START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ITALIANS*** E-text prepared by Curtis Weyant, Bill Hershey, and Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders THE ITALIANS: A Novel BY FRANCES ELLIOT AUTHOR OF "ROMANCE OF OLD COURT LIFE IN FRANCE," "THE DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY," ETC., ETC. 1875 TO THE REAL ENRICA, WITH THE AUTHOR'S LOVE. CONTENTS PART I. I. LUCCA II. THE CATHEDRAL OF LUCCA III. THE THREE WITCHES IV. THE MARCHESA GUINIGI V. ENRICA VI. MARCHESA GUINIGI AT HOME VII. COUNT MARESCOTTI VIII. THE CABINET COUNCIL IX. THE COUNTESS ORSETTI'S BALL PART II. I. CALUMNY II. CHURCH OF SAN FREDIANO III. THE GUINIGI TOWER IV. COUNT NOBILI V. NUMBER FOUR AT THE UNIVERSO HOTEL VI. A NEW PHILOSOPHY VII. THE MARCHESA'S PASSION VIII. ENRICA'S TRIAL IX. WHAT CAME OF IT PART III. I. A LONELY TOWN II. WHAT SILVESTRO SAYS III. WHAT CAME OF BURNING THE MARCHESA'S PAPERS IV. WHAT A PRIEST SHOULD BE V. "SAY NOT TOO MUCH" VI. THE CONTRACT VII. THE CLUB AT LUCCA VIII. COUNT NOBILI'S THOUGHTS IX. NERA PART IV. I. WAITING AND LONGING II. A STORM AT THE VILLA III. BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH IV. FRA PACIFICO AND THE MARCHESA V. TO BE, OR NOT TO BE? VI. THE CHURCH AND THE LAW VII. THE HOUR STRIKES VIII. FOR THE HONOR OF A NAME IX. HUSBAND VERSUS WIFE X. THE LAWYER BAFFLED XI. FACE TO FACE XII. OH BELLO! PART I. CHAPTER I. LUCCA. We are at Lucca. It is the 13th of September, 1870--the anniversary of the festival of the Volto Santo--a notable day, both in city, suburb, and province. Lucca dearly loves its festivals--no city more; and of all the festivals of the year that of the Volto Santo best. Now the Volto Santo (_Anglicè_, Holy Countenance) is a miraculous crucifix, which hangs, as may be seen, all by itself in a gorgeous chapel--more like a pagoda than a chapel, and more like a glorified bird-cage than either--built expressly for it among the stout Lombard pillars in the nave of the cathedral. The crucifix is of cedar-wood, very black, and very ugly, and it was carved by Nicodemus; of this fact no orthodox Catholic entertains a doubt. But on what authority I cannot tell, nor why, nor how, the Holy Countenance reached the snug little city of Lucca, except by flying through the air like the Loretto house, or springing out of the earth like the Madonna of Feltri. But here it is, and here it has been for many a long year; and here it will remain as a miraculous relic, bringing with it blessings and immunities innumerable to the grateful city. What a glorious morning it is! The sun rose without a cloud. Now there is a golden haze hanging over the plain, and glints as of living flame on the flanks of the mountains. From all sides crowds are pressing toward Lucca. Before six o'clock every high-road is alive. Down from the highest mountain-top of Pizzorna, overlooking Florence and its vine-garlanded campagna, comes the hermit, brown-draped, in hood and mantle; staff in hand, he trudges along the dusty road. And down, too, from his native lair among the pigs and the poultry, comes the black-eyed, black-skinned, matted-haired urchin, who makes mud pies under the tufted ilex-trees at Ponte a Moriano, and swears at the hermit. They come! they come! From mountain-sides bordering the broad road along the Serchio--mountains dotted with bright homesteads, each gleaming out of its own cypress-grove, olive-patch, canebrake, and vine-arbor, under which the children play--they come from solitary hovels, hung up, as it were, in mid-air, over gloomy ravines, scored and furrowed with red earth, down which dark torrents dash and spray. They come! they come! these Tuscan peasants, a trifle too fond of holiday-keeping, like their betters--but what would you have? The land is fertile, and corn and wine and oil and rosy flowering almonds grow almost as of themselves. They come--tens and tens of miles away, from out the deep shadows of primeval chestnut-woods, clothing the flanks of rugged Apennines with emerald draperies. They come--through parting rocks, bordering nameless streams--cool, delicious waters, over which bend fig, peach, and plum, delicate ferns and unknown flowers. They come--from hamlets and little burghs, gathered beside lush pastures, where tiny rivulets trickle over fresh turf and fragrant herbs, lulling the ear with softest echoes. They come--dark-eyed mothers and smiling daughters, decked with gold pins, flapping Leghorn hats, lace veils or snowy handkerchiefs gathered about their heads, coral beads, and golden crosses as big as shields, upon their necks--escorted by lover, husband, or father--a flower behind his ear, a slouch hat on his head, a jacket thrown over one arm, every man shouldering a red umbrella, although to doubt the weather to-day is absolute sacrilege! Carts clatter by every moment, drawn by swift Maremma nags, gay with brass harness, tinkling bells, and tassels of crimson on reins and frontlet. The carts are laden with peasants (nine, perhaps, ranged three abreast)--treason to the gallant animal that, tossing its little head, bravely struggles with the cruel load. A priest is stuck in bodkin among his flock--a priest who leers and jests between pinches of snuff, and who, save for his seedy black coat, knee-breeches, worsted stockings, shoe-buckles, clerical hat, and smoothly-shaven chin, is rougher than a peasant himself. Riders on Elba ponies, with heavy cloaks (for the early morning, spite of its glories, is chill), spur by, adding to the dust raised by the carts. Genteel flies and hired carriages with two horses, and hood and foot-board--pass, repass, and out-race each other. These flies and carriages are crammed with bailiffs from the neighboring villas, shopkeepers, farmers, and small proprietors. Donkeys, too, there are in plenty, carrying men bigger than themselves (under protest, be it observed, for here, as in all countries, your donkey, though marked for persecution, suffers neither willingly nor in silence). Begging friars, tanned like red Indians, glide by, hot and grimy (thank Heaven! not many now, for "New Italy" has sacked most of the convent rookeries and dispersed the rooks), with wallets on their shoulders, to carry back such plunder as can be secured, to far-off convents and lonely churches, folded up tightly in forest fastnesses. All are hurrying onward with what haste they may, to reach the city of Lucca, while broad shadows from the tall mountains on either hand still fall athwart the roads, and cool morning air breathes up from the rushing Serchio. The Serchio--a noble river, yet willful as a mountain-torrent--flows round the embattled walls of Lucca, and falls into the Mediterranean below Pisa. It is calm now, on this day of the great festival, sweeping serenely by rocky capes, and rounding into fragrant bays, where overarching boughs droop and feather. But there is a sullen look about its current, that tells how wicked it can be, this Serchio, lashed into madness by winter storms, and the overflowing of the water-gates above, among the high Apennines--at the Abbetone at San Marcello, or at windy, ice-bound Pracchia. How fair are thy banks, O mountain-bordered Serchio! How verdant with near wood and neighboring forest! How gay with cottage groups--open-galleried and garlanded with bunches of golden maize and vine-branches--all laughing in the sun! The wine-shops, too, along the road, how tempting, with snowy table-cloths spread upon dressers under shady arbors of lemon--trees; pleasant odors from the fry cooking in the stove, mixing with the perfume of the waxy flowers! Dear to the nostrils of the passers-by are these odors. They snuff them up--onions, fat, and macaroni, with delight. They can scarcely resist stopping once for all here, instead of waiting for their journey's end to eat at Lucca. But the butterflies--and they are many--are wiser in their generation. The butterflies have a festival of their own to-day. They do not wait for any city. They are fixed to no spot. They can hold their festival anywhere under the blue sky, in the broad sunshine. See how they dance among the flowers! Be it spikes of wild-lavender, or yellow down within the Canterbury bell, or horn of purple cyclamens, or calyx of snowy myrtle, the soft bosom of tall lilies or glowing petals of red cloves--nothing comes amiss to the butterflies. They are citizens of the world, and can feast wherever fancy leads them. Meanwhile, on comes the crowd, nearer and nearer to the city of their pilgrimage, laughing, singing, talking, smoking. Your Italian peasant must sleep or smoke, excepting when he plays at _morra_ (one, two, three, and away!). Then he puts his pipe into his pocket. The women are conversing in deep voices, in the _patois_ of the various villages. The men, more silent, search out who is fairest--to lead her on the way, to kneel beside her at the shrine, and, most prized of all, to conduct her home. Each village has its belle, each belle her circle of admirers. Belles and beaux all have their own particular plan of diversion for the day. For is it not a great day? And is it not stipulated in many of the marriage contracts among the mountain tribes that the husband must, under a money penalty, conduct his wife to the festival of the Holy Countenance once at least in four years? The programme is this: First, they enter the cathedral, kneel at the glistening shrine of the black crucifix, kiss its golden slipper, and hear mass. Then they will grasp such goods as the gods provide them, in street, _café_, eating-house, or day theatre; make purchases in the shops and booths, and stroll upon the ramparts. Later, when the sun sinks westward over the mountains, and the deep canopy of twilight falls, they will return by the way that they have come, until the coming year. * * * * * Within the city, from before daybreak, church-bells--and Lucca abounds in belfries fretted tier upon tier, with galleries of delicate marble colonnettes, all ablaze in the sunshine--have pealed out merrily. Every church-door, draped with gold tissue and silken stuffs, more or less splendid, is thrown wide open. Every shop is closed, save _cafés_, hotels, and tobacco-shops (where, by command of the King of New Italy, infamous cigars are sold). Eating-tables are spread at the corners of the streets and under the trees in the piazza, benches are ranged everywhere where benches can stand. The streets are filling every moment as fresh multitudes press through the city gates--those grand old gates, where the marble lions of Lucca keep guard, looking toward the mountains. For a carriage to pass anywhere in the streets would be impossible, so tightly are flapping Leghorn hats, and veils, snowy handkerchiefs, and red caps and brigand hats, packed together. Bells ring, and there are waftings of military music borne through the air. Trumpet-calls at the different barracks answer to each other. Cannons are fired. Each man, woman, and child shouts, screams, and laughs. All down the dark, cavernous streets, in the great piazza, at the sindaco's, at college, at club, public offices, and hotels, at the grand old palaces, untouched since the middle ages--the glory of the city--at every house, great and small--flutter gaudy draperies; crimson, amber, violet, and gold, according to purse and condition, either of richest brocade, or of Eastern stuffs wrought in gold and needle-work, or--the family carpet or bed-furniture hung out for show. Banners wave from every house-top and tower, the Italian tricolor and the Savoy cross, white, on a red ground; flowers and garlands are wreathed on the fronts of the stern old walls. If peasants, and shopkeepers, and monks, priests, beggars, and _hoi polloi_ generally, possess the pavement, overhead every balcony, gallery, terrace, and casement, is filled with company, representatives of the historic families of Lucca, the Manfredi, Possenti, Navascoes, Bernardini, dal Portico, Bocella, Manzi, da Gia, Orsetti, Ruspoli--feudal names dear to native ears. The noble marquis, or his excellency the count, lord of broad acres on the plains, or principalities in the mountains, or of hoarded wealth at the National Bank--is he not Lucchese also to the backbone? And does he not delight in the festival as keenly as that half-naked beggar, who rattles his box for alms, with a broad grin on his dirty face? Resplendent are the ladies in the balconies, dressed in their best--like bands of fluttering ribbon stretched across the sombre-fronted palaces; aristocratic daughters, and dainty consorts. They are not chary of their charms. They laugh, fan themselves, lean over sculptured balustrades, and eye the crowded streets, talking with lip and fan, eye and gesture. In the long, narrow street of San Simone, behind the cathedral of San Martino, stand the two Guinigi Palaces. They are face to face. One is ditto of the other. Each is in the florid style of Venetian-Gothic, dating from the beginning of the fourteenth century. Both were built by Paolo Guinigi, head of the illustrious house of that name, for forty years general and tyrant of the Republic of Lucca. Both palaces bear his arms, graven on marble tablets beside the entrance. Both are of brick, now dulled and mellowed into a reddish white. Both have walls of enormous thickness. The windows of the upper stories--quadruple casements divided, Venetian-like, by twisted pillarettes richly carved--are faced and mullioned with marble. The lower windows (mere square apertures) are barred with iron. The arched portals opening to the streets are low, dark, and narrow. The inner courts gloomy, damp, and prison-like. Brass ornaments, sockets, rings, and torch-holders of iron, sculptured emblems, crests, and cognizances in colored marble, are let into the outer walls. In all else, ornamentation is made subservient to defense. These are city fortresses rather than ancestral palaces. They were constructed to resist either attack or siege. Rising out of the overhanging roof (supported on wooden rafters) of the largest and most stately of the two palaces, where twenty-three groups of clustered casements, linked by slender pillars, extend in a line along a single story--rises a mediaeval tower of defense of many stories. Each story is pierced by loop-holes for firing into the street below. On the machicolated summit is a square platform, where in the course of many peaceful ages a bay-tree has come to grow of a goodly size. About this bay-tree tangled weeds and tufted grasses wave in the wind. Below, here and there, patches of blackened moss or yellow lichen, a branch of mistletoe or a bunch of fern, break the lines of the mediaeval brickwork. Sprays of wild-ivy cling to the empty loop-holes, through which the blue sky peeps. The lesser of the two palaces--the one on the right hand as you ascend the street of San Simone coming from the cathedral--is more decorated to-day than any other in Lucca. A heavy sea of Leghorn hats and black veils, with male accompaniments, is crowded beneath. They stare upward and murmur with delight. Gold and silver stuffs, satin and taffeta, striped brocades, and rich embroideries, flutter from the clustered casement up to the overhanging roof. There are many flags (one with a coat-of-arms, amber and purple on a gold ground) blazing in the sunshine. The grim brick façade is festooned with wreaths of freshly-plucked roses. Before the low-arched entrance on the pavement there is a carpet of flower-petals fashioned into a monogram, bearing the letters "M.N." Just within the entrance stands a porter, leaning on a gold staff, as immovable in aspect as are the mediaeval walls that close in behind him. A badge or baldric is passed across his chest; he is otherwise so enveloped with gold-lace, embroidery, buttons, trencher, and cocked-hat, that the whole inner man is absorbed, not to say invisible. Beside him, in the livery of the house, tall valets grin, lounge, and ogle the passers-by (wearers of Leghorn hats, and veils, and white head-gear generally). This particular Guinigi Palace belongs to Count Mario Nobili. He bought it of the Marchesa Guinigi, who lives opposite. Nobili is the richest young man in Lucca. No one calls upon him for help in vain; but, let it be added, no one offends him with impunity. When Nobili first came to Lucca, the old families looked coldly at him, his nobility being of very recent date. It was bestowed on his father, a successful banker--some said usurer, some said worse--by the Grand-duke Leopold, for substantial assistance toward his pet hobby--the magnificent road that zigzags up the mountain-side to Fiesole from Florence. But young Nobili soon conquered Lucchese prejudice. Now he is well received by all--_all_ save the Marchesa Guinigi. She was, and is at this time, still irreconcilable. Nobili stands in the central window of his palace. He leans out over the street, a cigar in his mouth. A servant beside him flings down from time to time some silver coin among Leghorn hats and the beggars, who scramble for it on the pavement. Nobili's eyes beam as the populace look up and cheer him: "Long live Count Nobili! Evviva!" He takes off his hat and bows; more silver coin comes clattering down on the pavement; there are fresh evvivas, fresh bows, and more scramblers cover the street. "No one like Nobili," the people say; "so affable, so open-handed--yes, and so clever, too, for has he not traveled, and does he not know the world?" Beside Count Nobili some _jeunesse dorée_ of his own age (sons of the best houses in Lucca) also lean over the Venetian casements. Like the liveried giants at the entrance, these laugh, ogle, chaff, and criticise the wearers of Leghorn hats, black veils, and white head-gear, freely. They smoke, and drink _liqueurs_ and sherbet, and crack sugar-plums out of crystal cup on silver plates, set on embossed trays placed beside them. The profession of these young men is idleness. They excel in it. Let us pause for a moment and ask what they do--this _jeunesse dorée_, to whom the sacred mission is committed of regenerating an heroic people? They could teach Ovid "the art of love." It comes to them in the air they breathe. They do not love their neighbor as themselves, but they love their neighbor's wives. Nothing is holy to them. "All for love, and the world well lost," is their motto. They can smile in their best friend's face, weep with him, rejoice with him, eat with him, drink with him, and--betray him; they do this every day, and do it well. They can also lie artistically, dressing up imaginary details with great skill, gamble and sing, swear, and talk scandal. They can lead a graceful, dissolute, _far niente_ life, loll in carriages, and be whirled round for hours, say the Florence Cascine, the Roman Pincio, and the park at Milan--smoking the while, and raising their hats to the ladies. They can trot a well-broken horse--not too fresh, on a hard road, and are wonderful in ruining his legs. A very few can drive what they call a _stage_ (_Anglicè_, drag) with grave and well-educated wheelers, on a very straight road--such as do this are looked upon as heroes--shoot a hare sitting, also tom-tits and sparrows. But they can neither hunt, nor fish, nor row. They are ready of tongue and easy of offense. They can fight duels (with swords), generally a harmless exercise. They can dance. They can hold strong opinions on subjects on which they are crassly ignorant, and yield neither to fact nor argument where their mediaeval usages are concerned. All this the golden youths of Young Italy can do, and do it well. Yet from such stuff as this are to come the future ministers, prefects, deputies, financiers, diplomatists, and senators, who are to regenerate the world's old mistress! Alas, poor Italy! The Guinigi Palace opposite forms a striking contrast to Count Nobili's abode. It is as silent as the grave. Every shutter is closed. The great wooden door to the street is locked; a heavy chain is drawn across it. The Marchesa Guinigi has strictly commanded that it should be so. She will have nothing to do with the festival of the Holy Countenance. She will take no part in it whatever. Indeed, she has come to Lucca on purpose to see that her orders are obeyed to the very letter, else that rascal of a secretary might have hung out something in spite of her. The marchesa, who has been for many years a widow, and is absolute possessor of the palace and lands, calls herself a liberal. But she is in practice the most thorough-going aristocrat alive. In one respect she is a liberal. She despises priests, laughs at miracles, and detests festivals. "A loss of time, and, if of time, of money," she says. If the peasants and the people complain of the taxes, and won't work six days in the week, "Let them starve," says the marchesa--"let them starve; so much the better!" In her opinion, the legend of the Holy Countenance is a lie, got up by priests for money; so she comes into the city from Corellia, and shuts up her palace, publicly to show her opinion. As far as she is concerned, she believes neither in St. Nicodemus nor in idleness. A good deal of this, be it said, _en passant_, is sheer obstinacy. The marchesa is obstinate to folly, and full of contradictions. Besides, there is another powerful motive that influences her--she hates Count Nobili. Not that he has ever done any thing personally to offend her; of this he is incapable--indeed, he has his own reasons for desiring passionately to be on good terms with her--but he has, in her opinion, injured her by purchasing the second Guinigi Palace. That she should have been obliged to sell one of her ancestral palaces at all is to her a bitter misfortune; but that any one connected with trade should possess what had been inherited generation after generation by the Guinigi, is intolerable. That a _parvenu_, the son of a banker, should live opposite to her, that he should abound in money, which he flings about recklessly, while she can with difficulty eke out the slender rents from the greatly-reduced patrimony of the Guinigi, is more than she can bear. His popularity and his liberality (and she cannot come to Lucca without hearing of both), even that comely young face of his, which she sees when she passes the club on the way to her afternoon drive on the ramparts, are dire offenses in her eyes. Whatever Count Nobili does, she (the Marchesa Guinigi) will do the reverse. He has opened his house for the festival. Hers shall be closed. She is thoroughly exceptional, however, in such conduct. Every one in Lucca save herself, rich and poor, noble and villain, join heart and soul in the national festival. Every one lays aside on this auspicious day differences of politics, family feuds, and social animosities. Even enemies join hands and kneel side by side at the same altar. It is the mediaeval "God's truce" celebrated in the nineteenth century. * * * * * It is now eleven o'clock. A great deal of sausage and garlic, washed down by new wine and light beer, has been by this time consumed in eating-shops and on street tables; much coffee, _liqueurs_, cake, and bonbons, inside the palaces. Suddenly all the church-bells, which have rung out since daybreak like mad, stop; only the deep-toned cathedral-bell booms out from its snowy campanile in half-minute strokes. There is an instant lull, the din and clatter of the streets cease, the crowd surges, separates, and disappears, the palace windows and balconies empty themselves, the street forms are vacant. The procession in honor of the Holy Countenance is forming; every one has rushed off to the cathedral. CHAPTER II. THE CATHEDRAL OF LUCCA. Martino, the cathedral of Lucca, stands on one side of a small piazza behind the principal square. At the first glance, its venerable aspect, vast proportions, and dignity of outline, do not sufficiently seize upon the imagination; but, as the eye travels over the elaborate façade, formed by successive galleries supported by truncated pillars, these galleries in their turn resting on clustered columns of richest sculpture forming the triple portals--the fine inlaid work, statues, bass-relief, arabesques of fruit, foliage, and quaint animals--the dome, and, above all, the campanile--light and airy as a dream, springing upward on open arches where the sun burns hotly--the eye comes to understand what a glorious Gothic monument it is. The three portals are now open. From the lofty atrium raised on broad marble steps, with painted ceiling and sculptured walls--at one end a bubbling fountain falling into a marble basin, at the other an arched gate-way leading into grass-grown cloisters--the vast nave is visible from end to end. This nave is absolutely empty. Every thing tells of expectation, of anticipation. The mighty Lombard pillars on either side--supporting a triforium gallery of circular arches and slender pillars of marble fretwork, delicate as lace--are wreathed and twined with red taffetas bound with golden bands. The gallery of the triforium itself is draped with arras and rich draperies. Each dainty column is decked with flags and pennons. The aisles and transepts blaze with gorgeous hangings. Overhead saints, prophets, and martyrs, standing immovable in the tinted glories of the stained windows, fling broad patches of purple, emerald, and yellow, upon the intaglio pavement. Along the nave (a hedge, as it were, on either side) are hung curtains of cloth of gold. The high altar, inclosed by a balustrade of colored marble raised on steps richly carpeted, glitters with gemmed chalices and crosses. Behind, countless wax-lights illuminate the rich frescoes of the tribune. The Chapel of the Holy Countenance (midway up the nave), inclosed by a gilded net-work, is a dazzling mountain of light flung from a thousand golden sconces. A black figure as large as life rests upon the altar. It is stretched upon a cross. The eyes are white and glassy; the thorn-crowned head leans on one side. The body is enveloped in a damascened robe spangled with jewels. This robe descends to the feet, which are cased in shoes of solid gold. The right foot rests on a sacramental cup glittering with gems. On either side are angels, with arms extended. One holds a massive sceptre, the other the silver keys of the city of Lucca. All waits. The bride, glorious in her garment of needle-work, waits. The bridegroom waits. The sacramental banquet is spread; the guests are bidden. All waits the moment when the multitude, already buzzing without at the western entrance, shall spread themselves over the mosaic floor, and throng each chapel, altar, gallery, and transept--when anthems of praise shall peal from the double doors of the painted organ, and holy rites give a mystic language to the sacred symbols around. Meanwhile the procession flashes from street to street. Banners flutter in the hot mid-day air, tall crucifixes and golden crosses reach to the upper stories. In the pauses the low hum of the chanted canticles is caught up here and there along the line--now the monks--then the canons with a nasal twang--then the laity. There are the judges, twelve in number, robed in black, scarlet, and ermine, their broad crimson sashes sweeping the pavement. The _gonfaloniere_--that ancient title of republican freedom still remaining--walks behind, attired in antique robes. Next appear the municipality--wealthy, oily-faced citizens, at this moment much overcome by the heat. Following these are the Lucchese nobles, walking two-and-two, in a precedence not prescribed by length of pedigree, but of age. Next comes the prefect of the city; at his side the general in command of the garrison of Lucca, escorted by a brilliant staff. Each bears a tall lighted torch. The law and the army are closely followed by the church. All are there, two-and-two--from the youngest deacon to the oldest canon--in his robe of purple silk edged with gold--wearing a white mitre. The church is generally corpulent; these dignitaries are no exception. Amid a cloud of incense walks the archbishop--a tall, stately man, in the prime of life--under a canopy of crimson silk resting on gold staves, borne over him by four canons habited in purple. He moves along, a perfect mass of brocade, lace, and gold--literally aflame in the sunshine. His mitred head is bent downward; his eyes are half closed; his lips move. In his hands--which are raised almost level with his face, and reverently covered by his vestments--he bears a gemmed vessel containing the Host, to be laid by-and-by on the altar of the Holy Countenance. All the church-bells are now ringing furiously. Cannons fire, and military bands drown the low hum of the chanting. Every head is uncovered--many, specially women, are prostrate on the stones. Arrived at the basilica of San Frediano, the procession halts under the Byzantine mosaic on a gold ground, over the entrance. The entire chapter is assembled before the open doors. They kneel before the archbishop carrying the Host. Again there is a halt before the snowy façade of the church of San Michele, pillared to the summit with slender columns of Carrara marble--on the topmost pinnacle a colossal statue of the archangel, in golden bronze, the outstretched wings glistening against the turquoise sky. Here the same ceremonies are repeated as at the church of San Frediano. The archbishop halts, the chanting ceases, the Host is elevated, the assembled priests adore it, kneeling without the portal. It is one o'clock before the archbishop is enthroned within the cathedral. The chapter, robed in red and purple, are ranged behind him in the tribune at the back of the high altar, the grand old frescoes hovering over them. The secular dignitaries are seated on benches below the altar-steps. _Palchi_ (boxes), on either side of the nave, are filled with Lucchese ladies, dark-haired, dark-eyed, olive-skinned, backed by the crimson draperies with which the nave is dressed. A soft fluttering of fans agitates feathers, lace, and ribbons. Fumes of incense mix with the scent of strong perfumes. Not the smallest attention is paid by the ladies to the mass which is celebrating at the high altar and the altar of the Holy Countenance. Their jeweled hands hold no missal, their knees are unbent, their lips utter no prayer. Instead, there are bright glances from lustrous eyes, and whispered words to favored golden youths (without religion, of course--what has a golden youth to do with religion?) who have insinuated themselves within the ladies seats, or lean over, gazing at them with upturned faces. Peal after peal of musical thunder rolls from the double organs. It is caught up by the two orchestras placed in gilt galleries on either side of the nave. A vocal chorus on this side responds to exquisite voices on that. Now a flute warbles a luscious solo, then a flageolet. A grand barytone bursts forth, followed by a tenor soft as the notes of a nightingale, accompanied by a boy on the violin. Then there is the crash of many hundred voices, with the muffled roar of two organs. It is the _Gloria in Excelsis_. As the music rolls down the pillared nave out into the crowded piazza, where it dies away in harmonious murmurs, an iron cresset, suspended from the vaulted ceiling of the nave, filled with a bundle of flax, is fired. The flax blazes for a moment, then passes away in a shower of glittering sparks that glitter upon the inlaid floor. _Sic transit gloria mundi_ is the motto. (Now the lighting of this flax is a special privilege accorded to the Archbishop of Lucca by the pope, and jealously guarded by him.) CHAPTER III. THE THREE WITCHES. Many carriages wait outside the cathedral, in the shade near the fountain. The fountain--gushing upward joyously in the beaming sunshine out of a red-marble basin--is just beyond the atrium, and visible through the arches on that side. Beyond the fountain, terminating the piazza, there is a high wall. This wall supports a broad marble terrace, with heavy balustrades, extending from the back of a mediaeval palace. Over the wall green vine-branches trail, sweeping the pavement, like ringlets that have fallen out of curl. This wall and terrace communicate with the church of San Giovanni, an ancient Lombard basilica on that side. Under the shadow of the heavy roof some girls are trying to waltz to the sacred music from the cathedral. After a few turns they find it difficult, and leave off. The men in livery, waiting along with the carriages, laugh at them lazily. The girls retreat, and group themselves on the steps of a deeply-arched doorway with a bass-relief of the Virgin and angels, leading into the church, and talk in low voices. A ragged boy from the Garfagnana, with a tray of plaster heads of Victor Emmanuel and Garibaldi, has put down his wares, and is turning wheels upon the pavement, before the servants, for a penny. An old man pulls out from under his cloak a dancing dog, with crimson collar and bells, and collects a little crowd under the atrium of the cathedral. A soldier, touched with compassion, takes a crust from his pocket to reward the dancing dog, which, overcome by the temptation, drops on his four legs, runs to him, and devours it, for which delinquency the old man beats him severely. His yells echo loudly among the pillars, and drown the rich tide of harmony that ebbs and flows through the open portals. The beggars have betaken themselves to their accustomed seats on the marble steps of the cathedral, San Martin of Tours, parting his cloak--carved in alt-relief, over the central entrance--looking down upon them encouragingly. These beggars clink their metal boxes languidly, or sleep, lying flat on the stones. A group of women have jammed themselves into a corner between the cathedral and the hospital adjoining it on that side. They are waiting to see the company pass out. Two of them standing close together are talking eagerly. "My gracious! who would have thought that old witch, the Guinigi," whispers Carlotta--Carlotta owned a little mercery-shop in a side-street running by the palace, right under the tower--to her gossip Brigitta, an occasional customer for cotton and buttons, "who would have thought that she--gracious! who would have thought she dared to shut up her palace the day of the festival? Did you see?" "Yes, I did," answers Brigitta. "Curses on her!" hisses out Carlotta, showing her black teeth. "Listen to me, she will have a great misfortune--mark my words--a great misfortune soon--the stingy old devil!" Hearing the organ at that instant, Brigitta kneels on the stones, and crosses herself; then rises and looks at Carlotta. "St. Nicodemus will have his revenge, never fear." Carlotta is still speaking. Brigitta shakes her head prophetically, again looking at Carlotta, whose deep-sunk eyes are fixed upon her. "Checco says--Checco is a shoemaker, and he knows the daughter of the man who helps the butler in Casa Guinigi--Checco says she laughs at the Holy Countenance. Domine Dio! what an infamy!" cries Carlotta, in a cracked voice, raising her skinny hands and shaking them in the air. "I hate the Guinigi! I hate her! I spit on her, I curse her!" There is such venom in Carlotta's looks and in Carlotta's words that Brigitta suddenly takes her eyes off a man with a red waistcoat whom she is ogling, but who by no means reciprocates her attention, and asks Carlotta sharply, "Why she hates the marchesa?" "Listen," answers Carlotta, holding up her finger. "One day, as I came out of my little shop, _she_"--and Carlotta points with her thumb over her shoulder toward the street of San Simone and the Guinigi Palace--"_she_ was driving along the street in her old Noah's Ark of a carriage. Alas! I am old and feeble, and the horses came along quickly. I had no time to get into the little square of San Barnabo, out of the way; the wheel struck me on the shoulder, I fell down. Yes, I fell down on the hard pavement, Brigitta." And Carlotta sways her grizzly head from side to side, and grasps the other's arm so tightly that Brigitta screams. "Brigitta, the marchesa saw me. She saw me lying there, but she never stopped nor turned her head. I lay on the stones, sick and very sore, till a neighbor, Antonio the carpenter, who works in the little square, a good lad, picked me up and carried me home." As she speaks, Carlotta's eyes glitter like a serpent's. She shakes all over. "Lord have mercy!" exclaims Brigitta, looking hard at her; "that was bad!" Carlotta was over eighty; her face was like tanned leather, her skin loose and shriveled; a handful of gray hair grew on the top of her head, and was twisted up with a silver pin. Brigitta was also of a goodly age, but younger than Carlotta, fat and portly, and round as a barrel. She was pitted by the small-pox, and had but one eye; but, being a widow, and well-to-do in the world, is not without certain pretensions. She wears a yellow petticoat and a jacket trimmed with black lace. In her hair, black and frizzly as a negro's, a rose is stuck on one side.--The hair had been dressed that morning by a barber, to whom she paid five francs a month for this adornment.--Some rows of dirty seed-pearl are fastened round her fat throat; long gold ear-rings bob in her ears, and in her hand is a bright paper fan, with which she never ceases fanning herself. "She's never spent so much as a penny at my shop," Carlotta goes on to say. "Not a penny. She'd not spare a flask of wine to a beggar dying at her door. Stuck-up old devil! But she's ruined, ruined with lawsuits. Ruined, I say. Ha! ha! Her time will come." Finding Carlotta wearisome, Brigitta's one eye has again wandered off to the man with the red waistcoat. Carlotta sees this, watching her out of her deep-set, glassy eyes. Speak Carlotta will, and Brigitta shall listen, she was determined. "I could tell you things"--she lowers her voice and speaks into the other's ear--"things--horrors--about Casa Guinigi!" Brigitta starts. "Gracious! You frighten me! What things?" "Ah, things that would make your hair stand on end. It is I who say it," and Carlotta snaps her fingers and nods. "_You_ know things, Carlotta? You pretend to know what happens in Casa Guinigi? Nonsense! You are mad!" "Am I?" retorts the other. "We shall see. Who wins boasts. I'm not so mad, anyhow, as the marchesa, who shuts up her palace on the festival, and offends St. Nicodemus and all the saints and martyrs," and Carlotta's eyes flash, and her white eyebrows twitch. "However"--and again she lays her bony hand heavily on Brigitta's fat arm--"if you don't want to hear what I know about Casa Guinigi, I will not tell you." Carlotta shuts up her mouth and nods defiantly. This was not at all what Brigitta desired. If there was any thing to be told, she would like to hear it. "Come, come, Carlotta, don't be angry. You may know much more than I do; you are always in your shop, except on festivals. The door is open, and you can see into the street of San Simone, up and down. But speak low; for there are Lisa and Cassandra close behind, and they will hear. Tell me, Carlotta, what is it?" Brigitta speaks very coaxingly. "Yes," replies the old woman, "I can see both the Guinigi palaces from my door--both the palaces. If the marchesa knew--" "Go on, go on!" says Brigitta, nudging her. She leans forward to listen. "Go on. People are coming out of the cathedral." Carlotta raises her head and grins, showing the few black teeth left in her mouth. "Are they? Well, answer me. Who lives in the street there--the street of San Simone--as well as the marchesa? Who has a fine palace that the marchesa sold him, a palace on which he has spent--ah! so much, so much? Who keeps open house, and has a French cook, and fine furniture, and new clothes, and horses in his stable, and six carriages? Who?--who?" As old Carlotta puts these questions she sways her body to and fro, and raises her finger to her nose. "Who is strong, and square, and fair, and smooth?" "Who goes in and out with a smile on his face? Who?--who?" "Why, Nobili, of course--Count Nobili. We all know that," answered Brigitta, impatiently. "That's no news. But what has Nobili to do with the marchesa?" "What has he to do with the marchesa? Listen, Madama Brigitta. I will tell you. Do you know that, of all gentlemen in Lucca, the marchesa hates Nobili?" "Well, and what then?" "She hates him because he is rich and spends his money freely, and because she--the Guinigi--lives in the same street and sees it. It turns sour upon her stomach, like milk in a thunder-storm. She hates him." "Well, is that all?" interrupts Brigitta. Carlotta puts up her chin close to Brigitta's face, and clasps her tightly by the shoulder with both her skinny hands. "That is not all. The marchesa has her own niece, who lives with her--a doll of a girl, with a white face--puff! not worth a feather to look at; only a cousin of the marchesa's husband; but, she's the only one left, all the same. They are so thin-blooded, the Guinigi, they have come to an end. The old woman never had a child; she would have starved it." Carlotta lowers her voice, and speaks into Brigitta's ear. "Nobili loves the niece. The marchesa would have the carbineers out if she knew it." "Oh!" breaks from Brigitta, under her breath. "This is fine! splendid! Are you sure of this, Carlotta? quite sure?" "As sure as that I like meat, and only get it on Sundays.--Sure?--I have seen it with my own eyes. Checco knows the granddaughter of the man who helps the cook--Nobili pays like a lord, as he is!--He spends his money, he does!--Nobili writes to the niece, and she answers. Listen. To-day, the marchesa shut up her palace and put a chain on the door. But chains can be unloosed, locks broken. Enrica (that's the niece) at daybreak comes out to the arched gate-way that opens from the street into the Moorish garden at the farther side of the palace--she comes out and talks to Nobili for half an hour, under cover of the ivy that hangs over the wall on that side. Teresa, the maid, was there too, but she stood behind. Nobili wore a long cloak that covered him all over; Enrica had a thick veil fastened round her head and face. They didn't see me, but I watched them from behind Pietro's house, at the corner of the street opposite. First of all, Enrica puts her head out of the gate-way. Teresa puts hers out next. Then Enrica waves her hand toward the palace opposite, a side-door opens piano, Nobili appears, and watches all round to see that no one is near--ha! ha! his young eyes didn't spy out my old ones though, for all that--Nobili appears, I say, then he puts his hand to his heart, and gives such a look across the street!--Ahi! it makes my old blood boil to see it. I was pretty once, and liked such looks.--You may think my eyes are dim, but I can see as far as another." And the old hag chuckles spitefully, and winks at Brigitta, enjoying her surprise. "Madre di Dio!" exclaims this one. "There will be fine work." "Yes, truly, very fine work. The marchesa shall know it; all Lucca shall know it too--mark my words, all Lucca! Curses on the Guinigi root and branch! I will humble them! Curses on them!" mumbles Carlotta. "And what did Nobili do?" asks Brigitta. "Do?--Why, seeing no one, he came across and kissed Enrica's hand; I saw it. He made as if he would have knelt upon the stones, only she would not let him. Then they whispered for, as near as I can guess, half an hour--Teresa standing apart. There was the sound of a cart then coming along the street, and presto!--Enrica was within the garden in an instant, the gate was closed, and Nobili disappeared." Any further talk is now cut short by the approach of Cassandra, a friend of Brigitta's. Cassandra is a servant in a neighboring eating-house, a tall, large-boned woman, a colored handkerchief tied over her head, and much tawdry jewelry about her hands and neck. "What are you two chattering about?" asks Cassandra sharply. "It seems entertaining. What's the news? I get paid for news at my shop. Tell me directly." "Lotta here was only relating to me all about her grandchild," answers Brigitta, with a whine.--Brigitta was rather in dread of Cassandra, whose temper was fierce, and who, being strong, knocked people down occasionally if they offended her. "Lotta was telling me, too, that she wants fresh stores for her shop, but all her money is gone to the grandchild in the hospital, who is ill, very ill!" and Brigitta sighs and turns up the whites of her eyes. "Yes, yes," joins in Carlotta, a dismal look upon her shriveled old face. "Yes--it is just that. All the money gone to the grandchild, the son of my Beppo--that's the soldier who is with the king's army.--Alas! all gone; my money, my son, and all." Here Carlotta affects to groan and wring her hands despairingly. The mass was now nearly over; many people were already leaving the cathedral; but the swell of the organs and the sweet tones of voices still burst forth from time to time. Festive masses are always long. It might not seem so to the pretty ladies in the boxes, still perseveringly fanning themselves, nor to the golden youths who were diverting them; but the prospect of dinner and a siesta was a temptation stronger than the older portion of the congregation could resist. By twos and threes they slipped out. This is the moment for the three women to use their eyes and their tongues--very softly indeed--for they were now elbowed by some of the best people in Lucca--but to use them. "There's Baldassare, the chemist's son," whispers Brigitta, who was using her one eye diligently. "Mercy! That new coat was never cut in Lucca. They need sell many drugs at papa-chemist's to pay for Baldassare's clothes. Why, he's combed and scented like a spice-tree. He's a good-looking fellow; the great ladies like him." This was said with a knock-me-down air by Cassandra. "He dines at our place every day. It's a pleasure to see his black curls and smell his scented handkerchief." A cluster of listeners had now gathered round Cassandra, who, conscious of an audience, thought it worth her while to hold forth. Shaking out the folds of her gown, she leaned her back against the wall, and pointed with a finger on which were some trumpery rings. Cassandra knew everybody, and was determined to make those about her aware of it. "That's young Count Orsetti and his mamma; they give a grand ball to-night." (Cassandra is standing on tiptoe now, the better to observe those who pass.) "There she goes to her carriage. Ahi! how grand! The coachman and the valet with gold-lace and silk stockings. I would fast for a week to ride once in such a carriage. Oh! I would give any thing to splash the mud in people's faces. She's a fine woman--the Orsetti. Observe her light hair. Madonna mia! What a train of silk! Twelve shillings a yard--not a penny less. She's got a cavaliere still.--He! he! a cavaliere!" Carlotta grins, and winks her wicked old eyes. "She wants to marry her son to Teresa Ottolini. He's a poor silly little fellow; but rich--very rich." "Who's that fat man in a brown coat?" asks Brigitta. "He's like a maggot in a fresh nut!" "That's my master--a fine-made man," answers Cassandra, frowning and pinching in her lips, with an affronted air, "Take care what you say about my master, Brigitta; I shall allow no observations." Brigitta turns aside, puts her tongue in her cheek, and glances maliciously at Carlotta, who nods. "How do you know how your master is made, Cassandra mia?" asks Brigitta, looking round, with a short laugh. "Because I have eyes in my head," replies Cassandra, defiantly. "My master, the padrone of the Pelican Hotel, is not a man one sees every day in the week!" A tall priest now appears from within the church, coming down the nave, in company with a rosy-faced old gentleman, who, although using a stick, walks briskly and firmly. He has a calm and pleasant face, and his hair, which lies in neat little curls upon his forehead, is as white as snow. One moment the rosy old gentleman talks eagerly with the priest; the next he sinks upon his knees on the pavement, and murmurs
{'title': 'The Italians: A Novel by Frances Minto Dickinson Elliot', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}