Castellinaria, and Other Sicilian Diversions Part 24

He said he had, and that she was coming home with him in order that the baby might be born there. His people, who understood the sincerity of his nature and the purity of his motives--

"Ah yes, indeed," interrupted Ivanhoe, "my brother has a heart of gold and we are all satisfied with his conduct."

"But Filomena's family," continued the corporal, "are suspicious and unfriendly and dissatisfied. Her adorata mamma and all her aunts and female cousins wept when she left home, and they are still weeping. But what else could we do? She was getting ill after waiting so long and could not--"

"Yes," interrupted Ivanhoe, "she was becoming like Ettorina, and my poor brother also was unhappy."

They admitted that the situation, though the best possible, was not ideal. The corporal has to sleep at the caserma and pretend to the authorities that he is a free bachelor, he can only visit the mother of his future children in his spare time. And this regrettable state of things had arisen in consequence, or partly in consequence, of my respect for law and order. I did not put it like that to him. I pointed out that if I had sent the 4000 francs I should have been obliged to deny myself the pleasure of coming to see him in Sicily. He concurred and thanked me for my consideration. His experience of life had already taught him that the same money cannot be spent on two different objects, and he was grateful to me for choosing the one which gave him the pleasure of making me acquainted with his fidanzata. The 4000 francs from some other source or the government appointment might drop into his lap at any moment, and at the latest, he could regularise his position in five years, when he should be forty, by leaving the service, returning to the carpentry, marrying and legitimising any children that might have been born.

So I said good-bye to the brothers, wished the corporal every happiness and gave him my sympathetic cigarette-case as a non-wedding present, or rather as something that by an enharmonic change should become transformed into a wedding present on the solemnisation of his marriage, and he swore to keep it till death as a ricordo of our friendship.

Next morning Ivanhoe called upon me and said:

"My dear Signor Enrico, I am in want. Would it be possible for you to lend me five francs till next week?"

I replied, "My dear Ivanhoe, it distresses me to hear you are in want and it lacerates my heart that you should have made a request which I am compelled to decline."

"I do not ask for myself. It is for my children."

"Would you mind telling me, merely as a matter of idle curiosity and without prejudice to the question of the five francs, whether the mother of your children is your wife or your fidanzata?"

"She is my wife. We have been married thirteen months."

"And how many children have you?"

"I have two."

"Only two!"

"I am expecting another in a few weeks."

"Bravo. Of course that alters the situation. Now suppose we settle it this way: Let us pretend that you ask me to lend you three francs, one for each child; I refuse, but propose, instead, to give you one franc on the faith of the new baby."

"Do you mean you abandon all hope of ever seeing the one franc again?"

"I do."

"Make it two francs and I agree."

"No, Ivanhoe. One franc is quite enough for an unborn baby."

"If you think so."

So I gave him one franc.

"I am very much obliged to you," he said, "and now there is one more favour I wish to ask of you. Will you hold the new baby at the baptismal font and thus do me the honour of becoming my compare?"

This did not suit me at all. I replied: "My dear Ivanhoe, let us forget all we have said since you told me you were expecting another baby, let us return to your original request and here--take four more francs. It will be better for me in the end than if I become your compare."

"If you think so," said Ivanhoe.

I had no doubt about it, so I gave him four more francs and abandoned all hope of ever seeing them again; but I got my money's worth, or part of it, in the shape of a registered letter soon after my return to London; in English the letter runs thus, and I was brutal enough to leave it unanswered:

CASTELLINARIA.

My most esteemed friend, Signor Enrico!

First of all I must inform you that my health is excellent and I hope that yours also is good. I wish you all the happiness that it is possible for anyone to have in this world and I would that I could transport my presence into London so that I might be with you for a few days and thus augment your domestic joy. But there is one thing wanting--I allude to money. So many misfortunes have happened to me in this sad year that I have not the means to undertake a long journey. I should be much obliged to you if you would kindly forward me 300 francs, of which I am in urgent need as I have to pay a debt.

This money I will repay you immediately the next time I have the pleasure of seeing you in Castellinaria or, if you prefer it, I will promise to pay you in seven months from this date by sending the money through the post; it is for you to choose which course would suit you best. You will find in me an honest man. You will be doing me a favour for which I shall be grateful all the rest of my life, for you will be extricating me from a position of extreme discomfort.

The Padre Eterno will bless your philanthropic and humane action and I shall have a memory sculptured on my heart as long as I live.

I will ever pray for your health and for that of all your family.

The favour I am now asking I should like you to grant during the week after you receive this letter. I will not write more except to say that, relying on the goodness of your heart, I thank you cordially and await your favourable reply.

With infinite salutations, I subscribe myself yours for life, IVANHOE.

EARTHQUAKE ECHOES

CHAPTER XVII TOTO CARBONARO

One morning, in the autumn of 1908, I was sitting in front of one of the windows of the albergo looking out across the harbour at the mountains of Calabria, waiting for coffee and thinking of _Omerta_. I had been spending a week in Messina with Giovanni Gra.s.so and his company of Sicilian Players, and _Omerta_ was the play they had performed the preceding evening. I remembered how at the end Giovanni had staggered in mortally wounded and refused to give the name of his murderer--though the audience guessed who it must have been--and then how he had given his knife to Pasqualino, his young brother, and with his last breath had spoken these words; "Per Don Toto, quando avrai diciotto anni"; and I had left the theatre wishing I could see Giovanni as Pasqualino grown up and executing the vendetta. Giovanni now uses a revolver as being a n.o.bler weapon, but when I was with him in Messina it was a knife.

The big waiter brought the coffee and stood on my left, the little waiter followed him, and stood on my right. During the week I had often seen this boy who was not yet a real waiter, he was learning his business by waiting on the waiters, and hitherto I had respected the convention by which I was supposed to be unaware of his existence, except that when he had made way for me on the stairs we had exchanged greetings. I said to the big waiter:

"How old is this little fellow?"

"Thirteen."

I glanced at him and saw by his smile of expansive friendliness that he was pleased to be the subject of our conversation.

"What do you call him?"

"Toto."

I took my knife off the breakfast table and imitating Giovanni, as well as I could, handed it to the big waiter saying:

"For Don Toto when he shall be eighteen years old."

This was perhaps wrong, it was certainly risky to play with edged tools in this way in a country where one ought not to give a handkerchief as a ricordo lest one should be supposed to be intending to pa.s.s the tears it contains. But I a.s.sumed he had seen the play and, although the quotation was not exact, expected him to recognise it, instead of which he was furious with me:

"You are not to do that. Toto is a very good boy and I shall not accept the knife."