The Italians Part 24

"I shall not treat Enrica cruelly," was her reply, "nor will I cause a scandal, but I can never forgive her. By this act of loving n.o.bili she has separated herself from me irrevocably. Let her renounce him; she has her choice--mine is already made."

The cavaliere listened in silence. Much had been gained, in his opinion, by this partial concession. The subject had been broached, the hated name mentioned, the possibility of the marriage mooted. He rose with a cheerful smile to take his leave.

"Marchesa, it is late--permit me to salute you; you must require repose."

"Yes," she answered, sighing deeply. "It seems to me a year since I entered this room. I must leave Lucca. Enrica cannot, after what has pa.s.sed, remain here. Thanks to her, I, in the solitude of my own palace, am become the common town-talk. Cesare, I shall leave Lucca to-morrow for my villa of Corellia. Good-night."

The cavaliere again kissed her hand and departed.

"If that weatherc.o.c.k of a thousand colors, that idiot, Marescotti,"

muttered the cavaliere, as he descended the stairs, "could only be got to give up his impious mission, and marry the dear child, all might yet be right. He has an eye and a tongue that would charm a woman into anything. Alas! alas! what a pasticcio!--made by herself--made by herself and her lawsuits about the defunct Guinigi--d.a.m.n them!"

It was seldom that the cavaliere used bad words--excuse him.

PART III

CHAPTER I.

A LONELY TOWN.

The road from Lucca to Corellia lies at the foot of lofty mountains, over-mantled by chestnut-forests, and cleft asunder by the river Serchio--the broad, willful Serchio, sprung from the flanks of virgin fastnesses. In its course a thousand valleys open up, scoring the banks. Each valley has its tributary stream, down which, even in the dog-days, cool breezes rustle. The lower hills lying warm toward the south, and the broad gla.s.sy lands by the river, are trellised with vines. Some fling their branches in wild festoons on mulberry or aspen trees. Some trained in long arbors are held up by pillars of unbarked wood; others trail upon the earth in delicious luxuriance. The white and purple grapes peep from the already shriveled leaves, or hang in rich ma.s.ses on the brown earth.

It is the vintage. The peasants, busy as bees, swarm on the hill-sides; the women pluck the fruit; the men bear it away in wooden measures. While they work, they sing those wild Tuscan melodies that linger in the air like long-drawn sighs. The donkeys, too, climb up and down, saddled with wooden panniers, crammed with grapes. These grapes are shot into large tubs, and placed in a shady outhouse. Some black-eyed boy will dance merrily on these tubs, by-and-by, with his naked feet, and squeeze out the juice. This juice is then covered and left to ferment, then bottled into flasks, covered with wicker-work, corked with tow, and finally stowed away in caves among the rocks.

The marchesa's lumbering coach, drawn by three horses harnessed abreast (another horse, smaller than the rest, put in tandem in front), creaks along the road by the river-side, on its high wheels.

She sits within, a stony look upon her hard white face. Enrica, pale and silent, is beside her. No word has pa.s.sed between them since they left Lucca two hours ago. They pa.s.s groups of peasants, their labors over for the day--turning out of the vineyards upon the high-road. The donkeys are driven on in front. They are braying for joy; their faces are turned homeward. Boys run at their heels, and spur them on with sticks and stones. The women lag behind talking--their white head-gear and gold ear-rings catching the low sunshine that strikes through rents of parting mountains. Every man takes off his hat to the marchesa; every woman wishes her good-day.

It is only the boys who do not fear her. They have no caps to raise; when the carriage has pa.s.sed, they leave the donkeys and hang on behind like a swarm of bees. The driver is quite aware of this, and his long whip, which he has cracked at intervals all the way from Lucca--would reach the grinning, white-toothed little vagabonds well; but he--the driver--grins too, and spares them.

Together they all mount the zigzag mountain-pa.s.s, that turns short off from the right bank of the valley of the Serchio, toward Corellia. The peasants sing choruses as they trudge upward, taking short cuts among the trees at the angles of the zigzag. The evening lights come and go among the chestnut-trees and on the soft, short gra.s.s. Here a fierce flick of sunshine shoots across the road; there deep gloom darkens an angle into which the coach plunges, the peasants, grouped on the top of a bank overhead, standing out darkly in the yellow glow.

It is a lonely pa.s.s in the very bosom of the Apennines, midway between Lucca and Modena. In winter the road is clogged with snow; nothing can pa.s.s. Now, there is no sound but the singing of water-falls, and the trickle of water-courses, the chirrup of the _cicala_, not yet gone to its rest--and the murmur of the hot breezes rustling in the distant forest.

No sound--save when sudden thunder-pelts wake awful echoes among the great brotherhood of mountain-tops--when torrents burst forth, pouring downward, flooding the narrow garden ledges, and tearing away the patches of corn and vineyard, the people's food. Before--behind--around--arise peaks of purple Apennines, cresting upward into the blue sky--an earthen sea dashed into sudden breakers, then struck motionless. In front, in solitary state, rises the lofty summit of La Pagna, casting off its giant mountain-fellows right and left, which fade away into a golden haze toward Modena.

High up overhead, crowning a precipitous rock, stands Corellia, a knot of browned, sun-baked houses, flat-roofed, open-galleried, many-storied, nestling round a ruined castle, athwart whose rents the ardent sunshine darts. This ruined castle and the tower of an ancient Lombard church, heavily arched and galleried with stone, gleaming out upon a surface of faded brickwork, form the outline of the little town. It is inclosed by solid walls, and entered by an archway so low that the marchesa's driver has to dismount as he pa.s.ses through. The heavy old carriage rumbles in with a hollow noise; the horse's hoofs strike upon the rough stones with a harsh, loud sound.

The whole town of Corellia belongs to the marchesa. It is an ancient fief of the Guinigi. Legend says that Castruccio Castracani was born here. This is enough for the marchesa. As in the palace of Lucca, she still--even at lonely Corellia--lives as it were under the shadow of that great ancestral name.

Lonely Corellia! Yes, it is lonely! The church bells, high up in the Lombard tower sound loudly the matins and the eventide. They sound louder still on the saints days and festivals. With the festivals pa.s.s summer and winter, both dreary to the poor. Children are born, and marriage-flutes wake the echoes of the mountain solitudes--and mothers weep, hearing them, remembering their young days and present pinching want. The aged groan, for joy to them comes like a fresh pang!

The marchesa's carriage pa.s.ses through Corellia at a foot's pace. The driver has no choice. It is most difficult to drive at all--the street is so narrow, and the door-steps of the houses jut out so into the narrow s.p.a.ce. The horses, too, hired at Lucca, twenty miles away, are tired, poor beasts, and reeking with the heat. They can hardly keep their feet upon the rugged, slippery stones that pave the dirty alley. As the marchesa pa.s.ses slowly by, wan-faced women--colored handkerchiefs gathered in folds upon their heads, knitting or spinning flax cut from the little field without upon the mountain-side--put down the black, curly-headed urchins that cling to their laps--rise from where they are resting on the door-step, and salute the marchesa with an awe-struck stare. She, in no mood for condescension, answers them with a frown. Why have these wan-faced mothers, with scarcely bread to eat, children between their knees? Why has G.o.d given her none? Again the impious thought rises within her which tempted her when standing before the marriage-bed in the nuptial chamber. "G.o.d is my enemy." "He has smitten me with a curse." "Why have I no child?"

"No child, nothing but her"--and she flashes a savage glance at Enrica, who has sunk backward, covering her tear-stained face with a black veil, to avoid the peering eyes of the Corellia townsfolk--"nothing but her. Born to disgrace me. Would she were dead!

Then all would end, and I should go down--the last Guinigi--to an honored grave."

The sick, too, are sitting at the doorways as the marchesa pa.s.ses by. The mark of fever is on many an ashy cheek. These sick have been carried from their beds to breathe such air as evening brings. Air!

There is no air from heaven in these foul streets. No sweet breath circulates; no summer scents of gra.s.ses and flowers reach the lonely town hung up so high. The summer sun scorches. The icy winds of winter, sweeping down from Alpine ridges, whistle round the walls.

Within are chilly, desolate hearths, on which no fire is kindled.

These sick, as the carriage pa.s.ses, turn their weary eyes, and lift up their wasted hands in mute salutations to that dreaded mistress who is lord of all--the great marchesa. Will they not lie in the marchesa's ground when their hour comes? Alas! how soon--their weakness tells them very soon! Will they not be carried in an open bier up those long flights of steps--all hers--cut in the rocky sides of overlapping rocks, to the cemetery, darkly shaded by waving cypresses? The ground is hers, the rocks, the steps, the stones, the very flowers that brown, skinny hands will sprinkle on their bier--all hers. From birth to bridal, and the marriage-bed (so fruitful to the poor), from bridal to death, all hers. The land they live on, and the graves they fill, all--but a shadow of her greatness!

At the corner of the squalid, ill-smelling street through which she is now pa.s.sing, is the town fountain. This fountain, once a willful mountain-torrent, now cruelly captured and borne hither by munic.i.p.al force, splashes downward through a sculptured circle cut in a marble slab, into a covered trough below. Here bold-eyed maidens are gathered, who poise copper vessels on their dark heads--maidens who can chat, and laugh, and romp, on holidays, and with flushed faces dance wild tarantellas (fingers for castanets), where the old tale of love is told in many a subtile step, and shuffle, rush, escape, and feint, ending in certain capture! Beside the maidens linger some mountain lads. Now their work is over, they loll against the wall, pipe in mouth, or lie stretched on a plot of gra.s.s that grows green under the spray of the fountain. In a dark angle, a little behind from these, there is a shrine hollowed out of the city wall. Within the shrine an image of the Holy Mother of the Seven Sorrows stands, her arms outstretched, her bosom pierced by seven gilded arrows. The shrine is protected by an iron grating. Bunches of pale hill-side blossoms, ferns, and a few blades of corn, are thrust in between the bars. Some lie at the Virgin's feet--offerings from those who have nothing else to give. A little group (but these are old, and bowed by grief and want) kneel beside the shrine in the quiet evening-tide.

The rumble of a carriage, so strange a sound in lonely Corellia, rouses all. From year to year, no wheels pa.s.s through the town save the marchesa's. Ere she appears, all know who it must be. The kneelers at the shrine start up and hobble forward to stare and wonder at that strange world whence she comes, so far away at Lucca. The maidens courtesy and smile; the lads jump up, and range themselves respectfully against the wall; yet in their hearts neither care for her--neither the maidens nor the lads--no one cares for the marchesa.

They are all looking out for Enrica. Why does the signorina lie back in the carriage a ma.s.s of clothes? The maidens would like to see how those clothes are made, to cut their poor garments something like them. The lads would like to let their eyes rest on her golden hair.

Why does the Signorina Enrica not nod and smile to those she knows, as is her wont? Has that old tyrant, her aunt--these young ones are bold, and dare to whisper what others think; they have no care, and, like the lilies of the field, live in the wild, free air--has that old tyrant, her aunt, bewitched her?

Now the carriage has emerged from the dark alley, and entered the dirty but somewhat less dark piazza--the market-place of Corellia. The old Lombard church of Santa Barbara, with its big bells in the arched tower, hanging plainly to be seen, opens into the piazza by a flight of steps and a sculptured doorway. The Municipio, too, calling itself a _palace_ (heaven save the mark!), with its list of births, deaths, and marriages, posted on a black-board outside the door, to be seen of all, adorns it. The Cafe of the Tricolor, and such shops as Corellia boasts of, are there opposite. Men, smoking, and drinking native wine, are lounging about. Ser Giacomo, the notary, spectacles on nose, sits at a table in a corner, reading aloud to a select audience a weekly broad-sheet published at Lucca, news of men and things not of the mountain-tops. Every soul starts up as they hear wheels approaching.

If a bomb had burst in the piazza the panic could not be greater. They know it is the marchesa. They know that now the marchesa is come she will grind and harry them, and seize her share of grapes, and corn, and olives, to the uttermost farthing. Silvestro, her steward, a timid, pitiful man, can be got over by soft words, and the sight of want and misery. Not so the marchesa. They know that now she is come she will call the Town Council, fine them, pursue them for rent, cite them to the High Court of Barga, imprison them if they cannot pay.

They know her, and they curse her. The ill-news of her arrival runs from lip to lip. Checco, the butcher, who sells his meat cut into dark, indescribably-shaped sc.r.a.ps, more fit for dogs than men, first sees the carriage turn into the piazza. He pa.s.ses the word on to Oreste, the barber round the corner. Oreste, who, with his brother Pilade, both wearing snow-white ap.r.o.ns, are squaring themselves at their open doorway, over which hangs a copper basin, shaped like Manbrino's helmet, looking for customers--Oreste and Pilade turn pale.

Then Oreste tells the baker, Pietro, who, naked as Nature made him, has run out from his oven to the open door, for a breath of air. The bewildered clerk at the Municipio, who sits and writes, and sleeps by turns, all day, in a low room beside a desk, taking notes for the sindaco (mayor) from all who come (he is so tired, that clerk, he would hear the last trumpet sound unmoved), even he hears the news, and starts up.

Now the carriage stops. It has drawn up in the centre of the piazza.

It is the marchesa's custom. She puts her head out of the window, and takes a long, grave look all round. These are her va.s.sals. They fear her. She knows it, and she glories in it. Every head is uncovered, every eye turned upon her. It is obviously some one's duty to salute her and to welcome her to her domain. She has stopped for this purpose. It is always done. No one, however, stirs. Ser Giacomo, the notary, bows low beside the table where he has been caught reading the Lucca broad-sheet; but Ser Giacomo does not stir. How he wishes he had staid at home!

He has not the courage to move one step toward her. Something must be done, so Ser Giacomo he runs and fetches the sindaco from inside the recesses of the _cafe_, where he is playing dominoes under a lighted lamp. The sindaco must give the marchesa a formal welcome. The sindaco, a saddler by trade--a snuffy little man, with a face drawn and yellow as parchment, wearing his working-clothes--advances to the carriage with a step as cautious as a cat.

"I trust the ill.u.s.trious lady is well," he says timidly, bowing low and trying to smile. Mr. Sindaco is frightened, but he can be proud enough to his fellow-townsfolk, and he is downright cruel to that poor lad his clerk, at the Munic.i.p.al Palace.

The marchesa, with a cold, distant air, that would instantly check any approach to familiarity--if any one were bold enough to be familiar--answers gravely, "That she is thankful to say she is in her usual health."

The sindaco--although better off than many, painfully conscious of long arrears of unpaid rent--waxing a little bolder at the sound of his own voice and his well-chosen phrases, continues:

"I am glad to hear it, Signora Marchesa." The sindaco further observes, "That he hopes for the ill.u.s.trious lady's indulgence and good-will."

His smile has faded now; his voice trembles. If his skin were not so yellow, he would be white all over, for the marchesa's looks are not encouraging. The sindaco dreads a summons to the High Court of Barga, where the provincial prisons are--with which he may be soon better acquainted, he fears.

In reply, the marchesa--who perfectly understands all this in a general way--scowls, and fixes her rigid eyes upon him.

"Signore Sindaco, I cannot stop to listen to any grievance now; I will promise no indulgence. I must pay my bills. You must pay me, Signore Sindaco; that is but fair."

The poor little snuffy mayor bows a dolorous acquiescence. He is hopeless, but polite--like a true Italian, who would thank the hangman as he fastens the rope round his neck. But the marchesa's words strike terror into all who hear them. All owe her long arrears of rent, and much besides. Why--oh! why--did the cruel lady come to Corellia?

Having announced her intentions in a clear, metallic voice, the marchesa draws her head back into the coach.

"Send Silvestro to me," she adds, addressing the sindaco. "Silvestro will inform me of all I want to know." (Silvestro is her steward.)

"Is the n.o.ble young Lady Enrica unwell?" asks the persevering sindaco, gazing earnestly through the window.

He knows his doom. He has nothing to hope from the marchesa's clemency, so he may as well gratify his burning curiosity by a question about the much-beloved Enrica, who must certainly have been ill-used by her aunt to keep so much out of sight.

"The people of Corellia would also offer their respectful homage to her," bravely adds Mr. Sindaco, tempting his fate. "The Lady Enrica is much esteemed here in the town."

As he speaks the sindaco gazes in wonder at the m.u.f.fled figure in the corner. Can this be she? Why does she not move forward and answer?--and show her pretty face, and approve the people's greeting?