Constance Fenimore Woolson

by Constance Fenimore Woolson

  It was a hazy morning; butterflies danced before her as she hastened towards the loaded trees. Reaching them, she looked up. The boughs were bare. All the figs had been gathered in the night, or at earliest dawn.

  “Pipper!” she murmured to herself.

  The ground under the trees was trampled.

  Seven weeks later, on the 16th of November, this same Prudence was adding to her secreted store the fifteen cents needed to make the sum ten francs exactly—that is, two dollars. “Ten francs, a fifth of the whole! It seems ’most too lucky that I’ve got on so well, spite of Pipper’s taking the figs. If I can keep along this way, it ’ll all be done by the Fourth of July; not just the cow-shed taken away, but the front yard done too. My!” She sat down on a fagot to think it over. The thought was rapture; she laughed to herself and at herself for being so happy.

  Some one called, “Mamma.” She came out, and found Jo Vanny looking for her. Nounce and Jo Vanny were the only ones among the children who had ever called her mother.

  “Oh, you’re up there in the shed, are you?” said Jo Vanny. “Somehow, mamma, you look very gay.”

  “Yes, I’m gay,” answered Prudence. “Perhaps some of these days I’ll tell you why.” In her heart she thought: “Jo Vanny, now, he’d understand; he’d feel as I do if I should explain it to him. A nice front yard he has never seen in all his life, for they don’t have ’em here. But once he knew what it was, he’d care about it as much as I do; I know he would. He’s sort of American, anyhow.” It was the highest praise she could give. The boy had his cap off; she smoothed his hair. “ ’Pears to me you must have lost your comb,” she said.

  “I’m going to have it all cut off as short as can be,” announced Jo Vanny, with a resolute air.

  “Oh no.”

  “Yes, I am. Some of the other fellows have had theirs cut that way, and I’m going to, too,” pursued the young stoic.

  He was eighteen, rather undersized and slender, handsome as to his face, with large dark long-lashed eyes, well-cut features, white teeth, and the curly hair which Prudence had smoothed. Though he had vowed them to destruction, these love-locks were for the present arranged in the style most approved in Assisi, one thick glossy flake being brought down low over the forehead, so that it showed under his cap in a sentimental wave. He did not look much like a hard-working carpenter as he stood there dressed in dark clothes made in that singular exaggeration of the fashions which one sees only in Italy. His trousers, small at the knee, were large and wing-like at the ankle, half covering the tight shabby shoes run down at the heel and absurdly short, which, however, as they were made of patent-leather and sharply pointed at the toes, Jo Vanny considered shoes of gala aspect. His low flaring collar was surrounded by a red-satin cravat ornamented by a gilt horseshoe. He wore a ring on the little finger of each hand. In his own eyes his attire was splendid.

  In the eyes of some one else also. To Prudence, as he stood there, he looked absolutely beautiful; she felt all a mother’s pride rise in her heart as she surveyed him. But she must not let him see it, and she must scold him for wearing his best clothes every day.

  “I didn’t know it was a festa,” she began.

  “ ’Tain’t. But one of the fellows has had a sister married, and they’ve invited us all to a big supper to-night.”

  “To-night isn’t to-day, that I know of.”

  “Do you wish me to go all covered with sawdust?” said the little dandy, with a disdainful air. “Besides, I wanted to come up here.”

  “It is a good while sence we’ve seen you,” Prudence admitted. In her heart she was delighted that he had wished to come. “Have you had your dinner, Jo Vanny?”

  “All I want. I’ll take a bit of bread and some wine by-and-by. But you needn’t go to cooking for me, mamma. I say, tell me what it was that made you look so glad?” said the boy, curiously.

  “Never you mind now,” said Prudence, the gleam of content coming again into her eyes, and lighting up her brown, wrinkled face. She was glad that she had the ten francs; she was glad to see the boy; she was touched by his unselfishness in declining her offer of a second dinner. No other member of the family would have declined or waited to decline; the others would have demanded some freshly cooked dish immediately upon entering; Uncle Patro would have demanded three or four.

  “I’ve brought my mandolin,” Jo Vanny went on. “I’ve got to take it to the supper, of course, because they always want me to sing—I never can get rid of ’em! And so you can hear me, if you like. I know the new songs, and one of them I composed myself. Well, it’s rather heavenly.”

  All Tonio’s children sang like birds. Poor Prudence, who had no ear for music, had never been able to comprehend either the pleasure or the profit of the hours they gave to their carol­lings. But when, in his turn, her little Jo Vanny began his pipings, then she listened, or tried to listen. “Real purty, Jo Vanny,” she would say, when the silence of a moment or two had assured her that his song was ended; it was her only way of knowing—the silence.

  So now she brought her work out to the garden, and sewed busily while Jo Vanny sang and thrummed. Nounce, too, came out, and sat on the wall near by, listening.

  At length the little singer took himself off—took himself off with his red-satin cravat, his horseshoe pin, and his mandolin under his arm. Nounce went back to the house, but Prudence sat awhile longer, using, as she always did, the very last rays of the sunset light for her sewing.

  After a while she heard a step, and looked up. “Why, Gooster!—anything the matter?” she said, in surprise.

  Unlike the slender little Jo Vanny, Gooster was a large, stoutly built young man, as slow in his motions as Jo Vanny was quick. He was a lethargic fellow with sombre eyes, eyes which sometimes had a gleam in them.

  “There’s nothing especial the matter,” he answered, dully. “I think I’ll go for a soldier, Denza.”

  “Go for a soldier? And the per-dairy?”

  “I can’t never go back to the podere. She’s there, and she has taken up with Matteo. I’ve had my heart trampled upon, and so I’ve got a big hankering either to kill somebody or get killed myself; and I’ll either do it here, or I’ll go for a soldier and get knifed in the war.”

  “Mercy on us! there isn’t any war now,” said Prudence, dazed by these sanguinary suggestions.

  “There’s always a war. What else are there soldiers for? And there’s lots of soldiers. But I could get knifed here easy enough; Matteo and I—already we’ve had one tussle; I gave him a pretty big cut, you may depend.”

  Seventeen years earlier Prudence Wilkin would have laughed at the idea of being frightened by such words as these. But Mrs. Tonio Guadagni had heard of wild deeds in Assisi, and wilder ones still among the peasants of the hill country roundabout; these singing, indolent Umbrians dealt sometimes in revenges that were very direct and primitive.

  “You let Matteo alone, Gooster,” she said, putting her hand on his arm; “you go straight over to Perugia and stay there. Perhaps you can get work where Parlo and Squawly are.”

  “I shall have it out with Matteo here, or else go for a soldier to-morrow,” answered Gooster, in his lethargic tone.

  “Well, go for a soldier, then.”

  “It don’t make much difference to me which I do,” Gooster went on, as if only half awake. “If I go for a soldier, I shall have to get to Florence somehow, I suppose; I shall have to have ten francs for the railroad.”

  “Is it ten exactly?” said Prudence. Her mind flew to her work-box, which held just that sum.

  “It’s ten.”

  “Haven’t you got any money at all, Gooster?” She meant to help him on his way; but she thought that she should like to keep, if possible, a nest-egg to begin with again—say twenty cents, or ten.

  Gooster felt in his pockets. “Three soldi,” he replied, producing some copper coins and counting t
hem over.

  “And there’s nothing due you at the per-dairy?”

  There was no necessity for answering such a foolish question as this, and Gooster did not answer it.

  “Well, I will give you the money,” said Prudence. “But to-morrow ’ll do, won’t it? Stay here a day or two, and we’ll talk it over.”

  While she was speaking, Gooster had turned and walked towards the garden wall. The sight of his back going from her—as though she should never see it again—threw her into a sudden panic; she ran after him and seized his arm. “I’ll give you the money, Gooster; I told you I would; I’ve got it all ready, and it won’t take a minute; promise me that you won’t leave this garden till I come back.”

  Gooster had had no thought of leaving the garden; he had espied a last bunch of grapes still hanging on the vine, and was going to get it; that was all. “All right,” he said.

  Prudence disappeared. He gathered the grapes and began to eat them, turning over the bunch to see which were best. Before he had finished, Prudence came back, breathless with the haste she had made. “Here,” she said; “and now you’ll go straight to Florence, won’t you? There’s a train to-night, very soon now; you must hurry down and take that.”

  He let her put the money in his coat-pocket while he finished the grapes. Then he threw the stem carefully over the garden wall.

  “And no doubt you’ll be a brave soldier,” Prudence went on, trying to speak hopefully. “Brave soldiers are thought a heap of everywhere.”

  “I don’t know as I care what’s thought,” answered Gooster, indifferently. He took up his cap and put it on. “Well, good-bye, Denza. Best wishes to you. Every happiness.” He shook hands with her.

  Prudence stood waiting where she was for five minutes; then she followed him. It was already dark; she went down the hill rapidly, and turned into the narrow main street. A few lamps were lighted. She hastened onward, hoping every minute to distinguish somewhere in front a tall figure with slouching gait. At last, where the road turns to begin the long descent to the plain, she did distinguish it. Yes, that was certainly Gooster; he was going down the hill towards the railway station. All was well, then; she could dismiss her anxiety. She returned through the town. Stopping for a moment at an open space, she gazed down upon the vast valley, now darkening into night; here suddenly a fear came over her—he might have turned round and come back! She hurried through the town a second time, and not meeting him, started down the hill. The road went down in long zigzags. As she turned each angle she expected to see him; but she did not see him, and finally she reached the plain: there were the lights of the station facing her. She drew near cautiously, nearer and nearer, until, herself unseen in the darkness, she could peer through the window into the lighted waiting-room. If he was there, she could see him; but if he was on the platform on the other side— No; he was there. She drew a long breath of relief, and stole away.

  A short distance up the hill a wheelbarrow loaded with stones had been left by the side of the road; she sat down on the stones to rest, for the first time realizing how tired she was. The train came rushing along; stopped; went on again. She watched it as long as she could see its lights. Then she rose and turned slowly up the hill, beginning her long walk home. “My,” she thought, “won’t Granmar be in a tantrum, though!”

  When she reached the house she made a circuit, and came through the garden behind towards the back door. “I don’t want to see the front yard to-night!” she thought.

  But she was rather ashamed of this egotism.

  “And they say they’ll put me in prison—oh—ow!—an old man, a good old man, a suffering son of humanity like me!” moaned Uncle Pietro.

  “An old man, a good old man, a suffering son of humanity like him,” repeated Granmar, shrilly, proud of this fine language.

  Suddenly she brandished her lean arms. “You Denza there, with your stored-up money made from my starvation—yam!—mine, how dare you be so silent, figure of a mule? Starvation! yes, indeed. Wait and I’ll show you my arms, Pietro; wait and I’ll show you my ribs—yam!”

  “You keep yourself covered up, Granmar,” said Prudence, tucking her in; “you’ll do yourself a mischief in this cold weather.”

  “Ahi!” said Granmar, “and do I care? If I could live to see you drowned, I’d freeze and be glad. Stored-up money! stored-up money!”

  “What do you know of my money?” said Prudence. Her voice trembled a little.

  “She confesses it!” announced Granmar, triumphantly.

  “An old ma—an,” said Pietro, crouching over Nounce’s scaldino. “A good old ma—an. But—accommodate yourself.”

  Prudence sat down and took up her sewing. “I don’t believe they’ll put you in jail at all, Patro,” she said; “ ’twon’t do ’em any good, and what they want is their money. You just go to ’em and say that you’ll do day’s work for ’em till it’s made up, and they’ll let you off, I’ll bet. Nine francs, is it? Well, at half a franc a day you can make it up full in eighteen days; or call it twenty-four with the festas.”

  “The Americans are all mercenary,” remarked old Pietro, waving his hand in scorn. “Being themselves always influenced by gain, they cannot understand lofty motives nor the cold, glittering anger of the nobility. The Leoncinis are noble; they are of the old Count’s blood. They do not want their money; they want revenge—they want to rack my bones.”

  Granmar gave a long howl.

  “Favor me, my niece, with no more of your mistakes,” concluded Pietro, with dignity.

  “I don’t believe they’d refuse,” said Prudence, unmoved. “I’ll go and ask ’em myself, if you like; that ’ll be the best way. I’ll go right away now.” She began to fold up her work.

  At this Pietro, after putting the scaldino safely on the stove, fell down in a round heap on the floor. Never were limbs so suddenly contorted and tangled; he clawed the bricks so fiercely with his fingers that Nounce, frightened, left her bench and ran into the next room.

  “What’s the matter with you? I never saw such a man,” said Prudence, trying to raise him.

  “Let be! let be!” called out Granmar; “it’s a stroke; and you’ve brought it on, talking to him about working, working all day long like a horse—a good old man like that.”

  “I don’t believe it’s a stroke,” said Prudence, still trying to get him up.

  “My opinion is,” said Granmar, sinking into sudden calm, “that he will die in ten minutes—exactly ten.”

  His face had indeed turned very red.

  “Dear me! I suppose I shall have to run down for the doctor,” said Prudence, desisting. “Perhaps he’d ought to be bled.”

  “You leave the doctor alone, and ease his mind,” directed Granmar; “that’s what he needs, sensitive as he is, and poetical too, poor fellow. You just shout in his ear that you’ll pay that money, and you’ll be surprised to see how it ’ll loosen his joints.”

  Mrs. Guadagni surveyed the good old uncle for a moment. Then she bent over him and shouted in his ear, “I’ll make you a hot fig-tart right away now, Patro, if you’ll set up.”

  As she finished these words Granmar threw her scaldino suddenly into the centre of the kitchen, where it broke with a crash upon the bricks.

  “He’s going to get up,” announced Prudence, triumphantly.

  “He isn’t any such thing; ’twas the scaldino shook him,” responded Granmar, in a loud, admonitory tone. “He’ll never get up again in this world unless you shout in his ear that you’ll pay that money.”

  And in truth Pietro was now more knotted than ever.

  At this moment the door opened and Jo Vanny came in. “Why, what’s the matter with uncle?” he said, seeing the figure on the floor. He bent over him and tried to ease his position.

  “It’s a stroke,” said Granmar, in a soft voice. “It ’ll soon be over. Hush! leave him in peace. H
e’s dying; Denza there, she did it.”

  “They want me to pay the nine francs he has—lost,” said Prudence. “Perhaps you have heard, Jo Vanny, that he has—lost nine francs that belonged to the Leoncinis? Nine whole francs.” She looked at the lad, and he understood the look; for only the day before she had confided to him at last her long-cherished dream, and (as she had been sure he would) he had sympathized with it warmly.

  “I declare I wish I had even a franc!” he said, searching his pockets desperately; “but I’ve only got a cigarette. Will you try a cigarette, uncle?” he shouted in the heap’s ear.

  “Don’t you mock him,” ordered Granmar (but Jo Vanny had been entirely in earnest). “He’ll die soon, and Denza will be rid of him; that’s what she wants. ’Twill be murder, of course; and he’ll haunt us—he’s always said he’d haunt somebody. But I ain’t long for this world, so I ain’t disturbed. Heaven’s waiting wide open for me.”

  Jo Vanny looked a little frightened. He hesitated a moment, surveying the motionless Pietro; then he drew Prudence aside. “He’s an awful wicked old man, and might really do it,” he whispered; “ ’specially as you ain’t a Catholic, mamma. I think you’d better give him the money if it ’ll stop him off; I don’t mind, but it would be bad for you if he should come rapping on your windows and showing corpse-lights in the garden by-and-by.”