Vintage Love

by Clarissa Ross

  The compartment was empty and she and Aunt Isobel at once collapsed in seats by the window as Henry was busy tipping the porter.

  Aunt Isobel asked, “Do we have the compartment to ourselves?”

  “I do not think so,” he said. “It is for six and we are three.”

  Aunt Isobel said, “You should have bought the extra seats.”

  “It is not encouraged,” he told her. “Space is hard to find on the train. It is heavily booked every day in the year.”

  Della gave him a smile of encouragement. “I think you’ve managed things very well.”

  “I have the tickets for the sleeping divan,” he said. “I’ll give yours to you later. And also the table number in the dining car.”

  “Surely we’ll at least have a private dining table!” Aunt Isobel said in her demanding way.

  “I believe sittings are arranged with the dining-car headwaiter,” Henry replied politely. “I’m sure we’ll have a good table and adequate privacy.”

  “Since we must journey to this outlandish place let us at least be comfortable,” Aunt Isobel declared with true British spirit.

  “Rome is the oldest and most cultured of cities,” Della reproved her.

  “And I wish I had never heard of it!” Aunt Isobel said grimly as she gazed out the window at the dark and bustling station yard.

  There was a racket in the corridor. A woman’s deep voice crying out angrily in French was answered by breathless protests from a male. Then the poor porter showed up again, accompanied by a most remarkable duo. The woman making the noise was large and heavy-boned and wore a monstrously ugly suit of some sort of plaid cloth. Pearls decorated her wrinkled throat and above her sallow, long-nosed face there loomed a broad-brimmed hat decorated with white and yellow wild flowers. The woman’s wrinkled countenance showed immediate distaste at the sight of them.

  Halting in the doorway she cried, “I do not like to be crowded! Is there another compartment available?”

  “No, madame,” the porter said abjectly. “This is your compartment!”

  The woman came in glaring and then shocked them all by saying in English, “This is not as bad as I expected! You are all English, aren’t you?”

  Henry was on his feet. “Yes, madame.”

  “So am I,” she said, to their surprise. “I have lived on the Continent for years so I’m fluent in most languages. My name is Madame Guioni, I am a widow. My late husband was important in the wine trade. Guioni Brothers. A famous name, if I may say so! Both brothers dead. I am now Guioni wines!”

  “Happy to know you,” Henry said politely and introduced Della and Aunt Isobel. Della was amused and Aunt Isobel looked outraged.

  Madame Guioni briefly acknowledged the introductions and then proceeded to go on bullying the porter about where to place her bags on the overhead rack. Visible now in the corridor was a stout, sullen woman in black with a black bonnet on her head. She stood there saying nothing while all this commotion was taking place.

  Madame Guioni sank onto the bench alongside Della with a sigh of resignation and made no attempt to tip the porter who lingered for a moment, then shrugged and vanished with a grimace on his thin face. Then the woman arrogantly waved the stout woman in black dress and bonnet into the compartment to sit beside her. The fat woman obeyed without saying a word but looked extremely frightened and uneasy.

  “My personal maid, Rosa,” Madame Guioni informed them after glaring at the unhappy woman. “She speaks nothing but Italian and rarely says anything of value in that! But she is a good worker and she understands me!”

  “Those are the main things,” Della said, amused.

  Poor Rosa sat meekly with her hands in her lap and her eyes cast down. She looked neither to right nor left. It was clear that she had long ago given up any kind of communication with her employer which was not absolutely necessary.

  “Stupid!” Madame Guioni went on. “But that is to be mingle only with the best people, the nobles and the mer-expected. Most Italians of her class are. Thank goodness I chant kings, and they are as intelligent as we British!”

  Aunt Isobel glared at the horse-faced woman. “It is clear that your long years in Italy have not changed your insular viewpoint.”

  Madame Guioni returned her glare. “I do not know whether you have offered that as a compliment or an insult, madam. In any case I’m impervious to either.”

  Henry spoke up with obvious embarrassment to ask, “Shall we find it hot in Rome at this time of year?”

  The woman sniffed. “This is not the season, if you understand me. But I’m not like some people, I do not mind the heat. I rather enjoy it! You must expect to wear light summer clothing!”

  Della breathed a sigh of relief. “Then we have packed wisely”

  Madame Guioni eyed her with cool interest. “May I ask which hotel you propose to stay in during your Rome visit. Some of them are incredibly bad!”

  Della said, “We are to be the guests of Prince Sanzio at his palace.”

  “Prince Sanzio!” the woman repeated.

  “Yes, do you know him?” Della wondered.

  “A very old man, white-haired and feeble!”

  “Yes, I believe that would be him,” Della said.

  Madame Guioni’s eyebrows lifted. “I thought he had died long ago. The last time I saw him shuffling about at the Countess Friasco’s he looked as if he already had one foot in the tomb.”

  Della was determined to be friendly with the difficult woman. She said, “He is very much alive and he has invited us to stay with him. Have you perhaps met his adopted daughter, the Princess Irma?”

  “No,” the woman said coldly. “Frankly the Prince does not travel in my set. So I do not know him well. I do not wish to alarm you but he is quite impoverished.”

  “Really?” Della said, pretending it to be news.

  “Gambling was his ruin, or so gossip has it,” the woman in the outlandish clothes confided. “Not that we discuss such things in the best circles, but word gets about.”

  “I suppose it does,” Della said meekly.

  “You must not expect the palace to be well kept. The Prince could not afford to keep it up properly. I hope your visit will be pleasant.”

  “I hope so,” Della said.

  “I’m sure we’ll manage,” Aunt Isobel spoke up spitefully. “After all he is a Prince.”

  Madame Guioni gave her an angry glance. “Titles do not mean anything to me! Especially Italian titles! My dear Carlos could have been made a count if it had pleased him. But he refused! A modest man who gave much of his fortune to the children of the poor!”

  “I’m sure you’ve changed all that,” Aunt Isobel snapped. And she turned to stare out the window and ignore them all.

  Madame Guioni gasped. And after a moment said to Della in a low but audible voice, “Your grandmother is extremely senile! I noticed it in her when I first came into the carriage.”

  Della gave Aunt Isobel’s back an anxious look and then confided to the arrogant Madame Guioni, “She is my aunt and not my grandmother, and she is very bright. It’s just that she is weary that she’s not in a good mood.”

  “She has every sign of senility,” the woman sniffed haughtily. “I am a widow. It is true I did have to cut down on many of my husband’s charities. But who would blame me? Who looks after a widow if she doesn’t watch out for herself?”

  “No one, I’m sure,” Della said, sure that being agreeable was the only solution to their dilemma in getting along with the strange woman.

  Madame Guioni eyed her with an almost friendly look. “You are a rather nice child, though lacking in spirit. You should keep that aunt of yours in her place. But I like you and this young man seems charming.”

  Della said, “My lawyer and my fiancé, Henry Clarkson.”

  Madame Guioni smiled revealing large, uneven teeth which added to the horselike cast of her face. Only her long nose refused to fit the equine pattern. “So you are engaged! Delightful! I only wish ro
mance would come my way again! But it will never be! Dear Carlos often said the same thing. He vowed that if he were widowed he would never wed again. His sadness touched my heart.”

  “I’m sure he meant it as a tribute to you, madame,” Henry said gallantly.

  “True,” she said with spirit. “You understand! I like young men! I have always said, if I should marry again, it will be to a young, handsome man!”

  Della was having a hard time stifling her laughter as Henry’s face turned a bright crimson. She smiled at the woman and said, “I’m sure your late husband must have been a handsome man.”

  “No,” the woman shook her head. “He was not. He was tiny and had a squint. That used to bother me but I grew used to it. But I could never have married his brother, he was impossible. A hump on his back and his thin face covered with black warts! He died from one of them in the end. His life was a disaster!”

  “Sad!” Della sympathized.

  “Both brothers dead and now I alone am Guioni Brothers,” the big-framed woman said. “I promise you I would not marry in a foreign land again. But I make the best of it. I give magnificent parties! You must come to one of my parties!”

  “You are very kind,” Della said.

  “I am generous by nature,” Madame Guioni agreed. “I cannot help it. Dear Carlos often said he had never dreamt the sort of person I was before he married me! Everyone wants to attend my parties! The cream of Rome can be found at my little affairs!”

  There was the sound of a whistle and the train gave a jerk and began to move slowly. Henry said, “I think we are on our way. And it seems the sixth seat is not to be occupied.”

  Madame Guioni frowned. “I tried to get Rosa a cheaper seat and couldn’t. Look at her! Asleep like a contented sow!” And it was true.

  The train began to pick up speed as it left the station behind. Then the door of the compartment opened and it became apparent that Henry had been wrong, there was to be a sixth traveler with them. A jolly looking, fat priest in black hat and black robe pushed through the door with a shabby valise in his hand.

  Breathlessly he wheezed, “I am Father Anthony!”

  Chapter Five

  The train was gaining speed now and fortunately the noise level had grown to the point where it was possible to speak in a low voice without being overheard. Madame Guioni scowled at the newcomer who had struggled for a moment to place his valise in the rack above and then seated himself next to Henry.

  Father Anthony had a fat, oval face and the pale blue shadow of his beard was obvious against his somewhat olive-skinned face. He had bright eyes and when he removed his hat his head proved bald except for a light fringe of gray hair. He sat back in his shabby robe and smiled amiably at everyone, including the sleeping Rosa.

  Madame Guioni spoke to Della in a tone low enough for the good Father not to overhear. She said, “Rome is creeping with priests! They overrun the place like a plague of black bugs!”

  “He seems a jolly nice sort,” Della suggested.

  “Lazy, I’ll bet!” Madame Guioni said, determined to not like the newcomer. “He’s grossly fat and far too contented. Of course they’re all contented, they claim it’s because they’re looking forward to the next world, but I say it is because they do so well in this one.”

  “Still it is a life of sacrifice,” Della said.

  Madame Guioni eyed her sharply. “You are Protestant? Anglican, no doubt!”

  “Yes,” Della said.

  “I have little time for Anglicans either,” Madame Guioni said severely. “I cannot have confidence in a church brought into being by a king who beheaded most of his wives!”

  Della smiled. “Ancient history, madame. The forming of the church was surely one of his good deeds.”

  “Then it was likely purely unintentional,” Madame Guioni said sharply.

  Father Anthony was smiling happily all the while, seemingly unaware that he was a subject of their conversation. He now brought a cigar from an inner pocket and looked at all the others with polite inquiry.

  Speaking loudly, he asked, “May I be permitted to smoke? It is a good cigar and I promise its aroma will not be offensive.”

  Aunt Isobel glared at him in silence. Henry said, “I do not mind if the ladies have no objection.”

  Della smiled at the fat priest and said, “For my part, Father, I like the aroma of fine cigars.”

  “Thank you, my child,” he said. And he glanced at Madame Guioni. “What about you, dear lady?”

  Madame Guioni shrugged. “It is my opinion you will smoke your cigar whatever my opinion!”

  “So I shall,” he said. And he bit off the end and smelled it with an appreciative smile on his oval face. Then he told them good cigars and good wine are the comforts of the celibate.

  Madame Guioni watched him with disapproval as he lit the cigar and puffed on it happily. Then she said loudly, “You like good wine?”

  Father Anthony nodded. “I think I may be said to be a connoisseur of fine wines.”

  “I am Guioni Brothers,” she said with some pride.

  The fat clergyman leaned forward and cupped his hand to his ear. “I suffer from a slight deafness. I did not hear you clearly!”

  Madame Guioni glared. “I said I am the owner, the sole owner, of Guioni Brothers wines. Have you heard of them?”

  Father Anthony sat back with a look of distaste on his fat face. “I have heard of them,” he said, puffing on his cigar. “I have even tasted them.”

  “And may I ask whether you enjoyed them?” Madame Guioni spoke above the noise of the train.

  The fat priest studied the glowing end of his cigar. He said, “As a priest I am expected to be entirely truthful, as a man I attempt to be agreeable. You place me in a most difficult position.”

  “I do not understand,” Madame Guioni shrilled.

  “You wish my honest opinion?” he asked.

  “I do,” she said in her imperious fashion.

  He puffed on his cigar. “Slop, madame! Slop for the unwary! The dregs of the grape!”

  Madame Guioni sat up, seeming to swell in size. “How dare you say such a thing? Guioni Brothers wines sell fabulously well.”

  “I do not deny that, madame,” Father Anthony said. “I wish you success. But you asked my opinion and I gave it!”

  Della decided to turn the conversation away from this embarrassing channel. She said, “You speak English so well, Father.”

  He smiled modestly. “Thank you. As soon as I entered the compartment and heard you conversing I knew you were all English with the exception of that poor woman.” He nodded toward the sleeping Rosa.

  Henry said, “It seemed so natural I didn’t think of it as being a tongue foreign to you.”

  Father Anthony looked pleased. “It is true I have no detectable accent, though my native tongue is Italian. I was in England for many years, attached to our bishop in London.”

  “No wonder you handle the language so well,” Della said. “We are on our first visit to Rome.”

  “Ah!” Father Anthony looked ecstatic. “You will never forget it! I promise you! Rome is the most beautiful city in the world! I say this, not because it is the seat of the Mother Church but because I was born a Roman and I am never happy away from its boundaries.”

  “We are looking forward to it,” Henry agreed.

  Father Anthony puffed on his cigar and in tones of rapture said, “Wait until you see it all! The Capitoline Hill with the wonderful Piazza del Campidoglio, designed by Michelangelo, near the ruins of the Forum. The Arch of Titus, the three columns of the Temple of Castor and Pollux, the Arch of Septimus Servus, the Basilica of Constantine, and, dwarfing everything the Colosseum!”

  “There is so much to see and learn about,” Della said.

  Father Anthony nodded. “The great city by the Tiber has it all. And do not let us forget the largest church in Christendom, the Basilica of St. Peter built on the very spot where the saint’s holy bones rest. A masterpiece! And the bu
ildings of the Vatican. I once worked in one of the museums open to the public.”

  This caught Della’s attention. “There are many museums in Rome, I’m sure!”

  “And the Vatican has the finest libraries and museums of all,” the priest assured her. “A place of fabulous riches, for the most part collected by popes of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. They spent great sums to add to the splendor of the Church and of Rome!”

  Della gave Henry a knowing glance and then asked the priest, “Have you ever heard of a jeweled Madonna?”

  The fat man smiled indulgently. “My dear child, there are many jeweled Madonnas. The Madonna figure is prevalent in all Church collections.”

  Madame Guioni, who had been grimly quiet up to now, snapped, “A scandal spending the money of the poor on precious stones and idolatrous figures!”

  Father Anthony looked mildly surprised. “You speak like a pagan madame. Are you not of the faith?”

  “I am not,” she snapped. “I pride myself on being a free-thinker.”

  “I trust you possess the needed equipment,” Father Anthony said. And then to Della, “Do not miss the art treasures of my native city.”

  “I have heard so much about the glory of Roman art,” she said.

  The fat Father Anthony nodded. “We have the best. The Picture Gallery alone contains the works of great masters such as Giotto, Fra Angelico, Bellini, Leonardo, Titian, Veronese and Murillo. And the ten wonderful Raphael Tapestries are displayed there!”

  Della said, “But you were a member of the staff at the Vatican Museum.”

  “I was,” the prelate said proudly. “And with all modesty I must say our museums house the greatest collection of ancient treasures in the world. Treasures of every sort, mosaics, bronzes and statuary, including some examples of the jeweled Madonna of which you spoke.”

  “I must go there,” Della said.

  Father Anthony made a resigned gesture. “Only a fool would miss touring the Vatican. Our library has a half-million volumes and more than sixty thousand beautifully illuminated manuscripts. And there is the Sistine Chapel, unrivaled in conception and design. The work of the mighty Michelangelo! He painted the ceiling frescoes under agonizing conditions, lying on his back for nearly four years. His studies of the Old Testament figures are overwhelming. And you can compare his work of two decades later in the Last Judgment painted on the altar wall.”