in a humble voice, beseechingly.</p> - -<p>'I am here—just next door. If you are in pain, send for me.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, yes,' she replied, quieted at the idea of being protected.</p> - -<p>'Adieu, madame!'</p> - -<p>'À Dieu!' she said, pointedly separating the two words.</p> - -<p>Margherita went with him, thanking him softly for having -saved her mistress; but he had again become an energetic, -busy man, inimical to words.</p> - -<p>'Where is the Marquis?' he insisted on knowing.</p> - -<p>'In the drawing-room, Professor.'</p> - -<p>And she took him there. It was just so. Don Carlo -Cavalcanti, Marquis di Formosa, and Pasqualino De Feo -were walking up and down silently. It was almost dark: -still, the doctor examined the medium with a scrutinizing, -suspicious eye.</p> - -<p>'How is Bianca Maria?' asked Formosa, coming out of a -dream.</p> - -<p>'Better now,' the doctor replied in a short, cold tone; -'but she has been struck prematurely, owing to a growing -want of balance, moral and physical. If you don't give her -sun, movement, air, quiet, and cheerfulness, she may die—from -one day to another.'</p> - -<p>'Don't say so, doctor!' the father cried out, angry and -grieved.</p> - -<p>'I must tell you, because it is so. I don't know the -reason of to-day's illness—I don't want to know it; but she -is ill, you understand—ill! She needs sun and peace—peace -and sun. If you want a doctor, I am always near; that is -my profession. But I have made out a prescription. Send -your daughter to the country. If she stays another year in -this house, only seeing you and going to the nunnery, she -will die, I assure you,' he persisted coldly, as if this truth -ought to be announced decisively, as if he wanted to convince -his own unwilling mind also.</p> - -<p>'Doctor, doctor, do not say that!' Formosa moaned, -asking for mercy.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span></p> - -<p>'She is ill; she will die. To the country—the country! -Good-evening, Marquis!'</p> - -<p>He went off, as if trying to escape. The Marquis and the -medium, who had not said a word, went on again with their -silent walk. Now and then Formosa sighed deeply.</p> - -<p>'The Spirit that helps me——' the medium breathed out.</p> - -<p>'Eh?' the other cried out, starting.</p> - -<p>'Warns me that Donna Bianca Maria has had a heavenly -vision ... and that she will tell you it in an allegory.'</p> - -<p>'What do you say? Is it possible? Has the Supreme -Being granted me this favour? Is it possible?'</p> - -<p>'The Spirit does not deceive,' the medium said sententiously.</p> - -<p>'That is true—it is true!' Formosa murmured, looking -into the darkness with wild eyes.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span></p> - -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER V</h2> - -<p class="p2">CARNIVAL AT NAPLES</p> - - -<p>From the first days of January, Naples was taken with a -mania for work that spread from one house and shop to -another, from street to street, quarter to quarter, from -fashionable parts to the poorest, with a continuous movement, -rising and falling. A stronger noise of saws, planes and -hammers came from the factories and workshops: in the -shops, with doors left ajar, and in the houses they sat up late: -the smallest as well as the big industries seemed to have got -a mysterious impulse, a breath of new life, into their half-dying -state.</p> - -<p>The demand for gloves had increased beyond bounds, -especially white and dove-coloured ones: the humblest -general shops kept them. In the artificial-flower shops, that -compete with the French trade with growing success, a great -quantity of boughs, bunches, wreaths of flowers, and ferns -were got ready; big and small bouquets of bright, warm-coloured -flowers to take the eye—the finest intended for -ladies' hair and bosoms, the coarser for decorating houses, -shops, horses and carriages. Roses, camellias, pinks, were -most in request. At all the tailors' and dressmakers', satin, -velvet, gauze, crape, were draped in all styles, made into -dresses, mantles, hoods, and scarves; whilst at the shoe-makers', -binders spent ten hours a day making pink, blue, -white, gray, and lilac shoes, fancy, gold-embroidered boots, -and some bound in fur. The glove, flower, dress, and -shoe makers' work began the first hours in the morning and -ended at eleven at night; but the only others that came up -to them were the cardboard shops. Here paper, in men -and women's hands, was bent into a thousand shapes and -sizes. It was painted, cut out, twisted, even curled up; -it was made up with straw, metal, and rich brocade stuff, -starting from the twisted paper that holds a sweet or cracker -to the big expensive box. From the little chocolate-box, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span> -made of cardboard and a scrap of satin, to the handsome, neat -satchel with a second cardboard lining; from the roll, made -of two or three old gambling cards, a little Bristol board, -and bright-coloured pictures, to straw cornucopias, covered -with ribbons; from ugly, mean things to lovely and expensive -ones, the work was never-ending. All this paper-work was -arranged on large boards; the colours were dazzling and -took the eye. Every day they were sent off to the sweet-shops, -where they were filled with confetti, dainties, sweets, -and sugar almonds.</p> - -<p>Yes, the work was hardest, always, in the confectioners', -from the humble Fragalà of San Lorenzo quarter and the -gorgeous but middle-class Fragalà of Spirito Santo up to -the exquisite fashionable confectioner in Piazza San Ferdinando. -Above all, there was a grand making of caraways, -white and coloured, of all sizes, with caraway-seeds and a -powdery sugar covering; there were whole stores of them -in tins, canisters of all sizes, overflowing baskets made -like canisters, all kept carefully from damp, which ruins -caraways. Such a stock!—if it had been gunpowder, -there would have been enough to conquer an army. The -other heavy work was getting sausages and black-puddings -ready, all covered with yellow bits of Spanish bread—pig's -blood, that is to say—made up with chocolate, pistachios, -vanilla, lemon, and cinnamon, so presented as to hide the -coarseness. In the back-shops they weighed cinnamon, -sliced lemons, crushed pistachio nuts, boiled sweets of all -colours and kinds; ovens roared, stoves were made red-hot, -kettles boiled and gurgled, and workmen, in shirt-sleeves -and caps, with bare arms and necks, stirring with big ladles, -beating pestles in marble mortars, looked like odd figures -in purgatory, lighted up by the furnace flames.</p> - -<p>All trades were busy: advertisements were put up; whole -sheets of them were spread on the city walls. Fashionable -barbers took on new lads; the three celebrated Naples -<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">pizzaiuoli</i> of Freddo and Chiaia Lanes, of Carità Square, -of Port Alba, informed the public, which loves <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">pizza</i> with -Marano and Procida wine, that they would be open till -morning. The Café Napoli, the Grande, and the Europa -covered their windows with thick cloths, and held a grand -cleaning up all through the rooms; the theatres announced -four times more illuminations, whilst at the door of fancy -shops, the windows of miserable or fashionable bazaars, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span> -were shown black velvet masks, wax noses, and huge cardboard -heads, three times the natural size, and much uglier -than Nature; network masks, to protect the face from -caraways, ladles for throwing them, long tongs for handing -up sweets or flowers to the balconies, scarves and ribbons, -fantastic ballroom decorations, and entire costumes of tissue-paper. -Along the streets in Monte Calvario quarter, -across and parallel to Toledo, in the darkest old-clothes -shops and retail dealers', dominos hung on wooden pegs for -the popular balls: Mephistopheles costumes in red and blue, -Spanish grandees in cotton velvet, harlequins made up of old -carpets, Sorrento peasant women's dresses in gay colours, -Pulcinellos, and almost white dress; above all, shining -helmets, with cuirass of cardboard to match, and wooden -swords. Masquerading costumes were on hire everywhere -for a few francs; they gave a jocular tone to these dull lanes, -hanging even from the first-floor balconies, sticking out in a -row from the damp, dark shops with grinning, devilish masks, -or showing sickly faces of white or greeny-blue satin.</p> - -<p>Wherever one went, in lower class neighbourhoods as -well as in aristocratic parts, one could see a lively movement, -cheerful labour, a noisy bustling about, a never-ending -activity, a daily and nightly ferment of all forces, the constant, -lively, energetic action of a whole peaceful, laborious town, -intent upon one single piece of work, given up to it heart and -mind, hand and foot, using up its nerves, blood, and muscles -in this one tremendous work. Everywhere, everywhere, -one guessed or knew it; it caught the eye; it was written -up what this great work was—'<em>For the coming carnival festivities</em>.'</p> - -<p>Nothing else but the carnival. The great city gave -itself over to that impetuous, joyous exertion, not for love -of work in itself—for work that is the cause and consequence -of well-doing, which in itself is the ground-work of goodness -and respectability. The great town had not given itself -over to that lively activity for any immediate civic reason, -for hygienic improvements, industrial art exhibitions, changing -old quarters or making new ones: it was for the carnival -only—a carnival by official decree of the Prefecture and -of the Municipal Palace; a carnival warmed up by committees, -associations, commissions, set agoing by thousands -of people, arranged and carried out as a great institution, -widely spread in the minds of the whole five hundred -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span> -thousand inhabitants, made to resound as far as the southern -provinces, echoing even to Rome and to Florence, putting -in the place of any other project, initiative or work, this of -the carnival; nothing but the carnival—enthusiastically, -even deliriously.</p> - -<p>But, as at the bottom of all joyous things in this land of -Cockayne, there is an ever-flowing vein of bitterness. This -carnival, that turned all the gravest persons and things in -the town into fun and masquerade—this carnival was a -merciful thing. From autumn to January the damp, -grievous scirocco had blown in Naples' streets, overcoming -the energies of healthy people, and making invalids' maladies -worse. The winter crowd of foreigners was smaller than -usual. Many works had been stopped for a time, and those -just starting had been delayed, so that many poor people -slept on the church steps under San Francesco di Paola -portico and the Immacolata obelisk in Piazza Gesù. A -great wind of fasting had blown with the scirocco, so that -the official carnival, carried out by the desire of thousands, -was intended, if it succeeded, to satisfy for ten days at least -a lot of starving people, from shoe-binders to flower-makers, -from tailors to shop-clerks, from wandering salesmen to the -small shopkeepers. Twenty days' carnival!—that is to say, -ten days' bread, and a relish with it. The idea had been -taken up at once. All helped, even the least enterprising, -knowing they were putting out their money at good interest. -Carnival, carnival, in the streets and balconies, in the gateways -and houses!</p> - -<p>On that Shrovetide Thursday the damp winter scirocco -had got a spring softness. Toledo Road, where the carnival -spread from one end to the other, both in its popular and -fashionable form, had put on an extraordinary appearance. -All the big shops were shut. The tradesmen and -their ladies wished to enjoy the day's outing, also they were -nervous about their plate-glass windows. All the signs -were covered with linen or tow, as were the gas-lamps. As -to the common smaller shops, they had taken out the glass -and put up wooden platforms, and the owners, with their -friends and children, sat with a store of caraways, having -to do battle almost face to face with the people on the pavement; -but they bravely flourished their ladles all the same. -The balconies on the first floor were all differently draped -with bright, cheap muslins, put up with a few nails or pins, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span> -with a very Southern and rather barbarous love of gay -colours, some in the style of church decorations, blue, red, -white, and gold, some tucked back with big camellias, roses, -and dahlias, to make the balcony look like an alcove, an -actress's room, a saint's niche, or a wild beasts' show even. -The finest and smartest hangings began near Santa Brigida. -Some Swiss gentlemen had had a chalet put up in their -balcony, and the ladies wore simple, rather silly costumes, -with hair down, a big cap, and gold crosses at their necks. -Just after that, at Santa Brigida, a great man's natural son -had hung his balconies with dark-blue velvet, covered with -a silver net, which might represent the firmament, the -kingdom of the moon, or the sea, but, at any rate, it -surprised the good Naples folk. A balcony near the Conte -di Mola Lane was made into a kitchen, with a stove, kettle, -frying and stew pans, and eight or ten youths of good family -worked as cooks and scullions, with white caps and aprons. -A famous beautiful woman, whose beauty brought her -wealth and led her into deadly sin, had changed her balcony -into a Japanese hut, all stuffs and tapestries. Now and -then she appeared wrapped in flowing, soft robes, just -gathered in at the waist, with her black hair caught up in -a shiny knot held by pins, her eyebrows arched in an unvarying -look of surprise.</p> - -<p>The common people smiled admiringly as they passed. -They said, with their vague one idea of the East, 'The Turk, -the Turk!' All these balconies, draped from one end of the -street to the other, and the shop decorations, began to make -one dizzy with bright colours, firing the imagination, giving -that quick feeling of voluptuous joy Southerners get from -outside impressions. Towards eleven, wandering salesmen -began to go about, shrieking out their wares. They sold -little boxes of inferior sweets made in bright colours—red -bags, green and white boxes, lilac and yellow horns, carried -in big, flat baskets in one hand. They sold artificial flowers -also, made into sprays, cockades, and bunches, tied on to -long poles. Real flowers were sold, too—white camellias and -perfumed violets, from big baskets; also masks, ladles, linen -bags for caraways, red and yellow paper sunflowers, that -twirled round at every breath of wind like wild things. -They sold a bad quality of caraways, bought cheap, intended -to be sold dear in the blind, furious time of the battle.</p> - -<p>At mid-day the traffic in sweetmeat-boxes, flowers, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span> -musks, and windmills began. Already the crowd began to -fill the balconies and pavements, running up hurriedly from -all the side-streets. On the first-floor windows and balconies -a living, many-coloured hedge of women swayed -about. There was a shimmer of girlish forms brightly -dressed; their faces gently moved up and down like big -pink and white flower-heads, with a blood-red touch now -and then from an open parasol or scarlet hat. The balconies -and windows of the second story were filled with -still more excited people, whilst on the fourth children and -girls here and there had thought of letting down a basket -tied to a long bit of ribbon to fish with, smiling from above -on some courteous unknown, who put a flower, some sweets, -or a chocolate-box into the baskets of these smiling beings -so near the sky. The people increased everywhere. Traffic -with the hawkers went on from the balconies to the streets, -with loud discussions, offers, and rejections, making the -noise twice as great.</p> - -<p>Caraways were not to be thrown before two o'clock, by -the committee's express order, but some stray fights were -started already. At San Sepolcro corner a peasant nurse, -slowly swinging her petticoats, was fired at by some school-boys -at close quarters. A grave gentleman, in top-hat and -long great-coat, was violently assaulted in Carità Square. -He tried to go at them with his stick, but he was hissed. -Then he called for the police, announcing pompously he -was Cavaliere Domenico Mayer, a State functionary; but -the police would not help, saying it was carnival, and that -he should not tempt people with his top-hat. And then the -misanthropic Secretary of the Finance Department, full of -bitterness, had gone into the San Liborio Lane to escape. -A lady in a broad-brimmed hat, not able to move from one -spot in the pavement near San Giacomo, had a continuous -shower of caraways poured on her by a child on the third -story. She heard it fall on her felt and feathers without -daring to move or raise her head, in case she got the -caraways in her face.</p> - -<p>At two o'clock exactly a cannon-shot was heard in the -distance. Then there was a sigh of relief from one end of -Toledo to the other, from the street to the upper stories, and -the crowd swayed about.</p> - -<p>The four Rossi Palace balconies, first floor on the right, -looking into Toledo, were draped in blue and white linen, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span> -caught back by big red camellias. Luisella Fragalà and her -guests had thought of white and blue dominoes, with high, -ridiculous hats and red cockades, and all the Naddeos, all -the Durantes, all the Antonaccis, fat or thin, young or -old, wore dominoes made in the house themselves to save -their clothes from white powder, and, according to them, -give an elegant look to the balcony. Some looked like big -bundles, others like long ghosts; but the carnival madness -had overcome these middle-class women. Besides all, trade -was flourishing in these days. So many goods were sold; -the men came back to the house in high good-humour, whilst -all winter had been one complaint, and economy had got -narrower and harder to bear. How happy they were, all these -placid, industrious little women! In this time of carnival -excitement they could share, in their blue and white fancy -dresses and red cockades. Luisella Fragalà had thought -out the costume, and that monkey Carmela Naddeo took up -the idea at once and made others follow suit. They were -all there, ladles in hand, guessing what sort of carriages -were to appear, exaggerating, contradicting, shrieking, -laughing, hanging over the railings to see if any carriages -were coming round by the Museum. Only sometimes a -cloud came over Luisella Fragalà's face; some unhappy -thought was behind her brown eyes. Perhaps she was -troubled by the thought that the balcony hangings would -be spoilt by the confetti. Perhaps she would have liked to -keep the shop open even on that profitable Carnival Thursday, -her love of selling having instinctively grown so great, -as if by that alone she saw a chance of being saved from -imminent peril. Perhaps she secretly regretted Cesare -Fragalà's absence. He was often away lately, and had -disappeared early that Thursday, too. But these clouds -were fleeting. Luisella was going about from one balcony -to another with her hood down, vainly looking for places for -the Mayer family, who had come without being invited. -All quietly snubbed them, so as not to give up their places, -saying to each other that the mother and daughter had no -dominoes, and they made a false note on the balcony. They -set themselves in the third row, the mother, as usual, rheumatic, -and wrapped in flannel to the finger-tips; the girl's -big eyes still dully misanthropic, as were her swollen, discoloured -lips; the brother, as usual, very hungry.</p> - -<p>'We will not get even a chocolate-box,' they grumbled -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span> -one after the other, muttering with their unending rage -against humanity.</p> - -<p>But the great carnival wave, with ever-increasing force, -swallowed up their rage against mankind also. The noise -among the carriages got tremendous. The confetti war had -begun between them and the pony-carts, done up with -myrtle as an attempt at decoration, all being well filled -with masqueraders of both sexes dressed in bright-coloured -calicoes. The Parascandolos, who lived on the other side -of the Rossi Palace, kept their balcony shut, for the Signora -considered herself in mourning; but Don Gennaro Parascandolo, -in a Russian linen dust-cloak and cap, with a -bag of sweets hung round his neck, after walking along -Toledo, greeted from hundreds of balconies, where his past, -present, and future clients were, had gone to his club at -Santa Brigida, and from there, amid a group of young and -old boon companions, made a life of it, as they said there. -They joked about him, asked him how many cars he had -lent money for, and if it was true his collection of bills -was increased by many princely autographs. Ninetto -Costa, the smart, lucky stock-broker, who had his own -reasons for making a fuss with him, said, to flatter him, -that not a handful of caraways was thrown that day he -was not interested in either providing or scattering. Don -Gennaro Parascandolo laughed paternally, not denying it. -He answered those who asked him for coppers as a joke, -'I have had to get the loan of forty pounds from a friend to -hold carnival with.' Others around shouted, whistled, but -always flattered him. One never knew when one might -fall into his hands. He stood out among them all by his -great height and the little cap oddly set on his big head, -throwing ladlefuls of caraways at the carriages and pony-carts.</p> - -<p>Slovenly, in her black dress, grown greenish, and her torn -shawl-fringe, Carmela the cigar-maker had set herself at the -corner of D'Affitto Lane, looking at the passing carriages -with her hollow eyes, her fine fresh mouth working impatiently, -the only feature that was still young in her worn -face. Handfuls, ladlefuls of caraways often new from the -balconies and the street, frequently hitting her face or back; -but she only moved a little to avoid it, smiling at the annoyance, -and cleaned her face with a corner of her shawl.</p> - -<p>She was waiting there to see her lover, Raffaele, called -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span> -Farfariello, pass. He was in a carriage with four others, -all dressed alike; and, indeed, to get this dress, she had -had to sell some copper pans, a chest of drawers, and two -long branches of artificial flowers under a glass case, all -things she was keeping for her marriage. How it tore her -heart to sell these things, bought bit by bit by dint of hard -saving!</p> - -<p>But Raffaele had insisted on having forty francs—blood -from a snail—because he was in despair at making a poor -appearance among his friends; and she, getting white when -she heard him swear, had sold all these things, and, like a -fool, was quite pleased at heart when she handed him the -money, because he had smiled and promised to take her and -her mother to an inn at Campo the last Carnival Sunday if -she took as much as even an <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">ambo</i> on Saturday. She, quite -proud of this fantastic promise, kept down her heart's -bitterness, and went as slovenly as a beggar that carnival -day, her hair falling on her neck, without a sou in her -pocket, to see her handsome lover passing proudly in a -carriage, smoking a Naples cigar, in new clothes and hat on -one side, with that intensely indifferent look characteristic -of the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">guappo</i>, or aspirants to it. She waited patiently, -thinking only of him, not caring about her day's work, as -there was a holiday at the factory. She quietly bore all the -pushing about that noon-day carnival that she took no part -in, for she was wrapped up like a Buddhist in contemplation -of her lover.</p> - -<p>On the people went, on foot and in carriages, through the -clouds of caraways, flowers, chocolates, through the shower -of coloured paper from the upper stories, where, as they -were not able to take part in the caraway war, they amused -themselves in that way. The noise got clamorous, swaying -about sonorously, rising to the skies that gentle scirocco day.</p> - -<p>Carmela, confused by the noise and wild sights that noon-day, -when Naples' rejoicing became epic, screwed up her -eyes, not to lose sight of the two-horse carriages going along -at a foot-pace, white with powder. Now and then one of -the large cars appeared. There was the Parthenope Siren, -a huge, pink lady with blonde hair hanging down. She was -made of cardboard, and the body ended up in blue waves. -This Siren was dragged along on a car full of men dressed -as fish—oysters, carp, bull-heads. One car represented a -merchant-vessel, a Tartana. The ship had rigging and sailors -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span> -dressed in pink and white stripes, also in blue and white -with long red caps. There was a car with eight or ten -Jacks-in-the-box, from which gentlemen dressed in satin -burst out in the midst of flowers. On one car all the -Neapolitan masks were shown: Pulcinella, Tartaglia, Don -Nicolai, Columbrina, Barilotto the clown, the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">guappo</i>, the -old woman—even to the newest mask of a pretentious, fast -youth, Don Felice Scioscimocca.</p> - -<p>When these cars passed, very slowly, almost quivering -on their wheels, showering down caraway, confetti, and -presents, they were much applauded. The Siren excited -rather risky jokes; the Tartana was thought picturesque; -the Jacks-in-the-box luxurious and smart; and the Naples -masks were hailed with shouts of recognition and quick-flying -dialogues from all the balconies in dialect, which the -masks replied to in a lively way. There was one swaying -movement from the top to the bottom of Toledo, both in -the balconies and the crowds round the carriages.</p> - -<p>Carmela looked and looked. She saw the two sisters -Concetta and Caterina, pass in a carriage, the horses covered -with flowers stuck in the shiny brass harness. She owed -Donna Concetta thirty-five francs since ever so long, and -managed to give her a few francs now and then just for -interest, and she had often staked on the <em>small game</em> with -Donna Caterina when she had not enough money for the -Government Lottery, or, perhaps, only one penny left. -The sisters were in full dress, the hair done up like a trophy -on the top of the head with gold chains, and they wore -heavy necklaces, pearl earrings, thick rings, keeping up their -usual discreet, severe expression, casting oblique glances, and -pursing up their lips. Two men were with them in workmen's -Sunday attire, with shiny long hair, hat over the ear, in -black jackets, with a spent cigar in a corner of the mouth. -The four, silent and solemn, looked at each other now and -then with serious, pleased glances of gratified pride, shaking -their heads to get rid of the caraways off their hat-brims, -smiling at the people who threw them. They looked to -right and left haughtily, just like rich, common people.</p> - -<p>Carmela bit her lips on seeing the two calm, ferocious -heapers-up of other people's money, but immediately after -the usual words came from her heart to her lips:</p> - -<p>'It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter.'</p> - -<p>But a very original car was coming down from the top of -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span> -Toledo, raising a colossal laugh, from right to left, up and -down. It was a great bed, with a bright pink cotton quilt, -such as are used in Naples. It had an open canopy, with -images of the Virgin and patron saints on the hangings. In -bed, tucked in with white sheets, were two people, with huge -pasteboard heads, one an old man in a night-cap, the other -an old woman in a mob-cap. Very caressing, affected old -people; they nodded their great heads, pulled the coverlids -from each other with that selfish, shivering habit old people -have; offering snuff to each other, bowing, sneezing, and -stretching themselves out; greeting people in the balconies, -thanking them for the shower of caraways they got, and -shaking them off the bed-clothes. It was not found out who -they were, but they displayed that familiar caricature—a -corner of a bedroom—without anyone thinking it too risky; -for Southerners are used to sleeping in the open air, they -live so much in public in this warm, easy-going country.</p> - -<p>What about it? Everyone laughed. Even the people -in Don Crescenzio's shop at Nunzio Corner, just beyond -Carità Passage, laughed. It was really the lottery bank, -No. 117, a shop usually shut from Saturday at noon till -Tuesday, the crush beginning on Thursday up to Saturday -at twelve o'clock.</p> - -<p>Don Crescenzio, the lottery banker, a handsome man, -with a red beard, worked there with his two lads, who were -anything but lads: one, an old man of seventy, bent, half-blind, -his nose always on the gambling register, made people -say their lottery numbers three times, to make no mistakes, -and wrote them very, very slowly. The other was a colourless -type of no particular age; his face had undecided lines, -his beard was an indefinite colour, one of those queer beings -that are employed as witnesses by ushers, as middlemen at -the pawn-shop, as distributors of handbills, and agents for -furnished rooms. Don Crescenzio lorded it over his two -<em>young men</em>. That Thursday he had quite changed his shop, -putting up a gallery in it draped in white and crimson, to -which he invited his best customers. Yes, they were all -there, those that came every week to put down the best of -their income—money hardly earned, either snatched from -domestic economies, or got by cunning expedient, bold at -first, and then shameful.</p> - -<p>All were there at the lottery shop, turned into a stand. -The Marquis di Formosa, Don Carlo Cavalcanti, with his -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span> -lordly air; Dr. Trifari, red of face, hair, and beard, bloated -as if he were going to burst, a suspicious look in his false -blue eyes; Professor Colaneri, more than ever that day, -clearly showed the indelible marks of a priest who has given -up the Church; then Ninetto Costa, come from his club in -Don Gennaro Parascandolo's company, felt drawn by a -powerful, irresistible desire to his haunt; and other eight or -ten—a court judge, a steward of a princely house, a sickly -painter of saints, and Cozzolino the barber, who was a great -Cabalist, down to the shoeblack Michele, in a corner on the -ground, a hunchback and lame, his wrinkled old face full of -irrestrained passion; beside him was Gaetano, the glove-cutter, -more worn and pale than before, his eyes burning -with discontent, uneasiness in every line of his face. Don -Crescenzio's clients held their carnival in the shop dear to -their ruling passion, and as they were tormented to buy -caraways, they, too, threw them at the carriages, but -mostly at the passers-by, among whom they found acquaintances -sometimes. No one was surprised to see such -different sorts of people together—a Marquis, a stock-broker, -a court judge, a doctor, a professor, down to a workman. -Carnival, carnival! The gentle popular madness had -seized all brains; the warmish day, the bright colours, the -whims in the thousands of vehicles passing, the clamour of -a hundred thousand people overpowered even those suffering -from another fever, which was pushed back for a time into -a corner of the mind.</p> - -<p>When Cesare Fragalà passed on foot, laughing and -shouting, in a Russia-linen dust-cloak and travelling-cap, -two long bags of caraways at his sides, which he emptied -against balconies of his acquaintance and went filling again -at every corner of the street from wandering salesmen, -joking with everyone, fat, strong, and jovial, needing an -outlet to his spirits—when he passed before Don Crescenzio's -shop there was a chorus of greetings. Under the -Rossi Palace, before his own balconies, he had already had -half an hour's fight from below with his wife and her friends. -Luisella, Carmela Naddeo, the Durantes, and the Antonaccis -had thought Cesare's idea so original and he so charming that -they had knocked him down by dint of caraway showers; he -had been obliged to run away, laughing, keeping down his -head, pulling his cap over his ears. There were noisy greetings, -therefore, from Don Crescenzio's shop, and calls for him -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span> -to come in. Was he not a customer, too, always hopeful of -getting eighty thousand francs hard cash to open a shop in -San Ferdinando? But Cesare was too satisfied wandering -about alone, laughing and shrieking with everyone, buffeted -by the caraways, red, panting with health and fun.</p> - -<p>He went among the carts and carriages, borne by the -crowd, through a burst of excitement, which the time of day -made keener. The quietest did silly things now. Those -standing on the cars, at first only merry, looked like so many -demons. Raffaele, nicknamed Farfariello, loving Carmela's -betrothed, passed in a carriage; to be seen better, he and his -friends had made up their minds to sit on the roof. From -there they waved white silk handkerchiefs, tied to sticks like -flags, at the crowd. Alas! he did not see her, the girl who -waited so many hours for him at the corner of D'Affitto Lane. -She, having cried out, waved her arms and a bit of white -stuff, felt stunned at the neglect, but whispered to herself as -a consolation, 'It does not matter.'</p> - -<p>But she still stayed there, hemmed in by that growing -carnival frenzy. A thicker crowd closed in under the -balcony where the lovely lady dressed as a Japanese was. -She, getting excited, began to send down a shower of confetti -by handfuls and boxfuls, as if she had a store in the -house, a servant handing them to her. A shout of rogues -and enthusiastic common folk rose to the skies, whilst she -from above, quite serious, but a pink flame in her cheeks, -recklessly flung down confetti, sweets, and chocolate-boxes. -On the balcony draped with blue and silver net, the exalted -personage's son had thought of the joke of tying a bottle of -champagne, a game pie or a big chocolate-box, to a long -rod, and letting it down to the level of the crowd's outstretched -hands, pulling it up, dancing it about, amidst the -longing cries, uplifted hands, and open mouths of the people -below, until a shout of triumph announced some lucky one -had carried off the prize of the new Cockayne. The rod -was pulled up, and the young fellows, who had taken a mad -fancy to the game, tied on some other eatable or drinkable—a -bottle of bourdeaux, a cheese wrapped in silver paper, or -a bag of confetti, and the game started again, with an unutterable -row and obstruction to traffic. The men in the -cars now, having taken in new stores as the evening went -on, danced, sang, and threw things, behaving like demons.</p> - -<p>It was at this most exciting time of the day that a new -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span> -cart came out from a side-street of Toledo, arriving late, -the horses drawing it at a foot-pace. It was queer and -fantastic, being a philosopher's chemical laboratory, where -a wretched old Faust sat cursing all human things in a -frozen, melancholy way. It formed a dark room, with two -shelves of books, a furnace, and an alchemist's retort, and -there was an open Koran on a carved wooden desk. A -bent old man in a black velvet skull-cap, with a long -yellowy-white beard, tottered about the car, throwing boxes -of sweets shaped like books, retorts, alembics, furnaces, to -the crowd in the streets and balconies, each having a figure -of Mephistopheles. But they were good sweets. Then a -chimerical touch got into the carnival fury. The sorcerer's -car seemed quite supernatural. The old man, whom the -laughing women in the balconies called the Devil, his bald -head in the skull-cap quivering, threw out things, magically -producing them from beneath the car. Now and then amid -the clamour of the populace a shrill voice called out to the -decrepit sorcerer, 'Give us lottery numbers! give us tips!'</p> - -<p>Having got to San Ferdinando, Faust's car turned to go -back the same way up Toledo, when a most curious, indescribable -thing happened. The old man took out of a -copper alembic, beside the boxes of sweets, long, narrow -strips of yellow paper and threw them to the crowd, who -rushed furiously on them. A shout went before, and -followed Faust's car, 'These are <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">storni, storni</i>!'</p> - -<p>To carry out a new, splendid, eccentric generosity pleasing -to the people, the old man threw lottery-tickets of two or -three numbers, ready paid for next Saturday, at two sous -each. They are called <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">storni</i>. He nobly threw handfuls of -them to the people, laughing in his thick, white beard, forgetting -he was old, holding his head back with ferocious -gaiety.</p> - -<p>What a shout everywhere, from the streets and windows -up to the sky paling at sunset! What a lengthened shout -of desire and enthusiasm! The whole population raised -their hands and arms as if to seize the promised land. They -cast themselves on the ground and kicked each other, so as -to snatch a lottery-ticket, with its conditional promise of -ten or two hundred francs gain. What joyous excitement -among men, women, boys, rich and poor, needy and comfortably -off! What an irresistible rush, that from holy fear -respected the sorcerer's car; they made a triumph for him -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span> -of glorious shouts from one end of Toledo to the other! -But when he had thrown ten thousand tickets to the -crowd he disappeared, no one knew where or how.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Antonio Amati met Margherita the maid on the staircase -as she was going in, too, rather tired. Brusquely, as if he -would have preferred not to speak, perhaps, he asked her:</p> - -<p>'How is your mistress?'</p> - -<p>'She is better,' the old domestic said in a low voice. -'Why have you not been to see her, sir?'</p> - -<p>'I have a lot to do,' the doctor muttered, without, however, -knocking at his door.</p> - -<p>'That is true; but you are so kind, sir.'</p> - -<p>'And then there was no need of me,' he added in a hesitating -tone.</p> - -<p>'Who can tell?' Margherita retorted in a still lower and -mysterious voice. 'Why don't you come in now, sir?'</p> - -<p>'I will come,' he said, with his head down, as if he was -giving in to a superior will.</p> - -<p>She put a key in the lock and opened it, going before -the doctor into the quiet house, right on to the drawing-room, -and he, though accustomed to keep down his own -impressions, felt at once the cold silence and emptiness of -the big room. He found the girl in black before him, -smiling vaguely, holding out her hand—a long, cold, tiny -one, which he kept a minute in his, more as a doctor than -a friend.</p> - -<p>'Are you quite well again?'</p> - -<p>He spoke in a low voice, feeling the oppressive surroundings.</p> - -<p>'Not altogether,' she said in her clear, tired voice. 'I -had another fainting-fit one night; but very short—at least, -I think so.'</p> - -<p>'Did no one come to your help?' he said regretfully.</p> - -<p>'No; no one knew about it; it was at night, in my own -room.... It doesn't matter,' she added, with a slight smile.</p> - -<p>'Why did you not go to the country?'</p> - -<p>'My father hates the country,' she said. 'I will not -leave him here alone.'</p> - -<p>'But why do you not go out? It is carnival to-day; -why did you not go to see it? Do you want to die of -melancholy?'</p> - -<p>'Signora Fragalà did ask me, but I hardly know her. I -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span> -think I would have had to wear a mask. My father does not -like such things; he is right.'</p> - -<p>She spoke in a gentle, pretty voice, with a tired sound in -it. Amati, who had been working all that day by sick-beds -while others enjoyed the carnival, felt rested by that -harmonious voice and the tired, delicate calmness of the -young girl. They were alone, facing each other—around -them was a great silence; they hardly looked at each other, -but they spoke as if their souls had long lived together, in -joy and sorrow.</p> - -<p>'Where were you a little ago?' Antonio Amati asked -brusquely.</p> - -<p>'I was in the chapel,' Bianca Maria answered, taking no -offence at the question.</p> - -<p>'Do you pray a great deal?'</p> - -<p>'Not enough,' she replied, raising her eyes heavenwards.</p> - -<p>'Why do you pray so much?'</p> - -<p>'I must do it.'</p> - -<p>'You don't sin,' the unbeliever muttered, trying to make -a joke of it.</p> - -<p>'One never knows,' she said gravely. 'One must pray -for those that don't pray themselves.'</p> - -<p>So saying, she gave him a passing glance. He bent his -head.</p> - -<p>'You spend too many hours in the cold church. It will -do you harm.'</p> - -<p>'I don't think so; and, then, what does it matter?'</p> - -<p>'Don't say that,' interrupting her quickly.</p> - -<p>'Few things can hurt me,' she replied in a tone he understood -and did not want to inquire into.</p> - -<p>'Let us go and see the carnival from Signora Fragalà's -windows. She asked me, too;' and he got up promptly to -carry her off.</p> - -<p>'Let us stay here,' Bianca gently retorted. 'Here at -least there is peace. Don't you think this calm and silence -good for one, too?'</p> - -<p>'You are right,' Amati owned, sitting down again quite -subdued.</p> - -<p>'My father has gone out with his friends to see the -carnival,' she went on quietly. 'Everyone in the palace is -out on the balconies that look on Toledo; no noise reaches -here, you see.'</p> - -<p>They looked at each other frankly. That strange hour -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span> -of unconsciousness, when he saved her, and she knew he -was saving her, had set up something like an inward life -between them. What she felt was a humble need of protection, -help, and counsel; his feeling was a very tender pity. -He could not keep back a question that rose to his mind.</p> - -<p>'Is it true you wish to be a nun?' he asked in rather a -choked voice.</p> - -<p>'I would like it,' she said simply.</p> - -<p>'Why should you?'</p> - -<p>'Just because,' she replied with a woman's favourite -answer.</p> - -<p>'Why should you be a nun? No one wants to be a -nun nowadays. Why should you do it?'</p> - -<p>'Because, if there is one single person in the world that -should go into a convent, it is I; because I have neither -desires, nor hopes, nor anything before me. As that is so, -you see, I must at least have prayer across this void desert -and the desolation that comes before death.'</p> - -<p>'Don't say that—don't say it!' he implored, as if for -the first time fatality had breathed on his energy and -destroyed it.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span></p> - -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VI</h2> - -<p class="p2">DONNA CATERINA AND DONNA CONCETTA</p> - - -<p>The two sisters, Donnas Caterina and Concetta, were -sitting opposite each other at the dinner-table. They were -eating silently, with their eyes down; and occasionally they -bent down to wipe their lips on a corner of the tablecloth -that was all marked with bluish wine. A large deep-rimmed -dish stood on the table between the two, full of macaroni -cooked in oil, salted anchovies, and garlic, all fried lightly in -an earthen pan and thrown over the boiling pasta; the two -women plunged their forks now and then into the shiny oily -macaroni, put some in their plates, and began to eat again. -There was a big loaf of white underbaked bread, too—the -<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">tortano</i>: they broke off bits with their hands to eat the -macaroni with. A greeny-blue glass bottle full of reddish -wine, that made bluish reflections, stood on the tablecloth; -big glasses, and a salt-cellar, also of glass—nothing else. -The sisters used leaden forks, and coarse knives with black -handles; they sometimes broke off a bit of bread and dipped -it in the fried oil at the bottom of the dish. Caterina, who -was the roughest and saw fewest people—she lived furtively -almost—put her bread into the macaroni dressing with her -fingers; Concetta, who was more refined, from always -going about and seeing people, put the bread neatly on her -fork to dip it in the garlic, and nibbled at it after examining -it. At one point, indeed, Concetta, finding a burnt bit of -garlic, put it aside with a frown. Otherwise the sisters were -exactly alike in gestures, way of speaking, and style of -dress, though not so much so in features. Both had their -hair dressed by the same woman at two sous each: it was -drawn up to the top of the head, the coil fastened by big -sham tortoise-shell pins, and the fringe slightly powdered -over the forehead. Both wore the dress of well-to-do Naples -common folk—a petticoat with no jacket, merely a trimmed -bodice, that keeps the Spanish name <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">baschina</i>; and they -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span> -never went without a thick gold chain round the neck—it -was the sign of their great power—and they wore high felt -boots, with noisy wooden heels. It being dinner-hour, -they had left their usual work—a great coverlet of calico, -pink one side and green the other, stuffed with cotton-wool—stretched -over a big loom, where they stitched at it in -wheels, stars, and lozenges, working quickly, one on each -side of it, their heads down and noses on the pattern, pulling -the needle out and in monotonously. The loom was pushed -into a corner; the displaced chairs were noticeable. Now -a little servant of fourteen came in, red-haired, white-faced, -and marked with freckles, carrying the second course—a -bit of Basilicata cheese, like a dry cream cheese, called -<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">provola</i>, and two big sticks of celery. She glanced at Donna -Caterina to know what to do with the macaroni left in the -dish.</p> - -<p>'Keep two bits for Menichella,' said the holder of the -<em>small game</em>, as she cut a big slice of cheese.</p> - -<p>'Yes, ma'am,' the girl said as she went out.</p> - -<p>Menichella was a poor old thing of sixty; her son, in the -Municipal Guard, had been killed in a fight with Camorrists -in Pignasecca Square by a revolver-shot in the stomach. -She lived on alms, and every Friday arrived at the Esposito -sisters' house, where she got a hot dish, half a loaf of bread, -and some scraps. The Espositos did this out of devotion -to our lovely Lady of Sorrows, whose day is Friday. On -Wednesday they gave the same alms to a blind beggar -called Guarattelle, because for many years he kept a puppet-show; -this charity they dedicated to the Virgin of the -Carmine, Wednesday being her day. On Monday, too, -they fed a deserted boy of ten, that the whole Rosariello di -Porta Medina Road were taken up about and fed, while the -Esposito sisters helped him that one day for the sake of -souls in Purgatory, their day being Monday. A beggar -seldom knocked at their door any day without getting something. -'Do it for St. Joseph; his day has come round.' -'The Holy Trinity be praised! to-day is Sunday; give -alms.' Something to eat, a glass of wine, some scraps, -beggars always carried off—money never. The sisters had -too great a respect for sous to give them away. It was -better charity, they explained, to give food, than encourage -vice by giving money.</p> - -<p>The beggars stayed on the landing; the sisters never let -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span> -them in, fearing always for the valuables in the house; they -used to carry out the dish of macaroni, vegetables, or salad. -Sometimes the beggar ate it on the stairs, muttering blessings. -They had now eaten the smoked cheese and bread, -slowly, moving their jaws rather voluptuously, tearing the -celery off in strips, and munching it noisily, like fruit, to -take the taste of oil out of their mouths. When they were -done, they kept still for a little, gazing at the blue stains on -the tablecloth, with their hands in their laps, silently digesting -and making long mental calculations, as women of -business. The servant-girl, Peppina, carried off everything -in a trice; the clatter of her old shoes was heard in the -kitchen next door, as she went backwards and forwards to -wash a few plates, stopping now and then to turn her -macaroni in the pan; she had set it to fry again, seeing it -was cold.</p> - -<p>Now the sisters got up, shook the crumbs out of their -laps, and went to take their place at the loom again, -bending over it, the right hand, covered with rings, rising -methodically, the left held under the loom, to stitch through. -There was a ring at the bell; the sisters glanced at each -other, and quickly took up their work. Besides what they -earned from it, it served as a screen, morally and physically.</p> - -<p>Two girls, dressmakers, came in, pushing each other -forward. The first, the bolder, was Antonietta, who worked -with a dressmaker in Santa Chiara Street, the same that -went to buy lunch for Nannina and herself at the wine-seller's -opposite the lottery office. Both of them were, -wretchedly dressed, in poor woollen skirts, a gaudy but -shabby jacket of another colour, and a little black shawl, -which they liked to let slip down on their arms, to show -their bust; a bunch of red ribbon was tied at the neck. -Nannina, the smallest, was a relation of the Espositos; -she had a holy terror of her aunts, with their money -and jewels, for they always received her with pensive -and intentional coldness. Still, they let her kiss their -hands.</p> - -<p>The two girls were still standing near the loom, looking -on at this alert industry as if they were put out.</p> - -<p>'Have you not gone to work to-day?' Donna Caterina -asked Nannina.</p> - -<p>'I have been at it,' the girl at once volubly answered, -being prodded by Antonietta's elbow. 'But our mistress -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span> -sent us to buy some things near here, and, as this friend of -mine wants to ask a favour from you, we came....'</p> - -<p>'Who do you want this favour from?' said Donna -Concetta, raising her head from her work.</p> - -<p>'From you, aunt,' stammered the niece.</p> - -<p>'You don't say so!' her aunt exclaimed, in an ironical -tone, smiling and shaking her head.</p> - -<p>The girls said nothing; they looked at each other: from -the start the thing was going badly.</p> - -<p>Caterina, as she took no interest in the subject now, cut -the tacking with a pair of scissors, where it had been already -stitched, which covered her maroon bodice with white -threads.</p> - -<p>'Have you lost your tongues? What is it about?' -Donna Concetta asked, laughing.</p> - -<p>'Well, now I will tell you, ma'am,' the blonde began, -biting her lips to make them red. 'I would like a new -dress for Easter, a pair of boots, and cotton to make -three or four chemises. If I was frugal, and made them -myself, after my day's work is done, forty francs would do. -I have not got it; it would take a year to save it. Knowing -you are good and kind to poor folk, I had an idea you -might lend me these forty francs.'</p> - -<p>'It was not a good idea of yours,' said the money-lender -freezingly.</p> - -<p>'Why? I can pay off the debt at so much a week. I -earn twenty-five sous a day; I don't owe a penny to -anyone. Ask Nannina; she is my guarantee.'</p> - -<p>'Nannina ought to find a security for herself,' Donna -Concetta grumbled. 'But why do you need this dress? -Is what you have on not enough? If one has no money, -get no dresses. When my sister and I had no means, we -got no clothes. You are all mad, you girls, nowadays!'</p> - -<p>'Aunt, aunt, do her this favour; she has a lover, and she -is ashamed to go ill-dressed,' the niece begged for her friend.</p> - -<p>'I have had a lover too,' Donna Concetta answered; 'he -was not ashamed when I was ill-dressed.'</p> - -<p>'Men nowadays are quite different,' Antonietta murmured. -'So do me this favour.'</p> - -<p>'I don't know you, my dear.'</p> - -<p>'I work for Cristina Gagliardi, at No. 18, Santa Chiara, -the first-floor. I live at No. 3, Strettola di Porto; you can -make inquiries.'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span></p> - -<p>Silence followed, and the girls again gave each other an -alarmed look.</p> - -<p>'At most—at most,' said Donna Concetta, looking up, 'I -can give you stuff to make a dress on credit, and cotton for -the chemises.... I will ask a merchant that knows me—a -good man; but you will pay dearer for your clothes.'</p> - -<p>'No matter, it doesn't matter,' Antonietta quickly interrupted; -'do so.'</p> - -<p>'What colour is the stuff to be?' Donna Concetta asked -maternally.</p> - -<p>'Navy blue or bottle green; I like navy blue best.'</p> - -<p>'It will suit you best—navy blue; you look well in it,' -said Nannina, in an important way.</p> - -<p>'It does not discolour so easily,' Donna Concetta settled -it by saying. 'How many yards do you need?'</p> - -<p>The girl counted to herself, moved her fingers as if she -was measuring, looked at her figure, and counted over -again.</p> - -<p>'Ten metres—yes, that would be enough.'</p> - -<p>'Ten metres; Jesus! so you want to be in the fashion.'</p> - -<p>'Donna Concetta, be forbearing,' Antonietta answered -smilingly.</p> - -<p>'Very good—very good; for each chemise four metres is -needed—sixteen in all.'</p> - -<p>'And the shoes?' the girl asked hesitatingly.</p> - -<p>'I know no shoemaker, my dear.'</p> - -<p>'You will give me the rest of the forty francs in money?' -the sewing girl risked saying.</p> - -<p>'Listen, my dear,' said Donna Concetta: 'I am going -to-morrow, or Saturday, to the dressmaker's to ask if you -really get over a franc a day, and if you have taken any -money in advance. Then I'll arrange with the dressmaker -that, instead of giving you your whole pay for the week, she -keeps back two francs for me as interest on the forty francs.'</p> - -<p>'Two francs?' the girl cried out, alarmed at this long -story.</p> - -<p>'Of course. I should get four, a sou a week for each -franc; but you are a poor girl, and I really wish to help -you. The dressmaker gives me the two francs for interest. -You pay off the rest of the debt as it suits you, five or -three francs at a time. Do you understand?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, ma'am, yes,' the terrified girl cried out.</p> - -<p>'The quicker you pay the better for you, and it will suit -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span> -me. However, I warn you, if you were to get the dressmaker -to pay you in advance, go away, or play any trick of -the kind, I'll come to you, my dear, and let you see who -Concetta Esposito is. I would think nothing of going to the -galleys for my heart's blood.... Have I made it plain?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, ma'am, yes,' Antonietta stammered, with tears in -her eyes.</p> - -<p>'There is still time for you not to do it,' Donna Concetta -ended up icily, bending down again to stitch the coverlet.</p> - -<p>'No, no!' the girl screamed out—'whatever you like. -Promise me to come to-morrow to Santa Chiara Road.'</p> - -<p>'We see each other to-morrow,' said Donna Concetta, -taking leave of her.</p> - -<p>'You will bring the things and the money?'</p> - -<p>'I must think over it.'</p> - -<p>'Good-bye, aunt,' Nannina murmured, pale and more -frightened than her friend.</p> - -<p>'The Virgin go with you,' answered the Espositos in a -chorus, beginning to work again.</p> - -<p>The girls went off quite silently, with their heads down, -not able to speak or smile. A woman coming up, hurriedly, -knocked against them; and with a quick 'Excuse me!' she -went to ring at the Espositos' door. It was Carmela, the -cigar-girl, with her big, sorrowful eyes and worn face. -Before going into the house she sighed deeply, and her face -flushed.</p> - -<p>'May I come in?' she said from the lobby, in a weak voice.</p> - -<p>'Come in,' was the answer from inside. 'Is it you, good -soul?' said Concetta, on recognising her; 'are you really -come to give me back that money? your conscience pricked -you at last? Give it over here.'</p> - -<p>'You are joking, Donna Concetta,' said the poor thing, -with a pale smile. 'If I had thirty-four francs, I would -give as many leaps in the air.'</p> - -<p>'It is thirty-seven and a half francs, with last week's -interest,' the money-lender coldly corrected her.</p> - -<p>'As you like: who is denying it? As you say, it is thirty-seven -and a half, I am sure you are right.'</p> - -<p>'You have brought the interest, at least?'</p> - -<p>'Nothing, nothing,' the girl said desperately, holding -down her head. 'I am eaten up by misery: I have got to -earning a franc and a half a day; now I might live like a -lady, but——'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Why do you waste your money?' asked Donna Concetta, -giving in to her fad of preaching prudence to her debtors. -'You are a beast, that is what you are!'</p> - -<p>'But why,' Carmela cried out desperately—'why should I -not give a bit of bread to my old mother? When my sister -is dying of hunger with her three children, and one of them -wasting away piteously, can I refuse her half a franc? -When my brother-in-law, Gaetano, has nothing to smoke, -for all his vices, should I deny him a few sous? With what -heart could I do it?'</p> - -<p>'It is Raffaele that sucks you out—it is Raffaele!' the -money-lender sang out, threading a needle with red cotton.</p> - -<p>'What about that?' the girl cried out, throwing out her -arms; 'he was born to be a gentleman. In the meanwhile, -if I don't pay the landlord on Monday, he will turn me out. -I owe him thirty francs: but I might at least give him ten! -If you would just do me this charity!'</p> - -<p>'You are mad, my dear.'</p> - -<p>'Donna Concetta, what are ten francs to you? I'll give -them back, you know: I have never taken a farthing from -anyone. Don't have me thrown on the streets, ma'am. Do -it for the sake of your dead in paradise!'</p> - -<p>'No, no, no!' sang out the seamstress.</p> - -<p>'Listen, look here,' the other went on sorrowfully: 'these -earrings I am wearing my godmother paid seventeen francs -for; I give them to you—I have nothing else. You will give -me them back when I give you the ten francs.'</p> - -<p>'I never take a pawn,' Donna Concetta replied, glancing -at the earrings.</p> - -<p>'But it is not a pawn; it is a favour you are doing me. -If I were to pawn it, I would get five or six francs; they -would take the interest beforehand, with the money for the -ticket, the box, and the witness, and only three or four francs -would be left. Do it only this once, ma'am—the Virgin -from heaven preserve you!' She convulsively took out her -rather worn earrings, rubbed them with a corner of her apron, -and put them gently on the coverlet, still looking at them -earnestly, taking leave of them. Donna Concetta took them -with a scornful grimace, and glanced at her sister, who just -raised her head and signed 'Yes,' with a wink. Donna -Concetta got up stiffly; without saying anything, she carried -the earrings into the next room, where the sisters slept; a -noise of keys in locks was heard, an opening and shutting -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span> -of strong boxes, with silent intervals. Then Donna Concetta -came in again. She carried two rolls of yellow paper in her -hand.</p> - -<p>'They are sous: count them,' she said shortly, putting -them down before Carmela.</p> - -<p>'It does not matter-they are sure to be right,' said the -poor little thing, trembling with emotion. 'The Eternal -Father should give it back to you in health, the kindness -you do me.'</p> - -<p>'Very good,' Donna Concetta finished up with, sitting -down again to work. 'But I warn you I'll sell the earrings -if you don't pay.'</p> - -<p>'Never fear,' Carmela murmured as she went off.</p> - -<p>For a little the sisters were alone, stitching.</p> - -<p>'The earrings are worth twelve francs in gold,' said -Caterina. She had sharp ears.</p> - -<p>'Yes,' said Concetta; 'but Carmela will pay; she is a -good girl.'</p> - -<p>Again they heard the bell tinkle.</p> - -<p>'It sounds like the midwife's bell,' Caterina remarked.</p> - -<p>A dragging noise was heard, the sound of a box put down -in the corner of the stair, and Michele, the shoeblack, came -in with his hip up, as if he was still carrying his block. He -greeted them in the Spanish style, saying, 'La vostra buona -grazia' (I am your humble servant), whilst the thousand -wrinkles on his rickety boy's face, grown old, seemed to -breathe out malice. The sisters looked patiently at him, -waiting till he spoke.</p> - -<p>'Gaetano Galiero, the glove-cutter, sends me——'</p> - -<p>'Fine honest fellow he is!' exclaimed Donna Concetta, -putting a strip of paper in her thimble—it had got too large.</p> - -<p>'If you don't make people speak, you can never get to -understand each other,' the hunchback rejoined philosophically. -'Gaetano is under great obligations to you; but you -are a fine woman, not wanting in judgment, and you will -forgive his failings. What does not happen in a year comes -the day you least expect it. Gaetano is here with the money.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, yes,' the sisters said, grinning.</p> - -<p>'You will see him afterwards. But I have come to speak -of an affair of my own. I, thank God, work at a better -trade than Gaetano does; I stand beside the Café de Angelis -in Carità Square. I don't say it out of boasting, but I polish -the shoes of the best nobility in Naples. I can earn what I -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span> -like; I laugh at ill fortune. When it rains, I stand under -the archway of the café door; the dirtier it is in the streets, -the more shoes I polish. My good woman, if I had a clear -head, I would be a gentleman now. But now, to carry out -a big affair that may bring me my carriage, I need a little -money; and as you oblige people that way, I have come to -propose the business to you. Forty francs would do for -me; I would pay it off by three francs a week until I have -managed the <em>combination</em>; for then I will give you back -capital, interest, and a handsome present.'</p> - -<p>'Don't put yourself about,' said Donna Concetta ironically.</p> - -<p>'If you won't lend me money, who do you lend to?' -the hunchback asked audaciously. 'If I stand all day in -front of the café, I earn two francs, do you know. Not -even a barber's lad can say as much. So that stand is my -fortune, my shop; if I go away from it, I don't earn a half-penny, -so I can't run away. Do you see? Ask the coffee-house-keeper -who Michele is. Your money is safe in my -hands. You will hear all about me from the café-owner.'</p> - -<p>'If he guarantees you, I'll give you the money,' Donna -Concetta said at once.</p> - -<p>'In that case, he would give it himself' the hunchback -objected. 'No, no, Michele has no need of a guarantee. -Come to-morrow, Saturday, at nine, to the café-owner; you -will hear what he says; you will willingly give me sixty -instead of forty francs. I am an honest man; I am subject -to public scrutiny.'</p> - -<p>'Good; we see each other to-morrow. You know what -the interest is?' said Donna Concetta.</p> - -<p>'Whatever you like,' the hunchback gallantly answered; -'you can have a cup of coffee, too, and a roll inside: I am -master at the coffee-house! Can I do anything for you?'</p> - -<p>'We wish for your prayers always,' the two women said -in a low tone, as he was going away. After working a -little, Caterina observed:</p> - -<p>'You said yes to him too soon.'</p> - -<p>'I will make the coffee-house-keeper guarantee him. He -is a hunchback, too; that brings luck,' Donna Concetta -replied.</p> - -<p>'If it brings luck, it ought to bring an end to this hard -life of ours,' Caterina began again. She liked to complain -of her luck.</p> - -<p>'Oh,' the other sighed, 'we have no man to give us a -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span> -helping hand, ever; so we have to do justice for ourselves -always. Ciccillo and Alfonso are simpletons. It is no -use....'</p> - -<p>'What can we do?' sighed the other.</p> - -<p>The two sisters gave up working, let their hands fall idle -on the red coverlet, and began to think of their secret -sorrow—the tormenting pain they confessed to no one—of -their betrothed lovers, two good workmen, brothers, at the -arsenal, Jannacone by name, who loved them, but would -not marry them, either of the two, because of their trade. -The struggle between love and money had gone on for three -years, but Ciccillo and Alfonso Jannacone would not hear -of marrying a gambler or a money-lender; the whole -arsenal would have taunted them. They were good workmen, -rather simple, very silent, who did not spend their -day's wages; they had some savings, and came to spend -the evening with the two sisters. Obstinate on that idea, -one of the few that got into their heads, neither love nor -avarice could overcome it. Several times the sisters, being -keen on gain and bitterly offended at that refusal, had -quarrelled with their lovers and chased them out of the -house; but only for a short time: peace was made, Concetta -and Caterina naturally promising to give over their business. -The women must have made a lot of money, but they never -spoke of it, and, in spite of their love for Alfonso and -Ciccillo Jannacone, they themselves put off the marriages so -as to gain still more money, not knowing how to break -through that round of money-lending business. They did -not wish to give up old loans, and could not resist making -new ones; they did not understand why their lovers were -so ashamed, and complained of it as an injustice. The -sisters thought themselves humane to lend money at usury; -to give lottery tickets at a sou or two seemed an act of -charity to them, because the Naples poor—skinned and -flayed as they were when they took money from Concetta -to give it to Caterina and the Government—thanked and -blessed them with tears. When they were quite alone, in -expansive moments, the two complained of their fate; -anyone else but the Jannacone brothers would have been -happy enough to have such industrious, hard-working wives -with dowries. But the workmen would not given in; they -persisted they would never marry unless that way of gaining -money was given up. Ciccillo especially, Caterina's -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span> -betrothed, was hard as a stone; indeed, he said to her -sometimes: 'Caterina, one day or other you'll go to prison.'</p> - -<p>'I'll pay for bail and get out. Then the lawyer will get -me off.'</p> - -<p>She knew the law and its intrigues.</p> - -<p>'If you go to prison, you don't see my face again,' Ciccillo -retorted, lighting his cigar.</p> - -<p>Yes, when they were alone the sisters despaired. But -love of money was so strong, it made them put off the -time for the double marriage. The two workmen waited -patiently, slowly buying furniture with their savings to set -up house together, as they never left each other.</p> - -<p>'Wait till Easter,' the sisters said, thinking of ending up -all their affairs by then.</p> - -<p>'Good; at Easter,' the brothers agreed.</p> - -<p>'We will be ready by September,' said they in April, being -more than ever involved in a network of sordid business.</p> - -<p>'In September, then,' the workmen complied.</p> - -<p>Always when they were alone the women complained of -being badly treated by Fate, and of being misunderstood -by the men they loved, ending up with: 'Ciccillo and -Alfonso are fools.'</p> - -<p>But they were not long alone that day, either. The -wretched trade went on till evening. There came a painter -of saints, so far an artist that he painted the face, hands, -and feet of all the wooden and stucco saints in Naples and -its neighbourhood's thousand churches: a sickly man, who -asked for money, and only got it on condition he brought a -statuette of the Immaculate Conception in blue, covered with -stars, next day, that Madonna being Concetta the money-lender's -patron. Annarella, Carmela's sister, came in to ask -for a loan, being desperate: 'just two francs for the day, just -as a charity.' She wanted to make a little broth for her sick -child. A horrible scene followed: the women would not -believe her; she just wanted to fool them again, for Gaetano -and she had a big debt, and were not ashamed to take poor -folk's blood and not give it back. Annarella screamed, -wept, and cried out that she would go and get her baby, all -burning with fever, to show to them. A stone would pity -him. Then she sobbed out that they said what was quite -true; but to pity the poor little thing, who was not to -blame, and now that he was weaned, she could take another -half-day service, which the Virgin would help her to find. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span> -At last, as Concetta felt bored, to get rid of the crying and -weeping she gave her the two francs, cursing and taking her -oath they were the last, as true as it was Friday in March—perhaps -the day our Lord died, as it is not known what Friday -in March Jesus died on. Other people, either embarrassed, -furious, or sorrowful, came to pay up old interest, to offer -goods in pledge, or ask for more money. The debtors went -on from humility to bitterness, from threats to beseeching, -from solemn promises to mean tricks. Concetta continued -working opposite her sister through the disputes, quarrels, -and threats till evening came. She never got tired, and -always had an effective retort ready or some lucid remark, -finding out a good or bad payer at once. Only for one -neatly-dressed, discreet caller, shaved like a good class of -servant, she got up and went into the next room, where -they chattered in a low tone for some time. The usual noise -of keys creaking in the locks, and opening and shutting of -strong boxes, was heard; the servant went out, still looking -reserved, followed by Concetta.</p> - -<p>'Is that the Marquis di Formosa's steward?' Caterina -asked when he had gone.</p> - -<p>'Yes, it is,' said Concetta, without adding more.</p> - -<p>That hard, fatiguing Friday came to an end. Now it was -getting dark the sisters had given up stitching the coverlet. -Caterina, for Saturday, her great day, got ready some thick -registers, written in shapeless characters, all ciphers, which -she understood very well. She leant over it under the oil-lamp, -thinking whilst her lips moved; and Concetta, seeing -her deep in her important weekly work, kept silence out of -respect to that sagacious preparation, feeling sure that next -day money would be flowing in to them.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span></p> - -</div> - - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VII</h2> - -<p class="p2">DON GENNARO PARASCANDOLO'S BUSINESS</p> - - -<p>With the odorous smoke of a Tocos cigarette filling the -little room, Don Gennaro Parascandolo was deeply wrapped -up in the study of his little pocket-book, turning over the -pages of a ledger, and comparing the long rows of figures in -it with the dark, enigmatic ciphers in the note-book; then -he took the pen and wrote something occasionally—one -word or a figure—on the full side of the ledger.</p> - -<p>He was working very placidly in that little room of his -flat in San Giacomo Street, opposite the door of the -Exchange. He had rented it from time immemorial, and he -called it the <em>study</em>; there he began, unravelled, and finished -all his business, with a discretion and secrecy he kept up -even with his wife. She was far off, isolated for whole -days in that sad, solemn, splendid suite of rooms in the -Rossi Palace. When it was said Don Gennaro Parascandolo -was at his <em>study</em>, all was said. Those who said it and -those who heard it felt respectful terror; a fearful vision of -riches always increasing, a magical flow of money running -to money by enchantment, rose before them. The study -was the place where Don Gennaro Parascandolo, strong, -wise, audacious, and cold in his audacity, made his fortune -grow by leaps and bounds. It was composed of two rooms: -one big one, with two balconies, was quite full of valuable -things gathered in a queer way—pictures by good artists, -foreign furniture, gilt-bronze candelabra, curious antique -pendulums, rolls of carpet and of linen-cloth, terra-cotta -statuettes, even a trophy of antique and modern arms.</p> - -<p>It was quite a museum, that room. Salvatore, Don -Gennaro's confidential servant, spent half the day trying to -keep it clean, and it required the greatest care not to spoil -or break anything. Occasionally, some rarity left the -museum, either sold advantageously, exchanged for another, -or given away in a fit of calculated generosity. But the -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span> -empty place was soon filled by a new article, or by some of -the things heaped on each other in the strange museum.</p> - -<p>When Don Gennaro was alone, he sometimes opened his -writing-room door and stood on the threshold, smoking his -everlasting cigarette, to give a look over what he called his -<em>omnibus</em>. But he did not venture to go in, the accumulation -was so great. The other room was prettily enough -furnished with the respectable pleasant luxury of easy-chairs, -sofas, small tables with smoking accessories, and a writing-desk -that seemed placed there purposely to make the name -'study' appropriate. The hangings were bright, but not -gaudy; on the desk were dainty knickknacks that Don -Gennaro Parascandolo often played with. Whoever came -in there felt calmed; even if he had an incurable sorrow in -his mind, he was reconciled to existence for a time. Don -Gennaro Parascandolo's own genial face, clouded sometimes -by melancholy, his lively, frank manner, managed to give a -benignant look to the surroundings that overcame all fears, -difficulties, and prejudices, and gave a weak, morally -defenceless guest into the host's hands, vanquished beforehand. -The whole round of Don Gennaro Parascandolo's -business was regulated by the minute hieroglyphics in his -pocket-book, and a ledger thickly written in also with -names, ciphers, and remarks.</p> - -<p>Whenever a caller was announced, Don Gennaro, without -hurrying, shut up the ledger in the safe, and put the -note-book back in his pocket; every trace of business disappeared. -An inkstand of gilt bronze and rock crystal, -shaped like a jockey's cap, with racing accessories, made a -good show on the desk, as well as a silver paper-weight like -a book, with five seals made of old guineas, an ash-tray -shaped like a woman's shoe, and a long, carved ivory -Japanese wand that Don Gennaro trifled with.</p> - -<p>So that Friday in March, after breakfast, he went on -smoking his Tocos cigarette, gazing at the smoke; but -when the faithful Salvatore, clean-shaven and in black, like -a high-class servant, a discreet, silent fellow, came to say -Signor Cesare Fragalà wished to come in, Don Gennaro -quickly shut up the ledger and put the note-book in his -pocket.</p> - -<p>'With your permission,' said Cesare Fragalà, coming in -smiling.</p> - -<p>'My honoured patron, how are the wife and child?'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Very well indeed, Don Gennaro. They are Fragalàs, a -strong house, with no bad luck. You keep well, do you not?'</p> - -<p>'Quite well; but Naples bores me. Cesare, this is a -beggarly country. In a week I go off to Nice and Monte -Carlo; after that I go to Paris.'</p> - -<p>'Do you play at Monte Carlo?' Fragalà asked, with a -scrutinizing look.</p> - -<p>'Yes, a little. I often win; I have luck; I am learning -to play.'</p> - -<p>'How will that serve you?'</p> - -<p>'It is good to know everything,' Parascandolo answered -modestly. 'Have you never been there?'</p> - -<p>'No,' said Cesare thoughtfully, 'I have a wife and -daughter; still, it is a fine thing to gain twenty-five or a -hundred thousand francs in an evening!' One could read -in his eyes, that filled at once with melancholy avarice, a -great passion for heavy, immediate gains, depending on -luck, and for the most part unlawful.</p> - -<p>'What would you do with it?' asked Don Gennaro, taking -another cigarette, and offering Cesare one from an elegant -engraved-silver Russian cigar-case.</p> - -<p>'What would I do with it? First of all I would let fifty -thousand melt away to enjoy life a little with my friends. -I am not selfish, and fifty thousand would do to open a shop -with in San Ferdinando Square. I will never gain it in the -San Spirito shop,' Cesare ended up low-spiritedly.</p> - -<p>'Still, in the carnival you must have made great profits,' -said Don Gennaro slowly, shaking off his cigar-ash.</p> - -<p>'Yes, yes, enough! but Monte Carlo, or something else, -is needed; if not, one must vegetate, and Agnesina's dowry -won't be ready. Then I am always pushed to it—so many -calls.... Why, yesterday I should have given you back -those five hundred francs you lent me without security—you -know I am always punctual—but I could not.'</p> - -<p>'For one day it does not matter,' Don Gennaro said -coldly, setting his face like a stone the moment Cesare spoke -of the debt, gazing at his cigar-smoke as if not to look his -friend in the face.</p> - -<p>'But I can't even pay you to-day,' said Cesare quickly, -as if he wanted to get rid of his worry all at once. 'I have -had to take a lot of sugar out of bond, and then——'</p> - -<p>Don Gennaro, quite indifferent to all this chatter, said -not a word.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Be neighbourly, and complete the favour. I have a -little bill due to-morrow,' Fragalà said, passing through a -sharp momentary agony; 'it is five hundred francs, and I -have not got it. You might lend them to me, and I will -give you a thousand francs next Saturday ... it is a great -favour ... and you can be sure of my being punctual.'</p> - -<p>'I can't,' Don Gennaro said icily.</p> - -<p>'Why, you have the money,' Cesare cried out ingenuously.</p> - -<p>'Of course; but I can't lend it.'</p> - -<p>'Then, you think I am not solvent?'</p> - -<p>'Not at all; it is to carry out a rule. With intimate -friends and relations, people like you, I always lend five -hundred francs; often, nearly always, I get it back again. -Then I willingly lend it a second time; but once it has not -been paid I never lend any more, so I can only lose five -hundred francs.'</p> - -<p>'But I am to give you back a thousand,' said the other -in alarm.</p> - -<p>'He who can't give back five hundred is very unlikely to -give back a thousand. A man that fails to keep his word -once may do it again,' said Don Gennaro ponderously.</p> - -<p>'Still, I did not believe you would refuse such a favour -to a friend,' Cesare muttered. 'You put me into great -embarrassment.'</p> - -<p>'I think I do well not to give you that money,' said -Parascandolo, opening a gold matchbox like Dellachà's -paper ones, with figure-painting on it. 'I think you are -going a bad road; you frequent very queer company....'</p> - -<p>'I have done some idiotic things, I allow,' said Cesare, -with his big-boy's honesty; 'but I did it with good intentions. -Besides,' he added, as if speaking to himself, 'that Pasqualino -De Feo is always needing some hundred francs. He -is a poor man, with no profession nor trade. The spirits -torment him—beat him at night. I have to have Masses -said and prayers to appease them; if not, they drag him to -death. If I have thrown away some hundred francs, I had -my reasons. This business with spirits is important! You -are clever, and have travelled a lot; but if you knew all, -you would see it is worth knowing about.'</p> - -<p>'It may be,' nodded Don Gennaro assentingly; 'but you -are going a bad road.'</p> - -<p>'No, no!' cried out Cesare; 'something must be settled. -Either in or out. Perhaps we will get it this week—that is -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span> -to say, to-morrow; or it may be necessary to sacrifice some -more, next week, and then win. Really, you should oblige -me,' he added, going back to his trouble.</p> - -<p>'I can't,' retorted Don Gennaro.</p> - -<p>'As a fact, I am an honest trader: anyone would do business -with me!' Cesare called out, beginning to get angry.</p> - -<p>'If it is business, that is another thing,' said Don Gennaro, -giving in suddenly.</p> - -<p>'Well, let us treat it as business,' said Cesare, calming -down at once.</p> - -<p>Then Don Gennaro quietly opened the safe and drew out -a blank bill, of a thousand francs' value. Taking a finely-carved -wooden pen, with a gold nib, he wrote the sum in -figures and words, and asked, without raising his head:</p> - -<p>'To fall due in a month?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, in a month,' agreed Fragalà. Don Gennaro handed -the promissory note to him. It was headed 'Domenico -Mazzocchi.' 'Domenico Mazzocchi—who is that?' asked -Fragalà, astounded.</p> - -<p>'He is the capitalist I work for,' Parascandolo answered -icily. Seeing that after Fragalà signed he was going to put -down his dwelling-house, he stopped him warningly. 'Put -down the address of the shop.'</p> - -<p>'Why so?'</p> - -<p>'In business and commercial affairs it is better to take -action at the firm's address.'</p> - -<p>Fragalà felt a chill down his back.</p> - -<p>'There will be no need,' he thought it necessary to say, -to reassure himself. He gave back the promissory note to -Don Gennaro Parascandolo, who read it over carefully, -twice; then he opened another safe and took out bank-notes, -and counted three hundred and eighty francs twice over: he -handed them to Fragalà, saying:</p> - -<p>'Three hundred and eighty francs. Count your money -over again.'</p> - -<p>'Three hundred and eighty only?' asked the other, again -astounded.</p> - -<p>'Twelve per cent. interest is taken off,' explained Don -Gennaro.</p> - -<p>'Is that by the year?' asked Fragalà stupidly.</p> - -<p>'No; by the month.'</p> - -<p>Then there was silence. While Fragalà was counting -the money mechanically, he thought, but dared not say to -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span> -Parascandolo, that the interest had been calculated on the -first five hundred francs, too, that he, Don Gennaro, had -lent him, and not the capitalist Mazzocchi. He said nothing -about it, though; indeed, in the innocency of his soul, -he remarked, as he got up to go away:</p> - -<p>'Thank you!'</p> - -<p>'Why thank me? It is business. Only, think of when it -falls due. Mazzocchi stands no nonsense—he is an ugly sort.'</p> - -<p>'Never fear,' said Fragalà, with a sickly smile. After -taking leave, he went off, with a colourless face and bitter -mouth, as if he had been chewing aloes. At once Don -Gennaro set himself to his accounts. But it was only for a -few minutes, as Salvatore came to say Ambrogio Marzano, -the lawyer, was there, with another gentleman, wanting to -come in. He expected them, evidently, as he frowned -slightly and looked stiff. Marzano came in, with his usual -gentle smile—he was a lively, excitable old fellow; the one -that looked put out was his companion, a gentleman of about -forty, fat but pale, with very clear eyes that rolled vaguely -and sadly.</p> - -<p>The greetings were short. For a fortnight Marzano and -Baron Lamarra had kept coming to San Giacomo Street to -see Don Gennaro, on money business. They talked it over, -made suggestions, accepted and then refused, then started -the arguments over again. Baron Lamarra, son of a -sculptor, who had become a contractor by dint of chiselling -in the open air, and rich by dint of laying one son on -another, had left his son a lot of money, though he was now -trying for a loan of three thousand francs. He kept up his -beggar-on-horseback airs at first, but as the days went on, -and difficulties came in the way, he dropped them, and did -nothing but play with the charms on his watch-chain; his -conceited blue eyes got to have a despairing expression, -which Don Gennaro studied sagaciously—perhaps it was for -his benefit that he looked so cold. Only Don Ambrogio -Marzano went on smiling, obstinate in his good nature.</p> - -<p>'The Baron is rather anxious to finish up the business -now we have talked it over for days,' said the little old man, -trying to encourage his client.</p> - -<p>'Let us finish it, then,' Don Gennaro answered, without -lifting his eyes.</p> - -<p>'You have not thought out a better arrangement?' Baron -Lamarra murmured.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span></p> - -<p>'No, I have not,' said Don Gennaro.</p> - -<p>The two looked at each other, hesitating; the Baron -made the lawyer an energetic sign to go on.</p> - -<p>'How would it be?' Marzano asked.</p> - -<p>'Here it is. My capitalist, Ascanio Sogliano, has no -funds; but he can dispose of about forty dozen Chiavari -chairs at six francs each, seventy-two francs the dozen, over -two thousand seven hundred francs in all. He would give -these goods, which are easy to dispose of, on a three months' -promissory note, with the Baron and the Baroness Lamarra's -signatures, each bound for all, with the usual interest, in -advance, of three per cent; three times three, nine—that -is to say, ninety francs a month; three times ninety, two -hundred and seventy francs for three months.'</p> - -<p>'And you said there would be a buyer for these Chiavari -chairs, did you not?' Marzano replied, keeping up his frank -tone.</p> - -<p>'Exactly so,' said Don Gennaro, still very cold.</p> - -<p>'Buyer at how much?' asked Baron Lamarra rather -anxiously, knowing the answer quite well, but almost hoping -for a different one.</p> - -<p>'I told you: at two thousand francs.'</p> - -<p>The lawyer shook his head; the Baron fumed with rage.</p> - -<p>'It is too great a loss, far too great!' he cried out; 'and, -then, my wife's signature, too!'</p> - -<p>'Excuse me, Baron,' Don Gennaro remarked, 'you seem -to be under a wrong impression. I am doing you a favour, -finding a tradesman and a buyer. I am not taken up about -this business. I often have as good aristocratic names as -yours on bills, I can tell you. This is to clear up the position. -You come here shouting as if you were in brigands' -hands and your ears were being cut off. Here we don't -cut off ears. If the affair does not suit you, let it go. It -is indifferent to me, I repeat.'</p> - -<p>As a sign of the greatest indifference, he lighted a Tocos -cigarette, and began smoking, looking up to the ceiling. -Baron Lamarra, whose face got flabbier and more unhealthy-looking -in that annoying struggle, was disturbed. Silence -followed. Marzano shook his head gently, as if he was -lamenting over human weakness; he gazed at the silver -top of his cane, without saying a word. The Baron ran his -fingers through his black locks flecked with white; then he -made up his mind, and drew out a thick black pocket-book, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span> -took out a paper, and put it on the table opposite Don -Gennaro.</p> - -<p>'It is settled,' he said, in a choked voice. 'Here is the -promissory note.'</p> - -<p>Don Gennaro only fluttered his eyelids in assent. He -opened the note and looked at it a long time, the figures, -dates, and signatures, reading in a low voice, 'Maddalena -Lamarra—Annibale Lamarra. All right,' he ended up -aloud, casting a scrutinizing glance at the Baron, whose -face got livid from suppressed rage or some other feeling. -'Do you want to see the goods?' he then remarked punctiliously.</p> - -<p>'What does it matter to me?' the Baron said sulkily, -shrugging his shoulders. 'Give me the money to use.'</p> - -<p>Don Gennaro nodded assent. As usual, he opened the -middle drawer, shut up the promissory note in it, opened -the side drawer, took out bank-notes, and counted them -methodically.</p> - -<p>'Count your money over,' he said, handing the bundle to -the Baron, who had watched the appearance of bank-notes -with a flashing eye.</p> - -<p>But he did not count; he put the notes into his pocket-book, -and, without saying a word, rose to go away.</p> - -<p>Marzano vaguely stammered some words of thanks and -farewell, but the Baron was already on the stairs, and the old -man ran after him, not to let him elude him. When he was -alone, Don Gennaro Parascandolo opened the drawer again -and took out the Lamarra promissory note; he studied the -signatures a long time, saying over the syllables ironically: -'Maddalena Lamarra ... bound for whole amount ...; Annibale -Lamarra for himself and the conjugal authorization.' He -ended up with a smile, and pushed it into the drawer again.</p> - -<p>Ninetto Costa had come in without being announced, and -the dark, lively, elegant stock-broker, in a suit of English -check, a flower in his buttonhole, ebony stick in hand, and -big iron ring on his little finger as a seal, seemed the pattern -of happy youth. He stretched himself in an arm-chair, -threw his leg over, and lit a cigarette, humming.</p> - -<p>'Good settling-day Monday was, eh?' Don Gennaro asked.</p> - -<p>'It was bad—bad!' sang out Ninetto Costa.</p> - -<p>'You don't seem much put out. It will be bad for your -clients then, and not for you,' said Parascandolo.</p> - -<p>'It is bad for me; I have thirty to forty thousand francs -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span> -at stake,' said the stock-broker, beating his trouser-leg with -his stick in an elegant way.</p> - -<p>'And how are you to pay?'</p> - -<p>'I will pay,' the other ended up by saying, in a vague way.</p> - -<p>'You have had several bad settling-days, it seems to me.'</p> - -<p>'So, so. It is Lillina that takes away everything,' he -muttered, with a not perfectly sincere gesture of regret.</p> - -<p>'Lillina? She says "No," 'remarked Don Gennaro.</p> - -<p>'Did she tell you so? She is the greatest liar among -women! You can't think what a liar she is, Gennaro!' -and he cried out more against her, rather in a sham rage. -'Have you got these jewels?' he added anxiously, though -he tried to seem indifferent.</p> - -<p>'Yes. Are they for Lillina?'</p> - -<p>'Yes—that is to say, I am not certain; she is too great a -liar! Besides, I have someone else in my eye.'</p> - -<p>'You are a devil, Ninetto!' Don Gennaro said laughingly.</p> - -<p>From the same drawer from which he had previously -taken the money, Parascandolo took out a leather case -and opened it. The jewels twinkled on the white velvet: -there were a pair of solitaire earrings, a row of diamonds, a -bracelet, and an ornament for the hair. Ninetto Costa looked -at them, beating his lips with the knob of his stick. He went -further off, to judge them better. He did this very gracefully; -but a twitching of the muscles now and then made -his smile unpleasant.</p> - -<p>'They are fine, eh?' he asked Parascandolo.</p> - -<p>'I think so,' said the other modestly.</p> - -<p>'You would give them? You are a man of taste.'</p> - -<p>'I would give them—according to the woman. Not to -Lillina.'</p> - -<p>'I don't know if I will give them to her—I don't know,' -Costa burst out again hurriedly. 'You think,' he added -timidly—'you think they are worth twenty thousand francs?'</p> - -<p>'It is not what I believe; Don Domenico Mazzocchi, -who sold them to you, thinks they are. I don't know -about them. Besides, you can get them valued. Remember, -they will ask two per cent. for the valuation.'</p> - -<p>He said all this in such a cold, disdainful way that -Ninetto Costa tried to interrupt him more than once, without -managing it.</p> - -<p>'Are you mad? What valuation? I would not do such -a thing, with you and your friend Mazzocchi. To take so -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span> -much trouble! I would not dream of it. It would be -offensive to a friend—two friends.'</p> - -<p>'Have you noted the terms of payment?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, yes! at three, four, five, and six months—five -thousand francs at a time, with a consignment on my -mother's revenues, and all the necessary papers. All is -going right. Do you wish nothing on the Exchange? I'll -buy for you.'</p> - -<p>'I don't do business; I have retired,' said Parascandolo, -smiling and bowing, as Costa went off, carrying the jewel-case.</p> - -<p>When he had gone, the other, being now alone, looked at -the clock. It was getting late. San Giacomo Street is -dark naturally, and already, at four o'clock, it looked as if -the day was failing. Don Gennaro was thinking whether he -had given an appointment to anyone else, and if he could go -away, having finished his day's work, one of those hard-working -Fridays for all that provide money—bankers, money-lenders, -pawnbrokers. No, he thought, he had not given -an appointment to anyone, and he could go away. He felt -sure his coachman had brought round his carriage to take -him to Carracciolo Street. But once more the faithful -Salvatore came in to say three gentlemen wished to come in.</p> - -<p>'Are there three?' asked Don Gennaro, pondering.</p> - -<p>'Yes, three....'</p> - -<p>'Let them in,' his master said, recollecting.</p> - -<p>Dr. Trifari came in, fat, thick, red of beard and face, -embarrassed and suspicious, taking off the high hat he -always wore, like all provincials settled in Naples. Professor -Colaneri was with him; he had a false look behind his gold -spectacles, and bowed in the ecclesiastical style. A student, -a fellow-countryman of Trifari's, and Colaneri's pupil, was -the third one—a youth of twenty-two, with sticking-out -teeth, a tartan necktie, and a decidedly silly look. The -two, while keeping an eye on each other, glanced now at -Don Gennaro, then at the embarrassed provincial lad, who -seemed not to know what to do with his teeth, quite unhappy -at not being able to shut his mouth. There was a curbed -ferocity in Trifari's suspiciousness—it was palpable in him -morally and physically; while Colaneri's was oblique, sly, -cold, and hypocritical. The student looked like a fly between -them—a stupid little fly held between two spiders, one -cruel, the other treacherous.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span></p> - -<p>Don Gennaro looked at them with a smile, guessing all -that. Only to look at the wicked intentness of Dr. Trifari's -eyes on the shut desk, Professor Colaneri's humble but -dishonest look, the student's silliness—for he seemed to see -nothing, or saw and heard without understanding—explained -Salvatore's hesitation. But Don Gennaro Parascandolo, -who loved artistic things, had taken up a long Japanese -carved-ivory scabbard, and half drew out, as if by accident, -a knife's shining blade. It was a book-cutter, though there -was not a shadow of a book on the desk. With a click he -sheathed it and laid it on the desk, but his fingers trifled -with it. He smiled, smoking his everlasting cigarette, -without offering one, however, to his three visitors.</p> - -<p>'So we have come on that business, Signor Parascandolo. -What has been done?' Dr. Trifari questioned, with -a sham politeness that ill-covered his roughness.</p> - -<p>'Yes. What do you refer to?' Parascandolo said.</p> - -<p>'The money—the bank bill,' the plethoric doctor burst out.</p> - -<p>'It is an ordinary affair enough,' remarked Parascandolo -with an easy air.</p> - -<p>'What do you say? With three signatures—mine, -Professor Colaneri's, and Signor Rocco Galasso's—you call -it an ordinary affair? Whose signature do you want—Rothschild's?'</p> - -<p>'Certainly I would prefer Rothschild's to all signatures,' -was said, with a mocking little smile. 'Business is business,' -he added in his solemn way.</p> - -<p>'We are honest men, it seems to me,' Professor Colaneri -yelped out.</p> - -<p>'I have the highest respect for you,' said Parascandolo -with exaggerated politeness. 'But signatories must be -solvent; that is all. I have made inquiries on account of -my principal, Ascanio Sogliano. You will understand, I -must prevent him making any loss, as I make use of his -money. Now, Dr. Trifari, here is an excellent young -fellow—he will become a light in the scientific world—but -his signature is not good for a thousand francs, nor is -Professor Colaneri's....'</p> - -<p>'This is infamous!' Dr. Trifari cried out. 'I did not -come here to be insulted, by Jove!'</p> - -<p>'These are slanderous statements!' shrieked Colaneri the -hypocrite.</p> - -<p>'Where did you make inquiries?' Trifari asked, yelling.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span></p> - -<p>'In your own neighbourhood,' answered Parascandolo -coldly.</p> - -<p>'Of course, in my own neighbourhood.... It is political -hatreds ... election struggles!' Colaneri and Trifari -shouted in chorus.</p> - -<p>'That may be,' said Parascandolo; 'I cannot know about -that, and it does not matter to Sogliano. So there remains -this worthy youth here, Rocco Galasso; he is solvent. So, -instead of three thousand francs, Sogliano will give a thousand, -with your three signatures as a precaution.'</p> - -<p>'It is impossible for us to agree to that!' Trifari thundered, -purple with rage.</p> - -<p>'Impossible!' shrieked Colaneri, quite livid.</p> - -<p>'As you like,' said Parascandolo, getting up to go out.</p> - -<p>But the most dumfounded of the three was poor Rocco -Galasso, the student. He turned his stupefied eyes from -Colaneri to Trifari and gasped, as if his saliva choked him. -The two left the office in confusion, without saying 'Good-bye,' -talking to each other, and shoving the student before -them like a silly sheep. Parascandolo quietly called Salvatore -to brush his great-coat. It was done silently, while he -filled his case with cigarettes.</p> - -<p>All at once, without being announced, the three burst -again into the room, looking queer: Colaneri and Trifari as -if forcibly restraining their rage, and Rocco Galasso, pale -and humiliated, behind them, like a beaten dog.</p> - -<p>'We are to do the business,' Trifari muttered, as if he was -swallowing the wrong way. 'One thousand francs, as you -said.'</p> - -<p>Professor Colaneri agreed. Then the usual scene was -repeated: The money-lender pulled out a blank promissory -note for a thousand francs from the drawer and put it before -Rocco Galasso, who dared not take it, but went looking -Colaneri and Trifari in the eyes one after the other. The -two, as if they were putting him to the torture, made him -sit at a corner of the desk, and bent over, one at each side, -to give him directions, and they dictated the formula word -by word. He put his nose down on the paper, being short-sighted -and knowing nothing about the business, never -having signed a promissory note before. Then, crushed -down by the two leaning on his shoulders, he got confused -and frightened, and held his pen up hesitatingly. The work -took a long time. The poor fellow was just going to mis-state -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span> -the time of its falling due, when Trifori was down on -him with a shout: 'At two months!'</p> - -<p>At last the work was ended, and the student's forehead -dropped sweat as he raised it that cool March day. Don -Gennaro in the meanwhile pulled money out of his drawer -and counted it.</p> - -<p>'Seven hundred and sixty francs,' he said, holding out the -bundle of notes to Rocco Galasso. 'Count your money.'</p> - -<p>But the latter dared not take it. He looked again at his -tutors. Colaneri put out his fat, cold hand and pocketed the -money quickly, while Trifori glared at him.</p> - -<p>'You take the interest in advance?' asked Trifori with a -sneer.</p> - -<p>'Yes, in advance.'</p> - -<p>'Could you not add it to the promissory note?' Colaneri -retorted, putting his hand in his pocket over the money.</p> - -<p>'No, I cannot,' said Parascandolo dryly, getting up again.</p> - -<p>The three went out silently. Colaneri rushed on in front; -Trifori followed precipitately, forgetting Rocco Galasso, who -was now of no use, while his greatest torment was that -Parascandolo had made him write his address at Tito di -Basilicata; and the thought that his father would know -about it one day or other brought tears to his eyes.</p> - -<p>In spite of Don Gennaro's wish to go out, he had to wait -five minutes more. A little old woman, neatly dressed in -black, a lady's-maid, had arrived, bringing an introductory -note from Signora Parascandolo. Looking around her, she -spoke to Don Gennaro in a whisper, and he listened with a -fatherly, amiable smile. Then she timidly showed him -something in a case, wrapped first in black cloth and then -paper, which he would not even look at. He pushed it -away, but not contemptuously. Then, after a few words to -the old woman, he signed to her to keep silence, as she -wished to begin her speech again, and he went to the desk, -took out money, counted it, and handed it in an envelope to -her. She waited to thank him, but he, to cut her short, -asked:</p> - -<p>'How is Lady Bianca Maria?'</p> - -<p>'Not very well,' the old woman said, with a sigh.</p> - -<p>In a few minutes the victoria bore easy, contented Don -Gennaro Parascandolo to the Carracciolo promenade, where -all his debtors, past, present, and future, greeted him with -smiles and raised hats; and he smiled and bowed in return.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span></p> - -</div> - - - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VIII</h2> - -<p class="p2">IN DON CRESCENZIO'S LOTTERY-SHOP</p> - - -<p>Donna Bianca Maria Cavalcanti read that letter over -eight or ten times before putting it in her pocket. She -was working at her lace alone in the bare large room, -thinking over what was in it, for she knew the words by -heart already. She saw it before her eyes, going over its -meaning in her mind. So the slender bobbins slipped from -her hands while she dreamt.</p> - -<p>The letter was honest and frank. It said that, as a -doctor and friend, he once more advised her to leave that -lonely old house where she just vegetated. He begged she -would deign to accept a humble, plain offer of hospitality in -the country, in the village and home he was born in, where -his mother lived alone piously. Donna Bianca Maria -Cavalcanti should not despise this offer so frankly made. -She could go down there with Margherita. The air was -good, the country around fresh and green; it was an agreeable -solitude. Dr. Amati could not go because of his work; -but his mother would be sure to be very fond of her. She -would be quite cured down there in that lifegiving, bright -air. He implored her tenderly not to say 'No,' to believe in -his devotion. He could not hide the real state of her health -from her. Travel and country air were necessaries of life -to her.</p> - -<p>So the great doctor wrote in that short, precise style of -his, honest, like his face and voice; a deep, sincere vein of -feeling ran through each phrase. Feeling this, Bianca -Maria shut her eyes to keep down her emotion. When -Margherita brought her the letter, she guessed at once who -it came from on seeing the clear, straight, precise writing. -She opened it quickly, without hesitation or false modesty. -After reading it, a country landscape, poor and humble, but -bright and perfumed with green, rose before her eyes with -the sweetness of an idyll; a flow of heat enlivened the slow -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span> -blood in her veins; a desire for life and happiness gnawed -at her heart; a first rush of youthful eagerness came. -Antonio Amati's letter, read so often, was fixed in her -mind. As she thought it over that fresh Friday evening -in March, the blood rushed to her heart and her eyes filled -with tears.</p> - -<p>The Marquis di Formosa came in that evening, about -eight o'clock. He also was more excited than usual, with a -quiver in his limbs and features, which he got every week -on Friday evening, as if he shortly expected a great sorrow -or a great joy. But his daughter took no heed at first. -She was distrait; though she went on working mechanically, -the good, decided words of the letter that begged her to save -herself buzzed in her mind, delightfully disturbing.</p> - -<p>'Well, is there nothing yet?' asked the Marquis.</p> - -<p>'What are you asking about? I do not understand,' she -said, coming back to herself.</p> - -<p>'What am I asking about? Why, the revelation the -spirit is to make to you. Perhaps you don't wish to tell it? -Why not? You must tell me; I expect to hear it from -you.'</p> - -<p>'Dear father, I know nothing about it,' she answered, -growing pale, but trying to keep her voice steady. 'I will -never know anything of what you imagine.'</p> - -<p>'I don't imagine!' he cried out. 'They are truths and -religious mysteries. Don Pasqualino is a pious soul. He -<em>sees</em>. You could see, too, if you liked, but you don't want to. -Tell the truth: you sup before going to bed?'</p> - -<p>'No, I do not,' she said, keeping down her head, resigned -to the torture of the inquiry, touching Amati's letter in her -pocket.</p> - -<p>'A full body is impure; it cannot have heavenly inspirations,' -he said in a mystical way. 'What do you do before -sleeping?'</p> - -<p>'I pray.'</p> - -<p>'Do you not ask for this favour with all your strength? -Do you ask for it?'</p> - -<p>She looked at her father, and opened her mouth to say -'No.' She did not utter it; but he understood her.</p> - -<p>'It is natural the vision does not come—quite natural. -Faith is needed,' said he, with deep disdain. 'But what do -you pray for? What do you ask for, unloving heart?'</p> - -<p>'I ask for peace,' she said gravely, waving her hand.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span></p> - -<p>He shrugged his shoulders disdainfully.</p> - -<p>'I will make Don Pasqualino pray,' he added. 'You -will get the vision, whether you like or not; the spirits will -insist on it. They command, you understand. They are -masters in this world and the next. You will have the -spirit by you when you least expect it; you will see it....'</p> - -<p>'God help me!' said she, crossing herself with an uncontrollable -shiver.</p> - -<p>'Are you afraid?' he asked sneeringly, no longer, in his -mad excitement, seeing how she suffered.</p> - -<p>'Oh yes, I am,' she said feebly, as if she were fainting.</p> - -<p>She clutched Antonio Amati's honest, affectionate letter -convulsively, as if to get strength from it. But the Marquis -paid no more heed to his daughter. He had rung the bell, -and Giovanni came in in his old livery. He looked undecidedly -at his master as he handed him his hat and stick, -as if he were alarmed to see him go out earlier on that -than on other Fridays. But what he dreaded was unavoidable, -because the Marquis said to him, 'Come with me,' -going towards his bedroom, a poor, bare room like the rest -of the house. Giovanni lighted a wretched candle to hold -their conversation by. The servant respectfully stood right -before his master, who kept up his aristocratic bearing and -natural haughtiness, which even vice could not subdue.</p> - -<p>'Giovanni, have you any money?' he asked in a lordly -way.</p> - -<p>The servant bowed; he did not dare to answer 'No' -exactly, so he said nothing.</p> - -<p>'You must have some,' the Marquis went on rather -sternly. 'I gave it to you two weeks ago. Have you -spent it all? You waste the little I have left.'</p> - -<p>'My lord, last Friday you took it almost all. We must -live. You would not like her ladyship to die of hunger,' -said Giovanni in a complaining voice.</p> - -<p>'Very good, very good; I understand,' the Marquis interrupted, -irritated, but concealing his rage. 'I need at least -fifty francs. I have a debt of honour to pay this evening. -Then to-morrow evening'—emphasizing the words—'I will -give it to you back. I will give you other money, too, a -lot of money, so that you will not accuse me of letting my -daughter die of hunger.'</p> - -<p>'You are master, my lord; but if you knew what money -it is——' And he took a torn note-book from his pocket.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span></p> - -<p>'What is it you refer to?' said the Marquis, casting devouring -eyes on the pocket-book.</p> - -<p>'Nothing, my lord;' and he respectfully handed his -master a fifty-franc note.</p> - -<p>He did it in such a way as to try and prevent the Marquis -seeing a second one he had; but the old gentleman dared -not ask for it just then.</p> - -<p>'You can go,' he said to the servant, who went off.</p> - -<p>He walked up and down the room impatiently; then he -rang the bell twice. Margherita came forward in the same -trembling, almost hesitating way as her husband. The old -nobleman, descended from Guido Cavalcanti and ten generations -of gentlemen, now stooped to cheat like a rogue.</p> - -<p>'Margherita, do you know if Bianca Maria has money?' -he asked absently.</p> - -<p>'Who would give it to her? The few francs she gets -from Sister Maria degli Angioli and her godfather at Christmas -she gives to the poor.'</p> - -<p>'I thought she had some,' he said, putting on his great -coat. 'I am much embarrassed; I have to pay a debt this -evening, and I supposed Bianca Maria would help her father. -I am very much annoyed. Perhaps you have some money, -Margherita?'</p> - -<p>'I have money,' said she, not daring to deny it, out of -respect and fear of her master.</p> - -<p>'Can you give me some? I'll give it you back to-morrow -evening.'</p> - -<p>'Really,' she replied, 'I have some money, but I wished -to buy a dress for her ladyship. Your lordship does not -notice it; but at twenty, and as lovely as a queen, my mistress -has only had two dresses in two years—one for -summer, the other for winter. She does not even notice it -herself, poor soul!... I had thought of buying one for -her. Your lordship could have given me back the money -at your leisure.'</p> - -<p>'Sister Margherita, give me that money now, and <em>to-morrow -evening</em>, I promise you before God, Bianca Maria -will have money for ten dresses.'</p> - -<p>'Amen,' said Margherita sadly and resignedly.</p> - -<p>She could not resist the emotion in her master's voice. -Pulling out a silk purse from her bodice, she detached a -hundred-franc note from a roll of notes. He took it and -hid it at once in his purse, and went out, saying with wild -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span> -joy, in a queer tone of certainty, 'Till to-morrow evening.' -And he said 'Till to-morrow evening' again as he passed -through the drawing-room, standing by his daughter at a -window which she had opened to get fresh air to try and -recover from her moral and physical weakness.</p> - -<p>The Marquis di Formosa went down the steps quickly, -lively as a lad going to a love-tryst. Someone, in fact, was -waiting for him, walking up and down before the door. It -was Don Pasqualino De Feo, the medium. His sickly, mean -look was not changed at all; he still wore his torn, dirty -clothes, but that evening his eyes were sparkling in his thin -face. He put his hand on the Marquis di Formosa's arm. -Formosa, who had not noticed him, greeted him with a -smile.</p> - -<p>'Have you the money?' asked Don Pasqualino, lowering -his eyelids as if to hide the flame alight in his eyes.</p> - -<p>'Yes; how much is needed?'</p> - -<p>'Four Masses must be paid for in four parishes to-morrow -morning. We will make it five francs each Mass. I must -spend the night in prayer. The <em>spirit</em> told me to shut myself -up in San Pasquale at midnight. I have promised a gift of -ten francs to the sacristan; otherwise it would not be allowed. -We agreed to light four candles before San Benedetto's -altar; it is his day to-morrow. Ten francs—forty; yes, -forty francs would be enough.'</p> - -<p>He made his calculation coldly, keeping his eyes cast -down, but his queer, mysterious talk was unusually clear. -The Marquis di Formosa agreed with a nod to every new -expense that the medium enumerated, thinking it reasonable.</p> - -<p>'And how much for yourself?' he asked, after counting -forty francs into Don Pasqualino's hands.</p> - -<p>'You know I need nothing,' said the other, waving it off.</p> - -<p>'When do we meet?'</p> - -<p>'To-morrow morning after my vigil, if the spirit leaves -me alive. Friday last I was so beaten I thought I was -dying,' the medium said emphatically, but in a whisper.</p> - -<p>'I trust in you,' Formosa murmured.</p> - -<p>'Let us trust in <em>him</em>,' retorted the other fervently, showing -the whites of his eyes.</p> - -<p>'Pray to him—pray to him!' the Marquis implored.</p> - -<p>They separated after the Marquis had pressed two soft, -wet fingers that Don Pasqualino held out to him. De Feo -went up again towards Tarsia; Formosa went down towards -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span> -Toledo. He was going to the lottery bank, No. 117, at the -corner of Nunzio Lane, where the handsome, chestnut-bearded -Don Crescenzio was the banker, and where Formosa and his -friends were in the habit of staking. The shop, lately white-washed, -glittered with light. Three gas-jets were burning -at full cock above the broad wooden counter and high wire -grating that cut off the bottom of the shop from one wall to -the other. Behind this counter, seated on three high stools -in front of openings in the grating, Don Crescenzio and his -two clerks were working, his lads, so called, though one of -them—Don Baldassare—was seventy, and might have been -a hundred, he looked so decrepit; though the other had one -of those colourless faces, with indefinite lines and colouring, -that might be any age.</p> - -<p>They kept a big register open before them, called '<em>To -mother and daughter</em>'—that is to say, with double yellow -slips of paper. They wrote the numbers on them with -heavy, sharp-pointed pens, so as to have a clear, strong hand-writing, -putting down each number twice; one could see -their lips move as they repeated it. Then they cut the -ticket with a dry click of the great scissors held in the right -hand, passed it quickly through a wooden saucer of black -sand to dry it, and, after taking the money, handed it to the -gambler. Don Crescenzio had the fine contented look of a -good macaroni-eater, smiling in his dark beard; whilst Don -Baldassare, so bent he seemed hunchbacked, his crooked -nose drooping into his toothless mouth, worked very phlegmatically. -Don Checchino, the pale clerk, wrote hurriedly, -so as to finish and go away.</p> - -<p>When the Marquis di Formosa came in about half-past -nine, the shop was full of people putting down their stakes. -The game began feebly on Friday morning, increasing at -mid-day, and in the evening it got to the flood. The Marquis -di Formosa beckoned, and Don Crescenzio opened his little -door and attentively handed him a chair. The Marquis -always spent Friday evenings there, seated in a corner, -watching all the people gambling. He tried to get up an -excitement by the sight, and succeeded to a great extent. -He had the lottery numbers and the money in his pocket; -but he never played when he first came in. He tasted the -joy a long time, from seeing others do it.</p> - -<p>The shop was full of people. They came in by two wide-open -doors, one in Toledo Street, the other in Nunzio Lane. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span> -The flood rolled in and out, beating against the wooden -counter, which was shiny from human contact. The crowd -was of all ranks and ages, with every variety of the -human face: good-looking and ugly, healthy and sickly, -gay, sorrowing, stupefied, and dull. The crowd came from -all the streets around, from Chianche della Carità and -Corsea, San Tommaso di Aquino cloister and Consiglio -ward, Toledo and San Liborio Lane. Certainly there was -another lottery bank a short distance off, one in Magnocavallo -Street, and another in Pignasecca Road. In a few -hundred steps' radius there were several, all flaming with gas -and overflowing with people. But if a lottery bank was -opened for every three other shops in Naples, from Friday -to Saturday, each would have its crowd. Besides, lottery -banks go by favour, like other things; some are popular, -others are not. The one in Nunzio Lane, like the Plebiscito -Square and the Monte Oliveto Road ones, had a great name -for luck. Large sums had been gained there. Many -people, therefore, came from a distance to stake a franc, five -francs, or a hundred, at the bank.</p> - -<p>The three groups in front of the wickets in Don Crescenzio's -lottery bank melted into one, for ever flowing and -ebbing; and the Marquis di Formosa, his hat a little back -on his head, showing his fine forehead with some drops of -sweat on it, looked on this sight with enchanted eyes, holding -his ebony stick between his legs. Sometimes, on recognising -a friend or acquaintance before one of the openings, -his eyes shone with delight, much flattered that so many -distinguished worthy people shared his passion. He opened -his eyes wide to see it all, to take in the ever-changing -picture, stretching his ears to hear the conversations and -soliloquys—for lottery gamblers speak to themselves out -loud, even in public—to find out which number among so -many mentioned came oftenest into people's mouths, so as -to play it that night or next morning. It was warm, and -the light was strong in that crowded little shop. But the -Marquis di Formosa felt a curious pleasure, a full wide -sensation of vitality; he felt young again, and in the pride of -health and strength.</p> - -<p>In the meanwhile the crowd was not getting smaller; it -increased. While in front of white-faced Don Checchino's -wicket a lot of students made a row, calling out their own -numbers, laughing, and pushing each other, at old Don -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span> -Baldassare's, in front of the humble crowd were two or -three great gamblers, who gave a whole string of numbers, -staking tens and hundreds of francs on them. The old -clerk wrote slowly, phlegmatically, and read them out before -handing the tickets. At Don Crescenzio's, where the work -was got through quicker, the scene changed every minute: -the clerk came after the soldier-servant sent to stake for his -Colonel, a sulky workman gave place to a stupid-looking -country nurse, the old lay Sister stuck herself behind the -retired magistrate—all were chattering, looking ecstatic, or -deeply, sadly engrossed. That was how Don Domenico -Mayer looked, the misanthropic Under-Secretary of Finance. -He was now standing before Don Crescenzio, his eyes cast -down, his cavernous voice dictating ten <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">terni</i>, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">terni secchi</i>, on -which he boldly played two francs each, to win ten thousand -francs, less the tax on personal estate. At the third <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">terno</i>, -he asked fiercely:</p> - -<p>'How much is the tax?'</p> - -<p>'Thirteen and twenty per cent,' Don Crescenzio replied -playfully, waving his fat white hand in a graceful style.</p> - -<p>'Cheat of a Government!' a shrill voice called out behind -Don Domenico.</p> - -<p>It was Michele the shoeblack, waiting to play his small -Friday evening game. He was to play higher stakes next -day, when he got the money from Donna Concetta. In the -meanwhile he tasted the delight of being there as he waited -his turn. At the third <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">terno secco</i> Don Domenico explained -his game.</p> - -<p>'I don't care about taking the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">ambo</i>; fifteen francs are -nothing to me.'</p> - -<p>'Indeed!' said complacent Don Crescenzio.</p> - -<p>He took the twenty francs, folded the coupons neatly, and -handed them to him. Getting on tiptoe to reach the wicket, -the lame hunchback was already dictating his numbers. -He gave the explanation of each.</p> - -<p>'This I have played for twenty years ... this is Father -Giuseppe d'Avellino's <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">terno</i> ... this is the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">ambo</i> of the -day ... this is the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">terno</i> of the man killed in Piazza degli -Orefici.'</p> - -<p>But they were small stakes, seven or eight francs in all, -and those waiting behind him got impatient. By a curious -attraction, big gamblers went to Don Baldassare, the old -man. Ninetto Costa, in evening dress, just showing under -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span> -his overcoat, his <em>gibus</em> hat rather askew on his curly, scented -hair, his very white teeth uncovered by smiling red lips, -handed his list over to the accountant, while he smoked a -Havana calmly, cheerful as usual. He satisfied Don Baldassare's -inquiries pleasantly. The sum staked had to be -repeated to him as a precaution, not because he wondered -at the largeness of it.</p> - -<p>'On the first ticket seventy on the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">terno</i>, twenty on the -<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">quaterna</i>?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, that is it;' and he puffed out odorous smoke.</p> - -<p>'On the second <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">terno secco</i> a hundred and fifty is it?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, a hundred and fifty.'</p> - -<p>'On the third the whole ticket, two hundred and forty -francs. Is that right?'</p> - -<p>'Two hundred and forty—that is right.'</p> - -<p>The Marquis di Formosa, who had exchanged a smile -with Ninetto Costa, strained his ears to hear the ciphers. -He quivered, touched with a little envy, regretting he had -not so much money to stake. When he heard the whole -amount, six hundred and fifty francs, and saw Ninetto Costa -pull out this sum lightly to hand to Don Baldassare, he -grew pale, thinking how much he could win with so high a -risk. He went out, almost choking, to get air at the door. -There Ninetto Costa joined him. Both gazed down Toledo, -on its crowd and lights, without seeing them.</p> - -<p>'You are lucky,' stammered the old nobleman; 'you have -money.'</p> - -<p>'If you knew all!' said the other, grown grave suddenly. -'I pawned jewels I paid twenty thousand francs for, and I -only got five thousand. The pawnshops keep down the -loans on Friday and Saturday; they get such a lot of -things.'</p> - -<p>'What does it matter?—you will win,' said the old man, -rolling his eyes, excited by the vision of success.</p> - -<p>'On Monday I have a settlement on the Exchange—twenty -thousand francs' loss, and not a penny in my pocket. -If I don't take something, where will I put my head?'</p> - -<p>'You have good numbers?' Formosa asked anxiously.</p> - -<p>'I have staked everything. Pasqualino De Feo wanted -fifty francs to soothe the spirit. He gave me three <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">ternos</i>, -two <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">ambos</i>, and a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">situato</i>. Then that common girl I pay -court to, I gave her a watch. She gave me some numbers, -but under a symbol. You understand? Then there are the -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span> -Cabal numbers we play together, and Marzano's cobbler's -ones, and so on. I know if I don't win, Marquis, and a -big sum, I must go bankrupt;' and the thoughtless stock-broker's -voice trembled tragically. 'I am going to a dance—good-evening,' -he said then, lighting his cigar again; and -he went off with his nimble step.</p> - -<p>Excited by this talk, the Marquis di Formosa went into -the lottery-shop again. Now, before the pale, flabby Don -Checchino's grill, leaning her elbow on the counter, Carmela, -the cigar-girl, using the ten francs Donna Concetta gave -her for her earrings, was saying her numbers, faintly, with -pauses, playing three or four popular tickets.</p> - -<p>'Six and twenty-two—put half a franc on that; eight, -thirteen, and eighty-four—two sous for the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">ambo</i> of it, eight -sous for the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">terno</i>; then eight and ninety, on the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">ambo</i> another -four sous.'</p> - -<p>She stopped now and then, as if other sad thoughts distracted -her; a flush coloured her delicate cheeks. When -Don Checchino made up the account, four francs forty -centimes, she took out a roll of copper money and began to -count slowly.</p> - -<p>'Hurry up! hurry up!' an impatient woman's voice -cried out.</p> - -<p>She turned round and recognised the woman, an old -servant, Donna Rosa, she that served in the house where -her unfortunate sister lived. They spoke in a whisper.</p> - -<p>'Oh, Donna Rosa, and how is Filomena?'</p> - -<p>'She is well; but she is in distress. She sent me to play -this number—three girls are playing it, rather, as there -has been a wound given, unluckily.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, Jesus! God bless her, poor sister! And you—where -do you come from?'</p> - -<p>'I live in Chianche Road, and I am going home.'</p> - -<p>'Greet her for me,' Carmela whispered eagerly.</p> - -<p>Pulling her shawl round her, she went away, with her -head down, as if overpowered by tiredness. Next to Rosa, -the unfortunates' servant, came Baron Annibale Lamarra, -fat, pale, panting with his hurried walk from one lottery -bank to another. He played many tickets of twenty, fifty, -a hundred francs each; but, fearing to be spied on by his -miserly wife, whose dower he wasted, in spite of terrible -scenes, afraid of being caught by his father, a self-made -man, he had got up the fraud of playing a ticket at each -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span> -place. He ran panting from one lottery to another, trying -to believe he would win on Saturday and take back the -promissory note from Don Gennaro Parascandolo, the one -that had his wife's signature. The thought of it made him -shiver with fright. When he got out of Don Crescenzio's -lottery-shop he breathed again, and reckoned up mentally. -Of the two thousand francs, he had given two hundred to -Ambrogio Marzano, the cheerful old lawyer, for arranging -with Parascandolo; then he had staked one thousand six -hundred francs in different banks. He had two hundred -francs left. He would stake them next day, for perhaps he -would dream of some good number at night. It was no -use risking it all at once. In the meanwhile, from the other -door, just as he got out, Don Ambrogio Marzano came in. -He stopped to talk with the Marquis di Formosa.</p> - -<p>'Have you some good lottery numbers?' Formosa asked -anxiously. He clung to the pleasant old man as a bearer of -luck.</p> - -<p>'I have a forty-nine <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">secondo</i> that is a love, my lord!' -whispered the enthusiast, so as not to be heard.</p> - -<p>'Ah! and what else?'</p> - -<p>'Twenty-seven, you know, is the sympathetic number at -the end of the month.'</p> - -<p>'I have it, too. What do you say of the fourteenth?'</p> - -<p>'It is <em>very good</em>, my lord; but do you wish really to know -the lightning, the dazzling number?'</p> - -<p>'Tell me—tell me!'</p> - -<p>'I tell you in brotherly love, because when I have a -treasure I can't be selfish with it, and keep it to myself. -You may have it as a proof of affection—it is thirty-five!'</p> - -<p>'Ah!' said the Marquis in a stupor of admiration.</p> - -<p>In the meanwhile, still quite serene, Don Ambrogio -Marzano went to place his stakes with Don Crescenzio. -It is true he had had to give the usual fifteen francs to his -Cabalist cobbler. He had given ten to Don Pasqualino, -though he did not believe in him much, and a journey to -Marano, to take Father Illuminato a tortoise-shell snuff-box, -had cost him thirty francs; but he had taken them from a -prepayment of law expenses he got from a client, so that the -two hundred francs was intact, and he paid it all. Gaetano -the glove-cutter, Annarella's husband, whose child was -dying, was waiting his turn to stake; but it was a hard -week, he had not got the loan of a sou, and had had -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span> -difficulty in getting an advance of five francs from his -master. He staked four of them, keeping back one for the -numbers he might think of on Saturday morning.</p> - -<p>Now, as night came on, Don Crescenzio and his tired, -stupefied clerks had a sort of confused look, like those that -have sat too long at musical and dancing entertainments, -with dazzled eye and deafened ears; but they went on -working. It was the grand weekly harvest, a gathering in of -thousands, hundreds, and tens of francs for the Government. -Don Crescenzio got a percentage of it, and on good weeks he -gave his 'lads' a little extra. Even the people coming in -constantly to stake had a queer look. Some were uneasy, -some were looking round them suspiciously; others dragged -along in a tired way, or their eyes were distracted, as if they -were out of their senses. There were those who had just -found out numbers, or got money to stake; servants, their -day's work over, had run off to the lottery before going to -bed; shop-lads, that had just shut up shop, and youths who -had run out between two acts at the Fiorentino Theatre, were -coming in; and Cabalists from the Diodati Café, or the -wine-room of the Testa d'Oro Café, who were all Don -Crescenzio's customers, and after long discussion now -ended by risking all they had that evening; then a magistrate, -weighed down by children and poverty, on his way -back from a game of <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">scopa</i>, at a sou, ventured the twenty -francs that was to feed them for four days; and the pale, -sickly painter of saints, having insisted on getting the money -for a Santa Candida beforehand, came in just then to stake -it, and he was certain to play next morning what Donna -Concetta had promised him for the statue of the Immaculate -Conception.</p> - -<p>Even a very elegant little street carriage stopped, and a -hand in pearl-gray gloves, studded with diamonds at the -wrist, handed a paper and money to a gallooned footman. -The Marquis di Formosa, who had left his seat out of nervousness, -and was wandering among the gamblers who came out -and in, recognised the profile of a lady of his own set, the -Spanish Princess, Ines di Miradois.</p> - -<p>'It is true, then, that Francesco Althan takes everything -from her,' the old lord thought to himself.</p> - -<p>He joined Dr. Trifari and Professor Colaneri as they now -came in, still quivering with rage. They quarrelled by the -hour about dividing poor Rocco Galasso's seven hundred -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span> -and sixty francs. Trifari made out he had induced his fellow-villager, -Rocco Galasso, to sign, and he wanted five hundred -francs. Colaneri made out that Rocco Galasso had signed -the promissory note so as to get the examination papers from -him beforehand, and by giving them he had gravely compromised -himself; he might lose his post through it; therefore -the five hundred francs were his. The struggle had been -tremendous. They nearly came to blows twice; but Trifari -very unwillingly, choking with rage, gave in, because he knew -Colaneri had revelations at night—a thing he, a full-blooded -heretical blasphemer, did not have. And Colaneri gave in -because Trifari brought him many students to do business -with for the examinations—a most dangerous thing to do, -and he himself was afraid of the risk, but he yielded to -temptation to satisfy his vices. In short, they divided the -seven hundred and sixty francs. They had met the medium, -who asked them in an inspired tone if they wished to do alms -of five francs to St. Joseph. They gave it, thinking the -question meant numbers, and that they ought to play five -for the money and nineteen for St. Joseph's number. All -the medium says on Friday evening and Saturday morning -means lottery numbers. So that Trifari and Colaneri, after -making their game on their favourite numbers, came down -at once to play these less probable ones, according to them; -then they played the popular numbers, which were three -and four, just in case; and at last, leaning on the great -wooden counter, they looked in each other's faces with an -idiotic grin, still thinking out if they had forgotten anything.</p> - -<p>In spite of the late hour, people went on crowding up Don -Crescenzio's lottery bank. He would get a large profit this -last Friday in March, owing to a flowing back of malignant -fever, one of those wild, gathered-up rushes of the slow -disease that eats up Naples' fortunes. There were people -coming out of theatres who had thought all evening about -what ticket to play; they did not wish to put off doing so -till Saturday, for fear of forgetting it in the few morning -hours left. There were night-cabmen who stopped before -the shop, came down from the box, and waited their turn to -play, the inseparable whip in hand, with the patient eyes of -those accustomed to long waiting; there were those ragged, -wretched, wandering night-hawkers, shadowy figures, who -shivered with fright in the bright warm gaslight—vendors of -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span> -newspapers, fritters, pickers-up of cigar-ends, sellers of <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">pizze</i>, -of beans, of grass for the horses of night-cabs passing from -time to time, calling out their wares; and they, too, stopped -at the lottery-stand, and went in, not able to resist playing a -franc, half a franc, a few sous. The driver and two porters -of the omnibus that takes travellers by the last train to the -Allegria Hotel came in; whilst the bus-conductors and -drivers in Carità Square, as soon as their day's run was -over, which must have made them dead-tired, had come to -stake on the lottery before going home.</p> - -<p>Formosa had not made up his mind to play yet, with that -sort of dallying with time all lovers and excitable people go -in for. In a corner of the entrance, so as to let people pass, -he conversed with Trifari and Colaneri, who did not want -to leave either, though they had nothing left to stake. -They stood to enjoy that light, warmth, and crowd, the -money flowing in, the lottery-tickets going out, pledges of -fortune and riches, and to muse over which of them was the -right one. Which? which? Here was the tremendous, -delightful doubt, the immense, burning unknown, the -mystery that smiled through the veil that cannot be lifted.</p> - -<p>After taking a little walk through Toledo, being unable -to resist the attraction, Ambrogio Marzano, the lawyer, had -come back, too, and joined his little group of Cabalist friends, -conversing with them by fits and starts. Quite incapable -of not mentioning his number, his crowning stroke, he told -them of thirty-five, so that Colaneri and Trifari went in to -play it, and he, Marzano, went in to play seventy-three, -which Colaneri had given him. No, Formosa was not -going to stake yet. But the end of his enjoyment was -drawing near; he felt the great moment coming on, and in -one of his fervent, mystic bursts he prayed silently to the -Lord, the Casa Cavalcanti Madonna, the Ecce Homo he -worshipped in his family chapel, to enlighten and inspire -him, to do him the one great favour he had asked for years. -His friends, after tasting this other drop of pleasure, came -out again, and chatted vivaciously about numbers, getting -excited with the big shadows that now filled Toledo, broken -by that square of light the lottery lamp cast on the pavement. -Just then they saw Cesare Fragalà go in. After -shutting his shop, the gay confectioner always spent a -couple of hours at his club to play dominoes with other -tradesmen—grocers, drapers, oilmen, fishmongers—putting -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span> -down a sou a game. On Friday evening he played these -long games, too, but rather distractedly, nervous, in spite of -his youthful gaiety, and he made off rather early to go to -his dear Don Crescenzio's to make his weekly large stake.</p> - -<p>Really, there was a little crabbedness in his gambling -ardour, something like a feeling of remorse, of shame at -throwing away his money in that way, so he came late to -the lottery bank, when there were fewer people about to see -and know him. He was put out that evening on Formosa -greeting him; it annoyed him to be seen by his neighbour. -Then he shrugged his shoulders, and stood by his dearest -friend Don Crescenzio, who went on writing, stroking his -fine beard, making a lot of fine flourishes with his pen. -He began to dictate his numbers to him on and on, showing -his white teeth in a smile. Don Crescenzio wrote on quite -unmoved. For the six months that Cesare Fragalà played -at his bank the stakes had gone on increasing. In that -flood of numbers dictated, Don Crescenzio, with his peculiar -memory, recognised the medium's numbers—that is to say, -his symbols, that everyone had interpreted differently, so -that Formosa, Colaneri, Trifari, Marzano, Ninetto Costa, -Cesare Fragalà, and all who took their luck on Don Pasqualino's -words, played different numbers, and a great -many of them, and thus they all managed now and then to -make some small hazardous gain—fifteen or twenty crowns -over a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">situato</i>, six hundred francs over an <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">ambo</i>—very seldom, -it is true, but often enough to fan their passion and make -them all slaves to Don Pasqualino's cloudy phrases. So -with a slight smile, while he was adding up the sum, Don -Crescenzio said:</p> - -<p>'You, too, are one of Pasqualino De Feo's clients?'</p> - -<p>'You know him?' asked Fragalà anxiously.</p> - -<p>'Eh, we are friends,' Crescenzio muttered.</p> - -<p>'He knows the numbers, does he not?' Fragalà asked, -with a quiver in his throat.</p> - -<p>'Often he gets them right.'</p> - -<p>'How often?'</p> - -<p>'When his client is in God's favour,' the agent answered -enigmatically. Wishing to end the conversation, he politely -handed over the tickets, saying: 'Five hundred and forty -francs.'</p> - -<p>Fragalà paid stolidly with a tradesman's calm, without -changing expression. But when he got out of the lottery-shop, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span> -at the door, his smile faded; he remembered he had -made his first debt to a money-lender that day, and that he -had given security on the shop funds, having also taken out -the whole balance to make up the big sum he had staked. -It was to get away from these sad thoughts that he joined -the group of Cabalists. At one in the morning, standing in -front of the gambling place, they neither felt the hours -passing, the lateness, nor the penetrating damp; for they -burned with that constant inward fire that flamed up from -Friday to Saturday. They began the same stories again, -at great length, for the thousandth time, interrupting each -other, getting heated and excited, staring at each other with -wild, humid eyes, as if they were possessed. Cesare Fragalà -listened, trying to get the same fever, but not succeeding; -for he was only a weak soul, not mad, nor subject to nerves. -When they all went over the reasons that made them -gamble, such and such material and moral needs, urgent -and impelling, that the lottery alone could satisfy, he listened -in a melancholy way. At one point he said:</p> - -<p>'I—I need sixty thousand francs to open a shop towards -San Ferdinando, and make a marriage portion for Agnesina.'</p> - -<p>A deep sadness overpowered him. Good, honest, incapable -of lying about anything to his wife, he had deceived -her for months, like a cheat; he took the ledgers she often -stopped to turn over out of her hands, and with hourly -caution he tried to hide his vice from her, thus destroying -his good temper and ease.</p> - -<p>'If it were not for this shop, if it were not for Agnesina——' -he muttered, a prey to inconsolable bitterness.</p> - -<p>Now, about half-past one, the time came to shut the -lottery bank, as the customers became fewer and fewer; -and at last the Marquis di Formosa made up his mind to go -and stake. Notes in hand, he said the lottery numbers -slowly over to Don Crescenzio. There was a slight tremor -in his voice, and his eyes stared at the string of figures on -the paper, as if he was enjoying himself. The gambling-shop -was deserted now. His Cabalist friends, Colaneri, Trifari, -Marzano, bringing Fragalà with them, who was in very low -spirits, got behind the Marquis di Formosa to listen to his -numbers, and either winked approval or shook their heads unbelievingly—in -short, they served at Formosa's by no means -short gambling operations with the gravity of priests taking -part in a Bishop's service. Don Baldassare, the decrepit old -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span> -man, and pale-faced Don Checchino, stood motionless behind -the counter, their eyes half shut, dead-tired with that ten -hours' gabbling, thinking of having to go through the same -thing next day, from seven till noon, with great heat the last -hour. Only Don Crescenzio kept up his calm, placid, -Neapolitan felicity, that has its plate of macaroni secure, and -serenely watches others' excitement from behind a phantom -plate of macaroni, many plates of it in the great imaginative -country of Cockayne. The Marquis di Formosa, greatly -excited, played high. He put down what Giovanni got from -Concetta the money-lender, what the lady's-maid got from -Don Gennaro Parascandolo, and seventy francs he got from -the pawn-shop for two artistic antique gilt-bronze candle-sticks, -found in a lumber-room in his house—two hundred -and twenty francs in all. He was still pallid, discontented, -and melancholy, suddenly mistrustful of the value of some -numbers, sorry not to be able to risk more on others, in -despair at the end at not being able to stake on all the -others, all that were in his calculations.</p> - -<p>So the lover, after a long-wished-for interview with his -lady, having got it, sees the moments fly past with frightful -rapidity, and is afterwards deeply grieved at not having said -to the lady a word of what he felt. This old man, whose -ruling passion was not dulled by age, bent his head, crushed -suddenly, as if he had lived ten years in a minute. He went -out slowly and silently with the others, slow and silent, too, -through the dark street leading to his house. They were -all cold at that late hour. They shivered, and pulled their -great-coats round them, holding their heads down, not -speaking to each other. Thus they got as far as Dante -Piazza, under the Rossi Palace, where the cabalistic talk -began again. They went two or three times up and down -the piazza, while the poet's stern white statue seemed to -scorn them with its blank eyeballs. They took poor -Fragalà with them, eaten up now by overpowering remorse -for having thrown away so much money that belonged to -his family. But it was no use. He gambled because he -was a weak, cheerful creature, pricked on by commercial -ambition. He would never be a Cabalist. The others' -madness sadly surprised him, and they never could have -infected him with it. Still, he stayed with them, feeling -that he had not the strength to go home and lie by his wife's -side with this remorse on him for having thrown away five -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span> -hundred francs. He began to look distractedly and fixedly -at the shadows, as if he saw some frightful vision. At one -point Marzano bowed and went off towards Porta Medina -archway, for he lived in Tribunale Road. But the others -continued to walk up and down, raving, in the darkness and -cold, which they no longer felt. The Marquis di Formosa -was the most fervent of all. His eyes sparkled, his figure -stood out in the gloom, strong and vigorous, like a man of -thirty. Then Colaneri and Trifari took leave. They both -lived in a poor house in Cavone Street. Then Formosa -went on, with a monologue, speaking to Fragalà, the -shadows, or himself. They were going down very slowly -towards Toledo once more, when a quiet voice greeted them:</p> - -<p>'Good-night, gentlemen!'</p> - -<p>'Good-night, Don Crescenzio,' said the Marquis. 'Have -you shut up, eh? Was it a good day?'</p> - -<p>'Thirty-two thousand five hundred and twenty-seven -francs was the sum staked,' said the banker, all in one -breath.</p> - -<p>Silence followed.</p> - -<p>'Do you not play, Don Crescenzio?' Fragalà asked.</p> - -<p>'No, never. Good-night.'</p> - -<p>'Good night.'</p> - -<p>He went off smartly, and they, seeing the lottery bank was -shut now, turned back heavily. It was with a sigh that -they knocked gently at the palace gate. They were sorry -to go home. They parted on the first landing with a hand-shake -and a smile.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span></p> - -</div> - - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER IX</h2> - -<p class="p2">BIANCA MARIA'S VISION</p> - - -<p>Both the gamblers went upstairs very quietly, like evil-doers -or timid young fellows who have disobeyed their -father's orders; each carried a latchkey, and shut the door -without any noise. On going into his apartments and his -own room, Cesare Fragalà, taking a fit of penitence, shook -like a child; only his sleeping wife's placid breathing calmed -him a little. He was afraid of awakening her, in case she -questioned him, and guessed the truth with that extraordinary -alarming intuition women have. He undressed by -the slender light of a lamp before St. Agnes, and got into -bed with the greatest caution, trembling—yes, trembling—lest -he should wake his wife; and in his humble, contrite, -desolate heart he swore not to stake another sou. Only -this oath and his healthy constitution freed him from sleeplessness, -which sits at the bedhead of all gamblers.</p> - -<p>Sleeplessness had visited Formosa's pillows. He had -vainly tried to read Rutilio Benincasa's mathematical table, -to calm his wandering thoughts; the figures danced in a -ring before his eyes. He vainly tried to say the rosary, to -fix his mind on prayer, to humiliate his heart before the -Eternal Will; prayer came coldly and haltingly from his lips. -A strong fever of fancy held him, and put his nerves on the -rack; it made him start up in his bed, quivering like a violin -string: a madness took hold of him, and, from the black -darkness and solitude, made itself all-powerful over his -thoughts and feelings. He could not stay in bed; in spite -of the cold, he got up and dressed, and began to walk about -in his freezing room. He did not feel cold; his hands and -head were warm; the candle-flame seemed a great blaze to -him. All was silent in the house; he never allowed anyone -to wait up for him. The two poor old servants—Giovanni -and Margherita—whom he had despoiled of their money got -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span> -on loan, to keep Bianca Maria alive, were sleeping in the -closet—tired and sorrowful, perhaps. Bianca Maria was -asleep in her cold room many hours ago certainly. But the -Marquis di Formosa, devoured by his gambling folly, hoping -and despairing of winning from one moment to another, implored -God, the Virgin, the saints, the souls of his dead, his -guardian angel, Fortune, all the powers of heaven and earth, -to help him to win, to get the victory; he forgot his fears as -a man and a Christian so far as to ask it from evil spirits, even. -Formosa, burning with such madness, could not bear that all -in the house should sleep quietly, placidly, while he was torn -with anguish and hope. Ah no! he was not afraid of solitude -and night, little noises from old furniture, old creaking -ceilings, or noisy doors; he was afraid of nothing in that -icy house where his wife died of languor and sorrow, where -her meek shade still seemed to linger. Fear! He asked, -he implored a voice, a revelation, a vision; he would have -been pleased, happy, and not frightened, if he had seen -something. But his soul was too stained with sin, his heart -was unclean from earthly desires; a white soul, a virginal -heart, was needed to get this heavenly grace, by which one -<em>saw</em> what other human eyes were not allowed to see. Bianca -Maria was sleeping; she slept, cold creature! though so -near to Grace, and still refused to satisfy her father's wishes. -He left his room, crossed the passage in front of the drawing-room, -and stopped at his daughter's closed door. He -listened—no sound. She was sleeping, cold-hearted girl! -She had no pity for her father's tortures, and would not pray -God and the Virgin for a vision. A dull rage mingled with -his Friday madness; he went up and down the passage -more than once, trying to go away from his daughter's room; -but he could not manage it: his curiosity was so strong to -know from her the spirit's revelation that she certainly must -have had that night; it could not have failed to come. Don -Pasqualino, the medium, after a three days' voluntary fast, -after two nights' flagellation on his shoulders and bare, thin -breast, had heard from the spirit who helped him that Bianca -Maria would get the revelation. The spirit does not lie. -Then involuntarily, as if pushed by a force he must obey, -he took hold of the door-handle; it creaked, the door opened. -But a sharp cry from inside answered to the noise—a girl's -cry, whose light, watchful sleep had been disturbed. She -rose up in bed, in her white nightgown, her black hair loose -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span> -on her shoulders, eyes wide open, and hands clutching the -coverlet.</p> - -<p>'It is I, Bianca—it is I,' the Marquis di Formosa murmured, -coming forward.</p> - -<p>'Who—who is it?' she asked, shaking with fear, not -daring to move.</p> - -<p>'I—it is I, Bianca,' he repeated, getting impatient.</p> - -<p>She sighed deeply without saying anything, but her -breathing was still alarmed. The Marquis had got to his -daughter's bed, guided by the faint light of a lamp before a -small image of the Virgin.</p> - -<p>The girl fell back on the pillows and looked at the ceiling. -The Marquis sat down by her bed, and his nervous fingers -played with the white fringe of the coverlid.</p> - -<p>'Why were you so frightened?' he asked, after a long -silence.</p> - -<p>'I don't know; it is stronger than I am.'</p> - -<p>'When one is in the Lord's grace there is no need for -fear,' he remarked sententiously and severely. 'Have you -some mortal sin on your conscience?'</p> - -<p>'No ... I don't think so, at least,' she said, hesitating.</p> - -<p>They kept silence. The Marquis di Formosa looked into -the shadows.</p> - -<p>'Has the spirit come?' he asked afterwards, in a -whispered, mysterious tone.</p> - -<p>'Oh, do not speak of that,' she said, sighing again, -shutting her eyes, and hiding her face in her hands.</p> - -<p>'Has it come?' he insisted; a gambler's cruelty was raging -in him now.</p> - -<p>'For mercy's sake, if you love me, don't speak of that!' she -said, taking his hand and kissing it, so as to move him -more.</p> - -<p>'Tell me, has it come?' he again repeated implacably.</p> - -<p>She, feeling she could not escape that persecution, looked -despairingly towards the Virgin, then hid her face in the -pillows.</p> - -<p>'Tell me, tell me, if it has come!' he cried out, bending -over the pillows, as if to breathe his magnetic curiosity into -his daughter's face.</p> - -<p>'No, it has not,' she said, in a thread of a voice.</p> - -<p>'You are lying.'</p> - -<p>'I am not.'</p> - -<p>'You are lying. The spirit has been here, I feel it.'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Be good to me; say no more about this,' she said, -trembling dreadfully.</p> - -<p>'How did you see it? Awake? dozing? sleeping? It -was a white figure, was it not, with lowered eyelids, but -smiling?... What did it say to you? A very weak voice, -wasn't it? Something you alone could have heard?'</p> - -<p>'Father, you want to kill me,' she uttered desolately.</p> - -<p>These are womanly fears,' said he disdainfully. 'Who -ever died through a communication from on high? The -meeting of soul and spirit is a spring of life. Bianca Maria, -don't be ungrateful, don't be cruel; tell me all.'</p> - -<p>'You are trying to kill me,' she repeated, desperately and -resignedly.</p> - -<p>'You are a fool! Do you wish me, your father, to pray -to you? Well, I will; there is nothing else to be done. -Children are ungrateful and wicked; they give back cruelty -for our love. I pray to you, Bianca, I beg of you, as if you -were my patron saint, to tell me all.'</p> - -<p>'I will die of this, father,' she murmured, her voice -choked in the pillows that helped her to curb her crying -and sobs.</p> - -<p>'Listen, Bianca,' he went on coldly, keeping in his anger; -'you must believe me. I am a man, I am sane, I am in -my senses, I can reason. Well, it is an article of faith with -me, as clear as the light, as the sun, that you have had to-night, -or will have, a spirit's apparition. It will come to -bless our family; it will tell you words of happiness. If -it has come, so much the better; your duty as an obedient, -loving daughter of the House of Cavalcanti is to tell me all, -at once.'</p> - -<p>'I know nothing,' she said dryly.</p> - -<p>'Do you swear it?'</p> - -<p>'I swear that I know nothing.'</p> - -<p>'Then this vision will come in the succeeding hours of the -night. I am going into the chapel, to pray. I am a sinner, -but sinners, too, can ask for grace. I will pray that you -may see and feel the spirit.'</p> - -<p>'No, don't go away!' she cried out, getting up in her bed -and catching hold of his arm with a despairing clutch.</p> - -<p>'Why should I not?'</p> - -<p>'Don't go away, for the love of God! If you have any -affection for me, stay here.'</p> - -<p>'I must go and pray, Bianca,' he exclaimed, carried away -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span> -by excitement, not understanding his daughter's convulsive -state.</p> - -<p>'No, no—stay; I can't be left alone here, or I'll die of -fright.' She spoke restlessly, quite pallid, her trembling -hands still clutching her father's arm. She dared not look -round. With her head down on her breast, she shut her eyes -and bit her lips; while he, in his mad obstinacy, looked -fixedly at his daughter, thinking he saw in her that spiritual -disorder that must, by a fatality, go with the great miracles -that have to do with the soul.</p> - -<p>'How do you feel?' he questioned, very deeply and intensely, -as if he wished to tear the truth from her soul.</p> - -<p>'Stay here, stay here,' said she, her teeth chattering with -terror.</p> - -<p>'You see something?' he asked suggestively, with an -intensity in his voice and will that was bound to influence -that fragile feminine frame, broken as it was by the nervous -shock.</p> - -<p>'I am afraid to see—I am afraid!' she said, very low, -leaning her forehead on her father's arm.</p> - -<p>'Don't be afraid, dear; don't fear,' he whispered tenderly, -paternally caressing her black hair.</p> - -<p>'Be silent; keep silence,' said she, with a quick shiver. -She continued to lean on his shoulder, hiding her face, -shrinking all over. The Marquis put his arm round her -waist, to keep up her quivering, feeble body; she hid more, -clinging to her father as to a raft of safety. He sometimes -felt her quiver all through her nerves.</p> - -<p>'What is the matter?' he asked then.</p> - -<p>'No, no!' she said, more by gesture than voice.</p> - -<p>'Look, look—don't be frightened,' suggested the deluded -man.</p> - -<p>'Be silent!' she answered, shuddering. He held her up, -waiting with a madman's patience that would wait for hours, -days, months, years, provided the truth of his delusion were -proved.</p> - -<p>'Bianca darling,' the Marquis murmured, sometimes -encouraging her tenderly. She answered with a sigh, that -seemed a lamenting, suffering child's sob. Holding her -against his breast, Formosa felt the strong rigidity of that -young sickly frame shaken by long shivers. When she -trembled all over, he felt the rebound. It seemed to him -the implored revelation was imminent. He again said to -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span> -her, obstinately, pitilessly, 'How do you feel?' She waved -her hand, in an alarmed way, as if she wished to chase -away a frightful thought or a dreadful vision. What did -the agony of that young breast matter to him, the fatal want -of balance in the nerves? In that chilly virginal room, a -circle of light on the ceiling from the Virgin's lamp alone -breaking the shadow, with the quivering form in his arms, -the soul trembling before Divine mysteries, he felt it a solemn -moment; time and space were not. He, Formosa, was -facing at last the great mystery. From his innocent -daughter's lips he would know his life's secret, his future: -the fatal ciphers that contained his fortune—the spirit would -tell Bianca Maria everything, and she would tell him.</p> - -<p>'Bianca, Bianca, implore <em>him</em> to come and tell you -whether we are to live or die. Pray to him, because <em>he</em>, the -spirit, comes forth from the Divine, to tell you the divine -word; pray to him, if he is here near you, or in you, if he is -before your eyes or your fancy; pray to him, Bianca, pray -to him. Our life is at stake. Save us, Bianca, save us!'...</p> - -<p>He went on speaking, incoherently, invoking the spirit's -presence, addressing the wildest, saddest prayers to her -and to him. The girl, trembling, shivering, her teeth -chattering with terror, clung on her father's neck, like a -suffering child, fastened like a vice. She said no more, but -it was evident the hour, the surroundings, and her father's -voice increased her nervousness. A stifled sob came from -her breast, and a very faint, constant lament, like a dying -child's, from her lips. He spoke to her all the time, but -when he got more urgent, almost wrathful in his sorrow, he -felt her arms twitching with despair. Then gradually a -change came. To begin with, Bianca's hands and forehead -were, as usual, icy cold; she was so bloodless, she had lost -her vital heat. Indeed, in that spasm the deluded old man -had felt that her whole body was frozen. Suddenly, at -intervals, when her teeth stopped chattering and her arms -relaxed through debility, he felt a slight heat rising under -the skin on her hands and up to her forehead. It seemed -a current of heat spreading all through her young body, -which filled her impoverished veins with warm blood, and -made her forehead and hands burn. He beard her breathing -get more distressed; sometimes her breast rose with a long -sigh, as if she needed air. Twice he tried to put her head -down on the pillow, but she gave a frightened shiver.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Don't leave me alone, for the love of God!' she stammered, -like a baby.</p> - -<p>'I won't leave you. Tell me what you see,' he repeated, -indomitable and implacable.</p> - -<p>'It is dreadful, dreadful!' Bianca stammered, going on -trembling, trembling as if she had the body of an old woman -of seventy.</p> - -<p>'What is dreadful? Speak, Bianca, tell me everything; -tell me what you have seen.'</p> - -<p>'Oh!' lamented she despondingly.</p> - -<p>Now the teeth had given up chattering, her short breathing -came from her throat faintly, she burnt all over, and her -quick respiration scorched her father's neck where her head -leant; besides this, her temples and pulse beat rapidly, but -her father, possessed altogether by his madness, in the -mysterious half-light of that chilly night, close to the poor -drowsy soul in the tortured body, lost all sense of realities. -His sick fancy keenly enjoyed the hour's drama, without -taking in how cruel it was. He was quivering with joy, -indeed, as he believed the great moment of the spirit's revelation -had come; the fortunes of the House of Cavalcanti -were to be decided that moment. His daughter's uneasiness, -terror, spasms, broken words, were easily explained; it was -the Favour drawing near. So much time, so long had gone -by in unhappiness and wretchedness; now all was to be -changed. To-morrow he and his daughter would be rich—have -millions! Oppressed and uneasy, Bianca Maria had -slid down from her father's breast on to the pillows; her -whistling breath was very audible, her eyes shone curiously. -Nailed to the spot by his unhealthy curiosity, the Marquis -stood by the bed, watching his daughter's every movement -by the lamp-light, struck down as she was on that bed of -sorrow. Suddenly, as if by an electric shock, her hands -clutched the coverlet wildly; a hoarse cry came from her -throat.</p> - -<p>'What is it?' the Marquis cried out, shaken also.</p> - -<p>'It is the spirit—the spirit!' she stammered, her voice -changed to a deep cavernous tone.</p> - -<p>'Where is it?' the father said in a whisper.</p> - -<p>'In the doorway! Look at it; it is there!' she said -firmly and forcibly, staring at the door.</p> - -<p>'I see nothing—nothing! I am a poor sinner!' Formosa -cried out despairingly.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span></p> - -<p>'The spirit is there,' she whispered, as if she heard -nothing.</p> - -<p>'How is it clad? What is it doing? What does it say? -Bianca, Bianca, pray to it!'</p> - -<p>'It is clad in white ... it does not move ... it says -nothing ...' she murmured in a dreamy way.</p> - -<p>'Implore him—implore him to speak to you. You are -free from sin, Bianca.'</p> - -<p>'It does not speak ... it will not speak!'</p> - -<p>'Bianca, pray in God's name, by His strength and -power.'</p> - -<p>They kept silence. The Marquis di Formosa kept his -whole attention on the door where his daughter alone saw -the spirit, his whole soul in prayer. She lay still more -restless; her burning hands clutched the folds of the sheet -between her fingers.</p> - -<p>'What does it say?'</p> - -<p>'It says nothing.'</p> - -<p>'But why will it not speak? Why has it come if it will -not speak?'</p> - -<p>'It does not answer me,' she replied, still in the same -voice that seemed to come from a distance.</p> - -<p>'But what is it doing?'</p> - -<p>'It looks at me ... looks at me steadily ... the eyes -are so sad, so sad. It looks pityingly at me, just as if I were -dead. Am I dead, then?'</p> - -<p>'Now it will go away without telling you anything!' -Formosa shouted out. 'Ask him what numbers come out -to-morrow.'</p> - -<p>She gave an agonized moan.</p> - -<p>'I think it is weeping now, as if I were dead; it looks so -to me. Tears fall down its cheeks.'</p> - -<p>'Tears, sixty-five,' Formosa said to himself, as if he -feared someone would hear him.</p> - -<p>'It raises its hand to greet me....'</p> - -<p>'Look how many fingers it lifts—look well; make no -mistake.'</p> - -<p>'Three fingers. It bows to me; it wants to go away....'</p> - -<p>'Tell him to come back; pray him to—pray....'</p> - -<p>'He signs "yes,"' Bianca Maria went on after a pause. -'It is going away—it has gone; it has disappeared....'</p> - -<p>'Let us praise God!' Formosa cried out, kneeling at the -foot of the bed. 'The fingers three, the hand five, tears -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span> -sixty-five; we must find out the number for the dead girl. -Let us thank God!'</p> - -<p>'Yes, yes,' the girl murmured in a queer tone; 'we must -find out the number for the dead girl—we must find -out....'</p> - -<p>'We will find out,' exclaimed Formosa, laughing like a -madman.</p> - -<p>He thought no more about his daughter, who was now in -a state of high fever with the violence of the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">effimere</i>, that -carries off a life in twenty-four hours. She panted, drinking -in the air with her open mouth, like a dying bird. The blood -beat so wildly in her veins it seemed it would burst them; -her whole slender form burned like red-hot iron. But the -Marquis di Formosa only felt a youthful impatience; he -had gone twice to the window to see if day was breaking. -No; he had still some hours to wait before he could play -the spirit's numbers. It occurred to him he had no more -money. How could he play? Not a franc. It was a cruel -thing, this continual thirst nothing could satisfy. But he -would find the money, if he had to sell the last of his -furniture and pawn himself. He would get it, by Gad! -now he had got the revelation—now the ministering spirit -had deigned to enter his house. His fortune was in his -hands; he would put everything on the spirit's numbers.</p> - -<p>'Oh, Ecce Homo! Ecce Homo of Cavalcanti House! it -was you did us this favour. A new chapel must be added -for you, and four lamps of massive silver, always kept lit, in -remembrance of what you have done for us.' The Ecce -Homo would help him to get the money too. Good and -powerful Ecce Homo, the family protector, give money—money -to gamble with!</p> - -<p>Overmastered by his fervent, passionate thoughts, the -Marquis di Formosa spoke aloud, gesticulating with his -hands through his hair, wandering about the room like a -madman.</p> - -<p>Bianca Maria went on raving in a whisper, because her -breath was failing, softly, vaguely speaking of Maria degli -Angioli, or with deep melancholy of a fresh, laughing, green -country place she would like to live in, down there far, far -off. But the old man, carried away by his thoughts, no -longer listened to her, and as the cold dawn of March burst -forth, two deliriums were confused together in that room—father's -and daughter's tragically.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span></p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>In the livid cold light of dawn the Marquis di Formosa -wandered in a shaky way, with wild-looking eyes and pallid -face, through his flat, searching his empty drawers and sparse -furniture for something to sell or pawn. He found nothing. -He opened the drawers with trembling hands again, and -groped in them, shaking them hard, then he looked around -with madness in his gaze, thinking he would like to sell or -pawn the bare walls of the house that had once been his. -Nothing, nothing! Little by little, eaten up by the lottery, -valuable jewels had disappeared, heavy antique and modern -silver plate, pictures by great masters, precious books, -artistic rarities in bronze, ivory, carved wood—the house -was stripped, only the furniture that it would have been -disgraceful to part with was left. Alas! nothing could be -found to turn into money so as to play the spirit's number. -He wrung his hands despairingly; he had left Bianca Maria -in a feverish, oppressed stupor, a few confused words still -came from her lips, and the servants were still sleeping. -He even went into the chapel, wildly; but the lamps -burning there were brass. He had bought the altar vases -himself when he sold the real silver ones, and had got -imitation silver instead. He thought a moment of taking -the silver crown from the Virgin's head, and the seven -swords in her heart that represent the great agonized -Mother's sorrows, but a mysterious dread restrained him.</p> - -<p>He went out without being able to say a prayer even, the -night's delusion and Saturday morning's feverish haste -held him so strongly that dawn. He thought who he could -borrow money from, but could not find anyone; he held his -beating temples to keep his thoughts together, so as to get -what he wanted. All friends of his own rank and his great -relations kept away from him after his wife's death; but -only after he had laid them all under contribution for his -gambling. His present friends? They were all gamblers, -all making desperate attempts that morning to go on staking; -they would certainly not lend money—each one thought of -himself, looked out for himself. New friends? That passion -prevented him from finding any, except that morbid set of -madmen, damned like himself. A great deal of money was -needed, as the spirit had deigned to reveal himself; a fortune -must be made that day or never. Suddenly a flash of light -struck him: a name came to his mind. He could give him -the money; he was a man of honour; he had a lot of money; -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span> -he would not refuse a Formosa a small loan. While he -wrote to Dr. Antonio Amati at his desk, on a leaf torn from -a book full of ciphers, he thought he need not feel ashamed -to ask a loan from a stranger, for he would give it back that -very evening. After he had written, one thought made him -tremble: if Amati said 'No'? He was a mere acquaintance, -a stranger; money hardens all hearts.</p> - -<p>'Take this letter to Dr. Amati, and bring the answer -back,' he said to Giovanni, who came in, hardly awake, on -being rung for.</p> - -<p>'He will be asleep....'</p> - -<p>'Take it!' Formosa ordered. He bit his lips, certain now -that Amati would refuse; he felt a blush of shame come to -his cheek. But he must have money—he must, at whatever -cost! He flung himself in the easy-chair, looking at the -ciphers on bits of paper scattered on the desk without -seeing them; he felt overcome by that irrepressible rage of -his ruling passion, at war with realities.</p> - -<p>'When he awakes he will give the answer,' said Giovanni, -coming in, silently waiting his master's orders.</p> - -<p>'Giovanni, give me the rest of the money you have,' said -Formosa sullenly.</p> - -<p>'I haven't got any, sir,' the other answered, shaking all -over.</p> - -<p>'Don't tell lies; you have other fifty francs. Give me -them at once....'</p> - -<p>'My lord, I took the loan of it from a money-lender. I -must give it back at so much a week; don't take it from -me....'</p> - -<p>'That does not matter to me,' Formosa said haughtily.</p> - -<p>'Don't take it from me, my lord. If you knew what it -was needed for....'</p> - -<p>'It does not matter to me' the Marquis said fiercely. -'Give me the fifty francs....'</p> - -<p>'They are for getting food for her ladyship....'</p> - -<p>'That does not matter to me!' Formosa yelled.</p> - -<p>'As that is so, I obey,' said the old servant despairingly, -and he took out the other fifty-franc note. The Marquis -snatched at it like a thief, and put it quickly in his pocket.</p> - -<p>'Your wife has money, too; get it from her,' Formosa -went on again coldly.</p> - -<p>'Where could my wife get it?'</p> - -<p>'She has some. Make her give it to you, and bring it -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span> -here. Spare me a scene. If your wife denies it, you can -leave the house at once, both of you.'</p> - -<p>'No, my lord—no; I am going at once,' said the servant -humbly.</p> - -<p>But a scene followed in there; there was long, agitated -talk between the husband and wife. The woman did not -wish to let her money be carried off; she cried, wept, and -sobbed. Silence at last, and then a moaning.</p> - -<p>Giovanni came in again, with his old face distorted, and -bent more, as if struck by paralysis. As he put another fifty -francs down on the desk, silently, his eyes red with the rare, -burning tears of old age, the Marquis was so struck by his appearance -that he suddenly relented, and said good-naturedly:</p> - -<p>'It is three hundred francs, between yesterday evening -and to-day. This evening you will get it all.'</p> - -<p>'How am I to get to-day's dinner?'</p> - -<p>'I will see about it—at <em>four o'clock</em>,' the Marquis said -vaguely.</p> - -<p>'Her ladyship is ill; she will want a little soup this -evening,' the servant muttered.</p> - -<p>Then, searching his pockets, with a miserly grimace, the -Marquis di Formosa gave three francs to the man, following -them with a greedy look.</p> - -<p>There was a knock. Formosa started. It was Dr. Amati's -answer. It did not matter now if he said 'No.' But as he -got the envelope in his hands, he knew by touch that the -money he wanted was there, and, red with delight, he put the -envelope in his pocket without opening it. He went out -now, at eight in the morning, as if carried by an irresistible -breath of wind; he went without turning back to look at -his sick child, his bare house, his weeping servants, who -had given him everything, the neighbour whose visits he -had not paid for, and yet dared to ask a loan of money -from—he went off, taking three hundred and fifty francs -with him, to put it all on the spirit's numbers, while he -had left his poor old servants fasting, and had haggled over -a little soup for Bianca Maria. No one in the house saw -him again till mid-day. His daughter lay in bed, in a burning -fever, breathing with difficulty, often asking for something -to drink—nothing else. Margherita sat down by the bed, -saying the Rosary over to herself to pass the time. She -often put her hand on the invalid's forehead, alarmed at its -being so hot. The sick girl said nothing; she was sleeping, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span> -breathing uneasily. Suddenly, opening her eyes, she said -distinctly to Margherita:</p> - -<p>'Call the doctor to me.'</p> - -<p>'He won't be at home now.'</p> - -<p>'When he comes back, then.' And she shut her eyes again.</p> - -<p>The doctor only came at half-past four. He stood at the -door of the little room, scenting the feverish air.</p> - -<p>'You might have called me before,' he said to Margherita -roughly.</p> - -<p>'Oh, sir, if I could tell you——'</p> - -<p>He told her to hold her tongue. The invalid was looking -at him, her lovely, gentle eyes wide open, her hand held out -to him. The strong man, with the massive head, the good-natured, -ugly face, got a look of great tenderness before the -fragile creature Affection welled up from his heart. He -felt at once that the fever would soon be over: it was -falling already, with the suddenness of malaria; but the -thorn of that miserable existence, trembling between life -and death, victim of a disease he could not find out the -meaning of, would stay in his heart.</p> - -<p>'Now I am going to order a medicine for you,' he said -gently to the sick girl, holding her hand in his.</p> - -<p>'No, do not,' she said softly.</p> - -<p>'Don't you want any?'</p> - -<p>'Listen, listen!' she said, pulling him to her to let him -hear better—'take me away!' She trembled as she said -this, and Antonio, paling suddenly, struck by an indescribable -emotion, could not even answer. 'Take me -away!' she added humbly, as if imploring him.</p> - -<p>'Yes, dear—dear,' he stammered; 'wherever you like—at -once.'</p> - -<p>'To the country—far off,' the poor thing whispered, -'where one sees no ghosts in fever, where there are no -shadows nor frightful spectres.'</p> - -<p>'What do you say?' said he, surprised.</p> - -<p>'Nothing; take me away to the country, to greenness -and peace with your mother ... before God.'</p> - -<p>'Oh dear, dear!' He could say nothing else, this great -man, in the supreme emotion, the sweetness of the idyll.</p> - -<p>'Far away take me,' she still whispered, looking at him -with great, good eyes.</p> - -<p>Alone, very sweetly and modestly, they spoke of love -without using words.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span></p> - -</div> - - - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER X</h2> - -<p class="p2">MAY AND SAN GENNARO'S MIRACLE</p> - - -<p>Gentle April opened all the flowers in the gardens, -terraces, and balconies in Naples; wherever there was a -little earth warmed by the sun, bedewed with rime, a -flower sprang up. Common, uncultivated, popular flowers, -quite a humble flora without refinements, having no exquisite -colouring or scents, but bright, warm, bursting from -the earth with profuse vegetation and plump, full petals. -April made the big, sweet-smelling, blood-red roses blossom, -and the pinks, beloved of the people—white, pink, variegated—<em>written -on</em> as they poetically call them, as if these -stripes were mystic words; then single and double stocks—white, -yellow, red—that the town girls love; they grow them -on the damp north balconies of Foria Street; and the -mallow with green, perfumed leaves and little pink flowers; -but above all, everywhere, roses and pinks—magnificent, -velvety, almost arrogant roses, and rich, close pinks bursting -their green envelope.</p> - -<p>In the damp, dark squares of the low-lying quarters, from -Santa Maria la Nova to Porto Piazzetta, from San Giovanni -Maggiore to Santi Apostoli, in all these half-popular and -cloistral, middle-class and archæological quarters, rose-sellers -wandered about; some queer-looking hawkers with big -baskets full of cut roses or slips, the root wrapped in a -cabbage-leaf, giving such pathetic drawn-out cries that they -reached the hearts of sentimental girls. The rose-girl comes -into one of these little squares that are always soaking, -dripping with dirty, black water, puts the basket on the -ground, and sings on in a melancholy, drawn-out voice: -'Roses, lovely roses!' Then women's heads stick out of -shops, balconies and gateways, attracted by the long, sad -chant, full of melancholy, almost painful, voluptuousness.</p> - -<p>Whoever has a few sous, or only one, buys these roses, -the slips for the balconies, or cut ones to put before the -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span> -Virgin, and to scatter, when faded, in the linen drawers. The -girl, having sold part of her merchandise, lifts the basket on -her head, and goes off, taking up her melancholy cry in the -distance, dwelling on the roses' beauty.</p> - -<p>That warm May-day all the seamstresses going errands, -who found their lovers by chance at the street corners, -carried a rose in their hands; all the common folk walking -about in the narrow streets round Forcella wore pinks on -their white muslin camisoles; the children out from school -playing in the streets had flowers; even the servants had -flowers on their market-baskets, laid on the provisions -wrapped in a white towel.</p> - -<p>Really, poetic sentiment was not the only reason that -scattered flowers everywhere—at the street corners, in -women and children's hands, on washing baskets, flour-sacks, -fruit and tomatoes, in the big frying shops at Purgatorio ad -Arco, and the old-clothes shops at Anticaglia; it was the -quantity one could get for a penny: for a smile, a word, and -flowers are so precious to humble folk, who love colour -and are intoxicated with the slightest perfume. May-day! -In that noon-day sun many dull, gloomy houses of Trinità -Maggiore, Forcella, Tribunali, San Sebastiano, San Pietro -a Maiella Streets, besides the flowers in the balconies, had -put bright-coloured flags, old red damasks, yellow, bright, -buttercup curtains, blue silk hangings edged with gold and -silver, and many coloured stuffs, kept up in boxes for years, -outside the railings for drapery.</p> - -<p>The people that live in these tall, black, melancholy -palaces, that only get the sun on the terraces, are patricians -of old clerical families, very devout and pious, under the -influence of all the great old churches around: the Gesù -Nuovo, Santa Chiara, San Domenico Maggiore, San Giovanni -Maggiore, Pietra Santa, the Sacramentiste, the Girolomini, -San Severo, Donna Regina; and finally the influence -of the old minster, the grand cathedral, so old, they say, it -was a temple of the Sun in Naples' pagan times—or, rather, -its early pagan times. There are rich, stern old middle-class -families also in the high, dark houses who keep up the -customs of their citizen forefathers, and have rigid monastic -tendencies. These people, that bright May-day, had taken -out of camphored chests silk draperies they had bought at -the great factory Ferdinand of Bourbon set up at Terra di -Lavoro, or from San Leucio, with its bright, gay factories, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span> -for weddings and baptisms held in their private chapels and -oratories. A pious folk, that inherits faith in its blood, they -are born, live, and die without doubting for a moment. -They put all the repressed strength of fancy into that -grand mystic dream that rises from the terrors of Hell to -the supreme ecstasies of Paradise, having a horror of Purgatory, -as if the flesh felt its warm flames; and, dreaming -and dreaming on, they come to the last moment with eyes -shut in invincible hope.</p> - -<p>Besides the May roses and the hedge of pinks blooming -on the balconies, in spite of want of sun, these pious folk -had put out for rejoicings this May-day their brocades, -damasks, and watered silks. May-day! The darkness of -old Naples' streets was brightened up by that general wealth -of sweet-smelling flowers, with petals scattered on the gray -Vesuvian lava stones; and there being so many flowers -everywhere, it seemed the sun must be there too. Its -presence was felt up there, where the two narrow lines of -tall palaces ended in a clear streak of soft blue sky—spring's -thin azure. It seemed as if a white sun was down in these -narrow openings, Tribunali and Forcella Streets, because so -many coloured stuffs, such vivid draperies, waved from the -balconies, windows, and terraces. In San Domenico Maggiore -Square, especially, the ancient De Sangro and Carigliano -Palaces had magnificent brocades; even San Severo -Palace, that hides in a dark lane its gloomy vestibule, -was dazzling with ancient stuffs. The fresh flowers in the -shops, in the tiny balconies of poor houses that come by -turns in old Naples with magnates' palaces, on the flat roofs -and terraces, out in the air, between earth and heaven; the -flowers carried by women, children, humble working people, -artisans, beggars even—fresh flowers—formed the people's -festival in honour of Naples' protector. That was the explanation, -too, of the silk draperies, the gold and silver -damasks, the tapestries; it was all the tribute of the old -Naples' nobility and burghers to Naples' great patron.</p> - -<p>May-day is lovely in Naples, from the air's caressing -breath, from the vivid streak of blue sky that manages to -make the darkest, most villainous streets gay. May-day is -lovely, from the roses that bloom on all sides, seeming to -grow from women and children's hands even, as well as all -the common garden and field flowers. It is miracle-working -San Gennaro's day. It is on May-day his relics are carried -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span> -from the cathedral crypts—called <em>Succorpo</em>, or San Gennaro's -Treasury—to Santa Chiara Church, so that the saint may -deign, on the prayers of the people, to do the miracle of -liquefying his blood. The Bishop of Pozzuoli's head, which -was cut off by the executioner's axe, is set in an old gold -mask. It bears the Bishop's mitre, enriched with precious -stones, and sparkles with a thousand fires. The other relic -is the coagulated blood, kept in a very fine crystal phial: -through the cold dark clot of blood a straw is visible, going -across it and immovable. It was gathered by pious folk -present at the Bishop's martyrdom, and religiously preserved. -This is the day, the fourth of the flowery, sweet-smelling -May calends, that these relics go, borne in triumphant procession, -from the cathedral to Santa Chiara Church.</p> - -<p>Now, that year 188- it seemed as if the flower of faith grew -more vigorously in the people's heart—that devotion to the -city's patron burst forth more brightly; for since two in the -afternoon the crowd had been rushing along to old Naples, -obstructing the narrow streets, lanes and blind alleys. San -Gennaro is profoundly popular in Naples, much—a hundred -thousand times—more than the real first Bishop of Naples, -Sant' Aspreno. But who remembers <em>him</em>? He is one of the -forgotten ones of the martyrology, which has its shipwrecks -in the sea of oblivion, such as happen in other seas.</p> - -<p>Sant' Aspreno's little church stands in a lane in the Porto -quarter, and is underground; one goes down thirty steps, -below the level of the soil; it is merely an oratory, rude, dark, -damp, and alarming, where Sant' Aspreno's stick is adored, -the pastoral staff of Naples' first pastor. But who goes to -Sant' Aspreno's? A few devout people and some lovers of -archæological things. San Gennaro, before all the other -saints—before Sant' Anna, the powerful old woman, or San -Giuseppe, the patron of a good death, next in order to the -Immaculate Virgin and the Eternal Father, who are worshipped -in Santa Chiara. San Gennaro has the devotion of -all lowly Neapolitan hearts to himself. Above all, he was a -Neapolitan, born in that black, evil-smelling quarter, Molo -Piccolo, where it seems his descendants still live, and take -great pride in such an ancestor. He came of Naples common -folk, and his family consists of some old working-women, who -spend their time between work and prayer, carrying out the -<em>spiritual life</em>—trying, at least, to reach their great ancestor's -perfection in piety. Glorious San Gennaro, the Bishop who -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span> -suffered martyrdom! His head was cut off by infidels at Pozzuoli, -on a great marble stone, which is still preserved: it has -a large scar, and three streaks of blood running down; the -severed head, being cast into the sea, swam from Pozzuoli to -Naples, the face keeping a deathly pallor from loss of blood.</p> - -<p>Nor from that day that the saint's head was picked up -and preserved, and the coagulated blood put into a phial, to -this, has the saint ever ceased to protect Naples. In the -maritime suburb, on the Maddalena Bridge, where the little -stream Sebeto has to go under a stone arch, the patron -saint's statue in marble looks at Vesuvius close at hand, and -stands with two fingers raised in a commanding attitude. -By that gesture the saint has prevented lava from coming -into Naples during Vesuvius' tremendous eruptions; never -will the lava dare to pass that limit. San Gennaro, with -uplifted finger, says: '<em>Thou shalt go no further!</em>' From the -most ancient times, twice a year—in soft September, when -his name-day occurs, and in flowery May—San Gennaro -does the miracle of liquefying his blood before the people. -Whilst here at Naples the blood in the phial boils up, -making the straw fixed in the cold, dry clot move about, in -Pozzuoli the blood on the marble block gets fresh and -bright; and whoso standing on the shore has the eyes of -faith sees the saint's livid, cut-off head floating in. The -miracle is repeated twice every year. When it is later than -the usual hour, it is a bad sign; it means a bad year: if he -were not to do the miracle ... but the patron saint could -not forsake his faithful city. In eruptions, epidemics, earthquakes, -his hand is always raised to mitigate and overcome -the scourge. All the common people have their own legends -about him, besides the great legend of the miracles. The -great saint was a Naples man, poor, of the people; there -has not been a king, a prince or great lord who has visited -San Gennaro's chapel without adding a splendid gift to the -patron's wealth. Naples' common folk, to cry up their saint, -go about saying proudly and tenderly, 'Even Vittorio! Even -Vittorio!' which means that the great King Victor Emmanuel -also brought his gift to the patron saint. In former days -there were knights of San Gennaro, and his treasury was -guarded with hierarchal pomp; the keys were under a -solemn trust. There are no longer any knights; indeed, -the order is abolished, and the old patrician pomp is rather -diminished. But what of that? The saint is stronger than -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span> -ever, powerful, miracle-working, safe in the people's heart -as in an inviolable tabernacle.</p> - -<p>That year the people's love for San Gennaro came out -stronger than ever, as if a new rush of faith had fortified -their souls. At a certain hour the traffic through Forcella -and Tribunali was stopped; all who were leaving Naples or -arriving had to make a long round to the station by Marina -or Foria Road. The cabman told any annoyed fare who -asked the reason of the endless journey, 'It was San -Gennaro'; and touched his hat with his whip in compliment -to the saint. He tried to hurry his horse, not for the sake -of being obliging to his fare, but that he himself, after -putting up his cab or by taking his stand with it at a street -corner, might see San Gennaro's precious blood pass. If -all the little streets were crowded with people, all the -sumptuous balconies of the patricians' houses and the small, -mean balconies alongside were swarming, and in the wide -street by the cathedral the crowd was stupendous. That -great road that goes down rather too steeply from the hill to -the sea from Foria Road to Marina, which was the first -surgical cut through old Naples (an energetic cut, but not -well carried out; rather ferocious and ridiculous as regards -architecture, but certainly sanitary—the Duomo Road, -which is the Toledo of old Naples), had then all the majesty -of its great days, when the popular flood alarms even those -who count over its numbers proudly. People stretched up to -Gerolomini and Pendino, above and below, in the two porticos -to the right and left of the cathedral; they stood on the broad -flight of steps, climbed on the gas-lamps, and even on the -scaffolding that has been up so many years for repairs to the -west front; there were people there close together, crushed -in, choking in the open air, hanging on to iron girders or a -beam, and balancing themselves in an extraordinary way on -an insecure board. Sometimes a mother in the crowd held -up her child to let it get air, and it waved its legs and arms -rejoicingly for that throw into the gentle May air. The -cathedral police vainly tried to make way for the procession, -which was already formed in the church; but when they -pushed back the crowd, it surged back again so strongly it -went up against the façade of the church.</p> - -<p>Suddenly from under the black arch of the great wide-open -door, where some torches were burning in the background, -solemn psalmody was heard, and the head of the procession -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span> -appeared amidst silence and stillness in the crowd. Very, -very slowly, with an almost imperceptible motion, the -Naples religious orders came forward in advance. White -and black monks, brown, shoeless, or in sandals, with cape -or shaven head, singing holy San Gennaro's lauds, with -wandering eyes, and holding bent torches, whose slender -flame was hardly visible, being swallowed up by the sunlight. -A little boy followed to pick up the great wax drops that fell -from the torches. Dominicans, Benedictines, Franciscans, -Verginisti, missionaries, Jesuits, monks, and priests in -double file were flowing along, carried by the crowd, not -looking at it, gazing at a far-off point on the horizon or on -the ground. All mouths were open to sing the Latin psalms—severe, -stem mouths, like the psalms that came from -them, which rose in waves over the crowd's head; and -involuntarily, as the religious orders moved along imperceptibly -down towards Foria, the devout who knew the -Divo Gennaro's Latin prayers joined in the solemn song, -while many of the crowd, excited by the air and light and -others singing, intoned a wordless psalmody, seized by a -mystical fervour. From the bottom of the Duomo Road -the crowd, advancing with the procession, went with open -mouths; thousands of voices were solemnly singing, the -wide sky swallowing up the sound. But those that went on -towards Forcella did not leave the Duomo Road open: others -took their place, and pushed them on; then, a string of -parish priests and the canons of San Giovanni Maggiore -having passed, there was a lively tumult among the people, -showing evident interest and pleasure. It was caused by -the slow filing-out of saints that go with Saint Gennaro, -to do him honour in his chapel—there are forty-six of -them, either whole statues or busts, in silver. These saints -stand on litters, carried on four men's shoulders. These -porters disappear among the crowd, so that the saint seems -to go along miraculously by himself, all sparkling, over the -people's heads. Very, very slowly, as I said, for the crowd -was so dense, so congested, the statues sometimes stood -motionless, while the people gazed on them with suffused -eyes lingeringly, for Naples' devotion loves to feed at length -on the sight of their special protectors, who are shut up in -the treasury all the year, and only come out that day to -bless the poor folk.</p> - -<p>As every saint appeared under the dark vane of the great -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span> -door and went through the people on the way to Santa -Chiara by Forcella, there were shouts of joy. The first -was Naples' other patron, one who comes next to San -Gennaro as a protector, Sant' Antonio. He carries a staff -with a tinkling bell on the top, and at his side is the head -of the animal he loved. The bell swayed as the saint -moved, and rang out cheerfully above the crowd, making -them gay, so that they cried out: 'Sant' Antonio! Sant' -Antonio!'</p> - -<p>Excited, almost sobbing, Carmela, the cigar-girl, asked -the saint's protection. He, too, loved an ugly beast, as she -loved that ungrateful, hard-hearted Raffaele, called Farfariello. -She had been pushed right into the telegraph-office -in Duomo Road, and her strained face following his -figure showed her hard life and privations plainer than ever. -She gazed on the saint's shining face, he who had resisted -so many temptations, imploring him to take that love out of -her heart, and free her from love's temptations, for it made -her gnawing poverty twice as hard.</p> - -<p>'Sant' Antonio, Sant' Antonio!' the crowd shouted to the -saint as he went off.</p> - -<p>'Sant' Antonio, deliver me!' Carmela sobbed out, not -knowing she had cried out, and that her neighbours were -listening.</p> - -<p>But one prays aloud in Naples, whether in the church or -the street. Now the Archangel Michael, the triumphant -warrior, appeared, tall and agile, in a splendid victorious -pose, his dazzling corslet close to his young figure, a helmet -on the fair, triumphant head, lance in hand to kill the -dragon his foot presses down; Michael, mystic and war-like, -saint and hero. Seeing him appear so handsome and -breathing out triumph, with the devil wriggling vainly -under his feet, the devout had an artistic feeling in their -enthusiasm: San Michele was called on by thousands of -voices.</p> - -<p>Leaning against a column of the portico, to the right of -the cathedral, was the Marquis di Formosa. He took off -his hat in humble greeting of the brilliant Archangel, for -whom he had great devotion; that combination of cherubim -and warrior pleased his violent disposition and love of fighting -so much. As the splendid, handsome saint came forward, -for ever victorious, trampling on the dragon, the old Marquis -prayed passionately and fervently that he might be enabled -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span> -to overcome the dragon of poverty, shame and death that -came against him every day; he implored great Michael, -overthrower of the devil, to lend him his holy lance to kill -the monster that threatened to devour him. San Michele -went down the road to the sea also; he was so handsome, -flaming with glory in the noon-day light, that the three -syllables of his name were repeated over and over again, up -and down, as fire runs along a powder-train: 'Michele! -Michele! Michele!'</p> - -<p>But San Rocco made a diversion, the saviour of the -plague-stricken, the people's protector in all epidemics; he -is dressed as a pilgrim, with mantle, hood, and staff; he -raises the tunic to show the bare knee, with a sore carved -on it, a sign of the plague. A faithful little dog follows -him—so faithful that people say: 'San Rocco and his dog,' -referring to inseparables. This strong friendship, the saint's -rather queer figure, in a short cloak, and the dog following—this -well-known story, excites affectionate hilarity among -the crowd. They look on San Rocco as a dear, indulgent -friend they can joke with, as he never gets in a rage.</p> - -<p>'Is your knee cold, Santo Rocco?'</p> - -<p>'Hi, hi, baldhead!'</p> - -<p>'Lend me your great-coat, Santo Rocco!'</p> - -<p>But the really devout were scandalized, and insisted on -silence. The lovely saint who was a sinner now appeared, -the penitent Maddalena, quivering over her bearers' heads, -her fine hair falling down her back, her eyes bedewed with -petrified tears; behind her, curiously enough, came another -saintly sinner, Maria Egiziaca, consumed and wasted by a -not less ardent remorse than the Magdalene's. A sort of -dull shiver went through all those who saw the statues pass -in their midst—it was a quiet excitement that had no outburst. -On the widest low step of the flight, under the -façade scaffolding, stood Filomena, Carmela's unhappy -sister, in blue skirt, gray silk bodice, a pink ribbon round her -neck, hair combed to the top of the head, cheeks covered -with rouge. She did not hear the insolent hints of those -around her. Pulling up her embroidered shawl, she prayed -earnestly to the two saints—sinners like herself, but still -saints—in blessed San Gennaro's name, to do her the grace -of freeing her from her disgraceful life, and she would offer -up a solid silver heart.</p> - -<p>Then there was a great flutter among the women in the -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span> -balconies and street. After San Giuseppe and Sant' Andrea -Avellino, both patrons of a <em>good death</em>, and therefore very -dear to imaginative Neapolitans, who have the greatest fear -of death; after San Alfonso di Liguori, who is called 'wry-neck,' -with loving familiarity, because his head leans to one -shoulder; after San Vincenzio Ferrari, who bears the flame -of the Holy Ghost on his head, and an open book of the law -in his hands—when all these popular saints passed amid -shouts, smiles, and affectionate greetings, a fine shining saint, -as if newly out of the engraver's hands, with a round, good-natured -face and open lowered hands to rain down blessings, -came out of the cathedral. It was San Pasquale Baylon, -the girls' patron saint—he they make a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">novena</i> to to get a -husband; he sends husbands, being an accommodating, -joyous saint: all the lassies know the figure, they recognise -him at once. From a balcony with a dressmaker's signboard, -'Madama Juliana,' Antonietta the blonde, with her -friend Nannina, let fall a rose, that whirled slowly down on -to San Pasquale's arm. All felt the devotion, the longing, in -that act; quantities of roses were thrown from the balconies -and street at San Pasquale. 'Like you, just the same, oh, -blessed San Pasquale,' prayed the girls, referring to the -husband they wanted.</p> - -<p>Now the procession hurried a little; the saints passed -quicker, for the impatience of the crowd in front of the -cathedral and Duomo Road got tremendous. Great shudders -went through the people; all this splendour of silver aureoles -and faces, that singular walking over people's heads, -and going off towards Forcella, the continuous new silvery -apparitions in the great black vane of the cathedral door, -gave a nervous feeling even to quiet onlookers.</p> - -<p>Cesare Fragalà and De Feo the medium were standing -in a little coffee-house doorway to see the procession, but -the mild little confectioner, who fled from his shop every -day he could, to follow the mysterious lanky medium, had -lost the old youthful joyousness and certainty about life—his -face had a sickly, care-lined look now. The medium, -though he pumped out money every week from the whole -cabalistic group, and from others too, still wore his dirty -torn clothes, unstarched, frayed linen, and cravat curled up -like a wick; his complexion was still yellow with dull-red, -scirrhus-like streaks, as if he had barely recovered from a -severe fever. The medium always brought Cesare Fragalà -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span> -along with him now; he insisted on keeping up with De -Feo's fantastic ideas, though his simple commercial mind -did not understand them; but he was furious, enraged -at himself for his want of comprehension. He accused -his own disposition, as being too lively, healthy, and -stupid to be able to take in the spirituality and refinements -of him who had the luck to be visited by the -spirits.</p> - -<p>Now, Don Pasqualino had told all his devotees plainly -enough that a great fortune would come to them that May -Saturday, sacred to San Gennaro's precious blood. The -gamblers listened greedily; for many weeks, for ever so -long, they had not won a half-penny. Except Ninetto Costa, -the stock-broker, who made a big profit off some numbers he -got from a wine merchant's lad who brought him an account -to settle, and Marzano, who got an <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">ambo</i> of fifty francs from -his friend the cobbler's advice, no one else had got anything, -in spite of the inspired friar, or the medium, good spirits or -bad, in spite of all their prayers and magic.</p> - -<p>Now, Don Pasqualino, who had sucked up hundreds of -francs that winter and spring, said that San Gennaro would -certainly grant a favour that first Saturday in May, and all -the Cabalists believed him, and were scattered here and -there among the crowd in Duomo Road, having agreed to -meet at Vespers in Santa Chiara. But Cesare Fragalà -clung the harder to the medium, the deeper he plunged in -the gambling gulf; he had staked a lot that Saturday, and -was determined to keep an eye on him. Whenever a saint -appeared, the medium turned up his eyes, and prayed in a -whisper in the midst of the crowd; Fragalà, alongside of -him, crossed himself distractedly. He stretched his ears to -hear all the medium said when each saint came out. Now -Santa Candida Brancaccio passed, one of the first Naples -Christian martyrs, a young woman looking up to heaven, -and in her right hand she held a long arrow, that of divine -love. A voice called out from the crowd, supposing the -arrow to be a pen:</p> - -<p>'Write a letter for me to the eternal Father, Santa -Candida!'</p> - -<p>'The saint is writing for you,' the medium at once chimed -in, turning to Fragalà.</p> - -<p>'So we hope—that is my hope,' he humbly replied.</p> - -<p>A great noise greeted San Biagio, another Bishop of -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span> -Naples; he is shown blessing the town. For two or three -years diphtheria and quinsy had kept the hearts of Naples' -mothers in terror, especially among the lower classes. San -Biagio is just the saint for throat complaints. When the -silver saint came out, amidst clamour, fathers and mothers -held out their children to the holy Bishop to get his blessing, -that they might escape the dreadful scourge that killed so -many innocents.</p> - -<p>'San Biase! San Biase!' screamed out the excited, -sobbing mothers, holding up their children.</p> - -<p>Annarella too, Carmela's and unhappy Filomena's sister, -held up her two remaining sons, for the smallest was dead, -after having languished a long time. Ah! he would -never again be waiting for her on the cellar doorstep, -patiently munching a bit of bread till she came back from -work. Poor little Peppinello—he was dead! He died of -wretchedness in a damp, smelly cellar, from bad, coarse -food, with only his little garments to cover him when asleep, -always clinging to his mother for warmth. Mother's little -flower was dead, starved by the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">bonafficciata</i>, by that terrible -lottery that ruined Gaetano, that drove him to steal his -children's bread. Annarella would never be consoled for -that death. The two left to her were well-behaved and -strong, but they were not her blonde, delicate flower. They -had dragged her there to see San Gennaro, and when the -wretched woman saw so many little ones held up she lifted -hers too, weeping and sobbing, thinking her dear flower -had not been saved either by San Biase, San Gennaro, or -all the saints in Paradise. But as the day went on, the -people's emotion increased; everyone was given up to -strong emotions that grew stronger every moment from the -influence of those around them. In the excited eyes of -girls, mothers, the poor, the unhappy, the guilty, all who -needed help, whether moral or material, that show of saints -got to be like a dream; they saw a shining vision pass, -with silvery, dazzling reflections; the names got lost, but -the whole procession of the blessed images was impressed -on them.</p> - -<p>The crowd, now confused and deafened, shaken by religious -fervour, did not recognise a group of saints of Naples' -earliest ages—Sant' Aspreno, San Severo, Sant' Eusebio, -Sant' Agrippino, and Sant' Attanasio, most antique saints, -rather obscure and forgotten. A roar like thunder greeted -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span> -the five Franciscans who keep watch round San Gennaro -in the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">succorpo</i>: San Francesco d'Assisi, Di Paolo, Di -Ceronimo, Caracciolo, and Borgia. Another shout when -Sant' Anna, the Virgin's mother, came out, to whom, say -the people, no grace is ever refused. No one troubled -themselves much about San Domenico, who invented the -Rosary, as no one in the confusion of that noontide hour -recognised the proud Spanish monk, except the gloomy -Finance Secretary, Don Domenico Mayer. Being pushed -by the crowd against a wall, he kept his tall hat well over -his eyes, and his arms were crossed in a proud, gloomy -way, his lips set in a sad, sceptical smile. The saints went -on and on, out of the cathedral's great dark portal, towards -Forcella, rather quicker now; the crowd swayed from right -to left, as if to free itself from the constraint of that close -attention.</p> - -<p>The saints' procession was just about finishing, having -lasted nearly an hour, from the slowness of the going, and -it ended with San Gaetano Thiene, the angelic San Filippo -Neri, with the holy doctors Tommaso and Agostino, Santa -Irene, Sant' Maria Maddalena di Pazzi, the great Santa -Teresa in ecstasy, all ardour and passion, that magnificent -saint of Avila, who died of divine love. When the long file -of saints finished, and the first of the cathedral canons came -out, there was a great movement among the waiting people. -All stretched their heads to see better, not to lose a tittle of -the religious show; but the noise was unrestrained in spite -of this close attention. At last the canons ended also, and -finally, under the great embroidered, gold-fringed canopy, -appeared the chief pastor of the Neapolitan Church, pallid, -his face radiant with a deeply compassionate expression, -his lips moving in prayer. Eight gentlemen held up the -poles of the canopy, eight choir-boys swung censers of -smoking incense around him. The Archbishop, a Cardinal -Prince of the Church, walked slowly, alone, under the -canopy, his eyes fixed on his own clasped hands; and the -whole crowd of women stretching out their arms, men -praying, children lisping San Gennaro's name, gazed not -at the canopy, gold vestments, or jewelled mitre, but -affectionately, enthusiastically at the Archbishop's waxen, -clasped hands, weeping, crying, asking favours and pity, -gazing fixedly at what he pressed in his hands, now trembling -with sacred respect. To it were directed all glances, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span> -all sighs, all prayers. The Cardinal Archbishop of Naples -held the phial of the precious blood.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>In Santa Chiara's fine church, all white with stucco and -loaded with gilding like a very spacious royal hall, the -crowd was waiting for San Gennaro's miracle. It was not -yet night, but thousands of wax tapers, on the high altar -and in the side chapels, especially on those dedicated to the -Virgin and Eternal Father, lighted up the vast, lovely, graceful -church. On the high altar, San Gennaro's head, in a -gemmed mitre, the face ornamented with gold, was placed -on a white napkin in a gold dish. The two phials of the -precious blood stood more in the middle, for the adoration of -the faithful. All around the high altar and behind the antique -carved wood balustrade that cuts off a large space with the -altar from the rest of the church, stood the forty-six silver -statues that form a guard of honour to San Gennaro's -relics. The Cardinal Archbishop and the canons were doing -service at the high altar to Naples' holy patron, that he -might perform the miracle; behind the balustrade, to the -side of the high altar, stood a solitary, favoured, happy -group of old men and women, all in black, with white -neckerchiefs and cravats, the men uncovered, the women -with a black veil over their hair, a group watched, commented -on, and envied by all the other devotees. They were -San Gennaro's relations; they alone had the right to go up -to the high altar to see the miracle at half a yard's distance.</p> - -<p>Then came an immense crowd—in the great single nave -of Santa Chiara, in the side chapels, and even outside the -two great doors, on the steps and cloisters, where the latest -arrivals stood on tiptoe, dazzled by the thousands of tapers, -trying to see something, struggling vainly to push a step forward, -for there was no more room for anyone. All were -agitated and disquieted, from the Cardinal Archbishop -kneeling in prayer before the altar to the humblest little -woman of the lower class; all were waiting till the heavenly -Gennaro carried out the miracle. Most fervently, with head -bent over the seat in front, with the trusting piety of a young -heart, Bianca Maria Cavalcanti was praying, as the miraculous -moment drew near. She prayed to San Gennaro, in -the name of his precious blood, to give peace to her father's -heart, to give Amati faith; and sincerely, in the great, wise, -deep goodness of her heart, she asked nothing for herself. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span> -It was enough for her that her father's sick, troubled, tortured -heart should have peace; that Antonio Amati's strong, -hard heart, besides its human love, should share the highest -tenderness of the Divine. Here in a short time one of the -greatest miracles of religion would be accomplished. Could -not San Gennaro work a miracle in their hearts, if she worshipped -with her whole strength? She prayed on, her -cheeks flushed with an unwonted fire, a faint blush over -them, with a restrained force of mystic enthusiasm, a new -passion that had come into her frozen life and brightened it.</p> - -<p>At the high altar, his face turned to heaven, breathing -intense faith, his voice trembling with overpowering emotion, -the Cardinal Archbishop was saying the Latin prayers in -honour of Naples' high protector. The whole crowd responded -with a long thundering 'Amen!' 'Amen!' came -from Santa Chiara's patrician nuns, hidden behind the choir -grating.</p> - -<p>After the <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Oremus</i>, a moment's silence followed; the fore-running -breath of great things seemed to pass over the -praying people. San Gennaro's relations at the high altar -intoned the <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Credo</i> in Italian impetuously, and the whole -church took it up; that ended, there were two minutes of -uneasy waiting, to see if the miracle was beginning. But a -second, a third <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Credo</i> was soon taken up with vigour, as if -the whole people declared its belief, swore it on their conscience, -gave themselves over to faith in spirit and truth, -impetuously. The Cardinal Archbishop, kneeling, his hands -covering his face, prayed on in silence. The <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Credo</i> went on -behind him, intoned at short intervals by San Gennaro's -relations, and carried on by the whole people. A solemn -note stood out here and there amid the general rumble from -a desolate heart, a sharp note struck off tortured nerves.... -'I believe!' shouted the people, with a break in the -voice which seemed to denote a thousand prayers, vows, and -hopes.</p> - -<p>Ah! Luisella Fragalà, too, seated in a corner beside the -melancholy Signora Parascandolo, was a profound believer. -Tears, caused by her excited religious feelings, ran down her -cheeks silently. She had a dark presentiment of coming misfortune; -she felt it, without seeing or making out what it was, -but sure that it was on its way inexorably. She asked San -Gennaro for strength, such as he had in his frightful martyrdom, -to bear the mysterious catastrophe that was coming on -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span> -her. Signora Parascandolo was saying the Creed too with -the people in a feeble voice; but in the almost frightened -pauses, while waiting for the imminent miracle, she, bereaved -of her children, begged San Gennaro to grant her a -grace, to take her from this land of exile, whence all her -children were gone, leaving her alone, groping in the cold -and darkness. Rosy Agnesina's happy mother, just like -the unhappy mother who was wounded in the past, as she -was to be in the future, asked for strength to conquer or -to die.</p> - -<p>But at the fifteenth <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Credo</i> uneasiness began among the -multitude; the words of faith sounded shrilly, like a challenge -flung to unbelievers, but they had a quiver of secret dread; -the pauses between each <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Credo</i> got longer as the depression -of waiting wore out their nerves, then it was taken up again -enthusiastically, as if the renewed rush of feeling was terrible, -as is the way with crowds.</p> - -<p>The wildest in mystic enthusiasm were the old people -at the high altar; from behind them a flame ran from one -heart to another, carrying the devouring fire into soft indolent -temperaments, even to the hearts of sceptics, who -trembled as if a rude revolution had struck them and was -clearing their eyes. At the twenty-first <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Credo</i> there was -anguish in the expectation. All eyes went from the saint's -head on the gold dish to the clear crystal phial with its clot -of dark blood. The head, in its gemmed mitre and yellow -gold mask, sparkled with metallic, rather livid reflections; -the blood was still congealed, a stone that prayers could not -break. At the twenty-second <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Credo</i>, intoned with a burst -of rage, some shouts were heard, calling out desperately:</p> - -<p>'San Gennaro! San Gennaro! San Gennaro!'</p> - -<p>The feverish prayers recited by the multitude in Santa -Chiara, which humbly, forcibly, tremblingly implored a -miracle from Naples' holy patron, were fervently said by -two women kneeling in the crowd, their elbows on straw -seats, and faces hidden, absorbed soul and body in the grace -they implored. Donna Caterina, the clandestine lottery -keeper, and Donna Concetta, the money-lender, had taken -a vow together to San Gennaro for a bishop's heavy gold -ring with a large topaz, if he would do them the grace to -end their sufferings: either change their lovers, Ciccillo -and Alfonso Jannacone's, hearts, make them tolerant of the -sisters' enterprises, or change their own hearts, and free -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span> -them from love of money. A ring, a magnificent ring, to -the miracle-working saint if he did that miracle for them; -so they both prayed in a whisper, saying their offer over -again, monotonously raising their imploring, tearful eyes to -the high altar, where the great mystery was imminent. But -the people were in a panic already from that delay; they -felt a great terror that just that year, after two centuries -and a half, the saint, angry, perhaps, with the sins of the -people, should refuse to do the miracle that is the proof of -his benevolence. The Creed, taken up again after a longer, -deeper, and therefore more emotional pause of silence, had -an alarmed, almost angry, tone, and burst out with a -despairing rush; above all, the old women's voices at the -high altar got angry and frightened, trembling with sorrow -and terror. In a silent pause, suddenly one of them said, in -a voice shaken by devout familiarity, meek jocularity, and -uncontrollable impatience:</p> - -<p>'Old cross-patch, you want to keep us waiting, eh?'</p> - -<p>'San Gennaro! San Gennaro! San Gennaro!' yelled the -populace, curiously excited.</p> - -<p>Down there, at the bottom of the church, near the wall, -where that sweet, faded Madonna, said to be Giotti's, calms -the eye with its subdued colouring, Don Pasqualino stood -in an attitude that was all prayer; he was standing, but his -head and shoulders were bent forward obsequiously, and -now and then, when he raised his head from tiredness or -inspiration to look at the gilded, painted sky in the church, -the whites of his eyes looked enormous, out of proportion, -and all colour had left his cheeks; his livid pallor went on -increasing. By a magnetic attraction, all those who believed -in him and his visions had gathered round him, all disturbed-looking, -full of repressed despair, that showed itself in some -faces as if they were deep down in sorrow's abyss, for that -Saturday, too, had brought them a great disappointment, -two hours before, when the lottery figures came out; all -were bent by a gnawing remorse, for they felt guilty towards -others and themselves. The Marquis di Formosa was -bowed, his fine figure looked almost decrepit, for he felt the -shame of his disreputable life; he was losing everything, -even his daughter, in a slow agony of bad health and -wretchedness. Cesare Fragalà's commercial standing was -always getting more compromised; he felt his trading -correspondents' coldness, his wife's evident low spirits and -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span> -secret dread, hoping always, but in vain, to set it all right -with a big haul. Ninetto Costa was pallid, but smiling, his -eyes hollow from sitting up at night and anxiety; he often -thought of the catastrophe, choosing in his mind between -dishonourable flight and the revolver shot that does not -clear scores, but softens people. Baron Lamarra was there, -big, fat and flabby, cursing his ambitious beggar-on-horseback -dreams, shuddering at the idea of that promissory note -signed by himself and his wife. Marzano's gentle smile -had got rather idiotic, for he increased his frugality every -week so as to be able to gamble; he had given up snuff, -smoking and wine, had pawned his pension papers, and was -now getting compromised in queer affairs. Colaneri and -Trifari were getting no more pupils; the first especially felt -himself suspected, discredited, fearing every morning, as he -entered the school, to be turned out by order of a superior, -or knocked down by the students. All, all, were attacked -by that Saturday-evening desolation, the black, terrible -hour when conscience alone speaks, loudly, sternly, inflexibly. -Still, they were in church, and the most indifferent and -unbelieving murmured some words of prayer; they still surrounded -the medium, eagerly looking at him as he prayed. -One could see from that fascination that he still had power -over them, and judge from their eager glances that once the -momentary discouragement was past the passion would -grow again. Ah! but that hour in the midst of the crowd, -breathing out all its unhappiness in prayer, was as frightful -for them, who were guilty, as the fatal night of Gethsemane -was for the great sinless One.</p> - -<p>Despairingly, all fixed their eyes on the high altar, where -the burning candles cast reflections on the saint's face.</p> - -<p>'San Gennaro! San Gennaro!' the people shouted out -as every <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Credo</i> ended.</p> - -<p>A wind of terror that the miracle would not come blew -over them and burst out in their voices. San Gennaro's -relatives were torn with sorrow and rage; they had got to -the thirty-fifth <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Credo</i>, and the time was going by with -threatening slowness; they, feeling at once offence at their -holy ancestor's delay and despair at his anger, called out to -him things like this:</p> - -<p>'San Gennaro, face of gold, don't keep us waiting any -longer!'</p> - -<p>'You are in a rage, eh? What have we done to you?'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Old cross-patch, do the miracle for your people!'</p> - -<p>The feeling of rage, tenderness, devotion, and agitation -that breathed in these reproaches and pious invocations -cannot be expressed. The legend says San Gennaro likes -to be pressed, and does not get offended at the remarks his -relatives and the populace make to him, and the people's -emotion was such that at the thirty-eighth <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Credo</i> each -sentence of the prayer was said desperately, as if every -word was dragged out by overpowering agony; cries burst -out far back:</p> - -<p>'Green face!'</p> - -<p>'Ugly yellow face!'</p> - -<p>'Not much of a saint!'</p> - -<p>'Do this miracle—do it!'</p> - -<p>The thirty-eighth <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Credo</i> was clamorous; everyone said it -from one end of the church to the other: the Cardinal, the -priests, men, women, and children, everyone was seized by -a mystical rage. All of a sudden, in the great silent pause -that followed the prayer, the Archbishop turned to the -people; his face, irradiated by an almost divine light, -seemed transfigured; his uplifted hands displayed the phial. -The precious blood in its thin crystal covering was bubbling -up. What a shout! The old church's foundations seemed -shaken by it; the echoes were so loud and long that passers-by -in neighbouring streets were alarmed; the sonorous bells -in the tower seemed to quiver of themselves; the weeping—the -sob of a whole kneeling people, cast down on the -ground, kissing the cold marble, holding out their arms, -quivering with the vision of the blood—was endless.</p> - -<p>At the high altar the old relatives lay as if they were -dead; one single powerful force bent the whole crowd; -there was one lament, sob, prayer; in that long moment -everyone mentioned with warm tears and shaking voice his -own sorrow and need. At the high altar the Archbishop -and clergy now stood up, and sang the anthem in full tones -above the organ notes.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span></p> - -</div> - - - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XI</h2> - -<p class="p2">AN IDYLL AND MADNESS</p> - - -<p>Dr. Antonio Amati was deeply in love with Bianca Maria -Cavalcanti. That rugged heart that had got like iron in its -conflict with science, men and things, that had had to drink -up all its tears again, and look on calmly at all kinds of -wretchedness—that iron heart which had a great deal of -coldness in its simplicity, which, as regards sentiment, was -virginal, childishly pure, had opened out slowly, almost -timidly, to love. At first.... How had it been at first? -The habit of seeing the white, melancholy figure at the -balcony windows every day, noticing that gentle, slender -apparition among the shadows of the court in these melancholy -surroundings. At first it had been nothing but habit, -which is often the beginning of love; it creates, strengthens, -and makes it invincible. Then came pity, a lively source -of tenderness—a source that often hides underground, disappears, -seems lost; but, later on, further on, it burst forth -gaily, flowing inexhaustibly.</p> - -<p>While Bianca Maria's fainting-fit was going on, from the -Sacramentiste parlour to her bare room in the Rossi Palace, -her transparent face, shut eyelids with their violet shadows, -lips as pale as the tender pink of a rose, made him fear more -than once she was dead. He often saw that youthful figure -again in his mind in a death-like torpor; he saw her as if -dead. Pity twined itself round his heart on recalling the -sorrowful expression that often crossed the girl's face, as if -a terrible secret, a physical and moral torture, went through -her soul and nerves; pity led him to wish to save her from -her suffering. The day the idea flashed into the great -doctor's mind to snatch the pure creature from death, sickness, -and unhappiness, whenever his life-saving instinct -warned him the struggle was beginning, when he felt the -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span> -appeal to his intuitive perception of life, to his energy and -courage, when his whole strength was summoned up to save -Bianca Maria, he knew the word was said that not only the -scientist, the man, wished the girl health and happiness, but -that the lover was shaking at the idea of losing her. The -slight touch of the thin hand, now frozen as if it had no life, -then burning with fever, sent flames of passion to his brain. -The word was spoken with a lad's simple tenderness and a -man's strong resolution, swaying from the purest idyll to -violent dramatic possibilities. He was in love. Why not? -For one day, one single moment, he had tried to conquer -himself, from the natural egotism of a man who has fought -and triumphed alone; but accustomed to accept all his responsibilities -in life to the utmost, he bowed to love. Why -not? He never had loved, for passing attractions towards -women, short caprices, leave no trace in the heart. Being -children of the imagination, born of a hard, impetuous life, -they come back sometimes like a dream, but as indefinite -and undecided as dreams; the heart is not concerned.</p> - -<p>Dr. Amati, a lonely man, of strong brain and heart, had -gained his fortune and reputation at a bound, and up to -thirty-eight he wished to know no other joy but helping -men, no ease but satisfied ambition. Now he was so completely -in love that everything seemed to lose its colour and -taste if Bianca Maria was not present, if he did not hear her -feeble, sensitive voice.</p> - -<p>In love. Why not? In the humblest, meanest, most -obscure lives, that warm, bright hour comes—an hour of -such vast capacity that it includes all time and space. So, -in lives outwardly successful, when the pomp of earthly -things opens out, the warm, deep hour comes, inward and -intense; all is gathered up in the heart, the soul trembles -with passionate strength. Being intensely in love, with all -the greater force and violence from any expression of feeling -having been rare in past years, a heart like Antonio Amati's -gathers up all the friendships missed or neglected: affection -for relatives and congenial people; poetic admiration for -women that was kept down, never shown, conquered sometimes -at the very beginning, and almost always quickly -forgotten; all the thousand attachments, petty and great, -the human heart fritters itself away on. He was in love -knowingly, willingly, tasting all the sweetness of this late -fruit of his soul. He found in his retarded passion the -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span> -thousand and one characteristics and feelings of the love -affairs and attachments he had never had. He was done -with the great renunciation; he was in love knowingly.</p> - -<p>Bianca Maria was in love without knowing it. She was -simple and right-minded; she had lived a solitary life, with -no conflicts, thinking and praying a great deal; her soul -was refined by solitary musing, not by the rough, sore -pounding down of a struggling life. From her mother, who -had led a sad life, she got a keen, but silent, sensitiveness; -from her father she had taken a headstrong loyalty, pride -without haughtiness, and uncalculating generosity that -delights in giving without interested motives. Over it all -was a deep, inbred faith that seemed to be rooted in her, -the food of her spiritual life, just as the lamps lighted before -the saints are fed on the purest oil, and draw the prayers of -the faithful from a distance by their constant, feeble light. -She loved unconsciously. Who could have told her anything -about it? Her mother had passed away seven or -eight years before from a lingering, fatal illness, suffering -no pain or sharp spasms; but her heart was pierced with -agony for her almost mad husband, who was hacking down -the poor feeble stem of the House of Cavalcanti and throwing -its branches into an abyss—agony for the poor daughter she -left behind to her mad father's guidance, who was going -forward to wretchedness, perhaps dishonour.</p> - -<p>Bianca Maria remembered; she recalled her mother's -face when she was dying, the colour of clay from agonizing -thoughts, inconsolable at having to die so soon. These ineffaceable -recollections left her grave, made her youth -austere, and took away from her all the longings, ambitions, -and coquettishness of her age. What did she know of -love? Nothing. She lived in a dull way, with no enjoyments, -beside a father she respected; but alarmed by his -fatal passion, she felt threatened by something obscure, -but imminent, and already pinched by poverty, she took to -heart the necessary doleful shifts to keep up appearances. -She felt an unknown danger in herself like the seeds of -death; and now, a wise, strong, good man—an ark of safety -in danger, formed to overcome obstacles, to give help; a -giver out of consolation, whose presence and voice brought -security and hope, strong to lean against; a name never -associated with anything foolish; a vanquisher of sickness, -pure of any stain—this man held out his hand to save her. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span> -Well, she took his hand; it was natural; she could not -think of doing anything else but take it and love him.</p> - -<p>Unconsciously she loved him, because she must. From -her age, temperament, and surroundings, her whole existence, -she felt that innocent sort of love that weak natures, beaten -down by tempests, have for strong ones.</p> - -<p>When Bianca Maria was alone in the dreary suite of -rooms where the sparse furniture had got to have a still older, -more wretched look, with these old servants always in low -spirits, busied in hiding their poverty, in giving it an air of -respectable ease, she felt chilled to the heart; she seemed -to be old, poor, and neglected like the house and furniture, -doomed to languish on in want of everything. And when -her father came in, uneasy always, led by his violent passions, -his one idea, credulous over vain dreams, giving in to mystic -alarms, calling around him a terrifying world of phantoms, -she lost her tranquillity at once; her brain whirled, and she -saw curious ghostly things with fatal effects. She could not -get rid of the nightmare; she felt so weak, so unfit to defend -herself from the assaults of that cabalistic madness; she -shook all over from the jar to her nerves, from the fever -going up to the brain and making it reel.</p> - -<p>She always felt very wretched when she was alone or -with her father; helpless, without a guide, knocked about -by a rushing wind, drawn in by a whirlpool. But if Antonio -Amati showed his manly face, his genial strength; if she -heard his firm, rather rough voice, that was smooth for her; -if his hand just touched hers, so that she felt a magnetic -influence, warmth, youthful vivacity, go through her nerves, -she knew she was guided, protected, started on the way of -life and happiness. The black clouds moved off with one -breath; she saw the blue sky; the fever grew milder, went -off altogether, and the sombre ghosts, the fears that blanched -her lips, went off at the same time; she quieted down as if -a heavenly benediction enfolded her in its sphere of help. She -felt like a child again when he was there: Amati was the -firmest, safest, strongest.</p> - -<p>So she loved him, innocently, unconsciously. This kind of -love allows of great humility, great tenderness; it was pure -and fervent, it refreshed her. With their different ground-work, -the two sorts of love understood each other, melted -into and completed one another. That spiritual harmony -that is the soul's finest, but also rarest and shortest, experience -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span> -began the first day she from her dull balcony, he -from his stern study, that saw so much agony, beheld each -other. Wherever the two minds, feelings, personalities -met, the harmony got greater. When she raised her great -thoughtful eyes to his, asking in all simplicity for help and -affection, he felt his heart bound with a longing for sacrifice. -They understood each other perfectly without speaking.</p> - -<p>He came from the land, from a small, out-of-the-way -provincial town that had little communication with Naples; -he had made his name and fortune by struggling with life -and death, with men's indifference and hatred, thus getting -a formidable idea of his own powers, and only believing in -himself. He had plebeian blood and a powerful mind; none -of the refinement that comes from breeding and surroundings, -the triumph of ideals.</p> - -<p>How different from her! She was the daughter of a -noble house, refined by instinct, breeding, and surroundings; -used to live in meditation and prayer, without a particle of -self-reliance to stand out against the ruin of her family, or -withstand her father's ruling passion, to save her name or -herself. She lived amid privations and discomforts; she -had set out too early on the sorrowful stages of the Via -Crucis; an unhappy future was before her. How different -and far off these two were!</p> - -<p>Still, they understood each other, as the secret, mysterious -law of love decrees. It mingles everything—feelings, tradition, -origin; puts force next to weakness, and binds two -persons together irrevocably by their very differences. She -did not consider she lowered herself by loving the obscure -Southern peasant become a great doctor; he did not consider -he stooped to this decaying family, impoverished in blood, -means, and courage. The two souls that had to love one -another had set out far apart, had had to run through infinite -spiritual space to meet, know, join together. It is Plato's -grand love theory, that only fools and heartless folk dare to -laugh at; the grand theory of falling in love, once more, -after a million instances, was to be realized. Did it not seem -arranged purposely, that this unknown, common man should -reach to fame and riches by his own efforts, getting to know -science and life so that he could console the high-born girl's -cold, faded, sorrowful youth, languishing in solitude and -secret poverty?</p> - -<p>When the serving Sister in the Sacramentiste convent -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span> -ran from the chilly parlour, where Bianca Maria fell in a faint, -to the hospital for a doctor, and obstinately insisted Antonio -Amati should come to help the invalid, that was the hour of -the decisive meeting. The icy, bloodless hands were at last -enfolded in the doctor's strong, healthy ones; once more the -wonderful attraction by which loving souls overcome time, -space, a thousand obstacles, this attraction—unlucky he who -has not felt its power—brought together those who were -bound to be united. How could it be these two were not to -understand each other, if only Antonio Amati could, by his -knowledge, save Bianca Maria from the disease sapping her -vital forces, if only he could give her health, riches, and happiness? -How not come to an understanding if that innocent -gentleness, that mild poesy, that source of every affection, if -all that was wanting in Antonio Amati's laborious, stern -life, could only reach him through Bianca Maria's slight, -modest personality?</p> - -<p>He was strength, with a serene, just conscience; she was -goodness, all unconscious tenderness and mercy. That -strength and that goodness called to each other to unite. -They were obeying destiny's order to join, so that love -should create once more a fine miracle of harmony. When -she <em>had</em> to will something, she lifted her eyes to her lover's -face and drank in will power. When he looked at her he -felt the stretched cords of his energy slacken and the great -flower of benignity blossom in his heart.</p> - -<p>But it was destined that all Amati's experiences in life -were to be conflicts, that every reward men of talent and -energy get in this life should only be gained by him after a -fierce struggle. With love it was the same. A serious -obstacle arose between him and Bianca Maria Cavalcanti. -It was her father, the Marquis. The first time Amati saw -the proud, deluded, violent man, he felt a painful suspicion -rise in his mind. He divined dull hostility in Formosa. -Perhaps birth, past and present conditions, divided them, -the opposite ideas they had of life and its responsibilities. -Perhaps the one that came from the earth, bringing forth -good like her, scorned this falling away in health, fortune, -and respectability. Perhaps he who lived by the arrogant -rules of a life given up to luxury, pleasure, and generosity, -despised the obstinate, unpolished worker, sparing in -pleasures, unfavourable to them, too hard on himself and on -others. Perhaps the one guessed the other's scorn, and felt -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span> -miles apart, with such different ideas that they could never -meet. Perhaps the reason of the mutual antipathy, of -Amati's coldness and Formosa's hostility, was more inward, -deeper, more mysterious. It may be neither dared confess -it to himself. In short, it was suspicion, distrust, an unconscious -hostility. Indeed, Amati saw in Carlo Cavalcanti -the unknown danger that might wreck Bianca Maria's reason -and life. It was vaguely, but obstinately, without well -knowing why or wherefore; but he felt the danger was there. -And Carlo Cavalcanti felt Antonio Amati was his judge—his -enemy, I would almost say. Twice, when the doctor -was present at Bianca Maria's fainting-fit and at the attack -of fever, that made her delirious a day and a night, he said -harsh things to the Marquis di Formosa about his daughter's -health. The old man listened, quivering with rage, fretting -inwardly. He submitted to this deliverer from a dark hour, -but he looked haughtily at him, and shrugged his shoulders -when he threatened that the girl would die. By what -blindness did he always refuse to take Bianca Maria away -from that cold, mean house, where all her youthful strength -was languishing? At any rate, he obstinately refused, -quivering with emotion every time the doctor touched on -the subject. It seemed to be from affection, pride, and -nervousness, as if he knew what the right remedy was, and -could not, would not, make use of it. Full of doubt, the -doctor got always nearer to something shady, but he -checked himself, fearing to wound certain susceptibilities. -The Marquis was poor: how could he change houses? It -was natural for him to redden with fright and melancholy -when he was told his daughter was fading away to a fatal -ending, to frown with offended pride when offers of service -were made. Still, his pride had had to give way that -Saturday morning he asked Amati for a loan, saying he -would give it back during the day. His pride had had to -go altogether several other times, always on Saturday, with -an urgent note in a large, shaky hand asking for money—more -money out of Amati's purse, always promising to give -it back the same day, always failing to do so.</p> - -<p>He blushed a little as he wrote, his old head bent to weep -over his lost dignity as an old man and a gentleman; but his -passion was so strong he would have made money out of -anything. When the doctor sent him the money in an -envelope, and then another sheet of paper, so that the servant -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span> -should not notice what it was, the Marquis felt mortified, -and opened the envelope roughly with a sharp tear, and the -blood went to his head. Amati never wrote a reply, but he -never refused. In the evening, when father and daughter -were in the drawing-room, she working at her fine lace, he -going up and down the room to quiet his excited nerves, the -doctor would come in. The Marquis could hardly restrain -his annoyance, but went forward to meet his visitor with -sham heartiness, his face pale. They greeted one another -in an embarrassed way, while Bianca Maria's face sparkled. -In spite of service rendered, no cordiality grew up between -them. They were cold, and took stock of each other, feeling -they were enemies. When the doctor, from his native -audacity, and that which love gave him, went to sit opposite -Bianca Maria and asked her about her health, when they -gazed in each other's eyes, the Marquis was troubled, an -angry quiver came into his voice. He was the obstacle. -It was in vain every time his ruling passion obliged him to -ask Amati for money that Amati gave it without hesitation, -more delicately each time. It was lowering all the same. -This queer intimacy could not rid them of suspicion, want -of confidence, antipathy. Perhaps these loans, asked with -a lying excuse, lying promises, only dug that gulf of sorrow, -shame, and humiliation that is between him who asks and -him who gives. Formosa's great dream now was to get -money—a lot of money, so as to lead a grand life, after -throwing the doctor's sous in his face and turning him out. -He ended by hating him for these benefits it was so hard to -ask for, that his wretched passion drove him to take.</p> - -<p>Antonio Amati understood; he knew Formosa stood in -the way. Naturally, he knew what was the greedy mouth -that swallowed up all the old man's money, and some that -was not his; he knew the fever that destroyed his gentlemanly -feeling, that the wretchedness was the result of sin; -he knew an irresistible force obliged him to ask for these -loans. His only wish was that Bianca Maria should not -suffer, that she should get out of these sad, poverty-stricken, -mad surroundings, ever since the time she had, in a low state -of health, bodily and mentally, induced by fever, told him she -loved him and begged him to take her away. He renewed -the offer of his country house, where his mother was, more -than once. She shook her head, smiled sadly, and said -nothing. One evening when she was suffering very much, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span> -choking with heat in that flat, airless in summer, icy in -winter, he made the offer to Formosa, bringing it out -naturally, trying to be cordial. Formosa thought it over a -moment. His daughter looked anxiously at him, awaiting -his answer.</p> - -<p>'It is impossible,' said the Marquis di Formosa concisely.</p> - -<p>'Why so?' the doctor asked boldly.</p> - -<p>'Just because I choose,' the old man retorted obstinately.</p> - -<p>'And you, my lady; what do you say?'</p> - -<p>The doctor looked earnestly at her, to give her the strength -to rebel. The poor girl's eyelids fluttered once or twice. -She looked at her father, then said:</p> - -<p>'As my father says, it is impossible.'</p> - -<p>He would have liked to remind her then of the sweet -words she said to him one day, to take her out of that pit, -to carry her far off to the sunny, green country; but he -noticed a sudden coldness in her cast down eyes and stern -mouth; he felt her soul was escaping from him. He -understood he had come into conflict with filial obedience -of that deep, unshakable, almost hierarchical kind one meets -with in the upper classes, where paternal authority is blindly -respected and family reigns absolute. Rage rose in the -doctor's heart. He fretted against the obstacle, seeing the -power of love crumble in a moment before a simpler but -older feeling or instinct, an affection which, besides the ties -of blood, had tradition and life in common for it also. He -did not say a word, nor cast a reproving glance, as he saw -it was a superior power rising against him that for twenty -years had held the girl's heart. Love seemed suddenly to -have lost its power, as at a word from her father she had -been able to give up the idyll she had dreamt over so long -in her empty room.</p> - -<p>After a little the doctor went away, cold, frozen, like the -father and daughter, who looked like ghosts in that great -deserted house. He went off with his first love disappointment, -which is the bitterest, quivering with rage and grief. -When he was alone in his handsome, solitary house, he -vainly tried to amuse himself by reading a scientific review. -He was wounded in his love and in his self-love.</p> - -<p>Like a love-lorn youth, to cheat that bitterness and give -a vent to his excitement, he sat down to write a long, incoherent -letter full of love and rage. But when he finished -it he calmed down. It seemed unjust to accuse Bianca -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span> -Maria of indifference and cruelty. On reading it over, he -thought it ridiculous. He was a man, not a boy; he had -white hairs; he ought not to give himself over to boyish -outbursts.</p> - -<p>'I will tear up the letter,' he said. But he afterwards -felt discouraged. The first, purest flower of his poetic love -was cut off; the idyll had vanished; the whole future could -only be a tragedy.</p> - -<p>Yes, the combat between Antonio Amati and Carlo -Cavalcanti was secret but obstinate, subtle but very acute. -The old man had great power over his daughter; one might -say he bent her will to his with an imperious, fascinating -glance. He did not wish anyone else should get power over -her; he feared to lose his influence. From paternal self-love, -that exaggerated jealousy that hates from the beginning -those who love their children, or some other mysterious -reason, he set himself between his daughter and Antonio -Amati when he saw the latter's sway might increase. When -they were alone they never mentioned him—on her part out -of obedience, for she always waited for her father to speak -first, and he never named the doctor. The maiden was -sensitive about this reserve, and got more and more self-contained, -already seeing the first sad symptoms of the struggle.</p> - -<p>Amati had written her just one letter; she treasured it -and read it over and over, because it breathed of honesty, -peace, strength, which were altogether wanting in her -wretched, disturbed life, with its saddening past, hurrying -on to a dark future. She bent her head, even now feeling -that love could not save her, for she seemed tied by a sad -fatality, by a charm cast over her life. When Antonio -Amati came back in the evening, determined not to yield to -this extraordinary tyranny of the father's, she looked up -timidly at them; the false cordiality and vivacity with which -the men greeted each other encouraged her. A pink colour -came to her pale cheeks; but if her father frowned or the -doctor's voice got hard she became pale and alarmed again. -Her father had carefully hidden that he got pecuniary help -from the doctor; he was ashamed to confess this loss of -dignity his ruling passion had dragged him into. The -good, pale maiden took courage when she saw the healthy, -hearty hand held out to her to pull her out of her unhealthy -surroundings; but when her father abruptly, roughly put -away that hand, she trembled; she did not ask why. Her -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span> -mother had pined away too resignedly for her to dare to -rebel. Only she just lived from day to day without going -into the disagreements between her father and Amati, letting -herself go to the sweetness of the new feeling, trying to -escape from her bitter presentiments. But he, a man of -science and much given to observation, finding her father's -conduct incomprehensible, tried to curb himself so as to -tear the secret out of Formosa's heart. He knew the -gambling fever devoured him. Sometimes, when he was -with Bianca Maria in the drawing-room, two or three of the -Cabalist group would come in to ask for the Marquis. He -got rather embarrassed. Once he shut himself up in his -study with them; voices reached them from there, deadened -and indistinct. Twice he went out with them, the doctor's -presence making him impatient and nervous.</p> - -<p>'Who are those people?' the doctor asked.</p> - -<p>'They are friends,' she said, turning away her head.</p> - -<p>'Are they yours?'</p> - -<p>'No; my father's.'</p> - -<p>She let him see she did not wish to speak about them, so -he held his tongue. Another time, one Friday evening, Don -Pasqualino De Feo came in, with his sickly look and torn, -dirty clothes. At once the doctor remembered he had seen -him. Yes, at the hospital, where he arrived black and blue, -knocked about as if he had got a severe licking; and he -remembered his fantastic talk. While the medium was -whispering with the Marquis in a window recess, the doctor -asked Bianca quietly:</p> - -<p>'Is he a friend, too?' But he noticed she got so pale, -her eyes so frightened, crushed by fear of something he -knew nothing about, that he said no more. He remembered -that, on recovering from her long faint, she had tried to send -the medium out of the house. 'You dislike him, don't you?'</p> - -<p>'No, no,' said she. 'I am foolish.'</p> - -<p>She was afraid Amati would interrupt her father's conversation; -but finding their talk prevented, they got up to -go away. The medium went past with his eyes down, but -Amati called out to him:</p> - -<p>'You have got over that licking, De Feo?'</p> - -<p>He started, rubbed his forehead, and answered, without -looking at the doctor:</p> - -<p>'I have had favour from him who sent me the misfortune.'</p> - -<p>'From whom?' asked the doctor, with a mocking laugh.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span></p> - -<p>The medium said nothing. Formosa got flushed. His -eyes sparkled as he answered, in a shaky voice:</p> - -<p>'From the spirit.'</p> - -<p>'What spirit?' said the doctor jokingly.</p> - -<p>'Caracò, the spirit that helps Don Pasqualino,' the Marquis -said emphatically.</p> - -<p>'Do you believe that, my lord?' Amati retorted, casting -on him a scrutinizing glance.</p> - -<p>'It is as clear as light,' answered the noble, raising his -eyes to heaven ecstatically.</p> - -<p>'And you, my lady, do you believe it?' the doctor asked -Bianca, examining her face.</p> - -<p>She was just going to answer she did not believe, that she -was afraid to believe, when a wild look from her father -froze the words on her lips. One saw the effort she made -to send back a sorrowful cry. Vaguely she waved her hand, -and said:</p> - -<p>'I know nothing about it.'</p> - -<p>The medium cast an oblique glance at the doctor. For -the first time an enraged look came over his face and -mingled with his mysterious humility. He twisted his neck, -as if a hard bone was choking him. He pulled the Marquis's -sleeve in an underhand way to get him to go away; but by -Amati's words and grin had he found out his utter incredulity, -and, like all deluded folk, he felt his faith in the aiding spirit -increased doubly, together with a great desire to convince -Amati.</p> - -<p>'You don't believe in the spirit, doctor?'</p> - -<p>'No,' said the latter dryly.</p> - -<p>'Neither in good nor bad spirits?'</p> - -<p>'In neither.'</p> - -<p>'Why?'</p> - -<p>'Because there are no such things.'</p> - -<p>'Who told you so?'</p> - -<p>'Science and facts are enough, it seems to me,' the doctor -said plainly.</p> - -<p>'Science is sacrilege,' shouted the Marquis, getting in a -rage. 'It has been proved spirits do exist; I can prove it -to you.'</p> - -<p>'It is no use; I would not believe you'—with a slight -smile.</p> - -<p>'There are spirits; the so-called incredulous deny their -existence in bad faith—yes, because they don't know the -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span> -facts, and then say they are false; because they see nothing, -their eyes being blinded by scepticism, they say there is -nothing—insincerely altogether.'</p> - -<p>The doctor smiled at his excitement, but, glancing at -Bianca Maria, he saw she was in torment; he guessed that -behind this discussion was the secret of the hostility. Being -accustomed to sick and excited people's outbursts, he examined -the Marquis with a doctor's eye, following the violent -stages of his excitement.</p> - -<p>'Quite insincere—quite!' the Marquis screamed out, going -up and down the room, speaking to himself. 'Hundreds of -honest men, scientists, gentlemen, ladies, have seen, touched, -spoken with the spirits, held important interviews with -them; there are printed books, thick volumes, about the -very thing you deny totally. What do you think this help -from the spirits is?'</p> - -<p>He stopped in front of Amati to ask him the question. -Although the doctor did not want to make him angrier by -contradiction, the demand was too direct not to answer it. -He glanced at the Lady Bianca, and saw in her face such -secret anxiety to know the truth, and such agitation, he -brought it out straight:</p> - -<p>'I believe it is an imposture.'</p> - -<p>The medium cast up his eyes, swimming in tears. Bianca -Maria's face got serene, but Formosa's voice hissed with rage:</p> - -<p>'Then, you think me a fool?'</p> - -<p>'No; but your soul is too loyal and generous not to be -easily cheated.'</p> - -<p>'Nonsense!' the Marquis called out, quivering—'nonsense! -You can't get out of it; Don Pasqualino is a cheat, -and I am a donkey.'</p> - -<p>'I deny the second part,' said the doctor dryly.</p> - -<p>'But you agree to the first?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, I do,' said the doctor boldly.</p> - -<p>'How do you prove it?'</p> - -<p>'There is no need to prove it; I answer because you -question me. Besides, now I remember, Don Pasqualino -was beaten by two gamblers, enraged because they did not -get the right lottery numbers. He told you it was the spirit -Caracò.'</p> - -<p>'It was all a pretence, the gamblers beating him, so as to -keep the spirit's secret.'</p> - -<p>'But the two that assaulted him were arrested and confronted -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span> -with him at the hospital; they had to spend a month -in prison.'</p> - -<p>'Is that true, Don Pasqualino?' the Marquis asked -severely.</p> - -<p>The medium looked distressed, as if it were impossible -for him to defend himself against an unjust accusation. -But the doctor was offended at that request for confirmation.</p> - -<p>'My lord,' he said solemnly, 'I am too serious a man and -take too little interest to care to go into the business with -that fellow. If you have any esteem for me, I beg you to -spare me further discussion.'</p> - -<p>'All right—very good,' the Marquis said at once, his -proud spirit being open to any appeal to good feeling. 'Let -us have no more of it; discussions between sceptics and -believers can only be unpleasant. Let us go away, Don -Pasqualino; perhaps the doctor will do you justice some -day. Let us go; I see Bianca Maria is pained also. You -must convince the doctor, my dear,' the father added rather -maliciously.</p> - -<p>'In what way is she to do that?' asked he, astonished.</p> - -<p>'She will tell you,' Formosa replied, grinning; and on -getting a dismayed look from his daughter, he added: 'Tell -him—tell him what you know; I allow you, Bianca. Perhaps -he will believe you. You are harmless; you have no -interest in cheating; you are not a sham apostle. Tell him -all about it; perhaps you will convince him.'</p> - -<p>Resolutely he put on his hat and took the medium's arm, -as if to give him a proof of affectionate confidence after the -way the doctor had abused him. The old noble, Guido -Cavalcanti's descendant, with a lineage of six centuries, put -his arm into that mean cheat's, who had been shown up as -a liar a few minutes before. But who noticed that act that -showed Formosa had again shipwrecked his dignity? The -two were out of the house already. Bianca Maria and the -doctor stood silently; the whole drama of their love seemed -to ripen in that silence. With unscrupulous cunning, -telling his daughter to speak, let the doctor know all, -leaving them alone with that secret between them, the -Marquis took his revenge for Amati's scepticism and his -daughter's passiveness. He gaily and cruelly lighted the -match of a mine, and then went off just as it was catching -fire, so that all love's edifice should come down.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Well, what have you to tell me?' said the doctor at last, -keen to know the truth.</p> - -<p>'What is it?' she said faintly, coming out of her sad -musing.</p> - -<p>'Have you not something to tell me? Did your father -not advise—almost order you to do so?'</p> - -<p>She started. Amati spoke sharply; she had never heard -him speak so. She was offended, and became reserved.</p> - -<p>'I know nothing,' she said very low. 'I have nothing to -tell you.'</p> - -<p>He bit his lip angrily. What evil influence had induced -him to come between father and daughter in these queer, -mad surroundings, all sickness, wretchedness, and vice? -What was he doing, with his rough honesty, his vulgar -integrity, in that half insane, poverty-struck life? What -bonds, what perplexities, was he not making for his own -heart, that up to then had kept pure and unmoved? The -decisive hour had come. He must break it off sharply if he -wanted to escape the fetters that smothered all his old -instincts. He was going to make an end of these romantic -complications—that subtle, annoying tragedy; his life was -a plain one. He got up determinedly, saying:</p> - -<p>'Good-bye!'</p> - -<p>She rose too. She understood that her father first, -then she, had exhausted the lion's patience. Feebly she -asked:</p> - -<p>'You will come to-morrow?'</p> - -<p>'No, I will not.'</p> - -<p>'Some other day, then?'</p> - -<p>'No.'</p> - -<p>'Some other day when you are not busy?'</p> - -<p>'No.'</p> - -<p>The three 'No's' were said very decidedly. Bianca -Maria gave a shiver. He was going away; he would never -come back. He was right. He was a strong, serious man, -devoted to his work—a work of love and saving others. He -was getting involved in a falling away from reason and -dignity in the society of people he was helping and being -friendly to, and as a return he had been slighted and insulted; -and now a charlatan, a cheat, was preferred to him. -He was right to go away, never to come back. But she felt -lost, a prey to insanity, if she let him go. Looking beseechingly -at him, she implored him:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Don't go away—stay.'</p> - -<p>'What is there for me to do here? Ought I to wait for -your father to turn me out to-morrow? Because I stood -that scene a little ago, must I stand another?'</p> - -<p>'I did not do anything to you,' said she, wringing her -hands to keep down her sorrow.</p> - -<p>'Good-bye!' he said, and nothing else.</p> - -<p>'Don't go away—don't go away!'</p> - -<p>Two big tears she could not keep back rolled down her -cheeks. He had refused to give in to her voice, beseeching -pallor, and excitement, but he gave in to her tears. He was -a hard man in his success, but a child's, a woman's tears -made him forget everything. When she saw him come -back and sit down, his good nature making him yield, she -did not restrain her choking tears. She sank into her chair -again, her face hid in her handkerchief, sobbing.</p> - -<p>'Don't cry,' he muttered, feeling that it did her good, but -that he could not bear it.</p> - -<p>A good deal of time was needed before she could calm -herself. She had kept in her feelings too much for the -outburst to be otherwise than long and noisy. The June -evening was very warm; the scirocco's breath depressed -sickly nerves. The only sound was a skilfully played wailing -mandoline in the distance up Pontecorvo Hill.</p> - -<p>'Listen,' the doctor began, not harshly, but coldly, when -he saw she had got quieter. 'I hope you will listen to me -quietly. I am an intruder in your family. Don't interrupt -me; I know what you would say. I cured you twice; but -that is my work; you have no need to feel obliged to me. -Don't protest; I know the limits of human feeling. I am -an intruder, then. There is nothing in common between -you and me; we are different kinds. It does not matter. -I, who am not dreamy, seeing you are fading away, that -you need the wide, healthy country and solitude, tried to -get you away from here. If my dream has not come true, -whose fault is it—yours or mine?'</p> - -<p>'It is mine,' she said humbly.</p> - -<p>'One day,' the doctor went on rather slowly, as if he was -thinking over what had happened—'one day you yourself -told me to take you away. Do you remember?...'</p> - -<p>'I remember....'</p> - -<p>'... I thought ... it is no use saying what I thought. -I must have been mistaken; but any man in my place -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span> -would have been. Well, when our dream might have come -true, Bianca, tell me, who was it let it fade away?'</p> - -<p>'I myself. It was I.'</p> - -<p>'You see, then, that I, a man of realities and action, -dreamt too much. To your father and you I am a sort of -intruder, meddling in your affairs without having any right -to, and ineffectually. On the other hand, Bianca, believe -me, my whole life has been disturbed through wishing to -see you healthy and happy, and from the useless struggle -my efforts lead to, for you oppose me yourself. Would I -not do well, then, to go away and never come back?'</p> - -<p>'You are right,' she said, with a despairing gesture.</p> - -<p>'... Still,' Amati went on, striving to hide his agitation, -'I believe—rather, I know—leaving you would cause me -great pain. It may be, you too would suffer?' questioning -her face.</p> - -<p>'I should die of it,' she brought out, sincerely moved.</p> - -<p>'Don't say that. But if I am to stay near you, Bianca, -to try, against your will and your own weakness, to save -your health and fortune, I must be your friend—your -greatest, only friend; do you understand? I must have -your whole confidence and faith; after God, you must -believe in me. I can see that here, in this house, there is -a sad secret which your father and you vainly try to hide; -but the Marquis di Formosa's feverishness lets it out darkly -every minute. Besides this fever, that is at the same time -a disease, an overmastering passion and vice, there is something -that escapes me, something crueller that tortures you, -and you, out of filial piety, respect to your father—fear, -perhaps—hide it from me. Bianca, if I am not to know -everything, I must go away for ever, and let your life and -mine be ruined irretrievably.'</p> - -<p>'I love you so,' she said, abandoning her soul to him.</p> - -<p>'Darling!' he whispered, patting her brown hair as her -head leant for a moment on his strong, faithful heart.</p> - -<p>'Promise me one thing ...' she asked in a babyish way.</p> - -<p>'Say what it is....'</p> - -<p>'Promise me you won't think ill of my father—promise! -He is the best of fathers; any girl would be proud to have -him. Nothing could shake my respect and love for him. -I want you not to blame him for anything—promise me! -His fatal tendency is only part of his kindness. He is so -unhappy at heart!'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span></p> - -<p>'I promise you, Bianca, to be as indulgent as you -could be.'</p> - -<p>'That is enough. He is an unhappy man. For years -and years our house has been going down. Since when or -why I don't remember. I was very little. I don't even -know whose fault it is. I don't wish to. I only remember -that my mother was pale and sickly; her hands were always -cold....'</p> - -<p>'Like yours, poor dear!'</p> - -<p>'Like mine?' she answered with a pale smile.</p> - -<p>'What did your mother die of?'</p> - -<p>'Bloodlessness and languor. She faded away ... at the -last, she was not in her senses all the time.'</p> - -<p>'Did she rave?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, slightly,' she answered, blushing to her forehead.</p> - -<p>'Don't think of that,' he said, guessing the reason of her -blush.</p> - -<p>'My father felt mother's sufferings so much! For years a -dream had taken hold of him: it was to build up the Cavalcanti -fortune, to let mother and me live in style, keep open -house, and in one day pour out in charity what now serves -to keep us for a year,' she added, with a lump in her throat.</p> - -<p>'Keep calm, dear-don't get excited.'</p> - -<p>'No, no, let me speak; if I don't I'll choke. A great -dream, as large as his heart, noble and generous as his soul, -so much so that my mother and I felt gratitude that will not -end with life, but must go on beyond the tomb, where one -still hears, loves, and prays. But, with his excited fancy, he -longed for quick, ample methods of realizing this fortune: -methods suited to the case, for a Cavalcanti neither works -nor speculates ...'</p> - -<p>'It was the lottery,' Amati finished up for her.</p> - -<p>'Yes, the lottery; how do you know?'</p> - -<p>'I do know.'</p> - -<p>'Our misfortune is known to everyone who comes near -us,' she went on, quivering with grief. 'Such a misfortune, -to crown the others! Mother died of it, from physical and -moral weakness. Our whole means are sacrificed to it; it -has taken my father's heart from me; when it has destroyed -all that is dearest, it will hand me over to wretchedness and -death.'</p> - -<p>'Don't be afraid, don't fear; everything has a remedy,' he -said vaguely, trying to cut short that despairing outflow.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span></p> - -<p>'It can't be cured,' she said earnestly. 'My dying mother, -in a lucid interval, said as she kissed me: "Don't judge -your father—never be hard on him; obey, be obedient. -The passion that eats him up, and is killing me, can only -increase with years. This fever will get higher: I have not -cured it, neither will you. Leave him to this dream—don't -annoy him; if you are unhappy, ask God's help; but respect -his years. He only desires our happiness—he is killing me -for it; he will make you suffer frightfully, though he is -noble and generous. Be merciful to him. It is only so that -I can die, as I do, with a quiet conscience." Mother was -right. With years he has got unhappier, more eccentric; -he is incurable now; he forgets everything, everything—you -know what I mean. Some day or other I fear my noble old -father, whose gray hairs I ought to honour—that I want -everyone to respect—may forget the laws of honour in some -dark gambling combination.'</p> - -<p>'May God keep him from it!' said Amati, starting.</p> - -<p>'May God hear you!' she cried out; 'but I pray so much, -and the evil gets worse. If you knew! We are in want of -everything: it is the first time I have told anyone. I am -quivering with shame, but I can't hide anything from you. -He has sold everything: first works of art, then furniture, -down to a few jewels mother kept for me—and he adored -her!—even the Cavalcanti portraits—though he is proud of -his race!—even the silver lamps in the chapel—and he is -religious! I live with these two old servants, so faithful -neither sin nor poverty has taken them from us! They are -not paid: they serve us of the House of Cavalcanti without -pay. Do you know, it is by their clever contrivances that the -house goes on, that we have enough to eat, and that there is -oil in the lamps! I am raising for you the veil of sacred family -decency—don't betray us!' He bent and kissed the hand -Bianca held out to him, to seal his promise. 'All that -money, and more that he gets somewhere—I know not where -and have no wish to know—goes in gambling. Friday and -Saturday he is wild. Other wretches, like that medium, -come for him: his very name makes me shiver with fright -and shame; they have queer alarming consultations; they -get excited, shout, and quarrel; they use a queer jargon. -These are his friends; men of his own rank, his relations, -have left him. It may be he asked money from them, got -it, and did not give it back, perhaps; it may be the whisper, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span> -even, of wickedness makes them avoid us. These Cabalists, -men who <em>see</em>'—she shivered and looked round—'take his -money from him and incite him to play. The day is at -hand when he will have nothing left, and he won't be able -to gamble. God, God open his eyes, if we are not to perish -altogether, the name and the family!'</p> - -<p>'Bianca, Bianca, I implore you to be calm,' he said, -alarmed at her excitement, following its phases with a -doctor's mind and a man's heart.</p> - -<p>'I can't,' she cried. 'I have not told you all. Listen: -I am a poor, weak creature; the blood runs poor and slow -in my veins, you know—you told me so. I have lived either -in this sad house or my aunt's convent—that is to say, with -my father, always full of his fancies, or with my aunt, whose -faith gives her almost prophetic visions. Mother died here; -as the gambling passion filled my father's mind, the delusion -began to filter into mine against my will. Father speaks -to me of ghosts, phantoms, spirits, at all hours, especially -in the evening and at night, and I believe in them; you see -how frightful that is. The sunlight, seeing people, chases -fears away; but evening comes, the house gets full of -shadows, my blood freezes; when father speaks of the spirit -my heart stops or goes at a gallop; I feel as if I was dying -of fear. I get queer singings in my ears. I hear light steps, -smothered voices. I see in my mind's eye white-robed -figures—they look at me and weep; shadowy hands smooth -my hair. I seem to feel icy breaths on my cheek; my -nights now are one long watch, or light sleep broken by -dreams.'</p> - -<p>'There are no such spirits, Bianca,' said he, in a gentle, -firm voice.</p> - -<p>'I am so weak, so unfit to get rid of delusions. When -I have got calmer, father, from his own fancies or the -medium's infamous suggestions, comes to torment me. He -wishes me to <em>see</em> without caring about my feebleness, my -fears, not knowing how he tortures me. He speaks of the -spirit, wants me to call it up, for I am young and innocent. -I try to go against him; vainly I struggle and ask him to -spare me, not to make me drink this bitter cup. But it is -no use: he is obstinate and blinded; he wants me to see the -spirit, and ask what numbers to play. Father has such -influence over me, he makes me share his madness to a -frightful extent. I shall end by being like him, a poor -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span> -deluded thing, worn out by night watches and daily -delusions.'</p> - -<p>She hid her face in her hands, quivering. The doctor -looked at her astounded, not daring to say anything.</p> - -<p>'And you don't know all yet,' she went on excitedly. -'One day you wrote me a kind, comforting letter, suggesting -I should go off to your mother's. What comfort it was! -I would have got out of this house at last, where every -black doorway frightens me in the evening, and the furniture -looks ghostly. I would have gone where there was light, -sun, heat, and joy. Well, that night father took an extra -mad fit: he came to my room. Wakened from sleep at so -late an hour, in the flickering lamp-light, his words put me -into a panic; he wouldn't listen to my entreaties, he didn't -know he was torturing me, and for two hours he spoke -about the spirit that was to appear, that I must evoke; he -would teach me the sacred word. He held on to my hands, -breathed in my face, filling me with his enthusiasm and -faith, and so he gained his end.'</p> - -<p>'In what way?'</p> - -<p>'I saw the spirit, dear.'</p> - -<p>'How? You saw it?'</p> - -<p>'As I see you.'</p> - -<p>'It was fever; there is no such thing, Bianca,' he said -harshly, to bring back her wandering mind to peace.</p> - -<p>'You say so; I believe you. But when you are gone, -when I have finished my prayers and reading, when I am -alone in my room with the shadows the lamps throw, I shall -see again that night's vision: my head will swim, my brain -whirl, my teeth chatter. Father is in despair now because -that night's numbers did not come right; he says I don't -know how to interpret; he wants me to call up the spirit -again. He thinks now I am a medium, and he gives me no -peace. I am not his daughter now; he only looks on me -as a mediator between him and Fortune. He watches every -word I say, looks enviously at me or haughtily, and goes -about thinking of some queer discipline, some privations or -other to enable me to see the spirit again, to make my soul -pure like my body, and my sight clear. He leaves me alone -at the beginning of the week, but on Thursday night he -comes and begs me—fancy, he implores me—to call the -spirit; that aged man, whose hand I kiss respectfully, kneels -before me, as at the altar, to soften me. On Friday he gets -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span> -wild; he never notices how frightened I get; he thinks it is -the coming of the spirits that excites me. The other night, -to get away from the torture I find unbearable, I locked my -door: I was so bold as to deny father access to my room. -Well, he came, knocked, softly at first, then loudly; he -spoke to me entreatingly, he ordered me to see the spirit—in -a rage first, and then abjectly. I stopped my ears not to -hear him, put my head down in the pillows; I bit the sheet -to choke my sobs. Twenty times I wanted to open the -door, but terror nailed me to my bed. Father wept. -Mother, mother, I disobeyed you! You could die for father, -but I could not do that for him.'</p> - -<p>'Poor darling!' he murmured, trying to calm her down -with gentle, compassionate words, petting her hands, as if he -wanted to set her to sleep or magnetize her.</p> - -<p>'Yes, yes, pity me, for I am so wretched, so unhappy, I -envy any beggar on the street. Pity me, because the one -person who should love me, take care of my health and -happiness, dreams instead about getting money for me, a -great lot, and makes me suffer in body, in mind, for it; -pity me, for I am an unhappy woman, doomed to a dark -ending. In all the wide world, I only have you to care -for me!'</p> - -<p>They said no more. Bianca Maria's pallid cheeks had -got some colour, her eyes shone; her whole heart had been -poured out as she spoke, now she kept silence. She had -said everything. The bitter secret that implacably tortured -her whole existence, on being evoked by love, had come out -and had given a shudder of alarmed astonishment to the -strong man listening. He said nothing, trying to keep down -his own amazement, to arrange his confused ideas. He was -accustomed, certainly, to hear lugubrious stories of all kinds -of misery, both of body and mind, from his patients; he had -lifted the veil from all kinds of shame and corruption; the -sorrowful and contrite came to him as to a confessor, and -hearts that hid the most horrifying secrets of humanity -opened to him. But Bianca's sorrow was so profound, the -very source of life being attacked, that it frightened him to -see such unutterable wretchedness. Also this girl, wasted -by an obscure, unnatural malady, tortured by her own father, -that lovely, dear creature, was the woman he loved, that he -could not live without, whose happiness was dearer to him -than his own. Disturbed, not knowing yet how to set to -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span> -work before that complicated problem of sickness and -delusion, that made the Marquis di Formosa the family -destroyer, he found nothing to say to comfort Bianca.</p> - -<p>She was worn out now; she felt a vague remorse at -having accused her father. But was not Amati to deliver -her? Did she not feel quite safe, strong, when he was -there? Rousing herself from her exhaustion, she raised her -eyes to his timidly, humbly, saying:</p> - -<p>'You don't think me bad and ungrateful, do you?'</p> - -<p>'No, dear, I do not.'</p> - -<p>'Do not judge badly of him.'</p> - -<p>'I will cure him,' he said thoughtfully.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span></p> - -</div> - - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XII</h2> - -<p class="p2">THE THREE SISTERS—CHIARASTELLA THE WITCH</p> - - -<p>The summer of that year was a bad one for the Neapolitans, -morally and materially. Above all, from the end of June -the summer scirocco had gone on dissolving into rain; storms -covered the bay with black clouds, lightning played behind -Posillipo, thunder rumbled from Capodimonte, sudden heavy -summer showers raised a pungent smell of dust, and went -rushing down the city roads from the hill to the sea like -little waterspouts, making the passers-by start aside and -run. The poor cabmen, with no umbrellas, ragged, with -shabby hats crushed down on their heads, could do nothing -but stick their hands in the pockets of their worn-out -jackets and keep their heads down. It was a devilish -summer, a real correction from God; that was why San -Gennaro had been so long in working the miracle that year. -He makes no mistakes.</p> - -<p>The rushing scirocco lashed up the waves in the bay -furiously; they got livid with rage, and foamed under the -chill curtain of clouds, and all the bathing-places from -Marinella to Posillipo had to take up the boards of their -wooden huts to let the raging sea pass through, or they -would have been broken to pieces. There lay the great -irrecoverable loss, for the long files of provincial people that -come from Calabria, Basilicata, Abruzzi, and Molise, to take -sea-baths, and fill up the inns and second-class eating-houses, -who sit four in a carriage that barely holds two—these -country people, who are Naples' summer source of -revenue, being afraid of the bad weather, always went on -intending to start for Naples the next week, and ended by -never leaving their villages at all. Those who had arrived -the first week in July, intending to stay till the end of -August, on finding they could only have a bathe on one -day out of five, and then have to face a stormy sea, got -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span> -frightened and discouraged, and ended by going back to -Campobasso, to Avellino, Benevento, and Potenza, to the -great sorrow of the girls and young fellows. It was a lost -season.</p> - -<p>At the <em>Fiori</em> Inn, in Fiorentini Square, the <em>Campidoglio</em>, -in Municipio Square, and the <em>Centrale</em>, at Fontana Medina, -there was a void; as for the <em>Allegria</em>, in Carità Square, one -of the greatest resorts of country people, it was a desert.</p> - -<p>Very warm days came at times between the stormy ones, -which were very exhausting. It was a real African climate, -and the bathing-places—De Crescenzio, Cannavacciuolo, -Sciattone, Manetta and Pappalordo—had five days' emptiness -to one day of too large a crowd of people. The owners -shook their heads despondingly, whilst the bronzed, thin, -black-toothed, hoarse-voiced bathing-women, shoeless, in -shift, petticoat and straw hats, ran after sheets of doubtful -whiteness on the dirty brown sands, where the wind caught -them and threatened to cast them into the sea. What rain! -what rain! The eating-houses in the centre of Naples had -poor business, but those who put tables out in the open air -on Santa Lucia causeway, the eating-houses that go from -Mergellina to Posillipo, the <em>Bersaglio</em>, the <em>Schiava</em>, the -<em>Figlio di Pietro</em>, all those whose slender existence depends -on fine weather, summer and winter, these suffered most; -no one had anything to do, from the cook yawning in the -kitchen to the few waiters left, who sat sleepily in the -steamy atmosphere that even the storms did not freshen up. -Only crawling flies buzzed on the uselessly prepared tables. -There was a general idleness; a chorus of oaths and lamentations -arose at every new outburst of showers. Even the -evenings at the Villa, round the bandstand, where the -municipal band plays its old polkas and variations on -'Forza del Destino' of ancient date, where a penny for a -seat is all that is needed to be able to enjoy the pleasant -sight of a middle-class crowd, seated or wandering round -the band, just a penny to sit in the open air and hear the -modest concert—even these simple, economical, popular -evenings were spoilt. Among the tradesmen's daughters, -for whom the Villa means an occasion to show their humble -white frocks, sewn and starched at home, to see their lovers, -even at a distance, under the flickering gas-lamps, to go a -step further on the road, often a long one, that leads to -marriage—among these girls there was secret weeping. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span> -The chair-hirer wandered through the deserted, damp -avenues, full of snails, to see if no one would come to brave -the bad weather, or, driven desperate, he settled himself in -a corner of Vacca Café to talk over his woes with one of the -waiters. What a season!</p> - -<p>Don Domenico Mayer's son and daughter, who in other -years went every evening to the Villa, walking there and -back, so as to spend only fourpence, this year nearly expired -with heat and boredom in their Rossi Palazzo flat. Their -father was so stern. Their mother was even more sickly and -doleful than usual. It was a bad season for the three sisters -scattered in different parts of Naples—Carmela, the cigar-maker; -Annarella, the servant; and Filomena, the young -girl who lived in sin. Above all, their mother was dead in -the cellar where she had lived with Carmela, and in spite -of having got a pauper's coffin for her from the Pendino -district authorities, and her being thrown into the common -pit on the great heap of the wretched at Poggio Reale, Carmela -still had had to pay seventy or eighty francs for burial -expenses, without even having the consolation of knowing -that her mother had had a separate grave. For some time -Carmela had paid a small weekly sum to a pious <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Congregazione</i> -so as to have at her own death, or any of her family's, -a separate carriage following and a grave; but debts and -wretchedness, gambling resorted to in desperation, had -prevented her from going on paying the fees, and she had -lost her claim. She was left alone, with no mother, in that -damp, dark cellar, in debt up to the eyes, not having twelve -francs even to get a black dress or any mourning; she wore -a light-coloured cotton with a black kerchief at her neck, -and her neighbours criticised her for her heartlessness. -Her everlasting lover, Raffaele, had now risen to the highest -grades of the Camorrist hierarchy from having taken part in -two duels, or <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">dichiaramenti</i>, and from having a mark against -him with the police; he had got still more haughty to her, -especially after her mother's death; he fled from Carmela, -and when she went after him at inn doors and suburban -taverns, he treated her brutally, all the more that she had -got into a wretched condition; she could not give him five -francs ever now, or even the two francs he haughtily asked -for and she humbly gave.</p> - -<p>A subtle suspicion was growing in the girl's mind, and -from her mother's death, her excessive poverty, and -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span> -Raffaele's suspected false-dealing, she lost her head. She -often failed to go to the tobacco factory, and lost her day's -work, or worked so absent-mindedly, so badly, she was fined -and got very little on Saturday. Often during the week she -broke her fast with a penny-worth of dry bread dipped in -macaroni-water, that a neighbour, not so poor as herself, -treated her to. It was too hard, too hard, for one who only -wished for others' happiness, to see her mother die of privation, -and then thrown into a common paupers' ditch, to -mingle her bones with theirs; to see her lover going down -gradually the whole ladder of vice, even to prison, perhaps -to capital crime; and also to see her sisters fading away for -want of moral and physical comfort. Now, with her mother -gone to her eternal rest—how Carmela envied her sometimes!—and -with Raffaele always going farther off from her, she, -feeling her heart as cold as her stomach, went oftener to see -her sisters. She thought of going to live with Annarella, for -economy's sake, and not to live in such a lonely way; but -Annarella lived in a cellar in Rosariella di Porta Medina—she, -her husband, and two children, already getting of a -good size—in a cellar with a beaten earth floor and walls not -white-washed for years. The husband and wife slept on a -bed made of two iron trestles, with three squeaking boards -laid over them lengthwise, and a big mattress stuffed with -maize leaves—the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">paglione</i>, which has an opening in the -middle to put in the hand when the bed is made. The girl -slept by the mother in the big conjugal bed, and they made -up a little bed for the boy every evening upon two broken -chairs.</p> - -<p>Frightful, utter misery had gradually fallen on the glove-cutter's -family. He not only staked his whole week's pay -on the lottery, but on Friday evening and Saturday morning -he beat his wife, enraged if she had only one or two francs -to give him. Now the children were beginning to earn -something. The girl worked at a dressmaker's, the boy as a -stable-hand; and when he could not get anything from his -wife, Gaetano went to the dressmaker's where his little girl -worked by the week, called her down, and, by dint of lies, -wheedling, or blows, one after the other, he managed always -to draw some pence from the child, who got the dressmaker -to advance them on her week's pay. With his son, now a -boy of twelve, Gaetano behaved still worse. The stable-boy -often refused him money, taunting him with his vice and the -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span> -wretchedness he had reduced his mother to. The father -rained down blows on him. The boy, choking with tears, -shouted, swore, and struggled. People came up to hear a -son call his father a scoundrel, an assassin. Once, when his -father gave him a blow on the nose, making the blood flow, -he got enraged and bit his hand. On Saturday evening, -when they came back to their home, the children carried the -marks of their father's blows. The mother, who had forgotten -the blows she got herself, found the marks, and wept -over her poor children, asking them:</p> - -<p>'How much has he taken away from you?'</p> - -<p>'Fourteen sous,' Teresina answered sadly.</p> - -<p>'He took half a franc from me,' said Carmine, raging.</p> - -<p>'Merciful God!' the mother cried out, weeping.</p> - -<p>But what she could not get out of her mind was her two-and-a-half-year-old -baby, which died from bad milk, bad -nourishment, from languishing in that black cellar, which -dripped from damp summer and winter. If Peppino was -named by chance, she grew pale, and nothing could get it -out of her head that her husband's vice had killed her little -son. She had religiously kept the big swinging basket that -poor Naples children are cradled in (the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">sportone</i>); but she -first sold the pillow, then the little maize mattress, and one -day of great hunger, not knowing where to get a half-penny, -she sold the cradle. Parting from it was so agonizing that -the mother sat on the doorstep, not caring who passed, and -wept for an hour, with her head in her apron. 'You know, -Peppino—you know!' she whispered, as if she was asking -pardon of the tiny dead for having sold his cradle.</p> - -<p>Now that summer had come in so unsettled and stormy, -it had made the family position worse than ever. Of the -two half-days' service she did, she had lost one, which meant -ten francs. It was the lodging-house keeper: as she had -empty rooms, she dismissed her servant. The girl Teresina -had had her weekly pay reduced, as the dressmaker had no -work; but, not wishing to dismiss the girl straight off, she let -her do the house-work out of charity. The coachman that -Carmine was stable-boy to went off with his master's family -to the country for four months, and would have taken the -boy with him; but Gaetano, the lad's father, knowing he -could always get some pence out of the boy if he stayed in -Naples, by threats, arguments, or blows, prevented him from -going to the country. He ordered him to look out for -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span> -another service in Naples. Carmine shrieked, wept, cursed, -threatening to go away secretly.</p> - -<p>'I am going away, mother; I am going off secretly, and -father won't see a farthing of my money, you know. I will -send it to you in a letter; father is not to have any of it.'</p> - -<p>'What can I say, darling? You are right to go,' his -mother lamented. And that going away of her son tore her -heart also.</p> - -<p>But the debts they had with Donna Concetta, the usurer, -were Carmela's greatest agony, also Annarella's and Gaetano's. -Even she had suffered from the bad season, as the -debtors almost all failed to pay, and had not even money -to pay the interest with by the week. She did not lend a -farthing more to anyone; she was embittered and fierce, for -even she was feeling the pinch of other people's wretchedness. -She shut herself up in the house at night behind iron -bars, for she had pension papers and savings-bank books in -the house; and that put her in a state of constant fury. -She wandered about all day from one street to another, from -cellar to attic, from shop to factory, running after her own -money, till she was out of breath; for she always went on -foot. Devoured with rage from the constant refusals, she -began by asking for her interest at least, coldly insistent, -and ended up by making a scene, yelling, demanding her -'blood,' as she passionately called her money. But those who -most enraged her were Gaetano, Annarella and Carmela. -Between them they had got about two hundred francs from -her, and she could not get even a centime of the weekly ten -francs' interest. Oh, these three! these three! She went -to the Bossi factory at Foria, where Gaetano cut out gloves, -and had the workman called down sometimes; but, warned -by a companion, he got them to say he was not at the factory -that day. But she persisted, being suspicious and unbelieving; -she walked about in front of the door, and he ended -by going down to her, a black cigar ever in his mouth.</p> - -<p>The scene began in a whisper, short, energetic, violent: -sometimes Gaetano, grinning—for the lottery made him -lose all sense of shame—repeated to her the motto of Naples' -bad payers: 'If I had it and could, I would pay; but not -having it, I can't and won't pay.' But she set to yelling, -said she would go to Carlo Bossi to complain, or to the -judge; and Gaetano, in a rage, but controlling himself, -made answer. What would she gain by getting him turned -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span> -out of the factory? She would not get another farthing -then. The judge? What could he do? The prison for -debtors no longer exists in Naples; the Concordia prison -has been abolished by gentlemen who could not pay their -big debts. Then she got in a rage like a witch; the whole -neighbourhood came out to the doors and balconies. He -listened, very pale, biting at his black cigar-stump. One -day he threatened in a whisper to cut her in pieces. -Muttering vague, threatening words, pulling her shawl round -her angrily, Donna Concetta went off with the swinging -step of rich, lazy women of the lower class, her head a little -to one side, her face still discomposed after the scene.</p> - -<p>Since she happened to be at Foria, and the cigar-makers' -work ended at four o'clock, she went to stand at the door of -the factory in Santi Apostoli Square, waiting till Carmela -came out, to ask her for her money. She was not the only -one that was waiting; other women were at the door who -had lent money or clothes to the workers at high interest; -and they knew and recognised each other, feeling they had -a strong, mutual interest in the laws of usury; they made a -long lament together over the tardiness in paying and inexactness -of their clients. They all said they were ruined by -the bad season and the ill-will of their debtors; the words -'<em>my blood, our blood</em>' came up always like a wail, as they spoke -of the money lost. It was not allowable to send up for any -workgirl, but the money-lenders waited, like the cake and -fruit sellers, till the workpeople came out. The poor women -who were coming from the factory, with sickly faces from -the bad tobacco fumes, their hands stained up to the wrist, -stopped to buy something to carry home to feed their families -on, after their day's work. The money-lenders mingled -with pot-herb-sellers, and vendors of parsnips in vinegar -and pancakes, and waited patiently, pulling their shawls up -on their shoulders—that common trick. At last the women, -after being searched, one by one, by an overseer to find out -if they had stolen any tobacco, came out. Some slipped -away, others stopped to buy broccoli, radishes, potatoes, or -some pancake; but the palest certainly were those who were -caught outside by their creditors. The palest of all, and not -from tobacco fumes, but shame, was Carmela. She tried to -lead off Donna Concetta towards Vertecœli Street or Santi -Apostoli steps, so as not to let her friends hear what was -said; but Donna Concetta went slowly and raised her voice. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span> -She wanted her money, her blood; it was a shame not to -give it to her; she would have the interest, at any rate. If -Carmela had any shame, she must at least give her the -interest. The cigar-girl's eyes filled with tears at that -abuse, and, having a few pence in her purse, it was impossible -to hold out. She handed them to Donna Concetta; -but it was so little always that, although she sacrificed her -day's meal, it only got her the more abuse. She listened, -with her head bent, to Donna Concetta's taunts up Arcivescovato -Street and Gerolomini Road; after a time Donna -Concetta recognised that the girl had no more money, and -that it was useless to worry her.</p> - -<p>But Carmela, even when Donna Concetta had gone off, -felt the shiver of shame that bitter voice had sent through -her, saying such offensive words; and tired, crushed, without -a farthing in her pocket after working a whole day, she -again felt envy of her dead mother. Of course, she, too, -had that vice of gambling, but it was for good ends—to give -money to everyone, to make all her friends happy, if she -won, to let Raffaele, or Farfariello, as he was called, draw -money from her; but to be so severely punished for this -venial sin cut her to the heart. Ah! on some days how -willingly she would have thrown herself into the well of the -building where the factory was, so as not to hear or feel -anything more! But Donna Concetta's thirst was not at all -quenched by that drop of water, Carmela's pence, and on -her way home every evening, before going in at her door, she -hurried to the Rosariella Street cellar where Annarella lived. -She was generally seated near the bed, and often in the -dark, for she had nothing to buy oil with, saying the Rosary -with her daughter. Donna Concetta crossed herself and -waited till the Rosary was ended, to ask for her loan back, -uselessly as it happened every day. Annarella could do -nothing now but answer with a sigh or lament, and when -Donna Concetta burst into eloquence she began to cry. -Then Teresina broke in, speaking to both women.</p> - -<p>'Don't cry, mother, to please me.' And to the money-lender: -'Do you not see, Donna Concetta, that mother has -not got any money?'</p> - -<p>'Dear girl, my darling!' sobbed her mother, choked by -all the sorrows of her life.</p> - -<p>The money-lender would not be appeased; she was so -accustomed to the sham tears of those who wished to cheat -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span> -her of her money that she no longer believed in any sorrow; -it was only when she had exhausted her whole vocabulary -of abuse that she decided to go away, slowly, with that sleek -walk of hers, muttering that she would do justice with her -own hands, against robbers of her blood. The mother and -daughter were left alone in the damp, dark cellar's unhealthy -heat, and the poor charwoman, responding to an inward -thought, exclaimed:</p> - -<p>'Soul of Peppinello, do me this grace!'</p> - -<p>When Carmela and Annarella afterwards met in the street -or the Rosariella cellar, there was a long outpouring of -sorrows and interchange of news, when the physical and -moral bitterness of their sad existences burst out.</p> - -<p>'That lottery! what bad luck, what infamous luck, it -was, for it never to give a farthing's winnings, and to take -their all—even the bit of bread that just kept them alive!' -Sometimes, through speaking about their wretchedness and -solitariness, Filomena, the third unfortunate sister, was -referred to. 'What was she doing? How could she bear -that life of sin?'</p> - -<p>Carmela had twice gone to seek her in the alley behind -Santa Barbara Steps: once she was out; the other time she -found her so cold, so changed, as if struck by remorse, that -Carmela, filled with emotion, ran away at once. Another -time Annarella had met Filomena in the street, in blue -and yellow, with the usual red ribbon at her neck; she asked -her why she wore no mourning for her mother.</p> - -<p>'I am not worthy,' Filomena had answered, casting down -her eyes, and going off with that sliding step on high-heeled, -shiny shoes. All through this Carmela felt, besides her open -griefs, besides the sequence of wretchedness and humiliation, -something she could not take hold of, as if a new misfortune -was coming on her head, a crowning fatality was hemming -her in, with no way of escape. What was it? She could -not say what it was. Perhaps it was Raffaele's increasing -coldness, and the brutal way he treated her when they met; -it may have been her brother-in-law Gaetano's fierce expression, -or that queer look that Filomena gave her: she -dared not go to ask for her now.</p> - -<p>For some time Annarella and she had been making up a -plan to put an end to their difficulties. Among all Naples -common folk there are women famed as witches—<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">fattucchiare</i>, -as they call them—whose witchcraft, philtres and charms -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span> -cannot be resisted. Some, indeed, have a large practice, -much larger than a doctor's would be in the same neighbourhood; -almost every quarter boasts of its witch, who can -do the most extraordinary miracles, always, however, by -God's help and the Virgin's. Well, Chiarastella, the great -sorceress, who lived up there at Centograde Lane, near the -Corso Vittorio Emanuele, had a tremendous reputation: -there was not a shop, cellar, road, square, or street corner -where Chiarastella's marvellous deeds were not known and -spoken of. It was said everywhere that, to get Chiarastella's -spells, you must ask for things that were not against God's -will; but no one who attended to this rule had come home -disappointed from her little place in Centograde Lane. No -one among the mass of Naples common folk dared to throw -a doubt on Chiarastella's magic powers. If in the provision -stores and macaroni shops, where young and old women love -to gossip, or in front of herb-sellers' baskets and barrows, -where small folk haggle for three-quarters of an hour over -a bundle of borage, and at basement doors, where such long, -animated talk goes on; any ignorant woman, on hearing of -the Centograde witch's miracles, raised her eyebrows in -surprise and unbelief, twenty anxious, excited voices told -her of all the deeds done by Chiarastella. In one place a -traitor husband had been brought back to his young wife; -then a young fellow dying of consumption was cured when -the doctors had given him up. Another case was a dressmaker -who had lost her customers, and had got them all -back gradually by the witch's influence; then there was a -heartless girl who drove her lover to an evil life and crime -by her coldness, and Chiarastella had set things right. -Above all there was the tying of the tongue: that—that was -Chiarastella's grand feat. Everyone who had a lawsuit -coming off, or a trial in which they might be overcome by -their adversary or by justice, where money, honour, liberty -or life would be at stake, rushed in desperation for Chiarastella's -magic. After hearing about the case, if she considered -it moral and in accordance with God's will, she promised to -tie the tongue of the adversary's lawyer. The spell consisted -of a magic cord with three knots in it to represent the -number of persons in the Trinity. Means must be found -to put it on the advocate's person, either in his pocket or -in the lining of his clothes, on the decisive morning of the -trial, and by the help of prayer the rival's advocate would -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span> -not be able to say over any of his arguments, even if he had -them in his mind—his tongue was tied, the suit was lost to -him, the spell had secured its object. Examples were quoted -where the innocent and oppressed, suffering from man's -injustice, had been thus saved by Chiarastella. Carmela -and Annarella had thought of applying to Chiarastella for -some time, Carmela to try and awaken in Raffaele's heart -renewed love for her, she never having had his love, and -now it was less hers than ever. Annarella required a spell -to get her husband Gaetano to give up gambling at the -lottery.</p> - -<p>Carmela had been up already at Centograde Lane to -make inquiries about getting the magic; she found five -francs were necessary; and, besides, there were some small -ingredients that had to be bought. Afterwards, if it was -successful, just as God willed it, the two sisters would make -the witch a good present. Chiarastella certainly never -promised anything; she spoke mysteriously, in a doubtful -way, and kept deep silence at certain questions. It -seemed as if she did not care about money; she contented -herself with a small fee for her support, counting on people's -gratitude to get a better gift if it was God's will that the -thing turned out well later on. Meanwhile, ten francs at -least were needed; without them nothing whatever could -be done. Whatever privations the sisters might endure -that bad summer, they never would have been able to put -aside ten francs between them.</p> - -<p>But days went by, and moral wretchedness was as urgent -of care as their bodily wants required looking to: it was -the only remedy left, so, though much against the grain, -Carmela made up her mind to sell her old marble-topped -chest of drawers, the chief bit of furniture in her room, that -had been bought by her mother as a bride. She barely got -twelve francs for it—everyone was selling furniture that -hateful summer; there was not a dog left that would buy a -farthing's worth of things. She put her few pieces of linen -in a covered basket under her bed, and hung her poor clothes -on a bit of string from two nails in the wall, where they got -damp, but she had her twelve francs.</p> - -<p>It was one Sunday at the end of August, after hearing -Mass in Sette Dolori Church, that the sisters went towards -Centograde Lane. Carmela had shut up her home and -carried the key in her pocket. Annarella left her daughter -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span> -Teresina at home mending a torn dress, after working till -mid-day at the dressmaker's. For eight days now Carmela -had not succeeded in finding Raffaele, though she wandered -through Naples in her free hours. Gaetano, Annarella's -husband, had not come home on Saturday night, nor that -morning. In Sette Dolori Church, kneeling at a dark wooden -form that the poor must use, as they cannot pay for seats, -they prayed earnestly during Mass. Now they were laboriously -going up the steps of the steep incline that leads from -Sette Dolori Street to Vittorio Emanuele Corso, not speaking, -wrapt up in vague hopes and fears. Chiarastella, the -witch, lived appropriately in a dark alley. It was quiet, -but well enough lighted, and stood to the right of the steep -steps that lead from the principal street up the hill to the -little outlets Pignasecca, Carità, and Monte Santo. There -was a great quietness in that blind alley, but the damp -summer scirocco had covered the flint pavement with a thin -coating of mud, so they had to walk carefully not to fall, -and they made no noise.</p> - -<p>'Does she expect us?' Annarella asked, hardly moving -her lips. She was panting after going up the steps.</p> - -<p>'Yes, she does,' said Carmela in a whisper, as she went -in at the door.</p> - -<p>They went up to the first-floor, on to the narrow landing. -There were two doors facing each other; one was shut fast; -indeed, it was fastened by a chain and a heavy iron padlock. -It looked as if the dwellers there had gone off after a -misfortune, shutting up their dull abode for ever. The door -on the left was half open; but the sisters, on hearing a -muffled sob, dared not go in without knocking. It was -startling for Carmela to pull a brown monkey's paw joined -to a big-ringed iron chain the bell inside was hung to. The -black, mummified paw gave one a shudder; it was hairy -above and pink underneath. It seemed like finding a bit -of a swarthy murdered child. The bell tinkled long and -shrilly, as if it would never give over. A very old, decrepit, -bent servant, with a pointed nose that seemed to wish to go -into her toothless mouth, appeared. She signed to the two -women to come into the bare, narrow lobby, which was -rather damp underfoot. The choked sobbing went on -behind another closed door. Soon after the door opened, -and a girl of the people, a seamstress (Antonietta the blonde -it was), crossed the lobby, her shawl off her shoulders, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span> -weeping, her handkerchief at her eyes. Nannina, her short -friend, kept one arm round her waist, as if she wanted to -hold her up, and went on repeating, to console her:</p> - -<p>'It does not matter; never mind about it.'</p> - -<p>But on the sobbing getting louder the old woman opened -the outer door and sent the girls off, almost pushing them -out; then she disappeared without saying a word to Annarella -or Carmela. They, already moved by the feelings -that induced them to invoke the witch's power, were very -sympathetic with the two girls, one so inconsolable, the -other so vainly trying to soothe. Leaning at the lobby -window, they waited, their eyes cast down and hands crossed -over their aprons, tightly holding the ends of their shawls, -not saying a word to each other. A great silence was -around, in the damp summer sultriness of that long summer -noon. Annarella, being gentler, more saddened, and at the -same time less infatuated than Carmela, bent her shoulders -to her fatal destiny, feeling an increasing want of confidence -in any means of salvation, being almost sure that Gaetano -would never be brought back to reason by any prayer nor -charm. She felt nothing but a growing fear all through -her low spirits. Carmela, instead, having an ardent, loving -soul that nothing could subdue, felt the flame of passion -light up within her. She was not afraid; no, she would -have dared any sight or danger to get Raffaele's heart -again. But the decrepit servant, bent into a bow, as if she -wanted to reach the earth again, appeared in the lobby and -made a sign to Carmela to come in. Without making a -sound, the sisters disappeared into the other room, and the -door shut behind them.</p> - -<p>'Here is my sister that I told you of,' whispered Carmela, -standing aside to present Annarella, who stood just behind -her.</p> - -<p>Chiarastella nodded as a salutation. The witch was of -middle height, or a little below it, very thin, with long lean -hands, the skin of them shiny from sticking to the bones; -her body moved automatically, as if she could stiffen every -muscle at will. She had a small head, and short face -covered with deep red blotches, the jaw very prominent; -her complexion was of a warm vivid pallor, and the nose a -short one. But her eyes were the interesting thing in the -witch's neurotic face; they had a very mobile glance, and -the colour varied from gray to green, with always a luminous -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span> -point, a sparkle, in them; the glance was sometimes shy, -then frightened-looking, then seemingly carried away in a -spiritual ecstasy; her whole vitality was summed up in -them. Chiarastella looked as if she were more than forty, -but her hair remained very black, and her forehead was -marked by a single deep wrinkle; but when her eyes lighted -up, an irradiation of youthfulness spread over her face and -person. She wore a black woollen dress, simply made, the -usual cut among the common people, only it was ornamented -with white silk buttons, and a white silk ribbon hung at her -waist, in a knot with two long ends, at the side. White and -black are the colours worn by the votaries of Our Lady of -Sorrows. A thick crooked red coral horn hung from her -neck on a thin black silk cord; in making some careless -gesture, the witch often touched this horn. She was seated -at a big walnut table that had a closed iron box on it, of -deep-cut, artistic workmanship, an antique, evidently. A big -black cat slept beside her, its paws gathered up under it. -Set round the small room were a little sofa of faded chintz -and five or six chairs; that was all that was in it. On the -wall was a black wooden crucifix; the figure of Christ, carved -in ivory, was a work of art also. She kept silence, with -her eyes down. The sisters felt that a great mystery was -coming near, and would envelop them.</p> - -<p>'We have brought the ten francs,' Carmela said timidly, -taking them out of the corner of her handkerchief and -putting them on a table by Chiarastella's hand.</p> - -<p>The witch did not move an eyelash; only the black cat -raised its head, showing fine yellow eyes like amber.</p> - -<p>'Have you heard Mass this morning?' Chiarastella asked, -without turning her head.</p> - -<p>'Yes, we have,' the sisters muttered shyly.</p> - -<p>She had a low, hoarse voice—one of those women's voices -that seem always charged with intense feeling—and it caused -deep emotion in the heart and brain of the hearers.</p> - -<p>'Say three <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Aves</i>, three <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Pater Nosters</i>, three <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Glorias</i>, out -loud,' commanded the witch.</p> - -<p>Standing in front of her, the sisters said the words of -prayer; she said them too, in her vibrating voice, her hands -clasped in her lap on her black apron. The cat rose on its -long black legs, holding down its head. Then, altogether, -the three women, after bowing three times at the <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Gloria -Patri</i>, said the <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Salve Regina</i>. The prayers were ended. The -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span> -witch opened the wrought-iron casket, holding the lid so as -to hide what was in it, and groped with her fingers a long -time. Then, taking out some little things, still hiding them -in her hands, she got mortally pale, her eyes became wild, -as if she saw a terrible sight.</p> - -<p>'Holy Virgin, help us!' Annarella uttered in a low tone, -shaking with fear.</p> - -<p>Now Chiarastella, with a yellow lighted taper, burnt two -queer scented pastilles, which were pungent and heavy at -the same time; she gazed intently at the flying smoke-rings; -her eyes dilated, showing the whites streaked with blue, as -if she was trying to read a mysterious word. When the -smoke had disappeared, only a heavy smell was left; the -sisters felt stupefied already, from that smell, perhaps. -Monotonously, not looking at them, Chiarastella asked:</p> - -<p>'Have you made up your mind to work a spell on your -husband?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, provided that he does not suffer in health from it,' -Annarella replied feebly.</p> - -<p>'You want to tie his hands, two or three times, so that -he never at any time can stake at the lottery, do you -not?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, that is it,' the other answered eagerly.</p> - -<p>'Are you in God's grace?'</p> - -<p>'I hope I am.'</p> - -<p>'Ask the Virgin's help, but under your breath.'</p> - -<p>Whilst Annarella raised her eyes as if to find heaven, -the witch took out of the iron casket a thin new cord, looked -at it, muttered some queer irregular verses in the Naples -dialect, invoking the powers of heaven, its saints, and some -good spirits with queer names. The chant went on; the -witch, still holding the cord tight in her hand, looked at it as -if filling it with her spirit; she breathed on it and kissed it -devoutly three times. Whilst she was carrying out this -deed of magic, her thin brown hands shook, and the cat -went up and down the big table excitedly, spreading its -whiskers.</p> - -<p>Annarella now repented more than ever of having come, -of trying to cast a spell on her husband. It would have -been better, much better, to resign herself to her fate, rather -than call out all these spirits, and put all that mystery into -her humble life. She deeply repented; her breathing was -oppressed, her face saddened. She wanted to fly at once -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span> -far off to her dark cellar; she preferred to endure cold and -wretchedness there. It was her sister who had led her into -such an extreme measure; she had done it more out of pity -for her, seeing her so melancholy, desolate, and worn out by -sorrow from Raffaele's desertion. It was not right—no, it -could not be—to try and find out God's will by witchcraft -and magic in any case. No witchcraft, however powerful, -would conquer her husband's passion. She had read one -Saturday in his eyes, grown suddenly ferocious, how unconquerable -the passion was. She had seen him ill-treat -his children with that repressed rage that is capable of even -greater cruelty. That witchcraft, you see, with its alarming -prelude and continuation, seemed to her another big step on -the way to a dark, fatal end.</p> - -<p>Now Chiarastella, with sharpened features, her skin more -shiny and eyes burning, made three fatal knots in the twine, -stopping at each to say something in a whisper. At the end -she threw herself all at once from the chair to kneel on the -ground, her head down on her breast. The black cat jumped -down too, as if possessed, and went round and round the -witch in the convulsive style of cats when going to die.</p> - -<p>'Mother of God, do not forsake me!' Annarella called out, -shaking with fear; but the witch, after crossing herself -wildly several times, got up and said in solemn tones to the -gambler's wife:</p> - -<p>'Take—take this miraculous cord. It will tie your -husband's hands and mind when Beelzebub tells him to -gamble. Believe in God; have faith; hope in Him.'</p> - -<p>Trembling, feeling hot all over from excessive emotion, -Annarella took the witch's cord. She was to put it on her -husband without his noticing it. She would have liked to -go away now, to fly, for she felt the sultriness of the room, -and the perfume was turning her brain; but Carmela, pale, -disturbed from what she had seen and the commotion in her -own mind, turned an appealing look on her to get her to -wait.</p> - -<p>Chiarastella had already begun the charm to make -Raffaele love Carmela again. She called Cleofa, her -decrepit servant, and said something in her ear. The -woman went out, and came back carrying with great care a -deep white porcelain dish full of clear water, looking at it as -if hypnotized, not to spill a drop; then she disappeared. -Chiarastella, with her face close to the dish, muttered some -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span> -of her mysterious words over the water. She put in one -finger, and let three drops fall on Carmela's forehead, who -at a sign had leant forward to her. Then the witch lit a big -wax candle Carmela had brought, and went on muttering -Latin and Italian words. The candle-wick spluttered as if -water had been thrown on the flame.</p> - -<p>'Did you bring the lock of hair cut from your forehead on -Friday evening when the moon was rising?' Chiarastella's -hoarse voice demanded in the middle of the prayer.</p> - -<p>'Yes, I have it,' said Carmela, with a deep sigh, handing -a tress of her black hair to the witch.</p> - -<p>From the iron casket Chiarastella had taken a platinum -dish with some hieroglyphics on it, as shiny as a mirror. -On this she put the hair, and raised it up three times, as if -making a sacrifice to heaven. Then she held the black -tress a little above the crackling flame, which stretched up -to devour it; a second after there was a disagreeable smell -of burnt hair, and nothing was seen on the dish but a morsel -of stinking ashes. The incantation went on, Chiarastella -singing under her voice her great love-charm, which was a -queer mixture of sacred and profane names—from Belphegor's -to Ariel's, from San Raffaele's, the girl's protector, -to San Pasquale's, patron saint of women—partly in Naples -dialect, partly in bad Italian. She afterwards took a small -phial from the wrought-iron box, which held all the ingredients -for her charms, and put three drops from it into -the plate of water, which at once became a fine opal colour, -with bluish reflections. The witch looked again to try and -decipher that whitish cloud which whirled round in spirals -and volutes, and dropped the ashes of the hair in. Gradually -under her gaze the water got clear and limpid again in the -dish; then she told Carmela to hand her a new crystal -bottle, bought on Saturday morning after making her Communion, -and she filled it slowly with water from the dish. -The love-philtre was ready.</p> - -<p>'Take it,' the witch said in her solemn tones, ending the -incantation—'take and keep it jealously. Make Raffaele -drink some drops of it in wine or coffee. It will inflame his -blood and burn in his brain; it will make his heart melt -for love of thee. Believe in God, have faith, and hope in -Him.'</p> - -<p>'It is not poison, is it?' Carmela ventured to ask.</p> - -<p>'It will do him good, and not harm. Have faith in God.'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span></p> - -<p>'And what if he goes on despising me?'</p> - -<p>'Then, that means that he is in love with someone else, -and this charm is not enough. You must find out who the -woman is that he has left you for, and bring me here a bit -of her chemise, petticoat, or dress, be it wool, linen, or -cotton. I will make a charm against her. We will drive -in a bit of her chemise or dress with a nail and some pins -into a fresh lemon; then you must throw this bewitched -lemon into the well of the house where the woman lives. -Every one of these pins is a misfortune; the nail is a sorrow -at the heart of which she will never be cured. Do you see?'</p> - -<p>'Very well, I will try and find out,' said Carmela, in -despair at the very idea of Raffaele being unfaithful.</p> - -<p>'Let us go away,' said Annarella, who could bear no -more.</p> - -<p>'Thank you for your kindness, ma'am,' said Carmela.</p> - -<p>'Thank you so much,' added Annarella.</p> - -<p>'Thank God! thank Him!' the witch cried out piously.</p> - -<p>She cast herself down again, kneeling, fervently praying, -while the big black cat gently mewed, rubbing its pink -nose on the table. The two women went out, thoughtful -and preoccupied.</p> - -<p>'That witchcraft is not good,' said Annarella, in a melancholy -way to her sister.</p> - -<p>'Then, what should be done—what can be done?' the -other asked, wringing her hands, her eyes filled with tears.</p> - -<p>'Nothing can be done,' said Annarella, in a solemn voice.</p> - -<p>They went down slowly, tired, worn out by that long -scene of witchcraft, which was above their intellectual -capacity, and depressed by the tension on their nerves. A -man went up the steps of Centograde Lane quickly, turning -towards the witch's house. It was Don Pasqualino De Feo. -The sisters did not see him; they went on, feeling the weight -of their unhappy life heavier, fearing to have gone beyond -the limits allowable to pious folk, and that they had drawn -God's mysterious vengeance on the heads of those they -loved.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span></p> - -</div> - - - - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XIII</h2> - -<p class="p2">THE CONFECTIONER'S SHOP BANKRUPT</p> - - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span> -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:</p> - -<p>'I cannot make it out. I do not see why we are so short -of money.'</p> - -<p>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:</p> - -<p>'Then it would be better to shut up shop.'</p> - -<p>'No, for goodness' sake, don't say that!' he cried out.</p> - -<p>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, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Now the bad summer season had come, with a scarcity -of country visitors, which caused a languor of all Naples' -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'Shall we shut up shop now?' Fragalà said impatiently.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span></p> - -<p>'It would be best, no doubt,' she said, with a slight sigh, -'especially as no one will be coming in.'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'Look here, Luisella,' he said, in a low voice: 'you know -what a bad season we have had.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, a wretched one,' she muttered.</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'I know that,' she muttered again, as if tired of those -grumbles.</p> - -<p>'You cannot know the full extent of it ... you would -have to deal directly with the wholesale houses to know -what ruin——'</p> - -<p>'Come to the point,' she said, rather bitterly.</p> - -<p>'Are you angry with me?' Cesare asked humbly.</p> - -<p>'No, it is not that,' she replied, in a curious tone.</p> - -<p>'Well, I want you to do me a favour—a great favour, so -great I am ashamed to ask it, even.'</p> - -<p>'Say what it is,' she just uttered, keeping down the pained -feeling her husband's words caused her.</p> - -<p>'I have a payment to make to-morrow morning....'</p> - -<p>'To-morrow, in the morning, do you say?'</p> - -<p>'Yes; it is a bill that falls due. I had forgotten it. It is -a big bill.'</p> - -<p>'Still, you had forgotten it?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Then, what is it that you want of me?' she said, looking -coldly at him.</p> - -<p>'You could help me; you could get me out of this -momentary embarrassment. I will give you back the money -at once.'</p> - -<p>'I have no money.'</p> - -<p>'You have some valuables. Those diamond earrings I -gave you: they are worth a great deal. One could get a lot -for them.'</p> - -<p>'Would you like to sell them?' said she, shutting her -eyes as if she saw something horrible.</p> - -<p>'I would pledge them—just take them to the pawn-shop, -only for a few days. They will be redeemed at once.'</p> - -<p>'Do you intend to pawn the diamond earrings?'</p> - -<p>'And the star—the star Don Gennaro Parascandolo gave -you,' he said hurriedly, in an anxious tone.</p> - -<p>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:</p> - -<p>'You want to pawn my jewels so as to stake on the -lottery.'</p> - -<p>'That is not true!' he cried out.</p> - -<p>'Do not tell lies. Can you say before me and your -daughter that you won't use the money for the lottery?'</p> - -<p>'Do not speak to me like that, Luisella!' he stammered -out, with tears in his eyes.</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>'It is not a vice, Luisa; it is for good ends I gambled, -for good motives, for your sake and Agnesina's.'</p> - -<p>'A father of a family does not gamble.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'A family man ought not to play.'</p> - -<p>'It was for the happiness of us all, Luisella. I swear to -you, believe me, it was because of my love for Agnesina.'</p> - -<p>'You don't love her. If you cared for her, you would not -gamble.'</p> - -<p>'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!'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span></p> - -<p>'It is not true. If you loved me, you would not -gamble.'</p> - -<p>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:</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'Luisella, have some charity!' he screamed out, feeling -his flesh and soul burn from these red-hot words.</p> - -<p>'Charity! we will soon be asking for it. The diamonds -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'That is true,' she said, hanging her head.</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'In short, you cannot keep from gambling!' his wife cried -out in a rage.</p> - -<p>He trembled like a guilty boy, and did not answer.</p> - -<p>'Can you not keep from it?' she asked again, attacked by -a most terrible fear.</p> - -<p>'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 <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">ambo</i>, a small <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">terno</i>! -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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span> -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.'</p> - -<p>'My God!' she said softly, just as if she were going to fall -into a chasm.</p> - -<p>'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!'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span></p> - -<p>'I do know it,' she said very softly, looking at the little -one's pink face sleeping in childish serenity.</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'Did you borrow money from Agnesina's godfather?' -Luisella exclaimed sadly, hiding her face in her hands.</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'There is no remedy, then?' she said, in her firm voice, -like a good, loving woman.</p> - -<p>'There is none,' he answered, opening his arms in a -despairing way.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span></p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>'Pray to the Virgin for help—pray!' he whispered, like a -child—more lost than a child.</p> - -<p>'Let us try and find some cure,' she still answered softly.</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span> -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.</p> - -<p>The tiny one looked at her father without speaking, -seeing his head down on the table; then she said, 'Is father -asleep?'</p> - -<p>'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."'</p> - -<p>The obedient infant went to her father, leant her tiny -head against his knee, and, in her pretty, singing voice said:</p> - -<p>'Father, give me a kiss; it is nothing, nothing.'</p> - -<p>Then the poor young fellow's swollen heart burst. The -most scalding tears rained on his little one's head.</p> - -<p>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.'</p> - -<p>'Let us go home,' said Luisella, coming into the shop -again, biting her lips, trying to harden her heart.</p> - -<p>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, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span> -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.'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'Here they are,' she said, offering the jewels to her -husband.</p> - -<p>'Oh, Luisella! Luisella!' he cried out, agonized.</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'Luisella, you want to kill me!' he cried out, putting his -hands through his hair.</p> - -<p>'Do you promise to leave all your trade affairs in my -hands—debts and dues, buying and selling?'</p> - -<p>'I do promise.'</p> - -<p>'Will you promise to give me all the money you have or -may get, and not try to get money without my knowledge?'</p> - -<p>'I will give it to you—all, Luisa.'</p> - -<p>'Promise to believe me, only to listen to my advice and -what I say.'</p> - -<p>'I promise that.'</p> - -<p>'Promise that no one will have more influence than me; -promise to obey me as you did your mother when you were -a child.'</p> - -<p>'I will obey you as I did her.'</p> - -<p>'Swear to all that.'</p> - -<p>'I swear it to the Madonna, who is listening to us.'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Let us pray now.'</p> - -<p>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.'</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span></p> - -</div> - - - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XIV</h2> - -<p class="p2">THE MEDIUM'S IMPRISONMENT</p> - - -<p>The summer rain beat sadly on the pavement; two broad -yellow gutters went down the sides of Nardones Road; the -sickening sulphurous smell of August storms was in the -air. In San Ferdinando Square the cabs had their hoods -up, and were shiny all over with rain, dripping on all sides. -The long thin horses stood with their heads down, drenched -to the bones, and running down with water. The drivers -sat huddled up, their shapeless hats over their eyes, keeping -their heads down and hands spasmodically fixed in the -pockets of their torn capes, as they patiently bore the deluge -from the sky. All around was dreary-looking—the royal -palace, the porch of San Francesco di Paolo Church, -the Prefecture, barracks, and large coffee-houses—all were -dreary, in spite of the grandeur of the buildings and the -numbers of lights behind the plate-glass windows. There -was the majestic edifice of San Carlo Theatre also; but the -whole night landscape was wrapped up in the noisy tempest -that never rested, and seemed to draw new force from its -weariness to beat on houses, streets, and men. There were -few passers-by, and these looked like unhappy folks' ghosts -walking under dripping umbrellas, or, having no umbrella, -they scraped along the wall with coat-collar raised and -soft hat soaked with rain. Some few wanderers turned the -corner from Toledo Street into Nardones Road, which is -a broad enough street in the best quarter of the town; but -it has an equivocal appearance, all the same, as if it was -uninhabited and unsafe. It had no shady corners, but -shutter-closed windows, ill-lit balconies, and half-open -doors, where the gaze was checked by a dark passage, had -a suspicious appearance. Some great door now and then -broke through this doubtful impression, from the brightness -of the gas and width of its courtyard, but a shop with far -from clean windows, obscured by reddish stuff curtains -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span> -carefully drawn, a feeble light coming through and small -or large shadows showing behind, gave a new feeling of -suspicion and uneasiness to the minds of people going home -that way who might be bending under the weight of cares -and long fatigue.</p> - -<p>At one point a woman with a black shawl barely covering -her yellow dress and white bodice turned the corner -from Toledo Street and went up Nardones Road slowly, -holding the corners of the handkerchief on her head tightly -between her teeth, sheltering from the rain under a very -small umbrella. She went along very cautiously, lifting -her feet so as to wet her bright leather shoes as little as -possible, lifting her skirt to let red cotton stockings be seen. -When she passed under a lamp-post's reddish light she -raised her head and showed the face, now sad and tired, for -all its commonplace beauty, of Filomena, Annarella and Carmela's -unfortunate sister. She got as far as the suspicious-looking -shop with the red curtains, and stopped before the -plate-glass door as if she was trying to see someone or find -out what was going on, and did not dare to open the door. -She could make out nothing but some dark shadows with hats -on moving about. After hesitating a little, she decided to -put her hand on the knob of a small window and open it. -She put in her head timidly, and called:</p> - -<p>'Raffaele! Raffaele!'</p> - -<p>I am coming immediately,' the young Camorrist's voice -answered from inside in rather an impatient tone.</p> - -<p>She quickly shut the window again and set herself to -wait in the rain. A man passed, and cast a queer look at -her, his curiosity aroused by meeting anyone in that strange -stormy weather at so late an hour. But she cast down her -eyes as if she was ashamed, and watched the end of Nardones -Road to see who came round the corner, evidently -being much afraid of being recognised. Suddenly she gave -a start. Two working men were coming along, going up -Nardones Road, not speaking to each other, getting all the -rain on their shoulders. The one man, old, hump-backed, -dragging his leg, turned out to be Michele, the shoeblack, -not carrying his block for once; the other, tall and thin, -with burning eyes in hollow sockets, was Gaetano, the -glover. On recognising her sister Annarella's husband, -Filomena gave a frightened shiver and got closer to the -wall, as if she wanted to get to the other side of it. She -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span> -lowered her umbrella, and prayed silently, with lips that -could hardly stammer out the words, that Gaetano should -not recognise her. She shivered and trembled, fearing the -shop door would open and that Gaetano would see the man -who was coming out. But Gaetano, as he was getting the -full force of the rain on his head, took no notice of the people -on the road, luckily for Filomena, nor did the shop door open -as he passed. Instead of that, the working men disappeared, -one after the other, into a gateway, forty paces off, -where some other men had gone in before them. But -Filomena felt her cheeks icy under the rouge, from the -fright she had got, and she opened the door again to beg -and beseech in a whisper:</p> - -<p>'Raffaele, do come!'</p> - -<p>'I am coming—I am coming,' the young fellow answered -in a bored tone, not even noticing that the poor woman was -waiting all this time in the rain, at night, in a wind-swept -road.</p> - -<p>She sighed deeply. Her eyes had no need now of bistre, -for a deep line of fatigue went under them, and they were -filled with tears. The rain now had soaked through her -green cotton umbrella and come down on her head. It -soaked her shiny black hair and ran down her face and -neck, a warm water, like tears. But she did not even feel -the rain trickling, for she felt nothing. She did not see -three or four other men come out of Toledo Street, go on -to the top of Nardones Road, and disappear into the gateway -where Michele and Gaetano had rushed in.</p> - -<p>Inside the shop the shadows moved about, and a noise of -voices in discussion arose. She got up closer and strained -her ears anxiously as she heard Raffaele cursing and threatening. -She could not stand the noise of angry voices. Again -she opened the door, crying out beseechingly:</p> - -<p>'Raffaele, Raffaele, do come!'</p> - -<p>Still angrier words burst out on all sides from those -drinking and gambling in that wretched coffee-house; then -Raffaele came out of the shop, putting on his hat with a -bang, as if he was being pushed from inside. On finding -himself confronted by Filomena's humble figure, soaking, -the rouge running down her cheeks, her face distorted by -fear, he cursed impiously, and gave her an ugly shove.</p> - -<p>'Come on home—do come!' said she, taking no notice of -the push and the curses.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span></p> - -<p>The Camorrist furiously told her to go and kill herself. -But it was raining, and he had no umbrella; his short -jacket did not shelter him well, so he got under her umbrella, -still cursing.</p> - -<p>'Be patient with me, be kind,' she said, lengthening her -steps on the pavement to keep alongside of him, and lowering -the umbrella to his side, so that he should not get -soaked.</p> - -<p>'But you know you should not come to the billiard-saloon,' -said the young fellow, with suppressed rage. 'It -bores me to look like a schoolboy being fetched home—it -bores me.'</p> - -<p>'Be patient with me. I could not help it,' she whispered, -drinking in the tears that ran down her cheeks, not being -able to wipe them.</p> - -<p>'I will leave you—as true as death, I'll leave you! You -have your sister's fault. She was so ragged she disgusted -me. She came everywhere to look for me, and made my -friends laugh at me. I left her for that. Do you understand?'</p> - -<p>'Poor sister!' she moaned out.</p> - -<p>'You are not ragged, but you get me laughed at just the -same. Do you hear?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, I know.'</p> - -<p>'If you don't give over, I will leave you, as I did Carmela. -I am a young fellow of honour, you know.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, I know that.'</p> - -<p>'Don't come here again.'</p> - -<p>'Very well, I never will.'</p> - -<p>They still went on with this talk, for he felt enraged at -losing his game and at being laughed at by his friends, also -at not having any money. She was penitent, feeling that -ill-treatment was her just punishment for playing her sister -false; so, while he bit at his spent cigar in a corner of his -mouth and went on abusing her, taunting her with her unhappy -life, calling her every bad name, she went alongside, -silent and pale, for all the rouge had run down with the -rain. Her wet chemise stuck to her shoulders, and her hair -was glued to her forehead with damp. She went on, keeping -down the umbrella to his side, bearing his insults; for -she was carried away by sorrow and repentance, and said -mechanically over and over again: 'It is little to what -I deserve.'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span></p> - -<p>Up there all those who went in at the gateway on the -right side of Nardones Road had gone up a stair of one -flight, opposite the chief staircase, which was a little broader. -They went into an apartment of two rooms that was let for -an office—so called by the owner because it had no kitchen. -But the two rooms were so low in the ceiling, so badly -lighted by two small windows, the red brick floors were so -cold, the wall-paper so dirty, and the paint of the doors and -windows so greasy, that no small notary, poor advocate, -doctor without practice, or dealer in doubtful business, -stayed there more than a month. The cobbler who served -as a porter and the inmates who went down the big stair -were accustomed, therefore, to see new faces for ever going -up and down the small stair—young and old men, ushers -and commission agents, a string of white-faced people, often -very queer-looking. Who troubled themselves about the -people living there? No one—not even the porter. He -got no pay from the occupiers of the flat, and did not care -therefore if the tenants were changed. On the big stair -busy people lived: house-agents, writing-masters, a third-rate -dentist, a midwife, and others of queer professions. -They went up and down, taken up about their own interests -and business, their decent poverty or unsuccessful ill-doing. -They were people who took little notice of their neighbours, -so that one might call the office, that always was having new -tenants or being left vacant, rather isolated. The ticket 'To -Let' stood there on the door the whole year round; every -month it was the same. When the apartment was let, then -the tenant carried off the key at dusk; when it was vacant, -the cobbler kept it on his counter, or, if he was away, he -handed it over to the charcoal-dealer opposite. The stair of -the apartment was broken in places, slippery and dangerous -for those who had not good legs and sharp eyes.</p> - -<p>Now, that August the little place had been occupied for -a couple of months by a neatly-dressed young gentleman, -affecting the style of a provincial trying to be fashionable. -He was fat and thick, with a bull-like neck, and his red -hair, joined to a florid complexion, gave him an apoplectic -look. So the office was opened several times a week for a -few hours, and two or three men, or sometimes more, came -in. They disappeared up the staircase, and nothing more -was heard, nothing showed behind the dirty window-panes; -only after an hour or so these men appeared again, one by -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span> -one, some red in the face, as if they had shouted for a long -time, others pallid, as if gulping down repressed rage. They -vanished each one by his own road, without even the porter -seeing them sometimes.</p> - -<p>But one evening of the week, always the same one, seven -or eight men met in the office, and then a dirty petroleum -lamp, covered by a shade that might cost threepence, lighted -up the dirty room. Its only furniture was a rough table and -eight or ten chairs, of odd patterns. On that evening the -confabulation lasted till past midnight; often some gesticulating -shadow showed queerly against the panes; sometimes -the men leant out of the window, and looked stolidly into -the dull black court, as if they saw the ghosts of their own -excited minds. The cobbler, tired with his hard day's work, -casting an indifferent glance at the windows of the office, -saw it was still lighted up, and, shrugging his shoulders, -went off to sleep in his den, a hole under the staircase. The -courtyard was not lighted up; the street door was left half -open; some people still went out and came in cautiously -from the so-called great staircase. Some mysterious night-patient -of the dentist, some hurried client to call the midwife, -who opened the door mysteriously to go out.</p> - -<p>It was after midnight when Dr. Trifari's guests went -away from the meeting, all together, silently, hurrying down -one after the other to get away as quickly as possible. The -last one pulled the office door behind him, and it gave the -creaking noise of old rotten wood. The two small rooms -that formed the office returned to their solitude, and, with -hearts beating high in the excitement of their dream, the -party melted away through the town. But this dreary -evening the poor cobbler had gone to bed at dusk, wrapping -himself up in his ragged bed-covering and torn cape he had -worn all day, feeling the chill of the tertian fever and the -damp of the stormy weather in his bones. So, in the -confusion of the fever that had come on like a block -of ice on his chest, he heard the clatter of those going up -and down the big stair. Two or three times he seemed to -hear voices raised in the office, where there was a window -open, and the scirocco wind carried the rain rushing in, and -made the oil-lamp flicker. The rain went on falling in the -badly-paved court, covering any other noise; then the -window was shut, and no more could be heard. Later on -the shutters were fastened too, and everything sank again -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span> -into deep shadow. Still, there was a meeting going on -there. Trifari, the master of the house, had been the first -to arrive; he lighted the lamp, and went through to the -second room to arrange some things, going and coming from -it, with his hat a little on the back of his head. In spite of -the scirocco wind, it was the first time the colour had gone -out of his red face, and some drops of sweat came out on his -forehead. Sometimes he stood still, as if he repented of -what he was going to do or thought of doing; but he quickly -recovered from that momentary depression. When the -shrill bell rang the first time, Dr. Trifari gave a start and -stood still uncertainly, as if he dared not open it. Still, he -went, but he only half opened the folding-door, with great -caution, to let Colaneri pass through. The ex-priest's face -was rather gloomy, and his shoulders were dripping wet; -for his small umbrella, a very shabby one, only protected -his head. They said good-evening to each other in a -whisper; Colaneri, with cautious glances from behind his -spectacles, dried his wet hands with a doubtfully white handkerchief—the -fat, flabby, whitish hands that are peculiar to -priests. They said nothing to each other. The same -complicated anguish bore down on them, so that their -Southerners' loquacity was subdued; all the past excitement, -beaten down by disappointments following each other, -had ended by sapping their strength.</p> - -<p>Suddenly, raising his head, Colaneri asked: 'Is he to -come?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, he is coming,' Trifari breathed between his lips.</p> - -<p>'Has he no suspicion of what we are going to do?'</p> - -<p>'None at all.'</p> - -<p>A gust of wind came into the room and nearly put out -the light. It was then Trifari went to shut the window.</p> - -<p>'We are only doing what is an absolute necessity,' Professor -Colaneri replied, repeating aloud the excuse with -which he had been soothing his conscience for some days.</p> - -<p>'It is impossible to go on any longer like this,' the doctor -remarked in a dull voice; then he lighted a cigar to try and -look at his ease, but he did not manage it: he let the match -go out.</p> - -<p>'The report made against me to the governors is frightful,' -said Colaneri in a whisper, with his eyes down. 'I have a -lot of enemies—lads I ploughed in the examinations, you -know. They reported me to the President of the University -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span> -as having sold the exercises to some students. They put -down the names, too....'</p> - -<p>'How could they know all that?' the doctor asked slowly.</p> - -<p>'Who can tell? I have so many enemies. The President -made a dreadful report; I am threatened....'</p> - -<p>'With being turned out?'</p> - -<p>'Not only that; there is to be a lawsuit....'</p> - -<p>'You don't say so?'</p> - -<p>'I have so many enemies, Trifari. It is a serious threat. -How will I be able to prove my innocence?'</p> - -<p>'You have sold these exercises, then?' the doctor muttered -cynically, throwing away his cigar.</p> - -<p>'The pay is so wretched, Trifari, and the examinations -are all a fraud, too.'</p> - -<p>'If they take you to law it will be bad for you.'</p> - -<p>'I am ruined if they do. I must have money in hand at -any cost this time, do you understand; if not, I am ruined. -There is nothing left but to shoot myself, if they take me to -law. We must win, Trifari.'</p> - -<p>'We will win,' the other affirmed sternly. 'I have a lot -of trouble, here and at my home. My father has sold -everything; my brother, instead of coming home after his -service as a soldier, out of poverty has enlisted in the -military police; my sister is not to be married, she has not -a farthing of dowry now; she is reduced to making dresses -for rich peasants. We had very little, and I have eaten all -there was, and there are a number of debts, of calls.... The -father of the student whom we forced to sign a promissory -note at Don Gennaro Parascandolo's wants to denounce me as -a cheat.... We must win, Colaneri; we cannot live another -week without winning.... I am more ruined than you are.'</p> - -<p>Here the bell rang very gently.</p> - -<p>'Perhaps it is him, do you think?' Colaneri asked with a -little shake in his voice.</p> - -<p>'No, no,' Trifari answered; 'he is to come later, when -we are all here....'</p> - -<p>'Who took the message to him?'</p> - -<p>'Formosa took it.'</p> - -<p>'He has no suspicion, then?'</p> - -<p>'No, none.'</p> - -<p>'Then, the spirit has not told him anything?'</p> - -<p>'It looks as if the spirit could not go against Fate, for it -tells him nothing about this.'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span></p> - -<p>'It is Fate, I suppose?'</p> - -<p>Another ring came. Trifari went to open the door. It -was Marzano, the lawyer, the sprightly, good-natured, -smiling old man. But sudden decrepitude seemed to have -come over him; his pallor had got yellowish, his pepper-and-salt -moustache was quite white, and had got thin over -his mouth. His smile had gone for ever; evidently, as death -drew near, his good opinion of life had gone. He came in -sighing. He was soaking, his overcoat shone with drops of -water all over, and his lean hands trembled. He sat down -saying nothing, and kept his hat well down over his ears, -only his mouth kept up the old habit of moving, always -chewing ciphers. Now he leant his pointed chin, where a -neglected beard was growing, on his stick, being so wrapt -in thought he did not even hear what Trifari and Colaneri -were saying to each other. Suddenly he, too, having the same -engrossing thought, asked: 'Will he come, do you think?'</p> - -<p>'Of course he will,' the other two answered together.</p> - -<p>'Has he not guessed?'</p> - -<p>'He knows nothing about it.'</p> - -<p>'These mediums either see a lot or they see nothing.'</p> - -<p>'Better so,' the other two muttered.</p> - -<p>Dr. Trifari, on hearing knocking at the door, went first -into the second room to fetch three or four other chairs, and -arranged them round the shabby table. Ninetto Costa and -Don Crescenzio, the lottery banker at Nunzio Lane, came -in. The stock-broker had lost all his smartness. He was -dressed anyhow—in a morning coat; his too light overcoat -had big splashes of wet on it; not even a pebble breast-pin -shone on his black silk necktie. His fine lucky man's bright -smile that showed his teeth had gone too with the smartness. -The stock-broker was going on with difficulty from one -settling-day to another, taking no more risks, not daring to -gamble; he had lost all his audacity; he only managed to -keep his creditors at bay: they still had faith in him; -because his name was known on the Exchange, because -his father had been a model of honesty and he himself had -been so lucky, all still believed in his fortune. But the -unhappy man knew that the hour of the crisis had come, -that he would not even be able to pay the interest on his -debts soon, that Ninetto Costa's name would be on the -bankrupt list. He had put down everything—his handsome -house, carriages, luxurious appliances, journeys, dinners, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span> -and English clothes from Poole. But this sacrifice was not -enough, for the cancer that gnawed his breast, that ate into -everything, was not rooted out. He still desperately played -at the lottery, being taken by it now soul and body, shutting -his eyes to the storm so as not to see the waves coming that -would drown him. Alongside of him Don Crescenzio, with -his handsome, serene face and well-combed chestnut beard, -had the traces also of beginning to fall off in prosperity. -By dint of being in contact with feverish people, just as if -he had been touching too hot hands, something of the -gambling fever had been affecting him, and through the -desperate insistence of the gamblers he had got to giving -them credit. How could he resist the imploring demands -of Ninetto Costa, Trifari and Colaneri's pretexts, that had -a vague threat under them, the Marquis di Formosa's grand -promises?—all used different forms of supplication. To begin -with, he let them have credit from Friday till Tuesday, the -day he got ready the State profits; they, doing a renewed -miracle every week, managed to give him what they owed, -so that he might be ready on Wednesday; but at last, their -resources being exhausted, some of them began to pay a -part only, or not to pay anything, and he began to put his -own money into it, so that his caution money should not be -seized by the State. The gamblers dared not show again -till they had got money; then they paid off part of the debt -and staked what they had over. One client had disappeared -altogether—Baron Lamarra, son of the mason who had got -to be a contractor and a rich man. He owed Don Crescenzio -more than two thousand francs, and when Don Crescenzio -had waited for him two or three weeks, he went to look for -him at his house. He found the wife in a furious state. -Baron Lamarra had forged her signature on a number of -bills, and she had to pay unless she wanted to be a forger's -wife; but she was already trying for a separation. Baron -Lamarra had fled to Isernia, and from there gave not a sign -of life. Don Crescenzio was rudely turned away from the -door—that was two thousand francs and more lost! He -swore not to give more credit to anyone; but, in spite of the -debtors paying him a little now and then, seven or eight -thousand francs were still risked, with little hope of getting -them back. Eight thousand francs was the exact sum of -his savings for several years. Besides, he could not press -his debtors much—they had nothing now but a few desperate -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span> -resources that only came to light from a wicked, burning -love of gambling. He now took a lively interest in their -gambling, and was anxious for them to win, so as to get his -savings back, to recover the money left so imprudently in -the hands of these vicious fellows. He watched the gamblers -so that they should not go to play elsewhere, now uneasy -and sick himself from coming in contact with so many -infected people. It was for this reason that the evening's -mysterious design was made known to him; they all owed -him money, and could hide nothing from him. And in -spite of a secret friendship, we would almost say complicity, -between Don Pasqualino, the medium, and him, he told -him nothing about the mysterious plan; by his silence he -seemed to approve of it.</p> - -<p>There were five of them already in the small room, seated -round the table in different thoughtful or rather absent-minded -attitudes. They were not speaking: some held -their heads down, and scribbled with their nails on the dusty -table; others looked at the smoky ceiling, where the petroleum -lamp threw a small ring of light.</p> - -<p>'Seven hundred thousand francs have been paid out in -Rome,' said Don Crescenzio to break that weighty silence.</p> - -<p>'Lucky they! lucky they!' two or three cried out, with -a stirring of envy against the lucky Roman winners.</p> - -<p>'If what we are doing is successful,' Colaneri muttered -darkly, and his spectacles gave a sad twinkle, 'the Government -will pay Naples three or four millions of francs.'</p> - -<p>'We must succeed,' Ninetto Costa retorted.</p> - -<p>'The urn will be under command this time,' said Marzano -mysteriously.</p> - -<p>Now came renewed knocking, very gently, as if timidity -had enfeebled the hand at the door. Trifari disappeared to -open it, after asking through the door who it was; he had -suddenly grown suspicious. The answer was 'Friends!' -and he recognised the voice. The two common folk, -Gaetano the glover and Michele the shoeblack, came in; -they took off their caps, saying 'Good-evening!' and stood -at the entrance of the room, not daring to sit down in such -good company.</p> - -<p>Outside the wind and rain grew furious, a gutter full -of water emptied into the court with a loud swish. Now, -under the window-frames, a stream of water came in -at the cracks, wetting the window-sills and trickling to the -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span> -ground, the closed but broken-ribbed umbrellas leaning -against the walls in the corners of the room dripped moisture -on the dusty floor, and the wet shoes made mud-pies. The -men sitting down never moved: they kept up a solemn -stiffness and lugubrious silence, as if they were watching a -dead person and were overwhelmed with fatigue and the -oppression of their funereal thoughts. The two working -men standing, one lean, colourless, with a cutter-out's round -shoulders, the hair thinned already on the forehead and -temples, the other man crooked and hunchbacked, twisted -like a corkscrew and old, though his rugged, sharp face was -lively still, kept silence too, waiting. Only Ninetto Costa, -to give himself a careless look, had taken out an old pocket-book, -the remnant of his old smartness, and was writing -ciphers in it with a small pencil, wetting the point in his -mouth. But they were fancy figures, and his hand trembled -a little. His friends said it was from his fast life that it -shook. Thus they spent about fifteen long slow minutes -that lay heavily on the souls of all those waiting there to -carry out their mysterious plan.</p> - -<p>'What bad weather we are having,' said Ninetto Costa, -passing his hand over his forehead.</p> - -<p>'The sky has opened,' Don Crescenzio remarked, yawning -nervously.</p> - -<p>'What o'clock is it, doctor,' asked old Marzano in a -trembling, decrepit little voice.</p> - -<p>'It is five minutes to ten,' said the doctor, taking out an -ugly nickel watch, the sort that cannot be pawned, attached -to a sordid black cord.</p> - -<p>'What hour is the appointment for?' asked Colaneri, -trying to look as if he was indifferent.</p> - -<p>'It was to have been ten o'clock, but who knows whether -he will come?' the doctor replied, lowering his voice, putting -all his uncertainty and doubt into what he said.</p> - -<p>'Who can tell?' said Ninetto Costa profoundly. A long -sigh relieved his breast, as if he could not bear the weight -that bore him down.</p> - -<p>'Are you feeling ill?' Colaneri asked him.</p> - -<p>'I wish I was dead,' muttered the stock-broker desolately. -Someone shook his head, sighing; another one had the same -feeling, evidently, from the expression of his face, and the sad -words spread through the damp dirty room under the smoky -lamp. Then for a little the summer storm calmed down, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span> -fewer drops rattled on the window, and again there came a -great silence. Through the wall, no one knew from where, -like a slow warning voice, a solemn clock gave ten melancholy -strokes. There was a pause between each stroke, and -it cast a breath of fear among the men gathered there to plot -some cruel device or other.</p> - -<p>'That will be the Spirit,' said Don Crescenzio, trying to -joke.</p> - -<p>'Don't let us jest,' Trifari said, in a severely reproving -tone; 'we are occupied about serious matters here.'</p> - -<p>'No one wants to make jokes!' Ninetto Costa said -chidingly. 'We all know what we are doing.'</p> - -<p>'There is no Judas here, is there?' said the doctor, looking -round at everyone.</p> - -<p>There was a protesting murmur, but it was feeble. No, -none of them was Judas, nor was there a Christ among -them; but all felt vaguely at the bottom of their hearts that -they were going to carry out a betrayal.</p> - -<p>'No one is Judas—no one,' cried out the doctor impetuously. -'Swear before God that if there is he must -make a bad end.'</p> - -<p>'Don't swear, don't swear,' said old Marzano, quite -frightened.</p> - -<p>Again the bell rang; they all caught each other's eye -suddenly, pale and shivering; their fault rose before them. -No one moved to open the door, just as if there was a -serious peril behind it.</p> - -<p>'It will be him,' Colaneri dared to say, not raising his -eyes.</p> - -<p>'Perhaps it is,' Costa muttered, twisting his pocket-book -absently in his hand.</p> - -<p>At once all of them regretted that the medium was outside -the door. The same shadow of furious disappointment -disfigured their faces, hardening them, from the cruelty of -a wicked man who sees his prey escaping. The furious -instinct that sleeps at the bottom of all human hearts, urged -by long unsatisfied passion, burst forth in that delirious form -that vice produces in young and old, gentleman and working -man. The faces were reserved and hard, strong in their -ferocity. Dr. Trifari went forward in an energetic way to -open the door. To let the company know for certain that -the medium was there, he greeted him and the Marquis di -Formosa at once, aloud.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Good-evening, good evening, Don Pasqualino; we are -all expecting you.'</p> - -<p>He stood aside to let them go in; the men in the room -took a long breath with fierce joy; there was no danger now -that the medium would escape them. And he that spoke -every night with spirits, who had especial communication -by favour with wandering souls, he that ought to have -known all the truth, went quietly into the little room where -the meeting was, without suspecting anything. He cast, as -usual, an oblique glance all round, but the Cabalists' faces -said nothing new to him. They had the pallor, contortions, -and feverish excitement usual on Friday evening, but he -saw nothing else. Only the Marquis di Formosa, who was -coming in with him, shivered two or three times; it almost -looked as if he wanted to turn back. But the Marquis had -been very excitable for some time past. He stammered in -speaking, his noble countenance was now degraded by -traces of his ignoble passion, he was badly dressed and -untidy, had dirty shoes and a frayed collar, and his ill-shaved -beard was disgusting and pitiable. He had got so -excitable since he no longer had any money, since his -daughter's engagement to Dr. Amati. The medium could -get no more money out of him, so avoided him, and only -saw him at the Friday evening meetings in Nardones Road. -But that evening the intimacy had begun again, the -Marquis had looked everywhere for the medium, and during -the day had given him fifty francs, making an appointment -for the evening at ten o'clock; indeed, he had anxiously -insisted on this appointment, and the medium had put it -down to a disappointed gambler's eagerness to get lottery -numbers.</p> - -<p>The Marquis's manner on the way to the office had been -peculiar, still, Don Pasqualino was accustomed to gamblers' -eccentricities, and took no notice of it. He went to sit at -his usual place every week near the table, putting one hand -over his eyes to shelter them from the glare of the lamp. -Around the deep silence still held, broken by a sigh now and -then, and on looking at all their pallid, dumb, excited faces -the medium felt his first suspicion. He tried to do his -usual fantastic humbugging work.</p> - -<p>'It rains, but the sun will come out at midnight.'</p> - -<p>'That is idle chatter,' shouted Trifari, bursting into an -ironical laugh.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span></p> - -<p>The others around muttered sneeringly. Now there was -no longer any belief in Don Pasqualino's mysterious words. -This want of faith stood out so plainly that the medium drew -back as if he wanted to parry an attack. But he tried again, -thinking he could profit as usual from the feverish imaginations -of the Cabalists by striking a sympathetic chord.</p> - -<p>'It rains, the sun will come out at midnight, but he who -wears the Virgin's scapulary does not get wet.'</p> - -<p>'Don Pasqualino, you are joking,' the glove-cutter said -ironically. The medium darted a look of rage at him. -'You need not look at me as if you wanted to eat me, Don -Pasqualino. Asking the gentlemen's pardon, you are trying -to make fools of us, and we are not the people to -allow it.'</p> - -<p>'My lord, make that ass hold his tongue,' muttered the -medium, making a scornful gesture.</p> - -<p>'He is not such an ass after all, Don Pasqualino,' said -Formosa, keeping down his excitement with difficulty.</p> - -<p>'What do you mean, my lord?' asked Don Pasqualino -sharply, getting up to go away; but Trifari, who had never -left the medium's neighbourhood, put a hand on his shoulder -without speaking, and obliged him to sit down again. The -medium sank his head on his breast a minute to think it over, -and gazed sideways at the door.</p> - -<p>'Sit still, Don Pasqualino,' said Formosa slowly, 'we -have a lot to talk about here.'</p> - -<p>A slightly agonized expression went over the caller-up of -spirits' face. Once more looking round the company, he only -saw hard, anxious faces, determined on success. He understood -now confusedly.</p> - -<p>'Gaetano the glover is not an ass for saying you are -making fools of us. What you have been doing for three -years past looks like a trick. For three years, you see, you -have gone on saying the most disjointed things with the -excuse that the spirits said these things to you. For three -years you have made us stake the very bones of our necks -upon this nonsense of yours; every one of us has not only -gained nothing, but thrown his whole means away, from -following your rubbish, and we are full of woes, some of -them incurable. What sort of a conscience have you? We -are ruined!'</p> - -<p>'Yes, we are ruined—ruined!' shouted a chorus of agonized -voices.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span></p> - -<p>The speaker with spirits had often heard these lamentations, -especially lately; but faith had come again into the -souls of his followers. Now, he understood they no longer -believed in him. Still, hiding his fear, he tried to brazen -it out.</p> - -<p>'It is not my fault, it is your want of faith.'</p> - -<p>'Rubbish!' the old lord shouted in a rage, whilst the -others stormed against the medium for repeating to them -his invariable reason to account for disappointment. 'Rubbish! -how can we have failed in faith when we have believed -in you as in Jesus Christ? How can you say faith -is wanting when, to reward your overflow of chatter, we -have paid through the nose? You have pocketed thousands -of francs in these three years. Don't deny it. Have we no -faith? We, who have had Masses, prayers, and rosaries -said; we, who have knelt and beat our breasts, asking the -Lord's favour—have we no faith? Why, we must have -had it! How can you account otherwise for the squandering -of money, for the way we wasted our own means and our -families', thus causing such unhappiness that it would have -been nothing but a crime if we had not believed in you? You -say we have no faith; you have been our God for three -years, you have deceived us, and we never said anything, -but went on believing in you after you had taken every -penny from us.'</p> - -<p>'Everything—you have taken everything!' shouted the -company.</p> - -<p>'You insult me, that is enough,' said the medium, getting -up resolutely. 'I am going away. Good-evening.'</p> - -<p>'You do not leave this till we get satisfaction!' the -Marquis di Formosa cried out. 'Is it not the case that he -will not get out of this till he does?' he asked the assembled -Cabalists.</p> - -<p>'No, no, no!' the company of these cruel madmen shouted -ferociously.</p> - -<p>The medium understood, a deadly hue spread over his -pallid cheeks, his frightened glance wandered round in a -desperate attempt to fly; but the fierce gamblers had got -up and made a circle round him. Some of them were very -pale, as if they were keeping down strong emotion, the -others were red with rage. In all their eyes the medium -read the same implacable cruelty.</p> - -<p>'I wish to go away,' he said in a whisper, with that -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span> -hoarse tone that gave such a mysterious attraction to his -voice.</p> - -<p>'None of us would wish to detain you,' said the Marquis -di Formosa with ironical deference, 'if we had not need of -you. If you do not give us lottery numbers, you don't leave -this!' he ended up by shouting in a fit of fury.</p> - -<p>'Lottery numbers, lottery numbers!' hissed Colaneri's -thin voice.</p> - -<p>'If not, you don't get out of this!' shrieked Ninetto -Costa.</p> - -<p>'Either give numbers, or you stay here!' thundered Dr. -Trifari.</p> - -<p>'An end to your fooling; give us the real tip for the -lottery,' said Gaetano, grinding his teeth.</p> - -<p>'Don Pasqualino, make up your mind that those gentlemen -won't let you go away till you have given them lottery -numbers—make up your mind to it,' Don Crescenzio remarked -wisely. He wished to pretend he was not interested -in the question.</p> - -<p>'Next week. I promise them to you then; now I have -not got them, I swear it upon the Virgin!' stammered the -medium, turning his eyes to heaven despairingly.</p> - -<p>'What good is next week?' all yelled out. 'It must be -to-night, for to-morrow—quick!'</p> - -<p>'I have not got them, I have not got them,' he stammered -again, shaking his head.</p> - -<p>'You must give them. We will make you give them,' -the Marquis roared. 'We can do no more. Either we win -this week, or we are ruined. Don Pasqualino, we have -waited long enough; we have believed too much; you have -treated us unfairly. The spirit tells you the real figures, -you know them, you always have known them; but you -went on mocking at us, telling us silly things. We can't -wait till next week; before that we may die, or see someone -else die, or go to the galleys. This evening or to-morrow -we must have the true numbers. You understand?'</p> - -<p>'The true—the true ones!' hissed Colaneri.</p> - -<p>'Do not go on talking nonsense; it is past the time for -that now,' shouted Ninetto Costa, with the greatest indignation.</p> - -<p>Still, in spite of feeling conquered and taken hostage to -the unreasonable fury that he had set on fire himself, the -medium tried to fight on.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span></p> - -<p>'The spirit does not give numbers by force,' he slowly -announced. 'You have offended him. He will not speak -to me again.'</p> - -<p>'Lies—you are telling lies! A hundred—a thousand -times you have told us that the spirit obeys you, that you -do what you like with him,' retorted the Marquis. 'A -hundred thousand times you have told us that the urn is -under orders. Tell the truth; it will be best for you, I -assure you. You are at a bad pass, Don Pasqualino; the -spirit ought to help you. Our patience is exhausted, so is -our money, and other people's, too. The spirit must give -you the right numbers.'</p> - -<p>Then the medium stood silent for a little, as if he was -collecting himself, his eyes turned up showing the whites. -Everyone looked at him, but coldly, being accustomed to -these antics of his.</p> - -<p>'In a little the camellias will flower,' he said suddenly, -trembling all over.</p> - -<p>But not one of the company troubled himself about this -mystic giving out of lottery numbers. Dr. Trifari, who -always carried a book of dreams in his pocket, did not even -take out the torn book to see what figures corresponded -to the camellias.</p> - -<p>'In a little the camellias will flower by the sea, on the -mountain,' repeated the medium, still trembling.</p> - -<p>No one stirred.</p> - -<p>'In a little the camellias will flower by the sea, on the -mountain,' he repeated the third time, trembling with -anxiety, looking his persecutors in the face.</p> - -<p>An incredulous snigger answered him.</p> - -<p>'But what do you want from me?' he cried out, with a -gasp of fear.</p> - -<p>'The <em>real</em> numbers,' said Formosa coldly. 'We don't -believe these that you are telling us can be the right ones; -that is to say, just on the chance we will play the numbers -corresponding to the mountain, the sea-coast, and flowering -camellias. But the <em>real</em> figures must be different. While -waiting for them, we will play these three, but we will keep -you shut up here in the meanwhile.'</p> - -<p>'Until when?' he asked hurriedly.</p> - -<p>'Until your numbers come out,' retorted the Marquis -harshly.</p> - -<p>'Oh, God!' said the medium softly under his breath.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span></p> - -<p>'You understand, Don Pasqualino, these gentlemen wish -to have a guarantee, and they intend to keep you as a pawn,' -the lottery-banker explained, trying to make out that shutting -him up was lawful. 'What does it signify to you? -What trouble is it to tell the truth? If you have kept them -in error up till now, it is time to speak seriously, Don Pasqualino. -These gentlemen have a right to be enraged, and -I know it. Speak, Don Pasqualino, send us off satisfied. -You will stay here till to-morrow at five. When the lottery -drawing is over, we will come and take you in a carriage -for an airing. Come, come; do what you ought to do.'</p> - -<p>'I can't do it,' said the medium, opening out his arms.</p> - -<p>'Don't tell lies. You can, but you won't. The spirits -obey you,' said Colaneri, letting himself go in a passion of -rage.</p> - -<p>'Tell them this evening; it will be better for you,' Gaetano -the glover muttered in an ill-natured tone.</p> - -<p>'Get rid of this obstinacy,' Ninetto Costa advised in a -brotherly way.</p> - -<p>'Give us the truth—the truth,' stammered the old lawyer, -Marzano.</p> - -<p>'I can't tell you,' the medium still said, looking at the -doors and windows.</p> - -<p>Then the Cabalists, on a sign from the Marquis di Formosa, -gathered in the window recess. Only Trifari stayed -beside the medium. With a threatening, cruel face he put -his fat, hairy hand on his shoulder. They spoke to each -other a long time, and disputed in a ring, all heads close -together; then, having decided, they turned round.</p> - -<p>'These gentlemen say they are firmly resolved—as they -have a right to be—to get the real lottery numbers, after -having made so many sacrifices,' the Marquis di Formosa -said coldly, 'and that therefore Don Pasqualino will remain -shut up here until he makes up his mind to satisfy our -just demands. He cannot go away from here; besides, -Dr. Trifari, who is afraid of nothing, will stay with Don -Pasqualino. To make a noise would be useless, as the -neighbours would not hear; and if by chance Don Pasqualino -wished to right himself by going to law, we have an -action ready for him as a cheat, with witnesses and documents -enough to send twenty mediums to prison. It is -better, therefore, to bow your head this time, and try to get -off by giving the right numbers. We are quite decided. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span> -Until Don Pasqualino allows us to win, he will not get out; -Dr. Trifari will sacrifice himself to keep him company. In -that other room there is sleeping accommodation for two -and food for several days. Between to-night and to-morrow -one of us by turns will come every four hours to see if he -has made up his mind. We hope he will do so soon.'</p> - -<p>'You are trying to kill me,' said the medium with angelic -resignation.</p> - -<p>'You can free yourself when you choose. We wish you -good-night,' the Marquis ended up with, implacably.</p> - -<p>And the seven wicked Cabalists passed in front of the -medium, wishing him good-night ironically. The medium -stood there near the table, his hand lightly placed on the -wooden surface, with a tired, suffering expression on his -face. He looked now at one, then at another of the Cabalists, -as if he were questioning their faces to see if any of -them were more civil, and would say a word of release to -him. But sad delusions had hardened these men's hearts; -the excitement prevented them from understanding they -were committing a crime. They went in front of the -medium, greeting him, saying a cold phrase or word of condolence -without heeding his suffering expression, his entreating -eyes.</p> - -<p>'Good-night, Don Pasqualino. God enlighten you!' said -old Marzano, shaking his head.</p> - -<p>'We ask too much of God,' the medium answered in a -very melancholy voice.</p> - -<p>'Good-night; quiet sleep,' the glover ironically wished -him. His words, countenance, and voice had all become -cutting.</p> - -<p>'So I wish you,' the medium answered darkly, lowering -his eyelids to deaden the cruel flash of revenge that shone -in his eyes.</p> - -<p>'Good-night, good-night, Don Pasqualino,' Ninetto Costa -muttered rather regretfully; his frivolous nature was so -opposed to tragedy. 'We will soon meet each other -again.'</p> - -<p>'Of course,' the man of the spirits muttered with a slight -grin.</p> - -<p>'Good-night,' Michele the shoeblack ventured to remark. -He was a keen accomplice in that gentlemanly plot, and -thought it made a gentleman of him to be mixed up in it. -'Good-night; keep in good health.'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span></p> - -<p>The medium did not answer him even. He scorned to -cast a glance at the deformity, who belonged to the common -folk he came from himself, out of whom he could never -get any money.</p> - -<p>'Pasqualino, do you intend to give these <em>true</em> numbers?' -asked Colaneri, passing in front of him, still wild with -rage.</p> - -<p>'I cannot give them like this, being bullied into it.'</p> - -<p>'You are joking. We are all your friends here,' squeaked -the Professor. 'Do as you like. Good-night.'</p> - -<p>'Good-night; the Madonna go with you,' the medium -muttered piously, intensifying the mysticism of his voice.</p> - -<p>'Dear Don Pasqualino, come, be good-natured before we -go,' said the Marquis di Formosa with sudden affability. -'Give us real numbers, and your prison will last only till -to-morrow evening at five o'clock.'</p> - -<p>'I know nothing,' said the medium, darting a look of -hatred at the Marquis, since it was the noble lord who had -brought him to this bad pass.</p> - -<p>They joined each other at the door to go out, leaving him -alone with Dr. Trifari, who went backwards and forwards -quietly and coldly from the room alongside, with that icy -determination born villains have in carrying out a misdeed. -Up till then the medium, except for a shadow crossing his -face, leaving its traces of boredom and sorrow, but for a -humble, beseeching glance, had given tokens of sufficient -courage; but when he saw the others were going away, -when he felt he was to be left alone with Dr. Trifari for long -hours, days, and weeks, perhaps, all his courage fell, the -cowardice of an imprisoned man rose up, and, stretching -out his arms, he called out:</p> - -<p>'Don't go away! don't go away!'</p> - -<p>At that agonized cry the accomplices in that imprisonment -stood still; their faces, set like stern judges till then, -got suddenly pale. That was the only moment of the -whole gloomy evening they realized they were condemning -a human creature, a fellow-Christian, a man like themselves, -to a frightful punishment. It was the only moment -they saw the whole extent of what they were doing in its -legal and moral bearings. But the demon of gain had taken -possession of them, soul and body, completely. Every one -of them, turning back, surrounded the medium, still asking -him for lottery numbers, certain real numbers, that he knew, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span> -and up till then would not give them. Then, choking with -emotion, understanding they were turning the weapons -against him that he had wounded them with, the man who -had gradually brought the waves of a slow shipwreck over -them, who had taken their money and their souls, when -confronted with that persistent, malignant cruelty that -nothing could soften, that demon his own voice had called -up, that real evil spirit he had truly got in communication -with, the cowardly medium felt a tremendous fear, and -began to sob like a child. The others, alarmed and disturbed, -gazed at him; but the demon was stronger than all -their wills together. The supreme hour of their life had -come for old and young, gentlemen and working men—the -tragic hour when nothing can prevent a tragedy, when -everything pushes men forward to a tragedy.</p> - -<p>Hearing the medium weep like a child, drying his tears -with a flaming, torn pocket-handkerchief, none of them felt -pity. All felt the warmer, keener desire for lottery numbers -to save them from the ruin that threatened them. They -left him, to weep meanly, like a frightened fool; one by one, -making no noise, they went slowly from that house that had -become a prison. He, still going on sobbing, stretched his -ears, and heard the door shut dolefully, with that sort of -noise that gives echoes in the soul. Trifari, standing behind -the door, went putting up chains and bolts, shutting himself -up with the new prisoner, with no fear either of the man -or of the spirits he might evoke. The hairy red face, when -it showed in the shining circle of the lamp, had something -animal in it; it showed cruelty and obstinacy in -cruelty. On coming in again, the doctor breathed in a -relieved way. He looked around, as if the departure of the -Cabalists, his friends who had deputed him to be gaoler, -pleased him. Now he still went and came from the next -room, carrying backwards and forwards all sorts of things. -Then he came back from the bedroom, having changed his -clothes; he had put on an old jacket instead of his frock-coat. -The medium followed all his gaoler's movements -closely, for, like all prisoners, he studied his only companion -with profound observation. At one point they exchanged a -cold, hard glare as from prisoner to turnkey.</p> - -<p>'Do you want to smoke?' the doctor asked from a corner -of the room.</p> - -<p>'I don't smoke,' the medium answered sulkily.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Won't you sit down?' Trifari asked the medium in a -whisper.</p> - -<p>'Thank you, I will,' he replied, letting himself down on a -chair.</p> - -<p>'Do you wish to sleep?'</p> - -<p>'No, thank you.'</p> - -<p>The doctor sat down, too, then, beside the table, putting -one hand over his eyes as if to shield them from the light. -There was deep, nocturnal silence. Outside the rain had -ended; inside the long, gloomy vigil began.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span></p> - -</div> - - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XV</h2> - -<p class="p2">SACRILEGE—LOVE'S DREAM FLED</p> - - -<p>Bianca Maria Cavalcanti and Antonio Amati's love for -each other had got stronger and sadder. Indeed, the secret -sorrow gave some attractive flavour of tears to their passion; -what had been an idyll between the innocent pious girl of -twenty and the man of forty had acquired dramatic force -and depth. Innocently, with the trustingness of hearts that -love for the first time, they had dreamt of living, spending -their life together, holding each other by the hand as -they went on the long road; but Formosa's hostile face -rose continually between them. In that troubled summer -which had unhinged the Marquis di Formosa's mind more, -the position of the lovers had gone on getting worse, together -with the old lord's increasing moroseness. People cannot -live with impunity alongside of physical or moral infirmities, -even if they are heroic or indifferent; and neither Bianca -Maria nor Antonio Amati was selfish or indifferent. They -did not manage to shut themselves from moral contact with -Carlo Cavalcanti, nor to give themselves up entirely to their -deep love. Moral as well as physical fevers fill the air -with miasma; there is an infectious warmth that sets the -atmospheric elements out of balance and poisons the air -subtly and heavily, so that the healthiest have to bend their -heads, feeling oppressed and suffocated. They were good, -honest, and pitiful, their souls were purely filled with love, -so that no acid, however powerful, could corrode the noble -metal; but the air around was poisoned by Carlo Cavalcanti's -moral disease, and they could hardly exist now in -that atmosphere.</p> - -<p>It was an unhealthy summer. Whatever means of persuasion -Dr. Amati used, he could not get Carlo Cavalcanti -to send his sickly daughter to the country. Stronger than -any argument or anger was the obstinacy of the hardened -gambler; he looked on his daughter as a spiritual source of -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[255]</a></span> -lottery numbers, and put her to torture, so that she might -fall into visions again, and he with his disturbed brain, like -an old fool, tried to force her to <em>see</em>. When the doctor, in -despair and anger, insisted she must go to the country, the -Marquis, who felt no shame now in asking money from -him, promising always to give it back, took up a tone of -offended pride, and the doctor, intimidated at bottom by the -old lord's grand airs, gave up insisting, and put off the -attack till another time. Once he very nearly got Carlo -Cavalcanti to go away too, with his daughter, by describing -to him the healthy freshness of this out-of-the-way country -place, and the old noble almost got ready to start. But he -must have made inquiries, and found out that in that small -village there was no lottery shop; it was necessary to write -or telegraph to Campobasso. Even the telegraph-office -was in another village; there were endless difficulties in -playing a ticket, and he must have felt at that time more -than ever chained to Naples, to the company of gamblers, -and to Don Crescenzio's lottery shop. He bluntly refused -to go, without giving any reason. The girl bent her head -before his decision; she had always obeyed him, and she -could not rebel. Amati trembled with rage, angry with her -as well; but at once a great pity subdued him. The poor, -innocent, suffering girl was wasting away; she could not -bear that her lover should refuse to submit. She gazed at -him so earnestly with astonished sad eyes that he forgave -her for her filial submission.</p> - -<p>It was an unhealthy summer. Each year the doctor had -kept up the attentive habit of spending a month with his -mother, the good old peasant woman in the country, doing -the simplest kinds of work—resting, not reading, neither -calling nor seeing visitors, keeping always with his mother, -speaking the peasant's dialect again, building up his physical -and moral health by rustic habits. Well, that year, tied by -love's chain, he put off his start from day to day to Molise, -feeling all the loss of putting it off, growing pale every time -a letter came from his mother, dictated by her to the estate -agent—letters that were full of melancholy summonses to -come to her. The doctor stayed on in Naples, displeased -with himself and others, worshipping Bianca Maria, hating -the Marquis. The poor thing's dreams were always disturbed -by her father's delusions; she fell off daily in health, -and the doctor could do nothing to cure her. All he could -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[256]</a></span> -manage was that, by offering his carriage, Bianca Maria -should take long drives by the sea on the gentle slopes that -lovingly enclose Naples. Old Margherita went with her, -and sometimes the doctor also dared to go out with the -young girl. When he heard of such a thing, the Marquis -di Formosa frowned, the old family blood boiled; he felt -inclined to punish the bold plebeian, who behaved as if he -was affianced to the high-born maiden. But he held his -tongue; he had had so many money transactions with -Amati, and went on having them every day, keeping up still -more pride, decorum, and honour with it. Besides, everyone -said, with a compassionate smile, that Dr. Amati would -soon marry the Marchesina Cavalcanti, as if the doctor -would be doing a kindly act to marry her.</p> - -<p>Up there, in green Capodimonte woods, with its hundred-year-old -trees, its fields carpeted with flowers, down there -along the charming Posillipo Road, that goes down to the -vapoury Flegrei fields, the lovers' idyll began again before -Nature, ever lovely in Naples, with its gentle lines and -colouring. The maiden's delicate, bloodless cheeks, with -the sun and the open air going round her head, got coloured -by a thin pink flush, as if her impoverished blood was -moving quicker. She smiled sometimes, and threw back -her head to drink in the pure air; she managed to laugh, -showing white teeth and pinky gums that anæmia had -made colourless. Then the doctor, become a boy again, -chattered and laughed with her, looking into her eyes, taking -her by the hand, sometimes loading her with field flowers. -They forgot old Margherita, who forgot them, as she sat on -the grass stupefied by the free summer air, as old people are -apt to be; but they were so loving and modest with it, that -the forgetfulness was no sin. The maiden went back to the -house intoxicated with light, sun, and love, her hands full -of flowers, her pink nostrils dilated fully to breathe in the -pure air still; but as the carriage got into the city streets -her youthful smile died away, and when they went under -the Rossi Palace entrance she bent her diminished head.</p> - -<p>'What is the matter with you?' the doctor asked her -anxiously.</p> - -<p>'It is nothing,' she replied, the great answer of timid, -distracted women who hide their fears.</p> - -<p>She went up to her bare, sad room very slowly, but still -had a smile for Antonio Amati on the threshold. She went -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[257]</a></span> -into the house with a resolute look, as if she were keeping -down alarm or distaste. Often Carlo Cavalcanti came to -meet her, coldly angry, his face distorted by his bad hours -of passion. She shivered, while his very look made the -blood fly from her face, and chased away the whole idyll of -love, took away all the sweetness from the sun and from -love. When she got into the drawing-room, she put her -big bundle of flowers down on a corner of the table. The -old lord questioned her anxiously and greedily about what -road she had gone and what she had seen. Bianca answered -feebly in short phrases, turning her head away; but he -persisted—he wanted to know all she had seen. Nowadays, -everything his daughter saw filled him with uncertainties, -curiosity, and sorrow; he tried continually to find -out in whatever she saw a mystic source of the cipher -of lottery numbers. He now considered she was a medium, -a much better one than Don Pasqualino, because she was a -woman, an innocent maiden, and unconscious of her powers. -She did not know it, but she was a medium. Had she not -seen the spirit that fatal night weeping and hailing her? -He went on wildly with his close questioning, obliging his -daughter to follow him in his freaks.</p> - -<p>'What have you seen? what have you seen?' the -gambler, who forgot he was a father, asked in anguish.</p> - -<p>How love's young dream flew away, with its light and -happiness! how all the oppressive ghosts of the bare old -house gathered round her from that old man raving alarmingly, -and obliging her to go through the same terror. -Also, every time she mentioned the name of Antonio Amati, -her preserver, friend, and lover, the Marquis di Formosa -reddened with rage. She saw that her father had ended -by hating Amati thoroughly for the very services he had -done him, for the very gratitude he owed him. Formosa's -face grew so hard and fierce that Bianca Maria was frightened. -Her heart was torn between her unwavering -daughterly respect and her love for Antonio Amati. Once -Margherita hinted before Formosa at rumours of a marriage -between her ladyship and the doctor. The Marquis got -into a fury and said 'No!' with such a yell that Margherita -put her hands to her ears in a fright.</p> - -<p>'Still, her ladyship must marry some day,' she remarked -timidly and maternally, 'and the doctor might be better than -another.'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[258]</a></span></p> - -<p>'I said no,' the Marquis retorted darkly.</p> - -<p>From that time forward he spoke in a still more wild -and eccentric way. Sometimes in the middle of the many -mysterious ghostly incoherencies his mind wandered -amongst he came back in speaking to his daughter to a -ruling thought—to love looked on as a stain, a sin, an ingrained -want of purity in soul and body. The girl often -blushed in her simplicity on hearing the abuse heaped on -love, and then he praised the chastity that keeps the heart -in a state of grace—that allows human eyes to see supernatural -visions, and go through life in a sweet, dreamy state. -He would get excited, and curse love as the source of all -defilement, all evils and sorrow. Bianca Maria hid her face -in her hands, as if all her father's strictures fell on her head.</p> - -<p>'My mother was a saintly woman, and she loved you,' -she remarked one day, repenting at once of her audacity.</p> - -<p>'She died from that love,' he answered darkly, as if he -was speaking to himself.</p> - -<p>'I would like to die like her,' the maiden whispered.</p> - -<p>'You will die accursed—cursed by me, remember that!' -he shouted, like a demon. 'Woe to the daughter of Casa -Cavalcanti who stifles her heart in the shame of an earthly -love! Woe to the maiden who prefers the vulgar horrors -of earthly passion to the purest heights of spiritual life!'</p> - -<p>She bent her head without answering, feeling that iron -hand ever weighing more on her life to bend and break it. -She dare not tell her lover of such scenes; only sometimes, -breaking momentarily the bonds of respect her father held -her in, she repeated to Amati her despairing cry:</p> - -<p>'Take me away—take me away!'</p> - -<p>He, too, now had lost all his calm. He himself was -taken by this plan of carrying her off, of taking the maiden -away as his comrade, his adored companion—of freeing her -from the dark nightmare of a life that was a daily agony -to her. Yes, he would carry off the poor victim from the -unconscious executioner; he would tear her from that -atmosphere of vice, mystery, and sadness; bring her into -his house, his heart; defend her against all this folly, these -tempests. The Marquis di Formosa would be left to -struggle with his passion alone. He would no longer drag -to the abyss of desolation he was plunging into this poor -meek, innocent girl. Every day this longing to save her -grew in his heart, until it became all-powerful. He longed -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</a></span> -to speak so that his grand dream should become a reality. -Gravely and solemnly he had promised Bianca Maria that -sad evening she had confided her sad family secret to him -that he would save her, and an honest man must keep his -promise, even if it induce in him the wildest ecstasies or -bring on a sorrowful depression at certain times. He -longed to do it. In the meanwhile the days ran on. Some -uncertainty still withheld him, even when he was most -strongly resolved to ask Formosa for his daughter's hand. -He vaguely felt that the answer would be decisive—that -after it was said his life would be settled for him. But an -important incident all of a sudden made him come to a -decision. The Marquis di Formosa, amidst the fluctuations -of his mind, kept up his mystical piety, and every Friday he -spent hours in prayer in the chapel before Our Lady of -Sorrows and the life-sized pierced Ecce Homo crowned with -thorns. With that faith of Southerners which has bursts of -enthusiasm, but is also bound in by a close net of the -commonplace keeping it down to the earth, he constantly -mingled heavenly things with all the worldly complications -of his ruling passion, and sometimes in his despair he made -the responsibility of his ruin rest on his Creator.</p> - -<p>'You allowed this to happen; it is all Your fault, Jesus -Christ!' the Marquis called out in his prayer. But on -terrible days his faith became still more accusing and sacrilegious, -unjust. 'It is all Your fault; You allowed it to -happen!' he cursed on, tears burning his eyes, his voice -choked. Indeed, one evening when Bianca Maria thought -her father had gone out, on passing the chapel door she -heard angry, sorrowful words coming from it. She put in -her head, and saw her father kneeling with his arms thrown -round the Ecce Homo. First he deplored his misfortunes; -then he set to calling out blasphemies, cursing all the names -of the Godhead impiously; then he repented quickly, asking -pardon for his untrue and sacrilegious words, until a new -outburst of rage came on, and he unclasped the holy image -with scorn and threatening words. In his raving he threatened -Jesus Christ his Saviour, bound to the column, to -punish Him—yes, punish Him—if by next week He did not -allow him to win a large sum at the lottery. Bianca Maria, -horrified, seeing no end now to his sacrilegious madness, -fled, hiding her face in her hand; and, shut up in her own -room, she prayed the Lord all night that her father's ignorant -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</a></span> -heresy should not be punished. Now she always shut herself -up at night, to shield her slumbers from her father's -influence, because he always wanted her to call up the spirit, -and spoke to her of those ghosts as of living persons—in -short, keeping her constantly under that frightful nightmare. -But she slept very little, in spite of the solitude and silence -of her room; for her strained nerves shook at the slightest -noise, because she was always afraid that her father would -knock at her door, and try to open it with another key, to -get her to ask the ministering spirit for lottery numbers. -While she was slumbering in a light sleep from which the -slightest noise wakened her, she started as if excited voices -were calling her, and gazed into the shadow with wide-open -eyes, as if she saw a spectre rising up by her bed. How -often she got up, half dressed, and ran bare-footed over -the floor, because she thought a light hand scratched on -the pillow, touched her forehead, or patted her hair! -One night, a Saturday, she heard her father going up and -down, as she lay awake, all through the house, passing -before her door several times, in the wild cogitations of his -storm-tossed soul. In a whisper she called down on him -Heaven's peace—the peace that seemed to have deserted -his mind altogether. But just as she was going to sleep -again, a queer, dull noise wakened her, quivering; it was as -if a very heavy body was being pulled along, making the -doors and windows shake with that dull rumble. Sometimes -the mysterious noise quieted down and was silent; after -about a minute's pause it began again, stronger, and at the -same time more deadened. She remained raised on her -pillows, fastened there by an unknown iron hand: what -was happening there? She would have liked to cry out, -ring the bell, get hold of people, but that rumble deprived -her of voice; she kept silence in a cold sweat, the whole -nerves of her body strained to hear only. The noise, like -an earthquake, was getting nearer and nearer to her door; -she clasped her hands in the dark, and shut her eyes hard -not to see, praying she might not see. Together with that -dragging of a heavy, unsteady object, she heard laboured -breathing, as if someone was attempting a task above his -strength; then a hard knock, as if her door had been hit by -a catapult. She thought her door had violently burst open, -and fell back on her pillows, not hearing or seeing anything -else, losing her feeble senses. Later on, a good time after, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[261]</a></span> -she recovered consciousness, frozen, motionless; she stretched -her ears, but she heard nothing else for a long time. In the -confusion there now was between her dreams and realities, -she believed that all she had heard was only a doleful nightmare -that had oppressed her with its terrors. Had she -dreamt it, therefore—that queer earthquake, that laboured -breathing, that strong blow on her door?</p> - -<p>In the morning, having rested a little, she got up easier, -and, after saying her prayers, went to her father's room, as -she had to do every day, to wish him good-morning. But -she did not find him; the bed was unused. Several times -lately the Marquis di Formosa had not come home at night. -The first time it had caused Bianca Maria and the servants -great alarm, but when his lordship came in, he scolded -them for having sent to look for him, saying he would not -stand being spied upon, he would do what he liked. Still, -every time Bianca Maria knew that he had spent the night -out of the house she got uneasy; he was so old and eccentric; -his madness led him into dangerous company, and -made him weak and credulous. She always feared some -danger would befall him one of these nights on the road, or -in some secret Cabalist meeting. She trembled that morning, -too, and went on into the other rooms, thinking over -what had happened at night, again asking herself if all that -did not point to a dreadful mystery. She found Giovanni -sweeping carefully.</p> - -<p>'Did his lordship not come home last night?' she asked -with pretended carelessness.</p> - -<p>'He did come in, but he went out very soon again,' -answered the servant.</p> - -<p>'He did not go to bed, I think,' she said in a low voice, -casting down her eyes.</p> - -<p>'No, my lady, he did not,' said old Giovanni.</p> - -<p>Margherita came up just then; she said something -hurriedly to her husband, who agreed to it, and vanished -into the kitchen.</p> - -<p>'I asked Giovanni to draw the bucket of water from the -well this morning,' the old waiting-woman said. 'I am not -strong enough to-day.'</p> - -<p>'Poor thing! it tires you too much,' Bianca Maria remarked -compassionately, her eyes full of tears.</p> - -<p>'I am rather old, but I could do anything for you,' said -the faithful one in a motherly voice. 'But I don't know -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[262]</a></span> -what has come to the bucket this morning; it is so heavy I -can't pull it up. I begged Giovanni, who is stronger than I -am, to take my place.'</p> - -<p>Both went away from there, because Margherita held to -the honour of combing out Bianca Maria's thick black -tresses. But Giovanni came and interrupted the combing. -He called his wife out, not daring to come in, and they -chattered together some time, while Bianca Maria waited, -her black hair loose over her white wrapper. Margherita -came back in disorder; the comb shook in her hand.</p> - -<p>'What is the matter?' asked Bianca Maria.</p> - -<p>'Nothing, nothing,' the woman uttered hastily.</p> - -<p>'Tell me what it is,' the other persisted, looking at the -old woman.</p> - -<p>'It is that Giovanni, even, cannot pull up the bucket.'</p> - -<p>'Well, but why are you alarmed?'</p> - -<p>'Giovanni says there is something in the way.'</p> - -<p>'Something in the way? What do you mean?'</p> - -<p>'He has called Francesco, the porter. They will pull -together. Perhaps they will get over the difficulty.'</p> - -<p>'What can it be?' the girl stammered, growing deadly -pale.</p> - -<p>'I don't know, my lady—I don't know,' said the old -woman, trying to begin her combing again.</p> - -<p>'No,' said the other firmly, waving off the hand with the -comb, and gathering up her hair with a pin—'no; we had -better go and see.'</p> - -<p>'My lady, my lady, what can we do? Giovanni and -Francesco are there. We had best stay here.'</p> - -<p>'I am going there,' the girl insisted, going towards the -kitchen.</p> - -<p>Old Giovanni and Francesco in their shirt-sleeves were -pulling at the rope with all their strength, and it hardly -moved, creaking as if it was going to break. Both Giovanni's -and Francesco's faces showed, besides the great fatigue they -were enduring, that they were in a great fright.</p> - -<p>Occasionally, with heaving sides and cramped arms, they -gave up pulling, and cast a frightened look at each other. -From the kitchen doorway, in a white wrapper, with her -hair down, Bianca Maria looked on, while Margherita, -standing behind her, begged her in a whisper to go away for -the love of the Virgin! to go away, in God's name!</p> - -<p>'But, in any case, what can it be?' asked Bianca Maria -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[263]</a></span> -steadily, turning to the two men, whose growing fears -deprived them of strength.</p> - -<p>'Who can tell, my lady?' Giovanni stammered. 'This -weight is not a good thing.'</p> - -<p>But while all kept their eyes fixed on the well, waiting on -in anguish, all feeling a shudder from the delay and fear of -the unknown, the <em>thing</em> the two men were pulling up hit -twice against the sides of the well, noisily from right to left. -The dull, heavy noise echoed in Bianca Maria's heart, for it -was the same she had heard at night. A little frightened -cry came from her mouth; she pressed her nails right into -her flesh, wringing her hands to keep down her alarm before -the servants. But once more, with a stronger, nearer sound, -the <em>thing</em> beat against the side of the well.</p> - -<p>'It is coming,' said the message-boy affrightedly.</p> - -<p>'It is coming,' Giovanni repeated in consternation.</p> - -<p>Margherita, standing behind Bianca Maria, could not -command her strained nerves; she prayed in a trembling -whisper, 'Madonna, help us! Madonna, deliver us!' But -what came up to the well-brink, bounding, quivering, with -the bucket-rope wound three times round its neck, the chain -hanging on the breast, made her yell with fright. It was a -man's trunk, water and blood dripping from the forehead -over the sorrowful cheeks and bared breasts, water and -blood flowing from the wounded side; blood and tears were -in his eyes, and over the face and breast, which all had -death's livid hue.</p> - -<p>Yelling from fright, Francesco and Giovanni ran off, -calling for 'Help! help!' The women, mistress and maid, -rushed to the drawing-room and fell in each other's arms, the -one hiding her face on the other's breast, not daring to raise -it, haunted by the frightful sight of the murdered body. It -was quite livid, bloody in the face, breast, and enfolded -arms, with a despairing look in the eyes and half-open -mouth, which seemed to be sobbing. It stood against the -parapet dripping blood and water, bound by the cord and -chain. The message-boy and the butler had flung downstairs, -calling out there was a dead man, a murdered man. -At once, on the stairs, the gateway, the whole neighbourhood, -the news spread that a murdered man's body had been -found in the Rossi Palace well.</p> - -<p>Everyone opened doors and rushed to windows; but -Francesco and Giovanni's confused, breathless story caused -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[264]</a></span> -such fright no one dared go in at the Marquis di Formosa's -open door, or to the kitchen where the corpse -lay. The women were still clinging to each other in the -drawing-room; though Margherita tried to command herself -for her mistress' sake, she felt the girl's body grow -flabby from want of vital force—sometimes it stiffened as in -a nervous convulsion. But the great whispering in the -palace had got even into the doctor's flat, and his heart was -always quivering, expecting a catastrophe. He put his -head out of the window and saw people everywhere; the -sound of voices came up even to him, saying that a murdered -man had been found in the Rossi Palace well, and -that the body was in the Cavalcantis' kitchen. Just then -Giovanni, on thinking it over that the two women had been -left alone, felt sorry that he had made such a fuss, for he -knew the scandal would be reflected on the Cavalcanti -family, and he was going upstairs again.</p> - -<p>'Is there really a dead man?' Amati asked him, not -managing to conceal how disturbed he was, in spite of his -strength of mind.</p> - -<p>'Yes, sir, there really is,' said the butler, with desperation -in his eyes and voice.</p> - -<p>'Who saw it?'</p> - -<p>'Everyone saw it.'</p> - -<p>'What! everyone? Did your mistress see it, too?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, sir, she did.'</p> - -<p>The doctor cast a furious look at him and went into the -fatal house, where a tragic breath had always blown from -the first moment he put his foot in it, where any queer, -doleful tragedy was possible to happen. He wandered -about the rooms like a madman in search of Bianca Maria, -and found her sitting on a large drawing-room chair, so pale, -so terrified, so silent, that Margherita was kneeling before -her in alarm, holding her hands, begging her to say a word—only -a word.</p> - -<p>Bianca Maria glanced at Amati, but seemed not to know -him; she kept cold and inert and stiff in her frightened -attitude.</p> - -<p>'Bianca,' said the doctor gently. She still kept silence. -'Bianca,' he said louder, and he took her hand. At the -light touch she quivered, gave a cry, and came back to -consciousness. 'My love, my love! speak to me—weep,' -he suggested, looking at her magnetically, trying to put his -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[265]</a></span> -strong will and courage into her. All of a sudden, as if that -will and strength had unsealed her lips, she began to cry out:</p> - -<p>'The dead man! take him away—take away the dead -man!'</p> - -<p>'Now, now, don't be frightened; we are taking him away; -keep calm,' the doctor said to her.</p> - -<p>'The dead man—the dead man!' she cried out, covering -her face with her hands wildly. 'For goodness' sake take -the dead man away, or he will carry me off. Do not let him -take me away, I entreat you, darling, if you love me.'</p> - -<p>The doctor gave Margherita a look bidding her take care -of Bianca, and went into the kitchen, followed by Giovanni. -In the lobby were some people who were already speaking of -calling the magistrate; there were the porter, his wife, the -Fragalà and the Parascandolos' servants, and Francesco -the errand boy, but not one of them dared enter the kitchen, -even after the doctor went in. They let him go alone, -waiting on silently in the pantry, still wild with fear. The -doctor, though accustomed to see dead bodies, being shaken -by that catastrophe that affected him so particularly, broken-spirited -with the thought of the consequences, went into -the kitchen a victim to the deepest melancholy, and the -sight of the bleeding forehead, weeping eyes, the tied, -wounded hands, the livid trunk, wounded, bleeding, and -bound, increased the feeling. But the coolness of a man of -science, accustomed to see death, took the upper hand; -going right up to it, he saw the head had a crown of thorns, -and with perfect stupefaction he understood it all.</p> - -<p>It was the Ecce Homo. The wooden, life-sized half-figure -of the Redeemer tied to the column, powerfully carved and -painted, had all the disagreeable appearance of a bleeding -corpse; the well water it had fallen into had discoloured the -flesh and the vermilion blood, making it run, with the double -magical effect of murder and drowning. Still, Dr. Amati -felt his heart tighten on finding out this doleful farce—that -mixture of cruelty and grotesqueness. Amazement was his -predominant feeling; the strong man only thought of Bianca -Maria's great suffering, of her sickness and sorrow, now -mortally wounded, perhaps, by this gloomy, mystical, childish -madness that the Marquis di Formosa was proud of. All -that was urgent now was to save her.</p> - -<p>'It is the Ecce Homo,' he said shortly, as he went out to -the people assembled in the pantry.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[266]</a></span></p> - -<p>'What do you say, sir?' Giovanni cried out, feeling the -same astonishment, increased by horror, of the sacrilege.</p> - -<p>'It is the Ecce Homo,' he repeated, looking coldly at -them all with that imperious look of his that permitted of -no reply. 'Go into the kitchen, dry it, and take it back to -the chapel.'</p> - -<p>They looked at each other, asking opinions; having got -over the horror of a dead man, the outrage on the Divinity -shocked them.</p> - -<p>'You may send for the priest afterwards,' he said, 'to -give a blessing;' for he knew the heart of the Naples folk.</p> - -<p>The girl was still lying on the armchair, her eyes covered -with her hands, always muttering to herself:</p> - -<p>'The dead man—the dead man, dear love! Take him -away. Get the dead man carried away.'</p> - -<p>'There is no dead man, dear,' he said, with the gentleness -that came from his great pity.</p> - -<p>'Yes, yes there was,' she whispered, shaking her head in -a melancholy way, as if nothing would convince her to the -contrary.</p> - -<p>'There was no dead man,' he answered gravely, feeling it -was necessary to bring her back to reason.</p> - -<p>He tried to take her hands from her eyes, but they -stiffened, and an agonized expression came over the girl's -face.</p> - -<p>'Look at me for a moment,' he whispered in an insinuating -tone.</p> - -<p>'I can't—I can't!' she said in a sad, mysterious voice.</p> - -<p>'Why not?'</p> - -<p>'Because I would see the dead man, love—my love!' she -said, still with that deep sadness that brought tears to the -doctor's eyes.</p> - -<p>'Dear, I swear to you that there is no dead man,' he -replied again gently, as persistent as with a sick child.</p> - -<p>In the meanwhile he tried to feel her pulse, and the temperature -of her skin. Strange to say, while she seemed almost -delirious, her hand was icy and the pulse was slow and feeble. -It gave him a pang at the heart, for that want of life and -strength showed him a continuous incurable wasting away. -He would have liked to find out about that curious disease -which made the blood so feeble and the nerves so irritable, -but his heart loved Bianca Maria too well for his science -to keep its clear-sightedness. He could not find out the -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[267]</a></span> -secret of the impoverished blood or the disordered nerves; -he only understood thus, darkly, that her constitution was -wasting away from weakness and sensitiveness. He did -not think of medicine or rare remedies; he just thought, in -a confused way, he must save her—that was all. Ah, yes, -he must snatch her at once from that madman's claws—this -poor innocent girl that was subjected daily to being startled -by this hopeless folly; he must take her away from that -growing wretchedness of soul and body, from that fatal -going downhill to sin and death—his poor darling who only -knew how to suffer without rebellion or complaint. He -must act at once; he was a man and a Christian. He must -save this unhappy girl, as he so often had saved people -from hydrophobia, or as, on one occasion, he had saved a -wretched man who had got tetanus. At once—at once—he -must save her, or he would not be in time. Where was the -Marquis, then? Where was the cruel madman that staked -his name, his honour, his daughter?</p> - -<p>'Sir, it is done,' said Giovanni, putting in his head at the -door. The old servant was very pale. After being relieved -from the terrifying impression of what he thought was a -murdered corpse, the serious insult his master had done to -the Godhead came to disturb his humble religious conscience. -That figure of the Redeemer, with the cord round -His neck, hung down in the well, as if it was the mangled -remains of a murdered man—to see that representation of -the meek Jesus so scorned made him think that his master's -reason had given way; such sacrilege must bring a curse on -the house. He called out Margherita, to tell her what had -happened, while the neighbours round about—on the stair, -at the entrance, and in the shops—were going about saying -that the Ecce Homo of Cavalcanti House had done a miracle, -resuscitating a man that had been murdered, by putting -Himself in his place. Everywhere, in different ways, they -got lottery numbers out of the extraordinary event.</p> - -<p>'The dead man, poor fellow!' the girl went on, half unconscious, -the voice like a faint breath from her lips.</p> - -<p>'Do not say that again, Bianca Maria. Believe what I -say,' the doctor replied with gentle firmness. 'There was -no dead man; it was the Ecce Homo statue.'</p> - -<p>'Who was it?' she cried out, getting up and looking wildly -at him.</p> - -<p>He gave a start. He thought it was the crisis, her mind -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[268]</a></span> -having wandered so long, so he repeated, trying to influence -her by his steady gaze:</p> - -<p>'It was the Ecce Homo figure. Your father flung it in the -well, with a rope round its neck.'</p> - -<p>'My God!' she shrieked in a loud voice, raising her arms -to heaven. 'God forgive us!'</p> - -<p>She fell on her knees and bent forward, touching the -ground with her lips. Weeping, praying, sobbing, she went -on imploring the Lord to forgive her and her father. Nothing -served to quiet her, to get her up from the ground, -where she often burst out in long crying-fits. The doctor -vainly tried gentleness, kindness, force, violence; he did not -succeed in quieting her. Bianca Maria's excitement increased, -though there were some stupefied intervals, after -which it burst out louder again. Sometimes, while she -seemed to be keeping calm, a quick thought crossed her -brain, and she threw herself on the ground, crying out: -'Ecce Homo! Ecce Homo, forgive us!'</p> - -<p>The doctor looked on, shuddering, his head down on his -breast, feeling his will powerless, his science useless. What -was to be done? He called in Giovanni and wrote two -lines on a card—an order for morphia, which he sent for to -the druggist's. But he was afraid to use it: Bianca Maria -was not strong enough to bear it. She despairingly, with -strong, queer vitality, beat her breast, muttering the Latin -words of the <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Miserere</i>, weeping always, as if she had an inexhaustible -fountain of tears.</p> - -<p>This had gone on for an hour, when quietly the Marquis -came into the room. He looked older, wearied, and broken -with the weight of life.</p> - -<p>'What is the matter with Bianca Maria?' he asked -timidly. 'What have you done to her?'</p> - -<p>'It is you that are killing her,' the doctor said freezingly.</p> - -<p>'You are right—quite right. Darling, I am an assassin!' -shrieked the old man.</p> - -<p>That man of sixty cast himself at his daughter's feet, -trembling with shame and humiliation, shaken by dry sobs. -Under the doctor's eyes the scene went on, with filial and -paternal positions reversed. That bald, gray-haired father, -with his tall, failing form, full of dread and sorrow, shedding -old folks' rare burning tears, feeling the whole horror of his -fault, bent before his young daughter, begging her to forgive -him, with a childish stammer in his voice, just like a boy -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[269]</a></span> -relieving his childish repentance by crying. The daughter -was still trembling from the great wound his inconsiderate -cruelty had given her soul; it was quivering with the gall -his cruelty still poured into it, while her father's humiliation -made her groan still more dolefully. To the strong man, -whose life had always been an honest, noble struggle, -directed always towards the highest ideals, both of them -seemed so weak, so wretched, so utterly unhappy—the one as -torturer, the other as victim—that he once more regretted the -time when the tragic Cavalcanti family had not got hold of -his heart, to grind it to powder. But it was too late; that -misery, unhappiness, and weakness struck him so directly -now that Amati, strong man as he was, suffered in all these -spasms, and could not control his instinct to give help, the -feeling that was the secret of his noble soul.</p> - -<p>'Forgive me, dear—forgive your old father; trample on -me, I deserve it—but forgive me,' the Marquis di Formosa -went on saying, seized with a wild, grovelling humility.</p> - -<p>'Do not say that—do not say it. I am a wretched sinner; -ask forgiveness of Ecce Homo, whom you have insulted, or -our house is accursed, and we will all die and be damned. -For the sake of our eternal salvation ask Ecce Homo to -forgive you.'</p> - -<p>'Whatever you wish, whatever you order me, I will do,' -he answered, still grovelling, holding out his hands beseechingly; -'but Ecce Homo deserted me, Bianca Maria—he -betrayed me again, you see,' he ended by saying, again -seized with the rage that had led him to do the sacrilegious, -wicked, grotesque act.</p> - -<p>'You frighten me,' she cried out, stepping back and putting -out her arms to prevent him touching her: 'you—a man—wanted -to punish the Divine Jesus. Ask for forgiveness if -you do not want us all to die damned.'</p> - -<p>'You are right,' he muttered, frightened, humbled again. -'Do what you like with me. I will do penance. I will obey -you as if you were my mother. I am a murderer, a -scoundrel.'</p> - -<p>The Marquis threw himself into a chair, broken down, -his breast upheaving, his head bent, and keeping a glassy -stare on the ground. His daughter was standing in a white -dressing-gown that modestly covered her from head to -foot, her black hair loose on her shoulders, and she had -the dreamy, sorrowful look of one walking in her sleep, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[270]</a></span> -wakened from wandering, pleasant dreams. The doctor -broke in:</p> - -<p>'Bianca Maria,' he said.</p> - -<p>'What is it you want?' she replied, feebly looking at her -father, who was still plunged in deep dejection.</p> - -<p>'Your father is much distressed; you are in pain—you -must both forget this sad scene. Will you listen to kindly -good advice from me?'</p> - -<p>'You are goodness and kindness itself,' she whispered, -raising her eyes to heaven. 'Speak—I will obey you.'</p> - -<p>'This has been a very sad time, Bianca Maria, but it -may bring good fruit. Your father and you have wept -together—tears cleanse. By your common sufferings, by -the love you bear him, you ought to ask your father not to -humiliate himself so far as to ask your pardon, but to -promise you, in the name of all you have suffered, to do -what you will request him later on, when you are calmer; -tell him so, Bianca Maria.'</p> - -<p>The girl's mobile face, which had been drawn and quivering, -at the doctor's commanding, quiet, amiable words, at -that voice that had the magic power of giving her ease and -faith in life, was getting tranquillized. Her soul, broken -and tired, was resting.</p> - -<p>'So be it,' she whispered, as if she was finishing an inward -prayer aloud. Going up to the big chair, where her father -lay looking quite broken down, she bent towards him, and -in a very gentle voice said:</p> - -<p>'Father, you love me, do you not?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, dear,' said he.</p> - -<p>'Will you do me a favour?'</p> - -<p>'I will do everything—all, Bianca Maria.'</p> - -<p>'I only want one favour for my good, for my future health -and happiness; promise to do it.'</p> - -<p>'Whatever you like, dear; I am your servant.'</p> - -<p>'It is a great favour. I will tell you later on, when we -are in God's grace again, when we are both quieter, what it -is. I have your word, father, your word—you have never -failed.'</p> - -<p>'You have my word,' he said, panting as if he were not fit -to go on talking.</p> - -<p>She understood; she bent with her usual filial submission -and touched his hand with her lips; he lightly touched her -forehead as a blessing. She went to Amati, held out her -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[271]</a></span> -hand, and looked at him with such loving intensity that he -grew pale, and, to hide his emotion, bowed down to kiss -her hand. Slowly dragging her slender person, from failing -strength, she went out of the room, leaving the two alone. -The old man seemed wrapped in deep and rather sad -reflections, for he raised his face to heaven and cast it down -in an anguished way, shaking his head as if discouraged. -The doctor saw that the right moment had come.</p> - -<p>'Can you listen to me?' he asked very coldly.</p> - -<p>'I would prefer ... I would like to wait for some other -day, rather,' the Marquis answered in a feeble voice.</p> - -<p>'It will be better to have the talk out to-day,' Amati said, -with the same commanding coldness.</p> - -<p>'I am much disturbed ... very.'</p> - -<p>'It may be that from what I tell you you will find something -to soothe you. You know that I am devoted to you.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, yes,' the other said vaguely.</p> - -<p>'I cannot say much to prove my devotion; I try when I -can to act in that spirit. I am sincerely attached to both -of you.'</p> - -<p>'We know it; our debt of gratitude is great.'</p> - -<p>'Do not speak of that. For some time past I have wished -to tell you of a hope of mine, and I dared not. You know -me better than to suppose that any material interest would -influence me. You see, my lord, I do not want to recall the -past to your memory, it is so sorrowful, but it is necessary -to do it. You and your daughter have been in poor circumstances -for some years, and it is certainly not your daughter's -fault. Your intentions are loving and holy; they have a -high motive all honest men must approve of—the setting up -of your house and fortune, to get happiness for your daughter; -it is a good intention, I do not deny it. I myself admire this -noble wish of yours.'</p> - -<p>The Marquis held up his head now and then, glanced at -the doctor with a flutter of his eyelids, showing approval of -what he was saying, with such care and delicacy not to -offend, not to cast an old man down more, for he suffered -so much from his humiliation.</p> - -<p>'But the means,' the doctor went on to say—'the means -were risky, hazardous, very dangerous. Your passionate -desire for fortune made you go beyond bounds, made you -forget all the sufferings you were unconsciously spreading -around you. Do you not see, my lord? You have sickness, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[272]</a></span> -wretchedness, around you, and in you. Passion has carried -you away, and the loveliest, dearest of women, your daughter, -must fall into the abyss with you.'</p> - -<p>'Poor darling! poor darling!' the Marquis muttered -pityingly.</p> - -<p>'You love your daughter, do you not?' Dr. Amati asked, -wishing to touch all the chords of feeling.</p> - -<p>'I love no one but her; I love her above everything,' -Formosa said quickly, with tears in his eyes again.</p> - -<p>'Well, there is a way of protecting that innocent young -life from all the physical and moral anguish that daily eats it -up; there is a means of taking her out of these unhealthy -surroundings of decent but stern poverty that she suffers -from in every nerve; there is a means of securing her a -healthy, comfortable future, with the peace and quietness -her pure soul deserves; there is a way for her to recover, -and it is in your hands.'</p> - -<p>'I tried it, you know,' the Marquis di Formosa said -despairingly; 'but I did not succeed.'</p> - -<p>'You do not take my meaning,' the doctor went on, barely -keeping in his impatience, as he saw that the Marquis was -still blinded. 'I am not speaking of the lottery, which -has been so disastrous to your family, a torment to your -daughter, the despair of all who love you and wish you well. -How can you suppose I was referring to the lottery?'</p> - -<p>'Still, it is the only way to make money—a lot of money. -Only with that can I save Bianca Maria.'</p> - -<p>'You are making a mistake,' the doctor answered still -more coldly. 'I am speaking of something else; ease and -fortune can be found elsewhere.'</p> - -<p>'It is not possible. There is no limit to what one can win -at the lottery....'</p> - -<p>'My lord, I am speaking seriously. This madness of -your Cabalist friends does not influence me; indeed, it -infuriates me when I think of the sorrow it causes. I can -recognise the good intentions, but they stand for an unpardonable -frenzy. Never refer to it with me again—never!'</p> - -<p>Formosa looked up; his face, which till then was undecided -and disturbed, got icy and hard. That 'never,' -said so firmly by Antonio Amati, made him frown rather.</p> - -<p>'What methods are you referring to, then?' he asked in a -queer voice, in which Amati noted hostility again.</p> - -<p>'Perhaps to-day we are too excited; let us put off talking -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[273]</a></span> -about it till another occasion,' muttered Amati, who saw he -was about to lose an important advantage. 'To-morrow -will do.'</p> - -<p>'There is no use in delaying,' the Marquis di Formosa -insisted coldly and politely. 'As it has to do with Bianca -Maria's welfare, I am ready.'</p> - -<p>'Give me your daughter for my wife,' said Dr. Amati -quickly and energetically.</p> - -<p>The Marquis di Formosa shut his eyes for a moment as -if a bright light dazzled them, as if he wanted to hide his -flashing glance, and did not answer.</p> - -<p>'I think I am offering your daughter a position worthy of -the name she bears,' the doctor went on again at once, -determined to go to the bottom of it, 'for my work has -brought me money and credit; it is no use being modest. -I will work still harder, so that she may be rich, very rich, -happy, and in an assured position, protected by my love and -strength.'</p> - -<p>'You love Bianca Maria, do you?' Formosa said, without -looking Amati in the face.</p> - -<p>'I worship her,' he said simply.</p> - -<p>'Does she love you?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, she loves me.'</p> - -<p>'You are a liar, sir!' the Marquis di Formosa answered, -in a deep voice.</p> - -<p>'Why insult me?' asked the doctor, determined to stand -everything. 'An insult is no answer.'</p> - -<p>'I tell you that you are lying, and that you have no -ground for saying you are loved.'</p> - -<p>'Your daughter told me that she loves me.'</p> - -<p>'That is all lies.'</p> - -<p>'She wrote it to me.'</p> - -<p>'Lies. Where are the letters?'</p> - -<p>'I will bring them.'</p> - -<p>'They are not genuine. All lies.'</p> - -<p>'Ask her.'</p> - -<p>'I will not ask her. My daughter cannot love without -having told her father.'</p> - -<p>'Ask her about it.'</p> - -<p>'No, she confides in me. You lie.'</p> - -<p>'Question her on the subject.'</p> - -<p>'She would have spoken to me before; my daughter is -obedient; she tells me everything.'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[274]</a></span></p> - -<p>'It does not look as if she did.'</p> - -<p>'I am her father, by Gad!'</p> - -<p>'You have often forgotten that you are; she may have -forgotten it this time.'</p> - -<p>'Dr. Amati, don't go on speaking on this subject,' the -Marquis said, with cold, ironical politeness.</p> - -<p>'I insist on it, it is my right; I have not lied. Besides, -I spoke distinctly; I offer myself to your daughter, who is -sick, poor and sad, as husband, friend, protector, to care for -her, body and soul, to love and serve her as she deserves. -Will you give me your daughter? You ought to answer -this.'</p> - -<p>'I will not give her to you.'</p> - -<p>'Why will you not?'</p> - -<p>'There is no need for me to give my reasons.'</p> - -<p>'As the refusal is insulting, I have a right to ask them. -Perhaps it is because it is I am not of noble birth?'</p> - -<p>'It is not for that.'</p> - -<p>'Do you not think me young enough?'</p> - -<p>'It is not that, either.'</p> - -<p>'Have you a particular dislike to me?'</p> - -<p>'No, I have not.'</p> - -<p>'Why is it, then?'</p> - -<p>'I repeat that I do not choose to tell you the reason; I -can only answer "No."'</p> - -<p>'You will not agree even if I wait?'</p> - -<p>'No.'</p> - -<p>'You give me no hope for the future?'</p> - -<p>'None.'</p> - -<p>'Not in any circumstances?'</p> - -<p>'Never,' the Marquis said decisively.</p> - -<p>They said no more. Both were vexed in a different way.</p> - -<p>'Do you want your daughter to die?' said the doctor, -after thinking a minute.</p> - -<p>'Never fear, she won't die; there is something keeps -her up.'</p> - -<p>'To-morrow she, a Cavalcanti, will be a beggar.'</p> - -<p>'I will make her a millionaire, sir; I alone have the right -to enrich her.'</p> - -<p>'I told you that I love her.'</p> - -<p>'Nothing can equal my affection.'</p> - -<p>'But woman's destiny is love in marriage, and to have -children.'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[275]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Of common, vulgar women, but not of Bianca Maria -Cavalcanti. She has a very high mission, if she will carry -it out.'</p> - -<p>'My lord, you will ruin her.'</p> - -<p>'I am saving her. I assure her immortal fame and immortal -life.'</p> - -<p>'My lord, I beg, you see how I implore, I who have never -prayed to anyone. Don't say "No" so obstinately without -even consulting Bianca Maria. You are preparing a new, -heavy sorrow for her. You give me no chance of living for -her, and insult me, an honest man, like this for no reason. -I beg you think over it; don't make up your mind at once.'</p> - -<p>'To-morrow or any other time would be the same. It is -"No"—always "No"; nothing else but "No." You will -not get Donna Bianca Maria Cavalcanti,' he said, grinning -devilishly.</p> - -<p>'Think it over, my lord. If you still say "No" to me, I -must go away for ever. Do not sever our ties so roughly.'</p> - -<p>'You are free to go as far as you like. We will not see -each other again. Perhaps it would have been better had -we never met.'</p> - -<p>'That is true. I am going.'</p> - -<p>'Go, certainly. Good-bye, sir.'</p> - -<p>'Before going away, however, I want to question your -daughter here, before you. We are not in the Middle Ages; -a girl's will goes for something, too.'</p> - -<p>'It does not.'</p> - -<p>'You are mistaken. I will ask her. I will go away when -she tells me to go. Call her, if you are loyal and a gentleman.'</p> - -<p>The old lord, challenged in the name of honour, got up, -rang the bell, telling Giovanni to send in his daughter. -The two enemies stood in silence until she came in. She -had got back all her calm with the facility of all very nervous -temperaments, but a glance at the two she loved disturbed -her mind at once.</p> - -<p>'I leave the word to you,' said the doctor politely, bowing -to the Marquis.</p> - -<p>'Bianca Maria,' the other began, in a solemn voice, 'Dr. -Amati says he loves you. Did you know that?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, father.'</p> - -<p>'Did he tell you?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, he did.'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[276]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Did you allow him to tell you?'</p> - -<p>'Yes; I listened to him.'</p> - -<p>'You have committed a great fault, Bianca Maria.'</p> - -<p>'We are all apt to do that,' she said in a low tone, looking -at Amati to gain courage.</p> - -<p>'But there is something much worse. He says that you love -him. I told him that he lied—that you could not love him.'</p> - -<p>'Why did you call him a liar?'</p> - -<p>'Can you possibly ask me, Bianca Maria? Is it possible -that you are so lost to all sense of shame and modesty as to -love him and tell him so?'</p> - -<p>'My mother loved you also, and told you so: she was a -modest woman.'</p> - -<p>'Keep to the point—do not call witnesses. Answer me, -your father. Do you love this doctor?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, I love him,' she said, opening out her arms.</p> - -<p>'I will never forgive you for saying so, Bianca Maria!'</p> - -<p>'May God be more merciful than you, father!'</p> - -<p>'God punishes disobedient children. Dr. Antonio Amati -asked me for your hand. I said "No": "No" now, to-morrow—for -ever "No"!'</p> - -<p>'You do not wish me to marry Dr. Amati, then?'</p> - -<p>'No, I do not. In reality you do not wish it, either.'</p> - -<p>She did not answer; two big tears rolled down her cheeks.</p> - -<p>'Answer, my lady,' said Amati, in so anguished a tone -that the poor girl shivered with grief.</p> - -<p>'I have nothing to say.'</p> - -<p>'But did you not say that you loved me?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, I said so; I repeat it—I will always love you.'</p> - -<p>'Still, you refuse me?'</p> - -<p>'I do not refuse you. It is my father who rejects you.'</p> - -<p>'But you are free; you are not a slave. Girls have a right -to choose. I am an honest man.'</p> - -<p>'You are the best, truest man I have ever known,' said -she, clasping her fragile hands, as if in prayer. 'But my -father will not allow me: I must obey.'</p> - -<p>'You know you are causing me the greatest sorrow of my -life?'</p> - -<p>'I know, but I must obey.'</p> - -<p>'Do you know you are breaking my life?'</p> - -<p>'I know, but ... I cannot do otherwise. Mother would -curse me from heaven, father would curse me on earth. I -know it all: I must obey.'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[277]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Will you give up health, happiness, and love?'</p> - -<p>'I give it up out of obedience.'</p> - -<p>'So be it,' he cried out, with a quick gesture, as if he were -throwing off all his weakness. 'We will only say one word -more. Good-bye.'</p> - -<p>'Will you never come back? Are you going away?' -said she, shaking like a tree under a tempest.</p> - -<p>'I must go. Good-bye!'</p> - -<p>'Are you going?'</p> - -<p>'Yes; good-bye.'</p> - -<p>'Will you never return?'</p> - -<p>'Never.'</p> - -<p>She looked at her father. He made no sign. But she -felt so desperate for herself and for Antonio Amati that she -made another trial.</p> - -<p>'A little while ago, father, you promised me, in a time of -terror and repentance, to do whatever I wanted. I ask you -to do this one thing. It is this: let me marry Antonio -Amati. A gentleman's word, a Cavalcanti's, is sacred. Will -you break it?'</p> - -<p>'I have my reasons—God sees them,' the Marquis said -mysteriously.</p> - -<p>'Do you refuse?'</p> - -<p>'For ever.'</p> - -<p>'Would nothing influence you—neither our prayers, nor -your love for me, nor my mother's name—would nothing -induce you to consent?'</p> - -<p>'Nothing.'</p> - -<p>'He says "No," love,' she whispered, turning, looking -around her with a wandering eye. But Antonio Amati was -too mortally wounded to feel compassion for another's suffering. -Now one single wish possessed him, that of all strong -minds, to lock up the great catastrophe of his life, scorning -barren sympathy, and fly to solitude. He needed darkness, -silence, a place to hide, to weep in, to cry out in his sorrow. -The girl before him was the image of desolation, but he saw -nothing, felt nothing: compassion had gone out of his heart; -he felt all the unforgiving selfishness of great suffering. -'My love, love!' she still repeated, trying to give expression -to the anguish of her passion.</p> - -<p>Do not say that, Bianca Maria,' he said, with the bitter -grin of the disappointed man; 'it is no use—I do not ask -you for it. We have spoken too much. I must go.'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[278]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Stay another minute,' she said, as if it meant putting off -death for a little while.</p> - -<p>'No, no—at once. Good-bye, Bianca Maria.' He bowed -low to the Marquis.</p> - -<p>The cruel, impassible old man, whom nothing would -move, for his eyes saw nothing but his mad vision, returned -his bow. When the doctor passed in front of the girl to -leave the room she held out her hand humbly, but he did -not take it. She made a resigned gesture, and looked -at him with as much passion as an exile for ever banished -from his country can express. It was no time for words -or greeting; divided by violence, they were leaving each -other for ever; words and greetings were of no use now. -He went away, followed by Bianca Maria's magnetic gaze, -without turning back, going away alone to his bitter destiny. -She listened longingly for the last sound of the beloved foot-step, -that she would never hear again. She heard the -entrance door shut quietly, like a secret prison door. All -was ended, then! Her father sat down in a big chair, -thoughtful but easy, leaning his forehead on his hand. -Quietly she came to kneel by him, and, bending her head, -said:</p> - -<p>'Bless me.'</p> - -<p>'God bless you—bless you, Bianca Maria!' said the -Marquis de Formosa piously.</p> - -<p>'Your daughter is dead,' she whispered; and, stretching -out her arms, she fell back, livid, cold, motionless.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[279]</a></span></p> - -</div> - - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XVI</h2> - -<p class="p2">PASQUALINO DE FEO'S WILL</p> - - -<p>Don Gennaro Parascandolo, the money-lender, had for -some time past been coming very often to the big gateway -in Nardones Road. He went up the big stairs to the second -floor, where he enjoyed real love with a poor good girl, a flower -of delicacy and innocence he had found on a doorstep one -evening. The wretched girl was just going to ruin. He, -with his usual money-lender's prudence, had made her -believe he was a poor clerk, a widower with no children, -who would certainly marry her if she proved good and -faithful.</p> - -<p>The unlucky Felicetta, whose name was a mockery, lived -like a recluse, served by a rough girl, her only companion. -She spent her time longing for her lord and master's -presence, though she did not even know his real name; -and, in spite of a physical distaste, she was full of gratitude -to this good Don Gennaro, who had freed her from the -danger of a dreadful fall by promising to marry her when, -later on, she had ended her probation of virtue and faithfulness. -She was a tiny, neat little woman, with rather -fine features, and a quantity of fair hair, too great a weight -for her small head. Cast out on the world by a curious -fate, she would certainly have fallen into an abyss if she -had not met at a decisive moment Don Gennaro, who -spoke to her kindly, gave her something to eat, took her to -an inn, and finally hired a little flat for her in Nardones -Road, where she spent her time crocheting and getting her -humble marriage outfit ready, expecting Don Gennaro's visits -daily, and smiling to him with lips and eyes, like the good -girl she was! Besides, the money-lender, who took off his -diamond rings and gold studs when he went to see her, was -quite paternal with her. Every little gift—for he kept her in -decent comfort only—was made so pleasantly that it brought -tears to Felicetta's eyes. Though he was her lover, Don -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[280]</a></span> -Gennaro treated her so respectfully that she went pondering -in her innocent, grateful heart how she could show her -gratitude and affection.</p> - -<p>Don Gennaro, the hard money-lender, who had seen so -much weeping and despair without troubling himself, was -very tender with her. He often spoke sadly to her of his -two handsome sons who had gone to the dark world of -spirits. He got sentimental, and brought flowers like a -timid young lover, asking her to pray for him; also for his -dead little ones, he added, wishing to join these two loves -that were so curiously different.</p> - -<p>'For them it is no use,' replied Felicetta humbly; 'they -are angels.'</p> - -<p>Little by little Don Gennaro had gone deeper into this -love-affair, more than he would have desired, still using all -precautions, so that Felicetta should find out nothing about -him, and no one should know about his love-affair with the -poor girl. He could not restrain himself. His man's heart -of ripe years, familiar with life, flamed with youthful passion. -He came every day now to Nardones Road, changing the -time, but spending long hours in Felicetta's simple, loving -company. At the end of that stormy summer he had given -up his usual autumn trip, and was forgetting his precautions, -bringing gifts to the girl, who took them rather astonished; -but he explained he had just succeeded to a little money.</p> - -<p>'Then, we will get married,' the young woman said -timidly, for she felt her bad position.</p> - -<p>'I am getting my papers sent from my village,' Don -Gennaro answered, sighing, regretting to the bottom of his -heart he had a wife.</p> - -<p>But one holiday, after taking a few turns in Toledo Street, -when he had gone down by Sant' Anna di Palazzo to Nardones -Road, carrying a bag of sweets in his hand for his -lady-love, as he was going up the stairs, he heard a sort -of call or whistle behind him, evidently to make him turn -his head. He did turn, though he could not quite make out -if it was a whistle or a loud signal that had called his attention. -It had been a mysterious call, that was all, one of -those voices that come from the soul. However much he -looked round, above and beneath, going close to the railing, -he saw nothing, could find out nothing. Annoyed at being -detained on that stair, where he was always afraid of being -discovered, he hurried into Felicetta's rooms. Still, all the -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[281]</a></span> -time of the visit he was put out; he thought, secrecy being -the foundation of his happiness, it had crumbled away with -that voice calling to him. Indeed, next day, right under the -entrance, he met the Marquis di Formosa coming down the -small stair, looking as if he were in a dream. Really, they -were not on speaking terms now, though they knew each -other; but that day, both feeling put out, they stopped in -front of each other, watching one another.</p> - -<p>'Busy as usual,' the Marquis di Formosa muttered, in a -hoarse voice that gave an idea of emotion, for it looked as -if rage had made him lose his voice.</p> - -<p>'Yes, like yourself,' Don Gennaro replied darkly.</p> - -<p>'I have no business to do,' Formosa replied, in a still -more undecided and shy manner. 'Is Signora Parascandolo -well?'</p> - -<p>'She is quite well,' Parascandolo said, at once suspecting -something under the question. 'How is Lady Bianca -Maria?'</p> - -<p>'She is rather in poor health,' the old man said, hanging -his head.</p> - -<p>'Good-morning, my lord,' Parascandolo answered at once, -taking the opportunity to go off.</p> - -<p>'Good-morning, sir,' Formosa said, touching his hat, and -looking after the usurer mechanically.</p> - -<p>He went slowly up the big stair, frightfully bored by that -meeting, thinking at once he must change houses and carry -Felicetta off to a far-away part; and he slackened his steps -to see if the Marquis were asking the porter where Don -Gennaro Parascandolo was going to. But Formosa had -gone off. When the usurer got to the second landing, again -he heard a whiff; a flash passed before his eyes, as if the -mystical warning was being repeated persistently because he -had taken no notice the first time. Again holding on to the -railings, he thought over where that call could come from, -and told himself he must be dreaming, as there was nothing -about. That love, carefully hidden, made him as superstitious -as a woman.</p> - -<p>'There must be spirits in this house,' he said to Felicetta -during his call, as he could not get over his absent-mindedness. -'Twice in coming upstairs I felt as if someone was -calling me, and I could not make out where the voice came -from, or if it really was a voice.'</p> - -<p>'Do you believe in spirits, then?'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[282]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Well, who can tell?'</p> - -<p>'This house has certainly a queer lot of lodgers,' said the -girl. 'Day and night a number of suspicious-looking people -come and go. The other evening, as I was watering my -flowers on my balcony, I thought I heard cries and complaints -coming from the first-floor. Then all was silent; I -heard no more.'</p> - -<p>'They must have been spirits,' said Don Gennaro, -laughing unwillingly. 'Would you like to go to another -house?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, very much—a small house, with more sun.'</p> - -<p>'On the Vittorio Emanuele Corso would you like?'</p> - -<p>'It would be too grand for me.'</p> - -<p>Don Gennaro was still thoughtful when he went away. -As he was on the first-floor landing, he thought he saw two -people he knew go down the small stair—the advocate -Marzano and Ninetto Costa. They, heated in argument, -did not see or pretended not to see him, because they owed -him a lot of money, and he held a heap of stamped paper -against them. But the money-lender was put out; he felt -a mystery growing around him, while a burning curiosity -took hold of him to know the truth. So that the next day, -after wandering about all morning to find a new house for -Felicetta, having found her a nook in that open quarter -between Vittorio Emanuele Corso and Piedi Grotta, as he -was coming back to tell her so, he stood on the stair on -purpose, waiting. And the call, the fluttering, the secret -voice, was heard like a suppressed summons. He peered -about; this time he saw. He saw two windows of the flat -that looked on to the great door, one with closed shutters, -the other of obscured glass half open. There, just for a -second, through the glass, an emaciated, despairing face -showed that cast an imploring look at him, then disappeared, -and a thin hand and white handkerchief waved to call him. -Then the hand went out of sight. The darkened window -was slammed violently, and the shutters were closed as on -the other window. Don Gennaro turned round to go down -at once to the isolated flat, but then he stood still, confused. -What did it matter to him what was going on there? Who -was it who showed himself imprisoned inside there? -He remembered his features vaguely, though he barely had -seen them. He did not know him. It had to do with a -stranger; but whether he was a stranger or not, Don -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[283]</a></span> -Gennaro's mature prudence took the alarm. Perhaps it -would be best to go and give the alarm at the police court. -He thought better of that, too; for many reasons it was -best to have nothing to do with the police. But the idea -that someone was shut up, calling for help, for days past, -who would perish perhaps without his help, put him in a -great state. A mysterious crime was going on; his -Southerner's curiosity burned within him, and his coolness -as a man who had seen many ugly scenes encouraged him -to help the unlucky man. At last he went downstairs, and, -crossing the small yard, he went up the damp, broken stairs. -After thinking a minute, he knocked and rang. The little -bell tinkled mournfully, but no sound came from inside. He -knocked again; not a sound. Then time about with ringing -the bell, he knocked with his ebony stick. The silence -was like that of an empty house. Twice he stooped to the -keyhole, and said: 'Open, by Gad! or I will go and call -the police.' The second time, when he had shouted louder, -he thought he heard a whisper, and he waited again. No -one came to open at the loud ring he gave. Then he began -to go downstairs, determined to call the police authorities. -It was on the last step that he again met the Marquis di -Formosa. The latter raised his head and grew pale as he -recognised Don Gennaro. Still, he had the courage to ask:</p> - -<p>'How come you here?'</p> - -<p>'There is something wrong going on up there, my lord,' -said the money-lender coldly, lighting a cigarette. 'I am -going to a magistrate.'</p> - -<p>'Why should you call in a magistrate?' the old man -stammered, in a nervous way.</p> - -<p>'I tell you that up there a disgraceful thing has happened, -or will happen, and, as I am an honest man, I cannot allow -it. Will you come with me to the magistrate?' and he -looked him straight in the eyes.</p> - -<p>'Don Gennaro, don't let us exaggerate. Perhaps it is a -joke among friends, or a just punishment,' said Formosa, -getting excited.</p> - -<p>'I do not wish to know anything about it. I only know -that a man asked my help. I know I knocked, and they -would not open.'</p> - -<p>'What exaggerated talk are you going on with?'</p> - -<p>'Something bad is going on.'</p> - -<p>'We will go upstairs. I will induce them to open,' said -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[284]</a></span> -the Marquis, making up his mind to have as little of a -catastrophe as possible, as it had to be.</p> - -<p>Silently they went up together. Formosa gave two long -rings, the known signal.</p> - -<p>'Who is it?' asked a muffled voice, speaking through -the keyhole.</p> - -<p>'It is I, doctor; open, please.'</p> - -<p>'But you are not alone.'</p> - -<p>'It doesn't matter—open.'</p> - -<p>'If you are not alone I will not open, as you know,' -Trifari said angrily from inside.</p> - -<p>'Open the door; it will be better for everyone, doctor,' -the Marquis di Formosa negotiated. 'If you do not open -the ruin will be greater. Don Gennaro Parascandolo here -knows all; he wants to go to a magistrate.'</p> - -<p>'At any rate, I am not going away,' Parascandolo said -from outside. 'I will only go for the purpose of calling the -police.'</p> - -<p>'Oh dear! oh dear!' Formosa muttered with a senile -quiver.</p> - -<p>A step was heard going and coming, then a slow rattle of -chain-links, and Trifari's face, with long, red hair growing -unevenly on it, showed in a slit of the door.</p> - -<p>'Open, open!' said the money-lender, grinning, going -on, without seeing the bloodthirsty glance Trifari cast on -him.</p> - -<p>On going in, a smell of smoky oil caught the nostrils, of -cooking done in an airless place, of not very clean people, -who have lived shut up for a long time. The front-room -and the so-called dining-room were dirtier than ever, with -dust, lampblack, bread-crumbs, and fruit-skins. The house -was like an animals' lair, when they have been shut up in -their dens for days and weeks from fear of the huntsman. -On a chair, pale, with hollow cheeks, pinched nostrils, -bloodless ears, his blue lips half open, as if he could hardly -breathe, the medium lay stretched out, his limbs flaccid, his -beard long and dirty, his hair hanging in curls on his neck.</p> - -<p>Trifari, to make him stand up, gave him two blows, one -on the arm, the other on the shoulder. It brought quite a -new sort of doleful expression on the unlucky impostor's -face.</p> - -<p>'What are you doing? Are you not ashamed?' shouted -Don Gennaro, quite scandalized.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[285]</a></span></p> - -<p>'He treats me so at all hours of the day,' the medium -muttered in a thread of a voice.</p> - -<p>'Keep up your courage; you will come away with me,' -said the money-lender, handing him a flask of brandy that -he always carried.</p> - -<p>'I shall not have the strength, sir,' said the other feebly. -'They have killed me, shut up here, with no air nor light, -with this stink that makes me sick. I have generally fasted -or got poor food, and been worried all the time to give -lottery numbers. I was often beaten by this hyena of a -doctor, that the Lord has brought into existence, for my -sins. It is agonizing, sir; I am in agony.'</p> - -<p>'How could you do that to a man—a fellow-Christian?' -Parascandolo asked severely, looking at the other two.</p> - -<p>'See who is preaching!' shouted Trifari. His impudence -was indomitable.</p> - -<p>'You, my lord, a gentleman!' said Parascandolo, making -out he would not speak to Trifari.</p> - -<p>'What would you have? Passion carried me away,' -said the old man, quite humiliated, shivering from other -remembrances also.</p> - -<p>Just then came in at the door, which had been left open, -Colaneri, the viperish professor, and Don Crescenzio the -lottery-banker. On seeing a stranger, recognising Don -Gennaro, they understood all, and looked at each other -dismayed, especially Don Crescenzio, who was a Government -official, as he said.</p> - -<p>The money-lender went on smoking coolly, whilst the -medium, getting weaker, let his head fall back on the chair. -The house, which had been a prison for a month now, had -an ugly, sordid look, and the artificial light of the lamp in -full day wrung the heart like the wax tapers round a bier. -Really, Don Pasqualino looked like a corpse.</p> - -<p>'Have so many of you set on one man?' the money-lender -asked, without directly addressing anyone.</p> - -<p>'Why did he not give the lottery numbers at once?' -yelled Colaneri, pulling at his collar with a priestly gesture. -'No one would have done anything to him then.'</p> - -<p>'You could be sent to the galleys for this, you know,' -said the usurer rather icily.</p> - -<p>'Don't you speak of the galleys; you ought to have been -there long ago!' hissed the ex-priest.</p> - -<p>The other shrugged his shoulders, then said:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[286]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Don Pasqualino, have you the strength to get up? I -want to take you away.'</p> - -<p>The four looked at each other, grown pale suddenly. It -was natural that, the thing being discovered, the medium -should go away; but the idea that he would be taken away -to the open air, free to come and go, and to tell what had -happened—this escape from persecution made them very -frightened.</p> - -<p>'I have no strength to move, sir,' said Don Pasqualino -complainingly. 'If they wanted to kill me, they could not -have found a better way. God will punish them;' and he -sighed deeply.</p> - -<p>There were two knocks at the door, and two other couples -came in—Ninetto Costa and Marzano, Gaetano the glover -and Michele the shoeblack. Not content with coming every -day, every two hours, in turn, to ask for lottery numbers, -with the monotonous perseverance of the Trappist monk -who says to his fellow, 'We must all die,' on Friday there -was always a full meeting. Then it was a case of torture -in the mass; it was the reckless conduct of those fallen to -the bottom of the abyss, who still hope to get up out of it—of -those hardened by passion, who see light no longer. -Indeed, their cruel obstinacy had increased, because of the -evil action they were doing and the persecution they had -carried out against Don Pasqualino. Instead of feeling -remorse, they were in a frightful rage, because even their -violence had had no effect, since not one of the lottery -numbers, whether given by symbol or straight out by the -medium during his imprisonment, had come from the urn. -The first cold douche on their wrongheadedness came when -Don Gennaro Parascandolo arrived. It was only then they -noticed the wretchedness and dirt of the prison where they -had kept the man shut up, the cruelty of Trifari the gaoler's -face, and the suffering look on the prisoner's—then only -they understood that they might be prosecuted for such a -crime, and that they were at Don Pasqualino's and Don -Gennaro's mercy. Dumb, frozen, amazed, they did not -even ask how the prison had been discovered. They now -felt the heavy weight on the heart that is the first moral -personal punishment of sin. The Marquis di Formosa was -the most humiliated of all; he remembered he had brought -the medium there, and he already saw his name dragged -from the police-court to prison, then to the assizes. Now -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[287]</a></span> -the Cabalists turned imploring looks on the two arbiters of -their fate. Don Gennaro Parascandolo methodically went -on smoking.</p> - -<p>'Above all, doctor,' he said, throwing the smoke in the -air, 'put out the light and open the window.'</p> - -<p>'I won't take orders from you!' Trifari shouted. He -was the only one unsubdued; he was wild at his prey -escaping.</p> - -<p>'Do you really want to go to San Francesco,' Parascandolo -asked quietly, meaning the largest prison in -Naples.</p> - -<p>'They ought to put you there!' yelled the liverish Cabalist, -who had got half mad from having to watch Don Pasqualino.</p> - -<p>'I will wait till you pay me the lot of money you owe me,' -remarked Parascandolo.</p> - -<p>'Don't you wish you may get it!' said Trifari impudently.</p> - -<p>'Someone will pay—father or mother—to avoid a trial -for cheatery,' the money-lender added without putting himself -about at all.</p> - -<p>All the men looked at each other, shivering. Each of -them owed money to the usurer, even Don Crescenzio. -The only two who did not—Gaetano and Michele—were -worried as much by Donna Concetta. Even Trifari held -his tongue; the idea of being shamed in his village before -those old peasants, whose secret plague he was, made him -groan already like a wounded beast. Stolidly he went -to open the windows and put out the smoking lamp that -gave out a horrid smell of blackened wick. The bystanders' -eyelids fluttered at that strong light of day; all faces were -white, and the medium's was like a dying man's. The -usurer gave him another sip of brandy, which he drank -drop by drop, being hardly able to get it down.</p> - -<p>'Now we will call up a cab,' said Don Gennaro.</p> - -<p>'What! are you going to take him away?' asked Ninetto -Costa in despair.</p> - -<p>'Do you want me to leave him here for you to carry off a -corpse?'</p> - -<p>'What an exaggeration!' muttered the other vaguely. -'Don Pasqualino is accustomed to living shut up.... You -are ruining us, Don Gennaro.'</p> - -<p>'Think of your other woes,' said the money-lender -gravely.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[288]</a></span></p> - -<p>The other, struck by his words, said no more. All of them -trembled, seeing the medium was trying to rise; slowly, leaning -on the table, and only by a great effort, taking breath -every minute, opening his livid mouth with its blackened -teeth, did he succeed. The enchantment was broken altogether; -now the medium was escaping for good. He would -go to the police-court, and accuse them of keeping him in -custody—of cruelty and ill-treatment. But at heart they -thought this of less consequence than the medium's getting -away, for, to revenge himself, he would never give them -lottery numbers again. Would they were sent to gaol, if -only they got right lottery numbers, for they would be able -to corrupt justice and escape. The dream had fled; the -source of riches was going, flying off. Nothing, nothing -now would induce the medium to give them lottery numbers—certain, -infallible ones. Every step he tried to take on -his thin, shaky legs gave them a pang.</p> - -<p>'If you don't take heart, Don Pasqualino, we shall stay -here till evening,' Don Gennaro remarked.</p> - -<p>He was in a hurry to be off. Indeed, his position among -them was not very safe. All owed him money. If they -had been bold enough to carry out one imprisonment, they -might well carry out another more useful and profitable. -Don Gennaro, indeed, took the command by his coolness -and strength, but were not these men desperate? Yet they -were feeling that break-up of moral and bodily strength, -that weakness, that comes to the most finished scoundrels -when they have carried out some wicked deed, having put -all their real and fictitious strength into the enterprise and -obtained no result. At any rate, it was better to go out.</p> - -<p>'Gentlemen, I wish you good-morning,' he said, taking -his hat and cane, seeing the medium was scratching at his -coat with skinny hands to clean it.</p> - -<p>'I would like to say a word to each of these gentlemen,' -the medium requested.</p> - -<p>There was a whispering. All crowded round him who -spoke with the spirits, while Parascandolo was already in -the lobby and held the door open as a precaution.</p> - -<p>'One at a time,' said the medium. 'It is a kind of will -I am making. I want to leave a remembrance to every one.'</p> - -<p>He took them aside one by one in the window recess. -He looked them in the face and touched their hands with -his feeble, cold fingers. The first was Ninetto Costa.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[289]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Look here, Ninetto: don't give up hope; remember, -there is always a revolver for a finish up.'</p> - -<p>'That is true,' he said, trying to find a number in the -words.</p> - -<p>The second was Colaneri, the ex-priest.</p> - -<p>'There is the gospel for you; it opens its arms,' whispered -the medium.</p> - -<p>'Thank you for reminding me,' said the other, half cheerfully, -half sadly, taking the double meaning of the advice.</p> - -<p>The third was Gaetano, the glover.</p> - -<p>'Why are you a married man? I would have advised -you to marry Donna Concetta, who has so much money.'</p> - -<p>'Has she a lot?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, a great deal.'</p> - -<p>'You are right, it is hard luck.'</p> - -<p>The fourth was Michele, the shoeblack, the hunchbacked -dwarf.</p> - -<p>'If you were not so crooked and old, I would advise you -to marry Donna Caterina, she that has the small lottery.'</p> - -<p>'But I am crooked,' said the shoeblack sadly.</p> - -<p>'Well, work hard.'</p> - -<p>The fifth was Marzano, the lawyer, his head shaking, but -still burning with the frenzy.</p> - -<p>'You know, thousands of sheets of stamped paper are sold -in Naples: why do you not try for a license?'</p> - -<p>He whispered rather than said it, and the old man looked -wonderingly, suspiciously at him, and went off hanging his -head.</p> - -<p>The sixth that came up was Dr. Trifari. He hesitated, -for he had ill-treated the medium too much in the prison -days. Still, he was treated with great civility.</p> - -<p>'To get rid of your worries, why do you not sell all in -your village and bring your parents here?'</p> - -<p>'I never thought of it. I will consider it.'</p> - -<p>The seventh was Don Crescenzio, the lottery-banker at -Nunzio Lane, whom Don Pasqualino had had a long -intimacy with. They spoke in a whisper. No one could -hear what was said.</p> - -<p>'How foolish Government is!' said the medium.</p> - -<p>'What is that you are saying?' cried out the other, -alarmed.</p> - -<p>'I say, how stupid Government is.'</p> - -<p>'I don't know what you mean.'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[290]</a></span></p> - -<p>'You do perfectly.'</p> - -<p>The eighth to come up was the Marquis di Formosa. -He was rather timid, too, feeling that he had done most -wrong to Don Pasqualino.</p> - -<p>'The spirit spoke to me again, my lord.'</p> - -<p>'What did he say?'</p> - -<p>'He told me that Donna Bianca Maria Cavalcanti was -a perfectly lucid soul, but that, as I said, man's touch -would defile her; it would make her obtuse and unlucky, -unable to have further visions.'</p> - -<p>'Donna Bianca shall die a virgin. Tell the spirit so,' the -old man said proudly.</p> - -<p>'Well, Don Pasqualino, are we to stay here till evening?' -said the money-lender, coming in. 'Have you finished with -these gentlemen?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, I have done,' said the other in a strange voice, as -if he had got back his strength in some queer way.</p> - -<p>While the medium looked in his pockets to see if he had a -torn handkerchief and a dirty pack of cards he always carried -with him, and then put on his shabby hat, the Cabalists had -gathered in a group, but they were not speaking. What he -had said in its true and symbolical sense as a hint, a suggestion, -had deeply moved them.</p> - -<p>'Gentlemen, may God forgive you!' the medium cried -out in a queer way, with a slight smile, as he went off.</p> - -<p>They hardly greeted him, but glanced at him remorsefully. -None of them dared make an excuse for the ill they -had done him; each of them felt the nail riveted that the -medium had driven in. The two went down the small stair -very slowly, for the medium often threatened to fall. The -usurer did not go so far as to offer him his arm; the medium -was much too dirty. When he came to the doorway and -looked around, drinking in the free air, tears came to his -eyes.</p> - -<p>'I thought I would never get out alive,' he said as he got -to the carriage.</p> - -<p>'Where do you wish to go?' asked Parascandolo.</p> - -<p>'To the police-court,' said the other in a feeble voice again.</p> - -<p>He was spread out in the carriage like a serious invalid. -Don Gennaro frowned rather, and, not to make people stare, -he had the carriage hood put up. They went on to Concezione -Street.</p> - -<p>'Do you intend to denounce them?' Parascandolo asked.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[291]</a></span></p> - -<p>'You do not know how they have tortured me,' muttered -the other, knocking his head against the carriage hood -whenever there was a jostle, as if he could not keep his head -straight on his shoulders.</p> - -<p>'So you will take them up, will you?'</p> - -<p>'For thirty days I, an unhappy man, in bad health, was -shut up with no air nor light and a stinking oil-lamp, whilst -they who behaved so badly to me took their exercise.'</p> - -<p>'Why did you not give them the lottery numbers?'</p> - -<p>'Just because——' said the medium mysteriously.</p> - -<p>'Don Pasqualino, you don't know the lottery numbers,' -said Don Gennaro, laughing.</p> - -<p>'What does it matter to you?'</p> - -<p>'Nothing at all; but you must be frank with me.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, sir, yes, sir,' said the medium humbly; 'but why -did they endanger my life? What harm had I done -them?'</p> - -<p>'Don Pasqualino, you ate up several thousand francs -belonging to these gentlemen, to my knowledge,' Parascandolo -went on in the same laughing tone.</p> - -<p>'It was all charity, sir—charity.'</p> - -<p>'Really, was it all charity?' Don Gennaro sneered -wickedly.</p> - -<p>'There was some little thing for myself, sir,' Don Pasqualino -sighed out, with a flash of malicious amusement in -his eyes.</p> - -<p>'Then, there is no use in going to the police-court?'</p> - -<p>'We had better go there, all the same; you will be -satisfied with me.'</p> - -<p>They got down at the big gateway in Concezione Street, -where the guardians of the public safety were going and -coming. It was a tremendous effort to the medium to go -up the stairs; he lost his breath at every step.</p> - -<p>'Rather an effort, eh?' the usurer said more than once.</p> - -<p>'Don't leave me, don't desert me!' the medium sighed -out.</p> - -<p>At last they got to the first-floor, where Don Gennaro, -respectfully saluted by the ushers, asked if there was a -magistrate present. There was not. The head-clerk was -there; he had them shown in at once, and was most ceremonious.</p> - -<p>'Here is Signor Pasqualino De Feo; he wants to make a -statement,' said the money-lender, setting to smoking a -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[292]</a></span> -cigarette, after offering the head-clerk one, looking the -medium straight in the eyes.</p> - -<p>'I wished to know,' said he feebly, 'if anyone has come -to say I had disappeared.'</p> - -<p>The inspector took a thick ledger, and turned it over as -he smoked.</p> - -<p>'Yes, sir,' he said. 'Chiarastella De Feo, living in -Centograde Lane, wife of Pasqualino De Feo, stated that -her husband was unaccountably absent. She feared imprisonment -or misfortune.'</p> - -<p>'What misfortune, what imprisonment, could there be?' -the medium called out, smiling ironically. 'Women always -talk nonsense.'</p> - -<p>'She said it had happened to you before, though she could -not state under what circumstances.'</p> - -<p>'Why should they have shut me up?'</p> - -<p>'To drag lottery numbers from you.'</p> - -<p>'Did my wife say that I knew lottery numbers?' said the -medium with a little laugh.</p> - -<p>'Do not believe it, inspector; it is nonsense,' Parascandolo -added laughingly.</p> - -<p>'I wish to state, to avoid mistakes, that, being at Palma -Campania, at Don Gennaro Parascandolo's villa there, I -was so ill I had to stay there a month without being able to -write to my wife. Then I thought every day I would soon -be able to return.'</p> - -<p>'You witness that this is true, do you, sir?' said the inspector -carelessly, not giving it any importance.</p> - -<p>'Yes, I do, sir.'</p> - -<p>'Then it is all right. He would have given you lottery -numbers during this month's illness of his, I suppose?' asked -the police official, still grinning.</p> - -<p>'Of course he did,' said Parascandolo, in high good-humour.</p> - -<p>'But what use are they to you? With a poor employé -like me it would be different.'</p> - -<p>'Don Pasqualino, if you are strong enough, give the inspector -lottery numbers.'</p> - -<p>'You are making a fool of me,' muttered the medium.</p> - -<p>They said good-bye, and the inspector advised De -Feo to go to his wife's house at once, as she would be -anxious.</p> - -<p>'Did you not see that I did as you wished, sir? I forgave -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[293]</a></span> -those who had offended me,' said Don Pasqualino as they -went downstairs.</p> - -<p>'You are too good,' the other answered, rather ironically.</p> - -<p>'I do not intend to make a merit of it, for there is none. -I would never have accused these gentlemen.'</p> - -<p>'Ah!' said the other, standing still for a moment. 'Why -is that?'</p> - -<p>'It would not suit me to do it.'</p> - -<p>'I see. But why did we come here, then?'</p> - -<p>'It was necessary to make a statement, for the police -were looking for me.'</p> - -<p>'Is your wife such a simpleton?'</p> - -<p>'What! my wife? She is very fond of me; she is -nervous for me, and says we must retire from the profession.'</p> - -<p>'What profession is it?'</p> - -<p>'Don't you know? She is the famous witch of Centograde, -Chiarastella.'</p> - -<p>'Ah, I remember. Her witchcraft is like your knowing -lottery numbers, is it?'</p> - -<p>'Her magic is true,' said Don Pasqualino thoughtfully -and sincerely.</p> - -<p>'And does she believe in your being a medium?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, she does,' said the other, hanging his head. 'My -wife is in love with me.'</p> - -<p>'In love with you?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, with me.'</p> - -<p>'You are a queer lot,' said the money-lender philosophically. -'And, meanwhile, you have saved the eight scoundrels.'</p> - -<p>'How have I saved them? Did you understand the -advice I gave them all?'</p> - -<p>'No, I did not,' Don Gennaro answered, surprised at the -malicious tone of his voice.</p> - -<p>'I left them each a remembrance,' the medium replied, in -a shrill voice.</p> - -<p>'Will they obey you, do you think?'</p> - -<p>'As sure as death,' said the medium dolefully.</p> - -<p>He bowed to Don Gennaro, and, with renewed strength, -went off quickly towards Municipio Square. Parascandolo -looked at him as he went off, and felt for the first time a -shudder at cold malignity.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[294]</a></span></p> - -</div> - - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XVII</h2> - -<p class="p2">BARBASSONE'S INN—THE DUEL</p> - - -<p>In the little Barbassone inn, on the road that goes down -from Moiariella di Capodimonte to Ponte Rossi, there were -no customers that clear winter morning. It was really -an outhouse on pillars, roughly built, and on the ground-floor -there was a big, smoky kitchen with a wide, grimy -fireplace and a large hall, where rustic tables were set -out for eating and drinking. On the upper floor, which -was reached by a queer outside staircase, the host and his -wife slept in the room over the kitchen. The other bare -room, used as a storeroom, was full of black sausages and -stinking cheese, strings of garlic hung on the walls, and -bunches of onions and winter marrows strung on osier -withes. Below, in front of the inn, were two or three -arbours, that must have been covered thick with leaves in -spring and summer, but now they were bare, showing the -wooden framework. Under the arbours were dusty, broken -tables covered with dry, rustling leaves; and at the side -of the inn was a bowling-green, surrounded by a low myrtle -hedge. The host had had a wooden stair made inside, leading -from the ground-floor to the upper rooms; and a door -at the back opened on to the fields. From the first-floor -windows could be seen the suburbs of Naples, Reclusorio -Road, the railway-station, the swamps outside the town, and -the Campo Santo Hill. Two roads went up to the inn; -one came from Moiariella, the other from Ponte Rossi. -There was the way from the fields also, but it did not count.</p> - -<p>However, if the neighbourhood of the country inn was -deserted, some company were certainly expected, for the -servant in the kitchen that fine quiet morning was giving hard -blows to some pork chops on a big table. On the stove a -kettle was boiling for a macaroni. Before the inn door the -host, a sagacious-looking peasant, was washing fennel and -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[295]</a></span> -salad in a bowl on the ground, throwing away the bad -leaves to the thin fowls that were clucking about. The -hostess of the Barbassone was away; her husband often -sent her out when it suited him, to buy fresh fish, tripe, or -whatever could not be got at Capodimonte market. He -stayed at home with the old servant, who was busy in the -kitchen helping him; and there was a son of his, about -twelve years old, who waited on the customers. This boy -was now employed in the kitchen grating down some white -nipping Cotrone cheese, that looks like chalk and burns the -throat, but Naples throats do not object to it.</p> - -<p>It was a soft, quiet time near noon. The host often -looked to see if anyone was coming from the low road of -Ponte Rossi, or if anyone was coming down Moiariella road, -but Barbassone's keen face was as serene as the December -morning. He bent down again to soak the lettuce-leaves in -the already earthy water of the basin, when, without his -having seen her, a black figure of a woman rose before him. -She was a girl a little over twenty, but so worn with fatigue, -want and sorrow she looked years older, and her great black -eyes burned in her lean face. She was Carmela, the cigar-girl, -Annarella and Filomena's unhappy sister, Raffaele or Farfariello's -despised love. She had come on foot, so naturally -made no noise. A thinly-veiled excitement was mingled in -her face with the weariness after her long walk. She was -dressed like a vagrant in a cotton frock quite washed out, -with a rag of a red shawl round her neck and a rumpled -cotton apron at her waist.</p> - -<p>'Good-day, gossip,' she said, greeting the host with -Naples common folk's favourite title.</p> - -<p>'Good-morning, lass,' he answered, looking at her suspiciously.</p> - -<p>'Can I have a glass of wine?' she asked, keeping down a -tremble in her voice.</p> - -<p>'Are you alone?'</p> - -<p>'What about it? Am I not able to pay for a glass?'</p> - -<p>'You may drink the whole cellar,' the host said in a tone -of affected carelessness, and he stood aside to let her into -the room, following her to a table.</p> - -<p>She sat down on a rough chair, after glancing round -quickly. There were no customers.</p> - -<p>'Is it Gragnano wine you want?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, sir.'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[296]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Half a pint of Gragnano wine!' shouted the host towards -the kitchen, cleaning the table with his apron.</p> - -<p>'Do you wish anything to eat?' he then added, still staring -at the girl.</p> - -<p>'I am not hungry; I am thirsty,' said Carmela, casting -down her eyes. 'Give me a penny-worth of dry chestnuts.'</p> - -<p>The host slowly went to get those white, shrivelled, hard -chestnuts that provoke thirst. In the meanwhile the boy -brought a caraffe of greenish glass full of dark wine, -stoppered by the usual vine-leaf. Carmela began to munch -the chestnuts slowly, drinking a mouthful of wine at times.</p> - -<p>'Will you do me the pleasure?' she said to the host, who -was hovering about rather uneasily.</p> - -<p>'Thank you, I will,' he said.</p> - -<p>He never refused, and, as there was only one glass, he -took a long pull at the bottle, making the wine gurgle, then -drying his lips.</p> - -<p>'How quiet you are out here!' said the girl, trying to -start a conversation. 'Have you customers always?'</p> - -<p>'Not always. It is according to the weather.'</p> - -<p>'People from Naples come, do they not?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, I have them sometimes.'</p> - -<p>'Here are two francs. Buy a cap for your boy,' she -said, seeing the host was suspicious.</p> - -<p>He took the money unhesitatingly and pocketed it, then -stood to be questioned.</p> - -<p>'A set of young fellows are to come here at mid-day, are -they not?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, I expect some.'</p> - -<p>'One Farfariello is to be with them, I believe?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, I heard that.'</p> - -<p>She gave a deep sigh.</p> - -<p>'Is he your brother?' the inn-keeper asked.</p> - -<p>'He is my lover.'</p> - -<p>'There are no women with them,' the host remarked -carelessly.</p> - -<p>'I know that,' she said, shaking her head. 'But not only -they are coming. Don't you expect others?'</p> - -<p>'Another set of men may be coming.'</p> - -<p>'What to do?' she cried out, feeling her fears justified.</p> - -<p>'To get dinner, of course.'</p> - -<p>'Is there nothing else?'</p> - -<p>'Nothing. At Barbassone's it is the only thing to do.'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[297]</a></span></p> - -<p>'On your honour, is that all?'</p> - -<p>'I give you my word. While they are in my house -nothing can happen.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, but what about afterwards?'</p> - -<p>'I have nothing to do with that. When they have gone -three yards away, I have no more to do with them, do -you see.'</p> - -<p>She said no more, and got quite thoughtful. A wine-stain -was on the table, and she lengthened it with her finger, -making a pattern with the wine.</p> - -<p>'Gossip, will you do me a kindness?'</p> - -<p>'Don't speak like that.'</p> - -<p>'A real charity, gossip, that God will give you back on -that handsome son of yours. Let me be present at this -dinner in some room aloft—any hole where I can see without -being seen.'</p> - -<p>'My dear, Barbassone never meddles with doubtful affairs.'</p> - -<p>'If you love your son, do not say no to me. It is not a -plot, I swear it by the Virgin! It is an idea, a fancy of -mine. I want to see what my lover is doing.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, to make a scene—a quarrel.'</p> - -<p>'I will not move, sir; I swear it by my eyes! I just -want to look on at this dinner—nothing more.'</p> - -<p>'Do you promise not to come out of the room?'</p> - -<p>'I swear I will not.'</p> - -<p>'Nor try to speak to anyone?'</p> - -<p>'No, no, I won't.'</p> - -<p>'If you are found out, do not say that I put you there.'</p> - -<p>'Of course not.'</p> - -<p>'Come with me,' he said sharply.</p> - -<p>She started after the host, who left the hall and went up -the outside stair to the second-floor. Carmela gave a glance -from the parapet up the two roads that lead from Naples to -Barbassone's inn, but they were quiet and deserted. Not -the slightest noise of a carriage or footsteps came up in -that noontide silence. The inn-keeper took Carmela across -the room where he and his wife slept, and opened the door -of the smaller one alongside where the inn provisions were -kept. A whiff of rancid lard and ripe cheese caught Carmela -by the throat and made her cough.</p> - -<p>'You will be all right here, my dear,' Barbassone said to -her, leading her to a window that looked to the front of the -inn. 'If these honest fellows come, they will dine down -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[298]</a></span> -there in the arbour. You will see their every movement. -Only you must promise you will stay behind the window-glass.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, sir, I will,' Carmela promised.</p> - -<p>'You are not to go down, whatever happens. Do you -understand? I don't want to get into a scrape with my -customers.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, sir; I will not go down, never fear,' she said in a -low tone, half shutting her eyes, as if she saw a frightful -sight before her.</p> - -<p>'If not, I will shut you in.'</p> - -<p>'There is no need of that. As I love the blessed Virgin, -I won't move.'</p> - -<p>'Good-bye in the meanwhile,' said he, going away.</p> - -<p>'God will reward you,' the girl called out after him.</p> - -<p>The long waiting began, and to the love-lorn maiden -these minutes had the weight of lead. Still, she stood -motionless behind the dull, dirty window, and her warm -breath dulled the panes more. There were a couple of -bottomless chairs and a wooden stool in the room, but she -did not think of sitting down. She was too anxious to -mount guard at the window, looking at the two sunny roads -that mild winter's day, examining the peaceful landscape, -where city noises were silent. Only twice she went backwards -and forwards in that room full of black sausages and -brown cheese, choked by their bad smell, and she saw there -was another window that looked to the back of the inn, -over the fields going up to Capodimonte. It was perfectly -silent on that side too.</p> - -<p>As time passed, a sharp anguish caught her heart. -Perhaps the man who had told her of Farfariello's and his -friend's trip to Barbassone's inn had cheated her, or she -might have misunderstood what he meant. Farfariello, his -friends, and the others, perhaps at that time were already in -some other place, and all might be happening far off, without -her being able to stop it. Perhaps it had happened -already. She often turned her eyes to heaven, praying that -it should not be so. At one time, not managing to keep -down her uneasiness, she pulled her rosary from her pocket -and began to say <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Ave Marias</i> and <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Pater Nosters</i> mechanically, -thinking of something else. Seeing a dreadful vision, -that made her despairing heart go out to the Virgin, for her -to save Raffaele from misfortune '<em>and in the hour of our death</em>,' -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[299]</a></span> -she caught herself saying aloud once. It was just then a -noise of wheels and a cracking of whips came from Capodimonte -Road, and Raffaele and three other youths, almost -the same age, appeared in a cab.</p> - -<p>'Oh, Our Lady of Sorrows!' sobbed out Carmela from -behind the window.</p> - -<p>Raffaele paid for the cab, and, contrary to the usual habit -in these country trips, that the driver always shares the -pleasures of the day, this time the horse turned round and -went back the way it came. The young fellows, with -trousers tight at the knee and caps hanging by one hair, -were now making a great uproar in the lower room, perhaps -because dinner was not ready. The boy quickly spread the -cloth on one of the tables which ought to have been shaded -by the leaves of the arbour, but it was bare. In the meanwhile, -quite calmly, these youths set to playing bowls, waiting -till the macaroni was ready. Raffaele especially went -about quietly, with that low-class ease that charmed Carmela's -heart.</p> - -<p>'May you be blessed!' she whispered, rather reassured by -that calmness.</p> - -<p>Now, seated at four sides of the table, pulling macaroni -into their plates from a big dish in the middle, Raffaele and -his friends ate straight on with youthful appetites, improved -by the wintry country air. They drank a lot, and often -lifted their glasses of bluish dark wine, and, looking fixedly -at each other, said something and drank it off at a gulp, -without winking. Carmela, though she heard no voices, -understood that they were drinking healths, or to the -success of something.</p> - -<p>Up till then, everything had gone on like a commonplace -joyous winter trip, on a fine sunny day in a quiet country -place: the inn, the host in the doorway, the boy serving the -table, and the four fellow-guests, looked perfectly easy, in -sympathy with the quietness around. But again there was -a noise of wheels from Ponte Rossi Road, and an ostentatious -whip-cracking. Raffaele and his friends looked up, as if out -of mere curiosity, while Carmela, cut to the heart by that -sound, felt her legs giving way, and she prayed the Lord -silently to give her the strength not to die just then.</p> - -<p>It was a party like the first one—of four young fellows -with light trousers, tight at the knees, and neat black -jackets, wearing their caps over one ear. Carmela recognised -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[300]</a></span> -the one that led the party—Ferdinando, called the -l'Ammartenato Teaser. He said something to the driver on -paying him; the man listened, bending down, then went off -slowly the road he had come, without turning his head. -The two parties looked straight at each other solemnly, and -bowed very punctiliously. Raffaele and his friends went -on eating quietly; the other four took off their hats and hung -them on the bare boughs. Macaroni was much quicker -served for them, perhaps because the host had got ready -enough for the two parties, so that at one time, as Raffaele's -friends were eating slower and Ferdinando's were hurrying -their mouthfuls, they got to the same stage, then went on -together to the next course, swallowing, in two gulps, pork -chops and lettuce salad, and drinking glasses of wine one -after another as if they were water. While they were -drinking, the two tables glanced at each other now and -then quite indifferently. In spite of the quantity of wine -swallowed they seemed to keep very cool; some of them -lay back in their chairs occasionally in a calm way. Still, -all that calm and free-and-easiness was the same at each -table, curiously alike, as if the two sets had made a tacit -agreement; but it fell short of the gaiety natural to Neapolitans -on an outing, when laughter, shouts, and songs rise to -heaven. Sometimes the youths round Raffaele, nicknamed -Farfariello, bent towards him, and he smiled proudly; it -was the only sign of cheerfulness in the company. Ferdinando—Ammartenato -as his nickname was—did not smile -even; his set tossed glasses of wine down their throats -always, not moving a muscle. Carmela looked on from -above; her lover's smiles, the wine drunk off by the two -sets, and their peaceful free-and-easiness, did not reassure -her. Amongst other things, she saw the movement of the -lips, but did not hear the words. It seemed to her that a -deep silence was between these people, who understood -each other by signs; it was a doleful silence, in the midst -of country peace. A slow, ever-increasing anguish oppressed -her breathing, as if her heart had contracted and only beat -at intervals; her whole will was in abeyance. She stood, -leaning with her forehead against the dusty window, rigid, -her sad eyes fixed on Raffaele's face, as if she wanted to -read what was passing through his mind. Now the inn-keeper -and his boy brought the fruit—that is to say, dried -chestnuts and a bundle of celery with white stalks and long, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[301]</a></span> -thin green leaves—and with it more wine. Then, all of a -sudden, after his father had whispered something in his ear, -the little boy took off his apron, put on his cap, and started -off running up the Ponte Rossi Road. As it was getting -near the end of the meal, Carmela felt her brain giving way; -she had one single desire growing in her mind to go down, -take Raffaele by the arm, and carry him off with her, afar, -where neither <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">cammorristi</i> nor <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">guappi</i> could reach. She dared -not. For a month before that Raffaele had been cold and -hard to her, avoiding her persistently, so that she got to -places he had been at always ten minutes after he had left. -He had let her know, too, that it was no use; in any case, -he would have nothing to do with her.</p> - -<p>'He might at least tell me why, and I would go away -satisfied,' she cried out, weeping, to those who had repeated -Raffaele's words.</p> - -<p>But she had not seen him for a month; in fact, if she -knew that two sets of Hooligans were going that day to a -mysterious appointment at the Barbassone inn at Ponte -Rossi, it was from an indiscretion of a chum of Raffaele's. -He had said it, looking her straight in the eyes, with a secret -meaning she could not help guessing, so that she left him at -once, and on foot, from her low-lying quarter, she had -dragged herself up there, panting, sorrowful, biting her lips, -not to cry out nor weep.</p> - -<p>She dared not go down; she felt Raffaele would abuse her -and chase her away rudely, as he had always done lately. -She shook at his angry voice and contemptuous words. -Now the dinner was coming to an end very quietly; the two -sets were smoking cigars, gazing into vacancy with the -solemn satisfaction of people who have dined well and are -getting ready to digest. For a time the peace that rose -from the surroundings was such, and the youths were all so -quiet, that for a moment Carmela felt her anguish soothed, -and she hoped it was a tragic dream. Only for a moment, -to fall deeper again into a sorrowful abyss, where the -moments passed with dramatic slowness.</p> - -<p>Ferdinando's party rose. The four young fellows, with -the usual cheap swell gestures, pulled up their trousers, -tightening the straps, dragged down their jackets, and set -their caps haughtily across their heads. They went away, -passing beside Raffaele's table solemnly; then they all -touched their hats, and the others answered, saying the same -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[302]</a></span> -word. Carmela could not bear what; it was 'Greeting.' -They went away; she gave a sigh of relief. But instead of -returning by Ponte Rossi, whence they came, and where -perhaps the carriage was waiting for them, Carmela saw -them go round the house, and one by one. She had run to -the window that looked on to the inn-keeper's garden and -the fields, and saw them disappear behind a green screen of -trees. Panting, she ran again to the other window, that -looked on to the inn-yard, where Raffaele's party were -getting ready to go off also. All was safe if they took the -Capodimonte Road, whence they had come. It would -only mean that there had been two dinners, with no after-thought -nor consequences. The preparations had been -somewhat slow, but at a signal from Raffaele all hurried, -while he, with a spent cigar in a corner of his mouth, paid -the reckoning quietly. He got up, stretching his arm for -his cap, which was hanging from a bough; in doing it his -waistcoat pulled up, and Carmela saw something shining at -his trousers belt. It was a revolver. Yet for a last moment -she still hoped. Perhaps they were going away peacefully -by the quiet country roads to the noisy town; and, at any -rate, Raffaele always carried a revolver, a small-sized one. -But in a moment the horrid fact she dreaded looked to her -like a certainty. Very quietly Raffaele and the other three -youths turned, not by Capodimonte Road, but behind the -inn, through the garden, following the same road as the -other set, and making up to them—that is to say, walking -quietly with their springy step one after the other. She -could bear it no longer; she felt something give way within. -She ran to the storeroom door; the man had locked her in, -evidently, for it would not open. She, wild, blind with grief -and rage, began to shake the door, which was old and worm-eaten, -so that it offered little resistance. The bolt the host -had drawn broke with the rattling, and she very nearly fell -on the landing from the shock. She went down the outside -stair at a bound, but on the last steps she found the host, -his shrivelled peasant's face very pale, for he had heard all -the noise. He stood in her way.</p> - -<p>'Where are you going?'</p> - -<p>'Let me pass—let go!'</p> - -<p>'Where are you going? Are you mad?'</p> - -<p>'Let me go, I say!'</p> - -<p>He caught hold of her wrists and looked her in the eyes.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[303]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Are you the woman they are going to kill each other -for?'</p> - -<p>'Holy Virgin, help me! Let me go!'</p> - -<p>'Do you want to get killed?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, yes! Let go of my wrists!'</p> - -<p>'Do you want them to kill you?'</p> - -<p>'It doesn't matter if they do,' she cried, slipping from -his grasp with a powerful wrench.</p> - -<p>Running, panting, sobbing, her hair loose, clapping on -the nape of her neck, her dress beating against her legs and -throwing her down, then getting up again, crying, filling -that serene country silence with her despair, she ran after -the two sets of men by the same road, turning behind the -same hill with green trees. She found herself in a narrow -country road, and instinctively followed it, feeling it was the -right one. She went on and on very swiftly, bursting with -sobs, her ears alert, questioning the silence. But on the -right a harsh, sharp sound made her jump; just after it -came another shot, then another. She rushed into the field -where the two files of low-class duellists were going on firing -at each other at a short range. Throwing herself on Raffaele, -she shrieked wildly.</p> - -<p>'Go away!' he said, trying to free himself.</p> - -<p>'No, I will not!' she shrieked.</p> - -<p>'Go away!'</p> - -<p>'I will not.'</p> - -<p>'It is not for you; go away!'</p> - -<p>'That doesn't matter.'</p> - -<p>All this took place in a minute; the shots went on echoing -dolefully in the country air. In an interval she slipped -down on the ground, her arms spread out, with a bullet in -her temple. Carmela's fall was the signal for flight, especially -as, the virginal stillness of the country air having been -broken by the many revolver-shots, people from Capodimonte -village were heard arriving by Ponte Rossi Road. -Hurriedly the two sets went off across the fields by a marked -path, and quickly disappeared. On the duelling-ground -only Carmela was left lying on the grass, blood flowing from -her temple. Beside her, Raffaele, looking pale, tried to -stanch the wound with a wet handkerchief. But the blood -went on spouting like a fountain, making a red pool round -the girl's head. She opened her eyes feebly.</p> - -<p>'Tell me who it was for.'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[304]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Don't think about that. Think of your own health,' he -said in an agitated way, looking around.</p> - -<p>'People are coming now; make your escape,' she said, -thinking only of his safety.</p> - -<p>'Can I leave you like this?'</p> - -<p>'It does not matter; someone will help me. Fly, or you -will be arrested.'</p> - -<p>'Adieu,' he said, feeling relieved. 'We will see each other -again at Pellegrini Hospital; I will come and ask for you.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, yes,' she whispered, shutting her eyes and opening -them again. 'Fly! Adieu.'</p> - -<p>He rushed off, too, very quickly, without looking back; -she followed him with her glance, half sitting up, holding -the handkerchief to her forehead, while the blood flowed -down her neck and shoulders into her lap. She was alone. -She was holding her head down in her great weakness, -when some peasants, a magistrate from Capodimonte with -some police, and a gardener from the Royal Palace grounds -came up at the same moment. They had to put her into a -chair that the Barbassone inn-keeper had brought out, and -carry her. They went slowly, the same road as she had -come. She lay with her legs swinging against the chair, -her arms limp, her head going hither and thither, and at -every shake of the chair spilling big drops of blood on the -ground. Before the inn, where the two tables with wine-stained -cloths still stood, the chair was put down.</p> - -<p>'Would you like anything?' asked the magistrate, a -swarthy man.</p> - -<p>'Only a little water to drink,' she said, opening her eyes -slowly, as if her eyelids were too heavy.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile they put a cold-water bandage on the wound -till a cab could be got to take her to Pellegrini Hospital.</p> - -<p>'How do you feel?' asked the magistrate. He wanted -to go on with the inquiry, as he saw that her strength was -failing.</p> - -<p>'I feel better; it is nothing.'</p> - -<p>'Who was it did this to you?'</p> - -<p>'Nobody,' she said quietly.</p> - -<p>'Who did this to you? Tell me! I will find out, at any -rate,' the magistrate insisted.</p> - -<p>'No one touched me' Carmela muttered.</p> - -<p>'It was a duel, was it not? How many were there?' the -magistrate asked loudly, his heart hardened by now.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[305]</a></span></p> - -<p>'I don't know.'</p> - -<p>'How many were there?'</p> - -<p>'I know nothing about it.'</p> - -<p>'Take care, or afterwards I will have you put in prison.'</p> - -<p>'It doesn't matter,' she said, shutting her eyes.</p> - -<p>'It was for you, was it, that these shots were fired? -Was it for your sake?'</p> - -<p>'No, no, it was not,' she said, her face suddenly growing -sorrowful.</p> - -<p>'Who was it for, then?'</p> - -<p>'I don't know; I know nothing,' she added decisively, as -if she was not going to answer any more.</p> - -<p>The magistrate shrugged his shoulders in a rage. But -another inquirer was coming along Ponte Rossi Road—a -woman dressed in green cloth, embroidered in pink, and a -pomegranate bodice, her shiny black hair dressed high, and -cheeks covered with rouge. It was Filomena, Carmela's unfortunate -sister.</p> - -<p>She came up panting, her face discomposed, her hair not -kept up by the silver comb, the patent-leather shoes quite -dusty, holding a handkerchief at her mouth to keep back -her sobs. When she saw the crowd evidently round a -wounded person, she rushed into the group; crying out -wildly, and pushing people aside, she fell on her knees -by her sister, showing the self-forgetfulness of a frightful -sorrow, and groaned out:</p> - -<p>'Carmela dear, how did this happen?'</p> - -<p>The other opened her eyes—her face showed a sorrowful -amazement; she tried to caress Filomena's black hair with -her weak hands, but her livid fingers trembled.</p> - -<p>'How did it happen?' Filomena exclaimed, sobbing noisily, -while warm tears ran down her cheeks and washed off the -rouge.</p> - -<p>'It happened just like that,' said Carmela, and nothing -more.</p> - -<p>'Carmela, who had the audacity to do this to you? Who -was the assassin? Bring him to me,' cried Filomena.</p> - -<p>'Try and find out the truth,' the magistrate whispered -in the woman's ear. He made a sign to the others to -stand aside for a little and leave the sisters alone. Now -they had bound the girl's head up roughly, and under the -bandages her face seemed tinier, more worn, as if rubbed -down smaller by the hand.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[306]</a></span></p> - -<p>'My sweet sister, my sweet sister!' Filomena went on -saying, still kneeling before Carmela.</p> - -<p>'Don't cry—why do you cry?' said the wounded girl, in -a curious, solemn, deep voice.</p> - -<p>'Tell me who did it!' Filomena said her. 'It was for -Raffaele, was it not? Was there a fight? I knew it—I -knew it; but I did not get here in time. Holy Virgin, why -did you not let me get here in time? I have to see my -sister like this because of not getting here in time.'</p> - -<p>A livid look had come over the wounded girl's face on -hearing this; her eyes had got wide open. With a violent -effort she raised her head a little, and said to Filomena, -staring at her:</p> - -<p>'Tell me the truth.'</p> - -<p>'What do you wish, sweetheart?'</p> - -<p>'I want you to tell me—but think of the state I am in, -think of that first.... I want you to tell me all.'</p> - -<p>Then the other, fallen into deeper affliction, shook all -over and held her tongue.</p> - -<p>'They have had a duel,' Carmela brought out with -difficulty, keeping her eyes on her sister. 'There were eight -of them; Raffaele was there, and Ferdinando the Ammartenato—they -were fighting for a woman.'</p> - -<p>'Holy Virgin!' Filomena said, going on weeping with -her face in her hands.</p> - -<p>'Who was the woman?' asked the wounded girl, putting -her hand on her sister's head, and almost obliging her to raise -it. Filomena only looked at her, her eyes filled with tears.</p> - -<p>'It was you—it was you,' the wounded girl said in a -cavernous voice.</p> - -<p>The bad woman threw herself back, raised her arms -heavenward, and cried:</p> - -<p>'I am a murderer—I am the cause of your death!'</p> - -<p>Carmela's face got clay colour; in a whisper, stammering, -as if she could not use her tongue, she too said:</p> - -<p>'Murderer! murderer!'</p> - -<p>'You are right—you are right, Carmela: I am a wretch!' -Filomena cried, stretching out her arms. A moment after, -the blood soaked the bandage round the wounded girl's -head, and blood began to drop from her nose. The magistrate, -who had run up, frowned, and signed to the cabman, -who had come forward to take the girl to Pellegrini Hospital, -to stop.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[307]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Forgive me, dear,' Filomena wept out, cast down at the -foot of the chair. But Carmela no longer heard her. Blood -flowed from her mouth and trickled down from her nose, -falling on her breast; the earthy pallor of the face spread to -the neck; her half-open eyes showed the whites only; her -hands, lying on her knees, pulled at her wretched, dull dress, -as if searching, with that motion that gives a frightful -impression of terror and sorrow. All of a sudden she opened -her mouth—her breath was failing her.</p> - -<p>'Carmela darling!' Filomena cried out, understanding, -getting up on her knees, panting. But from her mouth, -black already, a loud, long cry came out, as profound as -if it came from her tortured vitals, sorrowful as if all the -complaints of a life-long agony were in it—a cry so loud -and doleful it seemed to shake everything around—men and -things—and make the neighbourhood lose colour. Carmela's -light hand was still vaguely searching for something, and -ended by finding Filomena's head, where it rested, grew -cold and stiffened. The dead woman's face was quite cold, -but it was tranquil now. Silently bent forward under the -forgiving hand, the survivor sat there, and the country -around was silent also.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[308]</a></span></p> - -</div> - - - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XVIII</h2> - -<p class="p2">TO LET</p> - - -<p>The fourth of January, 188—, very early in the morning, the -porter's wife at Rossi Palazzo, formerly called Cavalcanti, -put a step-ladder against the architrave of the entrance -door, to the right, and stuck three bits of paper on the pipernina -stone, with 'To Let' printed on each piece. The three -notices said that three large suites of rooms, so many in each -suite, were available, and could be seen at such an hour. -Coming down the ladder, the woman sighed dolefully. For -years none of the Rossi Palazzo suites had been to let; everyone -was very comfortable and stayed on. She had got to -know them all well. In the four months houses are looked -for in Naples, from the fourth of January to the fourth of -May, she had peacocked about at her ease always. She -had not to go up and down stairs with house-hunters, as the -Rosa Mansion woman next door or the Latilla woman had -to do; she did not risk changing tenants that liked her for -new ones that might be unpleasant. Instead of which, this -very year three large flats were empty at the same time: -one on the first floor—the Fragalàs'; two suites on the -second floor—Dr. Amati's and the Marquis di Formosa's. -It was a real catastrophe for the porter's wife, who never -would get any rest for four months, and get no pay for her -trouble. Altogether, three large suites to be empty was -really a misfortune. 'Just like my luck,' said the porter's -wife to those who condoled with her and asked the reason of -these changes. She told the reason the tenants were going -at once, so that people should not believe Rossi Palazzo was -damp, that it threatened to fall, or that the owner had got an -idea of raising the rents. Nothing of the sort. It was misfortunes. -All are liable to them. It was natural Don -Cesare Fragalà and that good soul Donna Luisa should -leave the house where they had been married. It was -splendid, really—a gorgeous apartment, but they could not -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[309]</a></span> -pay the high rent any longer. The husband had gambled -everything away at the lottery; he was loaded with debts -and ruined. Also, his confectioner's shop in Santo Spirito -Square had gone out of his possession, for his wife, fearing -bankruptcy was at hand, had decided to sell everything: -jewels, plate, and furniture were all to be sold, everything -luxurious got rid of, and a composition be made with their -creditors. They were to go into a small house, and look -out for a clerk's place for her husband, to keep the family -agoing. The porter's wife and her gossiping friend remembered -the two gorgeous parties for Cesare's marriage with -Luisella and at little Agnesina's birth—all the great style of -these receptions, the sweets, wine, and ices. It was an -overthrow.</p> - -<p>'Good gracious!' muttered the inquirer, man or woman. -'Did he lose all that at the lottery?'</p> - -<p>'He lost all. They are left without a farthing, if they -pay their debts; and Donna Luisa insists on paying. She -may die from it, but she will pay.'</p> - -<p>'What a scoundrel of a husband she has got!'</p> - -<p>'We are not masters of ourselves,' the porter's wife prosed -solemnly; 'we are all flesh.'</p> - -<p>She was sorry, very, that the Fragalàs were going off to -who knew where. She would never see them again. Most -of all, she was sorry for little Agnesina; she was so good, -placid, and obedient. She already went to the infants' -school, tiny little body! Her mother went with her and -brought her back carefully every day. They were a good -sort, and it had to be seen who would come in their place.</p> - -<p>The Cavalcantis' going away was a thing that had been -foreseen for some time. The Marquis had paid no rent for -several months, and Signor Rossi had stood it. He had -allowed something to be paid on account now and then, -partly because the Marquis di Formosa had been the old -owner of the house and sold it to him, and he did not want -to turn him out forcibly. How patient he had been! Now -he could stand it no longer. In the Cavalcanti household -they were often short of five francs for food. The Marquis -had carried off the most necessary furniture piece by piece, -selling it to a dealer in Baracchi Square. Donna Bianca -Maria, poor soul! often dined off a hot dish that her aunt, -Sister Maria degli Angioli, sent her from the Sacramentiste -convent. The two old servants, Giovanni and Margherita, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[310]</a></span> -tried for outside work. The woman darned stockings and -silk-knitted goods; the man copied papers for a magistrate's -clerk. They were in such wretchedness that but for feeling -shame the door-keeper would often carry up a dish of her -macaroni or hot vegetable soup; but she dared not. They -were gentlefolk, and bore their wretchedness silently. Besides, -for want of a dower, Donna Bianca Maria Cavalcanti -had been rejected as a sister of charity. By the new laws -it was not allowable to go into other monasteries or orders; -the new Government would not even let one be a nun.</p> - -<p>'Then are they going away in May?' asked the inquirer -rather pityingly. 'Where are they going?'</p> - -<p>'Who can say? But I can tell you that her ladyship -will not see that day. She is so ill; she wastes away like -a taper; she says nothing, but when she has the strength -to show at the window, she looks like a shadow. She does -not go out now; indeed, she has no clothes to go out with, -and if she had them she would not have the strength to -go a step. Poor lady! to think her father could have got -her married if he had chosen.'</p> - -<p>'To whom? Why would he not allow it?'</p> - -<p>Here began the woman's third sorrowful recital, the -departure of the third tenant, Dr. Amati, that she earned -such a lot of money by, from his sudden summonses to -sick people. Alas! he was going away; indeed, he had -gone, putting her on the street, poor woman, for she would -never earn another farthing. Just fancy that Dr. Amati, -who was so rich now, and earned as much as he liked, -just out of charity, he was such a good man, had wanted -to marry the Marchesina, she was so sweet and lovely; -and she had been in love with the doctor, too, from her -soul, because he had helped her in her illness—because she -had known no other man—in short, because he only could -get her out of that beggary. Well, it was not to be -believed, but the Marquis di Formosa had said 'No,' and -had persisted in saying 'No,' always making his daughter -lose that bit of good luck she would never have again.</p> - -<p>'What do you say?' her questioner cried out. 'It seems -impossible.'</p> - -<p>'Indeed, yes, it looks like a lie, but the Marquis di -Formosa said "No." He felt quite honoured and pleased -that Dr. Amati had asked for his daughter's hand, but some -forbears of his long ago had left a written paper, in which -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[311]</a></span> -it was said the last woman child of the family was not to -marry—she must die a maid; and if this command was not -carried out, a great punishment from God would come on -her. No one knew what tears the Marchesina had shed, -but her father had been firm. So that Dr. Amati—one -evening they had had a great dispute—to avoid further -occasions for anger, and to get the idea out of his head, had -taken a month's leave from the hospital, left all his patients, -and gone off to his native village to see his mother. Then -he came back to Naples, but he would not even put his -foot in Rossi Palazzo; he had gone to live in a furnished -house in Chiaia Road. At Rossi Palazzo his flat was closed -with all his furniture and books which the doctor no longer -read; sometimes the housekeeper came to dust, and went -away again. In a short time now the furniture and books -would be carried away, too, and in May the flat would be -empty. Poor Donna Bianca Maria, how often she had seen -her come to the window of the inner court and gaze on Dr. -Amati's closely-shut balcony! She made one's heart sore, -that poor child of the Virgin, wasting away with sickness, -melancholy, and wretchedness. Really it looked as if there -was no more oil in the lamp. Margherita, her maid, when -she spoke about her, cast down her eyes not to show she -was weeping. But the Marquis was not wrong to obey -his grandsire's wishes; there is no trifling with God's -vengeance.'</p> - -<p>'Ah! it was written,' remarked the gossip approvingly, -quite thoughtful. 'It was written, my dear. When it is -God's will, what is to be done?'</p> - -<p>House-hunters began to flock in to inspect the flats to let -in Rossi Palazzo, and the door-keeper's hard times began—it -was never-ending, from ten in the morning to four in the -afternoon, up and down the stairs. Every time a family -arrived in front of the office and made the usual inquiries, -she shook her head and got up, sighing, to go with them to -the first or second floor. She went in front, going up very -slowly, turning round to chat with the usual familiarity of -small people in Naples, making her keys rattle, as they hung -from her waist; asking if they wanted to see the doctor's -rooms, for he had given her charge of them. Monotonously -wandering through the huge rooms, rather severely furnished, -where the stern moral impression of a great science—a great -will—was still present, and all the human misery that had -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[312]</a></span> -come there to ask help, she praised up the house and Dr. -Amati, the famous doctor that all Naples admired, or, as -she said, the whole world.</p> - -<p>'Ah,' said the visitors, much impressed; 'and why did -he leave this house, then?'</p> - -<p>Very hastily she replied that the doctor was going to -marry and needed a larger house, or that his business had -gone in another direction, or that he was going to a smaller -apartment, having taken a consulting-room at the hospital; -in short, any lie that came into her head—such hurried, -unlikely lies that the house-hunters, endowed with natural -suspiciousness, would not take it in at all, and interrupted -her with: 'All right; we will come back.' But they did -not come back at all; indeed, the solemn, solitary look of -the flat, with too many books, too many surgical appliances, -and even the chair-bed of black leather that the sick lay on -to be examined, that looked like the first step towards the -tomb, left rather a sad impression, so they went away -hurriedly, speaking low, still more alarmed by the doctor -being away, the feared and respected god of medicine. -They fled, never to return, a cloud over their spirits, not at -all anxious to come back to be dispirited by these solemn, -thought-inspiring surroundings.</p> - -<p>The door-keeper, standing in the doorway, saw them go -off quickly towards Toledo Street, where there was movement, -light, and gaiety, and in spite of their vague promises, -hesitatingly made, she knew they would never come back. -'Nothing is arranged, dear,' she often said, with a wearied -air, to the neighbouring door-keeper at the Rosa Mansion. -Nothing was settled, even for the flats that the Fragalà -and Cavalcanti families were leaving. It looked as if the -house-hunters noticed the bad luck that came from these -two flats, where so many tears had been shed, where so -many were still being shed. In the Fragalàs' house, brave, -melancholy Luisella had got rid of a great part of the furniture; -the fine red drawing-room was now bare of its old -brocade couches, and the child slept in its parents' room. -Their way of living was of a sudden meaner, smaller, being -restricted to the bedroom and dining-room. Sometimes the -visitors found the family at dinner at two o'clock. Cesare -Fragalà kept his eyes on his plate, eating stolidly. Luisella -said nothing, but kept rolling bread-pellets in her fingers. -Little Agnesina, well-behaved and good as usual, looked at -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[313]</a></span> -her father and mother alternately, taking care to make no -noise with her spoon and fork, not to disturb them. When -the visitors came in, the father of the family got paler and -the mother cast down her eyes. Both of them at each visit -felt having to leave the house: their wounds smarted and -bled afresh. The little one looked at them, and said over in -a whisper:</p> - -<p>'Mamma, mamma!'</p> - -<p>The visitors, led in by the door-keeper, felt they were in -the way, and excused themselves, going on into other rooms -while the woman spoke volubly to take off their attention. -When they saw the drawing-room, parlour, and lobby -empty, they gave queer glances at each other, so that the -door-keeper shivered with impatience, cursing in her heart -all who go away from houses and those who go looking for -them, also those who go round to show them—that is to -say, herself, who had this hard fate. The visitors asked the -stock questions rather suspiciously:</p> - -<p>'Why are they going away?'</p> - -<p>Then she made up her mind and whispered:</p> - -<p>'They have failed in business.'</p> - -<p>'Ah, is that it?' exclaimed the visitors, much interested.</p> - -<p>On the stair she gave particulars—told the reason of the -failure, spoke of their former riches and the want of any -comforts now; told about Signora Luisella's courage and -her husband's rage for gambling on the lottery, and poor -little Agnesina's good behaviour. She seemed to understand -having come into the world and grown up at a bad -season. The house-hunters listened full of interest, with -that skin-deep emotion peculiar to Southerners; but from -what they had seen, as well as from what they had heard -from the door-keeper, they got a singular impression of evil -fate—a doom weighing down an innocent, good family; a hard -destiny, destroying all the sources of happiness and energy.</p> - -<p>The house-hunters turned their backs on the Fragalà -household and Rossi Palazzo slowly; but they still felt sad, -and spoke to each other about there being implacable, -unforeseen, overpowering disasters, sometimes coming on -humanity. Some attributed it to perfidious fate, some to -the evil eye; others were philosophical over the passions -of humanity, especially for gambling, still repeating the -phrase that includes all the indulgence and forgiveness of -Naples' folk: 'We are not our own masters.'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[314]</a></span></p> - -<p>It was difficult to get into the Marquis di Formosa's flat. -Often Margherita objected to anyone seeing the house, in -spite of its being the right hours for visits. The door-keeper -talked her over, feeling rather annoyed. She raised her -voice and asked, 'How ever would a house be let, if no one -could get in to see it?' Sometimes she managed to get in -by slipping through the half-open door. All stopped speaking -at once, for from the freezing bare lobby to the bare -frozen drawing-room there was such cold, such a smell of -old dust displaced, that it gave one a shudder. Big dull -stains on the walls marked the outline of large pieces of -furniture that had once been there, which the Marquis had -sold to use what they fetched for staking on the lottery. -One saw the big hooks and nails that the pictures had been -hung from, and a heap of old yellow paper lay on the ground -in a corner of one empty room. Where curtains had been -fastened to the doors and balcony windows, there were -holes in the plaster, for they seemed to have been violently -torn away.</p> - -<p>The chapel, too, had not a saint left. Our Lady of -Sorrows and the Ecce Homo had been sold, also the vases -and ornaments—even the fine napkins with old lace, so that -the despoiled altar had a doleful, desecrated look. Sometimes -the visitors, on going through the house, met a slight -girlish figure in black, her shoulders wrapped in a shabby -shawl, the lady's heavy black tresses seeming to make her -face still more bloodless. She gazed at the visitors with her -sorrowful eyes as if she did not know what was going on; a -shade of grief reanimated them for a moment when she -remembered it meant they had to leave that roof, their only -refuge. The woman said in a whisper, 'It is the Marchesina!' -nothing else, and that apparition was like the outline -of an irreparable disaster. Sometimes the house-hunters, -followed by Margherita and the door-keeper, came to a -closed door. The waiting-woman rather hesitated, but on -a hint from the door-keeper she made up her mind to knock.</p> - -<p>'My lady, may we come in?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, yes; come in,' a feeble voice answered.</p> - -<p>Then all saw a wretched maidenly room, freezing with -cold, where a pale creature in black, wrapped in a worn -shawl, was seated by the bedside, or getting up quickly from -her kneeling-desk. Then, abashed, they just gave a quick -look round, muttered vaguely some excuse, and went off, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[315]</a></span> -the maiden following them with her thoughtful, sorrowing -eyes. On the stair they dared to speak. They asked the -woman, as if speaking of dead people or things:</p> - -<p>'<em>What was their name?</em>'</p> - -<p>'The Cavalcantis; he is a Marquis,' said the door-keeper.</p> - -<p>Then the visitors would go off, taking with them a deep -impression of people and things that are extinct.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[316]</a></span></p> - -</div> - - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XIX</h2> - -<p class="p2">DON CRESCENZIO'S TRIALS</p> - - -<p>Coming out of the Finance Department, from the Secretary's -room, having got to the lobby, Don Crescenzio staggered -and had a singing in his ears.</p> - -<p>'Do you feel ill?' asked the usher anxiously, for he knew -him.</p> - -<p>'No, it is nothing; it is from this first heat of spring,' he -stammered. And he brought his hands across his forehead, -which was covered with cold drops of sweat. Still, to try -to look at ease, he pulled out a cigar and lit it.</p> - -<p>'Is business good?' the usher asked the lottery banker, -while he was carefully putting out the match.</p> - -<p>'Well, just so-so,' said the other, giving a sketchy sort of -smile.</p> - -<p>'It would be grand to get the right figures,' the usher -muttered; 'one would like to spit in this infamous Government's -face,' he added in a whisper.</p> - -<p>'But no one knows the right figures—no one does,' the -other cried out as he went away. But when he was under -the portico and got out to the open air, he felt dizzy again; -he had a singing in his ears and nearly fell. He had to -stand a good minute, leaning on the stone posts of San -Giacomo Palazzo door, which opens on to Toledo Street, -seeing the usual crowd in that thoroughfare swim before his -eyes. It was larger than usual, from its being the first fine -spring day, which brought out more people than usual. He -only saw a confused crowd without distinct outlines. He -heard a great noise without distinguishing either words or -voices. Only, while he went on smiling instinctively, he -saw sharply marked in his mind the corner of the writing-room -where the Finance Secretary had turned his cold, severe -glance on him. He heard the exact sound of the Secretary's -words ringing out as clear as if they had just struck the -drum of his ear. The Secretary had been very stern with -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[317]</a></span> -him. He could no longer be lenient to the lottery banker, -for he had been too lenient already; he did not want to -seem an accomplice of his fraud. 'Fraud,' he said and repeated, -in spite of the deadly pallor that came over Don -Crescenzio's face on hearing the cruel word.</p> - -<p>One cannot play tricks with the State; it gives no credit. -Every week lately, when Don Crescenzio came to hand over -the profits, he was short of money, and had had to ask the -Minister of Finance at Rome to make allowances for him -and give him time. This had happened every week. But -the State is not a bank which can grant delays. It makes -others wait, but it will not. Every time he mentioned the -State the word filled the Secretary's mouth severely and -sonorously, and he frowned a little. Don Crescenzio -listened, with his head down, starting when he heard named -that mysterious being who gets all and gives nothing; who -has no heart or bowels, and holds out open hands to take -and carry off everything. Ah! the Secretary had been -decisive in his cruelty. By Wednesday he must pay up all -in full—stakes and the debt in arrears; if not, the downfall -was unavoidable: the State would seize the caution money -and prosecute Don Crescenzio for his indebtedness. He -had just given one sob at the Secretary's last words.</p> - -<p>'You lose the caution money, and you go to prison if you -don't pay up,' the worthy official wound up his remarks -with.</p> - -<p>Don Crescenzio had set to imploring then. He had a -wife and children; if he had been so foolish as to give the -gamblers credit, was he to be ruined for that? If they -would give him time, he would force the men to pay; he -would give back the State the uttermost farthing. He was -an honest man; in short, he was cheated, slain.</p> - -<p>'You gamble too, and on credit,' the Secretary said -haughtily.</p> - -<p>'I only did it to try and recoup myself.'</p> - -<p>'An honest lottery keeper never plays himself. It is -immoral in a citizen to play.'</p> - -<p>'Then the State is immoral also.'</p> - -<p>'The State cannot be immoral, remember that. Think -of how you are to pay; I can do no more for you.'</p> - -<p>Still, he had begged, sobbing, that they would not cast -him into prison; indeed, they could not require a man's -death, being men and Christians. But he had made that -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[318]</a></span> -scene before twice, and had managed to get a month's, a -fortnight's grace. This time the Secretary looked so -freezingly at him that Don Crescenzio had understood. -This was the end, really. He must either pay or go to -prison. He took leave, always feeling that word <em>Wednesday</em>, -<em>Wednesday</em>, cut into his brain. It was true he had a young -wife and two babies; a small family, that with Neapolitan -good-heartedness and good-nature he had accustomed to -living freely, going from a fine holiday dinner at home to a -grander country excursion, and to celebrate all the feast-days -with good eating. They gave each other presents of -heavy gold jewellery, and, though contenting themselves -with hired carriages, had always a secret wish to keep a -carriage of their own; and he bought earrings, rings, and -brooches for his wife, and presented her with shiny jet -mantles such as our towns-folk love. And all this came -while living off the income from the lottery bank; indeed, -he speculated a little with Government money, but -did not gamble on the lottery ever. This was past, the -time of purity and innocence. When had he staked the -first time—he, who ought to have kept himself from that -contagion, and only lived off the lottery, without letting -it fasten on him, live off it as one may drink poison without -dying of it, though the same poison laid on an open wound -will kill? When had he first staked? He did not remember -now; he saw confusedly a great <em>Wednesday</em> stand out with -such vivid heat that it seemed like a live coal, as if it must -burn him. It was all a confusion, in which the mental disorder -of the Cabalists who crowded into his shop, touching -him with their feverish hands and infecting him, and their -money—got God knows how or where—passing from their -hands to his, all gave him the impression of a tragedy. -That mental malady that burned in their blood, young and -old, rich and poor, powerful and insignificant, had passed on -to him; from being with them, breathing their atmosphere, -it had soaked through everything, and come into his very -life. First of all, greed of gain had made him give credit to -the Cabalists, keeping back always so much per cent. off -their stakes when they played on credit, while he asked for -delay from the Government; then, as the deviations became -continually larger, as the hole got deeper till there was a -precipice down to it, he began to gamble too, unlucky -wretch, tempting Fate, having the delusion he was in her -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[319]</a></span> -favour, and playing on credit, with the huge delusion that -he might win a large, an immense sum.</p> - -<p>Ah! the unlucky wretch, he knew quite well that hardly -anyone ever wins. He was well acquainted with the frightful -law of averages, that shows that winning is so rare it is -difficult to find cases of it. It is an infinitesimal chance, -like one planet meeting another every two or three hundred -years by inflexible sidereal laws. He knew well that -Government always wins, always; that it takes sixteen -million francs from Naples alone every year—from all Italy, -sixty million of francs. But what did that signify? He -went on giving credit to the Cabalists; he showed at their -meetings; he lent a hand to imprison Don Pasqualino, -being blinded himself. The vulgar luxury of his house -increased; his wife got fat, she was red and shiny from -eating too much, and now she was going to have another -child. She wore a cream silk dress covered with lace; her -fat hands, laden with rings, lay on her already rounded -figure with that quietly satisfied air of women easy in their -feelings. What a disaster if on Wednesday he did not -bring the money to the Secretary! He, his wife and children, -and the one to be born, would be in wretchedness, and he -himself in prison.</p> - -<p>Now, every time the word 'Wednesday' came to the -mind of the handsome lottery banker, with his well-kept -chestnut beard and white hands, a little warm blood flowed -into his pale cheeks, and he felt them burn like two flames -of fire. He had dragged himself away from the San -Giacomo doorposts, and was going among the crowd, -letting himself be carried along, feeling a slight dizziness -that came from his being wrapt up always in the same -maddening idea. He must do something, gain money, try -and get it from those who owed it to him and had it, so that -on Wednesday he and his family would not be ruined. -Where was he to go? He must look for money at any -cost; he would drag it from his debtors' vitals. He was -not going to die for them; he would not go to San Francesco -for these four scoundrels, who had drawn him into dishonest -courses. Money, money was what he wanted; he thirsted, -hungered for it; it was his soul—his body asked for that -only. Money, or he would die; that was all.</p> - -<p>Now, having made up his mind, he set out on the search -for some of those indebted to him. They had gradually all -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[320]</a></span> -deserted his shop, not being able to stand his constant -demands for money. They took to some other lottery bank -the few pence they managed to get hold of by some dark -miracle, God knows how or where. Out of fear for his -just anger, they had even taken away his profits, ungrateful -now, as well as dishonest. However, he knew where they -all lived; he wished to set on them; he would not let them -go till they felt his despair as if it was their own. He would -wait at their homes, at their doors, in the streets they went -through; he would speak to them, shout at them, and weep. -He would give them such a fright that the State money -would be got out of them, dragged out by his rush of despair. -It was a question of life and death; his wife and children -were not to be sent to beggary because he had been too -easy, too weak, too much of a boy. He must get the money—he -must. The crowd had now carried him to the upper -part of Toledo Street, while he was making up a good plan -in his head how to carry out best this burning desire to save -himself in a way likely to effect his purpose. Let us see: -where would he go first that springtide noon? Where -would he say his first word? He must make no mistake; -he must try and strike a sure blow, or otherwise.... He -could not think of non-success; it was a notion he could not -bear. Now he had stopped in Carità Square, fixing his -eyes, which had a thick cloud before them, on Carlo Poerio's -statue. The people passing hustled him on all sides; the -shouts of street-sellers and voices of passers-by struck him -as a vague, indistinct noise. He thought a minute of going -to the Marquis di Formosa's, the person most largely indebted -to him; but amongst them all the Marquis was -the one he was sorriest for, from his own misfortunes; also -he was the one least likely to have money. Now, Don -Crescenzio did not want to begin by being unkind to an -unhappy man, nor did he want to make a bad start; he -was too much afraid of not succeeding—he was too discouraged. -He would go last to the Marquis di Formosa—afterwards, -as a last resource. The safest of those he had -given credit to was Ninetto Costa, the stock-broker—the -safest because, in spite of his falling behind with his payments, -he always could get money to borrow; some still -believed in his star. Ninetto Costa had got into debt several -times with him, but had always paid until the last time, -when it was for rather a large sum; but for three weeks -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[321]</a></span> -past he had got so out of pocket he could not give a farthing -to Don Crescenzio. What did it matter? Costa was a -moneyed man.</p> - -<p>The lottery banker went forward towards the Exchange, -knowing this was an hour that Ninetto Costa would be -there for certain. But among the band of bankers, stockbrokers, -merchants, and outside brokers, who were chattering, -talking things over, and vociferating, he looked vainly for -him for a quarter of an hour. Then he asked two or three -men for him, and got a bad reception. Some shrugged their -shoulders, others gave an ironical smile, and all set at once -to speak of their own business, leaving Don Crescenzio alone. -He, who with the extraordinary trustingness of people in -desperation had gone in there quite quieted down, already -sure of a good result, felt a burning from his mouth to the -pit of his stomach. But where was Ninetto Costa, then? -He remembered having gone to call on him once at Carolina -Road, where the smart stock-broker had a set of rooms -furnished with striking youthful luxury; but he had changed -his house some time before—it was at the beginning of his -downfall. Now Don Crescenzio remembered having gone -with him one evening, on leaving the meeting in Nardones -Road, up Taverna Penta Road to a very ordinary house -there, which Costa was reduced to, just opposite San -Giacomo Road. He must find him, at any rate, whether -alive or dead. Ninetto Costa would give him the eleven -hundred francs he owed him, and at least a part of the debt -to Government would be paid; a small part, it is true, but -something, at least. He went up again towards Taverna -Penta Road, and the sulky door-keeper looked at him, and -said:</p> - -<p>'Fourth-floor.'</p> - -<p>'But is he at home?'</p> - -<p>'I don't know,' she grumbled.</p> - -<p>Patiently, determined not to be discouraged by anything, -he went up the narrow, steep stair, and from the landings -and doors came out the sound of children's whining and -women's quarrelling voices and noisy sewing-machines. On -Ninetto Costa's door was a torn visiting-card fastened up by -four pins. He knocked twice. No one came; there was -no sound from inside. He knocked louder, the third time—nothing -yet. The fourth time he gave the bell a hard -pull, and a very light step could be heard; then no sound -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[322]</a></span> -nor movement, as if the person who had come to the door -was listening intently.</p> - -<p>'Don Ninetto, it is I. Open—especially as I know that -you are in the house, and I won't go away,' the lottery -banker said in a loud voice.</p> - -<p>There was a few minutes' pause again. Then the door -opened softly, and the stock-broker's face appeared, sadly -altered. Now all his youthfulness, prolonged by high living -and cosmetics, had fled. His hair was sparse on the temples -and on the top of his head. Two flabby, yellowish bags -underlined his eyes, and thousands of small wrinkles came -down in all directions, marking the face indelibly. The -jacket that hardly covered him had the collar turned up, as -if he were cold or wished to hide his linen.</p> - -<p>'Is it you?' he asked, with a sickly smile.</p> - -<p>He brought Don Crescenzio into the parlour, a shabby -lodging-house sitting-room with red chair-covers and curtains -dulled by smoke, and sat down opposite to him, looking at -him with dull eyes which had lost all expression.</p> - -<p>'It is I. I went to look for you at the Exchange. Have -you not been there to-day?' Don Crescenzio asked, feeling a -burning at his stomach again.</p> - -<p>'No, I did not go to-day.'</p> - -<p>'Why not?'</p> - -<p>'No matter.'</p> - -<p>'Have you not been there for some time?'</p> - -<p>'Not for—yes ... for three or four days.'</p> - -<p>'What have you been doing?' Don Crescenzio asked -anxiously.</p> - -<p>'Nothing,' said the other, with a gesture that was too clear.</p> - -<p>'Have you gone bankrupt?'</p> - -<p>Ninetto Costa shut his eyes, shivering, as if he did not -want to see something; then he said:</p> - -<p>'Yes, I have.'</p> - -<p>'This is ruin, ruin!' shouted Don Crescenzio, throwing up -his arms heavenwards.</p> - -<p>The other bit his moustache convulsively.</p> - -<p>'At least, you have kept something. That eleven -hundred francs you owe me—you must have kept it, have -you not?'</p> - -<p>Ninetta Costa looked at him dreamily.</p> - -<p>'If I do not get this eleven hundred francs by Tuesday -evening, I must go prison!' the lottery banker shrieked out.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[323]</a></span></p> - -<p>Ninetto Costa hung his head.</p> - -<p>'I must go to prison, and my family will have no bread. -You must give me the eleven hundred francs, you know!' -shrieked Don Crescenzio in a great rage.</p> - -<p>'I have not got it.'</p> - -<p>'Look for it.'</p> - -<p>'I shall not find it. No one will give it to me.'</p> - -<p>'You must find it; I cannot go to prison for you. Find it.'</p> - -<p>'It is impossible, Don Crescenzio,' said the stock-broker, -with tears in his eyes.</p> - -<p>'Nothing is impossible when it has to do with a debt like -this, when it is a question of saving an honest man from -ruin. For pity's sake, Don Ninetto; you know how dear -honour is.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, I do,' said the other, turning his face away.</p> - -<p>'For pity's sake don't forsake me. I have done you a -favour; don't be so ungrateful.'</p> - -<p>'I have not got a farthing, and I cannot find one.'</p> - -<p>'But have you no friends or relations left?'</p> - -<p>'None—not one. I have gone bankrupt; that is enough.'</p> - -<p>'What will you do?'</p> - -<p>'I am going—going to Rome,' the stock-broker brought -out, after a slight hesitation.</p> - -<p>'What to do?'</p> - -<p>'Who knows? Perhaps I shall make my fortune there.'</p> - -<p>'But you ought not to forsake me; you, a man, must -give me the eleven hundred francs before you leave.'</p> - -<p>'I have not got it. I can't get it. Don't torment me, -Don Crescenzio; I have not a farthing.'</p> - -<p>'Give me your signature to a bill; some banker that you -are acquainted with will cash it.'</p> - -<p>'All my bills are presented.'</p> - -<p>'Pawn your jewellery.'</p> - -<p>'I have sold it all.'</p> - -<p>'Then give me your watch.'</p> - -<p>'It is sold.'</p> - -<p>'Then ask your mother or your uncle.'</p> - -<p>'My uncle will perhaps do me the kindness to support -my mother. The mother of a bankrupt, you understand, is -never very well received.'</p> - -<p>'For how much have you failed?'</p> - -<p>'For two hundred thousand francs.'</p> - -<p>'All through the lottery, was it?'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[324]</a></span></p> - -<p>'I lost all there,' Ninetto Costa said, with a decided -gesture.</p> - -<p>'But how can you leave me to such ruin?' Don Crescenzio -rejoined, nearly crying; 'how have you the heart?'</p> - -<p>'How have I the heart?' the other said, in a shaky voice. -'I am leaving my mother with nothing to support her, you -know. I am going to Rome. If I make any money I will -send you some.'</p> - -<p>'When do you go?'</p> - -<p>'To-morrow.... Yes, to-morrow.'</p> - -<p>'Can you send me money by Tuesday?'</p> - -<p>'I don't think so, Don Crescenzio—I don't think so,' -Ninetto Costa said, with desperate calmness.</p> - -<p>'It must be by Wednesday, you know; if not, I am ruined.'</p> - -<p>'I was ruined three days ago.'</p> - -<p>'Holy Virgin! who has blinded me?' the lottery-keeper -said, crying.</p> - -<p>'You want to kill me before the time,' Ninetto Costa -muttered.</p> - -<p>'What are you saying?'</p> - -<p>'Nothing. But keep calm. Everything may come right -gradually.'</p> - -<p>'Wednesday is the last day I have got—Wednesday.'</p> - -<p>'Perhaps Government will give you time. Find out -some way; write to the Minister, write to the King. I -must start off.'</p> - -<p>He pointed to a small bag, not half full, with a feeble smile.</p> - -<p>'But, really, can you not give me anything?'</p> - -<p>'I would do it, Don Crescenzio, but I swear to you that -I have not got a farthing. I am off to Rome; then I will -see....'</p> - -<p>Disappointed and excited, Don Crescenzio got up to go -away, half angry and half sorry for Costa. He wanted to -rush off in search of his other clients; he wanted to find -money, to leave that sad house, the sad company of a man -more desperate than himself. He wanted to go away. -Ninetto Costa looked at him in a dull way, keeping up that -pallid smile on his white lips, the absent-minded smile of a -man quite indifferent to earthly affairs. Still, the other once -more insisted in a vague way, as if in justice to himself, -thinking he had not done enough to get his money. But -the stock-broker gave him such a suffering look he said no -more.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[325]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Good-bye, Don Crescenzio; for—give me.'</p> - -<p>'Good-bye, Don Ninetto; don't forget me at Rome.'</p> - -<p>'Have no doubt of it,' said the other, in a weak, queer -voice.</p> - -<p>They took each other's hands without pressing them—cold, -feeble hands, both. As in a dream, Ninetto Costa -went to the door with the lottery banker; silently they -looked at each other, but did not speak. Then the door -shut again with such a queer <em>decisive</em> sound that the lottery -banker, going slowly downstairs, gave a start. He felt -almost inclined to turn back; it came to his mind that -Costa had told him he had not a farthing, and, then, that -flabby travelling bag with nothing in it. But the thought -of his own sorrows distracted him from his pity and from -any suspicion of greater misfortune. Now, still on foot, to -spare the money for a cab even, he began to run up Toledo -Street, as if prodded by a goad, to go to San Sebastiano -Road, where Marzano, the old lawyer, lived, another indebted -to him. He, too, because of his professional position, even -if he had no money to pay up at once, would be able to get -a loan; at any rate, he owed eight hundred francs to Don -Crescenzio, and he would give them to him; indeed, Don -Crescenzio would sit there till he got them, even if he had -to wait till night. He knew his house very well, a poor -house indeed: for Marzano staked everything—all he earned—and -he even supported a cobbler at sixty francs a month, -a Cabalist, who wrote lottery numbers with charcoal on dirty -pieces of paper.</p> - -<p>Don Crescenzio went up the steps four at a time, running, -because a voice in his heart told him he would find the -money at Signor Marzano's; he felt a good presentiment. -Still, when he put his hand to the iron ring that hung from -a greasy cord, a sudden alarm took him, the fear of not -succeeding, a horrible fear that paralyzed his strength, the -nervousness of the unfortunate when life and death are at -stake. A dragging step was heard, and a shrill voice asked:</p> - -<p>'Who is it?'</p> - -<p>'Friends—a friend,' the lottery banker stammered hastily.</p> - -<p>The door opened suspiciously, and the cobbler's mean -face showed, all marked with pimples. His blear, red, -stupid eyes stared at Don Crescenzio.</p> - -<p>'Do you want to see the lawyer?' he asked, drying his -hands on a dirty apron.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[326]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Yes, sir.'</p> - -<p>'He cannot attend to you.'</p> - -<p>'Is he busy?'</p> - -<p>'He is ill.'</p> - -<p>'Ill, is he? Not much the matter, I hope?'</p> - -<p>'He has had a stroke. Wishing you better health——'</p> - -<p>'Good God!' shouted Don Crescenzio, throwing his hat -down on the ground in despair.</p> - -<p>'It was the lottery did it.... Indeed, he always starved -himself; he did not live well. He ate very little and drank -water, you see.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, God! God!' Don Crescenzio whispered in lamentation.</p> - -<p>'It is God's will,' the cobbler said softly, pulling out a -little bit of dirty paper and taking a pinch of yellowish snuff. -'When it is God's will, what can one do?... Don't -despair. Till the last there is hope.'</p> - -<p>'I know that; it is why I am so despairing!' shrieked -Don Crescenzio.</p> - -<p>'I have a right to complain,' the silly fellow rejoined. 'I -would have got him a fortune. I expected peace in my old -days from him, and in the meanwhile, by his own folly, he -is at death's door, and leaves me to wretchedness. Do you -see?'</p> - -<p>'But how was it? how did it happen?'</p> - -<p>'Wait a minute. I am just coming.' And he went out -of the room.</p> - -<p>Don Crescenzio looked round him, stupefied with sorrow. -The wretched room had no other furniture but some old -lawyer's bookcases, choke-full of dusty papers, a small table, -and two soiled straw chairs. There was a glass on the -table, with two fingers of bluish wine in it—the thick, heavy -Sicilian wine. The floor had not been swept for a long -time, the wall was full of spiders' webs, the window-panes -were covered with dust, and a smell of dirty staleness and -mustiness caught the throat. And this was the lawyer's -house—of him that had been one of the best advocates of his -day, and had earned thousands of pounds in his profession! -Don Crescenzio felt his heart bleed; his hands were like -ice. Had he come here, to this abode of poverty, shame, -and death, to look for his eight hundred francs to save -himself? What madness, what madness his had been! -Would it not be better to run away, as he was finding everywhere -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[327]</a></span> -the same traces of dishonour and wretchedness—everywhere? -But the cobbler came back.</p> - -<p>'What is he doing?' Don Crescenzio asked in a whisper.</p> - -<p>'He is in a stupor.'</p> - -<p>'Is he asleep?'</p> - -<p>'No; it is from the disease.'</p> - -<p>'What has been done for him?'</p> - -<p>'He has been bled; then, he has an ice blister on his -head, and another on his chest.'</p> - -<p>'Does he speak at all?'</p> - -<p>'He does not understand what is said.'</p> - -<p>'Has he become powerless?'</p> - -<p>'Only on his right side.'</p> - -<p>'What does the doctor say?'</p> - -<p>'What can he say? It is a case of death.'</p> - -<p>'Is the doctor coming back?'</p> - -<p>'Who can say? There is nothing to pay him with. I -found seven francs and a nickel watch that won't pawn. I -have spent three francs already on ice. When the seven -francs are done, we are at an end of our resources.'</p> - -<p>'But how did it happen? how did it happen?' Don Crescenzio -asked again desperately.</p> - -<p>'Humph! there has been such a lot of things. He has -had some unpleasantnesses, you see. A man is always a -man.... He needed money ... he tried to get it in all -sorts of ways.'</p> - -<p>'What did he do?' asked the other, alarmed.</p> - -<p>'Evil-minded people say he forged stamped paper—washing, -you know, what was written on it already, and putting -it to use again. But it can't be true. He leaves me to -beggary; he has been ungrateful to me; but it can't be -true. I will never believe it. It seems that the ill-natured -people got at the President of the Consiglio dell' Ordine, who -called him rather ugly things. It seems, in short, there were -unpleasantnesses.'</p> - -<p>'Poor man! poor man!' Don Crescenzio called out in a -low voice.</p> - -<p>'This summons to the President was a fatal thing for -him. You may think for an honest man to feel himself -insulted is unbearable. Signor Marzano wished to go away -to some village where there is better breeding.'</p> - -<p>'To go away at his age with seven francs in his pocket!'</p> - -<p>'I would have gone with him,' the silly cobbler muttered -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[328]</a></span> -modestly. 'I was getting ready to go with him, out of love -to him; and as to the money—that is the real reason of the -stroke.'</p> - -<p>'How could it be?'</p> - -<p>'You know, sir, that my mathematical labours, with -God's help, have always brought in some money to the -advocate.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, some small sum every three or four months,' Don -Crescenzio remarked sceptically.</p> - -<p>'You are mistaken; one may say that I benefited him, -and these wretched sixty francs he gave me every month, -for me not to clap on soles any longer, but work at necromancy, -were not even the hundredth part of what he won -each month. Now he is leaving me, ungrateful fellow! like -this ... enough: I may tell you I had given certain numbers -to him symbolically, numbers that must necessarily come -out; and they did come, you know.'</p> - -<p>'Then, he won?'</p> - -<p>'No, nothing; he did not understand—he staked on others' -figures—his mind is not trustworthy now. When he knew -it he got the stroke.... To your health, sir.'</p> - -<p>'But had you really told him what were good numbers?'</p> - -<p>'I swear it before God; but he did not understand.'</p> - -<p>'Why did you not play them?'</p> - -<p>'You know quite well that <em>we</em> cannot play.'</p> - -<p>'Ah, yes, that is true.'</p> - -<p>They stopped speaking; the cobbler put the glass to his -lips and took a sip of wine.</p> - -<p>'I would like to see him,' Don Crescenzio said suddenly.</p> - -<p>They went into the small bedroom; it was poor and dirty -like the study. Marzano, the advocate, lay on a wretched -iron bed, raised on pillows, whose covers were of doubtful -whiteness; a lump of ice was on his bald head, another on -the bare, skeleton-like breast, and his thin, small body was -covered by a brown horse-blanket. On the night table was -a tumbler of water with a bit of ice in it; the dying man's -right hand was wrapped in the blood-letting bandages. All -his right side, from the face to the foot, was struck rigid, -numb already, while his left hand went on trembling, -trembling, and all the left side of his face often twitched -convulsively. A confused stammering came from his lips; -all his gentle, good-natured expression was gone, leaving -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[329]</a></span> -on that old face, half belonging to death already, the marks -of a passion that had got to be shameful.</p> - -<p>'Signor Marzano! Signor Marzano!' Don Crescenzio -called out, leaning over his bed.</p> - -<p>The sick man set his eyes, veiled by a curious cloud, on -the lottery-keeper's face, but the expression did not change -nor the stammering stop.</p> - -<p>'He doesn't recognise you,' said the cobbler, taking snuff.</p> - -<p>Don Crescenzio left the room at once, feeling the nightmare -of it weighing on his mind.</p> - -<p>'You are his friend: will you leave him something?' the -cobbler asked. 'I have only four francs; he will die like -a dog.'</p> - -<p>Then all Don Crescenzio's suppressed sorrow burst out.</p> - -<p>'He owes me eight hundred francs, and I am ruined if I -do not get it by Wednesday. He is dying; but I am left, -and I am tortured. He will die; but my children will sleep -on church steps in a month. He at least is dying, but we -shall all come to desperate straits, you see.'</p> - -<p>'Excuse me, I did not know,' the cobbler said, alarmed.</p> - -<p>'I have been assassinated,' sobbed out the other.</p> - -<p>'Be quiet, he may hear you; what can you expect from -him?' And he took the last sip of the bluish wine left in the -bottom of the tumbler.</p> - -<p>Don Crescenzio fled. Now at intervals he felt his head -going, and he needed to say the word '<em>Wednesday</em>' to gather -himself together. Still, instinctively, with that automatic -style of moving of unhappy people who go to meet their -destiny, he went up by Porto Alba again towards Bagnara -Lane, where Professor Colaneri lived. He, too, owed him -money, and promised to give it week by week, but had -always sent him away with empty hands or put him off -with small sums. The ex-priest lived on the fourth-floor of -a house in Bagnara Lane, with an unlucky clear-starcher -who had given heed to his blandishments and passed for -his wife. They had four unhealthy children with big heads -and crooked legs, and all lived in two rooms—quarrelling, -crying, beating each other, and weeping all day. He had -hidden from the clear-starcher that he had been a priest; -the unlucky woman, thinking to become a lady, gave in to -him, and for six years had lived in a state of servitude, -between holding children and doing servant's work of the -roughest kind amid indecent wretchedness, among that -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[330]</a></span> -brood of ugly, howling, for ever hungry children, whom she -avenged herself on by slaps for the blows her husband was -liberal with towards her. It was a hellish house, where the -father was always sulkily thinking over mean, sometimes -guilty, methods of getting money for gambling. Twice -Don Crescenzio had gone there, but he had been present at -such disgusting scenes that he had rushed away, hunted -out almost by the laundress's bad words and the four demons' -howls. But now what did that matter? Colaneri owed -him seven hundred francs and more; of a debt of nine -hundred francs he had only paid two hundred in three or -four months, or rather less. Colaneri, by Gad! was not -ruined like Ninetto Costa, or apoplectic like Marzano—Colaneri -must pay.</p> - -<p>'Is Professor Colaneri at home?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, sir,' an old woman who acted as door-keeper said.</p> - -<p>Then he went up quickly; the laundress came to the -door to open, unkempt, a greasy kitchen apron over a -shabby dress. Her cheeks were fallen in, her breasts -emaciated, and a tooth was wanting in front, through which -she whistled a little.</p> - -<p>'I would like to see Professor Colaneri.'</p> - -<p>'He is not here,' she said quickly, leaving the other still -outside.</p> - -<p>'He is in—I know he is,' said Don Crescenzio in a rage. -'At any rate, it is no use denying it. I will wait for him on -the stairs: he must come out some time.'</p> - -<p>'Then come in,' she said unwillingly. As the lottery-keeper -was coming in, a dirty boy with water on the head -got a slap. Whilst he waited in the room that served as a -parlour, study and dining-room, from beyond—that is to say, -the kitchen, in the bedroom, and even the landing-place—cries -burst out from the quarrelsome family. But in a silent -interval the Professor came in, putting on an old jacket all -spotted with grease, and setting his spectacles on his nose -with an ecclesiastical gesture.</p> - -<p>'I have come for my money,' Don Crescenzio said brutally.</p> - -<p>'I have got none,' the debtor answered sulkily.</p> - -<p>'That does not matter to me. You must give it to me.'</p> - -<p>'I have no money.'</p> - -<p>'Find some. I must have my seven hundred francs, you -know.'</p> - -<p>'I have not got it.'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[331]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Give a lien on your salary: get a loan that way.'</p> - -<p>'I have not got a salary now.'</p> - -<p>'What! are you not a professor now?'</p> - -<p>'No; I have been dismissed from my post.'</p> - -<p>'What! are you dismissed?'</p> - -<p>'Yes—turned out by force. I was accused of selling the -examination papers to the students.'</p> - -<p>'It was not true, of course?'</p> - -<p>'Of course not. But the plot to ruin me was well arranged. -The Senate advised me to resign.'</p> - -<p>'So you are on the pavement?'</p> - -<p>'Yes; I am destitute.'</p> - -<p>Then only Don Crescenzio noticed that Professor -Colaneri's face was pallid and distorted. But this third -disappointment enraged him.</p> - -<p>'I don't know what to do to you; you must give me the -seven hundred francs, at any rate.'</p> - -<p>'Have you got five francs to lend me?'</p> - -<p>'Don't talk nonsense! I want my money—for to-morrow -at latest, mind.'</p> - -<p>'Crescenzio, you are putting a man already on the rack -to torture.'</p> - -<p>'That is fine chatter. I can't go to San Francesco on -your account. You are so many murderers. I go to Costa -for money, and find that he has failed—that he is going off -to Rome, to do he knows not what. If it is true, he is going -to Rome ... and I get no money. I go to Marzano, and -find him half dead. Here you tell me you are on the pavement -and have no money.'</p> - -<p>'We are all ruined—all of us,' muttered the ex-priest.</p> - -<p>'Well, you all want to kill me, do you? But when you -needed credit I gave it to you ... and now you want to kill -me and my family! But you have got sons also; you -must think about feeding them—to-morrow and every other -day; you ought to do something. You will think of me—think -of my babies—think that we are Christians, too!'</p> - -<p>'Do you know what I must do to-morrow to give my -little ones bread?'</p> - -<p>'What do I care? I know you will give it to them. I -know that my children are not to go fasting while yours get -their food.'</p> - -<p>'Well, listen: I am not a priest now; I have been excommunicated, -I am outside the pale of the Church; therefore -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[332]</a></span> -I will get no help there. I had a professor's post, a good -safe thing, but I have lost it; I needed money too much. -Don't ask me for sad confessions. I will not get my post -again, nor any other; I am a marked man.'</p> - -<p>'But what is the use of telling me about these sorrows? -I know about them. I know they will do my affairs no good.'</p> - -<p>'Look here, then: I have no outlook; now, as I have -put unlucky beings into the world, I feel that it is my duty -to give them bread—at least that. I have gambled away -on the lottery what they had as a certainty, an unfailing -resource; but it is folly to think of that. Therefore I have -taken the great decision, once for all.'</p> - -<p>'What are you referring to?' asked Don Crescenzio, -much astonished.</p> - -<p>'To-morrow I am going to accept the offer the Evangelical -Society has made me. I will become a Protestant -pastor.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, God!' said the lottery-keeper, astonished above -measure.</p> - -<p>'As you say,' said the other, gulping as if he could hardly -swallow.</p> - -<p>'And you will give up our religion?'</p> - -<p>'I am leaving it through hunger.'</p> - -<p>'And that other ... do you believe in it?'</p> - -<p>'No, I do not.'</p> - -<p>'And how will you set about preaching?'</p> - -<p>'I will do it; I will get accustomed to it.'</p> - -<p>'You will have to abjure, will you?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, I have to do that.'</p> - -<p>'Will it be a grand ceremony?'</p> - -<p>'A very grand one.'</p> - -<p>They spoke in a whisper, and Colaneri's cynical face was -distorted, as if he could not stand the idea of abjuring. Don -Crescenzio, too, in his astonishment, had forgotten his -sorrow.</p> - -<p>'You have got to apostatize?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, I must apostatize.'</p> - -<p>'Well, your priest's orders have been taken from you.'</p> - -<p>'Still, to deny the faith is a different thing,' said Colaneri -darkly.</p> - -<p>'Then, it distresses you very much to do it?'</p> - -<p>'I hate to do it.'</p> - -<p>'How much will you gain by it?'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[333]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Two hundred francs a month in some village they will -send me to.'</p> - -<p>'It is hardly enough for bread.'</p> - -<p>'To each of my boys that turn Protestant they will give -a small sum. I will be able to marry their mother.'</p> - -<p>'But to have to leave Christ's religion!' exclaimed Don -Crescenzio, with that horror of Protestantism that is in all -humble Neapolitan consciences.</p> - -<p>'What would you have? It is hunger drives me to it,' -Colaneri muttered desperately.</p> - -<p>He seemed now altogether changed, even in his character; -it was clear to him now how fatal his rage for gambling had -been; he saw what he had done against himself and his own -gifts, and he felt an unconquerable distaste for that apostasy. -He had done wicked things; he had descended to crime, -even, of a coarse kind, having got corrupted in that unhealthy -atmosphere; but now he found the punishment in front of -him, he trembled and lost all his bravery; he trembled at -having to deny his faith, his God, for a loaf of bread.</p> - -<p>Don Crescenzio looked at him and said nothing, amazed. -He had always thought Colaneri a scoundrel, and, if he had -given him credit, it was only because he thought he could -seize his salary. But now, on this decisive day, he saw him -cast down, moved to his inmost soul by an awful fear of the -Divinity he had already betrayed and insulted, whom he -was again outraging by his apostasy. Don Crescenzio, -although small-minded, felt the agony of that conscience -that was now fighting in its last outpost, having got to the -stage where human endurance ends, the hardest, most -wearing hours in life. So he dared not say anything more -to him about the money. He stammered:</p> - -<p>'Your wife—what does she say?'</p> - -<p>'She would like to prevent me doing it, except for the -children's sake.'</p> - -<p>'The poor children, must they lose their souls also?'</p> - -<p>'They are innocent. The Lord sees; He will be just. -Besides, why has He set me with my back to the wall? -For each child that enters the Protestant Church they give -me a small sum.'</p> - -<p>'When will this come off?' Don Crescenzio asked, after -hesitating.</p> - -<p>'In a month. A month of instruction is needed for the -poor innocents.'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[334]</a></span></p> - -<p>'It will be too late for me,' the other said in a low tone, -still thinking of his money.</p> - -<p>'I will give you a receipt if you like, then.'</p> - -<p>'It is too late. I am ruined.'</p> - -<p>'What a punishment—what a punishment!' the apostate -said, hiding his face in his hands.</p> - -<p>'I am going away,' Don Crescenzio said, prostrate now, -in a state of utter depression.</p> - -<p>'Be patient.'</p> - -<p>'What is the use of patience? it is a punishment! You -spoke the truth just now: it is a chastisement! I am going -away; good-bye.'</p> - -<p>They did not look at each other nor say another word; -both of them felt seized and cowed by the frightfulness of -the punishment, not feeling any more rage or rancour in -that breaking-down of all pride and vanity that the Divine -chastisement brings. When he was on the stairs, Don -Crescenzio was seized with such faintness that he had to sit -down on a step, and stay there confused, neither seeing nor -hearing in that moral numbness that comes on after great -excitement. How long did he stay there? In the end, it -was the step of someone going up and brushing past him -that roused him, and with that start all his frightful pain -came back unbearably. He rushed downstairs helter-skelter, -and ran through the streets like one in a dream, -urged on as if someone with a straight, unbending weapon -were pushing him with the point. He got to Guantai -Street, to the little inn, Villa Borghese, a resort of country -people, where for four months past Trifari had lived with -his father and mother, who had left their village at his -bidding. The two humble peasants had managed, from -youth to old age, to put some pence together and buy some -bits of land by working eighteen hours a day and eating -stale black bread, being content with beet soup cooked in -water, with no salt, and sleeping all in one large room, with -only a bed and a chest in it, upon a straw pallet; and this -they bore for the sake of making their son a doctor, handing -on to him all their peasant's vanity, making him have an -unbounded longing to be a gentleman, a great man, superior -to everyone in the country-side, so giving him, unknowingly, -that rage for gambling that, according to him, was to make -him grow rich suddenly, very rich, so as to crush everyone -with his power and luxury.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[335]</a></span></p> - -<p>But in a few years his whole professional career was -ended, for he scorned it and gave it up; he had begun to lead -a life of shameless indebtedness, expedients, and dodges. -He had begun by deceiving his parents, and had ended by -weaving for himself nets of intrigues and embarrassments. -His father and mother gloomily, in the silence of their -peasant souls that know of no outlet, had sold off everything -gradually, going on sacrificing themselves for this son -that was their idol, whom they adored because he was -made of better clay than themselves. They were at last so -reduced, so chastened in their pride, they waited in their -old house for their son to send them ten of twenty francs -now and then for food. And he did it; bound to his old -folk by a fierce love made up of filial instinct and gratitude, -he shivered with shame and grief every time they told him, -resignedly, that in spite of being well on in years they would -have to go back to work in the fields to earn their daily -bread, so as not to be a burden upon him. But these helps -had got to be less frequent; the rage for gambling blinded -him so he could not even take ten francs off his stakes to -send to the unlucky peasants. The finishing stroke was -when he wrote imperiously, ordering them to sell the last -house they had left, the old home with its sparse furniture -and kitchen utensils, to bring the money and come and -live in Naples with him; they would spend less there, and -be more comfortable.</p> - -<p>It was a dreadful blow, for these unhappy folk held so -to the habit, now become a passion, of living in their own -house and village, and the very word Naples frightened -them. Still, saying not a word of their sufferings, they kept -up their pride, told the villagers they were going to live as -gentlefolk with their gentleman son at Naples, and had obeyed. -They had haggled for a long time over the price of the old -house and those few bits of old furniture they got at the -time of their marriage; but at last, hoarding up the few -hundred francs they had got for them carefully in a linen -bag, and travelling third class, they got to Naples, -frightened, not sad, but buried in that dumbness that is -the only sign of a peasant's ill-humour.</p> - -<p>They had lived four months at that inn, in two dark -rooms; for they were on the first-floor with their son, who -always came in at a very late hour, sometimes when they -were getting up. They had no occupation, and never spoke -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[336]</a></span> -to each other; staying up in their own room, they looked -with melancholy, surprised eyes on all the extraordinary -Naples people that moved about in that narrow, populous -road, Guantai Nuova. They stayed hours and hours, wrapt -up in gazing on a sight that stupefied them; but they were -incapable, however, of making any complaint, though they -were suspicious of everything, of the spring bed, of the bad, -greenish glass of the mirror, of the miserable dinners served -in their own rooms. As it was a thing they were not accustomed -to, they thought they were living in unheard-of -luxury. They disliked the servants, who scoffed at the two -peasants, and the washerwoman, who brought back their -coarse shifts all in holes, and loaded them with abuse in the -true Naples style if they made any remarks.</p> - -<p>Sometimes, getting over their instinctive shyness about -speaking, they told their son to take them away from the -inn and hire a small house, where his mother would cook -and do the house-work; but he pointed out to them that -would require too much money, and they would do it later, -when he had got the fine fortune he was expecting from day -to day.</p> - -<p>In the meanwhile, their fortune grew smaller, and every -time they loosened the linen purse at the end of the week, -their hearts gave a twinge. Often, when they pulled out -the money, they saw their son's eyes brighten up, as if an -irresistible love-longing filled them; but he never asked -them for it—one could see he put a check on himself not to -ask. But each day he became gloomier, wilder; he no -longer ate with his parents, and spent his nights outside, not -coming back to the inn, so that even into these peasants' dull -minds had come the idea of some danger threatening.</p> - -<p>The mother told her beads for hours, that the Lord would -have pity on their old age; whilst the father, being sharper, -and more experienced, thought that perhaps some bad -woman was making his son unhappy. But they said nothing -to him; even the luxury they lived in, as they thought, -although they paid for it themselves, seemed to them a -condescension on their son's part, a favour he did his parents. -Like him, without understanding or knowing why, they -began to hope for this fortune that was to turn up, some -day or another, to make them gentlefolk. The old peasant-woman's -purple lips were constantly moving, saying prayers, -in the small, mean, dark room of the Guantai Street hotel, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[337]</a></span> -whilst the old man went out every day, going always -the same road, that is to say, into Municipio Square, and -from there to the Molo, to gaze at the blackish sea, the -ships in the mercantile port, and the men-of-war in the -military one; he was fascinated and struck only with that -in all the great town, going nowhere else, knowing nothing -of the rest of Naples, being afraid of the noise of carriages, -and dreading thieves perhaps. He retraced his steps slowly, -looking round him suspiciously.</p> - -<p>They never went out with their son—never, as they were -just peasants and so dressed. They always refused when -he feebly invited them to go out with him, guessing, in spite -of their dulness, that it would not please him to show himself -with them. He was so handsome, such a gentleman, in his -great-coat and tall hat. But one evening he came in more -excited than usual. Quickly, in rather a hard voice, such -as he had never used to them, Dr. Trifari told his parents -that his business, his big affair, his plan for getting rich, in -short, required money to be laid out, so they should hand -him over these last few hundred francs they were keeping in -reserve; do him this last great sacrifice, and he would give it -all back a hundredfold. He spoke quickly, with his eyes -down, as if he did not wish to intercept the dreadful, chilled, -despairing look the two peasants exchanged, feeling struck -to the heart, frozen. The father and mother held their -tongues, looking on the ground; then he, speaking quicker, -in an anxious tone, trying to soften his harsh voice, implored -and implored, begging them, if they loved him, to give him -the money if they did not want to see his death. They, -without making any remark, glanced assent at each other, -and with senile, quivering hands the father undid the linen -bag and took out the money, counting it slowly and carefully, -starting again at each hundred francs, following the -money with a troubled eye and a convulsive movement of -the lower lip.</p> - -<p>There were four hundred and twenty francs, the whole -fortune of the three. Pale at first, the doctor got very red, -his eyes filled with tears, and before either of them could -stop him, he bent down and kissed his father's and mother's old -brown, rugged, horny hands that had worked so hard. Not -another word had been said between them, and he was gone. -He did not come back to the hotel in the evening; but now -they did not take any notice of his being absent. Still, the -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[338]</a></span> -next day he did not come back to dinner; it was the first -time it had happened. They waited till evening, but he did -not come. The peasant woman told her beads, always beginning -again; they ended by dining off a bit of bread and -two oranges they had in their room.</p> - -<p>Dr. Trifari did not come back the second night either, -and it was about noon of the second day that a letter, with -a half-penny stamp, by the local post, came, addressed to -Signor Giovanni Trifari, Villa Borghese. Ah! they were -peasants, with dull intellects and simple hearts; they never -imagined things, or even thought much; they were curt, -silent people. But when that letter was brought to them, -and they recognised their son's well-known and loved -writing, they both began to tremble, as if a sudden, overpowering -palsy had come on. Twice or thrice, his rough -spectacles shaking on his nose, with the slowness of a man -not knowing how to read well, and having to keep back his -tears, the old peasant read over his son's letter, in which, -just before starting for America, he said good-bye to them -filially and tenderly; and, feeling the gentle, terrible letter -getting well printed on her mind, the old woman kissed her -beads and gave a low groan. Twice an inn servant came -in, with the sceptical look of one accustomed to all the -chances and changes of life. He asked them if they wanted -anything to eat; but they, blind, deaf, and forgetful, did not -even answer. When, towards six o'clock, Don Crescenzio -came in, after knocking fruitlessly, he found them, almost in -the dark, seated near the balcony in perfect silence.</p> - -<p>'Is the doctor here?'</p> - -<p>Neither of the two answered, as if death's stupor had -overcome them.</p> - -<p>'I wished to know if Dr. Trifari was here.'</p> - -<p>'No, sir, he is not,' the old father said.</p> - -<p>'Has he gone out?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, he is out.'</p> - -<p>'How long has he been absent?'</p> - -<p>'He has been away a long time,' the old peasant muttered, -and a groan from his wife echoed him.</p> - -<p>'When is he coming back?' shouted Don Crescenzio, -very agitated, taking an angry fit.</p> - -<p>'I can't tell you; we don't know,' the old man said, -shaking his head.</p> - -<p>'You are his father; you must know.'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[339]</a></span></p> - -<p>'He did not tell me.'</p> - -<p>'But where is he gone? Where is that scoundrel gone?'</p> - -<p>'To America—to Buenos Ayres.'</p> - -<p>'Good Lord!' Don Crescenzio just managed to bring out, -falling full weight on a chair.</p> - -<p>They said no more. The mother devoutly clutched her -rosary. But both Trifari's parents seemed so tired that -Don Crescenzio felt desperate, finding everywhere different -forms of misfortunes, and greater ones than his own. Still, -he clutched at a straw; above everything, he wished to -know all about it, with that bitter enjoyment a man feels in -tasting the full agony of his misfortune. He, too, had fled, -then; he, too, had escaped him; that money, too, was lost—lost -for ever.</p> - -<p>'But who gave him the money to get away?' he cried out -in an exasperated tone.</p> - -<p>'Are you really friendly to him?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, yes, I am.'</p> - -<p>'Truly are you?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, I tell you.'</p> - -<p>'Here is his letter. Take it; you will find out from it.'</p> - -<p>Then by the faint light of fading day he read the unhappy -man's long letter. Eaten up by debts and his ruling passion, -not knowing where to lay his head, he wrote to his parents, -taking leave of them on going to make his fortune in -America. Of the four hundred francs it had taken about -three hundred and fifty to pay for a third-class ticket on a -steamer, counting in a few francs for his keep the first two -or three days in Buenos Ayres. He owned up to everything. -He was the cause of his own ruin and of his family's. -He cursed gambling, fate, and himself, swearing at bad luck -and his own bad conscience. He sent back a few francs to -the two poor old folks, begging them to go back to their -village, to get on as well as they could, until he was able to -send them something from Buenos Ayres. He told them -to go home, and he would not forget them, and the money -would just serve for two third-class fares to their village; -nothing would be left over to buy food even. He begged -them on his knees to forgive him, not to curse him. He -had not had the courage to kill himself, for their sakes; -still, he begged them to forgive him. Though he was -leaving them like this, he implored them not to give him a -curse as a parting provision on this wretched journey of his. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">[340]</a></span> -He was starting with no luggage or money, and would be -cast into the ship's common sleeping-place. The letter was -full of tenderness and rage: abuse of the rich, of gentlemen -and Government, came alternately with prayers for forgiveness -and humble excuses.</p> - -<p>Don Crescenzio read twice over that agonized letter -written by a man enraged at himself and mankind, feeling -himself wounded in the only tender feeling of his life. He -folded it absent-mindedly, and looked at the two old people. -It seemed to him that they were centenarians, falling to -pieces from decrepitude and hard work, bent by age and -sorrow.</p> - -<p>'What are you going to do now?' he asked in a whisper, -after a short time.</p> - -<p>'We are going to our village,' the old man muttered. -'To-morrow we will go by the first train.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, yes, we are going back,' the poor old woman -groaned, without looking up.</p> - -<p>'What are you to do there?' he rejoined, wishing to find -out the full extent of all that misfortune.</p> - -<p>'We are to work by the day in the fields,' said the old -man simply.</p> - -<p>He examined the two, so old, tired, and bent, now making -ready to begin life again so as to get bread, to dig the -ground with shaking arms, bending their brown faces and -sparse white hair, under the summer sun. Struck to the -heart by this last blow, feeling the chorus of misfortune -growing around him, he did not open his mouth about the -money he was to have got from Trifari; indeed, feverishly, -he felt such pity for the two old folk that he said to them:</p> - -<p>'Can I do anything for you?'</p> - -<p>'No, no, thank you,' the two said, with the despairing -gestures of those who expect no more help.</p> - -<p>'Keep up your courage, then.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, yes, thank you,' they muttered again.</p> - -<p>He left them without saying more. It was night now -when he went down into the street. For a moment, feeling -confused and dismayed, he thought, Where was he to go? -Anew, set along by quite a mechanical goad, he took -courage, and, crossing Toledo Street, went up to the high -part by San Michele Church, where the Rossi Palace stood -out dark and lofty. In that mansion lived the last of those -largely indebted to him, the most desperate of all. So as -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[341]</a></span> -not to have a bad omen at the beginning of the day, he had -kept them to the last. But he had found money nowhere; -and now, with the natural rebound of the unhappy who -fight against their misfortunes by that strength of hope -which never dies, now he began again to believe that -Cesare Fragalà and the Marquis di Formosa would give -him the money in some way—that it might rain down from -heaven.</p> - -<p>When he went into Cesare Fragalà's flat, led across an -empty dark room by little Agnesina, who came to open the -door, carrying a half-burnt candle, he had at once regretted -he had come. Husband, wife and daughter were seated -at a small table, with a cloth too small for it, taking their -supper silently, looking at every little bit of fried liver they -put in their mouths for fear of leaving too little for the -others. The child especially, having a healthy youthful -appetite, measured her mouthfuls of bread so as not to eat -too much of it. Cesare Fragalà sat very solemnly, all traces -of a smile having gone from his face, and looked at the -tablecloth with his brows knit. His wife, the good Luisella, -with her big black eyes, on whose brow the happy mother's -diamond star had shone, had now a humble, subdued look -in a plain stuff gown. Quietly with her calm eyes the -child looked serenely, with a martyr's patience, at the visitor, -as if she understood and expected the request he was about -to make. Before that gentle, thoughtful child's eye Don -Crescenzio felt his tongue tied, so it was with an effort he -stammered out:</p> - -<p>'Cesare, I am come about that business.'</p> - -<p>A flame of fire burned in Cesare's cheeks. The wife gave -up eating, and the child cast down her eyelids as if the blow -were coming on her own head.</p> - -<p>'It is difficult for me to do anything for you, Crescenzio; -you don't know all our embarrassments,' Cesare said faintly.</p> - -<p>'I do know—I know,' said the other, hardly able to keep -down his feelings; 'but I am in a worse state than you are.'</p> - -<p>'I don't believe you can be,' muttered the merchant, who -had gone through the bankruptcy court a few days before, -in a dreary tone; 'I don't think you can be.'</p> - -<p>'Your honour is safe, Cesare, but I am not to save mine. -What can I say? I add nothing more.'</p> - -<p>And, not able to bear it any longer, feeling Agnesina's -sympathetic eyes on him, he began to weep. A little evening -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[342]</a></span> -breeze coming from a half-shut balcony made the lamp -quiver. It was a fantastically wretched group, the husband, -wife, and daughter clinging to each other, all most unhappy, -looking at that wretched man sobbing.</p> - -<p>'Could we not give him something, Luisella?' Cesare -timidly whispered in his wife's ear, while the other mourned -vaguely.</p> - -<p>'How much do you owe him?' said Luisa thoughtfully.</p> - -<p>'Five hundred francs ... it was more. I paid part -of it.'</p> - -<p>'Was it a gambling debt?' she asked coldly.</p> - -<p>'Yes, it was.'</p> - -<p>'What was he saying about honour?'</p> - -<p>'He gave us credit. If he is not paid, Government will -have him put in prison.'</p> - -<p>'Has he children?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, he has.'</p> - -<p>She went out of the room. The two men looked sadly at -each other, and the girl gazed at them both with her kindly, -encouraging eyes. After a little Luisa came back looking -rather pale.</p> - -<p>'This is our last hundred-franc note,' she said, in her -pleasant voice. 'There is only a little small change left for -ourselves; but the Lord will provide.'</p> - -<p>'God will provide,' the child repeated, taking the hundred-franc -note from her mother's hands and giving it to Don -Crescenzio.</p> - -<p>Ah! at that moment, before these poor people, who -counted their mouthfuls of bread, who stinted themselves of -the last remnant of their money to help him; at that moment, -in the midst of sad, gentle expressions on the faces of ruined -folk, who still kept faith and compassion, he felt his heart -break; he shook as if he was going to faint. For a minute -he thought of not taking the money; but it seemed to him -charmed, made sacred by passing through that good woman's -hands and the brave little girl's. He only said quiveringly:</p> - -<p>'Forgive me, forgive me for taking it.'</p> - -<p>'It is nothing,' Cesare Fragalà said at once, with his easy -good-nature.</p> - -<p>'You are so kind, so kind,' Crescenzio muttered, as he -took leave, looking humbly at the two—the woman and the -child—who bore misfortune so bravely.</p> - -<p>Cesare went out of the room with him.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">[343]</a></span></p> - -<p>'I am sorry it is so little,' he said; 'it won't do you any -good.'</p> - -<p>'It is worth a hundred thousand, as far as the heart is -concerned!' the lottery-keeper exclaimed sadly. 'But I -have to give four thousand six hundred francs to Government, -and this is all I have got.'</p> - -<p>'Have the others given you nothing?'</p> - -<p>'Nothing. I found nothing but misfortunes and bad luck -everywhere. I am going up to the Marquis di Formosa's -now.'</p> - -<p>'Don't go there,' said Fragalà, shaking his head; 'it is -no use.'</p> - -<p>'I will try.'</p> - -<p>'Don't try for it. They are worse off than we are. They -dread every day they will lose Lady Bianca Maria. Her -father has lost his senses.'</p> - -<p>'Who knows? I might get it.'</p> - -<p>'Listen to me: don't go. You might come in for some -ugly scene.'</p> - -<p>'Some ugly scene! What do you mean?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, the Marchesina gets convulsions; she cries out -frightfully in them. Every time we hear her we leave the -house. She cries out always, "Mother! Mother!" It is -agonizing.'</p> - -<p>'Is she mad?'</p> - -<p>'No, she is not. She calls for help in her fits. They say -that she sees.... Don't go there; it is no use. Do what -is right.'</p> - -<p>'Very well. Thank you,' said the other.</p> - -<p>They embraced, as sad and excited as if they were never -to see each other again.</p> - -<p>Now, when Don Crescenzio got to the Rossi Palazzo -entrance, after hurriedly going downstairs almost as if he -feared to hear the Lady Bianca Maria Cavalcanti's dying -cries behind him—when he got out on the street alone, amid -the people going and coming from Toledo Street that soft -spring evening, he suddenly thought it was all over. The -hundred francs his weeping had dragged from the Fragalàs' -wretchedness was shut up in his otherwise empty purse in -his great-coat pocket. Just there he felt something like an -increasing heat, for that money was really destiny's last -word. He would get no more; all was said. His desperate -resolutions, his growing emotion, his day's struggle, running, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">[344]</a></span> -panting, speaking, telling his wrongs, weeping, and the great -dread of ruin tarrying with him, had done nothing but drag -the last mouthful of bread from his most innocent debtor. -A hundred francs—a mockery to the sum he had to pay on -Wednesday, without fail. A hundred francs, no more; a -drop of water in the desert. He felt it, for he had used up -a lot of strength and excitement, and had only managed to -drag these few francs from the Fragalà family's honesty; so -he felt flabby, weak, and exhausted. That was the last -word. Then there was no more money for him; he must -look on himself as ruined—ruined, with no hope of salvation. -A cloud—perhaps it was tears—swam before his eyes. -The flow of the crowd took him to the bottom of Toledo -Street; he let himself be carried along. He felt that he -was the prey of destiny, with no strength to resist; he was -like a dry leaf turned over by the whirlwind. He could do -nothing more—nothing; all was ended. Some other people -still owed him money. Baron Lamarra, Calandra the -magistrate, and two or three others owed him small sums. -But he did not want to go to them even; it was all useless, -all, since, wherever he had gone, wherever he had taken his -despair, he had found the marks of a scourge like his own—the -gambling scourge—that had sent them all to wretchedness, -shame, and death like himself.</p> - -<p>He dared not go back to his home now, though it was -getting late. He had gone down by Santa Brigida and -Molo Road to Marina Street, where he lived in one of those -tall, narrow houses one reaches by gloomy alleys from -Porto, which look on to rather a dull sea between the -Custom-house and the Granili, and from Marina Road, -where fishermen's luggers and boats are anchored and tied -up. Among the thousands of windows he gazed at the -lighted-up one where his wife was putting the babies to -bed. But he dared not go in—no. Was it not all ended? -His wife would read the sentence, the condemnation, in his -face, and he could not bear that. An increasing feebleness -took hold of him; he felt as if his arms and legs were -broken, and in the darkness and silence—where only the -cabs taking travellers to the evening trains, only the trams -going to the Vesuvian districts, gave a touch of life to the -dark, broad Marina Road—not able to stand, he sat down -on one of the seats in the long, narrow Villa del Popolo, the -poor folk's garden that goes along the seashore. From -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[345]</a></span> -there he still saw, though further off in the distance, like a -star, the lighted window in his little home. How could -he go in to bring tears and despair into that peaceful, -happy little atmosphere! That innocent infant and the -other about to come into the world, the mother so proud -of her husband, of her little boy: must he—<em>he</em>—make -them quiver with grief and shame that evening? This -would be unbearable for him. How tremendous a punishment -it was, falling on everyone's head, as if all were -accursed, and destroying health, honour, fortune, everything!</p> - -<p>In a dream, going on from one thing to another, he knit -together all the threads of that chastisement that started -from himself and returned to him, going on from his despair -to that of others, while he still gazed at the slight beacon -where his family were waiting for him. He saw again -Ninetto Costa's pale, worn face, setting out for a much -longer journey certainly than to Rome, leaving his mother -a bankrupt suicide's name; he saw Marzano the advocate -struck with apoplexy, his lips bloated, amid the frightful -wretchedness that left no money to buy more ice, whilst a -dishonouring accusation had been made against him, -shaming his gray hairs; then Professor Colaneri, chased -away from the school, accused of having sold his conscience -as a teacher, and, after having cast off the clerical robe, now -obliged to give up the religion he was born in, of which he -had been a priest; he saw Dr. Trifari sailing in an emigrant -ship, without a farthing, short of everything, while his old -parents had to go back to dig the hard earth so as to earn -their living; and Cesare Fragalàs resigned surrender, which -ended the name of the old firm, and left him to confront a -future of wretchedness. Finally, above everything, the illness -Lady Bianca Maria Cavalcanti was dying of, while her -father had not a bit of bread to put in his mouth. All, all -were being punished, great and small, nobles and common -folk, innocent and guilty, and he with them—he and his -family, struck in all he held dearest—his means, home, -happiness, and honour—a band of unfortunates, where the -innocent were the ones that had to weep most, where little -infants, girls, and women paid for grown men's mistakes, -and old people, too—a band of wretched ones—to whom, -in his mind, he added others that he knew and remembered. -Baron Lamarra, with the accusation of forgery held over -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[346]</a></span> -him by his wife, had gone back to work as a contractor, in -the sun on the streets, among buildings in course of construction; -and Don Domenico Mayer, the hypochondriacal -official, who one day in despair, not being able to move for -debt, had thrown himself from a fourth-floor window, dying -at once; and Calandra the magistrate, who had twelve -children, was so badly reported on that every six months he -ran the chance of being put on the shelf; and Gaetano the -glover, who had killed his wife Annarella with a kick on the -stomach when she was two months gone with child: but no -one knew anything about it except his children, who hated -their father, as every Friday he promised to kill them also, -if they did not give him money. All—all of them were at -death's door, yet living on, amidst the pinching of need and -the canker of shame. And he, finally, who had his family -there in the little house waiting, while he had not the courage -to go back, feeling that the first announcement of their misfortune -would burn his lips. It was all one chastisement, -one frightful punishment—that is to say, the hand of the -Lord bearing heavily on the wicked, the guilty, and striking -them to the seventh generation; or, rather, the same sin, -the same guilt, that infamous, cursed gambling, had got to -be an instrument of chastisement against those who had -made an idol of it; for the gambling passion, like all others -that are outside of life and real things, had the germ, the -seed of bitter repentance, in the vice itself. They were -struck where they had sinned, or, rather, by the sin itself. -It was just one long burst of weeping from all eyes, even the -purest ones, a burst of sobs from the cleanest lips; a crowd -of poor, honest, innocent creatures struggling amidst hunger -and death, paying for others' mistakes, giving the guilty the -remorseful thought that they had cast the people they loved -best into this great abyss. Not one safe, not one, of those -who had given up their life to gambling, to infamous, wicked -gambling, that eater-up of blood and money. Not even he -or his family were safe; he, too, was broken; his children -were to be reduced to holding out their hands. The punishment -was too great; it was unbearable. What had he done -to have to go to prison like an evil-doer, that his wife should -be ashamed of belonging to him, and his children would -never mention his name? What had he done to have to -stay there in the street like a beggar, who dare not go back -to his den, having got no alms from hard-hearted men? -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">[347]</a></span> -Ah! it was too much, too much! What fault had he committed?</p> - -<p>A couple of policemen went through Marina Street, and -cast searching glances into the darkness of the footpaths in -Villa del Popolo; but the shadows were deep, and the men -did not notice Don Crescenzio lying at full length on a seat. -But he, by a quick change of scene, saw before him his -lottery shop in Nunzio Lane, on glowing Friday evenings -and anxious Saturday mornings, when the gamblers crowded -to the three wickets in his shop, their eyes lighted up by -hope, their hands quivering with emotion. He saw again -the placards in blue and red letters that incited gamblers to -bring more money to the lottery. He saw again the number -of advertisements of Cabalists' newspapers and the mottoes: -'So you will see me'; 'It will be your fortune'; 'The -people's treasure'; 'The infallible'; 'The secret unveiled'; -'The wheel of fortune.' He remembered the medium's -frequent visits and his fatal intimacy with all the other -Cabalists, spiritual brothers, and mathematicians, who -excited the gamblers with their strange jargon and impostures. -He saw it again at Christmas and Easter weeks, -when the gambling became wild, fierce; for people have -such a longing to get into the long-dreamt-of Land of -Cockayne. And he always saw himself pleased with their -illusions that ended in a sad disappointment; pleased that -that mirage should blind the weak, the foolish, the sick, the -poor, the sanguine—all those who live for the Land of -Cockayne; pleased that everyone should get the infection, -that no one was safe; quite delighted when, at great -festivals, the rage increased and the stakes augmented his -percentage. He saw it all clearly: his own figure bending -to write the cursed ciphers and the lying promises in the -ledger, the gamblers' crimson or pale faces distorted by -passion. He bowed his head, crushed, feeling he had -deserved the punishment, he himself, his family, on to the -seventh generation. The lottery was a disgrace that led to -illness, wretchedness, prison—every sort of dishonour and -death. And he had kept a shop for the infamous thing!</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">[348]</a></span></p> - -</div> - - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XX</h2> - -<p class="p2">BIANCA MARIA CAVALCANTI</p> - - -<p>For three days in the Marquis di Formosa's house a deep -silence had reigned. The doors, oiled in their hinges and -locks, shut and opened with no noise. The two old servants, -Giovanni and Margherita, walked on tiptoe, not saying a -word, like shadows gliding over the floor—or, rather, they -made no movement. Giovanni, seated on the single straw -chair that furnished the lobby, Margherita seated at the -sick girl's bedside, gazing at the pale face sunk in heavy -stupor in the sickly slumber of high fever, both kept quite -still. The doctor, some sort of a medical man, called in -from Berriolas', the neighbouring druggists, said that above -everything any noise would have a bad effect on the patient's -brain, and at once in the house every sound, even sighs, -were hushed. Not a word was said above the breath, for those -old servants were accustomed to being silent and motionless. -It looked already as if they had been overtaken by the long -last rest. Then the doctor asked for the family practitioner. -When they mentioned Dr. Amati's name, he at once proposed -to send for him. He needed him. The Marquis di -Formosa's anxious face got icy, and the two servants looked -just as sorrowful. Then he suspected something, shook his -head, and set to treating the patient himself, covering her -burning head with ice, giving her quinine every two hours -to try and bring down the high fever, the raging typhoid, -giving her strong nourishment, but without making any -improvement, never managing to overcome the state of coma -she was in, except by raising a queer delirium, mingled with -spasmodic nervous convulsions; for the blood-poisoning by -typhoid was complicated by serious nervous disorders.</p> - -<p>'What do you say about it, doctor—what is your verdict?' -asked the Marquis di Formosa on the stair landing.</p> - -<p>'If it was only typhoid there might be some hope; but -the whole nervous system is overthrown. We run the risk -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">[349]</a></span> -of meningitis. I tell you again, you must call Dr. Amati -in; he knows the patient.'</p> - -<p>'It is impossible to do so,' the Marquis answered sharply.</p> - -<p>'Then I do not answer for the consequences,' said the -other, going off.</p> - -<p>Going back into his daughter's room, the Marquis di -Formosa stiffened his pride against the doctor's request, -which tortured his fatherly heart. That man, who had -taken his daughter's heart from him, would never enter his -house again and bring his evil influence on her. Bianca -Maria was young and strong; she would get over the -illness. Thus he persisted in his haughtiness, and went -back to sit at his sick daughter's bedside. He leant over -that face that always got more bloodless, and called to his -daughter just above his breath.</p> - -<p>She was lying sunk in that torpor of typhoid, with a -lump of ice on her motionless head, her hands joined as if -in prayer, the usual attitude of typhoid patients. Still, she -heard that breath of a voice. She did not answer, she did -not open her eyes, but, with a slight contraction of her -muscles, she drew her eyebrows together frowningly, as if -annoyed; and her hand made a constant motion, always -the same, obstinate, discouraging, to keep her father at a -distance. He leant down again, hurt and offended, saying -in a whisper that it was her father—her own father, who -loved her so fondly, who wanted to make her well; he was -the only person who really loved her.</p> - -<p>But the bored expression got stronger on the poor -invalid's face—the patient, as the doctor called her—and -the slender, obstinate, uneasy hand went on driving away -the Marquis di Formosa. The old man had difficulty in -keeping down a rush of anger that rose to his brain, and he -went to sit a little distance off, folding his arms across his -breast, his head down, submitting, humbling himself. Margherita -alone got an answer when she asked Bianca Maria -anything—if she would drink any of that strong beverage, -marsala, beaten up egg and soup, that is given to typhoid -patients, or if she wanted the ice-bag changed. The girl, -without opening her eyes, answered either way by a wave of -her slight hand. And the Marquis di Formosa was obliged, -if he wished to know anything, to watch the old waiting-woman's -face. At certain times, in despair at that obstinate -ostracism, he went out of Bianca Maria's room and began -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350">[350]</a></span> -to walk up and down in the drawing-room; but often his -excited footsteps made too much noise, and Margherita's -worn face came to the doorway. He stood still. She -made him a sign to be quiet; the noise did harm to Bianca -Maria.</p> - -<p>'Here, too, do I annoy her?' he asked, quivering.</p> - -<p>And as Margherita agreed, 'Yes, it was true,' even in the -distance he made her suffer, to keep down a feeling of rage, -he took his hat and went out of the house. Then the flat -fell back again into its great stillness; Giovanni slumbered -sadly in the hall, whilst Margherita leant over the invalid's -pallid, burning face to breathe out some gentle word to -her. Making an effort, the poor girl smiled for a single -minute, and the old servant, satisfied, went back to her chair, -muttering words of prayer to herself, without taking her eyes -off Bianca Maria.</p> - -<p>Very, very late, after having wandered through the streets, -tiring himself by walking, ill-dressed, unbrushed, having -lost all care for his appearance, quite unrecognisable, the -Marquis di Formosa came home to find the door open, as if -they had heard his footsteps from a distance. Margherita -came up to him in the dark with her ghost-like step.</p> - -<p>'How is she?' he asked.</p> - -<p>'Just the same,' she sighed out.</p> - -<p>'What does the doctor say?'</p> - -<p>'He orders ice and quinine. He again asked for Dr. -Amati to be sent for.'</p> - -<p>'I told you never to mention that scoundrel's name!'</p> - -<p>'Hush!' she hissed out respectfully, and she went away.</p> - -<p>The Marquis was seized by so profound an anguish that, -the old faith rising again in his heart, he sought for a place -to kneel down and pray the Lord that He would save his -daughter, and free him from that agony. Alas! the small -room used as a chapel at first, where Bianca Maria and he -had prayed together so often, was empty: he, after having -abused the saints and the Virgin, after having done the -sacrilege of punishing Ecce Homo, had sold the saints, -Virgin, and Ecce Homo to stake the money at the lottery. -There were no more guardian saints in Cavalcanti House; -the Virgin and her Divine Son had withdrawn their saddened -eyes from insult. There was nothing left in that house, -nothing. During these last days, throughout the poor girl's -illness, they had lived on alms; that is to say, off some -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">[351]</a></span> -allowance inexhaustible pity of Gennaro Parascandolo the -usurer's wife had granted to Margherita and Giovanni's tears -and entreaties.</p> - -<p>The Cavalcantis were holding out their hands for alms -now! For many weeks he had had no money to stake, -and he avoided Don Crescenzio's lottery bank, as he had -not the many francs he owed him to give back; but when -Friday came, though he knew they were reduced to private -begging, knowing that what he did was a domestic crime, -he came to Margherita to implore her to give him two -francs, or only one, to gamble with. Only on that Friday, -confronted by Bianca Maria's illness, he had not dared; -he was struck incurably. That girlish body, stretched on -what perhaps might be her death-bed; that head crushed -down under the heavy bag of ice; that profile, pinched as if -it was rubbed down by an inward hand; that eyebrow, that -frowned on hearing his voice only; and that hand, that -hand above all, that chased him away constantly, obstinately, -a victim to a dumb, lively horror—all that had broken -down the last energies of his old age.</p> - -<p>Illnesses of old people make the old thoughtful and -melancholy, but young people's illnesses frighten them as a -thing against the order of Nature. Ah! in these moments of -anguish, he felt so weak, so old, so worn-out, an organism -with no vitality, a lamp with no oil. And shaking, trembling, -not even looking towards his daughter's bed, he went to sit -in his usual place, letting himself go, as if he had to sit -there and wait for death.</p> - -<p>Only one thing could give him back a flash of energy—that -is to say, a flash of hatred—and it was the name of the -loathed doctor, which was repeated from time to time by -the new doctor or mentioned by his own servants, who -referred to him in spite of his express orders against it. -She, Bianca Maria, had never mentioned it. In the doleful -convulsions that had come on before that typhoid she had -raved at great length, cried out over and over again, calling -for her mother, 'Mama, mama!' like a child in danger, like -a lost child; nothing else. Vainly in these low ravings, in -that confused muttering, that long, disconnected chatter, -he had stretched his ears to hear his own name or the -scoundrel's who had taken his daughter's heart from him. -She had always called for her mother, no one else. And he -trembled, shivered, in case of hearing that name coming -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">[352]</a></span> -from her lips, still keeping up in his old age and tiredness, in -his growing weakness, that dull rage, that implacable hatred. -Sometimes, when the delirium got higher and higher and -haunted him, he ran away from the room, stopping his ears, -always fearing she would call on that name. Outside he -stood thus, waiting, undecided, and very agitated.</p> - -<p>'What is she speaking about?' he asked Margherita when -she, stupefied and frightened, came out of the room.</p> - -<p>'She wants her mother,' the other muttered, crying -silently, for it seemed to her a forerunner of death.</p> - -<p>And the typhoid went on, finishing its first week, not -yielding to the ice or the quinine, keeping always between -a hundred and four and a hundred and five degrees, as if the -mercury in the thermometer had stuck at that doleful figure, -a funereal cylinder that nothing was of any use now to bring -down.</p> - -<p>'How much is it?' the old father made inquiry with -anxious eyes from Margherita, who was looking at the -thermometer held against the sick girl's burning skin.</p> - -<p>'A hundred and four degrees,' she muttered under her -breath with infinite despair.</p> - -<p>Implacable figure! To bring down the fire that burned -away Bianca Maria's blood and nerves, seeing that quinine -taken by the mouth in large doses had no proper effect, -quinine was now injected with a tiny, pretty silver syringe -into the patient's arm. Not having the strength to open -her eyes, she raised herself with difficulty, propped up on -pillows, and held up in Margherita's arms, and her head -shook, the black hair stuck to her temples, and dripped -moisture from the chill of the ice-bag. They had to hold -up her head, too, for it went from side to side. Then, -baring the poor arms all dotted by the silver needle, a new -burning, painful puncture was added to the others. She -started, but only slightly, as if no pain was worse than that -sleep. Sometimes she opened her eyes, and set them on -Margherita's face, and they were so sad in their expression -of weariness, so muddy in colour, dry, and indifferent now -to all earthly sights, that a glance from them wrung the -heart. It looked as if they had emptied out the fountain of -tears. When her father and Margherita saw these doleful -eyes in front of them, they gave a start.</p> - -<p>'My child! my child!' the old man said to her, holding -her hands.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_353" id="Page_353">[353]</a></span></p> - -<p>Then she, disturbed and tired, lowered her eyelids at once, -and sank anew into that stupefied state in which the only -two signs of vitality were her laboured breathing and the -high temperature. Very seldom did the quinine injections -succeed in bringing down the high fever; there was a slight -discouraging variation, nothing more.</p> - -<p>Only on the morning of the tenth day she seemed, all of -a sudden, in a better state. It was sleep instead of torpor, -and in the comforting sleep a cold sweat ran over her forehead, -which Margherita wiped off carefully. The poor old -woman followed tremblingly every minute of that sleep, as -if she guessed intuitively Bianca Maria's life was to depend -on it; and while she said her prayers over mentally, her -whole attention was fixed on the loved face sharpened by -illness, that seemed to be getting back renewed brightness. -Whilst the sound sleep lasted, Margherita's vigilant ear -heard a noise in the flat. She got up on tiptoe and went -out. It was the Marquis di Formosa coming in again, and -he questioned her with his eyes anxiously.</p> - -<p>'She is resting; she is better—she is much better,' muttered -the poor old woman, putting a finger to her lips to -enjoin silence.</p> - -<p>The father's dry eyes filled with tears; it was the first -good news in ten days' anguish and fears. He, too, went -into his daughter's room, sitting down in his usual place, -watching the thin face, where the great nervous tension -seemed to have given way to a favourable crisis.</p> - -<p>Margherita, so as not to disturb Bianca Maria's sleep, -dared not make use of the thermometer to find out her -temperature, but her heart told her the fever had certainly -gone down. Then, both silent, she praying inwardly and -the Marquis di Formosa fishing up some shreds of prayer -from the depths of his clouded conscience, they spent two -hours watching over the invalid's quiet sleep. It was dusk -when she opened her eyes—the large eyes that had been -shut for ten days by fever's burning, leaden hand, and at -once Margherita leant over her, questioning her:</p> - -<p>'How do you feel?'</p> - -<p>To her astonishment, the girl, instead of answering with -a wave of the hand or a nod, said in a very feeble voice:</p> - -<p>'I am better.'</p> - -<p>Also the Marquis di Formosa had come up beside the -bed, and, quivering with joy, he said over and over again:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_354" id="Page_354">[354]</a></span></p> - -<p>'My child! my child!'</p> - -<p>'Do you want anything?' the waiting-woman asked, for -the sake of hearing the feeble voice which had gone to her -heart.</p> - -<p>'No, nothing; I feel better,' the invalid whispered, with -a sigh of relief from her unburdened breast.</p> - -<p>Her father had taken hold of her hand, gazing affectionately -at his daughter. And she, who for ten days had -driven him away from her bed by her look and the waving -of her hand, smiled on him this time. It was a flash of light. -He could do nothing but stammer out:</p> - -<p>'My child! my child!'</p> - -<p>And Margherita went out of the room cheerfully, as if -her young mistress were safe—safe for ever from the -frightful danger she had gone through for ten days. The -Marquis di Formosa had sat down at the head of the sick -girl's bed, and, holding her slight hand in his, he felt his -darling's fleshless fingers pressing now and then a little -harder on his own, as a loving caress. Twice or thrice he -leant over and asked, 'Would you like anything?' She -had not replied, but that rapid flash of a smile had come -back. It was night already, and faces could not be made -out any longer, when, on a new question from her father, -Bianca Maria replied: 'Yes, I do.'</p> - -<p>'What do you want? Tell me at once!'</p> - -<p>'I want the doctor at once,' she said.</p> - -<p>'Do you feel ill?' the old man asked, misunderstanding -her.</p> - -<p>'No; I want Dr. Amati.'</p> - -<p>Her father put his hand over the girl's on the coverlet, -but he said nothing.</p> - -<p>'Do you hear? I wish for Dr. Amati,' she repeated -in a louder voice, that already had a quiver of annoyance -in it.</p> - -<p>'No, my dear, it cannot be,' he replied, trying to restrain -himself, thinking of her illness, and remembering her -danger.</p> - -<p>'I want Dr. Amati,' she said in a loud voice, raising her -head from the pillow with a peculiar motion. It seemed, -indeed, to the old man that she had ground her teeth after -having announced for the fourth time her strange demand.</p> - -<p>'It is not possible, my dear,' he muttered, trying to hold -in his own burning rage.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_355" id="Page_355">[355]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Go and call Dr. Amati! Go at once!' she shouted, as -if giving him an order.</p> - -<p>'You are mad!' he cried out, rising from his seat. 'I -will never go.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, yes, you will!' she yelled, rising on the pillow, -clutching at the sheet with her clenched hands; 'you will -go at once, and bring him here directly. I want Amati -beside me—always with me. Go at once!'</p> - -<p>'No, no, I will not!' he shouted in his turn, not knowing -what he was doing. 'He will never put a foot in here while -I am alive.'</p> - -<p>Margherita had run in, quite upset, in despair a second -time, but still more despairing from the new turn the illness -had taken. Hardly had Bianca Maria seen her, when she -called out to her:</p> - -<p>'Margherita, if you love me, go and call Dr. Amati.'</p> - -<p>'I forbid you to; do you hear?' the old Marquis shrieked -to the woman. He was so exasperated that his hands -shook, his eyes gave out sparks.</p> - -<p>'For goodness' sake, miss, do not get in such a state; -remember you are talking to your father. Please, my lord, -remember my lady is ill; she is not in her right mind.'</p> - -<p>'I am not mad; I want Dr. Amati,' the girl still cried -out, clenching her fists, grinding her teeth, rolling her eyes -so convulsively that only the white of the eyeball could be -seen.</p> - -<p>'Holy Virgin! Holy Virgin!' Margherita went on sobbing -out.</p> - -<p>'For the love of God, if you are fond of me, go and call -Dr. Amati!' the sick girl sobbed out, her head swaying -about, sometimes rising from the pillow and falling back -upon it.</p> - -<p>'She is mad! she is mad!' shouted the old man, raving.</p> - -<p>'My lord, go away outside; I beg of you, go away,' -Margherita implored, seeing that his daughter fixed her -eyes, now full of intense rage, then with keen sorrow, on her -father, and that the sight of him made her still more frantic.</p> - -<p>'I am going away—I am going away; but she will not see -Dr. Amati!' he shouted, going outside, feeling he could bear -it no longer.</p> - -<p>But from the drawing-room, whither he had borne his -anger, he heard a loud shriek, loud and agonizing, as if the -patient were driving her nails into her flesh; and after that -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_356" id="Page_356">[356]</a></span> -shriek another, lower, but equally agonizing, such a cry of -unbearable sorrow quivered in it, and words spoken now -loudly, now in low tones, that came to him confusedly. -The girl had fallen into convulsions. Suddenly the sounds -quieted down, and then, still trembling from a mixed feeling -of rage, pity and fear, he went near the room; but he did -not go in, merely calling Margherita to the door.</p> - -<p>'How is she?'</p> - -<p>'She is worse, much worse,' she said, weeping silently.</p> - -<p>'But what is she saying?'</p> - -<p>'She wants Dr. Amati.'</p> - -<p>'That she will never get.'</p> - -<p>These short discussions, however, though the invalid -sank at intervals into a state of coma, were heard by her, -and twice on coming out of that torpor the loud shrieks had -burst out anew, with a quivering of all her muscles, especially -with a frightful knotting together of the muscles in the -nape of the neck. Throughout the cries that name, the -name the poor thing had worshipped so long in secret, that -name that had been for her the sign of salvation—that name -came up again always obstinately in her delirium, proclaimed -by the soul that knew no fetters now; imperiously, -gently, despairingly, with such an outflow of love that -Margherita and Giovanni, who ran in to keep down the -hysterical girl's arms, felt their hearts breaking. From the -other room, as the sick girl raised her voice, sometimes -shrill, then deep, calling upon Dr. Amati, the Marquis -di Formosa started and shuddered, with that obstinate, -blind hatred of old people who cannot forgive. Vainly, -vainly he tried to think of something else—not to hear, not -to feel the despairing sorrow of that appeal. It was no use -keeping down his head and stopping his ears, trusting to -the farthest-off room in the house; that clamorous complaint -still reached him persistently—nothing could be done -to check it. It was a nightmare now, and in spite of the -distance, in spite of closed doors, he heard clearly and distinctly -the words of love and sorrow in which Bianca Maria -called on Dr. Amati; the words got printed on his mind, and -hammered on his brain like a persecution.</p> - -<p>That went on for an hour and a half, and she did not -quiet down nor stop speaking, finding new strength, nervous -strength, to call, and call as if her voice, as if her calls, were -to go through the wall, across the streets, were to get to -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_357" id="Page_357">[357]</a></span> -the man she longed for to save her. Oh, that nightmare, -that nightmare! to hear his daughter's ravings! She who had -thrust him away from her bed, now was making desperate -appeals to another man. Now and then, as if to put an end -to that talking, imploring madness, he went close to the -room door, and heard Margherita's level voice, as she held -her mistress clasped in her arms, trying to calm her, whilst -she went on as if she had no ear for other voices, as if she -had to call for Dr. Amati until she saw him come into her -room. And her old father went off wild and desperate, -shaking with rage and anguish, not knowing what to do; -now grovelling, now ferocious, still unsubdued; keeping up -his hatred, not able to calm down, his blood boiling in his -veins, and a shortness of breath oppressing him. But at a -certain stage he heard the bell ring, and someone go into the -flat, and then into Bianca Maria's room. Formosa stood -still, motionless, astounded. Who had come in then?</p> - -<p>When Margherita came into the room where he had -taken refuge, and called him with a wave of her hand, he -followed her meekly. Beside the sick girl's bed, holding -her twitching arms and looking into her eyes, was the -doctor in charge, Morelli, whom poor Margherita had called -in. But Bianca Maria, even under the doctor's strong -hands, even under his scrutinizing glance, went on trembling; -her head rose convulsively from the pillow, her neck -stretched forward, getting rigid, and then her head fell back -again, worn out, still with a continued slight movement -backwards and forwards, whilst unweariedly she went on -saying, sometimes low, then shrilly, 'Amati ... Amati ... -Amati ... I want Amati....'</p> - -<p>'But what is the matter with her?' asked Formosa, -clasping his hands, with tears in his eyes.</p> - -<p>'She must have had some strong excitement two or three -hours ago: had she not?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, I fear so.'</p> - -<p>'Was it from some alarm, some noise?'</p> - -<p>'I ... I don't ... quite know.'</p> - -<p>'Well, she got excited? Did she cry out?'</p> - -<p>'Yes ... she did.'</p> - -<p>'Why did you let her get excited? Why did you not let -her have what she wanted? Do you know the danger your -daughter is running?'</p> - -<p>'I do not know ... I know nothing. What do you -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_358" id="Page_358">[358]</a></span> -expect me to know?' the old man shouted, holding out his -hands, beseeching like a child.</p> - -<p>'The danger is of meningitis,' said the doctor through his -clenched teeth.</p> - -<p>Now the invalid had half opened her eyes. The doctor -examined her pupils. Her eye seemed glassy, rigid, as her -whole person had got.</p> - -<p>'Doctor, what is it? is she dead?' yelled the old man, as -if he were mad.</p> - -<p>'It is temporary paralysis, from meningitis.'</p> - -<p>'What is to be done?'</p> - -<p>'Well, we will see. Meanwhile I beg you to have -Dr. Amati called in.'</p> - -<p>The old man looked at him, disordered.</p> - -<p>'What do you say?'</p> - -<p>'Send and call Amati. Do you not see she wants him?'</p> - -<p>'... She is raving.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, sir; but when she asked for him, she must have -been conscious; and even in delirium you must obey her, -my lord.'</p> - -<p>'Am I to obey?'</p> - -<p>'Your daughter is in a serious state; it is better to satisfy -her.'</p> - -<p>'Is she in danger?'</p> - -<p>'You may lose her from one hour to another. She has -no strength to bear up against meningitis.'</p> - -<p>'Doctor, doctor, do not say that!'</p> - -<p>'My dear sir, do you want me to tell you the truth, -especially as the poor patient cannot hear us? First of all, -you would not allow Amati to be called; then you let the -young lady get into this state of exasperation.... You -will not go on with this refusal? The girl is dying....'</p> - -<p>'O holy God!' blasphemed the Marquis.</p> - -<p>'I will go to Amati's house,' Morelli said.</p> - -<p>'... He will not come.'</p> - -<p>'Why should he not? Was he not the doctor in charge? -He is an honest man; he is a great doctor.'</p> - -<p>'... He will not come,' Formosa repeated.</p> - -<p>'Then go yourself, my lord.'</p> - -<p>Now, whilst Formosa made a despairing gesture, the sick -girl had started up, and again rapidly through her clenched -teeth she had begun to say: 'Amati! ... Amati! ... I -want Amati!...'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_359" id="Page_359">[359]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Do you hear?' said Morelli.</p> - -<p>'But I cannot!' shouted Formosa, 'for I turned that man -out of my house. I would not let my daughter marry him. -I cannot humble myself to him.'</p> - -<p>'Very well, but my lady is dying,' said the doctor, holding -down the girl's hands, which were clapping together.</p> - -<p>'Go and call Amati! For mercy's sake, for the love of -God, do not give me up! Call Amati!' groaned the invalid.</p> - -<p>'My God! what a punishment! what a punishment!' the -old man cried out, tearing his hair. 'But, doctor, give her -something; do not let her die!'</p> - -<p>'... Amati! ... Amati! ... I want Amati!' she -said, raving, rolling her eyes fearfully. Then, falling back -again, worn out, on the bed with a fresh stroke of paralysis, -the only living thing in her was her voice, asking for Amati; -still the only idea of her wandering reason was Amati, -Amati, Amati.</p> - -<p>'I will write to him,' the old man said desolately, going -to another room whilst the doctor was trying to put new ice -on Bianca Maria's burning head.</p> - -<p>The Marquis di Formosa was writing, but it was unbearable, -the shame of having to give in, and the words would -not come from his pen. He tore two sheets. At last a -short letter came out, in which he asked Dr. Amati to come -to his house, as his daughter was ill—nothing more. When -he had to write the address he nearly smashed the pen. -Then, not looking Giovanni in the face, he told him to run -to Dr.—yes, to Dr. Amati's. The poor old thing ran, -whilst Morelli gave calomel pills to his delirious patient, -who was crying out, for the pain in her head had got unbearable, -frightful. Her father, having carried out his first -sacrifice, felt he was going mad with these howls, fearing -lest he should begin to howl and howl like her, as if he had -caught meningitis from her. Now that he had written the -letter, carried out an unbearable sacrifice, the Marquis di -Formosa began to wish that Dr. Amati would come soon, -at least. It was impossible for him to bear these cries, -laments, and groans any longer, where one name came -up continuously. Now he was counting the minutes for -Giovanni to come back, straining his ears if he heard the -noise of a door opening. Time was passing, and the sick -girl, in spite of ice, in spite of calomel, was raving, with -glaring eyes, a prey to the inflammation that seemed to be -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_360" id="Page_360">[360]</a></span> -burning up her brain. Here was a door opening; someone -was coming towards the room where the Marquis di -Formosa had taken refuge in his desperation. It was -Giovanni alone, and he looked so tired, so old, so sad, that -the Marquis shivered as he asked him:</p> - -<p>'Well?'</p> - -<p>'Dr. Amati is not coming.'</p> - -<p>'Was he not at home?'</p> - -<p>'He was not. I waited for him under the portico; then -he came back....'</p> - -<p>'Well, then, what happened?'</p> - -<p>'He read the letter ... and he said he was too busy; -that the young lady was sure to have a good doctor.'</p> - -<p>'Did you not ... beg ... him to come.'</p> - -<p>'I did, my lord. He got severe then, and went away -muttering something that I did not understand.'</p> - -<p>'You ought to have gone upstairs and insisted.'</p> - -<p>'I had not the courage.'</p> - -<p>'But do you not know my lady is dying for want of him? -Do you not know that?'</p> - -<p>'I do know it, my lord; but the doctor used me ill. I -am a poor servant.'</p> - -<p>'He is right,' said the old man slowly; 'I insulted him -deeply.'</p> - -<p>'My lord, my lord, go yourself; he will not refuse you.'</p> - -<p>'You are mad.'</p> - -<p>'For the young lady's sake.'</p> - -<p>'He will refuse. He will insult me.'</p> - -<p>'For her sake.'</p> - -<p>'No, no; it is too much to expect....'</p> - -<p>'But, my lord, you said it yourself: my lady is dying.'</p> - -<p>'Go away!' shouted the Marquis brutally, driving his -servant away.</p> - -<p>He was left alone. His pride rebelled against the idea -of humbling himself before the man he had abused. He -suffered frightfully; his daughter's voice, now muttering in -a low tone, now yelling shrilly, calling out 'Amati,' gave -him a feeling of physical pain, of a red-hot iron scorching -his flesh. Within him, however, as time passed, as the -girl's danger increased, a work of clearing away was going -on, in which all the old and the new rebellions of his haughty -feelings went on tumbling down, and in place of the pride -came a tremendous pity, a great affection, an immense -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_361" id="Page_361">[361]</a></span> -sorrow. The hours flew by whilst he walked up and down, -gnawing at the curb of the last chains in which his heart -was bending, till at last it sank to the earth; and that -eternal delirious voice which could say nothing but the -name of Antonio Amati never ceased. He no longer shook -with anger; hatred was silent, and when Dr. Morelli, -having gone away and come back, asked for Amati, he -replied:</p> - -<p>'He has not come. I am going myself.'</p> - -<p>'Will you bring him?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, I will.'</p> - -<p>It was very late, however, when he set out on foot to go -to Santa Lucia Road, where Dr. Amati was now living. It -was nearly midnight, and people had turned out in Toledo -in the mildness of the April evening. In spite of being old, -the Marquis ran through the streets, urged by a nervous -force, and when he got to the big gateway of the palazzo -Amati lived in, he went up the stairs rapidly, not giving any -answer to the porter, who asked where he was going.</p> - -<p>'Tell Dr. Amati that the Marquis di Formosa is here,' -he told the housekeeper, who came to open the door to -him.</p> - -<p>'Really ... he is studying.'</p> - -<p>'Tell him, I beg of you. It is very urgent ...' the old -man implored; his pride was completely gone. She went off, -and came back again at once, making the Marquis a sign to -come in. He crossed two sitting-rooms, and came to a -study all in shadow, where the lamp-light was concentrated -on a large table scattered with papers and books. But Dr. -Amati was standing in the middle of the room, waiting. -These two men, who had hated each other so much, looked -at one another, with the same sorrow they had in common, -and pity for the unhappy dying girl cut short all rancour. -They looked at each other.</p> - -<p>'What is it?' Amati asked in a weak voice.</p> - -<p>'She is dying,' said Formosa with a despairing gesture.</p> - -<p>'Of what?'</p> - -<p>'Of meningitis.'</p> - -<p>An earthy pallor spread over the doctor's face, and two -lines formed themselves about his lips. And he dared not -make the Marquis any reproaches. Had he not himself -forsaken the poor girl, though he had promised and sworn -to save her? Had he not through pride left the delicate, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_362" id="Page_362">[362]</a></span> -sickly flower a prey to all moral and physical evils? Both -of them were guilty, both.</p> - -<p>'Let us start, then,' he said. They went out together, -called for a cab, and had the hood put up, as if they wanted -to hide their sorrow. They did not speak during the drive. -Only whilst he bit at his spent cigar Dr. Amati from time -to time asked some medical questions.</p> - -<p>'How long has she had meningitis? is this the first day -of it?'</p> - -<p>'Yes; but she has had typhoid fever for nine days.'</p> - -<p>'Had she high fever?'</p> - -<p>'It went up to a hundred and four and a hundred and five.'</p> - -<p>'Had she bad headaches?'</p> - -<p>'Frightful headaches.'</p> - -<p>'Did she have convulsions?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, at intervals.'</p> - -<p>'Does she roll her eyes about?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, she rolls her eyes.'</p> - -<p>'Do the muscles at the nape of her neck contract?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, they do.'</p> - -<p>'Was there some reason for it?'</p> - -<p>'Yes,' said the father humbly, almost sobbing out his -monosyllable.</p> - -<p>'Did she get calomel?'</p> - -<p>'Yes; Morelli gave that.'</p> - -<p>'Did it not soothe her?'</p> - -<p>'No, not a bit. Often she is paralyzed, but for a short -time.'</p> - -<p>'It is just meningitis,' the doctor muttered thoughtfully.</p> - -<p>The carriage went on and on, as well as it could with an -ordinary night horse. They were not getting there yet, and -they had already urged the driver to hurry.</p> - -<p>'Is she delirious?' the doctor asked again.</p> - -<p>'I do not know—I am not sure if it is delirium; but she -is always speaking convulsively.'</p> - -<p>'What does she say?'</p> - -<p>'She calls out for you.'</p> - -<p>'For me?'</p> - -<p>'Yes—always for you.'</p> - -<p>Ah! the doctor's heart broke on hearing that. The old -father heard him say, like a frightened prayer, 'My God!' -They said nothing more. They found the door open. Poor -old Giovanni had waited for them on the landing, leaning -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_363" id="Page_363">[363]</a></span> -over the railing, looking into the entrance-hall, anxious to -see them arrive, but certain that the doctor would come.</p> - -<p>'How is she?' asked her father at once; he had a constant -need of being reassured.</p> - -<p>'Just as she is bound to be,' sighed the old butler, going -on in front. 'She is much the same.'</p> - -<p>'Is she still delirious?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, still delirious.'</p> - -<p>They went in very softly to the small room. Dr. Morelli -had gone away a little while before, leaving a short note for -Dr. Amati. But he went straight to the sick girl's bed. -Her voice, tired now, but still impassioned, went on always -repeating Amati's name, but her head was sunk in the -pillows, and her eyes half shut. He saw everything at once, -and the disorder of his mind must have been tremendous, -for he could not manage to control his face—he, the strong, -invincible man. And he hesitated a minute before replying -to the unhappy, raving girl who went on calling to him, -fearing to cause too strong an impression on her nerves; -but he could not resist the feeble voice that went straight to -his heart and made it bleed with tenderness; he said:</p> - -<p>'Bianca Maria.'</p> - -<p>What a cry the answer was! She got up, her face -suddenly flaming; her eyes grew enormous. She threw -her arms round his neck, and leant her head on his breast, -crying out:</p> - -<p>'Oh, my love! my love! how long you have been in -coming! Do not leave me again—never forsake me; it is -so long since I have been calling for you—do not leave me.'</p> - -<p>'Do not fear; I will not leave you ...' he muttered, -trying to overcome his emotion, petting her fine, ruffled, -tumbled hair.</p> - -<p>'Never go away from me again—never!...' she cried -out passionately, clinging with her arms round his neck. -'If you forsake me I shall die.'</p> - -<p>'Keep quiet, Bianca Maria, be quiet—do not say such -things.'</p> - -<p>'I will say so!'—she raised her voice, irritated at being -contradicted—'if I have not you it is death for me. But -you will not let me die? Ah, do not leave me to die!'</p> - -<p>'My darling, be quiet—be quiet,' he said, not able to -control himself, trying to loosen the chain of her arms round -his neck.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_364" id="Page_364">[364]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Do not lift me from here! do not make me let go!' she -shrieked, making desperate motions with her head. 'If you -make me let go, I feel that death will take hold of me....'</p> - -<p>'Oh, Bianca, Bianca, be quiet, for my sake! do not kill -me!' said the strong man, now become the weakest and -wretchedest among men.</p> - -<p>'Death will catch hold of me! it is here behind me! I -feel it! You alone can save me! Do not let me die—I do -not wish to die: you know I do not wish to die!'</p> - -<p>'You will not die. Hush, my dear, or you will get -worse. I am here: I will not go away ever again—I will -not leave you!'</p> - -<p>'... I do not wish to die!' she ended up, again getting -a little quieter. They remained like that for some time. -The father was standing at the foot of the bed, leaning -against the bed-rail, with his eyes down, feeling in his -broken pride, in his wounded soul, the full weight of the -chastisement the Lord was heaping on him, as a punishment -for his lengthened sin.</p> - -<p>Very softly, seeing that the girl had stopped speaking, -that her eyes were closing, Dr. Amati tried to put her head -back on the pillow; but she felt the movement, and while -he bent down she drew him to her at the same time, and he -had to stoop, since her arms would not let go. They -remained like that, she dozing, he leaning over in an uncomfortable -position, in such anguish at her state and his -own powerlessness that the sensation of physical discomfort -did not affect him. Grief took such a violent hold of him -that he seemed about to suffocate, not being able to weep, -cry out, or speak now the unhappy girl was dozing; but -sometimes she gave a start, and an expression of painful -annoyance came over her fleshless face. An idea seemed -to come into her mind: either she heard a voice the others -did not, or saw some fanciful sight, for her eyelids fluttered -and her lips drew back from her whitish gums. Then she -opened her eyes, as if she had found out where that noise, -that sight, that disagreeable impression, came from, and with -a thread of voice, which only the doctor heard, she called:</p> - -<p>'Love!'</p> - -<p>'What is it you want?'</p> - -<p>'Send him away.'</p> - -<p>'Who do you mean?'</p> - -<p>'My father.'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_365" id="Page_365">[365]</a></span></p> - -<p>The doctor turned pale, and did not answer. He gave a -side-glance at the old man, who was still standing at the -foot of the bed with his eyes cast down in sorrowful -thought.</p> - -<p>'I beg of you, send him away,' she began again, speaking -into his ear.</p> - -<p>'But why do you wish it?'</p> - -<p>'Just because—I don't wish to see him. Send him away. -He must go away.'</p> - -<p>'Bianca Maria, remember he is your father.'</p> - -<p>'Look here—listen,' she said, pulling him nearer to her, -so that she could speak lower. 'He is my father,' she -whispered; then, with a smothered fear and an immense -bitterness, 'but he has killed me!'</p> - -<p>'Do not speak like that,' he replied, turning his head the -other way that she might not see his feelings.</p> - -<p>'I tell you I am dying through him. I am not raving, -you know; I am in my senses,' she replied, opening her -eyes wide with that babyish trick of dying children that -drives mothers mad with grief.</p> - -<p>He shook his head, as if he could not tell what to do nor -what to say.</p> - -<p>'Send him away!' she insisted, in a rage, with the fatal -outbursting fury of meningitis.</p> - -<p>'I cannot do it, Bianca Maria....'</p> - -<p>'If you do not send him away yourself, I will get up and -shriek out to him to go away, never to come before me -again—never, for the future: do you hear?'</p> - -<p>'Wait a moment,' he said, as he made up his mind, -resigned.</p> - -<p>And he left her, loosening himself from her, putting back -her thin arms on the coverlet. She followed him with her -glance, never taking her eyes off him, as if through them -she could know what Dr. Amati was saying to her father in -a low tone.</p> - -<p>Dr. Amati, with great delicacy and a shudder of grief -that made his voice shake uncontrollably, was explaining -to him that meningitis is a frightful malady which burns the -brain, breaks the nerves, and makes the unlucky patients -attacked by it rave for days and days: it incites them to -constant anger, and fury, even. Poor Bianca Maria was a -victim to this fancy, that she could not bear to have anyone -in her room; and that if he loved his daughter, if he did not -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_366" id="Page_366">[366]</a></span> -wish to hear her burst out into wild talk, would he be so -kind as to go into another room?...</p> - -<p>'Did my daughter tell you that?' the old man asked, -deadly pale, with his eyebrows knitted.</p> - -<p>'Yes, it was she who said it.'</p> - -<p>'Does she wish to have no one in her room?'</p> - -<p>'No, no one.'</p> - -<p>'Except yourself, is that it?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, I may stay.'</p> - -<p>'Does my daughter turn me out?' shrieked the old -man.</p> - -<p>'For goodness' sake, my lord, do not get irritated! Have -pity on your daughter, yourself, and me.'</p> - -<p>'I will not go away unless she tells me herself, do you -hear? Bianca Maria!' the Marquis called out, going up -close to the bed.</p> - -<p>She looked at her father with the greatest intensity, as if -she was answering him.</p> - -<p>'Bianca Maria,' shouted the exasperated old man, 'is it -true that you do not want to have me in your room? Say -yourself if it is true. I do not believe this man. You must -say it yourself.'</p> - -<p>'It is true,' she said in a very clear voice, looking at her -father.</p> - -<p>He cast down his eyes, where the last tears of old age -were showing, and his head sank on his breast, overcome -by the inflexible punishment that came to him from the -raving girl—from his dying victim. He went out without -turning round. And stooping, as if he were a hundred -years old, alone, speechless, he went away to what had been -his study, where only an old table and a chair were left. -There, lying forward with his face in his hands, with no -conception either of time or things, the old sinner sank into -the immeasurable bitterness of his punishment. Sometimes -Bianca Maria's voice came to him, feeble or loud, ever -telling Amati:</p> - -<p>'I do not want to die—I will not die! Save me! save -me! I am only twenty! I will not die!'</p> - -<p>The voice, the despairing words, said in delirium, but -which still seemed to be a lament and a curse, had a cruel -effect on him. He had not strength left to get up and go out, -to leave the house alone, to die like a dog on some church -steps, unwept for and unregretted. He did not get up to go -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_367" id="Page_367">[367]</a></span> -beside the dying girl, for his daughter had turned him out, -keeping by her the only person she had loved.</p> - -<p>'I will not die, love! I will not die!' the delirious girl -was saying.</p> - -<p>'She is right—she is right,' her father thought, giving a -start.</p> - -<p>Whilst the hours went by he heard, from where he was, -the doctor going backwards and forwards, in his effort to -save the girl's life, the hurried orders, Giovanni going out -and the assistant doctor coming in. He had no right now -to come forward and know what was going on, and, in fact, -he was forgotten there, as if he had been dead for years -and years, as if no Marquis di Formosa had ever existed. -Would it not be better for him if he were dead, since everyone -had forsaken him? 'It is what I deserve,' he thought -to himself.</p> - -<p>He strained his ears sometimes, as if the noises that -came to him were to tell him that his daughter was getting -better, that the doctor was giving her strong, effective -remedies; but, except for the servants, the assistant, and -the doctor going about their work, he heard nothing else but -the constant agonizing cry: 'I will not die! I will not die! -Love, save me!'</p> - -<p>He sank into a slumber, with his old head resting on his -arms, towards dawn, still hearing in this slight unconsciousness -that same cry of anguish. It was Giovanni who -wakened him, at full daylight, by bringing him a cup of -coffee. The father, turned out of his daughter's room, -questioned the servant with his eyes.</p> - -<p>'She is still in the same state—just the same.'</p> - -<p>'Then, not even Amati can save her—not even him?'</p> - -<p>'He is trying to, but he is in despair.'</p> - -<p>The Marquis di Formosa spent three days and nights in -that room alone, not seeing a bed and hardly touching the -little food that was brought in for the three days and nights -that Bianca Maria's dying agony lasted. The old man's -face, always of a reddish tinge, in spite of his age, was now -streaked with purple, his white hair, when Giovanni and -Margherita came to him, was tragically disordered. Only, -from seeing their crushed state, he asked them no more questions. -Did he not hear her still raving, crying out that at -her age she did not want to die, she would not die, adding -the most heartrending supplications and cries?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_368" id="Page_368">[368]</a></span></p> - -<p>The two servants told him nothing; his hearing had got -more acute, and not a word of the raving went past unheard. -Still, that very vitality of nervous strength, that strong -voice, deluded him as being a sort of health, and in the short -intervals of silence he almost wished the raving would -begin again. But the third day, in the morning, a new -painful sensation drew him out of that stupor. The delirious -girl, in a choked voice, was calling for her mother, begging -<em>her</em> not to let her die. Sometimes she stopped speaking; -he looked round him, alarmed at these sudden silences, -which got longer, starting when again Bianca Maria began -to cry out:</p> - -<p>'Mother, I will not die! I will not—I will not, mother -dear!'</p> - -<p>About two hours after midnight, on the third day, still -seated by his small table, slumber came upon him, with the -raving still echoing in his ears. How long did he sleep? -When he wakened, the silence was so profound that it -frightened him. He waited to hear the voice crying out -not to die yet. There was nothing. He counted the time -from the wasting of the candle; two hours must have -gone by.</p> - -<p>A horrible fear took hold of him; he dared not move. -He looked under the doorway arch, and saw Margherita's -white face looking at him. He understood. Still, mechanically -he asked:</p> - -<p>'How is Donna Bianca?'</p> - -<p>'She is well,' the old woman said feebly.</p> - -<p>'When did it happen?'</p> - -<p>'An hour ago.'</p> - -<p>'Did she not ... did she not ask for me?'</p> - -<p>'No, my lord.'</p> - -<p>He tried to get up; he could not. He thought that death -would lay hold of him there, on that seat, at once, since -young people of twenty die before old men of sixty. Now -Dr. Amati had come into the room. He was unrecognisable; -a deadly weight had broken down all his moral -and physical energies. Great silent, child's tears rolled -down his cheeks. They said nothing for a time.</p> - -<p>'Did she suffer a great deal?' the father asked.</p> - -<p>'Yes, frightfully....'</p> - -<p>'Were you not able to do anything to ...'</p> - -<p>'No, I was able to do nothing,' the doctor said, beaten, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_369" id="Page_369">[369]</a></span> -holding out his arms as he owned to the most horrible of -his failures.</p> - -<p>The old man, his face now rigid in tragic expression, -was not crying. Like a child who is not to be comforted, -Dr. Amati took him by the hand, lifted him from his chair, -and said gently:</p> - -<p>'Come and see her.'</p> - -<p>They went. The Marchesina di Formosa Bianca Maria -Cavalcanti was lying on her small white bed, her head -rather sloping on one shoulder, the waxen hands, with discoloured -fingers, clasped over a rosary. A soft white robe -had been put over her wasted body. The violet-shaded -mouth was half open, the clayey eyelids lowered. She -seemed very much smaller, like a girl in her teens. On her -face there was only the haughty seal of death, that soothes -all and forgives all. It was not serenity, but peace.</p> - -<p>From the doorway the two men gazed on the small -figure, with long, black hair flowing over it. They did not -go in; motionless, both kept their eyes on the mortal -remains, and Amati repeated gently, as if to himself, like -a child whom nothing could comfort:</p> - -<p>'There should be flowers—flowers....'</p> - -<p>The old man did not hear him. He looked at his dead -daughter, saying not a word, giving no sigh; he bent his -great frame and knelt down in the doorway, holding out his -arms for forgiveness, like old Lear before the sweet corpse -of Cordelia.</p> - - -<p class="center" style="margin-top: 2em; ">THE END</p> - - -<p class="p1">BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<hr /> - -<div class='tnote'> - -<h3>Transcriber's Notes:</h3> - -<p>A number of words in this book have both hyphenated and -non-hyphenated variants. The trend in the original book was to -hyphenate compound words. Therefore the hyphenated variant was chosen -in most of the cases.</p> - -<p>Obvious punctuation and other printing errors have been corrected.</p> - - - -</div> -</div> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Land of Cockayne, by Matilde Serao - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAND OF COCKAYNE *** - -***** This file should be named 54614-h.htm or 54614-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/4/6/1/54614/ - -Produced by Andrés V. 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