Found in Translation

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Found in Translation Page 25

by Frank Wynne


  She arose, laughing.

  “Go,” she said. “Go, ragazzo innamorato …”1

  And arising, she touched his head with her index finger. Camillo shuddered, as if it were the hand of one of the original sybils, and he, too, arose. The fortune-teller went to the bureau, upon which lay a plate of raisins, took a cluster of them and commenced to eat them, showing two rows of teeth that were as white as her nails were black. Even in this common action the woman possessed an air all her own. Camillo, anxious to leave, was at a loss how much to pay; he did not know her fee.

  “Raisins cost money,” he said, at length, taking out his pocket-book. “How much do you want to send for?”

  “Ask your heart,” she replied.

  Camillo took out a note for ten milreis2 and gave it to her. The eyes of the card-reader sparkled. Her usual fee was two milreis.

  “I can see easily that the gentleman loves his lady very much … And well he may. For she loves the gentleman very deeply, too. Go, go in peace, with your mind at ease. And take care as you descend the staircase,—it’s dark. Don’t forget your hat …”

  The fortune-teller had already placed the note in her pocket, and accompanied him down the stairs, chatting rather gaily. At the bottom of the first flight Camillo bid her good-bye and ran down the stairs that led to the street, while the card-reader, rejoicing in her large fee, turned back to the garret, humming a barcarolle. Camillo found the tilbury waiting for him; the street was now clear. He entered and the driver whipped his horse into a fast trot.

  To Camillo everything had now changed for the better and his affairs assumed a brighter aspect; the sky was clear and the faces of the people he passed were all so merry. He even began to laugh at his fears, which he now saw were puerile; he recalled the language of Villela’s letter and perceived at once that it was most friendly and familiar. How in the world had he ever been able to read any threat of danger into those words! He suddenly realized that they were urgent, however, and that he had done ill to delay so long; it might be some very serious business affair.

  “Faster, faster!” he cried to the driver.

  And he began to think of a plausible explanation of his delay; he even contemplated taking advantage of this incident to re-establish his former intimacy in Villela’s household … Together with his plans there kept echoing in his soul the words of the fortune-teller. In truth, she had guessed the object of his visit, his own state of mind, and the existence of a third; why, then, wasn’t it reasonable to suppose that she had guessed the rest correctly, too? For, the unknown present is the same as the future. And thus, slowly and persistently the young man’s childhood superstitions attained the upper hand and mystery clutched him in its iron claws. At times he was ready to burst into laughter, and with a certain vexation he did laugh at himself. But the woman, the cards, her dry, reassuring words, and her good-bye—“Go, go, ragazzo innamorato,” and finally, that farewell barcarolle, so lively and gracious,—such were the new elements which, together with the old, formed within him a new and abiding faith.

  The truth is that his heart was happy and impatient, recalling the happy hours of the past and anticipating those yet to come. As he passed through Gloria Street Camillo gazed across the sea, far across where the waters and the heaven meet in endless embrace, and the sight gave him a sensation of the future,—long, long and infinite.

  From here it was but a moment’s drive to Villela’s home. He stepped out, thrust the iron garden gate open and entered. The house was silent. He ran up the six stone steps and scarcely had he had time to knock when the door opened and Villela loomed before him.

  “Pardon my delay. It was impossible to come sooner. What is the matter?”

  Villela made no reply. His features were distorted; he beckoned Camillo to step within. As he entered, Camillo could not repress a cry of horror:—there upon the sofa lay Rita, dead in a pool of blood. Villela seized the lover by the throat and, with two bullets, stretched him dead upon the floor.

  1 Italian for “love-sick boy,” “young lover,” etc.

  2 In United States money ten Brazilian milreis are equivalent to about $5.50.

  IT SNOWS

  Enrico Castelnuovo

  Translated from the Italian by Edith Wharton

  Enrico Castelnuovo (1839–1915) was born in Florence, and spent much of his life in Venice, where he moved with his mother as a child after his father abandoned the family. His family were unable to afford a classical education for him, so, despite his love of literature, he was educated at a technical school. From his twenties, he worked as a journalist, frequently travelling to Milan where he met prominent cultural figures of the time. In 1872, he left journalism to teach at what is now the Ca’ Foscari University of Venice. He was a prolific writer, publishing almost several volumes of shorts stories and fourteen novels.

  The thermometer marks barely one degree above freezing, the sky is covered with ominous white clouds, the air is harsh and piercing; what can induce Signor Odoardo, at nine o’clock on such a morning, to stand in his study window? It is true that Signor Odoardo is a vigorous man, in the prime of life, but it is never wise to tempt Providence by needlessly risking one’s health. But stay—I begin to think that I have found a clue to his conduct. Opposite Signor Odoardo’s window is the window of the Signora Evelina, and Signora Evelina has the same tastes as Signor Odoardo. She too is taking the air, leaning against the window-sill in her dressing-gown, her fair curls falling upon her forehead and tossed back every now and then by a pretty movement of her head. The street is so narrow that it is easy to talk across from one side to the other, but in such weather as this the only two windows that stand open are those of Signora Evelina and Signor Odoardo.

  There is no denying the fact: Signora Evelina, who within the last few weeks has taken up her abode across the way, is a very fascinating little widow. Her hair is of spun gold, her skin of milk and roses, her little turned-up nose, though assuredly not Grecian, is much more attractive than if it were; she has the most dazzling teeth in the most kissable mouth; her eyes are transparent as a cloudless sky, and—well, she knows how to use them. Nor is this the sum total of her charms: look at the soft, graceful curves of her agile, well-proportioned figure; look at her little hands and feet! After all, one hardly wonder that Signor Odoardo runs the risk of catching his death of cold, instead of closing the window and warming himself at the stove which roars so cheerfully within. It is rather at Signora Evelina that I wonder; for, though Signor Odoardo is not an ill-looking man, he is close upon forty, while she is but twenty-four. So young, and already a widow—poor Signora Evelina! It is true that she has great strength of character; but six months have elapsed since her husband’s death, and she is resigned to it already, though the deceased left her barely enough to keep body and soul together. Happily Signora Evelina is not encumbered with a family; she is alone and independent, and with those eyes, that hair, that little upturned nose, she ought to have no difficulty in finding a second husband. In fact, there is no harm in admitting that Signora Evelina has contemplated the possibility of a second marriage, and that if the would-be bridegroom is not in his first youth—why, she is prepared to make the best of it. In this connection it is perhaps not uninstructive to note that Signor Odoardo is in comfortable circumstances, and is himself a widower. What a coincidence!

  Well, then, why don’t they marry—that being the customary denouement in such cases?

  Why don’t they marry? Well—Signor Odoardo is still undecided. If there had been any hope of a love-affair I fear that his indecision would have vanished long ago. Errare humanum est. But Signora Evelina is a woman of serious views; she is in search of a husband, not of a flirtation. Signora Evelina is a person of great determination; she knows how to turn other people’s heads without letting her own be moved a jot. Signora Evelina is deep; deep enough, surely, to gain her point. If Signor Odoardo flutters about her much longer he will! singe his wings; things cannot go on in this; way. Signor Odo
ardo’s visits are too frequent; and now, in addition, there are the conversations from the window. It is time for a decisive step to be taken, and Signor Odoardo is afraid that he may find himself taking the step before he is prepared to; this very day, perhaps, when he goes to call on the widow.

  The door of Signor Odoardo’s study is directly opposite the window in which he is standing, and the opening of this door is therefore made known to him by a violent draught.

  As he turns a sweet voice says:

  “Good-bye, papa dear; I’m going to school.”

  “Good-bye, Doretta,” he answers, stooping to kiss a pretty little maid of eight or nine; and at the same instant Signora Evelina calls out from over the way:

  “Good-morning, Doretta!”

  Doretta, who had made a little grimace on discovering her papa in conversation with his pretty neighbor, makes another as she hears herself greeted, and mutters reluctantly, “Good-morning.”

  Then, with her little basket on her arm, she turns away slowly to join the maid-servant who is waiting for her in the hall.

  “I am SO fond of that child,” sighs Signora Evelina, with the sweetest inflexion in her voice, “but she doesn’t like me at all!”

  “What an absurd idea! … Doretta is a very self-willed child.”

  Thus Signor Odoardo; but in his heart of hearts he too is convinced that his little daughter has no fondness for Signora Evelina.

  Meanwhile, the cold is growing more intense, and every now and then a flake of snow spins around upon the wind. Short of wishing to be frozen stiff, there is nothing for it but to shut the window.

  “It snows,” says Signora Evelina, glancing upward.

  “Oh, it was sure to come.”

  “Well—I must go and look after my household. Au revoir—shall I see you later?”

  “I hope to have the pleasure—”

  “Au revoir, then.”

  Signora Evelina closes the window, nods and smiles once more through the pane, and disappears.

  Signor Odoardo turns back to his study, and perceiving how cold it has grown, throws some wood on the fire, and, kneeling before the door of the stove, tries to blow the embers into a blaze. The flames leap up with a merry noise, sending bright flashes along the walls of the room.

  Outside, the flakes continue to descend at intervals. Perhaps, after all, it is not going to be a snowstorm.

  Signor Odoardo paces up and down the room, with bent head and hands thrust in his pockets. He is disturbed, profoundly disturbed. He feels that he has reached a crisis in his life; that in a few days, perhaps in a few hours, his future will be decided. Is he seriously in love with Signora Evelina? How long has he known her? Will she be sweet and good like THE OTHER? Will she know how to be a mother to Doretta?

  There is a sound of steps in the hall; Signor Odoardo pauses in the middle of the room. The door re-opens, and Doretta rushes up to her father, her cheeks flushed, her hood falling over her forehead, her warm coat buttoned up to her chin, her hands thrust into her muff.

  “It is snowing and the teacher has sent us home.”

  She tosses off her hood and coat and goes up to the stove.

  “There is a good fire, but the room is cold,” she exclaims.

  As a matter of fact, the window having stood open for half an hour, the thermometer indicates but fifty degrees.

  “Papa,” Doretta goes on, “I want to stay with you all day long to-day.”

  “And suppose your poor daddy has affairs of his own to attend to?”

  “No, no, you must give them up for to-day.”

  And Doretta, without waiting for an answer, runs to fetch her books, her doll, and her work. The books are spread out on the desk, the doll is comfortably seated on the sofa, and the work is laid out upon a low stool.

  “Ah,” she cries, with an air of importance, “what a mercy that there is no school to-day! I shall have time to go over my lesson. Oh, look how it snows!”

  It snows indeed. First a white powder, fine but thick, and whirled in circles by the wind, beats with a dry metallic sound against the window-panes; then the wind drops, and the flakes, growing larger, descend silently, monotonously, incessantly. The snow covers the streets like a downy carpet, spreads itself like a sheet over the roofs, fills up the cracks in the walls, heaps itself upon the window-sills, envelops the iron window-bars, and hangs in festoons from the gutters and eaves.

  Out of doors it must be as cold as ever, but the room is growing rapidly warmer, and Doretta, climbing on a chair, has the satisfaction of announcing that the mercury has risen eleven degrees.

  “Yes, dear,” her father replies, “and the clock is striking eleven too. Run and tell them to get breakfast ready.”

  Doretta runs off obediently, but reappears in a moment.

  “Daddy, daddy, what do you suppose has happened? The dining-room stove won’t draw, and the room is all full of smoke!”

  “Then let us breakfast here, child.”

  This excellent suggestion is joy to the soul of Doretta, who hastens to carry the news to the kitchen, and then, in a series of journeys back and forth from the dining-room to the study, transports with her own hands the knives, forks, plates, tablecloth, and napkins, and, with the man-servant’s aid, lays them out upon one of her papa’s tables. How merry she is! How completely the cloud has vanished that darkened her brow a few hours earlier! And how well she acquits herself of her household duties!

  Signor Odoardo, watching her with a sense of satisfaction, cannot resist exclaiming: “Bravo, Doretta!”

  Doretta is undeniably the very image of her mother. She too was just such an excellent housekeeper, a model of order, of neatness, of propriety. And she was pretty, like Doretta, even though she did not possess the fair hair and captivating eyes of Signora Evelina.

  The man-servant who brings in the breakfast is accompanied by a newcomer, the cat Melanio, who is always present at Doretta’s meals. The cat Melanio is old; he has known Doretta ever since she was born, and he honors her with his protection. Every morning he mews at her door, as though to inquire if she has slept well; every evening he keeps her company until it is time for her to go to bed. Whenever she goes out he speeds her with a gentle purr; whenever he hears her come in he hurries to meet her and rubs himself against her legs. In the morning, and at the midday meal, when she takes it at home, he sits beside her chair and silently waits for the scraps from her plate. The cat Melanio, however, is not in the habit of visiting Signor Odoardo’s study, and shows a certain surprise at finding himself there. Signor Odoardo, for his part, receives his new guest with some diffidence; but Doretta, intervening in Melanio’s favor, undertakes to answer for his good conduct.

  It is long since Doretta has eaten with so much appetite. When she has finished her breakfast, she clears the table as deftly and promptly as she had laid it, and in a few moments Signor Odoardo’s study has resumed its wonted appearance. Only the cat Melanio remains, comfortably established by the stove, on the understanding that he is to be left there as long as he is not troublesome.

  The continual coming and going has made the room grow colder. The mercury has dropped perceptibly, and Doretta, to make it rise again, empties nearly the whole wood-basket into the stove.

  How it snows, how it snows! No longer in detached flakes, but as though an openwork white cloth were continuously unrolled before one’s eyes. Signor Odoardo begins to think that it will be impossible for him to call on Signora Evelina. True, it is only a step, but he would sink into the snow up to his knees. After all, it is only twelve o’clock. It may stop snowing later. Doretta is struck by a luminous thought:

  “What if I were to answer grandmamma’s letter?”

  In another moment Doretta is seated at her father’s desk, in his arm-chair, two cushions raising her to the requisite height, her legs dangling into space, the pen suspended in her hand, and her eyes fixed upon a sheet of ruled paper, containing thus far but two words: Dear Grandmamma.

  Signor Odoar
do, leaning against the stove, watches his daughter with a smile.

  It appears that at last Doretta has discovered a way of beginning her letter, for she re-plunges the pen into the inkstand, lowers her hand to the sheet of paper, wrinkles her forehead and sticks out her tongue.

  After several minutes of assiduous toil she raises her head and asks:

  “What shall I say to grandmamma about her invitation to go and spend a few weeks with her?”

  “Tell her that you can’t go now, but that she may expect you in the spring.”

  “With you, papa?”

  “With me, yes,” Signor Odoardo answers mechanically.

  Yet if, in the meantime, he engages himself to Signora Evelina, this visit to his mother-in-law will become rather an awkward business.

  “There—I’ve finished!” Doretta cries with an air of triumph.

  But the cry is succeeded by another, half of anguish, half of rage.

  “What’s the matter now?”

  “A blot!”

  “Let me see? … You little goose, what HAVE you done? … You’ve ruined the letter now!”

  Doretta, having endeavored to remove the ink-spot by licking it, has torn the paper.

  “Oh, dear, I shall have to copy it out now,” she says, in a mortified tone.

  “You can copy it this evening. Bring it here, and let me look at it … Not bad,—not bad at all. A few letters to be added, and a few to be taken out; but, on the whole, for a chit of your size, it’s fairly creditable. Good girl!”

  Doretta rests upon her laurels, playing with her doll Nini. She dresses Nini in her best gown, and takes her to call on the cat, Melanio.

  The cat, Melanio, who is dozing with half-open eyes, is somewhat bored by these attentions. Raising himself on his four paws, he arches his flexible body, and then rolls himself up into a ball, turning his back upon his visitor.

  “Dear me, Melanio is not very polite to-day,” says Doretta, escorting the doll back to the sofa. “But you mustn’t be offended; he’s very seldom impolite. I think it must be the weather; doesn’t the weather make you sleepy too, Nini? … Come, let’s take a nap; go by-bye, baby, go by-bye.”

 

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